Brunch at 5 Corners Kitchen

After our amazing wolf experience, we were ravenous. And all the talk of meat (and discovery of various bones cleaned dry of marrow) had left us wanting to indulge, carnivore-style.

So we went to Marblehead for brunch.

Okay, more specifically, we headed to 5 Corners Kitchen, where Trevor does genius things with sausage and bacon (and, frankly, everything else he touches).

We'd had dinner at 5 Corners Kitchen when it first opened, and had been looking for a reason to return.

When we arrived, Trevor was handing out samples of housemade sausage with lentils and mustard to passers-by. It was only a taste, but it was enough to remind me how good this place is.

First, brunchy drinks: mimosa for me, bloody Mary for The Boy. His celery garnish was noticeably fresher and crunchier than the supermarket variety.

And then, before we could order, Trevor appeared with plates of smoked salmon topped with boiled egg, capers, crème fraiche and red onion.



I was going to order something good and meaty — and then I noticed the brioche french toast. So that was me sorted.



The toast was like bread pudding, rich and eggy. The blueberries were warm and fragrant and summery.

The Boy stayed true to meat, and ordered the classic breakfast: sausage, eggs, homefries, toast.



Oh, the sausage. Like nothing else.



And an unexpected side of crisp, delicate bacon. Homemade, of course.



And then, another surprise. A densely fruited tarte tatin with crème fraiche and caramel, flecked with fresh thyme.

"I know you want to hold on to summer," said Trevor, "but here's something to lead you into fall."



If there was ever a way to make the transition, this was it.

ONCE Cheese: a formidable formaggio feast

The thought of willingly subjecting oneself to a ten-course fromage-fest in 80-degree heat may not be the most compelling. It conjures up images of chewing on sweaty cheese (are there any two words that are less attractive together?) in a humid Limburger fug.

But last night's dinner was not likely to involve any such thing, created as it was by JJ Gonson of Cuisine en Locale and her team.

JJ's One Night Culinary Events (aka ONCEs) are designed to highlight the best in local, sustainable produce, with an emphasis on quality. To ensure the latter for this dinner, JJ had enlisted the help of Formaggio Kitchen. Expert cheesemonger Vince was on hand to talk us through each of the selections we'd be sampling during the evening.



Note the guy in the blue shirt with the microphone; apparently 'BUR was recording the event.

So — let's eat some cheese!

Course one was a Hillman Farm goat-cheese blintz with a rhubarb compote, the fruit providing a tart, refreshing contrast to the creamy filling.



Next, a fabulous Brie-like cow's milk cheese called Weybridge. It was light and grassy and perfect in a salad with peppery arugula and radishes.



And then a dish at once comforting and complex: Welsh rarebit made with tangy, nutty Pawlet, a raw cow's milk cheese from Consider Bardwell Farm.



But wait; there's more. How about a fluffy frittata made with Riley's Coat, a raw goat's milk cheese from Blue Ledge Farm with bitter greens and tiny pea tendrils?



Or a big bowl of creamy polenta with Landaff, a Caerphilly-like cheese from New Hampshire?



Landaff is one of a number of cheeses aged at the Cellars at Jasper Hill, whose vast underground vaults provide valuable aging space for the cheeses of smaller producers (and are reminiscent of the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark).

Next came the one savory dish that involved meat: a Philly cheesesteak, with beef from Stillman Farms and clothbound Cabot cheddar. Though it wasn't authentic cheesesteak (in that we didn't eat it leaning forward, feet apart, to avoid pepper-and-onion-spattered shoes) it was good enough to make me want to boo Santa.



Next, turnip and cheese. Sounds lame and sad, right? But no. This was warm, sweet, tender, roasted Hakuri turnip — you can also eat them raw — from Hutchins Farm in Concord, paired with a wedge of nutty, Gruyere-like Ascutney.



And then the last savory course, and one without which a cheese-themed dinner would be incomplete: mac & cheese. The star here was the Butterwick, made at Twig Farm in Vermont using cow's milk. The whole creamy mess was topped with potato chips for a crispy crust.



Time for dessert — ish. After the success of the bacon-as-meat-candy tart served at ONCE Beer, JJ turned it up to eleven with (be still my beating heart!) chocolate-cured bacon.

Chocolate. Cured. Bacon.

Turns out there's a place right in Somerville that creates this amazing thing. And salumiere Matthew from Happy Pig Salumi was on hand to tell us more.



And the result? Okay, the photos don't do it justice: imagine a mouthful that combines butter and oats and bacon and caramel and onions and chocolate and Bailey Hazen Blue, a raw cow cheese from Jasper Hill (they of the Cellar).



It's not the prettiest thing, but it is teh awesomest.

Okay, maybe the second-awesomest, because the final dessert was amazing: a light, creamy, ricotta semifreddo served in a fresh strawberry soup.



The fresh cheese was an ideal pairing with the sweet fruit, and was the perfect bookend to the cheese/fruit dish that started the evening.



Did we overdose on cheese? No. Will we be slamming Metamucil shots for the next week? Hardly.

Will I be more likely to look for locally produced dairy delights in future? Most definitely.

Eating our way through NYC: Part two

So, to recap: we've had Cuban sandwiches, French bistro food, and what the New York Times describes as a "high church of reverently prepared fish."

Where next?

Answer: The Morgan Library, first to check out the building (by Charles McKim and Renzo Piano), and then the holdings (manuscripts by Mark Twain, Alexander Pope, Galileo, Mozart; silver cups from first-century Rome; three, count 'em, three Gutenberg Bibles).

And then the cafe, with its oversized, horseradishy deviled eggs:



and its three-martini lunch.



Then we wandered down Broadway so I could check out the first US branch of Top Shop (verdict: cheaply made and overpriced. Much worse than the US H&M. Or perhaps I just have to accept that I haven't been in Toppo Shoppo's target demographic for, ahem, 20 years).

And then it was time to eat again, so we scooted over to A Salt and Battery, discovered that it was full to bursting (which I guess is a good thing) and repaired next door to Tea & Sympathy.

It was the first time we'd managed to get in; the place only has room for ten tables, and would frankly be more comfortable if they took a couple out. It's so small that people waiting for a table have to stand outside (not fun on a freezing January day).

On the other hand, there's a lovely selection of sponge cakes on the counter, a gregarious Bet Lynch-like manager, and a menu of bangers and mash, scotch egg and sausage roll.

It's definitely a niche, and seemingly populated by young female American Anglophiles, and so they can get away with charging (get this) $5.95 for Heinz tomato soup (yes, from a can) and $7.50 for a cheese and pickle sarnie. But it was also the rare chance for me to get my fix, so I didn't care.

We got tea, which came in mismatched china (oh, how quaint!)



And then I ordered a bacon butty (which was good — ah, proper bacon! — but could have done with a couple of slices of fried tomato to add moisture) and The Boy went for the Cornish pasty.



And that's when I realized we'd have to come back.



The meat was perfectly seasoned, deep and rich and full of flavor. There were recognizable chunks of veggies. And jus. It was one of the best Cornish pasties I'd ever tasted.

For our last meal of the visit, we went to eat oysters in the basement of a train station. (I know, it sounds a lot like getting sushi from a gas station.)

The Oyster Bar is a cavernous space just off the dining concourse underneath Grand Central. One section is laid out with long, diner-like counter seating, and the rest is ... this:



It turns out the architect, Rafael Guastavino, patented a method of creating vaulted spaces using interlocking terracotta tiles.



And his first work in the US? The Boston Public Library, for McKim, Mead and White. There. You learned something.

But we weren't there to improve our minds; we were there to consume bivalves. Luckily, the Oyster Bar has one or two choices.



We settled on four: the Bras d'Or, the Chincoteague, and two locals: Oyster Ponds and Westhampton. It was fascinating to taste the differences that location makes to the same animal. The first, from colder waters, was small and briny; the second, from warmer Virginia, was long and salty. The Oyster Ponds had an iron-ish tang, while the other Long Island type was surprisingly sweet.



It was only fitting to have champagne and toast the end of another fabulously food-filled trip.

And then we caught the train back home.

Brunch at Marliave: almost completely healthy

Recently we realized that while weeks of torrential rain suggested the world was stuck in spring, time was nonetheless creeping inexorably toward the end of summer. And with that realization came the awareness that we'd done very little al fresco dining.

So one suspiciously cloudless Sunday, we went into Boston for brunch at Marliave.

We ate at Marliave when it first reopened last year; this was the first time we'd been able to sit out on the patio.

A less optimistic diner might say the patio is marred for being down a narrow side-street with a view of trash cans and the back of the Omni Parker hotel. But its location also means you get the rare experience of sitting outside a restaurant in downtown Boston in relative peace: no traffic, no pedestrians.



Marliave has a nice cocktail menu, with simple ingredients used wisely. Here's the Waterloo (Bombay Sapphire, champagne, lemon, sugar):



But don't worry; cocktails aside, we had a very healthy lunch. The Boy went for prosciutto-wrapped figs stuffed with blue cheese (with salad! See, salad!).



And I got the deconstructed Niçoise, which was small but perfectly formed, every ingredient joyfully at the peak of its flavor:



So, see? Healthy. Salad.

Okay, so we had dessert. The Boy had the Boston Cream Pie (light and airy, yet rich and decadent).



And I tried scoops of the ginger and lavender ice cream. They were good, but for my preference not explosive enough; I was hoping for pepper in the former and bright floral in the latter. Still, pretty.



And that was it. A reasonably healthy brunch. Vegetables, etc.

What? Hiding something? Me?

Oh, okay. There may have been an appetizer. The rarebit.

It may have involved a small amount of cheese and just a sprinkle of bacon.



There may have been a need for thick slices of toast to mop it up.



(Quick, over here! Salad!)

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.

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!

Foodie hell in Orlando

Okay, maybe "hell" is overstating the case slightly. And perhaps "Orlando" is too broad an area to disparage, as I stayed within the confines of a golf resort 25 miles from downtown. And I suppose it's even a stretch to call myself a "foodie," given that my predilection for eating, and talking about eating, is a trait shared with, oh, just about the entire population.

But if I'd titled this post "A few not-very-good meals in a golf resort somewhere in Florida," where's the fun in that?

In fairness, I wasn't there for fun; I was at the Healthcare Internet Conference, a fabulous few days of full-on marketing nerdery with 450 other people looking to figure out how to make their hospital websites more inviting, valuable and user-friendly. From that perspective, it was great, and I came away with a notebook of scribble and a list of ideas to put into practice.

But outside of conference hours, I was pretty much on my own for foraging purposes. Had this been New York or Miami, I could have strolled out of the hotel and into any number of dining options. Instead, I was surrrounded by 36 holes of Greg Norman-designed lawn atop what was once swamp.



So I ate:

• A straight-from-the-fridge sports-bar chopped salad, arranged on the plate as though intended for a child going through the "none of my foods can touch each other" phase
• A chocolate croissant topped with icing
• A blackened grouper sandwich with the consistency of a sock
• This:

Disturbing as the above looks, it was a godsend; being a high-end resort, prices were elevated, and my travel budget didn't include meals. So the hors d'oeuvres served during the early evening networking session became dinner, supplemented by

• Trail mix and bananas.

Perhaps, then, you can understand my gratitude when I arrived back in Boston, and The Boy met me at the airport and said, "Let's go to Hungry Mother."

An hour later, I was sipping a gin martini sweetened with honey syrup and sharing a bowl of boiled peanuts. And then this arrived.



A choucroute of collard greens topped with a pork rib, a thick slice of bacon, and the most amazing garlic sausage I've had in ages.

There's no place like home.

Au Pied de Cochon: pig-out, Montreal style

The Boy's birthday coincided with our trip to Montreal, so when I asked where he wanted to go for his celebratory meal, he had an immediate answer: Au Pied de Cochon.

Both our previous Montreal trips had included visits to this palace of porkiness; it's one of those restaurants that, when brought up in conversation, causes a Pavlovian reaction for us. And we were pretty sure The Boy's parents would approve. (They did. Oh, boy, they did.)

Au Pied de Cochon is a long, narrow, noisy room, with clusters of tables at both ends and a bar that runs the length of the intervening space. If you sit at the bar, you get to watch the chefs at work in the tiny kitchen.

On past visits, we've sat at a table in front, squished between other diners and subject to waiter traffic. This time, we got a table at the back of the room, which felt a little calmer (though no less cacophonous).



We started with a plate of cochonailles (which, as we learned from the pig-fest at Craigie Street Bistrot, kind of translates to "little bits of porkular loveliness"). And then to the main event.

The Boy's mom went for the signature dish, a fabulous plate of pig's foot braised until fall-apart tender, with pommes purées and a crispy mushroom-cream-filled cake.



The Boy's dad had the lamb shank confit.



Do I even need to say how gloriously moist and juicy and fatty it was? (Wanna make it yourself? Here's a recipe. Stock up on duck fat.)

I had the PDC Melting Pot, a crock stuffed with pommes purées topped with garlic pork sausage, blood sausage, pork belly and bacon, as well as a couple of sweet roasted onions. Yes, it looks obscene. No, I couldn't eat the whole thing, though I gave it a damn good try.



And The Boy?

On our first visit, he'd considered getting the poutine with foie gras because it seemed so decadent. On our second--having actually tried poutine--he thought about it but passed for something else. And then we made our own version of posh poutine at home, and he came to fully grasp its potential.

When we started to talk about taking his parents to Montreal, he mentioned the poutine with foie gras. When we discussed going to Au Pied de Cochon, he observed that they had poutine with foie gras.

And so, finally, he got what he wanted. It may look like hell, but it tastes like heaven.



Au Pied de Cochon is a fun, lively place. (And loud. Did I mention it's loud?) The crowd is young and hip, the staff are cute in a tousled punk/pirate sort of way, and the restroom is awesome:



Yes, that's a full-on dishwashing sink with rinsing nozzle. And yes, the hand towels are in a steam table.

Oh, and they have a dish called canard en conserve--or, en anglais, the less-romantic-sounding duck in a can. The adorable chef/waiter couple from Toronto, sitting at the next table (close enough that we could follow their conversation, apparently) ordered it, and we got to watch as it was served. From the can. A can-opener is involved.

I wasn't able to take photos, so I direct you to Claudine's gorgeous frame-by-frame reveal on Flickr. And take a look at the rest of her PDC set; her camera skeelz are much better than mine!

Anyway, we have to go back. We still haven't tried the duck carpaccio, or the bison tongue, or the venison tongue, or the (gasp!) pied de cochon stuffed with (gasp!) foie gras, or ...