Sushi with Zach

When I first met Alex, I was obsessed with baking bread. With the ambitious goal of perfecting the baguette, I would make a loaf a day, experimenting with different recipes and techniques. Alex disapproved of my hobby, arguing that it was useless to spend so much time making a product that could be readily bought at local bakeries. Although these objections were usually made through a mouth stuffed with baguette, they did possess a certain degree of logic. These days I rarely make bread. Alex has long forgotten his disapproval, and wistfully recalls the early days of our relationship, when he thought he would enjoy homemade bread for the rest of his life.

Much to his disappointment, Alex’s cost-benefit cooking calculus has stuck with me, so when my brother Zach called to extol the glories of homemade sushi, I wasn’t convinced. The photographs of his sushi were beautiful, to be sure, and his enthusiasm was hard to resist, but I couldn’t help but question whether it was worth the effort when I could get delicious sushi delivered to my home in less than 30 minutes. So, when Zach suggested that we make sushi during my recent visit to Cleveland, I figured it was a great opportunity to see what all the fuss was about.

And, making sushi with Zach was a bit of a fuss. The project required trips to no fewer than three markets. We had to cook and season the rice, mix up the spicy mayonnaise, make the wasabi paste, cut the fish and vegetables, and finally assemble the rolls. Also, the tuna, salmon, crab and escolar were not cheap, so we probably didn’t save any money by making the sushi ourselves (this is only a consideration for future sushi-making, as Zach bore the entire tab for his freeloading sister). Our resulting sushi was impressive and quite delicious, but was it really worth the effort?For me, the answer is yes. The problem with Alex’s cost-benefit cooking calculus is that it doesn’t take into account that preparing things like sushi and bread is a lot of fun. Going to all the stores with Zach and my adorable niece was a blast, and making the rolls was much more satisfying than ordering delivery. My one successful roll filled me with pride, and left me eager to make sushi again if for no other reason than to banish from memory my other awkward efforts.

Most of Zach’s sushi doesn’t require a recipe; you simply cut fish, avocado, cucumber, and whatever else your heart desires into strips, and then assemble the rolls using a traditional sushi mat (he recommends cutting a paper bag into a square and covering it with aluminum foil and saran wrap as an alternative). Place the fish in the center of a piece of nori, and then place enough sushi rice to cover the nori in the center and work it into an even layer. Be sure to keep a container of water and rice vinegar nearby, and regularly coat your hands and knife to prevent the rice from sticking.

Ceviche

Where are all the sweet summer tomatoes? They certainly aren’t at my local Shaw’s or Whole Foods, which sell the same bland, tasteless tomatoes that they do in the winter. They also aren’t at my local gourmet store, Formaggio Kitchen, which also offered a pathetic selection of mushy industrial “heirloom” tomatoes. It is possible that they are at the Davis Square weekly farmers’ market, which I didn’t visit today because of the rain. Still, that wouldn’t have helped me yesterday, when I went to the store hoping to make the pasta caprese from last month’s Cook’s Illustrated and test their theory that the secret to the dish is freezing cubes of fresh mozzarella before cooking (this seems to be the secret of most of their dishes involving cheese).Instead, I decided to improvise a salmon ceviche. I used farm-raised Atlantic salmon, which is surprisingly delicious and socially responsible to boot. The texture of salmon was quite luxurious, similar to sushi but without the heavy oily flavor that sometimes can be unpleasant. The dish was a great success, and I forgot about my tomato problems until after lunch, when I finished all the ceviche and am left wondering what to make for tomorrow’s dinner.

Enjoying Ethiopian

Many of my friends get this glazed look in their eyes whenever Ethiopian food is mentioned. “I love Ethiopian food,” they say in a dreamy voice as they recall past culinary ecstasy. You can see their mouths begin to salivate, and then you can see them take a cold, hard swallow when I declare my firm opinion that Ethiopian food is stupid. It’s not that I don’t want to like Ethiopian food. I find the idea of writing of an entire country’s cuisine to be unpalatable, especially when its food receives such high acclaim. But, after many meals of rubbery ijnera bread and boring stews containing overcooked sulfuric eggs, I resigned myself to the idea that Ethiopian food was not for me. That is, until yesterday night, when I had a delightful meal at Addis Red Sea, a new Ethiopian restaurant in Cambridge.

Daunted by the unfamiliar menu, I opted for a combination platter of Doro Wot (chicken stewed in red pepper sauce) and the three vegetarian dishes that the waitress recommended. The Doro Wot was delicious, with tender lemony chicken and a spicy sauce. One of the vegetable dishes was a preparation of collard greens that would rival that from the finest southern kitchen. Their spicy lentils were lovely, and had a completely different flavor from the chicken. But, probably the most impressive was the injera, which was light and flavorful, a perfect vessel to enjoy all the sauces.

I am thrilled that I no longer need to snub Ethiopian food. Usually, I hate being wrong, but in this case I am glad to retract everything negative I’ve said about Ethiopian cuisine (including an unfortunate joke I once made questioning whether they had food in Ethiopia). I plan to rush back to Addis Red Sea and happily eat a humble pie of this delicious cuisine.

Reality Check

Just when I was getting carried away idealizing Chinese food, this story ripped off my rose-tinted glasses.

Chinese Cooking

Some of my favorite dishes from China are unavailable in the States. It is true that Chinese dining options in this country have dramatically improved from the days where all you could find were bland Cantonese-American brown sauce dishes. Within ten minutes of my house are restaurants from Taiwan, Shandong, and Nanjing (although the Nanjing restaurant is ironically called the Qingdao Garden). Still, some of China’s most ubiquitous dishes are absent from American menus.

The lack of some dishes is understandable. Take lamb kabobs (羊肉串儿), for example. While lamb kabobs are available at virtually every street corner in Beijing, they are a Muslim food that isn’t found in Han Chinese restaurants. Few Chinese Muslims make it to America, and those who do rarely open restaurants. However, other dishes, like tiger salad of cucumber and pepper (老虎菜), steamed bread (馒头), or candied fruit kabobs (糖葫芦) are shamefully neglected by restaurants in America, leaving the people who crave them only one option: cooking them at home, which is exactly what Rachel I did the other night.

Finding recipes for the kabobs and salad turned out to be a bit of a challenge. After extensive Internet searching, I was about to give up and just wing it, when on a whim I looked at the webpage for Betty’s Kitchen, a Chinese cooking magazine owned by the media group I worked for while in China. I was amazed to find complete recipes for both the lamb kabobs and cucumber salad, and happily copied down the ingredients. Rachel and I then rushed over to the Super 88, Boston’s Chinese grocery store, optimistic that we would be able to produce the dishes we were craving.

In retrospect, we were a bit naïve to think that we would be able to find the foreign spices listed in the recipes. The grocery store clerk gave me a blank stare when I asked for barbeque powder (烧烤粉) and spicy sedan chair powder (辣轿粉). After a lengthy discussion in Chinese, he directed us to the Western barbeque spice section, and then mocked us when we were unable to find what we wanted. We finally decided to muster up our dignity, forget the recipes, and just improvise the dishes.

The kabobs turned out to be delicious, tasting quite like the Beijing street food, except that we were using a tastier cut of lamb. The tiger salad was reminiscent of what we ate in China, except we were short on peppers. We decided to call it little cat salad (小猫菜), and it truly did this name proud. The night was a great success, and left me eager to cook more Chinese food.

A Familiar Face

While watching old episodes online of Betty’s Kitchen, a Chinese cooking show, I saw the following commercial, which I’ve captured in a screenshot:

It turns out every episode ends with an commercial for the Betty’s Kitchen magazine, which includes a shot from when I appeared on the show in January, 2004. I’m a star!

Paris, Part 1

I returned from France last week five pounds heaver. The weight came from my soul, which is still is still soaring . . . drunkenly. The trip was amazing, filled with countless extravagant meals and fabulous wines. I have struggled on how to blog about the trip, fearing that a litany of all the noteworthy feasts would be tedious. No one wants to read another rhapsody about how great French food is. I’ve read countless florid descriptions of a the satisfying crunch of a croissant’s light, buttery layers or rants about why the cheap table wine at a Parisian bistro is better than much of the swill we get in the States. I certainly don’t want to resort to the cliché about how it is impossible to get a bad meal in France, despite the fact that my experience on this trip supported this theory. Still, I want to record all the great things I ate, if only to quiet my family and friends who keep asking when I’m going to post about France. So, I figured I would start with a post about my first dinner in Paris, and see how things continue from there.

My first dinner in Paris was at Le Duc, a Michelin-starred seafood restaurant that my brother recommended. The meal commenced with a heaping plate of bigorneaux (small snails).

Sometimes bigorneaux can be rubbery and bland, but these were tender and sweet. I dove right in, prying the sweet flesh from the shells and popping them into my mouth as if they were candy. Alex watched with loving admiration as I gorged myself, although I must admit that an onlooker unfamiliar with his expressions would have mistaken his look for horror. When he said, “Jenny, how can you eat that?” he really meant, “Behold what an exotic, adventurous fiancée I have.”

The next course should have been Le Duc’s famous raw fish platter, which is not on the menu, but is ordered by everyone in the know, according to my brother and sister-in-law. Alex and I were hesitant to try it, questioning the wisdom of ordering something that fails to test the chef’s ability to cook. We were also jetlagged and weren’t sure exactly what the raw fish platter was called in French. In whispers, we guessed that it might be called the plateau fruits de la mer, and even tried to look it up in the Michelin review of the restaurant, but in the end we were too shy. Alex chose the trio of smoked fish and I ordered the oysters plate from the menu. The smoked fish was uninspired. I was happy with the oysters, which were plump and not too briny, until the neighboring table was presented with a raw fish platter heaping with oysters, clams, shrimp, langoustines, escargots, and lobster. Futterneid is the German word for the devastating resentment that occurs when someone orders better food than you. Sure, the oysters were delicious, but futterneid diminished their sweetness. I jealously looked on until the table noticed my staring. There was a glint of triumph in their eyes when I went back to my meal; they knew they were dining better than I.

The next course was a sole meuniere, which was a little buttery for my taste. Likewise, Alex’s sea bass was swimming in butter. To me, fresh fish should taste of the sea, not of the land. While the dishes weren’t my favorite, I appreciated their Frenchness. Later in the trip, I would receive a pamphlet about entitled, “Butter: Healthy or Not?” The conclusion was a resounding yes.

For dessert, we had a rum cake that was much more about the rum than the cake. The waiter brought out a modest portion of pound-cake, and then poured about a cup of rum over the top. If that weren’t enough, he left the bottle on the table in case we were still feeling sober. That wasn’t the case, and after happily eating the dessert we stumbled back to the hotel to sleep off the meal. The trip was off to a good start.

The Four Seasons

I woke up one morning during my Passover Cleveland trip to find my father scowling at The New York Times. “Jenny, you need to see this,” he said in a serious voice. I prepared myself a cup of espresso to ready myself for the story, which judging by his expression, was not going to be good. After a fortifying sip, I walked over and looked at the paper. Before I could finish the first sentence, my father broke the depressing news. Frank Bruni had just taken away the Four Season’s third star. While the decline of any historic American restaurant is saddening, I had a more immediate reason to be disappointed about the review: we had reservations to dine there for Alex’s mother’s birthday.

When we met Alex’s parents in New York, our discussion quickly wandered to the Bruni review. Alex’s father quickly dismissed the article. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “I don’t think The New York Times’ restaurant reviews are any more reliable than its political coverage.” Nick’s confidence and enthusiastic stories about past meals at the Four Seasons quickly restored my optimism. An epicurean like Nick would never pick an unreliable location for his wife’s 60th birthday.

Still recovering from the previous night’s debauchery, I hadn’t eaten much during the day and was ravenous by dinnertime. This is a rarity when with Nick, who insists on a marathon of wine-filled feasts for both lunch and dinner when traveling. When I walked into the restaurant, I was immediately struck by the room’s décor. Brass and silver chain curtains rippled lazily in the window like a gentle breeze on a still pond. On the way to the main room, I admired the Picasso curtain and Miro tapestries. The famous pool sat proudly in the middle of the room, surrounded by mini cherry-blossom trees. Even a McDonald’s meal would have seemed like haute cuisine in such a tranquil, sophisticated environment.

People say that the Four Seasons isn’t really about the food; it is about the décor and the experience of dining with New York’s elite. While it is true that the food was not the most innovative I’ve ever had, it was definitely no disappointment. Blue fin tuna ravioli with sea urchin was a whimsical start to the meal. Thinly sliced sashimi replaced the usual pasta shell, and the unctuous sea urchin filling was delicious. A buttery bison filet with foie gras and a generous perigord truffle sauce followed. The meal’s highlight was the roasted duck, which was carved tableside. With the perfectly crisp skin of a Peking roast duck and rich succulent meat, the dish was a knockout.

I could barely make room for the marvelous dessert of strawberry and rhubarb shortbread completed the meal, let alone the three complimentary soufflés that appeared at our table when my brother expressed regret about forgetting to order his in advance. Walking out past the beautiful people and impressive art, I appreciated the ethereal experience of dining at the Four Seasons. Of course, it is easy to enjoy a dreamlike meal when you don’t have to look at the bill, the one downside of an otherwise delightful meal.

City Living

Alex and I often fantasize about moving into the city. Both of us grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, and are used to suburban living. We love our quiet, tree-lined street where we can open the windows at night and grill on our patio. We are so comfortable in our cozy little neighborhood that we rarely venture downtown. However, when we do make it into the city and see all the fabulous restaurants we are missing, we are filled with acute urban envy. I have this image of dining after work at a stylish restaurant across the street from our brownstone apartment. Alex is wearing a tie that has been loosened in a James Bondesque manner, and I am wearing a fashionable outfit with fabulous shoes. The restaurant owners know us, and present us with complementary glasses of champagne right as we are seated at a candle-lit table with crisp white linens. The food is spectacular – the type of cuisine we normally enjoy on special occasions. Except this is no special occasion: this is our everyday urban life.

I just returned home from a weekend in New York City, and my grass-is-always-greener syndrome is worse than ever. The weekend began with a party at the Harvard Club for Alex’s mother’s sixtieth birthday. While the food was delicious, my never-ending glass of Jordan Cabernet Sauvignon is what really distinguished the evening. No matter how much I drank, invisible waiters kept refilling the glass. Alex’s mother always says that you won’t end up with too bad of a hangover if you only drink natural wines. I didn’t test her theory’s wisdom that evening, however. Instead, my parents and I went out to a bar after the party, where I drank a huge glass of sambuca. I think it was that final glass that left me with an epic hangover, the likes I haven’t experienced since a wedding last spring.

I really do regret that final glass of sambuca, because the next day the true dining really began. Alex and I met his parents for lunch at Mario Batali’s pizza restaurant, Otto. I was skeptical about the restaurant after a disappointing meal at Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill, which made me question the abilities of TV celebrity chefs. But, when the appetizer of artichokes marinated in lemon and mint came out, it was clear that this meal was going to be a great success.

For everyone else, that is.

I was still recovering from the sambuca, and couldn’t even bring myself to taste the artichoke, even though it looked amazing. The appetizer was followed by some pizza with a seriously thin crust – the likes of which I have never seen in America. I was able to force down a few slices, and felt anguished that I could not properly enjoy the meal.

If I lived in the city, of course, my failure to enjoy this meal wouldn’t have been so devastating. But not being able to enjoy a meal I know I will not soon be able to replicate filled me with the type of depression that would usually drive me to the bottle. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option at the time. The meal was not an entire loss. I rallied for a delicious tangerine sorbetto dessert. And, while I didn’t enjoy Otto to its fullest, the meal’s restorative powers prepared me for an amazing dinner at the Four Seasons, which will be the subject of tomorrow’s post.

Pai Huanggua

I stood in the middle of my kitchen, smashing cucumbers with my knife as I would a poisonous insect that I needed to be sure was dead. Cucumber guts sprayed onto my apron and the floor. A satisfying thwapping rhythm rang through the kitchen. My friends watched with what I would like to think was admiration, but more likely was horror. The dish? Pai huanggua, or Chinese smashed cucumbers with garlic and vinegar.

Pai huanggua was one of the favorite appetizers of the Beijing expat set. The Chinese concept of a salad is fruits or vegetables drowning in sweet mayonnaise. Since Chinese restaurant food is quite oily, especially for a western palate, foreigners often ordered from a small selection of cold appetizers that were more similar to the Western salad ideal. Pai huanggua is the king of all these dishes. Cucumbers are smashed with a knife, marinated in garlic, vinegar, chili paste, and sesame oil, and then topped with a healthy sprinkling of msg.

At least that’s how I made them. Unfortunately, my pai huanggua did not taste like the dish I loved in Beijing. First, I used Chinese black rice vinegar, and I think the dish is traditionally made with white vinegar. I didn’t use msg. And, I’ve never seen a recipe for pai huanggua, so it is altogether possible that there are other mysterious ingredients that I neglected.

While my dish wasn’t exactly pai huanggua, it still was delicious. It was more of a Chinese-inspired refrigerator pickle, which I would definitely make again.