LC {blog} from Leite's Culinaria

“Watch out for my uncle, he's a cannibal!”

2008-06-27T12:58:00.028-04:00

That’s the way my nieces and nephews introduce me to their friends--oh wait, so does Ken Albala. I should probably point out that the ages of the children (not including my co-editor, who is a child only in the best metaphorical sense) range from eight to sixteen--those magical years when the ability to gross out one’s friends is an important tool in achieving social status. It pleases me to be able to furnish a small frisson of disgust in order to aid in their quest for popularity.

I hasten to add that I am not, in fact, an anthropophagist. I have read and written a lot about cannibals , though--enough, to be sure, to know that my interest in the consumption of human flesh is purely academic.

Mostly academic.

Well, somewhat academic.

There is a small, deeply buried part of me that is still (some people might argue that it’s neither as small nor as deeply buried as I believe) adolescent. Let’s just say I’m adolescent enough to enjoy watching the moment of transient fear and confusion that flickers across people’s faces when they discover my obsession with cannibals. Most of them know of my interest in food and cooking--indeed, many of them have eaten meals I’ve prepared. In that brief darkening expression, one can almost see them counting off past dinners at my house, and wondering if they should have been more concerned about the identity of the main ingredients.

What I find curious, however, is that once their momentary social awkwardness passes, people who believed they knew nothing about such a disreputable subject start spouting little facts--and alleged facts--they’ve accumulated in normal life (perhaps when they, themselves, were adolescents). Sometimes they mention famous criminal cases, sometimes they repeat old clichés about encounters of explorers and missionaries with savage eaters of men, but most often they tell cannibal jokes.

There’s something about the idea of munching on a nice leg o’ man that makes everyone want to be a comedian.

Jokes are, in part, a way of hiding real anxiety about touchy subjects, but this is more than just nervous laughter; it’s clear that these people like to discuss eating people--supposedly, the ultimate taboo--once someone else is kind enough to bring up the subject. William Bueller Seabrook, a man who acquired more first-hand knowledge about the fundamental facts of cannibalism than most of the civilized people who talk about it--including myself--wrote about cannibals in 1931: “Even aside from their delightful humorous aspect they are a highly interesting and wholly legitimate subject, whether for the adventurer or the learned anthropologist.”

Cannibals are fascinating, and our fascination with them is, in itself...ummm...ahhhh...fascinating.

Of course, nothing interests us more than ourselves, and Ambrose Bierce (in an 1868 essay, "Did We Eat One Another?") carried that rather obvious observation to its logical conclusion: “Our uniform vanity has given us the human mind as the acme of intelligence, the human face and figure as the standard of beauty. Of course we cannot deny to human fat and lean an equal superiority over beef, mutton and pork.”

This little collection does not aim to resolve the question of the superiority of human fat and lean over beef, mutton and pork, or whether humans should, or should not, be on the menu -- but I like to think that some of the tales here will add appreciably to the range of topics available for discussion over dinner.

If such talk puts others off their feed, so be it--it just means that there will all the more leftovers for us.

besides being our food history editor, Gary Allen is the co-editor, along with Ken Albala of Human Cuisine. (You just can't make this stuff up.)

Birds of a Feather

2008-05-21T23:49:00.010-04:00

In her 1987 work A Birdwatcher's Cookbook, late author and ornithologist Erma Fisk ("Jonnie" to her friends) doesn't have much to say about the sophisticated, discriminating concept of appetite. Instead, she caters to people who cook out of hunger: to those for whom it is a hobby and a pleasure but also a necessity, to those who can't run to the store when their three perfect courses don't go as planned, to cooks whose lives beyond the kitchen sometimes override those within it, and to those who have to improvise when culinary disaster strikes. In other words, she's practical.

Yet what constitutes "practical" changes with time, and after 21 years, many of the recipes in A Birdwatcher's Cookbook are dated. Canned cream-of-mushroom and instant onion soups, both of which make appearances throughout, just don't play like they used to. Despite such shortcomings, the book's appeal lives on nonetheless. Chalk it up to Fisk's one-of-a-kind charisma.

Her unique brand of kitchen wisdom includes wisecracks, rants, lessons in natural history, and philosophical meanderings--all alongside recipe instructions that border on stream-of-consciousness, with rhetorical questions scattered here and there, like birdseed, for the reader ("Did I mention that already?" she wonders aloud, midway through steps). The bookflap of the original edition even includes a photo of Fisk in which she looks like a wise, ornery owl, surrounded by darkness and peering out suspiciously from the right edge of the frame.

That quirky attitude fills the book. At its very beginning, Fisk dispenses with a foreword and instead gives the reader a warning, which she divides into statements, like a manifesto. One in particular sets the tone for the chapters to come:

If guests are hungry, they will eat anything, I've found, especially if they are sitting about the kitchen or standing (usually in the way) while you bustle about, tantalizing them with fragrances from your kettles. I've tested most of these dishes. Some I don't particularly like, but others do, so maybe you will.

It's easy to disregard remarks like that as glib. But press on through the stories and travelogues (cleverly disguised as recipes), and you discover that Fisk really does mean it. She's certainly had plenty of hungry guests to test her theory on: For decades, she moved through the western hemisphere, along with the seasonal bird migrations, crossing two continents and a handful of islands, from the arctic to the tropics. All the while, she cooked whatever she got her hands on--for her peers, mentors, family, friends, and, eventually, her students.

A colleague in Belize taught her how to roast the armadillos that had terrorized her garden; another, in the Caribbean, informed her that a well-cooked termite tastes like shrimp, and that a raw one tastes like pineapple (understandably, the latter claim is from one of the recipes that the author herself didn't test). A farm woman in Pennsylvania passed on her recipe for scrapple, a regional specialty, which calls for a 48-gallon kettle, three pigs, one steer, two pounds of coriander, and enough cornmeal and flour that the long-simmered mixture pulls away from the pot when stirred. At the end of the recipe, Fisk nonchalantly suggests that the reader may want to scale down the proportions for his or her own purposes.

Fisk also relates firsthand how the intimacy that birders share with nature leads them to waste nothing--even if it means consuming the occasional subject. At a birdbanding station she ran in south Florida, where the locals brought her fresh birds that had met accidental deaths, she found "mourning-dove breasts wrapped in bacon excellent, grosbeaks tough, cedar waxwings and robins tender." When a friend of hers, a well-known ornithologist, found out she was compiling a cookbook, he refused to disclose his method for cooking the white ibis that native guides liked to supply on research trips in the tropics. His grant money depended too much on his image as a conservationist.

That's the extreme end of things. Your taste for birds doesn't need to be quite so literal to enjoy the rest of the book. Plenty of recipes offer sustenance for early-rising birders: overnight oatmeal prepared directly in the thermos; a slapdash affair called Lazy Biscuits, stuffed with ham or cheese; and Bus Breakfast Spread, a vaguely Mediterranean blend of bananas, honey, walnuts, raisins, and cream cheese, favored by young, itinerant Audubon researchers. None of the dishes will win you a Beard Award, but that's missing Fisk's point. Regardless of what you're hungry for, be it market-fresh nettles, hand-picked morels, or a glimpse at a white-eyed vireo during the great spring migrations that are just winding up for the year, Fisk's ultimate commandment is this: Get outside, appreciate the season, and take in the bounty it offers.

Catch David on "Martha Stewart Radio"

2008-05-16T17:30:00.004-04:00

Tune into "Living Today" on Sirius Radio Channel 112 at 1:00 p.m. on Monday, May 19th. I'll discuss the barbecued ribs article I wrote for the June issue of Martha Stewart Living, which hits newsstands the same day. I'll also talk about my favorite topic: Portuguese food. You can even call in and ask questions. If you don't have a Sirius Radio account, you can sign up for a free three-day trial.

Guest Post: Pimiento Cheese

2008-05-12T16:31:00.009-04:00

Barbecue, catfish, and grits are true Southern culinary icons, to be sure. Yet despite their humble beginnings, these Dixie-born gems have gone on to become quite popular across the country. As a result, it's not particularly difficult to find foods such as Memphis-style barbecue or garlic-cheese grits in New York or LA (and I don't mean Lower Alabama).

Enter pimiento cheese.

Now, if you read the Otis, My Man! post back in March, you know that pimiento cheese is one of my favorite foods. I'll happily eat it morning, noon, or night (and all times in between).

First off, in my neck of the woods, the word pimiento is pronounced "PUH-minnuh" (just like the old guys in the bait shop pronounce minnow, only without the "PUH").

A cookbook codifying one true recipe for pimiento cheese, let alone the many regional variations such as adding smoked paprika or jalapeno peppers, is almost impossible to find; favorite recipes seem to survive by way of oral tradition. Therefore, the popularity of this unique spread remains largely confined to states below the Mason-Dixon, where it rightfully assumes its place as an authentic Southern delicacy.

So what exactly is pimiento cheese? To the uninitiated, it's little more than a one-dimensional combination of grated cheese, some chopped pimiento peppers, and a dollop or two of mayonnaise. However, to those passionate fans who rank pimiento cheese right up there beside cold fried chicken and deviled eggs as essential provisions at any proper picnic, it's more, much more. (Speaking of deviled eggs, try substituting pimiento cheese for mayonnaise in your favorite recipe.)

Novelist and North Carolinian native Reynolds Price says, "It was the peanut butter of my childhood." As an adult, he now swears by its restorative powers. "I've been caught eating a pound in two days, especially if life is hard. On rough brown bread, it's a sovereign nerve salve," he admits. To other devotees, a tub of pimiento cheese in the kitchen becomes a multifunctional must-have--elevating an ordinary grilled cheese to something heavenly (particularly when combined with sliced Roma tomatoes and crispy bacon) and dramatically raising the bar on the everyday cheeseburger and omelet.

Admirers regularly agree that sharp cheddar cheese is the backbone of the mixture--the sharper, the better. High-quality mayonnaise, such as Hellmann's or Duke's, is also a given. But here's where the opinions begin to fork off in more directions than tributaries leading into the Mississippi. On the issue of texture, should the cheese be grated or mashed? If grated, does coarse or fine yield the best results? If mashed, is the fork or the modern food processor the best tool? Then there are the legions who make pimiento cheese by running all ingredients through a meat grinder (a.k.a. "the old-fashioned way").

In my search for the definitive blend, I asked Mary Allen Perry, a member of the Southern Living Foods team (and long recognized for her exemplary pimiento cheese-making skills), to share her secret recipe. She happily (and thankfully) agreed. However, Perry, giving credit where credit is due, admits, "My recipe was originally that of my Great-Grandmother Kersh, who lived a vibrant life until she was 98--slim, trim, and fearless of fat content."

The recipe eventually made its way to Perry's aunt Carolyn, who added a touch of Worcestershire sauce and finely grated onion. "They worked by taste and feel, dismissing the exactness of measurement," says Perry, explaining how she drew upon childhood memories to record this fabulous formula. So, whether you use pimiento cheese to fill celery sticks or cherry tomatoes, or spread it on crackers or a slice of your favorite bread, you should feel confident with this terrific version.

Classic Pimiento Cheese
Makes 4 cups

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups mayonnaise
One 4-ounce jar diced pimiento, drained
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon finely grated onion
1/4 teaspoon ground red pepper
One 8-ounce block extra-sharp cheddar cheese, finely shredded
One 8-ounce block sharp cheddar cheese, shredded

Method
Stir together the first 5 ingredients in a large bowl; stir in the cheeses. Store in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.

Variations
Jalapeno Pimiento Cheese: Add 2 seeded and minced jalapeno peppers.

Cream Cheese-Olive Pimiento Cheese: Reduce the mayonnaise to 3/4 cup. Stir together the first 5 ingredients, one 8-ounce package softened cream cheese, and one 5 3/4-ounce jar of sliced salad olives, drained. Proceed with the recipe as directed.

Pecan Pimiento Cheese: Stir in 3/4 cup chopped pecans, toasted.

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Southern Living Executive Food Editor SCOTT JONES is a graduate of The Culinary Institute of America. Jones has received awards from the International Association of Culinary Professionals and the James Beard Foundation. In addition, he holds a degree in magazine publishing and journalism from the University of Mississippi and is the author of the Southern Living Wine Guide and Journal. Do you have a great pimiento cheese recipe? Please share it with Scott (and it might even make it into the magazine).

So You Wanna Buy a Knife, Huh? Part 2

2008-05-01T07:56:00.001-04:00

Warning Signs (How Not to Buy Garbage)
Sometimes it can be a little hard to tell quality knives from knives that simply have better marketing budgets. Here are the warning signs that the knives you are looking at might be not be all that they seem:

Locale -- you generally don't find quality kitchen knives at the grocery store, the gas station, the hardware store, the sporting goods store or the bait and tackle shop. The local big box retailer is also not a place to buy good kitchen knives. Yes, they may actually have recognizable and reputable brand names, but it's not the top of the line. The margins just aren't there. Stick with a specialty kitchenware shop, cutlery store or online cutlery retailer. You can find decent knives in department stores, but the clerks don't have the knowledge or flexibility you need to get exactly what you want. You either buy their box or go home. Go home. You can do better.

Price -- Most of the time you do indeed get what you pay for. A good chef's knife generally costs somewhere between $80 and $150. Some are substantially more than that. There are some bargains out there, but for the most part a six piece set of knives (with block!) for $49.95 is no bargain. Expect to pay upwards of $400 to $500 for a good matched set of knives, if that's how you are inclined. This is a big reason I'm not a fan of boxed sets of knives. On a per-knife basis a set can be a good deal, but you also pay a hefty surcharge for knives you don't need. Most manufacturers offer a two or three piece "starter set" for this very reason.

Mystery steel -- If they won't tell you what's in the steel, they probably aren't very proud of it. There also are manufacturers who feel that you have no need for this information and would be too dumb to make use of it if you did. They don't deserve your business. At a bare minimum, you should see the words "high carbon" somewhere. That phrase is open to very flexible interpretation, but it at least means you are in the ballpark.

Weasel words -- Beware of meaningless marketing drivel, words like "surgical steel." There is no such thing. The word "stainless" all by itself without the "high carbon" modifier tends to be a bad sign, too. It sounds authentic, but low carbon stainless steel is awful. It is hard to sharpen and will not take or hold a decent working edge. It can be manufactured and sold cheaply, however, which is why a lot of people end up with knives that just make them miserable.

Flex -- fillet knives aside, a good knife blade is fairly stiff. You shouldn't be able to bend it or flex it very much. If you can, that's usually a sign of cheap, low carbon steel or a heat treatment that left the knife softer than you want in your kitchen. If the blade feels flimsy, it is.

Never needs sharpening -- Yes they do, you just don't want to. "Never needs sharpening" is the weasel term for a serrated edge, even if the maker tries strenuously to avoid calling it that. These knives are garbage. Avoid them at all costs. They are lousy performers to begin with and when they do eventually go dull they cannot easily be sharpened back to usefulness. They tend to be made with very cheap steel and depend entirely on the ripping action of the teeth to work. Might be handy in the tackle box, where corrosion resistance is more important that cutting ability, but these knives are not something worthy of your kitchen.

Country of origin -- The knife making centers of the world are (or were) justly famous for their products: Solingen in Germany, Thiers in France, Sheffield in England, and Sakai and Seki City in Japan. When you buy a kitchen knife from one of these places, you stand a pretty good chance of getting a quality knife. When those manufacturers farm the work out to another country, you're probably getting cheap steel, punched out and slapped together by the thousands to feed the gaping maw of commerce. Put another way, a knife from Solingen stands a good chance of being high quality. A knife from a Solingen-based manufacturer who has the blades stamped out in Paraguay and assembled in Bora Bora probably isn't worth a damn, even if it does have the logo of a famous brand.

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CHAD WARD is the author of An Edge in the Kitchen, available in June from Morrow Cookbooks. He has been a writer and (sometimes professional) cook for more than 20 years. His work has appeared in publications ranging from Best Food Writing to Aviation International News. He lives in North Carolina.

So You Wanna Buy a Knife, Huh? Part 1

2008-04-30T15:38:00.010-04:00

You have decided that it is time to get serious, time to show the world that you have arrived and are ready to cook. You have decided to buy some decent kitchen knives. Buying a good knife or two can be a little like buying your first car. It can be intimidating and expensive. There are a lot of people with very strong opinions about what you want, need, and desire. What no one ever tells you is what not to buy. So let's take a look at some of the common mistakes that people make when they purchase kitchen knives.

Don't Be a Blockhead
You see them in the store. They are beautiful, with their sexy handles all lined up just so. You glance around and then surreptitiously fondle them, damning the safety device that keeps you from sliding the gleaming blade from the block. The salesman sidles up and in a throaty whisper says, "It comes with the sharpening steel and the mango slicer." You swoon. A mango slicer? Who knew there was such a thing? This must be a great set of knives.

Thus, you are seduced. And like all victims of seduction, you know that not all is as it seems, but you don't care. You buy the big block of knives. It's a steal! You got nine knives, some kitchen shears, and a sharpening steel for the same price as just two knives down at the high-rent end of the store display. Thus begins a cycle of frustration and recrimination that will still leave you using just three knives. Three mediocre knives. Three knives that you don't like and that will sit forlornly in the block with their unused siblings when you can't take it anymore and upgrade to better knives. That block of knives looks great to the uninitiated, but it doesn't do anything to address what you--and you alone--really want or need as a cook.

So, what do you really need? With a good chef's knife and a paring knife you can do anything and everything you ever need to do in a kitchen. Throw in a big serrated bread knife and you'll own the world. Anything else is a convenience rather than a necessity. So don't be a blockhead. Don't buy knives you don't need. Buy fewer higher-quality knives and build slowly. Mix and match to suit your tastes and cooking styles. You'll be happier. Get the best you can afford and start slow. Mismatched handles in the knife block or kitchen drawer are a sign of a comfortable and self-assured cook.

The Chef's Knife
The chef's knife is the first knife you pick up in the kitchen and the last one you put down. You can do 90 percent of everything you ever need to do in the kitchen with just a chef's knife. You can do 100 percent if you really have to. This is the Big Kahuna. It is not just the most important knife in your kitchen, it is the most important tool in your kitchen. Buy accordingly. Even if you are brand-new to cooking, very soon you won't be able to imagine trying to prepare a meal without your chef's knife. It is your paintbrush, your means of self expression--and more importantly, your means of getting dinner on the table. Expect to pay somewhere between $85 to $150 for a good one. Some chef's knives go for more than $250 for a standard 8-inch knife, but there are bargains out there too.

The Paring Knife
The next player in the kitchen triumvirate is the paring knife. This is the microsurgery version of the chef's knife. Paring knives are used for all those delicate little tasks--scoring oranges peels, cutting the cores out of apple quarters, removing eyes from potatoes, hulling strawberries. The paring knife is perfect for those chores where a chef's knife would be unwieldy. The blade usually ranges from 2 inches to about 4 inches in length and comes in a variety of shapes.

Slicer or Bread Knife
The greyhounds of the kitchen, slicers are long and lean. Slicers start at 9 inches and are available up to 18 inches. The length of the blade allows you to make a clean slice in a single stroke. This is especially important when carving roasted meats or slicing fish. Excessive sawing back and forth leaves ridges and a rough texture that is unattractive. The narrowness of the blade helps keep moist foods from sticking. A standard bread knife has a serrated edge, which is fine for most breads but absolutely lousy at slicing a roast. A better choice is a scalloped edge. A scalloped edge slicer can do double duty as a good slicing knife and a good bread knife. Scalloped edges are more gentle than serrated edges and generally leave a cleaner cut.

Sounds like heresy, doesn't it? All of your friends have big fancy blocks of knives, so that's what you want too. Relax, you'll get there. But by starting with The Big Three, you'll build a set of knives that suits your cooking style and your budget, knives that you will still be using when your friends dump their big blocks of knives and go looking for new ones.

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Chad Ward is the author of An Edge in the Kitchen, available in June from Morrow Cookbooks. He has been a writer and (sometimes professional) cook for more than 20 years. His work has appeared in publications ranging from Best Food Writing to Aviation International News. He lives in North Carolina.

Mushrooms, Mushrooms Everywhere

2008-04-29T14:43:00.011-04:00

Around this time of year, I start getting interested in the woods again, because this is when the columbines, wood anemones, and--most significantly--the morels appear. Unfortunately, there has been no rain for weeks and the woods have been bone-dry (in fact, there have been forest fires about ten miles from here). However, yesterday it rained for about 15 hours, a good long soaking, and I knew that mushrooms would be pushing through the leaf litter. I actually woke up dreaming of collecting a big bag full of them.

The weather was cool and gray this morning, but that only made the hunt more challenging: The mushrooms are the same color as the leaves through which they barely peek and, without bright sun, there aren't even any shadows to help in spotting them.

The photo above is of this year's first morel--the first of two dozen that will find their way into a pot of risotto tonight. Spring has now officially arrived.

Get Your Licks: Absinthe and Bacon Lollypops

2008-04-26T10:57:00.013-04:00

For those of you still longing for something as good as your Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop, look no further. Lollyphile, a San Francisco-based company, has concocted sophisticated takes on your favorite childhood treat.

It all started last Halloween when owner Jason Lewis, bereft of candy but with a surplus of the recently un-banned liqueur absinthe, whipped up a batch of absinthe lollies, which his friends scarfed down. Emboldened, he fidged and fudged until he came up with a USDA-approved treat that falls within the legal limits of the use of thujone, the supposed psychedelic that caused absinthe's unfair banishment. The neon-green candy has a distinct anise flavor that any licorice lover will adore. Snack on it or use it as a curious end to a terribly decadent meal.

Lewis began brainstorming, and several months later came up with another winner: Maple-Bacon. The candy, which is made with real maple syrup and studded with sustainably farmed bacon bits, is addictive. It had me craving a hunk of lip-smackingly good barbecue.

Lollyphile is such a new company (it's about to celebrate its second-month anniversary) that Lewis and his team of two cooks work out of a rented kitchen. But he's determined to change that. There's a whole line of top-secret new flavors in the pipeline. The only one I could wheedle out of him was the provocative Wasabi-Ginger lollypop. With flavors like these, it's got to be just a matter of time before the daytime talk shows come calling. (Martha and Rachel, are you listening?)

Right now you can purchase both the Absinthe and Maple-Bacon lollypops online. You can also find Lewis's lollies at these retail locations.

Miette Confiserie
449 Octavia Blvd., San Francisco, CA

Big Top Candy Shop
706 S, Congress Ave., Austin, TX

Brown University Bookstore
71 Olive St., Providence, RI

Relish
107 S. Broad St., Thomasville, GA

The Standard Boutique
40 Island Ave., Miami Beach, FL

The City Bakery
3 W. 18th St., New York, NY

Garden Gate Shop
4344 Shaw Blvd., St. Louis, MO

Thomas Schoen Shop
24 Philemon Lake Rd., McLeese Lake, BC

Authors' Answers Series: Lynne Rossetto Kasper and Sally Swift

2008-04-21T21:23:00.008-04:00

Lynne Rossetto Kasper, host of The Splendid Table, teamed up with Sally Swift, her producer of many years, to co-author the terrific book The Splendid Table's How to Eat Supper. Part cookbook, part cheat sheet, part teacher--the book includes recipes from Kasper and Swift, as well as from friends and guests from the show.

Interviewing Kasper, one of the best interviewers on the air, was, I'll admit, daunting. Couple that with a wicked cold (you'll hear a little bit of a smoker's rasp in my voice, and I've never taken a drag on a cigarette in my life), and you'll understand why I was sweating in that recording booth. What I like about our chat is it covers a lot of topics--we had no agenda. Some of the things we discussed: food politics, trends in food, how we cook today, the acceptance of "American Cuisine," and synesthetes, a unique group of people who, in this case, feel shapes when they eat food. Interesting listening, if you ask me. Listen here. Requires QuickTime. Free download for Windows and Macintosh.

Perpetual Non-Motion

2008-04-20T15:34:00.013-04:00

Now, I don't want everyone to start thinking that LC or LC {blog} is going all-out healthy. Sure, there have been some dubious posts by our inveterate wholesome writer Adrienne Anderson about such healthful topics as bean stock and flaxseed. But we are, have always been, and will always be a full-fat, full-flavor, full-time cooking site. Call them our founding principles.

However, that being said, I had a bit of a fright yesterday. For the past several days, I've been wearing a pedometer as a way of gauging how much improvement there has been in my ability to walk long distances. My physical therapist insists I build up to five miles a day. I started at less than one mile two weeks ago and on Friday was up past two miles. That's about as far as I can go before I'm limping Igor-style because of THE ACCIDENT. But yesterday, I had a busy day at my desk, working on an article for the New York Times and one for Gourmet, not to mention desperately trying to find a way not to touch my manuscript. Now, in PPD (pre-pedometer days), I'd have shouted you down, insisting that I most certainly walk at least two miles during my regular desk-to-kitchen-to desk-to-basement-to-bathroom-to-desk-to-kitchen-to family-room-to-bedroom routine. But I took a look at the old ball and chain attached to my waistband and discovered I had walked less than two-tenths of a mile in more than eight hours! I walked off a whooping 46 calories. Ants cover more ground than that in a busy afternoon.

Positive that the thing was broken, I paced the backyard, only to see the numbers start spinning with every turn. That means for the past decade I've been sitting on this ever-softening butt of mine thinking I was relatively healthy, relatively active, relatively sane. So it's not all the recipe testing or the medication or middle age, or the fact that those freaking people over at Levi's are making 40-inch-waist jeans a lot smaller these days. The truth is, I'm Jabba the Hut presiding over my oversized desk.

So, desk jockeys, beware: Get thee a pedometer immediately, or risk being found one day greasy-haired, dehydrated, and mumbling incoherently because your ass is fused permanently to your chair.

Gotta run. I've got 1.53 more miles to go today.

Just the Flax, Ma'am

2008-04-19T15:10:00.016-04:00

My feelings about "health food" are best summed up by the classic joke:

A young man visits his doctor for a routine checkup. "I've got good news and bad news," the doctor says.

"Give me the bad news first, doc."

"Well, my tests show that you have a heart condition."

"A heart condition?" the man asks, aghast. "But I feel great! What's the prognosis?"

The doctor shakes his head. "Not so good. You also have cancer."

"Cancer?!" The man cries in disbelief.

"Sadly, yes. A brain tumor, too. In short, you have three weeks to live."

Hysterical, the man exclaims, "Three weeks? Quick, give me the good news!"

"Well, I recommend that you switch to a diet of cod liver oil and dehydrated kale."

"Really, doc? And that'll cure me?"

"No, but it will seem like the longest three weeks of your life."

And that's the peril of health food. Don't get me wrong--I like plenty of delicious food that's healthy by coincidence, like fresh, tart currants, sassy kumquats (skin and all), and raw arugula by the fistful; but I like these things because they're packed with flavor, not because of their percentage of this or their milligrams-per-serving of that. To me, people who choose food solely for its nutritional properties seem suspicious; I find them vaguely untrustworthy, or, at least, not much fun to eat with. They lack zest. I firmly subscribe to the popular maxim that one's interest in eating reflects one's interest in life itself: You can't fully embrace one without embracing the other. In other words, I'm an omnivorous glutton.

Gluttony is not my only sin. In the kitchen, I'm also a thief--sneaking through old cookbooks and magazines like a cat burglar, pocketing my favorite ideas. I made my most recent score while voraciously perusing a back issue of Cook's Illustrated, which tipped me off to a cornbread recipe written by an 11-year-old named Dana Sly. According to the headnote, it won her a blue ribbon at the Iowa State Fair. In the grip of hunger, I was hooked. However, there was a catch: The recipe was vegan, and, as a substitute for eggs, it called for ground flaxseed, dissolved in water, to moisten and bind the bread. To me, this sounded suspiciously like health food gimmickry, despite the alleged first-place finish. I wondered if it would turn out as some grayish mush-cake, only considered palatable by the lowest of standards. Could young Sly be trusted?

Her method piqued my interest, however, because ingenious substitutions, when they work, are exactly the sort of thing I like to purloin for my own culinary arsenal. Still, even to such a wide-ranging omnivore as myself, ground flaxseed didn't sound particularly appetizing, and I found while preparing it that the texture of the precooked, reconstituted seeds was...unusual, to put it charitably (gluey and mucus-like, in more realistic terms). However, when I bit into the finished product, the tender cornbread, I knew the kid was on to something. Stealthy and sated, I slipped her idea into my bag of tricks.

Not much later, to my surprise, a lazy afternoon's Internet research revealed that my find wasn't quite so precious. From numerous Web sites, I learned that the flaxseed substitution is actually commonplace in the realm of vegan baking. A few experiments later, my curiosity about these seeds had blossomed into infatuation--and not for their usefulness or their nutritional value but, rather, (skeptics, are you sitting down?) for the boost of flavor they impart.

When I set aside the pre-ground flax meal and instead ground my own seeds fresh in a coffee grinder, I discovered their light, woody aroma, like the smell of fresh-cut grain. I tried them out in a couple of standby recipes, full-flavored items like spice-flecked carrot cake and dense, dark zucchini bread. In robust baked goods like these, the seeds added a nice layer of nutty complexity. Incorporated as an egg substitute, they added a touch of extra moistness, too--which turned out to be just the thing to complement a healthy layer of luscious cream-cheese frosting or a generous swipe of sweet butter.

The formula is simple: Dissolve 1 tablespoon of ground flaxseed in 3 tablespoons of boiling water for every egg you're replacing. Keep in mind a few guidelines: This substitution works best in recipes where assertive nuttiness makes sense. (Pecan pancakes, anyone?) It doesn't jibe in recipes that have a delicate or incompatible flavor--lavender madeleines, for example--and it plain won't work when something depends on eggs for structural reasons, like angel food cake. Don't even think about creme brulee or quiche. The quickest way to tell if a recipe is a candidate for the flaxseed substitution is to skim the ingredient list for chemical leaveners--i.e., baking powder or baking soda. Many cakes, quickbreads, and cookies call for these, and they're a good indication that egg isn't strictly necessary for the batter or dough to rise and set. There's certainly a limit to the number of eggs you can replace, but I haven't discovered it yet.

Like most of what goes on in the kitchen, experimenting with flaxseed is an adventure. You never know when you'll be surprised. I just pulled a batch of chocolate chip cookies made with flax out of the oven, and the meat-loving, soy-shunning, sweet-toothed Texan I live with declared them better than "the real thing"--thereby astounding both of us. Try it out and see what you think. You can even congratulate yourself on your slightly-more-healthful ways, if you absolutely must.

Guest Post: White Barbecue Sauce

2008-04-15T12:00:00.020-04:00

The color spectrum of barbecue sauce is rich and diverse--one reason why sampling different styles from all over the South is so much fun, and so delicious. Ask the average person the color of their favorite sauce and you'll probably get answers such as brick red, mahogany, or caramel. Shoot, ask somebody from Columbia, South Carolina, where mustard-based sauces are king, and you might even get, well, mustard-color.

Pose the same question to a resident of North Alabama, though, and you're sure to get only one answer: white. "It's the only sauce we know here, because it's what everyone grows up on," says world barbecue champion Chris Lilly, who's also a chef at Big Bob Gibson Bar-B-Q in Decatur, Alabama. For his part, Bob Gibson is credited with concocting "white sauce" back in 1925. Today, this tangy, mayonnaise-based condiment, traditionally used to dress chicken, is as synonymous with the state of Alabama as legendary football coach Paul "Bear" Bryant. "We marinate with it, use it to baste, plus we use it as an all-purpose table sauce," adds Lilly.

Yet, because white barbecue sauce is such a regional anomaly, and since grocery shelves are dominated by the myriad incarnations of tomato-based sauces, many Southerners have never tried it. Well, I'm here to tell you that it's time to get out the chicken and fire up your smoker or grill. Like its tomato-and-mustard-based cousins, white barbecue sauce comes in shades ranging from porcelain to putty. There are also differences in consistency. Some sauces flow like fat-free milk, while others are more reminiscent of a creamy dressing. As for the ingredients, well, purists such as Myra Grissom, owner of Miss Myra's Pit Bar-B-Q in Birmingham, Alabama, insists there are only four: mayonnaise, vinegar, salt, and coarsely ground pepper.

"Everyone says they have a special recipe, but there's really no secret. You start with the basics and you can't go wrong," recommends Grissom, whose family tree leads back to Decatur. She's been serving up her version of white barbecue sauce in Birmingham for more than 19 years. "I love it as a dip for pretzels," she says with a smile, "but we also use it to perk up salads, and to top pulled pork sandwiches and grilled fish."

Lilly and Grissom both admit, however, that it's not uncommon to find all sorts of additional ingredients, such as lemon juice, onion powder, and cayenne pepper, in some sauces. The recipe below begins with a traditional base, then calls on the flavor-boosting power of fresh garlic, prepared horseradish, Creole mustard, and a touch of sugar. The result is an eye-opening sauce with lip-smacking acidity and just the right amount of creaminess. One taste and you'll understand why Grissom says, "No Southern home should be without it."

White Barbecue Sauce
Makes 2 cups

If you prefer a thicker sauce, omit the water. You'll still get the same great flavor.

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups mayonnaise
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon coarsely ground pepper
1 tablespoon Creole mustard
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons prepared horseradish

Method
1. Whisk together all ingredients until blended.

For more white barbecue sauce recipes, check out MyRecipes.com. Do you have a recipe for white barbecue sauce you'd care to share? Know of a barbecue joint or shack making a great white barbecue sauce? Don't forget to subscribe to Eating My Words--it's free and delicious.

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Southern Living Executive Food Editor Scott Jones is a graduate of The Culinary Institute of America. Jones has received awards from the International Association of Culinary Professionals and the James Beard Foundation. In addition, he holds a degree in magazine publishing and journalism from the University of Mississippi and is the author of the Southern Living Wine Guide and Journal.

The Golden Nugget's Gold Nuggets

2008-04-11T18:40:00.018-04:00

The connection between haute cuisine and high-stakes gambling goes back centuries, according to Petronius, the Roman author who satirized the decadent (and debauched) lives of the Roman upper class. Feasts held by the wealthy were so over-the-top that they might even include a lottery held between courses, after which the ceiling of the dining room would begin rattling violently, opening up and raining down money and gifts upon the guests.

In 21st-century Las Vegas, celebrity chefs haven't quite resorted to such tactics--yet. But in the race to open the newest, hottest, most glamorous restaurants, such displays may not be far off. Gone are the days of a likeably sleaze-ridden Sin City, stocked with dirt-cheap buffets, comped rooms, and round-the-clock free booze. Today, the price of admission can run staggeringly high along the Strip, the famous section of Las Vegas Boulevard that's home to neon-wrapped mega-resorts and Michelin-starred toques.

All well and good, if glitz is your thing. But what about those of us--generally of the young or poor persuasion--who don't mind a seedy underbelly? Happily, there's a welcome and often underrated alternative: downtown. This area is home to the faded casinos of a bygone era and offers a taste of the style, and even the grit, of mythic, old-school Vegas.

At its center is the Golden Nugget, by far the classiest of the old dames on downtown's main drag, Fremont Street. Back in 1971, it was one the first projects that casino tycoon Steve Wynn laid hands on. Today, it's undergone a renaissance. One thing remains the same though, and, if you ask me, it's one of the most important parts of the resort's continuing success: the famous Golden Nugget Bread Pudding. This dreamy concoction is luxury defined: the dish, bathing in the flavor of fresh, rich cream and eggs, with the texture of pure velvet, never disappoints. Whether you're pulling up to a marble table in the gilded dining room for a game of keno, or enjoying it poolside among the private cabanas, the bread pudding alone is worth a stay--and at $69 per night, a room at the Golden Nugget runs about the same as an appetizer in other parts of town.

Luckily, for those who can't make it to the source, what happens in Vegas doesn't always have to stay in Vegas. Try this recipe, straight from the casino.

The Golden Nugget's Bread Pudding
Makes 9 Las Vegas-size servings

Ingredients
FOR THE PUDDING
16 ounces half-and-half
8 ounces whipping cream
8 eggs
1 1/4 cups sugar
1/4 teaspoon vanilla
Enough 1-inch-thick slices of white bread, such as a boule or rustic sandwich loaf, to cover a 9-by-13-inch ovenproof casserole dish

FOR THE TOPPING
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons raisins

Store-bought caramel sauce, warmed (optional)

Method
1. In a medium bowl, whisk the half-and-half, cream, eggs, sugar, and vanilla until smooth.

2. Arrange the bread in a single layer that covers the casserole dish.

3. Pour the egg mixture evenly over the bread. Wrap with plastic and place the dish in the fridge until the liquid soaks the bread completely, at least 30 minutes.

4. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C). Mix the sugar and cinnamon together in a small bowl. When the bread is finished soaking, dust the mixture over the bread and sprinkle with the raisins.

5. Cover the casserole dish with foil and place it in a larger baking pan. Slide the baking pan into the oven, fill it three-quarters of the way up the side of the casserole dish with boiling water from a tea kettle, and bake the pudding until the egg mixture has set, about 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours. Let the pudding cool before cutting. Serve with the warm caramel drizzled on top.

Taking Stock of Stock

2008-04-04T07:31:00.009-04:00

The power of beans is legendary, whether immortalized in Jack's fairy-tale climb or the off-color schoolyard rhyme ("Beans, beans, the magical fruit"--you know the unfortunate rest). But beans work magic on the serious side of life, too. Eaten together with cereal grains or corn, they provide the full complement of amino acids necessary for a complete protein. Black beans and maize, hummus and pita, and rajma chawal (Indian spiced kidney beans eaten with basmati)--combinations like these have been the culinary cornerstones of great civilizations, in large part because they're such efficient nutrition: a way to deliver protein to a great number of people without the logistical trouble of raising livestock on a grand scale.

However, despite the historical importance of beans, cooks often overlook their full potential. Now that we're experiencing a resurgence of nose-to-tail eating, which advocates wasting as little as possible of the animals we eat, why not apply the same principle to our appreciation of humbler edibles? Bean stock does just that, and though it's long been used by resourceful home cooks, there's scant discussion online or in print of the many reasons to love it.

Here's one: It's delicious in its own right, and it practically makes itself. Sure, you can spend days preparing top-notch stocks from organic grass-fed Angus bones and the happy remains of free-range fowl, but who has the time or money? Simply reserve the cooking liquid from your next pot of beans, throw in a few herbs to steep, and the result can be used as a replacement for beef, chicken, or any other stock. It won't be as rich as its long-simmered veal- or beef-based counterparts, but what it lacks in depth, it makes up for in ease of preparation and variety.

With the stellar array of dried beans available for order on the Internet--Sunset Runner, Black Calypso, Lazy Wife, Rattlesnake, Ojo de Cabra--there's no end to the experiments you can try. Customize your stock's flavor and body by combining different varieties, depending on the dish. Certain beans, like cannellini, yield a clear, slightly sweet, and just-a-touch-gelatinous stock akin to its poultry-based cousin--great for soups and stews where subtlety is key. Others, like any number of black bean varieties, produce an ebony brew that makes for knockout homemade pasta, in place of the usual squid ink.

Whatever your taste, Rancho Gordo, a California farm dedicated to native New World specialty crops, is a great place to do your legume legwork. Entry-level stock artists can read up on heirloom varieties, and RG's samplers offer a range of options, once you're ready to jump in. Take, for instance, the Desert Island Sampler: It includes, among other favorites, a variety known as Good Mother Stallard, which produces "the most perfect pot liquor of any bean," according to Rancho Gordo founder Steve Sando.

Such treasures, though not cheap, cost only a fraction of the price you'd pay for meat of similar quality. And with the sudden leaps in cost we're seeing in everything from wheat to eggs, you probably ought to stock up.

Basic Cannellini Stock
This light, delicate stock is a fine substitute for chicken, vegetable, or even fish stock. The rules aren't hard and fast: Improvise with other vegetables (fennel, for example) or different herbs (such as tarragon or marjoram).

Ingredients
1 pound highest-quality dried cannellini beans
3 quarts water
1 medium yellow onion, peeled
1 stalk celery
1 medium carrot, peeled
2 to 3 sprigs fresh thyme
2 to 3 sprigs fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 bay leaf
6 to 8 black peppercorns
1 tablespoon kosher salt

Method
1. Rinse the beans under running water, discarding any pebbles. Heat the beans and the 3 quarts of cold water over high heat.

2. Chop the onion, celery, and carrot and add them to the beans, along with the thyme, parsley, bay leaf, and peppercorns.

3. When the pot reaches a boil, reduce the heat to low and allow the beans to simmer for approximately 3 hours, periodically adding water to maintain the original level. The beans are done when they are tender, but not mushy. Because crops vary, some beans will take longer, and others will cook faster. Test them as they cook.

4. When the beans are cooked through, add the salt and stir to dissolve. Set a colander over a clean, empty pot and tip the beans into it. Remove the herbs and peppercorns and reserve the beans for another recipe. Taste the stock and correct for seasoning; if it needs a little oomph, add a dash of white-wine vinegar.

Tongues Are Wagging

2008-04-02T09:49:00.010-04:00

Fine, whip me, beat me, even call me a David Archuleta fan, but, jeesh, get the story straight.

As most of you no doubt know, there has been no action on the blog lately and only moderate changes on the site. I take full and unwavering responsibility for it. It's due to no one other than me, myself, and I. But it's amazing what gossipy flotsam and jetsam a little inactivity can wash up. My spies out there have been the benefactors of some unsolicited recon and found the rumoristas have been working overtime in response to our recent spate of Zen-like stillness. Let's parse each rumor, shall we?

The biggest one is that I'm curled into a fetal position at the bottom of a Lexapro bottle because Leite's Culinaria wasn't nominated for a James Beard Award and that has kept me from looking at my digital failure in the homepage. Sure, we were disappointed, but, hey, we've won twice in a row, which is a major feat in itself. The odds were certainly against us last year, and we beat them, and we knew chances were slim we'd be nominated again. Plus, our buddies over at epicurious.com and chow.com, as well as the folks at starchefs.com, are worthy contenders all. So, no, I'm not crying over my keyboard. Plus I was fortunate to snag a Beard nod for the feature I wrote for The New York Times, "In a '67 T-Bird, Chasing a Date with a Clam."

Then there's this nonsense about LC shutting its doors, and how I'm moving on to greener pastures. How much greener can life get than waking up in the morning--whenever you want--slipping into sweats so you don't notice that recent weight gain, taking a swig from the milk carton, and facing a grueling 40-foot commute to sit at your computer doing what you love? To top it off, I finally got my long-desired-for writing studio in Connecticut, which looks out onto 3 1/2 acres of green. So, okay, maybe this one's half-true: I have moved onto greener pastures, at least when I'm working up here.

Of course, I've heard about the mutiny of the staff for their own brighter futures. Sorry to disappoint. I now have to make an appointment to speak with Linda, she's so busy working on LC and co-chairing several committees. Plus, if anything, every time we open the door to more recipe testers, we have to close it in less than a day because the response is overwhelming. And every week we have new writers, interns, and bloggers approaching us to work together.

The real reason--are all you wags listening?--that the site has been quiet is that I've been playing catch-up with my Portuguese cookbook. It's been an 18-hour-a-day, three-week workfest of writing and rewriting, testing and retesting recipes to meet an April 1 deadline. I've been so entrenched researching the book that I was writing and speaking half-Portuguese/half-English as I muttered away in the gloomy hours of the morning. But yesterday at 1:09:41 p.m., I hit the SEND button and off went the 305-page document. Funny, that was when a little Lexapro would have been kicky; I suddenly felt so down, with nothing to worry about. Well, there is the election and the state of our economy; that's enough to stave off a prescription for a long time.

So with that first deadline met (there are two more), I can get back to work. But the site isn't at the top of the list. There's a little matter of the piles of dishes strewn around the kitchen, dining room, and my studio; the mountain of laundry moldering in the basement; tax information my accountant has been screaming about for the past month; books, magazines, and folders littering the floor around my desk; and this six-day beard that is coming off right after I post this entry. Only then, with my life back in order, will the site start churning things out again. Oh, and guys, and you can quote me on that.

Lucinda Burritos + Tacos

2008-04-01T18:58:00.002-04:00

Imagine this: You're in a truck kitchen. You've got a line of people waiting for you to feed them and 16 feet of space in which to do it. You're grilling up fish tacos, are up to your ears in lime crema, and there's a steady stream of orders pouring in and no break in sight. You need to think fast, move fast, remember people's names, rattle off their likes and dislikes, figure out the inevitable generator/diesel/propane hiccups, and on top of it all, you have to call the meat supplier and make sure the delivery will be on time.

It's the kind of scenario guaranteed to scare most people back to their office cubicle and make them give up fantasies of running their own show. But for 29-year-old Joanna Garnett Raeppold, this is a dream and she's living it. The brains and brawn behind a mango-yellow Mexican food truck called Lucinda, Raeppold grew up in San Francisco and found herself pining for its tradition of street food when she moved to New Jersey.

She knew what her ideal eatery would have -- fresh, delicious fare served by friendly people -- and realized if she wanted a place like that, she'd have to set it up herself. So she took the leap, abandoning her office job to drive around Jersey City in a six-ton kitchen on wheels. Raeppold loves her career switch, and her "Lucinda Loyalists" love her marinated skirt steak burritos, washed down with a cinnamon dulce de leche iced coffee. The yellow truck has become such a fixture in town that alarmed customers made frantic phone calls asking, "Where are you? What happened?" when she went on holiday.

What's her secret formula? Simply going back to basics: fresh, locally sourced ingredients, familiar flavors, and a flexible menu that allows people to customize their lunch. "We get great ideas from customers. Some people know exactly what they want: black or pinto beans, lime or green-chile crema, hot sauces. Others like to have me make suggestions," she says.

Her favorite item on the menu? "Lately, breakfast has been a soft-cooked scrambled egg, black beans, salsa fresca, and lime crema. Sometimes, if I'm feeling indulgent, I'll add guacamole and hot sauce. It's a favorite with our morning regulars. In fact, we were five minutes late one day last week and had a customer waiting on the corner for this very burrito."

For those of us envious of Raeppold's escape from corporate life, she adds laughingly, "We always have internships available."

Lucinda Burritos + Tacos can be found parked at the corner of Hudson and York streets in downtown Jersey City, Mondays to Fridays, from 8:15 a.m. to 2:15 p.m. Visit their site for menu updates and delivery information.

Pinch Plus: Satchels of Spice

2008-03-30T19:13:00.002-04:00

Every so often, there comes along a seductive little recipe, something witty, smart, refreshing, and just that little bit cocky, that asks for a herb or spice you don't have. It's never much - half a teaspoon, maybe. A pinch. And it's always distressing to have to march down to the grocer's and reluctantly reach for it: a seasoning you use so little of, that you know full well will remain untouched for the rest of the year, gathering dust in a corner until the annual spring clean.

We're sure the good people over at Pinch Plus heard our collective lament. Based in Wooster, OH, this small family-run operation has rolled out 24 different one-tablespoon sachets of herbs and spices at 99 cents each. Some may recoil at the idea of shelling out a dollar for a tablespoon of herbs - but, then again, isn't that the lesser of two evils, when compared to letting an entire bottle of it grow musty and insipid in a forgotten corner? Besides, how nifty is it that you can buy just a pinch of, say, turmeric, when that's all you need?

The company also has, hands down, the most beautifully designed "Cook's Library" of spice booklets we've seen. These little tomes open out to specially tailored recipes and individually packaged spices, and come in themes: a Pinch of France, Thailand, India, Mexico, and Maine, and even a Pinch of Christmas. They serve as excellent muses for dinner parties and are a convenient launching pad for exploring culinary traditions around the world.

Pinch Plus's sachets of herbs and spices are organic, contain no salt or additives, and keep for over three years if unopened. They're available at good retailers throughout the country and at the Pinch Plus online store.

Cortes de Cima Olive Oils

2008-03-16T15:55:00.002-04:00

In Mort Rosenblum's 1998 book Olives: The Life and Lore of a Noble Fruit, he waxes lyrical about how "people who live among olive treestell you their air is pure and their lives are full. They expect miracles as a matter of course." He cites as living proofJeanne Calment of Arles, France-- then 121 years old and the world's oldest living person, she downed the "golden elixir" daily and memorably said: "I have only one wrinkle, and I'm sitting on it." We're not sure about guaranteeing immortality (or wit, for that matter), but we think you'll like Portugal's Cortes de Cima olive oil, which is estate-produced and bottled, and pressed from 100-percent native cobrançosa olives, plucked while still green. Portugal is one of the world's most prolific producers of olive oil, but exports almost none at all--most of it is consumed within the country. Which comes as no surprise, when you learn just how good it is. Cortes de Cima's 2006 olive oil has been reaping awards left and right--both the gold medal at the LA County Fair, as well as a Gran Menzione at the XIV Concorso Leone d'Oro dei Mastri Oleari. The oil is verdant both on the tongue and nose, with an unexpected hint of apple and a persistent, peppery finish. We think the feisty Mme. Arles would have approved. Visit Cortes de Cima's online cellar door.

Aural Fixation: Angela Garbes

2008-03-15T10:49:00.005-04:00

You don't need to be a fan of the wilder shores of eating to enjoy Gimme Head, Angela Garbes's paean to the kind of food Anthony Bourdain calls "the nasty bits." Garbes read her lively essay at "Talking with Your Mouth Full," the Leite's Culinaria fundraiser held in Seattle last fall, and now the recording is available for listening here.

Raised in an immigrant Filipino family, Garbes learned early on about the politics of waste and, more important, the nondiscriminatory pleasures of taste. Even so, she was a little intimidated by the prospect of devouring a menu featuring "heads and pots," prepared by chef Matt Dillon of Seattle's cutting-edge regional restaurant Sitka & Spruce.

I'm not about to tell you what went down (fair warning, gray matter is involved) but I would encourage you to hear it for yourself, because just like inspired cooking, there's an alchemy in great writing. In Garbes's skillful hands, a grisly subject becomes a surprisingly appetizing advertisement for nose-to-tail eating.

Cleaving the Room

2008-03-13T18:17:00.009-04:00

Stepping into The Butcher Shop, on the corner of Tremont and Waltham streets in Boston's stylish South End, I notice the glass refrigerator cases lining the back wall. A whole duck catches my eye, then a multitude of plump sausages, and a shelf of deli-style meats: soppressata, hot copocolla, mortadella, applewood-smoked ham. The metallic swish of a blade being sharpened against steel turns my attention to a gentleman standing behind a five-foot square blonde-wood butcher's block. I watch as he trims the fat off a rack of lamb. I salivate. A keen meat-eater, I've hit carnivore pay dirt.

But something's off-kilter: Under his white apron, the butcher's wearing a pressed pinstripe dress shirt and patterned tie, looking more like a businessman and less like a blood-smeared meat man. In front of him, a low Plexiglas partition separates him and his raw meat from a display of fresh baguettes and flowers. In the refrigerator case, next to the requisite deli meats, are loaves of beef tongue terrine and duck liver mousse, $35 bottles of white truffle oil, and a large clay bowl overfull with a hearty cassoulet. Jazz plays softly overhead. At the front of the room a woman is polishing balloon wine glasses behind a black soapstone bar.

Where am I exactly?

The juxtaposition of the carnality of a butcher shop and the sophistication of a wine bar is startling, and yet, how could a meat-and-wine lover ask for more? Barbara Lynch, a James Beard award-winning chef, is the owner of The Butcher Shop--a space that blurs the lines between specialty food store, posh wine bar, and eponymous butcher shop. Whether you enter through the retail side on Waltham Street or the bar side on Tremont Street, doors make little difference. The 30-seat establishment is so small, customers in one half of the room can follow the goings-on in the other.

Although the retail side offers hard-to-say-no-to prepared foods and prime cuts, regulars know The Butcher Shop best as a chic, be-seen-at spot that fills to capacity most nights of the week. The wine bar doesn't take reservations, so smartly dressed couples gather around the butcher's block--cleared off for dinner service--with glasses of wine and plates of antipasti as they wait for a spot to sit. The wait is often so long that guests eat their entire meals standing up. Though there may be something charmant about eating cured meats off a piece of torn brown butcher's paper picnic-style amid a buzzing nighttime scene, I prefer a meal that's a bit more relaxing.

The Butcher Shop is the quintessential solo-dining spot. It's best in the late afternoon, when the place just might be empty--an occasion that I've only come across twice. On weekday afternoons around 3 p.m., while the full lunch menu is still being served, I equip myself with a novel or that day's New York Times and linger over a midday meal. My favorite consists of the Assiette de Charcuterie ($19), an assortment of three pates with white-port gelee and the red wine of the day. If I'm feeling particularly hungry I'll add a vegetable (the menu changes monthly). In March I've loved the Baby Iceberg Wedge with bacon and a tarragon-buttermilk dressing ($10).

After my meal, I always browse the meat case and am continually shocked by the reasonable prices. A poulet en pain--a whole chicken wrapped inside a buttery pastry crust--with rosemary fingerling potatoes on the side could be dinner for two or three at a startlingly low $24, a family-sized chicken pot pie goes for $18, and a small meal of pillowy ricotta-filled dumplings, gnudi (Italian for "nude"), is just $4.

Little else satisfies the way having an unhurried midweek lunch and taking home an $8 pork tenderloin does--except, maybe, the chance to do both to the strains of jazz playing overheard harmonizing with the sound of a butcher's saw cutting through a meaty lamb shank.

The Butcher Shop
552 Tremont Street, Boston, MA 02118
(617) 423-4800

Amuse Bouche by A.G. Duffy

2008-03-03T15:09:00.005-05:00

A Nutty Contradiction: Chocolate Hazelnut Tart

2008-03-02T16:22:00.010-05:00

I love foods with nutty flavors: walnut oil; a bold cheddar, Gruyere, or Romano cheese; good brown ale; and a variety of rice. But, I don't like eating nuts--doubt I ever will. Give me a chocolate-covered nut and I'll suck off the chocolate and ditch the nut. I've gone so far as to add them to brownies so that the treat wouldn't be so appealing, only to find I actually take the time to ferret them out and leave a pile on the side of the plate, looking much like a hiker-made trail marker.

A good friend diagnosed the apparent contradiction as a "texture issue." They stick in my teeth and that's horrid. (Poppy and sesame seeds fall into the same category.) However, grinding up nuts to make a pastry tastier is utterly acceptable and right up my alley.

So when I created this tart, I decided to pack in as much nutty flavor as possible--ground hazelnuts in the pastry and Frangelico in the ganache--without the crunch. This is a chocolate-lover's dream, and the dessert most requested by my husband. It's rich, so a small slice goes a long way. For an elegant holiday dessert, top each slice with a few flecks of gold leaf or dollop them with whipped cream. If you want to pipe whipped cream rosettes, which will define how large your slices are, try using the Decorator's Whipped Cream recipe from the Junior's Cheesecake Cookbook. It's excellent.

Chocolate Hazelnut Tart
Makes one 9-inch tart

Ingredients
FOR THE PASTRY
1/3 cup skinned hazelnuts
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup confectioners' sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
8 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 large egg yolk

FOR THE GANACHE FILLING
11 ounces bittersweet (or semi-sweet) chocolate
1 cup heavy cream
3 tablespoons Frangelico

FOR THE GARNISH
1 cup heavy cream sweetened with confectioners' sugar, lightly whipped
Gold leaf, optional

Method
MAKE THE PASTRY
1. In the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade, pulse the nuts, flour, sugar, salt, and cloves into a fine powder. Add the butter and yolk and pulse until it forms moist clumps and just comes together. If you pinch the pastry and it doesn't hold together, add a teaspoon of ice water and pulse again. Gather the dough into a ball, flatten it into a disk, and wrap in plastic. Refrigerate for 1 hour or overnight.

2. Roll out the dough between two sheets of parchment paper into a 12-inch circle. Remove the top sheet, invert, and using the bottom sheet as an aid, ease the dough into the tart pan, fitting it snugly against the sides and bottom. Trim the overhang with the back of a knife and patch any cracks with scraps. Refrigerate for 15 minutes.

3. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit (160 degrees Celsius). Remove the pan from the fridge. Line it with a circle of foil and fill it with beans or pie weights. Bake the pastry for 15 minutes, carefully remove the foil and beans, and continue baking until pale golden, about 20 to 25 minutes more. Remove to a rack and let cool completely. The crust is delicate so handle gingerly.

MAKE THE GANACHE FILLING
1. Finely chop the chocolate in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade. Transfer to a medium bowl. Scald the whipping cream in a small saucepan, pour over the chocolate, and let stand for 5 minutes. Whisk gently until fully incorporated, add the Frangelico, and stir until smooth. Set aside until it has cooled a bit but is still pourable, about 20 minutes. Pour the mixture into the cooled crust and put aside for several hours to set. If you're in a rush, place the tart in the fridge for 20 minutes, but know that it'll lose its gloss. Remove the tart about a half hour before serving.

Photo of the Day: Fishmonger

2008-03-01T01:35:00.008-05:00

Wulf's Fish Market, Brookline, MA
29 February 2008, 4:46 p.m.

Heart of Gold

2008-02-29T00:59:00.027-05:00

When Shakespeare wanted to honor his mistress in the famous Sonnet 130, he didn't mince words about her looks: He wrote that her eyes were nothing like the sun; that her skin was grayish and dull; her lips, no match for the redness of coral; her hair, coarse and wiry. Her breath fared worse than cheap perfume. Still, despite the faulty physique, she was rare as any beauty queen. Good things ain't always pretty.

Such is the appeal of Goldsaft. The dark, treacly German syrup, derived entirely from the juice of sugar beets, looks like, well, motor oil--a face only a beet farmer could love. But the slander stops there. Like black-as-night honey or super-smooth molasses, this syrup shows serious depth of flavor--from fruity to woodsy, from raspberry to burnt cedar. Some days it's pleasingly medicinal, and no coincidence: According to its maker's Web site, Goldsaft is used by the German pharmaceutical industry in cough suppressants and sore-throat lozenges.

Not surprisingly, Goldsaft is rare in the U.S. It couldn't be the name. Ever since Atkins mania, sugar alternatives have stormed the market. Some sound alluring (agave nectar), some sound scary (liquid stevia), and some sound nutritious to a fault (barley syrup). Goldsaft, on the other hand, sounds like a plump, roguish character in a Brothers Grimm fairy tale. Maybe it's just one of those things, like Hasselhoff or the Trabant, that only make sense in Germany. There, beets are a much more common source of refined sugar than they are in America, where most of our white sugar comes from cane.

Regardless of residence, once they're won over, Goldsaft's fans are devoted. Not long ago, as our party of four placed orders at the The Modern, an expat friend from Munich, thrilled with finding a jar on American soil, passed around her purchase (to the chagrin of the stuck-up waitstaff) and insisted we sample it right then and there. Hoping for raves, she was dismayed when we gave back mixed reviews.

Maybe she should have consulted the Bard. He wrote, on a break from those drippy love poems, that the root of all heartache is expectation. A gang of leather-clad German nihilists couldn't say it better, and it's a fine way to approach Goldsaft's funky charm: Expect nothing, and it's bound to shine.

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Goldsaft Zuckerrubensirup can be found stateside at Schaller & Weber, 1654 Second Avenue (at 86th Street) in New York, or ordered online through www.schallerweber.com.

Photo of the Day: Brioche

2008-02-28T17:19:00.007-05:00

Tatte Fine Cookies & Cakes, Brookline, MA
28 February 2008, 12:47 p.m.