A Farewell Cocktail Party

Last night, I sent my friend Darren off with a food-centric cocktail party. Judging by the guests' raves, I'd say the fete was a smashing success.

When planning the menu earlier in the week, I wanted a mix of meat, fish and vegetarian summery snacks. I didn't want to turn on the oven at all during the party, and I wanted to make everything ahead of time.

Here's what I came up with:

Mini-Meatballs in Marinara Sauce
Walnut-Cheese Bites
Watermelon Balls with Parmesan and Mint
Indian Pulled-Chicken Wraps
Shrimp Deviled Eggs
Tuna Salad with Fennel, Cucumber and Tarragon
Chilled Minted Cucumber Honeydew Soup
Goat Cheese-Garlic Toasts
Mini Cupcakes
Chocolate-Espresso Sorbet

The meatballs were my mom's idea: prepared a la our usual family recipe, but bite-sized. The walnut-cheese bites were adorable; my mom spotted them in the Deen brothers' new book. Each one is a half a walnut topped with bleu cheese and half a red grape.

The watermelon balls were a riff on an appetizer I began making last summer. But instead of serving wedges to eat by hand, I served balls people could pick up with toothpicks. The combination of melon with shaved parmeggiano-reggiano cheese, mint, salt and black pepper is unusual but delicious.

I found the recipes for the pulled-chicken, tuna salad and goat cheese toasts in the August issue of Food & Wine. All were terrific.

The shrimp deviled eggs were thanks to the Minimalist. The soup has been one of my summer standbys for years now, and the mini cupcakes were made by Mom, from More From Magnolia. Finally, the sorbet was last week's flavor: not entirely my cup of tea (I think I prefer my sorbets fruity), but a respectable offering from Peggy Fallon's Ice Cream and Frozen Desserts.

Pretty much every platter was wiped clean by the end of the evening. But among the standouts were the deviled eggs; the tuna, which I served in mini hors d'oeuvres cups; and the mini-meatballs, which I kept warm in an electric frying pan--a very handy appliance for such affairs. Incidentally, my mom deserves major props for her indispensable prep work Friday night. Thanks, Mom!



With Darren handling the bar, I was able to devote all my energy to the food, and it paid off. It made me so happy to see people enjoying themselves and enjoying my food. Some of them even told me they felt inspired. Wow!

Darren left today for San Francisco, but I'm eagerly awaiting his return (he promises it will be in three years). I can't wait to throw his welcome back party.--S

Urban Revival

This week, New York City was slammed with its first awful Summer heat wave. The air felt like syrup. I couldn't walk a block without breaking a sweat. And I had a close encounter with a huge, scary bug on the sidewalk outside my office building. Luckily, I had noticed a number of interesting articles recently about infused iced teas and herbed lemonades. So, when my beloved New York gave me some hot, smelly lemons, I took the high road. I made lemonade. Tarragon Lemonade, actually. And I drank every last drop. Over ice. In front of the A/C. It was heaven.

In all honesty, the lemonade wasn't very tarragon-y. The recipe, from the August issue of Food & Wine, called for infusing a simple syrup with sprigs of fresh tarragon, and then mixing that with fresh-squeezed lemon juice and water. Although I halved the recipe, I probably could've used more tarragon, because I could barely detect the herb's sweet, licorice flavor. Nevertheless, the lemonade was delicious. As the recipe promised, the drink's tartness was at a "face-puckering level," and the near-immediate shot of vitamin c was an immediate pick-me-up.

I made Rhubarb Lemonade in the spring, and it wasn't sweet enough for my taste. But I'd happily try Rosemary Limeade, Lavender Coolers, Raspberry Lemonade or Blackberry Iced Tea. For the next heat wave.--S

UPDATE: (7/14/07)
Orangette has a terrific post on lemonade with a recipe for basil lemonade.



Tarragon Lemonade

10 c water
2 1/4 c sugar
17 tarragon sprigs
6 c fresh lemon juice, strained (from about 40 lemons), plus 12 thin lemon slices for garnish
Salt
Ice

1. In a medium saucepan, combine 4 cups of water with the sugar and bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Simmer over moderately high heat until reduced to 3 1/4 cups, about 25 minutes. Remove from the heat and add 5 of the tarragon sprigs [I'd use more; maybe 7.]. Let stand, stirring often, until cooled to room temperature, about 30 minutes. Discard the tarragon sprigs.
2. In a large glass pitcher, combine the remaining 6 cups of water with the tarragon syrup and fresh lemon juice. Add a pinch of salt, stirring until it dissolves. Serve the tarragon lemonade over ice, garnished with the lemon slices and the remaining 12 tarragon sprigs.

Serves 12

Recipe courtesy of Food & Wine

Nothing Like a Cold Scotch

According to David Lebovitz--former pastry chef at Chez Panisse and author of my new favorite ice cream cookbook, The Perfect Scoop--there is some argument surrounding the origin of the word "butterscotch." Some say the name comes from "butter-scorched," which makes some sense, since making butterscotch does involve cooking butter. Others say the word derives from the phrase "butter scoring," as in "cutting"--not as in, "Dude, I scored some awesome Butterscotch Pecan Ice Cream!" Lebovitz offers his own theory: buttery butterscotch tastes better with a shot of scotch in it. And who am I to argue with that?

And so it is that Fork and I are currently noshing on the Butterscotch Pecan Ice Cream from Lebovitz's book, and it is a home run. The French-style ice cream includes a whopping six egg yolks, five tablespoons of butter, 3/4 cup brown sugar, and all the other usual suspects: heavy cream, whole milk, vanilla extract. Oh, and a tablespoon of Dewar's.

Tantamount to this delectable concoction is the addition of "mix-ins," as many ice cream recipes call the bits of nuts, candy, cake, cookies or fruit that sometimes punctuate ice cream. In this case, the mix-ins are chopped buttered pecans, which lend a terrific textural counterpoint to the creamy and, well, very buttery ice cream. Yes, this is indeed a decadent frozen dessert. So I'm setting my alarm for 6AM for an 8-mile run tomorrow. Who said you could eat this stuff and get off, uh, scotch-free?--S

Buttered Pecan Ice Cream

5 T butter
3/4 c packed dark brown sugar
1/2 t coarse salt
2 c heavy cream
3/4 c whole milk
6 large egg yolks
1/2 t vanilla extract
1 T scotch whisky
Buttered Pecans (recipe below)

1. Melt the butter in a medium saucepan, then stir in the brown sugar and salt until well moistened. Whisk in 1 cup of the cream and the milk.
2. Warm the brown sugar and cream mixture. Pour the remaining 1 cup cream into a large bowl and set a mesh strainer on top.
3. In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm brown sugar mixture into the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape the warmed egg yolks back into the saucepan.
4. Stir the mixture constantly over medium heat with a heatproof spatula, scraping the bottom as you stir, until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula. Pour the custard through the strainer and stir it into the cream. Add the vanilla and scotch, then stir until cool over an ice bath.
5. Chill the mixture thoroughly in the refrigerator, then freeze it in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions. During the last few minutes of churning, add the Buttered Pecans.

Buttered Pecans

1 1/2 T butter
1 1/2 c pecan halves
1/4 t coarse salt

1. Preheat the oven to 350 F.
2. Melt the butter in a skillet. Remove from the heat and toss the pecans with the melted butter until well coated, then sprinkle with the salt.
3. Spread evenly on a baking sheet and toast in the oven for 10 to 12 minutes, stirring once during baking.
4. Remove from the oven and let cool completely.

Recipes courtesy of The Perfect Scoop

Warm and Clammy--In a Good Way

I'll admit that dinner last night came more from my being in love with the idea of clam chowder than an actual craving for the stuff. Jasper White's kitschy-looking Summer Shack Cookbook has been sitting on my desk for weeks now, and I've idly thumbed through its pages too many times to count. Kind of like the J. Crew catalog, this book sells a concept--buy these clothes/cook this food and you will be on a tropical beach sporting a gauzy turquoise dress, wading into the ocean, who cares if it gets wet/wearing a damp bathing suit with sand between your toes, digging in to an alfresco seafood summer feast, pass the butter, please. So you can see why I was into the idea of making something from this book, namely the Creamy Cape Cod Clam Chowder.

Turns out, though, that once I got going, I actually started getting excited about eating clam chowder, too. Lugging nearly 10 pounds of Long Island cherrystone clams from the fishmonger back to my apartment, scrubbing them in my kitchen sink, watching them steam open in my biggest pot (I peeked under the lid and caught some just as they popped--it was so sudden and happy!)... it all made me really hungry.

This recipe, for a white chowder, called for salt pork, but my butcher didn't have any, so I substituted diced bacon, which imparted a nice smoky flavor. After steaming and chopping the clams, I crisped up the bacon, then sautéed it with butter, onions, garlic, celery, thyme and a bay leaf. Next, I added diced potatoes and the reserved clam juice, and cooked this until the potatoes were soft on the outside but still firm inside. The addition of the clams and heavy cream completed the dish.

And then I pretended I was wearing that bathing suit and feeling that sand on my feet, and dug in. Tasty chowder! Creamy and fresh and perfectly beachy. Anybody want to go watch the sun set over the bay?--S

Creamy Cape Cod Clam Chowder

10 lbs small quahogs or large cherrystone clams
2 c water
4 oz. meaty salt pork, rind removed and cut into small (1/3-in.) dice
2 T unsalted butter
2 med. yellow onions, cut into 1/2-in. dice
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 stalks celery, cut into 1/3-in. dice
5-6 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves removed and chopped (1T)
1 lg dried bay leaf
2 lbs Yukon Gold or other all-purpose potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2- to 3/4-in. dice
2 c heavy cream
Freshly ground black pepper
Kosher or sea salt if needed
1/4 c shopped fresh Italian parsley

1. Scrub the clams and rinse well. Place them in a large pot, add the water, cover, and turn the heat to high. Once you see a little steam escape from the pot, let the clams cook for about 5 minutes. Removed the lid and quickly move the clams around in the pot, so they will cook evenly, then cover and cook for 5 minutes more, or until the clams open.

2. Pour off the broth and reserve. After it has settled a bit, strain the broth, leaving the bottom 1/2 inch of broth (and sediment) in the container. You should have about 4 cups. Remove the clams from the shells, place in a bowl, and refrigerate until cold.

3. Dice the clams into small (1/3- to 1/2-inch pieces. Cover and refrigerate.

4. Rinse and dry the pot and heat over low heat. Add the salt pork and cook until crispy and brown. Add the butter, onions, garlic, celery, thyme, and bay leaf and sauté, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon, for about 10 minutes, until the onions are softened by not browned.

5. Add the potatoes and 4 cups reserved clam broth. The broth should just barely cover the potatoes; if it doesn't, add more broth or water. Turn the heat to high, cover the pot, and boil vigorously for about 10 minutes, until the potatoes are soft on the outside but still firm in the center. Smash a few potatoes against the side of the pot and stir them into the chowder to lightly thicken it.

6. Remove the pot from the heat and stir in the cream and diced clams. Season with black pepper; you may not need salt (the clams usually add enough of their own). If you are serving the chowder within the hour, just let it sit and "cure." Otherwise, let cool to room temperature and refrigerate it; cover it after it has chilled.

7. When ready to serve, reheat the chowder slowly over medium heat; do not let it boil. Ladle into cups or bowls and sprinkle with parsley.

Makes 3 quarts; serves 12 as an appetizer or 6 to 8 as a main course.

Recipe courtesy of The Summer Shack Cookbook

I Did Not Find My Thrill on Blueberry Hill

Week two of the summer '07 ice cream challenge found me going the fruit route, with Blueberry Ice Cream from Ice Creams & Sorbets by Lou Seibert Pappas. Unlike last week's Mint Chip recipe, this was an egg-free version, a straightforward blend of berries, lemon, sugar, milk, heavy cream and vanilla extract.

Perhaps now's a good time for me to explain that there are two basic kinds of ice cream: with eggs and without. The former, sometimes called French-style, is made by cooking egg yolks and cream on the stovetop until a custard forms. Then you cool the custard, mix it with the other ingredients (i.e., strawberries, chocolate chips, etc.) and churn it in an ice cream maker. Conversely, the eggless version, known as Philadelphia-style, comes together much more quickly, because you usually just mix up milk, cream, sugar and your other ingredients and churn them in the machine. French-style ice cream is usually creamy and decadent. Philly-style is a tiny bit lighter and fresh tasting.

So this Blueberry Ice Cream was Philly-style, and involved cooking the berries on the stove with a touch of water until they became tender, and then pureeing them in a blender. Then I mashed some lemon zest with a little sugar to release the oils, heated milk and some more sugar in a saucepan, and stirred in the blueberry puree, cream, sugared zest, lemon juice and vanilla. I put this in the fridge to chill for about three hours, had a yummy lunch at Markt with Fork, and then churned the ice cream.

I give this ice cream points for uniqueness. It has a delicate flavor that almost doesn't taste like blueberry, even a little aromatic and perfumy. I can't say I'm thrilled with it, but what does thrill me is its color: very Violet Beauregard.--S

A Four Star Heatwave

Where do you want to be on a sweltering hot Manhattan afternoon? A dark movie theater? The frozen food aisle of Whole Foods? Today I found myself in the climate-controlled, candlelit, private dining room at Per Se one of the city's best restaurants, indulging in a decadent lunch.

I wound up at Per Se thanks to my friend Kate, who invited me to a luncheon celebrating the forthcoming publication of The Elements of Cooking by food writer and blogger Michael Ruhlman. Ruhlman is apparently pretty good friends with Per Se chef Thomas Keller and helped Keller write The French Laundry Cookbook. So, what better place to commemorate a book that teaches you the most fundamental aspects of good cooking than Keller's magnificent New York dining room?

Ah, yes, lunch. The cocktail hour and hors d'oeuvres were great, but the real fireworks started once we were seated in the dining room. The first course was Cranberry Bean Agnolotti, little ravioli made with a small, round piece of flattened pasta dough. The sauce was a "cassoulet" of summer pole beans, tomatoes and parsley. Then came the main course: Snake River Farm's "Calotte de Boeuf Grilee," which was unbelievably tender and juicy, served with a black winter truffle "pain perdu," a savory twist on French toast that pretty much knocked the dish out of the park.

For dessert, "Tentation au Chocolat, Noisette et Lait," a sort of chocolate/hazelnut streusel with condensed milk sorbet. Finally, the most adorable tiered trays of "mignardises" arrived at the table, brimming with tiny pastries and cookies. Everything I tasted was magnificent.

As delicious as the meal was, Fork was more interested in hearing about Anthony Bourdain, who was seated at my table. Fork is a pretty big fan of Bourdain's. They share a life philosophy of good food, booze, music, writing and a hefty dose of smart-ass. Bourdain was pretty subdued compared to the stories I've heard, but he managed to crack everyone up with his observations about food and culture and his plan to discourage his now four-month-old daughter to stay away from McDonald's: "Ronald McDonald is an evil man who smells funny and eats children."

Oh, yeah, the guest of honor, Michael Ruhlman. He was charming. And, he has written a book that deserves a spot on top of refrigerators across America. His advice on everything from making stock to his explanation of what makes a cookie a cookie are fascinating, entertaining and useful to any home cook. Also check out his 2006 book, The Reach of a Chef, which Fork loved.--S

Do Me a Flavor

I've decided to celebrate summer this year by making a different ice cream every week of the season. That means between now and Labor Day, I'll have made 11 varieties. Although I have owned an ice cream maker--the Cuisinart Pure Indulgence Frozen Yogurt-Ice Cream & Sorbet Maker, ICE-30BC Series--for nearly two years and made about 14 flavors (pictured at right, green tea, from last fall), there are many varieties that I have yet to try. I hope a weekly routine will force me to step up and face some neglected classic flavors as well as some wacky experimental ones. It's going to be a grueling challenge, I know, and I'm going to be counting on your support to help me make it through. Support, in this case, will mean eating a different variety of ice cream every week until September. I know this is a lot to ask, but remember, there's no "I" in the phrase "We all scream for ice cream." Or no capital "I," anyway.

Here are the rules:
1. One frozen dessert every week. Acceptable frozen desserts are ice cream, sorbet, sherbet or granita. I'm leaving frozen yogurt out of this, since I made it once and it was awful.
2. When possible, ingredients are to come from the Union Square Greenmarket.
3. Recipes are to come from a variety of recent cookbooks:
Ice Cream and Frozen Desserts by Peggy Fallon (DK, 2007)
Ice Creams & Sorbets by Lou Seibert Pappas (Chronicle Books, 2007)
A Passion for Ice Cream by Emily Luchetti (Chronicle Books, 2006)
The Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz (Ten Speed Press, 2007)
4. No repeats.

The games began yesterday, when I tackled the iconic Mint Chip Ice Cream, from Luchetti. No fake-green wintergreen here; this ice cream is a lovely cream color, looking more like vanilla than anything minty. But the flavor is definitely there: the recipe calls for steeping 3/4 cup mint leaves in warm custard (made from heavy cream, milk and egg yolks) for 15 minutes. I then strained out the leaves, and chilled the mixture overnight. Then, this morning, I churned the ice cream, folded in chopped bittersweet chocolate and froze it. The ice cream is fabulous. Cool and crunchy, not overly minty but surely refreshing. Happy summer.--S

Best Fishes

"They're like the French fries of the sea," said the potbellied guy with the suntan, stubbly beard and New Yawk accent. He was probably in his 50s, wearing a sports jacket and Dockers, and stood with two other men in nearly identical get-ups. They balanced tiny cocktail plates in their huge hands, rhubarb Bellinis sitting on the buffet table, sweating in the Manhattan humidity.

These Dockers-clad angels turned out to be David Pasternack's fishing buddies, hard-working Long Island natives there to toast their local boy at a party celebrating the fisherman-turned-Manhattan chef's first book, The Young Man and the Sea: Recipes and Crispy Fish Tales from Esca. I piled some of these so-called french fries onto my plate, figuring if these guys say they're good, they're probably right. The french fries they spoke of were actually fried sand eels, crisped up with fresh mint. They were sensational.



The party, not coincidentally, was at Esca, the Mario Batali/Joe Bastianich-run Southern Italian seafood mecca in Midtown where Pasternack has been the chef since its opening in 2000. (pictured:Iron Chef judge Jeffrey Steingarten, Pasternack and Batali at the party). I'd been to Esca only once before, to celebrate my 26th birthday with Fork. We were blown away by the crudo, sort of an Italian take on sashimi. Before I tasted crudo, my only experience with raw fish was with soy sauce and wasabi, or lime and cilantro, a la ceviche. But at Esca, the fish was accompanied by flavors comfortingly familiar to me. Extra virgin olive oil. Lemon. Basil. Rosemary. Garlic. Crunchy sea salt. The restaurant also impressed us with its whole roasted fish and pasta dishes, too. I remember a linguine with rock shrimp that was out of this world.

As my colleagues and I sauntered up to the buffet table yesterday, we were tantalized by the offerings. It all looked splendid. Of course, we weren't sure what everything was. That's where the Pasternack's buddies came in. Like the finest fishing guides, they steered me toward whole roasted striped bass, ivory salmon crudo, Nantucket bay scallops, and razor clam crudo, served in the shell and topped with diced red pepper and julienned mint leaves (pictured). I eyed a baked stuffed clam that was laced with prosciutto, having a flashback to the recipe my Aunt Ann makes every year for our Christmas Eve vigil.

One of the fishermen smiled as I happily scooped a clam onto my plate. "If Dave made it," he laughed, "it's going to be good."--S

Shout-Out to Clotilde

I just got a finished copy of blogger Clotilde Dusoulier's Chocolate & Zucchini: Daily Adventures in a Parisian Kitchen... and am I impressed! I'm used to seeing cheap-looking pre-publication galleys turn into glossy finished books. So when Clotilde and I met back in February, I wasn't surprised that her book at that point looked like most other galleys, its pages dull and photographs grainy. But the transformation of Clotilde's manuscript to book is much snazzier than usual.

Unlike many cookbooks that have a couple of pages of full-color photos inserted into an otherwise colorless book, C&Z has gorgeous full-color photographs throughout its pages. And what's even cooler is that all the photos are taken by Clotilde herself. She mixes images of Paris's culinary offerings--dried sausage hanging in a gourmet shop window, asparagus and tomatoes at a market, Sacre Coeur and the carousel at the base of the butte in Montmartre, where she lives--with photos of the food. Most cookbook photographs are taken in fancy studios, with serving pieces that are chosen strictly for their looks. But the food photos in C&Z show Beef Bourguignon, Soft-Boiled Egg with Artichoke Bread Fingers, and Lavender Apricot Compote on Clotilde's own dishes. This is the real deal, and it's just beautiful. Looking at the up-close images, you can see how fluffy the Fava Bean and Mint Frittata is; how intense the Chocolate Caramel Tart is. And if the glam shots aren't enough to get you into the kitchen, Clotilde's charming recipe introductions and stories should be. She begins each recipe with an explanation of where it came from, what it is, and how you can tweak it. And the recipes themselves are a refreshing blend of old-school French and international chic.

Congratulations, Clotilde!--S

Great Northern BBQ

Fette Sau
354 Metropolitan Ave.
at Havemyer St.
(L train to Bedford or Lorimer)
718-963-3404

TWO SPORKS

OK, I’m going to attempt to do something few publications can do: write about a place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn without using the word hipster. Here goes: Hipsters who aren’t cool enough to be vegans will love... wait... ah, crap! OK, for real, here we go: From Kim and Joe Carroll, the lovely people who brought you Spuyten Duyvil, Williamsburg’s Belgian beer heaven, comes the next big thing for a neighborhood already annointed the next big thing. Fette Sau (translation: Fat Pig), a rib-sticking barnyard bbq fiesta, replete with communal picnic table seating, 55 bourbons and a slate of delicious, ice-cold local tap beers.

I visited with my bandmates last week and we did it up right: gallon jugs of Brooklyn Lager off the tap, tumblers of Blanton’s bourbon, neat, of course and a chef-picked meal for four that included pulled pork, two racks of ribs, beef brisket, flank steak, and a tray of sides including a paper cup of delicious, tangy baked beans; cold potato salad; a massive pickle; spicy red-pepper flecked broccoli; and sauerkraut. The verdict? Pretty damn good, though still a rung below the city’s more established BBQ emporiums.

I give high marks to the pitmaster. The highlight of the meal was the pulled pork, juicy and flavorful. The ribs were also excellent, blackened with a tasty dry rub. The brisket was a bit dry, but delicious. Those of you who prefer a lean brisket versus a brisket marbled with fat will love this one. Besides, the BBQ sauces, served on the side, can alleviate any, uh, dry meat issues. The sides were utterly forgettable, though forgivable.

I have to imagine it takes time to properly work in a massive gas-and-wood-fired smoker, so it’s understandable if Fette Sau, which has only been open since March, isn’t quite firing on all cylinders just yet. It can also be confusing to order for first-timers. There is no table service, you order by the pound right from the counter, which is really just fine, and authentic to some of the best BBQs I’ve been to. But, unless you know how many ribs are in a pound, you’re better off asking the chefs to help you out. They will, and will do a fine job.

There are ways to do Fette Sau without breaking the bank, but be prepared to spend, especially if you wish to drink. We spent $200 on dinner for four with beers and bourbon, and that's without table service. Somehow, Jack Daniels becomes a $7 glass of bourbon (2 oz.) when featured next to its more aristocratic counterparts on the whisky menu. That’s just wrong.

But Fette Sau gets it mostly right. So many other BBQ restaurants trip all over themselves trying to be authentic “Southern” BBQ, a mistake Fette Sau avoids, preferring instead to embrace its Brooklyn environs and to prove that, yeah, we Yankees can light a good fire, too.--F

Katz Out of the Bag

The blogosphere was buzzing this week about the New York Times' Frank Bruni's planned review of Lower East Side landmark Katz's Delicatessen. The always entertaining Eater.com was betting on zero stars. The question for Spoon and me, however, was why review Katz's, and more to the point, why now? The answer: because Katz's may not be there much longer.

I have a long, fatty and delicious history with Katz's. It is the reigning champ of classic New York Jewish delis. But as someone once forced out of my own Lower East Side existence by skyrocketing rents, I know firsthand how rapidly the neighborhood is changing. Now that the massive, 20-plus-story luxury tower across from Katz's on Ludlow and Houston Streets has taken form, can the old school, one-floor deli survive in its shadow?

The immutable natural laws of New York real estate say no, and Bruni takes the issue of Katz's future head-on in his review. Not surprisingly, the owners seem to be fishing for a buyer. "Now that real estate on the Lower East Side is so much more valuable, could Katz’s move again, or find itself subsumed by a condominium tower, or be threatened or altered in another way?" Bruni asks. Yes, answers co-owner Fred Austin. "Offer me an amount I can’t walk away from,” Austin said.

Bruni, meanwhile, was generous with his praise of Katz's, stacking compliments on the deli like its carvers stack meat, calling its famous pastrami sandwich "one of the best in the land... an eye-popping stack of brined beef that’s juicy, smoky, rapturous." Bruni even gloried in finer points of the deli's avant-shithole decor and luddite rituals: "the taking of a ticket at the door; the lining-up in front of one of the servers who carves that beef by hand; the tasting of the thick, ridged slices the server gives us as the sandwich is being built; the nodding when we’re asked if we want pickles, because of course we want pickles."

The verdict? A star! If you're keeping score at home, that's one more star than Jeffrey Chodorow's Kobe Club. As for the future of Katz's, I have it on good authority that the lucrative offer Austin would need to close down the deli may not be imminent.

Let's just call this good ol' New York deli-style gossip, for now. In April I found myself in conversation with a former business owner just down the block from Katz's on the same side of Ludlow Street. This owner told me how he did get that offer he couldn't walk away from, from a developer who planned to put in a high-rise, said to be at least 10 stories. When work began, however, the developer discovered that a subway tunnel happened to run a bit too close, limiting how deep the foundation could be dug. Foundation depth dictates how high a buidling can rise. So, in a turn of events a forced-out Lower East Sider can truly appreciate, after paying a hefty sum for the property the developer found his plans for a high-rise on Ludlow cut down to size.

This is not to say that Katz's also sits too close to that tunnel. But then again, it probably does. And that could very well mean that the kind of fatty offer one might get for property that could support a massive luxury tower, such as the one going up across Ludlow Street, may not be hitting Katz's carving board after all.--F

Spring Is Busting Out All Over

It started with a lime sorbet I made a few weeks ago, and then continued with Fork's and my consumption of fresh rhubarb and strawberries from the market. Then I went on an asparagus bender, and following that, made more ice cream--orange, this time. And then I brewed some peach iced tea. I have hit my spring stride, people, and let me tell you, it's maaahvelous.

So this Memorial Day weekend, I was all pumped to fire up a grill and cook something over an open flame. Figuring I have the next three months to pig out on burgers and dogs, I thought, why not kick off the season with some grilled bivalves? My mom was in the mood for scallops, so we pulled out Micol Negrin's excellent book The Italian Grill, and ran with a recipe for Grilled Scallops with Tri-Color Pepper Medley. First we sliced red, orange and yellow peppers, and sauteed them with garlic and lime zest, sprinkling them with chopped basil once they were tender. Then we dipped bay scallops in olive oil, coated them in salt and pepper, and grilled them--on the Vebbah, of course--for about five minutes. And then we laid them over the peppers on a plate, and topped the whole thing with lime juice and chopped mint. On the side: white bean-tomato salad, arugula salad and potato salad. What a splendid alfresco meal.

Tonight I scored with a springtime veggie from the Greenmarket: Japanese turnips. I wanted to make something from a new cookbook I'm already loving, The Flexitarian Table, and the Butter-Braised Radishes with Their Greens seemed seasonally appropriate. The farmer told me I could substitute turnips for the radishes, and I think I should go back to the market on Friday to thank her. These turnips were great: surprisingly sweet and mild. They were a delicious accompaniment to Crispy Pressed Chicken with Garlic and Mint, which is similar to a dish my mom makes called Chicken Under a Brick. Both entail pressing the chicken with something heavy to speed up the cooking time and force out the fat, which results in crispy skin.

Wonder how hot dogs under a brick would be...--S

Rhubarb and Me

I may have grown up eating Jersey tomatoes and my grandfather's homegrown hot peppers, but one piece of produce my childhood in the Garden State deprived me of was rhubarb. I think I'd heard of it, but I put it in the same category as rutabega and collard greens--Vegetables I've Heard Of But Know Nothing About. Fork was the first person I met who actually knew what to do with rhubarb. Turns out the stuff used to grow wild in his upstate New York 'hood. His grandfather used to plant it, too, and his grandmother would make a rhubarb sauce to go over ice cream, and rhubarb pie. His mom makes strawberry rhubarb ice cream.

Six years later, I'm proud to say rhubarb and I are pals. I've made rhubarb pies, rhubarb crumbles, rhubarb muffins and rhubarb sauce. I've learned a little bit about the vegetable--yes, it is a veggie, though in his excellent On Food and Cooking, Harold McGee says it "often masquerades as a fruit." Rhubarb appears in early spring and lasts through mid-summer. Its leaves are toxic, but its celery-like stalks are edible, and quite tasty--once you cook them. Raw rhubarb is extremely tart; however, it mellows somewhat when you bake or cook it (it's often paired with strawberry in pies to create a lovely sweet-tart effect).

I picked up some of the season's first rhubarb crop today at the Greenmarket, along with a pint of tart little strawberries. We've been eating the strawberries out of the carton, they're so tasty. The rhubarb, meanwhile, has made its way into rhubarb muffins. They're delicious. The cinnamon sugar on their tops is a lovely contrast to the tart muffin below. And with ice cream season practically upon us, I'm sure I'll be attempting the rhubarb version soon.--S

Cinnamon Rhubarb Muffins
12 muffins

Muffins ingredients:
1/2 c packed brown sugar
1/4 c butter, softened
1 c sour cream
2 eggs
1 1/2 c all-purpose flour
3/4 t baking soda
1/2 t ground cinnamon
1 1/2 c sliced 1/4-inch fresh rhubarb

Topping ingredients:
1 T sugar
1/2 t ground cinnamon

1. Heat oven to 375°F. Combine brown sugar and butter in large bowl. Beat at medium speed until mixture is creamy. Add sour cream and eggs; continue beating until well mixed.
2. Stir together flour, baking soda and 1/2 t cinnamon in medium bowl. Stir flour mixture into sour cream mixture just until moistened. Gently stir in rhubarb. Spoon into greased or paper-lined 12-cup muffin pan.
3. Stir together 1 T sugar and 1/2 t cinnamon in small bowl. Sprinkle about 1/4 teaspoon mixture on top of each muffin.
4. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until lightly browned. Let stand 5 minutes; remove from pans.

Recipe courtesy of Land O'Lakes

Going Bananas in Martinique

Take the decadence of classic French cooking--rich sauces, wine reductions, a liberal use of butter--and combine it with a tropical flair--exotic fruits, fresh fish--and you've got an idea of the kind of food I've been eating for the past week in Martinique. Pretty fantastique.

Martinique, is a "department" of France, one of the Windward Islands in the Lesser Antilles, situated between Dominica and St. Lucia. It geographically resembles the US and British Virgin Islands in that it's mountainous (a volcano actually erupted there in 1902) and lush, especially on its Caribbean (versus Atlantic) side. But unlike other islands I've visited, Martinique has loads of fruit trees growing wild--mango, papaya, lime, breadfruit--and is covered with banana plantations and sugar cane fields. The pervasiveness of these tasty crops, coupled with the French and Creole culture, means you eat well--very well--in Martinique.

Breakfast is croissants and pain au chocolat with guava jelly and sliced pineapple and mango on the side; café au lait and papaya juice to wash it down. Lunch and dinner are seafood spectaculars. I ate lobster, prawns, conch, cod, crayfish, red snapper and mahi-mahi, all from the waters around the island. The restaurant at the beautiful hotel Cap Est served a blowout four-course lunch, including snapper carpaccio, seafood mousse beefed up with aged rum, and rum granita (see photo; note the planteur in the background). Le Brédas, a restaurant in the town of St.-Joseph, with Martinique's big-deal chef du jour, Jean-Charles Brédas, made an amazing banana/foie gras mille-fueille. And the humble Chez Tante Arlette, in the adorable fishing village of Grande Riviere, wowed me with grilled lobster and prawns. No matter where you are in Martinique, there's a good chance your meal will start with accras, which are codfish fritters, light and extremely tasty. Desserts often combine fruit and rum; my favorite was the banana flambée with aged rum at Cap Est.

Speaking of rum, it's a huge part of Martinique's culture, society and economy. Unlike most rum, which is made from molasses, Martinique’s rhum agricole is made exclusively from fresh sugarcane juice. I visited three rum distilleries (Clément, Neisson and Saint-James), and even though I'm not much of a rum drinker, they were worth seeing, as living connections to the history of the West Indies from their earliest colonization by Europeans. No pina coladas or daquiris here; Martinique serves its rum either as ti-punch (short for "petit"), an extremely potent concoction of white rum, sugarcane syrup and lime juice; or as planteur, which I much prefer, a refreshing mix of rum, fruit juice, sugarcane syrup and spices. As it's part of France, of course, Martinique also has great wines.

All this, AND gorgeous beaches, cool zouk music and fabulous hotels. Vas-y!--S

No Accounting for Taste

In what’s being touted as a victory for free speech, Chez Josephine restaurateur Jean-Claude Baker prevailed in a lawsuit over the U.S. Postal Service, which refused to mail annual postcards to patrons because the image was too racy.

Chez Josephine, on 42nd street in Manhattan, is a Hell's Kitchen staple, named after Josephine Baker, chanteuse and Folies Bergère star, who took in Baker “when he was a boy living alone in Paris after World War II.” In memoriam, every year Baker sends out a postcard to patrons featuring an image of Josephine. But this year Baker’s image choice (pictured) was rejected by the Post Office as “pornographic advertising.” Clearly the U.S. Post Office is unfamiliar with pornography.

I ask you, was it worth thousands in taxpayer money to fight mailing this postcard to a patrons of a French restaurant? You can factor the cost of bullshit legal fights like this into this week's $.02 postage increase. I guess it's true there’s no accounting for taste, or when it comes to government, no taste.

Anyway, I'm in a sort of downbeat, Frenchified mood today because Spoon is away in Martinique sans moi. I just may have to hit Chez Josephine tonight for the lobster cassoulet to cheer up and to thank them for, you know, fighting City Hall.

Keith McNally, Defender of Women?

You have to love the New York restaurant world. Where else could a superstar restauranteur like Keith McNally, who once said he'd like to use actress Maria Bello as dinnerware for his last meal, use the occasion of a one-star review from Frank Bruni for his latest venture, Morandi, to morph into a defender of women? In a bizarre "response" to Bruni's review, McNally dropped off a letter to Eater.com accusing the critic of sexism. His proof? Bruni has never given more than one star to a female chef. Morandi's chef, Jody Williams, is a woman, so...

McNally writes:

One can only wonder whether Bruni would still have his job at The Times if he himself was a woman. Based on the unremittingly sexist slant of his reviews one has to say no. The surprise is that The New York Times continues to condone it. But until it refuses to, its message, through Frank Bruni, is loud and clear: If you're a woman and talented, the one place you'd better get out of, and fast, is the kitchen.

Oh, Keith. We rather expected this kind of drivel from theme-park restauranteurs like Jeffrey Chodorow. But not you, especially when Bruni's review was consistent with every other review we've read , if not kinder. We also can't figure out what he means when he questions whether Bruni would still have his job if he was a woman. You mean, like his predecessor, Ruth Reichl?

If McNally was truly seeking to defend women in the kitchen, he'd take up the issue in the restaurant industry, where bias is far more real and prevalent than the bias he conveniently reads into Frank Bruni's reviews. Bruni's predecessor, Ruth Reichl, has written and talked on this sexism extensively. In reality, and Reichl would surely agree, New York's three and four star restaurants are usually from culinary traditions that harbor deep sexism in the kitchen, notably French and Japanese. It seems to me that while railing against sexism in reviews, and worse, on the occasion of receiving a disappointing review, without addressing it the kitchen is balatanly disinegnuous. This feels like a low blow if not outright defamation. And, it makes me think that McNally is, well, kind of an asshole.

Spoon did a delightful interview with McNally not too long ago, and really enjoyed talking with him. We both enjoy his restaurants and love his cookbook. I can't help but remember, however, that when Spoon showed up at Balthazar "for the interview" at the appointed time, they instinctively gave her an application and sent her off to wait in line with the other waitress applicants.

Hmmmmmm...--F

The Only Thing We Have to Fear is Anchovies

I pride myself on eating almost anything; there are few things I won't touch, and they include commonly disliked foods like organ meats and brains. But one food block I can't seem to get past is anchovies. Whenever I order a Greek or Caesar salad in a restaurant, I ask the chef to hold off, and I never cook with them. To me they've always tasted a little too fishy. And they're hairy, too. Yuck.

But my pride got the better of me this week, when, thanks to Mark Bittman's NYT video on the pleasures of anchovies, I decided to bite the bullet. Bittman did make me feel better about my phobia:

"There are places in the world where anchovies are revered, the Mediterranean chief among them. The little fish, usually salted and preserved in oil, is enormously popular on every continent except our own. There are two reasons so many Americans aren’t wild about anchovies. One is that we typically buy those of inferior quality. The other is that anchovies are strong flavored and undeniably fishy. Those of us who can’t get enough of them see these characteristics as assets. You probably will, too, if you buy the right anchovies and cook them in this familiar pasta sauce whose other main ingredients are garlic, chilies and tomatoes."

And I noted that Marcella Hazan, in The Classic Italian Cookbook, writes, "there is no good kitchen in Italy that gets along entirely without anchovies." That was enough to put me over the edge. I needed to do this.

A recipe for Pasta with Garlic, Anchovies and Tomatoes accompanied Bittman's video, and I made it last night. I'll admit I went a bit heavy on the garlic and tomatoes, and used two anchovies instead of 20 (I was making a half recipe! I realize that should've meant 10 anchovies, but baby steps, okay?). Everything about the recipe was right up my alley: the entire thing took less than 20 minutes, and entailed cooking the garlic and a dried chili pepper in olive oil; adding the suspicious and slightly--ahem--hairy anchovies; then adding halved grape tomatoes--all while the penne was cooking in a pot of boiling water. The anchovies kind of melt in the hot oil, and when the pasta's cooked, you add the sauce and top with chopped parsely.

The verdict? I didn't have seconds, but I wiped my plate clean. The pasta had a deeper flavor than it would've sans anchovies, a sort of rich saltiness that kosher salt could never add. It was pretty good. And now I have a jar of anchovies in my fridge. While I may not be ready to throw them on top of a salad, I'll definitely use them in cooking again.--S

Pasta with Garlic, Anchovies and Tomatoes

Salt
1/4 c extra virgin olive oil
10 garlic cloves, peeled
2 or 3 dried chilies, optional
20 anchovy fillets, more or less
2 c halved cherry tomatoes
Freshly ground black pepper
1 pound cut pasta, like penne
Chopped fresh parsley leaves for garnish

1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil and salt it. Put olive oil in a medium skillet over medium heat; a minute later, add garlic and chilies, if using. Cook garlic so it bubbles gently. When it is lightly browned all over, add anchovies. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about a minute, until anchovies begin to fall apart, then add tomatoes. Adjust heat so tomatoes bubble nicely, and cook until mixture becomes saucy, about 5 minutes. Taste and add salt and pepper as necessary.

2. Meanwhile, cook pasta until tender but not mushy. When it is done, drain it, reserving a little cooking water to thin sauce if necessary. Serve pasta with sauce and parsley.

Yield: 3 to 6 servings.
Recipe courtesy of Mark Bittman

Do You Smell a Rat?

Restaurant closures have more than tripled in the weeks after local news showed rats running wild inside a KFC/Taco Bell. According to figures in various news reports at least 250-300 restaurants have been shuttered in the two months following the rat report. Want to guess who’s ultimately picking up the tab for those closures?

“It easily has cost restaurants several million dollars,” Chuck Hunt of the New York Restaurant Association, told reporters. You can add to that lost wages for hourly workers, food spoilage and lost tax revenues for the city. The Department of Health issued a report last month on the KFC/Taco Bell incident, but its recommendations only heightened my suspicion that the agency, like most political animals, has no real agenda other than to shield itself from criticism.

In practice, the city's health inspectors have obviously been given a directive, either implicitly or explicitly, to send a message by closing more restaurants. That message seems to be: you make us look bad, watch out. But ultimately it makes no sense to respond to a problem that was admittedly enabled by bureaucratic incompetence with an even greater display of bureaucratic incompetence. Look at this way: the public witnessed a restaurant it knew to be filthy stay open until it was literally overrun with rats. That screamed incompetence. Now, we're watching our favorite restaurants, which we believe to be clean, aggressively being closed. Does that not also scream incompetence, if not something more nefarious?

The end result of this food cop reign of terror is nothing more than an unfair "tax" on kitchen laborers, less money in the city’s coffers, hits to their reputations that many restaurants may not recover from--and less confidence among citizens that the Health Department knows what it is doing. The real issue here is not dirty kitchens but dirty government. The proper response from the Health Department to the KFC/Taco Bell incident would have been to concentrate on cleaning up its own filthy house and restoring public confidence. Instead, they're feeding us shit.--F

Because a Happy Animal is a Delicious Animal

In a somewhat responsible and at times loony Newsweek editorial, famed Los Angeles chef Wolfgang Puck said that from now on he will only serve his customers happy animals. He says he made the change after the Humane Society of the United States, a Washington, D.C.-based animal-welfare organization, approached him about using ingredients “exclusively from humane farmers.” Good for you, Wolfgang!

Of course, in addition to listing some good, practical reasons for the switch, Puck also managed to sound like a chicken-fried hippie. “Why shouldn’t cows and pigs feel sunlight on their backs, grass under their feet?” he asks. “Yes, they’ll be killed for food—but until then they should have a nice stay on Earth.” I guess when you put it that way, I’d rather be a dinner at Spago than a diner, especially when the check comes.

Puck lost me, however, when he blithely mentioned foie gras, a delicacy produced in small quantities in the U.S. almost if not exclusively on artisanal farms but is nevertheless banned in California because of cruelty issues. “My customers and I can easily live without it,” he says. That kind of dispassionate, toss-off line makes me wonder what really motivated this editorial. Is this about the hopes and dreams of grill-bound animals? Is it about good, reponsible farming? Or could it be, gasp, that Wolfgang, who's more known for frozen pizza than haute cuisine these days was afraid of losing business?!


I am all for produce that comes only from “responsible farmers” who grow fruits and vegetables without pesticides or genetic modification. I'm willing to insist on meat from farms that “shun the use of antibiotics and growth hormones and raise their animals humanely.” It’s better for them. It's better for us. And, it’s better for the environment. I sincerely appreciate restaurants like, for example, Cookshop, who already do here in New York what Puck says he will now do in LA.

This editorial, however, is a good example of what I call moral convenience. Why is the artisanal goose farmer taken out with the trash that gives us KFC? At the end of the day, just because you might feel a little better about the life of the chop, don’t think for a second the pig does. If you really want to make a difference, eat locally and stop buying things like, well, frozen pizzas, which have to be individually packaged and then shipped on the pollutant farms we call highways.--F

My Silver Palate

Last Monday evening found me kicking back on the terrace outside the Central Park Boathouse, overlooking the Lake, enjoying a glass of white sangria with some of my colleagues. Along with 250 other people, we were there to celebrate the publication of the 25th anniversary edition of The Silver Palate Cookbook. The party was pretty fabulous: waiters passed hors d'oeuvres, buffet tables offered tastes of some of the book's main courses, and a guy was even taking partygoers out for gondola rides on the lake.

By the end of last week, I finally got around to checking out the goodie bag, and pulled out an apron, a bag of cookies and the book itself. I brought the book home to my mom over the weekend, and the two of us pored over it, she reminiscing about her old b&w edition--which she may or may not have sold at a garage sale at some point--and me learning the story of Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins's claim to fame. The women opened a gourmet food shop called The Silver Palate on New York's Upper West Side in 1977, and it became a tremendous success. They wrote their cookbook in 1982, and it arrived on the scene in the same decade as chichi creations like Newman's Own Oil and Vinegar Salad Dressing, Tofutti, and Boboli Pizza prefab crusts. With its recipes for Cream of Mango Soup, Cold Poached Salad with Blueberry Mayonnaise, and Pizza Pot Pie, The Silver Palate Cookbook fit right in with that chic aesthetic. It went on to sell more than 2 million copies.

Fruity soups and bizarre combinations notwithstanding, The Silver Palate Cookbook actually contains some terrific recipes. Its Chicken Marbella is a legend, and while I haven't cooked it yet, I tasted it at the party, and it was delicious. This weekend I made a Sesame Mayonnaise, which we drizzled over grilled asparagus and also used as a salad dressing. Made with rice vinegar, soy sauce, sesame oil and a touch of Szechuan-style hot and spicy oil, it was a tasty French-Asian hybrid. I also made an Orange Pecan Bread, which my mom said was definitely a keeper and could contend with my grandfather's favorite birthday treat, an orange raisin cake from none other than the famous Aunt Winnie.

I'm definitely going to keep my Silver Palate handy, and plan on making Chicken Marbella for my next dinner party. Maybe we'll even have Mango Soup... for dessert.--S

Sesame Mayonnaise

1 whole egg
2 egg yolks
2 1/2 T rice vinegar
2 1/2 T soy sauce
3 T Dijon mustard
1/4 c dark sesame oil
2 1/2 c corn oil [I used only 1 cup of vegetable oil for a thicker dressing]
Szechuan-style hot and spicy oil

1. In a food processor, process the whole egg, egg yolks, vinegar, soy sauce, and mustard for 1 minute.
2. With the motor still running, dribble in the sesame oil and then the corn [or veg] oil in a slow, steady stream.
3. Season with drops of the hot and spicy oil if you use it, and scrape the mayonnaise out into a bowl. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use.

Orange Pecan Bread
1 loaf

8 T (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for greasing the pan
3/4 c sugar
2 eggs, separated
Grated zest of 1 large or 2 small oranges
1 1/2 c unbleached all-purpose flour
1 1/2 t baking powder
1/4 t baking soda
Pinch of salt
1/2 c fresh orange juice
Orange glaze (see recipe below)

1. Preheat the oven to 350. Grease an 8 1/2 x 4 1/2-inch loaf pan.
2. Cream the butter. Add the sugar gradually, beating with an electric mixer until light. Beat in the egg yolks, one at a time, and the grated orange zest.
3. Sift the flour with the baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and add the dry mixture to the batter alternately with the orange juice, beginning and ending with the flour. Gently mix in the pecans.
4. Beat the egg whites until stiff and fold them carefully into the batter.
5. Pour the batter into the prepared pan, set on the center rack of the oven, and bake for 50 to 60 minutes.
6. Spoon the hot glaze over the bread as soon as the bread is removed from the oven. Cool in the pan on a wire rack.

Orange Glaze
Enough glaze for 1 cake

1/4 c fresh orange juice
1/4 cup sugar

Combine the orange juice and sugar in a small saucepan and simmer gently for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until a light syrup forms. Remove from the heat and keep warm until using.

Recipes courtesy of The Silver Palate Cookbook

The Original

Takahachi
85 Ave A (6th Street)
New York, NY 10009
(212) 505-6524

GOLDEN SPORK AWARD

I moved into the East Village in 1990, sharing a small, $600-a-month illegal sublet with my friend Jon on 11th St. right next door to the venerable Italian bakery Venierio's. Every morning, I awakened to the smell of cake.

It wasn't quite as idyllic as it sounds. Many nights I was rocked to sleep by the sound of snapping rat traps in the courtyard. And the apartment was built like a bad Boy Scout project. The neighborhood, too, was far from the hip, expensive, boutique-laden neighborhood it is now. Back then, it was dirty, a little dangerous, and the further east you went, the more edge it had. Tompkins Square Park was still a homeless encampment. Junkies slept in our doorway. But compared to today's East Village, I have to say, it was awesome.

One evening, in 1992, Jon came home raving about a new sushi restaurant on Avenue A called Takahachi, and took me there the next night. We were blown away by the size of the sushi--indeed, they were the biggest pieces we'd ever seen, as well the quality of the fish, the best of any sushi we'd had in the city yet. The California rolls used only real crab. The chefs made their own soy. And the specials and deals were terrific, including a sushi-for-two plate that was so enormous it was often tough to finish, and came with a free handroll of your choice, all for just $22, perfect for a young, struggling writer.

Fifteen years later, I've been forced out to Williamsburg. But Takahachi remains, and Spoon & I are Takahachi regulars. We've befriended the chefs. I get bottles of plum wine from the restaurant at Christmastime. And as an OC (original customer), I received a 10th anniversary sake set from Takahachi in 2002. We've delighted in turning friends on to this place over the years, and they too have become regulars. Fifteen years is a long time for any restaurant to survive, much less one in the rapidly gentrified East Village. Takahachi has done it the old-fashioned way: with top quality ingredients, innovative chefs, great service, affordable prices, amazing consistency and a commitment to its customers, who since about 1994, have had no problem waiting outside for up to an hour to get a table.

You can't go wrong with anything on Takahachi's menu. Here's how we do it. First, we like sitting at the bar with the chefs. For one, they always try out new stuff on us, and we're all too happy to oblige. The fish is lovely to look at, and watching the chefs work is great entertainment. The specials are the way to go. Every night, the chefs throw out something incredible, and over the years they've really opened our eyes with the scope of ingredients they use without sacrificing the integrity of Japanese cuisine.

Tonight, we started with crab shumai, a staple on the menu, and a special dish called Tako Green; it's octopus on bed of red onion with a spicy green sauce. Tako Green isn't often on the menu, but the chef makes it for us--what a guy! We followed that with a special sashimi plate of chu toro, medium fatty tuna; and a special called Jala Hama (photo, left), yellowtail sashimi with red onion and shaved jalapeno with a soy ginger dressing. For our main sushi onslaught, we stayed with the hamachi/jalapeno theme of the evening with a special roll; and a few pieces of sushi: salmon, yellowtail and some uni for me. Takahachi has great uni. They won't serve the uni from Maine one gets at lesser sushi bars, only the sweet, California variety, one of my favorite flavors in the world. We had beer and Sake, and a banana spring roll dessert, all for $75. This wasn't our best Takahachi meal: some specials have defied description. But as usual, it was excellent.

For reference, Takahachi is not in the same league as, say, Nobu or Gari. The room and its woodplank/white plate service is pretty plain. But as far as the kitchen is concerned, it's not terribly far behind either, and you could eat four or five full meals at Takahachi for the price of one at either Nobu or Gari. If you like and know Japanese food in New York, the quality of the food is comparable to Tomoe, Yama and Hasaki, and much more affordable. The pieces are large, though not as large as they once were and not unwieldy like the slabs served at Yama. It's cheaper than Hasaki, which is also excellent. Tomoe is magnificent, sublime. And, worth the long waits. There aren't many rooms that Takahachi beats for decor but the cramped Tomoe is one.

It's not enough to say Takahachi is our favorite restaurant. We're proud of Takahachi. We're happy he's been successful enough to open a second restaurant on Duane Street, and grateful that ours has remained home to us for so long with such a high standard of excellence. How many restaurants can you say you've been going to for 15 years that still can surprise and amaze you with each visit?--F

On Ramps

Crocuses, robins and allergies are all harbingers of spring I'm familiar with. But one sign of the new season I've been missing out on is the wild leek, also known the ramp. I noticed magazines trumpeting their early spring arrival. So yesterday ramps and I met our destiny. I spotted them at the greenmarket at Union Square with my friend Deena, and we both bought some. The saleswoman/farmer gave us some tips on cleaning and cooking them, and off we went.

Ramps grow on forest floors, and their season lasts between three and five weeks, in April and May. They look like mini-scallions, white bulbs and tender greens with complex roots that twist and curl. Like leeks, ramps are very earthy and require some pretty intense washing. Then you have to trim them, snipping off the root and peeling off the little membrane wrapped around their bottom halves. Everything that's left, from bulb to leaf, is edible.

Mario Batali tosses sauteed ramps with spaghetti; Emeril Lagasse pickles them. I decided to try the farmer's suggestion and go the pasta route. I sauteed them in garlic, olive oil, red pepper flakes and a sprinkling of kosher salt. As they sizzled, I cooked some fresh linguine and then added the drained pasta, plus a little pasta water to the frying pan with the ramps and garlic. Once the linguine was heated through and all flavored, Fork and I dug in. We also enjoyed a nice, crisp Caesar salad (with cousin G's excellent dressing recipe).

Look for ramps at your local greenmarket over the next few weeks. They're delicious, sort of an onion-garlic hybrid, as Fork says a cross between a green onion and a green garlic. And, yes, Tic Tacs for dessert.--S

UPDATE: (4/26/07)
New York has officially gone ramps crazy.

Why the French Don't Suck...and We Sometimes Do

Anthony Bourdain is what we in show business would call a quadruple threat: a skilled chef, an excellent writer, a lively TV host and a superb cultural critic and bon vivant. If you can't catch him smoking and drinking live on his own barstool at Siberia (also one of my favorite bars) you usually can see him smoking and drinking on his TV show NO RESERVATIONS. True to form, he started off his show in Paris by getting loaded at an illegal absynthe bar.

In Paris, Bourdain stayed in the same hotel room where Oscar Wilde's toxic corpse was found, visited the old Les Halles and some remarkable restaurants that cut to the heart of French cuisine: while the greedy royals were taking all the select foods for themselves, the people of France made culinary art from the nasty bits. In France, Bourdain observed, meals are a dialogue between the Cook and the diner. In France, he noted, food is important.

Which brings us back to the good ol' USA, and the Food Network, where revenue is important. More to the point THE FABULOUS FOOD NETWORK AWARDS! Blogging on Michael Ruhlman's blog, Bourdain posted a hilarious yet quite serious critique of the awards. "You have to ask yourself WHAT were they THINKING?," Bourdain writes. "So some brain dead douche bags from Ad Sales and "creative" got together and cooked up this hybrid, fur-bearing catfish of a beast, this jackalope of a High Concept. Fine. That's what they do. But who green lit this monstrosity? Did no one raise their voice and and say, "Boss...boss..Can we really DO this to our talent?"


First and foremost, Bourdain is a chef, and his empathy is rightly placed with his fellow kitchen colonels. How must it have felt for Rachel Ray to feign enthusiasm while presenting the award for "Best Appliance"? he asks. "Do Emeril and Bobby, who, whatever you think of their shows, BUILT that fucking network, deserve to be pimped out with such casual disregard? Does anyone deserve to run the Gauntlet of Shame that was the red carpet, forced to waddle past the California Raisins and Tony the Tiger and a bunch of other corporate Big Heads? ...Emeril always the good soldier, sweated dutifully through his obligations, wondering privately, no doubt, what he had done to deserve this."

Would this ever happen in France? It's disheartening to me that on one hand, Bourdain had to devote a TV show In Paris to convincing American viewers that the French, one of the greatest food cultures the planet will ever know, "don't suck," while having to write about the crass, ass-backwards pimping out of food as entertainment embodied by the Food Network in the U.S. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for food, chefs and the kitchen as entertainment, but when it revolves around just that--food, chefs and the kitchen.

"There's a famous story where Robert Mitchum walks into studio head David O Selznick's office, pulls down his pants and takes a crap on his white carpet," Bourdain writes. "I hope Emeril is pinching a loaf right now."--F

Voulez-Vous Diner Avec Moi

I have bad news for Parisians, and great news for Americans.

Disneyland Paris is relocating to Des Moines, Iowa.

Kidding! Here's the news: Pudlo Paris, a Zagat-like annual guide to nearly 1,600 Parisian restaurants, bars, pubs, tea salons, cafés and gourmet shops, which until now has only been available in French, has been translated into English and will be published in the U.S. this summer. The New York Times calls Pudlo "the restaurant guide" to Paris, and BonjourParis says "Many French rely on Pudlo and his simple 1, 2 or 3 plate ratings rather than Michelin." Sorry, Frenchies, your secret is out.

Sure, there are plenty of guides to Paris restaurants in English. But there's something très insider about Pudlo. For one, real French people use it. Unlike the American version of the Michelin Guide, its restaurant and food descriptions are hardly generic ("the top quality meat carries local produce certification, including the sausage aligote and the charcuterie"--how's that for specific?). And where else are you going to find a guide that highlights what it deems Paris's "Bistro of the Year," "Baker of the Year" and even "Hostess of the Year"? Bon voyage et bon appétit.--S