Worldly in a Weekend

A friend coming to visit always implies that you will be out doing more, drinking more, eating more, and just generally out and about more—most assuredly pretending that you lead a far more exciting life that you actually do. For this weekend, I played the role of the worldly eater, duly impressing my friend (as well as myself) with how may different cuisines we could fit into a weekend. Dim Sum in Chinatown, French cheese and wine in central park, Ethopian food in Morningside Heights, Creole cuisine midtown, and New York bagels for breakfast daily. Feel free to skim the highlights below….

We walked only a few blocks from my dorm to fulfill our dreams of a meal eaten completely with our hands. As soon as our utensil free meal at the Ethiopian restaurant, Massawa, came out of the kitchen, we were in heaven. Its as simple as 1,2,3—first you take the injera spongy flat bread, then you use it to scoop up a variety of tebsi (beef cubes with pepper and onions), pureed chickpeas, okra, lamb with berbere spice, and anything else the chef decides to pile on your plate. Lastly, you stuff it (leisurely, of course) in your mouth, breathing a sigh of relief at the unpretentious and flavorful sustenance you are slowly chewing.

The trip to Chinatown was painless enough; we even managed to procure a purse or two out of the walking-a-mile-the-wrong-way-to-the-restaurant ordeal. When we finally arrived at the Golden Bridge dim sum compound (you will soon come to understand why I call it such) we sat in a airport-like waiting room, ticket in had (we were number 64), anxiously waiting to be seated in the hotel ballroom of a restaurant. Minutes later, the lady over the speaker called 33…then 64. Out of order? Yes. Did we complain? No. After settling in with our cup of tea, we were ready to start hailing carts. Cha Siu Sou, a flaky pastry with BBQ pork inside found its way to our table first, followed by Jin Deui, which is a clear, sweet and chewy dough filled with something possibly resembling chicken and shrimp, then deep fried and rolled in sesame seeds. How could that be bad? In fact, how could any of these fried, doughy, sweet yet savory, seasame coated bites be bad? Answer: they couldn't. We licked our fingers for a renegade piece of dough or a drop of sweet soy. Nowhere near full, we moved on to the rice noodles—one batch of plain noodles with hoisin sauce and sesame, and another dish where the noodles are wrapped around a piece of fried dough that somewhat resembles the inside of a churro. Soaked in a sweet soy sauce, the friend dough-noodle combo is done before the next cart rolls around. Through the meal, I’ve been getting a back massage (read: poked and prodded and laughed at) by a little Chinese boy who finds me far more amusing than the food. The fact that the place is filled with Asian families whose children just can’t seem to get enough of making it as difficult as possible for us to eat does not bother me, only because I know it means that this food is good. And it is. Accordingly, we get some seconds of each as well as an order of steamed bok choy to indulge the health nut at the table, and pay the $5 per person bill so that we can head back out to the streets of downtown Manhattan. Chinatown still has another treat in store for me—I grab a fresh coconut for a few dollars and watch as the vendor lops of the top with a large knife, sticks a straw in the top, and hands me my coconut milk on the go. On a hot day in Chinatown, the sweet, cool, liquid is just what I need.

Preview of things to come (and I'm only listing these restaurants because I am in a constant state of excitement due to each one): Deliciously innovative cuisine from Wd~50 and Providence followed by a trip to Chez Panisse, the mother of all organic, local and just damn good food. Grace and Catch both come somewhere in between...all promising to make these few months the best of my life. I'll keep you posted...

From Truffles to Popcorn

Per Se was life changing. Zagat got it right with the exclamation that it is “in a class all its own.” Ouest was a great post-Per Se meal—easing my transition back into the real world of food with a crispy piece of sturgeon over mushroom and edamame risotto followed by a tangy orange cheesecake. Delicious. Nothing will ever compare to the fifteen course mind-blowing, five hour extravaganza, complete with kitchen tour, several bottles of wine, and delicacies ranging from caviar to lobster to butter soaked morels—but Ouest at least cushioned my palate from what awaited back at school (namely, Ollie’s). There, my friends, for the sake of brevity and moving on to current events, was a summary of what may have been the two most culinary orgasmic days of my life.

Fast forward: My job. Mission: Figure out some semblance of self-control so that the constant flow of recipe testing, popcorn tastings, and brownie contests does not cause immediate and premature heart attack. Working at a food magazine is, in fact, everything I dreamed it could be in terms of the serious level of taste bud overload. A recap of my last two days on the job will give you a clear picture:
* Wednesday: Eat my yogurt and granola bar when I first wake up, so that I can last until 12, which is the approximate time that the first recipe wafts alluringly out of the kitchen. On cue, a buttery tagliatelle pasta with flank steak appears, followed by the pumpkin and cream cheese frosting cookie cake whoopee pies (being tested for the second time this week, so obviously I had to taste for the difference). An asparagus salad with onions and orange slices appears, not as a test, merely as an afternoon snack for those of us lucky enough (or crafty enough) to find themselves “conveniently” chopping something in the kitchen. Soon after, the interns embark on a mission to pick up lamb gyros in Queens, from the vendor who won the “Vendy Award” in 2006. I try one while I am there, for the sake of research—it is, indeed, heaven in a gyro. We deliver the gyros to the test kitchen where they will taste and prod the poor lamb (or mystery meat as I heard them unfortunately claim) until they figure out exactly what spices make it so damn good. After picking up a few last groceries for the kitchen, the clock is fast approaching 6 and I hurry to call and get a product sent in for a photo shoot on Friday. Eventually, I head off to dance, musing about the delicious day I just had.
* Today: Again, for the sake of brevity—I have just one thing to say: Popcorn taste test day. Thirty different popcorns. Several appalling flavors. Nausea. My whole day was spent preparing for this (“No I can’t order that for lunch! It’s popcorn day! Have to save up!). At the moment, all I am left with is a severe I Can’t Believe its Not Butter hangover and a desire to never touch a kernel of popped corn ever again. Such are the pitfalls of life at a food magazine.

To list, or not to list...

So, it has been an eternity. I know. I have devised a plan to get my lazy self back on top of things. I will post my to do/to write list up right here so that the pressure to fulfill expectations hopefully overrides my laze (I realize that is not a real word, but one of my goals in life is to get a word in the dictionary, so I figure that I should probably get going on that). My things to blog list is as follows:
1.) Per Se/ Ouest/ Melisse
2.) My Rachael Ray internship exploits (including, but not limited to: loving the test kitchen, feeling important in meetings with Nestle, as well as the tiring venture of setting up my phone and email system) <--sidenote: I have my own cubicle. Weird, right?
3.) New book obsessions (okay, Anthony Bourdain is officially who I aspire to be...minus the being a man part, of course)

I intend to tackle each item in the coming days--look out!

The Case of the Maple Waffle Swirl

Today I was forced to stand outside, waiting for my friends as they naively bought their Haagen-Dazs ice cream. Sadly, I now feel obliged to to tell the tale of Haagen-Dazs and its corruption.

It began only few months ago when a food obsessed girl spotted a sign advertising the Haagen-Dazs "create your own flavor" contest. Hit with a brilliant idea, she rushed to her local diner--dragging her boyfriend along--to film a witty video of her eating a warm Belgian waffle with caramelized pecans, vanilla bean ice cream, and maple syrup drizzled on top. This was destined to be her flavor inspiration and go on to win the title of 'best new flavor'. She called it Maple Waffle Swirl. After posting it on the competition board online, she returned to the website daily to scope out the competition. Lemon Bar Ice Cream? Wimpy. Peppermint stick? Already done. Rootbeer float? Too simple. Lillikoi Butter and Honey? Too intense. Maple Waffle Swirl? Perfect. Suitable for adults and children alike, fun yet classy, it was Haagen-Dazs personified. Then, one fateful day, she stumbled upon a new posting--"Blueberry Belgian Waffle" an ice cream creation posing as an original, when really, it was simply Maple Waffle Swirl plus blueberries. I was mad. I mean, she was mad. Obviously posted at a later date, Blueberry Belgian Waffle was clearly an impostor.

Fast forward to last week. The top 3 finalists were posted. Blueberry Belgian Waffle--nestled smugly between the Coco y Cacao and the Caramelized Pear & Toasted Pecans. I ask you, where is the justice in this ice cream filled world of ours? Perhaps these tragic series of events will force you to understand why I now must stand alone (outside of Haagen-Dazs).

Publicity!

Hey all, I've been published! Just in the Columbia Spectator...but still, published nonetheless! The article is all about expensive restaurants in the city. Yum.

Secret Lives of Foodies <--- Click!

P.S. Per Se: 8 days to go.

A Culinary Itinerary

Apologies for the long interlude between this entry and the last, my energetic sister has been in town visiting—consequently, consuming all of my time.

In the last week, however, my sister has provided a perfect excuse for multiple satiary outings into the city.

Hudson Cafeteria, with my boyfriend as a pre-sister arrival celebration, was the first on the list. We arrived in quite the celebratory mood and left disappointed and looking forward to forgetting our meal while wathcing Will Ferrell’s new film—which was (sadly) much higher quality than the meal we received at Hudson. The tuna tartar: tasteless (Will Ferrell’s jokes: tasteless as well, but at least I laughed). The appetizer of mushroom pizza with truffle oil was good, though it was neither appetizer size nor had any trace of truffle oil (or class for that matter). It was just a pizza, similar to the one I ate while watching last Sunday's Entourage premiere. My filet tasted the same as my boyfriend’s lamb, both brisket-y in taste and texture. I, personally, like my brisket to be called brisket and prefer it served by my grandma during Hanukkah dinner.

Jane, a downtown restaurant (just a short walk from the Houston street Subway station), provided a nice setting for a welcome dinner. The toasted ricotta gnocchi appetizer did, indeed, taste like “pillows of heaven” as one of my dining companions promised. The octopus salad literally had one long octopus tentacle, making it hard to share as well as visually a bit hard to stomach. The Ahi Tuna was fine, though I could have just done with the black rice with shitake mushroom and ginger underneath as an entire meal, and done without the overly expensive price tag for underwhelming fish. For desert, perfectly warm and crispy (though still tender inside) chocolate chip cookies with vanilla gelato floating in milk, kept my stomach happy and warm the entire walk home. Altogether, mostly pleasant, though not mind-blowing in any way.

Serendipity, needing no introduction or review to attest to the greatness of the frozen hot chocolate, provided a setting for gorging as well as an “impromptu” photo shoot of my sister and I simultaneously drinking two chocolates at once. All I can say is: do your self a favor and order the Peanut Butter version of their famous treat, sure to give you a sugar hangover for days to come, along with a permanent smile.

Diving in. Face first.

Seeing as my last blog post is the size of a Carmine's plate of penne vodka, I hope to keep this one on the shorter side. So, for the record, I'm trying.

I've been reading this book on food writing (yes, there are books just about writing about food) called Will Write For Food (witty, eh?) that I hope will aid me in my ongoing quest for culinary stardom. The author suggests these silly little exercises at the end of each chapter and I thought I would share a few that I have done with you.

A.) Completing these sentences:

The donut smelled stale, like... the wafting odor of a beer sitting by a California pool mid-August, having been forgotten by its tipsy owner.

The roast beef sandwich tasted as though... it was slaved over by a Jewish grandma who lovingly tells you to call her Babushka as she piles the salty meat and the creamy cole slaw higher than anyone’s mouth could ever fit.


B.) Describing eating your favorite piece of fruit:

The Santa Ana winds were particularly strong as I first bit down into the meaty flesh of the mango. Slicing the skin off half the mango, no silverware in sight, I headed face first into the sunny fruit. My feet were cooling in the pool—I sat at the waters edge, the rest of my body burning. The corners of my lips stung with the tangy kick that follows the birthday cake sweet initial flavor. My cheeks sticky, I sucked the remaining mango pulp that clung to the pit, straggling pieces catching in between my teeth. When I slid down into the water I could still feel the mangoes slippery texture on my tongue while the buttery honey flavor coated my mouth.


Okay, so, first exercise equals weird and funny, second exercise equals corny and sprinkled (okay drenched) with way too many adjectives. Was I eating the mango or trying to have sex with it? Can't wait for the next chapter, perhaps I can somehow work in the Buttercup Bakeshop cupcake I enjoyed today. Using my sister as an excuse for a cupcake field trip, we headed to Buttercup on 72nd to see if an equal to Magnolia could be found so deliciously close to school. I found that, tragically (for my waistline), they can.

I promised brevity, so look forward to a rant on my latest dining foray into the city in my next posting: hurray!

Restaurant Review finds itself as a Short Story

You know the moment during the happy birthday song in which everyone in the restaurant mumbles the name of the beamingly embarrassed person who sits at a table full of drunken, but equally beaming, friends? At Café Paradiso, this seems to be a thrice nightly occurrence; middle aged men and women ringing in their birthdays with some good wine, good food, and newfound friends. Yet, for some strange reason, this annoying phenomenon ceases to be annoying upon entering Paradiso. Strolling there from my house, a mere five minute walk, set the scene for what I was to find at the Café’s threshold—the lanky Italian owner waiting to greet us, a large table in the intimate forty-five person restaurant, and both an acerbically witty waiter as well as an overly sentimental yet altogether pleasant one. The cast of characters transported me to Italy for dinner at my distant cousins villa, at least, it would have if I had distant home-cooking Italian cousins.

We glanced at the menu, which was short enough to make a quick decision, yet appealing enough to warrant a second glance. The warm bread with crackling crust and fluffy white center told me to take my choice seriously. When the calamari with cannelloni beans arrived, I was wary—the calamari was crustless, not a fried tentacle in sight; instead, pieces of lightly garlic-ed bread were wedged into the mountain of spicy tomato sauce covered squid rings. Chewy would seem to indicate a less than desirable consistency, but the octopus was chewy in a way that redefines the word. The beans, which exploded open after the slight snap as I bit through the skin, lent a creamy compliment to the calamari perched on the crunch-perfect toasted bread. Though I am not generally a fan of spice, as I often feel that it overpowers rather than enhances food (even after the pleas of my spice-loving boyfriend), this dish was the very opposite.

As I alternated between wine and water to cool my slightly burning lips, the owner came over to chat. He told us the story of a man whose cousin came to visit, convinced him to open another restaurant (his first, La Finestra, was in the Valley), and then the cousin found his marriage in trouble and ran off to work it out with his wife, leaving the man with two restaurants to manage by himself. The owner told us that the man, who, we were certain, was none other than the owner himself, sold his other restaurant to take on a new challenge. This story proved two things: one being that I was right in my assertion that cousins were involved in this restaurant somehow and two, that family drama makes for good Italian food. The salad arrived and with gorgonzola, pine nuts, red peppers, and sun-dried tomatoes, it had all of my favorite ingredients on one plate. When I managed to corral all of the ingredients on to one forkful, the result was pure harmony; yet, easier said than forked, and most times I ended up with a bite that was sadly lacking in one of the key flavors. On a more positive note, the balsamic and olive oil on the greens managed to both fully cover the salad and also remain unobtrusive to the fresh ingredients—buono I say.

Off came both sweaters that I came layered in, the restaurant was warm and humming with conversation and we were off to a pleasant start. The entrees arrived and we all agreed they were solidly good, though it was the vibe of the restaurant that increased the pleasure I found in enjoying my lobster ravioli slowly. The “light tomato brandy sauce” turned out to be a bit on the heavy side, both in quantity and flavor. Had the flavors in the ravioli been stronger, the assertive sauce wouldn’t have been a problem; yet I craved the subtle sweetness in the lobster that was masked in the process. However, every so often, lets say, every other raviolo or so, a large piece of lobster tucked neatly into the ravioli filling would bring the flavor and the break in the creamy texture that I so desired, making the rest worth the wait. As I reached across the table to steal a bite of the steaming Osso Buco, it easily fell off the bone, onto my fork, and into my mouth—much to the chagrin of the dinner companion to whom the meat belonged. It was exactly as expected, a well-cooked cut of meat, juicy and sweet in flavor. The gnocchi lovingly placed in a pile next to the Osso Buco retained the earthy taste of a fresh potato while giving it an unnaturally creamy consistency. As the gnocchi and meat combination melted in my mouth, I felt a slight desire for less gnocchi stuck to the crevices of my back teeth and more in my stomach. A solid, though not innovative, main course, I waited to see what desert would bring.

The fresh strawberries over vanilla ice cream with balsamic sauce was the chef’s special recipe, while the tiramisu was touted (like most Italian restaurants) as the best. We ordered both. The tiramisu, which I should disclaim, is not my favorite desert in general, was fluffy light and relatively on the unsweetened chocolate side of the spectrum. The cocoa powder dusted heavily on top caused a slight coughing attack before I could let the light and dark desert dissolve on my tongue. As for the strawberry balsamic desert, the vinegar flavor certainly hits your tongue first, sending your brain the signal “no, no, I wanted desert;” yet, less than a second later your brain backpedals, realizing the balsamic flavor is balanced by the sweet-tangy balsamic soaked strawberry slice and the cool vanilla ice cream. As you adjust to the flavor, you find yourself spooning the balsamic syrupy ice cream soup from the bottom of the bowl—I know I did.

Fungiform Papillae, or why I'm sticking with Broccoli

There I stood, looking at my outstretched tongue in the bathroom mirror. Blue food dye stained my fingertip and tongue. No, I wasn’t attempting to recapture my youth (well, younger youth) by eating multiple blue raspberry push pops—I was trying to prove my tasting superiority. In the depths of my “spring break read-everything-I-possibly-can-about-anything-vaguely-culinary” funk, I stumbled upon several articles addressing the phenomenon of Supertasters. Apparently, there are three kinds of people—nontasters, normal tasters, and Supertasters.

Fantasies of wearing a Super(taster) cape screen printed with sushi, truffles, foie gras and various other culinary delights flashed through my mind as I read the testing procedure.
1.) Dab blue food dye on the tip of your tongue
2.) The taste buds (or fungiform papillae) will remain pink
3.) The closer together and more tastebuds you have, the closer you are to a Supertaster!

I eagerly checked the mirror, trying to determine whether I was merely normal or something special. I read on, trying to find another clue. Instead I found out that being a Supertaster is not all it would seem to be. For one, there’s no cape. Secondly, they apparently face many health risks as they generally find green veggies too bitter, while diets high in fat are appetizing. Before you get all excited, ready to say, “Mom, I can’t eat my brussel sprouts, I’m a Supertaster”; you would then also find coffee and alcohol rather abrasive to your overly sensitive taste buds. I happily decide that I’m average and sit down to a plate of steaming garlic and lemon broccoli.

UPDATE!

I, Carly, will officially be going to PER SE in twenty days from today. Thomas Keller, of French Laundry--one of the top restaurants in the world--will be in the kitchen personally slaving over a meal just for me.

Restaurants. They are my mecca. I study food network religiously for tips and tricks, hoping one of the familiar faces will suddenly segue into a "How to cook if you have a kitchen the size of a port-a-potty and no actual cooking skills," but, alas, I am faced with nothing but chronic mouth watering at things I could never make. Yet, restaurants are the silver lining to this fluffy mashed potato cloud--I may not be able to make Mario Batali or Thomas Keller creations, but I can most certainly eat them. And I do. Babbo when my parents are in town, Craft with my grandma, Nobu as a anniversary present from my boyfriend (one of his proudest moments), and now, the crown jewel: Per Se. Countdown starts now.

Cooking for Dummies

My room is a mess. By my room, I mean the 11x11 cubicle that I share with my boyfriend who, though it would seem otherwise, has a chronic need to put (and leave) everything on the floor. Okay, so maybe I don't exactly open a drawer, fold a shirt, or empty the trash as much as I should either. However, the food memoirs, culinary school course catalogs, my mini dorm kitchen (consisting at this moment of crunchy peanut butter, Ghirardelli chocolate chips, soy sauce, sesame oil, vanilla extract, scallions, coconut flakes, baking power, sugar, and flour)--are all neatly organized this morning in my new Bed, Bath, and Beyond bought organizing drawer set. I sit in front of the shrine of Ruth Reichl, Jeffrey Steingarten, a random book called "Will Write for Food", and Cooking for Dummies. Speaking of that...maybe I should put it out there that, as much as I love writing about food, I am not much of a cook. I double take (okay triple take) whether it says teaspoon or tablespoon before proceeding to mess it up anyway. I burn the "lightly toasted coconut flakes", break the parmesan hash brown while trying to flip it pizza style, make pancakes from the box for dinner and desert. Not for lack of trying, however. I made a red velvet cake for my family as thanks, but it turned out pink; I made cold peanut noodles that took 2 hours and tasted like the Chinese food chain's noodles down the street (which are good, but not worth $50 in groceries). But, I persevere. I have essays not to write, job applications not to do, courses not to register for, and plenty of fingers left to cut while chopping and burn while boiling.

Couscous, or Why I Miss Ken

I should have seen it coming--all the signs of the food obsession that has recently become all I can think, talk, or eat about. The name stuck at the bottom of my posts, Couscous, is my childhood nickname. Other kids get 'pookie', 'sweetheart', 'honey'; not me, I get a nickname derived from the pasta of Berber origin. Granted, it was all I ate for a portion of my life larger than I would like to admit. In high school, my most devasting breakup was not with a boyfriend, but with Senju, my sushi place. Ken, the chef, called me (yes, he had my cell phone number) to tell me that he was up and moving back to Japan. No warning at all. I just didn't see it coming. I huddled under my covers, crying, while friends coming to console me flowed in and out. The rainbow box was my daily lunch for years--layers of luscious tuna, rice, crab, rice, salmon, rice, roe. In addition to providing sustinance, it was the place of my first date, lunches with best friends, sunday night family dinners. I eventually recovered, though my friends and I did recently consider tattoo-ing "Senju" in Japanese on our feet.

Wait, there's more. My college essay, which asked for the biggest risk I had ever taken, was about trying zucchini after violently hating it for most of my life (for the record, I still don't like it). Traveling has always been a huge part of my life, yet my memories are all centered around the food: tashines in Morroco, pho in Vietnam, the time we shipped a turkey to the Domenican Repblic for Thanksgiving...

So, as you can see, it was all a matter of time. Now, embracing my obsession, I find myself surrounded with Institute of Culinary Education catalogs, every food memoir or essay ever written, menupages.com consistantly open on my computer desktop, reservations at restaurants months in advance in anticipation of family coming in to town, recipes strewn about....but I guess that's a whole 'nother post.

Tasti-D and the Art of Blogging

Hi, my name is Carly and I had Tasti-Delight. Twice. This week. For one of the many short-skirted, high-heeled girls that stomp their way around my college campus this would be a non event. However, I have been as adamant about Tasti-Delight tasting like dirty water as I was about meat during my year long stint as a vegetarian...well, actually, a pseudo vegetarian--I ate chicken and fish. So, really, not a vegetarian at all. Which brings me to my downfall. I have the excuse of a hot day in New York in mid march, but other than that I am baffled as to why this frozen chemical mystery sounded appealing. I walked the stairs to the shop, stood in line, placed my order, and waited. Tasti-Delight banana pudding tasted like part banana Runt candy part creamy water. Now, I know that water is not exactly a flavor, but Tasti-Delight seems to think it is.

You may be wondering what exactly this has to do with the momentous occasion of my first blog, however, it not only relates, but it is actually the inspiration. After a shameful ten minutes of eating my unsatisfying semi-treat, I realized, if I was going to be a hypocrite about one thing, I may as well tackle all of my hypocrisies. I was a blog hater. A blog mis-understander. One who makes fun of blogs. No longer. I love food and I want the world to witness my descent in to utter culinary obsession. So, thank you, Tasti-Delight--this blog is dedicated to you.