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.

Iceland Gets a Break Today

Via Reuters: Thanks to Iceland's tanking economy, McDonald's is pulling out.  Thousands line up for a final Big Mac.  I'd be happy just to get McDonald's odiferous output off buses and subways.  Sigh.

Luke's Lobster Is Fine by ME

I'm not sure I altogether approve of lobster rolls being available beyond New England (see rant here) but if they are going to take up residence in Manhattan, I'm glad that there are some lobster rolls like those at Luke's Lobster:  Priced like Maine, made like Maine.  The kind you can walk with, and eat two of for lunch. I kinda knew, from the moment I saw the blackboard listing where today's lobster was from, that this was going to be good. 
It was wicked good.  Chunks of claw and knuckle meat, lightly dressed, in a perfectly grilled trad bun.  No fork needed.  Bruce, the man from Maine, wanted to know what happened to the tail and body meat, not to mention the roe and tomalley.  I expect that they'll  turn up in the bisques and stews that are said to be coming soon.

As you can see, the rolls are very lightly dressed, which shows off the lobster nicely.  I would nonetheless have liked more mayonnaise (available upon request), but that may just be my own mayo lust speaking:  I knew for sure that the man from Maine was a keeper when I saw the quart jar of Hellman's in his fridge.

I'm looking forward to going back for a crab roll.  As anyone who knows crabs knows: Maryland's got the rep; Maine's got the crab.

(Luke's Lobster is at 93 East 7th St., bet 1st & A.  Limited seating, but a great many  lobster joints in Maine don't have any seating at all.  Lobster rolls are $14; small ones $8.)

Generation Caffeine

Yunnies (young urban narcissists) live in the jittery grip of coffee.  Or vice versa.  It gives them much-needed energy to engage in their favorite activity...

Waiting in line for three hours for the pancake of the week..

Black Twigs Are In!

The black twig, which can only be described as a cult favorite apple, has made its annual late October appearance at the Locust Grove Fruit Farm stand at the Union Square Farmers Market.  Hard and tart yet sweet, this 1868 heritage apple (some say it is from Arkansas, as one of its parents is said to be Arkansas Black; others claim it for Tennessee) is great out of hand, in pies, and in sauces.  It's pretty good sauteeds in bacon fat, too, but what isn't?
  Twigs have a brief season--last year I missed them altogether due to a three-week flu.  This year, I'm making no mistakes and stocking up early.  Unless my big mistake was letting the Twig out of the bag.

Bloody Good

Met friends last night at the King Cole bar at the St. Regis, which is currently celebrating the 75th anniversary of the bloody mary, perhaps invented there in 1934 by bartender Fernand Petiot.  As with everything from the Caesar salad to the margarita, it is doubtful that a sure-fire history of these American classics will ever be uncovered.  No matter.  We were there to celebrate by hoisting a red snapper, a bloody mary prototype that doesn't contain horseradish.  I would think that whoever first stirred horseradish into tomato juice has at least some claim to the title of bloody mary creator!

While the King Cole might have been the birthplace of the bloody mary, there is no doubt at all that, during this celebration at least, they serve the widest variety: twenty-one, although not every variety is available every night.   Many are based on recipes supplied by establishments around the city, including Blue Smoke, Prune, Back Forty, and WD50, as this celebration also benefits City Meals on Wheels. Five of them are only available on twenty-four hours' notice.  This is, after all, the St. Regis, which certainly doesn't like being rushed; a state of affairs I found rather irksome while waiting the better part of a quarter hour for my second drink.

My first was the Blue Smoke, which was irresistably described as containing magic dust.  It was smokey, spicy, and quite lovely, but it was my second drink that brought on the magic, and made me forget about my original intentions .  It was a bloody martini, which shared even less kinship with the blood mary than the red snapper.  I checked the menu for ingredients, which I hurriedly scribbled on a napkin. A good thing I did, as the online version of the menu is sketchy in parts.

Ingredients include basil and cherry tomato (garnish), fresh lemon juice, simple syrup, Tabasco, and Belvedere Cytrus.  Sound simple enough, but it combines enough sweetness and heat to keep your palate interested after the first, or even second, round, which is as far as I was willing to go at $18 a pop.  Once I nail the proportions, I figure that, even with Cytrus at $42 per bottle, I can make a pitcher of bloody marties for under twenty bucks.

No picture of the cocktail, I'm afraid.  I tried, but when the automatic flash (which I was sure was off) fired right into the face of the patron at the next table, I felt as embarrassed as I would had I farted in a cathedral.  Speaking of farting, take a good look at the famed Maxwell Parrish mural.  Get it?

Dumpling Festival Update

I say it's a frat festival, and I say the hell with it.

Halloween Cupcakes

Because everyone needs a scary cupcake now and then.
From Junior's in Grand Central.