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!
On Tuesday, Pootsie, my roommate John's cat, passed away, after 11 years of being huge and awesome. He was pretty badass, all around, and in the four months or so that I got to know him, I liked him. And I'm not blindly pro-cat -- some are cool and some are smelly. Pootsie was cool.
John's grief and sadness, only amplified by Pootsie's rapid decline, needed fixing. On Tuesday night, a group of friends drank to Pootsie's memory; snowed in as we were on Wednesday afternoon, my reaction was to cook for him.
John's from the south, somewhere in bumblefudge (you can't swear on the Internet; it's in the rulebook) Virginia, and seems to me to be very southerny. Or at least his accent says so, which might not even be that heavy, but what the hell do I know -- I'm from Maine. I think I imagine him growing up wearing overalls and chewing straw, for the love of Pete.
Martha's pic, not mine.
Martha Stewart is always emailing me stuff, and one of the recipe's caught my eye as appropriate for the occasion. Cheddar Corn Spoon Bread, a cheesey, almost pudding-like corn bread seemed like the sort of thing they eat in the South, right? Alright, done with spouting preconceived notions about the great state of Virginia (Sic Semper Tyrannis!) et al.
The recipe, found here, involved bringing butter, corn kernels, corn meal, cayenne pepper, and milk to a boil before stirring in cheddar cheese. After the mixture cooled somewhat, I stirred in egg yolks and folded in egg whites I'd beaten to the point where small peaks started to form. The mixture, which already kinda looked at that point like something I would eat, baked 20-odd minutes in a 375 degree oven. In other words, the whole thing was easy.
I liked the dish a great deal, as did, I believe, John, and so, as I copy it into my recipe book, the dish will go by the title "Pootsie Bread."
I forgot to tell everyone on Wednesday, but on Wednesday, Hungry Sam turned one. Which in blog years, means that Hungry Sam is a cranky and stressed out teenager. Or something!
To reward you all, I'm going to talk about clementine oranges. Which I LOVE.
Not true size. Or maybe, depending on the size of your computer screen.
Clementines are little oranges about the size of a large donut hole (or if you're from Canada, a large "Timbit"). They are easy to peel, generally seedless (although clementine FAILS occur; see below), extremely sweet, sold by the 5-lb. box, and are at their best in December, January, and February. I like them so much I may have eaten a whole box in 24 hours a week ago (although to be fair, I was doing the 13-hour drive from Maine to D.C. at the time).
I WIN
The best part about eating a clementine is peeling them (which I promise I wasn't doing while driving, mostly). It's like a challenge each time to see if you can remove the rind intact. I mean, it's not hard, so you mostly just feel like a failure when you can't, but there it is.
The second best thing about clementines is that they're wicked healthy, so I don't feel bad about about bringing six of them to work with me as snacks. Also, now my office smells GREAT.
The third best thing about clementines is that they essentially taste like candy.
The worst thing about clementines is clementine FAILS. These occur when the clementine isn't sweet enough, is too firm (and thus IMPOSSIBLE to peel in one piece), or when there are seeds. I mean, really -- I eat these little babies instead of giant citrus because they're so easy. But when each of the eight segments or whatever has like three seeds, that's the opposite of easy. It's hard.
OK, that's all I have to say about that. Go buy yourself a box of clementines -- you won't be disappointed, unless you are!
I've been pretty positive-minded about food, at least in the context of this here blog. But I do have unpleasant or disappointing experiences with meals and dishes -- and often, I repeat these experiences. Maybe it's a belief in redemption or just a failure to learn, who knows.
From a vegan food blog at kitteekake.blogspot.com. On another note, Google "smoothie fail" and check out the images results. Hilarious.
One food that I have consistently found underwhelming and yet have given NUMEROUS chances is smoothies, particularly non-homemade smoothies. Smoothies are cold, sometimes icy, theoretically "smooth" blends of fruit and juice or yogurt, often with supplements mixed in. At their best, they're largely comprised of just these elements; at their worst they include syrups, added sugar, or space-age concoctions the likes of which I shudder to consider.
After the gym this morning, being slightly too lazy to cross the street for another awesome egg sandwich from Potbelly, I hit up Robek's (a far-more-widespread-than-I-thought corporate smoothie joint) for my protein/calorie fix. Why, I can't imagine -- as I say, I haven't had many positive smoothie experiences. After receiving suggestions from the very pleasant young man and woman behind the counter, I settled on a Banana-Mango smoothie with added protein powder. I figured this would be tasty, reasonably proteinaceous, and with only a moderate amount of sugar.
In a word? Underwhelming. First off, it was inevitably overpriced ($5), as purchased smoothies ALWAYS are. Second, it was so damn sweet that I could feel my tooth enamel begging for help, the sort of saccharine sweet that makes you want to hit up the dentist for a cleaning afterward. Thirdly, you know how much protein was in that supplement? Six grams. SIX?!?! That's like the protein in a very small glass of milk, or one ounce of chicken. Bah!
I went out an hour later and bought another Potbelly breakfast sandwich.
I promise Thanksgiving montage madness is forthcoming -- ComCast just needs to fix the series of tubes that bring Internets to my house.
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.
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:
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 have a bit of a backlog of meals to write up, I admit. Before I do, however, I want to briefly share an excellent encounter with (a) roasted lamb. Oh, and with Mike Isabella, the Top Chef contestant, who happened to have made this tasty surprise snack.
I'm really into snacks. That's one reason I frequent farmer's markets -- samples are a form of free snack. There may be no free lunch, but there are free snacks.
So JHK and I were wandering the Dupont Farmer's Market, buying bourbon apple barbecue sauce and wishing there were more free snacks, preferably of ripe peach (soon!). As we rounded a corner, we saw something turning on a spit over coals. Definitely a whole roasting lamb. I knew I was in the right place.
This was confirmed when moments later I realized that by getting in line, I could have some.
Woah. Best. Sample. Ever.
Hopped in line and saw this sign. Bells rang dimly in the murky background of my mind -- Mike Isabella...Zaytinya...I'd heard these names. It wasn't, however, until a passerby mentioned "Top Chef" that it clicked.
Anyways, at the top of the line an assistant handed me a small plate filled with steaming, savory chopped lamb. I made eye contact with Chef Isabella and said, "Looks good." He said, "Hope it tastes good too." Conversation with a famous guy -- check.
Well, Mr. Isabella, I applaud you. Perfectly tender, erupting with flavor, the seasoned lamb was topped with just the right amount of lemony butter and fresh dill, the tanginess of which offset the rich meat. It was a superb combination of flavors, such that the tongue itself seemed to be aware that these flavors were both meant to be (wonderfully and quintessentially Greek) as well as revolutionary. I got a little piece of outer meat, too, which had crisped and darkened in the heat of the fire and had some of the salt-and-pepper rub still clinging to the outside. It was streaked liberally with fat as only a wonderful cut of lamb can be; an hour after breakfast, it was the perfect free snack. Here she is:
Wow. I wish I could have captured it better; as JHK can attest, I was too excited by the goings-on to snap more photos before I finished eating. I almost forgot, but thinking only of my loyal readers, I went back to the cooking tent, quickly introduced myself and Hungry Sam to Chef Isabella, and asked if he would pose for you all.
Here is Mike, winner of the first annual Hungry Sam Memorial Award for Excellence in Improving Hungry Sam's Day Through the Application of Delicious Lamb:
The recipe, found here, involved bringing butter, corn kernels, corn meal, cayenne pepper, and milk to a boil before stirring in cheddar cheese. After the mixture cooled somewhat, I stirred in egg yolks and folded in egg whites I'd beaten to the point where small peaks started to form. The mixture, which already kinda looked at that point like something I would eat, baked 20-odd minutes in a 375 degree oven. In other words, the whole thing was easy.
recipe, 
