Who moved my pork cakes?

Consider this a eulogy of sorts.

Last night we went to Tu y Yo, the bestest Mexican restaurant in Somerville (and beyond).

We know the menu pretty well at this point, so it didn't take us long to order.

The Boy chose the cochinita pibil and I asked for the tortitas de puerco, which are fist-sized patties of shredded pork in a sauce of xoconostle, a sweet-sour cactus fruit. This has become one of my favorite dishes, a perfectly balanced blend of flavors and textures.

When my parents were visiting, we brought them to Tu y Yo and my mom had them. She loved them too.

"I'm so sorry," our lovely waiter said. "I don't think we have any more."

Okay, I figured, they're out. Not surprising; we're coming up on a holiday weekend, and—

"We're changing the menu," he continued, "and that's one of the dishes we've discontinued."

What??

Okay, must recover. Let's go with the usual Plan B: the Pollo Yunkaax.

"Yes, that we have," our waiter said, looking strangely apologetic. "But ... um ... we'll be taking that off the menu soon as well."

And so, we come together to remember the loveliness of Pollo Yunkaax.



Kind of startling if you haven't encountered it before. So green! So vibrant! (That's the spinach and cream sauce, by the way).

Inside, its secret weapon: cuitlocoche.



The menu at Tu y Yo describes cuitlocoche as "corn's black mushroom," which is a polite way of saying "a disease of maize caused by a pathogenic plant fungus." (Which would you rather eat?)

The flavor is neither mushroomy nor moldy; it has a light, fresh, subtle earthiness. Together with the moist chicken and the creamy sauce, it makes—um, made—for a perfect summer meal.

I ate extra-slowly, realizing this was probably the last time I'd get to taste this particular dish.

The Boy consoled me with forkfuls of his fabulous pibil.



As usual, the beans were divine.



So, Tu y Yo, I have just two questions:

1) Can I get the recipe for the tortitas de puerco (and a source for xoconostle)?

2) Do you need someone to taste-test the new menu??

The last days of Icarus

Guest writer The Boy has a few things to say about our last meal at Icarus.

Running a successful restaurant is difficult under the best of circumstances. Running one during the worst economic downturn in recent memory is even more challenging. Given the situation, we consider ourselves lucky not to have seen any of our favorite restaurants close since the economy crashed. Until now.

Icarus, a South End institution for 31 years, is closing on July 3. I should say it's closing in its current incarnation, as the new owner apparently bought the name along with everything else.

LimeyG and I have been to Icarus many times over the years. It was one of the first “nice” restaurants we went to, back when we could only afford a few such meals a year.

While the food has always been fantastic, part of what made it special was the experience: walking down an anonymous, cobbled residential street, going down to the basement-level room, encountering the dramatic statue of Icarus, poised as if ready for takeoff, in the middle of the dining room.



Like the original Craigie Street Bistrot, getting there was part of the evening’s entertainment.

When we heard it was closing for good, we decided to go one last time. There were not many customers—certainly not as many as on previous visits—and I don't think that was only because it was early on a Tuesday evening.

Perhaps the location has finally become a liability, or maybe the trendier South End competition (like Toro) is to blame. I can say that neither the quality nor the price of the food could account for the lack of diners.

The current farewell menu is built around a three-course $31 prix fixe selection. LimeyG opted for the antipasto plate and the cod; I chose the braised mushrooms on polenta and the swordfish; for dessert we shared the baked Alaska for two. It was all fantastic.

The key to the antipasto plate was the fresh-from-the-garden taste of the red-pepper spread and the lightness of the grilled flatbread. For the polenta, it was the crisp, caramelized exterior contrasted with the soft, creamy interior. For the swordfish it was the contrast between the lemony sauce and the caponata. For the cod it was the loads of butter (nothing wrong with that.) The baked Alaska was not the usual '70s nostalgia effort, but rather a showcase for flavorful vanilla ice cream contrasted with passionfruit sorbet.



You have until July 3 to take advantage of this reasonably priced, high-quality menu and to say goodbye one of the great local restaurants. The trendier spots can wait another week.

Otherworldly sushi in Boston? O ya!

The Boy turned F-Word this past birthday; he sailed into it much more gracefully than I did. To celebrate, we checked out o ya, the sushi sensation that allegedly has people commuting up from New York for dinner.

Those who claim Boston is superior to NYC must be delighted to have evidence to back up their belief.

I made the reservation through OpenTable, which meant we were at the chef's bar (reserving one of their six tables is only possible by calling).

This turned out to be the best option, as we got to watch o ya's three chefs at work in their tiny space, creating incredible dishes using only veryveryvery sharp knives, a blowtorch and an electric whisk. Oh, and insanely fresh and fabulous ingredients.

I've had sea urchin before, but I'd assumed it was an acquired taste. How could anyone truly enjoy something that tasted as though it had sat in a tidepool on Revere Beach for three days?

The sea urchin at o ya, however, made me realize I just hadn't had fresh uni. This wasn't Revere Beach; it was a deserted Polynesian island. It was amazing.

The other surprise was the onsen egg. Apparently this is a relatively common preparation in Japan—onsen means hot springs, and eggs can be slow-cooked in the water—but it was a revelation to us.

When I think poached egg, I think runny yolk. But here, the yolk was just-just-just cooked; enough to hold together, but still soft, almost custardy. And warm. And topped with wafer-thin slices of pickled garlic.

How good was it? It actually made me cry. Thanks a lot, o ya.

In all, we had:

Kumamoto oyster
watermelon pearls, cucumber mignonette



Diver scallop
sage tempura, olive oil bubbles, meyer lemon



Scottish salmon belly
cilantro, ginger, hot sesame oil drizzle

Peruvian-style tuna toro tataki
aji panca sauce, cilantro pesto

Shima aji & sea urchin
ceviche vinaigrette, cilantro



Warm eel
thai basil, kabayaki, fresh Kyoto sansho

Onsen egg
dashi sauce, truffle salt, homemade pickled garlic

Porcelet tonkatsu
seared foie gras, cabbage shiso slaw, dashi apple sauce, hojiso

House-smoked moullard duck tataki
foie gras kabayaki, arima sansho

Foie Gras
balsamic chocolate kabayaki, raisin cocoa pulp, sip of aged sake

Everything was excellent, although (what?) ... the meat dishes weren't as fantastic as the fish. The smoked duck took a lot of chewing; maybe that was more noticable because we'd had several plates of melt-in-the-mouth tender ingredients beforehand. The pork was delicious, but no more amazing (it seemed) than pork anywhere else.

But the last item—the foie gras with chocolate—more than made up for it, especially with the taste of 8-year-old sake (with the color and depth of port).

I made a video. Wanna see? Goes like this:



The only thing I felt bad about was the prep-to-consumption-time ratio; we'd watch as the chef sliced fish with meticulous precision, bathed it in marinade, chose the right kind of plate on which to delicately place the fish, sliced another ingredient, layered them and topped them with tiny, measured amounts of garnishes, and finished them with a spoonful of something from a sizzling pan.

And then our waiter would bring the finished dish to us. And we'd go nom. Nom. And the chef's intense, focused artwork would have disappeared.

I think we'll be going back. O ya.

Where I've been

Okay, don't start. I know I've been terrible about keeping up with posts, and I don't have (m)any excuses.

Oh, except that I was spending quality time with my parents, including a week at a lovely house on the Annisquam River in Gloucester.

We hung out with friends:



Spied on the local wildlife:



And toasted the sunset:



It was the most relaxing experience I've had in ... I don't know how long; the first time I understood what the phrase "living in the moment" meant. And now, two weeks later, it already feels as though I dreamed about it.

La Verdad taco battle royal: carnitas v. tripa

In the continuing quest to discover which of the tacos at La Verdad rules above all others (the taco supreme, if you will), we turn to the face-off between the carnitas and the tripa.

Full disclosure: I love carnitas. Love love love. Would marry if legal in Massachusetts.

My previous experiences of tripe, on the other hand, involve the thin-sliced rubbery stuff encountered in pho dac biet (which The Boy loves), and the Devil's Tower-like gelatinous mass they used to keep on the counter of the pet store in my hometown (which dogs loved).

So yes, I did go into this round with a slight bias. But I tried not to let that color my judgement.

Here we go.

Carnitas:





A nice variety of parts of the pig: some good carmelized crispy roasted bits as well as the paler, fattier shreds. The green salsa verde sauce (TM) gave it a nice fresh zing.

But.

But.

One of the consequences, for better or worse, of being married to a Puerto Rican is that I've come to expect a certain level of salt in my pork (and in my rice, for that matter). And these carnitas, while juicy and fatty and otherwise delicious, were saddled with an underabundance of saltiness.

It didn't make it bad (she adds hastily); it just meant the flavor wasn't as bold as it could have been.

So, tripa, what have you got to say for yourself?





And thus I learned how good tripe can be when slow-cooked. It was not chewy or rubbery as I'd come to expect, but quite tender.

La Verdad's takeout menu (PDF) describes this as "grandma's tripe," which leads me to believe abuela was a feisty lady. The meat was smothered in a searingly spicy sauce, making it impossible to get any sense of the flavor of the tripe itself; the accompanying red onion and scallions pretty much got lost in the sensory chaos.

So although the carnitas didn't rock my world as much as I'd expected, the flavors were still closer to my preference. And while the tripe has made me think twice before eschewing it in future, it was too picante for my palate.

Winner: taco de carnitas

Okay, who's next?

A waste of good food

The following experience happened to a friend, who said I could reproduce it here if I omitted all identifying characteristics.

This friend of mine was attending a vendor-sponsored conference at an upscale hotel. During the day, there were seminars and case studies; in the evening, there was a team-building exercise called the "Chef's Challenge."

Attendees were divided into groups and seated at tables. On each table was a book about a famous artist (Dalí, Van Gogh, Manet, etc).

At the far end of the room were ingredients: cuts of raw beef, chicken, scallops and shrimp on ice; heirloom tomatoes, greens, fresh fruit; a table-top garden of live herbs. In my friend's words, "An obscene amount of food."

The teams had to use a selection of ingredients to create a dish that best illustrated the work of their given artist.

As my friend tells it:

"So one of the women at our table runs up, grabs a salad bowl, and just starts dumping stuff in it: raw shrimp, then these beautiful tomatoes, then some pasta, then mussels on top of that. Basically she made everything inedible. I just stayed out of it."

So what did she make?

"Some vaguely Mediterranean dish: seafood in wine. The winning dish was the table that got Dalí—they did a flatbread that was hanging off the edge of the plate like a melting clock."

And then what happened?

"We went into the room next door to have dinner. We left this room full of food—these expensive ingredients—and had more food served to us."

And the leftovers?

"Well, the stuff we cooked with was useless. And most people took way more than they ended up using, so I assume that's also cross-contaminated. Maybe some of the fresh vegetables would be salvageable, but the raw fish? No way. Basically, it was an enormous waste of food.

"Oh, and did I mention this happened on Earth Day?"

My friend returned from the trip and made a donation to the local food bank.

Lansdowne Pub: Magically delicious chips!

Remember how disappointed I was with the uneven, dry chips at the Battery?

It doesn't really matter any more. Because I found a place that does the closest thing to real, proper chips.

Last week, the Lansdowne Pub opened, so I went with lovely co-worker Sarah and new co-worker Eric to check it out.

In its corporate attempt to create the atmosphere of ye olde taverne from scratch, it's everything I dislike: 4,000 cozy square feet of faux-traditional, newly distressed, dark-wood bar room. A Pogues/Van Morrison/Cranberries soundtrack. Walls decorated with carefully distressed tchotchkes and cloth-bound books, Guinness posters and HDTVs showing sports.



I was all ready for a menu of authentic Irish dishes such as nachos and quesdillas and buffalo wings and chili.

But the Lansdowne's options were actually interesting. Yes, there were the usual bangers & mash and shepherd's pie and beef stew, but there were also pork chops, oysters, mussels, salmon—items that could easily appear on a trad/modern Irish menu but, at least in Boston, rarely do.

The Lansdowne also does the ubiquitious full-on fry-up breakfast on weekends, and what may be a proper Sunday roast. I shall investigate further.

But what gave me most hope was that they had chips with a variety of toppings: gravy, curry sauce, mushy peas, baked beans.

So Sarah ordered the grilled cheese sandwich, and was going to order a side of chips until the waitress explained they came with her dish anyway. And then this arrived:



"I thought you said it came with chips," Sarah said to our waitress, who rolled her eyes.

"You know, I keep telling them they should change the wording on the menu," she said. "People are always getting this confused."

Okay, so why didn't you clarify this before we ordered??

Eric went for the fish sandwich, which did really come with chips:



The fish itself was lovely:



And I ordered the ploughman's lunch. This was something of a test: in England, you can tell a lot about a pub from its ploughman's, which is, at its core, bread and a wedge of cheese, but can range from those ingredients alone to a feast of cured meats, pork pie, boiled eggs, salad and fruit.

And it turned out to be better than expected:



The bread was fabulous, light and nutty; the cheddar could have been stronger; the salad was okay (no one expects tomatoes to taste of anything in April anyway); and it came with an interesting tomato chutney, as well as Branston pickle, to which I am addicted.

And then there was the meat:



The camera doesn't lie: that's about how appetizing it was. Basically thin-sliced deli turkey and beef, it was cold, clammy, and completely without flavor. I'd seriously suggest that the Lansdowne ditch it and serve a couple of cold sausages instead.

Oh, and the chips?



As good as it gets without going to a proper chippy. Soft and pliant, not too dry or too greasy, held salt and vinegar well. Better than most late-night post-club takeaways back home, at least. I'm usually able to restrain myself from eating a whole plate of chips, but it took willpower not to finish the lot.

The Lansdowne Pub isn't the cheapest lunch option—my bread and cheese set me back $13—but I'm glad it's there for when I get the insatiable urge for real proper chips.

La Verdad taco battle royal: steak v. lengua, pescado v. chorizo

My spring project: trying all the taco options at La Verdad until one emerges victorious.

It's crazy that I'd only been to La Verdad once, considering how close it is to Fenway Park (and by extension, my office).

One side is a restaurant, which would be a nicer place to sit outside were it not for the fact that you're looking at the utilitarian grunge of Lansdowne Street; the other side is a cozy, bright, four-table cafe/takeout counter.





The taquería menu is small and perfectly formed (this is only part of it):



But how to decide which tacos to order? Yaaagh! The only correct action would be to work through all of them and find a favorite.

Thus begins my project.

That first visit, I went for a carne asada and a lengua.

Carne asada:



Skirt steak was fantastic, juicy and well seasoned, though the accompanying spicy sauce (made with chiles de arbol) was a little more picante than I like, and overwhelmed the subtleness of the lovely meat. (Mind you, this from someone who doesn't put dressing on salad because she wants to be able to taste greens, not Italian Ranch.)

Lengua:



The tongue was well done but a little bland; in this case, the salsa arbol helped (though, again, perhaps a little too enthusiastically). Diced red onion gave a nice crunch.

Winner: Taco de carne asada

This week, I went back to try a couple more: pescado y chorizo



(Given my salad-dressing preferences, you can probably guess which one is the winner.)

Fish:



What you see above isn't fish; it's a wedge of cabbage leaf covered in salsa and a spicy mayonnaise. Hidden below a couple of these was a small but lovely piece of flaky fried fish—could have been cod or hake, I couldn't tell—which almost made up for the extravagance of sauces.

Chorizo:



A fantastically salty, greasy, out-of-a-can chorizo, mixed with cubed potato and finished with a bright fistful of fresh cilantro. A mark of greatness: when I lifted the taco out of its box, there was a puddle of neon-orange achiote oil.

Oh, I think we have a decision.

Winner: Taco de chorizo y papas.

I should also make mention here of the tortillas themselves. While I waited for my order, I got to watch one of the kitchen staff empty a bag of masa flour into a bowl, add water, and start blending the two together by hand. A stack of freshly pressed tortillas sat on the workstation next to her. And they are, by the way, fantastic.

More to come.

The curd tart disappears

If you grew up in the north of England, your mum (and her mum, and maybe her mum) had a Be-Ro Home Recipes book, which was the Bible for basic bakery.

My mum has used the recipes for so long that she doesn't even need the book any more. It's all in her head.

It's a great no-nonsense resource for traditional pastries and puddings: pork pie, dropped scones, bakewell tart (an almond/ground-rice cake over a jam filling), toffee pudding (first ingredient: suet. Don't start), and the ultimate Christmas cake.

I have two: the 38th and 40th editions. Neither has a publication date. Only one has a barcode.




Check the not-very-PC photo of the woman passing on womanly skills to the girl while the boy looks on with satisfaction.



"I will make an obedient helpmeet!"

Anyway, back to the point.

For Easter, I decided to dip into the book and make something I hadn't eaten since I was a kid: curd tart. It's a very simple cheesecake variation; though the traditional method uses curd (which not even WholeFoods carries), it's often made with cottage cheese.

Stop going "Ewwww!" Just be patient.

Curd tart recipe
6oz short pastry

1 cup cottage cheese
4 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons currants
1 egg
1.5oz butter, melted
cinnamon and nutmeg
(I also added a little lemon zest)

Line a shallow dish with the pastry. Mix all other ingredients together. Bake at 425F for 15-20 minutes.





It's not dense like cheesecake; it's more like a ricotta dessert, with just enough of the nutmeg/raisin/creamy combination to feel traditionally English without it freaking anyone out. No lard here.

I noticed, though, that the curd tart recipe was in the 38th ed. of the book, but not in the most recent one. Pineapple upside-down cake was also missing (replaced by upside-down peach and butterscotch pudding—eww!). As was the toffee pudding and the malted fruit loaf.

Replacing them were a coconut lime loaf, a "monster-faced pizza" and the dubiously named Sticky Blobs.

It's not often I shed a tear for the passing of tradition. And I understand food trends shift and change. Still, I'm sad that recipes I grew up with are archived in favor of exotic flavor combinations and fun foods for kids. They're not even on the Be-Ro website's recipe list.

My 38th edition lost its staples a while ago; the cover is spotted with dry dough and the pages are stained and warped. But I'll hang on to it for as long as it's legible.

Belgian sugar waffle @ home

After the epiphanic discovery of the Belgian sugar waffle at Mr. Crepe in Davis Square, I realized three things:

a) I needed to eat more of them
b) I might not get another opportunity to do so
c) I'd better find a recipe and learn how to make my own.

The authentic Liège waffle is made with a yeast dough, which means it needs at least an hour to rise, which would require me rising an hour earlier to start breakfast. Um, no.

There are a lot of recipes out there, but as I'm not a seasoned baker (thanks, crappy oven!), I wanted to find something that specifically called for an overnight proofing session, rather than guessing whether it would work.

So I went with this one (ignore the terrible page layout).

The key to making real proper Belgian sugar waffles is the secret ingredient: pearl sugar. It's essentially regular sugar pressed into larger chunks, so it doesn't melt and burn under high heat. It's also hard to find: IKEA carries it, as do some online stores.

But that didn't help me: I needed it nownownow!!

So I improvised with crystallized sugar coffee sticks that had been in the back of the cupboard for years. Once I'd collected the sugar, bashed it with a rolling pin and mixed it into the dough, I figured it would work pretty well.



As you can see, the dough is sticky, which made dividing it into single-serve portions a challenge. I quickly realized it was better to go with small dollops so they didn't ooze out of the waffle iron.







So, okay, not as pretty as the Belgian sugar waffles at Mr. Crepe. And I underestimated the Big Sugar quantity, so there weren't quite enough nuggets of sweet crunchiness.

But overall, not bad for a first attempt. And the recipe yielded 12 waffles, which meant enough left over to freeze for subsequent breakfasts.

Just need to find me some real pearl sugar ...

Belgian sugar waffle @ Mr Crepe

When I posted about the deep-fried cupcake from Kickass recently, I compared it to the Belgian sugar waffle from Mr. Crepe.

A confession: I had no idea what I was talking about.

That is, I hadn't tried the Belgian sugar waffle from Mr. Crepe. And I assumed I probably wouldn't have the chance to do so, given that the Chowhound thread on the subject suggested they were rare (delicious) birds.

This morning, feeling both pancakey and lazy, we went into Davis Square for breakfast. Mr. Crepe was open and quiet for a change. I was about to order something chocolate-and-banana-related when I saw a chalkboard that had a drawing of a happy waffle sporting a jaunty green scarf and the words "Belgian sugar waffles are now available!"

"Um ... are Belgian sugar waffles available?" I asked.

"Not right now," said the guy behind the counter. My heart sank.

"I need to defrost and cook some; it'll take about a half-hour."

Only thirty minutes between me and the legendary waffle? I could wait.

So we ordered coffee and smoothies, and The Boy got a ham-egg-Brie crepe, and we sat in the window and watched Davis Square wake up.

And then it came.



Fresh from the iron.



Glistening with sugar.



It was steaming and caramel-fragrant.

It was like warm, sweet bread.

It was like a freshly frosted, dense donut.

It was heavenly.

But aaagh! Who knows when I'll get another? What are the chances of being near Mr. Crepe when the Belgian sugar waffles are ready (or when I'm just hungry enough to wait)?

I guess I could always make my own ...

Five thoughts about Ten Tables

We checked out the new Ten Tables in Cambridge this weekend. (Sadly, the lighting was too atmospheric for decent photos, so you'll have to make do with words.) Here are a few observations:

They like cream. A lot.
Okay, I ordered the vélouté of fennel to start, so duh, cream. The Boy's jamon serrano-wrapped sea bass was served in a puddle of cream sauce. And the desserts were all dairy-enhanced in some way: with Thai-basil ice cream, with rum ice cream, with muscat sabayon (eggs count as dairy, right?). Not that cream is bad, you understand; it just seemed there were few light, fresh options. Maybe this is just Ten Tables' winter menu and they'll lighten it up for spring.

It's loud.
Was Craigie loud? I don't remember. But at Ten Tables, at least on Sunday night, we had to lean across the table to talk each other.

On the other hand, this did allow us to hear the fabulous exchange at the next table: a couple, possibly on a first date, with the guy doing 90% of the talking. At one point, during a soliloquy on his dating history, he said, "I've been thinking about trying Match.com."

A little too quickly, the woman responded, "Oh, you totally should."

There was a pause, and then the guy said, "Oh …" And above the noise, you heard his romantic hopes die.

Somebody knows sausage.
It's rare to find sausage in good restaurants at all; Ten Tables' menu had two (two!) choices. I did consider getting both the merguez appetizer and the boudin blanc main, but decided that would probably be Wrong (sigh) so just went with the latter.

It was light and delicate—almost fluffy. It came with duck breast with fantastically crispy skin, lentils in a light mustard (and cream) sauce, and thin matchsticks of apple that made for a perfect foil of crunch and sweetness.

If you go and there's sausage on the menu, you should get it, whatever it is.

The waitstaff needs to read the wine list.
We started with wine; I asked for the Crémant de Bourgogne, one of two sparkling wines by the glass on the list. Our waiter (who was otherwise lovely) disappeared and came back with The Boy's order. And disappeared again.

And then he came back and asked me, "Which wine did you want?" And disappeared again. And came back and said, "That's only available by the bottle." Not until I pointed it out on the menu ("That one, the second wine on the page") did he figure it out. And by then I'd finished my appetizer.

Comparisons to Craigie Street are unavoidable.
Of the wine mix-up, The Boy observed, "That would never have happened at Craigie." Which is true: those guys know their bottles. And it's hard, in general, not to look around Ten Tables and remember what came before. There's only so much you can change in a low, narrow, basement space.

Ten Tables has done some painting, and the area inside the door where you'd wait has been legitimized as a table for four. The French poster art is replaced with a chalkboard of—I think—dessert options (low lighting made it hard to read).

But there's still a coat rack in the foyer, and the menu still comes on a clipboard, and you still have to dodge servers to get to the restrooms.

And the food is still good. I don't want to say it's better than Craigie—I'll need some repeat visits and comparisons before coming to any conclusions—but the dishes are creative and the ingredients are fresh.

Any resto going into that spot would have big shoes to fill; Craigie wasn't just a high-end place, but also a neighborhood favorite for that part of Cambridge. Ten Tables may have to walk around in those shoes a little, but I think they'll fit quite comfortably.

Like a disappointing blind cake date

Last year, I wrote about a project dedicated to revealing the differences between depictions of food on packaging and the goopy, suspicious reality hidden within.

Recently, I was ... well, perhaps fortunate isn't the right word. Point is, I was given a box of this:



Looks good, right? Here, get closer:



And now let's open the box.



In honor of the original German project, I attempted to recreate the photo on the packaging. But because I didn't have any raspberries, I substituted the packet of OxyFree 504 oxygen absorber (catchy tagline: "Do not eat!") that was stuck to the cake.

Now, I know no one is going to buy something if the photos make it look flattened and burned. But I'm certainly not going to turn to the Ya-Hoo! Baking Company the next time I need to order baked goods. Sure, their cheesecake looks deep and delicious, but is that the reality? How much makeup is it wearing?

Misleading photos are no better in food marketing than in online dating. If you're trying to attract someone with the promise of sweet deliciousness, you'd better be able to deliver. Otherwise there's no second date.

Oh, and did we eat the cake?

What do you think?

Restaurant Week: Lunch at L'Espalier

Q: What's better than going to L'Espalier for lunch?

A: Going to L'Espalier for lunch during Restaurant Week. Three courses: $20.09.

Q: What's better (or perhaps worse) than having to read a long, rambling post about how well crafted, beautifully plated and generally delicious the food was?

A: Having to look at a whole bunch of photos. (Sorry.)

To begin, a salad of spring greens with rhubarb vinaigrette and Three Sisters cheddar:



And a light, sweet Vidalia onion soup dotted with licorice sugar (dark and explosive on the tongue)



with a tiny island of light, fluffy parmesan flan, topped with roasted almonds.



Next, pork belly with caraway-roasted potatoes and pickled-ginger sauerkraut.





And, for a little extra, one of the spécialités de la maison: juicy, salty sirloin burger with pulled pork (!), served in a toasted brioche bun with Roaring Forties cheese and slaw ...



The burger came with thick fries that were more like roasted potato (a slight crunch to the outside; light and fluffy inside), and a trio of condiments that included a homemade barbecue sauce and a lovely garlic-truffle ailoi.



For dessert: chocolate brownies with crumbled white chocolate ...



And a mango mousse with macademia nuts.



This is allegedly Restaurant Week for Winter 2009. But as of this dessert, spring has officially begun.

Deep fried cupcake. Deep. Fried. CUPCAKE!

On Friday afternoon, office buddy Dawn alerted me to the existence of the deep-fried cupcake from Kickass Cupcakes in Davis Square (a place I'd visited only once before, despite its relative proximity to home).

On Saturday morning, we were so there.

For future reference, this is what you need to make a deep-fried cupcake:



You got yer regular standard deep-fat fryer; yer necessary cupcake, of course; there's yer squeezy cream; and tucked in the corner would be yer bottle of chocolate sauce. Not shown is the bowl of light batter in which the cupcake is doused before frying.

Commence to drooling and/or dialing 9 and 1 and getting ready to dial 1 again.

While we waited for nature to take its course, we checked out the other cupcake options, which included pretty sparkles:



The Green Monster:



The S'mores:



And the, um, "Cheesy Catnip Kittycake," which I assume was not for human consumption.



And then our deep-fried cupcake was ready! Oops, no it wasn't; our server had switched on the fryer and thrown the cake in without giving the oil a chance to heat. I didn't even want to know what the result looked like.

She was very apologetic ("We don't usually start deep frying until the afternoon," she said), and soon had a second cupcake in and sizzling.

While we waited some more, we watched one of the bakers unwrap several three-pound blocks of butter—and when I say butter, I mean Plugra—top them off with a couple of wholesale-sized bricks of cream cheese, and set the whole thing to churning in a serious industrial mixer. That, my friend, is how you make frosting.

And then our server took a paper cone (genius, and the only possible way to present a deep-fried cupcake), swirled chocolate sauce into its base, placed the cake inside, added more chocolate sauce, and finished it off with a generous dollop of cream.

There's actually a deep-fried cupcake under here.



See?



In truth, it could have done without quite so much smothering; save for one small corner that had missed the chocolate-and-cream deluge, and was therefore still crisp and crunchy, the rest was a big, soggy fistful.

Not that it was bad, mind you. As things that are deep fried and loaded with fat and sugar go, it was a fine example of the form: sweet and warm and completely indulgent, halfway between hot doughnut and deep-fried Twinkie.





We ate it walking down the street, our faces smeared with chocolate syrup and cream. It's not something one can consume delicately or with any pretense of sophistication. It's also something best shared; a whole one may just finish off a healthy person of average size.

And then it was gone, and we were left with a slightly heavy taste of cooking oil on the tongue. I'm not sure whether the solution would be to change to a lighter oil, or to allow the cake to drain a little before serving, or just to crank the heat up higher to make the cooking time as short as possible; that might be something to work on.

Davis Square has few options for state-fair-like indulgence, with the exception of the Belgian sugar waffle at Mr. Crepe or a scoop of maple-walnut from J.P. Licks (and even there you can almost legitimately claim there are healthy choices; hey, strawberry ice cream has fruit!).

So now there's something else to add to the list of heart-stopping goodies, though note that Kickass only does deep-fried cupcakes Friday through Sunday. Maybe it's for the best.

Drink your bacon

Two things you should know: I'm horribly indecisive, and I like to plan ahead. So when we decided to check out Drink, Barbara Lynch's new Fort Point cocktail bar, I had to think fast.

Here's the deal: at Drink, there's no menu. You tell your barkeep what you're hankering for—something with mint, or something classic, or something with champagne and tequila—and they create a concoction just for you. Oh, and everything is $10.

It's a brilliant idea, and opens up a million possibilities. Perhaps too many: how on earth do you decide?

Luckily, that problem was solved when I heard the story of the guy who walked into Drink with a bag of Circus Peanuts and challenged the staff to use them in a cocktail. The result involved ... bacon-infused bourbon.

Sold!

We turned up just after 5 pm on Saturday; the place was already lively, though not packed. Drink is in a long, narrow basement space, with walls of exposed foundation stone and brick. There's a collection of punch bowls, sensuously curved glassware, pots of fresh herbs, a pile of citrus.



The bar top has been cleverly designed to maximize capacity: rather than running in a straight line from one end of the room to the other, it meanders like a river, turning at right angles and doubling back, creating smaller islands around which everyone gets a front-row seat, sushi-bar style.

Most noticably, there's no alcohol in sight; no uplit shelves of bottles, no logos, no beer taps. Everything is tucked away below the counter. It's almost like they don't want to give you any clues.

But when our bartender asked what we wanted, I was ready.

"Do you have any bacon-infused bourbon?"

His face lit up. "Absolutely—I just made some this morning. So you know about it? That's great!"

He suggested a couple of options: a bacon flip, made with a whole egg; a bacon Old-Fashioned; or, he said, "I've been thinking about trying something with scotch. You want to try that?"

Yes. Yes, I did.

The Boy, eyeing up the herb garden, opted for "something with rosemary."

As our new best friend set to work, he explained how to make bacon-infused bourbon:

• Fry up a whole heap of bacon.
• Drain the fat and mix it with bourbon.
• Next (and this is the genius part), freeze it. The fat will harden but the alcohol will stay liquid.
• Discard the fat; pour the bourbon through a coffee filter to remove any residual impurities.

For my drink, he mixed bourbon and Ardbeg, a single-malt from Islay, with sweet vermouth and Campari. He tasted it—nope, needs a little more bourbon—poured it over a thick wedge of ice in a tumbler, and set it before me.



The aroma hit me first: strong, smoky and most definitely bacon-tastic. It was a serious, manly, put-hairs-on-your-chest drink; it suggested boozing with Frank, baby, until the wee small hours and then grabbing breakfast at a joint off the Strip at 4am.

The Boy's drink, by comparison, was afternoon tea: cognac and honey simple syrup muddled with rosemary and finished with club soda.



We sat and sipped and watched the bar staff create. One customer asked for "something with lemon and lavender"; another wanted something with St-Germain and dry vermouth; the old guy next to me gave specific instructions for vodka, lemon and egg white. "I used to make these back in my fraternity," he told me conspiratorially. "You'd give it to girls, and they never knew it had alcohol. They thought it was lemonade!"

With each new request, the bar-artists (bartists?) ducked below the counter and pulled out hand-labeled bottles: raspberry simple syrup; ginger soda in a syphon. They grabbed handfuls of ice and cracked it with a spoon. One guy poured a flaming concoction between two silver tankards, blue fire dancing in the dark bar.

For round two, we changed tack: I went for "something with sage," and The Boy asked what other infusions they had.

"How about pistachio in apple brandy?"

So I had a lovely sage margarita (no triple sec, which would have added too much sweetness and hidden the subtlely of the herb), and The Boy had a brandy sour. The infusion was fabulous, with the apple notes up front and the sweet nut oil coming through in the finish.

We left at around 6:45, and Drink had become standing-room-only busy. From all accounts, it's an impossible ticket by 8pm.

But even if we can't make it back there for a while, we did get some inspired ideas. Our rosemary bush will see more than just lamb action; my summer herb garden is going to need double the sage (I wish I'd asked the guys at Drink what they make with their pot of fresh chives ...).

And the bacon-infused bourbon? Okay, maybe that's best left to the professionals.

I have no taste (aaugh!)

I started coming down with a cold over the weekend. By Monday, I was going through tissues like an elephant watching Dumbo.

Halfway through Tuesday, I realized something terrible: I had no sense of smell or taste.

Lunch was a salad of arugula, roasted red beets, blood orange and goat cheese. I could tell the difference between beet and orange only by texture; the greens were completely anonymous.

After work, I gamely went for a drink with friends from work (y'know, something medicinal). I ordered single-malt scotch, figuring the fumes alone would clear out the pipes: nothing. I may as well have been trying to smell a glass of water.

For dinner, The Boy made curried roasted butternut squash soup, topped with wilted baby spinach. He went a little overboard on the ginger—that, I noticed, but only because it made my throat tingle—but the spices, and The Boy's claim that the apartment now smelled like Rupali (which serves Curry Hell, the world's hottest curry), were beyond my reach.

After dinner we had mint tea. I had to check the label to see what flavor it was; I was getting no clues.

This morning, I made scrambled eggs on toast. As I melted butter to cook the eggs, I instinctively leaned over the pan to inhale that simple/luxurious aroma, and came up empty. And that's when I realized what a gift it is to be able to smell food—and how much I'd miss my sense of smell if it went away permanently.

The scent of lemon zest makes me happy. So does fresh ginger, basil, rosemary, garlic. The smell of vineripe tomatoes reminds me of my grandfather, who used to grow them in his greenhouse. (Demeter's Tomato fragrance is a pretty good representation of that dusty-vegetal aroma). And then there's fresh warm bread, and aged Gouda, and roast chicken, and roast pork, and OMGBacon! Losing this simple pleasure would be like becoming color blind.

Well, at least I still had texture. My breakfast strawberry-banana-yogurt smoothie had a thick, creamy texture; I noticed the tiny strawb seeds much more than usual. The eggs were light, fluffy, pleasantly slippery to swallow. And I was more aware of the butter soaking through the toast.

Oh, yay.

I'm not worried that my senses are diminished forever. But this Saturday is our anniversary, and we've planned a night of Drink (get yer bacon-infused bourbon ready, kids!) and Radius. I'd really prefer not to have to ask for the special texture menu ...

Cheap eats and a meat ship

In these troubled economic times, we're all looking for ways to cut costs. One easy solution is to spend less on food.

But does that mean mealtime needs to become monotonous?

Heck no!

What would you say to a hearty bean soup, or perhaps some sophisticated cucumber-avocado sandwiches? They can be yours, as long as you have that magical, indestructable pantry staple: Spam.

Yep, get your fill of gelatinous meat-like-food-product menu ideas at spamrecipes.net, where you'll learn:

• The secret behind the Hawaiian Spam Sandwich (psst: it's pineapple)
• The mystery of the Polynesian Bake (apricots, maraschino cherries and more pineapple)
• And the complex distinction between the Hot Spam Sandwich and the Cold Spam Sandwich (hint: in one, the Kraft Sandwich Spread is optional).

What's that you say? You're looking for something made with slightly less mechanically separated chicken?

How about something with an exotic Asian element? Beef and Broccoli Stir-Fry, or Lo Mein, or Taco Ramen Salad?

Okay, the last one gives it away; we're talking Ramen recipes in all their high-sodium glory.

Still, who can say no to Chicken Hollandaise Ramen, all Frenchified with egg yolks, lemon juice and margarine?

Or, for a special occasion, Creamy Chicken Ramen:

1 package chicken ramen noodles
2 cups water
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 3oz. can mushrooms

Cook noodles according to package directions and drain. Heat soup concentrate, mushrooms and 1/4 seasoning packet over medium heat for five minutes. Top noodles with sauce.

Mm-mmm good! (And big thanks to Mike for finding the above and thinking, Hey, LimeyG would like these.)

But there are times when delicate dishes of chicken and pineapple and canned mushrooms just aren't enough; when even the most thrifty gourmand seeks something more satisfying.

For these occasions, it's worth checking out This Is Why You're Fat, a fantastic photographic picnic basket of artery-clogging, metabolism-slowing, sleep-inducing dishes (or handfuls, or things on sticks) guaranteed to fill you up.

Example: Gravy-covered pizza.



Example: The bacon donut.



Example (and my particular favorite): The meat ship, created from sausage, bacon, pastry and ground pork.



Ahoy, me heart(attack)ies!

The problem with eating a pig's head

Is this: Where next?

Don't get me wrong—I'm as happy to snorf a plate of veggie lasagne or a tamale plate as to repeat the Estragon Pig Head Extravaganza. But let's be honest: Would it be as interesting?

I'm certainly not looking to be the little-British-chick answer to Andrew Zimmern. I have no intention of seeking out the wildest selection of bugs and guts just so I can write about them.

But from hereon in, it's back to slightly unusual dishes and occasionally extravagant menus.

And in the meantime, here's video of the pig head party. It's blurry in some places, dark in others, and entirely too eyebally somewhere toward the middle. Probably not a good thing to watch while eating. Otherwise, enjoy!

How to eat a pig's head

Last August, we went to Estragon, the fabulous tapas restaurant in Boston's South End. They had pig's head on the menu. I vowed to return and eat it for my birthday.

But when I checked the menu on Estragon's website, the pig was missing. I called up and asked if there was any possibility that I could special-order it.

"Of course," they said. "We love to make the pig's head!"

So last night, The Boy and I headed over for dinner with Tim and Peter.

First, there were cocktails. Mine was a light, refreshing sidecar; Tim and The Boy went for absinthe.



For snacking, the desperately addictive deep-fried garbanzos, aka "chickpea crack":



Next, lima beans sauteed with ham and garlic, known as judias salteadas:



And then the pig's head arrived.

Note: If you're likely to be grossed out by photos of porcine cranial carnage, you might want to stop reading now.

I like to be prepared for unusual situations, so I'd done some research into the best way to approach the task of eating this delicacy. But while I'd discovered plenty of advice on how to butcher and cook said object, there was precious little information on how to eat a pig's head.

And now here one was, eyeing me expectantly.







We started by tearing off the ears; the skin was fantastic, salty and crunchy, but not worthy of too much attention when the rest of the head was sitting there, full of secrets.

Some quick work with steak knives revealed the tender cheeks. And then The Boy flipped Babe on his head and started in on the sweetbreads.



At least, we assume they were sweetbreads: they were where we expected sweetbreads to be. They were chewy and dense, a little like gizzards, with a deep, dark flavor.

Somewhere around here, Peter excused himself: the destruction was too much for him.

And then Tim found the tongue, which we split and sliced thinly. It was similar in texture to the (possible) sweetbreads, with the same kidney-esque pungency.



The Boy and Tim were doing most of the work, and I was happy to let them. It was a pleasantly quasi-primitive scenario: two men hacking at meat with sharp knives, sharing their discoveries, grunting with delight, offering me the most succulent selections. Thankfully, the presence of a very good 2000 Rioja saved us from a descent into full-fledged Neanderthal debauchery.

It seemed to be a lot of effort for minimal payoff in terms of quantity. But everything that came off that piggy's head was fabulous: rich and sweet, salty and fatty, warm and melty.

Our waiter had compared the head to pork shoulder, but it was much more than that. It was like having all the best bits of the whole pig collected together in a single, magical place. One was like pork belly; another was like ham; another, braised trotters.

There was a small motherlode of deliciousness at the temple, a couple of inches up behind the eye: it was similar to the oysters on a chicken, except juicier and more tender.

And then, yes, the eyes.

I'm not sure what I was expecting: something like enormous fish eggs, perhaps, that would explode unpleasantly in the mouth. But of course they were as roasted as the rest of the head, and were basically delicate lumps of fat, not even as chewy as snails.

We worked over the head a little longer, occasionally uncovering pockets of sweet, fatty treasure, finding cavities still sealed, the meat hot to the touch even after we'd been eating for an hour.

Eventually, we called it quits.



Peter came back just in time for an unexpected gift from the chef: a pot of milk chocolate crème topped with toffee and nuts.



So, was it worth it? As an exercise in efficiency, no. But that wasn't the goal.

We enjoyed a long, langorous, relaxed, four-hour dinner, at least half of which was focused on how to eat a pig's head. It wsn't just food consumed in the presence of friends; it was meat shared, a communal feast, an act of celebratory participation.

Or, as The Boy put it: "Pig fat is awesome. And this was a lot of pig fat."