The Unadventurous Eater and the Humbling Revelation

“I feel sorry for those poor fxxxers who call up and everyday order the same thing for lunch” Zach was clearly annoyed and speaking in a wheezy yet sorrowful voice.
We had just finished the legendary Wednesday afternoon brunch and were slugging back another Bloody Mary to kill some time until Zack finished work.
“ I mean, look at the menu at this place, you’d think he would want to switch it up once and a while!” It was clear that he was referring to a specific lunchtime delivery patron,
“Have you ever thought about sending him something different, just to see if he would eat it?” I asked.
“Are you kidding, he wouldn’t eat it, he’d just send it back” Zack responded with a shrug of the shoulders.
At the moment, I couldn’t agree with Zack more. As it happens, I was in the midst of a campaign to overcome food phobias and, in the last month, had simultaneously gotten over my dislike of Sushi (I now crave it like a mad woman) and of runny egg yolks. This is of course not about the triumph of my will over my deeply embedded food prejudices but, I want you to understand that I was feeling rather uppity about my upgraded status as an fearless eater and my perspective was perhaps a bit distorted. ‘Why would anyone want to eat the same thing day in and day out?’ I thought to myself.’ Doesn’t everyone want to be an adventurous eater?’

Later that evening, after my enlightening dinner with the guru, I got on a train headed for Brooklyn. As the train screeched around the corner and out of the station, I thought about Zack’s comment and wondered, what are the pay-offs of being an unadventurous eater? There is the comfort element of course; never would there be a pleasant mistake in the kitchen, neither would there be a beneficial surprise when a waiter mistook your order. This is the price you pay for the mental serenity that goes along with stick-in-the-mud eating habits. The woman across for me on the train was now staring at me with inquisitive eyes and I wondered if I had been unknowingly speaking my thoughts out loud. Eventually, her stare traveled on to the man beside me, and then to the woman beside him and I realized that I was being paranoid and continued on with my mental strumming.

Of course, I reassured myself, I have always found there to be something mildly romantic about the patron who goes into a restaurant everyday, at the same time, to order the same thing. It may not be adventurous, but it sure takes a certain brand of passion to eat chicken Marsala every night of the week. There is a rhythm and ritual to it that is placidly intriguing.

Of course my passion for food extends way beyond the boundaries of comfort, I observed climbing right back onto my very high horse. In fact it is boredom that has been the motivating force in my campaign against food aversions. In my 31 years off living and eating, despite my fanaticism for food and for eating, I have finally hit a plateau and no longer have room for dislikes.

I was approaching my stop so I attempted to sum up the scattered and self-important argument I had been conducting in my head,

1.) There are two kinds of eaters in the world, adventurous, and unadventurous
2.) The advantages of being unadventurous are, comfort, and a shroud of neurotic mystery
3.) The advantages of being an adventurous eater are much more conspicuous, more choices, and more horizons.

As I exited the train and fought my was up the stairs, I drew my conclusion, I agreed with Zack, I was happy to be an ‘adventurous eater’, and I pitied the unadventurous eaters of the world. It wasn’t until the next morning, while eating my morning yogurt and muesli and drinking my religious cup of perfectly brewed coffee that I was violently thrown from the horse by a humbling revelation, I may be an adventurous eater, but I eat the same breakfast everyday.

Quality and Quantity - Round Two -The Upper Crust Guru...

I met Bernie downtown for a pre-dinner drink. Over the years I have learned that it is a good idea to let Bernie choose the restaurant. Not only does he have impeccable taste in restaurants, but he is also gifted at choosing the appropriate one for the occasion. What was the occasion this time? The utter euphoria of artfully created food coupled with a charming yet unpretentious atmosphere and the enjoyment of fine company. With the company already taken care of, all we need was to come up with a restaurant. “ Well we could go to the Mermaid Inn…” Bernie suggested. The idea of seafood was appealing, “or there is Gramarcy Tavern.” To be honest - and please do not strip me of my foodie status - I had never heard of Gramarcy Tavern and when I asked Bernie about it, his response basically made our decision, “ Well Madelano, it is only considered the best restaurant in NYC.” We finished our drinks and jumped in a cab.

When we arrived, Bernie spotted two seats at the bar and, like two teenagers at a rock concert, we raced in to snag them. I could extend the analogy considering the enthusiasm some have for Chef Michael Anthony's elegantly rustic American cuisine. By the time we had gotten to the bar however, the seats had been taken, so we put our name down and readied ourselves for a long wait - Bernie with a Grey Goose Martini (olive and a twist) and myself with a glass of one of Alsace's 'noble five', Sylvaner. This grape is a controversial one of the region. Because it has a neutral flavor, many believe that the distinction reflects both the terrior and the skill of the winemaker rather than the actual quality of the variety. Who am I to say no to a little sip of fresh and fruity controversy?

It was a pleasant wait, and it gave me time to gain back my hunger after the afternoons feast. It was also nice to have a moment to take in the space. It was a cozy spot, somewhere between a Martha-Stewart-style country house and a warmly lit hunting den, the ideal place to get cozy with a stout and a steak in the fall, and to warm up with a Rioja and a Rack of lamb in the winter. In the front room, couples eat off of unclothed antique card tables and at the bar patrons eat off of leather place mats. Behind the bar, bottles were lined up on shelves like books in a library and just before them four bartenders, unflustered by the diner rush, danced about filling drink orders in what seemed a choreographed routine.

Before we knew it, our seats at the bar were ready and we were perusing the menu for greatest hits. For starters, Bernie got the oysters, and I must say that I was pleased because inevitably that meant three or four thoughtfully prepared oysters for myself (another reason why Bernie is such a wonderful dinner companion, he likes to share.) I was stuck between the Calamari and Carrot Salad (an unlikely combination), and the Bread and Tomato Salad with picked Watermelon rind. In the end I went for the latter, I am sucker for a good tomato.

For Entrees Bernie was deciding between the Rabbit Sausage with spaetzle and summer squash and the Venison special with creamy pureed potatoes. I on the other hand, was just lost. Everything looked good. “How about you get the Special, and I’ll get the Rabbit Sausage,” I suggested. Bernie slammed his menu closed with a smile, “Done!” All that was left was the wine, another choice I always leave up to Bernie. He chose the Keefer Ranch Pinot Noir from the Russian River Valley, a good choice for an eclectic menu.

Now here is where I went wrong as a food blogger. The appetizers arrived and after taking one bad picture, I basically gave up. Sometimes I want simply to enjoy my food and not be distracted by trying to capture it. It was nice not to having to struggle to get the right angle as my dinner impatiently returns to room temperature. I regret it now of course, for all I have to show is this dark dreary picture of my tomato salad.
The picture may not be so nice, but the salad was heaven. The rainbow of juicy tomatoes, artfully scattered with basil and bathed in a mixture of olive oil and there own tasty juices, were peppered with large chunks of juice soaked bread. As I slurped up my salad, Bernie prepared his first oyster with what looked like a shallot-flecked mignonette. I watched eagerly as he brought the shell to his mouth and tilted it back gingerly, “Oh man,” he said pointing to the shallot concoction, “ its like the first snow fall!” His eyes were glittering and as I stared into them I could just about make out a six-year Bernie Shananhan struggling up a snowy slope, wooden slay in hand.

Appetizers came to a close and we settled in for a much needed intermission. The headliners would arrive soon and knock our socks off no doubt, but for now we were content with some Pinot and a little tête-à-tête.

Five minutes later our entrees arrived. The sausage was adorable, sliced and lined up over the spaetzle and squash like a winning hand of cards. The Venison was stunning, sliced and fanned out over the potato puree, it was clear who had the royal flush. The Venison was perfectly medium rare and I was absolutely jealous. Don’t get me wrong, the Rabbit Sausage was a salty, savory treat, and the summer squash in the spaetzle was a nice touch, but I could not get the venison out of my mind. As I nibbled my meal like a rabbit, Bernie prepared his first bite, a wedge of meat, smeared with potato puree, and wrapped in a piece of wilted greens. He took a bit and while putting his fork down - his eyes closed - he let out a deep growl of satisfaction. I had heard that growl before, and I knew what it meant. Upon opening his eyes he got to work on the next bite and when he was finished he held the fork across the bar, “you HAVE to taste this,” he said, his eyes beaming wildly. Who was I to say no, I accepted the bite and as it melted, literally melted, in my mouth I realized something, this very well might be the best piece of meat I had ever eaten, will ever eat, it was down right perfection! The sauce was luscious and tangy though not too weighty. The potatoes were smooth and comforting like creamy polenta, and the wilted greens added just the right vibrant earthy dimension. When I finished my bite I looked back at my own plate apologetically, ‘we can still be friends can’t we?’

In the end, Bernie was gracious enough to feed me half of his meal, while taking only a few bites of my own. Of course I still had room for dessert, a Chocolate Coconut Tart with Almond Chocolate Ice cream. The tart wasn’t huge, thank God, and the ice cream was just the right touch.

After dinner, Bernie and I walked to Union Square, which is about as fare as I could walk with a belly so full of food. It had been the perfect meal; the food was creative yet accessible, the atmosphere inviting, the company stimulating as always, and though I ate quit a bit of food, I did not feel gross, and weighed down. When it comes to being 'in the know' about the best restaurants NYC has to offer, I may have a bit more studying ahead of me. Luckily that won't be hard to do with a mentor such as Bernie on my side.

Quantity and Quality - Round One

There are some days that go down in food history because of the sheer quantity of food eaten, and others due to the quality of food. Then of course, there are the those exceptional days that gain extra special mention owing to the delightful marriage of both quality and quantity. Well today was an exceptional day.

If you have ever wondered if it is possible to have brunch on a Wednesday afternoon, the answer is yes. Just mozzy on down to the Clinton Street Baking Company were, though they don’t actually serve a weekday brunch, the indulgent spirit of brunch is still alive and kickin’ well into the middle of the week. Check out this spread that the very passionate eating companion Abraham, and I ordered for ourselves.

There is no denying that this feast was over the top, but after our first successful ride into the city on Abraham’s new tandem bicycle we could think of no better way to reward ourselves than with two pint sized Bloody Marys, a Beet and Goat Cheese Salad...
Lobster Bisque,
Cheese Grits, A Crab Cake Sandwich,
and Some Blueberry Pancakes served with Maple Butter.
In The end, our eyes larger than our stomachs, we were defeated by our lavish banquet.
An hour or so later, with pregnant bellies, and a slight buzz, we climbed back on the bike and rode back to Brooklyn. Now, for most people the feasting would have stopped there, but in just a few hours, this Brooklyn Peasant had yet another eating engagement with, guru of upper crust dinning, Bernie Shanahan. Instead of stretching out and kicking back, it was off the bike, into the shower, and back on to a Manhattan bound train for round two of this delightful eating spree...

stay tuned for round two of this extraordinary day of eating!

Let Them Eat (chocolate) Cake

After a few failed shopping attempts I was beginning to panic about what to get my roommate for her upcoming birthday. In the department of clothing/accessories we could not be more different and, her being a Virgo and me a Pisces, we existed on opposite ends of the zodiac spectrum. After day three of dragging myself home empty handed I finally decided to focus on one of the few , but never the less important, things we have in common namely, chocolate.

At a very young age I learned that chocolate cake rarely ever disappoints its recipients and so on the morning of her birthday off I marched to the grocery store to pick up some last minute ingredients. On my way home I planned all the extravagant ways I could dress a chocolate cake, marshmallow icing, vanilla and chocolate swirl, mint chocolate ganache. My stomach was rolling over with anticipation.

Unfortunately I was not quit on top of things and used to little butter and mistook my baking powder for baking soda. The results were fare from edible. The cake was burnt on the outside, and liquid inside.
Take two however, proved a success and I had just enough butter left over for the frosting. I decided to keep it simple and cover the cake in chocolate icing. Sadly, due to my roommate's and my conflicting schedule I was unable to present the cake to her myself, though something tells me that she enjoyed a healthy slice of it for dessert that night, and perhaps another for breakfast the next day, and most likely for lunch as well.

Low Carb Takeover

I saw this sign in the window of a Middle Eastern Bakery on Atlantic avenue. I find the idea of low carb pita disturbing and not quite right. Sort of like the notion that you have saved money by buying something on sale when really all you have done is spent less money, not quite the same thing. If you want to save money, don't spend any, and if you truly want to eat low carb, eat less carbs (less pita) or better yet, none at all.

Tomato-love

In her article entitled, So Many Tomatoes To Stuff in A Week, Melissa Clark shares with us her inability to walk away from a farmer’s market without an overflowing satchel of tomatoes in tow. The article chronicles her 7-day tomato-induced rampage as she struggles to answer the question, what am I going to do with all of these tomatoes? There are recipes for Multi colored Tomato Tartlets, Gazpacho with Watermelon and Avocado, and even Green Tomato and Lemon Marmalade…ah yum!
Inspired by her ripe and riveting recipes, I decided it was time I engaged in a little bit of tomato-love myself and I rushed out to the store to purchase some beefsteaks. There were no farmer’s markets to be found, so I stopped by my favorite fruit and veg stand on 7th avenue in Park Slope and found myself some of Jersey’s ripest reds then got to work on yet another Claudia Roden recipe from her book, Arabesque. These stuffed tomatoes made the perfect summertime meal and my friend Kara and I enjoyed them nestled in a bed of Roasted Sweet and Sour Carrots, lemon and ginger wheat berries, and a bottle of Pierre Chermette Beaujolais.

Tomatoes Stuffed with Roasted Peppers, Tuna, Capers and Olives

2 red bell peppers
2 tbsp olive oil
1 7oz. can of Albacore Tuna, flaked
2 tsp capers
3tsp chopped black olives
peel of 1/2 preserved lemon, chopped
2tbsp chopped parsley or mint
5 large beefsteak tomatoes

1.) Roast Peppers by placing them on a baking pan and placing them into a preheated broiler, 2 1/2 t0 3 1/2 inches from flame. Turn them until their skins are black and blistered on all sides. 2.) When peppers are cool, remove and discard the stem and seeds and dice.
3.) Mix peppers and all other ingredients except the tomatoes.
4.) Cut small circles around the stalk of each tomato and cut out a cap. Remove the center and seeds with a pointed teaspoon. Fill the cavities with the pepper mixture and replace caps.
5.) Place tomatoes on a shallow baking sheet and bake in a preheated oven at 350F for 20-30 minutes, or until tomatoes are soft.
6.) I served my tomatoes cold at Claudia's suggestion. Do not refrain from sprinkling these beauties with a bit if feta or Manchego cheese.

Something Out of Nothing

Some of my best food inventions have been a result of my own laziness. You know what I'm talking about, your sitting around the house, your hungry, there's not a whole lot in the fridge, and you don't feel like making a trip to the store. These are the days that I give myself the task of making something out of nothing. If you are like me and have a pantry fill of canned and pickled ingredients, than you are an ideal candidate for such adventures. All it takes is the right balance between fresh and stored ingredients, compiled in just the right fashion and you find yourself asking, "How come I never though of this before?"

Why just the other day I was craving an egg sandwich but low and behold, there was no bread in the apartment. I did however have some leftover arugula and so I scoured the pantry and came up with these,
These supper thin "spring roll skins" are made from rice flour and are super easy to use, simply pour boiling water into a wide bowl, place a sheet of the spring roll skins into the water for 20-60 seconds, remove when soft, fill with ingredients, then roll up and eat. You can put just about anything inside of these noodle like pancakes, pickled beets and tuna, curried tofu and shredded carrots, chopped vegetables, pesto and feta, nuts and berries, or, as I did the other day, scrambled egg whites, steamed arugula, pickled onions, and a drizzle of Carrot Ginger dressing.









Who needs bread, with these babies in your pantry its always easy to make something out of nothing.

Red Gold

In ancient Greece hetaera courtesans used saffron in their perfumes, mascaras, and ointments. In Ancient Persia saffron was used as an offering to the gods as well as in body wash (how convenient.)In 3rd century China there is evidence that it was used to aromatize wine. In Egypt Cleopatra was said to use the stuff in her baths as an aphrodisiac. And in Europe, during the 14th century Black Plague it was employed for its medicinal qualities. Tonight however, in my 21st century Brooklyn kitchen, it was used to recreate a very popular Moroccan dish called Tagine Djaj Bi Zaytoun Wal Hamid or rather, Tagine of Chicken with Preserved Lemons and Olives.

Through out my modest career as an amateur cook, I have always been too fearful to make use of the spice, and at $40-$65 and ounce who can blame me. Why does it cost so much? Well, it takes 150 flowers to render 1 gram of dried saffron threads. Thats thousands of flowers an ounce!

The first time I heard about saffron was from Jacque, the Patriarch of the Ponsolle family and owner of the family run restaurant, Pergola Des Artistes. On any given evening you can find Jacque behind the bar sneaking sips of the house red from a port sized glass and, with rosy cheeks, making passionate conversation with customers. On this evening in particular I was sitting at the bar enjoying a healthy portion of Cog au Vin, as Jacque introduced me to the most expensive spice on the market.

“Zis, zis is the gold of spice.” he exclaimed holding a tiny vile of the stuff up to my face.
“It cost more than the marijuana,” he whispered with a grin, before downing yet another mini glass of red. It made me wonder how up to speed Jacque was on the marijuana market; he did seem rather jolly singing along to Edith Piaf and Charles Trenet.

The whole thing seemed a bit extravagant to me. I was young at the time, 19, and I had only just begun assisting my boyfriend, a chef, in our home kitchen. I couldn’t have told you the difference between cinnamon and coriander or clove and turmeric and so I forgot all about the gold of spice. As I began to learn how to cook, I steered well away from the costly seasoning, always believing that it was way too lavish for my limited cooking abilities. That was, until I stumbled upon this recipe in Claudia Rodens cookbook, Arabesque: A Taste of Morocco, Turkey, and Lebanon. The recipe seemed so simple so…peasant, that I finally gained the courage to buy myself a vile of the legendary spice.
I made a run to Sahadi’s to pick up the necessary ingredients, saffron, pickled lemons, and olives, and I literally ran home excited about my new addition to the spice rack. The recipe was very easy: caramelize the onions, add spices, sear the chicken, braise, then add lemon rinds and olives, simmer a bit more then garnish with chopped parsley.









I must say, that with the accompaniment of a Tomato, Orange and Mint Salad, and Orange Blossom Scented Wheat Berries pilaf, it was a rather extravagant meal for only one person - let just say I won’t be taking any saffron infused baths tonight.

Because there were other new ingredients for me, namely the pickled lemon rind, I cannot say that the saffron was worth the $5 a gram I payed for it, however I felt privileged to sit down to such a stunning meal. The color was vibrant, and the savory brine of the chicken mellowed against of the cool minted tomatoes and the sweet aroma of the what berries. Perhaps there is room in my spice rack for a new permanent resident.

Alternative Forms Of Travel

On the boardwalk in Brighton Beach, we went to a Russian restaurant, which is like saying we went to a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. Brighton Beach is more Russian than American, which is wonderful. For the price of a subway ride, you can go to a foreign country.

- Jonathan Ames,

When I read this passage in Jonathan Ames book of essays, I love You More Than You Know, I immediately though of an old bartender I used to work with named Frank, and a conversation a friend and I once had with him. Frank grew up in The Lower East Side and was extremely proud of the fact that he had never been more than 300 miles outside of the city. He was well into his sixties by the time I worked with him, so this was quit an accomplishment I suppose.

The conversation began when my friend and fellow waitress Kara was talking about visiting her parents in Indiana
"You girls, always flying off to these exotic places..." Frank interrupted with a heavy NY accent.
"Frank, Indiana isn't exotic, its the Midwest!" Kara replied with a look of astonishment, "its not like I'm going to Paris or something like that."
"Paris, Indiana, same thing," he barked back.
Kara Turned to me to share her look of utter disbelief. She is a girl who likes to debate, me not so much. If I hear some one make a claim that is miles from the truth I, for the most part, won't dispute them. Kara on the other hand, being a brazen Taurus and a talented debater, would not dream of backing down from an opportunity to challenge somebody's mistaken opinions.
"What!" she exclaimed, ready to pounce.
"Have you ever even been to Paris?" I asked Frank, finally joining into the debate.
"Never been 300 miles outside of New York City" Frank responded with glowing pride.
"Why not?" I asked, now intrigued by his urban yet somehow provincial philosophy.
" Why would I? Everything they got over there," he was waving his arms in the direction of this unknown land of there, "we got it all right here."
"But Frank, its not the same thing!" Kara cried out with frustration. His inflexible determination was beginning to wear on her mental well being.
"How can you even say that, if you have never been to Paris or to Indiana?" she continued.
"I watch the Discovery Channel!" he barked back with all seriousness, defending his reasoning with a retort that simultaneously discredited it.
Kara, finally realizing the hopelessness of the debate, threw her arms in the air in a gesture of defeat.

When I eat out in NYC, I often think of Frank's argument, and in the context of food, it kind of makes sense. Eating out can be an alternative way to travel. However, we must never mistake eating in a French Bistro in Brooklyn for the real thing. Though the chef may adhere strictly to the statutes of French Cooking, the ingredients he has to work with are ultimately, American, the people he is cooking for are almost all Americans, and there philosophies of food and of eating are predominantly, American. You may be able to get a taste of France, Thailand, Mexico, or Japan in this great city, but it will only ever be a taste, and not the whole enchilada.

Hey Good Lookin'...

It all began when I spotted her at the local grocery store. She was all the way on the other end of the store behind the registers, yet somehow, perhaps it was fate, I caught a glimpse of her magnificent glowing skin through the crowd of anxious shoppers. When I turned to take a better look, she was gone, barricaded behind a lady shopper in a garishly green jumpsuit who was examining sweet potatoes from the bin bellow. How long does it take to select a sweet potato? I thought to myself becoming impatient. I decided to better position myself for a closer look and as I crossed the floor I said to myself , out load mind you, this is crazy, I’m not even here to buy produce.
I had absolutely no need for a lemon colored heirloom freckled with shards of lime green. My fridge was full of aging vegetables, all of whom stoically pined for me to snatch them up - like Richard Gere did to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman - and to transform them into a savory and fulfilling meal thus rescuing them from a maggot filled demise at the bottom of the trash bin. If I were to buy this young jolly rancher of a tomato and bring her home with me, it would be a smack in the face to my previously purchased vegetables.

Perched behind her like a stalker, I nervously peaked over the shoulder of the green-jumpsuited-lady-shopper and as she moved on to other produce bins she exposed the object of my preoccupation. It was breathtaking. Staring at her, I couldn’t help but think that some higher power had made great plans for this tomato and was speaking to me in subliminal mouth-watering tones. Who was I to refuse? Without a shred of guilt I placed her in my basket and continued shopping.

When I got her home, I placed her on my countertop, and there she sat with the all the regal pride of an heiress and all the quiet wisdom of the Dali Lama. Days passed as I searched and searched for a recipe that was up to her standards. I felt like a father in charge of my only daughter’s arranged wedding, no recipe will ever be good enough! Then one day I noticed the can of La Morena Choptle Chilies in Adobe Sauce sitting at the top of my pantry. I got to work immediately.

It was too hot to turn on the oven, so I roasted my beloved heirloom on the stovetop, turning her over as each side slowly lost its magnificent color and became charred. I scanned the fridge and was lucky to find lime, cilantro, and a red onion, everything I needed to make a roasted tomato salsa. With a few pulses on the Cuisinart my salsa was ready. For days I enjoyed my heirloom in such dished as Huevos Rancheros, and Beef Fajitas.
I dumped her on sandwiches, and drizzled her over salads. It was like a week-long festival devoted to my exceptional heirloom. When she was all gone, the postpartum set in and was only fortified when I found the corpses of my elderly vegetables huddled together in a wilted heap at the bottom of the fridge, I had forgotten all about them.

Roasted Tomato Salsa

1 large tomato, roasted and chopped
the juice of 1 lime
1-2 La Morena Chipotle Chilies in sauce
1/2 a medium sized red onion chopped
salt and pepper to taste
fist full of cilantro

Place all the ingredients in a food processor and blend until smooth.

Not Your Grandma's Chicken Soup

I do apologize for my recent and unexplained truancy. I assure you that I have not been playing hooky rather, I have had what they call in Spanish, gripe. Don't get all worried now, gripe isn't at all as sinister as it sounds, it simply means that I have had a nasty head cold. It has been four straight days of miserable coughing spasms, congestion, and endless sniffling. So, today I decided to put an end to both my blogging sabbatical and my wretched illness by making my, Not Your Grandma's Chicken Soup. This recipe starts off like a traditional chicken soup, but with the help of a few not so conventional ingredients (chili, ginger, and lime) the result is lively and the broth packs a hefty gripe fighting punch.


Not Your Grandma's Chicken Soup

ingredients
3 quarts of water
1 medium sized chicken
4 whole onions, unpeeled
3-4 large carrots, peeled
1/2 cup of chopped celery
3-4 cloves of garlic
juice of one lime or lemon
chunk of ginger, peeled and shredded
1 small zucchini
1 red pepper, Julienne
1 cup of wheat berries (rinsed)
fist full of chopped watercress or spinach
hand full of chopped Cilantro
1Tbsp Red Curry Paste
1-2 canned chipotle chilies, chopped fine or ground,with adobo sauce

1.) Place Chicken and water in pot and bring to boil. Skim foam from the surface of water.
2.)Add Carrots(minus one which will be used in the final product), Onions, Celery, and Garlic and simmer for 2 and 1/2 hours.
3.) Strain Vegetables from the soup and discard, placing the chicken to one side.
4.) As the broth cools, remove the skin from the chicken, remove the meat from the bone and cut up into bite sized pieces.
5.) Remove the fat from the surface of the broth, add wheat berries, bring to a boil, and simmer for 20 min.
6.) Chop up carrots and zucchini and add to broth along with shredded ginger, red curry paste, ground chipotle chili, and lime juice. Simmer for 5min.
7.) Add watercress, cilantro, and salt and pepper to taste.

A squeeze of fresh lime juice and avocado is the perfect garnish for this picante soup.

The Cupcake Payoff

There has been an interesting development in the early morning construction next door. At 8am this morning I found myself laying in bed awake. I was annoyed at first thinking to myself, damned construction, and then I realized, it was silent. I looked out my window to find not a single contractor at work. Anticipating its daily nerve pummeling, my body must have attempted to preempted the assault by waking me with a little burst of adrenaline. However, as it turned out, there was no pummeling/construction planned.

Hesitantly, I climbed back into bed and drifted back to sleep. At 10am, my normal waking hour, I was awaken by the construction noises I had become oh so familiar with over the past week. Now, I know I said that I would have a little chat with these boys and offer them cupcakes to keep quiet until 10am, but I never did muster up the nerve to try my little plan, yet it is almost as though they were aware of my scheme. Why is it that they were now accommodating my subliminal request? Could it be that one of these contractors in an avid reader of The Gourmet Peasant? Will these guys be expecting a cupcake payoff? Oh dear, what have I gotten myself into...

Old Habits...

Dear Bob Brezsny,
I read your horoscope every week. When things are going well in my life, it makes me happy to see that astrologically it was destined to be. And, when I encounter an unusual and frustrating number of delays, I always find it comforting to learn that one of my major planets is in retrograde. This week however, I did not find your astrological report for Pisces at all comforting.

Ron is down to six cups of coffee a day, which is much healthier than his previous 15-cup habit. We, his friends, might wish it wasn't because he joined an ascetic cult that wants him to get into top physical shape in order to fight the evil reptilian extraterrestrials that have taken over the bodies of corporate and governmental leaders. But hey, whatever works. Likewise, Pisces, this is a favorable time for you to resort to just about any legal measure in order to break the grip of your bad habits -- even if that involves substituting some rather exotic new habits for the ones you need to eliminate.

What is that supposed to mean? Are you suggesting that I join a cult so that I can get off the cupcakes, find God so that I might lose the coffee habit, or perhaps start preparing for a reptilian revolution in order to kick my ice cream habit? Bob, let me be frank with you. For years now I have ceaselessly followed your advice no matter how bohemian, outlandish, or even radical it may have seemed, but not this time. This time you have gone too far! I think I'll hang on to those old bad habits in loo of the exotic new ones you are suggesting.
Yours truly
The Gourmet Peasant

Gentrification and Sleep Deprivation

As some of you may know, I work nights. I usually finish at around 12 -2 am, ride my bike home, take a shower, check my e-mail then turn in between 3-4am. This means that I wake up anywhere between 10am and noon, unless of course there is a construction crew jack-hammering outside my window at 8am!!! That’s right, I am now one of the growing victims suffering from the condo construction craze that has plowed right threw this city.

Ever since moving to Brooklyn years and years ago, I have watched the construction of high-rise apartment buildings swell across the borough and, it appears the rising tide of gentrification has finally reached my neck of the woods. Now, I am not going to get into a debate about the pros and cons of real estate development. Do I want a big and probably ugly high-rise on my corner, not exactly however, I was never very thrilled with the public pissing ground the previously empty lot served as either.

To be honest with you, my main concern is of a much more self-centered nature. Am I ever going to get any sleep? Every morning at 8am, rumbling engines, and earth-rattling crashes make from a deep and blissful sleep. The thing that frustrates me the most is that after a half hour of noise, the workers lay down their jackhammers and take a two-hour break. I just don’t understand! If they are only going to work for a half hour before taking a break, why don’t they just hold off until 10:30am - a much more decent hour if you ask me – to start all the racket?

Many a morning, while trying to get back to sleep, have I considered having a little chat with the construction crew, Do you think that maybe you guys could start off with one of the more quiet jobs, just until say, 10am? They seem nice enough, and surely they could see things from perspective. A good friend of mine suggested that, perhaps if I arrived with a freshly baked batch of muffins and some coffee it might be easier to negotiate the terms of our arrangement. Is this a good idea, or is the sleep deprivation getting to me? Perhaps cupcakes are a better idea...

Lessons Learned

Every once and a while, after eating one of my fresh baked muffins or cream filled cupcakes, a friend will ask, why don’t you start your own bakery or restaurant? It’s a difficult question to field because it’s one I haven’t always had a straight answer for. Clearly I love preparing food, and I spend a great deal of time focused on the subject, but there is something that has stopped me from pursuing a career in the kitchen. Well, getting prepared for the bake sale this past Saturday made it blatantly clear why it is I am not cut out for the food preparation industry.

Wednesday’s test run turned out beautifully, the cakes were as delicate as can be and the icing light and creamy. ‘Oh this is going to be a breeze’ I thought to myself. Foolish. In fact, I churned out those cupcakes with such ease, that I decided I could do all my baking – three-dozen cream filled cupcakes – Friday morning before work. Very very foolish!

Thursday I dropped off my graphics for some business cards I was having printed and swung by the baking shop to pick up some last minute supplies. Friday morning came, and I jumped out of bed excited to pump out some awesome little cakes. I started with the cakes and custards, both came out perfectly. I was way ahead of schedule! For the chocolate icing, I decided to make the butter cream I used for the Blissfully Banana Cupcakes. I tossed the butter, cream, sugar, and cocoa in the Cuisinart for 5 min, and then whipped it in the mixer for 10-15min. Here is where all the trouble began. The icing was runny! I don’t remember it being runny. Oh well, nothing a refrigerator can’t help, right? WRONG. Even after being in the fridge the icing was liquidly, and grainy, something was not right. I decided to ignore the problem for the moment and focus on the orange icing but sure enough it turned out just the same, runny and grainy!

It was while staring at my two failed and formless icings that reality brutally melted my carefully constructed sugar-coated fantasy. I was covered in batter, my hair was a wild mess, I was drenched in sweat (no air-conditioning), the kitchen was in shambles, I had no more butter, cream, or sugar in the house and, I needed to be at work in an hour and a half! This is, of course, when I received the delayed voice message, Hello Madeline, this is Joe from Village Copiers, while printing your cards I discovered what I believed to be a spelling error, unless you intended to spell the word 'gourmet', 'gouremt'… I hung up the phone, took a deep breath and tried hard to fight off the devastating desperation that welled up along side the tears in my eyes. I called my mom.

Hello mom

What’s wrong you sound stressed?

My icing. It’s all-wrong! It’s runny! It won’t set!

Well butter cream is very heat sensitive dear. Didn’t you know that? (NO!)

Well I have no more time left. I am going to have to wake up early. What should I do, what would you do?

Well, honey I wouldn’t have made cupcakes in the first place. Not in this in this heat…

I cried. At this point, the hurricane in my mind quieted. With all the madness around me I could think of only one thing, my answer to the question: This! This is why I don’t open a damned bakery! Of course the cupcakes came out fine in the end. I woke up at 8am after closing at work the night before and made fresh icing - this time using a more heat stable recipe (more sugar, less butter, no cream.) And, though I only sold three of them at the bake sale, my co-workers happily devoured every last one of them that evening. At least my little cupcakes fulfilled there destiny.

What were the lessons learned?

1.) Next time you participate in a charity bake sale in the middle of a heat wave, don't make
cupcakes.
2.) Never open a bakery, unless you like crying all the time!!
3.) Use spell check!!!

Cupcakes Help Fight Cancer...

As you can see, it didn't take long for me to figure out how to employ my new Kitchen Aid mixer...
And, if you have been reading this blog for a while, you will notice that I have at last lifted the brutal cupcake ban imposed by yours truly back in January. Did I give in ? Or did I simply fall, willingly, right off the wagon and into a creamy vat of vanilla butter cream? (sounds good to me.)

The truth of the matter is that these cupcakes are a test run for the ones I will be donating to a fundraising bake sale to benefit The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. The event is being organized by friend and co-worker Ofer Ziv and is part of a larger fundraising goal that includes his participation in the 110 mile century ride to benefit blood Cancer. I certainly admire Ofer's dedication to this cause and am glad to be a participant in this event.

Want to help cure cancer yourself, but don't feel up to a 110 mile bike ride? That's alright! Come on down to the bake sale and treat yourself to a guilt-free cupcake. Fighting Cancer never tasted so good.

Bake Sale To Cure Blood Cancer
Day: Saturday July 28th
Time: 10am-6pm
Location: The Neighborhood Church of Greenwich Village
On Bleeker Street and Morton
(between Cornelia st. and Jones)

1/9 train to Christopher street/Sheridan Square
A/C/F/B trains to West 4th street

Looks Like Someone got Themselves a Present

Last year at this time, if I wanted to bake a cake, I had to break out the spatula and do it the old fashioned way, by hand. Creaming butter and whipping cream was always good, because it counted for at least ten minutes of heart pumping cardio and helped tone my arms quit nicely. Down the road however, as my baking endeavours became more numerous and more challenging, I had to go out and buy a hand mixer.

It was a pleasant addition to to my kitchen, though it did not come without its own set of problems. The low setting was not low enough and when creaming butter, much of it end up splattered on my, already very dirty, kitchen walls.



Also, it complicated things to have to hold the mixer with one hand and the bowl with the other. I can't tell you how many times I found myself jealous of our lanky armed primate with his prehensile (gripping) tail.



What I am trying to say in this round about way is, I'm over it. I'm through mixing by hand, if I need a workout I'll go to the gym, and, I am at the end of my rope with the hand mixer. That's why, when I saw this Factory-Reconditioned KitchenAid 5 Quart Stand Mixer listed on Amazon for half the original price, I decided to splurge. And just look at her! Isn't she a beaut, so sleek and so sexy in her shinny black coat? Now all I have to do is decide what I'm going to bake.

The Peasant's Delight- A Lesson in Blending Coffee

"it is usually taken for granted that there is more to be gained from blending good coffee than from consuming a single variety alone."

- Edward Behr
Inspired by these words and upon receiving my shipment of coffee from Empire, I decided that it was going to try my hand at creating a signature blend. The idea of mixing together single origin coffees is not entirely new to me, however it has never been something I've done with any amount of deliberation. Sure, while grinding my American Roast Malabar, I have been known to impulsively toss in a handful of Mexican Italian Roast, or a French Roasted Kona for that matter. But that does not a thoughtful and well-composed blend make...or does it?

I began by unpacking the coffee. With the neatly packed brown packages splayed on the counter before me, I quickly became overwhelmed. There was Tanzanian Peaberry, Ethiopian Harra, Indian Malabar, Mocha Java, and Organic Peruvian. Some were roasted American style, others French, and Italian, there were simply too many combinations to choose from! Oh where do I begin? I cried out with my head tilted toward the heavens as I waited for an answer. I couldn’t have told you who or what it was I was appealing to for guidance but, like a dog, I waited faithfully for some kind of celestial being to throw me a bone, but the rulers of the caffeinated heavens were not taking any calls and, they never did get back to me.

Having been blatantly ignored by the heavens, I decided I would have to consult the next best thing, Empire Coffee. I shot a quick e-mail to one of the owners, and sure enough he got back to me answering all four of my questions:

Me: I grew up on single origin coffees such as Kenya AA, Sumatra, and Jamaican Blue Mountain, but have recently begun making my own blends. Some have turnout out wonderfully but, others have not turned out so well, are there standardized guidelines that us novices can follow for creating good coffee blends?

Owner: Making blends are really hit or miss. You try to make a blend most people will like and then it really bombs. So you try again. After drinking the same blend for a while your taste buds get tired of it. There are no guidelines.

Me: What originally sparked my interest in blending my own coffees were the amusingly named Empire Blends. Truck Stop Fiesta, a blend of Kenya AA and Brazilian French roast is one of my favorites as well as Bliss Blend, Ab Fab, and Daylight Savings. How do you come up with your blends? And, do you have any advice for my readers on creating their very own coffee blends?

Owner: Our names were chosen by our employees after they made a mistake making a standard blend. Truck stop came about by accident. After you blend 25lb. of a mistake you give it a name and hope that people like it. If they do a new blend has been created.
(What? Truck Stop, a mistake?)

Me: I noticed you have an Uncle Pauly's Blend; do you really have an Uncle Pauly? If so, when and how did he come up with this blend?

Owner: You are writing with Uncle Pauly
(Am I to assume Uncle Pauly’s blend came about when Uncle Pauly made a mistake?)

Me: I know that this is an interview about coffee blends, but having intimate knowledge of the flavor profile of single origin coffees is an important part of creating a well-balanced blend. What are your favorite single origin coffees of the moment? Do you drink single origin or blends?

Owner: Lately I have been into Indian Monsoon Malabar and Java.


Well now, Uncle Pauly is a man of few words, but he certainly did get his point across, a blend either works or it does not, there are not guidelines, and sometimes a mistake can be a heavenly one. It seamed I would have to throw caution to the wind and let my instincts guide me, or maybe my sense of smell.

I opened all the bags of coffee hoping that the scent of the freshly roasted beans would guide me. As I opened each bag the aromas escaped in a mad rush and swarmed around me creating a sweet and smoky aura that hung around me like the rings of Saturn. Each new aroma gather on the parameter before brazenly joining the flock in its riotous soiree.

The individual aromas collided lustfully, entwining their invisible spores shamelessly until they converged into one intoxicating bouquet. I inhaled the fragrant potion and it was then that I knew what it was I had to do. I got to work immediately.
I created four blends in all:
Ethiopian Harra American Roast/ Mocha Java French
Mocha Java French/ Tanzanian American
Ethiopian Harra American/ Peruvian American/Mocha Java French
And
Mexican Italian Roast/ Tanzanian American

According to Edward Behr, author of The Artful Eater and The Art of Eating quarterly, the best blends are composed of high acid Coffees (Central American he suggests) mixed with mellow full-bodied coffees (Indonesian, another suggestion). Their strengths should be complimentary he says, high acidity and light body with mellow full body, sweet with winey, smooth with bold etc. I didn’t read this until I was through with my blending session, so my blends don’t fulfill Behr’s requirements, however some of these elements are present.

Mocha Java is one of the oldest coffee blends having been around for about 400 years. Both The Mocha, from Yemen, and the Javanese, from Indonesia are mellow, full-bodied coffees and three of my four blends use it as a foundation. All three, Tanzanian, Ethiopian, and Peruvian Coffees are highly acidic and make the perfect counter part for this ancient blend. These three blends came out wonderfully, my favorite being the Ethiopian and Mocha Java.

The forth blend stepped outside the realm of Behrian convention by blending a mellow, sweet, and light bodied Mexican, with the full bodied and highly acidic Tanzanian Peaberry. Needless to say it was a failure. The meaty Tanzanian bulldozed the easygoing nuances of the lightweight Mexican, overpowering it with is American Roasted girth. Perhaps next time I will try a French Roast Tanzanian and an American Roast Mexican.

As for now, I am enjoying the fruits of my labor, and have crowned my Ethiopian American/Mocha Java French Blend, The Peasant's Delight. Behr’s observasions reveal that there does appear to be conventions to blending coffee however, we mustn’t forget that we have only come to find these guidelines by first following our instincts and even, by making blissful mistakes. Perhaps it takes just the right blend of intuition, convention, and error to create the perfect Coffee blend.

Zen and Ice Cream

Soon after I bought my ice cream maker, my mother bought a machine of her own and a copy of The Perfect Scoop to accompany it. Now I like to make ice cream, but my mother churns away at her machine as if the world were sure to stop turning if her freezer were to sit ice creamless for but a day. Each week she painstakingly chisels her way through David's recipes, telling me how each wondrous flavor has touched her on a new deep and spiritual level.

This past week I was lucky enough to join her up in Willow for one of these metaphysical ice cream experiences. For weeks I have been hearing stirring reviews about the hypnotically tasty Malted Milk Ball Ice Cream. It seems every time I speak with my mother on the phone she is chowing down on yet another serving of this habit-forming substance.

My first evening upstate, we whipped up a batch of the stuff but unfortunately it would not be ready till the next day. That night I dreamed of a creamy malted milk ocean crashing its luscious waves against a crunchy malted milk ball shore. Needless to say, the next morning I awoke with voracious desire for malted ice cream. I wanted to break into the ice cream the instant I awoke, but I held out as long as I could. It was the afternoon that we started chipping away at the quart, modestly to begin with, then working our way up to a brisk pace. With the container of ice cream between us, we sat side by side on the couch giggling like children with each and every bite.

This is were things get a bit fuzzy. I remember telling myself, alright Madeline, this is is going to be the last spoonful. Yet some how my hand, in a defiant act, would ignore my mind's request and sink the spoon back into the silky crunch flecked concoction. Everything else ceased to exist. The colors and the sounds of the world around slowly melted away leaving behind only the comforting embrace of an all-encompassing bliss.

In the Japanese school of Mahayana Buddhism, Zen is the state of sudden enlightenment often achieved through paradoxical statements or actions that transcend rational thought. I can't say for sure that what I experienced was Zen, but finishing a quart of ice cream between two people (I never even took a photo) for lunch can hardly be considered within the realms of reason. It was only after scooping the last spoonful from the now empty container that I woke from my blissful trance. I looked over to my mother who had not yet crossed back over the sugary bridge of cognitive thought. She was feverishly writing in her note book what I would later find out was a devotional poem about her own mystical experience.

The Buddhists believe that there exists many paths to enlightenment, yet somehow I don't think they ever envisioned Malted Milk Ball Ice Cream as one of those paths; my mother and I know better of course.

The Malted Path
by Vivian
I have lost all concepts of time and space,
and live but spoon to spoon, lost in taste.
The silky smooth and mellow malt
has had me so entranced, it's David Lebovitz's fault.
We share singing love and praise
with each bite surrender to our addictive craze.
Reality returns with an empty bowel
but the ecstasy remains embedded in my soul......

100th Post- The Ballots Are In

Well its my 100th post and the votes are in. After tallying the ballots it was interesting to find out which posts people responded to the most. They were certainly different than what I had expected.

Number one on the list is Gourmet Math - A Losing Battle. I must admit that this too is one of my favorites. I think I am still making up those extra miles.

Coming in just behind Gourmet Math is I Love You Coffee Robot. For very obvious reasons this is at the very top of my favorites list. It did surprise me however that others felt the same. As Joe said, "I really think you were on to something there."

Other favorites include, Spare Change and Bread Pudding with a Twist
A Word With Martiny, and one of my favorites that did not receive any votes The Sacred Mango Message.


If you did not get a chance to vote but would still like to, please feel free. It has been a pleasure reading your e-mails and comments.