HUNGRY GERALD

The motherly Mexican-American ladies behind the stoves at HG’s local hangout, El Parasol (on highway 285 in Pojoaque, north of Santa Fe), are cooking up the perfect antidote for chilly weather–arroz con pollo. Their version of the dish is a bowl of robust chicken soup enhanced with red chili. The bowl is crowded with chunks or tender, white meat chicken and plenty of toothsome rice. HG adds further punch to the dish with slices of fiery roast green chili and tops it all with chopped raw onion and Mexican oregano. Unlike most food at the restaurant, this dish isn’t accompanied by tortillas but by saltine crackers, apt companions.

Ompa Lomps. Yes, that’s what cute little HG called lamb chops when he was a wee, wee lad. Okay. No more cloying baby talk. HG loved lamb chops back then and still loves them. Best lamb chops in the world were served at the Coach House, Leon Lianides’s legendary restaurant in New York’s Greenwich Village. (The space is now occupied by Mario Batali’s Babbo). The Coach House chops were about two inches thick and incredibly juicy and succulent. Lianides said the secret of his great chops and racks of lamb was to cut away all of the fat. That’s what BSK does when pan broiling delicious little chops from Trader Joe’s. TJ’s chops are from the Atkins Ranch in faraway New Zealand. The logistics of getting them from that distant land to HG’s knife and fork boggles the mind. Last night, BSK broiled last of the season heirloom tomatoes. Grilled tiny Japanese eggplants. Boiled fingerling potatoes. HG mixed Greek yogurt with lots of crushed garlic, some olive oil and a dash of Spanish smoked paprika. (Love to dip potatoes in that mix). All splendid accompaniments to the pink chops. And, where there is lamb there is fruit forward California cabernet sauvignon. Happy dining indeed.

What have we lost? Style. A sense of occasion. HG refers to the fact that few persons dress formally for a restaurant dinner these days. HG is not talking about black tie. We don’t live in Downton Abbey. But, appropriate dining-out clothes for HG does mean a jacket for men. Women, given their natural virtues and virtuoso abilities in scarf administration, can get away with much more informality. When HG was younger, everyone dressed up to go to a restaurant or the theater. Women even had “cocktail dresses” and “restaurant suits” (They also had girdles but that’s another story). Looking stylish added a festive quality to many activities. With baby boomers in the 60s rejecting the formalities of their elders, the road was paved for today’s young hipster style of plaid shirts, jeans and beards. Overall the wholesale embracing of casual style seems to HG, depressing and conformist. HG agrees with Woody Allen’s statement: “Eating at home is just eating. Eating in a restaurant is a party”. So. Listen to HG: Make the world a better place and dress to dine out.

HG/BSK drove into Albuquerque for dinner with old friends. Went to Scalo, a modestly upscale Italian restaurant in the lively, colorful Nob Hill section of town. Nice welcome. Pleasant decor. Acceptable noise level. While waiting for pals, HG looked over the wine by the glass carte and it was outstanding. A good pinot grigio from the Veneto for BSK and a tasty friulano from Friuli for HG. Both modestly priced. That is where the modesty ended however — Scalo serves well prepared, thoughtful food with the biggest problem being portion size. HG’s frito misto starter could have been the main dish for two persons. Slow roasted short ribs served with mushrooms, polenta and frizzled onions was a veritable mountain of meat. HG, a true clean plate ranger, had met his match. The frito misto had made a dent. The short ribs spelled defeat. Unconditional surrender for HG. (HG took solace with some glasses of hearty Montepulciano d’Abruzze). What is it with American restaurants? Who do they think they are feeding? Lumberjacks? Cowhands weary and famished from months on the range? In any case, it made HG long for a Paris bistro meal where portions are civilized, downsized for cultivated, semi-sedentary, and ultimately svelte urbanites.

Smooth, pleasant flight from LaGuardia to Denver on Southwest Airlines. Picked up the HG/BSK car and were off to Applejack, the giant liquor and wine shop (biggest volume in the USA) in Wheat Ridge. After paying inflated prices (because of high Canadian taxes) for plonk during the last three months on Prince Edward Island, it was a delight to revel in Applejack’s bargain prices for superior wines. HG was off to the Walla Walla, Washington section for the lush House wine and Steak House Wine bottled by Charles Smith. Yes, Walla Walla is a funny name but you will only smile with pleasure not derision when you drink the robust reds from the town and its environs. HG also picked up some nice reds from Peter Lehmann, HG’s favorite Australian vintner. BSK was in charge of whites and she filled her cart with sauvignon blancs from New Zealand’s Marlboro region and pinot grigios from Italy’s Friuli and Venezie regions. The excursion sharpened HG/BSK’s appetites and the duo stopped at the Hillstone Restaurant in Cherry Creek. Hillstone is a chain restaurant, a very professional, upscale and delicious chain restaurant. Modest prices for a menu of pure comfort food. Not reaching for the gourmet stars but providing very tasty and approachable dishes. One big surprise, however — HG/BSK reveled in a Kampuchi roll that would have been worthy of a sushi master. Constructed of yellowtail, chopped spicy tuna, avocado and topiko, it was a revelation. The restaurant is beautifully designed, decorated with superior art and the service is worthy of a Michelin-starred establishment. Good night’s sleep at a Marriott where (after watching some football) HG and BSK remarked upon the ability of big American chain hotels to provide clean rooms, good TV, comfortable beds and showers that have plentiful hot water and great water pressure at affordable prices. In Europe one would only find those services at the most expensive hotels. Notch one up for the U.S.A..

Last week HG/BSK celebrated their 50th Wedding Anniversary with an extraordinary party and meal at New York’s Dim Sum a Go Go. The celebratory feasting did not end there but continued the next day at a Sunday Brunch generously provided by Restaurateur Daughter Victoria F. at her beautiful Hundred Acres restaurant in Soho. Here’s the menu (read it slowly and let your mouth water and your complexion turn green with envy): Appetizers: (1) ricotta fritters with Hudson Valley honey and powdered sugar. (2) grilled flatbread dressed with arctic char “lox”, whipped cream cheese, dill and pickled onions. Entrees: (1) buttermilk pancakes with New York blueberries and vanilla whipped cream. (2) soft scrambled eggs with summer squash, spring onions, chives, gruyere cheese, sour cream and corn bread. (3) goat cheese-sage bread pudding with poached eggs, wilted spinach and lemon butter. Sides: fruitwood smoked bacon, jalapeno grits. Drinks: Hundred Acres punch (Prosecco, Aperol and freshly squeezed juices) and coffee. It all tasted even better — if that is possible — than it sounds. That night HG/BSK joined SJ at Full House, a little known, superb Chinese restaurant on Bowery a touch North of Hester. Soup dumplings. Scallion pancakes. Minced flounder with tiny, tender bok choy and crab roe; sliced fish with wood mushrooms; braised eggplant. Wine, beer, chilled sake. Sesame balls for dessert. Light, creative cooking. Attentive service. Happily, the place seems undiscovered by food writers and critics unlike Hundred Acres where the crowds keep filing in for the best brunch HG has ever had.

The changing fashions in food have long fascinated HG. For example, beets, once despised, have become not just chic, but ubiquitous — you can hardly find a menu that doesn’t include some form of a beet and goat cheese salad. HG has always found a beet (like vinegar) to be an enemy of wine. Nevertheless, in Paris the top bistros du vins have betteraves on their cartes. Raw fish was only found at Japanese sushi bars. Suddenly, raw tuna and chopped tartares of tuna and salmon became featured players. Even Italian restaurants (possibly influenced by the massive success of Esca and David Pasternack) have crudos among their appetizers. For a time, steak was dismissed as a boorish, unhealthy and unfashionable food. There was a reaction and carnivores rejoiced as more than a score of upscale steak houses opened in New York. “Small plates” have become fashionable. Is there sticker shock when hearty appetites do some big time grazing on these “small” plates with big time prices? Foam, sous vide, molecular are among the gastronomic buzz words of the past decade. HG, a conservative, is skeptical about these arcane techniques. Restaurants used to take pride in offering imported food from faraway places. Now, the very best chefs (like Marc Meyer of New York’s Cookshop, Hundred Acres and Five Points) are determinedly “locavore,” a trend HG endorses with enthusiasm.

BEET FOAM

HG is depressed. While HG has spent his Summer knee deep in the bounty of Prince Edward Island’s generous seas and farms — mountains of oysters, sweet mussels, screamingly fresh fish, gorgeous vegetables and tiny, new potatoes — he has been deprived of one of his favorite treats: classic New York City pizza. So imagine HG’s distress when SJ informed HG that he had discovered one of NYC’s best pizzas at Rizzo’s on Clinton Street in the Lower East Side. According to SJ, Rizzo’s started (and the original location remains) in Queens where it is a neighborhood favorite having served generations of pizza lovers since 1959. At the new location, SJ spoke of a homey, un-pretensious vibe completely welcome in a neighborhood whose restaurants often over-reach in an attempt to appear hip. And, the pizzas? SJ reports a classic Margherita with top-quality mozzarella bubbling on top of a beautiful charred crust; the “Mafioso” on a thicker, square crust with sausage, roasted pepper, black and green olive, caper, sauce and cheese. Great beer selections. Charming wait staff. Curses upon SJ for romping in such fine pizza environs without HG! Well, there’s a silver cloud. September is coming and HG will make an appointment to go to Rizzo’s and all resentment will melt away. So, HG may as well cheer up and revel in the joy of a dozen Colville Bay oysters.

The Italian word “misto” means “mixed”. As it relates to food there is bollito misto and frito (fried) misto. Bollito misto is an epic dish for epic gluttons (like HG). HG first encountered the dish at Bologna’s venerable Ristorante Diana, a mirrored old school landmark. HG remembers the meal with salivating fondness. HG started with a bowl of buttery tagiatelle lavishly covered with thin shavings of white truffle. Heady aroma. Sublime taste. Went beautifully with some red Sangiovese from Emilia-Romagna. HG questioned whether the HG appetite could encompass the oncoming bollito misto. Not to worry. A very large, dignified man wheeled a cart to the table; lifted lids from silver servers and presented HG with a stimulating sight: Luscious boiled beef, pork and tongue. Plus two robust poached sausages: cotechino and zampone (stuffed pig’s trotter). Appetite in excellent shape, HG accepted thick slices of each plus helpings of condiments: tangy mostarda di frutta, salsa verde and salsa rosso. Wow. Bollito misto is almost never found on American-Italian menus. Mario Batali once served it at his loftily priced restaurant, Del Posto, but HG noted that it is no longer on the menu. Frito misto, on the other hand, is omnipresent. It is a plate of deep fried seafood morsels with calamari predominating. HG has always found it disappointing (both in Italy and the United States). It is much inferior to Japanese tempura. HG may be spoiled. Here on Prince Edward Island, Exquisite Maiko selects the freshest fish, scallops and shrimp and does her tempura magic. HG’s joy is unrestrained.

Le Stella is a brasserie/bistro on Avenue Victor Hugo in the very affluent, posh 16th Arondissement of Paris. Few tourists among the conservatively dressed, well mannered clientele — mainly residents of the neighborhood who are as conservative in politics as they are in dining habits. No Asian, Italian, Spanish or (heaven forbid) American influences have invaded the kitchen. The menu is pure Eternal France. As one food writer has put it: “The dishes are what Grandma would have cooked (if she was a very good cook) or what would be on the menu if you took Grandma out for Sunday dinner.” Like any proper brasserie, Stella has a vast bank of oysters, other bivalves and crustaceans outside the entry door, manned by guys with striped shirts, fisherman’s hats and shucking instruments (of course, a rugged Breton fisher-guy selling oysters is a clear signifier of the freshness of the seafood). HG/BSK have often launched their dinners there with some oysters and a bowl of bulots (sea snails) with freshly made mayonnaise. If HG wishes a light repast he moves on to pickled herring with potato salad. Then soupe de poisson (with some assertive rouille). Cheese course is rich St. Marcellin (accompanied by a glass of the very nice house Bordeaux). Finale is the sumptuous Ile Flottante. A glass of Vielle Prune (a strong digestif). At other times HG chooses steak tartare with pommes frites; tripes a la mode de caen; blanquette de veau; choucroute (a Wednesday special); tete de veau (admittedly a special taste); grilled pig’s foot. And, there are times when HG switches from an oyster starter to diving into sizzling escargots or the more delicate pleasures of smoked salmon with blini or a frisee salad. A happy choice is to share a carre d’agneau (rack of lamb) with BSK, a lady who is an adventurous eater but has not developed a passion for tripe or the interior and exterior of a calf’s head. Service, under the supervision of manager Christian, is friendly and professional. One warning: On a visit to Stella (without HG/BSK) intrepid SJ ordered the Andouilette, a house specialty. SJ thought this was a spicy, New Orleans-type pork sausage. Wrong. Stella’s Andouilette is a chitterling sausage, a sausage with rather intense barnyard odors and the distinct flavor of pig shit. Like fressing up tiny little song birds, this is one French food passion HG (and SJ) doesn’t share.