Madison's Best Restaurant You've Never Visited

Remember the last time you walked past a restaurant kitchen? Edith Piaf was barely audible over the din of the line, as the grill man called out that the châteaubriand would be ready in "deux minutes." Remember how, after service, the bereted cooks would head out the back door, with knife rolls in their left hands, and volumes by Sartre or films by Godard in their right?

Yeah, neither do I.

Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican army's victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla, and it's little secret that in this country, hard-working Mexicans and Latinos have become largely responsible for the success of the traditionally French professional kitchen. Meanwhile, their food has become an omnipresent US staple, with a vaguely "Mexican" restaurant on every corner and certain unnamed burrito vending corporations achieving market capitalizations of over three billion dollars.

The first problem with this development is that the vast majority of these nacho slingers produce food for norteamericano palates that doesn't remotely resemble that of their supposed country of origin. The second, more grievous sin is that the food they do produce generally sucks.

So on a day when you're looking to pay your culinary respects to a country that's done so much for ours, where's a befuddled Madisonian gringo to turn?

Why, Taqueria Guadalajara, of course. Located at 1033 South Park Street, the main dining room of this inconspicuous hole-in-the-wall sits about twelve people, and that's including the counter. But this is OK. There's a patio in back, and though you'll practically have to walk through the tiny kitchen to get there, it's well worth it. The food here is absolutely outstanding.

There are, naturally, tacos at this taqueria, and they also happen to be the best in town. Proteins range from the obligatory grilled pork and steak, both of which are nice, to the decidedly optional beef tongue and cheek, both of which are excellent. Yes, tripe lovers, that's available, too, in your taco or your menudo. Most surprising is the almost revelatory chicken. It's incredibly tender, perfectly moist, and wonderfully seasoned, to the point that even with such a strong menu, I can't visit without ordering at least one. It's a freaking chicken taco, and yes, it is that good. It needn't be mentioned that the tortillas are house-made and delicious, but it does bear stressing that the tacos sell for around a measly two dollars each.

Of course, Guadalajara offers other, non-taco choices as well, including sopes, tortas, and huaraches and larger plates like a chicken mole. They're all good, and they're all ridiculously cheap for the quality. I could go on about how great the cooking is, about the wonderfully authentic atmosphere, or about the consistently friendly service, but I'll save that for an imminent (and presumably glowing) full review. After all, I foresee many a summer afternoon of scrupulous "research" on that patio in my near future.

For now, just head to Taqueria Guadalajara, grab an horchata and a few criminally cheap bites, and celebrate this Cinco de Mayo by thanking Mexico for all of the great food and cooks.

Hands off

Recent years have been good to fans of high quality, locally produced food. Across the country, farmers' markets are on the upswing as demand for better ingredients swells among foodies, hippies, yuppies, and health nuts alike. Words like "salsify," "ramps," and "geoduck" are appearing on lips and menus in greater numbers than ever before, and sometimes customers actually know what they mean. I'm relatively sure that even Denny's features an heirloom tomato, organic basil, and fresh mozzarella salad alongside its signature (and oh-so-wittily designated) Moons Over My Hammy®.

It's just too bad that our government actively screws us all for lobbyist support and political capital in the Iowa caucuses.

On Saturday, the New York Times published an Op-Ed by Minnesota farmer Jack Hedin lamenting the policies of the United States Department of Agriculture with regard to small producers. In short, Mr. Hedin discusses how big backers of the Department's commodity farm program forward legislation that seeks to protect agribusiness and so stifles competition from local producers, limiting their production and ultimately passing the costs on to the consumer.

Protectionist policies of this sort help no one except for those who least need it. Take, for instance, our nation's recent infatuation with corn-based ethanol. Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative, socialist or neocon, there's nary a voice to be heard that hasn't fallen for her seductive charms. But like Mr. or Ms. Friday Night, she looks a whole lot worse in the light of day after those tequila shots have worn off.

Our government insists that we subsidize an energy "solution" that pays political capital in corn-producing states and among well-meaning environmentalists who haven't done their research, but is ultimately inefficient and wasteful. As some 17% of this subsidized corn goes to ethanol (the USDA anticipates some 31% of US corn will be used for ethanol by 2016), corn prices increase, which in turn increases prices in directly related products, from tortillas to beef. Meanwhile, a relative scarcity of other produce develops as incentives encourage farmers to turn to corn, and that other produce becomes more expensive as well.

As an added insult, we as American taxpayers are spending our own money to subsidize politically vested ethanol corporations to the detriment of small farmers, better environmental solutions, and our own grocery bills. These subsidies are terrible for independent growers, terrible for food lovers, and terrible for consumers--especially Americans of modest means and the poor worldwide, for whom food and gas costs are a much larger part of their budget--but miraculously great for the Agcos, Andersons, and Archer Daniels Midlands of the world. Through our fine, career-minded representatives, we are literally paying these corporations to increase our own food and fuel costs.

Some might argue that this is an acceptable course of action if it means access to a renewable fuel source. And it might be, if these costs weren't unnecessary and idiotic.

There is no shortage of environmentally responsible alternatives. Brazil produces primarily bagasse-based ethanol that has a net energy yield approximately eight times greater than our corn-based "solution." They've been developing their ethanol policy for nearly thirty years, and their product can be imported cheaply--or could be, if we didn't use subsidies and tariffs to protect large-scale sugar and corn producers in this country. Alternatively, wind, solar, and other biomass solutions widely used in Europe work cheaply and consistently, and non-food ethanol sources don't cause artificial increases in food prices or competitive costs for small farmers.

As people who care about what we eat, we share in the responsibility of holding our politicians accountable for these inane and harmful practices.

To think that a few years ago raw milk and foie gras bans were the worst of our food worries. Thanks a lot, Iowa.

A Veritable Sausage Fest

Otto von Bismarck famously said that the less people know about how sausages and laws are made, the better they sleep. Then again, do you really want to take culinary advice from the man who refused to compromise with the National Liberals on the issue of expelling socialist agitators? We all know how that turned out.

It was thus largely out of spite for the Prussian Ministerpräsident that I spent the weekend turning my kitchen into a makeshift summoning chamber whence to call forth that blackest and most delicious of provocative meats. Armed with my trusty stand mixer, new meat grinder and sausage stuffer attachments, and a grimoire of allantoid evocations, I was ready to make the next step. No longer would I be among the unwashed masses of those who merely ate sausages. I would become one of the transcendent few, one of the keepers of the eldritch secrets; I would become a sausage maker.

For my first effort, I turned to the most traditional of all sausage fillings, the storied and magical pig. Little did I know what was in store for me. First, it's nigh impossible to obtain fatback in this city without a special order. Thankfully I keep an emergency reserve in my freezer for a third World War or zombie pig outbreak, but it's a shame that Madison doesn't have a butcher one can turn to at a moment's notice for something so fundamentally sublime as pork fat.

I also learned that seasoning is an interesting process when one is dealing with raw pork. To the fat and shoulder, I added a sautéed and chopped Granny Smith apple and an onion along with healthy additions of rosemary, marjoram, and sage. While it didn't prove a problem in the end product, I found the inability to taste throughout the process a bit frustrating; in fact, the entire operation felt a bit closer to baking than cooking, though your sausages hopefully won't melt if the seasoning is off. I have no doubt that this aspect of sausage making would punish inexperienced cooks but reward the cultivation of actual recipes.

Finally, if you're anything like me (which is to say that you don't know what you're doing), your virginal sausage making endeavor will be something of a mess. Forget the stately, lily-white appliance you've seen in the catalogs. My kitchen counter more closely approximated an estate administrated by a porcine Elizabeth Bathory. Casings slipped. Porky juices accumulated. The procedure of tying off links was, shall we say, inelegant.

The resulting sausages, however, were quite tasty. Better yet, subsequent efforts become quickly easier. Once the basic techniques are mastered, the process is simple and rewarding, and by the time I'd moved on to poultry, my kitchen bore markedly less resemblance to a medieval battlefield. (Except for the traditional rubber chicken, of course.)

With fresh and cooked sausages down, curing and aging will be my next step on the sausage maker's path. But for tonight it's boudin blanc--French style.

Boudin blanc

1 pound skinless chicken breast, cubed
1 pound veal shoulder, cubed
4 feet medium casing
1/2 pound pork fat, cubed (good luck finding it)
3 large onions, sliced
1 cup milk
3/4 cup breadcrumbs
1 tsp kosher salt
1/4 tsp allspice
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground white pepper
1 tbs chopped chives
1 tbs chopped parsley
2 large eggs
2 large egg whites
1 cup heavy cream
milk
water

Finely grind the pork fat, and render half of it over medium heat. Add the onions to the fat and cook slowly, covered, until translucent. Cool. Bring the milk to the boil in a saucepan and add the breadcrumbs. Cook, stirring constantly,until the mixture will coat a spoon, about five minutes. Cool.

Grind the meats and combine with the onions, fat, and other dry ingredients, mixing well with your hands. Finely grind the mixture, then beat thoroughly with a mixer or food processor, adding the eggs and whites. Continue beating and gradually at the cream.

Stuff the mixture into prepared casings and twist off into 4-inch links. (Don't separate the links.) Regrigerate, covered, for one or two days.

Prick the casing, and place the sausages in a large pot covered with a mixture of half milk and half water. Simmer gently for 30 minutes until cooked to 160 degrees Fahrenheit. Drain the links, cool, and separate. Then refrigerate, covered, for up to three days. Grill or pan fry until just heated through.

(This recipe is an abbreviated version of one from the excellent Home Sausage Making, 3rd Edition, by Susan Mahnke Peery and Charles G. Reavis. It's a great primer on basic techniques and has a fairly comprehensive selection of recipes. However, I've found the seasoning to be a bit light in the past, and will increase it here as well.)

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Leave it to politically minded Madison to focus more on the next leader of the free world than a holiday centered on eating, drinking, and decadence. Until one of the candidates voices his support for a 28th "Protect the Foie Gras" amendment, I'll be devoting my attention to king cake and beads.

So what's a celebrant to do? She could have gone to Crescent City Grill if it still existed. The solid creole restaurant that used to be underneath Luther's Blues? You know, Luther's? The place that's now a dance club? That would have been another good Mardi Gras spot. If it still existed.

Granted, Madison does has a few cajun and creole joints that miraculously remain extant, but you can probably do better at home. Remember that guy who wore a lot of white and liked to yell while cooking? His étouffée recipe is so good it will almost convince you he was a professional New Orleans chef before landing his TV gig.

If your kitchen comes equipped with a Frialator--or if you have far more patience in your sandwich prep than I do--there's that Louisiana favorite, the po' boy. If, on the other hand, you'd prefer to make a sandwich without the requisite drum of peanut oil (or view cooking oysters as the nefarious crime that it is), you can turn to that Central Grocery darling, the muffuletta.

In addition to the muffuletta round (or a round of Italian on which you've sprinkled sesame seeds), you'll need a quarter pound each of mortadella, ham, Genoa salami, Mozzarella, and Provolone, and a cup of that most elusive of muffuletta toppings, the olive salad. The subject of perennial mystery, the olive salad is the literal and metaphorical glue that holds this grande dame of Louisiana sandwiches together. But fear not. The Gumbo Pages claims to have the original, courtesy of New Orleans cook Chiqui Collier. (Be warned to bring extra revelers. Their recipe makes a stupid amount of the stuff.)

Of course, you're not compelled to cook at home. You can always try to woo passersby into exchanging gumbo for beads. Or you could head to Louisianne's, Etc. in Middleton, which is probably the second best bet for a more authentic night of pre-Lenten debauchery. They'll have costumes, solid French creole cuisine, and pianist John Chimes playing alongside the Natch'l Blues Band.

Downtown, offerings are slimmer, but the Great Dane is offering an all you can eat crawfish boil for $30. Doesn't sound terribly compelling? Lest your ancestors fear too much Gallic influence, they'll also be celebrating a beer fest at 8pm featuring the release of four seasonal Bocks.

We're still in Wisconsin, after all.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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