Where’s the fire?

I had my heart set on a sesame beef stir-fry tonight. It’s supposed to be strips of tenderloin tossed in sesame seeds flash-fried in sesame oil with broccoli, yellow pepper, and red chile, then simmered in a sauce of beef stock, soy sauce, fresh ginger, garlic, and crushed red pepper. It was very tasty, but of course, I bought beef chuck tender steak instead of “tenderloin.” I saw “tender,” and that was enough for me! “Tough,” I’m afraid was more like it. Why do I rush? Am I embarrassed to stand at the meat counter too long? A little. Am I nervous about the price per pound of tenderloin and settle in my mind for something less? Yes. Do I think Chuck and I are not worth the price of a good piece of meat? No; we certainly didn’t skimp on the lamb the other weekend, or the brisket last winter. It pays to take time to get what you need. I’ll contemplate that during my six weeks’ recovery after my hip is replaced. There’s no rushing that.

One Singular Frenchman

Robert Treboux, owner of Le Veau d’Or, died last week. I didn’t know him at his best. He was elderly, but not that frail, when Dad and I started going there for Saturday lunch a few years ago. He and Dad liked to reminisce about the Manhattan of 50-60 years ago when Robert was a captain at Le Pavillon and Maude Chez Elle. He was very modest about his career—I didn’t realize he’d owned Le Clos Normand and La Rotisserie Française before Le Veau d’Or. He got frailer over these last couple of years, but he never failed to greet me at the door with a kiss and a sweeping bow as I joined Dad or Nina Miness at our table. And he had a few salty words on a lot of subjects...he threw the word "shit" around with panache. A highlight of my last couple of years was the James Beard Awards at Lincoln Center where Le Veau d’Or, Robert, and Catherine won an American Classic Award. I was two rows from the stage: up there, I saw Jacques Pépin, Gabrielle Hamilton, José Andres, and Kevin Zraly, the founder of the Windows on the World wine appreciation program whose acceptance speech was incredibly touching in remembrance of all the friends who died on 9/11.

And now we raise a glass to Robert. Here he is at Dad’s 81st birthday celebration. What an honor to have known him.

"How Easy Is That?" Episode Two

Puff pastry, fresh strawberries, confectioner's sugar, cinnamon, with a drizzle of strawberry yogurt...so delicious, I could've eaten at least two! The strawberries soften and give up their juice so the filling is like jam. NOTE TO SELF: prepare the tart on the baking parchment, not on the cutting board. This looked perfectly shaped until I tried to slip it onto the baking parchment already on the cookie sheet and it telescoped up on me. Warm late-summer mornings are anathema to puff pastry already, crimping the edge with a fork only sealed the tart to the surface. But puff pastry's too precious to waste, so I reconstructed it on the parchment and, while the sharp corners were gone, the taste made up for it!

War is not healthy for children and other living things

This morning, I was mulling over a tragic New York Times report of the 2000 American soldiers who've died in Afghanistan (no doubt more by now). I was thinking of the parents who bore, weaned, counseled, and laughed with their loved ones who now have (however meaningful as a symbol) an inanimate American flag in their children's place. Just then, a punk Pillsbury Dough Boy walked by, wearing a black T-shirt which read, "Make cupcakes, not war." That and this fun I had with my lunch one day made me think of the old poster from the Vietnam era. If only....

Juicy, hot-red, and voluptuous

My father-in-law who’s 94 grew up in the 20s when women were “dames,” “dolls,” “shebas,” and “molls.” He’s been known to call me and my sainted mother-in-law “tomatoes.” Since he grew up in the Bronx, the exchange went something like this: “You damatas are makin’ too much noise.” As insults go, I’ll take it. This time of year, we’re all particularly alluring.

How Recipes Travel

Year ago, I commuted to work in Garden City, NY, on the LIRR. Al Polo was a conductor who finished up his shift on that early train out from the city. He’d come by with a cheery, “Hi, sunshine!” and sit, regaling me with horror stories of New Year’s Eves on the train and funny stories of boozy nights at McSorley’s. He made the commute bearable. Tonight, with a hint of fall in the air, Chuck and I made Al’s grandmother’s Irish lamb stew. He wrote it out for me in pencil on lined, 3-ring paper, probably from a notebook he used in his graduate work at NYU. I wish he’d been here this weekend. We watched “The Gangs of New York” on video last night. His degree from NYU was in New York history, so he’d have loved adding more details of life in 19th century Manhattan, sharing a beer with Chuck, and tucking into the stew his ancestors brought over from home.

How to Picnic at Shakespeare in the Park

Last night, having planned to go to see "Into the Woods" at the Delacorte and finding it not on, Anne Croly and I went to an alternate free "Shakespeare in the Park" performance of "Richard III" at the Soldiers & Sailors Monument up on 89th & Riverside. No wait for a chit for our free seats and no crowds. There's a natural amphitheatre on the north side of the monument and the Hudson Warehouse thoughtfully provides stadium cushions for its patrons to sit on the concrete steps. That's it...no-frills Shakespeare, the closest I'll ever be to Joe Papp's original intent. The production was terrific; thoughtfully edited to include an execution and coronation, so we'd understand how the War of the Roses brought the Dukes of York and Lancaster to this moment. RII was so bad he was great, the women were particularly talented, and there was a "Walking Dead" moment at the end that showed how relevant Shakespeare is, even now. I sat beside one of the actors on the subway going home. He was sweet; said our chat made his night. The crowd was MUCH younger than most theatre audiences today: kids and teenagers, people in their twenties to forties...and us. There was a family next to us who enjoyed wine and a bag of snacks during the performance which brings me to...

Wine...of course, one should have wine. But I didn't appreciate the "squeak, squeak, squeak" of the opener drawing the cork from the bottle. Make it a screwtop and crack it while the producer is asking everyone to "shut off your cell phones and unwrap your candies." Water: no problem, if there isn't a nipple on the bottle that makes that horrible sucking sound when you pull your lips off. Snacks: If you want chips or pretzels, do the rest of us a favor. Take them out of the crinkly cellophane bag and tie up individual amounts in paper towels or, if you're really pretentious, linen napkins. Sandwiches: No crunchy baguettes, please! Soft white or whole wheat bread only. And again with the sandwich wraps: no crinkly Saran or paper, waxed or otherwise! Another item to be wrapped in something soft. Fruit: grapes are perfect since they come clustered by Nature. Blueberries, raspberries, anything cut up which can be passed in a bowl. Nothing with a peel: no oranges, apples, bananas...unless you're eager to reprise the Sheridan Whiteside role in "The Man Who Came to Dinner." Pack a picnic as if you're going to Mass; the best theatre can be a religious experience. Photo Copyright (c) 123RF Stock Photos

What’s for Dinner?

To my mom, the question “What’s for dinner?” could only have caused a sinking feeling. Four picky kids, an irritable husband, a tight food budget…that’s a recipe for disaster. Imagine that, 365 days a year, on and on until…well, either you die or you’re alone and can eat cold beans out of the can (which Mom was not averse to). Having come late to the dinner party, I still have a sense of anticipation when I start to ask myself “What’s for dinner” sometime during the day. Yesterday, being Julia Child’s 100th birthday, I pulled down MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING to find something I could make in a couple of hours on a hot summer night. Voila! Pommes de Terres a l’Huile with her suggestion of grilled sausages fit the bill.

The potatoes were tasty: medium-starch Yukon Golds steeped in vermouth and chicken broth before they were dressed with a vinaigrette of white wine vinegar, Dijon mustard, olive oil, and shallots. I put dried thyme on them for a little extra flavor and because I forgot to get fresh parsley which would’ve been prettier. Her instructions were to drop the potatoes into boiling salted water. The authors of THE SCIENCE OF GOOD FOOD, an award-winning reference on how cooking works, contradict Julia (Mon Dieu!) by saying they should be started in cold water and perhaps make the water more acidic by adding vinegar, but do not salt the water to avoid the potatoes getting mushy. Calls to mind the Gershwin classic, “You say potato and I say po-tah-to,” ultimately a love song which we all sang to Julia yesterday and will continue to sing through the years until she’s a thousand. And to Mom, I can only repeat Martin Luther King's passionate recital of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, [I am] free at last!"

Good morning, Julia!

If Julia Child were still here to celebrate her 100th birthday today, I would serve her breakfast in bed. Not one, I’m sure, to laze around, Julia would want to get up and help, but no…it’d be much more fun to bring her this lemon-poppy seed muffin tin scone (made with half a stick of butter, but slathered with more of course while it’s still hot from the oven), fresh fruit, a cup of good French coffee and today’s New York Times. I can only imagine the fuming this passionate Democrat would do over Paul Ryan, Mitt Romney, and the Tea Party.

How do you make an omelette? Practice!

With all due respect to the great Julia Child, I followed the instructions for the easier omelette in MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING—in which she is very fair about having to memorize the steps so as not to delay the process—and the result? Pitiful, just pitiful. My own common-sense method turns out a fluffier, moister omelette than this piece of shoe leather, with its unappetizing insole of herbes de Provençe.

As Julia would arguably say, keep it simple. This morning’s egg sunny-side-up hit the spot after a dinner last night of spicy bar mix and two glasses of white wine, courtesy of Don’t Tell Mama where I was part of the raucous audience for “Words and Music," a cabaret of songs by Jerry Herman, Dorothy Fields and Jerome Kern, Stephen Sondheim, and Comden and Green. In all-American diner-speak, an order for that English muffin on the side would’ve gone into the kitchen as “Burn the British.” The French and American colonists would appreciate that!

Sweet Basil

The basil in Sandy Goehring's pot of herbs is nearly as tall as I am and marvelously fragrant (as are the sage, rosemary, and thyme planted around it). I googled "what to do with fresh basil besides pesto" to find an April 2011 Chowhound conversation about everything from caprese salad to burger seasoning to stir fries and even a Basil Lemon Cake. Doesn't this sound luscious? Basil Lemon Cake 2 1/2 cups cake flour 2 1/2 tsp baking powder 1/2 tsp salt 1/2 cup butter, softened 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar 2 large eggs beaten 1/2 cup chopped basil 2 tbsp finely grated lemon zest 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 cup + 2 tbsp buttermilk berries, whipped cream or ice cream preheat oven to 375. Lightly oil a 9" springform pan Medium bowl combine flour, baking powder and salt Place butter an sugar in a large bowl and beat till creamy. Add eggs, basil, zest and vanilla. Beat till blended. Add flour mixture, alternating with buttermilk (3 batches) and mix on low till smooth. Pour into pan and bake for 35-45 minutes. It gets better the next day too, when the citrus flavor penetrates even more.

Lemons and Oranges and Grapefruit…Oh, My!

I love citrus. From the lowest—Mandarin oranges in a can—to the most high—the wedge of fresh lime in a perfectly balanced gin-and-tonic--citrus makes everything better. Peeled and eaten out of hand, oranges and grapefruits leave a lovely scent memory long after the juicy treat is gone. When someone on the bus breaks open a plastic clamshell or digs around in a rattly plastic bag, I just want to scream. But peel an orange? I go straight to my happy place. Zesting, squeezing, or dissecting supremes makes the preparation of a dish more fun. The tools are great; a Microplane zester is a thing of genius. The old-school reamer should be in any museum of design. And that crafty spoon with the serrated end for eating grapefruit? No home is complete without one. Marmalade classes up a humble piece of toast. Candied peel makes a childish cupcake grow up. Clementines arrive up here in the North in our winter, a blast of sunshine in an old-school wooden crate, to remind us warmth will return. Limes saved many a British sailor from scurvy. Citrus is God’s way of saying, “There, there…everything’s going to be all right.”

How Easy Is That?

Eat your heart out, Barefoot Contessa. This ham-and-egg nest is a recipe from Paula Deen’s Southern Cooking Bible; could breakfast get any simpler? So pared-down, you could do it in your sleep. I’m thinking of other brilliant, two-ingredient dishes that are actually spoiled by the addition of anything more. Tomatoes Provençal make the cut: two halves of a juicy tomato grilled with just a heaping helping of herbed bread crumbs on top. Iceberg wedge with blue cheese dressing? Ah, yes (the bacon bits people insist on sprinkling on is bringing coals to Newcastle, really). Strawberries and cream…perfection. Baked Camembert on a toasted slice of baguette…caviar on toast points…smoked salmon with a spritz of lemon juice…raw oysters with mignonette sauce. A steamed artichoke with drawn butter. One wonders why one extends oneself to slaving over a dish with more than two ingredients.

Home Accents From Nature

Looking around my apartment, I see that somehow my tastes in food have influenced my home décor. The kitchen has an eclectic country look: a pine-and-oak armoire holds our good dishes and cookbooks, we rest a champagne cooler on the rush seat of a Hitchcock chair. My tea kettle is tomato-red. The pitcher I use for water at dinner is the color of cream. My cow-shaped creamer is the color of blueberries and I often drink my coffee from a Chinese porcelain cup the color of lemons. The living room is more formal with a bookcase in dark wood which stands on our treasure: a large Karastan rug from the 1920s, inherited from Chuck’s grandmother. I pulled together a few of the accents in the room: ceramic cats in cream, a celery-green ceramic vase, cranberry glass from Slovakia.

I like the way these things capture the brightness and zest of fresh fruits and vegetables and good-quality dairy at the height of their freshness. It’s a more stylish reminder to forgo the junk food than a pig magnet stuck to the front of the refrigerator.