Denver Bites

After a strenuous application process, a catastrophic pick-up and haul across state lines, and an awkward tumble into life as a graduate student, I now find myself miraculously settled here in Denver, my new home. And I am surrounded by food – thank the lord, because I sure am hungry!

As I discovered during my first days in the state of Colorado, Denverites have opinions about food. This is no “a burger is a burger” kind of place. A clear hierarchy exists. How that structure is defined, of course, has infinite possibilities, but nonetheless, “my burger is better than your burger, and I’ll only roll my eyes at you if you try to convince me otherwise.”

Or maybe I should say, “my chili is better than your chili,” for that is the dish that receives the most debate around these parts. I received an introduction to the seriousness (and fun) of this issue one particularly stressful school day when I wandered off campus to a downtown shopping district. Originally searching for a quick cup of soup, I turned a corner and walked into chili street festival madness. While I have since learned that this kind of happening is all too common (the Coloradans yawn), I felt I had discovered food culture gold. The annual firefighters’ chili cook-off was in full swing and I had stumbled upon it, in all its spicy, muscly, urban foodie glory. Each local fire department comes out for this event to raise money for a charity, selling samples of their home-cooked chili for a small price. Official tasters cast their votes for the “superior” chili and then, who knows what happens, maybe all the firemen wrestle in the leftovers?!

Needless to say, I had a great time. And I also learned a very important lesson about chili. In Colorado, chili does not have beans and meat in it. (Shhh, did you really just think that? So losing foodie points!) Chili here is chili peppers (and a few other things) cooked down to something people in other states might call a sauce (again, watch what you say). It is not a sauce, it is a dish, to which other things may or may not be added. You can pick from green chili, red chili, and probably a few other colors, as well. But either way, make sure you have some water on hand. Like I said, this is no Hormel!

To my delight, chilitopia was not the end of my unexpected food happenings. Thanks to a booming food truck craze (no – it’s nowhere near the level of Portland’s, so don’t remind me), campus events often include some pretty fantastic meals on wheels. I waited about 15 minutes in line for a totally-worthwhile gyro, complete with fries in the sandwich! And just today (when I thought it had gotten too cold for outdoor eating), I sampled pumpkin doughnut holes with not just one but two fancy dipping sauces.

There is even a hot dog stand on campus that sells pheasant, reindeer, and even rattlesnake dogs topped with Coke-sauteed onions and cream cheese to long lines of commuter students. It occurs to me that perhaps I truly am starting to become a Coloradan, because the excitement of this fixture of Denver life seems to have worn off already. Yeah, so I only eat wild boar hot dogs. What are you saying, I’m a snob or something?

Food is Love

Today is Mother’s Day. And, though I sometimes forget, my mother is my beginning, middle, and end of so much in my life, especially my love of food.

Growing up, we made not just cookies, but French crepes (I remember cranking the flour sifter) and “hobo eggs” (commonly known as “toad-in-a-hole”) which I always requested when I wasn’t feeling well. My mom remembers letting me make up my own recipes, which I vaguely recall often included key ingredients: cereal, sugar, and chocolate chips.

But more than cook, we ate together, trying new and sometimes exotic foods that no doubt helped form my current epicuriosity. Anything international got extra points in my mom’s book, whether it was lebkuchen cookies shipped in from our friends in Germany at Christmas, Chinese dim sum we ate in Seattle’s International District (where I marveled as a child at such a thing called a “dumb-waiter”), Russian piroshky and borscht from a hole in the wall on nights when she didn’t want to cook, or, my mom’s favorite, French anything.

When our family went to France when I was nine, my mouth met a circus of new foods and cultural beliefs about food, thanks to Mom who had previewed everything for us in her youth. There were oeufs mayonnaise, crepes with banana and chocolate, real croissants and baguettes (and dipped in hot chocolate at breakfast!), fromage everywhere, and, Mom’s favorite cultural experiment–fruit salad served at Le McDonald’s. Most importantly, as we ate with local families and on road-side picnics, we learned to take time to really eat and to savor the experience.

An art historian, Mom showed me the fun in finding out why things were the way they were and the value in understanding other cultures. She taught me that pretzels look like arms crossed in prayer, eggs benedict meant new life (and a very happy family), hot dogs were beef because Jews didn’t want to get sick from pork, an almond in your cake on Twelfth Night meant you were the king, and croissants were “crescents” representing the defeat of Turkey. It’s not hard to see that she contributed to my current endeavor, cultural anthropology.

When I moved away to college, we continued sharing meals together. Mom’s emails regularly included recounts of recent gastronomic experiences, even just the everyday kitchen experiments or cafe lunches. Mom taught me that any little moment in life, even a meal, can be full of wonder, if you are looking out for it.

When I got my first apartment, she prepared me for adult life with the most important survival guide–The Joy of Cooking. She also officially sanctioned my obsessive collecting of recipes by gifting a binder she made called “Alysa’s Favorite Recipes,” in which she included “Chewy Wheat Germ Brownies,” “Sue’s Enchilagna,” and a banana bread recipe from the 1971 New York Times Natural Foods Cookbook (this recipe has gotten me through a lot of heartache, let me tell you!).

Now, we write and talk about food more than ever before. She listens to my rants about organic foods and the evils of industrial agriculture, and I take notes on just exactly how she and Dad make the hollandaise sauce at Easter. We swap recipes through emails and, not surprisingly, she is also this blog’s number one fan. I somehow got my parents addicted to a too-corny-not-to-love 1980′s British TV series about a detective that just happens to run a gourmet restaurant on the side. We update each other on the status of the DVD releases in the U.S., chomping at the bit to watch characters that appreciate food as much as we do.

Thinking of mothers and food also brings me to my favorite food movie, “Tampopo,” directed by Juzo Itami. From birth to death back to birth, Itami shows us that food is life, a process which starts with the gift of mother’s milk. From the act of giving birth, to breast feeding, to feeding us when we are sick, and feeding us when we are too poor to move out, mothers nourish us with love, usually without thinking about it. It is simply their mode. But this makes it no less miraculous. And so, my Mom has given me one more thing to marvel at.

So I’d like to say, thank you, Mom. I don’t know how you do it, but you love me unconditionally and this means more than I can say or will probably ever understand. You deserve more recognition than I give you, and more recognition than our society gives mothers. But thank God, they’ve at least given us this one day to smack us over the head with the astounding fact that you have given us life. And so, I want to share with everyone something that I intended to post here many months ago.

As far as I recall, this was a blackberry pie that Mom made with berries she picked with my nieces. And I have to say, the concept of pie is really only something women could invent. For, to paraphrase one of my favorite filmmakers, Maya Deren,  women have the power to wait–they wait for nine months for a baby, for flowers to bloom in spring, and for children to learn the lessons they already taught them. If you’ve ever tried to make a pie that not only smells and tastes good but doesn’t look like a kindergardener made it, you know that pie takes patience. And perhaps patience might be translated to really mean love. So thanks to my mother, and to all mothers, for feeding us love, no matter how many times it takes, to keep us standing on our own two feet.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! It’s not a poem, but I hope you like it.

Love,

Your Daughter

Happily Surviving in the Desert

I have been transported to the southwestern US, where humans spend time plotting their lives around the merciless oven in which they live. And it is, at the same time, stunningly beautiful. Now in Tucson, I am surrounded by mystical mountains, cacti of all shapes and sizes, and cute flat-topped houses fit for the desert in their dusty brown.

My dear old friend Nina is in love with this town, where she’s lived for six years now, and she has been taking good care of her wilting northwestern friend over the past few days. By feeding me, most importantly. This morning brought us to “the best breakfast place in town,” Little Poca Cosa, a hip, colorful little joint that serves up fresh Mexican for breakfast. With a server that called us “girls” and treated us like her daughters or nieces (she hugged and kissed our cheeks on the way out!) the ambiance is perfectly homey. And the food was just plain to-die-for. Mango-key-lime-mint juice, freshly squeezed, and water with a slice of orange started it off. And then a plate bursting with a colorful salad, Mexican rice, oranges, and…a luscious tamale. Slightly sweet masa with green chili and melting white cheese tucked inside, it was the best tamale I have ever had! So rich and plump, the last bite almost got away from me. To top it off, a pot of pinto beans stewed to perfection and fresh corn tortillas on the side. We left full but not stuffed, and very happy.

After retrieving bikes from home and cruising over to the U of A campus, we made plans for dinner with Nina’s girlfriend. Hoping for something cooling, I suggested tabouleh, to which Nina and Adria added falafel, tzatziki, and chapati (in place of pita). After a requisite nap under the mercy of the swamp cooler at home, Nina took me to the best place to get such things in Tucson: The 17th Street Market, where Asian, Mexican, Middle Eastern, (and more) food stores are happily housed under one roof. Distracted by the adorable sushi plates, exotic ice creams, and mysterious sale items, we eventually managed to find everything on our list, and headed back out into the heat.

While Nina tended her beloved garden (including some hardy pepper plants that have weakened but not yet given up under this sun), I started in on the chopping for tabouleh. Nina made the cool, garlicky tzatziki, and with plenty of sitting breaks inbetween cooking next to the heat of the stove, we managed to produce an impressive shmorgasbord of middle eastern tastes. With the spicyness of the falafel, the coolness of the tabouleh and tzatziki, and the comforting fresh chapatis, we ate happily and praised ourselves for a job well done. Warm and full and sleepy, it’s time to retire and sleep to the tinkling of the swamp cooler.

Moo Boo

That’s it! I can’t stand it. I have to say something.

I have really wanted to like Molly Moon’s ice cream, I have! Two neighborhood shops, cheery and always piping out that dreamy ice cream cone smell onto the sidewalks. Local ingredients, compostable materials, and the gusto to keep gourmandian flavors (like balsamic strawberry) on the regular list. This is the kind of establishment I drool over.

But I have finally had to admit to myself a sad truth: I just don’t like their ice cream. Flavors that push the limits are what I live for, but they can go too far.

A couple weeks ago, I had some extra time in Capitol Hill, so I got a kids scoop of their Vivace coffee flavor (I have finally learned that the kid size is not only allowed for adults but a good idea, since their “one scoop” is a whopping pile’o'ice cream that even I feel overwhelmed by). I enjoyed the familiar Seattle coffee taste as I walked down tenth ave. But as I continued working my way through the scoop, I found myself chewing. Chewing? Their coffee ice cream has coffee grounds not flavoring it, but in it. I understand the idea of getting your ingredients straight into the food, and at first, I tried to like it. But it really doesn’t make sense here. Ice cream is for licking and slipping down the throat. This felt like my scoop had fallen into the sand and, like a sweet-toothed five year old, I’d picked it up and put it back on my cone. Or, like a coffee that hasn’t been filtered correctly, with the sludge in the bottom, now in my ice cream? Blekh!

And yet, I forgave, I forgot.

Today, on a little jaunt through Wallingford, it was down right hot out and I thought I’d spring for some gourmet ice cream to celebrate the weather. I entered the hopping little shop (indie music blaring in a cheerful sort of way) and surveyed the chalkboard. Some familiar, some new, I asked to sample the carrot cake flavor, then the “scout” mint (scout being short for girl scout). The carrot cake was fine, but a little chewy. The mint was not what I was hoping for–I thought they might have used real mint leaves (like my favorite Theo truffle), but instead they chose an extract. All fine and good, just personal preference. So I went ahead with salted caramel, a flavor I had tried before and remembered being a little too salty, but I figured if it was still on the menu, they might have futzed with it a bit, and it was worth a second try. More than anything, I just craved that sweet salty mix of caramel.

But as I dug in, I quickly realized my mistake. The salt was outrageous! Far from the subtle salt that accents a sweet, creamy caramel truffle, this was closer to a horse’s salt lick or a mouth full of ocean water. It seemed they’d made it saltier than the last time! I found myself battling each bite to try to hang onto the little sweetness that had a chance to shine through. Not one to give up easily on an expensive bit of dessert, I persisted, but found myself wincing.

I never throw away dessert. I wished I had someone to pawn it off on. I glanced at the little girl with her parents, wishing I could give it to them. Well, I thought, at least this one will get composted!

The human tongue has its limits. And today, mine curled at the sides in a plea for mercy. Excellent food experiences rely as much on novelty as on subtlety and familiarity. Finding this balance is, I think, what all good art strives for.

I’m officially on a hunt for the perfect (salted) caramel ice cream. Suggestions?

Best Benedict, FOUND!

As may be known to some, I enjoy a good eggs benedict but have a hard time not scrutinizing, especially in comparison to the one made by my parents on holidays. (Is this not a universal truth? Any food made by family on a holiday you grew up with, be it croquembouche or cardboard, will put all other versions to shame?) But alas, my world was turned over a couple weeks ago when I happened to be in Bellingham on Easter Sunday, at a little place called The Mount Bakery.

Known for their Belgian waffles (“made on Olivier’s grandmother’s Belgian grill”), Mount Bakery starts their bennie with a buttery, dense-but-light-at-the-same-time waffle that’s not messing around. Then adds asparagus on top, smoked salmon, emmentaler cheese melting mischievously under the wraps of two eggs, and cascades of perfected lemony-buttery Hollandaise aloft. The sprinkles of chopped parsley did me in (a key ingredient to at least hint at cutting some of the richness pulsing in this dish). Home-fry style potatoes skirted the monster, perfect as an excuse for consuming spoonfuls of Hollandaise.

I know that people say things like this a lot, but I really mean it–as I ate, I felt my heart slow down, take a deep breath, and start sweating as it continued to pump blood through my veins. I managed to stifle my moans of pleasure mixed with agony until after leaving the restaurant. Fortunately I had several hours of Passover seder to sit through before attempting to consume another morsel.

Here’s to The Mount Bakery! You exceeded all my expectations.

http://www.mountbakery.com/index.html

Seder #2

Weekend before last, I was invited to a Seder meal in Bellingham that’s been going for some thirty-odd years. Put on by the great and gracious Flip Breskin, this Seder is both traditional and traditionally untraditional, with Flip, a beacon of intution, guiding the ship that was our long candle-decked table through hours of laughter, story-telling, and nibbling. And then into the dark, windy night that happily made the candles burn brighter and warmer on faces that smiled and cried and questioned.

When Jesse and I arrived around two thirty in the afternoon, I was drawn to the kitchen, humming with the workings of women cooking. Happily folding myself into the production, I smiled at the universal passkey that is making food with others. I didn’t know any of the women in the kitchen, but I knew I soon would, chatting as we worked–perhaps the oldest and most important pastime of women. I helped another young woman dollop out globs of batter onto a baking sheet, making what I learned are called “bagelach.” As the name suggests, they are like mini bagels, very eggy and tasting specifically of matzoh (however it is that God made matzoh to taste different than the plain flour from which it is made!? A mystery!). After dolloping, I was instructed to dip my finger in water and squish a hole in the middle of each lachle bagel, “like God giving each person a belly button,” my instructor laughed.

All too soon, the cooking was finished, and it was time to sit and start. Each brightly colored plate was garnished with a brown-speckled quail egg and a tiny oblong kumquat fruit. We squished into our seats and poured juice, ready for the sipping. Flip led us in reading and in singing from the Haggadah and in eating the first few tastes, the leaves of spring, the bitterness of the past, and on through each familiar symbol. A round of introductions of the twenty some guests went from simple gratitude to stand-up comedy to a history lesson or two. And when it came time to sing Dayenu (unquestionably the catchiest of all the Passover tunes), I and the other new-comers learned why it is important to keep a hefty branch of parsley at hand and to sit nearest a salt water dish.

In place of telling the Passover story, Flip suggested we tell other stories, and out of this came a discussion about injustice in the world and what is or is not being done about it. And we all felt how rare it is in our lives to talk about important things with people of different generations than one’s own.

By the time nine o’clock rolled around, we were sad to have to hurry out the door for our drive back to Seattle, sensing that discussion and the warmth of these people would simmer all night if we stayed. We listened to the last and most beautiful song and then gobbled through a feast of desserts (including two varieties of halvah, accompanied by an original song, “H-A-L-V-A-H!” that instigated giggles). Then packing leftover matzoh balls and hugging new acquaintances, we set out into the night and onto the freeway for the two hour drive.

We chatted about the evening, and the discussions that had transpired, feeling unfinished, still questioning. I realize now, this is perhaps exactly right for a Passover seder. To feast at length, to celebrate and enjoy, but never to feel so full that there is not room for another course. Or another question.

Seder #1

For the first night of Passover, I was invited to my friend Victoria’s house for a make-shift Seder–no haggadas, not too many prayers, just whatever the attendants could remember. It was lovely, and full of interesting discussion. And it didn’t last nearly as long as most seders, which was not a bad thing on a school night.

Victoria’s friend Sam led us through the rituals, reading the story of Passover from the cartoon book of history and telling stories from his childhood Passover memories. Instead of washing our hands every time, we rubbed them together (which turned into a hand-made “rain storm.”) And as we dotted our plates with wine for each plague, Sam asked us to name modern day plagues we have seen, a humbling but also cleansing process. After “racism,” “greed,” “warfare,” for the tenth and final plague someone piped up, “Facebook.” And we all roared in agreement.

Parsley in salty water, wine, questions asked by the youngest attendant (a college freshman), horseradish (extra-hot!) that made me cry just as it should, haroset (thank god for sweetness!), lots of matzoh, orange, olives…and then basmati rice, lentils, salmon (the Pacific Northwest version of the lamb shank), cauliflower, and (very traditional) Victoria’s home-made backyard-grown cherry cobbler with steel-cut oat crumble and three kinds of alternative-diet-friendly ice cream!! Holy Moly!

A beautiful meal with twelve beautiful people brought full tummies and stimulated minds. And some darn good sinus cleansing from the horseradish! L’chaim (To life)!

Passover

…is coming up fast! I usually try as hard as I can to get invited to a seder. And thus, I ask: Is anyone in Seattle hosting this year and in need of a good shiksa who cooks?

Tacos y Shumai

My weekend included two fantastic eating experiences. A full on authentic-as-you-can-get-without-being-Mexican taco buffet at my brother-the-gourmand’s house. He actually made his own carnitas (a process which requires not only stewing as well as roasting the pork shoulder…but also dousing in milk!? I am mystified!) in addition to a bacon-y bean option, and relishes including salsa verde, chipotle salsa, salsa fresca, guac (healthy on the lime and salt and chili: perfection), queso blanco, and a strong marguerita to match! All home-made except for the cheese and the marguerita mix. I was blown away. And that was before I started eating. After I started, I remembered that God put us here on earth for one reason: to eat salty fatty carnitas with reverence for every perfect bite. God, I’m glad to be eating meat again!

After a rocking night of Wii table tennis dominated by my five year old niece (and gooey brownies to completely stuff my blissful system), the morning led to dim sum with the girls in the international district. Yes, why slow down when it is, after all, super bowl sunday? Jade Garden is touted as the best dim sum in the ID, and so we waited for a half hour in a patient crowd of Chinese families filling the entryway. We must have come at the end of a wave of kitchen production, as most of the food was luke warm and getting cold. But this did not stop us from gobbling down plenty of dumplings and the regular delights: candied walnut shrimp, sweet pork humbao, sesame ball (I could write an ode to this one!), and much more. We are in the process of scouting out the genuine names of what we tried…and what we should try in the future. Jade Garden down. Every other dim sum restaurant in Seattle to go!

Rice in a ____ leaf?

Those fruit tarts almost got away from us!

A High-Class Joint

fried oyster benny

A weekend trip to Portland yielded the opportunity to try “the best breakfast joint in town,” according to Greg Shabram: Simpatica. Considering that P-Town seems to be overrun with great breakfast joints, I felt lucky to have a beacon to point our entourage in the right direction. The hour and a quarter wait was worth it to try my first fried oyster benny (made me want to buy a deep-frier!) accompanied by the best restaurant hollandaise sauce in my experience (my parents’ will always be the ultimate best). But, as Steve Eberlein pointed out, an honest restaurant grading cannot be based on just one dish, or one experience, but on a fair representation of the establishment’s overall quality. Steve gave it a B- based on the unsatisfying dish he ordered and the two beautiful but butter-sopping burgers that were ordered, and not finished. But he admitted that perhaps if he’d had the strata or the benny, he might have been more impressed.

I was certainly impressed with my oyster benny–perfect crispy breading with some cayenne on the outside and soft, smooth ocean-y goodness on the inside. I always find myself wishing for some parsley to top a benedict (again, the parents’ style) and did here, too. But the perfect hollandaise (butter, I have finally come to terms with, is truly the key factor in accomplishing hollandaise success) and the oysters (I love good oysters in any circumstance) won me over. I was in gastronomic heaven until the food coma set in (this time, a hangover food coma–you know, the kind that hurts) and managed to drag myself out of that place, trying not to look sick in front of the hordes of hungry people still waiting for a seat.

http://simpaticacatering.com