HUNGRY GERALD

I longed for dumplings before I even knew what longing meant. Yes…the classic Chinese, crescent-shaped, fried dumpling filled with pork and chives. My sister, LR and I loved them. We loved the ritual mixing of the soy sauce and vinegar; we loved that they came first at any Chinese meal; and finally we probably loved that there were never enough — at 6 to an order, our family of four always had 2 orders…3 each! Not Enough!!!!! When LR first got a boyfriend who had a car she quickly got him take us to this Chinese Restaurant in Teaneck, New Jersey whose dumplings were bigger than average, seriously juicy and had a fine balance between a crispy bottom and tender exterior. It was an act of true kindness to an annoying younger brother. With no parents around to say no, my sister and I went for the pay load — we ordered 8 orders of dumplings. We were finally going to have our fill. And we did. And it was genius. It was better than we could have imagined to shuck off the trappings of a meal and simply focus on what we really wanted all along. Needless to say, the boyfriend knew that he had been used by two dumpling obsessives as he pitifully tried to order Egg Foo Young. He did not last, and my sister ended up marrying a wonderful man who would happily join us for a mad 10 order dumpling fest with narry a blink of the eye.

As the years went by, my dumpling obsession did not cease. I knocked off thousands of orders of fried dumplings and expanded my horizons with Russian Pelmini, Polish Pierogi, Uzbeki Manti, Korean Mandoo, Japanese Gyoza and more. In my 30s, I sat once again with my sister at New Green Bo on Bayard Street and, still giddy to be free of all parental constraint, ordered an ALL DUMPLING meal of Xioa Lung Bao (Shanghai style Crab & Pork “Soup” Dumplings), fried dumplings and Schezuan Wontons in hot chili oil. Delicious.

My wife, the lovely Maiko, is Japanese and we were married in Tokyo. HG and BSK were in attendance. After the wedding, we decided to take both sides of our respective families to Kyoto for our honeymoon. While we loved the company and Kyoto itself, translating between, not just languages, but some general cultural concepts was a touch trying and a bit stressful for both me and my new bride. One night, we escaped our families and walked down from our hill-side hotel into the center of the city; swaying through the ancient streets and narrow lanes, I spied a dank, dirty store-front pulsating with the neon visage of yes…you guessed it…a dumpling. It was a clarion call we could not avoid. Inside, the ancient chef/owner confirmed that they only made one thing. Gyoza, and one type of gyoza at that. Though stuffed from a dinner finished not an hour before, we made our order and watched as the chef, with custom-made implements coaxed out a plate of 6 (what? Is there a world-wide dumpling standard?) perfectly identical dumplings bound together with a lacy sheet of golden brown, fried rice flour. We sat together on a tiny bench, armed with chopsticks and cracked that crunchy crust, dipped them in the soy and vinegar sauce and lifted those gyoza to our mouths. The rice flour crunch acted as a hearty welcome as the silken dumpling skin began to dance on our tongues. Oh yes! It was dumpling excellence taken to a power of what seemed to be infinity. It was a dumpling that took the basic dumpling components and elevated them — where some dumplings could be heavy, these were light; and yet they were unctuous and bursting with juice and porky goodness. We smiled at each other and really had to laugh — we had just spent a week of incredible Japanese wedding banquets and traditional Kyoto style Kaiseki meals, but these dumplings, these luminous gyoza were the high points of our culinary adventuring.

Well…back in New York, we started our married life. While we both had two busy schedules, I began to discover that Maiko could cook. Seriously cook. I would come home to discover the lightest tempura or a 2 week stint where pig heads slowly bubbled away to create a broth for a ramen soup that took my breath away. And then one day I came home and Maiko promised me a surprise. I waited patiently, listening to the sounds of cooking and finally she came to me with a platter of what I can honestly describe as the most gorgeous dumplings I had even seen — it was an abundance of dumplings! 25 or 30 of those crescent shaped gems bound together with that lacy filament of delectable rice flour crunchiness. And best of all, there were no side dishes or main dishes or any other type of dish to distract from the very dumplingness of it all.

And so I ate.

Where those great Kyoto dumplings had one perfect note, one perfect flavor, Maiko’s reached that note, sustained it and then followed it with a back beat of other subtle tastes and nuances. Simply put, she ascended the heights of the Kyoto dumpling pinnacle, stuck her flag in it and somehow went even higher.

I had an epiphany at that moment. Like that delicate rice flour crust, my existence had always seemed so fragile. It was a life predicated on the galloping momentum of my ancestor’s random choices and lucky escapes which finally led to a sperm in a million hitting an egg and creating me. But, as that dumpling coursed through my system, I questioned that randomness for the first time. How could it be anything but fate that one of the world’s finest dumpling eaters would meet a woman from across the globe and marry her only to find out that she was the world’s greatest dumpling chef?

The answer to that riddle my friends, in the most simple of words, is love, sweet love.

For many years HG was obsessed by the Chow Mein Sandwich. Permit HG to clarify: A Chow Mein Sandwich is a layer of crisp chow mein noodles, a large glop (heavy on the corn starch) of vegetable chow mein, a squirt of soy sauce. Served on a standard, soft hamburger roll, it is very difficult to eat. The filling has the regrettable habit of rolling down the eater’s sleeve. The only places that served this delicacy were Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island and Nathan’s Famous near Times Square (it had a run of about 10 years). Despite the consumption difficulty HG was mad about the sandwich and made many detours to Nathan’s to indulge his passion (ruining many suit sleeves in the process). Nathan’s is now franchised beyond recognition and despite existing in every major airport, ONLY the original Coney Island branch still serves the Chow Mein Sandwich. HG has moved to New Mexico.

Distance and time has cured the obsession.

If fate is kind to HG and BSK they will be in Bologna later in 2011 or in early 2012. Bologna is a delightful city, not much visited by Americans who stick to the Rome-Florence-Venice peregrination. They miss out on the best cuisine in Italy. Some may object to this statement since Bologna is an inland city and fish is not on many menus. However, for the truly robust eater (and one who is not too fearful of cholesterol) Bologna is a dream. Of course, the city has many others features besides food: Interesting museums, architecturally outstanding arcades, a noble square anchored by a cathedral and a soaring bell tower; one of the oldest and most revered universities in Europe and a moving memorial to the many who died fighting fascism. Splendid…

Okay, back to the food. HG has joyous memories of a dinner he had at the classic Ristorante Diana. The decor was classic — hand polished wood and glittering mirrors of 1920’s-30’s vintage. Courtly waiters. Traditional Bolognese dishes. HG’s meal started with tagliatelle with butter and the best parmesan. The waiter topped the dish with generous shavings of pungently fragrant white truffles. Then a large man wheeled over a silver cart, removed some lids and allowed HG to gaze upon the ultimate Bolito Misto, the classic Italian dish of boiled meats: Juicy beef; Cotechino (a fat sausage that had simmered at a low heat for four hours); Zampone, which is a pig’s trotter stuffed with sausage meat — a delicious, porky treat that has a delicate rim of fat which creates a velvety contrast with the rough hewn sausage. Tongue; a chicken thigh. HG had it all with very generous lashings of salsa verde and mostarda di frutta. The wine was Sangiovese. Dessert was a semifreddo, the Italian version of frozen custard. Unforgettable.

In a previous post, HG has commented, forcefully, about his dislike for waitpersons making personal introductions. One more thing that HG finds objectionable is waitpersons asking: “Still working on that?”.

The correct response should be: “Yes. With a pick and shovel — now let me finish my meal in peace!”

Add one more annoyance: Why do waitpersons pause until your mouth is fulll before asking: “Everything okay?”. HG vigorously nodded yesterday and almost choked on a hot piece of tempura shrimp.

HG’s gifted daughter LR and her distinguished husband, Profesore/Dottore MR, hosted Romano Prodi at dinner in their Rhode Island home last week. Prodi, a voice of political and economic sanity in an increasingly crazy and disjointed world, is the former Prime Minister of Italy and President of the European Commission. Because of his low key manner, unusual in an Italian public figure, he has been nicknamed “Valium.” Less flattering, he has been nicknamed “The Mortadella.” That’s because he is a bit round, a bit pink and is from Bologna (birthplace of that delectable salume). This has led HG to muse on the subject of food nicknames. As noted in an earlier post, Charles De Gaulle was “La Grande Asperge”, of course. New York’s late and lamented Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia was often greeted by shouts of “pastafazoole” because of his stated fondness for pasta e fagioli. Any other nicknames? Of course, many big wigs and titans of industry have been called “The Big Cheese” but given the recent, rotten actions of the Republican party, HG may well dub them, the “Overripe Gorgonzola.”

HG loves (not neccesarily in order): Italian food, HG’s brilliant son-in-law, Profesore MR; HG’s beautiful and accomplished (half Italian and bilingual) granddaughters, Ms.A and Ms. S. Add to the list of HG’s Italian loves: Fra’ Mani and O Gelato.

Based in Berkeley, California, Fra’ Mani makes superb, handcrafted Italian cured meats, sausages and salami. HG tasted Fra’ Mani’s Salume Rossa yesterday. This is a cooked salami with origins in Bologna that tastes a bit like a cross between mortadella and cured salami with all of the virtues of both.

I also discovered that Whole Foods (in Santa Fe) stocks O Gelato products and happily purchased the mind-blowing O Gelato Salted Butter Caramel. OG is a tiny, Mom and Pop operation in Sante Fe, with one little shop in a mall. But, to gelato lovers its products are worshiped with religious fervor. Glad that a big operation like Whole Foods has discovered this very local company and is giving it a showcase.

HG and BSK spent two delightful weeks in Buenos Aires last year. The November visit coincided with BA’s early, warm summer. Nice, bi-level rental apartment in a chic building (across the street from the beautiful Museum of Modern Art) with a big, heated swimming pool. HG and BSK had a daily morning and pre-dinner swim.

BA is just beautiful. Majestic boulevards, Lush jacaranda and other foliage everywhere. Charming old neighborhoods that haven’t been gentrified out of character. An abundance of bistros, boutiques, outdoor cafes. Some very interesting galleries and art museums. There are weekend street markets with some bargains and an abundance of street bands. Music and song of much vitality and personality. BA is world HQ for Tango…to dance or to watch. Tango dancers come in all ages and all sizes and all look sexy.

The exchange rate favors the US dollar so everything is amazingly cheap. Example: Fabulous steak dinner with a bottle of Malbec is $10-15. BA is carnivore heaven. Argentine grass fed beef is tasty and tender with real beefy goodness. And, everyone in Buenos Aires, man, woman, and child, devours tons of it. There is lots of imported Spanish ham in the food shops so HG and BSK sampled the best at ludicrously low prices. Besides red meat, BA folks feast on ice cream. Ice cream (as well as cake, bread, pastry, etc.) is often smothered in dolce de leche, the addictive caramel topping. One would think that a population that exists on red, meat, ice cream and dolce de leche (also pizza, which is another BA obsession) would be a fat population. Not so. Best looking folks HG and BSK ever people-watched. There’s a secret, but nobody’s telling. How sweet it is!

HG and BSK lunched today at Shibumi Ramenya in downtown Santa Fe (Johnson and Chapelle, to be precise). Perfection in every detail — decor (Japanese rustic); service (suave); food (sophisticated but earthy). There’s spicy pork gyoza, some creative Japanese vegetable tapas (burdock root, black seaweed, sesame spinach and bunapi mushroom). And, there’s the little bistro’s raison d’etre: Ramen with four distinct broth styles: Tonkotsu ramen with roasted korobuta pork; Torigara with roasted chicken; Kaisen with shrimp and Yasai with vegetables. HG and BSK had the Tonkotsu Ramen and it had flavors in depth — a powerful and multi-layered broth, perfect noodles (excelling in both spring and smooth mouth feel) and roasted pork slices that seemed a marriage between belly and loin. The cutlery, spoons with long wooden handles and a capacious bowl married aesthetics with function. Prices are moderate. The cash policy (no credit cards) helps keep it that way. The proprietor is Eric Stapelman. He also owns Trattoria Nostrani, an adjacent Italian restaurant. Nostrani’s menu is superb and HG/BSK will be dining there soon and posting a report.

Stapelman has the reputation of not tolerating disrespect for his food, personnel, or restaurant. And, he won’t have perfumed folk. Good. HG’s kind of guy. All of my favorite restaurant men (Henri Soule at Pavillon in New York or Sidney Kaye at Russian Tea Room, also in New York, behaved that way). Viva Stapelman, Don’t change.

SJ reminded me that Shibumi by Trevanian (a one name author) is the title of one of our favorite good/bad novels (“Godfather” tops that category). The protagonist of “Shibumi” is a assassin/stud named Nicolai Hel (he can kill in a hundred ways including a method using the edge of a playing card). So powerful is his sexual magnetism that he and his beautiful girl friend achieve simultaneous orgasm simply by looking at each other in an intense manner. Commented SJ: “Wow. What would happen if they actually did it?”

Enjoy more conventional (but intense) pleasures at Stapelman’s “Shibumi.”

If you are fortunate enough to find yourself in Brooklyn zoom over to Atlantic Avenue, the broad thoroughfare that is the dividing line between Brooklyn Heights (with its wonderful port promenade facing the towers of downtown Manhattan) and Cobble Hill. Atlantic has very good middle eastern groceries. HG suggests you stock up on pita, olives and other good things. It is HG’s source for halvah, that wonderful confection of ground sesame seeds (tahini) and sugar. Best of all, Atlantic is New York headquarters for za’atar and HG buys this marvelous spice blend in bulk. There are many types of za’atar but basically it’s a blend of sumac, roasted sesame seeds and lots of dried green herbs (oregano, thyme, marjoram, etc,). Magic. Mix it with olive oil as a sublime dip for pita or bread. Or, warm pita, douse it with olive oil and dust it with za’atar. Good dry rub for lamb. Dust potatoes and cauliflower with it. An HG favorite: a bowl of Greek yogurt with some pureed garlic and za’atar. Many sources will mail order za’atar such as Dean & Deluca. Don’t live without it.

Last Christmas, thoughtful SJ gifted HG with a big sack of Bazzini pistachios, Big, plump, fresh, not too heavily salted nuts. Indeed, Bazzini reigns over the pistachio kingdom.

HG has always loved pistachios. As a wee lad, he would purchase them at the famed candy and ice cream emporium, J.S. Krum, which was located on The Bronx’s Grand Concourse (and Promenade). HG loves all pistachio-studded Turkish and Greek desserts. HG loves mortadella, the Italian forcemeat that is dotted with pistachios (the best mortadella is found in Bologna, a city of hearty cuisine). A bowl of pistachios, fruit, cheese, red wine (or port) makes a nice dinner finale. Curiously, HG has never encountered good pistachio ice cream. It usually tastes like green food coloring and sub-par vanilla. It’s a puzzle, because it should be good, as good at least as Butter Pecan or Vanilla Swiss Almond and it just isn’t. So, get to work, ice cream R & D guys. The world needs superior pistachio ice cream.