What a Cook Got!

It's a Christmas Miracle!
Dear reader, Santa came for me this year! My lovely sister Jen and friendly brother-in-law P.J. are avid readers of my blog (God bless them!) and live in the Boston area. When I waxed on about Formaggio Kitchen in Cambridge they went to check it out, and Hooray! sent me a fabulous selection of five French cheeses from the Western Loire Valley. They were divine; I had to use all my willpower to not polish them off before Christmas! And they arrived with smoked salt-- a few grains went a long way, and made each cheese really pop. The smoked salt was also superb on the roast beast I made for Christmas dinner (along with the fabulous spinach lasagna for the vegetarians!).
As usual, Brendan showed up early to work his magic with the green beans, and I pressed my dear friend LJ into service arranging the glorious cheese platter. That's some serious Christmas magic right there.

What a Cook Wants, 20

The Way To Cook
I spent a summer on Nantucket as a personal chef for a grumpy, demanding woman named Mrs. Bingham who had a marvelous house~ with an untouched tricked-out kitchen!~ tucked deep into the sand dunes with its own private beach. Our neighbor was the Kennedy compound (if only they'd dropped by!), and my housemates were two very spoiled but sweet Scottish terriers.
The only problem? I didn't really know how to cook. Sure, I'd worked as a short order cook at college, waitressed at a place where we made Caesar salad tableside (I still make the best, baby!), and I'd nearly perfected the microwave Egg McMuffin, but it turned out this lady was able to get tables at NY's most luscious restaurants and loved poached salmon and crème brûlée.

I had no idea what crème brûlée was.

I had never poached a salmon.

After we discussed the first menu I stood in the kitchen alone, my heart clanging against my ribs. I knew I was a good cook, knew I could channel my Pop-Pop's palette and read a recipe as well as anyone else, but I was beyond my skills. I was screwed. My throat began to tighten, but then I noticed the shelf. There were books on it, and one of them was Julia Child's The Way to Cook. That title held promise, and Julia delivered. She was precisely what I needed, and as the summer continued I grew more ambitious with homemade tarragon mayonnaise (there's a reason the French call it a sauce!) and an apple crisp that made Mrs. Bingham the toast of the dinner party circuit.
Her style was so accessible and friendly, she was fearless as she dismantled raw ducks and shucked oysters; she wasn't intimidated by the thought of poaching a huge 4 pound salmon fillet. I borrowed her courage.
I suppose I borrowed it again when I started this blog. My title is an homage, even though no one gets it. I realized I could help people find the joy and fearless pleasure in eating, just like Julia did for me with cooking.
Which is all a very long-winded way of saying this cookbook would make a great gift. For anyone.
$26 for this 512-page tome. It changed my life. How many books do that?

I Came, I Comme Ça, I Chowed Down

I recently attended the opening of Comme Ça, chef David Myers' newest venture. (see above and below)

Myers has beautiful eyes and a smoldering intensity (but perhaps more pertinent to this blog!) is a cuisine-forward, thrilling chef to behold. This is his second venture after Sona, a restaurant I love dearly. What I like about his cooking is that it gracefully dances that razor-thin line between
1. advanced, intellectual dishes and
2. food that is actually delicious and accessible.
Most chefs who fall into category 1. completely forget about 2. I love having my brain stimulated while I eat, but ultimately the pleasure that matters most is in the mouth.
But I digress, dear reader, back to Comme Ça!

The focus of all restaurant openings, oddly, isn't the food. Openings are basically an amped up catering experience (seriously, there was a catering truck out back, though to his credit it did belong to Myers), which is ok because the purpose is not to dazzle the palette but rather convince everyone there that This Is The Place To Be! Look at all the cool kids! So hopefully they'll tell their friends, and more cool kids will come (like these gals).

Standard-issue LA Hotties, exhibit A






Comme Ça's opening was quite successful to that effect: it was crammed with hipsters young and grey, well-cut suits and too-cool-for-school $60 t-shirts, a few dedicated foodies, other talented chefs, and a lot of folks eager for free drinks.
And the drinks were superb, oh my goodness. I'd never had scotch with anything other than soda (P.S. I hate scotch, the smell makes me want to hurl), but their fabulous 'Penicillin' with scotch, ginger, lemon and honey made a believer out of me. Sweet Lord, it cured all my ills. Likewise, the 'Rumble' with rum and bruised blackberries was its own modern art, gorgeous in the glass and jiggy on the tongue.
The restuarant will be an LA brasserie, something this city sorely lacks, though I can only assume (and hope!) Myers will put his own tasty twist on the classic French dishes. I was delighted by his Salad in a Spoon. Frisee (I like to think of them as thistles), lardon~though they seemed suspiciously like tiny cubes of pork belly, yum~ and a delicate hard-cooked egg, all in one perfectly assembled bite? Tory heaven.
There were also crusty, lusty breads from Boule, Michelle Myers' gift to the LA pastry (and chocolate!) scene:
But perhaps my favorite part was the 3 cheese stations: goat, cow, and bleu! Excellent cheese is always the right answer:
That tasty bit had butter, a nutty bleu who's name I forget (somebody had one too many Penicillins!), and was drizzled with honey. Decadence of the finest sort.

Let's see, final credits... all the photos here were taken by Victor Rodionoff and pilfered by yours truly from MetroMix (thanks guys!). And look, I even made it into one of them! Yes, I am famous now, very exciting.
>Slightly-more-eclectic LA Hotties, exhibit B

I'm the juicy one, second to right. I can't wait to eat there for real, they open their doors to all tomorrow. Bon Appétit fellow Angelenos!
Comme Ça
8479 Melrose Ave.
323.782.1104

No Love, But Soup

"Of soup and love, the first is best." -Spanish proverb

So it is Valentine's Day, and I have no Valentine. sigh However, I did have some excellent soup, so perhaps there's still hope. This weekend my Cooking Club met for grand French cuisine; I let go of my hostility towards the Frog who stood me up last fall and made a rustic soup I'd never eaten before, Aïgo Bouïdo. It's a roasted garlic soup thickened with toasted breadcrumbs and almonds that I ground into a paste before whisking into the chicken broth and white wine. Then I whisked in the pureed garlic and caramelized onion-shallot mixture. Yuuuum.
At first it seemed thin and I had a total meltdown (I try to bring my A-game to Cooking Club and also have impossible high standards for myself). At Susan and Wylie's place I reduced it a bit and also calmed down. In the end the flavor was great, though in retrospect I wish I'd done a better job of pureeing the toasted breadcrumbs/almond thickener. The soup was a little gritty, but otherwise tasty. I'd make it again.
I had it for lunch today, a beautiful bowl of soup.

Oh l'amour.

Not Well

Hello, dear reader.

This is an apology note to you. My plan was to write up a big Thanksgiving review on Sunday night, detailing how awesome my soup was, and how Ray's brined turkey was succulent and moist. Instead, I had the most horrible food poisoning from some French cheese-- yes God, I hear you, abstain from all things French (cheese, men) for a while. I think I threw up 7 times in 8 hours. So the thought of food is still a little eeeccccccchk for me right now.

Maybe tomorrow I'll have something clever and delicious to say. For now, it's all Gatorade and crackers. I need a nap. sigh.

Stood-Up Scampi

An astonishing thing happened today. I had a date (a cooking date, no less) with a handsome Frenchman and *he stood me up.* I kid you not. This has never happened before. I looked cute and had shaved my legs, for heaven's sake. I'm still sad and mad and thrown... but forgive me, dear reader. This is a food blog. I will not prattle on about feelings when there is cuisine to be discussed.
The plan was to go to the Hollywood Farmers Market, one of my favorite spots in L.A., then return to my place to cook. He was going to teach me how to pronounce the names of French recipes (hablo Espanol), and I would teach him how to make spinach risotto topped with an elegant shrimp scampi. Trés magnific, no? Cooking is sexy, French is sexy, and I have desperately wanted to know how to say bourguignonne for many years. Seriously.
I will spare you the depressing details, suffice to say I was a class act, he is fired and I should have listened more closely to my English grandfather's rabid denouncement of all things Frog as a child. Oh well. Maybe you were right, Grandad.
So as my icky day came to a close, I realized I still had a pound of thawed shrimp in my fridge waiting for some action. Raw shrimp (as with all creatures of the sea) should not sit in the fridge more than a day. The meat is too delicate. Far better to cook it the day you bought it and eat leftovers the next.
***A note on frozen shrimp: unless you have the good fortune to live in South Carolina or Louisiana, the shrimp you buy has been previously frozen. Most shrimp is flash-frozen on the boat or at the dock right after it's caught, then shipped halfway around the world. Even if it's "fresh" on ice at the fishmongers or grocery store, odds are good you're looking at thawed little suckers. I prefer to buy it raw and frozen, then thaw it myself under running cold water; that way I know exactly how long it's been sitting around (10 minutes, versus all day at the fish counter).
I couldn't bring myself to make the lovely risotto I'd planned, but instead walked to my corner grocery store and bought a lemon and some Italian parsley, and watched the sun set. Back at home I boiled some Italian spaghetti, then made my shrimp scampi. I sautéed garlic in some olive oil, then stirred in the thawed shrimp. When they were almost pink, I added some salt, lemon zest, the juice of half a lemon and some not-great Chardonnay (it was all I had). Stir stir stir. Let it reduce a little. Then I poured the pasta into the pan, along with the chopped parsley and a knob of fantastic Irish butter. Used tongs to mix it all up, and voila: Stood-Up Scampi fit for a queen. I put Michael Penn's newest CD on the stereo, lit a candle, and poured myself a glass of the suspect Chardonnay. I used the tongs to swirl the pasta into a pretty cone shape in the rimmed bowl (I learned that watching Lidia Bastianich, she's so cool), and invited the Goddess to join me for dinner.
And you know, it was delicious. The shrimp was tender, the pasta firm, and the bright lemon flavor was balanced by the mellow garlic. Fortunately the conversation was witty and engaging, the candlelight gave everything a soft glow, and the cook! Well, let's just say anyone would be lucky to share a meal with this lady.

Stood-Up Scampi
serves 3-4, or 1 with great leftovers

1/2 pound good spaghetti
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 big cloves garlic, thinly sliced
1 pound shrimp, thawed, rinsed, shelled except for tails
zest and juice of 1/2 lemon (add more if it makes you happy)
2/3 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley, plus some for sprinkling
2 tablespoons butter (the best you've got)

In large pot of salted water, boil spaghetti until tender but still firm to the bite. Drain.
Meanwhile, in large nonstick skillet sauté garlic in olive oil over medium-high heat until golden and fragrant, about 1 minute. Add shrimp, sprinkle with salt and sauté until nearly pink, about 3 minutes. Add lemon zest, juice, and wine; simmer until slightly reduced, about 2 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Pour in pasta, chopped fresh parsley, and butter. Using tongs, mix until butter is melted and pasta is incorporated into sauce. Serve warm in rimmed soup bowls, sprinkled with additional parsley.

Cheese Fight

Let me preface this by saying I rarely get into fights. I'm a lover all about finding peaceful solutions, personally and globally. However, this doesn't mean I stay silent in the face of evil.
Today I went with two friends for lunch in the Hollywood & Highland tourist trap. (Time was short and it was walkable.) We decided to eat at a little spot called the Green Earth Cafe. Makes you think avocado, sprouts and 9-grain bread, right? I enjoy a well-made hippie sandwich, but it turned out this was just a standard sandwich joint run by what appeared to be a family who had recently arrived in the States. Which is also ok.
I ordered the ham & swiss sandwich on a long roll ($5.89 with tax, no pickle), and watched as the lady behind the counter began. She sliced the roll in half and laid down some curly lettuce and bright red tomato slices. Excellent. She carefully layered the ham on top, and then took two solid white squares of cheese and laid them over. They looked like Kraft singles in need of a tan.
"Excuse me," I said in my polite little girl voice, "I asked for Swiss cheese please." The lady looked confused and said, "This is Swiss cheese." She had a strong accent and I thought, she must not know.
"No," I replied, "it isn't. Swiss cheese has holes in it. That looks like American cheese. I don't like American. I'd really like Swiss please."
"This is Swiss cheese," she said again. "May I try it?" I asked. She handed me one of the white squares. It was horrible, gritty with no dairy flavor (let alone a discernable Swiss or American vibe), the kind of cheese that were I alone, I would spit out and look at with disgust. This is the fake food killing the American palate.
However there was a small crowd of customers watching now, and the Mom-lady running the register had wide eyes. The teenage guy (I presumed the son) behind the counter disappeared into the back. My friends looked concerned. I handed the rest of the evil imposter slice back to the sandwich-maker and said, "Look, I'll take cheddar, or whatever else you've got. I just can't eat that cheese."
"We only have Swiss cheese," the lady replied. Then the son reappeared, two bright pink spots on his cheeks and a log of food service cheese held high. "See," he said loudly, brandishing the log before the crowd, "it says 'Swiss.'" I had insulted the family's honor. My face flushed, but I couldn't help myself, "Well, it doesn't look or taste like it." $5.89 is too much to pay for fake Swiss without a fight. I took my sandwich and walked away with my shoulders square.
A few minutes later my friends joined me at the table. "What was that about?" the lithe Frenchman asked as he bit into his sandwich. I used to go to this guy's parties solely for the cheese plate, and I wondered what he would think. He stopped mid-chew and stared into his food.
"This cheese is an outrage."
I love the French. So what is my peaceful solution? It occured to me the owners may never have tried real Swiss cheese. Next weekend I shall return to the dreadful Green Earth Cafe with delicious slices of actual cheese, and I will share them. To hope for better quality might be too ambitious (there's great profit to be had in fake food, sigh) but perhaps they'll understand when the next grumpy eater starts a cheese fight.