Ceviche Satisfaction

If I had to pick one food to eat for the rest of my life, it would be raw fish.  Luckily, the cost of all that sushi-grade seafood would be offset by the fact that the rest of my life would likely not be a very long time due to inevitable mercury poisoning.  When I stopped eating fish at the age of 11 after spending the day on a fishing boat with my family, it was because I was disgusted by the sight and smell of the wet, flopping creatures.  Now, however, my salivary glands are instantly activated whenever I catch sight of fish in any form.  When I visit aquariums, I fantasize about breaking into the tanks, grabbing a trout or two and snacking surreptitiously in a dark corner, hoping not to be caught by passing children on field trips.  While snorkeling, I admit to having contemplated what might happen if I just grabbed one of the little guys and took a bite.

Of course, occasionally it would be nice if my raw fish could be accompanied by some other ingredients.  My favorite way to do this is ceviche.  No food more perfectly satisfies my fish cravings while also providing the mouth-puckering acidity that I desire in most things I consume.  Until now I had been scared to attempt to make ceviche on my own, but when a trusted friend raved to me about the ultra-fresh selection at Tokyo Fish Market in Berkeley, I knew I could feel confident in the quality of the fish.  The market was everything I hoped it would be, and I left with a pound of tuna, hamachi and bay scallops for just $8.  I picked up the rest of the ingredients at the Disneyland of food shopping, Berkeley Bowl.

I generally don’t like following recipes, so I scanned a few different ones to get an idea of the standard method, and then checked out the menus at some of my favorite restaurants and cevicherias (Fresca, Limon Rotiserrie, Desnuda) for inspiration.  I recently acquired some pink peppercorns from a very cool store in Jackson Hole, Wyoming called Vom Fass, and I knew I wanted to use them.  For me, pink peppercorns always bring to mind an unforgettable ice cream flavor I once tried at Jeni’s in Columbus that combined the vibrantly colored dried berries with tart pineapple.  This became the basis of my recipe and from there I added other flavors that I thought would be complimentary.  The result was a lively, fresh ceviche that paired perfectly with a crisp, lightly effervescent Ameztoi Getariako Txakolina rosé. This may actually be one of my favorite things I have ever made, and I couldn’t believe how simple it was.  There are only two things I would do differently next time: omit the tomatoes (as I did in the recipe below), and increase the amount and size of the jalapeños (I diced them rather than slicing them).

Pineapple & Pink Peppercorn Ceviche

Time: 30 min          Active: 10 min

Serves: 4

Ingredients:

1 pound sushi-grade fish (combination of hamachi, tuna, bay scallops, red snapper), cut into 1-inch cubes

Juice of 6-9 small limes

1 cup chopped fresh pineapple

2 small avocados, chopped

1/2 small red onion, julienned

1/2 small cucumber, chopped

1 small jalapeño, sliced

2 tablespoons pink peppercorns

3 tablespoons cilantro, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

1.  Place the raw fish and lime juice in a small bowl.  Make sure the fish is completely covered by the juice, as this is what “cooks” the fish (read Chow’s explanation here).  Cover and refrigerate for 15 minutes.

2. In a large bowl, combine all the other ingredients except the pineapple.  Transfer the tuna and lime juice to the large bowl, mix everything together and cover and refrigerate for another 15 minutes.

3. Mix in the pineapple and serve immediately.  Seriously, that’s it.  Now that I know how easy it is to make ceviche, I’ll be eating it all the time!

I served my ceviche with taro chips made from Martha Stewart’s incredibly simple recipe.  Just slice the taro root with a mandoline on the thinnest setting, brush with olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt, and bake at 350° for about 15 minutes.  Make sure you don’t use too much oil—some of my chips got a little soggy in the middle.

Breakfast for Dinner

This morning I woke up later than I would like to admit, and by the time I was ready to eat breakfast, it was, well… dinner time.  The dilemma of which meal to eat in this situation is one I faced quite often throughout college, although these days it is a much rarer occurrence.  Generally I feel that the first meal of the day should be considered breakfast, no matter what time it takes place—an opinion owing in no small part to my extreme partialness to eggs in all forms.  However, on a lazy day like today, breakfast for dinner tends to make me feel like even more of a waste of life.  I decided a compromise was in order.

As I sifted through the contents of my pantry, the leftover mushrooms and herbs acquired on my Saturday trip to the Berkeley Farmers Market seemed to call out to me with a challenge.  On my trip to Cleveland last November, I dined at Zack Bruell’s impressive restaurant L’Albatros.  One of the highlights of the meal was a savory french toast dish served with balsamic syrup and mushroom ragout.  The unique and innovative hors d’oeuvre perfectly combined flavors and textures in a way that has ingrained it in my memory forever.  My breakfast-dinner conundrum seemed the perfect opportunity to attempt to recreate this dish.

Unfortunately, the recent death of my last cell phone has left me with no photographic cues as to how the original French toast was prepared, but in the end I think my memory served me well enough.  It is by no means an exact replica, but I was quite satisfied with the results.  The great thing about this dish is its versatility—it can really be served for any meal of the day.  As I devoured my early-evening breakfast, I was able to feel just slightly less guilty than I normally might have after such prolonged hibernation.

Savory French Toast with Balsamic Herb-Mushroom Syrup
Serves: 2          Time: 15 min

Ingredients:

• 4 slices day-old bread (preferably challah or brioche)
• 3 large eggs
• 1 cup milk
• 4 tablespoons butter
• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 cups balsamic vinegar
• 3/4 cup mushrooms, chopped
• 1/4 cup yellow onion, chopped
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• 1/2 tablespoon fresh rosemary
• 1/2 tablespoon fresh thyme
• 1 tablespoon soy sauce
• salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

1. Whisk eggs in a medium-sized mixing bowl with milk, vanilla, salt and pepper.
2. Pour mixture into a baking dish over bread.  Let bread soak for 30 seconds on each side and remove.
3. In a medium sauce pan, heat two cups of balsamic vinegar over medium heat.  Add garlic, onions and mushrooms and let mixture reduce to about two-thirds.
4. Add rosemary and thyme during the last two minutes of cooking.
5. While syrup is cooking, melt two tablespoons of butter in a large pan over low-medium heat in a 10-inch non-stick sauté pan.  Place two slices of bread in pan and cook until golden brown, about two to three minutes on each side.  Repeat with other two slices.
6. Place two slices of bread per person on a warm plate.  Pour balsamic syrup on top and serve.

http://albatrosbrasserie.com/

Another Midwestern Adventure

Not two weeks after my trip to Cleveland (during which, by the way, all of the suspicions in my previous post were confirmed), I was once again forced to leave my beloved San Francisco and travel to the Midwest.  Thankfully, this time my destination was a bit more cosmopolitan–and foodie-friendly.  I spent Thanksgiving with my mother in Chicago, a city I had not visited in 8 years, and for some reason had never developed a great opinion of.  I was thrilled to learn that, despite the cold, Chicago is actually a pretty cool spot.  One bar in particular impressed the hell out of me, and actually inspired me to sign up for Yelp after a year of empty threats/promises, so I could extol its virtues to all.  The Violet Hour in Wicker Park was basically the only thing on my to-do list for the entire weekend.  Recommended to me both by a guidebook borrowed from a friend and a bartender at a far less impressive bar, it sounded like my kind of place–modern, artisinal takes on pre-prohibition classics blended from fresh, seasonal ingredients of the highest quality.

The outside was unassuming–we actually walked past it several times looking for the address, finally realizing when I called to ask for directions that we were standing directly in front of it.   There was no signage, just a bare yellow light bulb above the door.  The photos I had seen of the interior did not come close to doing this place justice- I was totally unprepared for how breathtakingly gorgeous it was.  High ceilings, heavy floor-length velvet curtains, and everything in a stunning shade of dusky violet.  The high-backed chairs reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland were enticing, but I always prefer to sit at the bar, chat with the bartender, and watch as my drinks are being made.  Luckily, we got there minutes after they opened, so there was no line or wait and we could sit where we pleased.  I noticed maybe 20-30 minutes later the place had become completely packed–which was telling because although it was a Friday evening, it was the day after Thanksgiving and the rest of the area had been quiet all day.

Always indecisive, I was a bit overwhelmed by the cocktail menu.  Everything sounded incredible.  I told our bartender, Henry, that while I normally drink the standard whiskey drinks (Manhattans, Old-Fashioneds, Sazeracs), I was open to trying something new.  He recommended the Woolworth Manhattan, which was not on the menu- Buffalo Trace, Cynar, Carpano Antica sweet vermouth, angosturra bitters, and house-made root beer bitters.  It was excellent- perfectly in balance, with a subtle hint of root beer flavor.  My mother, who had just been introduced to whiskey by me just two days earlier (and had not been a fan), actually found it quite palatable.  As for Mom, a non-cocktail drinker who I’ve never seen sip anything other than red wine, I picked out the Juliet and Romeo- Beefeater Gin, mint, cucumber, and rosewater.  I know her taste well, and she was thrilled with the selection, although she found it a tad too sweet- there must have been some simple syrup in there that the drink could have done without.  For my second drink, I wanted to try something totally different, that I wouldn’t be able to find back home.  I asked Henry what he thought of Bankers, Beggars and Brides- a concoction of Cynar, whole egg, St. Elizabeth allspice dram and nutmeg.  He said it was unique and interesting, kind of a bartenders’ favorite.  It sounded like precisely what I was looking for–and I was right.  It was perfect.  The Cynar base gave it a pleasing bitterness and the allspice dram, a Jamaican rum distilled from fermented molasses and flavored with clove, cinnamon, and nutmeg, gave it a spicy warmth that made me almost forget about the freezing weather we would soon be venturing back into.  I wanted to text message this drink to my friends back home.  Since Mom had already downed her one cocktail for the night, Henry whipped up a non-alcoholic mixture to keep her occupied consisting of house-made grapefruit bitters and I think some citrus juices, free of charge.  It was delicious!  When the check came, Henry had taken care of one of our cocktails as well.

When it was time to leave, I was devastated.  Sure, San Francisco has Bourbon & Branch, Orbit Room, and Beretta, among many other places to drink fabulous cocktails in style, but never have I been to any other bar that gets EVERYTHING right the way the Violet Hour does.  Lucky for Mom–now I have incentive to visit again.

The Road Begins Here

In three days, I will be leaving the state of California for the first time since I moved here a year and a half ago- and I’m a little apprehensive about it.  It doesn’t help much that my imminent destination is not exactly the most exciting place in the country: Cleveland, Ohio.  It’s everyone’s favorite city to make fun of, and my former home town.  In preparation for my first trip back since my pilgrimage out West, my head is flooded with questions.  Will my body still tolerate extreme cold?  Will I be able to find a decent burrito?  Will I secretly miss hearing people say “hella”??  Only time will tell the answers.

In the meantime, I’ve been reflecting on the time I have spent here, and how it has shaped my relationship with eating and drinking.  Growing up in Cleveland, our restaurant options were fairly limited.  Perhaps more importantly, I was never encouraged to appreciate food as anything more than the fuel that kept my body going.  As a result, I viewed food as something I had to eat before I could have dessert. In addition to being a horribly picky eater, my family kept kosher, which precluded the consumption of pork and shellfish, as well as the mixing of meat and dairy.  When I was 11, I became a vegetarian, even further limiting the foods I was willing or able to eat.  This persisted until I was nearly finished with college.  But by my senior year of college, something had changed.

It started as mild curiosity.  In addition to the wine courses I was taking, my job at a wine shop had piqued my interest in all things epicurean.  The new attention I found myself paying to the flavors and textures of the things I put in my mouth began to spill over into my eating endeavors and I found myself wanting to know what things tasted like.  If a friend was eating a cheeseburger, I would ask if I could smell it.  If my dinner companion ordered crab, I would request a description of its flavor.  This resulted in me receiving some strange looks from my friends, and ultimately in someone saying, “why don’t you just eat it?!”  It was a good question, and after months of careful deliberation, I decided to go through with it.  By that point I had accepted a job at a winery in the Napa Valley and knew an open mind would be a necessity.  Eventually I decided this would also mean no longer keeping kosher.  I no longer felt strongly about either of my self-imposed food restrictions, and could not even remember the reason I became a vegetarian (considering I was 11, it was probably because animals were cute).  So one day in the spring semester of my senior year, my four roommates crowded around the dining room table in quiet anticipation as I chewed my first bite of chicken in 11 years.  As I nodded my head in approval, I knew my life would never be the same again.

I couldn’t have picked a better place than Napa to begin my ascent into foodie-dom.  There was no shortage of delicious food there (or of people who were excited about delicious food), and I was able to try everything from oysters at Bouchon to steak tartare at Bistro Jeanty.  I began to realize that all those years I hadn’t been excited about food, it was because I hadn’t been eating food worth getting excited about.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like chicken when I was younger, I had just never tried great chicken.  Now I was tasting some of the best food in the country, and it was all new to me.  The first time I tried ribs–melt in your mouth, falling off the bone ribs–it was a revelation.  What had I been doing for 22 years?!  I had gone from being the girl who made her mom bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to a Chinese restaurant to the girl who would eat raw beef without a moment’s hesitation.

Since moving to San Francisco in April of this year, I have struggled to find the balance between tasting all of the amazing food and wine this city has to offer, and being able to pay my rent.  Most of the time, eating and drinking win by a significant margin, taking up virtually all of my disposable income, as well as a slightly disconcerting amount of my non-disposable income.  I am constantly trying to broaden my gastronomic horizons, and I happen to live in a place that makes it very easy to do that–although it is not always easy to do so affordably. In this blog, I will detail my adventures in making up for 22 years worth of picky eating and drinking while trying not to become homeless.   Food, wine, beer, spirits– I’ve got a lot of ground to cover.  I am looking forward to lots of tasting, sipping and learning.  But for now, I’ve got some winter clothes to pack.