Punching Up

The guilty urn, retired along with Madame Bovary, to a shelf where it holds nothing more potent than old corks.  

    The first Christmas my wife and I spent married we had the idea of starting, from the thinnest winter air, a tradition: we would host a party.  Three weeks before the appointed date scores of friends received our invitations, printed, remarkably, on fragrant, cedar veneer.  Replies flew back.  The house was decorated with swags of laurel, holy, mistletoe, garlands of fir and football-sized pine-cones.   I knew a cheese monger at the time, and he organized for me a quarter wheel of Gruyere, a Stilton, an imposing hunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano and a Tête de Moine, the pungent Swiss cheese that, when shaved on a special device, resembles a tonsured monks head.  I displayed them on a pane of tempered glass the size of a porch door.  A friend in the wine business made some modest selections, and a DJ we knew created a tasteful playlist.  

    Despite the effort, we felt something missing the day before the party.  And then it struck me: Punch!  Nothing, I imagined, filled the holiday hollow with genuine spirit—spritzed the chilly scrooge with gemütlich—quite like a shimmering pool of communal drink.  I pawed at my small collection of bar-tending books; the options seemed elaborate, or too obscure and all of them rather too sweet.  I eventually settled upon an idea suggested in a mercurial addendum: macerating pineapple in spirit—gin, in this case—to be syphoned off and used to mix cocktails with seltzer or tonic.  This was ideal, as I had a large urn that would prettily display the pineapple, and the spigot at the base would make dispensing the drams a cinch.  I imagined myself a benevolent friar, administering the elixir with a wink and a nod, holding merry court over the glistening and pungent banquet.  And so, in addition to four coarsely chopped pineapples, in went three liters of gin.

    It was a hit, although an hour into the party I noticed my guests drinking full glasses of the stuff without much in the way of a mixer.  I was surprised to see a particularly close friend tapping the liquid dregs with the slurred exclamation, the punch runneth dry!  It becomes fuzzy about the edges from this point forward, but I recall several otherwise restrained guests fighting over the gin-sodden hunks of pineapple, each a jigger worth of spirit.  One fellow fell asleep in the stilton.  The following morning I awoke in my robe on our deck, rather chilly.  The uncovered cheese beaded sweat, as did my brow as I surveyed the carnage. The tasteful playlist dumbly played to an audience of  upturned glasses, walnuts shells and wilting holly.  I’ve tried since to forget the event, but many dear friends still refer to the pineapple incident with some mixture of humor and nausea.  

    There are at least half a dozen lessons in this anecdote, but one in particular has stayed with me.  Traditions cannot be started anymore than can solar eclipses.  They emerge, instead, already equipped with debated meaning and foggy purpose.  Our intentions might have been innocent, but we nevertheless had been reckless with definitions.  Like a tradition, punch is a fixed entity that resists encroachment at the risk of biting back.  Don’t misunderstand me: the ingredients and preparations might vary considerably within the genre, but the premise is always the same: wine, fortified wine, a dash of spirit, fruit and ice.  The careful reader will notice vast quantities of gin and tropical fruit play no role whatsoever.  There is good reason; punch is a social mixture with just enough, well, punch.
 

Claret Cup

One bottle of mediocre Bordeaux
One cup of Amontillado Sherry
Two jiggers, Grand Marnier
One cup of fine sugar
Two cups seltzer
Orange rind

Stir all ingredients gently in a large stainless bowl.  Let sit for thirty minutes, covered in refrigerator.  Add one very large block of clear ice.  Serve in tea cups with a ladle.

Bringing Out The House

    It was Anthony Bourdain who first exposed the handful of questionable and off-putting practices of the modern restaurant that had diners, critics and restauranteurs worked into a lather sometime in the early 2000s.   While in university I worked at a few less-than-magnificent restaurants myself, and while I don’t have the shocking tales of kitchen underhandedness (nor the acerbic delivery) Bourdain does, there was one dishonorable practice that I won’t soon forget.  The “house wine” at one vaguely Italian place was really just the combined by-the-glass wines that were in danger of going off.  The funny thing is, people ordered it all the time.  Maybe they appreciated the randomness of my boss’ meritages, or the four dollar price tag.  But I’ve always suspected some of its popularity was due to the designation; something house always appeals.  

    The term has fallen from favor lately, perhaps because of the abuses outlined above, but outside of the restaurant the concept of house comestibles is charming.  This is especially true when applied to something edible.  Guests to my home have learned to expect two ramekins, one filled with brined Picholine olives, the other with Marcona almonds.  I realize olives and nuts served with drinks or as a buffer between a lagging roast and a hungry room of dinner guests is hardly revolutionary.  But the success is in the specifics.  The unpitted Picholines I serve are perfectly balanced—no small feat considering most are bitter or sour salt bombs.  The Marconas I prefer are unblanched, and their papery brown skin adds a noticeable tannic note that offsets the richness ideally.  

    I love a good cheese course, either served the British way following dessert or in the continental fashion before dessert.  Several cheeses have become favorites—Manchego, Robbiola, Lincolnshire Poacher—but one cheese in particular makes a frequent appearance: SarVeccio from Antigo, Wisconsin.  This is a hard, dry parmesan-style cheese (not to be confused with Pamigiano Reggiano, which is inimitable).  It has a latent sweetness and a softly granular texture that is ideal for hovering around dessert.  I admit, though, at least part of the reason this has become a house favorite is the shock most guests register when discovering it is from Wisconsin—home of countless anonymous and largely uninspired cheeses.  

    My house drink is not a specialty cocktail (which is far too fussy a signature to be fiddling with as guests arrive) but a potent spirit for after dinner—namely, Armagnac.  Again, the charm is in the specific.  Several years ago I was introduced to the Bas-Armagnac house of Delord.  Their offerings range from young VS Armagnacs to highly collectible vintages (1946, I’m told, is in demand).  But it is Delord’s more humble Napoleon, a blended spirit aged a scant 10 years, that quickly became a familiar site after meals.  It is rich and raisiny but somehow still fresh—a combination that satisfies both habitual brandy drinkers and novices.  

    Accessibility is really the point of a house comestible.  I appreciate rare and sharply flavored foods and drinks, but there seems little purpose in forcing challenging things on an unwilling audience.  In a dining landscape where innovation and exoticism have become the rule, I am far more satisfied when a guest reveals they know exactly what to expect when they sit at my table.  Familiarity can be its own sort of luxury.  

Après Snooze Booze

A (deeply) Bruised Mary.  

    Alcohol in the AM has a spotty reputation.  Most consider the practice a cure for the common hangover.  Those who have experimented in this capacity know how foolish this deal with the devil really is, offering a short-lived reprieve while the hurt reconnoiters for a grander assault in an hour’s time.  The other misuse of the morning cocktail is its overindulgence: breakfast is not cocktail hour, and yet rarely a sunday brunch passes where I don’t witness a table of adults ordering mimosas by the dozen.  One might be nice, but three?
    Speaking of mimosas, here is an example of a classic that is better in theory than it is in practice.  I have only respect for its components: orange juice is essential to my mornings and Champagne is of course a long-time favorite.  Funny things happen when you mix them though.  The latter loses all its nuance while somehow making the former taste like synthetic fruit punch.  The result is cloying and too sweet and no matter how carefully poured unfailingly results in sticky stemware.  Guests to my brunches receive what I have renamed the deconstructed mimosa: one small glass of fresh orange juice and a very much separate flute of nonvintage Champagne.  

    If the desire persists to actually mix something, try a Salty Dog.  To begin, moisten the rims of several rocks glasses, dipping each into a mound of sea salt.  Set aside to dry.  When your thirsty guests arrive fill the salted glasses with ice, two ounces of gin and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice.  The result is thrilling—almost too much so for the morning.  Beware though, that many consider the use of gin incorrect, insisting a Salty Dog is just a salted Greyhound (grapefruit and vodka).  They may be correct, but gin, with its botanical pungency, is obviously superior in this instance.  Besides, vodka should be reserved for the grand-mammy of breakfast cocktails—the Bloody Mary—a recipe sadly open to an unflattering degree of interpretation 

    The main problem with most Bloody Mary mixes I’ve encountered is they ignore the essential tomato flavor that makes the cocktail so good.  Some are fiery to the point of unpleasantness, some so sweet they make the teeth ache; others have foreign and unwelcome ingredients, like banana pepper and curry.  These, in my opinion, all miss the point.  A good Bloody, tastes, first and foremost, of fresh tomato and premium vodka.  Seasonings should slightly enhance things, without obscuring either.  The moment I can no longer detect the two ingredients that make this union holy, I know something has gone awry.  

    My preferred method for creating a gentler Bloody Mary—what I like to think of as a Bruised-But-Not-Bloodied-Mary—begins with a can of Italian whole Roma tomatoes.  The juice in which these are packed has the brightest, freshest tomato flavor I can find, short, of course, of a similar preparation made from garden tomatoes plucked from their vine prior to cocktail time.  If you wish to make the latter at the crack of dawn, by all means, go ahead; the rest of us will sleep another hour.

Bruised Mary

Large can of Italian Roma Tomatoes

Bottle of premium Russian Vodka

Bottle of Russian Imperial Stout

Freshly cracked black pepper

Cayenne pepper

Celery batons

Salt

Empty the can of tomatoes into a blender or food processor with 1 tablespoon of sea salt.  Carefully pulse until loose.  Strain the tomato mass over a stainless steel bowl for half an hour at room temperature, stirring occasionally (reserve the pulp for later use).  Add several grinds of black pepper to bowl.  Using the tip of a paring knife, add scant amounts of cayenne tasting as necessary.  The goal is something with trace heat—not discernible fire.  When satisfied, cover and set aside at room temperature.  At time of service, fill highball glasses with ice and two ounces of vodka.  Stir tomato mixture and top each glass.  Float one tablespoon of stout in each glass, add clean celery batons and serve.

The Deconstructed Mimosa is a civilized start to the day.  

When The Spirit Moves You

    Somewhere in the middle of 2007’s “There Will Be Blood,” Daniel Plainview, played to great effect by Daniel Day Lewis, sits for an afternoon meal with his son.  They order steak, milk for the kid and, for Plainview, a ruthless oil tycoon, a large tumbler of whiskey.  It is a tense scene, fraught with balance and nuance, but I don’t think the writers had the gustatory aspect in mind when they penned it.  And yet, I can’t help but be reminded of Plainview’s hard stares and his son’s discomfort whenever I am confronted by the curious practice of accompanying food with hard liquor.      

   I may welcome whiskey after a rich steak dinner, but the idea of joining the two doesn’t appeal to me.  I don’t know if this has something to do  with the whiskey itself, or the fattiness of grilled meat, or just the missed opportunity of a firmly structured red wine.  Whatever the case, drinking spirits with food is a tricky business, but when it works it can be memorable.  

    The martini, by which I mean gin and vermouth in desperately fought-over proportions, has a mercurial savory side.  I’m not talking about the custom of adding a brined olive, although I imagine that practice stems from the very quality to which I refer.  Even when adorned with the more sensible lemon peel twist, the martini gives the impression that it works with food.  This must have to do with the herbaceous core of the gin and the fruity, yeast-like quality of vermouth.  The combination seems to cry-out for salt.  I recommend a dry-ish martini and a plate of steak tartare.  This works for two reasons really.  One, the mineral character of the fresh beef seems to respond to the bracing quality of gin.  The other reason is more practical: between all those garnishes (chopped capers, raw shallots, etc.), seasonings and raw egg, the prospects of a successful wine pairing seems dim.

    Very cold vodka drunk alongside shellfish is another good idea.  I discovered this several years ago during a dismal New Year’s Eve party, enlivened only by what must have been an expensive fruits de mer tower.  At some stage someone produced a bottle of good vodka from the freezer which, we later learned from the host,  was left behind by his Russian ex-girlfriend.  It was glycerine-like when poured and, rather than potent and flavorless, which had been my impression of vodka before that evening, had definite body and mineral complexity.  We drank quickly from small ceramic shot glasses between bites of crab, oyster, clam, prawn and smoked salmon.  I think the success of the union had as much to do with what wasn’t present in the vodka--namely, strong taste--as it did with what was there.  It was a cold and clean foil to the fish, far more adept than any wine would have been, including Champagne.  

    Of course I’m not the first to recognize these happy marriages.  Russians, who wash all sorts of things down with vodka, including fish in several forms, would be the first to point this out.  The Scandinavians with their delectable smorgesboards drink akvavit, which, while often flavored with spices and herbs, serves very much in the same capacity as did the Vodka that revelatory New Years Eve.  One may read these things with some level of interest, but there really is no substitute for personal discovery.  Which makes me wonder: perhaps I ought to give Mr Plainview the benefit of the doubt and pour whiskey the next time I cook a steak.

You will find keeping things chilly crucial to enjoyment.  Crystal flutes can't hurt either.

A Jarring Realization

Undaunted by reduced numbers, my jars reclaim their ancestral shelf space.  

    Something like sixty empty jam jars once buckled a shelf in my kitchen.  My then girlfriend (who agreed to marry me a few years later) thought it was weird; in fact before she would take our courtship any further she insisted I reduce my holdings considerably.  I obliged, filling my shelves with designer tumblers and, eventually, the cut-glass tokens that uselessly accompany matrimony.  For several years I longed for my stout jam jars; if not sixty, then a scant dozen to remind me that a bohemian streak glimmered still beneath the forced conformity that hobbles so many young couples. 

    Why jam jars?  A Swiss father and English mother from an early age inculcated the appreciation of warm toast, butter and jam, a pleasure I practice to this day most mornings.  With the jam, of course, comes a jar and a lid, and, when finished, the pressing question of whether to toss both or clean them for reuse.  In leaner collegiate times, one could justify the regular purchase of pricey European preserves by making a firm commitment to retain the empties.  A collection of half a dozen precluded further glassware; an expanded collection eliminated the need for tupperware.  Assuming collegiates still use things like pens, toothbrushes and razors, the jam jar is handy.  I understand they keep loose cigarettes fresh, and I had a girlfriend once who kept all her makeup in a few.  

    I must have consumed jam at a faster rate than my friends smashed or stole my jars, for I found one day in my early working life I had amassed several dozen.  For one reason or another, my apartment became a sort of regular meeting place for friends and colleagues, and my jars rose to modest notoriety.  I occasionally speak to old acquaintances from those carefree times who recall, if not much else, my jam jars.  

    I should pause here to specifically address the jam jar’s place as a drinking vessel.  Moonshiners once favored the preserving-type jar for packaging their liquor, and similar molded glass cups and mugs have served in busy bistros and beer halls across Europe since the widespread manufacturing of the stuff began two centuries ago.  Today’s jam jar is an ideal tumbler: strong, correctly sized, and unprecious.  The lid is handy should you have to dash suddenly but wish to retain your drink, say at a house party which disturbs the peace.  In more civilized surroundings the lid becomes a coaster, protecting grateful sideboards and mantels.  And then there are the ineffable qualities to consider.  A jam jar seems to cheer up poor wine; very good wine drunk from a jam jar will feel illicit--as if you’ve stolen the bottle from an oppressive employer.  

    Other uses.  If you have any inclination toward pickling things you will quickly discover large mason-type jars are too big.  (Who really is going to use a pint of pickled okra)?  The small jam jar is different; its manageable size will encourage experiments with the dregs of your vegetable drawer.  Pickled kohlrabi, for instance, is delightful with cold beef, and I credit the jam jar for the discovery.

    If you enjoy pottering around the house, try this: firmly glue several lids to the bottom of a shelf.  Once affixed, the jars can be screwed into the lids creating transparent and convenient storage for nuts, bolts, clips, tacks and twine.  Actually, if you are the crafty sort, you doubtless have other ideas with which to fill the comments section below.  

    Strangely enough, following a dreary eight year dearth, jam jars once more dominate our shelves.  Stranger still is the culprit for the reinvigorated collection: a baby.  In a sweet I told you so moment the other day, I glanced over my shoulder to see my wife with two jars.  One contained left-over soup, which she uncapped and popped in the microwave for our daughter’s lunch.  The other she gave to our daughter who methodically filled it with odd bits of her sidewalk chalk.  I couldn’t mask a smile.  Perhaps these uses aren’t in the same romantic spirit as those cocktail parties of years past, but it makes me immeasurably happy to think a tradition might have been created.

House Party Dash:

Throw several ice cubes (or a handful of crushed ice) into a jam jar along with two ounces of whiskey, an ounce of lemon juice and a sugar cube.  Put the lid on and shake vigorously until the sugar has mostly disappeared.  Top with a splash of soda.  And keep the lid handy for Pete’s sake. 

Bread and Butter Kohlrabi Chips:

Thinly slice some kohlrabi and put it in a sterilized jam jar.  Heat up two cups of apple-cider vinegar in a small saucepan with ten whole peppercorns, a teaspoon of mustard seeds, two bay leaves and a a tablespoon each of salt and sugar.  Pour the mixture into the jar and seal with the lid.  Put in the refrigerator.  You’ll notice the jar will vacuum-seal itself as it cools.

Pickled things, plus several ounces of rendered bacon fat.