A Whale of a Meal

“Jonah was jes walkin down the street one day, n’a whale snap him up. He gone! Jes like dat!” The subway-theologian snapped his fingers for emphasis as he tried to save a disinterested lost soul below the rainy streets of Chicago. It seemed, in fact, as though we were in the belly of a whale, being jostled through the railed intestines of the city. Unlike Jonah, however, we were willingly headed toward Nineveh. Our mission was not to preach repentance, but to taste a bit of heaven.

The whale disgorged us into the rain, and we splatted forward, huddled beneath a small umbrella, trying to aim our feet for the shallower puddles. We were headed for Rick Bayless’ Frontera Grill, a world-renowned Mexican restaurant. When you’ve been in the belly of a whale, nothing is wanted so much as dry land, and the Frontera Grill did not disappoint. As we stood at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, we could see yards of dry pavement beneath Frontera’s half-block-long awning.

We dashed across, beneath and in, shaking feet, umbrella and coats, waiting at the bar for our table, ordering, sipping and savoring Margarita Golds, the house’s salt-rimmed specialty. As we dried, we perused the menu, hungry as whales, imagining which delights would become our Jonahs that night.

Frontera Grill is painted in festive Mexican yellows and oranges, and the walls are hung with bright-toned art that aptly reflected the festive mood of the diners if not the somewhat somber, black-uniformed waitstaff. We were summoned and seated, and, having been alerted by a local restaurant blogger, we asked our hostess for a dessert menu along with the dinner choices. If dessert seemed seductive enough, we’d have to pace ourselves. Indeed, we resolved to feast on a couple of appetizers and split an entrée so as to leave room in the belly for postre.

The appetizers were simple to decide. The Trio, Trio, Trio was a set of small Margarita glasses, served on a tortilla covered rectangular plate. In the first glass was a Dungeness crab, calamari, shrimp and mango seviche marinated in lime. In the center was a shrimp cocktail that was so not your mother’s shrimp cocktail. The shrimp was plentiful, small and delicate, swimming in a creamy, light and spicy tomato-based sauce. The climax “Trio” was a delicate Alaskan halibut seviche, marinated in a citrus and sun-dried tomatoes.

The second appetizer was a small plate of four sopes — fried cornbread molds stuffed with various delectable fillings that paired wonderfully with our second round of Margaritas.

The main plate was more difficult to choose and not made any easier by the waitress’ description of our top two contenders. The “all-time favorite” of past patrons was Maple Creek Farm pork roasted overnight in its own juices in banana leaves. The platillo del día, which was our ultimate choice, was braised short ribs, covered in a dried-apricot-and-cherry-based mole. The fork-tender rib meat almost jumped off the bone and seemed to want to slather itself in the Mexican sauce before willingly leaping onto our tongues. And it must have leaped with much enthusiasm because it certainly did not linger on the plate. Even the accompanying watercress garnish was completely consumed.

Finally, onto dessert. Though we had tried to keep ourselves pure for the final moment of glory, we could manage only one choice to share. The confection was a rice-pudding plied with tequila-soaked dried cherries. It had a Crème-Brule-like crust on top that added a nice crunch to the creamy pudding.

Barely able to push ourselves back from the table, we steeled ourselves with hot, black coffee before heading, back into the rain, back into the street, to be suddenly snapped up again by the underground whale and gone from our heavenly banquet in Nineveh. Just like that.

Stolen Recipes

Sunday’s dinner was the result of a disappointing dinner the night before. On Saturday, I was in an Italian restaurant — a chain, but one I had eaten at before and enjoyed. The specials sheet listed “Crab-stuffed Mahi-Mahi” served with Yukon Gold potatoes and a butter sauce. I couldn’t focus on anything else on the menu. I could almost taste the sweet, tender crab wrapped in the mild, flakey fish, glistening with a light butter-sheen. “Almost” was as close as I got. What was served was a plate-full of whipped potatoes big enough to feed most of the Yukon, topped with a razor-thin fillet of whitefish cooked so far past its opacity stage it was barely distinguishable from the potatoes. The entire thing was ladled with a heavy, flour-based gravy that I assume had butter somewhere within. The crab meat, wisely discerning that no respectable crustacean would be caught dead in such a concoction, had apparently escaped somewhere between plating and serving.

One of my rules of life is, I go out to restaurants to eat food that is better than I can make at home. I was sure I could do better, and I set out to make the dish that should have been. On Sunday, I brought home a couple of two-inch thick mahi-mahi filets and a large Dungeness.

As I was cracking the crab and extracting the meat, I realized I would have much more than I needed to stuff the fish. It occurred to me to try to recreate a “Crab Tower” appetizer from a restaurant I’d eaten at about a month ago. Unlike my recent disappointment, the appetizer was quite stunning. I had once before tried to imitate it and failed miserably. Here was my chance to get it right. I portioned off enough crab to fill two three-inch molds and set that in a mix of fresh orange juice, a dash of Grand Marnier and a pinch of sea salt. While that was marinating, I fried and minced a strip of bacon. (The original used thin strips of salmon, but I had none handy). I also thin-sliced and deep-fried a few potato chips. Finally, I made a reduction with orange juice and a little Grand Marnier thickened with a corn starch slurry. I drained the crab and molded the towers, crab, bacon bits and then a potato chip. A nickel-sized dab of sauce went on either side of the towers. This time I got it right. The salt-sweet of the potato and bacon against the crab, orange juice and liqueur were a perfect balance.

Oh, but I still had crab leftover. I feel about appetizers the way some people do about dessert, so, why not another one? This was my third “stolen” recipe for the evening. It is based on a dish I had more than 20 years ago in another, better Italian restaurant in St. Louis — shrimp-stuffed artichoke. Instead of shrimp, I sautéed some breadcrumbs in a stick of butter and added the crab meat I wasn’t planning to use in the mahi-mahi. I pushed the stuffing in between the leaves of the boiled artichokes, and my companion and I spent the next half-hour scraping the edible portions of vegetable and crab stuffing off the leaves with our teeth while trying not to get too much butter on the wine glasses.

And then it was time for the grand finale. I started a beurre blanc from Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. As that was reducing, I cut the rest of the potato into sticks and deep fried them. Meantime, I slit pockets into the mahi-mahi filets and stuffed them with most of the remaining crab. I set those under a broiler for two minutes on each side. While that was going, I sautéed some zucchini and carrot sticks (also based on a dish from yet another restaurant) in olive oil and finished them with a little white wine steam bath. I was whisking the butter into the sauce with one hand, flipping the vegetables in the pan with my other hand and fishing the potatoes out of their oil bath and onto towels with the third hand. The fish was done just a little ahead of the rest. I set it under a cover while I plated the vegetables in the center and the potato sticks on top of that. The fish was next, topped with a couple of the left-over potato chips and a sprinkling of the reserved crab. I then sauced the plates with the beurre blanc. Just the smell was heavenly. And the green and orange of the zucchini and carrots set the whole dish off in a picture-perfect display. The mahi-mahi with the crab was exactly the taste I imagined, accented by the butter sauce and supported by the potatoes.

That was the dish I had been waiting for since Saturday evening.

Friday Fast

When I was a kid, Fridays meant Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks or McDonald’s fish sandwiches. The only other fish I remember having came in hefty frozen rectangular bricks. This was long before the days when Fed Ex overnight delivery made fresh fish available everywhere in the country. Meatless Fridays were, indeed, a sacrifice.

I still try to go “meatless” on Fridays, but, at least from November through June, it’s no sacrifice. Everyday during those months, thousands of pounds of Dungeness crab are hauled into Fisherman’s Warf in San Francisco. “Dungeness” has become almost a trademark symbol of the Bay Area, but the name comes from Dungeness, Washington, where the sweet, succulent crabs were first harvested commercially. Some people rate the Dungeness as just below lobster for taste and desirability. These are people who never got over being forced to eat fish sticks as children and have developed an unhealthy preference for ostentatious dining. Dungeness has it all over lobster.

There are lots of recipes for crab, and some can be quite involved. A recent episode of Iron Chef America featured crab as the secret ingredient, and it even wound up in the dessert course. But for me, simple is best. The crabs that are most plentiful and the ones I buy are already cooked and pink in the seafood case. The butcher or fish monger will clean and crack them for you, but it’s faster for me to do it myself. And, I save the shells to use later for bisque. Sometimes I steam some mussels and clams to accompany the crab, but usually I just drop the cleaned crab by itself into a large pot of boiling water. As the water returns to a boil, I melt some butter in the microwave. As soon as the water boils, I scoop the crab into a large bowl, serve it with a loaf of sourdough (another San Francisco trademark) and a bottle of chilled chardonnay. The next hour or two or three is all cracking, dipping, drinking and talking about how good life is.

"Coffee is bitter, a flavor from the forbidden and dangerous realm." —Diane Ackerman

I have a framed Gary Larson, Far Side cartoon hanging in my kitchen. Most of the frame is dominated by a hulking, grotesquely muscular Satan. The point of view is from behind and over the shoulder of the beast, looking down — way down — at a bath-robed, frightened supplicant who is waking up to his first morning in hell. “Coffee?” bellows Beelzebub. “What coffee?”

I love my coffee. No lattes; no low-fat caps; no mochas; no syrups, vanillas, hazelnuts, sugars or even creams. Coffee. Plain, hot and black. The only possible acceptable infusion might be Irish whiskey, but not before lunch.

My pot is on a timer so I wake up to the sublime smell of coffee brewing. I can taste it before I get to the kitchen. I reach for my favorite mug, in the cabinet right above the Far Side cartoon, and flip the cup right-side up on the counter. I grab the handle of the plastic thermal pot, and pour out that first cup of deep brown elixir. I lift the mug to my lips, not even stopping to blow across the surface. The first sip is a slow, deep savoring of the woody, biting flavor, caressing my tongue, filling my mouth, and gliding down my throat. That first swallow orders the world, dispels the chaos of the night, and sets life once again on the right path. That must be why there is no coffee in hell.

In a mistaken fit of moral rectitude and youthful exuberance, I once gave up coffee for Lent. This provided no spiritual benefit for me whatsoever and even less for those around me who had to deal with the effects of my caffeine withdrawal. I would never be accused of being a “sunny” morning person even with multiple dosings of coffee. The result of going cold turkey was not in anyway considered a glorification of the Lord by those who were unwittingly sharing in my penance. I tried drinking black tea to mollify the effects because someone had told me tea contains more caffeine than coffee. That is either a malicious rumor started by the major stockholders of the Lipton Company or the caffeine remains perpetually in the tea bag, impervious to the boiling water meant to extract it into my morning comfort. I did have a conversion experience of sorts that Lent, however. I’ve never again felt led to forgo coffee. Indeed, I see it as my Christian duty to witness to the spiritual effects of a plain, hot, black cup of joe in the morning.

This Lent, however, I did give up drinking coffee that is not certified as “Fair Trade.” People in the United States drink one-fifth of all coffee in the world. (I’m not sure if that percentage was significantly less the Lent I gave it up, but I wouldn’t be surprised.) Somewhere there is a coffee grower whose yearly income is pretty much dependent upon my Starbucks runs. The problem is, that yearly income is not enough to live on. It actually costs most farmers more to grow coffee beans than they get in payment for their crops. Instead of me subsidizing their lifestyle, they are subsidizing mine. Fair trade coffee is the exception to this. Fair trade coffee is purchased from farmers for at least $1.26 a pound (in contrast to the usual $0.60 per pound) which is enough to guarantee them a living wage. When I first made my Lenten resolution, I thought I’d have to order my beans from some obscure Web site or drive to a high-end, socially conscious grocer miles away from my home. But, no, my local Safeway stocks beans certified by the Rain Forest Alliance, and they only cost about $2.00 more per pound than the stuff I was buying. It seems like a small price to pay for my morning satisfaction.

You Say Sushi, I Say Sashimi

One of the joys of California life I learned about after moving here from the Midwest is sushi. I'm sure they must have had sushi in Minnesota, but I think they referred to it as bait. Now, sushi has hit the mega-star status of food groups, and you can find good sushi restaurants in most regions of the country. The Accidental Hedonist has posted a good piece from the Los Angeles Times that gives some helpful tips on sushi etiquette.

Eat to live. Live to Eat.

So I’m at a friend’s place, and it’s cocktail hour. No problem with the libations; there are plenty of those. But what’s a cocktail hour without hors d’oeuvres? We could have resorted to cheese and crackers, I suppose, but that’s giving up without a fight.

With a little snooping, I found unsalted Saltines (wouldn’t you love to be in charge of that marketing campaign?), a half-pound of bacon, a jar of bruschetta topping and a good size chunk of doggie-bagged grilled chicken breast from a restaurant meal the evening before.

I dumped a dozen or so Saltines into a Baggie and crushed them, using a water glass as a rolling pin. Then I fine-chopped the chicken and sliced the bacon strips in half. I mixed the chicken and cracker crumbs and a couple of scoops of the bruschetta topping in a bowl. To that I added a beaten egg, a spoonful each of Dijon and mayonnaise, a dash each of Tabasco and Worcestershire and a little salt and pepper. Then I mixed it all into a paste. I placed a teaspoonful of the mix on each bacon half. As I went I rolled each bacon strip with its stuffing up into a ball and secured it with a toothpick. Finally, I broiled the little beauties for about ten minutes, turning once at the halfway point.

Try that with a nice Scotch, and you might just skip dinner.

Fishy Valentine

They should change the name of Valentine’s Day to “The Day You Must Buy Her Flowers If You Value Your Life.” There are several inviolable rules that gentlemen must follow on February 14. Near the top of the list is: “Thou shalt not work late on the day of the Valentine. Woe to thou who art unavailable for candlelight, dinner, romance and undivided attention to be lavished upon She-Who-Is-To-Be-Wooed.”

If she has to work through the dinner hour, on the other hand, that is perfectly reasonable, and who are you to get all bent out of shape about it?

Such was the case with my valentine this year. Not to be deterred in my courtly duties, however, I arrived at my inamorata’s work site with flowers and a card that expressed my sentiment in a suitably double entendric fashion. Even though the hour was a bit late, my valentine had not eaten yet, and we began to brainstorm about places that might still be open, more for a drink than a meal. We were, it turns out, walking distance from one of our favorite hangouts, McCormick & Schmick’s Seafood Restaurant.

We’ve never eaten in the actual restaurant. We always head to the bar which is furnished with intimate little booths and from which we can order a variety of fermented beverages and anything from the extensive seafood menu. We hardly ever make it out of the appetizer section. True to form, my valentine ordered the steamed mussels. What she really wanted was the broth they are served in, and a loaf of sourdough with which to soak up the sauce. The mussels themselves are just a bonus.

When the dish arrived, it occurred to me how fitting a feast it was for Valentine’s Day. The ambrosial broth that warmed my sweetheart’s heart was a creamy bisque, tinted pink by chunks of ripe tomato that swam amongst the shellfish. The reddish color of love was offset by the mounds of shiny black bivalves, all delicately opening themselves as if they were the hands of an eager suitor. The inner flesh, also tinted slightly pink by the bisque, was perfectly fresh and steamed just enough to give a delicate resistance to each bite, right before melting like butter in the mouth. The sourdough gave a just-sharp contrast to the sweetness of the broth and the fish meat.

The dish was culinary witness to the hope of every valentine, that opposites really do attract. And the nearly identical hinged shells promised that no matter how close a match you might be to your true love — two peas in a pod, a perfect couple, a match made in heaven — there remain two identifiable halves of the whole.

I couldn’t have planned it better myself.