I had a moment of serendipity earlier this month when I was at a party and the host mentioned this really cool pear tree he had in his back yard.
“Help yourself,” he said, and so, with Cake and Commerce’s October canning challenge in mind, I did. I had the perfect plan in mind: pear butter.
The internet proved to be both a blessing and a curse in my quest for perfect pear butter. While it provided some alternative recipes, it also provided some contrary advice as to how my pears should be cooked. Should I core and peel my pears first, or take advantage of the pectin contained there? How many pears should I use? Should I push the mixture through a sieve or blend it in a food processor?
In the end, I used about six pounds of pears, and keeping in mind my pectin problem of the previous month, decided to cook the pears with their skins and cores, to maximize my chances of a good set. I cut the pears into quarters and set them in a large pot, with about three cups of sweet white wine, and cooked then until the pears were mushy enough that I could remove the core with a spoon. I then cut the cores from the pears, returned them to the pot and added two cups of sugar and a cinnamon stick. I let that cook until it was the consistency of apple sauce and then put the mixture through a food processor to smooth it out. Then, I cooked the mixture until it had reduced by half- a couple of hours.
The pears were then ladled into pint jars and processed. One is waiting to be given to my friend with the pear tree.
Pear Crostini
12 slices French bread
1 pear, thinly sliced
Gorgonzola cheese
Pear butter
Toast bread until golden and spread generously with pear butter. Sprinkle with gorgonzola and top with a pear slice. Return to oven and cook until cheese is just melted.
It’s not too often that I have reason to hang out in a professional kitchen… so when offered the opportunity, I usually jump at the chance. There’s something about the coordinated chaos there that I love, a sense of awe that all these seemingly separate parts can unite to create something, and do it the same way every time.
So I was delighted when the folks at Petit Robert agreed to have me come in a couple weeks ago to learn how to make their vegetable paté. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to make paté at home for the past few months, and I figured what better way to get over my fears then to learn from the professionals?
My visit happened to fall upon one of those rainy fall days that makes you long to cook. I was greeted by Chef Jacky Robert, who brought me back to the kitchen, a small, but well-organized space. A huge pan of onions sat on one burner, slowly caramelizing for onion soup. Behind them, a pot of pork rillettes simmered quietly; they would eventually become paté. Chef Jacky introduced me to Juan, one of his chefs. The two have worked together for 13 years and get on remarkably well, considering that Chef Jacky’s Spanish is so-so and Juan’s English is so-so. A couple times a week, Juan makes giant batches of patés. Today, he was planning to fill three giant loaf pans with vegetable paté.
Juan was already stirring a pot of sliced onions coated in olive oil. “Suave,” he said. “Que no se queme.” Slowly, so they don’t burn. When the onions were just starting to turn translucent, he added a 6 lb. can of diced tomatoes, with all their juice (the restaurant uses fresh tomatoes when they’re in season), along with a tablespoon each of salt and sugar, a heaping handful of garlic and a touch of red pepper flakes. While that simmered, he set a large pot of salted water to boil.
Chef Jacky stopped by and explained that vegetables should always be cooked the French way- in salt water.
Jacky’s commitment to maintaining Petit Robert as a traditional French bistro is remarkable, and something that’s noted not just on the restaurant’s web site, but in the recent “Bistro Authentique” award bestowed upon it by Stuff Magazine recently.
“American restaurants shamelessly slap the term bistro on everything from awful chain outlets to places with $55 entrees,” the magazine wrote. “The French reserve the term for modest neighborhood spots like Petit Robert Bistro that unpretentiously serve delicious, relatively simple meals at working man’s prices.”
“This is what we try to do,” Jacky said, handing me the magazine.
Back at the stove, Juan was adding a large bunch of broccoli florets to the now boiling pot of water. He let them cook for precisely three minutes, then removed them with a slotted spoon and plunged them into and ice bath. Asparagus, cut into two-inch pieces with any white removed, was added. While that cooked, Juan worked on taking the broccoli from the ice, shaking each piece vigorously and putting it into a towel lined dish to remove as much water as possible.
The asparagus was tasted and tasted again. When it had reached the perfect point of tenderness (just very slightly crunchy and still bright green) it was removed from the pot and plunged into ice water, which keeps the vegetables from cooking any more. Green beans were added to the pot, which Juan stirred on occasion to ensure that everything cooked evenly.
While the green beans cooked, Juan got to work on the tomato mixture, which had been cooking continuously. First, the mixture was liquefied in a blender, then it was poured through a sieve. This ensured a smooth coulis, which would bind the paté.
Juan took six cups of the coulis and added 30 sheets of softened gelatin, which he returned to the stove to dissolve. While that heated, he whisked three cups of heavy cream (btw, forget fancy measuring cups, he used a standard Petit Robert coffee mug, the same ones diners sip coffee from after their meals) until it was foamy and retuned it to a refrigerator until later.
By that time, the gelatin had dissolved into the tomato mixture. Juan removed it from the stove and poured it into a bowl set over ice. He occasionally stirred the mixture with a whisk to keep everything smooth.
While the mixture cooled, Juan set to work on the molds, greasing them and packing the bottoms with broccoli florets set upside down. He packed them pretty tightly, getting as many florets as possible into the pans.
Juan then returned to the tomato mixture, which by this time was the consistency of a hearty tomato sauce. The cream was added, and the mixture took on the look of a vegetable mousse. Some of this was spooned into the loaf pans, pushed into the bottom of the pan until it just reached the top of the broccoli stems. (See below)
The asparagus and green beans were folded into the remaining tomato mixture and then added to the loaf pans. Juan pushed firmly with a spatula to remove any air bubbles and to ensure as much of the mixture got into the pan as humanly possible. The molds were then covered with plastic wrap and put in the refrigerator to set for three to four hours.
Petit Robert offers the “green and red vegetable paté” as an appetizer, serving it with herbed oil and topped with tomato concassé. At $5.50, it’s a substantial portion, suitable for a light meal on its own, or a good substitute for a salad.
So blueberry jam was my first attempt to store the flavors of summer. But Chicky and I couldn’t stop there… afterall, summer’s bounty amounts to much more than a few jars of jam. So, we decided to do some booze infusing too.
Back story: My sister Chicky used to live in Oregon. She went to a school that was a hippie’s paradise and learned all about things like vegans, recycling and buying clothes by the pound. She also learned how to infuse vodka. This was back a few years ago, when infusing things wasn’t something you saw at Marina Bay. Anyway, Chicky used to hang out at this joint called The Delta, where she used my ID to drink copious amounts of infused vodka and become one of the bar’s best customers. The folks there liked her so much they named a drink after her. The main ingredient: cucumber infused vodka.
(Another side story, when Chicky informed my Dad that she’d had a drink named after her, he asked her what it was called. No joke.)
Anyway, a plethora of cucumbers and Linsey’s canning challenge inspired me to whip up a batch of cucumber infused vodka, which I thought I’d share with you all as it’s dead easy to make and always a crowd pleaser. The recipe: take a bunch of cucumbers (say, between four and six for a liter of vodka), slice them up and put them into some kind of glass jar. Pour vodka over them and let them hang out in a cool dark place for a few days (don’t let them sit too long or the cucumber skin will start to turn bitter). Strain, and bottle. Share with friends.
Bonus recipe: The Chicky
mix 1.5 oz cucumber infused vodka with 2 oz pineapple juice. Serve on the rocks, garnished with a cucumber slice.
There’s a favorite saying in journalism that goes something like this: “I love deadlines. I love the sound they make as they go whizzing by.”
Such is the case with Cake and Commerce’s first Can-o-Rama Challenge, which I fully intended to participate in. And I did, in my own way…. I just didn’t get around to blogging about it by the Oct. 3 deadline.
It’s been just over a month since I attended the Can-o-rama Cantacular, a day-long seminar devoted to teaching folks like myself about the joys of home canning. I left there rearing to make my own jellies, jams and butters, bursting with confidence and bravado… I went to Allandale Farm and bought local blueberries, pint jars and the Ball Blue Book Guide to Preserving. I got my hands on a candy thermometer and a 5-pound bag of sugar. I dusted off my potato masher. And then finally, on Saturday I made my very first jam.
I decided to start simple with blueberry jam. The recipe was easy: 9 cups of blueberries, 6 cups of sugar. Boil to 220 degrees. Process 15 minutes.
Step on was easy enough. Take these berries:
and mash them up. Then, add sugar. It will look like this:
From here, things got a bit dicey. “Bring slowly to a boil, stirring until sugar dissolves. Cook rapidly to a gelling point,” the book said. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. I kept the heat on medium, stirring the mixture until the sugar liquefied and started to boil. Then, I turned the heat to high to get it to the gelling point. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be stirring the whole time, so I didn’t. My jam boiled over, creating something of a mess. Finally, after a while, my thermometer read the magical 220 degrees.
From there, things got really precarious. I’d resisted going nuts and buying *all* the canning equipment since I wasn’t sure if home canning was something I’d do all that much. I figured I could find other kitchen implements to stand in for the jar lifter, canning rack and funnel. However, trying to use kitchen tongs to lift empty jars out of boiling water proved difficult and using them to place full jars into the pot was just plain treacherous. Also, trying to get the molten jam into the jars with just a ladle was kind of stupid, as it meant I dripped sticky purple stuff pretty much everywhere. There were some scalded fingers, some splashing of boiling water and a few screams. I have no photos of this part as I was trying mightily not to maim myself. But this aftermath shot of my cooking area should give you an idea of what it was like:
I processed the jars for 15 minutes and then moved them to a quiet spot on the counter where they started making little pinging noises.
Lo and behold, 24 hours later, I had sealed jars. I did not, however, have set jam. Linsey wisely advised me to simply call it “blueberry sauce” which I’m more than happy to do. It tastes great on biscuits.
A few thoughts after my home canning experience:
- Bigger isn’t always better. A pint of jam is a lot of jam. Half-pint jars would have been a more manageable size and enabled me to share better. This recipe promised eight half-pints, but I was only able to process three full pints as the fourth wasn’t full enough.
- I will be investing in a can lifter and funnel. No more burns or spills.
- I’m not sure if adding an apple peel would have been prudent here in order to get more pectin into the jam for a better set.
While my first home canning experience wasn’t exactly sublime, I like the idea of trying to master this… October Pear Challenge, here I come!
I’ve never been one to subscribe to the lure of waterfront restaurants. All too often when people rave about them I find they’re talking about the view rather than the food. Hence, I was intrigued a couple months ago when I read a snippet in The Phoenix about a tiny place in Eastie called Scups.
“How refreshing: a waterfront joint that’s actually quite good,” the subhead read. Even so, I wasn’t moved enough to dash on over… after all, getting to Eastie involves water taxis, the Tobin Bridge or the dreaded Blue Line.
But several weeks later I was talking to a friend of mine about brunch places and she mentioned this great breakfast she’d just had in Eastie. “The flavors were amazing,” she said. “I think it’s called Scups.” OK, I thought, maybe it’s time to check this place out.
I’ll be up front: getting to Scups is no easy task. Located inside the Boston Harbor Ship Yard and Marina, you either have to arrive by car, water taxi or private boat and unless you’re a ship builder or a yachtsman, it’s rare that you’ll just happen to be in the neighborhood and swing on by for a sandwich.
Once you’re inside the ship yard, finding Scups is a challenge. Located in a squat, non-descript red brick building, your only clue is a cluster of picnic tables and an orange life ring painted with the word “open” that’s propped up on a broken lobster trap by the door. Around the corner, a sign bearing the restaurant’s name is spelled out in signal flags.
Signal flags spell out Scups amid a pile of junk.
Scups’ obvious Yankee ingenuity delighted me upon my arrival. An old life raft full near the kitchen door had been planted with basil, while discarded soup pots surrounded the patio and were filled with tomato plants and marigolds. A plastic freezer bag filled with water hung in the doorway like some practical joke- the woman working the counter told me that the reflection of the sun on the bag confuses flies and keeps them out of the restaurant. Sure enough, the dining area was insect free, despite the open door.
I opted for the “Cheesy BLT” ($6.50) and a raspberry lime rickey ($2.50), while my companion got the “Scuppah,” a grilled hot dog bun filled with chicken salad (a seeming bargain at $3).
While we waited for our food I nosed around the dining area, which has a lot to look at despite its small size. A large table where diners eat communally takes up most of the space. But there’s also four seats at a counter across from the ordering window that look out into the harbor. The counter is the soul of the place, crowded with a hodge podge of New England and nautical artifacts ranging from a bunch of pussy willows in a sterling water pitcher to a book on the history of ships and an autographed photo of Kirk Douglas.
It was a nice day, so we took a seat outside at one of the few picnic tables that grace Scup’s patio. Our food didn’t take long to arrive, but had clearly been prepared for us. My BLT was piled onto grilled wheat bread- thick-cut, crispy bacon, halved cherry tomatoes and cheddar cheese. A generous spread of pesto gave it a fresh taste that made me wish I’d thought of adding it to a BLT before.
The Scuppah was another invention I wish I’d discovered sooner. A grilled hotdog bun filled with chicken salad (there’s also a tuna option), the sandwich was crunchy and soft, warm and cool all at the same time. Why, in the land of lobster rolls, don’t we pile any and everything into grilled hotdog buns? It was so good we ordered a second.
My raspberry lime rickey was similarly extraordinary. Usually a concoction that tastes like a watered down Shirley Temple, this one was obviously made by someone who knew what a raspberry lime rickey should taste like. The syrup was subtly sweet (perhaps naturally flavored?), offset by the sour lime and the bubbly club soda… a real pleasure to drink.
I’m apparently not the only one enamored with this place. After I went, I discovered that Boston Magazine named Scups Boston’s “Ultimate BLT” this year. No doubt, this little restaurant will continue to get a lot more popular. Just remember, arrive early if you want choices.
“The sun, with all those plants revolving around it and dependent upon it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if ithad nothing else in the universe to do.”
– Galileo
I’m not sure I’ll ever forget my first taste of port and the utter sense of surprise and pleasure that washed over me with that first sip. For some reason, I’d long equated port with sherry, a drink that I knew I didn’t like. (And no, I have no idea why I thought that.) But the raisin-y sweetness of a tawny port resonated with me and I learned the hard way that one has to watch carefully not to over-indulge… I think the only thing worse than a port hang over is a gin one.
So it seemed almost too good to be true last week when I read about a port tasting being hosted by Boston University’s Elizabeth Bishop Wine Resource Center (how do I get a job there?!?!) and the Instituto dos Vinhos do Douro e Porto. (Quick aside: I don’t know who tweeted about this event, but that’s how I found out about it and I’m pretty glad I did. Thanks, social media!)
“More than fifty Portos will be available for tasting, with experts describing the highly complex demarcations required by the Portuguese government on every bottle, and the characteristics that distinguish each wine,” the event description promised.
At $25 a ticket, it seemed reasonable. However, I was delighted when I called BU the morning of the event and the guy on the phone said they’d just decided to forego the admission. I would get in for free. Heck yeah.
Having never been to an event at BU, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would they be serving port in those little plastic cups usually reserved for cough syrup? Would it be full of college kids binge drinking? Would it be so crowded you couldn’t get near the servers? I oughtn’t have worried.
The event was held in the Old Fuller Cadillac Building, which used to be a car dealership and is now an art gallery of sorts. It was a great spot for a wine tasting, with lots of ambience and open space; plenty of room to move around, and lots to look at.
I checked in at the registration table and was given a short-stemmed glass by the student-type who was taking names. A couple spots down, an older staff person motioned to me and swapped out my glass for a more elegant, long-stemmed one, which suited me better. “Go for it,” he said.
My first stop was at a large table in the middle of the room where a cheese, cracker and pate spread was laid out. Since the tasting started at 5:30 and I hadn’t eaten since lunch, I thought it might be prudent to put a little something in my stomach. I’m glad I did- not only was the pate delish, I had no idea what lay ahead.
Overall, there were 17 tables in the room, each representing a different wine distributor. In two hours I only made it to five tables. But each table had probably 5 to 7 wines on it. You do the math.
I tasted one of the first organic ports, tried several that were older than me and one that was older than my parents… I had tawnies and rubies (I’m a tawny fan by far!) and drank a few that weren’t ready to actually be drunk.
I have to say I was impressed with both the quality of the product that was served and the overall knowledge of the men and women serving it. Granted, I was swilling wine, but these people seemed to have Phd’s in porto. I learned how the wine is rapidly fermented and then fortified, how ruby port is kept sealed while tawny port is exposed to oxygen and how port changes over time, its flavors going from angular to more subtle.
The crowd was mixed: old and young. People were friendly (how couldn’t you be with all that wine floating around?) and conversations varied from high-brow descriptions of vintages, to jokes about slipping particularly good bottles in pockets. My only complaint: two hours wasn’t nearly long enough to even make a dent in all the wines they were offering and BU people kicked everyone out promptly at 7:30.
You can find more information about upcoming BU food and wine-related events here. Given my experience last week, I’m certain I’ll be attending others in the future.
First it was gourmet pizza, then it was offal. Now, it seems fried chicken is the favorite dinner du jour of Boston chefs. Ken Oringer is introducing Fried Chicken Sunday Supper this month at Clio, while the dish is a mainstay at the likes of Summer Shack and Central Kitchen.
So it should have come as no surprise when Chicky announced last week that she was having a fried chicken party. Of course, I was a bit puzzled… though I’ve eaten a lot of the stuff, I’ve never actually fried my own chicken. It sounded… scary. A friend warned me there was a good chance of burning my house down or sustaining serious burns. Also, I wasn’t sure I could eat something after watching it get deep fried. I mean, it’s one thing to know intellectually that’s what happened to your food, it’s another thing completely to watch/do it yourself.
Fear not, Chicky said, Blair is going to do it all. And in the process, he’s going to teach us.
Sure enough, Blair showed up last Wednesday with a dismembered flock of chickens and enough lard to choke a horse. The secret, he said, was frying it in a combination of lard and peanut oil… oh man.
I have to admit though, the result was pretty fantastic. The curry flavored chicken was my favorite- crunchy and juicy with a punch of flavor that was impossible to resist. Blair was kind enough to share his recipe, which I’ve posted below. When asked if there was anything else he wanted to say, he replied simply: “Best eaten cold in the shower.”
Blair’s Man Chicken
For the brine:
3 cans of Dr Pepper
2.5 T worcestershire
1 T Frank’s Cajun Seasoning
3 T Pepper
3 T Salt
Brine for chicken for 4-6 hours.
Strain and wash. Then soak in buttermilk for 6-12 hours.
Strain (but DON’T wash)
For the batter:
Flour
Salt
Pepper
Dust the buttermilky chicken with seasoning of choice- herbs, lemon, garlic, curry, whatever sounds good. Then dredge in the flour mixture and let sit for 3-5 minutes. Fry in Lard/Peanut oil at 350F until inside of chicken reads ~170F.
Tip: Use smaller size of chicken, such as friers or wings. Broilers are too big and will result in a darker crust.
While I mostly have great things to say about Puerto Rico, there was one place that annoyed me so much, I feel compelled to warn others to stay away, especially because it’s supposed to be one of the best places on the island.
The Disappointment: Budatai in Condado. Frommer’s led me astray with this one, naming it one of the 10-Best Dining Bets in Puerto Rico. Perhaps the good people at Frommer’s only ate at 10 places in Puerto Rico? Otherwise I cannot fathom how this made the list. Executive Chef/Owner Roberto Treviño is a contestant on Iron Chef America this season, and if this cuisine is any indication of Treviño’s talents I’d avoid putting any money on him winning.
Located across from La Ventana al Mar Park, the terrace area where we ate did have lovely views of the sea and surrounding area. However, that did little to make up for the limited menu or poor execution. My first beef with Budatai came with the menu, which boasted “Wild Salmon” but which our server then informed us was actually farm-raised. My sense of distrust raised immediately. Why would you put “wild” on the menu if it isn’t? What other fabrications are included? Is the vegetarian cuisine truly vegetarian? Is the duck really duck?
We started with some vegetarian egg rolls, which interestingly enough had cheese in them. Yes, cheese, which in my book is the ultimate faux-pas when it comes to Asian-fusion cooking. Worse, the cheese was gooey and tasteless, adding nothing but calories and a strange mouth feel.
My companion, who keeps kosher and hence had little to choose from on the shell-fish and pork heavy menu, reluctantly opted for the salmon, which came with vegetables and a béarnaise sauce- again, a strange offering at what is supposedly an Asian restaurant. It was forgettable at best. I opted for the pork dumplings (billed as the house specialty) and a side of duck fried rice.
In his last column as The New York Times’ dining critic, Frank Bruni suggested that one way to safely navigate a restaurant’s menu was to “scratch off anything that mentions truffle oil.” I wish I’d listened. As a rule, pork dumplings are usually a safe standby in Asian places. Budatai’s started off promisingly enough with some well-flavored pork wrapped inside a doughy wrapper. Then things got a bit… well, crazy. The dumplings looked like they’d been grilled, but they were about as crispy as chewing gum. Then, they were topped with what looked like any and everything the chef had within reach: some strange brown sauce, caviar, truffles, truffle oil, garlic, sesame seeds, watercress… and those are just the things I could identify in the terrace’s half-light. It was a cacophony of flavors, so busy I wondered if I’d even notice if half the ingredients were missing.
The duck fried rice was similarly busy. Greasy, with only a trace of duck, this dish came laden with sweet plantains, which were just weird. Just say it: rice, banana and duck… it even sounds weird, doesn’t it? This dish would have been saved with more duck and perhaps the inclusion of some complimentary ingredients: think scallion or bean sprout. Banana? Not so much.
The Surprise: Miró, also in Condado. This place obviously caters to tourists, but had a few hard to find dishes, like grilled baby octopus and arroz negro- rice cooked with squid ink and then mixed with a variety of shellfish. In addition, the sangria was pretty amazing. Made to order with red wine, brandy, triple sec, pineapple juice and a squirt of sprite, it was refreshing, but not too sweet.
Aquamarine seas, palm trees and sunshine; it doesn’t really get any better, in my book, at least. There’s something intoxicating about the tropics, like the way a banana becomes part of a savory meal, the way the salt air and humidity make a beer taste that much better, the way a straw makes drinking out of a coconut seem civilized. Puerto Rico did not disappoint on those fronts.
We did a lot some days and a whole lot of nothing on others. Still, I left feeling that I must return to Puerto Rico. I have a feeling there’s a lot that I still need to see.
A few thoughts: While Old San Juan is charming, I got the distinct feeling that the city in general is trying mighty hard to become South Beach. Places push their prices sky high, blare house music, drape everything in white and compare themselves to The Delano. To fall into this would be a shame. While I love South Beach, Puerto Rico is no South Beach and I wish they’d try to forge their own identity rather than become copycats. The result ends up looking like a fake Louis Vitton bag: kind of desperate and cheap.
I’m also at a loss when it comes to the service in Puerto Rico. Whether at a restaurant serving comida tipica or an upscale place with menus in English, the waiters were the same: they’d come and take your order, bring your food and then disappear. Getting a check or paying a bill were nearly impossible and probably doubled the amount of time I would have spent in any establishment. This wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if I’d had some kind of drink in front of me, but sitting at an empty table, with an empty glass, trying to flag down a waiter is simply no fun. It also makes the dine and dash a tempting prospect…
Notables: Eating well in Puerto Rico is easy. Eating healthily… not so much. It seems the Puerto Ricans like to fry everything- fish, tacos, plantains. You name it, you can probably find it fried. Even seemingly good foods like rice and beans are cooked in ways to increase their calorie content- a technique that harks back to the days when people had to subsist on the basics. Rice is typically cooked with lard, while beans come stewed with some kind of pork fat.
We ended up at a strip of food stalls in Loquillo one day, about an hour east of San Juan, but I was so hungry I forgot to take pictures. There must have been 50 places, all lined up on the beach, all selling chicharron, mofongo, fried fish and yellow rice. While the comida tipica was tasty, I can’t figure out how these places survive when they seem to all sell the same thing.
the chic decor at Tangerine
The Delight:
San Juan Water & Beach Club in Isla Verde. Yes, this place falls into the category of establishments trying too hard to be South Beach. But the lovely ocean views, waterfalls in the elevator and not too pretentious service made it work: this place is chic, fun and definitely worth a visit. We started our evening at Wet, the rooftop bar which afforded a lovely 360-degree view and a too-cool-for-school atmosphere. This would be a great place to come on a date, or to start a rowdy evening with friends. (One complaint: they don’t have a cocktail menu. What upscale nightlife establishment doesn’t have its own cocktail menu?)
We then had dinner at Tangerine, the restaurant downstairs that emphasized ambience with blue lights, a waterfall behind the bar and white everything. While appearance is good, what sets this place apart is the fact that the food was tasty and original.
We started with a trio of ceviches: ginger tuna, topped with candied ginger; coconut snapper; and tangerine salmon. Each was distinct and unlike any ceviche I’ve ever had: the snapper was subtly sweet, the tuna had a bit of bite and the salmon emphasized sour.
Next, we had a paella with red snapper. It was a lovely execution, not at all greasy, which can be the case with paella. The rice was accented generously with carrot, zucchini and red pepper, as well as large, gorgeous chunks of snapper.
The highlight of the evening, however, was the steak with green chile sauce. To be frank, I didn’t have high hopes for this one, but we didn’t think two tapas-sized dishes would be enough to eat (though in the end, two would have been fine). Chunks of tender beef sautéed in a red-wine, chile and caper sauce, and served with house fried plantain chips, this dish was succulent, savory and impossible not to love. While our previous two dishes had been good, this one set the bar even higher.
The Regret: Driving back to San Juan from Loquillo on Saturday I passed a sign for chicharron de conejo. I was intrigued. Chicharron are typically fried pieces of pork skin and conejo is rabbit… fried rabbit skin? Alas, I kept driving, and now I haven’t been able to stop wondering what I missed out on.
Coming tomorrow: The Disappointment, The Surprise
Things have been slow food-wise here at The Musing Bouche. Not that I haven’t been eating, but my consumption has lately involved eating out and eating on the run, neither of which is particularly interesting.
However, a few things of note:
First, Great story in the NY Times today about the food scene in Portland, Maine. I was there on business last summer and was pointed to Duck Fat and Fore Street, but I’ve been meaning to return for a pleasure trip to really explore the city and check out the local food scene, which is amazingly vibrant given that it’s below freezing nine months of the year. This may be the inspiration I need to make a pilgrimage.
The story also turned me on to the Portland Food Coma blog, which I perused and found pretty hilarious. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the post on the drunken Chinese food e
xperience… last spring Chicky and I hit up Ocean Wok in Hampton Beach for an epic evening of eating and drinking (see photo). Why does flaming booze seem like such a good idea? Shouldn’t you know better when the waiter raises his eyebrows at the amount of food you’re ordering? And why am I wearing a t-shirt that says “I’m Nacho Mama”?
PS- you gotta love the Ocean Wok web site… from the cheesy intro with photos of the owner on the beach at sunset (or is it sunrise? We are on the east coast after all…) to the fact they brag that they’re open 364 days a year to the horoscope offerings (“Find the animal in you!“)… it’s just delightful.
Second, figs are back! Was at the fruit stand near my house on Monday and was delighted to see that fresh figs are in season. One of my all-time favorite foods, they are hellaciously expensive and ridiculously hard to find. I’ll be staking out these beauties in markets over the next few weeks… my favorite thing to do with a fresh fig is to simply slice it into quarters, drizzle it with honey and eat.
And finally, I cooked a blueberry crisp on Sunday… I’d post a photo, but it was so ugly, I didn’t want to offend anyone. It tasted great, but the blueberries absorbed all the crumble on top, so it basically just looked like blueberry soup. Need to work on this. Suggestions?
