Beans

I am humbled by the quality of food writing spread out over the Internet, print media and in bookstores. I can’t seem to get through a day without reading a well thought out article on stock pots, a scathing restaurant review or a clever recipe for nut bread.

I don’t consider myself a “foodie”, what ever that is. I enjoy the basic human activity of preparing food and then eating it. I also like the experience of not having to prepare my food and getting to eat any way, say, for example, when I go out and someone else prepares my food. I do not believe the elemental nature of this process should be elevated to the alter of worship nor completely taken for granted least we lose the pleasure of the experience.

Over the weekend, E bought a Food and Wine magazine. Reading through the thick mass I was again reminded first, that I’m glad we don’t have a subscription anymore – there are way, way too many advertisements wrapped around each substantive article, and second that there are others out there who share this fascination with preparing meals. Reading an article about a simple white bean soup made me want to run out right then and get a bag of canelli’s to soak overnight.

I suppose for some people, reading about beans is as pleasurable as having a root canal. But, of course, you’ve stopped reading by now and are presently scrolling about looking for whatever peaks your interest – maybe that long sought after website about vintage HAM Radio equipment (www.antiquewireless.org/amqsoparty.htm). Yes, it’s all out there for us.

Well, I suppose all this really doesn't add up to more than a hill of beans.

Mihija will have grown another year this week. And since I bake cakes for my daughters’ birthdays, I have to start gathering chocolate tonight. Trouble is, she is now attending school four hours away. I thought about driving the cake up to her and then heading back but wisely sought and agreed to advice from someone much saner.

The resolution is to bake a filled torte with a chocolate glaze, freeze it overnight and then ship it off UPS expedited delivery. It’s a risk, but even if she receives a splunched cake, she’ll still recognize the spirit behind it and share it with her roommates anyway.

I miss my first-born and won’t see her on her birthday for the first time in 20 years. I hope the cake serves as a suitable facsimile representation that lets her know I'm thinking about her. She’s not expecting it, I’m sure, so at the very least I will be able to surprise her.

Truffles

Our good neighbor Samuel recently returned from Paris where he maintains a second home. We chatted briefly, caught up with the local news and tentatively planned a dinner. Then, as an afterthought, Samuel told me to wait a second while he went into his house. He returned with a huge box of truffles from La Maison du Chocolat. “Here, I brought this back for you guys,” he said.

Samuel is a worldly, artistic, gifted and generous individual. I’m not just saying that because he gave us the truffles. Once, we invited him to dinner and he showed up with two bottles of Chateau Lafitte Rothschild – “I had these down in the basement and I’m not sure they’re any good,” he said. If you’ve never had the experience of drinking this altitude of bordeaux with steaks and pommes frites….. well – it didn’t need any breathing, ok?

Samuel once had a gallery showing in Chile. During his visit, he so impressed a local baron/politico/cartel head with his related charitable work– we really never understood the story or relationship – that Samuel now has a house and several acres of land on the coast of Chile. So between trips down to Chile or flights to Paris, we don’t get to see a lot of Sam.

This is one of those extraordinary individuals nestled among us normal folk. If you saw him walking down the street you’d probably never register the memory. In any event, we’re fortunate to have his acquaintance.

Chocolate Truffles

• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 2 Tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1 teaspoon light corn syrup
• 8 oz. chopped, semi-sweet chocolate + 6 oz. for dipping
• 1/2 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder, sifted

Method:

In a saucepan over moderate flame, heat the cream, butter and corn syrup until it comes to a full boil. Turn it off before you burn it. Ass 8 oz. of the chocolate and swirl it together. Let the chocolate melt in without stirring the pot. After about 5 minutes, whisk carefully to combine the chocolate with the other ingredients. Pour it into a bowl and throw it into the ice box to cool. Stir it every once and a while. It will take about an hour to cool off enough to make the truffles. Don’t let it get too hard or your family will make terrible comments about you behind your back.

When ready, pull the bowl out of the fridge and form your truffles with any instrument you have that will cause truffle shapes. I use an old Mepps trout lure and a toy airplane fuselage. When done, you should have a silpat lined baking pan covered with little one inch chocolate balls. Back into the fridge.

Melt the rest of the chocolate in the microwave until it’s just workable. Let it cool enough so that you don’t require a trip to the ER when you dip your pudgy little fingers into the mosh.

You’ll need to use some skill to now dunk each truffle into the chocolate then roll it around in the cocoa powder before returning it to the baking sheet. Let me know if you figure out how to do this without getting more chocolate onto your hands than onto the food.

When you’re done, place the baking sheet in the ice box until the heroes are set.

Sneak discretely after family goes to sleep.

Not Cheese

With so many different places to eat well in the city, why would someone return to the same place more than once? I suppose one answer would be that we are habitual and we seek familiarity. Another reason might be because of a particular restaurant’s consistent quality. For whatever reason, we returned again last night to Artisanal for a hearty bistro meal. Manchego will by now be perking up because, as all cheese heads know, Artisanal is one of the premier fromageries in New York.

From the time we walked into the place until we left, the reek of ripe, ripening and aged cheese swathed us in its warm clammy embrace. The room is huge with tables on top of one another and with a noise level slightly louder than the No. 4 subway station at Grand Central. In the back is the famous cheese cave where the frommage oompa lumpas coddle their rinds. Music may have been playing in the background but I never heard it. The service was curt but respectful and our meal was neither too rushed nor excessively slow.

Our party of four sat in a central location but sadly, cannot report any celebrity sightings. Given the short distance between tables, however we were, unfortunately, able to listen in on all of the other conversations taking place around us. But that’s just the set up. Why do we go out? To eat of course.

We started with a very nice (cheap, oh so cheap) bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, then another, etc. and tasty Gougers served hot in a paper cone. Next we shared appetizers of sausage, rabbit and foie gras, quince paste, figs and lightly dressed greens. Fresh baked bread from Rachael’s and premium rocket-your-HTML-level butter accompanied the whole shebang.

For our entrées we had, going clockwise from the left, cassoulet, monkfish, braised duck and again cassoulet; all were delicious. We topped off the meal with mint tea and the table shared a tarte tatin with cheddar cheese crust.

Manchego now goes back to the beginning and searches for the cheese course, which, perhaps, has been inadvertently edited out.

Alas, we passed on the cheese. With the exception of the Gougers and the cheese in the pastry crust – we ate no cheese. We had no fondue, no Selles sur Cher, Artisanal, not even a small cabecou feuille.

In truth, the bistro portions overwhelmed us and by meal’s end we didn’t have the heart to select and then eat more. So shoot me why don’t cha?

New York now has so many good quality imported, local and hand-made cheeses that the city is lousy with the stuff. There was a time when you could only get your Velveta in either slices or in great yellow bricks. Now, on any Saturday morning at the local green market, we find smiling craftsmen from upstate who offer wonderful, leaf-wrapped, oozing, stinky globs of cheesy pudding. Even our local every-day supplier has a store that we can literally see from our front stoop. Her selection of cheeses is remarkably overwhelming and plentiful.

Notwithstanding the cheese pass, we had a brilliant meal.

Champurrado rating: 2 tamales

Scotch

Nothing brings quite the same pleasure as a crystal highball glass partially filled with good scotch. If the glass is resting on a 100-year old, dimly lit wooden bar and backed by a tall glass of cool water, this particular pleasure can brighten the darkest of days. I can’t remember when I first learned of my compatibility with scotch. I try to forget all the unsuccessful early experiments. Some are wine drinkers, some beer, still others bourbon, it’s just my peculiar preference I suppose.

Writers characterize the taste of scotch as smoky or peaty. Depending on the region of origin, the taste runs anywhere from highland deep, smooth and rich to talisker shrill and piercing. (Some would disagree due to personal reasons but for my money, you can take talisker and fuel your zippo with it, truth be told). With its reassuring amber glow and sublime aroma, a glass of good scotch elevates the senses while simultaneously lowering defenses. Life resumes after just one long, slow appreciative sip.

I am not a scotch guzzler. I drink scotch infrequently and usually stop after one glass. To overindulge drinking scotch is to flirt with destroying the intimate relationship it offers. I enjoy savoring the experience a good scotch provides and would hate to lose that through abuse.

I have no particular preference for scotch, save my real dislike for talisker. So long as the product is well made, I will drink single malts, blends and also mutants. Michel Couvreur produces a blend of 54 different malts that’s very tasty. That this scotch is produced in the Burgundy region of France doesn’t bother me although for some it may cause a raised eyebrow. Macallan is an excellent choice for its reliably subtle explosion of aroma in the glass, wonderful feel in the mouth and warm glow as it finds it way down the gullet.

Tonight I’m meeting a friend for dinner in the city. I look forward to catching up with all the news, sharing a laugh and thoroughly enjoying a pre dinner dram of something golden from the Isle of Islay.