• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

It was late January 1997 and a particularly dark, wet and dreary winter’s day. We were on the back end of a 3 week trip driving all over the Italian peninsula, and beginning to get that type of weary that sets in when you’ve been away a long time and constantly on the move. That day we found ourselves in Tuscany, meandering on the long and winding road from Siena to Gaiole, navigating harrowing switchbacks one after another, and trying to see the road through the pouring rain as our wipers struggled to keep up. We turned off at a large stone entry building with a tiny sign that let us know we’d reached our destination.

Getting out of the car, we stood before a 1000 year-old abbey, the chill of the freezing temperature outside quickly seeping into our clothes. We ran through the rain to what we thought was the front door of the building. It turned out to be the entry to the attached church, and we retreated until finding a gate that took us into a private piazza surrounded by three structures, each built in a different century hundreds of years ago.

A voice greeted us and we made our way into the kitchen, where a pot sat bubbling over an open hearth. We were introduced to Emanuela Stucchi Prinetti, who runs the family’s winery – Badia a Coltibuono. At this point, my nerves were on high alert, as Emanuela wasn’t just another younger generation helping out at her parents’ winery, she was a descendant of nobility. Her mother, Lorenza, had made an impression on me during my young professional cooking career, as the author of a cookbook called Italy the Beautiful. In addition to its glorious pictures of the Italian countryside and its cuisine, the book was packed with simple, well-written, almost foolproof recipes of Italian classics that I had worked my way through in my journey to become a chef. I later discovered the master works of Marcella Hazan and studied baking with Carol Field, but Lorenza di Medici predated them all in my collection of English-language tomes on Italian Cooking. She was my Larousse, my Escoffier, and she also happens to come from the Medici family

Emanuela with Author and His Wife 1997

that had ruled the countryside outside of Florence for centuries. (Yes – that Medici). Now I was in her house, in her kitchen in fact, and her daughter was cooking me lunch! My memory of what we discussed that day escapes me, but emblazoned on my mind is the absolutely perfect bowl of Penne all’Arrabbiata that Emanuela served to us, and how it enhanced the experience of meeting her, tasting her wines and learning about this storied estate. The cold, wet and dreary day faded to the back of our minds and the warmth and hospitality lives on in our memory today.

I wanted to share this story because just as the impression of meeting Emanuela and tasting that Penne all’Arrabiata has stayed with me forever, so have my first tasting experiences with many wines. A bottle of 1978 Produttori Rio Sordo drunk when Aldo Vacca and I were both still young, a bottle of Montpeyroux from Domaine D’Aupilhac that inspired my first wine trip to France, the evolution in my glass of Huber-Verdereau Volnay that helped me realize the potential of Burgundy . . . the list goes on.

Wine is and should be a journey. How you get there is really up to you. What those of us who have chosen to make this our profession can do is share our own stories, experiences and, hopefully a discerning palate, to point you in directions both familiar and new in the hopes of satisfying you, educating you, perhaps inspiring you to seek out your own wine roads and life experiences that will make the enjoyment of wine an enriching part of your daily routine.

I didn’t want to focus on trying to sell anything in this post, as I already do that regularly in our cork newsletter, which you are welcome to sign up for on our website. Whether you follow the wines I am reviewing, those of Michael at Storyteller, Bruce at Vino or choose a wine off the shelf at New Seasons Market that Toni has helped select, I hope you’ll take some time to discover the stories behind the wines you enjoy, as it can truly enhance your experience.

It is because of my own experience and several more visits since that I enjoy selling the wines of Badia a Coltibuono. It is somehow reassuring to know the people behind the product you are drinking, and that might just make the drinking itself more pleasurable as well. You can seek out the wines from Badia at any local wine shop or grocery, or they can order them for you through Galaxy Distributing.

One particularly special bottle to hunt for is the 2004 Vin Santo – a Tuscan dessert wine, made from trebbiano and malvasia grapes that are dried on straw mats, which has a seductive caramel toffee flavor profile that reminds me of Mary Jane candies. It’s a wine that, when served with biscotti on the patio after a late summer’s meal, can transport your mind to a faraway place and time.

Instead of going on at length about Badia’s other wines, I leave you with my recipe for Penne all’Arrabbiata and wish you well on your own wine journey. Salute!

Penne all’Arrabbiata

3 cloves garlic, finely minced
2 T. olive oil
1 t. red chili flakes
28oz can whole peeled plum tomatoes (Muir Glen Fire-Roasted preferred)
1 t. sea salt (and adjust to taste as needed)
1/2 t. freshly ground black pepper
1 t. dried oregano
1/4 C. dry red wine
1 lb. quality dried Italian penne rigate (Martelli, Rustichella or similar)

To prepare tomato sauce: Sauté the garlic in the olive oil over medium heat. To really infuse the spicy bite of Arrabbiata sauce, add the red chili flakes to the oil just before you add the tomatoes, being careful not to burn them. Add the canned tomatoes and squeeze/crush each tomato to break apart. Add the other seasonings and stir to combine. Add the wine and turn heat to low and allow to simmer for 20-30 minutes until reduced to a sauce.To prepare the pasta: Add one pound of dried penne rigate to a pot of abundant, well-salted water. Cook until al dente (meaning it still has a little bite left to it). Drain and immediately toss with the pasta sauce. Serve piping hot with Parmeggiano-Reggiano to grate over the top. Perhaps with a glass of Badia a Coltibuono Chianti Classico.

This original post is by Darryl Joannides, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

When Jack Yoss was chef of Ten 01, one of his most requested recipes was the Thai ribs, which were available in the bar. He was kind enough to send it to me, and several readers have thoroughly tested the instructions and cut it down from a restaurant-sized portion to one that is more manageable. The final result is really good, and worth the effort.

Base sauce (Makes 3 cups of sauce, enough for 4# of ribs)

• 1 17.6oz jar Pantainorasignh brand Chili Paste with Soya Bean Oil
• 2 tbsp + 2 tsp champagne vinegar
• 1/2c Rice wine vinegar (aka Rice Vinegar, avoid the seasoned type)
• 1/4c Mirin
• 2 tbsp + 2 tsp Soy Sauce
• 1 tbsp Fish Sauce
• 2 tbsp + 2 tsp Sambal Oelek (Ground Fresh Chili Paste)

Whisk ingredients together until completely blended.  Refrigerate any unused portion.

Jack Yoss’ rib recipe:

• 2-4# Pork baby back ribs (natural with no additives)
• 1c + 3 tbsp corn starch
• Peanut oil for deep-frying
• 1c roasted finely chopped peanuts
• 1c minced mint leaves
• 1c minced cilantro
• 1/2c sesame seeds

Cutting Ribs Into Single Pieces

Place ribs into a 13×9 Pyrex baking dish; add water to the dish to a depth of ½”.  Cover dish tightly with foil and cook in a 350 degree oven for 1 hour to 1 hour 30 minutes until meat is tender.  Thicker ribs will require longer cooking time.  Use 2 baking dishes if needed to avoid overloading with larger amount of ribs.

Ribs After Braising

Remove ribs from oven and chill, covered, on a baking sheet in the refrigerator for 4 hours or overnight.

Frying the Ribs

Cut chilled ribs into single rib pieces.  Whisk corn starch and 3/4c cold water together in a small bowl, mixture will resemble heavy cream.  Heat 3” of peanut oil in a heavy saucepan to 350 degrees.  Dip each rib in batter, drain off excess and fry for 3 minutes until crispy.  Drain on paper towels.  Work in small batches so the oil does not cool and the ribs are not crowded.

Frying Complete

Heat a 12” sauté pan over medium high heat.  Add 1 cup of Base sauce to pan, followed by enough rib pieces to fill pan without crowding.  Toss and turn ribs to coat them evenly.  Cook for 2 minutes as sauce thickens and darkens slightly.  Remove pan from heat.

Making the Sauce

Quickly sprinkle some of the peanuts, mint, cilantro and sesame seeds on the ribs, tossing to distribute.  Pour ribs into a serving bowl.

Finished Ribs

Thanks to our testers GrapeDog and Whitney, and of course Jack Yoss! Photos by Whitney

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

Mission Figs From New Seasons Market

Republished from 2006. Recipe by Eric Bechard

Portland Oregon is practically raining figs. There are big brown, black and green blobs on the sidewalks, on top of cars, and backyards are slippery landmine fields. It won’t last long though, because we are reaching the end of the local fig season.

Fresh figs remind me, somewhat sadly, that summer has now peaked and I need to savor every last bite of it, for there are only a couple of the good weather months left.

Portlanders love figs, our green grocers and farmers markets are overflowing with them, and chefs in town are swooning with inspiration. Two recent examples from Park Kitchen: steamed corn cake with figs, goat cheese ice cream, or house-cured tesa, figs and chicories. From Jeff McCarthy at Ten01, a simple mascarpone tart with figs.

Black Mission & Adriatic Figs

There are over 75 identified fig varieties that grow in the Willamette Valley, each just slightly different enough to be noticed. Common types in Portland include the proficient and hardy Brown Turkeys, large chartreuse Desert Kings, and the thick-skinned but honey sweet Kadotas. Some varieties are much less known, like the Madeleine des Deux Saisons (Madeleine of Two Seasons) from Brittany, France, so named because they bear fruit in the summer and then again in the fall which is somewhat unusual for our climate. There is also  the Cottenham. As lore has it, the was rescued in the 1920′s from the dilapidated memorial site of a 17th century British Knight. A single cutting of this tree was brought to our area by chance, propagated, and resurrected from near extinction. Several years ago it was designated as a heritage tree, and saved. It now thrives in Portland.

Figs are mythical and mysterious, and dredge up all kinds of things burned deep into our collective consciousness: Adam and Eve with their fig leaves and other morality tales, ancient still life oil paintings showing platters overflowing with the fruit, and quaint seasonal songs about Figgy Pudding. On a more personal level, fresh figs always bring me back to a decadent vacation, lounging in the hot Mediterranean sun, and eating figs until my stomach hurt. And one of my earliest memories is of being 6 years old and lifted up high on Daddy’s shoulders, covered in a thick canopy of green, feeling on top of the world and trying to grab the ripest ones from our Grandmother’s giant tree.

Figs are ancient, thought by some the oldest cultivated fruit. Remnants have been found in excavation sites traced back to 5,000 B.C. Many cultures view them as medicine, certain that they will cure both heartaches and upset stomachs. Figs are high in calcium, potassium, and magnesium. Yes, they also contain quite a bit of fiber, so they have very real laxative qualities. Figs are good for you.

Such a coy little fruit too, their modest fat bottomed exteriors hiding such luscious pink insides. Figs have a slightly nutty taste and a distinctive crunch from all those tiny seeds. They are not terribly juicy, and will not drip down your chin like a peach or a watermelon. They have a subtle scent, somewhat musky, but not overly perfumed like our garish party girl fruit, the cantaloupe. A good ripe fig is as soft as a marshmallow and can be peeled, eaten as is, or (my favorite method) simply cut in half and scooped up with a spoon. These fruits are delicate, bruise easily, and must be picked when ripe, as they do not do well once off the tree. This makes them difficult to transport and sell commercially, and is the main reason you rarely see fresh figs in large corporate supermarkets. Many people in colder climates can’t even get them, and I know a poor soul or two that has never even tasted one. Oh, how lucky we as Portlanders are to have figs growing so close to us.

Figs, however, are the ambassadors of the fruit world, showing up in many an international culture, and they get along with just about everyone, both savory and sweet. Grilling brings out their sugar as does a pinch of salt, and they are good roasted or baked, or stuffed with many varieties of cheeses. They mix nicely with raw or cooked vegetables, and can be paired with meat, fish, and fowl. Figs are versatile, and are included in all kinds of desserts from creams to baked goods, and even go well with chocolate, nuts, and other fruits, especially citrus. If treated right, figs can easily be preserved for the winter by drying, canning, put up into in jams or chutney, or boiled down into bright sticky syrups. Daydreaming of summer in January? Try some figs preserved in brandy over ice cream, a splash of vanilla-fig syrup with orange liqueur in your vodka cocktail, or spicy fig chutney with roasted peppers for your pork chops.

Mixed Figs

Back in 1996 when Eric Bechard was executive chef of the now closed Alberta Street Oyster Bar and Grill, he waxed poetic about his love of fresh figs too. Eric had all sorts of ideas on what do with them, and kept saying things like, “ah, the Missions, it’s so hard to find an ingredient with that deep black color, they look so beautiful cut on a plate, and figs pair well with just about everything.”

Now the owner of Thistle restaurant in McMinville Oregon, Chef Bechard was generous enough to share this recipe, and I hope you will enjoy it. It serves 4, very generously. Smaller plates could serve 6 as part of a larger meal, or even 8 as a tapas style appetizer.

Salad of Mission Figs, Roasted Chanterelles, Goat Cheese, Frisée and a Warm Bacon Vinaigrette

Ingredients:
12 Mission Figs (each cut into quarters, stems removed if you wish)
3 heads Frisée (cleaned and leaves separated)
2 oz Goat Cheese (chèvre style)
1 lb Chanterelles (roasted, instructions below)
2 Cups Bacon Vinaigrette (recipe follows)

For the Roasted Chanterelles:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Wash Chanterelles to remove all dirt and place them in an oven proof pan and cover with foil. Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Cool. This can be done in advance.

Warm Bacon Vinaigrette:
3 Strips of Bacon
2 Shallots (chopped)
½ Cup Sherry Vinegar
1 ½ Cups Canola Oil
1TB Fresh Thyme (chopped)
Salt and Ground Pepper to Taste

Cut the Bacon into small pieces and cook in a small pan at low heat
until crispy. Turn off heat and add Shallots, Sherry, and Thyme, and slowly whisk in Oil. Season to taste with Salt and Pepper. This can be done in advance. Be sure to reheat vinaigrette before assembly.

To Assemble:
In a large mixing bowl gently combine prepared frisée, roasted Chanterelles and cut figs. Dress with the Warm Bacon Vinaigrette and place a small amount of salad, being sure to get some of each item, in the center of each plate. Finish by crumbling the Goat Cheese on each salad. Serve immediately.

Enjoy.

Note: Local fresh figs are currently winding down but can still be found at local farmer’s markets and many other specialty grocers. There are also several free trees in town, but as much as I love each and every one of you, I just can’t bring myself to share the locations. In this case, you’ll just have to find your own.

{Thanks to J. Miller for the fine photographs}

This original post is by Lizzy Caston, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

More news from the Vancouver Sun.  In addition to the previously mentioned food cart article, they also ran an online story called “Recipes from Portland’s top chefs”.

There must have been some arm-twisting behind the scenes, as the included recipes are for dishes that have received high praise from the Portland food community. It is safe to say I’ll be doing some serious cooking this week.

Two of my favorite dishes from Pok Pok, Andy Ricker’s Tamarind Whiskey Sour and his terrific Yam Khai Dao, or Thai Fried Egg Salad recipes are listed.

Pok Pok Tamarind Whiskey Sour

• 1 ½ oz bourbon
• 2 Tbsp tamarind purée (available at Asian markets) [note: try with a lot less and add more if you need it]
• 2 Tbsp fresh squeezed lime juice
• 2 Tbsp palm sugar syrup (4 oz palm sugar mixed with 4 oz water, heat to dissolve). Palm sugar is also available at Asian markets, and is used in many Thai recipes.

Combine ingredients and shake with ice, strain and pour into double rocks glass. Garnish with cherry and lemon wedge.

Next, Lincoln Restaurant’s Jenn Louis contributed her Baked Eggs recipe; a must-have every time I go to Lincoln.

Just in time for the season, Nel Centro owner David Machado contributed Grilled Shrimp with Fava Bean Salad and Salsa Genovese. Nong Poonsukwattana from Nong’s Khao Man Gai unlocked the vault for her Hainese Chicken Rice, which is excellent!

There’s more; Paley’s Place chef Vitaly Paley serves up Ricotta Gnocchi with Dungeness crab and preserved lemon. Cathy Whims of Nostrana offers Asparagus Sformato, a baked asparagus dish with onion, eggs, ricotta and béchamel, all baked together. As a bonus, she adds Paglia e Fieno, which is one of my favorite pasta dishes. Cathy learned it straight from Marcella Hazan.

The parade of contributions ends with Lisa Schroeder of Mother’s Bistro’s Wild Salmon Hash,  and St. Honore’s Madeleines.

Quite a score for the Vancouver Sun. You can read all the recipes here. (4.11 – wouldn’t you know – the link is bad now!) Be warned, it’s a terrible layout, and somewhat difficult to read.

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

This is a recipe my father used back in the 40′s. Many years ago, I found it among his things, but never made it until tonight. Now I will never make any other version. It’s really airy yet creamy, with just the right balance of booze.

I Twitter/Facebooked about it tonight, and am posting it here after several requests, after all, we still have New Year’s to go through!

Note that this recipe uses raw eggs. If this scares you, I doubt you’d be on this site anyway, but normal warnings apply. Use good, clean eggs and break them correctly (not on the side of a bowl).

Egg Nog

Beat 8 egg whites until stiff peaks.

Add 1/2 cup sugar and beat until incorporated. Set aside for a moment.

Beat 8 egg yolks and 1/2 cup sugar.

Put the whites back on the mixer, and fold in the beaten yolks

At a slower speed, add 1 qt heavy cream, 1 pt whole milk, beat some more.

Add 2 cups rum and 1/2 cup bourbon.

Take 20 mg Lipitor.

Pour into glasses, dust with freshly ground nutmeg

Call cab.

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

I’ve written many times about my early summers on a cattle ranch in Texas, here’s one more story. I’m taking you back once more for a recipe I use all the time, my grandmother’s mayonnaise.

My first summer in Waxahachie was in 1962. I took the plane trip alone, and that by itself was enough to make the whole summer worthwhile. In those days, the “stewardess” would give a young traveler special attention. I was seated next to the galley, where the choking cloud of cigarette smoke wasn’t quite as thick, and I remember watching the props spin-up, wondering how those little blades could possibly pull us into the sky. Since most cars didn’t have seatbelts in those days, everyone actually had to watch the stewardess to figure out how to put them on. After we were airborne, they took me to meet the pilot, a tall man with an easy smile, who politely shook my hand, and gave me an American Airlines Junior Pilot pin and a deck of playing cards. I think I still have them somewhere.

I’ll never forget the lightning storm that flashed around the plane as we made our approach to Dallas Love Field airport. Towels were piled in front of the terminal doors as we ran from the plane and across the tarmac. Grandmother and my Aunt Jewel picked me up in a big four-door sedan which smelled of hay fields and summer.  I sat in the back seat, and immediately got instructions from Aunt Jewel that I should never cross my legs, as this could cause potentially fatal blood clots. She kept turning around and looking at me in my California “city clothes” that, as was the custom in those days, I had put on just for the flight. After a few quiet miles, she turned again and made a pronouncement that we were going to Sears so I wouldn’t embarrass her. Apparently the lack of a hat and Wrangler jeans would make me stand out in the small town of Maypearl.

One didn’t argue with Aunt Jewel. Look up crotchety old woman in the dictionary, and it would likely have her picture next to it, but I absolutely loved her. She taught me exactly how I should sit in the car, the best way to make ornate “houses” out of cards, and as I got older, the fine art of the game of poker. Years later when I started going on dates, she’d yell at me to “be a gentleman” as I went out the door, but then she’d give me a sly wink over grandmother’s head.

The Waxahachie Sears was smaller than I was used to, but had the familiar smell of stale popcorn, and a whole clothing department just for ranch hands. I was dazzled as we walked up and down metal bins of boots and hats, finding just the right fit for my eight-year-old head. I wanted spurs, but with one look she quickly put that idea to rest. Still, I fairly strutted out the front door in my new duds, confident that I was now a real cowboy. Somewhere, I still have a picture taken later that day, in which I was being held up on a horse by my uncle Fred, proudly wearing my new clothes and holding a lariat.

During the week, Aunt Jewel made main courses of every meal, and meat played a big part every night.  Let’s just say she wasn’t the greatest cook in Waxahachie, and pretty much boiled every cut of meat she could get her hands on. I quickly learned to secrete as much of her cooking as possible in my pockets, which I would give to the lanky German Shepherd dogs at the first opportunity. I finally got caught when grandmother was doing the laundry, and found pot roast in all of my pockets. The Sue and Wingo moped around for three days.

The big meal of the week was Saturday supper when we’d feed all the ranch hands. Grandmother was in charge of cooking the whole spread, so it was a special occasion. In those days, trips all the way to the Piggly Wiggly grocery store in Waxahachie were few and far between. I used to beg her to make chocolate pies so we’d go into town, and I could paste the Plaid Stamps they’d give her into her stamp books and fantasize about what we could do with the big stack that was building up on her old desk in the sitting room. But most weekends we would just drive down the road to the neighbor’s ranch for provisions.

Old Mr. Jackson’s farm was like a vegetable petting zoo. The dusty dirt road was lined with tall brown-silked corn plants that I got lost in one afternoon, when a peacock snuck up behind me and screamed, sending me running off into the field. I couldn’t find my way out until Mrs. Jackson stood on a tractor seat and yelled until I could spot her. There were rows and rows of okra, zucchini, beans, and tomatoes, along with a variety of interesting farm animals. Some afternoons, grandmother would drop me off to spend the day. I must have driven Mr. Jackson crazy with questions, running from crop to crop, while we picked vegetables for that afternoon’s deliveries. He taught me to plant tomatoes deeply so they’d have good roots, and when I had too much energy, he got me to play crop duster, running up and down the corn rows like an airplane, hands brushing each plant as I rushed by, and sending clouds of pollen into the air before it would settle back down onto the silks of nearby plants. Now I realize it was his way of helping nature pollinate the corn, and wearing me out at the same time.

Eventually Grandmother would come back for me, full of gossip, hair freshly styled from the Maypearl beauty parlor, and the rest of the afternoon would be spent shucking the ears of corn, squealing at worms, and cutting kernels off the cobs to be stored in the rusty deep freeze. There was always an old seed bag of potatoes to be peeled, but peas were the worst; hours and hours of opening pods and popping them with a thunk into stainless steel bowls.

She’d keep some of the day’s pickings out for the evening supper, and I’d sit on a metal kitchen stool and watch as she magically beat eggs, oil and vinegar into mayonnaise, which she’d then make into buttermilk dressing. My Aunt Jewel would tear up salad greens and mix them with fresh tomatoes and radishes. Corn was creamed with fresh, unpasteurized butter, heavy cream and cracked black pepper, and okra would be battered with a bit of corn meal and mixed with tomatoes after it was fried, sending an announcement to the entire house that dinner was coming. Finally, the star attraction, hamburgers.

Grandmother taught me how to select a grade of meat that had enough fat in it to give it good taste but still keep its size. I’d watch her push it through an old hand grinder and lovingly massage it into patties, never packing it too hard, before cooking it to medium-rare perfection. When the burgers reached our plates, we’d put them together with Mr. Jackson’s fresh picked onions, grandmothers homemade catsup, and the pickles put up the previous fall.

For dessert, we always had her famous chocolate pies. You’ve heard about them before: “When the meringue cried, she always said they were angel’s tears”. One day I should make one of those pies; I still have her recipe on a faded browning index card.

In back of the house was an old-fashioned windmill, the kind you used to see all over the Midwest. I don’t know how it managed to stand on those rusty old legs. The blades would strain, singing a rusty song in the breeze, pulling cool water from deep in the ground, sending it gurgling into the cattle troughs and pushing it through leaking pipes across the fields, where it would spill out next to the weathered white salt licks.

Next to the windmill was an old farm bell. I loved to turn the big metal wheels that sent it to crashing against the clapper, its tone peeling across the fields, scaring mice into their burrows and calling the cowboys to summer supper. They’d come riding up, frayed pant cuffs still full of hay, for a quick rinse under the windmill outflow before joining us for a meal.

I still remember that first Saturday dinner back in 1963, hands joined around the big round, wooden ranch table, as my Uncle Fred said grace. I wasn’t religious, I didn’t even know what religion was, but sitting there with the bounty of a day’s work waiting for us, I couldn’t help but think the prayer was appropriate.

“For food in a world where many walk in hunger
For friends in a world where many walk alone
We give you thanks O Lord”

Every night before bed, Grandmother and Aunt Jewel would call out to each other from their bedrooms. “Goodnight sweet Sister, I love you”. Of course if I were there, I’d be included too. It’s been years since they passed on, but I still think it from time to time: Goodnight Grandmother, goodnight Aunt Jewel. I love you.

Grandmother’s Homemade Mayonnaise

Mayonnaise is much easier to make than most people think. It’s just four ingredients: egg yolks, vegetable oil, an acid such as lemon, and something that helps with emulsification, such as a little Dijon mustard. I also add salt, the way grandmother did. It’s about using everything in the right ratios. This isn’t some fancy recipe you couldn’t find in a million other places, it takes no shortcuts. It’s just the ingredients, a whisk and a bowl, a method, which in my experience produces the silkiest sauce.

Mayonnaise Ingredients

Finally, have all the ingredients at room temperature before you begin.

• 2 large egg yolks
• 1 1/2 tablespoons lemon juice
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• 1 good pinch of ground white pepper
• 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
• 1 cup vegetable oil. For a modern touch, sometimes I’ll use ¼  olive oil and ¾ vegetable oil for the grassy notes.

A few secrets: add the oil in as small a stream as possible. If I have a new bottle of oil around, I leave the foil top intact, making a couple of small holes with a toothpick, which makes it easy to add drop by drop into the eggs. Second, do not use aluminum or copper bowls, as they will discolor your mayonnaise.

Making holes in seal

Put the bowl on a dishcloth to hold it in place. Whisk all the ingredients together except for the oil: egg yolks, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and mustard.

Slowly add in the oil, beginning with just a few drops at a time using the method above, or just adding it with a quarter teaspoon, until about ¼ cup has been emulsified. Then you can add the rest at a slightly higher rate.

Adding oil, drop-by-drop

It takes a lot of whisking, and helps to have a friend or child by to help. When it thickens, correct seasoning to taste, add any additional flavorings such as herbs, and refrigerate. Keeps ten days. If you did it right, it won’t last nearly that long. I can eat it with a spoon.

Finished Mayonnaise

Once again, thanks to hand-model Nancy Grandmother Rommelmann.

If you liked this story, you might also like “Making Butter and Memories“

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

Long before I moved to Portland, I was known for my sangria recipe. I always suspected I was invited to many parties just because they knew I would bring a batch of my easy-drinking wine punch.

One year my friend Patrick invited me to his birthday party in Healdsburg, California. It was going to be outdoors, looked hot, and “Oh, could you bring a batch of your sangria?”

Judging by the amount of people invited, I figured I would need two gallons of the stuff, but the problem is, sangria sneaks up on people. I didn’t want it to turn into a party of wild abandon, so decided to pre-portion equal amounts for each person. I spent an entire afternoon going for store to store looking for those plastic sports bottles that were so popular in those days – the kind with the built-in straws – classy! Twenty-two bottles later, I was ready to begin.

Patrick’s birthday parties were hardly legendary. Mostly staid affairs, we’d sit around a picnic table in the back yard, being incredibly polite. He had a varied group of friends, and since some were in their 80’s, and some were in their pre-teens, it was necessary to be rather… controlled.

Then came the year I walked in with those two cases of sangria, and all hell broke loose.

First of all, Patrick had failed to tell me, that some of the people invited couldn’t make it. Second, it was a hot September day in the vineyards, and being an outdoor party, the sangria flowed like water. I guarded those bottles like an alcoholic bartender, but every time I turned my back, another would go missing. This was one of those parties that would be legendary, the kind some self-titled food writer would reminisce about 20 years later.

It started slowly; innocently. One of the guests was a well known flamenco guitar player, another a singer, and what goes better with a little Spanish music than sangria? I knew there might be trouble, when it seem like everyone was starting to tap their feet under the table. This type of thing just didn’t happen at Patrick’s parties. Soon, Jamie was singing, someone else was teaching palmas, and as the music heated up, his normally conservative, Japanese mother started showing someone how to do the jitterbug… to flamenco. Over the evening, the music inexplicably changed from flamenco to old Blood, Sweat and Tears songs, which we all sang at the top of our voices. If it weren’t for Patrick’s status in the community, I’m sure the neighbors would have called the police.

More happened that night, but it’s all rather foggy in my mind. I have quite a few slightly blurry pictures, but they don’t make a lot of sense to me.

The point is, Sangria can be dangerous; treat it like a bomb. Don’t make it for anyone you might regret doing anything with later. Even more importantly, don’t allow cameras.

Although many in Spain would claim that Sangria is just a tourist drink, it is native to Iberia, which includes Spain, and Portugal. It normally consists of a combination of red wine, fruit, sugar, and spirits. If you stick to those basic ingredients, there isn’t a “wrong” way to mix up a batch. If it tastes good, that’s all that matters.

The longer sangria sits before drinking, the more smooth and mellow it will taste. A full day is best, but if that’s impossible, give it an absolute minimum of two hours to meld. Use large, heavy, juicy oranges and lemons for the best flavor. Doubling or tripling the recipe is fine.

My old sangria recipe was lost in a move, but this one adapted from Cooks Illustrated is excellent – though minus the cognac I used to add. I’ve made a few changes to suit my palate.

• 2 large oranges, one sliced, one juiced
• 1 large lemon, sliced
• ¼ cup sugar
• ¼ cup Triple Sec +-
• ¼ cup brandy
• 1 bottle inexpensive fruity red wine. I generally go with a Spanish red, such as a Tempranilllo
• Club soda

1. Add sliced orange and lemon and sugar to large pitcher; mash gently with wooden spoon until fruit releases some juice, but is not totally crushed, and sugar dissolves. If you crush it too much, your sangria will taste pithy.
2. Stir in orange juice, Triple Sec, and wine; refrigerate for at least 2, and up to 36, hours.
3. Before serving, add 6 to 8 ice cubes and stir briskly, and add a splash of club soda to give a bit of effervescence. Serve immediately.

A couple of things to keep in mind. Flavors will meld over time; they may seem a bit harsh when you first make the sangria. Also, be careful to taste as you are adding the triple sec so that you don’t over-sweeten. More can always be added just before serving.

Anya von Bremzen wrote one of my most used cookbooks, The New Spanish Table. She includes three sangria recipes, including this one:

Rose-Raspberry Sangria

• 2 cups raspberries
• 1 bottle inexpensive Spanish Rose wine
• ½ cup triple sec
• 1 cup fresh orange juice
• 3/4 cup POM pomegranate juice
• 2 tablespoon fresh lemon juice, or more if needed
• 3 tablespoons simple syrup (or to taste)
• 1 ½ cups diced strawberries and think-skinned lemons (diced with their peels)
• Ice cubes.

1. Place the raspberries in a blender and pulse to puree. Place a fine-mesh sieve over a medium-size pitcher and pour the puree into the sieve, straining to remove the seeds.
2. Add the wine, triple sec, orange juice, POM, lemon juice, simple syrup and fruit to the pitcher and mix together. Refrigerate for 4 to 6 hours. When ready to serve, add the ice, taste, and add more lemon juice or syrup, as necessary.

This is a pretty amazing recipe, the dry pomegranate balanced against the other ingredients.

Note. There may be more grammatical errors than usual in this post. My editor decided to make up a batch herself, and I haven’t heard from her since – apologies in advance.

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

My flashback started with a little piece about homemade butter on The Splendid Table.  The writer mentioned how important the quality of the cream was, and I was reminded of my childhood – stepping out onto the front porch every morning to find the latest delivery from the milkman sitting in a little wire basket. If I got up really early, I’d hear him coming up the driveway, the bottles clinking together like a chime.

I called my mother, “tell me about the milkman?” She went back to a time much more distant than mine. “When I was about eight, my best friends lived across the street. Their father was a milkman, and on hot days when he’d leave for work, we’d chase his horse and cart down the street, begging for chips of ice from the big block he used to keep the milk cold.”

Food is such a stimulus to memory. Listening to her talk was like stepping into a time machine of my own.  I remembered my sisters fighting to get the solid little lump of cream that was at the top of every bottle of milk, but even more, a time when my grandmother would make butter to spread over hot sweet corn or pat into pie crust. I loved to sit at the big oak table in the ranch house kitchen, three black metal ceiling fans buzzing lazily overhead, as I watched her rushing to get it finished before the heat of the day made it impossible.

I never saw grandmother use much in the way of appliances – she said they got in the way of love, and that’s what cooking was all about. However, she did have an old stand mixer that we used for butter. She’d lift me up onto a kitchen stool and I’d peer into the bowl, knowing a cold glass of real buttermilk would soon be coming my way.

Grandmother, 1966. No one was going to knock over her mailbox!

Not having neighbors anywhere near, grandmother was pretty self-sufficient. Once she taught me to knead the butter, she turned the job over to me, and I’d take the big bowl out onto the back stoop with a bucket of water and work away. It never seemed like it took very long; she’d keep me in rapt attention with stories of early days on the ranch, and soon I’d forget everything that was going on around me. One day she excused herself for a moment and without warning, came back with a shotgun and blew the head off of a rattlesnake that had come out of the old steps next to me. We had to start a new batch of butter, as I’d flung the bowl twenty feet in my fright, but first she sat and laughed until she could no longer catch her breath. It turned out to be the biggest rattler found in that part of Texas, and a picture of her holding the remains in one hand and the shotgun in the other ended up in the paper a few days later.

Listening to my mother, I thought back to that day; to the sound the old windmill made pulling up water for the cattle troughs, and the clouds of grasshoppers that rose up as we drove through the fields in the Jeep, honking the horn to call in the cattle. It occurred to me that any butter I could make these days could never be as good as back then – not only would it not have grandmother’s love, but the cream wouldn’t come from the cows just down the road. Still, I put it in the back of my mind as something to try in the future.

Fate intervened. A few weeks later, Nancy Rommelmann called. “I”, she said, “made butter last night from scratch!” I asked lots of questions; what kind of cream they had used, what speed the mixer was on… all of the things I knew were important. I wasn’t happy with her answers (’cause I’m critical of everything), so I made a deal. In a few weeks, I would come over and we would make butter together. I would bring the ingredients, she’d provide gin for sustenance, and we’d make an afternoon of it. Thankfully she said ok, and also agreed to be my “butter model”.

Last week, week we got together, made lots of butter, had a few drinks, and worked out the kinks. This is a great project to do with the kids, but after umpteen batches this winter, I haven’t found any adults who don’t enjoy it either. The equipment is simple: a good mixer (you’ll need the power), a few wooden spoons, a spatula, and if you have an aversion to buttery fingers, a pair of kitchen gloves. The only ingredient in butter is cream and sometimes salt, but get the best you can find. I use Strauss Family cream. It still comes in the heavy glass bottles with a plug of solid cream at the top, and in my informal tests, tastes better than the others I’ve found around town. If I’m salting it, I use Fleur de Sel, which gives crunchy explosive bites. Don’t use ultra-pasteurized cream or cream with fillers. Again, the better the cream, the better your butter. You’ll find the terroir of the farm also influences the taste.

Put your mixer bowl on the stand, install the whisk attachment and add the cream. I use two pints per batch. Two tricks that will make your life easier: I stand the entire mixer in a shallow baking pan to catch any overflow. Trust me, there will be overflow. Next, take aluminum foil or plastic wrap, and make a collar around the bowl. This will also help prevent splashing. You’ve been warned.

Mixer set into pan, ready to go

Start the mixer slowly so it doesn’t splash, and work up to medium speed. Too fast and your cream will be a bit grainy. Pour a glass of wine, and have a conversation; I recommend a nice Riesling (or some gin and my tonic). Soon the cream will come to soft peaks. Think about fresh spring strawberries with whipped cream and Kirsh, but fight the urge. Stop the mixer for a moment and scrape the sides of the bowl. Turn it back on to medium speed. In a short time, the cream begins to form stiff peaks. Marvel at nature, and pour another glass of wine.

Forming stiff peaks

Time will pass; usually about 20 minutes. Keep an eye on the bowl; everything happens quickly, and this is when you’ll find out how effective your preparations were. The cream will begin to get a bit lumpy and take on a pale yellow color. I always think how good it would be spread on carrot cake. In a short time a thin liquid will appear on the bottom and sides of the bowl. This is the buttermilk. Slow down the mixer a little bit. In just a few seconds more, the cream suddenly seizes. Yellow blobs of butter form and buttermilk comes pouring out, and unless you prepared properly, all over the kitchen. The first time I made it I thought, “How messy could it be?” I had to clean the counters, the floor, and pull the refrigerator out to get the remains that had run between it and the cabinets.

Seizing: Buttermilk being thrown out, sides caving in. Watch out!

Stop the mixer, and pour the buttermilk into a bowl – it’s not sour like store-bought buttermilk, and you may actually find yourself drinking it or using it in cooking. It’s great for making biscuits, and the butter itself is great with them – a match made in heaven. I usually restart the mixer and blend it a little bit longer, to help force out any more milk. Now comes the fun part.

Stop the machine. Wash your hands for a good long time (or cheat and put on gloves), and then scrape the butter off the whisk. Put the bowl of butter into your sink, and start running cold water into it.  Knead it just like you would bread dough. Fold it over on itself; squeeze it between your fingers. You can do this part with two wooden spoons, but you want love in this butter, right? The water in the bowl will become cloudy; this is the remaining buttermilk. Discard it, and continue kneading the butter and refreshing the cold water. You want to continue until the water runs as clean as possible; otherwise the leftover milk can turn rancid and severely limit the storage life of your butter.

Hand model Nancy demonstrates kneading technique

Dump the water, and knead out any remaining. Take a little of that fresh creamy butter and spread it on a piece of crusty bread. Sprinkle on a little salt. Have a sip of wine. Marvel at the smoothness of your hands. At this point you can call it finished, but that’s what separates the cooks from the chefs (and why this is better than the Mason jar method). Throw the butter back into the mixer and whisk it for a short time on a higher speed. This will beat in some air and make it lighter. Add salt if you want, but be very careful – it takes quite a bit less than you might expect. I use a scant teaspoon per pound. Once it is chilled, the salt flavor becomes stronger; but if you accidentally over-salt it, you will find it mellows after a few days in the refrigerator. This is the time you can also add other ingredients, such as finely minced garlic or herbs. Transfer to an airtight container and refrigerate. Mine lasts at least two weeks, but only if I’m on vacation; otherwise it’s eaten in a couple of days. I get about 14 ounces of butter, and just less than 2 cups of buttermilk.

Once you have done it a few times, making butter is easy; something you can do while chatting with friends. It tastes so much better than the store-bought stuff, you’ll have a hard time using anything else. Frankly, I’m surprised a few restaurants around town haven’t tried it. There has to be an enterprising pastry chef somewhere who wants to impress the chef!

When you make food with your kids and friends, you make lasting memories. My grandmother lived to be over 100 years old and left me with a lifetime of cooking memories. Take the time to do the same with your family. You might turn out a chef, or a great grandmother (you can read more about her in this post). I also have a post about making mayonnaise here.

Nancy with finished butter

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

National Pie Day is January 23rd. This reminded me of the Bacon-Apple Pie at Lincoln. At the time I promised to get the recipe, so to honor the day, I did. Wearing all black, I slithered in through a skylight, broke into the office, and stole the recipe. Here it is:

Makes one 9-inch pie
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour, plus more for work surface
1 recipe Pate Sucre, see below
3 pounds crisp red apples: rome, braeburn, gala
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1# bacon, sliced

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out one pate sucree disc into a 13-inch round about 1/8 inch thick. Fit dough into a 9-inch pie plate. With a sharp paring knife, trim dough about ¾ inch over the rim. Turn rim of pie dough under to form a runstic crust. Freeze again until firm, at least 30 minutes.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

In a large bowl, toss the apples with the lemon juice, granulated sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. Remove pie shell from freezer, and fill with apple mixture. Dot with butter.
Arrange the strips of bacon over the top of the pie crust in a lattice, then fold the edges of the pie crust over the bacon and crimp.

Bake for about an hour, until the bacon on top is nicely crisp, the crust is browned and a knife pushes easily into an apple slice. This should be about an hour.

Every apple has a different water content and will react to cooking differently. So, just pierce with a knife to make sure the apples are soft and the bacon is crisp!

Pate Sucree
1 large egg yolks
2T ice water
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
Salt
4 ounces (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Lightly beat yolks and water in a small bowl until combined.

Pulse flour, sugar, and a pinch of salt in a food processor until combined. Add butter, and process until mixture resembles coarse meal, about 20 seconds. With the machine running, add yolk mixture in a slow, steady stream. Process until mixture just begins to hold together (no longer than 30 seconds).

Shape dough into 1 disk, and wrap in plastic. Refrigerate until firm, 30 minutes to overnight.

(Those of you who know me, realize that I couldn’t slither if my life depended on it. Instead I do something more like rolling; faster and faster as the momentum of my stomach increases. To be honest, Jenn at Lincoln gave me the recipe.)

Lots of bits and pieces of news; I’ll just throw them at you with a minimum of snide remarks:

Morgan Brownlow: Pork Dealer? So says Patrick Coleman over at the Mercury.

I hear there’s a new Mexican restaurant going into in the old Starbucks space on 20th and Hawthorne. It’s a local chain:  La Palapa. I’m sure it will be as wonderful as all the other locations in the chain.

The old D.F. restaurant space in the Pearl District has been leased. It’s going to be called Metrovino. The owner used to manage Agrivino in Carlton, and previously worked at Nick’s in McMinville.

It seems the wide speculation among many that Morton’s was going to be closing, was premature. In a recent press release, they made sure to mention they have signed a new lease.

By now you have probably read here – Jack Yoss, executive chef of Ten 01 is leaving on a trip of self-discovery. First stop, Phuket. Who in their right mind wants to follow a dream and travel the world, learning and writing about their experiences? I hate him. Anyway, there are a few interesting rumors floating about concerning possible replacements. At least one gives me hope.

Dirty. That’s the name of a nightclub in Old Town I’m sure you’ll all rush to visit. Anyway, I just heard that the owner of Dirty will take over what was former Mercato space in the Pearl. I am told it will not become a full-fledged nightclub. Hmm… just what Ten 01 needs across the street.

Wondering what has happened to Lucier’s “famous” wine stock? They have been trying to unload it. Since there are a ton of rumors out there that it wasn’t stored properly, I’d say good luck with that. Buyers be darn careful! If they want to send me some samples, I’m happy to do a random test for quality. Hic.

Ruby Jewel, maker of some addictive ice cream sandwiches, has about 500 extras in the pumpkin ginger flavor. It seems the distributor ordered too many, and they are looking for suggestions as to what they should do with them. I’d say Oregon Food Bank (I’ll be joining their big promotion for the month of February). Those sandwiches are terrific, and bound to bring smiles to both kids and adults. Feel free to comment with your ideas.

I wonder if I could fit 500 in my freezer.

I just mentioned it, but I’ll do so again – we are participating in the Blog for Food promotion for the Oregon Food Bank. It lasts the entire month of February. Start saving some pennies for the promotion. Any amount is going to add up. Heck, if everyone who comes here in a week sent in five dollars, it would put a huge dent in their deficit.

A few of you have asked for an update on Beaker & Flask, Kevin Ludwig’s new venture in SE Portland. He tells me construction is plodding along (plumbing, bathroms, ductwork etc), and the plan is to cut the doorway and put in the new windows soon. If all goes well (and this project has been delayed several times so far), look for a Spring opening. Meanwhile you can experience some of Kevin’s drinks over in the bar at Clyde Common. You can also try out some more bar wizardry from Lance Mayhew over at 50 Plates. They will be working together along with Benjamin Bettinger, last Chef de Cuisine at Paley’s Place, now at Clyde Common.

Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. I’ll be doing an event roundup like I did for New Year’s Eve, so if you are a business doing something special for the occasion, drop me an email with the details asap. 100 words or less please! pdxfoodpress@gmail.com

As reported previously, Andy Ricker of Pok Pok is opening a new restaurant in China Town, called Ping. It’s  projected to open in about two weeks. The location is the old Hung Far Low building; construction is moving along quickly. The food is reportedly a mix of Vietnamese, Chinese, etc. The Ping website is now up (sort of): pingpdx.com

Speaking of Pok Pok, here is a bit of news about them. Andy quit using charcoal with the rotisserie last summer. At the time, there were a few irate comments here. Now Andy says, “One of our purveyors found a charcoal briquette that is made from hardwood, is all natural, burns more cleanly and is much easier to work with than the mesquite charcoal we gave up on this summer. The old iron lung has had a complete going over and (knock on wood) should be easier to maintain and easier to operate than it was when we put it up on blocks a few months back.”

Noble Rot is moving. To the old Rocket space. I kid you not. Leather, will be back in the kitchen.

I have mixed feelings about this. First of all, for me, a lot of the charm of Noble Rot is in the space, the sometimes iffy wine flights, the limited menu, and the very reasonable prices. Move it all to the sleek Rocket space, and I worry it will loose these characteristics. On the other hand, when Leather cooked at NR, the food was pretty damn good. Let’s hope they don’t change things too much.

Matthew Campbell of Cremant and Le Pichet in Seattle has moved back to Portland to take a position as the right hand man of Chef Greg Perrault at D.O.C.

Pork seems to be the most overused ingredient right now. Don’t people realize that’s SO 2008! Anyway, the “masterbacon” (cough) event was just held, and now comes Cochon 555. This is “5 pigs, 5 chefs, and 5 winemakers, a friendly competition for a cause.” It’s to raise awareness for  Raphael House of Portland.

The new North West Barista Champion was crowned a few weeks ago. Out of 21 competitors, local barista Alex Pond of Fresh Pot placed 1st, and Kevin Fuller of Albina Press placed 2nd. Congratulations to both. I wish I had someone to interview Alex, as I think he’d have some interesting things to say.

The United States Barista Championship will be March 5-8 at the Oregon Convention Center.

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.

• PortlandOregonWine.com
• Monteaux Restaurant
• Cork Wineshop
• Ristretto Roasters
• NorthwestFoodandWineGuide.com
• Anne Amie Vineyards
• Storyteller Wine Company
• Tapalaya Restaurant
• Coppia Restaurant
• Boedecker Cellars

Making Tonic Water from Scratch, Part II [Note: Part I is here]

The next day I woke up with new energy and determination. Fairly bounded into the kitchen, wondering if I had enough ingredients for a second batch of tonic. My socks stuck firmly to the floor every time I took a step, a footprint of fuzz left behind. Undaunted, I made a new batch of tonic water. Started filtering once again. You’d think I would have learned the first time, but then I am a fairly typical male. I made the syrup, added the ingredients. Once again, I propped the sieve handles on old spice bottles, and went back to cleaning the floor for the tenth time. This time it was the mop handle that knocked one over. At about the same time, someone came to the door. I’d completely forgotten the building owner was coming to inspect the patio door seals. Here I was – standing in my boxers, bed-head, with funnels, beakers, and flasks of acrid brown fluid dripping away, a pool of the same expanding across the floor, a strange sweet, chemical smell filling the air. I could tell by the look on their faces that they thought I was running a drug lab.

Sometime during the futile scrubbing process to get the spilled syrup off my floor, a poem by Edgar Allan Poe started running through my head. The Raven. You know it? I hadn’t heard it since college, but the words came flashing back, and as I scrubbed, anger building, the phrases running over and over, I modified it in my mind:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of foodie lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
‘Tis some visitor,’ Food Dude muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more.’

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no chef e’er dared to dream before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token
Plastic bag of quinine broken, just beside my hallway door.
Spilling dust upon my carpet, on my musty hallway floor,
Only this and nothing more.

Back into my condo turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard my Tanquery calling somewhat louder than before.
‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely few ingredients pose no challenge;
Let me see then, what we have here and this recipe explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this recipe explore; -
Six ingredients, and nothing more!’

Hours later, muscles crying, filters filtering, fines undying,
Sticky counters pulling, quinine in my kitchen drawer.
As I stood there emptying cones, feeling pain within my bones,
Patience flagging, body sagging, reading tonic lore,
Fatigue I could ignore no more, recipe no guarantor
All this trouble, and nothing more.

At that moment, mind a-napping, arms so weary, elbows flapping
On the counter, sweet and lovely; sticky tonic poured.
As I stood there, locked in fear, grasping all the tonic near,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘tonic’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ‘tonic’
Merely this and nothing more.

And my tonic, always filtering, still is dripping, ever filtering
On the tiny space it’s dripping just above my oven door;
And its sugar tendrils reaching like a demon, always reaching,
And the oven-light o’er streaming throws its shadow on the floor;
And my floor from out that syrup that lies floating by the door -
Shall be sticky – evermore.

[With apologies to the spirit of Poe]

I finally finished the tonic.  Filtering took two days, but when it was finally complete, it poured like beautiful thin honey. The gin and tonics were wonderful, friends raved. It took almost a week before I stopped sticking to things in the kitchen. Despite my bitter feelings for my bitter tonic, I’ve made it several more times.

Here is the recipe from the Mar/April 2007 issue of Imbibe Magazine:

• 4 cups of water
• 3 cups pure cane sugar
• 3 Tbsp quinine (powdered cinchona bark)
• 6 Tbsp. powdered citric acid – check bulk bins at grocery stores
• 3 limes – zested and juiced
• 3 stalks lemongrass, roughly chopped

Make a simple syrup by bringing the sugar and water to a boil until the sugar dissolves. Turn heat to low.

Add quinine, citric acid, lemongrass, lime zest and lime juice. Stir and simmer for 25 mins. Powder should be dissolved and syrup thin.

Remove from heat and cool. Strain out any large chunks, then filter through cheesecloth or coffee filters to refine. This can take quite a bit of time and many filters. It helps to let the mix stand over night in the refrigerator to settle out some of the fines, and then carefully pour the liquid off of the top.

Pour into sterilized glass bottles, cover and store in refrigerator.

I received a lot of responses this odyssey. Here are a few things I’ve updated since this story was originally posted:

I should have mentioned more prominently that this is the tonic water being used in the Park Kitchen house Gin and Tonic, originally developed by bartender Kevin Ludwig, who has now moved on to open Beaker & Flask in Portland. Sometimes I forget that everyone doesn’t happen to know these things.

I’ve now made the tonic at least a dozen times – when friends taste it, I end up giving them the bottle and have to make it again. Each time I look for shortcuts, many which are mentioned here. Most obviously is a centrifuge, which to my mind might work, but hey, food dude can’t afford these types of things. Even more importantly, I have doubts as to whether the stickiness of the simple syrup would allow it to work properly.

There are some other methods, which I have tried with some degree of success.

1. With a bit of testing, it became obvious that the simple syrup mixed with quinine bark is what really slows the filtering. I made concentrate of the herbal ingredients, filtered it separately, and then added it to the simple syrup. This worked well, and I was able to cut the entire process to a couple of hours, but I found the tonic didn’t stay in suspension as well as it should. One has to keep stirring the drink, which waters it down. It also left a bit of an edge to the drink, that didn’t mellow over time. Being a purist, this was unacceptable, but in a pinch…

2. Kevin Ludwig suggested that I make the tonic according to his recipe, and let it settle out for five days or so before filtering. Most of the sediment settles out into a gluey mass at the bottom of the jar. If you pour it off carefully and then do the filtering, it is much easier. The tonic also mellows a bit during the process. I think this is the best solution so far, though the filtering is still a bit of a pain. Then there is the issue of me needing instant gratification, and waiting five days for a drink doesn’t fit into my agenda.

3. In my humble opinion, this tonic is lousy when paired with vodka. Save it for a good gin. The NY Times did a huge gin tasting a few weeks ago called “No, Really, It Was Tough: 4 People, 80 Martinis“. Plymouth English Gin won, but I think it would be a bit too smooth here. I’d go with the #2 or #3 winners:

The Junipero, made in small quantities by the distilling branch of the Anchor brewery in San Francisco, came on strong with the traditional gin flavors of juniper and citrus, hitting all the right notes, though a little self-consciously.

The No. 3 gin, Cadenhead’s Old Raj from Scotland, at 110 proof, or 55 percent alcohol, was by far the most powerful gin we tasted: Tanqueray and Tanqueray No. 10 at 94.6 proof were the next highest. But while Old Raj packed a punch, its muscularity came across as bright and in control.

Two standbys of the American cocktail cabinet fared well as martinis. Seagram’s Extra Dry came in at No. 4. We found it surprisingly complex in the glass, with fruit, herbal and gingery spice notes, yet it didn’t stray far from the gin ideal, while Gordon’s London Dry adhered to the straight and narrow, with a slight emphasis of spicy cardamom and nutmeg aromas.

If you try to make the tonic, I’d love to hear how it goes.

This original post is by Food Dude, and it came from Portland Oregon Food and Drink.