The VIP Treatment

Sometimes you want to write a review. You want to be cold, judicious. You want to be honest, and perhaps even brutal if it’s called for—a hard task if you’re someone who loves food and loves to eat. What could be more fun than writing about all the things that are wonderful about a meal? But in a review you’ve got to be cold, and so you try. (Brutality is admittedly, not my strong suit. I maintain that it is because I have so much more fun writing about the good restaurants.)

Sometimes though, you just want to have fun. And if you’re a food lover with a friend, or a friend of a friend in the kitchen, you can have a really unforgettable meal where the table is right, the food is perfect, and the service is above reproach. Are these experiences fodder for review? Can we be unbiased when we know that we are getting the VIP treatment? Of course not. But as a lover of food, and an individual who does not always warrant such treatment with my no-big-deal bank card and my paparazzi-free ride in via public transportation, is it fun to share these experiences with other food lovers?

You bet.

Sel de La Terre

"You are friends of the chef?"

This, our waiter at Sel De La Terre asks us after setting down the complimentary tasting plate that has been sent out to us from the kitchen. This is late Summer, and we did not order this beautiful tray of creamy luscious goat cheese, French olives, garlic confit and a shallot roasted black in balsamic vinegar. We didn’t order it, but we smile shyly and look at Masha, who stammers, “I…uh…I get him his vegetables!”

This needs a little context. Masha has gotten us a reservation at this very nice French restaurant through her work, distributing produce to nearly every restaurant and grocer in the greater Boston area. We go, gleeful about our night of eating above our station, knowing that the reservation was in fact made in Masha’s boss’s last name, and we suspect that people might assume that she is his daughter. We do not correct them.

After our surprise starter we receive our first course. I have gotten the scallops, which are HUGE, and perfectly cooked, a feat I have not yet mastered at home and am therefore extremely appreciative of. They are served alongside luscious bone marrow that melts in your mouth, sweet pearl onions and funky, earthy maitake mushrooms that taste like dirt in the best way possible. Maybe you just have to try it. We are in heaven, having received our good table and our complimentary goodies, and feeling like we have gotten our VIP treatment for the evening.

And then the chef comes out of the kitchen.

“Masha, is he coming over here? Masha. HE’S COMING OVER HERE. MASHA.”

The chef is young and sweet, barely older than us, I imagine, and I cannot help but notice that he has a fleet of waiters behind him. He introduces himself, and we fall all over ourselves complimenting his creations, because they are brilliant. He insists that it is only due to the extraordinary produce he receives from Masha’s company (“Oh Go on…”) and then the servers proceed to dance around out table, presenting us with yet another unordered goodie. This, the chef explains, is the monkfish entrée brought down in size for our enjoyment. They leave us to partake, while we desperately hold in the desire to squeal like children. The presentation is beautiful. The monkfish has gotten dressed up as a littleneck clam, nestled inside a shell in this stylish little tilted bowl. Underneath, blackened kale and chorizo sausage rub elbows in this savory broth, and it is all we can do to keep from licking the bowl. We abstain.

The risotto comes, perfectly cooked and topped with arugula and heirloom tomatoes to fill me with that happy end of summer feel. I try my first foi gras—the texture is gorgeous, and the chef has added a touch of cinnamon in an absolute show of brilliance. Masha’s duck medallions are perfectly tender, and remarkably, not too fatty, although they pack a punch of flavor that can’t be argued with.

Would we like to see the dessert menu? We all groan. Of course we would, but consulting one another, we all find that we couldn’t eat another bite, and so reluctantly we allow good sense to win out, and trip happily into the night, feeling very full, and just a little famous.

Lumiere

It is March, and Masha, Tia and I are sitting in the waiting area of Lumiere in Newton, sipping the champagne that has been sent for us from Chef Andrew while we wait for our table to be ready. This time the chef de cuisine has made the reservation on our behalf, and we are feeling more confident in this nice restaurant.

The three of us are adventurous eaters, and so we agree without much commotion to part ways whenever possible, each of us trying every single dish that comes to our table. I order the duck ragout, which has a distinctly Asian flare lent to it by the sesame and ginger flavors that accompany it. Tia’s trout salad is extremely yummy, But round 1 went to Masha, hands down, who ordered the halibut tartare topped with creamy avocado and seasoned with sesame. It melts in your mouth, and I have to keep myself from stealing more bites from her plate.

Round two I receive the hake, a local New England fish I have never tried, which I think I prefer over Tia’s pork shoulder, but I am distracted, because here comes Chef Andrew. He stands attentively at our table for several minutes, chatting with us and with Masha (who he knows through her work) as we once again shower him with praise (this is a mutually beneficial relationship we have formed—he sends us champagne and delicious food, we tell him he is wonderful and good and we want to have his babies. You know. Like that).

The biggest surprise came at dessert, where Masha and Tia ordered the apple tart and we all discovered that sour cream sorbet is ridiculously lovely, and I learned that a cake made from semolina and olive oil and topped with honey and Greek yogurt is a most unusual, but also most wholesome and satisfying dessert. Who knew? And oh yes, as if there were any doubt, here, along with our desserts, is something a little extra, a rich, decadent chocolate and peanut butter parfait, demanding extra long spoons, and perhaps some elastic waisted pants for later in the evening. Chef Andrew has returned from the kitchen to sit at our booth and discuss the goings on in the kitchen and the dining room, and we realize that we are among the last tables left in the restaurant. The staff are probably shifting their weight anxiously in the back, ready to go home, and so we thank our host profusely, disengage ourselves reluctantly from our happy little corner of the restaurant, and say goodnight.

Two Dozen Things I Love About Cooking.

1) The sound of onions hitting a hot pan.

2) The smell of onions hitting a hot pan.

3) Cocktails with lavender in them.

4) Blue cheese with honey. Try it.

5) Goat’s milk brie.

6) Drinking the same wine you are pouring indiscriminately into the spaghetti sauce.

7) When i get the doneness of a steak exactly medium rare without having to cut into it to check.

8) Raw oysters.

9) Raw beef in any form: thin sliced Carpaccio or soft savory tartare, if there is raw beef on a menu I will always order it, and I will always be glad.

10) Eating on the porch in the Summer time.

11) Thanksgiving. The ultimate, cluster-fuck beauty of too many family members in too little house, drinking wine at 11:30am, singing Alice’s restaurant off-key at noon, chopping vegetables, chopping herbs, eating dad’s guacamole, challenging dad to a Guac-off, knowing that dad will never accept said challenge, and therefore I can never surpass him as the guacamole champion, drinking home brewed beer, trying out Uncle Jeff’s new kitchen gadgets, getting the history and unique pedigree of the obscure hand-ground spices cousin Danny has acquired, or finding out what makes that particular bottle of spirits special, seeing my sister, seeing my parents, exchanging conspiratorial glances and mean-spirited inside jokes with cousin Rebecca, not having to choose between pumpkin pie or apple pie, Aunt Pam’s turkey, which will always, always be perfect.

12) Coming back to your bread dough and finding that it has risen perfectly.

13) Getting pancake breakfast almost completely ready by the time Mr. Gastro gets out of bed.

14) Coffee on the couch with the windows wide open on a beautiful day.

15) My mortar and pestle, which weighs more than a bowling ball and makes me feel old fashioned, and slightly witchy.

16) Farmers market tomatoes.

17) Rows of mason jars full of rice, nuts, grains, and seeds.

18) My fridge when it is freshly packed full of fresh vegetables, meat wrapped in paper, pretty little brown eggs, four types of cheese, jars of olives, bouquets of herbs, pints of cream and bowls of fruit. Oh the possibilities.

19) My Kitchen Aid Mixer, which will outlive any car I will ever own, and probably get more use.

20) Hand-me-down cookbooks. With stains.

21) Three egg omelets with butter and nothing else.

22) Champagne with strawberries.

23) The fact that sometimes a bowl of fruit can be prettier than a vase of flowers.

24) The sound my knife makes hitting the wooden cutting board.

Rise to the Occassion

I baked two loaves of bread this week. A golden brown Italian loaf with a snowy white interior, and a gorgeously-hideous loaf of rustic European bread that uses three types of flour, sports a black crust that gives away no hint of the toothy, flavorful goodness inside, and a big, no-nonsense X slashed across the top, just like bakers have been doing for centuries. Then I created an old fashioned apple tart--the kind that gets all folded up, free of the confines of a pan or casserole, to look like a little purse that bursts open at the center and reveals the mounds of sweet apples inside. That same day I whipped up a batch of buttery cinnamon scones for breakfast, and whimpered on the inside as they sat cooling on the counter, murmuring to me, "Who needs to wait for tomorrow's breakfast? Eat us noooooowwwwww......"

And I have been restraining myself. I would have baked a loaf of bread every day this week if I could have conceived of anywhere to put them. If you made a request right now, I'm sure I could have a loaf of whatever you'd like waiting for you to pick it up tomorrow afternoon. I'd be happy to do it. On the train the other day I found myself thinking, "Apple butter. Why don't I whip up a batch of apple butter?" I've never even eaten apple butter, but somehow the urge to fill my cabinets with jars of apple preserves is unshakable. Yesterday I was seriously considering getting a gallon of organic milk and making my own butter. Next week I will track down some goats milk and make cheese using the kit Mr. Gastro gave me so long ago.

What is it about crisis that makes me get all "Little House on the Prairie?" Is it the primal comfort of stockpiling food, something that humans have been doing in uncertain times for millenia? Maybe it's the time involved. Between kneading and rising and resting, baking bread can take up just as much time as a full time job, filling me in the end with a sense of accomplishment, a day spent doing something other than trolling youtube, and sustenance for myself and Mr. Gastro.

Whatever the reason, when i haven't been looking for jobs, baking and cooking in the old school style seems to be keeping my restlessness and my sense of impending doom at bay. I may not have a steady paycheck, but when I turn over that basket and remove the linen from the perfectly round mound of dough sitting on my lightly floured counter, I have accomplished something. I may not be a millionaire, baby, but I can make a mean batch of scones, and feel pretty darn good. There's just one thing about all this food fun I am going to have to deal with. If I want my spiffy job interview dud to continue to fit me, eventually...

I'm going to have to switch to salads.

Simple Sorbet

With an apple tart, a batch of scones, and fillet of sole with beurre blanc on my to-do list today, rest assured, dear Gastro-Junkies that you will have a fresh new entry (or three) in the very near future. That being said, I couldn't resist posting this mid-week mini-entry to share this criminally simple recipe.

I tried my hand at sorbet this week, a surprisingly tricky business without an ice cream maker. I went for a trio of flavors to be served together: Strawberry rhubarb, meyer lemon and basil, and my favorite, Bosc pear with amaretto. The strawberry and lemon were both great flavor-wise, and with the use of the proper equipment I'm sure would have come out silky and smooth, but as it was the ice crystals in these two batches were too big for my liking. The pear and amaretto, on the other hand was the hands-down winner flavor wise, with a great big mouthful of soft, round flavors, and the nicest texture of the three. It was also the easiest to make, requiring no straining at all. I am making a note to add an ice cream maker to my kitchen arsenal to give this a satiny finishing touch, but in all honesty, this particular recipe is perfectly fine without it.

Bosc Pear &Amaretto Sorbet

5 ripe Bosc pears

3 oz. simple syrup

3 oz. Amaretto liqueur

Pinch of salt

Wash and peel the pears, and split them down the middle, removing the seeds with a spoon. Cut them into large chunks and place in a food processor with Amaretto, simple syrup and salt. Blend on high speed until the pear is very smooth. Check for flavor, remembering that it is more difficult to distinguish flavors in frozen desserts, so in this case more might actually be more. (Also, my homemade simple syrup is the extra-rich variety, meaning that your sorbet might need an extra kick of sweetness. Start with the recomended 3 oz., and work up from there. You can always put more in, but you can't ever get it back out...) Freeze overnight in a tupperware container. Chill bowls before serving and enjoy.