It is May, which means the return of the Stanley Cup playoffs, the greatest* annual sporting competition. This post, however, is not about that. Rather, it is about overcoming my fears and discovering something truly magical.
I have always been afraid to cook seafood.
This may seem strange. Rarely has a preparation intimidated me. My first mayonnaise was made, without breaking, only minutes after reading a recipe. I dove headfirst into breadmaking, only to discover that it is not nearly so hard as a Quebecer's head. And how many complicated curries did I merely laugh at before attempting to butcher in many painful ways?
Seafood, however, has always been an exception. Living in the Midwest, it is hard to get fresh fish, so I decided to only indulge when on the coasts. Since it was a treat, I left it for professionals to prepare it, which eventually turned into a slight hesitation to prepare it myself, and this state of affairs eventually (and quickly) spiraled into a full blown apprehension towards cooking fish and other seafood. The only thing I have prepared in recent years is ceviche, and only because it is both mind-blowingly simple and stupidly delicious.
For whatever reason, on Sunday, I jumped. On a heart's fancy, I talked my mom into trying out a fishmonger in Lake Bluff, and the fishmonger suggested I try skate wing. To make a long story short, the skate wing was very thinly filleted, so I pan fried it for just a few minutes on each side, made a pan sauce with white wine and parsley, and served it for dinner. The fish was so undercooked, it may as well have been sushi.
What?
I had always heard that fish hated overcooking. The number one rule is to err on the side of undercooking. And this was a very thin filet, cooked for not a very short amount of time. It made absolutely no sense.
The fishmonger had given us three of the skate wings. Two had been prepared. Monday morning, I went online and did some research and found out something rather surprising: Skate wing, as well as monkfish, like to be cooked for a long time. In fact, the longer the better, within reason.
Cue second attempt: same pan, more butter, longer cooking time. Much longer. Probably twice as long. The same pan sauce, although I reduced it down a lot more (lemon juice, white wine, reduced until thick, a little salt and lots of black pepper, chopped parsley and monter au beurre) than on Sunday.
And the results?
A delicate fish with a rather strange but very delicious flesh. Plus, I learned two lessons:
1) I don't know how to cook everything, so there is no reason to avoid the internet. It's an amazing tool and chances are good that someone else in the English (or French) world has already written about the very thing I'm ignorant on.
2) There is no reason to be afraid of seafood.
*Feel free to argue, but I honestly don't think the closest competitor - the Champions League - holds a candle to 31 best-of-seven series in two months' time.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Today's Madeleine
When last in Paris, my mom made a lunch of spaghetti with an egg cracked into the sauce, turning it a bright orange. I remember eating it in our small apartment on Rue Bourg-Tibourg and being as happy as a child. That same week, we went to Les Mariages Frères, a tea salon in Paris. The scent upon entering was like breathing in something more than air. It was cold that week, and damp. There is something special about Paris when it is cold.
There is always something special about Paris.
Montreal, for all her glories, is not a moveable feast.
It is amazing what thoughts a simple bowl of pasta can stir up.
There is always something special about Paris.
Montreal, for all her glories, is not a moveable feast.
It is amazing what thoughts a simple bowl of pasta can stir up.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Ireland to the Rescue
None of that made any sense, but that's not the point. The point is, I had a wonderful meal at a Dublin pub which consisted of Irish brown bread, a baked potato, a pint of Guinness, and a dish called Dublin Coddle* which was one of the most comforting meals I've ever had.
So, tonight, I decided to reproduce it. Quite simple, really: cut a couple strips of bacon into square and simmered them with a couple sausages in a cup of water for 20 minutes. Then, I added two small onions (sliced), three small to medium potatoes cut into chunks, and a coupe carrots cut into pieces. Simmered that in the meat-cooking water for nigh on an hour, and then served it with dark bread, butter, and a stout. (St. Ambroise by the McAuslan brewery, a surprisingly good beer for Montreal, which should not be known for its beer).
Today's high was 6C, which is 43. With rain, you have one of those bone-deep chills that I know so well from my time in Britain. So, where better to turn for tonight's meal than the Irish (Eire's near Britain, right?)? During my all-too-short visit to the Green Isle, I learned a number of things: stout tastes better when you're eating a potato; Dublin Coddle is an amazingly warming food; in spite of all expectations, coddle is served with a baked potato; if coddle weren't served with a baked potato, I would still be cold.
*For years, I searched in vain for Dubline Cobble. It was quite by accident that I stumbled across the correct spelling. I am glad I did, because my memory of the first meal was hazy at best.
So, tonight, I decided to reproduce it. Quite simple, really: cut a couple strips of bacon into square and simmered them with a couple sausages in a cup of water for 20 minutes. Then, I added two small onions (sliced), three small to medium potatoes cut into chunks, and a coupe carrots cut into pieces. Simmered that in the meat-cooking water for nigh on an hour, and then served it with dark bread, butter, and a stout. (St. Ambroise by the McAuslan brewery, a surprisingly good beer for Montreal, which should not be known for its beer).
Today's high was 6C, which is 43. With rain, you have one of those bone-deep chills that I know so well from my time in Britain. So, where better to turn for tonight's meal than the Irish (Eire's near Britain, right?)? During my all-too-short visit to the Green Isle, I learned a number of things: stout tastes better when you're eating a potato; Dublin Coddle is an amazingly warming food; in spite of all expectations, coddle is served with a baked potato; if coddle weren't served with a baked potato, I would still be cold.
*For years, I searched in vain for Dubline Cobble. It was quite by accident that I stumbled across the correct spelling. I am glad I did, because my memory of the first meal was hazy at best.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
My Coffee
My coffee reminds me that I am alive. Like so many other things in life, it brings together pleasure and disgust, textures and smells mingling into a hot, bittersweet ichor.
My coffee is slow, removed from the technological simplicities which allow us to forget that our coffee is often harvested by hand, slowly dried, and then roasted by hardworking people thousands of miles away from our breakfast table. It starts with a kettle, placed on a burner. There is no electric heating coil to replace the primal element of fire.
My coffee starts as whole beans, poured into the hopper of a brass grinder from Turkey. As the fire heats the water, I turn the handle on the grinder, laboriously crushing the beans into a fine powder. The brass starts cool to the touch, but warms as my grip tightens and my muscles begin to tire ever so slightly. Removing the lid, I can check on the level of beans in the hopper, to see if I need to speed up the grinding. It is an inexact method: sometimes, the kettle whistles steam long before the hopper is empty; other times, I finish the grinding and can empty the coffee into a mug.
The smell of the grinder used to disgust me. The acrid scent of tarnishing brass wafted up from the hopper combines with the harsh smell of beans. The inside of the grinder has become caked in a layer of coffee dust from the years of use. The smell now reminds me of the pleasure to follow and of the past, and it is strangely comforting. I've drunk coffee like this since 2007, when I used a friend and roommate's grinder and the pain kept me from standing up while I cranked the burr. It reminds me of the rejuvenation I felt that spring, and the summer after returning home when I got my own grinder. It reminds me of grinding a cup an hour before my Modern tests a year later, the jitteriness of the caffeine hitting me just as I needed my mind to work as fast and as efficiently as possible.
When the beans are ground and dumped into the bottom of a mug, I am always amazed at just how thick the layer of coffee is. It seems to fill up the mug, before any water is even poured on top. And when the water is poured over the grounds, first a thick black sludge to wet them, and then a second pour to fill up the mug, a layer of lightly-colored grounds floats to the top. It sits there as the coffee steeps.
My coffee is a sensual awakener. I have never found coffee which assaults and nudges the senses so completely as this does. To be truthful, it is disgusting, but it is also grounding. The word organic is one which often comes to mind, in the sense of an experience which flows naturally from that which surrounds it. The layer of grounds on top becomes bitter, so the first sips of the cup is filled with bitter grit. Perhaps because of this first impression, the liquid below always surprises with its wonderful richness and smoothness. Towards the end of the cup, the coffee itself starts mixing with the liquid, and I have to admit that this is my favorite part. The grounds thicken the liquid, giving it body like a good cup of hot chocolate, and it lingers in the mouth as the tongue and teeth are covered with fine sediment.
My coffee is slow, removed from the technological simplicities which allow us to forget that our coffee is often harvested by hand, slowly dried, and then roasted by hardworking people thousands of miles away from our breakfast table. It starts with a kettle, placed on a burner. There is no electric heating coil to replace the primal element of fire.
My coffee starts as whole beans, poured into the hopper of a brass grinder from Turkey. As the fire heats the water, I turn the handle on the grinder, laboriously crushing the beans into a fine powder. The brass starts cool to the touch, but warms as my grip tightens and my muscles begin to tire ever so slightly. Removing the lid, I can check on the level of beans in the hopper, to see if I need to speed up the grinding. It is an inexact method: sometimes, the kettle whistles steam long before the hopper is empty; other times, I finish the grinding and can empty the coffee into a mug.
The smell of the grinder used to disgust me. The acrid scent of tarnishing brass wafted up from the hopper combines with the harsh smell of beans. The inside of the grinder has become caked in a layer of coffee dust from the years of use. The smell now reminds me of the pleasure to follow and of the past, and it is strangely comforting. I've drunk coffee like this since 2007, when I used a friend and roommate's grinder and the pain kept me from standing up while I cranked the burr. It reminds me of the rejuvenation I felt that spring, and the summer after returning home when I got my own grinder. It reminds me of grinding a cup an hour before my Modern tests a year later, the jitteriness of the caffeine hitting me just as I needed my mind to work as fast and as efficiently as possible.
When the beans are ground and dumped into the bottom of a mug, I am always amazed at just how thick the layer of coffee is. It seems to fill up the mug, before any water is even poured on top. And when the water is poured over the grounds, first a thick black sludge to wet them, and then a second pour to fill up the mug, a layer of lightly-colored grounds floats to the top. It sits there as the coffee steeps.
My coffee is a sensual awakener. I have never found coffee which assaults and nudges the senses so completely as this does. To be truthful, it is disgusting, but it is also grounding. The word organic is one which often comes to mind, in the sense of an experience which flows naturally from that which surrounds it. The layer of grounds on top becomes bitter, so the first sips of the cup is filled with bitter grit. Perhaps because of this first impression, the liquid below always surprises with its wonderful richness and smoothness. Towards the end of the cup, the coffee itself starts mixing with the liquid, and I have to admit that this is my favorite part. The grounds thicken the liquid, giving it body like a good cup of hot chocolate, and it lingers in the mouth as the tongue and teeth are covered with fine sediment.
My Coffee
My coffee reminds me that I am alive. Like so many other things in life, it brings together pleasure and disgust, textures and smells mingling into a hot, bittersweet ichor.
My coffee is slow, removed from the technological simplicities which allow us to forget that our coffee is often harvested by hand, slowly dried, and then roasted by hardworking people thousands of miles away from our breakfast table. It starts with a kettle, placed on a burner. There is no electric heating coil to replace the primal element of fire.
My coffee starts as whole beans, poured into the hopper of a brass grinder from Turkey. As the fire heats the water, I turn the handle on the grinder, laboriously crushing the beans into a fine powder. The brass starts cool to the touch, but warms as my grip tightens and my muscles begin to tire ever so slightly. Removing the lid, I can check on the level of beans in the hopper, to see if I need to speed up the grinding. It is an inexact method: sometimes, the kettle whistles steam long before the hopper is empty; other times, I finish the grinding and can empty the coffee into a mug.
The smell of the grinder used to disgust me. The acrid scent of tarnishing brass wafted up from the hopper combines with the harsh smell of beans. The inside of the grinder has become caked in a layer of coffee dust from the years of use. The smell now reminds me of the pleasure to follow and of the past, and it is strangely comforting. I've drunk coffee like this since 2007, when I used a friend and roommate's grinder and the pain kept me from standing up while I cranked the burr. It reminds me of the rejuvenation I felt that spring, and the summer after returning home when I got my own grinder. It reminds me of grinding a cup an hour before my Modern tests a year later, the jitteriness of hitting me just as I needed my mind to work as fast and as efficiently as possible.
When the beans are ground and dumped into the bottom of a mug, I am always amazed at just how thick the layer of coffee is. It seems to fill up the mug, before any water is even poured on top. And when the water is poured over the grounds, first a thick black sludge to wet them, and then a second pour to fill up the mug, a layer of finely-colored grounds floats to the top. It sits there as the coffee steeps.
My coffee is a sensual awakener. I have never found coffee which assaults and nudges the senses to completely as this does. To be truthful, it is disgusting, but it is also grounding. The word organic is one which often comes to mind, in the sense of an experience which flows naturally from that which surrounds it. The layer of grounds on top becomes bitter, so the first sips of the cup is filled with bitter grit. Perhaps because of this first impression, the liquid below always surprises with its wonderful richness and smoothness. Towards the end of the cup, the coffee itself starts mixing with the liquid, and I have to admit that this is my favorite part. The grounds thicken the liquid, giving it body like a good cup of hot chocolate, and it lingers in the mouth as the tongue and teeth are covered with fine sediment.
My coffee is slow, removed from the technological simplicities which allow us to forget that our coffee is often harvested by hand, slowly dried, and then roasted by hardworking people thousands of miles away from our breakfast table. It starts with a kettle, placed on a burner. There is no electric heating coil to replace the primal element of fire.
My coffee starts as whole beans, poured into the hopper of a brass grinder from Turkey. As the fire heats the water, I turn the handle on the grinder, laboriously crushing the beans into a fine powder. The brass starts cool to the touch, but warms as my grip tightens and my muscles begin to tire ever so slightly. Removing the lid, I can check on the level of beans in the hopper, to see if I need to speed up the grinding. It is an inexact method: sometimes, the kettle whistles steam long before the hopper is empty; other times, I finish the grinding and can empty the coffee into a mug.
The smell of the grinder used to disgust me. The acrid scent of tarnishing brass wafted up from the hopper combines with the harsh smell of beans. The inside of the grinder has become caked in a layer of coffee dust from the years of use. The smell now reminds me of the pleasure to follow and of the past, and it is strangely comforting. I've drunk coffee like this since 2007, when I used a friend and roommate's grinder and the pain kept me from standing up while I cranked the burr. It reminds me of the rejuvenation I felt that spring, and the summer after returning home when I got my own grinder. It reminds me of grinding a cup an hour before my Modern tests a year later, the jitteriness of hitting me just as I needed my mind to work as fast and as efficiently as possible.
When the beans are ground and dumped into the bottom of a mug, I am always amazed at just how thick the layer of coffee is. It seems to fill up the mug, before any water is even poured on top. And when the water is poured over the grounds, first a thick black sludge to wet them, and then a second pour to fill up the mug, a layer of finely-colored grounds floats to the top. It sits there as the coffee steeps.
My coffee is a sensual awakener. I have never found coffee which assaults and nudges the senses to completely as this does. To be truthful, it is disgusting, but it is also grounding. The word organic is one which often comes to mind, in the sense of an experience which flows naturally from that which surrounds it. The layer of grounds on top becomes bitter, so the first sips of the cup is filled with bitter grit. Perhaps because of this first impression, the liquid below always surprises with its wonderful richness and smoothness. Towards the end of the cup, the coffee itself starts mixing with the liquid, and I have to admit that this is my favorite part. The grounds thicken the liquid, giving it body like a good cup of hot chocolate, and it lingers in the mouth as the tongue and teeth are covered with fine sediment.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Caldron of Beef
Even this die-hard Mexican food fan can grow a little tired of masa and beans. Such had happened over the past few months; the luster of tacos and even tortas had begun to tarnish in my mind. But, for whatever reason, I decided to hit up my secretish spot in Waukegan for lunch today.
I could not have made a better decision. In fact, I think this rates as one of the best choices in my life, although I pretty much always feel that way when I go to this place. I decided to get something different, rather than the usual gordita or taco, and let the home-style cooking of the little taqueria shine through. That made all the difference.
I ordered caldo de res, which for those not in the know is beef stew. Man, alive, it was good. Imagine a huge bowl brimming with spicy green beef broth, two huge chunks of braised beef with fat on, green beans, potatoes, and Mexican summer squash, served with fresh masa tortillas and lime wedges. From the first bite, two things were immediately apparent: this was going to be the best meal I'd had in a long time, and I would die if I ate all of it. In the end, I left a few bites of beef, some green beans and broth, and a single tortilla.
I may still die.
On a side note, I flipped on the Cubs game as I drove back to work. Now, much has been said about the decline in advertising revenue and the desperate measures to which newspapers and television are going (like going out of business). But I don't think it had really sunk in until about twenty minutes ago. The last commercial break before the game started began with one of those old school used car dealership commercials, complete with echo effects and an over-the-top reader.
I know these commercials never really went away, since I'd hear them occasionally on 670 or 890 on non-prime times, and they are alive and well in all their glory on the Spanish stations, but the pre-game WGN broadcast for a day game starting during the construction workday can probably be described as the primest of prime advertising spots, up there with the morning commute hours. For WGN to accept such a trashy commercial strikes me as a big deal. But maybe I'm reading too much into this.
I could not have made a better decision. In fact, I think this rates as one of the best choices in my life, although I pretty much always feel that way when I go to this place. I decided to get something different, rather than the usual gordita or taco, and let the home-style cooking of the little taqueria shine through. That made all the difference.
I ordered caldo de res, which for those not in the know is beef stew. Man, alive, it was good. Imagine a huge bowl brimming with spicy green beef broth, two huge chunks of braised beef with fat on, green beans, potatoes, and Mexican summer squash, served with fresh masa tortillas and lime wedges. From the first bite, two things were immediately apparent: this was going to be the best meal I'd had in a long time, and I would die if I ate all of it. In the end, I left a few bites of beef, some green beans and broth, and a single tortilla.
I may still die.
On a side note, I flipped on the Cubs game as I drove back to work. Now, much has been said about the decline in advertising revenue and the desperate measures to which newspapers and television are going (like going out of business). But I don't think it had really sunk in until about twenty minutes ago. The last commercial break before the game started began with one of those old school used car dealership commercials, complete with echo effects and an over-the-top reader.
I know these commercials never really went away, since I'd hear them occasionally on 670 or 890 on non-prime times, and they are alive and well in all their glory on the Spanish stations, but the pre-game WGN broadcast for a day game starting during the construction workday can probably be described as the primest of prime advertising spots, up there with the morning commute hours. For WGN to accept such a trashy commercial strikes me as a big deal. But maybe I'm reading too much into this.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Meat Musing
I've never been a big fan of the rather bland succulence of pork.
For me, beef, lamb or venison are infinitely "superior" meats, regardless of what the Euro-centric foodie culture prevalent in America claims.
French cookery relies on the pig because their beef is horrible! American grass-fed beef, whether from the western Great Plains or from the eastern Gaucho, may be less useful as a tool in the kitchen, but it is ten times more interesting as an ingredient.
For me, beef, lamb or venison are infinitely "superior" meats, regardless of what the Euro-centric foodie culture prevalent in America claims.
French cookery relies on the pig because their beef is horrible! American grass-fed beef, whether from the western Great Plains or from the eastern Gaucho, may be less useful as a tool in the kitchen, but it is ten times more interesting as an ingredient.
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