HLTW: Mission Statement

Hello devoted readers!  Yes, I’m talking to the 2.5 of you out there who still visit this page in the hope that I might eventually post something.  Anything.  Perhaps even just a mention that once, this week, I ate.  And found it satisfactory.  And that is all.

Well, I have so much more in store.

As all (or most of you) know, I’m packing my bags and running away from home.  I am fulfilling my teenage dream of immersing myself in Asian culture (um, to my high school friends – I know what you’re thinking.  So you don’t really need to say it, ‘k?).  I suppose I could have actually learned about these languages and cultures before throwing myself into the deep end, but no matter.  It’s happening.  On Monday, as a matter of fact. I have a ticket and a passport, and I’m not afraid to use it.

Of course, I’m afraid of just about everything else.  These days I’m afraid of everything, all the time.  I had a conversation with a 22 year old recent college graduate who’s still living with her parents.  She was considering taking this plunge as well, but she passed it up because she was too scared and, frankly, the idea is kind of absurd to begin with.  So apparently this is the kind of thing you do at 34, not 22.  But really, let’s be honest.  You only do this kind of thing at 34 when you’re blonde, thin, and have a book deal.  And swear a “vow of celibacy”, of course.  And then magically find a husband!!!  Because you weren’t looking!  And that’s when it happens!  Because you have to love yourself first!  And lots of other clichéd affirmations!  Or some garbage like that. 

Yeah, this isn’t that kind of story.  Definitely not Eat Pray Love.  More like Eat, Drink, Eat.  Or just Eat, Eat, Eat.  But just know up front, there will be no religious revelations.  And no marriage.  And no book deal.  Just a crazy woman spending four months in Asia.

Oh, and there are also going to pictures.  Really this time.

So here’s the deal:  My computer, my magical backpack and I will be embarking on this adventure in just a few days.  My plan is to post a couple of times a week, assuming that I don’t get kidnapped by pirates (in that case I’ll have to limit my posts to once a week.)  I would love it if you would all stop by.  Read up, leave comments, tell me you think I’m ridiculous, whatever.  But I would like the next four months to be more dialogue, less soliloquy. 

Did I mention that I’m heading to Taipei, home of soup dumplings and tasty night markets?  And then traveling through Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam?  Yeah.  I’m doing that.  So sit back and get hungry.

The Post in which I declare my passionate love for Indian Road Cafe

Once, I lived in dark times.  I lived in a land with no fancy cheeses, no exceptionally tasty and cheap restaurants.  Yes, this was Inwood of the mid-aughts.  Don’t get me wrong!  There were plenty of things to love about the neighborhood!  Beautiful parkland, lovely neighbors, and an apartment big enough to house a petting zoo.  But I was coming from 7 train Queens, home to myriad culinary delights.   On an average night the question was, “Japanese, Turkish, Romanian, Mexican, Indian, Thai, or Tibetan?”  In my new neighborhood there was pub…or pub (or Mofongo, which I am still incredibly remiss for not trying).  Also, the food was kind of expensive (hence my sad neglect of Mofongo).  I wanted my food cheap, like my apartment.  And for the love of god, a girl can only eat so many burgers. 

Then it arrived – Indian Road Café.  There are so many things to love about this place, but let’s start with its creation.  During the planning phase the owner actually posted on the community website to find out what the residents wanted in a restaurant!  What did we need?  What were we missing?  Really, who does that?  Who creates a restaurant with the community in mind these days?  Apparently the community needed a place with a great wine and beer selection.  And great food.  And a wonderful staff.  And FREE WIFI!  That’s right, I’m talking to you, Lower East Side.  What the hell is up with this, “charging-for-wifi-even-though-you’ve-already-paid-for-your-meal” crap?  Or limiting wifi to one hour on the weekends?  Lower East Side, I thought you specifically catered to the kind of scruffy 30-somethings that need free internet access and alcohol.  But oooooooohhhhhh noooooooooo, you’re too cool to give us free internet access now.  But, um, thanks for still giving us alcohol.  We’ll take what we can get.

So, you know how Inwood apartments are so big that you can fit multiple families and ponies in each one?  Yeah, IRC is cut from that same mold.  Let’s take a tour, shall we?  Upon entering we see the coffee bar with freshly ground, French pressed caffeinated beverages.  The pastries are from places like Balthazar and Arthur Avenue, because if you’re going to get heart disease at breakfast you’d best do it right.  To the left of the coffee bar are the tables and the grown-up bar.  The seating is casual, comfortable, and apparently from the set of The Sopranos.  Local artwork adorns the walls, because the people at IRC care about the locals and their low-paying aspirations.  And the grown-up bar – oh, that has become a thing of beauty.  The beer and wine selection has always been top-notch, but now they have expanded to obscure whiskeys and inventive cocktails.  The bartenders are awesome, knowledgeable, and have noble French bulldogs.  And they make cocktails with bacon.  BACON, people!!!  Thank you, IRC.  Thank you for making your drinks with bacon.  And smelling like bacon.  And serving me bacon.  And…bacon.

Just past the grown-up bar we have the coffee corner.  This is a wide area for people like me who can’t be trusted to work diligently in our own palatial abodes.  We need to go to other vast real estate expanses, where we will be served liquor, bacon, and inspiration.  Naturally one cannot sit in the coffee corner enveloped by the smell of bacon without ordering some food.  Here are some meals from IRC that have made my toes curl:

-          Duck lasagna with in-house ricotta and Arthur Avenue pasta: The noodles said no.  The ricotta said yes.  The duck got up on the table and mounted me.

-          Bourbon-Blood Orange Braised Pork Belly:  Yes!  Pork Belly!  Caramelized, melting, seductive.  Pickled piquillo peppers.  Spicy, sweet, and dangerous (like me).

-          Wild Mushroom & Butternut Squash Wellington: To be enjoyed when you’re only feeling a little bit sinful, and want to express that sinfulness with goat cheese and fresh herbs.  There’s something about the dish that always makes me feel both virtuous and satisfied, which I would dare say is a rare thing. 

-          Pan Roasted Hudson Valley Duck Breast: There will be a bit of dissent on this one (yeah, Emily B., I’m talking to you).  Yes, there is some toughness.  But dammit, I got a steak knife and everything was okay.  The crisp skin was perfect, with just the right layer of subcutaneous fat.  And the cranberry-orange reduction delicately sliced through the richness of the meat.

-          Stuffed Black Angus Filet Mignon: Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what to say at this point.  The rare meat melted in my mouth.  The potato gratin was slap-your-grandma-good (compliments to Jeff T. for that line).  The roasted red peppers and fontina could have overpowering or gloppy, but they weren’t because this is Indian Road Café.  They were textured and balanced, in a way that I wish my life may someday be. 

-          The random pork chop special with: A name I can’t remember, a tart sauce of shallots and mustard, and mashed sweet potatoes.  Once again, I point to the caramelization.  I truly feel that caramelization will make or break your pork, and oh baby do they ever make it.

Do you understand what I’m saying here people?  The food is spectacular.  And let’s say you don’t want a fancy night out, but just a simple sandwich?  IRC will provide, with Vegan Bahn Mi, or Cuban Paninos, or the only Club Sandwich I’ll ever truly love….

Look, I know that those of you living in Brooklyn had this in the early 80’s.  But I missed that train.  I’ve got Inwood, and I love it.  And this is merely the tip of the gluttonous iceberg.  But if I were to, say, write a WB show about women in their 30’s with little money and even fewer prospects, I would set much of it at IRC.  And some of us wouldn’t be wearing underwear.  You know who you are. 

Of course, the WB would really only pick this up if were 17, supernatural, and not wearing underwear.  But I still think we could work in IRC.  Now get your ass up to Inwood and order.   

Shabu Shabu Ding Dong

Clearly I enjoy cooking. I make my own bread.  I’ve spent a week making cassoulet, complete with duck confit and existential yearning.  I never really question why I love cooking so much until I’m faced with a person who doesn’t like to cook.  These are people I will never quite understand.  For me, cooking is creativity.  And, frankly, it’s cheap creativity.  Hell, I could make Lobster Thermidor for a crowd with a caviar appetizer and it will still cost less than new headshots.  (Fucking headshots.  Why must you always cost at least $500?) Also, no auditions are involved.  In fact, perhaps cooking is really my way of making art in a chaotic, absurd world.  I decide what to make, and invite people to eat it.  Maybe it’s all about control.  Maybe I’m horribly type A and finally fulfilling the requirements of my Western Astrological sign (the ever boring and practical Capricorn).  I’d prefer to think that I’m a fiery ball of untamed sensuality that must create and indulge in her creations whenever possible, therefore fulfilling the requirements of my Chinese Zodiac sign (the ever-seductive Fire Snake).  But really, as long as no mistakes my passion for cooking as some sort of shout out to domesticity I’m okay. 

Apparently, I like to cook even when I’m going out to eat – hence, my glorious night of shabu shabu.  I wish I could take credit for this.  I wish I could say that I did an epic NYC hotpot survey and emerged with the ultimate spot for steaming vats of Chinese goodness.  But I can’t.  Instead, I relied on the wise counsel of my test prep colleague Kristyn.  This was a good decision. Because without her I may never have experienced Minni’s Shabu Shabu in Flushing, with her and our co-worker Ed.   First of all, the concept of shabu shabu is wonderful.  You get a pot of flavorful broth (at Minni’s it’s one pot per person!  Oh the joy!  I made mine kimchee) , and a plate of vegetables and assorted savory delights. Then you order a plate of the meat of your choice – in my case shrimp and beef (go big or go home, right?)  Then you proceed to make your customized dish by dipping delicate pieces of vegetable and protein into this steaming cauldron.  You eat the tasty morsels one by one, and then, at the end of the meal you’ve created a rich, complex soup to enjoy.  During the meal the staff comes around with huge kettles of piping hot broth for those who need a refill. 

But perhaps the true star of the meal is the sauce bar: Soy sauce, sesame oil, leek oil, minced garlic, barbeque sauce, hot sauce, sweet and hot sauce, peanut sauce, scallions, Chinese parsley, and…and…please excuse me, I just passed out on the floor from sheer remembered delight.  Okay.  Feeling a bit better now.  That’s what wine and Monty Python tunes will do for you.  So, this is how it works: go up to the bar, grab multiple cups, and make amazing sauce combinations.  For example, the Andi: soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic, scallions, and parsley.  Yes.  I know that this is essentially dumpling sauce. But I made it, dammit!  By myself!  At a sauce bar!  My creative spirit will not be denied!  Also, it tasted really good.  Also, I’ve made cassoulet.  So I am officially exempt from all accusations of laziness.  Yeah, I’m gonna milk that meal for all it’s worth.

So dinner was wonderful, spicy, interactive, everything I look for in a night out with friends.  How do you follow this up?  Dive bar.  After we had recovered from our hotpot commas, Kristin, Ed and I repaired to the Upper West Side and the Ding Dong Lounge.  Let’s discuss the Ding Dong Lounge.  It is, most definitely a dive bar, at least in aspiration.  I do wonder, however, if it is a dive bar in actuality.   True, the bar is dark and cave-like with a pool table.  And yes, it was filled with tattooed women in pleather leggings.  But the whisky.  It was $8.  That’s just not a dive bar price.  I want my whisky cheap, like my women.   Or something like that.  My verdict is still out on the Ding Dong Lounge.  I think that I really can’t judge it until I’ve lost at least an afternoon, if not a full day in its subterranean-esque depths.  My current favorite dive bar?  Irish Eyes.  Yes, it has a pool table, and it also has bags of empty Bud Light cans, a kitschy white stucco bar, $4.50 whiskeys, and a dog.   And a bartender with huge hair and a leopard print shirt who understands buy-backs.  Look, I’m not saying I didn’t like the Ding Dong Lounge. I’m just saying that dive bars should be a lot more cheap and depressing than we’ve come to expect.  Except in a good way. 

Oh what the hell, let’s just have Chinese soup. 

White Nights, Vodka-Filled Days

As some of may have noticed, there’s a new addition here at Hungry Like the Wolf – I’ve finally posted the Berlin Archives.  For those of you not in the know, these are email updates that I sent during my German “audition tour” a year  ago.  I put that in quotes because what it really (d)evolved into was a manic gorging of epic, Teutonic proportions.  What with being based in Berlin, and being excessively irresponsible, I found myself on a mission to absorb all the city had to offer, every day,  as long as it happened after 11am.  My captive email audience was so supportive that I decided to create this really exciting blog which has little purpose and no pictures (and to the 25 of you who somehow continue to enjoy this site, thank you!  I promise you more of the same, and even lamer graphics.)

I fell deeply in love with Berlin.  The rain-soaked streets.   The lack of heating.  Sunrise at 10:00am, sunset at 4:15pm.  Terrorist döner kebab.  I saw some incredibly exciting theater, and ate SUCH.  GOOD.  FOOD.  But my first love is New York.  I still remember the childhood thrill I experienced when traveling in by train to visit my Dad, and I stepped out of Penn Station and saw the coarse, grey concrete and steel rising all around me.  For some reason that’s right for me.  But then again, I’m the kind of woman who joins the smokers outside of bars not for the nicotine contact high, but because I can’t sit in one place for too long.  My internal rhythm is synced with the Big Apple.  Its pitch resonates in my breast.  So isn’t it about time that I gave as much of myself to NYC as I did to Berlin?

Strangely enough, my recent outings have been largely Russian.  I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened.  You see, the problem with New Yorkers is that we live amidst an embarrassment of riches.  There are so many diverse activities taking place everywhere, at all times, that it can be hard to actually focus on one thing.  Also, that one thing is usually taking place very, very far away from me because I live in Upstate Manhattan.  So yes, I know that Brooklyn is amazing and hip and much cooler than I am, and that if I work hard maybe I’ll someday get my learners’ permit for Brooklyn bona fides, but until then I have to endure a 12 hour subway ride, crawl through the mud, and ride a donkey in order to get there.  But when I read about a celebration of Russian nights at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden complete with Russian culinary delights, poetry readings, live accordion, period garb, and vodka I immediately saddled up Bessie and made my down there.

Three days later I finally arrived at the event.  It was…strange.  Kind of what I imagine a Russian wedding combined with a Russian high school prom might look like.  The greenhouse in which the event was held was beautiful – the blue-grey early dusk sky really highlighted my Slavic sadness, and the twinkle-lights did of course make me see both the beauty and pointlessness of life.* There was the promised accordion player, who I kind of pissed off by implying that her music was actually Polish, ‘cause you know, I’m an expert.   The poetry “reading” - which consisted of one poem – was a bit of a letdown.  But dammit, I enjoyed the food.  There was a huge table of assorted pickled vegetables, as well as tuxedo-ed waiters passing the following savory items:  baked potato bites with caviar and crème fraiche; borscht topped with a dill cream sauce; and sirloin meatballs that my friends and I stalked for the entire night.  Seriously.  A member of our group was actually sent on reconnaissance missions to hunt down the meatball man and drag him over to our little cocktail table where the rest of us were downing the drink of the evening – vodka with a ginger simple syrup and black pepper!  I loved the black pepper/vodka combination.  It was a drink that both punched you in the face and grabbed your tongue with burning pincers.   But then again, I also have some very questionable culinary proclivities (I really thought peanut butter and bacon sandwiches would have caught on by now).    While the artistic offerings might not have met my expectations, the costumes most certainly did.  Russian military men hob-nobbed with kerchiefed peasants while Anna Karenina did her best to avoid all on-coming vehicles.  I regretted my lack of muff, but hoped that my timeless faux- buttoned boots acted as some kind of redemption.

This was not the end of my Russian adventures.  I also spent some time recently with Russian Satanists.  Or, rather, with a former Satanist/member of the Kennedy clan who used to have a slightly evil Russian guru.  This is what I’m talking about!  This is New York!  We have, far and away, the best conspiracy theorists.  And Satanists.  We clearly have the best Satanists.  Mind you, I did not actually know that I was going to an event featuring Russian Satanists, but I most definitely knew that I was going to an event focusing on Russian spiritualists.  I have now attended not one, but two lectures on the intersection of Russians and Tibetan philosophy.  The first one was kind of a lark.  Ryan and I were looking for an evening activity, and the Rubin Museum had a very affordable lecture about a Russian Spiritualist we shall henceforth call Madame B.  This was preceded by a tour of the Rubin’s new Tibetan comic book exhibit.  Really people.  For $12 tell me how you could possibly pass this up (incidentally, who the hell is funding this place? Richard Gere?).  I will say that we got so much more than we paid for.  People are, um, shall we say, passionate about Madame B, and they voiced this passion quite loudly.  She is apparently either the world’s savior or the Antichrist.  And she had a pet baboon.  Or something like that.  Look, the woman travelled the world, started a philosophical foundation, and met Gandhi.  Along the way she may have (accidentally) predicted the assassinations of two Kennedys and MLK.  Or maybe it was all lost in translation.  The important thing is, the woman went far beyond the constraints of her place in society and I have to respect that, even if it involved virgin sacrifice. 

I don’t know that I can tell full story of the Kennedy Satanist, because I’m afraid of dead chickens showing up in front of my apartment.  Let’s move on.  The following week I gleefully attended a lecture at the Rubin discussing the Russian spiritualist Nicholas Roerich who received information from his wife’s astral guru (yeah, she channeled this particular spiritual leader) informing him that the unity of Communism and Tibetan Buddhism would somehow bring about the promised land.  Supposedly Roerich was also involved in a plot with Stravinsky, Nijinsky, and Diaghilev to incite spiritual chaos via the premiere of Le sacre du printemps (their intention was to hopefully bring about WWI, which would then lead to this promised land.  Kind of.  I’m still a bit murky on the details).  But what I want to really talk about is funding.  At both of these lectures a wise person thought to ask, “How the hell did these people afford their spiritual pilgrimages and subsequent printed Philosophical dailies?  The answer?  Patronage.  Fuck!  Why does it always come down to patronage?  Do you know what I would do with some robust patronage?   I would mount an incredible production of “The Seven Deadly Sins” (in the original fucking key).  I would create a graduate program that mandated interdisciplinary work instead of this outdated concept of classical specialization.  And, yes I would also travel to India, where I would sweat, vomit, and found a religion based on Food, Art, and Sex.  No, it would not be called the 1960’s.  It would be called sSelasophy, and it would rule.  And I would rule.  Until I was imprisoned for fraud.  But at least there would be no cool-aid as far as the eye could see.  Seriously.  Anyone who would like to be considered for patronage may contact me at moneyfornothingandyourchicksforfree_at_ emailscams.com.  The first ten people to donate get absolutely nothing.  Further donors get the satisfaction of knowing that they are now on a bandwagon. 

*During my 20’s I briefly dated a Russian man.  We called him “The Hot Russian”.  One day he told me that he had started smoking again because he realized that life had no meaning.  He announced this with a fairly cheerful air, with no further explanation.  But at least he took me to a strange disco/restaurant in Brighton Beach.  Further note to readers: ordering a White Russian on your first date with a white Russian can have unintended effects.  Oh youth.

No Exit: The Cassoulet Chronicles

Any man who has known real loves, real revolts, real desires, and real will knows quite well that he has no need of any outside guarantee to be sure of his goals; their certitude comes from his own drive.”

― Simone de Beauvoir, The Ethics of Ambiguity

[The following is presented in black and white]

Day 1: I feel the void.  What is the point of existence?  How shall we live? What meaning can there be if all ends in darkness?  Is there any way to stave off the fear, the trembling?  I purchase duck legs.  I cook them for hours in fat.  The smell permeates the apartment.  I feel the crisp skin crackling.  Soon it will be confit.

Day 2: The beans, damn them, the beans!  I wake up in the early hours, sweating, clutching my night-things.  I haven’t soaked the beans!  What can be done?  Perfection is an abstract, unattainable.  I accept my fate.  The beans will soak for 24 hours, rather than 48.  I sit on my perch by the window, cigarette and red wine in hand, and think on lost love.  Oh legumes, why must you mock me so?

 [Solo cello]

Day 3: Forever shall I be a stranger to myself, but no longer a stranger to the neighborhood butcher.  He senses my need, the need for obscure cuts of meat.  We talk of Paris.  He gives me pork belly.  The essence of pork belly must not be confused with that of pork stew meat.  He intuitively understands my requirements.  I add a portion of pancetta.

Day 4: Stews.  Like the stew of my soul.  I am like Sisyphus at the base of the mountain.  Can I go on?  I can’t go on.  I might go on.  Should I go on?  I musn't go on.  But I will go on. I think.  I drink. I blink.   Shades of Andre the Giant.  And yet I am free.  Free to strive, free to fail, free to stick my willing hands down into the depths of duck fat.  Amanda discreetly vomits into her clutch purse.  And the red wine flows.

Day 5: My struggle has, as promised, turned into passion.  I gently ladle heavy cream onto seductively reclining potatoes.  I scrape hard nutmeg against unyielding metal.  There is no reality except in cooking (this I actually say in French).  My spirit bubbles in the cleansing fire of the oven.  I am browned.  I am whole.

[A woman of beauty and grace throws a single rose into the Seine.  She understands pain.]

Day 6: I am the shepherd!  I am the herd!  The breadcrumb crust has been applied and we wait in a smoke filled room, wondering if cassoulet will provide the answers we seek.  The crust is broken.  Steam escapes.  We meet like new lovers.  The silky beans.  The rich meat.  Duck caresses pork.  We lean against walls; no, not like Jordan Catalano.  Or at least, not like Jordan Catalano in high school.  Perhaps Jordan Catalano during his semester abroad when he LIVES.  And EXPERIENCES.  And LOVES.  DEEPLY.  Yes.  Meat.  I cover myself in fruit and syrup and realize that these moments are fleeting and precious.  Because it takes seven days to make this shit and a lifetime to find people who will put up with me and eat it.

I could never turn back any more than a record can spin in reverse. And all that was leading me where ? To this very moment...”

― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea

A Veritable Bevy of Burgers

Oh, my poor vegetarian friends.  Once again you shall be subjected to a meat-centric post.  I swear I eat vegetables!  I really do!  But somehow this blog always seems to heavily feature my base, carnivore impulses.  Although I’ve realized that I don’t have too many pure vegetarian friends left.  Many of you have given in to the seductive lure of the flesh.  But to those few hold-outs, I offer my apologies.

I like to fancy myself as something of a french fry connoisseur.  I have sampled the crispy goodness far and wide, from the shores of New York, through the corn fields of Indiana, to the canals of Amsterdam (my memories of those last fries are hazy, for some reason.  But I think they had deep insight into the universe).  It’s only in recent years, however, that I have truly come to appreciate the french fry’s soul mate, the quality burger.  A well-proportioned, juicy, grilled burger, medium rare please (and that means pink, not grey, you fools!) with a hefty slice of cheddar.  And please toast that bun.  If we’re going to be all highfalutin about it we could replace the cheddar with swiss (or dare I say gruyere!) and pile on some sautéed mushrooms.  But I don’t want any of that Kraft American cheese product shit on a hockey puck piece of meat thrown between two slices of wonder bread.  So just don’t even try it, buddy. 

In other words, I guess I’ve become a bit of a burger snob.  Luckily there are number of places vying for the chance to take me down a few notches.  I received my first bit of humbling at that most trendy of burger joints, Shake Shack.  At my first trip there, after waiting on line for 16 hours, 43 minutes, and 18 seconds, I was finally given the privilege of ordering.  And I ordered my preferred burger: medium rare, with cheddar.  Except they only cook their burgers one way.  And you can’t choose your cheese.  Well, I’ve just waited on line for 27 hours, 54 minutes, and 46 seconds, so what can I do?  I accept their fascist burger with a strained smile and make my way over to the inadequate seating.   But you know what?  I was wrong, and Shake Shack was right.  The burger was awesome.  True, it wasn’t a gourmet event by any means, but there was something about biting into it that just made me feel like I was coming home.  It’s like they elevated your typical burger to thing of nostalgic beauty.  You feel sunlight dappling your face as your race your childhood friends through a meadow.  Then suddenly you’re riding your bike down a dusty dirt road, with your faithful dog at your side.  Oh look!  There’s Harvey the friendly milk man making his rounds.  And just beyond him is the General Store, where Old Man McIntire sells rock candy and root beer.  Yes, it’s true, Shake Shack will transport you back to an imagined Norman Rockwell childhood.  It’s like Our Town except with props, no death, and no goddamn sermonizing Stage Manager.  All this, Shake Shack will provide.

You’d think that after this experience I would have a bit more leniency towards places that won’t cook a burger to order.  But oh no.  I still hadn’t seen the true ways of the force.  I was therefore horrified when I couldn’t get my burger cooked medium rare in – wait for it – Scotland.  Really people.  What kind of an idiot asks for undercooked meat in the UK?  Why didn’t I just order the lobotomy special and be done with it?  The first time I attempted to order just such a bacteria-infested burger the Scottish waitress looked at me like I had 12 heads (all of which were just desperate for a splash of Mad Cow disease), and then said that under absolutely no circumstances would they serve me a burger cooked less than well done.  In this instance I decided to pass on the burger, because I wanted it MY way, dammit!  And if it came with a side of degenerative brain disease, then so be it! 

Fortunately for me, I was in Scotland for two weeks, so I had time to mend my foolish ways.  Not that I felt I needed to, mind you.  I was secure in my culinary prejudices.  But the next time I found myself faced with this dilemma a burger was, in fact, the only available food source.  We’re pretty spoiled here in New York.  If I said to myself at 2 am, “Gee, I could really go for goat stew, baked Alaska, and a cricket taco” I’m pretty sure I could find a way to have all of these things delivered to me.  And while Edinburgh does not subscribe to the draconian bar hours of London (closing at 11pm?!?!  Que the hell!), its pubs do tend to stop serving food around 9pm.  This becomes a bit of problem when your show ends at 8pm, and it takes a full hour to round people up and decide to which of the abundant public houses we would be giving our custom that night.  So one evening, post show, we all ended up at a lovely beer garden that had no kitchen other than a tiny hut with an open flame, meat, and a cast iron pan filled with sautéed onions.  My hunger won out, and I let the shady Eastern European man behind the grill give me the standard burger, on a roll, with mature cheddar and onions.

Friends, I have finally seen the light.  This was quite possibly the best burger I’ve ever had.  I was a pig-headed fool, a stubborn, unrelenting New Yorker, who couldn’t see past her own biases to the fact that when you’re dealing with something as simple as a burger, the quality of the ingredients is everything.  As I stared rapturously into my roll, my dining companions laughed and informed me that all beef in Scotland is pure Angus – which is kind of the best stuff ever.  So no matter what you do to it, it’s going to be stellar.  The meat was juicy, tender, savory.  The roll was fluffy and fresh, and dear sweet lord, the mature cheddar – I could happily eat mature cheddar on everything, everyday.  Seriously: shredded wheat, escargot, ice cream – bring it on!  The caramelized, glistening onions added just the right touch of sweetness.  It was all I could do not to run to that Eastern European Grill God and beg him for just one more bite of such sweet ambrosia. 

While in Scotland I ate a surprising number of good meals.  I mean, we haven’t even touched on the nation’s dedicated, inspiring relationship to the potato.  And the seafood!  And the scotch! (okay, technically scotch is not food, but it is essential to life, so it counts).  But today I pay homage to the humble Scottish burger – you were there for me in my times of post-performance, hunger-induced hysteria.  You sustained me through not a few rounds of debauchery.  You’ve helped me start to move past my intolerant, prissy ways.  What can I say?  Some people have therapy; I have Scottish burgers.

(Shake Shack, please don’t get jealous.  I’ll still return to you anytime I need to feel the innocence of youth!  Also, you’re right up the street and Scotland is, well, in Scotland.  Although this is New York – and perhaps Scotland delivers….)

The post in which I once again rhapsodize about my culinary heritage

I was an absurdly anxious child. At the age of six I dreamt that I was being held hostage by the "people who live under the quicksand" (they're a lot like the Children of the Corn, except less plausible). Upon waking I swore off sand of all kinds for a week - better to be safe than sorry. Less humorously, I also aquired a fear of the dark, of sleep, and of solitude. My saintly Uncle Carl had to stay by my bedside for years until the memory of the dream faded.

Perhaps as a result of one too many fire safety lectures in the second grade, I also felt the need to be prepared at all times for the inevitable destruction of my house. Before bed I would lay out, by the door, the items that I would take with me in the event of a fire, flood, or general wrath-of-god-kind-of-thing: my "safe" which I'd bought at the penny candy store, and which was entirely filled with change, a.k.a. my life savings; two treasured stuffed animals, Bunny the Rabbit, and Poopsie the Dog; lastly I had a rotating cast of toys occupying the last spot. I struggled with the decision every night. Would Sparkle-Bright the pony understand that, no matter how much I wanted to, I simply couldn't carry all of my toys in my weak, eight-year-old arms when the apocolypse struck? Would my Pound Puppies find a way to make it on their own? Yes, I was the child who never, ever should have read The Velvetine Rabbit. Or seen The Nutcracker. Or watched cartoons. I obsessively anthropomorphised all toys, and then flagellated myself over my inability to love them all equally (because each and every one could feel my indifference, and suffered greatly for it. I was, after all, their world.)

My priorties, while angonizing, were at least clear back then. If you were to tell me now that I had to leave my home, my family and my friends, and could only bring one suitcase with me, I would wring my hands in frustration and sit down on the floor, determined to not make any choices whatsoever. Perhaps this is a sign of "decision fatigue". Perhaps this means that I am not as wedded to material goods as I once was. (Oh who am I kidding - I would gently cradle my glorious iPhone to my breast and rush out the emergency exit.) Actually I think this speaks to the fact that such decisions are not really part of an adult's life. We have back-ups, insurance, couches to surf on should the need arise. Rarely do we have the occassion to contemplate the few items that constitute our identity. My Grandmother, however, had to make just such a decision.

I've heard various versions of the story, but what I've been able to gleen is this: at some point my grandparents determined that it was no longer safe for my Grandfather to stay in Communist Czechoslovakia. Whether this was because he was a "Dutch spy" or a frequenter of the black market is up for debate; all I know is that his arrest was imminent. So my Grandmother had the difficult job of packing her life into a small suitcase. Mind you, the official cover story was a "family vacation". The suitcase could not be too big, or the jig would be up. Of course, none of her relations could be told; this would be dangerous to her before she left, and to her family after her departure.

What do you bring with you when you leave your homeland, perhaps never to return? How do you encapsulate a life into a carry-on? My grandmother took two things: her cookbook and her cookie cutters. To this day I amazed at her decision. How eloquent, to bring your country's culinary traditions with you when you flee. And how painful to think that, while you may never break bread with your sisters and brothers again, at least you'll savor the same tastes they'll be experiencing.

I've told you all about the roast chicken. I haven't discussed the ritualized cooking of my Grandmother's chicken paprika recipe that I shared with my Father. And just this past weekend I sat with my Aunt and cousins and listened to them reminisce about my Grandmother's pitacki (this is in no way spelled correctly), and her potato pancakes. My grandmother left a culinary legacy to all of us. When we cook as way to nurture, or dine as a way to commune, we honor her immense courage and yet also her whimsy. We relish her quirks - the way she always understood when I was "full for dinner, but not full for dessert", or her reluctance to share her culinary knowledge until she saw me as an independant, self-sufficient woman. If only I had reached that point sooner.

There are so many things I never asked her, so many stories I wanted to hear. But at least we have her cookbook. I saw it at my Aunt's house after the memorial service. It wasn't at all what I expected - I think I envisioned some sort of ancient Czech tome, whereas this was actually more of an Eastern European Betty Crocker. Although I can't read it (I never learned Czech), I feel the meaning of it: go forth, young woman, and cook. Create, envelope, console. This is what food does for us. It pipes in directly to memory, and gives us a way to express love that we can wholy make a part of ourselves. It is a love that sustains. It is an act of gratitude. This, grandma, is what you gave to me. Thank you.