exotica

I don't often take cooking classes, out of the misguided notion that I could learn most of the material just as well from a book. But Culinary Communion offers the occasional oddball class -- "Foie Gras", "Sauces", not to mention "Blind Wine Tasting" -- that strikes my fancy. And so it happened they recently had a class on Exotic Meats.

Who could resist the prospect of eating snake and zebra? Aside from all the vegetarians, teenagers, pescetarians, vegans, and other culinary dullards. And observant Jews and Muslims. And Heather. Most of the world, then.

More for me.

It was with some trepidation, though, that I signed up for the class. Would I remember how to cook? In December 2005, I made Sunset magazine's Pinot-Braised Duck with Spicy Greens. On January 8, 2008, I made a butter chicken curry. Nothing in between.

What is "braising"? Something to do with farming donkeys, I imagine.

*

We greeted the Five Sea Urchins. ($5 each at Uwajimaya -- to check freshness, make sure that the thingie isn't sunken into the hole at the bottom.) I named them after the Seven Dwarfs, which meant one urchin was called "Grumpy-Sneezy", and another "Sleepy-Dopey". Chef Gabriel flipped one over and cut across it, off-center, to crack it open. We pulled out the eggs, tasting some raw -- I can't imagine anyone but my mother actually cooking them -- and reserving the rest for a Sicilian pasta dish. Someone boiled six quarts of water with a cup of kosher salt so that the pasta would get more flavour. After the pasta was ready, the eggs were mixed in and melted around the pasta. That's all there was. (Perhaps olive oil. I think I missed something that helped give the water more of an oceanic flavour). This was great, I sang a toast to Scruffy and his brethren. I wish I'd taken more of the leftovers.

Melvin the sea cucumber ($5 at Uwajimaya) quivered on the table. "Oozed" might be the more appropriate word. Gabe first sliced a portion as though it were a cucumber. It tasted mild, of the ocean.

Melvin proceeded to puke out his guts, which are reputedly an aphrodisiac. In the name of science, I sampled some, but my willie remained wonka for the duration of the class. (A couple also tried a bit; to my disappointment, they managed to behave appropriately. They should've drunk some wine.) Gabe sliced Melvin laterally to reveal his muscles, and then peeled off the skin. He'd mentioned that El Bulli makes sea cucumber crackers, and they tried to make it. It ended up looking more and tasting like -- I now realize -- corolla -- Indian bittermelon, I guess is the English term. The sauteed muscles tasted good.

For snacking, someone fried wild boar bacon. That was tasty. And then came the buttermilk-fried Crocs with a cajun remoulade that was regrettably rubbery. Actually, the alligator was good. (While I was working on the roo, another student pounded on the gator to tenderize it. "Say you're sorry!" she yelled. I squealed, "Uh, uh! I'm sorry! I was bad! I'll behave!" She paused, and collapsed onto the butcher block in laughter. It wasn't that funny.)

The remoulade, as listed on the recipe card and prepared by four students, was potent and strong. Gabriel added sugar to soften the sauce, without taking away the spice. Another student insisted on adding sour cream to one bowl, to lighten it further. Personally, I preferred the version without.

I volunteered to prepare the pan-seared caraway and herb-crusted kangaroo medallions. Before I cut it open, I admired the pretty purple packaging. Then I discovered that the packaging was clear. After washing the meat and cutting away the trivial bits of fat in an effort to feel in charge, I found myself immediately stumped. "Uh, Gabriel? What do medallions look like?"

My neuroses kicked in. Is it seasoned enough? Is the parsley minced, or merely chopped? Am I packing the herbs on the medallions correctly? Another student started the sauce, reducing the veal stock and madeira, but it was for me to finish, after I seared the kanga in a heavy cast-iron pan -- and I do mean heavy. I could barely lift it with both hands. The recipe said: "Do not disturb for 1 minute. Flip and cook blank side for 2 minutes." Without a watch handy, I started counting, and because I easily lose track, I muttered the numbers under my breath. A student giggled at my madness. Once the meat was done, I finished the sauce.

I held my breath as it was served, bracing myself for screams of horror, for Gabriel to run up to me and say, "You wasted $30 of good kangaroo meat to make this?"

I heard nothing. I took a bite.

Much to my surprise -- particularly since I'm critical of my own cooking -- I liked it. I ate some more, and took the remaining piece home. A couple of students, politely or not, said they liked it as well, or at least the look of it. One woman took a single bite. How wasteful. I wrote down her name and while driving home, defaced her Myspace profile using my iPhone.

The recipe called for serving the roo with soft polenta with olives and basil. I'm not crazy about polenta, but I remember liking this. (Unfortunately, I don't remember why.) I liked the garlicky lemon escarole so much more, though -- I regret not taking all of it home for leftovers.

The puree blanc was also good, if not remarkable. The broiled python was disappointing, tough and chewy. It didn't get much flavour from the soy sauce, lime and mirin marinade. Grilling -- as indicated on the recipe card, but for want of a grill -- would have been better than broiling.

As for the antelope stew -- the stew itself was nice, but the antelope itself was uninteresting, tough. It probably would've been better served cooked for several more hours.

Alas, antelope! You died in vain.

Perhaps we'll have to try zebra sometime.

bad sommelier. still no biscuit.

(This is a different version of the same story. Consider the change in impact.)

Once there was a sommelier, and he was useless.

One day, a fine woman took her clients for dinner to the restaurant at which this sommelier served. They ordered entrees. She asked for a bottle of wine. He arrived.

"What can I getcha?"

She winced. He had no ideas. One client mentioned what they were eating, and suggested that perhaps a red would be called for.

"Great idea," the sommelier said brightly.

After further prodding, he set out to bring a 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon, Washington State. But first he turned to the woman.

"You're cute. I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers."

play

"This" is the first word. 'Is' was the second, 'the' the third, 'first' fourth, and the word 'word' brings us to the end.

wine tasting

A coworker wrote, on tasting wine and beer:

If you have to sniff, swirl, inhale, wait 30 seconds, drink it upside down or whatever in order to taste the difference, then there isn’t a big difference really.

That’s like saying that there’s not much difference between Seinfeld and Friends – I mean, they’re 30-minute sitcoms set in New York City featuring neurotics who live in apartments out of proportion with reality.

and now, a post about coffee crisp. a nice light snack.

My notes say, in total, "Post about Coffee Crisp". No clue why. I don't have much to say about it. It's a nice light snack. Occasionally I have cravings for it. For the longest time, the only place in Seattle you could find it was at Bartell's, but then it somehow spread to other places like QFC, and the vending machines at work.

I was so excited when I discovered that last bit a few years ago, but the new building I'm in doesn't have any. Damn it. Nor do the QFC or the Bartell's.

Damn. It.

arugula

People are often surprised to learn that English is my native language. I suppose being born in Vancouver and living there for twelve years before the Exile isn't a sufficient precondition for having some mastery of the language, not when you have brown skin and black hair and the stylishness of Bill Gates in his late twenties.

Christ, people, you think I'm FOB?

-- although a few allies have commented that my speech is bookish. Like, is that a bad thing?

It's true, however, that I occasionally stumble over pronouncing some words that I've read but never heard enunciated, or fail to remember how they sound. In my limited recollections, one event in college shines. In Sudikoff 212, I said to the prof: "I don't mean to harangoo" -- rhyme with kangaroo -- "you."

"You don't mean to what?"

"Uh." My eyes narrowed. "Aitch. Ai. Ar. Ai. En. Gee. You. Ee."

"Harangue?"

"Yeah, that's the word. Never, uh, heard it said before."

He laughed. I grimaced.

Eleven years later, I've had similar mishaps with language. Inventory -- apparently, it's "in-vin-tor-ree" and not "in-vent-ory". And then there's the matter of "arugula".

I don't think I even heard of arugula until last year; perhaps I didn't pay attention. I like greens, but one green leafy edible is much the same as another. Except iceberg lettuce. Which tastes like ass.*

What finally caused me to pay attention was the wild boar bolognese at Restaurant Zoe. At the time, the preparation included a pasta rolled with arugula, and the spiciness was delightful.

A few months later, an idea for a salad lit my mind, but I wasn't sure what green stuff to use, until I wandered through Trader Joe's produce department. "I will use," I cried out to anyone who would listen, "arugula."

"A what?"

"A-roo-goo-la?"

She looked at me, puzzled. I spelt it out.

"Oh, a-roog-yoo-la."

"A-roog-oo-la."

"A-roog-yoo-la."

"Fuck it. I like the way I say it better." Over the next five days, though, I chanted the word under my breath wherever I went, whether at work or at home, alternating between the two pronounciations.

I think I've got it now.

*If you must ask, how do you know this? You're much too young to be reading this weblog. Please go here and never return. Bye.

bad sommelier. no biscuit. or crackers.

A friend -- let's call him Robert -- told me a story of -- well, I don't remember all the details, and my notes are lacking. I don't even remember the name of the restaurant in question, which is just as well, since Robert told me that that part of the story was not mine to tell. "But you can tell the rest of the story if you like. Just no identifying details."

Oh, alright.

So once upon a time there was a sommelier, and he was useless. How useless? Utterly useless, and crass besides.

One day, a fine woman took her clients for dinner to the restaurant at which this sommelier served. They ordered entrees. She asked for a bottle of wine. The sommelier arrived.

"Sure. What can I getcha?"

The woman arched a brow. At least, I imagine she arched a brow, even though Robert neglected to tell me this detail. And if she didn't arch a brow, surely she winced, because who wants to work with sommelier who doesn't bring ideas to the table?

He had no ideas.

One of the clients, I think, mentioned what they were eating, and that perhaps a red would be called for. "Great idea," the sommelier said brightly. "Er."

They pushed, prodded, and finally it dawned on him to bring a 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon, Washington State. But before he did, he turned to the woman.

"You're cute. I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers."

*

In the months that my food blog has been gestating, I gathered material for some ten posts. So excuse the flurry of posts, please. I don't intend to make a habit of it.

so. let's start.

"What the fuck are you on?" she did not ask, but it amounts to the same. Instead, she said, after we were seated by the window, after I ran my fingers across the bright white tablecloth, my eyes briefly lighting on the sky outside, clouded and reflecting the sheen of the sun, before returning to look at hers, then her lips, then her nose: "I've never met someone who experiences food the way you do. When you really enjoy food, your face changes to bliss. That doesn't happen often."

No? Am I so picky? fussy? I don't know if that's true even if, over the years, I've been developing a taste for good food and wine.

Foie gras. Litchis. Ketchup potato chips.

These are some of my favourite foods. I have a taste for oddities, the sweet, the strange, things that give pleasure and delight.

*

I have no idea where I'll be going with this blog. To some extent, the intent is to get my friends off my back, these "friends" who've been asking, "Why don't you write about your culinary adventures?" And I say, "One day, one day," delaying with the thought that, well, I have nothing to say, or write.

We'll see.