Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Making bread...
My last post about my love of bread made me want to try making it again. I have tried many, many times, with no measurable success. My only success came as a volunteer assistant to a baker at Charleston Cooks. While I left covered in flour dust, the finished product had all the best bread attributes--great crust, crumb, and taste. I had saved a NY Times article on a no-knead bread which everyone claims is both easy and delicious. The whole kneading and waiting thing has been my downfall in past attempts, so what could be better? The article actually implied that a 5 year old could make the bread with no problem. Hah! I'm 40, fairly well-educated, and a decent home cook, yet this bread was my waterloo. How hard is it? Not very--simply mix flour, yeast, salt and water and leave in a covered bowl for 18 hours. Fold it over on itself once or twice then transfer it to rise for 2 hours on a floured cloth. Pop it in a preheated dutch oven. What is SUPPOSED to happen is bread magic. What did happen on all four attempts was bread disaster. First attempt: crust so hard it might be used as armor for soldiers. Second attempt: My dog licked the dough forcing me to toss it, so I guess it didn't really count. Third attempt: A misshapen lump that tasted like copy paper. Fourth: A loaf that never rose. What the h$*%? Am a dumber than a 5 year old (maybe)? Now I'm discouraged--Normandy Farms, I'll be back!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Breaking bread...
“Good bread is the most fundamentally satisfying of all foods; and good bread with fresh butter, the greatest of feasts.” James Beard
Right on, James. I write this while munching on sourdough toast with butter from Normandy Farms, a bakery here in Charleston with bread that rivals any other in the world. My friends all complain about their food weaknesses. Generally, these complaints revolve around chocolate or cookies or ice cream. Not me. Sweets hold no real everyday interest for me. A pint of ice cream will last me about 45 days—I eat a single spoonful about twice a week. It drives my husband nuts. I probably ate five cookies in all of last year. I’ve never even tasted most candy bars. Yes, that’s right, I’ve never had a Twix, Almond Joy, Baby Ruth, or Butterfinger…the list goes on and on and on. But, bread? I eat it every day. If I had to choose only one food to eat for the rest of my life, it would be bread. I think people who turn down the bread basket at a restaurant are nuts.
I love all kinds of homemade bread, but am not crazy about commercial breads (exception: cheap white bread for old-school grilled cheese or served straight from the plastic bag in a BBQ joint). Give me your sourdough, pumpernickel, cornbread, biscuits, bagels, roti, challah, rghifa, pain de mie, baguettes, focaccia, pita, soda bread, rye, naan, ciabatta, and tortillas…and I’m a happy woman. Spare me the add-ins, with the occasional exception of olive oil, fresh rosemary, and sea salt. I recently had “bacon bread”, which was essentially a dough with bacon sprinkled on it – it was then rolled like a cinnamon roll dough and baked. Shockingly, despite my love of bacon and bread, it was disgusting.
I crave bread. I sometimes dream about it. I search it out when I travel. The best I’ve ever had? Hard to say. Normandy Farms in my hometown of Charleston has a Panini with sea salt and rosemary that is heaven. Pizza Bianca from Sullivan Street in NYC is hard to beat. Hot butter tortillas from Central Market in Houston are divine (I bought a pack to take home, but ate them before I got on the plane). Boudin’s sourdough in San Francisco—none better. My personal all-time favorite is what got me through college—Mariakakis “greek bread” in Chapel Hill. It was basically a combo pita/pizza bread. They sold it in the shape of a huge pizza for $1.50. It was brushed with olive oil, garlic and salt. I can still taste it.
The crazies who tell me that I shouldn’t eat bread because it’s a “hazard” need to give it up. Never going to happen. I need to move to Turkey. In Turkey, throwing away bread is a sin. If it is too old to eat and not usable in some other dish, the Turks kiss the bread and touch it to their foreheads before disposing of it. I get that. See you in Istanbul.
Right on, James. I write this while munching on sourdough toast with butter from Normandy Farms, a bakery here in Charleston with bread that rivals any other in the world. My friends all complain about their food weaknesses. Generally, these complaints revolve around chocolate or cookies or ice cream. Not me. Sweets hold no real everyday interest for me. A pint of ice cream will last me about 45 days—I eat a single spoonful about twice a week. It drives my husband nuts. I probably ate five cookies in all of last year. I’ve never even tasted most candy bars. Yes, that’s right, I’ve never had a Twix, Almond Joy, Baby Ruth, or Butterfinger…the list goes on and on and on. But, bread? I eat it every day. If I had to choose only one food to eat for the rest of my life, it would be bread. I think people who turn down the bread basket at a restaurant are nuts.
I love all kinds of homemade bread, but am not crazy about commercial breads (exception: cheap white bread for old-school grilled cheese or served straight from the plastic bag in a BBQ joint). Give me your sourdough, pumpernickel, cornbread, biscuits, bagels, roti, challah, rghifa, pain de mie, baguettes, focaccia, pita, soda bread, rye, naan, ciabatta, and tortillas…and I’m a happy woman. Spare me the add-ins, with the occasional exception of olive oil, fresh rosemary, and sea salt. I recently had “bacon bread”, which was essentially a dough with bacon sprinkled on it – it was then rolled like a cinnamon roll dough and baked. Shockingly, despite my love of bacon and bread, it was disgusting.
I crave bread. I sometimes dream about it. I search it out when I travel. The best I’ve ever had? Hard to say. Normandy Farms in my hometown of Charleston has a Panini with sea salt and rosemary that is heaven. Pizza Bianca from Sullivan Street in NYC is hard to beat. Hot butter tortillas from Central Market in Houston are divine (I bought a pack to take home, but ate them before I got on the plane). Boudin’s sourdough in San Francisco—none better. My personal all-time favorite is what got me through college—Mariakakis “greek bread” in Chapel Hill. It was basically a combo pita/pizza bread. They sold it in the shape of a huge pizza for $1.50. It was brushed with olive oil, garlic and salt. I can still taste it.
The crazies who tell me that I shouldn’t eat bread because it’s a “hazard” need to give it up. Never going to happen. I need to move to Turkey. In Turkey, throwing away bread is a sin. If it is too old to eat and not usable in some other dish, the Turks kiss the bread and touch it to their foreheads before disposing of it. I get that. See you in Istanbul.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Happiness is...
I realize that my last two blog posts have been dwelling on the negative. Therefore, my post today is about happiness—specifically, the five Charleston food experiences that make me really, really happy. Here they are:
1. Sugar Bakeshop: Just stepping into the shop makes me smile. First of all, it smells like my departed Nana’s house when she was on a baking binge. Second of all, the owners, Bill and David (NYC transplants) could not be nicer or more helpful. The ginger cookie is to die for—chewy and crispy all at the same time. I’m not even a sweets person, but the iced-to-order red velvet cupcakes rock. I’m told that the lemon tarts are amazing, but I never get one—I bought them for Christmas dinner, but they disappeared in a flash.
2. Basil: First, the Thai food served there is way, way above good. Second, it is absolutely consistent. I have never had anything that varies—it tastes fresh (and more importantly, the same) every time. For my last meal, I want at least a gallon of the chicken coconut soup and about twenty perfectly tight spring rolls. I love sitting at the kitchen table—right up against the glass so that I can watch the cooks. The kitchen cannot be more than six feet wide –it’s just a long galley. They are machines—there is one guy who has been there forever. I don’t think he strays from a six inch circumference around him, but can churn out a perfectly cooked dish in about three minutes.
3. Al Di La: The focaccia, which they shave thinly, is like crack (or at least I think it is, since I’ve never smoked crack). It’s salty and perfect. The pancetta wrapped fig (stuffed with gorgonzola) is fantastic when figs are in season. The pasta never disappoints and the pizzettes are tasty. It’s not fancy—literally just painted cinder block walls, but it’s cozy and candlelit. It’s also really near my house, which makes it even more perfect.
4. Poe’s: It’s a haul to Sullivans, but well worth it. The burgers are not too big and not too little. The fries are crispy and obviously hand cut. In other words, the food is good, but it’s the ambiance that makes it. Something about the beach breeze makes the beer colder and the food better.
5. Farmer’s Market (both downtown and Mt. Pleasant): It’s my favorite weekend thing to do. I love getting those huge pretzels from some lady in Summerville. If I get there early enough, I get a crepe. I love Pete’s Herbs. I love Mr. Fields’ produce (once, my dog knocked over and ate about a pound of okra—he laughed so hard, he fell out of his lawn chair—“ain’t never seen a dog like okra that much”. The best is to go, then tuck into a burger and pommes frites at Rue de Jean.
1. Sugar Bakeshop: Just stepping into the shop makes me smile. First of all, it smells like my departed Nana’s house when she was on a baking binge. Second of all, the owners, Bill and David (NYC transplants) could not be nicer or more helpful. The ginger cookie is to die for—chewy and crispy all at the same time. I’m not even a sweets person, but the iced-to-order red velvet cupcakes rock. I’m told that the lemon tarts are amazing, but I never get one—I bought them for Christmas dinner, but they disappeared in a flash.
2. Basil: First, the Thai food served there is way, way above good. Second, it is absolutely consistent. I have never had anything that varies—it tastes fresh (and more importantly, the same) every time. For my last meal, I want at least a gallon of the chicken coconut soup and about twenty perfectly tight spring rolls. I love sitting at the kitchen table—right up against the glass so that I can watch the cooks. The kitchen cannot be more than six feet wide –it’s just a long galley. They are machines—there is one guy who has been there forever. I don’t think he strays from a six inch circumference around him, but can churn out a perfectly cooked dish in about three minutes.
3. Al Di La: The focaccia, which they shave thinly, is like crack (or at least I think it is, since I’ve never smoked crack). It’s salty and perfect. The pancetta wrapped fig (stuffed with gorgonzola) is fantastic when figs are in season. The pasta never disappoints and the pizzettes are tasty. It’s not fancy—literally just painted cinder block walls, but it’s cozy and candlelit. It’s also really near my house, which makes it even more perfect.
4. Poe’s: It’s a haul to Sullivans, but well worth it. The burgers are not too big and not too little. The fries are crispy and obviously hand cut. In other words, the food is good, but it’s the ambiance that makes it. Something about the beach breeze makes the beer colder and the food better.
5. Farmer’s Market (both downtown and Mt. Pleasant): It’s my favorite weekend thing to do. I love getting those huge pretzels from some lady in Summerville. If I get there early enough, I get a crepe. I love Pete’s Herbs. I love Mr. Fields’ produce (once, my dog knocked over and ate about a pound of okra—he laughed so hard, he fell out of his lawn chair—“ain’t never seen a dog like okra that much”. The best is to go, then tuck into a burger and pommes frites at Rue de Jean.
Monday, March 1, 2010
You lost me at...
I am an educated person. I have a law degree and have practiced law for fifteen years. I love to cook. My mom was a great home cook. My brother is an executive chef for a well-respected restaurant. I devour Bon Appetit and Gourmet (pre-so sad demise). I adore my cookbook collection--I like to read them like a book. But I'm confused. A waiter recently described a dish to me in a mediocre restaurant and I have no idea what he was talking about at all. My fellow diners looked just as stunned (or bored) by the lengthy description given by the waiter. Having waited tables, I felt for him and don't know how he remembed it all (unless he utilized the Palin method). As the chef described the specials, he probably felt like punching him (or her) in the face. Heck, I felt like punching the chef myself.
This experience caused me to come up with my list of "real people rules" for restaurants. By "real people", I don't mean the occasional diner who is just as happy to eat a frozen pizza at home. I don't mean the ridiculous people who regale everyone with stupid explanations of a wine's notes. I don't mean people who boast about all the great places they've eaten in the world.
No, I mean those people who care about food, but aren't food snobs...the ones who will populate your restaurants for years to come with consistency. The rules are simple:
1. Unless you are a "destination" restaurant, give up the ridiculously long dish explanations. By "destination restaurant", I mean somewhere where you have to plan way ahead to get reservations, but not just because the restaurant is an "in" place for the moment. It has to have been consistently excellent for a very long time. Examples? French Laundry, Le Bernardin, Charlie Trotter. Otherwise, just keep in simple--make us want to eat it in five words or less.
2.The only exception to this general rule in (1) above are: (a) restaurants whose menu is in a foreign language; and (b) places using really funky, alternative cooking techniques--just because I want to know what they did to the food.
3. If it's a garnish, don't bore me with the description of how its prepared (a great example--the myriad of places who describe in loving detail the chiffonade of "insert herb here" that tops the dish).
4. We don't care about the explanation or description--only how it tastes. If it's delicious, we'll come back. Spend your time perfecting the dish, not figuring out how to describe it.
Now, I'm going to eat some yummy "grilled tenderloin". See how easy it is?
This experience caused me to come up with my list of "real people rules" for restaurants. By "real people", I don't mean the occasional diner who is just as happy to eat a frozen pizza at home. I don't mean the ridiculous people who regale everyone with stupid explanations of a wine's notes. I don't mean people who boast about all the great places they've eaten in the world.
No, I mean those people who care about food, but aren't food snobs...the ones who will populate your restaurants for years to come with consistency. The rules are simple:
1. Unless you are a "destination" restaurant, give up the ridiculously long dish explanations. By "destination restaurant", I mean somewhere where you have to plan way ahead to get reservations, but not just because the restaurant is an "in" place for the moment. It has to have been consistently excellent for a very long time. Examples? French Laundry, Le Bernardin, Charlie Trotter. Otherwise, just keep in simple--make us want to eat it in five words or less.
2.The only exception to this general rule in (1) above are: (a) restaurants whose menu is in a foreign language; and (b) places using really funky, alternative cooking techniques--just because I want to know what they did to the food.
3. If it's a garnish, don't bore me with the description of how its prepared (a great example--the myriad of places who describe in loving detail the chiffonade of "insert herb here" that tops the dish).
4. We don't care about the explanation or description--only how it tastes. If it's delicious, we'll come back. Spend your time perfecting the dish, not figuring out how to describe it.
Now, I'm going to eat some yummy "grilled tenderloin". See how easy it is?
The Real South
I laugh myself silly each time I read a magazine article about the "fried chicken craze" that is sweeping New York, which is to say, I laugh myself silly quite often. My favorite is the "bucket list" (i.e. fried chicken to eat before you die) recently published by New York Magazine. If we believe these articles, the south is taking over the country, armed with grandma's cast iron skillets and secret brines.
Now, don't get me wrong. If done right, fried chicken is delicious. Nothing cures a hangover faster than the combination of chicken and melted cheese on a hot biscuit. But it's not true southern cuisine-- it's southern cuisine for the masses. There's a difference--a big one.
I live in Charleston, South Carolina--about as south as you can get before hitting Flor-hio. The only fried chicken served in this town is in the various restaurants featured in "Southern Living"--where tourists line up to pay $12 for what you can make for $2 at home (that is, if you have the aforementioned seasoned skillet) and debate whether it was soaked in buttermilk or a salt brine. I don't blame local restauranteurs for serving it--they're no dummies--there's a HUGE market for it.
I can't tell you how many times visitors ask me--"Do you just love Paula Deen?". The honest answer is "no", although she seems like a perfectly nice lady. The problem is that her shows lead people to believe that southern food is either: (1) fried; or (2) includes a pound of butter. This could not be further from the truth.
Real southern cuisine is regional. I won't dare speak about anywhere but here. Aside from the occasional fried shrimp or oyster, the majority of lowcountry cuisine cooked at home consists of fresh seafood, local meat or wild game, simply prepared, accompanied by seasonal, local vegetables. It is heavily influenced by African and island influences--we like peppers and spices (though not as much as they do in the southwest). And, yes, we do eat a lot of grains--rice and grits are staples. No--we don't sit down on Sunday afternoon to a spread of fried pork chops, mac n' cheese, rice and gravy, and biscuits...per doctors' orders, our grandmas don't eat like this anymore and neither do we.
On a related note, to answer a few questions I have been asked lately: (1) yes, we do have fax machines (and paved roads, for that matter); (2) no, I won't repeat something you ask me to just so that you can giggle about my accent; and (3) yes, people do live in these houses (translation: it is inappropriate to peak into the windows).
Now, don't get me wrong. If done right, fried chicken is delicious. Nothing cures a hangover faster than the combination of chicken and melted cheese on a hot biscuit. But it's not true southern cuisine-- it's southern cuisine for the masses. There's a difference--a big one.
I live in Charleston, South Carolina--about as south as you can get before hitting Flor-hio. The only fried chicken served in this town is in the various restaurants featured in "Southern Living"--where tourists line up to pay $12 for what you can make for $2 at home (that is, if you have the aforementioned seasoned skillet) and debate whether it was soaked in buttermilk or a salt brine. I don't blame local restauranteurs for serving it--they're no dummies--there's a HUGE market for it.
I can't tell you how many times visitors ask me--"Do you just love Paula Deen?". The honest answer is "no", although she seems like a perfectly nice lady. The problem is that her shows lead people to believe that southern food is either: (1) fried; or (2) includes a pound of butter. This could not be further from the truth.
Real southern cuisine is regional. I won't dare speak about anywhere but here. Aside from the occasional fried shrimp or oyster, the majority of lowcountry cuisine cooked at home consists of fresh seafood, local meat or wild game, simply prepared, accompanied by seasonal, local vegetables. It is heavily influenced by African and island influences--we like peppers and spices (though not as much as they do in the southwest). And, yes, we do eat a lot of grains--rice and grits are staples. No--we don't sit down on Sunday afternoon to a spread of fried pork chops, mac n' cheese, rice and gravy, and biscuits...per doctors' orders, our grandmas don't eat like this anymore and neither do we.
On a related note, to answer a few questions I have been asked lately: (1) yes, we do have fax machines (and paved roads, for that matter); (2) no, I won't repeat something you ask me to just so that you can giggle about my accent; and (3) yes, people do live in these houses (translation: it is inappropriate to peak into the windows).
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