Tiburón -Shark- Žralok

Las Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián

2011-01-12T14:02:00.000-05:00

Photo from moncheopr.typepad.com

The action this weekend is in Old San Juan as the annual Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián kick off Thursday and don't let up until Sunday night.

For some that means artesanos (craftmen) filling up the plazas during the day (and often into the night) with their beautiful crafts while live bands play. Restaurants and bars offering up special menus for lunch, dinner, and late night catering to the all-night party crowd (well, until 2 a.m. thanks to a decree by the highly esteemed cough mayor of San Juan, Jorge Santini, that forces the bars to call it a day around that hour… Yeah, sure) barhopping down narrow, cobblestone streets. Its a weekend where Old San Juan is filled to the brim with drunken revelers, occasionally broken up by percussion bands, theater troupes, and people wearing giant paper mache heads.

For others, las Fiestas, or simply San Sebastián as this once weeklong religious festival turned four-day party is referred to (I call it the craziness), means kilometric traffic jams to come in and out of the old city, parking miles away near the Capitol building (if you’re lucky enough to find parking that close), and being packed like sardines in massive crowds composed of the aforementioned drunken revelers in narrow, beer drenched streets.

Some people are into that sort of thing, some people are going to be safely working the night shift from the newsroom (thumbs up).

But my agoraphobia aside, for many this is the ultimate party of the year and the official end of the Christmas season. It’s definitely an experience, specially if you’re just visiting the island and wondering if it’s like this all the time. No, we’re not that cool.

Photo from ferrervideo.com

The music selection this year is probably San Sebastián's most promising feature, and while they have dedicated the festival to reggaeton artist Tito el Bambino (sigh…), they will also be paying tribute to three great Puerto Rican musicians: Andrés “El Jíbaro” Jiménez, Antonio “El Topo” Cabán Vale, and José Antonio “Tony Mapeye” Rivera, who will be part of the closing concert which also includes Roy Brown, trumpet player Jerry Medina, Chabela Rodríguez as well as cuatro groups, trovadores and a folkloric ballet troupe. In short, on Sunday you can look forward not only to the end of the craziness but also a wide selection of traditional Puerto Rican music being played by some of the best, live, at 3 pm in la Plaza del Quinto Cetenario (where the Totem pole is).

In Plaza de Armas, there will also be performances by salsa legends Andy Montañez, la Sonora Ponceña and merengue group Grupomania to name a few. There will also be reggaeton but you can find out about that on your own time.

Photo from travelblog.org

Drinks and food-wise, most of the Happy Hours are concentrated right on la calle San Sebastián (although check out my article for Viaje reviewing some awesome places NOT on San Sebastián) and almost all include discounted Medalla (our local beer), Don Q Cristal rum drinks, Coors Light, and Peroni. Others have Bacardi and Dewars drinks also on the knocked off prices list. All these places will be packed.

Actually, to be clear, all of Old San Juan will be packed so if you're going to brave the crowds plan on having: 1) a full tank of gas, 2) the patience of a zen master, 3) the liver of a blue collar Irishman. For more information about the goings on follow our special coverage in the Entertainment section (or Flash!), here’s a preview.

**No, I’m not being asked to shamelessly promote the paper I work for, I’m just showing support for my colleagues who will be interviewing, photographing, and taping the craziness in the name of journalism.

Excuses, excuses

2010-10-22T13:07:00.000-04:00

I've been traveling, I've been writing for the paper, I've been watching Mad Men...

Here's is a recap of what I've had published this month.

Música 24/7: Cierran las calles. Empiezan con la famosa 6th Street, la calle de las barras, en Downtown. Poco a poco, durante la semana, el tránsito humano reemplaza el tráfico de carros por casi todo el sur de Austin, Texas. Y se desparrama la música. Baja por South Congress, cruza los puentes y se insinúa por South Lamar, la escuchas aunque no te lo propongas, aunque no estés viendo en el show.

Vibrante el East End de Londres: Salir de la estación Aldgate East del Underground es ingresar al meollo de la acción y el bullicio. Decenas de personas de todas partes del mundo recorren con prisa, esquivando vendedores y promotores, las calles laberínticas del East End de Londres, donde se conectan los barrios de Whitechapel, Brick Lane y Spitalfields.

In One Cook's Hands: I grew up on carne mechada and fried plantains the way most American kids my age were raised on pot roast and mashed potatoes. My brother and I would get home from school and dart through the kitchen past Carmen, the woman who’s cooked and kept house for my grandmother since as far back as I can remember, as she flipped a fork-tender bistec (steak) as it sizzled or hovered over a pot of simmering beans that exhaled the smell of recao and garlic with the steam. Yet it never occurred to me to ask her how to make any of the soul-soothing comida criolla, or comfort food, she piled high on my plate. Puerto Rico is where I was born, where I grew up, and where I currently reside. But it’s not where I learned to cook.

Quiz Night at the Dial Arch

2010-10-22T12:50:00.002-04:00

It’s amazing how quickly the brain sorts information, specially when lubricated with a room temperature ale at an English pub in Southeast London. The quizmaster—a thirtyish bartender with a microphone and a list of questions—made the rounds of the booths and tables, repeating the question, “What is the capital of Uruguay?”

My brain, a depository of useless information, ideal for activities such as this, went through the following process: map of South America, Uruguay is not Paraguay, Uruguay is across the river from Argentina, Buenos Aires is across the river from… “Montevideo!”

Five of us at the table, my friends looked up at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

We wrote down the answer on our already rather soiled piece of paper, satisfied smiles acknowledging our progress, each question getting closer to our goal tonight: Not be last place.

When I was exchanging marathonic facebook messages with my new best friend Andie, the friend of my ex who I was going to be staying with in London, she asked if I minded going to the pub with them on Sunday night for their weekly Pub Quiz. I never mind going down to the pub and inquired about this Pub Quiz. A tradition in the UK, usually more widespread among towns and communities, where everyone goes to the pub—usually on a Sunday and even people who don’t drink—pay an entry fee (ours was two pounds each), and get handed a sheet of paper on which to answer a variety of trivia questions, occasionally go to lightning rounds where you can win a free drink, and overall just drink and think. I know, awesome, right?

Having nailed the Montevideo question, Andie and I got up to get the next round. I’d landed that morning at Heathrow and after a roast lunch at a pub in Covent Garden—pubs were something of a theme during my five days in London—we took the Thames Clipper from Sharing Cross down past Greenwich to Woolwich Arsenal, where Andie and her boyfriend Tom live (and where the football/soccer team Arsenal originated). It’s the London equivalent of Bayridge, a nice area with a lot of diversity and historic buildings—most of them arms factories, the lawns in front of them decorated with old cannons— that have been converted into flats or, as in the case of the Dial Arch where we found ourselves that night, pubs.

I’d been given a crash course on what to expect in terms of English beers and ales. First of all, they are not the same thing. To Americans the term beer covers everything from Budweiser (or piss, as its known in Europe) to microbrews. But the English have gradients. A beer is generally a lager, the yellow, lighter beer served cold, while an ale is a darker, more complex type of bitter served at room temperature. I asked where Guiness and other dark beers fell within this labeling matrix and we finally just came to the conclusion that Guinness is delicious and left it at that.

At the bar I knew that I needed to try some ales but as a former resident of the Czech Republic, and having been starved of decent Czech beer on tap for several years now, I had to order a Pilsner Urquell. One of the best things about the Dial Arch, though, is that they have 2 ounce tasting glasses so I got to sample one of their in-house cask ales and have my beer, too. Day one in England and I’d been doublefisting since lunch. The ale was surprisingly bitter but I think the hardest aspect to overcome is the temperature, because the expectation is that beer should be cold. But this wasn’t beer, it was ale.

We picked up a Pimm’s for Andie, a Guinness for Tom, and couple of other beers for our friends , some crisps (potato chips) and headed back to the table where the question was, “What was the name of the tree where Eve got the apple that tempted Adam?”

In my brain two simultaneous images came up, the Hieronymus Bosch painting of The Garden of Earthly Delights (not sure why...) and my high school English teacher Ms. Otero, who made us analyze Genesis as a work of literature. Somehow this combo resulted in, “The Tree of Knowledge.” To which I quickly added, “Wait, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.”

We wrote it down and the round ended. We swapped answer sheets with the table next to us and marked off right and wrong answers as the quizmaster announced them. Every time we realized we’d gotten one wrong we cringed but that’s what the beers were for.

At the end of the night we achieved our goal: the table next to us came in last place (without any tampering from us, mind you) and we came in next to last place. Overall, a very successful evening.

Oh, and in case you were wondering what time it is:

Los 3 Cuernos

2010-09-17T14:54:00.001-04:00

Craft store by day, hipster bar by night, is probably the most concise description of the Old San Juan pub known as Los 3 Cuernos. This translates into three things: beautiful decor, limited space, and flavored chichaito.

Walking through Old San Juan at night, streets glistening after a recent rain as yellow and white streetlights reflected off the cobblestones, I made my way from the central square of Plaza de Armas down Calle San Francisco. I fell into pace behind a lady carrying several loaded bags of groceries, slightly hunched, and vaguely aware of someone following her, on occasion glancing over her shoulder discreetly. For some reason she felt familiar to me but I couldn’t place her. Soon the lights of Plaza Colón and the dark shadow of the San Cristóbal fort came into view but instead of turning down towards the plaza she continued past a crowd of twenty-something year olds hanging out of a narrow entrance, up a couple of steps, under a wooden sign with the words Los 3 Cuernos roughly painted on, and into a colorful cave where music played loudly while a few televisions showed old movies in mute. I went in behind her.

It turned out I’d been following Nykaulys Cruz, one of the owners and operators of the store and the bar Los 3 Cuernos. Her son, Francisco Alejandro, waited near the back. She cut through the crowd and handed over the grocery bags which I now saw contained several handles of rum and anisette as well as a few gallons of fruit juice. He disappeared into a small fluorescent kitchen and Nykaulys turned her attention to the bustling bar. What during the day is a store counter now had wooden stools in front and behind it Nykaulys’s daughter, also named Nykaulys, a marketing student at Ithaca college, quickly dispensed Medallas (a local beer) or shots to customers waving dollar bills.

The bar is a perfect example of necessity being the mother of invention. It’s a family business started by the father and appropriated by the son but run by the whole family.

A store turned bar

Los 3 Cuernos existed for many many years exclusively as a fine arts and craft stores on the north side of Plaza Colón. This square—named for the statue of Christopher Columbus atop a tall white column at its center—is flanked on the eastern side by the fort San Cristobal, Teatro Tapia (the oldest theater in the Caribbean) on the south, and lined by an array of restaurants, pubs, and souvenir stores making it both prime real estate and a hub of steep competition for a locale that is literally a hole in the wall.

The store, owned and operated by José Cruz, an artist, teacher (he was my art teacher in both elementary and high school and to this day I still refer to him as Mr. Cruz), and former hippie with salt and pepper hair and beard, glasses, and a loud, raspy laugh. The store specialized in Vejigante masks, giving Los 3 Cuernos—literally The Three Horns—its name. Vejigantes, a kind of colorful demon, are iconic characters of Puerto Rican folklore. The traditional mask is carved from a coconut (while the Ponce Vejigante is made with paper machê) and has slit-like eyes, a stub nose, and a grinning mouth with two square teeth and a tiny, rectangular tongue sticking out. The mask is topped off with long sharp horns, usually three but really as many as the artist wants/can fit on the head of the demon. The masks are chaotically colorful. Aside from the masks, handmade ceramics and woodcarvings with the Vejigante theme were also on display, each handmade by Cruz. But with steep competition and a failing economy the tiny store was floundering.

It was Cruz’s son, Francisco Alejandro, who masterminded the transformation of Los 3 Cuernos.

When I asked him how his father felt about turning the store into a bar he was very frank. “He doesn’t like it,” adding, “Pero es lo que deja chavos.” Its what makes money.

As a musician and college student, alcohol plus young people seemed like an obvious formula but its also common knowledge that opening a bar is generally a risky endeavor, specially in an area as saturated with well-known restaurants and bars as Old San Juan. So Francisco Alejandro, now an entrepreneurship student at the UPR, found a spin on a classic and created a niche for Los 3 Cuernos that draws young people to the bar in droves: flavored chichaito.

The original flavor tastes like licorice with a sharp sweetness from the rum. Spiked with fresh juice and fruit, the chichaito become beautifully colorful, belying a time bomb of sugar and alcohol that hits you like a truck once you finally get up. That first night that I went, I watched Nykaulys Sr. pull out several plastic gallons full of the stuff from giant refrigerators under the bar: cloudy white coconut, bright orange guava, murky brown tamarindo, and the clear original. She filled empty glass flasks of Palo Viejo rum, each with a different flavor. Occasionally she would serve out a shot if it was requested, handing the money to Nykaulys Jr. Soon Francisco Alejandro joined them, stopping first to change the music on the stereo.

Even now the green and blue walls of the bar—some with murals of Vejigantes dancing— are covered with ceramic plaques, masks, and other crafts. Handwritten menus on the walls and columns advertise their drink special—there’s El Combo #7, a shot of chichaito and a Medalla for $2 but for a group El Cuernazo is a particularly good value, a flask of chichaito and a six-pack of Medalla $10. They also serve different types of coffee and recently added tacos to the menu. Even the next few times I went the place was packed and the crowd consistently young, attractive, and talkative, often speaking in a mix of English and Spanish. It’s the kind of place where it’s easy to sit at the bar with a flask of chichaito, a couple of plastic shot glasses, and make friends. And maybe buy some high quality crafts while you’re at it.

Located at:

Calle San Francisco #403, Viejo San Juan( frente a la plaza Colon, parada #17 del trolley)

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Crema de Zanahorias y Calabasa

2010-09-09T10:42:00.002-04:00

Whenever Julia Child dropped something on camera or flipped a potato pancake too early or generally fumbled about the kitchen in a manner that made the BBC believe that she was drunk, she would look at the camera, her trademark smile fading for a moment.

"Never apologize," she said, looking the housewife taking copious notes of her deceptively easy recipes straight in the eyes. "Just smile and serve your food as if nothing was wrong."

Most of the time, no one except you thinks anything is wrong anyway.

Me, I cook with disclaimers. "Its too spicy, its a little messy, I know what I did wrong..." But heaven help you if you don't eat the damn thing.

Today, though, right now in fact, five minutes away from dashing out the door to work, I've just eaten something that I invented that I have to say is absolutely f-ing good. Maybe its because I'm starving or have no... Shut up! Its good, OK?

Its been a long haul to get to this particular moment, not just cooking this wonderful thing but actually writing about it (and a recipe no less!). See, for the past months I've been struggling with two things: ingredients I don't know how to use and an article I owe to a certain website that is run by a certain food writer who started this whole blog and article ball rolling. (Hi, David).

So on the one hand, I haven't really cooked anything worth telling anyone about except maybe my cat Ziggy whose undivided attention on my plate is indiscriminate of whether its a piece of filet mignon or nonfat yogurt so she doesn't count. And on the other hand, I've barely been writing because it feels like writing blog posts when I owe an article is like missing your daughter's game but making it to your son's recital. Someone's feelings are going to get hurt.

But this week, I've been making breakthroughs. Handed in a new column, got myself a deadline for the infamous article, and made a delicious delicious soup using Puerto Rican ingredients (which can easily be acquired in the States/ are in season right now). No disclaimers, no excuses, its just simple and good.

So for your enjoyment-- did I mention that the recipe is quick, easy, and cheap? Well there you are-- the first thing I've cooked in a long time that wasn't scrambled eggs.

Crema de Zanahorias y Calabasa

Ingredients:

- 1 lb. (bunch) carrots, peeled and cut into 1 in. rings
- 1.5 lbs (about half a medium sized) calabasa squash or pumpkin, peeled and roughly cut into cubes
- 1/2 onion, chopped
- 1 small green pepper, chopped
- 2 garlic cloves, minced
- 1 heaping teaspoon sofrito (if you don't have just puree together cilantro, recao or saweed if you can find it, garlic, onion, green pepper, oregano or basil, ajíes dulces which are mild cascable-shaped peppers that's related to the habanero, water- DO NOT USE THE SHELF STABLE STUFF, it will ruin the flavor of everything you make)
- 2 teaspoons brown sugar
- 1 can (about two cups) chicken broth
- Salt and pepper
- Olive oil
- Pique or another mild tasting hot sauce (optional)

In a deep pot, heat some olive oil and sweat the onions and green peppers until soft. Add garlic and sofrito, allow to cook for a few more minutes. Toss in the carrots and mix in with the flavor base, allowing them to cook for about five minutes until they start to soften. Add the calabasa or pumpking, mix everything together.

Sprinkle the sugar, salt and pepper over everything then add the chicken broth. If the liquid doesn't quite cover the carrots and calabasa add a little water, but its all right if they aren't completely submerged. Bring to a boil, then partially cover and reduce to a simmer. When the carrots and calabasa are soft enough to easily be pierced by a fork, about 10 to 15 minutes, then take the pot off heat and allow to cool down.

When its sufficiently cooled, puree into a cream in either a food processor or a blender. Taste for seasoning and add either more salt and pepper or sugar if necessary. Reheat and serve spiked with hot sauce if you're into that sort of thing.

** I'm out of the habit of taking pictures of food but I assume you know what orange puree looks like.

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Homesick?

2010-08-27T12:40:00.002-04:00

Feels like all I talk about lately is New York.

Its like that scene in Mean Girls when pre-cocaine Lindsay Lohan is talking to her friend about how much she hates Rachel McAdams and that's ALL she talks about. I guess its not entirely inaccurate to say New York is that hot girl in school that's also a bully and who is absolutely fascinating for some reason.

Below are the links for the respective articles. Two out of three are about food (surprise, surprise). And, not gonna lie, pretty excited to go visit the city in October on the heels of my London trip.

Free and Cheap in New York City: Guest post for the CheapOAir blog. Late fall is the best time to visit New York: the weather is cooling down but the outdoor events are still going on. Last chance to visit Governor's Island, enjoy some food truck waffles in the middle of Times Square, and stroll through the Cloisters while the leaves start changing colors.

Dónde comer en Manhattan: My latest Escapadas article about (relatively) cheap but always interesting and good restaurants below 14th street in Manhattan. On the list, among several others: Katz's Deli, Momofuku Milk, and Corner Bistro.

I'm also including some deleted scenes from my column that were cut because of space. It includes a few other places worth checking out when wondering how to best stuff you face in the city that never sleeps:

Calles para explorar

Bleecker Street: Recorriendo el West Village, en esta calle encuentras tiendas boutique de productos artesanales. Entre los sitios para visitar (que quedan uno al lado del otro) están Amy’s Bread, Murray’s Cheeses, Faccio’s Italian Specialties y Porto Rico Coffee Importing.

MacDougall Street: Con una mezcla particular de comivetes israelís, restaurantes Italianos y clubs de comedia, MacDougall tiene algo para todos. Mamouns Falafel es uno de los chichorros más reconocidos en el Village donde un falafel te sale a $2.50. También puedes tomar un café en la acera y mirar la gente pasar en Caffe Reggio.

St. Mark’s Place: Comienza en Astor Place y termina en Tompkin Square Park, St. Mark's Place es una de las calles con más color y actividad en el Village. Restaurantes asiáticos comparten la cuadra con barras de cerveza y "headshops". Para una experiencia fuera de lo común prueba Kenka, un restaurante de tapas japonesas con un ambiente… particular. Llega hasta Crif Dog, para hot dogs extremos y una barra estilo “speakeasy” escondida detrás de un teléfono público dentro del local.

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How to Fall in Love with a Place

2010-08-17T12:02:00.001-04:00

The river split the city in two while ornate bridges worked like stitches connecting one half to the other. The spired Parliament building led the façade that eventually spread out into the tapestry of short, grey buildings that were Pest. Behind us on the Buda side, the red clay roofed houses suggested a fairy tale town that was more show than substance. I was sitting with Tünde, my Hungarian friend, at the top of Buda Castle, getting a run down on why Pest is infinitely cooler than Buda.

I tried to carefully observe all the miniscule structures that created the labyrinth that is Pest, the mix of architectures, the flowing river that reminded me of the Spree, the Seine, the Río Grande de Loiza— all while sitting on a Castle-Cathedral that was a distant cousin of the one I’d visited a few days earlier in Prague. That day my friend Nick had noted with frustration how impossible it is to see every beautiful thing, every detail, take in every element that together creates the whole that is immediately, but vaguely, beautiful.

I’d been told that I would love Budapest. Most people love Budapest—Tünde certainly did and with good reason. But even with this moment and the subsequent ones—the bars and cafés, Tünde’s eccentric and charming friends, the meals, the hot springs, the walks by myself trying to get to know the city—even with that heightened awareness that comes with the threat of departure, I wasn’t in love.

There are definitely places I’ve fallen in love with, cities in particular that I feel a strong a connection to for reasons I couldn’t explain. But it was Budapest that got me thinking about cities in this way. Nothing makes you think about what something is than experiencing what it is not.

So how do you fall in love with a place?

The Wow Moment

Stepping off the U-Bahn into this giant metal structure illuminated blue and white—the curving, gargantuan shell that is Potsdamer Platz— was my first introduction to Berlin. Driving down the snaking roads of the mountains of Rincón through a tunnel of flamboyanes, bright blue Caution Tsunami signs breaking up the wall of green at either side of the car while Jim Morrison crooned from the radio, “This is the end, my only friend, the End.” Those are the moments when you know, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

The Narrative

Not just anecdotes, but the story structure of the visit. The most satisfying narratives are the ones where the main character changes during the course of the story—sometimes by being hurt, sometimes by earning what he strived for, or getting what they need. As a traveler, the best locations are the ones that make a dent in your structure. While you won’t love every place that affects you, you can’t love a place unless it affects you. Its like watching a movie. Some movies you love—Chicago—, some you recognize as great but can’t really get into—Bali—, others are life-changing masterpieces that you’re glad you saw but would rather not see again—New York —and some are guilty pleasures—Texas.

Prolonged Exposure

Prague wasn’t love at first sight but I realized I’d fallen in love when my friends reminisced about everything they missed about the States and I realized, for the first time in my life, there was nowhere else I would rather be than exactly where I was. As someone with a chronic case of wanderlust that’s a big thing to experience. But it took finding my routine, my spots within that city, learning to read the effects of it history and how closely they resembled those of where I came from, that changed my relationship to Prague.

Love

Sometimes the relationship to a place becomes intrinsically linked to a relationship to a person. It’s the Casablanca effect, “We’ll always have Paris.” And its never the broad strokes, the larger picture that lingers, but details—a pan de piquitos (EPI baguette) still warm from the oven shared over hot chocolate one morning in Córdoba, getting lost in El Morro while slightly drunk, sharing Pakistani food in a park at the edge of the East River watching the sun set over New York (disclaimer: I do love Brooklyn). Because once you leave a place what’s left is memories.

Not Being In Love

Creating a relationship with a place is just as absurd and irrational as the connections people form with each other. All the elements were in place for me to fall head over heels for Budapest: the dual almost contradictory nature of the two parts, the long, winding history that started at the maze under Buda Castle, went up through the Soviet-era buildings and into the tea shops and bookstores exploding on the screen when I saw Taxidermia, a Hungarian film that somehow married beautiful and gruesome. But the city and I would only have this fling together.

The places you aren’t in love with are the ones that act as a foil to the ones you do fall head over heels for. Even a short relationship, is an important one. Its part of those little details that come together to create a whole that is immediately, but vaguely, beautiful.

Impressions of Amsterdam

2010-08-13T08:45:00.001-04:00

“I watched the universe fall apart. Twice. When I went to Amsterdam,” was one of the first thing my now ex-boyfriend told me when we met. A concise, albeit dramatic, summary of what Amsterdam means to the uninitiated. Mushrooms are no longer legal in Holland, by the way.

Amsterdam is an idea, a threat really. When someone says, “I’m going to Amsterdam,” the first thing that pops into your head isn’t the Van Gogh Museum (for some it might be, some people have class), its brownies. Special brownies.

But if smoking weed is all Amsterdam is to you then the words of Wells Tower’s customer in a recent GQ article become unavoidably true: “For a visitor, there are two very happy days in Amsterdam—the day you get here and the day you leave.” Granted, I don’t like weed. But even I couldn’t avoid the fact that coming to Amsterdam meant making a certain type of commitment: the universe better f-ing collapse.

The spring break I visited the city with my friends, we were at our first coffeeshop within a couple of hours of arriving. Hunger got the best of us, so after we had a giant lunch of Chinese food—an appropriate enough option considering the circumstances— and dropped off our bags at our hostel/Irish pub, we set out to explore. I don’t think we took the time to admire the beautiful harbor or savor the spring weather or look up what spots other than the Red Light District we should explore because as young tourists visiting Amsterdam for the first time, we were on the mission. After the mission was completed, then we’d take the boat tour of the canals.

As four of us split a brownie, terrified that we would leave the shop hallucinating, screaming, and tearing our clothes off (turns out splitting a brownie between that many people got exactly none of us got high and the brownie was OK), except Jessica. She wasn’t messing around with carbs when what she was looking for was weed. An ardent lover of ganja, Jessica smoked daily so for her visiting Amsterdam was a type of pilgrimage. She ordered a giant joint that came in a plastic capsule. With a thick blunt between the index and middle finger, her face lit up and taking her first drag it was like she’d finally found home. About a quarter of the way through, though, her cheeks flushed, she put out the blunt, and announced she had to go back to the hostel to lie down. She stayed there for the rest of the afternoon.

Meandering around that afternoon we also found the prostitutes. And their union. The Sex Workers Union. We took pictures of the building but not of them. In the middle of the afternoon these scantily-clad, bored-looking women sit on display in narrow storefronts, smoking cigarettes, leafing through magazines, looking about as threatening and horny as cubicle workers.

About halfway through day one of the mission, weed, sex workers, and the Red Light District start to get old. And everything else starts to come into focus.

I began to notice the city itself. Amsterdam is the walking city to end all walking cities. Bridges connect streets over meandering canals but without that whole sinking thing Venice has going on. The pace of life feels slower, bicycles are favored over cars, people are friendly and speak seven languages. Narrow colorful houses arranged side by side along the water have a harmonious flow to them.

Whereas some people genuinely fall in love with the coffeeshops, for me it was the endless amount of cheese and wine shops that made a strong case for missing the plane and just staying on as a newly minted local. No one ever talks about the food in Amsterdam. Colorful munchies stands are everywhere, serving hot dogs, waffles, and pizza at any time. Big open-faced crepes called pancakes covered in both savory and sweet complements are also featured prominently. The best way to start the day Having an ice cold Heineken at a sidewalk café by one of the canals.

Eventually we even found our way to the Van Gogh Museum, located by a large park with a lawn that invites you to sit and enjoy the day. Instead of visiting the museum, though, we decided to pose mock-provocatively in front of the DAM portion of the giant Amsterdam sign at the end of the lawn (sort of a requirement if you’re a tourist). During that afternoon, while lying on the grass, ten of us finished off Jessica’s blunt and the day actually did look that much more beautiful.

Naturally, we spent our last night in the city trying the rest of the bevy of sweet creations laced with weed available at the coffeeshops: cookies, milkshakes, tea… The universe did not fall apart, in fact aside from getting my debit card stolen it was a fairly uneventful trip. Sure we also visited Anne Frank’s House, the main square, bought some clogs…

My friends felt three days was enough time to visit Amsterdam because, “There’s really not that much to do here,” but I left feeling I’d only skimmed the surface. My impression is it can either be a quick jolt of legalized substance abuse, Heineken, walking around, tourist attractions, and done! Or… you can take your time with it. Unlike with Paris or Rome, falling in love with Amsterdam takes time. You have to be willing to slow down. And come down from the high.

** Pictures by Olga Bichko.

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Drinking and Travel

Northern Bohemia: Part 1 and Part 2

Drinking and Travel

2010-08-10T07:08:00.000-04:00

Most nights started with a box of wine. They cost the equivalent of 50 cents down at the potraviny—the Czech version of a New York deli—and were the perfect pregame agents. My flatmates would cut a corner off the top and insert a straw, drinking it like a box of juice while they applied make up, swapped shoes, and tried on new dresses and shirts. When they eventually got to the club they would have a shot or six of becherovka or vodka, followed by several large pints of excellent beer. And this was their routine every night for four months.

I shared a floor in Nuslé, a far-flung neighborhood all the way out in Praha 7, with 7 other girls. On the floor bellow us was a room with 8 boys and above us the common area that housed three more girls. As a film student, I would observe my flatmates’ preparations for their nights out from my storyboards and script drafts. All the film students did because while we had daily 8 am classes, the rest of NYU in Prague was really there to party.

But despite the fact that my nights of going out to clubs and bars were limited to Tuesday nights—when they played 80’s music at this one club in Praha 1—, weekends, and the occasional trip to another country, beer was always present. A beer with lunch, a beer with dinner, a beer in the evening while brainstorming movie ideas—the culture demanded it. I fell in love with beer in the Czech Republic.

In Madrid, my drinking routine became more regular. My friends could always drink me under the table because partying to them just came more naturally. At least two of them were Russian. But every Tuesday and Thursday after play rehearsal we went for drinks with the theater professor, a skinny, Anthony Bourdain type, to a bar that already knew to have our table ready with the complementary tapas and seven beers. On the weekend, nights often ended at 5 am.

From my experience studying abroad and from most anecdotes I hear from travelers my age, drinking while traveling seems as necessary to the experience as getting lost in public transportation. When my ex, Robin, lost his debit card in Budapest he strategized his last bit of cash as follows: he bought a bottle of liquor and went out to make friends. It worked and he was housed by some Hungarian guys for a week before he was able to get a replacement card.

This probably wouldn’t be your experience in most Arab countries or certain parts of Asia. My friend Nick spent six months doing martial arts training in China where alcohol would’ve been a welcomed respite but also a distraction. When my classmate Nicole worked at an NGO in Cambodia her stories were about traditional dance rehearsal rather than nights out getting crossed eyed on liquor. The most extreme case was my friend Eissa, who visited his family in Libya where alcohol is illegal. But so many Western countries excel at alcohol and the Western stock of traveler—particularly Americans and Brits—seem at their least inhibited when not in their home-countries. Marc, a French man of the world, lived off bagels and peanut butter in New York but powered through several beers when we invited him out with us.

To what degree is drinking part of traveling for you? Would you miss it if you couldn’t drink while traveling? Are all my friends just alcoholics?

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Soup & Sandwich

Block Island, RI

5 Food Places I Wish I’d Taken Advantage of When I Lived in New York

2010-07-29T12:39:00.005-04:00

I don’t miss living in New York. It’s a difficult, cold city if you’re not head over heels in love with it. But I also think back on all the missed opportunities—the places I now wish were only a $2.50 subway ride away from me, the flavors and atmospheres I missed and the ones I should’ve been devoted to instead of wasting my time on… other places I don’t currently miss or even remember.

While I won’t get that era of my life back, I know where to go when I visit. And I visit a lot.

Sahadi’s

When I lived in Beorum Hill, Brooklyn, my housemates would often come home loaded up with fresh ground spices, exotic chocolates bought in bulk, spinakopia and baklava the size of your hand and would rave about how good and cheap everything was in this store on Atlantic Avenue called Sahadi’s. It was like heaven in bulk apparently. But I never actually went there until I left Beorum Hill for Sunset Park—which is several subway lines away. My tipping point for getting off my lazy, convenience-centric ass was Ajay— a gourmand who has yet to lead me astray— and who on an expedition for some very good Middle Eastern food on Atlantic Avenue, finally took me to Sahadi’s. The storefront is very plain and therefore easy to miss, specially since it is flanked by nice-looking delis displaying fresh produce and flowers. Once inside, though, the busy crowdedness acknowledges the fact that this place is indeed awesome. Boxes of falafel and couscous line the shelves, while sauces with labels in Arabic and Hebrew compete for attention with bins of soft flatbreads breads and cookies. Further into the store is a counter where you can buy stuffed grape leaves and other oil-soaked delicacies like seafood salads, or stuffed pastries containing everything from meat to mushrooms. In an adjacent room, bags of spices, nuts, dried fruit, whole grain coffee, and different varieties of candy surround a square counter where men bag and weigh your selections. The smells of the place are thick and mixed up, transitioning from the dry mustiness of the canned section to the slick oily, fishy smell of the deli counter and the earthiness of the dried goods that fly from bin to scoop to bag every few seconds. Why I didn’t just live in this place is beyond me.

The Chinese Supermarket

From Beorum Hill I landed in Elmhurst, Queens, and once again I had no idea the culinary opportunity I completely wasted. I lived next to the Great Wall Supermarket and I had no idea what that even meant. Whenever I walked around my street I saw people carrying groceries in red plastic bags. I once asked a couple of guys about this and they told me that they were shopping in the supermarket across Queens Boulevard. “They have everything.” I went searching for it but the outside resembled a gritty wholesale facility rather than the sterile, clearly labeled supermarkets I knew and loved. Going in through the narrow glass doors of the main entrance was like stepping through the rabbit hole. To say this place was overwhelming is similar to saying Chinatown tends to get crowded. This place was insane. The first shock to the system comes from the glass aquariums full of living, scary looking seafood like eels and crawfish stationed right near the entrance and manned by angry, shouting Chinese butchers. The produce was unrecognizable—many Chinese greens I’d kill for right now, fruits with strange names and textures I’d love to try but back then I just wanted apples. Although the entire space was about the size of a warehouse, the aisles were packed so tightly together they created a giant labyrinth of—yes—mostly Asian products. In the bakery aisle I found cookies with scallions in them and had a glimpse of future me when I experienced a thrill at seeing this out of place ingredient and almost bought them. Almost. All the noodles had big Chinese and Japanese characters across them but I couldn’t tell buckwheat from soba. I had no idea what Chinese Five Spice Powder was or that tamarind sauce was a key ingredient in Pad Thai. I was at the right place for someone like me but at completely the wrong time. It was before Bittman, before the food blogs, before I realized not eating meat was stupid (for me, at least)… I left the supermarket empty-handed, making a mental note to return and never did.

East Village Cheese

Murray’s Cheeses is the cheese shop I frequented when my company moved offices from Tribeca to the West Village. While very pretty and very well-stocked, Murray’s is also very expensive. And I can’t justify why I wasn’t just taking the extra ten-minute walk to its cheaper, grittier fraternal twin in the East Village. I first heard about East Village Cheeses sophomore year and the words “so cheap” were used in the same sentence. I’d walked by the store a million times, reading their ever-changing menu of cheeses plastered in handwritten signs across the glass storefront but it wasn’t shiny and expensive-looking enough to pull me in. One evening Robin and I happened to be in the neighborhood, we needed cheese, so we jumped at the chance to try it out. We were like kids in a candy store. Aside from cheeses, this plainly decorated, fluorescent-lit wonderland also had oil-soaked wonderful things like Sahadi’s. Murray’s didn’t have that. We ordered a half-pound each of a soft, not too pungent blue cheese, a tangy Bulgarian feta, sharp cheddar for mac and cheese, a small block of parmesan, marinated mushroom, stuffed grape leaves, and sardines. The total came to $40. At Murray’s we would’ve paid $40 for the cheeses alone. An extra ten minute walk was all it would’ve taken me. Laziness is expensive.

McSorley’s Ale House
In the 1970’s a group of brave women went to court to overturn a biased, backwards rule that did not allowed to them to go drink at McSorley’s Ale House. I have put those women’s efforts to waste. I can count on one hand how many times I visited McSorley’s in the six years I lived in New York City. I’m not saying it was going to become my watering hole—there are other bars that should’ve been that for me and weren’t like Lillie’s or the Austrian pub in the Lower East Side—but so many days my friends and I would wonder, where should we go and I don’t understand why once in a while one of us didn’t think, Why not McSorley’s? What the place lacks in beer varieties—they only serve McSorley’s Ale Dark or Light, served in half-pint glasses and you have to order two at a time—they make up for in atmosphere and history. The lighting is dim and seedy like an old pub should be, often crowded though rarely impossible to find at least part of a table if you’re willing to make friends. The head waiter is a white-haired old Irishman you’ll find smoking in front of the entrance as often as you’ll find in the bar serving up chips and pints. The floor is covered in sawdust and the walls are thickly decorated with dust-caked portraits of stern old Irish men, taxidermied animals including a jackelope, Houdini’s handcuffs, and most famously a wax-covered chandelier. I heard the legend behind it from Angel Aragones, a Spanish artist and surrealism professor. Apparently a group of friends about to be shipped off to World War Two each hung a wishbone from the chandelier. Those who came back from the war, claimed their wishbones. The ones left belong to those who never returned. Be Good or Be Gone.

Essex Street Market

I never even went to this place. Its an indoor market in the style of the Chelsea Markets but infinitely cooler. The Essex Street Market was created in 1940 by mayor Fiorello LaGuardia. The idea was to get street merchants off the streets so that police cars and fire trucks could wail their siren’s song from avenue to avenue unimpeded by food carts. Aside from the usual collection of beautiful produce and breads available at most markets in New York, they also have stands that sell artisanal chocolate and candy made with bacon, hard to find Puerto Rican products like ajíes dulces, salted cod, and recao, fresh fish and meat, and you can even buy art or get a haircut while doing your shopping. This is top of my list on my next visit.

For more ideas on places to check out visit Forgotten New York or the Time Out New York website where I found some of my best date idea often for cheap or free.

** I know the pictures don't match.

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Fuera del Centro

2010-07-25T14:03:00.001-04:00

So a second one means this is actually happening, right?

Sweet.

Here's my latest article for my column Escapadas (in Spanish), published in beautiful ink and paper on the pages of the De Viaje section of El Nuevo Día.

Basically its about what to do in Madrid once you're done being a tourist-- specially if you're looking to not sleep.

Oh, and I don't pick the titles.

De juerga en Madrid.

** I feel this picture pretty aptly describes what most nights in Madrid turn into.

Nothern Bohemia: Part Two

2010-07-23T13:29:00.002-04:00

Kladno

After searching Google using phrases like “coats shoes hanging from the ceiling” “mining town performance art czech republic” my efforts at finding exactly what it was Otto took us to in the Central Bohemian town of Kladno proved fruitless. I searched Kladno in the New York Times online which turned up stories from 1939 with headlines like “German policeman slain near Prague; Nazis punish area” and lots of news about the Kladno soccer team. I visited Kladno’s official website but they’re not exactly flouting the abandoned mining facility just outside town that gets taken over by experimental Eastern European performance artists once a year.

So for now I really only have a story and some cool pictures for you, which is really all I ever have for you.

We rolled into Kladno after visiting the bone chapel. (That post unfortunately will have to wait.) None of us had ever really seen a place like this. Back in the day before the Reds and the Nazis, Kladno was the main employer of the region, having both a coalmine and a steel factory in full production. Two World Wars, a Soviet occupation, and a transition into an independent republic later, people started getting laid off in droves. Which was fine, because those same people were moving to Prague and opening businesses in town, until slowly but surely the mine and the factory seized to work.

The day we visited was overcast adding to the atmosphere of gloomy industrial wasteland but the buildings themselves were strangely beautiful. The structures of black and grey metal above felt perfectly fossilized and around us they were framed by a tamed and manicured nature. It almost felt like workers would be coming back from lunch any second now. In typical Czech fashion, even this dreary landscape was dotted with out of place color, like a bright orange and yellow train that was awkwardly small for the burly mine workers I presume it once took around. Or my friend Nick for that matter.

After Otto let us wander around like children exploring a new playground, he called us inside the main warehouse.

We stepped into an art installation. Coats and shoes hung by chains from the ceiling as white light crept in from the high glass windows. The large space was divided into two halves, one of which had a giant print out of a balding man with a moustache laminated to the floor. We later learned it was a picture of Josip Broz Tito, the last dictator of Yugoslavia.

We moved on to the next room. So much of the decoration had to do with squares and symmetry and pushing the relics of the past to an extreme where they lost their sense of reality and became a reflection of themselves. In a way by modernizing the space, the artist had managed to emphasize its own condition as a ghost, a memory, a link to a recent past that was also completely alien.

Then we found a naked female torso inside a locker with the picture of a froglike man’s face attached to it. The tone was set for what would follow.

After taking some dramatically lit pictures of the walls and each other, we made our way back into the warehouse with the hanging coats and the picture of Tito. A large crowd of people now filled the space and we sat on a long narrow bench and watched.

A man wearing a beret and a white artist smock was testing acrylics on the floor, while on the other half of the room a man with a beard spread a sheet next to Tito and placed a stool over it. The “performance” may have started but nothing was really happening so we walked around and chatted with Otto. He told us about a previous performance in this space where a Serbian artist took a giant flag of the European Union, cut out each of the stars with a razor blade then slit his wrists, pouring his blood over the flag as a protest of Serbia’s exclusion from the EU. Cool?

Finally the man with the artist frock stood up and started walking around the room. He would stop in front of certain people and scrutinize their faces. He picked a couple, then made his way to where we sat. He singled out Sofía, the other Puerto Rican in my class in Prague, who looked at him almost flirtatiously, coaxing him to pick her. Eventually he took her hand and pulled her into the center of his half of the room along with the couple. He arranged them into a circle facing each other then had each of them spread their legs. He placed a small canvas a few inches below each of their crotches then went over to one of the pulleys on the wall and lowered a large cloth tent over them. Their legs were the only part of them still visible. The artist slid under the canvas tent and got to work painting between his subjects’ legs.

And that was it for a while on that end of the warehouse.

We made our way to the other side where the bearded man now sat on a chair, a white cloth tied around his neck. A woman with an electric razor started shaving him. As his beard came off and only a moustache remained he began to imitate the head tilt and angle of Tito’s portrait. The similarity between the two was uncanny.

Once the beard, cloth, and stool had been removed, the Tito look-alike went over to one of the pulleys and brought down a leather jumpsuit with ice skates attached at the legs.

He also lowered some chains over the portrait of Tito. Taking off his shirt and pants, he put on the leather jumpsuit and precariously got to his feet. Pigeon-toed, he waddled over to the chains, grabbed on and started swinging over the portrait of Tito, slashing it with the ice skates, the sound of sharp metal against concrete a repetitive dry hiss, the crowd hushed observing him. He stopped and was handed a large bottle of water. He took a big gulp and spit it all over the picture in a loud spurt. He did this several times then just started pouring the water on the ground with something like rage. Again he grabbed the chains, swung around slipping and sliding over the face of the Yugoslav dictator, shredding his face—that looked like his own face—with the ice skates. When he was sufficiently rid of his anger, he stopped and everyone applauded.

This wasn’t weird at all.

The crowd ambled over back to where we’d left our human canvases and after a little while the artist finished. He slid out from under the canvas tent and took off his beret, uncovering long, curly hair. He then took off his smock and his pants under which he was wearing nothing.

Otto whispered to us that he was actually a very well-known French exhibitionist. We all nodded in an oh-of-course sort of way. The naked Frenchman then pulled the canvas tent up and his three subjects sighed in relief.

He shook hands with each of them and they couldn’t hold back their surprise to find the man who had been laboring between their legs for the past 40 minutes was completely naked. He removed the canvases carefully and set them up for display in the other room. The resulting paintings were portraits of their genitals.

The buzz of conversation started again and people began wandering back out to the lobby. Otto was sufficiently blasé about the whole performance piece and looked very much in his element amidst the artsy European crowd. We all felt slightly confused, a little ripped off, and that this was possibly one of the cooler things we’d seen. It summed up what we already suspected about Europe, its obsessed with two things: the past and sex. Otto would later confirm this at his own exhibition in Prague on late 19th century and early 20th century Czech erotic art. But again, that post will have to wait.

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Northern Bohemia: Part One- Mosquito Mountain

Why I impulsively bought a ticket to London

2010-07-20T11:05:00.000-04:00

Almost everyone I know who has traveled even a little bit has a I-was-in-a-party-in-London story. This is something that I want very badly.

OK, you're right, that doesn't quite answer for my 2am purchase of a ticket on Icelandic Air for a week in October doing God knows what in the capital of England .

Would the fact that its my birthday week help?

You're right, its my birthday every year and unless I happen to be in a foreign country-- like when I studied in Prague-- still not a good enough reason for why I would decided this year I want to celebrate it in London where I hope my ex's friends will invite me to a party to fulfill my desire for a good story.

I guess my desire for a good story is kind of the bottomline. That and because right now I can honestly say, Why not?

Now that I'm writing about travel, it seems prudent that I should travel. Every day I read dozens of blogs by equally young, equally broke travelers who scrape and save or swindle their way into traveling abroad. They don't have those excuses of time, money, relationships, 9 to 5s, that so many people who say "I wish I'd gone there" or "I wish I'd done that" do. Now granted, it isn't that black and white. Currently I'm an ideal position to impulsively plan a trip to London-- did I mention via Iceland? Yeah, I get to spend a day in Iceland. I have no one to support, I live at home, a bed is not a requirement when I seek out lodgings in a foreign country (thought free or cheap is), and I've done this before. Basically, if not now, when?

I had an interesting phone call the other day with Time Warner (I know, this can go nowhere good). I'd been fighting with my ex over an unsettled bill which he insisted he'd already paid. So I called them myself and turns out it was just a miscommunication but the customer service rep at one point pauses and asks, "Do you live in Puerto Rico?" I was still wearing my tone of indignation that I've refined for talking to customer service reps of major phone and internet providers and I answer righteously, "Yes."

"What's that like, if you don't mind my asking?"

Struggling to get the indignation out of my voice and confused, "Its great, some of the time."

This was a sincere answer and the guy on the other end, somewhere in Texas, laughed. I then tried to smooth that out a little because every Puerto Rican knows that you have to sell the island well, even if later you're going to make fun of the same tourists you demand love your island. So I told him it was nice.

"That's great. I'm planning on going there with my wife in February."

We then have a ten minute exchange where I recommend he rent a car and he says he just wants to lie on a beach, until finally this semi-awkward discussion takes a tight left turn to, "Would you like to make that payment with a credit card?"

I settle my bill and before hanging up the guy tells me, "I think this is a sign that I need to just do it and go to Puerto Rico. Thank you for inspiring me. And thank you for choosing Time Warner, you have a great day."

I was so taken aback and delighted by this exchanged I called back my ex to tell him he should mail me a check and for the first time in months spoke to him in neither a stern nor slightly angry voice. I was nearly giggly.

Traveling is an investment, as I once tried to convince a friend of mine who was debating whether to chase the then man of her dreams who resided in Austria. The many annoyingly happy and Twitter-obsessed bloggers I follow will atest to this. So for me this trip to London is a step in their direction. Maybe next time it'll be Libya where my friend's family lives or Moscow or Seoul both of which hold a strange fascination for me, or a road trip around Spain... Other people are going so far as the Middle East and Australia, London is about as far from Puerto Rico as LA.

I don't know how long this will be sustainable or how prudent my impulsiveness is as a long-term planning mechanism, but for now I feel inspired and I have no reason not to go. And if I do have a reason not to go, hopefully my travel insurance will cover. Should be OK.

Did I mention I'm spending a day in Iceland??

Northern Bohemia: Part One

2010-07-14T08:39:00.003-04:00

Mosquito Mountain

Northern Bohemia is a region north of Prague where fourteen NYU film students spent 48 hours they would have otherwise spent in clubs and bars. But when our professor Otto Urban—a Czech art historian and curator who is as cool as his name—told us he was taking us to Northern Bohemia, it didn’t set up much in terms of expectations. When we pressed him for details he said things like mosquito mountain, bone chapel, mining town performance art piece… In other words, we really just had to trust his judgment on this.

So early one Saturday morning we loaded onto a bus. On our way, we stopped by a picturesque little house on the slopes of a town just outside the city where Otto stood, dressed in his uniform of khaki pants, blue shirt, and black vest, his long grey hair pulled into a ponytail, smoking a Camel Blue cigarette. He climbed in and as we drove away as his beautiful wife (our Czech language teacher) and their two perfect children waved goodbye to us.

The first mountain Otto took us to had what he promised us— in his casual, I-know-many-things-which-makes-me-very-sexy sort of way—Darwin had called the most beautiful place he’d ever seen. As able-bodied young people, a hike up a mountain with a forty-year-old chain smoker sounded like a walk in the park. Twenty-five minutes later, as we dragged ourselves higher and higher at a slower and slower pace, Otto waited patiently, smoking, while we caught our breath then continued upward at a good clip. A group old people also passed us on the way up.

We were rewarded at the top with a wooden table to sit at, a friendly black and white cat, and a breathtaking view. Green mountains asserted themselves gently through a hazy fog, the light of the morning still casting a golden glow on everything. We ate some sandwiches and played with the cat then headed back down.

A little past noon we pulled into Casanova’s chalet, a mansion in a sleepy little town where the great lover had spent his final years. The chalet featured some of the largest medieval weapons I’ve yet seen (think those balls with spikes on a chain attached to a stick and an executioner’s ax—why Casanova collected these things is disturbing to me). The chalet was also full of lavishly decorated bedrooms, of course, and secret rooms behind bookshelves where wax figures of the master lovemaker showed him in the middle of… writing at a desk (apparently he did other things aside from lots of women). The James Bond of his time even left behind a pink chair with a rose on it that when touched by a man gives him the abilities of a great lover. Girls aren’t allowed to touch it.

We wandered around the surrounding town a bit then headed to the next mountain on schedule: Mosquito Mountain. We were deposited in a little station at the based of the mountain. Among its charms, Mosquito Mountain has the longest ski lift in the Czech Republic. So splitting up into pairs, we sat on the old wooden chairs that creaked when they swung and took off. The view opened up behind us the higher we went. The trees, sometimes close enough to touch, sometimes twenty feet below us, were already starting to turn fall colors and when we weren’t riding over forest, wide green fields spread out under our feet. At the top, Otto, who rode the lift with us, pointed out the German border not too far away.

The only thing at the top of Mosquito Mountain was a hunting lodge where we would spend the night. Pelts, taxidermied birds and rodents, and the heads of deer and wild boars decorated the raw wooden walls and floors. A giant dog slept on a bear pelt it could easily have hunted. We were the only guests. The bus driver joined us for dinner in the inn’s restaurant and Otto headed the table announcing that NYU would be picking up the tab for the food (drinks were on us). Suddenly this became an all-you-can-eat buffet. The menu listed entrees like venison stew and wild boar rings, as well as a long array of starchy sides like bread dumplings, potato pancakes, and that lovely sweet and sour cabbage that accompanied every meal I had at a restaurant in the Czech Republic. The portions were huge but that didn’t stop some of the boys from ordering an additional pork shoulder because the meat was just falling off the bones. We chased this down with large pints of Pilsner Urquell, Staropraamen, and Kozel and topped it off with a dessert each. Sixteen people ate that night, 1.5 entrees each plus sides and dessert; the total bill was $300…

Like I said, with nothing else on that mountain except an inn and some woods, we eventually wandered outside where Jivko, a tall and very sweet Bulgarian, tried to spar with Nick, a very sweet martial artist who had trained in China for six months. Watching Nick kick at Jivko was impressive but didn’t do to entertain us for very long. At which point the group turned its attention towards the trees.

Lee, Brian, and I decided not to go into the pitch-black forest not so much because of fear, but because we didn’t think it was that great of an idea. Everyone else did. Merrily did they venture forth into the darkness while the three of us sat around a picnic table finishing some beers and talking.

As was recounted to us later, the group walked blindly through the trees using lighters and cell phones to light the way. They stopped sometimes to get their bearings and during a stop one of the girls took a step backwards and fell 8 feet into a hole. She screamed and her friend tried to pull her out and fell into the hole as well. There were several minutes of what’s happening, are you OK, what do we do.

Cut back to us sitting around mundanely star gazing at a picnic table.

The boys above ground finally organized. Jivko grabbed onto a tree and they formed a human chain locking arms, with Nick and Matt, the two strongest, leaning into the edge of the hole. All of this in pitch darkness.

Back at the picnic table, we’d been waiting for the intrepid group of explorers for almost half an hour before Brian finally blurted out:

“Where are these guys?”

A while later they crawled out of the woods covered in dirt, the two girls hugging each other, shaken by the whole ordeal. Nardeep, the voice of the group, laughingly recounted their foray into the unknown and danger. Still not sorry I didn’t go into those woods.

The next morning they told Otto about it and he was greatly amused. After breakfast they were actually able to find the hole the girls fell into and realized the entire forest was actually full of similar holes.

Otto looked down at the bog where two of the American students that had been put in his care were trapped in the middle of the night and laughed.

In the next chapter: Kladno...

** Pictures courtesy of Sofía Gallisá Muriente, an excellent photographer and filmmaker. rojosofia@gmail.com

I has a column

2010-07-11T09:24:00.000-04:00

Not that I don't love my blog but I have to plug the first issue of my new column Escapadas now in El Nuevo Día, the largest newspaper in Puerto Rico. The theme this week was The Caribbean so I wrote about one of the best vacations I ever had there: St. John in the US Virgin Islands. Its an awesome little island for camping, hiking, beach-going, and has a few decent pubs, as well as their own brewery.

I'm a little nervous about it obviously since its my first piece fully in Spanish and its my first piece so think of it as an early Simpsons episode: the animation is still a little weird, the characters aren't quite there yet, but hopefully it'll have a long run.

If you get the print edition of the newspaper check out the spread in the De Viaje section. Let me know how you like it and any improvements you'd like to see.

Cheers!

http://www.elnuevodia.com/comoperderseensaintjohn-739511.html

Middle of Nowhere Little Towns

2010-07-09T08:30:00.002-04:00

Sprawling metropolis are always fun, as are days out in total wilderness, although small islands with perfect beaches probably head the list of desirable destinations. But few are the accounts of those little in-between towns, the one-road, semi-suburban dots that connect on the road to the big city or the big mountain. For road trippers and bored twenty-something year olds with a car, those middle of nowhere little towns are pure traveler anecdote gold. Here are some of my small town stops, what are some of yours?

A Little Town Called West, Texas

Somewhere between Austin to Dallas on the I-35, an old railroad runs parallel to the highway and leads right into what looks like a movie set for a western that was abandoned in the middle of the Texas desert. A large wooden billboard proudly welcomes you to West, Texas: the Czech Point of Central Texas. Pop. 2,694. Apparently that movie set was then found by some homesick Czechs who then added the word Czech to everything… There is a Czech Inn (get it?), an Ole Czech Bakery, a Czech Stop Gas Station, a Czech Collectibles Store... Obviously, this was where I needed to have lunch while on my way to Dallas.

I was traveling with my ex-boyfriend, who was already my ex at the time but we were still friends —long story if you’re new to this blog— and he was accompanying me to visit my brother up in Dallas before I took my one-way flight back to Puerto Rico. We stopped by the Czech Inn to ask for a restaurant recommendation then ambled down to the main street. The buildings resembled low, flat barns painted blue, red or brown, a slight dusty haze over everything.

It was around 3 in the afternoon so when we walked into the Czech American, recommended as some of the best Czech food in town, the place was empty. The afternoon light outside was so bright it made the dimly lit dining room, seem underexposed. The interior was all wood with high ceiling and tables covered in plastic tablecloths, The family that ran the place was having lunch then and looked at us with expressions of stale annoyance. We sat down at a table by the back wall under a chalkboard advertising a surprising variety of pies and cakes. A sullen teenage girl in a T-shirt brought us our menus. The cover read Czech – American Restaurant “Specializing in Everything You Love to Eat!” Feeling reassured by this promise we ordered some Pilsner Urquells while we browsed the menu. Along with stuffed cabbage and sausage with kraut, apparently we also loved to eat chicken-fried steak and chips and salsa.

I was on one of my vegetarian phases at the time but the only non-meat option seemed to be that sad-looking salad bar with about four options: sour kraut, cole slaw, corn, and peas. When I asked our sullen teenage girl if they could make the stuffed cabbage vegetarian she looked at me as if I’d just asked her to serve me a small dog grilled. I ordered the meat-filled Czech stuffed cabbage that include ONE trip to the salad bar. As our teenager and another cook got to work in the kitchen, we took our small white plates and filled up on the salad bar fixings which were actually surprisingly delicious and fresh despite their lackluster presentation.

When the main event arrived… well, I mean, it was good. It wasn’t the amazing Czech food I got at the pub down the street in Nuslé back when I lived in Prague but it was serviceable. Overall our meal was like a bottled, imported Pilsner Urquell—its more about the idea of what it is.

We walked back out into the blasting sun like cowboys stepping out of a saloon, er, a Czech saloon, and went into the Collectibles Store where another teenager with a T-shirt manned the counter. It ended up being room after room full of antiques. Each had a theme: one was all mirrors, another all clocks, one all blue. Inside a room turned into a child’s bedroom I picked out an impossibly soft blanket for my niece and in the library room next to it found a Czechslovak Cookbook and, obviously, a Second Avenue Deli Cookbook for $2.

While we paid we asked this teenager, who was a lot less sullen than the one working the restaurant, why there was such a Czech theme to the town. Apparently the railroad had brought a lot of Czech immigrants to town and they had stayed. This was good enough for me. I took one of the flyers on the glass counter advertising Westfest, their yearly Czech heritage festival, and headed out.

Before continuing on our journey north, we stopped by the Ole Czech Bakery where a couple spoke with the half-blind owner about being Czech and the Czech Republic (not making this up). Apparently some of the older folks still speak the language. The bakery reminded me of a doctor’s waiting except instead of seats they had glass counters full of strudels, butchas, and kolaches. We picked up some day-old pistachio kolaches, much to the owner’s disappointed since they were so cheap, and made our way back to the car.

To this day I can only pronounce West, Texas with a Texas drawl. Wehhh-st Tehhhxis.

Stranded in Dover, New Jersey

Back when said ex and I were still together he somehow won a three day cruise for two in one of those raffles they have where you fill out your name and put down your phone number and that’s it. It was an all-expenses paid three-day trip to the Bahamas, the only things we had to do was visit one of their agencies for an orientation on the services that they offered. No obligations, no strings, just come down, listen to their spiel, and get our three day cruise. Their New York office, though, was in Dover, New Jersey. So we scheduled an appointment for 8 pm on a Tuesday.

It was February and that evening we met at Penn Station where we got on a New Jersey Transit train. Our journey would last an hour, as would the presentation, and we’d be just in time to catch our train back to the city. We watched House and shared sandwiches I’d picked up from Murray’s Cheeses. When we arrived at our stop most of the train was empty.

Dover is one of those non-descript little towns with a church, a few houses, some businesses scattered around, and a bar next to the train station. Aside from the passengers getting off (which weren't many) and the taxi drivers waiting around, the town seemed deserted at 8 pm on a frigid Tuesday night. It was like the opposite of a cruise but a cruise was what we were here for.

We arrived at an office building and were led into a conference room where a number of other couples of varying ages sat waiting. A woman stood at the front of the conference room with a slide projector and tried to sell us on wholesale vacations. After forty minutes of showing us slides of resorts made affordable because we bought reservations in bulk, she opened the doors of the conference room and about a dozen salespersons swoopedin calling out last names. Each couple was assigned a seller except for us and the other really young-looking couple. We were told to wait. Since we still hadn’t gotten our information about the cruise we hunted down the woman who gave the presentation who half-heartedly tried to sway us with their discount package while we made excuses about having to catch the train. We were given our reward for schlepping it out there and scurried out back into the cold.

When we arrived a train was already sitting by the station with the doors closed. We stood huddled against the wind talking about how awesome a three day cruise in the Bahamas was going to be. At the other end of the station were a rowdy bunch of Hispanic kids talking very loudly. A very long time went by and we kept our eyes on the doors, waiting for them to open but before they ever did, the train started moving. Suddenly I noticed the silence coming from the other end of the platform. “Did we just miss our train?” Only one door had opened at the front of the train and now we stood alone on the train platform watching the lit up words New York Penn disappear into the distance. The next train wasn’t for another 40 minutes. My insatiable ex was hungry so we decided to explore the town.

Our first stop was the loud bar next to the train station. A bunch of clearly under-aged and severely underdressed girls walked in before us and when we reached the bouncer, because I was over 21, I got an orange plastic bracelet. My ex didn’t just me. This wasn’t sketchy at all. Inside the music was very loud. I got a table but we didn’t stay for very long because apparently this bar didn’t serve food. So back into the cold we went, passing the under-aged girls with no bracelets smoking with older dudes outside the bar.

There was really only one street to choose from. We passed a church, turned a corner, and suddenly we were in Mexico. For blocks the only businesses were Mexican bakeries and restaurants, almost all of them closed or closing. We went about three blocks until we found one called Azteca. In the front the tables had chairs stacked on them but people were sitting at the bar and in booths near the back so we went in. Our waiter was a charismatic Mexican man who spoke good Jersey English in a thick Mexican accent. A few other men sat at the bar watching the telenovela. My ex was probably the only non-Spanish speaker in the whole place.

Our waiter placed a container of spicy tomato salsa and tomatillo salsa and what I can't help but think were homemade chips. The salsas were good, they had the rush of spicy sauce without the lingering burn afterwards. Our laminated menus listed everything as costing $8. I wasn't particularly hungry but when would I ever be in Dover, NJ again at 10 pm at night again? That's right. Never.

My ex ordered Enchiladas con Mole and I ordered something called Sopes. Our waiter joked and chatted with the other customers, every so often he'd come by our table to attempt to teach my ex some Spanish. His most memorable line all night was what he told a couple in the booth behind ours, "If you love a woman then forget about understanding her. Just love her."

My Sopes arrived first, just in time for the fúbol match between Mexico and who cares. Sopes are homemade corn tortillas, curled up around the edges with a layer of refried beans, shredded chicken, and lettuce lightly doused with mayo. They were incredible. The flavors meshed together harmoniously rather than fought for attention like some American Mexican food. The slightly spicy and sweet chicken was given center stage by the understated savory beans and crisp shredded lettuce. They were addicting and not heavy at all.

The enchiladas came out shortly after, four rolled torillas encasing chicken and drowning in dark-brown mole sauce. The flavor was flat, almost chalky, like unsweetened baker's chocolate but underneath that there's a richness to it that makes it incredibly difficult to describe but really interesting to eat. My ex ate almost the entire plate and fought his stomach's request to cease and desist, taking in half of the last enchilada. It was one of those meals that makes you feel all warm inside.

When I asked for the check our waiter looked disappointed, "Leaving so soon?" We explained that we had a train to catch and he said that if we missed it we could come back, he didn't want us to be stuck in the cold. We thanked him, left him a good tip, and ran back to the train station where we board the train back home. It was the best Mexican food I'd ever had.

Daytrip to Cataño, Puerto Rico

I’m the kind of person that one night while I was still in college in New York, unwilling to work on a term paper, I went for a walk to Union Square and somehow ended up at the top of the Empire State Building. So one summer when I was in still in high school and going stir crazy from the boredom, I loaded my friend Jenniffer into my Jeep Cherokee and went for a drive. At first we were going to San Juan via the Martínez Nadal expressway and as I was about to pass the exit to Cataño, as I always did, I took the exit instead.

“You ever been to Cataño?” I asked Jenniffer.

“Nope.”

“I guess that’s where we’re going then.”

Soon we were by the Capeco oil refinery. If you’ve ever wondered what an oil refinery exploding at 10 pm at night sounds like ask anyone present in the Metropolitan Area around the end of October 2009. It was a few weeks after the governor had announced almost 30,000 layoffs of government employees, a week after a general strike where thousands of people took to the streets in protest, and shortly before they created a position called Secretary of Government and gave it to the financial manager of the richest families in Puerto Rico. If someone had told me the explosion was a government tactic to distract people from their bad PR, I would’ve believed it. Apparently it was a gas leak, though. No one died and the fire was contained after a few days. But on that particular summer afternoon when I’m driving by with Jenniffer, the oil refinery was still intact.

Cataño is across the bay from Old San Juan and provides a, uh, interesting view of a sparkly industrial wasteland from the walls surrounding the Old City. What hadn’t occurred to me was that from the wasteland side of the bay you get a beautiful view of El Morro and the walls that wrap around the islet of San Juan. Around this point I realized I was running out of gas but I would get some later.

We then passed the Bacardi Factory, a large, out of place white mansion with a green lawn. I had no idea that was in Cataño! A few years later I would take my friend Mike there when he came down to visit me in PR. We’d take the free tour, get a history lesson on rum production in the Caribbean, and film ourselves in front of a green screen doing a “Bacardi commercial” we could then email to our friends and family. The tour concluded with some free rum drinks, a piña coloda, a mojito slushie and I guess the bartender liked us because he also gave us samples of aged rum we couldn’t finish. Afterwards we went home and drank beer. But at the time when I was discovering the existence of the Bacardi factory, I’d only ever been drunk once and I had no idea beer came in variations such as ale, lager, stout, pilsner. At the time I thought beer came as Medalla, Coors Light, Budweiser, or Heineken and they all tasted about the same to me.

Once past the Bacardi factory I was cruising down a long road with nothing around, a worrisome fact considering I was dangerously low on fuel by this point. We passed a gas station but it was on the other side of the road and I had to drive for a while before I could turn around and go back for the road to get gas.

That was the end of our little trip. It broke up the tedium of the day and foreshadowed a few interesting returns.

Guánica, PR

2010-07-05T18:09:00.009-04:00

The best beaches are the ones the pirates used to dock in.

Cruising down the southern highway of Puerto Rico you speed down a road flanked by empty green mountains and farmed valleys, as large vultures called Guaraguaos glide in slow circles overhead. Pass Yauco—a coffee town painted pink and orange against the mountain— and take exit 116 onto a narrow road that seems to go on forever. Walls of trees, cacti, and green brush create a tunnel around you until eventually you hit la Central de Guánica.

The rusting skeleton of one of the most important sugar refineries in Puerto Rico. Its two chimneys stick out from amid the trees, surrounded by metal structures slowly being consumed by the green. A still lagoon spreads out behind it.

Coming to Guánica is like taking a half-step backwards in time, with one foot in the past and one in the present. Across the street from la Central, the cement plaza full of kiosks selling fried food and our version of kebabs—pinchos—is your first indication that you may in fact still be in Kansas. The town behind it seems at a crossroads in time. Fishermen and their wives wearing T-shirts and jeans hang out on balconies fanning themselves, while skinny dogs lay on the steps panting. Chickens and roosters hang out around the edge of the street.

Further down the tunnel-like road is Ensenada— a community containing one of the better-known and more populated beaches of Guánica, Playa Santa. My grandmother always points out an abandoned one storey wooden house with an overgrown yard next to the church.

“That’s the house I was born in,” she always says as we drive into town and as we drive out.

The location of that house seems to have a gravitational pull on my family. Since I can remember my family has been visiting Playa Santa, even buying a small beach apartment to escape to when we can. For me, this is home base. Except for long weekends—when Puerto Ricans’ uncanny ability to find any piece of vacant beach and claim it kicks in— the beaches of Guánica are broad and bear of people. They have been since the pirate ships docked there hiding from the Spanish Armada amid the small curving coves lining the bottom of Puerto Rico. And that’s precisely its charm.

While there are some hotels around Playa Santa, none are worth it. If you’re going to stay in a hotel you might as well go to Parguera or Mayagüez since clearly you’re not committed to what this trip is about. You probably also want bars and a nightlife. But Guánica is the place to leave behind the commodities and excesses of present-day civilization. If you’re a real pirate, you plunder a house.

Its common to see For Rent signs around the houses and apartments in Playa Santa, and like the fresh, local seafood, they’re cheap and good. From Friday to Sunday, a two-bedroom house that fits 6 to 8 people, furnished and with air conditioning, a short walk from Playa Santa and Manglillo beach will run you $400 total. If you’re going for secluded beach, though, I wouldn’t recommend going to Playa Santa or Manglillo unless you go early in the morning or for the sunset. Any other time during the day the crowds will be a constant reminder that you may as well have stayed in San Juan where the pirates work for the government.

Leave Ensenada and get back on the 116 highway towards Yauco. Pass the exit for the Dry Forest—a must-visit if you’re big on hiking and deserts—and take the exit that says Caña Gorda. Up mountain on dangerously curving roads that snake around tight turns you face a distractingly beautiful view to one side and far too little space for another car on the other. Pass Caña Gorda, the touristy beach where parking will run you $3, and keep going until you hit an unlabeled beach by the side of the road. Park where you can. From the road your access point is a steep little rock climb onto the sand and if you’ve come this far you make the 20 minute walk to the far edge of the bay where the water is shallower and more transparent, the current less pronounced. Nothing but green mountains and a thicket of tall palm trees beyond the edge of the sand, the only signs of civilization the handful of local families who stay near the narrow entrance. But you will lose sight of them where you’re going.

When you turn the corner at the far tip of the bay you reach a beach that’s half-ocean and half-mangrove. Birds fly overhead and you may see a large green iguana swim into the trees. A fishing boat sets anchor a few miles from shore but aside from that the beach is yours. Set up camp, open a bottle of rum, and stay between eras for as long as you want here— despite the gaggle of teenagers that somehow followed you and are ruining your pirate hide-out.

When you’re done being a pirate—unless you fell asleep on the sand and woke up in the middle of the night, in which case getting back is going to be fun for you since they don’t really believe in lighting their roads around this area and the guaraguaos never sleep— you can go back to Playa Santa. You’ll be greeted by the blasting reguetón from the one bar. Have some mofongo relleno de jueyes at El Nuevo Badén, one of the few restaurants still open once the day visitors evacuate, and the next day you get to do this all over again. With over a dozen beaches to choose from, some accessible only by boat, down in Guánica you won’t run out of coves to hide in.

Cheat Sheet: the Caribbean

2010-07-01T01:26:00.000-04:00

In honor of my new column, Escapadas, and the theme of the week in the De Viaje section of El Nuevo Día here's a cheat sheet on travel basics for the Caribbean. Simple enough to follow and they will make your travel experience that much more awesome.

Mosquito Repellent: You know what mosquitoes love? Tourists. When I moved back to Puerto Rico I was in denial and figured they'd get tired of me after a while but for a good two months I looked like I had chicken pox. They get worse during the summer and they will find you at the beach. Not to scare you but there is also a type of mosquito that carries a disease called dengue. Fever, nausea, being hospitalized aren't much of a vacation. In my 23 years of life here I've never had it but a quick pitstop by any of our many Walgreens-- do not buy souvenirs there, for God's sake, I don't care how colorful and plasticky they are-- to pick up a bottle of OFF will keep you dengue and itchiness free while you do whatever it is you do in the Caribbean.

Sunblock: I know, no shit. You want your money back. But if its your first time here you don't want to mess around with this sun, specially during the summer. This is particularly important if you're at the beach where our perfectly white sand will serve as a reflector. I've seen Puerto Ricans turn purple because of massive sunburn, to the point that they're peeling the skin off their ears. I know, I'm really doing a great job selling the Caribbean but again, while you're at Walgreens just grab a bottle of Coopertone waterproof. You'll still get a tan, I promise, our sun is that strong.

Passport: Even if you're going to a US territory, maybe you'll meet some really nice rich people that have a house on St. Croix or find a really cheap boat ride to the Dominican Republic. No passport? Oh well, guess you can't go. My brother worked as a gate agent for American Eagle in San Juan for years and there was always one guy who didn't have his passport and there goes island hopping to Jamaica.

Rent a car: Just because its an island doesn't mean its small. If you really want to immerse yourself in a place-- from our biggest Antilles Cuba to a spec of land like Culebra off the coast of Fajardo, PR-- give yourself mobility. Cabs are expensive and cabdrivers are lazy so they won't take you deep into the mountains or to the other side of the island. A GPS is an added bonus but basic map reading skills should get your around fine.

Make friends: This is surprisingly easy to do around here where even at the doctor's office the lady next to you will start talking to you and tell you her life story. Moreso at a bar or gallery or restaurant or dive shops. Just smile, say hi, and ask questions, have a few stories ready, and make it a point to express how much you're enjoying being on the island. The best people to talk to are bartenders, dive masters, and inn-keepers in beachside towns like Rincón or Cruz Bay, many of which are displaced Americans who decided to hell with the US and came down to Caribbean to live. Those always have great stories.

Vegetarians: Good luck. Just so you know, the rice and beans has ham in it. Your best bet may be to get a vacation rental or campground with a grill and cook yourself. Its not impossible to find good vegetarian fare-- specially in Puerto Rico-- but in some of the smaller islands it can be a challenge.

Related Posts:

Guánica, PR: The best beaches are the ones the pirates used to dock in...

How to Slow-Roast and Carve a Whole Pig: Family reunion in Lajas, PR

Soup & Sandwich

2010-06-27T03:06:00.004-04:00

Lunchtime in Puerto Rico sounds like this:

“Me das una medianoche.” (“I’ll have a midnight.”)

“Un Cubano, para llevar.” (“A Cuban to go.”)

“Nada, un bocadillo y un café.” (Eh, just a little bite and some coffe.”)

Like most things, when translated literally the above phrases become almost comical but if you’re a resident of Puerto Rico you’re probably really hungry after reading that list.

The rest of your order might sound like:

“También me das un Mondongo.”

“¿Tienen Caldo Gallego?”

“Y un sancochito.”

Mondongo, Caldo Gallego, and sancocho are Puerto Rico’s answer to broccoli cheddar, chicken noodle, and clam chowder. Except there’s nothing light about having a soup and sandwich for lunch in Puerto Rico.

There are some decent America-style places in San Juan—Camille’s, Saint-Germaine, Ponte Fresco, to name a few— where you can order fancy ingredients like sundried tomatoes and spinach on 7-grain bread. But the real action is in the dozens of little Spanish bakeries scattered around the Metropolitan area.

Spanish bakeries are the gold standard for breakfast and lunch on the island. They all have the same aesthetic: run down classy. The floors are generally white linoleum covered in black skid marks from heavy foot traffic. Glass storefronts have a bar or tables along the windows so people eating can enjoy the view of the cars parked in front. The glass food counters have their displays subdivided into stations: pastries and cakes (where you can also order coffee), savory pastries, and cold cuts and cheeses by the pound. Each station is manned by a young man who— after he’s done talking with the guy who makes the sandwiches or the owner— will scribble down your order. That whole the customer comes first business is strictly an American misconception. On top of the counter are glass boxes displaying fried finger foods like croquetas, empanadillas, and pastelillos de carne (see the Cheat Sheet) and the soup pots, if they’re offering soup that day. Then there’s the sandwich station where one guy is simultaneously slicing ham, scrambling eggs on the large griddle, and toasting sandwiches with a surprising level of efficiency. The walls are usually decorated with shelves sporting a deli’s-worth of canned and boxed goods, Spanish wines, and some decorations that allude to the part of Spain the owner is from.

Asking a Puerto Rican which is “the best” is like asking a New Yorker what’s the best pizza. They each specialize in something and everyone has a particular sandwich and soup that aligns with them at any particular bakery. Its like the Zodiac, you were born with a sign and each month your sign is in a different “house.” So if you tend to like a medianoche (you’re a Capricorn) but you’re in La Ceiba (the House of Venus) then you’re probably going to order the Caldo Gallego (OK, maybe I pushed the metaphor a little far).

For the uninitiated, Kasalta in Ocean Park is a good pick. The aesthetic is a little more polished but don’t let that deter you, the long line to order is evidence of its reputation. While they’re pricey, you’re getting your money’s worth. Order a classic breakfast sandwich called jamón-queso-y-huevo (ham, cheese, and egg) on a soft white bread called pan criollo, a simple and delicious crowd pleaser. But if you’re serious about your sandwich, order the choripan: bright red Spanish chorizo sliced thinly and layered high packs a sharp, greasy kick balanced by a few inches of sweet ham, this whole umami bomb topped off by a layer of swiss cheese—all between two pieces of bread. (No, that’s not excessive. Why do you ask? Would you also like an egg?) The best part: after you eat, the beach is a short walk away.

On the other end of the aesthetic and location spectrum is Altamira Bakery in Garden Hills, a hole in the wall up on the mountains of Guaynabo (my town). Altamira has no decorations to speak of, the tables are overcrowded, and the guy who takes your order doesn’t like you, but it’s all worth it. The Cubano is the sandwich to get there—juicy sliced pork folded over sweet ham, topped with an inch of swiss cheese, pickles and mustard. Each flavor is both distinct and in harmony, the bread barely containing the juiciness of the meat. The croqueta sandwich also comes highly recommended if freebasing cholesterol is your thing.

For a solid soup, visit one of the granddaddies of Spanish bakeries: El Antiguo Bilbao on Franklin Roosevelt Avenue. Their crowning glory is their Mondongo, a beautifully seasoned tripe soup that keep you on your toes. The pieces of tripe vary between melting in your mouth softness to tough chewiness and there’s a lot of them in the thick broth. Touch it up with some Tabasco sauce for a kick.

And the crowning jewel, in my short list, of Spanish Bakeries: La Ceiba. Just down the street from Antiguo Bilbao, the thing to get at this bakery is the Caldo Gallego. Each spoonful of this stew packs shredded cabbage, diced ham, and occasionally a little wheel of Spanish chorizo balanced with the smooth starchiness of white beans and potatoes. Served in a clay bowl with a roll of pan de agua, it’s a full meal and should be accompanied by either a glass of red wine or a beer.

While eating like this every day will probably kill you, these lunchtime gems are what are called “gustazos,” which roughly translates into real treats. And when you walk into one of these Spanish bakeries you have to do as you would in Spain: check your guilt at the door, you’re here to enjoy. Go to church and sweat it out later.

If you’ve been to any of these, what’s you sandwich and/or soup of choice? Where else would you recommend for this kind of fare?

Block Island, RI

2010-06-25T02:48:00.034-04:00

“I love Block Island!” bellowed a half-drunken hillbilly wearing brightly colored shorts, a cowboy hat, and sunglasses. Crowds of people flowing onto the dock cheered back their consensus as the locals snickered and rolled their eyes. It was noon and the tourists were already drunk while everyone else was just relieved to finally be “on the island.”

Block Island, that is. On Memorial Day weekend I stepped off the New London ferry onto Rhode Island’s answer to my island’s Culebra. BI is where New Englanders go to drink and eat by the beach, but for many Rhode Islanders—the “locals”—this is their second home, where they come eat and drink by their houses and occasionally the beach. My friend Willis’ family had very graciously invited me up for the weekend and I’d jumped at the opportunity. Despite this being my first time here, Willis assured me, “Don’t worry, you’re a local.”

That’s lesson number one when visiting an island, any island (mine included): you always want to be a local.

“So what is there to do around here?” I asked, climbing into the family’s Jeep. The island is small but not that small, to get around you need a car or at the very least a bike.

“Well,” replied Willis, sporting aviator sunglasses and a fishing hat— which to me defines Rhode Island cool—, “there’s pretty things to look at. And there’s Block Island Blondies, which you will try.”

And that’s about right. Unless you’re a hillbilly in loud shorts, the reason to come to Block Island is to slow down, drink some Blondies, and chill out.

Block Island has a small population of about 1000 that lives there year-round, while the summer packs in over 16,000 tourists and visitors from New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island—and Puerto Rico, apparently. Old Harbor where we arrived is part of the main town, New Shoreham, where the ferries dock and the stretch of beach lining the east side of the island begins. Around there you’ll find most of the restaurants, hotels, and stores along short streets with white wooden buidlings sporting broad porches. “Locals”—which I later figured out just means the people who are willing to visit the island during the winter, when the summer marauders are hibernating their hangovers away—all sport a sort of uniform composed of shorts, T-shirts, and sweaters with any variation of Block Island, RI or BI-RI, or Block Island, Rhode Island etched across it. As an honorary local, I understood I should probably acquire one before this trip was over. ( I did and have been wearing it almost every day since at my over-air conditioned office.)

The grand tour of the island takes about two hours in a car, if you take your time about it. As we traveled inland, BI started to resemble a slice of the English countryside. Houses become more spaced out as the fields dotted with ponds and marshes spread wider, the dirt roads flanked by endless rows of short stonewalls.

When looking for the first “beach,” the Mohegan Bluffs, what you actually need to look out for is the edge of a cliff. If you love stairs, well this is the place for you. To access the “beach” you walk down about three or four stories-worth of wooden stairs built into the cliff’s side, the final stretch of which are just large rocks that deposit you onto the rocky sand. Its impressive standing at the foot of the bluffs—a sheer rock wall on one side and the Atlantic Ocean spreading out on the other. Teenagers lounged on giant boulders taking in the afternoon sun while children climbed over the many rocks along the edge of the water. Willis tried and failed to teach me to skip rocks.

At the edge of the cliff is the Southeast Light, a clay-colored lighthouse with a large house attached to the side of it. Block Islanders are proud of their lighthouses and the one in question had been rescued by the community some years back. The face of the bluffs changes constantly, as the waves and weather eat away at the rock walls. The lighthouse was perched precariously at the edge of a ridge that wasn’t going to hold for much longer. So rather than lose their lighthouse to the elements, the people of Block Island moved it back 360 feet, saving it from its impending destruction. That’s love.

Continuing on our tour, we headed up to the other side of the island, skirting around the Great Salt Pond—a hybrid body of water that is bay, pond, and lake all in one, speckled by white sail boats and yachts. Soon we reached the Northern Lighthouse, which stands on a stretch of land that juts out into the Atlantic and where currents crash against each other at its peak.

As we were walking up the rocky-sandy stretch, Willis was telling me how his family’s ties to the island stretch back many generations—even pointing out his ancertor’s names on Settler’s Rock—to the extent that their family tree is on display at the Block Island Historical Society. About five families on the island have that kind of lineage and everyone knows them. Then I looked over at the water and yelled, “Seals!” And dashed off.

At the edge of the beach were about a dozen seals. They stuck their heads out and looked at us, as if asking us to please go away so they could climb onto the sand. Black and grey ones were offset by white spotted one, each with faces so closely resembling a dog’s you expected them to bark at any moment. Those are the kind of moments you get on Block Island: the sun just starting to set, the Northern lighthouse’s beacon just starting to be felt, on a beach full of seals bobbing in and out of the surf. There were a handful of people around and as it started to get colder we headed back.

Around the evening in Block Island there’s a number of things to do and you have the added benefit that the day tourists are jumping ship back to wherever they came from. After grabbing drinks at the National Hotel’s porch—the porch that puts all the other porches in Old Harbor to shame—the locals seek out a handful of places, most of which are only open during the summer. Among them The Beachead, one of the few restaurant I’ve ever seen my 6’ 2”, 140 lb friend ever get excited about, is a classic choice. Walking in you’re in a fisherman’s dive, a small dining room stretches out towards the back and to your right some steps lead up to the bar. The dark wood walls are covered with painted oars and lobster traps. The food is described as “New England Fare” and of course features a wide range of seafood, including lobster, but sadly no “Stuffies”—a stuffed clam dish I fell in love with the first time I visited Rhode Island. Willis recommended I try Don Warner’s Chilli, a surprisingly spicy, very savory meaty soup topped with cheese and onion. They didn’t have Blondies so we chased down our food with the other local beer, Narragansett Lagers. It’s a lager with a nice undertone of bitterness which you’re obliged to drink when you visit Rhode Island.

After dinner, we stopped by Club Soda (“it’s a pun” points out Willis), the local bar that has nightly activities. We came in on Kareoke Night, where a rotation of five people—locals of course, since whatever tourists left were either tucked away in their inns or passed out on a beach— sang with varying degrees of skill—our own Willis among them. It was at Club Soda that I finally got to try the Block Island Blondes. They are delicious with a malty sweetness that almost reminds you of a pale ale but with the body of a light lager. Like any small town, though, everything’s over by midnight.

The next morning I instructed my humble tour guide: “Take me to the best beach here.”

So we drove to Mansion Beach. While technically it’s all the same beach stretching from the Northern End down to the Old Harbor, there are imaginary subdivisions, the “best” of which is Mansion Beach. It was a perfect beach day, the sun high, the temperature a moderate high 70’s-low 80’s.

Looking at the brilliantly blue water my Caribbean brain thought, Man that looks awesome, Willis’s New England brain looked at the same water and thought, That is freezing. He was indeed correct, as we got our feet wet, subsequently lost all feeling in them within seconds. I’d never experienced the ocean as local anesthetic. I would later find myself waist-deep in it and get to experience that strange denumbing/ warming sensation of freezing skin hitting warm air while muscles desperately try to regain body temperature—all while still working up a decent tan.

The rest of the weekend was exactly what a weekend on Block Island should be: drinking with family while sitting on Adirondack chairs out in the yard. We ate at another BI establishment called Dead Eye Dicks. While you’d think The Beachead would be the white cloth place and DDD’s the dive, of course it was the reverse. The paradoxes of this island are endless. The restaurant sits by the port so you can watch the sunset and the boats while enjoying some really decent fish and chips (good by my standards, all right by Willis’ mother’s standards—so decent).

The next morning we caught a flight back to the mainland on New England Airlines—a line of car-like airplanes where you have to report your weight and the weight of your belongings. Our pilot Lynn, landed a few minutes before we were scheduled to depart, arranged our luggage in the nose of the plane and arranged us so we could “all have more legroom.” She sped through some safety mumbojumbo none of us caught, which was fine by her, and we took off. The flight took about 15 minutes and it felt almost like we were suspended in mid-air while the world turned slowly bellow us. From the air you could make out the famous shape of BI and the morning sun cast a bright sheen on the water.

It officially felt like summer.

Things Change

2010-06-23T02:37:00.005-04:00

Things change, and one thing that seems to change consistently is the name of this blog. And I’m not going to apologize for that. Currently its taking on its third and probably most drastic transformation, which only makes sense since 2010 has so far, for its author, been a year of drastic transformations.

When I started this blog in April 2009, my intentions were to write about food. I stumbled around the kitchen and the blogosphere and eventually figured out how to make it entertaining for you. I learned which postings people liked (recipes + humor= win) and erased most of the early ones. By the time I hit Austin, I had enough people reading my rants to feel like I actually had a proper food blog. A small one, I was perhaps the Monaco of food blogs, but I knew what I was and what I was doing. And who doesn’t like Monaco?

Smash cut to a year after I started this blog, to me repacking my belongings into boxes and suitcases, a plane ticket in my name that read AUS to SJU, and calling my parents to tell them the good news—I was going home next week—and the bad news—I wasn’t leaving.

Yeah, things change.

But one of the biggest changes that came with being back in Puerto Rico—aside from having to learn how to write picture captions in Spanish, getting used to the intense heat, and not having Tito and Spider around—was giving up control of the kitchen. I fought the good fight as my earlier posts indicate but at the end of the day, why make food when someone else has already made some and its better than yours? So I let Carmen win.

Rather than shut down this operation I decided to reconstruct it and expand it. Since I can’t cook as much anymore and I’m traveling a lot—I’m going to write about that. As my mom and my friends like to complain about me, since I arrived: “no paro la pata.” (I won’t stay still.) Hence the name change. I picked this title in particular in honor of the last film I ever made back in NYU. The three words mean shark, in Spanish, English, and Czech (if I figure out a way to rip the video I will post it).

No worries, recipes will occasionally pop up and while I'll try to keep as much of the style I've developed as I can, I'll also include a cheat sheet about the place in case you’d like to go, too.

But just so you know to what degree things have changed: here’s a picture of Ziggy, one of my PR cats. She doesn't have as many issues as Tito but the cute factor will compensate for that.

Cheat Sheet: Spanish Bakeries

2010-06-01T02:41:00.000-04:00

Medianoche: pork, ham, swiss cheese with mustard and pickle on yellow egg bread. (Light)

Cubano: pork, leg ham (some places serve it with sweet ham, Altamira included), swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, sometimes shredded lettuce and sliced tomato on pan criollo (soft, baguette-like bread).

Choripan: Spanish chorizo, sweet ham, swiss cheese, on pan criollo.

Caldo Gallego: a Spanish stew consisting of shredded cabbage, diced ham, chorizo sausage, white beans, potatoes, and greens.

Mondongo: tripe soup.

Sancocho: a Puerto Rican stew with lots of root vegetables, shredded chicken, and ham.

Croquetas: Deep-fried, cylindrical pieces of heaven made with a seasoned flour batter and stuffed with either ham, chicken or fish.

Quesitos: Sweet puff pastry full of sweet cream cheese and glazes with sugar. [see picture]

Pastelillos de carne: Savory puff pastry stuffed with picadillo—seasoned ground beef.

Pan Sobao: a very soft, sweet white bread.

Pan de Agua: a soft, baguette-style bread

Café: generally means coffee with hot milk, if you want it black then ask for a Café Negro, if you want it with cold milk, then you’re in the wrong place.

Sleeping and Eating

2010-05-18T04:26:00.001-04:00

Hi. You may have noticed this posting says it was put up around 4 am, and you may be wondering why. Well, currently I'm sitting at my computer, having just finished off a delicious frittata and decided this is it for me in terms of what you mortals like to call "sleep."

While I don't usually wake up in the middle of the night and cook myself a lovely meal, I do often wake up in the middle of the night. This 3 am in particular, though, I was inspired. I haven't had those flashes of recipe that keep me up for long after I should've drifted off, thinking of variations I can make with ingredients I have since Brooklyn and the CSA. But more to the point, the past few weeks-- between the family reunion, my trip to New York (to attend a Food Network event), my brother visiting, and Mother's Day-- I haven't had ingredients to daydream about, just endless days of pork, fried things, and cakes.

During the period of gastronomic excess I allowed myself over the month of May, my lowest point was eating deep fried bacalaito (flour+cod fish+garlic and seasoning, think really greasy savory funnel cake) off a see-through plate, along with a menagerie of other "frituras," literally "fried things." The plate was see-through because of the grease, mind you, like a really good Philly Cheesesteak but with far less substance-- just fried, messy goodness. Did I mention fried?

There was also that cinnamon cake our neighbor gave us during Mother's Day. I ate at least a third of the box. Dry and cinnamony on the outside, coated with powdered sugar, with a moist, creamy sweet interior... But that was only after having proper brekafast: quesitos (a puff pastry stuffed with sweet cream cheese), croquetas (a deep-fried ham and potato fritter), and pan sobao-- a sweet, white bread that's soft and buttery all by itself. Let's not even talk about the pernil-- slow-braised pork leg-- my dad bought on the same day as this magnanimous breakfast...

In other words, its been a rough few weeks. And I'm not even going to tell you about how much I've been drinking... If you know me, then you probably already know. I missed an earthquake that's how much I've been drinking.

So this weekend when the lull finally came, I went and bought... vegetables. With recipes in mind. And herbs! And olive oil! I was as happy as a hipster at a rock show.

The first thing I made was a ratatouille: vegetables cooked in the oven with thyme in a tomato sauce. Yesterday I made a potato leek soup to which I may have added too much butter but I take Julia on her word: "You can never have too much butt-er!" And now, having woken up for the day at 3 am, I took the scraps leftover from the ratatouille and made a vegetable frittata that was quite satisfying.

Slowly I'm getting a handle on my eating habits once again. Someday, I aspire to sleep through the night every night for a whole week. Its gonna be awesome.

For now, here's some recipes.

Ratatouille Frittata

** You can find the recipe I used for the original ratatouille here.

Ingredients:
About a cup of the following vegetables chopped: onion, garlic, zucchini, yellow squash, mushrooms...
1 sprig thyme (plus any other herbs you may have lying around, I also added parsley)
Olive oil
Salt and Pepper
3-4 Eggs
Grated parmesan cheese

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium high heat. Add all vegetables, salt and pepper, and thyme and any other herbs you may be using. Allow to cook for about 10 minutes until vegetables start releasing juices and they're soft. Beat salt and pepper into eggs, make sure white and yolk are incorporated. Lower the heat on the skillet and pour eggs over vegetables. Allow the eggs to form a crust underneath but still be liquid in the middle, top with cheese, cover, and place in the oven for about 10-15 minutes. Serve hot or at room temperature.

Potato Leek Soup
Julia Child's recipe

Ingredients:

1lb potatoes (about 4-6)
1 bunch of leeks (about 4 large ones, you can also use onions for a more intense soup)
Pinch of dill
1 tbsp butter (I used two but one would've been enough)
Salt and pepper
Water

Peel and chop potatoes. Chop leeks, using white and light green parts only. Toss leeks and potatoes into a deep pot, add generous amounts of salt and pepper, dill, and cover over water. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer until potatoes are falling apart, about 35-40 minutes. Allow the soup to cool down. Using a food processor or blender, puree into a cream, reheat, incorporating butter. Serve hot. You can also add cooked bacon to this either as a garnish or right before pureeing for a more intense flavor.

How to Slow-Roast and Carve a Whole Pig

2010-04-27T09:40:00.001-04:00

When roasting a whole pig on a spit, the first step is to organize a family party. Any party constituting less than 15 people with the same last name is not considered a family party, its considered Saturday or the night you all go watch the boxing match. A real family party happens no more often than once a year, ideally at someone's farm. If you do not have a farm, a large beach property near where your grandparents grew up will also do. Otherwise, you'll have to go to Florida and then you won't be able to roast the pig properly.

The second step is to acquire the pig. If you are at the farm, then this should be part of the package, if you are not, then there are farms that will sell you a whole pig. Make sure it is slaughtered, gutted, and cleaned when you pick it up. You will then use your family's particular adobo recipe-- this usually include garlic, ajíes, salt, pepper, onion-- and rub it all over the pig the night before the party so that the flavors penetrate the skin and muscles.

Early the next morning, while the coals are smoldering, whoever you hired to make the pig for you while you supervise and take samples of the skin as the crisps up will insert a large pole through the pig's mouth and out its backside. The legs will be trussed up against the side of its body with wire. If the body is split open, this technique is called "Caja China" or Chinese Box, which helps it cook faster, ideal for when you have fifty people and one afternoon.

For the next six hours, the pig will be slow cooked and smoked over the coals inside a well of sorts, while being spun around and around. The kids will take samples of the skin and then when its closer to being cooked through, adults will come sample some of the meat. The meat will be slightly salty and peppery and very juicy, almost like pulled pork but with a sturdier texture. Expect fat to marble the meat in some places or to come attached to the skin for a nice mix of chewy and crispy.

When ready, the pig will be transported onto a large table and untrussed. The pole will be gently removed and set aside and the machete action begins. The idea is to cut up the pieces of pork in small enough bits that people can just pick them up with their fingers and eat them without needing a plate.

By the time the pig has been served, you will also be serving whatever chicken dish you've prepared for those strange non-pork eaters, two types of rice, and the gandules (pigeon peas)-- because nothing says special occasion like gandules. Top it off with vegetables nobody will eat and some mostly tasteless bread rolls which usually get thrown out with one bite missing. Of course, by the time this meal is served everyone will already have had two meals' worth of fried empanadillas, sorullitos (corn fritters), seven layer dip, sandwichitos de mezcla, chips, cheese, and other fried things.

But nothing opens up the stomach like all the different types of drinks people will bring. Several bottles of rum and vodka (for the diabetics) will be worked through, as well as the different pitorros (from what I can tell its just rum infused with juice and pieces of fruits, all I know its they're frigging delicious), wine and if its a fancy party, cheap champagne or Spanish Cava.

And no party would be complete without some monstrous homemade dessert. Some people will dance, some will give speeches, many will take home leftover pig and rice and cake, everyone will take pictures, and we'll schedule another party in six months, which is island time translates into between one and two years. But until then, this one was awesome.

Easy Pizza at Home

2010-04-22T08:23:00.001-04:00

My Dad is an honest man. He's I-want-to-hit-you-over-the-head honest. Yes-you-look-fat-in-that-dress honest. So I value his input on the things that I make because I know he's not going to sugar coat his opinion or take into consideration my, you know, feelings or obsessive desire to please. So here's a recap of my culinary exploits and my dad's subsecuent review of them:

- Libyan Spaghetti-- "I don't like it, it tastes weird."
- Fried Rice-- "Its too spicy, why did you make it spicy?"
- Salad-- "Doesn't taste like much."
- Cassoulet-- "You added way too many beans." (He repeated this to me at least ten times over the next day or two.)
- Moroccan Stew-- "I don't like that it has a sweet smell, I'm going to have a steak."

So you can imagine my relief and feeling of utter triumph when last night he finally, really, truly, without reservations or critiques liked something I made: Pizza.

I've been making pizza ever since I got over my fear of Dry Active Yeast. Its actually very simple, though time-consuming, but that never stopped me from making it for dinner on a weekday. One of those 10 pm dinners... But even when I would overheat my already overheated Brooklyn Kitchen with poor air circulation, the result never failed to please. I've made it about a dozen times with toppings from just plain mozzarella to blue cheese-butternut squash-arugula.

I found the recipes for the dough and some of the more interesting variations of toppings on the site smittenkitchen.com, shortly after the homemade pizza-making craze of last summer (you didn't hear about that?) that made the food blogs useless for me because I didn't think I could make pizza. This is a common misconception, specially considering pizza's humble beginnings.

Putting tomato sauce and cheese on a flat bread is considered to have originated in Naples, Italy. Originally peasant food (the dough was used to test the temperature of the oven and then sold to poor people), its toppings were simple, either cheese or tomatoes or fish or just oil. Eventually it became popular among tourists who would buy it from open-air stands by the slice-- much like now in most mayor cities. The most popular variation was the pizza with tomato. But pizza only really took off in the Italian court when Queen Margherita of Savoy tried some and fell absolutely in love with it. A Neapolitan baker then named a style of pizza after her, one carrying tomato sauce, mozzarella, and basil in honor of the Italian flag. And there you have the Margherita Pizza. (Source: the Una Pizza Neapolitana menu and Wikipedia).

Today, pizza is the ultimate comfort food and the variations are endless-- Brick Oven, Neapolitan, Deep-Dish, Thin Crust, Flatbread-- and the types of toppings sweep the spectrum from nothing but sauce (the pizza Marinara, which when well-made is absolutely amazing) to goat cheese with herbs, summer squash, and lemon. When it comes to putting stuff on top of bread, there are no rule. What's basic is the dough.

For a homemade pizza, here's a really simple recipe for the dough, my recipe of the sauce, and I'll include the specific mix of ingredients I used to create the pizza that actually got my Dad to finally say, "That was really good, honey."

Easy Homemade Pizza (with Mushrooms and Onions)
Dough recipe adapted from SmittenKitchen

Serves 4

Ingredients

For Dough:

3 cups flour (I split the difference between whole wheat and all-purpose)
1 packet Dry Active Yeast
1 cup lukewarm water
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons olive oil

For Sauce: (Bonus: you will have leftovers so you can use them for pasta)

1 16 oz. can crushed tomatoes
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1/2 white onion, chopped
2-3 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon Italian Seasoning
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper, optional (Disclaimer: I used a North African spice mix RX gave me for Christmas so I know cayenne is included but not sure what else, you can also use crushed red pepper flakes)
1/2 teaspoon brown sugar
Splash of red wine
Salt and Pepper
Oliver Oil

For Mushrooms and Onions:

1/2 cup buffalo mozzarella, shredded
2/3 cup smoked mozzarella, shredded
1 can sliced mushrooms, drained (you can also use one packet of fresh mushrooms sliced, I was working with what I had)
1/2 white onion, sliced into half moons
1 teaspoon Balsamic vinegar
Salt and Pepper
Olive oil

Preparation:

Starting with the dough, mix together all dry ingredients then slowly add the water, mixing as you go. Add more water is necessary. When dough is sticky, place on floured surface and knead for a minute or so. If its too sticky, let it sit on the counter for a few minutes under a mixing bowl.

When the dough is soft and malleable, roll into a ball and place in a lightly oiled bowl. Make sure all sides of the dough are coated in oil, cover with plastic wrap, and let sit for 1-2 hours, or until the dough doubles in size.

Meanwhile, make the sauce. Heat up olive oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat and add the onions, salt lightly. Sweat them until they are soft then add Italian seasoning, cayenne, if using, and garlic, allow to cook for a few more minutes. Add the crushed tomatoes and tomato paste, some more salt and pepper and the sugar, and stir. Bring to a boil then cover and reduce to a simmer. While its simmering add the wine. Allow to cook, stirring occasionally, for at least twenty minutes. Taste and adjust seasoning.

During this time, start on the topping. Heat olive oil over medium heat in a frying pan or skillet, add the onions. Sweat them until the become limp then add the mushrooms and balsamic vinegar. Cook, stirring occasionally, until onions are translucent, about 15 minutes.

When the dough has risen, place on a floured surface and flatten it to get all the air out. Knead it gently once again, roll into a ball, and allow to rise under the plastic wrap for another twenty minutes.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Prepare a pizza pan or cookie sheet by sprinkling cornmeal evenly over it. If no cornmeal, I find oiling it has also worked.

When the dough is ready, use your hands to stretch it out then place on the pizza pan or cookie sheet and gently spread it out with your hands. This can get greasy. When the dough is sufficiently spread out, cover the surface with sauce then top with both cheeses. Add the mushrooms and onions. Sprinkle a little more salt and pepper over everything and glide it into the oven. Allow to cook for about 20 minutes (check it occasionally depending on how hot your oven gets). The crust should be golden brown and the cheese melted and slightly seared.

My Grandmother's Cooking

2010-04-16T11:44:00.001-04:00

My grandmother might be one of the best cooks around but I wouldn't know it. While my brother and I were raised by my grandparents on endless portions of vibrant and savory rice and beans, fresh tostones made from both plantains and pana, fork-tender meat I've never seen anyone be able to reproduce, and chicken that actually had flavor and depth, my grandmother didn't do much more than reheat it in the microwave and serve it to us. All my childhood food memories, and my current lunches on Tuesdays and Fridays, come from one of the best cooks I know: Carmen.

**Three recipes at the end of the post.

Some people seem to be stuck in time. They never age, their clothing choices remain uniform throughout their lives, and the things they cook vary only as far as the ingredients that are bought for them but never in their preparation. That, in a nutshell, is Carmen. While she's seen my brother and I from diapers to college, she seems immune to aging. Her face, weight, posture, and energy have been a constant for all the years I've known her. The only sign of aging you could notice on her is that she's become more talkative.

She has worked for my grandmother since before I was born. Every weekday morning of my childhood (except Fridays), she was dropped off by her family at my grandmother's house and spent the day cooking, cleaning, and chatting with my grandparents until she was picked up in the afternoon. Though I've known her all my life, I have no idea where she's from or where she lives yet she knows me and my family more intimately than most of our own relatives. As a child my little brother would start crying if he wasn't able to kiss her goodbye before she went home in the afternoon.

Carmen can't read or write or drive a car, but she can season steak like nobody else. She can braise meat in a couple of hours and have it be more motherwateringly tender than any restaurant. Her rice and beans are famous-- she has an uncanny ability to prepare rice that is perfectly seasoned, never clumpy or gummy, and somehow each grain seems to split apart-- and the butter-drenched, LP-sized pancakes she makes for my brother and his friends have ruined their own mother's pancakes forever. I can only imagine how the food she makes at home for her own family must taste because for them she makes her own sofrito, uses such delicacies as pig's feet, and is probably subject to the rigorous observations of the person that taught her to cook: her mother.

Getting a recipe from Carmen, though, is about as easy as pulling teeth. She isn't reluctant to share but she has a habit of referring to ingredients as "that" and some of this "stuff." Often she'll forget to mention an ingredient at all and I'll only know to ask her about it because I've just seen her use it. Its like getting piano lessons from someone who can't read music but has an incredible ear. She cooks by muscle memory, by taste and smell. And though she always measures everything by eye and works with the ingredients she has-- sometimes there's ham, sometimes there isn't, sometimes she uses potatoes, sometimes she uses squash-- the consistency of the flavors and the quality of the food is always voodoo witchdoctor good.

Below are three recipes I was able to wrench out of her, vegetarians need not apply (although I do offer some variations).

Sofrito

Ingredients:

Recao
Cilantro (or cilantrillo as they call it in PR)
Garlic
Onion
Green pepper
Ajíes dulces
Tomato Sauce
Salt
Pepper

Use all or as many as you can find of the above ingredients (if you live in New York, the Lower East Side Market should have the ajíes and the recao, or culantro as its also know, if you live in PR, any supermarket will do). Roughly chop and toss into a food processor or blender in small batches, adjusting proportions and flavors as you go. Use as a cooking base, about one teaspoon per pound of food.

Carne Guisada (Meat Stew)

Ingredients:

1- 1 1/2 lbs of steak tips or stew meat, cut into small bites
1 chicken bouillon cube
2 small cans of tomato sauce
1 teaspoon Sofrito
3 potatoes, peeled and cut into wedges
2 bay leaves
Salt and pepper
Water

Wash the meat and place in a deep pot, cover with water until its an inch or so above the meat and toss in the chicken bouillon cube. Boil the meat with the lid on the pot until it becomes tender. Add sofrito, tomato sauce, bay leaves, and potatoes, season with salt and pepper (careful not oversalt since chicken bouilon is very salty). Simmer, covered, for about 20 minutes until broth thickens and the potatoes are fork-tender.

Habichuelas Guisadas (The Beans half of Rice and Beans)

Ingredients:

1 can pink or small red beans, with liquid
1 small can tomato sauce
1 teaspoon Sofrito
1/2 lb of cooking ham, chopped into 1/2 inch cubes (optional if you're going to a vegetarian version)
1/2 onion, chopped
1/2 green or red pepper, chopped
1 chicken bouillon cube (for a vegetarian version, replace with 1 packet of Sazón)
1/2 calabasa squash or 2 potatoes peeled, cubed
Water
Salt and pepper
Cooking oil

In a saucepan, heat oil over medium-high heat and add onions, pepper, and ham, cook until soft then add sofrito and allow to cook for another minute or so. Add the rest of the ingredients, including enough water to create a broth. Bring to a boil then cover and bring down to a simmer, keeping the lid slightly ajar. Its ready when the squash or potatoes are very tender, the broth is thickened, and it tastes awesome.

The Ick Factor

2010-04-12T13:42:00.001-04:00

For strictly research purpose, I've been watching old episodes of Julia Child's The French Chef show. Needless to say, its amazing. As RX (R's new title on the blog), once pointed out, "She could not get on television today." And its true. She couldn't even get on television in Britain back when she was a star (they thought she was drunk on camera). What's wonderful about her show is all her quirks and the overall lack of polish (except when it comes to the food, of course)-- she's out of breath halfway through the episode, she drops things, and she often forgets what she's going to say and glares directly into the camera. I'd like to think the sheer amount of butter and oil she pours into everything would make modern cooks blush but then Paula Deen, or as I like to call her, Satan, does unfortunately exist in this world. (Deen is the inventor of the Lady's Brunch Burger.)

But what blew me away about Julia's show is her embrace (girly as it is) of what I've dubbed the Ick Factor. She starts off the Boulaibasse show with a close up on a giant fish head which she then rips the gills out of to show why you shouldn't cook with them (they're full of "impurities"). In the same show she tosses whole fish into broth and continually refer to them as cute. When a live lobster protests against being boiled alive by slapping Julia's fingers with its tail she turns it into a little goof by adding sound effects-- pampampampam! Yes, adorable. In the age of icanhascheezeburger and Hello Kitty, cute as edible wouldn't exactly fly on mainstream television and neither would putting a face to what you're eating. At least not for your standard American audience.

For years regular, middle-class Americans have stopped looking at what they're eating in the eye. That's more of a rest-of-the-world thing but thanks to globalization its inching its way back to US waters. One of the many criticism rained upon Big Food-- the industrialized food system that is sucking the life out of the earth, according to most-- is that the neatly packaged, brightly colored, shapeless animal parts that Americans consume belie the animals they once were (and, in the majority of cases, the suffering they underwent). In a way, its a lack of respect and a denial of reality and I know I've been guilty of it.

Last year I criticized my mom for not wanting to hear about the pictures of cute little lambs eating pasture on the website for Mitzvah Meats (or Mindful Meats as they are also known)-- a farm that specialized in the "ethical kosher slaughter of healthy, grass-fed, non-factory raised meat!"-- from where I ordered 10 lbs of lamb (my official reintroduction to meat eating). But at that time, I forgot why I became vegetarian in the first place-- beyond the ethical mumbo jumbo and health stuff.

I was in Budapest and my Hugarian friend invited me to see a movie called Taxidermia. It was based on the short stories of famous Hungarian writer Lajos Parti Nagy and followed three generations of utterly disgusting men doing incredibly grotesque things with food. (I actually highly recommend it, its incredible, just don't eat before or after watching it.) During the first part of the film a Hungarian Mangalista pig is slaughtered, has its fur burned off, and its carcass split open down the belly. Other, more horrendous and unnatural things happen during the movie but let's hang on to this one because I sure as hell did.

Growing up, my family (and every other Puerto Rican family) always ended up going to at least one party where a whole hog was slow roasted over an open fire, a pole sticking out of its mouth and rear. In those more innocent days, that pig looked delicious and the men who attended to it would cut off pieces of the crispy skin and give it to us kids. We loved it! Even now when we go to Guavate, a town devoted exclusively to the production and cooking of pork in all its glorious manifestations, you see three or four pigs at a time rigged similarly, mouths open wide and eye sockets staring out emptily.

But, as an adult, after watching that Hungarian film and the slaughter of that pig, I could not bring myself to eat pork that Christmas. And I tried. I would pick up a piece of pernil or lechón and take it up to my mouth but I just couldn't get it past my lips. I set it back down and had more rice. This went on for months until I went to Spain where legs of pork hang from store fronts and where whole suckling pig is served eye-balls still in. My heritage won me over and got me back on pork. Since then I notice that I'm now more hesitant about meat than I once was. Its not something I take lightly as my going on and on about it on this blog will tell you. Watching that pig get slaughtered on film created a certain amount of perspective-- and respect-- for meat.

Because of my own tumultuous transformation into conscientious omnivore (again with the titles), I've noticed a subtle uprising in the food world of people willing to take responsibility for what they're eating and embrace the inherent nastiness of eating animals. On TV (Travel Channel mostly, which says something) you have the cooks-as-rebels like Anthony Bourdaine touting the wonders of offal and nice-guy-adventurers like Andrew Zimmern disarming and lauding the "weird" foods of other cultures. These styles of eating that look beyond the muscle and fat of animals and to less common livestock like goats, rabbits, and frogs, are brought to your kitchen by sites like Serious Eats' The Nasty Bits and Fergus Henderson's Nose to Tail Eating cookbook.

The killing process itself is still hard to swallow but people are making the effort. You have autistic author and animal scientist Temple Grandin's book Animals in Translation where she makes the point which that animals kill each other in nature all the time. Its the quality of their lives that really counts and how they are taken to the slaughter. (This also affects the quality of the meat.) Chefs are now more likely to try their hand at slaughter-- take David Chang of the Momofuku empire who adopted a piglet at a pig farm and will watch it grow to adulthood and kill and eat it himself, in part to cope with the amount of pork he uses at his restaurants. Even non-professionals are taking matters into their owns hands and learning to slaughter to avoid the abuse of animals within the current system. Rabbits are particularly popular "gateway" animals for learning to kill your own food.

While I'm not sure I'm there yet, I've definitely become more selective about what meat I choose. Do you think its hypocritical to eat meat if you can't stomach the transition from animal to food? Can you look at your food and call it cute?

Spanish Hamburger

2010-04-08T16:30:00.003-04:00

I'm not really a vegetarian. R's stepmother was the first to point this out to me during a rather tense dinner during a rather tense trip to Bali. My sweet, charming "mom-in-law," who I got along with as famously as territorial cats get along with each other, said she didn't see how only eating fish qualified me as a vegetarian because she also only ate fish and didn't call herself a vegetarian. I decided to give her match point and ordered the filet mignon. I try not to be a sore loser.

But she did make a point and I think many "vegetarians" such as myself have tried to cover up the ifs and buts and onlys of their diet by inventing all sorts of terms like "pescaterian" and "locavore." At the end of the day, you're still killing an animal for food and crowning yourself humane just because its not a cow. So why did I, and to an extent still do, call myself a vegetarian?

As I discovered, when it comes to meat, if I can, I do. So calling myself vegetarian is almost like saying I have a food allergy, except its voluntary and to me that's the beauty of it. When I tell people I'm vegetarian I'm off the hook in a way. I can turn down chicken, meat, pick the ham out of a stew, and no one will say anything to me because its been discussed already-- I'm vegetarian. But I also love meat and every so often I want a steak or a roast beef sandwich or a croqueta de jamón so on those special occasions "I'm making an exception." OK, so this seems a really roundabout way of saying I eat meat occasionally.

Well, I'm Puerto Rican. If you ever saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding you know the whole schtick about how the fiance is vegetarian and crazy auntie goes, "Is OK, I make lamb." That's pretty much how it is here, except switch lamb for pork. But the idea of me being vegetarian doesn't just keep my relatives in check, it keeps me in check. I already tried not calling myself vegetarian and I ended up eating a chicken fried steak bigger than my torso.

Basically, this works for me, so leave well enough alone because when I want to eat a burger with you, I'll let you know. And trust me, it'll be a good burger.

Which leads me to the title of the posting (sort of), Spanish Hamburger. Even back when I actually thought I was a vegetarian, there was always one dish that would turn me carnivore: my friend Lisa's Spanish Hamburger. The first time I had it, we were roommates in college and every few weeks we'd try our hand at something in the kitchen. One of the first recipes she made was this incredible casserole, Spanish Hamburger, that involved macaroni, ground beef, bacon, green pepper, corn, tomatoes... the list is long. It was her grandmother's recipe, written down in a journal that was falling apart with the words fading and smudged. Paired with a Yellow Tail Shiraz (and followed with some Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy, oh, college) it was amazing. It had a wonderful balance of flavors and textures: saltiness from the bacon, sweetness from the corn, crunch from the green peppers, chewiness from the macaroni. Ground beef and cheese held everything together. She made it again a few months ago during my non-vegetarian phase and after I moved to Austin (before that chicken fried steak) I finally got the recipe for it and made it for my aunt when she visited me. It never fails to impress, we each had two helpings even though neither of us was actually that hungry. Its one of those.

Lisa has kindly allowed me to share the recipe with you saying "good recipes should be shared!" So next time you have company over or, you know, feel hungry, make this.

Spanish Hamburger
by Lisa Romagnoli

Ingredients:
8 oz, elbow macaroni (if you're like me, that means a little more than half the box)
1/2 large onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 small green bell pepper, chopped
1 can sweet corn kernels, drained
1 small can tomato paste
1 14-16 oz. can diced tomatoes, drained
4 strips bacon
1 lb. ground beef (if you're vegetarian, you could use Trader Joe's soy chorizo, let me know if you try it)
1 1/2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup shredded parmesan cheese
Paprika, for garnish (optional, my addition)
Olive oil
Salt and Pepper

Place rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 350 degrees. Season the ground beef with salt and pepper. Parboil the macaroni in boiling salted water until al dente (they are going to finish cooking in the oven). Drain, rinse with cold water, and set aside.

Heat oil in a large skillet or frying pan, add onions and sweat until softened. Add garlic and allow to sweat for another minute or so. Raise the heat an add the ground beef. Brown as much as possible and allow to cook through. Remove from heat and set aside.

On another frying pan, fry bacon until crispy. (**Note: If you're more daring than me you can invert these steps, fry the bacon first, drain some of the fat, and cook the onions, garlic, and beef in the bacon fat. I didn't try it so do as you see fit.) Cut into bits.

In a large mixing bowl, combine all ingredients minus half cup of the cheddar cheese and the parmesan cheese, seasoning with salt and pepper. Pour mixture into a casserole dish and top with remaining cheese and sprinkle paprika over it, if using. Place casserole, uncovered, in the oven for 20-25 minute or until bubbly.

If possible, let sit in fridge overnight but since this isn't usually possible, at least let cool before devouring half of it then let the rest sit in the fridge overnight.

**Original recipe also calls for Italian seasoning, though it doesn't say when or where to add it. When I made it, I added a splash of red wine to the beef while it cooked, which worked nicely.

Food Nazi

2010-04-01T09:33:00.007-04:00

Yesterday I engaged my family in a mini-WWIII. As a card carrying CSA member and vegetarian who makes exceptions for humanely raised meat, I'm firmly anti-processed foods and I've joined the party seeking to eliminate them from the face of the earth. Stepping off the plane in my knee-high boots and black coat, venturing into my Burger King obsessed homeland with unusually straight posture, the food nazi in me decide it was game on.

I stormed my parent's house like the Gestapo, proclaiming everything in their fridge an offense punishable by death-- I'm not exactly exaggerating since processed ham and cheese products, "Whole Wheat White" bread, and sugary box cereals are in fact killing the US... but I digress.

But my Dad, the Winston Churchill of daily meat intake and ice cream doused with cognac, armed a defensive strike against my blitzkrieg by making fun of me and shaking his head while laughing at my young, hippie ways. The processed ham would stay. The family fridge officially became Poland.

But like any Nazi, I'm also a hypocrite. It was then MY idea to go to a Mexican restaurant to celebrate my return home. In a way, that little gesture was like handing a small child a handgun and telling him not to play with it. Few good things come of this. But the real problem wasn't the margaritas or the endless supply of chips or the two orders of queso fundido, one with chorizo and one with jalapeños for my benefit, or the completely unnecessary main courses we ordered after. The problem, as far as the Allied forces of my parents, aunt, and best friend, M, were concerned, was me.

The Allies pushed in on me like endless streams of Russians across the Eastern Border, making fun of my plans to wipe the fridge clean and start over with produce. I fired back with all I had, citing studies, statistics, personal experience. All the while a lump of greasy, melted cheese sat in my stomach besides two beers like Hitler's Jewish heritage. By the time the vegetarian fajitas arrived, I knew I was in my bunker and surrendered. Nazism is no way to win a war, as history will tell you.

After I saw the err of my ways, M and I conducted some quick Nuremberg Trials on my methods. She had been the Stalin to my Hitler, secretly knowing the longevity of a brutal dictatorship while denouncing mine. What that metaphor means is: she had also read the articles, seen the documentaries, hell, she had even ordered a vegetarian entree, but rather than force her habits, her ideas of right and wrong eating onto others at the risk of being a hypocrite if she broke them, she accepted people as they were and just made her own choices. As a former New Yorker, I find that hard to do, because how will everyone else know that they're idiots if you don't tell them? Well, explained M, that's precisely the problem. Telling people that they're idiots and that they must do as you do will only make them turn on you, despite your good intentions.

So I've laid down my weapons. Today I will stock up on me-friendly groceries which my parents are welcomed to but my days of preaching and blitzkrieging are over. I now live in late 1940's Berlin when the British, French, Russians, and Americans each occupied a part of the city and there were checkpoints... OK, I may have taken this too far. But you get the picture.

A Lunatic's Harmonious Recipe

2010-03-23T00:56:00.002-04:00

Aside from food writing, my other preoccupation is film production. Its what I studied, its my long term relationship, and even when I've broken up with it I can't help but come back for one last hook up.

So, of course, my first instinct when I moved out to Austin was to look for freelance film work, preferably on set and paid. In no time, I had a UT student film shoot lined up. And that, my dear reader, is what I've been doing most of today and what I will be doing all of tomorrow.

If you know me personally, then you're probably aware of the fact that I am a crazy person. Not a take medication, see a shrink (though I should), hear voices kind of crazy, but the irrational, puzzling, why on earth are you doing this, kind of crazy person. I like to think its part of my charm... (Cough)

For the past week, this shoot has consumed me, has driven me to the point of breakdown, caused me to be insulted by the manager of a mediocre, STUPID diner franchise that starts with Mag and ends with Nolia, which I and people who like me do NOT patronize... [Deep breath]

But I digress.

Today has been a clear example of my craziness. I spent most of the morning waiting on camera, rescheduling shots to accommodate light changes and a pick up truck (don't ask), assisting departments, and calling shots-- all on a cup of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese which I did not finish.

At around 1:30 pm I had to leave set for what I thought would be a quick run across town to fill out a job application, so I ordered lunch before I headed out. About an hour after I'd been sitting around holding my fully filled out application and resume and dictating an email to R over the phone so he could send it in my name to a much more respectable, high quality establishment that starts with Kerbey and ends in Lane, and which I and people I love go to VERY often, I realized this wasn't a fill out an application and leave sort of job application, but an interview. Two hours into it, when I'd made some friends and we'd all swapped life stories and become chummy with each other (but not to the point of exchanging contact info)-- as it got closer to each of us having to go in and subsequently leave, one guy compared it to the end of camp when everyone is about to head out and we're all saying good bye but without much hope of seeing each other again-- I was shivering from internal cold caused by low blood sugar and slurping down a full-sugar, full-fat Dr. Pepper (delicious!).

Finally, at around 4:30 pm, I was called in and the interview went well. I was pleased and so beyond the point of hungry I didn't even feel it anymore. I ended up getting back to set at 5:30 pm after getting to experience the 5 pm rush hour of Highway 35. While I apologized to the director and got back on track with the last two shots we had left to do-- good job AD-- I shakily asked, "Where's my sandwich?"

That's right, the one I'd ordered at 1:30 pm before leaving-- about four hours after my morning bagel.

Needless to say, that sandwich was near perfect.

We had to rush the last shots before we lost all light, got yelled at by an old-ish lady from the neighborhood, I got a sunburn from the sunset, and my authority was hard to regain after my four hour absesne and only at the end did I feel like I was being any use at all. Sigh.

So when I got home, R was out and I informed him that the door would remain locked from the insude until he acquired an offering of beer for his exhausted, sunburned, frustrated girlfriend.

R obliged and while he played a boardgame called Puerto Rico with Natasha and Sean of The Gyronauts, I redid the schedule, lost all the work I did on it just before I sent it out, cried, and redid it all in about 5 minutes.

After a day like this, most sane, rational people usually grab a take out menu, open a third beer in 40 minutes (that much I have done), and retire to the warm embrace of their couch. Here's where the I'm a crazy person part comes in.

At 9:30 pm, I went into my kitchen, something that lately takes a fair amount of coaxing from my deflated bank account to get me to do, and I pulled out the cutting board and a knife. I chopped shallots, garlic, julienned celeriac (?), thinly sliced carrots, shredded ginger... It was when I was meticulously cutting the heads off a bunch of broccoli, because the stems and heads cook at different times, that the thought occurred to me, Why am I doing this?

Then I remembered the therapeutic value of cooking. Not just cooking, but of taking the time to make something well, removing the parts that you don't want, like leaves and stems. Even if its manual, tedious work, its also hypnotic and serene in a way. When I stir fried each element and drizzled umami, sweetness, saltiness, spiciness, and acidity only my lovingly prepared vegetables, I felt a satisfaction that comes from knowing that what you're making is harmonious and good, that your efforts will reward you, and its made all the sweeter by the exhaustion already clinging to you.

When is served what I made to my soon to be kitchen cleaners, their gasps of admiration and their moans of pleasure at what they claim is one of my best creations so far only added to the satisfaction of nullifying a mediocre day with a job well done and done exclusively for one's self and the people one cares about.

(Not that take out wouldn't have been great. I've just been eating out a lot and I got CSA vegetables piling up in my fridge.)

Dre's Magical Stir-Fry of Goodness (title by Natasha)

Serves 2

Ingredients:

1 shallot
2 cloves garlic
1/2 tsp fresh ground ginger
1 carrot finely cut into rings
1-4 (depending on size and how much you like them) non-starchy root vegetables, like turnips, celeriac, daikon, parsnips, rutabaga or whatever that purple root vegetable was that I had lying around in my fridge (see above picture)
1 bunch broccoli, heads and stems separated (you can use only the heads or use both, just cook the stems first)
Any other vegetable your deem appropriate for a stir fry-- mushrooms, bamboo shoots, string beans, cauliflower, etc.
1 tbsp Sesame oil
Soy sauce to taste (less is more in my experience)
1/4-1/2 tsp sugar (I used brown)
Juice of half a lime
Red Pepper flakes to taste
1/4 cup cilantro, chopped, for garnish
Salt and Pepper
1 cup cooked rice

1) Heat sesame oil on a large wok or a sautee or frying pan over medium heat, add shallots and cook until translucent, stirring occasionally. Add garlic and ginger, cook for another minute.

2) Toss in root vegetable, carrots, and broccoli stems, if using, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook until slightly softened then add the broccoli and a little more salt. Cook until broccoli's color darkens, about a minute.

3) Sprinkle sugar, red pepper flakes, and black pepper, stir. Drizzle soy sauce and lime juice. Cook stirring continually until all vegetables are soft but still have a slight crunch.

4) Serve over rice, garnish with cilantro and a last dash of salt and pepper.

** You may be wondering why I keep dousing my vegetables with salt during the cooking process. Well, its called proper seasoning. You're not meant to toss a ton of salt on each time but rather just a pinch through each step to season each element. This will make your flavors pop, without the risk of oversalting. Kosher salt works great for the first sprinklings and finish with a sea salt if you can. I wouldn't go use fancy saly like fleur de sel or anything like that since there's already a lot of flavors going on here.

** You can add cooked chicken, cooked shrimp, or cooked pepper steak to this for a more filling, carnivorous take on it.

** If you use any additional vegetables aside from the carrots, root vegetable, and broccoli, make sure to toss them into the pan at the appropriate time so that all the vegetables cook evenly. Starchy vegetables like potatoes will take the longest, followed by more dense vegetables like carrots and other roots, whereas stems like celery or broccoli stem require just slightly less time than the roots, and leafy, delicate vegetables will cook almost instantly.

** Take a little extra time to make sure everything is chopped into roughly the same size. This will make you cooking more even, reduce the danger of burning the food, and will just have a better texture.

Why did this recipe work? It incorporates all flavors in a harmonious manner. The vegetables add bitterness which is offset by the sugar, given depth by the acidity of the lime, umph from the soy sauce, and made more interesting by the slight spice of the red pepper flakes. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did and make sure to have it along with a cold beer, preferably an ale. ;-)

And We're Back...

2010-03-12T06:23:00.001-05:00

Moving from New York to Austin has sort of shut this operation down for a while. But no more excuses, if for no other reason than because Austin is an incredible food town. Sure, it doesn't have the range and scope of New York or its eccentricity, charm, and outlandish pricing, but Austin's food cart-local/sourced/awesome-Tex Mex restaurants have kept me very happy these past two weeks. Below are some highlights of my new home.

- Maria's TacoExpress: I pass this place every single day. The Walgreens next to it feels incredibly out of place. You are beckonded from S. Lamar Blvd. by a giant woman's torso with dark hair and a black tanktop, arms stretched up to the sky. Upon closer inspection you notice that the assembled junk below her is in fact a restaurant, although the only real signs reads "Hippy Church" and "Rooms Avialble." Around the squarish structure are murals and assembled kitch that surround a wooden outdoor patio with two levels, strung up with lights. The inside is like cave, walls plastered with old Mexican ads and from every inch of the ceiling hang random ornaments like kitchen serving spoons, a guitar, a phone, and so on. You order at the counter, their menu is limited but they do have Austin's now famed Breakfast Burritos, Migas, Enchiladas, Chips with -Queso, -Guac, -Salsa, Gorditas, and, of course, drinks- a loaded Margarita prevalent among them. I tried several of the tacos, the least remarkable being a Mexi Taco with overdone scrambled eggs that claimed to have onion, tomatoes and jalapeños, but I didn't taste them; a Verde taco loaded with sauteed vegetables, which was good, though not super satisfying; and a Pollo Guisado taco, the best of them, slightly spicy with juicy chicken, topped with lettuce and tomato. Apparently they do meat best, as tends to be the case with Mexican places. The queso at Maria's-- and I have tied quite a bit of queso-- was the best I've had so far. The consistency wasn't as creamy and heavy as other places tend to make it and I have hope that this was made with better ingredients but the hell if I know. I'm excited to come back, specially on summer nights, its the perfect place to go with friends, knock back beers and eat cheap tacos.

Kerbey Lane: One of two 24-hour diner-type places, the other being Magnolia which I have yet to try out. Its walking distance from my house so I have particular incentive to go. It has sparsely decorated walls in anonymous shades of purple and beige, large windows, muted green booths, wooden tables, and diner-lighting. I like it. It feels like a much calmer version of a diner in New York where all the waiters are either art students who have no business being in the service industry or very friendly middle-aged hippies with tattoos. The menu ranges from standard diner fare like sandwiches, omelets, hamburgers, and pastas to Tex Mex like Queso, Quesadillas, Soft Tacos, Enchiladas, and Breakfast Tacos. (I have yet to encounter a burrito in this town.) Their queso is decent, heavier than Maria's but they have variations on it like the Cowboy Queso which has black beans topped with queso topped with quacamole and with a side of salsa and chips. They have a daily selection of soups, pancakes, desserts, beers, and wine, along with their mainstays. Their Creamy Poblano Soup is a delciscious alternative to a cream-based tomato soup with the smokey flavor of poblano pepper (not spicy). Their burgers are excellent, specially the Hippie Burger, a well-seasoned veggie burger topped with tomato, lettuce, and red onion. You can pick out condiments, among them regular mayo, pesto mayo, or chipotle mayo and I highly recommend the latter for a pleasant kick to your sandwich. Their desserts aren't bad either, specially their light, almost cheesecake-like Buttermilk Pie, with a touch of lemon. I'm going to be visiting there a lot. I still can't vouch for their coffee, though.

Gourdough's- We haven't even left S. Lamar yet and we're still eating really well. This trailer is located next to a coffee stand called Brevitas and a locally-sourced hot spot called Farm to Trailer which opens at 5 and whose smells are demanding I give it a try pronto. But Gourdough's is something you will only get in Austin, drunk food par excellance that you eat on wooden picnic tables with big umbrellas on a rock-covered courtyard overlooking the avenue and a Papa John's--great place to catch the sunset, which is beautifully colorful without buildings to block it out. Gourgough's serves Big. Fat. Donuts. Topped with a colorful array of decadent toppings. So far I've tried the Funky Monkey, grilled bananas, brown sugar, and cream cheese sauce, and the Black Out, Chocolate Chips with Chocolate Fudge and Brownie Bites. Oh my God. The donut itself is incredible, slightly sweet with a crackly exterior and a soft, custardy interior. Its made on the spot, its circumference barely fits the small plate its loaded onto, then the toppings are heaped generously over it. Next on my list to try is the Naughty and Nice which is simply sugar and cinnamon but there are some out there combos like Fried Chicken strip with honey butter, Bacon with maple syrup sauce, Habanero Pepper Jelly with cream cheese sauce, and other combinations to please every level of pregnant.

For now those are my top three, although I've been to a few lackluster Asian places, I have yet to find one I'm crazy about. Amy's Ice Cream is a scaled-down version of Cold Stone with an ice cream menu that changes every day. Chuy's, a local Tex Mex chain that specialized in enchiladas smothers in sauce with really good table chips and salsa. And the Alamo Drafthouse, a movie theater that serves beers, wine, and food during the movie. I can't write too much about it because I've only had their molten chocolate cake, which is very good.

There are still many places to try out, although my cash pile is running out so you may be hearing mostly cooking stories from now on. I joined a CSA immediately and its incredible the variety of vegetables I'm getting, a drastic change in terms of selection from the Northeast. I got an avocado in my share! And oranges and grapefruit! This is incredibly exciting. I also got tender and slightly bitter new broccoli, neon orange carrots, and tough, dark greens and its mid-MARCH. And no, I don't have to wear a jacket when I go outside, the weather is lovely.

Seriously, come to Austin.

Culintro Panel Series: The Future of Food Journalism

2010-02-14T16:23:00.002-05:00

Print is dead. Film is dead. We might as well be all-inclusive: media is dead. As a former filmmaker, I’ve heard similar laments: the future of sitting in a dark room with a large screen is constantly being questioned and the coming of YouTube was hailed as the end of a profession. Now an aspiring food writer, I recognize a similar environment of fear and doubt present in the publishing world. As Bob Dylan aptly pointed out, “The times they are a-changing.”

To get a better perspective, I recently attended a panel called The Future of Food Journalism, hosted by Culintro. I was particularly intrigued by their choice of panelists. Rather than sitting down the editors of Conde Nast’s food magazines or former restaurant critics, Culintro invited the food editor of Time Out New York Gabriella Gershenson, senior food editor of Salon.com Francis Lam, Tasting Table creator Nick Fauchald, and Edible New York/ Brooklyn/ East End magazine’s Brian Halweil. Young, niche, community-based writers and editors in the midst of a changing industry so I felt hopeful about what news they would bring from the trenches.

Understandably, though, the moderator, food historian Andrew F. Smith, began the evening on a bit of a gloom and doom note by talking about the folding of Gourmet magazine. The big question was the first question he threw at the panel, starting with former Gourmet editor Francis Lam: Is print dead?

Lam answered with another question, "What is print? Do you mean paper?" Or writing in general? This was an interesting distinction that became a central topic during the discussion. It brought a smile to my face because of how closely it echoed another question I’d heard often: Is film dead? You mean 35mm or movies in general? He went on to tell the story of a man he met at a bar who spoke very sensuously (Francis admitted the man may very well have been trying to pick him up) about the experience of reading magazines and his love of magazines. The physicality of printed paper cannot by recreated by technology, pointed out Lam. The point was further driven home when Smith asked the audience, would you take the iPad to bed to read? Barely anyone raised their hand. Print isn’t going away, but neither is the internet.

What the whole panel seemed to have in common was the acceptance that what their readers want and expect from them has changed. Accepting these new tendencies is the only way to survive.

Shorter attention spans because of television, blogs, and just a more harried way of life means people aren’t willing to read the 5,000, 10,000, 15,000 word pieces of yesteryear. The days of leisurely entering into a story are over. "You gotta give them the sex upfront," said Nick Fauchald, whose entire publication is email-based. Now you get 800 words if you're lucky.

People now want to experience/make/visit what you are writing about rather than just be satisfied reading about it. This has in turn given way to the success of smaller, niche publications, and an abundance of recipe resources. City-specific magazines such as the Edibles, are given away at strategic locations, and they are doing very well. Meanwhile, bigger, national publications available everywhere for a price are straining under their own weight. Since so much is available for free on the internet, subscriptions are down and advertisers go with the numbers. Which leads to the next point...

He who fails to embrace the web is destined to perish. Even Gabriella Gershenson admits that while she received Gourmet in the mail, she read it mostly online. "I'm both helping and killing this medium," she admitted. Gabriella told of when she was hired as a staff writer at Time Out, she had no web responsibilities and the goals and priorities of the magazine were very different. But where Time Out has succeeded (and where Conde Nast has failed) is that they recognized that print and web are friends. They feed each other and there are things you can do on the web that you simply can't on paper. It's telling that the day Francis Lam was let go from Gourmet (along with the rest of the staff), he was hired by Salon.com.

The question of money is the most pressing now that media is available for free 24/7 on the internet. How can a publication on the verge of bankruptcy or one that is not making any money pay professional writers? The nytimes.com paywall is a promising experiment, and a huge gamble for The New York Times. But the fact is that many publishers do want to pay writers for their expertise, for good reporting, or for ethics and fact-checking. The demand for good food writing is there and the distinction between noise and professional writing is becoming more and more distinct. The print world is accepting its evolution and adapting. Take the fact that every publication represented on the panel does pay their freelance writers.

After the panel, I walked into Grand Central station and couldn't help stopping by the newsstand. I already had a free copy of Edible Manhattan but still bought two more magazines for $10 total. That’s several hours of entertainment and information. I pay $12.50 for a two hour movie. Buying magazines is a bargain in comparison and I can take it on the subway. If movies were able to break box office records in the middle of a recession, with ticket prices at an all-time high, print should be OK.

Tito- Cuento ganador del Certamen de El Nuevo Dia

2010-02-09T17:48:00.005-05:00

This story won the Certamen de Cuento de El Nuevo Día 2009, along with Cezanne Cardona's El silencio de Mefisto. You can bug him to put his on his blog. Here for your enjoyment (Spanish-speakers only, I'm afraid) is Tito.

Tito

Por Andrea Moya

Titubeando por el calor húmedo de una ciudad ajena, Tito fuma sin inhalar. El cigarrillo le guinda del labio como el palo de una paleta le guinda a un niño haciendo como si fumara. Los letreros en chino son una anomalía cotidiana que nunca fallan en hacerle sonreír sin proponérselo. Es la persona más alta en su canto de calle y se mueve a un ritmo distinto al torrente de personas que chocan contra sus piernas, sus brazos, se lo llevan por el medio.

Desde el primer día se había sentido en su casa aunque fuera de su casa. Él era así desde chiquito, más cómodo tirado en el sofá jugando con el Playstation de su amigo y cenando con los vecinos, que estando en su propia casa, comiendo con su propia familia. Nueva York lo llevaba esperando con los brazos abiertos hacía tiempo ya. Al fin decidió tirársela por eso de, y a ver cómo se las hacía para no perder la cordura, el sabor y el ritmo, y el anhelo del regreso que es patrimonio de su cultura fugaz.

Porque a Tito disque no le importa eso. Tiene el cool muy alto, muy desarrollado para sentirse extranjero. Por eso, después de aterrizar en Kennedy, Terminal 5, JetBlue, se metió en Chinatown, el pueblo de inmigrantes donde todo el mundo viene de otro lao, y nadie pertenece. Es como un pueblo transitorio que lleva ya cien años en transición pero sin llegar a un acuerdo en cuanto a donde coño quieren ir. Vino ese día a comer perro con salsa soya y tofú y se quedó. Después de cuatro meses fumaba más para protegerse contra la peste a pescado y basura que por adicción. En ese rincón de todo lo sucio y olvidado en Nueva York tenía su casa, un estudio más closet que cuarto, donde un matres, un tocador y un “hot plate” compartían el piso sucio que no barría nunca porque no le cabía una escoba. No era su casa en Dorado ni la casa de sus padres en Montehiedra pero era pleno Manhattan y completa libertad. Esa libertad que se forja cuando uno voluntariamente abandona la comodidad.

Caminando por la calle empinada y estrecha, casi solo, con la excepción del vagabundo que yacía casi vivo junto a sus Adidas, le entra uno de esos toques filosóficos que transitan con las brizas contaminadas de esa ciudad de artistas y financieros. Todos pagamos un precio por lo que ya nos pertenece, se dice sin rencor ni malas mañas. Todo en la vida es alquile, se dice sonriendo.

Va de camino a su pan de cada día, un restaurante ruso en el East Village donde Tito prepara las sopas y los almuerzos y a veces los platos de cena, si es que el segundo cocinero bebió demasiada vodka esa tarde. El dueño, Yuri, lo contrató a pesar que no tenía experiencia ni entrenamiento como cocinero. Yuri y su hermano, Boris, que Tito nunca había conocido, eran dueños de dos condominios, un laundry y el restaurante. De todos sus negocios, el restaurante era el que menos ingreso generaba así que le importaba tres pitos si la comida era buena o si la gente venía a comer. Por cierto, la comida sí era buena, gracias al chef Georgi, un mudo buenagente que cocinaba lo que Zagat llamaba “la comida más auténticamente rusa en todo Manhattan.” Yuri le importaba tres pitos qué decía el Zagat. Él cenaba en restaurantes de cinco estrellas y no consideraba una cena que costará menos de $200 digna de su paladar. Así que contrató al puertorro flaco y con cara de pendejo porque entendía que a los hispanos no se les tiene que pagar mucho. Gerogi nunca le dirigía la mirada y nadie estaba dispuesto a enseñarle a cocinar. Sus primeros días Tito se preguntaba si no había cometido un grave error en irse de Puerto Rico sólo para terminar cocinero malpagado, preparando platos con más salsa que sabor, rodeado de rusos que entendían que él no duraba en esa cocina ni una semana. Hasta que apareció Chekhov.

El borde de Chinatown termina en Canal Street, la calle entera es como un pueblo de frontera, salvaje y con un tránsito constante de personas y carros. Ahí comienzan dos sectores nuevos: Soho al oeste, el distrito de boutiques y restaurantes caros, y el Lower East Side al este, lo que una vez fue un barrio puertorriqueño, un barrio judío, un barrio de gente pobre y crimen, convertido en un área cool, con bares y restaurantes cool, con grafiti artístico y una mezcla rarísima de pasado y futuro hecho chic. Tito vira a la derecha en Canal Street para subir por el lado este. Pasa el resto de su caminata pensando en Chekhov y en lo que le va hacer a su comida.

Chekhov es un ruso abigotado que una vez vivió en la Unión Soviética, y aunque sus chaquetones y sortijas indican que el capitalismo le ha favorecido más que a otros, es claro que extraña la madre tierra donde pobres y ricos comían de las mismas cosechas de repollo y papas y cortes de carne raros. Viene al restaurantito con paredes de madera cruda y mesas sin mantel todos los días a las 3 de la tarde para su almuerzo, y a las 8 de la noche para darse su buena turca. Es un oasis en su vida nueva americana, un refugio donde su nostalgia cobra vida y la consume con el placer de un hombre muerto de sed bebiendo champán.

Claro que, Tito no es una de esas personas que deja a uno tranquilo. Su lucha es contra el orden y la vida sin tropiezos, sorpresas ni disgustos.

La primera vez que lo vio entrar fue una semana después de empezar a trabajar en la cocina. Esa vez no hizo nada, demasiado fascinado por este personaje un poco Stalin y un poco Tolstoy que parecía un gran oso vestido como un abuelo muy elegante. El señor ordenó un plato de gurkins, un Beef Stroganov con mostaza y un shot de vodka. Era la única persona almorzando a las 3 de la tarde. Tito lo miraba desde su ventanita entre comedor y cocina, observando sus movimientos, su cara, su postura. Mientras que esperaba la comida, su cara indicaba con certeza que no le iba gustar. Ya se había decidido mentalmente que esto sería un experimento fracasado. Tito le preparó el platito de gurkins y sonó la campanita.

El primer mordisco cambió todo. Los gurkins lo hacían sonreír bajo el bigote aunque sólo por unos segundo, el rigor del comunismo había creado la costumbre de reprimir emociones no relacionadas con la nieve y el color gris. Pero esa indicación era suficiente. Estaba enamorado. Claro que no todo era perfecto. Tomaba su vodka lentamente, mirándola como pidiéndole que mejorara para el próximo sorbo. Cuando llegó su plato principal, ya su expectativa había cambiado. Esperó a que la mesera, Mandy, polaca-rusa flaquita, de ojos cristalinos y piel con textura de pétalo a punto de marchitar, desapareciera detrás del bar antes de comenzar. Su primer bocado de pasta, carne y salsa iluminaron su rostro con algo así como el nirvana de los yogis. Tito observó el monstruo de hombre relajar sus hombros y suspirar. Lentamente terminó su plato, transportado durante esos veinte minutos a la Rusia que ya no existe mas que en sus memorias.

El señor que Tito bautizó como Chekhov (Tito no sabía ni le interesaba saber su nombre verdadero) había encontrado su rincón de casa en ese orfanato de ciudad y Tito había encontrado su razón para quedarse. Chekhov era su contraste perfecto, la oscuridad para su luz, el silencio dentro de su ruido constante, alguien con quien joder. Esa noche el señor regresó y ordenó una sopa de setas y barley y siete cervezas. Estableció una rutina. Ya mismo Tito se las inventaría para volcarle la vida a ese pobre infeliz de la manera más chévere posible. Pero primero, Tito tenía que aprender a cocinar.

Se le pegó a Georgi como un perro al que no lo quiere. Lo perseguía por la cocina, imitando todo lo que hacía el viejo ruso, cómo pelaba las papas, cómo cortaba vegetales, las cantidades de sal y pimienta que le echaba a todo. Llegaba temprano para practicar y preparar las sopas, leía libros de cocina rusa en su tiempo libre. Cocinaba con fanatismo, con prisa, hasta con amor. Un día Georgi le miró a los ojos y reconoció su existencia. Los platos de Tito ahora sabían idénticos a los de Georgi.

Fue un jueves por la tarde, exactamente un mes después de ese primer almuerzo. Chekhov entró y se sentó en su mesa de siempre. Tito fijó sus ojos en él como un gato asechando presa. Observó a Mandy repetir sin sonido la palabra Bortsch. El momento había llegado. De su bolsillo sacó un sobrecito de Sazón Goya. La sopa roja como sangre absorbió el polvito mágico como si perteneciera ahí. Tito la revolvía con ternura, cuidado, fundiendo los sabores en un baile prohibido. Le dio cinco minutos para que la sopa absorbiera su nuevo ingrediente, parado con brazos cruzados frente al caldero estilo mago de Disney hasta que le dio el olor. Entre las nieves de Siberia, la Plaza Roja de Moscú, entre los años de opresión y la rica cultura depresiva se coló ese saborcito irresistible, una falda blanca de plenera, un güiraso, las brisas del Morro era lo que ese caldero exhalaba.

Con un cucharón, Tito llenó un plato de sopa. Se lo presentó a Mandy. Con una pequeña inhalación su cara se puso pálida. Le devolvió el plato a Tito y por poco va a donde Chekhov a decirle que ya no quedaba más Bortsch, ¿no preferiría un Goulash? Pero Tito le agarró el brazo, exprimiendo hasta la última onza de nene lindo y joven que tenía a su disposición, dispuesto a besarla si llegara a eso. Con una sonrisa cálida, calmante, una guiñada de cómplice y un susurro de “trust me,” le devolvió el plato a la pobre señorita jamona que no quiere líos con nadie y que se crió con hombres así y conoce muy bien sus vociferaciones rabiosas cuando no le dan exactamente lo que quieren. Hay que amansar al semental, Tito le decía con la mirada y ella lo entendió. Temblando, aceptó el reto.

Moviéndose por el comedor como si llevara una bomba en sus manos, depositó el plato de sopa frente a Chekhov y salió dispará para la cocina. Pero Chekhov ni se dio cuenta. Tito lo observaba desde la ventanita. Le tomó unos segundos antes de empezar a comer. Su mano descansaba sobre la cuchara y con mucha deliberación la levantó y la sumergió en el líquido rojo. Le dio el olor. Algo no cuadraba, pero el hambre siempre gana, aun cuando la batalla es contra sospechas inspiradas por un olor ajeno, amenazante, aunque placentero. Al fin y al cabo, era Bortsch. Sabía a Bortsch, tenía la textura de Bortsch, comiéndoselo se sentía que caminaba abrigado por las avenidas de San Petersburgo iluminadas por las farolas, la nieve cayendo lentamente en grandes cantos, pero en el medio de su visión había una presencia nueva, un agregao que no pertenecía ahí. No podía descifrar qué era pero en la mente de Tito la figura le aparecía con claridad fotográfica. En el medio de San Petersburgo había sembrado una palma.

Así poco a poco fue introduciendo mezclas clandestinas de sabores caribeños al mundo frío y rígido de su querido Chekhov. Como Chekhov siempre llegaba después de la fiebre del almuerzo, Georgi dejaba que Tito preparará sus platos. Si Chekhov ordenaba repollo relleno de carne usaba un salero especial lleno de Abodo para sazonar la carne molida. Cuando ordenaba pierogies, mezclaba yuca majada con la masa de papas. De sus bolsillos salían toques de cilantro, azafrán, ajíes dulces, recao, pique, hacía que estornudaba y caía un cucharón de sofrito encima de las cebollas. De vez en cuando preparaba mofongo y se lo echaba a la sopa. Nadie se percataba de los cambios excepto Mandy. Chekhov nunca se quejaba, seguía viniendo todos los días, dos veces al día.

Dentro de dos meses la postura y la cara de Chekhov cambiaron completamente. En vez de entrar al restaurante con cara de dueño del mundo, entraba por la puerta como un hombre condenado a muerte que ha decidido recibir el golpe mortal con dignidad y gracia. Se sienta en su mesa de siempre, mira el menú rápidamente pero ya sabe lo que quiere, aunque le toma mucho más tiempo lograr que las palabras se zafen de su lengua. Espera ansioso, solo en el comedor, bebe más vodka, cada vez más vodka, halando las esquinas de su bigote, un nuevo tic nervioso, hasta que llega el primer plato. Cuando Mandy desaparece y Chekhov se encuentra solo con su plato de comida, su amigo con puñal escondido, le toma unos minutos comenzar. Tiene los ojos llorosos, las manos le tiemblan un poco, pero poco a poco lleva su mano a los cubiertos. Es el momento favorito de Tito, el primer bocado. Chekhov lleva el canto de carne o la cucharada de sopa (que contiene además un poco de platano, un sabor a jamón) hasta su boca y traspasa sus labios bajo la cortina del bigote como si fuera un pedazo de material nuclear. No hay forma de describir la cara de Chekhov. Es como la cara de la tragedia excepto que se le nota un placer intenso lleno de culpa y agradecimiento. Es la cara de los padrastros enamorados de sus hijas adoptadas, de los niños cuando aprenden a masturbarse. Los cálculos de Tito no le fallaron. El próximo paso lo tenía que tomar Chekhov por su cuenta.

Tito cruza la calle Houston, la línea divisoria entre la jungla del Lower East Side y las civilizaciones del East Village. La luz roja lo para en el medio de la avenida en una isla de cemento. Mira hacia el este y ve en la distancia un edificio con un reloj gigante. En el techo del edificio hay una persona con el brazo alzado, completamente inmóvil. Tito alza su brazo y saluda a la persona aunque él sabe que no es persona. Es una estatua de Lenin. Tiene un presentimiento que algo va pasar, como si Lenin le diera una señal. La luz cambia y Tito sigue caminando. Su restaurante queda a diez cuadras en el sector soviético, más allá de la frontera de Veselka, el restaurante ukraneo que sirve como transición entre los gustos del Occidente cálido y los verdaderos despojos del comunismo. Anda pitando el final de la canción Pedro Navaja porque el restaurante queda cerca de las Avenidas A y B. Es un día soleado, rico, el cielo azul sin nubes, uno de esos día cuando a Tito se le olvida que está en Nueva York. Pero Tito se siente raro, como nervioso pero sin miedo, hay algo en el aire.

Llega al restaurante y entra por el comedor oscuro. El dueño, Yuri, fuma tranquilamente en el bar. Lo mira de reojo con la misma expresión de interés que uno le demostraría a un insecto raro pero no muy impresionante.

“What have you been doing?” Su acento ruso tiene un sonido como arena seca rozando una superficie lisa.

Tito dice que no entiende.

“The food, it is different. My brother, Boris, he comes in every day, he says its different. He wants to know why. I don’t eat the food here so I don’t know. You’re the only one here not Russian, not anything. What are you doing to the food?”

Chekhov es Boris. El famoso hermano de Yuri. Obviamente. Para Tito no es fácil aguantarse las ganas de reír. Le pregunta a Yuri qué le ha dicho su hermano sobre la comida.

“The flavor is different, it’s… louder. He says, it’s so good he can’t stop eating it but… he feels like he is cheating on his wife, he says. Like he wants to do something crazy like go raise horses.”

Negando con la cabeza, tratando de descifrar si Yuri quería decir criar caballos o correr carreras de caballo, el ambiguo raise/race, Tito sonríe sin poder evitarlo. Raise/ race, no importa. Yuri lo mira por encima de su cigarrillo, como un gangster en una película de Brian di Palma.

“So you admit it.”

Tito no admite nada.

“I don’t care. I never liked your face. Go back out and don’t come back.”

Tito alza los hombros, la sonrisa abriéndose en su cara, porque algo ha pasado. Saliendo por la puerta, listo para ir al próximo planeta, a la próxima profesión pasajera, la próxima manifestación de su existencia, tal vez la próxima ciudad o el próximo país, Tito prende un cigarrillo. Inhala. Fantasea con su querido Chekhov, o Boris, o como se llame, lo ve en el hipódromo. En una versión es jockey, montado en la yegua, listo para salir pitao por ahí tan pronto suena el disparo. La otra versión fuma un cigarro con los entrenadores y dueños al lado de la pista. Otro está en el corral examinando sus ponies más preciados.

Los pies de Tito tocan la acera. Exhala. El día se despliega, amplio y lleno de posibilidades. Camina sin dirección, siguiendo un pensamiento cayado, un instinto leve que le toma la mano y lo lleva. En su camino ve a Chekhov y casi para en seco. Se ha afeitado el bigote. Apenas lo reconoce.

Boris mira al muchacho alto, flaco, medio hispano. El muchacho le pasa por el lado mirándolo intensamente como si fuera un extraterrestre. Le parece conocido pero no sabe cómo, ni de donde.

Tito le sonríe y se pasan sin comentario.

The Future of Food Journalism

2010-02-05T22:24:00.000-05:00

With an imminent relocation from New York to Austin, monthly metro card to auto insurance, from aspiring filmmaker to aspiring food writer, I bought a seat to a panel called The Future of Food Journalism. I wanted to know what I was getting myself into and, with a cocktail hour preceding the event, I thought maybe I could make some connections on the way. I even packed some business cards (the ones for the company I no longer work for, still, business cards). But the mass of people I came upon when I came through the glass doors of Culintro, the venue hosting the event, put a stop to any delusion I had of talking to anyone that night. Not while wearing snow boots and a shirt from K-mart anyway. This panel was already proving to be informative.

Networking is the bread and butter of the freelancer and I was learning how to do it by making a series of mistakes. Lesson one: dress well. Lesson two: bring writing utensils. Lesson three: get your business cards up to date. Lesson four: talk to people. While lesson four was being forced upon me (someone sat down next to me and started talking to me, prompting me to respond) the panel, finally, started.

The industry professionals who would be talking to us tonight included: Gabriella Gersherson from Time Out New York, Nick Fauchald of Tasting Table, Francis Lam of Salon.com, and Eric Halweil of the Edible magazines. It was the quality of the panel that had sparked my interest in the first place. I was expecting very gloom and doom prophesying on the death of food writing (akin to my professor David Leite's slap across the face to my food writing class: "You can't make a living doing this.") but hoped for good news. The moderator, Andrew F. Smith, gave a short intro centered around the folding of Gourmet magazine and started off by asking Francis Lam, a former Gourmet editor, if he thought print was dead. Francis' answered with another question, "What is print? Do you mean paper?" Or writing in general? This was an interesting distinction that became a central topic during the discussion.

Food writing is more popular than ever (similarly film box office numbers broke records during a horrible recession yet people are still lamenting the death of film) and what's been happening is that the industry is reinventing itself by embracing new tendencies in the demands of their readers (which in turn satisfy the needs of advertisers):

Shorter attention spans (because of getting most information from a screen) means shorter articles. The days of 5,000, 10,000, 15,000 word pieces and leisurely entering into a story are over. "You gotta give them the sex upfront," said Nick Fauchald, whose entire publication is email-based. Now you get 800 words if you're lucky.

People now want to experience/make/visit what you are writing about rather than just be satisfied reading about it. This has in turn given way to the success of smaller, more community-based publications, niche publications, and an abundance of recipe resources. The Edible magazines, which are small city by city magazines are basically given away at strategic locations but are doing very well economically. Meanwhile, bigger, national publications are straining under their own weight as subscriptions are down (because so much is available for free on the internet) and advertisers go with the numbers. Which leads to the next point...

He who fails to embrace the web is destined to perish. Even Gabriella Gershenson, who is food editor for a print magazine (to which R and I subscribe to) admits that while she received Gourmet in the mail, she read it mostly online. "I'm both helping and killing this medium," she admitted. Gabriella told of when she was hired as a staff writer at Time Out (a position that rarely exists anymore, ergo the need for networking) and how different the goals and priorities of the magazine were back then. She remembers having no web responsibilities whatsoever. But where Time Out has succeeded (and where Conde Nast has failed) is that they did not go into denial about the power of the internet and how important it would be to their magazine's survival. They recognized that print and web are friends. They feed each other and there are things you can do on the web that you simply can't on paper. It's telling that the day Francis Lam was let go from Gourmet (along with the rest of the staff), he was hired by Salon.com.

Those were some of the key points about how food writing was going to live on, but inevitably the question of money, and specifically paying writers came up. Food writers are famously underpaid, having to teach, write books, and become editors (or marry rich) to be able to do what they love. Things have only gotten worse because of the free for all that is the internet. Tasting Table and Salon pay their freelance writers but that's an anomaly. Most websites want writers to work for free, paying them $50 is they're lucky. Meanwhile the bigger publications have brought their rates down considerably. While this question wasn't fully addressed (its hard to answer something nobody knows yet), I did get the impression that we're that much closer to the answer. That the panel was composed of (young) people who were making a living at this particular profession and who have embraced the change of tides that come with innovation, is a clear indication that its still possible to make a living as a food writer. There's also the fact that with the New York Times setting up a paywall on their site, a precedent may be set that, if it sticks, might be what the web-publications need to be able to shell out cash for better work. More importantly, a demand is in place for the product food writers peddle and people are working with creating new ways of selling it (I think Tasting Table is a great example of that).

But in response to the question of print, of magazines, of paper, Francis told the story of a man he met at a bar who spoke very sensuously (Francis admitted the man may very well have been trying to pick him up) about the experience of reading magazines and his love of magazines. And when the audience was asked if they would take the iPad to bed to read, barely anyone raised their hand. When asked if they would take a magazine or a book, it was almost unanimous. What gives me hope is knowing that these questions are not exclusive to one particular form of media. In film, the question of 35mm versus HD, seeing movies in a theater versus on Blu-Ray, the rebirth of indie film without studio involvement, hell, the moneyless film world of Youtube, are all weighing down on the industry but people are figuring it out. The music industry still exists, even after Napster and Pandora.

Overall, it was a very informative evening and while of course there are still questions up in the air, I had a sense that I knew what to expect, both in my pursuit of food writing as a career and as a networking freelancing writer. After the panel, I walked into Grand Central station and couldn't help stopping by the newsstand and showing my support. $10 for two magazines, how much cheaper do you want it to be?

Knives!!!

2010-01-09T15:42:00.003-05:00

A few weeks ago I attended my first ever cooking class. We prepared nothing, no oven or burners were lit, we did not consume anything during or after class (except for some female hipsters I was unfortunate enough to share a metal counter with who kept munching on the raw produce in the way rabbits would if rabbits were annoying), we in fact did not cook at all during this cooking class. Because this was a cooking class about one of the most elemental aspects of cooking: knife skills.

The class took place in a converted-warehouse space in Williamsburg with a butcher/cooking supply shop in the front leading to two classrooms, one on the ground floor and one upstairs, their entrances just next to the meat counter. The space was once a mattress storage facility that little by little was being transformed into a teaching kitchen. On polished metal kitchen islands set diagonally in front of a large counter space, about ten cutting boards lay side by side awaiting the arrival of knife-toting students wanting to learn how to cut things more betterer. Our teacher was fairly young, a professional cook with a thick Brooklyn accent a la Joe Pesci (you-know-what-I'm-sayin'), a fun sense of humor about cutting into arteries, who was completely and cleanly bald, with tattoos peaking out from under his long-sleeved shirt and a really wonderful ability to explain things quickly and understandably.

In a little under two hours Joe, as I'll call him, went through a number of French cutting techniques with us that were life-changing. Dinner will be ready that much quicker, be cooked that much more evenly, look that much better and our carpal tunnel syndrome will not get worse. Those 90+ minutes were an emotional roller coaster ride, comparable to some of the best action films like Independence Day or The Poseidon Adventure. There was fear at first, German steel flashing as we learned how to realign the knife's teeth (more on that soon) to a perfect 20 degree angle on an iron. Then enlightenment when banging our knives down on defenseless vegetables became easy gliding blades. Surprise at the ease with which we could now make plateaus, juliennes, and itty bitties (forgot the proper French name for these) and humor when Joe pointed at the plateaus "$12 salad," the juliennes "$14 salad" and the itty bitties "$18 salad, add some truffle oil and you got a $22 salad." (It was funny to us.) Then there was the turning point, a whole new perspective on life as Joe showed us a move that should be patented in how obvious yet not obvious it is. It involved an onion, that's all you get for now.

The class itself was a lot of fun and the things learned were worth every cent of those $40. If you are interested in a Knife Skills or even a butchering, pickeling, wine making, or any number of other potentially life-chaning one-nighter cooking classes like this one check out Brooklyn Kitchen Lab (look for the cow outside, you'll see what I mean).

But now the...

Top 5 Things I Learned About Knife Skills:

1) A knife is a saw. The millimeter wide edge of your German steel or Japanese chef knife is dotted with tiny teeth which ideally should be at a twenty degree angle. Normal knife use will push them out place which can be fixed with an iron (in a technique I'm not comfortable with enough to explain) or a sharpener if you're in a pinch. Slamming the knife down on a surface, like you do when you're chopping, displaces them drastically and dulls your knife, plus its inefficient, takes much longer, and requires more effort on your part. A knife is not an ax, its a saw. As such the best way to cut with a knife is not slamming it down and breaking through the vegetable or meat but gently gliding it in a sawing motion. As Joe put it, doing small slicing motions over an imaginary vegetable, "When you see those chefs on TV and it looks like they're doing nothing, no effort, they're not." When you slice rather than chop everything turns into butter.

2) Hold your knife like you would hold a pen. Joe pointed out the different ways people hold their knives from in a fist to having their index finger over the back of the blade applying pressure (and causing carpal tunnel). He had us press the heel of the blade against the cutting board, with the teeth touching the surface, then slip our index finger under the broad side of the blade and pinch with our thumbs. Lift it up and wrap the rest of your finger around the handle, relax your thumb and relax your index finger, move them back a little if its uncomfortable but stay as close to the heel of the blade as possible. What does this do? It gives you control. To take Joe's example, in the same way that you wouldn't write with a pen holding it from the back and wobbling it over paper, you shouldn't work with a knife holding it so far back down the handle. Keep your hand close to the blade, the idea is for the knife to become an extension of your hand. The more control you have, the less likely you are to cut yourself, the cleaner your slices, and the better for your knife's teeth.

3) What to do with your non-knife-wielding hand. I remembered seeing the whole clawing your non-knife hand over the vegetables or meat so the knuckles stick out and protect your fingers from the blade. I just never understood HOW you could do this and still feed the vegetables to the blade. Well... that's the whole point, you're not supposed to feed the vegetable or meat to the blade. The only hand that should be working is the knife hand, with the other hand keeping the vegetable or meat steady and simply backing away from the approaching knife. The easiest way to do this is to center yourself in front of you board, hold the knife, blade-side down, on the center of the cutting board and then angle it towards the corner of your knife hand. This will give you a 45 degree angle similar to the one we use when we write (or at least that's where you want it to be, adjust it until you feel comfortable). It should be an organic position. From there you move your knife hand in SLICING motions down the length of the vegetable. Meanwhile, your non-knife fingers are hooked with the knuckle sticking out and the

thumb hidden (pressed against the palm, "Think in terms of chess," said Joe, "your thumb is your king, protect it.") hold the vegetable steady and back away slowly.

4) Plateaus, Juliennes, and Itty Bitties. This was the second biggest Duh! moment in the class. I've always thought of juliennes (those matchstick sized cuts of carrot that you see in salads) as Advanced Cutting. Difficult, time consuming, and utterly not worth it. I was a fool. Take a carrot and cut it into even sized segments. Stand it up and slice off the sides creating a longish rectangular cube. Cut the rectangle length-wise into flat slabs the thickness of matchsticks. Those are your Plateaus. Take a plateau and slice length-wise into matchstick-sized slivers. Juliennes. Take three or four juliennes together and cut across them creating tiny squares. Itty Bitties. Nothing to it.

5) The Onion Technique. This can be used for anything but is especially useful for cutting onions and garlic, which is all I ever cook with. Start by cutting off the dirty bit of the onion's butt but leaving the butt itself in tact. Cut off the opposite end and stand it up on the flat side that you've just created. Now the onion won't slip and slide as onions are wont to do. Cut that in half from top to bottom down the middle of the butt, again keeping it in tact so the onion doesn't fall apart. Place the half onion on its flat side and place the heel of your hand on the top of the onion, fingers extended upward, pressing down to keep it steady. Come down to the level of the table and slice through the onion horizontally, keeping an eye on the knife so its parallel to the table and not tilting downward or upward. If you feel resistance stop and just gently slice through it, don't try to force your way through. Stop 3/4 of the way in before reaching the butt. Make parallel lines all the way until just under your hand. Turn the onion with the butt facing away from you. Starting on the edge of the onion, insert the tip of the knife near the butt then slice down toward you until the blade reaches the cutting board. Slice parallel lines in this way across the onion, making sure to keep it together and keeping the butt in tact. If the onion is falling apart then you're chopping and trying to force it rather than slicing it. Just a little movement makes all the difference. When you're done, you'll have created a grid of cuts. Turn the onion back with the butt facing towards your non-knife hand which you will then hook over the onion with the thumb hiding and then just slice through the grid, you'll get even, perfectly cut pieces in two minutes. Do the same for garlic, except use a pairing knife, which is smaller and gives you more control.

With that I'll leave you with three more tips. If you have any questions either comment or email me or take the class. You'll even learn how to carve a whole chicken in under 10 minutes.

Tips:

- For a slippery cutting board: Dampen a kitchen towel or paper towel, place it under your cutting board, and voila. If it doesn't work, try folding it in half or doubling up.

- For a red or green pepper: Cut off the top and the bottom, create an incision all the way down one wall, and flatten it out. You can remove the core, seeds, and membrane with your hand then slice and dice it with the skin-side down. Much easier.

- All leftover pieces of produce and animal should not go to waste. Onion butts, carrot tops, celery leaves, chicken bones, herb stems, peels, all of that has flavor. Fill a pot with water, toss in all your leftover pieces,toss in a few dried herbs, a bay leaf, and just simmer them for hours. Strain it, discard the solids, and you have homemade stock. From that you can make soups, sauces, braise, etc. you're saving money, and you're using up your whole ingredient.

Three Ingredients, Three Recipes

2010-01-01T18:55:00.013-05:00

While I know I owe all you all a knife skills posting (have yet to take the pictures to go with it, I promise it'll be ready next week), I just got back from PR. This means I have done little to no cooking, so upon our return R, moreso than I actually, was excited to get me back in the kitchen. Unfortunately, we only had a handful of things available for me to cook with, namely onions, garlic, and Parmesan Regiano cheese. I'm setting these guys apart from my regular kitchen staples like rice, pasta, bread, olive oil, butter, and so on. And while I've often denounced the college student diet of carbs and cheese, here it was staring at me in the face. Luckily I knew what to do.

If you ever need to go Iron Chef on your weekday dinner, here are three simple, highly delicious recipes that go very well with a poached egg on top or, if you're feeling fancy, a side salad. And wine. Remember, we're never too broke for booze.

All recipes serve 4.

Parmesan Rice
From Pierre Franey's 60-Minute Gourmet via my dad

This is one of my father's favorite recipes and it takes about half an hour to make. While utterly devoid of nutritional value, its really really tasty. A poached egg or two brings it to a new level. Just saying.

Ingredients

3 tbsp. butter
¼ cup finely chopped onion
½ tsp. finely minced garlic
1 cup rice
1 ½ cups chicken broth
Salt and pepper
2 tbsp. grated Parmesan Regiano cheese

Over medium heat melt 2 tbsp. butter in a medium sauce pan with a lid, add onion and garlic. Cook until the wilt, 2-5 minutes. Add rice, incorporating the onions, garlic, and butter. Pour in broth, stir in salt and pepper, and bring to a boil. Cover, cook over low heat for twenty minutes. When the rice is ready, stir in remaining butter and cheese.

Cacio e Pepe
Adapted from Cook's Illustrated

Cheese and Pepper is the translation of the title and you can pay $22 to Mario Batali's kitchen to make it for you or make it at home for $6. This is a fairly simple recipe from every foodie's favorite how-to publication, Cook's Illustrated. Unfortunately, its also deceptively difficult to get right, i.e. smooth rather than lumpy. The whole article attached to the recipe talks about the chemistry behind this particular combination of ingredients to avoid said lumpiness and while it didn't 100% work out for me, it tasted awesome.

Ingredients:
2 cups finely grated Parmesan Regiano plus one cup coarsely grated (the original recipe calls for Pecorino Romano and I recommend that variation as well)
1 pound spaghetti (about one box)
2 tbsp. heavy cream (you can use milk, preferably whole)
2 tsp. olive oil
Salt
1 1/2 tbsp. pepper

1) Place your colander over a large bowl. Boil pasta in 2 quarts of water with some salt until al dente (not soggy). Drain pasta into colander, reserve cooking water. Measure about 1 1/2 cups of cooking water and discard the rest. Place pasta in the now empty bowl.

2) In another bowl, place the 1 cup finely grated Parmesan and slowly whisk in 1 cup of the reserved cooking water, until smooth. Add cream, pepper, and salt, continue whisking. Gently pour the cheese mixture over the pasta and toss.

3) Allow the pasta to sit for 1-2 minutes, adjusting consistency with remaining cooking water and breaking up any lumps that occur. Serve with the reserved coarsely grated Parmesan.

Caramelized Onion Bruschetta
Adapted from Fran Gage's The New American Olive Oil via Leite's Culinaria

I found this recipe shortly after I took a food writing class with David Leite of Leite's Culinaria, a website I highly recommend for all sorts of recipes from savory main courses to elaborate desserts. What originally caught my attention about this recipe was how short the ingredients list was and how incredibly delicious it sounded despite its simplicity. This is also a great appetizer for parties.

Ingredients
6 tbsp. olive oil
2 large onions, halved and thinly sliced
Salt and pepper
Balsamic vinegar (what do you mean you don't have Balsamic vinegar?)
4 pieces of toasted or grilled bread (baguette and Italian bread are good, pan de agua also works or just go with regular bread)

1) Heat 4 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan until it becomes shimmery, add the onions, then set the heat to very very low (barely a flame if using gas, lowest setting before warm if electric). Sprinkle with salt. Allow to cook for 1 hour, stirring occasionally, until onions are browned. Keep an eye on them and keep the heat low or they will burn and become inedible (yes, this happened to me the first time I tried making them). Remove from heat and allow to cool.

2) Toast the bread. Meanwhile, add balsamic vinegar little by little to the onions until the flavor is complex without tasting like vinegar. Stir in salt (fleur de sal if you have it).

3) Brush the bread with the remaining olive oil and spread onion mixture over each slice. Grate some black pepper over them and serve.

This is How You Eat

2009-12-13T16:37:00.023-05:00

This week I created a survey based on culinary Top Threes- homemade dinners, desserts, breakfasts, childhood foods, and so on- and sent it to several dozen of my faithful friends. I was giving them the privilege of acting as representatives of the under-appreciated twenty-something-year-old demographic who in my opinion lives in a culinary limbo. We are too poor to have access to ingredients more expensive or exotic than the occasional steak (usually paid for by our parents anyway) but who have shed the simple tastes and invincible (or useless, in the case of D and myself) teenage metabolisms that made several weekly trips to Wendy's OK. A handful of this underrepresented demographic replied, making me realize that their under-representation is probably self-induced since most moaned about how they don't like thinking. But they were good enough to answer and their answers will become the basis for my case study in the changes in gastronomic preferences of a generation in transition. Big words!

Almost all my subjects are New York based, which does influence their responses for a number of reasons: seasonal and local availability of ingredients, NYC as culinary mecca, NYC as prohibitively expensive, distance from family. My friends who replied also had very varied backgrounds: Colombian, Mexican, Guyanese, Puerto Rican, Chinese, Libyan, white. Despite the difference there are a number of patterns that emerged which I will go on to analyze because its Sunday and I really have nothing better to do.

What we can feel good about, though, meaning us NYC-dwelling 20-something-year-olds, is that we still honor our food traditions but our diets have progressively gotten better. We may actually avoid becoming fat like our parents. Here's why (don't worry, I'm only going to list the more interesting sections):

Homemade Dinners:

"Some kind of pasta with marinara sauce."
"rice/pasta/chicken"
"any kind of pasta"
"pasta, chicken, vegetable"
"grilled chicken (maybe with a side of broccoli, probably not)"

If you're going to invest in anything this year make it either chicken, pasta, or vegetables. Rice came at a close second as did soup. There were a handful of anomalies, more complex dishes like tagine, stuffed pepper, and other mostly North African dishes or simple Chinese fare like tofu and vegetables.

Dinner Ordered or Eaten Out:

Asian food was overwhelming mentioned, from Chinese, Thai, Indian to specifics like veggie lo mein and sushi. Pizza and burgers were in second place followed by the word occassionally. Most of these people even hold gym memberships. (That's right, none of my friends are fat.)

Dessert:

This category for reason confused some of my subjects. By top three some thought I meant four or more which they somehow turned into three by combining two things into one like "cheesecake/pie" or "cookies/brownies." Chocolate, cookies, cheesecake, and ice cream were the highest rated, with two practicing Communists saying they don't really care for desserts.

Blow-Out Feasts Eaten Out:

One word: Steak. Steakhouse, Outback, Churrascaria... the biggest blowout for my friends and I involves bloody, red meat. Second place went to Olive Garden and Max Brenner. Meals eaten abroad and paid for by someone else also came up which only confirms that if you're traveling and someone else is paying, you can eat as much as you want.

Holidays:

Christmas and Thanksgiving were prominent but what was interesting was how they specified that what made them special beyond just the food was the gathering itself with family or friends. Interesting because so many people hate these holidays for precisely that reason.

Most Hated Foods:

This was the Freak Show portion of the survey. The most mundane: Broccoli and cabbage. The most bizarre: sea urchin, bone marrow, chinese buffets, and "the Large Fish Eggs, the smaller ones I can live with on sushi because they blend in. but the big ones taste like suicide in your mouth." That's right, suicide in your mouth. An oddly common one was raw onion.

Guilty Pleasures:

We're still kids at heart:

"Peanut Butter Cups Sour Gummy candy Cookies!!!!! OH MY GOD YES"

"Ice cream with unlimited toppings ... like cookies, cereal, fruit, chocolate fudge all at the same time.. ON.. a hot brownie/chocolate cake"

"butter<--spreading too much of it on bread, cooking with it, baking with it, LOVING IT"

"the occasonal fast food dose. Like that time we went to McDonalds... Sometimes you just need a dose of gross."

One of the Communists left this section blank. Other notable items aside from the fast food and dessert orgams above were french fries, hostess cupcakes, and cheetohs. Mmmmm processed foods.

The last three sections all realte to each other as they prove three things:

We are shedding college habits like fast food and hard liquor (with the exception of those who listed fast food as a guilty pleasure, which is still indicative of a reduction).
We grew up on processed foods like pop tarts and slim jims which we don't eat anymore but which we remember fondly.
There is a definitely vegetarian slant in what we have recently started eating with many vegetables like kale and brussel sprouts coming up and a sharp decline in meat.

I actually have to water down some of the self-congratulatory sentiment I felt when beginning this article. I was speaking to one of my friends/subjects while finishing this piece and celebrating in what good shape our generation is food-wise until he corrected: "at least the middle/upper class college educated generation." And sadly, that's the truth in a nutshell. My subjects are hardly a worthy sample of the whole of our generation and much less our country. Like I said, I don't have any fat friends and most live in NYC. Beyond simply being educated on better nutrition and eating habits we also have the resources to make those decisions. But then at the same time, considering what most of us earn per year, what's really missing in the decision-making process of the most of the nation is the inclination to make better food choices. I really hope Jamie Oliver and Mark Bittman can make this happen. Until then, keep up the good work, guys.

Recipes for the Ungodly Hours

2009-12-08T21:19:00.011-05:00

This morning I woke up at 6 am and made soup. No, I wasn't particularly craving soup for breakfast, in fact I had a breakfast engagement at 8:30 in the city. So why on earth, you may ask, was I watching dawn light creep up over the cemetery trees while chopping onions and boiling squash?

I was making my lunch.

Since I lived in Spain with a mind for finances and the love of vegetables and cooking, I've been an early morning/late night cooker out of necessily. I've just as readily come home at 8:30pm and pulled out the chopping board when others would've pulled out the take out menu. I'm not trying to build myself up as some supernaturally powerful, sleep-dreprived home cook who hates herself. It's not like I'm baking a wedding cake before R gets up just for kicks.

My budget is, how should I say, limited, at best, and my ability to manage it is, let's see, um, inept. Because I like to cook and because I overbuy at the supermarket, I'm often forced, for lack of a better word, to put my pots and pans into high gear. Often I end up producing an inordinate amount of dishes to wash for only two people eating, but that's on the good nights-- when I get home early, make that quiche crust, boil those presoaked beans, or dice that half dozen vegetables. Usually I get home and my brain can't really process more information than chop onion, heat olive oil, add tomatoes... now what? And sometimes it one of those week when I fell asleep before I could make my lunch, there are no leftovers to pack, and I forgot to factor in the ConEd-Time Warner-National Grid bills before I bought those new gloves, that new hat, and that knife skills classes. So I have not choice but to make myself something for lunch, usually the morning of. And, sadly, PBJs have never quite cut it for me. Then again a I'm not going to try to make Cassoulet at 5 am on a Wednesday.

So for those days when I'm half-awake and armed with a chef's knife, I have a handful of simple, quick recipes for quick meals that are hot and/ or reheatable. Here are three of my more effective ones, which can be made at any time, one under an hour and two under half an hour.

Black Bean and Squash Soup

** This is why this dish is wonderful: its a filling lunch or dinner and its ready in under an hour, mostly unattended. The starchy, salty beans are balanced by the sweetness of the squash. The spices soften the flavor while also filling it out, making it almost earthy. The vinegar is almost imperceptible but gives it a nice kick. I made it this morning and had all of it.

Ingredients:

- 1 can of black beans with liquid or 1 cup dried black beans, soaked overnight
- 1/2 butternut squash (can also use calabaza, acorn, or any other sweet squash), peeled, seeded, and cubed into 1 inch squares
- 1 medium onion, chopped
- 2 leeks, chopped, or 2 cloves of garlic, minced
- 1 tsp oregano
- 1/2 tsp cumin
- 1/2 tsp coriander
- 2 cups chicken broth
- 1 tbsp cider vinegar (optional)
- Salt and pepper
- Olive oil

In a pot or crockpot, heat oil over medium heat. Add onions and leeks or garlic and cook stirring until softened. Add oregano and allow to cook for another minute or so. Toss in the squash, cumin, and coriander. mixing all elements together. Cook for a few minutes, then add beans, salt and pepper, stir together. Pour chicken broth, stir in vinegar, and bring to a boil. When bubbling, cover and lower the heat. Simmer for half and hour to 40 minutes or until beans and squash are soft and squash is fragrant.

Shakshukah

** This is a Libyan breakfast served throughout the Middle East. I made it for the first time with julienned green and red pepper and with cayenne rather than jalapeño. It was a recipe from a North African cookbook I own which, along with my half-Libyan friend Eissa and my friend Sam's Tunisian husband, opened my mind to what is now my new favorite food: North African food. Its spicy, flavorful, filling, from eggs in spicy tomato sauce to stuffed peppers to tangine, as of now anything that contains cumin, paprika, cayenne, or allspice is good in my book. This recipe is my favorite.

Ingredients:

- 1 small onion, chopped
- 2-3 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 jalapeño, seeded, cored, and chopped or cayenne to taste
- 1 can diced tomatoes with liquid
- 1/2 cup water
- 2 tsp paprika
- 1/2 tsp cumin
- 4 eggs
- 2-4 slices of bread, toasted
- Salt and pepper
- Olive oil
- 1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped

Heat olive oil in a skillet or pan with a lid. Add onions and jalapeño and cook until soft, about 5 minutes. Add garlic, paprika, and cumin and cook for a few more minutes until fragrant. Add tomatoes and water, stir, and bring to a soft boil. Cover and simmer for about 20 minutes, until sauce is slightly thick then stir in parsley. When ready, use a spoon to open 4 spaces in the sauce and crack an egg into each one. Cover and cook eggs until whites are set but yolk is still runny. Serve eggs with sauce over bread.

Curried Egg Salad

** I made this for our plane ride to Puerto Rico last week and they worked out really nicely. My favorite chutney to use with this is Beth Farm's Spicy Tomato Chutney available at the Union Square Farmer's Market. Its far tastier and more interesting than a regular egg salad or cold cuts sandwich and very filling. Probably my favorite sandwich.

Ingredients:

- 2 pieces of bread, toasted (rye bread is particularly good for this)
- 2 eggs, hard boiled
- 1 tsp curry
- 1/2 tsp tumeric
- 1/4 tsp allspice
- 1/8 tsp cayenne
- 1/4 onion, chopped
- 1 tbsp mayo
- Salt and pepper
- 1 tomato, sliced, preferably roma (optional)
- Several leaves of spinach (optional)
- Chutney (recommended)

Spread chutney on one piece of bread. Crack hardboiled eggs and remove skin, crush the whites and yolk together with a fork. Add mayo, onion, and spices until it becomes a paste. Spread over bread without chutney. On top of egg salad, arrange tomato slices and spinach. Close the sandwich, wrap up, and get to work.

All pictures are from internet, not mine.

Home's Cooking

2009-12-05T10:54:00.015-05:00

I'm getting the impression that the only culture that truly accepts vegetables as food and not seasoning for meat is the Indian culture and the liberal urban well-to-do hippie culture. And my cat, Tito. Or maybe I've decided to make a sweeping generalization because I've been living in a bubble of Hispanic and Middle-American culture for the past week. Or because I've frequently been attacked by some of my close friends (Mexican, Guyanese, Libyan, respectively) for proposing that meat, like cookies, is a "sometimes food." Or maybe its just them and my family who regard me as the vegetable-eating black sheep. Like my cat, Tito.

Circumstances have conspired against me, and high cholesterol or not, I've been in a meat-induced high for days. Texas was only different because my sister-in-law humored me and let me add some braised cabbage and a salad to the Thanksgiving menu.

Vegetables just aren't part of my family's gastronomic repertoire and they aren't really part of Puerto Rican culture's repertoire either. The Puerto Rican diet consists of fast food, plastic wrapped cookies from boxes, chips, meat, rice and beans, root vegetables like potato, yuca, calabasa, either fried or boiled, meat, bread, cold cuts, meat, some heavy pastas like lasagna or spaghetti bolognes, pasteles (which are like tamales made with plantains and meat), and did I mention meat? Now, don't get me wrong, Puerto Rican food is delicious, so delicious in fact that vegetables actually taste boring, even nasty, in comparison to its meaty, fatty goodness. Take my brother.

My younger brother, whose body is composed primarily of burgers, decided to try salad for the first time during Thanksgiving because he found a dressing that reminded him of the Sweet Onion sauce from Subway. He took one bite of spinach and tomato and spit it out immediately, swearing to never to eat salad again.

Going back to my sweeping generalization, there is a cultural defensiveness that comes over people when you threaten their meat consumption. I'm obviously discarding from this equation vegetarians, Indian people, French people (the bastards), and anyone who has ever lived in New York or California. But most typical, traditional, family meals have some sort of meat at their center. I understand that urge to anchor down a plate with a protein.

Since I started eating meat again I've realized how nice, how complete a dinner feels when you can include some sort of well-seasoned, tender animal flesh along with your vegetables. I usually try to make due with just with cheese or eggs but nothing really beats the saltiness, the firm texture, and the fullness that comes with eating meat, be it chicken, red meat, pork, or fish. I mean, what plant could ever replace the sweet-salty-perfect flavor of bacon?

But above and beyond the physical addiction that the utter and thorough deliciousness of well-prepared meat created in the human brain and body, there is also an entitlement that comes down from as far back as the cave paintings where picture-stories about packs of men hunting of bison, mammoths, and tigers decorated stone walls. Consider the Greek and Roman orgies where the blood of cattle flowed or the simple peasant's sacrificial lamb offered up the gods then greedily consumed by the worshipper. Hindu and Christian fasting usually consists of abstinence from meat and alcohol, Muslim fasting culminates in massive, meaty feasts, and all holidays have an animal assigned to them.

Unfortunately, unlike the warring Greeks, the nomadic tribes of cavemen, or the peasants, physical labor has all but disappeared from daily life as medical science has ballooned over the decisions people make about what to eat. And medical science is under the constant assault of the industrialized meat industry and the stubbornness of traditions. Trandition and money met and as they say in Spanish, el amor y el interés fueron al campo un día... (love and private interests went to the country one day...)

As I learned from Michael Pollan, the meat industry lobbied long and hard against the discovery that doctors made several decades ago that over-consumption of meat was responsible for the number one cause of preventable death: heart disease. The meat lobbyist weren't buying it so they demanded the scientists boil it down to something they could work with. So the white coats determined that it was the fat in the meat that caused high cholesterol, high blood pressure, high rates of preventable death. The meat lobbyists thought it over, nodded, and went to press with the story: Fat is Evil! And so was born the fat-free industry. Everybody wins.

Well, guess what's fat free. That's right. Because of the lack of government subsidizing which make them expensive and their more complex flavors which make them challenging, vegetables need to step up their game in order to beat this iron-clad money-tradition meat combo. I propose a few ways to counter the meat monopoly over the gastronomic preferences of the world:

1) Visit New York with someone who has lived there. California works too.
2) Eat Indian food.
3) Pick one day a week to not eat meat.

This last one I'm stealing from a litany of food writers who are better versed than me on this subject. But the brilliance of this suggestions, beyond its obvious health and environmental benefits, it also creates the ideal scenario of invention by necessity. You can do as much and often more with vegetables than you can with meat. If you're looking for a starting point, create traditional meals with meat but add vegetables you've never tried or prepare vegetables you know in a way you're not used to. If you want to go a step further eliminate the meat from the center and make up for it with new dishes of vegetables (use cheese and eggs if you're scared). For the more adventurous I recommend experimentation with curry, cumin, cayenne, and tumeric. Once you go down this road, you'll never go back. The point? Just try new things.

Be like Tito.

Food Blogs

2009-11-18T10:43:00.029-05:00

On Tuesday night my long-lost friend Lisa, who had been hiding in New Hampshire for two years and now works for a comedy agency, invited R and I to come along with her on assignment to Housing Works Bookshop's Tuesday night comedy show. Overall it was very good, a super funny line up and a surprise performance by Jim Gaffigan. The only joke I can remember, though, came from the least funny comedian in the show. He was talking about blogs and pointed out that almost everyone he knows has a food blog and how its the equivalent of telling someone that you're going to write about the restaurant you went to in a diary, take pictures of the food, stick them in the diary, then hang it out the window of your apartment so everyone can read it. For some reason everyone laughed, he was probably getting the residual laughs from Jim Gaffigan's set, so mostly we were laughing because we'd been laughing before, but the blog joke struck a chord with my little troupe for... obvious reasons. R and Lisa both looked at me smiling and I laughed along with them because if you show people you can make fun of yourself they like you. But really I was thinking, Sigh, it so f-ing true.

Since my discovery of food writing and subsequently the food blog culture, I've come to realize I'm paddling a small raft in a big ocean full of ocean liners, pirate ships, yachts, Coast Guard boats, abandoned kayaks, and runaway jet skiis, but aside from the wide-range of vehicles traversing these oceans you can't help but notice the sheer amount of boats. There is actually such a thing as foodblogblog.com, which serves as a directory exclusively for major food blogs run by professional writers and photographers. Then there's the little guys like me that simply want to obsess about food in hopes of somebody hearing me and thinking its funny. And then paying me. Unfortunately that's also what the big guys are doing and they have nicer boats that actually fit a genre.

What I mean is there are several categories food blogs tend to fall into. If you look at Delish's Best 20 Food Blogs you begin to notice a pattern: recipe blogs with professional looking photography like SmittenKitchen, baking blogs with professional looking photography like Bake or Break, recipe/musings blogs with professional looking photography like Orangette, fun vegan blogs with recipes and professional looking photography like Vegan Yum Yum (I'm not kidding), food travel blogs by inherently odious people with semi-professional looking photography (no control over their lighting situation, I'm afraid) like Traveler's Lunchbox, and the English-writers based in foreign countries like Lobster Squad, who who writes about Spanish food and is based in Madrid. She does drawings. There are also the handful of unique career-launching blogs like Wine Library TV (which became a multi-million dollar one-man corporation on how to become successful doing what you love... and you know selling wine). But I won't go into the beverage blogs, they're a whole other ball of wax.

Basically what I'm trying to point out is that blogging is no longer, and hasn't been for years, the turf of 19 year olds Live Journaling their romantic forays and mishaps... or more to my point, about what kind of cake mix they used to baked cupcakes last Saturday. Blogging is now the terrain of professionals looking to maintain a presence online (or amateurs trying to go professional by maintaining a presence online), by writing and photographing (well) what obsesses them, tweeting about it, and hoping people respond. And they do. Its becoming so that readers now trust bloggers as much or more than professional, published food writers. And the reality is, bloggers are now becoming their brethren and vice versa. Since the advent of Julie Powell, this has been the dream, but then where does that leave the food magazines like Bon Appetit and Food & Wine? And the proper websites like Leite's Culinaria and Epicurious, are they now just more sophisticated blogs? I should hope not.

An observation my teacher David Leite made when he was forcing me and my classmates to exit our comfort zones and interview food industry professionals and stuff hours of primary resource material into an eloquent 999 words that might never see publication (while we wondered, is this what I signed up for? We just want to obsess about food!) was that the presence of blogs was actually a very positive thing for professional food writers. In his reasoning, it would force them to actually do their jobs and be reporters. Leave the op-eds and the recycled recipes to the home cooks, food writers are supposed to inform and innovate! But a big problem that has arisen within the publishing world is that professionals are no longer getting paid what they used to and that was pretty meager to begin with.

So what's going to happen to all of us? Will we suck all the oxygen out of our ocean? Will we reach the firm land of professional food writer-dom only to realize we're walking on a melting glacier?

I think the more interesting question is, why are we all doing this in the first place?

Aside from the use they serve for the blogger, I know blogs are actually super useful for the reader as well. At least the good ones are. Recipes are the most obvious benefit, but they also teach you how people talk and think about food in their own terms. There are no editors, there's no "magazine's voice" or word count they need to subscribe to, this is what they really think and sound like. I think if our comedian friend's observation of the over-abundance of food blogs indicates anything, though, its that there is a very strong demand for food writing, specially during a time when the food industry is stuck between a rock and a hard place, the economy on one side and the obesity epidemic on the other. Cooking is experiencing a reawakening. Julie & Julia, Michael Pollan, and Super-Size Me have forced us back into the kitchen with a laptop propped open on the table in place of a cookbook. This is good for the reader and in a way good for the writer because if you can't get paid for it, at least you have an audience. Of course if after a while we still can't make money off of this then maybe we should consider starting blogs featuring funny animal pictures with captions over them. Put those professional photography skills to good use.

What Makes a Good Cook?

2009-11-16T20:14:00.023-05:00

At the Brooklyn Chocolate Experiment, where we sampled three types of chocolate-spiked chipotle chilis, chicken mole, beer marinated pork with chocolate barbecue sauce, and a dozen different types of chocolate desserts from flourless chocolate cake to salt and pepper truffles with peanut butter, R turned to me, uneasily balancing a plate ladden with chocolate inventions and said, "You're totally of this caliber." He was referring to my cooking and I, of course, quickly corrected him by vigorously shaking my head, mouth full of chocolate sticky-rice lollipop. I clarified what caliber I actually was, "I can follow a recipe and make it well." But when it comes to invention, my creations are messy, muddled, unbalanced, chaotic, tasty, and poorly plated. The people at the BCE, even if most were amateurs, knew what they were doing and they were good at it. So while R as my kitchen guinea pig did well in saying I was as good a cook as they were, I don't think he's necessarily right. Which, by the way, is not to say I'm a bad cook. What's a good cook, anyway?

I've been asking myself that since I read a review of Michael Symon's new cookbook, Live to Cook. The reviewer gave it a glowing recommendation, saying it was mostly for beginners, teaching such basics as the difference between sweating and caramelizing, and how to confit pig ears. At this point I realized to what extent I'm still in diapers when it comes to the wider food world. I've only started to understand what confit means and I was surprised to discover a difference between two things that essentially employ the same technique. Apparently I didn't read my Julia's Kitchen Tips closely enough. But what rubbed me, I won't say the wrong way but in a way I'm not sure I like, was how the reviewer described Symon as a very very good cook. A Food Network personality, a restauranteur, a cookbook author, many people are all these things and I don't know that I've heard them specifically singled out as very very good cooks (aside from the implication inherent to their success). Had Symon personally cooked for her that she could make such a claim? Or is a cook as good as his recipes are effective? In that case I'm definitely not a good cook. But while it is widely understood that being a recipe follower does not make one a good cook, does being a recipe writer or creator grant you that gilded title? Is your Mom's chicken pot pie recipe as good as a sous-vide steak studded with black truffles recipe? Some people may argue yes.

Consider two popular Food Network personalities. Michael Symon and Rachel Ray share a national stage but one is

regarded as a good cook (owns restaurants, understands cooking techniques, is a CIA graduate, the culinary school, not the government agency) and the other is more of a domestic role model (she learned to cook following her mother around, does not have good knifing technique, her recipes are soccer-mom-ish) than a cook. But Rachel Ray's cooking and her recipes are for the most part more popular than Michael Symons. Does it mean hers are better even though they're easier and more familiar and are created by someone with no formal training? It becomes a question of elitism in a way. Is Rachel Ray, whose cooking is more popular among the common-folk, less of a "good cook" than Michael Symon whose credentials are industry solid?

And how compare either of them to the brash, young, talented home cook with a well-seasoned skillet? When R and I lived with Joni, a severely precocious 20 something year old Israeli with a subscription to Cook's Illustrated, a shelf full of cookbooks, and a kitchen amply supplied with cooking equipment, spices, sauces, and seasoning from rice vinegar to cumin, he would make these two day opuses of meat that melted away on your tongue in a broth that was thick and flavorful studded with vegetables that never went to waste because their presence in the overall dish was always essential. Nothing wasted, the whole thing better than restaurant quality. He was a good cook because of his audacity and his patience. Like David Chang, what Joni did was care just that much more than the other guy about what he was making and he took the time to do it right, even if it meant he did wrong sometimes. He wasn't magical, he was probably talented, but beyond that he was meticulous and daring.

I think Mark Bittman defines it best, or rather he embodies what for me is the essence of a good cook. A former cab driver with no formal culinary education whose New York Times column The Minimalist is a wonderfully comforting guide on how to make complex food with ease. In a Time Out New York interview Bittman offers this piece of encouragement:

"I am the least impressive cook you will ever see. I am completely without knife skills, I screw things up all the time. When I’m in the kitchen I’m not obsessively trying to create the perfect dish; I’m trying to put dinner on the table. Comparing yourself to the people who cook on television is like comparing yourself to Andre Agassi. If you can drive you can cook."

Most of what keeps the rest of us from being very good cooks is our impatience and the feeling of inferiority borne of being intimidated by a long, delicate process and unfamiliar ingredients. Rachel Ray is anything but intimidating because she cooks things that are familiar, easy, and cheap, she's not a bad cook but she's not a great cook. Mark Bittman elevates the standard by taking the intimidation out of complex flavors, preparations, and dishes through his own simplified techniques and his laid-back, just-toss-this-all-together-it'll-be-awesome writing voice. Michael Symon, like Julia Child before him, teaches the techniques that make the bigger tasks, the dutch oven stews, the three day cassoulets, the obscure alien-looking vegetables as well as the run-of-the-mill ones, and makes them more manageable and more impressive. In a way being a good cook has more to do with how far you're willing to go to challenge yourself and how much you care about getting it right.

I still don't think I'm at the caliber of the BCE cooks but only because I'm still intimidated by words like chipotle and the idea of making my own barbecue sauce. But having started to make my own bread, by following slightly more complex recipes each time and learning from them, by taking time to learn techniques, practice them, even burning a few dishes along the way, I will eventually become their caliber mostly because I want to be. So yes, I'm a good cook in that I'm good at bullshitting my way around a kitchen and as a former roommate once said to me, "Some people's bullshit tastes better than others." But I'm still not as good a cook as Joni (advanced kitchen bullshitter), Bittman (recipe writer), Ray (TV personality), or Symon (chef). For that, you just need to clock in experience in the kitchen. And get an agent. An agent helps.

Two Restaurants

2009-11-08T14:15:00.011-05:00

Back when I used to tell people I was a filmmaker the inevitable response was Wow! You should make a movie about this and this and this. Now when I tell people I'm a food writer I'm inevitably met with a wide-eyed proclamation that I should review this or that restaurant. I never have the heart to reply that being a food writer doesn't mean being a restaurant critic or reviewer. Its like saying all dogs are huskies (though they should be-- or pugs, I like pugs).

Restaurants have never been my thing really. I come from a family that has been going to the same four restaurants since before I was born. They may occasionally swap one out for a new

one that serves the exact same food-- either Puerto Rican, Cuban, or Mexican -- and may have the advantage of being closer to our house. When I started doing high school summer programs in NYC I had many fights with my parents because the only restaurant they ever wanted to go

to was this one Cuban place next to their hotel (which they still go to when they visit me). So I never developed an understanding or a passion for restaurant faire or that industry. Its only recently through my addiction to food blogs and my artist-turned-culinary-student friend that I even know what a Michelin star is. Even when I was in college and it was up to me to choose where to go for lunch, dinner, breakfast, or better yet brunch-- I kinda always just went to the same handful of places on campus (and never to brunch, had no idea what that was).

Now a young (meaning adventurous), working (meaning with an income), aspiring (meaning still too lazy to actually get it together and start but with intentions of doing that before age 30 once the ADD goes away) food writer, I have yet again fallen into the same pattern of going to the same restaurants simply because they are near my house. Unfortunately because of the limitations of my neighborhood (that's a lie, if I walked ten blocks further in any direction I would have more options), there's only two restaurants I really go to: Maria's Mexican Bistro and Korzo, an Eastern European restaurant with a $20 tasting menu on Wednesdays. So here is a testament to why I'm more of the Mark Bittman-Smitten Kitchen-Gastronomica-Savour school of food writing as opposed to the Frank Bruni school.

I think I have invested more money and time on Maria's than any other restaurant I've ever patronized. It got the seal of approval as far as Mexican food in the East Coast is concerned from our Texas friend who is the pickiest eater I've ever met so there's definitely something there. The food is not bad, sometimes its even good, though you're better off ordering simpler faire like burritos, quesadillas, and corn rather than a proper entree which inevitably comes with overcooked meat. Their tacos are particularly good, two corn tortillas filled with meat or spinach, lettuce, and pico de gallo and at $2 you can mix and match. Where they really shine, though, is with their brunch menu which includes the usual list of offenders: tamales, pozole, huevos rancheros, huevos con chorizo which are all very flavorful, generous dishes serves with slightly watery refried beans and yellow rice. During the summer, they transform a Brooklyn backyard with cement floors into a courtyard decorated with brightly colored beer ads and banners, tiki torches, and an inflatable palm tree. The inner dining room is narrow with red walls decorated with framed Diego Rivera prints and Mexican crafts. The bar takes up half the space and is always playing some sort of sporting event on low volume while the rest of the space is bombarded with Latin rock and salsa turned to a reasonable volume. Usually its quite empty and the food is cheap so we wonder how they stay in business but we're thankful that they do. I guess their absence might motivate us to find new places to go out to eat but with a $10.95 brunch menu with unlimited booze and good food, I hope not.

Korzo on the other hand is actually good. Its the type of food that will have you rolling back to your apartment-- greasy meat and potatoes washed down with Czech and German beer. Their brunch is more like dinner with eggs on it but their dinners are lovely. Particularly exciting is the aforementioned tasting menu, created so that people get the chance to try new things which makes sense considering the unsung glory of Czech, Hungarian, and Germanic food. It consists of the soup of the day (potato leek with bacon when we last went), a lighter plate (a gnochi-like thing with walnut pesto-- those gnochi things come up in almost all their dishes and they seem innocent enough but they multiply and grow inside your stomach making you feel like you've eaten several loaves of bread soaked in grease-- but they're great, as long as you only have a few), and a meat-centric dish like seared pork loin. Their goulash was spicy and tasted like the goulashes I would have back in Prague but the meat was cut into small chunks so it was more like picadillos than goulash and it was peppered with those infernal gnochi. While they did help to curve the spiciness, I would've preferred them on the side or even replaced by say bread dumplings. There are several things on the menu I have every intention of trying in the coming months, among them the Hungarian fried bread Langos, dates wrapped in bacon, and the Slivovitz chicken (a chicken made with plum brandy, called Slivovice in Czech, quite big in Bulgaria). The space itself is divided into a front section dominated by the bar and a scattering of tables, and a back dining room with no

windows that makes up for it by becoming an annex to the gallery across the street. Giant, colorful paintings of different styles ranging from Pollock-like paint splatters of female figures to Edward Hopper-like interiors of bars and clubs circa the Roaring 20s open up the space which would otherwise resemble the back of a Polish or Czech beer hall where the long communal tables and benches have been replaced by proper individual tables and one large, low table where you can lounge on couches while sipping Budvar or a cocktail. The lighting in the front is dim and mostly consists of the television and overhead lights turned so low that the other night when R and I were walking towards it we thought it was closed because it looked pitch-black. They make up for it by the having an all glass front wall that lets in the light from the street and in summer they open it up and bring out tables to the sidewalk. While I love Czech and Hungarian food, I know its not for everybody and while this restaurant is far superior to my usual default Maria's, its slightly more expensive and incredibly heavy. You know they mean business when you decide to go for Mexican when you want to eat light.

So those are my walkable, affordable alternative for when I come home in a huff and express no desire to get out the cutting board and mince garlic. Humble, lazy but good and if you ever come visit me, we will probably end up going to one of them. Unless you can convince me to walk those extra five or ten blocks.

Bready Goodness

2009-11-04T17:58:00.012-05:00

I currently work next to Amy's Bread in the West Village. While this shop also boasts some pretty incredible-looking cookies, cupcakes, muffins, scones, and sandwiches, they really make some stand out bread. What's wonderful about working next to Amy's is that I've realized that bread is not just bread. Bread is white, whole wheat, multigrain, pumpernickel, brioche, croissant, sobao, de agua, Italian, French, black, potato, Challah, and comes in the form of loafs, bagels, nan, rolls, pizza, sticks, toast... Bread is the backbone of culture (where bread is not found in prominence, rice will often make an appearance, but even those cultures have some sort of bread). You can even have it as a drink in the form of beer (every culture has beer). Its as universal as marriage and dessert.

Lately I've opted for more savory baked goods as my mid-afternoon, I'm-going-cross-eyed-but-have-no-desire-for-coffee pick-me-ups and for some reason I feel guiltier after eating two bread twists or half a mini-loaf of some delicious bread (they even contain seeds and healthy things like that) than if I'd eaten a whole chocolate chip cookie from Jacques Torres or City Bakery (big, big cookies full of butter and chocolate). And I'm slightly outraged by this. I've fallen into the cultural trap of hating bread. I've been well-aware of this for many years but I really thought I was over it. I want to make a case for modern Americans, myself included, not to hate bread.

For centuries bread has been close to holy. Challah is eaten on high holy days and blessings are read over loaves as big as a medium-sized dogs. To invite someone to break bread with you is an indication of trust and affection. Everything cool that has been invented is called the best thing since sliced bread. For so many years bread in America was as wholesome as white bread.

In the Middle East, bread is eaten with every meal even if that meal already includes rice or couscous or pasta. In Ethiopia it replaces cutlery. Even in Europe bread is a daily part of life. For breakfast, for lunch, for dinner as baguettes, sandwiches, or creating a bread crumb and cheese crust over a cassoulet or a gratin. My friend Marc, whose culinary habits I find intensely curious specifically because he is French, would sometimes eat nothing but a bagel all day. Then have another one with us after several rounds of beer. Bread and peanut butter were his food of choice. And yes he was skinny (stupid French people).

Bread often makes top ten lists of favorite things about being alive. A warm loaf out of the oven, the smell of bakeries, the way butter melts and becomes yellow and liquid on softly browned toast, the tart crust and the soft sweet insides. They look attractive, be it speckled with whole wheat, dark and black, pure white and yellow, their insides flaky or crumbly, magically leavened by yeast. So what happened, people? Bread was been basterdized (like everything else was) by the food and diet industries.

I started making my own bread recently because I wanted to save money and because I really

don't like it when things in my life are too easy. The ingredients in the recipe I found include whole wheat, yeast, honey, salt, milk, eggs. A stark contrast to the bread I would buy at the supermarket that for some reason contained high fructose corn syrup, sugar, natural flavors, and coloring. The good news is that like everything (the best thing to happens to organics since profits), certain brands are embracing the Obama-Vegetable-Garden, celebrity chef with a cause, 20 and 30-something-year-old urbanite mentality that processed food should still be food and taste good, so you're seeing a drastic reduction in their ingredients lists. Score one for bread! But why is bread still the bad guy?

Basically, bread still hasn't found its margarine.

Back in the days before trans-fats, butter became Public Enemy Number One and margarine came on the scene as the savior of both our taste buds and our arteries. Of course chemically produced spread made with hydrogenated oils were better than rendered dairy solids! Except, they were better in the way that guns are better than knives. Once margarine was ousted as the real enemy of your heart, butter came back into the good graces of the public or at the very least stop being attacked.

Since Atkins, bread has not found a satisfactory scapegoat to blame fatness on because the problem is Atkins actually worked. It didn't work the way Atkins followers believed it worked (all they were really losing was water), but people were becoming thinner. And while nutritionists brought people down from the bacon and eggs enduced highs and told them they needed to start eating fruits and vegetables again, bread remained black listed. It feels too filling, you know? It expands in your stomach. Its so easy to overeat it. Yes. But you can say that about anything we like to call food, specially if it contains sugar, alcohol, or cheese.

At the height of my own diet-craze I came to stark realization: What's life without sugar, alcohol, and cheese? Dull. And living without bread, while it would mean I would be skinny, would also mean missing out on one of the better things in life. I don't have to eat it three times a day but why feel bad if I do? We eat corn flakes, for god's sake, and that doesn't make any sense either if you think about it nutritionally and in terms of flavor.

So go out right now and eat some bread! And I'm not talking the sliced stuff from the supermarket. There are still bakeries in abundance. Don't worry, you'll walk it off on the way there.

Candy

2009-11-02T11:53:00.009-05:00

Halloween has passed and the leftover debris of that nigh of sugar and alcohol fueled debauchery now sit in neat little boxes at office reception areas where people waiting pick at fun sized bags of chocolate and candy. They don't serve the leftover alcohol at these reception areas because there wasn't any leftover alcohol. But post-Halloween candy is always in abundance. As kids we understood that that was the whole point. On Halloween you created a stash, a bag or a bucket full of refined sugar, something to hold us over until Thanksgiving. But now candy is bad.
Except its really not.

Candy is such a visceral experience, innocent as childhood, fun, impulsive, pointless, and sweeeeeet. The stigma around it is undeserved, I feel. The only reason kids binge on candy is because they are not allowed to have it or they are allowed to have too much of it. Instead of celebrating it as a treat, kids scream and kick and demand it when they pass it at the pharmacy or supermarket or deli, and if parents give in or if kids are forced to sneak candy on they side, they gorge on it, taking its delicate magic for granted. This is not the kids' fault. Kids don't understand the consequences of too much of a good thing they just know what they love. Parents in this age of over-abundance have forgotten how to eat properly or they eat too properly, so they are rendered useless when it comes to teaching their child how to eat candy properly, and there is a way. Candy is an impulsive desire, a rush of happiness that should be savored not abused, and that becomes deadened if candy is handed out too often or not at all. The easiest solution would be to have more candy stores and less candy aisles.

New York City has several candy meccas: Dylan's Candy Bar, Economy Candy, the Hershey Store, and Max Brenner. Other notable candy shops I've visited are The Olde Candy Shoppe in Boston, with walls lined up to the ceiling with jars of candy and eccentric antiques like stuffed leopards and weird lamps; a candy store in Madrid that had every inch of wall covered with displays of colorful, barely identifiable candy, dried fruit, and nuts, and of course the candy store in the biggest mall in the Caribbean, Plaza las Americas, where as a child I would always buy a bag of gummy worms and eat them as I followed my mom and my aunt to boring stores. What they all have in common: sheer, beautiful, colorful quantity and variety.

Candy stores, like Halloween, are once in a while explorations. To do them more often than once is to kill their magic, which is exactly what the overabundance of candy aisles has done. They create the possibility of candy so often that a treat becomes a threat. There is something incredibly thrilling about seeing stacks and stacks of candy, gummy bears, coconut chocolate turtles, sour patch kids, twizlers, malt balls, hard candies, M&M's arranged in blues, reds, pinks, yellows, greens, gummy sharks, chocolate-covered peanuts... it goes on and on and on... then dipping a small shovel into a chosen bin and scooping out loot. Once again you're creating a stash. Its like a mini-Halloween, an event and a trip, instead of a bad idea. Because the other thing these stacks and stacks of candy do to a child is they overwhelm them. They couldn't possibly have all of it, much less stuff it all into a bag, so they become selective. They create assortments that won't bleed into the rest of the week because the portion control is built in and more than anything they are getting exactly what they want.

So if you want to boycott anything, boycott the candy aisles and large bags of generic candy shit. Get the good stuff. Its a bit of a walk (all candy stores require a bit of a walk) and the quality is infinitely better. And if you need a fix now, don't go downstairs to the deli, just visit the reception area. They usually have a little bowl of sin taunting the poor receptionist. Or, you know, have a cookie.