Wicked Tasty Harvest

Food Playlist—NYC

Spring weekend with four (food-loving) friends

by April Paffrath

Spice Market

Sometimes you just want to know the things to eat, the great places to go, and how to pack as much yum into a city as possible. That, for me, is not a problem. When you get four food writers together, you’re in a crowd that knows how to love the food, the conversation, and the excitement. That makes for a thrilling and delicious food playlist. Check out the tracks and the liner notes.

Go to New York.
Stay at a favorite hotel or couch.
Press play.

1.     Chocolate-covered peanuts - City Club Hotel minibar
2.     The Breslin - Ace Hotel    (212 679 1939)
3.     Mas (farmhouse) - pastry chef Catrine Oscarson    (212 255 1790)
4.     Blue Hill - Dan Barber    (212 539 1776)
5.     Keugelhopf French toast, rhubarb compote, fromage blanc
            - DB Bistro room service @ City Club Hotel    (212 921 5500)
6.     Emptiness and letdown - Midtown conference food
7.     The Ten Bells    (212 228 4450)
8.     Death & Co. - team of lovely bartenders    (212 388 0882)
9.     Spice Market - Jean-Georges Vongerichten    (212 675 2322)
10.   Keugelhopf French toast - reprise
11.   Emptiness and letdown mash-up w/
            Unknown Thai restaurant - reprise
12.   Late-night chocolate mousse - DB Bistro room service
            @City Club Hotel on the patio in New York in the misting rain

Death & Co. makes very fine drinks, indeed.

Liner notes

(1) This mix starts softly with a prelude of Dean & Deluca’s chocolate-covered peanuts from the hotel minibar in the afternoon (real chocolate on real nuts), because when you’re planning to eat at Blue HIll that evening, you don’t fill up ahead of time.

(2) That is, unless you’re my friends. This track gets play on the list at the recommendation of my food cohorts who went to the Breslin and ate crisp french fries, scotch eggs with the middle still runny, and boiled peanuts fried in pork fat. The table next door had an entire suckling pig, which you can reserve for the chef’s table. It’s the only kind of reservation they take and you book two working days ahead of time for 8–12 people, prix fixe ($65/per person). According to the Breslin, there’s a lot of meat and it’s a hearty meal with sides, salads and more.

(3) This track is a bit of a sweet surprise. When you’re meeting up for a great dinner, you need to track down all parties, so meet up at a great place in the Village, like Mas (farmhouse).

Meet in the bar. If you’re lucky, one of you should be friends with the pastry chef. We ordered one dessert, and she sent out four and a dessert amuse bouche…20 minutes before our reservation at Blue HIll. Many lesser folks might feel daunted, but I was thrilled because I’m researching a book about dessert. This track listing remains an unfinished piece because even four food-loving friends cannot polish it all off before a big meal. But the abundance sure added to the excitement and fun.

We ordered the ricotta chiboust on a whole wheat sable made from locally grown and milled flour, topped with elderflower-macerated strawberries that the chef brought back with him that week from mid-strawberry-season New Orleans (that’s some good carry-on luggage, if you ask me) with a side of honey ice cream and topped with candied peppercorns. Oh my. Yum.

Local Eats in Rome

by Cynthia Graber

 

Two words: fried artichokes.

Before my trip, I'd watched an episode of Gourmet's Diary of a Foodie, which a friend had produced in Italy. They filmed one scene at Il Giggetto, a restaurant in Rome's Jewish ghetto. Apparently one style of artichoke hails from the ghetto - even elsewhere in Rome, they'll offer artichokes "Jewish style" or "Roman style."

The television show my friend produced showed the men, whose family has owned that restaurant for three generations, preparing the flowery vegetables. In rapid-fire succession, they peel off the thick outer leaves, shave the peel from the stem, and dip the artichokes into boiling oil. The tender inner leaves fan out into the shape of a flower. Then they dip the chokes one more time, and each leaf individually browns and crisps right up.

Needless to say, I made a beeline to Il Giggetto as soon as I landed in Rome and ordered one of those artichokes. As happened in Florence (see the previous post), I was hungry and exhausted and scarfed down every last bit of tangy crunchiness before I even remembered that I had a camera with me. You'll just have to take my word that it looks like a flower, and tastes fantastic. I tried this style again at another restaurant outside the ghetto, but it wasn't nearly as good.

In Rome, I sampled the amazing, classic trattorias that everyone (appropriately) raves about. I think my favorite meal was at a restaurant near the Colosseum named La Taverna de Fori Imperiali, where I ate a simple, wonderfully fragrant pasta and bean soup, and shared a plate of different vegetables: grilled radicchio, eggplant caponata, fried artichokes. In each dish, the flavors melded perfectly. I ate there my last night, or I might have gone back for seconds.

But here's a strange place that you probably won't read about in the guide books. That's because, at least from the outside, there's no name.

 

That's what it looks like. Here's one of their display cakes.

 

Appealing? I didn't think so.

Here's how I heard about the place. My first night in Rome, I had dinner with a fellow journalist. I told her that I'd made a mad dash to ghetto for artichokes, and she mentioned a great shop down the street that everyone calls the "burnt cookie ladies." Burnt cookie ladies? I had to check this out.

So the next day, I went back to the ghetto, walked down the street, and found this little nameless bakery with burnt offerings in the window. I walked inside. There were a few women behind the counter, much ruckus in the kitchen, and a handful of Italians ordering. In the display cases were stacks and stacks and stacks of - yes - burnt cookies. Everything in the shop had this dark brown patina.

I have nothing against ugly food. I don't think pretty means it tastes better. (You should see some of the tasty messes I concoct.) But burnt? Still, I figured all the Italians couldn't be wrong, and there must be some secret tastiness hidden there.

I ordered a long baked bar, clearly one of their specialties. The woman tried to warn me about something, but I didn't understand. She called an old guy out of the kitchen. "Not soft - hard!" he admonished. I nodded, and bought it anyway.

This is what it what it looked like.

 

As you can tell, I devoured it. There was flour, and honey, and almonds, and sugar-coated almonds with a hint of orange. And what looked like burn tasted more like an intense coating of caramelization. Despite the nearly tooth-shattering texture, I couldn't stop eating it. The next day, when my friend came to town from Switzerland, I took him there. Wouldn't you take a visitor to a burnt cookie shop? That time, we got another one of the same, and a bag of little biscotti. Bizarrely, the biscotti were significantly softer, and rather cinnamon-y.

I'm dying to know the story of this little unnamed shop, but my Italian is nearly nonexistent. (And despite my previous beliefs to the contrary, the fact that I speak both Spanish and French does not mean that I can automatically make myself understood in Italy.) I did consider switching to Hebrew - the bakery is kosher, so there's a chance someone who works there speaks Hebrew. But they were all too busy, and I didn't want to be a bother.

I've asked my food contact in Florence, who's thinking of expanding her Taste Florence tours to Rome and Italy, to check it out. Who are these women? What's the story behind the burn? Did some Jewish lady 100 years ago caramelize her cookies, and despite the unappealing appearance, everyone begged her for more? And her legacy has lived on? Have you been to Rome - do you know the answer?

Baked Oatmeal

by April Paffrath

Winter can't stop me when my day starts this way!

There’s something about this moment. The brink of spring. It’s still winter and I feel like an ice-locked ship, even though the temps have risen this week. Winter feels never-ending right when spring is around the corner. I need a warm-up when it seems like the seasons are stuck.

The gentle sweet heat from this gorgeous breakfast is something you can love year-round. I do, actually, love it anytime, but late winter is when it has the greatest power to lighten my slushy-sleety-drizzly mood. One breakfast of baked oatmeal and I’m ready for snow angels again—I’m fortified against what Mother Nature has for a show-ender this season. (Remember that April 1 blizzard several years ago? You want to have the makings of this breakfast in your pantry, just in case.)

I adapted this recipe from the awesome KenapocoMocha coffeehouse in North Manchester, Indiana. I love that coffeehouse for so many reasons. When we ate their baked oatmeal, we were transfixed and returned each day for breakfast...like you do.

They were kind enough to share with me their recipe, which I tweaked a little bit as I made countless batches. [In fact, the recipe is from owner Debbie Chinworth, a woman to whom I owe many a happy breakfast! —ed.] It’s pretty much the same, but I add a little brown sugar, some cinnamon, and I use a mix of old fashioned and quick oats for a cakey, yet pleasantly chewy texture. Yum. Even better, they gave the OK for me to share the recipe here, for which I am grateful—and you will be, too. Make it and you won’t care about this interminable winter—you’ll be ready to go snowshoeing….or to curl up on a cozy chair with a book until the daffodils are peaking through.

This recipe makes a big batch, but I haven’t cut it down once. It has a way of feeding everyone who’s around and encourages you to share. It also uses whole milk. Sure, yes, you could go low fat, but really, we’re talking hearty fortification here. Go full fat and skimp elsewhere.

Just say thanks the next time you’re in North Manchester, Indiana. Pop in for some of their good food and a stellar coffee. Tell 'em April says hi.

Baked Oatmeal
adapted from KenapocoMocha coffeehouse tradition

• 1 c. canola oil
• 1 c. sugar
• 1/4 c. brown sugar
• 4 eggs

• 3 c. rolled oats
• 3 c. quick oats
• 1 Tbsp. and 1 tsp baking powder
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• 2 1/2 c/ whole milk

• raisins and whole milk for topping

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Grease a large baking pan, 9x13.

1. Beat together the oil, sugars, and eggs with a whisk in a large bowl.
2.  In another bowl, mix the oats, baking powder, and salt.
3. Add the oat mix to the egg mixture and combine.
4. Stir in the milk.
5. Pour the oaty mixture into the greased baking dish.
6. Bake for 45 min until the top is golden, the goods have puffed up cake-like, and the edges are a lovely brown. A knife in the middle should come out clean.

Let it cool a bit, but serve it warm. Put a square slice in a bowl and top it with delicious, plump raisins and pour a bit of whole milk over the top. Relish it and go back for seconds. You’ve got the remnants of winter to deal with and you can make it.

Seattle's Ballard Market

by Cynthia Graber

That’s my brother, Lee, standing in front of Seattle’s Ballard farmers market. Its website claims that it’s “won acclaim as the best local market for two years running,” and I’d been encouraged to check it out by locals who love local food. Plus, I was busy on Wednesday when the farmers market came to town in Lee’s home of Kirkland. So I dragged him twenty minutes away to the neighborhood of Ballard on Sunday morning.

A riot of colors and food greeted us. In a small pedestrian area, bordered by quirky shops on either side, two long lines of vendors offered up their food for viewing, tasting, and, of course, buying.  We cheerfully sampled (and purchased) cheese, smoked salmon, honey, bread. 

But when it came to vegetables and grains, Lee and I had a bit of a comic routine going on. I’d fawn over the produce. The seller would start to engage with me. I’d laugh and say, “I don’t live here. And he doesn’t cook.” And Lee would grin sheepishly in agreement. 

Then I’d start pointing out different vegetables to him and suggesting ways they could be easily prepared. This was my simplest and most frequent refrain: if it’s green, toss it in a pan with olive oil. Cook until it’s done however you like it (to my preference, not very much). Sprinkle it with salt. If you want to go crazy, splash some lemon juice over it. And because my brother is very much a part of my family, with taste buds to match, a generous heaping of garlic is always a good addition in step one. (This is foreshadowing of the dinner we’d make that night.)

I found one option there that I’ve never seen here: a grain CSA. The woman selling the grains, from Bluebird Grain Farms, sold farro (which I bought), a farro hot breakfast cereal (which Lee bought), and a variety of flours and mixed grains. She said they all grow on the farm just over a nearby mountain. The CSA choices include some heavier on the flour, some heavier on the breakfast cereal. I’m not much of a baker, but with this quality product, I could be inspired. 

The next morning Lee and I tried out the breakfast cereal. It was just as fragrant, sweet and nutty as she said it would be. I wish I had bought an extra package to take home, and I wish we had something similar here!

Lee and I picked up smoked salmon ravioli for dinner and a bunch of kale, along with some scavenged porcini mushrooms. I put the mushrooms to roast in the oven, but I showed Lee, every step of the way, how it easy it was to cook the greens. This bunch was particularly tender. I rinsed it off and tore the leaves from the stems while he helped chop garlic. We heated olive oil, threw the garlic in the pan, then tossed the kale in on top, mixed it all together, and cooked the whole thing with some salt. After it was done, he tasted it and wanted still more garlic (no objection from me!), so he heated more oil and then cooked a couple chopped cloves more to add in. 

Lee hasn’t spent much time at the farmers markets because the local one closes on Wednesdays at 7 pm, and he’s often still at work. Plus, he’s got a great food coop just blocks away where he picks up most of the food he eats. But I think Ballard made an impression on him - he loved chatting with the people who grow the food. I told him if he ever wants to make something and doesn’t know how, just ask. They’ll be as happy to offer suggestions as I was. 

That’s true of our farmers markets here as well. Whenever I see an ingredient I’ve never used before, I simply ask the farmer what to do with it.

Now, after 2.5 weeks away, I’m back on the east coast. And tonight I pick up the first share of my CSA! I wonder what I’ll be making tomorrow…