I was a witness to strange food rituals

I suppose all cultures have their own peculiar culinary rituals. In some locales, jungle tribes pass homemade liquor to every guest at a fire-side gathering, with each member drinking from the same hollowed-out coconut. It is forbidden to skip your turn – you simply have to drink until you pass out. In other places, groups gather at yuletide to eat celebratory cake, not knowing which slice contains the sacred bean which will elevate the eater to royalty before casting him down as a human sacrifice. And speaking of sacrifice, I've certainly been the recipient of some wafers and wine which were intended to represent something a bit more....lifelike. But seeing as how I'm not a regular church goer, I would have to say that my food rituals are usually confined to the requisite Old-Fashioned cocktail served when dining with the Tuckers. Not to make light of this ritual. Nothing makes a dinner of pernil, polenta and beer-sauteed kale better than a perfectly mixed drink imbibed after the gorging. However, in my recent travels around our ever-surprising city I have had the privilege of witnessing not one, but two unusual food rituals. Let's just say I've been busy.

As my “bio” here explains, my hunger for food and drink is really only matched by my hunger for art. And my preference has always been to enjoy these items with friends. So when a particularly talented couple I know invited me to a night of dinner, poetry and scotch, of course I said yes. The evening had an official title – A Burns Supper, celebrating the life of Scottish poet Robert Burns. A college-aged friend of mine immediately knew the reference but I, alas, have lived in ignorance of The Burns Supper all these years. Luckily, the internet exists, so I was able to fill this gap in my education with (hopefully) accurate information. Robert Burns lived, loved and drank in Scotland during the late 1700's. He wrote a huge body of work, containing poems both sentimental and satirical. I believe along the way he also fathered about 17 children (and never married). After his untimely death at 37 his friends began a yearly gathering to celebrate his life and works. The dinner features what might as well be Scottish national dish, Haggis, and an almost absurd amount of whiskey. Poetry is read. Songs are sung. All rejoice in the memory of a debauched eighteenth century poet who, as I learned, had a crappy day job just like the rest of us.

Fast forward to New York City, 2011. As might be expected, a group of 30-something artists had eagerly assembled for this august event. The traditional aspects of the dinner were there – the presentation of the haggis. The poem to the haggis. The cutting of the haggis. Haggis played a really big part here (luckily, my friends made a delicious vegetarian haggis. I have eaten real haggis in Scotland. I am a very adventurous eater. I could not finish it. There were sheeps' stomachs involved. Vegetarian haggis is definitely the way to go.) Of course, some of the evening was a bit foggy, but I believe that the memory of Robert Burns was toasted, as were a great many other things. We toasted the lads. We toasted the lassies. And at the end of the night, we each presented a work written by or inspired by Robert Burns. As I said, the man was quite (artistically) prolific so we experienced everything from love poems to humorous ballads to dancing babies. Two people even decided to pictorially riff on the “colorful” titles of Burns' poems. Needless to say, this was the NC-17 part of the evening. All in all I left the party feeling very full, a bit tipsy, extremely well-cultured, and quite curious about food traditions.

And as luck would have it, only a week later I was fortunate enough to be exposed to another culinary cultural event. This time, the locale of origin was Canada, Newfoundland to be exact. At a multi-birthday party (I believe that there was a total of 7 people celebrating their respective birthdays? Apparently February is a really popular time to have babies). One of the attendees decided that he could give the birthday boys and girls no better present than an initiation to the Newfoundland club. Yes, that's right, he made all of them official Newfoundlanders. In order to do this the group had to be “screeched in”. The ritual involved the drinking of darkly terrifying rum (known as Screech), the kissing of a dead fish, and the reciting of a dirty limerick. While it may not have involved haggis, I can't help but think that Robert Burns would have approved. Alas, I was not able to be “screeched in” that evening, so I continue my urban roamings, hoping to find even more truly icky culinary traditions to adopt as my own. I open this discussion to you, readers – what bizarre food rituals have you partaken in? And how do you suggest we organize parties around them?

Brunches I have Bested

Before we explore that magical realm between breakfast and lunch, I think a shout-out is in order. And that shout-out goes to Singapore. Not only does this country have a fascinating cuisine and culture, but they also have one resident who, at the very least, viewed this blog (perhaps even read some of it!) So thank you, Singapore. I hope to someday explore your culinary delights. And thanks also to the lone Singapore resident who decided to find out just how hungry I am. Please do stop by again sometime. And now, on to the food.

Submitted for your approval: The Berlin Brunch. A buffet extravaganza ranging from sausage and eggs to spicy middle eastern vegetables to deep fried....stuff. And the requisite bucket of chicken wings. Since real Berliners don't sleep on Saturday nights, I guess the only activity they're fit for on Sundays is an all day eating orgy. This is why Berlin is my kind of town.

In my arrogance I thought that after Berlin I had seen all that brunch has to offer. That, however, was before brunch at the Petersons', which I experienced earlier this month. First sign that I was entering a whole new Brunch realm? Brunch was served at 6pm. Brilliant! Do you realize I could have comfortably slept until 5pm and still made it over there in time for the candy-coated goodness? Had the promise of a Petersons' Brunch been on the horizon I certainly would have made it through the all-night David Bowie tribute last weekend.

The crux of the Peterson Brunch is surely their perfect balance of sugar and salt. You have your basics like bacon and scrambled eggs (and- oh yes!- the bacon was cooked to order. Was that a bit of drool that fell on my keyboard? No matter. On with the story.) This protein staple was contrasted with silver dollar pancake sandwiches. Deep fried silver dollar pancake sandwiches. Deep fried silver dollar Pancake sandwiches filled with nutella. Do you see how much trouble I'm in here?

And that's not even the extent of it. There was deep fried challah french toast with powdered sugar. And carmelized bananas. But really, the pinnacle of the brunch for me was the brown-sugar glazed spicy italian sausage. I'm not sure I have the words to describe it. Its as if some divine being came down and elevated ground meat to a level never before known to man, and perhaps never to be experienced again. And as if all this weren't enough, there were homemade chipwiches for dessert.

True, this was quite a bit of food. I did, in fact, suffer from a carb coma for most of the night (and had to get my arteries cleaned out immediately upon waking up the next day). But ultimately that was a good, even necessary thing, because it made me insensible to the pain of the Petersons' youngest child bashing me in the face with a Thomas the Tank Engine Train. Instead, I rode a blissful sugar-fat wave, all while watching the elder Peterson child give an impromptu dance recital. Life is good. Brunch with the Petersons makes it even better.

Cupcakes, Thai food, and Friends – a love letter, if you will

Some have called me an over-booker. They say that it's unreasonable to fill one weekend with an out of town sleep-over, kiddie playtime, girls night, eleven-dy hours of work, and a late night David Bowie birthday concert tribute. I say, how am I to choose from all the amazing options offered by my talented and hilarious friends? Of course, as I sit here incubating a killer cold on my day off, I wonder about the wisdom of my choices. Not that I would choose differently, mind you. I'm just wondering whether I should admit my foolishness or not. I think you should be the judge.

Let's start with the Long Island sleep-over. I remember back in high school one of my teachers staunchly maintaining that, regardless of the bonds we had formed during our school years, none of us would be friends later in life. Well I have a wealth of childhood connections to prove him wrong. Take my friend Tovah. Our friendship has lasted so long that she now has a child the same age that we were when we met. There is something so special about spending time with these Tovah-hybrids, watching their ever-evolving personalities, and their riotous games that involve dressing up like pumpkins and running into things. True, you don't sleep so much around these adorable little munchkins, but that's a small price to pay for non-stop high-jinks and butternut squash soup. And incidentally, that soup is to die for. Velvety, creamy, with just the right amount of sweetness. The perfect antidote to a child-hangover.

The next day we seamlessly transitioned into girls night in Queens. My friends and I have often talked about the “friendship renaissance” that took place right around the time we all hit 30. I have no doubt that it will go down as the highlight of our respective decades. With ties spanning elementary school, middle school, high school, college, and post-collegiate sublet situations, we have formed a group that guarantees entertainment and new perspective at every gathering. The theme on Saturday was game night and take out. We were a bit foolish to believe that the game part would happen. With all eight of us there (the only one missing lives in LA, so we gave her a pass) we had far more important things to focus on: brilliant tales of bribery; family planning strategies (for example, who will volunteer to adopt me so that I can get EU citizenship?); helping each other cope with both the exhilarating and mournful changes that just seem to keep piling up as we age. Okay, there may have been a few moments when the conversation turned to sex and giggling, but we really spent most of our time solving the world's problems.

Of course, not even the problems of the world could keep us from food. While we weren't able to figure out a workable plan to obtain food from Sripraphai (arguably the best Thai food in NYC), we did find an acceptable replacement in Yum Yum, the new Thai place up the street from Girls Night Central. Oh the curry that was had. I personally prefer green curry that burns my face off, and while this failed to even singe my cheek, it did provide spicy, coconut-y satisfaction. And the tofu/mixed veggie option was top notch too. There was a variety of vegetables, instead of merely a lone piece of broccoli amid a sea of bamboo shoots. Add to this the crispy duck that I surreptitiously poached from Cory's plate, and I was golden. A true culinary highlight, however, were the homemade red velvet cupcakes. Oh Erin. You have found the cupcake corner of my heart. In contrast to my obsession with all things savory, I am strangely reluctant to indulge in the sweeter things in life. Give me a plate of cheese fries for dessert and I will be happy. I can easily pass up the ice cream course. But every now and then I am presented with a dessert that makes me rethink my strongly held allegiance to the savory offerings of this world. This was one of those occasions. The fluffiness of the cake! The perfectly proportioned frosting! I had planned on taking one bite before passing it on to a more sugary-inclined friend. Instead, I came out of a dessert swoon moments later with the cupcake wrapper pressed to my mouth and guilty look on my face.

Somewhere around the whiskey course we did in fact manage to play a few hands of Apples to Apples. And perhaps I should have regretted that a tiny bit as I made my way through the following work day that started at 10am and lasted until 10:30pm. But really, how could I be expected to leave? There are many things I most likely will never have in my life (wealth, fame, health insurance – if the Republicans have their way). But I have people in my life so continuously fascinating, who possess such tremendous hearts and wild spirits. The list extends far beyond the people I saw this weekend. I feel that I have somehow been lucky enough to be surrounded by an embarrassment of friendship riches. And if I'm to truly live up to what has been bestowed upon me by fate, or the cosmos, or whatever, I'm going to have to overbook. Or quit my job. But the former seems a bit more realistic. In fact, my only regret is that I couldn't extend the weekend even farther – I finally hit the wall at 1:30am, at the David Bowie Birthday Bash. True, I had seen a hilarious cover band, and some astonishingly semi-dressed drunk people, but I missed a performance by Maria – the hardest working woman in the David Bowie Tribute Band Universe. And also my favorite rock star. Since quitting my job is not an option, I'm clearly going to have to learn how to function on less sleep. It's really the only way.

My Dream Kitchen, or, The Saga of the Dutch Oven

Clearly I love to eat. But, unlike many New Yorkers, I also love to cook. Some may even say that I get carried away with my cooking. Now admittedly, for Christmas Eve I did open the meal with garlic roasted shrimp and a red onion-jalapeño cocktail sauce, and followed that up with classic fondue with roasted potatoes, mushrooms, and asparagus. And I guess my New Year's Eve spread could be described as a bit excessive - greek lamb meatballs, zucchini fritters, tzatziki, gougères, bacon-wrapped scallops, endives with spiced nuts, gorgonzola and honey, and of course the ubiquitous artichoke dip (I'm not really sure why this has become a favorite, but there seems to be no escaping it now). And that's just the stuff that was homemade. I know how to make judicious use of frozen hors d'oeuvres and a few blocks of good cheese.

So, um, what I'm saying is, I love to cook. Love it. And therefore I need a workhorse of a kitchen. This is no small feat in NYC. All of my apartment searches have included “functional kitchen” as a deal-breaker. And the current kitchen I have is nothing to sneeze at (again, by Manhattan standards). I have a full-sized oven and fridge, reasonable cupboard space, and enough counter space to get the job done. But still, a girl can dream, right? And I dream of shelving. A lot of shelving. A substantial cutting board. A sharp knife. Maybe just a teensy bit more counter space, for when I'm really feeling extravagant. But most of all, I dream of a dutch oven.

I've had my eye on a good dutch oven for years now. In fact, every time the temperature drops, and I get the urge to stew, roast, and braise, I find myself once again salivating over ads for Le Creuset. But here's the thing – over the years Le Creuset has continued to be seriously expensive, and I have continued not to really make serious money. So I've set my sights lower – I'll take Lodge. Hell, I'll even take some annoying Mario Batali vanity cookware shit (but not Paula Deen. NEVER Paula Deen). And yet these still all manage to be out of my price range. So, dear readers, I put this question to you: Where can I get a good, enameled dutch oven with a tight-fitting lid? It has to be enameled, for the magical ragu sauce that I will someday make in it. And the tight-fitting lid is also essential so that we don't have a repeat of the great Berlin Pot Roast Debacle of 2010.

Join me in my quest. As added incentive, anyone who comments will receive an invitation to my virgin dutch oven endeavor – week long cassoulet. Yeah, you're going to need to leave those dieting resolutions at the door. And if cassoulet's not your thing, then just take satisfaction in the knowledge of making a young-ish New York Girl's dream come true. While I'm sure I'll never to be able to figure out a solution to the urban grilling conundrum, at least I'll be able to to cook meat for a really long time at a low temperature. And really, what more can a girl ask for?

Well, I guess I wouldn't really mind a decorative chalk board either. Just saying.

Holiday Gluttony

As a child, holidays for me were totally about the presents. (doubly so, what with having a birthday on New Year's day) I realize that this is fairly common, but I was the kind of ungrateful child who took her gifts way too seriously. I was the type of child who would hurl a pair of socks back at the poor relative who dared to give me a non-toy item. Had youtube existed back in the stone age of my youth, there would most definitely be widely available evidence of me throwing the book my Uncle gave me for my 4^th birthday to the floor in disgust. (Mind you, this book ended up becoming one of my favorites, and said Uncle was subsequently forced to read it to me ad nauseam. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished).

In the wisdom of my years I have realized that such material goods, such child's play-things are not what the holidays are really about. No, I see clearly now that the holidays about one thing, and one thing only – food. It should come as no surprise then that I've become a connoisseur of the holiday party. This was a banner year for holiday party food. From office lunch, to sit down dinner, to cocktail party extravaganza, I have braved multiple transit systems to sample the tastiest dishes that my friends and acquaintances had to offer. And as I write this from the comfort of my draw-string, stretchy pants, I have no regrets.

One of the most delightful discovers this year came at the company lunch at Rosa Mexicano. I've been to Rosa Mexicano twice previously – once for an awkward work function, and once on what turned out to be a hideous date. So while I know that the food is technically good, I have some bitter associations with this fine establishment. That, however, was before the fish tacos. Let's start off by discussing the presentation – each order came with its own mini cast-iron skillet, so I immediately felt like a superstar (isn't that part of being a superstar? Individual cast iron skillets?) The fish itself was covered in a citrus-chili rub and then seared in the aforementioned pan. Various accoutrements were provided on the side – chorizo and red bean chili, fresh corn aioli, and a pile of absurdly delicious habanero-lime marinated onions. At the first bite of tender, flakey fish the chaos of the room melted away and I found myself transported to an island paradise of flavor. Rosa Mexicano, all is forgiven. And while I know that I'll never be able to afford to frequent you without an office-supplied subsidy, you will always hold a special place in my heart.

Before discussing my next culinary adventure, I must make an apology. In my previous post I unfairly maligned the quality of cheese available in New York. I was momentarily swayed by the exoticism of foreign cheese, and in my enthusiasm I overlooked the crucial contributions of my childhood cheese supplier - the Grande Dame of Asharoken, the Purple Empress of Long Island. It was in her beach house that my cheese palate first became refined. The saga blue! The fresh mozzarella! Oh the cheeses she bestowed upon me. In her benevolence she forgave my slight, and extended an invitation to Christmas dinner. Of course, a fine cheese selection was present, notably including perhaps the most buttery and beguiling brie of all time. She merely smiled contentedly as I fell into a dairy-induced delirium. But so much more awaited us. Let's discuss the homemade spanakopita, shall we? Yes, we've all had the frozen pastry triangles and the ubiquitous Greek diner spinach pie. This was an entirely different matter. Like any good marriage, the flavors in this spanakopita united in harmony, yet also confidently asserted their own identities. For example, the dill. Yes, its technically a supportive player, but in this dish it sang its own aria.

I haven't even touched upon the glories of the trout dip, or the sinful, velvety bœuf bourguignon that awaited us for dinner. But lest you think that my only obsession is food, I'd like to share another highlight of my holiday season – La Fanciulla del West at the Metropolitan Opera. These days my musical tastes run more towards the angst-y and the German, but my initial love of opera was sparked by that master of schmaltz, Giacomo Puccini. I can still listen rapturously to La bohème with (almost) no skepticism about the love-at-first-sight story line, or the curious fact that, despite shacking up together for a few months, Rudolfo somehow never gets so much as a cold from the tuberculosis-ridden Mimi. Seriously – was he wearing a surgical mask the whole time? Did they have Purell in those days? No matter. There's beautiful music and a heart-rending story. That's usually all I need. Not so with La Fanciulla del West. The name translates to “The Girl of the Golden West”, and it's about a strong, independent woman living by herself amongst a group of hardened miners in gold-rush California. The opera opens with bar fights, whiskey, gambling – and a touching aria sung by a tearful miner about how much he misses his mother. This being the wild west, you assume that at the very least he's going to get the crap kicked out of him. You certainly don't expect the drunken rabble to put together a collection on the spot to send him back to his sweet old mama. But this is the Italian version of the old west, and that's exactly what happens. In fact, [spoiler alert!] no one dies at all in this opera! At least no one crucial. Instead we get inspiration and redemption. Whatever. I go to the opera for the sex and violence. However, there were some glorious melodies (so glorious, in fact, that a certain modern-day composer ripped one of them off blatantly for his wildly successful musical). There was also Marcello Giordani. That man was throwing down the high notes with an authority and ease thrilling to hear. Sure, he talked about his mother a lot too, but when it's that high above the staff you can't really figure out what he's saying anyway.

All in all, a satisfying holiday season, in both musical and culinary terms. Resolutions for the New Year? More cheap-ass food in Queens. I would resolve to find more realistic opera plots, but why set myself up for failure? Happy New Year, dear readers!

An Ode to Cheese

Its no secret that the genesis of this blog can be found in some emails I sent to friends during my recent trip to Germany. I spent seven weeks living in Berlin ostensibly for opera auditions, but truthfully to gorge myself on the wonderfully cheap food and art that Berlin has to offer. I feel its only appropriate that my inaugural blog post be dedicated to the stinky delights of that most moldy of food sources - cheese.

Cheese. Fromage. Käse. I don't know who first said himself, "Gee, I bet if I curdled this spoiled milk and let it sit in a cave for a few years until it smells like a dirty sock it would taste frickin' awesome." But I do know that this person has my eternal thanks. Yes, I am a cheese addict. And I'm talking the real McCoy here. None of this cheese-product-velveeta-shit. I have been known to utter the phrase, "I would rather die that be lactose-free". In other words, give me cheese or give me death. As a resident of New York City I know of any number of dealers who can satisfy my cheese fix. But when you want the good stuff - I mean high quality, artisanal cheese, made according to standards that would make the USDA blush - well then you have to cross the pond.

One highlight of my cheese extravaganza occurred at a Christmas fair in Berlin. Remember when I said that one of Berlin's attractions for me was it affordability? Yes, well, I did all that I could to thwart that affordability at every turn. In a city full of free Christmas markets selling a variety of reasonabley priced items, I visited the only one that charged a fee. And of course, once past the Christmas market militia I couldn't afford any of the handcrafted leather sculptures or decorative wooden....blocks (I'm not kidding. There was really a guy selling them for upwards of 250 Euro). What I could do, however, was eat.

A word on the German Christmas market, or Weihnachtsmarkt: Its kind of like a winter barbeque. A foodapollooza, if you will. You've got your wurst, your roasted nuts, your flammkuchen, your soups, your chocolate, your stollen, your baumkuchen. Depending on the neighborhood you've also probably got an assortment of Turkish delights. And let's not forget the many stands offering various types of hot alcohol. What's not to love, really? In fact, why beat around the bush? I went to that market to eat, dammit. And eat I did.

At first I did a quick round to get my bearings. You don't want to give yourself away to just any roasted nut purveyor, right? You want it to be special. Also, if I didn't plan carefully I was liable to fill up on standards like bratwurst before reaching the main attraction. So I waited, and my patience paid off in the form of Raclette.

As with many other great cheese ideas, it all started in Switzerland. Some medieval farmers took a wheel of cheese named Raclette, toasted it over a fire, scraped it onto some potatoes, and the dish (also called Raclette) was born. Perhaps you scoff, saying, "What could be so special about toasted cheese? I throw some cheddar on bread in the toaster oven all the time." Well, to that I say you're a cheese heathen who is going to burn in the fiery, lactose-intolerent depths of hell. Raclette is so simple, and yet so right. The flavor bears a relationship to Emmentaler or Gruyère, but perhaps with less sweetness and a bit more substance. This is a serious cheese. No frivolous dairy here. The Berlin Raclette stand was run by two men, one to scrape the cheese and the other to season it. The wheel of cheese itself was cut in half with each side strapped to a rotating device that would toast the top of one and then deliver it for scraping while the other side got its share. This warm bubbly goodness was offered on either potatoes or fresh bread. And then, because its Germany, ham is scattered on top (The ham isn't truly that essential. I think it's just German law that everything must include a portion of ham. Seriously. Even the ice cream.)

So here I am, with a plate of melted, toasty cheese. And I pretty much slather my face with it. I am exstatic over its gooey deliciousness. It seems that the only way to complete this experience is to indulge in a steaming hot cup of Glühwein (mulled red wine which I'm fairly certain contains hallucinagenic properties). I go over and get the the most expensive cup of Glühwein ever, and that's not even including the cup deposit. But I don't care. I'm riding a Christmas market high. I'm enjoying the trashy pop renditions of carols. I'm watching people dressed up as bears and christmas trees wander the crowd begging for change. Mind you, I have no idea if those men were real or Glühwein induced, but who cares? I'll take a trippy Berlin Christmas market over a tee-totalling Bryant Park one any day. Moral of the story? We need more outdoor drinking in New York. And cheese. We always need more cheese.

Tune in for the next installment of "Hungry Like the Wolf"- 101 NYC Christmas Parties I Have Crashed, or, How I Ate My Way Through the Holidays.