The Rake Magazine

Category: Food and Drink

  • Sibling Revelry

    bloody O.jpg

    Soooooo my sister is coming to town.

    With my natural hospitality tinged by a pinch of sibling rivalry, it means that I need to bring my A-game … without it seeming like I’m bringing my A-game.

    I have to pull off flavorful and different, while exuding simplicity and ease.

    Spain may be the key. I’ve already started a big vat of Sangria for the weekend, so I might as well carry through. While many cutting edge gastronauts are Spanish, there really are so many accessible and yummy Spanish eats that won’t freak out the average eater.

    Nothing is cleaner, fresher and more disarmingly simple than a true gazpacho: a real garden-to-kitchen creation that allows for personal interpretation.

    If you’ve had a lackluster paella, then you probably poo-poo the dish. But don’t punish your gut, punish the cook. Great paella just takes focus and seriously fresh ingredients.

    Keeping a couple tins of ventresca on hand always pays off. When people arrive and we start milling around, filling glasses and making introductions, I can just slip a little on a plate with some roasted red peppers, capers, cornichons, crusty toasted bread, serrano ham, idiazabal and voila: instant tapas.

    Score one for the fat sister.

    Sangria, roughly.
    Here’s what I do: take a 3L jug of cheap dry red wine. Pour it all out into a non-reactive bowl (plastic or glass). I throw in about 1 cup of sugar, 1/2 cup Cointreau, and 1 cup of brandy. Then I slice all manner of fruit: oranges (squeeze them in), granny smith apples, carambola, grapes, plums, apricots,a peach maybe. Throw them in and stir everything about so that the sugar is dissolved. Stick it in the fridge for at least 4 hours, better if you can leave it overnight.

    If you’ve done it on the short, you can leave the fruit. If you’ve let it sit for 8 or more hours, scrap the old fruit and add a few fresh new slices. For pretty pretty: cut blood oranges, halved grapes and slices carambola.

    Serve over ice.

  • Gin and Cobbler

    topchef_ep307_19.jpg
    lucky boozers…

    Am I becoming disenchanted with my favorite show?

    I’m ok with cross-marketing when it highlights chefs and their restaurants, or maybe a high quality name brand ingredient or sweet blender or something. But I’m a little worried when Cold Stone asks the kids to come up with a Mix-In for ice cream as a challenge. No wonder Hung went all freaky with the cauliflower foam, isn’t this supposed to be high-level sutff? And worse yet, before they cut to commercial, they highlighted Dale’s wining peach cobbler recipe and tagged it “which is a perfect pairing with Bombay Sapphire Gin” and a big ol’ graphic of the blue genie bottle. Yeah, because when I’m indulging in creamy-peachy-fruity all I’m looking for is sharp and piney to wash it down. It was a disgusting plug for their Perfect Pairings promotion, which OOOPS has been canceled for 2007.

    But maybe that was the theme this episode, drunk consumption.

    I liked the fact that they had to cook for clubbers from a hot-truck. That they thought they were going out to party and had to work instead, well that actually happens in the real restaurant world quite a bit. When a cook walks off the line in the middle of a Saturday night, it doesn’t matter if you have tickets to the moon, somebody’s gotta cook.

    The chick factor bugged me. Sara wore the heels to dance in, but she can’t grocery shop in them? Suck it up sister, there isn’t a grrrrl cook in the world who hasn’t come home from the club with a gaggle of hungry drunks that demand sustenance. I can picture a particular New Year’s with my husband flipping hashbrowns dangerously low to the floor while I made sure my earrings didn’t fall into the eggs. Way it goes.

    As for my boy Brian, did he put on a show or what? I’m still a little whipped over CJ (you know I like ’em tall), but Brian knows how to work a crowd and I think he should have won the challenge. Tre’s food looked really good, but Brian threw the party and kept the eaters hooked. When you think about what it takes to run a restaurant, to read what the guest wants and deliver it, that’s a Top Chef.

    And what about Govind? Was he the most boring guest judge yet? All I could think about was poor Dale, dinner conversation might have been the tougher challenge. Unless it was sponsored by Bombay.

  • Office Food

    yummy.jpg
    your boss made this, so icksnay on the retching noises.

    While doing some research for next month’s recipe, I stumbled upon The Company Cookbook … a very James Lileks homage to the wonderful food people are willing to share with their co-workers.

    Potluck anyone?

  • Top Truffle

    rocco.JPG
    ssssssssssssssassy

    First of all, does it seem that Rocco has had some work done? Or was that just a really creepy makeup job?

    This last week, the Top Chef kids had to compete in a food test for the quick-fire challenge. What was with the gimme ingredients? Oatmeal? Bow-tie pasta? Come on, Casey should have had to name it correctly as farfalle at least. But wasn’t it soooo awesome when Hung’s ego was his downfall, passing on a taste test that would have given him the correct ID? Do you think he watched that episode at home and cringed? It should be noted that Brian was in the top two.

    On to the elmination challenge … which was all about figuring out how to freeze a pasta dish. Yada yada yada to individually freeze or not yada yada yada.

    The best part of the show was the Truffle Smackdown between Rocco and Colicchio. Tommy thought the flavors of Tre/CJ’s dish were a little beyond the Mediterranean scope of the assignment. Rocco smirkingly disagreed, he’s had truffles from all over the Med and no way is he going to pass up a chance to giggle at Mr. Smugly Accomplished over there.

    The saddest part is that, even though I heart Colicchio, he was wrong. Seriously, Umbria is well-known for their truffles, which makes the ingredient fair game. What’s worse, he tried AGAIN to prove his wrong point by asking the chefs if they thought it was a good choice to add truffles to a Mediterranean dish. Rocco had to be tapping his toes with evil glee under the table.

    I must say, as much as I am a Brian fan, I have to root for CJ as well. He is hi-larious and I would love to hear his commentary for a few more weeks. And Joey … I guess the bigger they are, the harder they sob.

  • Discontent

    voodoo donut.jpg
    how i feel, courtesy of Voodoo Donut.

    I feel like I’ve been offered a jelly donut, only to find a puff of stale air in place of promised jelliness.

    There in the pages of the glossy Lake Minnetonks Magazine, ran a snippet that proclaimed the existence of a new Good Day Cafe, right in Wayzata! As I was out and about this morning, I thought a right-nicely turned caramel roll would do the trick on an icky Monday. But no, there is no additional outpost and no plans for one either, it turned out to be a rumor printed as fact. Sad in the short-term, but glad in the long run, I think it would have been too early to expand as the original might have suffered.

    And then it got worse … Coastal Seafoods in Wayzata has closed their doors. I am more than bummed about it. A call into the other stores found them open, and the official word is that they could never do the amount of business that they thought they would in Wayzata. I could always count on them for great stuff like Monkfish and Opah which you can’t always find in the Lund’s/Byerly’s bin. I was on the lookout for some Barramundi for a lift to my Monday but now I am lost.

    Maybe I’ll drown my sorrows in sushi.

  • Pinot Noir for the Masses

    Archaeologists have all the fun. Mere historians spend their summers sweating over hot computers while those on expeditions get fresh air and exercise, often in agreeable places. I have just heard from a student who is spending great swaths of his summer making a new map of the Boundary Waters. There are less pleasant ways of spending your days than sitting in a canoe cuddling a GPS. Such canoodling in the Boundary Waters will not reveal any Roman roads (this student’s first love), but he might make his reputation by finally fixing the coordinates of Mist County. No one has ever looked for it that far north.

    Of course he would need a time machine. Lake Wobegon, so I have heard its chronicler assert, is really your grandfather’s rural Minnesota. One doubts if many Norwegian bachelor farmers use GPS to direct and regulate their seed drills; there won’t be a lot of agribusiness done in the Chatterbox Café.

    All the same, the portrait of this place is at least grounded in realism, which is more than you can say for a lot of pastoral literature. When the Hellenistic wordsmith Theocritus had the wheeze that you could compose clever poetry about country life, he meant it as metaphor; the dysfunctional affections of the nymphs and shepherds who sport in his delightful pleasant groves represent the abstract attachments of urban intellectuals. It is the same with Tudor madrigals. If fair Cloris actually met her swain in a pigsty she would surely have been far too worried about the mud on her multiple petticoats to celebrate their happy, happy loves. Clint Bunsen, by contrast, is not afraid of a little axle-grease.

    What is even more remarkable, the good folk of Lake Wobegon are described with optimism and affection; Powdermilk Biscuits are good for you—mostly. Everyday stories of countryfolk are often distressingly cruel. Take Sinclair Lewis. He seems to be the first writer ever to have used the pejorative term “hick” as an adjective; it is a wonder the good people of Gopher Prairie’s real-world counterpart, Sauk Centre, did not chase him all the way down Main Street and into the next county, however many Nobel Prizes he had to his credit. Perhaps their revenge is not to read his novels.

    The true masters of metropolitan disdain, though, are the French. M. Eiffel may have been born in Burgundy but he built his tower in Paris. The French intellectual even has an epithet which puts simple countryfolk in their place: They are the petit peuple. Whatever the feminists tell you, Madame Bovary was the victim of the French failure to embrace the simple pleasures of provincial life (though I guess you could say her enthusiastic embrace of a number of other pleasures also contributed to her decline and fall).

    It was not ever thus. In the fifteenth century, Burgundy in the east of France was a self-governing duchy capable of pursuing its own foreign policy—it was a Duke of Burgundy who captured Joan of Arc. Much of what one thinks of as characteristically medieval is associated with the Burgundian court—the high, pointy hats of the ladies, Books of Hours embellished with luminous blue and gold, the angular elegance of the music of Dufay. The distinctly unhick lives of John the Fearless and Philip the Good were fuelled by good local wine whose terroir had already been nurtured (not least by Cluniac and Cistercian monks) for centuries.

    The Pinot Noir grape is the characteristic grape of Burgundy—it first enters the written record (as Noirien) in documents from the reign of Philip the Bold. The good duke resented growers who wanted to make quick profits from the higher-yielding Gamay variety, and ordered them to mend their ways; so much for the magic of the market. You can benefit from this ducal forethought. In Burgundy, 2005 was a particularly good year, warm but not scorching and wet at just the right times. The long-established shippers Bouchard Ainé et Fils have generously made available a very pleasing red burgundy, full of fruit and flavor, labeled simply 2005 Bourgogne Rouge Pinot Noir, at a shockingly affordable price: under $20 a bottle. Local taste (rather than price) might prompt drinkers at the Sidetrack Tap to give it a miss, but I can imagine this burgundy being sipped with pleasure (from glass, not plastic, glasses) once the canoe has been parked, the GPS put to bed for the night, and the sausages (scholars cannot afford steak) have been set to sizzle.

  • Summer on a Stick

    There are no gifts to buy, no feasts to plan, no national reason for gathering your relatives. Thankfully, the sultry days of August hold only one sort of holiday: the kind fashioned with an afternoon, a hammock, and a popsicle. Cool and sweet simplicity, delivering reward for very little effort, this frozen treat pays homage to an all-too-fleeting season—one free (for most) from schooling.

    It seems only fitting, then, that the popsicle was invented by an eleven year old. In 1905, Frank Epperson was careless enough to leave his drink and stir-stick out on the porch overnight. That evening, his hometown of San Francisco saw record low temperatures and young Frank awoke to find his drink frozen to the stick. Proud of his new discovery, he branded the treat an “Epsicle” (note the play on “icicle”) and was quick to share the delight with his friends. No doubt, among them he was King of Summer.

    By the time he applied for the patent eighteen years later, the name Epsicle had faded due to frequent demands from Epperson’s own children for one of “Pop’s ’sicles.” The original patent seeks ownership for “a frozen confection attractive in appearance which can be conveniently consumed without contamination by contact with the hand … which process can be expeditiously carried out at small expense with simple apparatus, without the need for expert care, and in thoroughly sanitary manner.” By 1925, Epperson sold the rights to the Popsicle brand and by 1928 had earned royalties on over sixty million sold. Today, an estimated two billion Popsicles™ are sold each year.

    The name Popsicle may be trademarked and owned, but the spirit of the treat can’t be. “Popsicle” has worked its way into the American vernacular, and now means anything from orange juice and toothpicks in an ice-cube tray to the frothy creation of a four-star chef. Indeed, foodies have adopted the nostalgic delight, creating new recipes for stunning concoctions like refreshingly light lemon-basil pops, earthy dark-chocolate-covered huckleberry pops, or adult-oriented Moscato-lavender pops.

    Really, what this amounts to is playing with your food. But perhaps that’s the best use of a long summer day, especially if the result is something cool and beautiful that forces you to stop and savor the moment. Channeling your inner Epperson and creating your own popsicles is as simple as this: Find flavors you like, mix them together, and freeze them with some sort of handle. Innovators will find a blender quite helpful and should open their minds to different stick options (think cinnamon sticks; think lemongrass). Adults must remember that alcohol takes longer to freeze, so patience is key when waiting for a beersicle or vodka-watermelon pop to mature. Luckily, during August’s dog days it can seem like there’s all the time in the world.

    Minty Cucumber Popsicles
    1 cup sugar
    1 cup water
    1 pound seedless cucumber
    3/4 cup freshly chopped mint
    2 Tbsp. freshly grated ginger
    1 lime, juiced
    Pinch salt
    Sake, for dipping (optional)

    Boil sugar and water in small saucepan until dissolved, creating simple syrup.
    Set aside to cool.
    Peel cucumbers and chop into chunks. Purée in a blender, adding mint and ginger. Blend until smooth. Add simple syrup and mix until combined, then stir in lime juice and pinch of salt.
    Pour mix into popsicle mold. Paper cups can also be used, but take care to cover them with plastic wrap before poking through handles or sticks—this will
    provide stability, ensuring that handles remain upright. Freeze for several hours until hard-set. If you like, dip into a glass of chilled sake.

    Read Stephanie March’s blog, Consider the Egg.

  • Zesty

    pool.jpg

    When it’s as hot as it’s been, those of us with pools must be resigned to the impromptu gathering. And so it goes that last Wednesday we had a few families over for some swimming and noshing with a little late-birthday celebration thrown into the mix.

    But I’ve been hungry, despite the heat (shock) and I wasn’t looking for the hot dog/quick pasta option. But I had no desire to whip up the grand feast, just as no one else had the hunger for formality and over-indulgence during the mid-week.

    So I ripped through the monthly rags to find something honest and easy. I came up with two winners: grilled pork chops with a sharp garlic-lime vinaigrette and a quinoa dish with black beans. Winners both, the quinoa earned top honors from the eaters. It was the lime juice that kept it zesty and fresh and gave our whole meal a nice summery lilt.

    I was planning on an easy chocolate mousse with strawberries for dessert, but alas, the power went out in the middle of dinner and no way was I whipping cream by hand in the suddenly air-conditionless house. Take it outside, strawberries and dark chocolate poolside don’t suck.

    Today I’m heading to the Arboretum’s Summer House to see what kind of fresh goodies they have. Even though we have no plans for entertaining this weekend, it doesn’t mean it won’t happen.

  • Cookshop Throwdown

    knives of fury.JPG

    I finally made it to the Sur La Table that opened on 50th and France in Edina, mere steps down from Cooks of Crocus Hill. Of course I did a little comparative secret shopping.

    I’ve enjoyed Sur La Table in many places before, the Seattle Pike’s Place market location being my favorite. The store has always held a cozy accessability to me as a cook, with kitchen tables piled high with rubber spatulas and whisks a-go-go (I’ve always felt the same about Chef’s Gallery). There were high-buck pots and pans, as well as fun and less expensive gadgetry which seem to suck me in, and everything was merchandized smartly. Though I meandered for over half an hour, I wasn’t chatted-up until I got to the register, and there were plenty of employees around. Maybe they’re upgrading as a company, but this outpost seemed a little more Williams-Sonoma and little less kitchen table.

    Heading down to Cooks, the first thing I noticed was the word LOCAL on their kiosk. Inside, it was business as usual, if not a little more solicitous. There were plenty of people, merchandizing is just as good as the new neighbors, and the staff seems unworried.

    Overall, I’d say they could work well together: each had a strength that parried the other’s weakness. Sur had more cutting edge gadgets (nifty silicone pan holders) while Cook’s had a huge selection of food books. Sur had more appliances, Cook’s had more cool ingredients. Sur, being larger, has more stuff, but Cook’s has the demo kitchen and a killer line-up of chef’s who teach. After all the perusing, I left Sur with some funky drinking straws and garbage disposal cleaners. At Cook’s I bought two paper toques for Jake and his cousin.

    Quite inspired to cook something, I headed to Trader Joe’s to pick up some ingredients, but ended up wandering over to the small and virtuous Bellaria Bakery Cafe. Anyone should be in awe of their wedding cakes, but I sit in amazement over their pain au chocolat, which I have never been able to produce to satisfaction. I must not have the right gadgets.

  • Potter Potables

    witch weekly.JPG

    FRIDAY
    Are you one of the obsessed? Will you be waiting in line at the stroke of midnight when the final Harry Potter is released? My geekish clan will be decked out and hotly debating our picks for the dead pool while we wait in line. Before we don our capes (yes, we have three), the Madame Rosmerta in me will most likely brew up some Butterbeer for me and the kids. I might whip up a batch of Mrs. Weasley’s rock cakes or some Hogwarts Express cauldron cakes for in-line noshing. If only I had a house-elf.

    SATURDAY
    The husband plays on a team in the AHA which is known around here as Old Guy Hockey. They’ve struck up a friendship with another team in Eau Claire who call themselves The Mighty Docs and have scheduled an off-season summer game. Oh, and then both teams are COMING TO MY HOUSE FOR DINNER.

    At first, there was a casual “hey let’s have everyone bring something to grill and we’ll play it by ear” thing. Sorry, I’m WAY too much of a control freak for that. What if someone brings frozen burger patties and someone else brings steak? What if someone brings potato salad and someone else brings potato salad? No no no. I’d rather handle it all and make sure that needs are met and flavors mingle. So it’s a pizza party, because it’s easy, popular, and I didn’t put a wood-burning oven in my house for decor reasons.

    Clearly we’ll headline with all-time-faves pepperoni/sausage and four cheese. Big winners have included bbq shrimp, buffalo chicken, goat cheese/pesto and salami/red pepper. When I think people are winding down, I’ll sneak in one of my favorites: prosciutto and brie with capers and truffle oil or arugula, red onion and large curls of parm with a fried egg on top.

    SUNDAY
    Brunch with the girls. Looking for somewhere not too stuffy, somewhere that has honest, delicious, high-quality food (given the real potential for pizza overdose the night before), somewhere I can cackle loudly over copious amounts of strong coffee…in short, Cafe Twenty-Eight in Linden Hills.