Put your Heart (of Palm) Into It.

I get a lot of food magazines. I actually get way too many food magazines. The problem, the reason why I say way too many, is that I insist on reading every word and staring at every detail of every photograph – and all in one sitting. Maybe everyone does that, but I feel like magazines, except for the literary ones, are more often enjoyed in a leaf-through-it-casually-and-pick-it-up-and-down-over-time sort of way. But me, once I pick it up and open the cover, I'm in it to win it until I flip that very last page. Kind of like me and a bag of chips.

Oh, and that's not all. Not by a long shot. I save them. I keep them all in a pile for a larger project. And once the pile reaches a certain height, about two or three times a year, I go back through every single page of every single magazine and rip out the pages that have recipes I want to play with and images that inspire me. After I tear them all out, I sort through them and file them into binders assigned to different categories; soups, breakfast, vegetables, poultry, holidays, and so on. The photographic inspired pages go into their own binder. It's like my own private Pinterest.

I can understand why Fred always tells me, 'It must be exhausting to be you'.

So now you see why perhaps I ought to cut back on the magazines.

And now that I'm moving across the country in less than two months (!), this all seems really idiotic. Especially considering if I ever want to find one of the recipes I can just Google them. But I can't stop myself. It's as if I am compelled. Which is scary since I just saw The Conjuring last weekend.

But, fairly often, I do refer to my binders of recipes to get dinner ideas. And just as often I refer to my binder of inspirational photos as a reference of how I'd like to visually capture said dinners.

So as I was poking around in the cupboard the other day I found a jar of hearts of palm. I honestly do not recall buying them and have no idea how long they had been living with me. I've always been fond of hearts of palm, but it totally reminds me of the early nineties. It lives in my memories with sun dried tomatoes, tuna tartare with mango, Dippin' Dots and Zima. I even vaguely recall a rumor going around that hearts of palm was bad for the world, kind of like the whole shrimp thing right now.

As I was holding the jar of hearts of palm and noodling down memory lane, reminiscing about white zin and baked brie, I remembered that very recently I saved and filed away a recipe for what else, hearts of palm. And I just so happened to have most of the ingredients. And what I did not have was easy to change out with other things, to make it my own. That's just kismet.

Heart of palm is an interesting thing. It is a vegetable. It's harvested from the inner core of certain palm trees. And yes, harvesting of many non-cultivated palms results in palm tree death. However, other palm species are clonal and moderate harvesting will not kill the entire clonal palm. Moreover, an alternative to wild hearts of palm are palm varieties which have undergone a process of adaptation to become a domesticated farm species. This variety is the most widely used for canning. And this very farmed variety is what we are buying at the market. But since harvesting is still a labor intensive task, palm hearts are regarded as a delicacy.

Move over foie gras, here comes something leaner?

Heart of palm does actually seem like a delicacy. It is delicate. It's soft in color and texture and has a subtle, muted taste. A taste that could be described as, well, delicate. Though I like to snack on one or two, straight up, no chaser, you will almost always find them in salads.

And here is no different.

I love this salad. It is bright and fresh and zippy. It's colorful and covers the entire texture spectrum, from super soft all the way over to super crunchy with everything in between. The original recipe called for parsley where I used cilantro. But I think any number of fresh herbs could and should be folded in as well; basil chives, shiso, mint, you name it. 

I will tell you now that once the hearts of palm jumped into that salad, they also jumped into a new memory category. One that is very much in the present. It was so simple to make and so fun to eat, that I bet once you try it, this is one of those recipes that will end up in your binder as well.

Hearts of Palm, Heirloom Tomato and Avocado Salad

Serves 2-4

1 cup mixed color heirloom tomatoes, chopped into ½-inch pieces

1/2 small sweet onion, cut into thin slivers

1 14-ounce cans hearts of palm, drained and sliced 1/2 inch thick

1 avocado, cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro

1/2 teaspoon finely grated lime zest

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

2 tablespoons canola oil

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

In a medium bowl, toss the tomatoes with the onion slivers, hearts of palm, avocado and chopped cilantro. In a small bowl, whisk the lime zest and lime juice with the mayonnaise and oil; season the dressing with salt and pepper. Pour the dressing over the salad, toss gently and serve right away.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Zucchini Fries with Poblano Cream

Two years ago: Bourbon-Vanilla Bean Banana Bread with Candied Walnuts

Three years ago: Classic Southern Deviled Eggs

Four years ago: Baked Tomatoes with Goat Cheese, Fresh Herbs & Hazelnut Breadcrumbs

A Project, of the Sweetest Kind.

My word! Everything is so crazy right now. Work has hit some random fever pitch, my chores have stacked up and are looming, I haven't had any time to make my weekly batches of pimiento cheese or deviled ham salad for Lindy & Grundy, Fred and I are going on a vacation tomorrow, which means my packing agita began days ago, and, oh my GAWD - I had to remove a large tick from a dog (ticks are one of THE scariest things in the whole world to me). 

Mercifully, there is always light and growth. Right now those very elements are springing forth in the literal sense: the sun is bright and strong, and all things produce are exploding in my garden and at the market. The bounty of all of the new, and unusual produce, has helped to quell the lack of carbs allowed in my world. Because when things feel this funky, I really just want a big bowl of pasta served with a massive chunk of bread on the side. In their stead I have eaten many 'creative' salads, and an inordinate amount of cheese and almonds. The cheese and almonds are the closest snacky thing I have found to satisfy my salty, crunchy cravings (read potato chip desperation).

When in need of soothing I go grocery shopping; it is my therapy – it grounds me. Whenever I stumble across a brand new food anything, I buy it. And I rarely have a clue what I will do with my new Precious, even by the time I'm back in my kitchen. So last week, while aimlessly navigating each aisle of Whole Foods, mostly just to pick up some healthy lunch snack while out running around, I was suddenly face to spear with bright purple asparagus. And this, my friends, I had never seen before.

Thus, a project was born. Of the sweetest kind.

I raced home, put on my cozies, poured a glass of Moscato (needless to say, wine has been ushered back into diet headquarters) and sat down to poke through my brand new copy of Vegetable Literacy for an idea. I wanted something simple. I wanted something clean. I wanted something light and bright and fresh. And I wanted to incorporate the sixty-two degree egg that I have been besotted with of late. I read that purple asparagus (asparaguses? asparagi?) have less fiber and more sugar than other varieties. So I knew I wanted to bring an acid onto the palate with this dish. And things just all came together. As things tend to do. Or not.

This is a fun and versatile dish. You could serve this with brunch, lunch or dinner. It – at least the asparagus – could be served cool, with warm egg, to play on temperatures, or have the whole thing warm, depending on your whimsy. This arrangement creates a wonderful journey for the eyes, with the bright colors and textures. The aggressive spears of asparagus topped with the soft, sensual, gooey ephemeral egg. The little drizzle of the vinaigrette add that tiny pop of pink. That and the smattering of the bright green bits of basil keep your eyes busy for longer than you'd expect.

And theydo say, 'you first eat with your eyes', no?

Here, in the apex of Spring, I highly encourage everyone to plant something right now. Whether you are able to cultivate a garden in the ground, in containers, or you have a few little plants of basil, thyme or oregano on your kitchen windowsill – or how about Sea Monkeys? Remember them? Watch it (or them) grow and use it to enhance your day, your spirit and your food.

Roasted Purple Asparagus, Red Wine Vinaigrette, 62 Degree Egg

Serves 2

1 pound asparagus

3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided

Sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon coarse prepared mustard

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

2 eggs 62 degree or soft poached

A few basil leaves, chiffonade

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. If the asparagus spears are thick, peel the stalks and cut off the tough stem ends. If thin, snap off the bottom where it breaks easily and trim the ends.

Toss the spears with 1 teaspoon olive oil to moisten, season well with salt and pepper, and lay them in a single layer in a baking dish or sheet pan. Roast the spears, turning them once every 10 minutes, until tender and colored in places, 20 to 30 minutes.

Make the vinaigrette. Combine mustard, vinegar and 1/4 teaspoon salt, then whisk in the oil. 

Lay the asparagus on two plates. Top with eggs. Spoon the vinaigrette over all and finish with freshly ground black pepper. Delicately scatter basil leaves across the plates.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: The Pikey

Two years ago: Meyer Lemon Relish

Three years ago: Let's Talk About Text, Baby

Coming Clean

While I was certainly no angel as a child, next to my childhood friend, Ben, I was definitely perceived as one. But he was a little boy and I was merely a little tomboy. Ben got into far more trouble than I ever did; invariably he would get caught.  I would often get caught but, clearly, far less.  Most of the Ben stories I have heard have come from our parents and these stories are based on incidents that took place circa the mid-1980's. 

One story, from the mouth of my dad, is one I not only recall well, but one in which I was a player. A sweet, little, innocent bystander, of course. So here's the story...

I guess it was around about 1985, and Dad had just done some work on the kitchen. Most notably he replaced the counter with an all new butcher block top. It was all shiny and new, with nary a cut mark in it. Ben's mom, Susan, was out for the evening and and so Ben was over at my house. We were just noodling around, goofing off, watching TV and whatnot. And honestly, it was so long ago, I don't know the how or the why, but I do know that I took the butcher knife and hacked a chunklet out of the edge of the new butcher block counter. I don't even remember if Ben was in the room at the time or not. I don't even know if Ben knows anything about this story, either.

Well, needless to say, the next day when Dad noticed the rather obvious, shall we say, blemish, on his new countertop, he went through the roof. And let me tell you, that man does not visibly agitate easily. When he actually erupts, you know it's really bad.

So clearly I blamed Ben. 

It seemed obvious that a rambunctious, rascally little boy who was always in some sort of trouble anyway would be the irrefutable culprit. Plus Ben wasn't there to defend himself, and we weren't hanging around as much in those days, and who would care or remember about a little nick in the counter for very long? Right? And my dad has a terrible memory to boot. Right?

Well, jeez. Who knew Dad was such a harborer? Yes, he stayed pretty irritated about the butcher block situation for a good long while. Cursing and mumbling under his breath as he ran his fingers over the disfigured area of the countertop. So I just kept quiet.

Then Ben and I went to separate middle schools, high schools, colleges, grew up, moved away, and I literally cannot even think of the last time we saw one another. So it hardly mattered anymore. To me.

Here is a glimpse of the countertop, but not the defaced part.

The last time I went home, Dad and I were standing in the kitchen, assembling a cheese plate and sipping on our glasses of crisp white wine, as I jokingly pointed out the nick in the countertop. Although it was something I had seen every time I did anything in the kitchen, it had become so much a part of the landscape, I had pretty much forgotten about its lore. But not Dad. He said every time he looked down at the aberration in the now, well-worn countertop, he cursed Ben's name. Though, he said, he never said anything to Susan or Ben about it.

I then realized it was time to come clean. He was shocked when he heard my story, but not more than just a little vexed thanks to time and that glass of wine. Plus, it's much more forgivable when it's your dear, sweet, innocent only child daughter...

And now we laugh about that funky little spot in the kitchen. It has a story to tell. It's part of the fabric – a sweet, anecdotal, minuscule imperfection.

When Susan was in LA recently to help Mom move back to Richmond, I decided to come clean to her, too. Although she never knew anything about the butcher block, I thought she should hear the tale. If nothing else to sort of exonerate Ben from his mischievous rep as a child and to fess up about my angelic one (or lack thereof). We laughed, but she did agree, Ben really did take the heat for a lot of stuff: some valid and some, maybe not so much.

Only one person left: I must confess to Ben and receive his forgiveness. So I emailed both Ben and Susan to find out what Ben's most favorite dish was. They both said broccoli casserole. I then emailed Susan and got the recipe. She emailed me back promptly with the recipe that she unearthed. It was her grandmother's recipe in her mother's handwriting. The recipe was as one would expect; ingredients like mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, Ritz crackers, and the like. My mission was to make the recipe as authentic as possible without using mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, or Ritz crackers. I wanted to keep the integrity of the dish but try to vamp it up for 2013.

I began by making a roux and adding fresh mushrooms, and then slowly adding cream until it was about the consistency and quantity of a can of cream of mushroom soup. I also added a splash of sherry for good measure. In lieu of the mayo, I simply used cream. And finally, to substitute the Ritz crackers, I used fresh bread crumbs. Now, I'm sure it would be way more yummy and fun, and would totally satisfy that like-grandma-made-when-I-was-a-kid thing most of us have, to use mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, and Ritz crackers, but this turned out beautifully. Fred and I basically ate that, and nothing else, for dinner last night. And later as a snack.

Later this week, we will be traveling up to Northern California for a little respite, and plan on staying one night in San Francisco, where Ben now lives with his wife. And so in person I can share the story of The 25 Year Long Mystery of The Butcher Block with him. And hopefully we will laugh together over it. If not, Ben, here is the recipe your mom shared with me for your favorite, cozy, homey food, exactly as your grandmother wrote it and made it. That makes it all right, right?

Mimi’s Baked Broccoli

(Mimi is Sara in this instance)

(in Mother’s handwriting, so I know this is the one Ben likes)

Serves 4

Ingredients:

2 large heads of broccoli, if using fresh (2 packages chopped broccoli, if using frozen)

1 can cream of mushroom soup

½ cup mayonnaise

1 small onion, minced

1 Tablespoon lemon juice

1 egg

½-3/4 cup cheddar cheese

½-3/4 cup cracker crumbs (can use cheese crackers, saltines, or Ritz – I used Ritz)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Make sauce by mixing 1 can of undiluted soup, mayonnaise, onion, lemon juice, and egg.

Add a little salt and pepper.

Steam the broccoli for a few minutes if cooking fresh florets with short stems (don’t cook it until soft, but until it softens a small amount). If using frozen chopped broccoli, thaw only.

In casserole, put a layer of broccoli (one-half of it), then a layer of the sauce (one-half of it). Next, put in a layer of remaining broccoli topped with remaining sauce. Put ½ of crackers on top, the cheese, then ½ of remaining crackers.

Bake for about 30 min. at 350 degrees.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony Butter Sauce

Two years ago: Celeraic Soup with Sunchoke 'Croutons'

Three years ago: French Red Pepper Soup

Five years ago: Yang Chow

Frenetic versus Tranquil...

Things have completely settled down from the holiday-ness of the holidays and with the work rush that also comes with the holidays. Mom has arrived safe and sound back in Richmond, and is getting herself all settled there. I’ve been waiting for this. At least I’ve said that I have been waiting for this. But it’s so quiet. It’s so calm. It’s so rarely so, that I always forget that I’m not all that great with calm and quiet. I’m not a very still person. Frenetic might be a better word to describe me. I generally like to keep moving and doing. I always have lists and projects. I’m lost without them.

Now, I do realize that this is not exactly a good thing. I also realize it drives Fred crazy.
I’ve never claimed to be a walk in the park.

So imagine my delight when I received a project in the mail last week - my pals up at Columbus Salame sent me a sample of their Finocchiona, which had just won big at the 2013 Good Food Awards for best charcuterie! What to do, what to do...

At first I thought maybe a mac ‘n cheese carbonara of sorts, substituting the salumi for the bacon. But I’m (lamentably) really, really trying not to eat that kind of food right this minute. Sad, but true. Then, after a couple more days of research, I discovered an Italian bread called Casatiello, which is stuffed with salami, provolone, olives and what not. Fred and I tried twice and failed miserably. Miserably. I emailed the recipe to Mom to see if she could impart some sage advice, some help, from across the country. She basically told me this was clearly a varsity level baking recipe and to consider something else.

Gee, thanks, Mom.

This brings us to last night. I was planning on cooking a brick chicken and using up as much produce as possible from last Sunday’s farmers’ market haul. When I unearthed the tiny, purple Brussels sprouts that I had almost forgotten about, I knew something was stirring. And then Fred figured it all out.

So because of this one, little package that fortuitously arrived in the mail, I suddenly had an entire week of a mission, a project, and with it I had fun, research, frustration, failure and finally, success. And all in the kitchen. Just like I like it.

The meal that we had last night was a brick chicken with a chervil-parsley pan sauce, smashed & crisped baby potato medley with garlic & rosemary and roasted purple Brussels sprouts with salami and pine nuts. And it was all very, very good.

So, now what...

Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Salami

serves 2 as a side dish

Ingredients
2 1/2 cups brussels sprouts, trimmed and quartered
5 slices salami, chopped
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp bacon drippings (or butter)Coarse salt & pepper
¼ cup pine nuts
grated Parmesan cheese


Directions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Place cast iron, or oven safe dish on middle rack in oven until hot, hot, hot.

Combine the Brussels sprouts, salami, bacon drippings (or butter), salt and pepper in a bowl and mix well.

When oven is preheated and cast iron is hot, hot, hot, add mixture Brussels sprouts mixture. 

Place in oven and cook for 30-40 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until  Brussels sprouts are slightly browned and cooked through.

Garnish with Parmesan and pine nuts.


Printable recipe.


One year ago: Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic
Two years ago: Mercantile
Three years ago: Swiss Fondue with Truffle Essence
Five years ago: The Hungry Cay - Santa Barbara

The New to the Old. The Old from the New.

I’m going back home for a short stretch. About a week. Interestingly home has been quite the trending topic lately – in my home. My home here in LA that is. This is my home now. But Virginia, is also, and will always be my home. My home where I was born and raised. I’m excited. I’m also excited that I’m excited.

I haven’t been able to return to Virginia much since I started my own business back in 2004. No more Christmases or other holidays, for sure. It seems like the reasons that have lured me back there in the past five years have been mostly not so great things. I can hardly remember I went back just to go. Hence my excitement.

The extra bonus of going right around now is FALL. Fall is, without a doubt, my favoritest season of all. Always has been – even when it represented back-to-school (and I never liked school). While my City of Angels does have whispers and hints of the different seasons, we don’t really get a proper Fall or Winter. Winter I don’t care a whole lot about. Y’all can keep it. But Fall, oh the love.

One of the things I’m extra super thrilled about regarding this visit is that I have scheduled a whole day to hang out with Aunt Babe. I haven’t seen her since her 90^th birthday, which was back in 2007. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always been especially taken with Aunt Babe. I write about her A LOT. But, really, I haven’t spent worlds of time with her throughout my life. I don’t know if I know her, really.

But what I do know is that I admire her composure, her calm. I admire her fortitude – she has been the rock of our family, and single, since her husband passed away over 50 years ago and her sister, my Grandmother, Janie, passed away the year before I was born. I admire her sense of family. I admire the fact that she’s, like, 95 years old and doesn’t wear glasses.

I also admire her cooking. One of the things I most looked forward to all of my life, until I was simply unable to attend, was Christmas Eve dinner, in Roanoke, at Aunt Babe’s place. It was, and is, literally my favorite meal of my life. Hands down.

Aunt Babe in the kitchen, with her sassy Christmas duds.

I’m sure it wasn’t just the food. I’m sure it has way more to do with the evening being so traditional, so normal, so warm and so consistent. But I swear I can still taste everything that was served at that meal each year. I’m kind of obsessed with that meal.

Well and so. In case you haven’t heard I’m bringing back Dinner at Eight. Again.

It all started about a month ago. I attended a bloggy Tweet Upor some such thing, and ran into Let Me Eat Cake. I’ve always gotten a super great vibe from this girl. We started talking about Southern food: how it’s seemingly on the rise like never before, how every other issue of every other food or wine magazine is The Southern Issue, how delicious and special it is, and how there is an obvious dearth of it in our City of Angels. That day we made a loose pact to make it happen here.

What better way to start that then to A) get my tail back home to visit Aunt Babe and get all those wonderful recipes from her and, B) share with and feed all of you, my dear Angelinos, this remarkable cuisine, that, while may be a trend, is also a rediscovery of something that was always there. And, hopefully, now here.

The next Dinner at Eight will be A Southern Sunday Supper. The date is October 23, 2011. We will have two seatings with eight diners each. Dinner will be served inside, by the fire. To see the menu, more details and to make reservations, click here.

~~~

Shortly after I posted the menu for the next dinner party, Aunt Babe’s daughter, Noel (my cousin and my middle name) sent me this email:

Hi Elliott,

Connie just sent us a link to your Dinner at Eight and we were tickled to see that two of Aunt Babe's dishes are included.

What spoonbread recipe do you use?  The best (and easiest) I ever tasted was one from Mom's first cousin Flonnie Kinnear.  It's just like the one from the old S&W Cafeteria in Roanoke and other southern cities.  You're way too young to have been there. 

Also, we just finished up the last two pieces of a buttermilk pie -- also from Flonnie, I think.

Love, Noel

~~~

So, I’m proud to say, here is Cousin Flonnie Kinnear’s recipe for spoon bread (and the one we will be serving at the dinner party). I’m printing it as is (even with the Pam!) with the exception of adding Anson Mills as a referral for the cornmeal as their product is unsurpassed.

Cousin Flonnie's Spoon Bread

                                                                                   

Serves 4

1 cup buttermilk

1 cup sweet milk

2 eggs

⅓ cup Anson Mills cornmeal

½ tsp soda

½ tsp salt

1 Tb butter, melted

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.  Pam a casserole.

Combine all ingredients.  Mix for one minute.  Pour into casserole (or cast iron).  Bake for 20 minutes.

Printable Recipe

One Year Ago: Spaghetti & Meatballs

Two Years Ago: Roasted Cauliflower Soup with Saffron & Asiago Cheese Crisps

A Fork in the Road

A couple of nights ago I met up with Chris at Susan Feniger's Street. We have been trying to use up our Blackboard Eats coupons before they expire. Ryan and I went about a year ago and ordered a few menu items and several glasses of wine. This, however, was Chris’ maiden voyage. We met at 8:30 with reservations but decided to ditch them for the bar. He was already at the bar; that’s usually my seating preference anyway.

It was bustling. Large parties, couples, friends, special dates, casual meet ups, all sorts of diners filled the small-ish dining room and adjacent patio. The color scheme consists primarily of orange and black. There are graffiti inspired street murals by Huntley Muir covering a good deal of the non-slated wood wall space, both inside and out. The overall effect of this aesthetic is somewhere between Blade Runner and being physically inserted into a Keith Haring piece. Both might be neat, but both are 1982 and neither, in my humble opinion, create the ambiance of “cozy” for dining.

So let us travel down this road now, shall we?

Right out of the gate we were served an Amuse-Bouche.  A savory version of a Rice Crispy Treat: Millet Seed Puffs, with Marshmallow, Fennel, Curry, Coriander, Cumin and Black Currant -- I liked all of the flavors but found the texture to be more on the moist rather than crispy side.

We began our order with the famed Kaya Toast which is Street’s tour de force. Originally a breakfast dish from Singapore, this is toasted bread spread thick with coconut jam served with a soft poached egg drizzled in dark soy and white pepper ($11). This undoubtedly lives up to the buzz.  While Kaya Toast is very simple, once in your mouth it becomes incredibly complex both in texture and taste. It’s surprising, imaginative in every way and absolutely illuminates the palate.

Next up we visit Turkey and Syria with the Lamb Kafta Meatballs over warm Syrian cheese wrapped in grape leaf and drizzled with date and carob molasses and served with za’atar spiced flatbread ($10). I thought the meatballs were succulent and robust.  I could have eaten a pile of them. But what I was confused about was the dish as a whole. The flatbread was crisp like a cracker. Was I supposed to spread the cheese over it and then eat a bite of meatball? I attempted to put some meatball on the cracker with the cheese but to no avail. Meatball falls off. I wish the bread was giving and accepted the meatball so I could have that perfect bite. That aside, all elements on the plate were appetizing on their own.

With the meatballs we ordered the Sauteed Black Kale with Refried White Beans served with toasted olive bread and white anchovy butter ($7). Again, everything on the plate was good. I prefer my kale and kale-like greens cooked down a little more, but that’s a preference thing (after all, I did grow up in the South). I am also a fan of any version of white beans that can be created. I also love butter and am over the top for anchovy butter. But I still found myself at a dead end when assembling everything for the perfect bite. Where does the anchovy butter go? I still smeared it over the smear of refried white beans over the kale over the bread.

Our bartender/server had told us that, very recently, Cat Cora was in the house shooting a part of the show, The Best Thing I Ever Ate. Apparently, Iron Chef Cora’s favorite thing to eat is Feniger’s Mandoo Vegetable Dumplings: Asian vegetables, sweet potato and kimchi filled dumplings with roasted ginger yam and sesame dipping sauce ($9). So off we went to Korea. I will say that while I was underwhelmed with the actual dumpling, I really enjoyed the ginger yam puree combined with the sesame oil and the tang of the soy. It did make the dish but it didn’t make it in the echelon of best things I have ever eaten. 

Now let us jet off to Thailand for the Thai Rice Noodles: flat wide rice noodles with Chinese broccoli, seasoned pork, tomato, mint, thai basil and chiles ($15). I was downright disappointed with the actual noodles. They were flaccid with no chew to them. The pork was seasoned and cooked to perfection. I didn’t find anything that would define this dish as special and it would have a tough time standing up to most of our wonderful Thai restaurants within a couple miles of Street. I also felt the $15 price tag was a tad high.

Our last dish was in Japan with the Tatsutage Fried Chicken marinated with soy, mirin, and sake crispy fried in rice batter and topped with spicy kewpie mayonnaise sauce ($15). Chris and I have always adored this dish at Ita Cho and we were excited to try this version. The chicken was over fried and very oily. While the meat of the chicken was cooked nicely, the marinade was nowhere to be tasted. The kewpie mayonnaise was a nice touch, a little creamy, a little citrusy and little heat. The pickled vegetables seemed like an afterthought. They were under pickled and seemed lost on this plate. 

Chris and I have been bandying about the idea of a “Greatest Hits From Around the World” restaurant for years – mostly jokingly. A single chef attempting to master so many different cuisines seems like machine gun fire. Something will hit the mark but impossible to land them all.  Street’s concept actually suffers in a City like Los Angeles; a city replete with street food from all corners of the world – delicious, authentic, and affordable.

All in all I'd say this evening led us down a street with very uneven pavement.

This Late Summer Bubble AKA The Egg; Part 1

I don’t get to travel much. The last vacation I had was over two and a half years ago. So I think occasionally I create my own versions of vacations without actually going anywhere. More often than not these trips happen in late Summer. I think it’s because it recalls a time of sweltering heat, cicadas, fireflies, thunderstorms… The South. Tennessee Wiliams, sexy heat and malaise, secrets and debauchery. You know?

Well I’m in the middle of a doozy of something at present. I’m having a lot of fun. I’m staying up late. I’m sleeping late. I’m getting all of my work done. I’m seeing all of my friends. I’m making new friends.

But I’m not writing. And for this, I am frustrated.

I have so much to say. My brain is all swirly with ideas and thoughts. But I haven’t seemed to be able to put these thoughts to paper or, more accurately, computer. Much of my energy has been directed to my new roommate and, more importantly, friend, Maggie. We are having such fun hanging out at the house, cooking, watching trashy tv, going out to eat, going out to drink, shopping, sipping wine on the couch.  I have been sharing all those words and thoughts with her rather than with you. I guess we have been in this late Summer bubble, an at home vacation.

But I’m here now. And hopefully to stay.

I have been mulling over the egg for weeks, now. It began with deviled eggs. And Humpty Dumpty.

I know I have mentioned that I am quite accident prone. Who really knows why. Brandon thinks it’s because my feet are too small for my height. That’s sweet of him. I really don’t know what the reason is, but I suppose it’s somewhat irrelevant. Yes, I fall. But I always get back up. I knock into stuff. But I always heal. Lately I seem to be bonking into more stuff than usual. Bumps and bruises, but no breaks.

I’ve felt a bit like Humpty Dumpty. The egg-man that was irrevocably broken. But yet has lived, and will continue to live, for centuries in our lives.

Interestingly, "Humpty Dumpty" was also eighteenth-century reduplicative slang for a short and clumsy person. The riddle may depend on the assumption that, whereas a clumsy person falling off a wall might not be irreparably damaged, an egg would be. A deconstruction.

And another deconstruction of an egg concept: deviled eggs. We break the egg, or at least, its shell. The normally delicate, yet viscous insides become solid and strong, sliced in half and re-stuffed with its own yolk, reconstituted. It’s fascinating. The original form of the egg has vanished and become something else, something new entirely.

Not unlike Humpty Dumpty, broken. Shattered. But always remaining a whole egg again each time the story is repeated. And not unlike me falling down, bumping and bruising. I am re-alived and healed in no time. And not unlike this late Summer bubble, that will soon pop, but likely re-form, this time, next year in some new genesis.

Classic Southern Deviled Eggs

Makes 24

·  12 hard boiled eggs, peeled
·  1/4 cup Duke’s mayonnaise
·  2 teaspoons white wine vinegar
   2 tablespoons sweet pickle relish
·  2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
   Hungarian paprika
   Salt & pepper

Arrange the eggs in one layer in a saucepan. Pour in enough cold water to cover the eggs by at least 1 inch, and place the uncovered pan over high heat.

Time the eggs from the moment water boils and a few eggs begin to move around in pan. Reduce the heat to medium high. When the eggs have cooked for 10 minutes, turn off the heat and cover pan, let set for 10 minutes then cool the hot eggs by running plenty of cold water in pan, the egg will shrink slightly inside the shell, making them easier to shell. Let them cool for at least 20 minutes in pan with cold water before peeling.

Slice eggs in half lengthwise, and carefully remove yolks. Mash yolks with mayonnaise. Add relish, mustard, apple cider vinegar, a pinch of paprika, salt, and pepper; stir well. Spoon yolk mixture into egg whites. Garnish, with sprinkles of paprika.

Squashes and Sniffles

I’ve been sick. I never get sick and I’ve been sick. I have a cold. I guess I’m getting over it now. But what misery; a Summer cold.

As a result of this nasty cold, I spent my holiday weekend at home with season 2 of True Blood, a box of tissues, and my dog. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was so sick of being sick that I didn’t even care that my nose resembled Karl Malden’s from so much blowing and I ventured out to the Hollywood Farmers’ Market. I’m glad I did. It seems to be better for me to pretend I’m not sick and to continue to do my normal things – with the exception of late nights and too much wine. So I stocked up on beautiful produce gems and marched home to play in the kitchen.

I actually found the most incredible looking potatoes I have ever seen and used them in my World-Famous Breakfast Potatoes a mere hour later. Check these out...

After I made brunch (sans mimosas (gasp!)), I decided to test a couple of the recipes for the next Dinner at Eight: the chilled avocado-cucumber soup with ancho cream and the summer squash gratin with salsa verde. Would have been more fun with mimosas, but such is life.

I was really excited about the gratin recipe, one I’ve adapted from Suzanne Goin. While I am not a huge squash or zuchinni fan, in general, summer squash is the shining exception. And squash blossoms. I adore squash blossoms. They are so delicate, elegant and beautiful both in appearance and taste. I love that summer squash has the tender and edible rind (which is a result of it being harvested early). You could tear that thin veneer with a mere grazing of a fingernail.

In the past I have not waxed terribly poetic over summer squash. I have (rather boringly) sliced it lengthwise and grilled it alongside its plate partner for the evening--a meat item, I imagine. But this dish could very easily stand alone. It has layers of bold flavors within the salsa verde, shallots and garlic. It somehow manages to be both subtle and summery, yet warm and hearty.

Originally I had planned to serve it alongside a Bistecca Fiorentina but thought the flavors would compete too much with one another. Rather, I will be serving it with an herb-roasted pork loin. I feel confident that these two items will dance together brilliantly with their simplicity, comfort and sophisticated earthiness.

Summer Squash Gratin with Salsa Verde

Serves 6

2 pounds summer squash

1 1/2 cups fresh breadcrumbs

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

3/4 cup sliced shallots

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1 tablespoon fresh thyme 

3/4 cup salsa verde (recipe follows)

1 1/2 cup grated Gruyere cheese

Kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Cut the squash into 1/8-inch thick slices (on the diagonal). Toss the slices in a large bowl with 1 teaspoon kosher salt, and let sit 10 minutes.

Place the breadcrumbs in a bowl.

Heat a small sauté pan over medium heat for 1 minute. Swirl in the butter and cook a few minutes, until it browns and smells nutty. Pour the brown butter over the breadcrumbs, scraping all the bits into the bowl. Wait for a moment for the butter to cool, and toss well.

Drain the squash and transfer it to a large mixing bowl. Add the shallots, minced garlic, thyme, salsa verde, and some pepper. Toss to combine, and add the cheese and half the buttery breadcrumbs. Toss again.

Place the squash in a gratin or casserole dish. Scatter the remaining breadcrumbs over the top, and bake 35 to 40 minutes, until the squash is tender and the top is crisp.

Salsa Verde

1 teaspoon marjoram leaves

1/4 cup coarsely chopped mint

1 cup coarsley chopped flat-leaf parsley

3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 clove garlic

1 anchovy

1 tablespoon capers, rinsed and drained

1/2 lemon, for juicing

Freshly ground black pepper

Using a mortar and pestle, pound the herbs to a paste. Work in some of the olive oil, and transfer the mixture to a bowl.

Pound the garlic and anchovy, and add them to the herbs.

Gently pound the capers until they're partially crushed, and add them to the herbs. Stir in the remaining oil, a pinch of black pepper, and a squeeze of lemon juice.