Mojito Coast

The other night, I was having dinner with two friends at Boulevard who do not drink. One friend commented, "You know one of the things I regret about not drinking? I missed the mojito."

Missed the mojito. How can anyone miss the mojito? It's everywhere. Everywhere. I examined the tables around us and noticed glasses pasted with the telltale bruised mint on two of them. In February.

As a waiter, I see people ordering them all the time. All the time. I cringe when I order them because I know the bartenders are going to hate me. When one person orders a mojito, invariably, someone else will say, "Oh! I'll have one of those, too." and then the question and following anecdote are generally uttered (well, I have heard this exact exchange twice in the past month-- enough to trip my trendy alarm) to any remaining non-mojito-ordering guests, "Have you ever had a mojito? I discovered them at such-and-such-a-place." Funny, I didn't know sheep could actually discover anything, unless it was a patch of grass uneaten by cows. Or that they secretly thrill at the approach of a Greek man. Discover? My cloven foot.

The fact is (or legend, at least) that mojitos, or some variation thereof, have been with us for a very long time. This is a classic cocktail, drunk in one form or another for since perhaps the late 16th century when the pirate Richard Drake created for himself a beverage of aguardiente(an unrefined rum), lime, sugar and mint. He named it El Draque (The Dragon). Pirates do not typically shy away from self-promotion. This concoction was drunk in Cuba and the various other Caribbean lands Drake terrorized for centuries.

The other, more likely story is that the mojito originated as a thirst quencher for Cuban sugar cane harvesters in the late 1800's. Apparently, the rum made available to them wasn't of the finest quality, so cane juice, mint and lime were added to make the alcohol more palatable. The mojito became a popular drink among the working class at the Playa de Mariamao in Havana by the early 20th century. The upper crust were still drinking daquiris. What is it with Cubans and yummy cocktails? Oh yes. Rum.

By the 1940's a little restaurant called La Bodeguita del Medio had served one or, more likely twenty, to Ernest Hemingway. He liked them so much he wrote about them. Other great writers who popped by La Bodeguita were Pablo Neruda and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Even Brigitte Bardot is rumored to have let the condensation drip from her glass to cool her ample bosom. Of course, she is not famous for her writing skills, but she does love cats.

After Fidel Castro seized power in 1959, Cubans fleeing to the United States brought their mojito mixers with them making them very, very popular in Miami. I do believe if one watches Miami Vice long enough, one might spy Sonny Crockett sipping one. So, America-wise at least, the mojito might be considered a retro 80's drink. Eew. Yet, somehow not. It's a great drink-- just not one I would chose to drink in 45 degree weather.

The Classic Mojito

Ingredients:

For one drink (though, even if you chose to drink alone, rest assured that about 20,000 other people inSan Francisco are probably drinking one at the same time)

5 to 6 mint leaves
1 lime, quartered
3 drops Angostura bitters
2 ounces light rum
1 ounce guarapo (sugar cane syrup). If you are too lazy to find guarapo, simple syrup
will have to do, but it's not the same. Really.
Ice Crushed ice is ideal, but smallish cubes aren't bad either.
Club soda

Preparation:

1. Muddle mint leaves, bitters and 3 of the lime quarters in the bottom of a tall glass.

2. Fill glass to the top with ice.

3. Add rum.

4. Fill remainder of the glass with guarapo, leaving roughly 1/2 inch at the top. Top off with
club soda.

5. Cover glass and shake vigorously for a few seconds. Garnish with remaining lime wedge and
a slice of sugar cane flown in from your father's sugar plantation. It has been suggested that one serve this drink with a straw. This might be fine if the person drinking is worried about lipstick smudges on his or her glass. If this is not a particular worry of yours, I would forgo it, since the bruised and battered mint tends to clog the straw at the first hint of suction.

A special little shout out to MojitoCompany.com for their help and information.

A Cure for the Mean Reds

Happy St. Juliana's Day. Her life, or at least, her martyrdom, sounds much more interesting than St. Valentine's. She got to wrestle with the devil. She got molten metals poured over her naked flesh while tied between two pillars. She even got to act in a high drama courtroom scene in which the devil himself played witness for the prosecution. And she died a virgin. Perhaps that last bit that doesn't market itself well. She is not the patron saint of anything as far as I can tell, but at least she got her own name day. Today. When depicted in art, she is shown leading the devil, or a dragon, around by a chain. Our local bondage mavens, at least the Catholic ones, should stand up and take notice. If they can get up off their Catherine Wheels to do so.

Okay. Enough of St. Juliana. I was just trying to avoid talking about St. Valentine.



I am tired, tired, tired of his Feast Day. I'm not against romance. Not in the least. I am just against the idea of a special day reserved for lovers. I'm not thrilled about the existence of a day where unrealistic expectations of love perfection are foisted upon couples, especially newly formed ones for whom boundaries have not yet been drawn, for whom the depth of feeling towards each other has not been thoroughly examined. Then, of course, there are all those single people out there.

Oh, you single people might tell yourself, "It's just silly Hallmark holiday. It means nothing to me."and That may be well and true, but I won't believe you.

I used to say the same thing, even on those Valentine's days that coincided with my being in a relationship. That is, until one signal year when I found my boyfriend giggling in the kitchen with a young ballet dancer. At 7:30 in the morning. In the house we had bought together seven days earlier. On Valentine's Day.

Bitter, party of one? Oh, that's me.

Well, not so much any more. Today, it's just a funny/sad story. But it certainly didn't help to cure me of my VD depression.

In an effort to alleviate the above-mentioned funk. I did a bit of research on antidepressant foods. How to self-medicate without, um, medication? Here's what I came up with. A Valentine's Day cure, if you will.

The ingredients are basic and all shown to be very helpful in combating depression. Thank you, Forbes Magazine, for your article on antidepressant foods...

Salmon is very high in omega-3 fatty acids which not only help the body fight against heart disease and some forms of cancer, but are now showing great promise in fighting depression and stress.

Beets contain uridine, which can increase one's levels of cytidine in the brain. Cytidine, in turn, affects the level of dopamine. Dopamine, as you runners might already know, affects mood. In a good way.

Walnuts are a good source of alpha linolenic acid (one of the omegas). You don't need to eat a whole bowlful, either-- an ounce will do nicely. These dear little nuggest also help fight heart disease and, on Valentine's Day, one's heart needs all the protection it can get.

Molasses also containes uridine. Remember my posting last month about molasses? No? Well, I wrote one. I just didn't know why I enjoyed writing it so much. Now I know.

Here's the recipe-- a combination of all four ingredients. It's very easy to make. We'll call it:

Michael's Valentine's Day Plate of Armor

Ingredients:

1 1/3 to 1/2 pound salmon filet. You are eating this alone, aren't you? Chose a really fatty
salmon like King. You need all the fatty acids you can get.
4 beets- red, golden, chioggia-- take your pick. Save the green tops, too
1 ounce walnuts-- toasted. I like mine tossed with sugar and salt fresh from the oven.
1 ounce feta cheese, crumbled
1 tablespoon molasses
1 teaspoon mustard (I used a sweet and hot style)
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar (champagne or white wine vinegar will work, too.)
1 teaspoon shallot, finely minced
4 tablespoons olive oil for vinaigrette, plus one tablespoon for pan roasting the salmon, one tablespoon for roasting beets.
Salt and pepper to taste.

Preparation:

Roasted Beets:

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
2. Line a baking sheet or Pyrex baking dish with aluminum foil.
3. Wash beets thoroughly and trim both ends
4. Pat beets dry with paper towels, then lightly coat with olive oil and a little salt.
5. Place beets on baking sheet and roast in oven for 45 minutes or until done. Obviously, smaller beets will take less time than larger ones, so please exercise judgement.
6. Remove beets from oven when done (to test, poke one with a paring knife. If the knife slips in easily, the beets are done).
7. Let cool.
8. To remove skin, gently rub beets (one at a time, of course) between paper towels. If you've roasted them properly, this should be easy. If you haven't, I just don't know what to tell you.
9. Dice beets into your favotie, easy-to-carve shapes and set aside.

For Molasses Vinaigrette:

1. in a small bowl, add molasses, vinegar, mustard, shallots and salt (as much as you like, to help balance the sweetness of the molasses). Whisk bravely.
   
2. Slowly drizzle in olive oil, whisking as you do so.
   
3. Adjust flavors to suit your own tastes.
4. Set aside

Salmon:

1. Rub salmon with salt on both sides-- skin and flesh.
   
2. In a size-appropriate saute pan, heat one tablespoon of olive oil over medium-high heat until very hot, just not quite smoking.
3. Add salmon filet to the pan, skin side down. Cook for about two minutes over the heat. Do not try to move the salmon. Let it stick. It will give in. It will release its grip on the pan.
4. Throw (or place gently, whatever your mood) salmon into the still-425 degree oven for approximately five minutes or as long as you want, depending upon how well done you like your salmon. I like mine a medium rare. Actually, I like my salmon raw, but this recipe calls for a more thorough cooking.

Beet Greens:

1. Throw well-cleaned beet greens into saute pan that has one tablespoon of olive oil already heating in it. Throw in a pinch of salt, too.
2. Cover and steam, moving the greens about now and then, for about 5 to 7 minutes. Many people might argue that greens need to cook for longer, but I don't think that is necessary in this case. We're going for nutrients here, not slow-cooked-with-bacon goodness. They're still good this way. Just try it.

To assemble:

1. While salmon is roasting, warm the already-cooked beets and toss with vinaigrette (Better whisk the dressing again, because it will have separated by now).
2. Shake excess liquid from beet greens and place on a platter. Add vinaigrette-tossed beets, walnuts and feta (I like it with a bit of Feta, but you may leave this out if the whole fish-and-cheese combination makes you squeamish, which it shouldn't, by the way. Think tuna melt.) Grind a little pepper, sprinkle a little salt.
3. Slide salmon on top and drizzle the dish with the vinaigrette. Eat while hot. Actually, the dish is fine (minus the greens) to eat cold, too.
4. Think happy thoughts.

Just think how healthy you'll be after eating this dish. Whether you're now ready for a healthy relationship is another matter entirely. If that thought has suddenly depressed you (again), eat some chocolate. A lot of chocolate-- that's an antidepressant, too.

Tag.

This weekend, I was tagged with a "Five things about you" meme from Cooking with Amy hostess, Amy Sherman. I was enormously flattered. I feel I can now admit that I had absolutely no idea what a meme was until this occurrence.

Well, Amy, here it is, just for you. Thank you for taking an interest in little ol' me.

Five (5) things about me:

1. I come from three generations of Disney employees. Scare thought, no? My brother worked the concierge desk at the Disneyland Hotel, answering guest questions in French, Spanish, English and American Sign (the show off). I squeezed oranges while wearing an orange poyester Polynesian-inspired shirt at the Sunkist, I Presume food stand across from the Jungle Cruise ride in Adventureland, then graduated to driving floats in the Main Street Electrical Parade in which, for one night only, I was called upon to don the Goofy costume and drive the main float. My stepmother worked at the Main Street Bank of America in the 1970's and my grandfather was actually hired by Walt Disney himself to paint the backdrops for the least-seen, most-avoided-by-the-politically-correct Disney film ever, Song of the South. Zip-a-dee-do-dah, indeed.

2. When sent to my room for bad behavior as a little boy, I would sometimes take a complete place setting of dinnerware with me and practice setting my desk for a proper luncheon as directed by photos provided in the 1955 edition of Emily Post's Etiquette. Thank you, Funk & Wagnall's.

3. My three least favorite words in the English language are:
a. moist
b. classy
c. slacks
My friends have, on occasion, fashioned sentences using all three words just to make me swoon. My favorite French word is écureuil, which means "squirrel". My favorite Czech word is
zmrzlina, which means "ice cream".

4. Speaking of ice cream... I have a wonderful cousin living here in San Francisco who is an amazing pastry chef. When the chef of a tiny little restaurant I did desserts for (the now-defunct Moa Room) told me my Curiously Strong Mint Ice Cream was named one of the five Best of the Bay ice creams a few years ago, I excitedly called my cousin, who replied, "Really? Mine, too!" Sigh.

5. I have this "thing" (good) about Canadians.

There. You now know five more things about me. I would gladly tag five others, but I don't know that many bloggers out there. Half of those I would tag have already been tagged. The other half just might kill me if I even tried. So, like my family line, this branch of the meme will die with me.

P.S. I have reconsidered. Here are five food bloggers who, to my limited knowledge, have not been called to answer, but whom I would be interesting in knowing a little more about. Please do not kill me.

Jenn of A Few Reservations

Stephanie of Bay Area Bites

Sean of Hedonia

Shuna of Bay Area Bites

Adam of The Amateur Gourmet

Blogging bloggers.

Monday morning, my friend Bill sent me off an email asking if I'd seen the lead story-- Sharp Bites-- in this week's New York Times SundayStyles section. Well, no. I hadn't. I tend to skip that section in favor of their Sunday Magazine. Of course, I tend to skip most of the magazine and head straight for the crossword puzzle. I sat down with my cup of coffee and read...

"'Food blogs have reached a critical mass with readers in the last six months,' said Phillip Baltz, owner of the restaurant public relations firm Baltz & Company."

God, is that true. Everyone seems to have an opinion on food these days and anyone with a computer can set up a blog, or have one set up for them. Myself included. Critical mass indeed.

I have only recently started to read other bloggers. Especially restaurant bloggers. At first, I was dubious. Why should I trust anyone else's opinion? I'm a food profession, for God's sake.

Why? Because some bloggers are very entertaining, though finding the good ones often feels like panning for gold -- sifting through the bores and frustrated novelists and lonely people with enormous chips on their shoulders. I have been glad of heart lately to know that there are people out there in the blogosphere (a precious few, at least) who are pretty darned clever and who can convey enthusiasm without a heavy reliance upon exclaimation points preceded by the word "awesome".

The first food blog I remember visiting was Adam Robert's The Amateur Gourmet. I remembered his Superbowl post from 2004. Anyone who thinks up Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction cupcakes is my hero. I loved him for it then, and I still do. Please read...

My new favorite non-KQED-linked blog is A Few Reservations. I don't know who the hell she is, but I'd have dinner with her anytime. Her posts are well-voiced and, as the title implies (sadly), few. Read her take on NOPA, it's like a hypodermic needle to the kidney- sharp and precise. Read her love letter to Canteen, too.

That's all you'll hear from me this week. Go read somebody else. Or start your own food blog-- everyone else is doing it.

I Want Fries with That Shake

Lately, I have found myself jealous of certain food authors recounting their childhoods. A boy's summer spent on his grandfather's farm, ripping corn from its stalk and running in the direction of the nearest pot of boiling water is one example. My summers were spent digging holes in the front yard.

I have also caught myself revising my own history-- substituting myself for a bug-eyed little girl listening to her grandmother as she passed on the secrets of her kitchen, instead of getting kicked out of my own grandmother's space to go play croquet by myself on the lawn so she could watch the stock market reports in peace.

My childhood was, culinarily speaking, as flat and uninspiring as the suburban Orange County landscape it inhabited. No farmer's markets and not much in the way of ethnic food apart from the El Taco down the street.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not alone.

It is possible I had a childhood to be envied. Perhaps that little boy with the corn would have found my life fascinating, living in the shadow of Disneyland's Matterhorn as I did. Maybe that girl in the kitchen would have preferred to trade places with me and pretend sand creatures would eat her feet if she let them stray off her towel at cigarette-butt-and-beer-can-littered Huntington Beach. Doubtful, but possible.

When I cut through the film of jealousy that sometimes hazes my own memory, I can accept my own past, though it might be considered bland by some; nothing out of the ordinary at all. We must all make the best out of how and where we have lived, plucking up our own happy memories when and where we can find them. And that is just what I intend to do...

Suburbia is not devoid of culinary pleasure. The occasional trip to the Bob's Big Boy was one such joy for me. My regular meal consisted a hamburger patty on a bun, french fries and a chocolate shake. It never varied. It was as safe and familiar as I wanted my life to be. That's about as much power as a five-year-old can have over his own environment.

The burger was fine, once dressed with sufficient ketchup, but it merely served to satisfy hunger. It was the other two items I cared about. The chocolate shake would arrive in a tall powdered steel cup, the ice cream too thick to suck through a straw and so cold the condensation on the outside of the metal froze. I would clutch the cup with my fingertips, counting off the seconds until the coldness burned, bringing my fingers back to life with a warm french fry. I did not dip the potato into the shake , but dragged it across the top, smoothing the surface, like some starchy Zamboni. Though the crunch and salt and heat of those fries harmonized beautifully with the cold chocolate sweetness of that shake, I doubt I would have cared to articulate it. Entertaining myself with what was readily at hand was, in all likelihood, more important.

It is one of my earliest memories of giving thought not only to what I ate but how I ate it. I know it could not have lasted more than two or three minutes. Fries get cold. Chocolate shakes melt. Children lose interest. Besides, I had the business of stripping a comic book Big Boy of his masculinity with my sister's four-colored Bic pen to attend to.

At least it was a beginning.

As a lifetime lover of the french fry and the shake, I understand that they are easier to acquire elsewhere than to make at home. You could get in your car or walk down the street, wait in line, open your wallet and return home with the fries still marginally warm and the shake not completely melted before you've even finished soaking the homemade version's potatoes in cold water, but try it sometime. Just try making them for yourself, if only this once. Have a couple of friends over to enjoy them with you. Or, if you have no friends, stay in your pajamas all day and consume them in a semi-fetal position on your couch while watching a film whose characters relate to each other on both a romantic and socio-economic level you could never even hope achieve. If choosing the latter, I would suggest leaving the alcohol out of the shake recipe for your own good.

French Fried Potatoes at Home
Serves 4

This is a slightly altered version of a recipe found in The Best Recipe by the good people at Cooks Illustrated.

Ingredients:

4 large russet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/4 x 1/4-inch-lengths
1 quart peanut oil
1 quart canola oil
4 tablespoons strained bacon grease. (The original authors state that this ingredient is optional. As a true lover of bacon, I am inclined to disagree.)



Preparation:

1. Rinse cut fries in a large bowl under cold running water until water turns from milky colored to clear. Cover with water and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. (this can be refrigerated up to 3 days ahead).

2. In a 5-quart pot or Dutch oven fitted with a clip-on-the-pot candy thermometer (I highly recommend one of these if you plan on deep frying anything ever), heat oil over medium-low heat to 325 degrees. As oil heats, add bacon grease. The oil will bubble up when you add the fries, so be sure you have at least 3 inches of room at the top of the pot.




3. Pour off water, wrap potatoes in a clean towel and thoroughly pat dry. Increase heat to medium-high and add fries, a handful at a time, to the hot oil. Fry, stirring with a skimmer or large-holed slotted spoon, until potatoes are limp and start to turn from white to blond. (I found myself hung up on this step. Blond? French potatoes are identified as female in gender, so I would opt for blonde. But which shade?), 6 to 8 minutes. (Oil temperature will drop 50 to 60 degrees during this frying .) Use skimmer or slotted spoon to transfer fries to paper towels to drain; rest at least 10 minutes. These can stand at room temperature up to two hours.

4. When ready to serve the fries, reheat oil to 350 degrees. Place potatoes into hot oil. Fry potatoes, stirring constantly, until golden brown and puffed, about 1 minute. Transfer to a bowl lined with several layers of paper towels and drain. Season to taste with kosher salt (or whatever salt you feel is necessary, but I wouldn't waste the good stuff. These are french fries, you don't need to show off.)

Serve immediately.

Chocolate Bourbon Shake
Serves 4

This recipe is as fast and easy to make as the ice cream headache you'll get from drinking it too quickly. And before you ask, no, I never added bourbon to my shake at the Big Boy. I have simply updated the recipe to suit my more adult tastes.

Ingredients:

2 cups vanilla ice cream
1/2 cup whole milk
1/2 cup chocolate syrup
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 ounces bourbon whisky. Not that I'm one to tell people what to do, but I would advise against putting any more than this into the mix or it will taste boozy. If your doctor says you need more alcohol in your diet, pour yourself a supplement on the side.

Shaved chocolate for garnish, if the mood strikes.

Preparation:

1. Place all ingredients in some sort of blending machine (My ex broke my blender three years ago and I've never bothered to replace it, so I used my Cuisinart). Combine until smooth.

2. Pour into drinking vessels of your choice and

a. Drink immediately or...

b. Place shakes in your freezer until ready to drink for a thicker consistency. This trick has the added advantage of giving the glasses a frosty look that says "you are not an after-thought" to your guests.




If you are of the mind to serve these two recipes together, I would suggest preparing the shakes ahead of time and placing them in freezer as mentioned above.

One of the most pleasant things about french fries, apart from their palatability, is that they most often show up on one's plate as if out of thin air. They are intended to play a supporting role. Like some crunchy, salted pile of Hattie MacDaniels, they offer a welcome break from the scene-chewing tactics of the burger or hangar steak they have been cast against to make look good.

When preparing fries at home, the air from which they appear is not thin, but thick with the scent of hot grease and, perhaps, your own tears. Making them will not provide you with any sort of instant gratification, unless the thrill of 350 degree oil leaping from the pot and onto your naked flesh is your sort of thing. It is a fairly laborious process, but not without it's rewards. I promise.

Whip up a batch for friends or family or someone you would like to sleep with. Nothing says "I love you" quite like frying up a fistful of starch in hot oil and bacon grease. Nothing I can think of, anyway.

Perhaps the next time you visit your neighborhood diner or burger joint, you might stop and think about those fries lying there on your plate. Go ahead, pick one up and dip it into your chocolate shake. Revel in the commonplace. Pull out your flask and pour in some bourbon, but as discretely as possible. If you get caught, I won't be held responsible.