I’ve been thinking a lot about yogurt lately. And not the creamy, fatty Greek version that’s just crying out for a dollop of honey and fresh strawberries – or, to put it bluntly, the kind which I eat and enjoy. No, I’m talking about the chemical-laden runny nastiness which contains “fruit product” (or some such travesty), fake sugar, and no fat. You know, the kind of stuff I’m supposed to like. Because I’m a girl. And I aspire to nothing so much as inclusion in the group of slim, non-threatening, grey-sweatshirt-wearing girls who have found weight-loss bliss through the consumption of this food-like substance.
Another yogurt commercial is making the rounds these days: a thin woman agonizes over whether to have a piece of cheesecake (“cheesecake is bad….and I have to be good!!") She is rescued, however, by her equally thin co-worker who pops up and grabs a container of “cheesecake” flavored yogurt. This takes me back to the early years of college, when it was quite fashionable to assign moral worth to your food choices. Did you eat a calorie-rich lunch? Then you were bad. You could atone for that sin through extensive exercising, but would that really make you good person? No, goodness can probably only be achieved through a few days of monk-like asceticism, involving brown rice and steamed vegetables (of course, this was before the Atkins fad really took hold. I’m not sure rice is acceptable anymore).
Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve all been there, or roomed with somebody who has. But we grow out of it, right? We learn to happily indulge in our favorites, be they cheesecake, chocolate, or French fries. And then we go on to write visually bland blogs about our indulgences (one of these days I really will learn how put pictures up on here! But for now can’t you be satisfied with my witty links? I was so proud when I figured out how to do that). Actually, I am aware of the fact that I live in a dream world in which the women are relatively confident about their food choices. Somehow I just don’t think it works like that everywhere else. Take my second trip to Hundred Acres, for example.
My first visit was at an off hour, so the establishment was sparsely filled with an eclectic mix of regulars. This second trip was for the purpose of Sunday brunch, which is of course a bit of an event in NYC, though not nearly on the scale of brunch in Berlin. Maria, Erin and I were absurdly excited for this brunch. The menu contains things like ricotta fritters and Jesus meatballs – how can you refuse? The place was just as rustically urban as I remembered it. Perhaps in a nod to its “farm to table” sensibility, there were artful piles of fresh produce displayed throughout the dining room. The music sounded like it had been ripped from my favorite Pandora stations. Our suitably hip and hirsute waiter looked like he might start playing sensitive indie rock with whispered vocals at any moment. We immediately ordered a plate of ricotta fritters and got to work on some mimosas with freshly-squeezed orange juice.
Let me pause for a moment and talk about the fritters, because I could launch into a female body image rant at any moment, and it would really be a shame not to have this experience saved for all time in the electronic universe. You know you’re in for a treat when a menu item involves deep fried cheese. These fritters went beyond the basic thrill, however. First of all, they were remarkably light. Look, I’m not saying these were anything other than crispy balls of indulgent goodness. But sometimes a fritter takes a wrong turn in life, and ends up hooked on smack and squatting in Tompkins Square Park. And those fritters are not enjoyable. They are heavy with the weight of an uncaring world. These fritters had a creamy yet springy interior. The shell was golden and crisp. The dipping sauce was an apple cider syrup, which had just enough tang to balance the sugar. Naturally, raptures ensued. I hummed as I’ve rarely hummed before.
My entrée was equally spectacular. I took our rustic waiter’s advice and ordered the goat cheese thyme bread pudding with poached eggs and a warm spinach salad. Our waiter did not lead me astray. It was an impeccable dish. The savory bread pudding was a gorgeous mix of herbs, cream, and salt. The poached eggs and butter sauce could have pushed this dish right over the edge, but luckily the wilted spinach was there for me in my time of trial. The greens admirably matched the surrounding decadence. The humming increased.
As Maria, Erin and I attempted to find words to describe our sensory overload, I began to notice the tables around me. Perched at almost every one was a tall, thin, blond, soho-robot eating scrambled eggs and salad. I’m sure the scrambled eggs at Hundred Acres are great, although perhaps a bit pedestrian. But what really appalled me - abandoned on each plate was a golden piece of fresh cornbread. Look, I understand that New York is a hard city, and that society holds unrealistic expectations for female beauty and all of that, but really – how can you pass up fresh cornbread!?!?!? Isn’t there some kind of law against the willful indifference to excellent food? I suppose I shouldn’t jump to conclusions – maybe there was a corn-allergy conference meeting at the restaurant. Maybe the cornbread that day looked deceptively appetizing, but in fact truly sucked. These are possibilities. But that morning I just barely suppressed the desire to stand up on my chair with a sign that read “Carbs” while burning my bra and gorging on cornbread. I’m starting a movement here, people. And yes, that movement will involve lots of incredible food. Who’s with me? (FYI, the bra-burning is optional.)
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Eat your way to cultural nirvana
It has been brought to my attention that I do not take full advantage of the myriad splendors that New York City has to offer. I’ve never been to the Frick, Prospect Park, or the Highline. Hell, I’ve never even been to Staten Island. And yet I perceive myself as a well-travelled woman of the city. Then it hit me – to me, travelling is really about food. I like to think that I have fully sampled the delights of NYC because I’ve eaten Brazilian food in Queens, Russian food in Brooklyn, stellar cheese in Manhattan, and fresh seafood in the Bronx. When someone mentions walking the Brooklyn Bridge, I assume that person did so mainly in order to get to Grimaldi’s (a moment of silence, please, for our dear departed pizza shop. Your crisp crust, fresh mozzarella, and hearty pepperoni will live on in our hearts. Topped with a slight drizzle of olive oil). In other words, I am an accomplished NYC food tourist constantly looking to expand my culinary horizons.
My latest gustatory postcard is from Pho Bang, located in Elmhurst, Queens. Oh Elmhurst. What joys you keep tucked away between the 7 and the R train. Laura and I have vacationed there before for Thai food (where we dined on almost pornographic mango and sticky rice). Our most recent trip was for Vietnamese. Pho Bang has that dingy diner vibe which usually guarantees excellent food at affordable prices. This meal was no exception. And since the food is so reasonably priced, Laura and I felt morally obligated to order tons of it. We started out with crispy spring rolls filled with pork, chicken, and crabmeat, which were actually a bit greasy and underwhelming. However, things soon got much better: a huge bowl of piping hot Pho. Fresh herbs mingled with raw beef and suffused the liquid while the meat cooked. The broth was truly complex: the cloudy liquid captured the richness and earthiness of the beef without the heaviness. In the midst of this swam silken noodles coated in deliciousness.
And then there was pork. The Vietnamese do amazing things with pork. So amazing, in fact that we had to order two separate pork dishes. The first, Bun Thit Nuong, featured paper thin slices of grilled pork with beautiful caramelized stripes. These rested upon a layer of refreshingly cool vermicelli noodles, with assorted vegetable garnishes. I love Bun. It’s such an inspired idea – it hits all the necessary culinary notes in one dish. Each bite is thrilling combination of savory and sweet, balanced once again by bracing herbal strokes. So you would think that would be enough for us. However, there was more pork to be discovered. Our final dish (which shall remain nameless mainly because I cannot remember the name of it) was the most interactive. We were presented with grilled pork hash meatballs, rice papers, lettuce, mint leaves, cucumbers, carrots, lemongrass and an assortment of dipping sauces. From this cornucopia we made our own rolls and proceeded to gorge, awash in the delight of intentionally playing with our food.
A note on the service: The food is ready basically the moment you order it, which is excellent when you’re as ravenous as Laura and I frequently are. Our waiter delighted us with his dry wit. When we ordered our vast spread he looked at us quite seriously and said, “Not enough”. After a moment’s confusion we tossed off a good-natured laugh; yes, we were two crazy white girls about to eat our weight in meat products. Without cracking a smile, our waiter gestured to us and said, “Two people, four dishes. Not enough”. Then he shook his head and walked away. Our laughter became sheepish. Was it really so wrong that we had just ordered the whole menu? Or that we were about to get more food than could conceivably fit on our table? No matter; Laura and I rallied and proceeded to enjoy both the food and some lively dinner conversation. Naturally we couldn’t finish all of the dishes, and pretty soon our waiter was back asking if he could clear the table. We waved him away, and continued our banter. Soon enough another waiter stopped by, and another after that, all of them desperately anxious to box up our food and get us the hell out of there. After our fourth refusal we were basically told to get out because they needed the table. This was totally understandable, especially since there were a number of empty tables in the establishment, and absolutely no one waiting.
So yes, Laura and I were essentially kicked out of the restaurant. Had it been our ribald laughter? Our purple conversation? The fear that we would, in fact, eat our way through the entire restaurant? Who knows. We had to content ourselves with post-dinner conversation in the nearby park, and the entertaining sight of an extraordinarily drunk man trying to figure out how to turn on his ipod. On the way home from our evening’s vacation we got one more splash of local color as a woman screamed at us, “Get away from my bags! They’re not yours! THEY’RE NOT YOURS!!!!!” Ah queens. Dinner and a show, and only for $30. I highly recommend that you visit.
My latest gustatory postcard is from Pho Bang, located in Elmhurst, Queens. Oh Elmhurst. What joys you keep tucked away between the 7 and the R train. Laura and I have vacationed there before for Thai food (where we dined on almost pornographic mango and sticky rice). Our most recent trip was for Vietnamese. Pho Bang has that dingy diner vibe which usually guarantees excellent food at affordable prices. This meal was no exception. And since the food is so reasonably priced, Laura and I felt morally obligated to order tons of it. We started out with crispy spring rolls filled with pork, chicken, and crabmeat, which were actually a bit greasy and underwhelming. However, things soon got much better: a huge bowl of piping hot Pho. Fresh herbs mingled with raw beef and suffused the liquid while the meat cooked. The broth was truly complex: the cloudy liquid captured the richness and earthiness of the beef without the heaviness. In the midst of this swam silken noodles coated in deliciousness.
And then there was pork. The Vietnamese do amazing things with pork. So amazing, in fact that we had to order two separate pork dishes. The first, Bun Thit Nuong, featured paper thin slices of grilled pork with beautiful caramelized stripes. These rested upon a layer of refreshingly cool vermicelli noodles, with assorted vegetable garnishes. I love Bun. It’s such an inspired idea – it hits all the necessary culinary notes in one dish. Each bite is thrilling combination of savory and sweet, balanced once again by bracing herbal strokes. So you would think that would be enough for us. However, there was more pork to be discovered. Our final dish (which shall remain nameless mainly because I cannot remember the name of it) was the most interactive. We were presented with grilled pork hash meatballs, rice papers, lettuce, mint leaves, cucumbers, carrots, lemongrass and an assortment of dipping sauces. From this cornucopia we made our own rolls and proceeded to gorge, awash in the delight of intentionally playing with our food.
A note on the service: The food is ready basically the moment you order it, which is excellent when you’re as ravenous as Laura and I frequently are. Our waiter delighted us with his dry wit. When we ordered our vast spread he looked at us quite seriously and said, “Not enough”. After a moment’s confusion we tossed off a good-natured laugh; yes, we were two crazy white girls about to eat our weight in meat products. Without cracking a smile, our waiter gestured to us and said, “Two people, four dishes. Not enough”. Then he shook his head and walked away. Our laughter became sheepish. Was it really so wrong that we had just ordered the whole menu? Or that we were about to get more food than could conceivably fit on our table? No matter; Laura and I rallied and proceeded to enjoy both the food and some lively dinner conversation. Naturally we couldn’t finish all of the dishes, and pretty soon our waiter was back asking if he could clear the table. We waved him away, and continued our banter. Soon enough another waiter stopped by, and another after that, all of them desperately anxious to box up our food and get us the hell out of there. After our fourth refusal we were basically told to get out because they needed the table. This was totally understandable, especially since there were a number of empty tables in the establishment, and absolutely no one waiting.
So yes, Laura and I were essentially kicked out of the restaurant. Had it been our ribald laughter? Our purple conversation? The fear that we would, in fact, eat our way through the entire restaurant? Who knows. We had to content ourselves with post-dinner conversation in the nearby park, and the entertaining sight of an extraordinarily drunk man trying to figure out how to turn on his ipod. On the way home from our evening’s vacation we got one more splash of local color as a woman screamed at us, “Get away from my bags! They’re not yours! THEY’RE NOT YOURS!!!!!” Ah queens. Dinner and a show, and only for $30. I highly recommend that you visit.
Friday, June 3, 2011
If it’s a bread product, the Smela women are eating it
Damn it’s been a long time since I’ve posted on this blog. I hope none of you were worried. I hope none of you felt a crushing anxiety as you pondered just how well I was in fact being fed. I haven’t been in hiding; I’ve just been baking a whole lot of bread. It’s my new obsession. And yes, I do channel Nicholas Cage’s tortured and brooding Italian baker from Moonstruck as I prepare it (my neighbors are starting to wonder why I keep yelling, “I lost my hand! I lost my bride!”) For the past month or so many of my meals have consisted of bread, goat cheese, and wine. And while that can make a truly exceptional meal, it doesn’t make a very interesting blog post. So I’m going to reach back into April and present you with a fabulous, homemade culinary experience.
I was reminded over Easter that I come from an incredible cooking pedigree. My Czech grandma would cook amazing slavic specialties, as well as standard American fare. And once you told her you liked something, you had to be prepared to eat vast quantities of it. Take, for example, my grandma’s roast chicken. You might be thinking to yourself, roast chicken is nice, but how transcendent can it truly be? If you’re thinking this, you’ve clearly never had my grandmother’s roast chicken. It’s succulent. And moist. It should go without saying that the skin is crisped to a crackling perfection. But it’s really the flavor of the meat that amazes me. Chicken has a reputation for being dry and tasteless, but when my Grandmother makes it the meat is rich and satisfying. It’s so good, that for awhile I was convinced that the only way to achieve these results was by using four sticks of butter. But apparently there’s some sort of alchemy involving garlic going on (I’m still not exactly sure of the specifics. I think it requires grandma-magic, in addition to the garlic).
My best memory of this chicken dates from my college years. I was taking Amtrak up to visit her on one of my breaks. This was back in the Stone Age when I didn’t have a cell phone (and, for that matter, was in college). Of course, Amtrak being Amtrak, my 3 hour trip was lengthened to 6 hours all because the conductor forgot to make the ritual sacrifice to his pagan god. So here I am, arriving at Schenectady at 11pm, when my grandma had been expecting me at 8pm. I have not called her, because of the aforementioned lack of cell phone. I get to her apartment, and while she’s mainly relieved that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, she’s also upset because she made me dinner and it got cold. What did she make, you may ask? A whole roast chicken. Because I love her roast chicken, and my grandma loves me. But who can eat whole roast chicken at 11pm after fighting the battle that is Amtrak? I most likely had two gluttonous servings, but there was still an embarrassment of chicken left. And my poor grandma. She gave a pained expression and said, “Is that all? Aren’t you going to finish it?” It’s not easy to break your grandmother’s heart, but a girl can only eat so much chicken. Luckily she forgot this episode when I returned for my next trip: I had rhapsodized about her Mazanec (a Czech Easter bread) at one point, and so naturally my subsequent trip ended with her thrusting a freshly made, sugared loaf into my willing little hands.
While I certainly have inherited my grandmother’s love of food, I think the actual cooking skills transferred directly down to her daughter Jane. A visit to my aunt’s house starts with dessert, and only gets better from there. This Easter she started us out with her signature brownies (I believe the secret ingredient is fudge? Whatever it is, it produces the most decadent brownie known to man). Also on hand were apricot strudel squares, a brilliant combination of tart fruit and buttery, crumbly topping. As an added treat for breakfast she had also made apple-bran muffins. Mind you, these were just the treats on hand for the weekend. The actual Easter feast was … well … it was a thing of beauty. Jane made so much food we couldn’t fit it into the dining room, and had to split it up into three separate events – the Easter Brunch, followed by the Easter Lunch, finally followed by the Easter Dessert.
Easter Brunch: naturally my aunt provided some finger food for the table. And by finger food I mean trays of lox, cream cheese, bagels, tomatoes, and onions. You know, as a light starter. Next we moved onto the casseroles – one comprised of layers of potatoes, eggs, cheddar cheese and bacon, the other a Challah French toast with a praline topping. I mean really, we were probably all exploding after that. It was just a world of butter and bacon and goodness. But we bravely moved on to Easter Lunch: Baked spiral ham. Roasted carrots and red potatoes. Asparagus with just the right hint of parmesan. This classic holiday fare was the perfect contrast to lush comfort foods that preceded it. And oh that ham. The external sugary glaze was in precise balance with the saltiness of the meat.
So, yeah, we ate all of that. At this point everyone was in need a short nap (which shall henceforth be referred to by its Czech name, which sounds like shlufficheck. I’m fairly certain that’s not how you spell it. But try saying it out loud – doesn’t it just completely capture the essence of a post-gorge catnap?) Blankets were gathered, couches were claimed. I think I neglected to mention that all this food was accompanied by mimosas and wine, so you can imagine the stupor we were all in. As we sprawled and contemplated the upcoming desserts, my Uncle wisely said, “You know what we need right now? The final episode of Twin Peaks”. And so our shlufficheck dreams were filled with creepy, backwards-talking dwarves and Laura Palmer’s screams of rage.
We awoke from our slumbers to a smorgasbord of sugar: chocolate cake with whipped cream filling. Pound cake, fresh strawberries, and more whipped cream. And finally some of the cutest carrot-cake cupcakes known to man, courtesy of my cousin Lauren – she actually designed each one to look like an individual Easter basket.
After this, the food was officially done. As were we. You see, this is what happens when my family gets together to eat. We can’t do things halfway. We need to eat EVERYTHING. But we can be surprisingly satisfied by simple pleasures as well. For example: after the foodapolooza ended my aunt Jane, my grandma, my cousin Lauren and I sat around the kitchen table and discussed the joys of good bread and butter. My Grandma reminisced about her own mother slipping her pieces of this treat when she obstinately refused to finish her dinner. And I contemplated a culinary coup - perhaps it was time that I donned the mantle of family carb-pusher. Crusty loaves of freshly made bread danced through my head. I could use my Nicholas Cage impression for good, not evil. I would be the one staring at relatives in bewilderment, wondering why they had only eaten half a loaf of bread in one sitting, when I had provided them with 3 loaves a piece. I’m sure my grandma will glow with pride. And then she’ll probably whip out a roast duck just to show that she remains the master.
I was reminded over Easter that I come from an incredible cooking pedigree. My Czech grandma would cook amazing slavic specialties, as well as standard American fare. And once you told her you liked something, you had to be prepared to eat vast quantities of it. Take, for example, my grandma’s roast chicken. You might be thinking to yourself, roast chicken is nice, but how transcendent can it truly be? If you’re thinking this, you’ve clearly never had my grandmother’s roast chicken. It’s succulent. And moist. It should go without saying that the skin is crisped to a crackling perfection. But it’s really the flavor of the meat that amazes me. Chicken has a reputation for being dry and tasteless, but when my Grandmother makes it the meat is rich and satisfying. It’s so good, that for awhile I was convinced that the only way to achieve these results was by using four sticks of butter. But apparently there’s some sort of alchemy involving garlic going on (I’m still not exactly sure of the specifics. I think it requires grandma-magic, in addition to the garlic).
My best memory of this chicken dates from my college years. I was taking Amtrak up to visit her on one of my breaks. This was back in the Stone Age when I didn’t have a cell phone (and, for that matter, was in college). Of course, Amtrak being Amtrak, my 3 hour trip was lengthened to 6 hours all because the conductor forgot to make the ritual sacrifice to his pagan god. So here I am, arriving at Schenectady at 11pm, when my grandma had been expecting me at 8pm. I have not called her, because of the aforementioned lack of cell phone. I get to her apartment, and while she’s mainly relieved that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, she’s also upset because she made me dinner and it got cold. What did she make, you may ask? A whole roast chicken. Because I love her roast chicken, and my grandma loves me. But who can eat whole roast chicken at 11pm after fighting the battle that is Amtrak? I most likely had two gluttonous servings, but there was still an embarrassment of chicken left. And my poor grandma. She gave a pained expression and said, “Is that all? Aren’t you going to finish it?” It’s not easy to break your grandmother’s heart, but a girl can only eat so much chicken. Luckily she forgot this episode when I returned for my next trip: I had rhapsodized about her Mazanec (a Czech Easter bread) at one point, and so naturally my subsequent trip ended with her thrusting a freshly made, sugared loaf into my willing little hands.
While I certainly have inherited my grandmother’s love of food, I think the actual cooking skills transferred directly down to her daughter Jane. A visit to my aunt’s house starts with dessert, and only gets better from there. This Easter she started us out with her signature brownies (I believe the secret ingredient is fudge? Whatever it is, it produces the most decadent brownie known to man). Also on hand were apricot strudel squares, a brilliant combination of tart fruit and buttery, crumbly topping. As an added treat for breakfast she had also made apple-bran muffins. Mind you, these were just the treats on hand for the weekend. The actual Easter feast was … well … it was a thing of beauty. Jane made so much food we couldn’t fit it into the dining room, and had to split it up into three separate events – the Easter Brunch, followed by the Easter Lunch, finally followed by the Easter Dessert.
Easter Brunch: naturally my aunt provided some finger food for the table. And by finger food I mean trays of lox, cream cheese, bagels, tomatoes, and onions. You know, as a light starter. Next we moved onto the casseroles – one comprised of layers of potatoes, eggs, cheddar cheese and bacon, the other a Challah French toast with a praline topping. I mean really, we were probably all exploding after that. It was just a world of butter and bacon and goodness. But we bravely moved on to Easter Lunch: Baked spiral ham. Roasted carrots and red potatoes. Asparagus with just the right hint of parmesan. This classic holiday fare was the perfect contrast to lush comfort foods that preceded it. And oh that ham. The external sugary glaze was in precise balance with the saltiness of the meat.
So, yeah, we ate all of that. At this point everyone was in need a short nap (which shall henceforth be referred to by its Czech name, which sounds like shlufficheck. I’m fairly certain that’s not how you spell it. But try saying it out loud – doesn’t it just completely capture the essence of a post-gorge catnap?) Blankets were gathered, couches were claimed. I think I neglected to mention that all this food was accompanied by mimosas and wine, so you can imagine the stupor we were all in. As we sprawled and contemplated the upcoming desserts, my Uncle wisely said, “You know what we need right now? The final episode of Twin Peaks”. And so our shlufficheck dreams were filled with creepy, backwards-talking dwarves and Laura Palmer’s screams of rage.
We awoke from our slumbers to a smorgasbord of sugar: chocolate cake with whipped cream filling. Pound cake, fresh strawberries, and more whipped cream. And finally some of the cutest carrot-cake cupcakes known to man, courtesy of my cousin Lauren – she actually designed each one to look like an individual Easter basket.
After this, the food was officially done. As were we. You see, this is what happens when my family gets together to eat. We can’t do things halfway. We need to eat EVERYTHING. But we can be surprisingly satisfied by simple pleasures as well. For example: after the foodapolooza ended my aunt Jane, my grandma, my cousin Lauren and I sat around the kitchen table and discussed the joys of good bread and butter. My Grandma reminisced about her own mother slipping her pieces of this treat when she obstinately refused to finish her dinner. And I contemplated a culinary coup - perhaps it was time that I donned the mantle of family carb-pusher. Crusty loaves of freshly made bread danced through my head. I could use my Nicholas Cage impression for good, not evil. I would be the one staring at relatives in bewilderment, wondering why they had only eaten half a loaf of bread in one sitting, when I had provided them with 3 loaves a piece. I’m sure my grandma will glow with pride. And then she’ll probably whip out a roast duck just to show that she remains the master.
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