Waxing Nostalgic for Mexico: Quesadillas Fritas Con Ensaladita de Col & Agua de Pepino

Quesadillas Fritas con Ensaladita de Col;
Fried Quesadillas with Cabbage Salad

Some meals bring home the sunshine.  They make me smile, they make me lounge, they make me want to run in the clover barefooted like a little girl.  Some meals make me think of home - when home was mom and dad and sister, half-Spanish, half-English (NOT Spanglish), Texas sunshine, and the smell of lime, cilantro and onions.  In some ways, that still is home - in other ways, it isn't because now I'm the mom.  And it's my sons wreaking havoc and smelling the smells of Mexico that will, one day, bring nostalgia to them.

I made a trip back to Mexico in early April to see my ailing grandmother.  I didn't have much time - just a few days - but I took a moment to smell my grandfather's roses, his lime tree, to walk the market of Queretaro and eat some carnitas tacos at a stand on the street.  I am lucky that here in Denver we live very close to one of the major epicenters of Mexican culture in Colorado: Federal Ave.  There are enough panaderias (menudo on the weekends!), paleterias (they also sell esquites and corn on a stick!), and taco stands (as well as any other variation of Mexican street food) to keep my never-ending-nostalgia for Mexico at a reasonable level.  My son is growing up eating Mexican street food far more often than I ever did.  I can get fresh tortillas, queso Oaxaca (my favorite cheese growing up that my mother and aunts used to freeze and smuggle into the US in their suitcases), and all the Mexican cuts of meat that I need for a good taquiza (taco-grill-out).  Not to mention fresh Nopales.

In that spirit, I want to share a meal I made recently that takes me back to Mexico, to my childhood, but also contains a new Mexican food discovery - one that belongs to my kitchen now - not  my mom's - one that has become Roman's go-to Spring drink, and an indispensable part of my own repertoire of Mexican comfort foods.

the meal

 

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There is this one little taco place called Tacos Junior (it's a chain) near us that we go to almost every Tuesday night after Roman's soccer practice.  He always orders the Tacos de Carne Asada, a cheese quesadilla and rice.  Matt gets a Huarache with Carnitas.  And, besides the ever-rotating list of foods, I always get a fresh "Agua" de sabor - a fruit drink made by blending water, sugar and fresh fruit.

They make them fresh for you per-order and $4 will get you a giant Big-Gulp sized cup of whatever fruity-deliciousness you choose.  I've mentioned these before when I posted a recipe for Agua de Limon a few years back (did mention this Lime shorage is killing me?!).  I almost always get Lime or Watermelon.  Matt always gets Horchata.  But recently I went rogue and tried a new flavor I'd never heard of before but which, on hindsight, is painfully obvious.  Roman's favorite vegetable.  Agua de Pepino - Cucumber water. 

What a waste my life has been!  And no, non-hispanic-American-friends, I don't mean that trendy concoction pushed by the likes of Martha Stewart where you infuse plain water in a fancy dispenser by placing daintily cut cucumber slices and ice into it.  I mean taking a whole damn cucumber and blending it up with water and sugar and lime or lemon juice.  I mean DRINKING a cucumber.  It's freaking incredible.  DO IT.  Spring in a glass, I tell you.  It was the only thing I made for Roman's party last weekend that actually ran out.  People were mesmerized.  Hell, so was I . :)

Agua de Pepino

Makes 2 liters

Ingredients

Large pitcher
1 1/2 -2 cucumbers, washed & very roughly chopped (you can peel them if you want, but I don't)
2 limes or lemons (preferably limes)
1 cup sugar (or to taste)
~2 liters water
Optional variation: fresh mint

Method

1. In a blender with 1 liter water and the cucumbers (and mint if you want it), liquefy until completely....well, liquified. :)  The mix will be somewhat pulpy (which I really like), but should not have "chunks" in it.

2. Meanwhile, combine the other liter of water and the sugar in the pitcher and mix until completely dissolved.  Do not be tempted to add the sugar after the cucumbers or the lime juice - my mother assures me the sugar will not dissolve as the water will already be saturated.

3. Add the lime / lemon juice and mix.

4. Add the cucumber mix to the pitcher (you can pass it through a strainer as you go, if you prefer, but I never do) and mix well.

Serve with ice on a sunny day.

NB: I keep a wooden mixing spoon in my pitcher at all times as the pulp will separate from the water after just sitting for 2 minutes.  You need to mix it each time before serving.  Keep refrigerated and it will last 2-3 days.

 *  *  *

The other half of the meal I want to share is a dish my mother used to make for us.  Fried quesadillas with ground beef, served with a simple lime & cabbage slaw.  You can change the filling for these as you wish, but some typical versions are: chorizo and potatoes, sauteed mushrooms or picadillo.  I took some liberties with my spicing for the ground beef  filling (for example, I like cumin - and coriander - a lot, and my mom hates it), though, technically speaking otherwise, this is my mom's recipe.  The only thing I will say is non-negotiable is the insane, almost-excessive amount of lime and black pepper that goes into the slaw.  I promise you it does not disappoint, especially when eaten with such a rich, fried food.  You can add diced, cooked potatoes to the filling as well.

Quesadillas Fritas & Ensaladita de Col

Serves ~4; Makes 20 Quesadillas

Ingredients

Quesadillas
Canola or Corn oil (for frying)
20 Corn tortillas
1/2 lb queso oaxaca or shredded mozzarella

1/2 lb ground beef or pork
splash of red wine vinegar
1 tsp dried Mexican oregano
1/4 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp black pepper
dash or two of garlic powder
dash of cinnamon (optional)
1 tsp coriander, crushed (optional)
1/2 small onion (white or yellow) chopped
1-2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 - 1 serrano pepper, chopped (or to taste)
salt to taste


Lime-Pepper Cabbage Slaw
1/2 - 3/4 head of cabbage, sliced thinly into long, fine strings
3-4 limes, juiced
1-2 tbsp freshly ground black pepper
salt to taste

Method:

1.  Assemble the cabbage salad and set aside at room temp: Slice cabbage finely into long little strings (not squares or it will be very hard to handle) and place into a serving bowl.  Dress with lime juice and lots and lots of pepper.  The quantity given above is an approximation.  Basically: just a lot of pepper.  Add salt to taste and toss.


2. For the quesadillas: With 1 tbsp oil sautee onions, garlic, pepper.  Add red wine vinegar and deglaze pan.  Add ground beef and all spices and cook-through. Set aside.

3. Heat your oil (about 1-inch high) in a frying pan over medium-high heat (not high eat or the quesadillas will burn).  Meanwhile, microwave the tortillas (wrapped in a paper towel) in batches as you make the quesadillas (about 5 at a time, or however many you think will fit in your frying pan as a batch), for 30-45 seconds, to soften them.  Throw a crumb of cheese or tortilla into the oil and when you see it frying you'll know the oil is ready.

4. You need to work quickly here or your oil will start to burn: Take the first batch of tortillas and, laying them out flat, add some cheese (about 1-2 tbsp worth) plus about 1-2 tbsp of the meat mixture to one half of each tortilla.  When you've assembled them, gently fold the tortilla over and immediately place into the oil.  Be very gentle or the tortilla will break and/or the fillings will fall out of the quesadilla into the oil causing a frenzy of flying hot oil.  Not good.

5.  The oil should be bubbling vigorously around each quesadilla.  (If it isn't, the oil is too cold and you should turn up the heat or your quesadillas will be oil-logged-nastiness.)  Use a spatula to gently press the quesadillas down.  Cook about 1-2 minutes on each side or until golden brown, turning carefully so filling does not spill out.  Remove crispy quesadillas to a paper-towel lined plate and start over by heating the next batch of tortillas in the microwave.


Serve the quesadillas warm or at room temp with a side of cabbage slaw.  I like to also serve with a basic homemade salsa, avocado slices, and extra limes.  I also stuff the quesadillas with the slaw.  Oh, and don't forget the glass of Agua de Pepino.

NB: Do not place quesadillas in an oven to keep warm or they will get tough!  I learned this the hard way! 

¡Buen Provecho!

This post is brought to you by the cheesy throw-back online Spanish-music radio station Matt found and I am addicted to: Rey de Corazones.  And also the hilarious Spanish song from my childhood by Miguel Bose I heard on Rey de Corazones a few weeks back; it's like a hispanic power-ballad about a bandit lover: Amante Bandido.

Homemade Porchetta Sandwiches with Salsa Verde: Crack(ling) for Foodies

Porchetta Panini with Salsa Verde: highly addictive, but legal.

I wrote this post over a month ago - life is so busy I didn't get to finish it and publish it till May, but I am retroactively publishing it :)

*  *  *

I'm struggling a little bit, as I usually do at this time of year, with the fact that it snowed again a few days ago.  In April.  And it's not easy to face the fact that it will probably keep doing that sporadically until mid May.  High desert.  Yep - sometimes I think you seriously do need to be high to put up with this shite with a smile on your face!  Freaking Denver.  Good thing I had these pictures and my porchetta adventure in the archives ready for a post that warms.

Not cool, Nature.  Not cool.

I'm not sure where the idea came from exactly but at a certain point in 2013 I became completely obsessed with making porchetta.  I suppose it might have been my subconscious harkening back to the market in Rome's Campo dei Fiori and the porchetta stand we'd passed by on our trip in 2010.  The regret of not buying a sandwich that day clung tightly to my capricious culinary heart.  I'd tried porchetta before - I'm not sure where - and the taste of it, crunchy-salty-deliciousness, lingered, like an unattainable sensory high, in my memory.  It could also be that since then I've been victim to what seems to be nothing short of a porchetta-centric-campaign of cooking shows aimed at me only, pedaling that legalized and quite addictive substance and how to make it yourself, featuring food trucks and restaurants alike showcasing kick-ass porchetta.  I was truly convinced I'd become the unwitting victim of a universal conspiracy to entice me to death with crackling, herbs and lemon juice.  Something had to be done. 

Porchetta in Campo dei Fiori; be still my beating heart!

 

A couple of months ago I happened to land on an episode of Guy Fieri's "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives" (a show and celebrity chef I love to hate but can't stop watching) and was sucked into an episode on a sandwich joint that made what can only be described as the most tasty thing I'd ever seen (again): their own homemade porchetta sandwiches.  The place was called Meat and Bread in Vancouver, BC, and their purposely-simple approach to sandwiches (meat and bread, literally) drew me in.  Well, and I simply couldn't take it anymore.  I had to get out and finally commence that delicious hunt for the ingredients that would ensure that the most delicious of roasted pork belly sandwiches would be mine at last.

*  *  *

THE HUNT

Crackling Heaven.

Porchetta is traditionally from Lazio, the region in Italy where Rome is located.  As if that is not already appealing enough to me, It's also considered something of a celebratory food in the sense that it's usually sold out of food stands, trucks or markets during festivals, and most people consider it a picnic or holiday food in Italy.  It was, not surprisingly, introduced to the US by Italian immigrants and has been adopted and adapted around the country.  It is wonderful served as a main dish (like a pork roast) but truly shines, in my humble opinion, when served as part of a "panino" or sandwich, along with Italian salsa verde - a divinely acidic and earthy sauce that perfectly cuts the fat of the pork belly.

And what is this salsa verde of which I speak?  It has nothing to do with tomatillos and onions.  Nothing new-world about it, really.  It's a sauce rumored to have been brought back from the near east by Roman soldiers to Italy where it was then exported to France and Germany and theoretically also the new world - which is where we get things like Argentina's Chimichurri.  Admittedly, there is some question in my mind as to whether salsa verde is always traditionally served with porchetta in Italy as most of the recipes for porchetta with salsa verde I've encountered tend to be found in modern American publications, but, frankly, at this point, I truly do not care about authenticity.  Salsa Verde is one of the few foods that makes me salivate on command.  At this very moment I have visions of fresh herbs, garlic, peperoncino, lemon juice, olive oil and anchovies dancing through my head.  Those six things may very well be my favorite ingredients of all time.  Ok, plus salt.  I can't imagine anything savory they wouldn't make taste better.  No, really. :)

I figured it would be pretty easy to find what I needed to make the porchetta.  Who doesn't like pork belly?!  Well, apparently nobody in Denver likes it enough to demand it be sold at their local grocery store.  I went to at least 5 different grocery stores.  I tried the regular suspects in addition to my two favorite ethnic Mexican grocery stores, but it wasn't until I entered the meat section at Pacific Ocean Int'l Market (my go-to Asian market here in Denver) that I found what I was looking for.  Amidst the smells of fermented bean curd, dried shrimp and science-experiment-looking tapioca puddings, I found a large selection of pork bellies, none of which had the loin still attached as is generally used in Italy - but no matter.  The vast availability of pork loins - the least flavorful part of the pig - is a testament to the boring culinary lives most of us lead.  I picked one up at King Soopers - and I swear I left my judgments at the meat cooler - and moved on with my life and recipe.

*  *  *

THE FEAST

Delishness from above.

I read an article recently in Food & Wine written by a woman who grew up in Soviet Russia, living through food shortages and her mother's creative ways of making the government issued rations of nast palatable (see "Russian Food: A Love Story").  Apart from contemplating the oft-discussed reality that when there is none around, everything becomes about food, she also recalled her mother as having (maybe because of the food shortage, maybe in spite of it) "compulsive hospitality syndrome" - the compulsive love of sharing food with those you care about.  She would prepare dinner parties from tinned meat and half-rotting potatoes.  She coveted the neighbor's black-market bananas.  There was also a kettle ready to brew tea for a passing friend or neighbor.  I suppose this is akin to being called a "feeder," which is what my sister calls me.  I can't stand not feeding people, and, most of the time, if I am excited about making a recipe, it's at least in part because I can't wait to share it with someone I love. 

Which is why, one snowy weekend in February I invited our good friends and old neighbors over for a porchetta dinner after Matt and Tony went off to watch a Monster Truck Rally with the boys.  It left me ample time to make the salsa verde, make the salt rub for the porchetta with my friend Gaea, a recent convert to meat.  We rubbed the salt and lemon zest spice mix on the slotted pork belly skin.  We filled it with herbs.  We rolled it.  And then we roasted it low and slow in the oven, so that the skin on the pork belly became the crunchiest, saltiest of crackling, breaking off in chips as you sliced the roast, crushed onto the sandwich in an infinitely more sophisticated version of the ham-sandwich-with-Lays-potato-chips.

That night we feasted.  We served the sandwiches on ciabatta slathered in salsa verde, piled high with pork and crackling, and topped with more salsa verde.  A brisk white wine for me and beer for the rest finished it off quite nicely.  I'm certain I was in a salt and meat coma after the first three bites, my former vegetarian friend sitting across from me, smiling, licking her fingers - the best and realest testament to the transformative power of food - and the fact that Porchetta is crack for foodies.

*  *  *

Porchetta Sandwiches with Salsa Verde

Recipe from Meat & Bread in Vancouver

Serves 8-10

Ingredients

Salsa Verde
1 bunch parsley
1 cup canola oil
2 teaspoons toasted fennel seeds ground
2 teaspoons toasted coriander ground
2 teaspoons chili flakes
small handful of fresh fennel fronds, chopped (optional)
2 anchovy fillets (optional)
salt
2 cloves garlic
zest of 1 lemon
lemon juice from 2 lemons

Salt & Herb Rub
2 tbsp coarse salt
2 tsp toasted fresh rosemary, chopped
2 tsp toasted fennel seed, crushed
2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
zest of 1 lemon
small handful of fresh fennel fronds, chopped


Other Ingredients
2-3lbs (combined weight) Pork Belly with loin still attached (or buy them separately)

kitchen twine
extra canola oil
ciabatta rolls, sliced lengthwise for sandwiches

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 275F.

2. Make the salsa verde in a blender (or chop by hand if you're feeling it), set aside.

3. Make the salt & herb rub in a small bowl and set aside.

4. Score the pork belly skin in a hatch pattern so it will roast and crisp up nicely (see pic above).  Spread some (about half) salt & herb rub on the inside of the belly and loin.  Roll the pork belly and loin (with the loin in the center) into a cylinder and tie tightlywith kitchen twine.  Rub the rest of the salt & herb rub and a generous amount of oil all over the outside.

5. Place porchetta in a roasting pan (relatively deep as lots of fat will be coming off this baby) and roast in the oven for 3 1/2 to 4 hours.

6. Turn the heat up to 450F and roast for a further 25-30 minutes or until the skin is completely golden and crispy (as in the pictures above).


Serve on ciabatta rolls smeared with the salsa verde, with chopped up meat, sprinkled with the crispy crackling on top and more salsa verde.  Enjoy!

Euclid Hall: Pigs' Heads and Baby Godzilla

Pigs' Heads at the Bar

The past few weeks have been a little rough.

Two weeks ago Matt got into a "fender bender," as he taught Roman to call it, with a telephone pole when his car slid out of control on the snow and ice.  They were headed to A-basin to go skiing in a big storm and had decided to turn around when it happened.  Nobody was hurt, except the car, thank God, but the absence of Matt's car and the lack of straight-forwardness regarding when it will be ready has created some crazy mornings with me driving both him and Roman into downtown Denver and then some exhausting afternoons picking them up.  On the one hand, Roman and I listened to the entirety of Gary Paulsen's Hatchet, a favorite of mine from Mrs. Moses' 4th grade class (and perhaps one of the many reasons I viciously hate mosquitoes).  On the other hand, we are all also sick (wonderful mid-winter colds and coughs for the lot of us!) and exhausted and ready to have life back to normal.  All of this occurred just when we'd started to settle into the house and had begun to turn a corner with Alexander's horrible reflux and lack of sleeping at night, so I was literally at the end of my tether on Friday when I spent more than 4 hours in the car.

As if a direct answer to my unspoken-but-probably-telepathically-communicated-prayers, Matt's coworker and his girlfriend randomly offered to babysit the boys so we could get out.  It was nothing short of a miracle.  I went from facing a mediocre dinner while holding a crying baby and yelling at Roman to sit down, to a gourmet meal at an amazing restaurant in LoDo (lower downtown Denver) which I have not been able to stop thinking or talking about.  And what's odd is that the food was not perfect.  There were things I didn't enjoy about the meal much at all, in fact.  It was more that this is the first restaurant I've been to in Denver that I felt took real risks, and was successful with them.

So, our dinner at Euclid Hall.

I don't usually review restaurants but this one is worth the effort.  I truly loved it - which is more than I can say for almost any of the restaurants I've tried in Denver.  I'm not sure how to describe it; maybe modern American nose-to-tail eating with a twist?  First of all, we sat at the bar directly in front of the open kitchen (which is always my favorite place to sit) and right next to us on the elevated section of the bar where the chefs placed all the outgoing dishes were 3 partially cooked whole pigs' heads on plates.  That might bother some people, but it's literally what drew me in.  We found out that they were actually on sale to take home and cook for $60, something we'd like to do one of these days.  But I digress.

Our server was great, knowledgeable, thoughtful, timely.  He was interested in our experience and even had them split and serve our dessert on two plates without us asking.  The vibe was cool - it is a huge bar, actually - and their kitchen, I'm here to tell you, is nothing short of a perfectly orchestrated dance.  Their chef, Jorel Pierce, commanded and inspected and delegated quietly but firmly.  There was no chaos, no yelling, and if there was swearing - I mean, come on, there had to be swearing - it was done quietly enough that we couldn't hear.  The three guys in the kitchen with him worked quickly, efficiently and with skill.  I watched carefully at what they were doing and didn't order until I'd seen several different dishes come by me.  We almost got the chicken and waffles, but after we saw the composite-rectangular-chicken-y thing they serve there come by, we decided against it.  (Sorry guys, sometimes you've just got to leave a classic alone.)  We lingered, having our drinks, and enjoyed the show before us.

When, at last, we were ready, here is what we ordered.  First off, I recommend our approach: We decided to get several dishes - the menu does offer entrees but reads more like an American tapas menu - and just shared.  We skipped out on the homemade sausages and pickles (a great shame as they look fantastic), and the enticing roasted bone marrow (that was a tough call because it seriously looked perfect), and, to be honest, there were at least 10 other things besides that I would have happily tried.  But all that just gives me another reason to come back.

*  *  *

A Damn Good Meal at Euclid Hall

January 2014

First Course: Pig Ear Pad Thai; tamarind chili sauce, scallion, peanut, egg, sprouts, mint, cilantro

Pigs' Ear Pad Thai

This dish was literally incredible.  Pigs' ears are the hot thing right now so maybe ordering it was a bit trite (we've literally had them three times in the last two months and had never had them before that), but for once I don't mind being foody-mainstream.  This version by far surpassed anything else we'd ever tried.  Deep fried strips of pig ear that were just soft enough to be meaty but crispy enough for crunch, covered in a seriously spicy tamarind sauce and sauteed with peanuts and egg.  The garnishes were standard and perfect; the lime juice almost made the dish.  The serving size was more than enough for two people (though we greedily finished it and it took a lot of effort to agree to let Matt have the last bite) and rather reasonable at just $8.00.



Second Course: Manila Clams with Merguez Caldo Verde; braised kale, fried garlic, grape tomato, olive oil crostini, smoked malt and rye brodo
 This dish gets bonus points for creativity.  A riff on a Portuguese-style soup with the kale, sausage and seafood, it was good, but not great.  The presentation blew me - and everyone else who walked by - away.  I had a girl come up and ask if she could join us so she could eat what we were ordering.  It's odd that nobody else bothered to order the dish, but part of me wondered if maybe it had to do with them having tried it before.  The merguez sausage - a Moroccan-style lamb ditty - completely overpowered the clams and didn't marry well with the other components.  The broth lacked salt and was, well, almost too unique, too strange, being something like a "beer" broth with notes of sour and not-enough-savory, and yet, somehow...I liked it.  I added a lot of salt.  I would order it again just for the half baguette to dip in the soup when you're done.

Side 1: Brussel Sprout Casserole; garlic cheddar fondue, lemon, French fried onions
I am a self-professed Brussel Sprout fiend.  I almost always order them when I see them on a menu, and the winter is a perfect time to do so.  In this case, I enjoyed the combination of flavors, but after two bites felt that the cheddar fondue was just too rich.  It overtook the sprouts which are really the star of the show.  That said, it was a great combination of meaty, gooey and crunchy and a nice little dish to share with someone else.

Side 2: Wild Mushroom Poutine; porcini gravy, hand-cut fries, cheddar curds
One of the main reasons I wanted to try Euclid Hall was their Poutines.  I first tried this Canadian dish back in college during a very drunken trip with my roommates to go clubbing in a not-so-unique bordertown laden with bad casinos which we were all too young to enter.  It is a fantastic and almost-wrongly-decadent idea: to smother french fries in cheese and gravy.  It lured me in then just as it did last week.  I had seen that Euclid hall often offered a Duck Poutine, but that wasn't on the menu when we visited, so naturally I went for the mushroom offering.  The porcini gravy was definitely what I would call a super-umami food.  Delicious but almost too rich by the end of the somewhat-generously-portioned dish.  It all went well together and I enjoyed the cheese curds.  And maybe it's just the carnivore in me talking but I thought it was lacking meat of some sort. 

L to R: Brussel Sprout Casserole, Porcini Poutine and Clam & Merguez Soup

Dessert: Sourdough Waffle Ice Cream Sandwich; salted butterscotch ice cream, praline
Matt and I were so full - borderline food-coma-full - that we almost didn't order dessert.  But I'm glad we went for this.  One portion is the perfect size to share, and while I'm not a huge fan of sourdough, all the sour and salty notes worked well in this dessert.  I'd recommend it as a nice way to end the meal.

Drinks:
Matt: Boulevard Tank 7 Farmhouse Ale: not much to say on the beer front except that Matt ordered two of these and was quite enamored.  Even I liked it and I'm not what you'd call a beer person.  Unique.

Me: Baby Godzilla!: This cocktail had me at hello.  I would wager that I'd order most things called "Baby Godzilla" just because it's such a fantastic name, but the fact that this concoction consisted mainly of gin and grapefruit reeled me in.  What a wonderfully perfect winter drink!  I am a gin-maniac, and have been eating the winter's ripest red grapefruits obsessively for the past few weeks, so this hit home.   There was sweetness, bitterness, and even some substance with the thickness that the grapefruit juice lends.  Give it a try.  Yes, it's pink.  But Baby Godzilla is anything but wussy.

*  *  *

In a city where the culinary scene is still slowly - sometimes too slowly, I think - clawing its way up the ladder to a status near some of the other big food cities in the US, it's hard to find a place that is less-flash and more-flavor.  Ironically, I'd been to one of Euclid Hall's sister restaurants - Rioja - about a year before and had the opposite experience: pretty, fancy, overpriced food that wasn't all that great.  Rioja is much-lauded while Euclid Hall seems to be the grungier, less ostentatious step-child content to sit in a dark corner and do his own thing.  But it is decidedly more unique, daring and, therefore, surprising.  And, despite not wanting to be - it's also refined.  Pigs' Heads, Baby Godzilla, and all.

Invoking Spring: Barrafina's Chorizo & Watercress Sandwich

Barrafina-inspired Chorizo Sandiwch with Watercress salad

Sometimes in the Spring, ever-so-fleetingly, I get nostalgic for London.  This year that was the case last week when I re-experienced the frustration of it being too cold to wear anything but a sweater in the middle of April.  It's just not right.  And it's just what I experienced every single spring in Londontown.  Even now, I shake my head at my British / UK-residing friends' facebook statuses about how they're almost convinced the sun will never shine again, that the weather will never warm up.  I shake my head in dismay, but also in solidarity.  I know their pain.

So this post is about invoking Spring in an otherwise un-spring-y circumstance.

I remember the first time I heard about the then-new Barrafina restaurant in London's west end back in February of 2007.  My hellacious boss (who I'll refer to as " Luca Delcattivo" here for the sake of anonymity) had taken a client to lunch there one day and came back to our offices raving about it.  Tapas.  New, delicious, refined Spanish tapas in London like none he'd ever had outside Spain.  I drooled at his brief but poignant descriptions.  Shortly thereafter, in March or April, Matt and I went there and we were so blown away that we insisted on taking most of our guests there too when they came to visit.  And a couple of Marches and Aprils later, they were all blown away too.  It's such a nice place to eat, but best in the Spring, when the window-walls fly open and you're left to enjoy the ambiance of Soho, crowds toasting glasses of wine as they wait patiently outside the door, wafts of gambas and garlic filling the air.

*  *  *

Top Things that Invoke that Springtime Spirit 

at Barrafina

watercress in a snowy garden

1. A Glass of Cava
 Maybe it's the stark, modern decor or the white-marble countertops, but, to me a glass of bright, bubbly Cava is the best-fitting drink to start your meal at Barrafina.  There is always a queue so forget the fantasies of walking in to a lovely white-linen-lined table and eating a leisurely meal.  Tables don't exist either (except for a few impossibly-small ones on the sidewalk outside if my memory serves).  You get there, you get a drink, and you stand outside with the rest of the world on the street, drinking, toasting, and feeling bubbly.  The cava brings the sunshine to you.

2. The Ooey-Gooey Tortilla Española (with shrimp)
The Spanish Tortilla is a thing of beauty.  Eggs and potato combined into round sublimity.  At Barrafina they cook individual-sized tortillas in tiny cast-iron pans, finishing them under the broiler so that the outside is set but the inside is an ooey-gooey, runny, eggy mess.  A revelation. Completely, absolutely, delicious.  They offer many different variations - often using seasonal ingredients (perfect for a time like Spring).  We especially enjoyed the one with shrimp.

3. The Pan con Tomate
Dreams of sun-ripened tomatoes haunt me at this time of year.  If you've never tried this uber-simple Spanish-staple, you must.  You will never look at a tomato and piece of bread the same way again. 

4. The Seafood
Nothing screams warm-weather and better-days more to me than a well-cooked piece of seafood.  Barrafina excels at taking fresh fish and highlighting its best aspects.  Get the octopus, the clams, the razor clams - or any of the fish.  They are all cooked simply and perfectly.

5. The Cheery Ambiance
The seating in Barrafina and the fact that you can't make reservations will either make or break the experience for you.  It's hard to sit at a long bar when you're with more than one person.  You are always seated next to a stranger.  There is no privacy because the cooks, the bar staff and chef are all running around in front of you, making food, drinks, taking plates and glasses, offering another round of painfully expensive Jamon Iberico which you will not be able to resist after a certain number of alcoholic libations.  But that's ok.  You'll feel shocked the next day when you remember the total cost of the meal, and marvel at how, truly, you're probably still hungry after having had 6 plates between the two of you.  But that's ok.  Sometimes its worth it just for the ambiance and for a couple of truly amazing bites of food.

*  *  *

Last week I decided to invoke the spirit of Barrafina by making what was one of our favorite dishes there (though we admittedly loved them all): Chorizo and Watercress sandwiches.  I'm not sure whether they still serve the chorizo sandwiches or not as it has been about four years since we've been there but judging by the reviews on Urbanspoon, whatever they are serving is still as good or better than what we had several years ago.  We loved the sandwich both because of its simplicity and its seamless fusing of Spanish and British cuisine: the Spanish chorizo and bread together with a quintessentially English crop - peppery watercress.

Bolillo and Chorizo

The chorizo I used is Mexican (I like it hot, what can I say?), and I simply formed small sausages from loose chorizo, grilled them, and paired them with a lightly toasted (grilled) Mexican bolillo.  I then placed a small helping of a watercress salad dressed simply with lemon juice, fresh garlic, salt and pepper on top.

Spring in sandwich-form. :)

Italy Part 2: Rome: "Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me."

Approximately two years and two months ago, Matt and I were in Italy, celebrating our unofficial 8-year-meeting-anniversary.  And almost exactly two years ago today, I wrote the first part of what was meant to be a duet of posts - a musing I called: Italy Part I: San Martino: "Il Bel Far Niente."  Needless to say, things in the early parts of 2011 got crazy for us - on many levels - and I never got to write the second part.  Two moves later and two years later, today I was prompted to finally do so by the happy and unexpected request from a friend to give her some recommendations for good food and beautiful sights to see in Rome.  After writing an inappropriately long list for her, I also spent some time re-living our last trip there through the beautiful photos we took and felt compelled to share here - if for no other reason than just to prolong the feeling of delicious nostalgia all this has provoked.

I believe we left off somewhere in Campania...

* * *

Have you ever had ten shots of espresso in one morning?  I don't recommend it. That's precisely the reason that I found myself suddenly vomiting out the rental car door on a rather hideous side road in the south of Italy on the morning we said goodbye to Matt's family in San Martino.  We were headed to Rome.  And, as if to purge it of any lingering non-Roman commitments, my body decided that all the good-intentioned-Campanian-caffe's of the past few hours had to go.  Basta already with all this Campanian-sciocchezze: there's only room for Roma.

It was fitting because, for me, as a rule, vacation is a delicate and constant struggle between eating too much and not seeing enough.  I am a self-professed not-doer on vacations - I prefer not to fill my day with places I have to be at a certain hour, things I have to see to check-off the endless mental list of "been-there-done-thats" - but I like to take in the scenery, the people, the feel of the place -- and eat.  A LOT.  For me, the memories are made at the lunch table, at the coffee-stop, at the random bench where we sat and chatted for an hour while eating strawberries from the market (where I still regret not getting some porchetta to-go as well).

*  *  *
 

"You may have the universe - but Italy is mine."

 "Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me."

Italy has always had its hold on me - for no good, particular reason.  And within Italy, despite two years in Trieste, Rome is the favored, overflowing cup of happy memories for me.  I could sit in almost any spot in that city and feel happily satisfied just to be there, without seeing or doing anything else (except maybe eating, of course).  It holds so much meaning, so much history for me, that simply having made it back there with Matt once more was almost enough for me.

Almost.

Matt and Roman Fecit.

I wanted to go back and bask in all the old and new (for Rome) and old and new (for me).  I
wanted to see our school, stop at our favorite bar, see the restaurant where we had our first date.  And I wanted to try all the restaurants (or at least a few) that we never could have afforded in our college days, to bring our son Roman (!) to the garden where I met his father, stay at a hotel in the center of it all, buy useless mementos, drink good wines.  I wanted to see how the city had changed, relish how much it had stayed the same.  I wanted to take destination-less walks - in circles, even - and admire the stores that I'd frequented once, or the new ones that had taken their place.  And despite my otherwise aimless wandering, I wanted to gleefully check off every single thing and place I wanted to eat or eat at off my impossibly long food-itinerary (I can't entirely let go of type-A Brenda).  And I did.  We did it all.  And, to-date, that brief moment of time in Rome stands out as one of my favorite vacations we've ever taken.

I often tell Matt that I think I'll never be one of those people who can find a place they want to go back to every year and not get sick of it.  In some ways I'm addicted to finding and experiencing newness.  But if I'm really honest with myself, I know that, if given half a chance, I'd be back in Rome every single year if I could.  You may have the universe - but Italy is mine.

*  *  *

Top Five Memories of Roma 2010

the old-the new, the very long-winded

5. The Only Real Roman.

There was something about seeing Roman in Rome.  It was like my life had come full-circle for one brief second, like all the things that meant most to me had been fulfilled, granted to me in complete perfection for just one moment, to observe and enjoy. 

The little man & Stone Pines at Villa Pamphili Park

He had no idea where we were and much less why it held so much meaning to me and Matt.  And perhaps that innocent glee was what made watching him - run in the rain in Piazza del Popolo (the first sight in Rome-proper that Matt and I ever visited together), or snootily lift his nose and pretend to drink wine at his first Roman lunch, or splash the water in the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi with utter disregard for Bernini's sculpture - all the more endearing and perfect.

Piazza del Popolo in the rain.

Doing like the Roman does.

4.  Boring Pretty Things Everywhere.

One of the first things that ever struck me about Italy was how - to me - everything looked so pretty, no matter how boring.  Literally, everything.  It still does.

I had a few chances to walk around Rome by myself on this trip and it was often at those moments - temporarily removed from Roman's demands - that I had the chance to savor the beauty of quotidian life in Rome once more.

A city of fountains, ruins, strong opinions and a mish-mash of cultures that all somehow converge into a mutual - and expected - reverence for all things Italian. But mostly all things Roman. Filled with beauty to the very brim, for anyone willing to stop a moment and find it: A dimly lit barber shop on a cobblestone street. The perfect espresso with the perfect schiuma, gone almost before you can even admire it. The most impossibly tiny little car parked on what surely must be a sidewalk - and no parking tickets on the window. A fountain with a serendipitous mosaic of red, orange, brown and yellow Autumn leaves floating on the water's surface; a temporary art installation by nature herself, gone with the next flow of water. Chestnuts - castagne - arranged just-so on a street vendor's fire pit, their familiar scent filling everyone's mind with unmistakably Autumnal smells. Rows of stores selling hand-crafted Saint figurines. Priests walking together, laughing, in the Vatican. A man sitting on thousand-year-old ruins, smoking a cigarette, talking on his telefonino. Giant puddles of water forming in between imperfectly laid cobblestones. My son hugging a column at the Pantheon. The Carabinieri standing in the Piazza - enjoying their cigarettes and coffees more than keeping the peace. Or maybe that's just how they do it - keep the peace, I mean - by living well, and beautifully, alongside everything and everyone else.

3. Back to School.

It's difficult to describe seeing your one-year-old stand in the courtyard of the school where you met his father - the same courtyard you snuck into by climbing over the wrought-iron fence because you broke curfew.

 It's strange to watch him sit on the chair in the classroom where your then-boyfriend had Latin class and loved to hang-out at night reading Tacitus standing up, at the professor's podium (after he'd all but done your Latin homework for you :)).

the courtyard

It's a completely bizarre sensation to take him down to the little dining room where you and your now-husband first got to know each other over pumpkin risotto and a somewhat unorthodox version of veal Carpaccio that you still talk about to this day.

But it's also pretty fantastic.

Even more fantastic, somehow, than that same blonde-Italian secretary (Letizia - "Titz" for short, if I recall), still there 8 years later, recognizing you both and being blown away that you actually did get married - just like everyone said you would.

2. Simple food, joyfully served. 

One of the things I recall vividly about living in Rome as a student was the real feeling of indignation I carried with me over the fact that I could not afford to eat everywhere and everything I wanted to.  In that sense, this trip was near-complete vindication.  

Our meals were not extravagant.  They were not particularly fancy or expensive, nor were they at the trendiest or most talked-about spots in Rome.  They were something far better than that: they were elegant, simple, and joyfully served.

Italian food is not complicated, - sometimes I would even say it is an endless collection of variations on a theme - but what makes the food stand out is the care and the true joy you find in how it is crafted, cared about, and passed over to you - an edible representation of all the culture and history behind that person, that family, that city, that particular moment.

Here are my three favorite meals from our trip:

Piazza delle Coppelle

I. Osteria Da Mario
Piazza delle Coppelle, 51  00186 Rome, Italy
A short-and-scenic-walk from the Pantheon through winding streets leads to a small courtyard filled with a small food market and a covered seating area for this family-owned osteria. 

As our first Roman meal - salsiccia e broccoletti for Matt, pasta pomodoro for the Master, and saltimbocca alla Romana with carciofi alla Romana for me - it was perfection.

salsiccia e broccoletti

II. Da Lucia

The dining room at Da Lucia

Vicolo del Mattonato, 2b, 00153 Rome, Italy

 

"Da Lucia," in Italian, means "at Lucia's place.  It feels like a Roman house in this trattoria, tucked away in a beautiful corner of Trastevere, family-owned and run since WWII.

We had a quiet, beautiful lunch of stewed rabbit, involtini con piselli and - because we were lucky enough to be in Rome while they were in season - Puntarelle alla Romana (chicory sprouts with a pungent but delicious anchovy dressing) while Roman slept in his stroller.  

It was pouring rain outside that day, so we didn't get to take the leisurely stroll through Trastevere that we'd hoped for, but instead we stopped by a nearby bar for a quick caffe' and chatted about the good old days.

It was almost too good to be true.

III. Piccola Cuccagna

Vicolo della Cuccagna, 13  186 Rome, Italy

 

Piccola Cuccagna Piccola Cuccagna is just the type of place I would have never stopped had it not been recommended to me.  On the corner of Piazza Navona, in plain view of Bernini's 4 Rivers, I'm fairly certain that most people who don't know Rome write it off as a tourist trap.  Well, it's not. The combination of the setting with, an unrelenting penchant for, as one writer put it, the "unapologetically impolite foods favoured by Romans" - pasta with small intestines, Tripe alla Romana, and Puntarelle (vinegared chicory shoots with anchovy sauce) - left nothing to be desired.  We were utterly satisfied and even giddy. For primi piatti we had: prosciutto e melone (because it never gets old), bruschette, and some buccattini all'ammatriciana - a Roman pasta specialty. For the secondo, Matt was bold and ordered the roast branzino (fileted and deboned at the table) served with perfect rosemary potatoes and some radicchio and lemon.      I,however, was vastly bolder and ordered the Trippa alla Romana (tripe in tomato and parmesan) served with - what else? - lovely Romanesco broccoli. Trippa alla Romana Dessert was, as always in Italy, a delicious but forgettable afterthought to the main event. 1. Oldies but Goodies.

I don't remember when it happened, but I do recall the odd sensation of suddenly realizing that the world no longer saw me as a kid.  It didn't change how I saw myself - eternally in my mid-twenties for the record - but it changed the way I experienced other people, and other places too.  It is lucky, therefore, that certain things in this life - only a few, really - never get old.  And, in fact, they often get better the longer they're around.

walking our old path up the gianiculum hill

We might have returned to Rome almost a decade older and, for the sake of argument, wiser - suddenly, it seems, married, parents, professionals.  But we still felt the same exhilaration when we saw the forum, the Colosseum, the Victor Emmanuel Monument again that we did in our college days.   And we loved going back and taking cheesy pictures together, re-living the places, sights and smells that have thrilled people for more than two thousand years, the same places that make up a special piece of our past - and now, present - lives together and forever will.  Oldies but Goodies.

kisses in front of Vittorio Emmanuele

Plenty of Ottolenghi & A Word to the Sage

Mushrooms & Herb Polenta from Plenty by Ottolenghi

I have something to confess.   A relatively major thing, as foody confessions go.  There's something I've been keeping to myself for several years now that I dared not utter but was forced to the forefront of my mind a few months ago when I randomly purchased a new cookbook.

I'd been wanting it for a while but I decided to finally just go out and buy Plenty when I saw it at a highly aesthetically pleasing little shop on the main street in Camden, ME on a whimsical weekend getaway in the fall.  I ordered it off Amazon as soon as I got home.  I just couldn't stand not having that picture of the eggplants (slathered in some sort of deliciously light yoghurty-sauce and sprinkled with thyme, zatar and pomegranate seeds, if you must know) as part of my daily visual binge.

I flipped through it voraciously as soon as it came.  And I oohed and ahhhhed over the lovely, intensely creative vegetarian recipes which literally jump off the page at you.  I'd heard of Ottolenghi for so long.  First, just because I lived in London, of course (they're in Kensington, Notting Hill, Belgravia...).  Then because it was somewhat of a rival to Melrose & Morgan, the place across the street from the bakery I worked at in Primrose Hill where I generally got my lunch (to this day I often dream of their beef wellington).  And finally because a friend of mine was obsessed by their style of cooking and was going on about the new book coming out and how she'd pre-ordered it.  I scoffed.  All-natural ingredient-driven delis with modern lighting, bright white platters and on-the-edge-of-acceptable-vegetarian-salads are kind of "a thing" in London.  They're almost common, ironically.  It's like they're the British upper-crust's answer to the working man's pub on every corner: "So, you dare to serve microwaved cottage pie with frozen chips?  Take THAT scoundrels!"  

Vibrant Vegetable Recipes - as Ottolenghi's Plenty is described - have arrived.

* * *

Yottam Ottolenghi is Israeli and, surprisingly, not a vegetarian (as Plenty's recipes and his weekly column in The Guardian would suggest).  I don't know much about Israeli food, though I do know a fair bit about the Mediterranean and I'm guessing he's going for a fusion of those two with light, modern British cuisine.  I admire the use of local, fresh ingredients and the fact that everything is made from scratch by them every single day.  The only problem I often find with modern, all-vegetarian takes is that they often look better than they taste.  It seems to me that in an effort to use as many fresh, raw, unique ingredients as possible, the flavor combinations can often cross the line a little too far into the purely "artsy-fartsy" side of food, straying every-so-much from the purely "tasty-wasty" side of things.  (I mean, in all honest, I have never tasted a dish where plain quinoa featured prominently that I loved.) 

Despite my misgivings, I must admit that I was spoiled for choice with Plenty.  It covers all the seasonal bases and I had no problem finding  a warm, inviting Fall or Winter dish.  In the end I settled on a deceptively simple recipe: Mushroom and Herb Polenta.

I had all the ingredients in the fridge and any recipe that includes more than one type of mushroom in copious amounts makes it to the table at my house.  I was also especially taken by the idea of creating a beautiful slab of polenta.*  Just so aesthetically appealing.  But anyway, the only thing I was missing was the chervil.  After a quick google search I realized you can substitute a combination of parsley and sage for it and felt happy that I finally had a reason to cut into that giant, beautiful sage bush growing in my backyard before the first frost.  Except for one thing - and here's where the confession comes in - I hate sage.

What possessed me to grab it anyway?  What made me think that instead of using the 1/8 tsp the website suggested I cold use the 4-5 full sage leaves I greedily grabbed?  Was it my hopeful trust in Ottolenghi's magic chef wand?  Was it that I thought maybe this would be the dish that converted me?  It's all beyond me.  I grabbed it anyway.  Yes, I'm a beast.  

I poured my heart into that recipe, chopping up a fragrant herbal storm, conjuring and channeling the spirit of London's most sophisticated, most natural eateries - and what resulted was beautiful.  Truly beautiful.  A purely aesthetic masterpiece of creamy polenta with roasted, autumnal mushrooms.  A delightful thing to look at, and one which Matthew found me gleefully photographing in the backyard as he got home from work.  

But back at the dinner table, I knew something had gone awry.

I don't know why I don't like sage!  I never have.  Maybe in a minute quantity I can kind-of stand it but to me it just tastes like badly-cooked liver.  Badly-cooked liver in the deceptively enticing form of a lovely, velvety leaf.  A perfectly shaped leaf that is iconic for many dishes such as Saltimbocca alla Romana in which it serves as a garnish and seasoning, or traditional Christmas sausage stuffing.  And yet, I just don't get it.  It ruined the dish for me and I am convinced the chervil would have done the same.  If I ever cook this again (which I might), I'd leave it out altogether.

Ottolenghi prides itself on bold, fresh flavors.  This polenta certainly delivers that and a little too much more.  I can't say I agree with this particular flavor combination but...I can't wait to try another recipe.  And maybe even get the first cookbook. :) 

*In the book it's served on a wooden board (which, if I'd had a big enough one I would have done).