The Kitchen Review

Cool and/or Creepy Cocktails

The Wall Street Journal reports that we should thank Madonna for the Cosmo craze and belly up to the bar for an Octopus Martini.

English is American

I caught the Maria Batali v. Todd English Battle on Iron Chef America last night. Pizza dough was translated into various ethnic modes by English, while Batali's imagination ran wild, mightily impressing Jeffrey Steingarten with a spring garlic and bread soup made with the dough. I really thought English had it when he blew a mozzarella skin into a balloon and set it on a gorgeous upscale pizza, but he lost it on a fig wonton with Gorgonzola two ways.

This show has everything that is good about Iron Chef - excitement, silly theatrics, and serious food discussion. Between Alton and the A-list food critics sitting on the panel, you can't not learn something about food with every episode.

I really didn't think Food Network could pull it off. I absolutely adored the original and was very happy when William Shatner was sent packing on the first American version. I was fairly certain that Americans could never balance the Chairman's cheesiness with a nuanced exploration of the elements of taste.  It is no BrilliatSavarinTV, but I think Iron Chef America is the best possible incarnation for a US audience. It can only help viewers expand their culinary horizons.

And now I want reservations at Babbo and English is Italian, so I have accepted sponsorship from Food Network to promote their new season to pay for my meal. Since I like the show anyway, it seemed like a reasonable thing to do.

New Battles Start Saturday, July 10th!

Personally, I'd like to see a pork fat back battle between Batali and Didier Virot.

Fantasy Fulfilled

My longtime fantasy of going to market on a weekly basis and waltzing through the streets of New York with a canvas bag bursting with fresh food has finally come true. An organic farmer's market is now open on Saturdays at 106th Street and Central Park West. This week I picked up cherries and raspberries from Red Jacket Orchards, carrots and scallions from John D. Madura Farm, a whole grain loaf from Bread Alone, and greens from Pegasus Farm.

And everything was exceptionally delicious.

There is also a farmer's market on 110th and Manhattan that I have yet to check out. Between these markets and FreshDirect offering local products, grocery shopping is getting a whole lot fresher.

Oysters, My Love

While I’ve had a life-long love affair with lobsters, I came to appreciate bivalves in my late twenties. It was one Kumamoto that did it, combined with the assured New York elegance of City Hall Restaurant, and the loving insistence of my boyfriend, Kristopher.

The Kumamoto was beguiling in its small, ruffled shell. The oyster sat delicately cupped in the whiteness of the interior. Tipped gently, if a bit apprehensively, to my mouth, the brine trickled onto my tongue. Then came the flesh, cool and metallic, with just enough substance to give satisfaction. Its diminutive size kept my concerns about texture in control so that I could taste the oyster. The sea, of course, was dominant. It was the kind of sea that was fresh and clean and faraway. Piercing through the ocean savor came complimentary iron and copper sensations, and then a subdued sweetness took over my palate as I swallowed.

***

Sitting alone at the counter at Grand Central Oyster Bar, staring up at the big board, I thoughtfully determine the ratio of old favorites to new varieties for my order. I am possessed by the idea of the perfect plate.  A twenty-dollars worth of oysters is still a luxury to me, and probably always will be, and that is part of what makes them so desirable. I still must dismiss a tiny voice in my head that says, “eww!” at the thought of eating animals alive and so obviously glistening in their own fluids. I consider it a personal triumph, as well as an individual indulgence. My favorite combination is to slide back a six-pack of Blue Points, giving each a slight chew that reveals their meatiness, followed by a foursome of oysters with the prettiest names from the most far-flung waters.

***

The most refined oyster I have ever eaten was at, and this is really no surprise, the finest restaurant I have ever eaten in, Guy Savoy. The meal started with a little trepidation on my part. My fiancée, of one day, tried using his French, but was responded to in English. Yet, somehow this was done in such a way as to put any embarrassment on the waiter. I struggled to find a place for my hands on our table. It was laid with several pieces of silverware of unknown utility. As the third-course was set before Kristopher and I, we focused our attention on a singular oyster sitting on a plate of crushed ice. The Belon shell sat gemlike in the center, the flesh was placed on a pillow of crème fresh and sprinkled with a cubed gelee of Brittany seawater. As the oyster slipped into my mouth, my concentration dissolved any of my ugly American discomfort like the melting gelee. I wanted to taste every atom of flavor – the delicate creaminess, the bright saltiness. This made me the exact sort of person who should dine at Guy Savoy. My fiancée reached across the table to hold my hand. It wasn’t a grasp of reassurance, but one that confirmed he tasted every bit of that oyster, too.

I am somehow more of the person I had always wanted to be when I am staring hungrily at a pulsing plate of freshly shucked oysters.

[For my loving husband on our first anniversary.]

Pear Affair

I begin eating my pear at the nape of the neck, the curve between the round bottom and the slender top.

Before my tongue has tasted the nectar, my first bite reveals its ripeness. It is in the perfect tension of my teeth against the speckled green exterior. If the skin puts up a modest resistance, perhaps something akin to a “no, no, you simply mustn’t,” the flesh will follow. My bite softly sinks into the sweet and floral flesh.

A perfect pear is simply too tender. It gives up everything but the very center: a core left with all else nibbled away. Then it is so hard to hold in my palm, wet and slightly sticky. It has none of the sensual heft. Gone is the reassuring feel of cupping the fruit in my hand. 

BBQ Bust

For the second year in a row, my cadre of BBQ-loving gothamists have been denied the pleasure that is The Big Apple BBQ Block Party.

The Block Party was started a few years back, just after Danny Meyer opened Blue Smoke, in an effort to introduce New Yorkers to the multiple varieties of America's regional cuisine super-star: BBQ. The idea was to fill 27th Street with low and slow heavyweights, outfitted with their finest pits, and get them to cook up some magic. It was a brilliant idea. Not only did it get New Yorkers excited about BBQ, but it placed Blue Smoke in the pantheon of the greats.

However, it being in New York, and everything in New York that is popular being a damn pain in the ass to experience, the idea has never translated into me actually eating BBQ. Twice, I have stood at the gates of heaven and been denied entry.

This year the event was held in Madison Square Park last Saturday and Sunday from noon till six. This appeared to be plenty enough time and space for me to negotiate a line or two. But upon entering the park, I heard whispers of two hour waits in line. And then, the $7 per plate charge was revealed. My husband calculated that it would take 10 hours and $70 to try every vendor.

While I have to appreciate a New York City street fair that doesn't involve multiple mozzarepa stands, this thing was a bust. Yes, I could have stood in line. I was really considering the Elgin hot links, but why should I? BBQ is a casual food meant to be enjoyed in a relaxed, perhaps even honky-tonk, atmosphere.

What I think it really comes down to now, is that I don't need the Block Party to introduce me to good BBQ. We've got joints opening up every other week in this city, each with its own region preference and attitude. We can argue until the cows come home to be cue'd about which is the best, but we can have that fight because Danny Meyer succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

We don't need the Big Apple BBQ Block Party anymore. We need the Big Apple BBQ Belt. Next year, it should be ours against the heavys in a knock-down, drag-em-out BBQ battle that not only highlights our good cue, but brings the whole category in NY up a notch or two. Meyer, just think about it.

Baby Plastic Pimp

This blog is veeringly dangerously close into total rant territory. No sooner have I declared detente with the PR pushers of the latest disposable plastic outrage, then my friend, and new mom, alerts me to the horror that is Take & Toss from fine folks at The First Years.

This product is so brightly colored that I almost forgot the amount of waste they will create. The sippy cups are so cute that I couldn't remember all the things I've read about low-grade plastics being a possible cancer risk.

Is a disposable culture really something you want to introduce your kid to so early on?

Red Tide

Sad news for New England seafood lovers: the red tide continues to keep Mainer's shellfish off the market. I feel really sorry for those clamers.

I've been enjoying my mussels and clams from Whole Foods, lately. I guess they must be from Canada. A couple of weeks ago, I smoked some mussels and served them with a warm goat cheese salad. And last week, I made a clam, bacon, and brocollini fettucini dish. Shellfish are the perfect quick meal for a hot summer kitchen.

Sure hope that red tide abates soon. I was looking forward to a weekly shellfish fix.

Plastic Pimp

Readers, it is time to announce that I have made the Big Time. Mere weeks after fending off of the advances of Mr. Weiss and his sexy enticements to discuss Glad Press'n Seal on my blog, I'm being courted by Pactiv Advanced Packaging Solutions or more accurately, Hass MS& L, the company's PR bee-otch.

A young Miss Asher would like to know if I will try the new Hefty Serve n Store products then post a review on my website. To her credit, the lady is completely up front with her offer, but lays it on a little thick, no?

Let me start off by saying that I work for an agency that works for Pactiv, the maker of the new Hefty Serve 'n Store interlocking plates & bowls.  We are doing online outreach for the product through influential folks like yourself and would like to know if you'd be interested in participating in the product launch.

[Emphasis added to point out how wrong Miss Asher is.]

At one point in her email, she "cuts to the chase." We bloggers are a savvy bunch, aren't we, and she appreciates it. She doesn't even go on and on about 'taste-making influences of food bloggers in grassroots marketing efforts,' and I sincerely would like to here it from a real PR person. I know they say things like that, but probably only to each other in glassed-in conference rooms coked up on one too many Starbucks frappuchinos.

So let me just put it out there for all my would-be corporate plastic pimps: I don't like plastic. It makes me feel bad to use it.

1. My plastic enrobed left-overs usually end up shoved to the back of the refrigerator, then grow such thick mold that I can't wash it out properly. I end up throwing the whole mess in the garbage.
2. I love take-out food and get Fresh Direct deliveries regularly. This means there are plenty of plastic containers that make there way into my house, free of charge, begging to be recycled.
3. I can't stand the idea of another disposable plastic product when there are biodegradable products available. I'm no hippie, but this Hefty stuff will be blowing around roads, forest, and beaches for years. I don't need that on my conscience just because I made too much broccoli.

I don't know why people would rather serve something in plastic rather than a snappy dish from Crate and Barrel. I don't know why people think they're too damn busy to do dishes after dinner. I don't know why people can't use their brains for a few moments to understand that glass or ceramic storage containers are more attractive, better for the environment, and cost less over the life of the product.

Diner Chump

Most of us don’t think we sit down at a restaurants and work out the cost-benefit ratio on every menu item to determine our order. We go with want we want to eat. And yet, I find that I look closely at the prices on the menu. I am looking for value.

I recently read that wholesale shrimp is less expensive per pound than chicken. In fact, grocers and restaurateurs should have been passing the savings on to the consumers about five years ago when shrimp netting outpaced market demand. I now balk at any menu items putting a premium price on shrimp.

Last night I sat down at Brooklyn Diner on 57th Street, one of the Shelley Group restaurants in the area, and was faced with mind-boggling menu prices. $15.95 for Spaghetti with Meatballs. $14.95 for a Hot Dog with Fries. No entrée on the menu could be had for under $13.95. Wallet-conscious diners would be faced with $5 sharing charge for splitting a plate.

There are several ways to explain the luxury price tags on common comfort food: the tourist rip-off trade in New York City- in general, the theme restaurant tourist rip-off trade in the neighborhood - in particular, location, location, location, and the Shelley’s commitment to quality food at quality prices.

The Brooklyn Diner’s Spaghetti and Meatballs was made with a delicious slow-cooked tomato sauce, perfectly al dente pasta, and juicy, flavorful meatballs. It really was a well-made plate of spaghetti. But we New Yorkers never want to be confused with tourists. Even after enjoying my dinner at the diner, I somehow felt like a chump when the bill came.