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.

Divine Dining

This past weekend I was in Washington, D.C., and a group of us dined at La Colline, one of the best French restaurants in the district. Several of us ordered the Cassoulet de Castelnaudary from the $30.00 fixed price menu. Given that my knowledge of French cuisine is only slightly better than my familiarity with quantum physics, I didn’t recognize the “de Castelnaudary” designation. It turns out that, besides identifying the place of origin of the famous stew, it is also a declaration of cultural correctness. Asking a room full of French people about how to prepare a cassoulet is akin to asking a convention of NASCAR fans where to get the best chili. Except the French don’t drive pickup trucks and vote Republican.

There are three “traditional” versions, often referred to as the “Holy Trinity” of cassoulet. The “Father” is the Castelnaudary version (containing pork and goose), which is acknowledged as the original. The “Son,” is a version from Carcassone (add mutton and partridge). And the “Holy Spirit” comes from Toulouse (add to the Castelnaudary version sausage, mutton and duck). That’s the idea anyway. While the French take their cuisine more seriously than their theology, there is as much heterodoxy in modern-day kitchens as there is in modern-day parishes.

Fine Cooking magazine cites Ariane Daguin, proprietor of D'Artagnan foods and D'Artagnan Rotisserie in New York City on the provincialism that cassoulet can stir up. “‘Cassoulet isn’t a recipe, it’s a way to argue. Forget about Castelnaudary, forget about Toulouse,’ she added, alluding to rival towns in her native southwest France. ‘I'm from Auch, and ours is the best.’ According to Daguin, only duck and goose go into a proper cassoulet. What about tomato? ‘Ah, no, no,’ she scoffed. Lamb? ‘Never, ever ever!’ Breadcrumbs? ‘Oh, no — the cassoulet should form its own crust,’ she said firmly. ‘Cassoulet inspires certain chauvinistic tastes and opinions,’ muses Daguin. ‘Everyone thinks theirs is the greatest — except in my case, it’s true.’”

Cassoulet has its origins in war, specifically the 100 Years War, during which the French reserves found themselves exhausted and demoralized, surrounded by the British army. The people of Castelnaudary gathered all their available food and cooked it in a “cassole,” from which the dish gets its name. The stew was so hearty that the fortified French troops rushed from their meal to force the British to retreat all the way back to the shore of the English Channel.

It is notable that La Colline is in direct view of the Capitol Building. Perhaps the Democrats might consider ordering some cassoulet take-out to fortify themselves for the next legislative session.

When Life Gives You Lemons

My snack of choice today is Halls Mentho-Lyptus, Honey-Lemon, with advanced vapor action formula. (God knows we wouldn’t want the merely regular vapor action formula.) This is some kind of cosmic payback because just two days ago I was bragging to someone about how I had not been sick for 10 years. So the gods of Mount Mentho-Lyptus are teaching me a lesson.

I discovered I have six bags of the stuff. There are 30 drops to a bag according to the label, but all the bags are open so I’m not sure what my total inventory is. Apparently I get sick a lot more than I remember. And apparently being sick affects my memory to the point I don’t remember having bought bags and bags of Honey-Lemon drops, with advanced vapor action formula, over the course of previous illnesses.

As I was sucking on my cough drops and experiencing the promised “cooling of my nasal passages,” I wondered why I had six bags of Honey-Lemon flavored Halls. Why not venture out a little and try the Cherry or Strawberry or get really edgy and pop an Ice Blue Peppermint? Then I remembered my grandmother always had lemon drops in a covered, glass candy dish on a side table next to her couch. Either my grandmother was an early marketing agent for Halls, in charge of indoctrinating young children to a taste for lemon candy, or the vice-president of flavors at Halls grew up with a grandmother like mine.

I remember years ago, when I was newly on my own as a young adult, I tried to recreate the hominess of grandma’s house in my apartment by placing a dish of lemon drops on a table near the front door. I think they sat there until the day I moved out. One thing that happens in the fast-food world we live in is we forget how important it is to have traditions, especially food traditions. Never really having absorbed the traditions of our grandparents or parents, many of us, at some point, feel a void between our present and our past. It’s normal to try to bridge the gap by doing what we remember doing as kids. Sometimes that works, but I figured out somewhere along the way we can’t just replicate our grandparents’ or parents’ traditions. They have to make sense to us as adults, and they have to become our own at some point.

My new Cooks Illustrated came today, and I think I saw a recipe for Honey-Lemon Chicken in there. Maybe I can put those six bags of lozenges to good use.

Why I Love Living in California

Tonight I needed “one small tomato” for a recipe. It’s the first day of February. In ninety percent of the rest of America, this would require finding a can opener or trying to hack through the skin of one of those hot house tomatoes with the nuclear-glow-red skin that sit pitifully next to the winter vegetables in the produce section. I, having lived a good life and being blessed with a Bay Area zip code, walked out on to my deck and picked a perfectly ripe, perfectly sized Early Girl off the vine that arches across the window next to the dining room table.

I confess, the green tint on my thumb is a recent acquisition. A few years ago, my mother, a certified master gardener, shamed me into growing a tomato plant. “It’s so simple,” she said. “All you have to do is plant it and water it.” This is the woman who witnessed me kill more vegetation than Agent Orange as I was growing up. It’s not the planting part that’s the problem. It’s that watering thing. If I were good at watering things, I could have a cat, maybe even a dog. But regular watering is a level of commitment that is beyond my emotional skill set. That is, until I discovered timers and automatic watering systems.

Now, thanks to the inventive genius of people who are even lazier than I, I have a semi-automatic drip system that keeps me in tomatoes almost year round. Well, half the year round. My drip system stopped working a couple of months ago. I don’t know why. I’m not an engineer. And you can’t really hire a plumber to come over to make sure your tomatoes get watered. Fortunately, this is the rainy season, and my watering system has been taken over by a higher power.