onehotdish

One Hot Summer requires one hot (but quick) noodle!

2008-09-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

OHD does not like the heat. OHD hates the hot 'n sour soup that is NYC in the summer. But OHD still gets hungry and can really get her heart set on what she wants to eat that day.

Which explains the recent exploration into insta-noodles. No, not the noodles in a cup with enough salt to turn anyone into human jerky in minutes. I'm talking about rice vermicelli (or noodles for the honest truth) or mung green (cellophane-clear) noodles. All they take is a quick bath in water boiled in a kettle and they are ready to absorb anything you throw onto in.

As on most Saturday and Sunday mornings, I want eggs. And my safety egg dish is always juicy pillows of scrambled eggs in the most mouthwatering yet simple tomato garlic broth. 3 ingredients (4 if you count the scallions for some added fragrance). A simple scramble of the eggs with the scallions until they are set begins it al before chopped garlic is thrown in. Diced tomatoes should follow after the garlic has had a chance to liven things up (i've found this is the best way to appreciate tomatoes year round--even in the bleary dead of winter with its pasty, tennisball-like doppelgänger). Add equal parts of water and stand back! The thickening magic is gradual but soon what emerges is a vermillion pot of flavor gold.

SIDE NOTE: In fact, this is almost 2 hot dishes in one since the egg tomato broth goes over any carb well.

The scrambled eggs go in to absorb some of this priceless liquid and become an even meaty contrast to the broth than its honorable pad thai cousins. Once the sauce thickens up some more, pour the whole mixture atop of the shaking mound of drained noodles. Once the noodles join in on this menage a trois of simplicity, its time to slurp the real instanoodles. A hot (but not sweaty) dish to save any during a hot summer day!

Modesty, thou art not my middle name.

2008-08-14T06:53:00.000-07:00

I've always been known to have a healthy self-esteem when it comes to my food. Best place to eat in Naples? OHD knows. Most gaucho of gaucho steakhouses in Latin America? OHD ate there last year. Freshest sushi in North Dakota? PSYCHE. (everyone knows that's a red herring).

And when it comes to my own cooking? Forget about it. I happily regale friends and strangers with my latest invention, my most challenging conquest involving plant or beast.

So when I recently had lunch at a place humbly referred to as my midtown salvation, I found myself instantly mute when asked what my best dish is. Mind you, I can wax on and on about my food to even professional chefs but this one really took the cake. But the difference this time was that I was eating with a chef who has worked at some of the world's most fantastic and disciplined places. Gordon Ramsay at Savoy, Laurent Tourondel at his many BLT joints. There we were, gaily rubbing greasy burger elbows, when this question stops me in midbite (well, maybe just slowed down my chewing). And to top it off, this chef was in charge of the fish station--the violinist in a sea of macho steak-wielding brute percussionists.

In response, I blurted out the one dish I can always curl up to: Black Bean Sauce noodles. Made from 3 different types of bean paste, the black bean sauce is robust and luscious. I've increasingly lessened the proportion of pork to mushroom/tofu and noone is the wiser. Meaty shiitake mushrooms and little nuggets of tofu strings greedily absorb the deep flavors of the bean paste. Throw in lightly blanched greens (crunchy bok choy provides a wonderful bite) and it is my idea of one hot dish. Fresh noodles make for sheer al dente perfection but dried noodles or pasta works in a pinch. Got no noodles? Just ladle the sauce over leafy greens. An ultimate onehotdish on a cold or hot day.

Take that you fancypants poissonier.

When things go awry, we'll always have fried chicken...

2008-06-05T12:13:00.000-07:00

It's a bad day when even the thought of a pint of vanilla swiss almond haagen dazs in bed with a full TIVO awaiting your conductorship can't reverse the onslaught of blaaaah's. Overcast skies, lost opportunities, one heel dangling like a jiggly tooth threatening to strike.

Then my shoe heel breaks. All hell breaks loose.

As I angrily half step/half stomp through midtown, i realize suddenly that the one beacon of hope that could possibly salvage the day may be the fact that the unnecessary but critical errand i had to run brought me dangerously close to an old neighborhood lunch favorite. Cafe Zaiya on east 41st St.

I teased myself with the thought of a fragrant, freshly-filled cream puff from Beard Papa, each peony-shaped pastry lightly encasing a pudding of the most vanilla vanilla. Then i caught sight of something grander.

Through the cellophane wrapper, I can feel that the spicy chicken sandwich is still warm from the fryer. The bun is soft and good smooshy in contrast with the crunchy chicken and crisp shredded cabbage garnish, the latter invited to the party to add its own refreshing say on what is likely the most perfect fried chicken sandwich. The sauce is spicy enough to give your tongue a tickle. Before i know it, i have just one slippery bite left to dabble into a tiny puddle of sauce clinging to the wrapper.

I lick my fingers, give the wrapper a last look for any hidden bits i may have missed and then think that maybe this day isn't so bad after all.

My so-not-sorry-but-kinda-sorry Penitence Fish

2008-05-29T13:36:00.000-07:00

I know. I play dirty.

After yesterday's hijinks, I'm still awaiting words chastising my decadent lifestyle of steaks, no-drugs and some rock-n-roll t-shirts. Which is why I saved this as my penitence. This is the type of dish my mother patiently instructs me to make for myself instead of my typical east coast, fat-ladened, double-chin generating fare. Luckily, like having twins or red-hair, my mother's condition clearly soared past my genetic temperance and, instead, I inherited my grandmother's stubborn refusal to kowtow to anything short of super tasty. As with any of my mother's recipes, once I add back the verboten elements, they instantly strike a closer semblance to my grandmother's cooking rather than my mother's "new californian".

This is the simplest yet seemingly most exotic. Apparently, this has never been seen before in Europe, much less in the U.S. and even in the home kitchen of New York. I call it my Steamed Firecrackery Chilean Sea Bass.

Firm filets of whatever meaty fish is fresh that day should be quickly washed off in cold water, then salt and peppered before steaming. While they steam (this will never be a singular dish for one filet is never enough), load up on the Charlie's Angels, the Trinity of Asian cooking: Garlic, Ginger and Scallions. Each is fresh, firm and snaps to attention at the slightest instigation. Thin slices of each should line up on your board, the scallions cut on an angle. In a tiny skillet slowly heat up some peanut or grapeseed oil. When the fish are firm to the touch, lay a filet on the plate, immediately crown with the Trinity, bedazzle with some chili flakes or fresh chilies and vigorously squeeze fresh lime juice over the filets like an angry ex wishing for vengeance.

For a Gypsy Rose Lee finale, bring the plate over to whomever you judge truly worthy. Set it before them and then carefully, yet seemingly nonchalantly, drizzle the hot oil over the top of the filets. Listen to the sibilant hisses and pops, gaze in fascination as the herbs twist and unfurl elegantly like modern dancers, laugh as the powerful yet invisible pouf of vibrant herby perfume punches you straight in the schnoz. Leaving you in a bewildered stupor before you realize you've already greedily snatched up the plate, only to reduce the travel time between your mouth and this one hot dish.

Conquering Bad Boys in the Steak Indoors

2008-05-29T12:21:00.000-07:00

With Summer fast approaching and the promise of mini-shorts baring all sorts of visual reminders of dairy products on the shanks of those jostling around me, it is with slight guilt that I foist my not-so-secret carnivore confession upon you at this time. However, as most of my winter was spent celebrating the wonder that is the steak indoors (much to the sooty-faced chagrin of The Boys), I figured it was time I came clean about how it was that I conquered the bad boy in the Steak Indoors.

Wherever you fall on the Grass v. Corn debate, the steak should be firm and fresh. Not stinky and definitely not mushy. Thin ribbons of what I call glorious-gravy-to-be white fat should lace delicately throughout the steak. Do not like the raw steak yet. I went with a Beef T-Bone.

After washing and patting it fanatically dry (this is key!), promiscuously season the steak with lots of gravelly salt but pepper to your heart's desire. Take your time in massaging your drooly faced wishes into the steak at this point because the cast iron skillet should have plenty of time to gain such furious heat that the smoke alone will excise even the most indoor-bound roommates. Like fog rolling around the Bay Bridge, once a constant fury of smoke has built up around your skillet, slap the steak in and then grasp that nearby glass of red wine with white-knuckled desperation(have really been enjoying Terranoble as described here).

Resist, even ignore, the steak like a bad boy giving you the lazy eye at closing time. Be the pacifist, touching it only to flip once. Feign a haughty disdain for it as it is dangerous at this point to lick the caramelly crust shimmering seductively face-up in the skillet. When the time is up, the ultimate self-less (for now) act is to let it wait 5 minutes to become the juicy paradise of your deepest, hottest fantasies before you start slicing.

With or without a separate plate, devour the steak drenched in the meaty seduction sauce of all things naughty and carnal. For this is one bad boy that makes an even better hot dish.

the bubbles get to my head....

2008-03-26T07:52:00.000-07:00

so the obsession of today is: soda water vs. sparkling mineral water.

Is it bad for me or good for my stomach? is it going to eat away at my teeth? is it better than soda? Most importantly: is sparkling mineral water merely soda water's more sophisticatedly branded doppelgänger? Or is soda water the Sienna Miller to sparkling's kate moss? Both fizzy but one marginally more tolerable (although highly overexposed) to have with vodka.

Apparently, I'm not the only one that is obsessed with this. Google, Wikipedia, Chowhound all offer fascinating reading on this. Who knew?

that would make me...?

2008-03-18T10:59:00.001-07:00

am having a discussion with a friend to plan a weekend brunch. in the Upper West Side. the land far away from my people.

there will be no raccoon-eyed hipsters/art director admiring his skinny denim "stockings", jeans so tight they would make Garth Brooks blush. no tumbly-haired fashion stylist wondering whether her skirt would look better with the slouchy, scuffed booties or the capezio jazz shoes. instead, it will be properly coiffed, de-linted & dry-cleaned adults responsibly attending to their meals and blackberries with a serious commitment to proper . And their hipster-LITE children dressed in faux rags a la Urban Outfitters.

(note: must pick up a brush before saturday.)

I've been eyeing Ouest on Broadway & 83rd. talk of yummy bacon cubelets, moist duck breast and sweet buttery sweet rolls abound on the brunch menu. But the discussion with my calorie-obsessed friend (COF) is going more along the lines of:
Me: Have you been to Ouest for brunch?
COF: nope. Cafe Luxembourg is also a good brunch.
(I maniacally google 'cafe luxembourg' but notice the glaring absence of duck immediately.)

Me: Fish is far healthier than the perennially sexier duck confit and crispy lardons, sure. But if healthy is the only thing that separates us from the animals, than that would make me a ....feral, carnivorous snow leopard?!
COF: Oh for goshsakes. Other things for sure do.

Sure.

UPDATE: Cafe Luxembourg brunch was lovely and, with much restraint, my eggs benedict came healthier than i'd normally asserted on a weekend, my will enfeebled by the previous night's trivolities.
Furthermore, men's denim leggings sadly continue to plague those who enfeebled by their desire to emulate all things corny about being 'young' and mizundastood. Barf.

lasagna to my soul...

2008-03-12T10:16:00.000-07:00

sometimes, the hottest dish is one that i find/make at home. especially when the blustery winds are rattling the cheap single-paned windows and the cold gives instant brain freezes whenever you take a deep, long inhale. A simple dish of just meat or just pasta or just cheese is just not going to cut it on their own.

warning: vegetarians, close your eyes and hide the children.

that's when I pull out the big guns: 2 pounds of beef, pork and veal combined into a cauldron of deep rich tomato gravy, then layered with al dente pasta and creamy cheeses (as many different kinds as I can find in my fridge).
after several exciting glasses of barbera in waiting, the seemingly effervescent casserole emerges from the roaring oven with its golden, molten cheesy lid. All sorts of self-restraint and minor mouth burns are endured while waiting for it to cool enough to eat. Once it does, the knife jabs through the crackly layers of crepey cheese and noodles.

TRIUMPHANT and exhausted, those are the two friends i celebrate with (along with all the roommates that such a fragrance attracts) as i collapse on the couch with the most delicious reward.

snuggly treats hidden away...

2008-03-09T19:21:00.001-07:00

finally made it to the most elegant and mindblowing dining experience of late...in williamsburg of all places. yes, home to the straggly hipster, greasy-haired artist-to-be and the ever increasing number of i-bankers looking to wear their dark-wash levi's, williamsburg is the last place I expected to find this little gem that is called Zenkichi.

tucked away on the 'manhattan-braves-brooklyn" row that is north 6th street, Zenkichi quietly hides behind a subtle bamboo-esque wall and gives an instant reprieve from the throbbing party scene marked by SATC-fame Sea *yawn* and scores of other post-nyu haunts. Zenkichi is everything that i love about Japan--quiet, intimate, discreet and ever-so-private nooks for pure ecstatic evening enjoyment. And that's before the meal even arrives. Here's a look at the omakase or "tasting" menu:

- tempura of uni & fluke wrapped in shiso leaves
- grilled saikyo black cod w/kyoto miso marinade (SOOOOOO BUTTERY AND delicious!) (at TOP)
- rare Nishima beef with sesame miso dipping sauce and yomogi namafu (savory grilled glutinous rice cake) (MIDDLE)
- maguro tuna over a creamy crunchy carrot & celery salad (w/white soy sauce, vuzu grated onion)
- braised kakuni pork belly in a sweet broth
- sweet duck breast w/cold poached egg over watercress (at BOTTOM)
- chopped snapper sushi crowned with uni
- banana bavarois over a chocolate banana cake layer & japanese milk pudding with tart strawberry glaze

cuddled up with a snuggly g treat next to me, it was the perfect intimate dining experience that manhattan just can't find room for. The pork was very much like a dish my father would bribe my grandmother to make for him while the maguro tuna was everything a first date should be--sweet, flirtatious yet firm. there was more but that last chopped snapper sushi w/uni really pushed me over the edge. That and the sake tasting!

on the burger prowl (part 285)

2008-02-01T20:02:00.000-08:00

after a night of manly scotch and whiskey tasting in celebration of a friend's birthday, what better to cap it off than with a big, manly, grease-to-the-elbow burger?? we found it at Rare restaurant.

grass-fed burgers are topped with a variety of yummy toppings, most deliciously Rare's crunchy sweet onion rings! juicy, ooey cheese, crackly crunch. Not a word was said in the 4 minutes it took each of us to ingest the most marvelous gem that is a burger. Sweet potato fries, 'waffle fries' and shoestring fries are the triumphant triumvirate that make up the fries sampler. Very much the must-have when there is more than a few of us around the table.

my alberta ferretti blouse was worth the sacrifice: silk never had it so good with a little burger kiss!

Catch-up!

2007-10-23T12:09:00.000-07:00

Its been ages since I've been here. I'm sorry for the neglect.

However, if its any consolation, I've been hard at work consuming massive amounts of food so that I can share new things with you. Since the beginning of fall, here are the things I've been doing:
1. Manning the Asian food station at a friend's wedding--in addition to being the photog/stylist.
2. Appreciating the fine balance of flavors in the Master Cleanse Lemony Cocktail, just for 4 days but hey!
3. Picking the ultimate organic white peach from underneath their street-urchin chapeaus chez mes parents.
4. Eating on Grandma's tofu goodies
5. Pig out pig out in the nation with the highest consumption of pork (per capita): Germany! (Currywurst, Spatzle, Schweinhaxe, weisswurst, handkase, leberkase, blutwurst, etc.).

The trip inspired a recent dinner of crunchy weinerschnitzel, TRADITIONAL oniony chivy (?) potato salad and the non-traditional (but the only way i wouldn't feel guilty about the binge) crisp fennel & baby spinach salad with a lemon dressing,

I'm still awaiting photos from my trusty tour guide but until then....

foraging for pfefferlingen....

2007-10-14T20:29:00.000-07:00

well, technically not foraging them ourselves but we did have to forage for a restaurant that would do it on our behalf!

which we found in the wonderful, sleepy, pristine town of miltenberg, Germany. Pleated into the mountains of germany en route from Leipzig to Frankfurt, Miltenberg is a wonderful town preserved with its original Middle Ages glaze and the pristine discipline characteristic of Germany. After an ambitious day hiking (5 or was it 10k?) underneath a verdant canopy of trees, our energy puttered out and images of hansel & gretel lost in the forest taunted me. Without even a crumb of hiking granola to sustain my pork-suckled existence, we used all of our urban 'navigeering' skills and finally found our way to the hotel, one of the most famous in miltenberg, Hotel-Weinhaus Am Alten Markt (which, by the will of my wonderful tour guide, my room peered out into the square).

that night, while my lovely and patient guide cheered me on, we finally found the perfect restaurant, gloriously lacking children's menu in english. It was at Gastronomie Karl Steuer GmbH at Hauptstrasse 42- 63897 or at www.weingutsteuer.de.
We took advantage of the wine list and made up our own wine tasting flight. Then basked in all that German fall cuisine is about: hearty, cream sauces w/o abandon and, of course, the pfefferlingen---CHANTERELLES! Buttery, meaty, earthy mushrooms frolicking over the most belly-pleasing, airy yet filling knoedel--a bread or potato dumpling. Light yet tender, it was the one dish to welcome Hansel und Gretel home after a vigorous day of yodeling!

Afterwards, there was several wonderful glasses of apfelwein back at the hotel, including a glass shared while snuggled under an uber-warm down comforter in the window nook overflowing with cheery geraniums--a peeping tom like me never had it better. Next time, I bring the dirndl.

Shoes vs. Rent? HELP!

2007-06-22T09:46:00.000-07:00

So when does a gal know that she's gone off the deep-end of the shoe pool?

Maybe you've experienced this before: entering the luxury shoe department during sale season. You know you don't need another teetering pair of pumps but then, the crowd of savage female shoppers clears and the recessed lighting from above suddenly glows upon the most precious shoe in all creation. And when you awaken, you're folding the receipt into your wallet while balancing a crisp bag filled with three new acquisitions.

That's how I came to yesterday afternoon. Blaming low sugar levels and amnesia of the gnarly foot cramps I get in yoga class, I thought myself a savvy shopper and new owner of my lovely new pets below (afterall, i did get the shoes at over 50% off!). However, a recent poll of those around me who are not in the fashion biz has exposed me as one who has gone off the deep end. Help me decide which one I should keep?

Which should I keep or should I release them back to the wild?

SHOE A:

SHOE B (in black):

SHOE C: CAN'T seem to find a pic. Has anyone seen Viktor Rolf's 100mm black leather mary janes with a bow in the back? If not, I'll try to take a pic tonight.

What to do? Lemme know.

FDNY Approved Fiery Delights

2007-06-21T11:18:00.000-07:00

Someone stop me before i start another barbeque soliloquy. What's that you say, FDNY Squad 18?
As part of my duties as Socio-Gastronomic advisor to the Germanophonic Tourism Board, I have become quite adept at showing off NYC culinary delights to anyone adept at pronouncing 7 consecutive consonants in their native language. This past Saturday's food tour started with barbeque at Dinosaur Barbeque in Manhattan's Upper West Side. We ate and ate and ate until the Germans threatened to demonstrate a skill any sorority girl would envy. Whole pig sties were emptied after we were done. Before & after photos below--note the blank distant stares of defeat of an amateur 'quer.

To burn off the calories, I suggested a bar crawl in the West Village. Those familiar with my disdain for anything manhattan-related on a saturday night may be shocked but perhaps when you learn that the West Village is a hot-bed of FDNY activities, you can understand. 2 Drinks later and shed of 3 impatient male partiers, the girls were off for a private FDNY Tutorial.

Needless to say, not much can be disclosed except that the FDNY Squad 18 loved D's cookies and the uniforms were definitely 'inflammatorily' HOT!

Who cares if that isn't a word. Ice me down, boys!

Barbeque Barbie....that's me but messier.

2007-06-20T10:13:00.000-07:00

Ok ok, its been awhile since i've updated but i'm back with lotsa stories.

The past couple of weeks have flown by as the summer heat flickers with shorter and shorter hemlines and lots of fiery fun.

Two weekends ago, I celebrated the annual Big Apple Barbeque Block Party in Madison Square Park with as much ribs and brisket as I could get ahold of with my sticky, mustard-based sauced fingers. Each year, my strategy remains consistent: avoid the ones I can readily get to (aka. NYC-based 'que joints) in order to ravage the brisket from texas or NC or kansas or missouri. I was told that, in the presence of barbeque, my eyes get all googly and my mannerisms quite militaristic as if there was an urgency on my part to consume my body weight in smoked meat products. There is.

Short-hand summary:
-The Salt Lick BBQ (Driftwood, TX)- Tremendously long line for somewhat dry brisket but very snappy sausages.
-Baker's Rib (Dallas, TX)- Juicy brisket and half the wait. A family from Dallas behind me reminded me of my other fave Dallas Bbq joint, PEGGY SUE'S..yummers!
-Rack & Soul (NY,NY)- ******ADVISORY: You may be gasping in shock seeing that i went local for these ribs. Be advised that i was twisted into it for fear of damaging Ameri-German relations****** Had the baby back ribs. Yech. Sauce was sweeter than a 7-11 Cherry Coke slurpee. Lay off the cake icing people!

I would post pics because i know we are a photo generation but American Luxury firms are really quite strict when it comes to accessing my kodak.com account. sigh.

Here's the link should you want to meet up with me next year. I continue to conduct critical in-depth field research on this fortunate addiction. http://www.bigapplebbq.org/

And it was for a good cause, too? Let's do it for the children.

The next evolution?

2007-06-06T10:08:00.001-07:00

Very much enjoyed the drinks (and tapas) with a family friend last night. It had been awhile since i ate at a new restaurant in Manhattan and i must say things have changed.

Was going to start with a little diatribe on fashion failures by young ladies in manhattan but I should really focus on the real topic of the day. After weeks (1 night) of vigorous market research (aka. B-Boy), I have discovered that I can't contain myself within just culinary obsessions. Not just for the readers sake, but also for my own. From luxury fashion, color wheels, foreign tongues, restaurant critiquing, passport stamping, feeding friends, cocktail designing, music, Marilyn Monroe (see above), "Gilda", failure to harness the concept of 'organization' to my recent paramours such as drinking beers on my roof in brooklyn, I am a 4D person (is that possible?).

Not to be confused with 40DD.

So buckle up and enjoy the ride! And tell me what you think....

And stop trying to lick the above poster through your monitor.

Juicy French Royale? Oui oui!

2007-06-01T07:37:00.001-07:00

When I first started here, this lovely cyberlove-nest was originally inspired by juicy tidbits of the culinary variety. Today, I have juicy dish of a different kind: equally titillating and finger-lickin' good. Today's NY Times' story on the new French president and his family (pictured left) really got me into a google-fueled lathered hunt for more dirt!

Truly, the French are fascinating people. Cue 'Real World'-style recap: She has 2 daughters from a previous marriage, he has 2 sons from his, one son between them. Tame compared the fact that she left him for a summertime tryst with a bon ami, only to return to Sarkozy like a good schoolgirl before the fall term. This, of course, follows the mistress-loving ways of Sarkozy's predecessor, Chirac. But this is just the frivolous stuff that the French are known for.

Rather, the French are in a tizzy about how Sarkozy's gold chain-laced, chest-hair baring look may be distracting attention from his wife's panty lines topped with oversize aviator sunglasses. Is this a debate over elitism vs. populistic popularity or blue-bloods vs. the gauche 'new money' powered by the Prada Machine?

Only time will tell if the Sarkozys like ice in their merlot.

Sizzle.

Barbeque Part 1 (of many)

2007-05-28T10:39:00.000-07:00

Clearly, today is all about barbeque back-up. Or rather, Barbeque Katchup (hehehe).

Memorial Day weekend this year was a hectic one. Between rushing down to South NJ for a dear friend's wedding (as the ultimate stylist, part of my responsibility as a bridesmaid) to partying with the Iqinsey's, I was one exhausted yet uber-tube-tanned gal. I had never been happier to unwind on a Sunday afternoon/evening with nothing but my tv and bed beckoning. Then, came the knock at the door (not my door exactly but i've never been a shy party-crasher).

"Hey, we're having an apartment building barbeque in the back garden," a fellow foodie but of the quieter pedigree gently said when I opened the door.

"Meat! Charring! Open flames! Fire, yummmm...," I wondered to myself. Instead, i nonchalantly shrugged like a pre-teen to a prom invitation.

"Cool, sure. Whatevs. I'll pick up some beer."

When we joined the neighbors casually lounging around surrounded by the beginnings of an amazing summer harvest, i was instantly transported. To a world where my obsession with finger-licking goodness was met in stereo surround sound.

Look at the amazing Pork ribs Adam is adoringly finishing on the grill for me and G-star to scarf down. Truly amazing, falling off the bone and comparable to the ribs i had had ages ago (Note: Ribs both beef and pork were still being digested from an lunch in Philly at Ron's Ribs earlier that same day...)

Meanwhile, Patrick was pulling his juicy, thick steaks off the grill.

Recipe for a Brain-Numbing Good time:
-1 Professional Chef/Shunner of those Eaters-to-Live (aka. Adam)
-2 Former Professional Chefs still in the biz/Medium Rare Fans (aka. Carol & Patrick)
-1 Home Chef/Public School Teach w/a loving obsession of sauces
-4 Big eaters

Afterwards, Pacifico bottles continued to tumble to the soft grass as we discussed beef vs. pork-based survival living as well as our disdain for scrawny vegans scratching out a diet of grass and grass. We tried it and look what happened to Carol (click below to see for yourself).

Case closed.

The Perfect Meal

2007-05-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

I've long sworn that the perfectly fried egg is the most wonderful, complete meal. Ever. On-the-go, late-night snack, or a lazy dinner are all things made possible by the perfectly fried egg.

This is not the diner-style 'over easy' with barely scalded over sides, rubbery with no flavor nor texture contrast. We're talking about a hot, searing skillet* heated til smoking, then quickly splashed with olive oil before a silky egg is dropped in. Meeting the heat, the egg white immediately puffs up like a pillowy petticoat surrounding a vermillion orange yolk. Quick turns of fresh ground black pepper (white pepper changes it into a completely different dish) followed by a crunch crunch of sea salt before the outside of the egg is soon trimmed with a crunchy, brown lacey edge. Flip without breaking the yolk and then slide onto an awaiting piece of crunchy toast, woman enough to survive the gooiest (never had the patience to research the correct spelling..) avalanche of brilliant yolk. The below picture shows the perfect egg with far more accoutrements than necessary. Essentially, they are the 'N Sync to the Justin.

When i recently offered to make eggs for a then-ignorant, soon-to-be convert, he thought it would be the diner variety. But, 2 crunchy eggs sitting atop thrones of garlic-rubbed toast on a Saturday morning later and we quickly baptized him into a whole new religion.

Incredible, edible egg. I'll say.**

*For city folk with weak stove top heat, a cast iron skillet is the only way to go. Ever since I got my Le Creusets, I've been egg-static (you groan but you love it!).

**American Egg Board Members: Sponsorship proposals will be considered.

Going back, back.

2007-05-17T08:25:00.000-07:00

For those of you who know me, most likely you've also been victimized by my insistence that, until your waistband pierces through a belly fold like a meat thermometer, resistance is futile and punishable by another spoon-bending serving. This, dear reader(s), is clearly something that did not start with me.

No, no. It clearly comes from years, decades and generations of fine breeding and of course, a near fanatical faith in strong elastic-waisted pantwear.

Growing up, I thought my mother was queen of all things delicious: handmade dumplings, chive boxes with skins so thin that the bright green chives speckled through like stained glass and glistening peking ducks hanging in the laundry room underscored with a cup below, catching anxious droplets of fat who've lost their succulent grip.

Then, I realized that it was actually my grandmother (in the picture above with my grandfather), she was the woman who started it all. The mistress of Hades-worthy stove-top flames, the "nose" blending heady herb fragrances and the cajoler of flavors in everything she dextrously prepared. Fearless and highly stylish.

My predecessor in the kitchen, in life and, definitely with the wardrobe. More on that later.

So it begins...

2007-05-16T12:01:00.000-07:00

So this is it. The beginning. Readers (aka. Mom), brace yourself for the ensuing gluttony and fierce gastronomic exploration.