Cooking for Margy

Still Cooking for Margy

2008-02-28T06:28:00.000-08:00

I've obviously been a horribly delinquent blogger. It's been eating away at me. Plus I'm not inventorying our meals properly, which was always a fringe benefit of running CFM -- if I wanted to remember how I'd handled a dish or an ingredient, I could just look it up. That's helpful when you don't really use recipes and tend not to write things down. So the details behind that amazing roux-thickened, herb-flavored sauce I made for a red snapper back in October will keep fading away until I just have to start again from scratch and hope I haven't lost my juju.

Now, let's get caught up a little. We have a trip to rehash before I get back to discussing my own kitchen experiments.

Last September, Margy and I went to Amsterdam and Germany. It was our first visit to Amsterdam and my first visit to Germany (Margy's been there countless times; her mom is German born). Everything we ate in Amsterdam was delicious -- every meal, for each of our five days. We went fancy; we went humble. I had rare lamb chops with fried gnocchi one night (before we went to see the Police at the 50,000-seat Amsterdam ArenA), and the next day, after hanging around the Rembrandt House, I ate the best hot dog I've had in my life. I dressed it with mustard and a zig-zag of curry ketchup and nibbled on it as a brass band floated by on the canal beneath us, a bunch of guys in yellow shirts and red ties, packed so tightly into a little boat that there wasn't room for them to move beyond working their trombone slides.

And of course we ate Dutch pancakes. This is our sweet/savory combo: one with lemon and sugar, which we dressed with a thick molasses-rich syrup, and one with bacon and onion. Just thinking about the aroma of the batter on the griddles in that restaurant is enough to make me book another ticket.

The German food we ate didn't dazzle me the way the Dutch offerings did. We had a few fancy meals that were excellent, but I had my eye more on the everyday foods. Would you believe that I couldn't get myself a bratwurst? I don't know, maybe in its native land bratwurst has become a joke, or a myth. Is it the Salisbury steak of Germany? Not once, but twice, I found a wonderful-sounding item on a menu -- "seven little grilled bratwurst served with potatoes and onions," let's say. I stomped my feet a bit and rubbed my hands together and got ready for snappy sausages. Then I'd hear, "I'm sorry, it isn't available."

The first time this happened I ordered roasted chicken and vegetables instead. I got roasted chicken and vegetables. Not bad. The second time, on our last night in Germany, at an adorable restaurant, sitting on a vine-covered porch overlooking the moonlit Rhine along with Margy's parents, aunt, uncle, and cousins (and their dog), it was harder to take no for an answer. I was confused: "I'm in Germany. Why can't I have a bratwurst?" I listened to Margy's cousin explain that there should be no good reason why a restaurant would run out of bratwurst -- after all, he said, it's vacuum packed and refrigerated and not in danger of spoiling quite like fresh beef would be. I sulked, I pouted. At everyone's suggestion, I ordered a rindswurst. It was okay. It was like a thick-skinned hot dog, only not like an Amsterdam hot dog if you catch my drift.

Looking back, it was in Cologne, on our first night in Germany, where we had what I'd call our most authentic and fun restaurant meal. (It was also in Cologne where I could have had my way with a bratwurst or a currywurst, but at the time I deemed a stand outside the train station to be an inappropriate setting. Wish I could take that one back.) The place was a "small" beer hall, which meant it could hold only about a hundred people or so. We started with pickled herring, which frankly was more of a red herring if you ask me -- it had the perfect balance of flavors and was so wonderfully delicious that it set up, in my mind, expectations that would not be met over the next few days.

Here's Margy's main course from that meal -- curled sausage with potatoes. The creamy white mound at left is the vegetable. It's cream. Sorry -- it's creamed spinach. Doesn't the sausage look lovely? It tasted like breakfast sausage. My entree of pork knuckle (it's meat from the leg, not an actual knuckle), which had the same accompaniments, was tasty but dry.

The atmosphere, however, was great. A big, boisterous table of German men dining after work (presumably) was given its own portable six-liter fountain of Kolsch beer, and I could watch the liquid level fall steadily before my eyes as the guys drew more drinks. Meanwhile, Margy and I were drinking Kolsch as well -- in six-ounce glasses. The poor hardworking waitress, clutching a palette hollowed out with round holes to hold a bunch of tiny glasses, had to run downstairs every time we wanted two more beers. When the check came, Margy and I found we'd drunk nine beers between us.

I don't mean to slag German food. We had a bunch of great lunches -- smoked trout, liverwurst, ham, cheese, brown bread -- and we did enjoy our two fancier dinners, which included a Riesling cream soup with dill and chive dumplings, and perhaps the best mushroom dish I've ever eaten: duck ravioli with chanterelles and peaches. The mushroom flavor (there was a truffle in there somewhere) was utterly clear and pure, and eating the ravioli was one of those times when you're simultaneously rushing and stalling. Margy's parents have seen me ooh and aah over food, but my ravioli rapture might have scared them a little.

Also, I found that, especially in Cologne but in other town centers that we walked through as well, there is a bewitching meaty aroma wafting through the German air. It's the scent of great pieces of pork set a-roasting. It had me transfixed, and it tempted me to track it down. I chased it, I floated after it, but I couldn't see it -- I couldn't be sure exactly where it led. It angers me still that I can't eat that aroma, even though I cannot quite remember the aroma itself. Madness, take me now! I vow to return, and to find the place where I can satisfy my hunger. Maybe the joint will serve bratwurst.

Summer

2007-07-02T23:39:00.000-07:00

Our garden gets a little more ambitious every year.

Last summer, we had three cherry tomato plants, a bunch of cucumbers, hot peppers that weren't even close to being hot, lots of herbs, and a crop of long beans that yielded a serving for Margy and me about three times.

This time around, we've got one grape tomato and one beefsteak tomato plant, more cukes, jalapeños that might actually hold a little heat (if they'd just mature already), oodles of pole beans (green, yellow, and purple), arugula and mixed baby greens (wonderful but now succumbing to the burgeoning summer sizzle), and again many different herbs.

And beets. Some of which are now ready. The leaves and stalks have been gorgeous -- that deep red-purple color that there's no point in calling anything else but beet red. Once the bulbs poked out of the soil and showed themselves as relatively plump and ready to be eaten, it was time to go.

Of course, one of these plants (we have three) offers only a few small beets, so that's all I had to work with today. Using a recipe from Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, I cubed the beets and roasted them with olive oil and salt and pepper until they just began to caramelize. As I removed them from the oven, I popped a piece in my mouth. Sweet and earthy. Ready to become a salad. I dressed them with oil, vinegar, and fennel seeds and let them steep awhile.

Margy shaved some farmers'-market fennel ("What do you do with the tops?" said the woman who sold me the fennel, just as I was wondering myself) on the mandoline, almost shaving her palm along with it. What is it about that device? Me, I basically refuse to touch it, even though I'd love to put it to use. It terrifies me.

Bottom line: Beets plus fennel in three forms -- bulb, fronds, seeds -- equals deliciousness. Just be sure to eat a sweet salad like this along with something salty or sour, or else you'll think you've skipped dinner and gone right for (an admittedly very healthy) dessert.

Crab Month Ends on a High Note

2007-06-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

I really should have called my dad.

Earlier, as I set out for ShopRite, I told Margy: If they still have soft-shell crabs, I'm getting some. It's the end of June; time is running out.

And what do you know, there they were, languishing in short stacks behind the glass. "Are they alive?" I asked.

"Some of them," said the fish guy, rooting around the crab bin. "But they're fresh -- they just came in today. Oh, look, that one's alive."

"I'll take four."

He knows that if something isn't up to par, then I don't need it that day. He found me four good plumpies.

Now I had to think about frying. For what was surely our last fling of SSC season, it was fry or bust. The first three times, I went with the grill, which was great, but I've regretted not breaking out the peanut oil. Sputter and pop all you want, crabs -- you're taking a hot bath.

In a way, frying was only the beginning, because my overarching scheme was to make soft-shell crab po' boys. I'd never had one, though an oyster po' boy I ate once at a place that used to be on 1st Street at 1st Avenue in NYC was until today my favorite sandwich ever.

The idea of a soft-shell crab po' boy just seemed too good to be true. It reminded me of reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as a kid and poring over passages that mentioned the delectable-seeming but hopelessly exotic Turkish delight. This is just a fantasy food, I'd think while I drooled on my OshKosh dungarees.

But somehow I knew soft-shell crab po' boys existed, and I knew how I wanted to make my version. (And I'm still traumatized by the fact that real Turkish delight isn't as good as C.S. Lewis made it sound, though the deconstructed version at Zaytinya in Washington, DC, might be even better.)

While Margy broke out the mandoline to julienne carrot, zucchini, and apple for a slaw, I started with a recent Mark Bittman recipe from the Times for the basic frying method, which was fantastic. I dipped the crabs in a mixture of egg and milk, then dredged them in a 50-50 blend of flour and cornmeal and slipped them into a hot quarter-inch of oil. Good things started to happen.

To make the sandwiches, I broiled split foot-long rolls (coming just a second within having mine go up in flames) and layered them with chipotle mayo, baby red leaf from our garden, sliced pickles, and slivered red onion. On each roll went a crab and a half. That meant there was even a whole crispy, golden-brown crustacean left over for Pops, had I had the foresight to tip him off. What a lousy son.

After Margy wisely decided that one enormous sandwich was enough for her, I ate the fourth crab with a knife and fork and my fingers, drizzling it now and then with lemon juice. I saved a crunchy claw for last.

The Greatest Sunday

2007-06-24T22:35:00.000-07:00

Our farmers' market is open.

Nothing against ShopRite, but from now until mid-November we're pretty much all about the Jersey produce, grown locally, bought locally, eaten as soon as possible. And it's amazing to see what a difference a few thousand miles makes. Right now, supermarket berries are pretty good. But the ones at the farmers' market? Amazing. Margy and I bought a box of some of the juiciest strawberries we've ever had, and we found blueberries that taste exactly like... blueberries! It's the best.

I also picked up a big box of fava beans, which I had never dealt with before. I got home and read up on the ingredient, and suddenly the big box of beans seemed a lot smaller. First, you shell the beans. Then you blanch and peel them (unless they're very young and tiny, which mine weren't). The usable portion is minuscule. So I drove back to the market.

"Didn't you just get some of these?" said the guy at the stand as I grabbed a second helping. I'm guessing he's never cooked with fava beans.

A while after I got home and went to work on, oh, a hundred pods or so, I stood back from my kitchen table to see a craggy green mountain of empty casings casting a shadow over a small bowl of beans. A while after that, once I'd dropped the beans into boiling water, rinsed them, and slid off their skins, I could fit the foundation of our dinner in the cupped palms of my hands. I allowed myself to eat a single fava bean. It was ultrafresh and delicious.

I boiled about four-fifths of the beans in chicken broth along with more farmers'-market bounty -- garlic scapes and sweet summer onions -- plus oregano and parsley from our garden. Then I puréed this glorious stew and warmed it up on the stove with the rest of the whole beans and served it over spaghetti, garnished with fried garlic and the sliced green tops of the onions.

Summer really is here, and having access to ingredients like these makes those stifling, sticky days a lot easier to handle, and a lot more tasty.

Crab Month Marches (Sideways) On

2007-06-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

Another plate of grilled crabs, even simpler still this time. All they had was a dusting of kosher salt and cracked white and black pepper. I also made soy-honey salmon.

I'm starting to feel like I'm torturing my father every time I mention my crabby exploits. He loves dear, sweet, crunchy-meaty soft-shells as much as I do, but my mom, who's the sole cook in their house, claims to be allergic. It's not hard to do the math: Pops hasn't had a crab all year. I keep telling my mom that even supermarkets sell the things now -- she says she's willing to feed my dad as many crabs as he wants, if only she could find some -- but apparently my parents have moved too far away from civilization to have access to such exotic creatures. I gotta have Dad over for dinner.

Crab Month Continues

2007-05-21T20:44:00.000-07:00

For this week's installment, I kept the crabs simple but surrounded them with a few little goodies.

Goodie No. 1 is invisible to the eye, but it made its presence known. My parents recently traveled to Italy, the lucky ducks, and, in Amalfi (my ancestral hometown -- one of them, at least), my mom bought Margy and me a big ol' bottle of our beloved limoncello. Of course, Italian flight officials callously snatched it from her before she boarded a plane to Rome. They were supposedly invoking the no-liquids rule, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that the limoncello was not screened for explosive material -- beyond grain alcohol, that is... and we all know what that screening process is like.

So, Mom gave me the next best thing: actual Italian lemons. Big, fat, knobby lemons whose juice is sweet as candy but still carries a lovely tartness. Seems she had offered yummy cookies to their chambermaid and in return was presented with these fresh Amalfitano delights. Five lemons made it home, and I got two of them. The pressure to use them well was enormous.

With the juice of one, I made a poached shrimp dish from a recipe by Marcella Hazan. I boiled unpeeled shrimp in water perfumed with vegetables and a drop of vinegar, then peeled the cooked shrimp and marinated them, still warm, in a two-to-one mixture of good olive oil and (great) lemon juice. I used the same oil-lemon potion to dress purple baby artichokes, which I'd steamed and grilled briefly.

I also grilled the soft-shell crabs, brushed with chive butter that included zest from the Italian lemon. Those legs got nice and crispy!

Crab Month Begins

2007-05-13T21:33:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I still cook every now and then.

Especially in May, when soft-shell crab season arrives with a great big crunch and a tasty spurt of crab mustard. Sure, I stopped by the fish counter in late April, just in case, but I was sent away with everything but soft-shells. Then I had no choice but to wait as patiently as I could.

The time finally came, and to kick off this year's soft-shell series I tried grilled teriyaki crabs, along with my stalwart teriyaki bearers, shrimp and salmon. (The stuff is great left over, though the crabs, at least, would never make it beyond this evening.) I didn't want to marinate the crabs and soften their legs and claws, so I just seasoned them with salt and pepper and began brushing on the sauce after they'd crisped up a bit on the grill.

After having my anticipation reach a fever pitch, I admit I felt more relief than joy as Margy, now home safely from Beijing and ready for everything but Americanized Chinese food, and I tucked into our first crabs of '07. But this was just an hors d'oeuvre -- there are many more soft-shells to come before the Fourth of July.

Margy's Beijing Journal: A Spicy Farewell

2007-05-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

For the last meal of her trip, Margy, along with her hosts/culinary tour guides, ate at a place called the Middle-8th, which serves "refined Hunan food."

"Refined" is not how I'd describe that indecent-looking mound of hot peppers; "thrilling" is more like it. Of course, the peppers aren't meant to be eaten. Rather, they're there to produce heat by association, lending just a steady glow rather than outright flames to the fried heads-on shrimp they surround. Margy was generally dazzled by the chile effect in Beijing, saying that the spicy dishes carried the perfect level of heat, a mellow yet persistent tingle that was dialed only one step down from euphoric.

Adding to the pleasant feelings was a refreshing house-made rice wine that Margy described as looking like lemonade. It was served in tall, handleless bamboo pitchers and drunk from glass Mason jars, and Margy just said "I wish I had some now." Me, I'll settle for about 25 of those shrimp.

So there you have it, Margy's Beijing Journal. I hope I get to join her one day should she ever return, but for now I'll just be glad to have her back and to have someone besides myself to cook for.

Margy's Beijing Journal: Korean Detour

2007-05-07T21:28:00.000-07:00

After you hit a donkey restaurant, how do you follow that?

In Margy's case, the answer was going to a Korean hole in the wall for some delicious bi bim bob, shredded beef and vegetables mixed into rice. Margy's gang sat at a table that was fitted with an exhaust hose for Korean barbecue, and they had kimchi and a giant scallion pancake before the main course arrived.

That's the server who's mixing the bi bim bob for Margy. How fresh and tasty it looks. One bite... just give me one bite!

Margy's Beijing Journal: What Have We Here?

2007-05-05T23:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight, as Margy was finishing up her workday, her friends/hosts asked a familiar question in a most unfamiliar way. Instead of the usual "What would you like to eat tonight?" or "What are you in the mood for now?" they asked, "Would you like to eat some donkey?"

"Sure..." Margy said, not a little timidly. "Is it good?"

Next thing she knew she was whisked off to what seemed like the outskirts of town, where she and her posse drove down a dirt road and arrived at a building that was hopping with activity and aglow from the neon sign out front (Margy says she saw lots of neon on her trip). The sign was translated for her: "Beijing's #1 Donkey Restaurant."

Now that I think of it, I neglected to ask how many other donkey restaurants there are in Beijing.

The place offered its signature ingredient in an array of preparations, and Margy's party chose donkey patties (top right). She said they were quite good, covered with sesame seeds and filled with juicy red meat. (The big pot holds a mountain of tofu, which was eaten with the sauces, presumably nondonkey all, in front of the pot.) I think she understood that her hang-ups -- if, in fact, she had any; I'm not quite sure -- were purely cultural and that hey, this is where you eat donkey, so gimme some. When I got her text message about this swashbuckling dinner, I said to myself, I married the right girl. Of course, then I said to myself, Wait, I've never eaten donkey.

So send me to China and bring me to Beijing's #1 Donkey Restaurant, and I'll do my part. But you know what they say about donkey: It goes straight to your ass!

Margy's Beijing Journal: Chou Dofu

2007-05-02T20:40:00.000-07:00

...or, as it is more commonly known, "stinky tofu" -- tofu that's been marinated in a brine of fermented vegetables.

It's the yummy-looking fried stuff on the plate at left. How innocent it seems -- golden cubes of crispy deep-fried food. Fried anything is good -- how strange could this be?

According to Margy, pretty strange.

A few days ago, after correctly pegging Margy as an adventurous eater, one of her hosts started chatting her up about stinky tofu, asking whether she'd ever had it and beginning to prime her for the experience. Was this a test? After all, Margy had two hosts, and the other one didn't want to have anything to do with the stuff. But Margy was game.

She said she took two bites and knew that fermented tofu wasn't the dish of her dreams (okay, she knew this after the first bite, but she wanted to be sure). The smell and flavor were superstrong and a bit too jarring to be enjoyable. The other American at the table plugged ahead a little longer than Margy before he too gave up.

Luckily there were other, more familiar foods going around, like a whole fish with chili sauce. Margy had lots of whole fish in Beijing, and what could be better? Anyway, the only real reason to object to eating whole fish is that dealing with bones can be a drag, and in general Chinese don't mind dealing with bones. Margy's companions used their chopsticks to make quick work of the task.

While the Beijing gang sipped plum wine and noshed on stinky tofu, I was at Rudy's on 9th Avenue having "rehearsal" with my band, which consisted of drinking beer and eating a lousy but free hot dog, which, now that I think of it, might have also been fermented...

Margy's Beijing Journal: Hot Pot

2007-04-30T21:17:00.000-07:00

Tonight was Margy's introduction to Mongolian hot pot. (I don't think it counts that we've visited the dreadful J.P. Lee's in Millburn, NJ, a Mongolian barbecue place that's like a less fun version of a hibachi restaurant.) The joint was hip and classy, and parties could seal themselves off from the throng by closing what Margy described as a shower curtain around their table.

Legend has it, Margy says, that Kubla Khan brought hot pot to Beijing from Mongolia, though tonight I believe someone else delivered it to Margy's table. A big pot of broth was set over a burner in front of the diners, and Margy and her companions used chopsticks to grab a slice of meat from a tray and then swirl it around the broth for a scant minute until it was cooked. After the meat came a plate of dumplings, which were bathed in the broth in the same way. To the left of the broth is a bowl of tripe.

Me, I had Vietnamese food on Baxter Street in NYC -- not bad, but hardly a trip to the Forbidden City followed by a hot-pot feast.

Margy Goes to China!

2007-04-29T21:32:00.000-07:00

Please forgive my absence. I've been eating bad takeout in New Jersey while Margy's been off frolicking in Beijing.

Okay, I exaggerate. She wasn't only frolicking; she was working very hard too. Alas, it just wouldn't have been practical for me to join her on this tightly packed business trip, so I held things down at home and wished for her quick return.

Margy's first taste of Beijing's many culinary delights was in the courtyard of the Huajia Yiyuan Restaurant, after she'd endured a full day of traveling and didn't know which end was up. (Though conveniently, with Beijing being twelve hours ahead, she didn't have to change her watch.)

But if Margy's body and mind had no idea what was going on, her appetite knew exactly what to do, and she had a great first meal, which was ordered by her two gracious and knowledgeable hosts and washed down with Chinese beer. Just look at those greens! As I imagine what they tasted like, I kind of feel like a fool for not finding a way to share this exotic trip with my beloved world traveler. Sigh. In the foreground is a plate of tofu on top of mushrooms, and at right is another assortment of mushrooms (or so Margy guesses). She loved it all, and then came the Peking duck. Sigh.

Choke Char

2007-04-17T10:34:00.000-07:00

I am something of a suggestible shopper. Place Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in my path, and I'm bringing them home. And, somebody, please stop putting Kinder displays right next to the register. They're working too well.

Luckily, my willingness to depart from my list doesn't apply only to candy. The other day, ShopRite had a big display of baby artichokes set prominently in the vegetable section: rows of shrink-wrapped packages, each holding nine neatly arranged little artichokes. I was powerless to resist.

I'm hardly an expert choke wrangler. I'd worked with full-size artichokes a few times, but it had been years. Margy, who's known to make an awesome whole fish with artichokes, has had a little more experience. But let's just say my purchase meant this was a special occasion -- we had spiky green guests in the house, and I was on my best behavior.

I tore open the package and dumped the little guys on the table. They rolled around a bit, orbiting out in random directions. I collected them and began to whittle. A few long minutes later I was looking at a huge pile of stiff green leaves and nine puny yellow-green cylinders. These were obviously not so-young-you-barely-have-to-peel-them baby artichokes, but among the wreckage I had enough to make an ample side dish to go with grilled sausages.

I steamed the suckers for about ten minutes, let them cool, and tossed them in a few tablespoons of lemon vinaigrette (lemon juice, olive oil, Dijon mustard, salt, and pepper). Then they followed the sausages on the grill, to take on a bit of char. When they were done I dressed them in more vinaigrette. They were fun to eat, pleasantly al dente, with their natural tanginess highlighted by the lemony dressing. Given all the work they required -- the peeling, the slicing, the steaming -- I think baby artichokes will remain infrequent guests, but we'll definitely look forward to their next visit.

Happy Easter

2007-04-08T23:08:00.000-07:00

Ah, Easter at my parents'. One of the only feasts that could possibly follow a Peking duck pilgrimage with any real success.

The troops fell in -- Margy and me, my three sisters plus entourage, and my folks -- and Mom kicked things off, and nearly ruined my appetite for anything else, with her beloved meat pie. Its literal name is pizza piena, or stuffed pizza, but the glories of dialect and Italian-American bastardization have basically rendered it "pizza keen" (or "pizza gain"; pick your fave). Eggs, cheeses, meats and sausages, and brown, flaky crust: It's pretty much the perfect food. I swore I'd only have two slices. I had four.

Mom ran the show, as is everyone's preference (including Mom's). She made the gorgeous ham, the roasted potatoes, the artichokes, the broccolini. But the rest of us pitched in. Sister #2, who brought along a vegetarian friend (he's a great guy so we forgive him), made quinoa and black bean cakes with chipotle mayo, which I nominate as an Easter staple from now on. I made Indian tamarind sauce to go with the ham, at my mom's request. The sauce was a little spicy for certain more timid tastes, but at least I could count on my brother-in-law to slurp it up, hot peppers being his drug of choice. Kudos to my mother -- she was right that the sweet-tangy-spicy condiment would work well with ham. And sister #1 joined the dessert fray with a great-looking chocolate cream pie that sat beside my mom's Italian cheesecake.

Phew!

Wait a second. I'm counting here and coming up short. Sister #3, didn't you bring anything to the Easter table? No, leftover Peking duck doesn't count! And neither does a hearty appetite! You're a baker for heaven's sake! Next year you're making me a chocolate lamb.

Peking Duck (in da) House

2007-04-07T21:56:00.000-07:00

Such a lovely day, such a lovely duck.

My sister was in town from Vermont for Easter, and at the last minute we decided to give her a Manhattan dream day, or at least a fun trip to the city with the promise of Peking duck as the climax. We kicked things off in the East Village with a quick visit to an organic vegan restaurant, Angelica Kitchen. Not to eat, silly, but to say hello to one of my sister's VT-transplant friends. And then I took Sis on a subjective culinary tour of the neighborhood.

We strolled by Una Pizza Napoletana and considered ordering an "appetizer." (We wimped out.) We walked past Hearth, Rai Rai Ken, and the old site of Iso, where Margy and I had our true sushi awakening years ago. This sister doesn't do sushi, but her pastry-chef ears perked up when I told her we were right near the famous bakery Veniero's. (I also told her how disappointing I've found its pastries, though it's been awhile.)

To this point our "food walk" had found us taking nary a bite of anything, so we dropped in for a few cookies or a sfogliatella. Wouldn't you know there was a line that snaked clear through the bakery and all the way down the hall of the dining room. Obviously Easter is a good time for Veniero's. We moved on, our minds filled with sustaining thoughts of duck.

Next we tooled around the West Village for an hour or two, and then it was time to meet Margy in Chinatown. We found our third parking spot of the day -- at this point I really felt like I was pushing my luck -- not too far from Mott Street and the Peking Duck House.

I should mention that this whole thing was a bit of a quest for my sister. When we were planning the trip and I asked her where she'd like to eat, she didn't hesitate. She'd heard about the incredible pie at Una Pizza. I'd told her all about the steamed pork buns at Momofuku Ssäm Bar. She wanted the duck.

I'm happy to say she got her fill. I figured one bird would go pretty far among three people, but I wasn't certain. Anyway, we went all out with our appetizer round and ordered both pork dumplings and pork buns, so we weren't about to go hungry. We also balanced things out -- yeah, right -- with some sautéed Chinese cabbage, which was delicious and still held a bit of crunch.

But again, this was all about the duck. Even the absurdly loud and out-of-place techno music pulsating from the speakers couldn't dampen our enthusiasm for the magical meat on the platter in front of us. (I could swear they were playing lite-FM on our last visit, and I'll take robotic techno every time over the dreaded "American Pie.")

Peking Duck House is hardly the snazziest or the most interesting restaurant in New York City, but it bears remembering that the place does indeed get into some pretty important details, even beyond the duck itself. Take the pancakes. They're thin but soft, a little stretchy -- a far cry from the dry, dusty, easily torn wraps that accompany moo shu dishes at inferior joints. And the hoisin sauce is more delicate in flavor and less sweet than most, which makes a huge difference.

It's what the duck demands, par for the course for a bird this good. We sat right near the carving station and watched the "duck guy" deftly run his knife into each dark-roasted specimen until its flesh was set onto a plate in a swirl of perfect slices. Finally, it was our turn, and we asked for the bones, which as presented are really just the leg bones. But that would suffice.

We rolled our own pancakes, with hoisin, scallions, and cucumbers, and at last my sister's quest was coming to fruition. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she made numerous yummy sounds. Margy ate quietly, smiling and sipping her Tsingtao. Me, I just repeated "Wow" a few dozen times. We hadn't made a trip to the racetrack, yet we'd hit the richest trifecta of all: delicious meat, crispy skin, and luscious fat. My sister had picked a winner.

Pasta and Pastry

2007-04-01T22:12:00.000-07:00

A reliably good Italian restaurant is a wonderful thing, especially if it isn't far away. Basilico in Millburn is just such a place, a BYO with great food and an atmosphere that looks Manhattan-style trendy, with dark red tones, wood floors, big windows out front, and high ceilings. The staff is friendly, the prices are reasonable -- if I weren't obsessed with cooking, it's the kind of place where I'd want to eat every couple weeks.

Tonight we were packing a gift certificate from my parents, so we went all out. We had a trio of ceviches and a stuffed artichoke to start, then Margy had porcini ravioli with truffle sauce and I had a special of seafood ravioli with vodka sauce, asparagus, and mushrooms. Everything was delicious, especially the ravioli. The homemade pasta was just the right thickness -- we could almost but not quite see the filling smiling through each tasty little package -- and it had been expertly cooked. We wiped our plates clean with fluffy focaccia.

But we saved room for dessert, which is essential here. Though Margy's banana tart was excellent, the apricot strudel (pictured) took first prize. I can't decide how I feel about the presentation -- gorgeous? clumsy? overwrought? -- but we didn't look at it for long. The strudel was warm, the filling was hot, the ice cream was cold. It was over before we knew it.

Don't Try This at Home?

2007-03-25T21:53:00.000-07:00

One of the coolest places in all of New Jersey is the Mitsuwa Japanese Marketplace in Edgewater. I'm trying to think of something you can't get there, and I'm coming up blank. There's an amazing produce section that offers nothing but prime specimens and includes enough imported fruits and vegetables to set my heart aflutter. There are shelves packed with all kinds of rice, condiments, tea, seaweed, and other dry good(ie)s, plus a vast sake section (which really should come with a person to help us neophytes make sense of all the choices). There are huge cases of fresh, vibrant-looking meats. There are even more cases of sashimi-grade seafood, from familiar varieties (salmon, tuna) to more esoteric choices (salted herring roe) to the just plain decadent (a big box of sea urchin that I wanted to scoop into my mouth as I shopped). And then there's the food court, which boasts a ramen house, a gyoza stand, a sushi bar, a cream puff shop, a tonkatsu counter, and a pasta station.

A pasta station? Hey, we're still in Jersey.

I had been to Mitsuwa once before, solo, but this was Margy's maiden voyage. Her eyes grew wide as we entered. It was a bustling Sunday afternoon, so rubbing elbows with everyone else was unavoidable, but we didn't mind. All the activity simply added to the impression that we had actually arrived in Tokyo.

Margy did hone in pretty quickly on the one thing Mitsuwa seems to lack: a gift shop. But I'm not sure we turned every stone -- there may be one back there someplace. Plus apparently there's an ordinance in the area about selling certain goods on Sunday, so the aisles and aisles of rice cookers and other fun-looking appliances were kept under wraps. We'll be back, and we'll find the gift shop. Anyway, there was an enormous sweets counter that held every imaginable variety of candy and cake, many of which looked too precious and ornate to eat (and some of which, I'm sure, would be too shocking to the western palate to enjoy, as has been my experience with Japanese desserts). That stuff would make great gifts, depending on the recipient.

The first thing we did was eat lunch -- gyoza and fried rice with a tiny cup of broth and a small daikon-and-seaweed salad. This good-sized meal was $6.95 (Margy and I ordered the same thing), and it was delicious and had been made to order. After lunch we took a walk by the river, and it sometimes seemed like we could toss a pebble and hit the west side of Manhattan.

When our stroll was complete, we returned to Mitsuwa to shop.

It wasn't easy to stop. I felt an electric current of adrenaline as I picked through things I'd never seen before, never even heard of. I grabbed some new stuff, some of the usual, some "eureka!" favorites, some things I had no idea what to do with. We bought two tiny yuzu fruits. We bought Japanese tofu. We longed for a knobby root of fresh wasabi, but it was $99.99 a pound and we put it back. We agreed that tonight we'd have sashimi at home, at our kitchen table, which we'd never even considered before.

Back at the ranch, the buzz of discovery continued into the evening. Among our purchases were four kinds of produce that were new to our kitchen: yuzu (citrus fruit), myoga (a mild gingerlike bulb), mitsuba (an herb that sort of falls between parsley and celery), and mizuna (a slender salad green). What the hell was I going to do with these things?

First I made some sashimi dipping sauces, including a riff on ponzu that used the zest and juice of the yuzu plus soy sauce and grated ginger. I'll tell you, those little fruits are stingy, with a yuzu about the size of a small plum yielding maybe two teaspoons of juice. But this juice was transporting -- it was a familiar flavor, but it was exotic at the same time, possessing a sharpness and a bitterness that distinguished it from other citruses. For a bit of our beloved heat, I mixed up some wasabi from a powder that my sister had given me, and I used Sriracha sauce to make a chile-ginger dip. I used the other produce in a salad and whipped up a sesame-yuzu dressing. (I was going to squeeze every last drop from those four-dollar fruits.)

Meanwhile, I had a second course in mind to follow the sashimi: the famous black cod with miso. If I'm not mistaken, Margy and I had eaten this dish only once, during our sole visit to Nobu, and it vaulted right to legendary status in our food memories. Sweet, salty, fatty, with a bit of crispy skin -- it was a perfect food, great fun to eat. A few years ago I tried making a version with salmon -- I got the recipe from Nobu's cookbook -- and we both found it a little sweet. This, after marinating, and obsessing over, it for two days. In the years since, I've noticed black cod with miso on just about every Japanese menu, but I believe it's still considered Nobu's signature dish. Today, since I'd found actual black cod at Mitsuwa, I tried a "quick version" recipe from the wonderful Washoku by Elizabeth Andoh, which calls for -- guess what? -- yuzu peel. The cod was marinating as I got the sashimi ready.

Now, I have tried my best over the years to cultivate a certain kitchen fearlessness, with "Why not?" as my motto. Can an Italian-American punk from Jersey make a real Indian curry? Why not? Can he steam a chicken the Chinese way? Why not! But suddenly, in the simple act of slicing raw fish, I was losing my nerve, feeling like I somehow had no right to do what I was doing. All because of tradition.

It's a dream of mine to be a sushi chef. And sushi chefs in training don't get to make sushi for years. For the first, say, 24 months or so, they scrub the wooden bar. Once they've gained proper respect for their surroundings, they begin learning to make rice, which takes a long time to master. Only after they've perfected the rice, way down the line, do they get to begin to use a knife. And so it goes, give or take -- and now here I am, catapulting myself light years ahead to the fish-slicing part, and I haven't even washed the table. I felt like I was intruding.

But I wasn't about to stop, so I even dared to try to arrange our sashimi platter with a little bit of clumsy flair. I laid out little piles of sweet shrimp (amaebi), with rows of tuna and yellowtail, plus thin rings of Japanese cucumber and stacks of julienned myoga. The yellowtail was particularly uncooperative and fell apart a bit, but it made it to the plate successfully.

And then, next thing we knew, we were eating sashimi in our kitchen. All of the fish were of top-notch freshness. The shrimp were creamy and melted in our mouth, the tuna was tender and clear tasting, and the yellowtail was firm and briny. The ponzu sauce definitely represented a step up in complexity as opposed to plain soy sauce. I look forward to benefiting from the skills of a real sushi chef in the near future, but this experience was aces in terms of kitchen empowerment. Plus it was downright delicious, not to mention wildly entertaining. And the black cod came out beautifully -- thanks to an amazing piece of fish, a shriveled but powerful citrus fruit, and a wise Japanese chef and teacher.

Meats and Things

2007-03-19T23:18:00.000-07:00

Last time Margy made pizza, there were many mouths to feed, so she whipped up an unusually large batch of dough. I asked her to freeze a little of it, for two reasons:

1. I didn't want either of us to have to spend an entire evening slaving over a hot baking stone.

2. I wanted to keep trying to make Those Things.

Fast-forward to this morning, when I woke up thinking, Steak. Those Things. Steak. Those Things. Steak, AND Those Things! I became bewitched by the idea of beef and anchovies (the latter being a vital ingredient in Those Things) making sweet music together on our dinner plates. I could not get the idea out of my head. And Margy was all for it.

At the market, I couldn't find a single steak that was large enough to feed both of us, so I augmented a little porterhouse with a few lamb chops. (Lamb. Anchovies. Lamb, AND anchovies!) And I decided to try my hand at creamed spinach, which I love but had never made.

We let the dough defrost for a while in the fridge, and then we took it out so it could rise. Later on, I stretched it, sprinkled it with sweet paprika and hot pepper flakes, dumped a can of anchovies on top, oil included (this is of paramount importance), and rolled and sliced it. I'm still nowhere near achieving the crisp-and-chewy wonder of my aunt's (or my grandmother's) efforts -- remember, she uses supermarket dough, which may somehow be key -- but having even second-rate Those Things is cause for celebration. And I can tell you this: They go great with a mixed grill. And so does creamed spinach.

Health Food

2007-03-11T21:42:00.000-07:00

After a recent steady diet of meats and tomatoey Italian dishes, we felt like we needed something a little lighter. So I whipped up some shrimp. With lots of bacon. I served them over grits. With tons of cheddar cheese.

Well, so much for that "lighter" thing. On the other hand, we didn't really eat lunch...

Of Sauces and Florets

2007-03-03T21:49:00.000-08:00

I like to serve fish pretty simply, but I've also been experimenting with quick sauces to enhance the flavors.

Tonight, as I pan-fried pieces of steelhead trout, I whisked together a little potion on the next burner. I made the tiniest roux possible, with just a bit of butter and flour, since I wanted to bind the sauce without making it thick. I added an anchovy and broke it up, and then I poured in some white wine and shrimp stock. A dab of tomato paste for color, a few strokes of the whisk, and it was ready. Could I have made more of this tasty liquid? Sure. But I was going for just a small pool of flavor, not a full bath, and so the fish-to-sauce ratio seemed right. The trout received just a dash of pick-me-up on its way home.

Meanwhile, I roasted cauliflower with olive oil and pancetta. Per my mom's instructions, I cooked it nice and hot -- 475 -- and turned it with tongs along the way, until it had the proper char. Even without pancetta (bite my tongue!), this is something I could eat just about every day. Roasted cauliflower, you've officially entered our heavy rotation.

Paella Pretender

2007-02-19T22:38:00.000-08:00

Ever since I got that great Spanish chorizo for Margy's empanadas, I've been looking for ways to slip the remainder of the sausage into our meals. A bastardized paella had been taking shape in my mind for weeks.

Tonight I gave it a shot. I cooked Arborio rice with chorizo, tiny pork spare ribs from the Asian market, shrimp, clams, peas, shrimp stock (didn't have any chicken stock), aromatics, saffron, and herbs. I definitely wouldn't call it paella, but I would call it dinner. The only bummer was the clams, which were rubbery, but at least they lent the dish a bit of briny sea essence, so they weren't a total washout. The highlights were the smoky, spicy chorizo and the tiny ribs, which were short on meat but long on porkaliciousness.

I should probably backtrack and attempt a traditional paella -- with that great crust on the bottom and all -- but for now this was a fun start. It was a little runny when compared to the real deal, so I'll just call it Spanish risotto and leave it at that.

Sticking with Sardines

2007-02-19T21:30:00.000-08:00

Tonight, only sardines would do. Call it the need for oily fish.

Sardines aren't easy. Cheap, yes. Delicious, absolutely. But those little tiny bones, they can become a concern. Even the highly skilled guys at our Asian market's fish counter throw up their hands when you ask them to clean 'em. ("Only gut," is a common refrain.) So when I buy sardines, I feel the same way I do when I buy heads-on shrimp: excited, but a little guilty that I'm about to make Margy labor for her dinner.

Thing is, the bones are so small, in fact, that I'm pretty sure you can just eat them. The thinner, brittler ones, anyway. The pattern for me is always the same: I treat sardine #1 with kid gloves, gingerly excising each translucent little bone with the focus of a surgeon. I work hard for every omega-3-packed morsel I throw in my mouth. Then, somewhere, somehow, a bone or two gets through and I realize it's not the end of the world (as long as I make sure to chew). By sardine #2 I'm throwing caution to the wind.

Luckily, you can get in a rhythm of filleting the sardines and removing the majority of the skeleton in one motion, greatly cutting back on the bone crunching. And it's worth it -- there's nothing like a nice stack of freshly cooked sardines. Their flavor is related to that of their canned counterparts (which, let's be honest, have their share of little bones as well), but the fish are meatier, tastier, more succulent.

Tonight I cooked the sardines in hot oil for a minute and then poured in teriyaki sauce, which got nice and sticky and almost burnt in spots as it cooked along with the fish. Its potent salty sweetness was a good match for the strong-flavored sardines.

I adapted the side dish from the Crispy Vegetables that accompany Lemongrass-Crusted Skate (sounds good) in Dominique's Fresh Flavors. Margy, the mandoline expert, julienned daikon, carrot, broccoli stems, and celery root, and we tossed them in sesame oil with a little soy sauce and Sriracha hot sauce. Whenever we grew weary from the precision demanded by eating sardines, we could just tear into the rice and veggies with flagrant disregard for any consequences.

Murray's Cheese and an Italian Tortilla

2007-02-17T23:44:00.000-08:00

Every month, Enzo and his wife receive a pound and a half of cheese from Murray's Cheese Shop. Whenever possible, they share the wealth. For example, when the band did our annual Vermont gigs in January, along came that month's fromage. The Gorgonzola was eaten heartily; the one nicknamed "Old Stinker" didn't have to be unwrapped to reveal its undesirability and spent the weekend shivering on the porch, only to be tossed altogether once it made it back to New York City. (I understand the latter variety to be an aberration. Apparently Murray's tends to ship edible cheeses much more often than "I dare you"-type selections.)

Tonight Margy and I attended one of Enzo's cheese parties. On the invitation email, he referred modestly to "light fare," but he and his wife presented quite the impressive spread -- three excellent cheeses of the month (Gouda and two softer Brie types), bread and crackers, fruit and crudités, olives, quince jam, assorted salumi, proscuitto-wrapped asparagus, and Enzo's terrific Spanish tortilla (pictured). Everything was tasty, as was the wine, which flowed freely and included guests' selections as well as bottles from our hosts' carefully chosen private stock. A little later on, someone brought baked Brie in a bread bowl, and Enzo made sliced-steak crostini. Long after our other bandmates had switched to Budweiser, it was kielbasa time. No one went home hungry... or sober.

Shank Shack

2007-02-11T23:06:00.000-08:00

We hadn't seen my parents for a while, so we booked them for a Sunday dinner at our place.

And so began the discussions of what to cook. Mom -- easy. Anything but soft-shell crabs and Brussels sprouts. (Weird, I know. In my heart I still believe I'll find a way to get her to like Brussels sprouts.) Virtually any nationality is fair game. Dad, though -- tough. He claims he likes just about everything, but I say there's a shade of distinction between eating everything and actually liking everything.

"I love Indian food," he'll say. "But only the best." First of all, it's hard to love Indian food if you can't stand cumin. Secondly, the idea of "the best" -- somehow, improbably, an objective standard in my father's mind -- can get pretty muddy outside the largely European concept of fine dining, where more stars often mean higher prices and more reliable quality. Is "the best" Indian food found in the most opulent restaurants? Not in my experience. Even after all these years it's hard for me to follow my dad's reasoning when he goes down this path. To his credit, it probably harks back to the time when there were only a handful of decent Chinese restaurants in New York City ("decent," I can work with). He hunted for them, and he found them, while all I have to do is open a Zagat's.

Anyway, Dad is actually pretty open-minded. He really will eat anything, which I greatly admire. It's just that when you're his son and daughter-in-law and you have him over for dinner, you're wise to stick pretty close to Italy and France. And if you make a salad, you should probably skip the balsamic.

Since we don't really do much French food around here, and since a visit from the food-savvy parentals is hardly the time to experiment, we settled on Italian, which led quickly and easily to the idea of osso buco. After all, I needed something that isn't in my mom's bag of tricks (not much to choose from there), and I don't remember her ever making osso buco, while I'm pretty comfortable with it. It's not hard to be comfortable with something that doesn't need much coaxing to melt itself into the most rich and velvety and tender and delicious substance known to humankind.

So yesterday morning I headed over to my favorite butcher to get the meat. I was a bit worried, because sometimes they're out of osso buco, and I didn't want to have to get it at the supermarket, where it's not as pristine. I tried to drag myself out as early as I could.

I walked through the door and made a beeline to the pork/veal/lamb case. Standing right there, holding an overflowing basket of assorted meats, was my mother.

We laughed, and hugged, and she said to the guy who was buying short ribs, "My son!" He remarked that the resemblance was clear.

"I'm shopping for you," I said to my mom, who of course protested. Wait till she sees what I have in mind, I thought. There was no point in hiding it. I told her, just as the guy in front of me said to the butcher, "I'll take those last three osso buco."

I nearly fainted. Then I saw another whole shank sitting in the case. Phew.

I asked for four pieces, and the butcher went to cut them for me. They were absolutely beautiful, and even he couldn't help but admire his fine product. He weighed them -- at $13.99 a pound, the quartet came to $52.75. Yikes. My mom had to be standing right there, didn't she? "You're worth it," I insisted.

We walked together to the register, and Mom, with her lamb chops, sausages, chicken, and roast turkey -- and probably a few other things I missed -- rang up around $40. She asked if she could pay for the osso buco. "Please, Mom, don't worry about it. We want to make you guys a nice dinner!" I was concerned that she would overcompensate by bringing a case of wine instead of the bottle or two we'd asked them to pick out.

Then I walked her to her car and said see you tomorrow.

This morning, Margy got to work on her incredible raspberry bars while I chopped vegetables and patiently browned the osso buco, which I first dredged in a little flour. Okay, not so patiently. But it's a crucial step, and I saw it through, all 40 minutes or so of it (I had to do it in two batches). Once those two things were out of the way, I was basically home free. I splashed some white wine in the Dutch oven I was using, and I scraped up the precious remnants of the browning process.

Then I added a bit more olive oil to the pot, threw in finely chopped onion, carrot, and celery, and let the vegetables soften. A few minutes later I added a minced clove of garlic and a minced chile, and I let that go for a minute. Then came the braising liquid -- white wine, chicken stock, and canned tomato, plus salt and pepper. In went the meat, and I adjusted the liquid so it came up about halfway around the shanks. I brought the stew to a boil, turned off the heat, and put the covered pot in a 375-degree oven for two hours.

The 53-dollar veal did not let us down. Sticking to tradition -- a most tasty tradition at that -- I served the osso buco with risotto alla Milanese. Broccoli too (no salad). My parents were impressed. But I tried to deflect the credit. Yes, I didn't mess anything up, but really I didn't do anything all that snazzy. It's the shanks themselves. The melting fat has a magical effect on the flavor and texture of the sauce, and who can resist meat that's so tender and juicy that it falls apart? Add the wonderful bonus of the luscious marrow -- spread it on bread, on a forkful of risotto, or, in the ultimate move of meaty audacity, on a piece of the osso buco itself -- and forget it. Osso buco rules. I'm just the middleman.

We all managed to save room for Margy's raspberry bars, which have a shortbread crust and a streusel topping. They're crumbly, chewy, and crunchy all at the same time, and they were the perfect end note to our operatic feast.

Oh, and my parents brought one bottle of wine. And a giant basket of assorted treats from the Italian store -- olive oil, dried beans, imported tomatoes, ladyfingers. Aw, my mother. No way was she coming to an osso buco party empty-handed.

Indian Griddle

2007-02-05T21:20:00.000-08:00

One night a few years ago when I couldn't sleep and I'd repeatedly woken Margy with my sheet-shuffling rolling and tumbling, I decided to just get up and watch some 4am TV. (If television isn't the cure for insomnia, I don't know what is.) Jamie Oliver was on, and he was making tasty-looking Technicolor Indian food. One of his dishes was a pancake made with chickpea flour batter and filled with goodies like herbs, vegetables, and chile peppers. Before I finally drifted back into slumber, I took note of this clever little treat. I'm not sure what it would be called in India, if anything, but it seems related to bhaji.

Later, when I came to, I looked around for recipes for Indian pancakes, and I consulted my authority, the cooking-school wiz kid. And then -- once I finally located a reliable source of chickpea flour -- I just played around, going largely on my fuzzy memories of the Naked Chef. I thinned the flour with water and added spices and flavorings, and though some efforts were better than others, the results were usually pretty good. According to my associates, my pancakes were thicker than anything similar would be in India, but since I was experimenting, I didn't mind. And Margy loved these things. Could not get enough.

So this morning when I asked if she had any requests, she responded with two little words: Indian pancakes.

It will be done.

Not long into the process, I remembered my usual pancake pitfalls: getting distracted by other dishes, and having too much batter.

Distraction: Along with a nice chutney or two (in this case, and in most cases, a spicy cilantro-mint chutney recipe from Madhur Jaffrey and an amazing tamarind sauce from the book Mangoes & Curry Leaves), these chickpea pancakes could easily make a meal in themselves. But for some reason I insist on going further. Tonight I made a shrimp curry as the main course, and tending to it took some of my attention away from the pancakes. I need a controlled environment where I'm able to focus on just the one thing, so I can make sure I get it right. I say this every time, but writing it down might help. Next time I make only pancakes. (Well, and chutneys. But I get those out of the way first.)

Too much batter: These things (never to be confused with Those Things) are great reheated in the toaster oven. Add Margy's love of leftovers, and I know I have to make plenty. The problem comes when I set aside too much filling -- slivered onions and chilies, shredded spinach, chopped shrimp -- and then refuse to waste any, which means I have to overstuff that last batch of pancakes, which means they turn out too plump and not crisp enough. Next time I'm using one onion, one chile, four leaves of spinach, and three shrimp, and that's it.

The good news is that I can't lose. The batter is so easy to deal with and cooks up so effortlessly that even imperfect pancakes are still terrific. But, dammit, one of these days I intend to bring forth the pancakes of my, if not necessarily Jamie Oliver's, dreams.

The Risotto Life

2007-02-04T22:52:00.000-08:00

Whenever someone asks if I have a specialty in the kitchen, I scratch my head and say I guess it's risotto.

If my risotto is any good -- I hate to brag, but it is -- this is because I've paid my dues. I didn't just buy a bag of Arborio rice one day and instantly know how to tame that wild beast. No, no. I had to work at it; I had to domesticate the stuff, show it who's boss. Because, as I've said before, my early efforts had me stirring frantically for what seemed like hours.

But maybe the person who coined the phrase "practice makes perfect" was a cook, since all it really takes to get a dish right is a little familiarity. You can't immerse yourself properly in the details until you've gained some perspective on the general concept and readied yourself to dive deeper. Make risotto ten times, in a reasonably condensed period (so you're able to retain the lessons you learned during the previous run), and I bet you'll have a real handle on the process by No. 5 and will feel like a master by the time you're done.

It's easy.

There are only two kinds of people who should not make risotto:

* Those who are wholly, utterly, hopelessly devoid of patience
* Those who think store-bought broths and stocks are acceptable flavoring agents

I should probably add "Those who do not drink" to the list, since the risottatore's most trusty companion during the stirring process is a bottomless glass of wine -- hey, you've opened a bottle anyway; risotto itself demands a hearty drink of vino in order to cooperate with your spoon -- but that would be coarse of me. Do it dry if you must.

Now, I don't consider myself to have a specialty within my specialty -- that is, I prefer to switch it up. My most common choices are risotto alla pescatore, or "fisherman's" risotto, which I make with shrimp stock, and mushroom risotto, which I make with chicken stock. But the basic process is virtually the same for whatever kind you choose:

You gently cook a soffrito (always onion, sometimes along with other goodies, like leeks, celery, shallots, and anchovies) in butter and olive oil, add the rice and let it toast for a couple minutes, hit it with a splash of wine (see above), begin stirring, add hot stock, keep stirring, add more stock, do more stirring, and then, maybe 20 or 25 minutes down the line, you have the ultimate creamy, steaming, savory, delicious substance in front of you, begging to be devoured. (Some might call it the ideal comfort food, but I hate that term. I find all tasty food -- not just mushy stuff that doesn't require chewing -- to be comforting.) Near the end of the process, you might add precooked or quick-cook ingredients, like sautéed mushrooms. You may also add some cream and/or a bunch of grated Parmesan. I never work from a recipe, but if anybody wants one, I could whip something up.

Tonight it was morel mushroom risotto with leeks and pancetta (and cream and Parmesan at the end). Mmm! For my band's last Secret Santa, Enzo (Sant'Enzo) had given me a nice bag of dried morels from a specialty shop in NYC. I got comfy with them by using just a few in our spinach and mushroom empanadas, but this time I didn't hold back. I did also dispatch the last of the baby bellas that were in the fridge, but the morels dominated, with their pleasantly spongy texture and smoky, nutty flavor. The shrooms and the pancetta really brought out the best in each other. And since the morels had to be reconstituted before being cooked, I got to add their flavorful soaking liquid to the risotto.

I went for a loose texture. I know there is debate on this issue, but I'm pretty easygoing here, and my moods shift. One night I'll make it a little soupy, the next a little tighter. It's like I feel about pizza -- make me a good pie and I don't care how thin or thick it is. It just has to be good. There are so many lousy pizzas, and lousy risottos, out there that I'm not about to moan and groan about one being yummy but not the way I like it. I like it yummy.

Thanks to the morels, and to dicing the pancetta a little larger than usual so it could really be savored (and thanks to the leeks, and the cream, and the cheese...), this risotto leaped onto my personal top ten, and I told Margy so. But I don't think she heard me.

Let Them Eat Pies

2007-01-29T22:30:00.000-08:00

It all started a few weeks ago when Margy and I were watching an episode of Good Eats where Alton Brown made a big bunch of sweet and savory pies. His dough was flexible and cooperative, and he noted that the sky's the limit in terms of fillings. Margy and I looked at each other and nodded slowly. Our next project.

I don't think Alton actually used the term empanada (though he did use the term Pop-Tarts, in the final, let's-make-all-natural-junk-food segment). But Margy and I were thinking empanadas all the way. I've always loved the idea of a self-contained meal that includes edible packaging. I was thrown from my course only briefly, when those vile Hot Pockets came along and crept quickly and insidiously into the school, the home, the workplace, and I couldn't look at anything that resembled one. But that didn't last long. My love for empanadas was never in jeopardy.

So it was settled. Saturday, I shopped; Sunday, we cooked.

Margy made the dough. She came up with a recipe online, after we couldn't find Alton's. The ingredients included vinegar, which surprised us. We vetted this with my sister the baker, though, and she said adding a bit of vinegar was a common practice, even if she'd never tried it herself. I think she wanted us to check it out so she could see if it was any good. We agreed.

This dough clearly wasn't as pliable as Alton's, but his seemed unnaturally soft. On TV, it behaved almost like warm, well-worked Play-Doh. Too bad we missed the beginning of the episode, which presumably included a scientifically illuminating explanation of why his dough was so easy to work with. But Margy's no novice, so she kneaded our golden butterball into shape in due time.

Meanwhile, I made the fillings. We were churning out a hefty batch of empanadas, with a good number destined for the freezer, so it seemed three varieties would be about right. Here's what I came up with:

* Shredded chipotle pork (a riff on the braised, vaguely Mexican pork butt I made last month)
* Chorizo, potato, shrimp, and vegetable (a combination that tumbled forth from my brain and somehow just seemed right)
* Spinach and mushroom (because we need our greens!)

It was all lots of fun. And a lot of work. The chorizo and potato empanadas felt particularly inspired, though Margy couldn't resist the pork ones. I bought the chorizo at the little gourmet cheese shop in town, and it made all the difference to have a real serious Spanish sausage rather than a timidly flavored, preservative-packed supermarket brand, which I admit I've tried a few times for convenience's sake. And I'm happy to report that, much like shrimp and bacon, shrimp and chorizo make a pretty cute couple.

This was also the most colorful filling (apologies for not cutting into one for the photo), with red half-moons of chorizo, white cubes of potato, orange circles of carrot, and flashes of pink from the chopped shrimp. Actually, the three varieties were a colorful set -- even the spinach and mushroom ones refused to be upstaged by their porkier counterparts and offered deep mushroom flavor (I used fresh baby bellas as well as dried porcini and morels) along with their deep green color.

Margy felt the dough rolled out a bit thick, but if that was the case it was just slightly thicker than would have been ideal. She handled the stuffing and folding, and she quickly learned to maximize the amount of filling without overstuffing. She pressed the edges of each empanada with the tines of a fork and brushed them all with egg wash (well, only the ones we were going to eat; the others we'd freeze uncooked). I created a system of coded air holes so we could tell which kind was which: three vertical holes for spinach-mushroom, three horizontal holes for chorizo-potato, and five holes for chipotle pork.

The empanadas baked for about 25 minutes in a 375-degree oven, and many hours after we'd begun, we were finally ready to dig in. I'd still like to try Alton's dough for the sake of comparison, but Margy picked a winner. The crust was crisp and flaky -- and tasty. I'm not sure how much impact the vinegar had, but I now consider it a worthy addition to crust for savory pies. Just not for Pop-Tarts.

Pasta with Three Porks

2007-01-25T22:06:00.000-08:00

It wasn't part of the plan, yet I couldn't resist.

I had made a trip to the butcher for pork-product replenishment, which meant getting the pancetta and slab bacon that are so crucial to the success of so many of our meals, even when these meats are minced to near invisibility. (Just wait till you try my "vegetable" soup.) While I was at the market, I picked up some hot sausage for tonight's dinner.

As the sausage browned on the stove, I wrapped slices of pancetta and chunks of bacon for the freezer. Suddenly I was seized by the idea of going the extra mile and throwing some pancetta -- not much, just a little -- into the tomato sauce I was making for the sausage. I tore off a little piece and chopped it, then I went back to wrapping.

A minute passed. No, I couldn't, I thought, I shouldn't. And then I did. I chopped a little bit of bacon too. Not much, just a little.

Now, I don't think it's ever strictly necessary to flavor a dish with both pancetta and bacon, but they were right there in front of me and I could easily take just the modest amount I wanted before I froze the rest.

I'd like to believe the sauce possessed an uncommon depth of flavor and that this was due to the presence of pork in so many different forms. That might even be true -- it was certainly great fun to eat, and Margy loved it. I can't say for sure, though. I do know this: That moment early on in the sauce-making process, after I had browned and removed the sausages and then thrown the pancetta and bacon in the pan, was quite a thrill. The aroma was intoxicating. The pig was in the house, times three.

Una Pizza Perfetta

2007-01-19T21:27:00.000-08:00

My pizza adventures have been on something of an upswing lately.

First I (mostly) swore off crappy pizza and discovered the excellent pizzeria No. 28 in one fell swoop. And then there's Margy's amazing homemade pizza, which I can pretty much demand at any time of year save the sultry summer months.

But I must say that 2007 really started out with a bang when Enzo, who seems to be my pizza-hunting guardian angel -- or at least my official taster -- finally brought me to Una Pizza Napoletana in the East Village.

I had read about the place for months, years, eons, whatever -- long enough to know that I needed to try it. (It opened in 2004.) The band had an evening gig in Brooklyn, and, earlier in the week, when I mentioned getting together with some or all of the fellas for dinner, Enzo looked at me and said, "UPN, dude." Done.

I did a little more reading in the days leading up to tonight. The user reviews on Citysearch cracked me up. They basically alternate "Best pizza ever" and "What's the big deal?" But, knowing all about Una Pizza's borderline psychotic insistence on using only the best, most classic ingredients and techniques, I had a strong feeling about which side of the fence I'd land on. Still, I couldn't help but notice that every reviewer, regardless of whether his or her comments were positive or negative, moaned and groaned about the price of the pizza. Among other complaints were descriptions of the proprietor, Anthony Mangieri, as the "pizza Nazi," and stuff like, "They make you cut your own pie!" and, "They don't give you free water!"

I'm reading this and thinking, Just show me the pizza.

So Enzo and his wife and I -- my biggest regret would soon be letting Margy skip out on this one -- showed up around 7:30 on this Friday night, and there were a few people on line ahead of us. One thing I was not going to do was get bummed out about waiting, not even while standing outside in winter drizzle. This was a quest, after all -- my ongoing quest to eat decent pizza -- and quests take time. Within a few minutes we were waiting inside, and I could finally see some pies.

Wow, were they small. Yet another feature of the UPN product that Citysearchers couldn't seem to pipe down about. But gosh, were they gorgeous. I caught myself ogling and averted my eyes to that inward place that's always dreaming about pizza. Now and then I'd look over at Mangieri tending the wood-fired brick oven and see him pour olive oil from a copper kettle onto a pie in an artful, well-practiced swirl. The guy had me at hello.

Now, the menu at Una Pizza Napoletana lists four items, all pizzas, all featuring a combination of very basic ingredients (drawn from this list: San Marzano tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, fresh basil, oregano, fresh garlic, fresh cherry tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil, Sicilian sea salt). Want an anchovy? Go someplace else. Feel like some pepperoni? Seek it elsewhere. Heaven forbid you're in the mood for a salad. Waiting on line, I whispered to Enzo, "I wonder if you can get a little hot pepper if you feel like it."

"Probably not," we said in unison.

After a wait of maybe fifteen minutes in the very small, sparsely adorned dining room, a table was ready, and the Italian waitress led us over. Enzo and I immediately began speaking to her in Italian, just to test the waters. She seemed to appreciate that. We ordered three Peroni and three Margheritas (San Marzanos, mozzarella, olive oil, basil, salt). And then, I have to say, I felt a little depressed.

The money thing was getting to me.

Of all the things in this world that we can spend our hard-earned cash on, food is right at the top of the list for me. It just makes sense to seek out certain edible items that might occupy a higher price bracket. This isn't always necessary -- it can even be foolish sometimes -- but very often the best foods, or the best available varieties of certain foods, cost the most. I had already had this conversation with myself before entering the cash-only, four-items-on-the-menu Una Pizza Napoletana, and I had concluded that if the pie is indeed that memorable then it would be worth it to pay whatever it cost.

What a 12-inch pizza costs at UPN is $21. And I really felt the impact once I'd requested one.

But then the pie arrived, and thoughts of dollars and cents receded far enough away that I'd have given Mangieri whatever he wanted from me. After just a quick bite or two, 21 bucks seemed utterly reasonable -- a steal, even. I began to stammer an endless stream of "Wow" and "Unbelievable." Other topics could not enter the conversation, if conversation is the right word for oohs and aahs and incomplete sentences. When we talked, we talked about the pizza.

Two features jumped out at me: harmoniousness and deliciousness.

First, the harmony. Every carefully chosen component of the pie came together in the ultimate "the whole is more than the sum of its parts" way. It helped, of course, that each part had an impressive pedigree, but it was the balance that was so stunning. At another place, I might've wanted a spoonful more sauce. Here, I did not. In a different pizzeria, I might have wanted just a bit more crunch from the crust. Here, that notion would have been a travesty. This crust perfectly toed the line between crisp and chewy, and it was branded beautifully with little char marks from the oven. My friends, UPN veterans, said they'd never had such a well-done pie there, that usually it was cooked a bit less. I found that hard to imagine -- again, what I was eating seemed perfect, and I didn't want to acknowledge that anything less so was possible -- but in my state of rapture I figured that even a less well-done pizza would still be great.

On to the deliciousness. This pie simply tasted better than all but maybe one or two that I've had in my life. I usually judge a pizza by breaking it down -- how's the crust? is the sauce too sweet? does the cheese have any flavor? -- but this one defied my conventions by forcing me to view it as a whole. Harmony again.

Of course, I can try to analyze it. The tomatoes were lovely, a little bit of tang that worked in conjunction with the yeastiness of the dough. The buffalo mozzarella was more assertive than most mozz. Placed on the pie almost in little balls, it melted slightly outward but retained a milky whiteness, and its lush creaminess balanced the acidic tomato. Adding the olive oil, which pooled up just a bit in the center of the pizza (like it does on good pies in Italy), was an important touch -- you could really taste it. And the basil offered color contrast and refreshing herbal flavor.

But the thing that really blew all of us away was the sea salt. If this were a movie review, here's where I might say "beware of spoiler," because I'd want everyone to discover for themselves the little surprises that pop up here and there as you gobble the pie. I didn't know where, I didn't know when -- the large, angular salt crystals were cloaked by the other ingredients -- but now and again I'd get this little crunch followed by saltiness, and it grabbed me every time. The whole experience was thrilling, and it was over too soon.

Before it ended, though, Enzo motioned toward our waitress as she zipped by. "C'è un po' di peperoncino?" he asked. "Is there a bit of hot pepper?" Oh no, I thought, he's gonna ruin everything. But nothing could be ruined -- we had our pizzas, and no one could take them away from us. And it's not as if we were going to order dessert, although in retrospect a white pizza would've been a fine substitute for gelato or biscotti.

Anyway, I could swear that a bit of a smile took a downward turn as our server accelerated past us, answering, "Non c'è la. NON C'È LA!"

"It's not here. IT'S NOT HERE!" You know what? They don't need it.

The Icing Says It All

2007-01-13T23:57:00.000-08:00

When the band arrived in Vermont for our annual pair of Martin Luther King Weekend gigs, we found that my sister had baked Margy a cake to celebrate her birthday, which was this week.

Band members, and our associates, arrived at different times throughout the day, so we waited until after tonight's gig (good show) to cut the cake. It wasn't exactly planned as such, but we couldn't have asked for a more perfect hour to tuck into a sweet treat than 2am. We stood around the Vermont kitchen singing to Margy and licking our forks.

The rich and tasty delight was a chocolate cake topped with a masterful layer of cinnamon cream and then enrobed in Lindt-chocolate ganache. I expected the whole deal to be too slam-bang chocolaty for me -- I'm a chocolate tenderfoot -- but it was right up my alley... even if I scraped off some of the ganache, as reluctant as I am to admit it.

My sister is a wizard. Some might say that for a given occasion she whips up the dessert that she herself would like to eat most, but the truth is that she's so good that everyone always loves everything she makes. Anyway, in this case, if she were truly baking only for herself, that cake would have been topped with peanut butter rather than cinnamon cream. Aw, she's so selfless.

Happy birthday, Margy!

Come Here, My Deer

2007-01-08T22:03:00.000-08:00

When Homey flew in from Iowa, he brought more goodies than just a couple of bass guitars.

He also smuggled in some fresh-kill venison for me. His buddy had shot the deer -- with a permit -- and then had it cleaned, packaged, and delivered to Homey frozen solid. Solid enough to survive the journey from Des Moines to LaGuardia without breaking a sweat. So now Margy and I had two venison round steaks (not the best cut, admittedly, but what's he gonna do, give us the loin?), plus some ground deer to boot. It was exciting to have a little contraband, not to mention a little venison, which I'd never cooked before, in our house.

When I defrosted the steaks, their deep purple color freaked Margy out. But she's a toughie, and she's enjoyed eating venison before. She'd just never seen it raw. Me, I was still humming with the thrill of discovery.

I seasoned the steaks with salt and a mixture of toasted, cracked peppercorns (black, white, Szechuan), then slathered them with chive butter and tossed them on a hot grill. Now, everybody tells you to be careful not to overcook venison, which can happen easily due to its low fat content. I am here to tell you they're right. Our steaks were thin, and I figured I'd cook them for two minutes per side... but I knew that if they were even remotely undercooked I might lose Margy completely. I went to lift them off the grill, and I flinched, thinking I could see a visibly underdone portion. I waited another minute.

Oops. Overdone.

But not badly. Still, I didn't have a second chance -- no one else is bringing me deer meat -- and it was tempting to sink into the depths of despair. Margy, though, who'd been suspicious enough not to mind the lack of perfect pinkness, kept my spirits up by telling me the steak was delicious, which I admit it was, just a little tougher than I'd wanted it. Deep purple hue aside, I could tell by looking at the raw steaks that they were good specimens, and I knew they were about as fresh as frozen meat can be. Once cooked, the venison looked a lot like beef, and it didn't taste wildly different. I did not detect any kind of distinct gaminess, which I doubt I'd have minded anyway, since I love eating things like lamb and game birds. And my consolation was that the part closest to the bone was the right shade of pink.

Next up, venison chili.

Rock & Roll and Cubanos in Union City

2007-01-05T17:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Homey Mulebagger flew in from Des Moines to join Mr. Thowmbpsin, Schpilk, and me in rehearsals for the Thowmbpsin/Schpilk album we're recording this weekend in Brooklyn.

We rehearsed at my band's studio in Union City. Our little practice room is nestled in a dank and dingy and practically plumbing-free complex of small spaces with padded walls and double doors, each occupied by a scruffy pack of Jersey misfits -- metal bands, hip-hop acts, an amazing Latin group... Recently we actually heard someone playing a Beatles song, a rare wisp of melody snaking through the rhythm-packed hallway.

Anyhow, my "regular" band usually meets for evening practice, plays, and splits, and we rarely get a chance to sample the local color. These two days, however, were a different story. The recording ensemble of Homey (bass), Thowmbpsin (guitar/vox), Schpilk (vox), and me (drums) -- no name yet for this not-quite-a-band -- was to spend longer hours than ever before in the tiny windowless room. That meant we eventually had to go and prowl for food.

Years ago I had eaten at a great, cheap no-frills Cuban restaurant in Union City, but I never took note of the name. This week I did a little Web research, but in the end we just decided to pound the pavement and see what we could find. Last night, when we couldn't play another note without getting an infusion of pork, we walked up to a busy little neighborhood on and around Bergenline Avenue, and we spotted the Latin American Restaurant, a big, bright place that sent us the right vibe. Our quartet sat down at table 13.

Oh, the dinner we had for forty bucks. I enjoyed a huge, tasty piece of pounded chicken alla plancha with plantains, rice, and salad ($6.95). To satisfy my piggy desires, I made sure to get a few bites of Mr. Thowmbpsin's smoked pork chops, which were tender and delicious and had just the right amount of smoke. The Presidente was cold and refreshing, the café con leche was hot and creamy. We felt like kings.

This afternoon we returned to table 13. At the front of the restaurant there's a nice-looking sandwich counter, and we sent our orders its way. Minutes later the four of us were digging into crisp, warm, satisfying Cubanos, stuffed with perfect lechón asado, or marinated pork roast. We had an avocado salad, and I couldn't resist ordering a thick mango shake. (Mmm!) Again we finished up with excellent coffee. And this time the bill was even less.

Our mission in Union City now complete, we set out for the Brooklyn recording studio with more than just a batch of songs under our belt.

Photo credit: Homey Mulebagger

Margy's Pizza

2006-12-30T21:50:00.000-08:00

I've waxed rhapsodic over Margy's pizza many times now, but it would be irresponsible of me not to commemorate each and every appearance of this magical food.

It's always the same, yet it's always different. Temperature and humidity surely play a part in the behavior of the dough, and who knows how many other subtle factors are at work. Water salinity? Margy's body temperature? The shifting moods of fickle flour?

Tonight the crust was a little thicker and a little more pale than usual, but it cooked up perfectly and, as always, tasted fantastic. I've been experimenting with sprinkling Maldon sea salt over the white pies -- we alternate red and white -- once they come out of the oven, to great results. The large, flaky salt crystals really wake up fresh tomatoes (especially ones bought in December). The difference in flavor with and without the salt is illuminating.

Margy, you've done it again.

Nice Butt

2006-12-29T19:53:00.000-08:00

For Margy and me, the last few days of the year have traditionally been all about cooking, and this year is no different.

Yesterday, we stocked up on supplies at the Asian market. We replenished some pantry staples, like green tea and mirin, and we got lots of fun produce -- long beans, Chinese leeks (the root ends look like garlic bulbs), insanely hot Thai chilies. We had a whole red snapper filleted, which I cooked last night, and we got a pork butt for this evening.

Boy, does that place have some good butt.

The fish and meat guys at the market really know their stuff. Over at the seafood counter, they clean fish quickly and thoroughly, and of course they sell good specimens. I never go to this place, Kam Man, without stopping in for some seafood. But I'd only bought meat a few times before today. That's going to change. Everything looked fresh and firm, and when I saw the pork butt I was hit by the thunderbolt. (The oxtails must wait for another day.) I asked the butcher for something around three pounds. He poked around for a second, grabbed a piece, and threw it on the scale: 3.00. Wow -- practically a parlor trick. I wonder if he does it at parties. "Gimme some meat, and I'll guess its weight within an ounce!"

I had to be sure to treat such a perfect piece of pork with the care it deserved, so, since I was going to braise it, I resolved not to cut corners during the browning process. With a decent-size cut that has many uneven surfaces, browning can take forever, and I've been known to lose my cool during this step and flip meat before its time. No, I wasn't going to do that today. Browning took 30, maybe 40, minutes, but when it was all over I had an even finer-looking butt on my hands than I had started out with.

By the way, pork butt actually comes from the shoulder. Go figure. According to the book How to Cook Meat, "It got its name because in colonial times this type of pork was packed into barrels called 'butts' for shipping and storage."

Meanwhile, I deglazed the pot with a splash of white wine, and then I gently cooked onion and, eventually, garlic until it was nice and soft. Adding a hint of Mexico to what I consider my all-purpose Italian-style braise, I tossed in one chopped canned chipotle and a spoonful of its adobo sauce. Then I put back the pork and covered it halfway with liquid -- canned tomato, white wine, and chicken broth. I covered the pot and popped it in a 325-degree oven, and we waited, less than patiently, perhaps.

Two hours later we had on our hands what seemed like something of a magic trick itself. I never tire of the wonder of slow-cooked pork, its formerly chewy meat now falling apart in tender chunks and strands, its ample fat melting into the other flavorings to form a rich and delicious sauce. In this case, the chipotle really made its presence known, adding a good holler of heat and just a whisper of smokiness.

It's a good thing we get such a kick out of stuff like this, because the butt will be feeding us for days -- and it may even taste better the next time around. I see a taco night in our immediate future...

Sweet (and Slightly Salty) Relief

2006-12-16T22:58:00.000-08:00

"I need sushi. It's been long enough."

Margy had been hearing some variation on those words for a couple weeks now, and it was time to do something about it. So we made a reservation at Shumi, our favorite Japanese restaurant in Jersey.

I was ready to go all out. We took a seat at the bar, and, with Margy's permission, I asked the chef/owner, Ike, to just start feeding us. "We like everything," I said, and I meant it. After a soft-shell crab salad took the edge off ever so slightly, Ike presented us with a magnificent plate of sashimi as a prelude to the sushi that would follow.

Each fish made us swoon. Clockwise from top left: white tuna; toro; Japanese horse mackerel, or aji, dressed with a wonderful mince of ginger and scallion; tai, a sea bream that's somewhat similar to red snapper; sweet shrimp from Maine, the first of the season and tonight's special; and squid that Ike scored with a knife and rolled around seaweed, spicy tuna, and cucumber.

What followed were greatly conflicting impulses to devour it all on the spot and slow down to a crawl in order to savor every morsel. I didn't want the moment to end. After the sashimi, as a parade of sushi began, with Ike handing Margy and me two pieces each at a time until we reluctantly asked him to stop, I was struck with one of the reasons why a meal of sushi and sashimi is among my very favorites: It's an ephemeral experience.

And in so many ways. Take, for instance, the pieces of seared salmon with spicy cilantro dressing that Ike gave us near the end of the feast. These hit just about every note that sushi can sing, and in perfect harmony -- the char on the border of the fish gave it wonderful smoky flavor, while the uncooked interior was briny tasting and refreshing, with the perfect meaty but tender texture. The dressing tingled on the tongue. And the rice was just right, meaning it wasn't tightly packed and had a presence of its own. One piece of sushi offered all this -- but there was only one piece for each of us. Sure, we could have said, "Ike, do that again!" But what would we have missed? Seared white tuna with sriracha sauce? That would have been a crime.

So the pleasure of each incredible bite was fleeting, and the wonder of the whole meal was fleeting too, since it's just not possible for us to eat like this every day, or even every week. And though a good sushi meal is supremely satisfying, it also comes with a certain lightness when it's all over, which only contributes to the bittersweet feeling. After I eat a good steak, I feel full and don't want anything more than maybe a nip of brown liquor and a couple bites of dessert. After I eat a good sushi meal, I'm thinking, I could do that again RIGHT NOW. I know it's time to stop -- my wallet knows, at least -- but I want to continue, and the feeling lingers. I would say my number one, taken-for-granted eating rule is to keep things varied, yet for years I've noticed that when I have a memorable sushi meal, I invariably wake up the next day wanting to eat the stuff again. I think it's addictive.

Oh, Snap!

2006-12-04T21:50:00.000-08:00

I felt like cooking fish fillets. Margy was in the mood for a whole fish. Guess who won?

The Asian market provided another fine specimen, a red snapper, which I adorned with herbs, lemon, and olive oil and then slipped under the broiler. The fish was moist and succulent -- the "cheek meat," as my parents would call it, was especially delicious -- but the crispy skin was the best part.

Duck Fat Dinner

2006-12-02T20:58:00.000-08:00

I did not leave Paris empty handed.

At our friends' place on my last evening in town, the mommy-to-be slipped me a hefty can of duck confit, to my great delight. Tonight I opened it up and made a meal designed to remind us of our little European sojourn.

Inside the can was one big ol' breast suspended in thick, milky white duck fat, not a drop of which will go to waste. Using our pals' Paris home cooking as my inspiration, I attempted something akin to a quick deconstructed cassoulet. I bought a nice French garlic sausage at the nearby luxury-consumables megastore Wine Library, which I sliced and browned and served with white beans cooked in duck fat. I also sautéed potatoes in duck fat and dressed them with parsley when they were done.

And I crisped up the duck skin by cooking the breast fatty side down in a pan, with a little... you guessed it... duck fat (it didn't take much -- that sucker was self-basting). I'd never before brought a duck into our home, so this part was big fun. It sizzled and sputtered and got all nice and brown. When we eventually cut into it, a perfectly brittle crust gave way to the silky richness of the fat beneath and, finally, to the dark and tender meat itself. Margy, normally monolingual, spoke a few happy words in French.

And now the rest of the fat is sitting in a container in the fridge, biding its time until we need it again. It won't be long.

Homeward Bound

2006-11-16T13:43:00.000-08:00

As I tried to avoid the tractor-beam pull of the latest Lindsay Lohan movie and keep my nose in the book I'd never started reading on my trip, I heard the flight attendants coming up the aisle with meal service.

"Beef-chicken-vegetarian? Beef-chicken-vegetarian? Beef-chicken-vegetarian?"

Vegetarian?

I thought that one was reserved for people who call ahead. I was intrigued. My row -- all to myself, I might add (Margy still had a few days of work left in Paris) -- was in the back, so I knew one of those choices would be eliminated by popular demand by the time it was my turn. But which one would it be?

"Chicken-or-vegetarian?"

The beef ran out! Without even asking what the hell it was, I threw caution to the wind and asked for veg. Anything to avoid the funky chicken.

And wouldn't you know that on my afternoon flight out of Paris on Continental Airlines my lunch was... black-eyed peas masala.

It wasn't good -- I won't go that far -- but you know, it was the best meal I've had on a plane in a long time, maybe ever.

Paris Journal 2006: Home Cooking

2006-11-15T21:37:00.000-08:00

For my last meal in Paris, while Margy worked a thirteen-hour shift, I was treated to a home-cooked dinner at our friends' lovely new apartment. And did I mention I spent the day zipping around town on the back of a scooter? This is one of the finest possible ways to tour the City of Light, assuming you don't get into an accident as you clear accelerating vehicles by less than an inch, over and over again, as is mandatory.

The apartment was way over on the edge of town, mere blocks away from Bistrot Paul Bert. I arrived to find my pals, a couple expecting their first baby, setting a charming table and laying out plates of spinach salad with mustard vinaigrette and warm goat cheese. Delicious. The main course was a sort of riff on cassoulet that merged duck confit (in Paris this is wonderful even out of a can) with a mild yet porky Toulouse sausage and beans cooked in goose fat. Oh, yes. The lady of the house -- she's Parisian, her fella's from California -- had taken pity on me, knowing it was a goal of mine to enjoy a real French cassoulet, and though she was great with child and had worked a long day, she made sure I didn't go home disappointed.

Not even close.

As I reached for the bowl of beans for the third time and scraped the spoon against the bottom to try and liberate even the ghost of any remaining goodies, the father-to-be reminded me that we weren't through with dinner. Indeed, out came a nice piece of unpasteurized cheese, followed by cookies with ice cream and chocolate sauce. All the while, we drank wine that my buddies had bought in bulk from an independent vintner and bottled themselves. These were maybe my favorite glasses of the whole trip. It just goes to show you what can be achieved in a country that holds wine in high regard -- in the States, homemade wine is almost always terrible, at least in my limited experience.

But really the best part of the whole evening was being removed from the restaurant scene, as exciting as it is, and hanging out with some friends on their turf, chatting, laughing, listening to their music, eating their food. It was lots of fun, and it made the trip feel more personal. If only Margy had been able to join me.

Paris Journal 2006: Aux Lyonnais

2006-11-14T22:59:00.000-08:00

I've always been interested in eating at an Alain Ducasse restaurant, and tonight I got my chance.

Ducasse, so decorated by the Michelin guides for his worldwide network of restaurants, isn't exactly thought of as a hero in New York. When his NYC joint opened at the Essex House in 2000, the reviews were not great ("a wow that wavers," the New York Times has said). If you weighed the so-so feedback against the astronomical prices, let's just say no one I know was beating a path to the door.

But when I began hunting for Paris picks before last year's trip, Aux Lyonnais started popping up everywhere. Ducasse has a bunch of restaurants in Paris, including an eponymous one that's supposedly incredibly opulent and hugely expensive, and Aux Lyonnais is regarded as more down-to-earth than many of the others but just as memorable. This was the place we booked way back on Friday afternoon.

Now, I've never eaten dinner in Lyon in the 1850s, but if I had, I'd imagine it would have been something like the meal Margy and I ate tonight. We weren't getting a "Ducasse" dinner (he was probably not even in the country), but that's to his credit -- he and his kitchen are clearly more interested in preserving the weighty charms of true Lyonnaise cooking than in advancing any modern, world-domination-through-excessive-amounts-of-truffles-and-foie-gras-type agenda.

After we had a lovely amuse of fresh cheese with herbs and shallots, Margy started with pumpkin soup with andouille sausage. A tangle of porky bits sat in the middle of the bowl, and a waiter poured the creamy orange potion over it. It was delicious, and I don't even like pumpkin soup (too sweet). As we started to dig in, another waiter swung over and placed a small plate next to Margy's spoon: "This is a cake that goes with the soup," he said. "Try it, and then after I'll tell you what it is."

What it was was awesome.

It was dense and contained little bits of meat. It reminded me of my mom's pizza rustica, or pizzagaina (ahem, "pizza keen"), but there was no cheese in it. Long after it was gone I had to beckon the waiter over to make good on his promise.

"It is a cake made with a pig's ear," he said. "If I tell you before, you would not eat it."

"Oh yes we would!" I said. I'm not quite interested in, say, gnawing on the whole ear of a pig, but I'm happy to enjoy the meat that comes from it. Especially now.

I began with a marinated-eel salad. It had been a goal of mine to try eel outside of a Japanese restaurant, and this was my first opportunity (sadly, my mom has never prepared it on Christmas Eve). I even recognized the word on the menu -- anguille -- from a mile away. The eel was snow white and chewy, but pleasantly so. It wasn't far from the strong flavor of sardines or mackerel, and I look forward to eating it again in a non-Japanese context. Of course, I look forward to eating it again in a Japanese context too!

Margy had chicken with vegetables and crawfish tails (pictured) for her main dish. It came in a red enamel vessel, straight out of the oven, and the bird was bursting with pure chicken flavor, which just underscores how flavorless chickens tend to be back home. The skin wasn't crisped, or even browned, and the crawfish didn't add much, but it was a homey, satisfying entree.

Meanwhile, I had crawfish quenelles (clearly crawfish are big in Lyon). These were essentially two giant white dumplings, just right in texture, neither too firm nor too soft, and they also arrived in a red enamel dish, still bubbling away. The quenelles sat in a deep-brown shellfish stock that was richly flavored, with crawfish tails scattered around the plate. I'd never had anything like this, and I liked it more as I went along. But Paris eating was taking its toll -- had I eaten this on our first night in town, I'd have cleaned my plate, but as it was I couldn't quite finish it.

Dessert was a large sablé cookie, spread with a layer of sweet cream and topped with stewed pears and plums. A great cap to a fun meal.

Ultimately, Aux Lyonnais did not provide our favorite Paris dinner, but its sheer timelessness, or should I say old-timeyness, made it an integral piece of the French-food puzzle that we're slowly assembling. I love the idea of traditional yet somewhat offbeat dishes surviving intact through the ages, shepherded by caring history-minded cooks from one century to another, and another.

Paris Journal 2006: Vin & Marée

2006-11-13T23:13:00.000-08:00

On any trip to Paris, eating shellfish should be part of the agenda. Parisians know how to get it right.

For our seafood meal, we took our concierges' suggestion of the nearby Vin & Marée (which they explained means wine and tide). When we walked through the door for our 8:30 reservation to find a quiet, harshly lit, and drab dining room, I remembered my new rule for Paris restaurant seating: Always choose the smoking section. In other words, we were standing in the smoke-free zone, while the smokers were led upstairs to a more comfortable and ever so slightly more charming dining room. Something analogous seems to happen in most other restaurants as well -- the good tables, whatever that may mean at a given place, are where the smoke is. This may not be a factor much longer, with talk of a smoking ban that has the French huffing while they're puffing, but for now it's good to keep in mind.

Even upstairs, among industrial carpeting and white walls that sported a strip of blue waves, I could tell Margy wasn't nuts about the decor. What can you do -- it was Monday night, not the best evening for Paris dining. At least the menu looked good, and there wasn't a nonseafood choice on it.

As we were finalizing our selections, a waiter brought us a bowl of mussels in a bit of chive-butter sauce. They were the best mussels I've had in years, briny and tender. We ordered snails and oysters, plus a bottle of white Sancerre.

A young woman came over with an ice bucket and a bottle of wine, and she proceeded to open the bottle without showing it to us. She poured me a taste as I strained to see the label behind the towel she'd wrapped around the bottle. Not bad. She filled our glasses and then left, and I picked the bottle out of the bucket. Nope, not Sancerre. I mentioned this to our waiter, who smiled, removed the mystery bottle, and declared our glasses an aperitif. (The Sancerre was noticeably more complex, and I was glad to have had a mini comparative wine tasting in addition to a free drink.)

The oysters were good but not spectacular. Their liquor was a bit too salty, so unfortunately it was wise not to slurp it all up. But the escargots were wonderful. Last year, they were my revelation -- I hadn't realized how much I loved them before that trip. Once I caught on, I ate big ones, small ones, and microscopic ones that came with a tiny needle, which was the only device that would make it possible to remove the minuscule amount of meat. (I don't mind working for my dinner.) Tonight there was no need for a magnifying glass, but the snails were just as good. They were meaty and firm yet not tough or chewy.

For my entree I had roasted prawns with "caviar d'aubergine." Now, "caviar" I understood, or at least I thought I did; "aubergine," not so much. The word looked familiar, so I just figured, Hey, I'm cool with caviar of whatever. Well, I was surprised to find out that this accompaniment to the prawns was pureed eggplant. Eggplant isn't my favorite, but I was nevertheless thrilled to find some form of vegetable on my plate. The prawns were very good -- they had a bit of char on them, and they offered much more flavor than the shrimp I get at ShopRite back in Jersey.

But Margy's bouillabaisse took home first prize. In fact, I probably stuck my spoon in the bowl almost as often as Margy did. The powerfully flavorful broth was deep and rich and offered a big blast of fennel that joined nicely with the fish stock. The pieces of fish -- mostly rockfish, I believe -- were abundant and weren't overcooked. Rather than being served with a rouille, the bouillabaisse came with croutons and a saffron-garlic aioli. Truly delicious.

You know how I said the dining rooms lacked a certain charm? Well, any missing pizzazz, and then some, could be found in the restrooms. Each of the four men's-room walls contained a row of tiles adorned with cartoons of people using the facilities (as this is a food blog, I'm trying to choose my words carefully). These included a zaftig couple locked in passionate embrace while set upon the porcelain god and a pair of suited businessmen shaking hands while crossing streams. Wouldn't you know I had my camera in my pocket, and I captured it all.

When I returned to the table and showed Margy one of the photos I'd just taken, she shot out of her seat without a word, grabbed the camera, and made a beeline to the ladies' room. Did she find four walls of toilet cartoons? Hardly. The little chamber was decked out in mirrors from head to toe. She'd never seen so many Margys at one time, not even in a Lord & Taylor dressing room...

Paris Journal 2006: Sapporo

2006-11-12T22:43:00.000-08:00

On last year's trip, the hole-in-the-wall ramen house Sapporo was my safe haven, the place I could go when I needed a butter-free meal that featured the presence of vegetables. I ate lunch there three times, but always alone, and I regretted that Margy, who was working long hours with only a sandwich break during the day, was unable to join me. This time, though, she got to enjoy Sapporo's humble yet considerable charms.

We spent the day at Versailles, mostly waiting on line, and then we had plans to meet friends for a Jarvis Cocker concert in the evening. As we got back to town after strolling the gorgeous Versailles gardens and walking in the footsteps of at least several people who were eventually beheaded, we were starving, and we had just enough time to grab a little something to eat.

All day I had been worried that we were in for an entire day in Paris without a proper sit-down meal, and it wasn't sitting well with me. So when I saw the chance to return to Sapporo for a quick bite, I was more than eager to take it. Margy, of course, liked the sound of my plan.

The dynamic little woman who runs the dining room wasn't around, but the cooks were, and we had a delicious meal. After ordering a couple of beers -- Asahi, not Sapporo... oops -- we both got the essential ramen with roast pork, and Margy had fried rice and gyoza on the side while I had a plate of curry rice plus a salad and oshitashi (tightly rolled spinach in a soy and vinegar dressing).

It was one of those meals where we only realized the extent of our appetite once we'd lifted our chopsticks a few times, and it was one of those very few times when I eat quickly. We sat there at the Sapporo counter devouring our dinner, looking up now and then to watch the cooks perform some deft maneuver in a small vertical-handled pan or a giant flaming wok.

Though I watched them serve it last year, I had never eaten Japanese fried rice before. Well, it rocks. As you can see, it's not tossed with soy sauce or any other dressing -- oil is swirled around a wok, the ingredients (egg, peas, baby shrimp, bits of the finest roast pork available anywhere) are added, in goes the rice, and that's it. Simple, perfect.

Similarly, this was my first time eating Japanese curry, and it was also fantastic. (With a very short menu, Sapporo is pretty sure to nail every dish.) The sauce was a deep brown and bore the yellow tint of turmeric at the edges. The curry contained pork, carrot and onion, and it had a nice burgeoning hint of chili heat.

And the ramen is always excellent. It's fun to eat noodles that have a little bit of confidence, a spot of identity. Sapporo's are cooked just right and hold their own in their sea of broth, pork, scallions, mushrooms, and spinach.

I felt a moment of reflection coming on: I was able to read the entire menu, I had rice and vegetables and pork... I was in my element. We'll get back to proper Parisian eating tomorrow, but this meal was just what we needed tonight.

Paris Journal 2006: Bistrot Paul Bert

2006-11-11T23:25:00.000-08:00

What a difference a day makes. By early afternoon today, after our concierge had a called a bunch of restaurants on our list to find them fully booked for tonight -- one of them gave her a "Wow, mademoiselle!" as if she'd been joking -- 10pm didn't sound so bad. That slot was offered by a place that had been plugged by a friend of a friend, and we jumped at the chance.

Bistrot Paul Bert, way over on the east side of the right bank (almost off our map), was hopping when we arrived. The menu was written on a blackboard that was passed around from table to table, the wine list was novella length, and the restaurant had that classic look that said I've been here a while, and I'm not going anywhere. The slightly crooked picture frames, the buckling and spotted mirrors, and, yes, even the floating clouds of cigarette smoke all contributed to the very Parisian aura of the place. I saw hunks of meat on plates all around the room, and I got excited.

The meat looked good, but I had fowl on the brain. And what do you know but I think I spotted some sort of bird on the list of main courses. When our waitress came by I asked for a few translations, and though she tried to be helpful she was nothing like the sommelier/waiter from last night. Her translations boiled a long phrase down to a word: côté de cochon fermier aux haricots mais became "pig." But that's okay -- you have to be ready for a wide range of experiences when you go to a foreign country and don't speak the language.

For our starters, Margy ordered veal carpaccio and I went with roasted scallops. I don't usually love scallops (except raw as sushi or sashimi), but they were in season and we'd already seen them around a bunch. Plus in French they're called coquilles St. Jacques, and to me such a refined and stately handle really makes a difference -- why order "scallops" when you can have "coquilles St. Jacques"?

For the main course Margy asked for steak frites, and I most enthusiastically requested roast pheasant (which I had noted actually came with vegetables -- chou vert, or green cabbage). As we began to wait, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation, and then... no, it couldn't be -- our waitress came back our way with the blackboard in her hands. Oh, no.

"I am very sorry. It is my fault. We have no more pheasant."

I've come a long way toward becoming a somewhat mature semi grown-up-type person, but it took all the self-control I had not to start banging on the table and maybe even shouting "Waaaaa!" The pheasant was all I wanted; I'd barely glanced at anything else. I felt helpless. A long, quiet moment passed as I stared a hole in the blackboard.

"If you wanted the pheasant, you should try the rabbit," the waitress said. "It is very like pheasant." She pointed to a dish I hadn't really noticed. I guess that was because I didn't know the word lièvre but assumed it might be some variant of "liver" (even though I indeed know the word for liver). Well, it means wild hare. I'd had bites of rabbit, but I'd never eaten my own. I knew it wouldn't be that much like pheasant, but I figured she meant that it was also gamy and maybe even that it also had lots of tiny bones. All day, I'd been ready to deal with some tiny bones.

I asked how it was served, and I didn't get much. "Is there a sauce?" I said.

"Yes, it's in a sauce, with mushrooms."

The night wasn't getting any younger. I went with the wild hare. A nice bottle of Bordeaux arrived, along with our appetizers, and I started to loosen back up.

The coquilles St. Jacques were terrific, roasted in their shells and sitting in a rich pool of melted butter. The presentation was beautiful and the flavor was excellent.

When it came to Margy's veal carpaccio, the one word in the description that we didn't understand -- and we only figured this out for sure later -- was the word for kidneys (rognons). Looking at her plate, Margy said something like, "I think this is liver." I knew it wasn't, because it didn't look like liver. The slices, sort of freeform roundish, were too small, and the shading of each slice, from dark to lighter to almost white in spots, was too varied for this to be liver. Anyway, it was absolutely fantastic, and it only got more tasty with each bite. The veal was dressed with olive oil, parsley, thin-sliced mushrooms, and chopped nuts, and all of those ingredients staked their claim in the overall success of the dish. I noticed that a woman at the table next to us received a parsley-free version, and I felt sorry for her. Not only was the green a lovely color contrast, but the bright, herbal flavor of the parsley was a happy surprise when you got some.

And then the main dishes arrived. Margy's steak and fries looked good, but I was sure I had been given the wrong plate. Take a look at the photo above, which you may have assumed captured some decadent chocolate dessert. Nope. It's the wild hare. I poked at the big molded cake with my fork, and meat flaked off. I took a bite. I knew I wasn't tasting rabbit, but I wasn't sure what I was tasting. The flavor was familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. At this moment, I was extraordinarily confused. I didn't hate what I was beginning to eat, but I didn't love it, and it wasn't at all what I'd been craving. And on top of everything else, there were no mushrooms as advertised. The hare came with a side dish of large pasta shells dressed in a mushroom sauce. These were just lousy -- badly overcooked and tasting only of butter.

The waitress swung over at this most vulnerable time to check on things. I didn't really know what I was eating, but I was trying very hard to be happy. Margy had taken one bite of her steak, which she liked, but she hadn't learned the truth about her dinner either. When asked how everything was, we said it was okay. The fries were certainly good.

A minute later Margy realized her steak was essentially raw. The one bite she'd taken was one of the few perimeter pieces that were medium to medium rare (she'd asked for medium). And then I grabbed the non-English-speaking sommelier, whom I already trusted more than our waitress. I pointed at my plate and asked, "Lapin?" (That's the French word for rabbit.)

"Oui," he said, and then he proceeded to describe the dish, in French. I understood every word, though one grand gesture certainly helped. He kind of pretended to rip out his own loin, and then he said the loin was rolled and stuffed and served with a sauce of wine and chocolate. And what was it stuffed with? Well, that's the flavor I was struggling to determine -- the dish tasted of nothing else. It was foie gras!

Suddenly the six-euro supplement made sense. But now I really wanted to murder our waitress. She had misrepresented this dish straight down the line. It was not like pheasant in any way. And there weren't even any mushrooms.

Margy and I weren't sure what to do. We hate complaining in restaurants, plus we felt like we'd missed our chance to do so. (We've since sworn to each other that we'll be more assertive should anything like this ever happen again.) Her steak had been picked over, and I was really trying to eat my strange and heavy but not altogether horrible dinner. It wouldn't have been my cup of tea under any circumstance, but I wanted absolutely nothing to do with foie gras after having the best slice of my life last night. That was going to hold me for a while.

For a minute I was ready to pout. I'd come to Paris for six dinners, and now one of them was getting away from me, and that's a significant percentage. But hey, we were in Paris. We'd had great appetizers in a charming old bistro, and we still had a bunch of wine, plus cheese and desserts and a bracing snifter of Calvados, to look forward to. We surveyed the wreckage in front of us -- raw meat, the worst pasta ever, a plate swirled with chocolate sauce that looked like some abandoned meaty dessert -- and we started to laugh. It was all we could do. The waitress came and took our relatively full plates like she'd seen it all before. And I know she had. I believe it's not uncommon in Paris to eat a few bites and leave the rest -- but I'm assuming that's usually in the name of portion control, not frustration.

Next, Margy ordered cheese and I ordered ile flottante, a meringue set in a pool of crème anglaise, with praline and roasted almonds. This stuff set us back on track, big time.

The cheese was magnificent. The varieties were described by the sommelier, so I didn't really get all of it. But the Camembert was particularly memorable. It had an intense savoriness that I'd never experienced before in a cheese. All the varieties were tasty, and I'm guessing all of them were made with unpasteurized milk and would therefore not be available in such fine form in the States. We circled around and sliced bits off larger pieces until we'd had our fill, and then the waitress came and grabbed the board when we were done. That's some fun eating... and we certainly had the room.

The ile flottante was similarly amazing. We loved the texture of the meringue -- soft and supple yet firm enough not to lose its shape in the crème anglaise, which was rich and cool. And the almonds had been roasted to perfection and gave a nutty and almost smoky counterpoint to the sweeter elements.

In the end, Bistrot Paul Bert, though certainly not perfect -- damn that waitress and her pheasantlike rabbit! -- was absolutely unforgettable. (I mean, hey -- I learned I like kidneys.) I would go back. Just not at 10pm.

Paris Journal 2006: Point Bar

2006-11-10T23:22:00.000-08:00

Margy and I alighted in Paris, back once again in the City of Light on (her) business. This year, though, we allowed a few extra days to play around before she had to get to work.

We got to our hotel around 10am, where they graciously allowed us to check in early, and then we immediately took a restorative nap. Once we came to, my first -- okay, my only -- order of business was to figure out where to eat dinner. I had a list of places, but we wanted to stick close to our hotel on our first night and avoid any situations where we'd have to try to speak French.

I did, of course, offer a shaky "Bonjour, madame" to our concierge before I began pestering her with a dozen questions and asking her to call a dozen restaurants to start getting things on the books. So here we were on Friday afternoon, needing a plan for Friday, Saturday, and Tuesday, at least. (The other nights were still up in the air.) And we began very badly.

Not only was Saturday a bank holiday, it was also a Saturday, and good Paris restaurants tend to get booked up on Saturday night. We tried a few places on our list, and they basically laughed at our very sweet concierge. One offered a 10pm rez. We didn't bite. Ten o'clock worries us a little -- among other reasons because I tend to take hours to eat anything. We kept trying, but now I was starting to feel like an imposition. Finally, though, we booked Tuesday, at a place I keep hearing about and I'm sure I want to try. Phew. Finally, an encouraging sign.

As a last-ditch effort to nail down Saturday, we tried the site of our favorite meal from last year's trip, which I was sure wouldn't be fully booked. I was correct. It would be closed, for Armistice Day.

So we sort of staggered out of the hotel to start exploring, with nothing set for Saturday and a plan to stake out a few nearby restaurants the concierge had recommended for tonight. She seemed particularly fond of a joint that I thought sounded like "Plum Bar," but she said there are lots of reliable places on the Place du Marché Saint Honoré.

We had a lovely afternoon, taking a long walk, checking out a great photography museum, and eating the finest ham sandwich we've had in twelve months. And then we strolled back to our hood to see what was up by the marché. It's a charming area, and it's packed with restaurants. We took note of a few, and then at the hotel we asked the new concierge, just starting her shift, what she recommended nearby. (I'm a big believer in cross-referencing, especially when you don't know the people who are making the recommendations.) She also said the "Plum Bar" place is excellent.

"What kind of food is it?" I asked, not being nearly as specific as I should have been, as indicated by her answer.

"French."

But then she caught on and added, "Inventive. It's a small restaurant, very nice."

So we booked it. But there was one lingering problem. We really didn't have a handle on the name. Upon hearing it a few more times, I was sure there was no plum involved. Basically, it sounded like "pwah bar," and given my not-too-close relationship to that elegant yet sadistic language that is French, that wasn't nearly enough. I was a little embarrassed, but I needed to have it in writing.

Point Bar! Of course!

And it was just fantastic. It's indeed very small, and it feels bright and modern. It's not one of those old-school Paris bistros with yellowed posters peeling off the walls -- that would have to wait for another night. There weren't even that many people smoking, if you can believe that.

The menu was short, and I felt like I had a handle on all but a few things, so when our waiter came by I told him I had a few questions. He proceeded to translate the entire menu for us, in excellent English, which I must say was incredibly kind and helpful -- sometimes that one word you don't know is the one that means "bathed in liver" or what have you.

Actually, we started with liver! We shared a foie gras appetizer that was hands-down the most I've ever enjoyed eating the stuff. I savored every morsel, especially the yellow layers of fat at the top and bottom of the slice. (Margy very halfheartedly suggested we leave that part, but she knows how it works. It's Paris -- you eat.) The foie gras was served with a fig, hazelnut, and walnut chutney and a caramel-port reduction, plus sea salt and course-ground black pepper. Oh my. The sweetness of the condiments and the richness of the foie gras, along with the flavor-sharpening effects of the salt and pepper, made for one heck of a good time. Did I even mention the crispy toasts it came with? As was the case with the ham sandwich a few hours earlier, this little dish was saying "Welcome to Paris." (Except it was saying it in French.)

One entree sounded so appealing that both Margy and I ordered it. Anyway, the waiter (who said his real gig is sommelier and recommended a wonderful and affordable pinot noir) had told us it was one of Point Bar's signature dishes: Parmesan-crusted veal loin with truffle-cream sauce. Hiyo! Not since being in Paris a year ago have I so enjoyed a meal so utterly devoid of vegetables. The veal was cooked beautifully and was a little pink in the middle. The crust was incredible -- crunchy here and there, perfectly salty, and offering just the right amount of Parmesan flavor. And the sauce was delicious. The truffles made their contribution to the dish without being overwhelming. Potatoes included, this dinner had Margy and me oohing and aahing.

Dessert? Vanilla panna cotta with mango and mango ice cream. The waiter brought us glasses of strawberry wine that I believe he said had been made by a patron. It was good -- not too sweet and tasting very clearly of strawberries. Plus it was just nice to know that we, the Americans, had won his favor rather than invoke his tourist-loathing exasperation. Meanwhile, the panna cotta was creamy, sweet, fruity... just as delicious and memorable as the rest of the meal.

Score one for the concierges!

Fried

2006-10-29T21:41:00.000-08:00

I've never had a deep-fried Mars bar, but I know I would like it. Because I would like a deep-fried anything, as pretty much all of us would. Tasty, crispy, golden armor just has that magic.

Fried shrimp are a particular favorite around here. I leave deep-frying to the pros (and those who keep buckets of cooking oil laying around the house) and choose to focus on the kind of frying that happens in a quarter inch of peanut oil. I've said it before, but the difference between frying in peanut oil and, say, canola oil is stunning. Peanut oil has a higher smoke point and can cook food hotter and therefore faster, which is the name of the game.

Anyway, I had a leek in the fridge, so I thought I'd try frying it after the shrimp were done. Best idea I've had all week. I sliced the leek lengthwise into very thin strips, and then I dredged the strips in flour and tossed them in the red-hot, full-of-panko-shrapnel pan. For a little while, not much was happening besides a bit of bubbling. But I moved the stuff around with a pair of tongs, and after a minute it began to brown. Seconds after that, it was done, and I had a brittle little tangle of fried leeks that only needed a sprinkle of salt. Margy looked at me like I'd been keeping some terrible yet wonderful secret from her all these years.

Oh, and just for kicks I repeated the process with a thin-sliced jalapeño. Yowza!

Silverbrite

2006-10-25T21:18:00.000-07:00

There's a guy at the ShopRite fish counter who kind of looks like a fisherman. He's the only one I trust back there, and today he told me to try the silverbrite salmon, which was on sale. When I buy seafood, I'm not necessarily looking for a bargain, and I can be suspicious of cut-rate items. But again, I trust this leather-hatted chap. So I bit.

The silverbrite was pinker and paler than bright-orange farmed salmon, and the last time I'd bought it, its flavor was a little strong for my liking. This time, though, as my pal said it would be, it was much better. I dusted it with barbecue rub, broiled it, and served it with a big "autumn power medley" of roasted potatoes with garlic and roasted Brussels sprouts with pancetta. Sprinkled with lotsa lemon, the salmon made a great dinner. But the side dishes, with their fall flavors and alternating tender and crispy bits, were the best part.

The Year of the Keema

2006-10-18T21:17:00.000-07:00

I swear I didn't plan it this way, but tonight's turkey keema was a very fitting meal in terms of marking the anniversary of CFM. Keema may be, after all, the dish we've eaten the most over the last 365 days. (Either that, or hamburgers... or maybe bad takeout pizza -- I'll have to check.) This one was particularly fiery, thanks to a potent red jalapeño from the farmers' market. And though any bean will seemingly do and it's fun to sample a variety over time, chickpeas always turn out to be an inspired choice.

Crisp It Up

2006-10-17T22:27:00.000-07:00

Ah, the joys of leftover pasta with ragu. I should try spreading it on a wide cookie sheet so every last piece, every single zito, gets crunchy. That would be heaven, if not necessarily for the jaw.

Fresh

2006-10-16T21:16:00.000-07:00

Living in the Jersey suburbs, it's just a given that good fish isn't so easy to track down. But it's out there.

Today Margy and I found the elusive Asian market that had been relayed to us as Capital. Its actual name: Captain Fresh.

Judging from the seafood counter, that name is accurate. The place had everything, from snails to clams to finfish to eels, and it all looked pristine. I chose a fat red snapper and asked for it to be filleted. The fishmonger did a beautiful job, working slowly and methodically. I noticed that the man at the sink next to him was cleaning dozens and dozens of small fish, as a piscine mountain grew on the nearby counter.

Our fillets were packed up and wrapped. "Want the head?" the fish guy asked. I hadn't thought about it -- I don't have whole fish filleted that often, and when I do, no one never asks. "Sure, I'll take it," I said, and suddenly I was picturing a sauce in my mind. Margy looked at me and smiled.

I cannot rave about the freshness of this snapper enthusiastically enough. I could have served it as sashimi. You know how the experts always say that very fresh fish has practically no aroma, just a subtle perfume of the sea? This snapper was the very embodiment of that idea. Unwrapping it, I was met with firm but tender flesh, gorgeous unblemished skin, and the hint of an ocean breeze. I hadn't bought this little guy at ShopRite.

I took the head and bones, along with onion, carrot, and parsley, and made a very small amount of stock, which by itself was quite tasty. Then I sautéed the fillets and made a sauce with the stock and some herbs, wine, and heavy cream. Meanwhile, I was roasting potatoes with garlic. On another tray, I roasted some amazing purple-veined beans (I want to say the farmers' market called them lingerie beans, but forgive me if I'm unconsciously merging a few fantasies here) with pancetta.

I don't want to brag, but just in terms of my excitement over the high quality of the ingredients and the fact that everything came together perfectly without any hitches, I would put this dinner in my all-time stove-manning top ten.

Not Perfect, but Not Bad

2006-10-15T22:46:00.000-07:00

We'd had a long week, so we decided to treat ourselves to a nice Sunday dinner. My mother had really talked up the site of her latest birthday dinner, Pierre's, to Margy (who was in Maine at the time and missed it), so Margy lobbied for that. I capitulated immediately.

Well, my second meal at Pierre's was almost as good as the first, but with a few bumps in the road, starting with our server being wholly incapable of answering even basic questions about the menu and the wine list.

Dinner began with an hors d'oeuvre tasting plate that was rather wonderful in all its Frenchness and included an endless array of goodies: celery root salad, lentil salad, ratatouille, cured salmon, red cabbage, country pâté, cornichons, beets, and a nice dried sausage. It was a great way to start things off and would have made a perfect lunch with just a good chunk of bread.

For her entree, Margy had duck breast with yams, Brussels sprouts, and sour cherry sauce. The flavor was excellent, but I must say the duck was overcooked by a pretty wide margin. This brought forth a bit of a dilemma, as we're not send-it-back'ers, and so Margy chose not to ask for a portion that was cooked more correctly, even though she would have been well within her right to do so. In fact, I'm guessing that whoever plated the duck knew there was around a 50-50 shot that it would be sent back and just decided to roll the dice and hope that the recipient either liked well-done duck, didn't know any better, or just didn't want to be bothered with sending it back.

That latter category is us. Who can be bothered? If the thing had been inedible, I'd like to think we'd have returned it. But I had a nice hot skate wing in front of me, and if Margy had asked for a new piece of duck, the timing of our meal would have been off the rails completely, and who wants that? Again, the duck was delicious, so she just forged ahead. My skate wing was also terrific, crispy around the edges and tender in the middle -- pretty much like the duck should have been. It was served with capers, napa cabbage, and an "olive oil emulsion" that seemed a hell of a lot like mayonnaise. But hey, at least it was good mayonnaise (I'm not normally a fan).

Desserts are definitely Pierre's blind spot. When I went with my parents, we had run-of-the-mill profiteroles that left much to be desired. Tonight Margy and I had a slice of plum tart, which was better than the profiteroles but still seemed a little tired and had zero visual pizzazz. The dessert-cart presentation surely doesn't help. Who wants to see their food paraded around the room for hours -- up and back, there it goes again -- only to be unceremoniously sliced into a portion and shoved their way? It's not like the cart is being replenished all that often. In our case, all the desserts were there and there to stay.

Out of the Frost: Ragu

2006-10-14T21:09:00.000-07:00

For a while, as we favored meat sauce made with sausage, meatballs, pork ribs, and the occasional veal shank, ragu played second fiddle in our house.

But now it's back.

And what a sweet reunion it was. As my mom always says, of many different treats, "It's so good when you haven't had it for a while." I don't even remember when I made this ragu (I could probably check), but it was right there in the freezer when we needed it.

What I do remember is that I used ground pork and ground beef, where sometimes I just use beef. As I always say, pork makes everything more fun. Yes, hamburgers are high on my list of favorite foods, and my love affair with steak is having something of a renaissance, but if you made me choose just one meat, pork, in all its fatty, luscious, crisp-skinned, other-white-meat, cure-me-or-eat-me-fresh versatility, would sway me every time. Margy too.

So I'm thinking pork was the secret weapon here. Isn't it always?

And If You Go Chasing Radish...

2006-10-13T20:39:00.000-07:00

It's come to the point where there are no more surprises at the ShopRite fish counter (not good ones, anyway). Going in, I know that the only reliable -- or, forgive me, semireliable -- things on hand will be shrimp, squid, steelhead trout, the odd cockle or littleneck, and salmon. That's a shame, because I love nothing more than poking around without preconceptions and having a meal be inspired by my spying a nice piece of fish. And I'm not in the market for a new market -- I'm sticking with ShopRite, the best choice in town for everything else.

Today as I approached the seafood stand I knew I'd be making salmon teriyaki. But, really, there's nothing wrong with that. The sweet-salty-boozy sauce is always welcome around here.

I served the salmon with cucumbers and miso-sesame paste, plus some grated daikon that I dressed with lime juice and togarashi pepper. It was my first time bringing daikon into the house -- I found it at the farmers' market -- but it won't be the last. I was surprised, and pleased, by how spicy it was on its own, which make me realize that in restaurants I've always eaten it in combination with other things. I look forward to exploring more ways to deal with this intriguing white radish.

Add-Ons

2006-10-12T21:05:00.000-07:00

Margy and I like a simple hamburger, but sometimes we'll trick one out a bit. As the burgers cooked, I grilled onions and chilies in a knife-slashed foil packet, which is nothing new, but tonight I added some of our cherry tomatoes for a change of pace. They lent a bit of tang to the fiery condiment (I used a superhot red jalapeño from the farmers' market).

Missed Opportunities

2006-10-11T19:36:00.000-07:00

How did I blow it with our Thai basil plant? Let us count the ways.

Way back in May, when we were poking around a nursery in Vermont, I was beside myself with excitement to find a tiny Thai basil plant sitting in an obscure corner of the greenhouse. We brought it home and I kept it inside until the weather heated up a bit (basil hates the cold), and then Margy potted it and set it outside. All summer I tended to it lovingly, making sure to prune the flowers and to give it enough sun and water. It thrived.

And then I hardly ever used it.

And now it's dying.

And I'm angry with myself.

Don't get me wrong -- it was occasionally put to good use, lending its herbal, aniselike perfume to the occasional stir-fry or curry. But I didn't make enough Thai or Thai-inspired dishes to properly exploit the exotic little bush growing in our back yard.

Tonight is the perfect example. I made a Thai-style squid stir-fry, fragrant with shallots and garlic and fish sauce and spicy with hot peppers, and then I garnished it with cilantro and Margy and I sat down to dinner. All day I was thinking Lotsa basil, lotsa basil, but somehow that crucial bit of information slipped my mind while I was laying out ingredients. Three bites into our meal, I shot out of my chair: "Dammit!" I scared the heck out of Margy, who for some reason doesn't appreciate my frantic non-sequitur exclamations. I clued her in to why I was suddenly upset.

It was pouring out, and we had already started eating. I sat back down.

Thirty seconds later I grabbed the kitchen scissors, stepped into my shoes, and went outside to clip some basil, which I then hastily snipped over our plates. I don't have many chances left, and it's going to be a long Thai-basil-less winter. I'm happy to say this last-minute herb application did indeed make all the difference. If only I had thought of it sooner. And more often.

Two Heads Are Better Than One

2006-10-10T19:17:00.000-07:00

When Sonny presented us with that head of orange cauliflower a few weeks ago, I already had white cauliflower sitting in the fridge. I'd bought it at the farmers' market but hadn't used it, and it was in danger of expiring. And now its colorful cousin was threatening to upstage it entirely.

But still, I hate wasting food.

So I took the white cauliflower, trimmed a couple of brown spots, and made soup. I threw in about half of the orange cauliflower as well, saving the rest for something where it would retain its shape (which became last Wednesday's pasta dish). The soup was wonderful, and I froze some. We had it for dinner tonight.

Cauliflower has a great rich texture when pureed, which was enhanced by a bit of potato. And I added a chile and some cumin for a hint of curried flavor. I'm not happy about the weather turning so chilly so fast, but at least I'll always have an excuse to make soup.

Cranberry Sauce

2006-10-09T21:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday at the farmers' market I bought a bunch of fresh white-and-red-marbled cranberry beans in their pods. Until now I had never dealt with fresh legumes of this sort -- just canned and dried. Well, fresh is definitely more fun.

The only problem was that a big bag of pods doesn't necessarily yield a big bowl of beans, so I found I could have used a few more. But we made do. I put the shelled beans in a pot of boiling water and simmered them for around 40 minutes until they were tender. I drained them and set them aside, and then I grilled some sausages and cut them into thirds. I'd made time for all this, while Margy napped, or else I would have cut some corners someplace. I certainly could have just cooked the sausages on the stove, but I wanted to go the extra mile and get that grilled flavor.

Meanwhile, I made a simple tomato sauce with a little bit of onion and garlic, and I added the beans and sausages. The beans had a rich, creamy texture and an almost nutty taste, and grilling the links lent deep charred flavor to the sauce. This unassuming dish really packed a wallop, and Margy and I just kept on eating.

A Fun Way to Get Hungry for Sushi

2006-10-08T22:08:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to me. Margy and I came up with a grand, blissfully elemental plan to celebrate my special day: We would look at sea creatures, and then we would eat sea creatures.

So we drove down to Camden on this gorgeous afternoon and spent a few hours at the aquarium, gazing at the seahorses, the seals, the sharks, the hippos. Yes, the hippos, Camden's aces in the hole. I'm not sure I'd ever hung out with hippos before, but I think I would remember if I had. Two enormous specimens live at the aquarium, and they're something to behold. You can watch them underwater through what must be very thick glass. The water is beyond murky and you think you'll never be able to see a thing, but then this massive gray blob begins to float by and come into focus, and what do you know -- it's a hippopotamus! Their skin looks like elephant hide, all wrinkled folds, and they seem positively prehistoric. And of course they're very charismatic. One of them played with a huge blue ball -- slowly -- for a few minutes right in front of us. I recommend paying them a visit if you're even in the Camden/Philly area. Tell them Margy and I say hi.

After hanging out with all these fish and the like, we figured it was time to eat some. I had found two good sushi joints in that area months ago, so tonight we made a reservation at Sagami, a great little place that's set, like most Jersey sushi restaurants, on a fast-moving stretch of commercial highway. Once you're inside, though, the setting is very serene and charming, and the kimono-dressed servers make you feel comfortable.

The sushi is simple and fresh, and Sagami makes the greatest fried oysters I've ever had. You can practically see how crunchy they are. They're dressed with tangy tonkatsu sauce, and after the initial crunch they explode with the juicy, creamy, briny essence of oyster. I could have eaten four orders myself, and I wouldn't have even needed a birthday cake. Just stick a candle in an oyster, and let's party.

A Little More Fat Can't Hurt

2006-10-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

I'm really starting to dig compound butters.

Tonight I made chive butter to brush on a grilled steak, and I spread a bit on some Italian bread, which I also grilled. We had an ear of leftover boiled corn in the fridge, and I grilled that too. Had I grilled the salad, it would have been a clean sweep.

The condiment, which was made by mixing chopped chives and a drop of lemon juice into softened butter, was delicious and really made a difference. Of course, the steak, a rib-eye, was the star, and I must brag that I cooked it perfectly. Margy grew up spending lots of time in Germany, the land of buttered meat (and, of course, the land of chocolate), so she definitely has carnivorous tendencies. I, on the other hand, have always been a great lover of pork, but for a long time I went entirely without steak. I'm glad to say those days are over. I'm not sure what I was thinking.

Tasty Dinner, Lousy Game

2006-10-06T23:37:00.000-07:00

Had I realized that I was serving fried chicken on a night when a guy named Kenny Rogers was pitching against my beloved Yankees in the American League Division Series, I might have altered the menu. Baseball is a superstitious sport, after all.

But alas I didn't see the connection, and so Margy and I crunched on our cutlets while watching the Yanks get dominated by a suddenly (some might say suspiciously) commanding Kenny Rogers. Final score: 6-0. I'd say it was the only game all season that Margy watched willingly -- she only likes the playoffs, she says -- and it was a sad spectacle indeed. At least we ate well.

Homegrown Sides

2006-10-05T20:13:00.000-07:00

Tonight was burger night, which is always exciting, but the real thrill was in the accompanying long beans and tomatoes, because we grew them ourselves. I know I've been going on and on about our tomatoes, but it's still a rarity for us to have a vegetable side dish that's entirely our own. Our garden is small and not exactly abundant, and this was only the second or third time since July that I was able to harvest enough long beans to feed us a proper portion.

Next year there will be lots more beans, because they're so vibrant and delicious (and stingy with their yield). Tonight I cut them up and boiled them for only about 90 seconds until crisp-tender, and then I tossed them with roasted tomatoes in olive oil while still warm. The tomato-flavored oil on its own tastes great on green beans, and having some little round tomatoes in there just takes the whole thing over the top. The veggies were fresh and tangy, and they'd only traveled about 30 feet to reach our table. Gets me every time.

The Colors of Fall

2006-10-04T22:08:00.000-07:00

When we had some friends over for our first-day-of-fall feast, our pal Sonny arrived bearing gifts: a couple of neato oblong serving platters (watch for them soon) and a fresh head of orange cauliflower, also known as cheddar cauliflower.

I had never had such cauliflower before, so I was eager to check it out. Apparently it contains many times more beta-carotene than its snowy white counterpart, and I'm all for that.

I figured I'd try to incorporate the stuff into a main course rather than serve it as a side dish, so pasta seemed like a natural vehicle. I followed most of my usual steps for an oil-based sauce: First I crisped up pancetta in a little olive oil and then drained it. Then I sautéed garlic, chilies, and herbs in the leftover fat, added the cauliflower with some wine and water, and let it all cook through, tossing in the cooked pancetta near the end.

The orange -- now yellow -- cauliflower tasted pretty much like white cauliflower, but Margy and I were enchanted by the color. And then there's the beta-carotene, of course. I don't want to say I'm going to bypass white cauliflower from now on (I'd like to think I'm more loyal than that), but look out -- there's a flashier crucifer in town.

Next up: purple.

Pork Ribs, Day Three: Leftovers

2006-10-03T22:04:00.000-07:00

The supply of ribs refused to dwindle!

So we continued eating. This time I just covered the ribs and heated them up in the oven, and we ate them with grits like we did the first time around. It would be the last time we'd have them for dinner, but there was still enough pork left for Margy to keep the magic alive for tomorrow's lunch.

$9 worth of country ribs made for seven meals. Not bad.

A Meal of the Times

2006-10-02T21:55:00.000-07:00

We figured we'd take a break from the pork ribs and try a few shrimp instead.

I returned to a great Singapore-style chili shrimp recipe that Mark Bittman wrote for the New York Times about a year ago. It has all the good stuff -- garlic, ginger, shallots, chilies, fish sauce, lime juice -- and uses tomato paste to achieve that fiery red color. I wish I could post the recipe, but it's not mine, and that wouldn't be right.

And for the second week in a row I tried a dish I'd just read about in the Times Magazine. Tonight it was lemongrass green beans, which were cooked in a mixture of dried shrimp paste, shallots, ginger, chilies, macadamia nuts (!), and, yes, lemongrass.

Starting with the funky scent of shrimp paste, a scent that I'm growing more and more fond of, believe it or not, our kitchen was filled with aromas that went way beyond the norm around here, which is great. And things got even more fun when it was time to dig in.

Pork Ribs, el Dia Dos: Tacos

2006-10-01T20:44:00.000-07:00

Very early this morning, I practically shot right up out of bed: "I've got it! We'll make tacos!"

Pork tacos are one of Margy's favorite dishes, and my little eureka moment was me realizing how perfectly the braised country ribs would adapt themselves for this purpose. Hours later, as dinner approached, I put my plan into action.

First I made guacamole. Then I shredded the meat from a few ribs with a fork and warmed it up on the stove, adding some canned chipotle in adobo sauce for a bit of spice and a tasty Mexican twinge. Margy grated cheddar, I chopped lettuce, a can of refried beans was opened.

I heated flour tortillas in a dry skillet and then piled everything on. I couldn't resist overloading each and every taco, but we didn't mind a bit -- we came to the table ready to do some work. But still, there's plenty of pork left...

Pork Ribs, Day One

2006-09-30T22:59:00.000-07:00

Margy was on her way back from Milwaukee, and I wanted to welcome her home with a nice cozy dinner. So I braised some country pork ribs.

I browned the ribs in a Dutch oven and then removed them and sautéed minced carrot, celery, onion, garlic, and herbs for a few minutes. I put the ribs back in the pot, along with some chicken stock, white wine, and canned tomato. I added salt and pepper and put the pot in a 350-degree oven for 90 minutes or so, until the meat came away from the bone without me even having to ask.

As an accompaniment I made cheddar grits in the rice cooker. Is there anything that machine can't do?

And I made enough pork for six people, so I doubt we've seen the last of these ribs. Yes, I was planning for leftovers, since braised meat heats up so nicely and the flavor even improves after a little rest, but as I packed up the remainder I wondered if we'd ever get through it all. We'll certainly try.

Meanwhile...

2006-09-29T21:43:00.000-07:00

...I'm at my bachelor pad watching the Yankees game and eating a leftover-sausage sandwich.

Midwestern Salmon

2006-09-28T20:53:00.000-07:00

What do you know -- Margy was in Milwaukee.

It was a quick work jaunt, and I stayed home, but she got a couple nice meals out of the deal. This is the pan-seared salmon at Coquette Cafe, where she went with a party of 40. Everyone was served each course (chosen from a short menu) at the same time, which Margy found most impressive. She says the food was excellent, though the "exploding brownie," otherwise known as warm chocolate cake, was a bit rich for her more delicate dessert tastes. We're a lot alike in that respect -- we prefer the light and fruity over the serious chocolate stuff. I know, we're on our own there...

Finalmente!

2006-09-27T22:33:00.000-07:00

Maybe you've heard me complain endlessly about the meager pizza choices in our Jersey town. I'm frustrated, I'm bitter, I'm angry, I'm depressed, I'm incredulous that no one has bothered to make a decent pie within twelve miles of our home. But then I go and eat the local schlock anyway... because it's pizza, dammit, and who wants to go weeks without pizza?

Well, sign me up.

I'm done with the places around here, and I'm not joking this time. I am now willing to go weeks without pizza if it means sparing myself junky pies. I'm not happy about this -- pizza is convenient, it's cheap, and it's always readily available... plus, you know, I'm a tiny bit obsessed with it -- but my hand has been forced by too many crushing disappointments.

Tonight, however, at least restored my faith that someone in this country besides Margy and my mom is committed to pizza excellence. Of course this was across the river in NYC, at No. 28 on Carmine Street, but at this point that's what I'm dealing with: either traveling a little or begging Margy for the homemade goods.

I had heard about No. 28 from Enzo, who is well aware of my obsession and who knew I'd dig the place. I just assumed Margy and I would have to wait for a table, but the joint was hardly full when we arrived. (Seems most New Yorkers are just like most New Jerseyans and choose their pizzerias based on proximity rather than deliciousness.) Walking in, we saw a brick oven, we smelled burning embers, we got excited. We ordered a Margherita with buffalo mozzarella and a white pie with garlic and sopressata.

As we were waiting for our pizzas, a trio of young Neapolitans walked in and made themselves at home at one of the outdoor tables. We were treated to the wonderful sound of their local dialect, which was so thick and obscure to my ears that, though I speak decent conversational Italian, I could only understand the odd word here and there. We were not in the New Jersey suburbs.

Again, that fact was borne out when the pizzas arrived. The first, most obvious good sign was burn marks on the crust. Aah, burn marks. All the ingredients were top notch, and there were very few of them -- another good sign. Pizza, to me, is not a depository for all my favorite meats and vegetables and cheeses; toppings are only there to support the most important component: the dough. And support it they did. The tomato sauce was fresh and bright, and the buffalo mozzarella was creamy and imparted just the right amount of dairy flavor. The garlic on the white pie made itself well known without being overpowering, and a bit of ricotta mellowed out the sopressata beautifully. The crust walked that delicate balance between crisp and chewy, offering a little bit of both.

It's no wonder that No. 28 has gained a "D.O.C." designation from the organization that recognizes proper Neapolitan, that is to say properly elemental, pizza. In that great miracle of culinary miracles, I got hungrier the more I ate, until my brain had to finally interfere and heed the stop signals that my stomach was refusing to send in such a blissed-out state.

Now the Party's Really Over

2006-09-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

Well, we were able to squeeze one more dinner out of our party food.

This time it was the barbecued chicken, which I brushed with some remaining sauce, covered in foil, and reheated slowly in the oven. I can be funny about eating leftover chicken -- I find there's usually an unpleasant change in flavor -- but this worked out well. I think it was because the foil wrap and extra basting kept the meat moist.

And we were able to savor Margy's biscuits one last time... one last time, that is, before I beg her to make them again.

Sparerib Salmon

2006-09-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday there was an article in the New York Times Magazine about Chinese-American barbecued spareribs. The piece noted the emphasis on American and reprinted a recipe from the early '60s that highlighted that point -- you'd never find these things in China. Inspired by the original version, which by the 21st century seemed to have more kitsch appeal than anything else, David Myers, chef at Sona in L.A., offered an adaptation featuring salmon. It was so easy, and he sounded so excited about it, that, though I had never heard of Sona, I trusted him instantly and had to give it a whirl. I had everything I needed but the salmon.

All you do is marinate salmon in equal parts soy sauce and honey, plus a little ketchup and some crushed garlic, and then you grill or broil it. I instinctively cut back just a bit on the honey, but otherwise I followed Myers's instructions, including making a cucumber salad side dish. I skipped a topping of preserved ginger, though... next time. I had to briefly boil the vinegar-based salad dressing, which stunk up the place for a while ("You dyeing Easter eggs?" Margy asked as she walked into the kitchen), but no big deal.

The salmon, which I grilled, was wonderful. The honey produced a gorgeous glaze, and the strong salty-sweet flavors of the marinade worked perfectly against the richness of the salmon. The cucumber salad was fragrant with ginger and subtly spicy due to a hit of Japanese togarashi pepper, and it made a great sharp-edged accompaniment to the luscious fish.

The Evening After

2006-09-24T21:59:00.000-07:00

We sent people home from our place with little foil-wrapped six-packs of cheddar-chive biscuits, but we kept a few for ourselves. And to my surprise and great delight, they warmed up beautifully and were almost as good as when they first came out of the oven. There were some sausages left as well, since at one point last night I decided we had too much food and held back a few links. So tonight I grilled a few of them, and we had an easy dinner of sausage and biscuits. Anyway, an easy dinner was about all we could handle.

Pulling Out the Big Guns

2006-09-23T23:55:00.000-07:00

Margy and I had a bunch of friends over, many of them making the trek out to "the country" from NYC, and these people deserved to be well fed.

With the guests gathered out back, we started everyone off with a rousing round of Those Things, which I stuffed and rolled using Margy's incredible pizza dough. Half of them were the traditional anchovy version, but I also tried some with fontina, which melted beautifully, and some with pancetta and Parmesan. Though I have a way to go before I can live up to my grandmother's Those Things legacy, the results were quite successful, and there were no leftovers. I was particularly proud to see our 18-month-old pal Charlie nibbling on one with anchovies (though I imagine his little piece was fish free).

When dinnertime approached, I lit one, two, three grills, two of which I'd borrowed. This is when things really got interesting. I placed dry-rubbed chicken pieces (thighs, drumsticks, and, to appease those whose tastes run toward the conservative, a few breasts) on each grill, opposite the coals, and put down the lids. I'd also sprinkled hickory chips on the charcoal to generate some smoke. It was a lot to keep track of, but the fact that I was using indirect heat was my saving grace -- no need to worry about burning.

After maybe 45 minutes or so, the chicken was looking fine, and that telltale spicy-smoky aroma was telling me we were getting close. So I added a few hot and sweet sausages to the grills, right over the coals. I did a little much-needed charcoal replenishment, and we remained in business. As the sausage cooked, I brushed the chicken with a sauce I'd made earlier with beer, honey, ketchup, vinegar, chipotle, onion, garlic, and spices.

We set out the chicken and sausages on a serving table, along with green beans (dressed with roasted tomatoes), mac and cheese, and cheddar-chive biscuits that Margy had made in the morning. Those biscuits were wonderful, and, this being the first official day of fall, they played right into our theme: Summer's over -- let's eat a huge dinner with lots of carbs. People began to fill their plates and dig in.

And then, in one of my final work-oriented acts of the evening, I grilled the Thai shrimp, which I'd entrusted our friend Sonny with skewering. Oh, what a job she did -- her steady hand and ample patience meant the little guys, I think there were about 85 or so, were just the way I like them, meticulously arranged. I'm pretty much a disorganized mess everywhere else, but the kitchen is one place where I like to preserve order.

The shrimp had been marinated in a puree of ginger, garlic, lemongrass, chilies, cilantro, sugar, fish sauce, and lime juice. They cooked quickly, and then I sprinkled them with more lime juice and some Thai basil. As I set the platter on the table, I looked up and saw a line of people heading my way with shrimp on their mind. That made all the work, not to mention the fact that Margy and I, as hosts, sort of neglected to eat properly, more than worthwhile. (I certainly didn't neglect to have a bunch of beers.)

Of course, we weren't quite through. Margy had made dessert: lemon meringue tart. She'd assembled the tart earlier, but the meringue part came at the last minute, and a small crowd watched her work her finishing-touch magic. I'll be "ordering" this creamy, lemony tart again on a monthly basis.

By this point everyone seemed happy and appropriately loopy. Dinner down, it was time to keep howling at the moon, and we did our best to live up to the task.

It's Almost Fall

2006-09-22T22:03:00.000-07:00

Tomato season is coming to a close, and I'm not happy about it. All summer long I've been pruning and picking and watering, and soon there will be a void in my life. Sure, the sungolds have gone yellow and the cherry tomatoes don't pack as much punch as they did a month ago, but I'm still out there like the loyal gentleman farmer I aspire to be.

This was probably the last opportunity to use our beloved tomatoes with abandon. I'd roasted a big batch with garlic and thyme, and here I simply tossed cooked gemelli with the mixture and finished the dish with a little olive oil and sliced basil and a scattering of fried ham (I don't think I've ever fried ham two days in a row, but the last bit needed to go). If the moment was bittersweet, the sauce was delicious.

A message to supermarket tomatoes during the colder months: I'm sorry, but I'm looking the other way. I have nothing against you -- your deep red color is enticing -- but there's only room on our counter for the true Jersey tomatoes of summer. No offense.

Tomato Sandwich, with Ham

2006-09-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

Margy wasn't around and I was about to go out for the evening, so I improvised myself a sandwich.

I'm not a huge fan of subs and cold-cut sandwiches, but hot sandwiches are a different story. Hamburgers, meatball hoagies, po' boys -- that's my scene. Tonight I was mainly looking for an excuse to eat some of the roasted tomatoes that were sitting in the fridge, and I figured a fried ham sandwich would be a worthy vehicle. Earlier in the week I'd bought some ham for lunches (the one cold cut I do like), so I had everything I needed.

I cooked a few slices of ham quickly in a skillet with a drop of olive oil, browned a roll under the broiler, found an ear of leftover corn, and that was that. The meat was just protein -- this was all about bread and condiment.

Tofu Teriyaki

2006-09-20T22:34:00.000-07:00

Peanut oil's the secret.

Frying food in corn or canola oil is fine, but peanut oil has a higher smoke point, so it can fry more quickly and with less oil absorption. When I'm cooking things like chicken cutlets, fried shrimp, and, more recently, tofu, the difference is impressively clear -- everything is crispier and less greasy.

This really comes in handy with tofu, because teriyaki sauce would sog up soft slices of soy -- you need a nice firm texture on the outside before applying any liquids. So tonight I sliced the tofu and drained some of its moisture using paper towels, then I pressed the slices into a plate of black sesame seeds and dropped them into a red-hot peanut-oil-coated pan. There were splatters, sure, but eventually I had myself truly crispy tofu sitting on a rack in a warm oven. I painted on some teriyaki sauce, and dinner was served.

Despite the frying, this is a good light meal and a refreshing change of pace when we're sick of the same old stuff. I always worry that Margy won't find it substantial enough, but fortunately my fears remain unfounded.

Three More Times...

2006-09-19T21:54:00.000-07:00

We reheated the paella at home for another fine, fragrant meal, and believe it or not there was still one portion left for Margy to have for lunch.

Mom's Midas Touch

2006-09-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

I was saddled with the important duty of picking up my father at the airport, and in exchange for my efforts Margy and I were invited to my parents' place for dinner.

Or, more accurately, I invited us over for dinner. But there's no need to split hairs here. I delivered said father into the waiting arms of said mother, and she in turn delivered a big bowl of spaghetti with squid to the table.

There's very little Mom can't cook. (Duck comes to mind, but even there I'm not convinced. Every time she made it when I lived with my folks, I'd be eating happily only to hear constant complaints from both of them. Mom: "I don't know why I try to make duck -- this is terrible." Dad: "I told you that you can't cook duck, but you never listen!" My protests always fell on deaf ears.) That said, she has a special rapport with squid and achieves hands-down excellence every time. Those little guys get mouthwateringly tender for her on command.

This sauce was wonderful as usual and tasted vibrantly of squid. Somehow Mom knows how to avoid buying flavorless cephalopods. I don't know her secret, but if she could apply her deft touch to shopping for and cooking a duck, my dad would be most impressed indeed.

Bienvenido a Newark

2006-09-17T21:51:00.000-07:00

Margy joined me for day two of the drum festival, but the performance we were most looking forward to was dinner at a Spanish restaurant in Newark.

All my life I've heard about Newark's great Portuguese and Spanish food, yet I'm ashamed to admit this was my first time trying it, at a place called Casa Vasca. Well, it won't be my last. As we looked over the wine list, we were given steaming bowls of kale and potato soup with chorizo. That started things off right, but looking at the kale I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor spinach farmers whose livelihoods have been ruined by the recent health scare. Anyway, none of this stopped me from cleaning my bowl.

Though we eventually settled on the entrees we wanted, I asked the waiter a few questions anyway. We were generally thinking seafood, but there was something in his tone when I asked what the best dishes are. "You want fish?" he said.

"Why? Is meat your specialty?" I said.

"Yes," he said, "but all the best dishes are sold out by now." It was 7pm. Popular place.

We heard a few suggestions, but we weren't swayed. Margy ordered paella with seafood, chicken, and chorizo, and I went for a special of fried whiting. I am powerless to resist the pull of small deep-fried sea creatures. We'd been warned about the ridiculous amount of food you get at these restaurants, but what the heck -- we also ordered the stuffed mushrooms appetizer.

All the dishes were excellent. The whiting, four of them, served whole, scared Margy a little by bearing their little teeth at her, but she didn't complain when she took a bite. The fish was firm, the outside crisp, and the frying was relatively gentle, with no heavy coating. The paella, enough for at least three people (at under $20 no less), was a treasure chest of goodies that included lobster, shrimp, scallops, clams, mussels, chicken on the bone, and slices of wonderful mild chorizo. On top was a fat spear of white asparagus. We also had a nice rioja that went well with the food.

I don't know why we skipped flan for dessert -- maybe it had something to do with eating half our weight in entrees -- but we'll be sure to order it next time.

Every Bite You Take

2006-09-16T20:36:00.000-07:00

I was at a drum festival all day, but I planned to beat Margy home and cook some hamburgers just in time for her arrival. That didn't happen -- the schedule got delayed, and I wasn't about to miss the headliner, Stewart Copeland, so I called Margy and suggested she start dinner and I'd meet her back home. Despite her long Saturday at the office, she reluctantly agreed.

She didn't beat me by much, but she got tons of work done in that time. The grill was lit, the table was set, the salad was made. "Want me to do the dressing?" I asked. Nope, already done. The girl knows how to take care of business. All I had to do was grill the burgers.

Anyway, Margy's a huge Police fan, so she understood that I needed to be late. And it was worth it -- Stewart was in fine form, playing with the band Gismo, which he tours Italy with every summer (not a bad hobby). He wore a tight green soccer shirt and white drumming gloves, and he hammed it up at every opportunity, beginning his performance by bounding onstage and shouting, "Good evening, New Jersey!" He played great too -- he made a few deft ska-style moves, and even his softer strokes were brought down with serious force.

A First at Our Place

2006-09-15T21:43:00.000-07:00

Well, I still can't say I've cooked eel, but now at least I can say I've served it.

Last month, when we were trying in vain to find the nonexistent Asian food market called Capital and instead found only the one called Asian Food Market, we spied prepared Japanese eel in the freezer case, and we brought some home.

The eel was precooked, and the package contained various heating instructions. All of the methods involved first placing the sealed package in hot water to "soften" the eel. Tonight I chose the method where you heat it further on foil in the oven, like many sushi chefs do (too few of them have those nifty eel grills that I've only seen once or twice at the best restaurants).

While the package soaked, I cooked teriyaki sauce, with a bit of shrimp stock added, to brush on the eel. But after all that careful sauce brewing, I pulled the softened eel out of its package to find it had already been dressed with sauce and was practically ready to eat. It was exactly like the stuff I used to get for lunch in the eel bowl at Saga Sushi, nee Daikichi Sushi, in NYC -- sweet and meaty and tasty, if not close to homemade. (I also get the impression that, with all the sugar and salt in the sauce, it's not exactly health food, despite eel being high in protein and vitamins A and B12. I'll have to look more closely at the package next time.) I slipped it into the toaster oven, and later I brushed a little of my sauce on it anyway.

The eel was quite the conversation piece when Margy got home, and we made quick work of it. I do intend to learn how to cook my own eel someday, but in the meantime this will do rather nicely.

It's All in the Condiments

2006-09-14T19:28:00.000-07:00

Lentil soup is a staple around here, because it's simple to prepare, freezes well, and makes a great quick dinner. But it helps to surround lentils with other fun stuff.

Like green beans.

Kidding -- green beans are wonderful, but I'm not sure I'd call straight-up boiled ones fun. I'm referring to the little bowl of roasted tomatoes with thyme and garlic. Whenever I've picked enough tomatoes from the garden, I toss them with salt, pepper, thyme sprigs, and garlic cloves and throw them in a not-too-hot oven for a couple hours. (As is so often the case, this brilliant idea came from my mom.) After barely half an hour, amazing things begin to happen. The aroma, savory and herbal yet a bit acidic, is enough to torture me, and it only grows more intense and tantalizing. Then when the tomatoes are finally finished -- some shriveled and deflated, others wrinkled but still plump -- I cover them with olive oil and put them in a jar, and they keep in the fridge for a long time. They make the ultimate condiment (see the rib eye from a few days ago).

Tonight I spread the tomatoes on a toasted roll as I ate the lentil soup, and that made dinner a lot more fun.

Hello, Old Friend

2006-09-13T20:11:00.000-07:00

As always, when I don't feel like running out to pick up any missing ingredients for a given dish, I make pasta with whatever's on hand. Tonight it was spaghetti alla carbonara, which we love but hadn't had in a long time.

Usually I don't skimp with the parsley, which I mix together with a couple of eggs, a bunch of Parmesan, and lots of black pepper. To that mixture I add the hot pasta, dressed with pancetta or bacon plus cream (if I have cream) and whatever else I feel like adding that day (sometimes onion, sometimes garlic, sometimes broth). Then I stir it all together to distribute the flavors evenly and "cook" the egg. But I was out of parsley, and the sprigs in our garden had nearly died, starved of light and nutrients by sharing the soil with our out-of-control tomato plants. I rescued the crop, but barely, and it was coming back slowly. So I clipped only a couple of perimeter sprigs tonight, figuring that if I'm patient we might have a decent plant just in time for the first frost.

To make up for the lack of attractive green specks, I threw in a few frozen peas, which carbonara often includes anyway. And I don't usually have heavy cream lying around unless I have some left over from another use. I had it tonight because I'd bought it to use in celery soup, but the soup was rich enough without it.

Major Letdown

2006-09-12T18:01:00.000-07:00

It's sad to go back to regular assembly-line pizza so soon after being treated to Margy's incredible homemade version, but grabbing a pie when you're pressed for time is the ultimate in convenience -- and one of the only relatively safe bets in a town of few decent take-out choices. Tonight it was gobble, gobble, then I was off to witness the dazzling guitar heroics of Jeff Beck live in concert. Margy opted out of the guitar-heroics part.

Tastes of Summer

2006-09-11T22:38:00.000-07:00

Margy and I checked our crave-o-meters, and for some reason only a steak would do.

I didn't spend $26 or anything, but I did find a nice rib eye. When it came off the grill to rest for a few minutes, I brushed two rolls with olive oil and melted butter and grilled them as an accompaniment. Then I topped the sliced rib eye with tomatoes from our garden that I'd roasted with garlic and thyme (a nifty condiment that pretty much goes well with anything). The whole thing could have easily been eaten as a sandwich, but we went with the knife-and-fork method.

At the farmers' market yesterday it was clear that it's now or never as far as corn is concerned. It was a bad year for corn all around, so by mid-September the tables were stacked with skinny little ears, which had all been picked over and partially shucked. But we found a few decent ones, and it was still summer for at least another night.

Celery Soup, It Ain't

2006-09-10T21:42:00.000-07:00

Margy and I were at Juilliard to see a theater workshop directed by our friend Essho, and after the show we were starving and there was no time to waste. We passed a few anonymous-looking pizzerias and Mexican joints, and then across the street we saw a Chinese noodle shop, Bos.

There was a recent Time Out endorsement hanging in the window, and we walked in, sat down, and ordered some shrimp toast and a couple bowls of noodles. The shrimp toast was excellent, but the noodles were a bit of a letdown. The noodles themselves were al dente, but the broth was bland and the pork was chewy. I ate enough to satisfy my hunger, but on those few occasions when I'm not excited by my meal it's hard for me to go the distance. I was mortified when the waiter came by and with a puzzled look asked us, "You're done?" I hate not pulling my weight. But one thing I cannot do is force myself to eat when my heart's no longer in it.

The bygone Cafe Le Wok on 35th made a much better noodle soup, and they never got attention from any local magazines. What a shame -- if they had, the place might still be there today.

We Can Always Count on Keema

2006-09-09T20:20:00.000-07:00

I was about to go play a gig, and I didn't feel like cooking. But our local take-out options are so flimsy that I was forced into duty.

I went with trusty turkey keema, tonight served in tortillas, with thick and tangy tamarind sauce.

Cel-Ray

2006-09-08T21:43:00.000-07:00

I bought a bunch of celery at the farmers' market on Sunday, to use when I boiled the chicken. And when I say a bunch, I mean a bunch.

It was organic, and for, I think, $3.50 (easily the most I've paid for celery) I got a lot of it. I tried using as much as I could at every opportunity, but the thing wouldn't dwindle. And it was unlike any other celery I've seen -- the stalks were really thin, very dark, and superdense. It was impossible to crunch on a raw piece without chewing for five minutes afterward. Not only that, but the base of the bunch was caked with dirt and mud... and pretty well crawling with insects. A beetle sauntered out onto my kitchen table as I pulled away a few stalks, and later I found a slug, alive and well and, presumably, well fed.

But oh, the flavor of this celery!

When I told Enzo about the giant green tree that was taking over our fridge, he suggested I use any leftovers to make soup. And so, after scrub, scrub, scrubbing the hell out of each and every little piece with a stiff brush -- Margy doesn't like slugs in her soup -- I boiled the celery in chicken stock along with carrot and onion, and later I added some celery root and a potato. Once the celery became tender (which took a long time), I poured everything into a blender and pureed it. Exciting things were starting to happen.

But... the stuff was way too fibrous, so Margy got out her Foley food mill, and we passed the soup through it to smooth out the texture. This took some time, but it needed to happen. And I had planned to add some cream to the final product, but the soup was so lush and rich that I didn't bother. It was like having all the savory flavor of celery concentrated into something far more satisfying and substantial than celery itself.

Next stop, cauliflower.

Catch-All Gemelli

2006-09-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, the fridge was jam-packed. A tray of pizza balanced precariously atop milk and water jugs, and there was hardly a free spot for a container of blueberries. Now, however, after Margy and I had systematically worked our way through the bulk of our holiday-weekend goodies, it was time to clean house for real and prepare ourselves for yet another trip to the supermarket.

Nothing is a better vehicle than a pasta dish for synthesizing all the odds and ends into something delicious.

So into the pan went the leftover pizza toppings -- pancetta, sautéed mushrooms, mozzarella. Actually, I stirred the mozz into the hot pasta just before serving, but you get the idea. I basically just emptied all our half-full plastic containers, added a few ripe cherry tomatoes, cooked some gemelli, and dinner was served.

I can't believe it's already time to go shopping again.

Leftover Pizza

2006-09-06T19:37:00.000-07:00

Margy is a magician. Hers is not normal pizza.

The Fruit That Goes Its Own Way

2006-09-05T19:41:00.000-07:00

I have lots of respect for avocados. For days they play hard-to-get, biding their time, remaining green on the outside, making us want to eat them but telling us we don't have permission. Then one day they're ready to give it up. They darken markedly; we poke them a little and they say, "Yes, NOW." If we don't obey soon enough, it's too late, and we know it.

That's why I found myself serving guacamole along with meat loaf sandwiches. I didn't know if I should, but I knew that if I didn't I ran the risk of letting the avocados that I had watched for days fall to ruin.

Well, guess what? It was a nice combo! I even spread the guac right on the sandwich a bit at a time, and its creaminess helped make it a fine condiment indeed. I don't mind a bit that I had to adhere to the avocados' schedule -- they kept me on my toes.

Chicken Bath

2006-09-04T18:54:00.000-07:00

I'm pleased to relate that one of the easiest possible dinners is also among the most satisfying.

After making those grand pizza gestures yesterday, not to mention eating heroic quantities of food, we needed something simple. So, inspired as usual by my mother's meals, I threw a chicken in a pot with some vegetables, covered it with water by a few inches, tossed in a few potatoes after the bird had simmered for about an hour, and then another hour later we had a light and tasty meal that would yield both leftover chicken and a few quarts of ready-made stock for the freezer. Besides occasional stirring and salting and tasting, the work was done in five minutes.

Margy Labors on Labor Day Weekend

2006-09-03T22:12:00.000-07:00

If there's one kind of grueling work that really pays off, it's pizza making. And Margy, it must be said, is becoming the master.

While we usually schedule pizza in advance and give ourselves something to look forward to -- or in my case, to obsess about -- today it was a late-breaking inspiration. Suddenly energized by our plan, we ran to the market to grab some fresh mozzarella and some San Marzano tomatoes, and we summoned our pal Yoz to come share the wealth.

While Margy made the dough and the San Marzano sauce, I worked on prepping the toppings. I sliced pancetta, sautéed mushrooms, and cooked spinach and garlic, and of course I halved a bunch of our homegrown cherry tomatoes. I couldn't contain my excitement over the idea of matching Margy's pizza with our flavorful little tomatoes.

It's wild how the crust always turns out a little different, probably owing to the weather and perhaps some more subtle factors, like water salinity and Margy's relaxation versus agitation levels as she kneads the dough. She claims I say this every time, but tonight might have been her best pizza ever. Yoz said it was the best pizza he'd ever had, and he later commented -- before the ice cream cone -- that he usually doesn't eat that much in three days. Attaboy. He will be invited back, perhaps even with an open invitation, regardless of whether his presence means fewer leftovers for Margy and me.

And the cherry tomatoes made one hell of an addition to pizza night. I scattered them on a white pie, along with olive oil, anchovies, chilies, mozzarella, and Parmesan. I sprinkled a few flakes of sea salt on the finished pizza to bring out the flavor a little more. Yup, best ever.

Sungolds and Cherries Everywhere

2006-09-02T23:34:00.000-07:00

The tomatoes keep coming, and I'll keep using them on pasta until the first frost.

Tonight I made linguine with shrimp and clams, and, as always, tossed in a bunch of halved tomatoes right at the end. Seafood pasta is one of Margy's favorites, and she was glad I made enough for her to have some for lunch in a day or two.

I'm trying to block out the fact that summer is almost over. It's been such a treat to have instant access to these tomatoes, not to mention to lots and lots of herbs, plus cucumbers and the occasional long bean. I keep fantasizing about moving someplace where we can keep a garden growing year round.

Now Featuring Pork!

2006-09-01T21:50:00.000-07:00

"I made something the other day that you have to try," my mom said, and she went on to describe what sounded like the ultimate meat loaf -- ground pork seasoned with ground porcini mushrooms, shaped into a log, and covered with slices of pancetta.

I didn't waste much time before I tried it myself, as I'm always looking for a reason to cover things with pancetta. Of course, I forgot to buy the mushrooms, so I doubt I achieved the same depth of flavor, but this was still pretty much my favorite meat loaf ever.

I should say that I'm not really such a big meat loaf fan, though I like it okay. (I think part of it is the name. Meat. Loaf. I dunno -- it just doesn't sound delicious. Too bad ambrosia is already taken.) But swapping the beef for pork and adding pancetta goes a long way in my book, and it really did the trick here. The loaf, which included bread, Parmesan, garlic, onion, and parsley, like a regular beef version, was moist and juicy, and the pancetta crisped up nicely on the outside. Like my mom noted, pancetta's flavor is a little mellower than bacon's, so it didn't overpower everything else. I can't wait to find out what the mushrooms bring to the table.

Seaside Sandwich

2006-08-31T19:12:00.000-07:00

I can now wholeheartedly recommend eating a meatball sub while sitting near the ocean, though you might have to be careful to make sure the thing doesn't blow away.

The Clock Is Ticking

2006-08-30T20:28:00.000-07:00

Since I'm at home and Margy commutes to an office, I try my best to have a handle on dinner by the time she gets home.

Not tonight.

Not only was I running late in my attempts to prepare a pretty time-consuming dish for a weeknight, but I also had a last-minute handicap, thanks to ShopRite: I was dealing with almost two pounds of improperly cleaned squid.

ShopRite is my squid destination, and this marks the second time in a week I've had a problem. Well, the first time wasn't really a problem per se -- they were just out of the stuff, and I respect that. But tonight I had to spend valuable time slicing the eyes from the tentacles and pulling the quills out of some of the bodies. All the while I'm thinking, Who the hell did this job, a kid off the street? Clearly the person had never handled squid in his or her life, and I was paying for it, literally and figuratively.

So Margy basically walks in to find a mess. No intoxicating cooking aromas, just me, elbow deep in a pile of squid and in a foul mood. I poured a glass of wine down her throat to help buy me some time.

For her part, she was an angel. She could sense how stressed I was, and so, as hungry as she was rapidly becoming, she never really let on. We cleaned up and did all the dishes while the squid, which by now I had stuffed, was simmering away on the stove. For my part, I rushed things a little, turning off the heat well before I would have preferred.

That meant the squid was a little tough, but it was by no means a disaster. And I'm still excited enough about these wonderful cherry tomatoes we're growing that their presence in my squid stew was enough to keep me from the dark side. They went in whole, just a few minutes before serving, and once again they were like little bombs of flavor, exploding with the sweet and tangy essence of tomato.

Whole Hog

2006-08-29T23:20:00.000-07:00

I had a gig in the meatpacking district, and Margy met me after work for a little pregame BBQ at the Hog Pit.

Ah, the Hog Pit. The warm, almost melting cheese biscuits started us off right. We tried to resist eating them all before our entrees arrived, but we mostly failed.

I had a rack of pork ribs with panfried corn and cabbage with bacon. (Call that a piggy exacta.) Margy had a pulled pork sandwich with black-eyed peas and mac and cheese. Somehow I ate all my ribs, but Margy, even after working pretty hard, had enough meat left over to essentially make another pulled pork sandwich.

Ah, the Hog Pit.

My New Favorite Mexican Restaurant

2006-08-28T22:44:00.000-07:00

Tonight I realized my dream of eating a nice dinner in an NYC bodega.

I had read about little Mexican grocers and delis that have a tiny kitchen in the back, but I had never been to one. Indeed, this place, a hole in the wall on 10th Avenue, was exactly that -- shelves of canned goods and fridges full of beer and soda in the front, then in the rear about eight or ten stools and a little window leading to a kitchen. Stevesie brought us there -- me, Macca, and Looch, on our way to take a rock and roll cruise around Manhattan -- and he did the honors of asking, in Spanish, if it was okay to drink beer with our tacos. It was.

The tacos were two bucks apiece. I had one with roast pork and one with chorizo and potato, and both were delicious. Macca and Looch found that two between the two of them wasn't quite enough, so Looch went to the counter for a second course and designed her own creation, which she had to repeat a couple times to the woman taking her order. Potato and jalapeño taco, she said, and that's what she got. "I think this is the hottest thing I've ever eaten," she wheezed, as her ears turned red and her eyes began to fog over. I'll try one of those next time.

Boil and Eat

2006-08-27T21:34:00.000-07:00

When we got back from our shower jaunt, we were looking to have the simplest possible dinner. Luckily, a few weeks ago one of my mom's English-as-a-second-language students had dropped off two bags of frozen homemade Chinese dumplings, one for my sister and one for us. Mom's student had heard my sis was a big dumpling fan, so the larger bag was for her. But when sis rolled through town from Vermont and stopped by for her stash, she took one look at the enormous supply intended for her and said, "I'm taking the small bag."