Gonzo Gastronomy

Dale Degroff’s The Craft of the Cocktail was the cause of one of my many gastronomic epiphanies years ago, particularly the one that had me tossing out plastic bottles of “sour mix” and “bloody mary mix” at 1:00am vowing to never again give them a home in my refrigerator door. No more, “just add alcohol” for me, I declared—and I swore it on my vinyl collection, so you know damned well I was serious. After all, I wouldn’t ever dream of tossing a can of sloppy joe mix into my ground beef, so what made me think mediocrity was acceptable in a drink?

Since then, I’ve spent many a lazy afternoon perfecting my bloody mary recipe, tweaking it until I got just the right balance of nuance and whoopass. And let’s face it, everybody thinks their bloody mary recipe is the best, whether it involves Old Bay seasoning, steak sauce, horseradish, celery salt or pickle juice. My adjustments began with tossing the use of vodka square out the window without looking back. Vodka brought nothing to the mix other than alcohol, and that could be found readily in other, more flavorful spirits, my favorite being an herbaceous gin. I’ve even tried infusing the gin with various hot peppers, and until recently I was a loud braggart about my bloody mary recipe…

Ladies and gentlemen, wenches and weasels, here are the Angels & Demons of Bloody Mary Mixes.

I never, never, ever, never, ever, ever thought I would buy a commercially made bloody mary mix again in my whole disillusioned life. I poo-pooed them in all their synthetic heresy, claiming them to be fodder for the cocktail illiterate. Then came this angel, Oxford Falls, strolling into my world with its all-natural ingredient list and its amazing fresh flavors, and fucked my whole mojo up. All 4 of their mixes are made with tomato juice, not paste or powder, and with combinations like lobster & wasabi (York Harbor) curiosity was bound to get the better of me, so I bought some. Handcrafted in small batches, the list of ingredients included both lobster & lobster stock, celery, wasabi, lemon juice, horseradish, worcestershire, onion power, paprika, garlic, onion powder, and cayenne, and there were plenty of yummy little chunks of everything settled in the bottom of the bottle. One glorious, gin-infused glass later my disillusion had bit the dust. I actually grabbed the phone at that point, calling to invite loved ones over to try it, preaching about its salvation. Conversion, friends, is never out of reach, and it’s only 1 angel away.

Finding a bad bloody mary mix to pin against Oxford Falls is like shooting fish in a barrel, but finding the worst of them, well that was painful. The sixth-circle demon in this bloody battle is Mr. & Mrs. T. Not only is it made with tomato concentrate instead of fresh tomato juice, but the 3^rd highest ingredient is high-friggin’-fructose corn syrup, followed shortly after by molasses! Molasses has no damned business being in a bloody mary, guys. Lemon juice? Sure, but that’s concentrate, too. All data aside, though, the stuff tastes miserably pitiful. It was watery-thin and sweet, with a weird vinegar aftertaste. No tooth, no body, no punch. The fact that this stuff dominates the market with 62% of total sales is baffling, but given the popularity of the Plain Jane of booze—vodka—I guess I’m not surpised.

Angel: Find Oxford Falls Bloody Mary Mixes at www.peppers.com

Demon: Find Mr. & Mrs. T Bloody Mary Mix at every damned store in the nation

You’ve gotta hand it to a book that claims it’s the “No-Diet Weight Loss Solution” and puts both a Big Mac and a Whopper on its front cover. It’s ridiculous, of course, and I grabbed it for no other reason than to make fun of it, but just like the car wreck by the side of the road, I berate those who stop, look, and slow things up and then wind up gawking myself. Guilty as charged—slam the gavel, grab the cuffs.

Eat This, Not That! is a series of books I had been wanting to make fun of for a long time. The basic premise is that they pin 2 foods against each other and tell you which is the “healthier choice”—in Katiespeak it’s simply the lesser of two evils. That way, you save calories, fat, sodium, sugar, etc. and lose weight. The Big Mac, for example, is the better choice of the two sandwiches I mentioned on the cover. Why?

Big Mac = 540 calories and 29g of fat

Whopper w/Cheese = 760 Calories and 47g of fat

Eat the Big Mac and you’ve just saved yourself over 200 calories and nearly 20g of fat, which is great if you don’t consider that you’ve just swallowed almost half your daily fat intake if you’re a healthy man, and that’s before the fries. People who think like this are the same ones who will later congratulate themselves on their wise choice by not bothering to hit the treadmill that night because they saved themselves some calories. Here are some things that the book promises:

1. It’s crafted to specifically target belly fat by filling you with smart, healthy choices. (a Big Mac is a healthy choice for who?)
2. You’ll reshape your body by eating in the same places but eating smarter. (lest we try NOT eating in the same places)
3. Gain greater health by cutting empty calories (great, that’s like whittling the Ark down to the Titanic)
4. Gain people’s respect by staying lean (not even touching this one)

After I was escorted out of the bookstore for laughing so loud that I disturbed the latte drinkers, I grabbed a seat outside so I could continue the entertainment. I realize that Americans are in a perpetual state of looking for the easy way out, but it seemed laughable that people would actually buy these books with the intention of using them as a weight loss tool! “If you go to Pizza Hut, eat this pizza, not that one.” How about skipping Pizza Hut, bub? But it was only a matter of moments before I found the voice in my head change from, “you’ve got to be kidding me” to “really? It’s got that many calories?” Who would’ve thought, for instance, that you’re better off eating a Black Forest Ham, Egg and Cheddar breakfast sandwich at Starbucks than eating a Bran Muffin with Nuts there? I pounded at the window, yelling toward the latte drinkers inside, trying to warn them, but I could scarcely be heard over the whoosh of the Vivanno blender.

They’ve also got a “Supermarket Survival Guide” version to tell you which of the crappy processed foods you buy are better/worse than the others. They’ll tell you which boxed rice side dish is less blubber building, and which mac and cheese brand is less artery clogging, and they’ll do it with a straight face. But all this is not to say that I didn’t learn anything from these self-helpless books. Did you know, for instance, that 1 package of Twix has the saturated fat equivalent of 11 strips of bacon?! Or that a serving of Bertolli Grilled Chicken Alfredo & Fettuccine Skillet Meal has the saturated fat equivalent of 22 strips of bacon?! Then there’s Drake’s Cherry Fruit Pie, voted “Trans-Fattiest Food in the Supermarket.” One package (2 small pies) contains more than 4 days’ worth of trans fat. But what amazed me most to learn was that apparently Australian researchers have found that mixing liquor (like rum) with diet drinks (like Coke) can intensify the alcoholic effect by 50%! Bet you guys are taking notes now, ain’tcha?

It began like it often does, with me being unable to refuse a challenge. I had been contacted by someone working for Mezzetta (a line of Italian-influenced products) and made aware of a sandwich recipe contest that they were running. The recipes, of course, had to use a Mezzetta product, and so she offered to send me a couple of samples to get the ideas flowing. I graciously accepted both the samples and the challenge, figuring I’d try to be cute and create a dessert sandwich. Problem was, the samples I received were of jarred red sauce and sliced peperoncini. I’m good, but I’m not that good.

Later that same week, my husband brought up the fact that he had been jonesing for me to make him his favorite sandwich (a BLT) with some of our garden-grown tomatoes. Problem was, (see a pattern, here?) all the tomatoes were still stubbornly green because the summer had been less than optimal—translate to nearly no fucking sun at all. I turned to him in one of my many wiseass moments and told him if he wanted a BLT it would have to be with fried green tomatoes, because ripe ones were MIA. It’s amazing how many moments of genius are born out of wiseass ones.

The resulting inspiration is what you see here, the Mean Green BLT. Here’s the way it went down: Sliced up a green tomato from the garden, dredged it in a cornmeal mixture (see Recipes section) and put them on a rack for a few, while I fried up the bacon. I then toasted some wheat bread and made the mean green mayo, which consisted of sliced peperoncini and sundried tomatoes finely diced in the processor and stirred into mayonnaise. Lastly, I fried the tomatoes and assembled the bestest, crunchiest, yummiest, spiciest BLT in the history of BLTs—more or less.

So remember, when life hands you a green tomato, enter a contest.

If I were to mention “great actors” in conversation, you’d more likely think of someone like Robert Duvall than you would Steven Segal (or at least I’d hope so if you read this blog). If I say the words “cartoon character” you might immediately imagine Mickey Mouse, Homer Simpson or Bugs Bunny, but I can’t imagine that Grape Ape would be anywhere near the top of the list…stay with me here, I promise I’m going somewhere with this. Countries like England are, in my never-remotely-humble opinion, the Grape Apes of the winemaking world—sparkling wine in particular. When I say “sparkling wine” you conjure up images of Champagne in your head, or even Spanish Cava and Italian Prosecco. You might even drift over to the many bubble makers in California and Australia. But, England? Sure they make great gin, but sparkling wine?

When my brother-in-law told me a while back that he was headed to England to visit his then girlfriend (now fiancé), I handed him a short list of English sparkling wine producers I had been wanting to try, and begged him to weigh his suitcase down just for me. I figured it had to be cheaper there, and the selection would be wider. Apparently (take note because you’ll never hear this again) I was wrong…about the selection, anyway. Finding British bubbles in a British wine shop was, according to his pleading emails, harder than it sounded. Nonetheless, one of the bottles that made its way back to me was Chapel Down’s Brut NV (approx. $28). Granted, Chapel Down is the largest wine producer in the UK (it accounts for over 50% of all commercially available English wine), and I tend to gravitate toward the small-house bubble makers, but I was at the mercy of a tired, grumpy brother-in-law, and honestly, I was thankful for whatever he brought back.

I was actually pleasantly surprised…it was much more balanced than I expected. Was I blown away? No. But I’ve certainly spent 28 bones on lesser sparkling wines, including a couple of NV Champagnes that shall remain nameless…for now. The wine is made from a blend of Rivaner, Reichensteiner and Pinot Noir grapes, in the traditional Champenoise method. It’s very pale in color and had a lot of “biscuity” notes with racy acidity. I’d like to say it was delicate and had finesse, but truly it just lacked some depth, structure, body—it was a little flaccid. Nonetheless, it was a nice bottle of wine that I think I subconsciously gave extra credit to, simply for not tasting like the overly sweet mess I expected it to be.

A couple of decades ago, the English wines had nowhere to go but up. “Good English wine” was, at that point, an oxymoron. But sparkling wines in particular, have stepped up their game over the last 10 years or so and continue to improve. Because of their climate, British vineyards will always produce relatively low yields compared to the rest of Europe. That can actually be an unintended advantage in growing quality grapes, but it does also mean that production costs will be higher compared to its competition. If they can beef up their QPR (quality/price ratio) a bit, I think it’ll be cool to see what these guys do in the next ten years.

Image by Bob Beilby

I’m not exactly one for resting on my laurels, but given that this was first posted just after this blog began, on September 11 of last year, I thought it worth revisiting, lest we ever, ever forget:

Tuesday’s sunshine dancing on the beggar’s dirty face,
passing steam-riddled blacktop, cracked backs and wailing.
Bakers and fishmongers, smell of a city waking,
bootleg vendors on cold street corners.
Two great arms outstretched, yawning,
kitchen prep work over boom box radios and
Spanglish conversations,
delivery trucks, squealing brakes,
curses spat at taxi drivers.
Coffee shop wi-fi, pigeons startled by a horn blast,
lithe blonde adjusts her skirt in an alley.
Don’t clean my windshield, pull up my window, lock my door,
green light freedom leaves him in exhaust fumes.
Sanitation noise and elevator silence,
Howard Stern broadcast over big apple airwaves,
pretzel pushcart declaring its slab of real estate
on Washington Square.
Headshop on Waverly, agency on Fifth,
laundromat on Delancy, theater off Broadway,
raising their eyes to a sky
that went from blue to gray.
We will have no strangers among us today.
The phoenix rises from its ashes,
no matter how great the pile,
and so we will raise a first glass in remembrance,
and then a second in reverence.

Interior Dialogue 1: If this doesn’t work out well, I’ll just delete the pics. No biggie. But I might as well take photos as I experiment, just in case this actually, you know, tastes any good.

Interior Dialogue 2: You do realize that nobody’s home, right? You could just as easily scarf down a bag of pork rinds and save yourself the dirty dishes.

ID1: No fucking way. If they were real pork rinds I might actually consider the option, but not that crap. Besides, the kid will notice that they’ve gone missing. I’m thinking the tomatillos over there are looking mighty nice.

ID2: Yeah, of course, tomatillos. Thatta way to go, you reckless wild woman, you. Sure you don’t want that block of triple-cream brie instead?

ID1: No, damn it…wait, there’s brie in the fridge? Never mind. Focus. OK, I’ll roast the tomatillos and some garlic cloves in the oven with a little olive oil.

ID2: Whoopie. I’m going to sleep. Tell me when the pepperoni pizza gets here.

ID1: OK, what goes good with roasted tomatillos? Oooh, I know—corn. I’ll sauté some in a pan with some scallions and chili peppers, then toss the whole thing together with the roasted stuff.

ID2: Can we at least have a glass of bubbles while we do this? Please?

ID1: Oh, right, the bubbles. Forgot I had that chilling. What would I do without you?

ID2: Die a sober, healthy virgin probably.

ID1: Cheers! “Tiny bubbles, in the wine…”

ID2: “make me happy, make me feel fine…”

Forty Minutes Later

ID2: mfwwr trrwnfrt ohuiuw mmmmmm

ID1: You’re not supposed to talk with your mouth full, you know.

ID2: Oh for christ’s sake, NO ONE IS HOME…man, this is really, really good.

ID1: See! I’m glad I took pictures to post on the blog.

ID2: Yeah, you gonna take pictures of the Ben & Jerry’s we’re gonna eat later, too?

ID1: I was thinking some watermelon granita would be better.

ID2: Granita. Right. Livin’ large.

When I turned 1 year old, the US was bombing the shit out of Hanoi, the Goodyear Blimp was flying for the first time, a gallon of gas cost 55¢, Bobby Fischer became the World Chess Champion and The Godfather was taking it to the mattresses. Today, I get to celebrate another first year, but this time managing not to crap in my diapers or spit up on my grandmother—I make no promises about not sticking my hands in the cake, though. Gonzo Gastronomy is no longer the new kid, folks! Today, we turn one (for those who can’t read, see how many fingers I’m holding up)! 365 days gone by, 112 posts later, and nothing to show for it—I’m gushing with pride.

I began this blog because I had put down the proverbial pen for a really long time in order to pursue an actual…you know…JOB. But eventually, I was jonesing to put my thoughts on screen again and you, my friends, are the victims of that desire. I write not because I want to, but because I have to. It’s the one way I can truly give voice to my thoughts, for better or worse. When I started GonzoG last year, I honestly don’t think I gave a shit whether I had 2 readers or 200. I just wanted to write. The fact that you guys have stuck around is truly humbling. In case I forget later, thanks.

My introductory post was about a harbinger of change—a true iconoclast—Jimi Hendrix. Jimi’s Woodstock performance was the classic example of getting others to shut their mouths and hone their ears, and that was something I admired and tried to emulate: “It’s never comfortable or free of conflict, and it’s certainly not always forward motion, but that’s the organic nature of change. I return repeatedly to music because it follows the same creative process of cooking and making wine—it’s the opening of an artist’s vein. Food and wine has its own set of mavericks, heretics, pioneers and renegades—and for better or worse, this is their sandbox.”

I’d like to think that I’ve done an OK job of calling out mavericks, heretics, pioneers and renegades in food & wine, though sometimes it was to laud them and other times it was to publically stone them. I’ve called out Korbel for bad PR damage control, sung the praises of boutique distributors like Garagiste, lashed out at the Italian olive oil industry, railed against vodka, waxed eloquent about fruitcake, and even compared a Belgian ale to the overrated experience known as losing my virginity. Sometimes, I got really pumped about a post that went absolutely nowhere, and other times posts that were essentially written without forethought were the ones that garnered the most attention and response. Shows you what I know.

I’d also like to think that I’m living up to the “Gonzo” in Gonzo Gastronomy—providing journalism that is truthful without striving for objectivity. If I speak from a place of passion, I speak truthfully. To me, that’s all that matters.  Call it subjective, call it opinionated, call it profane. I don’t really care, as long as you’re calling it something, because that means I’ve made you pay attention—made you hone your ears. Not everyone likes my sandbox, but that’s cool. They can stay in their kiddie-seat swings, safe from the danger of a skinned knee and a bruised ego.

Thanks for listening while I rant and rave about the angels and demons of food and wine. The fact that you all still humor me is really cool, and I look forward to another year of quoting songs, pointing fingers, confessing character flaws, and writing about eating and drinking my way through life under the very dangerous assumption that someone out there gives a shit what I have to say. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m going to go pop a bottle of really good Champagne and hopefully grab a fistful or two of chocolate cake. Sorry I didn’t invite you, but I’m always worried about strangers rummaging through my drawers, critiquing my dusting skills and stealing my crappy flatware. Don’t worry, though. I’m bound to write about it anyway.