Limousine Chicken

Many African-Americans never thought they’d live to see the day a black man ascended to the presidency. Most Americans both black and white  never thought they’d hear a president, any president,  own up to making a mistake and taking responsibility for it, not years after the event or after he left office, and certainly not barely three weeks into his tenure.

Yet today, President Obama sat down with Brian Williams on the NBC Nightly News and held himself accountable (“I screwed up” were his exact words) for proceeding with Tom Daschle’s nomination for secretary of Health and Human Services despite his owing $128,000 in back taxes. The president accepted that both he and “his people” had made a mistake.

Well…yea. Anybody in their right mind could see that; and we saw it as soon as    Daschle admitted to tooling  around town in a chauffeur-piloted limo provided by, shall we say, someone with more than just interest in getting Tom to the church, I mean Senate, on time. What was he thinking?

In the interest of public disclosure,  you should know that back in the mid-60s my dad answered a newspaper ad and soon found himself the proud owner of… yes, a  stretch, shiny black, limo (what was he thinking?) complete, with a Neolithic car phone. ( “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” yelled into the heavy hand-piece was about all the communication possible back then).

On the (thankfully) rare occasions that my sister and I were taken to school in this undoubtedly comfortable voiture, we insisted on being dropped off blocks away where no one could possibly see us exiting such a humiliating form of transportation.  Unlike Daschle’s wheels however, it vanished about six months later after about as many burglaries and vandalisms. Of course, the phone was the first thing to go….so don’t think I don’t know something about what I’m talking about here.

What is it about Washington, or is it government in general, that makes elected officials (see States of Illinois and Connecticut) feel that they are either above the law or below the radar when it comes, in particular, to paying taxes?

Is it the corridors of power that supply just enough oxygen to develop a tax code that makes the word Byzantine come to mind, but not enough fresh air to enable delicate legislative brains made cognitively lax by too many rubber chicken dinners to think logically, let alone ethically?

And here one has to include the President and “his people”.  Maybe it’s not the air. Maybe it’s the light inside the White House and what all those klieg lights (alluded to by the departing Bush), do to a president’s ability to really see, not visually of course, but as in to understand the implications of one’s actions.

Thankfully, Obama’s youth and relatively short time (compared say, to Tom Daschle) on the campaign circuit, in the corridors of power and in the White House, haven’t (yet) permanently clouded his judgment or blinded him to his ethical commitments.

No doubt he stepped outside the White House today as much to visit a charter school as to get a breath of fresh air and clear his brain.

Definitely Not Rubber Chicken Dinner in a Pot

This is a delicious and easy dinner when you want something elegant enough to serve guests but not at all fussy. Take your time browning the chicken, and the rest is done by the oven.

Serves 4-6

1 whole 4-5# chicken
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 each carrot, onion, celery, shallot diced
1 cup chicken stock
2 sprigs fresh thyme
1 bay leaf
1/2 each sweet potato, turnip, fennel bulb, diced
6 shiitake mushrooms, quartered
1 zucchini, quartered lengthwise, cut into 1” pieces
1/2 cup sweet white wine
juice of 1/2 lemon
fresh parsley

1. Preheat oven to 400F (175C).
2. In an oven-proof casserole with a lid, heat the oil on the stove over high heat.
3. When it shimmers, place the chicken breast side down. Lower the heat to medium and cook until very fragrant and the sizzling has become subdued. Check the colour of the skin: it should be a deep, rich, caramelized brown. If not, return it to the heat until it is. This can take about 10 minutes. Be sure not to burn the skin.
4. Turn the chicken on its side and brown as above. Then the other side and finally the back.
5. When all sides are nicely seared, sprinkle the carrots, onions, celery and shallots over the top. Add the chicken stock and herbs.
6. Put the lid on and place in the oven for about 40 minutes. The broth will be bubbling, the vegetables cooked.
7. Remove the pot from the oven and place the chicken on a carving platter, lightly covered with foil.
8. Return the pot to the stove and add the remaining vegetables and wine. Simmer covered for 10 minutes. Remove the lid and simmer until slightly thickened, another 5-10 minutes. Taste for seasoning. Skim excess fat if necessary.
9. Add the lemon juice and parsley.
10. Carve the chicken at the table. Ladle some sauce onto each plate and top with a piece of chicken.

Mea Culpa Pasta

I am trying to follow President Obama’s stellar management syle: finding consensus, setting aside old antagonisms with Republicans, seeking solutions, not blame, letting go of assumptions, and being open and honest. The latter is perhaps the hardest part when it comes to being a politician or cooking for my husband (otherwise known in the blog as my SO or Significant Other).

Politicians have to appeal to  many interest groups, trying to satisfy them all. Often they are forced into corners to appease one group, and have to weasel their way out by denying ever having made a clearly taped sound bite, or worse, having to admit that they “mis-poke”. Hilary’s description of dodging bullets in Bosnia comes painfully to mind. (My hope is that we never find President Obama in that position, but who knows, politics make strange soup.)

Comparatively speaking I have it easy. I have only one constituent to satisfy, my SO, yet he comes with a culinary constituency of  highly refined opinions about certain foods.

If I were a culinary politician, and pandered to his every whim I would be cooking a never ending rotation of turkey breast, meat loaf, brisket, mashed potatoes, chicken cutlets, anything and everything Italian and Jewish. He likes olive oil but won’t eat olives; he hates anchovies; loves pit barbecue and bacon but won’t eat pork; loves Indian food in restaurants but when I cook it at home asks “What’s that terrible smell?” as I toast the spices. He will eat halibut, salmon and sole; grapefruit, grapes and berries but infrequently.

But if I pandered, I would not be able to express myself culinarily and lucky for me, he understands that and has, therefore, had a different meal every night for dinner for the 28 years of our marriage. And to his credit while his tastes haven’t changed that much, he has started to like and eat a far more varied diet thanks to my frequently changing passions be it low fat, no red meat, fish at least once a week, full-bore vegetarian, Indian, Middle Eastern, you name it.

By now, if he’s reading this, he will be saying “That’s not fair. I eat everything on my plate.” Factually speaking, he is correct. He is a good politician. He ate them, yes. At the same time, he didn’t comment on many of them either and looked askance at leftovers sneaked into pasta or pizza.

At the same time however, I , another good (old-time) politician have had to, um, be creative in my descriptions of dishes, leaving out key ingredients whose very presence would make him grimace and take tiny bites, fishing around the offensive items in search of something he deemed edible. But frankly, I am tired of the old”he didn’t ask, I won’t tell” paradigm.

And so, in the interests of starting a new administration, so to speak, I have a confession to make. I have been cheating on my husband; and I have been doing it for some years now. Once, I actually told him about it and, naturally, he wasn’t happy  While upset, he didn’t throw up, walk out or swear he’d never trust me again. He was just disappointed that I hadn’t been truthful.

And yet I continued to cheat: I used anchovies in a dish, and didn’t tell him; I made him pork cutlets and said they were veal; he never noticed chopped olives in tomato sauce; an Indian dish was described as chili; sustainable sea bass was said to be halibut. I could go on in the interests of open and honest communication, but you get my drift.

And just last night, in possession of a sample of lovely, silky fresh black and white fettucine, I made Mea Culpa Pasta with not black and white mushroom pasta (as described to my SO) but squid ink pasta, knowing full well if the truth were known,  he would wrinkle his nose and likely say in a forlorn voice “Can’t we ever eat anything normal?” And spear the mushrooms like valuable truffles from a forest of despoiled pasta.

So when he admired the dish and took seconds, I felt mildly justified in my deceit and  equally bad given my Obama intentions to abandon assumptions (he won’t eat it if I tell him) and to tell the truth (“The black part? Oh, it’s made with squid ink but you won’t taste it.”).  And so like Governor Blagojevich, while I regret the words I used, I have come clean and told the truth.

Will I deceive my SO in the future? Let me think about it.

Now that’s an answer no politician is ever allowed to make and yet that’s the truth.

Mea Culpa Pasta

Serves 2 generously

1 rasher bacon, finely diced

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 onion, diced

1 generous handful thinly, thinly sliced green cabbage

1 shallot, diced

1 clove garlic, thinly sliced

1/4 cup sherry

2 cups chicken stock

2 sprigs fresh thyme

3 cups assorted sliced cultivated mushrooms or small whole wild mushrooms (I used whole chanterelles and sliced shiitake)

1 Tbsp dried porcini pieces

1/2 cup frozen or fresh peas

1/2 cup diced smoked turkey, chicken or ham

200g fresh squid ink pasta, preferably one with holes, squiggles, or pockets

Grated Parmesan Reggiano

1. Bring a large pot of water to a low boil while you prepare the sauce. Fresh pasta, depending upon the variety, cooks in less than 3 minutes so you want to have the sauce and pasta ready at the same time.
2. In a large saucepan set over medium heat, cook the bacon until it is crisp. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain the bits and reserve as the garnish.
3. Add the olive oil to the bacon fat and reheat until the fat shimmers.
4. Add the onions, shallots and garlic, cooking until they begin to soften.
5. Add the cabbage and toss with the fat. Continue to cook until the onions brown and the bottom of the pan gets sticky with caramelized bits.
6. De-glaze the pan with the sherry, scraping up the bits and reducing the sherry to a thick syrup.
7. Scrape the contents of the pan into a small bowl and set aside.
8. Heat an additional 1 Tbsp olive oil in the pan. When hot add the mushrooms and cook until they sizzle and start to release their juices. Eventually they will begin to stick to the pan.
9. As soon as this begins, add the stock and bring to a boil.
10. Reduce to a simmer and add the dried mushrooms and thyme.
11. Simmer until reduced by about a quarter. Add the reserved onion mixture and peas. Stir to blend. Add the diced smoked turkey.
12. Taste for seasoning. Add salt and pepper as required (different stocks require different levels of salt so be careful to taste before you add).
13. Drop the pasta in to the simmering water and return to a boil. Cook for no more than 3 minutes and preferably 2 since the pasta will cook further in the sauce for a minute or two.
14. Remove the pasta from the water with a strainer or tongs and place on top of the sauce. Toss coating it well. If the sauce seems too dry, add some pasta water, tablespoon by tablespoon and heat through for no more than a minute or two.
15. Pour into a serving dish and sprinkle with the reserved bacon bits. Pass around the Parmesan cheese.

Wanna Play Restaurant?

The SO and I went on a date tonight.  Our usual routine is to stay in the neighborhood or drive to one of two fun and delicious pizza joints. But tonight, we decided to try a new bistro a short walk away.

My SO was skeptical from the start. An answering machined asked us to leave our name and number to confirm reservations 24 hours later. The SO felt this was pretentious and unimpressed web reviews seemed to confirm his reservations, even if the restaurant didn’t call back until this afternoon to offer us a table at 7pm.

I am a restaurant veteran and I don’t mean by having survived a multitude of poor eating experiences.  I have weathered many  apocalyptic restaurant openings of my own that for years afterwards, when people realized I owned this or that restaurant, a glazed look would appear on their face and they would murmur, as if still in shock, “I was there when you opened.”

They never had to say more. I was there too, and it wasn’t pretty. From the forgotten orders for tables of 6, to the salads big enough to serve 6 (but meant only as an appetizer), to cigarette butts “found” in the Caesar salad, to the anniversary celebration gone, very, very awry what with orders delivered to other tables, entrees if and when they ever arrived, arriving all wrong…well, you get the picture. It’s a miracle the place finally thrived and lasted 8 years, falling prey to the last, big, recession. So I have compassion for those brave hearts who follow their dream into a money pit, I mean, restaurant., especially in a time of economic misery like this one.

We’ll call the restaurant Le Petit Chou. It used to be a Thai place on a busy street, along a block that has no fewer that three other restaurants, across from a very affluent residential area. It’s pretty too, in what I call New Cosy style: big front windows, dark wood wainscotting, white tableclothes underneath brown paper, raised semi-circular banquettes opposite the long front bar, enabling the fortunate few who are seated there to pass muster on the rest of us plebes who have to walk to the back where there is a fire going in the hearth beneath a sky lit ceiling. Here the banquettes are backed with big velour pillows making you feel like you’re either sick or about to have breakfast in bed. On each table there is a small lamp, similar to the ones you see on the tables in Sam’s cafe in Casablanca. The art and memorabilia on the wall include the portrait of a dog as a young dog, an old British flag, and other unmemorable memorabilia. Edith Piaf warbles overhead. Maybe the designer/owner is a Frit: part French, part Brit or s/he’s trying to placate the Canadian solitudes. Either way, you’re not really sure what the menu will bring.

Still, the staff are young, wearing mostly sleeveless black slinky things on this freezing, snowbound night. They toss their hair, put their hands in the back pockets of their white jeans as they sashay to the kitchen. They seem to be enjoying themselves as much behind the bar as the folks sitting at the bar. Oh, look, that server is plumping up her hair from underneath and then pouring a glass of wine!

Our server is polite and dressed in street clothes. She might as well have been a guest paying off a bill from a prior night because a salad, two glasses of wine, a burger and some salmon came to $79 without tip.

But she wasn’t. We asked if there were any specials. “Not tonight,” was the reply. She promptly deposited a deep, little cup of balsamic vinegar and oil on the table with slices of bread. Hmm, a nice Italian touch except the bowl was too small and deep to be able to get at the vinegar. There was no salt on the table to season the oil-dipped bread either. Maybe the Frit is married to an It?alian! Maybe this bristro-pub is really a trattoria-bistro. Whatever.

The menu is all comfort food: French onion soup, a trio or so of salads, three with cheese, steak frites, mussels frites, chicken cutlet, brussel sprouts with bacon, mushrooms, some desserts. Nothing terribly exciting, but then again, the menu at Parisian bistros isn’t very exciting either, they’re just really, really good.

Alas this wasn’t: the salad, a mundane mix of ordinary mesclun leaves was piled high, almost big enough to justify the $10 price. The vinaigrette described as a berry dressing tasted as if strawberry jam (unstrained, in fact) had been let loose with some oil and not very much vinegar and absolutely no salt to harness the sweetness. Was this a new take on dessert?  The balsamic vinegar and oil for the bread came in handy as a means to temper some of the sweetness, but did little to give confidence when it came to the main course.

And we weren’t disappointed, or shall I say the  main courses mostly followed the calibre of the appetizer so really, we were very, very disappointed, if you get my drift.

The burger didn’t come with the paprika aioli as promised; the bun was much bigger than the burger itself, and nothing special in the bread department; the fries tasted of stale oil; the bacon on the Brussel’s sprouts was over cooked, although the sprouts themselves were perfectly al dente. The salmon, a bit dry inside,  sat on asparagus and in a pool of  “oops, forgot to mention beurre blanc” which was all right but not outstanding, not to mention unnecessary, and a fussy finishing frazzle of  frisee on top. I could have made this meal at home for a total of $15 for two and it would have been much, much better.

We could eavesdrop on the table of four to one side which was discussing travel to China and the couple on the other side who, like us, wondered what was here before Le Petit Castor. They returned one of their steak frites.  We, on the other hand, will not return to the restaurant.

It’s not just because of the food, although that was much of it. There was more a non-chalance about the staff, a lack of professionalism in the hospitality part of the business. After all, eating in a restaurant is like eating in someone’s home. Or that’s how the thinking used to go.

The owner is supposed to be a host, you are a guest. This was more, well, more like fast food in nice surroundings. Or a bunch of 20 somethings getting together to “play restaurant” without realizing that it’s a game with certain rules…assuming you want to survive. Graciousness is one of them; a genuine delight in the guests’ decision to dine there;  an eagerness to show  culinary expression, however humble or exalted it may be are others. And caring service. Someone obviously in charge.

All of this adds up to the so-called  dining experience and the perception of value. I can overlook poor food if everything else is outstanding. But mediocre on all counts and failing in hospitality? I’d rather save my money and eat in.

So the next time we  consider going out on a date, I’m doing the cooking and here’s what I’ll serve.

Sicilian Braised Salmon with Raisins and Pine Nuts with Chickpea Puree

Serves 2

Make the tomato sauce:

1 medium onion, diced

1 can San Marzano tomatoes, coarsely chopped

1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted

1/4 cup dried currents

3 Tbsp capers

2 cloves garlic, finely diced

2 anchovy filets

2 salmon filets, skin on

1 can chickpeas, drained, rinsed

1/4 cup chicken stock

1/4 tsp smoked paprika

Fresh basil “en chiffonade”

1. Saute the diced onion until soft in about 1 Tbsp olive oil.

2. Add the tomatoes, currants, capers,  diced garlic and anchovy filets.

3. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to a low simmer and cook until it has thickened, about 15 minutes.

4. Taste. If the tomatoes are acidic, add a pinch of baking soda, stir and taste again. Adjust salt.

5. Place the salmon, skin side down in the sauce and put a lid on the pan. Cook for about 7 minutes or until the salmon is opaque. Don’t overcook!

6. While the salmon is cooking, puree the chickpeas until almost smooth.

7. Place in a saucepan with a drizzle of olive oil and the paprika. Thin to the consistency of whipped cream by adding spoonfuls of chicken stock.

8. When the fish is ready, gently lift out of the pan and set aside.

9. Place a pool of tomato puree in a circle on each plate. Top with a mound of chickpea puree, top with the salmon and spoon remaining sauce across the middle of each salmon. Sprinkle pine nuts on top and then chopped basil.

10. Enjoy and marvel at how little work a restaurant-worthy meal can be.