Homemade Fish Stock and Hysterectomies

This is going to be a quick one because...well, if you can't tell from the title of my post, I'm a bit laid up compared to my usual self. I'm only writing because, after tonight's experience, I thought maybe I should warn any of you out there who are preparing to have a hysterectomy: do NOT plan on making homemade fish stock within the first week or two of recovery.

Why?

Well, the following scenarios might give you an idea why. Imagine experiencing each one of them sequentially while sporting a 6-inch incision on your lower abdomen that has been glued shut and is surrounded by bruising the color of a yellow highlighter marker.

1.) After bringing the salted heads and skeletal remains of two large, species-less fish, two halved onions, a few sprigs of parsley, some fennel fronds and two bay leaves to a boil in a stockpot, I lift the lid to see this:

2.) Upon another stirring of the pot, I lift the lid to see a translucent ball drift to the surface, bob gently in an eddy, then lazily roll over to reveal the iridescent glow of a fish eye staring back at me.

3.) As I get ready to tuck myself into bed in the guest room on the lower level, I get a text from my husband: "It really stinks up here. I think next time we should make fish stock outside."

And now I sit here in bed with an ice pack on my belly because it hurts so much—and I'm still laughing.

So! Just a fair warning to those of you who want to have hysterectomies and then go make fish stock soon after. I caution you: Get that ice pack ready.

Lessons Italy and My Italian Friends Taught Me (Involving a Pizza and a Whole Roasted Scup)

It's been a reflective week this past week, these days following Chef Reiton's and my return from living in Italy for a month. I say "living" because that's what we did.

We didn't tour. We didn't visit. We lived.

And in those four weeks of first-time everything for me, I honestly believe I was transformed a little bit by the people and the places and lives I got to know while we were there. When you live, that's generally what happens, I guess. You learn from the experience. And I've heard that travel changes you. I guess I just wasn't expecting it to change how I think about so many things.

For one, I need to chill out. I'm serious. I am so much more chill than I was in a past life, but still, this trip taught me I can do way better. I was determined to not let anything stress me out from the moment we walked out the door (flying stand-by there and back, the driving of southern Italy's roads, only knowing a miniscule fraction of the language, etc., etc., etc.). I was pretty damn close to succeeding. Enough so, at least, to really learn that Life is incredibly more enjoyable when you allow fear and frustrations to roll off when they come sneaking into your being. Take a deep breath and a few seconds to look at how much worse something could be. Amounts of perspective and gratitude will shift dramatically in the right direction.

I also learned that I come from a country that really needs to get out more—and that includes out of our comfort zones. Traveling alone with my husband and staying in people's homes forced us to talk to Italians who spoke little to no English. Which meant we were cramming Italian lessons on Duolingo for a month and a half before we left. Which meant we spoke very, very little Italian. But you know what? It was enough Italian to fumble our way through ordering dinner, communicating with our hosts, and carrying on two-hour conversations with new friends who had the patience to let us speak like three-year-olds.

Frankly, I'd rather be embarrassed about my bad Italian grammar than the other incredibly rude behaviors I saw displayed by Americans who came to Italy expecting to get away with learning ZERO Italian beforehand. I'm sorry, but do the people who visit our country expect us to know their language when they get here? And don't give me the crap about the dominance of the English language. Show some respect for a different culture, learn to say and use "Hello!" frequently, and show some humility when you don't understand something. We saw three women hot off the cruise ship get irritated when our awesome friend, Salvatore, kept asking if they wanted 'pomodoro' pizza. They just kept saying louder and louder, "PIZZA." We finally had to intervene with their obnoxiousness and tell them that 'pomodoro' means 'tomato' because not all pizzas in Italy have tomato on them. We also pointed out as Salvatore calmly and coolly walked away down the street after they placed their order that Bar Max was a COFFEE SHOP and didn't sell pizza. But you know what? Salvatore was going to get them their pizza, anyway. Sure enough, a few minutes later Salvatore returned from his friend's restaurant carrying two pizzas for the women. And then he went and borrowed plates and real silverware from his other friend's restaurant. All for three Americans who didn't take the time to read his store signage or learn two words in Italian, namely, "please" and "thank you." Sigh.

Rude behaviors aside, every time we had one of our awkward-turned-awesome experiences of making new Italian friends, I spent the next day glowing and reminiscing of how much I loved these people. Of how delightful the world is when we spend time getting to know each other, laughing together and kissing each other good-bye.

And every time I had one of those experiences, I also had the thought that being on a tour bus would never, ever have given us—no, FORCED us—into those opportunities. Opportunities that were intimidating at first but opened up our world to friendships and memories that, I hope, will last a lifetime. Opportunities to visit towns, homes and places of beauty well off even the road-less-traveled. (Search for "Fiordo di Crapolla" on Google Map 3D; I hiked there from the top of the hill/mountain with two of our new friends, swam there, and then hiked back up, unlike the tourists who motored in on a boat—which is illegal—and only stayed 30 seconds).

We also had opportunities to eat at an insane number of bars and restaurants. Some that we hit were listed in the tourist guides; those tended to be very good. But the ones which we randomly stumbled across or were recommended by our new friends to have owners and servers that would take care of us—those were the restaurants that we went back to over and over again. I don't care that we weren't trying a new place every meal. The people and the food at these restaurants became home after the hours we spent with them. We didn't want to be anywhere else.

With this repeated visiting of the same restaurants came times when we just told our server to bring whatever dish they loved; we wanted to get out of our food comfort zone. What did this mean? It means we got a lot of fish and seafood. A LOT. I mean, we were in southern Italy. We also got the chef to come out from the kitchen one night and teach us how to eat a whole fish because we had absolutely no idea how to do it.

If you are a loyal reader, you've probably noticed that I don't cook a lot of seafood. And when I do, it's pretty basic. Shrimp. Clams, once in a blue moon. Swordfish even more rarely. That's about it. So this eating-seafood-on-a-daily-basis was really new for me. Like, REALLY. And regardless of the fact that I gained seven pounds in a month (some of it was muscle weight, I swear!), I felt better. I really did. And I really liked all the fishes that I ate. Who knew fresh sardines were out-of-this-world?? (Super bummed they aren't native to the New England waters. Because I would be making them weekly. For real.)

And now we are home. Italy and our new friends are in my dreams every night. I am comforted only by the fact that at least the food we can (mostly) replicate here. We do live with the Atlantic lapping the shore at the end of the block. The unfortunate thing: all this seafood available to me that I learned to love in Italy? I don't know how to prepare it or cook it. Except for sardines from our cooking class with the Duchess. But, we can't...get...

Crap.

So, two days after we get home, we get an email offering cooking classes with Boston Public Market and Red's Best, a retailer for a network of local fisherman. The class promised to teach how to prepare not just one but THREE different seafood dishes: steamed razor clams, roasted whole scup, and bouillabaisse. DUDE.

Well, I signed us up. We went. We loved it. And we each came home with possibly one of the easiest and most delicious, healthy, not-fishy-at-ALL dinners I've ever made, even if it does sport tiny, razor-sharp teeth:

(How did we prepare it? Roasted it on a baking sheet at 350° F for about half an hour after we stuffed it with some lemon slices and fresh herbs of choice, sprinkled it heavily with salt, and rubbed it with olive oil. That's it.)

NEVER would I have made (and subsequently loved) this dish without Italy. Never.

I'm afraid I might have actually been annoying during the class because I kept remarking of how things reminded me of Italy. Like how the fennel in the bouillabaisse was so Italian. And how our friend, Andrea, had showed us how to clean and trim tuna that his fisherman friend had landed one afternoon. And how we learned to stuff and roll fresh sardines for a gorgeous dish in Palermo and now we are wanting to know what other fish to replace them with...

I'm currently wondering how long this obsession will last. I tend to do that with new things; I get obsessed. A year from now, will I still be telling everyone about the delectable spaghetti con vongole Patrizia's husband made for us in Atrani or of that crazy walk we took to Ravello or of that one time when we were in Trapani and I asked those two men if I could take their picture...?

But honestly, I don't want the obsession to end. I want it to go on and on and continue teaching me the way the past month taught me. As long as I am able, I want to continue living the way that Italy taught me to live: with a full heart, a full belly, a full glass of wine and a full appreciation for the fact that Life hands all of us all kinds of customers. Help each other out in the times of need, share in the goodness when it lands on your plate, and for heaven's sake, EAT.

Learning to Devein Fresh Shrimp: A How-to Video

A while back I posted a recipe on Ginger-Lime Shrimp. I promised you all at the time that I would create a video showing how exactly to "devein" (or de-poop, really) the little suckers without tearing into the entire back, destroying the aesthetic quality of a beautifully curled, perfectly cooked shrimp.

Well, a year later, here I am. It's ridiculous, I know, but there were just too many times that I was peeling and deveining shrimp while Chef Reiton was still at work, and my camera is too heavy for my tripod, and... Ugh. Excuses. But good ones, I swear.

Before I show you the video, I want to descriptively run through what I do, as well as show you a few pictures, in case it is unclear in the video.

And, remember, this is how I do it. Technically, you don't even need to devein your shrimp. You can eat the whole damn thing—head, shell, guts and all—if you want. I don't want to, so the following video shows how I choose to prepare my shrimp, fresh (not frozen) and beheaded by the local fishmonger.

To begin with, you first must PEEL the shrimp (unless you are having guests peel their own at the table during a casual dinner). I generally do this by pinching the legs between my thumb and the side of my pointer finger and tugging them sideways. This usually loosens the shell, too. Then I peel off the shell surrounding the shrimp and gently tug off the tail casing. You CAN leave the tail on if you prefer a kind of "handle" on your shrimp if it's acting as a finger food.

After your shrimp are peeled, it's time to devein. When you buy shrimp, the entire head and guts portion are already cut off and discarded—except for the intestine. "Deveining" means that you are removing the intestine that runs down the back of the shrimp. You do NOT need to do anything to the dark line running along its belly: it's just a nerve. See the shrimp diagram below for clarification (thank you, shrimp-culture.blogspot.com):

Yes, you can buy deveined shrimp at the store, but this usually means the shrimp are handled by a machine which leaves a huge slice down their backs. They are typically then frozen into an unsightly mass of flayed, frost-bitten flesh. Such shrimp still taste and look just as frost-bitten and unsightly after they are prepared, and being a cook that likes to make my food not just attractive to the tongue but also to the eyes, I have learned to buy fresh shrimp and peel and devein them myself. Does it take extra time? Yes. But I'm not making shrimp every day, so I'm willing to put in the extra work when I need to. The sweet tenderness of un-frozen, un-molested shrimp is definitely worth it.

To devein, you will need a paring knife and a colander. I usually do this activity over a sink with running water to rinse the shrimp or knife as needed. You will be inserting the blade of your paring knife BLADE UP into the shrimp.

The intestine USUALLY shows as a dark "dot" in the neck of the shrimp. This is the start of the intestine. What makes it dark is the poop.

Just below and beside this dot is where you are going to insert the tip of the knife.

Only insert about 1/4-inch of the knife tip and slice up. With a little bit of fishing with the knife tip, you should reveal a section of the intestine. Using your thumb and fingertip, grasp the end of the intestine and pull firmly but gently. If you yank, you will snap the intestine and have to slice further down the back to reach the rest of it.

Let me show you with a video. It's not professional, but it will at least give you an idea of what I'm doing.

If you are even more confused than ever after watching the video, please feel free to ask me a question in the comments section below. I will do what I can to help. Or you can send us a picture of your beautiful, poop-free shrimp! Yippeeeeeee!

And check out the other videos in CAF's "How the Hell do I...?" video series. You can subscribe to our channel at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCTnyS-M2IZ5uWvkwLI8dhxQ.

Rachel Alabiso's Shrimp Tacos

There is nothing in the world like next-door neighbors who pull you out of a slump...

I recently thought I was going to have to put my Marley boy down all of a sudden (I thought I had jinxed him by finally writing his book), and after all of the loss that we've had with our family and friends this past year, it was the straw that just kind-of did me in. I found myself slipping into a kind of soul-hibernation. That, and I sprained my foot, and Marley was put on major drugs—so I was holed up, anyway.

Well, the other night, our next-door neighbors, Annette and Justin, decided that I needed a break from the house and invited the three of us over for our long overdue Taco Night. They also invited over "the other Rachel" and Mike of our Thursday Night Crew.

To contribute to the dinner, Chef Reiton and I brought over some cookies (I came up with a lemon-pistachio baby that the girls gave a thumbs-up; I'll make them again and do a post later). Rachel and Mike, however, brought over the most delicious shrimp concoction for shrimp tacos that I have ever had. EVER.

I know, right?!??! And you know what I love? Rachel WINGED THE RECIPE. She thought about what flavors would taste great with shrimp—salt and black pepper, of course, with some garlic, ancho chile powder, cumin, paprika, and dried orange peel (she makes her own powder by peeling and drying just the orange part of the peel and then grinding it up).

Next, she peeled a couple pounds of fresh shrimp (fresh really does make a difference, if you can get it near you), sprinkled them with the above seasonings (no measuring, just eyeballing it) and then tossed it all to coat with a bit of frozen corn. She let the shrimp marinate and the corn thaw until we were ready to cook, and then she just sautéd the shrimp for a few minutes until they reached that perfect, just-pink curl, squeezing some lime over the whole thing when they were done and serving them on a banana leaf.

Can you say that a non-French food has je ne c'est quoi? The blend of seasonings was perfect. You couldn't figure out what made them so damn good. All you knew was that you could not stop eating them.

Sigh. Thank God for next-door girlfriends. I'd be turning into a potato by now. And I never would have experienced Rachel's shrimp tacos.

So, remember our lesson for today: DON'T BE AFRAID TO WING IT. If you don't feel like you are good at discerning what tastes good with what, go buy yourself a copy of The Flavor Bible. Believe me, it will change the way you cook. Recipe writing will suddenly be something you can do. Swears.

And now, I'm off. I've got some oranges to peel...

Ginger-Lime Shrimp (and a Lesson in "Deveining")

There are so many things I love about living on the ocean, but I have to say that one of the best things is the insanely fresh seafood that I can get at a seafood shop that is on the way home from picking up Captain Reiton at the airport.

The first time I went into this restaurant/shop—Belle Isle Seafood—I (somehow? There are only signs EVERYWHERE) didn't notice that they only take cash. When I went to pay with my CREDIT CARD, the girl very graciously explained that she was unable to accept it as a form of payment—this being after a five minute conversation about how much I loved living here after being in the Midwest for so long, and blah blah blah....

So, being embarrassed but being me, I made fun of myself and then asked her if she could just keep my salmon in the case and I would run back later with cash to pick it up. To this she responded (and I quote):

"Oh, no, just take it with you. You can just pay later."

Am I serious??? Yes, I'm serious.  This is the kind of town I live in. It's small. People trust you, or they will kick your ass. And I love it.

So. As I was saying: I also love the seafood, so the other night I bought a pound of fresh shrimp at Belle Isle to sauté up for dinner.  Being fresh, the shrimp weren't processed like they are when you buy them frozen or from the seafood case at the grocery store. That meant they simply had their heads cut off, and that was it. They still had their little legs. Their full, unsplit shells. Their little poopy intestine down the center of their back...

So I shelled them. Ripped off their little legs. And then—I discovered the BEST way to "devein" the shrimp!!! 

(Why is it called "deveining," by the way? It's an intestine, NOT a vein. Are they afraid to call it "de-pooping" a shrimp? Because that is what you are doing, really...)

Now, here's the problem that I've always had about shrimp that I have bought frozen that have been deveined: in the processing of the shrimp, they are practically butterflied. They are sliced open the whole way down their spine so that they flay open when they cook.

I don't want shrimp that look like butterflies on my plate. I want shrimp that look like shrimp on my plate, damn it. Appearance is very much a big deal to me when it comes to cooking, and I have always found it so unattractive to be eating shrimp that look like they've been attacked by the SNL Samurai.

SO. As I was finishing peeling and de-legging my shrimp, I wondered if I really had to slice a shrimp the entire way down it's spine to devein it...

I took a paring knife, inserted the tip blade-up into the middle of the shrimp "neck," so to speak, and sliced upwards, making about a quarter-inch long cut.  Now I could see the poop tract laying right there...

I reached in with my fingertips, grabbed the end of the "vein," and very gently but firmly pulled...

VOILA!!! It slid out! The whole thing! I had an entire shrimp in my left hand and an intestine dangling from my right! No flaying necessary!

Now I had perfectly whole, beautiful shrimp, ready to be marinated and sautéed for dinner. 

And speaking of dinner, wowzers, have I got a shrimp dish that will knock your socks off. I very slightly adapted it from Melissa Joulwan's cookbook, Well Fed. If you are looking for flavorful but easy and fast, this is it. 

If you are in a super rush, make the marinade first before you deal with your shrimp, then toss your shrimp into the marinade bowl as you clean them up. Then, as your shrimp are marinating for 20 minutes or so, you can get the rest of your sides together. Shrimp only take a few minutes to cook completely, so depending on your sides, you could have dinner on the table in about 45 minutes, from start to chow-time.

As I've pointed out with so many recipes lately, use the quantities and ingredients you have. You do NOT need to follow ingredients and measurements here exactly. It will still taste good, I promise. But here's what I used:

Ingredients for 2-3 people:

• 1 lb. of fresh shrimp, shelled completely and "deveined" (I also give them a rinse)
• juice from 2 juicy limes (smooth skin, heavy, feel squishy)
• fresh ginger root, peeled and finely grated on a zester or minced up, about 1 1/2-in. worth
• a jalapeño, seeded and minced, or a tsp. of crushed red pepper flakes
• 3 peeled garlic cloves, finely grated on a zester or minced
• about a quarter cup of minced cilantro
• 1/2 tsp. kosher salt
• 1/4 tsp. freshly ground pepper
• 2 Tblsp. olive oil

Steps to Make:

1.  Combine the lime juice, ginger root, jalapeño or flakes, garlic, cilantro, salt and pepper in a medium bowl and whisk together with a fork. Drizzle in the olive oil and whisk rapidly to blend with the juice mixture. This is your marinade.

2.  Add the shrimp to the marinade and toss really, really well. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and stick in the fridge for 20-30 minutes but nor really any more than 45 minutes. The lime juice will cook the shrimp. Really.

3. When your sides for dinner are almost done, heat up a large skillet on the stove on medium-high. When it is nice and hot, dump the entire contents of the bowl into the skillet. Shake the skillet to create a single even layer of shrimp. Cook for about two minutes. You will see the shrimp turning pink and starting to curl. Stir the shrimp to blend them with the sauce and to flip them onto their other side (you might need to help some of them a little). Shake the pan to make your even layer again, and cook for another 2 minutes or so.

4. Platter the shrimp and garnish with some cilantro fronds or torn cilantro leaves.

That's it! Super fast. Super easy. Super delicious! You could also skewer the shrimp and grill them, too... YUM.

Word of advice: just don't overcook them. Fresh shrimp are so tender. I had no idea. If you cook them too long, they will get rubbery and weird. Don't panic about the short cooking time. If the shrimp is all pink and curling, it's DONE.

And I promise to make something shrimpy this week and video the whole de-pooping for you...

*UPDATE: I made the video! Click here to read a more descriptive post on how to devein shrimp and to watch the video. 

A Foodie Honeymoon: Friday Appetizers at Lüke

The smell of polyeurethane wafted past us as we walked through the entrance of Lüke.  What a gorgeous place.  Tin ceilings, parquet floors, heavily varnished wood, vintage lighting...  A beautiful bar lined the far right wall, and we made our beeline.

Another couple was sitting at the bar being helped by the bartender, who told us he'd be with us in a minute.  We read through the beers on tap while we waited, and I couldn't help but eavesdrop when I heard the words "elderflower liqueur" escape the bartender's lips as he described a cocktail that the couple was thinking of ordering. But my distraction by the beers with Lüke's name on them overpowered my ears.  I would never make a good spy...at least not if it involved restaurants, beer, wine, cocktails, or liquors of any sort.  And as we all know from Mr. Bond, spying inevitably involves such things.  Good thing I didn't pursue that childhood dream with any earnest.

Minutes later, true to his word, Steve (as the bartender introduced himself) was pouring us Lüke's homebrew and talking oysters.  Lüke was, as I knew from my Besh menu research, a restaurant designed after the old brasseries of New Orleans' in times past.  Oysters was just a natural on the menu.  And, boy, did you see oysters when you walked up to the bar! Mounds of them, piled behind the glass, waiting to be sliced open and plattered by the cooks, a tasty accoutrement to the amber with the gorgeous head that Chef Reiton was sipping from his pint glass.

"I've never actually had a raw oyster," he confessed to Steve.

I think Steve almost dropped his bar towel.

I also think that Steve's second career will be in food education because, quite eloquently, he began to relay the types of oysters that Lüke served, their technical names and the names that I remember: freshwater oysters from the waters of the lake of Louisiana--Lake Pontchartrain, and the saltwater oysters, with their briny flavor of the sea off the southern coast.

"Do you want to try them?" he offered.  "You can compare the two."

I didn't respond.  I was hoping that I would be that kid in the back of the class who, if I didn't draw attention to myself, would become invisible.  I'd had raw oysters before (for you faithful readers, you may remember my reference to eating them in Illinois at a friend's house--not to be a good experience just from the state alone...), and it wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat--foodie or not.

But that is where my new darling husband was different.  "Okay," he said.  And my heart swelled with pride.  So brave.

Steve brought the first oyster, a freshwater specimen.  "Do I chew it?" Chef Reiton asked.

"It's up to you," Steve explained.  "Some people just swallow them off the shell.  I like to chew them so I can taste them."  I wanted to gag.  I watched the love of my life with complete awe as he loosened the oyster from the shell with his little fork, then lifting the shell to his lips, tilted it like a soup spoon and poured its contents into his mouth, chewing slowly and reflectively before swallowing.

I found myself holding my breathe--for what, I am not sure.  For him to throw up? For me to throw up?

"Wow. That wasn't bad.  Not at all what I expected it to taste like."

And that's where the foodie in me got a little jealous, damn it.  I was missing out on an experience! I didn't know what a freshwater oyster tasted like, and now I kind-of wanted to...

Next came the saltwater oyster.  "These are my favorite," Steve said, placing the plate in front of my husband.  "I like the briny water you get with the oyster.  It tastes like the ocean."

Chef Reiton picked up the next oyster.  I couldn't help but observe just how raw the shell and oyster looked in his hand.  He sipped the contents from its shell--and I saw a flicker of "eww" cross his face.  He politely chewed and swallowed and wiped his mouth.  "Interesting," he said, and there was a pause.  "I think I like the freshwater better."

"Everyone has their own personal taste when it comes to oysters," Steve said.  "It's just one of those things."

We sipped our beers and intermittently talked with Steve as he waited on the other couple.  I was relaxed but excited but sad.  Our honeymoon for foodies was almost to a close.  We had just one more Besh restaurant left.  If I could help it, I would drag it out as long as I possibly could.

I looked down at my coaster on the bar.  "Can I have this?" I asked Steve.  It would be a memoir of what almost wasn't.

Steve smiled and tossed me another one.  "Here, take two.  And email us when your blog is ready."

With a nod, a thank you, and a smile we were out the door, wending our way one final time through the sultry streets of New Orleans to our final destination: August.

A Foodie Honeymoon: Tuesday Dinner at Besh Steak

When I found out that Besh Steak was inside Harrah's Casino, I was a little startled.  No offense, but I always associate casinos with the word "cheap," no matter how fancy and glitzy and flashy they make things seem.  But, there she stood as we pushed through the casino entrance, just past the security station, waiting quietly and with poise amidst the flashing lights and stoic faces.

We were greeted by a very sweet hostess who led us past the bar, through an archway, and into the main dining room.  Blue Dog's eyes followed us as we went.  After passing tables and booths moderately filled with guests, we were directed to a booth nestled in a little curtained alcove.  So romantic! I happily slid into my seat.  We were given menus and a wine list, and the hostess slipped away.

Momentarily, our waitress approached the table.  She was a little thing, gentle and appearing to be a bit shy.  She introduced herself as Margaret, took our wine orders of a cabernet and a malbec, and she, too slipped away.  I remembered our experiences with Vanessa and Corey, and then Billie, and I wondered how this evening's relationship would develop.

At this point I excused myself to wash up after our rather warm walk and traipsed myself through the casino to what I thought was the closest bathroom.  I took a good look around as I walked.  Within my two minute walk (I got lost), I passed what must have been hundreds of people, seated at slot machines or crowded around game tables, none of them smiling, none of them even aware of me--dressed in a bright red dress--as I passed within inches of them.  What a way to spend your money, I thought.  I wonder how much they are spending for the hope of enjoying that ever elusive win?

I'd rather spend my money knowing that I'm going to enjoy something--namely, food.

When I returned from the restroom, Chef Reiton informed me that he and Margaret had had a chat while I was gone.  She had seen from our reservation that we were on our honeymoon, and he had told her of our honeymoon plan.  Besh's employees seemed to appreciate our little plan--I'm assuming because they agreed with how awesome he is.  I was glad to know it; I wanted it to be known that we appreciated him so.  I sat and soaked in the warmth I was feeling from my husband, my own enjoyment of our honeymoon thus far, and the wine I was sipping.  I reached across the table for Chef Reiton's hand and took a look at the items that had been placed on the table.

"Chicken liver paté and crostini," Chef Reiton explained.

Huh.  I'd never eaten chicken livers before.  Never really wanted to, either.  But here it was.  I took my knife and scooped up a little bit, then shmeared it on a crostini.  It looked like pink peanut butter.  I took a bite and chewed slowly, noting the contrast of textures: the crispy crunch of the crostini and the buttery smoothness of the paté.

"It's good, isn't it?" Chef Reiton projected, as he scooped up another blob.

I had to agree.  The paté definitely had a deep, dark flavor to it, but it was so gentle that you didn't mind.  And it's texture was so pleasing, smooth but full--it added a little contrast to the coarse crispness of the toasts.

As we were analyzing our virgin paté experience, a gentleman walked up to the table.  It was the general manager that we had seen eating his lunch that afternoon at Borgne.  He introduced himself as William and congratulated us on our marriage--and thus began another relationship for the evening.  We talked with William about our wonderful experiences so far, of which restaurants we had left to go to, of what brought him to New Orleans.  He was delightful.

"Hey," Chef Reiton interjected at one point.  "What is a Sazerac? We keep seeing them on menus."

Being a cocktail junkie (which my darling husband shamelessly encourages), I listened intently as William described the process of making the New Orleans cocktail:
   1) rinse an old-fashioned glass with absinthe
   2) pour in a couple ounces of rye whiskey
   3) squeeze a twist of lemon peel over the glass
   4) drop the lemon twist into the whiskey
   5) sip and enjoy

"It's a drink that is pretty much just straight whiskey, but if you like them, most people love them,"  he said.  Hmmm...I was intrigued.  William told us to enjoy ourselves and thanked us for coming, then headed off to the next table.

A moment later, Margaret appeared, ready to take our orders.  She had definitely warmed up to us.  She was starting to bubble.  Chef Reiton had decided on the smoked and roasted prime rib which came with fingerling potatoes and summer vegetables.  I wanted to expand my seafood experience further, so I opted for the surf 'n' turf, two beef tournedos served atop a bed of grits and topped with lump crabmeat in a béarnaise.

Off Margaret went with our orders, only to return a few minutes later with warm sourdough bread, butter--and two flutes of sparkling rosé.  "Congratulations!" she said with her darling smile.  I couldn't believe it.  Two nights in a row! What an amazing organization it was appearing that John Besh had built.  Talk about feeling like royalty! We thanked her repeatedly, then reached for our bubbly and reminisced of the past 24 hours with absolute glee.  What an experience to be having with someone who loves what you love--and who appreciates your loving it with your whole being.

Before we knew it, our food was ready and placed piping hot before us.  First, Chef Reiton's prime rib

and then my surf 'n' turf.

There was a moment of silence.  I think the next words spoken were: "Oh    my     god."  Chef Reiton's prime rib was the size of the plate.  And my dish was gorgeous.  Simply GORGEOUS.  Knives and forks were picked up in slow motion.  We looked at each other and smiled.  And then we began to eat.

Now, I am a country girl, but one from the Northeast--so grits were not regular fare at my house.  In fact, they were a fare I had never tasted before in my life.  I knew what it was, basically, and that people ate them at breakfast--and that was as far as my knowledge went.  To find them on my dinner plate with steak and crab was exciting.  I was going to try them for the first time in an unusual way.

My first bite held a wonderful combination of a very faint sweetness from the grits and crab and a sour bite from the balsamic glaze that lightly dressed the tournedos.  The béarnaise, an ever delicious way to dress up a bit of beef tenderloin, provided a creamy butteriness that cut the vinegar's tartness.  As for my other garnishes, I unfortunately never found out what the purple leaves were on top, nor the bright green drizzle.  If I find out, I'll let you know.

The smoked prime rib was quite different for Chef Reiton.  He knew that the meat was smoked, but he declared the flavor to be more pronounced than he expected, and therefore, in his head, completely changed the meal.  It didn't seem like prime rib anymore; it was something else.  "It's good," he said.  "It's just not prime rib."  I tasted it and agreed.  Delicious, but different.

We continued our meal slowly, taking moments to rest and digest, talk and sigh.  Eventually Chef Reiton finished his meal; my meal--almost.  All except for one of the tournedos.  I just couldn't do it, as much as my mouth wanted it.  We settled back and sighed, and told Margaret how delicious everything was when she returned to our table.

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it," she said with a twinkle in her eye.  And as she backed away with our plates, William walked up from behind and placed a platter--and I mean a platter--of desserts right smack in the middle of the table.

At first I thought it was one of those trays of fake desserts that you pick your favorite one from.  But, no.  It was all real, and all for us.

"We want you to try our desserts," William said with a smile, and Margaret explained what each one was: molten chocolate cake with blackberries; homemade vanilla ice cream with homemade peanut brittle; white chocolate cake with berries; dark chocolate truffles; and warm bread pudding with caramel and pecan pralines.

"Just when I thought I couldn't eat anymore!" Chef Reiton said.

"I'll just have a bite of each..." I rationalized.

Ha ha haa! "A bite of each!" (You should have seen the platter when we were done.)

When we were moments into our dessert exploration, William one more time appeared at the table, this time with a Sazerac in hand.  "You have to try a Sazerac while you are here," he said and placed a glass on the table.

"Thank you so much for celebrating with us," he said as he shook our hands.  "And have a wonderful rest of your honeymoon."  And with that he walked away.

I turned to Chef Reiton and shook my head.  "I cannot believe this treatment!" I said.  "It's just unbelievable. And it's everywhere we go!"  And then I took a sip of the Sazerac.  Ahhhhh.  Warmth and the scent of licorice and lemon.  De-licious.

Our leisurely evening of dining was drawing to a close.  I was so happy, I didn't want to move.

"So what's next?" Margaret asked as we paid our bill.

The answer? American Sector, Besh's nod to retro American comfort food.  That is: amped up comfort food.

As full as I was, I found myself thinking: I can't wait.

A Foodie Honeymoon: Tuesday Lunch at Borgne

Okay, I will be frank: of all the Besh restaurants that we were going to be visiting, Borgne (pronounced "born") was the one I was nervous about.  I eat some seafood, but I am certainly not one of those people who are, like, "Hey! Let's go out for SEAFOOD!" Eww.  No.  If I happen to order seafood at a restaurant--great.  But there are very, very rare moments when I will actually look to do so.

Why?

Because most seafood just sucks.  It smells.  It's slimy.  It tastes like I'm sucking out of a tide pool.  With seafood, I always have a difficult time not imagining (vividly) what I am eating, and that strikes a squeamy type of fear into my gut.  Kind-of like with eating an animal's organs.  No, okay, that's way worse.  But anyway.  It's just not how I want to treat my taste buds, spend my money, or impact my psyche.

I kept telling myself as we walked to Borgne that this, of all places, was the place for me to eat something that I was afraid of.  If I didn't try something here, I'd be selling myself short.  I determined to do so and took a big breath as we entered into the restaurant.

The decor was quite cool, modern without a hint of boat or dock paraphernalia, and the atmosphere was pretty casual.  Huge chalkboards displayed whimsical artwork of Lake Borgne and jazz players.   The building columns were wrapped with wire mesh and filled with oyster shells.

Here was a seafood restaurant that made eating seafood seem like it was the coolest and most natural thing in the world to do, and if I didn't do it, I was seriously missing out.

But I was still nervous.  And then up walked Billie.

Billie was one of those waitresses that as soon as you met her, you were relieved.  She knew everything.  She knew the beers.  She knew the food.  She knew what was in the food and where it came from and what it tasted like.  When she discovered that she was waiting on two foodies on their honeymoon, she really started to warm up.

To start, Chef Reiton ordered the local Abita IPA, and I went for Abita's farmhouse ale.  I was so excited to hear that they had one! And when it came to the table, I got even more excited.

At this point I went to check out the bathroom (beautiful), and when I returned, Chef Reiton was discussing an appetizer with Billie: broiled Louisiana oysters on the half shell with spicy garlic butter, bread crumbs, and a bit of Parmesan.  I gulped.  My only oyster experience had been 1) at a friend's home in ILLINOIS, 2) raw, and 3) disgusting.  But again--here we were in seafood country at a restaurant that is renowned for its cooking of seafood...AND these oysters were cooked.  Hmmm. We looked at each other and said, "Let's do it."  

We decided to wait to order the entrees until we knew if we liked the oysters, so in the meantime, Billie brought us a bottle of water, a paper bag of warm fennel bread, and a dish of softened butter.

We munched and drank and talked and took pictures.  And then Billie appeared again--this time with a bowl of gazpacho.  "I want you to try this," she said, and placed a brilliantly hued soup in front of me.

I had never had a cold soup before, and this one was created with yellow tomatoes.  I believe there may have been a bit of yellow pepper in it as well; but what I loved the most was the flavor added by the watermelon chunks at the bottom of the bowl.  What a deliciously light way to get the stomach ready for what was to come:

(My picture isn't very good and in no way does the flavor of this dish any justice.)

I have to admit, my first bite was timid, but within the five seconds of my first few chews, my fear was gone.  Roasting had taken the slime that I was afraid of and eliminated it.  What was left was a delicate softness that slowly melted into nothingness as I chewed.  Being Gulf freshwater oysters, there was not a hint of brine, thank God.  The butter and pepper added some depth, and the breadcrumbs added some body.  I found myself actually enjoying them.

I glanced at Chef Reiton.  He looked to be enjoying them, too.  "I can't believe I'm eating oysters," I said.  "These don't taste anything like what I had before."  

He nodded.  "They are good."  As we were each going for the last one, we suddenly remembered: we hadn't taken a picture! Imagine missing out on our experience!

When Billie returned to clear our shells, we exclaimed at how surprised we were at the flavor, the texture, the complete absence of our preconceived notions of what these oysters would be. She smiled and nodded.  "So what do you think you'll have for your main course?"

Chef Reiton decided to go for an Abita Andygator Helles Dopplebock and another oyster dish with the oyster spaghetti.  Billie told us that it was Besh's favorite dish on the menu.  I was sold on the Tuesday lunch special: cochon de leche (pork braised in milk), served over garlic mashed potatoes and roasted veggies; Billie was very excited about that choice.

Because we love to cook, which is truly a scientific art form, Chef Reiton and I analyze everything that we are served.  We try to pick out the combination of flavors used in what we are eating and strive to educate ourselves when we aren't sure what something is.  

The oyster spaghetti was spaghetti tossed with steamed oysters in your typical butter/oyster juice/wine sauce, but here, cream was added, coating the pasta and oysters and settling into a delicious little pool in the bottom of the bowl.  Scattered on top were shavings of parmesan, purple basil, and--little green things???

We weren't sure what they were.  They had a very bright, green taste, almost like a bean, but yet they looked a bit like seaweed.  Upon consulting with Billie we learned we were half correct on both analyses.  What we were eating were sea beans, an aquatic plant of the succulent family that grows in salt marshes and on beaches (see Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salicornia).  They were delicious and added a brightness to what could have been a heavy dish.

My dish was so not a summer dish, but I could not believe how happy I was as I ate it.  Piled on top of a bed of roasted eggplant, mushrooms, carrots, and white cubes that I didn't know were the smoothest garlic mashed potatoes I had ever eaten, lightly interlaced with herbs and olive oil.  Spooned over the potatoes was pork that had braised in milk until it completely fell apart, the juices and milk marrying into a gravy that surrounded tender shreds of meat, mild in flavor and almost sweet.  Chives and baby beet greens were scattered on top.  

Our forks kept intersecting as we reached for tastes of the other's dish.  "I can't place the flavors of my pork," I mumbled between mouthfuls.  "I feel like it's maybe nutmeg? Or pumpkin pie spice? Something that's in baked goods, and it's reminiscent of something sweet." Chef Reiton agreed, but we just couldn't put our finger on it.

Billie once again came to our aid.  Her eyes brightened when she heard the word "nutmeg" come out of my mouth; you could tell she was enjoying having someone who was appreciating the food for what it was.  "There is nutmeg in there," she said. "And the other spice is clove."

"Clove!" Chef Reiton and I both exclaimed together as I banged on the table.  "I couldn't get it!" I told Billie.  "I knew something in baking, but I could not place it.  Everything is just so perfectly balanced and hinted at.  It all compliments each other so well!"  Ohhh, the art of proportions--that's something that I need work on.  I'm slowly learning that I need to back off on things.  Just because I like it doesn't mean to put a shitload of it in my food.

"And what are these?" I asked, poking a white rectangular cube.  "Is that turnip?"

"It's fennel," Billie answered. 

"Fennel!" I like to repeat things when I am surprised.  I'd never had roasted fennel because I couldn't imagine it, but roasting completely changes the flavor; it loses that licorice-y taste.  So yummy.  I am now going to roast myself some fennel for Thanksgiving.

When we could eat no more, Billie came to clear our plates.  "Dessert?" she asked, and we groaned.  "How about coffee," she suggested, and so we conceded.  I don't think either of us wanted to leave just yet.  

A few minutes later a delightful little coffee set-up was placed on the table.  As we prepared our coffees and continued to talk about our meal, Billie reappeared and placed two tiny glasses on the table.  "It's honeyed rum," she said.  "It's absolutely delicious."

Chef Reiton looked at it and turned green.  "I don't know if I can drink that," he said.  (One very bad rum experience long, long ago...)

"It's really mild and mellow," Billie said.  "It doesn't taste anything like what you'd expect."

I eagerly grabbed my glass.  I'll drink anything, but you all already knew that.  A tilt of the tiny glass sent a thrill down my throat.  "Dear God, that is so delicious," I said, wide-eyed.  Chef Reiton looked at me dubiously.

"Just try it," I said.  "It really doesn't taste like rum.  It doesn't even taste like alcohol.  It's amazing!"

I don't think I've ever seen anyone take a tinier sip, but within two minutes, it was gone.  Delicious, we both concurred.  Unbelievably so.

And, so, our first seafood experience and second Besh excursion was wrapping up.  We sat in complete content for a few minutes before thanking Billie profusely and wandering towards the front door.  There we were met by the manager, who got an earful of how great our Besh experiences had been so far. When he found out our trip goal and that we were going to Besh Steak that evening, he said, "The general manager for Besh Steak is right over there eating lunch.  Go introduce yourselves!"

We quickly declined, wanting the man to eat his lunch in peace.  So the manager asked for our names and said he would pass them on.  We thanked him and headed out into the New Orleans summer heat.  As we walked down the sidewalk, sighing with pleasure and looking forward to a swim back at the hotel, I couldn't help but feel a happy premonition of the evening to come.

A Progressive Dinner Menu with Giada D.L.

Last week, Chef Reiton emailed that he'd gotten a new cookbook, Everyday Italian: 125 Simple and Delicious Recipes by Giada de Laurentiis. In it he had found a recipe for one of his favorite dishes in Italy, spaghetti alle vongole, and he wanted to make it with me. We decided that Saturday night would be all Italian, and the menu was set: caprese salad for the antipasto, spaghetti alle vongole for the primo, grilled lamb chops for the secundo, and tiramisu for the dolce.

Chef R did some research online to find a fish market very close to home that sold fresh Manila clams. Saturday afternoon after he arrived with the cookbook, we made our list and hit the stores. Items to buy? Well, besides fresh clams—lamb chops. Fresh mozzarella. Fresh basil, rosemary, thyme and parsley. Mascarpone. Cream, wine and lady fingers. (Just writing the ingredients again is making my mouth water.)

We came home, cracked a bottle of Bogle Old Vine Zinfandel,

and started preparing for the evening.

First we prepped for the tiramisu and made the cream filling. I could have eaten the entire bowl of it just as it was. Amazing what chocolate, cream, and mascarpone can become when blended together. Chef R made several pots of espresso, and we finished building dessert.

Next we worked on the marinade for the lamb chops: a blend of olive oil, fresh rosemary, garlic, and sea salt. We rubbed the chops well, then stuck them in the fridge to marinate while we took a nap. Dinner was going to be late, and we wanted to enjoy every moment of it.

When we got up, it was time to start the quicker elements of dinner. First task? Scrub the clams. We soon got a system down. I'd take a Scotchbrite pad to the poor fellas (they're still alive at this point), then he would take a veggie brush and get in the buggers' grooves. Soon the poor guys were beautifully clean—for our bellies.

Here's a look at them before the fire started:



Next Chef R started the dressing for the caprese salad. It was so simple: olive oil, lemon juice, sea salt, and fresh pepper. He sliced some Roma tomatoes, slivered the basil, and created a gorgeous dish.



At this point we put the spaghetti on to boil and started steaming the clams. Within minutes you could smell them as they simmered in the wine. I have never been much of seafood person, but I've been trying to alter my mindset about foods, as I've discussed before (thank you, Julissa), and I was rather excited about trying this dish. I was happy to notice that the aroma of it wasn't fishy; it smelled deep, actually, and full of earth. A peek under the lid showed the shells opened, and the dish was ready to be finished. Chef R drained the spaghetti, tossed it with the clams and the sauce, poured it all into the serving dish, and we garnished it with lemon zest and more parsley. Beautiful.



Now, begin eating! We sat down to our caprese salad and spaghetti alle vongole, as well as a bottle of Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau. Chef R had been looking to find a wine that was like the local table wines of Europe—nothing deep and complex, just a simple fruity wine that paired with a simple Italian meal. This is what we picked:


To say simply, as I took my first bites, our antipasto and primo blew me away. I knew I'd love the caprese, but I wasn't sure about the clams. But I can honestly say that I would make it again in a heartbeat. I loved what the lemon and wine did together, and again, the deep but not overpowering flavor of the clams. Nothing was too intense. Each taste—the lemon, garlic, wine, clams—when you thought about them individually, could be detected, but yet each bite melded the flavors together to create a very light but satisfying mouthful.

We did discover upon eating that the recipe made a TON. We had cut the recipe in half, and we still threw out enough to feed at least another person, if not two. So if you make this recipe, be prepared for a lot.

After our primo course, it was time to cook the secundo. I had pulled the chops out of the fridge while we made the clams, so they were pretty much to room temperature. We heated the grill pan on the stove to "almost smoking," and Chef R threw the chops on to sear. The amazing smells that arose from that pan made me marvel at how people don't cook. You don't have to go out to eat like a king! And lots of times the food you make at home is BETTER than what you would pay for in a restaurant! (Oh, the joys of cooking!)

In short time, the secundo was done, and we sat down to taste the first lamb chops either of us had ever made:


OH MY GOD. Perfectly grilled. Perfectly seasoned. Perfectly sized. (Yes, Giada, we did evenly divide the chops among the two plates.)

As the last bite of chop was devoured, we both sighed. Everything had been so good, and we weren't even done. Next, the sweet end: homemade tiramisu.

We had questioned some of Giada's directions in the making of the dessert. She says to dip the lady fingers in the espresso, but what exactly is the timing of a dip? If I take a dip in a pool, I take that to mean a good 30 minutes, at least. My mom's dip is about 5. So when you dip a cookie, is it a 1-second dip, or is it a 1-2-3-4 dip? Chef R and I decided to experiment. Layer 1 was a 1-second dip. Layers 2 and 3 were 1-2-3-4 dips. Layer 4 was a mix of both. When we cut it we would see the results.

Well, it was time. We inverted the cake and sprinkled it with cocoa powder, and I handed Chef R the knife. He made the cut.

What wonders were beheld. Even layers. Espresso-soaked cookies. A rich, chocolatey cream to mellow the intensity of the coffee. My mouth couldn't wait. I put the camera down and took a bite.

About the hundredth sigh escaped my lips that evening. My taste buds were silently screaming with pleasure. And I kept thinking, "But it was so easy!"

(Afterwards, the two of us did decide that a 1-second dip was the best way to go. The cookies that went for a longer swim were a bit strong and wet; we determined that the cream would sufficiently soak into the lady fingers as it rested in the fridge, creating a nicely moist, but not wet, cake. I'm so willing to test the revised method very soon. I'm sensing a dinner party coming on...)

As the last bite of dinner settled, Chef R and I sat and stared at our empty dessert plates, then reached for our wine glasses and, for the fifth time that night, toasted each other. "You rock, Chef Reiton," I said.

And he did what I love to hear: he laughed. "Thanks," he said. And, bellies full and happy, we both smiled.