Chou Rouge

Fall whispers in poetry and spice. Frankly, I love spice in my food anytime of year. But there's something about the colder, gloomier months that demands a few cloves, a cinnamon stick, and allspice berries. It veils the home in incense, steaming the windows in a kitchen's call to prayer.

The warm aura of spices also recalls rosy, if apocryphal, visions of the medieval England. Not the one with religious intolerance, indentured servitude, and syphilis. Instead, the bright technicolor image of Flynn's Robin Hood sipping mulled wine, snuggled up in some Sherwood Forest inn with Lady Marian.

I concluded a spicy, wine-borne treatment of red cabbage sounded like a delightful remedy to those stormy November doldrums. I stumbled upon Elizabeth David's "Chou Rouge Landais" in her seminal French Country Cooking.

Penned in early 1950's England (when they were just emerging from post-war diets of shoe leather sauteed in wood varnish), her recipes contain some oddities. In this particular recipe, I found the measurements unfamiliar. She calls for a gill of wine vinegar and 1/4 pint of red wine. As most of us would, I needed to look up "gill" in the dictionary, only to find out that it equals 1/4 pint. Why not use "gill" twice?

And, as my girlfriend instructed me, a pint equals about 2 cups. In other words, 1/2 cup of wine vinegar and 1/2 cup red wine. But that would have been far too easy.

Overall, I stuck close to the recipe, with a few notable exceptions. I omitted the suggested sausage/bacon, as I was practicing the veggie version for a potluck. Whereas I am an omnivorous wolf, I often break bread with my friends, among whom are gentle herb-eating lambs.

The recipe also called for dried orange peel, which appears in some markets in dubious quality and others not at all. I found some in a mccormic's jar for over 6 dollars. I will not pay 6 dollars for less than one orange worth of peel. I found it at the local Asian market, but they looked tired, shriveled, and half brown, like something you might have found under a park bench in August. So instead I used orange zest. Just a touch, mind you. Maybe 1/5th of the orange, but it did the trick rather nicely.

Lastly, the recipe called for herbs and seasoning, but did little to specify beyond mace and ground cloves. I threw in a light dusting of dried sage and rosemary.

David asks us to build up from the bottom of the casserole with alternating layers of cabbage, apples, onions, seasonings, and back again. In a horribly inefficient but monastic-like ritual, I prepared the seasonings separately for each layer. After layer one, I slivered a clove of garlic, grated some orange zest, sliced some red pepper, ground, shook and sprinkled the spices. Ad nauseam, five layers worth.

By the end, the casserole sported a purple dome of sliced cabbage, laid mosaic with apple slices, like some Byzantine temple. David writes "The aroma which emanates from this dish is particularly appetizing."

I invite you to close your eyes and swim in the miasma of the aforementioned contents, lazily braising in red wine and cider vinegar for 4 hours. If you've got that olfactory image, you've captured my idea of the smell of Autumn.
　
Here's the recipe for Chou Rouge Landais courtesy of Google Books. Enjoy!　 　
　
　

Scare me Savory

Savory french toast on Halloween morning? How perfectly frightful. Truth be told, savory french toast sounds frightful anytime of the year, but somehow suitable on Halloween. A day when ghouls roam the earth devouring such non-foods as human flesh and tootsie rolls.


I was preparing for a breakfast for 6 after an overnight in a spooky beachfront setting. The night had been dark as sin, sheeting rain, and zombie stories were tossed around the living room. Quite a setting for a potentially stomach churning experiment.

Even more diabolical were the recipes for savory french toast included in my girlfriend's favorite vegetarian cookbook. Need I say more than curried french toast, or barbeque french toast?


But, for some reason, the concept called to me and I boldly answered. As if in a dream, the idea took shape and I saw a simple base, with sauteed veggies on top and finished with cheese. Wild mushrooms, Emmentaler cheese, and spinich came to mind. And so it was.


This was pretty exciting. Usually when drifting into the culinary unknown, I hold onto a sensible recipe for dear life. But this was pure inspiration from on high. And it worked!!


Here's how it came to be:


Ingredients:


a loaf pre-sliced artisan bread
4-6 eggs
seasonings (salt, pepper, marjoram, basil, oregano, celery seeds, pepper flakes)
butter
dried porcini mushrooms
garlic, cut into slivers
spinich, chiffonaded or simply shredded by hand
grated Emmentaler cheese

1. Boil 1-2 cups of water in a small saucepan, add the porcinis, cover and remove from heat.
2. Beat the eggs and add the seasonings.
3. Melt a pat of butter into a skillet large enough to fry two slices of bread at once.
4. Dip the bread into the egg and fry until browned, turning once (one-two slices at a time).
5. Keep the bread warm on a baking sheet in the oven set at 200 or below.
6. When all the bread is browned, remove the porcinis from the water with a slotted spoon.
7. Reserve the mushroom liquid.
8. Melt another pat of butter in the skillet on medium heat and saute the garlic for 20-30 seconds.
9. Add the spinich and saute until softened, adding a spoonfull or two of the mushroom liquid.
10. Add the porcinis and saute until warm.
11. Remove the pan of toast from the oven and set oven to broil.
12. Add the spinich/mushroom mixture over each slice of toast and top with Emmentaler.
13. Return the pan to the oven and remove when the cheese has begun to melt.
14. Serve immediately.

By the way, you don't need to wait until next Halloween to try this. Any weekend mid-morning will do.

Pronounced ore-ON-j

Who was it that first proclaimed "hell is other people's kitchens"? More often than not, it's spot on. They're out of olive oil; they're not out of allspice, but you can't find it; they only have pre-ground pepper; half the lights are burnt out; their knives can't cut mayonnaise. I could go on and on, but you already know the story.

For the dedicated home chef, the kitchen is the most comfortable room in the house. It's where we rest our minds and hearts, tucking into some therapeutic activity like chopping onions or pan-toasting pine nuts. After several years, it becomes a part of us, like an extra limb or a section of our brain where our very thoughts are born to fruition.

Cooking at someone else’s house is rarely like this. So I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in Steve and Margie's kitchen, calmly and contentedly making Pork Loin Orange. (Pronounce the "Orange" all French-like).

First of all, it should be noted that Steve and Margie have a well stocked kitchen. Things could be found in logical places and, aside from garlic, they had everything I needed.

Secondly, they like to cook and possess all the essential tools in good working order: knives that cut, heavy pans, and a meat thermometer. Sticking a finger into a hot pork loin just won’t do.

Lastly, their dog, while afflicted with severe abandonment issues, kept a cool head and stayed out of the kitchen. Left alone in the house, he ate my sunglasses. But when we were home cooking, nary a peep.

I had a lot of fun making this. This recipe was inspired by my father. He had cooked a similar pork dish this summer and I wanted to improvise my own. It’s been a few weeks since I made this, so please excuse the absence of exact measurements.

Ingredients:

• 1 pork loin, of medium girth
• zest of two oranges
• 5 cloves garlic
• paprika
• cloves
• 1 cinnamon stick
• juice of one orange
• 1/4 cup or so of port
• Kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper

1. Preheat oven to 350.
2. Slice the garlic cloves into little slivers.
3. Make incisions in the pork loin and insert the garlic slivers.
4. Rub the loin down generously with salt, pepper, orange zest, and paprika
5. Poke the cloves into the loin, like you would on a ham.
6. Place the loin in a dutch oven with the orange juice, port, and cinnamon stick.
7. Cook in the oven for about 30 min., or until the pork reads 140 degrees on a meat thermometer.
8. Let the pork rest for at least 10 min. and reduce the pan liquid on the stovetop until syrupy.
9. Pour the liquid on the loin and serve.　

Feel free to add sliced root veggies to the bottom of the pot before it goes in the oven. My parsnips ended up a bit rare, so you might want to parboil them first.

Afangoria

Sometimes it's not only fun to fail, but inevitable. Due to the proliferation of South end "ethnic markets" (please, a better name!), I've started making dishes I've never eaten before from ingredients I've never heard of. Such is the nature of the market crawl, where I pick up a bag of a strange powder, dried leaf, or arthropod and vow to cook with it. The results of such adventures vary wildly.

Perhaps I rely too strongly on the panacea of internet recipes. I assume that anything eaten by man will be clearly cited and classified on the web. There waits a citation-laden Wikipedia entry, or some botanical page with the Latin names and various cultivars. Not always so.

My latest adventure arose at the West African Market on Rainier Avenue, just North of Graham Street. The store is run by a convivial and helpful Guinean man. Along with the latest Nigerian soap operas, bootleg Afro-pop CD's, and various exotic beauty products, he's got an impressive array of dried, canned, and frozen goods straight from the motherland.

Exploring his wares is an exhaustive process. I've got the basic gist of playing around with palm oil, melon seeds, and smoked shrimp. I haven't messed with millet yet. Dusty bags of potash, hunks of cassava meal moulds, and whole dried Guinea fowl leave me clueless. But that doesn't always stop me.

Last week I picked up a quantity of knowns and unknowns. Among the latter was dried ukazi leaves, stuffed into a ziplock sandwich bag like shredded crepe paper. I found two different taxonomies for these leaves: Gnetum africana and Gongronema Latifolium. In other words, I'm not exactly sure what I'm eating. No different than processed foods, I suppose.

The next night, I scanned recipes for ukazi / afang soup, a Nigerian treat from the Niger Delta region. Most were vague, some were nearly unreadable. I read several recipes and looked for the common denominators. Usually this technique works pretty well, but it's harder when working with unknown ingredients.

Based on recommendations from several recipes, I jettisoned my own common sense and flew blindly. I have a few regrets in this regard:

1) the oxtails. I usually time them carefully in the pressure cooker and they turn out perfect. On this occasion, however, my negligence cost me. For about 30 minutes, they vacillated recklessly between a slow simmer and a violently rolling boil. When the soup was "done", the oxtails were not. Gnawing away at them reminded me of a dog with a pernicious rubber toy. It took hours to pick the strings of meaty tissue from between my teeth.

2) Salt. Starting with chicken bullion and incorporating various meats and fish, I really didn't need the extra dash or two of kosher salt. The lesson here: taste before you salt.

3) the ukazi itself: Since I had never had it before, I had no standard by which to compare it. It seemed to offer no flavor of its own, but had a curious texture, a chewy tear like eating seaweed. Had I cooked it long enough? Was this really ukazi, or bagged lawn clippings?

In the end, the soup was ok, but not good enough for me to post a recipe quite yet. If you're feeling adventurous, buy a bag of your own, hop on the internet, and get cooking. And don't forget the oxtails!

Callaloo, Calalou, Callalo

I've only cooked one tropical food plant I knew to be poisonous. This fact requires no special commendations. Some of the world's most popular foods (take cassava, for instance) can kill when raw or mal-prepared. How ironic that the taro leaf, prickly with oxalate crystals, transforms into callaloo, a slippery soup renowned throughout the Caribbean.

The taro plant, or Colocasia Esculenta, twines through thousands of years food history. Muddled in murky origins (cultivated in India as long as 7000 years ago), it now holds an esteemed place in cuisines throughout the world.

It's corm (underground plant stem) is an essential starch for millions of people. In Polynesia, taro becomes poi. West Africans (who call taro “cocoyam”) pound the corms to make fufu, a gooey paste eaten with soups and stews. Ubiquitous in Seattle's International District, Taro can be found in back-alley noodle shops and dim sum restaurants. When I was young, my parents would insist upon braised taro and pork belly at House of Hong. Another neighborhood staple, bubble tea shops abound offering purple taro smoothies.

The leaves play a decidedly quieter role in some diets. It's quite a shame, as they are gorgeous. Often likened to elephant ears, they reside in the same family as philodendrons, calla lilies, and birds of paradise. Not to mention our Northwestern trail buddy, the skunk cabbage.

Some culinary aversion may be due to the high levels of calcium oxalate crystals. The leaves irritate skin when handled and drive the mouth and throat mad if ingested raw. Also found in rhubarb and a variety of houseplants (like the kind that generate high vet bills), calcium oxalate can cause kidney stones, anaphylactic shock, and liver damage.

Which are good reasons to prepare it properly. An overnight soak or thorough cooking will destroy the crystals. Then you can get to work on making callaloo, the Caribbean concoction in question.

Callaloo varies from island to island, probably from house to house. Although taro leaf is the favored green, it's not essential. The soup can be made with amaranth leaves or various xanthasomas. It often contains crab meat, okra, coconut milk, and chili peppers. A host of other meats, vegetables, and seasonings may find their way into the pot.
The texture of callaloo is truly unique, if not an acquired taste. It's often blended, either with a mixer, blender, food processor or a "Lele stick", a small forked branch. The okra, taro leaves, and coconut milk create a souffle-like texture that's half the fun of eating it.

Here's a sample recipe for callaloo. Feel free to alter it based on dietary preferences and availability of ingredients. I've heard that spinach or Swiss chard will work just as well.

Ingredients:

1.5 lbs. taro leaves and stems
1/3 lb. okra, sliced
1 medium sized Chinese eggplant, chopped
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 green plantain, finely chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
3-4 oz crab meat
1/4 tsp thyme
a dash ground cloves
1/2 tsp ground allspice
cayenne pepper to taste
salt and pepper to taste
2 Tbsp white vinegar
1/2 cup coconut milk

Method:

1. Wash, drain, and chop the taro leaves and stems coarsely.
2. Place in a large saucepan or stockpot with okra, eggplant, and 2 cups water.
3. Cover and cook until tender, stirring occasionally. Set aside
4. In another large stockpot, sauté the onions, garlic, and plantain in the oil.
5. Cover and cook on medium-low heat until tender, stirring occasionally.
6. Add the remaining ingredients and cook for a few minutes longer.
7. Add the cooked vegetables, mix, and heat for one minute.
8. Using ladle or large measuring cup, transfer soup in batches to blender.
9. Blend until a thick puree, adding a bit of water or stock if necessary.
10. Pour into first pot. Continue until all the soup is blended.
11. Serve by itself or on rice.

Plum Tuckered Out

Methley and Imperial Epineuse

How can four kinds of plums grow on one tree? The ancient science of grafting had thus far failed attach to the rootstock of my ignorance. But I couldn't deny it exists. The tree in question belongs to my parents. My mother, in particular, had been awaiting the plums with keenest anticipation. She would soon debut the two best plum desserts I have ever had.

The tree stands proudly in my parents' front yard. It greets passersby with plumy limbs arched over with rapidly ripening fruit. Although they have two other plum trees, as well as apples, apricots, pears, kiwis, and berries aplenty, this four-way tree is the jewel in their fruity crown.

The four varieties should ripen in stages. But this year, urged on by triple-digit temperatures, three came into fruition (lol) at once. Methleys: dusky purple orbs, nearly hemorrhaging their juices from gossamer-thin skin. Beauties: bold and textured, a complex reddish-yellow shade. Shiros: stately and subdued in flavor, gloriously golden hues.

In addition, a plum from a different tree needed collecting. An elliptical French prune plum, the Imperial Epineuse is firm but sharply sweet throughout. All of them were sweet, but none would pick themselves.

Armed with baskets and buckets, I crouched and twisted beneath the branches. My parents were visiting family in New York, which left me to tend the garden and fruit trees. During this particular week, New York shivered in the 60's while Seattle topped 103.

The ground shimmered in the heat and running sweat scalded my eyes. But putting off picking wasn't an option. Several Methleys and a few Beauties lay fermenting in the dirt. In another day, I may have lost a dozen more. Less plums for the desserts mom promised.

Although the Methleys screamed for harvest, I saved them for last. They would dissolve into nectar under firmer, heavier fruit. The Shiros came off first, with a gentle tug. About half of them would stay on the tree for a riper day. About two-thirds of the Beauties surrendered themselves that afternoon.

But nary a Methley could remain. And they were the most difficult to pick. With the faintest squeeze, they rupture. Graze against one and they plummet ker-splat like a stock market windowsill jumper. Not to mention their sheer numbers.

So bobbing and weaving, bending and stretching, I managed to strip the Methleys from their perches. I also ate several that were punctured or bruised, and a few that were fragrantly fermenting under their skin.

Next, the Imperial Epineuse called me over. Most of these, I would pick firm and off-ripe. They would finish sweetening themselves in the refrigerator. All told, I lugged three large bucketfuls inside that day, to await my mother's magic.

When mom finally transformed the fruits of our labor, I wasn't disappointed.
First, she concocted a frozen plum yoghurt with the Methley's. It's subdued sweetness was cool and muted, like a pouty beauty. The cinnamon and mild tannic bite in the plum's skin gave it the character of a light red wine. The perfect refreshment for 100 degree weather.

The plum upside-down cake, on the other hand exuded dulcitude. Brashly, Dixie-style, in-your-face, better-than-sex, sweet. Thin slices of Imperial Epineuse graced the top (or bottom? Isn't it upside down?). The harmonious marriage of the plums with the almond fragrance makes you wonder why the same tree can't spawn them both. Or does it? After all, if four kinds of plums grow on one tree...

Here are mom's recipes:

Plum Fro Yo
　

Ingredients:
Ripe Methley plums (mom says "a whole mess of plums". I'll hazard 2 lbs)
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 C water (approx), to prevent burning
2 C fat free yoghurt
3/4 C granulated sugar
1 t vanilla extract

Method:

1. Simmer plums on low heat w/ cinnamon stick and water, stirring occasionally.
2. After several hours, when plums are soft and shapeless, mash and remove pits and cinnamon.
3. Add 3.5 C mashed plums and remaining ingredients into ice cream machine / maker.
4. Freeze until thick.
5. If storing in freezer, cover surface with saran wrap to prevent ice crystals.
6. Let soften at room temp. for 20 min. before serving.

Plum Upside-down Cake

Ingredients:
12 T sweet butter
1 C packed brown sugar
1 T honey
12 small to medium pitted prune plums, cut into wedges
1 C granulated sugar
2 eggs
1/2 t almond extract
1 t vanilla
1.5 C flour
2 t baking powder
1/2 t cinnamon
1/2 t salt
1/2 C whole milk

Method:

1. Simmer 6 T of the butter, brown sugar, and honey in a cast iron skillet (10" works best.) Simmer and stir frequently on low heat until smooth and thick.
2. Place plum wedges in decorative pattern on top of the sauce.
3. Cream 6 T of the butter with granulated sugar, eggs, almond extract, and vanilla.
4. Mix HALF of the following ingredients in a bowl: flour, baking powder, cinnamon, salt and milk. Mix the other half in a separate bowl, then combine and mix until smooth. This makes for a more uniform mix.
5. Add creamed butter mixture and mix.
   
6. Pour complete mixture into the skillet, over the plum sauce.
7. Bake skillet in oven at 350 until cake is done, about 65 minutes. (Test doneness by piercing cake with a fork. If the tines come out clean, it's done.)
8. Cool pan on a rack for 15-20 minutes.
9. Run a knife around the edge of the cake. Turn upside down over a platter or cake plate and remove the pan.
10. Use a rubber spatula to scrape off any remaining fruit or sauce from the pan and apply to the cake. Yummy!

Taking Stock of One's Fears

I rarely buy lobster. Precooked seafood leaves me clammy. And boiling a live animal that can look me in the eye scares me. In terms of ending life for food, I've only just graduated to mussels and clams.

So buying a boiled lobster from the Hilltop Red Apple represented something of a coup. It was a snap decision, made during a once-a year lobster promotional they hold in their parking lot. At 8.99 per pound for lobster, still warm from the pot, the price seemed right. My friend Chris and I invested in a brawny three pounder.

The Larousse Gastronomique presents a gorgeous photo of a lobster, perfectly halved lengthwise, as if by some forensic pathology tool. When Chris tried halving our lobster using a wilderness survival knife, the results were less than ideal. Grey bilge-colored spoog shot across the counter and onto my dry-clean only wool shirt. Had Tom Douglas ever contended with this?

I retired to my kitchen table with my half-lobster and a small cup of lemon butter. The tail and claw meats were succulent; the remainder had me scratching and picking like a frustrated seagull. With more patience, I surely could have coaxed a few more choice morsels from the spindly legs. Instead, I banished the carcass to the fridge for the next day.

Lobster stock seemed a sensible choice for its resurrection. But using The Culinary Institute of America's textbook, The New Professional Chef, meant I would need to scale back the recipe. Their industrial-portioned stock called for 11 pounds of lobster shells. My half-lobster shell weighed about 10 oz, so I had to improvise.

I have an almost pathological flaw when it comes to making stock. I have yet to learn that adding more water doesn't make more stock, just more water. I started with a scant plateful of lobster shell, and added about a pound of chopped onion, celery, and carrot (known collectively as mirepoix) and an herb sachet, I then deluged them under 6 quarts of water. In hindsight, this was at least 2 quarts too many. The recipe called for browning ("redding", actually) the shells and mirepoix in oil. Since the lobster was already boiled, I deemed this step unnecessary.

As a result... how many guesses do you require? Several hours later, I've concocted a mild veggie broth with a faint whisper of the sea. Not exactly swarthy lobster broth for a briny paella. Instead, a subtle stock for preparing rice or beans with a little extra flavor. This is the price I pay for my timidity in the face of the living lobster. Oh well, clam broth will have to do.

The Food That Tastes You Back

Gene Simmons has nothing on a cow. When I was a wee aspiring rocker, rumor had it that KISS's bass player had a cow tongue surgically implanted. As an adult aware of physiology, I no longer believe a cow tongue could fit and operate properly in a human mouth.

The cow tongue is a huge organ. The one I bought from Bob's Meats in Columbia City weighed about 4 and a half pounds. It sat in my freezer for several months before I thawed it. Even that took the better part of an afternoon. Like a man losing his enthusiasm, the heavy club of flesh gradually softened up. And, as a man often does, I accomplished this in a cold water bath.

After thawing, it lay in the fridge until I had an evening free. In the mean time, I consulted the Larousse Gastronomique. In typical form, it suggested 12 hours of soaking, a careful peeling, and another 24 hours of resting. All this is to prepare it for four-and-a-half hours of braising. My mom's hip surgery didn't take this long.

Since this was a work night, I needed to try something creative and brief. Grilling was out. I don't have a microwave. I had read somewhere about engine block cuisine; wrapping meat in foil, wedging it against your engine, and driving around until it's done. But I didn't have anywhere to go.

Luckily, this still left my favorite piece of cookware. The 5 quart Duromatic Saucepan Pressure Cooker by Kuhn Rikon has proven invaluable time and again. Dry beans soak and cook in less than a half an hour. Beets and artichokes are ready in no time. Huge cuts of meat bow before me in tender supplication. And what is a cow tongue but just a tongue-shaped beef roast?

I rinsed the bloody beast in the sink, unfurled it into the pressure cooker, and bathed it in salt water, 3 bay leaves, green onions, and a dozen or so peppercorns. The salt water, I reasoned, would keep the meat tender while boiling. I brought the water to a boil and slid the lid into place. The tongue would be ready in less than an hour.

As I waited, the warm smell of well-seasoned beef spread through my apartment. I salivated with anticipation. My only concern was the strong scent of bay leaves. I didn't want beef tasting like a floral hedge. However, I concluded that strong flavors would only reside in the skin, which I'm intending to peel off anyways.

After 55 minutes has elapsed, I remove the saucepan from the burner and scan my brain, trying to remember the French word for "hunt". My parents recommended French hunter's sauce as a suitable accompaniment to beef tongue. Just as the pressure valve on the cooker hissed shut, I stumbled upon Chasseur in the LG.

Much like the Cacciatore, Chasseur developed as a sauce in connection with the mighty pursuits of the hunter. On his way home, after bagging some wild grouse or some such thing, he would pick some wild mushrooms on the way. Maybe he also gleaned a few tomatoes from some rich baron's acres, some white wine from the local vineyard, and a few other choice delectables. We can only hope he's as skilled at identifying wild mushrooms as he is at picking off the local wildlife. Chasseur is not intended to induce liver failure.

Back to the tongue. With great anticipation, I removed the lid and peered within. I'll be damned if it hadn't swollen even bigger. The tongue was coiled in repose like a fetus. As I cautiously removed it from the pot, as a surgeon might, a large section of skin sloughed off.

I was quite impressed at how easily tongue surrendered its skin, without losing much meat in the process. I could have rubbed it off with a butter knife. The tongue now resembled an odd-shaped roast. I sliced off the tip and delicately laid it on my own tongue. Its fragile lattice of flesh and fat melted like a beefy snowflake. It was one of the most tender and flavorful piece of beef I've ever eaten. Irony abound. I suppose it was the high fat content.

The Chasseur sauce was a fitting compliment. I sautéed some thin sliced mushrooms and shallots in butter, added some white wine and reduced. After a few minutes, I added chicken stock and tomato sauce and reduced further. Beurre manie, which is flour and butter globbed together, thickened the sauce for a few minutes. This creamed out the texture and painted it a lovely shade of pale red. Finished with another dot of butter and some parsley.

The slippery infusion of fat upon fat, when the butter met the ox tongue, which met mine, was like a warm blanket and a snuggle bear for the palate. I cleaned up the sauce with French bread and, for a few minutes, no other food in the world mattered.

I had overcome my fear of preparing tongue. For all its girth and swagger, the tongue sung a tender ballad. Maybe under all that makeup, Gene's not so tough either.

Gettin' Crabby at the Ballard Seafood Festival

No blood-thirsty Vikings pillaged the Ballard Seafood festival. But I valiantly, and artfully, skirted lumbering hoards of urban serfs bearing whiny children in tow. And it was hot. The opaque heat seared the blue sky gray. Bright hot, cranial-throbbing hot.

I've lived in the deep tropics. The kind of place that hits you with the smell of exotic molds, frying coconut oil, and food rubbish braising in heaps in the gutter. So with some authority, I can claim that when it's hot in Seattle, it feels hotter than anywhere on earth. Probably because it's Seattle.

So I developed a strategy of retreat and eat. Along the sunny Market Street corridor of food vendors, make a purchase, and scurry over to the shady sidewalk to eat. Right at the corner, I found Anita's Crepes. Young women poured the crepe batter onto a round griddle top, black and infernally hot like a wheel on Satan's chariot. How I thanked my lucky stars that, within minutes, I would be back in the shade. How did these women do it?

I quickly discovered, in my very hands, my very own smoked salmon crepe, with spinich and tzatziki sauce, a one-dish food orgy. Within the crepe's warm embrace, the sauce and the salmon got down and dirty. The dill in the tzatziki rested comfortably up front. The spinach hid in the background, where it belonged. Damn, this was good.

The crab cakes, from "Crab Cakes and Seafood Specialties" let me down. They were starchy, like a faintly fishy falafel, with middling flecks of crab meat. In their defense, my last crab cake was arguably the best America has to offer. Faidley's Seafood has been crafting crab cakes in Baltimore's Lexington Market since 1886. Faidley's crab cakes are pillows of near-perfection; lump blue crab meat gracefully held together by a light binder. Big as a baseball, no breading or heavy filler stands between the customer and the crab. Next to these, all others are judged unworthy. Most anyways.

After this, I needed a beer in a shady anonymous bar. After all, I came here to experience what Ballard does best.

Aw Shucks!!!

Oysters Rockefeller are definitely off the menu. They're outrageously labor-intensive, hard on the heart (what, with all that butter) and I damned nearly took my hand off preparing them.

In April, I offered my culinary talents, such as they are, to the Graham Hill Elementary School auction. For the silent auction, I submitted a New Orleans Seafood Dinner for eight. This included four courses and wine. After the auction, the woman who bought the dinner and I got to talking. We agreed on four courses for ten, no wine included.

The centerpiece of the meal, if not the main course, was to be Oysters Rockefeller. The name conjures the roaring twenties in the big easy. A bejeweled flapper in a low-cut green velvet dress, a cultured pearl necklace, sipping champagne and contemplating half-shells atop platters of glimmering rock salt. How could you go wrong?

I first tested them at my apartment for my girlfriend and I. We started with 12 medium-sized oysters from Uwajimaya. After scrubbing them clean of sand and marine detritus, I commenced with the shucking.

Even when oysters open up easily, shucking is a messy job. It the end, I have one sopping wet dish towel littered with shell fragments, juice, and snotty oyster tissue And I did it with my bare hands, leaving a few minor nicks on my palms, like salty paper cuts.

After returning to the half-shell, they each earn a dollop of green herb-butter mixture and are tucked onto a bed of rock salt. Then, it's nighty night into a 500 degree oven for 15 minutes until the herbs brown a bit.

The herb-butter mixture is the trade secrets of several New Orleans establishments including Antoine's where the dish was conceived back in 1899. Variations of the recipe abound. Most call for spinach. Antoine's, otherwise mum about their recipe, uses no spinach. Parsley, celery, watercress, sorrel, and arugula are often used in combination, along with several dried herbs. Cayenne or Tabasco deliver a nice kick, but can be omitted. Some use salted butter, others sweet. Breadcrumbs, capers, anchovies, and Worcestershire sauce are all variables. What remains consistent is the use of an anise-flavored liquor, usually Pernot.

I'm fairly satisfied with my blend which I tested before dressing the oysters with it. The spicy greens, anise seed, and Pernot ring with a flavorful cacophony, like jungle birds in an argument. But the salt butter seemed to coax a bitter undertone from the herbs which burned the back of my throat. Would this persist after cooking, or would it redeem itself?

At my first taste as they left the oven, a savory revelation occurred: the salt was perfectly balanced. It shone in rays of green decadence. The salted butter and herbs fused perfectly, and the natural salinity of the oyster had been tempered by the cooking. This created a milder meaty vehicle for the audacious sauce it swam in. I couldn't have asked for a better dish.

Two months later, preparing a practice dinner for my family and friends, I wasn't sure it was worth it. With 45 minutes left on the clock, a salad half made, Creole court bullion unattended on the stove, I had a long way to go.

Two paper grocery bags were each packed full of the largest oysters I had ever wrestled with, had ever seen. They were South Pacific man eaters that divers get their leg stuck in while harvesting pearls. Sand, grit, and seaweed coated each of them. After scrubbing a dozen of them passably clean, I needed a rest.

By the time I finished, I was salty, wet, exhausted, and ready to feed them to the gulls. Shucking them only discouraged me further. I had assumed that larger oysters would be easier to open. Unfortunately, their beefy abductor muscles held closed for dear life. It was like trying to pry open a bear trap with a butter knife.

I had always opened oysters from the back hinge and worked my way forward. My Dad instructed me to first chip the edge midway up the shell near the abductor. Then I could work the knife around the top and then pry them open from the hinge. This worked slightly better. But still, bits of shell flew around the kitchen, as if I was sandblasting a coral reef. Stinky Clamato-like water saturated two more hand towels. In my impatience, I opened some of the stubborn ones with a sheet rock knife. This had my mother more than a little concerned.

It was inevitable. Haste and fatigue had caught up with me. The oyster knife slipped from the shell and found its way deep into my left hand, just above the thumb. I peered into the hole and, for a moment, it was only a hole. It reminded me of a baby's mouth, open in stunned surprise, just before he starts to cry. But my hand didn't cry, it just started to bleed.

I ran to the bathroom and thrust my hand into the running sink, watching the blood pulse and tint the water. It was time to delegate the rest of the dinner. I had shucked my last oyster for the night.

Somehow, all the oysters made it in the oven, and out. The salad completed, the fish poached in a red Creole sauce, the table set, the wine poured, the guests served. And somehow, as I write these words, I remember that first time I made them in my apartment. The delicately chewy texture. Sopping up the herb-infused butter with French bread. I would love to share THAT Oysters Rockefeller, THAT experience, with the ten people I'll be cooking for. So maybe they're back on the menu. That's a big maybe, mind you. And not without gloves.