If it's fried, it must be at the Big E

Today we made the pilgrimage to The Big E, the multi-state state fair in Western Mass, to do two things:

1) Eat disgusting fried food
2) Check out the farm animals

Let's take them in reverse order.

Cows!



Sheep!



Woolly and naked sheep!



Mexican wrestler sheep!



Just-back-from-jazzercise sheep!



Real Sheep of Beverly Hills!



Okay, enough of that. Now to the food.

One of my goals was to find a place selling deep-fried butter, which debuted at the Texas State Fair in 2009, hit Iowa earlier this year and finally (finally!) showed up on the East Coast.

Butter? Meh! How about this?



It was a tough decision, but we opted for the butter and the Kool-Aid.



The latter, it turned out, would be easy to replicate at home: the secret ingredient is Kool-Aid powder in the batter, with a generous amount shaken like sugar over the dough while it's still hot. Inside, they're a stunning color not found in nature.



And they were pretty good; the slightly tart flavor of the drink powder gave a nice contrast to the sweet dough.

And then to the other. The secret is to freeze the pats of butter so that they don't immediately soak into the dough. There's a pool of hot, cinnamon-sugary butter inside each ball, which means you have to eat them very carefully.



I liked the butter better; The Boy had expected a more salty, savory taste, so preferred the hot pink variety. Neither of us felt the need to eat anything else for a while.

After a couple of hours of sheep/cow/piglet/chicken/goat-gazing, however, we were ready for more. In particular, I had my eye on something I'd seen advertised in previous years but never tried: the Craz-E Burger.

All I knew was that you could buy t-shirts that said something like, "I finished the Craz-E burger!" which led me to assume it was either so huge, or so rich, or so labor-intensive to devour that the few who did so were hailed as champions.

Now I realize that it's because the Craz-E burger is crap.

Thing is, when I think "bacon-cheeseburger inside a doughnut," I imagine a hot, fragrant Krispy Kreme, fresh out of the oven, glistening with melted sugar, enveloping a patty of sirloin, cooked medium. The cheese is melting onto the meat; the bacon is crisp. The flavors dance together, varying levels of sweetness and saltiness playing off each other, creating a perfectly balanced whole.

This is what we got.





The doughnut was cold, the meat was gray, the cheese probably didn't even possess the capacity to melt. And yes, maybe I shouldn't have expected more from something served up at a state fair, but still. It was sad.

Thank goodness happiness was close by.





Hot, salty, with a crisp batter and perfectly soft cheese.

Then, as we have on previous visits, we headed to the houses of the individual New England states for dessert: rich, eggy Finnish pancakes with blueberry sauce;



and fresh raspberries.



And then, just because: a piece of bacon covered in dark chocolate. That's how you do the sweet-salty thing.



All in all, a fun trip, though not one we need to make again for another couple of years. The attractions were pretty much the same as on our previous visit (we later realized we'd taken photos of the exact same food stalls in 2009 as we did in 2011), and state-fair-food trends move so gradually that we're not likely to miss out on the next deep-fried delicacy if we skip a season.

Though I can't say the same about the spring line of sheep fashion ...

Animal: Would you like some meat with your meat?

Back in April, the New Yorker published a piece about two longtime friends ("the Bill and Ted of the Los Angeles culinary scene") and their restaurant, Animal.

By the time I'd finished the article (" ... maple-sausage gravy and foie gras ..." "... lamb-tongue ravioli ..." "... experimenting with veal testicles ...") I knew: I wanted to go to there.

So when we were planning our California trip, much like with San Francisco and Chez Panisse, reserving a table at Animal was the next step after booking the hotel.

This is one of those times when I'll just let the food do the talking.

Here's the room: sparse, clean, well-lit.



(The guy in the white jacket standing at the bar is Daily Show correspondent Josh Gadd, who had recently filed a rather relevant story. He was the 0.5 of our 1.5 celeb sightings in LA.)

To begin, a plate of head cheese, mixed with vinegary ramps and topped with three nuggets of sweet cornbread:



And rich, deep chicken liver pâté on toast.



Next, pig's ear, sliced thin, fried crispy with chiles, finished with lime, topped with a fried egg.



This was perfectly balanced: just as the heat threatened to become overwhelming, the citrus kicked in and took over. And mixed with warm egg yolk? Crispy heaven.



We'd only ordered one more dish — the oxtail poutine — but figured we could always get something else.

And then it came.



Big soft fries, soaking up rich, complex gravy and tender meat, with cheddar cheese pulling the whole thing together. It was awesome, over the top, decadent, potentially fatal.

So rather than ordering more meat, we skipped to dessert. Something nice and light. Pound cake with strawberries? Dulce de leche, perhaps, or panna cotta with nectarines?

Nope.



Bacon-chocolate crunch bar. Dark and sweet, salty and smoky. Sweeter than the Vosges bar, and better balanced, perhaps because there were other flavors to even out the contrast (nuts, plus a salt-and-pepper crème anglaise).

In the same way dinner at Au Pied de Cochon is a necessary part of our trips to Montreal, I suspect all future visits to Los Angeles will automatically include a meal at Animal.

Sooo ... when can we go back??

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.

Bacon's bad! No, it's good! No, it's on the rocks!

I'm the last person to pay attention to media reports on the health risks of food, on the premise that, much like New England weather, a ten-minute wait will see the wind blowing in the opposite direction (see salt, wine, eggs, et cetera).

But even I was perturbed by the recent revelation that eating processed meats could increase one's risk of cancer. You know what that means? Ham. Sausage.

And ... yes ... (no!) ... yes. Bacon.



If this is wrong, then I don't wanna be right.

Apparently, it's also bad for the lungs (what? You're not supposed to snort it, people!!).

Which is why it's so damned agonizing that, in this (slightly tired) age of molecular gastronomy and culinary science, we now have a gajillion ways to celebrate bacon. And as if that weren't enough, there's now a movement--albeit tentative--toward bacon cocktails. It's just not fair.

But wait ... did I just see the weather-vane spin to the west? Have the clouds given way to blue skies? Because now we have a report from UT Houston suggesting that nitrate-rich foods may help heart-attack victims recover more quickly.

So ... we should eat enough bacon to prevent a coronary, but not so much we stop breathing. Oh, it's all so confusing.

I need a drink.

Vosges bacon chocolate: the verdict. Finally.

Yes, after months (months!) of searching, I found it. The WholeFoodses in Cambridge and Austin may have come up short, but in New York you can find anything, including Vosges new flavor, Mo's Bacon Bar.

(If you don't know why this find was so thrilling, this post about chocolate from June should help.)

I had considered doing the taste test as a videocast, but as soon as I realized I was spending way too much time deciding what to wear (for my big break!), I figured it would be best just to write the play by play.

I took the chocolate out of the fridge and let it come up to room temperature. And then we began.

Vosges' bars are hermetically sealed, so there's no way to get a sense of the aroma until you split open the foil wrapper.

Here we go.

Inhale. Smoky; a subtle saltiness.

I'd been hoping for cartoon-like rashers poking out through the chocolate. I guess that would have been asking for too much.

First bite.

Oh.

Wow.

Oh wow yes.

It starts out creamy, buttery, velvet smooth, with a definite smokiness. And then a unmistakable baconiness--hints of fat, nut, spice (juniper?) and a slight crunch (that's the smoked salt).

The finish is salty, but not overwhelimg. Kind of like the peanut butter-chocolate combo, but better. Salt and bacon crunch between the teeth.

When you let it melt in your mouth, you're left with tiny nuggets of bacon, which then dissolve like a whisper. Careful sucking and tonguework removes the chocolate to reveal, on close inspection, perfect little lardons.

Milk chocolate (41% cacao) was a good choice for this; dark would have overwhelmed the bacon's smokiness, I think. It's not overly sweet and provides a balanced counterpoint to the more savory tastes.

The Boy reckons this is the best of Vosges' flavors; the others are great, but this is the most carefully considered and well executed yet. And he also says I should make sure to mention that it frickin' ROCKS.

Breakin' bacon news

This morning, during our weekly grocery run, I checked in with the people at WholeFoods' cheese department to see whether they were likely to get the Vosges chocolate bar with bacon any time soon.

"Oh yeah, I heard about that," said the assistant cheesemonger. "Let me go check."

He came back with another guy, obviously the Big Cheese (oh, like you didn't see that coming), who explained that any new inventory additions needed to be approved at a regional level before making it to individual branches.

But there was an added wrinkle. An extra-thick rind, if you will.

"If it turns out the bacon has nitrates, we won't order any," he said. "That's what happened to the wasabi bar; turned out it had Yellow No. 5, so we stopped carrying it."

So WholeFood's selections of chocolate, wine, butter, beef, heavy cream, pork-liver terrine and brie are all healthy dietary choices, but a little nitrate is going to kill ya? Yeah, I know, I know ...

As we're heading to Austin in a week, home of WholeFoods' flagship store (80,000 square feet of organics, including walk-in beer cooler! Chocolate fountain! Live music!), I can check to see whether they care about nitrates. They probably do, the spoilsports.

And of course, worst-case scenario is just ordering some from the Vosges website, nitrates and all ...

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.