Make It a Double Old-Fashioned

I am, as mentioned in earlier posts, a brown-liquor girl. While I can appreciate the clever dexterity of the modern mixologist, I tend to go for the unfussy but classy old school choices: the Manhattan and the Sazerac. When I wrote this to a friend, he (pun-ishingly) replied that I was an “Old-Fashioned” girl. Although he may have been talking about my choice in cocktails, I think the lower case version also applies.

That I like the classic cocktails perhaps says less about my palate (though I do like the caramel honey taste of whiskey, bourbon, and rye) than about my relationship to the world. Those drinks suggest something clubby, like the drawing rooms of English manor houses in Masterpiece Theater dramas where men retire to sip aged whiskies in front of a roaring fire flanked by two Scottish deerhounds. Part of the attraction, if I must be honest, is what attracted Charles Ryder to Brideshead. No, not Sebastian, but the whole social echelon to which I can never gain entry. I don’t really want entry (do I?) but I want the romanticized version of it, where comforts envelope you like a wreathing of sweet cigar smoke and where dinner is an enough of an occasion that one needs to dress for it. Sipping an amber-hued, cherry bejewelled Manhattan is like sipping that world but without all the racism, imperialism, classism, sexism and tubercular consumption that go with it.

Too, I think classic cocktails, white or brown, suggest a formality that, say, a Sex on the Beach or Cape Codder cannot muster. While I am not in the least formal, I would be lying if I said I didn’t like a good dose of propriety. Yes, I like rules and precision. I like manners and etiquette to the extent that they are intended to make everyone more comfortable. If I must be uncomfortable (e.g. not chew with my mouth open) so that someone else can enjoy his meal, then so be it. A little giving up of one’s personal interest for the greater good seems a fair trade to me. (I know this may seem a bit contradictory given what I said about my attraction to upper crust salons.) All of this is embodied in a classic cocktail. Its proportions are precise, the shape of the stemware specified, the expectations for its being imbibed genteel (i.e. sipped rather than slugged, chugged, or downed).

I think, though, what I'm really getting at is that I want the ritual that cocktails or the cocktail hour, at least in my imaginings, suggest. Not in the 1950s parodied form where ruggedly handsome dad has polished off four martinis in quick succession and perfectly coiffed and rouged mom is soused from the cooking sherry she keeps pouring herself. Rather I want to reintroduce a time of repose into our day, a time of transition where we go from the ravages of the day into the reflective sanctity of the evening. Rituals tether us to time and place and connect us to others. In these times of uncertainty, it is easy to feel unmoored. Here, in the ritual of preparing a cocktail—measuring the ounces into the shaker, pouring the mixture into the appropriately chilled and chosen glass, garnishing the sparkling drink with an edible—we come back to the present because a cocktail, unlike a beer or glass of wine, must be made not simply poured. (Were alcohol not verboten for Buddhists, I think preparing a cocktail would be the perfect Zen act and the Pousse Café the perfect Zen drink.) We then sit, our cocktail perched on its little napkin, bowls of nibbly things on the side tables, and we chat. As we sip our cocktail (note it is singular not plural), we relax into our bodies, we enjoy the camaraderie of friends, and note our appetites returning. In this way, a cocktail is neither a crutch used to get through the day nor the focus, just as lighting the candles or eating the challah on Shabbat is not the point of the ritual, though it is integral to the structure. In a way, drinking the thing is not the point. What matters is the intention, attention, and belief that at least some part of our day needs to be sacred. I choose to mark that part of the day with a Manhattan, a Sazerac, or an Old-Fashioned.

Now if I could only re-introduce Game Night and Sunday Night Dinner, I’d be a happy old-fashioned gal.

Bonjour La Tendresse

The other night I had a wonderfully seared New York strip steak. Love that cut. Very flavorful yet chewy and, when it’s seared, it gets a nice salty crust that balances and protects the internal rare juiciness. I thoroughly enjoyed it and the virility—a manly man thing a charred steak is—of it all. And yet… maybe because it’s winter turning tentatively to spring (or maybe because my spring is turning to early winter), I am coming to regard a steak cooked in that manner as a thing of my youth. No, I haven’t lost my ability or will to chew. In fact, I’ve always rather enjoyed that which I can sink my teeth into, both literally and figuratively. It’s more that I am appreciating the delicacy and decadence of the slow hand, as it were.

There is certainly a primal carnality to searing. Hot flames, high temps, precision. Too long on the heat and the item being cooked—be it a quivering diver scallop or a stalwart sirloin—turns tasteless and leathery. Done right, the rough char of the exterior safeguards the sweetness within. In a way, searing food requires gamesmanship: risk-taking, the ability to count the cards, bravado. Remember, the food that is best suited to grilling or pan searing is the lean, unfatty cuts of exceptional quality. So the cook’s job, really, is to do no harm; s/he must be swift and sure, and know when to say “enough.”

As I grow older, I have come to see the value in a different kind of cooking, a different kind of cook. Don’t get me wrong: I will never say no to a perfectly grilled steak. And I appreciate the skill of someone who knows how to grill. But where grilling is youthful instinct, braising is mature experience. When a cook grills s/he is like the intense, ardent lover but when s/he braises, s/he is a seducer, a coaxer, a conjurer. Poetry is to be found in the slow cooked dish.

Unlike a grilled strip steak (or lamb chop or quail) which can reveal its pink pleasures nakedly with little adornment save large grains of sea salt, the chuck roast or shank must be treated tenderly and plied with spices. The cook who knows how to braise transforms the unsexy tough, fatty cuts into silken, luscious invitations to gustatory sensuality. This is an unhurried, patient cook who trusts the alchemy of time, heat, and ingredients. This cook is a conductor who melds the disparate flavor voices into a pleasurable melliphony. So, to take the metaphor achingly farther, while a grilled steak asserts itself in a solo, command performance, a braised short rib is an ensemble player, working with rather than dominating.

In these days, let us give praise to the braise.

“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”

“I am not a Squid! I am a Cuttlefish!”

I saw this defiant declaration on a package of dried cuttlefish once. I think it was in Hong Kong. Maybe Tokyo. No matter. What I like about it is the proclamation of identity, like when Hymie says he wants to be a dentist and not a toy-making elf. (If you don’t know about Hymie then you didn’t grow up in the US during the 1960s watching a lot of t.v.; if you did, you’ll likely remember not only Hymie but also the commercial where Santa rides the triple-head Norelco electric shaver over the snow banks.) Unlike Hymie, my realization about my identity did not come after much soul-searching or elf angst. I just had a slap in the face last weekend that made me declare “I am a not a Hostess! I am just a Cook!”

Last Saturday, I attempted to cook what I had hoped would be a fabulous meal for eight. It fell, in my estimation, terribly short. I planned what I thought was a good seasonal menu. Fresh shitake mushroom duxelles in crispy won-ton cups to start; curried Dungeness crab salad on a chiffonade of Romaine with diced apple, fennel, and celery as a first course; duck legs with sour cherry sauce, pureed turnips, and wine-braised lentils for main; and, finally, chocolate cinnamon pot de crème for dessert. Too ambitious a menu, you say? Perhaps. Perhaps. But I am pretty good at doing things in stages, preparing my mise-en-place, cleaning as I go, so that a big menu doesn’t usually overwhelm me. What overwhelms is the people.

I think I have performance anxiety. I can't do the big group thing. Too many people to worry about, too many expectations to meet (or so I think), and I get too stressed out trying to make it "perfect." I have not managed the effortless, charming hostess thing where, with grease-stain free clothing and hair styled into something more chic and age-appropriate than a high ponytail, you float about chit-chatting with your guests, pouring libations, and handing out canapés. I have not achieved the bodhisattva state of entertaining where the hostess radiates the calm and good vibe that then puts everyone into the happy party soup. I haven’t even realized the shortcut to creating the perfect party: plying yourself and others with many martinis.

No, I was too anxious. Trying too hard. And as a result I was not in the zone. While the mushroom appetizer was good, I didn’t plate enough of the crab salad, the turnip puree was watery, the lentils under-salted, the duck legs too dry, and the pots de crème a little grainy. I wasn’t paying attention to the food; I was scattered. Funny, though, everyone who was here said they loved the evening and thought it was warm & cozy. I already know the big take away here: entertaining isn’t about the food, it’s about how people feel and relate to one another. But dammit, the way I try to show people I care about them is by making a nice meal and if it doesn’t come out well, then it feels as if I haven’t shown my guests proper care. People can tell me they had a good time at my dinner but if I feel like the meal wasn't really good then I don't believe what they've told me. Yes, I know that’s twisted and dismissive. (Where's Dr. Phil when you need him?)

During the week I made some amazing meals for others when I didn’t feel like I was having a DINNER PARTY. I was just making dinner. I was just a cook, not a hostess. So maybe I need to trick myself into thinking it’s just a meal. But, to be safe, I think I will limit my dinner guests to four. At least until I get some therapy.