I didn’t poison my husband, I swear.
Are babies red meat? (photo of nephew Emmet by his mama, Mc Caren Avalon)
My sister-in-law’s vegan. She even did a “raw” stint. Mc Caren’s also a tri-athlete, a former Roller Derby Girl, aka “Hot Lunch”, and a mom. She’s a scrappy Queens gal who hikes the mountains around her Denver home and grows sprouts in her pantry. So when I had to call her the day Christian came home all drugged up from the hospital with his bad heart news, I was dreading her response. She’s a sweetheart, so she’d never think it, but my guilt projected the accusation, “Lucy, you and your slutty red meat and cheese lovin‘ ways endangered my brother’s life. “
And she’d be right. I’ve never read a label for fat count, and I’m carnivorous for all creatures, except for bunnies ( because of my childhood pets, Rosco and Betty White) and veal (because free raised isn’t widely available). BUT, as a cook, I thought of myself as a responsible food shopper. When you’re making meals from scratch, buying local meat from the farmer’s market, and growing your own vegetables, it feels like you must be eating right. And then I remember the “toxic” contents of those environmentally-friendly NY menu favs that I brought to KY:
I present for your judgment, my Sunday Lasagna:
The Pasta made lovingly by hand has:
- 3 cups white flour
- 4 xtra large eggs
I lure my next young victim.
Simmering slowly in my 3 hour Ragu is:
- 1 pound ground beef and pork (in meatball form)
- 2 hot Italian sausages
- an occasional bacon slice
Layered 2 sheets deep are the artisanal Cheeses:
- 1 pint of ricotta (mixed with basil and 1 more egg)
- A sliced ball of local Mozzarella
- 1 1/2 cups sprinkling of parm
This lasagna is both complicated and simple, and is by far, one of the best things I make. And the two of us would go through this family-sized dish at least once a month. What’s that doc? His LAD is 100% clogged? hmmm.
After my Dad had his heart attack, my mom started cooking healthy, and it was so sad to watch. Raised in Mobile, Alabama, her best dishes are: Fried chicken (it’s all about the hot skillet), green beans (cooked to death with a ham hock) and chocolate pie (topped with 4 inches of meringue). Side note: The week before our wedding, she actually made my intended and me a special dinner of fried chicken, fried okra, and fried green tomatoes. I declare, her batter is shaken by angels. Anyway, after Dad’s bypass, she was at a loss. Her pitiful attempts at meals, mostly taken from this early Oprah gem, never turned out right. Her mother’s sacred principles of bacon grease and lard were up against new rules like nixing trans fats.
She must have felt like her culinary superpowers were taken away. I definitely do. But my mom didn’t teach me to cook, and it wasn’t even southern cuisine that first tempted me into the kitchen. I learned from a worse offender, New York City. My food awakening there was even more debaucherous than my encounters with sex and drugs and rock n’ roll combined. And those of you who danced alongside me at Squeezebox know this means, when it comes to eatin’, I’ve been a very naughty girl…
◊ THE NYU YEARS: A daily BLT on white roll with extra Mayo from the bodega on 11th. They only cost $1.25, and I’d usually pay in nickels.
Charlie insisted on the Palm Tree too.
◊ BROOKLYN APT. WITH ROOF ACCESS: My roommate and I bought two Smokey Joe Grills, because one just wasn’t enough to hold all the fresh Polish sausages from Eagle Provisions.
◊ 9 YEARS IN TELEVISION PRODUCTION: Pizza and Chinese may not count as food on Union jobs, but they’re sure as hell staples in cable reality TV.
But it wasn’t all low brow aorta cloggers, I spent a goodly amount of my budget to ingest quality killer cuisine. During our last week in Manhattan, Christian and I went to our favorite offal supplier, Joe Doe. Dr. Ruth was seated next to us, so we’re talking about down and dirty food. I ordered their chicken liver sandwich served with bacon on Challah. I’ll give you a moment to envision the weight of that sinful pairing. Despite Christian’s aversion to liver, I FORCED him to eat a bite. Lately, I’ve been having flashbacks of that moment, and it feels like that scene from Bad Lieutenant, except I didn’t let Christian off with just watching.
But memory is selective, and I know I’m being too hard on myself. Not all of my food habits are X-rated. I chose olive oil over butter years ago. I love the freshness and simplicity of Thai and Vietnamese cuisine. And I’m super excited about exploring oily fishes. Really. My pasta definitely is my Kryptonite, but after tinkering with a few local KY substitutions: Weisenberger whole wheat flour, bison beef, chicken sausages, and non-fat cheeses, I know I can still bring the flavor. As it turns out, the source of C’s ticker problem is mostly genetic (my alibi!), a fact that I did not omit when I left his sister the voicemail. I also assured her that her brother was going to be just fine and well fed. Just like sex, food doesn’t have to be dangerous to be good, but there ain’t nothing wrong with a little experimentation.
The beat goes on
What’s been up with me
There are a couple of reasons for my not posting lately, but mostly I blame salmon. I’ve been eating more of the fish than I’m used to; a protein that, for me, is one of the more uninspired ingredients in the sea.
I get that this is minority opinion. So, I do experiment with the fish about once a year to see if my protesting, lunatic-fringe taste buds have died off. I typically come back to the fish when I see grizzly bears on TV. I love when they snatch leaping salmon out of mid-air and ferociously bite their heads off. When I witness this feat, I often think, “Wow. He’s really enjoying that. You know, maybe it’s time I gave salmon another go.”
Despite an open mind, I routinely come to the same conclusion; don’t take menu advice from bears!
OK, salmon isn’t the exact cause of my inactivity. I discovered recently a tendency for plaque build-up in my heart, which has restricted the flow of oxygenated blood to the organ by about two-thirds. One artery in particular, the left anterior descending (or LAD, or “widow maker”) is blocked completely.
So, yeah, I been eating a lot of salmon lately. Fortunately, I think our relationship may have turned a corner. I’ve adjusted to that sticky, clings-to-your-teeth mouth feel and find that the meat can accommodate many nuanced flavors. Well aware of my preferences, Lucy’s been slowly backing the fish in to my diet, first reintroducing it with a one-time-only, prosciutto gift wrapping. Not completely heart healthy, but it got me over some issues. A mild, tomatoey curry and a cedar plank version were also pretty outstanding.
Still, posting heart-healthy salmon recipes feels somehow counter to the original intent of this blog. Charting that narrow territory where NY and KY cuisines overlap has been made that much more narrow by my constricted dietary options. But, there have been some revelations brought on by this change, which I think will make for compelling reading; like the lemongrass, cilantro and habenero-stuffed mackerel we grilled the other day.
Some mackerel can grow up to five feet long
Before my diagnosis, the idea of mackerel would not have entered my mind, let alone my stomach. But the result of this cook-out was gorgeous, clean tasting meat and a crispy, charred skin that was thin enough to eat. We placed the specimen at the center of the table and plunged our forks into it, Lucy and I completely picking one side clean. Sweet chile sauce added a nice component, but I used the dressing increasingly less as the meal went on.
The bonus fillet on the other side was converted to fish-cakes the next day; a genius idea and recipe concocted by the wife. I hope she sees fit to post about it. Both experiences were new and fun and reminded us that our palettes should be explored and our appetites challenged.
Mackerel cakes with chimichurri and Greek Yogurt
The other culprit I blame for my recent dormancy is John Carlos White. White publishes a magazine here in town called Food & Dining Louisville. After reading a couple NYKYtchen posts, the guy saw fit to poach my obvious gifts. Actually, each time he references our site, White seems to praise those entries that I did not write. Regardless of who the magazine intended to hire, Food & Dining has thrown me a couple of assignments for their print edition and asked that I edit their revamped website–which is still under construction.
It only figures that after learning of heart disease, I go and find work covering the grand opening of a pizzeria and scripting a profile for a well-known steakhouse owner, (Jeff Ruby in the summer edition of F & D.) I do cherish the opportunity though and have reasoned that if I save up my indulgences for purely professional matters, I can die several decades from now having done what I love doing.
Anyway, these were the causes of my failure to post: Salmon and this guy named John Carlos.
He puts the H in Rhum.
7:00 PM on a Saturday: My next-door neighbor walks into the kitchen, slightly bewildered by the scene. When I asked her to swing by for a drink, I don’t think she expected this: an argyle vest-wearing young throwback, brandishing a shaker, yelling, “James Bond RU-INED the Martini! Never EVER Shake the Gin with the ice!” It’s a very special cocktail hour, indeed.
I won’t get into the hotly debated subjects like when the cocktail thrived (prohibition) – and when it died (late 50s), or even, who resurrected it (some point to the gauche “Cosmo” fad in the 90s). I can only say that I’ve been to some of the best mix-centric joints that NYC has to offer (Pegu Club, Milk and Honey, Angel’s Share and more), and I’m glad the Big C made a comeback. Pegu was near my Soho office, and my fellow TV peeps and I loved to drag our jean-wearing butts over for some fancy-pants $12 drinks. I often ordered The French Pearl (a deliciously balanced gin-based amuse bouché that also happens to sound like a porn technique). But for all of Pegu’s well deserved accolades, there was a downside. I got served up a lot of attitude, or rather, blank indifference, mostly from the kimono-clad waitresses. I don’t like a middle man between my drink and its maker, and luckily, the Louisville fates led me to Jared Schubert.
Jared’s done the job, but he doesn’t call himself a “bartender.” And he’s not a “mixologist.” The exact title for what he does is yet another hot topic in the cocktail world. A Bartender serves but doesn’t truly mix. A Mixologist mixes but doesn’t really serve. But Jared, and those who embrace the vintage drink renaissance, like to do both. They are “Craftenders. ” “Artisan Bartenders.” “Bartisinal-istas.” Whatever you call them, they testify a love for making and sharing the original Cocktail. And on this day, Jared’s come over to my house to learn me and my friends some old school skills with a bottle of Lemon Hart Rhum, his Xmas gift to us.
The white mon make good Rum, too.
2:00 PM – Earlier That Day
Jared shows up with bags of groceries and asks for every pot in the house. Apparently, we have to cook before we can drink. Fair enough. He emailed me his ingredients wish list the night before, almost all exotic fruits. (Warning: This endeavor is not for Locavores, but really, it’s winter, and pineapples don’t grow in Kentucky – ever. So “F” it.)
We’re making syrups, and lots of them. Mango, Blueberry, Pineapple, Ginger, Sarsaparilla and Sassafras. That’s righ
t, I bought Sassafras root, a substance the FDA banned as food in 1960. I have to admit picking it up from the “Witches” store down the street felt fun and naughty. It even came in a dime bag (not that I know what one looks like, Mom). Studies show that consuming Sassafras can kill your liver and give you cancer, but Jared doubts the validity of the lab tests. I love it when food gets dangerous.
So after chopping the fruits into big rustic junks, Jared throws each ingredient into its own pot with about 3 cups water, and gets them going to a simmering boil for 1 hour or so.
Calorie Bomb
The general idea is to reduce the liquid by half, strain it, and then put the juicy concentrate back in the pot with equal parts (we did 1 cup) water to sugar – and not the fancy Whole Foods kind. Jared turns his nose up at my brown organic cane sugar, so I make a quick dash to Kroger. You keep this mixture over low heat until the sugar’s dissolved, and the liquid is the desired consistency of a light syrup.
4 hours of chopping, boiling and straining, and all the syrups are done. I fill every glass receptacle I own and stare in awe at the liquid rainbow we (he) made.
(photo by Jeff Randall)
7:00 PM – Cocktail Time
Some friends, Jeff and Meg (NYC transplants via Ohio), arrive. I tune Pandora to a Yellowman station, and Jared takes his position in the center of the kitchen. I first met Jared when he was behind the bar at 732 Social. I love a night out, but I must say, a bartender in my own home is something I can get used too. 1 part motivational speaker, 2 parts chemistry teacher, and 3 parts Julia Child, Jared begins to run us through the mechanics, the philosophy and the art of the mixed drink.
To get a feel for what’s inside this hard-to-find bottle of Lemon Hart, we start with a syrup-less cocktail. Mr. Lemon Hart (yes, he had the best name ever) began selling rum to the Royal British Navy in the 18th century. For the past 200 years, various rums imported from Guyana to England end up in a bottle of this potent stuff. At a whopping 151 proof, this bad boy is not for sippin’, but rather, it’s meant to provide power and flavor to a well-structured cocktail.
Cheech approves the "El Presidenté." (photo by Jeff Randall)
Some uncreative bartenders crudely dub the drink we’re about to make the “Latin Manhattan,” but Jared prefers “EL PRESIDENTÉ.” 2 parts Rum to 1 part Vermouth. Don’t skimp on the latter as using just a “splash of Vermouth is pure B.S.” Shake it up – and pour. Even though Lemon Hart isn’t the smoothest, the room agrees this cool amber glass of heat goes down real easy.
Swizzle my Nizzle.
Next is the oddly named SWIZZLE. The Swizzle is Bermuda’s national drink, but you won’t find Jared’s version at any Sandals Resort bar. For starters, the alcohol is not the focus, it’s the added flavors that give this drink its depth. Jared believes, “cocktails are like soup,” and his care and attention to detail is exemplified as he builds this drink. He literally begins layering flavors over a glass of ice, starting with a hefty pour of freshly squeezed naval oranges, donated to the cause by Jeff and Meg, then some Pineapple syrup. and finally, he adds the Rum with the declaration,”it’s important to fold the alcohol into the ice.” I know I know. Are we baking or are we mixing drinks? Like with any complex recipe, some minor details make all the difference. Note: I once saw Jared “clap” mint over a cocktail to add a “hint of flavor,” and I definitely call Bullsh*t on that move. That said, his passion behind mixing a good drink is the same as my love for spices in food. You want your palate to be excited – not dulled. The final tweaks to this delicious mixture come with some dashes of Angostura bitters, a squeeze of lime, and perhaps even a little St. Germaine, a delicious elderflower liqueur. The Swizzle. It’s got a lot going on in a very good way.
For the next hour, Jared flew through:
- His History - He started out mixing vodka cranberries at a biker bar in Anchorage.
- Cocktail Definitions – The “Fizz,” an American original, is any drink with a spirit, an acid (citrus), and carbonated water.
- Techniques – When making a “Flip,” add citrus to the egg white to prevent the foam from collapsing.
- and More Rules - Treat your Vermouth like wine (because it is), do NOT keep it on your liquor shelf for months.
But most importantly, Jared encouraged us to make ‘em and taste ‘em ourselves. For the rest of the evening, we all had the best time playing mad scientists and mixing up our own amateur concoctions. To keep our stomachs fortified, Christian grilled up some Jerk chicken thighs rounding out the night into one of the most unique eating and drinking experiences I’ve ever had in NY or KY.
The last drink that Jared showed us late in the evening (after we begged for more) turned out to be the unanimous crowd favorite. I present you:
“UNTITLED“
Fill a cocktail shaker halfway with crushed ice. Add all of the following ingredients and shake it like you mean it. Strain.
Make it and Name it.
◊ 1 oz Lemon Hart
◊ 1/2 oz Lemon juice
◊ 1 Egg white (go for extra-pasteurized – but your chances for salmonella are low)
◊ 1 oz Sassafras syrup (the syrup will keep well in the fridge, and add it to soda water to make homemade root beer)
◊ 1/2 oz Canton Ginger Liqueur (Jared: “If St. Germaine is bartender’s ketchup, Canton’s the mustard”)
◊ Dash Allspice Dram
◊ Dash Cream
◊ Dash Angostura bitters
So go for it – have some fun, there are no failures, and if you ever find yourself mixing for Mr. Schubert, just remember he “never likes his swizzle too sweet.” By the way, you can meet the man himself as he slings beers at the super cool Vernon Club, but for a real treat and some tasty knowledge, I’d forego the stripper and hire him for your next bachelor/bachelorette party. Seriously, he’s much more fun than a little person with a riding crop.
Kung Hei Fat Choi!
Chinatown. I can’t remember the restaurant. I hate that. One of those big ones. Florescent lights, of course. Underground, I think. We were in a group of 6 – or maybe it was 8 – anyway, it was late on a Friday night, and we’d shot straight downtown from the office. New co-workers quickly on the way to becoming tight friends – the boy and I, brand-newish heading toward worn-in. And then, there was the food. It was my first exposure to authentic Cantonese – or any real Chinese, for that matter. I tried everything. The grand finale was a big fish that the whole gang picked to the bone as we spun it ’round the lazy Susan. After eating, we all kept the communal going and staggered through those fairy-tale-nasty alleys to Winnie’s Karaoke. (I don’t know this guy, but I approve.) My now-husband did a death-metal version of “Sister Christian,” and then to save us from getting kicked out, we made a saucy crowd-pleasing duet of “Secret Agent Man,” that we’ve yet to ever fully recreate. So yeah, I don’t remember the restaurant. It doesn’t matter. “F” that hallmark holiday. Here’s to the year of the Tiger!!!
photo by colleague and friend: Fred Grinstein
Ain’t no gastropubs in L’ville
Will the new O’Shea’s be the first?
Lead Carpenter Mike Reed tenderly crafted the new bar at O'Shea's
Last Friday we toured what will be Patrick O’Shea’s Public House. The newest O’Shea’s is also the most ambitious. Housed in an old distillery on W. Main, the designers of this multi-floored establishment took pains to showcase the building’s “Whiskey Row” DNA. The tin ceilings were salvaged, as were many old-growth, “alligator skinned” floorboards, blistered years ago in a fire. A new skylight gushes natural light over original, tree-trunk sized cross-beams. Wood–old and new–is central to the space, contributing to a feel that’s both vast and cozy. Our first impressions began with wafts of recently cut lumber and fresh varnish, the crew still molding their handiwork into the building’s existing bones. (For more on the progress of the construction, see the excellent Broken Sidewalk.)
I know it's a lot to ask, but can you hang some bucolic farm prints on that wall in lieu of sports jerseys?
Regarding O’Shea’s new menu, our tour guide, Ginny Pittenger, described upgraded pub-grub. Our chat kind of stopped short when I asked if the new venture was a gastropub. There’s a funny term that I haven’t thought much about since leaving New York. Despite encompassing the things that I love the most in this world, I’ve had trouble warming to the gastro concept, particularly during the movement’s du jour days. A new one seemed to open each week in NY, when I began to form a reluctant restauranteurs-are-to-gastropubs-what-Hallmark-is-to-Secretary’s-Day association.
That deck got shuffled when we ate at the West Village’s Spotted Pig. Soon into the meal, the genre became defined for me. When done right, this type of venue can make for some really fun dining. By time I was spoon-deep in my creme caramel, I decided that maybe I didn’t hate part owner and daily patron Jay Z afterall. I just wanted to be him.
Anyway, Friday’s visit to O’Shea’s got me thinking about my new hometown’s relationship with the gastropub. First of all, do we have any? I began at Urbanspoon, which lists a number of dubious offerings under the heading. 732 Social? That place is many fine things, but a pub it is not. Cumberland Brews gets a little closer, but their fare is solidly pub-grub, not gastropub-grub.
Actually, there’s a disqualifier on each of Urbanspoon’s selections–unless my understanding of the form is confused. The site links to a Courier-Journal review from a trusted food critic and friend, Marty Rosen, who correctly classifies Cumberland Brews as a “brew-pub.” In hopes of a more sure-handed grasp on the subject, I reached out to Marty for some clarification and to find out if I was guilty of splitting hairs.
Former tenant remnant
“I don’t think Louisville has anyplace that comfortably meets the definition of a gastropub.” Marty said, “Lots of places have half the attributes, of course. But if the word is to be useful at all, it ought not be applied to places that just come close. I don’t view that as splitting hairs!”
Marty went on to compare current usage of the term to the word “bistro,” which has no exact, common meaning here and little connection to its French roots. Asked what should go into an authentic gastropub, Marty was fairly exact.
“First, as a pub it should evoke the character of an English public house (but with above average physical appointments). Second, given the modifier “gastro,” it should feature a sophisticated and eclectic bill of fare. The menu should draw on culinary influences, mostly from outside the British Isles. After all, if it’s serving fish and chips and a ploughman’s lunch, why call it a gastropub? Also, a menu dominated by pizzas, subs, burgers, nachos, etc., is disqualifying. On the other hand, an interesting farm-to-table menu and ambitious techniques are a perfect fit.”
Whether any of this applies to the new O’Shea’s, we’ll find out in a matter of weeks. Clearly, their model centers around its proximity to that big, new stadium and not a perceived void in Louisville’s culinary make-up. But considering the charm of the new space and this town’s daring appetite, a swing for the fences menu makes sense regardless of its category.
In the meantime, we have a request in with pub’s kitchen for an early glimpse of what is to come. We’ll also be watching the developments here with keen interest!
Save a little dram for me
New favorite thing
A precious, 1/4-full bottle of St. Elizabeth Allspice Dram was presented to us yesterday by our bartisian pal Jared. (See Lucy’s expanded, upcoming post on Jared later.) This stuff is new to me and for the moment, I’m content just to sniff it. Actually, I’ve been huffing it like an asthmatic would a nebulizer.
Distilled from fermented molasses, Allspice Dram offers a fragrance of cloves and, I don’t know… ceder, vanilla, basically stuff that smells awesome! Forgotten for years, but reappearing in vintage and craft cocktails, this warm and cozy liqueur is winter appropriate.
Speaking of vintage, the term “dram” got me thinking of an amusing number I stumbled across while researching Prohibition a few months back.
Click here for a sample of save a little dram for me. Penned by Will Skidded and Marshall Walker. Performed by Duke Rogers in 1922.
You bought a coconut. Now what?
As easy as it is to buy flaked coconut and coconut milk, dealing with a whole one is pretty ludicrous. But sometimes impulse takes over. Sometimes you just wanna get to know your food better.
After spending a little time with this particular specimen, I’m beginning to feel like the farm boy who’s grown attached to the hog he’s supposed to slaughter. No, I haven’t named him yet and do know the time has come to take a cordless drill to Tino’s–um, the Coconut’s–eyes. It will be slowly bled of it’s colada, then bludgeoned with a 16 oz. claw hammer.
Sorry, little dude.
Tino, just before "opening up" to me.
The coconut is not a nut. That sloshing sound inside isn’t milk and the meat tastes nothing like a macaroon. My first spoonful of freshly split coconut shattered what I now consider a Jolly Rancher flavor profile. Unsweetened coconut is delicate with a slightly crisp, slightly oily mouth-feel. It’s not sticky. It has a fragrant, tropical smell, but that presence is only faint on the tongue.
In short, my ideas of what to cook with this thing have been dashed. Mixing Coconut Water and Rum was a mistake, despite an aroma that told me they’d be delicious together. (I’ve read that young, green coconuts contain better water for drinking. The older ones have better meat.) I’ll save the remaining cup of water for coconut rice.
The thing that will make me famous.
I forced a trial run of something that once came to me in a dream. Coconut-Crusted Bacon didn’t really do much of anything. But now that I’ve laid the ground-work, I’ll attempt this again with sweetened, store-bought coconut and perhaps a coconut milk dredge. CCBLT’s anyone?
So far the only decent thing I’ve done is a simple Vanilla Yogurt with Fresh Coconut and Mint. Actually, it was better than decent. I used a big enough handful so that the raw, gentler coconut wasn’t lost in the sweet yogurt. The combo has me looking ahead to dinner and a dressing that could very well work.
Coconut Rice with Kofte Kabobs and Coconut Relish
Broiled meats and coconut relish
This meal had nice range and knocked off a bunch of ingredients we had sitting in the fridge. I snuck in a couple links of Merguez, some peas and cukes. Never attempted Kofte before, but longing for past drunken visits to the Lower East Side’s Bereket, I thought I’d give it a go. (I used ground pork, not lamb.)
Coconut Rice
Boil 1 1/2 C. of coconut water, 1/2 tsp. salt, 1/2 tsp. sugar. Add 1 T. shredded coconut, 1/2 C. of long grain rice and follow instructions on rice package. Add water if more cooking time is needed. I garnished this with diced scallion and lady’s thumb–a nice, Vietnamese alternative to cilantro.
Coconut Relish
This recipe was adapted from Classic Indian Vegetarian And Grain Cooking. Process 1 C. packed coconut, 1/2 C. plain yogurt, 2 tbsp. chopped lady’s thumb (or cilantro,) 2 hot peppers (subtract seeds and pulp to taste,) 1/2 tsp. salt, 2 tbsp. hot water.
Heat 4 tbsp. Ghee (or clarified butter,) then carefully add 1 tsp. black mustard seeds. When the seeds stop popping (have a splash guard on hand,) add this to the relish and blend. Season to taste. (I found the ghee and mustard seed a tad up front, so added more yogurt and a couple spoons of coconut milk.)
In no way do I feel I’ve bridled the subtlety of fresh coconut. However, I am looking forward to further research–despite the pain-in-the-assedness involved in prepping this fruit. (Keeping my toolbox in the kitchen for the time being!)
ONLY IN KY
Yes, that's Miss Kentucky holding a $1.3 million ham.
Definitely Not Bleecker Street
The boy and I decided to start this whole blog venture on New Year’s Day while trying to cure hard hangovers with Tomatillo Bloody Marys at Seviche, a local fancy-dancy, nuevo-latino joint. New Year’s ’10 also happens to be the 1 year anniversary of us holding our breaths, diving off Manhattan, and buying a home in Louisville, Kentucky. It’s been good. It’s been real good.
Except for a longing to see my beloved NYC as it’s silenced by a snow storm, I haven’t felt sad one single day. Here are 3 reasons why:
The Aero-Garden
1. GARDENING
Before KY: Apartment Agriculture! I grew some basil, dill and parsley in the Nasa-tested hydroponic Aero-Garden. Yes, it’s space age cool, but slightly limiting at a foot and a half wide, requiring 16 hours of full spectrum rays, and boy, those bulbs are bright!
Atypically Anal
After KY: A Backyard! Four by eight feet of raised bed goodness full of 7 kinds of peppers (I like my heat), cucumbers, tomatoes, tomatillos, and all sorts of herbs. Soil. Who knew?
This is not Pasta Art
2. PASTA NIGHT
Before KY: For 2 years, I’ve happily made my own pasta. That said, the cramped conditions at Bleecker Street meant drying a pound of angel-hair on our impossibly small dining room table next to the impossibly hip art (Garth Weiser) we were storing for a Brit friend. Not ideal.
After KY: I was 30 before I felt the tactile satisfaction of turning perfect dough into golden strands of flavorful pasta. But since I moved a half mile away from my bro and sis-in-law, their 3 kids, get to give the KitchenAid a whirl at an early age – instant addiction. They beg for Pasta Night (now a tradition), even despite my constant hovering, “Watch out! THIS MACHINE WILL EAT YOUR FINGERS!”
Noodle Demystification
3. MY NEIGHBORHOOD
Before KY: I’m not gonna bullshit you. I lived in diner’s nirvana in Manhattan. Smack dab in the middle of the Villages, and right on top of Soho and Little Italy. Easily 500 restaurants in a 15 block radius, so eating out meant never having to break a sweat. Most the time, we’d just exit the lobby and wander till we settled on an old favorite, or more often, discovered a brand new one. Sigh…
After KY: So now, we have to plan ahead – still getting used to this whole closed on Sundays and Mondays thing. (Tangent: All of you restaurants that stay open should take out an ad. It’s Monday. Come here. We’ll feed your face!) But Louisville, I don’t mind the crazy dining schedules, because I got myself a home within walking distance of some of your best offerings: Blue Dog Bakery, El Mundo, F.A.B.D. BBQ, and one gem of a place offering a cuisine I never ate in NYC. Sari Sari serves its Filipino straight up – sour, sweet, salty – the Spanish, Chinese, Arab, and American flavors getting all incestuous with their Malay mother. Pork Menudo or Butterfish Inoong-Onan? In NYC, I’d have to take a long walk to Queens for this authenticity, but somehow in KY, it’s just a stroll away. Sigh…
I know it when I see it
Food porn and my favorite kitchen stuff of ’09
My First State Fair - ever.
#48 – Chocolate Gravy. People in Arkansas are putting it on hot, buttered biscuits. Just perverted!
#58 – Porchetta. I dreamed of a miniaturized version of me using this slab of fatty, crispy pork as a mattress. I roll over, pull one end over my body and attempt to suffocate myself.
#67 – The Blackberry Slump. Bubbling blackberry sauce meets melting vanilla ice cream, then oozes over a golden-brown cobbler crust. Golden-brown… easily bake-speak’s sexiest term!
Saveur’s “Annual Guide to the World’s Best Foods“ is as food porn as it gets. The Jan/Feb 2010 issue features 100 readers’ favorite culinary notions. If the list is meant to tantalize cooks, it succeeds. It’s also inspired us to recall our fondest food moments since taking residence in Louisville, just over a year ago.
Christian’s ’09 favorites :
Backyard Dinner Parties – My wife was unfettered by New York’s under-sized bistro tables, idling buses and passing drunks who’d typically mock her husband’s fondness of sparkling rosé. Somehow, I did not share her enthusiasm for outdoor dining. Until recently.
Didgeri-don't
After gaggling with loved ones around a backyard spread, I can say that I get it now. I know, it’s just a cook out. But for a city-boy, the everyday can take the form of luxury. (Only the very wealthy in NY have things like gardens, fireplaces and parking spaces.) Add home-grown produce and fresh-off-the-flame, local bison, and eating with earth under your feet feels like event-dining.
Lee's Korean, 1941 Bishops Ln.
New Secret Spots – In New York you can enter a phone booth in a hot dog joint, speak a password into the receiver and watch a false wall open to a dimly-lit speakeasy (The East Village’s PDT, or Please Don’t Tell.) I’m glad to have shed the City’s exclusivity factor, but will miss the basement saké bars and subway station bowling alleys routinely overlooked by the throngs.
These days I find that thrill in the non-Whole Foods, outer-reach groceries mentioned in earlier posts, as well as at spots like Lee’s Korean Restaurant. Lee’s isn’t quite a secret. It’s been there for decades. But there is a feeling of discovery when you stumble on its hidden corporate locale. “Hey, I think there’s Korean barbecue in there!”
The Greyhound – St. Germain Elderflower Liquor became widely available in Louisville just this year, despite being what cocktail maestro Jared Schubert refers to as “the bartender’s ketchup.” Fortunately, a partial bottle made it into our moving van and got us through those early days–especially handy when discovering Louisville’s Sunday morning booze ban!
Necessity being the mother of invention and a ripe, ruby red grapefruit on hand, I embarked on some research. What I arrived at is my absolute favorite thing to drink on a warm, Sunday morning. The Elderflower Greyhound plays rather nicely with homemade brunch and the New York Times. Set it all up on the front porch and you’re golden – or even golden-brown!
The Greyhound
Shake with ice: 1 part elderflower liquor, 1 part vodka, two parts ruby red grapefruit juice. Of course fresh squeezed is best and a few squirts of lemon won’t hurt. Pour over ice with a thinly sliced lemon circle and have a very happy ’10!
Lucy
Christian
