On the Road

I haven’t written much lately. Mostly, I’ve just been digesting food (literally and metaphorically). I’ve been reading a book of 2009’s best food writing and a book called Will Right for Food which teaches different techniques to develop the talent of food writing. Also, the past couple of weeks have been a flurry of jets, rental cars, hotels and business. I’ve been in Jacksonville, Nashville, Dallas and Charlotte. As you can imagine, that lifestyle doesn’t leave much convenient time for writing and reflecting.

It does however lead to some tasty food that I might not otherwise have encountered. Here are a few of the wonders of the road:

In Jacksonville I made it to this cool Irish pub called Culhane’s. It was on triple-d recently. Expecting to hear from the workers that DDD actually stood for deusch, deuschier, deuschiest; I was surprised to learn that Guy is apparently a pretty cool dude. I discovered he actually takes time to hang out at the places he film. Even more astonishing, he seemed genuinely appreciative of the experience. This was the general reaction I received from various staff members I conversed with.

So is the food really good? Actually, yeah. I had a special for the evening, duck breast flat bread. A crunchewey handmade flatbread topped with delicately seared duck breast, a mild blue cheese, arugula and a dark, sticky balsamic reduction. The flavors were exciting. A melody of tangy, sweet and savory flavors stuck to the tongue only to be washed down by a lovely pint of Boddington’s.

I have by no means made it a habit to seek out local restaurants based on Guy’s recommendations; however, today in Dallas I found myself seated in front of a giant poster of Guy-fucking-Fieri’s banana –bad-bude spike helmet. By complete accident we sat down in Prince Lebanese Grill, also featured at some point on DDD. I had the chicken shawarma plate. Now shawarma is something I’ll get to at a later date. It truly deserves a blog to itself. Nevertheless, I will pause to say that the chicken was flavored with a gentle twist between curry and lemon. The sautéed tomato they threw in the mix added another fruity dimension. Top the steaming meat with a cool tza-tziki and you’re really in business. I believe his people must do pretty good research, because again the food was great. I’m thinking I might start making a habit of trusting Mr. Fieri’s choices.

I don’t really like being away from home, but I’m squeezing the opportunities for all they’re worth. Actually, it’s not “being away from home" that bothers me. I’ve been away from home for the most of the past 4 years. It’s being away from the person waiting at home for me that really starts to weigh on my mind. I’m young, I know. Now is the time to travel, punch the clock, squeez the lemon, etc. Nevertheless, I find myself wondering how much is a great experience worth if you’re not sharing it with others?

In some ways this blog fills that gap. At the end of the day though, a warm computer in my lap isn’t the same thing as a warm girl.

Breakfast for Dinner... Sort of

After work, I planned to cook some comforting fried chicken fingers, brussel sprouts and wild rice with slices of portabello mushroom. Surprise, the newly unthawed chicken was past its prime when you froze it!

My mind begins to race. What the hell else do I have around here? Maple-blueberry sausage (stumbled into at Whole Foods and had to try it)… a peach… an egg I’d already cracked for breading the chicken…what to fix? I’ll stuff the portabello mushroom with the sausage, bread it, fry it and serve it over wild rice. Might be dry. I’ll whip up some kind of sauce. I’ve got a peach, blackberry jam, etc.

So the whole process begins on the precipice of disaster. But run with it right? This is the time to let the creative juices flow. I’m in my element and being all too serious with my girlfriend. You see, our 900 sq. ft. apartment has a tiny kitchen. When we’re bumping into each other/ dropping pans/ can’t find a place to set this damn thing, I like to pretend I’m really in the trenches, banging out a dinner in some cramped restaurant. She lovingly mocks me with “yes chef” when I tell her something I need.

Dinner is under way. The rice is boiling, brussel sprouts browning in butter and my oil is hot. How in the hell am I going to get this sausage patty to stay in the mushroom while I bread it? Toothpicks? Don’t have any. Ok. I’ll fry the mushroom on its own and top it with the sausage. Also nearly impossible. Then it hit me. Slice the mushroom, bread and fry the slices individually with cinnamon in the mix. It’ll be a take on French toast to go with the sausage. I executed this pretty well, but in my opinion I dried the mushrooms out too much.

The whole dish was dry. What about that sauce? Peach maple syrup? No syrup. Ok, reduce sweet tea to a syrupy texture and add a splash of orange juice. I’m not gonna lie and tell you I knew this was a good choice. At this point, I was out on a limb. If all else failed, I had brussel sprouts.

I finally plated everything with a bemused grin. What the hell was this? As you can see in the picture in the photostream, it didn’t look very appetizing. The truth is though, it wasn’t bad. And the reduction really helped bring home the French toast mushrooms.

There’s something really comforting about the fact that when you’re cooking in your own house, there is no right or wrong. Your boss, the media, public opinion. They are all more than willing to say you’re wrong. You’re kitchen just takes your mistakes willingly and hopefully you learn from it.

I would like to say a special thanks to my girlfriend, who put up with this absurd attempt. But hey, when life gives sour chicken, make portabello French toast sticks… or something like that.

Pho Real

On Friday I had the pleasure of enjoying my first bowl of authentic pho, the wondrous Vietnamese soup that Anthony Bourdain so lovingly describes in his book A Cook’s Tour. Ever since reading that chapter, I’ve had an intense longing to encounter the rich, brothy treat. Now that I’ve experienced pho, I can tell you it is every bit as delightful as Bourdain makes it out to be.

The soup’s basic ingredients consist of a rich meaty broth, noodles, onions and fresh chives. Whatever else is added is user-selected. Firstly, one must select which meats they want to include. I opted for the bowl that contained tripe, tendon, and skirt steak believing that I’d gain authenticity by selecting these oft discarded ingredients.

The second joy of pho is the tweaking of each individual’s bowl according to personal taste. I added 5 or 6 basil leaves, a squeeze of lime, fresh peppers and lots of sriracha. What can I say? I really dig spicy food. Some inner glutton for punishment compels me to find a way to achieve a higher temperature in my mouth than the absurd heat wave we’ve had recently. Yes, I pay for it the next day; but the occasions are few and far between that I feel actual remorse for the sins I’ve committed. Usually I’m just plain guilty and ready to pay.

Back to the pho… at first I struggled with how to eat the tripe. It came in long stands with smaller tentacle like strands hanging off of each piece. Much like a streamer from 6th grade gym class. Knowing tripe can be chewy, I decided to only bite of a piece instead of popping the whole caboodle in my mouth. I quickly discovered that the best approach is an all or nothing attack which allows ample broth to hitch a ride on the stringy tripe and provide 1-2 punch of flavor and texture.

The skirt steak was delightfully tender, thin slices of beef slowly changed color in front of me as the scolding broth worked its way into the meat. I found myself increasingly surprised and enthused with each bite. Every spoonful provided yet another opportunity to build upon the series of flavors present in the bowl. I believe it was for this reason that I was so enchanted with the dish.

Each person at my table ordered basically the same thing, but by the end of the meal we were all consuming an entirely different soup. The beauty of each bowl is personal, a self-contained flavor trip, never to be repeated again in exactly the same manner.

I can assure you though; I’ll sure as hell try.

Tacos

Though many come to mind, this post isn't about the various curse words available for use in Spanish (called tacos). Instead it is a simple reflection on my disappointment with Atlanta's lack of food trucks (mobile restaurants for you p.c. folks). I recently completed a 30 day trip across the United States and discovered that I have been missing out on a beautiful food trend that has been rocking fooder taste buds for a while. All across the southwest and west coast (and any other reasonably developed city) I encountered delightful treats for very reasonable prices. Varieties ranged from tacos de lengua or cabeza al estilo D.F., korean tacos, middle eastern shawarma and gyros, Hawaiian bbq and oh so many Thai noodle shacks. Portland and Seattle were teaming with these things. They had plazas and squares devoted to local food vendors.

So why in Odin's beard, is Atlanta, a metro area of about 5.4 million people not joining the noble cause and rapidly devouring these taste-laden gifts from the gods? To be honest I haven't quite lived here long enough to do the research, so I'm going to start hunting the info. down. Presumably it's the same type of obfuscations that keep me from enjoying a frosty adult beverage on a Sunday should I open the fridge and find that the reason my head is pounding is because my friends and I actually polished off every drop of alcohol the night before.

Let us cast off this unwarranted film sticking to our senses and begin to delight in the exhilirating fare that a simple truck vendor can bring to the urban scene. Feel free to drop any comments here as I am quite frankly unaware of any information that probably would be necessary to write this post.

The first

2010-7-22

The first – Writing your first blog about food is kind of like sleeping with somebody for the first time. You’ve spent hours fantasizing about the glorious arrival of that moment when passion overwhelms your better judgment and you plunge into the experience with all that energy that was bottled up inside. Instead, it turns out to be kind of awkward. Let’s face it, completely letting someone in for the first time is difficult to prepare for; but with time, the experience should become increasingly comfortable and pleasurable.

So here’s my first moment. My allegorical pants just hit the floor… Hopefully we’ll enjoy this more as I continue.

In the arid mid-morning of the Madrid Summer, I hear my two roommates rustling about in our outdated but effective kitchen. It’s a Saturday, so we’re all drowsily recovering from the blurry previous night. I’ve been here for two weeks and already I’m all too familiar with the late night habits of the Madrileños.

I’m sure you’ve already heard of (or if you’re lucky experienced) the decadently mind-numbing tapeo and so I need not go into details about Spanish bar-feast.

On this sun-splashed Saturday I know that when I drift back to the kitchen, I’ll hear the slushing and churning of the juicer being driven into succulent Spanish oranges. Bread crumbs will be scattered about carelessly next to a bowl of ripe tomatoes on our tiny kitchen table. As I creak through the hallway, my expectations are met accordingly, along with the pungent odor of the “embutido” buey (a chewy, irony Spanish cured meat stick).

This particular ritual is actually, a product of Cataluña, the northern region of Spain; although at the moment it is a Colombian girl and Madrileño who have enthusiastically inducted me into their sacred circle. The beauty of the dish resides in its carefree simplicity. You simply take grilled or toasted slices of baguette, country style bread or whatever is around, rub all of the delicious tomato-jelly of a half tomato against the crusty bread and drizzle with olive oil.

I’m not going to go through the classic food porn process of describing each bite to you. Just try it, and do it with damn good ingredients or it will be disappointing. I can’t help but look back on this treat and chuckle at what a Spanish thing it is to do. Laid back, carefree. “I’m just going to take the most savory part of this tomato and apply it to the bread”. “What about the rest?” You might ask. “I’ll just throw it away… when I get around to it. It’s Saturday after all”.

I still love starting my Saturdays with the tomato-smeared bread in the sunshine that streams across my porch. It slows me down, tranquilo, and my memories revert to those languid Spanish days.

That’s it? Already? Yeah, I believe already mentioned that it’s just like the first time…