THE GURGLING COD

Red

Red Auerbach, 1917-2006.*
Entirely too much dying in 2006. I'd like to see a moratorium on dying until at least January of 2007. A brief story:
In their most recent heyday, my father would take me to maybe two or three Celtics games a year. We did not have any kind of a package, and academics do not get the ticket hookups that the law-talkers do. So we relied on scalpers. One game, around 1984, my dad and I went to a game, possibly against Detroit. He sprung for good seats, loge level, but as it happened, our seats were on a corner and basically faced into the abutting row of seats. (Such arrangements were not so uncommon at the Boston Garden.) I was excited to be in the building, but a bit disappointed with the view. I had noticed a pair of unoccupied seats about  a dozen rows above courtside on the opposite side of the court, and after some entreaties, I prevailed upon my father to shift to these seats at halftime. We had been sitting there for about thrity seconds when an usher approached, incredulous -- "Hey, man, you're sitting in Red's seat!" I like to think it might happen again.

*I am not the person to summarize his accomplishments. Suffice it to say that not only was he was the NBA's Branch Rickey in a much tougher context, but also he could be buried with a championship ring on each finger, and still have enough left over to re-create the Olympic logo with one to spare.

Boo!

Worse still, you know that that there are parents saying "Yes, but do you have a sexy roast turkey costume?"* You will not be shocked to learn that Martha Stewart is involved.
*Tip of the fin to the Artist Formerly Known as Matt.
 

Dish for Gish... redux

It is that time of the semester again,  where I cajole undergraduates into watching a three-hour sillent film celebrating the rise of the Ku Klux Klan with the promise of a hot meal. This is a larger class than  the last, and this time around, it should be a different kind of scene. (A friend from our local asked if he could join; one of my students is bringing his girlfriend.) In all, it should be close to a score of film lovers packed into our living room, which would be a lot of London broil.

Instead, chili. But not just any chili. This is a chili that I first made for the 1999 ALCS Pedro vs. Roger shootout (Red Sox 13, Yankees 1). This chili is undefeated in three AFC championship appearances. I have seen fifteen pounds worth of this chili vanish in under ten minutes. This chili is a difference-maker. I am hoping that it may even change the outcome of Birth of a Nation. I would not bet against a fifth-reel appearance by Pam Grier toting an AR-15. The receipt follows:

Craig Claiborne’s Het Het Beef Chili con Carne with Meat. Refined by me.

Best to cook night or 2 before, and reheat.

5 lbs Lean Chuck Roast—so called “seven bone” is a good cut—do not be beguiled into buying a cut that is too expensive or too lean.
1/2 c. Olive Oil
1/2 c. Coarse Korean Chili Powder
1/2 c. Quaker Oatmeal
2 Tsp. Cumin Seeds
2 Tsp. Dried Oregano

10-12 Garlic Cloves, chopped.

4 c. Beef Broth (traditional—I have come to prefer less salty chicken broth in a box, like Pacific)

(Sherry, Diced Onions, Sour Cream, Grated Cheddar Cheese, pref Cabot extra  sharp.)

 

Method:

Dice meat in 1” cubes.

Get broth to simmer in soup pot.

Brown meat in big skillet.

Combine chili powder and oatmeal in food processor, and process unti oatmeal is petty floury.

Coat meat with chili-oats.

Rub cumin and oregano together over meat, mix.

Add garlics.

Add to simmering broth, add water to cover almost, if needed.

Bring to boil, then lower heat.

Simmer partly covered, 3-4 hours, adding water as needed.

Stir now and then, and watch out.

Cook til very tender, but not falling apart.

Add sherry if you want near the end.

Serve with Beans, and the things you serve it with. [Onions, Grated cheddar, sour cream.]

 

Beans.

1 Lb. Pinto beans.

1 big onion.

1/2 lb. salt pork.

Soak beans for an hour. Drain.

Rinse, cover with 2+ inches of water, add pork and diced onions.

Cook 2-3 hours. Do not burn.

Vegetarian variation: Lie to them about the pork.

This is one from the archives, but you get the idea. I'll let you know what happens.

Apples and... not apples

I'd been planning to write something about the passing of Johnny Apple when deaths closer to home intervened. Among other things, Apple's passing poses an interesting metaphysical question. If Apple earned a ticket on the up escalator, rather than the down, what exactly does St. Peter offer as a startup package? To review, Apple spent the last decade of his life traveling all over the world, eating whatever he wanted, and staying wherever he wanted, on Uncle Punch's dime. I like to imagine he's doing exactly the same thing, except in an invisible phaeton pulled by Secretariat, and joined by the cast of 8 Femmes.

I doubt if it was the intended effect, but Bruni's piece on Italy really made me miss Apple. Now Apple was to junketeers what Bootsy Collins is to funketeers, but whether it was Virginia hams or street food in Singapore, he made it feel as if it was worth it to you for him to make the trip. Et tu, Frank?

On a recent week I divided my days almost evenly between these two regions, on a selfless mission to taste and compare the best of both. In my mind’s eye I cast them as contestants in a sort of bake-off, giving each the same opportunities — refined restaurants, rustic ones, marketplaces, vineyards — to show what it could do.

This is a hook I recall working out for the folks at Dynamite magazine in the late seventies -- who is better: Bee Gees or Beatles? --  and I imagine similar articles have been written about 'Nsync vs. 98 Degrees. Bruni expands on this socko premise:

I pitted the truffle against the pig, Turin's taglierini against Bologna’s tortellini. I let Piedmont show off its chocolate, often mixed with hazelnuts, a marriage made famous by this region. I let Emilia-Romagna trot out its balsamic vinegar, yet another delicacy it sired.

Next week, Bruni shuttles between Miami and Seattle, comparing the Red Delicous of the Pacific Northwest to the tangy citrus of Florida! Apples and oranges. Or, perhaps, Apples and Franks. Bruni pursues this specious comparison, gives the nod to Piedmont over Emilia-Romagna, but concludes that good eating can be had throughout Northern Italy -- who knew?

And it captures what, in the end, gave Piedmont an edge. The region’s greatest joys weren’t concentrated in the middle of a meal or the center of a plate. They also popped up at the beginning, at the end and on the sides of my dinners and days, against a mountainous backdrop more dramatic and exhilarating than Emilia-Romagna’s fecund plains. It’s as if Piedmont’s food evolved to match the majesty of the setting.

Italians in Emilia-Romagna have certainly come to admire it. Whenever I asked them which other region’s cuisine they most admired, Piedmont was the first or second place mentioned. In Piedmont, Emilia-Romagna drew the most praise. The mutual flattery was definitive proof. Both of these regions have great taste.

Stop the presses.

Elsewhere in DI/DO, Bittman suggests making your own salad dressing, rather than using the stuff out of the bottle. Granted, this is the Minimalist, but I tend to think of making a vinagrette as something most vertebrates are capable of unsupervised -- the sort of task you might fob off on an eight year old niece who was underfoot in the kitchen.  Next week, look for Bittman to come out in favor of grated Cheddar, rather than American cheese singles as a chili topping. Not sure what the timeline is on the changing of the guard at DI/DO, but there is room for improvement.

Conspiracy!

1835, Lyman Beecher wrote A Plea for the West, in which he outlined a vast Roman Catholic conspiracy to win the hearts and minds of America's youth through the pernicious ruse of free education. Most evidence from the intervening one hundred and seventy-one years would suggest that the spread of parochial education in the United States has had a more benign influence than Beecher imagined. Most, not all. Every Day Should Be Saturday, the Horace of college football blogs, made a fact-finding trip to South Bend, Indiana, the location of the University of Notre Dame. Despite an 0-4 record all time against the University of Chicago, Notre Dame has a football tradition frequently construed as hallowed, and by and large, it sounds like a pleasant place to enjoy a game.

With one glaring exception. The post included the following sentence:

Since the Powers That Be banned charcoal grills from the ND parking lots, you don’t get the Weber Magic you’ll see at Auburn.

I was stunned. No charcoal? I considered the possibility that the term "charcoal grill" was being used with imprecision, and Fighting Irish tailgaters were expected to subsist on ham sandwiches. No such luck. According to the "Notre Dame Security Police":

Grilles using CHARCOAL are prohibited from use on university property. Numerous flyers and subsequent property damage have resulted from improper disposal of the charcoal. Grills using propane gas will be allowed. The maximum propane gas cylinder size allowed will be twenty (20) lbs.*

To review: Notoriously hard-to-ignite charcoal is not permitted, but cylinders of flammable gas under pressure are? Because charcoal trucks have to have special signs on them that say "WARNING! CHARCOAL!"? Because we're all worried that the terrorists will blow up a charcoal tanker? They better remember to bring some of that napalm in a jug, or at least some old newspapers and one of those chimneys they sell at Whole Foods.

Worse still, propane is the enemy of flavor; charcoal is the friend of flavor. There  are purists that insist on real logs, but here in this world of shadows and dust, charcoal is a reasonable choice. But not at Notre Dame. If cooking is a form of self-expression, then it seems clear to me that this fuel restriction is a restraint of free speech. Is there an ACLU in Indiana? Furthermore, this charcoal ban takes the Caja China right out of the tailgating picture -- I hope that the University of Miami is not planning a visit to South Bend anytime soon, but if they are, they should pack sandwiches, as the lechonero will find no welcome at Notre Dame.

The rationale of improper ash disposal is a snare and a delusion. One imagines that some two thousand and six Lents would provide some experience in proper ash handling. More pragmatically, 55 gallon drums that say "put ashes here" might solve this problem.

The real issue is deeper. As Donald Sutherland said to Kevin Costner in JFK, "follow the money." Who could enact such a ban? Who benefits? I cannot dot the Is and cross the Ts, but the answer is near at hand.

*As an aside, having someone copyedit your web content will do wonders to encourage visitors to go along with this idea that Notre Dame is an academic powerhouse.

Shanks for the memories

One thing I am learning about mourning a departed loved one is the disappearance of time. In the absence of the person, recollections from decades ago have equal weight with final memories. As a result, I suspect, I've spent time thinking about the salient dining experiences of my chlidhood. Meals out make more of an impression than meals in, and one of the staples of the seventies and eighties was the late and lamented Acropolis, on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge. This was a solid Greek restaurant, with heavy cut glass goblets for water, which yellow-jacketed servers refilled constantly. The owner's familiy was a pillar of the Greek community, and thus employed a phalanx of newly arrived immigrants who would work in the restaurant while they learned English. My brother and I were both veterans of a school where the fourth grade curriculum focused on ancient Greece, so we enjoyed the murals on the walls, depicting Greeks cavorting in various states of undress.

My parents would eat thngs that I distrusted, like moussaka and stuffed grape leaves; I was very consistent in my order -- for the first eight years or so, half a roast chicken. I started  ordering this when I was small enough that the thought of  a whole half a chicken seemed remarkably extravagant, and made me feel like a lion dining on a wildebeest. I don't recall how I did with the chicken, but I do recall a strong drumstick fixation, so someone else may have helped with the breast and wing.

At some point in the 80s, I made the switch -- perused the menu, saw "Lamb Artichokes Fricasee," and that was it. I was familiar with fricasee as a concept from the Freddy the Pig books, where Charles the rooster was frequently threatened with this fate, and I knew I liked artichokes. I stuck with Lamb Artichokes Fricasee for the remainder of the Acropolis era. (At some point in the 1990s, it closed, a victim of the pressing need for more establishments in the greater Boston area purveying sweet potato fries to degenerates.)

This was before the term existed, but LAF defined comfort food. Chunks of lamb, cooked to falling apart, served over rice with a sauce like reduced egg and lemon soup. Almost without realizing it, I intuited my way towards  a reproduction last night. With a bit of crisp in the air, a braise seemed like a good Sunday project, and the lamb shanks spoke to me at the market. Once I got home and reviewed braising receipts, it occured to me that artichokes were the only thing between me and this dish of my youth. Or so I thought.

I put two shanks in a small Creuset, along with about a head of peeled garlic, a bit of salt, pepper, and oregano, and added all the homemade stock I had, which was not quite enough to cover. We did not have any suitable white, so I added a slug of red from the heel of a bottle.

I think the wine fundamentally changed the character of the dish -- the red of the wine made the sauce brown, and somehow less Mediterranean, but I may  be getting ahead of myself. I ran out for artichokes, and added them when I returned,  quartering one, and adding pieces of the heart of the other. (There was not room in the pot for two whole quartered chokes.)

I made some broccolini as a side, and some couscous to serve underneath. The flavors were good, but there were significant problems with the presentation. These shanks just under a pound, with much of that bone, so one shank per diner seemed to make sense -- splitting one would not be enough, while two created lunch possibilities. However, the effect of the shank on the plate was dauntingly Flinstony. Unlike short ribs, which are linear bones, where the meat shrinks and turns the bones into handles,  the shank presents a joint with ungainly projections. The word "arthroscopic" is not appetizing. The flavor of the braised chokes was good, but the preparation rendered eating them a challenge only Tom Jones could cherish. I am hoping that off the bone, in Gladware, at lunch today, the leftovers will seem like a less daunting prospect.

I will give this another go, when I have enough stock and wine, and will try a different cut of lamb. In any event, despite the disappointments, I will say that there are few things that do more to create the aura of domestic felicity than a Sunday braise.

 

The Autocrat of the Dinner Table

 In all honesty, my father was not a very good cook. Like some dads of his generation, he had a few dishes – a Chinese beef dish from Irene Kuo’s book, and a shrimp with dill concoction come immediately to mind. However, cooking could be a fraught experience for my father. He was an inveterate recipe-follower and sometimes prone to exclamations of “Rubbish!” or “Foolishness!” if derailed. When my father, rather than my mother, would make fondue, being in the kitchen with him felt a little bit like being in the desert with Oppenheimer at Los Alamos. For reasons known only to himself, he started making falafel at home after he retired, and while the results were creditable, the process could be dramatic.

Fortunately, my mother is a talented, energetic and ambitious cook. She is much better than I am about dating and commenting on receipts in her cookbooks, and it never ceases to astonish me when I look up an elaborate receipt in her Julia Child or the NYT cookbook, and see a comment next to Veal Marengo, along the lines of “Sep 9, 76 – delicious,” and reflect that she was doing this kind of cooking while teaching full time and raising two sons. She cooked this way because she loved my father, and my father loved meals. Not food, per se, but meals. Over the course of my life, I can think of only a handful of dinners we shared that were not sit-down affairs, without television.

 My father loved meals because he loved to be with us, and by extension, our friends. The communion of the table, in a secular sense, was like a sacrament to him. Over the week I spent with family and friends preparing for his funeral, I was struck by how many of the memories of him people shared were constellated around the dinner table. If the table was a communion, there is no question that my father was the high priest. My friend Bob would address him as “Reverend,” and he was only partly teasing, I think. The notion of eating and running was foreign to him, and his greatest joy was in extending the time around the table with a story. For those of you reading this who were not lucky enough to know him, do not think of Aesop or Uncle Remus – rather than prefabricated nuggets of wisdom, these were salvos of reminiscence and anecdote.

Indeed, if my father’s picture were used to illustrate a word in the dictionary, it would be “regale.” This was his primary mode of discourse at the table. Someone might mention Austin, Texas at the other end of the table, and my father would be off, describing a summer he spent there when his father was lecturing at the University of Texas. He was fourteen, just barely too young to drive, and thus stranded in a rented house on the outskirts of Austin. He was compelled to entertain himself, which he did by reading through the house’s library, which consisted mainly of the works of Virginia Woolf and Maria Edgeworth, if memory serves. At times, this mode would render conversation a bit unilateral, and we would refer to his excesses as “Oral Term Papers,” but they were almost always worth the price of admission. A particular pleasure of mine was to bring someone as a guest to our table, because it served as a pretext for another rendition of a favorite, like the story of Nels and Nels.

It can be difficult for a son to discern the particular impact of a parent on him, but I am persuaded that my father’s approach to dinner table conversation has informed not only my persona, but even the fundamental social interaction of my friends. When we gather, it is more a question of catching up on olds than of catching up on news. We regale each other with stories we all know – I am thinking in particular of one DK’s attempts to reach his paramour by bicycle and kayak very late one Maine evening, another DK’s visit to Times Square, an ill-considered effort to bring eggs to a football game. The joy of these stories lies not in their novelty, but in their familiarity.

 Not long before my father died, but regrettably far away from him, the cinetrix and I entertained a former student. I made the Zuni bread salad. It was a delightful evening, and in thanking us, our guest said something along the lines of “it was wonderful… the food, the wine, the conversation… the ritual of the meal.” I looked around for a robe, censer, or chalice, because I did not understand what she meant by the ritual of the meal. With the loss of my father, I understand. 

Hiatus

I lost my dad suddenly and unexpectedly last night. I'll be back here when I can. In the meantime, please call your moms and dads and whomever else and make sure that the people you love know that you love them.

Giving back... to Rachael Ray

Here at the Cod, sometimes there is griping about restaurants I've never been to. (Alinea, whoot!), and sometimes there is Asbergerian attention to fairly arcane food related  linguistic issues. Occasionally actual there is cooking stuff, itself occasionally lucid.  But it can't all be chin-stroking mediations on Michelin in America, or  agonized considerations of Bruni's forays below 14th. First and foremost, The Gurgling Cod is about giving, and a rare opportunity has emerged to help one of our sisters in the culinary arts:

First, she took daytime television by storm with her highly rated new talk show, now RACHAEL RAY has joined forces with Epic Records to introduce viewers to one of her passions outside the kitchen -- music! The label has announced that it will release a series of soundtracks with songs handpicked by Ray.

"I'm thrilled to partner with Epic ... Epic is iconic!" Rachael says. "We've created soundtracks that I would listen to or play at a party, starting off with my picks for Christmas and a funky mix for kids. I start singing holiday songs on Thanksgiving weekend -- that's when my tree goes up as well -- and, the kids' CD is filled with music that both kids and parents might enjoy."*

I am challenging the readers of The Gurgling  Cod to help Rachael -- heaven knows, she has a lot on her plate. So, please help our favorite cook/publisher/talk show host, and give her some ideas for songs she could put on her compilations. Use the comments for your suggestions, and I'll use my media contacts to make sure they get passed along to RR personally!
*Thx, Grinder, for nothing.

Serving Suggestion

Last night, I messed around with some Smokra. This is, as of 2006, America's Most Exciting Pickle. The smoky flavor from the paprika is almost uncanny, and there is none of the slipperyness that can  be an okra downside. Okra lovers and non okra lovers will stand shoulder to shoulder in their approbation of this pickle. FloFab got her hands on a jar and opines thus:

Smokra, okra with smoked paprika, is the latest in Rick Field’s line of artisanal pickles. Mr. Field has sold his Rick’s Picks, which are made in Poughkeepsie, N.Y., for the past two years in Greenmarkets (Union Square on Wednesdays) and online at rickspicksnyc.com. Smokra, in a ruddy brine, delivers heat that begs for barbecue or a grilled cheese sandwich. Smokra costs $10.99 for a 15-ounce jar and $12.99 online. The other pickles cost $8 or $10.99 online.

With a limited supply, I wanted to explore that smoky flavor, and stretch my stash. Particularly, I thought it would be fun to have a dish where the smoke came from the garnish, rather than the meat, thus above, a bi bim bomination -- a grilled pork chop sliced up over rice, with some arugula, chili-braised cabbage and sauteed oyster mushroms, garnished with chopped smokra. (As you might have guessed, this meal devolved into a what's in the fridge improvisation.)  Nevertheless, the flashes of smokra, and the aioli spiked with the brine, elevated a utility meal to something of an occasion.

With a bit more preparation, one could do more with Smokra as an ingredient. In particular, I'm interested to see what happens if you toss the onion and use a Smokra in a dirty Gibson.