An Effing Foodie

All Hail Chairman Bao! (Baohaus, LES, NYC)

I've been reluctant to get on the fancypants pork bun wagon.  As a gal from Honolulu, it's hard to think of cheap, tasty pork buns as anything but a God-given right.

I stand corrected.  I came across Baohaus on Serious Eats, but what really rushed me there was the cheeky Engrish menu.  FOBtastic.

At $9 for 2 Haus Bao, Baohaus is cheap only by NYC standards.  But here's the value: As my crew of eagerly anticipatory bun testers trooped into the small space, we were immediately and warmly greeted by two fresh-faced proprietors, Eddie and Evan. 

They're as cool as all get-out.  They're the bee's knees.  Whatever oldsy-timesy way of saying that these fellas are worth every penny should be inserted here.  They're genuine, engaging, and completely immersed in their product and business.  None of that all-too-common snotty sustainawhore holier-than-random-customer bullshit here.

Which is swell and all, but how's the food?

It's so good, I won't even be ashamed to tell my own FOB Momma how much I spent on bao, and more bao. 

Between the Haus Bao (AKA, red-braised skirt steak in a steamed bun with crushed peanuts, sesame, Taiwanese red sugar, cilantro, and Haus Relish, 2 for $9):

..and the Chairman Bao (similarly red-braised and dressed Niman Ranch Pork Belly, at 2 for $8):

...our group was hard-pressed to choose a favorite.  The buns/bao themselves were soft and sweet, and cradled the well-seasoned protein perfectly.  The steak (a Baohaus innovation, as the Taiwanese tend toward red-cooking only pork) was tender but still had an appealing chew; the pork belly was a melting mouthful of no regrets, not to be undertaken by those who fear fat.

We had a happily fed vegetarian in our crew; she and I were pleased by the Uncle Jesse Bao, crammed with lightly fried soft tofu and a squirt of hot-and-sour bean sauce (2 for $7):

Gun to my head, I'd go with the pork.  But why segregate?  Get one of each kind of bun in the Straight Frush (any 3 buns with a drink and a cup of boiled peanuts, $15.50), or try everything they have on the menu with the Royal Frush (any 4 buns with boiled peanuts, Sweet Bao Fries, and 2 drinks, $25).

Happiest of Happy Hours: Sweet Maine Shrimp at Savoy, SoHo, NYC

Last Sunday was pretty wretched for wandering--The Man and I could only be grateful that it was rain and not snow whipping around us as we navigated to Prince and Crosby.

Savoy has always held a special place in my bosom; the true-blue fireplace, the warm lighting and blond wood glow, the U-shaped bar with its slate slab of Saxelby cheeses and terrifying bar stools that invite you to lean back and crack your head open. 

Snug and low-key, Peter Hoffman's Savoy was far, far ahead of Greenmarket and localvore fetishism, and she (yep, I made the restaurant a she) carries herself as lady always-in-the-know should--with understated elegance, confidence, and natural charm.

On this sodden Sunday, Savoy never looked more inviting.  The Man and I found ourselves just in time for Happy Hour, wherein certain cocktails are $8, special wines $6, and an array of bar snacks are $4-10, like deviled eggs with sumac and chili-lime chicharrónes.

Our favorite tipples were the Pimm's Pear ($8, spiced pear infusion, lemon, Pimm's #1, poire william) and the Jack Rose ($12, pomegranate, applejack, lemon); fruity without being cloying, bracing and sunny.  If you're feeling strong, they have a mighty, mighty Harvest Manhattan ($12), a classic whiskey warmer scented with pumpkin liqueur and maple.

I'd remembered an item in the NYT mentioning that this year's Maine shrimp harvest was particularly bountiful, and barely smothered a squeal when I saw said shrimp on the Bar Snacks menu.

These critters are not the cocktail super-size-me variety; they're wee, super-seasonal, sweet, and pink even before cooking.  I've had them mounded nigiri-style in sushi bars before, but never cooked.

I may or may not have made touchdown arms when the shrimp arrived ($8, with a creamy-not-pushy heirloom citrus tartar):

HEADS ON!  YEAAAAH!  It's goooood! 

(Click the piccie for enlarged, full-power stare-back shrimp effect.)

Deep-fried with shells and noggins intact may be strange to newbies, but it's hands-down my favorite kind of fried shrimp (think salt-pepper shrimp in Cantonese restaurants).  The shells become the oceanic equivalent of potato chips, sealing in the briny brilliance of the sweet shrimp.

Some may be inclined to peel these babies, discard the heads, or suck said heads and consider the job done.  Not me (or The Man, for that matter); we gobbled them down from tip to tail, and enjoyed every tomalley-rich, crispy sea-candy bit.

Like all good things, Maine shrimp are fleeting, so cross your fingers and go on down to Savoy for a welcome reminder that winter isn't all turnips and pigs feet.

The Great Yeast Forward: Hamburger Curry Buns, or Japanese Bierocks Recipe

Everybody's got a chink in their cooking armor.  Mine is fluff.

Specifically, anything where the incorporation of air comes into play.  This means souffles, meringues, popovers, and yeast breads--anything where restraint is a virtue, where part of the process is knowing when to walk away. 

I'm a poker, a prodder, a meddler.  If me coaxing a food along is more likely to harm then help, I'm sh*t out of luck.

But it's time to conquer cooking demons.  Live yeast culture, quake at my presence.

The impetus for yeast domination was a bierock that I had at Peekskill Brewery (spelled beer lock on their bar menu).  Billed as pretzel dough pockets with seasoned beef, red cabbage and apples, it was a genius concept in beer food that didn't quite take wing; the dough was a little tough, and when you jerked the little packets apart (or bit into them) crumbly, under-seasoned filling flew out.

(Much, much better on that visit was the pork belly with lentils, fried oysters, and arugula salad with blue cheese and pumpkin.)

But as I picked bits of beef and cabbage off my lap I thought, I bet I could do this better.

I'd come across bierocks paging through the gorgeous Saveur Cooks Authentic American; they're a hearty, field-friendly lunch (not unlike Chinese da bao, or Cornish pasties), popular on Mennonite farms in Kansas, whose recipe stems from German and Russian immigrants.  

The Saveur bierocks were huge (think smooshed softball) and filled with ground beef, cabbage, cheddar cheese and mustard.

Which sounded great, 'cept on the day of the Great Yeast Forward, I was short a couple of those elements. 

So I did some digging in the 'ol pantry and tweaked accordingly: Instead of the Eastern Blockequse cabbage and cheese, I was running with Japanese hamburger curry with peas.  Spicy, economical, and bound to congeal in a way that made it easy to stuff into buns.

I wish I could say the road went smoothly but , my fluff blight was right on my heels. 

I followed the damned instructions to the letter, set the dough in a warm spot in the kitchen to proof; the prescribed 30 minutes ticked by, and my kneaded mass failed to double.

Ooookaaay...don't panic.  Maybe it needs to be somewhere warmer?  Yeast likes warm.  Set the dough bowl in a barely-on oven.  60 minutes.  No movement.  90 minutes.  120.  Doughy defiance.

I called Max, my handy breadmaster, in tears. 

WHY? WHY WON'T SHE RISE, CAPTAIN???

"Did you test the yeast in water and sugar to make sure it was still active?"  Yes.

"Did you knead the dough well?"  Yup.

"Is the bowl somewhere warm?"  Ayup. 

Then....I dunno, baby. You're cursed.

I stared down at the dimpled, snickering mass.  Not conceding defeat, I re-floured a clean surface, tested and prepped more yeast, kneaded the beer-smelling primordial brew into the smirking dough, set it back into it's oiled bowl, and plopped the bowl on the counter atop the dishwasher (set to plate warmer).

Three hours after the initial bloody proofing began, the FN dough finally doubled in size.  I punched it down with grim relish.

The final results?  An authentic fresh-baked-bread-smelling kitchen, and a dozen curry buns to bring to a potluck.  The bread itself was soft and a little sweet, and matched well with the still-moist filling. 

Next time I'll go spicer and more copious with the hamburger curry (the bread to filling ratio was about 2:1, oops), but they were still loads tastier and less combative in texture than the Peekskill bierocks.

Even though I halved the size of the giant Saveur buns, my 3-inch diameter babies were still too big and filling for a potluck, expanding in the stomach like starchy C4.  For the next soiree, I'd make 'em as tiny as I possibly can (divide the dough to 32 balls, roll & fill); but for getting stuck on a plane, train, bus, cubicle or wheat field, the 3-inchers would be a welcome pocket meal. 

My biggest mistake?  I shouldn't have been trying to do this before a dinner party.  Bread dough rushes for no man/woman; I turned what should have been a relaxing, ruminative ritual into a spiral of self-doubt. 

We'll call it a draw, enemy fluff.

On Newly Slimmed Alton Brown, Sardine Sandwiches, and Urban Cavemen

New Year's marketing makes me giggle.  Just as it's no mistake that sleep aids, adjustable air mattresses and Girls Gone Wild dominate advertising space at 3 AM, the fitness/diet articles and ads successively scrolling by in January are hardly happenstance. 

But unlike addictive substances and amateur porn, most of us could stand to be nudged back into and acceptable shape after last year's end-run to bloaty oblivion.

Some diets (yep, I said the D-word, calm down, people) aren't for everyone; I couldn't see myself investing in my own meat locker for the Caveman/Paleo program, or micromanaging my calories like someone on the Zone.

But Alton Brown, sans 50 pounds?  That's someone I'd take notes from.

(See more of the episode after the jump.)

Take a breath, Panicky Princesses.  Sure, it might sound austere for those who live to eat, but the man's talking good sense.  He's not crash-dieting, citing miracles or paying into a cult that sells pathetic pre-packed synthetic sustenance. 

He's merely using his broad expertise on food to eat with more nutritional efficiency, and thereby upping the odds that we will have many, many more years of Good Eats.

He's not even telling YOU to do it.  He's telling you how HE did it, for himself.

No, I'm not looking to lose weight.  But I like how well thought-out and accessible Brown's method of lists is, and I do believe that nutritional efficiency is something that everyday people should think more about. 

As much as I enjoy reading through (and contributing to!) a blogroll of filth, seeking banana peanut butter bacon cupcakes everyday is simply not sustainable. 

Push-ups, avocados, sardines, carrots, broccoli, sweet potatoes, purple breakfasts are all things we could use more of.  No one lives forever, and gout will never be sexy. 

I Spy: Peach Tea Pork Chops with Fennel and Roasted Chili Sweet Potatoes

It's that tricksy, thieving kind of East Coast bright outside.  The sort indicative of clear, freezing air that makes snotmonkeys of the lot of us. 

So I'm trying to combat the sunshiney-freezing mindphuck with bright-tasting food.  The Man and I always keep Twinings Black Peach Tea around as a winter balm; he was steeping himself a cup as I was prepping pork chop brine.  I got the unmistakable whiff of peaches and thought...why the hell not?

So I subbed the 2 bottles of Magners (which we didn't have around, anyway) with 24 ounces/3 cups of strongly brewed peach tea.  Instead of the apple-sage butter, I went with sliced fennel and onion sauteed in the chop searing pan (yep, my fennel fascination continues) deglazed with a bit of sherry, so that the natural sweetness of the veggies picked up caramelized meat mojo.

I had a couple of sweet potatoes lingering from Momma Foodie's visit (she loves unadorned, whole roasted sweet potatoes); I cubed them for faster roasting (skin-on) and tossed them with some kosher salt, chili powder, olive oil and a couple of sprigs thyme.  About 20 minutes in a 400 degree F oven and boom--toothsome, comforting, crispy-candy-spicy, and a nutritional juggernaut as well, with copious vitamin A, C, fiber and manganese.

The chops picked up a subtle suggestion of summertime fruit and tea, and it foiled well with the softened licorice of the fennel and spicy sweet potatoes.  Look how defiantly stinkin' cheerful that plate looks!  Take THAT, January.

Quotes for the New Year

I have the added The Addams Family credo in Latin above our door at [the office], when translated to English it says, “We gladly feast on those who would subdue us.”
           --Decapod Destroyer

“In our rational exuberance we’ve ordered much too much of Chef Bloomfield’s too-muchness” at the Breslin, admits Gael Green. “Our crew sits quietly as if gelled in fat.”
           --The Insatiable Critic, via NYMag

Food Poems: Storm Catechism, by Kim Addonizio

 

Storm Catechism

The gods are rinsing their just-boiled pasta
in a colander, which is why
it is humid and fitfully raining
down here in the steel sink of mortal life.
Sometimes you can smell the truffle oil
and hear the ambrosia being knocked back,
sometimes you catch a drift
of laughter in that thunder crack: Zeus
knocking over his glass, spilling lighting
into a tree.  The tree shears away from itself
and falls on a car, killing a high school girl.
Or maybe it just crashes down
on a few trash cans, and the next day
gets cut up and hauled away by the city.
Either way, hilarity.  The gods are infinitely perfect
as is their divine mac and cheese.
Where does the macaroni come from?  Where does matter?
Why does the cat act autistic when you call her,
then bat around a moth for an hour, watching intently
as it drags its wings over the area rug?
The gods were here first, and they're bigger.
They always were, and always will be
living it up in their father's mansion.
You only crawled from the drain
a few millennia ago,
after inventing legs for yourself
so you could stand, inventing fists
in order to raise them and curse the heavens.
Do the gods see us?
Will the waters be rising soon?
The waters will be rising soon.
Find someone or something to cling to.

--from "Lucifer at the Starlite"

Roundup 2009: Soto, West Village, NYC

When Momma Foodie came in last Christmas, I focused in on our Big Production Japanese Splurge, Morimoto. 

But when I asked what her favorite eating experience was, she didn't go with the big dog; she said she liked Soto best, and could we please go back?

Done and done.  Ma Foodie's flight narrowly missed the blizzard; six hours out of coach from Hong Kong, the Family EF were tiptoeing through the quickly accumulating white into the also-white unmarked entrance of Sotohiro Kosugi's namesake, Soto.

It's no secret to regular readers--I tend to favor little restaurants to big, little plates to big, etc.  Even on a blizzard day, the small, spartan spaced slowly filled with smiling eaters who sipped sake and cooed over the beautiful little plates rolling out of the kitchen.

I didn't want to interrupt the mojo of the first fam dinner we'd had in a year with picture-taking, but here are a few stunners that were just too pretty to go undocumented:

Thin-sliced greenling (a bitty, sweet white-fleshed fish) with ponzu.

One-Minute Tai: Barely steamed red snapper with shoyu, ginger oil and scallion.  Like a pitch-perfect bite of steamed Chinese fish.

Super-fatty Scottish Salmon (Sake) Sashimi.

Chutoro (Fatty Tuna) Tartare with Avocado Mousse, American Caviar and Chives: Unctuous melty fish fat with fatty avocado fat and fatty fish roe.  Fattyfattyfat ace in the hole.

Mirugai (Geoduck) Sashimi: Crunchy, sweet and saline, and cut into exploding chrysanthemum clam poofs, to maximize the surface area and texture.  Family EF has eaten lots of giant clam tongue, and we've never came across this approach--a fun one to spring on the sushi-jaded.

Uni (Sea Urchin) over Black Yuba in Dashi: AKA, funky sea cheese a la tofu skin in bonito broth.  Creamy, briny, light and pungent, an unami wonderland.

And many, many other things that I wasn't diligent enough to clicky-click with my point-and-shoot.  We were busy passing, chuckling, teasing, and draining sake, none too eager to tromp back outside.  When there was no more room in our gullets for additional inventive seafood bits, we bundled a sleepy, happy Momma back into her rarely-used poofy coat.

She shook our gracious waiter's hand, and said she'd see him next year.

NYC Wintertime Treats: Shake Shack, the redhead, 2nd Ave Deli (and Random Acts of Hot Toddy)

I'm a crybaby wuss when it comes to the cold, so it tickles me when NY tosses out treats and winter work-arounds for those willing to brave the bluster (and those who've been felled by it).

--> To help ease the bitter, Bolshevikian line for Sports Dogs and 'Shroom Burgers, Shake Shack is meeting its Madison-Square-adjacent burger junkies halfway by offering a winter call-in service: Place your order in advance and they'll give you an exact time to go and pick it up.  Danke, Daddy Meyer!

--> Chances are if you've eaten a homey, rib-sticking Southern meal at the redhead (small caps theirs), you haven't saved room for this little beauty: The Hot Chocolate Car Bomb.  Thick hot chocolate, Guinness and Jameson's topped with a homemade Bailey's marshmallow, this absurdly sexy caloric KO is reason enough to hunker down at the bar before (or after!) the packed dinner rush.

--> Besides bequeathing us with the uber-handy mecha-list of soups, NYMag lets flu-bitten Midtowners in on a handy little tip: The reborn 2nd Ave Deli delivers half-gallon jars of their Chicken in the Pot.  For $24.45 (including the deposit on the jar), you get half a kosher chicken with feather-light matzo balls gently adrift in golden Jewish Penicillin, 6 half-sour pickles, coleslaw, and 4 slices of rye.

--> If chicken soup alone can't clear your head and warm your toes, a hot toddy will probably get you the rest of the way: Saveur and the NYT share some insights, history, and recipes for toasty toddies and their fancier cousins, Tom & Jerrys.

Takin' Back Bitch, Gender or Kitchen Notwithstanding

I'll start off with my hands up: I'm not married, don't have kids, and therefore do not have any logged hours with which to provide insight on gender-based roles and balance in a functioning marriage.

Maybe that's why I was so puzzled when I read Hanna Rosin's article, The Rise of the Kitchen Bitch.  (And yet MORE puzzled upon hearing about a new magazine in Germany angled specifically at Man-Foodies, titled: BEEF! EmPHAsis theirs.)

Kitchen gender politics have always been contentious and highly subjective.  A person's place in a kitchen has got zilch to do with gender roles.  It's all about personality.  Whether you're a wizened Punjabi matriarch or a Tennessee pitmaster, if you're a Type-A with any kind of confidence and know-now, you're going to dominate a kitchen.  Period. 

If you're in a long-term relationship/marriage, SOMEone is going to be in the kitchen more than the other.  It's as unkind and counterproductive to call your husband a bitch for ruling the kitchen as it would be if he stormed in and demanded a hot dinner. 

Rosin seems to be saying that home kitchen dominatrix is a pre-established role that women have been robbed of--that if her husband was the kitchen beta and she the alpha, he would have to take her potato-peeling nitpicking into stride, as this is her domain.