Last night I got back from a long weekend at my parents' house. When I was a kid, we used to visit my mom's parents on the weekends, and my grandmother never let us leave empty-handed. As my parents strapped me and my brothers into the backseat, she would come rushing out with a hastily assembled collection of foods she apparently believed could not be found in Manhattan. Fortunately she had a keen sense of balance; her gift of candies and cakes was always carefully paired with fresh fruits, vegetables, and cold meats left over from Saturday's dinner, which my mom used to make pita-bread sandwiches for the ride home.

My mom is falling into her mother's ways. She seems to have inherited an innate suspicion that her children, left to their own devices, will inevitably starve. But she also loves to make us happy. So she lavishes us with sweets. Yesterday she sent me home with a box of chocolate-dipped glazed apricots, a box of big chocolate-covered pretzels, a a case of liqueur-filled chocolates, and a five-pound bag of jellybeans. I very nearly made a meal of these treats tonight. I was reaching for my fourth chocolate-covered pretzel when it occurred to me that all the available calories in my house were empty ones. So I put in a call to Haru, in the hope that a sizable portion of raw fish could save me from myself, and from the guileless excesses of a mother's love.

Posted by jeremy at 11:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

The Internet appears to have penetrated the wilds of the New York Capital Region, allowing me to post from afar. So this is Christmas, and what have I done?

Christmas dinner was at Lisa's aunt's house this year, and Lisa's mom asked this morning if anybody wanted to make the stuffed mushrooms she was supposed to bring over. Having already opened all my presents, I volunteered. Recipe following.

Stuffed Mushrooms

Ingredients:

• 3 dozen large white button mushrooms
  
• 3/4 cup Italian seasoned breadcrumbs
  
• 4 strips bacon, cooked and chopped into small bits
  
• 1 tbsp minced garlic
  
• 3 tbsp olive oil
  
• 6 tbsp butter
  
• salt, pepper, and paprika
  

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Wash the mushrooms in cold water, and dry with a paper towel. Pull the stems out of the mushroom caps by wiggling them back and forth until they separate. Set the caps on a greased baking sheet, top sides down.

Finely chop the mushroom stems. In a skillet, heat the olive oil and 3 tbsp of the butter over medium-high heat. When hot, add the chopped mushroom stems and cook for 2-3 minutes.

When the mushrooms begin to exude water, add the breadcrumbs and garlic and stir thoroughly. If the mixture appears dry, add a bit more butter. Cook, stirring, for 2-3 more minutes, or until the garlic no longer smells raw. Add the bacon; season with salt and pepper to taste.

Spoon the stuffing mixture into the mushroom caps, packing it tightly and mounding it slightly over the top of the caps. Dab the top of each stuffed mushroom cap with a bit of the remaining butter, and sprinkle with paprika.

Place the mushroom caps in the oven for 10-15 minutes or until the mushroom caps begin to soften. When finished, serve immediately or store covered in the refrigerator until service. The mushrooms can be reheated in a 350 degree oven for 8-10 minutes, or until warmed through.

Posted by jeremy at 10:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Well, last night's truffle expedition didn't go precisely as planned. I was at work until 8:00, which meant a later start than I had hoped for. Most of the fillings I made still hadn't set by 2:00 a.m., and the one that did used up all the dark chocolate I had meant to use for coating one or two other fillings. The Torres System, while probably ideally suited to an operation that includes a chocolate-enrobing conveyor belt, wasted too much coating chocolate for me to ever use it again. Hand-dipping remains the way to go. Still, putting the fillings in a pan to set and then portioning them by cutting into regular pieces does take a lot of the mess and waste out of forming the truffles; I'll definitely do it this way next time.

The only truffles I was able to finish were the dark chocolate and mint ones. The rest of the fillings are sitting in my freezer. Maybe I'll finish them for New Year's. Meanwhile, my landladies have about 20 truffles to get them through Christmas.

Happy Holidays y'all. I'll be back next week.

Posted by jeremy at 10:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I've resolved to make chocolates for everyone this Christmas: my secretaries, my landladies, and Lisa's family. Last Christmas I made truffles, as I've done several times before, and brought them to Lisa's aunt's house as my contribution to dinner. In the intervening year, I've been to Jacques Torres' Chocolate in DUMBO (just a stone's throw from my last job as a clerk in the Brooklyn courthouse), and he's got a novel approach to specialty chocolates. Instead of the spheres or cups or bars one usually associates with such treats, Mr. Chocolate makes little squares of tasty fillings and enrobes them with chocolate.

This is pretty clever. You can basically spread your ganache or caramel or buttercream or what-have-you out in a big sheet, cool it, cut it at regular intervals, and then pour tempered chocolate over the pieces. Much more efficient than the traditional hand-rolling of ganache into little globes that then get rolled in cocoa powder or hand-dipped in tempered chocolate.

I plan on making six different varieties of chocolates, and have purchased six little throwaway rectangular aluminum pans -- which I will line with parchment -- to try to recreate the Torres System. Here's the menu:

• Raspberry-Dark Chocolate ganache coated with white chocolate
  
• Mint-Dark Chocolate ganache coated with dark chocolate
  
• Hazelnut-Dark Chocolate ganache coated with milk chocolate
  
• Spiced Rum Caramels coated with milk chocolate
  
• Lemon-White Chocolate cream coated with white chocolate
  
• Grand Marnier-Dark Chocolate ganache coated with dark chocolate
  

We'll see how many of these I actually get done tonight. I've already got all the ingredients, so from here on in it's just a question of willpower.

Posted by jeremy at 04:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Last night was the firm's annual holiday party at the Rainbow Room.

The Rainbow Room is a Cipriani outfit, run by the Venetian family that manages the famous Harry's Bar. The food ranges from authentic and traditional -- like the tuscan white beans with no added salt or beef carpaccio cut as thick as deli meat -- to ill-conceived and bizarre -- like the slices of fried baby eggplant wrapped around blocks of cream cheese. But there's no denying that the space is magnificent. In the ballroom, a brief spell on the revolving circular dance floor will scroll you through an eye-level view of the top of the Empire State Building, a panorama of Central Park, and the glittering lights of the bridges across both the city's rivers.

The firm holiday party was traditionally just for partners and administrative staff; a few years ago associates like me were invited to come along. My guess is this is when the partners stopped coming; I could count the number I saw there on the fingers of one hand. At one point while I was watching drunkenness overtake the paralegals on the dance floor, I caught a glimpse of the firm's presiding partner. He was standing in a corner of the room, all alone.

I didn't have a fantastic time at the party last night. I wasn't bored or displeased, but I did cut out early. Frankly, though, the party wasn't meant for me, and that's just fine. A lot of the support staff are rolling in late today, and they've surely earned it.

Posted by jeremy at 12:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My cholesterol having plunged to dangerously low levels, last night I took it upon myself to self-medicate with a massive dose of animal fats. I stopped by Citarella on the way home to pick up one of their dry-aged steaks.

Dry aging is gross in theory, but there's no comparing a quality aged steak to a one that hasn't gone through the treatment. Basically, a whole side of beef (or a large primal cut like the short loin, where porterhouses come from) is stored in a temperature- and humidity-controlled environment for several weeks, where it essentially rots. Or at least the outside does. In the process, the water in the meat evaporates, concentrating the meat's beefy flavors and increasing its fat-to-lean ratio, while the natural enzymes in the meat break down its tough connective tissues, tenderizing it. The rotten edges are then trimmed away, and the beef is sawn into steaks.

Keep in mind, rot is a pejorative term not entirely apt for the process of dry-aging, which can be compared to the noble rot of grapes that yields stellar dessert wines. When the process is carefully controlled by someone who really understands it, the results are little short of miraculous.

Fairway and Citarella dry-age their own beef, which is just awesome. You pay through the nose for this service; a dry-aged USDA prime steak will cost about twice as much pound-for-pound as a non-aged USDA choice steak. But as an occasional indulgence, it's well worth it. Last night I went to Citarella and got a one-and-a-half pound porterhouse. Peter Luger would call this "Steak for Two", but I intended to dine alone.

There is perhaps no greater culinary sin than overcooking a dry-aged steak. Unfortunately, learning to cook a steak right takes practice. But practice can be had on less noble cuts of beef, until you're ready for the big time. Cooking directly over a flame is obviously the best way to go, but for those of us Manhattanites who had to kiss the charcoal grill goodbye when we signed our lease, the preparation below is a suitable alternative. It's an Americanized variation on bistecca alla Fiorentina, a huge porterhouse cut grilled by ingenious Tuscans over scorching hardwood fires with olive oil and herbs. I polished it off with an Oregon pinot noir, which was was pleasant but hopelessly outmatched by the food.

Recipe: Early Grave Porterhouse Steak

Ingredients:

• 1 dry-aged USDA prime porterhouse steak, at least 1-1/2 inches thick and preferably thicker, about 1-1/2 to 2-1/4 lbs., at room temperature
  
• 1 tsp. coarse sea salt
  
• 1/2 tsp. fresh cracked black pepper
  
• 5-6 cloves garlic
  
• 5-6 sprigs fresh rosemary
  
• 6 tbsp. butter, at room temperature
  

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

Season the steak agressively with the salt and pepper. Smash, peel and coarsely chop the garlic. Place an oven-safe pan large enough to hold the steak over high heat. When hot, add 2 tbsp. of the butter and, as soon as the butter is melted, the steak. It is important that these ingredients be at room temperature. If cold, the butter will begin to burn and blacken before it is fully melted, and the meat will take longer to cook; either of these circumstances will negatively affect your steak.

Sear the steak on one side for 1-2 minutes, until a dark brown crust forms. Flip the steak over, then add two more tbsp. of butter, half the garlic, and a couple sprigs of rosemary to the pan. Sear the second side for 2-3 minutes, or until the same brown crust has formed.

Place the remaining butter and garlic and two more sprigs of rosemary on top of the steak and place the whole pan into the oven. Experience will tell you when your steak is done, but it should not take more than 5-6 minutes. The meat should still be yielding when pressed, although it should spring back slightly. Remove the steak to a plate and let it rest (this is crucial) for 5-10 minutes. While the steak is resting, remove the cooked rosemary from the pan and pour the garlic and butter over the steak. Garnish with the remaining sprigs of rosemary.

Posted by jeremy at 10:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

About a month and a half ago my doctor told me my cholesterol was a little high. He suggested I alter my diet in all sorts of disagreeable ways to bring it down.

So I started eating oatmeal in the mornings, which I actually kind of like. I cut back a little bit on the amount of red meat and pork fat and butter I consume, which I grievously lament. And last week I went back for another blood test. The results came in this morning.

My cholesterol is down fifty points. I'm well within the green zone.

Tonight I'm making myself a steak.

Posted by jeremy at 11:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Everything I read this morning tells me it's time to get my holiday tipping out of the way. Advice-mongerers are saturating the local and national media to make sure I don't forget the people who make my life easier.

At work, it's time to get presents for the secretaries. There is a perverse dynamic at work here. Our secretaries are assigned in teams, that is, each secretary is a "primary" for two or three lawyers, and each lawyer has two or three "secondary" secretaries. Ordinarily this works out great for associates, who pool their resources to get something nice for their primary secretary, and never see their secondary secretaries. I, however, share a primary secretary with a partner. That means (a) my secretary's other primary lawyer isn't going to want to coordinate some bush-league holiday gesture with lowly old me; and (b) I've relied on my two secondary secretaries a lot more than most other associates do, which means they deserve some holiday consideration too (n.b., they are also partners' secretaries).

I've decided that I will get each of these secretaries some sort of gift certificate or gift check, but because the size of such gifts may disappoint the secondary secretaries (I can't afford to give them each a hundred bucks, which is apparently the firm standard), I'm going to include some sort of homemade holiday foodstuffs. I'm hoping that the thought will count for something.

The question is what to make. Cookies are traditional, but pedestrian. Cakes and pies are classic, but not to everybody's taste. And chocolate truffles are impressive, but labor-intensive.

I'd like to have my gifts coordinated by Friday, so any cash-type gifts can be used for last-minute holiday shopping if need be. Any guidance?

Posted by jeremy at 12:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

There was a blizzard upstate this weekend. Having received advance warning that we would soon be snowed-in, Lisa and I picked up two bottles of red wine and a bottle of scotch, along with the ingredients for some of our favorite winter comfort foods - braised short ribs for me, macaroni and cheese for her. It was going to be a cozy weekend.

I've previously mentioned the spartan conditions in Lisa's kitchen. To make mac-n-cheese, we had to get her a cheese grater and a wire whisk. She's slowly building up a decent array of kitchenware she'll never use.

Knowing what I know about her stove, I probably should have thought twice before getting the all-stainless whisk. At one point I was whisking the bechamel for the mac-n-cheese, and reached to turn down the burner. Apparently the stainless steel whisk in my right hand, scraping against the bottom of a metal pot on the front heating coil, formed a complete circuit with the metal temperature knob in my left hand. Every muscle in my left arm convulsed like a jackhammer gone berserk, in time with the 60 Hz alternating current running through the electric range; the whisk was shaken violently from my grip and fell clattering to the floor. I'd never been electrocuted before this weekend, and having now had the experience I don't recommend it. I'm just grateful there was probably only enough current running through that stove to run a cheap clock radio. From now on Lisa gets only rubberized-grip kitchen utensils, and I use a dishcloth to adjust the heat on her stove.

After this near-death experience, a tall glass of Laphroaig settled my nerves enough to allow me to complete the meal. For the short ribs, I used the same loaf-pan-covered-with-aluminum-foil method I used to make the first meal I ever cooked for Lisa. I braised them in the remnants of the more disappointing of the red wines we'd bought the day before. As for the mac-n-cheese, I made enough to feed Lisa for the rest of the week. She may need it: she's on her way up to Albany today, and they've just gotten about a foot of snow.

Recipe: Macaroni and Cheese

Ingredients:

• 2 lbs. dry macaroni (elbows or shells)
  
• 1 qt. whole milk
  
• 6 tbsp. unsalted butter
  
• 4 tbsp. all-purpose flour
  
• 1/4 lb. gruyère cheese, grated
  
• 1/3 lb. aged cheddar cheese, grated
  
• 1/4 lb. parmesan cheese, grated
  
• 1/4 tsp. ground white pepper
  
• Pinch nutmeg
  

First, make a bechamel. In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, whisk together the flour and 4 tbsp. of the butter to form a roux. Stir constantly over medium-low heat for 4-5 minutes, but do not let the roux brown. Add 1/2 qt. of the milk and whisk thoroughly to remove lumps; raise heat to medium-high. As the sauce approaches the boil, add more cold milk. Repeat until all the milk has been added. Keep whisking until the sauce comes to a boil, then remove from heat. Stir in pepper and nutmeg, gruyère and cheddar.

Meanwhile, bring a pot of salted water to a boil and add the macaroni. Boil for 7-8 minutes, or until almost tender. Drain, and toss with half the bechamel. Pour into a large gratin dish or casserole, and pour remaining bechamel on top. Sprinkle with Parmesan and dot with remaining 2 tbsp. of butter. Place under a broiler for 3-5 minutes or until the top begins to brown. Remove and serve.

Makes 10-12 servings

Recipe: Short Ribs braised in Red Wine

Ingredients:

• 4-6 beef short ribs

• 1/2 bottle red wine

• 2 medium carrots
  
• 1 medium parsnip
  
• 1 small turnip
  
• 3 small celery stalks (from the heart, with greens if possible)
  
• 1 medium onion and/or white portion of one medium leek
  
• 2-3 medium cloves garlic

• 1 bay leaf
  
• 1 bunch parsley
  
• 1 sprig fresh thyme (or 1/4 tsp. dried)
  
• 4-6 black peppercorns
  
• 2-3 whole cloves

• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
  
• 1/2 tsp. salt
  
• 1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
  
• 3 tbsp. clarified butter, or 2 tbsp. whole butter with 2 tbsp olive oil
  

Wash, peel, and coarsely chop the vegetables.

Sift together the flour, salt, and pepper, and dredge the short ribs. Place a pot just large enough to hold all the short ribs in one layer over high heat. Add the clarified butter, and when almost smoking add the short ribs meat-side down. Sear to a dark brown, then turn over. When dark brown on both sides, remove to a plate and hold. In the same pan, saute the vegetables, adding additional butter if necessary. Brown the vegetables slightly, then remove the pan from the heat. Layer the short ribs over the vegetables, add the herbs and spices, and pour in the red wine. Cover and place in a 300-degree oven for 3-4 hours.

Remove the short ribs from the braising liquid and place in a heavy-duty tupperware container. Strain the braising liquid and vegetables through a fine-mesh strainer over the short ribs (do not press the vegetables through), cover, and refrigerate overnight. The next day, remove the fat that has separated to the surface, reheat the short ribs slowly in the liquid (or shred the meat and reheat in the liquid), then remove the meat and reduce the braising liquid to 1/4 its original volume. Serve with mashed potatoes and steamed green vegetables (or, if you're in the mood, with mac-n-cheese).

Makes 2 servings

Posted by jeremy at 09:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

When last weekend's dinner was cancelled, I had already assembled all the ingredients for a five-course meal in my kitchen. That was Saturday. As the week wore on, I kept telling myself that one night I would get home in time to do something with all that food, and could still put it to good use. But a series of late nights chipped away at my designs, so that where I once still hoped to assemble a cassoulet, by Wednesday I could only hope that there might be a cut of meat left in my fridge that hadn't turned so far that a good long braise wouldn't salvage it. And of course, by then, I was well in my cups.

This morning I tossed about five pounds of rancid meats and a bushel of withered vegetables into the trash. Not having been in my kitchen for a week, there was already a ripe bag of refuse waiting for me. I faced some of the most horrible smells I've ever encountered today.

But it's a beautiful day here in New York. The air is clear and crisp, the sun is bright, and on top of all that, it's Friday. Tonight I'm leaving a hellish week behind and going up to Rhinebeck to spend a weekend in the country with Lisa. We'll head to our favorite local trattoria for dinner, split a big bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, and sleep until noon. On my way to work this morning, I was whistling Take Five. Today is going to be a fantastic day.

Posted by jeremy at 09:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Yesterday we went to court for the first time in the case that's been keeping me at work for 14-18 hours a day for the past week. We won our motion for a temporary restraining order.

Last night I had liquor for dinner.

Posted by jeremy at 09:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The world of twenty-something lawyers in New York is abuzz with murmurings of discontent over what is perceived to be a stingy year-end bonus for associates at the city's largest law firms.

Meanwhile, I've been spending just about every waking hour in the office working on a lawsuit we filed today. Last night I left early - around 11:30 - so I could come in "refreshed" at 7:00 this morning. By the time I left last night, the sushi I had ordered for dinner had been sitting out for almost three hours. But I hadn't eaten in over ten hours, so what could I do? So far I can't report any ill effects, but we'll see.

I don't think I'm underpaid, but I worry that my job may be poisoning me.

Posted by jeremy at 01:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night ... well, ok, maybe snow.

Dinner guests cannot reasonably be expected to abide by the postman's creed. The blizzard kept two of my guests from dinner on Saturday, which was the doom of the dining club's latest menu. Of course, as far as partners at big New York law firms are concerned, the postman's creed is a pretty low bar for their associates, so I was in the office all weekend anyway. Disappointment all around.

Posted by jeremy at 10:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I've never eaten cassoulet before, which perhaps makes me unqualified to make it, but I'm going to try anyway. Cassoulet is the signature dish of a broad swath of southwestern France, and has inspired fierce opinions, grand celebrations, and even macabre violence. For all this, nobody can say for sure what it really is. Julia Child offers at least four different variations for the dish. Escoffier can't even give a definitive answer -- ESCOFFIER, for crissakes -- he offers two completely different versions under the category of mutton entrees, one of which does not include mutton. The États Généraux de la Gastronomie Française says that in order to be called cassoulet, a dish must contain 30% meat -- they don't care whether you use pork, sausage, lamb, or confit of duck or goose -- and 70% "other" ingredients -- white beans, herbs, aromatics like garlic and onion, pork rind, and broth. Thanks a lot guys. You've been a big help.

Just about every city, town, village, hamlet, and household from the Pyrenees to Provence will claim the secret to "authentic" cassoulet, with Toulouse and Castelnaudary vying for top honors. Typically of the French, these endless and intense rivalries for worldwide gastronomic bragging rights all circulate over what is, at its essence, a peasant dish. Cassoulet generally includes the most unwanted scraps of meat (besides the offal) available; it is a hodgepodge of odds and ends. The confit of goose is the shell within which was once housed foie gras, perhaps the most famous product of the Medi-Pyrénées. The mutton is likely taken from a sheep that can no longer produce milk for the region's famous cheeses. The casserole is studded with the pink garlic that grows everywhere around Lautrec. And the whole is held together with the ultimate peasant staple, the white bean.

Of course, the French will tell you that only special varieties of lignot beans will do for a proper cassoulet, but that's just them getting all snooty about what is ultimately just leftover casserole. Julia says that the good old American Great Northern Bean is just fine -- and who am I to argue with Julia? I've assembled duck legs for confit, pork, lamb, and pork belly, as well as a couple pounds of beans. I even splurged on some ail rose de Lautrec at Fairway. I couldn't find a decent pork and garlic sausage, although I do have some merguez, the garlicky, gamey lamb sausage. I haven't decided yet whether to use it, or to try making my own pork sausage. Nor have I decided how many times I'll crack the gratinated crust that will (hopefully) form over my cassoulet while it cooks - seven or eight (the question has divided frenchmen for centuries). But that's all for tomorrow. Tonight, I've got to soak my beans and cook my meats. I'll also need to make a stock - I have some bones set aside for just this purpose. And I haven't even mentioned the four other courses I have planned. It's going to be a long haul to dinner tomorrow night. And miles to go before I sleep...

Posted by jeremy at 10:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I took the N/R down to Canal Street last night after work in search of trotters. Coming up out of the subway in Chinatown really is like entering a parallel universe. You start in the New York you know and love, you go underground, and when you finally come back up again, everything is upside-down. I know I'm still in New York, but I also know I don't really belong here. Still, this is one of the things I like about the city: you can be a foreigner in your own home town.

The Zagat's Marketplace Guide has flagged a couple of meat markets in Chinatown, but they seem to have gotten wise and have lots of American-style cuts with labels in English to make the outsiders feel more at home. The only pig's feet I found there were small and already scored through to the bone -- no good for stuffing. So I went exploring.

I've always been wary about buying raw meat or fish in Chinatown, mostly because of the smell. It's as if the runoff from the ice chests in the open-air fish markets drains into the narrow streets, ripens, and hangs in the air like a guilty secret. But the markets are always packed, and thousands of Chinese immigrants can't be wrong, can they?

The meat markets in Chinatown are mostly indistinguishable; they all carry cuts of meat that I haven't seen before, whole animals and parts of animals I've never tasted. Split carcasses of birds of every size - some with their heads still attached -- sit alongside whole fish and meats that still look like the animal they came from. Some of them have been salted and dried until the bones and flesh share a uniform brittle crunchiness; some have been pickled in vinegar, oil, and chilies; some are fresh, some are frozen. There is jellyfish here. There are buckets and buckets of chickens' feet. There is liver and stomach and heart of pig. There are various bone-studded chunks of flesh I can't even identify. There are fish heads. There is all manner of dead creeping and swimming and flying things that look at once slightly familiar and inexplicably alien. And everywhere you look the Cantonese lacquer of soy sauce, sherry, and sugar -- that quintessential marriage of saltiness, sweetness, and richness that can draw a covetous glance from the most sated diner -- glistens beckoningly at you.

This is an experience every carnivore should have. We've grown dangerously accustomed to dissociating the idea of meat from the idea of animals. The clean pink and red blocks and slabs draped with snowy-white fat that shimmer under shrink-wrap in the grocer's meat case used to belong to a creature that had eyes, feet, fur, feathers, a brain, a heart. It walked, it spoke in its way; it ate and shit and made more little creatures just like it. Thomas Keller decided he had to kill his own rabbits to get back in touch with what eating meat is all about; Jeffrey Steingarten had to watch a communal pig-slaughter. For me its a stroll through Chinatown. To fully face where your food comes from is humbling; if you can still be at peace with it, it's liberating.

I ended up in a meat market on the south side of Canal, between Baxter and Mulberry. After a bit of cross-cultural sign language, I walked out with two rear-quarter pig's feet cut halfway up the shank, each as big as my forearm. I also picked up a strip of raw pork belly and a massive bone-in pork picnic - a sinewy shoulder cut - for my cassoulet. On my way back to the subway, I stopped by the push cart of a lady who makes little pop-cakes in a cast-iron mold; 20 for a dollar. They're warm and sweet on a cold night, a reward for venturing into unfamiliar territory and returning with more than I set out to find.

Posted by jeremy at 10:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

There has been a cancellation for this Saturday's dinner. That means an available seat at the table. Anybody want to come?

Posted by jeremy at 10:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, I've found a source for pig's feet, but I'm still a little uneasy. Western Beef, the bargain basement supermarket cum walk-in meat locker chain, has two cases of fresh-frozen forequarter trotters in stock at their store on 63rd and West End. But a forequarter trotter just doesn't have that much meat on it, and I don't know if it'll be enough to stuff. I worry about the effect of this short-changing on my guests; an old Irish legend suggests that serving pig's feet from the front legs can only lead to bloodshed.

There is another option, and that's Chinatown. There are meat markets on Bayard, Elizabeth, and Grand that cater to Chinese tastes, and pig's feet are a Chinese delicacy. I called these places up, but nobody spoke English, so I guess I'll just have to trudge on down there. Meanwhile, I've got to start thinking about my cassoulet. This French meat and bean dish takes a good 2-3 days to make, and I don't even have the ingredients yet. Time to get in gear. Tonight I'm going meat shopping.

Posted by jeremy at 09:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The next meal of the dining club is just five days away. It's time for me to start preparing. But I've run into a bit of a hurdle: I put pig's feet on the menu with no idea where to buy them. Fresh pig's feet are not common in American kitchens; if they ever appear it's usually in smoked or pickled form. Nor Fairway nor Citarella nor Gristede's carries them. It's time to get a little creative. I'll be scouring the yellow pages for butcher shops tonight, and if that fails, I'll probably be trolling around Chinatown before too long. Any help in this regard would be greatly appreciated.

Posted by jeremy at 08:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)