No Regrets

The New York Times: One Drink a Day Tied to Lower Death Risk

In an era of mostly awful current events, here's a bit of news in which we can all (well, maybe not those in rehab) rejoice—at last! A delightful article. I especially like this line: "...having one drink or less a week is no help at all." (The italics are mine.)

Answerjack, my in-house science consultant, informs me that it is a well-designed study. Thank heavens! I would not want to continue drinking under faulty data.

Here's Mr. Science himself, between Adrian and Natalia. They are enjoying health-enhancing Poire Martinis in a picture taken a couple of days ago. My family is so ahead of the curve!
Recipes for other healthy drinks—Sazeracs and Manhattans—can be found here. Za vashe zdorovye!

Winter Wrap-Up: Death, Taxes, and Cocktails

  My grandmothers, Lydia and Julia, at the bar at my parents wedding. They were survivors, both of 'em. That's vodka in their glasses. Za vashe zdorovye, Grannies!
We’re approaching the end of a notably down season. After eight years of magical-thinking Ponzi scheme-ish economic policies that have the entire world reeling, the collective is cranky. Everybody’s hurting—some folks more than others—and no one’s spending. The wheels of commerce have rusted to a near-dead halt.
It’s probably not a coincidence that old-school cocktails—complicated constructs of potent distilled spirits, obscure herbal tinctures and sparing squirts of citrus—are currently enjoying a renaissance. To the extent that people are partying at all, we’re partying like it’s, say, 1933. I am happy to fall into line with the Zeitgeist on this one; after a winter marked by a loved one’s death and its aftermath, I need all the help I can get for springtime tax season, which is shaping up to be a bloodbath for Answerjack and me.
Good thing I devoted a fair portion of the dreary winter to R & D on two classic cocktails. And to think I used to simply shoot vodka, in the manner of my peasant forebears! These drinks are a little more complicated, and all that measuring and obsessing over stirring vs. shaking is mildly meditative, gets you centered and in the mood to be rocked by a couple ounces of 100-proof rye.

The Authentic New Orleans Sazerac
1/2 teaspoon absinthe (yes, it’s legal now) or Herbsaint
1 teaspoon simple syrup (or 1 teaspoon granulated sugar)
4 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
1 drop Angostura bitters (traditionalists leave it out)
2 ounces rye whiskey
Strip of lemon peel

Pour the absinthe into a chilled cocktail glass, then swirl it around to coat the sides and bottom of the glass. Whatever is left stays in the bottom of the glass. Pour the sugar syrup, whiskey and bitters into a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Do not shake, please. Stir until the liquids are chilled, and strain into the absinthe-coated glass. Twist the lemon peel over the glass; a cascade of tiny lemon oil droplets should actually strike the surface of the drink. Rub the twist over the rim of the glass, then drop it in as garnish.
Taster’s notes:

• The anise flavor of the absinthe should be discernible, but in the background.
• Sazeracs are served up, not on the rocks.
• Traditionalists insist on Old Overholt rye whiskey, which is a bargain. I like Rittenhouse 100-proof rye.
• If you are a novice bartender, check the capacity of your shot glasses. The first time I made this at home I unknowingly used double shots, which made a pleasantly paralyzing drink, but speech was a problem.

The Really Quite Good Manhattan
My first husband’s mother and sister used to pound these down by the pitcher-full. Now I know why.

2 oz rye whiskey (original) or bourbon
1/2 oz sweet vermouth
2-3 dashes Angostura bitters
Maraschino cherry
Strip of orange peel
Pour the liquids into a cocktail shaker filled with ice, stir well to chill and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with cherry and orange peel.
Taster’s Notes:

• Rye used to be the default American whiskey, and was used for the deco-era Manhattan. Most bars use bourbon nowadays. Good both ways.
• Manhattans are served up, not on the rocks.

 
 

Natalia took this picture last Sunday, at family dinner for John's birthday.

Happy Hanukkah, Asshole

Some time ago, I got it into my head to host a really swell Hanukkah dinner, despite the fact that I am a goy and a Cossack to boot. I did a fair bit of research on Hanukkah traditions and ferreted out best-of recipes for the compulsory food events. I endured an abusive interrogation about my cooking skills by a kosher butcher who was reluctant to entrust one of his stunningly expensive briskets to a Hanukkah amateur, got those little bags of gelt for the kids, and polished up the silver. I invited two of my oldest, dearest friends and my (now ex-) husband’s business partner and his fiancée, two couples who had never met but who I  just knew were going to get along like houses afire. Goy-ish or not, I was going to rock this holiday. 
And so I did, for the first 20 minutes of the evening. The guests of honor were introduced to each other and exchanged pleasantries as we all tucked into to a pretty terrific meal. I went wide into the Martha Stewart zone, graciously accepting accolades for the latkes and casting smugly approving glances at my interesting, attractive guests and my intelligent, adorable children, all so nicely lit by those flickering candles.

Then it all slid south, with astonishing swiftness: a slightly heated discussion between Old (Boy) Chum and the Fiancée suddenly combusted, and within nanoseconds insults were hurled, fits were thrown, and tears were shed. People fled the table to hide in the loos. The children were entranced.
I, however, was not. My due diligence about Hanukkah customs failed to turn up any mention of celebrants addressing each other as “asshole.” What would Martha do?

I believe that pity for the hosts, plus the fact that there was no way out of the house except through the dining room, finally lured everyone back to the table to finish the festive meal, the remainder of which was conducted with agonizing politesse. Food was the only safe topic of conversation, and every bite was praised with desperate enthusiasm while being consumed with an urgency like unto that of ravening wolves. When the last latke disappeared, so did the guests, leaving me with a plateful of untouched rugelach and a painful case of hostess interruptus.
At work the next day, Robert’s partner politely asked him not to invite them back to our house when the other couple was going to be present. My chum never lived down his role in the debacle, thanks to constant reminders by his wife and me, and an abbreviated version of the evening being featured in a little cookbook.
Over the years the Hanukkah Asshole Disaster has aged into an amusing anecdote. My old friends are still dear; we watched each other’s kids grow up and they saw me through a scorched-earth divorce. Now they’re good friends to Answerjack, too.
I’d fallen out of touch with Robert’s partner and his wife after the partnership dissolved; I’m pretty sure that Robert cheated him at the end. I ran into them last month after many years. They're doing great. We’re going to get together to catch up in the new year when it's safely past the Hanukkah season. Maybe I’ll make a plate of rugelach.

The Food Chain: Microwaved Lobster

Murphy and Mouse, Cynthia Romanov 2007
One of my cats, Murphy, is a serial killer. He used to reliably dispatch a rodent a day, and has lately lately switched to birds and lizards. That's him above, with prey that I personally plucked from the jaws of death after pausing to snap this rather amazing picture, which is not Photoshop'ed; the scene was as you see it here. Cat, mouse, and sprouting amaryllis are in the bathtub, which is where Murphy liked to torture play with his food for a bit before settling in to devour it (mostly) entire—tail, snout, and claws.
The "ick" bar is set pretty high for me and I am not squeamish, but I will cop to having a low tolerance for sleep interruptions and for housework. Murphy's dining and recreation preferences generated both. I'd hear the frantic scrabbling of rodent feet on the slick sides of the tub and panicky high-pitched squealing in the middle of the night and know there would be blood and the odd gnawed gizzard-y bit to mop up come morning. This is what launched me down the slippery slope of trying to re-jigger a nocturnal, marginally domesticated carnivore's eating habits to suit my personal aesthetics. Murphy is proving to be amazingly resistant to these efforts, and after this weekend, I'm coming around to his way of thinking, realizing that my—as well as his—dining practices may be open to objections.
Here is what Answerjack and I had for dinner on Saturday, our reward after a day spent breaking down moving boxes:

Now, while extravagant, lobster is hardly an unusual foodstuff for human omnivores—any more than, say, mice are for cats. But I realized, trying to stay clear of their clattering claws as I plopped them in a dish and consigned them to the microwave, that my aesthetic objections to Murphy's method of dispatching his dinner are not much different than those that certain other humans (vegans, lacto-ovo vegetarians, terminally timid eaters) might have about my food prep practices. Microwaving lobster effectively steams the critter in its own container—the shell—and its own juices. It's a controversial cooking method, rumored to be cruel (PETA is horrified), that concentrates the flavor of the flesh. Lobsters must be live until the last possible moment; is microwaving meaner than boiling or steaming? Discuss amongst yourselves, and note that science's jury is out on the crustacean capacity to feel pain.
Microwaved Lobster
Place lobster in a heavy duty, microwave-safe plastic bag or microwave-safe dish with a cover—I use 2 8" x 13" Pyrex dishes, upending one to use as a lid. Add 1 tablespoon water, or not—I don't think it makes a difference. Seal and microwave on high, 6 minutes for the first pound, plus 1 minute for every additional  1/4 pound. Cook one lobster at a time. That's it, and it's delicious.
Microwaving tends to curl the bodies--if you want a straight-arrow presentation, thread a bamboo skewer through the tail before cooking (leave the rubber bands on the claws as you do this, but don't forget to snip the bands off before you put the dish in the microwave.)
The next day's menu for family dinner reinforced my sympathy for Murphy. We got up early-ish and drove out to the Tomales Bay Oyster Beds. It's a great picnic spot but this time we brought the oysters home, packed in ice, to eat out on the deck.
Here are Answerjack and Ravi, preparing bivalves for the family:

Answer is shucking the smaller ones, which we'll eat raw—and live.

And here Ravi is stepping away from the grill, where he's barbecuing the larger oysters, to observe Murphy's keen interest in our dinner.

I can pass on the rodents, but my family and I share with Murphy a penchant for fruits de mer in an elemental state (live, raw), or prepped in a way that others might find icky. We don't shy away from trying new foods.  We also don't eat in the bathtub, but then we have the advantage of opposable thumbs, which makes it easier to set, and clear, a proper table. So hey Murph, I'll stop harassing you about your dietary practices; I know I'd be irritated if PETA threw up a picket line every time I chucked a lobster into the microwave.

As Ravi notes, "Why would anyone want to be lower on the food chain?"

Playing With Your Food, or Your Food Playing With You

Natalia sent this link, and then nagged until I checked it out. I'm so glad she did: I've been incredibly OCD about packing, and this is an welcome little respite, so absurd it defies explanation. You'll just have to see for yourself:
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/561132/

Japan: The Things We Ate for Dinner

This is spiny lobster, one of the minority of foodstuffs that we could reliably identify. Yum!
The short answer to what we had for dinner is mostly, "Who knows?" We often had an imprecise grasp of what we were eating and were frequently floored when we figured out/were told what, exactly, we held quivering at the ends of our chopsticks. We were occasionally overwhelmed but never bored. Food in Japan is fantastic.

Japan's highly evolved culinary ecosystem is a reflection of  Japanese culture, where ancient traditions are endlessly refined, foreign influences are explored and adapted, and the constant interplay between ritual and re-invention produces some interesting dichotomies. Traditional or Western-inflected, everything on your plate is most likely fresh, prepared with thought and attention, and beautifully presented. Nothing is ever just plopped on a plate or splashed into a bowl.  Everything is worth at least a taste.

Here are a couple 0f bowls of udon, inexpensive prole food ordered at the height of the noon rush at a soba shop in a Tokyo neighborhood of skyscrapers and business hotels.  It tastes as good as it looks. Iterations of udon are endless and vary from region to region, but no matter what kind you order, protocol requires that the noodles be noisily—but not messily—slurped. This is the version I like best: there's a hard-boiled egg in there, along with seaweed and some unknowable and artfully carved roots, swimming in a light miso base.

Another lunch, another  neighborhood:  Answerjack is about to tuck into a bowl of sea snails at a tiny traditional Tokyo sushi shop. They have a powerfully chewy mouth feel and taste of the deep sea. Eating a bowlful is a commitment of time and a test of jaw strength.

This stack of crunchy, raw brine shrimp was pulled off the conveyor belt of dishes produced by the sushi chefs at the same place, just after a fellow diner politely prevented Answer from making a dipping paste from the green powder in front of us at the counter—it wasn't wasabi as we'd assumed, but matcha. Unlike some of the restaurants where we ate, this one had an at least partially translated menu: see the "DORINKS" listing under the plate?
I'll mention again that we ate fugu as a segue into the politically incorrect  portion of this post. No excuses for what's coming up: we knew what we were doing, having hired a guide through Bespoke Tokyo and requested an excursion to restaurants serving dishes we were not likely to find in the U.S. or Europe.

This is our  first stop, a restaurant in an alleyway in Tokyo's Shibuya neighborhood. This is definitely a no-translations-or-pictures-on-the-menu kind of place, but even for those who can't read Japanese, the  sign signals the specialties.  The name of the restaurant is "Octopus and Whale," and that's what is served.

First course: whale sashimi, mixed with red miso and served with daikon. That's Akiko, our quadra-lingual (Japanese, English, Flemish, Dutch) guide in the background, and some artisanal shocho in the midground.

The second  course: thin slices of octopus (a long-time favorite) and smoky whale bacon (there's a stray leek there, too) that you char tableside over a charcoal brazier; it's served with a couple of dipping sauces, one soy-based and savory, the other slightly sweet with flecks of red pepper. Shabu shabu comes next, with more whale (tongue and other bits, surprisingly and attractively pink), this time simmered in a pan placed over the burner to the right of the brazier. Shabu shabu is the dish that prompted Bill Murray's character in Lost in Translation to ask wryly: "What kind of restaurant makes you cook your own food?"

Bill, think about what it might mean in Japan to not cook your own food. This is the main course at the next restaurant,  another off-the-tourist-grid no-English-spoken joint, coincidentally across the street from the outer wall of the Olympic Village, which in its previous incarnation was the Washington Heights military base where Answerjack lived as a child. The restaurant's logo is a stylized horse in full gallop. He's running for his life.

This artful display of rumor-thin slices of scarlet-hued  meat is a tour of equine anatomy: our hostess explains which cuts come from where, and Akiko translates. Tonight we're sampling the neck, the rump, the flank and a bit of the noble beast's heart. The translucent, shell-pink slices on the plate above are pure fat, from the neck; while the entire spread of horse sashimi is a great delicacy,  horse fat is considered a particular treat, loaded with collagen, which we are informed exempts it from the rules governing the health risks of indulging in other fatty foodstuffs like lardo and blubber. Nothing on the table is cooked:  horse is eaten raw, served with an array of sharp and salty condiments to contrast with the meat's slightly sweet flavor: grated radish, shiso leaf, incendiary mustard, potent aged tamari. It is, as you'd expect, very lean and chewy, and it definitely satisfies our mandate for food we are unlikely to encounter in the United States or western Europe. It's also quite filling, what with the chewing workout, and so we decide to skip the next stop, live sushi, and proceed directly to a bar & art gallery that provided one of those exquisite moments of  simultaneous yeah-OK-I-know this/no-this-is-sui-generis moments that provide some of  the keenest pleasures of traveling.

Ohana Gallery  in Shibuya-ku Tokyo shares both concept and make up of core constituency with the  Hotel Biron in San Francisco's Hayes Valley.  Answerjack and I were married at the Biron; our children have various ongoing forms of commitment to the wine bar and the owners' other businesses; and we  love the owners, whom we consider members of the extended family. We settled in at Ohana with the house specialty of hand-brewed plum sake, and it felt a little like home. By tacit agreement we spared Akiko our observation that the bar also felt a little like the Russian Vodka Room (great house-infused spirits, but no art) on 52nd Street in New York, where on an appropriately icy night one February we witnessed an altercation between Town Car drivers that left  blood on the sidewalk but ended with all parties tossing back shots inside. On this mild  April night, with a steady downpour  releasing the scent of  sakura blossoms everywhere we went, we raised our glasses to toast the ways in which so many of life's experiences reference each other, however tangentially, and to the incredible good fortune of being well-fed, slightly hammered and very content in one of the world's great cities.

Japan: Fugu and Famiglia

Papa-san, Musumi and Boogie

A single blowfish—Takifugu rubripes, or fugu—contains enough neurotoxin to kill 30 people. It's the the only delicacy officially forbidden to the Emperor of Japan, for his own safety. His Imperial Majesty is missing a unique experience. Our party of nine plebes survived a fabulous fugu dinner in Osaka that featured multiple variations on the theme of deadly dining, ranging from sashimi as delicate and transparent as sheets of mica, through slow-simmered techiri and the tongue-numbing, fugu fin-infused hot sake known as  Hire-zake.
Sharing a life-threatening experience  is a great way to bond with the in-laws and demonstrate commitment, but in truth the risk is really not that great. Despite fugu's dire reputation, deaths are rare (although inevitable, once exposure occurs) because the fish's potent poison is contained in the liver and ovaries, the sale of which is illegal. Only specially-licensed chefs can get their knives near a fugu fish, and that after a 3-year apprenticeship that yields a 70% fail rate, which conjures up images of young would-be chefs clutching their throats and dropping dead during finals—a very harsh grading curve—but is really about minor mistakes in the tedious and  insanely complicated preparation process.
As soon as Boogie indicated a keen interest in the families getting together over a potentially fatal feast I went online and did my due diligence. It turns out that, given the particulars of my life, I'm in far greater peril from the meth-head, deer, and drunk-infested roads in rural Tuolumne County and the arc-prone wiring in MD-80s than I am from eating fugu. More people die from eating American fast food contaminated with feces than from eating the attentively prepared, exquisitely presented and awful damn tasty Japanese fugu. This is a choice?
So here is the abbreviated North American branch of the clan (the other kids and their partners—Dr. Punkin and Miss  Minn; Chatty Natty and the BHE; and Tiny Becca and Mr. Stitches—are in the States) before dinner, in downtown Osaka, which is in itself utterly exotic: a haven of completely crime-free nightlife.

Notice the inflated fugu sign suspended behind Answerjack's and Boogie's heads—a nice touch.
And here is the expanded clan after dinner:

Front row, L to R: Mama-san, Musumi, Little Sister.
Next row, L to R: Papa-san, Sister-in-Law, Boogie, me
Very back, L to R: Big Brother, Answerjack.
I could not have hoped for a more warm and welcoming family of in-laws. To find them waiting for us across the Pacific is a modern miracle and an incredible photo op in a world of wonders. And this is only our second night in Japan...

Sustenance: The Pear Martini

 Neile and I used to work together and had so much fun. We talked a lot about food—she's been a sous chef and brings an artist's sensibility to the taste and texture of her dishes, and I've loved cooking since I was about the age of that little guy on the right here. Neile nudged me to begin blogging and once I did she put in a special request for a category about food. This is the first post about what I'm calling Sustenance, because the pleasures of the table extend beyond locally grown and sensitively slaughtered plant and animal foodstuffs to encompass non-food-pyramid essentials like wine and distilled spirits. This recipe may be of special interest to Neile and David because they have a brand new baby boy, Lachlan, which means that at least one of them has been on the wagon for nine months and has yet to discover the joys of a well-crafted pear martini.

Those Grey Goose marketing drones are so wily. When the company's ultra-delectable Anjou pear-infused vodka was launched last winter they dispensed gallons of the stuff gratis at events populated by the demographic identified as Most Likely to be Repeat Consumers. They were right on the money with me: I had, oh, two or three pear martinis at Arcadia, the biannual art event benefiting San Francisco's Friends of the Urban Forest, and immediately bid way way more than I planned for a piece of art that ultimately went to someone who outdrank me. My take-away as I got into the cab at the end of the evening was a strong desire for more poire vodka and a warm glow at seeing the artwork I'd donated carted off in support of FUF's exemplary mission. Plus my daughters Chatty Natty and Tiny Becca also donated their artwork to Arcadia, so supporting FUF was a family affair. I love it when everyone wins!
Please do not even think about making the pear martini with brand X ingredients. I learned the hard way that Absolut, which makes some perfectly acceptable voditchka, sells a vile faux-pear product that results in a martini tasting like the smell of Teen Spirit. This is the only option available here in the hinterlands, so Answerjack and I stock up on the real deal when we're in the city. If you're lucky, you live in a place where the corner liquor store has Grey Goose poire. And if you're really lucky, you have access to Meyer lemons for the martini. Count your blessings, and za vashe zdorovye.
Here's Lachlan again with his big sister Camryn. Talk about blessings...