tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9540317576944057652024-03-05T07:49:59.743-06:00Food On The DoleA writer and chef's thoughts on staying creative and well fedhtamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comBlogger191125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-53553850219449251132021-11-18T07:55:00.001-06:002021-11-18T07:55:53.324-06:00New Publication: Bon Vivant Culinary Journal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwqV3CIxG3DaUZdvvY4WzxI3J2-0ymKRZMgf6004bFmZtPJGzViCAJCCZyOvvXUGUdekBB2EYzi_KQrYDBH3Iws7ntZwBUw82k-DYxKdwOTM87i_dGE5VfcFg6rkb9Pc8cyjeD_Jl15A/s1440/247286179_10224440600815098_5590911760547028940_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwqV3CIxG3DaUZdvvY4WzxI3J2-0ymKRZMgf6004bFmZtPJGzViCAJCCZyOvvXUGUdekBB2EYzi_KQrYDBH3Iws7ntZwBUw82k-DYxKdwOTM87i_dGE5VfcFg6rkb9Pc8cyjeD_Jl15A/w427-h427/247286179_10224440600815098_5590911760547028940_n.jpg" width="427" /></a></div><p>New things afoot! We've launched a print culinary journal, Bon Vivant (@bonvivantjrnl on Instagram), with each issue covering a single culinary topic featuring stories, recipes, and photography from some of my favorite places to cook and eat, printed twice per year.</p><p>Hot off the presses, Issue 1 covers Wood Fire Cooking over open flames, in wood-fired ovens, and in home fireplaces--we'll even build an apple wood fire in a Chicago lot to cook Valencian paella.</p><p>Order the first issue or subscribe at <a href="http://www.bonvivantjrnl.com" target="_blank">www.bonvivantjrnl.com</a>.</p><p>Special thanks to my talented collaborators @kevinhartmann and @lexi_at as well our small group of investors who helped get this off the ground, and all the supporters out there! Proceeds beyond production and publication costs will be donated to The Greater Chicago Food Depository.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_yX5TFGqCMrLhhJDhZ0OhQ1-wroA_RiumqNloCJKLrA_XcZ6fsVD87THABZlN37TvY0IeNeomW09-eZ7lOjdTDiCbpSF2xhhhqtb57hv8pq6URmW7RVLohhNqMGz58JvwuPHQoEZcbBw/s1440/246903558_10224440600655094_8388182006621916089_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_yX5TFGqCMrLhhJDhZ0OhQ1-wroA_RiumqNloCJKLrA_XcZ6fsVD87THABZlN37TvY0IeNeomW09-eZ7lOjdTDiCbpSF2xhhhqtb57hv8pq6URmW7RVLohhNqMGz58JvwuPHQoEZcbBw/w429-h429/246903558_10224440600655094_8388182006621916089_n.jpg" width="429" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-73656369536677709682021-10-13T05:29:00.003-05:002021-10-13T05:42:58.292-05:00We've Got a New Home!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwskAsa7iSRfeiG-Q_Uska6uZYVR_EjmZa-is7vfTRQ8S4K8fo6JZ1ywX-5Kv9al0RGOnAN31mQf-e6gU1rfGjH9b9MTJNyvVJ-KoBbnSBF0Je4PbloqyKwN3DSRfz35GLGrTwxWuVhFY/s2048/20181231_132739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1414" data-original-width="2048" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwskAsa7iSRfeiG-Q_Uska6uZYVR_EjmZa-is7vfTRQ8S4K8fo6JZ1ywX-5Kv9al0RGOnAN31mQf-e6gU1rfGjH9b9MTJNyvVJ-KoBbnSBF0Je4PbloqyKwN3DSRfz35GLGrTwxWuVhFY/w400-h276/20181231_132739.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">We retired Food on the Dole back in 2013, but the culinary gears keep churning! Check out the books and publications we've been working on over at </span><a href="http://www.hughamano.com" style="text-align: left;">www.hughamano.com</a><span style="text-align: left;">; from dumplings to ramen to Macau and beyond, we keep exploring the incredible world of food!</span></div>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-56825385646841699082013-09-06T17:48:00.000-05:002013-09-06T21:12:40.240-05:00A Tale of Trustworthy DudesIn a saturated cyber and printed word world (he said self-reflectively), there are a handful of folks whose opinion I truly trust when it comes to food; this list narrows when it comes to new pastry shops (talk about a saturated world). Today, one of these people, Michael Gebert, he of James Beard bling wearing, <a href="http://skyfullofbacon.com/blog/" target="_blank">Sky Full of Bacon</a> fame, wrote a <a href="http://www.chicagoreader.com/Bleader/archives/2013/09/06/the-art-of-french-pastry-and-conversation-at-bad-wolf" target="_blank">piece</a> on a 2 month-old pastry shop in the <a href="https://www.paulinameatmarket.com/" target="_blank">deliciously smoky</a> environs of the Paulina Brown Line stop called <a href="http://badwolfcoffee.com/" target="_blank">Bad Wolf Coffee</a> (check his article for lovely pictures and superior prose on the place). I was serendipitously in the neighborhood for once, and thus immediately went in.<br />
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I'm not going to say more about the pastry I ate--the kouign-amann--beyond that I was amazed and soothed by it's integrity--the virtue of good butter and purity of technique right in your hand. You've got to go try it yourself. The espresso that the one man show of owner Jonathan Ory pulls is crafted with equal care--get him chatting and perhaps he'll tell you a juicy story about that. But what ultimately won me over was an in-person example of the the following ethic, as written in Gebert's article:<br />
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<i>Talk to him—which you </i>should<i> do as part of the coffee transaction, in his opinion..."The last thing I want is a place where I'm staring at the backs of
peoples' heads with headphones on. People forget how to talk to each
other. I'm afraid my generation doesn't know how to talk." </i></div>
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He's right, and that's why upon leaving, I was so damn pleased that we hung out and talked shop for some time, and to me, that is one of the tell-tale signs of a truly special place: you come for the food, you stay for the company it created. Of course, this was on a slow Friday afternoon. What would it be like on Saturday morning? Packed I'm sure, and the product backs that up and makes a visit worthwhile. But if you get a chance to stop in and taste some of Ory's pastry, do so. And you might luck out if--in the midst of a triple-digit hour week--he pulls his trick of making you feel as though he's got all day to talk. Dude is a true craftsman.<br />
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<i>Bad Wolf Coffee is at 3422 N. Lincoln Ave. in Chicago, just next to the Paulina Brown Line stop.</i>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-56610437546447398042013-08-13T07:21:00.001-05:002013-08-13T07:21:22.190-05:00Gibanica, Hamsicles and Other Earthly Delights<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All photos courtesy <a href="http://jordanmartins.com/" target="_blank">Jordan Martins</a></td></tr>
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We had a great potluck Sunday--starting with a flock of pigeons dramatically taking flight, vacating the <a href="http://comfortstationlogansquare.org/ai1ec_event/comfort-food-potluck-3/?instance_id=" target="_blank">Comfort Station</a> island to make way for the crew as they arrived with an overload of toothsome food. To name a mere few: Tamale Pie, Peach Cobbler, a bucket of Romesco and Meatballs, and a crowd favorite, Gibanica--a lovely pastry layered with a cheesy custard--also labeled as "Serbian crack". <a href="http://www.johnnycasserole.com/" target="_blank">Johnny Casserole</a> himself even stopped by with a mountain of <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2010/01/new-years-feasts-with-apologies-to.html" target="_blank">Hoppin' John</a>. Good luck for everyone!<br />
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A new addition to the potluck: Bring tupperware! Everyone is so generous with what they make, we've got a lot left over to take home. My Comfort Station partner and I are getting plump as we refuse to leave the building after everyone's gone until we've eaten every last bite of leftovers. Rest assured there was nary a bit of pickle-ham-cream cheese roll up to be found left in the place.<br />
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The potluck isn't without it's conundrums. For instance, what to do with those who come in, bring nothing, donate nothing, eat and leave without talking to a soul. Clearly the potluck is not about gaining anything tangible for ourselves or the Comfort Station; rather we are looking for a cosmic drawing even of sorts. Ultimately, we've decided that the price these woebegone souls have paid in dignity suffices. On the other hand, at each potluck, we've had people walk in, take a look around, both chit <i>and</i> chat with us, and even if they haven't a penny to spare, we make sure they get something to eat. You see, we're not looking to make money, or to be prom committee tyrants telling people where to sit; we just want the potluck to be a gathering at which <i>some kind</i> of exchange happens. Think of a G-Rated version of the "cash, grass or ass, nobody rides for free" bumper sticker. One guy even came in and played piano for about an hour--and I'm not talking about that one annoying guy at parties where there's a piano and he saw <a href="http://youtu.be/97mSAAzwtv8" target="_blank">The Sting</a> once, so he sits down and kind of plays a hacked-up drunken version and just ends up embarrassing everyone--this guy was carrying around sheet music and sat down and rocked the walls of the Comfort Station with something along the lines of Chopin for nearly an hour, maybe more. When he was done, we asked him to eat; when he said "aw shucks, I ain't got no money to donate and I didn't bring nothin' to serve," we forced some Colorado Green Chile down his throat. But it's interesting to note the statistics evening out as we go along--each potluck sees a couple skinny Logan Square hipsters stop by, throw some change in the donation jar, and eat the squarest meal they'll have all month. But it's awesome, because they hang out and talk with us, and we love it.<br />
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A guest once asked us what our goal was with the potluck. It's important to have goals, sure. But I think our goal with the potluck is, well, to kind of not have a goal. We're not looking to put up numbers; we're not looking to light cigars with Andrew Jackson's after everyone clears out. If we had to name a goal, it's to give folks in (or out of) the area a spot to come, max and relax on a Sunday afternoon with some really good, unfussy, unprecious food and some extremely decent people. And, if you're lucky, some amazing classical music.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-46549086388569274872013-07-07T17:25:00.000-05:002013-07-07T17:25:12.260-05:00Comfort Food at Comfort Station<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicf-L73sFFnHcWvuou_pVkmwbFA4ApYrhewIAMKxXOQMyhcOE6Qhja5n6Lk_-xXB_aGNXEf50CW4exTZYqTuwWKBgBhTSr4aZ7m6asbYskrFsPXenF4IROqwwPKwUxtkBtrocA3P3Cic4/s1600/20130707_170508.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicf-L73sFFnHcWvuou_pVkmwbFA4ApYrhewIAMKxXOQMyhcOE6Qhja5n6Lk_-xXB_aGNXEf50CW4exTZYqTuwWKBgBhTSr4aZ7m6asbYskrFsPXenF4IROqwwPKwUxtkBtrocA3P3Cic4/s400/20130707_170508.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Last month we hosted the first <a href="http://comfortstationlogansquare.org/2013/07/comfort-food-potluck-2/" target="_blank">Comfort Food at Comfort Station Potluck</a> to great success--all told, about 30 people came through with a staggering array of top-notch food all the way from a deep, cool tray of citrusy ceviche to several dozen handmade tamales from first time makers, long time eaters. There was a lovely Filipino menudo, Frito pie, hashbrown casserole; chicken mole and skillet cornbread made the scene, too. A dude even strolled in, asked if he could play the piano, and dropped about an hour of Chopin on us. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>photo courtesy Nando Espinosa</i></span></td></tr>
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The point here is that there was a lot of great stuff, and you should be there next time. But the funny thing about a potluck is how food--siren song sung and job of getting people to gather complete--ultimately takes a backseat to things like meeting new folks and hanging out with old friends on a lawn in the middle of Logan Square on a damn near perfect early summer day. All this, then someone rides up with a couple huge containers of Italian ice.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9O0mwfPL4Usby4MxeCV77qQYh2B87Q25R1claWIksqZ_pVzvRrfB_eXLy0xe4kHl70RfvUoAVnPVHQnsDjYBdmvmSHQJZoJn_m8M58L-TLHA6M0crNyzWblCbQcP1LthIx8nNDDEeYDc/s1600/IMG_0082.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9O0mwfPL4Usby4MxeCV77qQYh2B87Q25R1claWIksqZ_pVzvRrfB_eXLy0xe4kHl70RfvUoAVnPVHQnsDjYBdmvmSHQJZoJn_m8M58L-TLHA6M0crNyzWblCbQcP1LthIx8nNDDEeYDc/s400/IMG_0082.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>photo courtesy Nando Espinosa</i></span></td></tr>
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Wondering what the <a href="http://comfortstationlogansquare.org/" target="_blank">Comfort Station</a> is? It's that funky little building on Milwaukee Ave. right smack in the middle of Logan Square. It was initially built as a shelter for trolley riders...then turned into a shelter for nothing...and was finally a shelter for the City's lawn mowers. Restored in 2010 by Logan Square Preservation, it became a community-focused art space in 2011. And it's been expanding its lineup of offerings every since.<br />
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That said, we’ve got more planned in the works for the Comfort Food program at the Comfort Station, something I’ll be curating alongside <a href="http://jordanmartins.com/" target="_blank">Jordan Martins</a>--CS's Program Manager, a great Chicago artist, and one of the top food guys I know. Based around the once-a-month potluck series (which includes a visit from the <a href="http://readwritelibrary.org/" target="_blank">Read/Write Library</a>'s clever <a href="http://www.libraryasincubatorproject.org/?p=10648" target="_blank">BiblioTreka</a>, a book bike with select cook/food books), Comfort Food will offer other food-related events with the goal of maintaining the Comfort Station's role as an intersection of culture, arts and living history. Stay tuned to F.o.t.D. or <a href="https://www.facebook.com/comfortstationlogansquare" target="_blank"><i>like</i> Comfort Station</a> on Facebook for updates. Meanwhile, come to the 2nd potluck, being held Sunday, July 14 at 3pm - 5pm, and bring something good to eat (if you are coming, won't you please let us know on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/195824230577687/" target="_blank">event page</a>?). As always, there are no requirements beyond <i>you</i> making something (i.e. don't stop off at the gas station and get a box of snowballs or ho-hos) and bringing a utensil to serve it. We'll provide plates and bowls and cutlery, but keep in mind there are no facilities for heating anything up. The event will always be free, but if you wanna throw a buck or two in the donation jar to cover the costs of supplies, we wouldn't hold it against you. Any questions can be directed to me at hughamano{at}yahoo{dot}com. If you have any ideas for future events, we're open to submissions as well. Hope to see you Sunday--until then, eat & share well!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>photo courtesy Nando Espinosa</i></span></td></tr>
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-12596901843395441902013-05-22T12:28:00.000-05:002013-05-22T17:04:04.523-05:00Sticky Skinned Thieves and The Mint Julep<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was blazing hot in Chicago this week, and looking at the 93 flashing on the bank sign alternating with the unchanged-since-daylight-savings-so-it-is-still-an-hour-off time, I cringed thinking of when it'll be <i>really</i> hot, and <i>really</i> humid. All I could think to do was slink over to the community garden down the street, steal some herbs and make mint juleps.<br />
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NOW, it should be said that I didn't actually steal the mint. There's a sign on this tiny garden of about a dozen plots that lists the DOs and DON'Ts, including things like "DO enjoy the garden" but "DON'T drunkenly vomit in the garden". Seems like "DON'T take any plants or herbs or vegetables unless you've grown them" is a given--but the sign actually has taking herbs along the side of the road as a DO! But still, I felt weird about it, like I'm being set up for the crime of crimes, taking a deliciously aromatic weed like mint. So, on Sunday, under the guise of walking a rambunctious wiener dog, I sauntered by in hat and sunglasses with the hopes of snagging some. Alas! The whole gardening club was out in full force, and I lost my nerve, certain that a dachshund trampling the lettuce patch while I sheepishly tried to snip mint would be frowned upon.<br />
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The next day I gathered my courage and returned--sans wiener dog--relieved that no one was there. I scanned the sign again to confirm that I wasn't being an herb-sucking leech of society, then bent down and started clipping. I'd gotten a decent load, when I heard a voice say, "what are you making?" I started, instantly transported to the mischievous lilac summer days of my youth, sure to see a scowl and a set of crossed arms in front of me. Half-written stories of excuse whirled through my mind, yet I somehow stumbled out "mint juleps" as I met the eyes of my exposer. Instantly I could see it was okay--everything was all right--and yes, in fact, the community mint <i>meant</i> community mint. Phew, I thought, and had an excellent conversation with her; she is one of the gardeners who has a plot there and was enthusiastic as all get out about my using the herbs. I confessed my apprehensions, and was assured no crime had been committed. I felt silly about the whole thing but then was told that there actually <i>is</i> a thief in the neighborhood; a mysterious, well-gardened lady who really knows her plants, stealing a fig tree and more. I promised to do my part and keep a look out.<br />
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At any rate, I shook off the social rust of wariness the city inevitably puts back on me over a long winter and learned a bit about what was being grown in the garden. A sack full of mint in my hands, I returned home and crushed a bunch of ice. I rinsed the mint and muddled it with sugar in a pewter cup and packed that ice over it, a mountain for the streams of sweet bourbon to run through. A slight stir and more mint for garnish, slapped one or twice to activate its mojo, I sat back on the porch with that layer of sweat, or humidity, or a combination of both sticking to my skin and let the julep do its thing. The below vision of the <a href="http://youtu.be/gJV-O1e10z8" target="_blank">poetic bartender</a> from our soulful south filled my head with the story of the mint julep; and the diesel air, concrete and fear of garden thievery flowed away.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-52770567121019576312013-04-23T10:46:00.000-05:002013-04-24T15:30:05.854-05:00Ramen=Barbecue=Gnocchi<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Handmade noodles</span></td></tr>
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Ramen, as I know it, is the kind of thing that varies greatly depending on where one gets it--meaning who is making it and what prefecture/town/side of the road you happen to be standing in/on when you order it. It’s one of those foods that has myriad interpretations, and produces endless arguments about what is real and what is authentic. And, as with all things churning in the gears of food hype, ramen is a food that brings forth the pundits, wanting to decry <i>that</i> as sacrilegious, and exalt <i>this</i> as the gold of authenticity. As it was just recently put to me, “it’s like a sandwich; at the end of the day, it’s (hopefully) good stuff between bread,” but the shit being slung at Subway--while allegedly popular amongst millionaire athletes and bizarrely cast tv semi-stars making a living on being chubby nitwits--might not move people who, say, have eaten a reuben at <a href="http://www.mussandturners.com/indexmain.html" target="_blank">Muss and Turner’s</a> in Atlanta or stood in massive lines at Gurney's Harbor Bottle Shop up on the top of the Michigan mitten. Or take breakfast--a tough meal to cook in a restaurant due to the necessity of speed (often through the cloud of the hangover), general customer crankiness, and the fact that everyone’s mother made eggs <i>this</i> way and if you don’t recreate that, you suck. Or, the king of this conversation--barbecue. I just had a friend in town, doing one of those eight-meal per day Chicago visits, and as soon as I suggested BBQ down on 75th street, he said “Dude! I’m from North Carolina!” treating my suggestion the way Memphis’ great <a href="http://youtu.be/dS0A5G7SjWo" target="_blank">DJ Stephens</a> treated an opponent's shot back in March.<br />
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There are lots of sides to lots of coins, and I feel to experience things, one has to be versatile. Digging ditches all day in the hot sun probably won't lead you to a cellar temperature Belgian Dubbel the same way it'll take you to a tall Busch Light--but show up at the Hop Leaf asking for the latter and you're kind of missing the picture. Laugh at diner food on your way down to Fulton Market, then feel foolish realizing that in your basest, most in-need-of-comfort moments, that's just the sort of thing you're looking to eat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A couple finished bowls kicking around the house, with a sticky pork broth, braised pork shoulder, Benton's ham, pickled shiitake mushrooms, an egg poached in said broth and homemade noodles, imperfect but delicious</span></td></tr>
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Me, I've made some ramen in my day, and not just the 30 cents-a-pack kind, though I do love dressing that up from time to time with odds and ends I've got in the fridge. At <a href="http://soupandbread.net/" target="_blank">Soup and Bread</a> a couple years back I served a super rich broth with some tasty garnishes despite the mistake of using really-difficult-to-keep-together-and-serve-at-a-thing-like-soup-and-bread frozen noodles (learning moment); at a collaboration dinner with <a href="http://www.eatfatrice.com/index2.php#slide-main" target="_blank">Xmarx</a> way back Crazy Hair and I made the noodles, broth and every last bit in the bowl for a belly-busting ramen course; every now and then around the house I'll make and freeze some broth for a later quick bowl. <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2010/02/soup-and-bread-year-ii-pork-dumpling.html" target="_blank">Here's</a> a savagely long recipe I wrote for Soup and Bread one year, where instead of noodles, I used pork and ginger tortellini. So not technically ramen. But you get the point--who doesn't like a really great broth, with good noodle-type things, and some tasty garnishes thrown in? There isn't a one-size-fits-all blueprint.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lots of feet for a nice, sticky stock</span></td></tr>
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During my recent trip to Japan, I ate a lot of ramen, but none better than in Kofu, Yamanashi. My brother in law has a secret joint he likes to go to named Hanedaya--complete with a standard ticket vending machine at the entry and a standard crowd huddled around an extremely non-standard spacious work area for the two guys in the kitchen and their floor burners with massive boiling pots, and about 30 people waiting in a line curling around the edge of the room. The big boss is the guy making each and every bowl; the second guy cuts and slices and busses and shifts people around Tetris-style as party size needs dictate; they both scream the usual "irrashaimase!" greeting when anyone enters. When the four of us were up next, a single lone diner slurped with one empty seat to his left and two empty seats to his right as we sat on a bench directly behind him staring into the deepest part of his skull. Talk about pressure--but he was a speedy single dude and finished quickly. We moved into our slot, placed our vending machine tickets on the counter, and when our time came, got down to business. This place has the added luxury of verbally customizing three important components of your ramen:<br />
<ul>
<li><i>Men</i>, or noodle: how long you want them cooked for. I take mine nice and dense and chewy;</li>
<li><i>Abura</i>, meaning grease, or fat, or oil, depending on which translation you are more comfortable with. I took a good, heavy dollop of pork fat from the top of the broth pot;</li>
<li><i>Kosa</i>, essentially meaning how strong and salty you want your broth.</li>
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The tonkotsu broth was obscenely good, and rich even before my request to <a href="http://youtu.be/4w3zdkmw2E4" target="_blank">turn it to 11</a>. This is the type of broth made, basically, by hammering the hell out of pork bones, thereby disobeying everything you ever learned in your western-style culinary upbringing and/or training as you suspend all the great fat, collagen and flavor in the broth itself. Hence the richness and cloudy, whitish color. The noodles, pulled from a great stack of boxes delivered that morning (a la the lesson learned at <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2011/05/flour-and-bones-pop-up-noodle-joint.html" target="_blank">Flour and Bones</a> after hand rolling hundreds of orders of noodles: just because you make it, just because it is “homemade”, doesn’t mean it’s the best out there--someone does this for a living, and if it's taking a massive amount of time, then perhaps it’s best to focus on making other things great and let the noodle man showcase his craft) were chewy and satisfying, the pork tender and, well, porky. I think I was the only one of my crew to finish everything down to the last drop, except maybe my brother, who is a bit of an animal himself. <a href="http://tabelog.com/yamanashi/A1901/A190101/19005017/" target="_blank">Here's a link</a> to a site about the shop, though I offer two warnings: 1) it is entirely in Japanese, and 2) in the precious words of said brother, it is a "yelpish site, with typical a-holes commenting..." It does have some photos of the place though.<br />
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Back home, Mike Sula over at the Chicago Reader <a href="http://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/ramen-brendan-sodikoff-jeff-pikus-tonkotsu/Content?oid=9278011" target="_blank">went with a chef by the name of Jeff Pikus way out to Mount Prospect to eat some ramen in a karaoke bar</a>. It's a good read, and has added a destination to my ever-growing list, and seems to end on a note that inspired this post: there are many styles and sub-styles of ramen, and many ways to analyze them all; it might be impossible to approximate a single taste for everyone. Just look at the comments below the article. But let's put it this way: I'd much rather eat a bowl of ramen, or a fried chicken leg or a smoked rack that someone put a lot of care and craft into, even if it isn't exactly done how <i>I'd</i> do it, than the same carbon copy day in and day out because I thought it was perfect or it was all I ever had. Maybe it's because I'm not Italian ("that's not how <i>mamma</i> did it"), or because I'm not from the south ("that's not how <i>momma</i> did it"). But when all is said and done, authenticity is in the eye of the beholder. And we have lots of opportunities to try new things--just follow my Carolinan friend's example and eat eight times a day.htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-80708327577435356662013-02-08T10:10:00.001-06:002013-02-08T10:10:22.313-06:00Sour, or The Way I Feel After The Broncos' Last Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At this point, you've gotta know how important the <i>sour</i> taste is (note: when I say sour, think <i>pleasantly tart</i> as opposed to the battery acid sting of Sour Patch Kids). Just like the textural relief that crisp offers soft, or the more delicious culinary cousin of Icy Hot that is ma-la (numbing-hot) in Chinese cooking--even those first couple of lines of that famous Doors <a href="http://youtu.be/-h5j_mAEEdw?t=14s" target="_blank">song</a> describe it--contrast is key to keeping interesting things interesting, and even making boring things, well, less boring. And sour is king of keeping things honest and balanced in your mouth.<br />
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Sound advanced? It isn't. Everyone has had a dill pickled cucumber with a juicy monster burger (or, say, one of the world's great patty melts at <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2011/10/jeris-or-importance-of-all-night-diners.html" target="_blank">Jeri's</a>), tomato soup with grilled cheese, tzatziki sauce on a gyro, kimchi with any/everything. This is why <a href="http://cdn.blogs.babble.com/family-kitchen/files/vintage-food-ads/07.jpg" target="_blank">Tabasco</a> is so popular (sure it's the heat, but don't unwittingly discount the co-pilot of vinegar). Sour balances sweet wine and gives it character. It raises coffee from the over-roasted (nay, burnt!) abyss of Starbucks to the delicious, more subtle and complex heights of the smaller roasters that make thinking about coffee so interesting these days.<br />
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The world of sour is complex, too; different acids are produced/enhanced via different means, whether they are just born that way (citrus), are there waiting to be revealed (wine reduction) or are invited to set up camp (fermentation). Fermentation is one of the trickier ways to get at the acid; time, temperature, attention (but not <i>too</i> much attention) all matter in order to receive the desired results of good bacteria growth and not make one <a href="http://youtu.be/SorBWowWab4?t=15s" target="_blank">miserably sick</a>.<br />
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I've been reading <i>The Art of Fermentation</i> by Sandor Ellix Katz. It's not so much a cookbook as an encyclopedia-like volume that explains a ton of different kind of ferments, with some theory and equipment information, but mostly a whole lot of first-hand experience (whether his own or from others who have written to him or published on the web). There's even a great little aside about a friend of his, who got an extra scoop of trouble in federal prison when she was caught trying to ferment the prison coleslaw into sauerkraut, and the mean ol' warden thought it was hooch. The best part is that he readily and humbly admits that he is not a food scientist and claims that he is <i>not</i> an expert--he's just a guy who loves food and embraces the ethic of "the more I learn the less I know." That said, he's had a ton of experience doing so. His earlier book, Wild Fermentation offers more recipes than this one does--this one gives the "why" and a bit of "how," leaving some variables up to you, which, if a bit more challenging that being spoon-fed amounts and ingredients, <i>teaches</i> one so much more. Read <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2009/03/coltrane-is-dumplings-or-why-i-dont-use.html" target="_blank">this F.o.t.D. post</a> from (gulp) nearly four years ago to understand why I think that. <br />
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Anyway, back to the merits of sour. Sour refreshes your palate, opens it up to receive other tastes and flavors, splashes cool water on the face of your tongue. Often times, it is accompanied by its good friend crunchy--the sour of textures--which shakes up the round monotony of rich flavors and soft textures. Used as a seasoning agent, sour goes a long way to finish what salt starts--that is, to open your palate up to other tastes. Once you understand salt, and that it is used to season things, to open things up, and not to simply make things salty, you're on the right path to understanding the same thing about sour. If you are making, say, soup for <a href="http://soupandbread.net/" target="_blank">Soup and Bread</a>, and you've salted it well and it's just not unlocking all the other flavors you worked so hard to cultivate--give it some acid. A squeeze of lemon or a dash of good vinegar, and things will open right up.<br />
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I've currently got a big batch of kimchi fermenting on the counter (see, it's not just sour, spicy and garlicky and funky get invited, too), and some <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2009/04/you-can-make-pickles-or-all-about.html" target="_blank">yogurt</a> doing its thing in the closet next to the furnace, as well as Indian-style lime-fermented chiles I picked up from the book above, which Katz picked up from a guy writing as <a href="http://friedsig.wordpress.com/2010/10/12/lime-juice-lacto-fermentation/" target="_blank">Fried Sig</a> who in turned picked it up from Madhur Jaffrey, of course. Whew! The process is simple. Using a variation on Fried Sig's method due to what I had available, I sliced a variety of chiles--use a good range of heat levels here. Heated a bit of olive oil (original recipe used mustard oil, which has certain preserving qualities, but I had none, and, well...) gently, with some mustard seeds and about five cloves of crushed (but still whole) garlic just until the garlic started to bubble. I let it sit for a few minutes to diffuse flavors, then poured it all over the chiles and added a 2" knob of ginger, peeled and sliced into thin discs. I seasoned with salt and mixed everything, tasting until the salt level was right (the chiles should taste good, nice and salty but of course, not too salty). Then packed it all into a jar. If your friend makes pickles, he'll have one you can borrow.<br />
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I let it hang out on the kitchen counter for a few days, shaking it now and then, turning the jar upside down, so that everything had a fair shot at being in contact with the liquid being produced by the chiles being cured by the salt. And because of this curing, the chiles shrink in volume. I added the juice of a lime or two, tasting things again, and let the jar continue to do its thing on the counter. Tasting every day, I waited until they attained a tasty level of funk and sourness, and the chiles have since become delicious hot, sour and salty accompaniments to nearly everything I eat. I was a touch worried about the lack of mustard oil, but so far things have worked out. The chiles are in the fridge now, holding a spot for the kimchi as it finishes it's big fermentation at room temperature (mind you, the room is in a cold apartment with high ceilings in Chicago).<br />
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At any rate, you don't need to run out and buy big books and turn your kitchen into a laboratory/zoo to enjoy the sour taste--there's a lot of great product out there. And you might be more familiar with it than you think. If you've ever put lemon juice or malt vinegar on a fish fry, you can appreciate what I'm saying here. So, invite a pickle to each meal, get some kimchi from your Korean neighbor, or plant a lemon tree. Just don't suffer without the sour!htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-19285027077940100302013-02-05T08:31:00.000-06:002013-02-05T08:32:17.980-06:00Hoodwinked Into Delicious!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A trip to Tokyo requires a trip to Tsukiji Fish Market (read about it <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tsukiji_fish_market" target="_blank">here</a>--their <a href="http://www.tsukiji-market.or.jp/tukiji_e.htm" target="_blank">actual website</a> is atrocious). Thing is, my family is in Kyoto and the mountains outside Tokyo, so in all of my trips to Japan I've only been to Tokyo once, and that was when I was a fourteen year old nitwit, up from Kyoto to see a Denver Broncos exhibition game. The pinnacle of culture during that trip was going to a big fancy banquet at which the Broncos were in attendance. I remember having the same jumbly-stomached trepidation I'd had at the 8th grade graduation dance not long before, where I sat in ill-fitting clothes, not talking to the people I finally had such sweet, coveted access to because I was so painfully shy--the difference this time being that these were enormous and scary men as opposed to young and scary girls. So you see, I didn't get a whole lot out of that trip.<br />
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This time however, Tsukiji was high on the list. I was fortunate to have a family friend in Tokyo, who has a great apartment--a short two bridge walk from Tsukiji--she rents out that she graciously offered to us for free. In Japan, free accommodations go a long, long way, further than most places. She offered to "point us in the right direction" from the corner for the convenience store, subway stations, which way to go to get to Tsukiji the next morning; this turned into a mega-brisk walk over the Sumida River into a section called Tsukishima, and through a rather industrial area speckled with tiny little shops selling tsukudani (items such as seaweed or seafood simmered in soy sauce and mirin, which preserves and ups the flavor--talk about umami!). We got a small bit of shio kombu (a thick kelp, usually used to flavor dashi broths, simmered as tsukudani) to snack on along the way, though it's usually eaten with rice, or in onigiri (a rice ball packed with various flavorful fillings taken on the road). As we started weaving in and out of alleyways, the sun began to set, and I realized I was doing something I'd never be able to do on my own--I started to grasp that she wasn't taking us to the Hot Doug's of Tokyo. Before I knew it, we were squeezing into seats shoulder to shoulder with red-faced businessmen in black suits, cigarettes dangling from mouth corners, knocking back <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sh%C5%8Dch%C5%AB" target="_blank">shōchū</a> in a small wooden dive littered with paper signs describing, in Japanese kangi, what was available that day. This was the kind of place where even the numbers for the price were in Japanese (i.e. if we wrote out "Five Ninety-Nine" here in the states). Those are easy enough to understand, but meaningless if you don't know if you are ordering the sake or tuna face. Which is essentially the first thing that came out. I saw someone eating large, jagged, mismatched chunks of really red meat as we went in; I thought to myself, "how odd to be eating beef in a place this close to Tsukiji market. And what lean beef!" The glow of an idiot's realization warmed my cheeks as a plate of the same was delivered to our table, with a small amount of wasabi. Knowing that raw beef just does not happen in Japan, and gathering my wits under me, I asked what it was. "Tuna!" Circular motions were made around our host's face. "The cheek!"<br />
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I gleefully attacked the tuna, and it was obviously some of the freshest, cleanest tuna I'd ever eaten. Chewy--not melt-in-your-mouth like fatty tuna--and a real treat for us mastication fanatics who choose, say, hanger over tenderloin. More chewy=more flavor. And a whole huge plate of it for 500 yen, not too much over 5 bucks! Beer arrived, and we tucked into the next offering: a steamed bass collar. Great, clean, flavorful flesh--but it was the fat under the skin that made this one so amazing. Rich, not fishy, and it gave me the same warm shivers as a good vein of ribeye fat. A quick rearrangement of seats as a group of pretty rough looking older ladies, high on shōchū and green tea (yes, mixed) slid down for a new batch of diners and drinkers. The already rambunctious noise grew, then out came a stew made of beef tripe and intestine--hard to fathom for some, but cooked long and low, and if you can get your head around it, the richness is super comforting on a chilly night. Deep, deep flavors; myriad textures; powerfully satisfying and beefy. Umami falls well short of a proper description of the flavor. Pickles arrived to bring us out of our stupor of indulgence, then yakitori (grilled chicken and scallion skewers) for a grounding familiarity, and more beer.<br />
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And finally, monkfish liver. Foie gras of the sea. Often times, you'll get a nice little disc of it, rolled like a torchon and steamed, served humbly and delicately in ponzu sauce. Not in this case. This was an enormous chunk, served in a rather oily stew. Just looking at it was a challenge--this was a whole lotta liver. But it was delicious; rich, of course, and not as clean as foie. I took several happy and exuberant bites, then a few courteous bites, then I just plain forced down a few more...and I was done. It was just...so...big. A dozen people could eat this thing and then roll off into the street clutching their bellies. Which is what three of us did. We squeezed back through the crowd--you think Fat Rice is busy and crowded? This place had around 20 seats, and there were about 35 people sitting down. Don't ask me how. Sweatshirt-clad girls delivering food and booze to tables and freshly sliced fish (wrapped in plastic on styrofoam not unlike our packs of ground beef here in the states) to a small table outside for take-away sale split the crowds effortlessly, though not without some helmet-to-helmet contact. Me, I climbed over people to get out--not an easy thing to do, and quite humiliating when you are a 100 kilo white guy. The chef had kept glancing over at me during the meal, most likely thinking of what <i>my</i> liver might taste like, and this was decidedly not the place to pull out the camera and start shooting (a battle I had to have with myself at any restaurant in Japan, with the side arguing "hey--it's going to be a long while before you see this food again" frequently winning out over the "yeah, but there's nothing I can stand less than people taking terrible pictures of their food for several minutes from several angles before even considering eating it" side), so I snapped a quick shot of the chef's face from outside, framed in the door's glass panel.<br />
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Slowly, I realized that I'd just had one of the great meals. I was dazed from the entire experience, and there was nothing left to do other than stumble away into the night, back over the river, and eventually through the narrow night streets of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinjuku_Golden_Gai" target="_blank">Golden Gai</a>, making a now half-hearted effort to find a bar I'd heard was frequented by Wim Wenders, an expert in devastation, but giving up and falling into an anonymous matchbox joint to contemplate the whole thing. I'd see Tsukiji the next morning, but for now, senses assaulted and ravaged, I sat, and I drank a bit.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-60284783173627654582013-02-01T10:00:00.000-06:002013-02-01T10:00:39.931-06:00Try It, You'll Like It, or, How Did I Get Fatter In Japan?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Copious pickled veg on offer in a little back alley bar off <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ponto-ch%C5%8D" target="_blank">Ponto-chō</a></td></tr>
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One doesn't think of Japan as a place you'd bring an extra 10 pounds back from. Wouldn't the modesty and humility in the culture be reflected in the cuisine? Of course it is--only not for me when visiting my family; they aim to keep the American boy plump and well-fed, and ne'er was the night I climbed out of the bath and into the futon without being amazingly full of food and drink.<br />
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My time at <a href="http://www.eatfatrice.com/" target="_blank">Fat Rice</a> reemphasized what is too often a background note here in the States: the importance of texture as a player in the complex scheme of something being delicious. To <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2011/07/generosity-texture-frying-and-little.html" target="_blank">re-quote a friend</a> and believer: "There are two types of people in this world. Those who put chips in their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and those who hate life." I remember standing with Old Crazy Hair in the kitchen at Fat Rice as he sliced some tiny jellyfish, moving with his usual frenetic energy to toss them with loads of flavor via chilies and black vinegar and sesame and whatever else. He held a piece out for me to taste, and yeah, the flavoring was delicious, but what I remember the most is the texture--the snap and so-satisfying crunch these little guys had, with nothing backing up the fear of a coelenterate planet we in the States were raised with.<br />
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My time at Fat Rice also exhausted me (boo-hoo, I know, because the whole crew there and in so many other restaurants is still, and will still be doing it day in day out while some of us gallivant off to foreign lands to behave badly in karaoke bars at 3am) to the point that my palate became an absolutely plowed field, and the week between putting that last Arroz Gordo in the window and my departure to Kyoto allowed said field to rest and relax and prepare to attack some new tastes and flavors and textures. So off I went.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tai and Aji Sashimi, Kofu, Yamanashi<br />
The chef here took me horse racing the next day. Think cigarettes and paper bag booze--not tall boots and funny hats.</td></tr>
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Upon arrival, I was whisked to Gaku, the favorite local izakaya, right on the outskirts of the Suntory distillery in Yamazaki. No whiskey tonight; it was beer, then hot sake, then a steady parade of simple but delicious standards: agedashi tofu (fried silken tofu in a light broth), cured cod roe (snappy and creamy), gyu suji (beef tendon braised until soft and incredibly succulent), tamagoyaki (familiar layers of egg rolled together), tori karaage (essentially fried chicken, super garlicky and crisp), not to mention several various cuts of sashimi, stunningly fresh, more so given my usual (non) proximity to the sea. My brother is famous for (not) discerning types of fish by shrugging and saying "it's a fish!" Though I can see where he is coming from, within the criticism lies the answer; the character of raw fish is extremely subtle, and if one's affinity is toward the heavier, saltier snacks, there isn't going to be much there to pick up. But, if you turn your other senses way down, you'll find that on the lower frequencies, the personality of the fish will speak loudly. Your palate will gain your other sensual faculties and you'll taste/smell/see/hear/feel the freshness, the smooth melting fat of otoro, the cool salinity of tai, the crunchy snap of the extremely-small whole baby squid.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Super tiny baby squid, crunchy and sweet</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monkfish liver torchon in ponzu sauce</td></tr>
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The last tokkuri squeezed of every drop of sake, my brother in law gave us a much coveted ride home (the thought of adding one more train ride to my two flights and blue line scorecard was too much to handle), we all had a groggy nightcap, and I floated off to bed. If you find yourself headed to Japan, I have a few pieces of advice: arrive in the evening, or as near to it as possible, stay up late, and don't sleep in forever. You'll be on track and away from jet lag in no time (unlike the trip back this way, which is always so much harder to overcome). Smile at people and say--in whatever busted up poor man's version of Japanese you can muster--things like "arigato," and "sumimasen," and "konnichi-wa". You know, put some effort forth. And most importantly, eat every single thing that is put in front of you. There's a reason people eat what they do; a different definition of delicious for every palate, every culture. Look past the usual bacony suspects of fat and salt and into what makes that particular food great. The worst thing that could happen is it bites you back.htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-6419899874966371232013-01-10T21:40:00.001-06:002013-01-10T21:40:16.498-06:00From Montana to Macau to Japan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Another three months have zipped by; another term helping a dear friend get a business up and running has come to a close. And in the morning, I'll head to Japan to see family and try to redeem myself for so many visits as a child where my main interests consisted of keeping one foot in America via McDonald's and <a href="http://youtu.be/Ua9OH3LRj7g" target="_blank">Weird Science</a> as I tried my best to take advantage of rather loose drinking age requirements. In preparation, I've saturated myself in things such as football and the double fatso over at Phil's Last Stand, and now look forward to some of the cleanest flavors on earth in Kyoto and Tokyo; things I was unable to appreciate in my early visits. Anyone will tell you that I'm the world's biggest bath enthusiast, and I've prepared myself for the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Onsen" target="_blank">onsen</a> (while soaking the aches and stresses of the restaurant away) with visits to King Spa in Niles and plan on becoming <a href="http://youtu.be/590_mhAuZhc" target="_blank">one of these guys</a> while spending a bit of the winter in Japan.<br />
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I realize that I've once again, in my standard fashion, neglected my dear F.o.t.D. whilst in the depths of the trenches of <a href="http://www.eatfatrice.com/" target="_blank">Fat Rice</a>, and you can be certain that I won't be computing too much while wintering on that tiny island, but I've come to accept it--all in the name of gathering some good material, I suppose. People ask if I'll start the Salon up again, and I hope so, but that is further down the road than I'm ready to commit to right now.<br />
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That said, I plan to write a bit more about my time at Fat Rice upon my return. If you haven't been, please go. If you have, please go again and get something new. Old Crazy Hair and Adrienne have put all of their heart and soul into this place, and it is rare to see people care to the degree that they care on such a consistent basis. They're putting out <a href="http://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/mike-sula-reviews-fat-rice/Content?oid=8318420" target="_blank">astounding food</a>, and breathing new life and fire into a cuisine that is rapidly disappearing, and it's been an honor and pleasure to work alongside them and <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2010/10/country-music-or-getting-kicked-and.html" target="_blank">the rest of the crew</a>. Even though my past couple of jaunts have been planned as short 3 or 4 month deals (lest the perils of friends working with friends overcome us), it's still difficult to say goodbye at the end of the term. I mean, I'll see Old Crazy Hair, and Tasty T and the rest of the crew again, just like I'll see the folks in Montana again, but it bites a little bit to remove oneself from a great group. Alas, it will afford me more time to go into Fat Rice, sit at the bar, throw my weight around, and heckle the new grill guy (who happens to be Crazy Hair himself). See y'all in a month.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-45609100591917602492012-12-29T11:41:00.004-06:002012-12-29T11:42:11.922-06:00This Is What It's LikeA repost from a year and a half ago, still spot on, especially after last night's <i>monster</i> service at Fat Rice:<br />
------------------------ <br />
Whew. It's amazing the energy it takes to run a restaurant. Even more
amazing is the energy it takes to run a restaurant at the same time as
putting out 3 highly creative underground dinners. Add to that an
absolute lack of sleep and, well, let's just say we're all very lucky no
one lost their mind last week. For the past ten days, the <a href="http://xmarxchicago.wordpress.com/" target="new">Xmarx</a>
crew put out Chinese noodles and dumplings of the highest order--based
upon extensive culinary research deep in the heart of Chengdu--under the
guise of Flour and Bones. The food was solidly amazing, honest and
nurturing, and on top of it all, they put out 3 of their deliciously
inventive underground dinners on 3 of those nights. I only worked 4 of
Flour and Bones' ten days, rolling noodles, making dumplings, expediting
the line and contributing wherever I could to those 3 dinners, and I am
absolutely beat. I only worked 10am-1am most of those days, and sure,
that's a 15 hour day, but the rest of the crew was at it pretty much
non-stop, basically only napping here and there when time (and mental
state--you'd be amazed at how difficult it is to sleep in this state)
allowed it.<br />
<br />
This is what happens in so many restaurants all over
the world, and it is at once evidence of a certain level of insanity,
and of great passion; unhealthy yet so creatively fulfilling it's no
wonder that those who <span style="font-style: italic;">get</span> it <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> it. From the dishwashers in the back of the house to the <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2010/10/country-music-or-getting-kicked-and.html" target="new">line cooks</a>
to the top guy, these people are driven if crazy, focused though
chaotic and the good ones, well, they have a way of squeezing the most
delicate, balanced flavor out of what appears to be sack of stones and
fish guts. I'd just like to pay tribute to these people--the ones who
don't have book deals, the ones who don't have tv shows, the ones who
don't have shiny new restaurants greased by the oil of celebrity. So, as
I raise a shot of Jameson and an Old Style tall boy, here's to the
chefs, cooks and kitchen crews that have each others' backs no matter
what--those who grind it out everyday.
htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-85340506637680184352012-11-16T11:20:00.000-06:002012-11-16T11:20:10.743-06:00Old Tricks in the New Neighborhood, or, Hot & Seepless Nights<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Busy times in the Food on the Dole world! I’ve jumped out of the wood-fired oven under the big skies of Montana and into the wood-fired grill on the mean streets of Chicago as I help Old Crazy Hair and the Xmarx crew open their first brick and mortar joint, <a href="http://www.eatfatrice.com/" target="_blank">Fat Rice</a> in Logan Square. Yes, that’s me on the gorgeous wood burning wagon wheel grill, and I’ll be planted there as I consult with these guys and serve as sous chef throughout opening and the remainder of 2012. Tough, long hours as can be expected when opening a restaurant, but rest assured they are worth it as we work to bring Chicago some excellent and tasty food which, simply put, is Asian-inspired with a healthy dose of Portuguese influence. I’ll write in more detail about all this when my term is up in January and I’ve had a chance to: a) learn more about this vast and fascinating cuisine, and b) sleep/think. For now, read about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macau" target="_blank">Macau</a> and the Portuguese role in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Age_of_Discovery" target="_blank">Age of Discovery</a> 500 years ago, and you’ll be on the right track, historically speaking at least.<br /><br />As for the food, the ship is helmed by the always intriguing Old Crazy Hair himself, Abe Conlon of Xmarx fame, and few are the times I have met a chef as passionate and intellectual about his craft. We officially open tonight, so come on by for some hearty, spicy, new food!<br />
<br />
Fat Rice, 2957 W Diversey in Chicago! <br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-74318494855182594482012-10-10T09:41:00.001-05:002012-10-10T09:41:43.029-05:00Maybe We Should've Named Him Gossamer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The meat of my experience in Montana consisted not of beard-growing or gold-mining or bear-cooking, as most of my Chicago friends seem to think. Nor was I able to make a single stromboli for Jim Harrison as predicted by Old Crazy Hair (sadly, I was given <a href="http://youtu.be/BtM1sSkso74?t=29s" target="_blank">the high hat</a> by his secretary despite a promising letter of introduction). Rather, I focused on running a pretty amazing mobile wood-fired oven operation set up by my good friend <a href="http://lafoleyoven.com/index.html" target="_blank">Ryan LaFoley</a>.<br />
<br />
Three summers ago I made a shorter trip to Bozeman, MT to help Ryan out, as he had just built his first mobile oven. You see, he had this nasty habit of driving around the Union's 4th largest state and offering ranchers the free service of tearing down dilapidated barns--if he got to keep the wood and tin. Naturally, he had to do something with all that dross, and what better than to build trailers to house wood-fired ovens? He got hold of a <a href="http://www.mugnaini.com/" target="_blank">Mugnaini</a> fresh off the boat and mounted it onto a trailer, building up a mysterious-looking shelter around it. Was it a smokehouse? An ice-fishing hut? I'd be thrilled with either, though people were not disappointed when we rolled up, hit the switches Impala-style and opened the hydraulic side panel, revealing the oven and a beautiful cherry-wood prep table built by this monster of a craftsman who would soon put his talents into a second oven, and ask me to come to Montana to drive it around and build fires in it.<br />
<br />
In March, I got a message from Ryan: "Want to pause your life in Chicago, move to Montana and work long hours for low pay and no benefits?" Naturally, I was intrigued. He'd bought a 1954 Chevy dually truck, painted bright orange and ready for some heavy lifting on a 1984 tow-truck chassis. Like any sane person, he flew to southern California to pick the truck up and drive it back the 1,200 miles to Bozeman, stopping along the way to load up another oven on the truck's bed. Once back, the plan was to build out another housing for the oven, and this time add some other cool bits and pieces to the picture. Not wanting to neglect the original oven, he needed someone to operate the second.<br />
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I flew out, and the build out began. Let me disclaim everything that follows here by saying that the design is roughly 0% mine, and that the only labor that came from my back into this truck consisted of me holding up a board to nail in when Ryan ran out of hands. Certain kinds of minds are capable of this sort of task, and his and my abilities are on the absolute opposite ends of this spectrum. You wanna feel like a chucklehead? Get involved in a building project like this with my skill set. It was damn intimidating.<br />
<br />
THANKFULLY, my reason for being there was not to contribute to the fabrication of the truck, with the exception of a few practical suggestions here and there. Instead, I stood back, worked on some recipe development and organizational issues for the business, and just watched this beautiful thing come to life. In the end, the truck had the wood-fired oven, a commercial convection oven with a generator and propane tank to run it, a hand sink with a huge water tank, copious amounts of storage space, a tailgate section that can be converted to a wood burning grill spanning the width of the truck, support beams for a spit to be installed over said grill for the roasting of whole animals and misbehaving cooks, side panels that slide off and convert to pizza rolling tables, and a really bad attitude. The "Orange Marauder"--as (pretty much only) I came to call it--growls and spits when you start him up and makes all kinds of rough noises and draws all kinds of stares. But he cleans up nicely, and parked at the edge of the <a href="http://bogertfarmersmarket.org/" target="_blank">Bogert Farmer's Market</a> or in the thick of <a href="http://www.downtownbozeman.org/musiconmain.html" target="_blank">Music on Main</a> in Bozeman, or in the middle of a field, with absolutely no resources, not even water, where we cooked a multi-course, plated meal including fresh pasta for a wedding of 80 people, well, the old boy looks great.<br />
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Seems there is a <a href="http://eater.com/archives/2012/05/09/mobile-pizza.php" target="_blank">proliferation of pizza trucks</a> around the country these days, and I still cringe when people say "Heard you went out to Montana to run a food truck!" But it is a good thing--another step in a (mostly) positive direction of making good food accessible and not crazy expensive and at street-level. And definitely a great presence in Bozeman. And though my role in the birth of the Orange Marauder was most minimal, I'll always get a little jump every time I see an old farm truck<span id="goog_1460423030"></span><span id="goog_1460423031"></span> rambling down the road in front of me.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-29106959547081077552012-10-04T10:37:00.000-05:002012-10-04T10:37:03.875-05:00A Highway Runs Through It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My drive to and from Montana was as exciting as it can be. There is no drive in the universe that can remain constantly compelling, and the space between the tree-lined lakes of Wisconsin and Minnesota to the Badlands of South Dakota can be downright mind-numbing (though the Badlands are damn amazing and if that doesn't do it for you, the coffee at Wall Drug right on their outskirts, served by a giant Jackalope, costs a cool nickel). David Sedaris audiobooks go a long way to keep one awake; so does having a (well-traveled) cat loose in the car. But nothing keeps me more alert than the promise of some good--and often times trashy--road food.<br />
<br />
Somehow, any semblance of a fat-kid self-filter goes out the window when I'm on the road. Before leaving Montana, I took part in a beautifully healthy going away pot-luck full of food that came straight from the hostess's garden. I declared that in addition to the deliciousness, I was glad for the healthy lightness of the meal, as I was looking at roughly 2 days of straight up garbage ahead of me. On my way <i>to</i> Montana, I had a sublime roadhouse experience in the middle of South Dakota involving whiskey, beer and a perfect ribeye, details of which I <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2012/06/hey-this-ribeye-is-medium-rare.html" target="_blank">wrote about upon arrival</a>. When traveling by air, I invariably look for a Panda Express, a temple of sorts at which to worship the clumsily prepared ball of fried low grade chicken-like product covered in corn syrup they like to call Orange Flavored Chicken. Gross, I know, but I was thrilled when I read in <i>Blood, Bones and Butter</i> (great for the first two-thirds, at least, before it turns into a reader-as-therapist unloading of husband hating) by someone I hold in the highest regard, Gabrielle Hamilton (lest you think that last parenthetical comment was somehow partisan): "Our ritual meal of Wok Express fast-food Chinese at the airport before we will not see anything approximating Asian food--even such as this bullshit chicken broccoli on a Styrofoam plate--for twenty-one days was shared..." Hark! Someone else who cares about food slips now and then, too!<br />
<br />
But despite the proliferation of the terrible little chains that have now replaced the wonderful roadhouses and diners that actually made home-made pie (rather than just <i>calling</i> it home-made pie) along America's roads, one can still find some gems if they avoid the truck stops. And in the road-food category, some chains aren't as evil as they may be made out to be by yours truly in pretty much every other post on F.o.t.D. True, I'll never touch a McDonald's (and please don't ask me to defend that statement or give a reason that hasn't already been spewed out into the universe by countless others--it's just a chip I've got on my shoulder), but I'll brake fast at a Culver's and get down on some fried cheese curds. And I'll destroy a sack of stupid little hamburgers at Shake and Steak despite their weird skinny fries. And the milkshakes at these places are a standard item each time I hit their drive-thru, despite the fact that we all know there is nary a trace of milk to be found in these thickened-by-strange-and-artificial-means-that-have-to-just-<i>have</i>-to-be-deadly-to-us drinks.<br />
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But the irreplaceable spots are those that don't have huge signs and websites and don't appear on many lists. And I'll admit, I spent some time compiling a list to post here. But I gave it some thought, and the thing is, a list is <i>just</i> what to avoid; these places have to be stumbled upon. And anyway, there are already great road food books and lists and whatnot out there already--if this is what you're looking for, you're already privy to these. But destination spots are not necessarily the best places for discovery (just take a look at Hot Doug's any day of the week--or any place Anthony Bourdain sets foot in). They may have great food, or great kitsch, but they're also going to be over run by those looking to buy the t-shirt or take the picture, or do whatever it takes to possess a small piece of the place, while forgetting to eat the food or experience the <i>experience</i> (you know, like those that take a picture of every painting in the museum but never think to look at what they're photographing; or those who take a <a href="http://youtu.be/uIRBxRlsYR0" target="_blank">picture of their food</a> from every angle, post it to Facebook, and then check for likes and comments before taking the first bite). But the best part for me has always been rolling the dice on a place you know nothing about, a place that <i>hasn't</i> been seen on the Food Network, a place where you feel the slight tinge of discomfort that comes with being an outsider. And the only way to find these places are to drive past the exit ramp gas plazas. And take the back roads to get there--one of my favorite stretches of road in the country lies between Chicago and Canada, and was discovered by accident as I tried to circumnavigate a landfill of traffic a few years back. This route is full of supper clubs and roadside fruit stands and the occasional diner that does, in fact, make their pies right there.<br />
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Lest I cultivate the image of Wilford Brimley too much, I'll sign off, leaving you with the following: road food, much like diner food, is a hugely important part of any cuisine, like it or not. Without the advent of the automobile, and the need for tires, we'd have no Michelin Guide, and no lovely little European inns with amazing food. Nor would we have McDonald's, but let's overlook the sinister creature that has grown into. But here's hoping that all of us--especially those of us locked into awaiting the precious next restaurants in the metropolis--get out onto the road and take a shot at unearthing some of these relics.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-34320875939114653852012-09-28T11:20:00.001-05:002012-09-28T12:02:31.405-05:00Robert Johnson Was Spot On<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The wind is blustering, voices and horns waft off of a busy Division street and my nose has stopped bleeding. The source of diesel fumes has changed from enormous Ford F-950s and the like to food service delivery trucks and I've got to start thinking about where I'm going to park again. And the guarantee of running into no one but smiling, healthy, tanned, white-toothed people as I walk down the street is long gone. I'm back in Chicago.<br />
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And I couldn't be happier. The question at the end of my stretch in Montana was relentless: "Are you excited to leave?" And the answer, in a does-this-glass-have-water-or-nothing-in-it kind of way was always "No, I'm not excited to <i>leave</i>--but I sure am excited to return to Chicago." Let it be known: Bozeman, Montana is a downright wonderful place to be. But as I <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2012/08/late-night-maudlin-street.html" target="_blank">wrote a month ago</a>, I needed to be back in the city.<br />
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Out west, I learned a lot about what people eat when they aren't inundated with the newest, hottest thing on a daily (hourly?) basis by an onslaught of e-newsletters and--gulp--blogs. It was a fortifying break from being beaten 'round the head with preciously named new restaurants celebrating the next-new-trend-that-is-sure-to-stick-this-time. I encountered people that--get this--eat food to live, and perform the eating function as routinely as any other, and put their devotion and focus on other things, such as hiking, fishing, camping, raising children, drinking, etc. Gasp! The thought! But very refreshing. In a strange way, I kind of liked when people nodded politely and changed the subject when food came up. Not a whole lot of food/chef as deity out there, and it gave me a good amount of detoxification from the barrage of daily "food news" that is generated back home.<br />
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But at the same time, my tastes, spoiled by the city, grew anxious. There's only so far the best chicken fried steak I have ever eaten (and believe me, was it good--and I've spent my fair share of time living in the South) can go if there is nothing to contrast the round flavors it presents. I loved a bison patty melt I could get at a place called <a href="http://www.montanaaleworks.com/" target="_blank">Aleworks</a>--it even rivaled the one at <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2011/10/jeris-or-importance-of-all-night-diners.html" target="_blank">Jeri's Grill</a>--and spent many a lonesome cowboy evening saddled up to the bar indulging in that and some suds, but on my last evening there, a bartender I'd become friendly with said "don't worry--<i>something</i> tells me you'll be able to find this somewhere in Chicago." And I sat back, almost feeling patronizing for suggesting otherwise.<br />
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The point here is that my time in Montana highlighted the importance of contrast, or at least its importance to me. As much as I hate riding the El, and as much as the garbage tumbleweeds put me off, I kind of need that. The humidity in Chicago seems rough until your nose starts bleeding, hours at a time, from the dryness that is actually, somehow made drier when the whole state of Montana is on fire. Those same fires also make breathing smog seem, remarkably, somewhat safer. What I'm saying here is this: Montana is simply too good for me!<br />
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To that end, I'm going to write some posts on my time out there over the next few weeks. The nitty gritty of the amazing wood-fired-oven-on-truck and its build out. The drive there and back, what I ate and what I saw. The experience of cooking with few resources, in the middle of nowhere, for kabillionaires. And, of course, what comes next. So please, stay tuned, and feel free to contribute any of your experiences of this kind in the comments section. And go outside and hug an exhaust pipe.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-11171057804918670402012-08-13T13:33:00.000-05:002012-08-13T19:40:38.966-05:00Late Night, Maudlin Street<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's late in the night, and nearing late in the summer, and I'm writing this realizing that I've neglected my dear Food on the Dole for a dreadfully long time during my stint in Montana. I suppose I could blame my absence on the amount we've been working out here; I'm not joking when I say 80-90 hour weeks have, for the most part, been the norm. But no--that would just be too simple of a way to explain it.<br />
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Thing is--and I know this from every minute I've spent in the industry--the closer I've ever been to food on a professional basis, the further away from it I feel. In production mode, it can be so difficult to stop and understand and care for each bit of food in front of you, and I'm not saying no one does it, because there are many, many chefs out there who work more hours than I ever have, and do it better, and in a more caring fashion than I could ever dream of. During a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stage_%28cooking%29" target="_blank">stage</a> at the great Topolobampo and Frontera Grill, I was blown away by the amount of care and effort and energy that goes in to every detail there--down to a walk-in freezer of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cryovacking" target="_blank">cryovaced</a> peak-of-season hand squeezed lime juice for drinks to the reach-in fridge explicitly for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corn_smut" target="_blank">huitlacoche</a>. The chef, yes, THAT chef, was there for each shift, tasting each sauce, making sure everything was <i>just so</i> for each service, and this drove home the point that sometimes, with great care and skill and desire, all these great things <i>can</i> be maintained in the food industry. All the care that a grandmother puts into that Sunday dinner <i>can</i> be translated for the masses. And there are examples of this all over Chicago, and all over the world.<br />
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But for yours truly, it can really be difficult to see the forest for the trees. Each day brings a conflict of the easy way, and the <i>right</i> way. Thankfully, I still choose the right way most of the time, or at least I think I do--otherwise these weeks wouldn't be 80 hours long. Taking time to think things through. To plan and prepare and use proper technique and do things like make sure the kitchen is clean at the end of each night, even if it is 2am and the sink is overflowing with an hour's worth of really nasty dishes and pots and pans and there are only two of us standing there looking at each other through bloodshot eyes just wanting to sit down, drink a beer and pass out. This little story is not designed to give me a pat on the back; instead, it confirms that I <i>do</i> love what I get to do on a daily basis. I keep getting kicked, and I keep coming back.<br />
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However, it is sometimes surprising to hear how poorly chefs--we who supposedly love food so much--actually eat in terms of quality. An article in the <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203918304577241751742269214.html?mod=WSJ_ITP_offduty_1" target="_blank">Wall Street Journal</a> quoted <a href="https://content.alinearestaurant.com/html/index.html" target="_blank">Grant Achatz's</a> fridge contents: "...sriracha sauce, Hellmann's mayonnaise, Heinz ketchup, French's yellow
mustard. People think that because I'm a chef my refrigerator is filled
with high-end stuff, but we're people. Good God, in my freezer I have
crappy vanilla ice cream." My fridge here in Montana has, and has had statically for the past 3 months, plus or minus a bottle or two of ginger ale to mix with whiskey: a bottle of sriracha, a jar of mustard, a thing of fish sauce and some pickles. And definitely the obligatory Busch Light. And not much else. Of course, comparisons of me to Grant Achatz come to a crashing halt after refrigerator inventories, but you get the point.<br />
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And I'm spoiled. I have had some great meals out here in Montana to be sure; one at a friend's Bistro in Livingston during a Jim Harrison stalk session, and one at a saloon-y steakhouse preceded by several whiskeys. But the only meals--and I mean <i>meals</i>, not sandwiches thrown together with whatever is around, eaten in 15 seconds, standing over a trash can--I've really cooked were when I'm out camping and grilling a steak over an open fire. Which is one of my favorite activities of all time, bookended on both sides by whiskey and cigars, but it is kind of far away from the ideas I had when starting Food on the Dole, and the <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2012/03/year-later-updated-manifesto-and-few.html" target="_blank">Salon</a>.<br />
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I've come to realize that the reason I ever got into this industry is not to be the next big thing (obvious from day 1), and not to change the culinary world, either. Rather, I've come to realize that what I really want deep down is to nurture; to be somebody's grandmother. Ridiculous I know, but hey--to have a huge multi-generational family around a table of food I spent hours/days preparing? That's what it's all about to me. That's what my New Year's Eve Dinner Party is all about. That's what the Sunday dinners are all about. That's what the Salon, to a degree, is about.<br />
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So, to that end Chicago, as my term here in Montana comes to a close, I want you to know that am so ready to come home to you. But to be clear: I have absolutely loved my time here in Montana, and given the choice, I'd do it all over again. I've gotten to experience so many things I never would have in the city, I've met myriad wonderful people and I've been able to spend 3+ solid months of those 80 hour weeks cooking with one of my best, most talented friends in the world, and we still like each other. I've seen buffalo grazing a weak stone's throw from me, watched bald eagles fly above pelicans on a mountain lake, been in houses that make the Hyde Park mansions look like tinker toys, stood in some of the clearest, coldest rivers in the world fishing with nary a soul around, and have been able to become a part, however small, of the Bozeman and Montana community. I have to say--if you can ever make it out here for a visit, don't think twice about it. Just come.<br />
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But, I've allowed the city to seep deeply into my marrow over the past couple of decades, and thus, I'm ready to return. I need Argyle Street and Chinatown and Tacos Veloz in the worst way right now. I need the Music Box Theater and Reckless Records and Myopic Books. The Chipp Inn and Susie's Noon Hour Grill and Lake Michigan.<br />
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And most of all, I need my kitchen back.<br />
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So, here's a big cheers to Bozeman, Montana, and all the great things you've shown me. Now, I'll be ruined in the city. I know I'll long for silence and space while standing on a packed, sweaty el train. Every new precious pie and cupcake store that opens will make me ache for the feet-on-the-solid-ground-of-simplicity I've found in Montana. When I pass someone on the street, smile, and am denied eye contact, I'll be hit with nostalgia for the open friendliness I've found out here. And when <i>I</i> am that person who refuses to make eye contact, which is certain to happen, I'll know it'll be time to spend a few days in the open air outside of the city. I suppose I'll forever be afflicted by this <a href="http://youtu.be/q7hw_NTxlHI" target="_blank">ebb and flow</a> of alternating desire for the city and the country, but hey--memories, mixed with hope, have always made the best combinations in my book.<br />
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htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-85617394884592517102012-06-11T10:02:00.002-05:002012-06-11T10:07:54.218-05:00Hey! This Ribeye is Medium Rare!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been a short month since those <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2012/05/im-lucky-enough-to-have-some-great.html" target="new">fried shrimp</a> on that last warm night in Chicago. Not that it hasn't been warm in Chicago since--as I understand, it has gotten pretty hot--but you see, where I'm at, it's snowing right now. Chubby flakes falling from the Big grey Sky of Montana. But that's the great thing about the mountains, and it reminds me of growing up in Colorado--it'll be stunningly gorgeous tomorrow, and hey--the rough weather has given us a chance to let up on the build out of the orange beast that will soon be wood-firing pizzas for the good people of Bozeman and just relax a little bit and blow off some steam.<br />
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A bit about the drive out here: we made in two not-so-bad-at-all days, about 14 hours each, with a stop in Murdo, SD. Which was just what I'd pictured: howling wind flying down off the plains, dust devils swirling all over a really small town with a few paved roads and a few more laid with dirt and gravel. I wondered what the folks who lived there did for, say, supplies and groceries, and I can tell you with certainty that there was no local-organic-greenmarket (how many more buzz words can I get in here before they get Trademarked?) happening on Saturday morning. But we found what a city slicker might expect/hope to find in a place like this: a little joint called the Buffalo Bar and Grill, and I'm positive that I remember there being swinging doors to this saloon. It was here that I had one of the more outstanding steaks I've had in a long time.<br />
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Flashback: A couple months before, I went to a restaurant, a steak house in Chicago, you know, one of these {INSERT MAN'S NAME HERE}'s Steak House or {INSERT MAN'S NAME HERE}'s Crab Shack to be precise (though that is as precise as I will get). And I couldn't get over my bewilderment: how do these guys get away with this, day in, day out? I've got so many friends trying to open restaurants and the amount of work and effort and blood and money and tears they put into it is unreal, enough to keep me from thinking of a brick and mortar place of my own for a long while. Yet people pour into these steak houses non-stop, ordering ridiculously overpriced and craptastically overcooked steaks again and again. Bussers took plates from underneath people's forks while said forks were still in mouths, and I kept thinking of how much money the waiter (a nice enough guy, if you don't mind a wet cough for the duration of the evening) was going to walk away with that night, not to mention that year. All for a subpar food product and a manufactured atmosphere (though I will say that the lighting in this place was absolutely perfect--you know, as though each table has a really soft spotlight but you can't see where it is coming from--that was really nice). BUT that is neither here nor there. We'll save the vendetta for another time.<br />
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Back to the Buffalo Bar and Grill--all I wanted was a ribeye, a whiskey and a beer. And that is precisely what I got. The plump little cook kept coming out into the dining room, smiling and chatting with people; I sunk the beer from the bar portion of the place next door and ordered another as I settled into the bourbon and steak--one of the better combinations know to (at least this) man. The steak was spot-on medium rare, just as I'd asked, and tasted of, well, grilled beef. If the Mayans picked THAT to be the big day in 2012, I'd have been happy as a clam to go. It was the perfect combination of desire, (lack of fabricated) setting and, of course, pure satisfaction, and when finished, I settled back into the soft booth seat and gave a satiated sigh thinking about how these folks pulled it off effortlessly. And then I thought about how that always makes the best food, and perhaps the best experience--not overthought or fussed about--just done well. And not well done like that place back in the city.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0M6y5ZnmQKWzyhkcbAkzw9djLqEMsiU2LUmndv5ceAPG4kMiN86X3lSE1SRhmphlhQE-jBTae8rhnM_sMszQfyjLd6Cf8oRh0np1lgDnItJ6z7UUj__xUH6J_NLS67BthmjfjJBU6bc/s1600/PICT0001.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0M6y5ZnmQKWzyhkcbAkzw9djLqEMsiU2LUmndv5ceAPG4kMiN86X3lSE1SRhmphlhQE-jBTae8rhnM_sMszQfyjLd6Cf8oRh0np1lgDnItJ6z7UUj__xUH6J_NLS67BthmjfjJBU6bc/s400/PICT0001.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-57927950937601362882012-05-08T11:17:00.000-05:002012-05-08T11:18:33.956-05:00Fried Shrimp, Under The Stars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm lucky enough to have some great friends here in town who have packed me up well and are shipping me out to Montana on Thursday morning, complete with a bottle of outlaw bourbon and a homemade jug of sloe gin, both sure to chase lonesome Montana blues (if any) away in a flash. One of the things I've been doing in preparing for my voyage has been to hit places here in town that I won't have in Montana, and yeah, that's a lot of places, but there are a precious few that stand out amongst the rest. A top-notch--as always--meal at Lula Cafe last night, sitting in the coveted window seat (the new expansion looks great, but you know, I think I will always want to sit in the old part of the dining room); a pizza party of epic proportion (sure, I'm gonna be neck deep in pizza all summer long, but this is all about the people I was with, some of the friendliest and most giving folks I've run across in a long, long time); and of course, my beloved Jeri's Grill.<br />
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But perhaps the experience I'll remember most was a new one for me: a 4am jaunt to the <a href="http://chicago.menupages.com/restaurants/goose-island-shrimp-house/menu" target="_blank">Goose Island Shrimp House</a>, after a going-away party, with a crew that of course included Old Crazy Hair. Walking in, the first thing I thought of was <a href="http://youtu.be/7iRZDcsqSt0" target="_blank">this</a> scene in Weird Science. There weren't bottles of booze being passed around, and I don't recall any cigars, and I really don't know if there was any music. But man oh man, was it intense: loud and bright as all get out. We ordered a huge sack of fried shrimp, and some french fries; I drank my first 7up in years, and we headed across the street to the parking lot of Restaurant Depot, where, under what I'm told are stars, we dug into some really nicely done food and listened to the anti riff-raff elevator music playing beneath the awnings of the Depot on that mild night/morning. And <i>that's</i> what I'll take with me to the Big Sky country. What an experience. It's like Woody Allen says, "I love Manhattan because you can get Peking Duck any time of the night, even 4am. And I'll never get Peking Duck at 4am, but it feels really good knowing that I can." Amen.htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-10109579485436219692012-04-21T15:16:00.012-05:002012-04-23T09:40:34.418-05:00The Salon, Just Over 1 Year Old, Takes a Hiatus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5W7w6FE27jQLFspZXgLnkCcfxSWHtp2z_SkbhCK46YmQ2i94rJKsQC5I7NLvTwa_26dKt4FHj_VotxtI74x6cRly8G1VOd0cHvR9HxlaXjU2bywkiIZs6FFJlAMU4bSLVRJXZg-w-fvc/s1600/pizza.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5W7w6FE27jQLFspZXgLnkCcfxSWHtp2z_SkbhCK46YmQ2i94rJKsQC5I7NLvTwa_26dKt4FHj_VotxtI74x6cRly8G1VOd0cHvR9HxlaXjU2bywkiIZs6FFJlAMU4bSLVRJXZg-w-fvc/s400/pizza.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734286489210481666" border="0" /></a>Summer's coming, or is already here, or never really left, or whatever happened over the past six months in Chicago. We're in good position to start the craze of the new (outdoor) farmers market season, and rush headlong into applying smoke and fire towards copious amounts of meat. Naturally, for myself and Food on the Dole, this means we're taking a break to head to Montana.<br /><br />It's been a busy, busy time for me since that <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2011/03/salon-i-photoless-for-now-as-we-move-to.html"target="new">first little Salon</a> one year ago last March. And now, just as the last Salon guests of the season have left, we're going to take a little break and give the Salon a bit of a rest and rejuvenation period as I head out, for the summer, to work with my good friend Ryan in Bozeman, Montana on his <a href="http://www.blogger.com/lafoleyoven.com/index.html"target="new">wood-fired pizza business</a>, with which he brings some of the best pizza you'll eat to remote (not to mention stunning) locations all around Montana.<br /><br />If you follow Food on the Dole on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Food-on-the-Dole/113776718705389"target="new">Facebook</a>, you may have seen some photos of the operation from a trip I took out there a few years ago to help in much of the same way. Aside from being an outstanding chef, Ryan is the kind of guy that drives around Montana, tearing down dilapidated barns for ranchers in exchange for the wood and tin they are composed of--the sort of old wood that gets re-purposed into gorgeous things such as door frames and bookcases and hydraulic trailers for pizza ovens. Pretty normal. Actually no, it's not normal. It's pretty outstanding, and it's the kind of thing, when this city boy is around it, that makes me feel a tad bit inadequate as I haven't the foggiest notion of how to tear down a barn, much less build beautiful things out of it. But hey--I'll leave that part to Ryan and focus on the food myself.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8xqwoiq2TwQO8BZa6mjBXwEBzIvE6AlzvHGg8id-fbhyIJ45L4XQoll6zkb33MTgXM1IUBjyb6173UKid80gV59EjdtUft8NjLDmby_NqDznDntKlAdVag3tFrdNzIg0Nvd0aaIOn9s/s1600/trailer.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8xqwoiq2TwQO8BZa6mjBXwEBzIvE6AlzvHGg8id-fbhyIJ45L4XQoll6zkb33MTgXM1IUBjyb6173UKid80gV59EjdtUft8NjLDmby_NqDznDntKlAdVag3tFrdNzIg0Nvd0aaIOn9s/s400/trailer.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734286715943917458" border="0" /></a>Since my trip three years ago, Ryan has expanded the operation by obtaining a second oven and mounting it on a truck. And not just any truck. This is a 1954 Chevy on a tow truck frame. It looks amazing, and the goal with this big beauty is to be a presence at the farmers markets/music festivals/whatnot in the area. And that is where yours truly comes in.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVuGnC_4mxhm1XGWcojGZI6gQ5i3YoR3C_lJrifWZ9No_pbQ6g41Z6X0ggyD5XwGuGHF5cVai_F-CAi8WRWZiH7e4LTM2pLh1Nu7GUjtR6lKmchx49anVzYLwWElLaMIO7EcosFyK2eA/s1600/truck.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVuGnC_4mxhm1XGWcojGZI6gQ5i3YoR3C_lJrifWZ9No_pbQ6g41Z6X0ggyD5XwGuGHF5cVai_F-CAi8WRWZiH7e4LTM2pLh1Nu7GUjtR6lKmchx49anVzYLwWElLaMIO7EcosFyK2eA/s400/truck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734285341345390498" border="0" /></a>So, despite the challenges and hard work laying ahead in the upcoming months, this sounds like a pretty sweet way to spend a summer. If you haven't been to Montana, do so, and learn exactly why it is called Big Sky Country. Somehow, the sky <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> just bigger there. I don't understand why, and I suppose I don't have to--but I'll surely enjoy the stars and air and everything else up there this summer. And, I (not-so) secretly have hopes that somehow, just somehow, I'll run in to my hero <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/25/books/25harr.html"target="new">Jim Harrison</a>, who happens to live down the road. Fingers crossed he doesn't shoot at me.<br /><br />As for the Salon, she'll go on a break while I'm gone. Perhaps Ryan and I will run an underground dinner now and then out there, perhaps I'll even be able to pull a few Salons off as well. But rest easy knowing that I'll keep writing and reporting on the usual F.o.t.D. experiences while out there, and that the Salon shall continue upon my return to Chicago. Best wishes to everyone for a great summer wherever you may be, and keep reading <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/"target="new">Food on the Dole</a>/following on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Food-on-the-Dole/113776718705389"target="new">Facebook</a>/following on <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/htamano"target="new">Twitter</a> to see what sort of food, cooking and eating mis-adventures I get into underneath that big sky out there.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljGzxtwcSrplQ2c2eMiMcZX6dASCklxS7PdyJ41sS0Bi0B-VradrUdQzSUVy4aIss1Bd27kmwSGnD1WCGJBxX4bXDZUDDiUtUAQ9aEsMc0KjJF5Y1S_UWiCngFWPhgfLKhv8SZ9akN4o/s1600/bar.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljGzxtwcSrplQ2c2eMiMcZX6dASCklxS7PdyJ41sS0Bi0B-VradrUdQzSUVy4aIss1Bd27kmwSGnD1WCGJBxX4bXDZUDDiUtUAQ9aEsMc0KjJF5Y1S_UWiCngFWPhgfLKhv8SZ9akN4o/s400/bar.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734286294316916786" border="0" /></a>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-12328806487578113712012-04-02T10:42:00.007-05:002012-04-02T12:14:03.016-05:00Grumpy Cats and Pleasant Houses<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BsoWTJ576jYhJNhz3vzfRpMWEM1_dU2nZGJasCKyFyzFFhm4msw5sdf7dfsEo9g9uswzNSH6JstdXeDCLHl3Ccpu1U5NMeKpW5RZNWwM7vKdUWfZOK_qlH4TwqoytVG3BrS-zGzvGeM/s1600/gumball.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BsoWTJ576jYhJNhz3vzfRpMWEM1_dU2nZGJasCKyFyzFFhm4msw5sdf7dfsEo9g9uswzNSH6JstdXeDCLHl3Ccpu1U5NMeKpW5RZNWwM7vKdUWfZOK_qlH4TwqoytVG3BrS-zGzvGeM/s400/gumball.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726850575883868930" border="0" /></a>We had a fairly epic jaunt of eating and (mostly) drinking the other day, starting down in Munster, IL at <a href="http://www.3floyds.com/brewpub/"target="new">Three Floyds</a>, where one can, after getting over one's aversion to strip malls and water towers, listen to Danzig at top volume while drinking several varieties of their top-notch beer (Three Floyds'--not Danzig's) and eating smoked meats. It's a great place, but of course, indulgence has to find a stopping point down there due to the long drive back. But since I was still all riled up once back in the city, and since we were <span style="font-style: italic;">kind of </span>passing through the neighborhood, we stopped down in Bridgeport--a part of town I absolutely never get to for the simple reason that it's so far from me up in Lincoln Square--to visit a couple places that have been on the list for a while. <a href="http://community-bar.com/"target="new">Maria's Community Bar</a> was recommended to me by my lumberjack/ham retrieving friend and yeah, it was great, and I wish I was in the neighborhood more to take advantage of it and its dark wood back room full of mannequin parts a guy spent the better part of our time there bringing in. It's got its fair share of super hipsters, sure, but what bar doesn't these days? And who cares when they've got a beer and cocktail list like they do, and still find room to serve Early Times Whiskey and Busch Classic and ask "are you sure?" when you order it?<br /><br />Next door was the big winner, though: <a href="http://pleasanthousebakery.com/"target="new">Pleasant House Bakery</a>. I saw one of the chef/owners Art Jackson in Maria's as we entered, bringing some hot pies over, which leads me to believe there is some sort of symbiosis between the two places, and how wonderful is that? For those of you in San Francisco, it reminds me of the relationship between Rosamunde Sausages and Toronado--two places scratching each others backs rather than a big fish eating a little fish. Pleasant House itself has a really cozy looking kitchen, and is quite bustling as well: co-owner and pastry chef Chelsea Jackson was back there rolling dough as Art was back and forth from the kitchen to Maria's to back in the dining room talking to guests, doing it all with the same kind of genuine warmth I described when <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2012/02/grace-aka-goosefoot.html"target="new">writing about Chris Nugent at Goosefoot</a>. The counter-service menu is simple, and more importantly, everything is absolutely delicious and it seemed to me all details are completely attended to on every order. Lovely, flaky crust, gorgeously presented around delicious fillings, and chips that make you see why the British call them chips--crisp little chunks of potatoes fried up and awaiting a good dousing of vinegar. You get a really good feeling in this place--and I suppose that's why they chose the name.<br /><br />All in all, this brief Bridgeport experience was really quite outstanding. And I'm certain there's much more to the neighborhood, but what a nice little corner, down there at 31st and Morgan, with the Bridgeport Coffeehouse across from Maria's and Pleasant House. Beer, meat pie, coffee. The order's up to you.<br /><br />Back up closer to home in West Town, we stopped and drank wine and ate those tasty little fried chickpeas and deviled eggs they do at <a href="http://www.lushwineandspirits.com/"target="new">Lush</a>, then made our way over to the usual end-of-night-well, <a href="http://www.esquire.com/bestbars/bb-ChippInn"target="new">The Chipp Inn</a>, where we met friends who had just experienced the <a href="http://elbullimovie.com/"target="new">El Bulli</a> menu at <a href="https://www.nextrestaurant.com/user/login"target="new">Next</a>. We shared our respective stories of the day of such different types of dining, and remarked at how great it was to be in a city full of people that provide these experiences, all over cheap drinks in <span style="font-style: italic;">the</span> neighborhood bar. Strolling home, plans were made for the big Sunday dinner, which is becoming a tradition of sorts at the FotD headquarters. We'd roast a large chunk of pork belly (previewed below) nice and crisp on the outside, tender on the inside along with roasted potatoes and charred onions after a long intermezzo induced by antipasti of braised broccoli rabe, pickled eggplant and buffalo mozzarella with green garlic. That Sunday has come and gone, and boy was it good. I'll write more about it next time.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig2R_6thn8iZT_cUvppOXb0UlTejKN64AB-tglEgk-H-GbZSYe-gdy1Ann8y0y6-xs1j711e2I5lCl0j8l0b_zkG4w57zp4F0BIHi3Ux6E_V7AKriwmgseNg7J2Y8OY58h8_IvAaTycio/s1600/pork.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig2R_6thn8iZT_cUvppOXb0UlTejKN64AB-tglEgk-H-GbZSYe-gdy1Ann8y0y6-xs1j711e2I5lCl0j8l0b_zkG4w57zp4F0BIHi3Ux6E_V7AKriwmgseNg7J2Y8OY58h8_IvAaTycio/s400/pork.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726849157337929826" border="0" /></a>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-84511768671280477802012-03-14T12:33:00.008-05:002012-03-14T14:06:43.655-05:00A Year Later, An Updated Manifesto--and A Few New Salon Dates<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIOMcT4mKiDFYMd-uAVvGAkxc_hMwB4QFDib7OZRqeTNa99aE3lbwMUiMj-rSOMJrGR53Ov6jxWgWEgnA1YF_lEyyFsQklFHHF_RTmTBs1NJHcuaL7resg2VuIzJeBJTXofVF930SgoM/s1600/fotdlogo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIOMcT4mKiDFYMd-uAVvGAkxc_hMwB4QFDib7OZRqeTNa99aE3lbwMUiMj-rSOMJrGR53Ov6jxWgWEgnA1YF_lEyyFsQklFHHF_RTmTBs1NJHcuaL7resg2VuIzJeBJTXofVF930SgoM/s400/fotdlogo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719813844848788050" border="0" /></a>When I started the Food on the Dole Salon one year ago--March 10, to be exact--I didn't have a clear expectation of what was to come. Four brave souls came to that first <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2011/03/salon-i-photoless-for-now-as-we-move-to.html" target="new">Roast Chicken Salon</a>; we cooked together and had compelling conversation over a really tasty meal. As we grew over the course of the year, we were able to put on over 50 Salons, all told. That's two or three hundred different perspectives coming through the F.o.t.D. Headquarters, and I hope you all gained as much as I did through the Salon.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />As we embark on a new year and approach an exciting new growing season (translation: soon there will be more than squash and potatoes available!), I'd like to tighten up the definition of just what the Salon is, and invite you all back--or for the first time--to join us, and find out first hand and in person what the words below could never fully describe. Current salon dates will always be listed at <a href="http://www.foodonthedole.com/" target="new">www.foodonthedole.com</a>.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">What is the Food on the Dole Salon, you ask?</span><br /></div>The word Salon comes from the Italian word sala--a large receiving room of an Italian mansion where, in the 16th century, people would gather to exchange ideas, facilitated by a knowledgeable and inspiring host. Ultimately, Salons took hold in France in the 17th and 18th centuries, becoming a center for ideas to form and spread during the Age of Enlightenment.<br /><br />Full disclosure: the Food on the Dole Salon is not hosted in an Italian mansion, nor is it expected that we give birth to a second Age of Enlightenment. We're a bit less academic than that, and a main goal is to have a great time. However, just as poets shared words and musicians their music hundreds of years ago, the Food on the Dole Salon aims to be an important part of food as culture and thought, shared amongst as many perspectives as possible. Though we will be cooking a meal together, it should be understood that the salon is not a cooking class; instead, it is an intimate gathering, with food and cooking as our medium, hosted and facilitated by Chef Hugh Amano.<br /><br />The Salon seeks guests who hunger to enhance their understanding of food, and seek a community rooted in a common thread of the recognition of the importance of food and sound cooking. In a forum of others sharing these desires, in an atmosphere free of exclusive notions, open to all viewpoints and the discussion of such, we will:<br /></div> <ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Cook a market-based meal together (<span style="font-style: italic;">please note</span> that all diets are welcome and will be accommodated whenever possible);</li><li>Sit down in a byob setting, eat and discuss the food we made and food in general, issues regarding food, things you may be curious about or feel need to be addressed;</li><li>Help to create a community based on the joy of food, cooking, and the conversation and relationships they foster.<br /></li></ul><div style="text-align: left;"> All topics are welcome in the natural course of the evening. I hope to develop a non-exclusive community of people who come from all sorts of backgrounds--I want to connect those of you who are experts in, say, theater, with those of you who keep bees. Those of you who eat regularly at places like Alinea, and those of you who visit tacquerias and hot dog stands on a daily basis. 6-8 seats are available at each Salon, and dates and cost will be made known through Food on the Dole (<a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://www.foodonthedole.com/"><span class="yiv2118923475yshortcuts" id="yiv2118923475lw_1330021054_0">www.foodonthedole.com</span></a>). I hope to see you soon and welcome you to the community of the Food on the Dole Salon.<br /></div>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-15966967783749840702012-03-09T11:09:00.008-06:002014-03-17T20:00:25.375-05:00I'd Love For You To Come, But You've Gotta Stay Here and Cure<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQK93cvocGYNGYrT77cGmeS3AjwMG9Ech1iotf5pD_XRB84USjQhHnb7TQ7BKACeXMUjE1HkuuRdurrCktZxGS47PuFmZz9VSFy5Gup2IVpuWi6xjHqvsql0u38TdXlc5lfuNmXndHQ0/s1600/brisket.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQK93cvocGYNGYrT77cGmeS3AjwMG9Ech1iotf5pD_XRB84USjQhHnb7TQ7BKACeXMUjE1HkuuRdurrCktZxGS47PuFmZz9VSFy5Gup2IVpuWi6xjHqvsql0u38TdXlc5lfuNmXndHQ0/s400/brisket.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717955187841599474" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Headed towards the <a href="http://youtu.be/WwFGJxRBRUs?t=20s" target="new">Old Miss</a> this weekend for a touch of relaxation whilst sitting outside whittling wood and letting the smoke from the fire and whiskey from the still soak in a bit. Naturally, before leaving, we decided to get a hunk of brisket brining for next week's festivities. Mind you, there'll be no green beer and no green uniforms (guys: white long-sleeved shirt under green short-sleeved shit, preferably with Cubs logo, girls: green and white striped thigh-highs, short shorts and green star antennae things). Just some really solid corned beef and cabbage--the kind you <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to eat--and of course plenty of solid beer and whiskey to match. You know, like a normal day 'round the FotD headquarters.<br />
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The brisket came from the fatty cap end--though usually my preference for corned beef and most things brisket is the first cut/flat cut as it's a bit easier to drive, if you will. But in this case, I took what was available, and was reminded of an older friend in Boston, who told the story of his father courting his mother way back when. The father, a city boy, was finally invited to the farmhouse of the country girl's family for Sunday dinner. A roast was passed around and made its first stop in front of the guest. He looked at the slices in front of him, nervously pondering which one to take. He spotted the fatty piece, and thought that he'd be doing the most honorable thing by taking it, sparing the good, meaty pieces for the rest of the family, namely the father. Unfortunately, as soon as the serving fork touched the fatty piece, the father--watching in judgement with a farmer's hunger--sprang down upon the poor boy (verbally; the shotgun stayed on the wall) and let him know which piece he'd better not take. Heart racing, the boy returned the fatty piece and took another--<span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> other--and watched as the platter was passed back through all of the children's hands to the father, who claimed the coveted fatty piece.<br />
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The moral of the story here? Fat is good. So is understanding who you're dealing with.<br />
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Anyway, the beautiful piece of meat scored from <a href="http://thebutcherandlarder.com/" target="new">The Butcher and Larder</a> is now in a really strong brine made of mustard seed, coriander, chile flake, allspice, bay leaf, clove, garlic, ginger and a whole lot of salt, pepper and sugar. I didn't use pink curing salts this time around, namely because I misplaced the ones I have at home (kind of scary) and have, as mentioned, the mighty Mississippi calling my name so have no time to get some; plus, I'd like to see the results of a nitrate-free brine. The color of the meat won't be electric pink like usual, and the flavor will be a touch more mild. But nonetheless, it will be delicious--and devoured.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0E-dAk1lK3SLXgUPR_HTtObUoRNY-Hbs4r9VwS1uq3lkz4sGsZFVXbwe0y_aklfhpIIMWFMjE7EJNS-Tm6o6abJORD34MkqRNy0vSgA2tHze-04aE5a97ZpKkEXFdkBMHfsgU6BEsdtc/s1600/corn.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0E-dAk1lK3SLXgUPR_HTtObUoRNY-Hbs4r9VwS1uq3lkz4sGsZFVXbwe0y_aklfhpIIMWFMjE7EJNS-Tm6o6abJORD34MkqRNy0vSgA2tHze-04aE5a97ZpKkEXFdkBMHfsgU6BEsdtc/s400/corn.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717955409708889442" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Side note--why is it called "corned" beef? Well, as Harold McGee explains in <span style="font-style: italic;">On Food and Cooking</span>, way back when, corn was a generic term coming from the same root--and meaning the same thing as--"kernel" or "grain". Thus, the grains of salt used to cure the beef were called "corn". And thus, the term corned beef came to life. Weird.<br />
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A common problem with brining a huge hunk of meat is the "where do I do this" conundrum. Tough to say depending on your setup at home--get a huge brining bag and set it in a pot in the fridge or, if you live in a place that hasn't been either warm or below freezing all winter, and hovers in the 33-40ºF range, set it on the <a href="http://foodonthedole.blogspot.com/2009/12/soup-bread-and-other-alternatives-for.html" target="new">fire escape</a>, covered and weighed down lest the squirrels get in it. Me, I sealed it in a bag after removing the air, and made a little bed for it in a crisper drawer in my fridge, just in case of any blowouts or leaks. Corned beef is good; brining liquid all over the bread and Busch Light isn't. This 4 pounder will stay in the brine for about 5 days or so, then move to fresh water for a night, then braised low and slow. We'll eat some straight away, but for the big dinner, I love slicing the brisket nice and thick, then searing it on a cast iron griddle. You'll get a lovely, crisp and caramelized crunch that yields to the soft, braised meat below. At any rate, this isn't something that has to only fall on St. Patrick's day--brined and braised brisket is not only a tongue-twister--it's a year-round delight.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxhYc5Ryg_eA1M3DjvEVSxJuTejJsDwKJDVcSe4bv8fM8gXhB2gKyhyURXrI3IWc7_gYwAlzgAUOhmy5hWDdPStfKwSZQ70T4ujxrkzJN4BLih0nUzaOg1fGc-qBxa5fz2JjQ51QUcIg/s1600/bed.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxhYc5Ryg_eA1M3DjvEVSxJuTejJsDwKJDVcSe4bv8fM8gXhB2gKyhyURXrI3IWc7_gYwAlzgAUOhmy5hWDdPStfKwSZQ70T4ujxrkzJN4BLih0nUzaOg1fGc-qBxa5fz2JjQ51QUcIg/s400/bed.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717955574375924146" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-48206547373766611732012-03-07T14:56:00.012-06:002012-03-07T15:54:36.917-06:00Simplicity vs. Fuss, or Big Cat vs. Catherine Deneuve<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTqkqxW2tPt4TfYBSF9koS8grUiil90F-b6fxEyYA_RlOxzdy47DJo6rqvx_1ySJsq1ZsCuLTc732DuPWXVgIY5rwhf5I3aB-BRBezs2kFuCNOiqB0n13w8DvALUIYzC9ShVefMjIVv0/s1600/bass.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTqkqxW2tPt4TfYBSF9koS8grUiil90F-b6fxEyYA_RlOxzdy47DJo6rqvx_1ySJsq1ZsCuLTc732DuPWXVgIY5rwhf5I3aB-BRBezs2kFuCNOiqB0n13w8DvALUIYzC9ShVefMjIVv0/s400/bass.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717272320585172626" border="0" /></a>I just got back from a great lunch over at <a href="http://sunwahbbq.com/"target="new">Sun Wah</a> with the Big Cat, a friend and excellent chef here in Chicago. Over Crispy Pork and Chinese Broccoli with Chiles we talked about the importance of simple food, and perhaps more significantly, accessible food. Seems like at the same time that everyone is so hyped up about molecular gastronomy (a term coined in part by the great Harold McGee, who now laments its use as a marketing term a la Dr. Frankenstein), we are also so interested in the old-fashioned, simple foods, such as charcuterie and cheese and beer and roasts and actual vegetables. Which is a great thing.<br /><br />I just watched an exceptional episode of <span style="font-style: italic;">No Reservations</span> where Bourdain makes his rounds in Brittany on the northwest coast of France, making a similar observation, most notably in the case of the fascinating and inspiring chef <span class="st"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/19/dining/19chef.html"target="new">Olivier Roellinger</a>, who returned his 3 Michelin stars to pursue something that mattered more to him: "</span>a more fluid, accessible and natural experience." Aside from his ascent into becoming one of France's great chefs despite a <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> rough start (he was beaten, nearly to death, by a gang of several people when he was 21, was in a coma for a bit, then a wheelchair for 2 years, and only <span style="font-style: italic;">then</span> got into the food business), which is amazing on its own, Roellinger's story sparks interest because he is a chef at the top of his game, and he chooses to step away from the stuffy environs of perfection, white linens, and plating things with tweezers, and move into a neighborhood of dirt, pigs, charcuterie from said pigs, bakeries and pastry shops, spice merchants, and above all else, an inn with gorgeous yet approachable food. Which begs the question: is something more beautiful because it is inaccessible (think Catherine Deneuve), or does beauty come from the every day <span style="font-style: italic;">realness</span> of something (a wooden table, the sea). I suppose it's far too complex to answer that easily, but I suppose at this point, I would take a lovely plate of Roellinger's well-crafted charcuterie with the Big Cat over a fleeting chance to wash Catherine Deneuve's car given the choice.<br /><br />Probably.<br /><br />At any rate, the point here is that the inherent quality in something simply but lovingly crafted is always pleasurable. Last week, me and mine got hold of some very simple ingredients, and made a really great meal together--the kind of meal that, when created together, and the cooking is actually part of the <span style="font-style: italic;">event</span> of the thing, is greater than the sum of its parts.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj3omrbcn7Sl5PXblgcZpgpidbQveNg4E8Zl_foYNikPJanOKL7dyotaH6yQJryXIkneAcbwWqnohXXzlBNZwmAuxTa8lD74uo04NmtBLZ-bcQS2CAba7-VfJSbL_3W-UT9fzpZGo3hc/s1600/bassraw.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj3omrbcn7Sl5PXblgcZpgpidbQveNg4E8Zl_foYNikPJanOKL7dyotaH6yQJryXIkneAcbwWqnohXXzlBNZwmAuxTa8lD74uo04NmtBLZ-bcQS2CAba7-VfJSbL_3W-UT9fzpZGo3hc/s400/bassraw.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717272510640263026" border="0" /></a>We found a beautiful striped bass and some mussels; sweet little parsnips and lovely treviso radicchio, potatoes and brussels sprouts. At home, I had a rich duck stock in the freezer from meals past, and some of that great ham from Tennessee that my Bounty paper towel friend brought me.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJ2aDm-gr5xRO9pBPOe3e0gQx5EREdWdyY5_aw3TQuZSlVbiGo2Rn-y0gK1xjPR6gq5m5swGkEojIsBeTgwmJZ3o_eGUa3SAsItIWLo5EVF_m67Y9zIttAh9-d72yNDuUIdNyW4FROQw/s1600/collar.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJ2aDm-gr5xRO9pBPOe3e0gQx5EREdWdyY5_aw3TQuZSlVbiGo2Rn-y0gK1xjPR6gq5m5swGkEojIsBeTgwmJZ3o_eGUa3SAsItIWLo5EVF_m67Y9zIttAh9-d72yNDuUIdNyW4FROQw/s400/collar.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717272598237483474" border="0" /></a>We cleaned the fish, and tossed its collar with some soy sauce, cane vinegar, sesame oil, fish sauce and chiles, then blasted it in the oven and served the hugely flavorful result over rice.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn9iXoJBPm69OMcl9dqdimQz89_PVIwLx_dyQRZFtm-IXLm-ZWahXJn_HeBMmHnuqSsaxC4t50WraO0aeEEdsO1GT_iZ-QB9k1QMPHkF3hPhbSunmqF6TTE9PaDOB5QOA8yw-V6YE1yjM/s1600/ham.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn9iXoJBPm69OMcl9dqdimQz89_PVIwLx_dyQRZFtm-IXLm-ZWahXJn_HeBMmHnuqSsaxC4t50WraO0aeEEdsO1GT_iZ-QB9k1QMPHkF3hPhbSunmqF6TTE9PaDOB5QOA8yw-V6YE1yjM/s400/ham.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717272682053802882" border="0" /></a>This was followed by mussels steamed in duck stock with that salty ham, leeks and celery sautéed in butter, and some crusty bread.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDH9IzMOwK6XOeKXsj68wp1LyPhtSTpprNuj9eKnIvMP8q9TdwrsEw1BOF2ikUtS0hqpuET0Yn4hyphenhyphenElfRvRszvYpllglFyjqRAh2VGR8GlbbsSVEOAn1DnPu_fQi_1LLgB-B3LTY1I_rw/s1600/treviso.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDH9IzMOwK6XOeKXsj68wp1LyPhtSTpprNuj9eKnIvMP8q9TdwrsEw1BOF2ikUtS0hqpuET0Yn4hyphenhyphenElfRvRszvYpllglFyjqRAh2VGR8GlbbsSVEOAn1DnPu_fQi_1LLgB-B3LTY1I_rw/s400/treviso.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717272788045448002" border="0" /></a>And to finish, puréed parsnips and potatoes with charred Brussels sprouts, a salad of the bitter treviso radicchio with apples, and an extremely crispy-skinned bass with an herb vinaigrette. None of this food is way out there, and none of it ranks high on the difficulty/creative list. But we found beautiful product, cared about it and each other, and had an outstanding evening preparing and eating it. We'd be in the $100 range in a restaurant for something that cost us $15-$20 to buy, but that's not the point. The value inherent in simple, well-crafted food and the pleasure in cooking and enjoying it is its own reward.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3b0aaTru3P3Qrq6CpJtqizVnbFVLp9LuL_iEU1Ir55n8DUnrgOo8OJdr5yrzw2nEBYBNMKddg9tCA9ySQHxh8ZgiEoiCj70mIfqNO3zOFe14lACf7wQE-bSswbfsyPU2gmDI0LW0-ovs/s1600/bassdone.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3b0aaTru3P3Qrq6CpJtqizVnbFVLp9LuL_iEU1Ir55n8DUnrgOo8OJdr5yrzw2nEBYBNMKddg9tCA9ySQHxh8ZgiEoiCj70mIfqNO3zOFe14lACf7wQE-bSswbfsyPU2gmDI0LW0-ovs/s400/bassdone.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717272406194251026" border="0" /></a>htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-954031757694405765.post-56929673417493533202012-02-29T11:27:00.006-06:002012-02-29T13:11:05.717-06:00One Coin, Two Sides<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilydwAlNzrypErd-zJM1pKjgCV5kfCv5fNpoXW78QDvcajYIsWxAMIm3szpGxvHb3nvukETT1CeDdE8ZJR53G5QSYoFsQJXWyuQChD6m331_SRgJWayLR574cjr6dpC130vPlvT6JyXhE/s1600/cover.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilydwAlNzrypErd-zJM1pKjgCV5kfCv5fNpoXW78QDvcajYIsWxAMIm3szpGxvHb3nvukETT1CeDdE8ZJR53G5QSYoFsQJXWyuQChD6m331_SRgJWayLR574cjr6dpC130vPlvT6JyXhE/s400/cover.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714629378461554450" border="0" /></a>The culinary world is aflutter--as it has been every three months for nearly a year--with the release of a new issue of <a href="http://www.mcsweeneys.net/luckypeach" target="new"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lucky Peach</span></a>, a magazine/journal/whatever put out by David Chang of the <a href="http://www.momofuku.com/" target="new">Momofuku <insert tasty="" food="" morsel="" here="">{insert tasty food morsel here} Bar</insert></a> empire and Peter Meehan, formerly of the New York Times (where he wrote <a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/11/10/grass-fed-a-few-beefs/" target="new">this</a> excellent, much needed, and "man I wish I had the platform to go on this sort of rant" article) and co-author of Chang's great <span style="font-style: italic;">Momofuku</span> cookbook. It's super hot, and if you're the sort of person who is on Twitter or Facebook and following others interested in food, surely you've seen them proudly flash photos of their copy like so many line cooks' tattoos. It seems to throw all journalistic sensibility to the hungry pigs: its highly decorated cover reminds me of the design ethic of the <a href="http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l59cgqDrqs1qzgb7vo1_400.jpg" target="new">Garbage Pail Kids</a> cards of my youth and the writing can border on the "how many times can we say f*** and s*** and get away with it" standard.<br /><br />Oh, and it's absolutely wonderful.<br /><br />Much of it is a direct line to the inside of a chef's/cook's/someone who just plain loves food's head. There's all kinds of crazy s*** going on inside there--the importance of toilet cleanliness, an interview with a cook on the south pole, Anthony Bourdain's thoughts on food movies and how they relate to life, death and sex (not always in that order). The inside is as busy as the cover. And it is red-hot popular right now. I missed the first issue, and went to see if I could get it from the publisher. Nope--it's out of print. Hmm. Maybe someone's selling it on eBay or something. They are! ...for upwards of $100. Ok. I can do without issue one. But the point here is that it's hot, and not only for the usual faddish reasons, though surely that has something to do with it. At the end of the day, this is a really fresh and solid food magazine--written for people who cook, who eat, and whose feet touch the ground once in awhile. I hate to say it, but I gave up my subscription to my beloved <span style="font-style: italic;">Saveur</span>, because it so often lacked this quality. Something about it started to feel so unreal to me. Maybe it was around the time they started the "Real-Life Kitchen" section, showcasing the sort of high-end, Wolf and Viking drenched home kitchens that someone like me will never be in unless I've been hired to cook there (people actually get to plan the design of their kitchens?). <span style="font-style: italic;">Lucky Peach</span> is down and dirty, and at the end of the day, it's <span style="font-style: italic;">accessible</span>. Well done, guys.<br /><br />On the flip side of the same coin is the extremely refined <span style="font-style: italic;">Gastronomica</span>. Now in its 12th year, it looks at the world in every direction through a food lover's eyes. It can certainly seem a bit esoteric, and where <span style="font-style: italic;">Lucky Peach</span>'s design is a big vat of bubbling beef bones, <span style="font-style: italic;">Gastronomica</span>'s is a highly polished demi-glace. Essentially the same thing, but so incredibly not the same thing: the current issue features an article on an artist and a baker combining forces to document the place somebody (Natalie Wood, Dennis Wilson) disappeared from the earth using photography and desserts developed with sea salt made from the exact spot in question; a gallery of black and white mug shots of former food-service workers; a first-class essay by chef Edward Lee (yes, <a href="http://www.bravotv.com/top-chef/season-9/bio/edward-lee" target="new"><span style="font-style: italic;">that</span></a> Edward Lee) on a day spent killing pigs.<br /><br />These two magazines arrived in my mailbox within days of each other, and until then, I didn't realize the yin and yang relationship they unwittingly have. I suppose they are both not for everyone. But I'd encourage you to forgo a couple of six-dollar coffees and drop the 12 bucks on either, or both, and check them out if you haven't.htamanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494884177297571117noreply@blogger.com