Category: Food

Trader Joe’s — A Rant

Although I don’t dislike Trader Joe’s quite as much as this guy, I have to say he’s right on in his criticism of their pushing prepackaged, precut vegetables:

It’s none of my business how people spend their money, but I can’t help but think that money spent on peeled veggies could be better spent on a bottle of wine, a dry-aged steak, or a bottle of white truffle oil. Celery and salad greens are supposed to be cheap. I can’t believe how willing we have become to make them and every other piece of produce expensive.

Trader Joe’s isn’t the only sinner, of course–they just make the veggies marginally cheaper than everyone else. I’m a little bit more disturbed out how I could spend $100+ at a TJ’s in Connecticut (I had a job interview up there–back when I wanted a job!–and rented a minivan to capitalize on its proximity to TJ’s) and come away with nothing but frippery: not-very-satisfying granola, weird dips, etc. About the only very useful things I bought there were frozen blueberries. (Maybe TJ’s should just shift over to nothing but frozen foods, like that Spanish chain?) The stores strike me as little more than glorified snack-food purveyors.

And I hate to think what this will mean for cocktail parties in New York. I remember someone in LA complaining about how everybody serves the same brie from TJ’s, with the same crackers and the same cheap wine. It could happen here.

Whether or not I do end up patronizing this new, allegedly life-changing emporium (and really, how could I not visit once?), I have but one prayer: Lord, let me never resort to “baby” carrots. Cooking takes a little work, but there’s something deeply satisfying about peeling a carrot with a good vegetable peeler.

Maybe California isn’t better after all…

This is great news! I like phrases like “veritable foodie paradise” and “$60 million restoration of the Battery Maritime Building.” Also, I deeply appreciate the words “having learned from the touristification of South Street Seaport.”

Why do I care, seeing how the Battery Maritime Building couldn’t be farther from where I live? Because San Francisco has a place like this, and I’m jealous. In fact, almost every decent city has a massive food hall. Come to think of it, what do tourists do when they come to NYC? Because when I travel, the market is the first place I visit.

Here, you’ve got your Whole Foods, which is slick and dull. Your Dean & Deluca, which is small and snotty. Your Chelsea Market, which is horribly, horribly lit and has depressing acoustics. And your new Balducci’s, which is enh, but at least is handily located for Karine and gives out lots of free samples.

Foooood haaaaalllll. Yessss, that’s what will make this city truly shine! Perhaps I will rent a stall, so I can sell unsolicited advice, and passionfruit curd.

Hospital Food: The Pros Weigh In

The New York Times today has a story about hospital food (registration required). The second graf rang true:

…Mrs. Tobias, 81, picked at a lukewarm chicken breast and rice pilaf dampened with sticky brown sauce. Boiled carrot sticks and shredded iceberg lettuce with a packet of low-calorie French dressing filled out the tray. She said her fruit cocktail tasted as if someone had rinsed it in running water and squeezed it dry…. “All of it tastes like nothing, and it smells worse,” she said to her granddaughter in Tagalog.

Interesting fact: “In some facilities, more than a third of the food served on an average day goes untouched.”

But apparently there’s hope:

…nutritionists say the medical profession has begun to recognize that good-tasting, culturally correct food that is served at the proper temperature and when a patient is ready to eat can help people feel better faster, save on food costs and attract patients with good insurance plans.

This is interesting–do I count as a patient with a good insurance plan? I’m not sure. Are hospitals competing for the opportunity to run CT scans on me?

On the other hand, a lot of hospitals don’t feel motivated to overhaul the food service because “there is no definitive connection between fresher, better tasting food and healthier patients.” So, uh, they shouldn’t bother?

“Floor workers have had to deal with thrown trays and tears when the doctors’ orders did not match what was on the tray.” I never would’ve done anything like that. No way.

The gist of the rest of the article is that some hospitals are starting to follow a room-service model for food delivery, with a big menu and the ability to order at any time of day. The only flaw here, of course, is that room-service food often sucks as well.

Au Revoir, Mr. Cool Whip

The Economist has a thorough obituary for a man I never thought to blame personally: Robert Rich, the guy who invented the prototype for what’s now known as Cool Whip.

Man, I was a sucker for that stuff when I was little. Because at my house, of course we could only have real cream (yawn), and only with very good dessert, on special occasions. Whereas at my friends’ houses, I could eat Cool Whip every day after school, by the giant spoonful, before it could even find its way to the bowl of ice cream, the kind that was very fluffy and came in those square cartons. And then we’d watch The Dukes of Hazzard and argue over who was cuter, the blond one or the dark-haired one, or we’d dance around while Kenny Rogers sang “The Gambler.”

Boy, those were the days–before I thought to read ingredient lists, and didn’t know quite how chilling the words “whipped topping” were. I’m afraid that Cool Whip is all still in my digestive tract somewhere. I hate to imagine.

Back Home in Astoria

Peter, as we all know, does not like California. But when a state provides luxe accommodations, balmy weather and fine food, you can bet I wasn’t complaining. Sri Lankan tastiness in Santa Cruz. Armenian fantasticity in Glendale, thanks to Ashley and her way with the cabbies; too bad we weren’t dressed classy enough to stay for the floor show. A welcome at LAX involving fresh-squeezed OJ from Peter’s parents. The Santa Monica farmers’ market–where, alas, I made not a single celebrity sighting. And excellent catering by Tamara, Karine and my mother throughout.

We tried to bring some of the magic back home: Peter’s suitcase was bursting with tomatoes, artichokes and tangerines. But damn, it’s still cold in New York. And lovely as it was to see the whole gang, including Ali, for dinner last night, I’m missing some of the joy of the neighborhood because I can’t really go grocery shopping. Well, I can go strolling through the aisles and fondling vegetables, but I can’t carry anything home–my post-op “sternal precautions” are still in place for another week or two. There’s some parallel with an eating disorder here, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

So. Here I am. I’m not saying I’m going to move to California anytime soon, but this is the first time I haven’t been jumping for joy to get back to Astoria. That’s the cold, hard truth. Very cold.

In New York Schools, Whole Milk Is Cast From the Menu

This story in the New York Times annoys me so much. As if it were the milk that’s the problem, and not the corporate-sponsored lunches and vending machines and snack bars full of sugary drinks and junk food.

A few weeks back, there was another story about bodegas trying to promote healthier diets…by advocating skim milk. Not warning against Funyons or King Size Reese’s Cups. Just milk.

It’s all brilliantly capped by the February 5 headline in the Times, on the front page, above the fold, no less: Low-Fat Diet Does Not Cut Health Risks, Study Finds.

Funny how I just feel righter and righter every day.

Going It Alone

Massive thanks to Karine and Tamara for playing personal assistants, nutritionists, and chefs for the past few days. They left this afternoon, after stocking up on fish tacos, and I tried to remember how to function without them.

They set me up on a quality diet. The nurse told me last weak [ha–Freudian slip–I mean ‘week’] that I was still pretty anemic, so the agenda was foods high in iron. Also, high fiber, to counteract the effects of all the narcotics I’ve been taking–no _way_ I wanted to end up in a Whitney Houston/Bobby Brown situation.

I’ve never in my life eaten with specific nutrition in mind–I mean, aside from the old BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce, tea) diet to get over diarrhea, or lots of yogurt to make up for antibiotics. But I’ve always enjoyed the creative challenge of playing within extreme limitations, and I think Tamara did too, composing menus from a list of specific ingredients.

Research on the subject of iron-rich foods was a little hazy, though, with some websites claiming very contradictory things, so T. and K. forged ahead with lots of spinach, liver, raisins, molasses, etc. Which is not nearly as gross as it might sound. Consider, for instance, a spinach and bacon salad topped with chicken livers and a warm balsamic dressing. Dark, rich gingerbread. Clams in a saffron broth. Steak and baked potatoes with the skin on.

What’s most encouraging is that these are things that were genuinely appealing, almost within the realm of cravings. My body knows what it needs, and I’m pretty aware of it. And even though Tamara and Karine and my mother were waiting on me hand and foot, eating three square meals of home-cooked food a day made me feel a little more independent, a little less like I owed my entire life to the miracle of modern medicine.

Because so far that has been one of the most unsettling things about this surgery–before it, I somehow considered myself not reliant on contemporary American society. I was above it, or outside it, because I could function in less-plush conditions (e.g., use squat toilets, buy meat from open-air butchers), I could feed myself, I didn’t own a car, I could entertain myself without cable TV… I would be able to survive when our economy crashed and/or the climate changed and/or whatever other looming disaster finally came to be.

Folly.

Now I thank the lord for Vicodin and the health insurance I so recently got and an endless supply of clean hospital gowns and antibiotics and syringes with pre-measured heparin and saline, and sweet and kind nurses who seem to like their jobs. The health-care system is deeply flawed, but it’s done right by me, so far.

I feel shaky–but the iron-rich diet is helping me feel stronger all around. And tomorrow they’d _better_ have oysters back in stock at the beach restaurant.

Back to the Basics

Alas, our Best of RG series was cut short because I had to go to the hospital again. The last post was going to be romantic, about artichokes—you can find it by googling this blog and “anginares,” and you’ll be spared the last Joanie-loves-Chachi shtick.

But I’m out of the joint, and apparently everything will be better than ever. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, and haven’t been following the details on Peter’s obsessive blog re: my health, and you’re curious, and you’re not a crazy stalker person, then email me, and I will get you up to date.

In the hospital, one leads a very rudimentary life. One’s expectations and aspirations become noticeably curtailed: I made it to the bathroom all by myself! Good job!

One’s palate also gets hella fucked up.

I had surgery at 7 in the morning. By the afternoon, I’d come around and the nurses pulled out the breathing tube. Then my mother was able to give me eensy doses of water, via a little green sponge on a stick. After a few more hours, I was allowed actual small chunks of ice.

That water was so simple, delicious, cold, nourishing—all I had to do was lie in bed and fantasize about the time when I would be able to drink a whole glass of it. Anyone who, when they’re high on ecstasy, feels vaguely like an idiot for saying, “This is the best water ever!”, don’t—it is the best water ever, and you’re getting to enjoy it without all the rigamarole of anesthesia, a heart-lung machine, and a million tubes sticking out of you.

Usually I could do a little cycle of sponge-sucking and ice-cube-savoring a couple of times before I’d need more pain meds and get knocked out again. I got into a very satisfying OCD rhythm with the sponge (three thorough sucks) and the ice cubes (one small one). I was a giant, incompetent hamster. I can only imagine how delightful it would’ve been if it were fizzy.

Then Peter came along and rubbed a bit of fruit in my mouth. It was terrifying yet fascinating. Tangy, warm, and so violently acidic that I was sure the nurses would yank it away as something toxic. It was also weirdly salty. Later, Peter told me it was a blood orange. I never would’ve imagined blood oranges actually tasting bloody.

Two days after the surgery, I was eating solid foods again, but wisely assigned the “bland” diet. Cardboard turkey. Paste potatoes. Packing-foam lettuce. Fine by me. When I got around to “regular” diet, though, I was already remembering what I was missing, though I didn’t have a huge appetite.

Last night I got home and ate a salad with a merciless dressing of anchovy and lemon juice. Burned the hospital food right off, and started fresh.

Best of RG V: The Man in the Bow Tie

Best of RG IV: The Man in the Bow Tie

The thrilling retrospective continues…and the voices are back.

“Gosh, Joanie, I’m feeling parched. I sure could use a milkshake,” goes Chachi. And just then, with the flawless timing accorded everyone in thirty-minute sitcoms, up walks Al. He’s wearing a bow tie and looking paternal. He’s holding a milkshake that looks like the milkshake to end all milkshakes, the milkshake you dream about at night: thick but not unsuckable through a straw, a pink imbued naturally with real strawberries, a mini-ziggurat of whipped cream, and a jaunty maraschino cherry on top.

“Al, that’s the coolest milkshake ever! How’d you learn to make it like that?” Joanie breathes with adoration.

“Well, Joanie, it took lots and lots of practice and experimentation. And it especially took determination, which I learned from a great man I once saw, a great man I emulate to this day…

Ack, there goes the screen, we’re feeling woozy, and then we straighten up and find ourselves in a Midtown Barnes & Noble:

April 5, 2004
Cook’s, Really Illustrated
Christopher Kimball is the editor of the most humorless, most anal, most absorbingly useful magazine ever, Cook’s Illustrated. In the long list of my random food influences–from the late, great Barton Rouse to the dire necessity of Cairo, where I was forced to pick basil out of parking lots–Cook’s Illustrated has probably taught me the most.

Not that I liked it. The magazine–ad-free, dense with text interspersed with faint little line drawings and often murky black-and-white photos–is distinctly unpalatable. Headlines are less than compelling: “Turkey Tetrazzini: Worth Saving?”

And maybe it’s a New England thing (HQ is in Boston), but they have zero sense of humor and are completely unwilling to admit that they take themselves too seriously. I recall exactly one wry turn of phrase, by Kay Rentschler. She proferred a shortcut that would “get you back to the cocktail cart in a jiffy.” She hasn’t written for the magazine since.

But after eight years of subscribing, I now sigh fondly when I read: “[DISH X] has a reputation for being heavy/greasy/bland/cafeteria-like. We tested 20/58/871 recipes to revive this obscure American staple/nostalgic standard/overwrought French classic…. I shake my head with wonder when the test kitchen cracks the case in the “What the Hell Is It?” (I’m paraphrasing) column about some now-extinct kitchen gadget discovered in a dusty cabinet. I duly wrap yet another item in plastic wrap, as recommended in the Reader’s Tips pages.

There is, however, one item that I still cannot bear: the editor’s letter, Mr. Kimball’s bimonthly words of wisdom. And boy, does he ladle on the wisdom. Every essay mentions his Vermont farm, crusty natives, joyful children bounding up the driveway, and some treacly lesson about humanity. I once got suckered into reading one that started with mention of his hippie galavanting in a VW bus. But after two columns of low-grade bohemian reverie, the story of course returned to present-day, with those beastly children bounding up the drive of the ol’ farmstead. I felt conned, and I haven’t read an editor’s letter since.

So, part of the reason I went to see this guy speak at Barnes & Noble last week was to see if he was as intensely annoying, smarmy and righteous as his editorial persona suggested.

After warming up the crowd by citing some statistics that made the crowd feel smug (number of minutes Americans want to spend cooking dinner: 15) and sharing some behind-the-scenes anecdotes (wacky salt-for-sugar-in-the-cheesecake pranks!), he showed this video that depicted the Cook’s staff discussing very seriously its mission, along with images of armies of blind taste-testers, clad in white and studiously nibbling things out of plastic cups. It all looked kind of like a “science” fair project I might’ve rigged up in fifth grade because I couldn’t be bothered with breeding fruit flies: One test component was always included twice, to check for tasters’ consistency, Kimball was quick to assure us. Also a little like those photos in science journals of work at the Kinsey Institute, of people in lab coats looking very, very objective about sex.

All the results that appeared so certain on the page–this balsamic vinegar, that butter, that supermarket cheddar–are now exposed as just the product of a bunch of people locked in a room. What about chacun a  son gout? What if it turned out I liked the third-rated cheese? I’d never know, because I always just bought the top-rated brand.

Then Mr. Kimball passed around little baggies of chocolate–three different kinds, in individual numbered plastic cups–and instructed us to taste them. He asked us all to vote on which we liked best, then praised us for getting it right.

Now, I know I spent too much time hemming and hawing in grad school with other cultural relativists (back in the day–the intellectual tide seems to have shifted in the last few years), but the word right gets my back up. Especially because the third chocolate, dismissed by Mr. Kimball as a pointlessly chi-chi boutique variety, was interesting, all winy and rich, and totally different from the other two more standard chocolates. I wouldn’t have baked brownies with it, but it wasn’t wrong, just like my interpretation of a text can’t ever be wrong–stupid, maybe, and betraying inexperience (Kimball also chortled over someone who actually preferred Aunt Jemima to real maple syrup), but not wrong.

The Man in the Bow Tie went on in this vein a little while longer, and he started to sound (to me, at least) more derisory, more pleased with himself and more God-playing all the time. This audience in Barnes & Noble looked utterly adoring and enthralled, all agog at this bespectacled, hollow-cheeked pedant. Good thing he’s in charge of a cooking magazine, and not a religious cult that encourages people to commit acts of violence.

Things took a turn for the even worse during the Q&A period when a woman asked, “I find that the flavor from cake yeast is much better than from powdered yeast. Am I right?”

I slipped out the side door, and ate the rest of the wrong chocolate on the subway ride home.

RG goes XXX! ¡Solo Adultos!

So I was reading this Mexican porn comic book that Tamara picked up at Hidalgo Grocery. To learn vocabulary, of course.

See, I allegedly speak a number of languages, but when it comes down to nitty-gritty street-level communication, I suck. This is because I’ve learned all of them in the classroom, and very little on the streets, and never, ever between the sheets. Oh, to have the filthy Syrian colloquial mouth of Adrienne, to have the wisdom of Maureen, who started Arabic tutoring with the specific goal of learning how to gossip, or even just to have the extemporizing talent of Tamara, who can entertain a party with a bawdy sentence memorized from the Italian phrasebook.

Instead. I’ve busied myself with verb conjugations and nuances of the subjunctive. I only happen to know that kut means “cunt” in Dutch because it’s printed in the newspaper, often in the compound word kuttelikkertje, which is the word for a lap dog. Generally, I conduct myself with utter decorum and grammatical propriety in Arabic, French, and Dutch–but that also means I don’t talk nearly as much as I’d like to.

A few years ago, I vowed it would be different with Spanish. It’s the only language I feel I have a cultural edge with, some innate instinct for, having grown up in New Mexico, where all my grade-school teachers spoke Spanish and it was a required class in sixth grade.

But I didn’t learn crucial words for genitales there, of course, nor did I learn them in Instituto Cervantes classes in Cairo, or in chipper expat immersion courses in Merida, or any of the other places I’ve studied Spanish over the years.

It’s too late for me to have a passionate fling with the guy who brings the umbrella drinks at the Tulum resort, or a coffee-break canoodle with the hot manager at Pret a Manger.

So that’s why I’m reading Mexican porn comics. And the reason I’m telling you this on my food-ish blog is that these are the words I learned today:

papayita: Imagine this fruit cut in half…
chorizo: Sausage. Duh.
aguacates maduros: Not a slang term per se, but a metaphor for the state of the aroused husband’s testicles: like “ripe avocados”

Hot, no? Grocery shopping in Mexico will never be the same…