.000001%* of the population will be paid actual cash money to step foot into the on deck circle at Yankee Stadium. Still, that doesn't stop hordes of fans from TiVoing Inside Baseball, poring over box scores and suiting up in team regalia on game day. For some of us, food holds an equally compelling balance of gut-level devotion and wonkish stat-based compulsion. A reservation at elBulli is akin to scoring home team dugout seats for the seventh game of the World Series. Food fans -- here's your program.
It's said that 2,000,000 requests a year come in for just 8000 seats at Ferran Adrià's Spanish temple of molecular gastronomy. The closest many of us will come is grazing through this brand new 528 page play-by-play, A Day at elBulli An insight into the the ideas, methods and creativity of Ferran Adrià. It's not so much the common parlance's "food porn" as it is a post-millennial culinary junkie's process orgy, documenting each staff motion and motivation, every microgram of alginate and liquid nitrogen, and fetishistically breaking down quantity and custom and customer/server semiotics.
The proverbial sausage has never been so obsessively, graphically made for public consumption, and rarely has it been so deliciously presented. There are pleasing pictures and recipes, to be sure (Hazelnut praline air, anyone? Perhaps some Garrapi-nitro pine nuts?), but sans easy access to an Isomalt-R-Us, it's a fever-dream cookbook. It is, however, a deeply heartening food-ifesto.
In the past, I have been accused of being excessively generous towards the products that I have reviewed. This is actually a fair criticism; while I try to be very honest about the foods that I discuss, I also tend to focus on the positive and sometimes downplay the negative. Beyond that, I usually only review products that I really like, going with the idea that ignoring lesser foodstuffs is probably the best possible critique.
That having been said, I feel obliged to offer an analysis of La Cucina Italiana, a slick, beautiful monthly that touts itself as "Italy's premier food and cooking magazine." Recently, my wife, who is a huge fan of Italian cuisine, bought us a subscription, hoping that it would inspire me to expand my Tuscan table offerings. As soon as I opened the first issue, I was immediately impressed: the magazine was filled with beautiful pictures, interesting columns, and intriguing recipes. Admittedly, some of the editor in chief's remarks struck me as being self-aggrandizingly douchy, but I assumed that this was another example of the "Christopher Kimball Syndrome." This disease, named for the second-rate George Will clone who publishes Cook's Illustrated, is based in the mistaken impression that editors of low-circulation cooking magazines are actually celebrities, fit to comment on the broader world. While I disagree, I can't really fault La Cucina's Michael Wilson for his misunderstanding. After all, if food celebrity has somehow oozed into the world of food journalism, the fault probably lies in the system, not the lemmings who have gotten sucked into it.
I could forgive La Cucina Italiana its smug, superior tone if the recipes were actually any good. Unfortunately, they run the gamut from moderately passable to utterly vile. The best recipe I've tried was a basic method for roasting tomatoes. While fairly generic, it was also easy and produced a flavorful ingredient that beautifully perked up pasta. On the other hand, of the two caper dishes that I tried, one looked like dog food and tasted like the sink trap at a Korean restaurant. The other was merely bland, which made it vastly superior by comparison.
Unfortunately, we have a subscription to the magazine, which means that it will continue to occupy a proud place in our bathroom magazine rack, offering beautiful pictures of meals that border on the inedible. On the bright side, if kitchen wizardry doesn't do the trick, then high-end food porn might be handy for convincing our friends that my wife and I are serious about cooking!
People associate Swiss cheese with Emmentaler, a cheese covered in holes. Tomme Fleurette, my favorite Swiss cheese, defies the image of the stereotypical Swiss cheese. Firstly, it has a soft delicate texture without the holes characteristic of Emmentaler. Its incredibly rich smooth creamy texture tastes fresh and milky. Its soft paste slowly melts on your palate and leaves you wanting more.
Tomme Fleurette is a raw cow's milk cheese modeled after Tomme Vaudoise. Both cheeses come from the canton of Vaud . Tomme Fleurette is handmade by Michel Beroud in the town of Rougement. Beroud ages the cheese in damp ripening caves. The damp caves allow the cheese to maintain a high level of moisture and to develop its natural pristine rind.
All you need is a warm fresh piece of whole grain bread to accompany this cheese. You can also enjoy Tomme Fleurette with a rose hip jam. Formaggio Kitchen recommends its exquisite rose hip jam from the Franche-Comté. Suggestions on where to purchase this cheese can be found after the jump.
In the pantheon of "acquired tastes" - natto, Scotch, chitlins, bitter melon - salty licorice definitely deserves a throne. This northern and western European favorite, also known as salmiak, doesn't really taste like anything else I associate with the word "food." That's not to say it's bad - after years of licorice-eating, I've come around to its acrid, ammonia-laced punch. But I've only recently learned what makes it taste the way it does.
It's not salt. Well, it's not NaCl - sodium chloride - the stuff that's in our salt shakers. Despite the name "salty licorice" and the definite saline flavor, the "salt" in salmiak comes from ammonium chloride, also known as sal ammoniac, a mildly acidic salt of ammonia. It's pungent, peppery stuff - a bag of strong salmiak smells like something wafting out of test tube in Chem 101.
When I was a kid, a Hungarian restaurant opened in my neighborhood. As this was the seventies, and my family lived in the culinary wasteland of Northern Virginia, every new eatery was an occasion for celebration. Consequently, the mood was high as my parents took my sisters and I to consume levesek, paprikas, and other delicacies. Unfortunately, my father felt obliged to give me a bite of his appetizer, which involved smooth meaty sausage-ish things. They tasted yummy, but when my father told me where they came from, my appetite evaporated.
In the years since, I've often regretted that I didn't take more time to savor the testicle dish that my father saw fit to share with me. The Hungarian joint only stayed open for a few months, and "prairie oysters" are not particularly common in American restaurants. To my knowledge, I haven't eaten any testicles since that evening, although I've long since developed both the taste and the bal...um...the intestinal fortitude necessary to try the dish.
With this in mind, I was particularly interested in the World Testicle Cooking Championship, a yearly event that is held in Belgrade, Serbia. Boasting chefs from around the world, the Championship highlights the latest discoveries and advances in testicle cooking. Recently, in fact, Australia caused quite a bit of a stir when it bragged about the culinary charms of kangaroo testicles yet failed to field a cooking team. Apparently, testicle cookery is not for the faint of heart!
Barring a sudden influx of money, I probably won't be going to the Championship any time soon, but Ljubomir Erovic, a renowned testicle chef, has recently released Cooking with Balls, an e-cookbook devoted to testicle cooking. Featuring recipes for testicle pizza, testicles [sic] pie, and barbecued testicles, the book also has some pretty hair-raising illustrations. Seriously, one video that demonstrated how to "peel" testicles made me a little light headed. That having been said, maybe I should leave the preparation to a professional. Now, if I can only find a good testicle joint...
The weather has been unseasonably warm this month in my neck of the woods, but it's finally starting to cool off. I'm ready to go apple picking and bite into fresh, crisp, tangy apples. I'm making pumpkin soup and roasted squash. I'm dreaming about baked pears stuffed with blue cheese and walnuts and drizzled with Port. And I'm finishing up my light summer Roses and Albarinos and Vinho Verdes and turning to fuller-bodied white wines and light reds that perfectly complement fall foods.
From Good Dishes from Tinned Food (1939), Ambrose Heath
I'm interrupting the semi-regularly scheduled Midnight Sausage series to share molded food images and recipes from my personal collection of early-to-mid 20th century cookbooks. There will be aspic. There will be mousse. There will be various gelatins. All will be semi-solid and of debatable degrees of edibility.
Please feel free to shimmy and shake your way to the comments section to share your very own magical, masticable molds of yore.
Quickly: when I say the word "wine," what do you think of? California, Virginia, or New York? Spain, Chile, or Australia? Chateaux or vineyards? Silver trays of champagne circling through a wedding reception? Winos swilling rotgut? Seventies swingers dipping bread cubes into fondue while pronouncing the Mateus "amusing?" Drunken college kids doing box-wine funnels? Or do you think of dessert?
All summer, my yearly seizure of frozen dessert making has been in full swing. You know the drill: as a season dawns, you feel besieged by the love of seasonal ingredients and compelled to express the love in your kitchen. In fall it's pumpkins and in spring it's the first vegetables (vegetable marrows, if you're a Christie fan). And, for me, in summer, it's ice cream. And sorbet. And lemon ices. And milkshakes (cabinets, if you're a Rhode Islander).
And ice cream sandwiches with a bit of that brown wafer still adhered to sticky wrapping paper. And digging through the arctic wonderland of the ice cream case to get to the shy banana popsicle that always hides among the more sociable grape and orange. And the homemade version you found in the freezer in ice cube trays with toothpicks standing at attention. And dashing into a convenience store off the interstate for a cherry slush. And walking through the county fair, trying to eat your snow cone before it melts and a sluice of sugary water runs out of the hole in the bottom of the conical paper cup and down your arm, screaming "buffet" to the mosquitoes who were killing time waiting for you to come along.
Andrew, an English food writer who co-authors a blog called Very Good Taste, creates a little list. The list is, in his words, things "every good omnivore should have tried at least once in their life." He calls it the Omnivore's Hundred and suggests readers cut and paste it to their own blogs.
Two weeks later the list has exploded into a major internet meme. Andrew has more than 500 comments on the post and the Omnivore's Hundred has 170,000 Google results to its name. Something about the idea of being able to quantify your eating experiences seems to really resonate with foodies. The list is completely subjective (I'm sure mine would have been quite different - I can't imagine not including New York pizza, tacos al pastor or key lime pie), but quite interesting nonetheless. I've tasted 73 of the 100 items. Some of the ones I haven't tried include nettle tea, fugu and currywurst (picture above).
Check out the list, after the jump, and tell me what you would include on your own Omnivore's Hundred.
There are definitely some odd (to those on the outside) rituals that have developed throughout the world. There's one ritual in Galaxidi, Greece that really takes the cake, or perhaps could make the cake.
In that Greek town, to celebrate the end of Carnival and the beginning of Lent, the citizens get together for a giant flour fight. According to Spiegel, the villagers go through roughly 3000 pounds of flour, and each one dyes his or her lot. The historic buildings are all covered in tarps, and by the end of the day the town is "covered in sticky, brightly colored flour." Goggles, windbreakers, and face masks are all popular apparel choices, and a lot of people take a dip in the ocean afterwards to clean off a bit before an evening of tavern-hopping.
This actually sounds like a lot of fun. I wouldn't be up for running with the bulls, but I would definitely throw some flour around. The tradition started at the beginning of the 19th century, but no one is really sure why except it had something to do with rebelling against the Turks (who were in charge at the time). Whatever the reason, this is my kind of party. What are some odd community traditions that you know about?
Recently, I browsed through Monocle's "travel top fifty," and I was intrigued by no. 24: Sprüngli Luxemburgerli. These pastries are a take on the French macaron but are said to be lighter and more airy. I am dying to try them! Currently, you can only purchase them in Zurich and, of course, Dubai.
I could not find a recipe online. So, I'm not exactly sure what makes them lighter than their French counterparts. However, I found a blog that contrasts the two. The cream center makes Luxemburgerli more airy than French macarons which can have jelly, caramel, or ganache in the center. They're also much smaller than French macarons. They're about the size of a quail's egg.
Luxemburgerli were actually invented in France by Camille Studer in 1967, and then, they were brought to Zurich. The name went through several changes: Baiser de Mousse, Gëback des Luxemburgers, and finally Luxemburgerli ("little Luxemburger"). When it comes to purchasing these luscious buttery sweets, you should head to Sprüngli Confiserie.
Preserved meat counter at an Ipercoop supermarket in Italy. From Flickr user cary b's Flickr.
I'm posting images of sausage counters the world over each weeknight (and occasionally weekend) witching hour until I run out. Please use the comments section to post links to your Flickr or personal site faves, and perhaps you'll see 'em posted here late some evening.
I'm posting images of sausage counters the world over each weeknight (and occasionally weekend) witching hour until I run out. Please use the comments section to post links to your Flickr or personal site faves, and perhaps you'll see 'em posted here late some evening.
Telegraph.co.uk reports that the world's oldest bottle of Veuve Cliquot Champagne was found in a sideboard at Torosay Castle on the Isle of Mull. Chris James, the current owner, long curious as to the contents of a locked sliding door in the dining room engaged the services of a locksmith. He was rewarded with a perfectly preserved 1893 bottle, complete with trademark yellow label. The bubbly, now considered priceless, is on display in Veuve Cliquot's visitors' center in Reims, France.
In other news, I was really excited to find a half-full bottle of Tito's vodka I'd forgotten about in my freezer last week. But then again, I don't own a damn castle.
After holding firm back in June and turning down a buyout offer, Anheuser-Busch surrendered over the weekend and allowed European brewer InBev to buy them for approximately $52 billion. America's largest beer maker is no longer in American hands, a move that leaves some beer drinkers a bit concerned for their favorite brew (maybe this will convince more people to switch to locally produced small batch brewers. What?! A girl can dream).
The new company will be called Anheuser-Busch InBev, one of the terms brokered in the buyout deal. August A. Busch IV, the company's CEO (and descent of one of the brewery's founders) will be given a seat on the board. According to a press release issued by both companies, no US breweries will be closing because of the merger.
.000001%* of the population will be paid actual cash money to step foot into the on deck circle at Yankee Stadium. Still, that doesn't stop hordes of fans from TiVoing Inside Baseball, poring over box scores and suiting up in team regalia on game day. For some of us, food holds an equally compelling balance of gut-level devotion and wonkish stat-based compulsion. A reservation at elBulli is akin to scoring home team dugout seats for the seventh game of the World Series. Food fans -- here's your program..jpg)
In the past, I have been accused of being excessively generous towards the products that I have reviewed. This is actually a fair criticism; while I try to be very honest about the foods that I discuss, I also tend to focus on the positive and sometimes downplay the negative. Beyond that, I usually only review products that I really like, going with the idea that ignoring lesser foodstuffs is probably the best possible critique.
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When I was a kid, a Hungarian restaurant opened in my neighborhood. As this was the seventies, and my family lived in the culinary wasteland of Northern Virginia, every new eatery was an occasion for celebration. Consequently, the mood was high as my parents took my sisters and I to consume levesek, paprikas, and other delicacies. Unfortunately, my father felt obliged to give me a bite of his appetizer, which involved smooth meaty sausage-ish things. They tasted yummy, but when my father told me where they came from, my appetite evaporated.
Quickly: when I say the word "wine," what do you think of? California, Virginia, or New York? Spain, Chile, or Australia? Chateaux or vineyards? Silver trays of champagne circling through a wedding reception? Winos swilling rotgut? 
New York Times Magazine's food issue
Chicken McNuggets frolic at New York City pet store
Eat your broccoli orbs! 
