the read kitchen

A final piece in Gourmet

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:04:00 +0000

Before it disappears after this month, here's the piece I produced for Gourmet online in their last food package ever. Ironically for me, it covers street food in Miami--a place I wasn't incredibly fond of living, but which ended up providing me the material for a magazine I've always admired.

Eight Great Street Food Vendors in and Around Miami

As for what's next, I obviously haven't been posting much here--so soon, I'll have a more permanent website with projects that are just beginning to bubble below the surface.

Oink, oink, sizzle, sizzle

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 19:08:00 +0000

Zingerman's Delicatessan is a hometown favorite of mine, where I spent bygone university days eating sour cream coffee cake, pecan pie and barbecue chicken sandwiches. My beau was known to ride me on his handlebars over to Detroit Street minutes before closing to get a chocolate and coffee study fix. On study dates I was often found dashing to the counter at the sight of fresh rugelach samples.

Alas, Ann Arbor is a memory. With as many amazing stores as New York has, none quite measure up to Z's. Luckily, they deliver.

Besides a stellar mail order company, Zingerman's proprietor Ari Weinzweig also tells a darn good story. This time, he's tackled bacon with Zingerman's Guide to Better Bacon. Even with America's overwrought bacon frenzy, Ari has produced a work of genuine pigletry, salty and smart as ever.

Here's the latest Tasting Table I fried up: Bacon 101

Reading through, you're bound to encounter a rumbling belly, but fortunately, Zingerman's has the answer: mail bacon.

Red Hook + Maine = Lobster Roll

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 12:37:00 +0000

A bit late on posting this one, but last week I wrote about Red Hook Lobster Pound's lobster roll debut at the Brooklyn Bridge Flea (which Urban Daddy totally ripped off).

Maine in New York

Last weekend a line from DUMBO to Kennebunkport told everyone that Red Hook knows what's up. Get there early this Sunday or be doomed to a weekend without lobster.

Bring on the greens

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 03:30:00 +0000

This summer I'm lending a hand to seedling CSA for Paisley Farm with pick ups at Jimmy's No. 43 from summer snap pea season to high squash harvest come Autumn.

We have a little blog going over at the Paisley Farms site, so stop by to get some ideas for those seven pounds of kale and loads of rapini you manically purchased at the greenmarket. (It's okay, the greenmarket transforms me into a shopaholic too).

The Blog At Paisley

We've got a lot lined up for the season with add-ons for coffee, fruit, milk, eggs, poultry and cheese, so many more recipes will follow. Plus you can drink a beer while getting your greens and talking with your neighbhors. It's pretty much the coolest CSA ever.

School's out for the summer

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 01:08:00 +0000

My latest bit on Tasting Table. More to come soon.

Schoolhouse Kitchen's Delicious Cause

Airplanes and scallops or Gentlemen who lunch

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Sat, 30 May 2009 17:34:00 +0000

There are just some offers you can't refuse. Take for instance, a proposal to serve lunch in a defunct airplane hangar--it warrants an enthusiastic, head-shaking 'yes.'

So under these pretenses, a rainy Thursday in May began.

Sara Grady and Jason Wood were the conspirators enlisting my help--a pair I met fortuitously last November while on a writing assignment at a supper club they hosted in Brooklyn. Both tall and slender, Grady and Jason could be mistaken for siblings with their sandy strawberry hair and pale elvish faces. Certainly two of a kind, the couple shares a passion for creating off-the-radar communal meals against equally quirky, but always warm backdrops.

Foggy and a little damp, the excursion began at 9 am on Reade Street where Sara took the helm and Jason munched a bagel in the front seat. Onto the West Side Highway, down the tip of Manhattan and over the Brooklyn Bridge we watched the storefronts drizzle past as we made our way down Flatbush Avenue's milieu of discount clothing outlets and single moniker shops--Mike Meat Deli and Aden Liquor Corner--pondering the afternoon ahead.

Several weeks prior, Sara had received a letter from an individual inquiring about GradyWood's culinary services. He explained his loyalties to a group quaintly called 'The Outer Boroughs Dining Society,' a cartel of retired gentlemen journalists and ad guys who voyage off the island for far-flung dining experiences in the exotic quarters of Queens or, in this case Floyd Bennett Field. The Society was in need of a Spring Frolic venue and had a mind to give it wings.

Through fog and ocean mist, the expanse of Floyd Bennett's runways began to reveal itself along a deserted stretch of road. We pulled up to our destination, Hangar B, perched on a weedy concrete lot overlooking the water. Industrially paned windows and corrugated metal shed droplets onto our heads as we ducked in through the yawning gap of building. As our eyes adjusted to the dusty light shafts, broad sheets of welded metal emerged in the shapes of wings and propellers--regal though somewhat eerie where some were half dissected and looking rather shabby.

We met a salty sixty-something mechanic at the door who snorted a bit at our endeavor, but left us to our own devices scooting heavy loads in and out of the building. Soon enough we were unpacked and prepping the meal. Nothing more than four picnic tables on an oil-spotted slab of concrete, our little oasis glowed against the rusty mullions and the borough trotters began to trickle in.

With a cooler of rosé in tow, the couples wandered gawking at a restored silver jet and chattering over what Jason was constructing upon china tea plates. Sweaters encircled shoulders and pastel polo shirts floated about as Sara and I brought out the first plates-- a veritable garden. Everyone sat to eat and wondered at the paper thin radishes atop quinoa and pea shoots--all except one man who would have been slight had he not been wearing a trench coat, a Donegal cap and large tinted sunglasses. His diet didn't "allow most foods." He stood and supervised his table mates, sniffed at a wine glass and wandered around the prep table poking at the boxes which would soon produce dessert.

Scallops atop the season's first sugar snap peas, final asparagus tips and French lentils came next. 'Incognito' (as we started calling the cloaked man) glanced at the tarragon Pernod dressing with a sour look, reached into his coat and pulled out a glazed donut. We surmised his dietary allowances were an affectation as he followed it up with several chocolate tarts we'd toted along for the final course.

Incognito was only one of many characters who graced us that afternoon. The Dining Society was certainly chock full of them. They left us with four and a half bottles of rosé, which we polished off while cleaning and left feeling hungry though we'd been feeding people all afternoon. We filled up at Marlow and Sons with cocktails and panini and went our separate ways, but received glowing reviews from the society that very evening. This little expert from the head diner sums up a bit of the Society's cog and quirk, but mostly the general sentiment GradyWood tends to leave behind.

You are so good you could become the Glorious Food of the farm-to-table sustainable-grower movement, an upswelling that's in only its earliest gurgles, and thank goodness for that.
...
You both have a rare touch, with people and food. Very few ever get the chance, but you might be among the anointed to never trade tedium for money. Go for it, all windows open, the stove lit, the handheld charged and empty of images, the garden full to bursting.

Gosh, I do go on. It must have been the green sauce on the scallops

Herbs & tequilia

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 18:58:00 +0000

It's really not as bad as it sounds. I know I shouldn't have bought the herbs again, but I resolve to be more responsible about them. The tequila, well, that was a gift— and it's really quite lovely paired with ketchup.

Let me explain.

Monday would have been my mom's 55th birthday and I wanted to celebrate in my own small way. I started with a trip to the Union Square Market and, at the goading of friend and fellow food blogger Helen, bought three green and fragrant plants. The good kind. You know, lavender, grapefruit mint and sweet basil. You might remember my hesitation about a similar purchase last September, which I promptly killed with the help of my grazing cat and one too many vacations without hiring a plantsitter. They really shouldn't let people like me take care of living, photosynthesizing things. I'll be better this time, fingers crossed.

The day wouldn't have been complete without a home-made meal, by which I mean, something slathered in ketchup. Last year in Miami, I made burgers, slow-baked beans and homemade ketchup as an ode to my mom's ultra-Midwestern food sensibilities. This year, I was without grill and lacking a burger craving, but still needed to satisfy the tomatoey tradition. My friend Ramsey, who kindly drove me 25 long hours from Miami to New York in August, finally had a night off so I trekked to the Upper West Side and we sliced up a pile of sweet and fingerling potatoes, roasted 'em and dipped them in a healthy dose of tangy tequila ketchup, a sampler gift from Chef Mark Simmons (from this Tasting Table piece). We drank wine and spoonfuls of ketchup and baked in the unseasonable heat radiating from Central Park and the 450 degree oven.

Of course, the day was a little bit tough, but ketchup and the kindness of friends helped quite a lot. Arriving home on a full potato belly, I found my ever-supportive roommates had surprised me with a big bunch of flowers, sending me into ketchup-scented tears and a wave of grateful thank yous. Of course, my cat quickly devoured each and every tulip from the bouquet, but luckily it's deterred her from the herbs. We'll see how long that lasts.

Home-made oven-baked fries

This is, quite possibly, the easiest recipe you can thrown into your repertoire.

Ingredients

Potatoes

Olive oil

Coarse sea salt

Black pepper

Additional spices

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. I like to keep my skins on the potatoes, but you can peel them if you like. Slice them into thick wedges or skinnier sticks, spread over a baking sheet and sprinkle with a splash of olive oil, a dash of salt and a good crack of pepper. Sometimes I like to add paprika or chile powder for a kick. Toss them in the mixture and arrange in a single layer over the sheet. Pop them in the oven for 30-45 minutes depending on the thickness of the slices and the desired crispiness. Serve with some damn good ketchup.

Easter eggers, the poser chicken

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 17:57:00 +0000

'Tis the season for sticky-middled Cadbury eggs, crunchy malted milk eggs, Reese's peanut butter eggs and cloying, but adorable Peep's eggs. This weekend astringent vinegar will tickle noses as brightly colored lozenges transform water into technicolor dyes. Fingertips will turn grapey purple and yellow-orange as the flimsy wire dipping hook is discarded in favor of impatient egg grabbing.

Though I don't celebrate Easter with any sense of religiosity, unless it includes too many jelly beans and the excuse to eat my weight in lamb chops, I have invested in my own set of Easter eggs. While doing a Saturday round of the Union Square market, I stopped for a cup of apple cider at the same table as a stack of cartons with tri-colored eggs peeking out— light green-blue, cream and peachy brown. 'Araucana 7' was scrawled across the top in permanent marker and I inquired what this meant with the stand's bearded proprietor.

"Araucana," drawled the man, "is the chicken. Funny fellers. Got about a hundred of 'em runnin' around the farm." (Araucanas are 'rumpless' and have fluffy little mutton chop tufts encircling their gullets.) Mr. Chicken Farmer continued, "Their eggs're more expensive, but once you eat 'em, you won't go back. Hell, sometimes I cut the white off just to get at the yolk."

I handed over $7 and toted them home with a slab of bacon. Once the belly was fried, I cracked two eggs into the rendered fat and watched the oversized yolks gel into bright orange quivering orbs. I dipped a wedge of toasty bread into the middle and took a weird bit of pleasure in watching the vivid core burst onto my fork. It was rich and creamy— more deep and eggy than the average large brown omega-3 enriched egg. Perhaps the bright color fooled me into extra-sensory eggyness, but regardless they were delicious alongside a Yuengling and some salty pork.

I'm not sure I'd never go back to regular eggs, especially at the hefty price tag and because after a bit of research I found the Araucana breed, which originates from Chile, should lay only blue eggs. Mine are probably from chickens advertised as such, but are really a mixed breed generally called "Easter Eggers," or any chicken that produces colored eggs. Appropriate for the season and covers my bit of Easter participation, but what would the Araucana Club of America think? Blasphemy.

Un, deux, trois, dougnut

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 15:22:00 +0000

On Saturday, the gods shined down upon me and gave me doughnuts and a letter of acceptance to grad school. They also gave me foie gras, champagne and a pulled pork sandwich. Admittedly, it was a pretty good day.

I realize everyone and his superintendent's mother are mad about Doughnut Plant— me included— but yesterday morning's three sticky rings of cake were the frosting on the, well, cake. I can quite easily say even the bubbly and goose liver were not quite as satisfying as the tangy Meyer lemon yeast puff I devoured in ten seconds flat. Crunchy hazelnut cake and blonde bombshell tres leches were also implicated in the doughnut gorge.

Hurry, run before Meyer lemon season is over and you can't wear a citrusy frosting moustache until next year!

Doughnut Plant, 379 Grand St. (nr. Essex), Manhattan; 212-505-3700

Ride the bacon warpig

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 13:56:00 +0000

Representing the newest member of the ever-popular Takedown family is Matt Langland's weirdly bestial Bacon Takedown poster. (Recall Langland's come-hither Chili Takedown tripe and viscera bowl). Beckoning one and all to gorge with New York's greatest pork belly innovators, this calorie-laden hogfest will be the lardo on the cake. I mean, the icing on the pig.

Vegetarians you'll have to sit this one out (unless you're one of those faux-except-for-bacon-tarians) because as the poster clearly shows, bacon is going to dominate. Capped at 30 contestants, this Takedown will be held at Radegast Hall in Williamsburg on March 29th and $10 will buy you all the belly you can stomach. The Takedown series is the brainchild of self-complimentary actor and filmmaker Matt Timms who has held cookie death matches, head-to-head fondue fights and spirited salsa-offs. Let the grease fly.

With clogged arteries, we're all going to look back at this bacon frenzy and consider it the foam trend of the 2000s. Except we'll all still be frying it.

Little things

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 20:48:00 +0000

I don't know why I feel so smug. It's been months since I've stepped onto this soapbox. Plural months. Time has gotten away from me and I've been busy running back and forth to the monstrous complex that runs the length of E. 42nd to E. 46th on the East River. It's an odd leap from food and recipes to policy and hunger, though not an unconnected one. I'm still formulating my conclusions.

However, today I am smug. I revived a brick of brown sugar into a moist pile of molasses soaked sugar cane. I feel almost maternal.

Maybe not so exciting to you resourceful kitchen gurus, but for someone who didn't grow up with a food mentor to elicit the tricks of the trade, I'm psyched. It's like I fed a baby or gave change to someone on the corner. That brown sugar needed me. And I have an official piece of advice to pass on to my future kitchen monsters. Who needs to know it came from Trader Joe? Well, you do I suppose.

It was right there on the back of the brown sugar bag, "If product does become hard, pour into a medium bowl and cover with a wet kitchen towel and leave overnight. Fluff the rejuvenated sugar with a fork and return to container or pouch." Voila. Sticky granules of goodness.

Oh whatever. I was impressed.

The point is, starting small is good, right? Foodstuffs are calling my name again. The Meyer lemons asked me to put them in a jar with plenty of salt, a few cloves, two bay leaves, a cinnamon stick and some coriander. I did. They're happily marinating next to me on my desk. This afternoon's chicken carcass hopped into a pot with some flaccid carrots and wilty leeks and is bubbling away on the stove giving off a divine smell much better as sum of parts. And a certain butterscotch cookie recipe is soon to fall into this odd quartet of little things.

That's all. Just starting small.

Q & A with Thomas Keller

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 20:02:00 +0000

My birthday present to myself this year : an interview with Thomas Keller and Michael Ruhlman on the new book, Under Pressure for Saveur. Now, if only someone would get me a thermal circulator...

Click the interview link above for a full review.

SAVEUR: As a chef, you test food by tasting, touching, and smelling. How do you gauge that when you're using sous vide? Is it intuitive?
Thomas Keller: It's an equation. We have it down to a science that allows us to cook a saddle of lamb at 60.5 degrees [C] and know that it will come out perfectly. It's all about time and temperature.

SAVEUR: Don't you miss the smelling and the tasting?
TK: Of course, you become emotionally attached to certain repetitions in the kitchen. But there is an art to preparing food to undergo sous vide, too.
Michael Ruhlman: It's important to remember that we aren't throwing away the craft of cooking; we're building on it.

SAVEUR: How much of your cooking is done sous vide these days?
TK: Fifteen percent to 20 percent.

SAVEUR: Who else is doing sous vide that you respect right now?
TK: Eric Ziebold and, of course, Grant [Achatz]—actually, everyone. There really isn't a chef now that isn't at least experimenting with sous vide in the kitchen.

SAVEUR: Have you figured out how to cook quiche sous vide yet?
TK: Well, no. Patisserie just doesn't work.
MR: I know a chef doing cake sous vide, but it's a very dense cake.

SAVEUR: What are your top three favorite sous vide preparations?
TK: Short ribs. You can achieve a very different product cooking short ribs sous vide. Vegetables, especially artichokes. And compression in general—we really like to experiment with compression.

Pumpkin beer, an original

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 21:21:00 +0000

First byline at Saveur:

Get buzzed on a pumpkin.

The perks? I got to sample a lot of pumpkin beer.

P.S. I did not come up with that title.

The Buddha's Hand

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 19:41:00 +0000

An apology for my infrequent appearances, but I must say it's been a whirlwind month. I can point my tired, typing fingers to a certain food magazine that eats much of my week (pun most definitely intended), an East Village burger shop that consumes another bit, and a successful trip to vote in the desolate swing state of Florida. Yes, this is my conspicuous plug for our President Elect.

On to more interesting things. Weird and whimsical things. Oddly-shaped and edible things. Behold the Buddha's Hand.

While walking through Whole Foods, I spotted this anemone-like fruit, which magnetically drew me to its throne between the star fruit and the pineapples. Like a greedy child, I snatched the nearest tentacle and brought it to my nose: pure lemony Lysol—but in a pretty, aromatic sense. If I weren't in public, I might have licked it and then taken a big bite, but I was in public, so I didn't.

The Buddha's Hand is named so for its finger-like protrusions and is said to have originated in India where a "closed" hand symbolizes prayer. The rind is incredibly fragrant, more so than the exterior of a lemon, but the fruit contains no such juicy flesh. Rather, the whole fruit is like one big lemon peel bouquet with a tangy interior pulp, waiting to be zested, chopped and candied for weekend gin and tonics.

I haven't attempted to mar the beautiful creature, but I'm sure the next few days will prompt childlike impatience to perform a dissection of its innards. Until then, I'll do as the Chinese do and dangle it as a slightly creepy air freshener, its fingers emitting citrusy Buddhahood all over the place.

The barter system

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 23:00:00 +0000

I have always been a little intimidated by the art of negotiation. Some might tell you otherwise having observed me saunter up to an antique dealer and demand a major price reduction on a perfectly preserved couch or toe my way around a cheeky Parisian flea market dealer. Last week, I convinced the sidewalk bookseller on 2nd Ave. to sell me two books for the price of one. True enough, banter over les objets has never been the problem. It's the food bargaining that gets me.

I suppose it shouldn't be any different than arbitrating for furniture or books, but I always feel as if I may be overstepping boundaries by trying to make a deal on fairytale eggplants or Adirondack potatoes. This is sustenance we're talking about-- food that farmers have cultivated with their own hands-- and it seems awfully presumptuous to try to bargain for it. But isn't that what a marketplace is all about?

Still not entirely comfortable with the concept, I found a subtle remedy for my largest expense at the market. Two weeks ago I bought almost 10 pounds of apples from the Tuesday market across the street. Honey crisps, empires, mcintosh, jonagolds, fujis and northern spy. Those 10 pounds also happened to cost about $25, which I realize isn't terrible, but good lord, I'm a girl on a budget. Obviously, my solution was not to buy less apples. Oh no, I thought, I'll just have to get more...but for the same price.

It's prime apple season so I have a mind to make tarts, galettes, apple butter, apple sauce and cakes. I mentioned so to my St. Mark's Square farmer, Jim. Part-owner of Locust Grove Fruit Farm in Milton, New York, Jim began to expound upon the best apples for baking tossing me a cortland. "You should send some of those goods our way," he said winking. Maybe I will, I thought, bargains a-brewing in my mind.

The next week I showed up with lavender and lemon verbena sablés (I had already eaten or baked all the apples) and presented them to the crew. Obligingly, Jim tossed back a cookie smiling and gathered an armful of Northern Spies. "These are the ones you'll want," he said pointing out the smoky-colored yeast on the skin. "Just picked yesterday. You should take some honey crisps too. Have you tried the opalescent?" After paying, (at the "people-who-bring-us-stuff rate") he tossed me a seckel pear, "A seckel for you, on special," Jim said. I toddled off with a couple of bartletts too.

Some may call this bribery, but I like to think of it as bartering. I come back to the square every week and rarely buy an apple from anyone else. It's nice to think of the trade as an ancient practice among neighbors, who are mutually benefiting from one another's talents. Jim grows apples. I bake cookies. We need what the other has, right? I like to think so.

As I walked out my door this afternoon, I ran into Jim who was wondering where I'd been all morning. Though not bearing a dessert, I did drop by Locust Grove's stand in the late afternoon to a splendid display of banana apples (named so for their scent), seek-no-furthers (a lovely specimen of and dappled red and yellow), and bosc pears. The special rate still applied and I left reassured that the mutual agreement truly was profitable. Golden russets will be in season by next week, so I will be dreaming up another dish for the barter.

Romanesque

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 04:04:00 +0000

Morning: smells of serious cooking float in the street.
Onions give up the ghost, flesh sizzles, a metal spoon
clinks on a dish. We've lived here for eight hundred years,
we're still hungry. Ancient mosses nibble the stones.
We found such fierce ways to love.
A demon for each, carved in limestone, squirms in the church:
Adepts at prolonging pitchforks into the gut.
You saw light leak from my eyes. I saw you turn.
On the tympanum, Christ barely balances
in his almond chafing dish, Pentecostal fire
hurls out to the Apostles left and right,
they're microwaved. They were about to eat.
In the market, I bought lettuces as frilled,
scalloped, unfurled, and rainbow-hued
as rococo chapels—Batavia, Tarantelle,
Reine des Glaces—and the sun touched each sweet leaf
till it trembled and spoke in tongues.

—Rosanna Warren

As appeared in The New Yorker, October 6, 2008 issue

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 20:39:00 +0000

This has nothing to do with parsley or rosemary. Please insert basil and lemon verbena into original lyrics and sing accordingly.

At least once a week (and more like once a day) an idealistic urge overtakes me and I turn dramatically to my internal audience and swear to the gods that I will bake a tatin, and I will buy a bundt pan and I will stretch my own mozzarella. The chances are fifty-fifty that I will actually follow through with my oath (those odds are pretty good if you ask me), but if I were to make and buy on every whim, I'd be a beefy, bankrupt catastrophe.

However, I have vowed for months that I would grow my own food having been on the urban agriculture bandwagon for a year now. In Miami I attempted tomatoes and peppers, which suffered terribly through the tropical storms and blistering heat, not to mention their pots were probably one foot too shallow. Whoops. Though inedible, I once had a lily that bloomed all through the winter, and thinking I was a totally competent badass, took it home for Christmas vacation to nurture the wonder flower. I left in the car and, in the deep freeze of Ohio winter, it withered and never made a comeback.

I admit, I'm terrified that I might not have a green thumb. My fall back plan to go off-grid if globalization fails will be totally screwed. At the very least, my vacant lot turned lush urban garden will remain a figment. So I'm starting now. If I can't figure it out by the time I can afford my own lot, I'll just hire someone to do it for me.

Thus far the sage seems pretty saggy, like someone dumped a bucket of water on it (it wasn't me). The French thyme is fragrant, brushy and chipper, but the thyme in my fridge from a month ago looks pretty much the same way. The Italian basil is a bit yellow, but I'm hoping he'll pull the group together and give them a pep talk or something. Thinking they might need a little morale boost, I got a bunch of sexy lemon verbena and exotic lavender at the market to keep them company. Hopefully it'll perk 'em up because my morale is becoming low and my thumb ain't gettin' any greener.

Market Grazing

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 02:42:00 +0000

A tasteful collection of food and market porn, for the traditionalist and the adventurer.

Bartlett curves.

The mater table, bosomy and ripe.

Post-market mingle.

Menagé trois: green zebras between baguette and thyme fried eggs.

Bread Alone

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 14:29:00 +0000

Every Tuesday morning I can peek out my doorway and, from my stoop on E. 10th St., see the colorful Autumn harvest rolling across St. Mark's Square. I usually gather shiny apples, dewy pears and now yellow-green quinces from Locust Grove Farms and check out the eggplants and peppers next door. After some banter and much tomato inspection, I inevitably wander to the north side of the square where Bread Alone's little wooden-cased outpost presides.

I have been cooking from Daniel Leader's bread tome, Bread Alone, for a little over six months now and have found every loaf to be as simple, rustic and delicious as the last, so when I discovered that the cafe (of the same name) camps out in front of my building every week, I was congratulated myself on my intuitive predilection for delicious food. (This is me, blatantly smug.)

Having been on the hunt for the perfect croissant for a few weeks now, I bypassed the loaves and went straight to the pastry case. My greedy neighbors had already devoured the regular croissants so I resigned myself to the pain au chocolat ($2.50). Though my primitive instincts tempted me to rip into the little pastry bag like an adolescent gorilla in a zoo, I held back, smiled and thanked the kind man at the counter. I then rushed up five flights of stairs, took a couple of photos and chomped right into the flaky facade. I must admit, I was a little disappointed.

The pain was flattened and there wasn't a great contrast between the outside crust and the inside layers. Though buttery and rich, the exterior paled in comparison with my previous find at Patisserie Claude. Dark golden and prettily glazed, the croissant contained a sumptuous amount of high-quality bittersweet chocolate that didn't overpower the pastry, but again, was not in great contrast to what should have been light buttery layers and folds. It was late morning, so of course, the croissants weren't as fresh or warm as when they first emerge from the baker's oven, which may account for the lackluster presentation. However, a great croissant will hold its flaky, crunchy crust and stacked layers throughout an afternoon should it have begun with them in the first place. (But you can see from the photograph, my cat quite enjoyed it otherwise.)

This week, I followed Bread Alone to Union Square where they appear each market day (M, W, F, Sa.) with a larger, heavier stock of goods. Though it was early afternoon, there was a still a pile of thick cookies waving at me from across the way. I followed their cute, taunting voices and gathered one chubby Oatmeal Chocolate Chip ($2.50) and hurried home. I stole a bite along the way, but then retreated, satisfied that this would be a great cookie indeed.

Bread Alone's cookies are the thickness of almost two flattish classic chocolate chip cookies and a good 3 1/2 inches in diameter. The texture is divinely soft with just enough outer crunch, and one bite fills the mouth with a big chocolate bang and oatmeal body. My caveat with many cookies is the blatant grit and cloy of granulated sugar. This cookie completely ducks over-sweetening with a super rustic take on the classic chocolate chip favoring grainy oats and rich nutty flour, but maintaining enough chocolate to satisfy with each bite. It's rather substantial as to be almost a meal, but so well-balanced and inviting that I had to stop myself three-quarters of the way through so I wouldn't devour it all in a sitting (which I promptly did anyway after a fifteen minute break for decency's sake).

A cookie from Tuesday's market day will be no different.

In Matthew 4:4, Jesus said, "Man shall not live by bread alone." If by bread, Jesus meant cookies and croissants, he was absolutely wrong.

Hey, Sugar!

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 02:40:00 +0000

Another day, another dessert.

While wandering Artists & Fleas, Williamsburg's weekly crafty-vintage market, my nose (once again) led me to a table of cookies. A sample plate and three neat stacks of becoming little cookies looked up at me and batted their eyelashes. I blushed and I bit. My tongue hit the jackpot.

Browsing flea markets can make a girl hungry and Hey, Sugar! was the answer to my belly pangs. I have a soft spot in my heart for, well, soft cookies, and these babies were soft. Not gooey or undercooked, the Double chocolate chip! bite was the ideal texture, size and thickness a true cookie connoisseur comes to appreciate. Though it lacks a chewy edge, which some regard as ideal cookie eatin', I must admit, I am a sucker for soft, sumptuous middles. Often times cookies can harden and flatten after cooling from the oven, as is the case with City Bakery's chocolate chip cookies, but these specimens were just as cushy and plush as the second they danced off the cooling rack.

Today happened to be Lindsay Kaden's first day to market, where she probably raked in droolers and oglers to whom she sold off her delicious loot at $1 a pop. With classic flavors like Peanut butter chocolate chip! and Snickerdoodle! Lindsay will soon have mail order on Etsy and hopefully continue to appear at the Williamsburg market. My prediction is her "homemade happiness" will spread like wildfire and she'll soon surpass some of the over-hyped cookies in NYC.

Good luck, Lindsay! Sugar, you've got a follower in me.

Hey, Sugar!

www.heysugarnyc.com

lindsay@heysugarnyc.com

917-922-0960

*Unfortunately, I ate my cookie too quickly to take a photograph. The image is courtesy Lindsay's blog.

A croissant search, a buttery find

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 18:16:00 +0000

Every weekend I wake up with an itch-- an itch for butter, flake and warm doughy layers of golden pastry. The itch can only be scratched with that crusty, decadent food of the gods--the croissant.

Who am I kidding? I wake up every morning and crave a croissant, but (out of dignity for my butt and hips) only spring for one a week. Except this week. I had three. Not really three. I mean, I shared two of them. I only dabbled in the third. Just a nibble here and there. And let me assure you, every little crumb was sublime.

Many ruminations and myths exist tracing the origin of the croissant. The Larousse claims that an Austro-Hungarian baker commemorated the failed Turkish invasion of Budapest in 1686 when he baked the crescent-shaped pastries to mimic the symbol of the Ottoman flag. Whether pronounced kwaaason (French phonetics) or kruhsaawnt (American twang), this buttery crescent was most definitely popularized in France as a 'Viennese-style' pastry. Though The Oxford Companion to Food acknowledges the Turkish tale, it also claims that croissant, as it exists today, is a relatively modern creation. Its image as France's national pastry was perpetuated with the proliferation of boulangeries-Viennoise during the early 20th-century when the first definitive recipe appeared in the Nouvelle Encyclopedie Culinaire.

Much like France, New York is a carb-cornucopia with its abundance of bagels, cupcakes, breads and croissants, and I have been on the search for the best of the latter. I cannot say for sure whether my croissants were particularly Viennese, French or American, but I can definitely conclude upon their flaky character with lavish detail. (Flaky layers--not flaky losers, in which New York is abundant as well).

The first croissant was more of a fortuitous phenomenon than a search for the golden pastries, but kicked off the hunt quite divinely. Headed over to Chelsea one day, I looked up along the way and my nose and intuition had led me right to City Bakery's doorstep. I know their fame stems from the quirky Pretzel Croissant, but I wanted to play it classic on the first go. I ordered a whole wheat croissant and pranced out onto the sidewalk with my loot. Though I was a bit late for a warm batch, the first bite was at once crusty and soft with a buttery, layered center. Peering into the middle, a nice twirl of dough hints at the strenuous process of rolling butter between layers of yeasted flour. The whole wheat flour lends a nutty, almost brown butter flavor to the outer baked crust and is definitely an enhancer, rather than a health food version of the fatty classic. Though a bit expensive for the size at $3 a pop, City Bakery's whole wheat croissant is a solid play on the French stronghold, and will definitely lure me in for another.

City Bakery
3 W. 18th St. (between 5th & 6th Ave.)
Union Square, NY, NY
(212) 366-1414

The weekend's other two croissants were a purposeful quest. Having read raves from Gothamist and several others, I trekked west to feast upon the "croissant nazi's" delectables at Patisserie Claude. The unassuming storefront is the most understated expression of what lies inside. The options are sparse, but fresh and fragrant, and Monsieur Claude rumbles around in the background pushing trays and sniffing ovens. Among coffee eclairs, petites tartes and chocolate cake, lay the legendary crescent rolls. Following a demanding Long Island couple, Mike and I ordered up a pain au chocolat and the original and headed to a West Village square to devour every morsel. Both were warm and burning a hole in the bag with the glorious smell as we tore into them. The au chocolat was bursting with melted bittersweet batons, which dripped through the center of well-formed layers, while the regular croissant could not have been a better balance of exterior crunch and doughy crumb. The butter in each was almost sweet, offset by a perfect undertone of salt and fragrant yeast. Perhaps I am ignorant in the language of croissants, but they may have been the best I've tasted yet, and at such a petite price--$3.70 for les deux.

Patisserie Claude
187 W. 4th St. (between Barrow and Jones)
West Village, NY, NY
(212) 255-5911

More croissants to come.

Autumn Plum Tart

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 03:10:00 +0000

This morning I shared William Carlos Williams' breakfast musing...

This is just to say
I have eaten the plums
that were
in the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

This morning, I ate the last piece of plum tart. But not just any plum tart. This is the first legitimately Autumnal dish I've created in over two years. Most in the northwestern hemisphere have experienced the transition of seasons and the gradual progression from one solstice or equinox into the next. But I've hovered in the static of Miami tropicalia for a year and have not seen the turn of Fall for quite some time. Now, I can smell it wafting through my cracked window...

All of the beautiful objects and bits that come about with Autumn are on the verge of full bloom, as well as the nostalgia for pumpkins and the scent of burning leaves or cider and doughnuts-- but we aren't there quite yet. Summer fruit is still dropping and days are still warm, orange with sunset stretching toward seven o'clock. Farmers markets are bursting with the last bounties of summer and slowly trickling in baby pumpkins, fall flowers and plump Autumn apples. A juicy, bright stronghold of summer, the plums still remain.

Worried I might miss the last of the ripest fruit, I snatched a quart of Italian prune plums and toted them home with another purple bedfellow in mind...

Vanilla Cream Plum Tart with Lavender Pâte Sablée

Italian prune plums are small, deeply colored egg-shaped fruit with a sweet, yellow flesh perfect for baking. With a bit of sugar these fruits keep their sweetness while soaking in their accumulated juices.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

For the lavender pâte sablée:
heaping 1/3 c. sugar
2 stems lavender with flowers
1 1/2 c. all purpose flour
1/4 tsp. salt
7 tbs. cold, unsalted butter cut into small pieces
water

Rub lavender leaves and flowers into sugar with fingertips until fragrant and well-scented. Discard large leaves, but leave some bits of lavender. Combine with flour and salt and slowly cut in butter or use a food processor to combine until crumbly. Add teaspoons of water, one at a time until dough is still crumbly, but sticks together when pressed. Dough should be dry and a little crumbly. Press into a buttered tart pan evenly on bottom and up sides. Par-bake for 15 minutes. Remove promptly to cool a bit.

For the vanilla cream
1 large egg
3 tbs. Greek yogurt, sour cream or creme fraiche
2 tbs. honey (I used deep, dark Bamboo honey)
1 vanilla bean scraped
1 tbs. cornstarch

Whisk all ingredients together and spread along the bottom of the par-baked shell.

Halve and stone about 3/4 of a quart of plums. Starting from the edges of the shell, place plums core down in a circular pattern. Sprinkle with sugar and toss in the oven for 30-35 minutes or until plum juice just begins to bubble and crust is golden.

Serve warm with fresh whipped cream or vanilla bean ice cream.

Sixteen Handles

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 18:28:00 +0000

Last night while dangling my legs over the fire escape and watching traffic whiz by, I noticed a line forming across the street outside of an obnoxiously orange storefront. I wondered aloud to my roommates Alex and Tyler what could be going on.

"8-cent yogurt," Alex replied.

"What do you mean, 8-cent yogurt?" I asked and immediately dove back through the window for my sandals and camera.

Sixteen Handles is one of the many stores to jump on New York's frozen yogurt bandwagon and boasts a commitment to the environment as well as probiotic packed treats. What could be better than bio-degradable spoons, cups and a healthy dose of bifidus acidophilus? It all seems gushingly green-- at least at first glance.

We trekked over to the line and queried as to the promotion. On that particular night the $0.08 yogurt could be had with a text message coupon sent to the first 888 people. The 888th person to receive the text would win free yogurt for a year.

"Dangerous," Alex remarked.

"Very," I agreed.

Tyler tapped his foot with impatience.

Unlike PinkBerry and Tasti D-Lite, Sixteen Handles lets you dish up your own yogurt and toppings minus the "More nuts, no wait, less, and kiwi not blackberries," hassle. Flavors range from cheesecake and raspberry ice to irish mint and white chocolate. My favorite was the tangy 'Euro Tart,' whose name makes me think of some trashy Spanish harlot with teased hair and fishnets. At the end of the line you load up on toppings and then cash in at $0.46 per ounce.

We got in line, pulled on a few handles and threw on some toppings. Despite their healthful claims and 70-90 calorie servings, every yogurt contains some sort of corn sweetener, corn stabilizer and three-syllable conditioners. So much for the skim milk, I thought as I tossed on some crushed Oreos and M&Ms.

Tyler was still fidgeting impatiently as we approached the register. Spoonless, I bit the peak of my yogurt bowl just as an elated, cultured-yogurt cry went up from two employees at the register. The man just in front of Tyler shrugged his shoulders and accepted the pats of congratulations from his fellow yogurt eaters. Tyler's face fell in horror. He hesitated with inner-conflict, but finally surrendered his bowl to the scale. "That'll be $10.13 please," said one of the flushed register girls. Tyler shuffled away muttering obscenities.

I admit, we were all a little bitter having been the 889th, 10th and 11th customers, but we're slowly recovering from the shock. However, I still harbor my concerns. It seems contradictory that a business claiming to be stewards of the environment with compostable spoons and cups fails to provide a composting bin for the waste. They admit, "We're not perfect," but much can be gathered from their decision to provide refined sweeteners rather than pure cane sugar and bottled water rather than a tap faucet. The yogurt is decent, but nothing revolutionary. Overall Sixteen Handles, like its name, is just a novel play on the original.

I'm not a huge frozen yogurt fan to begin with. I'd rather have ice cream any day of the week. So I can't help but wonder, what happens when winter hits? The New York Times asked this week, "Will the cupcake craze fizzle out?" Cupcakes are pretty classic, summer or winter, but yogurt seems to hit the spot when the heat is on. Remember when TCBY died out with rollerblades in the mid-90s? Bottom line: If Sixteen Handles want to stay on the scene, they should distinguish themselves with a real commitment, rather than a half-hearted attempt at green-washing.

Market Trends

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 22:43:00 +0000

While the economy is tanking and we're down 84,000 jobs more than last month, the Union Square market is doing juuuust fine. I may be one of the unemployed implicated within that statistic at the moment (I'm not sure if my patchwork quilt of 'jobs' counts as a productively employed citizen), but I happily spent my non-existent paycheck this morning feeding the Greenmarket's well-being.

The square's market trends are up, and yes you surly, unemployed, gun-clinging evangelists, New York's farmers are reaping the benefits. In today's finds:

1. Duck fat and garlic ciabatta by Bobolink Dairy in Vernon, NJ. Ensues in sinfully fragrant garlic-breath. $5

2. Aged cheddar from grass-fed cows by Bobolink as well. The cheese is pungent with a bit of bite, just like the girl with hairy armpits who cut the quarter-pound wedge. $5 per 1/4 pound

3. Bamboo honey from Tremblay Apiaries in the Fingerlakes. Deep, dark raw honey sold alongside almost-edible beeswax candles and soap. $4 for 1 lb. jar

4. Spicy Italian Sausage and Jerk Sausage from Flying Pigs Farm in the Batenkill River Valley. Beautifully crafted sausages from the most convivial farmers in the market. $11 for 5 and $8 for four respectively.

5. Productive trends: pan patty squash, heirloom tomatoes, sweet corn, lavender, thyme, basil and sweet peppers.

Start spreading the news

noreply@blogger.com (lesliepariseau) — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 20:16:00 +0000

I have something to admit.

I've jumped ship.

No, I haven't given up the kitchen. I guess you could say I've relocated my spatulas and madeleine pan. I've boxed up my mixer and blender and rambled north to New York. Over a year ago, I wrote of a man (the palmetto Pest Master) who told me if I could make it six months in Miami, I would stay. Well I stuck it out for fourteen, but the urge to wander overtook. I think it may also have had something to do with my intense dislike of traffic, cockroaches, seasonless months and fake breasts.

I'm sorry Miami, I tried. Despite your lure, I still don't like pan-Asian-Latin-French-fusion. Fendi just ain't my thing. I do not wish to have a year-round golden glow and I still like to read books and talk about them.

However, I now love cortaditos and my Spanish (listening) skills have sharpened over a year of coffee breaks with Cubans, Spaniards, Ecuadorians and Argentinians. I will miss Zeke's and the Abbey and I will most definitely crave Michael's every weekend.

It's not as if I'm abandoning the oddity and mania of Miami altogether. Just as I thought I'd left it behind, Miami followed me through a crack in my new floor— up popped a precious palmetto bug to remind me that I'm not so far from tropical paradise. I'll be back much sooner than those six-legged horrors expect. My bicycling city planner still holds his post making Miami a better place.

For now, this is my forwarding address. I promise to be here more often, but this time with New York City-centric commentary. Exploration begins now. But before I switch scenery completely, here's a little tribute to my coffee conversationalists.

Cuban (sort-of) Coffee

Cuban coffee, or cafecito, is strong espresso brewed with raw sugar to combine bitter and sweet flavors for a smooth, blended shot. Usually the sugar and coffee grounds are brewed at the same time, but at my office the sugar was whipped with a trickle of the strongest espresso to create a creamed sugar base, which was eventually blended with a full shot of espresso. The shots' flavor always depended on who was brewing, whipping and pouring, and each cafecito was characteristic of its maker.

To make this recipe you will need an espresso machine or very strong, hot espresso coffee, sugar and espresso cups.

Pack about 1 1/2 tbs. of espresso grounds into an espresso maker's handle and place in brewing position. Spoon 2 tsp. (more or less depending on taste) into a small metal espresso carafe. Run espresso over sugar until just a trickle comes out and then stop the machine. Whip sugar with the bit of liquid until creamy and smooth. Mixture should be a thickish creamy brown color. Run espresso over mixture until carafe is 3/4 full or until desired strongness is achieved. Stir together and pour evenly into individual espresso demitasses so crema appears over the top.

Drink until the heart's content.