Il brutto, il buono, il formaggio

This week I sat in on a cheese tasting class at BU's Metropolitan College, part of their Seminars in Food, Wine & the Arts program.

It was LC Sarah's idea to go, she being as much of a cheese-lover as I, and we met up with her friend Pooja and grabbed a table for three.

The class wasn't as full as I'd expected, and certainly not as busy as when we've been there for cocktail classes with Jackson Cannon. Which was surprising, given that our instructor was as big (if not bigger) in the cheese world than Jackson is in the, uh, spirit world: Ihsan Gurdal, owner of Formaggio Kitchen.

As a bonus (like we needed an incentive), class participants got a copy of The Cheese Primer, a nice introduction to worldwide cheese regions.



In the angled mirror above the counter, you can see the reflection of the evening's intensive study focus.



Ihsan got straight into the important stuff: cheese storage. Saran wrap was right out, because it messes with the cheese's natural moisture balance; wax paper was better. At the Formaggio in Cambridge, Ihsan has built a cheese cave to replicate perfect storage conditions. For the rest of us, the salad crisper in the fridge is the best option (who knew?).

He explained the importance of checking cut cheese for a shiny coating (the result of oils rising to the surface), and of scraping it off, because the oils quickly turn rancid and spoil the flavor. And he described the best way to slice a cheese: in wedges that include both the center and the outside, because the flavor is different at the core than at the rind.

Then he outlined the differences between cheese made with goat, sheep, and cow milk: how the first is the most sensitive to pasteurization; the second is fattier; the third is most common because it's available year-round. How the first milking of the morning produces creamier liquid, because the animals have been resting and digesting all night. How the grazing location (high altitude, for instance) or season (dictating availability of herbs and wildflowers) creates variations in the same cheese throughout the year.

And he talked about how he builds relationships with cheese producers, buying directly from the source, rather than going through importers and distributers. This allows him to find small-scale suppliers and unusual varieties, but also means he has to win over producers who are reluctant to sell outside of Europe.

Ihsan recounted visiting a producer in France who houses thousands of wheels of cheese in an old underground fortress and doing a taste-test under the affineur's watchful eye.

"I taste pineapple," he said, "and ... hazelnuts."

"Hazelnuts? French or Italian? Skin on or skin off? Roasted or unroasted?"

Luckily for us, he passed the test.

The class (consisting largely of women who were all, I think, quite taken with our raconteur), sat in rapt silence while he shared anecdotes of travel, and tasting, and discovery.



And then we started on our own taste adventure.

First, two goat's milk cheeses: Meg's Big Sunshine from Ruggles Hill Creamery (check out the photos of their awesome goats!) and Robiola di capra al fico from Piedmont, Italy.





Both were creamy and butttery, with a slight citrus hint. I preferred the American over the Italian, but it was close.

The red stuff on the top plate is an insanely good strawberry-rose jam from Blue Chair.

Next up, sheeps. Ihsan served up two Corsican cheeses with both the best-smelling and worst-smelling rinds evar. The good was the Saveur du maquis (literally "taste of the brush"), the outside of which was coated with the same scrub vegetation that the sheep eat: juniper, rosemary, thyme, and other herbs. It smelled like Sunday lunch and tasted amazing.



The ugly, at the other end of the spectrum, was L'Empereur. The cheese was nice enough — slightly crumbly, with a rich flavor — but the rind is rubbed with lamb fat, which gives it an aroma best described as litière de chat.

Breathe it in, won't you?



Then we moved on to cow's milk cheese: a creamy, fabulous comté from Marcel Petite (he of the underground cheese fortress)



and Wavreumont from Belgium. It's made in a style once practiced at monasteries, and it has strong flavor; Sarah described it in her notes as "funky monk." 'Nuff said.



And then the last tasting: blue cheeses. First, Stichelton, an unpasteurized cow's-milk variety from Nottinghamshire, buttery, creamy, with notes of caramel.



And then Blu di Capra stagionato at its ripest. Check out this beast. Meant either to kill or cure.



Okay, maybe that's an overstatement. Alls I know is that my still-baby tastebuds are not quite ready for the intensity of flavor in a blue like this. My notes read, "IT BURNS! IT BURNS!" so I wasn't able to identify anything more subtle.

Lest you think this put a damper on the evening, rest easy. I added another item to my list of Things I Can't Eat Yet, discovered some amazing new cheeses (and jams and honeys and wines), and found an excellent excuse to make a trip to Huron Village.

So, who's up for a cheese-tasting party?

Things we ate at the 2011 Cambridge Carnival

Saturday was the Cambridge Carnival, an annual celebration with live music, a parade down Main Street, and Caribbean food.

Which of the three did we care about most? Hmmm ...

The food booths were in Kendall Square, so that's where we started. First, the booth for La Auténtica, which we assumed was a local restaurant, though I can find no trace of it in the Internets; not a review, not a location, nada.

I'm pretty sure we didn't make up the just-enough-filling, not-too-fried, hand-sized empanadas:



Or the amarillo with a mainline of cheese:



Or the golf-ball relleno de papa, where the fried sphere of mashed potato had a core of chorizo:



And we certainly didn't make up that those three items cost $15. Fifteen! Bucks!

Mind you, they were pretty filling. We couldn't manage anything else right then, so we headed down to the Central Square end of Main. And just as we were about to turn back, we realized the parade was starting right in front of us.











Yes, for some reason, that is Predator. In a thong.

And then we started back toward the food.

Every summer, we try to get to at least one of the handful of local multicultural festivals, with the basic aim of finding two items: the empanada (or Jamaican beef patty) and the fishcake. We'd already checked the first one off the list, and we'd seen a likely candidate for the other.

Aha — fishcake!



However, there were three problems:

1) There was much more cake than fish, and the batter was thick and heavy;

2) The cakes had been fried some hours back and then stored in an aluminum tray covered in foil, where the steam made them even more stodgy and dense;

3) There was a special secret inside, in the shape of fiendishly spicy peppers. My still-baby tastebuds did not do well with this; The Boy (who is no wimp) bit into a generous slice of pepper and had to spit it gracefully into a napkin.

Our tongues ablaze, we headed for the best antidote: a mozzarella-stuffed arepa, bursting with sweet corn flavor. It put out the fire and served as a reasonable solution to dessert.



That evening, the air carried a definite hint of fall. If summer is really over, at least it went out on a lively note.

Things we ate at the Cambridge Carnival

Rellenos de papa:



Empanadas:



Which came from this stall:



Platanos and a cod fritter:



The fritter was a little undercooked in the center, but the plantains were perfect.



And some delicious, peppery, homemade ginger beer, the sinus-clearing powers of which cannot be adequately illustrated here:



And then we watched the parade:











And we got to pretend that summer would continue for a while longer.

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?

Hungry Mother

New to Cambridge: Hungry Mother, a restaurant that sounds like a '70s prog rock band but serves up lovely southern comfort food, courtesy of a Virginia-raised, French-trained chef.

It's on the site of the former Kendall Cafe, but any signs of that live-music venue are long gone, and the look is urban-rustic-moderne: dark wooden floors, white wood, muted colors.

Sounds like a million other bistros, it's true. At Hungry Mother, the differences are in the details, specifically:

• Water is served in Mason jars, giving a laid-back, down-home touch to an otherwise sophisticated setting.

• The restrooms are papered with cookbook pages: Julia Child's classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking in one, The Virginia Housewife in the other. Not only does this suggest someone at Hungry Mother has a fundamental passion for homestyle cooking (and a sense of humor), it also turns a trip to the loo into a chance to learn how to pickle walnuts.

(That could be a new euphemism: "'Scuse me a minute--I have to go learn how to pickle walnuts.")

• The whole place smells. Like. Ham. Not something you'd necessarily want in a Glade candle in your living room--you'd be gnawing on the sofa in no time--but when you're in a hammy zone, perusing a hammy menu, and the whole place is perfumed with sweet, smoky hamminess, it's heavenly.

The menu at Hungry Mother is small, which makes things easier (especially for those of us unable to make decisions). From the section of the menu titled "To tide you over ..." we chose beef tongue canapés, thinly sliced marinated meat with Gruyère and a dab of Dijon mustard, the tongue tender and intensely flavored.

Then The Boy went for the green salad, which featured both red and golden beets, roasted, as well as slices of blood orange. It looked like a plate of jewels, and the mild sweetness of the beets matched well with the sharp citrus and the vinaigrette dressing.

No salad for me, though: I took the pork sausage, which came in its own individual skillet (awww! Bless!) on a bed of black-eyed beans, and was topped with sweet chow-chow, a bright, tangy-fresh complement to the grilled sausage and smoky beans.

My entree was catfish; cornmeal-breaded and served with collards, it's a dish we often make ourselves. Except, of course, that Hungry Mother takes it up a notch, matching it with cauliflower and capers, and dressing the greens with a mustard vinaigrette. Fabulous.



The Boy went all-ham-out, opting for pork shoulder braised in bourbon, sweet and tender, on a bed of creamy grits. Amazingly--I could hardly believe it--he thought the pork rib that came with it was "almost too much meat" (what???); the dish would have been just fine with half the portion. (I'm not sure who he is or what he has done with my husband ...) Of course, he ate it anyway (okay, maybe it really is him).

No room for dessert, which was a shame, because I was intrigued by both the cardamom chocolate pot de crème and the sorghum ice-cream that accompanied the pecan sticky bun.

Next time, Hungry Mother. Next time.

Culture (and food) Saturday!

Lunch: Henrietta's Table in the Charles Hotel. The shabby-chic farmhouse furniture makes it feel a little like dining at Pottery Barn, but that can be forgiven. Especially when they do lovely cocktails (mine: champagne and raspberry purée; The Boy's: a feisty Bloody Mary):



The Boy ordered a quiche of roasted cauliflower, sweet onion and two blue cheeses. It didn't look particularly exciting on the plate, but it was insanely rich and creamy and delicious.

My pulled lamb-shank with sweet fingerling potatoes and feta cheese, quite apart from being fantastically tasty, won the prize for most photogenic.



Next stop: the A.R.T., to see Julius Caesar. Is there a better day to see this play than March 15?

We had good seats.



This production moved the action to the 1960s, and everything had a Kennedy-esque feel (the men in tuxedos, the ultra-hip furniture, the jazz trio, the Oldsmobile that, um, descended from the rafters). To give the story an extra twist, it had been re-imagined as the possible dream of Lucius, Brutus's deaf slave--a Shakespearean take on Tommy Westphall, wearing Superman jammies. And at the end, the cast danced to a Nelly Furtado song.

It was powerful, and visually stunning (and three hours long), and we came out feeling a little dazed. We started walking up Mass Ave, and then remembered that the Alloy Orchestra was doing live accompaniment to Josef von Sternberg's silent-era Oscar-winner Underworld at the Somerville Theater that night.

When was that likely to happen again?

So we picked up tickets, and then went to Diva for dinner, figuring a nice vegetarian Indian dinner would make up for our extravagantly rich lunch. More cauliflower, this time in a fresh aloo ghobi with potatoes and cilantro, plus dal makhni, plus a desserty naan with apricots and coconut.

And then off for more cultchah.

We'd seen the Alloy Orchestra accompany Buster Keaton's The General at the ICA. But that's a film we know well; neither of us had seen Underworld, so we were interested to see how well the music would work against an unfamiliar setting.

This time, our seats were not as good.



Still, we had a mostly unobstructed view, and the only downside to the evening was that the two women behind me were intent on carrying on a conversation throughout, reading the title cards to each other and discussing the action. You know how much I love that.

I wanted to turn round and hiss, "It's a silent film! That means you two have to be silent!" But I didn't.

Aaaanyway, the film was great--an early example of the gangster movie, and obviously a template for many of the films that followed in the genre. It was gritty, and violent, and occasionally funny (at the end of a long, decadent party, exhausted guests wade through cartoonishly excessive piles of paper streamers that cover the floor, ankle-deep).

Neither of us paid as much attention to the music as we did for The General, partly because we were more focused on the film and partly because we were much further away from the musicians (the photo above shows how they were smooshed together in one corner), so not as easily distracted by business with mallets and accordions. But the score certainly flowed well, moving gracefully from gunfire-action to moments of tenderness to more shootouts, keeping pace with the drama.

And then we staggered home, wearily proclaiming that we really need to get more culture, and should try an opera or some modern classical music.

And then we got tickets to see Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist, Live.

I wonder how they'll manage the squiggles?

The magical animal

Homer: Are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Ham?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Pork chops?
Lisa: Dad, those all come from the same animal.
Homer: Heh heh heh. Ooh, yeah, right, Lisa. A wonderful, magical animal.

Last night, we met that magical animal. We met him and we et him.

The event was Craigie Street Bistrot's "Lyons in Winter" dinner, a one-night-only menu showcasing the hearty goodness of the city's cooking traditions: pig, pig and more pig.

So we began with "Les Cochonailles," which loosely translates to "in heaven, the things they leave on your hotel pillow instead of mints."

Instead of a photo (which will just make some people all complainy, no doubt), here's a nice diagram:



A: Pork terrine--delicately textured with a light, intricate flavor
B: Lardo. The last time we ate at CSB, The Boy responded to our waiter's description of a dish containing this wafer-thin slice of pork fat with "You had me at lardo."
C: Chicharrón. You can never, ever go wrong with deep-fried pork skin. Okay, so it wasn't as insane as the stuff you get at La Viña, the corner coffee-shop/social club near The Boy's parents' house, but it was still acceptable (snif).
D: I didn't catch their name, but they were lightly fried cubes of the most melt-in-the-mouthingy sweet pork fat. I'd go so far as to say they'd knock bitterballen into a cocked hat. And you know how I feel about bitterballen.

The cochonailles came with a glass of a brut rosé from Burgundy, which was a brief reminder of summer: hints of hay and strawberry.

Next up: a salade lyonnaise for The Boy--frisée and salty lardons and a poached egg--and a creamy salt-cod soup decorated with cockles, as well as the world's sweetest, juiciest shrimp, for me.



(Sorry the image quality isn't great--we were at a romantically underlit table).

And then The Boy had fried pork tripe, crispy on the outside and soft and salty on the inside; I went for the ragout of kidney beans with boudin noir and pork sausage. Because they had me at "boudin noir."

Next, the dish that was our main reason for making a reservation: pied du cochon for deux.



It was a good eight or nine inches long, plump and round and generously stuffed with hammy goodness, sitting on a bed of lentilles de Puy. Though we'd had a fabulously porky feast, this was the only dish that was verifiably, recognizably piggy. And it was glorious: salty-sweet, moist and tender.

And finally, dessert: crème caramel for The Boy, because that's his thing, and a rich, intense chocolate mousse pour moi. I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't made with bacon chocolate, but it was still lovely.

Oh, and we left with a parting gift: a beribboned jar of herbes de Provence. Which is good, because we're almost out. And I might do a pork tenderloin this weekend.

A nice little sandwich

Last night, lovely reader Ashley complained that my photos of The Boy's creations made her feel inadequate; here we were, enjoying fabulous roasted veggies, while she sat down to horseradish and sauerkraut sandwiches (at least I think that's what she said; I was halfway through a bottle of South African Riesling at the time).

So lest you should think we're constantly in the kitchen, throwing together fantastic dishes, I wanted to let you know that sometimes we have sandwiches, too:



Slow-braised short ribs with a truffled grilled-cheese on brioche. The beef was fall-apart tender, with a fabulously rich, dark intensity. The sandwich was buttery, slightly sweet, and the bread had the lightest toasty crunch. Just looking at the photo is making me salivate at the memory.

But hey, we didn't make it; this was from Sidney's Grille at the Meridian in Cambridge (formerly the Hotel at MIT; for some reason, the restaurant gets only a passing mention on their corporate site).

So Ashley, do you feel better now?

Happy happy Turkey Day ...

A question I'm often asked at this time of year: "Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?"

Well, duh.

I understand the assumption that because I'm not from around these here parts, and didn't grow up with the tradition, I may not embrace the full meaning of the holiday.

But come on--it's all about food. How could I not celebrate?

In the past, our Thanksgiving has involved getting together with friends and turkey and a multitude of side dishes and eating until coma sets in. Last year was a prime example.

But this time, as we hadn't made plans to get together with others, and as I had to be back at work on Friday, we decided to take the easy way out and made reservations at Sandrine's in Harvard Square.



I was slightly reticent, because even though I love the food at Sandrine's (Alsatian, so lots of pork and sauerkraut and incredible Flammkueche), the clientele skews toward hard-of-hearing Harvard alums and their entitled families, meaning there's a good chance of being wedged between parties of yelling yahoos.

Today, however, we were in luck. The place was busy but not heaving, and apart from the family behind us (whose black-turtle-necked patriarch, when not conversing with his disinterested offspring in clumsy French, felt it necessary to explain his 12-year-old daughter's vegetarian stance to the waiter), we had a peaceful meal.

Ah, yes, the meal. The Boy began with a half-dozen escargots in garlic butter. I went for the butternut squash veloutée with wildflower honey.



It was creamy (of course) with a slightly spicy edge, the sweet intensity of the honey coming through as a final note.

And then we did something we hardly ever do in restaurants: we both had the same entree. Well, you have to have turkey at Thanksgiving, dontcha?



With haricots verts and jaunes, golden beets, obscenely buttery mashed potato and a cake of chestnut stuffing.

As often happens, I only ate half my main. But while this is usually because I'm too full, this time I had an ulterior motive. If Thanksgiving is about eating huge piles of nosh, the day after is about reheating the leftovers for breakfast. And I was damned if I was going to miss out on that tradition.

Plus I was, um, too full.

Though apparently not too full for dessert: pernod creme brulée with a perfectly carmelized, crackable crust of brown sugar.



The Boy decided to end the meal with a glass of Pierre Ferrand cognac. It was of exceptional quality, and deliciously smooth, the reason for which became clear when we got the check: despite The Boy's best efforts to point at the 12-year-old vintage, the waiter had delivered the 25-year, with associated markup. Still, it was fabulous. And very pretty.



A delicious meal, capped off by the joy of not having to wash dishes. We'd definitely do Thanksgiving out again.

But that said, we both missed the fun of cooking--of prepping the turkey, and roasting veggies, and finding new ways to add extra sin to gravy and mashed potatoes. This morning I came across my favorite cranberry chutney recipe (from Julia Child via Robin) and felt a twinge of regret that I had no need to make it this year.

On the other hand, Christmas is only a month away. And we'll need to eat something.