The One Where I Wish I Worked for Google

So I may have mentioned this before - I'm not sure if I have - but Adam works for Google. I don't know if I should share that, and I'll have to check with him later - this post may disappear later today. Nevertheless, I'm telling you all now. And you may have heard about the free, amazing food that Google prepares for their employees each day. All the rumors you've heard? Totally true. The other day Adam ate lobster stuffed steak wrapped in bacon and grilled. Can you believe it?!?! And it's all organic, mostly local food...while I'm stuck with my CAFO-ham and grilled, perfectly-square-orange-cheese sandwich in the cafeteria at Queens Library (never fear, dear readers, I bring my own food to work).

So add Google's stellar food to the fact that they're across the street from Food Network headquarters, and you can imagine that they're going to get some major players stepping into Google's kitchen. Unfortunately for me, Adam is horrible with names and can never remember a single chef's name. Morimoto was there, I know that.

Then, the other day, guess who did a lecture for Google employees:


The great Jacques Torres!

Now you all know I don't really like baking, and I don't even indulge in dessert very often. But I still recognize greatness when I see it. Adam and I used to watch his show a couple years ago and giggle over his fabulous accent declaring that "even zee gelatin mold ees edible!" And Adam stood right next to him in line for food. Adam said he was quick to laugh and very nice; apparently he made fun of his own accent and the way French people talked. I loves me a self-deprecating man who can cook!

I just wonder why the husband got so lucky to work in such a fabulous office and I have to see mauve-colored tomatoes in plastic tubs and smell people's tater tots every day at my workplace. Where's the justice?!

The One Where I Re-Create Fig and Olive's Fennel Dish

My soul twin/BFF/partner-in-crime came for a visit last weekend, and we had a proper night out on the town: a 3 ½ hour dinner at Fig and Olive, drinks at The Campbell Apartment, dancing down the street and curtsying to passers-by after one cocktail too many, the Chrysler building (or “the chandelier building”, as my BFF calls it) twinkling in the background. Completely fabulous.

At Fig and Olive, we had the Grilled Fennel with Lemon and Rosemary and I truly don’t know if I can find the words to express its wondrousness. The texture was perfection – cooked through but still resisted a bit when we bit into it. The flavors were complex – the anise, obviously, was predominant, as was the rosemary, but there was something else in there. What was that flavor? What is that? And the fennel was sliced super thin with that pale cream color. Where were the grill marks? It drove us to the brink, trying to figure out how it was done. We asked our adorable server, but he said, “Maybe the chef grilled it whole and peeled away the outer layers.” Hmm…perhaps. But then how did it get sliced so thin once it was cooked? Our server also told us there was “a touch” of grapefruit juice. Hmm…really? Intriguing… Analysis aside, there were gorgeous moments when my BFF and I would take a bite, close our eyes, and sit in orgasmic silence. Wow.

Naturally, I had to try to make it on my own. Last night, I made Nigella Lawson’s Potato and Mushroom Gratin. It was so simple and so delicious, especially since I was able to improv a bit with the ingredients I had on hand: I used red new potatoes instead of the “baking potatoes” Nigella calls for. I also couldn’t find any cremini mushrooms so I used baby portabellas instead. Now the dish was fine on its own, but it could be fabu with bacon. Or maybe even a blue cheese crumbled on top before serving. I dolloped some crème fraîche on it, and that was perfection.

So the fennel…well, I put the whole bulb in a baking dish, rubbed it with oil, salt, and pepper, and baked it at 425 for 40 minutes. I had to do it for only 40 minutes because that’s how much time I had left for the gratin. When the fennel came out, I peeled the outer layers away and did a pretty decent job of slicing it thinly. But it definitely was underdone. So I sauteed it in olive oil and lemon juice for about 20 minutes (while my gratin just sat in a 200° oven. Unfortunately, that still wasn’t enough time, and it was definitely too crunchy still. And I forgot the rosemary. So I’m chalking this up as a failure, even though I still enjoyed it and ate every bite. I consider it a failure because I didn’t have the outcome I was trying for. It’s back to the drawing board.

I just wish I was somebody in the food world, and I could go into the kitchen at Fig and Olive and find out how it’s done! Anyone know anyone who can get me in?

Another One Where I Talk About the NYT Dining Section

The NYT Dining section has been doing this sort of annoying thing lately (to me, anyway) where they’re reviewing the best restaurants in the country. Naturally, I find it annoying because it doesn’t interest me and everyone knows it’s all about me, right? Nevertheless, you should know about this so you can check it out, if you want. For now, though, onward…

The Letters section was actually pretty interesting. Last week there was an article on MSG that almost accused MSG-related migraine sufferers of imagining the whole thing. Of course, a couple of letters grumbled about that. And two letters were related to the octopus article – you know, the octopus recipe that I was dying to try. One person actually spent time in Mykonos so, of course, he had had the real thing off the boat, beaten against a rock, and grilled on an open fire. Well, dur! Of course that’s going to taste better than octopus prepared in my crappy NY kitchen! Then another letter was from a woman who had seen the gorgeous creatures while scuba diving in the Caymans and questioned whether octopus was worth eating when it was so beautiful...not to mention that, if you have to do that much to a thing to make it suitable for eating, isn’t that a sign that maybe we shouldn’t eat it? I don’t know, perhaps I have no conscious, or perhaps I’m too simple-minded, or perhaps I’m cavalier…but I just don’t really care. For the most part, I have had an immensely enjoyable experience every time I’ve had squid. And that’s enough for me. Environmentally, ethically irresponsible? Sure, I suppose you could argue that. But isn’t nearly everything we parasitic humans are doing these days environmentally irresponsible? Oh goodness, I am so digressing…

I’ve been trying for months to get a decent reservation time at Blue Hill to no avail. Apparently now, thanks to TableXchange, I can purchase one! They cost anywhere from $15 to $40, sort of like eBay without bidding. There’s another website, PrimeTime Tables where you pay a $500 annual membership fee (!) and even then you play $45 per reservation. This is irking the restaurateurs because now they’re getting more no-shows and, probably more importantly, they can’t manage the quality of people getting into their restaurant. Now anybody can get in! The most popular restaurants in the country are now open for the masses! Hell, it’s anarchy! I can see where the restaurateurs are coming from but, on the other hand, this is American enterprise and capitalism at work. It’s the nature of the beast. Now some restaurateurs are saying that, if they know a reservation was made by a TableXchange customer, they won’t honor it. I do find this whole issue interesting, but it’s also part of the reason why I prefer home cooking to going out. I want an experience. I don’t want this cutthroat, bragging rights, showing off, competitive part. Or if I do want to go out, I’d rather go to a mid-level restaurant where I can manage a decent reservation time if I call on a Tuesday or Wednesday beforehand: Fig and Olive, Home, Gaby (in the Sofitel Hotel and some of the best food I’ve had in NYC). That’s much more enjoyable and less pretentious to me. I loathe pretension.

I am going to go back to the whole restaurant thing, very briefly. The restaurant reviewed on the first page – Fearing’s in Dallas – has a dish that looks and sounds like a plate of heaven: Buffalo marinated in maple syrup and peppercorns. Not bad, eh? I’d pout that I have to go to Dallas to try it, but the Union Square greenmarket has a guy who sells really good buffalo. I might have to try to create my own recipe…

And that’s the news this week. Stay tuned for more next week!

EDIT: I have to rescind my comment that "I just really don't care." That's totally inaccurate, and I feel bad for saying it. The truth is that I care very much. However, there are a lot of battles to be fought out there in the search for sustainable, organic, and local food...and this is just one I don't feel like fighting. Certainly not enough to compel me to write the Times. Not to mention that I made such a fuss over this woman's letter...and I see they didn't even include it in the online version of that section. So this is all a moot point anyway...

One of Many Where I Discuss the NYT Dining Section

Now I’m all for getting ready for spring, which hasn’t truly arrived in NYC yet. I’ve whined here about not having peaches and tomatoes…but at the heart of it, I’m willing to wait. That’s half the fun! The anticipation, the excitement, the impatience, the drama! And to be really frank, I find all that so sexy! So I felt all grumpy when I read a recipe in last week’s NYT Dining section for Rum and Chili Roasted Chicken Thighs with Pineapple. I mean, come ON! They so crossed a line! Pineapple?! However, to be fair, they did title the article “Rushing Spring with a Dash of the Tropics.” They seem to recognize their own desperation for warmer weather!

On the other hand, I just swooned over the Octopus, Gallician Style recipe. It has the lightness that spring and summer cuisine calls for, but this recipe still has some of that winter earthiness by way of the potatoes. Oh lordy, how I love octopus/squid/calamari done to perfection. Likewise, I’ve gone so far as to spit out octopus that has been criminally overdone. I’ll definitely try this super simple recipe.

I read a wonderful article about the Spanish wine Rueda in this Dining section. I had never heard of it before, and I am one of those people who enjoy white wines in the summer so I was intrigued about a white that would spruce up my collection (no more Sauvignon Blanc, for god’s sake!). Then I was checking Bloglines today (those of you who regularly read this will know all about my love of Bloglines), and read one of my faves, Appellation Feirling. And as part of a larger post, she said:

…almost all whites I see from Spain are yeasted avec beaucoup de fruit tropicale or primed with grassy sauvignon blanc yeast like they do in Rueda to the poor verdejo grape, the wine that the sommelier suggested.

I felt all sheepish because I think Alice knows her stuff, and I love her blog. Regardless, being fairly new to wine appreciation, I still want to try a Rueda to make up my own mind. And on a side note, I do encourage you to read the rest of Alice’s blog post: it’s proof positive why I don’t put too much weight on and don’t spend too much time thinking about those pretentious wine places – you can still encounter idiots that don’t know what they’re doing in those sorts of places, too.

Bon appétit!

The One Where I Review From Here, You Can't See Paris

From Here You Can't See Paris: seasons of a French village and its restaurant
Michael S. Sanders
Harpercollins, 2002

I'll state outright that I got everything I wanted out of From Here, You Can't See Paris. I wanted to do a little armchair traveling, and I wanted to feel, by the end of the book, that I had soaked up some French culture. On the other hand, I didn't want Mr. Sanders to sell out a village in order to sell a book. The book was successful on both counts.

Several years ago, Mr. Sanders, his wife, and their 6-year-old daughter moved to rural France for a year in order to write, experience the food and culture, and immerse themselves in the language. They moved to "the Lot", which is an area in the middle of France. Specifically, they lived in Les Arques, an area with a ridiculously small population in the off-season (I can't find it in the text now, but I believe it's only about 50 people in winter). Mr. Sanders does state in the text that his wife is a very private person so there is actually very little about her or their relationship; additionally, there isn't too much about his daughter. No, he focuses on the people of Les Arques and the one restaurant at the center of it all.

Sanders captures the loveliness, the simplicity, the richness, the complexities, and the beauty of village life - there are moments of description that just soar. Likewise, he carefully balances these moments with realistic, poignant descriptions of how village life is dying out, how elderly the permanent population of Les Arques is (the young ones having left for a more urban life, of course). In particular, I found his writing style to be beautifully nuanced and complex - the reader is truly left to do lots of reading between the lines.

Naturally, I loved reading about the food: foie gras, wine, truffles, cheese, farmers' markets. Sanders has these breathtaking descriptions of the texture of foie gras: the delicate texture of it, the small silver dollar size of the servings, the ubiquitousness of it...and then he balances it with a vivid description of going to a small-scale foie gras operation, force-feeding and all. He repeatedly captures the contradictions of life in Les Arques. Additionally, Sanders goes into the kitchen of the restaurant, La Récréation, and describes the insanity of working the summer tourist crowd. Between his descriptions of La Récréation's kitchen, Heat by Bill Buford, and Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain, I know to the core of my being that I'm not cut out to work in a restaurant kitchen! Read this gorgeous description, though, of the chef (Jacques) in the kitchen:

I watched Jacques melting butter into a sauce, how he held the saucepan tilted so slightly, his little finger elegantly extended as the others grasped the handle of the whisk. He leaned down over the pan, lifting the whisk from time to time to see how the liquid slid from the wire, then putting the sauce back on the stove to come up to temperature before adding each pat of butter.

It's a slow-paced book, but deliberately so. If you're looking for the flashy Anthony Bourdain-style memoir, this is really not for you. But if you want something to slowly meander through while you're curled up in your chair, drinking tea (or wine, in my case), this is just a lovely read.

Note: The only swear word I've ever known in French is "merde" but, according to Sanders, "putain de con!" means "goddammit to hell!" I'm so using that next time I stub my toe in front of the kiddo!

The One Where Fortune Cookies Amaze Me

So a couple weeks ago, HarperCollins had a shindig at Dylan’s Candy Bar to celebrate the release of The FactTracker by Jason Carter Eaton. Unfortunately, that was when I was in the middle of sick-me-sick-daughter-hell-on-earth so I was unable to go to the event. I told Elyse at HarperCollins that I couldn’t make it. End of story.

But wait, there’s more! I get a lovely little package in the mail today from Elyse. It’s a copy of the book with a nice note from her, and she included a goody bag with M&Ms printed with “Facttracker” on them. There were also four fortune cookies in individual packages: two plain, two chocolate. Hm. I’ve never had a chocolate fortune cookie! So I cracked it open and ate a piece.

Okay, wow. It was completely fresh and crispy and crunchy – the chocolate flavor wasn’t too sweet or cloying, and it was mild enough that I could still taste that typical vanilla fortune cookie flavor. And it was so light that I didn’t feel like I was being overindulgent.

But wait, there’s more! An hour later, I decide to try one of the plain ones. I take a bite, expecting that vanilla-with-a-touch-of-lemon flavor. But not here, nuh-uh. It’s coconut! There’s this earthy, creamy coconut flavor! With the same crispy lightness! And of course, I could still taste the vanilla. This was no ordinary fortune cookie – this was a truly special example of what a fortune cookie can be.

I once had someone tell me that they never ordered crème brulée because crème brulée always tastes the same. She said, “Even now, I can close my eyes and imagine the exact flavor and texture of it. There’s no need to ever eat it.” Naturally, I thought she was crazy. How many times have I ordered crème brulée and been bitterly disappointed at the lack of *crack* in the caramelized crust? Or took a bite of the custard and been surprised by the presence of orange zest? And I love, in particular, taking a spoonful of the custard and seeing those gorgeous specks of black vanilla bean. No, crème brulée is anything but boring and ordinary. And now I know the same is true for fortune cookies.

Need further proof that I haven’t lost my mind? Read this about fortune cookies from the NYT Dining section a few weeks ago.

The One Where I Avoid Discussing Libraries

Oh, I know I’ve been inexcusably absent. Life has been crazy, of course, but I’ve also been feeling sort of…meh. You know? Particularly about librarianship, lately. Between Annoyed Librarian here and here, The Monkey Speaks here, and my own feelings about the Marathon County issue, I’m just feeling sort of desperate and sad about being a librarian. Never fear, this is just a temporary funk. I’ll be back to my cheery self soon. Since I’m dealing, I won’t be talking about libraries today.

So what does one do when feeling icky and down? Eat! Of course! And read about eating! Well, at least that’s what I do and, if you don’t, then you should start. Few things can bring you greater pleasure than eating, truly.

As I mentioned, I’ve been eating (and drinking) a lot at The Ginger Man. Read my review.

I had a fascinating conversation (to me, anyway) with a friend of mine over wine, salad, and chili at Tavern on Jane last weekend (because Corner Bistro still remains elusive). I’ll call this friend L—. L— and I share a mutual loathing of sleeping; we consider it a waste of our time and wish we could put those 8 hours a day to better use. So imagine my surprise when L— tells me that she feels the same way about food. Say what?!?! How could anyone feel that about food?! Even when I was 20 pounds heavier and 10 years younger, I still derived enormous pleasure from movie popcorn, Velveeta, and eating an entire baguette in one sitting. Good food, good times. But how can anyone just…not care?! How can anyone say that they’d be perfectly happy if they never needed to eat?! After some probing we ended up talking about her very Puritanical upbringing, where one was not supposed to get pleasure from one’s body, one’s sexuality, or one’s food. Pleasure, in general, was frowned upon and denied oneself. Once L—explained it that way, it made sense because many of us struggle with these issues, with America’s Puritanical history. Not to mention, we – generally speaking – have this weird idea about punishing ourselves when we feel pleasure, or in anticipation of feeling pleasure. How else can you explain our weird gym obsession? “Oh god, I had two pieces of pizza last night!” Hop on a treadmill and punish yourself until you’ve burned off all those calories, thus negating your sin. Or “I’m going to have a big dinner tonight – I better pay for it now” and hop on that Stairmaster to punish yourself beforehand. Now, don’t get me wrong: I do believe there are people who get pleasure from the gym and its culture. But I don’t think that’s the norm. Nevertheless, there really needs to be a stop to this mentality of pleasure deprivation and self-punishment. Life awaits.

I gushed about Lucy’s Kitchen Notebook earlier and her tour of Lyon’s farmers’ markets. She has another market profile up: Marché Guichard. Read it and weep at the gorgeousness.

Anyone have any cookbook recommendations? I believe I mentioned before that I was getting a little burned out on Food Network cookbooks, and that’s how I discovered The French Market by Joanne Harris and Fran Warde. But now I’ve realized I’m bored with French and Italian cuisine. Seriously, that’s all I ever do. I need to branch out! I love Latino food, at least the milder versions. I’ll make that the focus of my next cookbook purchase, and feel free to make any suggestions.

I just finished reading From Here, You Can’t See Paris: seasons a French village and its restaurant by Michael S. Sanders. I’ll have a proper review up soon but, if you’re looking for a quiet, lovely, cozy read about French village life – its beauty, its complications, its simplicity, its trappings – then you’ll thoroughly enjoy this.

Is anyone else sick of root vegetables? Yeah, me too.

I have no clue what I’m making for dinner tonight. Sometimes I think about how much easier life would be if I were sans the husband and kiddo, and here’s why: I have a gorgeous, glistening ball of mozzarella di bufala in my fridge right now. If it were just me tonight, I would slice it up, sprinkle it with salt and pepper, drizzle my fresh new green olive oil on it, and finish it by sprinkling my sweet, syrupy balsamic vinegar on it. And that would be my dinner, with a glass of wine. Alas, I have to come up with something, you know, real for dinner. My grumbling aside, I prefer my life as it is. I’ll get so much more joy and pleasure using my creativity tonight and dining with my two favorite people on earth.

Bon appétit!

The One Where I Restaurant-Review The Ginger Man

I’ve been spending loads of time lately at a pub called The Ginger Man. It started two years ago when a friend recommended it to me – they have a ridiculous variety of beers and it has that dark wood, cozy corner feel to it. I finally went there for the first time back in January, and we loved it. It was wicked crazy (the Giants were playing), but we still had a great time. We didn’t have any food – it was midnight – but we did love the cask beers and the general mood of the place.

Then my parents visited a couple weeks ago and we thought – hey! – let’s take them to The Ginger Man. Well, let me tell you, 2 pm on a Saturday is the perfect time to go there. We were able to sit on the leather couch by the big windows near the front of the pub and just relax. It was actually quiet! In addition to the beer (a Fraziskaner with lemon for me, thanks), we had their cheese plate which was surprisingly good: the cheese was good quality with an interesting variety, the bread was quality, and I liked the inclusion of walnuts. We also got their pretzels, which are awesome. They’re the big soft kind that you find from the street vendors, except these are exceptional quality: crunchy on the outside with the perfect portion of salt, fresh and soft on the inside. And they serve it with a sweet-spicy honey mustard dip that’ll clear your sinuses if you don’t practice restraint.

So that was two weeks ago. Then last weekend I took a girlfriend there around the same time on a Sunday: totally chill and relaxed, and I even curled my legs up under me on the couch like it was my own living room. I had their portabella sandwich, which was extremely dry and dull – I won’t order it again.

Then I went again last night. I’ve had such cozy, delightful times there, but I must have been fuzzy on nostalgia because I thought 6:00 on a Thursday night would be a good idea. I was meeting a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile and I had sweet visions of curling up on the couch again and catching up on all her news. Oh, dear readers, I could not have been more mistaken. The place was a zoo. A loud, noisy zoo where the animals are allowed to roam free. Of course, I’m kicking myself – I should have known better! A midtown bar after work right before the weekend?! Laura! You fool! Not to mention that I was the only one in the bar not wearing a black trenchcoat. The Ginger Man goes from jeans and sweaters and all things relaxed on weekend afternoons to corporate blandness on the weeknights. Ew.

So I get there at 5:30, intentionally early so that I could have a beer beforehand, chill out, read the NYT Dining section. No, instead, I had to sit in a dark corner where I couldn’t read. And then I realized that keeping my coveted table for the next 30 minutes was going to take a feat of superhuman strength. The claws came out. And then I felt the surest way to keep the server from asking me to give up my table would be to buy my way into keeping my seat. So I set up a tab and ended up drinking three beers! Three! Goodness. Luckily, my friend showed up and I was able to smile smugly at everyone: see, I told you I was meeting a friend. On a culinary note, I had the pretzel for an appetizer. And I had their field greens salad for dinner, which was rather good. The greens weren’t all wilty, and there were three generous rounds of goat cheese on top. The walnuts on the salad were also good, though the strawberry vinaigrette was a little too heavy on the vinegar side – my mouth felt all sore by the time I was finished. Luckily, my three Franziskaners helped numb me. The conversation, of course, was fantastic, even though it was semi-yelled. People were so tacky and hammered by the time we left – my friend got accosted by a young woman asking her about dating option traders – that we couldn’t help feeling that we escaped in the nick of time.

I can highly recommend The Ginger Man for phenomenal beers and decent pub food. Just go on overcast weekend afternoons when the zoo animals are locked up.

The Ginger Man
11 East 36th St. (between 5th and Madison)
NY, NY 10016