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."