Big disappointment in Taos today. Promised Glorious Granddaughters Ms. A. and Ms. S. a trip to Taos, NM to see the famed, still functioning Taos Pueblo. Alas, when we pulled up to the Pueblo road it was roped off and a big “Closed” sign was prominent. This often happens at the Native American pueblos in New Mexico. Their website says “Open” but when you get there all is closed. Getting even with the palefaces? A bit of inconvenience to combat a policy of genocide?
Of course, the gaming casino next to the Pueblo was open and busy. Consoled ourselves with some super green chili smothered breakfast burritos in the Doc Martin’s Restaurant in the historic Taos Inn. Went to the Millicent Rogers Museum to see the superb collection of silver, torquoise, pottery, weavings, santos, etc. A lovely overview of New Mexico’s complex culture. Saw a beautiful group of Doel Reed’s acquatints at the Fechin House/Taos Art Museum. Ended the day by visiting the most painted and photographed church in the United States: San Francisco of Assisi in Rancho de Taos. It is pure sculpture, always changing as the light changes. Glad we saw it at the end of the day because Taos itself, the town and region of artistic glory, has become a mockery of itself, a tourist trap. A pity.
HG, BSK and Glorious Granddaughters Ms. A and Ms. S. hit fun and funky Ojo Caliente Hot Spings nestled in the hills of Taos County, N.M. We dunked and lolled for hours in pools that promised various benefits due to the mineral composition of the water. HG felt very svelte in his Speedo since much of the Ojo Caliente clientele verged on the plus size oversize. As he sweltered HG chatted with a professor of rhetoric, a 300-pound poet, a hospice specialist who prepared folks for the long journey that has no return ticket. Sweet people. After a final dunk in a 105 degree caldron, HG swam for happy minutes in a 81 degree pool. Then cleansed in a big, delicious private tub.
It was a very clean, relaxed, mineral healthy HG and famille that motored back to Santa Fe. All were ravenous. Went to Shohko Cafe where much miso soup, gyoza, shrimp and vegetable tempura were devoured. There was also a very nice roll of salmon, cucumber and avocado. Also some New Mexico chili peppers stuffed with shrimp, fried tempura style and sauced with Thai sweet chili. A family clean in body, spiritual in mind and full in tummy.
When you tell your butcher to “spatchcock” a chicken he may give you a funny look or call the cops. If he or she is a culinary sophisticate however; they will smile warmly in a knowing manner. After all, there is something double entendre about the word. Spatchcocking a chicken means “butterflying” the bird by cutting out the backbone. Simple. The bird then lies flat, cooks quicklly, crisps nicely, stays juicy and is easy to carve. Researchers have determined the name come from “dispatch the cock.” In other words, cook the chicken quickly. Let your butcher do the spatchcocking. You do the cooking and enjoying. Here’s how HG does it. Take a three or three and a half pound chicken out of the fridge. Bring it to room temperature. Give it a nice rubdown with garlic infused olive oil and a small bit of lemon juice. Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. Place the chicken, skin side down, in a cast iron frying pan. Sear the chicken on top of the stove for about four minutes until the skin crisps.. Turn the chicken over. Give the birdie a nice dusting of Goya Adobo Seasoning (the magic powder which SHOULD reside in all kitchens) and some cumin. Put a lemon in the pan. Put the pan in the oven and keep it there for 35 minutes. Check for doneness (drumstick wiggles freely and juices run clearly). If not done, put it back in the oven for another five or ten minutes. Goes nicely with fingerling potatoes. Cut your roasted lemon in half and add the juice to some Greek yogurt — yes, HG is a bit of a Greek yogurt obsessive. That’s your sauce for the taters. When you do this dish there’s rarely any left overs. But, just in case…HG will follow up tomorrow with instructions on how to use left over chicken in The Queen of Comfort Food Dishes. Thoughtful HG.
The connection between food and cartoon characters. A worthy subject as HG’s ponderings proved. Winsor McCay’s “Dreams of a Rarebit Fiend” illustrated the very British concern that partaking of a rarebit soon before bed would lead to extravagant and exaggerated dreams — a notion that mirrors my deep held belief of the connection between food and our unconscious. No wonder food plays such a prominent role in that hotbed of Freudian sexual sub-text — the Sunday comics: In a pretty much literal fashion, Popeye’s gulp of Spinach acts like a triple dose of Viagra — pumping his flacid forearm into a rod of Iron to take on the marauding Bluto (who is always right on the verge of ravishing Olive Oyl)! Dagwood? Blondie was hot! Tight sweaters! Serious cleavage! High Heels! And he had a crap boss, Mr. Dithers, who loved to humiliate him. Well, you cannot kill your boss and have great sex with your wife in your Sunday morning strip, so how do you express that dark Id? Well devouring a MASSIVE over-stuffed sandwich bigger than your head might be a good start. Which brings us right to Archie. Yessiree up in Riverdale you have Archie and the 3 components of his psyche: Reggie (the Ego), Mr. Lodge (Super-Ego) and yessss….stuffing his face to feed his insatiable hunger meet Jug Head a.k.a. Archie’s Id. So, why aren’t Superman, Batman, and the rest of the action force hungry? Well….that is a story for another day.
As you may have noticed, HG’s rarebit musings were illustrated with a drawing from Winsor McCay’s 1904-1913 comic strip, “Dreams of a Rarebit Fiend”. McCay also created the character Little Nemo (“Little Nemo In Slumberland” — 1905-1913) and “Gertie the Dinosaur“, believed to be the first animated film. This illustrative foray into the early history of comic strips led HG to ponder upon the linkage between comic strip characters and food. Popeye, of course, needed his spinach to defeat Bluto and retain the love of the, aptly named for a food maven, Olive Oyl. His pal, Wimpy, had no romantic inclinations. He lived to devour hamburgers, of which he would gladly pay you for on a Tuesday. Al Capp’s L’il Abner (and all of the Yokums) thrived on po’k chops. Dagwood, loving husband of Blondie, constructed gigantic Dagwood sandwiches. Garfield, the whimsical cat, is a chronic over-eater and Jughead, pal of Archie, is perpetually hungry. Hassenfeffer is commented upon favorably in “The Katzenjammer Kids”. The much beleaguered Jiggs of “Bringing Up Father” sought solace in corned beef and cabbage. (A cultural note from Our Friendly Neighbor To The North: Sunday dinner of corned beef, cabbage and boiled potatoes is known as a “Jiggs” in Newfoundland and Labrador.)
As for Superman and Batman (and of course Robin!): Too busy fighting the forces of evil to enjoy a nosh.
HG is very fond of the English dinner custom of serving a savoury — after the main dish and before dessert (or pudding as it’s described on the Sceptered Isle). HG’s favorite savoury is the Welsh Rarebit. This cross between a fondue and a grilled cheese sandwich is perfect with the remaining dinner glass of wine, Guiness or port. The meal is prolonged in a civilized and leisurely fashion. Conversation flourishes. Essentially a cheddar cheese sauce, the Rarebit is made by whisking melted butter with a bit of flour, adding mustard (Keen’s powdered, preferably) and Worcestershire sauce. Whisk with some Guiness until smooth. Add a pound of very sharp grated cheddar to sauce pan. Keep whisking. You desire a concoction without lumps. Pour over toast. HG advice: Make this in advance. Refrigerate and reheat. You don’t want to interrupt your meal by doing a lot of whisking.
HG and BSK have happy memories of a trip to London some decades ago accompanied by a young SJ. After theater on the South Bank, we would stroll across a bridge to Rules on Maiden Lane, London’s oldest restaurant (founded 1798). After theater snack was oysters and Guiness This was followed by Welsh Rarebit and port. SJ tucked into everything in healthy fashion and did not refuse when offered a Cuban cigar. He puffed away, turning an attractive shade of green. Thereafter, he discreetly turned down offers of Maduros.
Joy. HG read with delight Sam Sifton’s glowing NY Times review of Marcus Samuelsson’s Harlem restaurant, Red Rooster. This is the restaurant Harlem needed. This is the restaurant New York needed. Obviously, it’s got the sparkle and buzz and energy that only a truly diverse scene can create. Yeah. HG wants oxtails and shrimps and grits and fried chicken. More than that, HG wants to people watch and be happy. As HG’s devoted followers know, HG fell in love with Harlem more than 60 years ago (the old Red Rooster is where HG had a beer before getting on the subway). Harlem’s comeback is thrilling. HG is sure music, dance, galleries, alternative theater will all be happening. It needed a visionary like Samuelsson to get it started. Now, let’s have a revival of the great Bronx promenade, the Grand Concourse. Best art deco apartment houses in New York. Any Latino adventurers out there who want to do a soulful Puerto Rican brasserie?
Back home in New Mexico. Enveloped by beautiful light, colors, views, serenity. Some winter chill lingers so HG nourished body and soul with a steaming bowl of green chili menudo at El Parasol in Pojoaque. Pure Northern New Mexican soul food. Menudo is tripe, of course, enriched with roasted chiles and the bite of oregano and cruchy onions. It is not an innard favored by the great American gringo population. In fact, HG doesn’t know any innard that gets a seal of approval from real Amurrican 100% he guys. Their loss. HG and his European (and Latino) comrades will continue to savor the yummy esoterica lurking inside cows, pigs, lambs, etc.
Discerning SJ (Son Jeremy) reports that the venue (variety and price) for smoked fish (and, herring, of course) is the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, also known as Little Odessa. This Russian settlement on Brooklyn’s scenic shore is known for big noisy, restaurants and big, noisy Russians–all fueled by vodka. Great place for a bracing walk by the sea followed by some bracing beverages. There are numerous Russian specialty food shops (like M & I International Foods) where SJ says there are no bargains in caviar, alas, but everything else fishy is well priced and desirable.
HG’s view is that oily fish make the best smoked morsels — black cod (sable), bluefish, mackerel, eel. His feelings about trout are ambiguous. HG has tepid feelings about sturgeon (too dry..sable is much superior). Tuna and swordfish don’t cut it for HG; they are best as crudo (raw) with a dash of very good Sicilian olive oil.
Most memorable smoked fish dish: Firm and flavorful filets of smoked eel served with a mound of whipped cream that incorporated a substantial amount of fresh, finely grated horse radish. This was composed by the late Henri Soule, the imperious master of the world’s best restaurant–New York’s Le Pavillion.
Hey, did you know that Sigmund Freud’s first scientific research involved the sex of eels? Turn to HG for arcane information of all kinds.
Last day in London. HG back to normal (almost). Sunny day. Lovely walk over the Millennium Bridge to Tate Modern. HG loves this place. The building, the volumes of space. It all comes together as one giant sculpture. There were some enticing special exhibitions but HG and BSK concentrated on the permanent collection. No, it’s not the encyclopedic look at modern art you get at MOMA and it doesn’t have the depth of the French Biggies (Picasso, Braque, Kupka, Leger, etc.) you get at Centre Pompidou. What you do get is space (nothing too crowded); wit (artists’ comments on the works are illuminating and sometimes acid); curatorial discipline (each piece is vital and necessary to the drama of modern art). It is a museum where you are stimulated but not eye exhausted. It is all very friendly and comfortable. Loads of elevators, rest rooms. A pleasant recognition of mature museum goers. The cafe is a joy. A long, long stretch of tables facing the Thames, St. Paul’s, the financial center, the startling “Gherkin” building, etc. Perfect venue for tea.
Dinner at Chutney Mary in Chelsea. Beautiful, tri-level Indian restaurant with great style. The food is reminiscent of Vij’s in Vancouver, HG’s favorite Indian. Same creative fusion cusine, same light touch. HG and BSK started with monkfish filets steamed in banana leaves and crisp fried stuffed artichokes. There were touches of cilantro, basil, mint and cumin. All perfect. Then a platter of super tender, medium rare lamp chops in a fenugreek, cream and tomato sauce similar to Vij’s famed lamb lollypops (and just as good). Then a rich and fragrant butter chicken curry. Rice. Chutney. Raita. Bread from the tandoori. Very good English ale to drink and rasmali (the Indian cheese, cream and almond dish) for dessert.
