Food of the Gods, Mortal Prices

The fruit came from Meat Palace, and that's probably how my troubles began, for Meat Palace specializes in Russian charcuterie, and you take your chances ordering anything else. A few weeks back, as I shuffled about the cramped shop not far from my home in Brooklyn, a dusty jar of sour cherries caught my eye. But back at the apartment, my enthusiasm turned: tinny yet vegetal, with suggestions of mothball, the taste of the first one reached such an unpleasant crescendo as to render one eyebrow twitchy with distress. I've overheard a Russian proverb, however--The first pancake is always a blob--and, steadfast, I fished out a second.

It turned out to have all the appeal of the first, this time with overtones of blood (blood?). Only then did I read the label: these were no cherries, but rather cornelians--small red fruit that look similar at first glance. Although I'd never heard of them before, research revealed an impressive pedigree. They're what the sorceress Circe fed to Odysseus's crew after transforming the men into swine. Ottoman Turks used cornelian stain to dye their fezzes red. The cornelian bush's sturdy branches were long used for daggers and arrows (hence the family name dagwood, a.k.a. dogwood). And to this day, many living in Greece, Turkey, Ukraine, Armenia, and Iran purportedly enjoy the fruit. I set out to find its appeal.

However, when after phoning grocers far and wide I still came up empty-handed, I began to suspect that native eaters of cornelians didn't actually like them either. Yet authors, from grande dame Jane Grigson to "Wildman" Steve Brill (an infamous forager once arrested for picking Central Park dandelions in an NYPD sting operation), sing their praises: reduced to jam, pressed for soda, baked in a pie. Accounts from a Pennsylvania national park of expat families covertly shaking branches so that cornelians would fall on their picnic blankets whetted my appetite for reconnaissance; I slipped into the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, where eleven specimens of Cornus mas stand dormant through the winter, and stared them down. My efforts, like the trees, were fruitless.

Then, on a bleak and frigid morning, desperate, I boarded a train bound for a village on the south shore of "that great wet barnyard," Long Island Sound: Great Neck was F. Scott Fitzgerald's model for West Egg, the hamlet Gatsby called home. Its gentry is Iranian now, and within the stores stretched along two miles of the central boulevard, shopkeepers speaking lilting Farsi offered me mulberries, barberries, bergamot, quince--all bewitching, none cornelian.

But I've heard another Russian proverb--For the mad dog, seven miles is no detour--so I deadheaded back to the city, unfazed, sweeping into Kalustyan's, the famous purveyor of exotic sundries, where like a incompetent truffle hog I finally stumbled upon some cornelian preserves that had promise, right under my nose. With the chewy texture of Moroccan olives and a flavor that crosses the juicy brightness of cherries with the meatiness of beets, these at least have the potential for greatness. And as long as winter keeps the fresh ones at bay, and with strong tea to bolster them, they'll do.

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Ararat Cornelian Cherry Preserves (16 oz. jar, $8.99) are available to the curious and foolhardy at www.kalustyans.com.

Boycott McDonald's, I Say

Today about 3 p.m., I was sulking in a cab on Broadway and 82nd St. I'd just come back from a painful physical therapy session, and, because my progress apparently isn't going to be a perfect model of recovery, with each day improving upon the previous, I was so depressed, I limped on crutches into the nearest McDonald's. (I know I promised Melissa over at glutenfreeforgood that I was giving up my junk food vice, but those Angus burgers are a hard habit to break.) I paid for my lunch and sat down between a shrieking brat of two, who sounded not unlike a howler monkey, and a drunken man of indeterminate age.

When I opened my bag to fish out my meal, I saw something that has been ticking me off for some time, and I couldn't deny it any longer: McDonald's has been stinting on their french fries for months. The medium value meals have become less valuable as they contain about one-third fewer fries than when they were introduced, while at the same time their prices have only skyrocketed.

Oh, I know they look fabulous, those fries, glowing bright and seductive under the heat lamps. They must hire professional fry fluffers because the shiny red containers are robust and voluptuous before going in the bag. But after the jostling and shoulder checking needed to make my way to the table, the fries settle into nothing more than a generous regular portion. At first, months ago, I thought it was me--after all, with increasing age comes increasing appetite--but The One, who has remained the same size these past 14 years, also commented recently. I ate the measly portion begrudgingly, too scared to go up and demand my full share, lest someone think I was raised badly and never read Tiffany Table Manners for Teenagers.

It wasn't the shorting me on my fries that got me, it was what else they did--sneakily, perhaps even perpetratively--that sealed the boycott. I slipped into Starbucks down the street to get a cup of coffee and wait for Andy, the guy who cuts my hair, to finish up next door with his client. As I handed a five-dollar bill (actual specimen above) to the cashier, she looked down at it then, suspiciously, at me. She called over the other cashier, and they turned their backs and hunched over the bill, whispering, nodding to each other. The barista, who was curious, joined them. She, too, nodded.

"I'm sorry," my cashier said pleasantly, "we can't take this. It's counterfeit." The back of my neck prickled with shame. Did they think I printed up the fake bill in some filthy basement press? Was the line of customers behind me wondering if I was trying to put one over on JoJo and Co.?

"Who prints fake fives?" the guy behind me asked.

"Yeah, right," I snorted, trying to sound casual, not guilty.

"Maybe someone who's trying to fly under the radar," replied the cashier.

"Don't look at me," I said. "I got that thing when I went to McDonald's." There was a palpable exhaling of air. A release. The fact that it was McDonald's seemed to make sense to everyone--as if Mickey D's not only makes money by clogging arteries and making kids fat but by printing and pawning off fake money.

As I sat at the counter sipping my coffee, I felt the bill as the cashier did. It was indeed smooth and contained no red threads. Lincoln looked pallid compared to the crispy real fiver I had in my other hand. I vowed there and then never to return to McDonald's (and I encourage our millions of readers to do the same) until 1) I get an apology from someone very high up in the organization. In a pinch, Ronald will do. And 2) I get a five-dollar gift certificate to replace my loss. Do you hear that McDonald's Corporation? I won't take this lying down--not even with a bum leg.

Afterwards, I got my haircut, and as I fished in my wallet for a tip, I saw the bill. Do I pawn it off on poor unsuspecting Andy? Would he even know? But what if he went to Starbucks for a coffee and handed over the same fake five? He would know it came from me, and I, too, would be tainted in his eyes as McDonald's is in mine. No. Instead, I brought it home and taped it to my computer as a reminder of my personal war with my one-time biggest ally.

La Dolce Vita Winter-Style, Part One

It used to be Rome was never a favorite destination, so it was no surprise friends asked why my husband, Jerry, and I were going in January, of all times. Why not, I said. No tourists, no lines, no reservations necessary, no gypsies--obviously they have winter homes in a warmer place, a testament to how good business is during the tourist season--and, of course, the food. After this trip, Rome has risen considerably on my list of go-to places.

Jerry and I usually rent apartments while vacationing because we feel more a part of things, and I like to have a kitchen to try out local ingredients. It also keeps Jerry happy, because he can have his cereal with sliced bananas every morning. This trip we had a one-bedroom apartment on Campo de' Fiori, the daily marketplace for produce, fish, meat, cheese, and flowers. This apartment barely rated a C+, for it was entirely (but sparsely) outfitted, down to the knife block, by IKEA. Interestingly enough, the one thing it was missing was a vase. Now, how can you have a home near the famous "field of flowers" and not have a vase?

Each morning I cruised the market; it took all of two days to be recognized as a regular. Everything was in abundance: huge wheels of cheese (the Grana Padano is melt-in-the-mouth), boxes of sun-dried tomatoes, piles of cleaned artichokes with their stems attached, and zucchini flowers. My dilemma: cook with this abundance or eat at as many restaurants as possible? How cruel to make a girl choose.

Of course, pizza is everywhere, but the finest pizza bianca was steps from our apartment, at Fabrizio Roscioli's Forno Campo de' Fiori (Vicolo del Gallo, 14; tele: 011 39 06 688 06662). On December 23rd there was an article in the Chicago Tribune about how families around the world spend Christmas. The Roscioli family was featured in the piece. Always thinking ahead, I'd brought along a copy of the article, including the photo of the family, and had every intention of unabashedly ingratiating myself with the owner. He's a charming, low-key guy who sits behind the counter--half host, half il capo. It worked, I'm happy to say. He bought our first round of pizza, but we returned many times on our own dime.

Around the corner was Caffe Farnese (Piazza Farnese, 106/107; tele: 011 39 06 688 02125), which serves arguably the best cappuccino in town for a mere pittance of 90 euro cents. Popular tourist traps charge as much as 5 euro for a trifling version of the same thing.

If there are 3 to 4 million people in Rome, there are at least 2.5 million eateries. The monikers given to these feederies is a definite indication of price and, to the best of my knowledge, going from low to high, are: casalinga, osteria, taverna, trattoria, and ristorante. And we ate our way through every type.

The first night, we were so tired that we opted for Baccanale (Piazza Campo de' Fiori, 32; tele: 011 06 686 5163), breaking my cardinal rule of never eating at a place proudly featuring English menus. Even so, the pasta was outrageous and the bruschetta a surprise. On a U.S. menu, it would've been called "Bruschetta Deconstructed": a basket of oil-brushed, grilled bread and a bowl of cooked herbed cannellini beans with bits of prosciutto. A do-it-yourself bite.

La Campana (Vicolo della Campana, 18; tele: 011 39 06 686 7820) is said to be the oldest trattoria in Rome. Jerry had to stop me from pulling my chair up to the antipasto misto table and using it as a trough. I was reminded that the only way to make Italian dishes as good as you get in Italy is olive oil, olive oil, and olive oil. My gnawing concern for overindulgence leads me to skimp a bit at home on the oil, and my dishes suffer. Simply put, never again. After a generous portion of antipasti, we had only their vignarola--a soup of artichokes, fava beans, peas, and onions, anchored by guanciale, an unsmoked bacon made from pig's jowls. Bene!

Oh, Bloody Picnic

This past October, David and I traveled to Sao Jorge, one of the nine Azorean islands, to unearth the secrets of the eponymous Queijo Sao Jorge--a cheese so superb, it's been added to the EU's coveted Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) roster of unique artisanal foods produced in various corners of Europe. What we didn't know when planning our three-day itinerary was Sao Jorge is among the smallest islands in the archipelago. This overlooked fact stared us in the face when we checked into the only hotel in Velas, the island's largest town, and were informed by an enthusiastic receptionist that we'd brought the total number of guests to nine. After getting up early the next morning to visit Queijaria Canada (a cheese dairy owned by, of all people, the mayor) and tour the co-op that handles exports of Sao Jorge cheese, we were done with our research and had used up all of half a day.

Now what?

Hiking, the main attraction on Sao Jorge, was out of the question. With David hobbled by a severed Achilles tendon, we had to pass on marching along rocky canadas (laneways) among the high, impossibly green pastures. Then there was the dining scene. It took us all of a few hours to suss out the only three restaurants in town before boredom kicked in. David retired to his room to rest his ankle and write, which left me with no other choice but to loiter at the supermarket, which--in one of the town's more ingenious turns--was also a bar. During the next few days, I stopped in for a beer, or a ferociously strong bica (espresso), then pottered among the dusty shelves, happily reading and photographing the labels on bottles, cans, and jars and trying to stop myself from buying terracotta dishes and gleaming cataplanas (hinged, clam-shaped copper cooking pots) that would create yet another piece of luggage for David to trip over. On our last day, I had my fill of browsing, and I bought a few things from the deli section for a picnic lunch on the terrace of my hotel room.

I was sitting there, feet up, soaking in the stunning view of the island of Pico--translated as "peak," Pico is a perfect blue volcanic cone rising straight out of the Atlantic Ocean not ten miles away--when David came knocking at my door, asking to borrow my Swiss Army knife to cut into the giant wedge of Queijo Sao Jorge he'd bought at the co-op.

"Pull up a chair," I said, handing him the knife.

"What are you eating?" he asked, eyeing the hunk of crusty pao de casa I was slathering with potted meat from a jar.

"Sarrabulho," I replied, clearing my palate with a slug of Cristal Lager. "It's a kind of pate--very good."

David screwed up his face into an expression usually reserved for one of his particularly intense moments of ankle pain. "You do know it's blood, right?"

"What?" I sputtered, picking up the jar and squinting at the tiny printing on the label. Sangue (blood) was listed as the main ingredient. I'd already eaten half the stuff. I smeared a bit more onto a piece of bread and chewed thoughtfully, but brain and taste buds had gone to war. No doubt potted blood is perfectly nutritious, and a mere minute earlier I'd thought it was delicious, but now I found it vaguely disgusting. I looked at David.

"Hey," I said, "this bread's pretty good. You want to share that cheese?"

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To try Queijo Sao Jorge, a bold-tasting cheddar-like cheese made from organic Azorean cow's milk, you can order it from igourmet.com. To eat potted sarrabulho, sorry, you'll have to go to the Azores.

Kathleen Flinn Gets Bearded

Heads up, readers in the New York City area: On Wednesday the 23rd, the James Beard Foundation's monthly book reading, Beard on Books, is featuring Kathleen Flinn. Author of The Sharper Your Knife, the Less you Cry, Kathleen's tale is about starting over, in Paris, while attending the Cordon Bleu--kind of makes me feel like starting over. The book, a reader favorite, also caught the eyes of our judges, landing it a place on our Best 20 of '07 list. Kathleen has shared her work at two of our sold-out "Talking with Your Mouth Full" readings--first in January in New York and then again this past autumn in Seattle. Beard on Books is held at the James Beard House, 167 W. 12th St., and starts at noon. To RSVP, call reservations manager Colleen Vincent at (212) 627-2308.

Buzzing about AlgarveBuzz.com

Last year, when I was knocking about the Algarve, Portugal's sun-drenched southern region, I had the feeling I never dug below the thick veneer of tourism catering to the mainly Brit/German/Dutch markets. Restaurant menus and outdoor special boards had a mini United Nations of flags indicating the different languages spoken inside. And when The One and I stepped into most of these places, the offerings were hardly stellar and rarely Portuguese. Granted, I did have some tasty meals in tucked-away places, but they were never far from the shouts of souvenir hawkers and the blather of what seemed like a world summit meeting on vacation. It was Portugal, Club Med-ized.

When I got home and e-mailed some of my Portuguese friends about my less-than-authentic time in the region, nearly everyone wrote back, "That's because you went to the wrong places. I have [insert name of brother/sister/parent/cousin/ex-girlfriend/old boss/best friend] who lives in [insert name of small town in the Algarve] who could have shown you the real Algarve." Bully for me. But until I return to follow up on every one of those introductions, I've discovered something almost as good and probably more useful: AlgarveBuzz.com.

Written by an Algarvian woman named Eddie, the blog is without a doubt one of the most beautiful homages to the region. Gorgeous photos of local life and food taken by Eddie and her partner, Moses, are splashed across each page, while event info, recipes, wine discoveries, and news related to the area fill the text. Their blatant love of the Algarve is palpable. Eddie and Moses are on a two-person mission to bring the Algarve to readers (through recipes and news) and readers to the Algarve (through links on traveling to, and living in, Portugal). After perusing some of the blog, I have to admit I have a bit of saudades, or longing, for Tavira, a quaint waterfront town barely clinging to the Portuguese side of the Portugal-Spain border.

So consider yourself warned. The last thing I want to have to say to you if you come back from the Algarve flummoxed is, "That's because you went to the wrong places. I have two friends, Eddie and Moses, who live there and their blog could have shown you the real Algarve."

Whatever Happened to This Blog?

This blog was originally supposed to launch months ago, as a place for me to write about my experiences living in Portugal while researching my cookbook--and for our contributors and guest bloggers to write about their own culinary hijinks--but its debut was hijacked by an utterly humiliating act of clumsiness. On my way to visit my family before leaving for Portugal, I was getting off the elevator at the Providence, RI, train station with enough luggage for a family of six, tripped over a loose strap, and fell. Then the cargo-load of luggage fell on top of me, one of the suitcases landing squarely on top of my right ankle. As I lay splattered upon the floor--computer, camera, and bags strewn all over--the room instantly fell silent and all eyes were upon me. Was that muffled sniggering I heard from that group of college kids near the newsstand? Is my underwear clean? Am I even wearing underwear? My father helped me up, and I started to gather my things, but a weird thing happened: I couldn't move my leg. My brain sent electrical impulses to it, but the neurons seemed to turn a deaf ear. When I was finally able to gain motion, I looked like Steve Martin in a classic SNL skit--arms flailing, legs wobbling, a smirk on my face. In short, an idiot.

But after a few days at my parents' home, I and my sprained ankle improved immensely, and I took off for Portugal, albeit it with a wicked limp. The best thing about being physically compromised is the special attention I got. I was able to pre-board before Elite Sky Members and families with children. On the plane, I was given an exit row for more room for my leg, and I was supplied with soda and two bags of pretzels before anyone boarded. "Hey, this gimp thing ain't so bad, after all," I said to myself.

In Lisbon, as I hauled myself down steep hills and lurched up uneven becos (stone stairways) in the Alfama district near where I lived, I visited with friends, researched, and ate. But my ankle never got better. Two weeks passed, then three. I went to the hospital, and all I got was an X-ray, a pair of sleek European-style crutches, and a pat on my ass to send me on my way. When I returned to New York eight weeks later, I got checked out. The diagnosis: not a sprained ankle but a completely severed Achilles tendon. Six days later I was in the hospital for reconstructive surgery, after which I was in the blue haze of Vicodin for more than two weeks. (The One Who Brings Me Love Joy and Happiness was giving me two extra pills a day by accident--shades of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, perhaps?) After that was two months of lying prone with my leg up. I started watching daytime TV. I actually began liking the Rachel Ray Show and decided Whoopi Goldberg was eons better than Rosie O’Donnell. The faces on General Hospital changed but the plots were the same when I watched it in college. Hardly the stuff of compelling narrative.

With another month or so of medically induced house arrest ahead of me, I decided to launch this blog. Maybe there’ll be something worth writing about, such as the new and improved vacuum sealer on QVC. Until then, enjoy the words of some of our talented writers.