In the Cupboard

Face it, if you like Cesar Salads in most restaurants, you also probably like canned fruit, white bread, etc. Cesar salad unites the two worst things in the American diet: romaine lettuce (even iceberg has its teen male-fantasy sexyness; think Brigitte Nielsen in Rocky IV), and the inescapable adjective, “creamy.” Take blandest of industrially grown lettuces and put creaminess on top, perhaps in some festive form involving whole spears of the lettuce leaves, or if you really shirk every encounter with flavor, just the hearts of the romaine, et voilà.

The beauty of the common Cesar Salad (Caesarius banalus) is that it give us everything we crave: saltiness (from the parmesian or pecorino cheese), crunchiness from the lettuce, and of course, creaminess, which reminds us of those cherished days when mom and dad would go out on a much needed date and leave us at home with a perky young babysitter and a warm oven full of defrosted chicken pot pies. Like so much in our diet, the Cesar Salad is kids food gussied up for show at the adult diningroom table.

All aforementioned legal formalities dispensed with, it goes without saying that Caesar is the king of salads, conquering nations and enslaving its people. The Caesar: assertive garlic, citrus, and pepper on tumescent greens glistening under a dewey veil the color of cornsilk. I am here to praise the Caesar Salad not to bury it.

My Caesar Salad is–not to put too fine a point on it–the best available, anywhere, ever, provided you are not in the mood for rice crispy treat gooey mac and cheese nostalgia. Obviously if you have a last name with more syllables than your lungs have wind to power, like Vongerichten or if you have at your disposal a stable of the world’s most passionate sous chefs and “a privately owned auberge situated in the French Huguenot valley of Franschhoek” and chicken eggs raised on grubs fed from the chef’s virgin daughter’s own lips, maybe, just maybe you can compete with my Cesar Salad in the eyes of wax-twisted moustachiod restaurant critics–but your sous chefs will still be sitting at my peasant’s table. Fighting words.

To make the best Cesar Salad, one delicate enough to precede almost any meal yet hearty enough to suffice as meal in itself:

1. Cut three or four slices of Como or other firm crusty European-style white bread into cubes and set on cookie sheet
2. Set cookie sheet with bread cubes in oven at 350 degrees
3. Squeeze 2 small-ish or 1 1/2 medium-ish lemons into a quart mason jar
4. Crack 1 free-yard, bug fed chicken’s egg into the jar
5. Press 2 or 3 cloves garlic into jar (the only excuse for owning a garlic press is Cesar Dressing)
6. Mince three or four Scalia anchovy filets and add to jar (Scalia are the best Cesar Salad dressing anchovies I have ever enountered–nutty, buttery, delicately perfume, bringing richness and balance where no (or few) other jarred, salted, or fresh-marinated anchovies can compare).
7. Arrange remaining anchovies on a plate from which guests may serve themselves
8. Pour olive oil remaining in anchoy jar into the mason jar
9. Crack 2 or 3 teaspoons good black pepper (like Parameswaran’s pepper) into the jar
10. Add 1 teaspoon good red wine vinegar (a TOP SECRET secret that I can’t believe I am sharing with the likes of Vongerichten and Ripert and Waters). I am crazy about Toro Albala, which may or may not be available in the future
11. The jar is now filled about 3/4 of an inch to 1 inch of liquid, mostly acid parts of the dressing. It is time for the oil. Here comes another TOP SECRET tip that assures a salad that is both light and full flavored:
12. Add 1 part grape seed oil and 1 part very good but not absurdly expensive olive oil (I use Almazara Luis Herrera Aceite de Lagrima Olive Oil, which has great fruit and vegetable and floral notes). The two parts combined should just-less-than-double the amount of liquid in the jar, so you should now have something like 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 inches of liquid in the jar, total. Keeping the amount of oil lower than the amount of acid brings the balance we are looking for, and cutting the amount of olive oil in half creates a beautiful lightness to the body/mouthfeel of the dressing
13. Tighten top onto the jar and shake like mad for 15 seconds to blend and emulsify
14. Turn bread crumbs on cookie sheet to brown more evenly
15. Wash and dry 1 head of very good romain lettuce, preferably from your garden or a local Farmer’s Market
16. Break letuce into a large salad bowl in pieces small enough to to toss but big enough to be a hassle (cutting down on the pretension level of the salad while still leaving you with a substantial piece of green to cut and fork and crunch and occasionally make a mess with while you eat)
17. Grate 1/2 cup good Parmigiano Reggiano cheese and set aside. Parmigiano Reggiano is ideal because it is less salty, more nutty, and more delicate than cheap parmisan cheese or most commonly available pecorino cheeses
18. Remove bread cubes from oven and let cool, observing that they are now a toasty golden color, and formidably hard and brittle
19. Shake dressing again for a few seconds, and then spoon from the bottom (to help get some of the bits of garlic and anchovy) onto the salad and toss until all leaves are nicely coated
20. Add bread cubes to fill around 3/4 of the mason jar containing the remaining dressing, and turn jar back and forth a few times to soak the cubes in the dressing
21. Sprinkle half the grated parmisan cheese on the leaves and toss to distribute evenly
22. Turn mason jar to re-coat bread cubes.
23. When the cubes have soaked up all the dressing, pour them over the greens and toss
24. Serve the salad onto large plates, and sprinkle lightly with some of the remaining parmesan
25. Advise guests not to shy away serving themselves additional anchovies

The amount of garlic and pepper can be adjusted to taste, but I advise even the most ardent anchovy avoiders to use the full amount of anchovies, especially if they are good ones, as they are responsible for they are largely responsible for the majesty of the Caesar Salad.

Serve with dry white wine or classic provencal rosé wine.

markbitterman :: Aug.31.2008 :: Eat :: 3 Comments »

Jen and I have been restaurant hopping for a few days straight, dropping into a few of our favorite spots in Portland and trying some new ones. Then voila, a spinach salad stopped us in our tracks.

On the way home we had dropped by Autentica, a restaurant serving up traditional Mexican food inspired by the cuisine of Guerrero Mexico, where owner and Executive Chef Oswaldo Bibiano grew up.

Sitting at the counter of the open kitchen, we ordered two of their nicer tequilas of the silver persuasion, a delicate and light I forget what and a warm, smooth, fruity I forget what (sorry). Chef Bibiano recommended we try fish, the filete de pescado con oro verde ($19), which today was lingcod served over a fresh avocado sauce and a jicama salad. “Fresh and spicy and clean – great the hot day today.

It was getting to be dusk, the sky was scudding a few faint clouds outside the windows, and we were probably a little hopped up from a chili pepper infused tequila Margarita at our previous stop, Toro Bravo.

We ordered the bisteck de bola con chile mole ($20), which is a grilled cascade sirloin steak served over a traditional dried chile sauce with a side of sautéed fresh cactus. I guess because we were supposed to be “hopping” restaurants and not actually eating at them, we also kept it light by ordering the espinaca con limon ($8): “spinach tossed with spicy lime juice, red onions, cilantro and avocado.”

The food arrived: salad a tall haystack of spinach ribbons laced with a startling, citrusy dressing and crunchy-sweet macerated onions. We were, totally blown away. Dag nabbit if this was not the best spinach salad I have ever had in my life. The steak was done perfectly, tender, lounging atop and in a powerfully spicy and full flavored sauce. Three nice salsas and a basket of tortillas hot off the hands of the tortillarista (my tortilla barista) working at the far end of the kitchen.

So, halfway through the little snack we were supposed to be having before bopping off home, we ordered the fish (and another tequila and a Pacifico to keep us afloat). The fish arrived, piping hot and flakey and not-flakey-because-it-was-also-tender-and-chunky atop cool sauce with crisp vegetables atop it. Atop is a nice word.

The fish was beautiful, super subtle but also super flavorful: angelfire and friskiness to the steak’s demonic flood of brooding. When I was a kid I lived in Mexico, ate catfish gifted to me by the lake fishermen, bought steamed corn with lime and chili powder from the passing senoras, played with sparklers in the houses of neighbors, shutters drawn to make sparkly night in the daytime. How you take onions and spinach and lime and turn that into the fragments another time I cannot say. But it was a good spinach salad.

markbitterman :: Aug.07.2008 :: Recently Visited :: No Comments »

The discovery of a new food or drink strikes something deep in the brain’s most primitive regions. A salamander emerging from the primordial ooze feels the same vital vibrations upon eating a new, especially plump insect as does the gourmand when first eating foie gras d’oie. There is a resonance in the true flavor discovery that re-connects us to our food, awakens us to our world, and expands the language of our spirit.
In this first posting to In the Cupboard — which will focus on the over-looked, under appreciated, and misunderstood sundries and techniques of the kitchen — I would like to talk about the Sbagliato, which I only just discovered, on a recent trip to Italy.

When Columbus discovered America he was said to preen and prance about in a very annoying, prissy, practiced way that only tights-clad and ruffled Italian discoverers seem to be able to preen and prance: Look at me everybody, I discovered an entire new world! I’ll even call it The New World! It’s mine. I discovered it.
Never mind that millions of people already lived there, that civilizations had risen and fallen and risen again successively at least since the Olmecs carved their first squat stone heads some two millennia earlier. Never mind chocolate (which gave Europe a new outlook on everything from social intercourse to sexual intercourse), corn (which saved the Italians from culinary turpitude and possible starvation) to Turkey (which gave the French century of gloating over the fabled truffled). Well, the discovery of the discovery of the Sbagliato is mine. Ho scoperto. E ‘il mio.

Without further ado: the Sbagliato Saga

Chapter I : Negronilithic Era

Here is the world’s first and only in-depth, category-killing, ultimate Sbagliato recipe. Sit on my knee, and listen, young apprentice. There is some ink to spill and some drinks to pour before we arrive at our final destination.

Sbagliato: bubbly, ruby red, herbaceous and bitter, beading condensation down the ice-cold sides of a rocks glass — one more reason to lament the brevity of the Oregon summer. The challenge here, on a rather hot, definitely languid Monday afternoon, will to abstain from drinking one or two before finishing this post.

The Sbagliato cocktail (it took me a few minutes of brainstorming my spelling options after returning from Tuscany, so I’ll document for posterity sake that it is definitely not spelled spaghettliotto (which is what occasionally slipped out when ordering it), not sbagliatto cocktail, not spagliotto (which I usually said when ordering it), not sbalgioto, not s’baglliottto, and not subactillio.  It is also not a spagliato cocktail, or spagliatto, spaglioto or spagliotto). Once you get over the hump of spelling Sbagliato, it’s all down hill.

FYI, the Americans call it a Negroni Sbagliato, which seemed lost on the Italians who have been mistaking it for decades. A Negroni Sbagliato cocktail recipe seems a bit obtuse. Would you like a fish filet of sole for dinner? I guess Americans like certainty in their food; honestly, “buffalo chicken wings?” Why do people say that? I honestly doubt it is likely to get some Griffin-like hairy flapping buffalo dish for dinner if you just say “buffalo wings.”

The Sbagliato cocktail begins with the Negroni cocktail, and is one of the very few, if not the only, example in history of a knock-off cocktail that rivals the original. Imagine, if you will, that the original episodes of Star Wars never indulged in Muppets or dwarfs in panda suits. The Sbagliato cocktail is the Empire Strikes Back, sans muppets, of the Negroni. Negroni sbagliato… Besides, it’s fun to watch Italians’ faces as they try to parse the juxtaposition of lousy Italian accent and suave, discerning drink order: “un sbagliato per favore,” you bumble, with no further elaboration.

To skip straight from following a standard Sbagliato recipe to making the best dang Sbagliato imaginable, it is necessary to first master the Negroni cocktail.

The classic Negroni consists of:
1 part gin
1 part sweet vermouth
1 part Campari
Combine all three ingredients in an Old Fashioned (rocks) glass over ice and garnish with a slice of orange.
The Negroni invented Florence in 1919 by the no-nonsense Count Camillo Negroni, who found himself in need of something stiffer than an Americano (made with Campari, Sweet Vermouth, and seltzer), and asked for gin with his Americano. One can only wonder why he wasn’t made a Marquis.

So, how do we improve on the Count’s excellent work?

The ultimate Negroni cocktail derives its superiority from three improvements:
1. improving the quality of the ingredients
2. tuning the amount of gin
3. serving it chilled and up

Ingredients:
Gin: Use gin that is good, but not great. Use a good sturdy gin like Tanqueray or Beefeater or Bombay (not Sapphire — too strong). You don’t want the Karmic debt of mucking up great gin with a bunch of highly flavorful additives. Don’t raid your mom’s secret stash of Hendrick’s or Plymouth or Baffert’s or Magellan or Citadelle or Quintessential or G’Vine. You get no extra points for gin erudition, snobbiness, etc. Remember, we are going for a drink that a Count would drink, and as we all know, Counts are born cool and debonair without even trying.

Vermouth: Use good Sweet Vermouth. Here, sky is the limit. Sweet Vermouth is indispensable to every drinker, from the dilettante who prefers it straight, over ice, on a porch swing, to the serious drinker, who prefers it with bourbon and bitters, chilled an served up in a martini glass on a porch swing. We go through a 750ml bottle Sweet Vermouth (Vermouth Rosso) every month or so, but when we finally get around to putting up a porch swing we hope to improve on that quantity substantially. My favorite Sweet Vermouth these days is Andy Quady’s creation,Vya Sweet Vermouth. Andy is not only not Italian, he is not even a Count. But his Vermouth kicks. We sell it at The Meadow, where it serves as fodder for many a tirade on mixology. Carpano Antica Vermouth Rosso is another great option. Do not use Carpano’s Punt e Mes, as it will steamroller the Campari, the gin, and the surrounding countryside.

Campari: That’s it–Campari. I’ve dug around a bit in Italy, and if there is a better, more boutique type production of a Campari-style bitters I have yet to find it.

Tuning: Adding more gin gives the Vermouth and Campari room to move around in, revealing greater depth to their intense herbacious, citrus, spice notes. Like an experienced lover, the additional gin inspires our cocktail to impart its secrets with passion bridled by solicitousness.

Serving: Following Count Negroni’s lead, we whittle down even more the amount of dilutant in the drink, serving it up. The ultimate Negroni experiences only a brief tryst with water, during its gentle chilling. Diaphanous contrails of icewater swirl through the cocktail, imparting the silky mouthfeel of that godlike cocktail, the gin martini. This essential variation on the classic Negroni cocktail boasts the added advantage of a built in requirement that you drink it rapidly, and by extension, repeatedly.

The ultimate Negroni cocktail consists of:
2 to 3 parts good gin
1 part good sweet vermouth
1 part Campari
1 curlicue orange zest

Combine all three over ice cubes in a shaker. Stir gently. Do not shake, do not beat it to death, do not stir it like you’re trying to make whipped cream. Bartenders brutalize their gin, either because they think it looks showy, or because they are in a hurry, or maybe because they think exploding a perfectly good drink into shards of ice and bubbles makes them look especially virile. Stir gently, for about 10 seconds. Strain into a chilled martini glass. Twist with orange zest, so that some of that lovely volatile orange oil beads and glistens on the surface of the drink. Garnish with the pretty curlicue you have made with the orange zest.

Now, my quiet student, you are ready for the Sbagliato.

Chapter II: Enter the Sbagliato

Continue Reading »

markbitterman :: Aug.05.2008 :: Drink :: No Comments »