Monday, May 30, 2011
If you give a Gastro-Junkie a garden...
Monday, May 23, 2011
Brainstorming Salad
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Rainy Day Treat
Thursday, April 7, 2011
All things in moderation (including moderation)
Sunday, March 20, 2011
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 entrĂ©e 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.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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.
Friday, March 4, 2011
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......"