The Father of Invention

As most of you know, the Bistro Hugo has a new, very persnickety customer who insists that the kitchen stay open 24-7. In some ways she's not hard to please; as long it comes from a boob, she doesn't really care what she eats.

Any kitchen is delighted to have a patron who sits down and asks for "the usual," I guess, but how many cranky critics need their diapers changed between the appetizer and the main course? Michael Bauer, I'm looking at you.

The adult section of the Bistro has not completely shut down, of course (you thought otherwise?). We've had plenty of outside supplement, but worry not, we haven't gone completely frozen pizza and microwave Indian. (I hope soon to post the recipe for Uncle A-Ron's Spectacular Chili Bomb, secret ingredient: chick peas.) The trick is to take the odds and ends and come up with something that feels new enough to make a sleep deprived home chef feel worthy again, even for a brief moment.

We had a small piece of leftover lamb in the fridge the other night. I chopped it into rough bite-size pieces, trimmed some but not all the fat, and sauteed it in olive oil with half a shallot, a splash of red wine, and a can of cannellini beans (I recommend the small, firm S&W brand). We served it with its own juice over couscous, and with a small glass of red wine and a couple candles on the table, it was a brief respite from the 3-hour diaper-breastfeed-sleep cycle that our newest Hugonaut has established.

I love cannellini as what our friends at Chow call a "cheater" food: an easy pantry resource that embellishes all manner of dishes. I've tossed a can into soups, stews, pastas, and salads. As with all canned beans, it's better to give them a quick rinse under cold water before using. Note: The TJ's version are too big and get too mushy for my taste.

From Kristen: Soup for You

When Anthony and I embarked on a pork and pink-bean soup with corn-muffin croutons this weekend, I had modest expectations. I have long lacked kitchen confidence, a side effect of my general laziness toward cooking and a chronic lack of imagination in front of a full refrigerator. But with the changing of the seasons has come a roaring appetite -- not just for food but for the making of it.

I found the recipe in this month's Food and Wine magazine, and pretty soon I  was mixing batter for the ultra-easy Johnny cake that would provide the croutons. Then I chopped onion and garlic while A got started with the bacon strips. We softened up the basics and threw in a little green and orange bell pepper before adding the maple syrup, which pleased my East Coast sensibilities.

Soon came the beans, browned bacon and chicken stock. Anthony went off recipe and tossed in some boneless chicken. A garnish of chopped red onions topped it off. I'm delighted to report the end result bore a close resemblance to the picture on the page! [An example is at right. -- Ed.] We lapped up several bowls' worth as if we were famished farmers working the plow all day. Ah, the nostalgia of harvest.

Only thing I would change next time is I'd cut the amount of bacon in half -- less of the strong taste and animal fat go a long way.

Fork New York

Setting aside the daily lunch grabs at the DJ cafeteria (you'll never meet nicer guys behind a counter, anywhere), not out of anything negative but out of expediency, I loved everything I ate in the city last week.

A few things popped out; there were some oddities, like that ice in beer I saw in Pennsylvania the last time I went east. Speaking of, every single beer at the Kerbs Boathouse concession in the park is $7, bottle or draft, domestic or imported. I had a Hebrew National for $5 and found a bench in the sun. Oh yes.

Why are scrambled eggs cooked to order at most Greek diners, upscale or not, too dry? Do you have to ask for them wet? Does every single place to eat buy cannellini beans from the same supplier? Probably.

The two worthy meals of note: In reverse order, Uskudar is a tiny Turkish place in the Upper East's avenues that we popped into because it got blurbed in a copy of New York magazine we lugged around. Starters were not auspicious or impressive at all, and a little pricey. A side serving of same-old cannellini, and not many of them, sautéed with a little onion and tomato paste or something shouldn't be $7 or $8. (A similar-size portion of fava beans with tomatoes and French feta at Aziza, by contrast, comes piping hot out of the oven and is worth whatever the market will bear. Which at Aziza is a lot.)

For main course I winged it and was won over by the manti (one version at right) which are Turkish dumplings in a tangy yogurt sauce. A single one of these morsels of meat-stuffed dough can sit on a nickel, and I had me a bowl with about five bucks' worth of nickels. The highlight, however, was inviting an older couple to sit at an adjacent table and having very casual, nonintrusive chatter at comfortable intervals among the four of us.

Turns out they've been coming to Uskudar every Monday for 25 years. Turns out they have actually been to my hometown of Mayagüez a few times to visit a friend. It blew me away. I got so giddy I didn't catch the gent's name. I wish my mom woulda been there; she knows everybody.

Then there was the delightful Da Andrea on Hudson, where we met Amy, a former colleague of Kristen's, along with Amy's husband Paul and a strapping almost 3-year-old Max. A&P used to live in the Village and in the same building as the couple that runs Da Andrea. Naturally they love Max. They also know what Max loves best.

Neither Michael Eisner nor Michael Ovitz in his heyday could have gotten bottled water faster than Max gets his Parmesan, sliced fresh at the table, chop chop. The host and co-owner (whose name I forget, again giddy on my way out after the Italian double kiss) was patient, listening and recommended a few dishes for us even as the place was about to pop with people. Of course, she goes and orders up most of the things on the menu and some specials off it to go with them.

The first flotilla of plates was dizzying -- grapefruit-red prosciutto with soft, flat buns to make mini sandwiches, soft polenta that warmed you all over, the octopus salad, I can't recall them all. Complete knockout. No idea why I passed up the veal sweetbreads for the lamb shank with the same damn cannellini, but that's the way it goes. There was plenty of meats and pastas to share anyway, and they were very good.

After a round of desserts, check comes and it's $99. I pick it up and Amy and Paul leave a $25 tip. Max takes his penne to go.

My thoughts: It's a beautiful thing about the city that you meet all sorts of people, some of whom beam when they see good friends coming into their restaurant with other soon friends. But sitting there taking it all in, I had to ask Paul: How do New Yorkers pick a favorite restaurant, particularly an Italian one, in a neighborhood drowning in red sauce? Word of mouth, he says. Thoughts? I know I've done my part for Da Andrea.

Cocinando en San Carlos

With my folks at their place in the Peninsula and Kristen's folks out and about on day trips, I got a chance to be the true mensch and help my mom make the Puerto Rican food last Sunday afternoon. I swing down in the mean machine loaded with some goodies and in short order pull my shirt off, pop open a Bud Light and get busy as sous chef.

First I brown some ripe plantain rounds in butter, and when that's done add quite a bit of brown sugar and water. Then we spice with cinnamon and cloves, and once that reduces 20 minutes later, it's topped off with a cut-up green apple. Diabetics, beware the amarillitos con manzana.

While all this is going on, some very thin slices of pancetta (Primo Taglio from Safeway, awesome packing job) are sizzling in the bottom of a big Dutch oven. Those come out and seasoned parts of a bird are brought out of ziplock bags to get browned in batches. Then the sofrito goes in with a bit of tomato sauce. Then the rice (Uncle Ben's) cascades for its turn in the hot oil, and finally the bird and lots of water. An hour later or so, we have arroz con pollo.

With a little more pancetta and sofrito I start the base for the beans, which this time are just canned pintos from Safeway. Mom softens up some cubes of butternut squash in a separate pot and throws them in. After some requisite boiling, we have the usual debate on the salt. I defer to the expert.

Later I soften up some asparagus spears and run off the water. As Kristen spins romaine leaves in a spinner, Mom takes the crispy pancetta and crumbles it on the asparagus. I love that touch.

So for a late lunch we have arroz con pollo, amarillitos, habichuelas guisadas, aspárragos y ensalada. I have seconds and finish Kristen's plate.

The next day, I wake up feeling a little full. I stick to soup and salad.

Adesso, Perbacco

As readers of this space know, I've had a thing for the spendy place downtown. As Jomo knows all too well, I finally was able to sit at table and partake. I report, you decide if it's a mash note.

During a hectic work week, I had planned on just after-work drinks with the lovely Kristen, before she headed off to the dining room beyond the bar with her fellow personal-finance staffers. (We bumped into da Fanch on the way in, and I'm proud to say that she has now seen the mysterious Jomo in person. Not to be confused with Mysterious Jomo.) But the pretty ornery personal-finance editor wouldn't have any of it: No way I was leaving.

At least three times I excused myself. He insisted he was buying me dinner. Actually, the company was buying, and interestingly, there was an extra spot. I'm still writing him a thank-you note.

There were nine of us in total, and we were at the far end upstairs, but we were not alone the whole night. The waiter pointed our evening's host to the super Tuscans on the wine list, and suggested several appetizers. I counted two waiters in shirts and ties, a woman who walks the floor and helps with wine and assorted runners pouring, clearing, checking.


We began with hamachi crudo, large serving plates of house salumi with pork paté (SFGate photo here), fritto misto, salt cod in a brandade style with crostini and the absolutely dynamite burata, which is folded soft cheeses that make a sort of pillow. I must be missing something, but I did note how divine the homemade rolls were -- warm, toothsome, a little sour and dusted with a touch of flour. I can't remember the last time I ate a dinner roll.

Then for our second courses, I had the salad of so-called little gems, which are like baby Romaine leaves. Burton, sitting across from me, insisted I have some of his octopus, which was bore a slight char from the grill. I'm having that when I go back.

My main dish was the Berkshire pork chop with borlotti beans, braised red chard and roasted tomatoes. It was a plump piece of pig patterned with a crosshatch from the grill, and it was perhaps the best-prepared chop I've ever had. The color within was similar to that of a flatiron steak ordered medium, and other than a little fat trimming, all of it was delectable.

For dessert, I paired homemade hazelnut cookies with a Vino Santo, and the cookies blew everyone away. Their looks were deceiving, because they seemed so rich but were so light to the touch.

On the way out later, I ask Umberto, the omniscient force on the floor at Perbacco, about the dish. "We start with a superior product," he said, and then comes the brining. As I said, Umberto knows.

We also had a little chat about the china cups for the servings of gelato, molded to have a slight dent to look and feel like Dixie cups. Umberto said that when they saw them, they thought they were the coolest.

Perbacco has staked out something people like -- upscale Italian -- and brings it with both barrels but none of the haute attitude. Burton did mention that the reservation was quite difficult to negotiate. Note for next time: Sample the five-hour pork sugo and/or roasted veal ragout. Maybe I can talk the parents into it, now that summer's coming. Also, study the wine list, since it's likely I'll be buying, as soon as the raise or Uncle Rupert comes through. I promise, Umberto.

Latitude and Longitude

After so many years of living and now visiting my home island, you wonder when you'll bump into a local version of seared ahi tuna and Caesar salad. Well, the time finally has arrived.

We've seen the same thing in K's hometown of Bethlehem, Pa.: People flee to the big city and sweat it out in the kitchens, working their way up until they say, "Hey, maybe we should try this at home." Granted, Aguadilla and Isabela, P.R. are a lot farther than Bethlehem to Bouley and the Flatiron district, but you get the idea. When people tire of Moravian sugar cakes and apple butter, they want Alice Waters' stuff.

Restaurant 18'67" (check your GPS) is cut from the same cloth. K and I did split a Caesar to start, and then I was reminded of my dad's favorite saying: You're still in Puerto Rico. I asked for cracked pepper, and the waitress spaced it out and went back to her station to add up some tabs. I flagged the other server on the floor, who brought a pepper shaker from another table, because no, they didn't have a spice mill for the salad. Why am I not surprised?

The wife changed the pace from the rice and beans with linguine with pesto and beurre blanc. Beurre blanc! I had braised pork loin stuffed with chorizo sausage in guava sauce, along with rice and beans. (I don't see a reason to change the pace. The pork was tender, the guava not too sweet and pink beans as good here as they are everywhere else, including Vangy's.) It was a Tuesday, which means it's two entrees for $20 -- a steal. No wonder it's crowded with surfers and gringo ex-pats.

The place is funny: Looks like they took over some retail space, complete with the track lighting and acoustic tile, next to a Chinese restaurant. They put a kitchen in back and a cut a door for an adjacent bar. The manager (could be the owner) wears a newsboy's cap. Pool games were 50 cents and there were drunk barflies on both nights we visited. I think I heard some Nirvana. I thought of my favorite chiperos, Alex and Elbo.

In the House with Mama Vangy

After five hours on one plane, missing the quick layover in Miami (funky jet stream) and waiting three more for the next jump to San Juan, then flying almost three hours before undertaking the two-hour, white-knuckle drive on the autopista to Mayagüez, it was time for some Vangy food. Mmhm. Food's cooking.

The first day's menu featured arroz con pollo con habichuelas, pretty self-explanatory. We also got bacalao, which is salt codfish, and viandas, the assorted, yamlike, starchy tubers that you dress with Spanish olive oil. My aunt Jossette also made guineos en almibar, which are ripe bananas in nectar. No idea why this dish is that popular, but it is very sweet and goes with an otherwise salty cuisine.

There also was the requisite mixed salad, and as an appetizer one of Vangy's "secretaries" fried up some surullitos, or sticks of cornmeal. No doubt in my mind why these are popular, especially with a cervecita, a can of Bud or Coors Light or whatever that's eight or 10 ounces (not too much, stays cold).

A few days later, we're back. For a change of pace, there's arroz con gandules, or pigeon peas. The main event is pasteles, tamale-like bundles made with plantain or yucca masa and stuffed with chicken, olives and finely chopped onions, peppers, raisins, love. (If you're having yucca, they're more savory and come in a beautiful sunshine-yellow color, as opposed to the smokiness and dark, exotic tone of the maduro masa. ) Today's "secretary" also had some boneless beef ribs. You know, in case the pasteles weren't enough.


For sides, green-plantain tostones (shown in their glorious fry) also came out with some more salad. There wasn't much difference between these two meals in terms of authenticity or taste, but for some reason the second time I couldn't stop eating. Kristen's eyes got really big as I put away three pasteles, most of the ribs, spoonfuls of the stewed gandules that had small balls of plantain thrown in.

Vangy also told Kristen that she needed to learn to have beer with her Puerto Rican food -- the best advice on record from a grandmother-in-law.

Next post: el pescado.

Pan Latin? ¡'Perate!

Say what we will about the New York Times and the particular strained relationship we have with it, but one of the best things about it (I think) is that eventually the paper gets around to nailing something right on the head, and then that’s done and over with.

Today it is the article on Latin supermarkets. First let’s get to the beans:

> A walk through the dried-bean aisle at Rancho Liborio in a case in point. There are pintos, both the larger, speckled brown ones preferred by Mexicans and the smaller, lighter-colored ones used in Peru. Pink beans appeal to Puerto Ricans, and black beans to Cubans, Guatemalans and Brazilians.

Pink! As I’ve been telling everyone my whole life, those are my favorite. Now let’s do the spice:

> Attracting Hispanic shoppers is a delicate business, according to Juan Guillermo Tornoe, who runs Hispanic Trending, a market research company in Austin, Texas. Buyers for big chains will often go to Hispanic food trade shows, order everything in sight and then wonder why their efforts to market to Latinos fail. “Well, what are you buying?” he said. “Are you buying hot sauce and expecting to sell it to Cubans?”

Yeah! Most Cubans don’t eat spicy, and in fact their food (at least in Cuba) is rather bland. Is that not what they told you at Cha Cha Cha?

I also love that there's a photo of an obese lady ladling an almost certainly sweetened agua fresca.

So thank you, Bill Keller. But no tres leches for you, Judy Miller.

Making Legumes? Cry Fowl

Wanna give a special shout to some of my favorite sauces for sofrito: ¡El Pato!

For the lentils on Saturday, I threw in a tiny jar of the jalapeño-tomato sauce (I usually use the tomato-chile, in the yellow can) to the saute and let it reduce just a little bit. Then I added the lentils, diced potatoes and a lot of chicken broth and water. That's why they tasted so good.

Now I need to get over the lamb.

Habichuated

Tell me how you like your beans, and I’ll tell you where you’re from. Frijoles negros? Let’s discuss it over daiquiris at El Floridita. Pintos? The first course will probably be pozole. In Puerto Rico, black beans are only for soup, and white beans are pretty popular, but will always be a step down from gandules guisados, also known as pigeon peas or pois Congo, and on the C-list compared with the real deal, habichuelas coloradas or rosadas, reds or pinks.

I’ve gone through most of the methods, dried or canned, with a sofrito (the Creole saute of onions, garlic, tomatoes and sweet peppers) or without, and I’m happy to share all of them with you, but there’s one mainstay that has to, has to be in the stew: pork. The vegan trip won’t impart that flavor and feel, or hold everything together. (Louis Armstrong fans already know, as we know.)

So: Take a long, fatty strip of bacon or even a cut slice of pancetta and pop it into a pot of soaked beans set to boil. Leave it in there for three hours. Then go ahead and brown some diced bacon or salt pork in a pan and start your sofrito with the drippings. Chop up some peppers (pasilla, Anaheim, yellow jalapeños, whatever you have), throw in a couple of spoonfuls of tomato paste. Also check out those little cans of El Pato tomato sauce they have at Latin markets.

Soften the beans for hours, then stir in the sofrito and add salt. If they don't come out perfect, remember that they’ll be better the next day and then the day after that.

The starch basically becomes an afterthought. I'll take red beans and rice any day instead of rice and beans, and no, I don't need them wrapped up in a tortilla.