November 2006 Archives

I'm halfway done with two other posts, but am just too scatterbrained the last few days to finish them coherently. Instead, I'll confess some of the strange, perhaps even distasteful holiday foods to which I am secretly devoted. I got to thinking about the subject while planning my Thanksgiving menu. Every year, the holiday season causes some of my funny obsessions to rear their embarrassing heads. What are these dishes of shame, these celebratory foodstuffs I anticipate each year?

Well, for one, Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce. I adore that wiggly, ridged log of delightful sweet-tartness. I'm fond of cranberries generally, particularly in more respectable preparations, but that blue and white can holds a special place in my heart for reasons that go deeper than nostalgia. For one, the rich, butter-laden holiday plate needs a bright flavor note just to keep the palate awake. Of course, a well-made whole berry sauce can fill that role as well, but there's just something about that jelly texture that enthralls me. And of course, the whole point of cooking a turkey is to have leftover turkey sandwiches. My mom and I prefer ours on whole-grain bread with spicy honey mustard, a layer of cornbread dressing, and a thick slab of gelatinous cranberry goodness.

Even more humiliating, I love green bean casserole. Yes, the kind with the cream of mushroom soup and French's French-fried onions. Lord knows why. I learned to make béchamel specifically to use it instead of Campbell's cream of what ever in those kinds of old-fashioned recipes, and yet, I can't bring myself to tart up green bean casserole. It tastes perfect already, soft and creamy and salty, laden with those addictive crispy onion bits. Actually, those may be the secret of my devotion to green bean casserole. I have to buy the big can when I make it so I have plenty to munch on. They look funny, the coat the roof of your mouth, and yet, as I write this, I've developed a craving so intense my stomach just rumbled a little. I don't have the excuse of nostalgia on this one either. Since basically everyone in the world but me things this stuff is gross, I didn't really grow up with it. My grandmother makes it now, but I don't know that anyone but me eats it.

I enjoy these cool, drippy days when the winter rains finally come to the Bay Area; they give an illusion of changing seasons rare in our temperate climate. It's nice to put on my pumpkin-colored raincoat and tweed cap for the first time in months and head out to buy a new umbrella. It rains so infrequently during spring, summer, and early autumn, I invariably forget where I stored the previous season's umbrella and must replace it. I suspect that one day I'll open the right drawer or closet and find a mother load of previous season's parapluies.

While I'm out umbrella shopping, I'm also likely to pick up a few bunches of beets. For as much as I love eating adorable baby beets in the spring, I like them even better in the chilly days of autumn. The smell of damp earth and caramelized sugar while they roast seems to warm me from the inside. Plus, what better to counteract a damp, gray day than an intense infusion of beet pink?

Although I know it's possible to think of the pink as something of a menace, an infectious hue that must be segregated from all other foods until the last possible minute, I love that the color looks almost too intense to eat. That such a bright hue accompanies such rich, almost dirt-like taste always surprises me. Many of my favorite beet dishes take advantage of the pink, letting it bleed freely into the dish, and ensuring a truly dramatic presentation on the plate.

Tejal pointed out to me that, in my gushing about New York in general and wd-50 in specific, I forgot to mention a particular neat aspect of the timing of our dinner. We happened to dine just days after Alex Stupak, best known for, until recently, being the pastry chef Alinea in Chicago, started at wd-50. He was even in the kitchen on that quiet Sunday night, and from my seat I had a wonderfully discrete angle from which to watch him work.

Tejal said a few "trademark" items and techniques were familiar to her from Alinea, and we certainly had the opportunity to taste a wide range of his work. In addition to the pre-dessert and two desserts on the tasting menu, he sent out a third dessert to each of us, and a wonderfully bitter little chocolate birthday cake for me. That element of bitterness, or at least lack of intense sweetness, was present in all of his desserts. He also made wide use of other intense flavor notes like licorice, menthol, and chartreuse. Nothing was savory, but neither was anything so sweet that it dulled the tongue. Depending on what elements you got on the spoon, each bite would let one flavor pop while the others harmonized in the background.

It should probably not surprise you to learn that a few jean buttons were discretely undone in the taxi on the way back to Whitney's place. We'd only saved room for the two desserts we were expecting, but the sacrifice of a very full tummy was gladly undertaken.

It's also worth noting that Wylie was in the restaurant that evening, having a casual dinner. It's always nice to see chefs actually eating in their own restaurants, chefs who are involved in the experience, instead of just designing a menu and disappearing into the mist.