Gonzo Gastronomy

That’s me in the photo on the right, a couple of years ago…Greenwich Village on Halloween night, at a bar my friend was playing at. I started out as Captain Morgan, but by the time that photo of me and “Howard Stern” was taken, Carmen Miranda was wearing my pirate hat because a Jedi Knight had taken her fruit. You can tell by how “crisp” the photo is, that my friend, the Prom Date From Hell, was in NO condition to drive. Anyhow, a comment I left on another blog yesterday included the mention of hot buttered rum, which is a great nightcap for this time of year, and it left me thinking about rum. THIS, I thought, would be a great opportunity for a throwdown between the angels and demons of the rum world—gold rum in particular. Let the games begin…

As I’ve said before, I grew up in a Cuban household. Needless to say, being able to roast a pig by the time I was 10 was only one of the small benefits of my upbringing. Another was learning to tell which rums were good and which could be used to clean a carburetor. The beverage that was once considered currency has its soul in Cuba. Gold rum, though, is in its own category because of how often it’s manipulated. Rum is distilled from molasses which is a byproduct of sugar production. Gold rum is supposed to then be aged in charred barrels to give it not only its hue, but its caramelized flavor overtone. But, because rum has no international ruling body imposing production laws on it, it is almost impossible to know if you’re getting the real deal. Many companies cheat, in fact, use their harsher unmellowed white rum, and then add caramel, molasses or food coloring to darken it. I don’t like people who cheat at Monopoly…I sure as hell ain’t gonna like someone who cheats one of my favorite spirits! Unfortunately, getting those companies to ‘fess up and admit that their product is a distillate Frankenstein is about as easy as getting a diet dish out of Paula Deen, so I can’t point the finger at one particular rum and stick it in the demon’s corner of the ring. If you care at all, though, that the beverage you drink is made with integrity, you’ll research…like I did.

The TKO decision? Flor De Caña Gold Rum. Made in Nicaragua, this amber-hued lovely is smoother than Telly Savalas’ head, with beautiful hints of brown sugar and vanilla. Its distribution in the US is limited right now because of other monsters (ahem, Bacardi, Myers, etc.) that dominate our shelves, but its found a home in Miami, so hunt it down online. I like it neat, with a little squeeze of lime, but I know others like it on the rocks. Leaving it at room temp, IMHO, lets the volatiles carry the aromas to your nose. But for the sake of all that is holy, do NOT stick this in a damned Piña Colada, or I will hunt you down like Ted Nugent during deer season. As for the hot buttered rum recipe? Here ya go…

It goes without saying that several factors can affect the way wine tastes to you. Things like the food that accompanies the wine, the glassware the wine is served in, the temperature the wine is served at, the surrounding aromas, your allergies, etc. all alter your perception of the wine you’re tasting. But now it seems that we can add another influence to that list…your CD player. Believe it or not, the chardonnay you pour yourself on some random Tuesday night could make you either smile or wince, depending on what tunes you’ve got playing in the background. Balderdash, you say? Oh, ye of little faith.

I sympathize, because I was a skeptic, too. When my local wine merchant told me he was having a tasting that was setting out to prove that music affects your perception of wine, I laughed. Then I realized I was the only one of us laughing. OK, I thought. I’m not only a wine geek, but a huge music geek too, so what better way to spend a Thursday night? I arrived with an enthusiasm that was tempered by a large dose of skepticism, and soon realized that everyone else there was equally as incredulous. But the tasting overwhelmingly converted the doubting congregation.

Three glasses of chardonnay were poured for the first flight—a light, fruity ubiquitous sipper, a butter-slathered 2 x 4 and a dry, crisp Chablis. We were told to try all 3 wines and make mental notes of what we liked and disliked. That was easy…yuck, yuck, yumm. And honestly, I didn’t think anything would change my mind. I know what I like and it never includes buttered lumber. Then “California Girls” by the Beach Boys was put on, and we were asked to taste and judge all 3 wines again. Suddenly that first sipper that previously tasted like a fermented fruit bowl now tasted groovy. Number 2 was still undrinkable, but that classic Chablis that I thought I could never hate was now rather unimpressive and flacid. That bastard! I cursed him and those golden-haired surfers for making me like the plonk!

He then pressed play again, and Billie Holliday came out of the boombox speakers. Again, we tried all three wines. Again, my preference changed! The fruit bowl was again a fruit bowl, but…no! It couldn’t be! I grabbed my chest and feigned a heart attack—the malolactic monster had been tamed! It was, dare I say it, potable?!? My entire theory of taste was blown. Light happy music = light fruity wine. Heavy-hearted music = heavy-handed wine. It turns out that if I want to enjoy my Chablis, I’d better do it either in the absence of music, or (according to the results of this tasting) with a nice dose of Mozart.

Try this for yourself at home if you don’t believe me…heck, it’ll make for a fun night with friends. You don’t even have to stick to one varietal. In fact, the second flight at the wine tasting consisted of a cabernet, a pinot noir and a white zinfandel. No, that is not a typo—the word “white” does belong there in front of “zinfandel.” Of course everyone scoffed at the thought that ANY music could make a sane person like white zin. In my case, they were right. But I will say that those dastardly Beach Boys at least made it slightly more palatable. If you try it at home with friends, you can even make a game out of it….take bets on whether Led Zeppelin, Miles Davis, Barry Manilow or Shakira goes better with a spicy syrah. And then keep your findings in mind the next time you crack open a bottle and turn on some tunes on a Saturday night—because if that wine isn’t everything you thought it would be, it might not be the wine’s fault.

So I’ve just had one of those “holy crap” moments (I mean that literally, and you’ll see why) and had to share, because I wrote about the idea here. In my rant about the sad state of wine marketing, I wrote that at a time when the younger generation is opting for wine instead of beer more than ever, so-called marketing gurus are missing the boat. And what I screamed was, “Forget beauty shots of vineyards in your ads—think concert sponsorships.” I’m not self-centered enough to think that someone actually listened to me, but alas, great minds think alike.

A few days ago, I received the promo shown here for Sacre Bleu wine. Obviously somebody gets it! In what could be a genius marketing move, they’ve partnered with Live Nation, probably the nation’s largest live events company. With the help of Live Nation, Sacre Bleu (which means Holy Crap in French) is now creating a brand alliance with the Fillmore Miami Beach (prime target market for a wine like this, no doubt) so that their wines will be sold at the venue during shows.

Hands down, the Millennial generation is not keen on traditional forms of advertising. Sacre Bleu knows this, and is pushing lifestyle rather than product. You want someone who’s 25 to like your product? Stick it in their hands when they are having the best time possible. Get them texting. Get them tweeting. Just get them! With over 100 million Millennials flooding cyberspace, emerging brands must consider this market when they start tossing advertising bucks here and there. The older guy with the receding hairline that has years of wine drinking under his belt is great—he’s a target—but he won’t be buying for as many years as the 20-something will because, let’s face it, time is not on his side!

The wines are being imported from the Languedoc of all places where, I mentioned not too long ago, Vin de Merde is made. These guys must really know their crap! I haven’t tasted the wine, but one hopes that this company is in it for the long haul, and not just pandering to the young, skinny and beautiful. If done right, their marketing can create loyalty, which is what every brand seeks. And this doesn’t only pertain to emerging wines. Classics like Chateau Latour and others of that ilk would be wise to start tapping into the younger pulse as well, lest they start watching their market presence dwindle when their current fanbase starts pushing up daisies. I realize that’s a harsh way to look at promotion, but in all honesty, future serious wine buyers aren’t reading WE or WS unless it’s sitting on their parent’s (or grandparent’s) coffee table. Sacre Bleu, on the other hand, is building equity in an online community that will grow the more it talks, and as you can see, it’s talking.

Halloween is, hands down, my favorite holiday. And frankly, all these goofy lawn decorations I’ve been seeing over the last couple of years have really gotten my goat. I thought Halloween was about fear, dread and shock? Why must we dilute everything in order to make it more palatable for those who don’t have the shorts for a good fright? All the ghosts I see have smiles! The witches all look goofy, the zombies don’t appear at all menacing, and the skeletons might as well be throwing a tea party. It sucks! Every kid should go to bed on Halloween night with a healthy fear of the shadows that crawl across their walls. They should lay awake for a good hour or so (they’ll be on a sugar high anyway) with their ears honed sharply to all foreign noises, and they should yell down to make sure their parents are still alive at least twice.

But worse than these happy shiny atrocities that welcome trick-or-treaters rather than dare them to approach, are the lousy “treats” that some of these kids get tossed into their pillow cases. I can distinctly remember running anxiously towards certain houses as a child, knowing they always had the good stuff to hand out, and I also remember learning how to avoid certain homes that would dole out spare change, raisins or candy corn. If that’s what gets you off, fine, but for Pete’s sake, don’t subject the rest of us to it! And remember those funny looking orange marshmallow circus peanuts? How about granola bars or those disgusting popcorn balls? WTF? And Necco Wafers, anyone?

I, personally, like to hand out stuff I love—stuff I would want to get as a kid. It’s up to the kids’ parents to give them healthy food each day, not me. M&Ms, Snickers, Milky Ways, 3 Musketeers…all of that makes the cut. Pretzels and veggie chips? Not so much. Those that would say that “you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth” can eat my shorts because they’ve obviously never been handed a bag of baby carrots when all they really wanted in this great glorious culinary world is a damned piece of chocolate melting in their mouth.

Many of you probably know by now that there’s a weekly comic book called “The Drops of The Gods” being published in Japan. The character that serves as protagonist isn’t your usual leotard-wearing, cape-toting hero, but a son that rebelled against his father, a famous wine critic, by refusing to drink wine and working instead for a brewery. When his father kicks the bucket, he leaves in his will a description of 12 wines he considers the world’s best, comparing them to the disciples of Jesus. Shizuku, the outcast son, finds himself pitted against his adopted brother (a sommelier), and must soak up wine knowledge quickly so he can find the 12 wines mentioned in his father’s will and inherit his father’s vast cellar before the brother does.

Since its popularity began to gain momentum, the wines mentioned in the rag sell out faster than vibrators at a Ladies Knight party, so Japanese wine merchants voraciously snag up copies each week, adjust their stocks accordingly and showcase the featured wines in their shops. It’s a phenomenon that has taken Tokyo by wave. All this is fantastic, and is creating a mass interest in wine there, but here’s my beef…

The Kibayashis, who are the brother/sister team that write the comic, are cutting themselves off at the knees. Why? As self-proclaimed Francophiles, they have dismissed all American wines as simple and lacking in depth. Mind you, I find generalizations insulting, but it’s still not what pisses me off. Because of their dislike of American wine, they have no intention of translating the comic books to English. French, yes. English? No friggin’ way. And THAT is a royal pompous marketing screw up. As down trodden as the American market is right now, I’m sure that comic book could stand to make a shit load of money here. But because they don’t like our wine, we won’t get to read their work. Marketing 101 at its worst.

It’s comforting to know that no single technological advancement has yet managed to replace the artist who crafts a cocktail. Watching them from my side of the bar is like watching a dance. They grab some ice cubes—real, square, thick ice cubes—and throw them gently into the Boston shaker. In goes the rye, the vermouth and a dash of the bitters, which they stir so as not to cloud my drink. As they put a cherry at the bottom of the chilled glass they acknowledge a second customer that has pulled up next to us and tells him they’ll be with him in a minute (or two, or three). After straining the mixture into the glass, they grab an orange from a big bowl of gorgeously ripe citrus and cut a piece of peel from it. The newcomer is by now intrigued and becomes a sort of voyeur in this dance. They rub the peel around the rim of the chilled glass, leaving a trail of essential oils as they go and then light a match, hold it under the peel, squeeze the peel to release more oil and let the warm droplets fall into the drink. At this point, I’m not only salivating for the first sip of that manhattan, but I’ve also got a crush on the alchemist that has just made me what is most likely the best manhattan I’ve ever had. The glass is placed atop a crisp white napkin in front of me and I manage to remove my gaze from it for just a moment in order to look up at the bartender in gratitude. The perfect elixir—all for me.

The usual problem, however, is that my neighbor winds up asking for something along the lines of “Grey Goose on the rocks with a twist, please.” If there were a cinematic equivalent for this moment in my head, it would be the one where the background music comes to a hault with the painful scratch of a needle on a record, and the din of conversation is silenced as everyone turns and stares. One day, what I would love to hear in response is, “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t serve vodka. Can I get you something else?”

After reading The Craft of the Cocktail by the renowned Dale Degroff several years ago, I was smitten. It was one of those epiphanies that has you tossing out plastic bottles of “sour mix” and “bloody mary mix” at 1:00am vowing to never again give them a home in your refrigerator door. No more, “just add alcohol”! What the hell had I been thinking all these years, anyway? I wouldn’t ever dream of tossing a “sloppy joe mix” can into my ground beef, so what made me think mediocrity was acceptable in a drink? I poo-pooed Tang as a sacreligious substitute for orange juice, and yet I didn’t hesitate to pull a couple of jugs of Jose Cuervo pre-mixed Margarita off the shelves for a party. But I’ve come back from the dark side, and what I don’t get is vodka.

By US law, vodka must be odorless, colorless and tasteless. Basically, it has to be neutral—like Switzerland, I guess. And they filter the ever-loving shit out of it to make SURE it’s got no discernable character. Why the hell would you put that in a cocktail? If its only purpose is to act like it’s not there (other than get you buzzed) why bother? It’s just ethanol! I realize that now they’ve got all kids of faux flavors for vodka, but they’re still just that—fake. So what I’m wondering is, what’s your cocktail of choice? What drink, when properly made, gets you salivating? God, I hope it’s not a vodka and OJ.

It’s 2012 and I’m sitting in a cluster fuck of rush-hour traffic on the Jersey Turnpike, fumbling through 300 satellite radio stations that are no longer discernable from the payola-paved airwaves of the crap they once called “FM.” Finally I relent, turn off the satellite radio, and flip on the personal media center I’ve got sitting on the passenger seat…cherry red, the size of a pencil, and it holds 100 terabytes of digital media. As I sit in the sweltering humidity, listening to a newly discovered recording of the Ramones doing In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, I stare out into the haze of twilight and see a huge billboard sign promoting the Food Network (now owned by media giant Ray/Lee Productions, Ltd). Pasted up there is a photo of the two latest food celebrity babes hoisting up some impressive boobage with their mixing bowls, and a headline reading, “First They’ll Make The Pudding, Then They’ll Wrestle In It.” It’s at that point that Joey Ramone and I are left dumb founded, wondering exactly who drank whose Kool-Aid. Did an innovative brainchild desert its loyal foodie audience for the chance to be the opiate of the masses, or did unsuspecting Americans fall fodder to a network that peddles entertainment under the thin guise of education? Then, BAM, I’m pulled back to reality by a loud obnoxious Dunkin’ Donuts radio commercial starring Rachel Ray.

When the Food Network started back in 1993, I was wet with excitement. The thought that someone would actually have both the foresight and the guts to put food-related programming on the air 24/7 was thrilling for someone like me who looked at meals as something more than just sustenance. With the economy being as good as it was in ’93, they knew there was an audience to be gained that was growing in both affluence and culture. These guys and gals were mavericks in every sense of the word, and their goal was to take basic instructional cooking and make it entertaining. Man, did they ever get their wish—now, the pendulum has swung, and we struggle to find any instructional cooking amidst all the entertainment.

It’s a silly question but, do you remember when they actually used to, umm, cook on there? Taste was killer, as were East Meets West and How to Boil Water. I even got a kick out of Ready…Set…Cook! because the idea of creatively combining oddball ingredients and making a worthwhile meal was pretty much my standard weeknight MO. But little by little, people like David Rosengarten, Ming Tsai and Jamie Oliver disappeared. Molto Mario (clearly some of the best instructional stuff on there ever, but also entertaining and wildly passionate) got cancelled and is now only in reruns on Monday mornings. Why? Because all these guys were cooks and the network no longer wanted cooks—it wanted characters. In fact, I’ve gotta DVR Mario Batali’s show because the network openly refuses to air any instructional cooking during prime time! Over the course of 10 years, the programming has gone from being food centric to being food related. The network’s current tagline is “Way More Than Cooking.” Really? No shit? I was leaning towards something more along the lines of “Nearly No Cooking.”

Sandra Lee (the abundantly cleavaged, martini-pushing host of Semi-Homemade), when asked what was wrong with fresh minced garlic, replied, “Bleck! It’s messy and it smells!” It’s GARLIC for Christ’s sake! Its primary source of culinary allure and intrigue is the very fact that it smells to begin with! If it didn’t have an aroma, why the hell would you cook with it? A blogger once commented that, “Sandra Lee is to cooking what Ann Coulter is to tact.” I nearly peed my pants laughing. I will go on a limb here, capitulate, and admit that there is always a place for the Paula Deens of the world, that wrap a stick of butter in lard, deep fry it in vegetable oil, sprinkle it with rendered bacon fat and call it dessert. But is that all we can look forward to? Is there no room for slow food? Organics and biodynamics? Wine? Eating locally? How much EVOO does America have to drown in before it begs for something more? Where are the Jacques Pepins and Lidia Bastianiches of the world? I’ll tell you where they are, brother—they’re on PBS.

Footloose I could have done without, but Flatliners was killer. Sleepers, Mystic River, The Woodsman? Phenomenal. Wild Things, Hollow Man? Not so hot. But what I found myself playing this weekend was a game so close, and yet so far from one we’ve come to know and love—it was Six Degrees of…..well……plain ol’ Bacon. And this is how innocently it started:
1.    Son is in a mood for chocolate cupcakes
2.    I relent, but don’t want boring, dull, uninspired chocolate cupcakes
3.    In a moment of reliving youth, I birth a brainchild I decide to call Fluffernutter Cupcakes, and smile
4.    Not quite fulfilled with the decision, I wonder what more I can do to the idea
5.    Roaming the fridge, I stumble upon some Boar’s Head smoked bacon and smile, more widely this time
6.    An hour later, Wench Frankenstein has her latest creation: Chocolate Fluffernutter Cupcakes topped with bacon that has been caramelized in brown sugar and chocolate stout

For those of you wackos that have no idea what a Fluffernutter is, culinary history would tell you that it’s a sandwich made with Fluff (jarred marshmallow) and peanut butter. The salty/sweet combination is ethereal, and harkens back to carefree childhood afternoons when your mom would still cut the crusts off the bread for you (mine never did, but that’s what a therapist is for). In a futile attempt to recreate youth—not mine, mind you, as I was raised by a Cuban family that was clueless about the allure of Fluff and often shoved an empanada in my face instead—I set out to build a better cupcake. Bacon has been a bit overplayed lately if you ask me, and has worked its way into everything, kinda like sundried tomatoes in the 80s. And for people like me who have been saving their rendered bacon fat for decades, despite the fact that people looked at me like I was the antichrist, bacon is not news.

Nonetheless, there I stood, in my kitchen at 9 at night…a woman with an idea and 24 freshly baked chocolate cupcakes. So I frosted half with a basic dark chocolate frosting and gilded the lily with chocolate sprinkles. My obligations as mom being done, I was free to play. Using a basic pastry bag and wide tip, I filled it with Fluff and squirted some up the bottom of each remaining cupcake. I then made a basic peanut butter frosting and topped each one. Then, the fun began. This time of year, two beers you’ll often find in my house are chocolate stout and cherry wheat because they make an ass-kicking black & tan. So I fried up some bacon, drained it and chopped it. I then put some chocolate stout and brown sugar in a sauté pan and let it bubble away. When it had reduced, thickened and caramelized, I tossed the bacon pieces back in and coated them. Holy crap was this stuff good! Given the shape of our economy, it might as well serve as currency if you ask me. (I apologize for the not-so-great photos, but the good digital camera was out of commission.)

My apologies for not being able to produce a recipe for this, but sometimes when inspiration takes hold, you’re kinda being guided by something outside of you that isn’t aware of the fact that you’re supposed to be taking notes for the general public. I guess my subconscious is basically telling you to piss off and figure it out for yourself. By all means, please do. But to placate those that are now salivating, I offer up my recipe for pig candy and José Andres’ recipe for caramelized pork rinds—don’t ask, just do. Thank me later.

Do you remember the bottle? The unsuspecting one that finally made you stop and think? The one that opened your eyes and asked you to consider it?  Sometimes, our journey takes us to such distances that we forget where we started. I know that my bottle found me while I was working as an intern at the Wine Enthusiast magazine eons ago. Despite working for a publication that surrounded itself with great wines, I was a poor college student, so the only wine that was a routine part of my life was a box of Almaden that kept me company in my dorm room, dishing out glass after glass of white zinfandel from its tap. Then, one night, a foot injury found me bed ridden, and unable to get to class or work. My girlfriend, who worked for the catalog end of the Wine Enthusiast stopped by to tell the editor and art director that I wouldn’t be able to make it into work for the next couple of days. And unlike any other “get well” gift I have ever gotten, they sent her back to the dorms that evening with 3 bottles of wine and a little note wishing me a speedy recovery.

I don’t have a CLUE what any of those three bottles were…I can’t pretend to name any one of them to you. But I do remember vividly how they AFFECTED me. I do remember thinking that the box of Almaden was no longer everything I thought it was. And I do remember feeling a sudden sort of giddy infatuation with my new “crush.” In fact, it seems to me that if you CAN recall the actual name of the bottle that pulled you in, then perhaps you were too busy remembering the wrong things. Now, many years later, I keep small spiral-bound books of notes on each wine I taste, and I’m beginning to think that jotting down notes is not the best way to go. If I am that busy analyzing the experience, then I am no longer truly experiencing. In many ways, I am not giving my senses the opportunity to take it in and store it away.

Case in point: my family continually complains that I don’t take enough pictures of my son—not enough tangible memories for them to store away in a drawer and retrieve years from now. My retort has always been that if I am busy behind the lens of the camera, then I am not truly living in the moment and committing it to memory. Perhaps it’s much more fulfilling to sit down years later and recall the event that is frozen in your mind?!? Same thing goes for wine. Forget that you had a bottle of Sassicaia and it can now be added to your brag book. Instead, remember where you were when you took your first sip of it, who was with you, and how it made you feel. If you can’t recall how the wine made you FEEL, then remembering what it tasted like is completely inconsequential.

So again, I’ll ask…do you remember the bottle? The unsuspecting one that finally made you stop and think? The one that opened your eyes and asked you to consider it?

An Open Letter To Joe The Plumber:

Honestly, Joe, is now really the time to be complaining about tax hikes and causing Senator McCain so much worry? If anything, you should count yourself lucky to not be a part of the food/wine industry. You want to talk about troubles? You’ve got yours, we’ve got ours, buddy.

Ever think about those poor PETA members who are heartbroken over the fact that Chicago has repealed the ban on foie gras? Well, have you? And what about those struggling wine distributors? They’re fighting for their very livelihoods against those that would ship direct to consumers! Their livelihoods, Joe! And let’s not forget some of those California vineyard owners that might actually have to stop using illegal immigrants. Where the hell are they supposed to get people who’ll work for piss pay all day in extreme heat and not cost them any taxes, hmmm? In America? I don’t think so, Joe. Restaurants? You think they’re immune to the woes of this country? They gotta get rid of any trans fats they use. Think that’s an easy ride, Joe? And those slaughterhouses that have been processing sick cows for us to consume don’t have a free ride, either. They’re under investigation now, Joe. Are YOU under investigation? Lastly, Joe, you should consider those poor, fragile wine critics that are being crucified daily by nasty wine bloggers. How thick is your skin, Joe?

All prodding aside, Joe, don’t be saddened at the prospect of being labeled “Joe The Plumber” the rest of your life. Hell, take a look at other people we’ve pigeon holed: Jimmy The Greek, Andre The Giant, Ivan The Terrible, Mott the Hoople (that counts, right?) and Irma La Douce. See, things could be worse—you could have been Joe The Douc(h)e. So come join us gastronomes, and shoosh away your troubles with a nice bottle of Cali Cab (lest we give those Frenchies any more of our down-trodden dollars). You can use it to wash down that pride of yours you just swallowed as well.