Thursday, January 27, 2011

Chips, dips and dorks.

Caramelized onion dip, aka "crack dip." © Ryan Schierling
Onion dip.

This is not a subject lightly traversed in this household.

Your mother might tell you to get a dry packet of Knorr's or Lipton Onion Soup Mix and stir it up with some sour cream and mayonnaise, and I would promptly tell your mother to get bent.

That's not onion dip. Nor are the tubs of "Onion Dip" or "French Onion Dip" or "Partially Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil Whipped With Dehydrated Onion Pieces" next to the sour cream and margarine products at your local grocer. They are simulacrum. Amalgamations. Abominations. (And I hold deep-seated reservations.)

This onion dip is three ingredients.

It sounds easy. Too easy. But it's not. It takes 24 hours to make, and do not take those 24 hours lightly.

If I told you you had a nice brisket, would you hold it against me?

Love. © Ryan Schierling
There are only four more days to tell us how much you *heart* barbecue, and you can score one of two $20 gift certificates to Franklin Barbecue! Write a lusty love letter to BBQ and send it to us by Jan. 31.

"My darling bbq, I can't believe it's been less than 24 hours since I last saw you. I can still taste your juices on my lips, your smoky fragrance lingers on that white v-neck t-shirt I was wearing and I just can't stop... smelling my fingers. I don't mean to be ribald, barbecue, but your brisket is so beautiful it makes my breath catch in my throat and I am lovestruck, lovesick..." (To be continued...)

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Permissions, and adaptations.

Asparagus onion soup with Gruyere cheese. © Ryan Schierling
Asparagus, Gruyere, and an idea.

Make what you want to taste... compose with the flavors you crave... go with the impulse that brought you into the kitchen with these ingredients in the first place. You really do know what you want to eat. Make it.

It's a good mantra. A statement of faith in your own gustatory cravings and a rebuke of any recipe that might dare to stand between you and the food you truly desire.

If you're anything like me, however, sometimes you need a little outside support – a baseline, a secure framework from which to create – perhaps even (gasp!) a proper recipe...

Since my first introduction to the simple – but oh-so-divine – combination of asparagus spears with melted Gruyere cheese, I have not found an asparagus pairing that nears its equal. Little wonder, then, that I eventually began daydreaming this duo into entirely new dishes. The idea that persisted in tugging at me was a vision of French Onion-style soup, heavy on the asparagus, with Gruyere cheese toasted on top.

Now, I have never attempted to make French Onion Soup. The idea of it has always intrigued me, but on those occasions I've dared order it when dining out, I was the unfortunate recipient of a bowl of heavy beef broth with an unwieldy glop of gooey cheese atop. So, this idea just sat and percolated for the longest while... waiting for a satisfactory framework.

It seems fitting that my baseline would show up as a recipe by Jamie Oliver from his beautiful book (and I mean beautiful! ...the old school love just resonates off the hardback), Jamie at Home: Cook your way to the Good Life. Even more fitting that the recipe would be his own adaptation of onion soup as an "English onion soup with sage and Cheddar." Why? Because no one writes a cookbook or introduces a recipe with more freedom to the reader than Jamie Oliver.

In order to give the next cook a guide for precisely replicating a dish, most recipes are written as exacting formulas. Jamie, on the other hand, writes recipes the way he cooks... a good knob of butter... a big handful of fresh herbs... or simply "the ingredient" – no quantity listed at all. It's as if he is loathe to measure and wants only to impart an understanding of the dish to the reader. He wants you to taste the food and confidently expects you to use good judgement, seasoning it to your own taste. His recipes always turn out delicious, but it is for this quality – this great freedom and permission to stay loose when cooking – I love him most.

So I began... my take on a classic, based on someone else's take on a classic. Did I do my due diligence and research "French Onion Soup" online? Nope, this was never an intellectual pursuit; it's as if this book found my fancy first and we just danced. Ironically, it was the day after making the soup that I went online. Having SO enjoyed the way the Gruyere complimented the vegetables and the broth, I was curious to find out what cheese was considered the real classic for French onion soup. 

You guessed it – Gruyere.

Sometimes your palate has a wisdom beyond its years – an innate knowledge beyond its training. Trust it.


Asparagus onion soup with Gruyere

Olive oil & butter 1-2 tablespoons each
5 cloves garlic, peeled & smashed
2 medium white onions, peeled and sliced

1 large 
sweet onion, peeled and sliced

1 very large shallot, peeled and sliced
        
Saute the above on low for about 1-2 hours, until golden and caramelized.

1-1/2 bunches of fresh asparagus, cut 1"-2" pieces
1-1/2 to 2 quarts good quality beef stock (or equivalent savory stock)
Salt & pepper 

        
Add to onion mixture and simmer until asparagus is tender. Correct/season broth.

Rustic bread, sliced 1/2" to 3/4" thick and toasted lightly
Gruyere cheese, freshly grated
        
Assemble: Ladle soup into serving bowls, cover with pieces of toasted bread, top generously with Gruyere (and perhaps a drizzle of Worcestershire sauce) and place under a broiler until the cheese is melty and golden. Serve this bubbly goodness at once.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

It's National (insert food here) Day!

Capriole Farm's Sofia from Antonelli's Cheese Shop. © Ryan Schierling 
It's National Cheese Lover's Day!

What a coincidence, because I do happen to love cheese. But Julie loves cheese even more than I do – there are some stinky cheeses she celebrates that I can only wrinkle my nose at and refer to as our old neighbor Damir did, calling them "foot cheese."

How wonderful that we can celebrate this love with a nationally recognized holiday!

But then I was curious... who comes up with these things? Are they actually sanctioned by any particular legislative body or are they just divvied up and assigned at random to days of the year? So I queried the internets, and apparently, the President of the United States can declare, by proclamation, a special event or day. And so he does – there are hundreds of national food days (and weeks! and months!) that I had no idea even existed.

See, I didn't get any emails on January 14 saying it was "National Hot Pastrami Sandwich Day," or last December 30, which was "National Bicarbonate of Soda Day." Heaven forbid I miss out on celebrating "National Something On A Stick Day" March 28, or "National Deviled Egg Day" November 2.

Though, with all due respect, I am probably going to skip "National Gumdrop Day" (Feb. 15) because they're foul and disgusting sweets, "National Candied Orange Peel Day" (May 4) for  the exact same reason, and "National Play-Dough Day" (Sept. 18) because that's only a food holiday if you're in kindergarten.

Sadly, there is no National Chicken-Fried Steak Day. But, rest assured, I will be contacting lobbyists and trade associations about this oversight immediately.

If the United States can celebrate play-dough as a food, then they can most certainly make room for the national dish of Texas. Oh, wait, that's chili (Feb. 25). Well, we've got to be able to squeeze a day off for CFS in there somewhere

Thursday, January 13, 2011

If you don't blog it, the calories don't count.

(L) The Jackalope, w/ waffle fry poutine. (R) Come take it. © Ryan Schierling
We went to Frank for my birthday some time ago, and it was delicious but we really had nowhere to talk about it. Now that we have a place to talk about it, everyone's already talked about it. So there's really nothing left to talk about. Which begs the full-on plugged-in food-blogging existential question:

If I ate it but didn't type about it or shoot photos of it, did I really eat it at all?

In case you were wondering, Mr. Kierkegaard, the specials menu is still ridiculous

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Love letters to barbecue.

(L-R) John, John, Stacy & Aaron. Franklin Barbecue. © Ryan Schierling
A while back, I told you about some brisket like none other.

You don't eat something that good and not dream about it, talk about it, write about it, take photos of it. And I did. But I wanted a little bit more. I wanted to meet the people ultimately responsible for my gustatory gushing. So I got in touch with the fine folks at Franklin Barbecue and asked if they'd be up for me shooting some portraits before they moved to their new, non-rolling location in February.

Julie and I met Aaron and Stacy on a Wednesday after they'd sold out of everything and I took some photographs.

After that, they showed us around the new digs at 900 E. 11th and I could tell the remodel exhaustion still hadn't outweighed the excitement of the next step in Franklin Barbecue's evolution/takeover. Stacy gave Julie a pair of $20 gift certificates and said "we'll see you guys soon."

We will be going back to Franklin Barbecue again and again – gift certificates or no – so we thought we'd share their generosity with you (with the Franklin's blessing, of course).

So here it is:

Write a love letter to barbecue.

Tell us of your sordid pasts, your smoking hot love affairs, how you just can't stop loving barbecue no matter how hard you try. Tell us what you want, tell us what you need. Tell us everything.

But you must WRITE. Not type. This must be analog – pen, pencil, crayon, marker on paper, cardboard, grocery bag, sauce-stained butcher paper or your finest stationery. Whatever you need to get the job done.

Submissions may be scanned or photographed and emailed with hi-res images to us@foiegrashotdog.com. Or, if you'd like to send it via USPS (bonus old school points), shoot us an email and we'll provide you with an address. The deadline is Janurary 31, 2011.

Two love letters will be selected, and the two $20 gift certificates will be awarded.

And that heartbreakingly good Franklin Barbecue brisket can be yours. 

The prize. © Ryan Schierling

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Wee British Breakfast

Small-scale English breakfast. © Ryan Schierling
Today we went all British on our breakfast. It's a hat tip to our dear friend and soon-to-be Paris-transplant Dawn who is currently visiting the British Isles and partaking of such things as proper tea and biscuits.

We went "wee" because we had a few quail eggs left over from our yummy Scotch eggs last week - and because wee food is fun!

Sunny-side-up quail eggs, Branston baked beans, grilled tomatoes, sautéed crimini mushrooms, sausage links and toast. (We opted to omit the black pudding.)

Saturday, January 1, 2011

To new beginnings.

Scotch eggs w/ HP Sauce. © Ryan Schierling
In the past, I've traditionally made some ridiculous New Year's resolutions that were promptly broken or left terminally unfulfilled. You know, like training for the Tour De France (don't own a bike), becoming hot dog eating world champion (honestly, who eats a hot dog with nothing on it?), or achieving a true simmer on a non-gas range (it's like not drinking beer on a weeknight, it's just not going to happen).

So I've stopped making resolutions and started making foods that people historically prepare for luck in the new year, because I seem to need all of the luck I can get.

It's a Southern tradition to eat Hoppin' John (a blackeyed peas with rice dish) at the stroke of midnight on New Year's eve. Others swear by cornbread. Cubans eat 12 grapes when the clock strikes twelve, and Germans insist that eating herring will bring luck for the next year (no telling how fish breath affects the traditional New Year's kiss). In Buddhist temples, noodles are consumed, and the Pennsylvania Dutch go for pork and sauerkraut to usher in the new year.

Julie and I have been making Scotch eggs on New Year's day for six years now. I'm not sure how this originally came about, but I seem to remember reading something about eggs symbolizing a birth, a new beginning, and feeling it was appropriate fare for a hungover first day of January. 


Neapolitan Casatiello

New Year's Casatiello. © Ryan Schierling
Sometimes I have trouble putting myself to bed. It's a hold over from being that kid who was absolutely convinced that going to sleep would mean missing out on something important and exciting. I'm still not always able to simply "go to bed" like a reasonable adult. I must force and cajole myself, like a tired child, finally into slumber. 

On one particularly obstinate evening, I found myself flipping through the local PBS channels and came upon the show Ciao Italia with Mary Ann Esposito. I've never really watched this program before, and likely would have just kept surfing that night, but then I noticed what she was working on looked an awful lot like the dough I make for pizza. 

So I stopped, and watched... 

First, I was hooked because of the ingredients... olive oil, cracked pepper and pecorino cheese. Then I sat perplexed as I watched her assemble the dough using the regular paddle attachment, instead of the dough hook, on her big professional model KitchenAid mixer. The sticky dough actually looked like it was beaten "fluffy" for a few moments. Finally, the day was saved when she turned the dough out onto the counter and began to knead it with marvelously expert hands. 

To this point I really had no idea what she was up to with this recipe, and was still thinking "some kind of pizza, maybe," as she began to roll out the proofed batch that magically appeared from a far counter. The surface was brushed with olive oil... and...
  

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