An Effing Foodie

Sushi is As Sushi Does: Coeds Cram Panda Rolls into Sushi Chef Gender Gap

Nadeshico Sushi restaurant in Tokyo is filling a long-standing gender gap with panda bear and frog face maki, crafted by the first-ever all female sushi chef lineup (WSJ, via VV).

Sort of. They get the guys to do all the icky stuff.

The whole article's a real leg-slapper, but can be best summed up with this gem of a title:  

Hot Women Serving Cold Fish Make for Raw Feelings in Tokyo: Japan's First Sushi Restaurant Staffed by Female Chefs Has Traditionalists Carping.

Google "hot women", "cold fish", "raw feelings in Tokyo" and "first sushi" with your Safe Search turned off. I double dog dare you. I carp you.

In fact, skip ALL of that and just search "Nadeshico", the restaurant's namesake (translates literally to "ideal woman"). NSFW.

The centuries-old official line regarding gender disparity in sushi chefdom is that women have naturally warmer hands than men, which is detrimental to the handling of spanking-fresh raw fish. On top of that, wimmen are covered in girly sh*t, like perfume and cosmetics, that could effect the purity of the fish.

Things that also effect the purity of fish: Being black, white, Latin, non-Japanese Asian or any mix thereof. They also hate kittens, gays, big people, little people, cripples, vampires, zombies, the homeless and Bieber fans. Oh, and chicks over 25:

Kazuya Nishikiori, the middle-aged owner of Nadeshico, says he wanted to create a new model for working women in Japan. But he later explains he'll only hire women who are between the ages of 18 and 25 to work behind the counter. "After all, our slogan is 'fresh and kawaii,"' he explains, invoking the ubiquitous word for "cute." "If someone wanted to work here and was 30, I'd put her in the back."  [WSJ]

This culinary tour de force is "one floor below the massage parlor that promises 'total relaxation'" in the Akihabara district, the tech geek wonderland rife with maid cafes and pillow girlfriends.

On the upside, if the fish-eating pervs are all in one spot, they'll be easier to avoid.

People, for the love of God, don't blame pandas. Or cosplay. They can be used for the forces of good.

Toys for Tw@ts: Taste in a Tube!

Photo: JANE MINGAY

Apparently, the folks across the pond have resorted to packing all the hopes and dreams of savory taste into squirty tubes.

With the advent of Taste No. 5 Umami Paste, you too can come to rely on a single product to add flavor to...well, everything, for the low-low price of £2.99 a tube at Waitrose!  

A few days ago I added a new ingredient to the children's supper, only to witness them falling upon the dish like labradors – to the point of licking their plates and the pan clean. The ingredient was fermented red bean curd, a vile-looking, liver-coloured paste that oozed a thin liquid with an obnoxious, ripe aroma...

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.

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. 

Holiday Gift Guide Realness, 2009: Boozehounds and Bookworms

For the Boozer-in-the-Know:

I've always been partial to bourbon and Scotch as prezzies and balm, but this year Saveur did a couple of great articles on up-and-coming artisan spirits, namely single-malt Irish whiskeys, and small-batch Reposado mezcals.  Bring their meticulous tasting notes (here for the whiskeys, and here for mezcals) to your local upscale purveyor of booze, and help your friends warm their bones with spirits they're unlikely to have tried before.

For the Hungry New Yawka:

Some folks aren't partial to narrative cookbooks.  Or cussing.  Or pancake profanity.  You shouldn't give these people Kenny Shopsin's memoir/cookbook, aptly titled Eat Me: The Food and Philosophy of Kenny Shopsin (Hardcover, $16.47).  It's a priceless read, with quirky photos, rants, recipes and anecdotes from arguably NY's most feared and respected king of the flat-top. 

Not only does Kenny get into the strategy behind running a 900-item menu with a tiny kitchen, he is ruthlessly personal, sharing all about how his family grew up with Shopin's General Store, allowing us a peek into an insider's Village.  What works about the book is Kenny's conflicted narrative: He loves, loves his life's work, the food he's made, the people he's met--he wants to tell you all about it.  But he's not telling you to come-on-down.  The man is the abrasive (but loving) curator for a 12-seat fiefdom, and he'll cook for who he pleases, when he pleases, thank you.

Not everyone has the guff to face Shopsin and his vetting, but fortunately, all are welcome at Veselka, day or night.  I could go on and on about the justly famous bloody burger, pierogi, stuffed cabbage and borscht--but that would lead me away from shilling their newly released Veselka Cookbook: Recipes and Stories from the Landmark Restaurant in New York's East Village (Hardcover, $18.47 on Amazon). 

Besides teaching us how to make hearty Ukrainian staples for ourselves, it sheds a light on a diner that most drunken Village-rompers take for granted, a 50-year-old venture of an immigrant family that started as a candy store and blossomed into a cultural touchstone.  The cookbook can't replicate the experience of eating blintzes next to off-duty drag queens, but what can, really?

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.

Word of the Day: Spatchcocked!!

Leave it to a Fergus Henderson menu to teach you a nifty new word:

"A spatchcock is a poussin or game bird [prepared by] removing the backbone and sternum of the bird and flattening it out before cooking." [via Wikipedia]

So, Spatchcocking = Butterflying.

(But way more fun to say and use in Scrabble.)

Spatchcocking in action (1:30 to 4:15):

Sounds mean and laborious, but it's a good way to ensure faster, more even cooking of a critter that was never gonna fly again anyway.

Those interested in eating ox hearts and other rare Brit delicacies, enter the sweepstakes for FerguStock via TONY's The Feed.

What the World Eats: The Nonburger of Samtaeseong Diner (Pyongyang), Indoor Rain at Mercado San Miguel (Madrid), Spam Fries at Wild Oats (Singapore)

It's a red-letter day at Samtaeseong Diner, Pyongyang, where North Koreans have been granted the privilege to blow half a day's salary on an All-American Hamburger.

So long as you don't use the word "American".

Or "Hamburger".

Instead, patrons of the Samtaeseong diner, which opened in Pyongyang last month, have to order a suspiciously similar "minced beef with bread".

The isolated Communist state has long banned what it calls Western or US "imperialist influences" on its people. But there was only so long it could hold out against the temptations of fast food. (Telegraph)

Hold out against the evils of imperialist fast food?  We understand.  It lacks the cleansing totalitarian virtue of tree bark and grass.

Silver lining: All the unbranded fascist minced meatpucks come draped in complimentary kimchee!  Woohoo!

                                    *        *        *

Half a world and happier circumstances away sits Mercado San Miguel, the gorgeous, newly remodeled marketplace in Madrid.  Originally built in 1916, this wrought-iron palace to food boasts the spoils you'd expect of Spain: Technicolor produce, barely-dead meats and seafood, cheese aplenty, bakeries, tapas counters.

From Druidabruxux on Flickr

This gustatory sensory overload is trimmed with urban twists and comforts--a kitchy cookbook store, an oyster and champagne bar, and even 2 AM closing times on Fridays and Saturdays. 

There's even a vegetable mister for people: "In a nod to living green, instead of air-conditioning, the air is infused with water droplets; every few minutes shoppers are bathed in a blast of micro-rain." (NYT Travel)

                                    *        *        *

And last, but not least...a topic close to my Hawaiian Ex-Pat heart...Spam.

Not just Spam...but Spam FRIES.

Yup, luncheon meat chopped up into long skinny fries, fried until they’re crispy on the outside, and served with one or more dips. Disgustingly, sinfully, ridiculously good. I had these with some friends one night over drinks at Wild Oats, the bar owned and run by Willin Low, and I just about fell off my chair. (Chubby Hubby)

<Wiping the corners of my eyes, speechless.>

Hats off to Willin Low, luncheon meat visionary!

Hot Trends: Hospitality and Culinary Skills! (GASP!)

Recession-Proof: $6.50 @ Pam Real Thai

After weeding through the predictably a*sinine pile of beginning-of-year food trend predictions, the EF hath birthed up a few of her own!  Ready?

Restaurants and restaurant staff, desperate not to get sh*t-canned, will start treating guests with attentive respect.  They will smile, become efficient and courteous with seating and reservations, take a genuine interest in the enjoyment of your now-more-reasonably-priced meal, and will overall behave in a way that will encourage you to come back.

Novel, right? 

La Bruni and Epicurious beat me to it, sans irony.  Which scares the poop out of me.  Those who categorize basic courtesy and value as trends can go f*ck themselves for lowering the bar for the rest of us.

EF goes on to predict that the "trend" will trickle into the back-of-house, where spoiled, whiny cheflings who used to have budgets for hydroponic microherbs, sous-vide Jacuzzis and chickens fed only with grains pooped by the pope will be forced to do what their less-appointed grannies have been doing all their lives.   Cook. 

I Heart Food Idioms: Okoge!

What's got two thumbs,
hangs out with mostly gays,
and makes Japanese people think of crusty rice?

That's right!

<--- C'est MOI!

John Youngsun Park, a designer of video games in the San Francisco Bay Area, blasts the heat on his Sanyo [rice cooker] to make noo roong ji, the toasted crust of rice that forms at the bottom of the traditional Korean stone rice pot...

“People love that toasted-rice taste,” he said. “It’s even a flavor of ice cream in Seoul.” (Japanese cooks, however, consider toasted rice overcooked and highly undesirable. The unwanted crust left stuck to the bottom of the rice cooker is called okoge — the same word used as slang for a single woman who spends a lot of time with gay men.)
-JULIA MOSKIN, NYT

Yep. One country's Häagen-Dazs® is another country's fruit fly.