The cages are open...

Los pajaros estan en su lugar

 (The birds are where they belong)

Valladolid is a lovely, provincial town in the Yucatan. I spent a night there about a dozen years ago with a group including several of us from Asheville, some ex-patriot Americans living in Merida and one Meridano. We stayed at a hotel, El Meson del Marques, which has a lovely restaurant surrounding a fountain and garden. Hanging from one wall is a line of empty birdcages and a proverb painted on bamboo (my heading today, above.) Our Meridano friend, Samuel, translated the proverb for those of us whose Spanish was inadequate. The cages are open and the birds are free to choose their place, to choose where they belong.

The proverb struck me since I have spent my life moving from place to place. It's a common issue for the children of the military, "where do I belong?" I have always thought myself fortunate to be raised in the US Coast Guard. Our duty stations have been in extraordinary places including Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Seattle, the San Francisco area (Palo Alto) and after I left home at 18, I have spent extended periods in Germany, Scotland and Vietnam. Whether or not I have felt at home, each place taught me more about who I am and how to adapt.

I am visiting Merida again, and happy to be back in the Yucatan with its dense history and rich culture. By the way, my Spanish still sucks and I hope to change that (learning will help me stave off dementia.)  Merida is the "White City" and the capitol of the state.  I want to use my time here to understand more of the region and to deepen my ability to feel less other in the world.

Merida was founded in 1542 by three conquistadors (each of whom were named Francisco de Montejo, plus nicknames.) The early city was built of a local white stone and some of the structures and particularly churches date to the 17th Century. The Maya occupied the same location for many centuries and Merida is considered the oldest continually occupied city in the Americas. The population is 60% Mayan, making it the city in Mexico with the greatest portion of indigenous citizens.

Across the street from the second floor balcony; the neighborhood is San Sebastian

Today, the mix of houses on a given quarto (block) can be surprising. The street face is typically of high, thick walls. Ceilings in the old houses are very high to keep the rooms as cool as possible. Behind these walls are beautifully and traditionally restored spaces; high design, entirely contemporary interiors; modest (and less) dwellings and businesses; as well as abandoned ruins. The city is very proud of its beauty and often, from the street, it is impossible to tell what lies behind the walls.

The original popsicle was invented byAmerican, Frank Epperson, about 1909. I think
 Mexico has improved on the model.

Colonias, or neighborhoods, often spread around a principal church that fronts a plaza with large trees and fountains. Many areas have lots of trees and others simply bake in the sun. Sundays, large sections of streets are closed to traffic and throngs of locals and a small number of tourists walk, enjoy their city, shop and dine. As is the case throughout Mexico, there is an abundance of street food, fruit drinks, shaved ice with syrups, wonderful fresh juice popsicles called paletas and savories of all sorts. (Those of you in Asheville should visit Yuzu Patisserie in the Cotton Mill studios and try Cynthia's versions, seriously.)

It will be no surprise to you who have read a bit of this blog, that food, cooking and hospitality are at the top of my list of things to explore. Everywhere in Mexico, food plays a huge roll, Merida is no exception. The food in Merida is a major part of the culture and has combined Mayan tradition and native ingredients with a variety of European sources. Some of the food is incendiary beyond my comfort level but for the most part, the fire is offered separately as sauce. They love both serranos and habaneros, up there on the Scoville scale, the habaneros are from twice to six times hotter than tabasco.

Habeneros are native to the Yucatan and are inescapable

You cannot imagine the excitement I feel seeing all of the vegetables, fruit, cuts of meat, herbs and spices about which I have no idea. Just this morning I tried a guaya for the first time. They are in season and abundantly carpeted the patio of a new friend. (To call this wide, shaded and walled paradise just a patio seems insulting.)

guayas

Guaya are related to lychee and rambutan but with a less floral, more tart flavor. The flesh has the texture of peeled grape and I found them delicious and refreshing but a bit of work. Once peeled, there is a small amount of the juicy flesh that fastens, stubbornly, around a large stone. I popped the whole, peeled fruit in my mouth and ate the meat off the pit. I assumed the pits are inedible, as in lychee. Our friend's beautiful big dogs love them and have the skill to delicately peel the fruits before slurping them down.

I will need a mentor, and better Spanish. Much of what I see I recognize: guava, mangoes, abundant citrus including a wonderful, distinct variety of lime, pineapple, cactus pears ("tunas" in Mexico)  eaten both hard and green and ripe and juicy, huge papayas and bananas. There are at least a dozen varieties in markets that I don't recognize. 

Texas style enchiladas with green chili 

The Mexican food that is available in most of the U.S. has been sad. I was raised eating food prepared for the Yankee palate, which is to say, dumbed down, at least in most of the north. Truthfully, I  love many varieties of border state interpretations, New Mexican style, Tex-Mex, Arizona-Mex, Mississippi and Louisiana tamales. 40 plus years ago I was taken by an old friend to a San Francisco restaurant that offered "California Viejo" food that simply replaced corn tacos with spoon bread made from masa harina. I thought it wonderful but I am unable to track down any current reference to this subset. It might have been a dream. At least it was a good one.

As the U.S. palate has shifted in the direction of greater sophistication and authenticity (I suppose we need to thank the Food Network), it is now possible to get much better Mexican food in the States but the spectrum is limited. The foods I have eaten in my brief trips to Mexico have been a revelation, both in quality and variety. I have known this for years, from the terrific books of Diana Kennedy and, more recently Rick Bayless.  I have expected great food and I have not been disappointed down here.

There is, however, one issue. Let me tell you what you probably already know: it's hot here. In two months, we will begin a four month span in which the average temperature dips below 90 Fahrenheit. Yes, there are hotter places one can live, but... It is also humid, from May to October, the word is oppressive. It does cool off in the evening and nights can be very pleasant outside; inside, it stays pretty warm. Utilities are very expensive and our friends advise that one turns on the AC only when one goes to bed. The units here are split-system, the cooling device is indoors and the compressor (which actually generates heat) Is placed outdoors. 

 This is a split, it cools the bedroom quickly and
I love it, deeply

I tell you this because it affects my normal desire to turn on the stove. I do it but I might need to examine my head. Still, cooking is my life force and I will adapt. The first real cooking I have done is a made up sopa de lima, we will have it again tonight. We had gone to a Mexican superstore: furniture and appliances, clothing, groceries, pharmacy and so forth. Without thinking, we bought a chicken with celery, carrots, garlic and onions, thinking to make stock. I added a leek because it looked so good.

For a few days that chicken weighed on my mind. Do I really want to turn it into poached chicken and broth, simmering it for hours, heating up the kitchen. I couldn't throw it away and we need room in the freezer for ice, lots of ice. Two nights ago I woke up at 5 in the morning, a couple of hours earlier than normal. I knew it would be cool outside and I hobbled downstairs (I hobble a bit nowadays, but I can get around.) This was my chance! 

I put the chicken in a stock pot with the feet, neck, gizzard and heart and covered it with water. When it began to simmer and release its foam, I skimmed it and added a big carrot, scrubbed and chunked, two stalks of celery, washed and left whole, a quartered red onion, a head of garlic, sliced in half at its equator, and a small hand full of peppercorns. Back to the simmer and an hour later I fished out the chicken, let it cool enough to handle (about a half hour), and pulled  the meat off and threw the bones back in the pot until noon and then shut off the flame. 

In the evening, I strained the stock and tossed all the solids except the celery, which still had flavor. That evening, after everything had cooled, I sliced the celery into small moons, cleaned and sliced the leek and put them both in the fridge along with the stock itself. The next morning, I scooped out the fat and added the leeks and celery. When it came back to a simmer, I seasoned the broth and with oregano and bay and added the leek and celery.

Not mine, but this is how it looks (needs tortilla strips)

I began to salt the soup, a little bit at a time, tasting until the balance was right. I believe the salt balance is the single most important aspect of a dish. I aim for the fullest possible flavor which does not actually taste salty. The single most important tool one has is the act of tasting. After an hour or so, I added some of the chicken, the juice of a whole lime and a bit of excellent, even though canned, Salsa Casera (home style.) Meridanos would shred the chicken, roughly, into bite size pieces; I cubed it.

The lime juice upset the balance of flavors with a touch too much sour. More salt restored the balance. I served it with, not very crispy, taco strips and sprigs of cilantro. Our avocado was not yet ripe but it would have been a lovely addition, floating in the soup. Either way, it was rich and satisfying.

Tomorrow night...an easier choice: gazpacho.


Cheers,

Chris

Lagniappe: Juicing a lime is more thorough with a reamer but when I don't have one, the butt of a chef's knife handle works admirably (Be Careful!)

FAKE SAUCE (sugo di scapatto, sort of)

I spent December, 1971 in Rome, visiting a girlfriend from Philadelphia. She was enrolled in a junior-year-abroad and I had spent the first of two years on a Scottish island writing poetry, drinking and smoking dope; getting over a war. It was just as cold and wet in the Eternal City and very crowded with Christmas shoppers. Some of the piazzas were ringed with green plywood booths selling celebration foods; I particularly remember enormous slabs of chocolate and nougat.

Timing is everything. In the midst of our romantic month, her parents flew in for a surprise visit. Her father, a psychiatrist, had gone to medical school in the Eternal City. We had to make arrangements to reassure him of the security of her virtue. The arrangements, of course, were rearrangements. More specifically, I was to stay out of sight except when I was specifically  invited. They needed a lot of family time. Whether or not he knew what we were up to, he certainly knew the city well and very kindly included me for a few of their outings.

On the days when I was not included I felt very sorry for myself and wandered the damp and windy city with a small cassette player listening to "After the Gold Rush"; both the rain and Neal Young's whiny voice provided the perfect soundtrack for my misery. But what a place to be miserable: I kept returning to the Capitoline hill, overlooking the Forum. I think that there were orange trees with fruit. In Rome with Christmas approaching. Enjoying my Roman Holiday.

Luigi

When I did join them it was for meals that are still vivid in my memory. One day we went to a place outside of the city. I can't remember why, but I was the designated driver of the rental car. Driving in Rome during the evening rush was the third most terrifying experience of my life; at one point we were stopped for a light and on the curb was an actual one-eyed cat staring at me, very tough looking. There is an entire feral cat culture in the ruins throughout the city. I felt the scorn.

We arrived at the restaurant which was deep in an ancient cellar. There was no menu but they gave us everything. First, an aperitivo, wine, then a platter of cured meats and cheeses, wine, then a vat of spaghetti with a plain but perfect marinara, wine, then a huge assortment of grilled meats: beef steak, pork chops and both beef and pork liver, various sausages and chicken, wine, then (for those still able) a salad, wine, and finally, a digestivo. Everything was perfectly delicious. The meal, which went on for hours eclipsed my nervousness and on the way back to Rome, I drove like an Italian.

I won't  describe my other meals except to say that I found a different experience of food than I had known. In fact, although it took decades for it to sink in, the foundations of my culinary identity were being laid. The first principle of this identity is, "Everyone should be able to eat like a Roman." Food is simply much more important to the Italian than to the American.

In the end, on New Year's Eve, I shared a train compartment with a young German I had met. I was headed through Switzerland and across France to Calais and the ferry to Dover. My friend was only going across the Swiss border under a deportation order because of his day job. He drove luxury cars  to the market in Istanbul. As it happened, his employer did not own these cars.

Outside of the hamburger, nothing comforts me as completely as pasta in almost any form. Eaten for at least 4,000 years with western literary references from BCE Greece. The earliest record of boiled pasta is in the Talmud but people had been eating forms in China much earlier. There are so many different theories about how pasta might have been introduced from one culture to another that I have to conclude that it arose, independently, everywhere that grain was milled (or, in fact, where any starch was consumed).

4,000 year-old noodles with Chinese dirt

I love all varieties of pasta, although not equally, from Vietnamese glass noodles made from canna lily starch to Mueller's elbows made from bleached, bromated, "enriched" and extruded wheat flour. I like it stuffed, in broth, fried into rangoons, baked in lasagna (and even the baked spaghetti at the S&W cafeteria), boiled and tossed with butter and black pepper, boiled and then sauteed, or pushed through a ricer into a simmering stew as spaetzle.

Sometimes we just want pasta with red sauce and what follows is my approach. The sauce I make is based on a recipe by Giovanni Bugialli, a great chef and writer who inspired me through the 1980's. His intention was Sugo di Scapatto, meat sauce from which the meat has escaped. The sauce is normally meatless, hence the name. An alternate meaning is "fake sauce" because it is often a meat sauce without the meat. His version included veal stock. The one I made yesterday included ground beef simply because we had some in the fridge. His sauce was a revelation to me and the techniques I learned form the basis for a great number of my dishes.

red sauce ingredients                    brigid burns

My approach depends on a soffritto or a mirepoix, a seasoned vegetable mix: celery and onion and garlic . I add parsely and carrots (which is a bit Frenchy) for their sweetness. I think the size of the chop is important and for this sauce, I like a mince, which is pretty small (see below). For other dishes I might want these ingredients to remain separate and cut them into chunks. 

This time I began by cooking ground beef until all of the pink was gone. As it cooked, I broke the meat into the smallest pieces I could by stabbing it over and over with a wooden spoon. When the meat had all gone brown I added the soffritto, seasoned it lightly with salt and pepper, and cooked it slowly for about a half hour until all of the vegetables were soft and brown, If it seems that the sauce is too dry and might burn, a splash of water slows everything down.


Next, I added a glass of red wine (enough to lift the solids into a shallow soup) and cooked the mix slowly until it absorbed the liquid and had become almost dry again. Then I added an equal amount, or more of stock (in this case, a mix of veal and beef stocks). If you haven't got any of your own, the next best thing is to get 2 quarts of an organic stock and reduce it to one. It will cook for quite a while so there is no need to reduce it in advance. As the stock simmers into the mixture, add the seasoning that you choose. In this case I used a mix of oregano, marjoram and red pepper flakes.

When the stock had also been absorbed I added a large (28 oz.) can of the best tomatoes I could find. I prefer the whole peeled variety although you can use crushed or "chefs cut" if you wish.  I pour the juice into the pot and squeeze the tomatoes through my fingers. Now it is time to begin tasting for balance. This batch needed quite a bit of adjustment as the tomatoes were a little flat: I used lemon juice to raise the tartness, soy sauce for umami, or savory roundness, honey to balance the tart, heat from the pepper and just enough salt to bloom the flavors. It shouldn't actually taste salty, but the right amount opens your palate to the full savoriness of a dish.

From this point it is all about personal taste, tune it until you like it. Then it is time and low heat until all the flavors meld. It improves with an overnight rest. When you reheat the sauce taste it again until it pleases you. This works well with most pasta shapes, I like it with bucatini for a long pasta and penne rigate for a short  version.

Dinner        by brigid burns

Heat the sauce in a large frying pan while the pasta is cooking in a separate pot of salted water. When it is done, net it out with a spider, a skimmer or a slotted spoon into the sauce and turn it over and over to coat the pasta. If necessary, use a ladle of pasta water to thin a sauce that has become too thick.

Mange, mange!

Cheers,

Chris

We ate horse meat for a year

In 1951, the Coast Guard sent my father to Stanford for graduate work in personnel administration. We lived in Palo Alto which sits between the the headwaters of San Francisco Bay and the Pacific. I was 5 and have only disconnected memories...mostly about fruit which was everywhere: apricots, those black plums that are dried into prunes, avocados, sweet, crunchy figs and lots of yellow jackets.

And then there was the horse meat. The family took part in a dietary experiment for a year. Maybe we were supplied the meat. Our assignment was to have a number of meals each week based around "viande de cheval". I have foggy but definite memories of family discussions about the horse meat. As I recall, we thought it was just ok; kind of dry and tough because it's so lean. We were all kind of adventurous, food-wise but it was my father who had the experience. He had eaten horse meat as a boy during summers in France. 

not my grandfather

Jason, my father, was raised in a kind of 19th century style by a French governess in New York...his first language was hers. He and his brother, John, saw their father Albert J. Kobler, only at breakfast. It was boarding schools and France each year. It all sounds lavish, and I guess it was; peopled with very fancy bridge partners including the Aga Khan, William Randolph Hearst and Walter Winchell. Grandfather Albert died well before I was born and Father never said much about his Park Ave. youth and, sadly, I was incurious. However, his experiences gave him a love and knowledge of French food (including horse meat.)

He joined the U.S.Coast Guard when War was declared and there met my mother (who was also a Coast Guard officer.) They both got out when the war ended and he worked for about 3 years as an advertising copywriter. It was enough. New York didn't offer the life he wanted. He/we went back to sea and we commenced our lives, moving from place to place as a military family. All that remains of grandfather Albert is an incomplete set of ornate demitasse cups and saucers and the bespoke silver service you can see at the top of my blog posts.

We ended up eating a lot of horse chili. Like venison, which is also dry, it needs moisture and time to become tender enough to enjoy. Spice doesn't hurt either. That was it though, I've had no horse meat (knowingly) since 1952.

Nowadays, we still love chili, particularly when it's bitter outside. And we think it needs corn bread and a green salad with a dairy dressing of some kind.

Mother used canned beans, ground meat and a bit less spice than I do but it was, and is, always a meal that was familiar, homey and warming. She made her chili in Puerto Rico, both Washingtons, Hawaii, Connecticut and so on. I prefer to cook up dried beans with a cheap cut of meat, fatty but trimmed, cubes of beef or lamb, but any game, poultry, substantial mushrooms, tvp, etc. would work except seafood which doesn't like to be cooked for a long time. 

First, cook your beans                                    brigid burns

First those beans: they must be cooked until you can easily crush them against the roof of your mouth with your tongue. I don't over-flavor them, an onion, a couple of whole garlic cloves, a very small piece of lean fresh or cured pork. A mostly naked ham bone is ideal. Maybe a bay leaf. I simmer them slowly until creamy. Depending on the age of the beans, which I never know, it will be from one to three hours. Most beans will do although lima bean chili just seems wrong.

brown the meat first, then add the onions

Sear the meat thoroughly, being careful not to burn the delicious browned layer that forms on the bottom (called the fond [French for 'foundation'.]) Do the meat first and then add lots of chopped onions and garlic. Season lightly each time an ingredient is added. If you are doing a vegetable version, toss the chopped onions very lightly in flour to make a kind of an onion roux. Begin to add a mix of dried, fresh or canned chilies as well as chile powder, paprika, cumin and oregano. When the onions are soft add enough liquid to scrape up and dissolve the good bits on the bottom. I have used water, beer or wine but, whatever I use, I watch the pan carefully and when the first liquid has cooked into the solids, I add a second liquid, preferably a rich stock but even lightly salted water will do in a pinch. It's a further distribution and deepening of all of the flavors.

Next, add tomatoes and begin tasting, I never know how much acidity and sweetness the tomatoes will bring. I am not interested in authentic Pedernales River Chili (Ladybird Johnson's recipe.) I'm more interested in the flavor profile that pleases Brigid. She has a sophisticated palate and it is her own: although she is from the mid-West her tastes were complicated by a 10 year immersion in New Orleans. After the tomatoes begin to break down, add the beans and as much of their cooking liquid as needed to make the chili a bit soupier than you like (knowing that it will thicken further.) Simmer slowly for an hour, continuing to taste and adjust. The things I use to balance the flavors vary but almost always includes soy sauce, honey or molasses, vinegar or lemon, red miso paste and the hot stuff of the moment (at this moment it happens to be the Korean chili paste, gochujang.) To truly finish the chili properly, let it cool down and age for overnight.

Our Chili, tonight's supper!

Remember, corn bread (I don't care for the sweet variety but serve it with butter and honey) and salad. Chili likes toppings: grated sharp cheddar, chopped raw onion, cilantro, parsley, sour cream, pico de gallo or guacamole all can be stirred in to good effect. I would say olé but the fact is that chili is not Mexican, it's more like American cowboy. In the 1800s, chili was made up and then dried in bricks to be reheated with water on the trail.

This is more a list of ingredients than a recipe, I believe that chili should be a personal expression...so saddle your own horse.

INGREDIENTS

1 pound of dried beans, cooked with an onion and 3 garlic cloves until creamy, when they are done, add salt and pepper.

1 pound of ground or cubed beef browned evenly.

1 pound of yellow onion, chopped and softened in the beef pot

1 pound (or a bit more) of good canned tomatoes, crushed

1 cup of beer, wine or seasoned water

1 cup of strong stock or bean cooking liquid

To taste: chiles, chili powder, cumin, paprika, oregano, salt and pepper.

Cheers,

Chris