Yesterday, I met the Diva for brunch and a good gossip.
We chose for our venue one of Philadelphia's more redoubtable foodie establishments, a 24-7 brasserie a la Les Halles, except without the specter of Anthony Bourdain smirking at the punters while they indulge in The B-Team's rendition of his Least Favorite Meal of the Week. Our boite de brunch ('Ouver tous les jours!') was tres French and very atmospheric: we sat at a prize table half inside and half outside a floor-to-ceiling window and whiled away the lovely and cool June afternoon drinking cups of cafe Vietnamese and enjoying sophisticated cocktails the names of which escape me (the restaurant has failed to post its cocktail menu on its website - just one of its tragic failings, as I shall soon relate).
Now, I am on record as loving brunch - although it can be a challenging meal for a gluten-freedom fighter such as myself. What are Eggs Benedict without the English muffins? Pancakes and syrup without the flapjacks? Or French Toast without the, er, toast?
All too often, brunch is all about the bread.
But I am much braver about eating out than I used to be and have become a pretty dab hand at deciphering menu-speak and anticipating where gluten is likely to lurk. Unwilling as I am to quiz innocent table staff about every molecule in the food chef wishes to put before me, a certain amount of detective work is generally involved when interpreting restaurants' cartes de cuisine.
And unless there is absolutely no other choice, I avoid asking for substitutions, contenting myself with dishes the way the kitchen intended them to be and trusting my instincts not to lead me astray.
I perused the menu with interest, ticking off various unsuitable items with my mental red felt-tip pen. Well over two-thirds of the offerings, including buttermilk pancakes; French toast; croques madame; chicken clubs with avocado, bacon, and rosemary aoli; lamb sandwiches; eggs Benedict; quiches Lorraine; and leek and goat cheese tarts sounded delicious but were, of course, interdite. What on earth was I going to eat without causing a proverbial tizzy at the expeditor's window?
Steak and eggs, that's what! I spied it in Les Ouefs' section at the upper right-hand corner of the menu. I was more heartened than I can say by the description of petite filet, sauce Mornay, and sunny-side eggs. I just love sauce Mornay, don't you? It's my favorite part of a properly-made croque monsieur - and of course, I haven't had one of those pour toujours.
I had another sip of my cocktail and waited expectantly for the feast to arrive.
Right on cue! A big white plate containing a generous pile of sauteed potatoes redolent with black pepper and fresh herbs; an adorable little filet cooked just the other side of black and blue; and with two runny golden-yolked eggs peeping up at me. But where was the rich, thick, unctuous, cheesy sauce promised by the menu?
Hiding under the eggs, that's where, slathered onto a slice of baguette the size of my forearm.
Outrage! I'd been betrayed by my usually reliable gluten-sense!
Before I could properly register my shock at this unwelcome turn of events, the Diva took charge and spirited the gluten-filled sauce-topped culprit onto her side-plate, out of sight (if not out of mind). Chastened, I considered where I'd gone wrong and concluded that - at brunch, at least - one must ask about bread, even in dishes that appear to be above reproach. Much as I hate to be 'that person' there really is no other choice - particularly at an unfamiliar restaurant catering to the Breakfast and Brunch Expectations of Others.
Having learned my lesson and vowed to change my ways I enjoyed every last bite of my tasty repast and had a second cup of coffee, just to show 'em. The Diva, in a heartwarming and stirring display of solidarity, took up a pen and scrawled a stern remonstration on the comments card, insisting that the restaurant's poorly-considered menu ought to be edited post-haste, lest other gluten guerrillas be brought down by unexpected and unwanted cereal sides. I congratulated her on her forcefulness. After all, it is so much more satisfying to blame others than oneself!
But I just had a sobering thought.
Sauce Mornay is a bechamel creation thickened with *gulp* wheat flour.
Maybe the gluten gods were watching out for me after all.
Showing posts with label cocktails. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cocktails. Show all posts
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Falernum Frenzy
DMR, currently gallivanting around on the high seas, has promised to purchase for me a bottle of falernum upon landfall in Curacao or Oranjestad. Since she won't return Stateside for some time yet, and the Diva and I required this Caribbean nectar for our Cheese and Cocktails carnival yesterday, I was obliged to make my own. After all, you can't make a Rum Swizzle without falernum, can you?
I followed the procedure laid out when first researching the ingredients required for our island drinks: my initial concern that the recipe's stipulation of forty cloves was a typo diminished when I discovered that, when you come to pile 'em up, forty isn't all that many.
First, I combined the lime zest (from four limes rather than the called-for nine: clearly, Paul Clarke is an eccentric gazillionaire for whom money is no object); toasted slivered almonds; julienned fresh ginger; and toasted cloves in a bowl.
I added white rum to cover and let it sit over night. The next day, the aromas wafting from the bowl were staggering:
I shook superfine sugar and water in a big Ball jar (everybody should have several of these around the house whether they are jam-makers or not - they are unbelievably useful for a whole host of sins); added the strained rum mixture; almond extract; and some lime juice.
The final result was not to be believed. Aromatic, spicy, slightly sweet (but not too much) - we all agreed it was delicious straight off a spoon. I felt like a bootlegger when I decanted the hooch into my Mason jar - an added frisson courtesy of the estimable Jarden Corporation.
Combined with dark rum, amber rum, orange juice, pineapple juice, and a splash of Angostura bitters, I had heaven in a glass.
The Diva and I pondered other uses to which the magical potion might be put. Heated and reduced slightly, it would be an excellent poaching liquid for pears or tropical fruit such as pineapple. Add some heat (cayenne, perhaps), and it would make a mysterious deglazing liquid for pork. It might serve as a useful thinning agent (and added kick) for banana jam. Plus, I suppose, you could use it for any number of Tiki cocktails if such things are your style: I think I would prefer the traditional nineteenth-century garnish of wormwood bitters rather than umbrellas and coconut shells, but that's just me.
Of course, cocktail contemplation was only half our purpose and we did indeed produce two pounds of very fine mozzarella di Jersey mucca. We did some experimentation and learned some new tricks, but I believe the most salutary lesson involved sobriety and the importance of labelling one's ingredients. It transpires that citric acid dissolved in water; lipase dissolved in water; and rennet dissolved in water are indistinguishable from one another, especially when the casarae have foolishly employed three identical bowls. Astonishingly enough, after a round of Bermudian coolers it can be a tad challenging to keep one's mis en place organized, and we're pretty sure we got the rennet and citric acid mixed up. Never mind: the snafu turned out to have made no discernable difference to the quality of the final formaggio, despite some visually worrying developments along the way.
After all, how can you go wrong with cheese and cocktails?
Tonight: I cook dinner for a refugee from the Fukushima nuclear crisis and find out for myself just how close the planet came to going *phoom*
I followed the procedure laid out when first researching the ingredients required for our island drinks: my initial concern that the recipe's stipulation of forty cloves was a typo diminished when I discovered that, when you come to pile 'em up, forty isn't all that many.
First, I combined the lime zest (from four limes rather than the called-for nine: clearly, Paul Clarke is an eccentric gazillionaire for whom money is no object); toasted slivered almonds; julienned fresh ginger; and toasted cloves in a bowl.
I added white rum to cover and let it sit over night. The next day, the aromas wafting from the bowl were staggering:
I shook superfine sugar and water in a big Ball jar (everybody should have several of these around the house whether they are jam-makers or not - they are unbelievably useful for a whole host of sins); added the strained rum mixture; almond extract; and some lime juice.
The final result was not to be believed. Aromatic, spicy, slightly sweet (but not too much) - we all agreed it was delicious straight off a spoon. I felt like a bootlegger when I decanted the hooch into my Mason jar - an added frisson courtesy of the estimable Jarden Corporation.
Combined with dark rum, amber rum, orange juice, pineapple juice, and a splash of Angostura bitters, I had heaven in a glass.
The Diva and I pondered other uses to which the magical potion might be put. Heated and reduced slightly, it would be an excellent poaching liquid for pears or tropical fruit such as pineapple. Add some heat (cayenne, perhaps), and it would make a mysterious deglazing liquid for pork. It might serve as a useful thinning agent (and added kick) for banana jam. Plus, I suppose, you could use it for any number of Tiki cocktails if such things are your style: I think I would prefer the traditional nineteenth-century garnish of wormwood bitters rather than umbrellas and coconut shells, but that's just me.
Of course, cocktail contemplation was only half our purpose and we did indeed produce two pounds of very fine mozzarella di Jersey mucca. We did some experimentation and learned some new tricks, but I believe the most salutary lesson involved sobriety and the importance of labelling one's ingredients. It transpires that citric acid dissolved in water; lipase dissolved in water; and rennet dissolved in water are indistinguishable from one another, especially when the casarae have foolishly employed three identical bowls. Astonishingly enough, after a round of Bermudian coolers it can be a tad challenging to keep one's mis en place organized, and we're pretty sure we got the rennet and citric acid mixed up. Never mind: the snafu turned out to have made no discernable difference to the quality of the final formaggio, despite some visually worrying developments along the way.
After all, how can you go wrong with cheese and cocktails?
Tonight: I cook dinner for a refugee from the Fukushima nuclear crisis and find out for myself just how close the planet came to going *phoom*
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Cheese and Cocktails
Everything is in readiness for my gala Caribbean Cocktail and Cheesemaking Convention. I have on the premises:
It seems only fitting that I should celebrate my new quack-mandated lactose-free condition with some home-made ricotta and mozzarella, the most lactose-rich products imaginable. After all, what's life without a little danger thrown into the mix?
Gotta go - I think I hear the Diva now!
- 1 fresh bottle of Galliano
- 1 bottle of Gosling's Black Seal rum
- 1 bottle of Bacardi Gold
- 1 bottle of common garden Bacardi Superior
- 1 bottle of Bermuda Banana Liqueur
- a few cartons of fresh orange and pineapple juice
- 1 jar of house-produced falernum: heady, spiced, and indescribable
- 3 gallons of raw milk from contented Jersey cows
- various cheesemaking accoutrements, including lipase, rennet, and citric acid
It seems only fitting that I should celebrate my new quack-mandated lactose-free condition with some home-made ricotta and mozzarella, the most lactose-rich products imaginable. After all, what's life without a little danger thrown into the mix?
Gotta go - I think I hear the Diva now!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Top Chef, Episode 12: Off to the Island
... Ellis Island, that is, where our culinary competitors cooked their hearts and souls out in a family heritage challenge. Everybody got through to the final, which was no surprise: how could the judges auf a chef whose mother was in the room? The episode was most notable for the news that Top Chef Masters will be starting in April, oh joy! oh rapture! We also discovered that the All-Stars are relocating to the Bahamas next week for island cuisine of a strikingly different kind.
Not lost on me was the synchronicity of this change-of-venue announcement. Although I have never been to the Caribbean, the Diva is heading off in that direction in just a few short weeks and will be beforehand coming up to my own sunny corner of Pennsylvanian paradise for a gala mozzarella-making and cocktail-quaffing pre-vacation sendoff.
Our Island drinks of choice? Yellowbirds and Rum Swizzles, of course.
Yellowbirds are one of the Diva's favorite tipples and that, naturally, is sufficient reason to serve them up by the bucketful during our formaggio fandango. However, they have additional significance in our house, because one of these cocktails was the Kid Squid's first-ever flirtation with mixed drinks. I remember the occasion vividly. During a family vacation in Bermuda we presented ourselves at Hamilton's Cafe Cairo for a festive evening of tagines, couscous (this was before my gluten-freedom fighting career, obviously); cushion-reclining; sensemia music; and general North African jollity and brouhaha. Yellowbirds and rum swizzles flowed freely, as I recall, and until you've paired Gosling's dark rum with roast lamb and eggplant, don't knock it - it's a powerful combination, I can tell you. Anyway, after three sips of somebody else's drink the Squid more or less collapsed into a pile of giggles, not to be heard from sensibly again until much later in the evening. It was one of those turning points a parent never forgets.
The Diva and I will need to spend some time refining our Yellowbird technique, since an authoritative recipe is not that easy to find (the Kid Squid will no doubt provide valuable critical input). It is beyond question that the cocktail must include white and/or dark rum; creme de banane (luckily, we still have some left from the above-mentioned trip's airport duty-free raid, during which we also acquired sherry peppers, ginger beer, and Bermuda Gold liqueur, distilled from loquats and best served in a warm glass); Galliano; orange juice; and pineapple juice, in a roughly 1.00:0.25:0.25:2.0:2.0 ratio. I'm guessing we'll be adding more rum, but who can say? That's why it's called research.
Delightful though these drinks are, my absolute favorite island indulgence is a rum swizzle, fabricated (according to Gosling's official website) from dark rum, amber rum, pineapple juice, and orange juice (4:4:5:5), plus 6 dashes of Angostura bitters and 2 oz. of falernum. Now, falernum (strangely enough) is not to be found in any of my local branches of the Liquor Control Board's praiseworthy mercantile system. One can use grenadine, I suppose, but it's not the same. I have never made the spice-infused elixir myself, but if we are going to do this thing properly, I think it is appropriate to give it a try. The most intriguing recipe I have been able to find is by Paul Clarke: it is titled Falernum #9, which sounds to me like a very expensive bottle of perfume, and looks to be full of typos, except a number of authorities say it's all true and bona fide.
There's only one way to find out: the real question is whether we will retain enough of our good senses to be able to make some cheese.
I will need to prepare the Falernum in advance, thusly:
In a jar, 1.5 cups of superfine sugar must be combined with 0.75 cups of warm water and shaken vigorously to combine (this is not a heated simple syrup, apparently, which gives too 'heavy' a result).
The rum mixture gets strained and added to the jar, together with 3 tablespoons of lime juice and 0.25 teaspoons of almond extract. Kept covered in the fridge, the falernum should last for weeks and weeks.
Not lost on me was the synchronicity of this change-of-venue announcement. Although I have never been to the Caribbean, the Diva is heading off in that direction in just a few short weeks and will be beforehand coming up to my own sunny corner of Pennsylvanian paradise for a gala mozzarella-making and cocktail-quaffing pre-vacation sendoff.
Our Island drinks of choice? Yellowbirds and Rum Swizzles, of course.
Yellowbirds are one of the Diva's favorite tipples and that, naturally, is sufficient reason to serve them up by the bucketful during our formaggio fandango. However, they have additional significance in our house, because one of these cocktails was the Kid Squid's first-ever flirtation with mixed drinks. I remember the occasion vividly. During a family vacation in Bermuda we presented ourselves at Hamilton's Cafe Cairo for a festive evening of tagines, couscous (this was before my gluten-freedom fighting career, obviously); cushion-reclining; sensemia music; and general North African jollity and brouhaha. Yellowbirds and rum swizzles flowed freely, as I recall, and until you've paired Gosling's dark rum with roast lamb and eggplant, don't knock it - it's a powerful combination, I can tell you. Anyway, after three sips of somebody else's drink the Squid more or less collapsed into a pile of giggles, not to be heard from sensibly again until much later in the evening. It was one of those turning points a parent never forgets.
The Diva and I will need to spend some time refining our Yellowbird technique, since an authoritative recipe is not that easy to find (the Kid Squid will no doubt provide valuable critical input). It is beyond question that the cocktail must include white and/or dark rum; creme de banane (luckily, we still have some left from the above-mentioned trip's airport duty-free raid, during which we also acquired sherry peppers, ginger beer, and Bermuda Gold liqueur, distilled from loquats and best served in a warm glass); Galliano; orange juice; and pineapple juice, in a roughly 1.00:0.25:0.25:2.0:2.0 ratio. I'm guessing we'll be adding more rum, but who can say? That's why it's called research.
Delightful though these drinks are, my absolute favorite island indulgence is a rum swizzle, fabricated (according to Gosling's official website) from dark rum, amber rum, pineapple juice, and orange juice (4:4:5:5), plus 6 dashes of Angostura bitters and 2 oz. of falernum. Now, falernum (strangely enough) is not to be found in any of my local branches of the Liquor Control Board's praiseworthy mercantile system. One can use grenadine, I suppose, but it's not the same. I have never made the spice-infused elixir myself, but if we are going to do this thing properly, I think it is appropriate to give it a try. The most intriguing recipe I have been able to find is by Paul Clarke: it is titled Falernum #9, which sounds to me like a very expensive bottle of perfume, and looks to be full of typos, except a number of authorities say it's all true and bona fide.
There's only one way to find out: the real question is whether we will retain enough of our good senses to be able to make some cheese.
I will need to prepare the Falernum in advance, thusly:
- 2 tablespoons of blanched, slivered almonds
- 40 (yes 40!) whole cloves, crushed
- 6 oz white rum
- the zest of 9 limes
- 3" of fresh ginger, peeled and julienned
In a jar, 1.5 cups of superfine sugar must be combined with 0.75 cups of warm water and shaken vigorously to combine (this is not a heated simple syrup, apparently, which gives too 'heavy' a result).
The rum mixture gets strained and added to the jar, together with 3 tablespoons of lime juice and 0.25 teaspoons of almond extract. Kept covered in the fridge, the falernum should last for weeks and weeks.
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