Extremism in defense of tastiness is no vice.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Restaurant Week, Ho!

(That's the interjection, by the way, not the noun.)

Yes, it's that festively delusional time of year again, when Madison pretends to be San Diego, and diners can convince themselves that visiting five restaurants at $25 a pop is somehow more economical than spending $40 at one of them. And what's a bottle of wine on top of each visit?


This Sunday marks the beginning of Restaurant Week, and several of the city's best restaurants will be showcasing samples of their fare in 3-course menus for only $25 ("prix fixed [sic]," as Madison Magazine notes in what is no doubt a subtle postmodern wink at transatlantic gastro-linguistics).

This year's offerings look better than last, with less Nitty Gritty and more L'Etoile. And while L'Etoile's price fixe isn't the most exciting of the group, the appetizers look superb between bison involtini and incredible onion soup. Besides, their execution is consistently flawless, and when will your next chance be to eat at the best restaurant in Madison for less than the price of something at Red Lobster? (Hint: some time shortly after hell freezes over and I actually eat at Red Lobster.)

Speaking of seafood (after a fashion), Sushi Muramoto is the obvious favorite in the Totally Uncreative But Who Could Possibly Complain?tm category . All you can eat sushi. $25. Nobody cares that it's probably laden with mercury. Just bring on the otoro. There's also, like, ice cream and chowder, since I guess there are supposed to be three courses or something. Did I mention the all you can eat sushi?

Harvest, too, is keeping things simple and comforting, with fixed prix offerings of house-made tagliatelle, roasted chicken breast, and roasted beef short ribs. (Anything properly roasted is definitionally comforting, in much the same way that anything properly braised is definitionally fucking awesome.) This is, I think, a wise move, and a happy showcase for both seasonally appropriate cooking and Madison's characteristically unvarnished high-end dining sensibility.

In the other direction, Fresco seems determined to impress, with three selections available for each course, more balsamic vinegar than Lombardino's and Osteria Papavero combined, and aspirational entrées like "Organic Norwegian Salmon - King crab and tomato mashed potato, oven dried shrimp crust, crispy leeks, balsamic [see?] reduction." Will their Jean-Georgian ambitions dazzle, or will they be outshone by the more straightforward fare of Harvest, Muramoto, and L'Etoile? My Magic 8-Ball has a snappish prediction, but only time and $25 will tell.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

The Ideal Cold Weather Drink

As is my wont, I was inclined to open with a quip about the temperature. I could have remarked in passing that a positive number on the thermometer was balmy for a Wisconsin January. Maybe a timely and relevant reference to Mortal Kombat was in order; between Sub-Zero and the "Toasty!" guy, that would be the stuff of comedy legend. But as I arrived home, my skin burning and head aching due to the temperature outside, I couldn't. It was just too damned cold.

I needed to warm up, and nothing does that more quickly or efficiently than the right beverage.

Like any good Madisonian, my thoughts turned immediately to beer, and on a bitterly cold day, there's no style I'd rather drink than that tsarist favorite, the Imperial stout. Regularly available choices from Wisconsin brewers are limited, but Amherst's Central Waters Brewing Co. makes a tasty iteration of the Impy in their Satin Solstice. From California, North Coast's Old Rasputin is even better. Full of roasty malts, chocolate, espresso, and a warming 9% ABV, you won't even mind the execrations of the Mad Monk emanating from your bottle. Best of all, this beer doesn't only ward off a chill, but also provides immunity to shooting, stabbing, poisoning, and drowning in the Neva.

The only problem with beer--along with perennial not-particularly-known-for-its-coziness favorite, wine--is that it's not warm. Even if you're a beer geek enjoying your stout at cellar temperatures, you'll notice that fifty-five degrees is substantially cooler than you'd like to be after having just escaped the Wendigo's icy grasp. More realistically, and almost certainly in my case, you'd be pulling the bottle out of the fridge, and unwilling to wait for it to warm up before you do. So my ideal cold weather drink would be warm to begin with.

There's that old standby in coffee. It's warm, rich, and roasted, but it's already pulling double duty as an after dinner sip and as an early morning Herbert West reagent. Besides, it's harder to lapse into a peaceful sleep in front of the fireplace when you're hopped up on caffeine like a subarctic Juan Valdez. (To be sure, a spike of whiskey will help with the fireplace problem, but only serves to highlight the drink's breakfast status.)

Spot of tea? It's warm, I guess. But c'mon. Tea? Not until we get something like St. Paul's TeaSource, at least. Even then, coffee and beer are going to be tough competition for the choicest pu-erhs. Chai, full of spicy, milky goodness comes closer, but the twisted horror of turning to a nigh equatorial South Asian beverage after stepping out of the negative twenty wind chill is too sickly ironic for even my decadent tastes.

No, as we so often do, I turned to that paragon of knowledge regarding all things comforting: Mom. Mom certainly wouldn't have been pouring us coffee or tea as we struggled out of our snow pants, and she sure as hell wouldn't have been serving up mulled wine or hot sake. No, Mom knew that winter's cruel grip was no match for that unsung St. Bernard of the beverage world, that rare breed which Quetzalcoatl called hot chocolate. While cognac dazzles on the slopes and Champagne mingles in the lodge, hot chocolate is out there every cold day, bringing marshmallowy warmth to children on leave from their snow forts.

Just be sure to make your own. This version is really easy, insanely rich, and my take on the sort of chocolate Camus, Sartre, and associates could have ordered at Les Deux Magots, if only they'd remembered their own mothers better. (That's right, Meursault, I went there.) Hopefully it will remind you of the Swiss Miss that kept you warm after those snowball fights, but taste way, way better.

The Ideal Cold Weather Drink (serves four people of average coolness, or one very cold person)
2/3 cup heavy cream
2/3 cup whole milk
1/4 cup sugar (consider more if you've decided to throw caution to the wind and use pure cacao)
5 oz. bittersweet chocolate or pure cacao, chopped (the more cacao the better, at least 60%)


Stirring, bring the first three ingredients to a bare boil. This isn't rocket surgery. Integrate the sugar, don't scald the milk. Then, over gentler heat (use a double broiler if you want--I won't tell) whisk in the chocolate until it's warm and fully incorporated. (That's warm. Not boiling. Don't boil it. You've been warned.)

At this point you should be able to fill four or five demitasses, preferably referred to as "tiny little coffee cups" for homeyness. Or you could fill one big cup and drink it yourself, which would be pretty great, too. Go nuts and add a sprinkle of fleur de sel or kosher salt on top. You know you want to.

Drink. Warm. Good.

In a word? Ideal.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Pass the Dolly, Please

At long last my dreams have come true. I can finally eat Dolly the sheep without breaking into the Royal Museum of Scotland.

Today, in a show of scientific hubris worthy of a Mary Shelley novel or Jerry Bruckheimer film, the FDA issued a release declaring that cloned animals and their offspring are safe to eat.

Which really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. While I'm no scientician, it makes a whole lot of sense that the process would be safe, given that a clone is by definition essentially an identical twin of the original animal.

Of course, that doesn't mean we won't be entering into outraged panic. And naturally, that panic has to an extent already begun. The New York Times reports Michael Hansen of the Consumers Union as one of the first. Hansen contends that the report “flies in the face of Congress’s wishes. It flies in the face of consumer wishes."

Never mind that this study has been going on for some seven years. Never mind that the National Academy of Sciences already came to the same conclusion in the hoary days of 2002, way back in that innocent, bygone era when Grand Theft Auto III was new and we didn't know that R. Kelly enjoyed urinating on young girls. And never mind that the studies involve peer-review by independent scientific experts in cloning and animal health. Some dude saw Episode II and doesn't want his lamb chops growing up to become a storm trooper.

I can't help but humbly reply.

To wit: keep your hands off my food, jerk.

Sadly, this isn't because I believe cloned animals will somehow improve society or taste better than their brethren who came from old-fashioned, inseminated-by-hand mommies. (Except for Dolly, of course. Historicity, after all, is the finest sauce.)

No, because of their difficulty to raise--and subsequent cost--cloned animals are largely intended for use as breeding animals through which desirable traits can be more quickly introduced than through conventional methods. In other words, it will allow large producers to continue doing what they've been doing even more efficiently, namely raising affordable, decent, and generally fine but unremarkable livestock.

If there's any danger at all, it is of increasing homogeneity within this arena, a homogeneity already well-established after thousands of years of animal husbandry. Grocery store cattle will be a little heartier, produce a little more meat, and taste largely the same, and I'll still suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as Fountain Prairie's bone-in ribeye continues to elude me.

The far greater risk, where lovers of good food should be concerned, is giving the government more control over what we are allowed to eat. This same FDA has already forbidden us from drinking raw milk and from eating young raw milk cheese. Chicago has banned foie gras, New York has prohibited cooking sous vide, and morels were briefly illegal in California. Wisconsin law has even forbidden joint ownership of cows, lest you dare to drink their unpasteurized milk. ("We never should have let them do it in the first place," said regulator Thomas Leitzke in 2003.) While no one questions the wisdom of sanitation or labeling, prohibition of food items is an absurdity. Give us the information and let us choose.

If there is one thing the history of gastronomy has taught us, it's that food will not be contained. Fugu breaks free, mold expands to new territory, and wild mushrooms crash through barriers, painfully, maybe even dangerously. And that's a good thing. Humble yeasts have given us our finest beers and wines, buried vegetables transform almost magically into kimchi, and one-time throwaways like oysters and pineal glands have become revered in the pantheon of cuisine. Food finds a way.

Still worried about that cloned pig? Don't be. I have it on good authority that Newman from Seinfeld is overseeing the computer systems at the FDA's testing facilities, virtually guaranteeing our safety. Besides, when irregularities arise in the cloning processes, geneticists are already splicing in West African frog DNA to fill any gaps in the genetic structure.

It's a foolproof plan, really, and I promise we'll be OK. Unless, of course, they figure out how to open doors.

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Enough

By November of the newly departed year, when the New Oxford American Dictionary declared locavore its Word of 2007, it had become apparent that eating locally was a phenomenon no longer consigned to Berkeley's Gourmet Ghetto (or, you know, the majority of the planet).

This phenomenon is, by and large, a force for good, and carefully grown or produced ingredients at the market are generally precursors to delicious food on the table. Fantôme Farm's chèvre, Hook's cheddar, and the wonderful, fresh vegetables from Luna Circle and Harmony Valley Farm are things of beauty, and make strong arguments for buying food from producers who care about their products and what they do. Sure, you could eat the tasteless poultry or so-so cattle from the supermarket--but why, when JenEhr Family Farm raises chickens that taste like chickens and Fountain Prairie Farm raises cows that taste like dove-catered spreads at Calypso's?

Knowing me to be a fan of words, food, and words about food, a well-intentioned friend recently suggested that I read Plenty: One Man, One Woman, and a Raucous Year of Eating Locally, a couple's account of eating only foods local to their Vancouver home.

The problem, however, is that the book totally sucks.

Well, maybe not totally. There are a few, rare, suck-free moments in which Alisa delves into real emotion and passable writing to discuss heartfelt memories of her grandmother, and of the couple's experiences in the tiny, almost uninhabited town of Dorreen. That's pretty much it, though. (Seriously. Save your 24 dollars or the walk to the library. Masochists are advised to stick to 120 Days of Sodom for a slightly less painful but infinitely superior work.)

In the first few pages, James is compared to an eight-year-old, and not the starry-eyed sort who flies extra terrestrials in front of the moon in his bicycle basket. No, he is, rather, a stubborn, arbitrary brat, and his insufferable asshattery, however well-intentioned, is embodied in the book at large.

As our author protagonists carry their crosses as saviors of environment, community, and table, they delineate their simple plan: they may only eat foods available within a 100-mile radius of their residence, a distance conveniently established to coincide with the nearby Pacific coast. Still, they assure us, it's a "strict" rule. Except that they can (and regularly do) bring food back when traveling. And salt from Oregon is fine. And there's a "social life amendment" which says that friends, work, and travel don't count, so feel free to crack open that Cava come New Year's Eve.

Don't worry, though. They're sanctimonious enough to match the hypothetical writers who hadn't given themselves so many Get Out of Responsibility Free cards.

Ethical and philosophical generalizations abound, with little explanation. We're earnestly advised that "[i]t is worthwhile to resist the tendency toward moral panic over our dislocation." I hope the rest of you are doing alright on this front, but everyone I've talked to has apparently forgotten to panic in the first place.

Could this be because we don't bemoan, as James does, "It's no secret that we, as a society, have been losing the traceability not only of our food, but of every aspect of our lives. I cannot reliably list my brothers' birthdates ... [and if] we had children, we'd be too busy to get to know their teachers"? Are these problems of society, or failings of a person who (though he happily reminds us that one gallon of gas produces 19 lbs. of CO2 gas) is willing to drive twelve hours to symbolically purchase 100-mile salt in the final days of a self-imposed experiment?

A bit of self-deprecating hyperbole? I doubt it. When the "famously unflappable" maverick badass cook/author is in the kitchen, he is quick to irrelevantly inform us that he "work[s] with only three kinds of knife--chef's, paring, and bread." Now, as most serious cooks know, those are typically the big three for those who favor western knives. The problem is, this tidbit of information is completely extraneous in a short paragraph about making an omelette. Wow! It's like, simp-li-fy, man cred and cookie cred, all in one pointless comment! Next book he'll be pausing mid-salad to tell us we don't need that crappy new 32-piece knife set from CUTCO, after all.

Didactics is another favorite activity of the authors, and we're not talking Pépin's Complete Techniques here. Celery root is "also known as celeriac," and hazelnuts are "also known as filberts." Rest assured we don't miss any affected erudition when pronunciation or etymology is at issue, as evidenced in the patient explanation that "Cowichan" is an Anglicization of the native "Quw'utsun'." Even inaccessible corn becomes a lesson in pedantry when our heroes are forced "to peel the cobs--to shuck them, if we want to be proper." Where most writers would simply have used the correct word, these never fail to condescend.

Of course, one might be inclined to forgive them if their commentary were well-researched, or even well-considered, but that's gloriously bad, too. Just remember, kids: it was "the bourgeois reform movement of the late nineteenth century that banished livestock to the countryside," not, you know, concerns over sanitation, public health, or anything like that. Upton Sinclair would be proud.

"Do the [blueberries], as some people claim, flush out toxins[...]?" James ruminates in a particularly daft passage. "I don't know, and I don't particularly care." Well, apparently he cared enough to include this non-consideration in a published book, so I doubt he's entirely apathetic. Without delving into the notion of what these mysterious "toxins"are, or how the blueberries might miraculously remove them, the fruit is ascribed vaguely mystical properties, free of any burdensome reasoning. Sure, there's no evidence that the claim is true--but maybe, just maybe, these blueberries contain awesome powers of undefined-toxin removal. Scientific, social, and economic ideas aren't discussed or considered in any depth, and when statistics are given, they're blithe, empty talking points about how far a mango travels to reach a location where mangoes can't grow.

Do my magical cookies, as some people claim, taste great, cure cancer, and get you laid? Send me a cashier's check for $1,000 to find out!

It doesn't help that the book is atrociously written. Superlatives abound, as some ninety-five percent of the world's produce--or that within a particular 100-mile radius, at least--is flawless. Each squash is "perfect," every berry "impossibly" fresh, "impossibly" red, or "impossibly" smudged by a little bit of dirt from when it fell on the floor, but, you know, it should still be OK if you rinse it off. Like Vizzini before them, I do not think that word means what they think it means.

Worse are the sophomorically trite pearls of faux profundity that grace nearly all of the book's 264 pages (and yes, this includes both the dedication and the Acknowledgments). Oprah would cringe upon reading these paginated Hallmark rejections. "Whatever else they are," we are informed, "weeds are survivors." Kale is "tougher than any one of us." New Year's Eve "demanded risk" (describing a choice to eat spaghetti). These hilariously overwrought passages veer into unintentional parody with impressive regularity. "We turned onto River Road--there was a time when road names could be that simple" had me waxing awkwardly poetic on street names and bygone simplicity for days.

Of course, where pretentious, poorly written stupidity might be cause for pity, the myriad hypocrisies are what earned the book my scorn. Prior to the experiment, the authors claim to have been strict vegetarians, down to the claimed "fringe benefit" of better smelling sweat. Meat, after all, requires more grain to produce, and there are starving people in the world, a fact that our intrepid heroes turn a blissfully blind eye to as they happily guzzle wine grown in productive, guilt-free vineyards at every possible opportunity.

Of course, as strict vegetarians, they ate "no meat, no eggs, [and] no dairy." Except for some fish. And meat in "difficult countries" (a phrase so xenophobic I won't bother addressing). And any of those things they felt like during the experiment. (To be fair, they try to justify this through a few comments on industrial farming, but I found it unconvincing and think most vegans would find it unconvincing, too. I'll assume the recipes and techniques listed through the book--nearly all of them use butter, at least--were all conceived during the experiment itself.) If any of my vegetarian friends pulled such ethically inconsistent mind games, I'd be forced to bludgeon them with a rubber chicken (just before trying to seduce them back to the unabashedly delicious side with a plate of seared foie).

In another instance, pages are spent lamenting the loss of indigenous plant life to alien strains. Then, later in the same chapter, the authors obliviously laud a bean farmer growing such Pacific Northwest favorites as cannellinis, Rojo de Sedas, Moroccan chickpeas, and Aztec red kidneys.

Most poetically, the authors continually deplore the wasteful use of food in society, blissfully unrepentant of the pounds of onions and tomatoes they allow to rot in their own home.

If "[d]istance is the enemy of awareness," why did their project became known over the internet? Why were they able to enjoy food locally grown in such Shangri-Las as Minnesota and Mexico? And why was the book written thousands of miles away from this reader, fabricated thousands of miles away from its authors, and published in New York?

Were their knives made locally? Their cooktop? Their Italian pasta machine? What, pray tell, of the sadly lost art of the Vancouver pasta machine maker? And how do they not see the irony in any of this?

Of course, maybe we shouldn't expect more from such a joylessly politicized treatise. As someone who just loves food, I find it genuinely sad when they scornfully write about the guy who doesn't get it, that pathetic everyman "eating an all-dressed hot dog on a Manhattan street corner." I find it shameful that they will deny themselves the simple pleasure of a hot dog, yet berate the New Yorker for his isolation.

Sure, we could return to a state of neoprimitive bliss, in our own city, or village, or tribe, or cave. (We could in the process also happily screw the poor, those who benefit most from cheaply available food on the mass market.) We could huddle in small, isolated enclaves, pretending that our neighbors 100 miles away are more human than those at 1,000. Or we could actually enjoy the bounty of the world and its cultures.

Great food speaks for itself, and is often as close as the local farmer's market. But should I care that my yellowfin or Bordeaux has traveled hundreds, even thousands of miles to reach me? They still taste damn good, and were still crafted with the same care of a local producer, perhaps with even more. Is the Kobe cattleman behind my Wagyu so abhorrent? The Frenchman behind my Brie? The Spaniard behind my jamón? And how about the Quw'utsun' behind my Cowichan River salmon?

Community is important, but so is universality. I love food too much to politicize it into narrow-minded jingoism.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

Restaurant Review: Brasserie V

No, that's not a five, and it's certainly not a cinq. Instead, it's one of the most appealing new restaurants--with one of the best bars--to come to Madison in quite some time. The sandwiches from Relish are still there, for the most part, and they're still mostly good. That said, they're no longer really the point. The shop has instead become, as the name and location would imply, a Wisconsin brasserie with a serious focus on imported beer.

Belgian aficionados will find a lot to love at Brasserie V. V's focus is Belgian beers, of which there are over a dozen to try on a given evening, and genre fans will appreciate that each is served in an appropriate glass. On our visits, we particularly enjoyed the Delirium Nocturnum, a dark, fruity, complex beer that went well with our dinners, and the ruby-colored St. Bernardus Prior 8, a sweet, very drinkable dubbel. The domestic portion of the beer list wasn't an afterthought, featuring a broad range of excellent selections, and while the wine list likely won't be winning any awards, it too was well-constructed.

An excellent introduction to the restaurant came in the form of the gentleman tending bar on our first visit; he seemed genuinely happy to discuss the beer selection with us, and clearly knew and cared about his product. This level of service was unfortunately inconsistent. While, on a busy evening, a server was enthusiastic, helpful, and friendly, her colleague at the bar took over ten minutes to ask for our drink orders as we sat waiting for a table.

On one evening, an appetizer of almond stuffed dates, wrapped in bacon and baked under brown sugar, came dangerously close to the abyss but proved successful. They seemed too sweet at first, but the fatty, smoky bacon and the accompaniment of bitter frisée provided welcome contrasts, and taken together brought a depth of flavor to the plate. Along with the almonds, the frisée proved a pleasant textural counterpoint as well. Without these choices, the dish could have easily become a sugary mush; with them, it proves a good match to a fruity Belgian beer.

The frites, on the other hand, were a minor disappointment, in an especially unfortunate turn for a self-styled brasserie with a Belgian emphasis. While they had flavor and were accompanied by the requisite aïolis (with and without red pepper), they were on one visit too thick, too soggy, and over-spiced. While they were happily crisper on another evening, the result was still a lesser counterpart to the crisp, classic frites one expects from a traditional European brasserie, and that one finds in Madison at Sardine.

Entrées were largely what one would hope for from a brasserie focused more on Wisconsin than its transatlantic roots: rustic and unpretentious, but well-crafted and seasonally appropriate.

A duck breast with cherry pan sauce did not remotely resemble one of Homaro Cantu or Wylie Dufresne's newest creations. It did, however, do everything right. The sauce was flavorful, the skin nicely crisped, and the breast a perfect medium rare. To be sure, it didn't innovate, nor was it the most flawless piece of duck I've ever tasted. Instead, it was what one expects from a brasserie: a properly cooked and properly seasoned classic with a few touches--the Duvel braised cabbage side, for example--that made it the restaurant's own. It was a good, simple dish, and a bargain at $16.

Vegetable risotto, likewise, could have been an easy throwaway, but it was well conceived and well executed. The rice was creamy, the sweet beets, distinctive parsnips, and other vegetables properly cooked, and the resulting texture pleasant. This was another simple, seasonal, and successful selection, and a vegetarian dish that more Madison restaurants could seek to emulate.

A mussel special, unfortunately, failed to leave an impression. The portion was colossal--even in Wisconsin, this is not obligatory--and the spicy chorizo broth was unremarkable and out of place on the menu. While there was nothing offensive about the transplanted mollusks, they were entirely forgettable.

More memorable by far was the cheese board, featuring a Manchego alongside offerings by Hook's and Uplands, as well as nuts, olives, and bread. Serving Hook's bold ten-year cheddar alongside an appropriately hard-hitting beer list was a wise move for a Wisconsin brasserie, and the board would be excellent as a close to a meal or snack at the bar.

In many ways, the delicious, straightforward cheese board was indicative of what was best about the restaurant. What Brasserie V may lack in innovation, it makes up for in simple craft, with a passion for fine beer and good, local flavors. What is fast developing into a Monroe Street fixture could, with a bit more focus and a few minor tweaks, become one of the best casual restaurants in the city.


Brasserie V

1923 Monroe Street; (608) 255-8500
**
Price: $$
Atmosphere: Dark, woody, and masculine, with a prominent bar. Moderate to loud noise level.
Beverages: Serious, thoughtful beer list with a strong emphasis on Belgians. Surprisingly well conceived wine list, too, with many selections available by the glass or bottle.
Suggestions: Belgian beer, sandwiches, and Wisconsin fare. Regional dishes are generally better than those drawn from farther afield.
Hours: Opens at 10 a.m. daily. Closes at 11 p.m Monday through Thursday, 12 a.m Friday and Saturday, and 5 p.m. Sunday.
Reservations: Not accepted.
What ratings mean: Stars indicate overall impressions of a restaurant, rated from zero to four, with price taken into account. Zero stars indicate a restaurant that is not recommended, while four stars indicate an outstanding restaurant, worthy of at least regional attention.
Prices range from $ to $$.