Sunday, April 29, 2012

TGICFS.

Chicken fried steak at Top Notch. © Ryan Schierling









Given the stellar track record Top Notch has with their fried chicken, I had no qualms about trying out the chicken-fried steak on a recent visit with friends. They ordered their burgers, fries and onion rings, while I went for CFS with fries and salad. Sadly, a few dazed and confused bites into what looked and tasted like a pre-breaded, formerly-frozen steak-patty, I was glancing longingly at my compadres' burgers, knowing I'd made a huge mistake. Next time, I'll return to my Top Notch usual - the #4 Longhorn Special.

Plastic utensils
portend pretend CFS.
JKL, Top Notch.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

The things we do not talk about.

Low-rent neighborhood on The Island of Dr. Moreau, with buttermilk dressing. © Ryan Schierling
Jalapeño poppers are pretty pedestrian fare nowadays.

Restaurants push pre-fab Sysco peppers and the grocery store sells sad, tiny, tamed versions in boxes and bags in the frozen section, stuffed with either oily, heavy cream cheese or bland, greasy cheddar. They are the size of chicken nuggets and they're as interesante as white bread and about as interesting as... pan blanco.

We rocked the boat with Bitchin' Bacon & Beef Bombs last year and I'd been wondering where the next happy appetizer opportunity lay. When I told Julie about my idea to put snack-pack jerky-n-cheese inside a jalapeño with a bread crumb and white cornmeal crust, she said I was being sensationalist... crazy for the sake of being crazy.

I only agreed with her a little.

Near as I could tell – after exhaustive research on the internets and more than a few beers – no one had put these together before. There are a million jalapeño popper recipes, and I couldn't find a single one that had the unholy marriage of a jerky-n-cheese snack-pack stuffed inside. That either meant that no one had thought of it, or someone had done it already and they were really, really, horribly, unspeakably bad. But I couldn't get it out of my head.

So I made them.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Some assembly required.

Fruit Cocktail Cake. © Ryan Schierling

This is not a fruitcake. At least, not in the traditional sense. If anything, I would call it more of a dinner-appropriate cousin of coffee cake. I might even call it a "bachelor cake" if there weren't so many single men these days with knock-out kitchen skills. It really is that easy.

The 1940s gave birth to the tinned tidbits of fruit we now think of as fruit cocktail. A sort of canned version of fruit salad, it seems to have somehow transformed from fancy hotel luncheon course to ubiquitous school lunch fare over the years. At some point along the line there was established an industry standard of particular percentages represented by peaches, pears, pineapple and grapes. To the chagrin of children young and old, there are usually but a scant few maraschino cherry halves to be found – though they are still the crown jewels of the can.

Where did fruit cocktail cake originate? If you have any information as to the the original source, please do tell! This is a recipe that seems to come in roughly three variations, similar, but differentiated primarily by scale of recipe and type of topping or frosting. I have yet to find a point of origin. It is a widely enough known dessert that, if I were to hazard an educated guess, it seems like the type of recipe one might have found on a can of fruit cocktail at some point along the line. My family made it with some frequency in the 1970s and early '80s via my Grandma Munroe who has this same handwritten recipe in her box under the name Fruit Cocktail Pudding. Grandma only notes that it came courtesy of her cousin Muriel sometime during the 1960s – that's about as far back as anyone can figure and it is still a mystery as to where Muriel acquired it.

So, why this cake, this week? One, because it's springtime and it just seems like an appropriate dessert for these not-too-hot/not-too-cold days between Spring and Summer. Two, because it's my brother's birthday this week and I can't be there to make a giant fuss over it with him. You know, the kind of "fuss" where you feign a big deal about his age and and invite all his friends over for some great food and a few bites of over-the-top cake that nobody really has room for but feels obligated to eat anyway? Yeah, that kind.

But, I can't be there this year, and I couldn't quite think how to successfully send a cake by mail. So, I did the next best thing; I sent him everything he needs to make his own.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Oysters Jones.

Because not everyone can have Oysters Rockefeller. © Ryan Schierling
Not everyone knows this, but when we decided to create this blog, we made a list of possible names that would be somewhat descriptive of our highbrow/lowbrow sensibilities when it came to cooking. We wanted a name that was catchy, and a little quirky and fun. After whittling down a long list of sophisticated silliness, the top two choices were Foie Gras Hot Dog and Oysters Jones. Foie Gras Hot Dog came out on top, obviously, and Oysters Jones (because not everyone can have Oysters Rockefeller) was forgotten. 

Until today. 

I'm not going to give you a history lesson on Jules Alciatore or Antoine's in New Orleans or how Oysters Rockefeller originated more than 110 years ago. I'm also not going to get into the heated debate over the inclusion or absence of spinach in the original Oysters Rockefeller recipe. Like Jules, I used what I had on hand for the sauce (in this case, the Jones sauce which is still rich... it just ain't Rockefeller rich). The tinned, smoked oysters are low-budget, lowbrow - a couple bucks a can. There is no Herbsaint or Pernod. The tarragon is actually Mexican Mint Marigold, which has a tarragon-like flavor with hints of anise. The fanciest thing in this recipe might be the buttery Ritz crackers, which I've heard people tend to eat smoked oysters with anyway. That said, all apologies to the late Mr. Alciatore, Antoine's, and anyone who truly enjoys a good fresh oyster. I give you... Oysters Jones.

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