Thursday, October 28, 2010

Abominations.

So, so dirty. © Ryan Schierling

You knew it was going to get to tacos eventually, right? It was only a matter of time. 

We're living in Austin, where you can't swing a 12" chorizo chub without hitting a taco stand/truck/trailer. There are authentics (Porfirios, Rosita's Al Pastor), there are local favorites (Tacodeli, Torchy's) and there are chains (Taco Cabana, Taco Bueno). There are blogs devoted to them (http://tacojournalism.blogspot.com/). 

I love them for different reasons. All of them. I can't choose between them. It's like asking a devoted parent who their favorite child is. I mean, we came from Seattle, where getting proper tacos was practically impossible unless you were driving out to Burien and following a lunch truck around, trying to convince the Mexican owner to whip you up something that wasn't on the menu of hamburgers, hot dogs and chicken sandwiches. 

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Florentine Benny.


Breakfast BFF. © Julie Munroe




I've tried not to make quest out of it... you know, I'm keeping my expectations low. A year ago we could walk down to The Shanty Cafe in Seattle on any given weekend morning and I could count on getting the most reliably comforting Florentine Benedict every single time. Even better that it was served up with absolutely no fuss, perfectly crisp hash browns and a good cup of coffee. It was my "usual" and, of course, I would be thrilled to find a place around here that served something comparable at an equally casual establishment.

It's not something you expect to find on any old breakfast menu, though. Not these days - not anywhere I know about, at least. Besides, embracing the cuisine in these parts means more often expecting to see migas or chilaquiles on the menu. So, while Ryan indulges in his quest to try every chicken-fried steak in Central Texas, I've really just been hoping to find my "new usual" somewhere along the way. 

Then it happened... and, oh, holy hollandaise... it appears on the special brunch menu at Magnolia Cafe right here in Austin. Perfectly steamed spinach, poached eggs with yolks of liquid gold, and a hollandaise sauce that is rich and sour-creamy but not overpowering. As much as I love hash browns, their delicious red potato home fries didn't give me much opportunity to miss them. The pineapple and strawberries were the perfect palate cleansing finish. 

This isn't the first breakfast that has stolen my heart at Magnolia, but it may have very well sealed the deal as my new usual.

TGICFS.

CFS & eggs. Jim's Restaurant - Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling
There are a lot of pre-breaded, frozen chicken fried steaks out there. They are unceremoniously thrown into a basket and dropped into a Fryolator. Only by virtue of their peppered cream gravy embrace and immediate egg and hash-browned brothers, can they be elevated to breakfast greatness. Sometimes it takes more than that... sometimes it takes great coffee. Sometimes it takes honest-to-goodness salted real sweet cream butter on just-right toast. 

Some times it just isn't possible to be great, but it's possible to be satisfying. It's possible to be comforting and pleasantly satisfactory. Early on a Sunday morning, I don't always demand greatness. Some times I just demand your honest ingredients, whatever they are and wherever they come from, hot and properly prepared, served with a genuine smile. 

The oldsters are here...
Nostalgia is a fleeting
dream in the morning.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Slutty Ragù.

Slutty ragu. © Ryan Schierling
The intersection of a food craving and what is available in the fridge can occasionally make for an inspired dish. I wanted pasta, but was not in the mood for the usual flavors of basil and garlic. What we had on hand was a stack of red bell peppers and a roll of Gimme Lean sausage in the fridge. The "lightbulb" was to make an ALL RED pepper-heavy pasta sauce with some heat and savory meatiness. 

As obsessed as I am with herbs, there wasn't the even the slightest temptation to clutter up these flavors with anything green. For heat, I was thinking some fresh red jalapeños would be a great addition, but since we already had a 100% red jalapeño sauce/salsa, I would use that as my hotter red pepper. The beautiful Greek sheep's milk feta in the fridge would provide a cool contrast and tang. It all turned out to be as delicious and satisfying as envisioned. 

So, what to call a dish you plan to make repeatedly, that you want to refer to again and again with a knowing nod? You'll remember, of course, that puttanesca is derived from the word for "whore" (or puttana) in Italian. Well, it fits... puttanesca sauce separates itself from simple marinara and its hearty meat-based cousin, ragù, by being a temptress of peppers, capers, olives and anchovies. It is a hot and spicy, thick and hearty sauce that earns the name. 

Well, this is not a puttanesca recipe, let me be clear. It is best defined as a type of ragù. But with all the peppers in there, and that kick of jalapeño heat... well, it is definitely a little slutty. 

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Of loaves and fishes.

Balik emek. © Ryan Schierling
I was driving. An English gentleman on the radio was talking about the most transcendental sandwich he'd ever eaten, so I was all ears and stomach. 

He described the sun setting on the banks of the Bosphorus, where fishermen would grill freshly-caught mackerel, place it in a lightly-toasted crusty loaf and garnish it with thinly-sliced onions, sea salt and a squeeze of lemon juice. The last rays of daylight, the smell of fresh sea air mixed with smoke and grilled fish, this simple preparation and sublime sandwich… I'd been transported. 

I was salivating. I was exceeding the speed limit. I'd forgotten where I was going, so I turned and went home. I told Julie that we needed to go to Turkey, or Istanbul, or wherever the banks of the Bosphorus were, because I needed to experience this sandwich, this brilliant sandwich that changed this man on the radio's life. 

Sunday, October 10, 2010

TGICFS.

Rancher's Plate. Cafe 290 - Manor, Texas. © Ryan Schierling
Thank God it's Chicken Fried Sunday. Considering all of my favorite food groups are brown and white, it should be no surprise that I am taking advantage of living in the state where chicken fried steak originated. (I'm also considering investing in a gym membership, and/or Lipitor, because this quest for the holy grail of CFS is not for the faint of heart or slight of artery.)

Roughly every other Sunday, I will partake of the best, and probably some of the worst, chicken fried steak in Austin and surrounding areas. There are a million opinions (and that's just in Texas) about this breakfast, lunch and dinner staple, so I'm not going to push any holier-than-thou CFS religious views upon you. I'll keep it simple and just give you a CFS haiku for each restaurant's offering.

(Cafe 290 in Manor, Texas – Chicken fried steak w/ eggs over-easy, home fries and biscuits.)

Perfect beef is love
that the loose, limber meat sock
relegates to like

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Little hands pack pretty jars.

Canning notes. © Ryan Schierling
When I was small, we had a huge garden behind our house. It was actually more like a giant community pea-patch, maybe two or three acres large and shared by roughly 20 homes that backed to it all the way around. There was plenty of room for a family to plant 10 rows of corn and six or eight large squash mounds, plus rows of green beans, peas, beets and carrots.

I really don't remember a summer or fall when there wasn't something being frozen or dried or canned or eaten straight from the garden. And whether it was snapping green beans, shelling peas, or shucking corn – I was perfectly capable of helping so long as a knife wasn't involved.

And when the annual fruit delivery arrived, there was more for me to do than just eat. In those days, our modest little eastern Washington community would get together and order pallets full of peaches, pears, apples, apricots and cherries. Flat upon flat of ripe fruit would cover the floor in our garage – some to eat now, some to dehydrate or freeze. But most was for canning, which was an event unto its own – all hands on deck, and little hands were no exception.


Saturday, October 2, 2010

Humble beginnings.

Borscht meez. © Ryan Schierling
I didn't learn to cook until I had to. 

Which is to say, I didn't learn to cook until I moved away from home at the tender age of 19. I had a flimsy aluminum stock pot, a hand-me-down cutting board the size of a postcard, and a dangerously dull chef's knife I bought at a secondhand store. What I didn't have was any money. Groceries were budgeted to a paltry $25 a week, which quickly made a thin vegetarian out of me. Meat was far more expensive per pound, and I needed cheap ingredients that would stretch meals through the next payday. Soups were the easiest to make, reheat, and reheat again. I could get half a week's meals out of one pot full of vegetable stew, or 13-bean soup, or the very first thing I ever scratch-cooked after moving out on my own – borscht. 

I'd purchased a used, entirely nondescript, plain yellow-jacketed cookbook called "Ann Seranne's Good Food Without Meat" at a flea market for a dollar. It looked like a bad school textbook, with no photographs and a tiny, squinty font. Originally published in 1973, Seranne had been a food consultant and former editor at Gourmet magazine, and was primarily known for her dessert cookbooks. I had no interest in dessert. I could barely afford a proper main course. 

Chapter one of "Ann Seranne's Good Food Without Meat" was soups, so I figured I'd start there. The first three recipes were Potage bonne femme maigre, Soup a l'aoignon maigre, and Minestrone di verdura, all very much out of my league. I certainly couldn't cook what I couldn't pronounce, and anyway, didn't "Potage bonne femme maigre" mean something like "Soup made from the juices of a good woman?"


Friday, October 1, 2010

Highbrow, lowbrow, furrowed brow.

Ryan and Julie, 40s on the curb. ©  Ryan Schierling

What is foie gras? 

Foie gras is delicacy in French cuisine, made of the liver of a duck or goose that has been specially fattened through a force-feeding process called gavage. Foie gras can be sold whole, or prepared into mousse, parfait or pate. 

Foie gras, to some, is an expensive epicurean delight enjoyed primarily by the rich. 

What is a hot dog? 

A hot dog is a moist sausage, typically made of emulsified meat by-products including, but not limited to, mechanically-separated or mechanically-recovered/reclaimed beef, pork, chicken or turkey, fat, and various seasonings and preservatives. 

Hot dogs, to some, are considered the absolute lowest of lowbrow fare. 

What is Foie Gras Hot Dog? 

Foie Gras Hot Dog is a food-related blog that allows us to be properly fancy-schmancy, contentedly middle-of-the-road, and unapologetically trashy in our enjoyment of cooking and eating. Foie Gras Hot Dog lets us run our gustatory gamut – highbrow to humble – and share it all with equal enthusiasm. It's a tall order, but we hope to give due reverence to presenting our family favorites, local, regional, national and international recipes that we love, as well as our culinary explorations of locales Austin and beyond. This is just the beginning – we hope you like it. 

(No ducks, geese or hot dogs were harmed in the making of this blog.)
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