Posts from the ‘Distractions’ Category

Feb 25

The First Rule of Raw Milk Club

It’s not easy for me to articulate why, but I hate community (I’m also not fond of the concept of legacy). In theory, likeminded people who do things together or at least operate in overlapping social spheres with common goals would be positive, yet so much fostering of taste and values only ends up feeling inbred and smug to me.

There’s nothing wrong with creating your own chocolate from cacao or butchering your own locally sourced meat or pickling, like everything. I’ll concede that it all sounds very cool. (It’s funny that this is all coming to fruition. Eons ago, ok, in 2000, I worked at a short-lived culinary start-up founded by a respected food writer whose byline you see less regularly than you used to. I distinctly recall a group excursion to long-gone Pearson’s Barbecue where a few of us were jokingly speculating when hipsters would start getting into homemade sausages and charcuterie. Who knew it would be a reality in eight years?)

But pegging this behavior to a particular neighborhood (yes, the Times article is titled “Brooklyn’s New Culinary Movement” but this trend really only thrives in a northwestern swath of the borough among a very narrow segment of Kings County's 2.5 million residents) only serves to mythologize a scene. Maybe it’s scenes that I have issues with not community.

Gabrielle Langholtz, editor of Edible Brooklyn stated, “Every person you pass has read Michael Pollan, every person has thought about joining a raw milk club, and if they haven’t made ricotta, they want to.” Really? Raw milk clubs? Exclusive. How does one become a member in this secret dairy society? I’m waiting for a password-protected speakeasy offering unpasteurized delights. It probably already exists somewhere on my block, but you have to look like a daguerreotype come to life to gain entry.

Perhaps I’m just a killjoy. I can’t get into the countless indie cook-offs: pies, chili, casseroles that also a growing Brooklyn staple, any more than I want to be a part of chef worship, the glam other extreme exemplified by the South Beach Food & Wine Festival being covered to death by a certain strata of food blogs this week.

My feelings on this so-called movement can be summed up using the same words Bruni used to describe Buttermilk Channel, the restaurant spitting distance from my apartment that was today’s one-star review (can’t believe I’m using his prose to express my feelings). “It’s laudable and predictable in equal measures.” True that.

Of course I love food; I just find it hard to care about precious foodie fads, and ones so close to home, no less. One might argue that the problem lies with me rather than those pursuing their supposed culinary passions. It’s very possible that I’m simply jealous of artisanal entrepreneurs because I’m tied to a day job for survival (who could afford $8 bars of chocolate without steady work?) Oh, and that there isn’t a single foodstuff I’d even be inclined to make, perfect and sell.

Hmm, the comments section of the Diner's Journal is getting mildly heated (the space was intended for questions to be passed along to the subjects of the Brooklyn-centric article, but it's filling up with cranky statements instead). I'm surprised that there's surprise over a backlash.

Share on Tumblr

Feb 20

Aw, Nuts

Is it normal to eat five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches a day? Someone I know was asked by HR to have a talk with one of his staff members who has been taking advantage of the free peanut butter and jelly provided to the company as part of some health initiative. Said culprit also walked off with three slices of a cake (king cake, I wonder?) another coworker had brought back from a trip to New Orleans.

These are people who make what I assume to be six figures so the greedy gus may be hungry, but he’s certainly not hard up for food. Is there a logical explanation?

One, I think it’s funny that this type of thing would get reported to a superior (my company doesn’t even have an HR department). And two, how on earth do you approach such a topic with an employee? “So, I hear you really enjoy your PB&Js?” Maybe I could get Social Qs to advise
(and yes, I'm still pissed that comments are no longer allowed on that column).

Share on Tumblr

Feb 18

I Don’t Even Eat Bananas

If Denny’s is anti Nannerpuss, who needs them. We don’t have them in NYC, anyway. More importantly, where can I find a restaurant that serves an octo-banana atop a pile of pancakes?

Wow, I love this mom who rigged up her own Nannerpuss. (Heavens, it’s completely SFW.)

Yes, it’s taken me a while to digest some of those Super Bowl ads.

Share on Tumblr

Feb 4

A Porpoise-Driven Life

Are you a chef if you don’t cook? I keep seeing headlines like “Dolphins are Talented Chefs” detailing recent findings that porpoises meticulously prepare and clean cuttlefish before eating them. Yes, it’s impressive that they are smart (and finicky) enough to remove ink sacs and tenderize flesh. But that’s more like being a prep cook than a chef, don’t you think? Raw foodists and ceviche-makers may beg to differ.

Share on Tumblr

Jan 19

1 Comment

Clamming Up

We had time to kill between early dinner/late lunch at Chevy’s (first choice Jose Tejas was ten people deep waiting at the bar. Any time before 9:30pm on a weekend and you’re asking for trouble) and a 9:45pm showing of Gran Torino at the theater next door (it was the only vaguely watchable movie playing. Notorious was sold out and My Bloody Valentine was only in 2-D, lame) so I decided to find the answer to a pressing question I’ve always had. Where do people drink in the suburbs? At Applebee’s and Outback Steakhouse? You occasionally see strip mall sports bars, but seriously, where do people go?

This required detouring off chain-clogged Route 1 and scouring side streets. In this case, Wood Avenue in Linden, New Jersey, my favorite blue collar semi-suburb across from Staten Island. There were actual taverns along the little downtown strip dotted with Polish-Czech video stores and Eastern European butchers. Linden reminds me a little of Roseanne’s Lanford with the addition of minorities (the ratio of black teens to white adults at the movie theater was like 9-to-1).

I couldn’t decide which place to pick. Darkened windows with beer brand neon give little clue to what you might be getting into once you walk through a door. But when I spied anthropomorphic clams, one with a bottle of beer and another chomping on a piece of pizza, I knew Linfield Inn was our bar.

Still, I’m hesitant to walk into dive bars in neighborhoods I’m not super familiar with. Will it be tight-knit and cold shoulders or easy going and friendly? I never ventured into a single old man bar along Fresh Pond Road the three years I lived in another Eastern European enclave, Ridgewood, Queens because I’m just not the type who wins over strangers everywhere they go. I’m not a regular anywhere. (I’m still not sure why my coffee cart guy seems so fond of me [I feel incredibly guilty since moving floors and getting a coffee machine. I only stop by every few weeks now and my absence has been noted]. Maybe smiling and saying please and thank you is enough for some.)

After I opened the door in the back entrance in the parking lot, I was taken with the sign on the interior door beneath the Bud Light logo pointing out the bar and restaurant on the left and a historical society and reference library on the right. Really? Now we were talking. My photo is blurred because I was paranoid someone was going to push the door into me while quickly snapping it.

A few tables were finishing dinner as we entered and the rest of the clientele was made up of a handful of 45+ year old guys who all seemed friendly with the younger bartenders. A little later two college-aged couples came in together and ordered platters of fried food. A gruff Walt Kowalski (technically, I didn't have this thought until after seeing Gran Torino) type showed up and started busting the bartenders' balls and made me wonder when racial epithets might start flying. A disproportionate amount of customers were drinking cranberry juice and vodka.

I turned down the offer a menu because we’d just eaten, but now I regret not at least seeing what was on it. Was the burger advertised on the sign outside worth trying? And what about those clams? I also regret not having time to stay for a second drink or for the live entertainment promised at 10pm. To date, my only experience with live entertainment near Route 1 was the guy belting out ‘90s covers at Cheeseburger in Paradise.

In 2009, I vow to explore more side streets and independent operators. Ignoring the siren call of suburban chain restaurants won’t be easy but I’m up for the challenge.

Share on Tumblr

Nov 26

Cocktails for the Potentially Non-Jet-Setting

I’ve been sifting through the padded envelopes of old cookbooks my mom has been sending me and reacquainting myself with missives I forgot I even owned.

I decided a stiff drink was order now that I’m sick to my stomach over Suvarnabhumi International Airport being shut down by protesters 36 hours before my heavily planned trip (with three hotels already paid for) to Thailand. Seriously, if this gets fucked up there will be hell to pay by someone, something…I’m not sure who will face the brunt of my ire yet.

Luckily, 1965’s lovely Easy to Make Maidens & Cocktails took my mind off of civil unrest in faraway places. I kind of love the unflattering illustrations that punctuate this charmingly sexist bar guide. Each liquor is assigned a type of maiden with a description of her personality. I’ve always thought of myself as a whiskey girl, despite rarely ordering it anymore.

I know, I know, American whiskeys are super trendy now. But if you go into a non-dive that’s not a prohibition-era-speakeasy, it seems wrong to order something as rough as whiskey on the rocks. Whiskey sours, my old drink of choice, seem too musty (though I thinking of reclaiming it again). And no one is going to know how to make most cockamamie drinks from days of yore such as the Hot Deck (whiskey, sweet vermouth, Jamaica ginger [I’m assuming that’s ginger beer]) or a Beau Brummel (bourbon, orange juice, prunelle, sugar syrup). What’s a civilized way to drink whiskey? It’s still 2008 so that would probably dictate something involving elderflower liqueur or homemade bitters.

Not a question for today. Instead, I flipped through this book for something unique yet doable with ingredients already on hand was no easy task. I kept getting thwarted by lacking crucial items like Amer Picon, Benedictine or Chartreuse.

I finally arrived at the Café Kirsch. ¾ ounce Cognac, ¾ ounce, Kirschwasser, ¾ ounce strong coffee. Shake with cracked ice and strain into chilled cocktail glass. I did as told and came up with a strangely pale tiny drink. I would up the three-quarters to full ounces. Well, assuming I would make this again, which I’m not sure I will.

The scent was coffee, yet the overall taste was strong and bitter, kind of firewatery with a hint of cherry poking through. This is definitely not for sweet beverage lovers. I’m not sure that it’s for anyone. There was a missing component needed to smooth things over.

Maybe I will tackle pousse cafes next. Now, that’s beyond retro. I’ve always been enamored by the layered rainbow effect, but that seem tricky to get right. I was impressed by Ruth Reichl’s skills when she demonstrated the technique on a episode of Diary of a Foodie earlier this year.

Share on Tumblr

Nov 17

Monkey See, Monkey Do

I love monkey bread. Or at least I think I do, as I haven’t eaten the doughy treat in decades. Only I had no idea that’s what it was called until a few weeks ago when I read a bit on Serious Eats pitting the canned biscuit version (the type I’m familiar with) against a baking mix.

Then, monkey bread popped up again courtesy of Esquire’s nostalgic look back at holidays of yore. 1984 brought us Nancy Reagan’s version, which uses a scratch recipe no Pillsbury conveniences.

Are ‘80s confections making a resurgence? Yes, I’ll reiterate my loathing for ‘80s music for the zillionth time but Reagan-era food? I could get into that. Bring on the taco salad served in fried tortilla bowls and Jello-O poke cakes.

TLC was recently playing some longwinded show, which I’ve since deduced is Home Made Simple where they redecorate a house and teach the inhabitants how to cook and it goes on for an hour. I was just using it as background noise until I was drawn in while catching a glimpse of what I call Chinese chews (apparently, nothing like these more commonly agreed upon Chinese chews), another treat I haven’t encountered in over 20 years. Melted chocolate and butterscotch chips mixed with peanuts and those crispy chow mein noodles and formed into blobs chilled on a baking sheet.

It looks like some people call them haystacks, but that just isn’t right to me. Haystacks? Monkey Bread? How come I’m only hearing these monikers well into my 30s?

Share on Tumblr

Oct 21

Whole Hog

It seems that whole pig roasts are all the rage (I read about one today on Chez Pim, Esquire just deemed suckling pig as ingredient of the year and I hear that the Big Brooklyn Pig Roast held in my neighborhood last week sold out). And while not trend crazed, I won’t say no to an invite either.

This weekend a meaty fete was thrown by James’ caja china-owning coworker who was giving it a test run in his Bed-Stuy backyard. Home ownership has its benefits.

I had nothing to do with the pig prepping or any of the Latin-style accompaniments. All I know is that the party’s star came from Paisanos in Carroll Gardens and that asking the price would be gauche. Oh, and that it was brined in a garbage bag. I merely showed up with a six-pack and a hunger for pork. The yellow rice, tostones and soupy red beans weren’t too shabby either.

We arrived right after the butterflied animal had been removed from the coals, still pressed in its metal contraption.

It finally decided to get fall-like and an unexpected chill had set in. I hadn’t even thought to wear a coat (it was almost 80 on Wed.) so I stayed close to the caja china instead of sitting down properly. The best part of hanging out near the dying coals, was being able to crisp up fatty slices of skin on the fly. That, however, is not skin on the rack but a steak.

You could take such a creation in many directions. When and if I ever have the space to roast a whole beast, I envision lechon and a Filipino spread.

Share on Tumblr

Aug 23

But Can She Carve a Turkey With Those Paws

Oh my, this video encapsulates all of my loves: chubby Siamese cats, crazy ladies and well, food. When was the last time you saw a feline eating with chopsticks?

via Guanabee

Share on Tumblr

Aug 14