Murray's Cheese and an Italian Tortilla

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.

Paris Journal 2006: Home Cooking

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.

Ode to Summer Vegetables

I was a guest of the Maccadonaldi West and had a nice dinner of hot dogs and burgers, plus signature Maccdonaldo (West) baked beans and this fine summer medley of roasted green beans and cherry tomatoes. Half the table was age eleven or under, and our skilled hostess said she knew she could at least count on me to make a dent in the vegetables. She was right.

Before dinner I got treated to an impromptu keyboard concert based around a single composition, that enduring little ditty "Ode to Joy." One kid would start to play it -- with either one or both hands, depending on her piano-lessons status -- and before she was able to cycle once through the melody she would be pushed away so one of her sisters could show off her talent. And on it went. They did a nice job. Little did I suspect it at the time, but this concert was actually more exciting than the one the McD brothers and I attended after dinner, a middle-of-the-road jam-band affair that was long on uninspired I'm-playing-scales soloing and short on decent songs and pleasant surprises. Perhaps a little "Ode to Joy" jam would have helped.

And on the Second Day They Ate Soba

Our little visit with our friends was rapidly turning into a parade of culinary delights.

Margy and I arose in our lovely little guest cottage, plunged briefly into the lake, and then arrived at the main house for a breakfast of omelets (the husband of the couple had picked up the wrong kind of bread, so his wife had to quickly find a substitute for her planned French toast) and fruit. Did I say idyllic? It really was.

Then we cruised around town, took another swim, and -- bammo -- it was time to eat again. Our friends made a great team as they prepared this wonderful lunch spread. Clockwise, starting with the large bowl: Soba noodles, homemade plum wine that was brought up from the basement to be sampled for the first time (light and delicious), shredded shiso leaves and sliced myoga bulb, purple-flecked seaweed strips, wasabi, shitakes, grated mountain yam (which had a slightly gluey yet delightful texture), and dashi-based broth.

We were instructed to mix the other ingredients into the broth and then slurp away at the noodles. It's funny, but we just couldn't nail the slurping part. I certainly gave it a shot, but I guess that after spending most of my life trying to make less noise while eating, it was sort of hard to go back. I did make a few sucking sounds, I'm sure, though Margy was totally silent.

Needless to say, it was a memorable weekend. My only hope is that we're invited back. First, though, I'd really like to treat our Japanese pals to a hearty bowl of risotto alla pescatore, to try, if only in vain, to return the red-carpet treatment that they gave Margy and me.

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.

Summertime Fantasy Dogs

While Margy began her two-day journey home from Maine, my guitar player Maccadonaldo grilled us some hot dogs at the Jersey shore, after we'd come back from the beach and before we played two sets of rock on a deck overlooking the ocean, with about thirteen kids staring at us from a few feet away.

It was like a dream.

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?

Let's Party

We kicked off the Thowmbpsin wedding weekend with a low-key dinner party at our place. It was great to have the gang come out our way, and I tried my best to make a meal that would satisfy everyone while taking into account a few key factors: It had to be quick, since we were eventually due at a post-rehearsal-dinner soiree an hour away; it had to be kid friendly, since we had Homey's adorable almost-five-year-old gracing our company; and it had to be -- oy -- vegetarian, since, yes, we were welcoming a non-meat-eater into our home.

I mean, I'm capable of making a pasta dish without using pork products. I simply prefer not to.

I'd prepared for this dinner at the farmers' market the other day, when I grabbed a huge, gorgeous head of locally grown broccoli. I got the rest of the ingredients -- good olive oil, a nice loaf of bread, some Parmesan -- earlier today at the nearby Italian store. I'd just scooped up the Johnner at the airport, and it was fun to usher him right into the heart of Jersey. We picked up capicola and soppressata for lunch, and he got a nice helping of the local color as the owner and a customer discussed the Mets being disgracefully swept by Boston during the week. The owner, a Yankees man, told a tale of nearly kicking a blustery Sox fan out of his store last year when the red-hatted guy failed to recognize where he was and refused to show respect for our hometown squad(s).

Back at our place, I made my mom's old faithful dish of pasta with chickpeas and broccoli. (For Homey's little one: pasta with butter and cheese.) The guests fell into place, Margy came home, we pulled a bunch of eight-ounce Coke bottles out of the fridge, and we all broke bread as our pregame to a weekend of l-o-v-e.

Dragon (Okay, Chicken) Heart

Tonight was the bachelor party for my dear friend Mr. Thowmbpsin, and a meatier tribute to the fine man I could not possibly imagine.

To begin the evening, we gentlemen convened at Churrascaria Tribeca in Manhattan to get our steak on. I mean, steak was only the beginning. Or more to the point, steak was the early middle, as the meal began with a trip to a "salad" bar that under any other circumstance would have provided a full dinner and then some. I sampled shrimp cocktail, squid salad, asparagus risotto, a couple of kinds of greens (which I assume were there just for show), a bean salad, and sushi, of which there was a full spread of both nigiri and maki. I didn't get around to the mushrooms, the chicken salad, the whitefish stew, the catfish something-or-other, or the...

The reason I stopped short is that I had a little double-sided plastic coaster by my place setting that was on its red side now but would soon be flipped over to green. And you know what green means: Show me the meat.

For those unfamiliar with Brazilian barbecue of this nature, you pay a fixed price and then you eat as much as you possibly can. Once you flip the coaster over to green, here's what happens: Men carrying great spears of cooked flesh appear one by one at your table, each offering a different creature, or a different part of a similar creature. As this endless parade of carnivorous delight began, I realized why there was a pair of tongs at each seat, and it wasn't so us dudes could daintily select a cheese-filled roll from the bread basket. The tongs were there so we could grab a slice of meat as the server carved it off his speared shank, or steak, or leg of beast.

Things started innocently enough with spears of chicken and sausage. But beef was soon on its heels. Prime rib, rib-eye, I actually lost track of all the different beef cuts, because I heard from behind me the whisper of two of my favorite words: "Suckling pig?" Temporarily forgetting that there was no shortage of anything and that the carnival of meat would not cease, I scrambled to get me some pig. It was in a mushroom sauce, so it was on a platter and not a spear, but that was cool with me. There was some crispy skin, and the pork was beautiful. My mind was beginning to melt at this point into an alert yet dreamy state, a state where smoke and fat and salt were all that mattered. Okay, and booze too, as eating all that meat just seemed silly without washing it down with a fermented beverage.

I kept going.

"Sure, I'll have some bacon-wrapped turkey -- why not?"

"I'm getting full, but I can't skip the leg of lamb!"

Oh, and the side dishes: mashed potatoes, rice, fried plantains, fried polenta (mmm!) and... broccoli. Broccoli, who told you about this place?

And then I saw a guy walk by with a skewer containing tiny bullet-shaped pieces of meat, all neatly arranged in a row. "Chicken heart?" he said.

I watched my tablemates wave him on, but my pulse quickened. I don't like to eat "parts" -- not at all, really -- but I was so deep in the flesh-tearing zone that this was the one time I'd consider it. I beckoned the fella over, and he slid a piece onto my plate. Before I could lose my nerve, I took a bite. I didn't like it, but that didn't matter. It was chewy and dark and just too gamy for my taste, but at least I had tried it. I celebrated my boundless carnivorousness with a nice fatty piece of duck -- my favorite, the best for last -- which is what's pictured above.

When I say we staggered out of there, I do not exaggerate, for each of us had taken on so much extra baggage that walking upright without stumbling wasn't really an option. We'd have to have a couple-few digestifs before achieving a proper, less meat-weighted gait. I don't think any of us even remembered to flip our coasters back to red to signify our surrender. A guy with a roast beef on a skewer might still be standing by our table waiting for us to come back from the salad bar.

Mr. Thowmbpsin, salute!

Eat Drink Men Women

Two mornings a week, my mother teaches English as a second language to a small group of women. Over the years that she's done this she's developed a wonderful rapport with her students, two Chinese women in particular. Once Mom let it drop that she likes Chinese food, the containers began to appear. She'd come home from class with tubs of dumplings, jars of noodles, even a box of fiery little shrimp to be eaten whole, head, legs, and all. Frankly at one point a few years ago, before things calmed down a bit, I think the two students saw themselves as embroiled in a cook-off, duking it out to earn "Teacher's" favor. ("Enough!" my dad was heard to report, after forcing down his umpteenth dumpling.) But of course my mom loves all her ladies and doesn't play favorites.

Can you see where this is going? Yup, #1 son got involved. Margy and I actually live right near one of these students, who's the cook for a family in the neighborhood. From time to time she invites my folks and some of the other students over for a home-cooked meal, and at some point I -- lucky me -- got added to the list. In fact, sometimes I get my own special delivery of a round of dumplings or a container of noodles, to Margy's great delight.

Today we had quite a banquet, as you can clearly see. There were six of us -- my mom and dad, the chef extraordinaire, my mom's other Chinese student and her husband, and me. I hung my head a couple of times when asked where Margy was. "She's working," I said sheepishly, feeling like I should be working too. Little did I realize I'd soon be punching the clock -- that is, eating absolutely as much as I possibly could.

Did I say this was lunch for six? Well, the food you see here was about half of what was served. We ate slowly and chatted and lingered and ate and laughed and lingered and ate, and there was still tons left on the table. Clockwise, from the lower left:

* Fried spare ribs
* Whole fish with leeks and red bell pepper (the Chinese among us didn't know the English name of the fish but described it as "yellow flower fish")
* Spicy dried beans with leeks (I had a hard time imagining what the beans look like in their natural state -- green beans? black beans? chickpeas? -- and wasn't quite able to find out)
* Those legendary dumplings
* Clam soup, in the very small bowl -- wonderful!
* Fried tofu with a spicy soy-garlic sauce -- divine!

Not seen here:

* Not one, but two whole steamed chickens, both falling-apart succulent, one in a light ginger-scented broth and the other, called "3-cup chicken," in a dark and delicious potion made with a cup each of soy sauce, Chinese wine, and sesame oil
* Steamed crunchy greens that our host likened to Chinese lettuce
* Red-hot kimchi made with broccoli stems (I sort of got the recipe and have stems drying in the fridge as I type)
* Tiny slices of beef on toothpicks, flavored with hot red pepper and cumin seed
* Something surprisingly similar to Margy's Asian pot roast; our host said it contained radishes but my mom and I agreed they were turnips
* Sweet sticky rice with raisins and dates

And I seriously think I forgot something. Frogs' legs? No, that was last time (yum). Hmm...

Our host was a tad forgetful too -- she had made so many dishes that some of them never came out. In fact, the kimchi was presented just after dessert (which was a huge bowl of fruit with scoops of mint chip, dulce de leche, and butter pecan on top). It was just in the nick of time for us to try it before digging into our ice cream -- but the Chinese man in the group loved the kimchi so much that he kept snagging bits of it in his chopsticks between bites of mint chip. Now that is a good eater.

After a meal like this, I would've expected night to have fallen. But I staggered home in strong daylight, full to the gills and loaded down with plenty of food for Margy's dinner.

McLasagna

Tonight I was not near whomever was cooking for Margy. So my dinner will have to suffice. I was at a Halloween/birthday party for Famiglia McDonald, and lasagna was the main course. Veggie on the upper left, meat on the lower right. Dig the Halloween plate and witch napkin. And that's a classic McD mixed salad. The lasagna was good -- better than my photo.

I ate more candy in the hour afterward than most kids eat on Halloween.

Nyuk, Gnocchi

My first stealth photography mission, badly blurred. Potato gnocchi with meat sauce, with sausage, meatballs, and pork ribs served as a second course. (Not a green vegetable in sight.) Casa Ricci. Buonissimo.

Margy was missed. But Mrs. Ricci sent her a bunch of gnocchi and a meatball to have for lunch. I love that woman. Like I've said, we're all just cooking for Margy...