Detroit food musings

Why is it that everyday brings a new article about how amazing the D is?

This one from the Guardian is on the local food scene. Makes for a good read and good guide to planning some long overdue time in the city.

Risotto a la belge

Sometimes it is great to have a recipe to rely on, and this one is particularly yummy. It is also a great website for those who have lived, live, or will travel to Belgium. In my humble opinion, some of the best food (and fashion!) to be had in Europe is in that little country.

Bon appetite!

Thanksgiving, Past and Future

This year’s Thanksgiving was, modesty aside, The Best Ever. Naturally I attribute that to two key factors - excellent food, for which I was partially responsible - and a healthy amount of Moet et Chandon White Star and Evolution from the Sokol Blosser vineyard in Oregon - for which I was fully responsible for. Family gatherings can be tense in the best of situation, but loosening everyone up, albeit in a reasonably civilized way, ensured that the final prep, dinner, conversation, desert, and subsequent card games all flowed smoothly if not a little hazily.

This year was the second time in my life that I made the turkey. Now cooking in my house is very daunting as everyone is an amazing cook and thus, a spot on critic. So rather then completely winging it (no pun intended) I decided to stick as closely to a recipe as possible. Naturally, that didn’t fully happen and what turned out was an improvisation of two recipes. One was for the actual brining, which I shall forever do before roasting any poultry, the second for roasting the turkey. I found both on epicurious.com, which has always proved reliable in my experience and usually has very helpful user comments.

The first step, after we bought the 13.15lb (5.9 kg) monster was to wash it thoroughly and remove giblets and organs. I then found a pot large enough to put the bird in so that it would completely submerged in the brine, plunked it in, and improvised the following brine recipe.

Rather then adding a whole three pounds of kosher salt, I added approximately 1 1/2 cups, and while we didn’t have marjoram, I used fresh rosemary instead. This was done the day before to let the Turkey soak overnight, and the whole concoction looked something like this:

The hardest past was probably washing the bird after the brine, because you really do want to do it thoroughly, but it is a large, slippery, unwieldy thing.

As to the actual bird, I decided to improvise on the Porcini Mushroom Turkey with mushroom gravy recipe with fresh baby portobello mushrooms instead of dried porcini.

What that meant was that I boiled approximately 8 ounces of the mushrooms (cleaned and sliced) and using maybe 1/4 of that for the mushroom butter that went under the skin and the rest for the gravy. Thinking back on it, 1 1/2 sticks of butter under and over the turkey’s skin is a bit much, but it made the meat unbelievably juicy.

For the actual bird, my mother had brought homemade chicken stock from her cafe, and I had saved the mushroom broth, so I combined both of those to put in the roasting pan with the bird and the fresh herbs. Luckily there had been a farmer’s market at the Corner Brewery the week before and one of the vendors and been kind enough to give me a ridiculous amount of fresh rosemary, thyme, and sage (alas no parsley or we would have had us a good old Simon and Garfunkel moment) for only five dollars.

There was extra butter, so in addition to putting it under the skin (a very intimate process not for the squeamish) and in the cavity (ditto), I put it over the skin as well instead of the olive oil the original recipe called for.

So as the bird was ‘doing its thing’ roasting in a separate roaster oven we have, I started the prep for the gravy. Again, I substituted fresh portobello’s and used regular onions for shallots. I started the gravy with a blend of the chicken and mushroom stock, and added some pan drippings later once the bird was out and tenting. The sauce was way too much for the 5 of us, however I refrigerated one part, and froze a good 2 cups of it for future use. The part initially saved was used with the last of the turkey breast, sauteed mushrooms, and extra fresh herbs to create a sort of post-Thanksgiving Fettucini Alfredo. I don’t usually much care for cream sauces, but given this had more broth and white wine in it then actual cream, it was surprisingly light and yet still onctueux.

I was told by no less than my father, one of the kindest people I know but with a highly sophisticated palate, that it was the best turkey he had ever eaten, and my mother, who has even more discerning taste buds, seconded this. It was pretty damn good, and though time consuming, surprisingly easy to make. In the future, I would roast it in a conventional oven as I think it lets the skin brown more and maybe try it with a mix of mushrooms to add even more woodsiness and richness to the flavor.

Also on the dinner menu was the wild-rice and chestnut stuffing my mother makes’ every year (unbelievably good, also time consuming but fairly straightforward). I had my dad send me the recipe the first year I cooked Thanksgiving dinner by myself, but have been unable to locate the .pdf file or the recipe online. As suggested by the title, the stuffing involves loads of wild rice and roasted chestnuts, is cooked with chicken broth and celery, flavored with fresh thyme and the rest I will leave to your imaginations. Because the bird was brined we did not stuff it, but baked the cooked stuffing.

Other sides were roasted Brussels sprouts (the only way I eat them), mashed yams, and a lovely cranberry-orange sauce whose recipe was from a girl who works at my mom’s. I’m not a huge fan of cranberry sauce, usually finding them far too sweet, but this one had no added sugar and fresh orange rind, so it had a lovely citrusy, aromatic bitterness.

For desert I made a maple-pumpkin pie, with the best crust recipe I’ve ever found, all from November’s edition of Real Simple.

I made the crust the day before and was really hesitant about rolling out. All previous crusts I’ve used have been with the “pat-in” method, and I’m really no baker. However with my mother’s help, we rolled it out evenly and it turned out flaky, not too sweet, and buttery. I think I’m going to use the recipe next time I make my caramelized onion quiche.

So as I get ready to go back to Berlin (where ironically, I cooked my first Thanksgiving dinner by myself) my brother and I are planning to have a late Thanksgiving dinner for him and some of our friends. It will also be a Festivus celebration (dorks that we are). I suspect we will substitute 2 roast chickens for the turkey as it is hard to find a reasonable sized one, and I will bring canned pumpkin, ready roasted chestnuts, maple syrup and other ingredients from the States. I also suspect we won’t make all the trimmings, but definitely the stuffing and one other veg. Either way, it should be a good time and a fantastic trip.

Road trip reflections, early impressions

This past week has found me and two close friends from Paris on our Great American Road Trip (East Coast version a la francaise). We've already put over 1,000 miles on our rented red Chevy, driving from Ann Arbor to New York City in one fell swoop, then down to Washington, DC, and today back up to Boston. 

The trip has been amazing and unexpectedly quirky, a chance to catch up with friends old and new, en route to far away places like Mexico City and Seoul, and spend lots and lots of time on the road. Lots. New York to DC was the worst stretch thus far as we hit both New York and DC rush hour with a vengeance. Rather, they hit us and the trip took a total of 12 hours. 

We've already had some memorable meals. Rather then going into detail in a fatigued and loopy state (8 1/2 hours of driving today) below are some illustrated highlights with further details to be filled in soon: 

Afternoon beers and crab cakes in Baltimore, in the neighborhood where the best show ever, Homicide: Life on the Streets, was filmed: 

Having the wife a a prominent politician buy me beers in the afternoon at Nathan's in Georgetown because she saw me sitting alone with my paper and elevated bum knees. The conversation improved as the beers kept on flowing. It would have been rude to resist and beer does have a very real therapeutic value in terms of pain killing/numbing:

Dinner at Marvin's with their lovely steak-frites, beers, and noisy but entertaining ambiance:

And finally, eating sushi and sesame noodles with chopsticks in a car today - no I wasn't driving (that would have been impressive) -  but when you stop in Old Greenwich for a quick snack, you might as well go local: 

There are many, many more anecdotes to follow, and the hospitality we have received has been amazing. I'll end with a picture of our Boston friend's cat, as I'm acutely missing my own, and he is quite darling: 

A tres bientot - 

E.

Food and Travel, Memories and Road Trips

To me food and travel are inexplicably, deeply linked together. Whenever I go to a new city, country, region, I try to locate the local food market and wander around, hopefully finding a hole-in-the-wall eatery ordering whatever the people at the next table are eating (unless that dish happens to be still alive or a form of insect - we all have our limits), and going to restaurants my local friends (either old or freshly made that day) say is "The Best." The strategy has served me well as evidenced by many memorable dinners, conversations, and fairly few incidents of the notorious Delhi-belly. On a side-note, Google has informed me of a new Bollywood movie by the same name, one can only hope with a different interpretation of the phrase.

While eating dinner with my dad tonight, we happened to have Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations on, easily my favorite show and probably my dream job. The episode tonight was shot in Egypt, and the Bedouins Tony visited butchered a goat in his honor. It reminded me of a family trip to Turkey about 11 or 12 years ago when we went to the small town, Ulukisla, both of my parents come from. We stayed with my father's Uncle Haci, a spry 60 year old who had a Western-style toilet installed in his house for our visit, no small expense for him and hugely appreciated by my brother and me. 

Uncle Haci, his wife, my grandmother, aunt and family all went out to the vineyards owned by our family, though the grapes grown have just been used for fruit as long as any one can recall. We took the sedan we drove down in and Uncle Haci's small pick-up, which had a lovely little mewing lamb in the back. 

I remember foolishly wondering why we were traveling with an animal, but not thinking too much of it as the entire experience of being in my parent's hometown for the first time since I was 6 months old was intense. I don't think I've ever tasted anything as funny or pungent as fresh goat's milk cheese. Think a liquid tangy slightly chunky chevre. It was served by one of the numerous extended family members' we had met (cousin's cousins, great aunts and uncles galore, half the town seeming to be a relation of one sort or the another) and I would not necessarily recommend it. The yogurt of course, not Old World family reunions.

We got out to the vineyard and set up a picnic spot with blankets, various sides and breads, and beverages. Uncle Haci pulled down an increasingly panicking lamb and I realized that in fact the little lamb was going to be part of the menu du jour. After a brief foray into vegetarianism (probably as part of a teenage rebellion rather than anything remotely related to animal rights or health reasons)  I had been squeamish about meat and didn't even cook my own meat dishes at that point. 

How we change.

At the time, I remember talking a mile-a-minute to my mom in English as my dad and brother joined the menfolk to go behind the trees and do the deed, so to speak. I told her there was no way I was even touching a piece of that meat and just how unfair it was to that poor little sheep. My grandmother, aunt and great aunt quickly realized that I was becoming upset and it caused them merriment to no end. My mother hissed under her breath that this was a huge honor for them to sacrifice a lamb for us, not to mention a further financial burden, and I'm sure said something to the effect of "suck it up or shut up," of course in a far more maternal manner.

I pouted and decided that I would still take the moral high ground and seethe in silence as I watched the expertly skinned meat pieces were brought to us on the bone. My grandmother and great-aunt started cutting the meat off the bone and sauteing onions and some tomatoes in a huge pot on an open fire. 

Once all of the meat had been diced, they threw it in the pot, seasoned it only with salt and pepper and let it cook briefly. Everyone else started digging in as I eat dry bread and started contemplating just how strongly I felt for little the poor little lamb and how good that dish looked.

Of course I caved. And I have to say, it was the best lamb I ever had. 

And now I am getting ready to welcome two dear friends from France and embarking on a 2300 mile road-trip on the East Coast up to Montreal and then back down to Windsor and Detroit. We have a few choice meals planned out including Rayuela for the first-time, my DC favorite Marvins, and Sultan's Kitchen in Boston whose chef Ozcan Ozan wrote one of my favorite Turkish cookbooks with the same title. I want to treat my friends to hot dogs on Coney Island and at Ben's Chili Bowl in DC, wander Boston's Little Italy, and go back to Steve's diner at Middlebury where I spent far too much time on food that was far too good, heavy, and affordable. 

To say that I am excited would be an understatement, and I look forward to seeing some of you on the road, discovering new nooks and crannies, and hopefully even cooking for those kind enough to host. 

A bientôt!

New Orleans memories, Part Deux

I managed to dig up and scan some of the photos from that trip, eight whole years ago. 

The etoufee or was it gumbo? I can't tell from the picture, I do remember it being very, very good: 

Antoines: 

Walking around: 

New Year's Eve Bourbon Street Shenanigans and our feeble efforts to cook

It really was a wonderful trip and it breaks my heart that much more to know what happened to such a lovely, unique city with such character. 

New Orleans memories

Last night HBO had an amazing documentary on Hurricane Katrina, Trouble the Water, as told by the story of three people from the 9th ward who filmed their experience staying through the storm, the breaking of the levees, fleeing New Orleans, and then going back. 

The imagery of the movie was fascinating and horrifying. I was living in Brussels at the time of the storm and had vague recollections of the images on TV then, the shocking devastation and the disproportionate racial inequality of the victims. I remember sitting with friends looking at the TV in shock thinking that this could not be the graceful city I spent a week in, one with an amazing food and music culture, a developed sense of identity, all of which seemed to be swept in the mud and water from the levees breaking. 

Trouble the Water was particularly powerful as you the viewer were able to see what it was like to be in a house in the lower 9th Ward, the desperate flee to the attic as the water rose higher and higher in their house, the attempts to find safety on a partially closed down Naval Base on higher ground (they were denied entry) and then finally at a local high school. 

Without getting into too many details of the movie, I can only say watch it because the stories of Kimberly and Scott are interspersed with news footage and horrifying recordings of 911 calls by resident who are trapped in rising water only to be told that there are no rescuers coming. I would also recommend having a large box of Kleenex nearby. 

My own experience with New Orleans was idyllic - during my first year of graduate school a few of us who had interned together the summer prior decided that we would meet there for New Years Eve 2002 and all piled into our friends' Tulane dorm room. The city I saw was graceful and elegant, full of charming restaurants and cafes, a very unique sense of identity and a certain je ne sais quoi amongst its residents which really reverberated in the atmosphere. 

We did spend an inordinate time on Bourbon Street, to which I can only say that I never saw so many body parts, both male and female, on display to get beads, and went to drive-through frozen cocktail joints where the workers were more than happy to recommend which frozen concoction was in fact the strongest, without verifying our IDs. 

But a few blocks away from Bourbon Street and in many other neighborhoods, there were beautiful french-style cafes and small restaurants, I remember one particular Cuban cigar and coffee store which I was particularly fond of and venues playing all sorts of music - jazz, honky-tonk, rockability - until all hours of the morning, and so much more. 

While I suspect most of the calories we consumed were liquid (we were all in our early 20s and didn't know too much better) a few meals do stand out in my mind: 

Eating frozen alligator for the first time in a typical New Orleans joint and finding it really did taste like a mix between chicken and calamari and wasn't all that bad. 

Enjoying an amazing etouffe at a little hole-in-the wall type place when we drove out to the bayou and thinking just how good it was. 

Enjoying coffee and beignets at Cafe du Monde, sitting on their large terrace, people watching to one's heart content and just thinking life didn't get too much better then in that very moment. 

And finally having an amazing meal at Antoine's,  a 160-year-old  New Orleans' establishment where we treated ourselves to a fancy meal. Amongst various recollections, what I clearly remember was the wonderful old-world formality of the service - there is something to be said about a restaurant which values its waitstaff and sees them as colleagues who are also in it for the long-term. My crayfish bisque was amazing, rich and frothy, tasting like the sweet crab-like meat but without being overly creamy, and at the end they made us an entire baked Alaska, lightening it on fire to caramelize the meringue while keeping the ice cream inside smooth, cool, and creamy. It was one of those amazing dishes that keep your palate on its toes to speak, never knowing the texture and temperature of the next morsel. 

I never made it to the 9th Ward - my suggestion to our host that we take the streetcar to Desire was greeted with derision and a flippant "best of luck" for my personal safety should I chose to do so. In retrospect, I really wish I had,  because what really could have happened during the day, and I could have used my best Blanche du Bois line "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." 

I would say next time, but the little that remains of that neighborhood and the changing racial and socio-economic dynamics of the city might make it unlikely that Streetcars run to Desire again. And it is tragic that we are willing to let an entire community unnecessarily suffer through a horrific natural disaster but then do very, very little to help rebuild their lives and neighborhoods. 

I sincerely hope that one time one can laissez-les bon temps rouelez not only on Bourbon Street but all over the city. And until then, I bid New Orleans may deepest a bientot and bon chance.