Highland Café
Mem-Day Weekend 2009
11:18 pm.

The Scene:
An almost urban bar,
hipsters and aging hippies,
account managers,
some townies there for the money.
A place where the burgers matter and the bartenders mix craft.
The band is overeager alto sax,
with a drummer off riffing on drummer’s Viagra.

Boney women of uncertain androgyny,
Plush women eager for husbandry.

A woman with heavy rimmed glasses and sharp bangs
pulls a quart of milk from her soft leather satchel and shows it to her taller boyfriend.
This is supposed to be her funny,
but it reminds me of her loneliness.
She spends the night bending her neck up, and
I imagine the milk spoiling in the heat of her armpit.

The men are surprisingly short for the most part.
I notice they all wear their shirts untucked.
Dry cleaners and tailors around the world are appalled.
I would not sleep with a man who did not have the courage to tuck in his shirt.
You, you single women, read my mind and revolt!
Tell them to do better.
Save the female world from sartorial slack.
I resolve to throw away my husband’s beige polo shirts.

We grow tired.
The Planter’s Punch sticks to my gums like fluoride wash.
At home, I collapse on my Marimeko sheets and
Wonder, did the milk spoil?

What I'm Not Drinking This New Year's Eve

It is hard to drink Champagne when you're weeping.

Whiskey goes much better with grief. So does tequila, which is also strong enough to accompany a violent death.

Some people like to drown their sorrows in gin. This will not work for me. I am a vodka drinker so I only consume gin in fiction. I could use vodka. As the Russians will tell you, vodka is good for washing wounds and cleaning the feelings out of your guts. And the Russians do know a lot about death. In addition to vodka, they also invented the Gulag.

But I need something less mean than vodka to get me out of this funk. A sentimental beverage, like sherry, would work. I can sit in the grey light of the library, read Keats and Ghandi, listen to the sleet on the gutters, and get tipsy. But I'm in more of a Thomas Mann mood these days, and you can't read Death in Venice on sherry. What about Absinthe? Absinthe is in vogue right now. I used to smuggle it in from Czechoslovakia, though now that you can buy it at Sammy's Discount Liquors, it is not as romantic and subversive as it used to be. No, not absinthe. I am too sad to drink anything that decadent. Besides, decadence, like Las Vegas, is overrated. The fashion for decadence is eroding like the beaches of Chatham and Montauk. Soon we will all be wearing hairshirts and living on bark. Good. We deserve it.

This mood will not do. She was a strong and resilient woman. She would have wanted courage not bitterness and tears. She would not like to see us weep in our coffee cups while we listen to the BBC. She would have wanted us to fight for our strength and optimism, after we got through with cursing. She would have wanted us to be brave and stylish as we conquered barbarism and intolerance.

Although I cannot drink Champagne this New Year's Eve, her murder will not keep me from going out. I will wear a costume to mask my sadness. I will drink the sweetest wine in the world to soothe my heart.

You will know me by my hat. If you meet a woman in tails this New Year's Eve, listen closely. She will be murmuring to the bartender in a thick German accent: "Daaahrling, I am so saaad this evening. Give me another Trockenberenauslese. I want to dance again."


In memoriam

Fortune Cookies for Christmas

For Jews like me determined not to celebrate Christmas, Christmas Day is a time for suffering and Chinese food. While Christian America is busy opening presents and eating ham glistening with corn syrup and red food dye, us Jews are sitting in a crowded Chinese restaurant eating lukewarm Moo Goo Gai Pan. This joyful time is usually spent with an elderly relative who keeps asking for covers for the fried rice, even though there haven't been covers in Chinese restaurants for almost 20 years ago. Jews who have moved up the ladder and gone on to buy sports teams sometimes go to a hotel on Christmas, but it isn't any better for them either. The only difference is that the elderly relatives sit through dinner in a dry mink coat; otherwise, they're still complaining that the food isn't hot enough.

This Christmas, I have vowed that it will be different. This year I am planning the ideal Christmas meal. The wonderful thing about a blog, is that I can plan this marvelous Christmas meal, tell you all about it, and then because I don't actually have to cook it, I won't have to worry about G-d being angry with me and shutting me out of the afterlife scene in Miami.

So if the Food Alien had servants and a baptism, here is the meal that she would serve on Christmas:

First there would be oysters. Lots of oysters. Bluepoints on the half shell cradled in crushed ice side-by-side with Oysters Rockefeller broiled on a bed of hot rock salt.

Then sauteed foie gras with poached fresh figs flown in from Sicily, drizzled with a Vin Santo reduction and garnished with a tiny bit of chopped mint from the greenhouse.

This would be followed by quenelles made with Dover sole and whole Nantucket bay scallops. For this course, it would be helpful to engage a kitchen maid who has had some experience in the court of Versailles, since the making of quenelles requires some facility with mincing, stuffing, poaching and conjugating the subjunctive. Quenelles are a blissful marriage of fish mousse with a sausage technique. The resulting dish has a sublime texture, like silk velvet or heavy satin. I would serve this with a light herbed veloute, garnished with a few barely quivering scallops. (The Nantucket bay scallop comes into season just in time to celebrate the birth of the little baby Jesus. Bay scallops have nothing in common with the large variety mercilessly dragged from the ocean floor. They are small, sweet and delicate and should be cooked for the shortest period of time combustibly possible.)

An intermezzo of cigarettes and sorbet would be appropriate at this time. I am partial to champagne sorbets, especially if a bit of lavender or rose is added, but other kinds would be suitable as well. I am not too fussy about sorbet, so long as it is not served too cold. If you are ever going to bother with a sorbet course, please don't serve it too cold. Sorbet is meant to be served only moderately chilled. A scoop of sorbet is not meant to be the doorbell for an igloo.

At this point, it would be appropriate to move on to the meat courses. How many meat courses depends upon whether you are dining with friends or with relatives. With friends, a three or four hour meal is a gift of the seraphin; with relatives, it may be a preview of purgatory. Regardless of consanguinity, the centerpiece must be a goose. If you can stand to bookend it with a terrine of venison with chanterelles, all the better.

Why goose? Is it not a tough and fatty bird? Indeed it is. Goose is not an easy animal to cook. It did not want to be in the barnyard to begin with, and it certainly did not take kindly to being killed. It is fowl with attitude. It usually begs the question, why did you bother to kill me and spend all this money? If you are going to make goose, be prepared. First, you must pick the goose carefully. Get a young one, not too big. Geese get sardonic as they age, making them harder to chew on. Then be kind to it; thank it for its sacrifice, shake it by the leg and wash it thoroughly. If you find that the joints have the pliability of, say, a Cirque du Soleil chorus girl, then you can proceed immediately to roasting; otherwise, brine it overnight and pray. When you are ready to roast it, make a stuffing of tart apples and goose liver. It is best roasted with a mire-poire, white wine and stock and covered for the first hour of cooking. Thereafter, cook it uncovered, baste often and keep praying.

At my ephemeral Christmas dinner, the roasted goose will be served with several side dishes: Spaetzle, peas with mushrooms and baby red onions, and sweet and sour red cabbage. (I have no objection to moving from France to Germany in the middle of a meal. The creation of the European Union freed the hostess from the ancient constraints of national allegiance. Be free! Be modern! Serve spaetzle after Champagne!)

After the goose, a short perambulation through the fields is a good idea: A lady slipper salad of sorrel, endive, frissee and mache, with a few slivers of Seckel pear. Alternatively, I might just bring in a box of cigars.

For dessert, I am not serving Buche de Noel. I don't like it. It reminds me of the cakes I ate at childhood birthday parties. Desserts made to resemble horticultural objects, like tree stumps and roses, are rarely pleasing. For dessert, I am serving a duo of Baba au Rhum and a version of Baked "Alaska," homemade French vanilla and mango ice creams, topped with meringue and flambeed with rhum vieux. There is always something festive about a bonfire, especially one that smells like rum.

And lastly, to end the meal, the butler will bring out some toothpicks, a dish of pineapple chunks and a plate of fortune cookies.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

-The Food Alien

Roman's Magical Cup of Midnight Coffee

My friend Roman claims that we are fated to work through the unresolved issues from our past lives in this life. As if to prove the point, one of his past lives has taken to using my coffee pot to brew itself a cup of spiritual catharsis. After a winter evening of courses and discourses, when the rest of the guests are digesting peacefully, this particular past life is restlessly experimenting with coffee and alcohol.

He begins with a pot of potent coffee and just the right porcelain cup. He takes this steaming brew to a quiet corner of the dining room. There, under the dripping candelabra, he begins picking up various bottles clustered on the marble top of the Victorian server. Just about anything can end up in his mug -- port, sherry, cognac, vodka, cassis -- even absinthe. When he has finished pouring all manner of liqueur and liquor into this poor cup of coffee, he doesn't just drink it. He proclaims it to be the most perfect, the most artful, the most invigorating of liquid delights, and then he downs it quickly. His search for the penultimate caffeinated potion will often lead him to repeat the experiment several times.

Which brings me back to Roman's theory of past lives. Since there is no logical rationale for this rite of gastric self-flagellation, I can only conclude that Roman is indeed being driven by his spectral inner needs. The maker of this cup of coffee is obviously the doomed soul of an alchemist. As he lifts the cup to his lips, I can see the glint of a 16th century genius, a Hapsburg prince immersed in the castle laboratory, ever optimistic that the latest batch in the bubbling pot is about to turn to gold. At that moment, he becomes a spirit chasing spirits.

For Roman the alchemist, here follows a few stanzas of verse to honor your quest, in this life, to find a magical cup of midnight coffee.

Roman at the Bar
There is no drink ere so fine
As one that’s made at midnight time.
Brew the coffee very hot,
Pour the brandy shot by shot.
Don’t omit the crème de menthe
Or the smuggled absinthe.
Oh look! "Hooray, hooray!
There’s half a bottle of Grand Marnier!"

You stand and ponder spoon in cup;
You stir and drink the potion up.
Soon your brain begins to fall
From alchemy of alcohol.
Tomorrow it will take its toll,
This cup of coffee for the soul.

* * *

Those of you who are still thirsty may wish to try the following coffee drink this holiday season; it is suitable for anyone with a reasonably tolerant digestion and disposition:

Midnight Mass
Mix half of mug of freshly ground, freshly brewed strong coffee (a Moka Java, Sumatra etc.) with a tablespoon of Dutch cocoa.
Add:
1 Shot Tia Maria
1/2 Shot Amaretto
1/2 Shot Creme de Cacao
A dash of half-and-half

Garnish with whipped cream.

How I Introduced the French to Onion Rings

I was living on a farm in the Dordogne, a poor region of France known for mosquitoes, strawberries and maigret. (Maigret is the duck breast of a duck that has been force-fed corn in order to fatten its liver.) The farm raised cattle for veal, rented out rooms, and, most notably, made the best duck confit on the planet. (Indeed, there was very little on this farm in the way of fowl and swine that was not the best on the planet.) I do not recall the type of duck they raised, but I do recall how it was raised.

Once it could waddle a bit, the duck was slowly raised on a diet of corn grown on the farm. A toothless, ancient old woman who ate all her food with a pocket knife fed the ducks and spoke to them in some special duck-Dordogne dialect that only a handful of people in the village of 50 could understand. I am convinced that whatever she said to them contributed to the quality of the final product, since it calmed their nerves and made them eager to eat corn.

When the ducks got to adult size, about 10 of the best would be selected for liver-fattening. Madame LaForet, the mistress of the farm, would sit on a stool in a room of the barn and skillfully massage the neck of each duck as she slowly fed it corn. It was a labor intensive process, taking several hours of the morning and evening. She was gentle with the animal and never fed it more than it was willing to eat. She despised the "factory" foie gras operations which she considered a form of animal cruelty and a disgrace to a method that had been practiced for centuries in this region.

When the ducks had reached the corn absorption point, a mystical measuring system that no one other than Madame LaForet understood, the ducks were slaughtered. Slaughter day was a big event at the farm, involving both liquor and feathers. The ducks were swiftly killed, and somewhat less swiftly cleaned and quartered. The pieces were then layered in a heavy earthenware jar, several feet deep, with copious quantities of coarse salt. After several days, they were removed, the salt wiped off and the pieces cooked.

The cooking of these noble ducks was something out of a dream. Madame LaForet had an enormous fireplace in her kitchen, probably ten feet wide and dating from the Napoleonic Era. The duck pieces were placed in cast iron cauldrons suspended from hooks in the fireplace and cooked over a low fire for about a day. When the ducks reached a state of consistency that, again, only the science of Madame LaForet understood, they were ready for curing. The curing process was nothing more complicated than placing the duck and more salt in another earthenware jar, filling the jar with the sumptuous, molten fat, and leaving the jar to sit for a couple of months in a cool stone outbuilding. The result was duck confit. This confit has no more in common with the roasted duck shreds littering the salad plates of chic restaurants than a cubic Zerconia has to a diamond.

Once cured, the duck pieces were pan-fried and served with potatoes sauteed in the confit fat. Do not eat this on a diet: you will feel guilty for the rest of your life. The guilt, however, will be worth it.

The downside (quack, quack) of this duck dream was surplus duckfat. One could hardly enter a pantry without tripping over an amphora of the rendered duck fat of her corn-fattened ducks. She had so much of stuff that she used it as hand cream. Therefore, she didn't much mind when I asked if I could use some of it to make onion rings. I made a basic beer batter of dark french beer, a little sweet, cornstarch and flour and used it to fry up some Spanish onions in about a quart of that unparalleled fat. It was well-received by everyone, including the little old lady, who ate hers off the end of her knife. The recipe cannot be reproduced, as Madame LaForet's duck fat is not readily available at your local Whole Foods. The recipe that follows is, at best, its poor cousin.

Mix 75 grams of flour with 50 grams of cornstarch by weight (I have never bothered to convert it, as most scales have a metric option.) Add S & P, 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil and 2/3 of a cup of moderately sweet brown ale, (the Smuttynose Winter Ale I am drinking this evening would do just fine). Slice two large Spanish onions into centimeter thick rounds. Fill a saucepan with three cups of rendered chicken or duck fat and one cup of Canola oil and heat until hot but not smoking. (Chicken fat is available frozen in most supermarkets. Lard may be used instead, but the taste will not be the same.) Lightly toss onion in flour to coat and dip in beer batter. Drop into fat, adjust heat upwards slightly and fry until golden. Serve immediately to anyone who does not have a heart condition.

Baked Stuffed Cod From God
A fresh loin of cod three thumbs thick tells you there is a God and he eats fish. This cod is the creature Rembrandt painted coming out of the sea to welcome Adam to the Earth. Such is the flesh of a loin of cod.

Should you be fortunate enough to come across this sleeping beauty lying on a bed of ice, invite your loved ones over and make the following preparation:

1 loin of Cod, at least 2 and 1/2 inches thick and 10 inches long
1/2# fresh lump crabmeat
1/2# sea scallops cut into to 3/4 inch chunks
A half cup (cooked) of chopped baby spinach, steamed and squeezed of excess liquid.
1-2 shallot minced
2 cloves garlic minced
2 sticks fine salted butter
1 to 11/2 cups of plain breadcrumbs
Fresh thyme and parsley
A good Amontiallado sherry and a shot of cognac

-Wash and dry fish thoroughly. Butterfly fish by making four diagonal slices in the top of the loin approximately 2/3rds the depth of the fish and equally spaced and about an inch on either end. Melt butter and brush whole loin, including interior of the cavities. Salt and pepper fish. Place in buttered ceramic baking dish.

-Make filling by sauteing 1 shallot and garlic in approximately 3/4 of stick of butter. Remove from heat and add spinach, breadcrumbs, shellfish, cognac, fresh thyme and chopped parsley, S & P, and 1 cup of breadcrumbs and mix with hands. Add more breadcrumbs and melted butter as necessary to make a sticky but not overly bready stuffing. If fish is particularly large, add additional breadcrumbs and butter.

-Fill cavities and top with stuffing. Add sherry to a 1/4 inch depth and a juice glass of water, rest of the shallot and springs of thyme.

-Bake at 375 degrees, braising occasionally with melted butter until slightly browned and fish flakes, approximately 35-40 minutes. Finish under broiler to crisp stuffing. Serve in baking dish with parslied baby potatoes, peeled and boiled till just tender.