Ode to a Pitt

For you, the women really flip

Your flesh so green atop a chip

Come star in my guac, you hottie

Angelina won’t know if we’re naughty

Seductive Leek and Mushroom Tart

You might as well serve this alluring tart in the boudoir.

My savory seductress here elicited actual moans from my dinner guests. I kid you not. They were moaning. Who knew sautéed leeks and shitakes, rich gruyere, fresh marjoram and a kiss of marsala, all nestled in a buttery crust would make for such exciting foreplay. So what if there was no cuddling afterwards. I’ll take what I can get.

Whether you're a virgin or you like it rough, this crust is easily doable. It's meant to be rustic, so you can't really screw it up. If you do misbehave, you can quickly make amends with a little massaging. For years I used the dreaded ‘C’ word (Crisco), but then I wised up to the evils of hydrogenated oil and switched to butter. I also cut the flour and fat together by hand with two knives but recently switched to the food processor. It's surprisingly easy this way. Last time I used another of Martha Stewart's Pâte Brisée crust recipes that called for some cornmeal, so I have included that option.

I looked at a lot of different recipes before striking out on my own with the filling, and let me tell you, this tart is no prude. She's open to anything. I've used both cremini and shitake shrooms, but this time I was monogamous with shitakes. I also mixed cheeses like swiss and asiago which have a nice bite, but for this one, I used all gruyere. Feel free to pick thyme over marjoram, a combination of both, or the herbs of your choice. Don't be afraid to get down-and-root-vegetable dirty. Your orgy dinner party will be better than adult cable.

Recipe

Both the Pâte Brisée recipe and the Cornmeal Pâte Brisée recipe are from Martha Stewart. While my photos show the all-flour one, I think I prefer the cornmeal version. Try them both and decide for yourself.

Pâte Brisée

Pâte brisee is the French version of classic pie or tart pastry. Pressing the dough into a disc rather than shaping it into a ball allows it to chill faster. This will also make the dough easier to roll out, and if you freeze it, it will thaw more quickly.

Makes 1 double-crust or 2 single-crust 9- to 10-inch pies

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour (for Cornmeal Pâte Brisée, replace ½ cup flour with ½ cup cornmeal)

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon sugar

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled and cut into small pieces

1/4 to 1/2 cup ice water

In the bowl of a food processor, combine flour, salt, and sugar. Add butter, and process until the mixture resembles coarse meal, 8 to 10 seconds.

With machine running, add ice water in a slow, steady stream through feed tube. Pulse until dough holds together without being wet or sticky; be careful not to process more than 30 seconds. To test, squeeze a small amount together: If it is crumbly, add more ice water, 1 tablespoon at a time.

Divide dough into two equal balls. Flatten each ball into a disc and wrap in plastic. Transfer to the refrigerator and chill at least 1 hour. Dough may be stored, frozen, up to 1 month.

Filling

1 TBSP butter

1 TBSP olive oil

2 leeks

½ an onion

8 - 10 good-size shitake or crimini mushrooms (or a combination of both)

¾ cup gruyere cheese

Handful of fresh marjoram or thyme (or a combination of both; can use dried if you don’t have fresh, but use less than if using fresh)

Salt, to taste

Pepper, to taste

2 - 3 TBSP marsala wine (or more if you need it)

Preheat oven to 425º.

Sauté leeks and onions in butter and olive oil until slightly golden. Add shrooms, herbs, salt and pepper (if you can’t fit the shrooms in the pan, sauté in a separate batch, and be sure to add the wine). When leeks, onions and shrooms are soft and caramelized, deglaze pan with marsala wine.

Roll out the dough on a piece of parchment paper. Place parchment paper and dough on a baking sheet. Put all of the cheese on the dough except a small handful. Add the rest of ingredients. Fold over dough in rustic tart fashion, and then put the remaining cheese on top. You can add an egg wash for color if you like.

Bake at 425º for 10 minutes, then reduce oven to 350º for 20-30 min or until crust is golden and filling is bubbly. Let cool at least 10 minutes.

Makes 4 main course servings.

Fork is the new F**k

F-bombs fly from my mouth like nukes from Iran. There seems to be a continuous barrage of them lately. "Do you hear yourself?" says my delicate-flower side to my truck-drivin’ side. “Aren’t you kind of chronologically advanced to be using the F-word all the time? Shouldn’t someone with your vocabulary and savoir faire show a little more, uh, class?” But before my inner trucker can back up, a huge idea hits me head on. I'll start using the word “fork” instead.

“That’s forkin’ brilliant!” I exclaim to myself. Not only will I clean up my mouth, I'll brand myself! What better way to tell the world you’re a foodie (and to please read my blog) than to use the word “fork” 300 times a day! All it will require is a little cerebral retraining. Granted, my retention has nosedived faster than a 98-year-old off his Aricept, but I should be able to master one new cognitive function, right? Won’t it merely entail a Find and Replace?

I tried to kick the habit several years ago after the flower successfully convinced the trucker it was time for an image overhaul. But when I accidentally let one slip in my workplace, I heard a 20-something say, “Adair says f**k? Cool!” That’s when the trucker plowed full-speed-ahead and never looked back. Hey, it was a career move.

But now I'm in flower mode again, and it's time to eschew the crass for some class. I considered not posting this, in the likelihood it will diminish my brand. But then I thought, “Fork it!”

Here's to Life

I’ve been in a pensive mood for the past few weeks since my mother died. So my friend Jim gave me a copy of Barbra Streisand’s latest disc, Love is the Answer to cheer me up. Her voice really is like but-tah, and I’ve been relishing it like a piece of the most decadent chocolate cake. There’s an intimacy about her recording, like she’s whispering something personal to you and you alone. Not only can you hear her every breath, you can hear what she had for lunch.

I detected a piece of brisket when her voice gradually got beefier during a bridge. Granted, a lean cut. Babs isn’t really a saturated fat kinda gal. Then there was the egg salad with dill when her voice got a little playful. It was the dill that really made that song. I heard smoked whitefish on bagel when the strings swelled, reaching a gorgeous, smoky crescendo. You can take the girl out of Brooklyn, but you can’t take the whitefish out of the girl. And when she showed amazing vocal restraint, I heard one perfect bite of creamy New York cheesecake. You knew she could have gone whole hog, but unlike me, Babs is not a binger.

Hell, I can hear a better meal in her voice than we had for my mom’s funeral. Six days of turkey, roast beef and tuna on flaccid bread from a place called Jason’s Deli. My sister’s gracious coterie of catering friends apparently got their signals crossed and ordered three of the same ginormous sandwich platters—enough to feed a Dallas shtetl. My mom taught us to never waste food, so the onus was on us. Six straight days of leftover cold cuts. So much for comfort food.

Yet like the most satisfying comfort food, a powerful song not only has the ability to soothe and coddle you, it can even be life-affirming, as the opener on Barbra’s disc proves:

Here’s To Life

I had my share

I drank my fill

And even though I’m satisfied

I’m hungry still

To see what’s down another road

Beyond the hill

And do it all again

So here’s to life

And all the joy it brings

Yes here’s to life

And dreamers and their dreams

May all your storms be weathered

And all that’s good get better

Here’s to life

Here’s to love

Here’s to you

And here’s to mom, Barbra and but-tah. L’chaim.

Travel Bite: Boulangerie, Rue Cler, Paris

Rue Cler is a quaint pedestrian street in Paris' upscale 7th Arrondissemont close to where I was staying near the Ecole Militaire and Eiffel Tower. With its boulangerie, fromagerie, charcuterie, poissonnerie and chocolat confiserie, there was no shortage of charming places ending in rie. This boulangerie had an outdoor setup, replete with French cleavage. Who was the bigger tart?

It is said that a French baker cannot be good at both bread and pastry and must therefore choose between the two.

And yet I would trust a single Frenchman to knead my dough and fill my tart any day (or night). Then again, two Frenchmen might be better.

Orange-Hazelnut Biscotti

Thank goodness our country allows fruits and nuts to marry.

Even Rush Limbaugh would approve of this fabulous union of bright, zingy orange and the delicate flavor of hazelnuts.

Call it a filbert, and it sounds like a comic strip character. Call it a hazelnut, and it sounds positively regal, which is exactly what this elegant, citrus-flavored biscotti imparts—regality. I got the recipe from Cook’s Illustrated (membership required), but I made a few notes in italics below. Baking Illustrated has this same recipe with almonds instead of the hazels. And as noted in the original Cook's Illustrated directions below, a combination of both nuts would also be a winner.

I served this biscotti with chocolate sorbet, and it was a match made in heaven. However, next time, I think I’ll try to introduce chocolate into the biscotti itself. But that's another day, another recipe, and another legal battle for the state of California.

Recipe

The addition of a small amount of butter produces a richer, more cookie-like texture. Although they will keep at least two weeks in an airtight container, these biscotti are especially good when eaten the same day they are baked. A combination of almonds and hazelnuts works very well, too.

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon table salt

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 cup granulated sugar

2 large eggs

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

¼ teaspoon almond extract

¾ cup whole hazelnuts with skins; toasted, cooled, and chopped course (After roasting the nuts, the skins were so hard, they tasted kind of burnt, so I took them off)

1 large orange zested and minced to yield 2 tablespoons zest (It took 2 oranges for me to get 2 TBSPs)

1. Sift first three ingredients together in a small bowl.

2. Beat butter and sugar together in bowl of electric mixer until light and smooth; add eggs one at a time, then extracts. Stir in hazelnuts and zest. Sift dry ingredients over egg mixture, then fold in until dough is just combined.

3. Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 350 degrees. Halve dough and turn each portion onto an oiled cookie sheet covered with parchment. Using floured hands, quickly stretch each portion of dough into a rough 13-by-2-inch log, placing them about 3 inches apart on the cookie sheet. Pat each dough shape to smooth it. Bake, turning pan once, until loaves are golden and just beginning to crack on top, about 35 minutes.

4. Cool the loaves for 10 minutes (I would wait till completely cool so they won't break when you cut them); lower oven temperature to 325 degrees. cut each loaf diagonally into 3/8-inch slices with a serrated knife. Lay the slices about 1/2-inch apart on the cookie sheet, cut, side up and return them to the oven. Bake, turning over each cookie halfway through baking, until crisp and golden brown on both sides, about 15 minutes. Transer biscotti to wire rack and cool completely.

Makes 3 - 4 dozen

Ode to a Chocoholic

I'll miss the way we'd binge together

Afterwards we'd need a feather

Rest in peace, my bittersweet dove

Our chocolate-filled days were rich with love

For Mom

b. October 4, 1927

d. December 10, 2009

The Last Butterscotch: In Memory of My Mother

My mother had a way of letting you know when you were hungry. “It’s been two hours since you’ve eaten,” she’d say. “Aren’t you getting weak?” It didn’t matter that you were still having reflux from the all-you-can-stand buffet she goaded you into going to with her just two hours ago. The kind that made you pine for a Roman vomitorium so you could purge not only the meal, but the long-lingering shame that accompanied your bloating.

You could always count on mom to be readily equipped with the antidote to your hunger—hard candy. “Do you want a butterscotch?” she’d ask, as she desperately tried to stave off Ethiopian flies from your soon-to-be distended belly. Us kids—and later as adults—found this form of nagging to be intrusive and annoying, but if that was the extent of her yenta-ing, we’d just have to suck it up, along with the butterscotch.

Mom was not a heavy woman. She just ate like one. But mostly, she liked talking about eating. About you eating. Or you not eating enough, rather. And she had a penchant for taking home leftovers like it was nobody’s business. She carried baggies in her purse because a restaurant could not be entrusted with providing something as precious as a foil-lined paper bag. She started her ritual in the days before the ubiquitous styrofoam container became a mainstay of the dining scene. Back then, it was up to proactive women with too much plastic and twist ties on their hands.

Yes, my mother was the reigning doggie-bag queen. There was no leftover too small to leave on her plate. I remember the time in a restaurant when she had two bites of meat loaf left and asked the waiter to wrap it up. Beet-red with embarrassment, I wondered why she had to take home two measly bites. Was it from living through the Depression? Was it because an animal should not go to waste? Did she merely want to be reminded the next day of how much she enjoyed the previous night’s meal? Or did she do it to piss us off? Who knew. But that night, those two bites got lost in the restaurant's kitchen (probably mistaken for blowback), and when she found out they were never to return, the look on her face conjured up the horror in the song, MacArthur Park: “Someone left the meat loaf on the plate, and she’ll never have those last two bites again. Oh no…” Needless to say, that was the last time mom left her leftovers to fate. From that moment on, it was paws off, except for hers.

Sadly, my mom died two weeks ago, unexpectedly. When I started going through the clothes in her closet, I noticed that she had about 40 shirts, all with two pockets. The left pocket of every shirt contained three items: a folded Kleenex, a folded baggie, and a piece of hard candy. She lived in a retirement home and didn’t get out much, so chances are, she was only going downstairs to the dining room for her three meals a day. But apparently, it was far enough that she thought she might need sustenance on her journey down the elevator.

Now, with all that's happened in the past two weeks, I'm feeling kind of weak. And even though I ate a big meal just two hours ago, I could really use a butterscotch. I would give anything just to hear her ask.

No-Feel-Awful Falafel

These baked falafel patties will have you gloating, not bloating.

Sure, deep-fried falafel is tasty, but afterwards you’re stuck with that pesky self-loathing. With this healthy version, all you’ll gain is a wholesomer-than-thou attitude.

This divine interpretation came after reading a variety of recipes and then tweaking Joan Nathan's My Favorite Falafel to match my vision. When it's baked, you can really taste the herbs, spices and garlic, but the traditional kind seems to lose all that freshness in the deep fryer.

Not only is this version delish, it's nutrish. The garbanzos aren’t even cooked. All you do is soak the raw beans in water overnight, and they plump up and are ready for grinding in the food processor the next day. Add the fresh garlic, onions, parsley, cilantro, cumin and coriander, and it’s a party in your mouth. The kind where you’ll be able to look at yourself in the mirror the next morning without wishing you were Kate Moss. Well, no more than usual.

Recipe

1 cup dried chickpeas
1 small onion, finely chopped
3 - 4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 TBSP fresh parsley, finely chopped
2 TBSP fresh cilantro, finely chopped
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp coriander
3 - 4 TBSP AP flour, GF flour or garbanzo flour (this works really well)
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp olive oil

Put the chickpeas in a large bowl and add enough cold water to cover them by at least 2 inches. Let soak overnight, then drain. Or use canned chickpeas, drained.

Place the drained, uncooked chickpeas and onions in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Add the parsley, cilantro, salt, garlic, cumin, coriander and oil. Process until blended but not puréed.

Sprinkle in the baking powder and half of the flour, and pulse. Add enough flour so that the dough forms a small ball and no longer sticks to your hands. Turn into a bowl and refrigerate, covered, for several hours.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Form the chickpea mixture into 1 1/2" balls and slightly flatten on an oiled baking sheet. Bake for about 15 minutes on each side until nicely browned.

Serve with pita, tahini sauce, tomatoes and cucumber.

Makes about 16 patties.

Ode to a Sushi Chef

I watch your rice and seaweed grace

The flesh and fins in your embrace

You could be a wealthy surgeon

Yet you're rich in roe and sturgeon