Drink Like Me: Euro Trash

The baby-faced bartender at Père Pinaud on the LES tried to discourage me from ordering the well-priced VDP from Ardèche. "You might not like it," he said. I was intrigued. "It comes back a lot. It's not really for American palates." Now, I was pissed. Who the hell was he to tell me how American my palate was? And why is "American palate" still used as a pejorative term? Sure, the vast majority of Americans watch American Idol, eat at Denny's, and will take a Yellow Tail over a funk-filled glass of naturally crafted wine any day, but this was New York. The LES, no less! Where the enlightened live. And drink. So, my American friends and I ordered the Domaine du Mazel's C'est Im-portant. I was worried at first - what if they didn't like it? Not only would we have wasted 40 bucks but we also would be proving the adorable Euro-supremacist bartender right. But the girls oohed and ahed at the candied fruit and earthy notes of the wine. They even indulged me in a conversation about it. It reminded my one friend of her rustic childhood, when her parents would buy beef by the freezer-full directly from the farmer and her mom would make her venison heart sandwiches to take to school. The VDP probably would have paired well with an all-American venison heart sandwich. Take that, cute French bartender.

Guest Blogger Alert

The good folks at Rias Baixas asked me to contribute to their blog recently. I do loves the albariños...

Drink Like Me: Genever Convention

People are always asking me what they should drink. Behold my new series: Drink Like Me. It will be an irregularly recurring entry on how you can, er, drink like me.
Genever Bols hosted a seminar on bitters this past Tuesday at the Clover Club in Brooklyn. And, in case you're wondering, yes: that means that at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday, I was sipping classic cocktails like Bamboos and Martinezes with the city's drinkerati, including Dale DeGroff, David Wondrich, Jim Meehan, and Gina Chersevani. I spent much of my time commiserating with fellow writers Jack Robertiello and Sonya Moore about the poor state of publishing today (I recently lost my US Airways Magazine Drink column and am still pretty bummed about it), but made sure to spend the rest of the afternoon drowning my sorrows. Oh, and I also managed to jot down a note or two about bitters. (Did you know that bitters was originally an ingredient in a martini... back when it was called a Marguerite?) The cocktails themselves were delightfully old school. The recipe for Bols itself dates 1820. Much more malty than English gin, yet floral and spicy (although there isn't a trace of anything juniper-like in it), the Bols is light and subtle, and complex all at once. I'm thinking that this year, the 400th anniversary of New York - or New Amsterdam! - will be the year of genever. Don't you think we could all proost to that?

Hot Air

Foam is officially dead. Real eaters have been over it for awhile, but now Daily Candy reports that Harvey Nichols is selling foam in a bottle so that even the laziest home cook can add a touch of molecular flair to dinner. Airspuma, an aerosol foam sauce, comes in such obvious flavors as Black Truffle, Porcini Mushroom, and Mango & Passionfruit. What's next? Instant kitchen liquid nitrogen?

Yakkity-tori

Is it just me or have yakitori joints been popping up everywhere these days? Maybe the trend is driven by a downturn in sushi consumption - as people wise up to the un-sustainability of hamachi and toro, they're turning to other options to get their Japanese food fix. There's Mr. Jones in the EV and - of far more interest to me for its extreme proximity to my humble abode - Daruma on Mott St. The owners of the sushi joint that occupied this spot for about five minutes had the right idea closing down and reopening under a different name with a tweaked concept. The rolls are still there but about a dozen yakitori varieties are the main attraction in this pinky finger of a restaurant. And, at $7 a pop for a bento set featuring three skewers, rice, and a salad or miso, it's become my new favorite recession-friendly dinner spot. Conveniently, it's right next to Pinche Taqueria, my other go-to for a meal under $10.

Bibim-Oops

My friend, who is Japanese, and I have made a habit of going out for Korean food every couple of weeks. Having spent some time in Korea a few (ahem, ten) years ago, and seeing that the culture worship certainly goes in the other direction, I appreciate her love of Korea and Korean food. This week, we ducked into Bibim Bar in the EV, a cute back-room joint hidden behind a glassed-in ramen noodle shop. We were pleased to find a variety of bibimbaps on the menu including chicken, pork, and bulgogi options. The hot stone bowl wasn't bad - if a little too hot, which meant that it kept cooking its insides well into the meal. (A good crust on the bottom of the rice is nice, but too much is just crusty.) Then, just as we tucked into it, the health inspector showed up to slap a bright yellow notice on the front door. I quickly checked my bowl for signs of entomological life. None. Who knows, the infraction could have had to do with a lack of hair nets. Still, unsettling. We finished our bibimbaps and every ounce of the accompanying kimchi and cold (pink!) radish soup, downed our OB Lager, and rose to leave, bidding our 12-year-old-looking waitress a good night. Bibim Bar's doors closed behind us, and maybe for good. Oh well. We'll always have Tuesday.

Chac Attack

Some of the best meals to be had in Chile come conveniently wrapped in tin foil. Messy insides of roasted beef or lamb topped with bright green avocado, fresh tomato, and lettuce are barely contained by thick slabs of foccacia-like bread. The chacarero comes in different shapes and sizes but is almost always a pretty big sandwich. Available at streets stalls and roadside restaurants, these hearty handheld meals are incredibly satisfying and as close to fast food as can be found in Chile. This lamb chacarero is from a restaurant along the road from Puerto Natales to Punta Arenas (apparently owned by the mayor of one of the poky towns nearby). It's the southernmost place I've ever been. If you ever feel hungry enough to go to the end of the world for a sandwich, this bad boy certainly wouldn't disappoint.

Eeled With a Kiss

In Pablo Neruda's ode to the eel soup that many consider Chile's national dish, a claim is made that, by combining the flavors of land and sea, one might come to know the taste of heaven. Neruda was not entirely right. The hearty chowder is not actually made of eel, but rather a snaky white fish. As someone who once walked four miles barefoot along a shoreline for moqueca (Brazilian fish stew), I understand Neruda's fervor for caldillo de congrio. When I recently made the dish in Valparaiso with Franco, whose grandfather was friendly with the portly poet, I noticed how he closed his eyes when he tasted it. Did he see God? Maybe not. But something in him warmed up somewhere in the general region of where one's soul might be.