Rhône Wine and a Lyonnaise Message

Last Wednesday I had the pleasure of attending L'Etoile's Rhône Wine Dinner. Like one of Mrs. Lovett's meat pies, it proved an altogether delicious experience that was punctuated by a single moment of shocking horror.

My favorite course of the evening featured a classic onion soup paired with Domaine la Soumade's 2001 "Cuvée Confiance," an outstanding Rasteau. While I'm not terribly experienced with the AOC, this one has certainly piqued my interest in the region. The head was peppery and intense, and the flavors rich and complex, with good acid, but also fruit and berries. The finish was just insane; like the Longines Symphonette or the birdhouse in my soul, it didn't rest. Retailing for just under $50, this is far from a viable everyday wine, but I would happily drink it on a special occasion in the future, especially alongside another country soup or stew.

This particular soup was gratinéed with Uplands Cheese Company's 20-month Pleasant Ridge Reserve (an interesting local favorite made in Dodgeville), and the cheese's sharp complexity played incredibly with some of the darker notes in the Rasteau. From there, the flavors transitioned smoothly into sweet onion, making for a simple and elegant finish.

In other words, the pairing totally kicked ass.

Also excellent was the course of cassoulet and Châteauneuf-du-Pape, this time Domaine Marcoux's 2003. The combination is classic, but the individual components made this instance noteworthy. The wine opened with dark, jammy notes, and finished with nice fruit and pleasant mineral undertones--at $50 a bottle I may never taste this excellent Châteauneuf again, but I wouldn't hesitate to recommend it to anyone looking for a splurge.

Cassoulet, meanwhile, enjoys near legendary status, but I find that in practice it almost always disappoints. (Campagne, I'm looking at you.) I can say without hesitation that this was the best I've ever tasted. The house made Saucisse de Toulouse was a refined example of the traditional sausage , the Blue Valley Garden confit reaffirmed my love of duck, and the incredibly tender Grass is Greener shouder of lamb was a credit to the art of braising. Together, they made for a superlative cassoulet.

Unfortunately, there was a darker side to the meal. Upon taking my seat, I was presented not only with a glass of rosé, but also with this:

Beignet de Fromage

Warm Roth Käse Private Reserve Cheese Pâte à Choux

What could this mean? A week earlier I had posted a recipe for the very same dish, less only the 350 degree oil.

Then it dawned on me. Just the previous day, The Isthmus had linked to my hard-hitting exposé on the gross iniquities in the Wisconsin cattle markets--an exposé that also alluded to the very Rhône Wine dinner I was attending.

Innocuous coincidence, or nefarious conspiracy to maintain, through fear, their stranglehold on local ribeye futures? You be the judge, but I'm not taking any chances. For me, it wouldn't have been clearer had each beignet been a fish wrapped in newspaper.

This was an Alice Waters-inspired, locally produced, Lyonnaise Message. I won't be silenced, but I will be watching my back when I'm at the market shopping for gruyère or oranges. Thank God the cassoulet was so good.

Merry Christmas Tony Bourdain!

From time to time, I enjoy a healthy wager. For instance, if I were to discover a book that claims to be about appreciating food, but turns out to be a joyless, political, and atrociously written piece that somehow managed to find a publisher (to be continued, dear reader [1/9/08 Update]), I might try to finish the work if a sadistic friend bet me a cocktail that I couldn't.

The danger of such wagers, of course, is that after a few hours of reading said dreck, one finds himself fighting the urge to keep from swallowing an arsenic colada or a couple of shotgun shells.

As I set the book down and turned the television on in an American prelude to blowing my brains out, a savior appeared before me, descending into my living room like Jesus from the magical glowing box. He wore a hilariously out-of-place suit and red tie, and was flanked by rock stars in festive Christmas garb; as was foretold in the holy books of The Guide and Tivo, it was Tony, and I had stumbled upon Anthony Bourdain's Holiday Special.

Like Bing Crosby, Bourdian hosted not the trite, commercialized Christmas special of the modern era, but a festive holiday with friends and family, hearkening to days long gone. Only this time, there was more Scotch, more foie gras, more Sandra Lee bashing, and Queens of the Stone Age in QVC Christmas sweaters. Oh, and there was also a little curling, a lot of cursing, and some fake blood for good measure. It was, in a word, amazing.

Truly he is the king of kings.

In Madison, the best holiday special ever will be on again at 10pm this Wednesday on the Travel Channel. Don't miss it.

Say! I like cheese puffed with air! I do! I like to eat gougères!

I've been going cheese crazy lately.

Don't worry, though. Despite what my Seussian blather might imply, cheese madness isn't a newly discovered spongiform encephalopathy. Instead, it's what happens when a really good cheese shop opens less than a mile from your home. And rather than having one's brain ravaged by rogue, misfolding proteins--that's alcohol's job, damn it!--the major detrimental effects seem to end at spending way, way too much money on deliciousness.

Of course, one can't subsist on cheese alone, as the doctors told me when my bleary-eyed, half naked, mostly dead form was pulled from beneath a seething mound of brie scraps and pecorino romano crumbs. No, astonishing as it may seem, we must sometimes use our cheese with other ingredients.

Over the last few weeks, I've been making old favorites with newly available Wisconsin cheeses, and I've been trying to think of other classics to bring back to the table. That's why I was so excited to see the recent post on pâte à choux at Michael Ruhlman's new Elements of Cooking blog. (I haven't read the book yet, because my birthday is right around the corner. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.) Pâte à choux is the wonder dough behind beignets, éclairs, and profiteroles, and even though it's simple to make, it's also largely neglected by most home cooks, probably because it has a scary French name, as do most of its applications.

Of course, this pâte isn't only for pastry. Among its savory uses is the storied gougère, the king of the cheese poof family, and a convenient opportunity for me to use some great cheese in a not-an-everyday-thing-unless-you-happen-to-live-in-a-bistro style dish.

I used 2/3 a cup of Roth Käse's Gruyère-style Private Reserve with the standard 1 cup water, 1 cup flour, 1 cup eggs, and one stick of butter, and kept the seasoning simple with a little salt and black pepper. They turned out light and airy, but preserved the richness of the cheese. Had I not eaten a dozen, I might even have been able to claim that they were healthy. Next time I'll be a little bolder, upping the cheese content to around 3/4 of a cup, and (cringe, purists) adding some cayenne.

Ruhlman is right on. Pâte à choux is a versatile concoction that should be in every cook's repertoire.

You do not cook it.

So you say.

Try it! Try it!

And you may.

Try it and you may, I say.

If nothing else, it's an excuse to eat more cheese.

The Culling Continues. BAM!

Hail, Sandra. Hail, Guy.

Thank God there's one fewer thing to keep me from waiting for 2 Dudes Catering to come on.

New York media blog fishbowlNY is reporting that Chef Emeril Lagasse's Emeril Live will cease production when his contract expires on December 11.

This is, I'm sure, totally unrelated to the fact that, earlier this month, cool dude and reality show winner Guy Fieri's shows Guy's Big Bite--noted for such refined fare as Tater Tot Halibut--and Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives--which mercifully forgoes the cooking altogether--have been renewed for one and two more seasons, respectively.

Say what you will about the man Tony Bourdain called an Ewok. It's true that his cooking show ridiculously features a live audience and a band. Sure, he seems to unduly enjoy exclaiming various pseudo-words and ruminating on the dubious benefits of notch-kicking. Yes, he garners absurd amounts of applause whenever he moves near a head of garlic or a bottle of booze. When it comes down to it, though, Emeril Lagasse is a trained chef who cooks well and clearly loves food. This is something that certainly can't be said for most of the bobble heads on Food Network's air today.

A Frankenstein ultimately undone by the monster of popular appeal that he helped to create, Emeril was largely responsible for the rise of the channel, and for the country's renewed interest in real cuisine some ten years ago. For that latter contribution, anyone who cares about food should be thankful. Like Sara and Mario, this latest victim of Food Network's never-ending quest for mediocrity deserves better.

Thankful

When the the availabilities of a particular cut of steak or foie gras in Chicago are topics of discussion, it's pretty easy for me to see how much I have to be thankful for. Every day, food is a little luxury in my life. It is a passion. For far too many people, though, food is a reality that doesn't involve nitpicking a trained chef's squab or discussing twelve new things too do with caul. For too many people, the reality of food is deciding whether to eat today or tomorrow, or wondering how to feed the kids next week. So for at least one day, I'll forgo wallowing in my own crapulence and think of what food can do for others.

Locally, you can donate to the food pantry at St. Vincent de Paul, or more broadly through the Dane County Food Pantry Network. On a national level, you can help through Share our Strength or America's Second Harvest. Internationally, $8.25--the same $8.25 that would buy you that glass of wine or third martini--will buy 25 Kg of rice at the World Food Program.

Finally, The Hunger Site allows visitors to donate food for free simply by clicking on a button once a day. It makes a good bookmark, and when you click it, the food gods absolve you of any veal or sea bass related sins.

Happy Thanksgiving, and thank you for reading.

Thanksgiving, Two Ways

Thanksgiving. It's the eatin'est day of the year. After all, what better way to give thanks than to gorge yourself on dry turkey, argue about politics with your drunken relatives, and then wake up early the next day to claw through your fellow consumers for amazing deals on flat-screen TV's and Tickle-Me Elmos at Wal-Mart?

I kid, America, I kid. You too, drunken relatives. Thanksgiving is a wonderful holiday, accented with childhood memories of family, football in the snow, and stuffing, of which my family would make both kinds: crispy and moist. Best of all, it's a time when one can forget about concepts like "balance" and "flavor profile," let alone anything French. It's a time to dig in to a starchy, gravy-y mass of mom or grandma's handiwork and hearken back to a simpler time before Iron Chef had exposed you to the possibility of turkey ice cream.

... or not. Once you've done a less traditional, more food-centric Thanksgiving (is such a thing possible?) it can be harder to go back to some of the standbys. Below you'll find a few more upscale ideas, conveniently arranged into menu format.

But first things first--we will not be "talking turkey"--the bird. Intrepid time travelers will go back to before they're sold out and pick up an American Bronze from JenEhr Family Farm, whose poultry is some of the best I've ever had. Their chicken actually tastes like chicken, and unlike some purveyors they don't sell all of their product to L'Etoile. Be sure to protect Sarah Connor while you're at at. If, however, you're without the trappings of an H.G. Wells novel or Rocky Horror cast, you can still try Jordandal Farm, making sure to add some of their great pork to your menu, too.

Once you have the best ingredients you're on the right track, whether it's a traditional American event or a more modern affair. And if you're looking for a traditional menu, you're not going to find it here: that's what your grandmother's recipe book is for, and if you're looking for someone on the internet to tell you that his mashed potatoes are better than hers, you're a horrible, horrible person. All you get are a few common sense pointers:

1. Dry turkey is awful. Don't overcook the turkey; it's dead already.
2. Don't use dried sage. Fresh sage will make everything taste better, and more like actual sage.
3. If at all possible, use lard in your pie crusts.
4. Mashed potatoes love buttermilk.
5. Your family is still confused by your vegetarianism (see point three). Even though you've been a vegetarian for 12 years, it's just a fad that you'll grow out of. Forward them a recipe or two in advance to avoid explaining that vegetarian recipes don't traditionally use fish or bacon.
6. For the love of God, don't overcook the turkey.

Ultimately, whether you prefer the classics or something a little more modern, this is one case in which you can't go wrong crossing the streams. There's nothing better than a small dose of haut with a good helping of homey nostalgia.

A Seven Course Thanksgiving for the Kind of Person Who Reads (or Writes) Food Blogs

Pumpkin and Shrimp Bisque, (The Herbfarm Cookbook)
The Herbfarm, in Woodinville, WA is one of my very favorite restaurants. This fantastic autumnal soup comes from the restaurant's cookbook by Chef Jerry Traunfeld.

1 lb. large shrimp (16 to 18)

Shrimp Stock
2 tbs extra-virgin olive oil
3/4 cup dry white wine
3 cups chicken stock
pinch saffron
2 ribs celery, coarsely chopped
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
4 fresh bay leaves, or 2 dried
3 3-inch sprigs fresh sage

2 cups pumpkin puree
1/2 cup heavy cream
scant 1/8 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tbs lemon juice
1 tbs extra-virgin olive oil
2 tsp finely chopped fresh sage

Stock: Peel and devein shrimp, reserving shells. Cover and refrigerate. Heat the olive oil over high heat until smoking. Add the shells and cook, stirring constantly, until they turn deep orange and begin to brown, 3-4 minutes. Add the wine, boiling over medium heat until the liquid has evaporated. Add chicken stock, saffron, celery, onion, bay, and sage. Bring to a boil, and reduce heat to the lowest setting. Partially cover and simmer for 30 minutes. Strain through a fine sieve, pushing down on the solids to extract all the liquid. Rinse the saucepan and pour the stock back into it.

Soup: Whisk the pumpkin, cream, 3/4 tsp salt, and cayenne into the shrimp stock. Bing to a simmer, cooking very gently and uncovered over low heat for ten minutes. Stir in the lemon juice, taste, and season to taste with black pepper and salt. (The recipe to this point can be made up to 1 day in advance.)

Finishing: Pour the olive oil into a saute pan over medium head, adding the reserved shrimp and sage and cook, tossing often, until the shrimp is just cooked through, 2-3 minutes. Arrange the shrimp in warmed serving bowls or a tureen. Bring the soup back to a simmer and ladle it over the shrimp.

Pickled Beet and Endive Salad with Goat Cheese and Walnuts (Charlie Trotter Cooks at Home)
Sure, I may have ranted about Charlie Trotter's unfortunate "ethics" interfering with my enjoyment of foie gras, but the fact remains that he is quite possibly the best chef in the region. This salad from his excellent cookbook highlights some wonderful Midwestern flavors.

Vinaigrette
1 shallot, minced
1/3 cup sherry wine vinegar
1/2 cup canola oil
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper 3 beets
2 cups pickling juice
30 small Belgian endive leaves
1 pear, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced
1 cup soft goat cheese, crumbled
3/4 cup walnuts, toasted and coarsely chopped

Vinaigrette: Place the shallots and sherry wine vinegar in a small bowl and slowly whisk in the canola and olive oils. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Beets: Peel the beets and place in a small saucepan with salted water. Bring to a boil and cook for 15 to 20 minutes, or until tender. Drain the beets and cool slightly. Julienne the beets and place them in a medium bowl with the pickling juice for 2 hours. Drain, discarding the pickling juice. Toss with 2 tablespoons of the vinaigrette and season to taste with salt and pepper.

Salad: In a large bowl, toss the endive, pear, goat cheese, and walnuts with the remaining vinaigrette and season to taste with salt and pepper.

Arrange the salad in the center of a large platter and top with the beets. Top with freshly ground black pepper.

Cranberry Sorbet
Sorbet is incredibly easy to make and handles improvisation well. Plus it adds that dash of pretension to complement your top hat and monocle: "Oh. You didn't have any sorbet for Thanksgiving? I'll wager you watched that footballing match instead of taking the yacht out, as well."

1 1/2 cups & 1/2 cup water
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 lb. (4-5 cups) cranberries, fresh or thawed
zest of one lemon and one orange (or blood orange)
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon (or blood orange) juice
generous splash Grand Marnier

Bring sugar and 1 1/2 cup water to a boil, forming a simple syrup. Add the cranberries, remaining water, and zest, and cook over medium heat until the berries pop, five to ten minutes. (In your head, in your head, they are crying.)

Cool slightly and puree, straining into a bowl, and stir in the lemon (or blood orange) juice and Grand Marnier. Cool completely in the refrigerator.

Freeze in an ice cream maker. (Alternately, freeze until solid. Before serving, allow to thaw for 10 minutes and process briefly in a blender or food processor until the appropriate texture.)

Mashed Potatoes with Crème Fraîche
Almost everyone loves mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving, and crème fraîche adds a rich touch.

5 lbs. Russet potatoes, peeled and quartered
1/2 lb. butter
1 1/2 cup heavy cream
1 1/2 cup crème fraîche
1/2 cup leeks or scallions, sliced
chives, for garnish

Boil the potatoes in salted water until soft. Drain well and puree. Over low heat, add the cream, butter, and crème fraîche.

Remove from heat and fold in leeks or scallions. Garnish with chives.

Breast of Turkey Cuit Sous Vide and Roasted Leg en Ballotine (Thomas Keller, via New York Magazine)
I could put anything here, since you know you're going to make a classic turkey. Oh, maybe you'll brine it or something, but you know there's going to be a roast turkey on your table. That's why I need to go for the inspirational big guns in the form of Thomas Keller. Chef Keller recommends Vermont's Four Corners Farm turkey, but our local farms are just as good. Immersion circulator optional.

18-to-20-pound free-range turkey
Salt and freshly ground white pepper
4 ounces foie gras
3 tablespoons butter
¼ head shredded Savoy cabbage
½ cup 1/2-inch diced brioche bread
4 tablespoons foie gras fat (available at D’Artagnan; butter can be substituted)
10 peeled roasted chestnuts, diced
1 egg
1 tablespoon chopped chives
2 tablespoons reduced chicken stock
Bell’s Seasoning, to taste
Caul, to wrap leg (or butcher string)
3 tablespoons canola oil
5 sprigs each of thyme and sage
2 cloves garlic
1 sprig rosemary

Remove breast and legs from the carcass and bone the legs, leaving the skin intact. Reserve the bones for stock. Place the meat from the legs flat onto a sheet of plastic wrap, cut the oyster from the edge of the meat and place in the hole in the center, remove any veins, and cover with another sheet of plastic wrap. Beat with a mallet to even out the meat. Trim the meat into a rectangle, reserving trimmings for stock, and season with salt and pepper.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Set the foie gras in an ovenproof skillet and roast for 8 to 10 minutes. Remove and let cool. Set in the freezer to harden, then cut into a 1/4-inch dice. Reserve the foie gras fat in the pan for the croutons. Heat 1 tablespoon butter in an ovenproof skillet until the butter starts to brown, add the cabbage, and toss to coat. Roast in the oven for about 10 minutes or until the cabbage starts to caramelize around the edges. Toss the diced brioche with 1 tablespoon of foie gras fat, set the brioche on a baking sheet, and toast in the oven for about 5 minutes or until crisp and lightly golden.

Combine the diced foie gras, cabbage, croutons, chestnuts, egg, and chives in a bowl. Stir in 2 tablespoons of foie gras fat and the stock. Season with salt, pepper, and Bell’s Seasoning. Place half the stuffing down the center of each portion of leg meat, roll the meat tightly, and wrap in caul or tie with butcher string at 1-inch intervals. Season each leg with salt and pepper, and brush with foie gras fat.

Increase the oven to 400 degrees. Heat 1 tablespoon oil in an ovenproof skillet, add the stuffed turkey legs, and quickly brown on all sides before setting in the oven and roasting for about 25 minutes. Allow to rest for 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, take one half of the turkey breast, season with salt and pepper, lay it skin-side down, and brush the flesh side with foie gras fat. Alternate with 2 sprigs sage and 2 sprigs thyme across the breast, and nestle a clove of garlic in the center. Cut a sheet of cardboard the length and width of the breast, cover with foil, and set the breast bone-side down on the board (this will stop the bones from piercing the plastic bag). Place the whole thing in a heavy plastic bag and seal in a vacuum-seal machine. Repeat with the remaining half breast. If you do not have a vacuum-seal machine, the breast must be boned and prepared as above, and then rolled skin-side out. Lay out a 24-inch-wide square of plastic wrap. Set the breast at one end and roll the plastic wrap as tightly as possible around the breast. Twist the ends to tighten the package and tie a knot at each end of the plastic wrap, as close to the meat as possible, so the package is airtight.

Fill a large casserole or deep roasting pan with water and heat the water to 164 degrees. Place the two vacuum-sealed turkey breasts in the water and cook gently for 30 minutes. Make sure to maintain the water temperature at 164 degrees by keeping a thermometer in the water. If the water gets too hot, add more cold water; if it goes below 164 degrees, increase the heat. Remove the vacuum-sealed breasts from the water and allow to rest for 5 minutes.

Remove the breasts from the bags, discard the herbs, and dry the skin with a paper towel. Season the breasts with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat, add the breasts, and gently brown the skin and finish any cooking if necessary. Add a sprig each of thyme, sage, and rosemary to the pan along with 2 tablespoons butter. Brown the butter and baste the turkey breasts, turning occasionally. Leave the turkey to rest for 5 minutes, before slicing.

A Selection of Wisconsin Cheddars
A course of artisan cheddars is an elegant touch, but still has the robust flavors and rustic feel one expects from a Thanksgiving menu.

Carr Valley Cave-Aged Cheddar (aged 6-9 mo.)
Bleu Mont Bandaged Cheddar (British style, aged 18 mo.)
Hook's 10 (or 12) Year Cheddar

Pumpkin Custard Profiteroles with Maple Caramel (Bon Appétit, November 2004)
Maple caramel
1 cup maple sugar
1/2 cup butter
3/4 cup heavy whipping cream
1/4 cup bourbon
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

Pumpkin custard
3 cups whipping cream
2 1/4 cups canned pure pumpkin
1 teaspoon ground allspice
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup sugar
9 large egg yolks

Profiteroles
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup whole milk
1/2 cup butter
1 1/2 tsp sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup flour
4 eggs
1 egg yolk

Maple caramel:
Stir sugar and butter in saucepan over medium heat until blended and smooth. Whisk in cream. Bring to boil, stirring until caramel dissolves. Reduce heat to medium and simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in bourbon and vanilla; simmer 1 minute. (Can be made 3 days ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)

Pumpkin custard: Preheat oven to 325°F. Whisk cream and next 6 ingredients in heavy large saucepan. Bring to simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat. Whisk sugar and egg yolks in medium bowl. Gradually stir hot pumpkin mixture into egg yolk mixture.

Pour pumpkin custard into glass baking dish and cover with foil. Place dish in a baking pan, and fill pan with hot water halfway up sides of dish. Bake until custard is set, about 1 hour 15 minutes. Cool completely. Cover and chill until cold, at least 4 hours. (Can be made 1 day ahead. Keep chilled.)

Profiteroles: Preheat oven to 425°F. Line 2 large rimmed baking sheets with parchment. Bring 1/2 cup water, milk, butter, sugar, and salt to boil in saucepan. Stir in flour; cook over medium-high heat, stirring vigorously, until dough is smooth and pulls away from sides of pan, about 1 minute. Transfer hot mixture to standing mixer. Beat dough with paddle attachment at medium speed until slightly cool, about 3 minutes. Add 3 eggs, 1 at a time, beating until blended after each addition. Beat in egg yolk until blended.

Spoon 16 mounds of batter onto prepared sheets. Beat remaining egg in small bowl. Brush tops of profiteroles lightly with beaten egg. Bake 15 minutes. Reduce oven to 375°F and continue baking until puffed and golden brown, about 30 minutes. Transfer to rack to cool completely. (Can be made 1 week ahead. Remove from freezer a few hours before continuing.)

Rewarm caramel sauce. Slice profiteroles horizontally in half. Spoon 1/3 cup filling into bottom half of each profiterole. Cover with top halves. Drizzle with sauce. Spoon dollop of whipped cream atop profiteroles. Sprinkle with chopped pecans and serve.

"Sorry. Those all go to L'Etoile."

That's the answer I got this weekend when I asked if it would be possible to get any bone-in ribeye from Fountain Praire Farms. "All of our best cuts go to L'Etoile."

Like Jessica Simpson faced by some particularly complex long division, my initial reaction was one of terror and panic. How could this be? Where else could I get such an incredibly perfect steak? Would I be forced to happily throw away my apartment and life savings due to more trips to L'Etoile than I could possibly afford? Most importantly: why did I not know this already?

As is so often the case, my horror quickly turned to outrage.

What the hell, Fountain Prairie Farms? A little praise from the New York Times, and three years later you're too good for your adoring fans, the teeming, unwashed masses of steak-purchasing humanity? Did you think that we wouldn't notice? That we wouldn't want the best cuts from the best producers (i.e. you)? That we would assume your cattle were mysteriously born without longissimus dorsi muscles? Sure, you can try to placate us with flank steak. And it's true that the outside skirt I bought (prepared in a slight variant of this recipe I stole from Bouchon) was good--superb, even--but it wasn't the same.

Et tu, Tory Miller? It's not enough that you cook better than me, have more awards, and run what is quite possibly the best kicthen in the state. Now you have to take all of the best steak, too? Steak is the last bastion of the lazy home cook. It's a safe haven for us, when we don't have time to make Cassoulet, when we don't have three varieties of Hen-of-the-Woods for a wild mushroom salad, when we don't have the skill to make poached lobster with saffron tapioca and Gewürztraminer foam. A quick sear over a high flame, maybe a little Béarnaise sauce or compund butter, and even Thomas Keller couldn't complain (well, at least unless you were trying to serve it in one of his restaurants). And now, Chef, you take our steak frites? For shame, sir.

But, like an aging Marlon Brando on a private Tahitian island, I am a reasonable man. There will be no retaliation. I do, however, require justice. From Fountain Prairie, I demand but a single steer. If the National Geographic Channel is to be believed, this is a mere pittance, and a generous offer as recompense for my slighted honor. (And make sure he likes chickens; the balcony's pretty small.)

L'Etoile, meanwhile--no doubt anticipating a backlash against their loathsome scrumptiousness hoarding--has already scheduled a Rhône wine dinner featuring Châteauneuf-du-Pape for my birthday on December 12. And that's a good first step. A lifetime supply of Katie's ambrosius pastries from Café Soleil should round out the deal nicely.

In the meantime? Oh, I'll still buy Fountain Prairie's beef. I'll still visit L'Etoile. And I'll still take advantage of their $35 early week tasting menu. But each bite will taste like ashes. Delicious, delicious ashes.

Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi!

This weekend is always a disappointing one for the Madison foodie. It marks the time that the Farmer's Market shrinks down, moves inside, and enters into a semi-torporous state, not to return to its full glory until rhubarb magically transforms into asparagus. The Capitol Square would be a little gloomier--sure, L'Etoile and Harvest would still be there, of course, and Cafe Soleil and Marigold would still offer the best breakfasts and pastries in town.

But what of the cook? The entertainer? They remember winters past, dark times of want, and excessive supermarket shopping. And my God, what of the cheese?

Thanks to Fromagination, this winter will be a little warmer than last. I first visited the Carrol Street boutique at its opening, but reserved any commentary until I could see their selection of imported cheeses, which arrived about a week ago. As I walked in the door, the name had put me on my guard. I was apprehensive that it might serve as a pretentious echo of the tourist-friendly shops that peddle cheese hats to football fans on the weekend. Suffice it to say my worries were grossly unfounded.

I could reflect on the pleasant, upscale-retro ambiance, or the fact that the shop espouses a number of earth-friendly policies, but that would detract from the food. (I won't, however, neglect to mention that the shop's flat screen was playing an episode of The French Chef, always a good sign.)

Their cheeses have been selected with a connoisseur's palate and a clear love of their product. Never mind that it's been near impossible to find quality Wisconsin cheese outside of the Farmer's Market itself; Fromagination is not only the first store to offer a wide selection of the artisanal Wisconsin cheeses, they've also managed to narrow them down to the crème de la crème.

Hook's superlative, incredibly sharp 10 year cheddar? It's there, alongside the Five Year. Fantôme Farm's incredible, rich, ash-dusted Moreso? There, as is their chevre. Carr Valley's Cave Aged Marisa? Bleu Mont's Bandaged Cheddar? Uplands' Pleasant Ridge Reserve? They're all there.

The selection of imports is nearly as impressive. There is, of course, gorgonzola and parmigiano reggiano from Italy, cheddar and Stilton from England, Brie and Camembert from France. More surprising are entries like the semi-soft Chimay Grand Cru, a Cambozola (a triple cream blue crossed with Brie), and--oh baby--mozzarella di buffala.

And the staff knows their stuff. On a busy Friday evening, a transplanted québécoise offered me a sample of the aforementioned 10 Year and extolled with me the virtues of crystalline cheddar; I agreed, and said she had to try the 12. Later, I asked about Bries, and was happily surprised when another employee pointed out the amazing Rouzaire Fromage de Meaux that I had missed.

Even the little touches are done perfectly. Wine, beer, and other accompaniments are present, as is a small but respectable selection of charcuterie. While this is to be expected, their careful selection is not. The meats are well chosen, and their baguettes aren't just baguette's--they're from Cafe Soleil, easily the best in the city and probably the best in the state. (Add guanciale, guys, and you'll have to drag me bodily from the store.)

Any Madisonian serious about food owes it to him or herself to visit this shop. They're socially conscious, clearly passionate, and provide an amazing depth and breadth of quality product. In short, Fromagination is easily one of the best things to happen to Madison's culinary scene this year.

On foie

Several months ago at a party, after a few too many glasses of wine, it seemed a good idea to make small talk with a young woman by launching into a tirade against Charlie Trotter's stance on foie gras. The man is, of course, something of a legend in the non-coastal culinary world that is Midwest. He's easily one of the most acclaimed chefs in our little corner of the world--the author of 14 books and an 8-time Beard Award winner--which is why it was so surprising that, in 2002, he decided to stop serving the drool-inducing liver at his flagship restaurant. It's in part because of this that, by the time Chicago decided to ban the sale of foie in 2006, Trotter had become the de facto poster boy of the movement. And it was for this that I railed against him.

(Never mind the hypocrisy of making one's living by selling dead--albeit delicious--animals, while claiming the moral high ground over a fringe, luxury item. Of course, carnivorous legislators aren't immune, either. While I'm not supposing a tautology of moral equivalence, it’s easier to engage in ethical masturbation by taking on the three, small American producers of a "cruel" product you probably don't eat anyway than it is to take on the National Cattlemen's Beef Association and admit that hamburgers come from similarly gruesome origins.)

Foie gras has been the subject of much discussion over the last few years, and has long been a target of animal rights activists: its production involves slaughtering force-fed ducks and geese for their engorged livers. There is, of course, a caveat: like bacon, oysters, truffles, or chocolate, foie gras is fucking amazing.

I remember, as a freshman at the UW, meeting Ingrid Newkirk, president of PETA and crazy person. (Further evidence of insanity can be found, for instance, here, here, or here.) The thing is, she didn't seem so crazy at the time. In fact, the films they'd shown were frightening. Among other horrors that would make Takashi Miike blach, they showed pictures of ducks being force-fed by steel tubes which sometimes gashed viciously through their throats.

Never mind that the physiology of these birds' livers and throats are inherently different than those of mammals (and never mind that my impressionable young mind hadn't yet picked up on the insanity). The images were powerful.

That's why it's good to see that Bob del Grosso, of the wonderfully named A Hunger Artist, has posted a great slideshow showing his recent trip to Hudson Valley Foie Gras, a name that will likely be familiar to foodies and animal rights activists alike. It is, I think, important for today's aspiring freshman vegan to see that the reality, at least for the producer whose foie we're likeliest to see in Madison, is far from the Texas Chain Saw-style horror portrayed by PETA and those who subscribe to their claims. Even the most jaded, nihilistic sensualist will probably find a little comfort in it.

And the girl at the party? Apparently she wasn't turned on by a drunken, vitriolic defense of gavage. It was never meant to be.

Restaurant Review: El Pescador

There's no two ways about it. The rare Kumamoto oyster, halibut special, or quality fish fry aside, Madison is woefully bereft of good seafood. Edible ocean and shellfish can be difficult to find for under $30 a plate, and are often disappointing even at those rarefied prices. It is likely because of this void that, as the air crisps and the leaves turn throughout our Midwestern city, a Mexican seafood restaurant has improbably become one of the most talked about restaurants in town.

For the most part, El Pescador lives up to its quickly garnered reputation as a reasonably priced destination for good seafood, but locals might not want to trade in their sausage and sauerkraut for ceviche and camarones just yet.

The environment does little to foster confidence. Just inside, an enormous Corona advertisement hangs conspicuously from a fish net. It's an off-putting first impression, and looks uncomfortably close to what I might imagine from a Cinco de Mayo celebration at Red Lobster. Other features of the high-ceilinged dining room are several paintings of fishing boats, various nautical bric-a-brac, and a whole lot of empty space. One neither expects nor desires white tablecloths, of course, but something a little closer to Laredo's would go a long way. At that Madison staple, the festively painted murals are inauthentic, but they do at least evoke the feel of a Mexican restaurant, norteamericano style. There, the atmosphere is one of enthusiasm that is, at worst, amusingly kitchy. At El Pescador, the environment is neither authentic nor enthusiastic. The sparse trappings come off as lazy.

Service is casual and inconsistent. During my first visit on a slow weekday evening, there was no need to turn our table, but I still felt rushed on both drink and food orders. While our server answered questions about the menu, it seemed almost a burden, and he was neither particularly personable nor professional. Another server was much friendlier and more attentive; she became even more amiable when my companion and I began to speak with her in Spanish. A visit on a busier evening offered a different waiter and no questions about the menu, but the same curt service of the first. I was collectively disappointed. Other casual Mexican restaurants try harder: Laredo's is consistently spirited, Taqueria Guadalajara personal and sincere.

My hopes, then, weren't terribly high as I perused the list of Margaritas and Mexican beers and sampled the obligatory (and obligatory tasting) chips and salsa. Of course, the praise being heaped upon El Pescador has had little to do with service or decor, and the restaurant's food shows that the kitchen shares little of the dining room's apathy.

Arroz al pescador, a mildly spicy rice plate featuring several types of seafood, was a strong showcase for their work. My first taste was a scallop, a litmus test of a mollusk that can be rendered soapy and inedible by improper storage or rubbery and unappealing by overcooking. I took a bite. The scallop was moist and tender, and its sweetness was there beneath the mild spiciness of the rice. This was a good sign.

The clams avoided similar pitfalls, and I also enjoyed several generously sized shrimp, properly cooked and seasoned. Their full flavor was nicely accented by the dish's spice, and their firm, fleshy texture was a good counterpoint to the rice. The mussels stood out in particular. Large, succulent, and perfectly cooked, these unadorned bivalves sung in their shells. Or they would have, had I not been so busy devouring them. While the seafood was terrific, the rice was flavorful but mostly superfluous. With the exception of the shrimp, the other mariscos would have been just as delicious alone, and it is a pity that the complete dish never became more than the sum of its parts. Nonetheless, the straightforward dish was altogether successful.

The caldo siete mares shared the rice's focus. Here, the clams, scallops, calamari, and shrimp were joined by fish and crab legs in an enormous bowl, punctuated by a claw grasping a lime wedge . The flavors married well in the rich, spiced seafood broth, and cilantro added a touch of freshness. Unfortunately, whether due to the night of my visit or the preparation, the seafood here wasn't as vibrant as it had been in the arroz. I also didn't enjoy having to crack open soup-drenched crab legs to access the meat inside.

An order of enchiladas Campeche was pleasant if forgettable. The rich flavors were there, balanced by the bite of raw red onion and the mild sweetness of the salsa, but the exuberant freshness of the arroz didn't assert itself here, either. I again drew the inevitable crosstown comparison: the enchiladas and accompanying refried beans were similar to their counterparts at Laredo's.

Meat and chicken are represented as well, of course, in fajitas, tacos, and other staples, though vegetarians should note that their choices will be limited. A chicken burrito and meatless taco salad were unremarkable but fine. Neither was as good as the seafood dishes, but the choices were there.

Taken together, the restaurant's preparations are respectable, and the prices, hovering around $10 for most entrees, are generally quite reasonable (though several dishes cost a good deal more). More importantly, the kitchen clearly understands and respects working with quality ingredients, something unmistakable in their arroz al pescador. But in the end this is a good restaurant, not a remarkable one. If you've been craving Mexican cuisine featuring quality seafood at a reasonable price, El Pescador will certainly fill that niche. Just don't expect a revelation.

El Pescador
2810 East Washington Avenue; (608) 277-1055
*
Price: $-$$
Atmosphere: Sparse, casual, and nautically themed. Moderate to loud sound level.
Beverages: Domestic and imported beers; margaritas.
Suggestions: Arroz al pescador, seafood.
Hours: Opens 11 a.m. Monday through Thursday and 10 a.m. Friday through Sunday. Closes at 9 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, and 10 p.m. Friday and Saturday.
Reservations: Not accepted.
What ratings mean: Stars indicate overall impressions of a restaurant, rated from zero to four, with price taken into account. Zero stars indicate a restaurant that is not recommended, while four stars indicate an outstanding restaurant, worthy of at least regional attention.
Prices range from $ to $$$$.

Halloween Recipes That Don't Suck

Halloween, which I gratuitously consider to last the entire month of October, is one of my favorite times of year. The weather is crisp and temperate, there's cider and chocolate on the table, and murder and mayhem in the air. It's the perfect time to picnic in the graveyard, ignore your nascent food blog for two weeks, or go hitchhiking, only to off the unsuspecting fools who picked you up.

Alternately, you could invite friends over for a Halloween dinner party, complete with horrifying amuses-gueules, nightmarishly macabre microgreens, and diabolical vampire squab.

But let's face it. The vast majority of Halloween recipes and dinner party ideas suck. We're talking Sandra Lee's Gummy Worm Cupcakes suck. Don't believe me? Click here, here, or (if you dare) here.

While autumn offers some great seasonal cuisine, it tends to be associated with Thanksgiving, which is only horrifying if you're on the smallpox end of Manifest Destiny. As such, the sad truth is that most Halloween ideas stray into idiotically themed items evocative of a child's party or a drunken housewife's "tablescape." And while I enjoy an awful pun as much as anyone, goulash (unless comprised of actual ghouls) and deviled eggs (unless obtained via an actual contract with Satan) are a little too Rachaelian in their inane cutesiness.

Still, I won't pass out on an opportunity for food and the macabre to meet. Preferably at my place. As such, I've put together a Halloween menu that should be elegant enough to please my guests, cheap enough to make for a crowd, and diabolical enough not to be mistaken for anything remotely thankful. (The candy course is not optional.)

A Halloween Menu That Mercifully Avoids Descriptors Like Ghoulish or Frighteningly Delicious
Soup:
Pumpkin Chestnut Bisque (Zach Beaver, Peter Schears Restaurant, San Diego)
(Serves 50)

1 (6-pound) can pure pumpkin
5 cups water
1/4 cup cinnamon
3 tablespoons nutmeg
1 1/2 pounds brown sugar
1/2 cup honey
1/2 pound chestnuts, peeled and roasted in oven at 350 degrees until golden brown
1 quart heavy cream

Mix pumpkin, water, spices, sugar and honey in large stockpot. In saucepan, bring heavy cream to light boil. Add roasted chestnuts. After simmering for 5 minutes, put mixture into food processor and puree until it becomes a paste. Combine chestnut paste with pumpkin mixture and simmer for 20 to 25 minutes.

Entree:
Gamberoni alla Diavola (adopted from Mussels alla Diavola, Gourmet)

12 garlic cloves, minced (about 1/3 cup)
1 1/2 teaspoons dried hot red pepper flakes
1/2 cup olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 (28-ounce) can whole tomatoes in puree
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 teaspoons dried oregano, crumbled
1 1/2 tablespoon fresh basil, chiffonade
1/4 cup drained bottled capers (about 1 1/4 ounces)
1/2 cup kalamata or other brine-cured black olives (about 3 ounces), pitted and chopped
1/3 cup dry red wine
1/2 pound dried sun-dried tomato linguine
1/2 pound squid ink linguine
3 large shrimp, cleaned
Chives, for garnish

Season shrimp and cook in butter and two tablespoons oil. Remove shrimp and add remaining oil, garlic and red pepper flakes in oil in a deep 12-inch heavy skillet over moderate heat, stirring, until fragrant but not browned, about 2 more minutes. Add tomatoes with puree, tomato paste, herbs, capers, olives, and wine and simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally and breaking up tomatoes, until sauce is thick, about 15 minutes.

Cook linguine in a 6 to 8-quart pot of boiling salted water until al dente, then drain in a colander.

Serve linguine with shrimp and sauce, and garnish with chives.

Dessert:
Pumpkin Creme Brulee (CIA, via Gourmet)
1 quart heavy cream
2 vanilla beans (split)
5 ounces sugar
20 egg yolks (beaten)
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/4 teaspoon powdered ginger

1 pint pumpkin purée

1 pint (or as needed) sugar (for tops)

Combine the heavy cream, vanilla, and half the sugar, bring to a boil.

Combine the egg yolks and remaining sugar.

Add 1/3 of the hot liquid to the egg mixture, stir constantly.

Add the egg yolk mixture to the remaining hot cream, stir constantly. Stir in the cinnamon, allspice, and ginger.

Fold in the pumpkin purée.

Fill buttered oval ramekins 7/8 full, place in a waterbath.

Bake in a 325°F (160°C) oven until just barely set, cool 30 minutes, chill overnight.

Cover the surface of each custard with 1/8-inch of sugar, set ramekins in a hotel pan, surround with ice.

Carmelize sugar under the broiler or with a torch

Candy:
Old-Fashioned Peanut Brittle (Bon Appetit)
3 cups sugar
2 cups water
3/4 cup light corn syrup
3/4 cup dark corn syrup
4 cups coarsely chopped salted roasted peanuts
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter
1 tablespoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Butter 2 heavy large baking sheets. Stir first 4 ingredients in heavy large saucepan over medium heat until sugar dissolves. Increase heat to high and boil without stirring until candy thermometer registers 260°F., about 40 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low. Mix in peanuts and butter and cook until thermometer registers 295°F., stirring constantly, about 15 minutes. Add baking soda and vanilla and stir briskly (mixture will foam up). Immediately pour out onto prepared baking sheets, dividing evenly. Spread out brittle as thinly as possible. Let stand until cold and hard. Break brittle into pieces.

Beverages:
Those in dire need of extremely overt theme can find it in the beverage department. Appropriate beers include Dogfish Head's Punkin' Ale, and Rogue's Dead Guy Ale, a decent German-style Maibock. Skip the sub-$10 wines that tend to pop up around this time of year and investigate the year-long evil Zinfandel market--Bonny Doon's Cardinal Zin is pleasant at around $20, and 7 Deadly Zins is big, fruity, and drinkable at around $14.


Please. Be Dario Argento, not Uwe Boll. Choose passion and artistry over the mediocrity of the lowest common denominator. The next time you watch a bobblehead on television form a mummy out of cheese or cut a bat from a slice of Wonder Bread, flip over to Soylent Green or get in the kitchen. You can do better.

Allez cuisine!

The premiere of Next Iron Chef brought some wildly different results for my ponies, John Besh and odds-on favorite Traci des Jardins. While Chef Besh earned top accolades for his chocolate catfish truffles, Chef des Jardins was the first to be eliminated, vanquished by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, overwrought metaphor, and a salmon roe dessert salad.

The challenges were good ones, difficult without being impossible, and particularly suited to the specific demands placed on an Iron Chef versus those of being a successful executive chef and restaurateur. One notes that the "your purveyor didn't get you that shipment of escarole, your sous chef is screwing a waitress in the walk-in, and, oh yeah, the toilet's overflowing" challenge was appropriately, if unfortunately, absent.

The prep challenge was a good test of basic skills, and des Jardins said what I'm sure most of the chefs were thinking: I hope I can still do this stuff. And for the most part, they could. Besh was impressive, and it was hard not to be caught up in Morou's enthusiasm. Where a Food Network talking head would have panicked, he did the chefly thing and cooked on, bleeding in his food all the while. This, of course, begs the question: when's the pay per view "Sandra Lee, Rachael Ray, and Ingrid Hoffmann Play With Sharp Knives" special?

The second challenge was a good idea that tested a format specific skill while giving a knowing wink to longtime fans. Now, normally I would be among the first to call bullshit on a zany protein pastry challenge--as most chefs will be sure to tell you, they aren't pâtissiers. But unlike an ordinary, carbon-based chef, Iron Chefs are built on sterner stuff: cured plum jelly with umeboshi, turkey and bourbon sorbet, swallow's nest ice cream. A few of the chefs embraced their ferrous aspirations. Besh, of course, excelled with a difficult ingredient that was indicative of his New Orleans style. Better yet, offal aficionado Chris Cosentino used his advantage to select -- oh baby -- tripe. Impressively, his fried honeycomb tripe panzanella actually sounded pretty good. (If this whole Iron Chef gig doesn't work out, maybe Cosentino will follow in Tyler Florence's steps. I expect to see that panzanella at Cheesecake Factory or TGI Friday's next spring.)



Chef des Jardins shouldn't feel too bad. Iron Chef Hiroyuki Sakai was notoriously foiled by his trout ice cream, and her own victory over Iron Chef Mario Batali came in no small part due to his woefully misguided parfait of shrimp remoulade. Truly the savory dessert is the hobgoblin of many a humbled Kitchen Stadium contestant.

I did take minor issue with the fact that the kitchen seemed unprepared for the chefs -- while succeeding as a chef demands the ability to adapt to adverse situations, there were enough artificial roadblocks in place that Chef Symon shouldn't have had to deal with a forty degree freezer midway through a competition. Unlike the appropriately weird restrictions of the task, an Iron Chef shouldn't have to deal with a nonfunctional work environment.

Altogether, I found the program entertaining, even if this was due in part to the skill disparity of the contestants here and those on The Next Food Network Star. As expected, there was a lot of talent on display, and it was fun to imagine Rory struggling to puzzle her way through opening an oyster or coconut. It was also enjoyable to see the ostentatious presentation so beloved to Iron Chef fans in the introductory flourishes of the Chairman. On the other hand, that same pageantry felt a bit peculiar within the context of what was, aside from the caliber of contestant, a fairly typical cooking competition. And indeed, the fact that Food Network essentially duplicated Top Chef's model of a quick test followed by an elimination challenge was itself disappointing. Worst of all, though, there wasn't enough focus on the food. Granted, there's only so much that can be done in a limited time frame with eight contestants, but I'd prefer more emphasis on the dishes and less on coconut technique; that virtually no time was given to the contestants' free form desserts is real pity.

On the competitive front, it was sad to see Traci go so early, but of course there's no Colombe or Mikey to throw into the grinder on this program. It was also good to see Ruhlman chew out his Cleveland homeboy Mike Symon for something that only he would know. Sanchez might not be long for the program, either; the editors, at least, would have us believe he's buckling. On the positive side, Jill Davie cooks well and has real charisma--the fact that she said (and I gratuitously paraphrase) "screw Michelin stars; it's every cook's dream to become an Iron Chef" without it sounding entirely laughable is some testament to her charm. Finally, it's going to be hard not to fall in love with Cosentino -- I know he's going to take the tripe for his dessert, but I still can't help cheer the audacity when he does.

$10.99 offal menu, Friday's. Don't let Olive Garden beat you to it.

And the Top Chef is...

Congratulations, Hung! More so than any contestant in three seasons, you deserve to be called Top Chef.

It pained me, before the decision was read, to see that only 19% of the viewers thought that Hung should win. For me, it was a no brainer. And, despite the editing shenanigans, I think it was for the judges, too. Casey's been spot on for most of the competition, and the flavors she's brought to the table have been wonderful. Dale really brought his A game over the last few weeks, and has put together a few fabulous sounding dishes. Moreover, he's been fantastically entertaining. But only Hung has shown a true mastery of cookery week after week, and only Hung was able to consistently impress some of the most discriminating names in the business. When the words "three-star Michelin" left Todd English's lips I gasped, knowing that it was over--and, I bet the contestants did, too.

The guy from the early episodes? The one the Bravo execs and editing room tried to portray as a soulless, villainous snake? The guy who could cook but not take criticism? A distant memory.

Fuck whatshername from Miami and that Bombay Sapphire dude. Seeing Hung's puppy dog eyes as he cooked for Eric Ripert or duplicated a dish from Le Cirque was enough for me--and that's to say nothing of his playful joy in creating a smurf village out of children's breakfast cereal. One doesn't acquire knife skills that stun Tom Colicchio by accident; he acquires them through years of hard work and love. When Hung says, early in the series, "this isn't the kind of food that I cook," he's saying that he cares passionately about making really excellent food, and couldn't care less if some company shill thinks it goes well with his gin-o-colada du jour. That is a Top Chef.

On to the menus!

The first courses all seemed wonderful to me. I'm a sucker for foie gras, and Dale's with ras el hanout gastrique looked a little messy but sounded flavorful. Too rich too soon? Probably, but I'm not one to complain about a preponderance of foie. Casey also offered the sublime liver, hers with apple, but, more interestingly, paired with a cinnamon scented scallop. Like so much of her work, this has really piqued my interest, and I love the idea of the creamy foie with the sweet, tart apples, leading into the bitter cinnamon and succulent scallop. Unfortunately, I can also imagine how salmon roe would cut through the elegance of this dish. Still, I'm stealing the rest of the idea. Hung's Hamachi fish and chips looked sublime: light and elegant, jaw-droppingly beautiful, and playful yet refined. A perfect starter.

All of the second courses sounded good, too, but none of them particularly stood out. Casey's dish sounded flavorful, and the caviar here seemed better placed than the roe in her first course. It didn't wow me, but did sound delicious. The grapes with Dale's scallop seemed a bit much--I find them very assertive, and I prefer scallop with a lighter accompaniment, like the sweet corn that Dale also used--but the judges loved it, so it would be something to taste. Hung's dish, again, sounded magnificent, a controlled crescendo in his beautifully orchestrated meal. The torturous part is that I know I couldn't pull it off if I tried.

Casey's third dish was a shame, because every good-hearted person likes pork belly. The peach seemed a nice touch, and I think it sounded close to a very good dish. Dale's, on the other hand, was all over the place. Gnocchi, lobster, mushrooms ... and curry? It just seemed a bit confused. When Hung's plate came out, I remarked "That looks amazing." The dish sounded absolutely fantastic. When Michelle Berstein said she was jealous and Todd English dropped the M-bomb, I knew it was. I want to eat Hung's food.

Dale's final course looked and sounded great. I was glad to have him there, an unabashed flatlander representing for the Midwest. I would order that lamb any day of the week. Casey, unfortunately, was having an off day and didn't adapt well to the twist. The sirloin Howie cooked for her looked good, but paled compared to Dale's dish. Then there was Hung. Like his runner-up earlier in the season, Hung recognized that dessert, while not a requirement of the competition, is a requirement of a complete dining experience--and unlike Dale's pineapple, Hung's dish was a classic that actually tasted good. Chef Colicchio remarked that it didn't follow the progression, but I must disagree.

Imagining myself in a happy food coma, tasting the richness of chocolate cake, sipping coffee, and reflecting on the wonderful meal that came before, it seems the perfect, comforting finale to an exquisite dinner. It's the warm and gooey heart of an elegant meal, and it's the soul of a perfect technician who, when he's not running into truffle oil or eviscerating chickens--or perhaps especially when he is--just loves to cook.

Bizarro Food Network

Something is rotten in the state of the Food Network.

Of course, that's to be expected. For once, though, the rot is a metaphorical one, and not Sandra Lee's latest culinary abortion.

This is the channel that replaced Sara Moulton with a second daily dose of Rachael Ray and cut Molto Mario to free up airtime for Semi-Homemade Cooking. This is the channel that ran a supposed culinary competition in which the contestants grilled steak and poured nacho cheese onto store-bought tortilla chips, then made the bold-faced lie that it was "all about the food." This is the channel that brought us "BAM!", "Yumm-o!", and "EVOO," and realized that, unlike ambition, mediocrity wouldn't slip through the Cheeto-stained fingers of its target demographic, the despised "home cook."

Apparently, though, there exists a melancholy executive. A man or woman who, on a late, moonless night on the battlements above the Food Network cubicles, was visited by the vengeful spectre of Julia Child, and has chosen to suffer the slings and arrows of Bob and Suz.
There is no other explanation for The Next Iron Chef, which premieres a week from today and, miraculously, looks watchable. And I don't just mean watchable in the sense of The Next Food Network Star, a cynically honest behind-the-scenes look which demanded attention as would a train wreck. For the first time in a long while, it looks like there may be a Food Network show that is really about the food (and, of course, overwrought Japan-inspired spectacle, a must in our post-Godzilla culinary world).

First, as host, we have Alton Brown, whose likability and geek appeal have somehow managed to save him from the Coalition replacing him with a large-breasted "personality" like Ingrid Hoffman. The judges look good, too. We have Bon Appetit editor Andrew Knowlton, restaurateur Donatella Arpaia, and, best of all, classically trained author and blogger Michael Ruhlman. Not only did he help write The French Laundry Cookbook, but he's also a Bourdain associate and all around ne'er-do-well.

Of course, none of this matters if the contestants suck. Apparently, though, Food Network still has enough clout--or offers enough publicity--to draw some serious talent and, in a novel twist, has elected to choose contestants who can actually cook. My jaw dropped when I read the list. After the network's history of abusing real chefs, it's a stable far better than the network deserves.

There's Gavin Kaysen, formerly of the Michelin-starred L'Escargot in London, now of El Bizcocho (I'm there in a few months when the temperature here is twenty below -- my sister lives in San Diego).

Aarón Sanchez of Paladar and Centrico in New York, son of Mexican culinary authority Zarela Martinez.

Michael Symon of Lola in Cleveland. A Beard nominee who's been featured in Gourmet, Bon Appetit, Food & Wine, and Saveur.

There's John Besh of Restaurant August, a CIA graduate who's been praised by Gourmet, Food & Wine, and the Zagat guide. 2006 Beard Award for Best Chef of the Southeast.

Jill Davie, another CIA grad -- Charlie Trotter's and Tru in Chicago, Josie in LA.

Chris Cosentino, alum of Red Sage and Chez Panisse.

There's Traci fucking des Jardins. San Francisco Magazine's "Chef of the Year." Food & Wine "Best New Chef." Two Beard Awards. Rubicon. Jardinière. She's headed kitchens in restaurants that Sandra Lee couldn't pronounce if they were printed on the back of a flavoring packet.

(Okay, so I've never heard of Morou Ouattara, but in this company I'll give the guy the benefit of the doubt.)



Will Food Network manage to screw this up, too? Will we be allowed to actually watch our intrepid heroes cook? Will the Shakespearean finale result in a pile of corpses, the result of Guy Fieri's tater tots and Sandra Lee's supposed Steak Diane?

Heck, they might even draw a few foodies. After all, they had the sense to wait until the conclusion of Top Chef.

3rd Floor Agriculture

One of my favorite times in the day is that moment when I leave my kitchen, venture across the living room, and, imaging myself an urban, Midwestern Jerry Traunfeld, pick fresh herbs from the pots and planters on my balcony. The satisfaction comes on two levels: first, the sense of a job well done, of the disproportionate rewards for a bit of watering and attention, and second, the immediate gratification that is gluttony, the smells and tastes (because a nibble of fresh tarragon is practically a requirement) available now, in my own home, without a trip to the market.

Because of this burgeoning urban-agrarianism, my balcony doesn't feature the luxuries that my neighbors enjoy: instead of chairs, I have Green Zebras. In more feverish moments, I like to fancy myself a sort of latter day gentleman farmer, albeit one who can take a five minute walk to Restaurant Magnus or L'Etoile. Reading the Times over the weekend, this article played to my delusions.

Apparently I've been missing out on the great urban chicken craze of 2007. Like the backyard herb garden, the chicken coop seems to provide a stream of homegrown sustenance for minimal effort. Like herbs, fresher eggs are generally superior. Those rare eggs with a clearly visible chalazae, prominent taste, and that white whose consistency is just perfect? That could be breakfast every day. Those chickens who have lived and exercised long enough to taste like chicken--real chicken--instead of the bland grocery store variety? There's dinner. Coq au vin with real, adult rooster and real rooster's blood? That, my friends, is eating.

Better yet, this isn't, apparently, just for our suburban compatriots with their fancy "yards." Pet chickens can be raised just like parrots, but earn their keep by providing an endless stream of omelette and frittata. And they don't talk back when you're ready to eat them.

Too good to be true? I was a little skeptical at first, but I've confirmed it. Like various theories of alien pyramid pumps and a full range of disturbing German and Japanese pornography, it was on the internet.

Ever wonder if Bantam hens have a better disposition than other chickens? If a chicken tractor requires a regular house and pen, too? How to quiet your crowing rooster? Neither have I, but these are all covered as Frequently Asked Questions over at http://www.thecitychicken.com.

Of course, this is Madison, not New York City. There's plenty of space nearby to raise chickens without resorting to my balcony. But an early morning trip across town is a lot less pleasant than a robed stroll across the living room. Until I hear otherwise from my landlord, I'm on the market for 4'x4' coops.

Tasting Notes: 2004 Big Easy Syrah by Fess Parker

This past weekend provided me with the opportunity to finally visit the Kennedy Manor Dining Room and Bar, across from the Edgewater Hotel at the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and Langdon Street. While there, I had the chance to taste a very nice Syrah, the 2004 "Big Easy" by Santa Barbara's Fess Parker Winery.

It's not just a clever name. This wine is easy to drink, with big flavors and a formidable 16.1% alcohol content. Maybe it's not a coincidence that Fess Parker played Davy Crockett in the 1950's television series: the full, smoky, berry flavors seem befitting a legendary frontiersman (or at least one who drank wine instead of rye or the entire Mississippi River).

The nose of this dark ruby Syrah is smoky, with pronounced blueberry, blackberry, and plum. Beneath the fruit, one notices spice and a bit of chocolate, as well as a subtle but unmistakable hint of ethanol. These notes are altogether pleasant, but not particularly remarkable.

The real star here is taste. This is a sumptuous, jammy wine, medium-heavy bodied with the plum and berry again taking center stage. Also present are pepper, oak, spice, and cherry, and the finish is slightly tannic. Somewhat surprisingly given their boldness, the flavors come together very smoothly, and are prominent enough not to be overwhelmed by the high alcohol content.

Altogether, this is a very nice bottle that should please a range of palates. I haven't tasted such a bold Syrah in quite some time, and the big, homey flavors will likely appeal to more casual drinkers. Still, there's enough lush elegance here to win over wine enthusiasts, and its vibrant execution should please fans of the grape.

Recommended.
The retail price is about $35.

Champagne, Caviar, and Pancakes (Two Different Ones)

God from the mount of Sinai, whose grey top
Shall tremble, he descending, will himself
In thunder and loud trumpets' sound
Ordain it caviar
-Paradise Lost



At least I think that's what Milton wrote.

In the haute cuisine pantheon, and much more so in general perception, the image caviar evokes is one of wealth and opulence that no other food can match. 400 lb railroad barons in top hats and three-piece suits cavort with Romanov tsaristas, British super spies, and Hercule Poirot. Between exchanging Fabergé eggs and solving murders on the Trans-Siberian Railway, they down the legendary roe with gold-inlaid nacre spoons. Or something like that.

With a friend moving to Belarus this week, and a tin of generously given Osetra just waiting to be eaten (thanks Dave!), last night seemed a perfect opportunity to indulge my McDuckian appetites. Now, I've had Osetra before, as a garnish with seafood dishes, and on a tiny blin as part of an amuse, but I've never done a traditional caviar service with mountains of blini, separated hard-cooked egg, finely diced onions, and sour cream. We bought some nice bubbly (I wanted vodka as well, but in a nightmarish turn more appropriate to Gogol, my friend and her Belorussian husband apparently don't care for the stuff) and prepared to make some blini.

Sure, we've all heard the stories from cookbooks and expats: blini are ordinary, everyday fare, and they're really not very different from pancakes, or from the liquid batter treats cooked on flat surfaces the world over.

Bullshit. I knew the truth. To me, and I imagine to most Americans, blini are supposed to be an exotic specialty, a rumored delicacy from beyond the iron curtain, something befitting the mythical glory of fish eggs, to be enjoyed only by Party insiders and occasional Westerners made rich through the treasonous sale of nuclear technology. Surely there was some exotic craft to their construction, a state secret that, if exposed would be the bane of Parisian crêperies and American Waffle Houses alike. The Reich's Spätzle hadn't stood a chance, but I would be ready.

I prepared by making the humble pancake. Flour, baking powder, salt. Milk, egg, and maybe a little sugar. It was simple, but I felt I needed to be prepared for what awaited me...

The blini came together in a flurry of movements befitting a Strangelove-esque symphony. Like Baryshnikov and Kolpakova, flour danced with salt! Like Peter Sellers and Peter Sellers, milk and egg played off of each other in a harmony of insane flavors! Sugar was still optional.

Okay, so there was some yeast in the process, but what the hell? The taste and texture was slightly different, but was a pancake with yeast the best the one-time Evil Empire had to offer? It saddened me to admit it, but fifty years in a fallout shelter capped off by an emergence into a post-nuclear wasteland where the secrets were mine and mine alone wouldn't have been worth it. (The mutant cows and cool clothing might have made it worth while, of course--but I digress.) At the end, the blini were good, but, in that most American of blunders, I had turned them into something they weren't--and for the record, the crêpe is still my pan-cooked batter of choice.

What, then, of the caviar? The quality was immediately apparent, with that smooth, salty, buttery flavor that aficionados love. Served on the toasty blini, the condiments brought out a range of contrasts in texture and flavor, and it was interesting to try them in varied combination. The sour cream, I thought, was the best counterpoint, its thick, sour, creaminess, playing off of the crisp saltiness of the eggs. The wine complimented both, and I loved the interplay of the roe, cream, and our rich, sweet asti. Crème fraîche may have worked even better.

The truth, though, is that I preferred the caviar as I had had it before. With its strong, distinct flavors, I preferred it as a sparkling, elegant accent rather than a star unto itself. Alone and unaccompanied, the Osetra seemed to me too much a bludgeon of flavor, no matter how refined, but with condiments, it seemed a lily painted with ingredients less interesting than itself. As a crisp, salty, nuanced compliment to another finished dish, I think caviar achieves its acme.

Then again, maybe we just needed some Russian Standard.