The morning after the night before

Parmo. It's what's for breakfast.

The Phee-Extra!

On Saturday night, we had a few friends over for a little summer celebration. The menu looked like this:

Prosciutto-wrapped asparagus spears
Cherry tomatoes stuffed with lemon-lavender goat cheese
Sea bass escabeche
Pesto pinwheels
Chorizo rolls
Grilled vegetable popovers
Tiny black bean tacos
Parmo crostini
***
Ginger-scented tropical fruit cups
Honey-glazed summer fruits in puff pastry
Lavender-scented lemon cake
Chocolate-dipped strawberries

The whole point of the escabeche--some might say the whole point of the party--was to have an excuse to use the funky spoons I picked up at Ikea. I prepped the fish a couple of days ahead, using this recipe from foodnetwork.com. I don't usually take recipes from online sources--you're never sure what you're gonna get--but the Food Network has a vested interest in maintaining credibility, so it seemed safe.

When I first made the dish, the flavor was bland and understated, but a couple of days' rest made it bolder: pleasantly acidic and sweet at the same time.



The pastries came together pretty quickly on Saturday morning (a couple of hours spent covering everything in flour), so there were just a few last-minute fruit- and veggie-related dishes to finish up in the afternoon.

The asparagus-prosciutto thing is one of my party staples. It looks pretty and is very easy to pull together: first, steam asparagus spears for a scant couple of minutes, so they're still bright green and al dente. Then blend goat cheese, a little orange zest, chopped fresh basil and fresh black pepper, and schmear this over a strip of prosciutto. Place an asparagus spear at one end of the ham and roll up. S'easy.

You may be wondering: where, in all of this food preparation, was The Boy? Isn't he ruler of the kitchen?

Don't worry. When it comes to parties, The Boy wears many hats:

Musical director, in charge of creating the playlist (how did we manage before the iPod?). He pulled together a good seven-hour aural journey that started with the popular and recognizable (Ray Charles, Johnny Cash, Gorillaz, Prince) and then moved into alt-college (Pixies, Elvis Costello, Faces) before culminating in a stretch of outsider music and strangeness (epitomized by the great "Cousin Mosquito" by Congresswoman Malinda Jackson Parker).

The party playlist is The Boy's magnum opus; for my citizenship party in December, he included one artist for each of the 50 states. Sure, that's easy for New York or California, but what do you use for Maine? (A: Rudy Vallee.) Or Hawaii? (A: Don Ho, doing a rather unfortunate take on Peter Gabriel's "Shock the Monkey".)

Beverage manager/sommelier, making sure the fridge is stocked, the wine is interesting, the sodas are chilled and the ice is plentiful.

Bartender.



He even produced a cocktail menu:

Garden Party
Hedrick's gin, lavender simple syrup, lemon juice, cucumber

Turkish Delight
Vodka, chocolate liqueur, rose water

Jaffa Cake
Vodka, Godiva, Cointreau

Pomegranate Margarita
Tequila, Cointreau, lime and pomegranate juices

Danny Trejo’s Love Child
An ugly combination of whatever may be lying around

The food went fast (leading to a post-mortem discussion of whether we should have made more) and the spoons were duly admired. A fun night with some of our favorite people. We'll have to do it again soon.

But ... ohhh ... not too soon ...

The Boy's birthday (of course there's food!)

Saturday was The Boy's birthday. My gifts to him were basketballs, as ever: a '94 Urbina Gran Reserva Rioja and some cedar sheets to wrap around food before grilling (I got him cedar planks a couple of years ago, but they're too damn long to fit on our tiny Weber).

We had breakfast at the Diesel Cafe in Davis Square (the original plan was Tu y Yo, but they were closed, doubtless having figured out that most people aren't looking for a mountain of eggs and chorizo before 10am). I used to work next door to the Diesel, but hadn't been in a while, and I'd forgotten what a funky, colorful, bright space it is.

The Boy ordered an iced lemon scone and a tall glass of painfully sweet Vietnamese coffee, and was happy. I went with a toasted bagel and a soy latte, and we sat and watched the regulars come in with newspapers, ironic t-shirts, laptops and the high-tech stroller that The Boy calls "the Baby Segway."

There's a preponderance of independent coffee shops in our neighborhood, and we decided we should go out for breakfast on a weekend more often, and try a different cafe each time. The people-watching is fabulous.

In the afternoon (once The Boy had come down from his sugar high) we went back into Davis to see Hot Fuzz at the Somerville Theatre. It's a worthy follow-up to Shaun of the Dead and a lovely homage/parody of the best and worst of cop-buddy movies. It also does a great job of capturing the essence of life in the less-urban areas of England; I particularly appreciated the scene in which Simon Pegg's character goes into a village pub and asks what wines they have.

"Well," says the landlord, "we've got red, and ... uh ... white ..."

(I swear I've had that exact exchange before ...)

After the movie, we just had enough time to go home and freshen up before the day's big event: dinner at Craigie Street Bistrot.

CSB is known for sticking to locally sourced ingredients as much as possible. Our previous trips there had been for winter celebrations (my birthday, our anniversary), so we were excited to see how seasonal changes in produce selections would affect the menu.

The first thing we noticed, aside from the food, was that the waitstaff seemed ... out of synch is the best way I can describe it. We had a 20-minute wait before anyone took our order, and another 45 minutes passed before the amuse-bouches arrived. In the meantime, one waitron sternly, silently marched another by the forearm back to the kitchen (the cause of this was unclear) and a rather fussy couple stormed out because there was a bug on their tablecloth.

Eh. Everyone has an off night once in a while.

The food, of course, was just fine. I started with squid noodles (tender, thinly sliced rings of squid) in a cilantro sauce with grains of paradise. The squid and sauce were light and lively--a refreshing intro to the evening's meal--but the spice was a little too generous, a bold, peppery bite that overwhelmed the delicacy of the rest.

The Boy went for the tiny taster of cured meats: duck and lardo.

"Lardo?" I asked the waiter.

"It's fatback," he said, "cured with fennel and pepper, and sliced real thin--"

The Boy held up his hand. "You had me at 'fatback'," he said.

I hate to overuse gastronomic clichés like "melt in the mouth," but when it comes to lardo, I really have no choice. Insansely good.

And then the apps: a generous green salad for The Boy, garnished (as all good salads should be) with a crisp slice of bacon. I had fricasée of lamb's tongue with homemade merguez, morels and poached egg in a green-pea sauce.

The plating was beautiful; almost an oil painting in rich, vibrant jewel tones, with grilled asparagus and a scattering of edible flowers. The waitress explained that the dish was best enjoyed by breaking the egg yolk into the sauce.

Another cliché ahoy: it brought tears to my eyes. Seriously. Literally. The tongue was soft, like pâté, with a flavor somewhere between chicken oysters and ostrich: dark and complex, but not fatty or heavy. The sauce, now blended with egg yolk, was rich but still with the lightness of spring vegetables. I mopped up the last drops with a chunk of bread, feeling a twinge of guilt at my bad table manners but not wanting to leave anything behind.

When it came to entrées, The Boy really only had one choice, it being his birthday and all: pan-fried hangar steak with bone marrow, snails and shiitake mushrooms. A very manly, meaty dish, deep and rich and flavorful. I opted for the pork "two ways": a generous chunk of juicy, salty suckling pig confit, topped with crispy skin, and a deep-fried cake of fromage de tête, which I later realized was very similar to the entrée I'd ordered on our previous visit (I guess head-cheese is never out of season).

By this point we were decidedly full, but yet too comatose to not order dessert. Come on, you've been there. So The Boy went for cornbread pain perdu (a very cool take on French toast, which I'm gonna haveta make for breakfast one day) and I had the seasonal fruit crisp, topped with walnuts and served with hyssop ice cream.

The crisp was great. The recipe is easy (this one is for winter fruits, but really it's the topping that makes it).

Apart from the staffing stutters, a lovely meal. Now we need an excuse to go back sometime in late summer for the best of the tomato crop ...

Love for lavender

I've always had a thing for lavender; it brings back all kinds of (mostly food-related) memories of the South of France. And when I saw an HGTV backyard makeover show in which a California couple filled their fallow meadow with lavender plants, I figured, Hey, I can do that, albeit on a greatly reduced scale.

The two bushes I planted last spring survived winter remarkably well, and are now blooming enthusiastically.



But what to do with all those flowers, apart from hanging them in every closet in the house?

The French bistro Pigalle in Boston has a signature cocktail called the Garden Party. A blend of muddled fresh cucumber, Hendrick's gin, lemon and lavender, it's crisp, refreshing and bright, with a seductive floral note. The perfect summer drink.

The restaurant's pastry chef is responsible for the flowery part, so I asked her for details.

"Oh, it's easy," she said. "Just a simple syrup with lavender flowers. I make it myself."

As this was coming from a woman who was turning out flawless creme brulée and molten chocolate cake on a daily basis, I suspected we had different interpretations of the word "easy."

But as it turns out, she was right.

The first thing to do is pick a good fistful of flowers and hang them upside-down to dry. It helps to have a friend who can lend a hand.



Pull the blossoms from the stems and add about a tablespoon to a pan with a half-cup of sugar and a cup of water. Bring to a boil, stirring, until the sugar has dissolved, then let simmer for a couple more minutes. Set aside to cool, and then strain the liquid into a glass container (I use a salad-dressing bottle with a cork stopper).

The syrup will keep in the fridge for a couple of weeks--you can also freeze it in ice-cube trays for longer storage.

Of course, the lavender liquid isn't only good for prettying up a martini. It's fab drizzled over vanilla ice cream or lemon sorbet, adds an unusual touch to homemade lemonade (I suspect it would work well with ginger beer too) and it's a nice alternative sweetener for iced tea (especially if you use Earl Grey).

And it looks as though this flower is finding favor in other areas, too. On Friday I went to pick up a log of goat cheese with Australian ginger from the Crystal Brook Farm stand at the Copley Square farmers' market. But then I saw they also had a version with lemon and lavender; how could I resist?

The flavor is subtle: a whisper of citrus and flowers against the creamy-lightness of the cheese. Perfect crumbled over salad greens and apples.

So are there other uses for lavender?

Yes, says the Napa Valley Lavender Company.

Of course, says the Happy Valley Lavender and Herb Farm.

Looks like I'm going to be busy for a while ...

Infidelity, foodwise

They say you never forget your first love. That was you, Cadbury's Dairy Milk; sweet and creamy and rich, with a solid bite and a satisfying mouthfeel, you scored a direct hit on all pleasure points in mouth and brain. I was devoted to you through childhood.

When I came to the US, I was pleased to find you here. But one taste told me it wasn't really you. Something just seemed ... wrong. Off, as My People would say. It was like spotting Billy Idol across a crowded room and realizing he's just an unconvincing Billy Idol lookalike.

Later, I discovered there are differences in US and UK chocolate production guidelines; the British government mandates twice the percentage of cocoa solids required by the FDA (which, by the way, is currently considering allowing manufacturers to replace cocoa butter in chocolate with vegetable fat).

The thrill was gone, but at least I knew why.

For a long time, I didn't think about chocolate as much. Found other things to keep my mouth occupied. Started exploring salty treats. Learned to love olives, boquerones, edamame (none of which, of course, sat in grocery stores in Billingham in the 1980s).

And then, in Montreal, I fell in love all over again, in a little gourmet store on Rue St-Denis. I found Belgian company Dolfin's milk chocolate with Indian masala.

The first taste: excellent chocolate. Then spices: cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, cloves. Then, at the end, as the last drops of cocoa butter dissolved on the tongue, a gentle whisper of fiery warmth.

Back home, I raided the Dolfin shelf at Cardullo's in Harvard Square. Dark chocolate with Earl Grey tea. With pink peppercorns. With green anis. And I was happy.

And then my head was turned yet again, this time by Vosges.

(I'm sorry, Dolfin. You were intriguing and creative, and you introduced me to new ideas. But Vosges was just so much more adventurous, more daring. And I was ready to take the next step.)

Where Dolfin was all about "l'art du mélange," the careful, artisanal blending of chocolate with subtle, gently compatible ingredients, Vosges flavor combinations seem to throw caution to the wind: Hey, what happens if we make a bar with ginger and wasabi? How about mixing Kalamata olives into white chocolate?

Oh.

Oh oh oh oh oh.

There's a new flavor.

I'm afraid to type it out in case it's not real.

Just ... just look at this.

So do you understand, Cadbury's, Dolfin, why I had to move on?

But now I have to admit that I've been smitten again. I swear it wasn't my fault. I was in WholeFoods, buying sorbet (healthy! Fruitful! Organic!), when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the most wonderful thing ever.

Vosges does ice cream.

I didn't buy any that day, but the thought of it kept coming back. So yesterday I picked up a couple of pints on my lunch hour, grabbed a fistful of plastic spoons, and took them back to the office. That way, I figured, I could share them with my colleagues. It could hardly be considered cheating.

One taste was all it took. The Red Fire (ancho and chipotle chilies with cinnamon in chocolate ice cream) reminded me of my first experience with Dolfin's Hot Masala: rich and chocolately with a warm, spicy finish--but with the additional kick of being chilled at the same time.

The Naga, though, made my head swim. Coconut and curry in a creamy custard, like a decadent, dessert version of yellow Thai curry sauce. Once I'd finished swooning, my first thought was Okay, what can I do with this? It begs to be paired with something; maybe mango, or caramelized banana. Or even roast chicken. Seriously.

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

When I am Copyeditor General (pt.2)

When the federal government introduces the grammatical equivalent of the Surgeon General, and I am the inaugural holder of that position, there will be a rule that signage must have universal meaning.

Case in point, the warning in the parking lot at Stone Zoo:



"What's that?" I asked The Boy.

"Dunno," he said. "Maybe it means no tailgating."

I had to search around online before I discovered it meant "no sitting in the parking lot with the engine running."

In other words, no idling.

Why couldn't they just say that? It's a much more common phrase. A Google search shows 93,000 results for "no idling," but only 30 for "no live parking." They were almost all in Massachusetts, so it's obviously a regionalism (and therefore the logical wording to post at a location that may attract out-of-state visitors).

Sigh.

On the other hand, I did get this fabulous shot of the jaguar:



Hey, I have one of those at home:

Sandwich person

The other day I worked from home. The Boy called mid-afternoon to see how I was doing and asked what I had for lunch.

"Guess," I said.

He sighed. "Oh. Of course. A sandwich." He thinks I'm strange.

The Boy, when he's home alone to eat, uses the stove. Maybe just pasta and a quick fresh pesto, or baked salmon and a salad, but always a meal that involves pans and heat and a variety of utensils.

Me, I slap something between two slices of bread and I'm happy. I love a good sandwich.

Of course, "sandwich" means something different to everyone. My perfect version has (unsurprisingly) an English accent--though that doesn't mean delicate, no-crust watercress triangles. Rather, it suggests an egalitarian approach to the filling: equal amounts of every ingredient, so each bite is a balanced blend of flavors.

This is almost the perfect sandwich. Really. This picture makes my mouth water. I can imagine biting through the soft, slightly nutty bread; the crunch of the cucumber and the moist sweetness of the tomato meeting the creamy cheese and salty ham.

(Why is it not actually perfect? Because that's processed cheese. If it were year-old cheddar, I'd be licking my monitor.)

Of course, now I'm thinking about the most truly British and perfectest sarnie (as My People say) of all: the cheese and pickle toastie. It's really just a straightforward cheese sandwich, with the addition of an even, generous schmear of Branston Pickle, an addictive sweet-and-sour chutney-esque condiment that is to the English pantry as ketchup is to the American.

Dropped into the toaster (or, if you will, George Foreman grill) until the bread is slightly crunchy and the filling has warmed and fused together in a joyous embrace, it's a thing of beauty.

(Mouth is watering again.)

I've never been able to appreciate the traditional American sandwich (okay, that's an extreme example) quite as much. The filling ovewhelms the bread like too many packs on a weary donkey. A sandwich should be a careful creation, a harmonious song of taste and texture--not a portable, edible container for a half-pound of meat.

The Boy, of course, disagrees with me entirely. If I may question the witness:

Me (just now): Honey, do you think a sandwich should be a portable, edible container for a half-pound of meat?

Him (without hesitation): Yes.

We do agree on some things, though--the worst sandwich we ever had was on a British Midlands flight from London to Teesside. They served a breakfast travesty of rubbery bacon (probably nuked, possibly--gasp--steamed) still sporting a fatty, gristly rind. Not what you need at 8am after a seven-hour transatlantic flight.

(Ironically, one of the best was the warm, fragrant, buttery sausage panini served on the same flight two years later.)

And we like the medianoche at La Viña, the bakery/cafe/neighborhood hangout around the corner from my in-laws'; the pork is roasted in-house before being sliced and added to ham, swiss cheese, pickles and mustard between slices of a sweet egg bread and pressed. Perfect with a tiny cup of potent, bitter espresso.

I'm curious about the Stubbs, the famous calorie-laden egg/bacon/sausage/cheese concoction served (on doorstop slices of Texas toast) at the Coppell Deli and a favorite snack for members of the Dallas Cowboys (here Nate Newton learns how they're made).

And even though I know it's a ridiculous promotional item, I'd still love to order (and, at around $200, have someone else pay for) the world's most expensive sandwich: Iberico ham, white truffles and quail eggs on ... oh, it's on sourdough bread?

Well then, never mind. I don't do sourdough. I might love a good sandwich, but there are limits.