Hand-Ground Meat: A Lesson in Economy—and Deliciousness

Years ago my mother gave me a meat grinder that she found at an auction. I'm not talking a mixer attachment-kind of meat grinder. I'm talking an OLD-school meat grinder. The kind that clamps onto a table and you crank chunks of meat through it with a big, long handle.

Here...this is it:

So, for years that grinder has sat in my cabinet. Like, in the back of the cabinet. I completely forgot it existed.

And then the other night,  as I stared at Bon Appetit's latest photo of larb in their April 2018 issue, the words suddenly came to my head:

MEAT GRINDER. 

Seriously. They did. Just like that:

MEAT GRINDER.

Maybe it was the texture of the ground pork in the photo that jarred my brain. I mean, it looked so...meaty. It definitely did not have a smashed-meat-paste-dumped-from-a-styrofoam-tray look to it.

Anyway, regardless of how it all happened, the next thing I knew I was telling Chef Reiton that we should just grind our own pork when we make the larb recipe, and he agreed wholeheartedly. I mean, why not? We had that lonely, ill-used (as in not used) grinder just sitting there, waiting...

So, we did. We took our boneless pork chops, cut them up into chunks and put them through our old-fashioned, crank-that-handle grinder.

How's that for an action shot, huh? And look at that texture! Perfectly sized meaty bits of pork that will still have a tender bite when browned to perfection. 

As I was grinding away, I was reflecting on the simple beauty of being able to see the chunks of meat going into the feed chute and knowing exactly what kind of pork I would be eating in my larb. I don't know about you, but whenever I buy ground meat at the store, I have fleeting thoughts that I don't  really having any idea what pig parts went into this ground pork package in my hand... The company isn't required to say. As long as it comes from a pig, it's labeled "pork," so—I'll leave you with that thought. 

And here's the BONUS big deal that I realized as I was grinding that beautiful meat: when you go to buy ground pork the next time you are at the grocery, take a look at the price of boneless pork chops or country-style ribs vs. the ground pork package. Pound per pound, the boneless pork is typically cheaper. And if you are grinding it yourself, you don't need to buy the pretty pork. You want to buy the cheaper, fattier, ugly, boneless cuts. They will make your ground meat more flavorful. Win-win for you and that ugly pork. I can tell you firsthand: the flavor of the larb with our hand-ground pork was PHENOMENAL.

So now I'm thinking of all the other meats I can grind. Cheap-o, skin-on chicken thighs for my little Middle Eastern chicken patties? WAY cheaper than ground chicken mush. And all that deliciously fatty skin that will actually add FLAVOR to the dish? Oh, heck, yeah! 

And how about ground beef for my burgers? Hand me those cheap, nobody-loves-me cuts of beef, baby, and I'll grind them down to a luscious mound of beefy goodness. 

All because of the new love-of-my-kitchen-life: my meat grinder.

Sigh.

[Cue sappy music and fade out]

Learning to Make Your Own (Gluten-Free!) Stock

After watching the leaves out here on the East Coast go through a wardrobe change that I have never witnessed before (and I cannot believe I am going to be able to witness it year after year), I am officially getting ready to hunker down for winter.  With the flip flops put away, the toasty knee socks pulled up, and the fireplace popping comes the cold weather longings of soups and stews and all things warm and slow.  And that means replenishing the stock stockpile.

No, I just didn't stutter (although I do do that on occasion.  Wait.  No, seriously.  I just didn't do it again to be funny...).  Stock is the incredibly practical and insanely delicious kitchen staple made from—wait for it... SCRAPS.

Mmmmmmm.... Sounds delish, right? Let's take all our nasty peels and bones and pieces of veggie that we just trimmed off because we don't want to eat it and turn it all into food!

Well, that's not quite true.  You do take all your nasty peels and bones and trimmed veggie bits, but you simmer them for a really long time to extract all of their flavors, then discard them when you are finished.

For example, this is what I found in my fridge one morning last week: 

• half a rotisserie chicken
• a bag of kale that I hadn't liked the texture of (not trimmed well)
• 3 old, rubbery carrots with their tops
• 2 old onion halves with the skin and roots still attached
• half a lemon
• some mushrooms that were all leathery but still smelled okay...

I cut the chicken meat off of the bones to use for lunch, then took the carcass and all of those random items and squished them into my Crock-Pot.  I poured water into the pot until it was filled to the brim, then covered it with the lid, turned it on to Low, and let it go aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall day, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall night, and almost all of the next day.

If I wanted to, I could have let it go much, MUCH longer.  I've let stocks go for days.  Like, almost a week.  I just keep adding water until the stock is almost smelling burnt.  In this case, I needed the stock for a meal I was making that night, so I just strained it through a colander into a big Pyrex measuring cup, and this is what I got: 8 cups of amber brown chicken stock.   

None of this pale yellow wussy crap you buy at the store that tastes like—um—NOTHING and costs at least $2.00 a quart.  This stuff? It's basically FREE since you were going to be wasteful and throw that shit out, anyway.  And NOW look what you've made!

Just wait until you taste it! Your grandma would be proud.  Really.

For shits and giggles, let's look to see what's left in the colander after I strained all that gorgeousness away:

Now THAT you can throw away!

If you don't use all your stock in one recipe, you can freeze it in smaller containers or you can can it (no stuttering).  Just remember (as Chef Reiton had to remind me once), this is a product made from meat, so you want to pressure can it to make sure that any residual bacteria is dead dead dead (although the chances of there being any after 24+ hours of simmering are very slim.  But still.  Better safe than hugging a toilet bowl.).

You can also use any kind of bones you want.  Sometimes I buy those creepy soup bones at the grocery store that you know are cow legs and use those to make beef stock.  I have used leftover rib bones from rib night and made pork stock.  You can use all veggies if you want and no meat.  Again, remember the true rules of a real kitchen: DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT.  Your food is yours to play with, test out, and sometimes never be able to duplicate again.  You are the boss.

So.  Bring that Crock-Pot up from the basement.  Go dig through the fridge.  Dump whatever you find in there into the pot and add some water.  Then come back tomorrow and comment to me how awesome you and your stock are.

Pan Sauces Forever: Learning the Magic of Scraping Up the Brown Bits

Have you ever eaten something and wondered how on earth it came to be considered a food?

Like beer.  Someone boiled or soaked grain in a bunch of water, but then, upon straining out the grain, left the sugary water out for so long that it fermented and got all funky. 

Then someone decided to go and drink it.  

GOD BLESS HIM.

I kind-of imagine the same thing happening with preparing meat.  Some foodie peasant daredevil was roasting his chicken/beef/pork/whatever over the fire, and, upon plating his meat, poured some water into the pan to let it soak while he was eating—and then decided to pour that water on his meat instead.

The miraculous birth of pan sauces!

I love making pan sauces.  They can be made simply with water, or they can be trumped up to all hell with wine, herbs, 'shrooms, you name it.  There is an infinite number of ways to make it, but they all have one delicious goal: to take your meat from boring to brilliant in about 30 seconds flat.

Here are some chicken cutlets I made the other night when I was bach-ing it and just wanted something super simple to make along with my roasted veggies: 

See those yummy juices dripping off the meat? Yeah?

I made them.

They didn't exist when I took the chicken out of the skillet.  The skillet was completely dry.  HOT and dry.

Unfortunately and most likely, so would be my chicken.

So here is why I love pan sauces so so so much.  You know what I did? 

1. I took my skillet over to the sink.
2. I put the pan under the faucet and turned the water on for about 2 seconds.
3. I put the skillet back on the burner.  
4. As the water rapidly simmered off, I madly scraped with a metal spatula at all the yummy, crusty crud that had browned and crisped itself to the bottom of the pan, stirring all the bits into the simmering water to dissolve.  
5. When the amount of liquid in the pan boiled down to look like the amount I needed, I turned off the heat, scooped up a big blob of butter (I keep softened butter by the stove; you should, too), and plopped that into the sauce, whisking it in until it had melted.

And then I poured that deliciousness all over my chicken.  

Now.  That is a very basic pan sauce.  It is delightfully delicious, made with two ingredients that I KNOW you have in your kitchen, and it is damn fast to make.  You will love it.

If you want to get even more fancy schmancy, but not any more difficult (I swear!), try browning some sliced or chopped mushrooms or shallots or garlic in the pan before you add the water.  Or instead of using water, use broth or wine.  Or use a mix of both! There is no right or wrong.  Just do what you feel like or have on hand.

But no matter what additions you make or what you use as your liquid, always whisk in a plop of butter after you turn off the heat.  It thickens the sauce up a bit and just adds a nice richness to the flavor.

To top it all off—literally—try sprinkling on some fresh herbs after you pour on the sauce.  I used cilantro in the pic above because I had seasoned my chicken with some cumin and cayenne.  (If you aren't sure if an herb will go well with your seasonings, tear open a leaf and then sniff it together with your spices.  If it smells good together, it will taste good together.)

And that is that, my friend.  

PSF!

(Pan Sauces Forever)

San Marzano Meatballs: A Recipe of Comfort

Despite our move-in day last Friday being pretty dang hot, the past few days have been fallish-ly cool.  Cool = cozy, in my brain (I admit it: I’m already getting the holiday itch), and this translates in the kitchen to cooking up some serious comfort food.  I’m dreaming of gloriously herbed and roasted meats and veggies, slowly simmered stews and soups, the occasional heaven of warm, yeasty sourdough bread or the buttery crust of pot pie.  Anything that compliments my desire to revel in the warmth and slowness of life is bound to find its way onto my dining room table.

That being said, it is only natural that Chef Reiton’s and my first home-cooked meal in our new little house fell into the comfort category. I found Marzano tomatoes for a great price at our little local grocery, so I used them to make a meal I am calling Marzano Meatballs (and, yes, everything about this town is little).

While this meal isn’t necessarily fast in cooking time, it is very quick to get on the stove and is pretty hands-off and easy.  If you can smash, stir, and sprinkle, you’re good.  I've included the recipe below.  If you can’t find Marzano tomatoes in the canned tomato section of your grocery store (or you can but they are so fricking expensive in your area that you just can't do it), you can use any other canned whole peeled tomato—not the end of the world.  And BTW, now that we have an organized house and are back to cooking again, we are back to eating our mostly grain-free diet, so we ate these "plain."  They could be served over zucchini noodles or a pasta of your choice.

These quantities (as well as small green salads) nicely served 2 people.

Equipment needed: medium bowl, 10-in. skillet or larger (cast iron is best), slotted spatula, paper-towel lined plate, vegetable peeler

Nice, if you have it: 1 1/2-in. ice cream scoop (#40)

Ingredients:

• 1/4 lb.-ish ground beef
• 1/4 lb.-ish ground pork or lamb
• 1/2 tsp. kosher salt
• 1/2 tsp. fennel seeds
• 1/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
• 1 egg
• 1 large garlic clove, crushed or finely minced

• big glug of extra virgin olive oil
• 1 28-oz. can of whole Marzano peeled tomatoes
• half a medium yellow or sweet onion (the root end is best, to keep the pieces all together), cut into two quarters (don't cut off the roots)
• 2 cloves of garlic, smashed and broken open with the heel of your palm
• a big drizzle of extra virgin olive oil
• a big drizzle of balsamic vinegar

• a big sprig of fresh basil, medium and large leaves removed, stacked, then slivered
• a hunk of Parmesan cheese
• baby/torn basil leaves from the above sprig for garnish/extra flavor

Here’s what you do:

Place the meats, salt, fennel, pepper, egg, and crushed garlic into the medium bowl.  Using your hands (or a wooden spoon if you don’t like to get dirty), gently mix and knead the ingredients together until well blended.

Wash your hands.

Heat up the skillet over medium heat.  Pour in a big glug of olive oil, then let it get hot and shimmery but not smoky (about 30 seconds).  

Using the ice cream scoop or your hands, make about 10 small 1 1/2-in. meatballs, dropping them into the pan one at a time as you make them.  Roll the balls around every couple minutes and brown as many of the sides as you can.  (The meatballs do not need to cook the whole way through.  They will be simmering in tomatoes shortly and will finish cooking then.) 

When a meatball is browned all over, take it out of the skillet and place it on the paper-towel lined plate to drain.  When all the meatballs are finished, pour the hot fat from the skillet into an old glass jar or tin can, but don’t wipe out or clean the skillet.  You want to use those residual brown bits and a smidge of meaty fat to help flavor the sauce.

Put the skillet back on the stove over medium heat, then add your can of tomatoes, juice and all.  Taking the edge of your spatula, gently cut each of the tomatoes in half (watch for shooting tomato guts!), then cut each of the halves in half.

Now take the meatballs and nestle them into the tomatoes.  Sprinkle everything with a pinch or two of kosher salt.  Drizzle the olive oil and balsamic vinegar into the tomatoes.  Next toss in the two quarters of onion and two smashed garlic cloves.  Gently give everything a good mix, using the edge of your spatula to scrape up the browned bits from the bottom of the pan and mixing them into the sauce.  When everything is well coated with tomato juices, turn the heat down to medium-low, go pour yourself a glass of wine, and wait.  

Time is of the essence here.  The longer this simmers, the better it tastes/the more the tomatoes break down/the thicker the sauce will be/etc., etc., etc.—so really enjoy that wine, set the table, and make a nice salad.  Stir everything occasionally to keep the parts all blended.  If you are in a rush, 20 minutes of simmering will suffice.  

When you are about ready to serve, sprinkle in the basil slivers and give the saucy balls one final good mix.  Scoop everything into one large bowl or individual serving bowls.  Take your hunk of Parm and your vegetable peeler and gently peel/shave Parmesan cheese into a mound on top of the whole mess.  Sprinkle everything with the baby basil leaves, and you're done.

Serve your masterpiece immediately and get ready to make some yummy noises!

A Foodie's Confession on Her Boring Dinner Plate

Folks,

I have a confession to make:

Although I write a food blog, tonight,...




tonight I made a meal that looked     JUST      PLAIN      BORING.

Just so you know.

Rachael

P.S.  It was still tasty... fauxtatoes and Carolina-style pulled pork in the crockpot...

Lessons on Using Bones for Stock

Last weekend we had my good friend/former student, Anna (now of Anna Rosie Bakes fame!) and her wonderful significant other, CDR, come up for the day and just hang and eat and drink.  We had a fantastic time, even though our dog was running around in a make-shift diaper the entire time.

After snacking on bacon-wrapped dates and poufy gougères

and imbibing several glasses of Campari-laced cocktails, we settled down for dinner.  The main event of our main course was a frenched pork loin roast, "the crown roast of pork" my butcher's assistant declared.  We used a delicious recipe from—you guessed it, BA.  It is a cider-brined pork roast in which you brine the pork for hours, dry rub it for a few more, then roast it with veggies to browned perfection.  (If you want to make a great mistake, try brining it with unfiltered cider vinegar by accident.  I think I liked it even better!)

But this post is not to be about the roast.  It is about the bones that we saved from the roast after we devoured it that night and the next day.  Bones that called to me yesterday morning through the gray drizzle on the windows and the wet leaves plastered to the driveway.  It was a day to hole up and do some winter kitchen prep: stock.

I've always been scared in the past to make soup and stock, but my food reading over the past year has really pounded into my head that when it comes to the history of peasant foods, like soups and such--there really wasn't a recipe.  It was whatever you had on hand thrown into a pot and (usually) cooked low and slow for a long time to yield whatever tasty treat your random items were going to give you that particular time.  The poor couldn't be picky, and so every time the results were different.

I decided that I was going to be okay with that and not let my anal side be bothered by the fact that I wasn't going to be able to exactly replicate this stock if I really liked it.  So I did what the peasants did.  My stockpot was soon loaded with the rib rack, old carrots, old celery, a couple halved onions, some sage and thyme that were on their last legs, a couple cloves of garlic, and a lot of salt and pepper.  I filled the pot up with water, set it on the stove over low heat, draped the lid almost on the whole way, then let it all go for hours.

Sigh. It's just delightful to me that this:

can turn into this:

Oh, what yummy soups these are, just waiting to be made this winter....  And all for the five minutes of prep time that it took to rinse my ingredients and throw them in the pot and the other 10 that it took to strain and jar the stock.

Good grief! I've got to do this more often!

Random Food and Cocktail Photos

My darling husband is sitting here, being a saint and doing bills and reconciling, and I'm sitting here, drinking a French red and feeling unproductive.  My remedy? Writing you all.  It's been awhile, regrettably, thanks to my job.  Maybe one day this will be my full time job...

Anyway, due to my absence and my nuts-o schedule, I've decided to just post pics of random food/meals we've had of late, and then maybe in a few days I'll be able to get on again and bang out a recipe.  So, for now, for your enjoyment:

my first Hendricks martini:

ribs, green beans, and sweet potato fries for Michael:

gluten-free chicken tenders with buffalo sauce:

homemade "Brickhouse Cheesy Sticks" (This one's for you, Valbon.)   To get the real deal, check out Brickhouse Pizza Pub in Fort Atkinson, WI.  YUM.

a gorgeous beet I roasted for dinner one night.  Look at that color!

and, lastly—THE HOPS ARE GROWING!!! (Ignore the fact that I have not weeded.)

I'll catch up more later.  PROMISE.

Cancer and the Kitchen

The past few months have been rather life-altering in our home.  Some changes, as you loyal readers know, were for heart-popping joyous reasons—like getting married to the darling of my heart.  Some others...not so much.  In fact, they were rather heart-crushing. Back in August, right at the start of the school year, my dearest biggest sister was diagnosed with colon cancer.

Nicole (or Cole, as she is affectionately called amongst us siblings) is one of those people that anyone has a hard time accepting that anything bad happen to her. She is an individual who does nothing but make the world a better place—and I am absolutely telling the truth when I say that. She takes after my two grandmothers in the fact that she does not have a judgmental, critical, negative bone in her body. She may disagree with you—but she understands the disagreement and leaves it alone, simply letting her love for you shine through in the hundred ways she shows it.

And here she has cancer. God damn cancer.

In the midst of all this, Chef Reiton's sister was being tested for celiac, a disease whose name is thrown around a lot these days, but if you have it, it really really is not a good thing. As we started learning more about it and what it does to your body (we tend to want to know all the details about what our sisters are potentially facing), Chef Reiton started becoming concerned. A lot of the symptoms of celiac disease were things that he had or currently was dealing with. Could he have celiac?

Because of the hereditary nature of celiac, and colon cancer, as my brother-in-law and Cole's doctors informed us, Chef Reiton and I decided to look into things a bit more personally: he stopped eating gluten. I thought about getting a colonoscopy. Thought about it, and agreed to get one—and never set up an appointment.

As the months went by, Chef Reiton started feeling fantastic. He started losing weight. His indigestion went away. Some numbness in his foot subsided. His headaches stopped.

I, on the other hand, started feeling worse.  One day I found myself questioning why I didn't have the energy to run up the stairs anymore. And when I found myself feeling pissy every day, I heard myself say, "What is wrong with me?"Anyone who knows me knows that none of these are characteristic of me; I normally am bouncing off the walls and feeling pretty darned happy about life.

And my stomach was just not feeling right.

But, being myself, I told myself that whatever it was was passing, I just needed to get some rest, and I would be fine. Whatever.

And then one day at lunch, I felt like my insides were going haywire. I left work early, thinking I had the flu. But five days later I was still super crappy (literally) with a fever and some serious abdominal pain. I went to the doctor who, upon hearing my new family medical history, immediately signed me up to see a surgeon to get a colonoscopy. The one I was supposed to have gotten months ago.

Long medical story short: the virus that I went in to the doctor's for went away with a month's worth of Prilosec. The colonoscopy experience was a trip; in my dream during the procedure I heard my surgeon say something about "six," and I thought: He found something.

And he did. A polyp the size of his pinky finger was hugging my colon wall. "I don't think it's cancerous," he said post-op, "but most probably precancerous. Thank God for that diarrhea! That's what made you come see me! Another year or two and that thing would have been cancerous."

Holy ironic crap. If it wasn't for Nicole... You see where I'm going? It would have been me.

But it's not. I simply have to get another colonoscopy in six months. Aaaand I have diverticulosis. (I thought that was what old people got!) I now take Metamucil twice a day (my 91-year-old friend, Heinz, laughed at that. "I only have to take it once!" he said.).

Chef Reiton, in the meantime, not only stopped eating gluten, but he started dabbling with the paleo diet. Next he scheduled an endoscopy—and was found to be normal.  A possible gluten irritation, but no disease.

So we were both cleared. But all of this really got us thinking.What we take in, yes, always comes out. But it spends some time hanging out inside, rubbing off on us in either good or bad ways. I had always thought that we had been healthy eaters. And we were, according to the USDA.

But what about according to us?Were we listening to our bodies? Did we stop to think about how we felt after we ate a meal? Did we take the time to not just notice our body functions but to discern what was causing them to be the way they were? Did we care enough about what those feelings and functions were saying?

Usually, no. If things taste good, it's hard to say 'no' to them, even if you feel like total crap later.

But when something big happens, like your sister getting cancer (and now my darling aunt, too), and then you have a scare yourself, you suddenly start thinking, "Maybe I should pay attention, because things are apparently happening in there, and I wasn't listening."

So. That huge story. Where is it leading?

One of the ways we have been dealing with our health hiccups is to follow more closely to a paleo diet. Chef Reiton is staying off all grains since he feels so much better not eating it (paleo foodies eat mostly meat, eggs, nuts, and veggies, and they drink lots of water. But no grain, no legumes, minimal natural starches and sugars...).  I am eating much, MUCH less grain.  I also am incorporating a LOT more fiber into my diet (doctor's orders), which means a heck of a lot more veggies than I already was eating.

This has been a huge switch in the way that we were eating and cooking. Remember all of those posts on homemade bread? Cookies? Cakes? Yeah. They happen a LOT less now. I still eat some. I have a 15-year-old stepson who still wants a cookie once in awhile. But despite a once-a-month splurge on pasta or a piece of pizza, Chef Reiton is strictly paleo—and down to a 32-inch waist.

The funny thing: Nicole and her husband started looking into paleo at the same time because of the connections of foods and cancer. Her research into the diet led her to a cookbook that she thought I would enjoy, so she passed on some of its recipes. After one night of cooking one of them, I was hooked.  I had to have it: Well Fed by Melissa Joulwan.

It has now been added to the Cookbooks to Be Owned list.  Every frickin' recipe in it rocks (except for the meatza pie. It felt too much like squashed meat loaf for me.). I love the pad thai. Never thought I could do spaghetti squash, but here? OMG. The ginger-lime grilled shrimp are fabulous. And the Moroccan meatballs are to die for. (I just want those little swords she has poking into them...I want to eat off a sword.)  Two nights ago we made the citrus carnitas:

I now wholeheartedly agree with blogger Shayne who said, "You should probably rename this to pork crack-nitas, because I cannot stop making and eating it." With such a cheap cut as pork shoulder, you can afford to.

Eating healthy—eating consciously—is not difficult.  It does take some initial sacrifice.  But come on, we are humans. We are adaptable creatures who love a good time; when it comes to food, we can always find a way to still have it good. It's just a different good than what we were used to, that's all. It is in no way less pleasurable.

For those of you who are still here, reading until the very end of this very long post, it shows that something I said caught you. I hope that whatever it was, it was a good spark. I know that despite all of these changes for my family, we are realizing more than we ever did before that Life and the love of it are precious. When you find It raging towards you, in joy or in pain, you've just got to grab it by the horns and ride, ride, ride.

Just make sure you're riding towards a kitchen.

A Foodie Honeymoon: Thursday Dinner at La Provence

The drive to La Provence from downtown New Orleans perfectly suited my love for suspense.  For--what? more than two years?--I had been dreaming of eating at this Besh restaurant nestled on an idyllic little farm where a majority of the food served at the restaurant is grown.  I could tell from reading My New Orleans that La Provence was Besh's baby, and my desire to eat at the restaurant only grew all the more as we entered onto the very long but very beautiful Lake Pontchartrain Causeway for our 45-minute drive to dinner that Thursday evening.

To tell you how badly we wanted to dine at this little restaurant, we actually rented a car just to drive to it.  Extreme? Maybe.  But for us, this honeymoon was about love--love of each other and our happy, obsessive love of food, and come hell or high water, we would see our goal through.

After a half hour ride across the causeway and some sauntering through a tiny town or two, we blew past the tiniest little house on the righthand side of the road with a gravel parking lot and a non-chalant sign that bore a crest and the words "La Provence."

"That's it..." I spoke to the window, and Chef Reiton slammed on the brakes.  We wheeled into the parking lot, just in time to see a trio of piglets wrestling in a fenced-in yard.

Despite the fact that I was wearing 3.5-inch heels, I trekked across the gravel to get a closer look at what would eventually be someone's dinner, laughing as they head-butted each other and tumbled in the mud.  So cute.  And so yummy.  I remembered lunch at Borgne with a smile.

Across the way stood the chicken coop, the beautiful birds sauntering outside, casting wary golden eyes at this stranger in a red dress as they strutted and pecked their way across the yard.  Across a lawn was a kitchen garden, glowing green in the coming twilight.  It was so beautiful that it reminded me I was hungry; we picked our way across the gravel and headed into the restaurant.

As aforementioned, La Provence is a tiny little house that has been converted into a restaurant.  I immediately fell in love with the wide plank wood floors, the giant fireplace in the middle of the dining room, and the low ceiling and lighting that added a natural atmospheric warmth to the place. It made me  want to just sit and eat slowly for the rest of the night, staring at the roaring fire...  Unfortunately, being the dog days of August, there was no fire in the fireplace.  I instead was left to imagine what it would be like coming here at Christmastime...

Within moments our waitress approached the table.  Her name was Cassandra (spelled the right way, we discovered), and she was delightful.  Just like all the other servers we had had thus far, she was completely down-to-earth, very professional and very knowledgeable about the food she was about to serve.  She brought us a basket of toasts and the chicken liver paté we had had at Besh Steak, went over the menu with us, answered any questions we had, then took our wine orders while we sat and tried to decide what to order.

(Now, readers--I have to be honest about something here: due to an iPhone mishap, I've lost our notes and pictures.  And due to the fact that Besh's menus are largely seasonal, I can't even cheat and go look at the menu to remember what I had.  So this next part is going to be a little sketchy.  I sincerely apologize.)

The market menu (Besh's version of a prix fixe menu) intrigued me, so I decided to go with it: included in the meal were a green salad, roasted pork neck, and a little cherry cake for dessert.  I had never heard of pork neck, let alone knew that you could eat it.  Sounds like something to try.  Chef Reiton opted for the duck, something he had never had before.

The restaurant was quite empty, seeing it was a Thursday night, and the manager of the restaurant was walking from table to table, checking in to see how everyone was doing.  Soon she came round to our table, and she asked how we were enjoying our honeymoon in New Orleans.  She paid attention to the reservation information, too! I thought, and soon we were telling our honeymoon tale once again.  She introduced herself as Carrie Kelley, and continued to give some Besh advice of her own: go to Lüke.

"But--it's closed," we said.  "We had to cancel our reservation because of the remodeling."

"No, but it is opening tomorrow for lunch! You must go!"

My heart sank at the missed chance.  "We're having lunch at August," I said.  "And then heading to the airport straight from there."

"Wait," she said.  "I'm going to make a phone call."

Carrie Kelley disappeared into the tiny reception area, and moments later our food arrived at the table.  Oh, glorious food.  If only my brain could accurately remember all the beautiful details of what then sat before us.  But it doesn't.  All I can remember is that the pork neck was served rolled up with herbs and then sliced--a presentation that surprised me but then made sense when I thought about the cut of meat that I was eating.  And its texture and taste was an interesting cross between pork roast and bacon.  Definitely different from any pork I had ever eaten--and not necessarily something that I would order again.  (There are other cuts of pork that I just like better.)

Chef Reiton's duck was gorgeous, roasted to a deep, dark mahogany brown.  Crispy skin, meat that melted in your mouth, and a taste that was deep--nothing like the oily horror stories I had been told of.

A few minutes into the meal, Carrie Kelley was back.  "Okay," she said.  "Lüke is opening up at 11  tomorrow morning.  What time is your August reservation?"

"Noon," I said.

"Okay, here's what you do. Go to Lüke at 11.  Have some oysters and a beer, then walk to August for your lunch.  It's only a few blocks away from Lüke.  That way you can hit them both.  And you've got to try Lüke.  And August.  They are both just amazing."

I loved it.  It seemed that everyone was on our mission with us.  We were going to get to hit them all as we had hoped!

As the remains of our meal were cleared and we sat sipping our wine and digesting, we both remarked with sadness that tomorrow was our last day.  What a trip this had been! It wasn't a trip of happy moments; it had been happiness in one freakin' awesome continuation.

And we were getting a bonus! We were going to get to all the restaurants as we had hoped in the beginning! What a fantastic surprise that was. A little aperitif at Lüke and then a luncheon at August.

Were we saving the best for last? I wasn't sure.  Tonight's experience satisfied every longing that I had dreamt La Provence could fulfill.  The atmosphere, the service, the wine, the food (even if it wasn't my favorite pork dish).

I guessed there was only one way to find out...

A Foodie Honeymoon: Monday Dinner at Domenica

It's strange how anticipation of an event can be a complete killer to an experience because it doesn't live up to what you want it to be.

OR it can be a total laugh because the experience completely blows away even your wildest hopes.

Such was the start of our John Besh honeymoon.  Domenica, his Italian restaurant, was our first stop.  After unloading at the hotel and taking a brief siesta, we walked to this gorgeous restaurant for happy hour (a restaurant who's decor was as fantastically un-Italian as you could get):

Happy hour at Domenica means 1/2 price pizzas, beer, wine by the glass, and well cocktails.  Considering we were going to get pizza and beer anyway, it was quite a deal for such a great place.  But there is something about getting restaurant food for a deal that always makes me feel a little--oh, I don't know--like I'm being cheap.  Which I am.  But I always have a twinge-y feeling that the waitstaff will be disappointed in my cheapness and therefore treat me less.

Well.  Let me introduce you to Vanessa and Corey.  If you have the same qualms as I do, they will make you feel right at home and laugh your qualms to scorn.

The first item set on the table was a bottle of water.  Vanessa introduced herself as Corey, who she was training, and the evening got off to the perfect start with a good laugh.  We introduced ourselves as well--something that I like to do--then Vanessa then took our drink order: I ordered a local IPA, and Chef Reiton ordered a blonde (beer, that is.  Domenica isn't that kind of place...). 

When Vanessa and Corey returned with our beers and a chunk of hot Italian bread with a bottle of pepper-infused olive oil, we chit chatted about what brought us to New Orleans.  Of course our honeymoon came up, and they both responded with congratulatory smiles and remarks.  We told them that we were honeymooning to eat at all of Besh's restaurants, and they asked if we'd eaten at August, yet.  We told them that Domenica was our first and that August would be our last.  And according to them, apparently that was the best way to do it.

In between bites of gorgeously chewy, bubbly bread, we perused the menu; everything sounded so good. Chef Reiton decided that he would go with the Calabrese: spicy salami, tomato, mozzarella, capers, and olives.  I was a little shocked--he hates olives.  But this was what we came to Besh and New Orleans to do: eat foods put in front of us whether we were scared of them or not.  I chose to go with the  Bolzano, a mix of pulled pork shoulder, fennel, bacon, and sweet onion.  

Corey and Vanessa affirmed our food choices as we ordered, then dashed off to the kitchen.  As we waited for our food we snapped some pictures

and talked excitedly of being together, being married, being foodies.

And then Vanessa and Corey showed up.

Not with the pizza but with flutes of sparkling wine.

"Congratulations!" they both said and set the glasses before us.  "It's your honeymoon! We had to do something." 

What a wonderfully surprising treat! We thanked them profusely, then toasted each other, and took another picture.

Soon our pizzas came, way larger than I expected and absolutely gorgeous.  The Calabrese was fantastic: salty from the olives and capers, with a good pucker from their pickling.  The spiciness of the salami bit back, too, but the whole seemingly chaotic mess was sweetened by the tomatoes and  smoothed out in the mellowness of the mozzarella.  It was perfect.  A full tongue experience.

My Bolzano was also very, very good.  It was a much more subtle dish.  The pulled pork was not spicy, and the bacon was not overly salty or smoky.  The meats' flavors were kept simple, given depth and sweetness by the roasted fennel and the sweet onion.  The combination was--comforting.  And it was real food.  I found a bone chip in a chunk of pork, for crying out loud.  Why??? Because THEY ACTUALLY SMOKE AND ROAST THEIR OWN MEAT.  Ohhhhh, foodie heaven.

I giggled as we snapped away at our food, glancing around to see if anyone was frowning upon our unclassy behavior.  "I don't care," I muttered as Chef Reiton framed the shot.  "We came here to eat, and there is no way I'm blogging without pictures."

When we couldn't eat anymore, Corey and Vanessa insisted that we have dessert.  We both paused, and they suggested we share--then left us with the dessert menu and the words "Banana Zuppa Inglese" ringing in our ears.  We read the description: "moist banana cake, butterscotch mousse, and peanut brittle."  One glance across the table said the same thing: we're on our HONEYMOON.  And when Corey came back, we simply said, "Let's do it."

A few minutes later, we were presented with this (you can see Chef Reiton couldn't wait):

Our first notice was of the vessel: a canning jar! So rustic. So simple. So screaming "HOMEMADE!!!"  

And then I noticed something even more unusual: I liked the brittle, and I HATE peanuts.

I was very quickly starting to understand this about a first class restaurant (which I have frequented very, VERY rarely in my 37 years): here, delight is in everything, because everything everything is made from scratch from quality ingredients.  No half assing.  No skimping.  No cheating.  Make it the real way and make it good, and you will have customers like Chef Reiton and I making obscene noises at your dinner table.

A final discovery with our dessert was this: it is truly a delightful experience to dive downward with your spoon and resurface with an array of ingredients that look to be completely distinguishable but meld in your mouth to become one utterly unified flavor unlike anything you had tasted before.  Creative flavor genius at work. 

Shortly after demolishing our B.Z.I., Corey and Vanessa came to check on us and give us the bill--and a plate of fudge cookies.  They congratulated us again--and we thanked them again: two of the most delightful people who had ever waited on us.

As Chef Reiton signed the check and we pushed the last plate away, we turned to each other, brushed the crumbs off our fronts, and laughed.  We were stuffed.  We were happy.  We had leftover pizza. 

We had started the journey.

A Lesson in Smoking (and Learning!)

I am proud to announce that as of last night, Chef Reiton has become a graduate of Low & Slow: Master the Art of Barbecue in 5 Easy Lessons, Gary Wiviott's cookbook "course" on smoking a rather fantastic array of meats.

Wiviott has, in a rather tongue-in-cheek manner, created a cookbook that, in "boot-camp" style, teaches a cook to become a master smoker.  Last night (or shall I say, all day yesterday) was the graduate course: 20 pounds of pork butt to make pulled pork.  And, man, was that the kicker... Even Marley the dog enjoyed it.  He ate one of the shoulder bones in ten minutes flat.

I have to say: I am so proud of my partner.  The hours that it takes to properly smoke a piece of meat is daunting to me.  As much as I love smoked food, I never would have smoked anything if he hadn't wanted to learn how to do it (and I honestly haven't done anything except watch him at the smoker as we drink beer, and then eat his amazing food).  It's been a little lesson to me, watching him do this whole "boot-camp" process and tasting the flavor that I fantasize about every time I think of "grilling:" if you want to learn something, DO IT.  Don't be daunted by the steps or the time or the expense.  You can always find a way to make it work for you and still learn the lessons that need to be learned.

Gosh, don't you love it? Food really does teach you so much about Life.  It's a fantastic teacher.  And you get to eat it.