I’m Cured
September 1, 2009 – 3:39 pm
The Alaskan salmon available in the Pacific Northwest is off the chain these days, and I’ve been doing a bit of curing and smoking. The bagel pictured features gravlax made from Alaskan Sockeye salmon that was handed to me on the street as a gift from a random fisherman (this happens to me on a somewhat regular basis), but the orders I’m fielding this week are actually being made from Alaskan Silver Coho, which I actually prefer despite its lower fat content. And the Alaskan Chinook I saw when I placed my order at the market? It was made for gravlax. No one in their right mind would cook such a sublime slab of protein.
Not much else to say. Just wanted to share the pretty picture with you.
These Arms Of Mine
August 24, 2009 – 12:59 amI became irretrievably enamored by octopus salad during my time in Croatia, where it is enjoyed all along the Istrian and Dalmatian coasts of that most beautiful nation. Pictured here is a typical Dalmatian antipasti configuration that I enjoyed with friends one lazy afternoon at Restoran Planjak on the isle of Korčula.
But how can I share only one photo from Korčula with you when it’s such a magnificent place?
As for octopus, this little squirt looks as if he’s in a hurry to get somewhere, doesn’t he? I assure you, he got nowhere.
Due to his dimunitive proportions the handsome fellow on the plate is most commonly referred to as a baby octopus. Actually he is not Octopus vulgaris at all, but rather a fully grown adult representative of his own species. The distinction is actually made in the layfolk’s nomenclature for the eight-armed lookalikes around the Adriatic and greater Mediterranean system. Look closely, will you?
Whereas your ordinary, everyday Octopus vulgaris has two rows of suckers on each tentacle, this musky octopus (Eledone moschata) has only one. The musky octopus (moscardino bianco in Italian, muzgavac in Croatian) is so named for the distinctive effluvium of musk that fills the air when one is pulled from the water. It is common to shallower waters of the western Mediterranean (such as the Adriatic Sea, between Italy and Croatia) and is substantially smaller and more tender than the typical octopus. I’m a staunch proponent of maximum tenderness, but I only used musky octopus for the salad pictured below due to the unavailability that day of Octopus vulgaris.
And you will notice my addition of mussels to the preparation. This is atypical to strictly traditional Dalmatian octopus salad, but not prohibited in the grander sense of Mediterranean mixed seafood salads. One of the best seafood salads I had in Croatia included octopus, prawns, squid and little sand crabs. That was at the charmingly rustic Konoba Ranč in the olive groves above Tučepi, between Makarska and Podgora on the old Magistrala highway.
If you’ve had octopus as thinly sliced nigiri sushi, you’re familiar with its tendency toward a tough, tire-rubber texture when simply and quickly blanched. But there are several techniques that can be employed to tenderize octopus to melt-in-the-mouth perfection. Most cooks will freeze the big-headed bastards overnight. Octopus is often frozen as preliminary tenderizing, and much of the octopus available in the US has been frozen if it’s not when you purchase it. As you may already know, freezing breaks down the cellular structure of animal and vegetable matter. The result is less resistance to the bite.
In coastal areas of Africa, the method for tenderizing octopus consists of little more than handing the catch to local boys who earn a living by slamming the eight-armed unfortunates against the stone wharf repeatedly. Sure, they could use a meat mallet, but that’d take forever. The photos I’ve seen of African octopus being pounded depict large creatures that look as if they could consume a man whole. Ghastly beasts of the deep, but delicious nonetheless. I’m also told that despite the natural toughness of their cooked flesh after death, they have a very gentle disposition in life.
But the musky octopus doesn’t require nearly as much tenderizing before preparation. When I cleaned this fresh, unfrozen musky octopus, he went right into a pot of salted boiling water with a few dashes of red wine vinegar and a couple of wine corks. The addition of a wine cork to the cooking liquid is a trick some Dalmatians employ to further tenderize the meat. Try it when you attempt to make your own octopus salad using this elegantly simple Dalmatian recipe.
Serves 4-6
1 large octopus, cleaned and rinsed
2 to 3 wine corks
1 red onion, thinly sliced
olive oil
wine vinegar
juice of 1 lemon
salt and pepper to taste
1 clove garlic, minced
2 to 3 tablespoons chopped parsley
2 tablespoons capers
Pound the octopus with a meat mallet. Place in a saucepan with water to just cover the octopus, add the wine corks. Simmer over medium-low heat for about 3 hours, or until desired tenderness is achieved. Let cool in its cooking water, drain, then chop or slice the octopus and place in salad bowl. Add the sliced onion, olive oil, wine vinegar, lemon juice, garlic, capers and parsley, then season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve on a bed of crisp lettuce.
Here in Portland, my friend Marco serves both an entree of braised Oregon octopus and a small plate of baby octopus on crostini at his excellent trattoria, Bastas on NW 21st Avenue. I experienced a flood of memories when I had the small plate last night. But you will not find musky octopus anywhere in the United States. Trust me. If you absolutely must try it, you’ll have to visit the Dalmatian coast. For that, I suggest you contact my friend Alan Mandić at Culinary Croatia and tell him I sent you.
Thoroughly Un-Vigorating
August 18, 2009 – 4:24 am
I used to drink a LOT of coffee before I tried Viso. But since moving to Portland last year and discovering the amazing properties of this locally produced energy and vitality beverage, I’ve cut back to four cups of coffee a week or less. Not only does Viso contain the full recommended daily allowance of vitamins and minerals, but four of its eight flavors also deliver a 300-milligram payload of pure, naturally derived caffeine - and no jitters. I would venture a guess that workers in Portland’s bar and restaurant industry are at least 80% responsible for the success of the beverage since it almost entirely eradicates any vestige of hangover within minutes. Verily, Viso is amazing stuff that tastes great, and its inventor, Alex Ilica, has been on my Christmas Fruitcake list since I began drinking it. But I now reluctantly consider removing his name from that very short list of recipients…
When I stopped at the Plaid Pantry on NW 23rd for my daily dose of Viso Vigor yesterday, I couldn’t find the familiar blue bottle you see pictured above. The lemon, lime and strawberry-flavored Vigor is the best-selling variety of Viso - and my personal favorite - so I assumed that the stock had been depleted. When I asked the cashier if there were any in the back, she informed me that Viso would now be coming in a can, and that Vigor was the first flavor to get rotated due to its high-performing sales. I went back and located the new arrival in the Viso family, and at that moment a vaguely unsettling emotion registered deep within my psyche. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but I managed to make it to the cashier, settle up and then step outside to enjoy my vitamins in the sun.
I popped the tab and tilted the can to my mouth. The unsettling feeling deepened as the cool liquid washed over my palate. This Viso Vigor tasted… incorrect. I looked on the side of the can to find that Vigor’s formula is now bereft of the balancing tartness of natural lime flavor, without which lemon and strawberry are kind of clueless. I looked around the parking lot for something black to affix to my arm in solemn public mourning. What’s more, the can imparts… How you say? A metallic flavor? The rationale for the shift in packaging is attributed on the can to improved environmental friedliness, as cans are apparently softer on the environment than plastic bottles. This may be true, but what of the environment in my mouth, where my taste buds are located?
The assault on the senses doesn’t stop there. Not only does the new canned Viso Vigor taste like Aluminum with Strawberry Nothing, but it comes in a yellow can. Yellow is a high frequency color that roots into the hidden corners of the awareness like a badger digging into a rotting log full of honey. The walls of some eating establishments are painted in a shade I refer to as Pissss Yellow to promote faster table turnover. Patrons are subconsciously rattled by the high-frequency hue, and so they are propelled by an mysterious impulse to eat briskly, pay their tab and escape the unsettling feeling of which they cannot locate the source.
“How fortunate, ladies! Your table has just come available and you shall wait no longer to enjoy a light repast of chicken salad on toast in our bright, breezy hall of nibbling. Leave your worldly cares at the podium and follow me…”
To me, yellow is a direct affront which cues my fight-or-flight response. I abhor the color yellow nearly as much as I loathe filthy, screeching baboons, and its presence on walls, drapes, floors or cans immediately causes me to scan the environs with a furrowed brow for whomever is responsible. I cannot ride in yellow cars without needing to be forcably restrained to the seat and blindfolded.
And the fact of my daily energy and vitality drink coming in yellow cans would be bad enough, but the text on the can has been amped up as well. Now Viso Vigor in a can recalls a particularly discomforting episode of Three’s Company. What was previously for me a positive lifestyle change in highly quaffable beverage format is now a dubious lifestyle accessory for hipsters in skinny jeans?
Observe:
But I really shouldn’t trifle over package design when the product within is a functionally superior nutritional supplement. I forgot to mention that the new, improved Viso is now made with organic fruit juice. Natural flavoring for Vigor is derived solely from organic strawberry and Meyer lemon juices. But no lime…
I understand the need to remain dynamic in business to capture and retain the fleeting American attention (which I probably lost after the 300th word of this post). I understand that cans are cheaper to package beverages in and easier to recycle. I understand that a yellow can will subconsciously inspire people to drink Viso Vigor more quickly and get rid of the can. And I hope that in addition to the organic improvement in the recipe, the developments in packaging will move Alex Ilica’s vision forward in health, environmental awareness and prosperity. I really do, because with all of its healthful and stimulating benefits, Viso is still a superior beverage in a market saturated with undernourishing, artificially flavored run-off.
But I may have to switch to green tea and multivitamins. Viso Vigor just doesn’t taste right anymore.
Hungary?
August 14, 2009 – 7:10 pm
Hungary’s capital city of Budapest is a glorious dark fairytale, a home to royalty, thieves, gypsies and fusions of all three. It is a city of castles, cathedrals and labyrinthine underground tunnels, a place where things are seldom what they seem. Once welcoming doors can suddenly open to stone walls, and Gothic wrought iron gates recall the arabesque gesticulations of a creeping ivy under the malformed grin of a gargoyle. In Budapest you’ll do best with a quick tongue, a silent gait and eyes in the back of your head. But one could even speculate as to whether the sinister aspect of the place is illusion, for when the sun shines in Budapest, there is a florid sweetness in the air that hides the fetid dampness of the crawling shadows from memory. It is a place of truly complex character whose imposing splendor remains etched in my own memory like a dark, backward nursery rhyme.
There is Hungary’s magnificent fortified capital, and then there is her food. It would be well worth your time to snatch up airline tickets or hop a train to Hungary, just to experience the food in its natural state. What began as the meat-heavy cauldron cuisine of the early Magyars drew influence over the centuries from the Saxons, Italians, Armenians, Russian Jews, Serbs, Ottoman Turks and Austrians who invaded or settled in the region. Quite simply, it is a melting pot cuisine of Ancient Asian simplicity embellished with Germanic, Latin and Slavic influence. Hungarian food is a vibrant tapestry of history woven in dark crimsons and burgundies, accented with pure gold thread.
As densely woven as that tapestry may be, Hungarian food is far more dense and rich. Stewed meat, potatoes, dumplings, grilled meat, noodles, roasted meat, buckwheat, piquant paprika sauces, stews, soups, stuffed meat, sour cream and decadent cakes and pastries. It is at once the gastronomy of pampered nobility and that of a robust agrarian peasantry. For the latter, every calorie is either put to work in the fields or layered under the skin as insulation from the bone rattling chill of winter on the Pannonian plain. If it says anything of the constitution of these people, a Hungarian will slather his bread with rendered pork fat before reaching for butter. But of all the goulash and goose liver, pálinka and patisserie I encountered in Budapest, it was the sausage that received the lion’s share of my attention. One could say that the soul of a nation is revealed in its lexicon of sausagery, and in Eastern Europe this is especially so. Hungarians make excellent sausage (kolbász in the Hungarian language), such as the assortment seen here at the Pálinka Festival.
And you can buy excellent sausages and charcuterie from roving butchers in little trucks. This one stops at the farmer’s market outside Kaiser’s in the 7th District, on Blaha Lujza tér.
When I began making sausage for friends and clients here in Portland, the first formulation I shared was that of the spicy smoked gyulai kolbász, so named for the town of Gyula from which it hails. A few of my more handsome links are pictured here.
Gyulai kolbász is a robust, semi-dry smoked link of coarsely ground pork shoulder and belly, seasoned with hot paprika, black pepper, garlic, onion and caraway seed. It can be sliced and eaten alone, grilled or pan fried lightly, or incorporated into soups and stews, such as the deliciously simple lecsó (pronounced “LEH-tcho”), a Hungarian bell pepper and tomato ratatouille introduced to Hungary by Slavonian Croats as sataraš (sah-tah-rahsh). There are endless variations of lecsó; the addition of eggs, rice, meat, dumplings and noodles are all within the realm of possibility, and it is often topped with a dollop of sour cream. It is extremely versatile as an addition to other dishes. Hungarians will make enormous batches of lecsó at the peak of pepper and tomato season in summer, then preserve it in jars for use year round. It can be eaten hot or cold, which makes for a lovely small plate in summer time. Last week I made a batch of lecsó with my own gyulai kolbász and enjoyed it as a cold light lunch. Exquisite.
To make your own as seen above, you’ll need:
1/2 cup smoked bacon, sliced into one-inch strips or diced
2 links of gyulai kolbasz or other smoked sausage, sliced
2 medium onions, sliced
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
1 lb. of sweet bell peppers, seeded and sliced. (Red peppers are practically mandatory, yellow and green are entirely acceptable, hot banana peppers can definitely be added to the mix )
3 large ripe tomatoes, peeled and diced (Well-drained canned tomatoes are fine to substitute)
1/2 Tbs. sugar
1/2 Tbs. salt
1 Tbs. or more of your favorite hot or sweet paprika (I recommend Szeged paprika)
Fry the bacon over medium heat until the fat is well rendered. Add the onions, garlic and kolbasz, stirring over low heat until you a nice caramelization is achieved. Reduce the heat and add the peppers. Simmer for about fifteen minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the tomato, paprika, salt and sugar, then simmer until peppers are tender and liquid is reduced. When it reaches the consistency of chunky salsa, it’s finished. Adjust salt and sugar to taste.
If you’re in Portland, you can order gyulai kolbász and smoked bacon for home delivery from me. I make them fresh to order, entirely from scratch, just like in the old country.