An Effing Foodie

Enter the Durian...Wafer Cookie

As I get older and crankier, I'm finding that I'm definitely tilting toward the salty/bitter end of the food universe (insert snarky quips accordingly). 

Point is...things change, tastes change, palettes evolve.  Though my list of food dislikes is pretty short, I make it a point to revisit anything I've deemed heinous periodically, just to make sure it wasn't a fluke.

Durian's a tough one.  Like many food obstacles, this one's rooted in childhood--an unforgettably wretched afternoon in Bangkok involving a long van ride with no air conditioning and a spiky rank-a** backseat companion. 

You don't get to cry about the smell until you've faced down a fresh specimen--and if you aren't somewhere in or near Southeast Asia, you're not going to get to (the ones in markets stateside are previously frozen and thawed).

Momma Foodie loves the stuff (as did our gracious Thai hostess, to whom we were ferreting the fetid thing in the first place).

Roadkill perfume aside, the fruit itself is intimidating; once you crack open this heavy, barbed bomb, the innards are creamy, yellow, stringy--much more evocative of something animal or alien than plant.

Fresh or frozen, I wasn't feeling that ambitious...my latest encounter with this foul nemesis was in cookie-form.

I've been a fan of Garden Wafers since I was a kid--styrofoamy, trans-fatty and sweet, what's not to love?  They came in tons of flavors--vanilla, coconut, lemon, peanut, taro--but I preferred the Pepto-pink Strawberry variety. 

The Man and I were happy rooting around in Kam Sen, a Chinese supermarket in White Plains, when I passed the mass of Garden Wafers in the sweets aisle.  I have eyed the olive-green package of the durian-flavored wafers over the years, but only to crinkle my nose and move on. 

I am older! Tougher! The time had come for me to approach the king of fruits, if only in bantamweight wafer form.

Flipping the package over..."artificial flavor".  Faux-funk!  How bad could it be?

Back at the lair, I cut the package open a took a sniff. 

And squalled.  And almost dropped the package.  FAUGH!!!! 

It was nowhere near as intense as the real deal, but impressively nasty and pervasive.  How could something so denatured be so appallingly authentic? 

Don't be such a puss, you weak American crybaby! It's just FN cookies!! 

The Man watched from a safe distance, goggle-eyed, covering his nose as I bit into the crispy wafer and chewed.

Tastes like...(taking another bite, just to be sure)...

...yep.  Festering garbage.  Like banana and stinky runny cheese blended together and left to ferment in the blistering bloody sun.  In sweetened wafer form. 

I went for a third bite, but it didn't take.  I sealed the rest of the wafers in a baggie, tossed said baggie in the trash, and brushed my teeth.  I had some chocolate.  I had some scotch.  The taste of rotting eggs wouldn't go away, and I could smell the cookies wrapped in the depths of my trash can.

Total defeat.  Durian/Durian Duplicated Products: 1, EF: 0.

Happy 10th Anniversary, Prune!

With lovely little neighborhood joints shuttering right and left, it was heartening to hear buzz about Prune's 10 year anniversary and celebratory prix-fixe menus, one for each week for the month of October.

Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady didn't bat an eye when I asked if she was interested in a little anniversary tripe.  The fixed menu would help to clip our ordering pointers and prevent our utter destruction by overeating.

Said prix-fixe are a loving amalgam of things that Gabrielle Hamilton has been offering for years.  Where else but Prune would manti, succotash and pavlova exist so naturally side-by-side?  The rabbit in vinegar sauce was a favorite of Big-Eyed, Curvy Bombshell and Heathie, dearly missed migrated eaters. 

We were a little surprised that the place wasn't choked with like-minded offal-eaters; people gradually trickled in, many of them ordering whole bronzino and other treats from the regular menu. 

(Pictured above: Pink and in the foreground = Italian Greyhound  = grapefruit with vodka and rosemary; caramel in the background = Pimm's Cup = gin, ginger ale, cucumber and lime.)

SSFL and I clinked glasses and fell to the Calf's Brains Fritto Misto. 

No, it's not all brains...just the rounded nubbin at 12 o'clock, golden and crusty on the outside, creamy within.  Think fried oysters, or cream croquettes.  The brain brought fried companions of apple slices and cippolini onions, plus browned butter and capers for dipping and zinging.

It may look small, but it was a pretty rich plate of food, and SSFL and I found ourselves wishing for a lemon wedge or some malt vinegar to help break things up a bit.

Continuing the welcome onslaught of offal, Trippa Milanese with Gremolata, otherwise known as tripe braised in wine and vinegar:

(Spooning up braised tripe and tender vegetables.)

EF: This is...(Making smacking sounds.)

SSFL: ...really light!

It's true...and we be fans of tripe, so it caught us off-guard.  A lot of the time, tripe is treated with strong flavors, seemingly to mask any inherent stomach-y funk (see tripe parmigiana or menudo). 

Gabrielle's tripe was meltingly soft, and infused the whole stew with a gelatinous roundness that was distinctly but not overbearingly meaty, without a lick of funk.  It was like eating an unset bowl of aspic, in a good way--bright, rich, and clear. 

The Bitter Greens salad it came with was a little spartan, but once mixed into the tripe, they rubbed up against the smooth unctuousness of the stew nicely.  

Dessert?  Spot-on.  Anticipating diner fatigue, Prune wisely set before us ethereally light single-servings of Pavlova with Lemon Curd:

Meringue can be a sugary, styrofoam mess, but this baby was light-yet-chewy in the way that lightly caramelized sugar should be, and the portion size, lemon curd and fresh fruit helped to rein in any threat of oversweetness.  Kiwis and Aussies would be proud of this one!

Prune-detractors tend to harp on how little the menu rotates, how small the operation is, or how Hamilton has not chosen to expand her empire.  As I'm bathed in the well-being of well-made bovine naughty bits, good dinner company, cocktail glow, and tea lights reflecting off of clean white walls and polished antique mirrors, I say with perfect faith: Those marketchasing phucktards can screw off.  Don't fix what ain't broken. 

(Raising a glass to ten more years.)

Food Poems: Taking Stock, by EF

Taking Stock

“People are as strange about eating as they are about love. They want what they want.” --Frank Bruni

Take stock; the beginning of one meal
from the remains of the last,
brewing bones and skimming chaff.
People have fallen out of love with food,
no seeded mysticism or churn blisters;
the sum of a body cellophaned and portioned.

Or maybe not.  Maybe it’s love overlooked--
custard-soft eggs, bitten buttered toast--
or love too rich and freely given,
seconds of coconut curry, jungle-green,
choked with curving eggplants
and bamboo, pliant and plentiful. 

When the one that got away
came back, he cupped my dark-pooled face,
clucked his tongue. “Eat something.”
My mother did the same when he disappeared
for good, handed me the oldest remedy--
rice plumped and redolent of chicken,
golden gelatin, collagen, fat and blood;
the things that hold a body together.

One day, that’ll be me,
ladling simmering stock into long grains,
when really what I mean is,
I’m sorry baby, I know it hurts. 
Some things take time, starch and stock
marrying every kernel--ginger, garlic
and shallots wafting from the bowl.

Day-Trippin': Peekskill Brewery and Restaurant, Peekskill, New York

Update, 10/12/09: In case you're curious about the sit-down restaurant, the NY Times posted a review a day after this post.

A dear friend of mine shared a great flick called The Station Agent--it's one of those quiet films that brims with understated human quirks, tenderness, humor, and a good dose of unassuming beauty. 

I won't get into plot synopsis or anything, but much of the film was shot in a tiny non-town called Newfoundland, NJ, and watching the characters follow train tracks and dip their ankles in lakes sparked a hippie wanderlust in me. 

So it was a happy coinkydink that I found myself in Peekskill, NY, not a week later.  Peekskill-proper leaves something to be desired, but the train station for this town is right on the bank of the Hudson, with a perfect-sunset-park on the river-side of the tracks...

...and the Peekskill Brewery just on the other side.  The intrepid Pour Some Sugar On Me had caught wind of this lil gem, and a homegrown pub is a better excuse than most to take a long Hudson drive on a bright, pretty day.

Like Daddy-O or the now-defunct Little D's Eatery (sob), Peekskill Brewery is a neighborhood haunt that makes you wonder why your own neighborhood isn't so lucky.  Some of the food invokes upscale-pub (burgers, pulled pork, wings, fish-n-chips), but some tilts toward bistro/ international drinking food (croque monsieur, steamed mussels, herb-roasted chicken).

The common thread in the spread?  As the name implies, Peekskill Brewery prides itself on beer-nerdery, and all the food (whether in the restaurant wing or in the pub) is geared toward pairing with their rainbow of yeasty bubbles, including 3 of their own custom draughts and beer-babies like Ommegang and Smuttynose. 

Let's face it, most bars (particularly beer-geared ones, however fancypants their aspirations) aren't places you want to be in until after dark, if only to avoid sunlight vertigo.  Not so here.  Peekskill Brewery is the daywalker of its kind--given the choice, I'd rather while away an afternoon than an evening here, soaking up the sunshine, suds, and gracious staff.

PSSOM and I planted ourselves in the short end of the L-shaped bar, to better soak up the rays through sparkling clean windows and read the chalkboard specials menu. Fried oysters for $8??? Yes, please!

Fried oysters are hit-or-miss with me (I was born to slurp), but these were textbook classics on how frizzled bivavles should be--crisp but not greasy, custardy and bustingly briny within.  And at half the price for subpar gussied-up lies in the city.  More.  MOOOOORE.

The Brewery Sliders were similarly juicy (4 for $12) and way tastier than their hot-dog-bun appearance might imply. (Martin's Potato Rolls, please?):

But as I learned on a later visit to The Man, the Sliders pale in miniaturized comparison to the 8-oz. Brew Burger ($9, $10 with cheese, birds-eye view pictured above):

Beefy, dripping, packed just right (neither cemented meatloaf nor fall-apart) cooked to temperature (medium-rare) she could have used a little more salt, but otherwise, this IS HOW EVERY BAR BURGER SHOULD BE.  Under $10, and a handful of multicolored drooling satisfaction.

Other prime sandwich options: PSSOM and I couldn't pass up the Croque Madame ($11), a hot mess of a ham-n-cheese covered in bechamel and a fried egg. 

Yup, we be wretched, gluttonous creatures...but look at her.  That's an oozy pile of primordial dairy love.  Pass the Tabasco.