GRILLED YARDBIRD AND OTHER DELIGHTS

Eric, that most esteemed Tennessee Renaissance Man, knows his way around a grill. Those of us fortunate enough to have attended his legendary birthday parties know that when it comes to grilling tender, succulent chops, the Straight White Grillmeister is at the top of his game... and She Who Must Be Obeyed still raves about a sirloin steak he prepared for her several months ago.

But, until this week, Eric had never tried to grill a whole yardbird. It was left to old Uncle Elisson to show him how.

It may come as a revelation to some folks that chickens may be purchased all of a piece: a whole, fresh (not frozen) bird. Rather than hacking the beast into convenient edible component parts - breasts, thighs, drumsticks and such - the bird’s head is removed and jammed into the empty Entrail-Cavity along with the neck, gizzard, heart and liver (collectively known as the giblets), after which the whole mess is conveniently vacuum-packed in thick plastic film. Whether they call it a fryer, broiler, roaster, or whatever-the-fuck, it’s nought but a whole chicken.

Whole chickens are fine for roasting, or for converting into chicken soup... but it’s another matter entirely when you want to grill them. Their shape does not lend itself to easy grilling, being somewhat akin to a hollow football with wings and legs. But you can fix that.

First, you take the chicken out of its plastic wrappings. (Grilling the bird while it’s still encased in polyethylene does little to improve its flavor.) Reach into the cavity and yank out the giblets while you’re at it. I like to save ’em: the liver can be sautéed in a little olive oil or butter with a dab of sage, while the other bits and pieces can go into the stockpot.

Now it’s time to do some back-cracking. If you like living dangerously, you can use a meat cleaver, but I rely on my trusty Oxo Good Grips Professional Poultry Shears for this job. The heavy, curved blade cuts through bones with ease, and the whole thing disassembles easily for cleaning.

Lay the bird down with its ass-end facing you and with the backbone on top. Take those shears and cut toward the neck alongside the backbone. Now cut along the other side of the backbone to remove it. Save the backbone for the stockpot.

Now flatten the bird and turn it so its inside is on top. Cut in the center and remove the V-shaped keelbone. You can now flatten that sucker out like a book.

By way of a rub, I took a teaspoon of ground cumin and toasted it in a skillet. To this I added four chopped garlic cloves garlic, a teaspoon of crushed red pepper flakes, and a teaspoon of pimenton (Spanish smoked paprika). All of this went into a mortar along with the juice of one lime (I also like to use lemon, adding the zest as well) and a tablespoon or two of extra-virgin olive oil. After mashing everything together, I rubbed the chicken with the resulting Flavor-Paste and let it sit at room temperature for two hours prior to throwing it on the grill. (Refrigerate it if you’re going to prepare the bird more than two hours in advance.)


A spatchcocked yardbird, ready for the grill.

When it came to the actual grilling process, we got the grill’s temp up to 350°F and placed the chicken on a high grate, well away from the direct heat of the flame. Turning the bird every fifteen minutes or so, it took about an hour to finish it, with crisp, flavorful skin, dark meat cooked through... and yet with surprisingly moist white meat.

It was a perfect companion to the brace of sirloin steaks Eric had prepared... and for the grilled, sliced summer squash, and the roasted asparagus.

They say you can’t teach an old bird dawg new tricks, but I’ll be surprised if our Tennessee Renaissance Man doesn’t try one of these bad boys again real soon. He’s got the tools for the job.

MR. AND MRS. RITZY-PANTS

It being our thirty-third wedding anniversary this past Saturday, we decided to celebrate by spending the night at a Fancy-Ass Hostelry. For nothing helps you escape the drudgery of the day-to-day than a night away from home. And if your quotidian existence is pleasant, why, so much the better.

In preparation for our Mini-Honeymoon, I had, a week or so prior, booked us in at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Buckhead. We had stayed there a few times before - once in the 1980’s, once in the late ’90’s - for similar occasions and had had good experiences both times. And so, the Ritz it was.

Every once in a while, we are compelled to stay in an upscale hotel. Several months ago, the daughter of some good friends of long standing had scheduled a wedding at the Four Seasons Hotel in Atlanta. Rather than simply drive down, attend the wedding and reception, and then drive home, we had elected to stay at the hotel. Self indulgent? Of course... but that way we could drink ourselves silly without worrying about navigating anything more challenging than an elevator. And the Four Seasons, being one of the finer lodgings in town, was a delightful place for a getaway, albeit a short one.

The Ritz-Carlton, however, is another story entirely. For as nice as the Four Seasons is, the Ritz takes it up to another level entirely by adding a whole new dimension of Ass-Kissage.

There is an entire cadre of nattily attired hotel employees whose sole function is administering frequent and carefully aimed Buttock-Busses at every opportunity, the better to fill their guests with a completely unjustified sense of self-importance. You are assumed to be the completely helpless sort of royalty, incapable of the simplest task - such as opening a door.  Uniformed attendants are there to do it for you.

A personal greeting is ever on the lips of the Ritz Employee:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Elisson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Elisson. I trust you slept well?”

“Good evening, Mr. Elisson. Will you be needing any assistance in wiping your bottom?”

Upon arriving in our room, instead of the usual couple of chocolate bits on the pillows, there was a box of chocolates that looked more like futuristic science-fictional Choco-Pills. Too beautiful to eat, they were.


Chocolates? Miniature works of art? Or Future-Pills?

We did more than simply lounge around the hotel sucking up the obsequiousness, however. I had reserved a table at Rathbun’s, Kevin Rathbun’s eponymous eatery; Rathbun, a great big bear of a man with whom I feel an especial kinship owing to his willingness to wear a perforated metallic chapeau, is one of the local Cheffy Luminaries in Atlanta. Two years ago, he and his brother Kent defeated Iron Chef Bobby Flay in “Battle Elk” on Iron Chef America, a Useless Fact considering that I was planning to order lamb, not elk.

The meal was ridiculously good. An appetizer of raw ahi tuna cubes with razor-thin slices of Serrano peppers, a dusting of sea salt, and some blood orange slices was a perfect palate sharpener. She Who Must Be Obeyed ordered the smoked beef brisket in aged sherry vinegar BBQ (superb), while I opted for the Australian lamb chops. One of Rathbun’s whimsically-titled “Second Mortgage” plates, this was nothing less than three (count ’em) double-cut chops, seared to a perfect medium-rare, drizzled with aged balsamic vinegar and served atop a pile of wild mushrooms sautéed in a heavy cast-iron skillet. Outstanding, it was... especially washed down with lashings of a 2007 Ramspeck Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.

Instead of dessert, SWMBO was tempted by the eggplant steak fries: lightly beaded batons of aubergine, fried crisp and dusted with 10x confectioner’s sugar, then served alongside a white-hot, sinus-clearing habanero dipping sauce. Yummy.



After enjoying a few after-dinner coffees, we wound our way back to the Ritz for a series of polite door-openings, obsequious greetings, and a nightcap. And later, from our room, the Atlanta skyline glowed...
* * *The next morning, we lounged around and enjoyed a few hours of quiet Ritzian luxury prior to having the Mistress of Sarcasm join us for the celebrated Ritz-Carlton Sunday brunch.

The Ritz, it should be explained, lays on a spectacular all-you-care-to-eat foodfest every Sunday morning. It’s a monument to excess, a veritabobble Groaning Board of treats, meats, sweetmeats; breadstuffs, charcuterie, cheeses; prepared dishes, fishes, and pretty much anything else you might desire. It ain’t inexpensive... but then again, it’s something we allow ourselves only on rare occasions. Rare, indeed: The last time we had done a Ritz-Brunch was fully a quarter-century ago.

There is a strategy associated with the Sunday Brunch. People who go cruising in with slavering jaw, empty plate in hand and hungry look on face, will inevitably be disappointed at the end of the day, having filled themselves with English muffins, cantaloupe chunks, Belgian waffles, made-to-order omelettes, pancakes, lumps of sausage, and rashers of bacon.

Yes, they have pancakes. Yes, they have waffles. Yes, they have sausage and bacon.

Fuck that. I can get pancakes at Shoney’s. I can have the free breakfast at any randomly-selected Hampton Inn and get a perfectly good Belgian waffle in exchange for the minor inconvenience of making it myself. But when I am at the Ritz, I am going to save my appetite for the Ritzy Grub.

Caviar, f’r instance. Three kinds of fresh caviar, served with quarter-sized blini (Russian yeast-raised buckwheat pancakes), and the usual accoutrements: chopped egg, onion, sour cream, et alia. Without being too much of a slob about it, I make sure my personal supply of caviar never runs dry.

Smoked trout? Check. Smoked salmon? Check. Smoked mussels, shrimp, scallops? Check checkity check. Sushi? Gigantic boiled shrimp? Oh, yeah.

Macaroni and cheese? Normally, having mac and cheese at a buffet is a honkin’ waste of time. But this was lobster and truffle mac and cheese. Oooooh.

Prime rib? Maybe a dab. Grilled sea bass? Aw, why not? Country pâté, exotic salamis, rare cheeses? Somebody stop me!

Perhaps a martini glass full of gazpacho... with a golf ball-sized chunk of fresh lump crabmeat floating in it. Yowza.

By using my Focused Foraging™ method, zeroing in on expensive, tasty protein instead of cheap filler, I not only get my money’s worth at a Fancy-Ass Buffet - I have a satisfying, reasonably healthy meal. Plus, I get to watch as the Mistress plows through the gorgeous, intricate, jewel-like desserts.

The folks at the Ritz-Carlton were all too accommodating, allowing us a late checkout that gave us plenty of buffet attack time. And then, on the way out, they offered to take our picture... a souvenir of the visit, a Parting (Snap) Shot, if you will.


The Parting (Snap) Shot... Yours Truly with SWMBO and the Mistress of Sarcasm.

A weekend to remember? You bet it was.

A MESS O’ MUDBUGS

The fare we enjoy during our annual Alabama Golf Outings ranges, as such things tend to do, from the ridiculous to the sublime.

We’ve had tough, gristle-packed steaks at chain restaurants... and, sometimes at the same place on the same evening, others that were “like buttah.”

We’ve traveled to the nasty parts of town for barbecue... because that’s where the best barbecue places are supposed to be. But sometimes it turns out to be more miscue than barbecue.

This year we hit a place called the Golden Rule in Pell City, a wide spot in the road somewhere roughly midway between Opelika and Huntsville. Bartimus Magnificus, a native of Birmingham, gave it the thumbs-up - he had known the place back when it was a one-location operation in Irondale. And, for once, Bart picked a winner. It was no Goode Company, but then again, we weren’t in Texas... and the collard greens were superb.

The next night, instead of the usual eat-a-steak-at-the-faux-Australian-chain-restaurant routine, we got adventurous. Big Marty had done some Internet research and had found a joint called the Po Boy Factory. N’Awlins-style food in northeastern Alabama? We were skeptical, but figured what the hell.

Surprise! This place was the Real Thing, a little chunk of Louisiana in a completely unexpected place. And the food was terrific.


A mess o’ mudbugs, AKA crawfish.

In addition to the expected assortment of po boy and muffuletta sandwiches, the PBF offered piles of boiled shrimp and crawfish, excellent gumbo and jambalaya, and blackened mahi mahi for those who wished something a little less traif. For dessert? Bread pudding with whiskey sauce, along with an assortment of pies... for those who still had the Gut-Room to indulge.

The thing that made the Po Boy Factory stand out, even more than the food, was the friendly, down-home attitude of the staff. It’s a family operation, and it showed.


Big Marty, Bartimus Maximus, Marie Thigpen (owner of the Po Boy Factory), and Houston Steve.

Beat the crap out of that faux-Ozzie steak place, to say the least.

ARM AND LEGUME

A bean is a bean, but a pea is a relief.

      - Billie Bob z''l

Legumes, legumes
Enhance cardiac health
The more one consumes
The less one is able to pass flatus in stealth

      - Elisson
***
The Missus was inspired, the other day, to make a Four-Bean Salad. Having no recipe handy, she just made one up on the fly.



Black beans, little white beans, little red beans, garbanzos, all rinsed and drained... sliced red and yellow peppers... a few sliced sun-dried tomatoes... chopped basil, flat-leaf parsley, and shallot... a light dusting of garlic powder... a little extra virgin olive oil... a splash of red wine vinegar. Let it all sit for a few hours for the flavors to get comfortable with one another. That’s it: easy-peasy.

COBBLE, COBBLE

There’s an old saying: The cobbler’s children have no shoes. Whether that’s true or not, I cannot say - but one thing is certain. Eli’s children have cobbler.

I submit for your delectation a photograph of the blueberry cobbler prepared by The Other Elisson and served forth on our Daddy’s eighty-fifth birthday alongside gargantuan slabs of layer cake and chunks of melon.


The Other Elisson’s Blueberry Cobbler.

Sexy, huh?

I permitted myself a taste of the berries. They were packed with delicious fruit flavor, enhanced by the one-two punch of lemon and cinnamon. Unbelievable.

People who have been reading this site for several years know that I loves me some blueberries. It was four years ago this week that I was in New Brunswick, Canada - home of some of the finest blueberries in the world - so I know whereof I speak.

Until this bad boy showed up on the table, I had never known my brother was a Dessert Maven. Normally, the Other Elisson lives a fairly ascetic life, being very careful about what he eats. But apparently he’s not ashamed to cut loose now and again.

As for how he did it, I’m pretty sure this is close to the recipe he used. It will serve six to eight... or four really serious cobbler lovers:

The Other Elisson’s Blueberry Cobbler

Filling
½ cup granulated sugar (3½ oz)
1 tbsp cornstarch
Pinch ground cinnamon
Pinch table salt
6 cups fresh blueberries (~30 ounces), washed and picked over
1½ tsp grated lemon zest
1 tbsp lemon juice

Biscuit Topping
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour (5 oz)
2 tbsp stone-ground cornmeal
¼ cup granulated sugar, plus 2 tsp for sprinkling
2 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp table salt
4 tbsp unsalted butter (½ stick), melted
⅓ cup buttermilk
½ tsp vanilla extract
⅛ tsp ground cinnamon

Preparation

Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and preheat oven to 375°F.

To make the filling, stir the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon, and salt together in a large bowl. Add the blueberries and mix gently, using a rubber spatula, until evenly coated; add the lemon zest and juice and combine. Transfer the mixture to a 9-inch glass pie pan. Place the pie pan on a rimmed baking sheet and bake until the filling is hot and bubbling around edges, about 25 minutes.

While the filling is baking, get the biscuit topping ingredients ready but don’t mix the wet and dry ingredients together until just before the berry filling comes out of the oven. Whisk the flour, cornmeal, ¼ cup sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl to combine. In a separate, small bowl, whisk the melted butter, buttermilk, and vanilla together. Mix the remaining 2 teaspoons sugar and cinnamon in another small bowl; set aside. Just before the filling is ready, add the wet stuff to the dry stuff and stir until just combined. You don’t want any dry material left, but don’t beat the crap out of it.

Now it’s time to put the cobbler together. Take the berry filling out of the oven and jack up the oven temp to 425°F. Pinch off eight equal-sized globs of biscuit dough and place on hot berry filling, spacing them at least half an inch apart. Sprinkle each dough-glob with the cinnamon sugar mixture you prepared earlier. Stick the whole mess back in the oven and bake until the filling is bubbling like blue lava and the biscuits are golden brown on top - about 15-18 minutes. Remove the cobbler from the oven and cool on a wire rack 20 minutes or so. Serve it forth with lashings of vanilla ice cream or lightly sweetened whipped cream.

And then, loosen your belt. Oof!

A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY

Eli (Hizzownself), with Toni, his Better Half.

We celebrated the Old Man’s eighty-fifth birthday last weekend in grand style.

Earlier that day, we had driven out east to do a little winery hopping. It seems that Long Island, in the past three decades, has become a mini-hotbed of viniculture: Who knew? About forty wineries dot the various towns on the eastern end of the island, with most on the North Fork... so that is where we headed.

At the Lenz Winery in Peconic, we stopped for a tasting amidst a profusion of carefully manicured vines. Barbara, our charming blonde tasting host, played Long Island Geography with me as she poured our wines - as it happens, she was a year younger than me and had lived in the same town - and on the same street, on the opposite side of the nine-hole golf course that bisected the neighborhood.


SWMBO and I at the Lenz Winery, Peconic.

The wines were good - the North Fork microclimate is particularly suited to Merlot - and SWMBO and I ordered a few bottles before we all went on our merry way.

That evening, we enjoyed a fine dinner at Tellers, a chophouse tucked into a vintage bank building in Islip. As impressive as the surroundings were - thirty-foot-high ceilings tend to add a bit of tone - the food and wine were at least as impressive. My filet, a handsome, softball-sized chunk of prime, dry-aged beefmeat, had just the right beefiness and texture; Eli elected to have the braised beef short ribs, a ridiculously flavorsome, tender example of the genre. And the wine, a 2007 Merlot from the South Fork’s Wölffer Estate Vineyards, complemented the meal perfectly.

As we were polishing off our various entrées, we saw a waiter glide past bearing an enormous trencher with what appeared to be Fred Flintstone’s dinner: a huge baseball bat-sized bone with a clublike wad of meat attached to it. What in Gawd’s name was it? According to our waiter, it was the house speciality, a forty ounce (!) bone-in ribeye. Since I have no compunctions about making a fool of myself in front of complete strangers, I got right up and walked over to the table where that monster steak had been delivered... to a guy who looked like he could work as an NFL player or a bar bouncer.

“Excuse me, but that’s a mighty impressive steak. Would you mind if I took a picture of it?”

Somewhat bemused, the fellow allowed me to photograph his meal. Alas, the picture did not turn out well, but I could’ve sworn that piece of meat bore the legend “Callaway FT-iZ.”

There would be more celebrating the next day, complete with cake and The Other Elisson’s homemade blueberry cobbler, but this was a Birthday to Remember.

BARBECUE IN BIRMINGHAM

Smokemeisters Henry L., Jerry C., and Elisson whip out their meat.

There’s an old joke about a rabbi who is out of town on a mid-week business trip. He checks into his hotel and heads out to a local eatery... and, as he peruses the menu, a thought pops into his head.

“I’ve never tasted of the flesh of the swine,” he thinks, “and I have always wondered what it’s like.

“Surely, if I were to order pork just this one time, God would forgive me - and besides, I’m away from home, and nobody will ever find out.”

His rationalization thus worked through, he orders the whole roast suckling pig. (Might as well go “whole hog,” eh?) And as soon as the waiter disappears with the order, the rabbi is horrified to see the president of his synagogue’s Sisterhood walk into the restaurant, accompanied by her husband (the ritual director) and their two children.

Of course, they recognize their rabbi immediately and, like one would do when encountering a hometown friend in a faraway place, they come over to greet him. The rabbi gives them a friendly smile, a hearty greeting, all the while silently praying that they will just go away and be seated on the far side of the restaurant.

No such luck. They insist on having the rabbi join them... and he is in no position to refuse.

Moments later, the waiter arrives, bearing a huge domed platter. He whisks away the dome to reveal a roast suckling pig, complete with apple in mouth - and the Sisterhood president and her family gape in open-mouthed horror.

The rabbi looks at the pig, then looks at them. He looks at the pig again, then looks back at them.

“Can you believe it? I order a baked apple, and look at the big production!”

* * * * *
All this is a lengthy prologue to the story of my Birmingham barbecue adventure... competing in a kosher barbecue cook-off at an event held by the Men’s Club at Temple Beth El, the Conservative synagogue there.

[That’d be Birmingham, Alabama, not the one in Old Blighty.]

Lots more below the fold.

I couldn’t not attend, for several reasons. First, our own Men’s Club had fielded a team to compete in the cook-off. Second, I’m a regional president of Men’s Club, and I wanted to be there to represent the region. Third, and most important, barbecue is in my blood... even if it got there by osmosis from She Who Must Be Obeyed.

SWMBO, you see, is a native-born Texan... and along with Eastern European Jews, Texans are one of the two kinds of people who know how to deal with beef brisket. If you fit into both categories simultaneously, there’s no stopping you... and thus I volunteered my services.

This being a kosher cook-off, certain special rules applied. To ensure that all meats, condiments, seasonings, other food ingredients, and utensils were acceptable, these were all provided by the hosting club. The meat itself - all kosher beef brisket and ribs - was supplied by the event’s sponsor, a well-known supermarket chain.

What chain was that, Elisson? I’m glad you asked. Piggly Wiggly, of course! Who better to sponsor a kosher barbecue cook-off?


Who better to sponsor a kosher barbecue cook-off?

Now, it should be explained that the relationship between Jews and pigs is, generally speaking, not especially close. Because observant Jews do not eat the flesh of the porcine mammal, they do not, as a rule, get jobs as swineherds. This being said, however, Jews differ from their Abrahamic brethren the Muslims in that they do not regard mere representations of pigs with horror and loathing. The smiling Piggly Wiggly mascot offends us not a bit, nor do images of Piglet (of Winnie-the-Pooh fame), piggy banks, or even foods that look like pigs:


Above: Pig Cake (contains chocolate, but no pork). Below: Panera’s Jalapeño & Cheddar Bagel Breakfast Sandwich (complete with ham and cheese). It’s OK if it looks like a pig, but not if it contains pig.

The Pig Cake pictured above is no problem for the average Red Sea Pedestrian as it contains no pork. On the other hand, despite its having been constructed with a Jewish breadstuff, the Jalapeño & Cheddar Bagel is verboten to the observant. It ain’t what it looks like, it’s what it’s made of... and even that matters only if you plan to eat it.

In any event, several members of our team arrived the night before, in order to season the meat and get it on the smoker in the wee hours of the morning. I arrived shortly after the Butt-Crack of Dawn, just in time to see the beans being assembled.


Our award-winning barbecue beans on the simmer.

There was competition, lots of it: twenty teams in all, with fanciful names like “Jews, Brews, and Barbecue,” “Delicious, Divine, and Devoid of Swine,” and “Limp Brizkit.” Most were local; we were the only entry that had come from a distance. And that, to be honest, was the point. We were there to make our presence known, to say hello. Taking home a trophy would be a bonus.

Our meat was ridiculously good, not least because we had gotten a head start on pretty much everybody by firing up our smoker in the dead of night.


Ribs and brisket.

For the last few hours, we kept the meat wrapped in heavy-duty aluminum foil to retain moisture. When I unwrapped the ribs, a puddle of orange oil - rendered out of the meat - told me that they would be heinously tender... and they were.

The drill was simple. At a designated time, the teams had to plate up five servings - first beans, then ribs, finally brisket - and deliver them unto the judging table. The dishes were then distributed amongst the twenty judges, a group comprising professional barbecue judges, local media celebrities and restaurant owners, and even a stray rabbi or two.


A few of the judges, hard at work.

We had a reasonable amount of brisket left over after plating up the judges’ samples, but it didn’t last long after our team (plus various competitors and hangers-on) descended on the remnants like a pack of starving wolves. Can’t say I blame them.

At the end of the day, we carried off two trophies - one for our beans, another for our ribs. Not bad for the visiting team! We’ll be sure to field a squad for next year’s event.

MAY GUILD EVENT

Jack: If they want to drink Merlot, we’re drinking Merlot.

Miles Raymond: No, if anyone orders Merlot, I’m leaving. I am NOT drinking any fucking Merlot!

- Sideways, 2004

It’s time for another Sommelier Guild event. This one’s at Paul’s in Peachtree Hills, and it will feature Merlots of the World... Miles Raymond’s opinion notwithstanding.

I’m hoping to see Denny there, although Houston Steve will, alas, be unable to attend. It promises to be a tasty affair indeed - here’s the menu:

Speaker’s Wine
Beringer California White Merlot 2008

First Flight
Sant’ Venezia Giulia 2003
Banfi “Mandrielle” Tuscany 2005
Casa Lapostolle Cuvée Alexandre Colchagua “Apalta” 2007

Vegetable stuffed tortelloni, sage pecan brown butter, pecorino cheese

Second Flight
Aux Trois Frères Côtes de Castillon 2005**
Château Taillefer Pomerol 2005
Château LaFleur Morange “Mathilde” Saint-Emilion 2006

Blackened Atlantic salmon, Ellijay apple salad, sugar snap peas, balsamic reduction

Third Flight
Woodward Canyon Columbia River 2001
Kenefick Ranch Napa 2005*
Stephanie (by Hestan) Napa 2006**

Char-grilled lamb chop, forest mushrooms, eggplant zucchini tart, rosemary rosette potatoes, caramelized garlic au jus

Dessert
Trentadue Chocolate Amore NV**

Chocolate pecan bread pudding, caramel sauce

I won’t insult my Esteemed Readers by pretending to be suffering through this meal. No: I will enjoy every bite, and (hopefully) every sip.

Update: My favorites noted with asterisks. White Merlot? Like the ugly sister of (already unlovely) white Zinfandel... feh.

WHOLE GRAIN

Nutritionists will tell you that whole grains are an important part of a healthy diet.

Me, I’ve been a fan of the whole grain for years. Coarse rye bread? Westphalian pumpernickel - the kind that is as dense as white dwarf star matter, the slices of which must be pried apart with a knife due to their powerful gravitational attraction for one another? Yummy.


A slice of whole-grain Swedish rye bread. Mmmmmm. Grain.

When I get a Cereal Jones, I will, like as not, get out the Grape-Nuts. I discovered last year that Grape-Nuts are nothing more, nothing less than dried, ground-up knobbly bread crumbs, made from wheat and barley - yet that did not diminish their appeal. (As ridiculous a name as “Grape-Nuts” may be, it has a skosh more cachet than “Dry-Ass Bread Crumbs.”)

It occurred to me, however, that I was missing out on some grainy goodness by dumping milk on my Grape-Nuts. What if I were to up the Grain Quotient by soaking my Nuts in a grain-based product?

What if I were to have my Grape-Nuts with beer in lieu of milk?

Yes, indeedy: Beer-Nuts.

I resolved to try it forthwith. Grabbing a bottle of Newcastle, a fine brown ale, I poured a bowl of Euell Gibbon’s choicest nuggets into a bowl and proceeded to combine the two. As soon as the foam subsided, I dug in.


Grape Nuts? Check. Newcastle? Check. Spoon? Check. Church key? Check. All systems go!


Breakfast of Champions.

Surprisingly, the combination wasn’t bad at all. Instead of slightly sweet dairy flavors overlaid on a nutty grain substrate - the usual milk-and-cereal blend - the Beer-Nuts version was more assertive, the grain complementing the mild bitterness of the hops and kicking it into overdrive.

I will need to think of a way to exploit this. Beer-Nuts - the Brave New Breakfast!

CARVING HIS PLACE IN HISTORY

As I was preparing dinner Friday afternoon, I thought of George Washington Carver.

Carver, you may recall, was a brilliant scientist with humble beginnings. Born into slavery in Missouri in 1864, he obtained a college education despite the prodigious roadblocks African-Americans faced in the Reconstruction era South. Carver found his intellectual home when, in the closing years of the nineteenth century, he received an invitation to join the faculty of Tuskeegee Normal and Industrial Institute from its founder, Booker T. Washington. Signing on as head of the Agriculture Department, he would remain at Tuskeegee for for the rest of his life, an achievement-packed career lasting 47 years.

An accomplished agronomist, Carver created over 200 recipes using peanuts. While some 105 of these were for various foodstuffs, the rest were for non-food applications such as cosmetics, coatings, plastics, fuels, and even explosives. Yes, if you wanted to make a bomb from commonly available agricultural materials, George Washington Carver could show you how to make nitroglycerin out of peanuts.

But it was when Carver turned his attention to the sweet potato that he really came into his own.

Ipomoea batatas - the humble sweet potato - grew profusely in the South, but for years had been considered a weed, its warty orange-fleshed tubers a “clownish lampoon of a proper potato,” according to Mark Twain. Carver, however, saw a cornucopia of commercial possibilities in the garish vegetable. In his nearly five decades at Tuskeegee, he developed 117,432 different products - dyestuffs, explosives, fertilizers, medications, preservatives, construction materials, hair replacements, medical prosthetics, and many, many more - all from the sweet potato. The ocarina, a musical instrument that vaguely resembles a sweet potato (and which is in fact commonly referred to as such) experienced a nationwide surge in popularity thanks to Carver’s having played it in the Tuskeegee All-Star Jug Band. In 1940, shortly after Einstein sent his famous letter to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Carver was the first to see the potential of the sweet potato as a source of inexpensive, clean atomic power; years later, the Navy would name its first sweet potato-powered submarine the “George Washington” in his honor. Today, a life-size statue of George Washington Carver, sculpted entirely from a single, enormous mutated sweet potato, stands at the front gate of the former Tuskeegee Normal and Industrial Institute - now Tuskeegee University.

And yet nobody was more surprised than Carver to discover that, in addition to all of these life-enhancing uses, the sweet potato was actually edible.

* * *
Yes, indeed: The sweet potato is eminently edible. And you don’t need a lot of sugar and marshmallows with which to festoon it, Thanksgiving dishes aside. Simply scrub your sweet potatoes well, rub down the exteriors with kosher salt, and bake in a 350-400°F oven until tender. A dab of butter is all you need. Or try a squeeze of lime and a scattering of chopped cilantro if you want to be exotic.

I thought of George Washington Carver - amazingly enough, the man never actually ate a sweet potato - as I was preparing a side dish, a purée of sweet potatoes and roasted garlic.

Yes, you heard that right. Sweet potatoes and roasted garlic. It’s a recipe I adapted from Chez Panisse Vegetables, a 1996 book by Alice Waters, one of the pioneers of the local/organic food movement. I’ve long had a deep respect for Chez Panisse, where She Who Must Be Obeyed and I had a memorable dinner one spring evening back in 1984. [The restaurant’s name is not, by the way, pronounced “Cheese Penis,” but, rather, should be pronounced to rhyme with “clay valise.” Don’t ask me how I found this out.]

The recipe calls for two pounds each of sweet potatoes and russet (baking) potatoes; a head of garlic, 1-2 cups of hot milk, and extra-virgin olive oil. (Having no russet potatoes on hand, I simply used sweet potatoes.) You take the head of garlic and slice the top off, drizzle it with olive oil, and wrap it in aluminum foil, then roast at 425°F for 30 minutes or so until nice and soft. The roasted cloves, aromatic and mellow, will pop right out with a little gentle pressure; reserve these. Peel and quarter the potatoes, sprinkle with a teaspoon of kosher salt, then steam them for 20 minutes or until tender. Run them (along with the reserved garlic cloves) through a food mill or ricer, then add 1-2 cups of hot milk to moisten them up. Add a splash of extra-virgin olive oil, a little freshly-ground black pepper, and you’re good to go.

This is one of those dishes that combines ingredients that you don’t expect to work well together to reveal multilayered, complex flavors. I was astonished at how good it was. Try it, and be astonished too! Ol’ George would be proud.

BUFFALOED

A few days ago, the Missus and I were in Harry’s Farmers Market picking up a few odds and ends. Now that it’s owned by Whole Paycheck Foods, Harry’s is a bit pricier than it was back when it really was a farmer’s market... but you still can’t beat their selection of produce. And that’s mainly what we had gone there for. That, and a bottle of sherry wine vinegar - a key ingredient of my homemade vinaigrette.

Of course, it’s almost impossible for me to stick to a fixed purchasing agenda at Harry’s. There are way too many interesting goodies to distract and entice me. Indian food? Check. German food? Check. South African goodies? Check. English candy bars? Check.

Somehow, this time, I avoided all of those temptations... only to fall under the spell of the Meat Department, where I espied a beautiful chunk of bison chuck.

Bison is purported to be much better for you than beef. Way less fat. And in my previous encounters with it, I have found it to be quite flavorsome. Just a few days ago I had made myself some bison burgers. Cooked medium rare (more on the rare side), they were nice and beefy, yet not dry despite their low fat content.

I purchased that chunk of Bison-Flesh. After all, how often does one get a chance to eat one’s high-school mascot? We made our exit, managing to get out of the store without bumping into the Food Network crew (Alton Brown, a local resident, often films segments of “Good Eats” at this Harry’s location) and took our Food-Swag home.

As far as what to do with that gorgeous chunk of meat, I had formulated my plans the moment I had laid eyes on it. It would make a fine Hungarian goulash. Sure - bison goulash! Why not?

I’ve found that, with braised or stewed dishes like Hungarian goulash, carbonnade flamande, coq au vin, beef brisket (Eastern European style), etc., their flavor improves markedly if you cook ’em a day or two in advance. You also get a chance to skim off the excess fat that rises to the surface and then congeals in the fridge.

Normally, when I make my goulash with beef chuck, I can scrape off a goodly amount of thick, orangey beef grease. (The orange color comes from the humongous amount of paprika in the dish.) But today when I brought that bison goulash-laden pan from out of cold storage, I was surprised to find that there was no fat on the surface at all!

This is huge. The flavor of beef with a whole lot less saturated fat. That’s gotta be a good thing, right? (Plus there’s that mascot business.)

APRIL GUILD EVENT

Alas, I will not be attending the April Guild event, AKA the Big Fat Greek Wine Tasting at Kyma this evening. Not that I don’t enjoy Greek food and wine - I most certainly do. A gyros sandwich makes my head spin, I love a nice slab of lamb, and I even will drink retsina, the often-despised turpentine-flavored Greek vino that derives its peculiar pong from the addition of pine resin.

Denny will have to handle this one on his own. Perhaps Houston Steve will be there to exchange politically charged bons mots with him as they get their collective Greek Freak on.

What’s on the menu? Let’s take a look:

Speaker’s Wine:
Domaine Spiropoulos Brut Moschofilero “Ode Panos” NV

First Flight:
Domaine Spiropoulos Mantinia Moschofilero 2008
Dalamara Malagousia 2007
Domaine Sigalas Santrini Assyrtiko 2008

Grilled octopus with pickled red onion salad, red wine vinaigrette. Seared tuna herb crusted ahi tuna, quinoa salad, preserved lemons, pine nuts, tomato, mint

Second Flight:
Popova Kula Tikves Vranec 2005
Boutari Naoussa Xinomavro 2007
Gaia Nemea Agiorghitiko “Notios” 2008

“Tiropitakia”: cheese pie with blend of four Greek cheeses, baked in country phyllo. Three-boned pork rib, coriander yogurt

Third Flight:
Pape Johanea Nemea Agiorghitko (Old Vine) 1999
Paivou Nemea Agiorghitiko (Reserve) Vintage TBD
Domaine Skouras Nemea Agiorghitiko “Grande Cuvee” 2006

Single cut marinated lamb chop. Braised Acadian redfish, onions, carrots, celery, potato, garlic, tomato “plaki”

Dessert:
Achaia Clauss Patras Mavrodaphne NV

Baklava “boureki” (rolled baklava), candied pistachios

It will all be delectable, I’m sure. Opa!

THE HE-MAN’S CHOCOLATE CAKE

The discerning Southern gentleman develops a taste for chocolate cake early on. I, being a transplanted Yankee (gasp!) never thought of chocolate cake as being an especially manly confection... until I met the Sacher-Torte.

Chocolate cake lovers are familiar with this torte, created in 1832 to satisfy Prince Metternich’s jones for a “dense, solid, masculine cake.” The regular pastry chef being ill, an apprentice, one Franz Sacher, stepped up to the plate and created what would become the most internationally famous cake in history... even more renowned than Fudgie the Whale.

Franz’s son Eduard carried on his father’s legacy, studying the Bakely Arts with the Royal and Imperial Pastry Chef at Demel’s Café, where the recipe for the Sacher-Torte evolved into its current form. (While Franz put layers of apricot jam in the center of the cake as well as on top, under the chocolate glaze, Eduard’s version had the jam only on the top of the cake.)

Later, Eduard would open a grand hotel - the Hotel Sacher, of course - to honor his family’s name and, not incidentally, to capitalize on his daddy’s famous cake. It’s pleasant (albeit silly) to imagine the housekeeping staff leaving slices of Sacher-Torte on guests’ pillows in lieu of mints.

Eventually, there arose a grand pissing contest in the Austrian courts over who had the rights to the Original Sacher-Torte. Was it Demel’s Café, where Eduard perfected the recipe... or the Hotel Sacher, whose new owners began selling the cake as well? One would think that in 1938, when the courts first took this issue up, that there were more important fish to fry: After all, there were Jews to deport! But the case dragged on until the mid-1960’s, with precious little impact. You can still get the cake - with minor differences in composition and nomenclature - at both the Hotel Sacher and at Demel’s Café.

It is indeed, as Prince Metternich demanded, a masculine cake. Leavened by egg whites alone, it has a moderately dense texture and a rich, yet not overly sweet chocolate flavor, with an additional fillip provided by the thin layer of apricot and a luxuriant chocolate glaze. The torte must be served with a generous dollop of schlag - unsweetened whipped cream - and preferably accompanied by lashings of hot, milky coffee.

I made one of these bad boys for our contribution to last Friday night’s Potluck Shabbat Dinner, and it was an apparent success. The recipe I used, from the venerable Maida Heatter’s Book of Great Chocolate Desserts, has a shinier, softer glaze than the original Sacher-Torte, but that’s not a bad thing.



Give the Austrians credit: Though they may have preferred goose stepping over goose liver, they at least know their Chocolate Cake.

THE BREI-ER PATCH

A tranquil Sunday morning in Marietta.

This morning, Christians around the world celebrated Easter, saying, “He is risen!”

And that, Esteemed Readers, is the difference between Christians and Jews in a nutshell. For during the festival of Passover, leavened foods are forbidden to us: That which is risen is strictly off-limits.

Dealing with the Passover dietary restrictions can be tricky, especially for those of us who eat pretty much whatever the hell we want to during the other fifty-one weeks of the year... but it’s manageable. Breakfast, however, is a particular challenge, given that many popular breakfast mainstays (cereal, English muffins, pancakes, waffles) are Pesach no-nos. Which means you have to find ever-more-creative ways to enjoy matzoh, the unleavened bread that is the culinary backbone of the week.

Me, I’m perfectly happy to spread well-softened butter over my matzoh-sheets and wolf them down, accompanied by a cup of coffee. And I might treat myself to matzoh-meal pancakes, a seasonal dish that always brings back pleasant memories of holidays spent with our grandparents in Florida. And then there is matzoh brei, a preparation that looks like it might have resulted from the same sort of accidental collision that created Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups:

“You got your matzoh in my French toast!”

“You got your French toast in my matzoh!”

Like a Jewish Brer Rabbit, I like to visit the matzoh brei-er patch every so often. It’s simple enough to make. You soak broken-up sheets of matzoh (or matzoh farfel, if you’re lazy) in milk or water until they're soft, then fry ’em up in a mixture of milk and eggs until you end up with a sort of French-toasty affair. Crisp or tender, it’s up to you, as is the choice between sweet and savory accompaniments. Whether to go with salt and pepper or butter and maple syrup may be the source of family disagreements, but they are the sort of good-natured arguments in which everyone is a winner.

Today we had a wonderful new version of matzoh brei, courtesy of our friend Malka - bourmalikas, AKA Bulgarian-style matzoh brei. It’s easy as (unleavened) pie to make. You start by soaking sheets of matzoh in water overnight. In the morning, squeeze out as much moisture as possible (a colander, besides being a fashionable item of headgear, is helpful for this purpose), then mash the damp matzoh into well-beaten eggs - one egg for every two sheets of matzoh. Form the mixture into patties and then fry until crisp in vegetable oil, and Boom! You have bourmalikas.


Bourmalikas. Matzoh brei, Bulgarian style.

I had mine savory, decorated with cottage cheese and sour cream; Malka ate hers sweet, dipping each bite into a pile of granulated sugar. They’re excellent either way.


Grape Tomatoes Caprese: tomatoes with mozzarella balls and basil, a fine accompaniment.

With stuff like this on hand, I can keep my jones for cold cereal - or the occasional waffle - at bay. I’d eat a Passover-style breakfast like this any time of year.

Speaking of holidays, a most happy Easter to our Christian friends!

FOOD... AND FREEDOM

The Bradford pears, cherry blossoms, and forsythia are in bloom... and Passover is in the air.

A cauldron of SWMBO’s chicken soup is simmering atop Darth Stover, perfuming the house with chickeny warmth. A pile of matzoh balls - both plain and whole wheat - will shortly be swimming amongst the chunks of chicken and carrot.

Two loaves of gefilte fish are ready to be sliced up and festooned with parsley and carrot slices. One loaf is the standard whitefish and pike blend; the other, salmon. They’ll be served with lashings of pungent chrain - horseradish.


Gefilte fish. Think of it as a sort of meatloaf... but with fish. A Passover tradition.

There’s a bowl of charoset marinating in the back of the fridge. A mixture of shredded apples, nuts, golden raisins, cinnamon, and sweet wine, it symbolizes the mortar with which the ancient Israelites built the cities of Pithom and Raamses.

A honkin’ big brisket of beef is resting comfortably in the downstairs fridge. After having been braised for five hours yesterday, all that bad boy needs is to be warmed up, sliced, and served with a liberal dollop of its oniony, tomatoey sauce.

Our friends JoAnn and Gary will be bringing some roasted asparagus and sweet potatoes. And that’s not all. Chopped liver (which I will doctor up with some onions caramelized in goose schmaltz) - and for afters, sponge cake.

Pesach, AKA Passover, begins at sundown. Perhaps owing to the special dietary requirements of the holiday, it’s an extremely food-centric festival, its central observance being a combination of Great Big Meal and Socratic dialogue. But the food is, despite the grip with which it holds our sense-memories, not the point. The point is the retelling of the story. It is the story of a great liberation, a journey from slavery to freedom. It is the central narrative of the Jews, those quintessential Red Sea Pedestrians, who could just as well be called “The People Who Went Forth from Egypt” instead of “The Children of Israel.” For while being descended from the patriarch Jacob - Israel - made us a people, the going forth from Egypt defined us as a nation, a people with a shared historical experience.


The Seder plate, with the traditional adornments. Clockwise, from the top: Zeroah - a roasted lamb shankbone, symbolic of the Paschal sacrifice. Charoset - an apple and nut relish representing mortar. Chazeret - Romaine lettuce, a bitter herb. Karpas - parsley, a green vegetable. Beitzah - an egg, symbolizing the chagigah (festival) sacrifice. Center: Maror - a bitter vegetable, in this case horseradish. In the silver case beneath the plate are three sheets of matzoh, the unleavened bread that is the most well-known food associated with the holiday.

The story is thousands of years old, yet it still resonates. And it should. For, as the Haggadah (the book of Passover liturgy) reminds us, had our ancestors not been redeemed from bondage, we would even now be slaves in Egypt... and the history of the Western world would have been very different.

A chag sameach - most happy festival - to our Jewish friends. To everyone else, a good week - one that may be spent, perhaps, meditating on the blessings of freedom that we enjoy today.

MARCH GUILD EVENT

Tonight’s Guild event - “Wines of the Great Northwest” - will be held at Rosebud, in the Morningside neighborhood just north of Virginia-Highlands. It promises to be a most pleasant evening.

I‘m hoping Denny will be able to make it this time so I can hear him tell the harrowing tale of his ill-fated ski trip in person. Alas, we won’t get to hear the fireworks as he discusses Obamacare and other political third-rails with Houston Steve, as Steve will be away on business. No matter. Politics does not whet my appetite; good wine, however, does so admirably.

Here’s the menu, perfect stimulus for your Envy-Glands:

Speaker’s wine:
Domaine Ste. Michelle Brut “Luxe” 2003*

First Flight:
Maryhill Viognier 2007**
Chateau Ste. Michelle & Dr. Loosen Riesling “Eroica” 2008***
L’Ecole No. 41 Semillon 2007

Seared George’s Bank scallop with pineapple chow chow and black pepper-vanilla sabayon

Second Flight:
Tagaris “Boar Doe” 2006
Woodward Canyon Merlot 2006
Northstar Merlot 2006**

Seared quail breast, Riverview Farms grits, early Vidalia onion chutney and Mexican coke BBQ

Third Flight:
Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon “Indian Wells” 2006
Buty “Columbia Rediviva” (Phinny Hill) 2006*
K-Vintners Syrah “Milbrandt” 2007**

Riverview Farms beef shortrib meatloaf, foie gras whipped sweet potatoes, local oyster mushrooms and bone marrow gravy

Dessert
Three Rivers Late Harvest Gewurztraminer “Biscuit Ridge” 2006***

Strawberry shortcake, cinnamon sugar biscuit & vanilla-balsamic syrup

Per my usual practice, I’ll note my favorites in a postprandial post update.

Update

Lagniappe
Dunham Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon IV 1998***

TUNA TOWN

The Missus took me to Tuna Town tonight, and it was a pleasure.

Get your mind out of the gutter, you sick bastard. This was Ahi Tuna Town.

Yesterday, we had glommed onto a couple of nice inch-thick slabs of raw ahi tuna - perfect for searing - and She Who Must Be Obeyed found an excellent Asian-style marinade recipe. We blended up ¼ cup dark sesame oil, ¼ cup soy sauce, and 1 Tbsp freshly squeezed lime juice; then whisked in 2 Tbsp grated fresh ginger, 2 cloves minced garlic, and a couple of sliced up scallions. After soaking in this goop for a few hours, the fish went into a hot, lightly oiled grill pan (a non-stick skillet works just fine) for just 60-90 seconds on each side. Garnished with a sprinkling of thinly-sliced scallion and black sesame seeds, it was a perfect dinner entrée.

[Useful Hint: Take a knob of ginger and freeze it. It’ll keep for a looooong time, and when it comes time to use it, don’t even bother to peel it. Just grate it with a Microplane until you have as much as you need. Easy-peasy... and you’ll have a burst of fresh ginger flavor.]

This evening, we still had a goodly-sized chunk of that seared tuna left. So She Who Must Be Obeyed sliced it up and served it on a bed of arugula and baby romaine, with chunks of heirloom tomato and avocado, dressed only with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice.

It was ridiculously good. Restaurant quality? No: better.

I wish to hell I had taken a picture, but, honestly, it looked so good, I was compelled to eat first and ask questions later. And that, Esteemed Readers, is the measure of a Fine Meal.

DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS

Last night, after stuffing our faces at Canton Cooks (a local place that serves authentic Hong Kong-style cuisine), we joined Johnny and Jackie Tabs at their home for a spot of dessert.

Jackie had made Cherry Peek-a-Boo Bars, shortcakey affairs with a layer of tart cherries... and to wash them down she had made a nice strong pot of coffee.


Jackie’s Cherry Peek-a-Boo Bars, the correct cake to enjoy with corrected coffee.

At Casa di Tabs, no cup of coffee is complete without a shot of sambuca, so I proceeded to doctor up my coffee appropriately, creating the famous Caffè Corretto, the “corrected” coffee of bella Italia.

Coffee is fine, in and of itself... but if you want it corrected, you add a shot of sambuca... or grappa... or brandy. These spirits transform a good cuppa Joe into a potent, soul-warming cuppa Giuseppe, a fine dessert accompaniment as well as an excellent morning eye-opener.

This got me thinking about other “corrected” coffee drinks. Spirits and coffee, of course, go together hand-in-hand. You can go the sweet route - Grand Marnier, Kahlùa, or Bailey’s Irish Cream are dandy - or you can add something even more potent. I still have warm memories of a Thermos filled with hot coffee, cream, sugar, and lashings of Scotch whisky, consumed on a cold fall afternoon at a football game over thirty-five years ago. (Of course, that would be blended Scotch, not single-malt.)

But for the finest Corrected Coffee outside of Italy, you have to head to the Emerald Isle for inspiration. I speak, naturally, of Irish Coffee.

There is something magic about the combination of Irish whisky and coffee that gladdens the heart, quickens the blood, and loosens the tongue. You brew up some strong coffee and dump it into a cup in which you have placed a few cubes of Demerara sugar and a liberal shot of the Irish. Stir to dissolve the sugar, then top with a spoonful of lightly sweetened, freshly whipped cream. None of that shit from a can, if you please... and none of that Cool Whippy ersatz schlag, either. The Irish deserves nothing but the best.

Now drink that sumbitch down. Have another, if you please... or two or three. Now, are ye not ready for the Feast of Saint Padraig, a mere three days away?

EATAPETA DAY

Monday, March 15 is not only the Ides of March. It’s EATAPETA Day!

That’s International Eat a Tasty Animal for PETA Day, in case you are unfamiliar with the acronym. Seeing Meryl Yourish’s post yesterday served as a timely reminder; it reminded me, as well, of a very pleasant pre-EATAPETA luncheon we enjoyed with Ms. Yourish two years ago.

The point of observing EATAPETA Day is to figuratively thumb one’s nose at PETA, an organization that sees nothing wrong with comparing the consumption of food animals to slavery... or to the Holocaust. This four-year-old post of Meryl’s says it all:

The [notorious 2003] PETA ad campaign compared the slaughter of chickens for food to the slaughter of six million Jews by the Nazis. They traveled the country with a series of billboards that used Holocaust imagery next to images of animals. They lied to the American Holocaust Museum to obtain permission to use these pictures in their ad campaign.

It’s a well-known fact that PETA has always chosen sensationalism in their ad campaigns. They’re usually stupid and offensive, but this campaign caused enough pain that a child of Holocaust survivors wrote me a letter asking if there weren’t something we could do about it. That’s why I created the first International Eat an Animal for PETA Day...

...Don’t get me wrong. I am utterly against animal cruelty. But I am also utterly against cruelty to humans, and especially against the misuse of Holocaust imagery to get a point across.

I see nothing evil about the idea that humans, who sit atop the food chain (unless one is in the jungle or deep in the woods), should use animals as a protein source. If you’re squeamish about eating animals qua animals, there are plenty of animal-derived products - eggs, milk, butter, and cheese - that do not require that animals give up their lives. But to PETA, even this is unacceptable. To them, even keeping company with Animal Companions - pets - constitutes unacceptable exploitation. They forget that the domesticated animals with whom we share our planet have mutually evolved, along with us, to be what they are today because of their having been “exploited” by humans for their food value... or for their company.

What am I gonna eat? Well, having just polished off a lovely brisket of beef last night, perhaps we will move on to beasts somewhat higher on the Cuteness Scale. A lambie, or a duckie, perhaps. Or, in deference to the Missus (who will let neither lambie or duckie cross her lips), a nice veal chop. I also have a few nice chunks of Bambi in the freezer...

Alas, whale bacon is not on the menu: You can’t get it here.

Update: How did I celebrate EATAPETA Day? I breakfasted on eggs (stolen from exploited chickens) and cheese (from cows enslaved by The Man). Since I wasn’t overly hungry, I had a simple suppler consisting of a couple of slices of Strasburg Pie: fatty duck liver baked into a puff pastry crust. What it lacked in volume it made up for in Caloric Concentration. Yummy!

FEBRUARY GUILD EVENT

This month’s Guild event will be held this evening at Pura Vida, an upscale tapas joint in the Poncey Highlands section of Atlanta. As you might expect from the choice of restaurant, we’ll be drinking a variety of Spanish wines.

I’m hoping Denny will be able to make it. Houston Steve, alas, will not be there, having been called away for business on the Left Coast.

Here da menu:

Speaker’s Wine:
Segura Viudas Brut Reserva “Heredad” Cava NV

First Flight:
Burgans Albariño 2008**
Valdelainos Verdejo 2008*** [surprising grapefruit flavor notes]
Vina Godeval Godello 2008

Bacalao Pavias: Salt cod fritters with saffron, lemon aioli

Second Flight:
Bodegas Faustino “Faustino I” Gran Reserva 1996
Mas Garrian “Mas del Camperol” 2000***
Bodegas Muga “Muga Reserva” 2005

Slow roasted local Berkshire pork belly, aluvias negras (black beans) and slow cooked egg

Third Flight:
Telmo Rodriguez “Dehesa Gago” Tempranillo 2007
Bodegas Nekeas “El Chaparral De Vega Sindoa” Garnacha 2008
Juan Gil Monastrell 2006

Asado de Tira: Flash grilled boneless beef rib, wild mushrooms & papitas (Columbian gold potatoes), beef jus

Dessert:
Jorge Ordonez & Co. Special Selection Muscat 2006***

Helado de Turrón: Honey almond ice cream terrine, Marcona almond butter and Marcona almonds, candied blood orange zest & segments

[Quite possibly the best ice cream I have ever tasted, a perfect match for the Muscat dessert wine.]

Since I missed the January Guild event, I’m really looking forward to this one. Viva España!

Update: My favorites noted with asterisks, comments in brackets.