Spanish mackerel with Aioli, and zucchini chips with chipotle mayonnaise.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Admit it. You probably thought this blog was gone, vanished, down the garbage disposal. Well, for awhile we did, too. But we’ve decided to try and bring some life back to it, and chat again about food, cooking, recipes, wine, and all things sensual, creative, and satisfying in the kitchen and dining room.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Even when I’m just cooking for myself (Francesca’s out of town), I can’t seem to do simple or boring or fast food (“take-away” as our Brit friends say).
Sweet-and-sour shrimp, bananas, edamame, and guava paste chunks (added at the last minute so it didn’t dissolve) over cilantro rice. Paired with a Nobilo Sauvignon Blanc (New Zealand).
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
We've been.... busy. Actually, started a real J-O-B for the first time in several years, and been, well, busy with WORK. That damn four-letter word. Nonetheless, we'll try to say something occasionally. Despite our new time commitments, we're still eating and drinking good wine with our regular abandon.
So tonight we present Vietnamese Banh Xeo via the "Plenty" cookbook. Bonus points if you can identify all the ingredients in the first photo. Paired with Pearl Sake (served cold).
Saturday, March 26, 2011
We’ve mentioned before our new-found love of fresh Spanish mackerel. And we’ve been using it in ever-more different ways. In the last month we’ve had:
Crispy-skin mackerel fillets with curry.
Beer-batter fish & chips with mackerel instead of cod, halibut, or other white fish.
Fish tacos with mackerel. (We have claimed to be the king and queen of fish tacos. See this older post.)
Teriyaki mackerel and onion over rice, with Japanese cucumber, scallion, and ginger salad.
Friday, March 11, 2011
We were trying to do something different with oysters and pasta last night, instead of the tried-and-true oysters in alfredo sauce.
We fried the oysters crusted with panko bread crumbs, to give them a bit of a crunch. The pasta (fresh fettuccine) was dressed with an artichoke, red pepper, and olive oil bruschetta sauce. Topped it all with crisp fried leek strips. Served with fresh-grated Parmigiano Reggiano.
Paired this with a McManus (California) viogner, an excellent match.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
We haven’t been good about posting meals and wine lately, but here are a few recent dinners (plus one breakfast).
Tuna seared in ginger and sesame seeds, over rice with rainbow chard. With Bogel Sauvignon Blanc.
Butternut squash and black bean chili. With Columbia Crest Cabernet Sauvignon.
Fresh Brussels sprouts in alfredo sauce, with fresh wild sardines fried in panko bread crumbs. With Cline Pinot Gris.
And finally a breakfast creation (we generally eat simple bagel or toast breakfasts, but create a special egg dish every Sunday morning). Mustard glazed spinach, sunny-side-up eggs, topped with mustard toasted croutons.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
People get so afraid of the word “soufflé.” But if we substitute “egg puff” or “easy cheese-and-egg dish” a lot more folks would try this wonderful creation. If you can make a cake, you can make a soufflé easier and in half the time.
Even Julia Child makes it look pretty simple. Sure, she uses a couple of pages to describe the process, but then she was writing for mid 20th century American housewives who’d probably never seen a whisk or a copper bowl before.
Francesca had a badly infected tooth removed, so we were looking for soft but nourishing meals. This was a very simple cheese (Gruyere) soufflé, without any spinach or ham or anything chunky or chewy. Julia’s basic recipe probably can’t be improved upon.
I paired this with a Gnarly Head Cabernet Sauvignon. (She isn’t drinking again yet. Smart.) I also had some left-over sautéed potatoes with wasabi mayonnaise on the side.
Monday, February 7, 2011
I know it’s somehow almost un-American, but we don’t have TV, so we didn’t watch the… Super Bowl. We tried our best to do our version of Super Bowl food, nonetheless. Started with Margaritas, then our dinner was as close to a burger as we can come – salmon cake Panini with chips on the side.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Sweat droplets make little splotches on the pavement, then slowly dry in the hot, humid air. Beer helps a bit, and it’s only a buck a can. One walks slowly, on the shady side of the street. We pause to appreciate – admire is too strong a word in this car’s case – a blue 1959 Chevrolet Impala. Scott asks the two men seated nearby if the car is theirs and if he can take pictures. The owner is quiet, almost shy, but nods his head OK.
“Do you want to go to the beach?” asks the other man. The car owner doesn’t seem to speak any English, but his agent speaks passably well. Scott speaks some Spanish but doesn’t always understand the usually rapid responses; while I understand quite a bit but my speaking is so rusty that I’m not good at stringing sentences together. Most of the time, if we’re together, Scott talks and I listen and translate. It’s kinda funny, in a way, until much later in the trip when a beautiful woman in Mexico mistakenly thinks Scott and I are a gay couple.
So for five dollars each, they’ll drive us to the beach about 10 kilometers away. We think it might just be a tiny bit cooler, plus we can swim and maybe get a little breeze.
The car isn’t particularly pristine, either on the inside or the outside. And very, very far from original. The bright red dash looks good, but seats, floorboards, headliner, and maybe even the steering wheel have been replaced sometime over the previous 40-some years. The glove compartment door opens into empty space. The sky blue exterior appears to have been painted with house paint. And, from the sounds coming from the engine, wheels, and drivetrain, the mechanical parts aren’t in any better shape.
Within a few minutes we’re out of Trinidad’s town limits. A few minutes later we’re on the side of the road. Sputtering, stalling sounds, then a dead engine, and we coast to a stop. There’s not much need to pull very far over, as there’s almost no traffic.
“Out of gas,” the agent explains. We all get out of the car to assist – isn’t that what males do everywhere in the world? Even two Americans and two Cubans in a ’59 Chevy? If we’ve guessed right about the car’s age and heritage, it would be one of the last American road warriors imported before the revolution.
The driver goes to the back, opens the trunk, and takes out a gallon plastic milk carton of gasoline. He walks to the front, opens the hood, and pours the gas into a small tank inside the engine compartment. We’re witnessing another example of no-spare-parts innovation.
All the Cubans who own classic old American cars think that when relations between America and their country normalize, that wealthy American car collectors will be flocking to the island to purchase their relics and make them rich. We really didn’t have the heart to tell any of them that American car collectors want cars in pristine, original condition. We silently wonder if even the engine in our taxi is from Detroit, or instead was pulled out of a Russian Lada and grafted onto this big, blue Chevy.
Back in the car, we go no more than five minutes, and we have to pull over again. “Engine oil light is on.”
This time the driver reappears from the bowels of the trunk with a quart plastic bottle of motor oil that looks like it’s already been used several times. Again, we wonder. Did he drain it from a dead Lada’s engine? Is the oil something semi-bootleg, like the cigar seconds that workers bring home from the cigar factories? Those questions and their answers are beyond the language skills of any of us.
Back on the road, almost beginning to smell the sea breezes, we hear rattling from the back. Outside the car. First it was low gas, then low oil, now it’s low lug nuts. The three lug nuts on the left rear tire are all loose (there should be five). They’re tightened quickly, but Scott gives me a look that clearly says: “Will we be walking back?”
A stretch of Caribbean white sand begins just steps from the car. On the north shore of the island, the coast bears the brunt of the powerful Atlantic. Here, on the southern Caribbean side, we could have been in Cozumel. “We’ll wait for you.” Not a question, but a statement. We said we didn’t know how long we’d be. We silently thought that maybe we really didn’t want to get back in the Chevy. “That OK. We wait.”
Scott hauled his pale body to the water, while I spread my pale body on the beach and read, and later walked down the beach a ways. A young family was sitting in the shade of a palm tree, their car parked right on the beach. The car was in much better condition than our taxi, and I stopped to admire it. “Es tu coche?” “Si. Would you like a drink?” as he handed me a bottle of Havana Club rum.
Havana Club is rum in Cuba – not brown but clear, and about $3 a bottle, although we guessed the locals didn’t pay even that tourist price. You can’t make a decent Mojito in Cuba without Havana Club, and every bar and restaurant claims the best Mojito on the island, some willing to guarantee that they do. We just drank them, not worrying how we’d make good on the “guarantee” if we didn’t like their mix. Although Daiquiris are allegedly as traditional as Mojitos (especially in the mystique of Hemingway’s Havana), the latter were consumed 10 to 1 by everyone we encountered – Cubans and tourists alike.
Scott walked up and mildly berated me for drinking out of a stranger’s bottle. Yet never an adverse thought crossed my mind as I enjoyed a smooth mouthful of my new friend’s gift. Scott, always working, took several photos of the car for possible use in his planned book.
The guys were waiting for us back by the car. We bought everyone Cristal beers and chatted with several of their friends who’d joined the table. The agent appeared to be quite a lady’s man, and had a good-looking chica on each arm. We returned to Trinidad with one girl in the front seat with our driver and agent, and another two girls comfortably close to us in the backseat. It appeared to be just a ride back to town for the girls, not a set-up for us. Anyway, Scott claimed to have given up on women after a recent bad relationship, and our host at the Casa Particular where we were staying made it very clear that “guests” weren’t acceptable in his establishment. Besides, the whole phenomena of Cuban-women-and-foreign-men seemed a little too much like prostitution to me, so we said farewell to all our new friends as we left the car.
A British friend of Scott’s who we ran into in Trinidad has been visiting the island for several months a year over the course of many years. Keith was always dreaming of dating Cuban women, but despite many visits he could barely speak a dozen words of Spanish. Keith was the perfect example of the peripatetic travelling Brit who just doesn’t assimilate but always stays a “tourist,” even though he had spent years in China, Thailand, Africa, and other far-flung destinations.
Keith told us a story about being in Havana on one of his first trips, and trying to understand “the women thing” on the island. He asked his taxi driver, “How do you tell which ones are the prostitutes?” The Cuban driver, calm and worldly, replied, “They’re all prostitutes.”
Keith and Scott would sit on the patio of our casa, smoking cigars and exchanging photographer war stories. Tobacco smoke in the states would cause me to cough and cringe, but Cuban tobacco smelled sweet and natural, as natural as mangoes or papaya or a bowl of limes and oranges.
Julio, our casa host, was also a photographer, and he organizes photo workshops in Trinidad. He loved showing his work, and I was happy to see his collection. Julio had two guest rooms, and the other was occupied by a Canadian man and his stunning South African girlfriend. They were sweet people, interested in Julio’s work, but somehow just didn’t seem to fit into the fabric of Cuba. The Canadian always wore a Guayabera, the prototypical Cuban man’s shirt. Scott hated Guayaberas, saying, “Why would I want to go around looking like a dentist?”
Finally, it was time to move on to another destination on our trip, so we found a driver who would take us back to Havana – cheaper, hotter, and much more Cuban than the sterile, air-conditioned Viazul tourist bus we’d arrived on. Keith, Scott, and I crammed into a middle-aged Russian Lada which never so much as hiccupped on the entire five-hour drive. The driver spoke no English; Scott asked questions; I translated; and Keith kept talking about the women at the Casa de la Trova (music venue) the night before who he should have asked to dance.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Last night we made a big batch of fresh pizza dough (froze 2/3 for the future) and created a pie with provolone & blue cheese, olive oil, spinach, kalamata olives, and sautéed fennel, onion, shallot. Fresh rosemary was mixed into the dough. Paired with a Ridge 2008 Paso Robles Zinfandel.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Tuna steaks glazed with an orange juice, balsamic vinegar, and fig-paste reduction. Served with a warm salad of cannellini beans, celery, and onion, with a rosemary and champagne-vinegar dressing. Paired with one of our best-of-all-time standby wines, B&G Vouvray.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A friend asked me to create a special dinner for her husband’s 50th birthday. She had a few ideas, but indicated that a Pasta Bolognese was one of Brian’s favorites. Attempting to be exciting, creative, and original, I decided to deconstruct the dish.
Sautéed onions, carrots, and sun-dried tomatoes in olive oil. Added a sun-dried tomato sauce/tepenade, olive oil, and white wine. Plated a green heirloom tomato with a strip of prosciutto. Next added fresh fettuccini, the sauce, then layered slivers of onion, carrot, and sun-dried tomatoes. Finished with strips of flash-sautéed buffalo tenderloin and prosciutto, and shavings of a Spanish sheep cheese. With a yellow heirloom tomato wedge on the side.
On the side we served pan-grilled zucchini with Manchego cheese, topped with fried sage leaves. We wanted to serve a fig, watercress, arugula, and pecan salad, but figs were out of season. Instead, we used Turkish apricots marinated in lemon and honey, and sautéed in olive oil. Topped with an olive oil, vanilla bean, and orange juice dressing.
We were too damn busy cooking to take many photos, but here is a (lousy) shot of the main meal.
(We started with Italian olives stuffed with white anchovies, and baguette toasts. Our wines for the evening were all international – an Argentinean Malbec Rose, New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, French Chardonnay, and a South African Syrah [the only unsuccessful wine of the bunch].)
Friday, December 31, 2010
We have (at last approximate count, when we were unpacking from our move) more than 160 cookbooks and cooking-related works. Sometimes we use them for actual recipes, often we just like to read them, but most frequently they're inspiration. For example, I received Thomas Keller's The French Laundry Cookbook for Christmas, and I've already got some new ideas on deconstructed dishes and sauces.
A few of our cookbooks receive rotating space on a counter in the kitchen, and here are some of the most recent that we've been using for ideas.
Last night's dinner was a cauliflower, apple, onion, current, and dill casserole, with green-onion and Camembert cornbread. (Both inspired by The Herbal Kitchen cookbook, in top photo, which is based on the menu from the Herbfarm Restaurant in Woodinville, Washington.)
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Like most American consumers, I’ve gravitated toward fish that have already been filleted, although in my younger fishing days I was fairly adept with cleaning and preparing whole fish. But we’ve recently been finding some nice-looking whole fish (this Snapper and some Spanish Mackerel most recently). One benefit to cooking fish whole is that the bones, head, etc. contribute additional layers of flavor to the finished dish.
We stuffed this Snapper with lemon, parsley, onion, and thyme. The salt crust held the moisture and flavors in, without giving the fish a salty taste at all. Served with lemon wedges and a drizzle of olive oil.
As accompaniment, we sautéed fingerling potatoes and onion (in a little olive oil, covered) with a little sage and finished with a light sprinkle of Truffle salt. Served the potatoes with a Wasabi mayonnaise, and had a Spanish Verdejo wine.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Bob just wanted a salad. A nice, crisp pile of lettuce with some tomatoes, maybe a slice of cucumber and a black olive or two.
“I’m sorry, we have the braised endive. Or maybe Monsieur would enjoy some Tomates a la Provencale?”
“No. Really. I’d just like a lettuce salad.”
“I’m sorry, again. We have no lettuce.”
Bob just stared at the waiter. We were in a French restaurant (back when they were “French” restaurants, not “continental” or “Euro-fusion”) in conservative Orange County, California. Bob was from New Jersey, out on business. He gave a sigh and slumped a bit, looking grumpy. Bob was the kind of guy who had his Range Rover in Jersey but also a 10-year-old-Oldsmobile as his New York City car. He commanded a bit of a presence, but also wasn’t the scene-making type.
“Let me ask if the kitchen can do anything for you sir.”
The kitchen did manage to find some hearts of Romaine (“No leaves?”), but insisted on French-ifying it so as not to appear too common.
I had never had French food. Never been to a French restaurant. Never had dinner with New York businessmen twice my age. I was over my head and I knew it so I tried my best to keep my head down and be as business-like as possible in my suit that I now know was much too loud and California-flamboyant for these guys in dark gray and brown.
The evening was awkward. I remember dropping the tiny salt shaker in the potatoes on my plate, but I think the conversation at the table was animated enough that no one else actually noticed as I wiped it off with the napkin on my lap. Especially as this was the type of French restaurant where everything was so perfectly spiced, seasoned, and salted that there were no salt or pepper shakers on the tables for the crude Americans who over-salted everything without even tasting it. (They must have known my Dad.) Thus, Bob had had to request salt and pepper for the table.
What I remember were the songs on the menu – Canard en Croute, Jambon Farci et Braise, Poulet Roti. Other than the Spanish of my youth and the street Japanese I picked up living in Asia, French menu items were the first words of another language that I learned. And I remember the sauces – Hollandaise, Mornay, Beranaise. And I have no clue as to what I ate that night or on other evenings at the restaurant. Other than they were rich and lovely.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Whew. After too many weeks of packing, moving, and unpacking, I feel I'm sorta back to normal. Sorta.
Tonight, I was originally going to make a rice-greens-shrimp stir fry. But instead I decided to deconstruct it and serve the dish (sorta) separately.
Sauteed slivered onion until half browned, then added Swiss chard and cilantro, and finished with (from a jar) a Ginger Wasabi Teriyaki sauce. Plated that on top of steamed Japanese white rice.
Sauteed shrimp that had been lightly marinated in sweet Thai chili sauce and olive oil. Added on top of the rice and greens mix. Served with lime, soy sauce, and additional Thai chili sauce.
We paired this with a Chateau Ste. Michelle (Washington) Gewurztraminer, usually a good choice with Asian food.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Our friends gave us a bag of gorgeous home-grown baby Eggplant, so we've been experimenting a lot. Here's last night's meal. We paired this with a Barnard Griffin Cabernet/Merlot (Washington State).
Building an Eggplant Panini dinner sandwich.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
We really love a good Syrah. We like the notes of black fruit, smoke, and spice. But Syrah has also been for us the most inconsistent and disappointing wine in recent years.
There have been a spate of recent articles in Wine Spectator, Food & Wine, and several other publications about the “what?,” “why?,” and (especially) “why not?” of Syrah. Some have blamed the wine’s failure to become “the next Pinot Noir” on a lack of sexiness; on a glut of wimpy Aussie imports; on bad marketing; on-and-on.
In our opinion, the reason is more simple. If most consumers have had experiences like ours, they are simply deciding to shop for something “safer.” For example: In the last two years, we’ve had three corked bottles of red wine – all $10-15 price-point Syrahs. Just a few nights ago, we had a recommended and highly rated Syrah that tasted like dirty rainwater. (It wasn’t corked or otherwise “bad,” just an unpleasant taste profile.) And we gave up on Australian Shiraz (same grape, different spelling) some years ago when all we were getting were harsh, watery “red wines.”
So as much as we love good Syrah, we’re gun-shy. Why should we take the chance? And if reasonably knowledgeable consumers such as ourselves are avoiding Syrah because of a few (a few too many, actually) bad bottles, think how the average consumer would respond.