We’re going off line at DL for six months so that I can give appropriate time and attention to a couple of other ventures. The first is a new business (being built as part of an old business), and the other is an ultra marathon scheduled for the 6th of September. Sometime shortly thereafter, I’ll be back. In the meantime, I’ll be gathering some good stories and some even better pictures.

Leaving you with gorgeous gnocchi I cooked last week.

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I’m an Anglo Round-Eye. No doubt about it. There is nothing particularly exotic about my appearance, and I cannot pass for anything other than who I am (although I did once have a masseuse tell me that she was sure I had some Native American blood in me, but I think she wasn’t being completely innocent in saying so). The problem is: I don’t eat like an Anglo Round-Eye. I eat like a crazed panethnic sperm whale (I’ll wait until you’ve got a good visual. Good? Okay, let’s proceed). So…as I spend a chunk of time in restaurants all over the country - most of which cater to people other than me - I’m used to the puzzled looks, the attempts to save me, and the oftentimes very funny explanations offered. In turn, I’m always interested in how poorly the melting pot actually works: there is no expectation that I - as the aforementioned Anglo Round-Eye - would have any knowledge of, or interest in, any other experience than Whitebreadia.

Aside from my foray into chicken stuffed waterbugs last month, I’ve had two other recent experiences that have convinced me none of this is going to change. The first was in an Indonesian restaurant in Roswell, Ga. Let me repeat that, for those of you not paying attention: an Indonesian restaurant in the northern burbs of Atlanta (which, if you’re running for your atlas, is in fact, a province of Whitebreadia). I was the only Anglo Round-Eye that had been in since the place opened over a month ago. You know that classic scene where the stranger pushes through the saloon door and the place goes quiet and everybody stares, glasses halfway to mouths, cards unplayed? Yeah? Now imagine that in a strip mall in Roswell, and that they crazy old guy that always breaks the tension in the movies is instead a nice middle aged woman who asks if I didn’t mean to go into the Crazy Taco next door.

Amongst other things, I had the nasi gudeg, known amongst my people as beef skin. Half way through the meal, the cook and a waiter came over and demanded to know why I was there, and where - exactely - I had lived in Indonesia. And, by the way, how I could possibly enjoy the mounds of chilies I was going through. We had a nice chat, about the food, the business, and their prospects. In a slightly sad development, I learned that the Indonesian community - while strong - just couldn’t support the entire store, and so they were planning a lunch buffet in an effort to attract the local office lunchers. $5.95 for all the food you can eat. I’ve seen the buffets in Georgia, and they’ll get a nice flair at the beginning, but won’t attract people back for dinner - where they need to be, and where the melting pot has a chance to melt.

Even funnier? I was at a Korean restaurant this last weekend - in Northern Virgina - one very, very popular with Korean and Anglos alike - and as I was looking at the menu, the very nice and helpful waitress insisted that what I wanted to drink was a Budweiser. I swear I stared at her for two full blinks. And then ordered a bottle of soju (yeah, I know, in retrospect and for future planning: Soju + Gin + a little wine = not what you’re looking for. Regardless of what you’re looking for.).

Thankfully, that very same Korean restaurant does it right with its food. There is very little Anglosizing going on, and everything is really quite good. For instance, their dumplings (a weakness of mine, regardless of who makes them):

are really good (and a perfect excuse for this post’s only picture).

Being a white boy - I’ve discovered - allows you to star in a huge and unpredictable culinary adventure, even if you’re not actually aware of it.

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Anubis, god of the dead, was perhaps the single least appropriate name ever given to a kitten. Nonetheless, Nubi (as he was known), bore it with incredible good grace, and compensated with an unmitigated - and infectious - exuberance in life. He was the perfect counterpoint to his older, and considerably more circumspect, adopted siblings. Where they were quiet and contemplative, he was vocal and experimental. Where they were shy and retiring in the face of the new, he was incredibly extroverted and social. And, also, where they long ago learned that the kitchen was a dangerous place, full of quickly moving feet, occasional hot liquids, and frequently loud noises, he ignored it all to be in the center of my cooking universe.

Inevitably, Nubi would find himself - mysteriously - underfoot in the midst of some mad dash to bring a meal together. His favorite assistance to the cook was to wait until the feet had stopped, then he would undertake a perfect, textbook flanking action before rubbing up against and then biting the cook’s toes. Repeatedly. Despite the flailing of arms and promises of pain and agony. Only when sprinkled with water would Nubi run from the kitchen, stop short under the dining room table, undertake a quick bath, and then return committed to his mission once again.

Many meals happened with Nubi at the center, which means of course that a great deal of my joy in the kitchen came from interactions with his good natured self and his insistence that whatever I was doing wasn’t nearly as important or fun as what he was doing. That, and I think he just enjoyed watching me attempt to steer my way around him while whisking egg whites, sauteing garlic, and sipping wine.

Nubi died this morning of a horrible, untreatable disease called feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). It was quick; he went from healthy to not in a short, short time. But, at only a year and half old, he was much too young to die the way he did; and I too close to handle it with anything other than grief and anger.

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Clearly, I love to eat. It is, in fact, the sine qua non of me. But, as some of you may have guessed, I also love to cook.

I’ve never thought of cooking as chemistry, although it is, and lots of very accomplished cooks do extraordinary things working within that sort of framework (Achatz at Alinea comes to mind). Nor do I see cooking as a sport, as something that you must excel at to better others or to feel better about yourself. Cooking contests are fun to watch, and I like the Chairman and his stadium as much as the next guy. But, there, something lacks as well.

I find joy in cooking. I am rarely happier than when I’m in the kitchen, or thinking about the kitchen. I hold no illusions about it, no romance. But the smells and the sights of a meal coming together cause me to smile.

I’d grown up eating some version of chicken paprikash, concocted by my father, based no doubt, on some recollection of a story he read someplace. Then, sometime in the mid- to late-nineties, a radical (as in communist battling, flee the country, and work hard to undermine the system) Hungarian who I will call A, fixed a pot of chicken paprikash that changed the game for me entirely.

I’ve spent the last 15 years trying to get the same flavor…and I’m getting closer. But more than anything, more even than nearly transcendent moment when I tasted his version, I love cooking chicken paprikash because it is such a visceral dish. It is visceral in the way that babi guling is visceral. It it, simply, a joy to cook.

From the very beginning, when the cut-up whole chicken browns in butter with salt and pepper, the kitchen takes on the smells and sounds of a place where something good is happening. The butter, just as it begins to brown, gives off that wonderful rich, sweet smell, that then is transformed with the addition of the chicken into what is probably the consummate primordial smell: sizzling fat.

Once the chicken goes into the stock, and onions, and paprika, and begins to cook slowly into tenderness, the deep tangy richness of the the smell combined with the scarlet color (and the knowledge that I’m half-way to eating) makes this moment by second favorite of the dish. There is something about the color, the multitude of visual and physical textures, and the sound that inspires another glass of wine (and, conveniently, this is right about when you should need it…THAT I did take from my father’s school of paprikash manufacturing).

Despite the earlier addition of thinly sliced onions cooking in butter and chicken fat, my absolute favorite part of the dish is when, chicken removed to platter, I begin to cook down the stock, the onions, flour, paprika, and the chicken juices. Once I can pass a spoon through the mixture and leave a trail, I know that it’s time to whip in the sour cream, bring everything to a bubble with the chicken added, and then serve over noodles (or, if you’re feeling Germanic, spaetzle).

It is a joy. Anyway you serve it.

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Ok. So, unless I’m feeling really charitable, fusion just annoys the hell out of me. Nuclear fusion isn’t actually all that bad of an idea; culinary fusion, particularly of the sort that convinces you the world has lost its ever loving mind…IS bad, and ought to be regulated. That’s not to say that there aren’t good, even great examples of fusion the world over. My favorite perhaps is Sushi Samba in Miami’s South Beach. And tonight, because I got carried away by the gor-gee-us diver scallops at the market, and because I guess I am feeling very charitable, I fused some sushi like nobody’s business.

First off…these scallops? Absolutely stunning. One of those times when you’re walking by the fish stall, and all that nicely, brightly, color-infused stuff fades into the background, and you’re left with these succulent scallops almost the size of tangerines. Finger jabbing, head nodding, wallet opening, car driving, towel dabbing, and then finally knife slicing (but thinly, thinly).

Next, rice, using some excellent vinegar and some kombu that, as it luxuriates in my cupboard is slowly becoming sentient (but no less tasty). Then, into the rice roll I pressed a little slice of jalapeño, on top of that a slice of scallop, then a slice of avocado. On the very top, a little dab of hoisin sauce, a squeeze of lime, and a quick shake of black sesame seeds. I served it with some soy and grilled sardines (which also looked magnificent) with miso.

Do I have a picture of the resulting feast? No. I do not. Why? Because once the vultures scented blood there was nothing photographic remaining. Next time, I promise, there will be pictures.

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Food, tied to place, is a great rarity in America. We have a national cuisine, but increasingly that national cusine is, in fact, what is America - an amalgam of cultures, tastes, and approaches. This is good, certainly, but it comes at a price. That price is paid every time you suffer through chow mein, through chicken tender kebabs, through spaghetti with meatballs, through nachos or fajitas, or any other number of culinary atrocities committed in the name of making the world acceptable to the American palate. That same palate, nurtured under the paternalistic eye of a government that would rather feed its people beef mixed with illegal meat packer than unpasteurized cheese, is utterly unprepared to eat food that is about something.

Spain is a start.

Food, tied to a place, is about something. And the food in Spain, still, is about something. Of course there are the ubiquitous McDonald’s (although thankfully not as ubiquitous as they might be), and there is - completely inexplicably - Starbucks, but there is also an enormous care for the food and the meal. At least for now, that is the greatness of Spain, and my most enduring reason to tell other to go. Quickly.

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 Delicious Libertine regular readers tend to be the sort of people that leer at food like your ninety year old grandpa used to look at the newly married Mrs. Jeffries down the block.

Every once and a while we all have to pause and wipe our mouths. With the Hedofoodist tee, you don’t need to worry about awkward explanations after the fact. In fact, this way you can let your more, shall-we-say, fevered expressions of your love for that huitlacoche come through loud and clear.

Through the 7th of January, you can get the Hedofoodist for 20% off its normal, already super cheap, barely supporting of DeliciousL price. Click on the picture for the boy version. Girl version is here.

Happy hedofooding!

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Face it.  We all love a little head now and then.  There is something about the pure pleasure we get from fondling the firm bulbous root, rolling it between our hands, imagining it coated in oil, wondering how many in a day we can handle, smashing the flat of a knife blade against it.  Wait?  What?  Oh, riiiighhht…the Garlic Sensualist tee is here for all of us that know what we like, can’t understand when we hear, “Garlic?  No way!  That’s too spicy”, and always, always, always know that it’s hard to have too much.

The Delicious Libertine Garlic Sensualist Tee makes the perfect statement.

Click on the picture for the Womanly Version; for the Manly Version, head off to the site.

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This review is copied - verbatim - from Yelp, where I published it originally. I try not to do restaurant reviews on DeliciousLibertine, but with Kasbah I feel a certain affinity.

La Kasbah Restaurant

11424 Washington Plz W
Reston, VA 20191

There are, of course, hundreds of places for Northern Virginians to choose when contemplating dinner, or lunch, or even a coffee. The sad truth, of course, as any small restaurant owner will tell you, is that most of us will choose thickly populated areas with name brand eateries.

We are all the poorer for it.

Small places like La Kasbah, run passionately by people passionate about food and its power to bridge cultures, are always threatened by our own culture of mass undifferentiation. But despite this threat, and perhaps driven in some part by it, the passion at these places shines through in the food, in the service, in the attention to those little things that make a meal something more than an exercise in ‘filling the tank’. La Kasbah does all of these things brilliantly.

The food is classic, and I do mean classic, Moroccan. Chef “D” focuses on the most definable and fundamental flavors of the North African country with a sensualist’s appreciation of melt-off-the-bone lamb, flavors of raisins and nuts, citrus and ras el hanout. You can find kabobs of course, but also an exquisite lamb tagine, a variety of couscous, and more unusual dishes like an excellent chicken in confetti and green olives.

Although La Kasbah recently got their liquor license, the wine list, featuring both Moroccan specialties as well Italian, French, and new world bottles from California and elsewhere, has always had something to attract and hold my attention for a couple of hours. And, of course, if you cannot decide there is plenty of help available.

Yet, for all of this, La Kasbah, like so many equally good places, has to fight for every customer. And, in many cases, the reality is that it’s a losing fight. Were it located in the bustling streets of old Marrakesh, La Kasbah would be fantastically popular, but Lake Anne long ago lost out to Reston Town Center as the place to go, as the place to be. The crowds there, and the lines snaking out of restaurants serving much the same flavors in different packages, leaves little room for discovery. In Lake Anne, there is still the opportunity to be surprised. Pleasantly and extremely so, and nowhere more so than at La Kasbah.

12/15/2007

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For an American, eating in Madrid is an athletic endeavor. It’s not a matter of quantity (except in the aggregate sense), it’s the sheer frequency that threatens to exhaust all but the most fevered and dedicated eaters. One doesn’t have to eat six times a day. Indeed, no. But, you’ll want to. Hence…the pretapas tapas.

Designed to hold you over between your lunch of bean stew, lamb, bread, a bottle of wine, desert, and a coffee and your inevitable pilgrimage to the tapas bars, the pretapas tapas can be had anytime after five or six in the afternoon (Madrid time). Best choices are something with a little substance, both to keep you from getting peckish and as a way to ward off the effects of the two bottles of wine you’re likely to enjoy over the next eight hours.

Here we have jamon (of course) on toasted bread with a drizzle of olive oil, and anchovies with tomatoes (also on bread with a drizzle of olive oil).

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