There’s much I want to share with you all, but it’s hard to write excitedly about food when you’re nauseous and squeamish — which is how I’ve been feeling since Wednesday. Hopefully I’ll be feeling more like myself soon, but until then, eat well.
I tend to raise a very skeptical eyebrow when I hear or read about people wanting to “change the world” — I am, even when I try to be otherwise, a cynic, no matter how much Conan O’Brien doesn’t want me to be. That said, I really hope Jamie Oliver is able to do what I raise my eyebrow at.
Regardless of what you think about so-called celebrity chefs or television chefs, there’s no denying that Mr. Oliver is an incredibly passionate guy. TED, the nonprofit dedicated to what the organization calls “Ideas Worth Spreading,” awarded their $100,00 prize to the fully-clothed chef; at a TED conference, winners of the award disclose their “one wish to change the world,” which the prize money helps turn from abstract idea into palpable reality.
Here’s Mr. Oliver’s wish:
I wish for everyone to help create a strong, sustainable movement to educate every child about food, inspire families to cook again and empower people everywhere to fight obesity.
Check it out, and sign Mr. Oliver’s petition to change the way we Americans relate to our food.
I’ve insisted that I don’t really read restaurant reviews, and I swear that is true. That said, I agree completely with every word former New York Times restaurant critic Frank Bruni wrote in in his four-star review of Eleven Madison Park.
Is it distinguished? Is it impressive? Progressive? Superb? Yes, yes, yes and yessir. And, even better, Eleven Madison Park offers a two-course prix fixe lunch for $28.00, three courses for $42.00, and a “Gourmand” lunch tasting menu for $68.00, so basically you can decide which option best fits your budget when you sit down. And yes, I am writing with the assumption that you’ll eventually make a reservation and have a meal here. I did — three times in the past four months. It’s that good.
Regardless of which menu you follow — Gourmand, two- or three-course — you’ll first get an amuse bouche: six gougères, cheesy puffs of choux pastry warm from the oven, and two other little bites. Once there were molded domes of golden potato and surprising savory beet-imbued marshmallows; another time there were foie gras macarons and celery root gelée. With the Gourmand meal, there was yet another amuse: a perfect pale pink scallop standing knee-high in cream of celeriac soup.
Though I’ll fight anyone for the last gougère, it was the soup that I fell in love with. Its celery root flavor was utterly delicious, that’s a fact not up for debate. What I became so enamored with was its astonishing mouthfeel: smooth and creamy, with a pleasant weight.
“How amazing would it be to have a robe made of this?” I asked Keith. Before he could respond, I interrupted myself: “No, wait — underwear. Can you imagine, long underwear with this texture?”
(Keith’s response: “You’re so weird.”)
I don’t care what you order when you come here, because I can guarantee you that it’s going to redefine the word perfect. I’ve had the heirloom beet salad, which features three different types of beet, each wearing a nasturtium-petal cap and a dusting of crumbled rye toast. The butternut squash velouté rivals my beloved celeriac soup in terms of texture, but its flavor is far bolder. Most recently I ate the balik salmon and its accompanying pommes Dauphine, which were lovely and pillowy and delicate.
Unfortunately, the Scottish partridge ballotine is not on the menu anymore, but I can only hope that some iteration of it reappears this fall so that you can try it. If it were possible to somehow beam a bite of ballotine to all of you, a small plate of it would be appearing at your elbow right now, along with its garnishes of fig, plum and black truffle.
Also no longer available is the lobster navarin — which is a fancy way of saying ragoût, which is the French way of saying stew — so try to console yourself with a plate of the linguini and Alaskan king crab. It gets its subtle citrus flavor from Meyer lemon, but coarse black pepper prevents the dish from being too precious, adding a much-needed edge.
Somehow I found room for venison and hen of the woods mushrooms; another afternoon, I managed to eat every morsel of my bone marrow encrusted beef tenderloin. It was a true struggle, but utterly worth it.
If after all of this, you can squeeze in another course, you must have the chocolate peanut butter palette. I can’t stress this enough: you must have the chocolate peanut butter palette. Yes, it’s crunchy, and sophisticated-yet-comforting, and there’s edible gold flakes glittering on its surface, and it’s a heck of a tongue twister. This is all true, but what takes the dessert from delicious and propels it into the next level is the caramel popcorn ice cream it is served with. Eleven Madison Park’s popcorn ice cream wasn’t my first, but it was undoubtedly the best.
Each of my three lunches ended with a plate of macarons — once, when eating there with Ben, we were sneakily given an extra plate, and when we had lunch with Stephanie on Friday two oval dishes of cookies appeared, sans the cloak-and-dagger. I like a bit of covert ops every now and then, but I can’t complain at all about these little meringue sandwich cookies. Of course, as it’s a risk-taking sort of restaurant, Eleven Madison Park’s macarons aren’t your standard everyday chocolate or raspberry. Instead they are peanut butter and jelly flavored, or chocolate-and-banana, or toasted sesame, or green tea, or violet, or pistachio-rose, or Meyer lemon, or brown butter-hazelnut, or whatever other fantastic combo the kitchen comes up with. I’m partial to the lemon, in case you were wondering, and the brown-butter hazelnut, while Keith always snaps up the PB+J.
One last word, and then I promise I’ll stop drooling (intentional pun!) over what just might be my new favorite restaurant: cocktails. I know I already insisted you have the chocolate peanut butter palette, but now I must put my foot down and stand firm and require you order a cocktail. I like the Painted Lady, with its frothy egg-white top and dash of house-made bitters. There’s fantastic non-alcoholic ones, if spirits aren’t for you, like the cool celery fizz and kind-of-dirty-sounding”Up the Alley.”
Okay, that was sixty-two words too many, so I’ll wind it up now. Just promise me you’ll go? Please?
Eleven Madison Park
11 Madison Avenue
New York, New York 10010
About a week ago I wrote about a memoir I had recently read, and why it was a failure. Today I’m writing about one that is a success.
That memoir is Meredith Norton‘s Lopsided, and is probably the funniest book I’ve read in a while. Yes, I know it’s about cancer, but that doesn’t change the fact that it turned me into The Crazy Girl on the subway — you know, the one who was pitched over laughing and with whom the other commuters tried to avoid accidental eye contact. That was me with the cut-off gloves, wiping away tears and sliding helplessly out of her seat.
From all appearances, Ms. Norton was living an enviable life; after all, she had just moved into a Parisian apartment with her French husband and their young child. She spent her time exploring the city, learning the language, cooking European-friendly food (I thought she would make hamburgers, her husband’s client says) and being mistaken for a prostitute. When a series of French doctors dismiss Ms. Norton’s medical concerns (which range from a whistling nose to a tightness in her chest), she takes advantage of a scheduled trip home to visit an American physician — who promptly tells Ms. Norton that she has inflammatory breast cancer and a forty percent chance of surviving the next five years.
Most people* would take this news and promptly freak the hell out, but Ms. Norton reacts differently. She freaks out all right, but somehow she finds time between breakdowns to also find little bits of levity here and there. She writes, “…at the supermarket with my friend Rebecca, I reached to scratch over my ear and all the hair peeled off — like a piece of Velcro. We stood holding the patches and laughed until our cheeks ached.”
Ms. Norton also gleefully details her peeling feet, an after-effect of chemotherapy, and looking forward to seeing her post-mastectomy sutures; she had been, she says, the kind of kid who delightedly removed her spayed cat’s stitches. I can definitely see how these graphic chronicles could easily gross a certain kind of reader out — for example, how many people could possibly take pleasure in reading about the excitement Ms. Norton felt when fitted with an indwelling catheter? Turns out I do, and not just because it’s hard to offend or horrify me (unless you’re brushing your teeth in my presence). It’s because Ms. Norton writes with clarity and humor about these so-called disgusting things. Let’s use the catheter as an example. Ms. Norton, who had previously used a catheter after her pregnancy, writes:
“It seems odd to adore a tube hanging from your crotch, attached to a plastic bag filled with warm urine, but I did. I’d spent the previous nine months running to the toilet every twenty minutes, day and night. The last two months I ran to the toilet and still peed on myself when I stood up afterward. It drove me crazy. Urinating effortlessly and at my leisure into a bag was downright luxurious.”
Though I’ve neither been pregnant nor used a catheter, when it’s described like that I can clearly understand Ms. Norton’s joy in it, just as I can plainly imagine the empty loss portrayed in these two sentences regarding her mastectomy: “There were no black stitches, no gruesome scar. It was just gone.”
What’s tricky about reading a memoir is that there’s not often the convenient sense of closure as in a work of fiction. This is particularly true about those writers whose works capture a specific time in their lives, or times, as the case may be for M.F.K. Fisher, Ruth Reichl, Augusten Burroughs and other prolific memoirists. It’s also true for Ms. Norton, but in her defense, who in “real life” can say he or she got that aforementioned closure following every obstacle encountered? Even Ms. Norton understands this; after she has endured almost twenty weeks of intense chemotherapy and its side-effects, a mastectomy, countless prescriptions and more than fifty radiation treatments, she too looks for finality. “There [I was],” she muses, “with the same annoying habits and bad manners, ungrateful, pessimistic, undisciplined, and bored. [I was] just as mediocre as when this whole drama began.”
It’s key that readers of Lopsided can look past that, the lack of conclusion, and focus instead on Ms. Norton’s ability to not only convey her humor, but also her matter-of-factness. This is neither a heroic nor feel-bad-for-me cancer book, and Ms. Norton is adamant that readers do not feel that way. Instead, Lopsided is a but a piece of a life. “Nothing else has happened, but it will. As my father says: ‘None of us gets out of here alive,'” she writes. “But life really is too short to worry. Against all the odds, I am here to celebrate [my son’s] fourth birthday on the third anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. For now, that’s enough.”
And for me, regarding this book, it is.
96. I can’t seem to stop playing StoneLoops! on my phone. I’m obsessed with beating my top score (currently 4,403,240). This has seriously replaced book reading as my pre-sleep activity, which is why I haven’t gotten through nearly as many books as I usually do. It may not seem like it, but I promise it’s true. It’s taken me more than a week to get through a novel, which is really rare for me.
97. For reasons I still don’t understand, my mother signed me up for figure skating lessons during all of elementary school. I never asked for them, and to this day it is the most feminine after-school activity I have ever participated in. My dad, to give you an idea of what else I was up to, sent me to tae kwon do, where I was the only girl.
98. I wear patterned knee socks almost exclusively from November to April. Otherwise my boots chafe and blister my calves, and anyway, I think knee socks — especially striped ones — are fun. And warm.
99. When I walk around the city and listen to my iPod, I almost always put it on shuffle. If I’m presented with a song that perfectly matches my mood, it honestly puts a huge bounce in my step. This is a big deal, as I am not even remotely bouncy.
100. I used to go to the Philippines for a month or so every other summer during junior high and high school. While I was there, I’d travel with my family to other Asian countries. I’ve been to some places multiple times (Hong Kong/Kowloon, Thailand) but I’m the most eager to get back to Singapore, which I remember through a no-one-told-me-not-to-drink-the-water-in-Southeast-Asia haze as being very clean, pink and full of orchids and fried food. Basically, it was like heaven.
In my mind, there are two different kinds of people: cold-weather people, and everyone else. In this case, I definitely am an everyone else kinda gal — though with my parka, a thick scarf and woolen gloves, I really don’t have cause to complain. Besides, if I lived in a part of the world that didn’t have such an aggressive winter I’d never have the chance to warm up with a bowl of this stew.
The clichéd-yet-truthful thing about this is that looks are so deceiving here. It’s impossible for this photo to capture the beautifully floury texture these potatoes take on after bubbling their way through two separate cooking stages. Neither can this photo show you how the heat from the minced ginger subtly infuses the broth with a truly delicate flavor, or how incredibly tender beef chuck turns in a short period of time. It also doesn’t show how quickly Keith and I plowed through our bowls, but that’s a horse of a different color.
Something to note: traditionally, this stew is made with yak meat. I have no idea where to get yak, so I’m glad there’s a delicious substitute in beef.
Tibetan Beef + Potato Stew, from Saveur
Makes four portions
3 pounds Yukon gold potatoes
1 pound peeled carrots
Kosher salt, to taste
3 tablespoons peanut oil
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 tablespoon coarsely ground celery seed
3 scallions, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 pound beef chuck, cut into 1 ½-inch pieces
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 teaspoons peeled, finely chopped fresh ginger
½ tablespoon ground coriander
½ tablespoon ground cumin
- Place potatoes and carrots in a large pot with 5 cups cold water; season with salt. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, and simmer, covered, until potatoes are cooked, 35 – 40 minutes. Strain, reserving cooking liquid; let ingredients cool. Once cool, remove skins from potatoes; cut into 1 ½-inch chunks. Cut carrots into 1-inch lengths. Set aside.
- Return the pot to medium-high heat; add oil. When hot, add garlic and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Stir in celery seeds and scallions. Carefully pour in ½ cup water and cook until scallions are crisp-tender, about 1 minute. Add beef, season with salt and pepper; reduce heat to medium, and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes. Add the reserved cooking liquid, potatoes, and carrots along with the butter, ginger, coriander, and cumin. Bring to a boil, reduce to medium-low, and simmer, partially covered, stirring occasionally, until beef is tender and sauce has thickened, 30 – 35 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and serve, if you like, with steamed white rice.
Let’s start with the obvious: I’m a blogger and a writer and a lover of food and dogs and Julia Child, and sometimes I can be deplorably unpleasant. This is what is called a character flaw, but I think that — when combined with my devotion to my friends and my knack for color-coordination, let’s say — it adds depth to, well, my character. As readers, we don’t need to like the characters we encounter; what we do need is for those characters to have some sort of humanizing trait that make us care about them. For example, a huge part of what makes Neil Gaiman‘s iconic Sandman comic book series so incredibly readable is the fact that the major players are terribly flawed. Their losses wouldn’t cut as deeply if we the readers weren’t invested in them; the same could be said about their gains.
In other words, likable characters are boring.
That said, I hate the Julie Powell portrayed in Cleaving — A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession, a memoir written by the blogger herself. I don’t say I hate this portrayal because I wanted the perkier, Amy Adams version; I’m putting it like this, in a vaguely diplomatic way, because I kind of feel as though I need to give Ms. Powell the benefit of the doubt. I’m fully aware that the way we describe ourselves via our own writing is ineffably skewed… but maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I read this memoir while banking too much on the dumb hope that Ms. Powell would eventually reveal herself to be — well, more fully realized. I don’t care that she comes across as utterly unlikable, but she needs to throw me a bone or two in regards to the rest of her character. And yes, that was an intended pun.
I’m getting completely ahead of myself.
Cleaving picks up a few years after Ms. Powell finished writing Julie and Julia — 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen (why the chronic need to subtitle everything?), as she’s tangled up in an affair with an old boyfriend that she refers to coyly as D. Her husband learns of this and has a revenge affair of his own, but ultimately he doesn’t want to leave Ms. Powell, who herself feels no inclination to either end her affair or her marriage. Instead, for reasons which are never adequately explained, she heads out of Queens to become an apprentice butcher in Kingston, New York. When her apprenticeship comes to its end, Ms. Powell, still floundering, hits the road again, this time stopping in Argentina, the Ukraine, Japan and Tanzania; supposedly she’s traveling in order to learn more about meat, and how different cultures kill, cook and eat it, but really, she’s running from her husband, a fact Ms. Powell acknowledges.
Ms. Powell acknowledges a lot more than just this, though. She depicts in great detail her escapades with D: bondage, biting and banging, oh my. It doesn’t bother me that Ms. Powell loves being tied up, it just bores me; each so-called sexy scenelet seems to have been written strictly to provoke and show off. It’s as though Ms. Powell is gleefully nudging the reader in the ribs and saying, “Did you get to the part where he throws me down so hard he bruises me? What did you think about the part where we strip each other? What about when we dry humped while my husband slept in the adjacent room? Isn’t my sex life so hot?”
This self-satisfied aura pervades the entire book, and the frequency with which Ms. Powell congratulates herself in one fashion or another was utterly fascinating to me. She describes herself as sexy, as alluring, as inviting. At one point, when explaining why she so loves the text message, Ms. Powell writes, “With written words I can persuade, tease, seduce. My words are what make me desirable.”
Not so, I say.
Ms. Powell’s words are interesting only when she’s writing about butchery and Fleischer’s, the butcher’s shop in which she apprentices. Here the writing is almost lovely and at times quite fine, but once Ms. Powell leaves the shop behind… the word self-absorbed comes to mind first, with masturbatory stepping on its heels. Do we need two hundred odd pages of utterly dull, completely abrading twaddle about Ms. Powell stalking D after he’s dumped her, about Ms. Powell complaining that she doesn’t think it’s fair that she has to break up with someone she doesn’t want to break up with, about Ms. Powell forever checking her BlackBerry to see if D has sent her yet another racy SMS? Not only that, do we need Buffy the Vampire Slayer quotation after quotation? Don’t get me wrong, I’m a Buffy fan — I’m rewatching season two on Hulu right now, and I still laugh at the bitca scene — but do I use the show as a touchstone for my life? And if I did, would I really write about it at length, knowing that the possibility existed that a good portion of my readers wouldn’t know what the heck I was talking about?*
Basically, what I’m trying to say rather poorly is this: a well-constructed story — whether it’s told on the page or on the screen, and regardless of if it’s fictional or factual — entices the audience. Its characters must somehow impress themselves onto that audience, and the narrative must purposely propel itself forward. Ms. Powell’s characters, though they are effectively real people, fail to enrapture, and her wandering wallowing is absolutely aimless. Inertia is something that I can understand, as is engaging in contentious behavior, but I want to stress that I don’t think Cleaving‘s fault lies in Ms. Powell’s having had an affair, or for being torn between her husband and her lover. Affairs make for great drama — would The Great Gatsby even have a story if it were not for the infidelities of Gatsby, Daisy, Tom and Myrtle? The difference is that Cleaving is made up of melodrama, none of which is at all great.