Chowder than Love

When I am in a funk, there are two things sure to help: listening to Cotton Mather’s 1997 pop masterpiece Kon Tiki, and reading Jasper White’s 50 Chowders.

It’s not that I make chowder very often, but chowder is a reassuring idea. Whatever you’ve got, counsels the voice of Jasper, boil it up with some bacon, onions, and broth, add some cream, and things will turn out okay. I’ve made three chowders this year: clam, corn, and last night’s chowder, which I’ll get to in a minute.

Iris doesn’t seem to really register the emotion of disappointment yet, and I envy her this. Today, for example, we packed up our stuff, got on the bus, and went to the science museum. We have a membership, and Iris likes the butterflies and the robotic dinosaurs and scorpion. So we got over there and I realized that the museum is closed on Monday. I explained that the dinosaurs and butterflies were resting, and she totally bought this, and we went to the children’s museum instead.

Similarly, sometimes Iris will get very excited about eating something, and then she will end up not liking it. When this happens to me, it’s totally depressing. When it happens to Iris, not only does she not seem to mind, but sometimes she continues talking about it the next day.

Such was the case with clam chowder. I announced with much fanfare a couple of months ago that I was going to make clam chowder. I’d never bought or cooked a clam before, so this was part of the adventure. I went down to the market and bought some cherrystone clams—not very many of them, since they’re huge. (Doesn’t “cherrystone” sound small?) I brought them back and showed them to Iris, and then I steamed them open and we looked with awe and a little horror at the weird clam meat within, especially the green part that looks like frozen spinach and is presumably some sort of liver tissue. I liked the clam chowder a lot; it was especially briny and almost metallic because of the big clams. Iris didn’t think much of it. Then the other day when I asked her what kind of chowder we should make next, she said, “Clam!”

More recently, last Saturday I attempted to roast a duck. This was far from my first time cooking duck (I wrote an article about doing so for the Seattle Times), but it was my first time roasting a whole duck. It was not very successful, and there was a point where I was wrestling with a half-cooked duck on a too-small cutting board and spewing duck juices everywhere that is very funny in retrospect. Iris was talking about the roast duck all day, but she ended up eating about three bites while Laurie and I pecked at crispy bits on the legs.

For a while we’ve had this running joke where Iris or I will tack on “…and a lobster” to any list of things. I’m not sure who started it (it’s probably related to Lobster Magnet), but the basic idea is:

**Me:** When we get home, we’ll have some crackers, some oranges–

**Iris:** –and a lobster.

The joke pretty much ran its course, but then while we were talking about chowder, I said, “I could make lobster chowder…” Iris said, “Lobster chowder? IRIS EAT SOME.” So I’m sure she would be very excited if I did make lobster chowder, but she’s not very good at eating soup, and when I gave her some shrimp recently, she wasn’t so into it (title of guaranteed bestseller: _She’s Just Not That Into Your Shrimp_). Then again, maybe it’s the process of making lobster chowder or roast duck that interests her as much as the eating. In other words, maybe she’s a cook.

Tonight’s chowder, from _50 Chowders_, was chanterelle and leek with a little curry powder, the chanterelles (purchased at the farmers market for $10/pound, which is a steal but still $10/pound) bulked up with some creminis. It was excellent, and it went great with some special crackers that I’ll tell you about tomorrow.

Restaurant criticism: A beginner’s guide

Right now I shouldn’t be writing this post, because I’m on deadline for a restaurant review. Restaurant critic is an intriguing job, and everyone wants to know how it works, so I put together this handy FAQ.

**Q: Do you tell the restaurant who you are and when you’re coming?**

A: Of course. Otherwise I might not get special treatment, and I *live* for special treatment. Generally I call several days in advance and ask the restaurant to procure the largest possible lobe of Grade A foie gras and begin marinating it in grand cru Sauternes. On the day of my meal, I call to confirm that they have sufficient Iranian beluga on the premises. So pretty much the same thing you do when you go out.

**Q: Who do you bring with you to the restaurant?**

A: Generally it’s me, Kid Sensation, PLB, Maharaji, and Larry. Larry is a white guy, but he is a real estate investor who makes a lot of money, so we bring him along to cover the caviar.

**Q: Isn’t the newspaper supposed to pay for your meal?**

A: If you’re implying that our bankrolls aren’t fatter than the foie gras, this interview is over.

**Q: Do you tell your guests what to order?**

A: Yes, with the caveat that Larry is a vegetarian, and he is getting *seriously* tired of grilled portobellos.

**Q: How do you decide how many stars to award the restaurant?**

A: I take into account the food, the service, the decor, and intangible factors, such as:

* The restaurant’s name is the same as its address (e.g., 727 Pine): minus one star
* Waitress is smoking hot: plus one star
* Prices on the menu lack decimal places or dollar signs: this must be a cool place, plus one star
* Grilled portobello: minus one star

**Q: Do you ever wear a disguise?**

A: I have a closet full of hand-tailored gorilla suits.

Seriously, now, I watched Kitchen Confidential before it went on hiatus, and one episode had the most awesomely misinformed restaurant critic plotline I’ve ever seen. The New York Times reviewer made a reservation and everyone knew it was her; she came to the restaurant alone on opening night; and the review ran the next day. Plus she was hot.

Celeriac

Today was the last day of the Broadway Farmers Market until next June. Last year we had to schlep to the U District, but then this year they opened a new market blocks from our house, and some of our favorite farmers were there, along with some new faces like Alvarez Farms. Everything Alvarez sells is organic and inexpensive, and it’s probably the best of its genre you’ve ever had. They specialize in peppers, but they also have the best corn and eggplants. It’s new world produce. Earlier in the year they had remarkable purple tomatillos, good enough to eat raw, and today they had firm and flawless red onions.

I asked the Alvarez guy whether they do a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture, where you buy a share of the farm and receive a weekly box of produce), and they said, sure, just pick the basket up at our farm in Mabton, which according to Google Maps is 181 miles from our house. Luckily, Alvarez is going to be at Pike Place Market through December.

Mabton is in the high desert of eastern Washington. I once overheard the following banter between two of the guys behind the counter while they were unloading sacks of dried peppers:

> **Younger guy**: What do you do with these, anyway?

> **Older guy**: You grow up in the desert and you don’t know dried peppers? What’s wrong with you?

I got some red onions and went chasing after Iris. It was foggy this morning, and on the way down to the market she was speculating about whether she would be able to see the vegetables through the fog. Today the market coordinator had brought her chickens, and Iris patted the rooster. Then Iris said we should get some carrots, so I got some at Willie Green’s, along with some celery root.

Celery root is a vegetable I admire because it’s so standoffish. When people talk about cooking simply with fresh ingredients and doing as little to the food as possible, they’re not talking about celery root, because for god’s sake, the thing looks like a shrunken head.

We just got the 2005 bound edition of Cook’s Illustrated, and it has an article about root vegetables with the subtitle: *Could we turn “boring” turnips, celery root, and parsnips into exciting side dishes?*

One of the recipes is Glazed Celery Root with Onions, Grapes, and Pistachios. I guess the grapes and pistachios make it exciting. I didn’t have any grapes or pistachios on hand, the combination sounded gross anyway, so I left them out, but I threw in some carrots along with the celery roots and used those Alvarez red onions. In other words, I took their “exciting” side dish and made it boring again, and of course it was perfect.

Sprouts

I’d like to tell you that Iris loves brussels sprouts, but she doesn’t. She does love broccoli, which doesn’t taste any more bitter to me than sprouts, so go figure. Sometimes she likes the creamy braised brussels sprouts from All About Braising, but probably more for the cream than the sprouts.

I, on the other hand, could easily eat a bowl of brussels sprouts for dinner. Here’s how I usually make them. Halve two cups of brussels sprouts. In a large skillet or saute pan, fry a couple of strips of bacon, crumble and reserve the bacon, and leave some fat in the pan. Raise the heat to medium high and throw in the sprouts and some salt. Cook for a few minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sprouts are lightly browned. Deglaze with chicken broth, cover, reduce the heat to medium-low, and cook to desired tenderness. Stir in fresh ground pepper and the reserved bacon.

Until recently, I would make this only occasionally (because brussels sprouts are a big pain to trim), and only when I could get good sprouts at the farmer’s market (because supermarket sprouts are generally old and tattered, and old specimens are probably responsible for brussels sprouts’ bad reputation). Now I make them all the time, thanks to Mark Bittman, who reminded me in a column last winter that frozen brussels sprouts exist and are almost always better than fresh:

> At a meal last fall at Citronelle, the great Washington restaurant, I was served a delicious plate of brussels sprouts. When I asked the chef, Michel Richard, where they were from, he said without hesitation, “the freezer.”

Buy “petite” frozen sprouts (I get Safeway Select brand) if possible.

Brussels sprouts at market
Brussels sprouts at Broadway farmers market, Seattle

A Trip to the Market

Something both good and bad about Seattle is that everyone pretty much goes to the same places. If you’re a foodie, you pay your dues in the line at [Salumi](http://www.salumicuredmeats.com/) and argue the merits of *Å“ufs plats* at Le Pichet versus *Å“ufs en meurette* at [Cafe Campagne](http://campagnerestaurant.com/cafe_home.html). (I love them both, but the fact that Cafe Campagne’s eggs are served with fries tips the scale in their favor.)

In New York, every gourmand inhabits a different world. You can live in New York for years and suddenly hear about a bakery or sushi place that has been open forever but nobody told you about it. We lived there for a year and never went to City Bakery, maker of the world’s finest tarts, because we didn’t know it existed. I’ve still never been there, although I’ve made some of the tarts from chef Maury Rubin’s brilliant Book of Tarts. If you drew a Venn diagram showing gourmet destinations of a few dozen New Yorkers, there would be a tiny spot of overlap in the middle corresponding to Katz’s Delicatessen, and even then there would be one cranky guy going on about how Katz’s isn’t what it used to be.

The center of the Venn diagram in Seattle is obviously Pike Place Market, and here’s where things get interesting, because the market is old enough, vast enough, and weird enough that every shopper has their own signature market trawl. Recently I told someone about the brilliant apple fritter at Three Girls Bakery, and I’m always getting similar recommendations.

Iris and I go to the market about once a week. We hit Delaurenti for cheese; it’s the best cheese counter in town and one of the only ones that doesn’t precut the cheese. Actually, we hit Delaurenti for cheese for me and Laurie, because Iris doesn’t like cheese. People are always saying they wouldn’t change anything about their children. These people must have kids who love cheese. Here is a conversation Iris and I have had many times:

> **Me:** Oh my god, this is some delicious cheese.

> **Iris:** Iris want some.

> **Me:** You want to try some?

> **Iris:** No. (Walks away.)

Iris’s favorite stops at the market are [Bottega Italiana][1] for gelato (she usually chooses lime); the crumpet shop for a crumpet with butter and honey (“sticky!”); Rachel the Pig for a kiss; and the viewpoint to the right of the fish-throwing stand, a viewpoint I never knew existed until Iris pointed me to it one day. You can see ferries, cranes (container and construction), and Western Avenue, where one time Iris saw a cement mixer with some chipped paint on the side. “Mixer messy. Dada wash it,” I was told.

Iris has never shown any interest in the fish-throwing, because she is exceptionally cultured and doesn’t go in for lowbrow entertainment. (Later, we go home and watch [Strong Bad][2] cartoons.) She does like to pick up tortillas at the Mexican Grocery and look at the staggering array of dried chiles at El Mercado Latino. And we always hit Alvarez Farms, the newest produce stand at the market and one of the best.

[1]: http://www.bottegaitaliana.com/
[2]: http://www.homestarrunner.com/

It’s easy to love the Market, and I’ve rarely heard anybody speak ill of it. There’s the feeling that it’s constantly teetering on the brink of having to reinvent itself as South Street Seaport and cater only to tourists, but it never happens. If it does, Iris and I will still go, as long as there are apple fritters.