Alabama-born LeNell Smothers defines herself first and foremost as a bartender, but she's been called many things, most recently the owner of LeNell's liquor store. She's owned her own whiskey label called Red Hook Rye and been recognized by her home state as an honorary Colonel. Other interests include gin, sin and men.
I've been in the mood for tequila of late. Perhaps it's Cinco de Mayo still lingering in the air -- or more likely that week-long vacation in Baja -- but I've got tequila on the brain and on my lips. I love the stuff in my fizzy drinks, and especially in my Dré Fizz Affair.
Ever heard of the Dreyfus Affair? It's a bit of French history involving the wrongful conviction of an officer. The whole ordeal inspired Emile Zola to write "J'Accuse!", a letter addressed to the French President printed on the front page of the newspaper L'Aurore that caused a stir worldwide. And I've got a friend named Dré whom the ladies love almost as much as Dré loves tequila. He is a Numero Uno Tequila Fanatic.
Thus, after the jump, the Dré Fizz Affair, aka Dreyfus, aka what you'll be drinking all summer. You're welcome.
Oh, rhubarb. While a stalk of asparagus or bunch of ramps may inspire foodies to rhapsodize about the promise and bounty of spring, it's rhubarb that so neatly captures the caprice and delicacy of the new season. Treat the green and fuchsia stalks right and they'll reward you with bright, sweet-tart benevolence. Do them wrong and risk the slings and arrows of sour mush. The line between edible and execrable is a precarious and fine one, and should be approached with caution.
Ancient yet modern at once, Greek cuisine radiates with sunshine and bright, fresh flavors. Succulent lamb enlivened with rosemary and garlic, a classic dish, is as redolent of Greece as it is of springtime. And as is true of anywhere with a shoreline, seafood is center stage. Always present are plates of local feta, stark-white and salty, and olives whose depth of flavor will keep you from ever opening canned olives again. For dessert, honey forms a sinful pact with walnuts and cinnamon, or yogurt made in-house just that morning cozies up to macerated cherries.
A Greek dinner is lovely to prepare and a joy to eat. Many of the ingredients are staples you probably have in your kitchen, such as lemons, herbs, eggs and olive oil. Here are some ingredients you might want to try.
The Basics: Olives and Feta. Olive oil is central to Greek cooking. The essential Greek olive is kalamata. They should be deep black and packed in an olive oil and vinegar brine; a taste should reveal a distinctive, fruity flavor and a firm bite without mealiness. Here's a great recipe for using these beauties. There are other Greek cheeses beyond feta, but this standard should be available in every cheese case. The cheese should be pure white with a gently pocked surface, lounging in a clean bath of salt-water brine (never buy dry feta).
I'm on my way home with an overstuffed grocery bag in my lap. A smell that's a cross between fresh chives and garlic is filling the cab and I'm hoping the driver won't kick me out before we reach my front door.
The odor is coming from a large bunch of fresh ramps, also known as spring onions or wild leek. They're a wild-growing member of the onion family, foraged from woods across the U.S. and Canada, and they're in season right now.
The annual events at which they're celebrated are often called "Stinkfest" for good reason. These little guys might not be ideal for a romantic dinner menu for two, but they sure do pack plenty of flavor into this fresh pasta dish that I just created, and they go beautifully with other seasonal Spring veggies like asparagus and peas as well as thinly sliced prosciutto and fresh fettuccine.
Spring vegetables are tender, bright green and full of vitamins C and K and essential minerals like folate and maganese that do everything from combating cancer and protecting your heart to fighting wrinkles. Liven up your dinner table with up some spring freshness of your own in less than 15 minutes – it's so simple.
Do not come between a Southern gent and his bourbon.
We learned this lesson at a recent NYC party when we observed a Mississippi native seize a bottle of Knob Creek, shake its last drops angrily into a cup and grab a bottle of pricey, small-batch Woodford Reserve only to be outraged to find this also nearly gone. "I knew I should have hidden the good stuff from these people!" he shouted, shaking his fist at the guests he'd invited to his home.
The cause of this maniacal outburst from a mild-mannered gent? Bourbon, and the thought of mixing it with store-bought gingerale. A wide-eyed belle from Jersey had ordered up a whiskey-and-ginger. Since only his finest was left, he delivered the bourbon abomination with a sigh, grumbling about "corn syrup on beautiful whiskey" in a thick accent en route.
Making a whiskey-n-ginger with the best bourbon in the house is where we -- who have certainly enjoyed a Jameson 'n ginger or (hic!) three -- would draw the line. But what does Chris Morris, master distiller at Woodford Reserve (the official whiskey of Derby Day) think?
Slashfood: "A party guest wants to combine supermarket gingerale with your excellent bourbon. Do you flip out?
Morris: "To be quite honest, I think whisky and gingerale is a great drink. Woodford Reserve has hints of ginger and a nice little citrus note and goes well with gingerale, a classic highball. Our response to anybody who thinks it's an insult is the question, 'Well, do you enjoy it?' If the answer is 'yes,' it's perfectly all right. We want make a great first impression, so if that person is a gingerale highball drinker, what better way than with Woodford Reserve in place of your regular bourbon?"
Tear-jerking, hot, spicy, smoky, sweet and sour and even herbaceous can all be descriptors of chilies and the distinctive aromas and flavors that they can impart to food. But if we're just talking heat, the Bhut Naga Jolokia, hailing from Northeastern India and also cultivated in Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, is reputed to be the world's hottest chili -- and I've eaten it. In large amounts it's dangerously hot, but out of all the dried chilies I've cooked with, the Naga Jolokia is a staple in my spice drawer because it has a unique tang that's much more than just heat. There are hundreds of chilies to choose from, but I have my favorites, both dried and fresh.
Dried Ground Allepo Chile
Sun dried Allepo chiles come from Syria and have a rich, lightly smoky yet fruity flavor. They can be found in gourmet spice shops; I bought mine at Kalustyan's in New York City. Allepo can be added to any traditional beef stew recipe, but it pairs especially nicely with tomato-based soups, stews and chili. I just add a tablespoon to my beef cubes before coating them in flour and browning them in oil, or I sprinkle it over the ground meat before browning chili meat.
Fresh Serrano and Finger Chilies
Serrano chilies are grown in Mexico and California and can be found fresh in gourmet grocery stores. Use it much as you would a jalapeno; I like it in my guacamole. They're also great in marinades mixed with fresh cilantro, garlic, and olive oil.
Dried Arbol Chilies
Dried arbol chilies, primarily grown in Mexico and a cousin to the cayenne chile, can be found in Latin groceries stores. I love arbol with sweet oranges. The simple combination with a little olive oil can make for a killer sauce for sautéed shrimp. But this morning, I had a craving for a mall-style Orange Julius. I wanted to make a sweet drink for myself, but with less sugar, more nutrition, and a little extra kick. This one tasted like the real deal, but packed extra spice from arbol.
After the jump, get Jennifer's recipe for a Chile Spiked Orange Smoothie.
Before I moved to New York, I generally thought that the proper cheese for most Latin American foods was Monterey Jack. While my local Mexican restaurant occasionally sprinkled a feta-like concoction on top of my beans, I assumed that it was some sort of seasoning, more or less used in the same way that a sprinkle of parmesan, romano or peccorino is the traditional accent for Italian food.
I quickly realized that things are a bit different in Latin American communities. Outside Super Mundo, my local department store, the "Sabor de Mexico" taco truck is more or less permanently parked. While not as good as the "Miraveles de Mexico" restaurant a few blocks up, the taco truck serves some of the best burritos, tacos and flautas I've ever had. As I became a regular customer, I noticed that every dish had a nice smattering of crumbled cheese on top.
It looks like basil and smells like lemon, but this emerald green herb is actually a member of the buckwheat family. Native to Southeast Asia, Vietnamese coriander is used much like cilantro, its close cousin, flavor-wise. In Vietnam, it's used fresh in salads and summer rolls or cooked in soups and stews. In Singapore, it's is known as laksa leaf and is one of the main flavorings in a pungent curry noodle soup called laksa. You can find Vietnamese coriander in many Asian markets in the United States. Use it in stir fries, or try tearings bits of it into hot chicken soup with lime and chili for a pho-like flavor.
Flying back to the States from Singapore last month, my mind kept flitting back to my suitcase, rattling around in the cold darkness of the baggage compartment. Because in that suitcase, wrapped up in several layers of t-shirts, was a treasure - three glass jars of kaya.
Kaya, a rich coconut jam made from eggs, coconut milk and sugar, is wildly popular in Singapore and Malaysia, where it's eaten on toast with butter (the ubiquitious "kaya toast") for breakfast, stuffed into donuts, and spread between the layers of angel food cakes. My favorite type of kaya is tinged green with pandan, though there are golden non-pandan versions as well. Texture varies dependent on brand, but most kaya has a creamy yet slightly grainy mouthfeel similar to apple butter.
I've been eating kaya spooned over Greek yogurt with sliced bananas for breakfast. It's also good stirred into oatmeal or paired with peanut butter for PB&K sandwiches.
Frustratingly, I can't find new supplies of kaya in my area, despite poring over the shelves of a dozen different Asian markets. I'll be sure to look for it next time I'm in New York. Have any of you seen kaya in your neck of the woods?
While I wouldn't describe myself as a complete sardine junkie, I have to admit that I have a definite appreciation of canned fish. My favorite is probably salmon; when I was a kid, we'd fight over the chalky bones, and I still get a smile out of crunching down on them.
Still, sardines are a lot of fun. While the bad ones tend to taste like cat food, the good ones offer a rich, subtle flavor that is delightful. In some cases, I've even had sardines that I would describe as transcendent, with a mild taste and a silky mouthfeel. Even in the worst of circumstances, sardines are cool to look at, and are a cheap meal.
Even if I'm not a sardine fanatic, I have a very warm space in my heart for mildly obsessive-compulsive behavior; for this reason, the Society for the Appreciation of Sardines blog definitely gives me a smile. With sardine reviews, recipes, and lore, it contains everything that a fan of the oily canned fish could possibly want.
While on weekend food safari (scored: manchego, kraeme kase, smoked mozzarella, soppresata, genoa salami and muffaletta for Oscars antipasti), I was reminded that there is nothing like a Manhattan supermarket. If you only experience the city through media, you might never think that urban superpeople on the move need to buy groceries, so somehow it's touching to be among us when we do. For those who've never had the pleasure: picture a supermarket where there's barely room to maneuver yourself, let alone a cart, and then picture that space full of lifers piloting push-carts filled with whatever can be stored in tiny kitchenettes.
Another secret of urban foraging is the Roland Corporation, a New York City-based food importer whose offerings grace my cupboards in every format from tinned anchovies for Caesar salad to fragrant pumpkinseed oil for the accompanying pasta. Someone at Roland knows me and my kind: we orthodox mustardphiliacs cannot enter a space where condiments are vended without investigating what treats the mustard aisle is offering. And that's how, in a Chelsea Gristedes, I discovered Roland Tarragon Mustard.
Admittedly, it's not as if the delicious fruit of a smoked pig's belly was ever all that obscure; stlll, over the past few weeks, it has been gaining a fresh, and sometimes repulsive cultural relevance. A little over a month ago, Marisa McClellan covered The Bacon Explosion, a spicy, smoked, barbecue-basted brick of pure pork. Truth be told, the explosion is kind of like a bug zapper: terrifying and vaguely dangerous, yet attractive and deeply compelling. Worse yet, for those of us who don't have a meat smoker, the explosion's creators have put together an oven recipe.
As if this wasn't enough, over on RiffTrax Blog, Michael Nelson has announced his intention to eat nothing but bacon for an entire month. As he has struggled through February, a reader has produced a bacon effigy, dubbed FrankenBacon, to demonstrate the aftereffects of too much pork. For those of us who are sometimes haunted by the ghosts of our meat, FrankenBacon is actually a little scary.
Meanwhile, in my constant quest for the best boutique bonbons in New York City, I recently came across an article about Roni-Sue's Chocolates, a company in New York's Essex Street Market. Although Roni-Sue's carries a wide array of truffles and candies, I was immediately drawn to their pig candy. Basically crispy-fried bacon dipped in chocolate, this hearkens back to the sugar-crusted pig candy that my wife and I used to make.
Meanwhile, I'm getting that old carnival feeling--the same one I have when the halcyon call of the deep fryer draws me in with its promise of batter-fried Oreos and funnel cakes. Must...resist...the call...
Who am I kidding? I'll probably hit Roni-Sue's this weekend. On the bright side, maybe it will make it easier for me to resist the siren song of the Bacon Explosion!
No, I didn't shave a Viking's beard. That's pork floss. What? Yes, pork floss. Known as rousong in Mandarin, it's exactly what it sounds like – dried sweetened roast pork pulled to separate the fibers and spun until it has the texture of crispy cotton candy. And it's awesome. It's got the same flavor profile as teriyaki beef jerky - a little bit sweet, a little bit spicy, a lot salty and a lot meaty.
Pork floss buns - fluffy, sweetish rolls topped with pork floss and filled with mayonnaise cream - are a big thing in Singapore and Malaysia. Believe me, they're much nicer than they sound - the comforting flavors of meat and mayo, with an incredible blend of crunchy, soft and creamy textures. Chow Times has an article about the various uses of pork floss, from a topping for rice or congee to a grilled cheese sandwich filling. My personal favorite use is in a Vietnamese-style baguette sandwich, with pate (I substitute sliced turkey), lettuce, cilantro, vinaigrette and mayo.
You can find tubs or bags of pork floss at many Asian groceries. If you're really lucky, they'll have fish, chicken or shrimp floss as well.
It's a great word, Skordalia. Sounds like a flower that grows on Venus, or a rare breed of pygmy squid. What it is in fact is a Greek dip made from pureed potatoes and garlic. Not as exotic as a Venusian dandelion, but probably much tastier. The Recipes for Health column in the New York Times has a version using nothing more than potatoes, kosher salt, garlic, olive oil and lemon juice. The kind of thing you can whip up out of spare pantry ingredients and wildly impress your hungry friends. Skordalia is traditionally served with fried fish or cooked vegetables, but it's also excellent as a spread or a dip for raw veggies. Try it in a sandwich with roasted red peppers and spinach.
A staple of Malaysian and Indonesian cooking, candlenuts come from trees in the family Euphorbiaceae, also known as Candle Berry, Indian walnut, Kemiri, Varnish tree or Kuku'i nut tree. The nuts are greenish-brown and approximately golf ball-sized, with a very hard exterior and a high oil content.
In Malaysia, candlenuts are a major ingredient in a popular Indian-influenced curry dish called Chicken Kapitan, imparting a nutty flavor. In Indonesia, candlenuts are ground with chilis to make a spicy, pungent relish called sambal bajak; they're also sometimes rubbed on frying pans instead of oil. In Hawaii, roast candlenuts are ground into a paste with salt to make a condiment called inamona. If you can't find candlenuts, macadamias or Brazil nuts can be substituted.
We can change the way we make eggs -- scrambled, poached, fried -- but what about changing the eggs themselves? Mix up your scrambling routine with quail eggs.
It looks like basil and smells like lemon, but this emerald green herb is actually a member of the buckwheat family. Native to Southeast Asia, Vietnamese coriander is used much like cilantro, its close cousin, flavor-wise. In Vietnam, it's used fresh in salads and summer rolls or cooked in soups and stews. In Singapore, it's is known as laksa leaf and is one of the main flavorings in a pungent curry noodle soup called laksa. You can find Vietnamese coriander in many Asian markets in the United States. Use it in stir fries, or try tearings bits of it into hot chicken soup with lime and chili for a pho-like flavor.
While on weekend food safari (scored: manchego, kraeme kase, smoked mozzarella, soppresata, genoa salami and muffaletta for Oscars antipasti), I was reminded that there is nothing like a Manhattan supermarket. If you only experience the city through media, you might never think that urban superpeople on the move need to buy groceries, so somehow it's touching to be among us when we do. For those who've never had the pleasure: picture a supermarket where there's barely room to maneuver yourself, let alone a cart, and then picture that space full of lifers piloting push-carts filled with whatever can be stored in tiny kitchenettes. 
Second Helping of Slashfood - June 19
Competitive-Eating Contest to Pit Humans Against Elephants
The Backyard Boom - The Hungry Bride
