Kitchen Nightmares

 

    I told my son, you pick the restaurant.
We were in an armpit of a town, an overnight pitstop from point a to point b during our family vacation.  The son had been a total trooper, so it was his pick.
     "Italian," he said, fully committed.
The front desk recommended Mike's Palace.
     Mike's Palace's menu was filled with columns and acropolis font.  Nice.   They offered Italian, American, Mexican and Greek, of course.  Olympian flat screen tvs promoted entree after entree.  The owners sat at a table by themselves, ignoring the flustered waitresses, occasionally coming out of hiding in order to seat determined customers, who apparently weren't going to leave quietly.  One owner in particular spent an inordinate amount of time picking her teeth, and startled a diner by abruptly returning a chair to the customer's table.  In short, this was not a promise of cultural fusion but of cultural discombobulation.  I lowered my hopes accordingly.
       The menu had truly remarkable offerings, braised asparagus with brown butter and parmesan, traditional pumpkin ravioli,  an ambitious watermelon and feta salad.  The polpettini were advertised as a mixture of beef and veal. You can't screw up a meatball, right?  I attempted to lower my expectations.
     I requested the polpettini from the waitress, who replied "The what?"
     I foraged ahead.  "Your menu calls them polpettini,  The meatballs."
    Moments later she brought a huge platter of antipasti to our table.  We had not ordered the antipasti.  I ordered a glass of wine, to help me through this travail.  As I waited, I wondered what Gordon Ramsay would make of this mashup.

Out came the wine, the pizza, my son's lasagna and my meatballs.
I took a bite of each. 
Every bite was heavenly.  The lasagna tasted as if the pasta were freshly made, the meatballs lovingly seasoned, the pizza a delight.  We were surprised to have enough leftovers for a cold pizza breakfast the following morning.

We tipped the waitress happily, and passed along our compliments to the chef.  (As we left I scowled disapproval at the still-banqueting owners, but they remained quite oblivious and unperturbed).

What culinary surprises, heavenly or otherwise, have you encountered this summer?

Strawberry Daquiris

In this heat we're sticking low to the ground, and rising only for something cold and frosty.

Hull one half pound of strawberries.  Macerate in a tablespoon of sugar for ten minutes.
In your blender add a cup of crushed ice, the macerated strawberries, and three ounces of rum or vodka.  Blend.

Serve in frosty cocktail glasses and hide near the air conditioner vent.
Or, skip the ethanol and start your day berry berry  happily.

Current Addiction

Uninspired by the same old chicken marinade I tried a new one.  I loved the flavors, and how tender the yogurt seemed to make the chicken.  We grilled it quickly--it's too hot to stay outdoors too long!

You will need:

 one pound or so fileted chicken breasts.  Place in a ziploc bag.  I like to do as Marcella Hazan does, and  turn a single breast into two or three flat filets, depending on the thickness.

Mix: 1/2 cup yogurt, 1/2 cup cilantro, two minced garlic cloves, half a tablespoon paprika and ground cumin, 1/2 teaspoon salt.  Don't be stingy with the salt, as it helps permeate and flavor the chicken.  Smooth with a tablespoon or more of olive oil, pour into baggie, seal, and mush about until it's evenly distributed.

Since I know I'll be cooking it thoroughly soon, I prefer to marinate meats at room temperature, it speeds up the process.  After two or more hours, grill.  Serve on pilaf, with a delightful salad.  You'll love it!

Namaste

Street vendor Kanheri caves in Sanjay Gandhi National Park



Makes me want to pick up a slice of that star fruit and dip it in the orange colored seasoning.  No, makes me consider traveling to India.  Have you been?

The Thirty Day Challenge

 

Thanks to my buddy I was exposed to yet another TED talk, although this should be filed under TED lite, as it was three minutes instead of the usual 20.  His premise is quite simple, you want to stretch a bit, try something new and keep it up for 30 days.

But what, I pondered.  Try a new recipe each day for 30 days?  I already cook, does that count?
Post 30 days straight?  Hmmm, something new, something borrowed, something blew--

Y'all got any ideas?  The world is our oyster, every now and then.  What new experience would you be willing to commit 30 days to?

The Opposite of Schadenfreude

We all know that dank and nasty feeling, schadenfreude,  a gleeful emotional hiss of laughter at someone else's misfortune.  A satisfying sensation that panders to our vanity, and our own misguided view of personal justice. 

The other day, as a read a retraction of the Clinton and the swarm of bees story, I noticed they were quoting Ayelet Waldman, "journalist," who was apparently on the tarmac with Ms. Clinton.    Waldman and I go way back, ever since I fingered one of her published mommy mysteries on a table at Vroman's.  How had she swung that?  I was a mommy, I was a mystery writer, what false step had I taken?   There, on the book jacket, was what I had missed.  Harvard Law School attorney, married to Michael Chabon.

If you don't know him, Michael Chabon, at 23,  was a literary wunderkind.  Twenty odd years later he still makes novels pop, and  in addition is a screenwriter.  Remember the Spiderman with Tobey Maguire? So perhaps, in addition to Waldman's literary talent, she had a connection or two.

Since that fateful afternoon, I have lurked in Waldman's life, shocked to read of her bipolar diagnosis, been amused her tweets regarding her lust for her hubby, informed by her essays on mental illness, motherhood, and marriage.  And now, close enough to Clinton in Malawi to be a source.   I asked my own husband (neither novelist nor screenwriter) what was the opposite of schadenfreude?

He smiled and said, "That's easy.  Old-fashioned envy."

Waiting Game

 

I am waiting for a response.  The answer may or may not be a new fork in the road.  I should have had the answer weeks ago, and, who knows, I may have the answer before I post this, but the waiting gnaws away at me, consumes me, banishes thoughts of anything else.  I find myself sucked of all productivity, living a series of "what ifs" followed by "then, this".  Ugh!!!

The dramatic tone is meant to be ironic neurotic---

How do you wait? 

You can listen (ignore the shlocky image) to Joe Jackson waiting for the verdict here.

What Becomes a Goddess Most?

A novel, of course.


Margaret Finnegan's wild romp The Goddess Lounge is feminist fusion, wedding the present day to the
epic Odyssean tale.  In honor of her hot-off-the press publication, a toast, and a virtual menu.

While we know Mt Olympian gods live on nectar and ambrosia, our goddess has lustier appetites.

To start:
sparkling pinot, a deep dry sparkling wine, "To Margaret and your successful publication!" The dry wine emphasizes the silky, slightly sweet foie gras on brioche toasts.

First course:
Antipasto:  a hearty platter of soppressato, caponato, mortadella and pungent provolone.  Keep sipping the sparkling pinot, and when it runs out, a bottle of lambrusco will do.

Main: 
Pasta a la carbonara, heavy on the cream, extra bacon please, and keep grating that fresh parmesan until I say when.
Wait, you've got a fresh truffle there?  Shave away!

If you've sworn off chardonnay, bored by the whole thing, now's the time to reconnect to something oaky and/or buttery.

Dessert:
Direct from Angelique's cafe on the Rue de Rivoli, Paris:  hot chocolate (where it is rumored they melt chocolate bars to achieve the perfect quality) topped by creme de chantilly.

You will need nothing more after this, I promise, except some quiet time to finish reading this great book.