Frame: Stay tuned
SB and her favorite part of the baking process.
Stay tuned for everything you ever needed to know about my mom’s brownies (except the actual recipe).
Food: Chicken Scallopine and Butter Bean Salad
I’m putting in a really valiant effort to improve my repertoire of edible (read: someone aside from me will eat and not gag on the finished product) meat-based dishes, so this week I tried my hand at chicken scaloppine. It was surprisingly easy, and required just a tiny bit of finesse and timing.
Start with 4 chicken cutlets (thinly sliced chicken breasts) of about the same size. If you go to the meat counter they can hand pick them for you, but if you are buying them in a package you might want to buy two packages so you have a better chance of finding four that are similarly sized. As it was, the four I purchased were vastly different, which was fine, it just means you have to keep that in mind for cooking time. About an hour before you want to start cooking, take the chicken out of the fridge and put it on the counter to come to room temperature. You don’t want to put cold chicken in a hot pan- it will stick to your pan and not cook as evenly.
Cutlets in the pan
Using a large skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. While it is heating, season the chicken (on both sides) with salt and pepper. Place the chicken in the pan, and cook for 2-3 minutes on each side (tongs are helpful here). If you have a particularly small piece of chicken, take it out sooner, if you have a larger piece, leave it in longer (duh).
Chicken in a tent
To test for done-ness you can take the professional route and tap it with your finger- it should feel like the pad of skin under your thumb. Or, you can use my method and cut into the thickest part of the biggest piece- its cheating but if you are careful you won’t totally mess up your piece of chicken. Once the chicken is done, place them on a plate and cover with tin foil to keep warm.
Deglazing with wine
In the same pan that you cooked the chicken, over medium-low heat, add two chopped shallots and one chopped clove of garlic, as well as ½ to 1/3 cup of white wine to deglaze. I used a Como Sur Sauvignon Blanc, because I was drinking it while I was cooking, anyway. Cook, stirring intermittently, until the wine is all but absorbed and evaporated. Add 1 and ¼ cups of chicken broth (you could also use vegetable broth if you prefer, or any kind of stock for that matter). At this stage you also want to add your primary flavor agent. Some options are saffron (which I used), lemon, tomato paste, or just a variety of herbs. If you use saffron, toss in ¼ teaspoon when you put in the chicken broth, wait until the mixture simmers, and then cook until the liquid reduces by half, 8-10 minutes. Then, add ½ cup heavy cream, plus salt and pepper to taste.
Chicken broth, saffron, and cream
Stir together and cook over low heat for about 2 minutes, until the liquid has reduced again. While this is happening, quickly put your chicken on the serving plate you are going to use, or if you are using individual dishes, start plating them. There will be chicken drippings left on the plate the chicken was resting on- pour these into the pan with your sauce. Once your chicken is on the plate and the sauce is reduced to your liking, spoon it on top of your chicken, put the rest in a bowl with a spoon, and serve immediately. Voila!
Finished!
Since it is still technically summer, I served this with a cold butter bean salad, which made the whole meal a little lighter. You could easily make this a fall or winter meal by pairing it with potatoes or root vegetables. The recipe for the butter bean salad, inspired by my friend Cindy, is below.
Butter Bean Salad
Butter Bean Salad
(Serves 4 for dinner, plus 2 for lunch the next day.)
3 cans Butter Beans (also known as Gigandes) – if you have time to soak dried beans, go for it.
1 bunch basil, chopped
Juice of two lemons plus zest of one
2 tbsps olive oil
1 tomato, chopped
1 red pepper, 1 green pepper, 1 yellow pepper, finely chopped (do yourself a favor and buy the prechopped/premixed peppers at the store.)
1 package arugula, mache, spinach, or a mix
Salt and pepper to taste
Rinse and drain the beans, put into a large mixing bowl. Add olive oil, lemon juice and zest (it seems like a lot but it makes the canned beans taste really fresh), tomato, peppers, salt and pepper. Mix well. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours- this gives the flavors a chance to marry and marinate in the lemon juice. Just before serving, fold in the greens, then taste and adjust the salt/pepper seasoning if needed. Voila.
Frame: Five Good Things
Sorry shibs!
One time, I bullied my friend shibby into eating a literal ton of apple crisp, in a very short period of time. It didn’t go very well and she can no longer eat apple crisp. But she’s still pretty great, and she has a pretty great blog. And I’m not just saying that because it features me today.
Food: Tribute to the Smiley
Due to the overwhelming response to my mention of Eat’n Park and an outpouring of love for the smiley cookie, I present to you a photo montage of every native Pittsburgher’s favorite sugar shock.
Pittsburgh's first LEED certified Eat 'n Park
Grab and Go Smileys
All the smiles of the rainbow.
Peace sign smileys? Not ok.
SB and Smiley. The waitress pretended I was under 12- free smiley!
Food: Only in Pittsburgh (P.1)
- now available at Heinz Field
The secret is pretty much out on this place, and it turns out a lot of flyover states have a version of a sandwich that includes side dishes between the bread, but we like to think we were the first (maybe we were). Regardless, it’s a good, albeit heavy sandwich. Eaten before a Steelers game (or AT a Steelers game at the new-ish stadium), your stomach is fully lined for beer.
3. Pecan Balls: I thought this was a Pittsburgh thing until I saw a recipe for it on Food Network. No matter- the point is that every good Steel City restaurant has a pecan ball on its dessert menu. Ice cream rolled in pecans, sitting in whipped cream, topped with butterscotch or chocolate. Yum.
4. Eat ‘n Park: If you live in the Northeast, it’s called Friendly’s. If you live more toward the Mid-Atlantic, it’s called Howard Johnson’s. Whatever you call it, it’s a diner chain with cheap, greasy spoon food and bottomless coffee- but at Eat ‘n Park, you can also get a famous Smiley Cookie. Whether you’re a high school student driving around at 2am with nothing to do, or a 30 year old relishing a breakfast plate for $3, the Smiley Cookie is for you, in all of its diabetic coma inducing sweetness.
And while we’re at it, Eat ‘n Park is responsible for my favorite holiday commercial ever.
5. Steak two ways:
a) “Pittsburgh style” steak: If you ask your server what “Pittsburgh style” is, they will tell you that it means the steak is prepared very rare on the inside and burned to hell on the outside. Why anyone would want to eat this style of steak, I don’t know.
b) Steak Salad: Iceberg. Tomatoes. Carrots. Shredded cheddar cheese. Steak. French fries. Ranch dressing. All mixed up in one bowl. Or, if you are lucky, a huge taco shell. What’s not to love?
Technically this is a chicken salad, but it is the same idea.
Pittsburghers, what’s your favorite hometown food?
Frame: Try the library?
I have mixed feelings about this article:
The gist is that new coffee shops are trending toward the bar model and away from the extension of the back porch idea that Starbucks has hung its hat on for so many years. These new places are actively discouraging customers from sticking around- no wifi, no reading materials, no chairs.
The part of me that equates this with my life in Italy loves the idea- an Italian breakfast consists of coffee sipped while standing at a counter, and it is usually quite social as your friends are standing next to you with their own espresso. There is no muffin, no fruit cup, no breakfast sandwich, and no lingering for 3 hours over your laptop. That’s what these new coffee bars are aiming for- the morning equivalent of stopping for a beer with friends on the way home.
I can give up the muffin, fruit cup, and breakfast sandwich no problem- while I love brunch on the weekends I don’t dig on daily breakfast, which is why the Italian lifestyle suited me so well. But I have to admit I love my coffee and papers, and I’m no stranger to staking out a table at my nearby Starbucks and laying claim for a few hours. (And don’t we all have “our” Starbucks? And isn’t it truly annoying when someone is sitting at “your” table? Or unnerving when someone doesn’t understand how the early morning line works or who to talk to if you’re ordering food vs. just ordering a drink? Who is this person that is new to your Starbucks? Are they visiting from out of town or are they going to keep coming here? If they intend on being a regular they better get with the program, pronto.)
I guess there is room for both this new model and my Starbucks back porch, or my beloved 1369 cafe (http://www.1369coffeehouse.com) with its unique collection of Cambridge-ians, a race that has pioneered the table stake-out and can survive in one spot for over 8 hours with little more than a brewed refill, a pair of emo glasses, and some tight jeans.
Or, I’d say I should try holing up in the library again, but they don’t allow coffee in there, do they?
Frame: SB’s Kitchen
This morning my favorite person saved me the food section in the Boston Globe, which I read while waiting for a performance review. My nerves were soothed by a cute little article entitled “What’s in your fridge?”- a piece about (what else?) the contents of your fridge and what they can say about you. With that as inspiration, here are the 13 things that are always, always in my kitchen (cupboard and fridge). These are the things that I get a little twitchy about when I’m running low on, my absolute must always haves. What do these say about me? You be the judge.
1. Lemons.
2. Good butter.
3. Wine. Red and White.
4. Pasta noodles, both long and short.
5. Parmesan cheese. Plus at least one other type of cheese.
6. Garlic.
7. San Marzano crushed and diced tomatoes.
8. Rao’s Marinara Sauce, for when I’m feeling too lazy to make use of #7.
9. Cream. I am unapologetic about this.
10. Some form of ice cream or frozen dessert.
11. College Inn Chicken Broth. No other brand.
12. Parsley.
13. Either Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, or some variant on the spaghettios paradigm.
Food: Fish
Branzino
Sometimes food is art.
Fluff: Cookies and the Kindness of Strangers
I recently met a lovely young woman who is about to travel to Italy for several months. Speaking to her about my own experiences studying abroad, I was reminded of a particularly eventful weekend I spent in Italy, years ago.
In 2001 I spent my spring semester living in Florence, studying art and language, and traveling across Europe. Most of my travels included group trips with my 5 roommates, staying in dingy hostels and hitting all of the then-hot spots: Interlaken, Prague, Budapest, and more. But on one weekend I decided to strike out on my own and visit a decidedly un-touristy location- Reggio Di Calabria- the area that my father’s family originated from. To get to Reggio, you need to take a train, another train, a bus, a boat, and I believe eventually a horse and then a smaller horse. I made it as far as the end of the bus ride and decided I was all set.
At the end of the bus line I disembarked and looked around at the small seaside town that was close enough to my family’s birthplace. There was not a soul in sight, and I realized that arriving without any idea of where to spend the night was not my most brilliant plan. Still, my 21 year old energy pulled me through and I wandered the town until I came across a hotel located on the beach, managed to express my need for a room in halting, broken Italian, and ignored the stares from the owners as I took my key, walked upstairs, and flopped on the bed. I was starving, but the thought of braving the near- desolate town filled only with people who had never even been to nearby Sicily, much less my friendlier homebase of Florence, was too much. The only thing I had brought with me to eat was a large bag of generic chocolate chip cookies, purchased at Standa (the equivalent of Star Market) in Italy. I ate my way through half of the bag, took a shower, completely flooded the room (European showers are tricky), spent 3 hours mopping it up with a rug I found in the armoire, and passed out, exhausted.
The next morning I set out to explore the town and find what I was sure would be amazing local cuisine to make up for my sad dinner the night before. Unfortunately, it was not exactly high season in Reggio, and the only “restaurants” that were open were the kitchens of the locals, which people seemed to just walk into from the street. I couldn’t bring myself to do it- the same 21 year old energy I’d had the night before was married to a 21 year old’s sense of foolish pride. I dipped into the cookies again.
I did spend a lovely day walking the beach and taking pictures of the town, which was filled with public gardens, orange and lemon trees, wild flowers, and stray cats. As the afternoon wore on, however, I decided I should head back to civilization (aka Florence)- I was hungry. I made my way to the bus stop and waited.
Here’s the thing about public transportation in Italy- all of Italy. Its not very reliable.* You may have a schedule that tells you when a bus, train, or ferry is departing, and that schedule may have been printed in the last ten years. That bus, train, or ferry may show up at the correct time, it may show up an hour later, it probably won’t show up at all. You may decide, after an appropriate grace period, that you should just start walking to the train station, even if said train station is many millions of miles away. That’s just the kind of logic that occurs in the brain of a 21 year old approaching starvation.
About two miles in to my trek, my backpack rubbing blisters on my hips, my cookies long gone, a car full of Italian men- no more than 25 years old- pulled over in front of me. The driver – young, dark, and handsome- said, in Italian: “Are you serious? What are you doing walking along the highway? Why is a gorgeous young woman like you doing something like this?”
I mean, that’s what I hoped he was saying. It seemed better than what he was probably saying, or propositioning, to me.
“Basta. Vado alla stazione treno” I said, still walking, head held high. That translates roughly into “Don’t bother me. I go to the train.” Even as an insecure 21 year old, I knew how to act aloof and thwart potential attackers.
The car’s passengers burst out laughing, the driver stopped the engine, and all three men got out. One gently removed my backpack and tossed it in the trunk, one smoothly maneuvered me into the car, and the third peed on the side of the road before getting back in. The car sped off, now with me in tow, and I figured I was either being kidnapped or getting a ride to the train. Either way, I was sitting and there was nothing to be done about it, so I figured I’d relax for a bit. The men continued to chat boisterously, talking – with me a bit but mostly with each other– clearly joking around and enjoying themselves. They smoked cigarettes and swore mildly, grinning and laughing, grown-up little boys.
Forty-five minutes later (I was never, never going to get to that train by walking), the car pulled up to the station and all three men got out once again. One pulled my backpack out of the trunk and set it in front of me, one helped me out of my seat, and the third peed on the curb. All three kissed both of my cheeks, said “ciao bella!” and got back into the car.
And yes, I then had to wait approximately 6 hours for my train to arrive, but I didn’t care. I was safe and on my way home, I’d been kissed by three kind strangers, and there were many, many cookies for sale at il stazione del treno.*
*Understatement of the century.
*All Italian in this piece is only sort of correct, except for the word “basta.” “Basta,” one of my favorite Italian words, means “enough.”
Feast: Audubon Circle
Audubon (or Audubon Circle, as I only just, after 6 years of patronage, discovered is this establishment’s proper name) is the kind of place that grows with you. 
For example, what I used to regard as my bar around the corner in graduate school, perfect for drinks and a burger after a midterm, morphed into a reunion spot after graduation. As more time passed, Audubon became a regular meeting place before a night out at a Red Sox game, or an evening of dancing. Now, older and less inclined to stay out until 3am, Audubon has grown with me again, revamping its menu to include excellent entrees and more sophisticated drinks (which, post grad school, SB and friends can now afford), providing a low key venue for a weeknight chat and dinner, a first date, or a home base for a saturday night gathering for a round of moscow mules.
Audubon is just close enough to the green line and Kenmore Square to be convenient, but just far enough away that it is rarely uncomfortably crowded.* They have an outdoor patio on which you can dine or just drink, and for those that still smoke, have at it. The bar area itself has ample seating, and the service is always fast and very friendly. Mixed drinks are prepared expertly, but be a pal and don’t order a mojito – its a pain for the bartenders to make, and mojitos are pretty much over, anyway. The beer list is seasonal and relevant, and the staff is happy to make recommendations.
Another bonus about Audubon- the bathrooms are always very clean and well kept. Take advantage of them if you plan to hit another bar- or worse, Fenway- later in the evening. And yes, sports fans, they do have several flat screens- you don’t have to miss a second of the game.
I was a die hard Audubon burger fan for many years, and while the burgers are still good- served with a side of potatoes and the rare perfect bun- I’ve moved on to their newer offerings. I’ve tried the beef shin quesadilla several times in an attempt to figure out the flavor note that I can’t quite identify. Whatever it is (mint maybe?), the meat is moist and not stringy, good as a meal (if you have a lighter appetite) or a shared first course. The white bean puree and the potstickers are perennial favorites among FoSBs, excellent add-ons to a night of beers.
Normally I don’t order salads in bars, no matter how restaurant-y the bar is. But at Audubon, the grilled chicken salad is a fine choice for dinner. A generous portion with well-cooked chicken and fresh greens, my only complaint is that it can arrive over-dressed. Easily fixed by asking for the lemon-cilantro vinaigrette on the side, it’s both healthier and much better tasting than the taco or cobb salad most bar diners will be eating this weekend.
The new entree list is where Audubon has made its mark lately, introducing two of my favorites- pork schnitzel and hanger steak. The schnitzel arrives with peppery arugula and pickled onions, two flavors that are an excellent compliment to the pork. The meat is juicy while still being a thin cut, and the breading is light, flavorful, and not greasy. The star of the whole menu, however, is the hanger steak. Perfectly cooked, the steak arrives fanned on the plate, atop a rosemary brown butter aioli. If I were to choose something from a restaurant to spend weeks trying to emulate, it would be this dish, this sauce. Also included is a potato gratin – a side that I don’t normally care for – with just the right amount of salt, and an appealing texture. Not too mushy, not too crunchy. Admittedly, this dish was made for fall/winter- eat it in the doldrums of summer and you’ll roll yourself home- but put it on your list.
The only thing I really can’t stand about Audubon is the extremely pointy bar table that you must pass to get to the front door. I have almost impaled myself on it so many times (regardless of whether or not I’ve had anything to drink) that my companions now know to take me by the hand and guide me outside, lest I become a bar casualty. Note to the management: This is seriously hazardous. Invest in some kind of padding, or at least sand down that pointy edge, please.
*all bets are off at the height of baseball season.
Food: Spaghetti alla Carbonara
If you’ve ever tried to make a carbonara sauce, you’ve probably only done it once, and you’ve probably failed. (Sorry, but you know its true.) You bought all of the ingredients, invited people over, set out the nice bowls for a delicious meal, and then had to order pizza when you realized that instead of the traditional “breakfast” pasta with a creamy, smooth texture, you made an unfortunate spaghetti omelette.
It’s not your fault- SB has been there too. And she is here to tell you that there are a lot of bad carbonara recipes out there.
The basic recipe calls for bacon (or pancetta), onion (or shallot), romano cheese (or parmesan), and several raw eggs (the problematic part). Different recipes use olive oil, cream, garlic, or parsley, and of course salt and pepper. After much research, I’ve decided that the most error proof method of cooking the dish uses cream over oil, and fewer eggs than are usually prescribed. The rest of the ingredients can be tinkered with as you see fit.
At least 90% of this recipe is easy- but start by taking your eggs out of the fridge and setting them on the counter. It’s very important that your eggs be room temperature. Now, cook the onion and bacon in a pan over medium heat (full recipe below). Put the water on for your pasta at the same time. After about 8-10 minutes, add 1/2 cup of cream, salt and pepper to taste, and as much grated cheese as you’d like to the onion and bacon mixture. Once your pasta has finished cooking, drain it VERY well (you don’t want the sauce to get watered down) and add it to the sauce, cooking over low heat for 1-2 minutes, turning the pasta so that it is completely coated. Now, here is where things could get tricky.
If you know anything about cooking, you’ll quickly realize that you need to be careful for this next step- adding raw eggs to a warm pasta. If you make a wrong move the eggs will react the same way I do when I realize I’ve accidentally wandered into the “petite” section of Ann Taylor- they start walking away quickly and stating loudly “Wrong! Wrong! I know I’m not petite! I did not mean to be in this section!” In other words, they scramble.
Here is how to avoid this problem:
1) Crack your room temperature eggs, and separate into bowls. All the whites go into one bowl, each yolk goes into a separate bowl.
2) Remove pan holding the coated pasta from burner/heat. There is no need to wait for the pasta to cool at all, in fact, you MUST do this step while the pasta is still warm.
3) Add the WHITES to the pan immediately and stir well, until fully mixed.
4). Separate pasta into serving bowls, the add one yolk to the top of each serving.
The whites will incorporate into the dish and create a creamy, silky finish. When your diners mix the yolk into their portion they will add an extra layer of earthiness. And best of all, your eggs will not be scrambled and you will feel like a regular Giada De Laurentiis (hopefully minus the abnormally large bobble-head).
Recipe: Spaghetti alla Carbonara
Serves 4
4 eggs, at room temperature and separated. Whites in one bowl, each yolk in its own separate bowl
1/2 cup heavy cream
8-10 oz bacon or pancetta
1/2 onion, chopped
approx 1 cup parmesan or romano cheese, grated
salt and pepper
parsley
1 lb pasta
Put water on for pasta, once water is boiling add salt and cook pasta until al dente. Cook bacon, onion, and garlic in large saucepan over medium heat, about 8-10 minutes. Once cooked, add cream and cook for 1 minute. Add grated cheese, salt and pepper. Add well drained pasta to pan, coat fully with sauce and cook for 1-2 minutes. Remove pan from heat. Add 1/2 of the room temperature egg whites to pan and stir well (if you want to add all of the egg whites, go for it, but start with just 1/2). Separate pasta into bowls, top each serving with one egg yolk, more cheese, and parsley. Voila.
*credit for the basis of this recipe goes to Mario Batali, though I’ve made several changes to it.
Fluff: How Sfogliatelle Saved My Life
Quick: let’s do a food association:
Cranberry Sauce: Christmas. Lemonade: Summer. Cake: Birthdays
Sfogliatelle: The only thing that stood between me and imminent death last Thanksgiving morning.
Any good Italian sb knows what a sfogliatelle is, but in case you are not of the Neapolitan ilk, I’ll explain. Sfogliatelle (or “sfoie”) are shell shaped pastry stuffed with a mixture of ricotta, cinnamon, and citrus (orange or lemon) as filling. The pastry texture resembles leaves stacked on top of one another (the word “sfogliatelle” means “many layers” or “many leaves”). Sfoie originated in a monastery in Salerno, Italian, in the 17th century- leave it to the monks to create something so profligate meant to be eaten for breakfast, of all meals. They are crispy on the outside, almost chewy on the inside, and possess the power to revive someone who has already been pronounced DOA.
In my line of work, the winter holidays are the busiest time of the year. In particular, the three days leading up to Thanksgiving can fell even the healthiest, strongest, and most mentally fit of all humans. When your job is to provide holiday food for every single person in town, there is not much room for error. When you are also in charge of all of the people providing that food, and the building that houses all of that food, your task is that much more stressful. Fortunately for me, I have a secret weapon- his name is George.
Last year the pressure to make the most of the holidays was really on- as the economy tanked, so did the budgets of those buying their holiday meals. My stress level went up as I struggled to remain calm in the face of falling morale and two tons of homeless mashed potatoes in the walk-in cooler. But every day, just when I thought things would fall apart, there was my co-worker George (George is a CWoSB). Walking in every day with a smile on his face and the energy of a 5 year old on speed, George also carried a neatly tied box on those three days before Thanksgiving. For him, getting through the day- and getting me through the day- meant Modern Pastry, ricotta pie, and sfogliatelle.
Whenever I stopped in my office to make a call or find my coffee, there was pastry on my desk. Not just about the sugar rush for energy, the sfoie were a reminder that yes, this was the holidays and yes, we were working our asses off- but we still deserved a few clandestine moments and bites, stolen away from the masses, to laugh and joke about whatever ridiculous thing was happening, or to reminisce about our past holiday memories. But it wasn’t that office sfogliatelle that saved my life.
Last Thanksgiving Eve, I worked from 7am to 10pm, too concerned to go in later, to hyper to go home early, too insane to sit down the entire day. By 11pm, when George, myself, and a small crew of holdouts convened for some drinks to decompress, I could barely stand. My abs ached, my legs were gone. It was all I could do to lift that first beer bottle to my mouth.
Though, once I did, the second and third bottles seemed much lighter.
By 3am I begged off, citing my 6:30am plane ride home for Thanksgiving dinner with my family. I had been looking forward to it all year, but as I showered and finished packing, still in a complete stupor, I silently thanked my father for instilling in me a sense of organization that had forced me to arrange a cab two days in advance, before I had all but killed myself. When the cab pulled up I slumped into the backseat, mumbled something about logan airport, and passed out.
Kicked to the curb at the jetblue terminal, I literally crawled through security, breathing hard and struggling to remain upright. I knew the end was near, and I decided I had two choices: give up now, or find the nearest airport bar and keep drinking. I rummaged in my purse (at least I remembered my purse!) for my wallet, and there, wrapped tightly in a paper towel and taped shut on both ends, was a sfogliatelle. I had never eaten something so fast or with such – almost religious- fervor. I sent George a text message: “This sfoie just saved my life.” And even though it was 5:55am on Thanksgiving morning, he replied: “Ha! Enjoy! Happy Thanksgiving!”
As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, this isn’t really a story about the healing power of pastry. Its a story about the magic of George.
Fluid: Wine of the Week -Ventana Gold Stripe Chardonnay
It is increasingly rare to find a reasonably priced restaurant with great food and a staff knowledgable enough to give you a seriously good wine recommendation- this is why I appreciate Central Kitchen. They refresh their wine list frequently, always have something new and interesting, and play host to a staff that is clearly well versed in their selection. The fact that they gave up on their ill-advised outisde dining experiment (located in the heart of Central Square on Mass Ave., aka Guy Peeing on the Street Blvd) after just one season, also speaks to their business acumen.
Plus, I appreciate that when I say something typically SB-ish, like: “can I get something happy tasting with fruit that makes me feel good about investing in a whole bottle?” they don’t look at me like I’m insane.
The last time I said something like this, my very perky waitress brought out a taste of the 2007 Ventana Gold Stripe Chardonnay, and very happy I became.
Gold Stripe is aged half in oak, and half in steel*. This means that instead of what can sometimes be an overwhelmingly “oaky”* flavor, the chardonnay has just mild notes of vanilla and honey, and does not have the oily, buttery texture that can come from full oak. Instead, the flavors of lemon and pear are crisp on your tongue, which means you can enjoy it with CK’s mixed grain timbale (my favorite), roasted chicken, or mussels, and be equally satisfied.
The best part? Retail price for Gold Stripe is less than $20- less than $15 depending on where you buy it. We all know retail price does not equal restaurant price, but it is still on the lower end of bottle cost, and well worth the investment.
*Oak and steel refer to the type of barrels or casks that the wine is aged in.
*”Oaky” and “Buttery”: An “oaky” flavor can refer to smokiness, clove or spice notes, or strong vanilla or cream flavors. “Buttery” is a reference to mouth feel as well as flavor, denoting richness of both.
Feast: Mabel’s Lobster Claw
SB and her lobster roll
Normally I don’t appreciate unauthorized use of nutmeg (or fennel seed, but that’s another story). Ever since Rachael Ray started touting her technique of grating fresh nutmeg into various sauces, it seems chefs are very hot to sneak it in where it does not always belong. However, on a recent trip to Mabel’s Lobster Claw in Kennebunkport ME, I found nutmeg in a suprising yet welcome place: fried clams.
I’m not much of a fried clam person, but MoSB (mom of SB) must have them each time she comes to town. And so, on our weekend trip to the coast, we visited Mabel’s, a tiny shack of a place littered with photos of famous clientele and decorated with gingham checked windows.
Mabel’s is the kind of neighborhood joint with placemats that teach you how to crack a lobster. There is a counter groaning under rows of homemade pies, and if you don’t order a slice before you leave you will loose all credibility with the wait staff.
The fried clams arrive on a plate edged with faded brown filagree – the only other place you can still find these plates is in a dusty section of ebay. The clams are whole bellied, small, and sweet (which is how clams should be), but its the fry batter that sets them apart. Light in texture but still substantial, and with just a note of nutmeg at its finish. Normally my nutmeg annoyance would have forced me to declare blasphemy, but it was just enough to play on the sweetness of the clams.
Lobster roll purists will not want to miss out on trying one at Mabel’s. It arrives in the ubiquitous split hotdog bun and the meat is clearly dayboat fresh (it is Maine…). If you like something else in your lobster roll- celery, onion- you won’t find it here. All you get is huge chunks of fresh meat that is indecently dressed- if heavy mayo is a winter coat, this lobster is wearing short shorts. The fries on the side are thin and salty, and the portion is such that you can just squeeze in a few bites of shared pie. Wild Maine blueberry (teeny tiny berries that pop in your mouth) with a syrupy middle is your best bet, though the strawberry rhubarb is also popular. Mabel’s crust is a little dry for my taste, but if you order your pie warmed and with ice cream (as the waiters assume you will), you won’t even notice the crust.
One word of caution: Do not order a margarita at Mabel’s. DoSB decided (in a rare whimsical moment) to order this drink at what is clearly a beer/diet coke kind of place. It took thirty minutes and two reminders for his cocktail to arrive, and when it did, he wished it hadn’t. Save your mixed drink leanings for The Ramp, just down the road in Cape Porpoise.
Feast: Green Street Grill
green street grill
I have eaten at Green Street Grill at least once a month for the past four years. I’ve been there with all types of people- parents, friends, boyfriends, colleagues- and none of my guests has ever had a bad word to say about it. I had one of my top twenty favorite meals ever at Green Street on my 29th birthday. The staff is lovely. The atmosphere is low key with a mix of funk and mild sophistocation. The cocktails are potent, the wine list is solid, and the food is great.
So why doesn’t anyone ever talk about this place?
Don’t get me wrong- I love knowing that I can get a table. I love knowing I can usually get “my” table (upstairs by the window, a seat perfect for SB and whichever FoSB is joining that day). I’m just not sure why Green Street remains relatively undiscovered.
I get it, Green Street. You have a bit of a complex. You think, hey, I’m not that great, pay me no mind. You live in noisy, dusty Central Square, not some fancy Boston neighborhood, and you are a little envious of trendier places. Maybe your parents never told you that you were pretty, or your ex-girlfriend left you for someone taller or with more hair. You’re comfortable being quietly awesome in your own right, but you feel like if you brag about yourself, you will only disappoint. Well, sign yourself up for some therapy, Green Street, because you deserve better.
After just one of your Jack Rose cocktails the stress of my day completely melts away. After two of them the memory of my last name starts to fade. Sweet, tart and perfectly chilled, I would corral the unwashed denizens of Central Square and teach them all to sing for this drink.
Your menu is always changing, and you have a playful side- your new taco night menu pairs wonderfully well with a Wednesday and a glass of Riesling. Your lobster gnocchi with fresh corn and smoky chorizo is a textural mosiac with just the right balance. Your macaroni and cheese is studded with bacon and tomatoes, and good for two to three meals worth of food. Anytime you have scallops on the menu they are seared lovingly, and your poached fried eggs add a level of decadence to any salad or vegetable. Your $4 marinated olives plate is worth at least $8, and every single soup I have ever had from your table makes me want to ask for the recipe (and put a chinois on my sb-food wedding registry). Your desserts…ok your desserts aren’t that exciting. (Sorry- I still think you are pretty.)
Honestly Green Street, its ok with me if you want to remain in the background. Its just that I love you so much I want everyone to know how great you are. However, I’m perfectly happy continuing to introduce the city to you, one FoSB at a time.
The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread 
