Paris, Je t'aime

Baked Eggs

Happy Easter. For me, Easter is about celebrating with food and a bit of shmaltz. I love a chocolate egg or two and an silly egg hunt around the apartment. So, this Easter G decided to make a Bo Ssam. It was truly wonderful and weird. Admittedly, around holiday dinner times, I get very particular about whatever I might think is traditional and I do get nostalgic for foods I have had throughout my life. So, I thought we should have a traditional old ham, I think a gammon here in the UK. I haven't had a ham in at least 5 years and here the tradition is lamb or beef, I think. Neither of us like lamb and whatever beef. So, G said we might slow cook a joint of pork and have bo ssam served with ginger scallion sauce, a pickled fennel relish and some kimchee wrapped in lettuce leaves and eaten in a messy and fun style. What a good idea.

Our Easter table.

I also wanted to add a couple of more traditional elements but with a twist. Mashed sweet potatoes and asparagus. I love making these mashed sweet potatoes with butter and white miso. The miso gives a lovely salty snap to the sweetness of the vegetable and the butter is, the butter. I thought I would dress the asparagus a bit too and looked up a recipe with pancetta, pine nuts, leeks, and some orange zest. If I ever made this again, I would leave out the zest and maybe the leeks. So, to the lady who put this recipe online and called it the 'best asparagus ever' or something like that. I give you an eternal raspberry of the tongue variety. I admit, I may have adjusted some quantities for our small amount of asparagus but, not good stuff.

The bo ssam though, that was the bomb. Take your freshly shucked oyster and lay atop your slow cooked pork, layer on your toppings, a bit of each and wrap and munch away. A truly great experience for your mouth. Hearing about it does not do it any justice, though. It made me wince to think about trying. Now, I may dream about it.

On Easter morning, I like to make a special holiday breakfast but, the family tradition of fried dough is really not very good for us. I decided to make a baked egg sort of dish with tomato, goat cheese, fresh spinach, shallot, pancetta and eggs.

My first baked egg casserole.

The night before we had also mugged a couple of Easter bunnies and squoze chocolate eggs out of their baskets. That was the fun part. So G asked what we were going to do with them as we ran down the trail away from the dazed rabbits and I said 'Hide them, of course'. So he did hide them. All of them. In the plastic bag. In the oven. I woke up and preheated it to bake my eggs and that is what happened.

Our chocolate eggs!

All of the larger ones deflated. The smaller ones just got soft and stuck together. I did hide some of the survivors when G went to take out the recycling. He had fun finding them and eating them immediately. I think he got a little sick on chocolate.

London Cycle

I just came back from Portobello Road. I rode a rent a bike over  on the road and back along the canal way. I brought my bike helmet over from NYC to use for this purpose. I forgot to take my bike helmet. I hit the road at Warwick Ave and was mostly afraid, thinking I would be hit by a black cab from out of no place. The cab would actually just be coming from the opposite direction than I would naturally expect and kill me on impact all because I didn't have my bike helmet on. But, with great determination, I swallowed and rode on through the streets. I only forgot to look once and there were no cars there. I got down to Portobello and there were no bike stands to click into. The woman at the Spanish food market, where we get our chorizo, let me park my bike at the front of the shop, thanks lady.

I took the canal way back. Less stressful, less cars. I watched a man fall over on his bike. He dropped his apples and I shouted 'Apples, apples, sir, you dropped your apples' I shouted this a couple more times and he actually looked back at me. He looked in his bag, looked back again and kept going. Didn't want his apples back.

Over the weekend, G made his eggplant paste, pickled onions and grilled squid. This was not my ideal dinner. It is really more of a course in a long meal. Luckily, G's friends came around with loads of wine and we all had a dance party in the living room. There was dancing, singing, some wrestling, hugs, drugs and wine. We all had a good time. Again, no photos, what's wrong with me?

Barrafina how ya been-a. London, I missed you.

We ate in Soho last night, London. We went to Barrafina, a Spanish tapas bar. It is run very well in the small space. An L shaped bar for diners and a line down the mirrored wall of future diners. I was meant to meet MC at 7 and wait on the long line. The sexy tattooed Spanish waiter gave me a thrill and brought me a red from Jumilla. I waited and moved along down the wall until I got to the front of the line. Neither of my party had arrived yet so another glass of wine, this time I chose Briego which was described as smoke and leather and I loved it. I was happy and warm and then my peeps showed up. We had just a few minutes wait for 3 spots at the bar but, I noticed those waiting on line getting restless as the night went on. What did start out to look like a civilized system was getting battered a bit by the less civilized among the patrons. Sad, because you really want for nothing as you stand and wait along the mirrored wall, they offer a small menu of treats and the full wine list for your pleasure. So, calm down fuckers!!
This is where I would stick a photo but, I didn't take any. Silly me.
We sat up at the bar and ordered Mozambique prawns, mojama, a smoked fish served with endive and pomegranate seeds, asparagus with hard cheese, a salad with Bibb and gem lettuces and a zippy lemony dressing, grilled chorizo on a bed of potatoes with microgreens and a jamon and spinach tortilla. The prawns were simple, large and succulent from the grill, enjoyable in their meaty flesh and the salty taste of your fingers. The mojama came next, not fishy at all, rather zesty eaten off the endive with citrus and the tart pom seeds. Our greens course was welcome and refreshing and a perfect respite before the chorizo landed in front of us. The house made meat was fantastic spicy but not too hot, really snappy bites of the red sausage and the potatoes soaking up the lovely orange oil. Then we got what I believe I will attempt to make but may never achieve a perfect little tortilla. The tortilla was a crispy brown and fluffy burger shaped treat. Inside thin layers of potato, ham and spinach when cut into a buttery eggy sauce spilled out. They cook these little guys in tiny fry pans and simply flip the tortilla from pan to pan to get the shape and lovely browned egg crust. I don't know if I can do it but I want to give it a try. The potato was perfectly layered and gave enough resistance and salty, buttery flavor. We finished with a Spanish cheese plate and a dessert. The Santiago tart, wow, yum, almond and quince tart with no over sweet taste. Just elegant flavor of nuttiness and fruit. Loved it and finished it with a Chardonnay Cava, wonderful. The check ended up to be about 55 GBP each, not bad. As we left, the last of the line was still waiting, worth it though giving seated diners the stink eye doesn't hasten anyone into leaving this little gem, I am sure.

The cocktales

Oh cocktail, how do I love you? Some may say I love you too well. But, recently, through some breaks in my enjoyment of you, I have found that I have so many of the same ideas and rantings with you as without you. Oh brain, you are truly a wonder.
Before I left London for Brooklyn, we made a couple of lovely Sunday cocktails. I am more of a wino, in recent years, but I do love Irish whiskey and a well mixed cocktail is alright with me. On that first Sunday it was Bloody Marys. Now, I am not always a fan of the Bloody, often it is just made poorly at your brunch places. I have since found a favorite spot for a great Bloody, Stone Park Cafe. It is very close to my place and they make a kick ass Bloody. I took a page from their book and mixed up a fierce Bloody for our London at home brunch.

Tasty, colorful, soothing, yum.

I used the hand blender to mix up and the potion. G did the garnishing and the drinking to help out. So, what goes in, tomato juice (said in the British toemahtoe way), black pepper, tobasco, horseradish, worcestershire sauce, celery salt and some port or brandy or both. I blended up those basics with a little red juice and started taste testing my way to amazing. We used Stoli for the kick and dropped in a couple caperberries along with the celery and lemon and then dropped out to a blissful Sunday cuddle.

Not one to be outdone, on the next Sunday, G made me a hot toddy that made all that ailed me drift into the background. We made it with Irish whiskey, honey, lemon, clove, ginger, hot water, and fresh ground nutmeg. The magic of the toddy is a gorgeous all over body experience. It feels like the toddy's warmth spreads through and fills all of the cracks and crevices that need warming within you. The instant relaxation of the hot steam and whiskey lends a slitted eye, am I stoned?, feeling and a languishing speed to it's consumption.

The cloves are swimming about shouting weeeee!

I did warm mine up with boiling water. I then thought, maybe if the hot water had a ginger tea base, the warming up process wouldn't leave a wateriness in your cocktail. Just more lovely flavor without more alcohol. But, come on, I did have a second one and drifted through a Sunday night movie while G made a veal stock from a French cookbook we work from sometimes.

Our bits going into the water.

The veg only made everything better

The thing about the veal stock is it sounded wonderful. I had been trying to locate the stock bones of veal for a while so that he could try this. We ended up at The Ginger Pig, a fantastic butcher in London with a premium pricetag. They had the scraps we needed. G prepped and began the cooking down of the stock. It takes some time. The entire place had a rich scent, the air was warm and comforting. Well, it cooked and cooked and really came out wan and disappointing at the end. After all the effort and expense, I just figured I would improve upon it and not let it go to waste. I tried to add something to it, salting a bit and thinking of what to do to improve on what was almost flavorful. Well, we did have some pork belly for dinner a few nights later and I just took those bones and cooked 'em up in the veal stock. Blasphemy? I don't know. It did come out richer and with more to it. Is is worth doing again? I probably won't. I will stick to my easy chicken stock that I make after we roast a Sunday bird. That stock is so rich and simple and just gives me an old timey feeling of using every bit of the food we buy. I grew up with my Granpy's garden and a Great Depression hangover of utilizing every scrap of food around. I love the satisfaction of having only bones to discard and for those bones to have no flavor that could still be wrung from them.

Borough Market, London

 Part of the pleasure of cooking is that primitive urge in all of us to sate our appetites, the other primitive urge I relish is the hunting and gathering aspect. I love to go to market and fill up my senses with all of the options of what to eat, what to make and what to (proverbially) bang over the head and drag home. This goes for lettuce as well as pork. This week I went to Borough Market in London. This is one of the cities oldest fresh markets and you can find anything(almost) that you desire for cooking and eating. The market is down under London Bridge on the South side. This place really gets heaving around lunchtime, especially on a Saturday. I like to go on Thursday or Friday but, I am a great shopper and can usually ignore the crowds. The great part of any market like this is the tasting and choosing and the inspiration as the ideas of what to do with each next delicious item pops into my head. I am often overwhelmed and I always try to edit myself. I come home with random items and half eaten treats but often with the inspiration for a new dish or a new ingredient to experiment with. This week, I went, ostensibly, to find veal scraps and bones to make veal stock. Veal stock is something that G has been wanting to make, inspired by one of his French cookbooks. They didn't have any. The butcher was friendly but, not fruitful. I asked about it and it seems pretty difficult to get. I had thought this, of all places, would be the place to find any weird thing you might want for cooking.

This is the flavor of the butcher shop.

 Never mind the stock, what else can I make? I wandered the market and tasted all of the cheeses on offer. I love you, Cheesus. I bought some bright green olives that are so tasty and the color is not your typical shade of, well, olive. They are so bright firm and briney that I just popped one in my mouth as I am writing, irresistible. I picked up some pork belly for Momofuku pork buns, that is in a brine right now. Next, some fresh unpasteurized butter with sea salt and my new friend, smoked garlic. Smoked garlic, you and I are embarking on a journey of new discoveries, we will become fast friends, I think. Smoked garlic, I can't wait to put you in, in...hmm, I still think our love is real. I might just bake you and spread you on bread.
After that, I moved on through the produce area, which is so beautiful, the mushroom table alone overwhelms and I will head back to market on Thursday to buy a truffle or maybe two for a pasta we are making. Oh, I started dreaming of truffle pasta. We had truffle pasta in Paris. We ate at a wonderful Italian restaurant somewhere on the Rive Gauche. I can't tell you where it is right now but, I did manage to find it on my rent-a-bike when I went for lunch later that week.

A perfect lunch in Paris, I couldn't wait to eat, it came covered in truffles, shaved, delicate...

When G took me to dinner there we were mid-dinner when he announced that is was Bogey's favorite Italian restaurant in Paris.
'How do you know that?'
'I had dinner with his wife here.'
'Lauren Bacall?'
'Yes'
'Um, how was she?'
'She was a nice older lady.' And that is about all I got out of him. Seriously.

Paella gets better and better

I have been making paella every week or so since I found that rice back in October. G loves it and he encourages it. When we make our Sunday chicken, I make paella on Monday. This time we had some whitefish to add in as well. I made the mirepoix with my veg combo. I just raid the crisper and take whats good. This time is was carrots, broccoli, shallot and mushrooms. I used the new food processor and blitzed that up in a few seconds. I charred up the chorizo, set it aside and added the veg. I tossed in the white fish. I took the chicken's 'gold' and made it into a broth then used it to make rice. I dropped in the chicken, layed the chorizo back in and tossed in some fruit de mer. This loveliness bubbled away on the stove and really was a comfort for dinner.


Over the holidays I promised A I would bake for her. I over promised a bit. I still owe an angel's food and a carrot cake. I did make a gingerbread or two, really. The recipe starts with stout and takes fresh and ground ginger and molasses. It was fast and easy to make and came out of the oven so lovely and needed no accompaniment.

deep, dark, rich and ready for the oven

The deep flavor of the stout and treacle with the bite of the ginger made it a special treat. Make sure to eat your first piece as soon as it comes out of the oven. I cut some for a test piece and we all ate some warm gingerbread. I made the second gingerbread for our New Year's Day dinner. To kick off the new year were invited to dinner with S and other good friends. I think we had 5 courses. There was a smoked salmon cheese dip with crusty bread, potato leek soup (which kicked off my current obsession with leeks), a gorgeous rib roast and plenty of veg (sometime during this course I had to take a break from eating and couldn't finish that plate), next up was a pavlova with fruit and cream and finally gingerbread and cheese plate. I like thinking about gingerbread as well as eating it. The nostalgia of just saying the word is enough to put me into a reverie of icing and Christmas memories. I remember one year my dear old mum made me and my brother's school classes gingerbread houses. She made two for each class on a board covered in tin foil for the icy wonderland and a fence around. There were gumdrops and swirly hard candy to decorate. I think the roof was shingled by graham crackers... Anyway, it is a treasured memory and it puts the gingerbread into a magical category of food. I relish it today. (Um, Mom, you could send me a photo of the houses!)

Chowdahead

Glasgow, Scotland, I am hungry. I haven't had the best luck getting a decent lunch out of you. I want you to feed me something light, satisfying, fresh, tasty, enjoyable, brief, surprising...I want a good lunch. Can you help me out? We started looking for you, elusive respite, after Christmas. We went to a new place called 'Butchershop & something something' and sat awaiting some meat for nearly an hour. I want to be as fair as I can be. I am not writing this to dis this new restaurant. I just wanted a steak frites in about the time it takes to cook a steak. I thought we might get the hamburger in the same amount of time. It was busy, not that busy, but busy. We had pleasant service and the food was good. That is all I can say.

We don't give up. The next day, we went over to 'The Crab Shack'. We went in and they asked us if we were ok at the bar. They told us they didn't have much on the menu because the fishing boats hadn't been out from Christmas. No crabs, langoustines, mussels, etc. We ordered up two seafood chowders and the fish dinner. The chowders showed up pretty quickly and they were not small cupfuls, they were lovely big bowls with thick bread. Now, I am from New England, I consider myself a chowder expert. I have been eating chowdah since I first supped on soup. I have had every possible chowder concoction and they measured from the inedible, stomach churning canned type to the fresh, creamy, made at the dock as the clams came off the boat variety. Chowdah, how I luv ya, how I luv ya chowdah. So, I was so excited to dig into a bowl and this is it. This is a wonderful chowder. Thank you Crab Shack, Glasgow. Thank you friendly waitstaff, thank you nice American dude who plunked this bowl down in front of me. This steaming, creamy, leek filled bowl of yumminess. This chowder is one that I want to make, that I am going to attempt to make, that I need to make. The chowder itself is creamy but not thick or heavy. It holds the seafood and leeks and suspends them in its level richness. Those leeks, the tender mussels and clams, the scallops and fish...

Creamy goodness, chowder, welcome to my tummy.

Well, it was really very good. We were fully satisfied by the end of the bowl. So, although I don't recommend this as an everyday thing, we asked if they would cancel the fish and chips we had yet to come. I don't think I have done that before. It did take G and I some discussion of if it were alright to request and had they said no, we would have just had the dish anyway but, they said no problem and smiled. Thanks again Crab Shack. We ordered up some lovely oysters (I can't remember where they were from) and finished a lovely lunch.

Glistening oysterless shell

We headed out again for lunch a couple other times that were successful. We went to the always satisfying 'Left Bank'. They do their snack foods right. G's lovely friend owns it and I think we eat the same things. All of the little bites on the menu are attractive to me and I wanted to eat my way through it. I only had enough room for the chicken satay with lovely peanut sauce, the side salad and the fries. The fries had rosemary and were salty and delectable. I dipped them in ketchup. I dipped them in peanut sauce. I ate them on their own. I looked at G sideways when he ate some of them.

We also got an impromptu lunch at this funky cool East Village type resto in a hotel. They make a messy little hand pulled pizza that hit the spot. It was thin crusted and had tasty toppings on. So, Glasgow, you have made a luncher out of me.

Ahhh, my hero.

Well, I have missed this report. I took all of the Christmas holiday off to go out and taste things and gather more fuel and inspiration for this little project. Right now, we are on the train from Scotland to London. The holidays are over and we took an entire day just to remain still before boarding this train. Just now, I am munching on good old potato chips and couldn't be more content. I got the new Tom Waits bio 'Lowside of the Road-A Life of Tom Waits' for Christmas (thanks M). I am even more inspired by TW now than I have been. So, I put the big man on the headphones and sunk into the details of a hero of mine. I start to think, a hero? Is that right? Yeah, that's right. First I've got the lyrics, those words that roll over me and remind me of lives I have lived and those I will never live. I feel a sort of dreamy peace drift in and take me off the train and into a late night world where clever prose and funny, but hokey, dirty jokes stuffed with entendre and brimming with ennui and pleasure together. Wow, TW, you get me feeling hopeful and romantic.

What have we been cooking and eating though? I was away from the stove for most of the holiday but I watched, photographed and partook at every opportunity. I am still a little hazy on all of the details of our trip to Glasgow as many days were spent meeting and having impromptu cocktails with many of the denizens of the West End. The last few days before the New Year were a near constant party with many locations to hit. The relative quiet of walking or traveling from one party to the next was often just an opportunity to run into another Glaswegian doing the same. From there, a list of the planned events would be shared and gone over for an opportunity to see the other later.

This is the first try for dough. Although it looks nearly perfect, the dough was not good. But, do not fear...

This year, I swore to do more cooking than last year. I did that, just slightly. This year I made bread dough from some of G's leftover dough. G made Christmas dinner and added some Momofuku touches this year with the mini apple kimchi salad and baby pork buns. We left London on the 5:40 am train on Christmas Eve so we didn't have much room for error but, error moved in and made itself at home. The train was a little late but, no mind. We got into Glasgow incident free (if you've heard the story of last year's train ride you will understand) and to the house in a cab with our 6 bags (3 large, 3 small, all bursting) then we headed out to the Waitrose grocery store on Byres Road. It was jam packed with insane, last minute shoppers like us. G instantly went into his grocery mode which is run through the aisles and last one to checkout gets a glowering look. (We actually got into an argument yesterday about our different grocery shopping 'styles'. So, I will say only that) I was trying to find baking ingredients which proved a little more difficult especially with so many people buying all of the typically seasonal spice flavors up. The shelves were a wasteland of knocked over jars and picked over non-essentials. As usual, I was the last one to check out. Then followed what I have endearingly termed 'the forced march with baggage'. It seems I can't visit Glasgow without this occurrence.

Onto the buns, G made up the dough from a mix, not hopeful to begin with and although in the photo they look like perfect little buns, they were a bit tough. We had bought flour and yeast, etc and he decided to try it again on Christmas day. My dough for fried dough on Christmas morning also failed and we were both bummed. But, with Christmas morning came great surprises, especially for G, as he got a pile of gifts to rival any 7 year old in town. He got a fantastic food processor and dough making became an easier task. So, G started in on making his amuse bouche. The pork belly came out to it's fatty succulent self and those tiny sandwiches were way too small for the appetite that they inspired.

Top view of mini pork bun, notice the lovely fresh pickle and the way the pattern plays off the bun.

Crispy pork belly and an appropriately fluffy bun

I know that's the point but, it must be pointed out. G also made the exciting apple and kimchi salad. We brought the kimchi and the smoked bacon up from London ourselves. We got the apples, labne and rocket(arugula) in Glasgow. If you haven't had this at Momofuku make it. It is easy and involves simple prep and little cooking. It isn't difficult to find kimchi in NYC but, in the UK it is a little more of a challenge and for the second batch G went to the Korean restaurant in Glasgow and bought a serving of the stuff from a bewildered Korean man who had to make up a price for it.

Another top view, the apples are hidden by the tasty bacon.

The apples and kimchi are tossed together and dresses with maple labne.

The sweetness of the apples and the pickled cabbage mix together and deliver a punch to your taste buds. The creamy, sweet labne, like my hero, Tom, this dish mixes all of the best of the deep and peppers the sweetness of life to mind bending results.

Well, there were extra eggplants and carrots...

I made two dishes that I have always wanted to make:  a healthier eggplant parmigiana (this just means sans breading to me, as my relatives bread the guts out and deep fat fry the eggplant rounds until their is no taste of eggplant left, sorry for outing you guys!) and a carrot cake from, well, carrots.

Top view of my stacks of goodness.

 I was inspired by my good friend for the eggplant dish, she made it for a vegetarian night and it was pitch perfect. So, after the eggplant paste experiment was done, we had two eggplants just sitting there asking to be parmigianed. That is a verb, correct? To 'parmigiana' something is to cover it in parmesan cheese. I don't know, but, I am went for it. I sliced up those eggplants, patted them dry, salted them, lightly fried them and rested them on paper towels to soak up the excess oil. I started my sauce, simple red sauce which I use either canned plum tomatoes or canned diced tomatoes to start and add any mixture of garlic, herbs, spices and my new favorite ingredient, carrots. I food process the carrots and saute them with any garlic, shallot (which I prefer over onion) and any other bits I mix in. I love the sweetness the carrots lend to balance the acidity of the tomato. I love the idea of adding vegetables for the health of it. I love the way the sauce gets chunkier and turns to more of a ragout, the heartiness of it's appearance is deceptive as you don't feel like you are eating a heavy sauce. Here is the fun part, the stacking, stack those slices up with your sliced fresh mozzerella (yum) alternating all of your slices and sauce.

I made carrot cake on an entirely different day. Carrot cake is a long time favorite, since I figured out that it was not a cake made of only shredded carrots, but, a spicy treat with nuts, raisins and the always fantastic cream cheese frosting. Put cream cheese frosting on everything, it is such a luxury and just too, too tasty.
So, I went about the recipe, shredding carrots, adding the optional raisins and walnuts, and whizzing this lovely batter together. My recipe called for ground cardamom, along with its other spices. I could not find ground cardamom. I did have some whole cardamom. I soaked it in boiling water to soften and then shelled it and tried my very best to crush its interior with my mortar and pestle. It was not encouraging but I tossed it in anyway and hoped for the best. The cake went into the oven and I looked to mixing up the frosting. Scoop the cream cheese out of its package and make sure to lick fingers. Also, watch your boyfriend because he will sneak up on you and spread your cream cheese on toast or just dip in with his finger. I whipped up the frosting and added the best thing ever, vanilla bean. Vanilla bean, it makes it, it always does.

Can you see the tiny black specks of vanilla bean?

 The cake came out and got frosted with no trouble. It was dense, spicy and the cardamom should have been ground but the little soft seeds throughout added such a pow to each mouthful that I can't be sure I won't do that again. They may be the same sort of addition as the raisins and walnuts. The cake somehow seems to tear apart on the fork as you pull the bite from the piece of cake, the shredded carrot is woven into the cake. It is dense, glorious goodness. There really isn't any need to eat that store carrot cake again. It's been good to me in the past but, now I have had the real thing. There is no going back.

Oh Inaki! You love me long time.

When I was in Paris last August, G took me to Le Chateaubriand restaurant. We ate there four out of the 10 days we were there. The dinner is prix fixe at 45 euro and the menu is set by the chef, no choices or decisions made by you except for wine and the wine list is full of solid choices. Inaki Aizpitarte is the chef of this small restaurant in a less touristy area of Paris. We discovered the restaurant, or G did, because David Chang (culinary hero) mentioned it somewhere in cyberspace. Part of the sales pitch as to why this place/chef would be an amazing experience was this youtube video of Inaki doing something with an eggplant that I could not imagine.
Take a look:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eq7o6AOIXaI&feature=youtube_gdata

We went to the restaurant that first night. It is so unassuming. It seemed like the kitchen and waitstaff showed up at this space and put the tables out and began cooking. The tables are simple, utilitarian, a chalk board with the wine makers written on is the wall art, the simple bar stands to the left, the light fixtures are well chosen and understated but, the buzz, the buzz. Everyone is there to eat. You might think, duh, that is why people go out to dinner. But, it isn't. People go out to eat for different reasons but, not everyone truly searches for an eating experience. If you are looking, find this place.

I am going to tell you about the several meals we ate there in future posts, but, let's talk eggplant puree just now. G wanted to make it at home. So, he watched the posted video over and over and we bought 2 eggplants. Two eggplants go on the fire and get charred. Then, into the little food processor and blend it up. It came out flecked with black but still eggplanty mash. I ran down to the store for 2 more eggplants and we started again. Same result. Down to the store again 4 eggplants this time, what did the bodega check out guys think about all the eggplant we were buying? I don't know. Two more on the flames but this time scrape the middle out, leave enough flesh to give some body to the charred skin and the hand blender to whir it up.

Fire roasted eggplant on the home grill leaves black ash all over.

Look at that smoke, smelled so strong and rich.

 Then it gets baked in the oven until it is a crisp flat of eggplant blackness and blend again.

Baked eggplant mash getting peeled from the baking paper.

 Oil gets added while it is blended and we get a creamy, tar black paste. The flavor reminds us of Paris and Le Chateaubriand. The rich texture is like the best parts of BBQ, save the meat. That charred richness with a sweet undertone is thick and begs for slathering artfully across a plate as our new culinary hero does at his Paris joint (no disrespect, DC, you are still held in high esteem).

This is the fish course at Le, the paste lies beneath white fish, grilled baby eggplant, shaved beetroot, purple basil, what have I missed...

Now, we can make that dish at home but we need your innovation, Inaki, to inspire us and keep us coming back for course after course of your amazing, ingenious creations. It isn't just food at your restaurant, it is the experience and the beauty of the flavor combination with the visual splendor. 

Truffleupagus

I know it is not difficult to imagine that most everything to do with truffles is absolutely wonderful. That rich woodsy, earthy taste that I have enjoyed with so many things. A favorite is simple linguine with shaved truffle and butter sauce; simple, so rich, so decadent, yet so homey and rustic at the same time. I don't have any fresh truffles to shave here at the flat. I was preparing simple Tuesday night pasta and salad, penne with pesto and rocket with diced beets and toasted hazelnuts. I was just about to squeeze some lemon juice for the salad and add a little salt when I focused in on the small bottle of truffle oil on the counter. It has barely been used. Will truffle work with lemon? Taste oil, taste lemon juice, taste oil, taste juice. This may be an easily answerable question to chefs and gourmets alike but, I have yet to have tasted that combo on a salad. I thought, the earthy beets and rich hazelnuts would be very happy under the marinade and the peppery rocket would be strong enough to hold up in that depth of flavor. I used less than a teaspoon of truffle oil, the juice of a half lemon and added about a half teaspoon of that wonderful whole seed mustard and a dash of sea salt, add a bit of neutral oil and done. I whipped it up and took the plunge or made the salad take the plunge. Yum, better than yum, silence, salad crunching silence.

Lentil Soupville

London's first snow of the year, what do you cook? I cooked lentil soup, rich, thick, savory. I am about to have another bowl for lunch. I used green lentils, chunky carrots, pureed onion, sliced fennel, small sliced potatoes and plenty of spices, umami paste, mushrooms, two kinds, bacon, yum, just a little bacon. It cooked up quickly and easily for a post Thanksgiving meal to soothe the belly and cleanse the system.

All you folks in America had your Thanksgiving on the day. We celebrated on Saturday night at a friends. The menu was simple Thanksgiving. turkey, mashed potato, sweet potato, sausage stuffing, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, pecan pie, all homemade, all wonderful and a great entrance to the season.

I made a brine for the turkey which involved finding something to brine the turkey in. Our little London flat doesn't hold a turkey sized stock pot. I went out for a container and found one, a plastic storage tub for about 5 gbp, back on the London bus and home to squeeze the box into the cute refrigerator in our flat. Onto the pie!! I baked and it did come out picture perfect and tasty too. The aesthetic value of the yolk wash on the crust is priceless. I took the spare crust and rolled it out and added cinnamon, sugar and brandy butter. This is something my mother always did with extra crusts. It gives you a preview of your crusts' flakiness and taste and it is a small treat for kids or you. The brandy butter was my own inspiration. 

I feel like this is a perfect pie.

Submerged bird, brine makes it so good.

 The next morning, Saturday, our Thanksgiving, I got up at 6:00 am and was dropped off before G went to work. I arrived at our hosts with a drained turkey and had some tea and croissant before we started working on the dinner. When I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to find the Thanksgiving decorations well underway. The powerhouse behind the festive decorations? Young Maisie. She looked up a bunch of brilliant Thanksgiving photos on the internet and even found a hand turkey instructional. We made 'hand turkeys' and colored them in while the turkey roasted. We had Indian and pilgrim headdresses to wear and we all wore them. What fun! Note:  It is difficult to cook with feathers hanging from your Indian chief headdress.

Maisie's fantastic table decor!

First Thanksgiving dinner!

When I made the stuffing I used sausage, onion, mushrooms, chestnuts and loads of butter and herbs. The mashed potato was pretty straight forward, milk, butter and some sour cream mashed in. The sweet potato we did with sweet white miso and butter mashed together (so good). Besides that, basic cranberry sauce from a bag of cranberries and some sugar and water, one of my favorites, I might eat some right now! Turkey and gravy made the meal and we all ate it up. We had a real traditional dinner and even added some of my family's favorite Thanksgiving traditions:  wine, silly behavior, arguing, shots, and a trip to the ER. The next morning I made fried bread dough, another family tradition, so good yet so bad.

Jamie's Place in my holiday heart

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day, in America. I am in London. It was Thursday here. It was very cold here but, it was not Thanksgiving. In the morning, I felt fine. We are celebrating Thanksgiving on Saturday at a friend's place and I have a pecan pie that I am baking right now. I also have a turkey deep in a brine in a plastic box I went out and bought this morning. So, I had some Thanksgiving preparations to think about. A few hours later, I wasn't feeling as good, lonely and really missing that spirit you feel when almost everyone is at the same purpose of holiday enjoyment. So, I went out into the cold, hopped on the bus, hopped off the bus and kept walking through London. It was a brisk cold weather walk, which can be a great thing. I walked for about an hour and then got on the tube and headed over to Westfield, the giant mall where I was meeting G after work to get our turkey.
I was hungry for lunch and decided to treat myself for Thanksgiving so when I saw that Jamie Oliver's Italian restaurant chain had opened there, I decided that would be acceptable. I have eaten at Fifteen in Amsterdam and at Jamie's Italian at Canary Wharf when it was still new. I had had a good experience at Canary Wharf and it wasn't very 'chain' restaurant feeling then and I was looking forward to it. Ok, enough set up, onto the meal.
I ordered the bruscetta with oven dried tomatoes, basil, garlic and ricotta, the Mushroom Tagliatelle special (a half order), and the chocolate espresso tart with figs and orange cream. The greeting was good but I got seated by the window and side door on the coldest day so far this season. So, I felt like I should ask to be moved, since there were many tables open. But, I didn't, I put my trust in the hostess and restaurant to be warm and comfortable. I began by ordering the Grape and cucumber martini sounds good and I needed a kick. The waiter came back and told me they were out of grapes so I could choose something else. So, I  said, what if you just make it without the grape garnish and let me have it? So, it came and it was refreshing. The bruscetta was tasty and I enjoyed it. On the waiter's recommend, I had the special and it came out hot and the pasta was cooked well. The problem was, the mushrooms, a couple weren't soaked well enough and I got grit in my dish in 2 or 3 bites. That ruins the dish. It is no fun to eat grit in your pasta. I left most of the mushrooms and did finish the pasta. I ordered dessert and a dessert wine and contemplated telling the staff about my grit issue. The tart was good and not too sweet. So, I did call the hostess over and I explained my grissue. The manager came over and we talked about it and he was very polite and thanked me for telling him. The check came and I got charged for everything. I thought he would take it off. It was only around 6 pounds. The waitress came and brought the credit card machine and a new check which had the dessert deducted from the bill. I payed and tipped and left. The service was not what I expected. My first waiter was nervous and perhaps it was his first day, it felt like it. My later waitress was more comfortable and helpful. I did end up being cold at my table and that side door was used once during my meal. These are not crimes against humanity but...
In the end, I am reminded the cache that comes with the celebrity name does not translate to the chain restaurant or perhaps I don't translate to the chain restaurant. I think that may be the real grissue. That aside, I love Jamie Oliver and what he is doing. His lunch program, the new fish sustainability program, his 30 minute meals are showing an undereducated public how to cook real food easily and quickly. Thanks Jamie.

Paella sans mussels

Last night I took that juicy chicken and stripped it. I boiled down the carcass with some thyme and rosemary and made a nice stock. I sauteed some chorizo and added the chicken and tossed it in the yummy chorizo oil. I put that aside and sauteed a sort of mirepoix of carrots, garlic, shallot and fennel in the same meaty pan with a little olive oil, toss in paella rice and fry up a bit longer, add umami paste and saffron, then add chicken stock to simmer down. I studded the top with that meaty goodness and off we go. I hadn't even thought of making paella. I found the rice in the cabinet and it all happened from there. The rice got that lovely crispy brown bottom on it and turned out tasting very very nice. G had two bowls and took the rest to work this morning. He did leave me a little for my lunch to which I added a bit more chorizo. I am going to get better at this, I will (meaning:  I did not photograph it). Yum

Sundays of brine and brussel sprouts

At this point, the moisture under the crispy skin was bubbling underneath which gave an alive alien sort of feel to the chicken.

Here is a picture of last night's brined chicken. I am boiling in into a stock right now and am going for some soup or stew this evening. The brine was  brilliant again and I swear the chicken was pulsating with juicy chicken loveliness. Below see the lovely brussel sprouts that I love so much. To make these, you need some smoked bacon and chestnuts. We forgot the chestnuts and I improvised by getting hazelnuts, still tasty but not as good. This is another ode to DC. The sprouts are halved but you also toss in some strips of sprout which cook up into crispy carmelized bits. I can't get enough of these. Yum.

Start these in a pan and finish them under a broiler.

This is all in preparation for Thanksgiving. Although, not an actual holiday here, it is widely recognized and they also do Black Friday sales coming up this week. I have got a dinner planned for Saturday night with some good friends. I will brine the turkey in the salt and sugar mix but may add some other things to that brine(a shoe, mud, etc.). I am making some pie and need to go and buy a pie plate and rolling pin.

Chicken briney

I have been charged with this task so I, like some knight of the food realm, must. I must blog about my culinary adventures and stop just teasing with my Facebook headers.

So, here you go. Last Sunday G came home with a medium sized chicken. We, being decent folk, decided to roast it. There isn't all that much that goes into roasting a chicken well (I know this is a much discussed and written about topic.) I am simply saying that the best chickens I have had, roasted, have a lemon shoved in with some herbs and a massage of olive oil, salt and pepper and they come out pretty perfect. G who so often and correctly looks to David Chang for a bit of inspiration pulled out a brine for the fried chicken, half cup of salt, half a cup of sugar, a warm water bath a couple hours in the fridge. Why not? we asked. So, in you go chickie. After a good soak, the chicken came up from the depths and into the oven with the aforementioned, simple ministrations. Well, out he came from the oven just the crispiest skin and the most succulent juicy meat I have ever had the pleasure of tasting. It was shocking how good it was. It changed chicken for me. It was a poultry revelation. If religion was this good, I might be interested.

We added to the meal some mashed sweet potato with miso butter. This, again thanks to DC for the miso butter, is such a lovely combination of salty and sweet that you will promise to not harm your precious taste buds with anything not so pure and good as these flavors again. (This may be a bit much but, I am going for it!) The chicken didn't ask for this addition to the plate, nor did it need it but, in the end it didn't seem to mind. Push a fluffy bite of sweet potato onto the tender meat and insert into mouth, savor, listen to the silence, marvel at the perfection your mouth holds within, look forward to another bite.

Well, it is Sunday again and chicken is on the menu. This week a good friend sent 'The French Menu Cookbook', thanks to you S, G wants to make a veal stock. I am making the shopping notes. The stock is to cook almost everything in. This is the new experiment, report to follow, this week photos of our friend and new love chicken briney for you to see.

I went to Paris, Sexy Dance Battle Trois (this is the French title of the movie 'Step Up 3-D' which was playing in theaters in Paris)

He did, we drank fast, caught a taxi and headed toward the Eiffel Tower. My man speaks wonderful French so he does all the talking. I smile and stare out the window, trying to catch details of every light and building and bit of wonder that we zip past. The night is warm and breezy and we are going, going forward and it feels good. We get to the base of the tower and it is so full of tourists. My man calls O who speaks to the taxi driver via cell phone and he drives us back across to the right bank, even though that is where we originated. That driver was difficult and was doing just what he wanted. Along the Seine, there are ramps, real roads that go down to the riverbank. We were to be dropped off down near the boat. This is not the way it worked out. The driver just pulled over on the main road and told us to get out. He had driven us around enough for one night. Ok, he was rude about it and he was not helpful. We got out and crossed the dark street and walked about 20 yards down to the slope that led to the docked boats. We walked down in the dark to a boat that was loud and bright. The party. We went on and found O on the top deck in the night with about 30 other partiers. He offered to get us a drink, champagne for everyone. The bar was open and the champagne tasted like only champagne can, the crisp round sting of the fizz on your tongue, everything. We were having the party and the party had us. Meeting, talking, being sweetly charmed by O and his hospitality and politeness mixed with his shirt open down to his waist and his hairy chest. O offered us every part of a good time and we were in full swing when the Eiffel Tower began to glitter in the night. I have seen this spectacle on film before but never here, under it, sipping champagne, laughing, in love. The breath was gone from me and I had nothing to say. This is a special occasion as I am frequently known for my talking and some of you wish I would close my mouth. Well, now you know how to get the job done. Amaze me.

I went to Paris, Part Deux

The Seine from my bicycle.

My cup runneth over with Parisien rainwater, also known as Champagne.

I stepped out of the shower and heard the news. ‘O is going to some wrap party for a movie, on a boat, on the Seine, under the Eiffel Tower.’ I just go silent. My brain starts to jump around.

It is very exciting inside my mind and I say: ‘Oh, that sounds good…’

My life’s love replies ‘I guess so, but I can’t be arsed.’ 

‘When does it start?’ I say.

‘The boat leaves right now, I don’t think we will make it.’ He informs.

Now, he is right, I am naked out of the shower and although it sometimes takes me less time to get ready then it does him, there is no way to avoid disappointment in this case.

‘He said to call at eleven, when the boat docks at the Eiffel Tower.’

I smiled broadly and we got dressed for dinner.  We had been going out to some of the most wonderful meals and that evening we headed to a place we had been eyeing and he most desperately wanted to eat. It was the cheapest meal I think we had on the trip. I am not sure if this place has a name. It is on a quiet corner in an Asian restaurant area. It is the most basic of noodle shops. The main attraction is an enormous pot in the front window. It is loaded to the top with all sorts of strange, murky veg and it’s broth is the basis of some great ramen. The salty richness smacks on your lips and tongue and makes those noodles that are done and firm more of a pleasure to chew. The sliced pork, bamboo, scallion and other toppings were just that, a nice addition but nothing without the base. We were all smiles, sake and Tsing Tao during that meal.

We slid off of our bar stools and onto the Paris streets. A taxi ride to the Marais and to a little bar my man claims as his favorite place for a drink since he was a student there in Paris. We were drinking our chilled red wine and the street was busy and gay, really, this is how the perfect Parisien evening makes you feel. I looked up at the clock and pointed out the time, about 11:05. ‘You should call O.’

3.

I went to Paris

I went to Paris. It is an uncommonly common activity. It’s what I did there or what got done which I witnessed and participated in. I have been telling this story since I lived it and the adventure just seems to get more adventurous the more often I share it.

I was visiting Paris with my boyfriend of 2 years. He was working and I was touring. Thus, given a free room by his company, I was determined to stay as many days as I could in that beautiful city. His schedule, poor thing, working every weekday and a half day on most Saturdays, left me time to play and linger in museums and shop a little. Dinner out each night together and my sleeping in helped to keep us both happy.  Well, I was happy, he was tired.

Our Friday night came and it was deemed necessary that he work Saturday. Bummer. But, he has a great spirit of adventure and understands that we can sleep later, next year some time or when he turns 80.

So, he came home to the hotel on Friday evening and I had already opened some lovely Cotes du Rhone. While we were sorting out the evening I asked who or where he thought we might find a party tonight. I admit I am a terrible instigator and have really no regard for the amount of sleep he gets when we are together. A terrible secret that I try to disguise by asking if he is too tired or if he just wants to stay in. But, this is Paris and ultimately we both want to have a great time. So he names a mutual acquaintance, now a friend, O, so very French. I say:  ‘Call him now, let’s go out.’

We know O from our work. We both work on feature films. We are cogs in the big machine of film production. We met on a film, the same one I met O on in Morocco. O is a standard height swarthy Frenchman who is absolutely bonkers. He is straight up out of his mind.

Now there are a couple types of crazy folks in this world. The actually insane who are to be pitied and locked up and medicated and electro-shocked and that sort of thing. Then there are the kind with many phobias, hang ups, strange behaviors and fundamentally annoying qualities which may have them ending up counting lint balls or gold coins depending on their circumstances. There are a few more varieties but that is not to our purposes. O is that rare and random type of crazy. The one who is safe and dangerous all at the same time. Dig deeper and you may find the dark side but who wants to dig at all when the surface is glossy and action packed? O is that rare vintage that can and does have a life that is a party. He reminds me of Beatty in ‘Shampoo’, the glamorous parts, it does not hurt the analogy that he is, in fact, a hair stylist. Tres tres fantastique.