Being (almost) normal in NYC

We always try to do something special for our anniversary, and this year it felt particularly important to celebrate. So we headed to New York City for eating, shopping, eating, museum-ing, eating, and walking. And eating.

The big caveat was that I was supposed to avoid crowds, sniffly kids, and any risk of exposure to colds, germs, and general infection. I've been fantastically lucky so far in terms of staying healthy throughout treatment, but a nasty flu would be tough on my immune system. So we were more observant about our surroundings that usual, but otherwise took no strict precautions.

We always visit MoMA. This time, there was a good exhibit on the design of the modern kitchen and the movement to more efficient use of space. Among the articles on display was something I recognized from my childhood:



I have a strong memory of drinking ice-cold milk out of these Tupperware beakers.

There was also an installation by George Maciunas, displaying the packaging from all his food consumption during one year in the '70s. His diet seemed to consist of imitation rum, powdered egg nog, and some 200 cans of lemonade.



Yep, that's healthy.

(Having said that, I was quite taken with this poster and was happy to find the related postcard in the gift store:)



Healthy and Good with Butter!

And then, of course, it was time to eat in the MoMA Cafe. The Boy had a salad with arugula, paper-thin bresaola and Humboldt Fog cheese (which, due to my no-blue-cheese restriction, I could only stare at, wistfully).



Mindful of my nutritionist's advice to pile on the protein, I went for a trio of bruschetta: tuna with olives; lemon hummus with prosciutto; white-bean puree with roasted root veggies.



Dinner that evening was at Union Square Cafe, which was fabulous. Sadly, it was too dark for good photos, so you'll just have to take my word for it that The Boy's pork chop was nine inches thick, and that my grilled lamb chops came with a creamy, garlicky gratin dauphinioise, and probably took care of my protein quota for the day.

On Saturday, we'd initially planned to walk the High Line, but then I saw that the Concorde was on display at the Intrepid Museum. I'd always wanted to fly in it, and this was the closest I was now likely to get. So we headed to the waterfront, and ended up seeing not only inside the pointy bird but also exploring a submarine and the aircraft carrier itself.













After lunch at Vynl, where the service was so-so, the food was diner but good and the bathrooms — four separate spaces dedicated to Cher, Dolly Parton, Elvis and Nelly (?) — were fabulous, we took a cab to the halfway point of the High Line and started walking.

It was so cool to get a different view of the city.





There's a nice gallery of old photos showing the High Line in operation.

Our next stop was a couple of chocolate stores in SoHo: Kee's Chocolates and Vosges. Apparently I was too overcome to take photos in either place.

At Kee's we tried four flavors of handmade chocs: smoked salt, fennel, blood orange, and lemon-basil. They were all amazing, though the latter was a definite winner.

At Vosges we picked up some items we hadn't seen locally, and I was also forced (forced!) to get a chili-cinnamon hot chocolate. Oh boy: a warm, spicy embrace. Completely delicious. Apparently I need to pick up their Aztec Elixir blend to keep me going at home.

Dinner that night was at Resto, a Belgian-isch place whose motto is "Bringing fat back." This speaks to me.

Actually, what spoke to me most was that one of the first items on their menu is bitterballen, which we fell in love with on Aruba and actively sought out while stuck at Schiphol airport at Christmas. They're usually deep-fried balls of meat in a roux sauce, but at Resto they're a little drier, which doesn't detract at all and makes them easier to eat.



Then we went for the charcuterie plate:



Again, it was a little too dark for good photos, but this gives a sense of the selection:



Each meat had a side — the lamb with tzatziki, the chorizo (unexpectedly) with honeyed ricotta — and each was full of fresh flavor. We also ordered the tête de cochon sandwich, which was good but not fantastic; the thick brioche and the slaw overwhelmed the meat, which to me is the whole point of eating a pig's head.



Full to bustin' as we were, it was somehow necessary to get the beignets. They were more like donut holes than the rectangular, powdered-sugar-coated treats we expected, but they were warm and accompanied by three dipping sauces: berry compote, melted chocolate, and caramel. So that was nice.



Apologies again that the photos do not do justice to this meal!

All in all, it was a lovely break; so good to get away from all the hospitally stuff, and stress, and overload, and just act like normal people.

Dear Harvest, we're sorry we doubted you

We procrastinated at deciding where to eat for our anniversary dinner; all our first-choice places (Craigie, No.9 Park, Rialto) were already booked by the time we got around to it. So instead, we ended up making a reservation at Harvest in Harvard Square.

And if that sentence suggests some amount of resignation, that's how we felt; we haven't been in a couple of years, and it seemed like a runner-up when compared to the more high-profile places in Cambridge.

Boy, were we mistaken.

Harvest is the kind of place where you assume the people at the next table have Nobel prizes/book deals/a PBS show. Or all three. And they probably do.

The room is large and noisy, but not so much that it's impossible to have a conversation. A full fireplace was roaring on the outside patio (which seemed wasteful, as no one was dining out there, but it looked pretty).

We started with champagne (hey, we're celebratin' here!) and Island Creek oysters, which came with the usual accompaniments and also zingy fresh horseradish.



And then The Boy ordered a peppery venison carpaccio:



and I had a salad with red and gold beets and toasted hazelnuts.



There are two things that always happen when we eat out together: I take a million photos, and we each create a tasting plate of our own food for the other to try. This was The Boy's sample for me:



How fabulous is that?

And then on to the entrées. For The Boy, roasted guinea hen partly wrapped in sausage, served with sweet butternut squash purée and a very complementary cider sauce.





I didn't think I could eat a whole main, so opted for another appetizer dish: a cake of pig's head (of course!), juicy and fatty and sweet, with cider-braised cabbage and the most velvety, buttery, can't-possibly-be-good-for-you pommes purées.





We decided to share dessert, and went for an apple streusel tart with cardamom ice cream, which was lovely, except for the hat.



The hat appeared to have been constructed from cheese that had been melted into a circular shape. It was a sharp cheese, and the texture was chewy, slightly rubbery (you know, as happens to cheese when it melts and cools). It overpowered the delicate flavors beneath and seemed completely out of place.

But that's a slight complaint, and not one that will keep us from going back to Harvest more often than we have.

After all, we noticed there was poutine on the menu. That kind of behavior should be encouraged.

Twelve years of adventure with The Boy

Tomorrow, The Boy and I celebrate 12 years of married-ness. We're marking the occasion in the usual way: with extensive consumption of lovely things.

Today we went to the new Davis Square location of The Boston Shaker and picked up bitters: Peychaud's and Scrappy's Cardamom. The latter is now dancing a very pleasing three-way tango with 10 Cane rum and Canton ginger liqueur.

And it's making me think about the ways in which The Boy has changed, challenged and advanced my appreciation of food.

I grew up in a small industrial town in the north-east of England. There was one sit-down restaurant (Chinese); everything else was take-out. And back in the 70s and 80s, the most exotic food we saw was the annual arrival of strawberries and melons.

There were not many opportunities for culinary adventure, and as a result, I didn't really feel the need to explore beyond the known.

But since I've been sitting at tables with The Boy, I've discovered many wonderful things.

Sushi
On one of our early dates, and possibly as a test, The Boy took me to a sushi place near Harvard Square. He warmed me up with tamagoyaki, and just as I was getting comfortable, he introduced the ikura.

Eww eww ewww! Asploding seawater! Do not want!

But he was patient, and persuasive, and now I love eel and mackerel. I'll even go sea urchin if it's not too kitchen-sponge-left-in-a-tidal-pool-for-three-days-ish.

Octopus
Again, not the best first impression: he'd decided to make arroz con calamares, a dish of rice and squid cooked in ink, the whole thing black and salty.

I was particularly unnerved by the very evident and recognizable strips of tentacle because, as I told him, "I didn't know where they'd been." I had visions of cephalopods scratching their butts (or their heads; I'm not sure they're not the same thing) and then ending up on my plate.

And then, while visiting his family, he ordered us an octopus ceviche at the bar at El Convento, and suddenly I didn't care where they'd been sticking their digits.

Lechon
Okay, this is not as much of a stretch; the English are known for their adoration of all things porkular. But had I not met The Boy, I would most likely never have had the opportunity to travel to a town in the mountains of Puerto Rico to eat the most heavenly spit-roasted pig.

Likewise, I'd never have tasted carne mechada:



or mofongo:



And without his encouragement, and his excitement for new discoveries, I most definitely would never have found myself enthusiastically deciding that I wanted to eat a pig's head.

So thank you, sweetie, for 12 years of eating better, and more adventurously, than I could have dreamed possible. Here's to the next dozen.

The problem with eating a pig's head

Is this: Where next?

Don't get me wrong—I'm as happy to snorf a plate of veggie lasagne or a tamale plate as to repeat the Estragon Pig Head Extravaganza. But let's be honest: Would it be as interesting?

I'm certainly not looking to be the little-British-chick answer to Andrew Zimmern. I have no intention of seeking out the wildest selection of bugs and guts just so I can write about them.

But from hereon in, it's back to slightly unusual dishes and occasionally extravagant menus.

And in the meantime, here's video of the pig head party. It's blurry in some places, dark in others, and entirely too eyebally somewhere toward the middle. Probably not a good thing to watch while eating. Otherwise, enjoy!

How to eat a pig's head

Last August, we went to Estragon, the fabulous tapas restaurant in Boston's South End. They had pig's head on the menu. I vowed to return and eat it for my birthday.

But when I checked the menu on Estragon's website, the pig was missing. I called up and asked if there was any possibility that I could special-order it.

"Of course," they said. "We love to make the pig's head!"

So last night, The Boy and I headed over for dinner with Tim and Peter.

First, there were cocktails. Mine was a light, refreshing sidecar; Tim and The Boy went for absinthe.



For snacking, the desperately addictive deep-fried garbanzos, aka "chickpea crack":



Next, lima beans sauteed with ham and garlic, known as judias salteadas:



And then the pig's head arrived.

Note: If you're likely to be grossed out by photos of porcine cranial carnage, you might want to stop reading now.

I like to be prepared for unusual situations, so I'd done some research into the best way to approach the task of eating this delicacy. But while I'd discovered plenty of advice on how to butcher and cook said object, there was precious little information on how to eat a pig's head.

And now here one was, eyeing me expectantly.







We started by tearing off the ears; the skin was fantastic, salty and crunchy, but not worthy of too much attention when the rest of the head was sitting there, full of secrets.

Some quick work with steak knives revealed the tender cheeks. And then The Boy flipped Babe on his head and started in on the sweetbreads.



At least, we assume they were sweetbreads: they were where we expected sweetbreads to be. They were chewy and dense, a little like gizzards, with a deep, dark flavor.

Somewhere around here, Peter excused himself: the destruction was too much for him.

And then Tim found the tongue, which we split and sliced thinly. It was similar in texture to the (possible) sweetbreads, with the same kidney-esque pungency.



The Boy and Tim were doing most of the work, and I was happy to let them. It was a pleasantly quasi-primitive scenario: two men hacking at meat with sharp knives, sharing their discoveries, grunting with delight, offering me the most succulent selections. Thankfully, the presence of a very good 2000 Rioja saved us from a descent into full-fledged Neanderthal debauchery.

It seemed to be a lot of effort for minimal payoff in terms of quantity. But everything that came off that piggy's head was fabulous: rich and sweet, salty and fatty, warm and melty.

Our waiter had compared the head to pork shoulder, but it was much more than that. It was like having all the best bits of the whole pig collected together in a single, magical place. One was like pork belly; another was like ham; another, braised trotters.

There was a small motherlode of deliciousness at the temple, a couple of inches up behind the eye: it was similar to the oysters on a chicken, except juicier and more tender.

And then, yes, the eyes.

I'm not sure what I was expecting: something like enormous fish eggs, perhaps, that would explode unpleasantly in the mouth. But of course they were as roasted as the rest of the head, and were basically delicate lumps of fat, not even as chewy as snails.

We worked over the head a little longer, occasionally uncovering pockets of sweet, fatty treasure, finding cavities still sealed, the meat hot to the touch even after we'd been eating for an hour.

Eventually, we called it quits.



Peter came back just in time for an unexpected gift from the chef: a pot of milk chocolate crème topped with toffee and nuts.



So, was it worth it? As an exercise in efficiency, no. But that wasn't the goal.

We enjoyed a long, langorous, relaxed, four-hour dinner, at least half of which was focused on how to eat a pig's head. It wsn't just food consumed in the presence of friends; it was meat shared, a communal feast, an act of celebratory participation.

Or, as The Boy put it: "Pig fat is awesome. And this was a lot of pig fat."