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Over the weekend I felt that old familiar tingling in my loins that can be sated by only one thing.
Pulled Pork.
As I’m sure we’re all aware, most of us have rather strong opinions on the best barbeque, be it sauce, style, or method. I personally play for the team utilizing large hunks of tough meats, cured for hours in a chamber consisting of the smoke created by combusting hardwood charcoal (or plain old logs). Mix with a thick tomato based, slightly sweet, spicy and vinegary sauce. Serve to grateful masses.
My family and I have recently started this tradition during the summer holiday season, where we park around a grill for six hours, slow roast pig parts, and guzzle down a couple hundred microbrews. We’ve even become pretty good at it – I prefer our homebrew pork to most of the restaurant equivalents.
I don’t know about you, but I happen to live in a small apartment with no outdoor spaces for grills, barbeque pits, fire pits, and the like. Which sucks, but I get by. Thus there are two ways in which I can contain my lusty desires: one, find a suitable barbeque restaurant here in Cleveland, or two, make it myself in lieu of proper equipment. The latter formed all sorts of interesting challenges that were begging to be conquered, and thus I turned my attention to my every day kitchen appliances.
Remember how I said you will fail? As usual, I did.
I shall now recap in grotesque detail.
The adventure began by finding a suitable pork shoulder (Boston Butt) roast. And none of that boneless shit; any time anyone asks you if you want the bone, you say yes. Readily available in from your friendly neighborhood butcher’s counter, this is clearly the recommended cut for this application, as it’s generally a little fatty, and a little tough – superb for the low-and-slow method which will be employed.
Proceeding to add a little extra flavor to generally lifeless pork, I created a simple spice rub: two parts salt, two parts chili powder, one part paprika, and some fresh black pepper. Next, I vigorously and sensually massaged this rub onto all external surfaces of the butt.
Fifty Falquan Fun Bucks for all of you who remembered that the roast’s name is actually “butt,” and didn’t just envision me sprinkling spices into my asscrack.
Firing up the stove to heat up a heavy skillet (cast iron is best) in which to sear off this hunk of animal flesh, I pondered in what vessel would I actually attempt to simulate the atmosphere of a charcoal grill or smoker. Knowing that the end product was to be pulled apart into strands of heavenly porky goodness, I went to my trusty Crock Pot, a true master in converting flesh to flavor, particularly when the flesh isn’t so weak.
Plopping the now seared pork into the vessel, I cranked it on, added a little chicken stock and walked away for the next 6 hours.
I’ll leave it to your imagination what I did for those hours, but most likely it involved plastic instruments.
Upon return was a glistening ball of pork, all its goodness drained into a basting liquid at the bottom of the pot. Only sin and delight remained solid enough to eat.
Removing the meat to a cooling apparatus proved more difficult than expected as each swipe with the tongs would cause a catastrophic structure failure between the meat fibers. In a good way. Soon I would consume this delight which would certainly pave my path to hell in gold.
And it was good. Really good.
But there was fail.
The fibers were too broken down. The meat had no texture, and trying to stir in any sauce resulted in what looked more like a bubbling meat paste than delicious chunks of pure pleasure.
I soon determined that this was the fault of the moist cooking environment of the Crock Pot, as each time I warmed it back up, it got soupier and soupier (but still remained delicious).
This would not stand.
I set out to find a new butt (fifty more Fun Bucks lost). This time rather than the Crock Pot, I attempted to create a drier cooking environment. This time, I tried the oven.
Preparing the meat in the exact same manner, I heaved it into a 250 degree oven for the next 12 hours.
During this time, I cannot describe to you the aromas which lingered heavily in the air, for they were beyond words. Well, at least beyond my ability to describe with words, anyway.
This roast turned out almost exactly like the one done back at home – particularly the bark; that delicious dry, crackly “skin” that forms from being exposed to dry heat for a great quantity of time. The only thing that was missing was the smoke flavor.
Which brings me to the second fail:
I attempted to bring back that smoky flavor with the addition of liquid smoke to the cooking liquid from the previous butt (-50). Unfortunately I failed to notice that I circumvented the shaker top and promptly emptied half the bottle into said cooking liquid. Thankfully, it was still in a separate bowl and thus did not ruin hours of porky labor.
The results, however, were not fail. This was the proper texture. Just a touch dry, held together in big chunks; retaining real ultimate tenderness.
I’d post pictures, but quite honestly the things I did to that butt (it’s not even worth it anymore) were things I’d rather the internet not see me do: eating the whole damn thing.
Putting together a spectacular feast can be a wonderful thing, but sometimes we just don’t have the time or energy to engineer a meal that will span the course of an evening and inundate the dreams of those fortunate enough to have savored its pleasures for nights to come. Yes, that’s right, sometimes even epicurious whores just need a quickie. And there’s nothing wrong with that! Here’s a little something for those nights when we don’t want to do more than 15 minutes worth of work because it’s much nicer to sit back and relax with some soothing music on, a glass of our favorite cocktail/wine/beer in hand and all the worries of the day driven out of our heads by the tantalizing aromas slowly filling our homes. We’re keeping things as simple as possible here—no need even for specific measurements!
What we need:
Some smallish tomatoes (roma or campari-sized), cut in half
several garlic cloves (about 1 for every 2 tomatoes), skin on
rosemary, thyme
good salt, freshly ground black pepper
olive oil
What we do:
- Pre-heat the oven to 400F.
- Place the halved tomatoes into an oven-proof baking dish and lustfully snuggle the garlic cloves in between the tomato halves. (Yes, let your mind wander–it knows where it’s going!)
- Sprinkle lightly with rosemary and thyme, then give the tomatoes a generous dose of salt and pepper.
- Drizzle olive oil over everything. Make sure some drips (sensually) into the gaps to cover the garlic!
- Roast for 40+ minutes; the tomatoes will release their juice and start to darken on the edges.
- Do something exquisite until such time as the tomatoes are done roasting.
- Serve with a nice hunk of bread on the side and proceed to indulge. Don’t forget to squeeze the garlic out onto the tomatoes as you go—the pleasure centers of your brain will thank you. Amply.
 - omnomnomnomnomnom
The wonderful thing here is that roasting brings out the sweetness of the tomatoes, so even sad winter tomatoes can turn into a treat, and the combination of tomato and garlic is just incredibly… voluptuous. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and pretend to do something taxing so that I can better savor the relaxation that I will lavish on myself tonight!
Something of a follow-up to Falquan’s wholly entertaining, informative and useful (but otherwise totally crap) advice on blade usage in the kitchen here. Since many of you may be sitting at home or work, your fingers trembling with the urge to slice, chop and pare but your stomachs turning at the thought of those aforementioned fingers being severed at the knuckle by an unfriendly piece of cutlery, I figure this may be a good time to talk about good knives. I will start by telling you a story:
Once upon a time there was a young boy who set out on his own to make his fame and fortune in the wide world. Before he left, his parents’ home, he went shopping with his mother and she recommended that he buy a set of knives from a well-known maker because every person on their own needs some knives for the kitchen and a well-known maker must be good, right? A few years later, the boy bought a new knife an upon using it for the first time, noticed that it was much sharper and much nicer than his old knives, which—as it turned out—were actually pretty much junk.
So perhaps you are like I… I mean the boy, used to be, uninitiated into the world of good knives, but sensing that something better is out there. Or perhaps you are already enlightened, but still surrounded by friends and family members who insist on bludgeoning their food with crudely sharpened pieces of metal that they refer to as “knives.” Experienced knife enthusiasts will already have learned to navigate all the potential pitfalls, but then you set out to acquire a good knife for the first time, the flood of products and information can be pretty intimidating.
I won’t get into the details of European versus Japanese knife styles here—I believe that both have their pros and cons and as long as you’re buying good quality stuff it should come down to personal preference in the end. (Although if you’re bored and want to snicker at people overreacting to things on the internet, go find a blade forum populated by Japanese-knife-fanbois and tell them that Western-style blades are superior. The ensuing rageplosion should rival the effects of walking into an Apple store and shouting that Bill Gates is not only smarter but also better looking than Steve Jobs.) Since Falquan already recommended the very nice Shun knives, I’ll throw in a suggestion from the opposite side of the globe, namely the Zwilling J.A. Henckels Vier Sterne (4-Star) line.
 Look ma, no endcaps! Henckels is an enormous knife manufacturer and you’ve almost certainly run into one of their many lower-end lines of knives, which are sold all over the place. I’ve picked precisely these to talk about because of the variant combinations of accessibility, price point and quality. So how the heck are you supposed to go about picking a knife when what looks like the same dang thing is being presented to you at three different price points and as far as you can tell the only noticeable difference is the color of the box? As a general rule, if it says “made in China,” don’t bother. If you’re on a budget, look to the International line, which is made is Spain and offers perfectly serviceable blades. If you want a really good knife though, skip all that and seek out the Zwilling (often labeled “Twin” in the US) lines; they’re easily identified by their red and white gemini-logo (as opposed to the single red guy on the cheaper knives) and the fact that they’re made in Solingen, Germany. 
Under the Zwilling heading, you’ll discover a wide range of lines that offer different blade and handle configurations, which you may explore at your leisure. I’ll skip ahead, however, and recommend the 4-Stars for the simple reason that this line has been discontinued (replaced by the boringly-named 4-Star II line which features endcaps of questionable value) and as a result plenty of online retailers are offering these knives at a significant discount compared to many similar blades. You should have no problem finding an 8-inch chef’s knife for under $100, which is good value for the money. (If you’ve got a bit more spending cash, the 4-Star knife sets still available are even better deals than the single knives.)
Egad—what’s that noise? Oh, it’s my mother crying “$100 for a single knife? I can get a 20-piece set at Target for less than that!” Yes, mother, that’s true. But let me remind you that:
A. You don’t use half the knives in that set because they have completely pointless shapes and sizes.
B. You don’t use another third of the knives because after a few uses they became too dull to cut anything offering more resistance than a moist pancake.
C. With the knives that you do use (because, well, you have to use something), you can’t stop complaining about how much of a chore slicing and chopping tasks are.
and
D. Considering the amount of money you’ve dropped on buying pre-chopped garlic and vegetables because of B and C, you’ve probably spent more cash by now than you would have if you had just purchased a good knife to begin with!
Of course in today’s marketing-driven world, pretty much any product is going to come wrapped in a bunch of tripe… I mean hype, that tries to make the garbage look like great stuff and the actually great stuff look like something that is greater than its competitors. So buyer beware! Of course, you don’t have to take my word for it.
Life sucks. And then you have to chop onions.
There’s little that is more tedious with regard to preparing and cooking food than all the chopping, slicing, dicing, smashing, thrashing, binding, grinding, thrusting, groaning, moaning and screaming.
And if you’re not doing all those in your kitchen, you’re doing it wrong…
…with your knife.
A ridiculous amount of time is spent preparing foods for the cooking process way before heat meets treat. Most of that preparation is in the form of breaking it down into smaller pieces. This implies knife play…
If there’s one piece of kitchen equipment that will exponentially improve your cooking enjoyment, it’s one, quality, sharp knife. When you can slice a tomato without squishing it like a stress-ball at a stock broker convention, your life changes.
I personally recommend an eight-inch chef’s knife. A good chef’s knife can do everything, and will always be the first knife you reach for after the first time you use it.
I recommend the Shun brand. I’ve a few of their knives, and it’s mind-boggling how insanely sharp they are, and how well they cut and keep their edge.
Which brings up another important point (punny!): you are FAR less likely to cut yourself with a sharp, quality knife, then a cheap, dull, piece of crap.
Why?
A sharp knife requires almost no effort to move it through the food. A dull knife requires force. Even a dull object made for cutting will slice through pink fleshy fingers. Now, imagine holding that knife above said digit and applying the force you’re placing against that apple.
Yes. It went into the bone. Congratulations, the money you saved by picking up that twenty dollar special set from that infomercial is now squandered on the ambulance ride, stitches, and pain killers (well, those might be worth it).
Skills with a knife are among some of the simplest that one can learn, yet I’ve noticed a shocking amount of friends and acquaintances have absolutely no skill with these simple machines. Considering said ease with which one can acquire these skills, and the amount of which they improve one’s kitchen experience, it’s baffling that we don’t all possess these superhuman abilities.
Fear not, citizens of the internets, I, Falquan, shall save you!
All you really need are three simple motions, best demonstrated by Alton Brown in the “Slice, Chop, Pare” episode of his groundbreaking series of all things food, Good Eats (apologies for having to pop a new window, Food Network hasn’t yet found a way to not introduce Javascript errors in their embedded videos).
Now you’re having a great time.
Why? You feel like a pro: you’re hacking through celery like a rabbit on ‘roids. Therefore, you’re cooking faster. Prep is taking less time because you’ve flown through your veg before Lady Gaga could have another Bad Romance.
Mise en place will set you free.
…so spaketh Princesszyrtec.
Let me fill you in on what led up to that moment.
Princesszyrtec recently celebrated a birthday late last month, and as is customary, she had to renew the registrations on her cars. This year, the Year of the Rabbit, she also had to renew her driver’s license. Unlike the speedy hare, she procrastinated on the all-important renewals until a few days ago.
She thought it would be a great idea to forgo several nights of sleep prior to the DMV debacle, and neglect to apply any makeup. Rather than use her very expensive round brush to effect a salon-style blowout, she went au natural.
Au big mistake.
The resultant offending image plastered on her license was enough to send her into a tailspin of despondency. In direct defiance of her breakfast of prunes and oatmeal, she directed her car (now sporting an updated sticker) to Sidelines II, the nearest and dearest of local sports bars. An added bonus: Princesszyrtec’s sister works there.
Enter menu. What to choose….what to choose. There’s the ever-popular Fowl Balls–naked or breaded. One of her favorite dishes is their Thai Chicken salad with a crock of steamed broccoli and cauliflower on the side.
Wait a minute. I’m at a bar, for crying out loud. Gimme some meat!
Enter the Knockout. A poor man’s Luther burger, this concoction (heh, I said “tion”) slaps a half-pound grilled steakburger between two grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches. Now, before you say “but PZ–can I call you PZ?–that’s nothing more than a cheesburger with bacon” let me be the first to tell you what’s what, mmmkaaayyyy?
Each grilled cheese sandwich has four sides of buttery grilled toastiness enclosing the all-american cheesiness, which is much thicker than the mere single slice that would normally reside off-kilter atop a mundane burger. Furthermore, once a slice of cheese is in direct and intimate contact with a burger, the burger’s grease quotient repels the cheese slice, and rather than sinking your teeth into a perfectly proportioned blend of meat and cheese, you get slimy buns with slidey cheese in one mouthful and dry burger in the next.
I call bullshit!
Just imagine having all perfect flavors in perfect proportions in your perfect little open mouth. Well, I didn’t have to imagine it — I lived it baby, yeah!
 First bite taken. Consensus: WIN. Perhaps you missed it in the description, but the trifecta of awesomeness was achieved with the addition of bacon. It’s cooked into the grilled cheese sandwiches, and thus held sweet prisoners of love by the thick cheese layer.
 I haz a baconz! I’m kinda jumping ahead of myself here. See, I arrived to this fine local establishment feeling a bit out-of-sorts. My ego was bruised and needed a boost. I’d lost my Mojo baby, yeaaah!
Enter: Mojo Dip. A creamy concoction of feta cheese, hot sauce, garlic, and other goodies with fried homemade pita bread with which to scoop-n-shovel. Oh, my Mojo was back!
 Yes. Yes I licked the plate clean afterwards. Are you happy now? After the licking, the eating in earnest commenced to commence. I knocked myself out. And when I abandoned those utensils that were just holding me back — well, you know what happened then? I ate! I ate like the wind blows.
And when I was tired, I paused. When I was thirsty, I drank. And when I had to, you know, I went. And then, suddenly, I didn’t feel like eating anymore. So I stopped.
During that stoppage, I was regaled with a dance from my sister. Yes, it was tableside. No, poles were not involved. No! Laps weren’t either. It was — the Cabbage Patch. Yeah, she rocked it out for her big sis.
And then, like magic — MOJO Magic — I picked up the Knockout and brought it to my lips. My dining companion looked on in amazement tinged with either disgust, despair, or dismay, and said: “Are you really going to eat that?!”
3
2
1
I refer you now to the lovely title of this post.
P.S.
Should you fear the caloric content of such a feast as I have laid at your feet, then you may burn off aforementioned calories by becoming your very own Lord of the Dance.
***Instructions for the Cabbage Patch
Epic FAIL, in fact.
 FAIL Picture credit to The Oatmeal and his blog. Also, he wins a free internet.
I’ve talked a lot about the wins that I’ve had with food, seemingly by accident. Fish tacos. Breakfast sandwiches. You must think I’m some sort of extremely gifted food-a-ma-jig sent here to make you feel sorry for yourself and the spawn of your loins (or cats/dogs/gerbils/hamsters) ridicule you mercilessly.
Well, I am here to make you feel sorry for yourself and the ridiculing, of course, but I’m by no means gifted.
In any way.
Need proof? Ask anyone I’ve dated.
Kidding aside (not really), one of the most important things to learn about food simply that, you will fail. Braising bison burgers at home, ordering diver scallops at a barbecue joint, drinking a wine that was slightly corked, you’re going to do something stupid.
And no one cares.
I fail countless times a second in the kitchen. My two personal favorites?
- Pulling a pan out fresh out of a 400 degree oven and setting it on the stove
- Then grabbing it with my bare hand thirty seconds later
- Then grabbing it again another 45 seconds after that
- Assuming that I don’t need to measure the amount of chili flake I’m adding
- Then adding Chipotle powder
- Then adding Ancho powder
- Then adding a minced Habanero
- To the same dish
You’re not always going to be brilliant, but the important thing is to try it out. I’m always dissapointed in the amount of times I hear, “I’m just afraid it won’t taste good.”
Actually, that’s the whole point. And if it does taste like the taint of a rain forest boar, well, try again next time. And leave out the zucchini (which often tastes like said boar taint).
I learn a lot from my culinary failures. For example, I once made an African Marinara sauce: my favorite jarred pasta sauce was running low, and I needed something to stretch it out. I recently saw a demonstration of simple African style food that combined peanuts and tomatoes (amongst other things). So I mixed them. It didn’t quite make the cut. But I did learn that peanuts make a fantastic salty/savory background note and can thicken things up beautifully.
Just not marinara sauce…
Side note, Thai Peanut Sauce on it’s own is really one of the finest uses of peanut butter in a sauce, other than smearing it on…never mind.
It’s really about finding what flavors go together for you. Sweet, sour, salty, smoky, spicy: If you like it, everyone else will. And that doesn’t mean you have to stop just because you found a combination you like. Keep tweaking it. I’ve been working on my turkey chile recipe for about ten years, and while I got it to the point I converted everyone I know to turkey chile, and am famous in…Ohio, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Wisconsin, Vermont, Alaska, Michigan…eight states, and I still don’t think it’s finished. The original recipe may become yours in another post, but, it remains a secret for now.
When you are experimenting, be it a new recipe, or just cavorting about in your kitchen (please wear at least an apron, grease spatter is mighty painful in the nether regions), don’t serve it to guests on the first time out. That’s just asking for disaster. Even though we all had sex the first time without full experience, I’m fairly certain most of sampled it before-hand as a little hors d’oeuvre or amuse bouche prior to partaking in the whole meal.
Practice makes perfect, right?
Well, not in my case — go ahead, ask those dates of mine again. They haven’t laughed this much since, well, that time.
Anywho…
Be your own guinea pig. It’s fun! Moreover, you know exactly what you’re serving your friends (or enemies) and what clearly would make it better. Failure is not the end; it is the beginning. Sure this sucks, but what if you replaced the water used in that soup with chicken stock? Or added in parsnip to increase the sweetness?
The same approach goes for restaurant dining. Order something different that no one else has. Try it out. One of the E-Ho’s (and my friends and family’s) favorite restaurant activities is the, “I’d love a taste of that,” ritual. On the outside it may seem a little unsanitary, but there’s no better way to experience new flavors than having four other flavor combinations to try and dissect.
Sometimes that strategy will backfire, and you’ll find out you could have ordered better. But you’ll learn all sorts of interesting facts about which restaurants do certain types of food best, and how you can recreate and avoid similar pitfalls in your own kitchen (if you so choose to recreate).
True, rarely is failure an option. But Failure needs love too. He’s actually a pretty cool dude once you get to know him, brah.
Falquan is right. Foodies cannot help but talk about food when they be conversatin. Just so you don’t get the idea
that each conversation is filled with words like macerate [read: soak in booze, baby!], dragée [read: tiny, silver
balls.], or Scotch Woodcock [read: what’s under that kilt?], here’s a chat excerpt regarding eggs and the perverts
who like make eat them:
me: Ah. I just finished a paper, tried to upload it on WebCT, which had logged me out. I logged
back in and tried to submit it at 12:01. The inbox was locked at 12:00. I hate school.
falquan: Lol. Screenshot and be like, eat it bitches. [n.b.: first mention of eating]
And or just be like “eat a dick.” [specific item to be consumed]
me: That was plan B.
falquan: See, this is where you’re supposed to bribe people like me who write these things to leave
back doors such that inboxes don’t close for specific people.
And also invoke digital time travel.
Disguise it around a time zone bug, and voila.
me: What would you require in a bribe? (taking notes)
falquan: Well, that’s the down side. Since I try to plan ahead, I suppose I need enough that if I get
caught, I can be independently wealthy enough to live out the rest of my life without another
job.
3-4 million should do it.
I have sources for good investment advice with those amounts of money.
me: Riiiiggght.
falquan: Or a sandwich. [alternate consumable is proposed]
A really good sandwich.
me: I give the best sandwiches.
Lol, the Broodwich.
I mean, I make the best sandwiches.
falquan: I did not, but I shall look now.
How much butter was required? [obligatory butter mention]
me: Unfortunately I took it with my phone, so yes – tiny.
falquan: I hear that all the time. [obligatory genital size reference]
me: It was a tiny little pan, so about three tablespoons worth?
falquan: That’s probably a large enough amount. My problems stemmed from tryign to use too little
and I failed miserably.
me: It was large enough, because my eggs rocked!
falquan: And all the white was cooked, and the yolk was all sexy and runny right?
Cause that’s my key to success in fried eggs.
Er… qualification for
Whatever. [food + sex = epicuriouswhores]
me: My sexy eggs bring all the boys to the yard…
falquan: I…I’m not sure which egg is a sexy egg now…
There’s a reason I said “NOT THOSE EGGS PERVERTS!”
me: ALL my eggs are sexy eggs. Dammit.
falquan: Well played.
me: I XXXX our little XXXXXXXXX. [redaction]
falquan: Lol
me: But yes – my eggs slid right out into the bowl, connected by a light, crispy, buttery egg white
halo and the yolks were gently cradled in just enough “skin” to avoid them running before the
toast drag.
drool
I win.
falquan: Oh, I just noticed in said tweet… you have to be careful with the stupid screen name — the
screen name “epicuriouswhores” was too long for twitter to handle
(that’s what SHE said, thought me)
So it’s “epicuriouswhore”
I’m so addicted to the term “toast drag” [inventing new foodie terminology]
me: It’s impressive how toast in drag can resemble celebrities like Cher and Marilyn so much.
I smell a webcomic.
Oh wait, that was a cinnamon roll I made for my mom.
Nevermind.
Although, I often utilize the “toast smash” – it’s like Hulk smash, except, toastier.
falquan: And hopefully less green.
me: Yes, my eggs were less Seussian.
Less Seussian, but more Freudian.
falquan: Eggs have penis envy? [next obligatory genital reference]
me: Uh, that sounds like a topic for in depth research.
Perhaps you could return to school and get another degree?
falquan: Ah yes, I’ve always wanted a Masters in Flaccid Gastronomy. [seriously, third?!]
Whatever that is.
I’m fairly certain it doesn’t involve Serrano and Bleu Cheese though.
me: I would think not, lol!
Well, I have to skedaddle. I’m taking my car to the shop to repair a broken door lock. It’s
broken because it stays locked and I have to exit via the passenger door. This involves
establishing an intimate relationship with my gear shift, and as much as I’m a fan of intimate
relationships … wait, where was I going with this?
falquan: Gearshifts need love too. [no more food references, but it’s funny]
me: Yeah, but they gotta pay.
falquan: Actually, apparently you do since you’re getting said door lock fixed…
me: Touche.
What? I can’t let falquan have all the fun of writing irreverent posts.
Hmm. Blogging + food = flogging.
What? I can’t let falquan have all the fun of flogging.
♥
I eat a ridiculous amount of fish.
…Yeah, that’s what I mean.
Sometimes there’s even some left over.
I happened to be making up a batch of mahi mahi, like I do, and had at least four fillets uneaten at the end of the evening.
Commence panic. FISH NOE CAN LAST!
Actually, it does. For a couple days, actually, assuming you obtained your fish from a reputable source. And honestly, I’ve become addicted to the offerings of Trader Joes’ frozen fish. They’re surprisingly good, but steer clear of their already cooked frozen shrimp. It’s not quite up to par; get the uncooked stuff and roast it yourself for best results.
But this is not a post about shrimp nor scampi nor langoustine. Nay, I speak to you today of the classic fish taco. More popular in areas outside the midwest, it’s a completely different texture and flavor party than your standard Taco Tuesday.
Hopping in the wayback machine, I first experimented with these tacos (sexy!) due to having leftover cooked salmon from the night before, and some corn tortillas that I hadn’t yet stuffed in the freezer. Someone in my brain then looked under California. I’d heard on several occasions of this “iconic” snack, but wasn’t sure exactly how it would taste. I’m a corn-fed, beef-eatin’ midwestern boy (er, I was anyway), and thought the most adventurous a taco (or burrito) could be was “mojado” (erótico!). Or vegetarian (the what now?).
At that time, all I did was stuff the fish into the corn tortilla, and called it a day. What surprised me was the interplay between the tortilla and the fish. Because it was a corn tortilla (flour tortillas are bullshit), there was a characteristic sweetness that played really well off the more assertive herbal maranade that was on the salmon. Clearly, salmon was a bit strong for this preperation, but it set the fins in motion (badumtsss!). Clearly, a lighter flavored fish was necessary.
Fast forward a few weeks.
In that time I learned the technique of heating the tortilla directly over the flame to warm it up and toast it for more flavor and pliability (if you have electric, please do this in a dry pan that can take heat, or else you’ll fuse tortilla to the element, and that’s just a bitch and a half).
So like I said earlier, I wound up in a similar situation with mahi as I did with the salmon. The weekend rolled around, and I was in dire need of lunch. Remembering the previous kerfuffle, I tried to tone down the fish flavor with some celery. The taste wasn’t drastically improved, but something else wonderful happened: texture.
The crisp of the celery against the soft of the fish was fantastic, and completely explained why I saw so many fish taco recipes utilize a slaw of sorts. Aside from the flavor the dressing can bring, it’s truly about the texture.
I began looking forward to having left over mahi.
Which brings me to my latest experiment.
And I must tangent into a short side story at this point. Along with my love of fish, I have an unholy love of fennel that may actually be illegal in three states. There’s something about that hint of licorice that just pops so much flavor into anything. And if you lightly caramelize it, forget it. Bring me a change of shorts.
In said experiment, I had a bulb of fennel that I needed to use. I also had some left over mahi, again. The hamster on the wheel which powers my brain began to squeak forward at a medium pace. Also, I found greek yogurt in the fridge. Finally, corn tortillas in the freezer. I like all these things. At this point I required they get together and make love to my mouth.
First, I needed to devise something that would approximate the dressing of the slaw that others swear by. Clearly, it would be a yogurt base, as that’s what I had. Salt, pepper, cause everything needs that. And I like spice: enter ancho, chipotle and smoked paprika (wait, I’m supposed to say pimentón now). Oh, look. A lemon. Well, shit, seafood loves lemon. Let’s zest that bad boy and squeeze in half of it’s juice. Stir.
 The dressing Enter the left-over fish. I personally warmed it up by simmering it quickly in some white wine, but, however you like to warm things up is just as good; on your car engine, between your thighs, whatever.
 Mahi mahi mahi mahi mahi mahi mahi mahi tongs I mentioned earlier I learned to torch the tortillas over the flame. Seriously, it makes a huge difference. I recommend it. It only takes about 20 seconds — as soon as you see wisps of smoke, flip, and repeat.
 Mmm. Toasty. Next began the layering process. For no good reason, I began with the fish.
 Nuuuude! I proceeded by thinly slicing the fennel and placing it on top. And then someone in the back of the head reminded me I had capers I’d yet to get rid of leftover from my family’s holiday dinner. Well, shit, they’re joining the party. I think that decision was made after having an extra glass of wine, but it actually worked out well. But that’s poor foreshadowing.
 Almost, almost, almost... Finally, all that was left was the dressing (which I had tasted earlier and actually gave me a raging semi). Which is an excellent aside, always, always always taste as you go. It’s amazing how you can catch exactly what could make the food incredible before the whole dish is assembled.
 ¡Voilá! Garnished with the fennel fronds just to give a bit of color.
I hate to say it, but the dressing was the absolute star of this. The touch of spice from the chipotle and ancho gave an amazing depth of flavor to everything, and the freshness of the lemon (though I would use a touch lest zest next time) perked everything up. Add in the crunch of the fennel, and I could have eaten another three. Except that I ate the leftovers of the ingredients beforehand by dipping it into said dressing.
The coolest part of this whole thing is that, this is but one recipe. I’m starting to plan out something with more of an avocado feel. But this can be done with anything. You like mangoes? Throw those on top instead of the fennel. Try a different kind of fish. For that matter, swap out the fish for chicken. Or tofu (you sure as hell better marinate it first though).
Try shit out. That’s how got I fish tacos in my mouth, without eating red carpet (unfortunately).
Thanks to José Andrés, I found a way better way to cook eggs.
Way.
Better.
I’ve struggled for years with finding a way to create a fried egg that the white is crispy and the yolk is warm and runny. And even before you start, I pull no punches with my next statement: fuck off with your salmonella and food born illness shit. I truly don’t care. I’ve never received an illness from all the raw and “undercooked” foods I’ve eaten in my life, and I bet I never will.
Thanks again to HULU which was broadcasting José Andrés’ “Made in Spain,” an incredible study in the food porn that is Spain, after I ran out of episodes of After Hours.
In the Madrid episode, Señor Andrés discusses the Spanish technique of frying eggs, a clear departure from how I was taught. You probably recall someone throwing down a coating of butter in a pan, having it foam up and do all that crap butter does, and then cracking and dropping the eggs in the pan from about three feet above the pan, they stick anyway, and eventually you give up and just turn them into scrambled.
Well, that’s how I was taught, anyway.
Over the years as I started to try to cook with less fats (read: during the winter when I can’t get outside and run and exercise properly), I migrated away from butter to olive oil (we’ll find out in a minute that was actually a correct decision), and tried to use as little of said fat as possible in non-stick pans to attempt to craft a proper egg without inflating my ass to the size of a small Volkswagen.
To put it lightly (hah! I’m fat), I failed miserably for years.
I could never create the proper crust I wanted on the white, and still get the runny, delicious yolk that makes that amazing sauce for toast-draggin’. Either I would under cook the white, or massively overcook the yolk. Clearly there was something flawed in my technique. Diners could do it just fine, why couldn’t I?
The answer was simple.
YOU CAN’T TAKE OUT THE EXTRA FAT FROM THE PAN!
There’s a reason eggs are always loaded with butter (or oil!). The hot fat around the egg cooks it from multiple sides and surfaces at the same time, without being able to penetrate far into the egg’s deliciously yolky nether-regions.
What Chef Andrés taught me was that the Spanish method to frying eggs is to basically deep fry them in olive oil. Not deep fry like fire up the Fry-Daddy and crack a few eggs into the wire basket. But place a quarter inch of oil in the pan, get it hot (300-350F-ish), and pool it up by tilting the pan up, and dropping the egg into the oil, and after you could see the white just slightly, let the pan tilt back and have it fry away.
By the time you’re about to panic that the whites are going to completely burn, it’s ready to be rescued to some paper towels to absorb the leftover oil.
I know what you’re thinking. I did the same for years. But stop panicking diet-obcessed world, it’s shockingly little oil. Look at what’s in your pan. Go ahead. Look. Yes, the fry oil is still in the pan. Almost none of it is gone. Check out the science of proper deep frying. You’ll be surprised. I was.
And now, I’ll let the results speak for themselves.
 Proper Fried Eggs Yes, there’s a bit of yolk from a prior incident I’d rather not further discuss as I do not have egg malpractice insurance. I just learned the technique, damn it!
There’s no way to properly describe exactly how perfectly these were cooked. With no effort. No sticking, flipping, and only a little bit of cursing when the oil gets too hot, angers and decides to fight back. But that’s remedied easily with that little dial on your cooktop.
So what did I end up doing with these oozing jewels? A bit of the old dinnerfast. Breakfast for dinner as it were. Armed with some grocery store explod-O-can buttermilk biscuits, I sprinkled salt and cracked some pepper over the top of each and popped them in the oven. Twenty minutes later, split them open, and added said egg, and topped each one with a slice of Manchego cheese to complete the Spanish theme.
 Spanish Breakfast Sandwich I sheepishly, but unapologetically confess that I just ate six of these for dinner.
Yes, they were that good.
“Astonishing!” As Chef would say.
I am utterly obsessed with After Hours. And it’s HULU‘s fault.
The elevator pitch: Daniel Boulud goes to the restaurant of someone who’s doing good in the food world, and they cook up a party for about 10 “celebrity” guests, mostly other chefs. Then they proceed to slam cocktails, tell old stories, and serve some of the best looking food I’ve ever seen. Food for chefs and real foodies who get it. Y’know. Bone marrow. Whole roasted animals. Organ meats. Farm produce. The good stuff. Now, add TV cameras, kosher salt, fresh ground black pepper, and broadcast the results.
The footage puts my most vivid wet dreams to shame. And it’s nothing more than a bunch of foodies sitting around eating amazing food and drinking amazing booze, talking about food.
How, exactly, did I not get the memo that you can make a career out of this? No, really. I volunteer to do this for Chicago. Or here in Cleveland for that matter.
One of the things I find fascinating is how often reminds me of when I sit around with other foodies, including my cohorts in crime here at E-Ho’s that we basically do the same thing. We eat, and talk about food while eating. In obscene, nay, pornographic detail. It was even mentioned in one of the episodes how often that happens — the group is sitting at one meal, talking about another.
But what about that other crowd? We all have to eat, shouldn’t it be killer food?
Why aren’t we all foodies?
To everyone just groaned and click their browser over to Girls Getting Goofy dot com, bare with me. Yarrgh, this be my first post. I’ve gotta share my philosophies here. Not that they’re probably all super-unique…
It’s amazing how often I’ll see others eyes glaze over as I start talking through what I ate last night. Cause I don’t just say, “oh, just some chicken.” No sir. I say, “dude, I made this unbelievable coq au vin, seared then braised in the oven for about 2 hours in chicken stock and pinot noir, mirepoix, salt, pepper, served on lightly toasted baguette. It’s great you just throw it in the oven and let it do all the work and you have this unbelievable…” I lost them at “seared.” Though, credit where credit is due, most do realize that I just said, “coq.” And I thoroughly approve of that.
Which brings up an interesting thought, maybe it’s a vocabulary thing. Sure, I know mirepoix is just carrots, onion and celery diced up; I study this shit. But Steve over there doesn’t. Or maybe saying, “coq au vin,” with a somewhat proper accent is considered pretentious (full disclosure: I can’t speak a word of French properly). And I get it. I’ve been intimidated by a menu now and again.
Hey, wait. Maybe that’s it…
Is it just from intimidation of new things, of not knowing what you’re getting into?
Try this: you love a great burger? Go get a great burger. Don’t love a great burger? Try this exercise with chicken. Vegetarian? Well, we probably won’t get along very well, but, try falafel.
Find one thing about it that makes it great. Let’s say the bun (and who doesn’t love a good set of buns? ZING!) was pillowy-soft. Now, find a place that has a better one of that. This time choose something different about it that made it great: extra juicy. Find a new place that does juicy better. Now return back to that first burger. Still as good? Probably. But I bet you’re also thinking about the those buns… Congratulations, you just evaluated two things at once about your food! Or incidentally evaluated the waiter/waitress serving coffee at table five… Meowzah.
Neat, huh?
And yes, this is a true story. As a kid, my brother, aunt and I had a very secret organization known as The Hamburger Club, where we would hit restaurants around Cleveland in search of the best hamburger (and fries). I’m not sure we ever reached a conclusion. I’m not sure I care we never reached a conclusion. But it taught me how the same food can taste so different just based on how it’s prepared. And I discovered I liked crazy things like mushrooms, and lettuce. And not all mustard is bright yellow? Who knew!
Fast forward a few years, I still use those basics when I’m evaluating food. Just now I enjoy shiitake, and arugula. And whole-grain dijon. Sure, the food I like now is more complex in terms of ingredients and flavors than a burger, but it’s the same process.
Be not afraid, young padawan. In food lies delights greater than the orgies of the Greeks of old. Not…that writing a food blog exactly lends itself to any form of carnal knowledge. Carne knowledge, maybe.
Here’s my message. I feel like a lot of foodies come off snobish with our grass-fed beef and organic such and such. All well and good; I support all of that in terms of creating better quality produce and livestock (we’ll discuss health “benefits” of these at another time). But for me, being a foodie doesn’t mean that I don’t love onion rings, burgers, or chicken wings or barbecue. I love all that stuff. Frequently. I just also enjoy seeing them prepared in interesting, new ways every once in a while. And I’ve no intention on going on some political crusade that fast food is evil. Do I question some of their practices? Sure, but, let’s be honest. Taco Bell is the quintessential hangover preventer, and hell, their quesadilla is good. And yes, I’m American, I get a Big Mac Attacks. Maybe it does make me less of a person when I eat them, but damn that special sauce is great…
I just really, really love food and try to get others interested such that they begin to see and enjoy food in their own unique way. If that means I inspire you to reinvent the SPAMwich, my life’s work is complete.
But do me a favor and call it the “SPAMuffaletta.”
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