’Der kan næsten gå sport i at finde de ondeste færdigbearnaiser på markedet med udseende som persillesovs og konsistens som fugemasse’. (Adam Price i Politiken i 2006)

Ingen mennesker bør snyde sig selv for at skifte Knorrpulveret ud med en klassisk boeuf béarnaise. Det var en tur på Store Kongensgade hos Rasmus Oubæk, hvor jeg første gang smagte rigtig bearnaise – og det var ikke det værste sted at starte!!

Nu synes der ingen ende på de steder, som kan diske op med en variant af denne guddommelige ledsager til alskens rødt kød. Efter Oubæk blev kendt for sin nærmest sagnomspundne béarnaise fulgte en stribe restauranter, heriblandt Pastis og MASH, m.fl. Og nu også mit eget køkken!

Restauratørerne var ikke de eneste, der havde æren for genoplivningen af den gule sauce. Brødrene Price slog også et slag for bearnaisen og redningen af dens omdømme i deres madprogrammer på DR. Grunden til det dårlige omdømme skyldes nok, at saucen har været domineret af pulverfabrikanter à la fødevaregiganten Knorr som følge af folks angst for at lave den hjemmelavet.

Har man først smagt the real deal – you never go back.

Derfor vil jeg bidrage til udbredelsen selvom jeg i samme bevægelse indser, at jeg muligvis indskrænker mine muligheder for at imponere mine gæster med dette ’trylleri’ der i virkeligheden er såre simpelt. Men det vigtigste er at sprede budskabet: Gode råvarer over hele linjen, kærlighed og en lille smule snilde. Jeg giver mit bud på deluxe versionen af denne ret:

Først og fremmest:  Hvis man ikke vil ofre penge på ordentligt kød, så vil jeg anbefale, at lave noget andet  – f.eks. en braiseret ret med en billig udskæring.

Sidst jeg lavede boeuf béarnaise købte jeg en hel rib-eye filet uden ben af amerikansk oksekød, som jeg skar ud i ca. 400 grams bøffer. Fuldstændigt gennemmarmoreret og smørmørt. Helt enkelt, men mindre (kød) kan også gøre det. Især i disse klimatopmødetider…

Selvom kødet på billedet er købt andetsteds, kan jeg varmt anbefale Gourmandiet på Østerbro, der kun sælger bøffer af fineste kvalitet.

Kødet bliver hurtigt lidt dyrt – kiloprisen på gode bøffer, som slagteren skærer ud, kan nemt løbe op i 400-500 kr. kiloet. Desværre. Men for mig er Nettos vakuumpakkede ikke et reelt alternativ. Heller ikke hos diverse billige slagtere med højreb til 90 kr. kiloet kan man føle sig for sikker. Det kan være en sej fornøjelse at tygge i. Kød skal, udover at stamme fra sundt kvæg, modne for at blive mørt og kræver derfor plads og omsorg og derved også kroner på bordet i sidste ende.

Heldigvis er kartofler billige… Bagekartofler er bedst til pommes frites. Men man behøver strengt taget ikke friturestege. Ovnstegte kartofler smager også fremragende.  Skær kartofler ud i passende frites størrelse, kog i få minutter, hæld vandet fra læg kartoflerne på køl. Herefter steges pommes frites enten i friture i flere omgange, eller i ovnen med rigeligt olivenolie. Jeg vil faktisk anbefale ovnfritterne alene af den årsag at ens køkken og resten af boligen ikke kommer til at dunste af grillbar.

Så er der saucen. Hvis man er uheldig at have besøg af fedtforskrækkede gæster, så er godt for dem, at de ikke skal have bearnaise hver dag. Fordi der er meget smør i bearnaise – og det er jo derfor det smager så godt! Jeg bruger to pakker smør til seks store drenge (!)

Men først skal der laves essens. I øvrigt skal man ikke undlade at fortælle sine gæster, at der indgår nænsomt tilberedt, hjemmelavet essens. Med min baggrund i marketing, kan jeg forsikre at smagsoplevelsen forøges, når man disker op med sådan en omgang storytelling. Skalotteløg, hvidvinseddike, tør hvidvin, stængler af estragon og salt og peber. Opskriften har jeg taget fra føromtalte brødrene Price.

Start med at lave kartofler og essens. Klar smørret. Dvs. fjern vallen efter langsom opvarmning. Det lyder svært, men det er nemt. Vallen lægger sig fint på bunden. Mikrobølgeovn er ikke optimalt.  Bare langsomt i en gryde. Fjern alt det hvide og gem det klare gule smør.

Tricket er at få lavet alt, der kan laves på forhånd – ja på forhånd. Så rydder man køkkenet helt op bagefter, og man har alle råvarerne fint gjort klar i skåle, gryder og på tallerkener, klar til kamp når gæsterne dukker op.

I mellemtiden kan man jo tænke over hvilken vin, man vil trække op. Hvis man laver bøffer i omegnen af 200 kr. pr. kuvert, så er det synd ikke at tænke en passende vin ind. Her er mulighederne mange, men gå efter en vis mængde tannin og fylde for at give modspil til den fede sauce. F.eks. er Barolo dejligt til!

En times tid inden slaget skal slås, kan kødet tages ud af køleskabet, så det ikke får varmechok på panden. Kartoflerne sættes i ovnen med godt knald på og vendes jævnligt, så de ikke bliver brændte. Det vigtigste er at de ikke ligger i lag. Så bliver de nederste ikke sprøde.

Essensen piskes sammen med æggeblommer. Det klarede smør varmes op igen i en anden gryde. Bøfferne steges i smør på en varm tykbundet pande. Målet er en mørk stegeskorpe hvor meget af smagen ligger.  Hold nallerne fra bøffen mens den steger. Rør den først når den skal vendes.  Et par minutter eller fire på hver side afhængigt af tykkelsen. Bøfferne hviler derefter indsvøbt i rigeligt folie og et viskestykke over til at holde varmen. Her tilbereder bøfferne faktisk lidt videre. Men husk de altid kan få mere varme, men hvis de bliver gennemstegte er det synd. Bøffen må højst være rosa i min optik – og helst rød i midten.

Nu piskes saucen. Den lune smør tilsættes lidt ad gangen i starten under konstant pisken. Køb i øvrigt et rigtigt piskeris – ikke et af træ eller plastic. Vandbad er slet ikke nødvendigt. Jeg fjerner bare gryden fra blusset og mærker med hånden på siden af gryden, for at mærke hvor varm den er blevet. Hav en lille portion koldt vand eller isklumper stående ved siden af, som kan piskes i saucen hvis den er ved at skille.

Konsistensen og syrebalancen i saucen er de to afgørende elementer her. Jeg går efter en konsistens, som er tyk nok til at saucen kan sidde fast på kartoflerne, men ikke så tyk at en kartoffel kan stå på højkant i saucen.

Når saucen smages til, skal den give et lille bid af syre, så jeg har en halv citron ved hånden som presses i efter behov. Når saucen har syremodspil holder det fedmen i saucen i skak! Det er smart! Citron er også bedre at smage til med end eddike, som nogen bruger, i det man får en friskere syre end den bitre eddike. Nu smides den hakkede estragon og kørvel i, og vi er klar til servering.

Indlægget er skrevet af Peter Monk

The Full English Breakfast

I can’t start my day without breakfast. Since elementary school, the first thing I do when I wake up is eat something, usually some form of cereal or oatmeal. If this habit is interrupted, I suggest finding a safe hiding place until lunch. Another breakfast trend is being served all over the city, but this one is a heavier fare. The Full English Breakfast, complete with eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast is substituting the usual bagel and cream cheese in the New York diet.

The recently opened Breslin located in the Ace Hotel is offering the giant meat and egg-filled plate, along with other British owned and inspired restaurants. Balthasar Restaurant at 80 Spring Street serves beans with their rendition, The Red Lion at 151 Bleecker Street includes black and white pudding, and Pastis at 9 9th Avenue fries their tomatoes.

-Caitlin

Ingredients:

• Una taula de xocolata
• 4 ous
• 4 cullerades sucre
• 4 cullerades farina
• mig sobre de llevat
• 250 gr de mantega
• melmelada de maduixa (o qualsevol altra)

Per començar es barregen els ous amb el sucre. Un cop estigui barrejat es desfà la meitat de la mantega (125gr) i la meitat de la xocolata al microones (vigilant que no es cremi). Un cop desfets s’ajunta amb els ous i el sucre i se li afegeix la farina i el llevat. Es posa en un motlle prèviament enfarinat i al forn durant uns 20-30 minuts a 180º. Quan ja estigui, es treu del forn i es deixa refredar. Se li afegeix la melmelada per sobre i desprès es fon la resta de la xocolata i mantega i es tira per sobre la melmelada de manera que queden tres capes: el pa de pessic, la melmelada i la xocolata per sobre. Es posa a la nevera i es deixa refredar fins que la xocolata ja estigui dura.

I ja estarà llest per servir!

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Besos de Cristal- D’callaos

Ingredientes:

• Una tableta de chocolate
• 4 huevos
• 4 cucharadas azúcar
• 4 cucharadas harina
• medio sobre de levadura
• 250 gr de mantequilla
• mermelada de fresa (o cualquier otra)

Para empezar se mezclan los huevos con el azúcar. Una vez esté mezclado se deshace la mitad de la mantequilla (125gr) y la mitad del chocolate en el microondas (vigilando que no se queme). Una vez deshechos se junta con los huevos y el azúcar y se le añade la harina y la levadura.

Se vierte en un molde previamente enharinado y al horno durante unos 20-30 minutos a 180 º. Cuando ya esté, se saca del horno y se deja enfriar.

Se le añade la mermelada por encima y después se funde el resto del chocolate y mantequilla y se echa por encima la mermelada de manera que quedan tres capas: el bizcocho, la mermelada y el chocolate por encima. Se pone en la nevera y se deja enfriar hasta que el chocolate ya esté dura.

Y ya estará listo para servir!

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Besos de Cristal- D’callaos

Setting
Die Buvette Philipp so auf die Schnelle zu charakterisieren fällt uns schwer. Sehr schwer sogar. Ein Unikum haben wir entdeckt. Eine Bar. Nicht irgendeine. Eine französische Bar. Eine Buvette eben. Tritt man in die kleine, auf zwei verschiedene Niveaus verteilte Bar ein, erster Eindruck: französisch. Zwei kleine Bistrotische und eine Theke im Stile unseres westlichen Nachbars lassen keinen Zweifel aufkommen. Das leicht erhöhte Niveau dann aber, der Fumoir, Überraschung: Kolonialstil, französischer, wie man uns sagt. Tiefe, englische Loungechairs laden zum entspannen ein. Dazu gehört ein grosser, wandschrankähnlicher Humidor. Und Ernest Hemingway ist omnipräsent. Buvette Philippe, du bist so unfassbar (auch wegen deiner Location irgendwo im Quartier).

Karte
Zur Hauptsache südfranzösische Weine aus der Region um Marseille, dem Languedoc-Roussillon. Verschiedene Sorten Pastis. Kubanische Zigarren bester Lagerqualität. Wer Hunger hat, muss allerdings leiden. Zu essen gibt es hier nichts, was dann doch ein wenig schade ist. Käse und Wurst zum Wein wäre schön und macht keinen sehr grossen Aufwand. Nachtrag 28. Oktober 2009: “Bald gibt es etwas für, oder besser, gegen den kleinen Hunger,  nur drei Worte,
“Noir de Bigorre” (Philipp Baur, Buvette Philipp).

Bedienung
Anders als anderswo. Der Besitzer, Philipp Baur, kümmert sich persönlich um die Gäste. Er drängt sich nicht auf, ist aber durchaus auch für einen Schwatz zu haben.

Preis
Absolut fair. Wir hatten zu dritt zwei Flaschen Wein und drei schöne Zigarren (Partagas, Romeo und Cohiba) und dann noch zwei kleine Mini-Zigarren. Und zahlten dafür 66 Franken pro Person.

Harrys Tipp
Unbedingt mal hin gehen. Ein überraschender Ort, ganz anders, mit toller Atmosphäre.

Adresse
Buvette Philipp
Zweierstrasse 166 (gleich bei der Tramstation Schmiede-Wiedikon)
8003 Zürich
Tel. 078 791 26 85
Keine Internetseite

Cucumber soup splashed with Pernod

Positively provençale ~ this versatile cucumber soup, splashed with pernod,  may be served hot or cold.

It’s a very simple soup but I can see it being served in small demi-tasse cups at a formal dinner.  Or like I have pictured served  in a big bowl for a light summer supper. Et voila:

Creamy Cucumber Soup with Pernod

Ingredients

• 1-1/2 lbs. cucumbers
• 1 Tablespoon finely chopped onion
• 1 large garlic clove, pressed
• 2 Tablespoons unsalted butter
• 2 cups chicken broth
• 1 teaspoon pastis (Pernod or Ricard)
• 1 cup cream
• GARNISH:  fresh, chopped chives

Preparation:

1. Melt the butter in a medium sized saucepan over medium-low heat.
2. Add the onions and garlic and cook about 2-4 minutes or until soft. Do not allow them to color
3. Peel the cucumbers. Cut them in half lengthwise and scoop out the seeds. I generally use a spoon to do this. Chop the cucumbers into small dice and add to the onions and garlic.
4. Cook about 5 more minutes.
5. Add the broth and simmer for 10 to 15 minutes. The cucumbers should be very soft.
6. Using a stick blender or a regular blender, blend the soup. Stir in the cream and pastis and heat about 2 minutes.

To serve:

Ladle the soup into 4 soup bowls and garnish with the fresh, chopped chives. The soup may be served cold also.

It is HOT in Paris these days.  Like, too hot for me to be sitting upstairs in my apartment whose copious afternoon sun one fateful February day made me fall in love with it.  That same afternoon sun is now causing my awesome loft-office to heat up to approximately three million degrees (Fahrenheit, Celsius, it doesn’t really matter at that point, does it?).  I’ve been hearing that this is the hottest summer in Paris since the infamous death wave of 2003.  (well, August, anyway – July often required sweatshirts.)  What does all this have to do with Provence?  Nothing, really, except that down in the South they have longer, hotter summers, and have mastered the art of the refreshing apéritif in the form of Pastis.

I’ll admit it took me a while to warm up to the anise-flavored spirit, licorice being a hard one for me to tolerate most of the time.  (There are notable exceptions.)  I still often choose a chilled glass of white or pink wine or a beer for my apéro, but thanks to some fancy boutique pastis Nick and I sampled at a salon, with a minty freshness to balance the other herbal qualities, I have found a place for it in my life.  Which is good, because Nick has taken a shine to the stuff.  We generally keep a bottle of Ricard, one of the most popular mass-market brands in France, on hand.  It is traditionally served chilled, with water to cut its potency.  We, being American, insist on ice cubes, which make it the perfect refresher on a hot day like today.  What’s cool is that when the ice and water hit the clear liquor, it turns a milky mint green color.  It even looks refreshing.

Pastis is often enjoyed in conjunction with a friendly game of pétanque, or boules, as we call it around our house.  While the game is pretty much a national pastime in France, it is especially ingrained in the local culture of Provence, probably due to the region’s wealth of warm, sunny days.

1. The First Throw, 2. Playing Boules (Pétanque)

Which I shouldn’t be complaining about here in Paris.

Just a quick reminder that my Provence poll is still open, so be sure to vote on how you want me to heat up my kitchen!

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

MAYBE BECAUSE IT’S SUMMER, or I’m living near the water, or there’s something about the light here on the East End, but lately I find myself drawn to all things Provençal. The South of France is one of my favorite parts of the world, and I haven’t been there in far too long. So I try to replicate the experience in small ways, such as:

• Eating salad Niçoise almost every day, with fennel and Niçoise olives, naturally, and Alziari olive oil (a $20 splurge at Citarella but I was so happy to see it there – it took me instantly back to the famous store in Nice, where they fill people’s empty bottlees with fresh-pressed oil out of huge kegs)
• A little jar of Herbs de Provence, also from Citarella
• Lavender soap, lavender dishwashing liquid, lavender toilet bowl cleaner, etc.
• Intentions of putting  a yellow printed table cloth on my round picnic table and spending three hours dining under the trees sometime
• Sunflowers in a vase at all times
• My Bodum French press coffee-maker (the best system I’ve ever found- no more Mr. Coffee for me)
• Van Gogh print of Flowering Gardens at Arles on the kitchen wall

What else do I need? A bottle of pastis? I have no plans to start smoking Gauloises (I did briefly in college) or re-read Peter Mayle any time soon.

It’s early on Sunday morning and the terrestrial television choices are between the under-17 FIFA World Cup (Japan vs Brazil) and a short documentary about a traditional sandal weaver. Japan are 2-1 down with 15 minutes to go, but then Brazil are doing that football thing of collapsing on the ground in utter agony, only to pop back up a minute or so later. As for the sandal maker, hmm, well that’s now turned into a rakugo (humorous story telling) performance. Further choices would be available if I trundled down to the lobby and bought a card that would allow me two flavours of pornographic ice cream and a cable film channel that can somehow claim to be premiering Men in Black in late 2009. Let’s skip that…

Again with the football. I’ve eaten two meals in Ishigaki with European claims. I have no doubt that some of the very best Italian and French food in the world is available here in Japan. Neither of these places would claim to aiming for that Michelin-style excellence. Indeed, a new volume of the Michelin guide to restaurants in Osaka and Kyoto (and Kobe?) has just come out. How on earth Michelin judge these things I don’t know and I don’t really care anyway. The whole MIchelin thing seems ridiculous to me, that dependence upon a singular critical approval is essentially anti-democratic and top-down. A restaurant loses a star, something must have gone wrong, better never to have been given it. Anyway, as these two meals had me pondering, this finickity obsession by some with producing food to please Michelin, rather than themselves or the customers, is something restaurants could do without. Masterchef Professional, the television programme with which I have a love-hate relationship, seems obsessed with this Michelin way of things. If I ever opened a top-end restaurant, I’d call it FUCK MICHELIN and have some suitably lurid tableau in the window that changed on a daily basis. Of course, they’d sue me, but since such an idea is preposterous anyway, I don’t lose much sleep over it. I do hope some Kansai chefs refuse the stars like their Tokyo counterparts. We don’t need it, maaaaaaan…..

Having walked past Moustache before, I thought to give it a go. Moustache does yoshoku (Japanese Western-style food) with French leanings and a fair amount of local produce. The interior is what I can only describe as late Showa into Heisei-era poodle frou-frou. Every corner of the place has some wine bottle or other food container, most often decorated with some crafty lace item, there’s no empty space for the eye to rest. It suggests a certain European legitimacy, an idealised cozy homeliness. Mitchu, the chef-owner, works in the counter-kitchen alone with his wife doing drinks and front of house. It’s relatively quiet when I walk in. Just the one other customer. I take a seat at the counter. Like many places, people relax a little when they realise that I can probably read the menu. They won’t have to translate it. Menus in Japan are sometimes written in the Roman alphabet, but it’s not really that essential. if it is done, it’s not generally done with the foreign visitor in mind, but rather as another signifier of legitimacy or aspiration. Well, the price of the bill most probably!

I order a beer and look through it. As I expect, it’s a mix of Frenchy (sort of) stuff with plenty of domestic favourites that owe something to Europe in their inspiration. I order a carpaccio of local Ishigaki beef and then again some local pork after. The beef is really quite delicious, although it’s cut a bit thick for carpaccio. The problem is that the delicacy of the beef is a bit drowned out by the dressing. Again, the pork is cooked really well in some form of curious roulade, but is served alongside some pickled onions and gherkins. Eh? I start hearing Masterchef-style comments in the voices of Michel Roux and Greg Wallace:

Michel: “He’s got the ingredients, but does he know what to do with them?”

Greg: “They don’t belong in the same culture, let alone on the same plate!”

The woman next to me is joined by a friend and in due course another male friend turns up. He’s already half-cut by seven o’clock. They’re speaking in Japanese, but occasionally he says “I can’t speak effin’ Japanese!” when one of the women tries to refine his rather rough language. Ishigaki isn’t Japan culturally and NHK/BBC received pronunciation isn’t the locals’ language of choice. I find it rather touching. He slides off the chair eventually and makes his way somewhere or another. The woman to my right offers me a glass of awamori and we get to talking. Mitchu and his wife begin to relax. By nine o’clock, service is probably pretty much over. Despite the oddities of the food, I like the place. As one of the women says, we don’t get foreigners in here. I say I’ve come because it’s called Moustache and since I have a beard, that’s as good a reason as any to try somewhere.

How do foreigners relate to each other in Japan? It’s an intriguing question. Often we ignore each other. A sense of “How dare you be in this little town or village I claim as my own! I don’t want my Japan experience tainted by interacting with outsiders!” is often pervasive. We blank each other. Look away. Don’t mess around with my powers of invisibility. As long as you don’t see another foreigner, don’t look in any mirrors, you can almost believe you are Japanese, even if no one else is convinced for a second. Over the years, I’ve caught myself feeling that way.  I now make a positive effort to smile at other foreigners, say hello, nod at least, anything other than the blanking. It’s offensive. Okay, maybe in Tokyo that’s not so essential, but here in the periphery, I think it is.

The women invite me out to sing karaoke and the night dissolves away with bottomless glasses of awamori and some light snacks. I like them. They’re about my age, probably a bit older, but wiser for it. The best word to describe them is blousy. They dress in a distinctly Japanese way, a bit like the restaurant interior, with little of that teenage cutesiness or affectation. One of them exhorts me repeatedly to marry her single friend, the single friend says it’s out of the question, the single friend and I sing sentimental enka songs together into the small hours. Songs that are all unresolved longings, bittersweet disappointments, heartbreaks and sudden partings. I’ve been in similar places before, having lived in small town Japan, but it’s the first time I’ve seen people actually dancing in them. There’s some drunken swaying, the scent of perfume, a hand upon one’s back. No one disgraces themselves and they walk me back to the hotel before jumping into a taxi together. No harm done.

A few days later, I return from Iriomote and finally break my okonomiyaki fast. I eat at Maru-Ju, a place run by an Osakan. Ah, that’s better… Outside, Typhoon Number 20 is making itself felt. It’s still a ways from here but close enough. Along the rain-lashed harbour front, I stop in at Ishigaki Gelato, a rather stylish ice-cream parlour that used local ingredients: seaweed, tofu, seasalt, black vinegar and so on as well as local fruit such as pineapple, papaya, and passion fuit. It’s good ice cream, but if anything I think they could go for it a bit more with the marine flavourings.

In the evening, I decide to head to Chez Didi (there’s a Myspace page with various videos). I spotted this place on a map earlier and looked it up. There’s an unreliable wireless connection here in the room and I managed to get a page of Google results before it conked out. The restaurant was opened by one Marc Panther (no, me neither!), a sometime model-actor-singer-producer of French-Japanese extraction who was born in Marseille. Oh? Could be good. There’s plenty of seafood around, Marseille inspiration, it’s on the harbour, maybe a glass of rosé even, pretend there isn’t a typhoon on its way…

There’s a few things that put me in a hesitant mood straight off. The welcome’s a bit off. Who is he? Will we have to explain? Can we explain? It’s understandable. This blog, for what little its chatter is worth in a world of such, purports to be about eating and food. Well, surely the traveller to Japan is always scaling the heights of gastronomic adventure. Wow! Blimey! Good Lord! Well, I’m not at all ashamed to admit that it’s not so. In Fukuoka, sometimes I was quite happy to pop down to the convenience store and sit in the hotel room watching tv and eating take-away snacks: crustless sandwiches, instant corn soup, cold noodles, curry rolls, chocolate snacks and whatever. The thought of going out and possibly facing a cool, yet polite, reception in some restaurant or street-stall where it seemed I’d have to do all the work putting people at ease. Sometimes the single diner finds it easier to eat alone and it’s not as if convenience store food is any less “authentic”. I make no excuses. Eating alone in Japan can be taxing. There’s a difference between a warm reception and a reception where every phrase from the waiting staff is by rote.

Chez Didi was a bit like the second of those. The rosé is off. Pastis? There’s Pernod. FFS! It’s not as if you can’t buy Ricard in Japan. Bouillabaisse on the menu, but not being cooked. Okay, that’s not unknown in France either. There’s far too much beef on the menu and no fish, just some seafood. The BGM is accordion music. Despite Chez Didi’s perceived (by me!) claims to French provenance, the menu is not so different from Moustache’s. Moustache offers omuraisu (a light omelette wrapped around rice). Chez Didi offers hayashi rice, a sort of beef stew stir-fry. Both of these are very tasty, but certainly not French as you know it.

The wine list is short and not Mediterranean, let alone French, enough for me. I want something crisp and light, I get an oaky New World Chardonnay by the glass. Eurgh… First up is a dish of scallops in “marinara” sauce. The scallops are okay, they could be seared a little better, but again the sauce drowns them out and the pungent garlic bread doesn’t help there either. The second course of clam pasta, on the other hand, lacks oceanic punch and is rather bland.

Michel: “No, that’s no good. You’ve wasted some delicious scallops there.” (Young chef’s crushed expression)

Greg: “It needs an extra something to help bring the flavour out.” (Vague attempt at consolation)

I try to block out the accordion music by recreating Morrissey in my head: “In a seaside town, they forgot to close you down. Come, Armageddon, come, Armageddon, come…”

To be fair, both Moustache and Chez Didi fail in some way. However, I liked Moustache, the kitsch interior, the chat of the locals, the owner’s slightly weary yet gentle face. He’d placed his catering certificates from a college in Okinawa on the wall, Chez Didi was all about Marc and his Marseillais dad, there was even a book for sale. If you wear that as a restaurant, if it’s part of your claim, you have to live up to it. Taking care of little details (choice of pastis, an Olympique de Marseille poster or two) would greatly help.

The coffee, Nespresso, was welcome though! And hard to fuck up. I see on one of those videos that it was Illy previously.

I walked back towards the hotel and popped into Amurita no Niwa for desert and a final chat. I got the impression from them that Chez Didi was somewhat out of Marc Panther’s hands these days. As one local information booklet has it, it’s “Marc Panther’s produced restaurant”. Although that probably actually mean Marc Panther the [music] producer’s restaurant. Anyway, he’s effectively put his name on it, written the book, the first version of the menu and possibly more or less walked away with the cultural, if not financial, profit. Quite possibly, there was a more Marseillais thing going on at first and it didn’t work out. Tourists didn’t find it French enough. More accordion, please! Marc is probably a pleasant enough bloke, but he needs to stop fannying around his luxury villa and keep a closer eye on the kitchen and the rosé supplies. To be frank, part of my issue with this place is (regardless of the current extent of his actual involvement) that it is a restaurant born out of financial privilege, whereas Moustache does not enjoy that cushion of advantage. He can afford to do better.

The festival is cancelled due to the typhoon. I had an excellent chocolate pavé with ice cream, some iced chai to finish. They are doing everything right there! I suspect that they possibly speak more English than I let them so fear not, lonesome traveller!

What to do today amidst the wind and rain? Well, there is an invitation from a certain lady of a certain age for lunch, but Ishigaki, like anywhere in the world, has its share of drunken promises and I shall not be too crestfallen if that comes to nowt.

There’s always A&W…

Préparation

30 mn

Cuisson

10 mn

4 personnes

Ingrédients

• 2 poires
• 1 ananas
• 4 étoiles de badiane
• 500 gr de miel
• 2 cl de pastis
• 100 gr de sucre
• 50 gr de beurre
• 1 citron
• 4 brochettes

Préparation

Epluchez les poires, coupez-les en 6 et citronnez-les pour éviter qu’elles noircissent.

Epluchez et coupez l’ananas en 4 puis enlevez le coeur.

Recoupez l’ananas en 5, dans le sens de la longueur.

Dans une poêle, faites fondre le beurre.

Mettez les morceaux de fruits à colorer, avec la badiane.

Saupoudrez-les régulièrement avec le sucre.

Versez ensuite le pastis et remuez délicatement le tout.

Sur chaque brochette, alternez les morceaux de fruits.

Pendant ce temps, faites fondre le miel avec un peu de jus de citron.

Arrosez les brochettes de miel, avant de servir.

Retrouvez nos autres recettes en cliquant sur cette image

]]> http://tincganota.wordpress.com/2009/10/18/pastis-de-xocolata/ Sun, 18 Oct 2009 13:51:59 +0000 Carla http://tincganota.wordpress.com/2009/10/18/pastis-de-xocolata/

Ingredients:

• 350 gr de xocolata
• 200 gr de sucre
• Una cullerada de farina
• 250 gr de mantega
• 4 ous
• Decoració (fruita)

Per començar a fer el pastís es posa el forn a 180º mentre es fa la massa. Es barregen els ous amb el sucre i la farina i quan ja està ben barrejat se li afegeixen 200gr de xocolata i 200 gr de mantega desfets prèviament al bany maria o al microones. Quan ja estigui feta la massa s’afegeix en un motlle untat amb mantega i enfarinat. Es posa al forn durant 30 minuts.

Quan ja estigui fet, es desfà la resta de la xocolata (150gr) amb la mantega (50gr) i se li afegeix per sobre per tal de fer la cobertura. Es decora amb fruita al gust i es posa a la nevera fins que estigui dura la xocolata i ja estarà llest per servir!

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Lo ignoró – La pegatina

I like to think I’m a bit of a new man. You know, in touch with my inner soft furnishings. I don’t just watch films about war and I’ve been to a musical. I can cook and get a lump in my throat watching Watership Down.

So much so, it seems that I could be mistaken for a woman.

This has happened to me once before when, in a bar in France, a lady who had consumed enough Pastis to intoxicate the entire Foreign Legion from behind a dune, tapped me on the shoulder and in a gravelly voice borne of smoking Gaulloises since the cradle, enquired, “mademoiselle?”.

That relationship never had a future………

More recently it has happened in the blogosphere, which doesn’t really surprise me as a lot of HR people are women a lot of bloggers are women…so combine the two and Bob’s your Auntie.

Anyway, it made me wonder this.

If we put aside the arguments about whether HR as a profession is any good or not for the moment and accept the stereotypes given to it (remember: we are as other people see us).

Is HR viewed as being un-commercial and ineffective because there are more women in it?

Or are women attracted to HR because its appeal is being less hard edged and commercial and more intuitive?

And is the only way to change the perceptions of HR to recruit more men and change its modus operandi?

21 West 9^th Street (Btwn 5^th and 6^th)

New York City

212-358-0228

I had drinks a few weeks ago with friends at Hotel Griffou.  We thought the atmosphere was really cool and on Wednesday we went back and tried the food.

I’m not sure that Hotel Griffou is actually hotel, but walk down the stairs of its discreet awning on 9^th street and you enter an old world sepia-tinted drinking parlor with multiple side rooms and cozy tables.  In the dining area we were in the theme is a messy art studio: unfinished looking paintings and jars full of paintbrushes.  The general feeling inside kind of reminds me of a smaller version of The Jane Street.

Before going for dinner I mentioned it to a few friends who gave bad reviews of the food, so I was a little nervous, but I have to say that I completely disagree.  We tried a few things and shared everything. Some highlights were the lobster thermidor fondue appetizer and the scallop entrée.  I personally ordered the “Steak Diane,” which was lovely.  My friend next to me had bone marrow with his meat, and sorry for the cheesy pun, but I didn’t have the guts to try it.  Everyone was very happy with the food and we were all a bit uncomfortably full afterwards.  The wine list at Griffou was great but I would stay away from their specialty cocktail list.  They’ve tried too hard to be unique on this and it’s not working… one of the drinks tasted more like a wheat grass shot and my friend told me the spicy tequila one gave him heartburn for the rest of our night!

As far as the history of Hotel Griffou and its name, I recently read that in order to be a success in NYC, there has to be history, and if there is none, create it.  So the word on the street is that Hotel Griffou used to be a brothel run by Madame Griffou and they have based their menu around this with clever names for “Mamma’s recipes” and “trophy wife” drinks.

I have a theory about why I heard bad reviews, they came from models and I have been full from that dinner for the past two days… I’m not sure they even ate the food.  Hotel Griffou is owned by the people from Freemans, Waverly Inn, and Pastis and I love it, which seems to be a unique opinion on the Web.  I will definitely go back… The food is good, just a bit too heavy, and the eclectic staff is nice and knowledgeable.

BY: LAUREN BROWN

Pastis

Pastis sprung to life to fill the void left by the banning of absinthe in France in the early part of the last century. Well, that’s probably a misstatement, as it was years after the ban that Pastis came along. But damn it, the French like their anise-flavoured hooch and that’s all that matters. Absinthe, Pernod, Pastis (sometimes called Ricard) are all unique in character and composition. But they have in common a tongue-numbing anise-like flavour (which is not always derived from anise – Absinthe gets its taste from wormwood, Pernod from anise and Pastis from star anise & licorice root) and the ouzo effect.

Pastis avec de l’eau

The ouzo effect, or spontaneous emulsion, is the world greatest passive-aggressive bar trick. Everyone that thinks you’re weird for drinking the stuff in the dusty old bottle, suddenly wants to talk to you when they see the clear brown liqueur turn a milky yellow as you add water. Then, when you try to explain it (or they smell it) they are instantly reassured that yes you are, in fact, weird. Much like the writer of this paper (here), that measured the size of anthenol droplets in the spontaneous emulsification of Pastis using small-angle neutron scattering techniques… I was about to say “no girlfriends over there”, but then I saw it was written by a woman… (BTW, the droplets are on the order of one micron).

And with that, my glass is getting dry and my lids are drooping. SKOL!

Pastis is one of those super trendy restaurants that I hear about and see on Sex and the City, but never think I’ll actually go to. First, can I even get a table? Second, is it super expensive? Third, is it just plain-old-lame to go somewhere so trendy?

Well, my husband and I found ourselves hungry and in the Meat Packing District on Labor Day and started walking around looking for a table. The Standard Grill, nope – they don’t serve food from 4-5:30. Ditto for three other places. So finally, we landed at Pastis out of desperation!

It was a weird time of day to be eating dinner, but we got a table, so we had to make the most of it.

For an appetizer, I had the Fresh Arugala Salad with Parmesan and Lemon(!)

It was a hefty portion for $11 and I plowed through the entire thing. Any green partnered with cheese, is a-ok-by me! It was very light, had very little oil olive dressing and was entirely refreshing. I added a little salt and pepper to it – perhaps it could have used a bit more dressing. Though, I admit, it was healthier without it. A+

Ran had a less healthy choice (God love him!) with the Onion Soup Gratinée. <img alt=”" Which he allowed me to take a few bites of, and it was probably the best french onion soup I’ve ever tasted. It had a little bit of oil on the top of it, not sure if it was released from the cheese or what? But, it was very decadent and tasty. The bread inside was also soaked with the broth and very tender. A+

For main entrees we decided on Homemade Fennel Ravioli for me and Steak Frites for Ran.
The ravioli were stuffed with a green filling and I found them to be pretty interesting, but not the most amazing ravioli in the world. The roasted tomato that accompanied it and the parmesan cheese around the ravioli were the highlight of the dish. B

The steak of the Steak Frites was a hanger steak. The frites were very crunchy fries that soaked up all the juices from the steak and became wonderful vehicles for steak drippings, thus, making it ok to eat steak drippings! A (the Steak Frites at Pomme de Terre in Brooklyn is just as good)

Finally, dessert. Chocolate Mousse.

So light and fluffy and filled with a deep chocolate flavor. It was buttery almost, the texture being so creamy and smooth. I wanted desperately to finish the entire thing, but couldn’t, it was just a tad too rich. Hands down, the best chocolate mousse I’ve ever had. A++

And of course, Creme Brulee.

I didn’t try any of Ran’s Creme Brulee (I had the best chocolate mousse ever in front of me!). Ran says “It’s up there with the best Creme Brulee I’ve ever had.” A+

So, was it worth it?

The check was over $100 (with the tip) and considering we had a 3 course meal (but no drinks) I think it was standard pricing for the Meat Packing District.

I think it was worth it. Great food, definitely would go back. And hell, I’m going to just write in my food journal “Pastis” and leave it at that. No need to figure out how many points were in the two bites of Onion Soup Gratineé. I’m going to file this one under “great meals that I enjoyed, and moved on from!”