The Wednesday Chef

  • In The End, Haiti

    Five days ago, I wrote this:

    Today, in a fit of pique, I refused to put on pants. I've been wearing pants for a month straight, you see. Jeans, jeans and more jeans, sometimes alternating with a lone pair of cargo pants. And today I simply could not take any of them anymore. Wherefore my pretty skirts and tights? My New York City shoes, my dresses? I used to be so well-dressed, back in that other life I used to have. This morning, when I peered into my mother's closet and my pants stared out at me so sensibly, so responsibly, almost balefully from their perch, I just kind of wanted to pinch them where it hurts. Hard.

    Instead, I closed the closet door and put on my favorite gray woolen tights, a nice denim pencil skirt (one of two skirts I dared take with me for these first few months) and my new pair of knee-high boots (happy new year to me!). Ooh, things were looking up already. I dabbed on makeup and put on my favorite earrings and felt almost womanly for the first time in a month.

    Do you have a sense of where this is going? Because thusly clad (well, and wearing a jacket) I sashayed outside the house, got into my mother's car and, about 4 feet later, realized that the car was A) stuck on solid ice and B) had a flat tire. And there I was, defiantly under-dressed and freezing my…knuckles off. A kindly crew of garbage men and a good Samaritan took pity on me and helped with the car while I weakly shook my fist at the sky and at my vain self.

    Universe, I salute your sense of humor. Also, I'm wearing pants again. You win.

    I was going to tell you more, you know, about a Rachael Ray recipe I tried (and loved) a week before I left New York. There was a point to all that up there, is my point. But four days ago, I came down with a stomach flu and the thought of ever having eaten before or ever eating again became an impossibility. I will spend the rest of my life drinking fennel tea and eating Zwieback every other day, I thought solemnly as I lay in bed and contemplated my nausea. Too bad about that food blog, I thought. And all those recipes I never got to try.

    Then, two days ago: Haiti. And though I may be able to eat breakfast again, the news from that country has struck me dumb. So all I've got for you today is this:

    Partners in Health

    International Rescue Committee

    International Medical Corps

    CARE

    American Refugee Committee

    Save the Children

    Doctors Without Borders

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  • Russ Parsons’s Cauliflower and Potato Gratin

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    Well. Let me tell you one thing. Berlin? Is cold. Very, very cold. There's this Arctic wind blowing down on us from the north, apparently, and it's not going to stop anytime soon. Did you know that Berlin is on the same latitude as Labrador? New York, in case you're wondering, is on the same latitude as Rome. That might help put the proximity of that Arctic wind in perspective for you. It is awfully, bone-chillingly close.

    Then, the snow. The city has been blanketed in white since I arrived here almost three weeks ago. At first it was festive and clean! Now, I sort of want to kick all that snow in the teeth. I've been wearing the same waterproof, wool-lined hiking boots for weeks. Doesn't the weather know that a woman's happiness is bound up in her ability to alternate footwear at least once or twice a week? Or at least change out of the heavy duty socks purchased on one trip to the Rocky Mountains a few years ago.

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    Anyway, all of this complaining is actually to explain why on earth, after the absolute gluttony of the holidays, I made a cheese sauce-cloaked potato and cauliflower dish on New Year's Day. Delicate salads and gossamer soups, take your pretty little selves to warmer climes. Here in Berlin, I'm turning on the oven as often as I can. The more burners I can use, the better! And I need butterfat to help the cause.

    Russ Parsons meant for this dish to be served as a side for a Christmas feast, but there was no such restraint in my kitchen. Between two mouths at dinner, one admittedly a little larger than the other, the whole thing was polished off in no time. Okay, fine, with a salad. And it was delicious. Honestly, I don't know that I'd ever serve this as a side dish – I need those usually to be simpler and plainer. But it is perfect as a vegetarian main course. Just right.

    The Gruyère was restrained, the cauliflower practically sweet, the potatoes creamily yielding. Russ has you make a leek-studded, cheese-scented béchamel that would make a lovely blanket for any number of vegetables (endives! leeks! white asparagus!). It gets poured over and under a pile of boiled, cubed potatoes and cauliflower and then stuck in a hot oven for bubbling, crisping action. The gratin must be eaten straight out of the oven, never mind about your burned tongue. Hot, hot, hot, it does a wondrous job filling bellies and warming cold bodies. (Thank you, Russ!)

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    In other news, I have one small victory to report: I have a working cell phone! With a German number! It only took me three weeks, three missed delivery attempts, some minor computer hacking and a few chewed cuticles to get here. And it feels glorious. Like the first piece of my everyday life just shifted into place. Next up, an apartment of my own, pretty please.

    I'm camping at my mother's apartment while I look for my own place. It's not half-bad, living rent-free, and in a gorgeous, art-filled, turn-of-the-century apartment with a lovely kitchen (the counter space! the dishwasher!) to boot. Cooking in her kitchen is a little weird – like walking in a pair of shoes that's a size too small or eating dinner at a table that's about 5 inches too high. You know what I mean? It's doable but feels a little off. Though the measuring cups and spoons that I brought with me from Queens are making me feel a little more settled.

    Anyway, I'm still getting used to the light here, so please forgive the strange quality of the photos in my posts for now – they're all a little wonky. On the whole, though, I have to say, it is so nice to be here. Cold weather, weird lighting, longing for a space of my own, I can take it all. It's good to be home.

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    Cauliflower and Potato Gratin
    Serves 6 to 8 as a side dish

    1 (1 1/4-pound) head of cauliflower
    1/2 pound small boiling potatoes
    Salt
    1 tablespoon vinegar
    1/4 cup butter
    1 leek, white part only, finely chopped (about 1/2 cup)
    1/4 cup flour
    1 1/2 cups milk
    2 tablespoons crème fraiche or sour cream
    3/4 cup grated Gruyère cheese, divided (about 1 1/2 ounces)
    Freshly grated nutmeg
    1/4 cup fresh bread crumbs

    1. Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Cut the dried base and green leaves from the cauliflower and discard them. Separate the head into florets about the size of walnuts and chop the stem into similar size pieces. Cut the potatoes into similar-size pieces as well.

    2. Bring a large pot of water to a boil over high head and salt liberally. Add 1 tablespoon of vinegar and the cauliflower and potatoes (the vinegar will help keep the cauliflower white). Cook until the cauliflower pieces are tender enough to be easily cut with a spoon, 10 to 15 minutes. Drain and set aside.

    3. While the cauliflower is cooking, make a cheese sauce. In a medium, heavy-bottom saucepan, melt the butter over medium-low heat and stir in the leeks. Cook until they are soft, about 10 minutes. Add the flour and whisk to make a smooth paste. Add the milk a little at a time, cooking until it thickens. When all the milk has been added, reduce the heat and cook over medium-low heat for 5 to 10 minutes.

    4. Stir in the crème fraîche, then one-half cup of the Gruyère, 1 teaspoon salt and a generous grating of nutmeg (a little less than one-quarter teaspoon). Whisk until smooth, then taste and add more salt or nutmeg if necessary.

    5. Butter a 6-cup gratin dish and spread a thin layer of the sauce evenly over the bottom. Arrange the cooked cauliflower and potatoes in an even layer over the sauce. Pour the remaining sauce over the top and spread evenly with the back of a spoon. It should come about three-quarters of the way up the vegetables.

    6. Scatter bread crumbs evenly over top and then scatter the remaining one-quarter cup Gruyère over that. Bake until the gratin is bubbling and the top is browned, 30 to 40 minutes. Serve immediately.

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  • The Arrival

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    Well, hello there! Or should I say, Guten Tag! That's a little formal, though. How about just hallo? Hallo! I'm here! And I brought you two Pfannkuchen! It's New Year's Eve, after all, and that's what Germans eat on New Year's Eve. Jelly doughnuts, that is. Ooh, and these ones are the best. Handmade, filled with sticky plum jam or a tart berry jelly, and light as a feather. You can have both! Go on, then. I don't even mind.

    Oh my goodness, I've missed you so much. Yes, you, dear reader. And you, and you, and you. I missed you! Oof, I cannot ever go that long without blogging again. But I have a good excuse, I do. Let me tell you, transatlantic moves? Not for the faint of heart. Not even for the sturdy of heart. Transatlantic moves are a kick in the pants. No, a kick in the head! I do not recommend them, no sirree bob, not unless you enjoy a little bit of existential torture.

    In addition to being responsible for a million forms being signed and faxed and emailed and who-knows-what-else, you have to sell your furniture (well, most of it anyway), which can be a little gnarly if you're like me and attached to the pieces that you painstakingly bought over the course of many years and that seemed to fit just so into many apartments, then you have to watch two pleasant enough dudes come and pack up what remains of an entire life, let's face it, and you aren't even allowed to help because then the insurance wouldn't apply, and then after saying goodbye to your friends and your streets and your city and that life I just mentioned, you still have to arrive. You know? I mean, actually get off the plane, adjust to the new time zone and realize that you don't have a return ticket. Ahem.

    So I guess that's where I've been. Adjusting, unpacking, looking for an apartment, dealing with the absolute hell that is understanding bureaucratic German, buying health insurance, opening bank accounts and trying to quell the heartache I feel for just a moment every single time Jay-Z and Alicia Keys start singing about New York on the radio, the jerks.

    And now here we are, just a few hours, in Berlin anyway, from a new year. And before we leave this old one behind us, I just had to write, to check in and let you know that I'm still here and that I cannot wait to get back to work. For the one thing that remains constant in this incredible, wonderful upheaval is you and this space. And let me tell you, I could cry when I think about what joy and peace that gives me.

    So, don't let me keep you too much for now. It's a big day, after all. Make sure you have enough Champagne or Prosecco chilling in your fridge and enough loved ones around you to squeeze tonight, and then at some point today or tomorrow, or a few days from now, whenever you have a chance, remember that there's a girl in Berlin who is very, very grateful indeed that you're in her life. Thank you. And Happy New Year!

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  • Mary Ellen Rae’s Cardamom Pistachio Cookies

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    While others are feverishly making wax-paper wrapped caramels, soaking fruits for cake, stirring away lava-hot apple butter on the stove, or cooking glossy pots of fudge sauce to be jarred, beribboned, and gifted, I am up to my eyeballs in moving to-do lists for this final phase before I leave New York. Now is the time of administrative purgatory – endless hold times to change addresses, shut down bank accounts, and generally close up shop on the past nine years of a life here.

    Let me tell you – I'd rather be making caramel.

    Christmas baking and cooking have taken a major back seat. In fact, cooking in general has become rather elusive as of late. Yesterday I cooked together frozen spinach, a can of diced tomatoes and some frozen Rancho Gordo beans into a strange little stew of sorts, realizing as I ate that it was the first home-cooked meal I'd had in almost a week (and practically the first vegetables, too). But I'm not complaining. The reason I'm not at home cooking is that I'm out living this city, seeing friends as much as I possibly can, giving them far too many hugs and squeezing as much juice out of this apple as it will let me. It's delicious. The stove can wait.

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    But before I leave you to get back to packing and blowing my city big, wet kisses, I do have one little something to tell you about, something soft and crumbly, buttery and sweet, vaguely exotic and sparkling. A right little charmer, if I do say so myself.

    What on earth am I doing baking Christmas cookies, you ask? Old habits die hard, I suppose. It can't be December if the oven hasn't been fired up at least once for cookies, after all, can it? And in any case, I'm participating in the gorgeous Lottie + Doof's 12 Days of Cookies, which was as fine an excuse as any to pull out a recipe I've been saving to try since 2003.

    That recipe came from the Los Angeles Times and was for buttery spritz cookies, made using a cookie press. I used to have one of those things, a kind gift from birthdays past, but somewhere in my many moves the thing went missing. The recipe hung on tight, snug in its little folder, smug in the knowledge I'd make it, come cookie press or high water. The thing is, "buttery spritz cookie" is kind of misleading, makes you think I made something Danish-butter-cookie-like. When really what emerged from the oven was something different.

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    The truth is, I'm a little tired of the same old Christmas flavors, of cinnamon and hazelnuts, or chocolate and orange peel. There are moments when 2009 feels like the longest year of my life, and others when I realize last Christmas actually just happened last week. Last week! And people expect me to be in the mood for holiday cookies again? The nerve.

    So when I saw that this cookie eschewed cinnamon and nutmeg, was austere and plain save for a gentle sprinkling of ground cardamom and a few green shards of pistachio, it became the only thing I wanted to bake. With a nice sparkle of salt to boot, this cookie is a belly-dancing rebuke to the standard brown gingerbread you might just be a little sick of. Between the cardamom and the pistachio, munching on these cookies made me feel like I was celebrating Advent in a souk somewhere, the scent of rosewater hanging heavily in the air, warm breezes blowing through a narrow window.

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    Instead of spritzing the dough through a cookie press, I rolled it into a log and chilled it until firm, then sliced it and topped the cookies with their sugary green décor. I made the mistake, though I hope you'll forgive me, of using regular sugar instead of the coarse decorating sugar. I just can't bear to buy anything else kitchen-wise, before the move. The thing is, you really do want that large-grained crunch on top. Regular sugar threatens to push these into saccharine territory. Also, I let them come to room temperature before baking, but I'm not sure why I did that. Don't bother, I'd say.

    These cookies are delicate little things. Let them cool on the parchment-lined baking sheet before carefully removing them to a cooling rack. They shouldn't crumble too much, then, but these are definitely not the hardy types. They should be eaten, rather delicately, I'd say, alongside a cup of tea, rather than plunked lustily into the hot mug. Or packed gently between gossamer leaves of tissue paper in a box for presenting. They're an unexpected twist in a box of holiday cookies, an exotic little pop of flavor and crunch.

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    And with that, lovelies, I'm going to step away from the computer for a bit. I don't know if I'll post again before Berlin. I have a week left and an awful lot to do. I'll be updating my Twitter feed, if you want to follow along there, and my Flickr page, of course. I know you know that my heart is filled with the greatest jumble of emotions, exhilaration and sadness taking turns setting up shop. I think right now I'm firmly entrenched in I-can't-believe-this-is-happening territory, eyes wide and happy, eyes filled with tears.

    This life, man. Who knew?

    Cardamom Pistachio Cookies
    Makes about five dozen 1.5 – 2-inch cookies

    1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled
    1/2 cup superfine sugar
    1 teaspoon vanilla extract
    2 egg yolks
    2 cups flour
    1/2 teaspoon salt
    1 teaspoon cardamom seeds, crushed using a mortar and pestle
    1/4 cup sparkling decorative sugar
    1/4 cup chopped pistachio nuts

    1. Heat the oven to 375 degrees. Using an electric mixer, cream the butter until smooth. Add the sugar and beat for one minute. Add the vanilla extract and egg yolks and beat an additional minute.

    2. Sift together the flour and salt. Spoon the flour mixture into the butter mixture and add the cardamom. Beat on low speed, then increase to medium and mix until the batter is combined.

    3. Spoon the dough into a cookie press and press out onto ungreased baking sheets. Or roll the dough into a log, wrap in parchment paper and chill for two hours before slicing into rounds and arranging evenly onto the cookie sheets. In a small bowl, combine the sparkling sugar and the pistachio nuts, then sprinkle some on each cookie.

    4. Bake just until the edges of the cookies start to turn a pale golden color, about 8 to 10 minutes. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheet, then remove carefully to a wire rack. The cookies will firm up as they cool. When they are completely cool, store in an airtight container. They may be kept frozen up to two months.

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  • Camino’s Egg Baked in Cream

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    Can a dinner be called adorable? If, say, it consists of one delicate little egg sitting sweetly atop a bed of herbed, tender leeks, bathed in a fillip of cream and gently dusted with salt and pepper, then I would say yes. Besides, anything served in a nice, white ramekin is just so cute. Did I just lose all my male readers with that? I'm sorry, don't leave. You'll want to eat this, too, I promise. Besides, the ramekin was my idea. If you have a cazuela, or other ceramic dish that's a little bigger than a twee little ramekin, you can turn this into a two-or-three egg meal in a flash.

    The recipe comes from Camino in Oakland and is just right for those solo dinners at home, though it's also easily multiplied so that everyone at your table can have their own little ramekin. In fact, I recommend that no matter how many people you're cooking for, you make an extra pile of the herbed leeks. (1/4 cup of leeks just feels…unnecessarily fussy.) What do you do with extra cooked leeks? Oh ho ho. Do you have an hour? Stir them into pasta or leftover rice. Use them as sandwich filling or to give scrambled eggs an edge. Mixed with boiled potatoes and milk and puréed, then thinned as desired, you can have anything from leek mashed potatoes to shortcut potage Parmentier (not to mention vichyssoise). They keep well in the fridge for a bit and deepen their flavor as the hours go by and seem to be one of the most useful vegetables ever.

    I love useful vegetables.

    Anyway, that's about the hardest part of the recipe, cleaning the leeks, that is. I cooked them longer than the recipe called for, about ten minutes, because I like stewy leeks that grow sweeter with each passing minute. Cooking the leeks for just two minutes gives them a bit more bite. Do as you like best. I piled a small amount of the leeks into a ramekin, cracked an egg over the top, poured a few spoonfuls of half-and-half on top and did some artful pepper-cracking. After exactly 12 minutes in a hot oven, I pulled out a savory-sweet baked egg, cream bubbling at the edge, white set just so, and yolk still gorgeously runny.

    Ooh, runny yolks. The best part, wouldn't you say?

    Armed with a heel of crusty bread, I polished off my adorable dinner in minutes. Eyeing the remaining leeks in the pan, and the oven I'd serendipitously left on, it only took me a few seconds to decide to make a second helping.

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    Adorable, schmadorable. These are good.

    Egg Baked in Cream
    Serves 1 with leftover leeks for many uses

    1 1/2 tablespoons butter
    4 leeks, sliced, light green and white parts only
    Salt
    2 sprigs thyme, leaves roughly chopped
    2 sprigs parsley, leaves roughly chopped
    1 large farm-fresh egg
    About 2 tablespoons half-and-half
    Coarsely ground black pepper
    Grilled or toasted bread slices

    1. Set a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 400 degrees. In a small sauté pan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the leeks, a splash of water and a pinch of salt and cook until the leeks are tender, about 2 minutes. Add the herbs and transfer to a 6-inch cazuela, cocotte or other ceramic dish, covering the bottom with the butter, leeks and herbs.

    2. Crack the egg into the middle of the dish. Add enough half-and-half to barely cover the white. Sprinkle with salt and coarsely ground pepper. Cook until the white is set, 8 to 12 minutes. Serve with grilled or toasted bread.

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  • Mark Bittman’s Bok Choy with Shiitakes and Oyster Sauce

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    The clock is ticking. In less than three weeks, I'll be on my way to the airport with a one-way ticket in my bag and my earthly possessions on the slow boat to China (well, or Hamburg, to be more accurate). I've gone from having a wobbly lip on every blessed New York sidewalk to becoming foot-tappingly impatient. I'm ready to say goodbye, I want to start writing, I need to do this thing, you know?

    But patience is a virtue, toots. That's what I keep telling myself, when the butterflies in my stomach start whirling and I think of everything over there waiting for me, everyone over there waiting for me. And besides, there are still a few things I need to do while I'm here. I need to go to Kitchen Arts & Letters, though I am prohibited by cosmic law to buy anything, anything at all, while there (that international shipping bill isn't getting any smaller, is what I'm trying to say). I need to stroll in Central Park while drinking a hot chocolate with a big, puffy, homemade marshmallow melting oozily into it. I need to go to the Museum of Natural History one last time for that Silk Road exhibit. And I need to eat some Chinese food.

    When I left Berlin, in 1995, there was one passable restaurant that we went to every once in a blue moon when the urge for Chinese food got rather overwhelming and there was no where else to turn. Apparently, things have gotten a little better there now – I've heard of a Sichuanese hole-in-the-wall and a dumpling place recommended by a friend's friend from Beijing – but good Chinese food, as ubiquitous as it is here, is still somewhat of a rarity.

    Thrillingly, though, as long as I can find a grocery store selling bok choy, shiitakes and good-quality oyster sauce, I should be in pretty good shape. The Minimalist's recipe was a big hit in my kitchen on Sunday night: quick, delicious and fresh, and it practically tasted like take-out! I mean this as high praise, mind you. High, high praise indeed.

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    And with that, lovely people, I leave you to your brining, your salting, your traveling, and your feast-preparing. This year, I'm staying put for a real New York City Thanksgiving. My loved ones are coming to me and we are going out on the town, to a late lunch at Back Forty book-ended by long walks all around this beautiful town and pie with friends. I am thrilled. And full of excitement for my own Thanksgiving next year, a German-American feast that I cannot wait to plan. Until then, I'm giving thanks every day.

    Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

    Bok Choy with Shiitakes and Oyster Sauce
    Serves 4

    1/4 cup dried shiitake mushrooms
    1 1/2 pounds bok choy, trimmed
    1/4 cup peanut oil
    1 tablespoon minced garlic
    1 cup fresh shiitake mushrooms, cleaned, trimmed and sliced
    1/2 to 3/4 cup commercial oyster sauce

    1. Soak dried shiitakes in one cup of very hot water until tender, about 15 minutes. Drain, reserving liquid. Trim mushrooms and chop. Separate leaves and stems of bok choy; cut stems into 2-inch lengths and slice leaves into ribbons.

    2. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a wok or large skillet over high heat. When oil is hot, add bok choy stems, garlic if you are using it, reconstituted mushrooms, and about 1/4 cup reserved mushroom water. Cook, stirring frequently, until stems are crisp-tender, about 4 minutes.

    3. Meanwhile, in a small skillet heat remaining 2 tablespoons oil; sauté fresh shiitake mushrooms over medium-high heat. Continue cooking until they begin to brown and crisp on edges.

    4. Into the large skillet or wok, add bok choy leaves and oyster sauce and toss vegetables gently to combine; continue cooking until greens wilt, about 2 more minutes. Serve immediately, topped with crisp mushrooms.

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  • Julia Moskin’s Caramelized Corn with Fresh Mint

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    I have started and stopped this entry about six times. Trying to find some lyrical way to get going. But you know what? Though lyrical can be all fine and good, sometimes, when you are simply itching to get something out just as loud and fast as you can, lyrical can be a real impediment to communication, a real thorn in the side of straight talk.

    What on earth am I trying to say, you wonder?

    What I'm trying to say is this:

    OMG put down what you're doing this very instant NOW and get yourself to the store to buy a packet of frozen corn and a few sprigs of fresh mint and then get yourself home FAST FAST FAST cancel plans if you must I don't care for Pete's sake and get to work on this recipe which will take you all of ten minutes "active time" to make and will be the most wonderful ten-minute, four-ingredient recipe you've made all YEAR for crying out loud, maybe EVER, and though I used to think corn was something to be enjoyed solely in the few fleeting summer months each year when corn is found in green markets and on cobs, I shall now be very happily revising my list of acceptable frozen foods to be two in length (peas being number one) and cannot WAIT WAIT WAIT to make this dish over and over and over again and add it to the hall of fame, the list for lamination, it is that good oh yes it is YES IT IS GO!

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    Julia Moskin included the recipe in her Thanksgiving side dish story, but frankly, this is the kind of thing I will be making as part of a simply, easy, weeknight meal for eternity, or as long as I am ambulant and master of my own kitchen. Julia says this only works with frozen petite white corn, but my Key Foods had nothing but plain old yellow corn, which was – once thawed, then sautéed in unsalted butter until popping and caramelized and toasty and aromatic – still as delicious as could be. The chopped mint and the good hit of salt are essential, by the way. Obviously.

    I rubbed two chicken legs with salt and red pepper flakes and sweet paprika and za'atar and mashed, minced garlic and olive oil, let them sit for a bit in a dish, then roasted them at high heat, meaning 500 smacking degrees Fahrenheit, for about half an hour. Juicy, crispy-skinned, and delicious, they were a nice thing to serve with that corn.

    But that corn. That corn! It was the star, the bright and shining thing on my plate that actually made me smile as I ate, because it has been far too long since something as wonderful, as cheap and quick and as special as this unassuming little side dish came along, and in one fell swoop that corn made me fall in love – in love! with frozen corn! – and that, my friends, is all I have been trying to say.

    Caramelized Corn with Fresh Mint
    Serves 2

    1 10-ounce package frozen premium corn
    1 tablespoon unsalted butter
    2 tablespoons minced fresh mint
    Salt

    1. Defrost the corn in a colander, tossing occasionally, for about 30 minutes.

    2. In a wide skillet, melt the butter over high heat. Add the corn and cook, stirring often, until golden and browned (kernels may begin to pop), about 10 minutes. Stir in the mint and sprinkle with salt. Transfer to a serving bowl and serve while hot.

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  • My New York Restaurant List

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    I was thinking the other day that with my days in New York drawing to a close (my heart literally just constricted as I typed that, like, spasmed) it might be nice to draw up a list of my very favorite places to eat, from the simple to the sublime, in this gem of a city. For me to remember. For those planning a trip to New York to mull over and crib. For you who live here a chance to compare with your own favorites. And then we can duke it out in the comments, all friendly-like. Doesn't that sound like fun?

    I don't do it often here, but I am a list maker, a list lover. They make me feel all quiet and calm. And right now, while I'm switching madly back and forth between elation and a bit of a quivering lower lip, it feels like a good idea to order my thoughts. It's tough to narrow it down, of course, but these are the things at the very top of my list:

    Sushi Yasuda – for the very best sushi I've ever had, but more than that, one of the best dining experiences I've ever had, seated at the bar for omakase, where the sushi chef behind the bar serves you piece after piece of incredible sushi, painted delicately with soy sauce, plated just so. It's expensive and special – a once-a-year kind of place, a celebration-worthy splurge.

    Café Sabarsky – for the most refined cafe experience you'll find in New York in my very favorite New York City museum, Neue Galerie. Of course, this place has a special place in my heart because it always reminded me of Berlin, with its bent-wood chairs and its serious waiters. But the food is quietly spectacular, too. Delicate salads drizzled with vibrantly green pumpkin seed oil and flaky strudel with real whipped cream.

    Back Forty – for simple summer meals in the back yard. Notice that I didn't write back garden. Because the space behind this Alphabet City restaurant almost feels like a yard, it's that generous. And with twinkling lights and a sky still tinged with light from the day, it can feel magical back there. The restaurant is simple and unpretentious and the food is just plain good. Not to mention the drinks. I've taken lots of international friends here, from English teachers who live in Beijing to French-Yugoslav accessory designers for Gucci, and they've all been impressed with its low-key, delicious vibe.

    Indus Express – an Indian buffet on a glamourless Midtown West block. It looks like nothing special from the outside, but don't be deterred. In the hot chafing dishes you'll find quality Indian cooking that ranges widely from several different chicken and lamb dishes in gorgeously spiced sauces to a large assortment of delicious vegetable dishes, salads, chutneys and raitas. There's Indian beer, too, and best of all, once you've sat down with your filled metal plate (the first of many rounds, if you've got a cooperative belly), someone comes and brings you freshly baked naan, still hot from the oven, buttery and chewy and delicious.

    Mary's Fish Camp – I like to come here on the weekends and sit at the bar alone for salad or maybe a sandwich. It's tiny and cramped, but from the bar you can watch the cooks in the kitchen and you can get in and out of the restaurant in a relatively humane amount of time. They used to have these roasted tomatoes in their salads which I loved, but the menu has changed, as it should, I suppose, and now I can't wait to try their Spicy Fried Sardine Sandwich with Pickled Vegetables.

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    Num Pang     – I know, the banh mi craze is a little out-of-control. But where there's smoke there's fire: those crispy, crusty, multi-layered sandwiches are good. If you've not yet tried the Cambodian version of banh mi, head over to 12th and University and get yourself the num pang with veal meatballs. You will never look at a meatball sub sideways again. Spicy, drippy, crunchy, tart, and deeply, deeply delectable, it's one of the best sandwiches in the city. (Afterwards, walk across the street to Stand and order the homemade ginger ale for dessert.)

    Safran – Do any of you remember the late, great Monsoon on the Upper West Side? When it closed, I thought I'd never eat good Vietnamese food again. The chef, Laura Lam, opened up her next place on 7th Avenue and 16th Street. Safran really shines at lunchtime, when there's a special menu that's not available in the evening (a fussier, more fusion-y menu takes over then). The one thing here I order over and over again is the traditional beef pho. The broth is incredible – fragrant with so many spices, the noodles chewy and perfect, the meat just as thin as can be, cooked delicately in the hot broth, and the herbs and sauces on the side bright and fresh. Pho perfection.

    City Bakery – For the only breakfast pastries worth buying, especially the baker's muffin and the whole-wheat croissant. For the groaning lunch salad buffet. For inspiration with roasted vegetables, winter, spring, summer, and fall. For the addictive soups and the inside-out chocolate cookies. For the homemade marshmallows melting slowly into hot chocolate so think I can't even handle it (can you?). For, most importantly, the pretzel croissant. The hype is real, folks.

    Chikalicious – I thought this was a gimmick if I ever saw one. But then I actually ate at Chikalicious, a dessert restaurant, and had my mind blown, wholly and completely. This is the kind of inventive, creative, totally original place I think most dessert chefs dream of when they decide to open their own place. The fromage blanc "cheese cake" still resonates, years later, as one of the most special and delicious things I've ever eaten. Interesting flavors, gorgeous plating, Chikalicious is inspired.

    Vanessa's Dumplings – For cheap, hot, filling pork-and-chive dumplings doused in nose-wrinkling vinegar, you can't do better than this slightly expanded hole-in-the-wall staffed by efficient ladies who take orders and fry dumplings like masters. The night I gave my notice at work, I came here for dinner and almost cried because while watching the ladies work and the customers eat and the passers-by, well, pass by, I was just overcome with how totally awesome New York is. Yes, it's that kind of place.

    Prune – In those awful, awful weeks after 9/11, my father drove down from Boston one weekend to spend the day with me. We went on one of our marathon walks around the city and ended up at Prune at five in the afternoon. We sat down for a strange, delicious dinner of fried chicken livers and salads and fish. I've eaten there many times since, but I'll never forget that combination of eating good food while still being shocked and scared to my core. It's a bittersweet memory, but I love Prune nonetheless. Gabrielle Hamilton's uncompromising taste and her wit are something special, plus she's the person who taught me to eat sardines on Triscuits with mustard, alone the reason to hold this restaurant high among my favorites.

    Co. – Jim Lahey, of No-Knead Bread fame, opened his pizzeria in Chelsea and it's been packed ever since. I love the design of this place, and I love the Kelso beer, and I love some of the pizzas (the Boscaiola and the Cauliflower are two favorites). It's a wonderful place to eat at with friends, always warm and bustling and friendly.

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    Flushing's Chinatown – Take the 7 train out to Flushing's main street, then cobble together a walking meal from the various subterranean food malls and outdoor stands. My favorite menu would begin with slippery homemade rice crêpes with shrimp and a good squeeze of vinegar from Corner 28 at 42-08 Main Street, followed with a clutch of spicy, tender, cumin-dusted lamb skewers from the Xinjiang barbecue cart on 41st Avenue near Kissena Blvd, and finished with a plastic bowl of slippery, numbing dan dan noodles downstairs in the Golden Mall at the Chengdu Tianfu Small Dishes stall, 41-28 Main Street. (Use the map I linked to. You'll need it.)

    Frankie's Spuntino – the one on the Lower East Side. The menu's a whole lot bigger than it was when I first fell in love with this place, but I don't let it distract me. I come here for a nice bowl of tender meatballs in sauce, very good bread, and those wine-stewed prunes with mascarpone. This sliver of a restaurant feels totally effortless and is adorably charming and pretty, plus you can walk around the Lower East Side afterwards to digest and feel all with-it. It's got a nice dose of romance, too.

    Babbo, Blaue Gans, Peasant, Di Fara's, The Modern, Taam Tov, Sunset Park's Chinatown, the Red Hook ball fields, you're all going to have to wait until I come back. Please wait!

    Okay, now it's your turn, readers, New York lovers, hungry ones. Go!

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  • Akhtar Nawab’s Pork Meatballs with Yogurt Dressing

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    Five weeks and counting. Five weeks and something like two days, I think. Oh, who am I kidding, like I don't know down to the minute. To be precise, 37 days. 37 days as of tomorrow. 37 days and one more evening, I guess, if I'm going to be totally exact. Is what I've got left in New York, of course.

    I've been doing this thing which is totally maddening and kind of makes me want to smack myself gently in the face to snap out of it, but I can't seem to help it, this thing where I'll be somewhere, not even somewhere special, maybe just on the corner of 7th Avenue and 28th Street, which is sort of Nowheresville compared to other glimmering parts of this city, but who cares, I happen to love it. Anyway. The light will fall just so on that random little corner while the strangest accumulation of beautiful creatures will emerge from the subway moving like jungle cats and some cab driver will be screaming epithets from three lanes away while leaning on his horn and the cars will be moving along gracefully in this perfect symphony and a homeless dude will smile at me sweetly and I'll see the Rafiqi's cart guy pulling into his regular space and the wind will whip through my hair and suddenly I'll just lose my breath, it'll just get caught in my throat and my heart will stop and I'll find myself thinking This is it, this is the last time I'll ever be on the corner of 7th Avenue and 28th Street when the light falls just so with that crazy cabbie yelling over the din and the Rafiqi's guy setting up his cart, The Very Last Time, OMG, I must be crazy if I think I can leave, how on earth can I ever leave? Help.

    And because I'm sentimental and in love with my city, the kind of love that I don't think will ever die, this happens to me on almost every street corner, at almost every moment. Don't get me started on when I see my friends. Let's just say I'm walking around with a perpetually clenched heart these days.

    Which is all sort of ridiculous, of course. First of all, my reason for leaving is the kind of thing that still has me waking up with a disbelieving grin on my face most mornings. And second of all, New York is not exactly going anywhere. As most kind people tell me these days, I can always come back. I can always come back. I can always come back. Thirdly, while New York is without a doubt the Greatest City in the World, fully deserving of every tear I shed for its wondrous, sparkling, incredible self, I think I tend towards the slightly hysterical when it comes to saying goodbye, no matter where I am, let's be honest.

    Anyway.

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    One of the loveliest things to happen in these last few weeks was finally seeing what my friends Francis and Ganda were like in real life. Which just makes me laugh, really, since I can still remember those Stone Age days when I thought that people who made friends online were just totally strange and definitely a little suspect. And now I'm the kind of person who has dinner with her friends from the Internet, and it's practically like we've known each other for years. Which we have! Sort of. You know what I mean.

    Anyway.

    Francis made his famous koshary, Ganda brought positively addictive French Mint Bars from Li-Lac, so good they inspired a surprise visit from my strange disappearing sweet tooth (let me tell you about that unnerving phenomenon another time), and I made Akhtar Nawab's pork meatballs, finally, after hoarding the recipe carefully for two years.

    Don't wait that long, is all I can tell you. These meatballs are wonderful. Even better, they come with two little sauces that catapult the meatballs from Very Tasty into Totally Delicious. Two sauces may seem like overkill to you (well, they did to me in any case), but I say think of them as a reason to pull out those adorable sauce dishes you might have been given as a wedding present, or the little bowls you bought at a flea market in Paris years ago and never seem to use.

    The meatballs are flavored with everything from ground coriander to minced oregano. Interestingly, instead of mixing soaked bread into the raw meat in clumps, Akhtar has you sweat an onion until it's soft and translucent, then purée that onion with milk-soaked bread into a fragrant paste and mix that into the raw meat. Clever! The meat is shaped into balls and then fried in butter and oil until browned on all sides (mine went from rounds to triangularish domes in the pan, but no matter, they still tasted good). They're savory and herbal and crunchy and deeply wonderful.

    The sauces are meant to be drizzled and dripped on the meatballs – first the yogurt sauce, which is so thick it can only be dolloped, and then the mint sauce, which is so good I could have sat down on the floor with a spoon and made it my dinner. (I'm having this weirdly intense thing with vinegar lately. I can't get enough of it. Even pickles don't seem to cut it. Maybe it's related to my disappearing sweet tooth? I don't know, I don't even care. I just want more vinegar, please. Straight from the bottle is fine, too.) If you're serving these as an appetizer, I think it'd be cute to arrange the meatballs on a platter, each stuck with a little toothpick, then drizzled and dolloped in advance by you before your guests set themselves upon the toothpicked meatballs like hungry Visigoths. If you're serving these as part of a meal, then pass the sauces in their bowls and let your guests dress their meatballs as they wish.

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    (Look at these sweethearts, would you?)

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    Pork Meatballs with Yogurt Dressing
    Yields 50 1-inch meatballs (serves about 12 as an hors d’oeuvre)

    For yogurt dressing
    1 cup high-fat Greek yogurt
    1 1/2 tablespoons ground cumin
    1 tablespoon sugar
    1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
    Salt and freshly ground black pepper

    For mint dressing
    1/2 cup finely sliced mint leaves
    1 1/2 teaspoons minced shallots
    1 1/2 tablespoons sherry vinegar
    1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
    Salt and freshly ground black pepper

    For meatballs
    1 cup crustless country bread, torn into pieces
    2 tablespoons milk
    3 tablespoons olive oil
    Half a large onion, peeled and thinly sliced
    2 teaspoons coriander seeds
    1 tablespoon cumin seeds
    1 teaspoon fennel seeds
    1/2 teaspoon hot red-pepper flakes
    2 1/2 pounds ground pork, chilled
    1 tablespoon kosher salt
    2 teaspoons finely chopped parsley leaves
    1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh oregano
    4 tablespoons butter

    1. For yogurt dressing, combine yogurt, cumin, and sugar. Slowly whisk in oil. Season to taste with salt and pepper, cover and refrigerate.

    2. For mint dressing, combine mint, shallot and vinegar in small bowl. Slowly whisk in oil. Season with salt and pepper to taste, cover and refrigerate.

    3. For meatballs, combine bread and milk in a bowl, and stir until bread has absorbed milk.

    4. Combine 1 tablespoon of oil and onion in a saucepan over medium heat. Stir until sizzling, then cover, reduce heat to low and cook until onion is softened but not colored. Transfer to food processor, add bread mixture and purée.

    5. Combine coriander, cumin, fennel and hot red-pepper flakes in small skillet over medium heat and stir until lightly toasted and fragrant. Remove from heat and grind to a powder in a spice grinder.

    6. Mix meat, the bread mixture, spices and salt in a large stand mixer with paddle attachment. Add parsley and oregano, and mix again. With wet hands, roll into 1-inch balls.

    7. Place large skillet over medium heat. Add butter and remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil. When butter has melted, reduce heat slightly and begin adding meatballs, allowing them to brown on the bottom, then turning gently to continue browning on all sides. Work in batches, transferring meatballs to a platter when they are cooked. To serve, drizzle with yogurt dressing and sprinkle with mint dressing.

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  • Diner’s Pommes de Terre Boulangère

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    Oh my golly golly goodness – I am totally, totally overcome. I thought getting a book deal couldn't be topped, but then I started reading your comments and your emails, each and every one of them, and my heart just about burst. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for cheering me on, for believing in me, for finding inspiration in what I wrote for your own lives, and for generally being the most incredible readers and commenters a girl could ever have. I want to give you all a big hug. Maybe even do a little jig for you. Want to come up and visit me on Cloud 9? There's space up here, along with some nice, cold Champagne, delicious snacks, and really comfortable chairs. Plus the weather seems to be just fantastic all the time. Weird!

    Seriously, though. I may have said this before, but I'll say it again (and again, and again): you guys are simply amazing.

    Now to the nitty-gritty. I leave New York in mid-December. Which means that I have about six weeks left. At first I thought I would make a list of all the things I never got to do in the past ten years (Di Fara's pizza, Kitchen Arts & Letters, the Museum of the City of New York, dinner at Babbo) and get to work crossing things off that list. I realized about five minutes later that that might get a little depressing. (Not to mention exhausting.) It'd be like I was leaving New York and never coming back! Instead I decided to leave those things undone, to give myself things to look forward to when I come back to visit. As if there wouldn't be enough already…

    Most importantly, though (and pardon the profanity, but I think it's warranted here): hell yes, I am keeping the blog. Can you imagine? I leave my friends, my job, my apartment, my city, and on top of all that, this little space, too? I think I would have a nervous breakdown in about 4 minutes flat. I need you, little blog! I need you, darling readers.

    And look, I'm in Berlin right now, as I type, and it's going swimmingly! Wouldn't you say? You can't even tell that I'm here and not there, can you?

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    I'm here just for a few days, to work out a few things before I move. And right now, I'm sitting in a pool of sunshine, typing away to all of you while listening to someone's washing machine hum, thoughts of last night's homemade yeasted plum cake and plans for a pea soup party with friends on Sunday in my head. I have to say, I like this feeling; like all is right with the world.

    One more thing I need to tell you before I head out for lunch is about these potatoes I made last weekend, when I was still reeling from the events of the week. The recipe comes from the chef at Diner in Williamsburg, which is such a great little place to eat. I have this fantasy of having a Stammtisch, you know, a restaurant within walking distance of your house, where you're such a regular that the waiters always seat you at your favorite table and bring you your drink without you having to order it and know just how you like your steak cooked or your greens drizzled, and all the while the restaurant is so cozy and unpretentious and such a joy to be at for a few hours each week that you end up never really wanting to eat anyplace else, no matter what. I like to think that, for some lucky people at least, Diner is that restaurant.

    Anyway. Potatoes. Where was I?

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    Right! Potatoes. Delicious.

    What the chef does is make a panful of caramelized onions with thyme, and then he deglazes the pan with vinegar, lets it get all syrupy and wonderful. The onions turn silky-sweet, herbal and pungent. You could practically eat them with a fork right out of the pan. But you don't. You exercise patience and fortitude while, in a different pan, you fry up a bunch of parboiled potatoes until they're brown and crispy and hot hot hot. Then you mix the vinegary, silky-sweet onions with the crispy, hot potatoes and sit down very, very quickly to eat them.

    You might think, but what about the rest of lunch? Aren't there any vegetables or at least a sausage to eat with this pile of potatoes and onions? And you know, you have a point. You could certainly stand to add something to your plate. But if you are still as speechless as I was last Saturday, still reeling from one of the most exciting things to ever happen to you, just know that you won't actually need anything else to eat. That the potatoes will be the first thing that passes your lips all week good enough to wake you up out of your reverie and, while you chew happily and fork up more, to help you realize that no, never fear, it all really happened, it wasn't just a dream.

    Pommes de Terre Boulangère
    Serves 4
    Note: I am not usually such an onion-lover. These onions, however, were a revelation. So much so that I actually wished I had made more. The next time I make this, I'm going to double or triple the batch of onions, and I think you should, too. If you have leftovers, pile them on a cheese sandwich, mix them into boiled spaghetti or just eat them with at the stove.

    2 pounds (about 7 medium) firm, waxy potatoes
    6 to 8 cups beef or chicken broth, or as needed
    Salt and freshly ground black pepper
    1 large red or white onion, thinly sliced
    3 tablespoons olive oil, or as needed
    6 sprigs fresh thyme
    1 tablespoon sherry vinegar

    1. Place potatoes in a saucepan and add broth to cover by about 1 inch. Season with 1/2 teaspoon salt and a pinch of pepper, or to taste. Bring to a boil and simmer until just tender but not falling apart, about 20 minutes. Remove potatoes from broth (reserve broth for another use) and allow to cool to room temperature.

    2. Meanwhile, in a medium skillet, combine onion with 1 tablespoon fat. Place over medium-low heat and sauté until translucent, about 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste, and add 4 thyme sprigs. Reduce heat to low, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until onion is soft and caramelized, about 10 more minutes. Add vinegar, cook 1 minute more. Remove from heat, and discard thyme sprigs.

    3. Slice cooled potatoes into rounds 1/3 inch thick. Place a large cast-iron skillet over high heat, and add 2 tablespoons fat (or as needed to provide a thick coating on bottom of pan). When fat is extremely hot, add potatoes and allow to sit without stirring or shaking until seared and crispy.

    4. Turn potatoes and sear and crisp other sides. When well-browned, add caramelized onions, salt and pepper to taste, and stir to mix. Chop remaining 2 sprigs thyme (or if stems are woody, use leaves only), sprinkle over potatoes and serve.

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