Restaurant Review: Bamboo on 2nd

You enter Bamboo on 2nd through a large, glossy orange metal door and into a long space that has a cool, urban, relaxed vibe which is framed by exposed brick walls and a polished cement floor. To your left is a long wooden bar with stark white enameled metal stools where you can sit and sip a pre-dinner cocktail while watching old Jackie Chan and Godzilla movies on the TVs that hang over the bar.

At first, you might think that the service would exude some kind of Zoolander-esque "too cool for school" attitude, but you would be wrong. The service is friendly yet efficient. 

And the food doesn't disappoint. Self-taugh chef Abhi Sainju arrived from Nepal twenty years ago from Nepal. His love of Nepalese cuisine and his adopted home is certainly reflected in his moms: steamed Nepalese dumplings with ground turkey, vegetables, and spices, all bathed in an Alabama tomato vinaigrette. Another small plate worth trying is the "KFC," which is short for "Kathmandu Fried Chicken" lollipop with the house sweet sauce.

And the sushi is very good as well. My favorites are the "Wham Bam Birmingham" (shrimp tempura, avocado, cucumber topped with seared salmon, wasabi aioli, and eel sauce) and the "Sexy Lady" (seasoned tuna, avocado, and cucumber with aioli).

If sushi is not your thing, then try the skewers. I like lemongrass chicken with honey sriracha. And finally, there are several banh mi sandwiches to choose from. I recommend you go with seared Marinated pork belly.

If you visit Bamboo, be prepared for a wait unless you arrive early. But they will take your phone number and call you when your table is ready. Bamboo is also one of the few restaurants downtown open on Mondays. 

So, if you are looking for some casual pan-Asian food and good sushi in a hip environment, you can't go wrong with Bamboo.

Address: Bamboo on 2nd, 2212 2nd Ave. N., Birmingham, AL 35203; 205.703.055; www.bambooon2nd.com

Atmosphere: Modern and sleek with a mixture of metal, brink, and wood. 

Sound:  Moderate to loud.

Recommended Dishes: Momos, KFC, Wham Bam Birmingham, and Ramen Bowl

Price: $$ (moderate)

Open: Monday through Saturday for dinner.

Reservations: Not Accepted

A Journey of a Thousand Miles

Every four years the circus comes to town in America. It’s called the presidential election. And unless you’ve been passed-out drunk under a bridge, one big issue this year seems to be immigration. These days, nothing gets Americans more fired up than immigration.

But this is not going to be a post about immigration, or at least not directly. I am going to talk about the immigration—or more accurately, the migration—of food and what happens when it moves from one culture to another; how it changes and mutates.

Look at Italian food. Is there any other cuisine more closely associated with the tomato than Italian food? But the tomato is not indigenous to Italy, and for centuries Italian cuisine got along just fine without it. Tomatoes originally came from Central and South America. They didn't arrive in Italy until the mid-1500s. And, like many immigrants, they weren't exactly welcomed at first.  They were considered poisonous. One story, perhaps apocryphal, tells of Thomas Jefferson eating a tomato in front of the local townspeople to prove they were safe to eat. 

And then there’s the humble peanut, which is closely associated with African cuisine, but it tragically came to that continent because of the slave trade.

And many foods change when they migrate. The pizza and spaghetti we know so well here in America is nothing like that which can be found in its homeland. But perhaps my favorite food-migrant transformation is chicken tikka masala, which doesn’t even exist in India. How ironic that the former colonial masters of India consider chicken tikka masala the “National Dish of England.” For the record, chicken chow mein and chop suey are not real Chinese dishes either but the creations of Chinese immigrants in San Francisco.

And so back to America. That nation of immigrants we’ve all heard about since first grade. I’ve mentioned pizza already, but look at all the other foods that we’ve adopted that have become “American” simply through acclamation. Hot dogs, hamburgers, tacos, and burritos. We continue to bring in food immigrants every day. Asian food is the most recent member of our gastronomic firmament—Sriracha as perhaps the best example. Its founder is an immigrant from South Vietnam after the war. A small irony of history.

And so during this political season let’s not forget about the food when we talk about immigration. Most importantly—no one argues about food when it immigrates. 

Oysters: The Foie Gras of the Sea

Three random thoughts about oysters:

No.1 We’ve all heard the expression, “It was a brave man who ate the first oyster.” Of course it was a man, because women have a hell of a lot more sense!. 

No. 2 Oysters are a lot like wine. They draw their flavors from their environment.  (There are 300 different oyster appellations.) They are sometimes sweet; sometimes briny; sometimes salty.

No. 3 Today, most oysters are farmed. They are affixed to tiles and raised out in the ocean. Later, after they have reached a certain size, they are transferred to what is deliciously called the “fattening beds.” These are always near the mouth of a river where the mixture of fresh and sea water induces the overgrowth of the oyster’s liver. Hence, you have “foie gras of the sea!”

***

I came to oysters rather late in life, or at least raw oysters. I would occasionally have fried oysters with cocktail sauce and fries during summer trips to the beach. My mom loved fried oysters, and my dad would eat them raw occasionally. But frankly I’m not sure how crazy he really was about them. 

About five years ago, I had dinner at Highlands Bar & Grill with some friends. Kyle suggested we get some raw oysters. Maybe it was the martini talking, but I said “sure, what the hell.” (One of my favorite scenes in Mad Men was the martini and oyster lunch between Don Draper and Roger Sterling.)

The oysters arrived in a large silver metal platter on a stand, the oysters nestled comfortably on a bed of crushed ice. There was also the obligatory cocktail sauce, lemons, and saltines. The fork was, of course, optional. After all, one of the joys of eating raw oysters is the slurping. If my memory serves me correctly, we had a selection of PEI (Prince Edward Island), Beau Soleil, Apalachicola, and Chesapeake. 

Ever sense, I’ve been a raw oyster fan, especially when I’m at Highlands Bar & Grill.

They say that the convert is the biggest zealot. I am when it comes to oysters, but my proselytizing has failed miserably.  Laura, half-heartedly tried one the other night at Highlands. She was gracious in response to my enthusiasm but, at the end of the day, not sold. This was my most recent failure at conversion. The first came during one weekend with my son Hampton, the pickiest eater next to Mikey. 

Hamp and I were at a soccer tournament near Mobile, Alabama. On the way home that Sunday, we stopped by Blue Gill for an early lunch. I ordered some raw oysters—fat juicy Gulf babies—and casually asked Hamp if he wanted to try one. I was shocked when he said yes! He put the whole thing in his mouth. I sat there, rapt attention and hoping that he may like them; a partner in crime!. And then his face contorted into a grimace. Crap!  

Hampton, then asked: “How are these cooked?” “They’re raw.” “What does that mean?” And my response—I should have known better—was: “not cooked.” 

I really thought the kid was going to toss his cookies right there in front of that nice family just in from church.

Damn! I thought I had a convert!

It's That Time of Year...Again

Well, 2015 is in the bag. A new year has begun. 

I’ve never been much on New Year’s resolutions. But this year may be different. I really need to get back to my running routine.  From Thanksgiving to New Year’s, it seemed that every thirty minutes someone put food in my left hand and a drink in my right.

But this is a food blog. No one wants to read about diets, cleansing, and exercise, even in January. So my Ten New Year’s resolutions will this year will by about food. Here we go.

Resolution No. 1: Make homemade bread. I’ve always been intimidated by bread and impressed by those who make it. But dammit, it can’t be that hard. I recently bought a copy of the Bread Bible, and this year I plan to put it to good use. Amen!

Resolution No. 2: Dust off my slow cooker. OK, I admit I’ve never been much of a slow cooker fan, which we called a “crock pot” when I was a kid. But that may change because I’ve noticed more and more foodie magazines have “gourmet” slow cooker recipes. Maybe this is worth a shot. As a single parent, this could be of value. So, one day in 2016, I will throw some chicken and oregano in the slow cooker, a/k/a crock pot, one morning at 7:00AM and see what I get at 7:00PM.

Resolution No. 3: Cook at least one vegan meal. Last week, we took the kids to New York and made a stop at Candle 79. My boys were skeptical—after all these are my kids who are as meat-centric as I.  But they were at least moderately impressed. I have the cookbook, and this year I plan on doing something with it.

Resolution No. 4.: Clean out my pantry. More accurately, cook a meal from the oils, sauces, rubs, pastes, mixes, and specialty salts and spices that I’ve accumulated from my and others’ various travels.

Resolution No. 5: Teach my kids how to cook because they need to know that the fridge is not a magic box that produces home-cooked meals by itself. Besides, I could use some help in the kitchen from time to time.

Resolution No. 6: Use a kitchen gadget that I’ve never used before. I’m a nut for kitchen gadgets. The problem is that I buy them and they quickly collect dust in a forgotten drawer. Somewhere I have a blow torch that, one day in 2016, will be used to make creme brûlée.

Resolution No. 7: Drink more Champagne. It goes with everything, especially hot dogs. I may re-think SEC football this fall by serving Champagne instead of the “Champagne of Beers.”

Resolution No. 8: Cook more Indian and Asian food. I’ve got the basics of French cooking down, which are really not that difficult. But have you read the average recipe for an Indian dish? It reads like the re-entry sequence for the space shuttle! I’ve got to master that!

Resolution No. 9: Outdoor parties. This one is tied in with a real new year’s resolution. Buy a house where I can have a grill and an outdoor patio. Yeah, I’m giving up the downtown hipster vive for the quasi-burbs.

Resolution No.10: Be more creative. This year I want to create a dish that I can really call my own—maybe combine Asian or Tex-American flavors with classic French cooking techniques.  

Well, there you have it. My 2016 Foodie New Year’s Resolutions. Tune in around December, and I’ll let you know how they turned out. I promise I will be more successful than those New-Year’s newbies at your local gym. 

Vive la French....Dressing

When I travel for business, I try to find at least one decent restaurant. And the only way I can get a decent meal in a decent restaurant is to blow my $50 per diem food budget. $50? Really?!  Hell, I can’t even have a non-boozy lunch for that price! A good meal on the road is a necessity—the perfect antidote after a long day of surly TSA agents, cramped seats on planes built during the Reagan administration, and meetings that would try the patience of a Buddhist monk.

I typically have good luck finding something, but the most recent business trip was different. This was Yuma, Arizona. I spent three days there without hazard pay. 

©2015 Chris Terrell

No, it's not 1975, but 2015!

Anyone who tells you that business travel is glamorous has never spent three days in Yuma. Dorothy Parker, when describing Los Angeles, reportedly once said that “there’s no there there.” Obviously, she never visited Yuma. The city is flat, uninspiring, and laid out in a Matrix-like grid with liquor stores, tattoo parlors, and tamale stands. It is also stuck in some kind of time warp, like 1975 came and went, leaving behind motels and restaurants with signs that disappeared from the rest of the country years ago.

On the first night there, I did manage to find a steak restaurant called “Hunter Steakhouse.” It got decent ratings on Trip Advisor and Zomato, so what the hell. The sign out front read proudly, “Established 1970.” When I opened the door, I almost expected steam to escape, much like Doc Brown’s DeLorean in Back to the Future. It was 1975; I was four years old; and I was having dinner with my parents in a steak restaurant in Burlington, North Carolina.

Hunter Steakhouse had the same wooden railings and red vinyl booths; the same wood-beamed walls and ceilings; and white tablecloths with burgundy napkins. Large pepper mills were housed in special racks throughout the dining room. The carpet was clad in browns and greens. The chandelier lights were covered with miniature shades. This place was old school.

An earnest, efficient maitre’d escorted me to my table. With a teutonic flourish, he snapped my napkin authoritatively into place. Next came the drink order. And while it may not be fair, I judge a steak restaurant on the quality of its martinis. There’s just something about starting off a steak dinner with a well-made martini that just can’t be beat. Hunter Steakhouse passed the test. Another requirement is good bread, and lots of it. Again, they didn’t fail here. The server delivered a whole sourdough loaf with a ramekin filled with whipped butter. Ah, butter! 

My love for butter began in that steakhouse I mentioned earlier. In my mind, my parents went there all the time, though truth be told, it was more likely a few times a year on special occasions. I wasn’t crazy about the place—too grown up; too dark; no T.V.  What I did like was the bowl on the table full of little paper squares with two-inch squares of butter covered with wax paper that read in bold red letters, “BUTTER.” I would grab a square, tear off the wax cover and gulp down the pat of butter in one quick bite. I would then repeat this process a dozen times until, during a lull in my parents’ dull conversation, my mom finally noticed and took the bowl away from me.

The other item on the menu that I looked forward to was the French dressing! Being five, I was usually uninterested in salad unless it came with lots of croutons, cheese, and French dressing. Yes, that sweet, ketchup-based, day-glo red dressing that is such a rare find on today’s menus. (Even Hunter Steakhouse in Yuma, Arizona didn’t have any.) But back in the day, no restaurant worth its salt would be without French dressing. And just as French dressing will forever be associated with the 1960s and 1970s, so will balsamic vinaigrette be tied to the late 20th and early 21st Century food scene. I could go the rest of my life without being offered balsamic vinaigrette dressing by an earnest, yet dull, server at the local Olive Garden or Applebee’s. 

Here’s the recipe:

Classic 1960s French Dressing

Ingredients 

1⁄2 cup ketchup
1⁄2 cup sugar
1⁄2 cup red wine vinegar
1⁄2 cup onion, grated
1 teaspoon paprika
1⁄2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 cup salad oil
salt and pepper to taste

Preparation

Add the ketchup, sugar, vinegar, onion, paprika and Worcestershire to a food processor bowl.
Pulse until blended.
With the processor running, slowly add the oil.
Check the seasonings.
Cover and refrigerate until needed

I'm Thankful For Butter

©2015  Chris Terrell

Holidays On Ice!

It’s hard to believe that Thanksgiving was a mere ten days ago. The turkey and stuffing and pumpkin-everything have been replaced with tinsel and blinking lights. The last forkful of pumpkin pie was a starter’s pistol for the Christmas rat-race to follow.

This year, Thanksgiving planning began in August when I asked Laura if she would like to have her mother, sister, and brother-in-law visit Birmingham. Her expression when I mentioned this was somewhere between pity and horror. “Are you sure…you…really…want to do…this?” she asked me several times between that late August Sunday afternoon and Wednesday, November 25th.  

©2015 Chris Terrell

Not your typical Turkey Day salad!

The next step, of course, was the menu. I was told that, as wonderful as last year’s Thanksgiving meal was, it was a little heavy on the butter. I was politely asked to dial back my inner Paula Dean—less butter, more olive oil. 

Laura’s mom also wanted another chocolate cake. (Last year, she requested a chocolate birthday cake for Rob, Laura’s brother-in-law, on the morning after the Iron Bowl. If you can make a chocolate cake from scratch hungover, you can do anything.) Actually, I embraced the idea of chocolate cake for Thanksgiving because I've never been one for rules anyway. Besides, we were having pumpkin muffins, which I’ve been making every year since 1991.

©2015 Chris Terell

The Cake

Because Thanksgiving was on my turf this year, I had more time to prepare. Of course this didn’t stop me from over-planning. No joke, but this year I actually put together a three-ringed binder that I called the 2015 Thanksgiving Day Dinner Work Plan. It contained schedules, shopping lists, the menu, and recipes. I don’t recommend that you try this at home. Only professional Type As like myself can handle this kind of insanity. 

Here’s the recipe and planning schedule:

Wine

Schramsburg
Lioco Chardonnay
George Pinot Noir
Ca’Togni

Appetizers

Blackberry Farm Pimento Cheese
Bread-and-Butter Zucchini Pickles
Fried Okra
Charcuterie

Salad

       Endive with Roasted Yellow Beets, Pecans, &

               Sweet-Mustard Vinaigrette 

Soup

Carrot Consommé 

Sides

Orange-Cranberry Relish
Collard Greens
Haricots Vert
Sausage, Apple & Sage Stuffing
Roasted Red Potatoes with Garlic & Rosemary

Entreé

Turkey & Gravy (Duh!)

Dessert

Classic Chocolate Cake with Vanilla Ice Cream

2015 THANKSGIVING WORK PLAN

(Revised 11/24/15)

Thursday, November 19

✓Finalize: Shopping List, Thanksgiving Day Prep Schedule, and Thanksgiving Day Schedule

Saturday, November 21

✓Clean out Fridge & Freezer

✓Check Platters

✓Purchase Necessary Items at SLT (e.g., platters & cake pans)

✓Follow-up Text with Floral Designer

✓Purchase Decorations

✓Prepare Recipe Notebook

✓Double Check Shopping Lists

Sunday, November 22

✓Purchase Dry Goods  & Ingredients for Muffins, Cranberry Relish, Gravy, and chocolate cake

✓Costco Run (See Costco run shopping list)

✓Wash Linens

✓Purchase Ziploc Containers 

✓Purchase Frozen Turkey and begin to thaw

✓Make Zucchini Pickles

Monday, November  23

✓Prepare Cranberry Relish

✓Purchase Items for Pimento Cheese, and Carrot Consommé 

Tuesday, November 24

✓Prepare Blackberry Farm Pimento Cheese

✓Prepare Make-ahead gravy & Freeze

Wednesday, November 25

✓Purchase Remaining Fresh Produce

✓Prepare chocolate cake

✓Prepare Pumpkin Muffins

✓Fry Okra

✓Finalize De-cluttering & 

✓Roast Pecans

✓Wash Dishes & Tidy up as necessary

Thursday, November 26

See Thanksgiving Day Schedule

©2015 Chris Terrell

Dresden, 1945

A good time was had by all, especially because the chef had no major meltdowns. I emphasize major because there’s always a few radiation spikes when I cook. The consensus seems to have been that the carrot consommé, stuffing, and of course, the turkey, were the favorites.

At the end of the day, what you have on Thanksgiving makes no difference. Thanksgiving is more about the “how” than the “what”—how you decide to celebrate and how you decide who you will share the meal. 

By the way, I encourage you to make a chocolate cake. Be a rebel!

And now get back to shopping!

Where Are They Now?: Casseroles

What happened to the casserole? 

I just may try this one....

The casserole gets a bad rap. It is associated with uninspired family dinners --something harried housewives or new brides who lacked skill in the kitchen could easily make ahead. They also relied heavily on prepackaged like canned tuna or Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. A Wikipedia entry on tuna noodle casserole states, without irony, that “Tuna casserole is convenient to the extent that it may be prepared using no fresh ingredients.” Wow, that sounds appetizing, doesn’t it?!

But casserole doesn’t have to be boring. I don’t think I’ve ever made one until recently for my supper club, and it was far from boring. So before I get into casseroles, let me digress.

I first heard of a supper club from one of my good friends and former law partners. I admit I was somewhat envious that I wasn’t a “member,” but I’ll save that discussion for my therapist. I was also intrigued. It sounded so grown-up, so sophisticated. I’ve wanted to be in a supper club ever since. 

And so one night about a month or two ago, still waiting for that invitation, I decided to form my own supper club. Maybe I was inspired by Groucho Marx’s famous quip about not joining a club that would have him as a member. And so I posted something on Facebook about starting one. The response was favorable; a charter was drawn up; and I was in business.

Then I got the email.

I forgot to mention that this crazy idea and Facebook post came about two weeks after a very frenetic behind-the-scenes experience for a nonetheless very successful dinner party; yet one that took about two days to clean up (yeah, that one: "Oh the Horror!").  Laura emailed me and asked me, and not without good cause, if I were crazy. “What are you thinking?!” She also stated that she would have no role to play and would certainly not clean up. (I must say that her stance softened a bit; she did both, with a smile – and not a forced one!)

I agreed to host the inaugural supper club dinner. I thought it was only sporting that I do so. But of course, being an attorney by training, I devised a few rules for the club. For one thing, each dinner was to have a theme, which is the responsibility of the host/hostess. Second, the host was in charge of the entree and the wine. Third, everyone else was to bring a dish—potluck—appetizer, side dishes, dessert, etc.

As the host of the initial supper club dinner, I decided that the theme would be “firsts” in the sense that everyone had to make something they had never made before. For me, that would be lamb and, initially, I thought about a roast rack of lamb. But then the memories of that last successful-but-frenetic dinner party came rushing back. So, I decided to keep it simple. I went with moussaka, which has lamb; is something I’d never made before; and is essentially a casserole that could be made ahead and thrown in the oven about an hour before the guests arrived.

Just because it’s a casserole, however, doesn’t mean it’s easy to make.

When I was kid, my friend and later first crush, Kristina Vacalis, whose family was Greek-American would always tell me excitedly whenever her mother made moussaka. She didn’t make it very often, and now I know why. It’s a labor of love.

Moussaka requires a lot—I mean a lot—of slicing of eggplants and potatoes and dicing of onions. And eggplant must be the most high maintenance vegetable out there. After you slice, it must be salted and drained to get the moisture out so it’s not soggy. After it’s salted, you must rinse it and pat it dry and then roast it. I must have roasted about 20lbs of eggplant two nights before the supper club dinner. And then there’s the meat sauce that goes into the moussaka, and then there’s the béchamel sauce that must be made. I’m glad I started two days before the dinner. 

But was it good?  Absolutely!  Despite the work, it’s worth it for a great dish.

And now I have my own supper club. Be careful for what you wish for, though.  Laura has made me promise not to host anything again for a few months.  Except Thanksgiving.  Oh, and except my annual holiday cocktail party.  And, well, given that, maybe there could be a small dinner party on the horizon in January . . . 

Like casseroles, old ways die hard.