Langer's Pastrami

This is not exactly a charming neighborhood, but I was committed to tasting what has been touted as the best pastrami in the country during my recent trip to LA. All, of course as a prelude to making my own pastrami. My pals Andrew and Damon facilitated the pilgrimage.

The interior, as you can see is vintage 1975. The real thing, not touted up or reinvented. The waitstaff were original (see upper left), the banquettes, plastic coated menu, and even the nice Jewish man who took this picture for us. He self identified as such, even though I suspected he was paid to sit there to lend authenticity. We tried the brisket, corned beef w/ sauerkraut and the famed pastrami. Fries came with, and I had a cream soda.

Here is the sandwich, drawn and quartered. The coleslaw, I must admit, threw me a bit, and I think it would have been better without it. The pickles were a little younger and tamer than I like. And the whole maybe a little too soft and yeilding.

Here I am scrutinizing he contents. I have to admit, on it's own it is quite possibly the best pastrami in the country. Maybe the universe. But I saw no Martians.

Ok, it was indeed pretty damned amazing. But here is what I intend to do differently. I'm not sure if the meat was smoked or not, but I think it should be. This was not terribly different from the corned beef, which as a sandwich was actually superior. I am a toast freak, and I love sauerkraut. So that's what make that sandwich work. But if you took pastrami, on toasted rye, a little more sour and not so soft, and left off the cole slaw, added mustard instead. Nothing else. Then I think it could rank up there among the celestial blessed sandwiches. Samachisa bootifa, samachisa fine, I like samachis, I eat them all the time. I eat them for my dinner.

Stay tuned.

Little Bay

A funny thing kept happening at this restaurant I dined in last night. On the way back to my table after a toilet break (of which there were many) I kept getting lost. I just couldn't understand it. Alright I admit that I had consumed a fair few pints of the black stuff, you know to honor Mr St.Patrick and the one quarter pint of Irish blood that is in me but there must have been other malevolent forces at work, messing with my brain. In the sober light of day, I'd say that the pixie who dreamed up the interior of Little Bay had a lot to do with my befuddlement and if I ever catch it, I'll lock it up with the beer monkey that keeps stealing money from my wallet.

We were actually out celebrating the birthday of a lesser known saint, namely my Nanny Pat, the original old woman who wore purple, at her favorite local haunt in Kilburn. I'd been to Little Bay plenty of times before, the Farringdon branch that is and have always been impressed with their ethos of producing quality food at reasonable prices. I also like the mad 'Greco-Roman' decor at Farringdon a la Llewelyn-Bowen but the Kilburn branch was something else . It literally is a labyrinth of rooms and cubby holes and stairs with tables that are set at different height levels . Some diners could be found bunking up on high, overhead other patrons, some were hidden away in tiny alcoves, bathed in candlelight. Add walls flocked with cherubs and religious figures, with plush velvet drapes hanging from the ceiling and a profusion of gold gilt everywhere, the atmosphere creates such a sensory overload that it was no wonder that I kept getting lost on the way back from the loo!*

So what about the food then, well I kicked off Choux de Crab, or if your french is rusty, Choux Buns stuffed with Crab Meat, Ginger and Chillies, with Citrus Hollandaise (I don't think this is the literal translation somehow).

Followed by Chargrilled Lamb Steak with Honey Glazed Vegetables and Green Peppercorn Sauce.

I didn't go for dessert in the end but Julie, one of Nan's friends who talks to walls, had the White Chocolate and Pistachio Parfait.

Overall the meal was a great success, the combination of flavours in the starter was a little bit muddled and the presentation was pretty much the same but the lamb steak was cooked just the way I like it, medium rare and the sauce tasted delicious. Julie threatened to stab anyone who came near her parfait with a fork so I can't really comment but she devoured it in seconds so I can only presume that it was really really really good. We went in for the house wines, red and white, which were perfectly quaffable although drinking both in equal quantities do not set you up well for the morning after. Or afternoon. Or evening come to that. And by the way, I blame you Nan for being born on one of the most alcoholic days of the year. Nothing to do with me, oh no. Unfortunately our group wasn't quite big enough to get on the 3 courses for £10 deal and it was a shame that the proprietor couldn't be cajoled into letting us have the food at that rate but still I think the overall bill amounted to £20 a head. Which isn't bad value at all really so why don't you get lost and go to Little Bay, you'll have a good time.

*I have been reliably informed that whilst the restaurant is quirky with it's little nooks and crannies, it isn't as cavernous as I imagined it to be and if I kept finding myself lost in there then I really must have been quite pissed.

Food Culture of Pets

I got to thinking just now, after reading a little facebook message from Warren Belasco about how his pets might influence his writing habits. Interesting idea. Sure, typing accidents. Random inspiration. Then I came home. Sadie asked me for dried Japanese Cuttle Fish. Seriously. She asks for it in Japanese. Since I don't speak Japanese I assume she's saying it correctly. Mi'aou-ah. I shared.


But this then got me seriously thinking. This here is Ray Bolger. When he was a kitten, he looked just like the Scarecrow, danced well too. He came into my house, started eating then and hasn't stopped since. But take a look at what this beast is doing.

He actually scoops his food from the bowl. Messily, we admit, but usually lands it right into the water bowl. Leaves it there for about 10 seconds, decides that it's soaked enough, and deftly scoops it out with his paw and puts it daintily in his mouth.

Unlike the other cats, he eats nothing but this. And has a such a strange ritual that no one could possibly have taught him, I think we should seriously be thinking about food culture beyond the parameters of our own species. Obviously, he shares this with no one, but decided on his own weird preference, and insists on dunking. And has become masterful at it. Don't you find this perplexingly thought-provoking? We assume society gives us our eating habits, but here is something he shares with no other cat or human in the house, and figured it out on his own.

Capirotada

I'm currently writing a paper for the Renaissance Society conference next week about 3 cookbooks from the 1540s and the mutual influence among Italy, France and England. Anyway, I came aross this recipe that appears virtually the same in two of them called variously soupe capilorde or suppa di capirotta. Both are ultimately versions of an older Spanish dish called Capirotada. But it just dawned on me as I was writing that this is a version of the souped up (literally) grilled cheese ideas that have been floating around lately among food bloggers. Except this one is literally floating around.


Just try to imagine this. Roasted capon breast taken off the bone and shredded. Think leftover chicken here. Then take slices of good toast and fry them until crisp and brown. Then take a bowl and put down a "sop" of the bread, cover with some chicken, some cheese and a whole mess of spices. Especially cinnamon, some sugar and ginger. More IS better. And make layer after layer of these ingedients. Then pour good broth over it into the bowl. A floating chicken grilled cheese sandwich. I think I may just have to make this tonight.


Oh, and if you're wondering, yes, it's descendant is the capirotada of Mexico, a sweet cheesy bread pudding. And incidentally I have seen baroque recipes for this that are also then baked so the cheese all melts and the bread really soaks it up, and then it's garnished with cockscombs, testicles, circles of marrow, ambergris, gooseberries.


"Lambs and slothes and carp and fruitbats and orangutans and breakfast cereals.... skip a bit brother." Who can name the source of that feast?

Houston, we have a problem

Holy Mother of God! WHAT IS THAT SMELL?

Hmm, this doesn't look good and doesn't come anywhere near to smelling good either. The last time I encountered such an aroma was when I eventually peeled off my socks and boots after a 5 day stint at a particularly damp Glastonbury. That tour of duty resulted in trench foot and such was the stench, I had to stick my feet out of the car window for the entire 4 hour journey home and I can tell you, it took a good while after that to nurse them back to fragrant health. The source of the offending funk this time however is coming from my sourdough starter. Like I said this doesn't look good.

So have I gone wrong somewhere? Well at this stage, it's hard to say. The recipe implicitly says that I had to wrap the grapes in muslin and submerge in flour and dough and leave for 2 weeks. It does indeed say that after such time the mixture will smell slightly unpleasant and have a pink tinge to it. Apparently it is at this point that you can begin to 'feed' it but the tears streaming from my eyes are prompting me to have doubts especially as the starter is only 7 days old.

Before taking any action, I decided to ask some searching questions on a foodie message board and the resulting answers has thrown a multitude of spanners in the works. There's a lot of people out there who seem to really know their stuff and now I am beginning to admit to myself that this whole business of making your own starter demands a lot more respect than I gave it in the first place. The amount of information given is quite dizzying but there seems to be two factors. The first bone of contention is that I have left the mix for too long before feeding it to encourage the natural yeasts to develop, and secondly the quantities of flour and water I've used are far too much. Most of the posted methods take smaller amounts, in which you generally begin the feeding process after 24 hours. After a period of 5 days of feeding you should get a nice yeasty smelling, bubbling mix that you can contain within a jam jar. I have a big bowl of lifeless grey sludge that's covered with murky brown water and smells like the cat has shit in it.

So where do I go from here? Maybe I should try and call Mr and Mrs Sam Clark and quiz them but it's unlikely that I'll get through to them at Exmouth Market HQ. Maybe I should just plough on and proceed as instructed. Or maybe I should just chuck it all away and start again. The one saving grace has come from one foodie advisor who has suggested that the brownish liquid could in fact with time turn to alcohol. And that could open up a whole new world of possibilities!

Sir it's only wafer thin

If I think about it, kicking off this blog with a title such as "Projects Mayhem Parts 1 and 2" is a bit of a misnomer. It implies that I'm embarking on some kind of audacious adventure where I shall be pushing culinary boundaries, breaking down walls, taking myself out of the comfort zone and promoting an effort to be truly epicurious.

However, on reflection perhaps I should have kicked off with "Project Sitting On My Arse and Look In The Fridge From Time To Time" as that is what I have basically done for the last few days. Although I look a bit like him (shaved head-check, angular glasses-check, er thats it) it doesn't really make me out to be the new Heston does it.

Maybe I am being a little too hard on myself here as the Duck Bresaola turned out very well, a little bit on the salty side but overall, the flavours of the star anise, coriander seed and zest came through. In fairness, I left the duck breasts in the cure slightly longer than I should have done before rinsing them off and air-drying in the fridge for two more days, which I think may account for the saltiness but if I'd had something like this, well that may have made all the difference. I sharpened my trusty Global as best as I could but couldn't quite get the delicate paper thin slices that I wanted. Yet, having served it up with some lamb's lettuce, drizzled with walnut oil and lemon juice, one of my test subjects remarked that it reminded her of parma ham so perhaps I wasn't that far off after all. Will definitely have a crack at this again as it would make a good stress free starter for a dinner party, though if only watching the fridge wasn't so boring.

No F*** off, I'm full!

Do(ug)h!

Its alive, ITS ALIVE!

Ok not yet but it will be soon

Of course I'm talking about my sourdough starter which I started this morning, thus taking the first steps I have ever made towards baking bread. Looking around at the exhaustive amount of information on the Internet, I have possibly bitten off more than I can chew. One particularly comprehensive site states unless you know what you're doing, making your own starter for the first time is akin to trying to build your own bike before you've learnt how to ride it. Well in the spirit of adventure I say up yours to that, I don't need stabilisers, my Dad always held onto the seat whilst walking behind me.

So the basic premise of creating a sourdough starter is to try and capture some of the wild yeasts that float around us within the dough and then feed it with flour to keep it alive, replacing what you take out when baking your loaf. If you get it right and take care of it, the starter or 'mother' will stay alive in a yeasty, bacterially kind of way (you can tell I'm not a scientist) and you will have access to an endless supply of tangy, moreish, yummy bread. If you get it wrong, I've heard you can end up with equivalent of paint thinner.

I've used a recipe from the first Moro cookbook which uses grapes giving a head start for getting those essential wild yeasts in there. Simply mix up 500 grams of strong flour with 1 litre of water in a suitable bowl, tie up a bunch of grapes in a piece of fine cloth ie. muslin, crush the grapes and submerge into the watery dough. Leave for 2 weeks.

Can it be any easier?