Don't Harsh My Mallow... It's Christmas, Man.

I feel like I haven't been here much lately. And that's because I haven't. So much life stuff is happening. I have a lot to tell you. I know, I'm sounding obtuse again. Things will come clearer soon enough. Truth be told, it was a big challenge to pack up, move clear across the country and then unpack and get settled in our new world with a new climate, new sights and smells, new people, new markets, new restaurants, new routine, new everything and then have the wherewithal to share it all.

But that changes now. So let's catch up.

We left off with the road trip trajectory in Atlanta. From there we drove to Charleston where we spent a couple of fantastic nights. A lot of very cool stuff is happening there right now. Especially in the culinary realm. We had our most favorite, most memorable, and surprising meal on our first night at The Ordinary – which was anything but. In fact, in addition to the cocktails, wine, oysters on the half shell, tempura battered okra with sambal, Capers inlet clams Meunîere with pan con tomate and fresh sea salt potato chips - all of which were extraordinary- I tasted, quite possibly, the most remarkable soup of my life. And that's saying something. It was a pumpkin, blue crab and miso soup with chives and brown butter – and it blew my mind. Our lunch the next day at Xiao Bao Biscuit was equally distinctive with an amalgam of dishes pulled willy-nilly from across Asia and tweaked considerably with Southern accents. We had a somewhat disappointing experience at our much anticipated visit to Husk. You win some, you lose some.

We spent a few hours in Asheville and an early tapas dinner at Curate, a restaurant that about half a dozen people insisted we check out if we had only one meal in Asheville. And this was yet another great call. A couple glasses of albariño, an order of pan con tomate (twice in one trip!) with manchego, some iberico ham, boquerones, and a few other odds and ends and we were ready to take the dogs on a breathtaking sunset stroll through the heart of picturesque Asheville, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. All this smack in the middle of the peak of fall beauty. Yes, it was only a few hours, but it was memorable.

And then we were on the road again. After two and a half weeks of travel, we were getting anxious to anchor down in our new home. With a short night's sleep at a (creepy) motel in nowhere, North Carolina and brief stop in another tiny town the next day for a classic meat 'n three, Carolina BBQ lunch (pulled pork sandwich, collards, mac 'n cheese and hush puppies), we were in the final stretch.

We were so close, we could just about tune into the Richmond Folk Festival on the radio. I remember it was raining, but through the windshield wipers, I could just begin see the city come into the horizon and I took a big, anticipatory breath and looked over at Fred. He was sound asleep. As the buildings got bigger and my home town began to envelope us, all of the familiar exits and landmarks whizzing past, as the beautiful sounds from the folk festival hummed on the radio, I was relieved I was sort of alone for that moment. Because I realized that for a very long time, many more weeks than we had been on the road, months, maybe even years, I wanted to come home – and here I was. And in that very personal moment, reflecting on everything in my rear view mirror and everything that lay ahead, I burst into tears of elation. I was finally home. And my family was with me.

We have been here for two months now. A stunning and colorful Fall complete with an intimate and delicious family Thanksgiving has come and gone, leaving us with Winter and the holidays right on our doorstep. A lot of important things have happened, some of which will unfold right here in the weeks and months to come. One pretty big zing, however, is that all of these years of writing about life, the universe and everything food-related right here, with you, has yielded something exciting – I will be writing for our monthly magazine beginning in the new year (!!!!). 

There has been a shameful amount of cooking that I lament not sharing with you – especially considering it has been filled with all of the big, robust dishes of the colder months that I so love. But, as I said, we will catch up.

For now, it's Christmastime. And I've been doing more than my share of holiday baking and the like, including two different batches of the ever-tedious gingerbread men. But, something new also... something wintry, holiday-y, sweet and smile-inducing: big, fluffy, sproingy marshmallows to bob around on that steaming hot mug of decadently chocolatey hot cocoa. Make them with your love, your best friend, your mom, and enjoy and toast their completion over that cozy cup of happy – together.

Better yet – what a great idea for a stocking stuffer?!

Fluffy Fun Time Holiday Marshmallows
(Recipe adapted from Smitten Kitchen)

Makes about 20 assorted holiday cookie cutter shaped marshmallows.

About 1 cup confectioners’ sugar


3 1/2 envelopes (2 tablespoons plus 2 1/2 teaspoons)

unflavored gelatin
1 cup cold water, divided
2 cups granulated sugar

1/2 cup light corn syrup


1/4 teaspoon salt


2 large egg whites


1 tablespoon vanilla 

Oil bottom and sides of a 13- by 9- by 2-inch rectangular metal baking pan and dust bottom and sides with some confectioners’ sugar.

In bowl of a standing electric mixer or in a large bowl sprinkle gelatin over 1/2 cup cold cold water, and let stand to soften.

In a 3-quart heavy saucepan cook granulated sugar, corn syrup, second 1/2 cup of cold water, and salt over low heat, stirring with a wooden spoon, until sugar is dissolved. Increase heat to moderate and boil mixture, without stirring, until a candy or digital thermometer registers 240°F, about 12 minutes.

Remove pan from heat and pour sugar mixture over gelatin mixture, stirring until gelatin is dissolved.

With standing or a hand-held electric mixer beat mixture on high speed until white, thick, and nearly tripled in volume, about six minutes if using standing mixer or about 10 minutes if using hand-held mixer.

In separate medium bowl with cleaned beaters beat egg whites (or reconstituted powdered whites) until they just hold stiff peaks. Beat whites and vanilla (or your choice of flavoring) into sugar mixture until just combined. Pour mixture into baking pan and don’t fret if you don’t get it all out (learning from my mess of a first round). Sift 1/4 cup confectioners sugar evenly over top. Chill marshmallow, uncovered, until firm, at least three hours, and up to one day.

Run a thin knife around edges of pan and invert pan onto a large cutting board. Lifting up one corner of inverted pan, with fingers loosen marshmallow and ease onto cutting board. Coat a 1- or 2-inch holiday-shaped cookie cutter with oil or cooking spray to prevent it from sticking. Cut out as many individual marshmallows as possible; coat cutter with more spray as needed. Use marshmallows immediately or store in an airtight container at room temperature up to 1 week.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Kathy's Deviled Ham Salad

Two years ago: Sunday Cassoulet

Three years ago: Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce

For years ago: 2009: The Year of the Food Truck

What You Really Know About the Dirty South?

Before moving to the City of Angels, I lived in Atlanta. I moved there straight from college and spent six important years in the Dirty South. For the most part I loved it and those were happy years. My twenties – the salad days, if you will. And, with the exception of one very brief visit to a friend, I had not returned.

Until now.

One of the beefs I had with the ATL when I was there was the sprawl (and so, of course, I moved to LA). The city seemed disconnected as a whole. I remember the nail in the coffin for me and the ATL - I was walking down the street in my neighborhood, Little 5 Points, when a friend drove by, honked his horn and hollered, “What up, Duchess?!” (Yes, that was my nickname). I don't know what it was about that moment. I suppose I had been itchy already, but right then I felt like I couldn't breathe. Despite the sprawl, despite the city-ness of the city, everything seemed so small. I needed to fly away. I needed to find bigger. And so I did.

It's a funny thing, however. After all of my years in LA, the very thing thing I really missed, the thing I yearned for the most was exactly the thing I had turned away from in Atlanta all those years before. Screw anonymity, screw the whole little fish/big pond thing, I wanted community and family. I wanted little(r), not big(gest). I wanted to return home to Richmond.

So, how could I not stop in Atlanta, the very city that took me on my long journey back home? (And I do so love to come full circle) Plus, it has become a pretty big food destination over the past few years. What's more, some of my old friends from back in the day are smack in the middle of this Atlanta, New South food surge. And some other old friends are still making their food, their way, deliciously, same as it ever was. And I had three places to visit that fell into either one, the other, or both of these categories.

Our first stop was one of those classics, El Myr. It was my Regal Beagle, so to speak, and perhaps where the whole “duchess” thing originated. Part dive bar, part DJ venue, part diner, part tattoo corral, all cheap beer, tequila, chips, salsa, guacamole and massive burritos. I was relieved to find, upon bellying up to the bar one quiet afternoon for lunch, that not a thing has changed. Every possible surface is covered with outsider art or band stickers, ashtrays on each table, jukebox in the corner, and the same gloriously irreverent and surly staff: perfect. As Fred and I split chips, salsa and guacamole, a couple of sweet teas and a Brunswick stew burrito that was the size of our dog, Eduardo, I gazed around the space, nostalgically. If those walls could talk... Actually, I'm glad they can't. As soon as we finished, I hurried Fred out. Just in case.

El Myr's 14th birthday party
Photo courtesy of El Myr

The next morning was slotted for brunch at another restaurant that held a special place in my heart, a spot that employed me for my last year in Atlanta: Ria's Bluebird. Ria is a local celebrity of sorts in Atlanta and has been for as long as I can remember. Everyone knows Ria. And, likewise, everyone knows her namesake restaurant famous for its brunch. In fact, Ria recently appeared on the Food Network's show, Chopped. It was a brunch battle. Ria won. Even on a weekday there was a bit of a wait in her tiny little nook on Memorial Drive, but fortunately Fred and I most often prefer to dine at the counter, and, after about ten minutes, we had our seats. And then we dove in: two coffees, huevos (grilled, blue corn tortillas with black and pinto beans, topped with white cheddar, two fried eggs, salsa and sour cream), biscuits and gravy (two handmade buttermilk biscuits with pepper milk gravy), and a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, aka “The world's best pancakes” - New York Times (hand-sifted, made from scratch, with hot maple syrup). Chopped champion? “World's best pancakes”? I get it. This is food for the heart, mind and soul. 

After that meal, we returned to our home base: my dear, dear friend, Brian's house, at which point we all three decided we should take a walk. Brian led us to Atlanta's newest, and probably most attractive addition yet; the BeltLine. The BeltLine is a former railway corridor around the core of Atlanta which is under development in stages as a multi-use trail. Some portions are already complete, while others are still in progress, but absolutely hikeable. We walked from Brian's house, which is a stone's throw from my old apartment, all the way to the dog run in Piedmont Park. Though there and back took the better part of the afternoon, the concept of that route being realistically walkable in that amount of time would have been completely unheard of during my time in Atlanta. To see all of the people walking, riding their bikes or skateboarding, through the heart of a city as car-centric as Los Angeles was remarkable, and truly a beautiful sight. Kudos, ATL.

Brian and yours truly making happy faces.

Alright, we all three had exercised, we got sunshine, some beautiful fall scenes, a lot of laughter and conversation, and now were showered and ready for our fancy dinner at my third, planned destination: Miller Union. As a result of more old friends and Facebook and other social media, I had been hearing about the development of Miller Union long before they opened in late 2009. Plus all those years ago, their chef, Steven Satterfield had worked at quite a few well-known and well-respected restaurants in Atlanta (one with Ria!) and was my roommate's bandmate. So I was very much looking forward to saying hello and finally experiencing this New South food magic he has been creating that has been mentioned in every, single food-related magazine that I have touched in the past few years. But really, one dish in particular, I'd say their most iconic dish: his farm egg baked in celery cream.That's right - a single, beautiful, farm fresh egg with that bright orange yolk suspended in cream, infused with the earthiness of celery, and baked until it's set like custard, and served with a crisp, buttery slab of grilled country bread. This dish exemplifies freshness, simplicity, restraint and beauty.

That alone, and of course a little QT and a glass of wine with Steven after dinner was well worth the entire evening.

What a trip.

Atlanta, you surprised and delighted me on many levels. You gave me three days with Brian, good wine, delicious food, first glimpses of fall, pride and confidence in growth and change for the better, wonderful and profound memories of a life and a me that I had almost forgotten – and missed. You took sprawl and created cohesion. Atlanta, you are big and beautiful and doing things right. And though I am confidently heading towards my new home, I will keep all of these thoughts tucked not too far away. Because you never know. You never do.

Signed,

The Duchess

Farm Egg Baked in Celery Cream
(Recipe adapted from Stephen Satterfield, Miller Union, Atlanta)

Serves 2

Ingredients

1/3 cup fresh cream


2 stalks celery, including leaves, roughly chopped


1 shallot, sliced, including skin


1/2 small onion, sliced, including skin


1 tsp kosher salt


3 peppercorns


1 small bay leaf


1 sprig fresh thyme


butter for greasing  


2 farm fresh eggs

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a small saucepan, gently heat cream, celery, shallot, onion, salt, peppercorns, and herbs until very hot. Remove from heat and let steep for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, lightly butter two small ovenproof ramekins and crack an egg into each, being careful not to break the yolk. Strain the cream into a small bowl, gently pressing on the solids. Discard solids. Spoon cream over each egg just until covered. (It's okay if the egg yolk is protruding slightly across the top.)

Bake dishes in preheated oven for 5 to 6 minutes. Check closely to make sure the whites are setting but the yolk is still soft. Then turn the oven to broil and, with the door propped open, heat until tops begin to brown. Remove immediately and let rest a minute before serving. Serve with warm crusty bread brushed with olive oil.

Printable recipe.

Two years ago: M.B. Post
Three years ago: Sausage over Creamy Lentils
Four years ago: Chicken Fricassee

Dr. Strangecleanse

I’m currently on a cleanse. I did one about a year ago, too - which was my first cleanse. That makes this one number two (pun intended). The first one I did with Maggie and was bookended by an alien procedure (just leave it alone). But the week in the middle, the diet, was not that strict. I believe it was no meat (but some fish or a little chicken was okay), no dairy, no caffeine (but maybe an occasional coffee, or preferably tea, was okay), no booze (but maybe one or two glasses of wine throughout the entire week were okay), and no wheat or gluten. And drink a glacier's worth of water each day. During this I was to take supplements in the mornings and evenings. This cleanse was a bust - and an expensive one at that. I did not feel different, my skin was not all glowy, I did not lose any weight (that I know of (I don’t actually own a scale)), and I don’t recall any increase in energy.

But it was entertaining. In a way. Feel free to ask Maggie about it.

As it had been about a year, and I hear its good to cleanse every so often - to detox, as it were, I convinced Fred that we should do a cleanse together. I thought the beginning of September, right after he was all, totally, completely moved in would be perfect. The end of Summer, the beginning of our official cohabitation, a brand, new day. So while I did no research at all, Fred asked his friend, Ryan, who had done a cleanse fairly recently, how he went about his process. And here’s exactly what Fred got back:

‘i start with three days faste. nothing but water. tonic water is really helpful because you will crave (esp day 02) crazy shit like a pregnant lady. keep activity down and focus on work. after that its simple. no meat, dairy, sugar, wheat. stick to it! you will want to stray. lentils are your best friend. small portions. the restaurant cru in silverlake is a good place to go out after your three days faste. lots of options. the largest discipline is learn ing to be ok with being hungry. questions anytime. so worth it. i can give you more extreme path if you want. any questions ask and remember its basicall y a reversion of every eating habit since childhood so its not easy. but guaranteed you will experience increased energy and focus after one week. and th en its just how long you can do it... raw veggies.’

And so, beginning at Midnight - a week ago this past Monday, with this text from Ryan (mis-spellings and grammar aside (everyone knows all's fair in love and texts in that regard)), Fred and I embarked on our cleanse.

I am a little more than halfway through right now, and I will keep my opinions on it to myself until I am on the other side. I will say that I will never fast again. I am with the Chinese on this one: fasting is not good. At least not for me. Hunger was not an issue but I got really depressed. Also, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I mostly wanted to sleep until it was all over. I felt truly lost. I called it at the end of day two. I will say that the fasting part made eating the very limited diet downright exhilarating. You mean, I can really have a carrot stick? What joy!

And so what we have been eating a lot of has been water, water with lemon, quinoa (which, I’m sorry all y’all bloggers who that cannot stop professing your undying love for the stuff, but I just don't get it.), water, lentils (which Ryan is right, is my best friend - but I’ve always loved lentils.), water with lemon, almonds, fresh fruit - which I say has sugar in it (refer to Ryan’s text) and therefore should not be allowed, but Fred says it’s fine - and fresh veggies in every sort of variety: raw, yanked from my garden and popped into my mouth, grilled, pureed, roasted, in salads, soups, you name it. And water. Can we have egg whites? Fred says no, but I don’t see why not. And so we keep referring back to this cryptic text from Ryan. It says no dairy. But eggs haven’t been really considered dairy since the eighties. Some websites say yes, some say no. We never hear back from Ryan, so we err on the side of if you want it, you probably can’t have it. We also have had a lot of water.

During this cleanse, I have eaten at M Cafe, Cafe Gratitude, and even Ryan’s suggestion, Cru. While I have always been a fan of M Cafe, I have a new appreciation for Cafe Gratitude (though I have to agree with Chris in that their whole concept really sets LA back about twenty years in the stereotype department), and Cru, where I likely shan't return. But that’s just me - perhaps it's just not my cup of holistic-non-caffeinated-tea-that's-supposed-to taste-just-like-a-double-espresso.

Shockingly, I have not had that difficult of a time with wine’s absence. I crave a glass most when I’m in the kitchen preparing food and listening to music in the evening (don’t get me wrong, I have a special bottle waiting for Friday to celebrate the end of these shenanigans. And I am beyond excited about tearing the cork out of that bad boy and bottoms-ing it up.). The lack of coffee hasn’t been too bad either, as long as I can have a hot mug of something in the morning, like the stupid ginger tea I’ve been parading around as my cup o’ joe. At least that feels better.

My timing on this whole thing, by the way, was just atrocious. This is not something to embark on with your boyfriend, who pretty much JUST moved in (and the moving process was long and stressful). No more secrets or mystery here! No need to ever shut the bathroom door for privacy again. Why bother? We've been in it and through it together, now.

My dad thinks I’ve lost my mind and has practically taken my last name away from me. “No wine? That’s crazy. What sort of self-respecting Shaffner would... Why would you even do that to yourself? No cheese? Elliott, I don’t think this sounds healthy at all.” And he actually sounded very dire while he said this to me. I think my mom just thinks its boring. “Tweeters, Lordy, don’t write about your cleeeaaannsse. Write about your garden! Or, at least, something interesting or special.”

And she’s right. I write a food blog. So why am I going on about the deficit of all things delicious, decadent and downright debaucherous? Where’s the beef? When is it Wine O’Clock? Friday, my friends. Friday.

Until then I will leave you with the recipe for a mignionette Fred made to top the couple dozen oysters we ate (and the multitude of bottles of wine we drank) the night before this ten day Hell storm began. And hey, Mom, we used stuff from the garden!

Poblano-Sherry Vinegar Mignonette

Serves enough for 2 dozen oysters

Ingredients:

1/4 cup rosé
2 tablespoons sherry vinegar
2 tablespoons minced shallots
1 tablespoon minced poblano pepper
1 teaspoon chopped fresh tarragon
1 teaspoon chopped flat-leaf parsley
Coarse sea salt & fresh crack pepper to taste

Directions:

In a small mixing bowl, whisk together all ingredients. Cover and refrigerate. Serve with oysters on the half shell with a wedge of lemon.


Printable recipe.


One year ago: Classic, Southern Fried Chicken
Two years ago: Wolvesmouth
Three years ago: Steak au Poivre

Lip-Face, Mr. California & The Shad Roe.

I’ve never had a cavity. Never until a couple of weeks ago, that is. I only go to one dentist and that’s my dentist back in Richmond. Other than Dr. Fitzugh, who passed away when I was a little girl, Dr. Wade has been my only dentist. And Dr. Wade actually took over Dr. Fitzhugh’s practice. Everything stayed the same. Even the mobiles hanging from the ceiling. And Myrtle, the receptionist. I love Myrtle.

Okay, so I have tried other dentists here in LA. I have tried exactly two and it has been a mess each time. The two dentists wanted to sell and sell and sell. Like used car salesmen. And though nothing has been wrong with my teeth, they have made me feel like I have a mouthful of disaster. The first guy suggested bleaching and veneers. I was only going for a cleaning. The last guy I tried noticed the little chip in my front tooth caused by an over excited dog that was eager to get leashed for a walk. She accidentally made the metal part of the leash flip up and whack me in the tooth. TINY chip. Dr. LA decided to bond it. Within less than two weeks the bonding came off. And, as it turned out, my insurance didn’t cover any of it anyway.

So on my very recent visit back home I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Wade for a cleaning. I discovered he had moved his practice a few blocks west and Myrtle has retired.

I also discovered I had a cavity.

Dr. Wade told me he thought it best we deal with it right then and there. Then Dr. Wade showed me the needle that was about to go into my mouth. Then I cried. I rarely cry, and I cried like a little kid. He even had to play a little kid game with me to distract me from the actual moment the syringe was to make contact. And, Dr. Wade had to administer two injections to fully numb the area.

The Needle.

And so, with my hands clenched into little fists so tight my knuckles were stark white, I got my first filling. That whole part only took about fifteen minutes but it seemed like hours.

As I was leaving the office Dr. Wade told me to use caution when eating as the left side of my face was numb. I felt as though we had been through so much together that I gave him a big, emotional hug. As though we just survived a battle, shoulder to shoulder.

Then I drove back to the house to meet up with Dad and Fred. We were going bike riding along the James River. But not before we stopped off at Coppola’s Deli to pick up a bunch of Italian subs and chips and stuff: lunch. Coppola’s was actually was my first job from back in high school. Really great sandwiches.

We parked at Pony Pasture (a spot on the river where we all spent a good deal of time at when we were kids: also known as The Redneck Riviera), unloaded the bikes and settled onto a huge rock to eat lunch. I was famished and really excited about my sandwich – it was the same one always ordered: The Honey Turkey (honey roasted turkey breast, grilled with onions, sweet and hot peppers, smothered with Swiss cheese on a freshly baked French Roll with leaf lettuce, tomatoes and Dijon).

About halfway through my enthusiastic romp through Sandwich Town, my dad looked up at me with a perplexed expression and said, “Elliott, um… you have blood running down your chin.”

Now, I have bitten my lip before – we all have. But what I did that day was kind of amazing. Without realizing it I was eating my face. It was so gross that it was comical. It was very extreme looking. It took over a week to heal completely.

But at least it didn’t hurt. Yet.

This was right after. It continued to grow throughout the day.
That and the bike helmet made me look like a viable short bus candidate.

We went on with our bike ride, which was beautiful save for the comments from the Peanut Gallery about my lip-face.

The remainder of the day was very relaxing as the pain began to set in. A pain that perfectly illustrated the gravity of what I had done to myself. We wandered around the Virginia Museum, which lives right across the street from my house, and then, while Dad took a nap, Fred and I went on an early evening walk to collect ingredients for dinner.

By the time we got back I was pretty worn out. I assembled a cheese plate with white anchovies in olive oil and Billy Bread that we picked up at the Belmont Butcheryand joined Dad out on the back deck. We sipped some wine while Fred got to flexing in the kitchen. He wanted to play with this stuff Dad had in the fridge that he had never heard of before: shad roe.

It was a ridiculously perfect late-Spring, Richmond evening: warm, humid, almost sultry but for the light breeze coming through the 2834658 year old tree that shelters the yard, fireflies, cicadas, orange-y, warm, waning light. Jazz. Cheese. Wine. Dad.

And right as the sun was almost gone completely, Fred came out with our dinner, all plated and everything. And what did this Native Californian, who had never set foot in the South before, much less cooked there, feed us all for dinner that night? All on his own, armed with his smart phone for help, Fred prepared us a decidedly Southern and very much in-season-right-now delicacy; shad roe. And, Dad and I agreed wholeheartedly, he did a damn fine job.

Perhaps Fred is a Southern boy at heart. Heck, you should have see how happy he was to encounter his first honeysuckle and his first firefly in the same night!

My lip was still massive, but the comedy of it all, the absurdity, made it an instant cult hit in the antectdotal department. I had a new story. And I know I will tell it often.

What an incredible day.

* It’s hard to go wrong with roe. Sturgeon eggs make delicious black caviar. Salmon eggs, meanwhile, make sumptuous red caviar. Cod roe is the stuff of excellent taramosalata and tuna roe of fantastic botarga.

Shad roe, however, is especially savory — if for no other reason than because it’s so rare. While one can usually enjoy caviar or cod roe year-round, the shad roe season is short. Really short, in fact, as it typically lasts just a few months, from March until May, while the shad are making their run as far south as the Chesapeake Bay and as far north as southern New England.

Shad are one fish where the eggs are valued more than the fish itself. Shad roe is vaguely fishy, but not overpoweringly so, and the texture is similar to a good meatball -- soft yet meaty. Shad roe cooked in bacon fat, served with lemon and a fresh spring herb is the classic way to cook this delicacy, which only comes around in late spring. The keys to this dish are very fresh roe, very good bacon and a zingy herb to accompany it.

 Classic Shad Roe with Bacon & Fresh Herbs
(recipe adapted from Hank Shaw)

Ingredients

4-6 lobes of shad roe

1 tablespoon. salt

2 cups cold water

6-10 pieces of smoky, thick-cut bacon

Flour for dusting

1 lemon, quartered

Fresh herbs such as chervil, fennel or parsley to garnish

Directions

Mix the salt and water until it's dissolved. Submerge the roe in the brine in refrigerator overnight.

Cook the bacon in skillet until crispy, then set aside to drain. Keep skillet.

Meanwhile, flour, salt & pepper the roe and set aside while bacon cooks.

In the same skillet, turn the heat to medium-high and cook the shad roe for 1 minute. Turn the heat down to medium, then cook for another 2-3 minutes, until golden. Turn and cook the other side for 2-3 minutes. Careful not to overcook as the roe can become quite chalky.

To serve, arrange the roe on a plate, place the fresh herbs on the crumbles of bacon on top. Serve with a lemon wedge.

NOTE: If possible, begin dish a day ahead to brine the roe.

Printable recipe. 

One year ago: Sautéed Baby Artichokes with Olive Oil, Garlic & Lemon

Yerp: Part 7 - The End.

Now that I have spent the better part of this Summer writing about two weeks I spent in Europe in May, I think it’s time to close the chapter and move on to bigger and better – or just different – things.

The trip was spectacular. The trip was indulgent. Chris, Emma and I reconvene, periodically, to reminisce. A couple of non-food/drink related vacation gems include but are not limited to:

The search for the world’s largest mortadella.

Three years prior, Chris and I wandered into a restaurant one afternoon in Barcelona. We wanted some oysters and cava and this looked like a good spot. We had been sitting there for about fifteen or so minutes before I excused myself to use the restroom. Upon my return I found Chris in a fit of hysterical laughter, beet red, and unable to form words through his tears of elation. He finally mustered up the syllables to instruct me to take a good look around the room. It took about ten seconds for my eyeballs to settle on the source of his mania. I promptly burst out into my own hysterical fit and may have fallen out of my chair.

I don’t know how we could have missed it. Right by the front door, resting on top of its very own easel, with a jaunty green bow tie around it, was the world’s largest mortadella. It took quite a while for us to regain our composure. Hell, It's a good thing I had just relieved myself... We still take enormous joy in recounting that afternoon. Cava? Oysters? I don’t recall if they even happened. Everything else around us evaporated after the realization of the massive log of meat before us.

We were hell bent on finding that restaurant this go ‘round. At one point I sensed it. Then Chris took off running. Emma and I chased after him in exhilaration. We found the spot, but that restaurant no longer occupied the space. The mortadella was nowhere to be seen.

Thank goodness I was able to get this picture three years ago…

The stakeout of Dirty White Dreadlock Boy.

On that first trip Chris and I also found a café that we were both quite fond of. There is a photo of me in that café, sitting in front of a wall of bottles of wine that exists on my Facebook page, I think. We found ourselves there again on this recent visit, and sat in the same spot to have a latte. While there I wanted to recreate the photo from three years earlier.

Something the three of us had noticed in Barcelona, that seemed to be some horrific new trend, was dirty white boy dreads. Now listen, I went to Antioch college and I’m not a pantywaist about such things, but that was college! And that was like 1993! Grunge, remember?

So while we were enjoying our coffee and becoming irritated with my vanity regarding getting that darn picture just right, Chris spotted him. The dirtiest white boy with the kookiest white boy dreads. His hair was cut short on top with his tremendously long dreads only in the back. Kind of like a dirty white boy dread mullet. It was astounding.

But we only got a glimpse as he ducked into the little market across the street. We were so excited to get another peek that both Emma and I set up our cameras while Chris was our eagle eye. We were now on a stakeout.

It seemed like forever. I mean, what in the world could he have been doing in that place for so long? A dozen other people went in and came out before him. We thought maybe he was onto us and ducked out the back door. But then, suddenly, there he was, in all his dirty white boy dreaded glory. Our shutters were flashing away.

We were very happy.

The return to the tiny, little bar with the coolest staff, ever.

On our trip a few years back we did a lot of museums. Chris loves museums and is considerably knowledgeable of all things historic. Museums are not as much my thing. So after a few days of museum-ing, I decided to let Chris have a go at the architectural museum solo while I ducked into a dark, little bar to have a glass of wine and do some writing. By the time Chris came back to get me I was speaking Spanish like a pro and had befriended the staff and customers alike. I had also gotten a lot of important writing done. 

Well, we stumbled onto that very same bar almost by accident on this journey. And as if on cue, Chris announced he wanted to go re-visit the architecture museum as Emma & I decided to duck into the bar for a glass of wine. It was exactly the same. It was empty, save for a couple of people - clearly regulars who lived close by - the place was empty. The guys working there were fun, friendly and playful. Our bartender posed for pictures with us, danced around, and even carried on with a glass of beer on his head. 

I can't wait to return.

Well and so...

For our last evening we met back up with Dad and Dale. Remember them? They were staying at a hotel by the water and were very likely really enjoying their respite from us kids. We all enjoyed a glass of cava on the roof of their hotel as the sun went down before heading out to find some dinner. They seem rested. We were exhausted. We walked around for a while until we settled on a little tapas spot with outdoor seating in a bustling courtyard with street performers and the like. We had cava. We had ham. We shared and compared our respective Barcelona stories with each other. We were already wistful.


Here's our album cover. If we had an album. Or a band, for that matter.

It was a truly wonderful adventure and a memorable vacation. The three of us rode to the airport together. Emma and I, on separate flights, returned to our City of Angels and Chris went on to Madrid for a friend's wedding. And more ham.

But, as always, no matter how incredible a time I have away, I am always excited to return home. Home to my Los Angeles, my little house in my canyon, Maggie, and my sweet puppies.

Yerp: Part 6. Barthelona (Part 2), THE HAMOVER.

May 19

That was a lot of ham yesterday. There was a lot of everything yesterday. We were not deterred, however. Actually, I think we were. We were supposed to meet up with Sal and the gang for lunch, but we didn’t get up and moving until pretty close to lunch time anyway, and we desperately needed to be free of time constraints and meeting up with people for just one meal. And both Chris and I really had our hearts set on one meal in particular.

Three years ago, on that original vacation with Chris, he took me to La Boqueria. La Boqueria is a huge, covered, market and an impressive landmark with an entrance from La Rambla. The smells, colors, sounds and activity easily throw one’s senses into overdrive, not to mention the wild and crazy items sold in the market. It is truly a small village inside of a big city.

 

 

La Boqueria also offers up a few counters serving food. One in particular, my favorite and the focus of this post, is El Quim. Prior to that first visit Chris had excitedly described their, perhaps most lauded dish, baby squid and fried eggs. That day he ordered that and I ordered the sardinas a la plancha. That meal has stayed in my memory since. Such fresh ingredients, such delicately nuanced flavors and textures. A couple of glasses of cava. Delicious perfection.

 

And this brings us to about Noon on that Thursday, with Emma and Chris. Yes, we may have, in our er, exaltation the night before, told our new posse of friends that we would meet them the next day for lunch. But in the light of day, come Hell or high water (or being lame to our new friends), we knew we were headed straight for El Quim.

And there, in the middle of the bustling Boqueria stood the stall we sought. All eighteen of its stools occupied and a crowd of people waiting two-deep to scurry into any newly freed spots. Somehow, silently, we had a plan: Emma stalked one side of the stall and Chris the other. I was the liaison between the two to be able facilitate getting all three of us to the opening of seat(s) as quickly as possible. This all took great concentration.

 

Emma's view from her side:

 Quim in the foreground and Chris, stalking stools, in the background.

 

Chris scored. I grabbed Emma and we raced over to his side. He got us two stools with the promise of a third opening up any minute as the person occupying it was paying their bill. Emma and Chris sat while I opted to hover until stool number three opened up. We immediately ordered the white anchovies, garlic, caper berries and green olives in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, some bread and a few glasses of cava. 

 

 

I was over the moon. I was literally clapping when the first bite was in my mouth. The anchovies were fresh, meaty, firm and elegant in their simple marinade. With a few bites of that dish and a few bites of the bread swabbed around in the oily goodness I took my newly vacated stool and stole a moment to soak up my surroundings.

Mouth full. Clapping...

 

El Quim is cluttered and chaotic. The counter crowds with dishes – frittatas, paellas, and fresh seafood.  Sausages, dried chiles, produce, garlic and pots and pans hang from the eves. Orbited by a swirling mass of entropy, the tiny kitchen gets along amazingly well. The menu is chalked up above the stove, although paper menus are available as well. You’ll find yourself seated next to travelers from all over the world, locals, foodies and chefs alike. Quim is always behind the counter and is also always surprisingly friendly in the midst of the frenzy. He also manages to squeeze his three or four chefs/co-workers back in that little nook of a kitchen as well. Size-wise, think food truck. Cut in half. I don’t know how they do it.

Second glass of cava and time to order the big stuff. First off, El Quim is most famous for his fried eggs. Period. He puts them either over or under pretty much everything on the menu. As mentioned above, Chris orders one thing and one thing only: the fried eggs smothered under a mosaic of tender, baby squid sautéed in a pan sauce of oil and a touch of chile heat. This dish is also Quim’s calling card. It is ubiquitous with the restaurant’s name. When the eggs are cut up and the yolk runs into the squid the dish becomes complete, thickening and marrying all textures and flavors that hop, skip and jump across one’s tongue.

Emma, in the spirit of not having tangential dishes at the “table”, opted for the fried eggs with jamon iberico (Iberian ham). This ham is from free-range pigs that roam oak forests and eat only acorns. This ham is also called Jamón Iberico de Montanera. The ham is cured 36 months. Bellota jamones are prized both for their smooth texture and rich savory taste. You really just can’t go wrong with this dish.

I went in an odd direction. I ordered the Catalan sausage over white beans with aioli. This was a simple and savory answer to my fairly prominent hangover. The presentation left room for some humor for obvious reasons, but don’t be fooled – it was rich and robust with clean succinct flavors. The slightly crisped skin of the sausage gave way to a tender, succulent, meaty inside. The beans underneath provided the perfect texture to round out the variations in the sausage. 

We also got and order of asparagus wrapped in bacon. For our vegetable quotient. Hey, what can I say? It’s asparagus wrapped in bacon!

As we were saddling up to head out to our second lunch to meet Chris’ friends Quim gave us a little dessert on the house. I was a little scared of it as it looked as though it fell into the gelatinous-gooey-fruit department. Emma assured me it would be alright for me as it fell into the coconut department. That is usually okay. I still don’t know what it was but I ate it. 

It’s understandable why chefs flock to eat here. The quality of the ingredients is unparalleled – everything is fresh from the market. Quim’s execution is simple and solid. And the flavors are confident and honest and all cooked to order. Straightforward and comforting, this is the type of food that you love to eat and want to crave.

And this was just our first meal of the day. 

We then went on to meet up with the boys at a restaurant called Joséphine, but we were so late that they were basically out of everything. So we migrated to a rooftop restaurant and bar called La Isabela. There we camped out for hours, drinking and eating more ham. The photograph at the top of this post was taken at this spot. It had a terrific view.

We then moved on to the home of Paul, where we had some more wine and snacks and lost Emma and Engel for a little too long for my comfort. But they appeared eventually. Wearing pirate hats and swords. And carrying the largest lollipop anyone has ever seen. Then we ended up, briefly, at a small café. I mostly threw a tennis ball for Paul’s dogs during this stretch.

This is what showed up at Paul's a million years late with Emma, who was dressed similarly.

And then Engel, Chris, Emma and I ended up at a restaurant, apparently heralded for their – wait for it – ham, Recasens. I wish I could share more about this part of the evening but we were not only dead on our feet tired. But we were drunk on ham and libations. Poor Chris was the worst off. His eyes were closing while we were standing outside waiting for our table and the only thing he could put together to utter was, “No more ham. Please?”

We waited about thirty minutes outside for a table to open up. It was about 1:00am. They did bring us a small wicker basket of ham to keep us at bay while we waited. We finally got our table. The place was tiny and adorable. Turns out they specialize in ham! So we had three or four plates of different kinds of hams and some cheese.

A basket of ham while you wait. For more ham. Ham dangling from my mouth.

Chris was green.

Our trifecta somehow made it back to our apartment building. Wearing the pirate hats. When we arrived at the door of the building we ran into two Canadian women who were staying across the hall from us. We started chatting. Well, Emma and I started chatting. Chris made a bee-line into the building and up to our apartment to face plant on his bed. Emma and I ended up hanging out with the Canadians, drinking wine and laughing until almost dawn. But not before Emma broke a glass filled with red wine in their apartment and said something mildly offensive about Canadians.

Me and the Canadians. I don't know, so don't ask.

I do believe this was the first night of the trip that Emma, Chris and I did NOT cap off the evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while lounging in our apartment, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last days (who's even counting, now?) week plus, the whirlwind, of our adventure. At least, if we did, I don’t remember it.