HUMMUS FOR DUMMIES

Good Hummus requires few ingredients, little instruction, and minimal effort. My Mom, with her Cuisinart (perhaps the only participant in this process that cannot be done without), is masterful, no, prodigious. Hummus is an art she'll tell you, requiring little more than a knowledge of your own preferences in taste (more lemon, more garlic, less cumin, etc.) to make a batch that will rock your world.

This is my Mom's proof:

1. Garlic

2. Pulse
3. Tahini
4. Salt
5. Lemon Juice
6. Water
7. Olive Oil
8. Cumin

(9. Insert photo of 2 16 oz. cans of rinsed garbanzo beans added to the mix)

10. Pulse, taste, and add more of whatever may be needed:

11. Spread on a plate, olive oil, some beans for garnish:

12. Or, for the best way to dress hummus, sprinkle with spiced ground beef, toasted pinenuts, and parsley:

popover divinity

I'm still convinced there's some magic involved. Magic, or divine intervention of sorts. I've now, four times, made popovers; those mythic bread-y deities whose spirit first touched me at BLT Prime, and whose creed I've worshipped piously ever since.

Not bread, not a muffin, not a scone or any of the like; popovers literally stand in a class of their own. They're baked in popover tins- essentially a muffin tin with fewer (6) and deeper (about 3 inch) cavities. They bake up and literally popover, creating a tall, crispy muffin type top. When you tear into one, you see that the top is pretty hallow, the bottom dense with gooey, eggy webbing.

After the first attempt, which was miraculously successful...


...I consulted the blogs to demystify the alchemy behind popovers. I learned that there are a few commandments that if broken, are sure to send you to popover purgatoria. They are:

1. Do not over mix the popover batter- think "combine till lumpy," not "smooth."
2. Let the batter sit, at room temperature for approx 20 minutes after you mix it- there's a scientific reason behind this, couldn't tell you what, but know that it has something to do with gluten
3. When baking, do not open the oven at all
4. Immediately after they come out, puncture the sides of each to allow the steam to escape- this will prolong the inevitable deflation

As in all religions, there were dissidents and reformists on the blogs who disputed these commandments and the absolutism with which they are adhered to by others. I, however, with the zeal of someone who had just found god, adopted them as tenets of my religion, and was rewarded in popover after life. In all but one time, (forgive me father, for I had sinned: I was rushed and 1. didn't combine wet and dry ingredients after both were gathered but mixed everything, simultaneously, in one big bowl and 2. I overmixed) the popovers were glorious.

Thus, with these 4 tenants and this simple recipe, adopted from my second attempt forward, (I used BLT's frilly and labor intensive recipe the first time) I charged forth with new found cause.

This is all you need:


Mix the wet. What you see me pouring in is the tbs of melted butter:

Add the sifted dry ingredients:

Grate the Gruyere cheese:

Pour into tin. I had a slight batter malfunction on this time (pouring some of it our by accident) and only had enough for 5:

Top each with about a tbs of Gruyere:


Bake as instructed, puncture, and eat IMMEDIATELY.

You will become a believer- this I promise you.

gorgonzola and pears: star-crossed lovers

I don't have a TV. That doesn't mean I don't watch any; I keep up with a couple of shows that stream online but there's one network whose shows I long for that I'm completely deprived of until I go home, to CA, OR until I begin my journey there... on jetblue... with 36 chanels of direct tv. I leave all reading material at home because I know I'm going to- no, I prepare for and anticipate with combustible fervor and eagerness, the 5 hours and 55 minutes of uninterrupted TV-- a bonafide binge.

Food Network, channel 27, is what I watch. Channel 29, HGTV, on commercials, and some Bravo, Top Chef if I'm lucky, when the barely tolerable Semi-Homemade is on. Last trip, returning from CA, I watched a brilliant Barefoot Contessa where Ina defied all expectations of someone of her domestic aptitude by serving, for dessert, Pears and Stilton. Just fresh pears, and Stilton cheese, and never before did I desire so strongly to be a guest there at her table.

I found this simple recipe online which married my needs for pears & blue cheese and a meal, perfectly.

First, cut and core the pears:

Then, drizzle with olive oil, fresh thyme leaves, salt, and pepper:

Roast for 20ish minutes, then fill the core with about a table spoon of blue cheese- I used gorgonzola.

Put them back in the oven, for a few minutes. Meanwhile, I toasted some walnut pieces, tossed arugula in a light vinaigrette:

And assembled it all:

They tasted magnificent. The pears were tender, but firm. The blue cheese, as you see, melted into cheesy oblivion, and the walnuts added a delightful, nutty crunch.

I repeat, magnificent.

ششبرك (Arabic for Mac n 'Cheese)

Not really... ششبرك is Arabic for shushbarak, what I think is the existential equivalent of Mac n' Cheese in the world of Arabic cuisine. Like Mac n' cheese, sushbarak is steamy, gooey, and chewy. It expands in your belly, evoking the comfort, warmth, and security of a warm bath. You know the feeling of falling asleep with the heater on, only to wake up in the middle of the night from such a deep stupor because you're too hot? Well, take that feeling, lower your body temp two notches so that you're warm, so warm, the kind of seizing, hibernation-inducing warmths that's not too hot, that's what sushbarak, the ultimate comfort food, feels like. Yup, I think the shushbarak/ Mac n'Cheese analogy holds with one exception: it is very timely and labor intensive to make- massochists in the kitchen, we are; if it's simple, you must be doing it wrong.


I found shushbarak (under the alias "Manti") on the menu of Turkish restaurant called Antique Garage, in Soho. After reading the description, I asked myself if this could possibly be true? When the waiter came to take our order, I asked him too; not "could this possibly be true?," but "tell me about these," and what he described, dumplings filled with minced beef swimming in a warm yogurt sauce, describes shushbarak indeed, and was my order, indeed.


I have little to say more than what I describe above; the return to comfort and contentment on the most primal human level, the months (9) that we frolicked about in amniotic fluid in total security and warmth, knowing nothing of the sorrows of the world, were returned to in this dish.
And, our check was delivered in an authentic 1940's cigarette tin. Coooool.

Carb highlights of a road trip through THE SOUTH!

The South, while bad when it comes to politics, ain't bad when it comes to food. On a road trip from D.C. to New Orleans, my friend Hilary and I (yes, it has one "L" --it's the "right way," she'll tell you-- though she's much resigned to having it miss-spelled for the rest of her life thanks to our next president) took in a lot of American landscape, American culture, and American food. While we kept our driving snacks to rice cakes, kashi bars, fruit, and the occasional Swedish Fish, there was no stopping us once we made it to our destination. Not that we pursued a taste of another uniquely American quality, the Obesity; no, we just wanted the best of each town, and in some cases, the obesity just happened to be sprinkled on top. (See exhibits A, B, D, E, and F).

A. Roanoke, Virginia

Totally civil, right? Well technically, VA is a Mid-Atlantic state, and also for lovers. Anyways, we exercised restraint when the dessert menu came after the most surprisingly authentic and satisfying Indian meal (Indian aficionados, we are... the place was Nawab, if you ever find yourself in Roanoke). I neeeeeded rice pudding, and the gulab jamun was calling out too but no, we promised, in an effort to taste (literally and figuratively) as much as we could of each city we passed through, to get dessert somewhere else. And we did: three desserts, each $2, and each packed with flavor that there tinyness would belie. At the bar, looking down onto Cafe Metro's mesmerizing open-kitchen, we were served these three little wonders: Irish Crème Brulee, a Banana Bread "Twinkie," and Chocolate cake with sour cherries, the most sophisticated, diverse, and confidently executed desserts that $6 could buy.

B. Asheville, North Carolina

This night we splurged ($80/night) on a hotel that had wireless internet AND a deluxe breakfast. It doesn't get fancier than that in Asheville, unless you're G.W. Vanderbilt, in the Biltmore Estate (divine!), in the Gilded Age. While very well advised in Roanoke (Nawab was the Days Inn Registrant's suggestion), we seized the free wireless as an opportunity for due diligence, and after considering others, decided on a Caribbean restaurant called Salsa's for dinner. Above is our appetizer- a trio of salsas we selected from a list of about 8. They were: Pineapple Salsa (upper right of the peace sign), Guacamole, and on the left, Banana Nut. Anyone who knows anything about my eating preferences would be able to tell you that I would love this; I simple believe that there is no -nor has ever been- so great a union, I repeat, EVER, than that of sweet and savory. Not the Stars and Moon, not the North and Confederate South, not even Brad and Angelina. I'm a chocolate covered pretzels, pineapple on pizza, pad-Thai kind of gal, and could not have asked for a more consummate materialization of sweet and savory, than the one you see above.

C. Charleston, South Carolina

Call the press, ring the alarm, do whatever you need to do to alert others that the world has just been dramatically improved. This is my blog, right? Thus, I shall let my self-centeredness go forth unabashed, burning holes in the humble persona you know.

You don't understand what a big deal this is for someone who, for their entire adult life, looked with envy (and slight disgust... not gonna lie) at those who cared not that the anatomy of what they ate could hardly be deciphered and cared not that in a single bite they would be ingesting the entire body of an animal. When I learned that there is a correlation between intelligence and willingness to explore foods, I denied it ardently, but secretly cursed my food prudishness as an impediment to reaching greater intellectual potential. Well, to those who've justified their gastronomic cowardice with arguments like "there's just something more humane about just eating its breast, or leg,” I must say that besides having an embarrassingly faulty argument, you have lost a disciple. I now eat mussels. This wasn't my first time- I tried one before, but it was tiny, and almost swaddled in bread dipped in the broth it was served in. The texture just about killed me. But on this occasion, a new leaf was turned. On New Years, I resolved that I would at least try all the foods that historically I refused to, and that never again would I hear the words "Just try it!" from my super cool, will-try-anything little siblings. When the steamy mussels were set down before us, I followed through... only I couldn't stop. I just wished my siblings were there to gasp with surprise, then applaud my new found adventure.

D. Savannah, GA

To me, like most of her viewers, Pawwwwla Deen is a friend. She's a nurturing figure; a grandma perhaps, whose house has a rocking chair on the porch, knitted blankets draped on the seat-backs of every couch, and always smells like apple pie. Well, in my pursuit of absolute comfort, we sought out the Lady and Son's, her restaurant in Savannah, and found nothing like it. Take Sizzler quality of food and ambiance (if you can even call it ambiance), and cross it with Disneyland scale and traffic control, and the result would be this restaurant. Shattered by the mystery casseroles featured on the stale $4.99-looking buffets that we passed as we followed the arrows to the elevator to the hostess who we hand our seating assignment on a yellow laminated card, I tried, in vain, to find something appetite whetting on the menu, tried to make light of where we were despite Hilary's repulsion. We were served the above; a garlic roll and a pancakey thing, each made 85% of butter, and agreed that while we wanted to leave, it would be rude to just then. We each ordered a side salad, and got the hell out.


Breakfast made it all better though; I had the moistest, soggiest breadpuddin' from a darling baking company we walked forever to get to. It had huge pieces of bananas in it, the top was crispy, and it was drizzled with caramel sauce. Delish.

E. Montgomery, Alabama

The ubiquitous breakfast food of pancakes, was, for some reason, impossible for us to find until we came to Montgomery. From day one, that's all we wanted for breakfast. We asked around, looked online, and the closest we came to pancakes in the previous 5 days of the trip was arriving at two restaurants within ten minutes after they stopped serving breakfast, and the waffle maker we enjoyed as part of the "Deluxe" breakfast at the hotel in Asheville. Then came Montgomery, when, as Hilary so aptly put it, we had the "Holy Grail" of breakfasts. The place was a former farmers market turned restaurant whose clientele seemed to have had their breakfast there everyday since it was desegregated; same booth, same order, same waitress, same $4 check. I had grits for the first time, and this prompted a vow to activism against any alternative oil production involving corn; if it isn't a sin to waste any of the grits making potential of corn by, say, using some of it for ethanol, than I don't know what is. The pancake? Heavenly. The price? Including the windex-tasting biscuits (a fluke, I'm sure), totaled $4.30.

F. New Orleans, Louisiana

Part of what made the culmination of this trip (3 days in New Orleans) so extraordinary, was that I got to experience it with Hilary, whose Mom is from New Orleans. To see this city of mythic hedonism through the eyes of someone who grew up there, and someone who's been there countless times growing up confirmed my preconceptions of the extent and authenticity to which the people there value leisure. The Dionysian, hedonistic electricity that runs through everyone I encountered there also runs through the food. Above, the hickory burger from Bob's; a local burger joint whose original location, destroyed by the storm, is mourned, but whose burgers Hilary's mom said haven't changed. Coated in a sweet and spicy hickory sauce and chopped white onion for a bite, each bite was explosive. The tang, the sweet, the onion, and the cheese on the seasoned beef was tantalizing, and while decently sized, ended entirely to soon.


Rounding out this culinary adventure were New Orleans' legendary beignets. The day that I was leaving to fly back to NY, Uncle Bubba, Hilary's great-uncle and perhaps the sweetest man I've met insisted that breakfast be beignets at Morning Call. Uncle Bubba, Hilary and I each had an order of three and a coffee for dunking, already sweetened and with milk. They were divine; firm on the outside, but light and pillowy, almost hallow inside with only sparse webbing. Imagine sitting in a hammock supported at each end by frolicking cupids, your weight suspended into a cloud, almost floating; eating these beignets is the closest you will get to that experience here on Earth.

So, dear reader, you now understand my recent affinity for elastic waist pants. If the next time(s) you see me I'm trying to pull off sweat pants, have mercy, and go with it.

For the cookie monster in us all...

I feel like I can end this post now.

I mean, seriously, look above. What you're seeing is the cookie to end all cookies. Well, one of the cookies to end all cookies that, like its siblings, is born in the magic kitchen at Levain bakery. This cookie weighs half a pound, falls somewhere between cookie and scone in texture, and is made of all organic ingredients. In short, Levain cookies are extraordinary; the best in the city, by far- this, any critic would echo.


My friend Loren, the mayor of all things food in NY (featured in the Park Ave. Winter post, directly below), works at Levain on and off. I was first handed a bag of cookies from across that counter by Loren in the Summer of 06', when I was in New York looking for apartments. I would be moving a month later, and had a day and a half on the hottest week of New York's summer thus-far to find a place. Between meetings with brokers and stoned NYU students whose shit-holes they actually called apartments, glistening, I went to 74th and Amsterdam at Loren's behest. I came down the four steps into the tiny bakery that churns out gargantuan goods, and my life changed.


The cookie varieties are chocolate chip walnut, dark chocolate peanut butter chip, dark chocolate choloate chip, and oatmeal raisin, my absolute favorite. They have flat breads and sandwiches, scones, and brioches and all are wonderful, I'm sure, but I only know the cookies... and, now that I think about it, a turkey and cucumber sandwich that was solid, anchored by incredible bread. But the cookies. I don't know how quite to express why they're so good. They just are, seriously, unbelievable.

Below you see what was left of the oatmeal raising cookie Loren handed me when I came in the last time by the time I realized that I meant to take a picture of it. This cookie is so delicious: not too sweet, kind of hard on the outside, soft on the inside, and the raisins are huge and plump. The cost of each cookie I should mention is $3.75, steep for a cookie, but irrelevant when what you're paying for is the best cookie you've had.

Real magic is made down those few stairs on 74th- Levain is the best little cave there was.

Park Avenue Club: Winter 08'

My friends and I are kind of a big deal. We go to fancy NY restaurants, and are treated like VIP. At Park Avenue Winter, the Maitre d’ offers his personal opinions of what to order, makes sure our Champagne flutes never dry, serves us ¾ of the dessert menu (with Prosecco), and ensures that sipping shots of Bailey’s round out the evening’s indulgence. No, we’re not socialites; we simply like good food, and this one good restaurant we frequent, noticed. Oh, and our friend Loren, one of the members of the Park Avenue Club (see below) knows the Maitre d’ well.

The Park Avenue Café changed the concept of its restaurant last summer. Before becoming a seasonal spot, whose menu and decoration change with each season, it was a season-less restaurant, a good restaurant with an AWESOME semi-secret Pay-your-age lunch and dinner plan, where, if you’re under say 60, you’d benefit from the pay-your-age plus $5 price for three courses. I was twenty-two all the times that I went to the Park Avenue Café, so I made out like a bandit paying $27 dollars for three courses, of which the entrée itself, the halibut most-times, cost $32. For someone who’s carded 80 percent of the time I’m at a restaurant ordering a drink, it wasn’t new to have to show the waiter my card, what was new, was that they were verifying that my age was in fact what I said it was, not older.

Summer of 2006 began Park Avenue’s transition to a seasonal restaurant- literally called Park Avenue Summer in summer, P.A. Winter in winter, and so on. Between each season, the restaurant is closed for two weeks to undergo an extreme makeover into a space that embodies the essence of the next season. Summer made you feel that you were sitting on the veranda of an Antebellum mansion on the marshes of Savannah. The lighting was low, and didn’t flicker, but with a little bit of imagination could have come from a Citronella candle. Tall grass and cat-tails sprung from planters, and while the soundtrack didn’t actually feature crickets and frogs, it was as though the faint hum of the marshlands could be heard behind the pop music that was playing.

It was at the Park Avenue Summer dinner that the Park Avenue Club was formed. Myself, Jenna, Kirstin, Sarah, Meghan, and Loren agreed to adjourn this dinner until next season, when we would return for another meeting. Our Fall meeting was a success, mushrooms and Winter squash were highlighted on the menu, mahogany and turning leaves featured in the space.

At Park Avenue Winter, we were greeted by an all-white space, with a white marble bust of a Ram presiding over restaurant as though it were perched triumphant on the Matterhorn. Aside from a few shiny accents, white fur wall panels, bare branches and planters growing pale green herbs, the setting was very neutral. Yea, it was white, and yes, snow is white, but other than that and the bare branches, there was little connection to winter. Unlike summer, whose ethereal spirit was captured beautifully in the space, winter just made you feel like you were in a posh white restaurant, whose idea of festivity was switching out fresh flowers for bare branches.

The food, while I wouldn’t call it festive, was more inspired than the setting. I arrived a few minutes late, so by the time I got to the table, the girls were munching on delicious arancini (fried risotto balls) served in a brown paper bags with herb aioli on the side. Crunchy on the outside, the interior was soft, warm, and aromatic.


The five of us ordered an appetizer and entrée each, and we did so collaboratively, so that we can sample the maximum number of items on the menu. To ensure that no one should miss anything, we passed our dishes to the left after taking (and briefly savoring) a bite.

There were the prawns, my order, and my least favorite of the five appetizers I tried. They were sautéed, and served on a citrus (grapefruit) and herb (elder flower) salad, and topped with very crispy noodles frayed on top. Beautifully plated, but too summer-y for a winter menu, leaving a lot to be desired:

Then, the ravioli with porcinis, swiss chard, and gorgonzola sauce. These sumptuous little pillows filled with warm ultra seasonal ingredients were wonderful. Totally delightful, and comforting as they were, Kirstin ordered very well:


My favorite was the open-faced scallop sandwich, brought to our table because the food-wise and ever-adventurous Jenna ordered it. The scallops were cut into about quarter-inch thick slices, seared, and generously layered on a buttery slice of bread. Scallops on bread? Such an unlikely but incredibly delicious pairing, I savored my bite as best as I could despite the swiftness with which it dissolved in my mouth after taking it.


There were other appetizers, but the above were the memorable ones. Now, for my entrée, I ordered the cornbread crusted red snapper, served on top of a citrus salad. Sound like my appetizer much? Well, it was, but better, different, satisfying. The cornbread was patted on the top side and crisped, becoming the perfect compliment to the succulent snapper.


The citrus salad under the snapper was fresh and complex. It had oranges, grapefruit, fennel and herbs, and balanced the sweet corn bread snapper wonderfully.


The five desserts we shared warrant their own entry, and I’m afraid I won’t be getting to it. Let the following pictures suffice:



…They were fabulous, and so were we.