For about six years now we’ve been making an annual spice order from [Penzeys][], a shop based in Wisconsin. When we started ordering from them, they had maybe three shops, all in or near their home state.

[Penzeys]: http://www.penzeys.com/

In the past few years, however, they’ve been opening retail stores at a Starbucks-like rate. This culminated recently in a contest where the city that sent in the most postcards would get a Penzeys store. The winner was Boston, but they decided to give runner-up Portland a store, too, and they say they’re scouting out locations in some of the other cities that made a good show. (Seattle is in the next tier.)

We’re all down in Portland at the moment on a family visit, so I decided to sneak out and hit the Penzeys store here. It’s not *exactly* in Portland–it’s on 82nd, near Clackamas Town Center. Naturally, there was some kind of water main break today that snarled traffic on 82nd for miles, but I persevered, and it was so worth it.

It’s not that there’s a big difference between shopping at a Penzeys store and shopping the catalog, but shopping the catalog is one of my favorite pastimes, and the store has exactly the same selection (I came in with a list of about fifteen items and all of them were in stock; keeping great inventory seems to be store policy). In addition, at the store you can sniff all of the spices, and it’s more suited to impulse buys. I didn’t come in with Spanish *pimentón de la vera* (smoked paprika) in mind, but I walked out with some; it’s destined for a goulash-style recipe from [Italian Slow and Savory][ISS].

[ISS]: https://www.rootsandgrubs.com/2005/12/10/best-cookbooks-2003-2004-italian-slow-and-savory/

Why buy from Penzeys instead of the grocery store? Three obvious reasons: price, selection, and quality. Spices at Penzeys generally run about one-third of supermarket price. Penzeys has spices your supermarket probably doesn’t, like *pimentón de la vera*. And the freshness and potency of most of their stuff will blow you away.

These are my favorite Penzeys products:

* China Cassia Cinnamon and China Ground Ginger. Order some of these. When they arrive, go into your cupboard and find your ground cinnamon and ginger. Stick your nose into the jars and sniff them. Then open the Penzeys spices and see if they aren’t more fragrant before you even get your nose near them.

* Chili powder (medium hot). Since Iris started clamoring for anything with chiles in it, we’ve gone through literally a pound of this a year. Mostly it goes into enchiladas and tacos, but it’s totally acceptable for making chili, or for use as a spice rub. Normal I go for the spiciest version of any product, but the medium really is just right.

* Whole ancho chiles. I buy my other dried chiles at Pike Place Market, but there’s something special about Penzeys’ anchos. They never seem to have the crusty or discolored parts that I find on other people’s anchos (I’m sure these are purely cosmetic flaws, but still). They’re the Angela Bassett of chiles: dark, silky, and alluring.

* Bay leaves. Most whole herbs and spices are fine for a couple of years, regardless of what fussy cookbooks will tell you. But bay leaves really do crap out within a year. Penzeys’ leaves start out with plenty of punch in their, uh, petioles, so by the end of the year they still have some love to give.

Today I decided to make penne vodka for dinner and noticed we were out of vodka, so I headed to the state liquor store.

As a certified food person, I always try to buy the finest handmade artisan products. Liquor is no exception. So I am proud of my selection of a 750ml bottle of Hussar brand vodka. It has a very Russian-looking double-headed eagle on the label, and a coat of arms with a crown, so you know it’s the good stuff.

And it’s imported! From Missouri.

This was all Laurie’s idea. I wish I could take credit for it, but I didn’t even know that Dreyer’s (aka Edy’s) peppermint ice cream existed. Laurie did, and she also intuited that it wouldn’t come into its own until topped with an immoderate amount of homemade hot fudge.

I used the hot fudge recipe from Bittersweet, which is basically just ganache (it’s chocolate, half-and-half, vanilla, and salt).

While I was eating my sundae (okay, while I was eating *today’s* sundae; the sundaes began on Tuesday), I realized that hot fudge is always better eaten at home. When I have a hot fudge sundae out in the world, I almost always run into the same problem: the hot fudge is gone before the ice cream. At home, you can solve that problem by setting aside extra sauce to add as needed. I guess you could order hot fudge on the side at the DQ, but I’ll never remember to do that.

The only commercial sundae that avoids fudge imbalance is Dairy Queen’s Peanut Buster Parfait, which puts sauce in the bottom, middle, and top of the sundae. This was a major breakthrough in ice cream service, and we should be thankful they didn’t give it a horrifically stupid name.

Bittersweet
(2003)
Alice Medrich
378 pages, $35

Most cookbooks don’t have a new idea anywhere between their covers. That’s not a criticism. Between now and the end of time, there will be six kajillion more Italian cookbooks published, few of which will have anything resembling a new recipe, but many of them will be quite good, because they’ll entice a new generation of cooks to get into the kitchen and make polenta (or, in the future, space-polenta).

But _Bittersweet_ is something new, because it’s a cookbook all about how to use a new and delicious product–and new and delicious products are even rarer than original cookbooks.

The product is 70% chocolate, or other chocolates with a high percentage of cocoa solids. This was a niche item less than five years ago; now I get 70% Valrhona and Pound Plus bars at Trader Joe’s, and they sell 85% Lindt bars (as well as Scharffen-Berger) at the supermarket down my street.

I prefer a less-sweet chocolate bar, and using a high proportion of cocoa solids means you can’t cover up inferior chocolate. Even the Trader Joe’s 72% Pound Plus bar, which is about four bucks, is great eating chocolate. In my world, this is like Trader Joe’s illicitly importing Iranian caviar and selling it for six dollars a pound.

The trouble with 70% bars is that if you use them in recipes designed for Hershey’s, you’ll run into trouble–just as if you decided to add more chocolate to your cake and put in less sugar. So every single recipe in _Bittersweet_ has instructions for using regular chocolate, 60%-64% chocolate, or 66%-72% chocolate. As for the 85% Lindt bar, you’re on your own. And they’re Medrich’s usual brilliant recipes for ice creams, cakes, cookies, pies, and so on, along with a chapter of savory recipes with chocolate, such as roasted squash soup with cocoa bean cream.

Speaking of cream, try the recipe for Nibby Cream. Heat cocoa nibs (another up-and-coming gourmet chocolate variation) with cream, strain, then chill the cream and whip it for the most subtle and haunting chocolate flavor.

But there’s a much more important reason to buy this book. It brings back into print one of the world’s greatest recipes.

For some reason, probably involving the publishing industry and Satan, Medrich’s book _Cookies and Brownies_ is out of print and rare. In it is the most amazing fudgy brownie recipe of all time, “New Classic Brownies.” The secret is the Steve Ritual, invented by Medrich’s friend Steve Klein, wherein you remove the brownies from the hot oven and plunge the pan into a tray of ice water. Somehow this causes a crackly top and dense, chewy interior. And now the brownie recipe, ritual intact, has been reprinted in _Bittersweet._

A couple of years ago I wrote an article about cookbooks for the Seattle Times in which I mentioned the Steve Ritual. This occasioned an email from the *actual Steve.* This would be like if you bragged on your blog about finding the G-spot, and then got an email from Dr. Grafenberg saying, “You go!”

Naturally I asked Steve if he had any other great ideas to share, but all I got was his plan for Mideast peace. I wasn’t impressed. World-class brownies are a lot harder than that.

Cooking by Hand (2003)
Paul Bertolli
270 pages, $40

Bertolli is the former chef at Oliveto and [Chez Panisse](http://www.chezpanisse.com/) and currently the proprietor of Fra’Mani Handcrafted Salumi. Between that and the title, you won’t be surprised that Cooking By Hand is not a book about meals in minutes. It requires scouring farmer’s markets for specific ingredients for which no subsitutions are given.

This would be obnoxious if not for two things: Bertolli is a superb writer, and the book is a work of art. He’s also a little eccentric: he started a batch of balsamic vinegar when his son was born, in the hopes that the boy will take it over and enjoy it well into his old age. I am imagining a 14-year-old Bertolli Jr. inviting his hoodlum friends over and filling their Super Soakers from the acetaia, but it’s the thought that counts. Bertolli also wrote a short play with characters such as Barolo, Pigeon, and Panna Cotta. One character is listed as:

> *Oxtails: Actually the tail of a cow*

The design of Cooking By Hand is a model that should be studied by every author and designer. It is understated, uses color judiciously, and brings the material to life.

It’s hard to explain what is so appealing about Cooking By Hand without getting philosophical. Many people here in the 21st century, including me, find themselves caught between modernism and some kind of traditionalism. Modernism simultaneously gives us great stuff and a lot of crap. It gives us the Internet and chocolate frozen french fries. The Guggenheim and strip malls. It’s easy to say no to chocolate fries, but often it’s hard to know when to reject modernism’s gifts.

Chefs, I think, are better at balancing modernism and traditionalism than most of us, and Bertolli is especially skilled at this. He stands up for heirloom produce and organic flours and the like, but in his brilliant chapter of charcuterie (“The Whole Hog”), he recommends purchasing a pH meter and a hygrometer, and he uses sodium nitrate in all of his cured meat products. Health issues aside, I have tried many cured meat products with and without nitrates, and nitrates unequivocally improve the flavor of salami, bacon, and certain sausages.

The reason chefs are so good at balancing the new and old ways is that a chef at Bertolli’s level (meaning one who can charge a lot for his food) has one guiding question that helps him navigate this minefield: does it taste better? A couple of years ago I saw Anthony Bourdain give a reading from A Cook’s Tour, and afterwards someone asked him whether he, as a chef, feels a responsibility to use organic and sustainable ingredients. “Sure,” he said, “but as a chef, it’s always first about what tastes great and looks good on the plate.” Most of us don’t and can’t allow ourselves such a simple morality.

If you yearn for the simple life, don’t cure your own meat. But if you want an incredible hybrid of American bacon and pancetta, make Bertolli’s recipe for tesa, on page 202. It calls for 12-1/2 pounds of pork belly. You will also need a specific type of curing salts and a couple of weeks. The pork belly is cured flat (unlike rolled pancetta) with cloves, allspice, nutmeg, juniper berries, garlic, and red wine. Can you taste this yet? Buy your pork belly in one-pound pieces and you can make yourself and eleven of your friends very happy this holiday season. Get to work.