What you can do with your scrambled eggs

Yesterday's Wall Street Journal had an article about people who work their way through every recipe in a cookbook and blog about their experiences. The most famous of these, of course, is the Julie/Julia blog, which is now on its way to being a Meryl Streep veee-hicle.

I love the idea that there are cooks out there who have the focus and determination to plough through every recipe, no matter how scarce or exotic the ingredients. And it's immensely reassuring to know that it is not only possible to prepare, say, Fergus Henderson's rolled pig's spleen, but also that doing so will be eminently worthwhile.

And yet I can't help wondering how many of these projects exist because they can be blogged. Which came first: the idea to devote a year to recipes, or the desire to write about something in a public arena? Would one be as likely to tackle the entire Gourmet cookbook if there was no-one to tell but the (well-fed and delighted) dog?

Not that this is meant as criticism; on the contrary, I'm delighted that we all now have the means—and motivation—to publish. My attempts to keep a handwritten diary have always failed miserably after a couple of weeks, but I've posted faithfully since September '06. I'm sure the same is true for many bloggers.

I'd be surprised if I was the only one who tried a new experience, or tasted an unusual food, or went out of my way to take photos "for the blog."

I'll write for a solid few hours on a detailed post like this L'Espalier review, including fact-checking and hunting down relevant links. I play with images in PhotoShop to make them as pretty as possible; I copyedit and proofread everything obsessively (you'd expect nothing less from the Copyeditor General).

So if I sound at all bitter, it's thanks to Lee Gomes, author of the WSJ article, who begins his piece thus:

Generic food blogs are the scrambled eggs of culinary blogging. They require little in the way of skill and next to nothing in terms of equipment—just a digital camera and a broadband connection.

Oh, ah, ahem. What?

Cupcakes? Sweet!

I've written before about how the recent explosion of cupcake fanaticism suggests a nostalgic hipster yearning for the carefree days of childhood. But for all my pseudo-ironic swagger, I do love a nice cakey.

So when a sign in a Mass. Ave. storefront heralded the imminent arrival of cupcakery Sweet, I started keeping track of its progress (walls are up ... tables are in ... ooh, there's a display case ...).

When I walked past yesterday, there was a "now open" sign in the window. So today, together with cupcake aficionados Sarah and Dawn, I went to check it out.

It's a tiny store; this is pretty much the whole thing.



(Note the flat-screen TV, here showing the end credits for Sophia Coppola's elegant cupcake Marie Antoinette.)

Humongous carnation cupcake from Winston Flowers:



Gorgeous wallpaper from Studio Printworks:



Coordinating candy:



Nice package:



There's an attention to detail and an eye for design throughout the brand identity that keeps it fun and fresh without teetering into saccharine princess cuteness.

So, that's my report ...

The what?

I forgot what?

Oh, you mean these?







(Check out the finishing touch on this last bunch: gold! Goooold! We're rich, I tells ya!)

It wasn't too hard to figure out which flavors to try, as Sweet's menu only has five choices. A further helpful restriction was the price: full-size cupcakes are $3.25, the mini versions a buck cheaper. Bulk buys are a relative bargain, and four mini cupcakes are $8, which seems more reasonable (and certainly less than the cost of dessert at most decent restaurants).

So I chose lemon, cappuccino, dark chocolate and organic karat (that's the one topped with edible gold leaf).

Somehow I managed to get them back to the office, leave them on my desk all afternoon and carry them home without even "accidentally" dipping a finger in the frosting, much less stuffing all four in my face at once. The Boy was suitably grateful.

First impression: well, they certainly are tiny.



But they're potent little packages. The karat cake (geddit?) was dense and spicy and topped with a thick, chewy cream cheese frosting, which just stopped short of being overwhelmingly sweet and harmonized well with the cake.

The lemon was bright and vibrant and much less sweet--it was restrained, refreshing, and cake and frosting came together as one flavor, rather than playing off each other as the carrot cupcake did. (Update: in the shower this morning, I realized what it reminded me of: Bigelow's lovely line of lemon unguents and ointments.)

Cappuccino was the most "grown-up" cake; more elegant and complex, rich without being ostentatious.

Chocolate was good ol' chocolate, all big friendly round bass notes, satisfyingly chocolate-puddingy.

The only bad thing about Sweet: I walk past it almost every day. Can I possibly restrain myself? Oh, go on, it's only a teeny tiny cupcake ... cheaper than a latte ...

I know who moved my cheese

Didn't I say this would happpen? (And by "this," I mean WholeFoods would wait until I was addicted to Seaside Cheddar and then take it off the shelves?)

This weekend, on our grocery hunt, I blithely strolled into the cheez dept to score my fix.

But.

I.

Couldn't.

Find.

It.

I peered behind Piave, looked under Limburger, searched by the Stilton. Nothing.

So I asked the cheeseguy, who gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Yeah ... I'm not sure whether we'll be carrying it any more."

What??

Apparently, the cost went up; instead of being sold to the store by the pound, it was now being sold per piece, and the price difference was going to be too great to be worth it.

And then I learned something interesting about WholeFoods's business model: according to cheeseguy, each store orders its stuff separately.

So rather than all Boston-area stores getting together and putting in a bulk order for Seaside Cheddar, it seems, the orders trickle in from individual branches. So much for buying power.

This does mean, of course, there's still reason for optimism: just because one branch of WholeFoods is no longer able to feed my addiction, it doesn't mean I can't score elsewhere.

Anyway, I suspect Seaside Cheddar is a gateway cheese. If I can't find more, I'll be forced to move on to the hard stuff (like a salty-sweet, butterscotchy aged Gouda).

Aaaahm ... waitin' for my (cheese) maaaaan ...

Is it wrong to whip it out at the table?

This week, I caught a re-run of No Reservations in which Anthony Bourdain goes to South Carolina. He's sitting in some fabulous southern food joint, eating shrimp and grits and Coca-Cola cake, and he says something along the lines of "This stuff is so good, you're gonna start having New Yorkers coming down and taking photos of all the dishes."

And I thought Oh my goodness; he's talking about me (I assume he doesn't know exactly where I live).

Now, I'm not one to be influenced by the opinions of celebs. That said, I love Bourdain. largely for his honesty and frankness (one favorite moment: he tries the deep-fried cheesecake at the Mall of America and declares, "Jesus God this is awful." Can you imagine Rachael Ray doing that?).

So if he's making snarky comments about people pulling out their cameras at dinner, should I pay attention?

In fairness, it's not just Bourdain's offhand comment that has me thinking like this. I suspect my fellow diners put up with my snap-happy attitude because they don't have much choice.

The Boy is wonderfully patient, but at home, a good 50% of his meals are delayed in their journey from kitchen to table as I hijack them for a photo session. I always take my camera to restaurants and take pictures of anything I think I might want to write about, which means he has to wait for me to adjust lighting and focus so I can shoot his rapidly cooling meal.

And what about the people around me? I spend a lot of time complaining that my fellow diners are unthinkingly loud and inconsiderate. How do they feel about me taking pictures of my food? I don't use the flash, of course, but isn't this still inappropriate behavior for a restaurant? Is it too far removed from using a cellphone?

I want to know what other people think. Do you photograph your food? Does it bother you when others do? Have you ever seen diners being admonished for whipping out their Nikon? (And did you take a picture?)

The secret ingredient for squash soup

Last night, as I was once again dining sola, I made a big pot of butternut squash soup with chicken stock, shallots, fresh ginger, garam masala and turmeric. I expected it to be thin, but once it had gone through the blender it was quite creamy. I topped it with baby spinach leaves, hoping they'd wilt like they do in the Blue Shirt Cafe's version. They didn't.



The spinach was a little tough, which may have been the reason, though I suspect the secret ingredient is having the soup ladled into a paper container and transported to a different location.

Still, it was good soup.

To reassure The Boy

The Boy is away in Miami this week, being corporate. As is often the case when he leaves me to fend for myself, he worries that I eat enough (bless 'im).

He knows I'm not likely to spend hours creating a culinary masterpiece when I can quickly slap together a couple of slices of bread and cheese (like the fabulous Seaside cheddar with which I am currently obsessed; it's strong and mature, with crunchy calcium bits. Apparently it's a WholeFoods exclusive. I'm convinced that they're waiting until I'm completely addicted, and then they'll stop carrying it ...)

Sorry, that was a tangent, wasn't it?

Anyway, to quell The Boy's fears that I'm starving myself, this was last night's dinner:



Okay, I did slap some bread together, but it was organic wholewheat, filled with Alaskan salmon and cucumber. Add a couple of grilled asparagus and some leftover salad (greens, tomatoes, apple, green beans) and it's a tasty plateful.

And this morning's breakfast?



A yogurt-banana-strawberry-orange smoothie and a bowl of oatmeal topped with strawberry-rhubarb sauce.

Yeah, I'd say I'm eating okay.

Hello again, Mr. Weber!

For once, a weekend without rain, and a chance to pull out our baby Weber grill for the first time this season.

The results: grilled bluefish tempered with a cilantro-lemon-rosé dressing; grilled asparagus clad only in salt, pepper and olive oil; and a salad of greens, tomato, cucumber, olives and apple.



I also managed to finish the herb garden, which now has rosemary, sage, oregano, peppermint, ginger mint and creeping thyme sharing space with mixed greens and spinach.

If the chives come up and the tomato survives the squirrel onslaught, this promises to be a very yummy summer.

L'Espalier: the end of the affair

L'Espalier is closing. Not for good; just for a couple of months, while it relocates to its new home in the still-under-construction Mandarin Oriental. While the move will doubtless be a blessing for the restaurant's staff, who have had to cope with the tiny kitchen and narrow hallways of the current century-old Back Bay brownstone, it's sad news to Boston diners.

There aren't many restaurants with L'Espalier's sturdy elegance and architectural detail: the curving staircase, the plaster wall moldings, the marble fireplaces that make the house feel like, well, a house. Tables are divided between three rooms on two floors, so even though the restaurant seats more than 70, each space feels like an intimate and private dining club.

This is the second-floor room overlooking Gloucester Street.



The building is not L'Espalier's only draw, of course: the food is fabulous. And priced accordingly, which has meant, for us at least, that it's a special-occasion destination, reserved for anniversaries and birthdays. But as the clock is ticking on the current location, we figured we should make an exception and go one last time before the doors close.

So we made a 5:30 reservation (the only available option for a Saturday night at short notice) and arrived ready for an evening of elegance and indulgence.

As the hostess hung up our coats, I glanced at the evening's reservation list (helpfully illuminated on the computer screen).

8:30: GERVAIS, RIC

Darn; unless we ate reaaally slowwwly, we'd be finished and out the door before he arrived. And anyway, fawning over celebs (or, rather, inquiring as to the veracity of the claim that a certain person has a citrus-shaped cranium) is really not The Thing To Do at L'Espalier.

Part of the joy of the L'Espalier experience is the service, which is generally flawless, graceful, subtle. The hostess introduces you by name to the maitre d', who leads you to your table. The waitstaff wear suits (actual well-cut suits, rather than penguin-waiter-wear); the plates arrive table-side covered with silver cloches, which are whisked aside with an understated flourish.

Yes, many other places have good service, but L'Espalier is special in that regard. The waitstaff are not trying to be your buddies; they don't tell you their names and explain they'll be taking care of you (as though you'd never encountered waiter service before); they're professional and discreet and speak in hushed tones, as though in church.

So it was decidedly strange to be in earshot of the second-floor waiters as they criticized the previous night's Celtics' performance, practiced gang signs and voguing, traded insults and discussed the cable show Rock of Love. It was unusual to have our waiter dribble martini on the table.

And it was, frankly, downright strange to overhear the maitre d' call the staff together--after the start of service--and explain that, as of that moment, the menu prices had all changed, and that they were to use the new prices for the rest of the evening.

On previous visits, we'd been seated on the third floor; The Boy wondered whether the second floor was less formal, or a training ground for newer staff, and that's why the vibe was different. It could also have been that the night was young, and the staff hadn't yet warmed up to the task at hand. Either way, it was unexpected. And it was actually a good thing.

I'll explain later; it's time for the food.

First, a teeny tiny amuse-bouche of smoked salmon and cream cheese napoleon, with the tiniest whisper of lemon.



Then what was described as "a welcome from the chef": a (rather tough) slice of grilled flatbread topped with a duck and rabbit pâté. And then appetizers: for me, veal sweetbreads coated in almonds, sweet and tender and subtly nutty, served with an Asian-style fresh carrot slaw:



The Boy chose foie gras, which came with--and this is the genius part--a marshmallow toasted with thyme, the cloying sweetness heightening and expanding the woodsy herb and making both of them sing.



The entrees (my roasted rabbit with gnocchi, olives and peas; The Boy's rack of lamb with carrots and fried chickpea cakes) were similarly harmonious combinations of deep, rich flavors and bright, fresh notes.

And dessert was likewise lovely, though the options all seemed too heavy after such an indulgent main; it would have been nice to have a light, fruity option within the lineup of cheesecakes and chocolates and creams.

The Boy went for the roasted barley crème brûlée, which was a reasonable version made more interesting with the addition of granola and a tangy Greek yogurt sorbet; I had an ice cream trio (tropical fruits, strawberry/mango and chocolate) which arrived in a brandy-snap basket and would have looked more impressive were they not already melting.

Which brings me back to my previous observation that the waitstaff's unexpected jocularity was a good thing.

Have you ever been in a relationship that ended before you were ready? And just as you were breaking up, he did something that made you realize he wasn't quite as dynamic and debonair as you believed, and that you had no reason to cry over him after all?

That's how it was last night. We loved L'Espalier when we saw it as the pinnacle of Boston restaurants, a place of impeccable service and flawless food. But now, the blush is ever so slightly off the rose. Sure, we'll probably visit when it opens in the new space. But there's still Clio, and Radius, and No. 9 Park, and Craigie Street. And Guy Martin's new place opens in June, allegedly.

So, good times, while they lasted. Good memories. But there are plenty more fish, just as lightly poached and served with beurre blanc, in the sea.

Hungry Mother (and other women)

Last night saw a return to Hungry Mother for a girly night out with Linda, Melinda and Cindi. I used to work with the first two reprobates; Cindi is a more recent member of the gang who shares our ribald sense of humor and appreciation for good nosh, so it was a fun, improper, tasty night all round.

Yes, there were cocktails: Cindi chose an insanely good vodka martini with thyme, rosemary and red pepper flakes, and she very kindly and generously allowed me to take her last olive, which had been soaking in a house-made lemon marinade. Melinda had a Manhattan-esque concoction that featured sorghum syrup and amaretto, garnished with a boiled peanut.

But that really has nothing to do with the quality of these photos.

Linda just moves very very fast.



Melinda always looks this blurry.



And Cindi's cocktail really was almost as big as she was.



So we talked about gardening and crazy neighbors and kids and rock 'n' roll and food.

And we ate: the amazingly tender and deeply flavored beef tongue canapés; the soft boiled peanuts sprinkled with gray salt; the crunchily battered fried oysters with tabasco sauce; the catfish pâté with sweet fig jam and sharp pickled ramps; the feather-light gnocchi with delicate mushroom broth; the roast chick'um with hot jalapeno spoonbread; the light and flaky catfish (possibly cooked to perfection, depending on your own personal concept of what "perfection" means); the single juicy fried green tomato; the rich and creamy grits topped with ham and cheese.

And somehow there was room for dessert. But just to share, you understand; just a spoonful to say we'd tried. Really. So we gamely dismantled a lovely buttermilk pie, light and fluffy and lemon-scented, and did our brave best with a dense, deliciously dark chocolate pot de crème infused with cardamom.

It looks as though Hungry Mother is still doing well, though I felt a twinge of apprehension at our waitress's hope that we notify our friends about the place: "Tell everyone when you go to work tomorrow! Tell them you had a good time!" Are they just pushing word of mouth, or do they really feel under-promoted? Time will tell, though as long as they're cooking at the current standard, they should be quite safe.

So, ladies: where next?