Momofuku Ko-My-God

We just celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. FIFTEEN. WHAT?? It's crazy that I've spent almost one-third of my life married to The Boy, but there you go. We're still having fun, even during the medical crappiness of the last couple of years.

So how to mark the event? We left it kind of late to do anything big, partly because I was due to start the new ritual of weekly chemo and twice-a-day radiation and we didn't know how I'd feel. As it turned out, I was doing okay, so with just over a week to go, we found a hotel in New York and booked train tickets for the following weekend.

The big question, of course: Where to eat?

Scoping around for something new, I checked in with our friend Eric, who a) reminded us that he and his wife had recently had a fab meal at Momofuku Ko and b) pointed out that reservations for our Saturday night would open up the following day.

Okay, sold.

In theory, at least.

The deal with Ko is that they have 12 seats — not tables, seats — which become available ten days ahead at 10am. The trick is to be online at 9:58am and hit "refresh" constantly.

So I was. Click, click, click. Refresh, refresh, refresh. One minute to go ... 9:59:48 ... click ...

Ten o'clock. Click.

No availability.

WHAT??

Yep, them's the breaks. Luckily, I also knew to keep clicking; people cancel, spaces open up. And lo, after only another 30 minutes of hitting "refresh," I saw an opening. Click. Got it.

(And then another couple of heart-pounding, adrenaline-filled minutes where I had to fill in contact details and give a credit card number while a timer counted down 120 seconds. Aaagh, the number's wrong! Aagh, I can't spell my own name! This, it seems, is why I'm not cut out for the bomb squad.)

So, after a fun day in Manhattan, including a lovely pub lunch at Jones Wood Foundry (bangers and mash! Steak and kidney pie! Listening to New Yorkers concerned about the contents of toad in the hole!) and a romantic walk through a rainy, misty, almost-deserted Central Park, we headed to the East Village.

Okay, a disclaimer now: Ko is known for discouraging photography. As the website puts it:

may i take pictures?
no.

Which would hurt less if I hadn't found 600+ Ko photos on Flickr.

But whatevs. No lovely food shots here, but a few observations to give you a sense of the experience.

The room is long and narrow, and dominated by a counter running down the middle. On one side are 12 stools; on the other, three guys with sharp knives and a lot of stainless steel.

The music is eclectic — Wilco, Pink Floyd, NWA ("it's the big boss man's iPod," we're told) — though loud; we have to shout to communicate allergies to the staff, and we don't always hear all the details of each dish as they're presented.

That, combined with the fear of being yelled at for pulling out a phone, means we don't take notes. And it's hard to remember all ten courses plus snacky extras.

Still, there was:

Light-as-air chicharrón dusted with huitlacoche;
Melty Spanish mackerel contrasted with pickled shallots and blood orange;
Tiny, delicate shrimp with a texture I can only describe as creamy, something I've never encountered before;
A rich potato chowder with soft littleneck clams and andouille (just outside my current capacity for spicy food, but still fabulous);
Venison tartare, served under sunchoke and Brussels sprout leaves and over fermented black beans. No, shut up, it was insane. The venison was like maguro in texture, the beans added a deeper meaty angle, the leaves gave a crunchy foil to the soft flesh. The only thing even more better was the egg.

Ohhh, the egg. Soft-boiled, smoked, served with a generous spoonful of caviar on top of buttered onions. Simple, right? Oh look, here's a recipe. And a better picture.

The other dish often cited in discussions of Ko is the lychees with Riesling geleé topped with chilled, shaved foie. It's like a rich, grown-up, sophisticated sundae. Sadly, by the time it appears for us, I'm dragging — it's well past my bedtime — so I can't give it the full attention it deserves.

And I hardly touch the last savory course, a tender piece of duck with baby turnip and berries. Which makes me feel bad, especially as the poor guy firing up the first batch accidentally set the whole pan alight and had to start over.

Oh, a word on the chefs. There are some jobs I'm just not cut out for: teacher, nurse, anything in sales. Add to that: Cooking in a tiny restaurant where you're almost nose-to-nose with the diners. These guys had an incredible Zen-like approach, calmly, methodically prepping and plating, slicing translucent slivers of fish, using tweezers to pick out the perfect microgreen garnishes, trimming meat down to its tastiest essence, while dealing with distracting customer chit-chat. I'd last ten minutes before I was throwing plates across the room.

Desserts were lovely — a coconut-lime sorbet with meringue and banana and a sour-orange sorbet with panna cotta, Earl Grey and caramel — but seemingly not as creative as the mains. Which reminded us of dinner at Rosanjin, in which a dinner of dishes in a formal, traditional Japanese style concluded with ... cheesecake and strawberry ice cream. So maybe it's a thing.

After about two and a half hours, we rolled out, tired and full and happy. Ko goes in our Top Ten Meals of All Time.

And now I'm back to sucking scrambled eggs and milkshakes. At least I still have tastebuds, for now. Once they're gone, I'll entertain myself with looking at photos of dinner at Ko.

Other people's photos, anyway.

Be-Ro gingerbread recipe: Good British baking

I don't have a huge collection of cookbooks, but among my prize possessions are three editions of the Be-Ro Home Recipes book. It's a slim little volume, published by a flour company founded in the north of England in the 1920s. My oldest volume is from 1957; my newest, the fortieth edition, is from 2007.



I like them because they're a link to my childhood, and to weekends spent baking butterfly cakes and drop scones with my mom.

And they're a way to chart changes in British baking: there's no quiche or pizza in the '57 book, though there is something called milk bread (1lb plain flour, 1 tsp salt, half a pint of milk, mixed well and baked for an hour at 375-425 degrees — how's that for an exact science?).

The '57 has exactly two recipes that call for chocolate, while the '07 has 15. Simpler cakes like walnut and cherry are still with us, but now stand alongside coconut-lime loaf and peach-butterscotch pudding (um, eww?).

Some things are constant, though: Victoria sponge, Welsh griddle cakes (amazingly on page 9 of all three editions), Swiss roll.

And all three have a type of gingerbread, which is what I was hankering for today. I wanted to go with the '57 recipe, but wasn't sure about measurement; how much milk is in a teacupful?



Instead, I went with the most recent edition's gingerbread recipe.

English baking recipes measure by weight instead of volume, so a kitchen scale is a good thing. As this gingerbread is so good, I decided to convert the measurements so I could share it with y'all.

Warning: This gingerbread contains a lot of sugary, buttery goodness. If your name rhymes with Taller Green, do not attempt.

Start by heating the oven to 300 degrees, and grease an 8" square pan (unless, like me, you use silicone. What did I do before silicone??)

Two cups flour
A pinch of salt
Two teaspoons of ground ginger (or three if you want it super-gingery)
One teaspoon of allspice
One teaspoon of baking soda
Half a cup of light brown sugar
Half a cup of molasses
A quarter cup of golden syrup (treacle)
One! Stick! Of butter!
Half a cup of milk
Two eggs, beaten

What is golden syrup, you ask? It's like molasses's blonder brother; in Britain it's used in baking, and you can also spread it on toast like super-sweet honey. You can find it at Amazon; one can goes a long way.



Sift the flour into a big mixing bowl and add the rest of the dry ingredients.



In a small saucepan, combine the molasses, treacle and butter. Heat it slowly while the butter melts, but don't let it bubble.

Important note: This part smells uhhh-mazing. Be sure not to miss the chance to inhale deeply over the pan. It's like hot buttered rum without the booze.



Once the butter has melted, take the pan off the heat and add the milk. Then let it cool completely before adding the eggs (so you don't cook them) and stirring everything together.

Pour the wet ingredients onto the dry and mix well. The batter will be quite runny. Pour it into the baking pan (or rubber square, if you will).



Bake for an hour, or until a knife comes out clean.

Let it cool in the pan until you can't bear to wait any more. Slice it into generous squares while it's still slightly warm. You might need a fork, as it's sticky. This is good.



From reading other recipes containing treacle, my guess is that this will improve with age. My other guess is that this won't be around long enough for us to find out.

Eating everything in York

While we were in England over the Christmas holiday, we took the train to York to meet up with Julie, who I've known since we were 4 years old. She lives in London, so I get to see her only rarely. Though York isn't exactly halfway between us, it's the most attractive option for hanging out (sorry, Peterborough and Doncaster). And it was a good opportunity to eat.

First stop, while we were still in the railway station: the West Cornwall Pasty Co (warning: website is an impenetrable Flash nightmare). We were drawn in by the enormous pastries, but ended up ordering a lovely, warm Cumberland sausage bun.



And then Julie's train arrived, and we all set out into the cold, damp day to find Bettys.

One of the greatest misapprehensions about the English is that we spend a significant part of every day drinking tea and eating tiny, crustless sandwiches.

While it's true that My People do put away a fair amount of tea — in preparation for visiting my parents, The Boy and I have to increase our caffeine tolerance — the whole china-tea-service-and-dainty-cakes concept is a special event, not a daily occurrence.

But though English people have more important things to do than eat petits fours and sip Earl Grey every day, that's not to say they don't enjoy it, given the chance. Bettys, a 100-year-old chain of teashops local to Yorkshire, fulfills the need.

The York branch is the flagship, allegedly designed to resemble the Queen Mary. It's a good mix of solid brass and delicate stained glass, with huge wraparound windows, which are great when you're inside, staring at the long line of people waiting outside for a table.





Bettys menu is pretty extensive — everything from toasted teacakes to steak pie, with a wide variety of teas and coffees. We thought about doing the full-on afternoon tea (sandwiches, scones and clotted cream), but then Julie and I decided on the Yorkshire Rarebit (strong Cheddar and Yorkshire ale):



The Boy went for the bacon, Gruyère and Raclette rösti, creamy and sweet with a touch of smoky saltiness:



And then, because it's a Bettys thing: Fat Rascals.



They're scone-like, with raisins and candied fruit, and a face made of almonds and cherries. They're fabulous warm with butter. Here's a Fat Rascals recipe.



Finally, stuffed with cheese and Rascals, we stumbled back out into the gray, damp day, and strolled around York Minster. You want history? This version of the building was begun in 1080. The first church on the site was thrown together in 627. Old enough?



Oh look, more pasties.



Back in my day, pasties came in two styles: meat and potato or cheese and onion. Now you can get everything: pork and apple, balti chicken, something with feta (!?). The world has changed.

One last stop on the way back to York train station: Demijohn, which sells artisanal oils, spirits, vinegars and preserves siphoned out of ... well ...



We got to sample the sloe gin, which was berry-bitter, refreshing and warming.



And then back to the station for hugs goodbye and a train heading north and the realization that there was so much more food to discover.

Thanks for a fab day, Joolz!

Eating Christmas in England

We spent Christmas with my parents in England while the country was wearily digging out from the tail end of a two-month snow emergency.





Though things were more or less back to normal, we were happy to embrace snowboundness and stay home, where there was a cozy fire and copious quantities of Christmas foodstuffs.

On Christmas Eve, The Boy and I made the traditional Puerto Rican dinner, more or less: roast pork (pernil), here in its "before" state:



and the coconut custard tembleque for dessert. We used this easy tembleque recipe, which was made more entertaining by the use of my mom's magic stirring gadget:



Christmas lunch, of course: roast beef, roast potatoes done in goose fat, Yorkshire puddings ditto, roast parsnips and carrots, Brussels sprouts and lovely cauliflower cheese.



And the very necessary Christmas pudding with custard:



Christmas pudding is one of my favorite things, possibly because I know there's only one serving a year. I love the sticky-sweetness of the fruit and the extra-hot custard. Actually, I'd still love it if I could eat it all year round.

The family came over on Boxing Day. We made sandwiches and chocolate cake, benne wafers and key lime pie. And there were quiches and cheeses and prosciutto and dates. And people brought more chocolate cake, and carrot cake, and my aunt's famous corned beef pie:



My dad did a ham, which means not pre-brined, pre-flavored meat, but raw fresh pork leg. This is also one of my favorite Christmas things.



So are mince pies, here served warm with Greek yogurt (okay, not traditional Christmas fare, but it works):



And not particularly related to Christmas, but certainly connected to fabulous pork products, black pudding.



Also, my mom makes an amazing fruited tea loaf.



And none of this includes our trip to York. Mayhap we found pork and pastries and cheese there too, hmmm?

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.

Lansdowne Pub: Magically delicious chips!

Remember how disappointed I was with the uneven, dry chips at the Battery?

It doesn't really matter any more. Because I found a place that does the closest thing to real, proper chips.

Last week, the Lansdowne Pub opened, so I went with lovely co-worker Sarah and new co-worker Eric to check it out.

In its corporate attempt to create the atmosphere of ye olde taverne from scratch, it's everything I dislike: 4,000 cozy square feet of faux-traditional, newly distressed, dark-wood bar room. A Pogues/Van Morrison/Cranberries soundtrack. Walls decorated with carefully distressed tchotchkes and cloth-bound books, Guinness posters and HDTVs showing sports.



I was all ready for a menu of authentic Irish dishes such as nachos and quesdillas and buffalo wings and chili.

But the Lansdowne's options were actually interesting. Yes, there were the usual bangers & mash and shepherd's pie and beef stew, but there were also pork chops, oysters, mussels, salmon—items that could easily appear on a trad/modern Irish menu but, at least in Boston, rarely do.

The Lansdowne also does the ubiquitious full-on fry-up breakfast on weekends, and what may be a proper Sunday roast. I shall investigate further.

But what gave me most hope was that they had chips with a variety of toppings: gravy, curry sauce, mushy peas, baked beans.

So Sarah ordered the grilled cheese sandwich, and was going to order a side of chips until the waitress explained they came with her dish anyway. And then this arrived:



"I thought you said it came with chips," Sarah said to our waitress, who rolled her eyes.

"You know, I keep telling them they should change the wording on the menu," she said. "People are always getting this confused."

Okay, so why didn't you clarify this before we ordered??

Eric went for the fish sandwich, which did really come with chips:



The fish itself was lovely:



And I ordered the ploughman's lunch. This was something of a test: in England, you can tell a lot about a pub from its ploughman's, which is, at its core, bread and a wedge of cheese, but can range from those ingredients alone to a feast of cured meats, pork pie, boiled eggs, salad and fruit.

And it turned out to be better than expected:



The bread was fabulous, light and nutty; the cheddar could have been stronger; the salad was okay (no one expects tomatoes to taste of anything in April anyway); and it came with an interesting tomato chutney, as well as Branston pickle, to which I am addicted.

And then there was the meat:



The camera doesn't lie: that's about how appetizing it was. Basically thin-sliced deli turkey and beef, it was cold, clammy, and completely without flavor. I'd seriously suggest that the Lansdowne ditch it and serve a couple of cold sausages instead.

Oh, and the chips?



As good as it gets without going to a proper chippy. Soft and pliant, not too dry or too greasy, held salt and vinegar well. Better than most late-night post-club takeaways back home, at least. I'm usually able to restrain myself from eating a whole plate of chips, but it took willpower not to finish the lot.

The Lansdowne Pub isn't the cheapest lunch option—my bread and cheese set me back $13—but I'm glad it's there for when I get the insatiable urge for real proper chips.

The curd tart disappears

If you grew up in the north of England, your mum (and her mum, and maybe her mum) had a Be-Ro Home Recipes book, which was the Bible for basic bakery.

My mum has used the recipes for so long that she doesn't even need the book any more. It's all in her head.

It's a great no-nonsense resource for traditional pastries and puddings: pork pie, dropped scones, bakewell tart (an almond/ground-rice cake over a jam filling), toffee pudding (first ingredient: suet. Don't start), and the ultimate Christmas cake.

I have two: the 38th and 40th editions. Neither has a publication date. Only one has a barcode.




Check the not-very-PC photo of the woman passing on womanly skills to the girl while the boy looks on with satisfaction.



"I will make an obedient helpmeet!"

Anyway, back to the point.

For Easter, I decided to dip into the book and make something I hadn't eaten since I was a kid: curd tart. It's a very simple cheesecake variation; though the traditional method uses curd (which not even WholeFoods carries), it's often made with cottage cheese.

Stop going "Ewwww!" Just be patient.

Curd tart recipe
6oz short pastry

1 cup cottage cheese
4 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons currants
1 egg
1.5oz butter, melted
cinnamon and nutmeg
(I also added a little lemon zest)

Line a shallow dish with the pastry. Mix all other ingredients together. Bake at 425F for 15-20 minutes.





It's not dense like cheesecake; it's more like a ricotta dessert, with just enough of the nutmeg/raisin/creamy combination to feel traditionally English without it freaking anyone out. No lard here.

I noticed, though, that the curd tart recipe was in the 38th ed. of the book, but not in the most recent one. Pineapple upside-down cake was also missing (replaced by upside-down peach and butterscotch pudding—eww!). As was the toffee pudding and the malted fruit loaf.

Replacing them were a coconut lime loaf, a "monster-faced pizza" and the dubiously named Sticky Blobs.

It's not often I shed a tear for the passing of tradition. And I understand food trends shift and change. Still, I'm sad that recipes I grew up with are archived in favor of exotic flavor combinations and fun foods for kids. They're not even on the Be-Ro website's recipe list.

My 38th edition lost its staples a while ago; the cover is spotted with dry dough and the pages are stained and warped. But I'll hang on to it for as long as it's legible.