Ho, Ho, Ho, and a Bottle of Rum!

©2013 Chris Terrell

The "Secret Ingredient"

All families have traditions, but only great families have Christmas traditions. My family's great annual tradition? Rum cake. And not just any rum cake. I'm talking about the kind of rum cake that would risk an OSHA violation if it were brought to work; the kind of rum cake that can't be placed within two feet of an open flame. Yeah, that kind of rum cake!

©2013 Chris Terrell

Santa Needs Some Help

Nothing embodies the boozy side of Christmas like rum cake. I mean really! Alcohol and cake. Who ever came up with this combination was a freakin’ genius! Screw the pumpkin pie, this one gets people excited.

I use a recipe from Southern Living, which shouldn’t be a surprise because no one does alcohol and the holidays like us folks down South! Keep in mind that this recipe is not without its hazards. For example, don’t let your nine year into the kitchen with a distracted dad who forgets that that glass of dark brown liquid is NOT Coca-Cola. Oh wow! Still haven’t lived that one down.

©2013 Chris Terrell

The Finished  Product!

Anyway, for adults, making rum cake is   certainly fun. The goal, of course, is to buy more rum than you actually need to make the cake. (I prefer Myers's.) And trickier still is to stay sober long enough to finish it! So, after many years of baking during the holidays, I may have found something to stand the test of time. This year, I put on the faux fire on the TV; some Christmas music from Frankie on the stereo; fired up the oven; opened a bottle of rum; and made a rum cake. And if no one eats it, I don’t care. The holidays are about traditions we keep, even if they go unwanted.  

Fruitcake anyone?

Here are the recipes for the pumpkin muffins and the Southern Living rum cake:

Pumpkin Muffins
 


Ingredients

8 oz. raisins, soaked in water

3/4 cup water


15 ounce can of pumpkin


1 3/4 cups sugar


3/4 cup eggs (about 4 large eggs)


1 teaspoon baking soda


1/2 teaspoon salt


1/4 teaspoon each of cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon


1/2 cup salad oil


2 1/2 cups flour


2 teaspoons baking powder
 


Preparation

Place all ingredients, except raisins and oil, in bowl and mix thoroughly. Add oil and raisins, and blend just to mix raisins in. Place in well-greased muffin tins and bake in pre-heated 400-degree oven until golden brown. Makes 2 dozen.

Southern Living Rum Cake

Ingredients

1 ½  cups butter, softened
1 ½  cups granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 egg yolk 
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 tablespoons grated lemon rind
½  cup dark rum 
¼  cup banana liqueur*
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½  teaspoon baking soda
1/8  teaspoon salt
1 cup whipping cream
Rum Syrup 
Powdered sugar

Preparation

Beat butter and granulated sugar at medium speed with an electric mixer until light and fluffy. Add eggs, egg yolk, and vanilla, beating until blended. Add lemon rind, beating until blended. Gradually add rum and banana liqueur, beating until blended. (Batter will look curdled.)

Stir together flour and next 3 ingredients; add to batter alternately with whipping cream, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Beat batter at low speed just until blended after each addition. 

Pour batter into a greased and floured 10-inch Bundt pan.

Bake at 350° for 55 to 60 minutes or until a long wooden pick inserted in center of cake comes out clean.

Cool in pan on a wire rack 15 minutes. Pierce cake multiple times using a metal or wooden skewer. [Writer's note: I use a fork.] 

Pour Rum Syrup evenly over cake. Let stand 45 minutes. Remove from pan; cool completely on a wire rack. Sprinkle evenly with powdered sugar before serving.

NOTE: *¼  cup dark rum may be substituted for the banana liqueur [Author’s note: I’ve never made this cake with the banana liqueur. Doesn’t sound good to me.]

Rum Sauce

Ingredients

10 tablespoon butter 
¾  cup sugar
¼  cup dark rum
¼  cup banana liqueur*


Preparation

Melt butter in a 2-quart saucepan over medium-high heat; stir in remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil, stirring often; reduce heat to medium, and cook, stirring often, 8 to 10 minutes or until slightly thickened. Remove from heat, and cool 10 minutes.

NOTE: *1/4 cup dark rum may be substituted for banana liqueur. [Author’s note: I’ve never made this cake with the banana liqueur. Doesn’t sound good to me.]

A Drama-Free Thanksgiving (Almost)!

Yesterday, I stepped on the bathroom scale and squinted at the number staring back at me—a bit larger than the one last Wednesday. The holidays have begun!

This year’s annual, gut-busting holiday of excess and family neurosis commenced last Tuesday evening on a flight from Birmingham, Alabama, to Washington, DC. I thought that by traveling on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I would avoid the travel rush. I was wrong. 

American Airlines loaded us up timely, but as the minutes ticked away, I suspected something was amiss. I was near the front of the plane and I could see a lot of people congregating around the cockpit, talking in hushed tones.  The captain would frequently send the gate agent scurrying back up the jetway as if he were on a scavenger hunt. In fact, he was. The log book had gone missing and without it, the FAA would not let us takeoff. Of course, this being 2018, the FAA requires that the log book be kept in paper format and in a three-ring binder. And so the captain ran off the plane to find a printer in the airport with which to print the 116-page log book. An hour later, we took off. 

When we landed in at Regan-National, at first I thought I was at the airport in Lagos, Nigeria, it was so chaotic. After several false starts and traffic jams, we finally headed down I-95 to Williamsburg, Virginia, our final destination. 

When we arrived around 1:00 a.m., we were tired but wired and didn’t go to bed right away like we should have. We all stayed up too late eating several bowls of cereal: Cocoa Krispies, Froot Loops, and Apple Jacks. But eventually we ambled off to bed for some much-needed sleep.

* * *

For me, Thanksgiving is food’s high holy day. Forget family; it's all about the food. Unlike year's past, however, I was willing to delegate this year's preparation. My friend Andrew made the turkey, dressing, and gravy. His oldest daughter made a delightful cheesecake. In fact, everyone helped out this year, which greatly reduced my stress and increased the joy for my guests (all 15!). Kitchen staff consisted of my wife Laura; Rob, my brother-in-law; and my sons, Forrest and Hampton.  

We all worked well together and there was little drama—maybe the cocktails helped. Most importantly, I only went into Gordon Ramsey mode once. We stayed on schedule and sat down to enjoy a delicious Thanksgiving meal around 6:30PM. 

Here’s the menu:

Appetizers

Assorted cheeses and charcuterie

Blackberry Farms Pimento Cheese

Pickled Shrimp

Main

Roast Turkey with Dressing & Gravy

Sides

Collard Greens

Creamed Corn with Tarragon

Mashed Potatoes

Roasted Brussels Sprouts

Southern Style Green Beans

Cranberry Sauce

Rolls

Pumpkin Muffins

Desserts

Blackberry Jam Cake

Walnut Tart with Chantilly Cream

Cheesecake

And unlike past Thanksgiving dinners, we didn’t scarf down our food, something I really appreciated. Instead, we had a nice leisurely meal with good conversation. As Jimmy Stewart once said, "I was the richest man in town."

Let There Be...Meatloaf!

I love meatloaf—not the early 80s arena rocker—but the other one, that much maligned all-American dish. How many times did we hear the refrain in all those family sitcoms from the Fifties through the Seventies, in which one or more children are heard moaning: “Oh no! Not meatloaf…again!” But I think the hatred for meatloaf is urban legend; a falsehood; a conspiracy by the Broccoli Growers Association. Kids really like meatloaf. Why? Because it tastes damn good and it has ketchup in it; that’s why!

I grew up on meatloaf. And now that I’m a parent, I know why. It’s kid-friendly, inexpensive, and easy to make. It also makes great leftovers. Meatloaf sandwich anyone? (My mom packed meatloaf sandwiches in my Space 1999 lunchbox on more than one occasion.)

Perhaps I need to tamper my enthusiasm. I must admit that meatloaf does have an image problem. As Rebecca Orchant of The Huffington Post noted, “[t]he problem with meatloaf is that even if it tastes great, it rarely looks great.” So true. 

Yet no matter how it looks, nothing says comfort food like meatloaf. And like any great comfort food, there are a million-and-one ways to prepare it. Meatloaf can be as humble or as haughty as one’s imagination will make it.  No matter what, for me there is no compromise when it comes to the ketchup. It must be Heinz!

What goes well with meatloaf? Of course, any kind of starch will do. I like egg noodles with lots of black pepper and butter, but when I was a kid, the best, the absolute best, was mashed potatoes. Just imagine. It’s a cold winter’s night, and you’ve finished your homework early, so you can watch the latest episode of Mork & Mindy or Battlestar Galactica (the old one without the hot blond Cylon). You casually ask your mom “what’s for dinner?,” trying vainly to mask the trepidation in your voice—God, please don’t let it be liver and onions; I promise I’ll be nice to my little sister—and, after what seems like an interminable pause: meatloaf. Score!

So the next time you think of meatloaf as a pedestrian, passé dish, reconsider; just try it.  It’s the ultimate great comfort food, and full of nostalgic memories, even if you don’t pack it in your vintage Partridge Family lunchbox these days.

Here’s the Insouciant Chef’s Meatloaf Recipe:

Classic Meatloaf

Ingredients

1 1/2 pound ground chuck
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 medium green bell pepper, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 cup of bread crumbs (this keeps the meatloaf from being too greasy)
2/3 cup of ketchup (plus 2 tablespoons for topping)
2 extra large eggs (or three large eggs)
2/3 cup of chopped parsley
1 teaspoon of dried thyme
2 teaspoons of ancho chili powder
2 teaspoons of kosher salt
1 teaspoon of cracked black pepper

Preparation

Knead all the ingredients in a large bowl with your hands  (don’t whimp out and use some kind of spoon). Take this glorious mass and put in a loaf pan (hence the name “meatloaf”). Take about 2 tablespoons of ketchup and spread evenly over the top. Put the loaf pan on a baking sheet and place in an oven at 350 degrees for about an hour or until the sides have pulled away from the pan or a thermometer in the center reads 160 degrees. Let it rest for 15 minutes; serve; enjoy. 

Sunday Supper

“Every tribe has an ancestral food that its exiles yearn for, and that its children can’t live without.”

—Judith Thurman

It’s Sunday evening as I write this. An early, overcast, autumn Sunday when the lights come on a bit earlier. The dreariness of the day is emphasized by the strident contrast of the previous one—warm and bright and sunny. I’m not particularly fond of Sunday evenings. They arrive packed with melancholy and anxiety. It’s not surprising that Morrissey sang about a seaside resort town whose days are behind her and croons, “every day is like Sunday.” 

I’m likely too harsh on Sunday. The day is not all bad, at least not all of it. There’s coffee and the Sunday paper in the morning. (Along with vinyl, I insist on a real newspaper on Sunday morning—analog is not dead yet!) There’s brunch. Who can argue with Eggs Benedict and a well-crafted Bloody Mary? Booze before noon! Of course, there’s Easter, probably the best Sunday in the world if you are a child or the parent of a child. And every now and then Christmas falls on a Sunday. 

Sundays, when I was younger—like many things—were decidedly more upbeat. It was the 1980s. I was a teenager living in the D.C. suburbs and a Redskins fan. Sundays typically came with a beat down of the Eagles or the Giants by the notorious “Hogs.” It also meant Sunday supper, which in the South is not the same thing as “dinner.” Supper is something later than lunch but earlier than dinner. And thankfully my mom graciously planned it so it didn’t interfere with the Redskins game, whether it came on at 1:00 p.m. or 4:00 p.m. My preferred time for Redskins games was 1:00 p.m., so there would be plenty to talk about at supper, win or loss.

Sunday supper took on many forms. Virginia ham and green beans; roast chicken with white rice and gravy and green peas (my favorite); pot roast with potatoes and carrots; beef stroganoff with egg noodles; meatloaf and mashed potatoes; and, of course, fried chicken with potato salad. All staples I love today. And just to keep my Proustian memories in check, there were some dropped passes for this teenager: Brussels sprouts, spinach, beets, and cabbage, just to name a few. I will add, however, that these are all some of my favorite vegetables today. 

Sunday supper is as rare today as an episode of Miami Vice (another 1980s staple). We seem too busy; too atomized; too lazy. I’m guilty as charged. That’s a shame. 

As I polish this up for publication on a Monday evening, I realize that it’s October 15, 2018, eleven years since my mom died. I forgot. The guilt is palpable, but I’m going to be positive. I’m now at the point that I will remember her life more than her death. I will remember her virtues. I will remember her faults. But most importantly, I will remember her Sunday suppers.

Yeah, I Can Believe It's Butter!

 © 2013 Chris Terrell

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Who doesn’t love butter? I know I do—always have. I recall that as a child my parents would frequent this steak house; the kind popular in the 70s: very dark with a single candle on the table. The waiters would place on the table a bowl with those little pats of butter with the wax paper on top. While my parents discussed whatever it is that parents talk about, I would proceed to eat pat after pat of butter unbeknownst to them. To this day, there is always a good pound or two of butter in my fridge at all times. (I’m sure a shrink would have a field day with this!)

Now, I do keep butter's healthier cousin, olive oil, close by and handy, but I will not hesitate to turn around, walk across the kitchen, open the fridge, and grab some butter. It’s like having a miniature Paula Deen (can we still mention her?) and a miniature Dr. Oz whispering in my my respective ears: “yes;” “do it;” “no;” “evil!”

For me, it was with great pleasure a few years ago when margarine got the bad-boy label in the never-ending Health Food Inquisition. (America’s relationship with good food reminds me of H.L. Mencken’s definition of Puritanism: “The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”) You see, margarine had this funky little ingredient called a “trans fat.” I’m not going to bore you with all the science,  especially because I don't understand it anyway, but let’s put it this way: it ain’t natural. So butter has made something of a comeback.

Butter has been around since ancient times and is used in almost every culture on Earth. It is ubiquitous because of its simplicity. It is made from milk or cream in which most of the water and milk solids have been separated, leaving a golden treasure of 80% fat. While butter is mostly made from cow’s milk, in Africa and Asia, it can be made from the milk of the buffalo, camel, goat, ewe, mare, or even the donkey.

In the West, there are two competing schools of thought on butter—the sweet or cream butter of the English or Irish and the lactic butter of the French, particularly Normandy. (Apparently, the Vikings introduced butter making to the Normans, but if you mention this to a Frenchman, you are likely to cause an international incident!) French butter is saltier and tangier than English or Irish butter because the French add more salt and because cultures (i.e., bacteria) are added to the milk or cream to cause the build-up of lactic acid. One way to introduce such cultures—and I’m not kidding—is to stick one’s arm into the vat of milk or cream.

As I mentioned, butter is used around the world. One of the more interesting variations of butter is ghee from India.  Ghee is clarified butter and, like many things in Indian culture, has a religious significance. (In fact, ghee is used in some religious ceremonies.) Ghee is  mentioned in the Purāna, a collection of legends, religious precepts, and rules for practical living. (What’s more practical than butter?!) In the Purāna, the human body is represented by circles associated with primordial foods: palm sugar, wine, ghee, milk, yogurt, and water. Who can argue when a food product is considered an essential element of the human body?! 

Butter is remarkably easy to make at home. Simply take some heavy cream or whipping cream and pour it into a bowl, vigorously apply a whisk or mixer, and proceed to beat the hell out of it. (If you want your butter to resemble Normandy butter, then leave the cream sitting out overnight at room temperature; this causes cultures to form.) Eventually the cream will become whipped cream in no time, which should convince any sane person not to buy another tub of Cool Whip. Keep beating and the water and milk solids will separate, leaving pale golden butter. Save the liquid—that’s butter milk, which is useful for many things and forms the basis for many good eats in the South. 

Next take the butter and place it in a colander with cheese cloth, rinse it with very cold water, and squeeze it through the cheese cloth. Do this rinse and squeeze process several times until the water runs clear. Now here’s my special technique: take the butter and spread it onto the sides of a bowl. You will notice beads of water form on the surface. Take a paper towel and gently blot the water. (The goal is to remove as much excess water as possible.) Add salt to taste and mix well. Then form the butter into a square, round, or whatever shape floats your boat and keep in the fridge for about 24 hours before using. The butter will keep for about 10-14 days. 

I guarantee that once you have made your own butter, you will develop a new-found respect for it. Without butter, food would be so boring. Thanksgiving Day turkey, chocolate chip cookies, or lobster would not taste the same without butter.

One of my favorite scenes in the movie Julie and Julia occurs when the other main character reverently leaves a pound of butter underneath a photograph of Julia Child at her display at the National Museum of American History. Butter deserves such respect. Don’t be afraid of it. Embrace it. Besides, in the words of Julia Child, "If you're afraid of butter, use cream."

The Last Days of G&T

I don't know what reception I'm at, but for God's sake give me a gin and tonic.


—Denis Thatcher

Summer beings with the expectancy of Memorial Day and ends with the grim reality of Labor Day. During this brief, yet sublime time of the year, we wear seersucker and white and drink gin and tonics. 

The gin and tonic is the ultimate summer drink. (Though I was told by an Englishman in college that a gin and tonic may be consumed in the winter so as long as it is on the weekend.) While the focus is on the gin and everyone has their favorite—mine is Tanqueray—most folks forget that the tonic is just as important, if not more so. Nothing destroys a good G&T more than bad tonic. Most tonic is atrocious, nothing more than carbonated sugar water.

But what is tonic water?

British officers stationed in India invented tonic water by mixing soda water with quinine. Quinine is an anti-malarial substance derived from the bark of the cinchona tree. (During a safari in Africa, our guide told me that, based on my daily intake of gin and tonics during happy hour, I had obviated the need for my anti-malarial pills!) Being good Englishmen, the officers countered quinine’s bitter flavor by adding gin, sugar, and lemon or lime. Thus, in the land of the Raj, the gin and tonic was born! Eventually, the gin and tonic made its way back to England, yet another contribution made by the Pax Britannica.

Because Britain was the home of the Industrial Revolution, there should be no surprise that Schweppes, a London-based sparkling-water company, added "Indian" tonic water to its line of products in 1870 and began the mass production of tonic water. Canada Dry stepped in and began making tonic water around 1890. Since then, these two companies have produced most of the world’s tonic water. And it is a far cry from the original. Until now.

In recent years, Fever Tree has stepped in to halt the malaise, producing tonic that takes one back to the glories of the British Empire. The sun will never set on this tonic. I would buy it in bulk at Costco if I could. Their slogan is "If 3/4 of your Gin & Tonic is the tonic, make sure you use the best." This is perhaps the one point on which I part with the folks at F.T. My ratio is just the opposite. There's a reason why it is called a GIN and tonic and not a TONIC and gin! But I digress. 

It would be helpful to us gin and tonic drinkers if restaurants would take note of this trend in quality tonics. Please stop using that soda gun that looks like a cast-off from the set of Barbarella! This is especially true for high-end restaurants charging me $10 for a gin and tonic. Hell, make your own tonic—gin is a jealous mistress!

Soon I will move on. As the evenings cool and college football heats up, I will stray. Bourbon, the Lauren Bacall of the bar, will call my name.  G&Ts will be but nothing more than a summer fling with a waitress. But like a wayward dog, I will return to her next May and beg for forgiveness. She's a kind mistress, and she will relent to my charms. 

What Happened to Real Food?

From an actual menu in a restaurant in Stockholm, August 2018:

Reindeer heart on white moss

Wild king crab on juniper sprigs

Really? What’s next, bee pollen on winter moss with salmon foam? What the hell is white moss anyway? I thought moss was green, maybe a brownish green, but white?

Before I start sounding like the old man with a moth-eaten bathrobe picking up his paper and yelling at the kids to get off his lawn, I want it on record that I’m not opposed to innovation. But what I am opposed to are chefs who try to be too clever by half. That’s the problem with the “Nordic food” craze these days. All that moss and bark and reindeer meat gathered from the forest. I thought that agriculture vs. foraging was a great advancement for humankind? Call me old fashioned.

The fascination with what I call “foam cuisine” results from the fact that many people who eat in restaurants these days don’t really cook. Cooking should be more than reading about the latest food trend or watching other people cook food, whether it’s on T.V.  or in a restaurant with an “open kitchen.”

Ok, there he goes again with the old man on the front lawn routine…

But for the every day, run-of-the-mill faire, you really don’t need fancy. You don’t need Giada on the Food Network; you don’t need anything that you can’t find at the Piggly Wiggly.  All you need are basic skills and common sense. Go old school. And that means that fusty old culinary school called French cuisine. French cuisine is the latest victim of “foam.” There’s something to be said for the old classics, as Edward Behr suggested in his book, “The Food & Wine of France:” 

I used to think that unaccustomed combinations of ingredients, as opposed to classic complements from the past, would at their best tell you something new about one or more of them. But we’re so used to the unexpected mixtures now that I hardly think carefully about them at all, beyond a simple reaction of whether or not I like what I like what I’m eating.

And so maybe we will come full circle. The old ways of doing things will become the new. We will go home again. I enjoy French cooking because it’s like jazz, another passion of mine. You learn the blues scales; you practice them—over and over. And then you do your own thing, and that thing ain’t the same each time you play. My bolognese is different every, single time. 

So, what should you do the next time you’re in New York, and your sophisticated cousin from “that side of the family” asks you out to the latest trendy foam restaurant? Well, if you have a lick of sense, you graciously accept. And, if as I suspect, you are still hungry a few hours later, and as I suspect you can’t find any good BBQ, you go back to your cousin’s shoe-box apartment, grab what you can from the larder, and make a real meal. Why? Because you know how to cook and not forage for dinner!

Just Eating Some Curds and Whey

© 2015 Laura Flippin

A few years ago, I developed this sudden desire to make cheese. I bought a book on cheesemaking and read it cover to cover. But like many of my other stillborn hobbies (e.g., painting, fountain pens, Civil War re-enacting), neither curds nor whey ever graced my kitchen. So it was interesting when I opened up my newest food magazine to which I’ve subscribed—I think I’m up to five now—and saw an article on homemade ricotta, and then just a few days later, I came across this piece on ricotta by the New York Times’ Melissa Clark. (Watch how Melissa Clark makes ricotta.). Maybe the food gods were trying to tell me something. 

The word “ricotta” literally means “re-cooked” in Italian and has been made there since the Bronze Age. Traditionally, it is made by reheating the whey left over from cheese making and adding an acid, like lemon juice or even vinegar. It is technically not cheese but a diary product.

Ricotta cheese is slightly sweet and low in fat—similar to cottage cheese. You can make it as creamy or as dry as you like, with small curds or big curds, depending on your preference. When I made it, it was soft, with small curds and spread on a slice of fresh French bread, it was delicious. Because of its sweetness, ricotta makes an excellent “cheese” for dessert, either simply with fresh berries and other fruit, or in cheesecakes.

Of course, you probably don’t have extra whey sitting around because you, like me, aren’t making cheese. Also, it’s not like you can drive down to the local Piggly-Wiggly and buy some whey. (Even Whole Wallet doesn’t carry it.) So most recipes for making ricotta at home call for whole milk and cream, which is probably close enough. It is also ridiculously easy to make. Here is the recipe from Fine Cooking (Apr./May 2015) I mentioned above:

Homemade Ricotta

With so few ingredients, the quality of each is very important. The better your milk and cream, the better your ricotta will be. A high-quality sea salt will also make a difference. This recipe is easily halved. 

Yield: about 4 1/2 cups ricotta

Ingredients

1 gallon whole milk

1 cup heavy cream

1 Tbs. flaky sea salt,such as Maldon

1/2 cup fresh, strained lemon juice (from two large lemons)

Preparation

Line a colander with 3 to 4 layers of lightly dampened cheesecloth, and set it in a clean sink or large bowl.

Clip an instant-read or candy thermometer to the side of a heavy-duty 7-to 8-quart pot. Put the milk and cram in the pot and slowly warm it over medium heat, stirring occasionally with a silicone spatula, until its’ 185 degrees, about 20 minutes.

Remove from the heat, stir in the salt, and then slowly pour the lemon juice over the surgance of the milk. Once all of the lemon juice has been added, stir gently for 1 to 2 minutes to encourage curds to form.

Gently ladle the curds into the prepared colander. Fold the ends of the cheesecloth over the curds to loosely cover. Drain until it reaches your desired consistency, 30 minutes for a soft ricotta and up to 24 hours for a very firm, dry, and dense ricotta. Transfer the drained ricotta to an airtight container and refrigerate for up to 3 weeks.

When in Rome....Well, Maybe Not

I'm going to start this post with a warning, or rather a caveat. This may be my last travel-related post for some time. It is the height of summer right now, but another school year breathes hot and heavy on the back of my neck. This fall begins 11th grade, which for many Americans is the start of the college admissions scrum: SAT/ACT prep classes; tutors in math and science; extracurricular activities; and the dreaded college tour circuit. In short, next year will be spent in the car, traveling from one small college town to the next, with dinner at the local Applebees and nights at the Motel 6. For entertainment, I will listen to earnest 20-year old college students talk about empowerment whilst walking backyards and staring at us with stretch-plastic smiles. Joy. 

So, needless to say, my recent trip to London and Paris had a bittersweet quality to it—something shore leave before the war. 

* * *

From a culinary perspective, London is a victim of its reputation, while Paris is a victim of its success. The English can't cook. The French, especially the Parisians, are fabulous cooks. One of my favorite jokes riffs on these stereotypes, as well as a few others. 

In Heaven:

The French are in charge of cooking.
The English are in charge of running the government.
The Germans are in charge of the military.
The Italians are in charge of lovemaking.

In Hell:

The French are in charge of the military.
The English are in charge of cooking.
The Germans are in charge of lovemaking
The Italians are in charge of running the government. 

So, let me mix this up a bit. 

My favorite French meal on my recent trip to London and Paris was....[dramatic pause]....in....London!

During our last full day in London, a mild and sunny, cloudless Friday in late June, we had lunch at Bibendum Oyster Bar in Chelsea. It is a classic French brasserie located in the old U.K. headquarters of the French tire company, Michelin. I could have been having lunch on the Boulevard St. Germain. 

But what's up with the name you ask? 

Bibendum is the official name of "The Michelin Man." You know, the one that looks like the Stay-Put Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters. His name is based on the latin phrase:  nunc est bibendum, which translates to "drink up!" It is taken from Horace's Odes. Only the French could come up with a classy phrase to say: "Let's get ripped dudes!"

In case you were wondering, I had a couple of Negronis (vacation!) and the moules et frites. Both were delicious. 

Ok, so London is more than fish and chips. Now, it's off to Paris!

* * *

Paris was hot. And Parisians have a near religious aversion to AC. Maybe it was the heat, but classic Parisian bistro food (which I love) just wasn't working for us. It didn't seem right. We sought alternatives. We were surprised.

The first surprise was a small pan-Asian restaurant, named Baosian, in the 9th Arrondissement, with maybe six or eight tables that face, open air, onto the rue du Faubourg Montmartre. It is mostly take-away, and there must have been half a dozen Uber Eats guys running in and out and speeding off on their phlegmatic Vespa scooters. As I sat there eating some damn good noodles, around the corner of a classic 19th Century Parisian church, with scooters racing up and down the street, I surprised myself when I realized that Paris is more than just Paris.

But the biggest surprise spoke Italian: Ristorante lo Spaghettino, with a menu in only two languages: Italian and English. Like Baosian, this restaurant is small—maybe eight tables. It is run by a husband and wife team. She, the vivacious one, owns the front of the house. He, the shy one, cooks in an elevated kitchen in full disclosure. The food is classic and simple (not simplistic) and cooked to perfection. 

We have a good-natured argument over whether pasta carbonara should use butter or olive oil. Those who know me, know where I stand.

* * * 

And so we've arrived at the end our journey dear reader. I started off with a rant about how this may be my last vacation for a while because I need to focus on educating the next generation, or least buy an insurance policy so they don't end up in my basement. But perhaps I was the one who got an education. 

I've always been scornful of English cooking. I've put French cuisine on a pedestal it didn't always deserve. At the very least, I'm guilty of forgetting the cuisines every great city can offer. It's odd, but I don't think this way about New York or most American cities, even the ones in those maligned fly-over states. For some reason, however, I've adopted as holy writ that you can only get German food in Munich; English food in London; Spanish food in Madrid; Italian food in Rome; and French food in Paris.  It took me too long to discover that good food is a restless traveler. I guess education late is better than education never at all.  

So maybe my kids will figure all this out sooner than their old man, but only when I find a college—any college— that will take them! 

After that, I'm back on the travel circuit baby!

Enjoy the Ride

On Thursday morning, June 8, my soul got sucker-punched with news that Anthony Bourdain was dead. He had killed himself in the room of a small, yet elegant hotel in eastern France. 

Like many who have followed this culinary bad-boy through the years, I was genuinely sad for someone I had never known and now—despite my deepest desires—never would. The narrative in the coming days focused mostly on the “why?” of his death. (Don’t get me wrong, suicide is a serious issue and, perhaps, Bourdain’s death will increase some awareness.) But, I couldn’t help but think that, like so many celebrity deaths (God, Bourdain would have hated that moniker), the focus should have been on his full-throttle, no-regrets life.

After the sudden death of someone close to me, I read a book on grief. I was skeptical. I don’t do “self-help.” In fact, I don’t remember the name of the book or the author. However, I do remember its one, basic premise: life is gift. There’s no room for melancholy or anger, but only joy given by the life of another. I don’t know why Bourdain killed himself—I wish he hadn’t—but I cannot and will not focus on that. I will focus on the gift he gave to those who love food; those who love to travel; and those who love to travel and eat food with friends, family, and strangers.

I never knew Anthony Bourdain, much less met him. I even had a crazy dream that one day he would read this blog, and I would be “discovered.” I could have then spent the rest of my days tagging along as the goofy sidekick on his T.V. shows. 

When someone passes, your brain taps a reminder of when you first met. Sometimes, it is distinct and immutable, like a photograph. For others, it is fuzzy and indistinct. Bourdain is the latter. I started reading and watching him only when I really started to care about cooking and food and how it defines us. I can't tell you when that was.

Bourdain changed over time. We all know about his demons—demons that may have caught up with him in the end—but his writing and view of the world changed. He evolved from a “me” to an “us.” By that I mean, his early writings, especially Kitchen Confidential, were about him and his life in the world of the kitchen. I love that book by the way. I listened to it while training for my first marathon. It got me through some cold mornings. I also love that book because I worked in a restaurant kitchen when I was a teenager. I guess there was a certain degree of simpatico there. 

But his later writings, and particularly his shows, were more about the place of food; about the uniqueness of a culture’s cuisine and what it said about them and how they saw the world: from Southern barbecue served from a trailer in the Mississippi Delta; from pasta at a trattoria in Rome; to spicy noodles in a Shanghai alleyway. In each instance, he would sit down and talk. Really talk to people. Go back and watch his shows carefully. Each time when he talks about politics, culture, race, ethnicity, or anything that sits on the third rail of our modern existence—ready to ignite—he did it while sharing a meal. There was little, if any, fire. It’s pretty hard to damn someone when you are breaking bread.

A few nights ago, I had a good friend over for dinner. His girlfriend was going off to med school, and he wouldn’t see her for a while. I was addled by personal and professional bullshit, as well as Bourdain’s sudden death. Needless to say, we were a little down. I typically do most of the cooking, and my friend always begs to contribute. This time, I told him to make something from Bourdain’s latest cookbook in his honor. He did: sautéed mushrooms, which we both like. He was dismayed that the mushrooms were not sliced thin, like the recipe called for. That was perhaps the best tribute.  Tony wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass. All that mattered was honest food, good drink, good friends, and honest talk. That’s what we served that night for sure, well past midnight.