As my time abroad approaches an end, I can only say—I swear it has been more exciting, tasty, and random than my blog would have led you to believe. I will definitely be posting residual entries that I have compiled from my scribbles on napkins, plane tickets, menus…I’m in the process of typing them up, promise :) In addition, I will be back on track in New York, posting my adventures working for a culinary magazine, surviving in the dorms, and just generally living in the city.
Otherwise, my life here has been completely spastic. In Germany, I hit up the small Currywurst stands to chow down on sliced wurst with curry sauce and crisp fries, all eaten with a clear plastic toothpick on an unpronounceable side street. In Austria, I visited a fondue house where I polished off an entire plate of bread, vegetables, and assorted pickled items all drenched in thick cheese.
Back in Italy, I headed to Zaza’s, where I indulged in a multi-course meal of the most flavorful truffle cream sauce over fettuccine and grilled seafood (swordfish, calamari, and prawns) with roasted peppers; all of the ingredients straight from the bustling mercato centrale across the street.
In my apartment near the Arno river, however, my gourmet aspirations give way to laziness and a desire for something simple. Canellini beans, small peas, lemon juice, olive oil, and garlic—heated and eaten directly out of the pot; whole wheat pasta and tomato basil sauce with fresh grated parmesan cheese. Abashedly, I admit that I savor each of these meals equally, from the wurst to the truffle, from the calamari to the beans.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
"Overjoyed, Enraptured, Entranced"
Jordan and I have a glass (or two) of wine at his place. Anxious for the dinner supposedly awaiting us at La Giostra, we try to take the edge off. A two minute walk down the street and we find ourselves inside the tavern-like space, with white Christmas lights beautifully out of place, twinkling around the wooden beams of the ceiling. As we casually glance over the menu, already knowing exactly what to order, an Australian couple sitting directly next to us leans over, gesturing helpfully at their warm appetizers—“They bring you a huge plate of cheeses and meats, so be careful!” They laugh, looking down at the large quantities of abandoned food on their plates.
I immediately get on with the sommelier—he loves me after I attempt, in my rudimentary Italian, to chat with him about the wine list. Next, the waiter convinces Jordan and I into the classic Bistecca Fiorentina to share, in addition to the Pear and Cheese Ravioli.
Indeed, when the appetizer plate arrives, it fills the table—with salted meats that coat your tongue, crisp bruscetta, and the classic Florentine delicacy, pollo fegato (chicken liver) on toast, which Jordan meekly slides in my direction. A chunkier version of the chopped liver I ate every Jewish holiday in my Grandma’s posh living room, I happily oblige.
The Pear ravioli—well, I fear that nothing I write could capture the way you chew the homemade pasta until the entire raviolo begins to melt in your mouth, revealing the sweet pear pureed and whipped into the light cheese, leaving only a tiny tickle of the sweet fruit flavor on the center of your tongue, the smell of ricotta wafting over the table, side smiles cracking.
When the steak finally arrived, it seemed as if an entire cow had been happily led to our table, plopping down on its enormous silver platter. Thick cut, juicy, and flavorful, Jordan and I began in silence, pausing only to drink the light and tannic red wine or to pick at the accompanying caramelized carrots and home fry style potatoes. After some time had passed we leaned back in our chairs with labored breath, smiling over the now meager leftovers.
We were in practically in a stupor by the time Francesco, out waiter, slowly placed desert in front of us, as the sommelier simultaneously surprised us with a sweet Muscat, almost thick when poured into the small square glasses. The tart lemon sorbet cleansed and contrasted with the wine, while the whipped, creamy, tiramisu was both light and unbelievably rich all at once.
We stumbled home, hours after out arrival—the sommelier practically helping me out the door, as he called after us, “Return again! Ritorniate, per favore!”
I immediately get on with the sommelier—he loves me after I attempt, in my rudimentary Italian, to chat with him about the wine list. Next, the waiter convinces Jordan and I into the classic Bistecca Fiorentina to share, in addition to the Pear and Cheese Ravioli.
Indeed, when the appetizer plate arrives, it fills the table—with salted meats that coat your tongue, crisp bruscetta, and the classic Florentine delicacy, pollo fegato (chicken liver) on toast, which Jordan meekly slides in my direction. A chunkier version of the chopped liver I ate every Jewish holiday in my Grandma’s posh living room, I happily oblige.
The Pear ravioli—well, I fear that nothing I write could capture the way you chew the homemade pasta until the entire raviolo begins to melt in your mouth, revealing the sweet pear pureed and whipped into the light cheese, leaving only a tiny tickle of the sweet fruit flavor on the center of your tongue, the smell of ricotta wafting over the table, side smiles cracking.
When the steak finally arrived, it seemed as if an entire cow had been happily led to our table, plopping down on its enormous silver platter. Thick cut, juicy, and flavorful, Jordan and I began in silence, pausing only to drink the light and tannic red wine or to pick at the accompanying caramelized carrots and home fry style potatoes. After some time had passed we leaned back in our chairs with labored breath, smiling over the now meager leftovers.
We were in practically in a stupor by the time Francesco, out waiter, slowly placed desert in front of us, as the sommelier simultaneously surprised us with a sweet Muscat, almost thick when poured into the small square glasses. The tart lemon sorbet cleansed and contrasted with the wine, while the whipped, creamy, tiramisu was both light and unbelievably rich all at once.
We stumbled home, hours after out arrival—the sommelier practically helping me out the door, as he called after us, “Return again! Ritorniate, per favore!”
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Just Near the Duomo...
I received the call on Saturday night, my mind quickly clicking through each creamy, fresh, gooey, thick, salty, sweet morsel that had crossed my lips the past few weeks, fast and colorful like grainy slides through my old, bulky red Viewmaster.
"High cholesterol runs in the family, Carly. You need to limit your cheese, bread, sugar--you know what to do"
I sighed.
"Dad, I'm in Italy. ITALY. Do you realize what you're asking?"
Bubbling hot cheese on crispy thin crackling pizza dough, marbled salami with ingrained peppercorns, wrapped around thick slices of pecorino cheese, fresh penne bolognese covered in slowly melting parmesan, a silky prosciutto, warm cheese, and funghi panino from the bar across from my Borgo Ognissanti appartamento--the best panino I've ever had. The cripsy bread breaks with only a small nudge from my teeth, giving way to the warm innards; thick and hearty ham covered in chewy cheese, with the occasional musky, meaty flavor of porcini mushroom.
And the gelato. Oh, the gelato. Thick and creamy, or light and icy, with cascading chocolate chips in the stracciatella, or slightly frozen strawberries in the fragola, each bite causing the kind of smile that makes your cheeks ache. Caramel gelato with a fresh crema base and sticky caramel swirls laced throughout, sandwiched between two hot waffles, the smell making you feel like carnivale has already arrived. Sitting down with the messy desert on a corner across from the ponte vecchio, dripping ice cream onto the cobblestone street between your feet--perfection.
Fuck cholesterol.
I call up La Giostra, one of the best restaurants in Firenze, known for their unbelievably rich, unfailingly cholesterol raising, multi-course meals-- "Per favore, posso fare una prenotazione per domani sera?"
"High cholesterol runs in the family, Carly. You need to limit your cheese, bread, sugar--you know what to do"
I sighed.
"Dad, I'm in Italy. ITALY. Do you realize what you're asking?"
Bubbling hot cheese on crispy thin crackling pizza dough, marbled salami with ingrained peppercorns, wrapped around thick slices of pecorino cheese, fresh penne bolognese covered in slowly melting parmesan, a silky prosciutto, warm cheese, and funghi panino from the bar across from my Borgo Ognissanti appartamento--the best panino I've ever had. The cripsy bread breaks with only a small nudge from my teeth, giving way to the warm innards; thick and hearty ham covered in chewy cheese, with the occasional musky, meaty flavor of porcini mushroom.
And the gelato. Oh, the gelato. Thick and creamy, or light and icy, with cascading chocolate chips in the stracciatella, or slightly frozen strawberries in the fragola, each bite causing the kind of smile that makes your cheeks ache. Caramel gelato with a fresh crema base and sticky caramel swirls laced throughout, sandwiched between two hot waffles, the smell making you feel like carnivale has already arrived. Sitting down with the messy desert on a corner across from the ponte vecchio, dripping ice cream onto the cobblestone street between your feet--perfection.
Fuck cholesterol.
I call up La Giostra, one of the best restaurants in Firenze, known for their unbelievably rich, unfailingly cholesterol raising, multi-course meals-- "Per favore, posso fare una prenotazione per domani sera?"
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
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...
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...
Thursday, June 7, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
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!
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!
Friday, April 20, 2007
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).
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).
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