WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “One of these things is not like the others…”

 

“Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste…”

You have to admire a man who had the cunning to convince a woman to knock boots with him inside an industrial-size mash tun at the brewpub where he worked.  As unsanitary, improper and well, illegal as it may be, that sort of diplomacy, negotiation and conquest are impressive. There’s also something to be said for the way salvation and grace can pluck that recluse from drug abuse, depression, obesity and suicidal tendency and put him in the arms of the place where every lost case belongs—the kitchen. For it is only there, amid the chaos of fire and ferocity, that a man like Mitch Omer could have been baptized into a second life and built himself a Mecca named, appropriately enough, Hell’s Kitchen.

Mitch, as Jacques Pépin said, makes Anthony Bourdain look like an altar boy. And while having a checkered past is nearly a prerequisite for most serious kitchen work, it isn’t enough to build a career on because in the end, a kitchen doesn’t give a shit if you’ve nailed half the girls in the Pacific Northwest, if you’ve toured with Van Halen, if you owe your crystal meth dealer three grand or if you’re mentally ill. A kitchen only wants to know that you can cook, that you can do it well and quickly, and that you can listen and learn. Everything else is gravy, and if you’re lucky, their opinion will go from you being a lunatic to you being simply “colorful.” Thank God for the kitchen that leveled the playing field and gave us Mitch’s food. Without it, at the very least, I wouldn’t have a recipe for his amazing “breakfast in a slice” Bison Sausage Bread. Damn Good Food is part memoir, part biography, part cookbook, and the food that pours out of Mitch’s soul is “the color of rock and roll, the smell of an autumn afternoon in the woods, and the taste of romance.”

Sitting on that same fence where the soulful chefs like Mitch are perched, and yet somehow on the opposite end of that same fence, is Marco Canora. I was intrinsically drawn to his book before I had heard a single recipe, simply because it was called Salt to Taste, something I’m always telling people to do, but something that is seldom done well. Sodium intake has sadly become a stigma in the US, to the point where home cooks busy themselves with fretting about low-sodium salt or simply cooking with less salt altogether, as opposed to tossing out the sodium-laden processed foods that line their cupboard shelves. Salting a pot of boiling water properly is often a cause for gasps from onlookers in my home.

But “salt to taste” is a mantra…a philosophy…a sum that is greater than its parts, because it asks you to continually savor what you are making and adjust what isn’t to your taste. So often people pull out a cookbook, follow a recipe to the letter and serve it in an act of blind faith, never following the progress of creation. What if that particular can of tomatoes was more acidic than last month’s? What if you were forced to use a dried herb in the absence of a fresh one? How the hell would you know how these things alter your meal if you don’t taste it? Marco’s recipes are at the heart of rustic, soul-warming Italian cuisine, but they aren’t carved in stone. They exist as rough-draft maps, drawn in pencil so that cooks can eventually gain the confidence to put the map down and use their own sense of direction.

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “So sweet, you make my mouth water…”

 

“I can feel no sense of measure, no illusion as we take refuge in young man’s pleasure…”

There is plenty of chest pounding in the wine industry from winemakers that boast about their determination to maintain their individuality and uniqueness, their insistence that human intervention be minimal, and their willingness to stand apart from the “crowd”. They claim, in essence, to be iconoclasts when in fact they look and sound a lot like every other talking head in the business. Those who have to tell you they are renegades most assuredly never are. Singular expression is rare in this world and even more so in wine. Mavericks that are truly (and I do mean truly) willing to let a work of nature speak for itself and make their role in winemaking one of servitude, are the most extreme of terroirists—those that know exactly where the edge is because they’ve already gone over it.

Those of us that romanticize wine…that anthropomorphize wine…treat it as a living, breathing being. Even as it rests in a bottle it changes from day to day, altering our perceptions of it depending on which day we crack it open. It matures, reaches an apex, and then begins its demise. Thus is the organic nature of change. But not all wines are birthed equally. That is to say, some are more alive than others because others have been restrained, refined, polished and finessed. Some would say they have been shackled from true expression. Frank Cornelissen’s winemaking philosophy eschews those shackles. His is a philosophy that embraces the flux, the whims and the inherent chaos of nature, and lets it create whatever the hell it wants to. His wines are not at all for those who want the safety net of consistency in their wine drinking—they are for those who embrace that very chaos as a welcome opportunity to surrender their senses. His wines, simply stated, are not for everyone.

Cornelissen’s vines sit on the side of volcanic Mt. Etna, in Sicily. They are original, pre-phyloxera vines that haven’t been grafted or genetically engineered. The grapes grown there are fermented and aged in terracotta amphorae that are buried up to the neck in volcanic rock. These allow the wine to breathe a little, but don’t give the tannins that oak does or change the wine’s color—adding nothing to what the vine has produced. Masceration periods are extraordinarily long (until after the malolactic fermentation) and undisturbed, so that the grape/wine mass remains unseparated in order to extract all possible aromas of the soil and area. These wines become more an expression of the soil than of the fruit. And in a complete act of subservience to nature, no treatments or chemicals are added…not in the vineyard, not during winemaking, nor in bottling—including sulfur dioxide, which is probably why they aren’t a US import since they need to be kept in perfect temperature conditions at all times.

This particular bottling, his Contadino 5, is the wine that made Cornelissen an icon in natural winemaking. Drinking it is an act of complete submission to something you aren’t altogether sure is wine. It’s slightly frizzante when opened (remember, no stabilizers, no enzymes, no yeasts, no sulfur) and changes magically over the course of 30 minutes. Wafts of warm citrus rind, spices, earth and minerality sweep up out of the glass, and its cloudy nature completely freaks you out. By the time you collect your senses and come up for a breath of air you find yourself completely without a reference point—utterly unchartered territory. This is what wine is at its most primal form. You will either become transfixed by it or you will run for the kitchen sink, unable to dump it down the drain fast enough. You will either fall in love with a wine that lives in a world without structure or you will stare at it with contempt. But either way, it will change you and leave you (for better or worse) a more educated wine drinker.

Some say this type of winemaking is self-indulgent and divorced from reality. They poo-poo the eccentricity and mock the minimalist for being Quixotic, while they sing the praises of the next bland, generic “green” winery that longs to woo you with its planet-saving practices. The wine world desperately needs people like Frank Cornelissen to push the boundaries of what is possible and what is honest. Without them we are less educated, less experienced and less exposed. Without them we are merely less.

 

“I want a Chuck Berry record, and a picture of Elvis, too…”

It’s that time of year again, when I feel compelled to make a few gift-giving suggestions to the holiday-purchase challenged. I can only speak for myself here, but we can only store so many funky corkscrews and display so many reindeer bottle toppers before our home starts looking like some sort of weird S&M Christmas Den. In fact, this may be the one post you ask your loved ones to read so that no more “store them in the attic until they come to visit” gifts work their way to you. Wine would, of course, be the easiest and most logical of gifts to give, but being on the receiving end of a critter label gift pack is about as gratitude inducing as a pair of pink wool socks. Few people are daring enough to ask for wine as a gift, and fewer yet are ballsy enough to go ahead and actually attempt to buy for the family wine snob—I’m sorry, I mean aficionado. That being said, here are a few cool items I came across this year:

Gallo Be Thy Name (by Jerome Tuccille) – If you’re tired of listening to the wine dweeb in the family, waxing eloquent about the ethereal qualities of pinot noir or droning on about why they don’t like oaked chardonnay, this is the book to get them. Gallo is a dynasty stained by murder, crime, mob connections, abuse, painful secrets, tragedy, union mayhem and an unshakeable determination to dominate the wine market at any and all costs. Tuccille tells the immigrant story of a family that rose from abject poverty to absolute power. A family that survived Prohibition by selling “Dago Red” to Al Capone, only to conquer the US market with brands like Thunderbird, Ripple and Boone’s Farm all the while with a rushing undercurrent of greed and ruthlessness. It’s an epic tale of the elusive pursuit of success in the “Land of Opportunity.” Buy Here

Funky Chunks Gourmet Wine & Chocolate Soap Gift Box – The only thing better than smelling like a fudgy brownie might just be smelling like a vineyard of ripe syrah grapes. Funky Chunks specializes in Bastille soap chunks made with 70% olive oil…no synthetic detergents and preservatives that can irritate and dry out your skin. They use recycled paper and cardboards for their packaging, and also use recycled and reclaimed items in production in an effort to consciously reduce their carbon footprint. They are also 100% vegan friendly. This gift box contains two chunks of soap and a bath scrubbie. The “Syrah Vin Savon” carries the scent of wine grapes with hints of boysenberry, blackberry and chocolate; the “Fudgy Brownie” smells of decadent bittersweet chocolate, blended together with warm vanilla and sweet cream, then topped off with smooth fudge sauce. Buy Here

Uncorked Gifts – I’m in the midst of getting one of these custom-made with the Gonzo Gastronomy art, so I thought I’d pass the idea along. Must be a Jersey Girl sort of holiday because both Funky Chunks and Uncorked reside in my home state. Uncorked makes bookmarkers, necklaces, earrings and other gadgets with imprinted recycled corks. They all ship in a cool test tube and as I said, if you have your own artwork or writing you want put on the cork, custom orders are no problem. Buy Here

7 Deadly Glasses – This one speaks to the überdork in all of us, and though most will probably find these gifts outside their holiday budget, I just couldn’t resist. Each of these wine glasses is based on one of the 7 deadly sins. Which is which? That is revealed only through the ritual of drinking, something not likely to happen with either “wrath” or “envy” if you take a close look at how they are designed. Each is handmade and thus obviously a limited edition, but damn, aren’t these things amazing?! The thought of having these all to set up on display makes this wine geek more than a little lustful. Buy Here

Liddabit Sweets – These aren’t as much for the wino as they are for the foodie, but a few of their decadent caramels are made with local craft brews…can’t go wrong there, can you? I fell in love with the two ladies that run this company when I first met them at the New Amsterdam Market in NYC. Much like the restaurants out there focusing on seasonal cuisine, Liddabit does the same by sourcing only sustainably produced, fresh, superior-quality ingredients. They also support local growers and producers (they’re in Brooklyn) and make all their sweets by hand. My favorite (and many others’ apparently since it has a cult-like following) is without question the Beer & Pretzel Caramel. Brooklyn Brewery’s Brown Ale and East India Pale Ale are reduced and then stirred into the caramel with chunks of Martin’s pretzels. You get sweet, salty, bitter, crunchy and gooey all in one glorious bite. Hell, even the wrapper you hastily tear into to get to that ultimate caramel smells like heaven. Buy Here

 

“Have a little faith in me…”

When you’re forced into capitulating to blind faith in the absence of any logical, scientific proof for what you would swear on your tits is true, there is a second struggle—admitting that blind faith to others. It’s not easy to say, “Don’t ask me why, it just is what it is” when you’re supposed to maintain some sort of journalistic integrity, or at the very least offer up something more than the equivalent of a 3 year old telling you it’s magic. I don’t have blind faith—never did. So when I find myself in a position of not only believing in something I can’t prove, but of having to convince someone else of it, I panic. If it looks like horseshit and smells like horseshit, well, it usually is. Or, at the very least, you perceive it to be. That’s my caveat out of this…perception.

Wine aerators are a funny business. Most wine geeks know which wines need decanting and which don’t, so if they pull something to drink that they know needs to do a bit of a tango with oxygen, they open it ahead of time, decant it, and wait. But sometimes you pop a bottle last minute, taste it, and realize it really needs time to open up—time you don’t have because dinner is served and getting cold. Well, either that or you’re just an impatient sot who knows a wine needs time to decant but you want to experience it, in all it’s defrocked glory…now. Hell, I’ve worked at wine tastings where we were pouring a Bordeaux that needed at least an hour to open up (an hour we didn’t have to spare), so we would pour the wine back and forth between two water pitchers, frothing the ever-loving shit out of it, so it would be ready for those thirsty dweebs who refused to taste the wines in any sort of logical order and instead went straight for the Bordeaux at the end of the line.

So I went on a hunt, in search of aerators that claimed to do everything from miraculously “opening up” a wine in a matter of seconds rather than hours, to making Yellow Tail taste like Petrus. I also got samples of 2 wine glasses that are in direct competition with these contraptions. The final list of lab rats…err, I mean experiment samples…included:

• Vinturi Essential Wine Aerator – They have two, one for white and one for red. Apparently the difference is that the white aerator has “different internal dimensions and flow rate”. I’m assuming the flow rate is slower given that white wines are more delicate and fragile than reds, but we all know what assuming does. It’s the biggest pain in the ass of all the aerators because you have to hold it over the glass with one hand while pouring into it with the other (all the other aerators attached to the open bottle). You can tackle this problem by purchasing the tower, but that will run you an additional $39.95. The package includes a small stand for the aerator and a travel pouch. SRP: $39.95

• Soirée Wine Decanter – Unlike Vinturi, this one fits into the neck of an open bottle, which helps if you’re ambidextrously challenged. Also unlike Vinturi, which creates a vacuum that draws in air, Soirée simply gives the wine a dimpled area to bump and spin like a 70s disco queen before hitting your glass. The package includes an extra gasket. SRP: $25.00

• Rabbit Aerating Pourer – This is made by Metrokane, who also makes the famous Rabbit corkscrew. Like Soirée, it fits into the neck of your open bottle so you can pour through it easily. Unfortunately, they didn’t offer much in the way of information for this puppy…I mean rabbit. The wine cascades down the sides of the pourer and into your glass. Not exactly rocket science. SRP: $30.00

• Vino₂ – This wine glass is made by Taste of Purple, and has a large indentation on the side of the bowl. That dimple acts like an “agitating obstruction” to the wine as you swirl it, essentially bruising the wine thus aerating it. The bowl is generously large, giving you plenty of breathing room, so to speak.  SRP: $40.00

• Eisch’s Breathable Glass – Put simply, it’s a wine glass. No bumps, dimples, vacuums, bells or whistles. What it claims, however, is that after being manufactured, the glass undergoes an “oxygenizing treatment” which somehow aerates the wine as it sits in the glass. A wine poured into a Breathable Glass is supposed to show signs of aeration (after 2 to 4 minutes) equivalent to the same wine that has been decanted and aerated for 1 to 2 hours. SRP: $34.99

To test the products, I chose a bottle of Viña La Rosa “La Capitana” 2006 Carmenere. I don’t think I’ve ever come across a carmenere that didn’t benefit from a bit of decanting, so I thought it to be a good choice. I was right—that thing was tighter than an alter boy’s ass. I tackled each one separately, pouring some wine directly from the bottle into a glass first, and then some through the aerator into another glass. While I tasted, the bottle was recorked (not that a whole lot of breathing would go on through the slender neck of a bottle, but one can’t be too scientific about all this crap). As far as the two glasses go, for the Eisch I poured some wine in it and some in a regular wine glass and let both sit for 2 minutes before tasting and comparing. For the Vino₂ I poured out the same way but this time gave the wine a few really good swirls in order to “bruise” it and compared that to wine swirled in a regular wine glass.

Here’s the thing…of all the products, I thought Eisch’s whole “oxygenizing treatment” was the aforementioned load of horseshit. The only way I figured a glass could be breathable was to not be solid (duh) in which case you’d have a leaky glass, wouldn’t you? I thought I was dealing with a snake oil sales pitch—but the damned thing works. Don’t ask me how or why because I’ve decided it’s a simple case of blind faith. I was dying to debunk this, I really was. I wanted to strip these guys naked, tie them to a whipping post and call the lynching mob in, but I couldn’t because somehow, someway, the wine really opened up in this thing. Of all the products tested, it made the most marked difference in both aroma and taste. The wine was brighter, fruitier and pepperier.

That being said, though, the Vino₂ is my favorite as long as the wine doesn’t require serious decanting. I loved swirling the wine in the large bowl, watching it lash back and forth against the dent, and the aromas were INCREDIBLE when I got my nose even near the glass. Of the aerators, the Vinturi (which was the most awkward to use) seemed to do the most. The wine was a bit more aromatic and flavorful than the control pour, perhaps because the vacuum creates a sort of “gurgle” and gets more oxygen through it. The other two made the wine a little more aromatic, but I can’t honestly say that I noticed a big change in taste. Given that there wasn’t a huge price range here, Eisch’s glass is easily the best value, followed closely by the other glass. But they don’t exactly make for travel pieces so if you really want an aerator you can take anywhere, go with the Vinturi.

 

“There ain’t another like me baby who knows just how to turn you out…”

I’ve always believed that both Thanksgiving and Christmas are a lot like orgasms. There’s usually a lot of planning, build-up and anticipation, a moment of climax and elation so grand that it leaves you in a state of catatonic bliss (with a shit-eating grin permanently fixed on your face), and then inevitably you’re left with a mess to clean up while they wind up falling asleep. You sit there and think, now what?

In much the same vein, holiday leftovers are like long-term relationship sex. You find a comfort zone and dish out the same stuff year after year, because it’s what you are good at, and hell, nobody seems to be complaining. Turkey sandwiches with the trimmings are probably the most universal—like missionary sex. Then there is turkey tetrazzini or maybe turkey soup, which only focuses on one ingredient—like oral sex. You might even try handing out some of your stuff to others—like pity sex. But here’s a recipe unlike any other, called Bubble & Squeak. I didn’t name the damned thing but the sexual innuendo did not go unnoticed.

Apparently, the Bubble & Squeak is very popular in the UK. In fact long-time reader, Linsey, was the one who turned me on to it and all its glorious open-endedness. Painted in broad strokes, the Bubble & Squeak is a patty made of any combination of leftovers you’ve got, and then fried to a golden crisp—like a much more sinful version of a crab cake. In this case, I took leftover dark meat and chopped it, then added mashed potatoes and stuffing as my binders. Once I had formed a nice patty out of the combo, I put it in the fridge for a few minutes to set. In the meantime, I set up my breading station…a beaten egg and a combo of breadcrumbs and panko for extra crunchiness.

I then coated the patty first in breadcrumbs, then in egg, and then in breadcrumbs again. I fried it in plenty of canola oil, drained it a bit and then served it with a generous spoonful of cranberry sauce, though I could just as easily have used gravy. The result? A super crunchy exterior holding together a warm, soft mess of an interior. The combinations are endless. Use sweet potatoes instead of mashed potatoes.  Add corn or other veggies. Whatever. But I promise you that dishing this one up at the leftovers dinner table will be as welcome a change as bringing Angelina Jolie home for a threesome.

 

“Thank you terror, thank you disillusionment, thank you frailty…”

It’s been a standing tradition in my family for as long as I can remember, that each person at the Thanksgiving table take a turn in letting everyone know what they are most thankful for. This year, I plan on saving all the good shit like, “The health of my family, still having a job in this market, a bounty of food to share with loved ones” for the dinner table, but you guys have become a family of sorts to me (one in need of therapy, but one nonetheless) so I thought I’d share the rest of my list with you. Feel free to add your own as well:

I’m thankful for:

• Balloon Boy (obviously a student of classic literature) who in a moment of sheer panic asked himself, “What would Anne Frank do?”

• Kanye West, for the only interesting 30 seconds of television on the VMAs

• Rachel Ray, because she’s a constant reminder that the American Dream must still be alive and breathing if a glorified salesgirl can become the face of a FOOD channel while actual chefs are getting their pink slips

• Toy Story I and II in 3-D…seriously.

• Rush Limbaugh, for quitting ESPN’s Sunday NFL Countdown after getting flack for comments about black quarterback Donovan McNabb. I’ve heard rumors that Al Sharpton will be filling in as “temporary racist.”

• Japan’s All Nippon Airways, for trying to lower carbon emissions and keep our planet green by asking passengers to take a shit before boarding so that they’ll weigh less. I’m sure airport sanitation workers are thankful as well.

• Tofurkey, because I can serve one to the needy vegans and, by doing so, continue to rub my turkey down with herb-flecked duck fat.

• Lastly, Sarah Palin, for making George W. Bush seem like a well-thought-out, articulate politician.

Happy Holiday, all!

 

 

“You think you know me well, well you don’t know me…”

A Thanksgiving meal is something I’ve appreciated much more often in theory than in execution. Coming from a Cuban family was more than a little weird because commonplace dishes always seemed to be replaced by those my relatives were more comfortable serving. The turkey had suddenly morphed into roasted pig, the stuffing looked a lot like rice and beans, the yams tasted more like sweet fried plantains and the gravy boat warmed the bench while the mojo got passed around to top everyone’s plate off.

Marrying into an Italian family, I soon learned, only helped the situation along moderately. (see last year’s post) Sure there was a Norman Rockwell-worthy turkey, accompanied by all the typical side dishes, but it was expected that the gigundous meal be prefaced with an equally gigundous antipasto. My understanding of Thanksgiving went further awry at that point (from mojo to mortadella) but it was all good because the celebration was about bounty—and about gratitude for that bounty.

Here’s the thing, though. At least when I was served a slice of mozzarella, I could be pretty damned sure the wet white stuff was, in fact, mozzarella. Or, if my aunt passed me the plate of plantains, there really wasn’t any telling me that they were anything other than actual plantains.

Lines get a little blurred, though, when you take a look at some of the ingredients that grace your average, American-as-apple-pie table. I kinda dig sitting at that table, acting as a sort of wiseass know it all, dispensing little-known bits of food facts, because it serves as a nice counterpoint to the usual mindless “how early are you getting up for Black Friday” conversation. Case in point: You know that cinnamon you use to flavor your pumpkin pie? Well it ain’t cinnamon—it’s called cassia. Real “Alba” cinnamon comes mostly from Sri Lanka (formerly called Ceylon) and it’s a far cry from the hard brittle sticks you throw into your mulled cider. Its aromas are much more delicate, with hints of orange blossoms and vanilla. Mexicans call it “canela”. I call it “not what you’re using.”

Then there’s the sweet potato/yam debacle. Lots of cooks use the two words interchangeably, while others know there’s a big difference. But what most people don’t know is that the sweet potatoes and yams we find here in the US are really all sweet potatoes. What we recognize as yams, aren’t. The Africans who were dragged here as slaves identified sweet potatoes as “nyami.” The name stuck and we’ve been eating a misnomer ever since. And just to fuck with you a little more, sweet potatoes aren’t really potatoes at all. They’re tubers, and not even distantly related to yams. There are about 200 varieties of true yams, none of which grow in the US.

No. I’m not done yet. This last one is a naturally occurring, misunderstood ingredient—tryptophan. Does turkey contain it? Yup. Is that what makes you sleepy after the Thanksgiving meal? Nope. Tryptophan is definitely a natural sedative, but truth is, it doesn’t act on the brain unless it’s taken on an empty stomach with no protein present. Not to mention that your average serving of chicken or ground beef contains about as much of the stuff as turkey does. So if tryptophan were truly the harbinger of sleep you’d just as likely doze off behind the wheel after peeling out of a KFC or Burger King parking lot. Let’s stop blaming the poor overcooked bird and put the sleepy blame squarely where it belongs—on the 4 filled-to-the-brim glasses of wine you tossed back, and the biscuit/mashed potato/stuffing carb overload you double-dosed on while your relatives were busy babbling about Uncle Mo’s new hybrid Toyota.

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “I feel it in the air, the summer’s out of reach…”