csrule Food Journal

BBQ Korean Short Ribs

As someone who writes about food for a living, I have plenty of colleagues who write cookbooks. Many of these cookbooks are excellent, with carefully tested recipes, informative text, and nice photos. But because the authors are not Big Stars or Brand Named Chefs, they're relatively unknown on the national scene, which means they have to work especially hard to get their books noticed and placed prominently in stores. I had dinner with two friends last week who've written 15 cookbooks, and they describe themselves as The Hardest Working Cookbook Authors Nobody Has Ever Heard Of.

So it's especially nice when I can highlight the work of these various authors and raise their profile, however incrementally, by introducing them to my readers. But there's a flip side to that, too. What about a great cookbook by an author who already has an established platform? Do I bother adding to the fuss and the noise by writing about a book by a Martha Stewart or a Mario Batali, authors who will do just fine without a horn-toot from me? Or do I simply ignore them and their PR machine, assuming they'll get plenty of notice on their own?

Just as smaller books by lesser known authors deserve to be reviewed and publicized on the merits, so do those by the Big Names, if the books are good. So it's with this context that I tell you that I recently saw Padma Lakshmi's 2007 cookbook Tangy Tart Hot & Sweet and found myself breathless after only a few pages. Sure she's a Big Name, but a great cookbook's a great cookbook, and this one is worth picking up.

As you undoubtedly know, Lakshmi hosts Bravo's television show Top Chef. Her predecessor, Katie Lee Joel, wrote a cookbook, too, but while Joel's book, The Comfort Table (Simon Spotlight Entertainment, 2008), reminded me of a mouthful of air, Lakshmi's book pulsates with originality.

Tangy Tart Hot & Sweet (Weinstein Books, 2007) is filled with exotic recipes and lush, evocative photographs. Her flavor combinations are both exciting and unexpected, as when she pairs black lentils with apples, jalapenos, and unsweetened coconut in the Pondicherry Lentil Salad. Her spaghettini is sauced with chipotle, clams, and green olive paste. And her sauteed cauliflower has anise seeds, red chilies, ginger, and cashews.

My favorite recipe so far is for the BBQ Korean Short Ribs. I plan to use the marinade again and again, not only on beef but also on chicken, pork, and vegetables.

So the next time you're book shopping, browse offerings by newer authors (pick up Kate's 99 Drams of Whiskey while you're at it), but don't automatically discount those by people who may seem to be overexposed.

p.s. This is my final post as a guest blogger here on Accidental Hedonist. Due to extensive travel during the month of June, I need to say a premature goodbye. Many thanks for reading my Tuesday missives over the past 5 months, and thanks, too, to Kate, Jennifer, Dave, and Naomi for keeping things so interesting. I hope you'll continue to follow my work over at 5 Second Rule.
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Recipe for BBQ Korean Short Ribs

Excerpted, with permission of the publisher, from Tangy Tart Hot & Sweet by Padma Lakshmi (Weinstein Books, 2007)

2 cups light soy sauce
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1 teaspoon cayenne
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 teaspoon crushed Sichuan pepper (substitute plain black peppercorns in a pinch)
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons canola oil
1/2 cup fresh chives
1/2 cup toasted sesame seeds
1 teaspoon dried mango powder (amchoor)
4 pounds beef short ribs

1. Mix all ingredients except the ribs in a large bowl. Combine well. Place the ribs in a baking dish and pour the mixture over them. Slather the ribs with your hands to coat them well and evenly with the sauce. marinate for 2 to 3 hours, covered, at room temperature. (*I refrigerated them -- csr.)

2. Heat the grill. Place the ribs on the grill rack or barbecue when the coals are glowing red hot and white and the flames have died down, and baste with any leftover sauce. Turn often to cook both sides, until the meat is brown, tender, and caramelized. Serves 4-6.

Sparkling ginger lemonade

Popular lore holds that you can be a cook or a baker, but not both. That those who like precision and science prefer baking, while those who like flexibility and interpretation prefer cooking. I've always found the dichotomy a bit ridiculous because I know plenty of people who can do both well (and even more who can't do either), but the real question for me is this: where does that leave those who can mix a decent drink?

I'm not much of a bartender (is it because I cook and bake?), so I'm always impressed when I go to a friend's house and they pull out their blender and their tequila, or rum, or gin, and whip up something frosty, tasty, and well-balanced. I envy those who can use a cocktail shaker without looking silly and who use the liquor in their cabinets for more than just flavoring cakes and making the occasional penne a la vodka. If you come to my house, I'll offer you beer or wine, but if you want something harder you'll have to mix it yourself.

With that context now firmly in place, I do have to say that I'm far more successful at creating nonalcoholic beverages. With mid-90 degree temperatures in San Jose last weekend, I boiled up a big bottle of ginger simple syrup and used it to flavor a heat-banishing sparkling lemonade. If anyone has any suggestions for a harder drink that would go well with ginger syrup, trust me, I'm all ears.
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Recipe for Sparkling Ginger Lemonade

The ginger syrup will keep for several weeks in a covered glass jar in the fridge. Use it not only to flavor lemonade and iced tea, but to brush on cake layers as well.

For the ginger simple syrup:
1-1/2 cups sugar
1-1/2 cups water
1-3/4" piece fresh ginger (about 1/2 ounce), peeled, roughly chopped

Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Remove from heat and let cool completely. Transfer to a blender and whiz until the ginger is pulverized. The mixture will be slightly cloudy. (You can strain out the ginger if it bothers you, but I don't.)

For the lemonade:

For each serving, combine 3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, 2 tablespoons ginger simple syrup (or to taste) and 10 ounces of sparkling water. Stir well, and serve over ice.

According to this article in Sunday’s New York Times, a core group of well-manicured, penthouse-living Manhattanites has jumped aboard the Xocai train, and if you don’t watch out they may try to take you along with them. Xocai is a “new” kind of chocolate with purportedly very high antioxidant levels. It’s probiotic! It helps lower your cholesterol! It promotes weight loss!

Those who sell it organize tastings in their apartments:

[The hostess of a tasting] said a few words about the chocolate, pitched as being so rich in antioxidants that, if eaten three times a day, it provides some nutritional benefits on the order of a pound of spinach. Then she said a few more, about a new way to make some money in a shaky economy….

The business operates on a familiar model: New distributors buy in at various levels and receive cases of chocolate products – bars, nuggets, cookies, drinks – at home every month. These distributors recruit newer distributors, earning a percentage of their sales. The promotional materials promise larger and larger monthly checks for those who greatly expand the tree…

Pyramidal business models have existed forever, and the article points out that Amway and Tupperware are similarly structured. So why is this news? Because the product, dark chocolate, has an upscale patina, and the people promoting it – people like one of the stars of The Real Housewives of New York City – live in expensive Manhattan zip codes.

But really, who eats chocolate to lose weight or lower their cholesterol? Why are we as a culture, as a society, so eager to suspend our common sense and see a health halo everywhere we look? Why are we constantly searching for the next superfood?

Look, I love chocolate. I eat it all the time. Do I eat it to lose weight? Uh, no. Do I eat it feel healthier, or look younger? Of course not. It’s chocolate – I eat it because it tastes good. That it’s high in antioxidants is a bonus, but it’s certainly not my motivation for indulging.

What do you make of this trend? Is it noteworthy? Or just an example of people believing what they want to believe, and trying to make money by convincing other people to believe it, too?

Pineapple

A week ago, a pineapple that had been sitting on my counter for days inspired me to seek virtual counsel. Sure, I could have just chunked the thing up and eaten it, and that would have been fine, but I wanted to do something a little more creative, and I craved inspiration. Freeze it into a sorbet or granita? Fold it into a cake? Add tidbits to fried rice? I posted my question on Facebook and minutes later all sorts of recommendations rolled in, from all across the country and even outside it.

All of this got me thinking about the value of social networks and technology in relation to food. I’m not just talking about food blogs, Epicurious, or the online sections of major newspapers, all of which directly link technology to food, and by design. I’m talking more about social networks, like Facebook, MySpace, and Twitter. These portals make instant communication so quick and easy that I’m curious to learn how and/or whether people are using them to expand their food knowledge, discover new restaurants and products, or tap into more political issues like the farm bill, CAFOs, or school food.

I saw an article last week about a protest outside a kebob shop in Lombardy, Italy. According to The New York Times, a law with potentially anti-immigrant repercussions restricted the types of products fast food restaurants could sell. One regional lawmaker, who was quoted in the article, said the law as originally written had racist overtones and was geared to “get the kebab shops out of the civic center.”

In response, the piece went on, there are now numerous “pro-kebab and anti-kebab Facebook groups fiercely competing for new members.”

So I wonder, how have you been mobilized, if at all, by social networks when it comes to food? Do you attend food events, or go to new restaurants, merely because someone Tweets about them? Does it matter if the person is someone you actually know, or not? Do you buy food products promoted on blogs, or are you inherently suspect of these recommendations?

I guess my final question is really this: are we eating “better,” however we personally define this term, because we now know what the friends of friends of friends have had for dinner, or which restaurants they really like, because their tinyurls and twitpics tell us in an ever-changing display on our ever littler screens?

According to an op-ed in last week’s New York Times, Kate Stein, a former intern at Cornell University’s Food and Brand Lab, researched consumer behavior by observing thousands of supermarket shoppers at a range of markets from Whole Foods to Safeway. She clocked how long they examined certain items, what they ultimately tossed in their carts, and whether there was a correlation between the two.

Her conclusion? That although we may go to the supermarket resolved to spend frugally or purchase healthful items, we’re often derailed and disoriented on site when faced with the endless barrage of products and brands. Browsing the store slowly actually makes us more likely to succumb to impulse buys, even though logic might dictate the reverse. If you asked me whether I thought I’d shop more thoughtfully, healthfully, and economically if I were relaxed or pressed for time, I’d certainly presume the former. Having time to think through my purchases, read labels, and compare prices would make me savvier, wouldn’t it?

Not so, writes Stein. “The shoppers I studied who took the longest, examining packages, stopping at whatever caught their eye, invariably spent more money. They tumbled stray, often unhealthy, items into their baskets, and later, when questioned, couldn’t cite a reason for their purchases.”

Cutting time cuts costs, she concludes. One shopper she observed spent almost five minutes looking at a bunch of bananas “with minimal brown spots” before putting it back on the shelf. What did she buy instead? A bargain tub of banana pudding.

Now Stein’s observations don’t make me want to forgo leisurely shopping excursions altogether, for I do assume they have value, especially when it comes to reading labels. But her work does make me more aware of the pitfalls of lolling about the aisles without a firm plan. Without my own plan, thousands of large companies, with big marketing budgets, will surely have a plan for me and my hard-earned dollars.

Pasta shells with sun-dried tomato pesto

Some nights you may feel like cooking, but you don’t necessarily feel like shopping, and the fridge is a barren wasteland of overdue leftovers and limp, past-prime vegetables. Happily, on such nights, shelf-stable jars of flavorful ingredients can take you very far. Artichoke hearts, capers, oil-packed tuna, and beans can save the day, as can more obvious staples like pasta and a wide variety of tomato products.

Two weeks ago, I knew it would be a pasta night but felt like exerting a touch more creativity than simply opening a jar of marinara. Poking around the dark pantry, behind the wasabi mayonnaise I’d bought but never opened, I came upon a jar of oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes. Sun-dried tomatoes can rescue a potentially boring meal by injecting it with a tangy burst of strong flavor.

Shells, olive oil, cheese, toasted pine nuts, and tomatoes. A few minutes after the pasta had boiled, the sauce was done and a meal that tasted like it had been planned far earlier in the day was already on the table.
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Recipe for Small Shells with Sun-dried Tomato Pesto

You can make this dish as is, or dump in some broccoli florets about 3 minutes before the shells have finished cooking. If you want a little added kick, pass some crushed red pepper at the table.

Makes 4 servings, with leftover pesto for a second meal

½ pound small (uncooked) pasta shells
4 to 4-1/2 ounces sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil (about 18 small tomatoes and 2 tablespoons oil)
2 tablespoons toasted pine nuts, plus a few extra for garnish
¼ cup firmly packed grated Parmesan cheese
½ teaspoon salt

Boil the shells according to package directions. Immediately before draining, reserve a full cup of pasta cooking water and set aside. Drain pasta and set the empty pot on a cool burner. (Do not wash.)

In a small food processor, combine the sun-dried tomatoes with their oil and the nuts. Puree for about 30 seconds. With the machine running, slowly add ½ cup of the pasta cooking water through the feed tube, continuing to puree for a full minute so everything comes together. Scrape into a small bowl and stir in the cheese and salt.

To serve, spoon ½ cup of the pesto back into the pasta pot and moisten with a few teaspoons of cooking water. Add the shells (and broccoli, if using) back to the pot, and add additional water, one tablespoon at a time, until you have a consistency you’re happy with. Serve pasta with additional pine nuts and Parmesan cheese, if desired.

Store the remaining pesto, covered, in the fridge. It makes a great sandwich spread.

Have you ever attended an event, or a keynote, or a concert and felt so totally swept up in the delivery and energy in the room that you completely bought into the experience and only later, when you got back to your house or apartment or whatever said, "What the hell just happened?" And then you put on the CD of the band you'd just heard or watched a TV clip of the speech you'd just seen and, with a bit of time and reflection, wondered what you'd really been so excited about in the first place?

I'm guessing you can tell that this just happened to me.

I recently heard a very prominent chef with stellar credentials speak lyrically and beautifully about spending time in southern Spain with a farmer who raises "natural" foie gras. Well, he doesn't actually raise the foie gras, I suppose, he raises the geese, but instead of force feeding them grain (a much maligned practice called gavage) he gives them access to bountiful land, electrifies only the outside of the fence (to keep predators out -- but the geese stay in of their own volition), and eschews the use of antibiotics. He even discovered that the geese love to eat a particular yellow flower with fervent excitement, so he supplies it to them in abundance -- and so, of course, their livers become naturally fat and appealingly yellow. (High-end chefs prefer foie gras with a yellowish tint.)

"He was giving the geese what they needed, and they were giving him their livers."

The story continued, with more beautiful imagery and a lovely moral at the end, which was this: ethical food is tasty food. This foie gras, which won a major world award, is the most flavorful the world over for one simple reason: because the geese are treated well, and are happy.

After I caught my breath and left the dark ballroom, I squinted at the florescent lights in the hallway and became increasingly disturbed. I'm pretty moderate when it comes to things like foie gras. I've eaten it, I know it's cruel, but it's not my issue and I don't get caught up in its rightness or wrongness because I have other battles to fight and other fish to fry. But somehow painting a picture of foie gras as a moral food really stuck in my craw, even if the geese who gorge themselves do so naturally and are The Happiest Geese in the World.

Ginger cookies with mini chocolate chips

If you were a cookie, what kind would you be?

This isn't my question, actually. It came up organically after I wrote about a Brooklyn bakery called One Girl Cookies that gives all its cookies girls' names. Juliette is a hazelnut sandwich cookie filled with chocolate cinnamon ganache; Sadie is a glazed orange butter cookie sprinkled with shredded coconut; Lana is a chocolate cookie filled with raspberry jam. And so on.

So someone wondered aloud what might be in a cookie named after her, and that got me thinking, well, what would be in a cookie named after me? I mean, I know what I'd put in there (ginger and cinnamon, a sprinkling of brown sugar, some molasses for depth, and a few chocolate chips just to prove I could have fun). But what if someone else designed a Cheryl and doused it with espresso, or dumped in some anise and chipotle, or, god forbid, filled it with marshmallow fluff? What would that say about me then?

What would be in a cookie named after you?

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Recipe for Mini Chocolate Chip Ginger Cookies

My favorite ginger cookies come from Emily Luchetti's Classic Stars Desserts (2007, Chronicle). I've played with the recipe a bit to better reflect my taste and, I guess, my personality.

Makes 5 dozen

1-1/2 cups white whole wheat flour
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon ground white pepper
2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1 large egg
1/3 cup molasses
1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon mini chocolate chips
3 tablespoons very finely chopped crystallized ginger
1/4 cup coarse (demerara) sugar, or additional granulated sugar, for rolling

Whisk the two flours, ginger, cinnamon, allspice, salt, and pepper in a large bowl.

Cream the butter in a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment until smooth, about 1 minute on medium speed. Slowly add both sugars, and beat for a minute longer. Lower the speed and beat in the egg. When the egg is fully incorporated, beat in the molasses. Fold in the chocolate chips and crystallized ginger.

Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour.

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Line two rimmed baking sheets with parchment or Silpats. Place the coarse sugar on a plate.

Scoop out the dough into 3/4" balls and roll each ball in the demerara sugar. Portion out 12 cookies to a baking sheet. Bake for 12 to 14 minutes, rotating the sheet pans halfway through. Remove to a wire rack to cool.

Fresh produce at the PSU Farmers Market

It's one thing for the residents of a city to extol the virtues of their hometown. They experience the culture every day and are privy to the local buzz about restaurants, clubs, and area bands. So when it comes to advice on where to eat or which neighborhoods to explore, you're obviously better off relying on the wisdom of a local than the relatively uninformed opinions of a tourist.

But.

I do think there's some value in hearing an outsider's point of view, if only to add another dimension to the conversation. And I was just such an outsider this past week in Portland, your beautiful City of Roses.

In an unusual departure from my normal M.O., I didn't do any research on the local scene before leaving home because I was too busy getting ready for the Farm to Cafeteria conference. So as a colleague and I wandered around the city between sessions, we relied on the spontaneous recommendations of others.

For dinner the first night, we ended up at Ping, where we sucked down black raspberry "drinking vinegars" and nibbled fried Vietnamese spring rolls, prawn skewers, and sticky short ribs. We felt especially lucky not only to have had tasty food but excellent, friendly service as well. The next night, we asked a woman walking her dog to tell us her favorite place for dinner within walking distance. She pointed us a few blocks away to Clyde Common with a big, friendly smile and the words, "You'll find really unique food there."

And we did. The food was decidedly eclectic and the vibe at our communal table so upbeat it was all I could do to refrain from asking the woman across from me for a handful of her fries. (Everyone, it seemed, was eating fries.) My biggest regret was not ordering the butterscotch pot de creme for dessert, since we figured we'd be able to find another dessert place after visiting Powell's Books on Burnside. By the time we finished browsing that unbelievable store with its color-coded rooms and phenomenal cookbook collection, our dessert cravings had passed.

On our last day, Saturday, we really lucked out. We headed to the Portland Farmers Market at PSU for its opening day of the season. Eating our way through cheese stalls, soup sellers, charcruterie samples, and wild salmon, we stocked our bags with peace bombs from Dave's Killer Bread, and cinnamon-sugar dried apples from Draper Girls Country Farm.

But the real flavor of the market came through when I went to pay for a t-shirt. I swiped my debit card, and the transaction seemed to go through, but when the paper receipt printed out it read, "Transaction denied."

"This happened to someone a few minutes ago," the woman said. "I think it's just the machine. I'm sure it's fine."

Her supervisor wasn't so sure. "If it said 'transaction denied,' it probably didn't go through."

She then asked me if she could jot down my card number so she could charge it again at the end of the day, only if they determined they were short. I countered by offering my phone number with a promise to give her my card number at that point if she needed it. I figured, if I could trust them not to double charge me, they could trust me to pony up if called.

"OK," she said. "That sounds fair."

So for those of you fortunate enough to live in this fine city, I thank you not only for your food, your friendly advice, and your fantastic public transportation, but most of all, for your trust and hospitality towards visitors.

You made this tourist very happy.

Cool blanched asparagus with miso dressing and toasted sesame seeds

Right, right, I know: asparagus has absolutely nothing to do with St. Patrick’s Day. But between Dave’s gorgeous corned beef and cabbage post from last week and Kate’s whiskey and beer prowess, I think you’re pretty well covered. Can I at least get a point or two for posting a greenish photo?

I do have an Irish friend named Liz who told me a few years back that St. Patrick’s Day, for all its raucous debauchery, is very much a holiday with religious roots. In fact, schoolchildren in Ireland wear fresh shamrocks throughout the day because they symbolize the Holy Trinity, not simply because they’re green. And you know the whole leprechaun obsession we have here in the States on this particular Tuesday? Not so much in Ireland, Liz said.

But I didn’t want you to think I was totally oblivious so I'm sticking with the green theme. The first asparagus appeared out of nowhere in my local farmers’ market last weekend, so I thought I’d give you a taste of what’s headed your way when spring arrives in earnest.

Though I’ve always liked asparagus every which way, I have a particular affinity for the spears served cold and dipped in something zingy or unexpected. I’d never kick warm asparagus out of bed, especially if they were drizzled with hollandaise or roasted with olive oil, but there’s something so refreshing about eating them chilled. Plus, they really perk up an otherwise yawn-inducing crudité platter.

Hand me some cool asparagus with a little aioli, or even this miso dressing, and I’m one happy lass.

Or O’lass, but just for today.
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Recipe for Cool Blanched Asparagus with Miso Dressing and Sesame Seeds

There’s absolutely nothing Irish about this dish, but it’s a perfect harbinger of spring so I offer it (almost) without apology. My thanks to Heidi Swanson, whose recipe for miso dressing in her excellent book Super Natural Cooking served as my inspiration.

Serves 2

1/4 cup seasoned rice vinegar
1 tablespoon red miso
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tablespoon honey
Large pinch of salt
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 pound medium asparagus, tough ends snapped off
1/4 teaspoons toasted sesame seeds

To make dressing, whisk first 5 ingredients in a medium bowl. Slowly drizzle in olive oil, whisking constantly, until emulsified. Set aside.

Fill a large bowl with ice water and set aside.

Fill a large, wide skillet with 1/2-inch of cold water and bring to a boil. Add asparagus, reduce heat slightly, and simmer for about 3-1/2 minutes, or until just tender but still with some bite. (I like my asparagus decidedly al dente.)

Use tongs to transfer the asparagus to the ice water. Let cool there for a good minute, then dump in a colander and pat dry with paper towels.

Arrange asparagus on a platter. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon miso dressing and sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds. (Refrigerate remaining dressing for up to several days, whisking before using.) Alternatively, you can serve the dressing as a dip and stir the sesame seeds right in.