A year ago: a food diary

It's been a year since I went on a limb and asked a good-looking, funny guy out in a haiku. And although I know he's hoping I'm going to do a big, mushy "Oh snufflewufflekins, how I love you so" post (despite his insistence that he would never want it), I just can't seem to put to words how great it is. I've finally found that one that, no matter how bad the day is going, I find myself smiling like an idiot when I see his name come up on my caller ID.

Therefore, I'm going to let the meal from that evening speak for me...

Our sparkling

Fried green tomatoes

Pork belly ravioli

Diver's scallops

Cod with a little lobster

Plantain gnocci with black beans

Strawberry shortcake with rubarb

Meyer lemon beignets with tequila ice-cream

An end and a goodbye

March, as a whole, has sucked. The weather has played yo-yo with my feelings, I've seen a few of my friends be let go from the jobs they love due to "a new corporate direction", other friends suddenly ended happy relationships, and my own job took another step past indentured servitude and toward slavery. On top of this, Evie is moving back home to the West Coast. Kelly has been in sour spirits ever since she made her decision and I'm not exactly thrilled to be letting a new friend move so far away. We both know we're being selfish, but still...not the best way to end an already crappy month.

This blog was initially inspired after the "Bone Marrow Incident", but another factor that pushed me into start writing this was Evie and her Chinatown trips. I have eaten in Chinatown before, but I could have never prepared for the spectacle that is a Chinatown night. Gathered in a restaurant that I have passed but never eaten in before now, we gather in one of the larger tables tucked away in the corner. Our waitress (a woman that has been involved in these events well before I ever met Kel) already knows what to expect. She piles wine glasses, water glasses (extras for my camel boyfriend), and already knows we'll be getting the usual fish-fries and pea-pod stems, as well as an aquarium in butter and garlic. Each person drinks (at least) two bottles of wine and fills themselves with enough fish that they start to produce omega-3 on their own. The next day, I am pickled and saying things like "I had oyster three different ways" or "it's the whole silver fish, eyeballs and all", and my co-workers wonder how I am still standing.

As was only appropriate, we all gathered again to send Evie off with another Chinatown trip. Getting there early, Kelly and I meet with one of her friends and start prepping the table with our waitress. Like professionals, we arrange the table and start planning for the main event. This time, however, we have a set item that must be featured: king crab. As in Deadliest Catch, the Goliath beetle of the sea, big enough to completely cover my face and wrap its legs completely around my head sort of king crab. For large parties, the restaurant cooks it three ways and Evie has set her sights on enjoying one before she leaves.

We order the usual items and wait as everyone starts trickling in. Wine is clustered on the lazy-susan and we pour a little bit of bubbles to get things started. And then they bring him out. Carried in a spare tray used to bus tables, he thumps and scrambles to stand but can't get his feet to steady on the slick plastic. His carapace is thorny and deep burnt umber. His mandibles twitch nervously and he falls with another thump as he fails to stand. Kelly instantly names him Lloyd and we try to figure out how to cook him. Lloyd, with his constant attempts to escape, knows his fate.

Like tourists, we get Evie to lift him out of the tub and take part in a photo shoot. She smiles wide and hooks her fingers under his back legs. His front legs twitch and shift to get free, to fall to the floor so he can scuttle away, but Evie keeps her fingers tightly wrapped and far away from his pincers. She twists and faces each photographer's smartphone, laughing at one crude joke or the next, and gently hovers Lloyd over the tub to keep him from dripping salt water over the carpet. Lloyd finally makes peace with his crabby god by the last photo, pulling his legs tight to his body. We give him back and start on glass four or five.

In what seems like moments, Lloyd's legs come out of the kitchen. Deep fried with ginger and garlic, we peel back the now coral-colored shell and suck out the soft white meat. I have clearly never had real crab before as the flesh is soft and flaky. Like a barbarian, I take his horny legs in my fingers and pry back his former armor with sharp snaps, like someone cracking their knuckles, and smear the buttery mess along my cheek in haste to get through my portion of legs.

By the time the pea-pod stems and fish-fries come and we have started platting those, Llyod's body is put on the small space on the table not occupied with wine bottles. Steamed and a little tougher, much like the slightly rubbery meat of lobster tails, the body is sprinkled with scallions that give just a little sharpness. Speeches are made, more wine is poured, and it's almost like Evie is just having us all get together for another night of drinking and feasting.

By the time the last of Lloyd comes out of the kitchen, we are all starting to get a little nostalgic and emotional. His shell is flipped upside-down and filled with scrambled eggs and what I believe are brains or crab eggs. I pour myself a glass of the bubbly rose and tap Kelly's knee with mine. "She's my Boston family," he says and I nod, trying to be supportive. Having watched most of my friends go off to other parts of the country, I understand what he's feeling. We finish licking the juices off of our plates and finishing the almost empty bottles. Kelly gives Evie a quick goodbye, knowing we will be seeing her at least one more time, but is a little quiet as we ride home on the T. I try to let him be, but keep his hand in mine. After all, I know how much this month has sucked.

Amarone della Valpolicella

Collin is a little nervous. He paces back and forth in front of the room, playing with his glass of Amarone. He sips it. Swishes it. Puts the glass down. Picks the glass up. Takes another sip. Pours a little more into glass. He makes a point to look at the other two groups, but I'm sure Kelly's laser focus and scrutiny make him keep his eyes from glancing our way. My heart goes out to him. As sweet as he can be, Kelly tends to correct every misspoken word and incorrect fact in a nervous habit that could be intimidating to those that haven't gotten used to him--or are performing for a room full of people.

Collin goes over the history of the wine we'll be sampling. Having selected various producers and versions of a singular wine, it is the first one I have been to where I am not trying to figure out which is the grape, which is the region, and which is the man pouring it for me.

Amarone is a drier red that typically comes from the Valpolicella region of Italy. The grapes (primarily Corvina [think 5/6] with various percentages of Rodinella or Molinara) are dried on mats to intensify the flavor. The wines are set up in a neat row of two with a larger glass at the end. The colors are saturated in shades of freshly spilled blood, throwing red halos onto the paper tablecloths under the overhead lights. The waiters provide a list of the night's vintages.

2008 Villa Erbice ca'Panvino, DOC Valpolicella
A peppery red, the wine has a lot of the classic notes that I would expect: figs, black pepper, plums, a little tobacco.

2007 Michele Castellani "San Michele," DOC Ripasso Valpolicella Classico Superiore
Collin explains that they save the pomice from the Amarone and add it to a batch of other Valpolicella wine. The extra food for the yeast boosts the body and the alcohol content (the other Amarones are already at least 14% alcohol...)

2003 Nicoli, DOC Amarone della Velpolicella Classico
I clearly taste twizzlers and mention it to Kel. I'm excited by my finding, however, he doesn't seem to notice "That's because..." he starts, speaking quickly in his teacher voice. "Rubber...black and red fruit..." He catches himself, smiles, and nods. "Yes dear. It does taste like twizzlers."

2005 Villa Erbice "Tremenel," DOC Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
The younger brother of the 2001, the 2005 drinks much smoother and is generally the better-liked among the people tasting.

2001 Villa Erbice "Tremenel," DOC Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
Despite Collin decanting the bottle hours before, the tannins are extra sharp and the wine doesn't have the smoothness of the 2005. He explains the complications of the weather, the growing season in the region, and the factors that could account for the unintended taste, but too many of us are novices to understand the full implications.

The tasting ends a little faster than I expected, but it is all timed with precision. The chef arrives with a cart, ready to show us how to make gnocchi. Collin steps aside, pouring a glass of the 2005 for him. Relaxing now that he is out of the spotlight, he grabs a chair near us and becomes part of the crowd.

Guess who!

Everyone is milling about the very warm room. In a hurried precision, the glasses are laid out (water, four white, four red) and the table split down the middle. Everyone's divided eight to eight. The grids are passed out. People check their contributions to the tasting, making sure that nothing is corked. I step back, crossing the leopard-print carpet, and let myself fall into a wing back chair near the fireplace. This is my second Boston Sommelier Society tasting and I know my place. Kelly's invited me to taste before, but I prefer the Dian Fossey approach. I wouldn't be able to answer half of the grid.

The mood is very similar to the art history classes I took in college. Sitting in the Multi-media Room, we would file in to find our preferred seats and watch as the professor showed slide after slide. We would stare at the brushstrokes, the medium, the style, and yell things out like "Expressionist!" "16th Century Italian!" "Monet!" "No you idiot, it's Manet!" As a class, we would agonize over the country of origin and artist, the time it was made, the medium, and name of the piece knowing each one was needed to get the answer right.

Here, tucked away in the function room of an upscale restaurant, the BSS plays a hectic game of musical chairs--filling each of the four white glasses with a different bottle. "Number one is on the left!" Steve calls out, trying to keep some resemblance of order in the confined chaos. He offers a friendly smile, quick to notice the notes I'm scribbling "Be kind," he asks. The BSS return to their original seats. They swirl and sniff the glasses, talking quickly about their preliminary findings before the actual test starts. The leaders of each group try to give instructions over the cacophony. "I just need to remember two fruits." "Some of us will be tasting and others will keep notes." "Where are all the sheets?" There is a soft lull and then the tasting starts, bringing back the passion I remember from Western Europe and New World Art History 101/102. "Primary color is golden with platinum highlights." "...Peach, Asian pear...there's some earth, white flowers, and orange blossom." "...Lightly spiced like cinnamon, ginger, maybe a little tarragon..." "Low tannins." "Acidity...pretty acidic, I guess." "Pears...yes, definitely pears." "I would say Old World Wine." "Could be a Riesling...Germany, Alsace..." "It's about 30 years old." "Alcohol and acidity is high, we can all agree on that." "I disagree. I think it's more New World--maybe the Orient."

I finish scribbling my notes and turn to other writing projects, trying to figure out the plot line for my current story. And yet, in the back of my head, I'm still siting in the Multi-media Room trying to decide if the Expressionist painting in front of me is French or Italian.

How I learned to love the red wattle

There is a white paper bag bleeding out along my counter top, a thin red trickle blushing the corner. The pig meat it was once holding is safely squirreled away in the fridge. I sweat white wine and a thinner, richer musk of bacon fat as I look through my fridge for a vegetarian option for lunch. My legs are tense and I feel like I've been salted, brined, and fried. But it is all worth it (as many days when I wake up to find my head in pieces on the floor) to have experienced the night before and the event...Cochon555 at the Fairmont.

On our first date, on our way to get a few sushi rolls, Kelly told me that he had double-booked in case the night went sour and he needed a pick-me-up. Ever since, all I have heard about for the past ten months has been Cochon, Cochon, Cochon. When it came back to Boston, I made sure to go if only to see how I stacked up against this pork phenomenon. Their mission statement from their web page sort of says it all: "Cochon 555 is a one-of-a-kind traveling culinary competition and tasting event--five chefs, five pigs, five wine makers--to promote sustainable farming of heritage breed pigs." Well, I may not have five chefs, wine makers, or pigs, but I can bend myself in half and talk dirty in Spanish (What you got now, Cochon?!)...

For weeks before the event, I visited their website. I studied the breeds of heritage pigs, which in itself is a little creepy and fascinating when you realize that you're reading about how something has been breed purely for flavor or the marbling of the muscle. I memorized a few names and tried to remember a few facts of each pig so that I would at least sound somewhat intelligent when asked which was better, the Large Black or Duroc. But once I stepped inside the hotel, it was forced out by the smell of bacon and the overwhelming stimulus from baroque architecture.

At the VIP event beforehand, we bonded with a representative from Yelp! and the sister of a caviar producer and her husband. (These would be the people I spent the evening with while Kelly was sequestered as a judge.) We took turns guarding the tiny, tall table and our wine glasses as one or two people went off for cheese, wine, or St. Germaine cocktails. Our holding pattern worked so well that after they showed a promotional video and opened the doors, we continued to work together to guard the limited space set aside.

As is, I only managed to get to three chefs' tables and the Elk Cove Vineyard table as the deluge of people flooded the function hall of the Fairmont. Although two hours seems like plenty of time to get to every chef, wine maker, and pig, no one seemed to take into consideration that people really like their pig...Regardless, the few people I got to were well worth the wait.

Duroc/Yorkshire
There is little information on this cross-breed of pig. All I could learn was that the Duroc is a large, aggressive red boar; the Yorkshire is a pale white and known for its lean meat; and both are a perfect pig to cross-breed.

The first table I spotted had a small line already started, so I threw myself in knowing that I'd get the long table out of the way (so much for that). The plate is arranged like a clock face, with a small snack at 12, 2, 4, 8, and 10:

• The croquette had a nice crunch and a good bite from a spicy red sauce.
• The caviar-maker's sister all but swallowed her waffle whole and purred that I had to try it next. Slathered with a thin sauce and a slab of pork, the waffle added a nice bit of substance as the pork all but melted with each bite.
• Next came a pig's ear (at least I thought it was) with pop rocks. Although a strange combo, it was far from the strangest and added a nice, lighter dimension.
• The least favorite dish was the blood sausage on a bed of beans. Although the white beans were creamy and added a nice contrast, the blood sausage was too dense and its spice was too much of a contrast to the beans.
• The dessert, however, made up for the poorer sausage. A rich chocolate cookie, the filling was made from bacon fat. Decadent and filling, it went very well with the reds being served. The caviar-maker's sister made sure to go back and pocket several more in her purse for later.

Large Black
Originally a Chinese breed, the Large Black is a rarer breed known for its taste and hardiness. The smaller marbling and shorter fibers of the meat make this breed the perfect choice for bacon. The team (headed by a chef named Mary) also wore "Mary had a Large Black" t-shirts that I coveted greatly...

I got the table for the Large Black after sampling the wines at Elk Cove. Mulling over my glass, I watched as the sous chefs platted two dishes. The pulled pork rillette (Lunch) was served in mason jars topped with pickles and coarse-grain mustard, and served with hard crostini. I ate as much of the jar as possible, treating the dish almost like a high-brow pork dip and fishing the pink bits out with the edges of the bread. The slow-cooked pork loin and kimchi pickles on a grilled pita (Dinner) was almost like a White-people pork bun. But, as the first table, the best dish was the dessert. Ethereal and surprising, the cotton candy looked innocent until I bit into it. Acting as the basis, a thick strip of bacon added a needed salty taste to the sweeter spun sugar that my co-workers still will not believe in (despite my photographic evidence...it's not Bigfoot people!)

Red Wattle
Named for its red color and unfortunate jowls (think octogenarian chicken), this breed has lean and juicy meat that has a beef-like taste and texture.

This was the table that ate up all my time. Waiting in line (for half-an-hour), I sucked down the last of my wine and gratefully took a slice of the pork hock and drunken pineapple pizza. Familiar and close to the one that Kelly and I order all the time (pineapples, bacon, and jalapenos), the drunken fruit is almost flammable and hurts to eat. At the table, I find that most of the seven dishes are already gone. I take a ladel of the chestnut flour pappardelle with pig's head and celery heart ragu, while the chef carves. She plates the porchetta with dried peach and pistachio and cuts a wedge of lard and lemon pastry to go with it. I spot her doughnuts in their warmers and fish one out with my fork. At this point, I have eaten at least one entire pig by myself. I fork as much of the ragu as I can, but it's not as appetizing as it would have been hours ago. Likewise, I can't bring myself to eat more than half of the porchetta and lard/lemon pastry. The doughnut, however, is airy and delicious. It tastes like summer and doesn't sit as heavy as the other pastry. It's only later that I find out it is a pig's feet and Mexican spiced margarita doughnut with salt and lime juice.

Kelly finds me leaning against the table, trying to find room for the chicharron and dark chocolate dip that is making it's way around the floor. He smiles wide and puts down a plate of porcelet de lait (milk-fed piggy veal). At this point, I am drunk, filled with so much pig I have grown hooves, and exhausted for being on them for hours. I nibble half-heartedly at the porcelet and watch as they name the winning chef (the Duroc/Yorkshire). We all clap and I am grateful when the waiter comes to take our mostly empty plate away, saving me from myself.

Following the river of people out of the hotel, we join up with more of Kelly's friends and brave the winter towards the after party (where I don't even think of eating anything ever again). Flushed with the cold, we order a few more drinks and try to digest. Kelly sits across from me and everyone is drunk on pig and alcohol. I sink further into my chair, fully aware now what I am worth in pork.

"Hello, my name is Mark and I am a wine snob..."

Or, The harmful effects of the Boston Wine Expo

I have come to a dangerous conclusion of my character. After yet another stressful day at work, I shrugged off my coat, left my shoes at the door still clinging onto one sock in desperation, and pour a glass of Merlot. I take a sip, swallow, and stare at the bottle in despair. The last of my stash from the holidays, it was a gift from my boss and has a crow on the label. And my praise stops there. I take another sip in hopes that it was a fluke--a bad sip--but the second one tastes the same. I used to be able to drink anything short of vinegar as long as it was made from grapes. I pour the glass out into the sink and look at my corked bottle as the realization sets in. I have finally become a wine snob.

Clearly the blame can be placed at Kelly's feet. The day of the Boston Wine Expo, he wakes me up extra early so that we can shower, dress, and grab a quick bite to eat before the unwashed masses take over the convention center. The massive blue room is broken down into grids, squares of tables arranged by country, wine produced, items sold, food. I snap my plastic badge onto by belt loop. "GUEST OF Kelly..." it screams above a bright orange bar proudly announcing "TRADE VIP" with its chest puffed out and fists on hips. "Oh great, now people are going to want to talk to me," Kelly says as he looks at his own badge with his restaurant under his name. His face says he's miffed, but I don't believe it. The man behind us mentions that we shouldn't miss the Barefoot table, and Kelly snorts. "Don't worry, we will," he says.

We grab our glasses and Kelly darts off as if he is trying to lose me. He pauses at the tables to see what's there, but darts as soon as it's clear he won't drink anything. We start with Prosecco and a sweeter white before dashing off to try some hearty reds. Cards are exchanged at every table we stop at for more than two glasses. Kelly cherry-picks vintages and varietals and shakes hands. I swallow a few of the whites, but spend the rest of the morning trying to master the spit bucket. Leaning over, I feel as if I just finished brushing my teeth and it looks like I cut a gum. Holding the bucket up closer has the dangerous risk of splash-back if the bucket is full, with one attempt ending in frantic scrubbing of my face with water and a napkin from the cheese table. It's only after our 20th table that I find the perfect height to hold the bucket (chest level) and the velocity to spit (just enough force to jet the wine like I'm a drunken fountain loose from my pedestal).

Running to the back, Kelly gasps at the square of tables tucked away forgotten before the seminar rooms. "Ooh, Greek wine," he says. The woman behind the table gets Kel's card and spends our time at her booth chasing him from bottle to bottle. "We would love to interview you for local carriers that feature our wines," she says with a whisper of desperation behind her earnest smile. Kelly promises to take her call and we sip the first, a Santorini. Sharp and clear, it tastes like nothing I have ever had before. I swallow it wishing I could get a second glass without seeming greedy. The people behind the table present each wine with a story--grape vines grown into basket shapes to protect the delicate fruit, clay slopes the color of brick that must be snacked on by the people visiting for the first time. Each wine from the first to the ending samples of Samos are perfect and make everything else seem lesser in comparison. Oh sure, the Georgia [the country, not the state] table was very good, but nothing else felt on par with the Greek wine. "You should blog about this and call it 'It's all Greek to me'!" Kelly says.

We pause for a seminar featuring most of Kelly's friends. But after an intelligent discussion (with one yahoo dominating a small part of it), I feel the morning catching up with me. My mouth gets dry from the many tastings and spittings. My gums are woolly and my teeth feel a little filmy. I grab a glass of water to rinse and continue on to the Grand Cru lounge, which has fewer wines at a higher price that don't speak to me at all (the best item there was the wine cookies that were designed to cleanse the pallet between tastings). By the end, I am tired, drained, and educated.

I plug the bottle of red in my kitchen and hope that it can be saved to cook with, but I have a feeling it won't. As they always say, you should cook with what you like to drink...and I apparently like to drink something of substance.

Meat Christmas

Kelly is excited the moment I pick him up from work. He steels himself, though, and falls in beside me. Walking to the car, we exchange sideways glances and I pull my scarf further up to hide my face, trying to look nonchalant. "You got the stuff?" he asks. I nod and motion him towards the car. "It's in the trunk," I say. He gets in and we drive back to his place, fully aware of the items hidden in their bags. I pull into a spot away from prying eyes and pops the trunk. He gets the items out and hugs them to his chest. We're silent all the way upstairs to the safety of his apartment. "Alright," he says as soon as the door is shut and locked behind him, "let's see what we got."

This is my first CSA. Before Kelly, the only CSA I knew was the Community Service Advisor in college. That morning, I drove all the local middle school and approached the unmarked, white van. I gave Kelly's name and got a plastic bag in return. Knowing it would be five pounds, I was a little disappointed that it didn't strain a single muscle (there's something about the word "pounds" that lends a sense of gravity and mass--a bit of oomph that would cause some effort instead of swinging it at my side as I walked back to the car). As I promised, I waited for Kelly to get out before we unwrapped our meat Christmas, eager to see what CSA Santa brought us.

Kelly digs into the bag, eager to see what we got. He oohs and ahhs at the pork chops thin enough to be prosciutto, a lump of chicken breast the size of my fist, and a unknown hunk of beef that Kel has already designated for braising and smothering. He tosses me the chicken breasts and I put them down on the table, eager to decide what to do...my limited cookbook flipping its pages through my mind.