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

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.