Across the water for Australian meat pie

Last week I was feeling a little down. Mostly, I think, it was because we'd just come back from a lovely Labor Day weekend in Montreal (more on that later) and I had post-vacation malaise, with nothing much to look forward to except more hospital visits.

By Friday, I'd decided moping around wasn't helping in the least, and what I needed was an Adventure.

So I decided to head across the water for Australian food.

I've been thinking about a visit to KO Pies pretty much since The Boy and I went to the tiny restaurant in Southie ... wow, almost two years ago?? But somehow my meat-pastry cravings have never quite aligned with being able to get out there.

(You'd think it was a thousand miles away, rather than a fistful of Red Line stops.)

When KO opened its second location, I was delighted to see they were doing well enough for expansion. But Eastie? In the shipyard? Were they trying to make it harder for me?? (Because of course it's all about me.)

And then my friend Eric pointed out that the City Water Taxi not only served the shipyard, but also had a discount deal with KO Pies; if you told the boat captain where you were headed, you got $7 off the fare.

And so, with the promise of delicious pie and a cheap boat ride, the Adventure came together.

First stop: Down to the Intercontinental Hotel near South Station, to request a pick-up. I used my phone, but you can also go all CB-radio with the walkie-talkie attached to the sign.



After a few minutes, a boat skimmed into view, and I was off across the water.




The trip to the shipyard is short — not exactly a leisurely ocean cruise. But I'm a sucker for being out on the water, so it was worth it for a few minutes of salty sea breeze.

Because I'd explained to Rob, my taxi captain, where I was going, we had a nice chat about the awesomeness that is a KO Pie. So as I was disembarking, I asked (half-joking) if I could bring him anything back.

"Actually, that would be great," he said. "I haven't been able to get off the boat all morning, so I could really do with something to eat."

I took his order and he gave me some cash and directions to the restaurant, which turned out to be just around the corner, surrounded by warehouses and industrial buildings.

The place is about the same size as the Southie location: A tiny bar, a couple of tables and a strip of counter space. There's also pub-style seating outdoors. There's not much of a view, but that's okay. Because pie.



I looked over the menu, trying to tell myself that maybe I wanted a nice healthy chickpea salad or a grilled whitefish sandwich, but it was hopeless. I was here for pie. And pie I was going to get.

And also, beer. Because Australia.

The KO beef pie takes me right back to being a kid; the flaky pastry and sweet, peppery ground beef filling are what Proust would have warbled on about if he grew up in the Northeast of England.



I know, it doesn't look totally appetizing. And the fact that you have to eat it with your hands means you're not gonna impress anyone. Luckily, paper napkins are abundant. (Pro-tip: order a salad, which comes with a fork, and you can get around the no-utensils loophole.)

But on a sunny Friday lunchtime, when you're not in a hurry, and you want a change of scenery, it's perfect.

Wait — not in a hurry? I had to get a pie to Captain Rob before he crashed into Old Ironsides!

I went back inside the restaurant, ordered a curried veggie pie and an ANZAC cookie, went back down to the dock and called for my captain.

Minutes later, we were out on the water again, Captain Rob apologizing for shoveling the pie into his face while I breathed in sea air and dreamed about taking off across the ocean on a boat provisioned with fragrant meat pastries.

I'm not going to wait another two years before my next KO Pie fix. Might even try a Lamington next time.

Saloon in Somerville is a swell joint

Okay, before we start, it's important to have this tune playing in the background as you read.

Ready?

This week saw the opening of Saloon in Davis Square. Owned by the same people who run Foundry on Elm, Saloon angles itself as a pre-Prohibition joint. But this is no sleazy speakeasy; it's a ritzy juice joint, see?



Entrance is via a narrow door on Elm Street, marked by two glowing orb lights. And here's the odd time-travel thing: I worked next door in the Gorin Building for two years, and I have no recollection of seeing that door before. And when I check Google Streetview (which is a little outdated, as it still shows McIntyre and Moore — sob!) it's not clear where the door should be. So, you know. Spookeh.

Down a flight of stairs is a windowless (and TV-less, amazingly; I assumed all bars in Davis Square were required by law to show ESPN at all times) room, handsomely outfitted in dark, heavy woodwork sourced from the now-closed Newbury Street branch of Capital Grille. The bar dominates one end of the room, with the dining area at the other. UrbanDaddy has a nice slideshow of the interior.

Is there drink? Yes, there's drink; a 200-plus library of liquors, including bourbons, ryes, single malts and white whiskeys. Many of them are available in three serving options: on the rocks, Old Fashioned or Manhattan.



On our first visit, on Thursday, we stuck to cocktails: The Boy tried the Old Pal (rye, aperol, averna) and I had the Brown Derby (rum, antica formula, maraschino, mole bitters). Both lovely, well-balanced drinks.

Last night I started with the Ward 44 (because pork belly whiskey) and ended with another Brown Derby; apparently my new tastebuds have decided that bitter and aromatic are Good Things in a drink. The Boy started with an Old Fashioned made with Willett bourbon and moved to neat, smoky Russell's Rare.

One could, if one was so inclined, take on the liquor menu as a winter project. Also a spring one.

Is there food? Oh lord, is there ever food. The menu at Saloon isn't huge — a handful of appetizers and around nine entrees — but it makes me happy in every way.

When we went on Thursday, my goal was to have the steak and kidney pie. Because even though it's often used as a cheap way of saying English food is crap, a well-made S&K is a thing of beauty, and they're pretty much impossible to find over here.

I was a tad concerned when I saw the price ($26? Serious?) but then our waitress explained it served two. And indeed it did.



The crust was buttery and flaky and, as is right and proper, nicely moistened on the underside with pie gravy. The steak was fall-apart tender, the kidney was earthy, and there were generous chunks of carrot and mushroom (I'm prepared to overlook the latter). The gravy was rich, deep, complex. The whole thing was perfect.

So I say to you: If you've never had steak and kidney pie, you should absolutely go to Saloon. And take a friend, 'cuz it's large.

(Oh, and sorry there's no photo. Saloon is a dark place and the only shots I took, using the flash, made the interior of the pie look scary.)

On our Saturday night visit, we started with a charcuterie plate. All the meats are made in-house by someone who clearly knows their stuff. Best were the prosciutto and the salami; note how they're marbled with sweet fat. Delicate, not overly seasoned, so the flavor of the meat came through.





And then I went for the bubble and squeak, another fine English dish, traditionally intended as a way to use up leftover veggies from Sunday lunch. This one involved very flavorful root veggies and Brussels sprouts, topped with sausage and finished with a rich onion gravy.



The Boy ordered the flatiron steak au poivre, which came nicely medium-rare with fries and creamed spinach.

Sorry, that should be: with creamed spinach finished with shaved parmesan, and fries IN A SILVER BUCKET.







The fries, BTW, were so good that I award them the highest honor: they were chips. Real proper chips.

After this enormous amount of food, we really shouldn't have had dessert. But it was trifle, so.



Bavarian cream, dulce de leche-soaked sponge, candied hazlenuts. Apparently Saloon only offers one dessert at a time. But frankly, one is all you need.

It's also worth noting that Saloon doesn't offer coffee (because bars didn't in the 1900s), a fact which took the pompous actor types at the next table ("It's so sad that I'd never be allowed to direct at the Globe in London because I'm American") by horrified surprise. Deal, people. The Diesel is close by, though apparently you preferred to go to Starbucks, thanks for sharing.

Sorry; it's been a while since I snarked about diners who converse in outside voices to people sitting three feet away. This bunch was particularly annoying.

That aside, dinner was fabulous. As we walked home, we talked about the fact that we no longer have to go into Boston to find good food and thoughtfully made cocktails. Between Pizzeria Posto, Foundry and Saloon (not to mention longstanding favorites like Redbones and Tu y Yo, and the soon-to-open Painted Burro), we're pretty well sorted. And that's just the cat's pajamas.

KO'd by Australian pie

When you move to another country, it's with the understanding that you're leaving a lot of things behind: family and friends, of course; customs and traditions; and — and in many ways tied up with the first two — foods you love.

I don't get nostalgic cravings often, but when I do, they're for very specific dishes: real fish and chips, Battenburg cake, proper bacon, steak pie, pork pie, cheese and onion crisps ("Greeat fleeavas, Chudah!").

Often, I can distract these cravings with more accessible imports: Bird's Custard, Branston Pickle, and HobNobs are available (at a price) in the grocery store.

But sometimes, the call is too strong.

And sometimes, the call is answered.



Australian? Eh, close enough.

This is KO Catering and Pies, a short walk from the Broadway T stop (in the former St. Alphonzo's Kitchen space). It's not much to look at from the outside:



But inside it's fragrant with the aroma of warm pastry and decorated with ceramic budgies and a clock displaying the only important time zone:







The menu is expansive:



But we were there for one reason: pie.

The only other time we've found proper meat pie in this country was at an Australian pie place in Austin, Texas. I'm not sure why it's left to our antipodean brethren to demonstrate the magic that happens when you combine meat and pastry, but there you go.

We ordered a meat, a meat-and-cheese, and a sausage roll. There were paper napkins but no forks; when The Boy went to ask for some, he was handed a postcard that explained the correct way to eat a pie was by picking it up and shoving it in your face.



Oh, this was some good pie.

The bottom was a shortcrust and the lid was a light, buttery, flaky puff pastry. The meat, simmered into a slightly sweet ragu, had just enough gravy to season the pastry without turning it to an unmanageable handful. The addition of cheese to the second pie gave a little touch of salt that balanced out the sweetness of the meat.





I'm not sure I could ever make a pie like it. But sausage rolls I do bake now and then. So ordering one was more of a "because it's there" decision than a need to sate a craving.

Here's the thing: this was no ordinary sausage roll. The meat inside was less like sausage meat and more like pork pie: densely packed, almost pressed.



So this is perfect: I have a place to satisfy my need for meat pie and pork pie, and also to pick up much better sausage rolls. And with KO Pie's food truck launching soon, I might not even have to go to Southie to get some.

Home is coming closer to me!

Sixty years of Harrow's chicken pot pie. Why?

When I heard that Harrow's Chicken Pies was opening a second location five minutes' drive from our house, I was intrigued.

This family-owned business has been selling their pies in Reading for 60-some years (or 50 or 70, depending on which page of their website you read), longevity that suggested quality.

On Saturday, we got a coupon in the mail for $2 off an order. As it was getting toward lunchtime, and they promised takeout pie, we decided to head over.

The store is on the intersection of Rtes 16 and 38 in Medford, next to a Dunkies and across the street from a Dunkies. It's a small space, mostly occupied by coolers filled with pies of different sizes. We opted for two individual pies with vegetables (you can also get them without).

Now maybe I'm crazy, but to me, "takeout" means "to eat immediately." That's the point; that's what distinguishes a takeout pie from a frozen pie, which is evidently meant for consumption at a later date.

However, it turns out that if you actually want a hot pie, you have to call in your order a half-hour ahead of time, which is how long it takes to heat one up.

(Note to Harrow's: there are now clever machines called "micro-waves." You might could look into them.)

So much for our plan of grabbing a quick pie for lunch. As we were already hungry, we ate something more immediate and postponed the pies until dinner.

And so, that evening, we sat down to chicken pot pie.

The first thing we noticed was the pastry: it was incredibly short and flaky and a little sweet. And about as thick as a postcard.

The second thing we noticed was the sauce: pale, thick, bland, glutinous. I'll just come out and say it: wallpaper paste.



There were several generous chunks of chicken:



And, as promised, vegetables: uniformly diced carrot and cubes of al dente potato.



It's quite possible that Harrow's is the epitome of the Boston chicken pot pie; that its success lies in an understanding of the preferences of its customer base.

(That it was voted Best in New England by the Phantom Gourmet is a clue in itself.)

But to me, chicken pot pie shouldn't be nondescript; it should be a celebration. It should begin with a mirepoix; there should be pearl onions and peas; the roux should be perfumed with rosemary and thyme.

And the pastry — either puff or pâte brisée — should be thick enough that the exterior is crisp, while the underside becomes a soft sponge that soaks up the flavors of the filling.

At some point soon, I'll show you what I mean.

Sofra, so good (ow! Sorry!)

A confession: we have not yet been to Oleana (what?). I know, I know; you'd think we would have managed by now, given its relative accessibility, its interesting Mediterranean/North African menu, and the fact that there's a general consensus about its awesomeness.

And yet--or perhaps to redress the balance--we have already investigated Sofra, the bakery owned by Oleana's chef, Ana Sortun.

Tucked around the corner from the big Star Market opposite Mount Auburn Cemetery, it's not the most convenient place for us to pick up pastries—not when we could stroll up the street to get poppyseed rolls from the Danish Pastry House or wander into Davis Square for lemon slices at Diesel.

So why do I keep fantasizing about driving out to Sofra?

Oh, I know why:





Sofra's cookies include a rich, intense chocolate earthquake mouthful and a fig-jam-topped thumbprint shortcake that has more butter than a whole cow:



Inside the earthquake:



The almond-rosewater cake manages to be dense, moist and fluffy all at the same time:



Not everything at Sofra is sweet, of course. We watched the busy kitchen staff stretching dough for the flatbread wraps they fill with chickpeas, feta, tomatoes, spinach and olives and then heat on curved griddles:



We also picked up a couple of savory items: plaki, a dish of white beans braised with onions, tomatoes and carrots; and a burek.

My experience of burek to this point had been limited to the Cornish pasty-like meat turnover served at Sabur. Sofra's version is more like a lasagna pie: thick layers of dough striated with ground beef.



It came warm and ready to eat, in which state I'm sure it would have been fantastic. However, we saved it for a picnic the next day, which may account for the chewiness of the dough and the fact that the meat had settled into one thin layer near the bottom. It was great, but not the greatest.

Sofra would probably be a lovely place to hang out for a while; it's light and airy, with cosy window seats and colorful upholstery. But butt-space is limited, and (at least on our Saturday afternoon visit) was hostage to a passel of gray-haired ladies whose plates held just crumbs and who evidently had no intention of moving.

A better suggestion, if not a request: go early to Sofra, for breakfast. Pick up the morning bun with orange-blossom glaze, the Sicilian ricotta-chocolate croissant, the date and walnut brioche.

And then tell me all about it.

A hearty (New) English pub lunch

As part of our goal of not wasting yet another summer sitting around (and then spending the fall bemoaning the fact that we did nothing all summer), The Boy and I came up with a plan to take a few day trips and see some new places.

Our first ride was back to Portsmouth, NH. Okay, that wasn't a completely new place, but I hadn't been able to get the scotch eggs out of my mind. So the real point of the trip was to have lunch at the Coat of Arms pub.

The Coat of Arms is a pretty fair approximation of the real English pub experience: it's a dark room with a long, solid bar, a snooker table, dart boards, footie on the telly and the pervasive odor of stale cigarette smoke. It also has a good selection of beer on tap, including Old Speckled Hen, McEwans, Courage and Tetley.



And, of course, our main reason for visiting: a menu that includes such traditional, artery-clogging delicacies as scotch eggs,



a surprisingly good steak and kidney pie,



a sausage, fish and chips basket meal that renders future visits to the rather overpriced A Salt and Battery in NYC unnecessary,



and a treacle pudding and custard that wasn't quite perfect--the treacle had soaked into the sponge instead of sitting on top, and the "homemade" custard tasted suspiciously like the canned Ambrosia version--but certainly nostalgically lovely enough under the circumstances.



It's probably not the healthiest thing to be an hour's drive from such greasy, stodgy, salty temptation. But it's good to know that, when the urge strikes, there's a place to indulge occasional cravings for the food of My People.

It's all pie

I've long held that pie makes life better. And, increasingly, worklife in particular.

In my last job, feeling snacky one busy day, I was debating the merits of running across the street to pick up a brownie (bad, I know) when I suddenly remembered something very important: we'd had an office party the day before! There were leftovers! Specifically, pie in the fridge!

So "pie in the fridge" became a way of referring to a project that suddenly came together; those (rare! Ha!) times when apparent obstacles disappeared with the realization that resources or solutions were already sitting right there.

Think of it as the flipside of "pie in the sky."

And then today, lovely co-worker Sarah and I were talking about how we were looking forward to Friday's post-work socializin', and how it was something to think about to get us through the rest of a busy week.

Sarah started, "Just keep your eyes on the ..."

"Prize?" I said.

She paused. "Actually, I was going to say 'pie'."

And I realized that was perfect. "Eyes on the prize" is so ... melodramatic. It suggests cold awards, soulless statuettes, heavyweight championship belts.

Whereas pie is ... well, it's pie. A warm, juicy, yielding, completely worthwhile goal.

Still not convinced? Okay, try this: next time you're having a crappy day at work, check out these blueberry pie images from Flickr. (It's okay; I'll explain it to your boss.) And then tell me you're not feeling better.

As a wise man once said:

Easter lunch

Easter is a good excuse to do lunch right, I always say. This year, we went fresh and springy and simple: roast lamb leg studded with garlic and rosemary (the latter harvested from our herb garden last year and stored in the freezer); roast golden beets; steamed redskin potatoes tossed in olive oil; and English peas, which The Boy shelled and basically poached in butter and fresh mint.



Emboldened by my recent success with saffron cake, I felt inspired to bake dessert: Swiss Easter rice tart, courtesy of Nick Malgieri.

This is a rich, dense, eggy-buttery tart with ground almonds, puréed rice and a hint of lemon zest; it's somewhere between rice pudding and flan. And frankly, it was damn near perfect.



You know, I'm kinda getting the hang of this baking lark.

National Pie Day!

Did you know there was such a thing as the National Pie Council? No, me neither, though I'd love to know how one applies for membership. I swear, I'd go to every single meeting--even the boring ones about EU Crust Measurement Regulations. 'Cuz you know what they'd have to serve afterward. And possibly before. And during.

Today, of course, we're all members. It's National Pie Day!

Okay, so the NPC is sponsored by Crisco (ah, the insidious tentacles of Big Shortening) and membership can be yours for the paltry sum of $35. So much for my imaginings of oaken boardroom tables scattered with pastry crumbs ("Miss Haversham, please fetch me the third-quarter earnings statements ... and a slice of chocolate pecan à la mode.")

But still, in honor of Pie Day:



"Mehhhmrieees ... like the corners of my miiiiindd ..."



"Misty water-colored mehhhmmmries ... of the way (snif!) we were ..."



For many more pretty pastries, check out the Pie Club pool in Flickr.

And then go stuff your pie-hole. With pie.