Category: Food

Zwack Attack

Americans, you have no idea: Zwack is here. Brace yourselves.

What is Zwack, you say?

[Thunderclaps. Doors slamming. Locks bolting. Distant screams, and the lights flicker.]
halfdrunk
Half-drunk Zwack: a philosophical impossibility (thanks, Wikimedia)

Zwack—or Unicum, as it’s called in its native Hungary; you can see why they changed the name, I guess—is about the nastiest liquor I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking. And that includes the rot-gut framboise and the Sombrero Negro tequila my college roommate inherited from her father, from his college days. It is black as tar and viciously strong, and tastes like all the things that prompt your mother to say, “Shush—it’s good for you.”

And thanks to Borat, it’s now being marketed with a faux-bad-English booklet that suggests things like mixing it with energy drink (the so-called “Zwack Attack”).

This I learned from Aaron, who’d just been to a Zwack tasting at Astor Wines. He went for that perverse kind of nostalgia, the kind that makes you long for things you once hated.

See, Aaron and I came to know it when we lived in Cairo. The cheapest flights back to the States were on Malev, which meant a plane change in Budapest and a browse in the duty-free there.

While we lived in Cairo, duty-free liquor–and especially bargains in duty-free–became a near obsession. Cairo is not dry, by any means–people drink their damn-fool heads off. But you can’t just pop down to the liquor store and buy a bottle of whiskey–or a trustworthy bottle, one that won’t make you go blind, anyway. Only after reading The Yacoubian Building (worst. translation. ever., by the way) this year did I realize that the depressed Greek guy whose shop was stocked with nothing but Kleenex was actually a moonshine vendor. So back in the days I lived there, you had to make the most of your duty-free allotment.

Helpfully, you were allowed to use your allotment at a designated booze-and-cigarette joint in Cairo, within a month of your arrival–which meant that whenever you had foreign visitors, you immediately dragged them to the shop to buy the four bottles of booze allowed.

The place stocked the major international brands, but there was also a weird bottom shelf of orphan bottles. They all looked like they’d been retrieved from the cargo hold of a freighter that had sunk in the Suez Canal in 1964–their labels, many in Cyrillic were peeleing off, and they were the most ridiculous shapes. (What is it about weird-shaped booze bottles? The crazier they get, the more disgusting the stuff inside, it seems.) But of course these were the cheap bottles, which is how we ended up with some 30-year-old crème-de-mystery-herbs alongside our Unicum.

At Aaron’s, the Unicum sat there on the sideboard like a black hole of hooch. People would drink room-temperature vermouth before they’d crack the lid on that squat little bottle–its red-and-white cross made you think of first aid, for good reason. At the end of the year, we had a massive party, with everyone contributing all the stray bottles they’d collected at duty-free over the years. Every one of the 50 or so bottles on the sideboard was emptied…except for the Unicum.

So. Now you see my trepidation at the arrival of Zwack in the New World. It could well become the next Jagermeister, but, like legwarmers and jumpsuits, that’s a trend I can’t bring myself to follow.

Aaron was a little more open-minded–the tasting at the wine store seemed to have softened him a little. “Turns out you’re supposed to drink it chilled,” was all he said.

The Mangoes Are Here!

mangoesOh boy! Best bit of diplomacy of recent years — actually, probably the only good diplomacy recently: About a year ago, the US made some deal with India to share nuclear technology…AND MANGOES!

Now, finally, everything is in place, and the first shipments are arriving.

I’ve never had an Indian mango–wait, Peter reminds me I did, in Amsterdam, and it was fucking delicious–so this is extremely exciting.

There’s a whole article in the NY Times: “A Luscious Taste and Aroma from India Arrives at Last”.

The Indian mangoes arriving on our shores are of the Alphonso variety, it turns out. I had one of this kind in Mexico a couple of years ago–it was memorably sweet and creamy, but not so memorable that I could be certain of the name when I got back here (I never know when I hear something in another language, even if it is a proper name). Over the years, I’d nearly convinced myself it was an Ataulfo, even those weren’t quite as tasty, but I could at least get them in the store.

The bad news: The Indian mangoes are irradiated (I don’t know how I feel about this, really). And they’re ten times the price of your regular mango. Yipes. That’s what happens when you fly the babies halfway around the world.

I’m still excited. I’ve got five dollars, a sharp knife and a super-absorbent napkin for wiping my chin.

Home Cookin’

Tal just sent me a link to what looks like a very promising new website: The City Cook.

It speaks particularly to people with small kitchens, and anyone who prefers a home-cooked meal to nightly takeout–so far it’s not totally bursting with content, but what’s there is very helpful. (And actually, it’s kind of nice to have a limited quantity of info–easy to absorb, so then you can keep up with it each week.) It won me over with the big picture of artichokes, but there’s a lot more…

On the same theme, Melissa Clark has been writing a really excellent column in the New York Times, every other week or so. Called “A Good Appetite,” it presents a dish and the thinking–often extemporizing–that went into creating it. This week’s is particularly good, because she talks about how she ruined a soup, how she fixed it, and how she made it better the second time. Here it is, though you’ll have to register to read it: “A Soup with a Difference, Born of Adversity and Error”.

The fact that many of the columns are based on her being hungry for a particular something, then going on to figure out how to make it, is one of the more convincing arguments for learning how to cook.

How I learned to cook, part 1–or, I heart Madhur Jaffrey

I guess it’s the upcoming Cairo trip, but I’ve been in a very nostalgic mood recently. In preparation for another project that’s brewing in my head, I’ve also been thinking more carefully about how I learned to cook. I owe a lot of it to one book.

Back in February, when the nostalgia was first starting to swell, I was overcome with an urge to cook Indian food. Whenever anyone asks me what my specialty is, I shrug and say Indian, even though I haven’t cooked it in years, and I could tell you less than Wikipedia about the history, culture, roots, etc. of it. I’ve never been to India, and I have no ancestral connection to Southeast Asia whatsoever.

But in culinary-education terms, India is really where I started out.

I find it hard to believe that I haven’t bitched about my broke winter in London on this blog, but here’s the summary: 1994. Demoralizing job. Nasty boyfriend. Awful roommate. Chronically cold. Nescafe. Drunks galore. No money.

So, because we couldn’t actually afford to go out and see London, my boyfriend began cooking dinner (a single saving grace). He picked up a copy of Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking, and when we broke up, I got the book.

Actually, now that I’m telling this, I’m a little shaky on when that book entered the picture. London was a blur of bad weather and “bacon misshapes”from the cheapo bin at the butcher, but I’m pretty sure Madhur was already there, a steadying force that sensibly broke down a highly complex cuisine into the basics: Toast spices. Make ginger-garlic paste. Fry. Commence with particulars.

After London, I moved to Bloomington, Indiana, for grad school. Madhur got some stained pages that year–the ex had been extremely finicky about books, so I took satisfaction in breaking this one in. The next year, I moved into a huge house with three other people (far better boyfriend, exceptionally good roommates), and whole chapters were made greasy and sticky for posterity.

Sometime during that second year, when I got truly-o sick of medieval Arabic poetry, I started reading Cook’s Illustrated, which I still heartily recommend for anyone who wants to really understand why cooking works. But it wasn’t until I got an issue with a story about curries that I realized what a clash of civilizations I’d waded into.

Nearly every paragraph had some variation on “that’s not how I learned it in France”–pretty condescending by the third column. I could practically see the editors shaking their heads in wonder that this curry business worked at all, what with not browning the meat, and not thickening the sauce, and throwing spices in hot oil, and all that crazy business.

I guess knowing “French technique” is important. I owe them for my gravy-making skills, even if my dad never presented it to me in those terms, and the concept of white sauce (‘scuse me, bechamel). And boiling down wine is a good idea.

But my life was a lot happier, in a dippy “It’s a Small World After All” way, before I realized how the French barreled in and declared themselves the boss of food. The Italians managed to sneak in before the kitchen door swung back, but it’s still a ridiculously narrow selection when you consider just how many delicious things there are to eat all over the globe.

Years later, when I was considering going to cooking school, I had a hard time finding one that gave more than lip service to cuisines that didn’t rhyme with Wench and Vitalian. I wasn’t too excited about joining a cult that looked at Madhur Jaffrey and said, “Weird!” and not, “Wonderful!”

At one esteemed institute, I sat in on a class about risotto. The guy was explaining how you have to stir to release the starch. I piped up, “Cool! It’s exactly the opposite of a good pilaf, or a biryani, where you rinse all the starch off to start with, and make sure not to jostle the rice at all.” Crickets. Shuffling feet.

My fascination with Indian food started to fade away sometime in 2000. I’d gone freestyle–I could honestly say, “I’ll just pop into the kitchen and whip up a curry!” Not only had I met the challenge, but at that point the Madhur Jaffrey book, and everything I’d learned from it, was associated with two dead relationships. It was time to move on.

I’ve cooked a lot of other food since then, but nothing has given me quite the same thrill of discovery. That single Indian cookbook taught me not just no-fail Potatoes with Sesame Seeds (p. 114), but also how to look at every cuisine as a series of techniques: the same steps that every woman (probably) has been doing for centuries, usually while seated on a kitchen floor and slicing into her hand with a dull knife. The differences aren’t only in ingredients, but in how you slice your onions, whether you add meat stock or water, whether you cook something in a sauce or add the sauce after.

I also learned some skills that apply whatever you’re cooking: Measure the fiddly stuff before you turn on the heat (the French didn’t invent mise en place). And clean as you go, because crusty ginger-garlic paste is a bitch to get out of the blender.

When I opened up Indian Cooking again this February, it flopped obediently open to a grease-spot-dappled spread for The Lake Palace Hotel’s Aubergine (Eggplant) Cooked in the Pickling Style. Page 75, Lemony Chicken with Fresh Coriander, is distinctly yellow, thanks to a little turmeric fiasco. Cauliflower with Potatoes, which made an Indiana roommate named Wayne say, “Whoa, dude–it’s like cauliflower, but funky,” is marked with some mysterious crunchy bits.

The strongest proof of just how way-back these recipes go with me came when I was whizzing up my first batch of ginger-garlic paste for that February meal. Peter, who now seems like he’s always been around, looked in and said, “What the hell are you doing in that blender?”

Fortunately, he didn’t sound like a snooty French chef when he said it. And he loved the eggplant.

————-
Since the Magic Book is now out of print, I feel like I can in good conscience copy (loosely) a recipe here. It’s basically the same as what’s in the book, but frying eggplant is tedious and grease-consuming, so I now roast the eggplant in the oven instead.

LAKE PALACE EGGPLANT
adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Slice up
1 large eggplant (approx. 1 3/4 lb.)
into wedges about 3/4-inch thick and lay on a cookie sheet; drizzle generously with vegetable oil. Roast eggplant in the oven, turning once, until the pieces are soft and lightly browned. Drizzle on a little more oil if they’re looking parched. When they’re done, take them out and set aside.

While the eggplant is roasting, throw in a blender or food processor:
1-inch cube of fresh ginger, peeled and chopped into a couple of pieces
6 cloves garlic, peeled (or more, but not tons more)
1/4 cup water
Whiz up till you have a smooth paste.

Also, measure out your spices. In one small cup, combine:
1 tsp whole fennel seeds (or a little more, if your spices are old and tired, or you just like fennel)
1/2 tsp kalonji (black onion seeds) or whole cumin seeds (kalonji is good, but don’t beat yourself up over it)

In a separate cup, combine:
1 tbsp ground coriander seeds
1/4 tsp ground turmeric
1/8 tsp cayenne pepper (more, if you like)
1 1/2 tsp salt
Put both bowls close to the stove.

In a heavy saucepan over medium flame, heat:
3 tbsp vegetable oil
When it’s shimmery, toss in the fennel and kalonji/cumin. After they’ve darkened slightly (just a few seconds), pour in:
3 medium tomatoes, peeled and chopped (canned ones work fine, but make it 4 in that case)
along with the ginger-garlic paste and the other cup of ground spices. There will be a bit of spattering. Let it all simmer, stirring a bit, until a lot of the liquid is cooked away, and the the whole thing looks pastelike–this takes 5 minutes or so, depending on how high you have the flame set.

Now put in the fried eggplant slices and mix gently. Cook on medium-low heat for about 5 minutes, stirring very gently. Cover the pan, turn heat to very low and cook another 5 or 10 minutes–this makes all the flavors meld.

Serve hot or cold. Serves 6, if you’re lucky.

Suicide Food

I’ve been mentally compiling a collection of images of animals eating themselves, all in the name of stoking your appetite. But now it looks as though someone has been actually doing it. And front and center is an especially ghastly–yet adorable–image I already had in my brain file from months ago. Classy.

Et voila: Suicide Food.

Peter found another to add to the portfolio while biking around New Orleans.

NO pigs wide

Adorable. In fact, so adorable, let’s zoom in a little and take a look at those piggie-wiggies.
NO pigs zoom

This does beg the question: Is it really ethical to roll your little pig children off to be eaten? It’s not suicide food in the typical sense. But if getting made into barbecue is so much fun, why would you deprive the wee ones? Especially when you know they’ll taste so delicious!

Too bad this restaurant — Elizabeth’s, in the Bywater — was closed. Next trip.

[Thanks, Polenblog.]

Ali’s Kabab Cafe: closing only temporarily

Tomorrow Ali’s running off to Egypt (where I’ll get to see him!) for a month, then doing some major renovations on the restaurant when he gets back, so he’ll probably be closed till mid-June or so.

I am so relieved I know about this in advance. Last time he shut down for a long stretch, it was extremely traumatic.

In the meantime, it’s a good excuse to go down the street (25-22 Steinway) and eat at Mombar, his brother Mustafa’s place. But don’t go getting used to the elbow room!

New Orleans: Fry Me a River

First: no green-pepper showdowns on the mean streets of the Crescent City. In fact, the only time I got even a hint of the stuff was in some alleged lobster oil floated on some cucumber soup, but by then my taste buds were so fried by, well, fried food that I could no longer judge. (More on that later.)

The second most important thing: New Orleans is a fabulous place to ride a bike. The fact that I’m mentioning this before the food is saying a lot. It has been a long winter, and I’m a little bike-deprived, so that may account for some of my enthusiasm. Another big asset: We had excellent guides in the form of Dan Baum and Meg Knox, who advised us on everything from where to rent the two-wheelers to which streets had the worst potholes. (Yes, the very same Dan Baum whose New Yorker blog I was admiring just a week ago. Lordy, I love the Internet.)

But in addition to all that, New Orleans is mostly level ground, completely anarchic without being crowded (read: I don’t have to follow traffic rules), and every person you pass has a little something to say, often about your hat. I’m sure in some neighborhoods, at some times of the night, the commentary from the sidewalk might not be so heartwarming, but this trip really reminded me why a bicycle seat is the best space to inhabit as a tourist. And certainly a bike is ideal for 2007 New Orleans, where you have this prurient interest in seeing just what the place looks like post-horror, but don’t want to seem like you’re staring. A bike goes a polite speed, a tactful speed.

(For the record: it is still a disaster, even though/because it’s not in the news much anymore. The trauma is palpable. Everyone wants to talk about it, but no one has anything else to say. It’s a strange place to be a tourist. Compare with Cancun, where everyone sports “I survived Wilma” T-shirts and laughs a lot; only the stubby palm trees are a clue that the biggest hurricane ever in the Caribbean landed here, not long after Katrina hit New Orleans.)

OK, OK: the food. Knox-n-Baum were also fine tour guides in this department, but we also got pointed to a sweet shrimp po’boy by a random dude on the street, which is proof that New Orleans really is an eatin’ town. If I asked a New Yorker for a restaurant recommendation, he would never give up his favorite place, and the place he pointed you to just at the end of the block would be some pretty crappy diner.

First night out, we gorged at Cochon, due to its proximity to where we were staying and its featuring calas on the menu. Not that I could actually remember what a cala was, but I did remember having clipped a recipe from a Slow Food magazine many years ago. (Oh, guess what? It’s something fried.) Cochon struck me as doing just the right amount of fancy-ifying of the Cajun and Creole oeuvre, but I’m not some kind of expert with standards of authenticity to offend. I pretty much bet there was no cream-of-mushroom soup at work back in the open kitchen, but there was of course a lot of bacon, and some succulent little ribs, and some sweet-and-smoky collards. Also some really buttery oysters. It was a bit of a blur due to travel daze and chatting with KnB and loads of small plates.

Next day…also a bit of a blur. Fried shrimp. Fried oysters. Root beer on tap at the Rock ‘n’ Bowl. Some soft-shell crab. Some eggplant and crab in a spicy cream sauce in capers, which made me realize what’s so genius about food in Louisiana: It’s all the completely unapologetic richness of French food, with the kick in the ass of spicy heat. It’s probably the only place at that near-tropical latitude that consumes so much butter and cream. Sounds like a recipe for disease of some kind, but damn, it tastes good.

Saturday: more fried oysters. Some fried catfish. A cherry Danish. Zapp’s potato chips in limited-edition Tabasco flavor and “craw-tator.”

And then: The Wedding! The whole reason we were there, and the reason Peter (aka Recently Made Reverend) was wearing such a snazzy hat. Jim and Daphne tied the knot, to tearful toasts, terrible limericks and Led Zeppelin. I haven’t been to such a solid costume party in years, aside from that thing in the desert outside Reno. And I don’t think I’ve ever had such good food at a wedding. I rounded out my day with some fried chicken, plus a solid helping of collard greens. And the cake was scrumptious–by the pastry chef at Lillette, where I was sorry we didn’t get to eat. Oh, then a late-night bite of a grilled pork chop from an especially crazy grill contraption.

Sunday. I was so beat by biking against the wind (sing it, Mr. Seger) to get to the Single Ladies Pleasure Club’s second line that not even fried oysters and shrimp on the same bun could get me back in the game. A few bites of a smoked sausage bought from a grill mounted in the back of some guy’s truck helped a little. But even a couple of Pimm’s cups didn’t provide the refreshment I needed. Nor did a glass of red wine with ice in Tamara and Karl’s hotel room. (Yes, we take them everywhere we go!)

So by the time I tottered into Restaurant August, nearly the poshest spot in town and probably the only reason a random Google-r will land on this post, I could barely face a single plate of food.

Yes, I had a Campari. And fizzy water. But I really needed some Roman-era purging treatment. Peter had a five-course tasting menu, and I picked at my beet salad. Even asparagus soup seemed too rich, and a nibble of lamb nearly killed me. That’s when I thought I tasted green pepper in the lobster oil. So really, who knows?

Oh, but it’s good to be human–for what did I have the very next afternoon, as our plane took off from Louis Armstrong International?

A shrimp po’boy, of course.

Road Remedies

Oh. I guess you can be a travel writer and not kvetch constantly. Amanda Castleman does just that on Road Remedies.

To-do list for tomorrow:
1) Report on green peppers in New Orleans.
2) Report on fried oysters in New Orleans.
3) Report on fried shrimp in New Orleans.
4) Report on disappointing hitting of wall, appetite-wise, on Sunday night in New Orleans.
5) Recalibrate overall attitude. Life is pretty good.

Oh, except for my lament that I can’t show you a picture of the package of udon noodles we had in the fridge but threw away too soon: “Ingredients: Unbreached white flour…”