It Takes a Village...to Make a Salad

            In my previous apartment, on one of many nights when I clattered through the door with a reusable canvas grocery tote swinging off my shoulder, my former roommate asked reproachfully “do you go food shopping every day?” Presently, the answer to that is no. In a perfect world, yes, I would go food shopping every day. Would I go to Stop & Shop every day? Hell no. In our culture, food shopping is a chore, and often a particularly odious one. As someone who spends eight hours a day in a kitchen for my job, cooking is not always the first thing on my agenda when I arrive home, but when the mood does strike me, it’s usually the direct result of a foodie inspiration. Whether this means seeing a picture or reading a recipe of a dish I just have to make, or perusing local produce and finding the perfect tomatoes that just must find their destiny in a caprese salad, both scenarios are born of spontaneity, and therefore not conducive to using whatever was purchased at the supermarket on Sunday and now languishes in the back of the fridge. For this reason, I do find myself taking multiple trips to various culinary purveyors in a given week- if I can afford it, that is.

This style of food shopping may seem impractical and laborious to the American sensibility, but there are still places where it’s the modus operandi for segments- albeit dwindling segments- of the population. It’s that whole European thing where you go from butcher, to baker, to green grocer, to fishmonger, gathering from each one component of your meal. Of course you could visit a store and gather the majority of items on your list under one roof, but won’t you get fresher fish from the guy who saw the nets being pulled up? Better baguette from the woman who starts kneading and shaping at four o’clock every morning? Better peas from man who trained the vines along a trellis he built with his own hands? I know I’m romanticizing this concept (not to mention applying gender stereotypes with abandon), but I truly believe that we respect our food more when we are held accountable to another human being who put their everything into producing it. Yes, chemically that pea is just like a pea that comes in a shrink-wrapped Styrofoam tray for $3.99 at Whole Foods, but as true foodies know, a meal is so much more than science.

My most recent inspiration came from the pages of Evan Goldstein’s Daring Pairings, a book in which dishes are matched up with a certain wine grape. When I came across the carignan pairing, my culinary juices began to roil, and I decided the first order of business was a long overdue trip to South End Formaggio in search of Roncal cheese and slab bacon. After failing to find parking in the pouring rain, I pulled into an illegal spot, turned my hazards on, and said a silent prayer to the towing gods….then I entered paradise. I have never been in the presence of so much cheese in such a small place. I could have spent hours there, but in the interest of avoiding a trip to the impound, I shared my goals with the purveyor and put on my blinders. While Roncal was not on offer, it happens to be very close to the Spanish sheep’s milk cheese Manchego, and after sampling a few viable options, I selected a raw milk farmhouse cheese, aged 18 months, and full of pungent yet mellow nuttiness, a caramelized note, and an animal flavor undeniably reminiscent of a sheep herd. Bacon was to be in the form of a smoky, Berkshire pork slab, sliced thick on the spot, and so fragrant that it perfumed my car (which was, thankfully, right where I left it) even through the plastic bag. 

            The next day proved to be one of those incredible fall days, almost sybaritic in its sun-drenched perfection, and poignant in its acknowledgement of the encroaching winter. The crates at the farmers market overflowed with previously unheard of apple varieties, potatoes hooked and knobbed in every direction, shiny purple onions on the end of two-foot-long shoots, and winter squashes, their skin streaked with fiery orange and tan. I selected a rotund kabocha squash, deep green in color, woody stalks of aromatic thyme, and a handful of shallots, amethyst beneath papery brown sheaths with earth still clinging to them.

And then- I cannot deny- I went to Whole Foods, because there are some ingredients that you just can’t get elsewhere. I scooped organic pecans from the bulk bins, selected a smooth, pale little head of endive, and- because it was on sale- a vibrantly green bunch of hydroponic watercress, each little leaf like a perky lily pad.

At last, it was time to assemble. The squash was unburdened of its knobby skin (no small feat), coated with oil, salt, pepper, and thyme, and roasted in a hot oven until tender and caramelized. The pecans were toasted to deepen their flavor and then received just a sprinkle of salt. The bacon was sliced into meaty lardons and sautéed in a skillet to coax out the fat (not to mention what is probably the most besotting aroma in the culinary realm, and sends me into a fervor akin to a feline catching a whiff of catnip). Thinly sliced shallots joined the sizzling bacon, and acquired a glistening coat of flavor before a mixture of sherry vinegar, fresh pepper, and olive oil was swirled in. This warm concoction was then tossed with endive and cress leaves, plated beside wedges of squash, and topped with crumbled nuts and shavings of cheese…perfection. How daring the wine pairing was I cannot say, but it worked; a L’Arbossar Priorat was deep and intense, with dark fruit flavors, liquorice, and violets all delivered in a mouthful so creamy and lush that swallowing almost seemed a shame. Overall, the meal was simple: a salad, and a beautiful wine. But when each component is sought out, and each ingredient carefully chosen for its quality, even a simple thing can truly be more than the sum of its parts, and even a salad takes a village. Or maybe a few villages- South End, Brookline, Newton- but hey, the adage is open to interpretation.

Les Vendanges en Champagne

 
Harvest in Champagne had been one of the "things I want to do" for quite sometime and this September, I finally did it at Champagne Cordeuil, located in a tiny village of Noe-les-Mallets, about 1&1/2 hour drive from a town of Troyes in the southern part of Champagne region in the Aube.

Champagne Cordeuil is RM or Recoltant-Manipulant= grower producer, who grows own grapes and makes own Champagne, vs. NM or Negociant-Manipulant= Champagne house, which buys grapes/wines from growers and makes Champagne according to the house style; majority of the Champagne we see here in the US are NM such as Moet & Chandon, Veuve Clicquot, Pommery, Taittinger, etc. What made this opportunity working for RM particularly great for me was that I get to deal with both viticulture and vinification at one property.

Each year, each village receives the official harvest starting date from CIVC (organization which controls production, distribution, and promotion of Champagne) and this year the starting date in the village of Noe-les-Mallets was 9/16. Dragging my suitcase full of 3 weeks worth of clothes along with a raincoat and farmer's rain boots for the harvest work, I arrived in Paris on 9/14 and shared a ride with 3 other “pickers” the following day.

There were about 25 pickers at the Champagne Cordeuil. All French (except 2 Italians living in France) and majority were late 20’s to early 30’s. Noticing they were all “repeaters” from all over France, I became curious and asked why they come all the way here to do the harvest every year. Everyone’s answer was the same – “This place is special.” “There is no place like Champagne Cordeuil.” I later found out why.

 

 Our day starts at 7:00AM with a simple breakfast of café au lait or hot chocolate with baguette. By 7:30AM, we get in transportation vans and head to the vineyards located in different parts of the village. The work begins at 8:00AM with a bucket in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. 

Harvest in Champagne may sound glamorous and romantic (or at least it did to me) but the actual work is extremely hard and labor intensive. The vines are trained very low close to the ground, and since two out of three grapes used for the production of Champagne are black varieties to make clear, golden colored Champagne, great care must be taken, therefore hand harvest is the only option permitted by law. Also due to its marginal climate and northerly location, vines are planted on the slopes in order to take advantage of sunshine. This is great for the grapes but hard for the human being to work with. Just to give you an idea how hard it was - I was told to bring a bottle of aspirin as I was going in a lot of pain (and yes I was) and crawling out was the only way I could get out of my bed for the first couple days.

However from day 3 and 4, I happened to get used to the work in the vineyard and I was even thinking about applying for a job in a vineyard from day 5 and 6, asking the Chef de Caves where I can take oenology program in the area. Only the problem – I started to smell like a farm; the aroma of soil and dry hay, complemented by a whiff of horse manure. Additionally my hands and fingernails were stained black from Pinot Noir grape.

Despite all these things I was not used to, the time I spent at Champagne Cordeuil was amazing. Every lunch and dinner starts with 2 glasses of Champagne followed by unlimited amount of red wine with four course meal of appetizer, entrée, cheese selection and dessert, all prepared from scratch by its own chef. His French home cooking was so delicious to a point I almost asked him if I could stay in France with him the day he gave me a ride to a bus stop.

The lunch break is 2 hours long everyday, so when we finish our meal, we go outside and lay on the grass, chitchat, smoke cigarettes, take a nap, sing, play games… After a break, we go back to the vineyards and work till 4:30-5:00PM. When we return to the property, we take a shower, relax a bit, and meet in the dining room at 8:00PM for dinner. 

My favorite time of the day was before dinner, when some of us got together in “la cave”(= winery, where they press the grapes and make Champagne) and hang out with the owner “Gigi” and the Chef de Caves. They usually open couple bottles of Champagne or other beverage and tell us about the production of Champagne. Sitting in “la cave”, hearing the press machine going in the background, smelling the freshly pressed grape juice, and learning about Champagne was an ultimate environment, which I could not have asked for more.

  

In general, the harvest takes about 10-12 days but we finished in 8 days this year on 9/23 and it was a time for “fete” or party! It was also a day, which happened to be full moon and the day people celebrate for the end of the harvest with an animal dog in France. Unlimited numbers of Champagne bottles were opened and dishes after dishes of a special feast took over the entire dining table. We drunk, sang, and danced till after midnight (till 4AM for some).



During the 10 days I spent in Noe-les-Mallets, not only I learned what it was like to work in the vineyard and Champagne making but also the delicious meals, Champagne, and the special moments I get to share with everyone were just magical. I now know why Champagne Cordeuil is special and there is no place like it!

Kiwi Baby Mama, and the Perception of a Bargain

When perusing the produce at Whole Foods, my eye inevitably finds the yellow ‘On Sale’ tags, since- let’s face it- these are often the only items I can afford (get out the skillet, mama’s bringin’ home a whole eggplant tonight!). In my recent wanderings, I came across a little plastic clamshell of what looked like green grapes. The label read “Passion Poppers”, which sounds to me like something you’d find an ad for in the back pages of a magazine, but they were, in fact, baby kiwis. Yup, for only $3.99 you can take home your very own half-pint of ‘kiwi berries’. Before I get too snide about the inflated price tag, I should probably own up to the fact that I bought them- as evidenced by the above picture. This purchase, and its all-too-numerous precedents, demonstrate an interesting phenomenon, of which, I am happy to say, I am not the only victim: perceived bargains. The perception of a bargain, especially for the penny-pinching New Englanders that abound in these parts, is often too enticing for shoppers to resist. When faced with a sale item or ‘special deal’, such factors as need, previous desire, and practicality are forgotten, and taking their place is the simple knowledge that we can buy something today for less than we could buy it yesterday. In this scenario, the price might shoot right back up tomorrow- if it’s even still available tomorrow, that is, since everyone will be clamoring to take advantage of this deal. Is it the fear that others will take advantage while we miss out? Is it the implicit limited window of time that causes rational thought to be thrown to the wind? Or is it simply the notion that we’re being offered a commodity worth more than the asking price? Obviously, the concept that an item’s value is dictated by what one is willing to pay for it would refute this theory, but I think it might be the driving force here. The customer feels like he’s ‘pulling one over’ on the seller; as if he had personally negotiated the price down to a reasonable figure. Perhaps in the frustration of our consumer-driven society, exacerbated by the economic crisis, taking advantage of a perceived bargain at Whole Foods is our cultural equivalent of haggling with vendors in a marketplace somewhere. Since attempting to drive a bargain with the stock boy is not an accepted means of frugality, jumping at the opportunity to save a dollar on apples or eggs will have to suffice. The sad irony is, of course, that if you wouldn’t have paid 4.99 for it, but you’re buying it for 3.99 on sale, you’re (I’m) still a sucker! Hell, I never would have dished out four bucks for a pack of baby kiwis if it wasn’t a ‘special’, (believe it or not, they weren’t on my shopping list), but somehow, I was drawn in. Alas, I found myself in possession of a half-pint of kiwiberries, and since regular kiwis were also on sale, I decided I’d turn my humiliating run as supermarket chump into a golden opportunity for some culinary edification in the form of a good ol’ side-by-side tasting.

So on to the good stuff: the eating of my newly meaningful, shamefully procured little fruits. The first and most apparent difference between the two- besides the obvious size factor- was the absence of the characteristic fuzzy brown skin on the babies. It is this very skin that earned the fruit its well-known moniker, as it was thought to resemble the kiwi bird when the plant was first brought to New Zealand. Originally a native of China, it was previously referred to as a ‘Chinese gooseberry’, and in China as a monkey peach, macaque pear, vine pear, sun peach or wood berry.

Upon cutting open the two fruits, the similarities became more obvious; the cross-section of the baby was a perfect little clone of its more common relative. What is it about a familiar object, scaled down a few sizes, that just makes it so darn cute? Eighteen years ago my American Girl dolls would have had the perfect addition to their tiny plastic lunches. The flesh of the kiwiberry was slightly more vibrant than the mama, leaning towards a punchy Kelly green, as opposed to the more chartreuse translucence of the typical fruit. When given a little love squeeze, the baby oozed a milky-green fluid, more opaque than the juice dripping off my knife after cutting through the fuzz-coated flesh of the mama.

Sniffing the two specimens revealed that the berries- which are also called ‘hardy kiwis’ due to the ability of the dormant vines to withstand temperatures as low as -25 degrees Fahrenheit- have a mild, fresh aroma, and after sucking the flesh out of a few, and then just popping a couple in my mouth whole, I found the meat to be dense, with a slightly chalky texture, and the flavor sweeter, but somehow tangier than the kiwis I was used to. They were decidedly citrusy, with both lemon and lime notes and a pleasant melon undertone. On to the big’un: here, I found the texture to be almost crystalline, as opposed to the creamy flesh of the berries, and it had a pronounced, grassy aroma. The flavor was more delicate overall, and compared to the hardy kiwis was like a tasty but modest Riesling next to a crisp German Auslese in which the sweetness is intense, but balanced by snappy acidity.

The winner? Both are healthy choices, with hefty doses of vitamin C, and while Chinese folklore does endow kiwifruits with cancer-fighting abilities, one can only assume there’s simply less existing research on the Lilliputian variety. If you have an extreme aversion to fuzzy coatings, the babies have an obvious advantage. Concerned about the use of excess plastics in packaging? Mama’s the clear choice. More bang for your buck? Mama wins again. In retrospect, my 3.99 was justified by the fact that I got a blog post out of it, but in the future, when I feel myself being swayed by the siren song of the yellow sale tag, I’ll pause a moment and consider my motives- perhaps next time I’ll save my dollars for that German Auslese instead…

A Stout Defense of Fall; shorter days, cooler nights, and brews for the equinox.

Arguably the best thing about the onset of crisp fall weather is the foods we have been waiting all summer to eat. Stews, braises, all things hearty and satisfying that just don’t seem quite so alluring when it’s 90 degrees out- who wants stick to your ribs food when your hair is sticking to the back of your neck? The same principle applies to America’s favorite quaff as well- lagers, ales, and hefeweizens dominate the summer bar scene, and patio-sippers are uniformly light in both color and weight, and served ice-cold and in copious quantities.

Although the change is already undeniable, the official start of autumn has not arrived, and I have yet to pull out the Le Creuset for stew or fill up the kitchen with the warmth and spicy-sweet aromas of baking. I haven’t closed my windows yet, either, but the first evening that the air wafting in sent me running for a sweater to wrap around my shoulders felt like the time to start embracing some of the finer flavors of the season- Oktoberfest anyone?

Now, seeing as I always want to try something new, and am seldom in the mood for the same thing two nights in a row, my favorite way to buy beer is in mixed six-packs. Not all places will let you do this, but even if it’s not advertised, it’s always worth asking. Trader Joe’s is great about allowing you to mix and match, and while their selection is not exhaustive, there’s certainly enough for a few go-rounds. When I think of fall beers, I think of dark, heady brews with a thick layer of foam and pungent, bitter aromas. That being said, I am by no means a beer expert, so when I found myself picking out both a stout and a porter from the Sierra Nevada Brewing Company, I knew they both fell well into these parameters, but couldn’t tell you exactly why, or how they differed from each other, for that matter. Thus, with the usual suspects of curiosity and an insatiable hunger for seemingly useless knowledge driving me (plus the need for an excuse to drink two beers at once), I set out to learn a bit about porter and stout, and taste them side-by-side.

Imagine my chagrin when the first fact my research turned up was that the official difference between stout and porter is…nothing. Well screw it, I thought, I’m still drinking them both. Apparently, back in the 1800s, the term ‘stout’ simply meant that a beer was strong, while a weak beer was described as ‘slender’. Under the umbrella of porters, which were all relatively dark, there were ‘brown stouts’, as opposed to ‘true’ porters, which were lighter in style and alcohol. Throughout the years, each brewery developed its own style of porter and stout; often this manifested in the use of chocolate malt versus patent malt, respectively, or roasting the barley for stouts, but none of this was official or regulated in any way. While there is no universally defined difference between the two, they are indeed distinct- otherwise there’d be no money to be made by selling them both. I further focused my exploration on the Sierra Nevada company, since these were the brews which were to characterize my comparison.

Both Sierra Nevada’s porter and stout are made with top-fermenting ale yeast, but the porter is made with a blend of deep-roasted barley malts (Two-row Pale, Munich, Chocolate, and Caramel) and has 32 bitterness units, whereas the stout is made with Caramel and black malts and boasts 50 bitterness units as well as slightly higher alcohol. Mmmmkay, so how the hell does all that translate into the enjoyment of your beverage? That’s where the tasting portion comes in. Pouring both beers into clear glasses, the first thing I noticed was the relative darkness of the stout; it was almost black when the light wasn’t shining through it, and had a frothy head the color of café-au-lait. The porter was a deep russet-brown, with amber highlights emerging in the light, and a creamy head. 

Next thing I did was poke my sniffer into each glass and take a whiff. In the stout, aromas of coffee, smoke, and molasses hit me right away, while the porter’s more subtle nose layered nutty whole-wheat with grassiness, and a bit of fruit akin to fermented or bruised apple. On the palate, the stout was creamy and full-bodied, loaded with a pleasant bitterness that hit the sides and back of my tongue. The lighter body of the porter made the bubbles more prominent in the mouth, and accentuated by the bright acid, the overall effect was crispness, with smooth caramel in the background.

The consensus: different? Definitely. Equally good? While I enjoyed- and finished- them both, I found myself saving the stout for my last sip. Anything with bitterness and smoky tones gets a pass in my book, and I felt that the overall depth and rich textures just made for a more complex beer. That being said, I’ve enjoyed pretty much everything I’ve tasted from this brewery, and would probably even *gasp* buy a whole six-pack of either one of these offerings- if I happened to find myself in an establishment that forbade my beloved mixing and matching, that is.

So until we take the turn into full-on shank-braisin’, pie-bakin’, frost-bitten New England autumn once again, celebrate this fleeting period of limbo, when a sweater makes open windows possible, and a cold beer still seems appropriate, but leave your summer swills behind and embrace the swarthier side of beer. You can’t go wrong with a stout or a porter- hell, have both and you might not even need that sweater.

The Heart of the Matter; how I came across an intriguing homonym and an unfortunate homophone on my plate.

No organ in the human body is more romanticized or poeticized than the heart; we have imbued it with the ability to love, to choose, and to guide us, despite the fact that the first descriptor listed in the word’s definition is ‘hollow’. So why is this hollow organ, this glorified pump, such an emotionally charged part of our anatomy? Might word play be responsible? Perhaps the heart that everyone from Shakespeare to Emily Dickinson has waxed eloquent about is not the cardiac muscle of which we speak, but its homonym; “one’s innermost character, feelings, or inclinations”; “the essential or most vital part of something”.

Why am I contemplating such seemingly heavy subject matter on a food and wine blog, one might ask. The experience of eating offal- in addition to grossing many people out- is bound to inspire such considerations. While there are those opposed to eating meat of any kind, most of us just see it as ‘food’. Yes, meat is muscle, but not only are the muscles of quadrupeds and fowl quite distinct from those of our own species, but they are usually broken down into smaller cuts- a burger, say, or a chicken breast hardly accentuates the fact that we’re ingesting fellow mammals. When we enter the realm of offal, which for us foodies is a sacred realm indeed, things get a little sticky. Not only are organs recognizable to us in theory, but often times when they appear on our plate they are- quite literally- recognizable. Yes, we all have a liver, a pancreas, kidneys, a stomach, glands and a heart, but we all have muscles, too. Is it specificity that breeds this moral ambiguity, or the recognition of commonality?

Whatever it is, and however much it makes me think, it didn’t seem to get in the way of me finding myself at Eastern Standard popping rabbit hearts into my mouth. For me, offal is an unfortunate homophone, and I relish every chance I get to sample new and different ‘animal parts’. At Eastern Standard, the menu tempts the adventurous eater by listing ‘Today’s Offal’ under appetizers, and after learning that rabbit hearts were on offer, resistance was futile. They looked innocent enough as they arrived: perfectly bite-sized, dark in color, slightly oblong in shape, and- upon forking one for closer inspection- quite unmistakably heart-shaped. And just so as not to get caught up in grammar again, I don’t mean heart as in a valentine. The flavor had that distinct ‘organy’ thing going on- not quite metallic, not quite gamey, but…for lack a better word, very ‘animal’. It’s certainly not for everyone, but there’s something almost feral tasting about these meats; there’s no disguising the fact that you’re eating a ‘being’ (I’m starting to feel a little Hannibal here…). In texture there was a fair amount of chew to them, but not in a disagreeable way, more to the effect of density and richness. Served sautéed along with similarly shaped and sized baby Brussels sprouts, atop a bed of buttery quinoa and faro, it was both restrained and decadent; the curious juxtaposition of the consummate carnivore fare and stereotypically ‘hippie/health’ foods in one dish was as unexpected and delightful as finding Cruella De Vil in bed with a PETA activist.

And what did we drink with this plateful of contradiction? No, not a Chianti (but thank you for the suggestion, monsieur Lecter). Instead we chose a wine as unique as the fare: a red from the Piemontese region Vallée d'Aoste called ‘La Kiuva’. The seventy-five percent Nebbiolo, in the form of the regional clone Picatendro gave deep cherry fruit, spiciness, and just enough tannin to stand up to the hearts, while the pinot noir blended in lent a smoothness and bright acidity. Overall, it was the ideal mate for the dish; both were rustic and carnal, yet elegant, and, as this entry proves, memorable enough to warrant a second thought, and perhaps a little contemplation…

Potatoes and Amore; a love story

When gnocchi and I first met, it was the vacuum-packed, store bought kind; each one a perfectly formed, uniformly sized little nubbin, with machine-made ridges running down its side like cartoon washboard abs. With all due respect to my mother and her myriad culinary skills, handmade gnocchi were simply not in her repertoire. Understandably underwhelmed by what I tasted, in the subsequent decade or so gnocchi and I crossed paths a handful of times, but I never sought her out, never longed for her.

Years later, while studying the food and beverage chapter in my college Italian class, my signora uttered her name, and asked for an English translation. I thought “Translation? Gnocchi means…gnocchi…” But alas, I had been wrong; it turns out I had only known half of her identity until that point. While most of us know that her heritage is Italian, we have so completely assimilated her name into our language that we forget its not our own invention (SO unlike us Americans to do that, huh?). What most of us think of as gnocchi is only one manifestation- and a pallid one at that- of what actually translates into ‘dumplings’.

Yet another misconception, us Americans hear ‘dumpling’ and think Chinese, not Italian, but it is a word with far more breadth than most if us imagine. In fact, almost every culture has some version of a dumpling in their culinary inventory. According to The Food Lover’s Companion, dumplings can be sweet or savory, and simply consist of “small or large mounds of dough that are usually dropped into a liquid mixture (such as soup or stew) and cooked until done. Some are stuffed with meat or cheese mixtures.” Oh, the possibilities…

Tuscany c1570

Though not yet showing signs of age on her doughy little face, gnocchi is centuries old. One of the oldest records is a cookbook from the 1300s written in Tuscan dialect, and roughly translating to “If you want gnocchi, take some cheese and mash it, then take some flour and mix with egg yolks like if you make dough. Place on the fire a pot of water and when starts boiling place the mixture on a board and slide them in the pot with a spoon. And when they are cooked place them on the plates and top them with a lot of grated cheese.” Alright, sounds easy enough, but if you were paying attention you would note that not once was potato mentioned. Hmmm, it seems her most common guise today is a far cry from her humble beginnings. Potato is by far the most prevalent modern adaptation of gnocchi, but anything that can be incorporated into a workable dough can be utilized: squash, sweet potatoes, breadcrumbs, semolina, ricotta…the list goes on. Yes, she is an accommodating mistress, and will seldom turn down a worthy suitor, the only caveat being you must choose the best ingredients, and you must handle her right. If potato is your weapon of choice, give her starch- a floury russet potato will make her purr, but she’ll turn up her nose at a waxy Yukon gold, knowing it will turn her gummy and heavy- quite unladylike. Don’t handle her too much, just enough to work the flour into the potato, and- just like a real woman- there is no definite rule or guideline; the ratio of potato to flour will depend on the moisture in the potato, the humidity in the air, and the temperature, so follow your instincts, and if you err at first, just trust that with time and practice, you’ll learn her wily ways.

 

At this point, you may be wondering why I am devoting such energy to uncovering the delicate beauty of gnocchi, when I began by articulating my indifference. Therefore, I must confess that after a recent tryst she has won another admirer, and left me agog in her wake, longing for just one more taste. During a trip to Erbaluce in Bosont’s Bay Village, I was fortunate enough to try chef Charles Draghi’s signature gnocchi. It sounded simple enough on the menu- served with braised Berkshire pork- but when execution is impeccable, simplicity is just the ticket. The dumplings were irregular in shape and size and unridged; beautiful in their imperfection in the way of all things handcrafted. Chef Draghi explained that the potatoes are roasted in pancetta and prosciutto fat with sprigs of thyme and rosemary, left to sit overnight, and then formed into gnocchi the next day. The sensation of eating one is almost aberrational; so rich in flavor, so present in your mouth, yet so light that it feels as if it’s blown up with air. Each bite virtually melted on my tongue, prompting me to equate it with eating cotton candy (minus the artificial flavor, sticky hands, and pesky sensation that you’re ingesting fiberglass insulation). Now, I usually have tunnel vision when there are pig products on my plate, so the fact that I haven’t even mentioned the pork yet speaks volumes. The aforementioned Berkshire pork was braised to succulent tenderness, and along with a white mirepoix of parsnip, celeriac, and fennel, hunks of it mingled with the gnocchi in a sauce that made its presence known, but in its subtlety showed deference to the obvious star of the plate, the gnocchi.

So in answer to why I am writing this, I too am showing deference to those little morsels, which have plagued my mind with their perfection ever since that fateful night. One of these days I might try my hand at this venerable culinary tradition, but with direct knowledge of her abhorrent nature when handled incorrectly, the task is daunting. So for now I’ll just accept that while I’ve spent many satisfied years immune to the charms of gnocchi, under a beguiling cloak of cheese and tomato she made her way into my heart- just like a true Italian.

The Making of a Memory

Does food taste different based on where it’s eaten? Can the same mouthful, the same morsel, the very same bivalve from the same ocean be charged with new flavors? Not flavors inherent in the flesh or the sauce, but flavors projected upon it by just the right circumstances…

I think so. I think the experience of food is so much more than the scientific makeup of what we put in our mouths; it’s the cumulative experience of that food and that day and that moment, and once in a while, they come together to produce a sensual memory. And I don’t mean sensual in the fleshy, carnal way, I mean sensual as in truly 'of the senses'; a memory more of the body than of the mind, and one that will sooner be evoked by a taste or a sound than a cerebral recall.

I remember a scene in the original Parent Trap movie where Hayley Mills meets her grandfather for the first time and immediately starts sniffing his lapel. Her explanation: “I’m making a memory”. She goes on to explain that from that moment forward she will always remember her grandfather, and how he smelled of peppermint and pipe tobacco. I think the reason I recall this scene so well- besides the fact that I’ve seen that particular movie more times than I’d like to admit- is the universality of that feeling; the sense of a moment in time being so precious that we must take it all in, account for every stimulus at that split second in time before it is whisked away. The very transient nature of such a moment makes it poignant, and I think the very futility of holding on to it is what makes us try so hard.

I was lucky enough to make one of these ‘culinary memories’ this weekend: sitting on the end of the patio at a local seafood joint with an enviable dinner companion, boats puttering around the docks, the sounds of seagulls mingling with fellow diners’ revelries, the sun starting to go down behind me. It sounds cliché- and it was. My writing this is not an altruistic attempt to make you feel what I felt in that moment- that would be a waste of words. Instead, I hope to add another facet to my memory, which for today is fresh on my senses. Selfish? Perhaps- but it is my memory.

Now, I’ve had oysters before; but I swear they’ve never tasted brinier, fresher, more perfect. There’s no doubt that these were some fine oysters- dressed with a squeeze of lemon, the tang of mignonette, each one sliding down followed by a sip of cold beer. But it was more than all this…was it the water lapping right under our table, the sun nearing the horizon in a very fitting parallel to the evanescence of the experience, the summer approaching its end, the shiver of cool air meeting bare skin, tingling from the cumulative effects of the day’s sun, sand, and salt…I’d like to think so.