Cheese Louise!
Prepare yourselves for a dairy digression!
A couple of days ago, I went to Di Palo’s (the Italian fine foods store where I worked throughout my senior year with a specialty in… you guessed it, CHEESE!!!) Oh, glorious coagulated dairy product that it is, and light of my life! I got Gorgonzola Dulce, Tallegio, Pecorino Moliterno from Sardenia, Pecorino Boschetto with truffles, and Parmigiano, of course. All this accompanied by sweet Prosciutto di Parma and Bresaola. Phenomenal. I used the Boschetto to make Scrambled Eggs with Truffled Pecorino , the most decadent breakfast, brunch, or lunch dish imaginable! And the Gorgonzola found it’s way into a salad with pears and walnuts.
You are probably accessing this through a link which promised gorgonzola dolce, but the irrefutable fact remains that Stilton is absolutely the finest cheese for this particular salad. Depending on availability where you are, please know that Fourme d’Ambert, a crumbly but creamy blue, is also a splendid option (a French one, to boot!), as is the aforementioned gorgonzola dolce. “Dolce” means sweet in Italian, and the aptly titled cheese is exceptionally creamy and delicious, redolent of all the blue-veined moldy goodness without the bite. Just know that it’s exceedingly high fat content mkes it impossible to crumble, so it’s rather awkwardly slippery to work with.
Variation: If you find a perfectly ripe pear, the sort that begs to be eaten out of hand, round with juice, slice it into the salad raw. This tiny alteration also lightens the mood of the dish enough to transition it from dinner to lunch fare, and is better suited to fall crispness than deep winter, when the warmth of the roasted pears is much appreciated.
Coucou y’all!
Hier après-midi, mon chere petit papa (well, not so little, actually, if you know what I mean) and I tried to go to Hasaki, our favorite Japanese restaurant on 9th street and 3rd avenue, but malheureusement, it was closed. Instead, we traipsed across the street to Soba-Ya, another restaurant by the same owner. As per usual given my faulty bladder (I swear, it is the size of a pea! I’ve even been tested for Diabetes on the basis of my suspiciously frequent bathroom voyages), I made a dash for the ladies room. Inside, I found a most fantastical gizmo: a robotic toilet! Long have I heard about these mythical Japanese creations, famous for their tushi-sanitizing jets of water. Puts the bidet to shame, really! There were “frontal cleansing” and “rear cleansing” options. Out of curiosity, I pressed the former. Boy oh boy! A jet of water spewed, erm… uncomfortably from the depths of the aqueous crater, and with so much misdirected force that my entire leg was instantly drenched. In a clumsy legs-bound-by-pants shuffling way, I tried to maneuver away from the violent geyser. But it was unrelenting, and I literally potato-sacked it to the opposite end of the bathroom in a fruitless effort to escape. I was squashed up against the far wall, and still being showered with toilet water. By the time I figured out that the only way to evade the bacterial gush was to cower in the corner and wait for it to subside, the damage had been done. I crawled out from les toilettes soaked. I went in to relieve myself in the proper way, and emerged appearing as though I’d experienced a most barbaric urinary tragedy.
Ach!!! I despair…
At the behest of my foodie friend in Portland, to celebrate her scoring of a crêpe pan for a mere 25 buckeroonies (I think in a vintage shop), I have compiled a couple crêpes recipes pour elle. The first is a splendid recipe for Crêpes Suzette, the ultimate in elusive desserts, renowned but unavailable anywhere. It comes from a charming little book from the 60’s (yes, you heard me) called Les Meilleurs Plats, or “The Best Dishes.” It was handed down to my father from his grandmother’s caretaker, who was one of the most fabulous cooks who’s gastronomy I ever had the pleasure to taste. I believe it’s the superior recipe, for the batter is more detendu (which translates to relaxed, and is applied in cooking to imply that it is more liquid). The second is from Bocuse Dans Votre Cuisine, or “Bocuse in Your Kitchen.” Paul Bocuse is considered one of the greatest chefs of the 20th century, and was awarded the title Meilleure Ouvrier de France in 1961 (Best Chef of the Year).
New York is slick, wet. Fumes rise from the sidewalk like the smoking shafts of sweat from a lathered animal. I hopped the subway yesterday. I’d forgotten how magical it can be, how magnificent it is to be crowded uncomfortably close to so many people, how spectacular the experience is if you relax in spite of the encroaching filth and take a look at the assemblage of humanity smushed up against you. That, my friends, is the most delicious sort of people watching. Not voyeuristic or illicit, just… respectfully opportunistic.
I got out at 72nd Street and Broadway, and walked the three blocks to Fairway. Fairway, for all you handy-tards out there, is a wonderful grocery store, and home of my heart. It’s where I used to flee my mother during those last two years in New York. I know, I know, I can’t even seek therapy like a normal person. I don’t mean that I’d cower by the artichokes in a clandestine attempt at escape. Rather, I’d browse the produce. I’d ogle and fondle, loose myself in the efforts of picking the right pear, with the stem end giving just so, but the body still strapping and firm. I’d let my mind wander, the only time I granted it that liberty. And it would. It would take flight; the screaming in my head would quite, and I would ponder the various properties of ingredients, contemplate combinations and enhancements, the dreaded fact of my insomnia forgotten for a moment. For just as long as I stayed within the safety of the store, within the realm of my verdant refuge, I could breathe.
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