New York City is a city full of restaurants. I live near Columbia University, in a neighborhood that is extra rich in restaurants. There are a billion of them, and many of them are very, very good.
But on a particular day, at a particular moment, only a very few of them will be right.
This Saturday Z and I woke up late, after an adventurous Friday night. We had little coffee and no milk in the house, and so were reduced to venturing out for our mornign fix. We walked past Tom's Diner, and past the fancy French-style and Italian-Style restaurants with the numerous sidewalk tables. We crossed the street and walked past super-posh Henry's, and then we saw, back across the street, the Blue Moon Bakery.
The Blue Moon Bakery has perhaps 6 tables outside, all small. It is on the corner so some are on one side of the building and some on the other. I don't know if it has any tables inside: we didn't venture in. The tables were for table service only, so we sat down and waited for service.
Our waitress was thin and smiley, with curly hair. She made us just a little more joyful.
Z had a little sandwhich with cheddar and lettuce and cucumbers and mustard on rye, and I had half a fresh-baked baguette with butter and jam. I had coffee and orange juice, he had a cold mocha thing. All of it was delicious. Sweet butter, good jam, fresh squeezed juice, simple sandwhich, frozen-coffee drink that was more flavor than sugar. Simple and easy, outside and in the shade, at a place that had attitude (joyful, simple, honest) rather than airs.
It was the right thing, and it set the stage for a day of wandering up and down the city, lying around in Riverside Park, visiting with a friend of ours, going down and adventuring to find dim sum in china town. Just a sweet and lovely day, which felt stolen because Z had almost-promised to go down to Brooklyn for all of it.
That was my Saturday, the start of a weekend that recharged me.
Food, of course, was there for every bit of it.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Anchovies
When I first heard of anchovies, they were described to me in with the describing of the most disgusting pizza the teller had ever encountered. "There are these tiny, salty, oily little FISH on the pizza", I was informed.
Horrible.
I don't think I ate an anchovy in my life after that. My mother knew I disliked them, and as the increadibly accomodating lady that she is, she would cook something different or leave them out for me whenever she used them in a dish. So there were no anchovies for me.
Until I came to Al Di La. By the time I interned at the restaurant, I was determined to try whatever crossed my path. We lay whole anchovy filets across the top of the carpaccio, and served grilled escarole in thicky anchovy vinaigrette with an extra spash of sherry vinaigre. That grilled escarole was perhaps my favorite single food Al Di La served. It seldom came my way, since it was a side made to order so there was none leftover at the end of the night, but I was ecstatic the few times it did.
It was the flavor of the anchovies they did it. Blended into a vinaigrette with other ingredients, it was this rich, wonderful salty-sour slightly -- unconsciously -- fishy. On the bitter, barely-charred, silky-wilted escarole it was phenomonal.
From then on I have trusted anchovies, and they have not let me down. There aren't many dishes that know how to use them, and there aren't many cooks who are brave enough to include them, but they're are a few tins in every grocery store for only a few dollars, and a few of them can make a delicious meal.
This one has been served here twice this summer, the first time as an off beat meal for myself, Z, and our beer-swilling, lady-enticing, meat devouring metal head friend, who ate more than his share of it and complimented me on cooking a more or less meatless meal. The second time was tonight, when Z asked me to make it again because he had enjoyed it so much.
Take two heads of broccoli and cut them into small florets. Chop 5 anchovy fillts and three nice cloves of garlic. Make sure you have salt, fresh black pepper and dried red pepper flakes on hand, as well as butter and olive oil. Also parmesan cheese. Boil enough water to cook 1 pound Farfalle. Salt the water plentifully. When it boils, add the pasta. After 5 minutes, add the broccoli florets. Cook about 5 minutes more.
Mean time, heat about half a stik of butter (cut smaller) and 1/4 cup olive oil in a really, really big skillet. Biggest you have. Maybe a wok. Add the anchovy, garlic, and a good pinch red pepper flakes. Cook about five minutes, then add the broccoli, and pasta, and some black pepper. Toss. Add some reserved pasta water (you reserved it, remember) to make a light sauce. Sprinkle generously (like, maybe 1/4 cup generously), with grated parmesan cheese. This is essential.
Serve.
This dish is really yummy and feels nice and light, yet filling, on a summer day. The anchovies give it alot of flavor, but for the life of me I can't really describe it. Anchovies are like that.
Horrible.
I don't think I ate an anchovy in my life after that. My mother knew I disliked them, and as the increadibly accomodating lady that she is, she would cook something different or leave them out for me whenever she used them in a dish. So there were no anchovies for me.
Until I came to Al Di La. By the time I interned at the restaurant, I was determined to try whatever crossed my path. We lay whole anchovy filets across the top of the carpaccio, and served grilled escarole in thicky anchovy vinaigrette with an extra spash of sherry vinaigre. That grilled escarole was perhaps my favorite single food Al Di La served. It seldom came my way, since it was a side made to order so there was none leftover at the end of the night, but I was ecstatic the few times it did.
It was the flavor of the anchovies they did it. Blended into a vinaigrette with other ingredients, it was this rich, wonderful salty-sour slightly -- unconsciously -- fishy. On the bitter, barely-charred, silky-wilted escarole it was phenomonal.
From then on I have trusted anchovies, and they have not let me down. There aren't many dishes that know how to use them, and there aren't many cooks who are brave enough to include them, but they're are a few tins in every grocery store for only a few dollars, and a few of them can make a delicious meal.
This one has been served here twice this summer, the first time as an off beat meal for myself, Z, and our beer-swilling, lady-enticing, meat devouring metal head friend, who ate more than his share of it and complimented me on cooking a more or less meatless meal. The second time was tonight, when Z asked me to make it again because he had enjoyed it so much.
Take two heads of broccoli and cut them into small florets. Chop 5 anchovy fillts and three nice cloves of garlic. Make sure you have salt, fresh black pepper and dried red pepper flakes on hand, as well as butter and olive oil. Also parmesan cheese. Boil enough water to cook 1 pound Farfalle. Salt the water plentifully. When it boils, add the pasta. After 5 minutes, add the broccoli florets. Cook about 5 minutes more.
Mean time, heat about half a stik of butter (cut smaller) and 1/4 cup olive oil in a really, really big skillet. Biggest you have. Maybe a wok. Add the anchovy, garlic, and a good pinch red pepper flakes. Cook about five minutes, then add the broccoli, and pasta, and some black pepper. Toss. Add some reserved pasta water (you reserved it, remember) to make a light sauce. Sprinkle generously (like, maybe 1/4 cup generously), with grated parmesan cheese. This is essential.
Serve.
This dish is really yummy and feels nice and light, yet filling, on a summer day. The anchovies give it alot of flavor, but for the life of me I can't really describe it. Anchovies are like that.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Don't Try This At Home
Once upon a time there was a boy. He was technically proficient and resourceful, and he liked to make things. He especially liked to make things from other things, putting his creations together in unexpected ways. They were often quite beautiful, and sometimes even technical. He had an eye for the absurd.
Which is probably what got him involved with the girl. She was strange, more or less a study in contradictions. She loved food and cooking, and writing, and reading, and stories. She tended to play it safe, and safely did things that no sane person would have done.
They loved each other and lived together in an apartment with a tiny kitchen, and the girl took great pains to put together a batterie de cuisine that would serve their every need.
They had an ice-cream maker and a whisk and they had pots and pans and an immersion blender and sharp knives and plates of all different sizes.
On Fourth of July, to prove that they were very patriotic and loyal to Asia in general and Korea in specific, the girl bought two steaks and froze them. When they were frozen through, she and the boy took turns cutting them paper thin with a very sharp knife. The boy was better at this part, so the girl busied herself making a marinade. For 1.5 pounds of sirloin, she used:
1/4 cup Safflower Oil
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 tsp. cayenne pepper (this made it VERY spicy, use less if you don't look food hot)
1 tsp. ground black pepper
1/4 cup granulated sugar
To this she added 1 packed tablespoon of fresh grated ginger and 1 bunch of finely chopped scallions, and all of the shaved beef.
She let it sit in the fridge for 1 hour, and busied herself with the rest of the meal. First for an apetizer she boiled soba noodles and ran them under cold water until chilled. She served them with a dipping sauce made of soy sauce, rice vinegar, some scallions and grated ginger. After it was all eaten, she had her guest wash and stem a 1 lb. bunch of spinach, and then she placed the leaves in a pot of boiling water until they were just wilted, and then she fished them out and let them cool off and drain. She placed them on a plate and dressed them with the remains of the dipping sauce, plus about a tablespoon and a half of sesame oil and another two tablespoons or so of rice vinegar. She snipped some scallions over this and placed it in the fridge to cool off a bit.
She had the Boy turn on the rice-maker, with rice.
When the meat had been an hour marinating, she took big flat frying pan and heated it up, without oil (because there was so much oil in the marinade). She cooked the meat in small batches (about 4 of them) for about two minutes per batch, flipping/stirring once.
She put it on a big plate and they ate with the rice and with the cold tart spinach salad. It was very good. The dish is called Bulgogi, and is Korean marinated-barbecued beef. It is traditionally served wrapped in romain lettuce with kimchee and pickled sprouts and other little dishes, but I like it like this: the rice helps tone down the spicy beef, and the cold salad is a perfect bright, clear foil for it.
After this there was apple pie. This is the part where the boy's love of making things and the girl's lack of sanity come in. You see, the girl was going to make ice-cream. She really was. But she just didn't feel like putting in the effort to make a custard base, the care it takes to be sure the eggs don't cook and base does not curdle. But something had to be served with the pie, because the guest had brought it with her so the girl had not put any effort into dessert at all.
Why not whip the cream, the girl asked?
And realized she did not have an electric beater, nor even something as boring and simple as an eggbeater. All she has was whisk.
The boy looked across the room at his toolbag, where an electric drill peaked out.
No? YES.
Yes, dear readers, we were that stupid. Zac attached my whisk to his electrid drill, and we used it as an electric beater. It did not explode or even merely fall apart: it whipped the cream up beautifully. I wish I had a picture of myself standing over the bowl of cream with a drill attached to a whisk in my hand. Maybe next time, though.
But don't try it at home, unless you are A) very technically profficient and B) utterly insane.
Heh. It worked.
I have whipped cream in my fridge for dessert tonight, probably with a hotted up piece of leftover apple pie.
Crazy has its benefits.
Which is probably what got him involved with the girl. She was strange, more or less a study in contradictions. She loved food and cooking, and writing, and reading, and stories. She tended to play it safe, and safely did things that no sane person would have done.
They loved each other and lived together in an apartment with a tiny kitchen, and the girl took great pains to put together a batterie de cuisine that would serve their every need.
They had an ice-cream maker and a whisk and they had pots and pans and an immersion blender and sharp knives and plates of all different sizes.
On Fourth of July, to prove that they were very patriotic and loyal to Asia in general and Korea in specific, the girl bought two steaks and froze them. When they were frozen through, she and the boy took turns cutting them paper thin with a very sharp knife. The boy was better at this part, so the girl busied herself making a marinade. For 1.5 pounds of sirloin, she used:
1/4 cup Safflower Oil
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 tsp. cayenne pepper (this made it VERY spicy, use less if you don't look food hot)
1 tsp. ground black pepper
1/4 cup granulated sugar
To this she added 1 packed tablespoon of fresh grated ginger and 1 bunch of finely chopped scallions, and all of the shaved beef.
She let it sit in the fridge for 1 hour, and busied herself with the rest of the meal. First for an apetizer she boiled soba noodles and ran them under cold water until chilled. She served them with a dipping sauce made of soy sauce, rice vinegar, some scallions and grated ginger. After it was all eaten, she had her guest wash and stem a 1 lb. bunch of spinach, and then she placed the leaves in a pot of boiling water until they were just wilted, and then she fished them out and let them cool off and drain. She placed them on a plate and dressed them with the remains of the dipping sauce, plus about a tablespoon and a half of sesame oil and another two tablespoons or so of rice vinegar. She snipped some scallions over this and placed it in the fridge to cool off a bit.
She had the Boy turn on the rice-maker, with rice.
When the meat had been an hour marinating, she took big flat frying pan and heated it up, without oil (because there was so much oil in the marinade). She cooked the meat in small batches (about 4 of them) for about two minutes per batch, flipping/stirring once.
She put it on a big plate and they ate with the rice and with the cold tart spinach salad. It was very good. The dish is called Bulgogi, and is Korean marinated-barbecued beef. It is traditionally served wrapped in romain lettuce with kimchee and pickled sprouts and other little dishes, but I like it like this: the rice helps tone down the spicy beef, and the cold salad is a perfect bright, clear foil for it.
After this there was apple pie. This is the part where the boy's love of making things and the girl's lack of sanity come in. You see, the girl was going to make ice-cream. She really was. But she just didn't feel like putting in the effort to make a custard base, the care it takes to be sure the eggs don't cook and base does not curdle. But something had to be served with the pie, because the guest had brought it with her so the girl had not put any effort into dessert at all.
Why not whip the cream, the girl asked?
And realized she did not have an electric beater, nor even something as boring and simple as an eggbeater. All she has was whisk.
The boy looked across the room at his toolbag, where an electric drill peaked out.
No? YES.
Yes, dear readers, we were that stupid. Zac attached my whisk to his electrid drill, and we used it as an electric beater. It did not explode or even merely fall apart: it whipped the cream up beautifully. I wish I had a picture of myself standing over the bowl of cream with a drill attached to a whisk in my hand. Maybe next time, though.
But don't try it at home, unless you are A) very technically profficient and B) utterly insane.
Heh. It worked.
I have whipped cream in my fridge for dessert tonight, probably with a hotted up piece of leftover apple pie.
Crazy has its benefits.
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