Welcome to Hungry Sam, where we always play with our food. Enjoy diving into dishes and reading through recipes -- and hit me up here or on the Facebook page if you have questions!
Yesterday afternoon, coming back from the Hill, I stopped at the Godiva in Union Station. You see, I'd been slightly inspired by an article in Consumer Reports which rated Godiva Dark Hot Chocolate the best they'd reviewed, and so I was seriously considering picking up a little. Also, my sweet tooth has come back with a vengeance -- maybe it's the season.
Good thing prices weren't posted; sometimes I think Godiva operates on one of those "if you have to ask..." pricing models.
Here is a play-by play of my experience. Or at least as much as I care to type.
1) "I'd like to order a dark hot chocolate" This is gonna be good.
2) "$5.50? Really?" This is absurd. Who would pay this much for hot chocolate? Oh well, I learned my lesson.
3) "Thanks. *sip*" Dear God. Dear, sweet merciful one, who has made the cocoa bean.
[I proceed to stand there, sipping, for about 60 seconds. Nothing cogent forms in my mind. Then --]
It's...velvety. It's dark; it's rich. It's intense, yet soft and sweet. Not so sweet that I'm not transported (because after all, sweetness for sweetness' sake is pretty much the problem in America). It's complex -- I wonder if I could do a tasting? Maybe Godiva would bankroll me. Or Consumer Reports!!!
And so goes the mind of Hungry Sam. I hope you've enjoyed this bizarre, stream-of-consciousness look into my psyche -- but this is a great deal of what passes through my mind when I'm REALLY enjoying food.
It's not that I like them; frankly, I don't really like or dislike the core. But there's nothing worse than finishing a sweet, crunchy, juicy, delicious apple and not only being covered in sticky apple juice but having trash on your hands. My solution, then, has really been to just eat the trash. I eat it before finishing the rest of the apple though; I don't want my last apple bites to be the stupid core.
2) I'm wicked good at the puzzles on the back of cereal boxes.
It's almost like they're made for children.
3) How do you make frozen yogurt?
I would like to make some frozen yogurt. I know I could just google it, and I will, but I'm sharing the food-oriented thoughts I've had today. And today, while eating frozen yogurt (Sweetflow: Gross name; decent frozen yogurt) I thought to myself, "how does this work?"
4) The Waffle House makes a DAMN fine waffle.
I did a 24 mile ride with the Bad Movie Club this morning. After the ride, we decided to ensure that no weight would be lost through our exercise by eating at the Waffle House, a sketchier, Southern-er IHOP. However, for about $3, I had a pretty damn fine pecan buttermilk waffle. SCORE. I would have a picture, but I was too hungry to think pre-waffle.
This weekend, we Jews observed Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, which marks the end of the Days of Awe, by fasting. Jews don't fast as a matter of course; it is, generally speaking, a cornerstone of our worldview that we are commanded to enjoy the works of creation.
Fasting, however, can be an enlightening experience. There are as many reasons and explanations for fasting as there are Jews who choose to "practice self-denial," as the commandment goes. For me, fasting helps to put food in context and drive home its role as the primary medium through which I interact with the substance of the world around me.
On a basic level, it underscores the notions of emptiness and hunger. It reminds me of the comfort in which I live, and that not all are so fortunate. Fasting prepares me to think seriously about what it means to not-have. Just as Hungry Sam is an expression of the joy and wonder with which I experience food, fasting provides me the opportunity to contemplate the absence of that joy and of the other joys (both real and illusory) begotten by my random fortune to be a middle-class American.
Going deeper, fasting acts as a clear and omnipresent distraction as I sit in synagogue and attempt to commune with my deeper self -- for the purpose of Yom Kippur is not to fast for its own sake, the purpose is to atone, to speak with God and ask forgiveness and to prepare oneself to speak with our fellow humans and ask for forgiveness. Ok, so fasting is a distraction, but I choose to experience it as a surmountable challenge that helps to prepare me for inner dialogue. That hunger forces me to confront my physical self at the same time as I seek to transcend it.
Some Jews wish one another an "easy fast." We could have a short argument over the existence of such a thing. But in my opinion, when food is ever-present for the minority of which I am a part, where comfort is the norm and ease the default goal, I think a difficult fast can go a long way toward changing the paradigm for one day of reflection and growth.
Having attended the University of Rochester, and having lived in upstate New York, then, for just less than five years, I know a little about chicken wings. On Sunday, I had a pleasant and surprising wing experience I wish to relate. Read on.
FIRST: a brief message to my readers in the upstate New York region.
Hi friends. I'm going to talk about wings for a moment. I need you to basically pretend I'm not. I've spent far too many hours arguing the merits of Anchor Bar v. Duff's (2008); I grew too many gray hairs advocating for On The Rocks over The Distillery. I can't take it. I know you all have an opinion; the good Lord knows I do too. But all I wish to do here is mention and extoll the virtues of the wings I've discovered at one particularly place in DC. There is in the text hereafter no implication whatsoever that these wings are in any way better than Nathaniel's or Mark's or any of the other wonderful options available in the Upstate. Thanks!
Now that's out of the way, I will provide context. On Saturday night, I was faced with an extremely concerning situation: I had yet to find an acceptable location to watch the Patriots' home opener the following day. The food wasn't really a concern; I had brunch plans with RLK, JB, and Suburban Sweetheart (@Ulah Bistro, a staple in my brunch rotation). Having food was a plus, however; we ARE talking about a three-hour football game, but in finding a sports bar, the keys were a) must be showing the game, b) must be showing the game WITH volume, c) reasonably close to U street so I wouldn't miss kick-off, and d) must not be a Colts bar (as in a place where Colts fans assemble. Oy.)
I made a series of calls and did my research through Yelp and elsewhere, and settled on Buffalo Billiards. I'd been before, so I knew the venue was pretty huge with plenty of TVs; it didn't seem that it would be overrun with fans of another team; and I'd had a decent time in the past, so I figured, what the hell.
GREAT DECISION. Though the volume for my game was lower than I would have wished (too many others being played concurrently), the beer was cheap, the Pats won, I made friends (Go 'Skins!) and, as it turned out, the chicken wings were EXCELLENT.
Let me back up. Chicken wings aren't a staple in my diet -- I would die of cholesterol poisoning. They are a treat, like a cigar or a scotch, and as such, I treat them similarly -- as an experience. I'm not being over the top; I'm serious. Wings make me think of football. They bring me back to the best wings I've ever had, and the people I shared them with. Good wings remind me of half-priced appetizer nights with my best friends in college, of visiting Rochester, of a perfect Patriots season (16-0-0!).
For all this to happen, for a wave of nostalgia and contentment to crest and break and wash over and through me, a certain threshold of quality needs to be attained in my wing. It needs to be BIG; it needs to be tender and juicy. Wings need to have sharp, spicy, Buffalo sauce-flavor throughout, not solely on the exterior. They shouldn't have crusty skin and the sauce shouldn't be syrupy. A lot can go wrong in a wing -- and nothing did with the wings at Buffalo Billiards. They were solid, respectable, tasty, and cheap (10 wings for $5.50/20 for $9/30 for $12.50).
I personally believe that solid, respectable, tasty, and cheap are about the best accolades possible for a wing outside upstate New York, so Buffalo Billiards: Hungry Sam Salutes You.
The one picture I could take before my wings were...unphotographable:
Contrary to my expectations, not every U.S. environmentalist is focused on the ongoing crisis in the Gulf of Mexico. Other priorities abound, from climate change and energy policy issues to conservation, and many tree/ozone layer/spotted owl/vulnerable population-huggers (or whatever) are still working hard on these issues.
The lionfish is a predatory species native to the western Pacific, likely first introduced into the Atlantic by human hands about 25 years ago. Since then, it has spread throughout the U.S. eastern seaboard and decimated populations of native fish. Says Brent Seaver, Washington chef and Blue Ocean Institute fellow: "It's taking over ecosystems from Trinidad and Tobago all the way up to Maine. Our solution is just to eat it."
While I've never prepared lionfish, the Washington Post article on this burgeoning effort has some helpful hints. The article notes that lionfish tastes like a cross between snapper and grouper, which, if I'm not mistaken, means it's a relatively mild white-fleshed fish. Techniques described in the article range from curing the fish in lemon and salt as a garnish to sauteing fillets in brown butter and a little vinegar. Given a fillet of lionfish, I might try pan searing it in butter, salt and pepper, and finishing it with lemon. The final (and delicious looking) recipe given is one for Lionfish Romesco Stew.
No, I’m not just doing it so Liz adds me to a list of Israeli resources she is compiling. Though that would be sweet as well.
I’m doing it because falafel is wicked good. I will elaborate.
As a lover of food, I form, at times, vivid, powerful memories of standout meals –whether exceptionally good or superbly bad. What’s interesting about falafel is that I think I’ve experienced falafel meals that have fallen into both categories. Truly excellent falafel is a thing of beauty, a fast-food delicacy the likes of which lifts my soul to soaring heights – and bad falafel is worse than ovoid bricks.
Before I dive into my feelings for falafel, I should note that this is one dish I’ve never before prepared myself. Maybe it’s fear, a gripping fear of disillusionment that I could never create falafel that brings tears to mine own eyes. Maybe I feel part of the magic is building a sandwich in a shop or at a stand. Maybe it’s laziness. Could go any which way. Regardless, I am drawing upon my several and varied experiences with the dish in this discussion.
First: What is Falafel?
Falafel is a fried ball of chickpeas or fava beans with spices. It is frequently served in a pita pocket and topped with various salads, relishes, pickles, and sauces, including (but CERTAINLY not limited to) hummus and tahini (sesame seed paste). These toppings are frequently presented buffet style such that you receive your falafel and pita at the counter and it is up to you to stuff as much as possible in alongside. Many consider the toppings so essential to the experience that falafel as a term may also refer to the falafel balls, pita, and toppings in totality.
Falafel is a traditional and well-loved Middle-Eastern dish. It is so well-loved, such an emotional trigger for so many that Lebanon recently sued Israel over it. Yes. Really.
(At least they're just suing...)
What Hungry Sam likes in Falafel:
A crisp exterior;
A moist – but fully cooked – interior;
A proper balance of spices such that the toppings are a complement but not completely necessary to the enjoyment of the falafel balls;
Fresh Pita;
Basic toppings – cucumber-and-tomato salad, tahini, hummus, red peppers, baba gannouj, dill pickles;
What Hungry Sam really, really dislikes in falafel (or, all the stuff that can go wrong with a Falafel Sandwich);
Non-coherent falafel balls;
Over-spiced falafel balls;
Under-spiced, bland falafel balls;
Poorly shaped falafel balls – I feel the closer to perfectly spheroid the harder they are to bite into;
Dry falafel balls (actually the worst thing that can happen to a falafel sandwich. Ugh.);
Dry/crumbling Pita – without the ability to truly stuff the pocket, how can you enjoy the whole experience?
Insufficient variety or quality of toppings.
As you can see from these lists, a lot can go wrong and much must go right for me to be truly enjoying my falafel. I will now briefly tell of the three best falafel experiences of my life. In descending order:
Silly's, a bizarre, "crunchy," avante-garde sort of restaurant back home breaks my mold a little by serving their falafels in a (truly enormous) wrap, pre-dressed and replete with a number of my key toppings. This rebellious attitude toward falafel (an attitude, I should note, which carries over to the rest of their menu items, like "hobo pie," which is a taco mountain made entirely from scratch) is validated with the excellence of the falafel balls themselves. In a town known better for crustaceans, Silly's is shining star of suberb falafel -- and pretty much everything else. Worth a visit. Worth a lfietime. (Maine joke.)
2. One night at Amsterdam Falafel in Adams Morgan, DC with Kate and Rachel
It's not that the falafel is perfect, but it is the best approximation of the Platonic Ideal of falafel shops that I've found in America (Maoz comes close) -- the falafel balls are well formed and spiced and the options for toppings are quite broad. Also, eating them outside on some folding chairs , talking to the drunken bongo player behind us and looking at the ridiculous people wandering Adams Morgan at 11 PM on a Sat night with my friends greatly enhanced the evening.
1. That Little Shop in Tsfat, Israel at the Top of the Stone Steps
Woah. What a flashbulb memory. This was now two years ago, and the perfection of the first full, complex bite of crispy, moist, and flavorful falafel with french fries, cucumber-and-tomato salad, hummus and tahini remains powerful. I cannot give this memory full justice. The ancient, hewn stone steps and walls, the crisp smell of fresh, Middle Eastern breeze, and Tsfat's fusion of old rabbinic life and new artist colony vibe only drew me further into this amazing snack.
I love Cilantro. Cilantro, the popular name for the leaves and stem of the plant that also gives us the coriander spice, is an herb I can nearly never over-buy. However ridiculously large the bunches in which Cilantro is sold, I can always find a use for epic quantities thereof.
It is, in many ways, a wonderful gateway herb (of the legal variety); it's easy for beginning chefs to understand how to use cilantro when so many other spices require a more developed skill. Cilantro imbues whatever it touches with a strong flavor that manages to not be overpowering; it's difficult to overuse insofar as few dishes become completely unpalatable if you dump the whole cutting board's worth in on accident. It strengthens mild, mayo-based dressings (as for chicken, potato and noodle salads), adds complexity to spicy stews and chilis, and complements perfectly tangy sauces and marinades.
Some people love Cilantro as much as (or awkwardly more than) I do: see here.
Others really can’t stand it. I always sort of figured there was something wrong with these people who could not enjoy the wonder of the leaves of coriandrum sativum. I’m right, as it were – some individuals are genetically predisposed to dislike cilantro.
Though this genetic (I’m going to call it a) disorder is not fully understood understood, an article in today’s New York Times describes one theory behind “cilantrophobia.” Apparently the substances “flavor chemists” have identified as those that lend cilantro its aroma are chemically similar to lipid (fat) molecules called aldeyhdes, also found in many soaps and lotions. Taste and smell, evolutionarily speaking, developed as an additional way to find food and mates as well as avoid poisonous substances. So, when an individual with a certain genetic predisposition connects an aroma or flavor more powerfully with, say, industrial cleaning agents, those sensations evoke a powerful and negative emotional response. Hence: www.IHateCilantro.blogspot.com.
There is, however, hope. Neuroscientist Dr. Jay Gottfried, points out that this is all flavor pattern recognition – if you can make new associations and patterns for cilantro, you have a chance of redemption. He himself once disliked cilantro, but, in his own words, “’I love food, and I ate all kinds of things, and I kept encountering it. My brain must have developed new patterns for cilantro flavor from those experiences, which included pleasure from the other flavors and the sharing with friends and family.’”
So I basically have two conclusions at the end of the day:
1. I should have been a flavor chemist
2. I need to do serious vetting before I marry anyone who might prevent my children from loving cilantro as much as I do. Does that count as eugenics? Awwww…
experiences, 
