Blame Canada (for having better bagels)

Montreal's bagels are like New York bagels used to be.  Today's NY bagels are just a doughy lump of stodge; I last had a good bagel in New York in 1978.   Read about the controversy here.

Dual Personality

I love stores that surprise me, and Dual Specialty Store almost always manages to do that.  Quite a feat, since I've been shopping there for twenty years.  In the summer, there are swoonily fragrant Indian mangoes piled in boxes outside, and mango lassi served inside.  It's the only place I've ever seen fresh turmeric, too.  Someday I'll even learn what to do with it.

Dual's narrow aisles are lined with everything from chutney to ayurvedic remedies. Spices have a long, fragrant wall of their own.  (Insert your own bad Spice Aisles pun here.) Opposite the spices are an ever-changing array of spicy snacks. I picked up a bag of masala banana chips, which made a just-tingly-enough (and dirt cheap) cocktail snack. Speaking of cocktails, Dual features the famous  Fee Brothers Bitters, made in Rochester, NY, which I'd been searching for everywhere.  Never thought to look on the Dual shelf marked "British Foods,"  but they carry the whole line, from peach to rhubarb (!) to cherry. I can't imagine a cocktail that those cherry bitters wouldn't perk up.

Life can't all be snacks and cocktails, more's the pity, so I picked up a package of curry leaves, which work in an array of foods well beyond the Indian kitchen.  They smell distinctly of  the spice blend, with an added toasted nuttiness that goes wonderfully well with winter squash.  This is a tough recipe, so follow closely.  Preheat oven to 375.Cut the top off a winter squash (or cut squash in half, depending on the variety).  Scoop out seeds.  Add a chunk of butter to the cavity.  Salt.  Pepper.  Toss in a couple of curry leaves.  When the squash starts to soften,  stab the cavity flesh in several places with a knife or fork, so that the spicy melted butter soaks into the flesh.  Continue cooking until soft and scoopable.  Serve.

Stop by Dual sometime.  It's the best kind of neighborhood grocery, where you always find something you didn't know you needed!
91 First Avenue, bet. 5th and 6th Sts.

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Luke's Lobster, Crab Edition

Promised awhile back that I would return to Luke's Lobster to sample the crab roll.  I should perhaps first explain where I stand on this critical issue: While I'd rather have a lobster on my plate than a mess of crabs, I'd almost always prefer to have crabmeat in my bun.  If it's Maine crab, that is.  All crustaceaholics know the adage, "The colder the water, the sweeter the meat."
  Why then, are Maryland's crabs held in much higher esteem than crabs from the chilly waters of Maine?  I can only assume that Maryland's proximity to DC lends it access to the Congressional Seafood Roll Committee.
  If you are in doubt, stroll over to Luke's and sample a Maine crab roll.  The crabmeat will be sweet, with a touch of the ocean.  It's topped with a nicely suitable spice blend that reminds me a bit of Old Bay.  The other good thing about crab rolls?  Universally cheaper than lobster rolls. At Luke's, they run five bucks from the small, nine for the large.

Actually About Leftovers for Once

Yes, I love turkey sandwiches with stuffing and cranberry sauce and yummy turkey curry a la Bridget Jones, but it gets a little too turkeycentric after a while.  That is when I'll turn to one of my favorite ways to make a leftover protein (or leftover almost anything, come to that) part of a larger picture: fried rice.
  I'm sure the complicated recipes I've seen in demanding cookbooks and overwrought food magazines are more subtle, and more authentic, but I cannot be bothered with cook this, remove from pan.  Wipe out pan, add something else.  Set aside.  The point of leftovers is that they should be easy to prepare and pique the turkey-bored eater.  Fried rice is the answer to both.  (It also reminds me of a time when my family--and every other family in the neighborhood--ordered "Chinks."  We knew no better.)

  The only advance planning you need do is to cook rice, let cool, and refrigerate for a couple of hours. (Freshly made rice is too clumpy for this dish.)  It's even better if you chill it the night before, but not better enough to stress over.  I once bought a container of take-out rice, spread it out on a plate,  and shoved it in the freezer to rest for half an hour.  Worked fine. 
  I'm not going to give amounts here; this is all about what you have to hand.  In fact, you will probably notice that the version in the pictures is made with ham, not turkey. 
  Assemble your vegetables: I had frozen peas, frozen bell pepper strips (which I had never heard of until I read about them in a Bittman column), scallions, onion. You will be adding chopped turkey--dark meat, I hope?  Also prepped and ready to go: coarsely grated ginger, minced garlic, neutral oil, a beaten egg, soy sauce, cilantro, and one more ingredient that I will reveal at the very end.
   Pour some oil into the pan over medium-high heat, let it get well heated, add veg.  Stir around a bit until they are thawed and a bit limpish, two or three minutes.  Add the turkey.  Push everything to one side, add a bit more oil, and toss in the ginger and garlic.  As you can see, you needn't be obsessively neat about this.  Stir the two until they are aromatic, about thirty seconds.  Add the rice to the entire pan, stirring until it is coated with oil (add yet more if necessary) and nicely hot.
  Turn off the heat, and make a little hollow in the middle of the rice.  Pour in the beaten egg.  Stir madly to distribute.
  Add soy.  Doesn't look right, does it?  A bit pallid, perhaps?  Even beige?  The first time I made fried rice, I added so much soy to render it the "right" color that it was inedibly salty.  Now, I do what some Chinese restaurants do: I add a little bit of Gravy Master. (Nearly typed Gravy Train there, not a good idea.)  Toss until color is even, add cilantro, if you'd like, and serve.  Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all, some fried rice!

London Calling

I have always loved WWII food ads, especially the ones dealing with rationing, both in the US and the UK.  Back when food was food and chefs were cooks.  I wish I could  visit this exhibit.

Girl's Night In

While Bruce and I are pretty omnivorous, we each have our own strong preferences.  He loves curry, dosa, and all things Indian; I gravitate toward anything Italian, particularly the red-sauce Italian of my Brooklyn youth.  Thus, we have pasta once a week, and curry every moon or so, which I think is more than fair. Only occasionally do I get a chance to cook for myself alone, but I rarely take it.  Bread, cheese, and fruit on a paper plate is my usual fare.  However, this week it was a little too chilly in the apartment to think about a cold meal.  I wanted Italian, but I didn't feel like pasta.  Ordering a whole pizza for myself was out, as I might eat it.  All of it.
  I poked around in the closet and found a tube of prepared polenta.  Bingo.  Set the oven to 350, then cut three half inches slices of polenta, heated a tablespoon of butter in a frying pan, and tossed them in.  Five or six minutes on each side over medium-high heat, until they were golden on the outside and tender within. I used a paper towel to blot up any excess butter, so that I wouldn't get splattered when I added the sauce.  I wasn't about to thaw a quart of homemade sauce, so I doused them with a good jarred brand. (I'm partial to Michael's of Brooklyn, partly because I used to walk by the restaurant on my way home from St. Brendan's High School.)
  Topped them with shreds of mozzarella, dollops of ricotta, and a shower of parm.  Into the oven for ten minutes.  Dust with more parm. (Is there ever enough?  No.)  They were tender, crunchy, gooey, and oozy.  Perfect.
   Let cool slightly.  Open a bottle of wine, grab a glass, and race to the couch in time for the finale of America's Next Top Model. 
  Pass me the wine, would you?  I've still got an hour to kill before Top Chef.

Sometimes a Pretzel Is Just...A Really Good Pretzel

Finally got to Sigmund's Pretzel Shop today, about two weeks later than planned, what with illness and the lack of appetite that dogged me for at least a week after I was officially better.  And a food blogger without an appetite is like a hipster without bacon: dazed and somewhat pathetic.
  Having grown up in Brooklyn, I'm quite familiar with a certain kind of soft pretzel: It was doughy, salty, soggy, and, on humid days, sported a viscous coating of melted salt.  Oh, and they were stone cold.  We couldn't get enough of them: Filling and cheap, they were ideally suited to teenaged appetites.
  Sigmund's pretzels are another story.  They remind you that pretzels are, after all, bread.  I got a plain salted, as I didn't want the distraction--at least this time-- of jalapeno cheddar or gruyere. versions.  These babies are pretzels at their best.  Light, yet not insubstantial, they are redolent of yeasty bread, the chew offering just enough resistance, the crust (for want of a better word) a chestnut brown with a toasty flavor.   If there is such a thing as an elegant pretzel, this is it.
  The pretzels are $3.00 each, and come with your choice of dip.  I got a zesty honey mustard, a flavor for which my weakness is well known.  I'm looking forward to trying the caraway pretzel, perhaps with a horseradish dip.  Soon.
  29 Avenue A, between 2nd and 3rd Streets.

Gingering Myself Up

Sorry for the lack of posts, but all I would have been capable of over the last week or so was a long discourse on toast, tea, and juice.  Not all that interesting.  Feeling much better now, helped along by a concoction from the Maine Mixologist, called the Bermuda Triangle.   One shot of Bermuda rum on the rocks, fill glass with ginger beer.  Add eight drops Old Outerbridge Original Bermuda Sherry Peppers.  Definitely good for what ails you.  Or ailed me, at least.

Shellshocked

This did not go as expected.  And, except for portioning problems (sorry, hon), I really can't take any blame for it.
I had gotten the oysters shucked, because it's a high-risk enterprise unless you know what you're doing.  I don't.  Hindsight prompts me to say that I should've risked a finger or two.  The shucking fisherman put the oysters, which were now resting on their half-shells, into two styrofoam containers, the kind that you might get take-out chicken wings in, which would work perfectly for lunch in the park or to take back to the office.  I wasn't doing either of those things; I was shopping, then taking the F train home.   The last time I had oysters shucked, they were sans shell, and snuggled into a plastic soup container.  Unless you have a personal attendant and a car with great suspension, I strongly recommend that option if you are traveling more than a block or two.
  The oysters got creamed.  In an act of outrageous self-mutilation, the shells, which bounced around in their container exactly like chicken wings, cut the oysters to shreds.  The mollusk gloop was clinging to the sides of the containers, the tops of shells, and itself.  It was not pretty, not at all.
  I scooped the contents of each container onto a paper plate, not noticing that one held ten oysters, the other six.  Not my problem. I could barely distinguish one injured bit of oyster from another.
  No worries, though.  Once they're hit with sherry and butter and cream, who'll know the difference? 
Into the double boiler they went: 8 oysters (or so I thought); tablespoon butter; dash celery salt; teaspoon Worcestershire sauce; 2 tablespoons sherry; 1/4 cup oyster liquor, except I don't have any oyster liquor because the little bastards must have sweated it off during their exertions in the styrofoam sauna, so I used 1/4 cup salty water and, no, I didn't have any clam juice handy, thanks.  Cook for about a minute, until the oysters start to curl. The state they were in, they could have had a perm for all I know.
  Add one cup half-and-half. Here is where the Grand Central Oyster Bar & Restaurant Seafood Cookbook let me down with a crash: "Add half-and-half and continue stirring briskly, just to a boil.  Do not boil."
 
The first thing wrong with this is that if you continue stirring briskly, it is going to take a long, long time to reach a boil.  The second is that there is .00003 of a nanosecond between coming to a boil and boiling.  Reader, I curdled it. 

The finishing pat of butter and dusting of paprika did nothing to disguise that the lovely soup I had hoped to serve bore more than a passing resemblance to small-curd cottage cheese.  Bruce seemed not to notice, but was quick to point out  that he got only six oysters, instead of the promised eight, which meant I had ten.  Which I had already eaten..

I'll make sure he gets two extra from my bowl when we have oyster stew again, something  I'll be sure to remember the next time we pull up a stool at the Grand Central Oyster Bar.  Hey, I don't hold a grudge.

Oysters at the Greenmarket!

Headed up to Union Square this afternoon to shop at the farmers market's newest stallholder,Westport Aquaculture, a 150-year-old family business operating out of Connecticut that set up shop at the market only a week ago.  The charming duo of fisherman had brought in a haul of clams, lobster, and oysters, the last of which are available to eat on the spot with a splash of cocktail sauce.  Good as that sounded, I needed more than a few oysters for the oyster stew a la Grand Central that I'm making this evening.  I've never made it; I'll let you know how it goes.