Cookbooks and the locavore

There is a group of girls next to me at my usual cafe, discussing city zoning. They are clearly taking a class on the subject, and are quite intellectually involved with it. They're discussing Houston's non-governmental organization, and the reactions of "citizens as taxpayers" to various schemes and regulations, and the movement of populations into the suburbs in the 1960's. All in all, they have the earnest mindset of a group of young people who don't pay much taxes, don't own property, and don't have any real idea of what they are talking about.

Not that I do, mind you. I don't own a home or a business. I can't really explain why it is that Houston looks like a city on steroids but with no one on the street, other than it's hot and Texans like things big. But there is something important about seeing the land, and understanding what can and can't be done with it. The rolling scrub desert of southern Idaho isn't good for much but cows and potatoes. Nebraska seems to be made for corn and wheat. The wooded dells and glades, the charming apple orchards and rolling berry fields, the tidy little plots of vegetables that are so very Oregonian simply can't exist everywhere.

This is why it makes so little sense to try to export city planning, and why it often makes no sense to bother with famous restaurant cookbooks from far away cities.

A good example is Craft. Tom Collichio is a justly famous restaurateur, he started with a small New York restaurant, Craft, and in that New York/L.A. way, slowly expanded his empire to the point where it now includes an immense, incredibly expensive Las Vegas steak emporium called, natch, CraftSteak. Other than clearly having opened in that late 90's/early 00's period when mid-century modern and dark woods ruled the earth, CraftSteak is excellent. The very best in delicious, overpriced beef, as well as some very interesting extras. Craftsteak was the first place I had Jerusalem artichokes (wonderful), as well as the first place I had butter-braised lobster (ridiculous).

But Tom Collichio's cookbooks, while inspiring, have never felt like something I could really work with. Mostly this has to do with the fact that he lives in New York and I live on the west coast. Fundamentally, it just isn't the same. For example, ramps. Tom Collichio loves ramps. Ramps are a leek/green onion thing that grows wild along the tributaries to the Hudson river. I've never had a ramp, or even seen one. On the other hand, Meyer lemons grow in every other backyard in Berkeley, where I grew up. I threw them to my dog when I couldn't find a ball for a game of fetch. My mother sends me a box of them every time the tree gets full.

Really aside from a few very basic vegetables and land animals, nothing is the same. Red Snapper does not exist in the pacific - our "snapper" is actually a rockfish. Dungenness crab solely live in the north of Santa Barbara. There is no such thing as a local catfish this far west, nor the aforementioned and much lamented ramps. And a New Yorker is never going to know the pleasure of eating salmon berries fresh from a wild vine one a hike to the Sandy river. 

This limits the utility of all cookbooks, even "everything" cookbooks - The Minimalist, I'm looking at you, and your lack of west coast fish substitutions - but is particularly frustrating with glossy, inspiring restaurant cookbooks. Oh, Tom! I want to make red snapper braised with butter and ramps! Look at that beautiful farm-to-table Mexican meal, too bad I can't find Epazote to save my life! Totally in love with Susan Goin, my Vermont friend? Good luck finding those Chilles de Arbol!

There is no real solution to this dilemma, for either the home cook or the cookbook writer. The thing that makes a restaurant great is the chef's ability to make beauty from the rough products of the earth. The ability to look around at the same berries, fruits and vegetables that were at the market last week and come up with something inspiring and new, fragrant and delicious. If every recipe had to be universally applicable, the chef's inspiration and personality would disappear. That, or each cookbook would die under the weight of so many notes on substitution. For the home cook, such substitutions are hardly helpful. There is no substitute for Epazote. Canned Jalapenos are awful, and nothing like fresh. Pacific halibut is not a good substitute for Swordfish, and not even a good substitute for Alaskan. And, no, I'm sure regular leeks don't taste like ramps. Falling in love with a food celebrity, no matter how deserving of fame, is simply frustrating. Their crayon box simply has different colors in it, and there's often no clear way to mimic Dark Sienna when you've only got brown and red. 

The only way around these problems? Fall in love with a local chef! Find people who see the same items at the store that you do and turn that into the sublime. I certainly can't afford to go to Le Pigeon or Lucques or Chez Pannise very often, if at all. But I can afford the cookbooks (speaking of which, hey Le Pidg, why no cookbook?). And buying those cookbooks is good for both me, the inspired and happily unfrustrated cook, and for them, as cookbooks are one of the only ways for a talented chef to make money without spending another 12 hours on his/her feet in front of a hot stove. Also, isn't it lovely to contemplate the possibility of going to a restaurant someday that has been so inspiring to you without also having to contemplate airfare, hotel rooms and lost luggage? It is to me.

With that in mind, I find these cookbooks to be indispensable for inspiring the West Coast Cook:

Chez Panisse Vegetables: vegetables can be the least inspiring ingredients, but are actually the backbone of everything we eat and love. Alice Waters gets you thinking creatively about the kitchen workhorse.

Sunday Suppers at Lucques: Slightly complicated but universally delicious dishes that add a little kick to the Cal-Med repertoire.

The Zuni Cafe Cookbook: A huge gourmet tome, in which you will find something to do with everything you've got, from dried beans to days old bread. 

West Coast Seafood: The Complete Cookbook: A wonderful guide to the most local and wild of our foods, the fish. Good to have on hand if you are going to attempt to find a substitute for some fish called for in an east coast cookbook.

The Herbfarm Cookbook: Intimately tied to a garden near Seattle, this book can't help but deal with the limitations of a short, cool summer. It does so with grace and ease.

What to Drink on Thanksgiving.

I recently met a man from planet gorgeous. One of those otherworldly creatures who seems to have an unfairly low body fat percentage, criminally chiseled features, and twinkly blue eyes that could probably get him out of jail. He also happens to be incredibly nice, friendly, and pretty smart. So it was a bit of a shock to me when Mr. Way Too Perfect seemed to be flirting with me the other night out. In fact, it was so outside of the realm of possibility in my mind that it didn’t occur to me until after I hugged him goodbye (his words, “well, give me a squeeze”) that what had occurred that night was, in fact, some expression of interest on his part. I’m still flabbergasted. You see, I’m not ugly. I’m a solid B+, in a world without grade inflation. I’m not the definition of “cute”, but I could be used as a further example for people who were having a hard time understanding inherent nuances of the word’s meaning. I come from a planet populated by the lumpen proletariat, and I’m fine with it. The prospect of his attraction was so far outside the realm of possibility in my mind that I just didn’t notice.

I will now admit to you what I did notice, an admission that I’m sure will make any thinking woman categorize me as a hopeless idiot deserving of my failure to get laid. I noticed the beer. While spending time with Mr. Tall and Outdoorsy, I had a few excellent, really incredible beers. An outstanding Double Mountain Viennese and a Caldera Dry Hopped Orange. The Viennese was smooth and slightly sweet, and the orange smelled like a Christmas tree and tasted like wild herbs. And, as usually happens with excellent, herbaceous beers, I thought, “Man, this would be good with turkey!” I am hopeless.

Beer isn’t any more American than wine – like a lot of alcohol, beer seems to have been invented by notoriously alcoholic European monks - but somehow beer just seems more ‘mmirican, in a flag-sticker-on-a-ford-truck way. The Pilgrims had beer on the Mayflower, fer chissakes. American beer manufacturers have made beer their own, with brewmasters across the nation honing a plethora of unique and complex beverages. All in all turkey with all the accessories and beer are both ultimately American but also pretty darn ‘mmerican.

You can go in two directions with your beer choices: herbaceous or sweet and smooth. Any herbaceous beer will act as a counterpoint to the richness of the gravy and bring out the wonderful herbs used good stuffing (and yes, in my book Pepperidge Farm is good stuffing). Ask your local beer geek for something “hoppy,” even if that makes you feel like you are shopping for an Easter bunny. A sweet and smooth beer will accentuate the butteriness in your mashed potatoes and the richness of your turkey. Ask your beer man for something medium dark and smooth, he won't think you are coming onto him.

If you want more specific recommendations, I offer the following, highly personal list of good thanksgiving beers:

Herbaceous:

1. Craftsman Brewing Company’s Triple White Sage: This is the first beer that ever made me think of Thanksgivings and is, in a word, amazing. Unlike other “infused” beers, the Craftsman Brewers use a light hand with their herbs and actually add the herb listed, in this case California White Mountain Sage, instead of some predistilled “essence”. The beer is light, clean, and has white sage, which is less aggressive and more complex than regular cooking sage. Watch out, though, this is a higher alcohol beer.
2. Caldera Brewing Company’s Dry Hop Orange: A beer good enough to make a girl on a dry run not notice the man from Planet Gorgeous. Hate me, love the beer. Citrus and cypress notes and a tangy quality that will cut right through that last bite of gravy, clearing your palette for that next mouthful of sweet potatoes.

As for smooth and sweet beers, well, I haven't investigated as much, but I've got a six-pack of Celebration Ale in my fridge and I'm going to give it a try.

Something other than Turkey.

November is a great month for cooking. The harvest vegetables spill from the shelves, birds and game are at their fattest, and all of us are hungry – the urge to fatten up is not confined to squirrels and dear. November’s high notes read like an advertisement for Cabaret, the musical: Apples! Pears! Butternut Squash! And, now appearing on the cover every single food magazine you can think of, the star of our show, Turkey!

But, that big fat turkey is a diva, and her hips are too wide to let any other players on the stage. Invisible in the glare of all that glistening bird flesh is seafood. November is the absolute best time for a whole plethora of little ocean critters that taste incredible with little or no work. Well, we’ve all seen Deadliest Catch by now, so lets revise that to say: little or no work for you! Mussels, oysters, scallops, and the king of all west coast seafoods: Dungeness Crab, are all waiting for you to notice, taste and rejoice.

There are advantages to working seafood into your fall menu. While some – oysters, scallops – can be a bit pricey, a lot of fall seafood is the cheapest thing at the fish counter. Mussels, clams, and calamari regularly sell for less than five dollars per pound. Fresh, in-season Dungeness crab can sell for as little as seven. As seafood is best with very little done to it, it can be a relief from the more intensive roasting, braising, stewing and buttering (oh, the intensive, intensive buttering) that come with other fall foods.

So, let’s start with the easiest thing first:

Mussels with Herb Butter

Total cooking time: 10 minutes, including the time it takes you to open a bottle of white. Serves 2-3, or more, if you make more.

You will need two bottles of a nice, crisp, cold white. Any kind you like will do, as long as it isn’t at all sweet. Put a little less than half a bottle in a big wide pot with a lid, Almost any pot will do: stock pot, a saucier, anything that will hold a lot of mussels and keep the juicy wine steam in. Pour the rest of the open bottle into the wine glasses of your thirsty companions. If you don’t have enough wine for everyone, open the second bottle. That’s why it’s there.

Add either 2 cloves of crushed, minced garlic, or about 3 tablespoons minced shallot* to the wine, with big pinch of salt (1/8 tsp plus) and few grinds of black pepper. Turn the heat to high and bring the wine mix to a boil.

While your wine heats up, clean some mussels (a dozen per person, plus a few extra). Pinch any “beard” – the tiny little hair-like tentacles that come out the side – between your thumb and a paring knife and pull/twist them out. While you are there, scrape off any grit with the knife, or not. You can always just leave it at the bottom of the saucepan.

When the wine boils, or after it boils for a minute, put the mussels in and put on the lid. Wait until it comes to a boil again. While you wait, chop up three tablespoons of an herb, any herb. Marjoram or Basil, of you chose garlic, tarragon or chervil if you chose shallot. Get ready either two to four tablespoons of butter or a quarter cup of cream. After you chop the herbs and cut off a chunk of butter, stir the mussels. Are they mostly open? Push any closed ones to the bottom and put the lid back on. The mussels should cook for no more than 6 minutes total. Take off the lid after another minute, drop in the herbs and butter/cream, stir again until the butter is melted. Divide into bowls, giving everyone some of the liquid. Serve with big slices of crusty bread, a few mixed greens, and the rest of the wine. Yum.

Italian Seafood Stew (serves 4 to six)

This dish is incredibly sneaky. It’s too easy, and it’s done in a half an hour, but it seems complicated (and it will probably seem so in the writing) to your guests. Don’t be intimidated. The short version of this recipe is simply: sauté seafood in tasty Italian sausage drippings, boil some wine in the juice, combine and be happy. It involves opening a can, and chopping a bit of herbs and garlic, but that’s about it.

First, get your ingredients ready; You’ll need about a pound of calamari – ask for more tubes than tentacles, people get squeamish about tentacles. Just think about the word “tentacles” and you’ll understand why. Cut the tubes into rings, about half an inch wide. You’ll also need a pound of raw shrimp, without heads (heads just make them rot). Mince a few cloves of garlic.

If the sausage is in casings, get rid of the casings. If it isn’t, wonderful. Heat one tablespoon olive oil in a wide pan (a saucier or a large sauté pan will work), and when it begins to smell warm and olive-y, add the sausage. Stir and break up the sausage, every once in a while. Don’t hurry. Don’t fuss. Let it brown and get cooked.

When the sausage is a just a little browned up, add the chopped garlic. Pretty much right afterwards, put in the prepared calamari. When the sizzle comes back to the pan (the calamari, all at once, will cool it down), the calamari will let off some liquid. Pay it no mind. Look at the calamari themselves. As soon as they turn opaque or curl up, remove each bit with a pair of tongs to a big bowl. As soon as the calamari have cooked, turn the shrimp into the pan. The shrimp may need to be turned once or twice, but as soon as they turn pink/opaque and begin to curl up, pick them out and place them into the large bowl, too.

Once the shrimp are removed, add 2 cups dry white wine, one or two cans cannelini beans (drained and rinsed), a bit of chopped marjoram or oregano and some salt and pepper to the pan. Bring it to a boil, and let it bubble for a minute or two, stir it to bring up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. When the mixture has thickened a little, pour it into the bowl with the calamari and shrimp. If you feel like you need more vegetables, add a few big handfuls of spinach into the mix and stir them until wilted. Drizzle the entirety with a good bit of tasty olive oil, and serve with either some simply buttered pasta or a lot of crusty Italian bread.

The Magical Animal

As is the case with almost everyone in my generation, and in the generation following mine (if you consider Gen X and Gen Y to be two separate entities), I have a favorite quote from The Simpsons. Mine's not a quote, exactly, but a passage. A wise and important passage that speaks to the truths of the universe in a way that only a yellow dude with a serious overbite can.

It's in the Lisa-Goes-Vegetarian episode. Lisa is trying to explain that she's not going to eat meat to Homer. Homer asks, in essence, "You're going to go without bacon?! without pork chops?! without ham?!" To which Lisa replies, "Daa-ad, those all come from the same animal!" Homer stares at her incredulously, throws his hands into the air and says, "Yeah, right, Lisa. Some Maaagical Animal."

Mmmmmm, pork. Much has been written about pork's magical qualities. Bacon is almost universally the most tempting meat to vegetarians, "the gateway meat," as it is now commonly known. Pulled pork shoulder, along with pork ribs (not babyback, please) are some of the most discussed pieces of meat in the world. The subject of intense slow-cooking bar-b-que battles across the South, and the prime battleground of longstanding rivalries.

Pork is also frankly creepy. Pig skin is highly akin to human flesh, and a pigs jaw and bone structure are close enough to human that, in what *must* be a very scientific decision, they use a pig jaw whenever they do an experiment that would involve human teeth on Mythbusters. Pigs also have a reputation for intelligence, more than dogs, supposedly. Oh, and pigs sweat, like we do. Given all this, and the fact that pigs are omnivores, one has to wonder if eating pigs isn't just a little bit like being a cannibal. Could it be that we also taste that good? If so, I don't wanna know.

I'm going to shake off that last thought (brrrr!) and declare, you lucky person, that Now Is The Time For Pork! There are three reasons for this happy thought:

1) Pigs are omnivores, and they eat things we refuse to. (There's a very successful pig farm near the Las Vegas strip that feeds its pigs only hotel leftovers) Pigs need much less acreage than cows. They are a wonderful way to process human wastes into useful, nutritious, tasty tasty meat.
2) Figs

It's fig time, and figs love pork. Pork loves figs. Figs are a deep, complex fruit that bring out the natural sweetness in pork without competing with or masking its rich, meaty qualities. But figs have flaws. They kinda look like nut-sacks, for one, and they can be a little much, on their own. A little too mushy, a little too monochromaticly flavored, and too large for one bite. Pork solves all these problems. The salt and chew of pork distracts your mouth from the mush of the fig, and brings out the nuance in their flavor. Add a little red wine or some nuts (not that kind) and you're golden.

So, without further ado, I present Pork and Figs, a marriage made in heaven. Or in the mind of Homer Simpson, you choose.

Bacon Wrapped Figs with Walnuts or Pecans.

This is one of the easiest fancy-ass party appetizers you can make. If you are having cocktails, and you want to impress a certain appetizing guest, offer him/her one of these fig-bites and you'll, at the very least, get a quick preview of their o-face.

Start with a pint or two of figs, depending on your number of guests. Cut all of the figs in half, if they are small, or in quarters if they are large. Then open a package of bacon. Cut about a dozen slices in half, crosswise, so you have two shorter lengths. Your prep-work is done.

To assemble your little fig-bacon wraps, simply wrap a piece of fig and a walnut or pecan half in a half-strip of bacon, and place, seam side down, on a baking sheet. Repeat until all of your figs are wrapped. Turn the oven on to 375-400. About 15 minutes before you want to offer your guests bacon ecstasy, put the baking sheet in the oven. Cook until the bacon is crispy, take out of the oven and remove to a platter with something green on it (for the pretty). Make sure to warn your guests/loved ones that the wraps are hot, because they may pounce before the figs have had a chance to become slightly less than molten.


Fig and Goat Cheese Stuffed Pork Chops with Red Wine Sauce.

There are four main ingredients for this recipe: pork chops, dried mission figs, red wine, and goat cheese, and they are all listed in the title. Start with the red wine and figs. Very roughly chop about a cup of dried figs, leaving two or three whole ones. Put the figs in a pot with enough red wine to cover by at least an inch. Put the pot over medium high heat, and while the figs come to a simmer look around your kitchen for anything else that will make them tasty. Some chopped thyme/dried thyme. A shallot, cut in half. Perhaps a quarter of an onion or a few crushed garlic cloves. (put in either the shallot, the onion or the garlic, not all three). Maybe a bit of parsley. A cup of chicken stock. Definitely toss in a few peppercorns and a little salt.

Simmer the fig concoction until the figs are soft and tasty looking, if they look like they are running out of liquid before they are soft, add more wine or chicken stock, or even water. You want to end up with a lot of plump fig parts in a thick, syrupy liquid that almost, but doesn't cover the figs. Set them aside to cool.

Cut a pocket in four pork chops. To do this, poke a paring knife in the fat-covered side of the chop and sweep its tip through the chop, creating a big pocket with a small hole. Open your package of goat cheese, mix it with a little chopped thyme if you want, or don't.

Stuff the pocket of each chop with alternating bits of goat cheese and figs (leave the fig liquid behind). You'll use about half the figs. This will be a messy operation. Don't worry about it. Just wipe off the chops when you're done. Salt and pepper the outside of the chops and let them rest for a minute.

Meanwhile heat the oven to 375. In a large, oven-safe saute pan, heat a little oil on high. When the oil is about to smoke, put all of the chops into it. Brown the chops thoroughly (don't move them around very much) on one side, flip over and finish cooking in the oven (about 10 minutes). Remove from oven and serve, perhaps with some mashed potatoes or celery root, drizzling the remaining figs and red wine over everything.

Chamillionaire is an Heirloom Tomato.

Late July cooking is like the hip hop hit of the summer. You know how it happens, somehow, every summer? From Will Smith’s “Summertime” to Chamillionaire’s “Ridin’ Dirty”, every summer has a hip hop hit. The soundtrack of a million suburban teenage memories. The impetus for unpremeditated and often ill-advised ass shaking from coast to coast.

What’s the upside of the summer hip hop hit? It’s simple, it’s straightforward, and it’s really, really good. What’s the drawback to the summer hip hop hit? You can not stand to hear it one more time by about July 17th. It’s not going away, there is usually no mid-season replacement. Radio DJs want vacations, too, and they programmed that song to repeat 500 times a day until they get up off the poolside chaise sometime in late August. The summer hip hop hit is here to stay, so you have to figure out something to do with it until it rains and you, once again, feel O.K. about listening to Belle and Sebastian.

Now replace the words ‘Summer Hip Hop Hit’ in the above paragraph with ‘Tomato Mozzarella Salad’, or ‘Grilled Zuchinni’, or even ‘Hamburger’. Summer is full of simple, straightforward, damn tasty food. Food that makes people get up off their be-hinds and stand around the grill waiting for whatever’s coming next. The problem is that summer food is simple, and, apparently, around forever. The local heirloom tomatoes haven’t even hit the market, and I’m already over it. There are going to be Red Peppers, Eggplants, and Cucumbers coming out of our ears from now until late September, so we need to figure out something to do that isn't tired.

As with the summer hip-hop hit, the answer, my friends, lies in the remix. So let’s break out our inner LCD Soundsystem, and tap that round tomato-ass for some fresh beats, before it’s too late and everybody is off the floor:

Rethinking Caprese:

One of the simpler methods for remixing a song is just to throw out some large component of the beat and replace it entirely. So why not get rid of that tomato? (Don’t worry, it’s not gone for good) Fresh Mozz. is rich yet light, and a perfect pallete for enriching and accentuating the more complex flavors of other foods. In this case, Grilled Sunburst Squash.

Sunburst Squash are medium sized, yellow with bits of green and look like flowers that filled in with vegetable-y goodness. They’re lovely, but they are zuchinni-like, in that they can use a little bit of charring and high heat to prevent them from becoming an undistinguished pile of steamy vegetable mush. Put a few strong grill marks on ‘em, however, and they are wonderful peppery little hot slices of yum. Also, sliced cross-wise, they make perfect rounds for layering with mozzarella, and isn’t that nice?

Grilled Sunburst Squash Caprese
One Squash per person.
One Brocconcini (medium sized mozzarella ball) per person
A few Branches of Basil
Tasty Olive Oil
Tasty Balsamic Vinegar
Some basic red wine vinegar.
Salt, Pepper, fingers, maybe some garlic.

(If your balsamic is cheap and harsh and untasty, you can simmer it with some black pepper and honey until it is tasty, but that’s a fussy thing to do, and you don’t have to. Just don’t be heavy-handed with the bad stuff)

Slice the squash into rounds, throwing out the nubbins from the tip and tail. Toss with a tablespoon or two of olive oil, a couple of torn up basil leaves, a few big pinches of salt, pepper, a small splash of red wine vinegar, and, if you feel like it, a little chopped garlic. Rub it all around so every slice gets some contact with the oil, and so the salt isn’t just hanging out in one spot.

Heat up your grill or grill pan or even broiler so it’s hot. Give it time. You want sizzle-on-contact.

Walk away from your heating grill et al. and slice the mozzarella into rounds. Set aside. Pluck the leaves off the Basil. Set aside. Take a sip of wine/beer/Shlitz/whatever. Set aside.

Now that your grill is very, very hot, toss on the squash. Give each slice a little space on the grill, so it doesn’t get steamed by its neighbor. Grill for about 4 minutes on one side and two on the other, or until there are some nice fat dark char marks on both sides, but the slice isn’t disintegrating into the grill or becoming charcoal.

Remove the squash to a platter, layer with slices of mozzarella and leaves of basil. Be pretty about it, if you want to be. Run over the layered dish a few times with a thin stream of olive oil, and maybe once with Balsamic, sprinkle with a small pinch of salt and a little grind of fresh pepper. Serve.

The heat of the grilled squash may melt the cheese a little, but who doesn’t like melted mozzarella?

Note: If the dish sits for too long the mozzarella will start to “weep” a bit of liquid. If you are making it for a crowd, or can’t serve it piping hot, just let the grilled squash cool to room temperature before you layer and dress it.

Later this week: Some things to do with those tomatoes . . .