Thank You, Houston, You Were Delicious

Let me start by saying this: I love barbecue. And barbeque. And BBQ. Anyway you spell it, I like it. I don't know that I've had barbecue that I didn't like. But I usually refrain from initiating discussions about barbecue. Many, many people have strong feelings on the topic--the definition, the process, what is "authentic," what is "best," with subtopics of type of meat, cut of meat, preparation of meat, seasoning of meat, heat source, length of cooking, type of sauce, when to sauce, sauce or no sauce, etc. I'm not saying they aren't valid and valuable discussions, I'm just saying I'd rather eat.

While staying in downtown Houston over the weekend, I was presented with the challenge of where to eat lunch on a Saturday. The hotel in which I was staying did not serve lunch in their restaurant (although room service was available). I was honestly surprised that so many restaurants in the immediate area were closed for lunch. I went to the concierge.

The hotel was rather hip and swank, so I was not surprised to find a young man barely over the legal drinking age behind the concierge desk. I was surprised that he had to wrack his brain to come up with lunch options.

"All of the steak houses are closed for lunch," he reported, obviously scanning his memory of recommendations he was trained to be expected to give to the upscale clientele of the hotel. I threw him a bone.

"Where do you like to eat around here," I asked. "If you went out of town for a while, what would you miss eating here in Houston?"

A slow mile spread across his face, and he looked around sheepishly, almost embarrassed to say in front of another hotel employee. I raised my eyebrows expectantly and leaned forward to encourage him. His answer was just above a whisper.

"Pappas Bar-B-Q." His smile was almost devilish.

"Perfect," I replied. "How do I get there?"

He grabbed the keys to the hotel shuttle. "It's not far," he replied, still looking around to see if anyone was listening. "I'll take you there."

I walked in and couldn't help but smile. This was exactly what I was looking for. The menu, posted on the wall, boasted a variety of meats: beef, chopped beef, pork, pork loin, spicy pork, chopped pork, half a chicken, assorted chicken parts, pork ribs, beef ribs, turkey, ham, sausage--I swooned. "Vegetable sides" included spicy rice, potato salad, lima beans, ranch beans, yams, coleslaw, macaroni salad, and cucumber salad. Everything was served with a thick slice of white bread (have you heard of Texas Toast? Yes, everything IS bigger in Texas). The "regular" soda was about 32 ounces.

I had to try several things, so I got a sampling of the beef brisket, pork loin, and pork spare ribs (my favorite), with extra sauce on the side. The sauce was tomato based, heavy on the molassas, generously seasoned with cloves. Just past the cash register was a cold bar stocked with sliced onions, diced onions, pickles, jalepenos and other peppers, sliced tomatoes, salsa, hot sauce and other Texas acoutrements.

I won't try to explain the flavors of the meat, or the textures, or even share too much of my opinion of the barbecue. I'll just say that I sure did enjoy it, and that it was exactly what I wanted for lunch that day.

Sometimes the best meals are like that--not planned, not expensive, not Frank Bruni's favorite four star restaurant. Sometimes the best meals are the ones that are time and place specific, that do not translate to ratings scales or when taken out of context. Sometimes the best meals are like a clandestine tryst: the memories are not meant to be shared, but savored, privately, in anticipation of the next rendezvous.

So thank you, Houston. You were delicious. Until we meat again....

Tempting Fête

Bastille Day in Yountville is a treat. In years past I have particularly enjoyed the celebrations at Bouchon. The small parking lot adjacent to the bistro becomes a lively party, with live music and dancing, food and family and friends. The courtyard between the bistro and the bakery is filled with kid-friendly activities in the early afternoon--face painting and games. I see people I never see except at Bastille Day. It is lovely.

Each year there is a t-shirt with a clever theme. This year's is "Tempting Fête."

A "fête" is a lively party. Perhaps even a tempting one. And there's the play on "tempting fate." Nicely done.

But this year's celebration was a bit of a disappointment. The food was lackluster. There were some whole roasted pigs that tasted rather bland, and it was distressing to see flies swarming around the cheesecloth-draped pig head while a cook tried to quickly carve off some meat. The crepes were pre-made, warmed on a griddle and filled to order, but lacked the delicious freshness factor from years past. Even the grilled sausages tasted more like a brat from a weekend grill-out with friends.

The crowds were small, perhaps due to the heat (it was in the 90's until the sun went down), perhaps due to the economy. The less than bustling fête seemed a little sad.

Talking to a few of the locals, I heard comments about the lack of continuity in the celebration. It is the nature of the restaurant industry that there is near constant turn over. How is it possible to continue a tradition when those in charge of continuing it have not experienced it themselves? And in such a little town as Yountville (population around 3,000), the change is noticable. "Remember Randy? And Alysa? And Tiny?" one asked. "Remember the Nutter Butters (before they changed the recipe), and the CB&J sandwiches?" Yes, I do.

There was also sad talk of the fine balance of wanting success for a good chef and restaurant, and the tipping point of losing one's identity and control of quality. It is not a unique discussion. But it is timely right now for Yountville. It seems there's a lot of tempting fate.

Cafe Firenze in Moorpark, California

Moorpark California is not known as a culinary Mecca. Thirty years ago it was orange groves and horse ranches. In 1983 it was incorporated as a city. In 1992, the original Wood Ranch BBQ opened (and it's still there today). Moorpark College has one of the few Exotic Animal Training and Management programs in the United States. Moorpark also boast an annual "Third of July Fireworks Extravaganza."

It's one of those little cities that has enjoyed a sleepy little existence.

Until Season Five of Top Chef.

Top Chef is a reality TV cooking competition on the Bravo Network. In Season Five, Fabio Viviani was one of the contestants. While he did not win the competition, he was voted the "Fan Favorite."

He is the chef and owner of Cafe Firenze in little ole Moorpark, California.

Fabio made a comment that was aired (on two episodes) about his confidence in being able to serve anything, including the hind quarter of a certain exotic animal. It's nice to see he still has a sense of humor about one of his most quoted comments from the show.

For most Italians, Sunday means a big family dinner. And for my family, it means Pasta will be served. Last Sunday, while visiting my Italian Momas, our dinner plans led us to Cafe Firenze in Moorpark.

Momas had been there before and had really enjoyed her meal. "And," she added, "all of the pasta is freshly made in house." There is no refuting the Momas.

I was surprised to find that the restaurant was located in a strip mall with an Albertson's grocery store and a three screen movie theatre. Right next door, in the same building, is a Baskin Robbins.

But as we entered the restaurant, I was taken in by the frangrances of pungent garlic, fresh basil, and rich olive oil. We took our seats at the end of a counter facing into the open kitchen. A young woman worked the saute station in front of us. The first thing I noticed was that her chef jacket was patched in two places with fabric covered with a musical score.

The second thing I noticed were the hotel pans stocked with dried pasta. The kind you buy at the grocery store, not looking the least bit house made.

So I asked the server. "Yes," she replied, "most of our pasta is made in house: the lasagna...the ravioli..." It seemed she was flustered by the question and fumbling for the answer.

"Perhaps you can just tell me what pastas are not made in house," I offered.

"The spaghetti, fettucini, linguini and angel hair."

"Ah," I replied. The Momas furrowed her brow.

While many of the pasta dishes sounded lovely, we eschewed them for want of avoiding a mediocre pasta dinner. In a way it gave us license to try some more adventurous things.

Momas ordered the Green Apple Vichyssoise, which turned out to be served hot. It was quite delicious, served with small cubes of pork as garnish. I started with the Baby Octopus served in a spicy tomato stew, garnished with a parmesan toast point. It was so tender they must have beaten it senseless before cooking it.

For entrees Momas ordered the beef special, a seared loin served over sauteed baby spinach and truffle mashed potatoes--pedestrian but satisfying. I ordered the wild mushroom risotto with house made sausage--a dish so rich and hearty I could finish less than half of the portion. I was surprised that such unseasonal dishes were executed so well, but that's what you get in California. The growing season is practically year round. Beef and risotto are heavy dishes for such a warm time of year, but evenings in this part of California can get rather chilly. And obviously some people were ordering the entrees.

We had been sitting, eating and watching the show in the kitchen before us, for about two hours by the time we had leisurely finished our entrees. We had seen almost of the the desserts listed on the menu, and decided we had to try a few. We ordered the sampler (molten chocolate cake, bread pudding, and cheesecake), and the cannoli.

The sampler was mostly unimpressive. The bread pudding and chocolate cake were completely forgettable. But Momas loved the cheesecake. It was as savory as it was sweet, more like an Easter Pie than what one thinks of as a traditional American cheesecake. Mom gobbled it up and considered ordering a whole slice to go. The cannoli were almost perfect--delicious cannoli cream, not too sweet, with mini-chocolate chips in the cream, and the ends of the cannoli dredged through chopped pistachios. The shells were fresh and crisp. It was lovely.

Alas, no Fabio sightings, which didn't particularly disappoint me, but the Momas always enjoys talking to the chef. Especially when it is a man. Especially when it is an Italian man. So we will have to come again, the two of us, so the Momas can enjoy not only dinner, but a show. Although most of the seats in the restaurant were empty, I'm feeling fairly confident that Cafe Firenze will be around for more Sunday dinners, with or without the pasta.

A Berry by Any Other Name Would Be...Organic?

I recently went to a Farmers Market in Southern California in search of Organic strawberries. There were over a dozen vendors of local strawberries, but none of them were from the "Certified Organic" vendors. I headed to the Market Manager.

"There are no Certified Organic strawberries at this market," she told me [*gasp*]. "But Harry's Berries grows organically, without the certification."

Intriguing.

So I wandered over to Harry's Berries stand to investigate.

Set on a table were pints and flats of beautiful, red, ripe strawberries. The fragrance was warm and sweet and soft, seductive like a beautiful woman on the dance floor wearing red shoes and mysterious perfume. You had to look. You wanted to touch.

"Can I help you today?" asked the Harry's Berries girl, her fingertips stained red from berry juice.

"Yes, please," I replied. "Tell me about your berries."

They offered two varieties: the Gaviota, a low acid, super sweet variety with gently yielding flesh, and the Seascape, a more acidic, more complex sweet-tart variety with firmer flesh.

"The Market Manager said you grow your produce organically, without the certification. Why is that?" I asked.

"We're just a small family farm. Becoming 'certified organic' costs a lot of money and hours, so it's really not that important to us. We've been growing organically since 1998. Our customers know that. And we stand behind our products."

Sounded good to me. But the proof is in the pudding, as they say.

"Can I taste one?" I asked.

Most of the vendors at this particular Farmers Market offered samples, so I was surprised when she looked at me a little sideways. But I was bringing dessert to a dinner party that night, and organic or not the berries had to taste good.

She offered me one small berry of each kind.

They were both amazingly delicious. They were what strawberries I've grown myself and eaten off the vine taste like. The Gaviotas were exactly what I was looking for.

"I'll take a flat."

Her face broke into a startled smile. Yes, I can be a difficult customer. Perhaps it comes from too much time in the kitchen, or too much time in New York. But if I taste the best berries of the season, I'm buying a bunch, certified organic or not.

One pint was gone before I even got back to my car.

Two days later I drove twenty miles out of my way to find a Harry's Berries stand at another area Farmers Market.

It makes sense to me that any small family farm would choose to eschew the "Certified Organic" process. For small operations, it IS cost prohibitive with regard to both time and money. As choosing "Organic" became less of a movement and more of a trend, the industry struggled to keep up with demand. Many of the small operations that had jumped through the "Certified Organic" hoops were acquired by bigger businesses. Then regulations regarding the definition of "Certified Organic" began to shift.

There are many misconceptions about food products labeled as "Organic" in the grocery store. While the USDA currently regulates the the "Certified Organic" labeling of food and fibers grown and manufactured in the United States, this article from the Washington Post earlier this week addresses the integrity of the Federal "Organic" label.

Foods labeled as "Organic" are not necessarily safer either. A search of the FDA website for "organic recall," yielded over 1000 links. Recalls listed for organic foods covered a wide range including nuts, popcorn, granola bars and other snacks, jarred baby food, dry baby cereal, fresh and frozen tofu products, chocolate candy bars, fresh produce, and eggs. Reasons listed for recalled products range from potential salmonella contamination, potential botulism contamination, potential allergen contamination, package mislabeling, choking hazards, foreign object contamination (i.e. metal, glass, etc), and lead.

And so I stand by long-time position that local usually is the best best choice (and by "local" I don't mean the nearest Whole Foods grocery store). If you have personal contact with the folks that grow the produce, collect the eggs, or "bring in" the pigs, you'll have a direct connection to the food itself. If those folks are anything like the folks at Harry's Berries, they'll stand behind the integrity of their product because they take personal pride in it (and depend on its quality and your satisfaction for their livelihood).

And after reflecting a bit in my post-berry stupor, it occurred to me that I had tried these berries years ago, again while visiting friends in the area. It was the name of the berries that finally rang a bell: Gaviota. That's also the name of a beach in Santa Barbara County, a perfect harbor for many a clandestine adventure of youth (one of which may or may not be my own), memories of which may be as sweet as these strawberries, and just as satisfying.

If this is Wednesday, it must be the Food Section

Lots of interesting things are popping up on my radar in the food world, most of it from the New York Times.

First, there was this gem from earlier this week, featuring a photo of Kalustyan's on Lex at 28th. More about obscure history than food, but I'm going to look for that little plaque the next time I go there.

Oh, and check out Here is Where while you're at it.

I was surprised to read in "Off the Menu" that Payard Patisserie on the Upper East Side is now closed, due to a "rent dispute." They had such lovely Gâteau St. Honoré. It is a reminder that good food is fleeting. Eat it while you can.

And while the Fancy Food Show returned to Manhattan this past weekend, the UnFancy Food Show in Brooklyn was much more interesting and entertaining. Put it on your calendar for next year.

My brother-in-law, who brews beer, may never have considered growing his own hops, but after reading this he might. I don't think he is much of a green thumb, so perhaps a bargain to barter can be struck. Fresh hops for beer seems like a good deal to me.

Speaking of beer, I've been noticing an increase in chile beers (as in flavored with chiles, not Chilean beer). Is this going to be like the chile peppers in chocolate fad? I'm really okay with my beer being beer (and my chocolate being chocolate). I love a good, complex wine. But please, let beer be beer. Is it too much to ask?

In Oakland, California, these folks are "urban homesteading." I sent this link to a friend and asked, "how do we find these people?" She replied, "you ARE these people."

I won't argue.

It's summer, and Thursday is Market Day. I have plans for some strawberries, peaches, and tomatoes.

Go eat something wonderfully tasty today. More stories soon.

Small World

I recently had the opportunity to eat at a new restaurant in Yountville, California called Bottega. The restaurant has created some buzz in the culinary community as the newest venture of Chef Michael Chiarello. But the buzz by the locals is more about the novelty of an Italian restaurant, upending the dearth of options to the French fare available in the little town with the most Michelin Stars per capita than any other place on Earth.

The couple at the table next to mine was indulging in dessert when my companion and I opened our dinner menus. I took a few moments to observe as they indulged in their flourless sabbia cake with strawberries lightly dressed in 20 year aged balsamic, with mascarpone cream--a lovely interpretation of Strawberry Shortcake. From their conversation, their clothing and their accent I could tell they were from out of town.

The lady saw me eyeing her dessert. "Be sure to save room!" she admonished. "It's decadent, but hey, you don't get to indulge every day...or maybe you do. Are you from here?"

I smiled in reply.

She and her husband had just arrived from Atlanta. "Oh," I exclaimed, "I was just there visiting my sister. We ate some of the most delicious food."

We spoke of all sorts of restaurants in the greater Atlanta area: Watershed, Flip, La Petite Maison. I forgot to mention The Flying Biscuit, Highland Bakery, and Sugo. And I couldn't remember the name "Rathbun's," trying instead to explain a restaurant with a lot of meat on the menu, named after the chef, with really good food. We both laughed.

With a wistful look I mentioned all the delicious barbecue I had eaten in Atlanta, though I couldn't remember the name of my favorite one. "Slopes?" the gentleman offered. "YES! I exclaimed, "Slopes! So it wasn't just me, it really is that good!" His face broke into a huge grin, "We live across the street, on the other side of the fire house. I had lunch there yesterday."

Small world.

It occurred to me later, as the waiter brought out their second dessert--a chocolate souffle cooked in a parchment paper chimney, unwrapped at the table by the server, then drizzled with anglaise and sprinkled with hazelnut brittle--that these folks may have the better deal. Yes, it is exceptional to have the option to regularly indulge in wood-grilled octopus and house made pastas. But the ribs at Slopes I could eat every day and want for nothing more.

The couple were in town for another five days, and I sure hope they enjoyed themselves in the lovely Napa Valley. I'll keep an eye out for them the next time I make it to Atlanta.

Sidebar:

Laura Cunningham, longtime girlfriend and now fiance of Chef Thomas Keller, has plans to open an Italian restaurant in Yountville on the north end of Washington Street in the former location of the short lived P. J. Steak (previous owner of the building was Chef Philippe Jeanty). Although plans for the new restaurant were announced about a year ago, few official details have followed in recent months. The restaurant will be named Vita in honor of Cunningham's Sicilian grandmother.

Recipes, Lost and Found

Some recipes are good because they are down and dirty.

About a decade ago I spent some time in Louisiana. It was before Katrina, before 43, before Ken Burns Jazz. The New Orleans I visited then has been lost, and the memories of it pass before me like a jazz funeral--too full of the sound of music and the flash of movement to commit to words. It will rebirth itself, as only New Orleans can. But I cannot expect to find the city I fell in love with on my first trip there.

I remember the food best of all. It was the first time I had eaten crawfish as an adult, and the first time I'd had it prepared in a spicy boil and served with crusty french bread. That may have been as close to Heaven as I've ever been.

I decided to eat as much of the city as I could.

Restaurants in New Orleans perplexed me on that visit. I went to one of Emeril's restaurants and was disappointed by the wilted salad, the congealed sauces, and the generic food service bread. It distressed me that people flocked to this restaurant for "good" food and, for those who had no other point of reference, would leave with the impression that it WAS good food. That made me sad.

Yet at a half dozen holes-in-the-wall in the French Quarter and beyond I found such delights that made me wonder if there was a secret society of cooks who took pity on a young, hungry girl in search of good food and brought out their best in exchange for my wide-eyed wonder and irrepressible moans of pleasure as the most delicious flavors filled my mouth.

I returned to the cafe where I'd eaten the crawfish. It was too early in the day and the boil wasn't ready. I must have looked crestfallen because the chef himself--a short, stocky man with a thick N'aaawlens accent and a bushy mustache--came out from the kitchen with a muffaletta sandwich and a bowl of barbecued shrimp. That meal made me so happy I cried, which I blamed it on the spiciness of the shrimp. That is good food as it should be.

The beignets at Cafe du Monde were hot and delicious (as all good fried dough products should be) and covered with so much powdered sugar that it showered down all around you if you didn't hold your breath when taking a bite. They were busy enough that the beignets were always fresh. I was thrilled, as much for myself as for the tourists for whom this might be a defining culinary memory of the city. The coffee had the distinctive flavor of chicory that reminded me of breakfasts from my childhood at great-aunt M---'s farmhouse kitchen table. Food memories with personal nostalgic value are a rare treasure.

I met up with some friends one night at a restaurant called Feelings Cafe in the Faubourg Marigny district on Chartres Street, not far outside the French Quarter. It was the ambiance and hospitality that made this restaurant memorable. Our party was greeted as if we were old friends. We chatted with folks from the neighborhood in for dinner or an evening libation. We were given tips on the best places to hear live music, an invitation to a garden party, and passes for a "behind the scenes" tour at the Aquarium of the Americas.

There were two small (and well behaved) children in our party, and they were doted on as if they were the belle and beau of the ball. At the end of the meal they were each sent out a dessert--one slice of Peanut Butter Pie and one of French Silk Pie. The kids loved it so much, the kitchen sent out the recipes for the two pies for their mother. Since her hands were full with her two kids hyped up on sugar, she handed the recipes to me.

While going through an old box of letters last week, I came upon the recipes. I realized they were recipes that could have been from someone else's childhood, easily made with ingredients familiar to a 1960's era housewife. Perhaps they ended up on the restaurant dessert menu because of the feelings they evoked, from an employee or a customer.

I never made the pies, and most likely won't, but finding them reminded me of that wonderful trip to the New Orleans-that-once-was. I offer them now, verbatim, as they were given to me.

Feelings Cafe D'Aunoy Peanut Butter Pie

1/2 lb cream cheese

1/2 cup peanut butter

1/2 can condensed milk

Mix the three ingredients until creamy. Add one cup confectioners sugar; fold in 8-10 oz cool whip. Pour into cool pie shells and ice with more cool whip and garnish with shaved semi-sweet chocolate and unsalted peanuts. Refrigerate or freeze.

Crust:

3 cups vanilla wafer crumbs

1 stick melted butter

Moisten crumbs with butter and pat a thin layer on sides and bottom of two 9" pie pans and bake at 350 F for 10-15 minutes.

*******

Feelings Cafe D'Anouy French Silk Pie

3 sticks butter

2 cups plus 2 Tbs. superfine sugar

1 Tbs. vanilla

3 packets choco bake

6 eggs

Whip butter on high speed in mixer, slowly add in superfine sugar, then add vanilla, and choco bake. Add 4 eggs at high speed for 3 minutes, then 2 eggs for another 3 minutes. Makes 4 pies.

Crust:

3 cups vanilla wafer crumbs

1 stick melted butter

Moisten crumbs with butter and pat a thin layer on sides and bottom of 2-9" pie pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes.