Hungry In Hogtown

Just right: Memphis and the World Barbecue Championships, Part II

During our stay in Memphis, I fell into a conversation with a charming, 84-year-old porter at our hotel.  When I told Zac we lived in Toronto, he broke into a big smile and told me he'd spent seven years up north working for the Canadian Pacific Railroad about fifty years ago.

"I've been everywhere: Toronto, Sault Ste. Marie, Moosejaw, Calgary, Whistler."  Every time he named a city, he checked it off by raising a finger.  "I remember one time I met this man at Union Station in Toronto," he continued, "and when I asked him how he was doing, he said, 'I'm just right.'"  Then his face lit up in a smile.  "I liked that so much, that whenever anyone asks me how I'm doing, I always say the same thing, 'I'm just right.'"

I like it too.  A lot, actually.

Our trip was all about "just right."  The "meat blindness" I described in the first post about our trip indicates "too much," I know, but a barbecue excursion implies excess.  Being "just right" under such circumstances demands a certain boldness of appetite -- the southern US is, after all, a corner of the world where macaroni and cheese is listed as a vegetable on most menus.  Memphis did not become the fourth fattest city in the United States by equating "just right" with moderation, that's for sure.

It was in that spirit that we descended on the World Barbecue Championship.

SHF #19: Enter the twi-rhizome with El Bulli's pineapple and ginger kebab

Those of you who read Hungry In Hogtown regularly may have noticed that I have a particular affinity for wordplay.  Every time we write a post, I rack my brain for a title more inspired than, say, SHF #15: El Bulli's pineapple and ginger kebabs.  I gauge the quality of the pun by Rachel's reaction to it.  If she cackles with delight, it's a winner.  If she rolls her eyes, smiles, and says something like, "You're such a child," then the pun is also up to snuff.

Sometimes the pun demands a degree of knowledge about food, culture, or history.  This post's title, for example, requires a familiarity with The Twilight Zone, and the knowledge that ginger, the theme for this month's Sugar High Friday, hosted by Ruth from Once Upon a Feast, is not really a root, but a rhizome.  Every so often, the title requires nothing more than a willingness to think like a teenage boy.  If you don't believe me, get a load of our post on Julia Child's coq au vin, "Hot for coq."

What does all this have to do with El Bulli's pineapple and ginger kebabs?  Not much, but writing an in-depth post about a snack that both of us liked but found uninspiring is a bit difficult. The kebabs are easy, simply thread cubes of raw pineapple and sliced crystallized ginger onto a skewer, dip it into a meringue, then allow the meringue to air dry for a few hours.  The crystallized ginger was new to us and it was a revelation, especially beloved by Rachel who adores anything gingery (this might be a hereditary trait, as her mother so enjoys ginger she's been known to eat the pickled variety by the handful).  For more proof of Rachel's love of ginger (and my love of wordplay), check out our post on homemade ginger ale, "Schwepped Away."

We expected this dish to be something like a punchier version of lemon meringue, but it failed to deliver.  Perhaps the pineapple, a golden variety that is the default type available in most of our local grocery stores, was too sweet to properly offset the meringue. 

Or maybe I'm not an ex-spear-ienced enough kebab maker.

Technorati tags: SHF #19 + SHF + sugar high friday + ginger

Just right: Memphis and the World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest, Part I

Looking back at the photos I took during our road trip to Memphis for the World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest, I can't help but notice how many of them are out of focus.  After discussing it with Rachel, I've come to believe that the only logical reason for these blurry images is the condition known as meat blindness.  Meat blindness, for the unitiated, is the temporary impairment of vision associated with the over-consumption of barbecue and other traditional foods of the southern United States.

Mercifully, those afflicted don't suffer -- meat blindness is a condition usually accompanied by a host of other, more enjoyable side effects like rib euphoria, pulled pork tingle, and sweet tea dementia.

Now that my symptoms have eased, I feel a duty to share what we've learned.

It began with lunch.

Ramp-age! Our introduction to wild leeks

You can tell someone takes eating seriously when they measure the seasons in food.  You know the type (because you probably are the type).  To the food obsessed, spring isn't about snow melting or the Earth reaching a particular point in its orbit, nor should it be.  Nope, to the perpetually food aware the advent of spring is really about the arrival of baskets of wonderful produce in local markets.

Take me, for instance.  Come late April and early May, my eyes are peeled for asparagus.  Once I see local asparagus at the St. Lawrence Market, I know without doubt that it's spring.  Ladies and gentlemen, spring has arrived.

The blog that laid El Bulli's golden egg

I'm a little ambivalent about eating gold.  Let's face it, gold, like curly parsley, is just a garnish.  But unlike curly parsley, which costs next to nothing, gold sells for about USD$700 per ounce.  Gram for gram, that makes gold more expensive than truffles, and I know I'd much rather eat a truffle.

My apprehension runs even deeper than that, actually.  Think about it.  Garnishing food with gold isn't just obscenely conspicous consumption, it is the literal consumption of wealth, the pinnacle of waste.  I think David Cross, a comedian you might recognize as Dr. Tobias Fünke from Arrested Development, hits the nail on the head in his stand-up album, It's Not Funny, when he describes the eating of "tasteless, odourless" gold as "the ultimate f*%# you to poor people."  I kind of agree.

Still, I made the golden eggs from El Bulli: 1998-2002.

Weekend Cookbook Challenge #5: Cochinita pibil, guacamole and pickled red onions

I've just experienced my first El Bulli recipe failure.  It wasn't pretty either.  I was trying to make El Bulli's Mexican fried tacos.  The observant among you will notice this post is about cochinita pibil.

There are a handful of recipes in the El Bulli: 1998-2002 that call for fried corn.  Fried corn?  I guess there are just some things you have to figure out for yourself in this world, because nowhere in the book or accompanying CD can I find a preparation for it, and I've certainly never heard of it used anywhere else.  That should have stopped me, but it didn't.

So I set about the other day -- two tins of sweet corn and some olive oil in hand -- to making an improvised version of fried corn.  I fried and fried, and occasionally slapped Rachel's hand as she tried to eat kernels of hot, freshly fried corn.  It is tasty, especially with a dash of salt.

Corn fried, I was ready to make the taco shells, which are a mix of the corn and a croquant made of fondant, glucose, and isomalt.  The ground fried corn should have the consistency of a powder, but when I tried grinding my fried corn I ended up with a paste -- a sort of Mexican-Italian fusion fried corn pesto.  It's not pretty, trust me.

It helps to have a backup, though ours doesn't come from a cookbook, unfortunately.  We had some leftover banana leaves from our Kalua pig adventure, and we were pondering ways to use them when our friend Ryan asked me if I'd ever heard of puerco pibil.  I hadn't, but after a quick search I decided it was the answer to our banana leaf surplus, and our dish for the Mexican edition of the Weekend Cookbook Challenge.

I think I pulled a muscle: Kalua pig and some pulled pork sandwiches to remember

Bet you didn't know I'm a little obsessed with pork shoulder, did you?  Yes, I love the occasional steak, pork tenderloin, or lamb chop, but dollar for dollar I can't think of a better piece of meat.  I must be alone in this opinion, because many butchers do not carry this cut.  When asked, the butchers I've spoken to say that people simply don't want to buy it.  "People want steak and chicken breasts," they add.  Those people should be beaten senseless with a veal shank.

On second thought, that too would be a horrific waste of yet another delicious cut of meat people don't buy enough.

Though you may not know it, many of you are familiar with pork shoulder (aka Boston butt) via pulled pork, a dish so good I think it may be the reason God gave pigs shoulders.  From my perspective, the problem with traditionally barbequed pulled pork is that it requires long, slow cooking over low heat with lots of smoke.  When you live in an apartment like we do, twenty hours of smoking is an impossibility.

But I still want my pulled pork.

Reflections on rifaclis: El Bulli's mango rifaclis

Would someone, anyone, please tell me what a rifacli is?

I've searched high and low, and I'm still in the dark.  Sometimes I think it might be a cookie, other times I think it might be a pastry company.  I just don't know.

Right now, I feel like a person who knows the punch line to a joke, but doesn't know the joke itself.  Why?  Well, I'm sure these mango rifaclis are a clever twist on a typical Catalan sweet.  I am haunted, in fact, by visions of Catalan diners at El Bulli amusing themselves at my ignorance.  "What an incredible interpretation of one of our native pastries," they'll utter to each other, barely containing their joy and amusement at the sheer creativity of the bite they hold in their hands.  "The best part is that the joke is entirely ours.  Sure, some Canadian half-wit might adore the taste and texture, but he'll never truly understand it, will he?  Ha ha ha!"

Whatever they are, mango rifaclis are nothing if not tasty.  They are made by shaving half-millimetre thick slices off a barely ripe mango.  These slices are then dehydrated in a warm oven, and subsequently rehydrated in a forty percent sugar syrup before being returned briefly to a hot oven.  While still warm, the mango is then salted and shaped into the spirals you see above.  The result has a hint of the saltiness and all of the crunch of a potato chip, but the flavour of mango is clear and unmistakable.

And that, I think, is what really counts.  Sure, I might not have the foggiest clue what exactly a rifacli is, but I've learned a new way to enjoy one of my favourite fruits.  So who's laughing now?

Will warka for food: El Bulli's parmesan cornets

"That's freakin' awesome," my mother-in-law exclaimed after popping a parmesan cornet into her mouth.  "I never thought lemon and parmesan went well together," she added, "but that's really good."

She's right.

These tiny cornets burst with flavour and texture.  Each one is filled with a grind of black pepper and a lemon jam.  The jam is made by simmering a brunoised lemon with sugar equaling sixty percent of its weight for five minutes.  As italophiles, we were already well aware of the brilliance of parmigiano, rightly (and often) described by Mario Batali as "the undisputed king of cheeses."  The more I think about it, though, the more I recognize that this cornet is not about any one of the ingredients, it's about the harmony of the five basic flavours: salty and umami from the parmesan, sour and sweet from the lemon jam, and hot from the pepper.

Going postal: El Bulli's chocolate with wasabi

There's something special about getting a package in the mail, don't you think?  In our age of instant communication and gratification, we have forgotten what a thrill it can be to wait, to anticipate.  That's why I love receiving packages in the mail, especially when the package contains a cookbook, kitchenware, or food.

The pattern never varies: I'm always at work when Canada Post attempts delivery, so every once in a while I come home to a delivery notification card.  If I'm really lucky, it tells me I can pick up the package after 5:00 PM that day.  If I'm unlucky, I'm stuck waiting until the next afternoon.  The wait is unbearable.

Package in hand, I often play a little game with myself: how long can I wait to open it?  I always fight the urge to open it in the middle of the post office.  With a little discipline, I usually make it back to my office desk.  I don't know that I've ever left a package sealed until I returned home.