Tag: dining

Boy, do I love Sonoma. And so would M. Brillat-Savarin.

Instant Souk

THERE IS SOMETHING about cardamom-spiced coffee that’s intoxicatingly irresistible – floral, sweet, bitter, whispering sensuously caffeinated secrets previously known only to the ancient folk of the Middle East. And if it takes just a few easy minutes? Even better. Here is a simple recipe, perfected over a brief period of trial and error:

1- Fill a standard 12-ounce coffee cup with water, then pour the water into whatever piece of cookware you use to boil water for hot beverages (a teakettle, say, or small saucepan).
2- While it comes to the boil, spoon into the now-empty cup a good and proper amount of your favorite instant coffee (I favor a rounded tablespoon of Cafe Bustelo Instant Espresso for its bold flavor and electric effect).
3- Add – and this is MOST important – a level 1/8 teaspoon of ground cardamom. Add also your desired amount of sugar.
4- Pour in boiling water, leaving enough room for cream if you like that sort of thing. Stir thoroughly.
5- Enjoy. With feeling.

False Economy

SO THERE I WAS, PEEPING through the window of the Eureka, California post office, waiting for my elusive boss to enter her across-the-street cafe.

The year was 1988 – a time of great personal upheaval, both good and bad. Through a combination of circumstances, my then-new girlfriend and I were trying to make a go of it in that sleepy, downbeat North Coast city. Jobs were hard to come by, at least for a journeyman printer like me, and when I saw a newspaper ad promising to train someone as a coffeehouse clerk I sprang into delighted and determined action.

At first, things were pleasant. The cafe’s owner, who I’ll call Simone, was friendly and easygoing, as were the customers, and once I had figured out the espresso machine and sandwich-making regimens I felt reasonably financially secure (and competently useful) for the first time in weeks.

Then “Dave” walked in, an itinerant handyman who lived in a big blue van well-stocked with tools of every description.

“You’re new here, huh?” he said as I handed him a double espresso and a roast beef on rye. “Simone paid you yet?”

“I’ve only been here a couple days,” I replied. “Payday’s Friday.”

“Yeah? Right. Good luck.”

Friday arrived, and at closing time, I asked Simone for my wages.

“I’m a little short right now,” she said wistfully, “and I have to move some things around at the bank. Can you wait until tomorrow?”

“Well …. I suppose so.”

Tomorrow became today, and Simone appeared late that afternoon as I was building a turkey croissant.

“I’m SO sorry,” “she said wistfully. “I just missed the bank’s hours. Can I pay you Monday?”

“I don’t know, Simone…”

“I promise. Monday morning, as soon as the bank opens.”

Monday’s dawn broke, typically foggy and grey, with me outside the cafe waiting for Simone to arrive.

She didn’t.

Neither did she on Tuesday.

Nor Wednesday.

Meanwhile, my daily phone messages went unanswered, both at the cafe and at the number purporting to be Simone’s home.

Hence, my Thursday-morning stakeout.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought with one of many impatient sighs. Who am I, James Bond? But I also can’t believe I’m not going to make rent or buy groceries this week.

Suddenly, Simone’s red Gremlin pulled up across the street. As she exited her car, I exited the post office.

“Simone!” I called, breaking into a fast trot. “Hey! Simone!”

Her beseeching eyes reflected helpless and apologetic dread, but before she could say anything, I spoke with uncharacteristic bluntness.

“Look here, Simone,” I said. “I like you, and I like working here, but I need to get paid – like right now!”

Tears came to her eyes. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to pay you. All I have is this cafe and what’s in it. I owe so many people so much money; my life is in shambles, and I’m just as much a victim as you are…”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh, Simone, but frankly, that’s not my concern. I’m not going to leave this place without your paying me.”

And that was how, and why, my girlfriend and I feasted that week on thick sandwiches of roast beef and turkey breast. Victory is indeed sweet – and sometimes, savory.

I’m In (Finally)

IT HAPPENED AS AN ALL-AT-ONCE thunderbolt moment that I wasn’t expecting, but it’s here and I can’t go back: I am now an enthusiastic and sincere convert.

Yes, it’s true. Despite my longtime denials and aspersions, the undeniable fact has overtaken me – and now, I fully, unreservedly, and happily love mayonnaise.

For years, I had a bad attitude when it came to the white stuff. “Slimy,” I called it. “Blandly WASPish,” I pooh-poohed. “That disgusting goo which defiles all that it touches,” I complained to anyone who would listen. It was in the house, yes, but used only by my copilot. I even avoided even touching the hefty glass jar with the familiar blue label, lest it somehow give me cooties.

But last month, curiosity (largely from watching Julia Child prepare her own from scratch) overcame aversion and I reached for That Condiment. I unscrewed the lid, scooped the tiniest bit on the tip of a teaspoon, brought it to my open lips, and licked experimentally.

WOW, I thought. Tangy. Salty. Rich. Flavorful. DELICIOUS! How could I have been so wrong for so long?

They say that if you try something and hate it, it’s because it wasn’t prepared properly. Mayonnaise preparation is simple: beat the dickens out of some eggs, then s-l-o-w-l-y add oil in a thin stream while you continue beating. Sprinkle a tot of mustard powder and a drizzle of vinegar (for stabilization, it’s said) and you’re prepared for feasting.

Since my conversion, I have been using it for a pre-breadcrumbing slather on Petrale sole, and as a binder in the best tuna salad I’ve ever eaten (along with anchovy paste, ground Dijon mustard, sweet relish, capers, black pepper, and a dash of thyme; an adapted recipe also courtesy of Julia Child) – and am eager for more.

So now, the question is: What are your favorite uses for this heavenly substance? Drop a comment in the space below!

Bonite a la Maison A.

ALBACORE GETS ALL THE PRESS when it comes to canned tuna, but skipjack is the preference ’round here due to its richer flavor. (Think of it as a “white meat / dark meat” thing.) And the preference for preparing an economical and delicious sandwich of same is as follows:

Drain two cans of pole-caught, no-salt-added skipjack ($2.29 a can at our local Whole Foods). Flake into desired container. Add a few squirts of Tabasco and some fresh-ground black pepper to taste, enough dill relish to provide a nice crunch, and a modest squeeze of anchovy paste. Moisten with sufficient ranch dressing to hold everything together and mix thoroughly.

To serve: Toast some good bread as dark as you like it. Spread one piece thickly with skipjack mixture, top with a leaf or two of romaine lettuce, and top that with the other toast-slice. Cut diagonally and place both halves at an angle on a suitable plate, fill the intervening space with kettle-cooked potato chips, and have at!

A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche: Meals

“WHAT MAKES A MEAL A meal?” asked one of Prosatio Silban‘s customers over a plate of pan-seared fidget-hen breast, green beans and blue rice.

“Many have attempted to define that term,” answered the Cook For Any Price, wiping his hands on his apron. “Some say it has to do with cooking or presenting the food a certain way. Others aver that it has to do with one’s dining companions. But I think it has to do with the transcendental appreciation of the fare and the setting, when Time slips away and only sheer enjoyment reigns. Moments like those cannot be replicated or defined — only experienced.”

Who’s “Prosatio Silban,” you may ask? Here’s a partial answer: https://metaphorager.net/wtmw/.

A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche: Utensils

“ALMOST AS MUCH THOUGHT AND effort goes into the choosing of eating implements as for the selection of food for which they are meant,” said Prosatio Silban, reaching for the sea salt container next to his fatberry-oil stove. “Silver, gold, copper, bamboo, wood, clay — the list is as long as your imagination is broad. Some are meant for soup, others enable the eating of different types of meat or vegetable; there are even specialized tools for extracting delectable flesh from mollusk or crustacean shells.

“But they all have one purpose: to convey food to the mouth without social disapproval. Lose sight of that refined principle, and you might as well eat with your hands.”

Who’s “Prosatio Silban,” you may ask? Here’s a partial answer: https://metaphorager.net/ep.

Why I Love: My Dad

The man, the legend (click to enlarge).
IT’S HIS CONTAGIOUS JOIE DE vivre. It’s his insistence that I watched Sgt. Bilko, Jack Benny and Ernie Kovacs reruns with him when I was a kid. It’s the skiing memories. (It’s also the memories of the Plymouth, New Hampshire diner he used to own.) It’s his contagious menschlichkeit. It’s his liberal use of Yiddish. It’s his generosity. It’s the way that, though I am 58 and he turns 84 today, he insists on always looking after me. It’s his delight in food, both cooking and eating it. It’s that he taught me right from wrong. It’s his didactic-without-being-didacticness. It’s his instilled-in-me restaurant practice of ordering whatever’s unfamiliar on the menu. Continue reading “Why I Love: My Dad”

How to Dress a Salad

THIS IS A DEVICE OF my own invention, based on a semi-traditional vinaigrette formula, with additives. It will keep unrefrigerated for a couple of weeks (perhaps longer, but at a salad or two a week I haven’t had a chance to test that theory yet).

Into a shakeable container (a Mason or jam jar, say), put:

1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
2 tsp Dijon mustard
1/4 tsp garlic salt
1/4 tsp ground black pepper
1/2 tsp Italian seasoning blend
1/4 tsp sugar
Salt (to taste, if needed) Continue reading “How to Dress a Salad”

5 Thoughts: Confessions of a Vicarious Eater

1. “WHAT DID YOU EAT?” THIS question works its way into every conversation I have or had with someone (online and off) relating to culinary experiences.

2. There’s a reason for this: I am obsessed with matters gastronomical. Not in a bad way; perhaps “obsessed” is the wrong word. “Deeply fascinated” would be a better descriptor. I simply enjoy cooking, eating, discussing, and reading about food in all its wonderful forms — especially if they’re unfamiliar to me.

3. I come by it honestly. When I was a kid, whenever we’d go to a restaurant and see something unfamiliar on the menu, my dad would say “Bring us two orders of whatever that is.” Continue reading “5 Thoughts: Confessions of a Vicarious Eater”

First Graf: The Physiology of Taste

THE FIRST BOOK THAT ACTUALLY got me thinking about food as something other than tasty fuel with which to stuff my face was Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin’s 1825 work, The Physiology of Taste; or, Meditations on Transcendental Gastronomy. Part travelogue, part autobiography, part science text, Physiology deals with such pleasant problems as how to cook a fish that’s too big for the oven; the exacting method of digestion; why restaurateurs do what they do; how to survive a revolution; how to lose weight; and how to make the perfect cup of hot chocolate or coffee. Continue reading “First Graf: The Physiology of Taste”

Why I Love: Restaurants

IT’S THE ATMOSPHERE. IT’S THE background music of cutlery-clinked plates and conversation. It’s the initial pleasure of sitting down at “your” table. It’s having a skilled and knowledgeable waitron. It’s eating what I wouldn’t (or couldn’t) cook for myself. It’s the free iced-tea and water refills. It’s being exposed to unfamiliar food. (It’s also the first bite of said food.) It’s expanding my culinary horizons. It’s seeing and guessing what other people are eating. It’s the perfect match of expectation and fulfillment. It’s the way the aromas of the place excite your senses before (or after) you walk through the door. Continue reading “Why I Love: Restaurants”

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