Funny fish

I guess this is ok, so long as they're not serving the fish.

Friday Night Dinner

Sauteed fiddle head fern and ramp (baby wild leaks) risotto. I sauteed the ferns and the ramp leaves in butter and olive oil, and stirred them into my risotto at the last minute to warm. I made the rice with a chicken stock from an organic chicken, real parmesan, and Irish unsalted butter.

As a second course (I was feeling Italian last night) I served pan fried porgy dipped in flour with chopped parsley and lemon.

Dessert was little chocolate bouchon from Bouchon bakery, here in New York. Not much dessert, but oh so good.

Artichoke II

One more note - I was walking with my pizza from Artichoke back to Union Square, and was stopped by a guy in the street. "Is that from Artichoke?", he said. "Yeah", I said. "Is it good?", he asked earnestly. "Very good", I said.

"F$#@ yeah!", he said, and then ran almost at a sprint towards where I had just come from.

Artichoke Pizza

No, not a pizza with artichokes (though that too) but Artichoke Pizzeria, the newest entry into the New York city-wide pizza wars. Artichoke has been clogged with people since it arrived, and yesterday was no exception. Although I arrived at 5 pm on a Wednesday, there was already a crowd of about 20 snaking out of the restaurant, a problem which is exacerbated by the fact that Artichoke isn't really the kind of place that rewarms slices that have been sitting around the entire day. 45 minutes later, I arrived at the front, only to find that there weren't any regular slices. When would they be ready? "Shrug", the man behind the counter said. But, luckily enough, a huge artichoke and spinach pizza had just come out of the oven. I pointed at that, forked over my three dollars, and went scurrying out, the lengthening line staring enviously at my score as I squeezed by them.

How was it? Alan Richman's verdict (what I linked to above), is spot on:

This isn’t just pizza. This is the way ordinary food used to taste in New York—superficially no different from food anywhere else, but in reality considerably better. It had little to do with superior ingredients and everything to do with New York know-how.

Is it an amazing Italian style pizza? No. It's not meant to be. It's thick. And big. And cheesy. What it does, however, is explain to skeptics raised on doughy, mushy, "New York style" fast food why a New York pizza was once thought to be something special. I only wish I could wander around Times Square diverting tourists down to Artichoke, and away from the depressing places they end up in. But then, the wait for me would get even longer.

Cashiers

In the comments to her post on haggling (which I also dislike, although I'm less annoyed by it if the expectation that one haggles is clear - what I really hate is not knowing whether to haggle or not, as my haggling personality is alien to me and can be unpleasant, and so it takes a bit of warning to clothe myself in it), Amber says, " I don't even like making conversation with cashiers. Half of them can barely handle ringing me up or making a return, much less negotiating a discounted sale."

I couldn't agree more, which explains my preference for self check out lines where available, especially in grocery stores. An example: recently, my local grocery store's computer broke down, so they were ringing us up by hand. I had three items. One cost $4.49, the second $3.49 and the third $5.99. The cashier asked me for $5.99. I told her that I owed more than that and gave her a $20 bill. She pointed at her calculator. I said that I saw the calculator, but since a single item was $5.99, and it said $5.99 in big numbers on it, it was highly unlikely that my total was $5.99. She didn't answer, and then just said $5.99 again. I tried to convince her again that it wasn't $5.99. She went to get the manager. The manager came, and pushed "total" on the calculator.

Flurgh. Give me the machine any day.

UPDATE: Just to be clear, I've been a cashier. It's no more fun on that side of things.

Why Stuff?

Mark Bittman writes today about a chicken stuffing. His contention - that most stuffings are for appearance's sake rather than for taste. I think he's basically right, and certainly I have no soft spot for turkey stuffing at thanksgiving. But there are exceptions, which I posted as a comment on his blog. Hopefully, I'll have started a conversation:

It’s an interesting argument, and I think you’re usually right. I guess I can think of a couple of reasons besides aesthetics, though, to stuff things with other things. (a) The stuffing would taste good alongside, but the stuffing melts, or otherwise renders itself difficult (b) Convenience - packages of things are sometimes easier to manipulate than one thing flopped onto another thing (c) surprise or disguise - need to convince someone to eat beef cheeks? Want to surprise your guest with a little pop of raisin in a grape leaf, or cheese in a chicken? The answer is stuffing.

Goat cheese and fava flatbreads

I served the artichoke and spinach stuffed chicken below with a puree of fava beans, which are precisely in season right now, combining olive oil, cooked favas, and a little bit of heavy cream into a soft, unctuous paste. And for something to nibble on while I finished cooking the main course, I thought using some of the leftover favas along with some cherry tomatoes that I was worrying about losing to age would be great. So I roasted the tomatoes at 175 degrees (f) for four hours to concentrate their flavor, making a olive oil rich flat bread in the meantime (flour, water, salt, and olive oil - what I imagine a pissaladiere crust to be like). Instead of topping the bread with the cheese and other condiments, I cooked it first, and then slathered on the cheese while it was hot, dotting it with favas and tomatoes shortly thereafter, once the cheese had firmed up a bit. The flatbreads paired beautifully with the puzzlingly sweet Vouvray we were drinking, and it occurred to me in mid-bite that the same recipe could work wonders with the other darling of the moment, baby artichokes.

Die Chicken is boned

* Better pictures with a real camera of full meal to come


Ever since reading a review by the Washington Post's secondary food reviewer about five years ago about a boneless chicken stuffed with rice and raisins dish in suburban Virginia, I've been wanting to perfect the technique of boning out a chicken.

It turns out, ultimately, that it is far more intimidating than difficult. The trick is to watch Jacques Pepin do it on television about 40 times with a chicken sitting on your lap while waggling the drumstick, and then to leap back into the kitchen manically repeating his instructions so you don't forget them.

"Pull back the skin, and move the wing. I can feel zee articulation of the joint, and so my knife goes here. I'm in zee articulation now, but if I was not, I would just wiggle the knife, and it would slide in".

Wiggle wiggle. Slide.

"Then, put your fingers through the carcass here, and pull out like so".

Fingers in carcass. Pull meat out a chicken is surprisingly cathartic.

"Now pull all the meat away from the front of the chicken, until you see the oyster, you see? And then pull the leg up, and then pull it out like this to break it, and then cut zee sinew"

I don't see the oyster. I just see indifferentiated meat and other things that I don't recognize as meat. Where? Where?

Oh. I didn't pull the thigh hard enough. Oyster found. Leg up, like a Rockette, and then pull out and break with a satisfying crack. There are more sinews on my chicken than his. Hum.

"Scrape the meat off the thigh bone, like this, and then break the leg to pull the thigh bone out like this."

I have no idea what my landlord thought of the loud pounding which constituted my efforts to break the damned chicken's foot, but suffice to say that the back of my knife was ineffective, and I resorted to an extremely heavy stone pestle (in case you're not getting the idea, you break the bone where the leg meets the foot. This way you can pull out the drumstick, but you leave in the last joint, to help keep the skin from shrinking). And unless you actually are Jacques Pepin, scraping the meat off a thigh bone of a chicken should be done with a dull knife, not one's chef's knife. As amazing as you think you are with it, the idea that it's not going to slip and and, say, slice off your hand, is a little optimistic.

"It should not take you more than a minute to bone out a chicken".

Says Jacques. It should take 20 sweating minutes if you're me.

Travails aside, in the end I had a boned out chicken. I made a stuffing of artichoke hearts and spinach, and tied the chicken up for roasting. The result was delicious. Now, to perfect that rice and raisin mixture for next time.

Momofuku-d

Finally, a Momofuku Ko reservation!

Now comes all the shame for succumbing to such a ridiculous fad. And yet, it should be fun... I'll report back after the dinner next week.