Taza chocolate: The Harvest Review

After the deliciousness that was last month's Harvest Review dinner — not to mention the painful realization that these dinners have been happening at Harvest, without me, for eight years — there was really no question about whether or not we'd return for February's themed dinner.

This time, perhaps because it was the day after Valentine's Day, the not-so-secret ingredient came from fabulous local purveyor Taza Chocolate.

Taza co-founder Alex Whitmore was in attendance to give us an overview of the company — as he puts it, they take the cacao "from bean to bar" — and to answer questions about their sources (mostly growers in the Dominican Republic), their process (they roast and stone-grind the beans in Somerville), and their factory tours (which we need to do at some point).

And then, to eat!

To begin, "Hot Dates," stuffed with a mild, sweet gorgozola, studded with bacon, served on a swoosh of balsamic bittersweet chocolate. This was an appetizer I would have welcomed back for dessert.



Imagine warm, sweet dates; soft, creamy cheese; a salty, smoky crunch from the bacon; a rich, dark sauce. Such an amazing combination.

I scooped the first one up with my fingers and was about to wolf my second before I realized everyone else was being knife-and-forky. Oops, manners.



Next up, an amazingly tender Berkshire pork belly on a bed of puréed parsnip, with candied kumquats and pickled jalapeño. Oh, and 80 percent chocolate.





Parsnips and chocolate: Who knew? Pork and chocolate: Who knew? I mean, yes, bacon chocolate makes perfect sense. But I was surprised by how well pork fat (less intense, though still sweet and salty) paired.

Then we moved to dessert (wasn't it all dessert?): a 60 percent chocolate with Nutella mousse,



a 70 percent chocolate with tiny strawberry-yogurt puddings and — be still, my heart — strawberry cotton candy,



and an 80 percent chocolate with salted caramel sauce.



Each was richer, and more intense, than the last.

And it was around this point that I realized I'm not the chocoholic I thought I was.

Don't get me wrong, it was all fantastic. But my choco-meter was reaching its limit.

But wait: more chocolate!



A thick, creamy 60 percent chai hot chocolate, with a piece of fresh biscotti. With chocolate-covered cocoa nibs.

The chocolate was too thick for sipping, so we used the biscotti as a spoon. Sophisticated animals we are with our improvised tools.



Despite the fact that I was completely chocked-out by the end, it was another incredible meal. The wine pairings were, again, so well chosen, especially the dessert wine, Malvira "Birbet" Brachetto, a red, spakling Italian that I may start stalking.

And to think it all starts here:

A drive-by cupcaking

You know what it's like: you're sitting in your office cell, feeling snacky. It's too cold to walk far, plus your energy is already low, and the only in-house options are the woefully inadequate (and slightly squashed) granola bar in your desk drawer, or the suspiciously non-perishable items in the vending machine.

And you think: Wouldn't it be perfect if a truck selling awesome cupcakes just happened to stop right in front of my office right now???

Something like this, perhaps?





Smarty Diane, who runs the Cupcakory truck, came up with the idea of Request-a-Visit Thursdays, in which interested companies could set up a time for the truck to stop by. So we made it happen for our department (and, by extension, the entire building).

Here's Diane, remaining super-nice and very calm, despite the long line of hungry cupcake fans.



The cakes went fast: red velvet sold out while I was still in line. My haul ended up being salted caramel, birthday cake (with the sprinkles), Almond Joy, Nutella, and peanut butter and chocolate.



I should note that they weren't all for me!

In the end, the Cupcakory truck visit was so popular that Diane sold out and some sad co-workers were left cupcake-less. So we're planning a return visit later this month.



Apparently it can't come soon enough.

Be-Ro gingerbread recipe: Good British baking

I don't have a huge collection of cookbooks, but among my prize possessions are three editions of the Be-Ro Home Recipes book. It's a slim little volume, published by a flour company founded in the north of England in the 1920s. My oldest volume is from 1957; my newest, the fortieth edition, is from 2007.



I like them because they're a link to my childhood, and to weekends spent baking butterfly cakes and drop scones with my mom.

And they're a way to chart changes in British baking: there's no quiche or pizza in the '57 book, though there is something called milk bread (1lb plain flour, 1 tsp salt, half a pint of milk, mixed well and baked for an hour at 375-425 degrees — how's that for an exact science?).

The '57 has exactly two recipes that call for chocolate, while the '07 has 15. Simpler cakes like walnut and cherry are still with us, but now stand alongside coconut-lime loaf and peach-butterscotch pudding (um, eww?).

Some things are constant, though: Victoria sponge, Welsh griddle cakes (amazingly on page 9 of all three editions), Swiss roll.

And all three have a type of gingerbread, which is what I was hankering for today. I wanted to go with the '57 recipe, but wasn't sure about measurement; how much milk is in a teacupful?



Instead, I went with the most recent edition's gingerbread recipe.

English baking recipes measure by weight instead of volume, so a kitchen scale is a good thing. As this gingerbread is so good, I decided to convert the measurements so I could share it with y'all.

Warning: This gingerbread contains a lot of sugary, buttery goodness. If your name rhymes with Taller Green, do not attempt.

Start by heating the oven to 300 degrees, and grease an 8" square pan (unless, like me, you use silicone. What did I do before silicone??)

Two cups flour
A pinch of salt
Two teaspoons of ground ginger (or three if you want it super-gingery)
One teaspoon of allspice
One teaspoon of baking soda
Half a cup of light brown sugar
Half a cup of molasses
A quarter cup of golden syrup (treacle)
One! Stick! Of butter!
Half a cup of milk
Two eggs, beaten

What is golden syrup, you ask? It's like molasses's blonder brother; in Britain it's used in baking, and you can also spread it on toast like super-sweet honey. You can find it at Amazon; one can goes a long way.



Sift the flour into a big mixing bowl and add the rest of the dry ingredients.



In a small saucepan, combine the molasses, treacle and butter. Heat it slowly while the butter melts, but don't let it bubble.

Important note: This part smells uhhh-mazing. Be sure not to miss the chance to inhale deeply over the pan. It's like hot buttered rum without the booze.



Once the butter has melted, take the pan off the heat and add the milk. Then let it cool completely before adding the eggs (so you don't cook them) and stirring everything together.

Pour the wet ingredients onto the dry and mix well. The batter will be quite runny. Pour it into the baking pan (or rubber square, if you will).



Bake for an hour, or until a knife comes out clean.

Let it cool in the pan until you can't bear to wait any more. Slice it into generous squares while it's still slightly warm. You might need a fork, as it's sticky. This is good.



From reading other recipes containing treacle, my guess is that this will improve with age. My other guess is that this won't be around long enough for us to find out.

Burns Night: Haggis is a good thing!

If there's one thing Americans are better at than the British, it's centering holidays around food. Yes, British Christmas and Easter involve good traditional meals (and cakes and snacks and sweeties), but what else is there in the calendar?

Meanwhile, in the US, there's Thanksgiving (turkey and pumpkin pie!); July 4 (burgers and blueberry pie!); even Hallowe'en is basically an excuse for pigging out on chocolate.

So if there's even the slightest excuse to celebrate a food-related British holiday, I'll jump on it. Which is why we make a point of celebrating Burns Night every year.

Robert Burns is Scotland's poet; he wrote hundreds of poems and songs (if you warbled along vaguely to a tune at midnight on New Year's Eve, you've half-remembered one of them).

I don't pretend to be Scottish, or particularly a poetry fan. But Burns' birthday, January 25, is celebrated with readings of his work, speeches, and ... haggis.

Don't even start with the "ewww" stuff. Haggis is not gross, or slimy, or disgusting. Yes, it uses some sheep organs that are more usually discarded, but that's a good thing; waste not, want not. And on a cold January night, it's good, satisfying, stick-to-the-ribs food.

For this year's feast, we cheated on two counts. First, we used canned haggis (because the only alternative was a 4lb "presentation" haggis, which we'd be eating until next Hogmanay); and second, we celebrated four days early, so that we could properly toast the haggis with whisky (not a good idea on a school night).

Also, planning the meal for a Saturday meant I had time to do it up right.

First, cock-a-leekie soup. Main ingredients ... well, it's pretty self-explanatory.



Instead of following a specific recipe, I made up my own: softened a mirepoix, added herbs and chicken stock, threw in the sliced leeks, poached and shredded a couple of chicken thighs.



Before we ate, The Boy said the traditional Selkirk Grace (because nothing's cuter than Scottish read in a Spanish-American accent):

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

Next, haggis! With neeps and tatties! Which means mashed potato and rutatbaga! Is this not the best dish ever??





Of course, by the time the rutabaga is softened and sweet and tossed with butter and black pepper, and the potato is whipped into creamy clouds, and the haggis is sizzling hot, it all looks much better.



Before we ate, The Boy read Address to a Haggis.

So what does haggis taste like? Like it says on the tin, it's lamb heart and liver (sometimes tongue is also involved), so it has a deep, earthy flavor. The texture is meatloafy, with the oats (or barley) adding little bit of chew. It really is pretty good, even from a can.

And of course we had to go traditional with the beverage.



And then dessert; this can either be a clootie dumpling (basically a steamed suet pudding); a whisky-laced trifle called Tipsy Laird; or cranachan, which involves heavy cream, toasted oats, raspberries and, uh, more whisky.

We decided on the latter, but in a rash moment of healthiness, decided to use Greek yogurt. It still turned out rich and creamy, with the honey and whisky adding sweetness and smokiness and the oatmeal providing a nutty note.



If this has piqued in you the slightest interest in trying haggis, The Haven in JP is holding Burns Suppers this week.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Apples and oysters: The Harvest Review

Um, why did nobody tell me about Harvest's monthly dinner series? Seriously, don't pretend to be interested in my blogroll all of a sudden; look at me. I want answers!

Turns out Harvest in Harvard Square presents a dinner once a month called The Harvest Review. Each dinner is based around a theme: food, mostly (I'm guessing, as no one told me), though chef Mary Dumont did mention a Bob Slate-themed event that somehow involved, yes, pens, ink and paper.

Did I mention that's it's four courses with wine?

Did I mention that it's $39 a person??

So, to recap: A unique meal. At one of the best restaurants in Cambridge. For FORTY BUCKS.

See why I'm miffed to have missed out?

When I heard about January's dinner, I may have squeaked a little: a menu of apples and oysters, hosted by two authors I like: Erin Byers Murray, whose Shucked describes her year working at Island Creek Oysters; and Amy Traverso, whose The Apple Lover's Cookbook makes me want to lick the pages.

So, yeah. We were going.

I'd assumed the event would take over the whole of Harvest; instead, it was in the smaller, separate dining room, with seating for about 40 people. Which meant the kitchen was turning out two separate menus — one for us, one for the main restaurant — and ours had to be coordinated so that everyone was served at the same time. That takes skill.

The dinner was supposed to start at 6pm, but because they were doing synchronized service, we had to wait until the last stragglers showed up. (And that is why you should always be on time, people!)

But it was okay, really, because we were able to quell our hunger with finger sandwiches of cheddar, apple and whole-grain mustard, grilled in butter. Very simple, very sinful.



Once everyone had arrived, Chef Dumont gave a brief introduction, and then both Amy and Erin talked about their books. I felt quite envious, as I always do around people who get to write about food for a living.

And then we began. First, Island Creek oysters two ways: raw, with quick bread-and-butter apple pickles from Amy's book, and pan-fried with a piment d'Espelette sauce.





The first was briny, chilled, with the pickled apple providing just an edge of vinegary sweetness. The second was warm, a little oily, with a slight crunch from the breading, the sauce adding a creamy smokiness. They were almost each other's opposite; I could almost imagine one with wings and a harp, and the other with little horns. Good and evil, both delicious.

Next up, oyster stew, creamy and fragrant with fennel and Pernod. The stew itself was great, but what made the dish, for me, was the squid-ink tagliatelle, deeply flavored but light as a feather, and the single slice of pancetta so thin you could see through it. For real, check it out:





For the third course, we moved back to apples, which came braised with cabbage with a hint of caraway. There might have been something else on the plate ...



Well, hello there ...

That would be the pork shoulder sausage, almost boudin blanc-like in texture, dense and delicious.



We were pretty full by this point. Too full for dessert? Ha! Especially not this: warm apple brownies with caramel ice cream and walnut brittle. A perfect end to the meal.





What do you mean, there's more? Apple donuts, you say? Served warm, coated with sugar? Well, all right, if they're small. Just a couple. After all, apples are good for you.



At the end of the dinner, Erin and Amy stuck around to chat and sign copies of their work, so I'm now the proud owner of both books. Perfect reading (and experimenting) for chilly winter days.

And because I'm nice, I'll mention that upcoming Harvest Review dinners highlight local businesses that work with Harvest: Taza Chocolate (February 15), Hearth Wood-Fired Bread (March 14), and Espresso Express coffee (April 11).

You're welcome.

2011: A year in (tasteful, tasteless) review

Everyone else seems to be doing end-of-year lists, and I'm nothing if not a bandwagon-jumper, so here's my run-down of most memorable Things Consumed in 2011.

It's hard to do a rated list, because this year was a challenging one: Some things were painful to eat, some things had no flavor, and anything consumed in the last few months has been the Best (insert ingredient here) Ever, purely because I could taste it.

So instead of a Top Ten countdown, we'll go (mostly) chronologically.

Hospital food
In January, I spent a week on the cancer ward, and became a little too familiar with hospital food. I'll be honest: I find it hard to even look at the images in this post. Especially the last one. It took a while before I could enjoy a golden sunrise without thinking about processed cheese squares.

I have awesome friends
Why? Because they recognized that the best way to respond to my illness was by bringing me food. Precious few of their gifts were healthy (ha!) but they were suitably high-calorie and, of course, delicious.

Losing it
I can't talk about this year in food without mentioning the three-month period where I was unable to taste anything. Yes, it gave me a new appreciation for the subtleties of the palate and the distinctions between flavors, but mostly I learned that having no tastebuds is the opposite of fun. And it's very nice when they come back again.

Home cooking
Not a single incident, this one, but a variety of memorable dishes made at home. Or at the house we rented in Gloucester, where the vintage kitchen was a perfect place to make blueberry cobbler, lemon meringue pie, and beef Wellington (The Boy's birthday-meal request).

And also a great location for inviting friends to share steak with chimichurri, grilled chourico, and various salads.



Back at our apartment, I got into a baking Thing, and managed to fill the freezer with chocolate-zucchini cake:



and peach cake:



My intention with the latter is to save it for the crummiest winter day possible. Nothing better than eating summery peaches during a snowstorm.

British food
Between finishing treatment and going back to work, I had a small window of time to zip back to England so my parents could see all my limbs were still attached. Even though my tastebuds weren't completely recovered, I still managed to eat ev-er-y-thing.

Which includes the obscene Sunday lunch, including baby's-head-sized Yorkshire pudding, at the Toby Carvery:



My dad at the gravy station. STATION. Because one type of gravy is not enough.



Dessert was Eton Mess, a bucket of meringue, cream and fruit:



Celebrations
There were lots of reasons for good times (come on!), including The Boy's grandmother's hundredth birthday; the wedding of our good friends Eric and Nicki, with a fabulous reception at Oleanna; and my almost-completely recovered sense of taste, with an incredible dinner at Journeyman.

Honorable mentions
I don't write about everything I stuff in my face, obviously. But I do record a large quantity thereof. Delicious things I had to capture for posterity this year included:

This treat, almost (almost!) too gorgeous to eat, buttery with a hint of lemon, from The Cookie Countess:



Rich, sweet figs stuffed with peach brandy ganache and covered in dark chocolate from Capone's in Cambridge:



And a stunningly complex housemade fig vermouth at Island Creek Oyster Bar (very small-batch; there was only one bottle left when we tried this):



You know, despite evidence to the contrary, I feel as though I've been very lucky this year. Yes, there were long-drawn-out moments of suckiness, but there were also a lot of extremely fun times and reasons to be thankful, especially for The Boy, and for friends and family.

I'm also very grateful to everyone who posted supportive comments on this here blog; I'll probably never meet most of you, but your kindness meant a huge amount during a tough time.

So happy New Year — wishing good health, happiness and delicious food to all!

Saloon in Somerville is a swell joint

Okay, before we start, it's important to have this tune playing in the background as you read.

Ready?

This week saw the opening of Saloon in Davis Square. Owned by the same people who run Foundry on Elm, Saloon angles itself as a pre-Prohibition joint. But this is no sleazy speakeasy; it's a ritzy juice joint, see?



Entrance is via a narrow door on Elm Street, marked by two glowing orb lights. And here's the odd time-travel thing: I worked next door in the Gorin Building for two years, and I have no recollection of seeing that door before. And when I check Google Streetview (which is a little outdated, as it still shows McIntyre and Moore — sob!) it's not clear where the door should be. So, you know. Spookeh.

Down a flight of stairs is a windowless (and TV-less, amazingly; I assumed all bars in Davis Square were required by law to show ESPN at all times) room, handsomely outfitted in dark, heavy woodwork sourced from the now-closed Newbury Street branch of Capital Grille. The bar dominates one end of the room, with the dining area at the other. UrbanDaddy has a nice slideshow of the interior.

Is there drink? Yes, there's drink; a 200-plus library of liquors, including bourbons, ryes, single malts and white whiskeys. Many of them are available in three serving options: on the rocks, Old Fashioned or Manhattan.



On our first visit, on Thursday, we stuck to cocktails: The Boy tried the Old Pal (rye, aperol, averna) and I had the Brown Derby (rum, antica formula, maraschino, mole bitters). Both lovely, well-balanced drinks.

Last night I started with the Ward 44 (because pork belly whiskey) and ended with another Brown Derby; apparently my new tastebuds have decided that bitter and aromatic are Good Things in a drink. The Boy started with an Old Fashioned made with Willett bourbon and moved to neat, smoky Russell's Rare.

One could, if one was so inclined, take on the liquor menu as a winter project. Also a spring one.

Is there food? Oh lord, is there ever food. The menu at Saloon isn't huge — a handful of appetizers and around nine entrees — but it makes me happy in every way.

When we went on Thursday, my goal was to have the steak and kidney pie. Because even though it's often used as a cheap way of saying English food is crap, a well-made S&K is a thing of beauty, and they're pretty much impossible to find over here.

I was a tad concerned when I saw the price ($26? Serious?) but then our waitress explained it served two. And indeed it did.



The crust was buttery and flaky and, as is right and proper, nicely moistened on the underside with pie gravy. The steak was fall-apart tender, the kidney was earthy, and there were generous chunks of carrot and mushroom (I'm prepared to overlook the latter). The gravy was rich, deep, complex. The whole thing was perfect.

So I say to you: If you've never had steak and kidney pie, you should absolutely go to Saloon. And take a friend, 'cuz it's large.

(Oh, and sorry there's no photo. Saloon is a dark place and the only shots I took, using the flash, made the interior of the pie look scary.)

On our Saturday night visit, we started with a charcuterie plate. All the meats are made in-house by someone who clearly knows their stuff. Best were the prosciutto and the salami; note how they're marbled with sweet fat. Delicate, not overly seasoned, so the flavor of the meat came through.





And then I went for the bubble and squeak, another fine English dish, traditionally intended as a way to use up leftover veggies from Sunday lunch. This one involved very flavorful root veggies and Brussels sprouts, topped with sausage and finished with a rich onion gravy.



The Boy ordered the flatiron steak au poivre, which came nicely medium-rare with fries and creamed spinach.

Sorry, that should be: with creamed spinach finished with shaved parmesan, and fries IN A SILVER BUCKET.







The fries, BTW, were so good that I award them the highest honor: they were chips. Real proper chips.

After this enormous amount of food, we really shouldn't have had dessert. But it was trifle, so.



Bavarian cream, dulce de leche-soaked sponge, candied hazlenuts. Apparently Saloon only offers one dessert at a time. But frankly, one is all you need.

It's also worth noting that Saloon doesn't offer coffee (because bars didn't in the 1900s), a fact which took the pompous actor types at the next table ("It's so sad that I'd never be allowed to direct at the Globe in London because I'm American") by horrified surprise. Deal, people. The Diesel is close by, though apparently you preferred to go to Starbucks, thanks for sharing.

Sorry; it's been a while since I snarked about diners who converse in outside voices to people sitting three feet away. This bunch was particularly annoying.

That aside, dinner was fabulous. As we walked home, we talked about the fact that we no longer have to go into Boston to find good food and thoughtfully made cocktails. Between Pizzeria Posto, Foundry and Saloon (not to mention longstanding favorites like Redbones and Tu y Yo, and the soon-to-open Painted Burro), we're pretty well sorted. And that's just the cat's pajamas.