Peking Duck (in da) House

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.

Tasty Dinner, Lousy Game

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.

Now the Party's Really Over

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.

Pulling Out the Big Guns

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.

Chicken Bath

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.

Breasts Aren't So Bad

We have a special dinner planned for tomorrow, so this morning I told Margy that tonight's meal would be a meager affair. Why stuff ourselves two nights in a row?

But then my plan just kept getting more and more ambitious, to the point where we had something of a feast on our hands. Oops.

Basically, I was going to grill chicken breasts, period. (I figured skinless, boneless breasts are the last thing we'd ever order at a good restaurant, right after sweetbreads, so there was no danger of repeating ourselves. Then again, a good restaurant wouldn't even have skinless, boneless breasts on the menu.) So I made a marinade a few hours before dinner, to give those bland little pieces of white meat a flavor boost. Into a Ziploc bag they went, along with ground chipotle, lime juice, garlic, ginger, some assorted spices, and a splash of sake.

And then, to go with the chicken, I made guacamole, using amazing sweet red onions that we found at the farmers' market. The more I think about it, this wasn't so much a true feast as it was simply a more full-flavored meal than I'd initially planned. Our critical mistake was eating a bag of tortilla chips with the guac before the chicken was even done. Double oops.

In the end the full-flavored Tex-Mex-style marinade opened my eyes to the potential pleasures of chicken breasts, which we usually use only for breaded cutlets. I was impressed that they remained juicy after coming off the grill, and I look forward to slicing up the leftovers and making chicken sandwiches.

Lakeside Dining

This was a real treat: Margy and I were hosted by a couple of friends for an idyllic afternoon-evening hang by a clear, peaceful lake. Sometime before dusk, the food began to appear -- a long, leisurely Japanese feast that lasted until well past dark. Whenever we felt the urge between courses, we just jumped in the water.

It really is the perfect arrangement, grilling and eating on a dock by the lake. Our friends told us they're the only ones who do this on a regular basis -- people sunning and swimming on the other docks that dot the little lake's perimeter always head inside as dinnertime approaches.

We started with a bowl of dried daikon and shitakes, followed by a vegetable salad with soy dressing. Margy and I brought a few cucumbers from our garden, and those were served simply, with just a little miso paste for spreading. Then the grill was fired up for a rousing round of shrimp and scallops that had been marinated in a soy-sauce-based mixture. I'm not normally wild about scallops -- cooked ones, anyway; I love them as sushi or sashimi -- but I couldn't stop eating these. They were meaty and charred and a little sweet, and they went down like candy.

Then came rice balls with shiso leaves, which we wrapped in seaweed and tore into. Again, I got ahead of myself and ate three of them. I couldn't stop! And then came the soy-ginger marinated chicken. Wow. It was bliss. The beer and wine flowed along with lots of fun little conversations, and there were plenty of laughs. Before the final course of grilled corn, Margy and I eased ourselves into our gracious hosts' old-fashioned wooden canoe and did a nice lap around the lake, followed -- naturally -- by a quick swim.

Poussin Passion

Those tiny birds really know how to rope me in.

And it's not just because I fantasize constantly about roasting Margy's evil parrot over hot coals -- no, no. That's just a fantasy. I'm sure the little guy would taste terrible. Not to mention he'd be about four bites.

I guess, with the soft shell crabs and all, I just like eating entire creatures. Anyway, small young chickens are often delectable, and tonight's came from our farmers' market. I gave them a little spice massage and cooked them on the grill over indirect heat, with a bunch of fingerling potatoes sitting by their side. Then I sat them on a bed of summer onions that I sautéed along with a few chilies.

Margy and I enjoyed our summer barbecue while her parrot friend eyed us suspiciously.

A Very Long Engagement

The Thowmbpsin wedding was finally here. And after a lovely ceremony, a spirited cocktail hour, and a ooh-aah first dance, it was time for dinner.

Those wacky Thowmbpsins left us a bunch of little goodies in our hotel rooms that included an impossibly fun welcome guide ("Hello, my name is Ms. Thowmbpsin" -- soon to be Mrs. Thowmbpsin -- "and I'll be your bride for this wedding"), along with a plastic bib and some handy wipes. You can see why we might have needed those last items, but Margy and I forgot ours.

Luckily, for a good bunch of barbecue the food wasn't all that messy. It was, however, tasty. I had to try as many things as I could, even though I wanted to save room for dancing with Margy. Hot sausage, a chicken wing, some ribs -- I made the rounds. I tried not to pick the ribs up -- that opens the door for all sorts of problems -- but at some point my hunger got the best of me. I'm happy to report that my snazzy duds survived.

It really was one of the best weddings we've ever attended. Great couple, old friends, a beautiful setting, over-the-top toasts, terrific music and dancing, barbecue. That's pretty much everything, isn't it?

Our Favorite Chicken

I don't think there's anything more thrilling than barbecuing a bird.

It sits under the dome of the grill cover, on the side opposite the fire, and it slowly, patiently soaks up smoke and heat and takes on all of the most desirable qualities: crispy skin, juicy meat, deep and smoky flavor. As you walk by and try desperately to resist taking a peek, which will delay your eating time considerably, you're intoxicated by the dark, savory aroma.

Eventually, the bird is done, and you get to devour it!

For this little Amish chicken, I used a dry spice rub and no sauce. Paprika, mustard powder, cumin, coriander, chipotle, brown sugar salt... mmm...

I must give some props to Enzo the grillmaster, who coached me on the phone and convinced me not to cut any corners. See, my charcoal chimney had turned to rusty dust, and I was hedging my bets and hoping I could cook the chicken with one round of briquettes. After all, if I had to add more coals, how would I light them without a chimney? "Dude, if you're not gonna get a chimney, you might as well just throw the bird in the oven." He was right. Margy and I ran out and got what we needed.

An hour-plus after setting the chicken on the rack -- with the addition of a few hot coals and a few more water-smoked hickory chips around the hour mark -- Margy and I sat down to marvel at our dinner. ("Look," I said to her parrot, "we're eating your cousin!") We made quick work of the legs, drumsticks, and wings, and we saved the breasts for what I hope will be the smokiest, most delectable chicken salad ever. I'll often remove the skin when I make chicken salad, but this time there's not a chance.

Hen of the Mountains

More than ready for a few days off, Margy and I headed up to Vermont to visit my sister. We were greeted with VT's eleventh rainy day in a row, a bitter little number that kept us huddled together inside.

During a break in the rain, my sis went out to grill some Cornish hens. Of course, the dry spell was mercilessly brief, and she had to stand under an umbrella for part of the time and then finish the hens in the oven inside.

I am happy to report that all the hullabaloo was more than worth it; finer hens we have seldom had. My sister marinated them in teriyaki sauce bolstered with ginger and lime, and the meat was juicy and the skin wonderfully crisp. For a while on this soggy May evening in Vermont, we felt nice and warm.

Chicken Soup, East

I stored the remaining steamed chicken in its wonderful broth of soy sauce, sesame oil, and wine, and when it was time for leftovers, I cooked some capellini and poured the chicken and broth over the pasta for an almost souplike concoction. It was incredibly flavorful (the aroma didn't really linger this time), and a dusting of chopped toasted peanuts gave the whole thing a bit of crunch.

One-and-a-Half-Cup Chicken

I had a dilemma: After shopping all weekend for the Mother's Day extravaganza and then cooking all day to prepare for our guests, we wanted tonight's dinner to be easy and not require a trip to the store.

One out of two ain't bad.

In the end, I opted for easy and go-to-store over time consuming and no store. I recalled having a delicious, falling-apart chicken at the home of one of my mom's Chinese students (Mom teaches English as a second language), and thought I'd give it a whirl. She called it 3-cup chicken, and she told me how to make it: Put a big piece of ginger in the bird's cavity, then steam the thing over a mixture of one cup each of soy sauce, sesame oil, and Chinese wine.

I ran out to grab a chicken, and five minutes after I got home the dish was steaming away. However, I found I didn't have enough sesame oil or soy sauce to get a cup of each, so I improvised and made one-and-a-half-cup-plus-a-little-water chicken.

I steamed my three-pounder for about an hour. Next time I'll check it after forty minutes, because it was slightly overdone. But hey, my first steamed bird was a total revelation, and Margy and I were buzzing with excitement. It was one of the simplest meals I'd ever made, and the flavor of the steaming liquids was all there.

Yet something was lost in translation. My mom's student's version was deep and dark, while mine was pale. I remember noting the rich color and asking her if the chicken should sit in the sauce, and I remember her saying no. So clearly some follow-up questions are in order.

Oh, and there was one more thing: the smell. While the bird cooked, the house filled with a nutty and inviting aroma that only made us hungrier, even after an hour. But sesame oil is potent stuff, and that aroma did not go away. All night, we had visions of sesame seeds and soy sauces. Each and every time I awoke in bed, that half cup of sesame oil was right there next to me. I could taste it. Putting on my jacket the next morning was like wrapping myself in one big sesame seed.

But it was worth it. I'll just do a little spraying next time.

Far from South Carolina

Wings and drumsticks, ah, wings and drumsticks.

I had those rich, flavorful pieces right where I wanted them, but I didn't really nail it in the end. At least I tried something new -- oven-fried chicken -- and can improve on it the next time around. Oven-baked is more like it, but the goal is to get a crispy coating and a result that's somewhat like fried chicken, without all the oil.

After receiving a bit of telephone coaching from my mom and sister, I laid out the dipping-and-dredging station: flour, egg, and trusty panko crumbs. This time I added some crumbled Corn Flakes (nice tip, Sis) and some sesame seeds to the panko. I ran the chicken down the assembly line and put it on a baking rack in a 400-degree oven for about 40 minutes.

Half an hour in, the browning was not to my satisfaction, so I raised the heat. I waited a while -- as did Margy, munching cashews -- and checked again. After about 45 minutes total, I was concerned about overcooking the chicken so I took it out of the oven, but I should have just let it go longer.

It wasn't overcooked, and some pieces were well browned. The Corn Flakes in particular had undergone an impressive transformation. But other pieces were a bit pale. And overall the coating wasn't moist enough. My results were worthy neither of my mother's nor my sister's oven-fried chicken. Not to mention I wished I were giving Margy a more exciting dinner. But she was happy. And now I know where I can do better next time.

Cutlet Supreme

With Margy's parents coming for lunch this weekend, I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone and make chicken cutlets for dinner tonight, with enough left over for Sunday sandwiches. When breading the cutlets I mixed a few tablespoons of sesame seeds in with the panko crumbs for a bit of extra flavor and texture.