From May 29th, 2008:
The sun is shining today, the world is new. It's springtime in New York.
I believed for the longest time that this was the greatest city in the world. I still do, to some extent. My friends are here. My bars. My food places. Ziggiz, on Twenty-Fifth and Third. Bread Tribeca on Church. Paquitos in the Kip's Bay. The Beer Garden down the street from my apartment. Carmine's Pizzeria on Graham Ave. in Brooklyn. Ditmars Gyro Place, the Neptune Diner, Sparrow. All places that have colored my culinary world.
These are a few of the stories of my eatings and drinkings.
I took Hannah to Bread Tribeca last year for her birthday. It was a nice day, all day. By the time we'd dressed and gotten from Astoria, Queens all the way to Tribeca in Manhattan, it had gotten a little gray. Once there, we sat outside, because it was just warm enough to eat outside and wasn't too humid or too cool. It was just right. I told her not to worry about cost, because this was her birthday and it was my treat.
Oh, and she had to pick the wine, because I don't know shit about wine. I still don't.
Those were the only caveats. The caveats of freedom.
She ordered a pear salad, a pasta with spicy tomato sauce. I had an onion, cucumber, tomato and toast salad with a vinaigrette and for dinner, I had pappardelle bolognese. The wine? I couldn't tell you, but I'll be damned if it wasn't fabulous and totally worth the $30 we paid for it (we usually spend at most, $10 on wine. I splurged one day and got "Frontier Red" by Fess Parker of DAvy Crockett fame. It wasn't very good and I was out $14.07. At 15% alcohol, it got me good and snookered. Put a crimp in attempt #2 to read Paradise Lost, though.)
After our dinner, we sat and talked and did out best to finish the bottle of wine that we had bought and thought, "Why not have dessert?"
She had a gelato with flaming strawberries and I had tiramisu (I'm a tiramisu fiend and will take it any way I can get it.). After we ordered out sweets, it began to sprinkle. A bit of rain here and there. Being a bit concerned for our safety and for the safety of our bottle of wine, we requested to be put inside. Our waitress, a delightfully foreign girl from where she originated, what her accent sounded like or what her name was, only that she was delightful and possibly the best waitress that we've had in the city, told us not to worry at all, that she would bring our desserts to us and that we ought to get inside immediately!
Not five minutes later, the skies opened up and dropped piles of water all over Manhattan. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, cutting through the sound of traffic. There we were, slightly fuzzy, warm, dry and filled with the best food either of us has ever had. The desserts came and we ate them happily and with much pleasure.
Every Sunday, I would don my green army-style jacket, grab a comic book (for the longest while, it was the Sin City series that I was re-reading) and walk down to the Neptune, six blocks away. Being on my own, the hosts knew me, not my name, but by look and pointed me in the direction of the counter, in spite of arriving after a pile of church-going Greeks. I would sit down, begin to read my comic book and wait for my waiter. I didn't need to look at the menu. I knew exactly what I wanted: Waffles with a side of Sausage and a cup of Diner Coffee.
I would get through most of an episode in the comic book before my waffle would come. At its worst, it was a rock hard, overdone pastry, pocked with craters. At its best, it is bready, soft, sweet, with a hint of vanilla. Either way, it was the romance of a young man alone in the world. Those Hemingway moments that every young man has when he walks into a bar, or a restaurant, or a greasy spoon and knows that everything is going to be alright. This is the start of an adventure.
I would read and eat, my waffle swimming in too much butter and high fructose corn syrup, the heroes swimming through a hail of gunfire and dames, receiving far more punishment than any human being could or should. Beside me, I'd see old men, alone, eating their omelettes, silently conversing with their dead wives and regretting not having the courage to die when their mates did. I would see Long Island men filling their t-shirts with an equal portion of fat and muscle; the image of what a man is, and possibly ought to be. They smell vaguely of cigarettes and vanished dreams but laugh because, if nothing else, life is good. Behind me a slightly overweight girl ordered a shortstack of pancakes to go. My waiter asked her if she wanted bacon and inevitably the answer was yes.
They were good Sundays; mingling with the people and the city in which I live.
Today Sundays are better.
The first year I lived in Astoria, the first month in fact, I was one of many victims of The Great Queens Blackout of 2006. Today, it's mostly forgotten and the residents of Astoria barely mention it, but for a whole week, the residents of Astoria were without power. Not even the stove would light.
It had been so hot at Laguardia that the copper under the streets through which, flowed the life-giving power of the Borough melted, cutting off power to Astoria and Sunnyside. Knowing that it was that hot, you should understand what I was going through. Hot. Humid. Sticky and dark. I had no food that could be cooked. I could not get a shower. I could not do anything past 8pm.
For. A. Week.
Our 24-hour grocery store provided me with little reprieve. I would go just to experience the air conditioning and to get candles (because I was late to the store, I didn't get any plain candles and to this day, we have a St. Michael The Archangel candle in our collection. I also have 8 white candles that will serve in a pinch.). One night, I tried to write in the dark and drink Guiness Extra Stout.
The beer was as dark as the night, which ceased both writing and drinking.
I was working for a company called IAG Research, a company that studies product placement in television, which meant that I worked from 5:30pm to question mark. This meant I spent all day sweltering and sweating in my apartment (thankfully I lived in the basement, which made it cooler, but not by much) and then at night, went to work, unable to take a decent shower. the wednesday of the blackout, I decided that if I got out of work early enough, I wouldn't go home. I would go to a bar, somewhere far away and drink all night.
After my last show, I traveled south, to a place called Antarctica. It was appropriate. I was in the midst of a heat wave/blackout. A place called Antarctica would be the best place for a fella like me to cool off. And besides, I'd been there a week or two before and the bartender was an Aussie with tight clothes, blue eyes and dark hair. Being single and having all the hubris that this entails, I went back to drink, write a little and look at a pretty bartender.
The bartender I remembered wasn't there but another one was. I bellied on up and ordered a Guiness, sat and drank and wrote an adventure story for another girl whom I have never met. The ceiling was pressed tin and the mirror older than my father. Classic jukebox music played and the faux-pauvre played pool to AC/DC.
The bartender asked me where I was from and I told her Astoria and that I didn't want to go home. "See, I haven't had power in four days and I really don't want to go home," I said. She said she had heard about it and, out of pity, my fourth beer was on her (generous, yes. She let me pay for all my sorry drowning beers. she just fitted them with concrete boots).
I rebuffed an invitation to join five other people at the end of the bar, potential friends and I regret that I didn't hang out. I should have; it would be nice to have bar friends. Afterwards, I left the bar, a nice buzz going and completely forgetting that I had not left a tip for my last beer.
I remembered the next morning. To say that I remembered is a little misleading. I bolted up in bed with a generous headache, the vaguest sense that I had been poisoned and screamed, "I didn't tip the bartender!"
That afternoon, before I went to work, I went back to the bar, all the way down on the Spring Street stop of the C train, in the pouring rain, to take a tip that I owed her. When I got there, it was jumping with the Thirsty Thursday crowd. The man behind the bar looked at me and said, with a British accent, "What'll you have, mate?"
"The bartender that was here last night? Is she here?"
"Nah. She's off. What can I gitcha?"
"Nothing. I have to go to work," I said sopping and dripping on the floor. "I forgot to tip her so I wanted to bring it to her today." I put six dollars on the bar, my wet fingers staining the money. HE looked at it, then me, in disbelief. I turned and walked out the door. Whatever he said to me was lost beneath the din of commercial hip-hop.
I don't remember her name or even what she looked like, but I hope she got my six dollars.
There are food stories everywhere. These are only a few of mine. There are no pictures to post, but I assure you, they are more vivid in my mind than any camera could capture.
The doldrums, people. I have them. Everyone I know gets them, usually in those long, cold or dreary winter months. I can count on Matthias to have them in December, my parents get theirs in January, my sister Abbie's arrive a little earlier during March, but mine commence shortly after. March, April, and May you are going to be the death of me.
East coasters, am I wrong? Does it not feel like forever since you felt the sun on your face for more than two hours at a time on two consecutive days? Last year when I came to New York at the beginning of May from perpetually foggy, damp, and drizzly Vancouver, I cannot remember wearing anything but sundresses and cardigans, and learning quickly about the evils of iced coffee. Now, I am sitting at my desk typing with one hand to keep my other warm with my third cup of tea.
We have tried several cures for this unbreakable spell of gray doom that has settled on my mind and my heart. (One involved wayyyy too much bourbon in the form of mint juleps; fun, but not exactly responsible). But, only two have really worked. On Saturday we braved the Union Square Greenmarket and were rewarded with ramps, wild asparagus, French radishes, the freshest of eggs, and bacon. We wanted to have the vegetable feast on Sunday, but we accidentally got too full on french toast for breakfast. Monday came, windy and fickle, and by dinner we ditched ramps and asparagus with crusty bread for a much warmer chana masala. Yesterday, not to be deterred any longer by my doldrums, we forced our plates into spring. We made mushrooms, and ramps, and shallots, and it was glorious.
And tonight, rain showers be damned, I shook my fist at the slate-colored skies and said, 'I have been dreaming of that Georgian cheese bread from May's Gourmet and it is high time we indulged in it.' Also, about that asparagus, we decided to roast instead of steam and dress with a vinaigrette, because everyone knows that roasting is what you do to food in the winter, and what you do as a person in the summer. Since it was clearly closer to the former outside, we extracted the fullest, richest flavor from that beautiful wild asparagus and subsequently stuck our tongues out at the raindrops. Because, at this point, maturity is futile. I am one raindrop away from a fed-up-with-'spring'-tantrum.
Seriously, I love green vegetables, but the bread helped more. It is squishy and its chewiness makes your teeth feel so very useful, and its perfectly salty cheese, rich with egg and yeast makes your tongue feel jubilant and at the end your tummy will feel all warm.
Cross my heart and kiss my elbow.
Khachapuri (Georgian Cheese Bread)
Gourmet, May 2008
(Adapted from Natia Gigani, Caucasus Travel Ltd., Republic Of Georgia)
This is the silkiest, loveliest dough to 'punch down' every hour of the rise. It seems a shame to use such violent words on such a smooth, innocent ball, but words will fail you too after you have eaten it. Just be sure to squeeze as hard as you can to get the water out of that ball of cheeses, as both are quite moist.
Ingredients
2.25 teaspoons active dry yeast (a 1/4-oz package)
7 tablespoons warm water (105–115°F)
1.6 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, divided
1 large egg, lightly beaten
.25 lb Havarti cheese, coarsely grated.
25 lb salted mozzarella, coarsely grated
1 teaspoon unsalted butter, melted
Sprinkle yeast over warm water and stir in 1 tablespoon flour. Let stand until creamy, about 5 minutes. (If yeast does not activate, start over with new yeast.)
Stir together salt and remaining flour in a large bowl, then stir in egg and yeast mixture to form a dough.
Turn out dough onto a well-floured surface and turn to coat with flour, then knead until smooth and elastic, about 5 minutes. Form into a ball and dust with flour. Let dough rest in a bowl, covered with plastic wrap, punching down with a wet fist every hour, at least 2 hours and up to 3.
Preheat oven to 500°F with rack in middle.
Turn out dough onto floured pizza pan, turning to coat, then flatten with your fingers into a 7-inch disk.
Toss together cheeses and press into a compact 3-inch ball with your hands. Place ball in middle of dough, then gather dough up around ball of cheese, squeezing excess dough into a topknot. Press down on topknot with a damp fist to press cheese out from center. Continue to flatten dough and distribute cheese evenly, pressing outward from center, until dough is an 11-inch disk.
Cut a 6-inch X through top of dough to expose cheese. Bake until pale golden, 10 to 12 minutes.
Brush surface of dough with butter and bake until golden and cooked through, 3 to 5 minutes more.
Serve cut into wedges.
or you could just drink these:
On Thursday after breakfast I cleaned out the various bits and bobs that had been accumulating in recycled plastic containers on our shelf of the refrigerator. A tablespoon of minced ginger? Given that we make Asian-type foods once in a blue moon, what in the world was I thinking when I thought it would be a good idea to save that? Radishes, carrots, fennel, lettuce, chickpeas? You are my lunch. 1 cup of leftover mashed redskin (skins on, thankyouverymuch) rosemary potatoes? You need to be something more, because you were good that night Matthias made roasted chicken, but you are going to need some spiffing up if you are going to get eaten again. And because my mother is the daughter of a farmer, I learned a long and lasting lesson about the evils of wasted food, despite the repugnance of some leftovers.
My father would have seen this mash as a latke waiting to happen. I saw bread - rich, squishy, moist, toothsome, herby, and a little salty. And so, like the good little baker I am, I turned to the inturwebs, which lead me to the very trustworthy Serious Eats.
I turned up a recipe from Anissa Helou's Savory Baking From the Mediterranean for potato focaccia. I am a seasoned bread baker. It happens at least once a week in our apartment, kneading is a task that gives me satisfaction like none other, and while some people are addicted to chocolate, or wine, or jellybeans, I fully admit, with not an ounce of shame, that I find a day without bread to be woefully empty. Also, you should know that while I am not a terribly confident person, I know for certain that I can look at two things in this world and take pride in making sense of them: baking recipes and art.
But, everyone should be shaken from her pedestal occasionally, or so the universe believes, and lo, this recipe shook me to my core. I made soup as a backup to the veggies we were to be having along with the bread, just in case things ended disastrously, as I was sure that they would after the frightful, adhesive mess this dough became in its middle stage.
Rest assured, this story has a happy ending, and you should rescue your leftover mashed potatoes, give them a kiss with some fresh herbs, rub them in olive oil, and look at them proudly when they come out of the oven golden, crusty, and with more character than you could ever hope to have bestowed upon them.
We had this lovely bread with some zucchini, fennel, mushrooms, and red peppers that we dusted with fresh thyme, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and a bit of olive oil and cooked on the grill pan. A nice spring supper, indeed. Disaster averted, confidence regained (for now).
Rosemary Focaccia Bread
adapted from Anissa Helou's Savory Baking From the Mediterranean
Ingredients
2 1/4 teaspoons (1 package) active dry yeast
3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for kneading and shaping
1 1/2 teaspoons fine kosher salt or sea salt
5 ounces mashed potatoes*
Extra-virgin olive oil
coarse sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Procedure
Dissolve the yeast in 1/2 cup warm water, and stir until creamy.
Combine the flour and salt in a large bowl, and make a well in the center. Add the mashed potatoes and the yeast, and, using fingertips, bring in a little of the flour. Gradually add 2/3 cup warm water and bring in the remaining flour as you go along. Knead briefly to make a rough ball of dough.
(This is the step where things started to look horribly awry to me. The dough was wretchedly sticky, and could not be coaxed together with extra flour. I feared my potatoes were too moist. But just make the best mangled little ball that you can and be patient. It will come together.)
Dust a work surface with flour. Sprinkle the ball of dough with a little extra flour and knead for 2 to 3 minutes. Invert the bowl over the dough and let rest for 15 minutes. Knead for 2 to 3 minutes more, sprinkling with extra flour if the dough is sticky, until the dough is smooth and somewhat soft.
Grease a 12-inch round pie plate with olive oil. Transfer the dough to the pie plate, and flatten and stretch the dough by hand to cover the bottom of the plate; the dough should be about 1/2 inch thick. Cover with a wet but not dripping kitchen towel and let rise in a warm, draft-free place for 1 1/2 hours. The dough should have doubled in volume.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Press with fingertips on the focaccia to make dimples all over. Brush generously with olive oil. Crack some sea salt and black pepper over the top. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, until the focaccia is well risen and golden brown all over. Serve warm, or transfer to a wire rack to let cool and serve at room temperature.
*we make our mashed potatoes with 5 small red skinned potatoes, skins still on please, with 1 head of roasted garlic, 1 sprig of finely chopped rosemary, and about 1/4 cup of organic heavy cream, and a knob of butter, all mashed together coarsely
