Something Summery

This was the statement that Shaddley made as we g-chatted about cooking dinner a few Fridays back: 'something summery'. It had been a while since we had hung out and eaten and drank to excess. Annoying summer allergies had forced Blackberry Shortcake and I to cancel a barbeque the week prior and now, feeling better, it was on. 

I had some ideas for something summery. I sell produce for a living, so knowing what was in season was already covered. When I think about something summery, I think about grills. I think about fish. I think about fruit and booze. Unfortunately, whenever we get together for these multi-coursed Dionysian affairs it tends to be on a Friday, which happens to be my day off. This means that rather than going to Wheatsville, where I work, we go to a more centrally-located market down south. The selection is good, but it is never the same. At least for me, being mostly concerning the produce. 

Shaddley came by and scooped me up and we headed down to the grocery store. I had a few ideas, but wanted to see what kind of proteins they had to work with. I was thinking strictly seafood. I wanted to keep this thing light. I wanted to do several courses and have the ladies be able to keep up. This mostly means that I didn't want to bog them down in the first two or three courses as we have done a few times in the colder, distant past. 

We spent a good amount of time in the produce section, selecting seasonal varieties of squash, eggplant, stone-fruits, berries, rhubarb, figs and snap peas. After that it was off to the meat market. Unlike my place of employment, this centrally-located market offers seafood that is not sustainable. I try and eat seafood in good standing according to the list generated by the Monterey Bay Aquarium—I even keep one of the guides in my wallet—so Chilean sea bass was a big no, as were a few other delicious looking items. 

We sampled some wild caught sockeye and picked out some halibut, Gulf shrimp and Gulf red snapper (red snapper is on the avoid list, yet the piece was so small they gave it to us for free and I imagine it would have been thrown away otherwise—to me throwing away food is a greater atrocity then helping it go extinct). After our brief stint in the seafood section, we only had a few odds and ends to get from the rest of the maze-like cavernous expanse that is this southern, centrally-located market. This had Shaddley a bit freaked. "That's it? We don't need any _____ or _____ ?" Nope. 

As soon as we got to YogaMarketingBrownieGirl and Shaddley's house, I got to work on sauces for the meal and dessert. After all the veggie prep was done, it was time to get started on individual dishes. Since 'something summery' was the goal, a good portion of this meal would consist of cold dishes that could be made in advance. The grill was lit, wine was poured, gazpacho strained and chilled. We were on the track for a great meal. 

The ladies arrived, more wine was poured and I started to plate up the first course: cherry gazpacho. I really like gazpacho. I like it both ways that I've seen it served, strained with a velvety texture and chunky like salsa. I'd say the latter is the more commonly seen option around town. For this celebration of cherry season we went for the former. The result was a cooling, creamy, delicately-flavored soup that had a near bisque-like quality to it. It was very rich for a mix of vegetables, fruit and herbs. If I hadn't have made it myself I would have been certain there was some heavy cream in it. 

Soup shooters. 

Following the pallet-piquing gazpacho, we had a small portion of sockeye sashimi served with a sweet red miso-shozu sauce, toasted nori and a small slice of fresh Texas peach. I would have preferred the more subtle Coho salmon for this dish, but the option at the centrally- located market was farm raised and I don't play that either. The result was beautiful. I was a bit worried about the intensity of the red miso, yet didn't see the reasoning to purchase white miso when I knew that Scotts had the red on hand. All in all, it was good so I'll stop complaining about what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Sockeye it to me.

We had a small salad of snap peas, red onion and garlic dressed in a simple white wine vinaigrette. This was a delicious and crisp little salad, yet you can see from the photograph that I probably should have either cut back on the raw garlic or minced it. Some found it to be a bit too 'spicy'. I had one bite in particular that pretty much wiped out my palette for the rest of the dish. Fortunately, we had plenty of dry, salty Spanish white on hand to rinse out the overly acrid garlic sensation. If you see any of this Txacolina around while you are out and about you should get some. It has a refreshing saltiness about it like Gatorade without all the annoying colored-sweat laden commercials. 

Raw garlic all up in yo face.

Chaw-koe-leena

After the salad, it was on to some lovely red snapper and strawberry ceviche. This was a really fresh ceviche, tossed with valencia orange juice and a sploosh of extra vigin olive oil right before serving as to not tense up the snapper and allow for its taste to still stand out. I love the combination of fruit and fish. This may be the islander in me, but for some reason it just makes sense. We had moved on to the Albarino and it was delicious and complementary to the subtle acidity of the ceviche. This dish was a hit. 

Unsustainably delicious. 

Delicious. 

Just about the time that we finished up the ceviche, the paprika-rubbed halibut and summer veggies were ready to pull from the grill. Continuing with our theme of fruit and fish, the halibut was dressed with a spicy Texas peach relish and a grilled Gulf shrimp. The grilled eggplant and baby zucchini were dolled up with a little dollop of creme fraiche. This dish was a hit as well. 

"Just for the halibut." - Blackberry Shortcake

Well, it wouldn't be a meal with Shaddley without fromage. The funny thing about this course was that we ate the cheese we bought for it before we started our meal. Good thing he is such a cheese head that he had an extra wedge laying about in his fridge. Grilled figs and balsamic were served with this chunk of semi-hard cheese. I had drank some wine by then, so I have no clue what we were having. 

Figs et fromage.

Normally, I don't eat ice cream because it causes me to pass out in about thirty minutes, but I was feeling ballsy. After all, we live in Texas and nothing says 'something summery' like Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla. This lovable treat was served along side some nice fried plantains with a strawberry-rhubarb compote. Shaddley had said he'd never had something with rhubarb that was done 'right', so I endeavored to do so. When he and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl went back for a larger bowl of seconds, I knew I had won. 

I also endeavor to take a photo of dessert that isn't blurry. 

As usual, we drank way too much wine. I don't have any fancy list this time to prove it, but trust me, we did a damn fine job. This meal was the gateway to a summer full of culinary promise and seasonal revelry. The company was great and the food spectacular. It was yet another great night at the North Buda bungaloo. I sat on the couch eating my ice cream as the sustained notes of Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain put the finishing touch on a meal that fused Spain, Japan and Texas into a refined taste experience. Content, I went back for seconds too. I sat there on the couch amongst great friends, full from a fantastic meal and was able to stay awake to enjoy the rest of an evening that was a testament to everything I love about the life I am able to live. 

Tasting Notes: Too Hot To Handle

It is fucking hot! Here are some photos of beer. Maybe they will cool you down a bit. 

Deschutte Green Lake or some shit. 

Maharaja fucking rules!

Beer companion at the recently relocated Ginger Man.

Uncle Billy's Hefe and the Woo.

Michelada at Sazon. Summer is here, drink up. 

Intervention

It's true, I know. I'm an addict. I can't help it anymore. I'm sick. Not a day goes by where I don't think about using. In the morning. At work. After work. In the evening. I just can't stop. It's gone to far. I'm lost. It was just a recreational thing before I met her. She was already an addict. Together we just feed our addictions. I set her up in the morning with just enough to get her by until mid-day. She was already an addict. She was.  

I started using when I was just a boy. It was like those shitty anti-drug ads from my youth. I learned it from watching my father. Sometimes I would use his stuff; sometimes he even gave it to me. Just enough to start my day. Then I started using with my friends. We would skip class and go down to a local spot known for being cool. They always had good shit there. Generous amounts for a good price.
 

Of course, everyone knew what we had been doing when we showed up late to school. But none of us ever cared, and no one ever said anything. It wasn't that our behavior was condoned, yet it was clear that it wasn't condemned either. We were on our own anyway by then. We didn't have any parents. We were free to make our own choices and mistakes. We knew we were lost when were waking up early and phoning it in — making sure they had what we wanted and knowing just when to get there for it. What times we had then. Good times.

I started working at a restaurant, the Iguana Grill. It was really easy to score there. The cooks would hook you up if the management wasn't around. Just a little pick-me-up to help me get through my shift. Those were desperate times. My habit was making me unhealthy. I knew it. Nothing could be done. Still, I wasn't an addict then. I may have had a problem, but I could stop at anytime.

Moving to town from the lake only made it easier to find the stuff. It was really easy in town. Damn near every neighborhood had a place you could score. Especially on the South and East sides of town. They were practically giving it way. I thought I knew where to get the best shit, but some other addict was always there to show me where better shit was. They pointed me to discrete businesses with odd hours. Street corners and shopping strips. Bodegas and hole-in-the-walls. Meanwhile, I was learning how to make the shit at home. I was getting good at it too. Ask anyone. It'll put you on cloud nine.

Yesterday, I knew I had a problem. Yesterday, it hit me. Yesterday, I knew something had to be done. I was invited to a party where they were giving the shit away! They even had a few different kinds of varying intensity, from mellow to really intense. I may have been a little greedy (I mean, it was free). After that, Blackberry and I went out and used some more. Each time was good, but not as good as the first time. It’s never as good as the first time. 

Today, it's all I can think about, though. Where am I going to get it, how am I going to do it, when am I going to get it, what type will I get? Who has the best shit around here.? I'm down South where there are so many options. I can't blame her though; she was already an addict when I met her. She even told me I feed her habit. Oh what joy to see her smile as I cook the stuff for her.

One of these days it may get the best of me. What if I don't like it anymore? What if just doesn't do it for me anymore? What if I can't feel anything?

If it does get the best of me, then so be it. I guess I knew what I was getting into the whole time.

I just can't quit you.

Eat with Your Eyes

Savor the season.

Smokin'.

Freebox fruit. Freebox cottage cheese. Summer.

No Such Thing

Working in a grocery store makes for an interesting story. I won't tell it today, but I assure you it is interesting. Fortunately, the grocery store I work in happens to sell really high-quality (this term apparently means nothing anymore), local, artisan, organic, craft, and specialty items. We also have receptacles that house items that are damaged, out of date, or otherwise unsell-able for what ever the reason. For the better part of a decade I have relied on the free-box to supplement my purchases and get me through the hard times. 

Vein-clogging goodness oozing into the abyss.

This sandwich was completely free-boxed. Fresh baked [day-old] baguette, meats [out-of-date], lettuce and tomato [wilted, soft — respectively], and Brazos Valley Local Brie [out-of-date]. This is the new frugality. This is recession eating. I am Dionysus.

Lengua en Mejilla

It is no secret that I enjoy offal. I love it so much, I have even made the Hajj to the Mecca of all things offal, St. John. I. Love. Guts. They are good, and good for you. In our new hard times it makes sense to return to eating them. Frankly, if you are looking for flavor, heart and tongue and sweetbreads beat the hell out of a fillet, and they are far cheaper. Waste not, want not. 

Of course, the reality is that people are very turned off to the idea of eating what is politely seen as "left-overs". However, I've seen the same people have no problem eating a hot dog, which is really the "left-overs". There are two exceptions in the world of offal that are worth noting: the heart and the tongue. These are muscles. Most offal consumed, such as liver, sweetbreads, tripe, and kidneys are organs. They have that organ-y taste and texture that made you hate your Grandma for serving you liver and onions. That chalky taste. That bit of giblet that you missed picking out of your stuffing. Chances are you've never had well prepared liver or kidneys or giblets. They are delicate and should be cooked very little. Grandma probably cooked the shit out of that liver, which not only destroys the nutrient content, but also affects the flavor and texture. 

When Amenity invited me over to eat some tongue, I was stoked. I love tongue. And we're not talking some bullshit either. I mean, this was local grass-fed calves tongue. This is a delicacy. And again, this is a muscle, not an organ. The Butcher and I ventured over to Amenity and Adam's house over on the Eastside for what turned out to be quite the spread. A treat really. Homemade tortillas, awesome beans, tostones and sweet plantain, two salsas, and a whole slew of sides and accoutrements for our little lengua tacos. Cooking tongue is an undertaking, so I really appreciated that she wanted to try this for guests. 

Tongue has to be boiled for several hours, cooled, then all of the furry taste-buds must be peeled off before you can do much with it. Or you can simply allow it to cool and slice it and eat it fur and all. That's a pretty standard way to do it for the Brits — cold slices of tongue with mustard or piccalilly. We live close to the Mexican border so it is fitting to want to seek inspiration there in the form of tacos. When peeled, the tongue falls apart, resembling brisket. Amenity  then slow cooked this meaty goodness in a mix of spices and adobo. The flavor was delectable with notes of clove and cinnamon accentuating the delicate flavors of the beefy calves tongue. If I was James Brown, I'd say "Good Gawduh." 

Tortillas frescas.

Spread.

Those fuckers had some heat!

Big ol' bowl o'tongue!

This was one of my favorite recent meals. For one, I was a guest. I like this. The food was excellent and prepared with care. Adam made the tortillas with locally produced El Milagro masa as we arrived. That's freshness you just can't beat unless you've got toothless old Mexican women stashed around your house grinding corn and mixing it with manteca. Seriously, what a treat! Such a treat that I had to bring a New Glarus Wisconsin Belgian Red to commemorate the event. 

You've got the power and the glory!

These are hard times for some. I am a firm believer in using all parts of an animal. Indigenous cultures worldwide rely on this practice for survival. Why let it go to waste? You can't eat steak every night! Well, you can. I have done it. But it is at a premium. I digress. My point here is that these commonly discarded parts have utility and there is little reason to avoid consuming them. I don't want to seem pushy, and would never force someone to eat something they wouldn't enjoy, yet I would urge them to try new things and let old social stigmas fall by the wayside. After all, we are in a recession. . . 

Tasting Notes: Little. Yellow. Different.

Despite conventional wisdom, not all pilsners are created equal. The problem—the real problem, is that in our post-prohibition America, pilsners have turned beer into a despicable four-letter word. When you think about an American Pilsner, what comes to mind? Budweiser? Coors? Miller Lite? I live in Texas, so naturally Lone Star pops up amongst those other yellow, fizzy, adjunct-laden concoctions that are being passed off poorly as beer.

Really though. Bud, Miller, Coors. These are poor examples of what a good pilsner can be. When it comes to beer, you can basically break it down to two categories: ales and lagers. This is dependent on yeast type. Top fermenting, warmer temp loving ale yeast—which produces off-flavors that complement the beer depending on the intended style, and bottom fermenting, cold temp capable lager yeast. The pilsner lager has been around since the 1840's, ever since some Bavarian started combining new lagering techniques (keeping beer cool in caves for long periods of time) and paler malts. The result was a clean tasting, clear, refreshing brew. Thanks Plzen.

Fast forward to today. Sure, you can go and get a Pilsner Urquell and experience what a green bottled, poorly handled pils tastes like, or you can have one of the big beer industry's little, yellow, canned darlings. If so, you're drinking an adjunct-grain-laden soda. Big industry beers are full of corn and rice. Despite their ability to make this shit the same every time, it is hardly beer and would definitely not fly under the Rheinheitsgebot. Beer is supposed to be water, yeast, hops, and barley malt. It is only a matter of time before beer starts having soy added to it, and then it's just a short wait for the vitamin fortification. Well, probably not. Healthy bums anyone? Not on Bud's watch.

Oskar Blues' Mama's Little Yella Pils takes a stab at the old, adjunct free style of brewing pilsner in this canned brew. This beer is refreshing and easy to drink, like most of this brewery's beers, and when poured out of its can, it resembles the many fine pilsners of the world: yellow, crystal clear, with a lacy white head. What isn't like the many fine pilsners of the world is the taste. I found it refreshing, sure, but far too sweet. Where was the hop bitterness that comes with a good Bavarian-style pilsner? Lost. Lost to the New World I suppose. This beer is good, but it kinda falls flat for me. I like the hoppy bite of the pilsner (think Live Oak Pilz). I'll buy this. I'll drink it. I'll have it on a hot day. But, realistically, I could just save a few bucks, buy a Lone Star sixer and be done with it. Truth be told, I'm an ale guy anyway. If I'm going to be shelling out ten bucks for a six pack in this economy, I may as well get my money's worth and buy the Dale's Pale Ale.