The Rake Magazine

Category: Food and Drink

  • Wine for Graduates

    I have a colleague at the University of Minnesota who hates commencement. Marching in gowns and hoods to the boom of Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” puts her in mind, she says, of the army. I hardly like to point out that most faculty marching would have its practitioners instantaneously in the guardroom were it ever perpetrated on a military parade ground.

    Besides, I cannot see students at a degree ceremony without thinking of the swink and toil that brought them there: the freezing evenings bicycling home to Uptown after three hours of night class; the utter frustration some encounter in trying to satisfy mathematical language requirements; and above all, the hours spent doing dull jobs like parking cars and turning hamburgers, hours that impress on students the repetitive and broadly approved message that it is more important to be on time for banausic employments than it is to live the life of the mind. There is an inscape to graduation that merits a certain amount of outward pomp and circumstance.

    Elgar, too, had an inscape. There are those who write him off as simply an English Sousa: “Delius is for the superselius, who think Elgar is velgar.” I disagree. The tuneful confidence of “Pomp and Circumstance” is only the surface of a composer who is altogether more enigmatic. You have only to listen to his Cello Concerto to find grand musical language being employed to express a distinctly abstract passion.

    No less complex, yet also more accessible, is his big choral piece The Dream of Gerontius. Elgar shared with Purcell a capacity for giving remarkable resonance to words that might otherwise not attract admiration. (Verdi, too—his best opera is the Requiem, because it is the one with the best book.) The Dream of Gerontius is a long poem by John Henry, Cardinal Newman describing the death of an early Christian, not a particular hero or a martyr, just geron tis—Greek for “a certain old man.” The first half happens at the deathbed; the second describes the old man’s onward progress after his passing. No doubt gentle readers will put me right (as several kindly did in the matter of World War II poets), but the only other piece of literature I can think of that has the hero die so early in the action is Charles Williams’s All Hallows Eve, a novel in which the protagonist perishes on the first page. Neither work, however, is in the least bit gloomy. Gerontius’s hopes and fears and acts of faith can indeed induce a certain vertigo. They show, if nothing else, that Elgar was no pompous extrovert; like the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, he knew the “mind has mountains … hold them cheap may who ne’er hung there.”

    The idea of inscape was actually invented by Hopkins, an older contemporary of Elgar. Hopkins used it to indicate quintessence, what you see of something from the inside once you have made an act of commitment to it. One somehow doubts he applied the idea much to appreciation of the winemaker’s art—he was an ascetic soul who even, as an undergraduate, denied himself the use of the armchair during Lent—but there are few sensual experiences to which it is more applicable; once one has surveyed, sniffed, sipped, and swallowed one’s wine, commitment to it is complete!

    A claret came by me the other day that illustrates the point perfectly. The label on the characteristic Bordeaux bottle (with shoulders) said “Chateau des Agates 2003” and the fluid within, a clever blend of Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Merlot, was a good deep red (and only about ten dollars a go). Drinking it made one aware not only of the inscape of the wine, but also of the architecture of one’s own senses. The smell and taste not only have structure in themselves, but they also raise awareness in the consumer of his own capacity to taste.

    Think of your mouth as some great pagan temple, say, the Pantheon at Rome, where they pour libations to the Gods. Take a sip of this claret and a good dry flavor swirls through the hall, followed by pleasant tannins against the teeth. Finally, an aromatic whiff rises into the vault of the palate, up and out through the nose, like smoke through the hole in the middle of the dome. The Gods breathe in and smile.

    This is very heartening wine. It would go well with roasted chestnuts or simple barbecue (not one which has been slathered with sweet sauces), the sort of celebration that should await any fresh graduate emerging from commencement. Prosit!

  • No Need to Scream

    King Charles I of England knew how to throw a feast. After one particularly sumptuous meal, the king’s French-born court chef debuted a new dish, a magical confection the consistency of fresh-fallen snow, yet uncommonly sweet and creamy. Charles, quite delighted, summoned the chef and requested that the recipe for the frozen delight be held in royal secrecy, and that it be served only in the king’s presence. Eventually Charles I fell out of favor and was beheaded by his people. See what happens when you don’t share your ice cream?

    Smooth or chunky, tangy or sweet, ice cream may be the one thing we all maintain a cold spot for in our warm, warm hearts. It’s not just the melty sweetness that endears us; it’s the sparking of delicious memories like running after an ice cream truck, or gazing through eight-year-old eyes at a lovely ball of vanilla flecked with the dark chocolate crumbs from a birthday cake. It’s about the agreeable challenge of choosing a flavor, and the pleasure of sitting on a patio with a double-stacked sugar cone and vainly damning the drips with an eager tongue. Ice cream might not even really be a food. Judging by the euphoric look on my two-year-old’s chocolate-swathed face, and by my own furtive efforts to excavate the best parts of the container before I fill the family bowls, ice cream may in fact be a drug.

    While the stingy King Charles plays a role in ice cream history and lore, he—or, rather, his chef—is not the unchallenged source. There is no definitive story about the origins of ice cream. The Roman emperor Nero was said to send runners into the mountains to procure ice for the fruity, creamy drinks he favored. It’s possible that Marco Polo witnessed the Chinese enjoying frosty ice treats and brought their recipe back to Italy. Catherine de Medici’s chefs may have imported the technique to France, but no one has provided conclusive proof.

    The origins of the ice cream cone may be easier to pin down. Italo Marchiony, a pushcart ice cream vendor in New York, grew tired of Wall Street customers breaking or walking off with his glass serving dishes. He began baking edible cookie-cups with sloping sides and flat bottoms as serving receptacles, and patented the idea in 1903. Nothing, however, provides exposure like a World’s Fair, and during the St. Louis fair of 1904, a Syrian immigrant selling waffles came to the aid of the harried ice cream vendor next door by fashioning “cornucopias.” A trend was born, and, as is the American Way, litigation ensued as multiple inventors came forth with varying ingredients and shapes for the inevitable cone.

    However you serve it—cone or cup, malt or shake—there are essentially two ways to prepare ice cream: with egg or without. Traditional ice cream has no eggs. It can be made with many other things, but generally features sugar, cream, and flavoring (like a dark, earthy vanilla bean); this type is sometimes called Philadelphia-style ice cream. The version made with eggs is generally known as custard or gelato. Along with the eggy distinction, custards are denser, as they are mixed with less air than traditional ice creams, which leads to their signature silky-smooth texture. Because custard is kept at a lower temperature than ice cream, it must be made fresh daily to maintain its consistency. Custard isn’t omnipresent in the Twin Cities, but many might be surprised to learn that our Midwestern neighbor, Milwaukee, considers itself “The Custard Capital of the World” and has magical little custard shacks on seemingly every corner.

    Locally, we are blessed with an ice cream culture that embraces our need to celebrate the return of warmth and sun. The transient nature of a frozen treat is a metaphor for our fleeting patio time, and so it’s with great relish that we herald the reopening of our favorite ice cream shops, eager to taste the new season’s flavors.

    There’d probably be street protests, however, if Sebastian Joe’s didn’t offer its raspberry chocolate chip year-round. It’s almost a Minneapolis institution, so much so that I’d recommend that Claes Oldenburg’s Spoonbridge & Cherry in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden feature a lovin’ scoop. And God forbid you should leave Sebastian Joe’s without one of its mammoth versions of a Dilly Bar.

    For prestige, you might opt for Sonny’s ice cream. It’s highly regarded by many chefs in town, more than a few of whom commission exclusive flavors to serve in their establishments. The Crema Café, the headquarters of Sonny’s, is also a hot spot among the local gourmand crowd. Crema’s innovative flavor combinations—including strawberry balsamic and cucumber sake—have made the annual reopening a signature spring event.

    An izzy is a gift. With every order of ice cream from Izzy’s, you get a miniature additional scoop, called an izzy, perched prettily atop your order. Cake batter, cotton candy and other flavors of your childhood fantasies are freshly made in house, along with their thick and crunchy waffle cones, which have another gift, a lovely surprise, in the bottom.

    In its second year, the Pumphouse Creamery in South Minneapolis seems to be really hitting its stride. Here, the ice cream is made entirely with natural, local, and organic ingredients. Try the mesmerizing Guinness flavor or Kulfi, an aromatic and herbaceous mixture of pistachio, cardamom, and rosewater, while strolling the neighborhood.

    Custard lovers who don’t have the time for a junket to Milwaukee will want to go directly to Glaciers in Wayzata. It’s a tiny shop where a chef—yes, a chef—makes the magic. The daily custards are a marvel, but Glaciers’ true attractions are the custard pies and cakes (pumpkin spice for the holidays, peppermint twist for your birthday) that would put to shame the home efforts of most any of us.

    Licks Unlimited in Excelsior comes out of hibernation each May, when the smell of warm cones and the sound of the shop’s circling toy trains once again drift into the street. The customary line forms as generations mark the return of summer. People shuffle over from the movie theater across the street, and the sidewalks teem with strollers toasting the evening air with a mocha chip cone. Licks is the place my kids crave, and the bench out front is where you’ll often find me until that sad day in October … which we won’t dwell on right now. There’s a lot of ice cream to be eaten.

    Making your own ice cream has never been easier; solid ice cream machines can be found for around thirty dollars. Of course, the main reason to make your own is to get creative with flavors—a good place to start is by adding mint to strawberry or cayenne pepper to a good basic chocolate. Think of pairing up saffron and ginger, pine nuts and honey, plums and lemongrass; those brave enough might even venture toward Japanese favorites like ox tongue or chicken wing ice cream.

    Sebastian Joe’s 1007 W. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis, 612-872-5240. Sonny’s Crema Cafe 3403 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-824-3868. Izzy’s Ice Cream Cafe 2034 Marshall Ave., St. Paul, 651-603-1458; 825 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis, 612-338-0022. Pumphouse Creamery 4754 Chicago Ave. S., Minneapolis, 612-825-2021. Glaciers Coffee & Custard 888 Superior Blvd., Wayzata, 952-473-8518. Licks Unlimited 31 Water St., Excelsior, 952-474-4791.

    Basic Ice Cream (Philly Style)

    2½ cups cream
    ¾ cup sugar
    2 T. vanilla extract

    Over medium heat, heat cream in heavy saucepan until small bubbles appear around the edges. Make sure not to boil. Remove from the heat and add sugar, stirring until it’s completely dissolved. Allow mixture to cool slightly and add vanilla. Cover and refrigerate until cold. Freeze in ice cream maker according to manufacturer’s instructions. When adding thick flavorings or chunky bits, do so once the ice cream is semi-frozen. For firmer ice cream, transfer to a different container and freeze for around two hours.

  • Creamy Vouvray

    Home is where we start from. That’s why different things appear perfectly natural to different folk. For much of the Near East it is not democracy that is natural but the milet system of the old Ottoman Empire, where no one had votes, but each minority was responsible for itself under an Islamic umbrella. For me it is the English countryside before the Great War, the Old England of Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill.

    For most middle-aged Americans I suppose it is, for better or worse, the Eisenhower era: the wonders of modern science, Detroit dragons, and America as Top Nation forever more. No one now (apart, apparently, from Mr. Rumsfeld) thinks the world is, or ought to be, as simple as it seemed then in the black-and-white pages of Time magazine. Many of us never thought it was.

    Ask your pets what their world looks like. Your cat knows your neighborhood quite as well as you do, but what he has marked on his mental map is entirely different. Poor Kit Smart wondered at the wisdom of cats and they put him in Bedlam. You see a crack in the neighbor’s siding. Your cat sees the Gate of Mouse and watches with the full-bore attention of Ernest Hemingway gazing at the gate through which the bull will enter the arena to meet its matador.

    Your dog, too, he has a consciousness that makes intelligent distinctions mostly on the basis of smell—a sense most humans (except, of course, connoisseurs of wine) are well on the way to losing. I have seen a pack of beagles follow the trail of a hare through a mink farm without faltering. This is a serious feat of discrimination, since aroma algebra teaches us that mink equals skunk squared. How much we must be missing. One wonders what gave the animals in that Sinhalese nature reserve early warning of last December’s tsunami, so that they made their way inland and escaped the deadly waves.
    In the ancient world, it was the Stoic philosophers who were the great exponents of the notion that there is a hidden sympathy that links all physical phenomena. If the Stoics had known about Tokyo and Texas, they would certainly have asserted that a butterfly clapping its wings in the air over the Japanese capital could cause a tornado over Austin. Even spiritual things were exquisitely refined matter, and so were subtly and physically linked. The soul was like gold to airy thinness beat; the whole round earth was every way bound with golden chains too fine for human sight.

    It was these connections that made things beautiful. If each person and thing lived in accordance with its own nature, it would become perfectly adapted to its environment, indeed, to the entire universe of which it was a part. Beauty could be discerned wherever things were well-proportioned to one another, above all when they displayed a mathematical symmetry, like the colonnaded frontage of a Greek temple.

    Just such a Stoic combination came my way the other evening. It involved a crumbly English cheese called Blue Shropshire (like Stilton, but golden instead of white) and a 2002 Vouvray (costing little more than $12) called Masbon, which is French for “good estate,” though I guess it is simply the name of the shipper. (The experience would probably have been as good, just different, with many another cheese, perhaps best with Wensleydale, that crumbly white poetry from the Yorkshire Dales, home of James Herriot, the horsedoctor and raconteur.) For a vehicle there was good crusty bread; ideal would have been Bath Oliver Biscuits, as eaten with hard-boiled eggs by Dan and Una in Kipling’s Puck.

    Vouvray is a white wine from the Loire Valley, southwest of Paris. It is made from the Chenin Blanc grape, which means that it is somewhat sweet; (“off-dry” is the pundit’s word). 2002 was a fine hot year but this wine is not oversweet; it has the characteristic Vouvray edge. One bottle had an aftertaste I was personally not keen on (a little like a McIntosh apple), but this was well-masked by the Blue Shropshire cheese.

    Looking for the link that made this wine and cheese such a successful combination required serious research—that is to say, repeated, careful consumption. In the end I decided the connection consisted in a concatenation of creaminess. Nothing excessive, you understand—nothing in excess was a common Stoic motto—but a gentle connection catalyzed by the consumer. As Charles Williams wrote—it is National Poetry Month—“How good the universe can be, what now?”

  • The Lily's Lovely Cousin

    Lilies, for many, are a wonderful way to celebrate spring’s arrival. But I think they stink. Besides sparking memories of funeral homes, they drop that awful rusty pollen that cannot be brushed out of the first linen of the season. It may be their innocent and elegant pose that lands them starring roles in vernal wedding bouquets, but isn’t spring (and a wedding, for that matter) inspired by a stirring of the spirit? Isn’t the awakening of life and passion deserving of a stronger emblem? That’s why I’d like to predict that this year’s stylish bride will walk down the aisle clutching a stout, heady bunch of leeks.

    Leeks have it all over their lily cousins, obviously because they aren’t just a pretty face; they’re edible. Yet they seem to get the short end of the stalk. Why do people so often pass over this noble vegetable while perusing the produce bins? Is it the intimidating shape, the fact that it looks like a scallion on Enzyte (the “once-a-day tablet for natural male enhancement”)? Is it the fear of possible intensity from such a big oniony thing? But now is the time to let the spirit of the season sway you from your normal path. Take a daring step toward this exciting and versatile vegetable. Come, let us honor the leek. Beloved by many ancient civilizations, the leek was favored for its hardy nature and medicinal properties. The Roman emperor Nero, wishing to deliver powerful and sonorous speeches, chewed leeks like cigars to improve his voice. The Egyptians made sure their loved ones were entombed with a supply of leeks for the afterlife. Even St. Patrick was said to have divinely changed marsh reeds into leeks in order to feed a starving elderly woman.

    No one, however, has a stronger passion for leeks than the Welsh. In 640 A.D., the Saxons raided Wales. Fighting for their lives and their country, the Welsh wore leeks on their helmets to distinguish themselves from their foes. Henceforth, the leek became their national emblem. On St. David’s Day (March 1), which celebrates that victory, nary a Welshman is to be seen without a leek adorning his lapel. Needless to say, the Welsh have taken the standardization of leeks by the European Union as an insult. After the E.U.’s Welsh representative bristled over what he deemed as absurdities concerning diameter rules and other regulations, an opponent responded, “Isn’t it a shame that, with all the opportunities facing Wales at the moment … the only thing the honorable gentleman can rant about today is the sheathing, swelling, and length of his leek?”

    Partly because it has been cultivated in the Old World for more than three thousand years, the leek has a much mightier following in European countries than in America. Yet many on our side of the Atlantic have a devotion for the wild leek, also known as the ramp, that approaches the Welsh’s leek fixation. Foraging for ramps, which can be found growing in clumps in sandy soil from Canada to the Carolinas and as far west as our own state, is an age-old tradition. Countless festivals and celebrations herald the leafy—and some say, stinky—plants as the first sign of spring in the Appalachians. The telltale way to identify a ramp is to gently crush one of its leaves. If an onion-garlic smell nearly knocks you over, bingo! The Native American Menomini tribe referred to an area where ramps grew profusely near southern Lake Michigan as CicagaWuni or shikako—“skunk place.” The white settlement that took over the area put up an equally stinky city called Chicago.

    Any food that has a short growing season and is hard to find and relatively unknown among the general population will, at some point, find its way into a chef’s heart. Granted, ramps’ flavor alone makes them a worthy choice for many restaurant menus, but it seems that the status of this vegetable has abruptly shifted from hick to hip. It’s hard to bet on their availability, due to weather and the fortitude of gatherers, but check the menus at Heartland in St. Paul or Lucia’s in Minneapolis for the opportunity to savor expertly prepared ramps. If you are so inspired as to have a go at it yourself, search for ramps in the woods near streams in sandy soils, and on hillsides. Urbanites may prefer to do their foraging at Lakewinds or the Wedge Co-op. Look for ramps with a blush of crimson in between their small white tips and leafy greens. And don’t neglect that gorgeous aroma.

    The flavor of leeks is much milder than that of ramps—lighter than an onion, yet with its own earthy zing. They’re available year-round at local markets, but since the city’s farmers’ markets open this month, why not hunt some down there? Look for firmness, with long white necks that flow into flat, tough, blade-like leaves. Also, dirt is good. Farmers who love their leeks will mound soil around them to protect their charming white flesh, so the dirtier ones have been loved more. Look for straight, even stalks—leeks with a bulbous bottom are closer to seed. Trim off any tough outer layers and trim the roots right were they meet the white. Cut the top blades no more than one inch above where the white transitions to green. To remove remaining dirt, soak leeks in water for a few minutes or halve them lengthwise and rinse under water.

    While they are traditionally used in soups and stocks, leeks can certainly support a meal on their own. Slice them raw and add them to a salad, or chop and add to the pan of a roast. They live beautifully in any au gratin or risotto, or in creamed corn. Braised leeks make a wonderful foundation for grilled fish, while a simply halved leek, brushed with olive oil and grilled, will honor any plate. And for many, a potato-leek soup is their first step toward a life with leeks—but I’ve never heard of a case where it’s been the last.

    Potato-Leek Soup
    2 tablespoons butter
    3 cloves garlic, chopped
    2–3 large leeks, halved and sliced
    1 tablespoon fresh lemon thyme
    3 cups chicken stock
    5 large russet potatoes, peeled, cut into chunks
    1⁄2 cup cream
    1⁄2 cup milk
    Salt and pepper to taste

    Melt butter over medium heat in a large stock pot. Trim root ends and top rough greens from leeks. Slice in half lengthwise and rinse under water to remove dirt. Slice each half from the root end in thin half-moons. Sauté chopped garlic in the butter first, then a few minutes later add leeks and thyme. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until leeks are softened and slightly translucent, about five minutes. Add chicken stock and potatoes and increase to high heat. Make sure stock covers potatoes; add more stock or water if necessary. Cook until potatoes are tender. Reduce heat to simmer and gently stir in cream and milk. For a silky soup, purée directly in pot with a hand blender (immersion blender). Properly feeds six people with a loaf of crusty bread.

  • Wine of the People

    The other day I had lunch with a lawyer. “Do you like Tony Blair?” he asked, with the courtesy characteristic of his profession. I could give no sensible answer, as I have never had the honor of the prime minister’s acquaintance.

    My learned friend went on to wonder how an apparently intelligent and sensitive man could get Britain involved in America’s current adventure in Iraq. It’s not as if the British public was spoiling for the fight. Perhaps Mr. Blair was genuinely frightened of the elusive weapons of mass destruction. There is certainly no shortage of members of Parliament who say they voted for the war because they were told Saddam Hussein could wipe us all out in forty-five minutes flat. Or could it simply be that Mr. Blair was afraid of compromising the special relationship between our two great countries?

    One key to understanding Tony Blair is religion—not the battling certainties that animate many evangelical supporters of President Bush, but an altogether more modern, more flexible faith. The Christianity to which his (and my) generation of literate Englishmen did (or did not) subscribe was characterized by a 1963 book called Honest to God. In it, a bishop explained that God is the Ground of All Being, not an old man with a beard in the sky, a truth which some of his readers had tumbled to already (surely the old man with the beard is Santa Claus). This up-to-date faith had much to say about society: “though we are many we are one bread, one body” ran the mantra in the Church of England’s grim modern-language liturgy. It warmed to personal intensity, while soft-pedaling private prayer. The hard work of metaphysics and theology took a back seat to building communities. Diplomacy, someone once said, is the art of letting other people have your way; Christian charity, as it was promoted to us in sixties England, often seemed to mean letting everyone else have their way.
    Of course it is good to encourage people to be kind, and one has to acknowledge the sincerity of a public school (i.e. private school) product like Tony Blair, who joins the British Labour party, the party of workers, with hand and brain, under the impression that he may help folk who lack the advantages he was born into.

    But this sort of well-meaning Christian pragmatism is dangerously eager to please. Hence the persistent efforts of the Blair press office to fool all of the people all of the time. Hence, too, a willingness to give in to whomever has shouted most loudly most recently (they call it inclusiveness). A fellow supporter of foxhunting said to me over Christmas that the only sure way to save our sport is to have George Bush come out in favor of it, because he is the only person who can shout louder than the left-wing tyrants of the Labour Party.

    For Mr. Blair and those like him are not Champagne socialists, eccentric noblemen with demotic principles, like Philippe Duc d’Orléans, who changed his name to Citoyen Égalité during the French Revolution (but was guillotined just the same). Such Bollinger Bolsheviks savor the sharp irony of their position; their taste for aristocratic pleasures is undimmed by their embracing the cause of the People.

    Such inconsistency is alien to the Blair Project. The characteristic drink of the contemporary British Christian Socialist is blander, more middle-class. It lacks fizz, and so would never lead to an amusing indiscretion like the nose trick (in which the victim unintentionally gargles champagne through the nose). It is also cheaper than bubbly and, in the spirit of inclusiveness, well within the financial reach of all. It is Chardonnay.

    The wine drunk at the celebration dinner after Mr. Blair’s general election victory was a Chardonnay from the village of Lugny near Macon in southern Burgundy, Macon-Lugny les Genièvres, shipped by Louis Latour and available for about $15. There is absolutely nothing nasty about this wine. The 2002 vintage that I enjoyed recently with an omelette lacked sharpness (unlike the same shipper’s Pouilly-Vinzelles, from the same part of Burgundy, available locally for about the same price). A thoroughly pleasant fruitiness gave way to firm, mild bitterness (a bit like the taste of orange pith), until, on swallowing, the fruit reasserted itself, lasting lingeringly. It was good. Decide for yourself if what is amiable in a wine is admirable in a politician.

  • The New Star Fish

    Unless you grew up on a schooner, in Tokyo, or with extremely food-forward parents, your introduction to tuna was probably a shredded pink pile of the stuff from StarKist. And like me, I bet there was no way that you could connect those mayo-lovin’ shreds to anything that swam in the big blue ocean. Long before Jessica Simpson pondered the chicken of the sea, we all must have wondered exactly what was crammed into those little cans. While it is sad that a fish with such beautiful, clean lines and tender flesh so often ends up blended with pickles and mustard, the fact is that tuna is the second most-consumed seafood (after shrimp) in the country. But even if tuna noodle casserole is still close to your heart, it is more and more likely that some of the tuna you’re eating bears the name ahi, yellowtail, tombo, or bigeye. And, sorry Charlie, even canned tuna has gone upscale, with premium fillets and imports now more widely available.

    You could say that ever since the world has had fishermen, they’ve been catching tuna. It has been fished since antiquity in the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, as well as the Pacific, Atlantic, and Indian Oceans. Members of the mackerel family, tuna are hearty, strong fish, built for speed. Always in motion, they can power up to speeds of fifty-five miles per hour and eat up to ten percent of their body weight each day. It’s not unheard of to catch a six-hundred-pound tuna, depending on the variety.

    Albacore (or tombo in Hawaii) is the famed “chicken of the sea,” so dubbed by fisherman for its ivory flesh. Caught off the West Coast, albacore is used mostly for canning, as are the skipjack, tongol, and bonito. Yellowfin, or ahi, which cover enormous distances around the globe, have flesh that ranges from bright pink to medium red when raw, and cooks to a light yellow-brown. Bigeye swim at a greater depth than the yellowfin, and therefore have more fat to insulate them from colder waters. Many of them end up in Japan as sashimi.

    The bluefin might be considered the hottest tuna in the deep, cold sea. American and Japanese chefs drive the demand; those two countries alone account for about half of the consumption. The largest in the tuna family, bluefin are capable of reaching close to fifteen hundred pounds over their twenty-year life span. Swimming in cold Atlantic waters and feeding on mackerel and herring, the bluefin caught off the New England coast are favored by the Japanese for sushi and sashimi. In fact, they are so valued that few markets can compete with the prices Japanese buyers are willing to pay. The cuts of “sushi grade” tuna you see in America probably don’t pass muster with Japanese sushi chefs, so sophisticated are their tastes for this fatty, supple flesh.

    As the appeal of sushi preparations has increased around the globe, so the quotas and the market for tuna have changed. Fears of overfishing and stock depletion run with any fish that appears frequently on restaurant menus, and while the American tuna industry must abide by federally regulated quotas, European competitors are not held to the same guidelines. Some innovators have begun developing new agricultural techniques to widen availability. In January, for instance, the Taiwanese agricultural council unveiled a yellowfin that, within unique “net cages,” had grown from one kilogram to thirty kilograms in a two-year period. Fed a special diet and living a predator-free, pampered life, these yellowfin aren’t even hauled in by net. Instead, to protect the flesh from any damage, they are carefully borne out of the water by teams of men and carried off to the ship’s hold for a quick end.

    The demand for fresh tuna may be rising, but the canning industry, which recently celebrated its centennial, isn’t about to be left behind. Tuna can now be found in a pouch or a tin, in solid or chunk form, packed in oil, springwater, or its own juices. Canned tuna flavored with curries, jalapeños, or sun-dried tomatoes has recently begun to appear on grocery shelves.

    More important to American fans of the can, however, is the arrival of imported and boutique brands. The word on fishy lips everywhere is ventresca. From the Italian word for belly, ventre, ventresca is the silky-smooth belly of the tuna, known in sushi bars as toro. Ventresca from Spain and Italy tends to come in round, flat, four-ounce tins, which, when opened, reveal tender, wide, white strips of tuna that gently separate. The taste is beyond nirvana—buttery, creamy, incredibly delicate. Since prices range from $5 to $35, you’ll want to savor the flavor. This is no tuna for mashing into a salad; this is stand-alone, drizzle-with-olive oil-and-kosher salt eating. Putting it on a rosemary cracker is about as fancy as you’d want to get. Ventresca may be hard to find locally, but LaTienda.com has plenty (splurge on Tre Torri Ventresca di Tonno packed in extra virgin olive oil).

    The other development in canning is the small boutique canneries that have spawned along the West Coast. Holding true to a regional food philosophy, the small producers of the Pacific Northwest fish only by trolling (not with nets), and hand-cut and-pack only sashimi-grade albacore. They eschew all additives—oils, vegetable stock, chemicals, fillers—save for a smidgen of sea salt. While major producers cook their tuna twice, before packing and then in the can, the small canneries cook the fish just once, in the can, to preserve the natural juices and flavors. The resulting fish has a fresh, mild flavor; its texture can be a little dry, but that’s why it works so well in the tuna-salad genre—the result is less a mushy paste than a chewy, toothsome treat. Look for Great American Smokehouse and Seafood Company’s Deluxe Albacore Fillets or Dave’s Home-Style Santa Cruz Albacore at Whole Foods.

    With so many new options, it would be a shame to stick hard by your tuna salad or tuna melt. Even those who go in for dynamite sushi rolls or tuna seared with wasabi and soy could stand to swim in new waters. An easy tuna tartare might be just the ticket.

    Tuna Tartare with Wasabi Cream
    4–6 appetizer servings
    8- to 10-ounce sashimi-grade tuna
    (yellowfin/ahi or bluefin is best)
    3 T rice wine vinegar
    2 tsp. soy sauce
    1½ T sesame oil
    2 T (or to taste) wasabi paste
    ½ cup crème fraîche (or sour cream)
    1 T Sriracha or chili paste
    Black and white sesame seeds

    Using a non-serrated knife, cut tuna into quarter-inch cubes. Toss with rice wine vinegar, sesame oil, soy sauce and sesame seeds. Whisk together the crème fraîche and wasabi, adding more wasabi if desired. Create individual servings by mounding about two tablespoonfuls of tuna on a small plate. Top with a dollop of wasabi cream, sprinkle with additional sesame seeds, and drizzle the plate with Sriracha sauce. Serve immediately.

  • Wine for Poets

    Odd how few poets emerged from the Second World War. The First World War produced plenty. Some, like Rupert Brooke, thought they were going to be Homeric heroes––he died without hearing a shot fired in anger, and is buried on the island of Scyrus, where Achilles hid among the women. Others—Charles Sorley, Wilfrid Owen, Siegfried Sassoon—tried to express the horror of the Western Front.

    But the only poet I know of from the Second War is Keith Douglas. He served in a cavalry regiment that had only recently exchanged its horses for tanks. He wondered at the unconcern of his brother-officers fighting in North Africa. It seemed that their hearts were not in the Libyan Desert, but galloping behind foxhounds in the Shires: “It is not gunfire I hear, but a hunting horn.” Foxhunting with hounds, the sport of “this gentle, obsolescent breed of heroes, unicorns almost,” is this month being banned by a new and ill-informed law rammed through a spiteful British Parliament by dubiously constitutional means. English country folk are furious—all sorts of people, not just Keith Douglas’s unicorns. The ban has nothing to do with guns; in fact, shooting will be the crueler, less effective alternative to hunting with hounds. Nor is it a matter of animal welfare; everyone agrees that foxes must be controlled by man in order to maintain the balance of nature. It has everything to do with urban disdain for the countryside and the realities of the natural world. How can you legislate against terriers digging or dogs chasing rabbits?

    The realities of nature are like tannin in red wine; too much is tiresome, but without them life is bland. Tannins are what give you the astringent taste in the middle of the mouthful. Until the early nineteenth century, there was thought to be only one type of tannin, the kind that can be extracted from the oak-apple, an unpalatable parasite of the oak tree, the size of a small brown Brussels sprout. In the Middle Ages, oak apples were used as an ingredient in the ink monks used to write manuscripts on parchment. Small boys would be sent round the hedgerows to gather the year’s supply in their frozen fingers. If you have ever sucked a fountain-pen nib (try anything once except adultery and Morris dancing!), you can imagine how bitter this tannin might be.

    In fact, different types of tannin are present in all sorts of emulsions of foliage. You can taste it in tea. No doubt there are tannins in the frothy tisane of autumn leaves that drifts on the surface of the Mississippi downstream from St. Anthony Falls after the snowmelt each year.

    There are pleasing tannins at the center of a very palatable red wine from the Rhone that I came across recently––I say palatable deliberately, because the tannins are most apparent when the tongue is rubbed against the roof of the mouth. This wine is the 2003 red Beaumes-de-Venise from Paul Jaboulet ainé (available locally for around fifteen dollars).

    Beaumes-de-Venise is a pretty, Provençal town famous mainly for its sweet white wine, made from the Muscat grape, Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise. Red Beaumes-de-Venise is made from Grenache and Syrah, the most popular grapes for red wine in the Rhône valley, and would go well with duck or goose or any red meat or powerful cheese. Indeed, I have seen it take on a haggis and win. (Wonderful thing, haggis––why do Americans not eat heart or liver or kidneys, especially kidneys?)

    Two-thousand-three was a hot summer in the south of France. While hordes of Parisians roared along narrow roads during les grandes vacances and English visitors went to view the place where Peter Mayle lived before his books made it too popular for him to continue to live there, while no doubt some wistful souls went to see the ruins they read of in the charming tales of Alphonse Daudet, the country’s grapes ripened rapidly. Sugars developed in the skins; the sharper acids were muted. The wine that resulted is intense and ripely redolent of soft fruit and alcohol, as well as having the aforementioned tannins at its center.

    Tannins ensure longevity. Drink a bottle now, and keep another for later, to see how the tannins mellow. This is intense enough to be wine for poets. One of the more eloquent Parliamentary defenders of foxhunting called her sport “our music, our poetry, our art.” There is certainly plenty of good hunting verse. God alone knows if any poet can make sense of the chaos that has been created in Mesopotamia by the politicians of our two great nations.

  • No Matter How You Slice It

    I love food. I’m a food lover. Maybe the infatuation started when I was bartending to put myself through school; I always seemed to end up with the kitchen guys at 2 a.m., cooking up a mess of eggs and leftovers. But my real journey didn’t start until I fell in love with a chef––now my husband––over a sandwich.

    People had cooked for me before, and I had made dinners for dates in the past, but then came along a tall, boyish man who laughed at all of my stupid jokes. One day, while working the same shift, he offered to make me lunch. It has come to be known as The Sandwich, that divine combination of salami, red peppers, and provolone that he threw between slices of focaccia that day. Those ingredients created some kind of alchemy: after one bite I was smitten with this green-eyed kitchen guy, tossing knives and flipping pans in his starched whites. From that point on, food and love intertwined and have taken me all over the world, from Paris to Bangkok. And yet over the years, and through all the amazing food I’ve eaten, it is still a sandwich that truly quickens my heart.

    That may well be because no matter where you travel, there’s a sandwich to suit your need for simple yet tasty sustenance. Crusty and flavorful bahn mi in Vietnam; Mexico’s filling and voluptuous tortas; a smorgasbord of open-faced delights in Denmark; the injera of Ethiopia, cradling spicy morsels. It’s clear that the universal language of good eating is sandwich.

    Even though sandwiches, like love, are a very personal matter—I don’t tell you whom to date, you don’t tell me what to put on my sandwich—the beautiful thing is that with so many possibilities, no one need be left out. Whether you’re a panini buff, a muffuletta fan, or a Monte Cristo or croque monsieur aficionado, you may well be seated with a po’boy, a hoagie, a Hot Brown, or classic submarine sandwich-eater, and life will be richer for it. If you’re craving something greasy (see hot Italian dago) or going on a health binge (see pita pocket), there is a sandwich that satisfies. For some people, what matters the most is the type of bread (crusty, soft, dense, airy, one slice or two); for others it’s the filling, from the unusual and fancy to something as simple and wholesome as the beloved PB&J, that makes the perfect sandwich.

    Since we’re basically talking about those two elements, bread and fillings, what were these things before they came to be known as sand-wiches? The idea of eating saucy beef off of a hunk of bread goes back at least to the Middle Ages, when the hard, stale slices were called trenchers. It appears that a portable meal of bread and meat was sold on the streets of England as early as the sixteenth century. But it wasn’t until John Montague (1718–1792), the Fourth Earl of Sandwich, began spending late nights at the card table and ordering his valet to bring him salty beef tucked between bread slices, that fashionable people started ordering “the same as Sandwich.”

    While the City of Brotherly Love might claim that its Philly cheese steak makes it the sandwich capital of the U.S., every city has rewards for the sandwich seeker, and it’s time to share the love. The sandwich most on my mind lately has been a giant roast beef number on the menu at Maverick’s (1746 Lexington Ave., Roseville; 651-488-1788). There’s no ambience, and there’s no need. Not long after grabbing this Kaiser roll and gazing upon its piles of soft, pink, thinly sliced beef, you’ll be looking at nothing but your empty plate, wondering if you should get another for the road.

    For pastrami, the recently opened Louie’s Habit (1179 E. Wayzata Blvd., Wayzata; 952-249-7700) is turning out a fantastic, New York-style thick-cut version that is rich and spicy and falls apart in the dense rye bread. Unfortunately, Louie’s has yet to get my complete order correct, but I forgive them, as would any true pastrami addict.

    It’s impossible to consider the gyro, with its lamb/beef combo that gets vertically roasted, without also accounting for the tzatziki sauce, which makes this sandwich so alluringly tangy and so messy at the same time. Gardens of Salonica (19 Fifth St. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-378-0611) turns out the Twin Cities’ best, partly because it’s drenched in the tangy cucumber sauce. If you’re craving a gyro on the run, Dino’s version (3355 Plymouth Blvd., Plymouth; 763-553-2040; and other metro locations) is good enough that you probably won’t mind if you stain your shirt as you drive.

    The Mexican torta can be an after-bar savior or late-night companion. The Manny’s Special at Manny’s Tortas (2700 E. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-728-1778) is distinguished by its zippy chipotle mayo, generous piles of beef, ham, and Swiss, and wealth of toppings, including fresh avocado, chorizo, and jalapenos. Just around the corner, Taqueria La Hacienda (1515 E. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-728-5424) throws together an al pastor alambre that might as well be a hot pork, bacon, onion, and cheese gift from the Hangover Gods.

    When it’s a barbeque pork sandwich you want, you go see Scotty. Tucked into unassuming digs in South Minneapolis, Scott Ja Mama’s (3 W. Diamond Lake Rd., Minneapolis; 612-823-4450) kicks out a killer version soaked with a zesty-sweet sauce that renders the bread defenseless. But call ahead—there are only two seats (and no sandwiches on the weekends).

    When the mood for something more upscale strikes, go for the grilled panini at the La Brea Bakery kiosk in Marshall Field’s at Southdale (Sixty-Sixth Street and France Avenue, Edina; 952-924-6600), the newest surprise on the scene. This outpost of Nancy Silverton’s Los Angeles bakery, which is justifiably famous for its sandwich offerings, is sure to be the best quick-grab sandwich around. Having sampled a beauty like the grilled turkey and prosciutto with provolone, bitter greens, and fried sage, all I’ll say is: More, please!

    Of course, this is just a smattering of the outstanding sandwiches out there in the larger world, and it doesn’t even scratch at the surface of possibilities that live in every kitchen. Think how limited life would be if we were stuck singing the same old turkey-with-lettuce/tomato/mayo chorus every day! It doesn’t take much to be a true sandwich artist—you need merely be a hungry and resourceful person who knows what you like. Being a bit of a risk-taker helps, too: Throw in some pieces of chorizo. Hold the mayo and use pesto instead. Take a few minutes to sauté mushrooms. Search out the most pungent piece of Wensleydale cheese you can find. After all, if something doesn’t seem to be working (too many pickles? sprouts gone wrong?), you can simply remove the offensive ingredient and continue with your delicious meal. That’s the beauty of sandwich building. Like love, it’s about working out the kinks.

    The Sandwich

    If your beloved is a kitchen guy like mine, then you know that Valentine’s Day is a working day—which usually means you will be curling up with a nice sandwich that evening. So it might as well be The Sandwich:

    Slice a loaf of focaccia in half; slather bottom half with aioli (garlic mayonnaise). Layer Italian meats, including mortadella, capicolla, and salami. On top of that, lay roasted red and yellow peppers. Next, place medium slices of provolone cheese to cover. Then scatter chopped and drained pepperoncini and thinly sliced red onion. Fold thin slices of prosciutto on top and douse the whole thing with herbed vinaigrette. Replace the top of the loaf and place on top rack of hot oven (about 400 degrees) for no more than a minute. Slice, eat, do laundry.

  • R. S. V. P.

    Wagner’s music, so they say, is not as bad as it sounds. I suppose the tunes aren’t too awful if you don’t mind being shouted at. But what makes me queasy is the overwhelming moral effect, the way it makes you limp and inert like a rabbit trapped in headlights.

    Other composers in the light and tuneful category make you want to do something. Gilbert and Sullivan tickle you into singing along; the Strauss waltzes (Johann’s, not Richard’s) offer an invitation to trip the light fantastic toe; a Sousa march is meant to make you, well, march. Even the deafening stuff enjoyed by my teenage daughter (somewhere between a Hard Rock and a hard place) makes one apparently want to crowd-surf—which sounds like a lot of fun.

    But hearing Wagner (one can hardly call it listening) merely makes you swoon. It is a passive activity, as squared-eyed as goggling at a television. Slot the CD into the brain, switch off the critical faculty, and let the waves of emotion submerge the pleasure centers, no matter if the torrid tide carries you ineluctably toward a Liebestod. This is consumer music.

    Am I being unfair? I expect so. But being on the receiving end of Wagner reminds me of a bean-counter university official I met years ago who wanted the professors to refer to their students as “customers.” Apparently, in the retail chain where he had been previously employed, there was no term of greater respect.

    But there is a difference between teaching and hawking burgers (yes, I have done both). In retail, the customer gets what you sell him. In education you can never be sure that those who are listening are hearing the same things that the professor says. Nor should they be. A lecturer looking out at ten dozen eyes sees at least ten dozen things going on dialectically behind them—“one deep calling to another,” Augustine thought as he gazed out at his congregation. It may be necessary for the pyre to be built in one place so that the fire from heaven can come down on another. Possibly, virtue can be taught, but it is an oblique business, requiring contributions from all those sitting on the log.

    Wine works the same way. Of course one can drink to induce oblivion. But aside from the legendary potion opened in error by Tristan and Isolde, which allegedly smote them with their inescapable love (infatuation, more like it), I can think of no beverage that automatically induces any interesting or enduring state of mind. Enjoying wine involves an active response on the part of the drinker. The counterpoint of great claret may not require as much digital dexterity as a Bach fugue, but it calls for every bit as much sensual attention.

    The wine I have found for this month lacks the complexity of the great reds of Bordeaux, but it certainly bears the message répondez s’il vous plaît, even if the response is only copious salivation. It is the 2003 vintage of a white wine called Txakoli, made at a bodega called Txomin Etxaniz, which is near the town of Guetaria on the south shore of the Bay of Biscay in northern Spain’s Basque country.

    You can get it locally for around $18, and once you know the “tx” is pronounced approximately like the English “ch,” you will have no problem asking for it. The name is, naturally, Basque, and Basque is the oldest living language in Europe, quite distinct in structure from the Indo-European languages of the rest of the continent, and dating back to the millennia before hordes made their way west from the steppes of Central Asia, speaking the languages that were the ancestors of Hittite, Persian, Greek, Latin, Old Church Slavonic, Welsh, Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh, and all. The grapes are also peculiar to the Basque country, mostly Hondarribi zuri (white) with some Hondarribi beltza (black).

    Pull the cork from the tall green bottle, pour out the clear pale contents, and taste. There is a tiny tingle on the tongue, as if you had sand in your sandwich, though without the annoyance that would arouse. Then a refreshing flavor and a slight smokiness, followed by a taste, accumulating on the palate the more one sips, of Granny Smith apples. This is pleasantly sharp. Plenty of the natural malic acid (from “malum,” Latin for apple) remains, as it has not all been transformed into the blander, buttery-tasting lactic acid.

    Should you wish to orchestrate Txakoli with food, you might try the things that go with apples—pork, for instance, and cheese (in Yorkshire they eat cheddar cheese with apple pie, most un-American). For music, try Messiaen: bright dissonance, energy, and acid. May it give you joie et clarté.

  • Quirks of the Quince

    Maybe driving along slick January roads while the radio bleats its incessant lose-the-fat/cut-the-carbs/celebration’s-over messages doesn’t bother you, but it whips me into a frothy rage. Your hangover has only just barely passed (with the aid of a nice greasy burger) before all these diet people start making you feel horrible about the past few weeks of joy and butter. Doesn’t the coming of a new year herald an optimistic fresh start? By all means, get healthy (after said burger, of course) if it makes you happy, but please don’t buy into the latest fad diet or attempt to banish any food group from your life. Don’t look at 2005 as “The Year I Reject Bagels” or “The Year I Overcome Bacon” or, worse yet, “The Year I Buy Chemically Engineered Food That Will Make My Butt Skinny While It Slowly Poisons My Internal Organs.” Wouldn’t you rather wear a sparkly sash proclaiming “2005: The Year I Discover the Magic of Food That Heals the Soul and Body and Still Tastes Great.” A smarter sash still might simply read “2005: Year of the Quince.”

    What the hell is a quince, you’re asking. Why have you never seen quince-flavored soda pop or Quincy-O’s cereal, or even a quince booster for your smoothie? It’s safe to say they’re not part of the mainstream. But neither are quinces a secretly hoarded ingredient available only to chefs and other epicurean cognoscenti. Quinces are actually quite accessible, and for the next month or so this yellowish, knobbly skinned fruit—best described as a cross between an apple and a pear—is still in season. Out of the produce bin, this fruit tends to be rock hard, not too pleasing to the eye, and quite astringent when eaten raw, so maybe it’s no surprise that you’ve passed them by. But any fan will tell you, quinces will reward a cook’s patience by revealing a host of secrets and pleasures.

    Far from being a new fruit, the quince is believed by many to have been Eve’s naughty apple. Quinces also played a great role in ancient Greek culture: some say the “golden apple” Paris awarded to Aphrodite, thus launching the Trojan War, was actually a humble quince. The Greeks considered the quince a symbol of love and fertility, tossing it into bridal chariots and serving slices to blushing new wives before they repaired to the bridal chambers. Pregnant women were advised to snack frequently on quinces to insure industrious and highly intelligent offspring.

    The fruit of a hardy shrub, the quince spread easily throughout Asia and Europe. Its Latin name, Cydonia, refers to the ancient city in Crete where the Greeks perfected its cultivation. The French termed the fruit coing, which in Middle English became quin. However termed, the oddly shaped fruit continues to play a strong role in some cuisines (Spanish, Moroccan, Persian, Rumanian, Balkan) and a recovering role in others (English, French, American).

    Here in the U.S., the quince did have a brief moment in the sun. Because of its high levels of pectin, the quince makes a killer jelly. The jammers and canners helped the quince tree migrate westward with the settlers. But the need to preserve fruit dropped off, the apple took favor as a sweeter and easier fruit, and the desire for quinces dwindled. Ironically, quince jelly is making a comeback as the traditional Spanish membrillo, a jellied quince paste, pops up on tapas menus across the country. If you’ve ever enjoyed a really good slice of manchego cheese, top your next slice with the mellow and fruity membrillo to understand the perfect interplay between sweet and tangy.

    The key to enjoying quinces is taking the time to reap the rewards. Keep a quince in your kitchen at room temperature for a week or so, and it will deliver a gracious aroma that no scented candle can touch. Slowly simmer a peeled and cored quince, and watch its flesh soften and change color to a velvety deep pink. The flavor will have evolved, too, into a sassy pineapple-like taste with a touch of tartness. Next time you cook apples or pears, add a few slices of quince and the new aromas and flavors will make it hard to ever turn back.

    The splendor of quinces is that there are so many dreamy ways to use them; the sadness is that they’re available only from September to February (if we’re lucky), so get to the Wedge Co-op to snatch some up. While they are fresh, peel and core them for cooking. Throw chopped quinces in with your pork roast for a subtle flavor, or use them like the Turks do, in a tagine stew with meats and other spiced fruits. Follow the Hindus and mash the fruit with onions, chilies, salt, and citrus juice to make a sambal, and serve it as a condiment for grilled food. For dessert, poach a quince in vanilla sauce or bake it with a filling of sugar, hazelnuts, and cranberries in its hollow. Make quince jelly for your pancakes. If you’ve dawdled and the quinces are gone for the season, take heart. Some very good pastes are on the market that can be eaten with cheese or crackers or licked right off the knife (Lunds carries the brand 34degrees from New Zealand).

    Whatever you do, take the time to cook and get to know your quince. The healthiest thing you can do for yourself in the New Year is to view food not as an enemy, but as a source of pleasure and self-discovery. Like Lear’s owl and pussycat: They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon …

    Quince Jelly

    8 cups peeled, sliced, cored quince (5-7 fruits)
    1½ cups water
    1 cup apple juice
    3 T lemon juice
    ¾ cup sugar
    ¾ cup honey
    1 T orange zest
    1 T freshly grated ginger root
    1 tsp cinnamon
    1 tsp nutmeg

    In medium saucepan, over medium-high heat, bring fruit, water, and juices to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, for about thirty minutes (or until tender). Add remaining ingredients and stir for another five minutes. Remove from heat, puree in food processor (if you like it smooth). Let the mixture cool before transferring to storage containers with tight lids. Will store frozen for up to three months.