We were really looking forward to eating at a local restaurant with cuisine primarily influenced by the Chef’s Basque lineage. Seated at a square, wood table not far from the open kitchen and scanning the menu the only thing I saw that was vegetarian was the green salad and the cheese plate. On a regular day, that might suffice but we had come to this establishment hoping that it might be our “spot.” I wanted something special. A meal to remember. An experience that would bring me back.
On the menu, there was one thing that was sort of vegetarian: An eggplant dish with tomato sauce. But it came with an anchovy fillet on top of it. Besides not liking the look of anchovies, I certainly didn’t want an anchovy flavor on my meal. So we asked, like we do at most restaurants, for an accommodation.
The waitress seemed indignant. “Listen, we don’t change anything in the preparation for anyone.” And then she pointed to the fine print on the menu. “No substitutions.” We asked her to confer with the Chef and make our case. After all, we were really looking forward to the meal at their restaurant. And the wine had been opened. We were settling in.
She turned around without saying a word and, probably rolling her eyes, started a weak negotiation on my behalf. I swear they talked for 10 minutes. It was probably more like 30 seconds. But still – there was definitely an exchange and some hesitation. When they finished, she came over and in a very quiet voice told us that the Chef would make an accommodation but that he would not not put the anchovy on the dish. “He said that he’d put it on the side and we can just pretend that it fell off.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep, seriously.”
I thought for a second and while odd, I could live with the decision. “Okay, we’ll take it. Thanks.”
When the dish arrived, sure enough, the anchovy fillet was staring at me, on the side of the plate. And there it stayed throughout the meal. Had I tried to hide it under a napkin I might have had an experience like in one of the Seinfeld episodes – “No soup for you” – and I would have been banished forever.
A striking contrast to this experience was a meal we had in a small town in France called Joigney on the Yonne River. We had just come from the Champagne area and had driven down winding country roads to reach our destination. It was a pleasant trip with a late lunch. We were a bit road weary, but excited to see another part of France, stay at La Cote Saint Jacques and eat the food of Jean Michel Lorain.
Once we settled into our suite, we had time to sit on the terrace of the hotel and savor some Chablis to shake off the road dust and watch the river gently flow to places we had not yet been to. We were there in mid-October and the late afternoon sun was pleasant, neither too hot nor too cold.
Thinking about dinner, we thought we’d stretch our legs and walk into town for a bite to eat. We just wanted something light. At the front desk they informed us that nothing would be open and that we would be better off if we dined with them. Not knowing the area, we of course took their advice and made a reservation even though we had one for the next evening. Heck – it was vacation and how often does one get to eat at a three Michelin star restaurant?
We went back upstairs to get dressed, knowing that our common street clothes would not suffice.
The dining room, as I recall, was warmly decorated, allowing the crisp white linen clad tables to stand out like little altars. The menus were weighty and substantial and in French. While I can pick out a few words, I must admit, I had to rely on James, who speaks the language fluently, to be my guide and order for me, as is always the case when we’re travelling abroad.
With each trip we’ve taken, I always lie to myself and say I’ll study beforehand, and study hard, so I can be minimally conversant on my own. I always, conveniently, run out of time. In our preparation for this trip, a few phrases had stuck with me such as “Je suis vegeterienne.” And, “Encore du vin rouge s’il vous plait.” And, “Omelet du fromage.” I’m pretty good with good morning, good evening and good night, though I can even mix those up under pressure. So, I rely on James. Besides, if anyone were to ask me a question, I’d have to stare back at them shaking my head, worried look on my face, and say, “Do you speak English?”
In the land of offal and savory meat sauces, you would think I’d be kicked to the curb when James announces there is a vegetarian in the midst. I didn’t happen here, nor anywhere in France that we’ve travelled, actually. They were only too glad to accommodate me.
Once everything was ordered, James and I talked in hushed tones and enjoyed the subtle opulence around us. When the meal arrived, I was delighted to have a lovingly prepared vegetable fricassee placed in front of me. James and the waiter then had an exchange which had to do with thumbs. And, in a grand gesture, the waiter started to shave something on my dish. It was brown. Brown cheese? No, wait. Not cheese. Something more earthy. Something I love, love, love. It was the gold of the fungi world. Black truffle. And I got a whole thumbs worth on my dish. Heaven!
Sometimes it is the little surprises that makes life so rich and rewarding.
The next night, we had asked to do their tasting menu. I can’t, now, remember everything we ate but I know that they pulled together something special for me so that I could take on James course for course. For instance, the amuse bouche. Picture a small rectangular plate with three equally proportioned nibbles on them. All having to do with a tomato theme. Besides being beautifully presented and looking almost too good to eat, I also knew they were lovingly prepared just for me! The first bite was a square inch mini-grilled cheese with tomato. The second bite was a candied cherry tomato with a sleek toothpick sticking out of it. It looked like a mini candied red apple. And the last bite was a poached cherry tomato with a finely diced red and green pepper filling. They must have taken time and thought to prepare this wonderful start to the meal. Looking at the hustle and bustle around us, it wasn’t like they had a lot of time on their hands. They had a lot to crank out that night.
Other memorable parts of the meal: James noshed on a roosters comb that we at first thought was a mushroom. We’re still not sure to this day if it was really for eating or for decorative purposes only. If it was for decorative purposes, it wasn’t the worst faux pas that had been committed on the trip. Imagine me at another restaurant popping the amuse bouche in my mouth and when James said something at the exact time I was biting down on the delicacy, I made the mistake of saying, “What?” Next thing I knew hot butter was squirting across the table. (I still refer to this as my Lucille Ball moment. This was not the kind of place that would find that at all amusing).
Another wonderful memory from eating at La Cote Saint Jacques was after we were well fed and full beyond capacity. Our waiter, a charming fellow who had taken a liking to us, asked if we’d like to see their wine cellar. To get there, we had to go through the kitchen (I might add, immaculate kitchen). The Chef was there. We got to meet him and thank him for a memorable meal.
If I could have said it in French I would have said to him, “Thank you for taking my vegetarianism as an opportunity to innovate versus an insult.” Instead all I could say was, “Merci. Bon Nuit.” He seemed to appreciate that.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Beware: Artist in the Kitchen
My husband calls me the Jackson Pollock of the kitchen. Partially, because I improvise and don’t always follow the recipe but mostly, because I make an entire and utter mess of the kitchen while in the process of creating. It’s not like I try to make a mess. I tend to get overly ambitious and have too many things going on at once so I don’t notice a splatter here or there or a drop of sauce on the floor until the guests have left and I’m too tipsy to care.
Have I always been a bit of a nonconformist in the kitchen? Maybe we should try and find my Home Ec teacher from high school, Ms. Carbondale, and ask her. True or false: my father was sent a progress report telling him that I was certain to fail if I didn’t shape up. And the answer is…..True.
Her main complaints: I wasn’t using a knife to level dry ingredients and I wasn’t always paying attention in class. What she failed to understand as a teacher and human being was that I was in a different place than most kids my age. With parents divorced and my sister and me living with my father, dinner generally fell on me to prepare. I didn’t mind it. It’s just that I had already been doing trial and error in the kitchen. I had already followed recipes and figured out how to improve upon them. In a kid’s body, I was already an adult in some ways. I knew how to grocery shop, chop, cook a balanced meal and clean up afterwards. I probably thought she didn’t have much to teach me and truth be told, that was probably correct.
Over time, going to college and graduate school where I didn’t really have to cook, I lost my way in the kitchen a bit. It wasn’t until my husband and I moved to San Jose from Chicago, where I was between “engagements”, that I started making dinner for us. Increasingly, I became more confident. People asked me for my recipes. I began to love the challenge of putting a complex menu together. We started having small dinner parties. Now, in our Seattle home, we can pull off a multi-course meal for twenty without batting an eyelash. It's a true pleasure to cook for and feed those you love and to try new things (we always experiment on our guests!).
Looking at the aftermath of our last dinner party, empty or partially empty wine bottles scattered about, dishes tottering in the sink and the stove and floor caked with indiscernible things, I'm pretty sure that Jackson Pollock would be proud of me.
I’ve learned that cooking is a little part art and a little part science. I lean towards the art side of it. It hasn’t failed me yet. Sorry, Ms. Carbondale. There are more ways than yours to make something shine in the kitchen.
Have I always been a bit of a nonconformist in the kitchen? Maybe we should try and find my Home Ec teacher from high school, Ms. Carbondale, and ask her. True or false: my father was sent a progress report telling him that I was certain to fail if I didn’t shape up. And the answer is…..True.
Her main complaints: I wasn’t using a knife to level dry ingredients and I wasn’t always paying attention in class. What she failed to understand as a teacher and human being was that I was in a different place than most kids my age. With parents divorced and my sister and me living with my father, dinner generally fell on me to prepare. I didn’t mind it. It’s just that I had already been doing trial and error in the kitchen. I had already followed recipes and figured out how to improve upon them. In a kid’s body, I was already an adult in some ways. I knew how to grocery shop, chop, cook a balanced meal and clean up afterwards. I probably thought she didn’t have much to teach me and truth be told, that was probably correct.
Over time, going to college and graduate school where I didn’t really have to cook, I lost my way in the kitchen a bit. It wasn’t until my husband and I moved to San Jose from Chicago, where I was between “engagements”, that I started making dinner for us. Increasingly, I became more confident. People asked me for my recipes. I began to love the challenge of putting a complex menu together. We started having small dinner parties. Now, in our Seattle home, we can pull off a multi-course meal for twenty without batting an eyelash. It's a true pleasure to cook for and feed those you love and to try new things (we always experiment on our guests!).
Looking at the aftermath of our last dinner party, empty or partially empty wine bottles scattered about, dishes tottering in the sink and the stove and floor caked with indiscernible things, I'm pretty sure that Jackson Pollock would be proud of me.
I’ve learned that cooking is a little part art and a little part science. I lean towards the art side of it. It hasn’t failed me yet. Sorry, Ms. Carbondale. There are more ways than yours to make something shine in the kitchen.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Introduction
I’ve been into food and wine for many a year but I've been a vegetarian for 25 years - more than half my life. I did not grow up off the grid with hippy parents. I did not read a book or see a movie about how meat is processed and then start eating tofu immediately. It was a personal choice I made when I was a junior in high school. Growing up Catholic, we always practiced the rituals of lent. Fish on Fridays. Giving up things as a symbolic sacrifice. That particular lent in 1983 I gave up red meat. It just seemed like the thing to do. If I recall, there was an anti-red meat campaign going on at the time. Still, eschewing steak and burgers and pepperoni pizza for a few weeks? That seemed like a big deal as a teenager.
Once lent was over, I didn’t go back to red meat. Instead, I decided to give up chicken. And eventually I gave up fish as well. I guess it just suits my taste buds and lifestyle. I’ve had thoughts over the past few years that I’d like to go back to eating fish. It’s so abundant in Seattle and it’s a lean source of protein. So, every now and then, when we’re out to dinner with friends, I’ll ask to take a tiny bite of their halibut or salmon or whatever they are eating. Each time I have the same reaction: Too strong of a taste. Too strange of a texture. And, I go back to my tofu dish and think…ahh…this is so good.
Over time, it has been easier to be a vegetarian. Particularly living on the west coast. It’s a very veggie friendly kind of place. Most restaurants, by and large, understand that vegetarian does not equal a pasta dish with leftover vegetables. But, when I started out, I lived on the east coast in New Hope, PA about an hour north of Philadelphia – home of the Philly Cheese Steak. When I told people I was a vegetarian, I might as well have told them that I was from the planet Jupiter. “So…you eat chicken?” Ah – no. “Fish?” That would be no again. “Then what do you eat? Granola?”
I am what they call a lacto-ovo vegetarian. I eat dairy products and I eat eggs. I tried to be vegan for a week. Couldn’t do it. I missed cheese too much. I also tried doing a raw food diet. I think that lasted less than three days. So, you can tell, I’m not one for extremes on the vegetarian front. Plus, I like my leather goods.
My husband James is not a vegetarian. He’s a healthy carnivore. And an adventure eater. As are many of our foodie friends we hang out with. He’ll try just about anything – once. Colt. Cayman Egg. Chocolate covered ants. Durian fruit. Cuy (guinea pig).
The idea for this blog came to me when we were on vacation on the mid-coast of Maine last summer. Perhaps because I had relaxed enough to have work thoughts completely out of my system. More likely it was because of Waterman’s Lobster Shack. We had read that James Beard had paid homage to it – so we wanted to check it out. Never having been to Maine, we didn’t quite know what to expect from a lobster shack.
When we arrived, the parking lot was full and people were lined up to order their food from a window. It could have been Dairy Queen, but it sure wasn't. People came from NY and CT and yes, the PNW, to feast on everything from lobster and crab rolls to 2 lb lobster dinners. The only thing they had on the menu for me was corn on the cob and coleslaw. I went for that, James went for the 1 lb lobster dinner. We didn’t know it was a BYOP (bring your own picnic) kind of place. So, we sat at a picnic table sipping lemonade and staring at the water in anticipation – James’ main course had come out of the sea that very day. At this joint, a couple was a rare sight. Most of the tables were full of families. Telling stories, laughing, chasing toddlers, sipping the wine they had brought or passing around a salad in a Tupperware container and, of course, feasting on lobster and then on homemade pie for dessert.
When James’ dinner arrived, he put on the classic, plastic bib with the iconic print of a lobster on the front. It was charming in the setting. It had been a long time since he had to work for his dinner. Luckily, the beautiful home on Tenants Harbor that we were renting had place mats that gave step by step instructions on how to eat a lobster. He pretended not to study it at morning coffee. But, I think it helped him to start in the right place. And to get the most out of his meal.
Earlier during our stay, on a boat tour to go see the puffins (a very cool story, by the way, one man’s quest 30+ years ago saved these darling little birds from extinction), we had learned from our lobsterman tour guide that in the summer months, what’s available is “soft shell lobster” vs. “hard shell lobster.” Kind of like us, we put away our heavy coats for the summer season – they don a softer, summer look when the days get longer. Thus the lobster shack experience was new to James on two fronts. BYOP & soft shell.
Some vegetarians might have been outraged at the scene around us. All that cracking and sucking, not to mention the method by which they must cook the lobster. Me, I was having a grand old time. Hanging out with James, sitting in the sun and watching so many people enjoy themselves. All with the backdrop of the beautiful ocean. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Food and communion? Sitting at a table with those you love and breaking bread with them. In this case, it was lobster claws. But you get my drift.
We’ve had a chance to travel to many wonderful places over the years and to eat in many wonderful restaurants, as well as people’s homes, here and abroad. What you’ll find in the following posts are memories from those meals. Memories of food, friendship and love. Cheers!
Once lent was over, I didn’t go back to red meat. Instead, I decided to give up chicken. And eventually I gave up fish as well. I guess it just suits my taste buds and lifestyle. I’ve had thoughts over the past few years that I’d like to go back to eating fish. It’s so abundant in Seattle and it’s a lean source of protein. So, every now and then, when we’re out to dinner with friends, I’ll ask to take a tiny bite of their halibut or salmon or whatever they are eating. Each time I have the same reaction: Too strong of a taste. Too strange of a texture. And, I go back to my tofu dish and think…ahh…this is so good.
Over time, it has been easier to be a vegetarian. Particularly living on the west coast. It’s a very veggie friendly kind of place. Most restaurants, by and large, understand that vegetarian does not equal a pasta dish with leftover vegetables. But, when I started out, I lived on the east coast in New Hope, PA about an hour north of Philadelphia – home of the Philly Cheese Steak. When I told people I was a vegetarian, I might as well have told them that I was from the planet Jupiter. “So…you eat chicken?” Ah – no. “Fish?” That would be no again. “Then what do you eat? Granola?”
I am what they call a lacto-ovo vegetarian. I eat dairy products and I eat eggs. I tried to be vegan for a week. Couldn’t do it. I missed cheese too much. I also tried doing a raw food diet. I think that lasted less than three days. So, you can tell, I’m not one for extremes on the vegetarian front. Plus, I like my leather goods.
My husband James is not a vegetarian. He’s a healthy carnivore. And an adventure eater. As are many of our foodie friends we hang out with. He’ll try just about anything – once. Colt. Cayman Egg. Chocolate covered ants. Durian fruit. Cuy (guinea pig).
The idea for this blog came to me when we were on vacation on the mid-coast of Maine last summer. Perhaps because I had relaxed enough to have work thoughts completely out of my system. More likely it was because of Waterman’s Lobster Shack. We had read that James Beard had paid homage to it – so we wanted to check it out. Never having been to Maine, we didn’t quite know what to expect from a lobster shack.
When we arrived, the parking lot was full and people were lined up to order their food from a window. It could have been Dairy Queen, but it sure wasn't. People came from NY and CT and yes, the PNW, to feast on everything from lobster and crab rolls to 2 lb lobster dinners. The only thing they had on the menu for me was corn on the cob and coleslaw. I went for that, James went for the 1 lb lobster dinner. We didn’t know it was a BYOP (bring your own picnic) kind of place. So, we sat at a picnic table sipping lemonade and staring at the water in anticipation – James’ main course had come out of the sea that very day. At this joint, a couple was a rare sight. Most of the tables were full of families. Telling stories, laughing, chasing toddlers, sipping the wine they had brought or passing around a salad in a Tupperware container and, of course, feasting on lobster and then on homemade pie for dessert.
When James’ dinner arrived, he put on the classic, plastic bib with the iconic print of a lobster on the front. It was charming in the setting. It had been a long time since he had to work for his dinner. Luckily, the beautiful home on Tenants Harbor that we were renting had place mats that gave step by step instructions on how to eat a lobster. He pretended not to study it at morning coffee. But, I think it helped him to start in the right place. And to get the most out of his meal.
Earlier during our stay, on a boat tour to go see the puffins (a very cool story, by the way, one man’s quest 30+ years ago saved these darling little birds from extinction), we had learned from our lobsterman tour guide that in the summer months, what’s available is “soft shell lobster” vs. “hard shell lobster.” Kind of like us, we put away our heavy coats for the summer season – they don a softer, summer look when the days get longer. Thus the lobster shack experience was new to James on two fronts. BYOP & soft shell.
Some vegetarians might have been outraged at the scene around us. All that cracking and sucking, not to mention the method by which they must cook the lobster. Me, I was having a grand old time. Hanging out with James, sitting in the sun and watching so many people enjoy themselves. All with the backdrop of the beautiful ocean. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Food and communion? Sitting at a table with those you love and breaking bread with them. In this case, it was lobster claws. But you get my drift.
We’ve had a chance to travel to many wonderful places over the years and to eat in many wonderful restaurants, as well as people’s homes, here and abroad. What you’ll find in the following posts are memories from those meals. Memories of food, friendship and love. Cheers!
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