Keith and I are headed to England this week — we’ll spend a little bit of time in London before catching the train to Bristol to stay with some friends. I’ll be without Internet so I won’t be writing for a while, but I’ll see you all when I get back.
…but you’re definitely not doing this. I wish I could say I was.
I received, through various methods, a stack of books for my birthday that would easily add a couple of feet to my height if I were to stand on them. (This, I should say, I would never do, for fear of damaging my books, though I know what if I ever complete a novel — jinxed?! — that the first thing I’d do after printing out my pages is clamber right on top and check out the view.) Regardless of the thirty inches or so of literature waiting to be read, if anyone out there wanted to belatedly gift me with any of these childrens’ books, I wouldn’t say no…
I’ve got a special love for picture books, which may be part of the reason why I’ve been a reader of comics for the entirety of my life. Words on a page are all well and good, but the combination of those words and beautiful imagery can’t be denied. Not by me, anyway. And besides, just because I’ve run out of shelf space doesn’t mean I’d turn down any of these titles. After all, they do take up far less room…
Not too long ago, some of the ladies of book group and I piled into Amanda’s petite black car and hit the road. Our destination on a sunny November Saturday was the small town of Quechee, home of the Vermont Farmer’s Diner, which was featured in our previous month’s pick of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. In that book, Kingsolver and her family visit the original Vermont Farmer’s Diner in Barre; it had since closed and reopened adjacent to a strip mall in Quechee.
I know I was a bit surprised to see the diner in what I can only describe as a tourist trap of a strip mall — one of the stores featured t-shirts emblazoned with moose and endless brown plastic jugs of maple syrup. I was even more stunned when we entered the diner; a small portion of the seats were in an old-fashioned train boxcar, but the rest were in a sparsely decorated and cavernous room that reminded me of an elementary school auditorium.
Food-wise, the diner was fine, but certainly not worth driving almost three hours for. Granted, the diner did deliver on its promise of relying upon local vendors whenever possible; the beef on my burger ($7.00) came from PT Farms, my tomato from Long Wind Farms and my cheese, of course, was from Cabot. My incredibly thick milkshake, the highlight of my meal, was made of Strafford organic milk and was well worth its steep price of $6.00, especially considering the sheer quantity of shake — it filled two Mason jars, and was so think I could stand my straw straight up in its center.
Over our meal, we discussed this month’s book, Zorba the Greek… and how we all hated it. To be fair, only one of us actually finished it — but the rest of us couldn’t even get past page thirty or so. While our group is very flexible when it comes to completing our chosen book, a situation like this is most certainly unusual. So if you do have a hankering to read Nikos Kazantzakis’s novel, consider yourself warned. The same, I’m sorry to say, could be said about the diner.
For the second year in a row, Keith and I ended up at Cambridge’s T.W. Food for my birthday dinner. When the restaurant opened in 2007, it seemed to be on all of the local — and some national — “Don’t Miss” lists, making it something of a culinary darling. It was the descriptions of Chef Tim Wiechmann’s menu that compelled me to make it my birthday stop last year, and it was the memory of that meal that made me want to repeat the experience.
Like last year, Keith and I opted to do the seven course grand tasting ($69.00) — which in a sense is misleading, as the meal is bookended with extra desserts on one side and an amuse bouche on the other. (For the record, the tasting is also offered with a wine pairing; that meal is an additional $39.00.)
We received two different amuses: the first was a light egg salad on a circle of toasted brioche, the second was a turnip-ginger mousse on another circle; this one was of puff pastry. Normally, I favor anything involving a puff pastry; while I will say the mousse was silky in texture and subtle in flavor, the egg salad was so awesomely light that I actually found myself preferring it.
Before our tasting began, we were presented with the one other item that we had ordered: T.W. Food’s oyster shooter ($3.00 each). Last year, the shooter was a part of the tasting, and Keith can tell you how many often I’ve spoken of its cool brininess.
“Is oceany a word?” I would ask.
And later: “What about sea-licious?”
This time around, the shooters came in flavored essences — beet, fennel or cucumber. Keith choose the fennel while I opted for the beet, which was not only intensely flavored of beet but also — well, is oceany a word?
We were never able to resolve the issue, since our tasting then officially began with a smoked foie gras crème brûlée. It was served alongside a cross-hatch of apples and a round of toast, and while it was incredibly creamy, I’ve never liked crème brûlée; even the foie’s richness couldn’t compete with the caramelized top. I will say that the sugary top was perfectly crisp and had a pleasant snap to it, and that the foie’s texture was remarkably airy and almost like a custard but that is all. My bias against crème brûlée prevents me from saying that I truly liked this demitasse of a starter, no matter how pretty it was or how well the crisply sweet apples complemented the foie.
The second course of the tasting was another story altogether. I loved every aspect of this frothy cauliflower
soup. Spiced with vanilla, curried gnocchi hid at the bottom of the mug, sidling onto my spoon at the very last minute to surprise me with their wholly unexpected zest. The broth was at once creamy and light, and tasted almost intoxicatingly of cauliflower — rich, milky and utterly delicious. What was interesting was the mixture of textures here: breezy cauliflower foam, atop lush cauliflower-vanilla soup, in which pillowy gnocchi swam. It was absolutely lovely, and I had to hide my spoon from myself when I was done, since I was tempted to dip it into Keith’s mug.
The third course was one I was looking forward to very much, from the moment I read its description on the menu: “German spätzle, a special ‘Schwabish’ recipe: bacon, onion, parsley and Emmenthaler cheese.” I love spätzle — well, I love noodles and those made with egg have a very warm place reserved in my heart — and I am one of those people who think that the addition of bacon to any recipe is a smart move, so I attacked this plate knowing that it was almost impossible for me to be disappointed. That said, I think even if I hadn’t been already leaning towards affection, there would have been no chance of me not adoring this dish. After all, what’s not love about crunchy, salty bacon paired with soft, chewy noodles and the tang of melty cheese?
I was a bit anxious about this next dish of Scottish salmon, but not because I get squeamish around fish. In fact, I love most seafood, and a pan-seared fillet with wild mushrooms sounded particularly appetizing. What was getting me nervous, however, was our server described as “eggplant caviar.” Here’s the thing: I hate eggplant. (I know it’s not cool to hate it, but the truth’s the truth.) At first I took the childish route, performing surgery on my plate in order to transport as much salmon and mushroom to my mouth as little contact with the eggplant as possible. Don’t worry, I quickly realized that this was utterly silly and that a little but of aubergine wasn’t going to kill me. In fact, it was quite good… for eggplant.
Our last of the main courses was game-centric: venison two ways. The first was the cured and roasted leg meat, and the second was with braised and packaged in pasta. While it should be noted that everything on the plate was delicious (especially the smeared dollop of turnip purée and the tender wedges of pear), I found this dish to be exceedingly heavy. Had the grand tasting been six courses, with the venison as the final savory plate, that would have been one thing, but to face it after the not-so-light salmon and the filling spätzle… I thought it was a bit of a misstep on the planning stage of things.
Stage one of our dessert was a small cheese plate featuring Noble Cheddar from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and my beloved Comté from Jura, France. As with the salmon earlier in the evening, I had some hesitation when approaching this dish. This time, however, it was because of the cheddar. I am a great aficionado of cheese, but I am most certainly on the fence when it comes to cheddars. In fact, of all the different varieties that I’ve had, I can only think of three that I’ve liked: Cabot Clothbound Cheddar, Montgomery’s and Keen’s. I’m sad to say that the Noble didn’t make my list, though my wedge did find itself on Keith’s plate.
The final course of the grand tasting was one that I was quite curious about: pears suspended in a chamomile tea gelée with a sweet cream panna cotta and a pumpkin coulis. I don’t know if it’s trendy to confess this, but here I go regardless — I really enjoy a nice gelée. I like its slippery texture on the tongue, and I like its concentration of flavor. This gelée satisfied me immensely, as did the panna cotta, which was perfectly balanced between firm and satiny. The one aspect that I found myself spooning away from, however, was the pumpkin coulis. Flavored with cinnamon, it was so overwhelming that a few smears on my spoon were more than enough for me to get a taste; after he had finished his, I swapped my goblet with Keith, a fan of cinnamon.
Immediately before we were presented with the bill, we were given some extra desserts to speed us home. My absolute favorite was a sweet that tap-danced the line dividing cookie from cake; made of almond flour, it was so delicate and so subtle that I found myself chewing more and more slowly so that I could enjoy it even more. The second-place finish goes to the golden brown tuille, whose sticky crunch was impossibly fun. In the absolute dead last position were the sugar-dusted Concord grape jellies; after one bit I forfeited my candy to Keith. I don’t know what it is about grape (and cherry, and raspberry) but I infinitely prefer the authentic fruit to a reproduction, or even a boiled down version of its essence. I don’t know why this is, especially as I’ve no problems with candified versions of apple, peach and watermelon; grape, for whatever reason, is at the top of my can’t-stand-it list.
Now, first things first: I love T.W. Food. I love the casual-yet-refined ambiance, I love the eclectic mix of furnishings, I love the fact that our server remembered us from last year, and I of course love the practically worshipful attention-to-detail Chef Wiechmann and his team possess. What I don’t love is that I’ve come to realize that there are so many foods and flavors that I dislike: crème brûlée, eggplant, most Cheddars, cinammon and concentrated grape. Did my food preferences cause me to enjoy my meal any less? Of course not; I just find myself wondering what else there is out there that I find unpalatable, and hoping they’re not on the menu next year.
T.W. Food
377 Walden Street
Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138
617.864.4745
twfoodrestaurant.com
I hadn’t seen Darlington in a while, so when she suggested getting together at Union for a light dinner and a few drinks, I was of course looking forward to it very much. I didn’t even mind the chilly, breezy walk down Washington Street — and as someone who’s almost always shivering, that’s saying something.
Union is divided into two distinct spaces: a dark, moody lounge and a lighter, airier dining room. We climbed into a high banquette and swung our legs while we waited for our drinks, not realizing that Union was running an anniversary special. With one of the bar’s $5.00 specialty cocktails — or either a glass of Kelly’s Revenge Shiraz or Chardonnay — you receive a platter of free appetizers. Ours included calamari, ham and cheese croquettes and mini, open-faced sandwiches. While the calamari had the satisfying crunch of perfectly fried batter, I wished that the smokey accompanying sauce had been served on the side; its woodsy essence was too overwhelming. The croquettes, on the other hand, were crisp on the outside and dreamily smooth on the inside — fantastic.
Our gratis starters were actually quite filling, so Darlington and I decided to split a few more small plates rather than order entrées. What made that a little tricky is the fact that Darlington is a vegetarian, and I can’t describe Union having a veg-friendly menu, so we ordered the few items that either were or could be made vegetarian. Our first pick was the spinach and semolina gnocchi ($6.95), which instead of being a plate full of thick little hand-rolled noodles was more of a gnocchi cake. No matter what shape this dish came in, it would have been extremely noteworthy. Texturally, the gnocchi was richly creamy with the teeniest bit of resistance to the teeth.; flavorwise, it was surprisingly fresh and buttery, and I hade to remind myself that I had to save half for Darlington.
In addition to the gnocchi, we decided on the sweet corn risotto with fire-roasted peppers ($9.95), since it was one of the few offerings that the chef could remove meat from; in this case it was chorizo. I can’t really comment fairly on this, since the peppers added an unbelievable heat to the entire plate and I have absolutely no tolerance whatsoever for heat — not to mention I literally hate the tingly feeling I get when eating hot foods. I find it so distracting and unpleasant that I can’t even taste anything else. This, unfortunately, was the case for the risotto. Darlington seemed to enjoy it though…
Though the menu at Union is heavy on the fish and meat and light on the vegetarian fare, it’s definitely worth a visit. My cocktail, the Fall Classic (apple brandy, Triple Sec, honey and cider), was so tasty and easy to drink that it alone warrants a return trip, and hopefully soon — though it makes me wonder, what would a Winter Classic be?
Union Bar and Grille
1357 Washington Street
Boston, Massachusetts 02118
617.423.0555
unionrestaurant.com
Oh me. I’m so sad to report that the final week of our maiden voyage on the S.S. CSA went undocumented. If I were a certain kind of person, I would provide you with an elaborate reason as to why my shutter-finger failed (A car crashed into the house!* My neighbor’s cat snuck in and stole my camera!) but such strange events happen to me so often that I’ve got to say thoxat I’m finding myself really embracing the idea of not having any excuses. So let’s just jump in… to the produce:
As I unpacked, I felt the two butternuts staring me down. These monsters were so intimidating — one was practically as long as my arm. I knew that I wanted to maximize their flavor, which of course meant it would be into the oven with them. What I didn’t want to end up with, though, was just cubes of roasted vegetables, so I decided I would turn as much of my box’s contents into stock.
Recently, I had read a great post over at VeganYumYum that detailed not only the perfect way to make stock, but had some fantastic accompanying pictures. I really loved Lolo’s carefree exuberance with ingredients, so I pretty much threw my entire vegetable bin into the stock pot. I was particularly happy to boil the kohlrabi down into stock, as well as the sweet potato. In the end, I found myself with eight and a half cups of vegetable stock, which I strained and froze in two-cup quantities. Later, I pureéd four cups of stock, half of the kale and half of the salad greens with my roasted squash, until I had a soup with a nice thick consistency that would pair perfectly with a crusty baguette.
Vegetable Broth, from Vegan Yum Yum
Makes about ten cups of broth
“Minimalist” Broth
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 large onions, chopped
1 pound celery, chopped (I had some celeriac, which I used instead)
1 pound carrots, washed but unpeeled, chopped
3 whole cloves garlic
1 bay leaf
10 whole black peppercorns
2 teaspoon salt
¼ cup low sodium Tamari
1 gallon water
(I also used my kohlrabi, my sweet potatoes, my scallions, some of the turnips, and half of the kale. Lolo suggests tossing in whatever vegetable leftovers you may have in your fridge.)
* Surprisingly, this actually happened. It was about a year ago, a few houses down.
Things are still going well for my friend Ben, who has been likened to Jonathan Franzen by his local Starbucks barista since July. The last I heard, she was reading The Corrections and loving it; now it appears she has gone straight to the phase in the coffee-maker/coffee-drinker relationship where nicknames are given and endearments are exchanged. Here’s the latest text from Ben:
I am now officially known as Franzen at Starbucks. As in, “Hey Franzen, how’s your morning?”
As someone whose never had an easy sort of grace with strangers, I’m incredibly jealous of Ben’s rapport with this mysterious and literary caffeine peddler. Then again, I don’t look like Mr. Franzen — which, as a woman, I think is a good problem to have.
This is a novel I picked up by chance, though I’ve read and enjoyed Tracy Chevalier’s work before. Not too long ago, I was in the bargain basement of Harvard Book Store with my friend Jamel, looking for my book group’s most recent pick. I thought (mistakenly, I should add) that Zorba the Greek would be an easy find, but instead I happened upon Falling Angels. I wasn’t overly impressed with the cover art but still I idly flipped to the first page; after reading a few paragraphs, I knew that I would be immediately have to climb the stairs and make my way to the cash register. I needed to know how the story would end, particularly after a beginning like this:
I woke this morning with a stranger in my bed. The head of blond hair beside my was decidedly not my husband’s. I did not know whether to be shocked or amused.
Well, I thought, here’s a novel way to begin the new century.
Then I remembered the evening before and felt rather sick. I wondered where Richard was in this huge house and how we were meant to swap back. Everyone else here — the man beside me included — was far more experienced in the mechanics of these matters than I. Than we. Much as Richard bluffed last night, he was just as much in the dark as me, though he was more keen. Much more keen. It made me wonder.
Do you understand what I mean? How captivating, how scandalous, how thrilling — especially when put into context. Falling Angels is set in Edwardian London (1901-1910), an era also known as the Belle Époque, a time for the European elite to explore all things beautiful and new.
The novel’s plot encircles an array of characters all bond together by birth, position, politics and desire. Chevalier tackles these themes by telling the story through a succession of first-person narratives. The perspectives range from beautiful and bored Kitty Coleman, who opens the novel with her incendiary words; her maid Jenny, whose bad judgement and insolence the plot hinges upon; snooty and smug Lavinia Waterhouse, obsessed with propriety at even a young age; and cheeky Simon Field, a grave digger’s son.
While Falling Angels is gripping as a piece of literature, it is Chevalier’s skillful characterizations that is so very seductive. She effortlessly moves from individual to individual, telling each one’s tales in a voice that is as distinct and clear as her own. And that is an covetable gift.
