DC Culinarian

Celebrity Endorsements

Political nonsense dominates every minute of my working life, so I try to keep it separate from this space, but sometimes they can't help but bleed into one another. That happened today, and the end result was a slightly uncomfortable endorsement of DC Culinarian from a Washington celebrity (of sorts).

Whilst acting like an idiot on the Twitters, I tweeted something about Marc Thiessen, formerly a speechwriter for George W. Bush and currently a political columnist for the Washington Post with whom I disagree on just about everything. Thiessen doesn't follow me, but he nonetheless happened upon my tweet and gave it a retweet. Yippee for social media.

I just assumed it would end there, but Thiessen -- clearly intrigued by my razor wit and appealing facial aesthetics -- clicked through to my profile, saw that I operate this little food blog here, and was duly impressed:

On upside, Simon has good food blog (so says the NSA...whoops. Never mind) RT @simonmaloy: RT @marcthiessen: Prd to be beside AG Mukasey!

— Marc Thiessen (@marcthiessen) June 10, 2013

I actually do hope the NSA is aware of my little internet cookery corner here and not at all aware that I use it to send coded messages to the Belarusian intelligence service eating well whilst defending some of our freedoms.

Regardless, I'm glad that DC Culinarian could foster a small, fleeting moment of bipartisan comity. And now I have an endorsement to flaunt completely out of context.

"Simon has good food blog[!]" -- The Washington Post

Churros

It's National Doughnut Day. HOORAY OBESITY!

All across DC, bakeries and patisseries are handing out free doughnuts to mark the occasion which, surprisingly enough, actually has some real history to it. The first National Doughnut Day was during the Depression, when foodstuffs were so rare and exalted that they were ripe for canonization. So the Salvation Army decreed that the first Friday in June would be set aside in observance of doughnuts. This celebration of fried rings of dough and fat started in Chicago, which should surprise no one.

But I don't like being told who to fete and how, and I'm sure as hell not going to take orders from the army: Salvation, Kiss, or otherwise. So instead of doughnuts proper, I'm going to mark today with churros -- similar to doughnuts, just better.

The churro hails from... Argentina? Maybe? Or Portugal. Possibly Spain. No one seems to really know but it doesn't matter. What does matter is that it's basically a straightened doughnut, but made in a festive star shape that increases the surface area of the pastry which results in heightened crispiness from the frying. More surface area also means more places for cinnamon sugar and/or caramel to grab on to.

Making them is a but of a pain -- the dough has to be prepared on the stovetop, which is unusual, and there's copious amounts of vigorous stirring, made all the more difficult by its thick, tacky consistency. But it's worth it! Just be sure to fry in very hot oil (a clip-on digital temperature probe is a handy tool for this one) so you get a good crisp and a soft, chewy center.

Use this recipe from Ruben Ortega, and you can't go wrong.

Wild Blueberry Pie

Mrs. Culinarian and I are going to Australia. This is tangentially related to blueberry pie, I swear.

I have a brother in Melbourne. He moved there last year to go to grad school, though Melbourne is quite conveniently also where his girlfriend hails from. She is now his fiancée, which is fantastic. And not just for them! Not only do I get another sister-in-law, I get one who can play knifey-spoony. So we're going to the land of funnel web spiders and Yahoo Serious for a wedding.

Getting two people to Australia ain't cheap. Being in Australia ain't cheap. Of the five most expensive cities in the world, two are down under: Sydney and... Melbourne. I'm not complaining, mind you. Well, I am, but only insofar as it relates to blueberry pie. Which it does. Sort of. Bear with me.

With the Australia trip on the horizon, Mrs. Culinarian and I have implemented cost-savings measures. They are many and splendiferous, but only two are relevant to today's discussion: bicycling to work, and shopping more at Trader Joe's. In the frozen foods section of Trader Joe's one will find bags of wild blueberries. Mrs. Culinarian made this discovery several times over and picked up wild blueberries every time she went, leaving our freezer littered with unopened bags of blueberries.

Something had to be done. So, pie.

Shortly after the pie was completed and the first slices consumed, Mrs. Culinarian started her intention to have a slice for breakfast the next morning "if there is any left," unsubtly suggesting that I was not only capable of consuming almost an entire blueberry pie in one evening, but likely to do so.

I'm not going to call that slander. Actually she was pretty on the nose, and here's why: bicycling to work. For me it's about 18 miles round trip. Every day. That's a daily pastry indulgence. At the end of the circuit, my thoughts are not "whew that was a good workout" or "boy I sure am happy to be staying fit." It's literally: "Pie time, son." I've arrived home sweat-drenched and completely parched, and reached for pie instead of water. And pie contains water. And salt. It's basically Gatorade.

Anyway, I'm going to Australia and I eat a lot of pie.

Recipe after the jump.

Mojito

Hemingway drank mojitos.

Well, Hemingway drank everything. But consider: after sampling and abusing basically every liquor known to man, the mojito emerged as Hemingway's favorite drink. The drink is originally from Cuba, where Hemingway spent a great deal of time drinking before the revolution made things all communisty. He also wrote some, but that's neither here nor there.

The mojito is a summer drink, the rum connossieur's answer to the mint julep. Rum, lime juice, and mint -- it's designed for refreshment. It's also one of the International Bartenders Association's "Official Cocktails," which I'm assuming is akin to Westminster recognizing a breed.

Anyway, it just so happens that when Mrs. Culinarian and I moved into our new suburban fortress, there was a riot of mint growing in the back yard. I knew right away that those mint leaves would end up in mojitos. What I didn't know is that I was doing mojitos wrong.

Last week a friend and I went for a post-work drink to Daikaya in Penn Quarter, which is divided into two parts: ramen house downstairs, bar/bistro upstairs. We went upstairs and sat at the bar and quickly became fascinated by our hipster-ish bartender, who would prepare drinks using various botanicals, but instead of muddling the leaves he would slap them between his palms.

"Why," we asked, "are you slapping those leaves?" The answer, it turns out, is that muddling is too violent a process, and will release undesired quantities of bitter-tasting chlorophyll into your mixed drink. The slapping, he said, bruises the leaves just enough to release the essential oils without spilling that nasty photosynthetic juice.

It's a fairly complex technique, so I've put together a short video demonstrating how to properly slap one's mint leaves. The recipe can be found after the jump.

 

Chickening Out

If there is a God, and that God endows living things with a purpose, and I happen to be one of those living things to which a purpose has been endowed, then I'm comfortable asserting that that purpose is the roasting of chickens.

Julia Child is said to have remarked that the best way to judge the acumen of a cook is by the quality of their roasted chicken. I don't necessarily subscribe to such rigid criteria. (Though if I see you using an egg separator, lord help you.) She also said "the best way to execute French cooking is to get good and loaded and whack the hell out of a chicken." That's more my speed.

I take chicken roasting seriously. Very seriously. One of my first steps down the road to becoming a "pampered foodie douchbag [sic]" was a roasted chicken out of Mark Bittman's How To Cook Everything. (Incidentally, if you're new to cooking and looking for a place to start, get that book.) It's a dish from my childhood -- my dad and I would gross out everyone else at the table by gnawing and crunching cartilage off the ends of bones. Eating a roasted chicken is both utterly barbaric and quintessentially domestic at the same time.

The joy and frustration of chicken roastery is that there are so many different techniques and methods, and none of them -- to my experience -- are perfect. Some people swear by brining, others consider it a sin. Browning the chicken over high heat before putting it in the oven? I think it's stupid, professional chefs say otherwise. The nerds at America's Test Kitchen recommend rubbing baking powder all over the skin to draw out moisture and help it crisp.

Again, no technique is perfect. But this roasting method from Thomas Keller of the French Laundry has the dual beneffit of being extremely simple and pretty damn good, particularly if you're a fan of crisped skin.

Taking out the wishbone prior to roasting is a great idea. It makes carving that much easier.

So go forth and roast chickens. You don't need to treat it like a mission from God, but at least try and give it the proper effort.

Cinco de Mayo and Cócteles Donaji

Really we have no business celebrating Cinco de Mayo. You know where Cinco de Mayo isn't celebrated? Mexico. At least, not outside the state of Puebla, where it commemorates a great military victory the people of Puebla won over the French, which... way to go, guys. You beat the French. A real feather in the ol' cap.

Anyway, this regional festival migrated to the U.S. and somehow became representative of all things Mexican. Imagine if every Patriots' Day the entirety of Mexico ate chili cheeseburgers and got ripped on Bud Light while listening to Merle Haggard.

But just because we don't have a reason to celebrate doesn't mean we shouldn't. If you're going to festejar on Cinco de Mayo, put away the Tostitos salsa and flour tortillas and do it properly.

I got your Cinco de Mayo menu right here.

SALSAS Red and green, simple to prepare, can be made well ahead of time.

GUACAMOLE The real stuff. NO TOMATOES.

CHALUPAS Get some good corn tortillas, lightly fry them, top them with salsa and shredded chicken.

CARNITAS Tiny bits of slow-cooked pork that are perfect for stuffing into tacos with salsa, cilantro, and a little minced white onion.

AGUAS FRESCAS Two refreshing beverages made from hibiscus flowers and rice. The hibiscus variety is particularly good spiked with tequila.

DESSERT Arróz con leche, the Mexican version of rice pudding, can also be made well in advance and kept in the fridge.

Beer with lime is, of course, requisite. You're also going to need a cocktail of some variety. For that, I suggest the cóctel donají. It'll take a little doing, as you're going to have to run down some mezcál, which not every liquor store is going to carry, but if you can find yourself a reasonably priced bottle, grab it.

Here's how to make it.

CÓCTEL DONAJI

Kosher salt
Chile powder
1 lime, halved
3/4 cup orange juice
4 oz. mezcál
Grenadine to taste

Serves two drinks.

In a small dish combine the salt and chile powder in a ratio of about 4 to 1, salt to chile. Moisten the edge of two cocktail glasses with the lime halves, then dip the glasses into the chile salt to coat the rims.

Squeeze the limes into a cocktail shaker and add the orange juice and mezcál. Add ice and shake until well mixed. Pour into the two cocktail glasses, add grenadine to your liking, and drink up. Repeat until you're fluent in Spanish.

Dans Le Jardin

If you'll recall, last month I drew upon the twin energies of Home Depot and rank blasphemy to put together some raised bed gardens. Seeds were planted, a few weeks have passed, and yesterday Canine Culinarian and I went out with the ol' telephoto zoom lens to take some macro shots of what's growing.

A bounty of lettuce!

Nascent Swiss chard!

Radishes! For some reason!

Some newly budding leaves on the fig tree!

And, of course, Canine Culinarian herself.

Leek-Gruyère Galette

Welcome to spring in DC, that blessed fortnight or so in which the temperatures are mild, the mosquitos are still dormant, and this place briefly becomes fit for human habitation. Not long ago it was gray, windy, and the temperatures were stuck in the 40s. Before long the humidity will envelop the city like a blanket of wet cotton and the heat will drive from you the will to go outside/live. Please do take advantage.

This brief window of mildness means one can still use the oven without fear of heat stroke. An excellent thing to stick into that oven, and then into your face, is this leek-gruyère galette.

A galette is just a rustic sort of tart. You roll out a rough circle of dough, dump some filling in there, fold over the edges, and throw it in the oven. They can be sweet or savory, depending on your taste. Personally I'm partial to a good mixed berry galette with some whipped cream and a little grated orange zest, but that's for another time. It's spring, dammit, which means we're using leeks.

Before getting into how great leeks are, it should be noted that leeks are terrible. The average leek carries six to seven pounds of dirt inside it, which will defiantly resist your most energetic rinsings. Once you do get it clean though, good things will start to happen. The leeks become soft and buttery as you saute them, and the sweetness brought out by the caramelization is complemented by the earthiness of the bed of shredded cheese beneath it.

I made miniature versions of these galettes -- galette-ettes, I guess -- for the Easter dinner Mrs. Culinarian and I threw together for the in-laws. This recipe is for the grande version, which should be sliced into wedges and served thusly.

Recipe below the jump.

A Parade Of Horrors In Boston

This past weekend, Mrs. Culinarian and I ventured north to Boston to meet our new baby nephew and watch him get good and baptized. It was a lovely affair, and my nephew is cuter than yours so don't even start with that.

After watching the little fellow get the holy head bath, the family adjourned to the Summer Shack in Boston's Back Bay for a little seafood and a lot of wine. The food was great -- the fried shrimp in particular are recommended.

But I don't want to talk about the food. I want to talk about this mural on the wall next to our table.

Not since "Guernica" has such horror been so perfectly captured. Let's break down this disturbing scene and examine the warped emotional states of the figures portrayed.

Drunk. Just completely and totally sauced. There is no effort to conceal the ethanol-fueled depravity at the core of this monster, who holds aloft that "Food Is Love" sign as a token of grim irony.

One does not smile with the lips. One smiles with the eyes. And while the corners of this pie slice's mouth may be upturned, the eyes reveal the truth -- unfathomable sadness. This piece of pie is not a willing participant in this parade of foodstuffs. It is forced to march, and it realizes that its only escape will be through the sweet release of death.

Bed Raiser

Jesus was a carpenter. It's one of the many ways he and I differ. As far as persons to emulate go, one could certainly do worse. But water-to-wine remains impracticable and the only lepers I know are social ones, so carpentry will have to do.

What I have put together here are some raised bed gardens. (Raised on the third day. OK I'll stop.) They present an ideal solution for the gardening enthusiast who has neither the patience, time, nor skill to work existing soil. Just build yourself a big wooden box, fill it with potting soil and peat moss and compost, and plant away.

Raised beds also present a variety of learning opportunities. FOR EXAMPLE: you learn that one must use galvanized screws and nails with pressure-treated wood; you learn that just because Home Depot says a length of lumber is 8 inches wide doesn't necessarily mean it's anywhere close to that width; and you learn that facemasks are recommended when sawing and sanding down wooden planks that have been soaked with fungicides and insect repellent.

But a little toxic sawdust in the bronchi is a (hopefully) small price to pay for what is actually a fairly sophisticated gardening apparatus. And honestly it's not that difficult a task for the novice carpenter. This is the online guide I more-or-less followed, with a few added touches like the cap railings running around the edges. Between the soil in the bed and the earth below it we put a layer of steel hardware cloth to keep out any burrowing pests. The beds themselves are lined with plastic sheeting to prevent the aforementioned wood toxins from leaching into the soil. And those pieces of white PVC piping poking out of the soil will eventually hold in place a removable mesh cover that will deter insects and, more importantly, rabbits.

Of course, all this assumes that Mrs. Culinarian and I will actually be able to grow anything. We tried indoor herb gardens, which thrived until the cat sat on one and we neglected to water the rest. And already we're off to a poor start: of the 25 seedlings we tried to get started in an indoor planting contraption, all but one failed to sprout.

But this time will obviously be different. We'll just have to choose our crops wisely. Perhaps some leeks to inhabit the earth. A little romaine to render into caesars. It just takes a little passion. And if it fails after spending so much time on the wood, well I'll certainly be cross.

OK now I'm done for real.