Eating

You can take the girl out of the city but you can’t take the city out of the girl…especially when she’s stuffing it back in with both hands! No better place than Momofuku Ssam Bar to remember what it’s like to eat somebody else’s cooking. We chowed down on David-Chang-deliciousness and it was yet another flawless dining experience, from cocktails to cookies. You know all about the place already, right? So I don't have to tell you that you'll eat hunched over at the bar on a hard stool, gazing at strange '70s art featuring John McEnroe and rocking out to loud music. It's all part of a funky, stripped-down dining experience that really wakes up your senses. So glad they’ve now got a full bar and mixed drinks on their extensive alcohol menu. I've written before about the truly wonderful “Penicillin;” even posted the recipe for you here. Smoky Scotch + ginger syrup + lemon juice = divinity. It outshined the Wild-Turkey-based “Gold Rush” I had last night, if you ask me. Here’s what we ate:
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You asked for soup, you got it. This rich and creamy combination of kabocha squash and fennel is a wonderful winter recipe from Suzanne Goin. She's an LA-based chef and I really recommend her cookbook, Sunday Suppers at Lucques. (I hope to eat at Lucques, or at AOC, her other place, when I'm in LA later this week.) The kabocha called for is a rich, sweet and dry-textured squash that used quite a bit in Japanese cooking. It's sometimes referred to as Japanese pumpkin. Like all squash, it's good for you—high in fiber and in vitamins C and A. It has a darkish green, striated outside, sometimes tinged with orange and yellow.This is a hearty vegetarian soup (although you can make it with chicken stock) and, along with some cheese and salad, I think it will leave you quite satisfied.

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By now you've probably all heard Michael Pollan's edict, "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." It's an approach to healthy eating that takes into account everything we now know about artery-clogging animal fats and the global ramifications of factory-farming; about the stress caused by over-eating and the benefits of calorie deprivation; about the value of antioxidants and flavanoids and fiber. But let's say you're too busy to read the books (Fast Food Nation, The Omnivore's Dilemma, In Defense of Food, Eating Animals), you haven't seen the movie (Food Inc.) and you just want to know a few things you can do every day, realistically, right now, to improve your diet. Again, my disclaimer: I am no health professional. I have simply read a lot about these issues and experimented with changing my own eating habits. I am not into deprivation. I am into consuming delicious foods that help me thrive.
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An earthquake in Haiti. A funeral in Boston. One event global, the other local, but both bringing home the realization, once again, that life on this earth is not something to be taken for granted. How then to optimize the time we have? In a sense, this is what my blog is all about. To be a glutton for life means to gobble up experience, to hunger for everything out there. It means to want more of this life and, perhaps paradoxically, this means finding some measure of restraint, some balance. Life is pain and suffering, and it is joy and wonderment. We must learn from both extremes in order to create harmony somewhere in the middle. Today, I listened to the eulogies for a great man who died of cancer. A philanthropist and successful businessmen, a supporter of the arts, a horseman (those are his horses, above), a family man, a beloved friend. His accomplishments in just 68 years were staggering. The Boston Symphony played under the direction of Sir Colin Davis. James Taylor sang. This was no ordinary man, and yet the qualities for which he was most lauded were things we can all strive for: moral integrity, loyalty, selflessness, humility, curiosity about the world, a thirst for knowledge.
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Fresh juice is a great way to start the day. You've probably already read my proselytizing about the many benefits of ingesting live, vital vegetable and fruit juices. (Quick primer: you get energy, antioxidants, digestive health, clear skin.) But on these frigid days, something warming does seem in order. I'm not a coffee drinker, never have been, though I do enjoy the occasional cup (especially as a vehicle for cream and sugar), but I am partial to chai. Actually, chai simply means tea. It derives from cha, the Chinese word for tea. What I'm really talking about here is masala chai—masala being an Indian word for spice blend. In India, masala chai is drunk like we drink coffee. It’s sold on the streets by chaiwallahs (and I think you all know what that is, having sat through Slumdog Millionaire.) Instant chai is available, but it tends to be loaded with sugar and fake flavorings. I’ve been known to order a soy chai latte from Starbuck’s (oh, the shame) and the best I can say about it is that it’s not very authentic. One prepared version I do like is from the venerable French tea company, Mariage Freres, called Chandernagor after the former French colony north of Kolkata (Calcutta). It’s a classic blend of black tea with cinnamon, cloves, ginger, green cardamom and black pepper. Sometimes chai will also include ajwain, a pungent relative of caraway; allspice; coriander; bittersweet chocolate; fennel, star anise or licorice root; nutmeg; and vanilla. My favorite tea to use in a chai blend is an Assam, whose assertive taste and slight smokiness can stand up to all the spices. Rooibos tea makes a pretty good caffeine-free alternative. Why not make your own masala chai blend in quantity and store it in a jar or tin? Then you can simply steep it in a combination of milk (cow, goat, soy) and water, adding whatever sweetener you like. I use honey, but sugar, agave nectar or even sweetened condensed milk work well. The spices really enhance the warming effect, and are a great way to get your blood moving on these cold winter mornings.
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I'm drinking alone. Though partial to a bourbon cocktail, preferably The Eldred, I've never been able to knock back much booze. I've got a 2-drink limit, because otherwise I head from pleasantly tipsy straight to clutching the bowl. But this bottle of Root has been winking at me from the liquor cabinet ever since it arrived in the mail, having caught G's fancy when he read about it somewhere. I took a teensy sip some time ago and realized it was not something I was going to be drinking straight. This is some seriously intense juice that needs to be coaxed into a sippable cocktail. So I've been mixing up a few different blends, trying to take the medicinal edge off the stuff. I've got a rocks glass in one hand, and my new Kindle in the other. I'm reading Mary Karr's memoir, Lit, about her slurring downward spiral into the quicksand of alcoholism—and her hardscrabble ascent out of it. The irony is not lost on me. I also read and enjoyed her other book, The Liar's Club, about her deeply unfortunate childhood. She writes with raw feeling and has that hysterical, bawdy wit that is often the veneer over lacerating pain. But back to Root.
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You may have seen Mark Bittman's piece about eating legumes in the Times last week. He provided some excellent and simple recipes, like spiced red lentil dal, and mung bean dal with apples and coconut. He talked about the typical Indian way of finishing these dishes by stirring in an extra flavor booster—cream, butter, fried onions or nuts. (Apparently this is called a "tarka.") It reminded me of a dish I was obsessed with during our visit to India, a thick and spicy stew of black lentils enriched with cream. I first had it in Jaipur, that magical city of bazaars and bangles and precious stones and yellow marigolds. We were staying at the Oberoi Rajvilas, one of the world's most outstanding hotels. Peacocks roamed the grounds outside our luxurious "tent," and one night we collapsed into our enormous, pillowy bed to watch "Ghandi" and eat room service. What arrived was this incredible daal makhani, fragrant with ginger and chile, rich with ghee.
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I once read somewhere that were he to come back as a kitchen tool (literally), David Chang would want to be a chinois. So called because of it’s alleged resemblance to the straw hat worn by the Chinese, the chinois (or chinoise) is an elegant little device that will elevate your sauces and soups to a new level of sophistication. This conical sieve with an extremely fine mesh is used to strain out the very smallest particles from custards, purees, soups and sauces, thus producing a smooth, velvety texture. It’s a rather expensive tool, not to be confused with the cheaper “China cap,” which has much larger holes. The chinois usually comes with a dowel that looks a bit like a pointy pestle, which is what you use to work soft foods through the mesh. It lets you easily press every last bit of juice and flavor from the solids. Some chinois come with a stand that is useful for holding it upright over a pot or bowl. Try using your chinois next time you’re making stock, pureed soup, jelly or custard. You will be shocked (pleasantly) by how refined the texture becomes and, because you can press on any remaining solids, you will notice a deeper, more intense flavor.
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Fela is astonishing! One of the most vibrant and uplifting theatrical experiences you will ever see. You should treat yourself to a night out. The show has migrated from off-Broadway to the Eugene O’Neill theatre on 49th Street. Some heavyweight producers have signed on (Jay-Z, Will and Jada Smith) and luminaries in our packed house included Spike Lee (yes, wearing a baseball cap) and Oprah BFF Gayle King (sporting a Michele Obama-esque waist-cincher). Written by Jim Lewis and directed and choreographed by the legendary Bill T. Jones, this music and dance extravaganza is about Fela Anikulap-Kuti, the Nigerian creator of Afrobeat, a unique synthesis of highlife jazz, James Brown and traditional African rhythms. We saw Sahr Ngaujah in the taxing lead role, but some nights Kevin Mambo takes over. Apparently he is just as good. As incredible as Sahr is, and as smokin’ as is the on-stage band, the show for me was all about the nine female dancers. They represent the 28 women who worked and toured with Fela, all of whom he married in one big ceremony.

Their performances are centered around their incredibly regal attitudes and their amazing booties, constantly rotating and shaking to the beat. The colorful and sexy costumes (designed by Marina Draghici, who is also responsible for the fine set), and the extraordinary makeup, are like the vivid plumage on rare birds. Their bodies range from Amazonian to tiny, from sinewy to well-muscled; they are all strong and supple and gorgeous.
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Still at the Ace Hotel in New York City. Bastion of all things vintage-fabulous, steampunk and industrial chic. I like the use of typography throughout the hotel. I brought my camera but forgot the cable to download images to my computer. (Duh. I swear I will get the hang of this soon.) So instead I am posting this picture of me taken two years ago, at a truly fabulous hotel outside Udaipur, called Devi Garh. It's an ancient Indian palace and one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. (More on that soon, when I post about the incredible Kashmiri curry I ate there and now know how to make.) I suppose it's a sad fact of colonialism, but the Indians really know what good service is. Here at the Ace, not so much. Our do-not-disturb sign—a magnet that says "Not Now" and can be stuck to the metal door—somehow vanished during the night. The room service burgers delivered from The Breslin's kitchen (beef not lamb): Eh. The thrice-cooked fries, however, were divine. And I give them credit for sending up little jars of ketchup, dijon mustard and mayonnaise. And for the crisp lacinato kale and radicchio mixed into their green salad. For dessert? The homemade ice cream on offer was vanilla only, and no chocolate sauce available, so we passed. An in-room viewing of The September Issue wrapped up the evening, and we were really quite happy. Grace Coddington, with her witchy mane of flaming red frizz (gorgeous) versus the bizarrely stiff and bug-like Anna Wintour—no contest, really. Given her upbringing, and the real-world accomplishments of her talented siblings, Anna, poor dear, is clearly burdened with the shame of working in fashion. It's too bad, because when you see the magic that Grace creates, the sheer transporting fantasy of a beautiful girl in an other-worldly dress, you see that fashion's escapism is not without merit.
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