SJ here, back in NYC after a lovely winter holiday in New Mexico. Greeted by bone chillingly cold weather and to add insult to injury, a dead battery and a flat tire. If you have ever changed a tire while the eagle claws of a NYC winter wind clamp down on the tiniest patch of exposed flesh, then you can well imagine my sorry state when I arrived home for dinner.
Well, I have made one very, very smart choice and that was joining forces for life with the great Exquisite Maiko. For she, among her many many talents, knows how rejuvenate with a meal. And if anything can rejuvenate in the winter, it is what she welcomed me with, Onabe or Hot Pot. This is a simple dish really. You take stock — take the time to make homemade stock please as it makes an enormous difference — and kombu and boil it in a clay pot over an open flame (we use a portable gas grill). And then you just add stuff. Napa Cabbage, bean sprouts, marinated chicken, fish balls, shitake mushrooms, tofu, watercress, noodles and really any vegetable (except cucumbers and a few others!). Spoon out the steaming hot broth, add some ponzu sauce, some chili paste and pick out your favorite vegetables and proteins and dig in. The various vegetables and meat flavor the soup and the pure heat of the boiling broth could warm up one of those frozen Siberian mammoths in a matter of moments.
Onabe is the essence of Japanese home cooking – simple, delicious, healthy; a virtual translation of the concept of hearth and familial warmth into something edible. It is a bed rock favorite of the Sumo cuisine known as Chanko. And the best part is all that delicious broth does not go to waste. Tomorrow night the soup gets added to rice to make Ojiya, a sort of Japanese congee that is as heartwarming as it sounds. Normally Ojiya is made at the end of an Onabe meal — just add rice, a beaten egg and scallion and cover!
So, while the frost may fall in layers about my ears and the winds may whistle, I have the pleasures of Japanese Winter foods to look forward to — and that may just be worth whatever cold I have to face.
HG will pause in HG’s musings about food and yesteryear dining. The crazed zealotry of the Tea Party, the religious right and all the Republican collaborators has made HG fear. Let us heed the words of Thomas Jefferson in his first inaugural address: “Let us reflect that having banished from our land that religious intolerance under which mankind so long bled and suffered, we have yet gained little if we countenance a political intolerance as despotic, as wicked, and capable of as bitter and bloody persecutions.”
SJ here. I’ve ridden with the Hell’s Angels. Boring. Tried rumbling with street gangs. Over hyped! Done Drive-bys with posses. Nothing to write home about. But for the last month, I have been part of the Dim Sum Warriors. A gang of hepped up dumpling fiends out for kicks and bragging rights for nailing the most awesome Har Gow in NYC.
Let’s break down the members…Myself, a.k.a. Johnny Choppers; Jamie S. a.k.a. Cheeseburger; Michael L. a.k.a. Big Mike and Maya L. a.k.a. Le Pew
We started our Dim Sum rampage last month at Oriental Garden in Manhattan’s Chinatown. Overall, the place rated high. Small room. Vast selection of Dim Sum. A stand out version of Steamed Pork Spare Ribs and a great steamed pork bun. Shrimp based dumplings and rolls suffered a touch from over steaming but, overall, things were good, but not overwhelming.
The next week we strapped on our colors on and rolled on through to the Manhattan classic, Golden Unicorn. The Unicorn is a classic of the New School Hong Kong Dim Sum Palace — it is huge (2 floors), wildly gaudy and absolutely packed. Food-wise, it is a better bet than Oriental Garden — flavors were a bit cleaner and overall quality was a bit higher. Still…No yelling from the roof tops.
The next week disaster hit. We went to 88 Palace which, for a while, was being hailed as having the best Dim Sum in New York. Well, those days are sadly past and what comes out of the kitchen can barely be called food. As Cheeseburger put it — “Everything tastes like it came out of a dumpster.” And not only was the food bad, but the service was rude and the whole place gave off a vibe as if they owed some major cash to some Chinese gangsters and they were just letting the whole restaurant fall apart. Terrible in the extreme. In fact we could not finish the Dim Sum that we had ordered and were still hungry so ended the meal by going outside and getting lamb burgers from X’ian Famous Foods. Avoid 88 Palace!
The next week, we decided to head to Flushing on the advice of a whispered rumour that the chef at Grand Restaurant was doing some amazing things with Dim Sum. Well, Grand Restaurant is certainly grand — in fact in takes up the entire top floor of the New World Mall (which has one of the world’s great food courts nestling in the basement) and is swathed in an over-the-top decorating motif that shimmies from 1980s Miami Vice style Greek Revival to Versailles style opulence to just plain nutty. How many rooms does this place have? No idea. There’s banquet halls, aquarium rooms, karoke centers and probably some tanning salons as well. And PACKED!!! Packed with Chinese families happy beyond belief eating an immense amount of good looking things. After the requisite 30 minute wait, we were led to a huge table in a room off the main dining room. I got very nervous that we would be ignored so I grabbed a manager and told him how hungry we were and asked him to make sure that the carts sped our way. Man was on point and after referring to me as “Mr. Hungry” (Mr. Hungry Jr., I should have said!) directed carts to us like a general at D Day. Soon our table was filled with some of the most flavorful, freshest, hottest, interesting and most high quality Dim Sum I have ever tried. They serve over 100 different Dim Sum items but let me list a bunch that we had: Roast Pork Turnover, Fried Watercress Dumpling, Crystal Shrimp Dumpling a.k.a. Har Gow, Salt & Pepper Large Shrimps, Sausage & Taro Dumplings, Congee With Vegetable and Pork, Beef Ball With Fresh Bamboo Shoots, Steamed Pork Spare Ribs with Pumpkin, Shrimp Shu Mai, Fried Shrimp Roll, Fried Stuffed Tofu, Sticky Rice with Mixed Meat, Fish Ball In Curry Sauce, Shark Fin Dumpling in Soup, Clams with Black Bean Sauce and Steamed Pork Bun. WOW! As mentioned, the food was of the highest quality — the Har Gow were by far the best I have ever had, the Sticky Rice (which I normally dismiss) was heavenly, the Beef Balls were rich with flavor but still light, the Steamed Pork Spare Ribs were stunning…everything really was just great and we barely touched the surface of what they have. True, the service was a bit off — BOWLS please!!! — and it was tough to get some Chili Sauce or extra soy sauce, but the gang agreed, hands down, that a winner had been found. A winner that could mock our other experiences.
True, Grand Restaurant may well be the crown jewel, but as Dim Sum warriors, we do no rest on our laurels. Other names have been mentioned, other experiences have beckoned and back on the road we shall be until that last Char Siu Bao is ripped out of our cold, lifeless hands.
SJ here. Nothing quite signifies why I love New York so much as my recent discovery of the best tamale I have ever eaten. Story goes like this: My fine son (Jewpanese to the core) demanded a bialy before heading off to his karate class. As we were on the road, we stopped at bagel shop on Smith & 9th street in Brooklyn’s Gowanus/Cobble Hill neighborhood called Line bagels (apparently the name is full of controversy as it used to be called F LINE bagels after the subway line that stops right in front of it. But, the MTA sued them for unauthorized use of the name and forced them to change.) Along the wall, with advertised specials for bagels, wraps and the typical stuff, was a board announcing tamales and enchiladas. When I placed my order, I realized that the bagel store had been taken over by a Mexican family and the woman taking my order definitely looked like a grandmother who could cook. I asked her if the tamales were good and she replied that she made them fresh every morning from her family recipe. I have never trusted someone as much as I did her, so I put in my order for a chicken tamale while her son informed me that their tamales were so beloved that one guy in Long Island orders 150 of them every week to give to his extended family and co-workers.
Along with a perfectly fine bialy for my son, the tamale I got was gigantic — a plump, juicy log of corn meal stuffed with intensely flavored braised chicken. I have eaten Tamales in the south, in the south-west, in Mexico, from a cooler in front of a Salvation Army in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood, but these F Line Bagel tamales made others seem like a joke. They were perfect: moist, but not falling apart, fragrant of mesa and long simmered chiles, deep in flavor with just a touch of spicy heat to keep things interesting. And this gigantic tamale (really, big enough for a full meal) was $1.50. So, my thanks to New York, my favorite city, for being the only place in the world that one could find the best tamales in a bagel shop that is being sued by the Transit Authority for copyright infringement.
A quick trip to Ferrara, a treasure of central Italy. Rich in architecture and history, it was once the seat of a thriving Jewish community. Many Americans remember the city from the bittersweet film, “The Garden of The Finzi Continis.”
Castle & Moat in Ferrara
HG was eager to spend time in the Boldini Museum, housed in a meticulously preserved 18th century palace. Giovanni Boldini was a painter whose career spanned the turn of the century into the 1920s. He was much admired, with friends ranging from Marcel Proust to Diaghilev, the great ballet impressario. His portraits of beautiful women are incomparable in their grace and stylish elegance. Boldini has been compared to Sargent, but a close examination of his work reveals a more daring artist. His brush strokes vibrate with energy and, in many ways, he is a precursor of the Italian Futurists and the French Cubists.
Of course, beauty always stimulates the appetite, so HG, BSK , Brilliant Daughter Lesley R. and her husband, Professore Massimo lunched at a bustling Ferrara eatery, Antica Trattoria Volano. Robust food. There was a risotto heady with the scent and flavor of white truffles, creamy polenta with braised eel,
Creamy Polenta & Mushrooms
more creamy polenta with mushrooms, pappardelle with a very tasty donkey sauce (that’s right, donkey makes a very superior sauce). HG managed to get down a big platter of
Bolito Misto
bollito misto (the great Italian dish featuring a variety of boiled meats and sausages, the great-great-great grandfather of the New England boiled dinner). HG’s bollito misto was accompanied by some generous condiments — mostarda di fruta, salsa verde and sharp horse radish. Desserts included creme caramel and light-as-a-feather almond meringue cookies.
There was no lingering in Ferrara. The beautiful city is in the Po River delta and the entire area features impenetrable fog that can make highway driving a near lethal adventure. The HG group got out just in time.
A sunny Saturday meant a drive up the winding roads of the Bologna hills with the lofty Appennines etched in the distance. Bologna is unusual in that a five to ten minute drive takes you from the bustle of the city to the beautiful countryside, with its lovely views of deep valleys, gentle meadows and steep cliffs. Luncheon destination was the plain-spoken Trattoria Vizzano. The day was so beautiful that it was hard to remember that these hills were, literally, soaked in blood, the scene of fierce fighting between German forces and British and American troops during World War Two. Somber thoughts had no place in the trattoria, where HG and famille dove into crescentine, specialty of the house.
Crescentine
These are little puffy fried biscuits (similar to New Mexican sopapillas or American popovers) that diners split open and fill with squaquerone, a delightful fresh cheese, accompanied by salami, prosciutto and very good Italian head cheese. Home-made pickled vegetables are always served on the side. An unexpected treat. HG also manged to get down a robust bowl of home made, wonderfully chewy tagliatelle. Dessert was a traditional “torta di riso”, or rice pudding-like cake.
HG was sobered and moved by an after-lunch visit to the austere memorial on the cliff side at Sabbiuno, where some 100 brave anti-Fascist (mainly communist) partisan fighters were slaughtered by the Nazis. Lined up on the edge of a cliff, they were machine-gunned and their bodies tossed down into a ravine. Less than half were later identified. The names of the known fallen are engraved on individual rocks, a simple, eternal memorial. One rock marks the 47 unknown victims.
Memorial Grave of the 47 Unidentified Partisans
A Jewish custom seems to have been followed — visitors place pebbles on top of the graves to mark a visit. HG added a few. A curving concrete wall marks the site where the firing squad was lined up. Vintage machine guns are set into slots into this wall, aimed for eternity at the spot where the partisans took their last breath. It all made one muse about the very bloody and tortured history of Italy, a land so associated with the beauties of art, architecture and the sheer joy of living.
Like any complex man of the world, HG has a few contradictions. While I have posted previously about my preference for a traditional Thanksgiving meal, the reality is that HG has never been a fan of Thanksgiving dinner in general. HG’s unsentimental view: dry turkey and heaps of sloppy food only saved by a liberal dousing of gravy. The exception was the non-traditional Thanksgiving feast prepared by Brilliant Daughter Lesley R. a few days ago in Bologna. Turkey Involtini (slices of turkey breast pounded very thin and covered with a layer of prosciutto and fontina cheese). These lovely morsels were rolled up, secured with toothpicks, browned and then finished in the oven. They were gilded with a robust mushroom gravy. Accompaniments were brussel sprouts (sauteed with shallots and pancetta). Tender haricots vert. Lush mashed potatoes (whipped with butter and Greek yogurt). A perfectly balanced meal. Full of flavor but not an abdominal depth charge. The wine was an excellent Brunello di Montalcino. Cheese and salad followed. Gifted Granddaughter Arianna produced a made-from-scratch pumpkin pie. Pureed roasted pumpkin (not the vile canned stuff). Excellent crust. Toppings were whipped cream and marvelous gelato. Vin Santo followed for the family, while HG sipped a beautiful grappa. A Thanksgiving feast to be thankful for.
The Universitá di Bologna is the oldest, continually operating university in the world (in existence for more than a thousand years) and its 85,000 students still dominate this city of soaring towers, medieval buildings and glorious arcades.
There is no formal graduation day as in the United States. When a student passes his or her examinations and successfully defends a dissertation, he or she is granted a degree–and that’s graduation. What follows is a rollicking custom which brings the middles ages alive in the cobblestoned streets. The graduate is dubbed “dottore” (doctor) by friends, adorned with a laurel wreath (as was the custom hundreds of years ago) and often dressed in ludicrous costumes. HG saw some attractive young female graduates crammed into baby carriages and indecently sprayed with white paste stuffed into pierced condoms. Rough fun. The graduates are followed around the city by crowds of friends who sing “Dottore!! Dottore!!” followed by obscene anatomical and scatological references. The graduate is the butt of a lot of irreverent fun — the continuation of an age-old university tradition.
This doesn’t mean that learning is not respected in Bologna. At the city’s museum of medieval art, HG was moved by the beautiful tombs, some six centuries old, of famous scholars and jurists. Usually, such magnificent works of medieval art have religious, imperial or martial themes. But, here in Bologna, men of learning have inspired great artists.
A significant man of learning is HG’s son-in-law, Professore Massimo R. The Professore has brought his unique digital display of the Garibaldi Panorama to the Sala Borsa, the great public library in the center of Bologna. It is an exhibit that is both learned and dramatic. The electronic wizardry and research scholarship of Professore Massimo and his Brown University students has brought the remarkable history of the Italian hero, Garibaldi, and the unification of Italy to vivid life. Anita Garibaldi, Garibaldi’s great- great-grandaughter, visited the Panorama (extensively covered by the Bologna daily newspaper). Next week, there will be a presentation at the University of Professore Riva’s latest book, “The Future of Literature,” a scholarly study of the impact of electronics on literature. When not busy illuminating Italian culture, the Professore researches the best regional restaurants and local wines. This bore delicious fruit recently, when the Professore led HG and family to a restaurant in Ferrara that served an exceptional bollito misto. An HG report will follow.
Zena Burns, the beauty and high powered radio and internet biggie, came to dinner (accompanied by her pal, Valerie, also a remarkable lady). The astonishing duo brought a bottle of Stags’ Leap 2008 Merlot. This is one of HG’s favorite wines, smooth and rich. Zena’s smile and laughter enhance any dinner. And, of course, a Stags’ Leap goodie is a nice companion. HG mused that Merlot has become an unappreciated wine. That’s because the vintage was so attacked in Sideways, a funny and wistful movie set in California wine country. Why take the advice of a movie character when it comes to wine?
Notice how the foodie magazines go crazy about turkey and Thanksgiving Day? They’ve got to come up with something new every year so there are insane suggestions regarding the noble bird traditional on the day of family tension and overeating. Soak it in cider. Soak it in bourbon. Rub it with outlandish spice mixtures…Cajun, Jerk, Moroccan, Mexican, ad infinitum.
Deep fry the turkey. Poach the bird. Stick beer cans up the bird’s ass and rotate it slowly over a pit of glowing coals.
Side dish ideas are equally surreal. Stuffing suggestions combine the unspeakable with the indigestible.
HG’s suggestion: Keep it simple. Keep it traditional. Do what Mom or your Grandfather did.
