New York: Hattie's

Corn bread, biscuits and hush puppies.

After six hours winding my way through the Pennsylvania and New Jersey countryside, with a long stretch on the New York Thruway, I've found myself at the door of Hattie's in Saratoga Springs.

It pains me when the curtain has been pulled back to reveal me as a charlatan but I can't hide the fact that I heard about Hattie's through Bobby Flay. Personally speaking, I can't stand Bobby Flay. Ever since his days with Jackie Malouf on Grillin' and Chillin' he's just irritated me. One day, quite some time ago, I was flicking through the tele and happened upon his new FoodTV show where he goes out and "challenges" a random chef on their turf and with the dish they're known for. The setup is that the chef is told that they're being screen-tested for a new television show and on the day they tape the chef, Flay shows up to challenge the chef to a cookoff. What a dick.

Anyway, when Flay came to town, chef Jasper Alexander remained supreme in their fried chicken cookoff and I made the decision that day that I must journey to Saratoga Springs and here I am, in the cold, hoping that they'll have a table for me at 8pm.

By the looks of it, Saratoga Springs is a touristy town. It looks like it was built to cater to tourists. Happily, Hattie's is quite down home and rustic looking - and not in a prefab, T.G.I.Friday's kind of way - and, most importantly, it's rather quiet on this Monday night.


Mac N Cheese

The Monday travel schedule had me worried enough that I called yesterday to ensure that they would be open today. It would have been my luck that the one day I manage to travel to Saratoga Springs would be the day they are closed. I would cry.

When I walked in, the restaurant was quiet. A couple to my right were finishing their meal and a four top in the center of the room had just begun. The staff was casually milling about awaiting the night to come. I was relieved that I could be seated so quickly.

Right off the bat, I started with a sweet tea and a glass of water. While reviewing the menu with my server, one of the kitchen crew remarked that I should know the menu by now since I'm here all the time. Huh? Turns out that there's some guy working in the comic book store next door that looks just like me. Could it be? Could my doppelganger live in Saratoga Springs? Too bad I won't have the time in town to find out. At least the cook promised they would take good care of me.

Not long after, an order of freshly fried hush puppies arrived at my table with a side of ketchup. Golden delicious inside and crispy brown on the outside. Beautiful. As a hush puppy should be. In another moment, a basket of warm corn bread and biscuit landed, with butter. Now was my chance - butter on corn bread is a good thing so, therefore (I'm hypothesizing now), butter on hush puppies should be even better. Wow, I'm so glad my mom gave birth to such a smart son...

The meal would be simple. First round: macaroni and cheese. Second: fried chicken. Third: dessert.

As I walked in and spied on the couple finishing their meal, I noticed the girl had barely touched her order of mac n cheese. It was unbelievably huge, she had barely put a dent in it. I made sure to order the smaller, appetizer portion - with shrimp and bacon as my server enthusiastically recommended.

Soon, a hot pile of pasta, cheese, bacon and shrimp, covered with bread crumbs and seared under salamander landed in front of me. I gingerly took a bite. It was hot. Blisteringly hot. Let it cool for a few moments and then began a thorough investigation.



Fried Chicken


It was good. It was as mac n cheese should be, but something was missing. It tasted kinda limp. The ingredients were all there. They just didn't spring to life. What this dish needed was some seasoning. A liberal application of salt.

A douse of salt later and there it was: Mac N Cheese. As It Should Be. Alive. Tasty. Decadent. The bacon adding that pleasurable flavor and the shrimp adding a new dimension that I've never had in Mac N Cheese.

In a few minutes, the fried chicken landed on my table. Four pieces. A half chicken crisp and fried to golden perfection. Just look at it: amazing. Served with mashed potatoes and collard greens. Nice.

The chicken was good. It had a spice blend that I thought was okay. It just wouldn't be my choice of spices. I prefer very simple preparations of just salt and pepper for my fried chicken. This chicken had a bit of a zing to it but also needed a liberal application of salt.

Actually, by this point, I was starting to worry. Worry that my taste buds my be losing it. Have I been eating everything so salted that I've lost the ability to discern what is and is not "salty"? Would my preferred level of seasoning leave others gagging in a salt water ocean?

But I can't taste the flavors. They're not pronounced. So I salted anyway. And once salted, the chicken flavors came to life.

While I didn't find the seasonings to my tastes, the chicken skin was absolutely wonderful. Light, delicate and perfectly crisp. I haven't been able to fry chicken like this. This fried coating was just sublime. I couldn't do it better, and I want to do it better (or at least as good). Maybe Jasper will smile on me one day and share his secret to this wonderfully light, delicate and crisp skin.


Pecan Pie

For dessert it was a simple Pecan Pie with whipped cream. Tasty, sweet and that lovely texture that should accompany a proper pecan pie. It was also searingly hot. Add a cup of coffee with sugar and cream and all is well. Of course, it's not coffee to write home about or even drink on it's own - even my server said "it's just coffee" when I asked her what kind of coffee it was. Definitely not of the caliber we know and love but a nice accompaniment to the pecan pie nonetheless.

In the truck I've got my trusty Igloo cooler loaded up with ice and ready to hold this trips' bounty. As I leave Hattie's I'm warmed by the thought that in my bag I've got two pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes, collared greens and the rest of my mac n cheese for a late morning breakfast in Montreal tomorrow.

I already know it's going to be a beautiful morning.


Hattie's Restaurant
45 Philadelphia Street
Saratoga Springs, NY 12866
518-584-4790
www.hattiesrestaurant.com

The Most Beautiful Gas Station in America

It seems that I can never leave well enough alone.

Just when I'm starting to get comfortable at home, it's time to hit the road again. This time, I'm in the trusty GMC Sonoma and we're whizzing through the Pennsylvania countryside somewhere around 72 mph. Why 72? Because it's faster than the 65mph speed limit and still a few miles below the ten miles per hour over imaginary cutoff that we believe law enforcement uses as the threshold to stop speeders.

In other words: I'm an outlaw. A man with a casual disregard for authority. A wise-cracking raconteur and general scoundrel. A modern-day Han Solo (minus Chewbacca).

I'm on the way to Montreal for the annual Canadian Barista Championship where I'll be serving as the co-emcee for the events. At first, I thought I might be judging but the judges workshop was yesterday and there was just no way I could break away from the home front before today. Oh well, at least there's Au Pied du Cochon.

A Road Trip is a rare event for me and America looks grand from the view through the windshield as opposed to the view though the window at 35,000 feet. As we whiz though the Delaware River Valley, sharp rock formations jut out amongst the rapidly turning fall foliage. It's been unseasonably warm these past couple of weeks but today is starting to get crispy. There's a chill in the air that's just conducive to this kind of driving.

The crisp weather means that the windows are slightly cracked and the heater is set to low, counterbalancing the crispy cold air. In my hand, I've got a fine Paul Garmirian cigar, some Turkey Hill Orange Tea in my cup and the images of Sting's young teacher the subject of schoolgirl fantasy cooing through the ipod connected to the stereo. There's a warm feeling in my soul when I realize I've made the wrong turn and ended up in rural north New Jersey.

Luckily, I've got my trusty iPhone and after a quick consultation (and the decision to avoid tracking back across the Delaware River and paying the bridge toll), I'm on backcountry roads winding my way north where I decide to make a gas, bathroom and stretch break in the small hamlet of Blairstown. A place where I inadvertently find The Most Beautiful Gas Station in America.

For all the crap that it has to take as the state living in the shadow of New York, New Jersey's greatest secret is that the general public is outlawed from pumping their own gas. Know how you gotta stand out there in rain or cold, pumping your own gas? Not in New Jersey. While it's not the full service of my youth where the attendants checked your engine fluids and tire pressures, in Jersey they pump the gas for you while you can remain comfy in the safety of your own vehicle.

Maybe there just isn't any guys left in Blairstown. Maybe they're in the fields, or off to the Big City seeking their fortunes. Whatever the case may be, it's to my advantage: the girls pumping the gas at the Sunoco are downright hotties.

As I pull in and jump out of the Sonoma, the hottest one comes up to start filling my tank. She's about 5'3", blonde hair, blue eyes and just gorgeous. The tank is only half full but it's time for a fill-up. Another cute blonde is working the other side of the island and a third girl with sandy hair tucked under a floppy hat, wearing dark sunglasses is sitting outside of the station building smoking a cigarette and looking generally cool, she directs me to the restroom.

Somehow, someway, I've stumbled upon New Jersey's best kept secret: The Most Beautiful Gas Station in America. Who knew?

We chat and banter for a bit and I ask for directions to Stillwater Road. My girl has seen it but can't remember how to tell me to get there - even though she lives near it. The other girls laugh and point out that Stillwater is just down the road. Simply go straight and turn left at the stop light.

I would have chatted with them a bit more but I'm on a schedule for dinner and I don't know if I'll ever make it back this way again. After a few more minutes chat, I'm back on the road and on my way to dinner in Saratoga Springs.

Getting Tired Of Waiting: The Alinea Book

The Alinea Book arrives in it's own harness.

I'd like to believe that I'm a patient man.

Back in the spring, the announcement was made that Grant Achatz would be releasing a cookbook featuring the exact recipes of the food he prepares at Alinea. Pre-order now for fifty bucks and you'll get exclusive access to the website, exclusive recipes and a signed edition of the Alinea Cookbook. How could I say no?

Fast forward to September 2nd and Michael Ruhlman is showing off pictures of his copy of the Alinea Cookbook on his blog. After months of remaining dormant, suddenly, the chase was on. Anticipation exploded.

But False Start. The pics on his blogs is Ruhlman's preview copy (he did write the foreword, afterall). He's just teasing us and making us feel sorry for ourselves. What's going on here? There's no word. Where's my copy???

Then on September 20th, I receive an email from Nick Kokonas updating us on the status of the book: the books have arrived in the United States, they need to be sent to Chicago so that Grant and everyone else can sign each of our copies, re-shrink wrap them and then ship them to us by October 15th, the book's official release date.

Of course, while I'm in Albuquerque, I find copies for sale on the shelves at Border's. And that was the first weekend in October.

Amazon has the book available at the same time for the discounted price of $31.50!


The well-dressed wear a jacket.

Really, I want to know the secrets of Alinea. I want to see how it's done. I want to be kissed by God. And while I forked out fifty bucks six months ago, I'm still waiting for my copy while everyone and their mother can go to the local bookshop and pick up their own copy. Dammit.

I want to call. I want to complain. I don't because I realize it's not going to do any good. I just want to see the book in my hands. To hold it. To caress it. To lay it over my forehead while I sleep and allow osmosis to do its' thing. I remind myself that things are probably crazy busy for them. They've got how many thousands of books to sign? I'll be patient. I'm a man. I understand.

On October 10th, I receive another email that tells me my copy shipped the day before. Not much longer now and I alert my staff at The Spro to be on the lookout for this VIP - Very Important Package.

The entire week rolls by and nothing. No box. No envelope. No nothing. WTF??? Where's my book? I leave for Montreal on Monday, am I just born to suffer?

Finally, the last straw comes when I head to Woodberry tonight to take care of a few details before the market tomorrow. Isaiah excitedly shows me the copy he bought at Barnes & Noble and that Spike (who also ordered around the same time I did) got his copy in the mail. Huh???

I can't contain myself any longer.

I spent a couple of moments, ranting and raving about my book (and lack thereof). Everyone and their mother already HAS their copy - everyone, except me. I want to Karate Chop something. Can somebody hand me a butter knife so I can stick it in my neck already? Isaiah pulls it down to show me. For a brief moment, I don't want to look at it. I am the petulant child. I want to look at my own copy, not someone else's.

But I can't resist. I open the book and it's gorgeous. It's so thick and chock full of information. I leaf through it but the prep kitchen at Woodberry is a madhouse and I can't focus. This book is so interesting that it demands my full attention. I gingerly place the book back on its' perch.


A signed edition.

By the time I get home, I notice that there's a white box sitting by the doorway. What is that? Could it be? Oh, Thank God, it is! My copy of the Alinea Cookbook has been waiting at my house the whole day!

I tear into it and immediately notice the handsome slipjacket that my copy rests in. It's not a feature of the store bought books and already I'm one ahead of everyone and their mother. Plus, mine is signed. Lovely.

I peruse the book more intently and notice that it truly is gorgeous. It's a manual on how to recreate the actual Alinea recipes. In all their difficult glory. I notice several dishes that I ate during my visit to Alinea and I read eagerly. Honestly, it's too much to take it. I need more time. I need to take it in doses and really get into the gist of the material.

One detail about the book warms my heart: the equipment list. It's a list of some of the specialized equipment that they use at Alinea and equipment that will be necessary to finish the recipes exactly. I'm happy to already have a vacuum sealer, immersion circulator and AntiGriddle. Now, if I can only get the Volcano and PacoJet...

Onocoffee.com

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First of all, Thank You Very Much for taking time out of your day to read my blog. That ever continuing tirade of rants, raves and adventures. It honors me that you allow me to share my experiences with you.

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Please redirect your browsers, favorites and whatever you use to read this blog to the new URL: www.onocoffee.com.

The new URL will direct you to wherever this blog lands in the near future.

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Thinking Joe The Plumber

So Joe The Plumber wants to buy a business to help him and his family do better in life. That's not just the American Dream, the dream of doing things so that your family benefits is a dream shared by billions worldwide.

The problem is, Joe is worried that buying a business that pulls revenue in excess of $250,000 will cost him more in taxes under Barack Obama's plan.

According to today's article on CNN.com, Obama told Joe: "I think that when you spread the wealth around, it's good for everybody."

Of course, for the hard-working American businessman, like Joe wants to be, this kind of thinking doesn't sit well: "Redistributing the wealth, as far as my hard work, that upsets me," Joe said. "That's not right. That's not American."

Oh, but it is, my burgeoning entrepreneur, it certainly is "American." Come live in the Socialist Demokratik Republik of Maryland and you'll find the definition of a Big Government Welfare State whose populace wears "Entitlement" like a diamond studded tiara. And when things get tough and money gets tight - no problem, we'll just squeeze the people more with higher taxes, more taxes and now, legalizing slot machines.

What I find truly amazing, but not at all surprising, is that in the face of a failing economy, astronomical National Debt and a worldwide financial collapse, our "representatives" are ready to levy more taxes. So, while I'm lying on the ground with a food on my face and a knife in my neck, they want to kick me too?

To be fair, Obama said he plans to "lower tax" for "95 percent of Americans." Well, why not the other five percent? What did they do wrong that they deserve to be taxed more? Is it because they're business owners and executives who are charged daily with making the right decisions to keep their companies profitable and the majority of the American workforce employed?

Don't get me wrong, I don't make anywhere near $250K per year. My paycheck is laughable to 95 percent of Americans. But, should fortunes change, should I be penalized for taking the chances and risks of business? That I've put everything on the line and risked bankruptcy should be criminalized? That I employ people and help them make a living - this is worthy of The Scarlet Letter?

Hmmm, perhaps Joe The Plumber is right for reconsidering his vote.

I'm sure I've got a t-shirt with a red "A" on it somewhere around here...

Making Mac & Cheese

I've been at home all day working on household projects and it's time for dinner. To be honest, my plan was to make chicken legs stuffed with chorizo, almonds and cilantro but time has creeped up on me and there just isn't enough time to prepare the chorizo or the chicken.

Instead, I've decided to go for a simple supper of coulette steak with Macaroni and Cheese. The cupboards are empty of Kraft Mac N Cheese so I've got to make it from scratch.

Truth be told, making mac and cheese is relatively simple. Just some pasta and cheese really.

I'm gonna share with you tonight's recipe but keep in mind that everything is about ratios. I don't know the measurements. I just did everything by sight. By feel. In other words, I used The Force.

Here's a list of ingredients that you're going to need:

- pasta
- cheese
- milk
- flour
- bacon
- salt
- pepper
- olive oil
- butter

Start off by boiling pasta in salted water until cooked al dente. I've got a package of orecchiette pasta lying around so that's what I used.

This dish is all about what's lying around the house. For the cheese I've got some Gruyere and Idiazabal in the fridge. What I'm looking for is something slightly hard but creamy. Think Gruyere. Even cheddar will do. Add some parmesan. Even Oaxaqueno will do. Shred the cheese and put it aside. Save a portion of the Gruyere to use as a topping later.

I prefer whole milk but all we have at the house is skim -and I hate skim milk. Luckily, I've got some heavy whipping cream too. I just mixed the two together to emulate whole milk and started heating it in a pan. Once heated, keep the milk at a low simmer to keep warm.

In a separate pan, I've cut up some bacon into little pieces and started to brown them. By now the pasta should be done, drain in a colander and coat with olive oil. Don't forget to preheat your oven to 400F.

From here things start to take off.

In a separate pan, melt the butter then slowly whisk in flour, creating a roux. Once the roux is mixed thoroughly, slowly whisk in the warm milk. After that has combined, allow the heat to thicken the mixture slightly then add the shredded cheeses and whisk together until the cheese has melted into the mixture. Add the bacon and season with salt and pepper.

In an oven proof bowl or casserole, pour the pasta and then the melted cheese mixture and combine thoroughly. Smoothen out and flatten the mix in the casserole and bake in the oven for ten minutes.

After ten minutes, the mixture should be bubbling nicely. Top the mix with the remaining Gruyere cheese (don't be shy with the cheese) and bake for an additional ten minutes - or until the cheese has browned and turned crispy. You can also use the broiler to achieve the desired texture.

When it comes out of the oven, the mac and cheese is going to be piping hot. Set it down for about ten minutes to cool. Believe me, even after ten minutes it's going to be hot. Use that time to finish and rest your steak.

Once cooled, it's time to chow.

As I said, I don't have measurements. You're going to have to rely on your own experience and instincts to guide you. The roux is key. It brings great texture to the dish and I think it's a must. Also, be sure to cook your pasta correctly. There's nothing satisfying about a crunchy pasta mac and cheese. Even if you don't have that much experience cooking, don't fear. This dish is really quite easy.

Oh, and what exactly is this "roux"? It's not just something that Emeril talks about on tv. Just take the butter (maybe half a stick), melt it and then slowly whisk in a quarter cup of all purpose flour. Once that has turned into a brown-ish slurry, it's time to add the milk. Add one cup of heated milk and whisk it in. From here, you'll have to use your judgement about the thickness but don't be afraid to add a little more milk if it seems too think. Then add the cheese - that's the best part.

From there, you're on your way.

Also, don't be afraid to add stuff to your mix. Lobster, shrimp, chicken, parsley, whatever. Explore, then eat.

Adobo Tests, Part Two: Pork

Part Two of our Adobo Tests was slightly simpler in some ways and a little more complex in others. More complex if you don't have a vacuum sealer. that is.

But it's the vacuum sealer that makes this approach simpler too.

First, take some pork butt (or pork shoulder picnic) and cut into one inch cubes. Now, a ten pound shoulder is going to give you a lot of meat, take the majority of the meat and vacuum pack in one pound portions to freeze for other uses later, like more adobo, sausage or carnitas. The pork shoulder typically will have ribbons of fat. I like these and prefer to keep them for extra flavor. For this test, I'll use about a pound and a half of cut pork.

In a stainless bowl, place the pork and an equal amount of soy sauce to marinate. I used 1/4 cup each of Kikkoman Red Soy Sauce and Quezon's Organic Hot Coconut Vinegar. The Quezon Coconut Vinegar is actually kinda hard to source - even my local Filipino market no longer carries it (a shame), but the flavor is so much better than regular. Though, in a pinch, the Datu Puti or Heinz brand vinegars will do.

Actually, I would go with the Datu Puti Sukaang Maasim - that's hot vinegar. If you can't find it, take white vinegar and infuse it with sliced white onions and small, hot chili peppers. It's quite yum and great for dipping chicharron. In Hawaii, it's also called "Chili Pepah Watah."

Toss a few bay leaves, crushed black pepper and crushed garlic and mix it all up. Once the meat has been fully coated, drop it all into a vacuum bag and vac seal. The vacuum will help the marinade penetrate the meat quickly.

After twenty minutes, the meat should be ready to go. Heat a cast iron skillet until it's smoking hot, add some sesame seed oil and saute the meat, making sure you get a nice carmelization on the meat.

Once cooked, set the meat aside and deglaze the skillet with sherry, stock or white/red wine (I used sherry). After deglazing, pour the pan sauce over the meat and serve.

The results were pretty good. The seasoning had penetrated the meat and we had some relatively traditional pork adobo in just a few minutes, without all the braising.

I've still got some left in the vac bag that I resealed and will have to try it again in a couple of days to see how things may have changed.

Adobo Tests, Part One: Chicken

Heating the brine base.

Unlike some of my friends, growing up Filipino in America meant eating a lot of Filipino food. And not always because I liked it or wanted it. Like any boy spending his childhood in the 70s, I just wanted to be "normal."

Take the time my family and I went down to Florida for a vacation. Into the station wagon my brother and I went for the thousand mile trek down the newly constructed Interstate 95. The Interstate was so new back then that there were segments that weren't completed yet.

As any young kid would dream of on a road trip, there was one place we wanted to eat: McDonald's.

That's when I was forever scarred by memories of my mom's "Adobo Sandwich." It would be our substitute for "two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese on a sesame seed bun." Imagine pieces of pork adobo between two slices of white bread. White bread that would inevitably turn soggy. Only thirty years later are those considered fond memories of youth.

For months I've been thinking about ways to capture those traditional flavors in modern interpretations of Filipino Cookery. Preparations that might be easier, less time consuming and quick to cook. Today, I had some time and decided to give it a go. First up: Chicken Adobo.

Adobo should be considered the National Dish of the Philippines. Everyone eats it. Everyone loves it. But it cannot be defined. Family feuds have been fought over it. The recipe can vary from one neighborhood to the next. One person likes it saucy, the other likes is fried. Some add chiles, others do not. Some even make it with vegetables.

For our tests, we're going to use the basic trinity of adobo: soy sauce, vinegar and garlic. Add in some black peppercorns and bay leaf and you've good to go. The typical recipe for adobo has you braise the meat in the soy/vinegar mix, but I want things to cook a bit faster for quick preparation and eating.


Brining the breast.

First off, debone a chicken breast (or two). Set the meat aside and reserve the bones for stock making later.

Next, make a 4% brine solution using sea salt as the brining base and 2% soy sauce. Add a bunch of whole black peppercorns, a few bay leaves and how ever many crushed garlic cloves you feel comfortable using. I'm not afraid of garlic.

The traditional approach to adobo also uses vinegar but I don't want to take the chance cooking the meat with enzymes, which could render the meat tough, so I leave it out for now.

Heat a portion of the water and the ingredients for the brine in a small pot to dissolve the salt and infuse the liquid. Mix with cold water to volume and chill in the refrigerator until cold (or substitute a portion of the water with ice to cool down the mix and create the solution).

Once chilled, place chicken in brine solution, cover and refrigerate for twelve hours.

After twelve hours, remove chicken from brine, pat dry with paper towels and remove any bits of brine seasoning. If you want crisp skin, place the chicken uncovered in the refrigerator, skin side up, for at least one hour to help dry out the skin.

Preheat oven to 350F.

Heat a cast iron skillet on the stove until it starts to smoke.

Season chicken with freshly ground black pepper.

Add a bit of canola oil to the skillet and allow to heat and shimmer.

Lay the chicken, skin side down in the skillet. Be sure to lay the chicken away from you to prevent splashing. The chicken should sizzle nicely.

Once the skin has browned, turn the chicken over and place in the oven for eight minutes.

After eight minutes, the chicken should be cooked all the way through while still remaining moist. Remove chicken from skillet and set aside.

Deglaze skillet with a 1/4 cup of vinegar and some sherry.

Monter a beurre to create a pan sauce and drizzle sauce over the chicken.

Serve.


The finished (and partially eaten) Chicken Adobo.

To get the balance of soy and vinegar, it's important to deglaze the pan with the vinegar. Most people use white vinegar but I prefer Quezon's Organic Hot Vinegar. It's infused with hot peppers and will give the dish a subtle kick.

For soy, I used Kikkoman Red. While I prefer Aloha Shoyu for table use, I like Kikkoman's strength when cooking. It really penetrates food well.

I think it's important to use locally-sourced, farm raised poultry for the dish. Important because we're trying to capture the flavor of the motherland - and in the Philippines, they're eating chickens from the farm, not from some industrial agriculture business like Perdue.

The presentation here is very different than traditional adobo. It's also a very different cooking method, but one that I think is faster while still capturing the essence of the flavor. I asked my aunt Josie to give it a try and she liked it but thought that it was still different while having the right flavor elements. I'll have to experiment a little more with ratios to find one that I like best.

Filling The Larder

Thursday's bounty from the Towson Farmer's Market: a field case of tomatoes, a box of white peaches and a sack of corn.

On Thursday I made a visit to the Towson Farmer's Market in search of winter provisions. Summer is over and winter is almost here, meaning if I don't stock up now, I'm gonna be S.O.L. (shit outta luck) later - and last winter was a long and bleak one without tomatoes. Sure, I can go to the grocery store or Costco any time of the year but the flavor just isn't the same.

Quite simply, it's been a long day of processing and I'm pooped. My muscles are aching. My eyes are sore. I think I could use a massage.


Five dozen ears of corn fit nicely in a 22qt Cambro.

First things first. I've got a sack of silver queen corn. It's the last sack of the season. After this, it's back to canned corn. Not that I can't stand canned corn but why not have it fresh? In a moment of lucidity, I decided to husk the corn outside, next to the rubbish bin straightaway after the market. The warm, sunny weather made it easy peasy and I didn't have to worry about sweeping up the stray corn hairs that kept falling to the ground. Toss them into a large Cambro and all is well.


Fresh corn for the winter.

Next step: cut the kernels off the cob. Just hold them vertical and slice downward. It's tricky controlling the kernels as they fall and some will inevitably fall to the floor. Crap, I hate those. The one thing I never understood about canned corn was how they got such perfect and uniform kernels. I can't do that for the life of me. By nature, some are full sized, some are cut in half. It's a cylinder for God's sake. Some of them have to be cut in half!

Toss the kernels into another Cambro and then vacuum pack into easy-to-use 2 cup and 4 cup servings. That's gonna make my life easier when I just want a little corn for myself and the larger bags I can use when I more people to feed. It's genius.


Roasted corn cobs.

Now, what to do with all those cobs? Just throw them away? That's crazy. Take the cobs, line them in a baking pan and roast them under the broiler. Once they've developed that nice brown color, put them in large stock pots, fill with water and simmer for one and a half hours to create a Roasted Corn Stock.


Making roasted corn stock.

The stock will turn a wonderful deep golden brown and the aroma should be exquisite. Just roasted corn goodness. Actually, I got this idea from Spike who was making exactly this stock when I flew in from Albuquerque on Monday night. The idea of a corn stock just seemed so natural to me that I wondered why more people didn't do it.


Ten liters of roasted corn stock. Time to reduce.

Once the stock is ready, strain in a china cap and return the stock to the pot and boil. Boil the stock and reduce the volume by at least half. This will create the Roasted Corn Demi-Glace that can be used for whatever your mind desires. Back in the winter of 2007, I was playing with the idea of roasted corn and coffee. I never could get the flavor I was looking for an abandoned the project. I'm thinking that with this demi, the dream might return and be fulfilled.


The finished Roasted Corn Demi-Glace.


Roasted Corn Demi ready to use.




One field case of tomatoes, peeled and seeded.

Processing the tomatoes is slightly less involved but time consuming nonetheless. First start by heating a pot of water to boiling. Score an "X" into the bottoms of each tomato with a sharp knife. Dip each tomato in the boiling water for fifteen seconds and then plunge the tomato into an ice bath to cool. The skins should slip off readily.

Once peeled, slice the tomatoes in half and remove the seeds and watery pulp in each of the chambers of the tomato. Hold the seeds and liquid in a container.


The tomatoes vac bagged and ready for the freezer.

The peeled and seeded tomatoes can then be vac bagged and frozen for storage. A field case of tomatoes yielded quite a lot of tomato pulp that it would be criminal to just toss it into the rubbish - especially when my aunt is a juice fanatic. Salt the pulp and strain in a china cap to separate the juice from the pulpy mass. Once the juice has been extracted, strain the juice twice through a fine mesh chinois.


Tomato Juice in containers ready to use.

Once you've strained it, the juice is now ready for consumption. Just add salt to taste, and maybe a little lemon and tabasco.






Next up were the peaches. I started off by scoring and dipping the peaches in hot water to skin, but they gave an odd reaction by quickly oxidizing and turning brown. I resorted to cutting off the skin and the brown pulp to get to the clean white fruit beneath. Then I pitted each peach and broke them up into chunks.

Not really knowing what else to do with them now, I tossed them all into a pot, added a bunch of cane sugar and started heating the mixture. I could reduce it down and have a boatload of peach jam but I only wanted to preserve the peaches so I could use them for other purposes. After heating the peaches for about an hour, I cooled them down, separated the fruit from the juice and vac bagged the fruit.


White peaches, sweetened and vac packed.

The idea now is to use the fruit as pie fillings for The Spro and then utilize the separated liquid as a syrup.

To finish the syrup, I strained it through a china cap and then three more times through a fine mesh chinois to remove the bits and pieces. The syrup finished out in a reddish pink color that must have been imparted by the skins. I'll use the syrup for maybe a mid-winter Italian soda at The Spro.


Peach syrup

Clementine

Waiting for my table at Clementine.

Sometimes I have to wonder if Clementine and I were just never meant to be. After hearing good things about the restaurant from friends like Spike, I tried to visit a couple of times this summer. The first time I went, I ended up there around 3pm and found them between services. Evidently, Clementine is one of those restaurants that doesn't really have kitchen service between dayparts from 3pm to 5pm. All they had that afternoon was cold gazpacho and a sandwich - not exactly enticing.

The next time I visited was on a Tuesday and found the restaurant closed. That was irritating.

For me, Hamilton is pretty far out of my way and now I've made two trips across town for nothing. But I've heard so many nice things about the restaurant that I wanted to check it out. I decided to go for dinner.


Their not-so-exciting bread.

Again, Hamilton is way out of the way and since it's all surface streets, it takes at least twenty minutes to get there from Towson. Hamilton is one of those up-and-coming neighborhoods that's been experiencing a renaissance and as such, the street parking is minimal and there's nary a spot in sight. I make a couple of passes up and down Harford Road, and down the side streets surrounding the restaurant and then give up in disgust.

As I'm driving away, I decide that I'm gonna give it another go and make a u-turn. Maybe this time I'll get lucky but if not, I'll just go down the road to Chameleon Cafe instead. Lady Luck must have been with me because there's now an open spot across the street from Clementine. I hit a U in the middle of the street and slide into my spot. Beautiful.

Inside, the restaurant is packed. There's a huge table of twenty nearing the end of their meal and the hostess tells me that it should be about a ten minute wait. I take a seat in one of their couches and settle in with my book: Herve This' Kitchen Mysteries". After a few minutes, the hostess pulls up a small stool and a glass of ice water for my wait. It's a nice touch that really hits the spot.

The book is interesting but it's pretty dry reading. Pretty soon, I'm in the mood for a nap. I decide to read the menu instead. There's some interesting items on tonight's menu and by the time the hostess returns to tell me she has a table ready, I've already made my selections.


Complimentary Duroc Bacon & Duck Liver Pate on bread with Date Jam.

I'll have a glass of the Black Cherry Soda to start, then an order of the Macaroni & Cheese and for my entree I'll have the pork chop.

Problem is, my waitress is much like a wet blanket. She's just droll. How about a hello? How about looking me in the eye? How about telling me more about the menu? How about a smile? It's tempting to think it's just me but as I observe her interact with all her tables, it's the same. How about a smile?

Maybe it's too much to ask but I think people should smile. Especially those in the service business. Sure, I can understand that you might be having a bad day, but so what? I don't care if you've had bad day - you want a tip. Work for it. Smile, that's all I ask.

And is it too much to ask? Certainly if I'm having a bad day and I don't leave a tip because of it, I'm labeled an "asshole." Then why is this kind of attitude okay and you still expect a tip? Smile. It's so easy. It's a shame too because my waitress is a far cry from the hostess who greeted me and welcomed me to the restaurant. Why couldn't I have her instead of this dour sourpuss?


The Fantastical Mac N Cheese

On the menu, it says: "Please allow 14 minutes for cooking time" for my Mac N Cheese to be ready. I'm okay with that. I can wait. Besides, I've got bread. Sadly, the bread is lame. It's a baguette, sliced thin and it tastes like cardboard. It's lifeless and is wholly unenjoyable. You know that bread that dances on your palate? This is not it. Even butter and salt don't help this bread. A poor way to start the meal. In fact, the bread is a as dour as my waitress. A shame.

I'm reading my book, enjoying time by myself and generally letting time pass on its' own. I'm a bit hungry but not in a rush. I've got water, a black cherry soda and some lame bread to satiate me when one of the runners comes up with a small plate filled with four pieces of bread with pate and topped with date jam. He tells me that this is compliments of the chef and he apologizes for the wait.

Compliments of the chef? Well, that's nice. I certainly enjoy receiving complimentary treats from the kitchen, but what is he apologizing about? The Mac N Cheese? Honestly, I barely noticed how much time has passed. In fact, I don't know how much time has passed because I've been enjoying my time there. Herve This' book, while dry, is quite interesting and, in my mind, things are progressing smoothly. Though I do appreciate the thought and consideration of the kitchen.

More time passes and my waitress comes up to ask if "they" told me what happened. Who would tell me what happened? I wonder to myself: You're my waitress, you're supposed to be taking care of me. Only YOU would tell me what's going on. Next she tells me that the kitchen "forgot" to put the order in the oven and that the Mac N Cheese will be on the house. That's nice but not necessary as I'm not in a rush and didn't even notice that there was an extended delay. Either way, I'm glad they took the time to notice and offer to make corrections.

The Mac N Cheese itself looks quite nice. There's a big mound of it on the plate. It's crisp on top and vibrantly orange from the cheddar cheese. I take a bite: hot and sort of tasty. It's in serious need of seasoning. It needs salt. A sprinkle of salt later and the dish starts to come alive. There's the sharpness of the cheese. There's the creaminess. It just needed a little salt to make it speak for itself.


Grilled Heirloom Duroc Center Cut Pork Chop with Bacon Scallion Vinaigrette & Chevre over Mashed Potatoes & A Mess O' Winnie's Greens.

Things are rolling now because the pork chop arrives a few minutes later and it looks like satisfying goodness. In fact, it tastes like satisfying goodness. Everything on the dish is on point. The pork is grilled and alive. The seasonings make it sing with delicious porcine goodness. The greens are sauteed kale with bacon and just right. And the mashed potatoes make a dazzling performance with it's creamy, buttery texture. Hey Mikey, he likes it.

But I can't finish it all. It's too much. I'd like to. But I'd be remiss if I did. The pork was delicious. The Mac N Cheese was decent, and the complimentary pate was pretty good as far as pate goes (I'm not typically a fan of liver). Mixed with the date jam made it good to eat.

The only real problem of the evening was my dour waitress who couldn't be bothered to smile at anyone all night. If she smiled a little, it would have improved the experience tremendously. It's unfortunate. But what's truly lame about the experience was the bill. Without regard for what she had said previously about the Mac N Cheese being complimentary, there it was on the bill.


Clementine's Clandestine Check

If you look closely at the image, you'll notice on the handwritten check that there's the pork chop for twenty bucks and then at the top there's the mac n cheese (written as "chs") for $4.50. But on the register receipt, there's one charge for $24.50. As though the whole mac n cheese thing never happened. The worst case scenario is that she lumped the two charges together in a ploy that I wouldn't notice that she had charged me for the mac n cheese.

Like I said, I didn't notice a problem with the time because I was enjoying myself but when you state that you're going to comp something, I expect you to keep to your word and this waitress was not only dour, didn't smile and lied, she also tried to cover it up by lumping the charges together as though I were too dumb to notice.

Since I'm an operator and can sympathize with the needs of a business to make money, I decided not to pursue an argument about the charge. Afterall, I didn't have a problem with the timing and was willing to pay. My problem was with the dour waitress and her attempted deception. So, rather than cut the restaurant out of needed revenue, I made sure to chop the tip to a razor fifteen percent (instead of the usual 18 to 20 percent).

Not that this will correct anything. Unlike many people's fallacious belief, tipping does not correct bad service. It only reinforces it. And when you tip poorly, it's not a wake up call to the server that he/she needs to improve, it's just a demonstration that you're a "cheap asshole" for not tipping properly.

Just like so many things in Modern Day America, our legions of servers have the Attitude of Entitlement. And a small restaurant like Clementine seemed to be dominated by them.



Clementine
5402 Harford Road
Baltimore, MD 21214
410-444-1497
www.bmoreclementine.com

The F'n New Guy

It's true.

I've been traveling a lot this year. Which means that I haven't been behind the bar at The Spro as much as years past. Perhaps that's just the nature of things, but I always try to work at least one or two bar shifts per week, and I train every barista that works for me (save one).

So it was particularly amusing (and admittedly slightly irritating) when a customer came up to the counter this evening and asked my name and if I was the new guy here. Evidently, he comes in typically during the morning and knows the morning crew but doesn't know me.

I just couldn't bare to tell him the truth and perhaps embarrass him.

Instead, I played along as "The New Guy" and just let things flow. He offered some words of encouragement and to "keep up the good work" before heading off into the sunset. It was a classic moment. Never mind that my photo in the clipping from the latest issue of Baltimore Magazine is posted in front of the espresso machine.

Now, if I could only figure out how to get fired...

Freda's Kitchen

Corned Beef on Rye, Matzoh Ball Soup, Utz Crab Chips & Ginger Ale.

I happened to be wandering around Mount Washington Village a couple of weeks ago when I hear someone calling my name. I look but don't immediately recognize the person. He obviously knows me and not just because of my celebrity. The way he's calling out to me tells me that I actually know him as well.

Once focus comes into vision, I realize that it's my old cigar buddy Marty. I haven't seen him in a couple of years since our informal cigar club at Max's disbanded. Turns out he built and opened the newest deli in Baltimore here in the Village. Marty takes me on a tour and gives me a sampling of their house-made corned beef. It's some of the best corned beef I've had anywhere.

His secret? Marty has lured one of the top beef guys from Edmart Deli in Pikesville to do the meats for him. After my tour, I make a promise to come back and try the food. Today, I made good on that promise.

Wednesday is Dairy Day. Every Wednesday, I head down into the city to pick up the weeks' supply of dairy for The Spro. While not as convenient as delivery, there's flexibility in ordering plus it gives me a chance to go into the city, take care of any business down there and have lunch with Hawaii friend Dai. Each week we try to taste something new.

I grew up in Pikesville, which means I've been exposed to Jewish delis all my life. In fact, you could spot our house during Christmastime because we were the only house for miles with Christmas lights. For me, an outing to a deli always means corned beef and/or pastrami. I like mine on toasted bread with french fries and a side of matzoh ball soup. And that's just the way I ordered it at Freda's, except without the fries since they don't do that there.


Pastrami on White.

Like my previous taste, the corned beef was moist, tender and succulent. I asked Marty to prepare the sandwich the way he likes it: on rye, untoasted with some deli mustard. Just plain. Just simple. Let the flavors speak for themselves. And speak they certainly did. The only problem with the sandwich was that I wish it were thicker. Give me the Broadway Danny Rose with this corned beef and I could be a happy man. I might even wear a ירמולקא (that's Yiddish for "yarmulke").

Along with my sandwich, I also ordered the matzoh ball soup. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of eating matzoh slathered with peanut butter and jelly. Yum.

The soup however is just okay. A bit bland. It needs seasoning. It needs salt. Once I added some salt and stirred it in, the flavor started to come alive. It's served in a paper container, which is good for sipping but the matzoh ball had a problem. It wasn't just cold in the center, the core was still frozen, which explains why it was so hard to cut through with my plastic spoon. Which could also be the reason why the soup was warm but not piping hot.


A Chocolate Top Cookie

Dai ordered the pastrami sandwich and it looked pretty good. I didn't try it, but I did try their chocolate topped cookie. It's kind of Baltimore's imitation Berger Cookie - even though the Berger Cookies are also from Baltimore. The cookie was good, as far as chocolate topped cookies go.

Overall, the food was good but the service was really good. Our cashier was friendly, energetic and quite attractive - not that that has anything to do with it. My usual "go to" deli has always been Miller's on Smith Avenue. Now I might have to visit Mt. Washington Village more.


Freda's Kitchen
1604 Kelly Avenue
Baltimore, MD 21209
410-367-7840

It's Chile In Maryland

The 40lb. bag of roasted chiles.

Maybe it was a moment of haste. Heated haste, but I've done the impossible: brought home forty pounds of New Mexico's finest Hatch chiles for my personal consumption. The problem is: now I've got to process them.

And processing chiles is no small task. In fact, it's a real pain in the ass. As I break open the bags, the sweet aroma of roasted peppers fills my kitchen. Good thing I've got the space and the tools to process it all. It's slow going at first but after about ten minutes, I work myself into a rhythm and flow.


Ready to process.

I'm skinning the peppers, then cutting off the stem, then squeezing the seeds out. Surprisingly enough, the seeds squeeze out of the pods quite easily. Just two fingers in a downward motion and viola! It's done. From there, I just separate the chiles by color and then lay them out on parchment paper to individually freeze.

It's not tough work, just a bit monotonous. Luckily, I've got the television to occupy my mind but it's the presidential debate between Obama and McCain and it's just a bit tiring. As I'm working the peppers, all I hear about is how either of the two is going to "Save The Economy" but no one's offering exactly how that's going to happen. Maybe it's magic. To my mind, things in America are going to get much, much worse. People will lose their homes. People will lose their jobs. It's going to get really, really bad before it gets any better, but none of these guys are saying that.


Processed and separated. Looks pretty small, doesn't it?

According to them, it's gonna be Love & Rockets if they get elected. Hello. Tell me that things are bad and they're gonna be worse. Paint me a horrible picture and then show me why you're the guy to be at the helm. Don't tell me stories about pulling us out of recession prematurely, or that you're going to tax only 5% of the population, or that you're going to bail out all these people who should never have overextended themselves in the first place. Without pain, how will our nation grow? How will out people learn that this excessive living is bad for us? At least those who survived the Depression understood the value of money. For us, it's just numbers on paper that don't really mean anything.

But I digress.




Hatch Green Chiles ready to freeze.

Turns out that the individually frozen chiles were less than successful. They're so watery that they freeze to the paper and to the other layers. You can't do to these chiles what you can do to blueberries. What a bummer. Instead, I thaw them slightly to release and then vac bag them in what I presume will be individual serving sizes for later.

Of course, I've never worked with Green Chiles before so I don't know what to expect, but I look forward to a year of spiciness.




Oh, and here's some more of the stuff from El Modelo:


The remaining El Modelo tamales, vac packed and ready to freeze.


Two pounds of corn masa from El Modelo.

New Mexico: El Modelo

The front counter at El Modelo.

Once again, I've turned to the pages of Alibi for recommendations on food. This time it's tamales and Alibi says to check out El Modelo.

El Modelo is located in an industrial section of town. There's nothing much around it except for some picnic benches and railroad tracks. It's way off the beaten path and you have to know how to get here - there's no "stumbling across" El Modelo.

Of all the places I've been to on this trip, El Modelo is the most Mexican. Meaning that everyone here speaks Spanish and mostly Spanish, and my Spanish is poor to illiterate. However, the menus are legible and as long as I keep it to "seis tamales" I should be okay. Luckily, the counter girl recognizes that I'm basically just a gringo and speaks English to me.

I order the six tamales and then notice that they're also selling fresh corn masa. This is the real deal, not the Maseca we're used to in Baltimore. This is real, ground masa. And they're selling it. Of course, I must have it. Never mind that I really don't know how to work with masa, I must take some home with me.

When it comes to masa, they've got "prepared" and "unprepared." What's the difference? I don't know. And when I asked the girl, she brought out one of the cucineras but she doesn't speak English and my Spanish is terrible. From what I gather, I'm supposed to do something with the masa, but I'm not sure what, and all they have left this afternoon is unprepared masa.

Rather than stand around there trying to decipher the Masa Code, I decide I'll ask El Presidente at Woodberry Kitchen when I get home. He'll know what to do. Besides, I'm going to miss my flight if I dilly-dally around here longer. I grab by six tamales and two pounds of unprepared masa, bid my new friends goodbye (the girl was cute) and take off for the airport.


Eating the tamal during my stopover in Denver.

Like always, I never have time to spare. From El Modelo, it's a mad rush to find a gas station then off to the car rental return and to the terminal. Oddly, Albuquerque's airport has one shuttle bus stop - they don't drop you at individual airlines like most places. And wouldn't you know it - the shuttle stop is as far away from United's check in counter as you can get at ABQ.

With the tamales in my hand and the masa in the duffle with the chiles, I'm off for home once again. In Denver, I'm feeling a bit hungry and decide to eat one of the tamales. It's succulent and delicious. It's chock full of shredded pork. The corn flavor is light and amazing. I realize that I'm a moron. I should have bought two dozen. Idiot.

To be honest, I'm a bastard. A real dick. I choose a seat near to one of the kitchen workers at one of the food joints in United's Denver terminal. He's hispanic and he's glancing longingly at my tamal while he eats some generic-looking salad and orange juice. I can't help but to feel blessed. What a jerk. I can't help it.


El Modelo
1715 2nd Street SW
Albuquerque, NM 87102
505-242-1843
www.elmodelorestaurant.com

New Mexico: Bob's Burger

Ranchero Burger, Fries, Frito Pie and a Dr. Pepper.

Voted as the Best Frito Pie by Alibi readers, I knew that I had to make a visit to Bob's. And when I saw that they had a location close to the hotel, I knew it was meant to be.

The notion of Frito Pie just sounds magical to me. Since I was a child, I've always loved the greasy corniness of Fritos. Few snack foods are as satisfying as a bag of Frito's and a cold Coke, and the idea of smothering those Frito's with chili and cheese just makes it that much more appealing to a hedonist like me.

Bob's is an Albuquerque chain of fast food restaurants. It's plain, clean and utilitarian. Efficient. It's not even as nicely decorated as a McDonald's but as long as the food is good, what do I care? I'm not going to sit here for four hours eating a twenty course tasting menu, I'm here for Frito Pie - the ultimate in New Mexican working class fare.

But it's lunchtime and I'm also hungry and their Ranchero Burger sounds pretty good. All beef patty, cheese and green chiles with french fries and a large Dr. Pepper. That should fill the ticket. Just sidle up to the counter, place your order, pay and they'll call out your number when it's ready. It's the early part of lunchtime so the restaurant is fairly empty save for a few telephone repairmen and some others who are taking advantage of the lull before the rush.

Finally, my order is ready. It comes on a standard, red tray. One thing that seems popular here in Albuquerque is the use of paper to wrap burgers. It's a nice touch that reminds one of a simpler era rather than the large boxes burgers seem to come in on the East Coast. I feel decidedly American. Decidedly nineteen fifties - without all the ethnic segregation tendencies.

Let me tell you: the burger is absolutely stellar. It's as near perfection in a fast food burger as I've had anywhere. The patty is thin, the buns are thin, the patty is juicy, there's a slice of American cheese and a layer of green chiles. Quite simply, it's amazing.


Inside the Frito Pie.

Most people think that a good burger must be a "big" burger. Go to most fancy burger joints or restaurants and the patties are these thick monstrosities of beef. But a big patty a good burger doesn't make. Same goes for the bun. Many places have these huge buns on top of huge patties because we're obsessed with the More Is More concept of America. In the world of burgers, more is definitely not more, and Bob's seems to have captured that concept and wrapped it in paper topped with green chiles.

The ratio of beef to bread is nearly perfect. It's equal and the flavors are complimentary. The size of both allow one to easily take a bite of burger without having to overextend the jaw and look like some sort of giant ape eating Manhattan. But, more importantly, the size of the bun and patty means that eat bite will be a balance of flavors. Suddenly, you're not overwhelmed by beef or bread, but rather you can actually taste the creaminess of the American cheese and the searing bite of the green chiles. It's nothing short of sublime.

The patty is juicy, the bun is soft, the cheese is creamy and the chiles bring a fire that smolders in your mouth. That fire brings a slight pain, but the flavor is so compelling that you don't want to stop eating. The flavors bring pleasure to your mouth while the endorphins lull you into a state of culinary eroticism. This burger is true food porn at it's best and most obscene.

The french fries, to quote Michelle, are just "meh." Basic, frozen, industrial shoestring potatoes a la McDonald's but not as good. They're perfunctory and that's about it.

But what about the Frito Pie? Afterall, isn't that why I came to Bob's?

The Frito Pie. You know, I must be harboring some sort of prejudice about the Frito Pie because after having it no less than three times during this trip, I'm not finding it as appealing as I would have expected. Bob's Frito Pie was as good as the others I've tried. It's simple: take some Frito's, put them in a paper tray and smother with chili, cheese, lettuce and tomato. It's good. It's decent. But I think my problem with it all is that it's not what I was expecting.


Here's how I'm able to sample so much in one day: I don't finish it all.

I was expecting something more industrial. Something really bad for you. Something that would be a little more gross. And how much more gross can you get by pumping 7-Eleven hot dog chili and nacho cheese over a bag of Frito's? Come on, that's disgusting. But I can imagine it being so good.

So, instead of receiving a monument to obesity and poor health, I'm presented with something that seems relatively gourmet. Instead of the gruel that I expect out of a proper 7-Eleven chili, one can discern the beef from the sauce in the chili served here. Heck, you can see and taste the beans. That ain't no 7-Eleven chili. The cheese is actually shredded cheddar instead of some noxious yellow-orange liquid being pumped out of a can labeled "Nacho Cheese." And then there's the shredded lettuce and chopped tomato. This can't be the nightmare called "Frito Pie" that I dreamed about. This seems too gourmet. As though Thomas Keller waved his hand over the 7-Eleven version and gave us something more palatable.

Bob's Frito Pie is good. Darned good. Denizens of Albuquerque say it's The Best. It's just not what I was expecting. But really, Frito's layered with chili and cheese? No matter how much you dress it down or gourmet it up, it's just a winning combination.

I think I need a Coke...



Bob's Burger
5230 4th Street NW
Albuquerque, NM 87107
505-345-8727

New Mexico: Roasting Chiles

Loading my sack into the roaster.

I didn't plan it. In fact, I didn't even know about it until I saw these iron roasters set up in parking lots across the state. Here in New Mexico it's green chile season and it's in full swing. Everywhere you turn in this state are chiles. Red chiles, green chiles, chile wreaths, chiles hanging from the ceiling, it's chile, chile, chile. It's so chile here you might need a jacket. Ha ha.



Hatch Green Chiles Roasting.

For less than twenty bucks, you can buy a forty pound sack of freshly picked Hatch Green Chiles and have them roasted for you while you wait. Wow. Who would have thought? Back at home, roasted poblano peppers is a real pain in the butt. You're there, over an open fire (or searing oven) charring your peppers so you can skin them. It's time and labor intensive.



Unloading and bagging.

But here in New Mexico, they do all that for you. And they've got the contraption to do it. Simply take your bag of chiles, load it into the expanded steel drum and fire up the burners. The drum rotates and roasts the chiles. Seven minutes later, it's done and you're on your way to chile heaven.



My green chile booty.

For someone like myself, there are a few logistical considerations to consider. First and foremost, I don't live here. Second, I have to fly home. Third, how much can I really take home with me? All serious things to consider. Happily, my status with United means that I don't pay for checked baggage and the normal weight limits do not apply. That means I can pretty much bring anything home with me, regardless of how much and how heavy. Because of this, I always fly with an extra duffle bag stuffed into my luggage - just in case.



Chiles cool in the back of the Xterra.

Fifteen bucks lighter and forty pounds heavier, my chiles have been double bagged in plastic and the placed back in their burlap sack for support. Once they've cooled down sufficiently, I'll seal up the bags and toss it into my duffle for the flight home. It's a simple plan and one that fills the Xterra with the sweet aroma of roasted chiles for the rest of the day.