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Update: One Seat Just Opened For The Brockhaus Hits The (Houston) Heights

May 16, 2015 / / 0 Comments

We’ve had a cancellation, so one seat is available for this event. And the wine pairings are now complete. (Menu follows below.)

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New season, new ingredients, a new venue for The Brockhaus. On May 30th 10 people will gather at a wonderful house in Houston for a seven-course event we are calling “The Brockhaus Hits The (Houston) Heights”.

THE BROCKHAUS
Hits The (Houston) Heights
May 30, 2015
$100 per person

MACADAMIA GAZPACHO
CURED ASPARAGUS
Ivernel Brut Prestige NV

SALMON TARTARE
BLACK SESAME SEED CRISPS
CHIVES, CRÈME FRAîCHE
Domaine de la Perrière Sancerre 2014

SURPRISE
You will see

SPICED BLACK BASS
SWISS CHARD, BACON
Patz & Hall Hyde Vineyard 2012 Carneros Chardonnay

PORK BELLY CONFIT
WILD TEXAS MUSHROOMS
CORN AND TOMATOES
Kosta Browne Pinot Noir Koplen Vineyard 2012

(SLOW-COOKED) 44 FARMS
GRASS-FED RIB EYE
COMPRESSED WATERMELON
BROCKHAUS MOZZARELLA
BASIL
Bodegas El Nido Jumilla Clio 2006

THYME SEMIFREDDO
BISCOTTI
Tenuta Fontodi Vin Santo del Chianti Classico 1996

$100 per person

The bad news (or is it good?): No seats remain for the 30th. (We take to the road in June for “The Brockhaus Does Dallas,” a sold-out dinner event.) But July will arrive soon, and we have plans for that month (if you would like to host an evening, please get in touch.)

We’ve enjoyed great success since our first evening in Montrose, and welcoming strangers to our tables and bidding them farewell as friends – and welcoming them again as repeat patrons – has been a sublime pleasure. It will continue.

Thanks for all of your support and good words, and we hope to see you at the table soon.

The Brockhaus Team

A friendship more than 30 years in the making
A friendship more than 30 years in the making

A Lucky Man

April 20, 2015 / / 6 Comments

Food, friends, reuniting with fine people: I was all of that this past weekend, in Austin. I graduated from high school in Kaiserslautern, Germany, West Germany to be exact, for it was before the fall of the Berlin Wall and reunification of Ost und West. This weekend about 200 of my fellow graduates from Kaiserslautern American High School were in Austin, at an all-class reunion. Some of them I know and love, others are strangers, having graduated in 1965, or 1972, or another year before or after my time at that wonderful Department of Defense school in the Pfalz. No matter whether I know them or not, they are special people, our bond formed by days and nights and years spent in a magical land, full of beauty and culture and fine beer and great Rieslings.

We reunite fairly often, in Seattle or Las Vegas or Orlando; some of us have been lucky enough to spend time together in Kaiserslautern or Paris or Munich or New York; I have over the years caught up with fellow Red Raiders in all of those places. In 2013 Angela and I shared a great weekend with Beth Spencer Dixon and her family in North Carolina. We roasted a suckling pig, put together a Low Country boil, and drank some great wines and beers, and Tina’s coffee. It was the perfect weekend.

I am also reuniting with Constance and Alison, two beautiful woman who hired me this past year to cook the food for their wedding, which took place on Nantucket. They flew Angela and me up to that storied little island and we and 50 lucky guests witnessed a lovely ceremony. On Saturday night we cooked at their home in Austin. A few people came, including Jack and his wife, Suze. Another reunion. Jack and I have been friends since 1989; we met when we both worked at a bookstore, Fleming Books, in Huntsville, Alabama. We bonded over James Joyce and coffee and walks on Monte Sano.

I love all of these people, and my life is richer for knowing them.

I am a lucky man. A lucky man, indeed.

On the heat for a long time.

Malaise, Infection, Comfort

March 1, 2015 / / 0 Comments
On the heat for a long time.

On the heat for a long time.

I was sick, lacked energy. I was going through a week of illness that had hit the restaurant. My appetite was nonexistent; coffee had lost its appeal. I was tired. But I wanted to cook. (When I am sick I spend time thinking about what I’ll make when I recuperate. This time, I went to Italy, thanks in part to a recipe for pasta alla Genovese in a Mark Bittman piece.) On the day my energy returned I returned to the kitchen and created some comfort.

Beginnings ...

Beginnings …

There are good things.

There are good things.

Boiled onions

Roots

Comfort in a bowl

Comfort in a bowl

The stranger is no foodie.

The Stranger Takes a Seat at the Bar

February 13, 2015 / / 0 Comments
The stranger is no foodie.

The Stranger is no foodie.

The Stranger enters the crowded restaurant on a recent evening, his goal being to spend a bit of time at the bar and enjoy a glass of wine and some food. At the corner of the bar sit a man and woman, the man wearing a cap of some sort, the woman knockoff Missoni. The barstool to the man’s right is empty save a blue purse; The Stranger politely inquires whether the purse belongs to the man with the cap, who replies, “No, I am saving this seat for a friend who might be coming.” Glancing to his left, The Stranger sees that the stool on the other side of faux-Missoni woman is empty. “That’s OK, I’ll take this seat,” The Stranger says, walking to the empty perch. The man and woman, almost in unison, state: “We are saving that spot, too.” The Stranger looks at the trendy-looking pair, wondering if they are joking, and occupies the barstool.

Cap-wearing man offers this concession to The Stranger: “Well, we were saving the stools in case our friends came, but go ahead and sit.” “Oh, that is so kind of you,” The Stranger replies. “Are you two being serious? This is a bar, not a table. You’re telling me that your friends ‘might’ show up, so you are going to prevent other guests from taking a seat and enjoying the evening? In what city were you thusly educated?”

The Stranger orders a glass of Mencía, while the Missoni-Wannabe calls her absent friends and finds that they are, after all, not coming. Seems there was a trendier place at which they wanted to make an appearance. Stranger wonders if at that trendier place that pair was attempting to save two stools for Missoni and Cap.

While deciding what to order for his meal, The Stranger hears the woman say that she is a wine rep; the cap-wearer proudly replies to her that he is in the “industry” and has been a mixologist for more than five years. The Stranger thinks: They are even more idiotic than I thought; they work in the “industry” and think it proper to save barstools for friends who may or may not appear? Then, In what seemed an effort to make herself look even dafter, Missoni Girl orders a “Boo-shulay,” pronouncing it in exactly that manner.

A city is nothing without human beings, and the citizens of a city give it its unique identity. Subsets of a population, say, “foodies”, further define a community. Houston’s dining and culinary scene has come a long way, indeed, but, as The Stranger thought to himself on that evening, it still has a long way to go, and will have for a long while if Missoni and Cap have anything to say about it.

These two are foodies. Stranger hopes you never encounter them in a restaurant.

These two are foodies. The Stranger hopes you never encounter them in a restaurant.

Longing in a Demitasse (un Café, S’il Vous Plait)

February 9, 2015 / / 0 Comments

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There was a time in Paris during which I bicycled to my office, from the 7th to the 4th, over the river and past tourists and bookshops and beauty. Every morning I would roll my bike into the elevator and squeeze in with it, then descend to the ground floor. (Dean and I were sharing an apartment, and the evenings on which we rode our bikes through the city, dodging cars and buses and people and stopping at a restaurant for a meal before heading home, are magic in my memory.) I’d ride past the Musée Rodin and stop by my patisserie for an almond croissant, then proceed to the small café near the Basilique Sainte-Clotilde et Chapelle de Jesus Enfant. The bike left leaning against the outside wall, I would take my seat at the bar and order un café. Sometimes I had two, and if time permitted would walk my bike across the street and enter the park near the church and sit on a bench and watch the dogs play. The sun warmed my face. I considered my ritual the perfect start to a morning. I consider it perfect still.

For some reason, I am experiencing difficulty when it comes to finding a good espresso in Houston. They are often bitter, often lukewarm. It is especially egregious when I order an after-dinner espresso at an Italian or French restaurant, one that prides itself on its “authentic, excellent food” and “attention to Old World values and tradition.” No self-respecting restaurant would serve such an espresso. (And to those of you out there who order a cappuccino after noon, don’t.)

One morning this past week I ground some French Roast from The Kaffeeklatsch and prepared un café in my Bialetti. I poured the liquid into a warm demitasse and added a touch of sugar. It was hot, it was fresh, it had me back on that bike in Paris, and my day began well.

That Was Some Pork Belly: The Second Coming Is a Wrap

January 31, 2015 / / 2 Comments

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Thanks so much to James and the Brockhaus crew for a great night at The Second Coming. Each course of food was expertly prepared and served along with discussion of the techniques and ingredients used in preparation. Each wine course provided an in-depth background into why it was paired with that course and how the wine received its characteristics. Wonderful food, wonderful wine and stimulating conversation always make a memorable evening! (Note from a guest of The Brockhaus’s The Second Coming)

Chris (my sous chef) and I arrived at the townhouse a week ago Saturday a little after 10 in the morning. We loaded our equipment and provisions into the elevator and sent the car up to the second floor, where a bright and spacious kitchen – containing more than enough prep space – was waiting for us. Thusly, The Second Coming began.

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We started on a butternut squash bisque and dessert; I made the bacon semifreddo while Chris took care of the squash and the chocolate cakes. We took the final course down to the refrigerator in the garage and came back upstairs to go over the plan. Our guests would arrive at 7 (or thereabouts), so we had a fair amount of time to finalize our plating and presentation plan.

I took the pork belly out of the brine, satisfied with the meat’s texture. After drying it and scoring its skin side I rubbed ample salt and black pepper all over its surfaces and put it in the oven for a slow and low journey to the table. Chris was picking through the lump crab, looking for any shell. The panko was in a pan, toasting, and would later enrobe the crab spheres, which we would fry lightly.

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Next up was the rib eye. I cut three steaks from the piece and put them on a sheet pan; they would go into the freezer for 30 minutes or so before I seared them with a torch and put them in a 160F oven until they reached 137F (interior temperature).

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Most of the prep done, Chris started on the oysters; I had decided on a repeat of the dish I came across in “Comfort Me With Apples” and that I served at The Wedding on Nantucket. Chris shucked the oysters and I put together the curry powder and flour and made the cucumber-sesame oil sauce. We refrigerated the oysters, cleaned the shells, and began cleaning our stations, ready for the second (or was it the third?) stage of The Second Coming.

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Wolfgang Puck had it on the menu at Spago, and we did it on Nantucket.

What remained: asparagus risotto, the mushrooms and parsnip purée that we planned to serve with the pork belly, and the Swiss chard that would accompany the rib eye. (I always like to add a surprise course, so this time it was diver scallops, which we seared and served with a beurre blanc. They went to table after the crab and before the pork belly.)

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Angela and Anna had arrived, the dishwasher shortly thereafter. Alex and Nicholas, who were my sommeliers for The Second Coming, were on the way. (I worked with Dionysus Imports on the wine pairings for the meal.) Anna began organizing the tableware, and Angela was in the kitchen tidying the prep area. The team was assembled.

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As at The First Supper, the guest list was diverse. We had the hosts, Ray and Judy, who had been at The First Supper and are special friends of The Brockhaus (Judy is a great cook and her kitchen is outfitted with everything one needs, including two truffle shavers); the president of a software company and his wife; a pair of flight attendants for a private jet company; a leasing agent who was accustomed to the Parisian dining scene; a husband and wife who were wine enthusiasts; and a Tulane MBA student whom Angela had invited. They did arrive close to 7, all of them, and we heard their voices floating up the stairs from the wine room on the first floor, where the somms had opened and were pouring some sparkling.

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I began the dinner proper at 8 p.m., and the plating was a wonder: efficient, smooth, timely. The guests talked and ate, enjoyed and learned about the wines, and did not get up from the long table until midnight. The rib eye, I was told by two guests, was the best they had ever had. I was happy.

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There is a third evening in the works, and there will be rabbit.

Here is The Second Coming menu:

THE BROCKHAUS

THE SECOND COMING

JANUARY 24, 2015

++++++++++++++++

CURRIED OYSTERS ON THE HALF SHELL / CUCUMBER SAUCE / ROE

BUTTERNUT SQUASH BISQUE / CHORIZO

CRAB SPHERE / ASPARAGUS RISOTTO

DIVER SCALLOPS / BEURRE BLANC

PORK BELLY / WILD TEXAS MUSHROOM / PARSNIP PURÉE

RIB EYE / SWISS CHARD 

CHOCOLATE CAKE / BACON SEMIFREDDO

 Special thanks to Dionysus Imports and Russ and Judy Labrasca

“Tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are.”

Three Friends Grow Hungry in Hong Kong

January 18, 2015 / / 0 Comments

DSC_9632It was early evening, and the sky above Hong Kong was hazy with the mixture of pollution and moisture and reflected light to which they had grown accustomed. The trio wandered down streets and alleys until hunger called out to them from tables on a sidewalk. They sat and ordered bottles of beer and bowls of rice and pork and beef and talked of golden Buddhas and Barcelona and that dusty bar near the port where the cava costs a euro a glass and the bocadillos bring nothing but grace and satisfaction.

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Jascha Hoffman, right, and Spiff Wiegand play at Subterranean Arthouse in Berkeley in 2012. (www.architecture.com)

Songs of the Lives They Lived: A Voice From My Past

January 4, 2015 / / 0 Comments
Jascha Hoffman, right, and Spiff Wiegand play at Subterranean Arthouse in Berkeley in 2012. (www.architecture.com)

Jascha Hoffman, right, and Spiff Wiegand play at Subterranean Arthouse in Berkeley in 2012. (www.architecture.com)

When I was the copy chief at The New York Sun I hired a few freelancers; one of them was Jascha Hoffman. I enjoyed talking with him; he was interested in literature and music and science, and we discussed those topics, and more. He was energetic and ambitious. I lost track of him when I left the paper and moved to Paris for a job, but thought of him at times when I read or heard something in which I thought he would be interested.

This morning I heard his voice again, after an absence of 15 years. His latest album is out, and NPR’s Weekend Edition Sunday ran a segment on it – the songs are based on obituaries Hoffman wrote. It was a nice reunion for me, and if you follow this link you can get The Afterneath for a great price. Give it a listen. And Jascha, it was nice talking with you.

Of Life and Loss: Christmas Memories

December 24, 2014 / / 1 Comment

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My mother loves Christmas. I have fond memories of handmade cards, Christmas tree cakes, glitter, glue, pine cones I collected that we would transform into ornaments and centerpieces. On our tables were orderly stacks of construction paper, fruitcakes in festive wrappers, tins of divinity, and bowls of egg nog. (If we happened to be spending Christmas in Savannah my grandmother and mother made everything doubly perfect. My grandmother’s long pantry was full of wonders – she made her own mince meat pies and fruitcakes – including real candied fruit, giant pecans from trees on my great-grandmother’s property, and lots of ingredients that went into multiple batches of perfect fudge.)

Sandra, my mother.

Sandra, my mother.

When I was a child, I spent Christmases in, among other locations, Alaska and Florida, New Hampshire and Germany. I especially loved Germany. The winters there were mild, with just the right amount of snow. I learned to love Glühwein and beer. My mother continued cooking, adding German cuisine to her repertoire. We spent a Christmas in Garmisch, and one evening during our stay there I was introduced to the benefits of the sauna when I wondered into a spa and a group of men and women showed me how to properly schvitz. We would emerge from the steamy cabin and walk out onto a snowy roof deck to walk around and cool down, then repeat the therapeutic cycle.

As an adult, I have enjoyed the holiday season in Paris and Munich and Sweden and Barcelona and New York, among other places. I have cooked and eaten in all of those locales, and at every meal, be it a beer and sausage in Trier or a 20-course feast in Donostia, my grandmother and mother were beside me in spirit.

My mother, Sandra, does not cook as much as she once did, and my grandmother died in 2013; around this time every year I remember Ida’s mincemeat pies, her chicken and dumplings, her Savannah kitchen. She taught her daughter well. Next year I will spend Christmas with my mother and father. And we will cook.

My grandmother Ida taught me much about cooking, and I am glad I told her she did.

My grandmother Ida taught me much about cooking, and I am glad I told her she did.

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One ahead ...

A Snowy Night in Kaiserslautern

December 13, 2014 / / 0 Comments
A line of excellence.

A line of excellence.

Holger and Max had been planning to go out for an evening of beer, at a bar where they would order a meter of Bier and enjoy drinking the glasses over the course of an evening. I went with them. I have written much about the Westings, and they are dear friends. I miss them, and look forward to spending time in their company again. (I miss fresh German beer, too.) Prost, friends.

Max and I with beers.

Max and I with beers.

One ahead ...

One ahead …

Father and son toast.

Father and son toast.

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