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. 

Unlike Bud Light, Light Sauces Ain't Dull

When one thinks of French sauces (and I do almost daily), four words come to mind: cream, butter, and high maintenance. Those who have cooked have (and will) experienced a collapsed Hollandaise sauce or runny beurre blanc—a sillage of failure in the kitchen. But not all French sauces are thick, creamy, and heavy (not that there is anything wrong with that—they have their time and place). There are French sauces that don’t require constant fussing over a Windsor pan; sauces that are light and built on a foundation of fresh herbs, vinegar, and olive oil—more like dressings than sauces. Two of these—one I’ve been using for several years and one I recently discovered—are Sauce Ravigote and Sauce Vierge.

Generally, sauce ravigotte refers to any vinaigrette with capers, herbs, and onions. I’m not sure where I discovered this sauce, but it has served me well. It makes a great base for pasta salad, tomato salad, or crudités.  While there are as many different versions of sauce ravigotte as there as Parisian cafés, here’s my version:

Sauce Ravigote

Ingredients

¼ cup pure olive oil
½ cup vegetable oil
2 TBL tarragon vinegar
1 TBL Dijon mustard
1 TBL finely chopped parsley
1 TSP finely chopped thyme
1 TSP finely chopped shallots
1 TSP finely chopped white onion
A few capers
1 TSP kosher salt or 1/2 TSP regular granulated salt
½ TSP freshly cracked black pepper

Directions 

This is very simple: put all ingredients in a 1-pint screw-top jar. Shake well. Nets ¾ cup

Pasta with Sauce Vierge
and some Bacon!

The latest sauce I’ve discovered is Sauce Vierge, which literally means “virgin sauce.” Like Sauce Ravigote, it comes in myriad varieties. The sauce is best if macerated (fancy lingo for letting it hang out in the fridge for a while). 

It works very well with seafood (more on that later), and on greens, tomatoes, or even pasta. 



Here’s the version from Eric Ripert that I really like:

Ingredients

1 cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1 teaspoon finely minced shallot
1 tablespoon minced parsley
1 tablespoon minced tarragon
1 tablespoon minced basil
1 tablespoon chopped capers
1 tablespoon chopped Nicoise olives
Juice of half a lemon

Preparation:

Place the extra virgin olive oil in a mixing bowl and add the shallot, parsley, tarragon, basil, capers and olives. Stir to combine the ingredients and transfer to a small container. The sauce can be made a couple hours ahead and kept at room temperature.

Now it gets interesting. 

A buddy of mine insists on almost always ordering fish in a fine restaurant because it is the one thing he doesn’t cook at home (and he's a good cook!). Why? Cooking fish is hard. Most fish is delicate and each one cooks differently. One can throw a tuna or swordfish steak on a grill at the beach in the summer with a beer in hand and not really think twice about it. But you would never do that with a Dover sole?

One of the best ways to cook fish, especially delicate fish, is by poaching. Poaching is a method of gently cooking food in a liquid at low temperatures (165-180℉). The liquid can be water, flavored with oil or butter, or stock. Poaching doesn’t impart the strong flavors like sauté or roasting. Consequently, poached fish needs a fairly stout sauce to provide the flavor. Sauce Vierge: enter stage left!  

Les filets du turbot pochés
a la sauce vierge aux tomates.

What kind of fish is good for poaching, or more importantly, what kind of fish is bad for poaching? Some fish have muscle enzymes that will make them mushy if they are cooked slowly: flatfish, tuna, mackerel, sardines, and tilapia. A good rule of thumb is that oily fish don’t take to poaching. (Oil and water don’t mix!) Fish that are good for poaching include halibut, turbot, sole, flounder, and salmon.  

Now, I don’t know about you, but I sucked at high school chemistry. The only way I got through it was that my lab partner was the salutatorian of my high school. God bless her! If you use butter or olive oil in your poaching water, then you should add an acid such as wine or lemon juice to balance the Ph. Without the acid, the butter or oil (an alkali) will turn the fish into an unappetizing yellowish or off-white color. 

Now, let’s put all this science to good use….

Going back to Ripert’s recipe, here’s how to poach fish for the Sauce Vierge (he used halibut; I used turbot, which is quite similar):

Place a large sauté pan on medium-low heat and add the water, the extra virgin olive oil and lemon juice, lightly season the liquid with salt and white pepper. Season the slices of halibut on both sides with salt and white pepper and place in a single layer in the warmed poaching liquid. The liquid should come about halfway up the fish, adjust if needed with more. Cook the fish for about 2-3 minutes, then flip the slices and cook on the other side until they are just warmed in the center.

One final note about poaching:  it doesn’t generate a lot of mess—no greasy pans or pots to soak or scrub, which for me is great because I’m notorious for tearing up a kitchen when I cook.

Bon appétit!

I Need to Find the Exit Ramp!

When it comes to vegetables, spring is the redheaded stepchild. Summer gets all the blockbusters like tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, and zucchini.  Even fall and winter veggies get more attention: pumpkin, beets, carrots, leeks, broccoli, and brussels sprouts  With the exception of asparagus, spring doesn't have too much, and what it does have doesn't seem to stick around for long. (In Alabama, we hold onto spring like a dog with a bone. We are lucky to get a few weeks past the A-Day game in Tuscaloosa before summer starts in.)  But perhaps the ultimate, short-lived spring vegetable would have to be ramps. It is also the most over-hyped, hyper-obsessed vegetable out there. In case, you've never heard of ramps (a/k/a allium tricoccum), they are nothing more than a wild onion.

The past couple of years, I have bought ramps, but I can never cook them before they go bad. One year, I made sure that this didn't happen. I asked the guy selling ramps at the local market—who frankly didn't seem all that enamored with them (which should have been a clue)—how he prepared them. With a shrug, he said simply that he just cooked them chopped up with scrambled eggs, like his momma always made 'em. "Really, that's it?" I asked. Surely, I thought to myself, there must be more to these things than that. After looking through the 75+ cookbooks I own, all of which say nothing about ramps, I took to the Internet.  Most of the recipes I found there were nothing more than ones where ramps substituted for onions, leeks, garlic, or some combination thereof. Eventually, however, I found one recipe that looked promising. It claimed to bring out ramps' pungent simplicity.  Here is recipe I found on The Crepes of Wrath:

Caramelized Ramps

Ingredients

2 bunches ramps, cleaned well
2-3 tablespoons unsalted butter
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
pinch red pepper flakes

Preparation

Cleaning ramps is a bit of work, but it's worth it! Fill a large bowl with cold water, then place your ramps in the water. Swish them around to remove as much dirt as possible, then remove them from the bowl and give them a second rinse under running water to remove any remaining grit. Change the water and do the same with your second bunch of ramps. 

Place the ramps on a dry paper towel, then top with another paper towel and pat out as much water as possible.

Clean the ramps by removing the tip of each stalk. Set aside (don't slice them - they're perfect as is).

In a heavy bottomed skillet, heat your butter over medium-high heat. Swirl around until browned and nutty, about 3-4 minutes. Add the ramps to the browned butter and cook over medium heat, turning occasionally, until the ramps are lightly charred and wilted. Serve with your favorite protein as a side, or enjoy them on their own.

And after much anticipation, we sat down for dinner and held our forks above these delicate spring denizens, quivering with anticipation. 

We all took a bite. 

Wow! 

Talk about being underwhelmed! 

The ramps had a decent flavor but their consistency left a lot to be desired. I thought they were a bit tough and stingy. Maybe these were simply not very good ramps. Perhaps I waited too long to cook them. Maybe I can't cook ramps. Or maybe, just maybe, ramps simply suck. 

At least for the next 365 days, I'll have to let the mystery be because ramp season ended about four hours after I bought these. I'll try again next year. In cooking, try anything twice or, in the case of ramps, maybe never.