Posted by Anita on 08.10.08 8:22 PM
After a whirlwind month of travel, it sure feels good to be home. Even though I was painfully aware of the time we’d spent away from our own kitchen, I hadn’t really grasped how long we’d been absent from the farmers market. Despite our well-planned list, we wandered around the Ferry Plaza in a full-blown daze, like tourists who’d never seen produce before. But our farmers seemed genuinely happy to see us, and the usual summer bounty looked more glorious than ever to our newly appreciative eyes.
But somehow — even though we returned home with armloads of the most beautiful food on the planet — our first real meal back home didn’t translate into a fabulous feast. The occasional lackluster supper is bad enough when you’ve put an afternoon of thought and effort into it, but when you’re having company over to boot… ugh.
We turned some of our meat CSA haul into homemade sausage using Ruhlman’s merguez recipe. The test patties we made tasted fine, but an afternoon of fridge-rest made the coils taste blah, not bright. Somehow a Turkish-style soup of tepary beans and cumin — which I’ve made before and loved — turned into a stodgy mess.
For dessert, we harvested three beautiful bergamots off our tree to make champagne-citrus sorbet. But when we cut the fruits open, they were nearly all pith. Desperately squeezing them anyway while praying for a food miracle, we got less than half the juice we needed. We punted and bought a replacement carton from Whole Foods, and served it alongside locally made baklava.
But luckily, despite all the other disappointments, our side dishes turned out pretty well. On the grill alongside the mergez, we roasted skewers of multicolored sweet peppers from Quail Hollow and purple onions from Catalan. And even though it looked a bit like leftover hot cereal, a salad of Full Belly Farms wheatberries — dressed with local vegetables and our own garden herbs — was the best thing we ate all night.
Wheatberry Salad
– adapted from Epicurious
1 cup wheatberries
1 red bell pepper
1/4 cup olive oil
2T fresh lemon juice
1T red-wine vinegar
1 tsp ground cumin
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tsp coarsely ground aleppo pepper (or to taste)
3T minced parsley
3T mint chiffonade
2 ounces feta, diced small
1/2 cup thinly sliced red onion
1/2 English (or other seedless) cucumber, cut into julienne strips
2T to 1/4 cup chopped brine-cured black olives
Soak the wheatberries overnight, or for at least a few hours. Cook the berries in a large pot of boiling salted water until tender but not blown out, about 2 hours. (Depending on freshness, wheat variety, and soaking time, this can take as little as an hour or up to 3 hours.) When cooked, drain the berries and set aside.
Meanwhile, roast the red pepper and place in a brown bag or covered bowl to steam soft, about 20 minutes. When cool enough to handle, remove the skin and seeds, and slice the flesh into long, narrow strips.
In a large bowl, whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, vinegar, cumin, garlic, aleppo pepper, and salt to taste. Add the cooked wheatberries and stir well to coat; toss in the remaining ingredients. Taste for seasonings and adjust if needed. Serve immediately at room temperature. (You can also refrigerate as needed, but the salad will be stickier. Be sure to remove from the fridge about 30 minutes before serving to take off some of the chill, and toss again to refresh the appearance of the dish.)
entertaining, locavore, One Local Summer, recipes
8 Comments »
Posted by Cameron on 07.28.08 10:01 PM
Sweet spirits of niter, did we get plums this year or what? Last year, our little whip of a tree served up a double dozen of the sweetest, tartest, juiciest globes that we could have ever hoped for. This year, that little whip filled out and buried us under an avalanche of purple fruit.
We saw Plumapalooza coming when we had to prop up one of the tree’s lower branches. The load of ripening plums bent it into a wicked arch, forcing the tip down so far that it touched the ground. However, it’s one thing to gaze admiringly at branchloads of red and purple glory. The reality of harvest is another thing entirely.
Toward the end of June, the very first volunteers hit the ground. Every day, we would gather the fallen and tug gently at likely followers still hanging on the branch. Five a day turned into ten and in a week’s time, we were gathering up between fifteen and twenty plums every morning and every night. By the time it was all over, we figured that we reaped 30-40 pounds of fruit.
Which naturally begged the question of precisely what the hell we were going to do with 40 pounds of plums. Finding a solution seemed especially pressing in the early stages of the deluge as we carefully picked yard bark out of drops and sorted the fruit into piles of Perfect, Not-so-perfect and We-love-you-anyway on the countertop. Ultimately, we knew that we would have to turn to preserves or some other solution that involved canning, but we weren’t ready to go there just yet.
As I stood in the kitchen one weekend, chain-eating plums and staring at the latest load, Anita reminded me that I had talked about making pâte de fruits before the plums started thumping down. Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? I checked around and found a few recipes, most of which called for pectin, but Anita sussed out a recipe in the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmers Market Cookbook that was nothing but plums, a little lemon juice, and a *lot* of sugar.
My first go at being a candy maker turned out pretty well, but there were some bumps along the road, mostly related to the fact that the recipe instructions about how long to cook the plum/sugar mixture before pouring it into a pan to set didn’t match up with my real-world experience: “Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until the fruit reduces and thickens and begins to hold together as a mass, 20 to 30 minutes.”
Obvious, right? Easy? Not for this knucklehead. I stood in front of the stove stirring that pot nonstop for THREE FREAKING HOURS while the contents went from a thin purple soup to a bubbling syrup that I — exhausted and convinced that I had made a fatal error somewhere — finally abandoned to the tender mercies of the candy pan.
On behalf of my fellow kitchen idjits, let’s diagnose the sentence that was my nemesis. Cook over a low heat? My friends, it’s probably possible to boil a pot of coffee with a Bic lighter, but it’s going to take a long damn time, and when you’re trying to evaporate a quart or so of liquid, you need something a bit more brisk than low heat. Next time, I’ll be less tender with the flame during the early proceedings.
Second lesson: use a comfortable spoon. For reasons that are now unclear to me, I chose a metal spoon for my stirring utensil (Something to do with not staining the wooden spoons? Maybe? I don’t know. Leave me alone.). All I know is that after several hours of making like the witches in Macbeth, the unforgiving handle had given me a blister.
Last point: I don’t know about you, but when I think of something “holding together as a mass,” I expect to be able to haul out a serious hunk of glop when I raise up the spoon. Au contraire, mon frere. My pot full of plum sweetitude thickened to a syrupy consistency and then stopped. I kept at it, though, stirring away like Jamie Oliver on Quaaludes until I smelled the sugar caramelizing and thought to myself, “Self, if you keep going, you’re going to end up with plum-flavored Jolly Ranchers. If it ain’t done now, it ain’t gonna be done.”
It was done. After setting, cooling, cutting, and dusting with sugar, the final product was chewy, tart, and had the unmistakable twang of sugar that’s had a comfortable and extended acquaintance with the flame. It was good, and the piles of plum candy disappeared more quickly than I would have believed possible, especially when paired in gift bags with Anita’s homemade marshmallows.
Plum Candy
– adapted from the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmers Market Cookbook
4 pounds plums, pitted and chopped
2 T water
Juice of 1/2 lemon
About 4 cups sugar
In a large, heavy enameled cast-iron or other nonreactive pot, combine the plums, water, and lemon juice. Place over low heat and cook until the fruit is very soft, about 20 minutes.
Remove from the heat. Puree the plum mixture by forcing it through a fine-mesh sieve or food mill fitted with a fine screen held over a bowl. Measure the puree, return it to the pan, and stir in an equal amount of sugar. Cook over low heat (ha!), stirring constantly (ow!), until the fruit reduces and thickens and begins to hold together as a mass, 20 to 30 minutes (bullshit. see above.).
Line a 9-by-12 inch rimmed baking sheet with parchment (the original recipe says plastic wrap, but I was afraid that it would melt) overlapping the edges. Pour the plum paste onto the lined pan and spread into an even sheet with a rubber spatula. Let cool, cover, and allow to stand at room temperature for 48 hours. The paste will become firm.
Invert the pan onto a cutting board, peel off the parchment, and cut the paste into about 36 small squares. Arrange in layers on waxed paper and store in an airtight plastic container at room temperature.
dessert, garden, locavore, preserving & infusing, recipes
23 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 07.18.08 6:36 AM
Few of our friends can believe that two people as obsessed with food and drink as we are have never been to New Orleans before. But it’s true: This week is our inaugural — although I think it’s safe to say definitely not our last — adventure in the City that Care Forgot.
When Cameron mentioned at poker night last week that we were heading to New Orleans, our friend Dave’s eyes lit up. If there’s a San Franciscan who loves NOLA more than Dave, I sure don’t know him. He and his crew of roving debauchés have made their way to the Crescent City at least once a year for the past 11 years.
He sent us a 1,000-word-plus email, jammed with his favorite places and treats, devoting an entire paragraph (after 10 others on more-obscure offerings) just to the touristy French Quarter food & drink experiences that are actually worth the trouble:
“Get a cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe du Monde! Eat a muffaletta from Central Grocery on Decatur Street! Shoot oysters at Acme Oyster House! Get late-night eats and abuse from flaming waiters at Clover Grill! And drink a Pimm’s cup at Napoleon House bar!”
So, never one to pass up good advice, we hopped over to Napoleon House for lunch yesterday. We sat ourselves down amid glorious decrepitude and a century’s worth of graffiti, and ordered up a round of Pimm’s, a half a muffaletta, and a roast-beef po’boy. Ancient ceiling fans rotated overhead as bow-tied waiters shuttled between table, bar, and patio. Mid-meal, our Seattle cadre wandered in from the sidewalk swelter, followed closely by a friend from the other side of the continent. No fools, these drinkers: It was Pimm’s for everyone; tall, cool, and fast.
The Pimm’s Cup is our entry for this month’s Mixology Monday — aptly honoring the fine city of New Orleans, and even more aptly hosted by MxMo’s founder, Paul of Cocktail Chronicles. Now, frankly, I’m not sure how this quintessential English picnic drink became such a New Orleans standard. But if there were a Jeopardy! category called “Drinks of the Big Easy”, it’d be right there in the middle of the board, below the Hurricane, the Ramos Fizz, and the Sazerac, but above the Vieux Carre, the Obituary, and the La Louisiane. No matter the reason for its iconic status, it’s certainly a long, cool refresher that makes a potent antidote to the sticky New Orleans weather, and it’s known as a respectable option for daytime drinking… a pastime in which the Crescent City excels.
Pimm’s Cup
– Napoleon House, New Orleans
Food & Wine Cocktails 2008
1-1/2 oz Pimm’s No. 1
2-1/2 oz fresh lemon juice
1 oz simple syrup
1-1/2 oz chilled lemon soda (preferably French-style ‘lemonade’, but 7up will do)
cucumber wheel, for garnish
Add the Pimm’s, lemon juice, and simple syrup to a cocktail shaker. Add ice and shake well, straining into an ice-filled colling glass. Stir in the soda, and garnish with the cucumber wheel.
bar culture, Drink of the Week, Mixology Monday, New Orleans, recipes, Tales of the Cocktail
19 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 07.16.08 11:39 PM
I have to say right up front, I never was a big fan of the whole brining craze. I mean, yeah, sure — you pump a turkey or chicken full of salt water, and it stays moist… but the white meat ends up with all the texture of an old sponge.
Some pundits (and yes, I’m looking squarely at you, Chris Kimball) prescribe brining as a panacea for nearly every meat, and a few types of seafood, too. But, really, why not start out with a nice piece of meat to begin with and treat it right? After a few squishy suppers, I learned my lesson: Whenever I see “brined” on a menu or in a recipe, I cross it off my list.
But our dinner last week at Nopa got me thinking again. I ordered the justly famous pork chop, and it was everything pork should be, but seldom is: Meaty, juicy, chewy, and flavorful. As I raved to our server, she explained that the delicious Napa-raised pork they use doesn’t need much help. But then she added that a quick 4-hour brine helps boost the flavor so that every bite is seasoned, without turning the texture to wet-paper-towel consistency.
A chop this good is enough to make a brining convert out of even a curmudgeon like me. Determined to repeat the brined chop at home, I turned to the cookbook from the last restaurant where I really remembered being wowed by a pork chop. And wouldn’t you know it: They quick-brine their pork at Boulevard, too. The original recipe calls for making a brine with hot water, then chilling it in the fridge before adding the meat. But I’m lazy and I need to keep moving on the weekends or else nothing gets done. So I cut back on some of the liquid in the dissolving step, and added it back in — in the form of the chicken-stock cubes we keep on hand for sauce-making — to cool the brine in an instant. (If you don’t keep your extra stock in ice cube form, you can always use plain old ice.)
Into the briny deep went a gorgeous Marin Sun Farms chop — a good, thick one we picked up at the farmers market. After its bath and a subsequent drying-out rest in the fridge, we grilled it over medium heat, to avoid scorching the exterior. On the side, we roasted some of Mr. Little’s gorgeous fingerlings in a mix of Spring Hill butter, Sciabica olive oil, our own herbs, and a healthy scattering of gorgeous young Rocambole garlic. We made a pan of Dirty Girl haricot verts using our favorite stovetop method and enjoyed the lot with our pairing this week: Fox Barrel hard cider, the same as we used in the brine.
Quick-Brined Pork Chops
– adapted from Boulevard: The Cookbook
1 cup hot water
2T kosher salt
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup hard cider
1T crushed black peppercorns
1T Dijon mustard
5 sprigs thyme
2 tsp chopped fresh rosemary leaves
1/2 cup unsalted chicken stock, frozen (or crushed ice)
2 thick-cut pork chops
Combine the water, salt, and sugar in a large bowl or glass measuring cup, stirring until the salt and sugar dissolve. Add the cider, peppercorns, mustard, thyme, rosemary, and frozen stock. Stir the brine until the stock melts; if still warm, refrigerate until cool.
Put the chops in zip-top bag, and pour the cooled brine over them. Seal the bag, squeezing out as much air as possible. Put the bag in a bowl or glass pan, and arrange or prop up the chops so that they’re standing edgewise. (You want the brine to be in contact with both of the cut sides of the chop. In my small mixing bowl, I can put the chops on their edge and lean them up against the side. If this isn’t possible, just be sure to flip them midway through the brining time.)
Refrigerate the chops for 1-1/2 hours, or up to 4 hours — no more, or you will have mush. (And if you’re using thinner chops, an hour is plenty!) About 90 minutes before cooking, remove the chops from the brine, and pat dry. place on a plate (or, ideally on a rack over a rimmed baking sheet) in the fridge to dry out the surface a bit, and to allow the brine to equalize throughout the meat. 30 minutes before cooking, bring the chops to room temperature, and preheat your grill or oven. (Heat grill to moderate-high heat, oven to 375°).
When chops are at room temperature, season lightly with salt and pepper on both sides. To grill, cook in your usual fashion to medium temperature (140° to 150° before resting time) — timing will vary widely based on the thickness of your chops and the heat of your grill. If cooking in the oven, heat a large, oven-roof skillet over medium heat. (Brining does speed up browning, go a little cooler than you may be used to for searing meat.) When hot, add olive oil just to coat the pan; when hot again, add the chops and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until golden, Turn the chops over, and move the pan to the preheated oven for 10 to 15 minutes.
When the meat reaches temperature — either on the grill or in the oven — remove from heat and let rest for 5 to 10 minutes. (If you finished in the oven, you can make a simple pan sauce.) Serve with your favorite seasonal accompaniments.
—-
* Edited to add: We removed the link to Cook’s Illustrated in protest of their bullying tactics.
locavore, meat, One Local Summer, recipes
8 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 07.13.08 6:58 PM
Last week, I went on about how miserably cold and foggy the weather had become. No sooner had I posted than the spell broke, and we traded arctic snap for heatwave. Would a day or two of mild, sunny but breezy weather be too much to ask?
San Francisco proper was mercifully spared the full effects of the heat. But Cameron’s office down south was baking so hard that their air-conditioning conked out… at 9am! And friends of ours in Marin set up a kitchen on the back patio when the mercury passed 105°, making indoor cooking unthinkable. But the City stayed pretty mild, rising only to 85° on the hottest day, and cooling to manageable fan-free levels overnight.
In short, it was the perfect time to break out the grill.
Truthfully, we cook outdoors all year round here, even when the weather is grey. Our grill sits right out the back door of our kitchen, on a second-story deck overlooking the neighborhood and the bay beyond. It’s a pretty idyllic place to cook dinner, sipping a bottle of Speakeasy ale while gazing out at the view. We don’t need a lot of excuses to take our kitchen outside.
And so last week, we found ourselves enjoying one of our favorite summer meals — carne asada tacos — cooked al fresco over a live fire. Dry-rubbed Marin Sun Farms flank steak, quickly seared and folded into Rancho Gordo tortillas, served with homemade salsas made from some of the best summer produce around. (Tomatillos and chiles are back, sweet onions are abundant, rocambole garlic is making its brief appearance, and cilantro is bolting in the garden like there’s no tomorrow.)
We bought our first ears of corn this week, too — we always put off that purchase until we’re sure we’ll be getting high-season, super-ready ears. To give it a Latin flair, we roasted it on the grill and slathered it in chile-spiked crema, a gringo-style riff on a popular Mexican street snack. Truthfully, I think the creamy spread got in the way of the farm-fresh corn flavor — these ears were so fresh they were wet — but I’ll definitely make it again to help perk up less-than-perfect specimens, when the season’s winding down. It’d be a great way to give supermarket corn a kick, too, I suspect… something we’ll be able to test in a few weeks when we head to a family reunion in the Land of No Local Food.
Oh, and since we had the grill on? We roasted some homemade marshmallows and made semi-local s’mores, with Miette graham crackers and Scharffen Berger chocolate.
Ah yes, this summer is shaping up just fine after all.
Grilled Corn with Chile Crema
– adapted from Bon Appetit, August 2007
4 T sour cream
1 tsp fresh lime juice
1/2 tsp red chile powder (ancho, chipotle, etc.)
pinch kosher salt
4 ears of corn, unhusked
3T chopped fresh cilantro (optional)
Preheat a gas or charcoal grill to medium heat. Remove outer husks from corn, leaving inner pale green husks attached. Gently fold back inner husks; remove corn silk. Wipe kernels with a tiny bit of oil, then sprinkle with salt and pepper. Rewrap inner husks, and grill corn until husks are charred and kernels are just heated through.
Pull husks back and place corn on a serving platter. Brush corn with spiced crema and sprinkle with cilantro (if desired).
locavore, One Local Summer, recipes
5 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 07.07.08 6:51 PM
I know there’s some serious doubt about whether ol’ Samuel Clemens ever said “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” But if he didn’t say it back in 18-whatever-it-was, he would definitely have said it this year. Because, hello, it’s been frickin’ cold over here. I keep hearing everyone else in the Northern Hemisphere talk about sweltering subway rides and temperatures too hot for grilling. Meanwhile, I’m hauling out the fleece and putting the sundresses back in the closet.
But, you know, if the weather is going to make it seem like winter, then who are we to second-guess Mother Nature? Our Marin Sun Farms Meat CSA box this month included a mega-jumbo chuck roast, way too large for the two of us to tackle in one sitting, even with leftovers. I hate to cut up a large hunk of meat, but — freezing weather or no — I just couldn’t see inviting friends over for a roast beef supper. Burgers might be nice, but we already have enough ground beef to feed a small army.
So we cut the meat into large hunks and made a hearty, 100%-local version of Beef & Guinness Pie. Substituting Anchor Porter for the beer, and using local flour, butter, and cream cheese to make a really wide version of Lara’s cheater’s puff pastry pinwheels for the topping, we had our One Local Winter (er, I mean, Summer, of course) entree all wrapped up.
The pie is old-school Irish fare; its only vegetables are onions, garlic, and a dollop of tomato paste, so a side-dish is definitely in order. Thankfully, the delta and valleys, where most of our food comes from, are actually getting plenty of sun and heat, so we’re grabbing plenty of gorgeous shelling peas and baby carrots these days.
We like to cook young veggies gently, in a way that helps retain most of their vibrant color and snappy texture. We happened onto this fast pan-braising method (a much more interesting recipe to share with those of you who aren’t experiencing arctic blasts) as part of a green-bean recipe in one of our favorite cookbooks. Turns out it’s a fabulous way to get just about any small, tender vegetables to the table without a lot of fuss.
And it’s a method that rewards repetition: Once you get to know your pan and your stove, you’ll be able to add just enough water so that it all evaporates at the perfect moment, leaving just the buttery glaze and perfectly textured vegetables behind. It’s a fabulous technique you can use all year ’round, regardless of the climate.
Quick & Tender Vegetables
– adapted from Staff Meals at Chanterelle
Trim and/or peel the vegetables into uniform shapes. (Shell peas; slice carrots into 1/3-inch-thick rounds; trim the stem end off green beans, etc.)
Place the prepped vegetables in a skillet large enough to stack them no more than two pieces deep; a single layer is even better. (If you’re combining different shapes and textures, like shelled peas and carrot rounds, it’s best to cook them in two separate pans, so you can adjust temperatures and timing as needed.) Add cold water to reach halfway up the vegetables — no more! — then add as big a hunk of butter as you dare, and goodly amount of kosher salt.
Place the pan over high heat and bring to a boil. Cook uncovered, shaking the pan (or using tongs for long items like beans) to fiddle with the vegetables as they cook, until they’re brightly colored and tender but still have a little bite. Lift the vegetables out of the pan with tongs or a slotted spoon, letting them drip-dry just a bit, and place them in the serving dish.
locavore, One Local Summer, recipes
11 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 06.23.08 6:30 PM
You may remember from last month’s MxMo post that something like 17 recipes from our local bars and restaurants are included in Food & Wine Cocktails 2008 — a feat unmatched by any region’s mixologists, including the much-larger contingent from New York City. Soon after the book hit the streets, a gaggle of Bay Area food bloggers were talking about how remarkably lucky we are to live in a region with so many talented bartenders. One thing led to another, and soon people were plotting an exhaustive tour of the featured establishments.
Now, anyone who’s been party to a brilliant idea hatched in the midst of an alcohol-fueled afternoon knows what usually becomes of these grand plans: Nothing. As soon as the sober light of reality hits, you realize that getting a dozen-plus people to agree on schedules, venues, and pacing is just too much drama for a simple cocktail.
But obviously, you don’t know Jen.
Our supremely organized friend sat down with her trusty spreadsheet in one hand and a copy of the cocktail compendium in the other and plotted out an agenda that takes us to a different F&W-mentioned bar each week of the summer. Because of the logistics of getting our mostly San Francisco-based crew to far-flung destinations like Napa or even the East Bay, Jen left some drinks off the formal agenda as an extra-credit exercise for completists to tackle at their leisure.
Circulating the schedule to a crew of cocktail-savvy bloggers and other social butterflies, Jen kept the schedule-jockeying to a minimum with one simple idea: “We’ll be gathering here at the appointed time. Come if you can; we’ll see you next week if you can’t.” Brilliant, no?
And by god, it seems to be working. A quick call to the bar a day or two before gives us reasonable assurance that they’ll have any special ingredients on hand. People come early, leave late, wander in and out during the evening. A good time is had by all, and we manage to have a sociable drink or two before wandering off in various directions in search of supper.
And if the published cocktail at this week’s destination turned out to be… well, perhaps we’ll just say “seasonally inappropriate”? At least we had a wonderful time with some of our favorite blog-friends, enjoying some unseasonably warm weather in one of the coziest bars in The City. And hey, there’s always next week.
I don’t know about you, but when I’ve had a bad meal or any other below-scratch culinary experience, my natural instinct is to go for a do-over at a tried-and-true spot where we know we won’t be disappointed. Looking over Jen’s list, we realized that some of the far-flung omissions weren’t so far-flung after all, at least to those of us blessed with a car and a FasTrak transponder. And, really, it doesn’t take much of an excuse to get Cameron and me across the bay to Forbidden Island; the opportunity to taste a Fog Cutter made by the man whose license plate spells out the name of this Trader Vic tiki classic was more than sufficient.
Fog Cutter
– Martin Cate, Forbidden Island
From Food & Wine Cocktails 2008
1-1/2 oz white rum
1/2 oz gin
1/2 oz brandy
2 oz fresh orange juice
1 oz fresh lemon juice
1/2 oz orgeat
1/2 oz Amontillado sherry
Shake all ingredients except the sherry, and stain into an ice-filled highball glass. Carefully pour the sherry on top, and garnish with a sprig of mint.
bar culture, Drink of the Week, drinks, East Bay, recipes
11 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 06.16.08 6:30 PM
I had a funny conversation last week with a co-worker about the definition of summer. She contended — not entirely without justification — that summer starts on the solstice (June 20) and ends on the equinox (September 22).
With all due respect to the astronomically inclined, the gap between Memorial Day and Labor Day is the time that seems most summery to me. Spring’s icons — asparagus, artichokes, peas — are on their way out with the end of the school-year, and tomatoes, peaches, and blackberries are bursting into full swing. By the end of the month, we’ll have local corn at the market… a taste of deep summer if there ever was one.
Our One Local Summer meal this week included some old local favorites: a roast Hoffman Farms chicken with herb butter rubbed under the skin, a bottle of Le Printemps rose. We said goodbye to this year’s baby artichokes with a simple Tuscan-style preparation from Molto Italiano, and we tossed together a simple orzo-and-garbanzo side, studded with Laura Chenel chevre. Everything but the salt and pepper came from within our local foodshed, and a few bits — the herbs and the citrus — came from our own garden.
While the chicken roasted, we staved off our hunger with this riff on a recipe we’d seen in Food & Wine a few months back. Truthfully, this recipe isn’t the most summery combination — you could make it all year ’round, and we loved it so much that I’m sure we will. But being able to pop a few slices of well-oiled artisan bread on the grill at a moment’s notice is another sure sign of summer at our house.
Bruschetta with Ricotta and Salami
– adapted from Food & Wine, April 2008
1 cup fresh ricotta cheese
3T extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for brushing
6 thick slices of peasant-style bread (about 1/2-inch thick)
1 clove garlic, whole
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 small red onion, sliced thin
2T balsamic vinegar
3oz spicy salami (hot sopressata, Spanish chorizo, etc.), sliced thin
1T chopped parsley
2 cups of frisee, tender white and light-green leaves only
Put the ricotta in a fine sieve or a cheesecloth-lined colander, and set the strainer over a bowl. Cover the whole setup with a towel or parchment, and place in the fridge overnight.
The next day, discard the liquid in the bowl. Wipe out the bowl, and combine the ricotta and 1T olive oil; season with salt and pepper to taste.
Toss the red onion slices with the vinegar and set aside.
Preheat a grill or broiler. Brush both sides of each bread slice with olive oil and grill until toasted. Rub the grilled toasts with the whole garlic clove, and set aside. Drain the vinegar from the onions.
Heat the remaining 2T oil in a medium skillet over low heat. Add the sausage, minced garlic, and parsley, and cook until warmed through, about 5 minutes.
Spread the seasoned ricotta on the toasts, then top with the warm sausage mixture. Garnish with the frisee and pickled onions.
locavore, One Local Summer, recipes
11 Comments »
Posted by Anita on 06.13.08 7:03 AM
If you follow San Francisco’s cocktail scene even half-heartedly, it’d have been hard to miss the news about Beretta, heir to the old Last Supper Club space on Valencia. Even before its much-anticipated opening, this spot was generating plenty of buzz — much of it due to a bartender roster that reads like a Who’s Who of San Francisco mixologists.
Beretta’s culinary pedigree isn’t too shabby either, and our first dinner there was quite promising. A short list of risotto options — the one we tried, with porcini and Barbera, was homely but delicious — follows a litany of pizzas that could give Gialina or Pizzeria Delfina a run for their money with a few simple tweaks.
A dozen-plus antipasto options included delicious grilled asparagus served with olivata and soft-boiled egg quarters, and a spot-on plate of Monterey sardines in soar. Although portions are modest, this is definitely not dainty “small plates” food. They’re just the thing if you like being able to order a starter without ruining your appetite, and at $5 a pop you can always order two if you’re ravenous. Better still, they’re the perfect size for snacking at the bar while sipping one of Beretta’s well-crafted cocktails.
And yes, it’s all locavore-friendly: The menu boasts of food that’s “always fresh, seasonal, and sourced from local farmers”. Word ’round my office water-cooler is Beretta’s weekend brunch is a crowd-free glory all unto itself — and what better place to nurse a hangover?
Because, really, you might just be tempted overindulge when you see Beretta’s lengthy cocktail menu. Unlike the truncated drink offerings at many restaurants, this list offers a little something for every palate, and all drinks are priced at a reasonable $9. Over the course of the evening, we sampled a fantastic Gin & It made with Vya sweet vermouth and Tanqueray 10, plus an eye-opening Air Mail and pleasantly brisk an Agricole Mule.
One other drink we tried — the Monte Carlo — bears more than a passing resemblance to an old favorite, the Oh Henry, minus the ginger ale. Lest a fruity liqueur trick you into thinking this is a tame tipple, remember that Benedictine is 86 proof… stiffer than some bourbons! So, I suggest you do as the Beretta barkeeps do and serve it in a dainty Nick-and-Nora glass.
It’s not often we discover a worthy bourbon drink that’s escaped our notice — we’re great fans of America’s brown liquor, and we’ve even been known to put it in our food. So it seems only fitting to share our discovery as part of the June edition of Mixology Monday: Bourbon, hosted by SeanMike at Scofflaw’s Den.
Monte Carlo
1-1/2 oz bourbon or rye
1/2 oz Benedictine
2 dashes aromatic bitters
Stir with ice, strain into a small cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist of orange.
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A small sample of previous Drink of the Week entries featuring bourbon:
1/25/08: Horse’s Neck with a Kick
10/12/07: Whiskey Sour
9/14/07: Fashionably Lillet
7/27/07: Mint Julep
7/6/07: Sazerac
11/10/06: Manhattan
8/18/06: Currier
bar culture, Drink of the Week, drinks, Mixology Monday, recipes, restaurants, The Mission
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Posted by Anita on 06.07.08 7:18 PM
The weekend before last, I noticed a sign hanging from our favorite asparagus stand: “Last week at the market!” Stunned, I quickly grabbed a bunch of fat spears, as though somehow I could prolong the inevitable if I only moved fast enough. I laughed at myself as I paid the farmer, then sighed every time I opened the bag to put something else in: the… last… asparagus. It’s just impossible to believe that this quintessential spring vegetable is already done.
Truthfully, I’ve eaten my fair share of asparagus this spring: Baptized in butter and lemon juice, wrapped in pancetta and roasted, kissed by the smoky love of the grill, shaved raw and stacked with Parmesan shards, pureed into an ethereal chilled soup, topped with a poached egg and sprinkled with buttery breadcrumbs. Truly, my love of sparrow grass knows no bounds; I think nothing of eating it every time I see it on a menu.
But no matter how often I indulge, I’m never ready to see asparagus go. Given my obsession, you’d think — any reasonable person would — that I’d have run home from the market and enjoyed my haul before the dew was dried from its tips. But no, I’m a miser: I squirreled it away, wanting to prolong my personal asparagus season as long as possible.
Maybe I was in denial that the end was near. What other plausible explanation can there be for the fate of that prized bunch of the season’s last spears? Dear readers, forgive me: I left them in the produce drawer all week. Completely and utterly forgot about them, until the weekly fridge-cleanout exposed my error.
All’s well that ends well, though. Less-than-perfect asparagus gets a new lease on life when whizzed into a savory spring pesto, which in turn makes a more-than-perfect dinner for the inaugural week of One Local Summer. This summertime locavore challenge asks participants to cook a weekly meal from 100% local sources. A stunning 136 participants representing 30 states are joining the festivities, hosted by Farm to Philly with West Coast recaps from a familiar face: Laura at Urban Hennery.
Even between challenges, we’ve still been eating locally as much as we can — nearly every meal we cook at home is made from 85-95% locally grown or locally produced foods. But since One Local Summer only asks us to document one meal a week, we’re going to be stricter on ourselves than we have been in the past. We’ll source everything (even proteins) from within 100 miles, and our only exceptions will be salt and spices. Herbs, oils, sweeteners, even beverages will all come from our immediate foodshed.
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But back to the pesto: You might think that a meal made from over-exposed produce and a few pantry staples might taste like a thrown-together mess, but in all honesty nothing could be further from the truth. A judicious removal of all fibrous or discolored bits, followed by a brightening blanch in well-salted water cures a lot of ills when it comes to green veggies. It was our favorite meal of the week, and then some: Cameron and I fought over the leftovers, a sure sign of a recipe that’s bound for heavy rotation — I only wish we’d discovered it sooner.
Along with the neglected Zuckerman asparagus, our pesto contained a good lashing of Bariani’s sumptuous olive oil, a blizzard of Vella dry Jack cheese, sweet blanched almonds from Alfieri Farms, and beautiful young garlic — not quite green, but with still-supple skins and a glorious round flavor — from Green Gulch Farm. Served over Eduardo’s locally made penne, these bright flavors balanced perfectly with the earthy, smoldering notes of Fatted Calf‘s coiled Basque sausage and a fruity bottle of Souverain sauvignon blanc.
A fitting farewell to spring if I do say so myself.
Penne with Asparagus Pesto
1 bunch asparagus (about 1/2 pound before trimming)
8 oz dry penne pasta
1/4 cup blanched almond slivers
2 medium garlic cloves
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 ounce freshly grated Dry Jack (about 1/3 cup), plus more for garnish
Fill a Dutch oven or other large pot with water. Salt well, and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, prepare an ice-water bath in a medium bowl.
Snap the woody ends from the asparagus. Cut the stalks into 2-inch lengths, keeping the tips separate. When the water comes to a boil, blanch the stem pieces until they turn bright green and tender, then remove them to the ice bath using a slotted spoon. Repeat with the tips, which should take about half as long. Keep the pot boiling for the pasta while you drain the chilled asparagus well and blot it dry.
In a food processor, pulse the almonds, garlic, and salt until minced, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Add the asparagus and oil, pulsing until the mixture is coarsely chopped — you’re not going for a smooth purée here. Remove the blade from the work bowl, and add the grated cheese. Stir until combined, and season to taste with salt and pepper.
In the same pot of boiling water, cook the penne until al dente. Reserve about 1/3 cup of the pasta water, then drain the pasta. Return the empty pot to the stove over low heat, add the pesto to the pot, then add the drained penne and enough pasta water to create a sauce. Toss well to coat. Taste and season again with salt and pepper as needed.
Serve in shallow bowls, with more grated cheese sprinkled on top.
farmers markets, Italian, locavore, One Local Summer, other blogs, recipes
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