20.5" NITRO 898

I can’t wait to give the boat a closer look…

I love the outdoors and every opportunity to connect with nature. I’ve been into fishing for a long time, but have yet to catch a fish. Still, the idea of someday battling a fish at the end of my line is something I look forward to experiencing.

Last month, I was invited to go fishing in Connecticut’s Long Island Sound by my friend Frank who shared with me his passion for the sport. I remember him asking me “do you know how to swim?” as we headed out farther and farther away from the dock.  Giving him a curious look, I answered,

backing into the Tennessee River...

“well… yeah.” Hearing the words come out of my mouth, I quickly realized that I had taken his question for granted. After all we were not in a swimming pool with anything to hold on to, but rather surrounded by water with currents, not to mention bluefish, which I hear bite anything in sight. I started paying attention to Frank more carefully as he spoke, while enjoying fishing from a boat for the first time. Though there was no catch that day, I had but one desire…to keep trying!

I have some friends who fish on a regular basis and they know that when my number shows up on their cell phones, the conversation will eventually lead to fishing and eating the catch. Planning my trip to Alabama to visit Chris Lilly, a good friend, fellow chef, and celebrated pitmaster of the legendary Big Bob Gibson Bar-B-Q joint in Decatur, I mention to him in passing that I’m interested in going fishing in the area. Chris reminds me that his brother Owen loves to fish. With a couple of weeks left before heading to the airport for this adventure, I call Owen and inquire, “are they biting there?” I can feel his smile as he answers, “Come on down South! I promise you’ll catch a fish or two.” Two weeks later, life-jacket on and secured, I’m on a bass-boat riding high on the Tennessee River, fishing the Muscle Shoals area, a place famous for its music and history-”The Rolling Stones recorded ‘Brown Sugar’ here,” mentions Owen, well-mannered and soft-spoken with a charming accent only one would expect from a Southern gentleman.

L to R: Owen and Steve

We’re on the Tennessee River “flying…”

We’re in Florence, AL, where Owen grew up. It’s a beautiful sunny day as we pull up to the parking lot of a dock. Owen points to his friend Steve Humphries standing next to his massive “heavy-duty” white pick-up truck with a beautiful boat on a trailer attached to it. I can’t wait to give the boat a closer look and do. The fact that it’s a 20.5″ NITRO 898 means absolutely nothing to me, but it’s definitely cool looking. Tall and built somewhat like a quarterback, Steve says “Hi,” shaking my hand with a rather strong grip. “So you want to fish, huh?” he continues, noticeably smirking. “You bet,” I say with confidence, nodding a definite “yes,” to further express my enthusiasm.

Steve casting the net for bait.

Taking charge, Steve instructs, “Ok…Corinne, get in the boat! Owen, get in the truck and back it up slowly down the ramp.” I know instantly that I’m in good hands. The rear tires of the truck almost halfway in water, Steve unhooks the boat using a crank to lower and release the boat gently into the river. He gets in and sits to my right, steering the boat toward the landing where Owen jumps in.

We’re on the Tennessee River “flying,” the boat going so fast it feels like the bottom of our vessel is gliding on the surface of the water. It’s invigorating. Steve, our guide and an expert

la friture!

angler who manages to fish several times a week, heads toward the Wilson Dam to catch small bait. There, he casts a round blue net heavy with weights sewn in around the edge. Pulling it back a minute later, he releases the baby fish into a tank filled with water got from the river. Looking at the small bait, my taste buds fully activated and mouth watering, I can taste them, dusted with flour, deep-fried, and served piping hot drizzled with freshly squeezed lemon juice and sprinkled with cracked black pepper and sea salt. This is the way my French grandmother Jeanne used to prepare them when my uncles came home from fishing with several pounds of the stuff. Referred to as la friture, the tiny golden fish, no bigger than anchovies and served head to tail, were delicious and as crispy as French fries.

as easy as 1-2-3...caught a few that day!

“I bet you she wants to cast her own line next time.”

Snapping out of memory lane, water tank full of bait, Steve rides along the river and comes full stop to one of his favorite spots. I pick up my fishing pole and get ready to cast. Steve tells me to “swing the line.” “What do you mean?” I ask. Watching him demonstrate, he pulls the wire out at a 45° angle, a technique I recognize and associate with fly-fishing. Then rather than throw the line overhead, he swings it with a swooping motion, sideways and out far. I’m having trouble with this new technique. Concerned that I may not get it on this trip, rather than have me cast my own line, Steve does it for me, then hands me the pole and says, “let it sit there for a while. Don’t reel it in too fast. You have to give them a chance to bite.” (This is something he repeats to me on more than one occasion. Indeed, patience is a virtue.) Owen knows me and tells Steve, “I bet you she wants to cast her own line next time.” We laugh.

A day in the life of Owen...nice office!

Out on the boat, with our lines dragging in the water, we shoot the breeze, talking about everything and anything including life in general, food, and fishing of course. I ask Steve about his services as a fishing guide. Owner and operator of Fish The Shoals, he admits to having recently started the business because of the rising interest in the sport and this particular area, which is regarded as one of the best fishing destinations in the U.S.

…something big at the end of my line is fighting me.

my first catch

The fish are abundant here, full of catfish and bass as we finally get some action. Steve catches a bass, as does Owen soon after. As I’m waiting for a good tug at the end of my line, Steve offers a few words of wisdom. “Fishing is more than just catching. It’s about the time you spent with friends enjoying the day and a good beer, even if fish don’t bite.” And with that something big at the end of my line is fighting me. I’m reeling it in, then releasing the wire a tiny bit to “tire him out.” Negotiating with the fish, I repeat this exercise several times more until its head finally appears on the side of the boat. I smile. “That’s a flathead catfish right there,” says Owen, “why, it’s probably between 3 to 4 pounds. Good one!” My first catch ever. It’s a fine moment, one for the books. Excited and proud, I turn to my friends and say, “well boys, how about blackened catfish tonight?”

“When the fish are in the area you can smell the pungent sweetness of their oil on the water surface.”

Every once in a while I catch myself daydreaming about fishing, and it goes something like this: I’m on a big sports fishing boat, seated in one of those “fighting” chairs that swivel, belt-buckled in tight while reeling in the big tuna. So when the chance to go fishing came up recently, I jumped on the occasion, thinking that some experience would be helpful if Tuna and I were to fight it out someday.

It’s a beautiful clear day, the sky a vibrant afternoon blue. Excited and relaxed, I feel the calm of the water, the Autumn chill, the exhilarating boat ride, and visualize catching my first fish while contemplating the perfect recipe for it the whole time. My senses fully engaged, I am on a boat in Connecticut fishing on the Long Island Sound with my friend Frank, an avid fisherman by hobby, who tells me “when the fish are in the area you can smell the pungent sweetness of their oil on the water surface” as we go from spot to spot casting our lines to catch bass or bluefish.

“There are some fish out there now. Mostly deep and holding near the bottom, in the reefs of mid sound, grouping and preparing for the massive feeding to carry them for their migration south and east,” he continues, explaining that this is something he learned long ago from an old fisherman.

As he speeds through the water, I watch the beautiful, thick white bubbly wake behind the boat. I feel the chill go right through my bones. Medium-built, fit, with salt-and-pepper hair, Frank is dressed in layers for the occasion with turtleneck, flannel shirt, and jacket, jeans loosely tucked into short warm waterproof boots. My cheeks and nose are red as he hands me his coat. “I warned you it was going to be cold out here,” he reminds me while giving me a tour of the Norwalk Islands where we’ll be spending the next few hours. This is my first trip here and I’ve much to learn including how to dress, apparently.

I want to do it all, hook the bait, cast the line, and reel them in.

The lesson begins with a conversation so engaging I’m ready to turn words into practice. I want to do it all, hook the bait, cast the line, and reel them in. I can cook anything put in front of me with ease, but the idea of catching my own meal has me paying attention to every tip Frank shares with me.

Born and raised in Norwalk, CT, he knows the area well and tells me where the fish are abundant. Coming to a familiar spot, he stops the boat. We talk about bait. He has pork rind, eel, and baitfish, though often uses lures of which he has many in a box along with extra spools of wire and hooks. For me, he chooses a lure that is white and frilly explaining, “it mimics a squid and fish love squid.” He hooks it on a fishing rod, the shortest of the eight he has on the boat. Holding on to the wire with my forefinger and releasing the spool, I cast my line and slowly start to reel it back in hoping a fish, any size, will catch on. While casting and reeling, again and again, I imagine that perfect recipe. The fish cooked en papillotte with fresh sage, parsley, thyme, and lemon, a dusting of sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper, served with steamed red bliss potatoes and a side of sautéed spinach with pine nuts—divine! Coming back to reality and not having caught anything yet, Frank explains that the water is too hot. I look at the temperature on the boat’s electronic device, which reads 65°F. Too cold for me to swim in, but not cold enough for the fish as they swim into the deep. Continuing our boat ride Frank instructs, “look for birds swarming directly over the water,” another way to tell if fish are near the surface.

There’s very little action this time, which may be due to over fishing. I’ve used guides to help me make decisions about which fish are fine to eat versus those best avoided. Still, I’m glad to see that bluefish and bass are listed under “better choices,” because that’s what we’re fishing for today and I love the taste of both. “Clams are also fine to eat,” mentions Frank, “and these waters are abundant with them as well.”  Upon hearing that I start imagining getting together with friends for a lemongrass-infused clambake spiced with Thai curry paste.

It’s getting dark and Frank and I have not caught anything today, but I’ve walked away with a most valuable lesson in casting. I’m patient and confident that one lesson at a time, I will catch something soon. For now, I’ll close my eyes and replay this wonderful moment over again.

Starstruck...here with "The Legend" Mike Mills, author of Peace, Love & Barbecue (2005)

I’ve infiltrated the world of competitive barbecue. I’m in with the big boys…

Barbecue is like a sport. I never thought about this until Saturday, October 24th, 2009, pulled up at a table preparing to judge my very first competition and most prestigious of them all, the 2009 Jack Daniel’s World Championship Invitational Barbecue, simply and most often referred to as “The Jack.” I am as excited to be here as a kid in a candy or toy store.

I’ve infiltrated the world of competitive barbecue. I’m in with the big boys—Paul Kirk, Mike Mills, Adam Perry Lang (this year’s honorary pitmaster), and Ray Lampe to name a few. Collectively responsible for putting barbecue on the culinary map, they are celebrity pitmasters and renowned cookbook authors who have competed on the circuit from the Eastern to Western, and Northern to Southern United States. I’ve prepared for this moment. I’ve trained my palate over many years, seeking out the best ribs, brisket, pork, chicken, and BBQ sauce

judges autographing aprons...great tradition! (photo by Karen Walker)

this country has to offer. I’ve stood in front of my own cooker for hours, maintaining a low-and-slow temperature to render all sorts of seasoned meats tender to the bone. I’ve learned techniques from one of the greats, Chris Lilly of the legendary Big Bob Gibson Bar-B-Q in Decatur, AL. I’ve taken a 4-hour judging course with master judge Ron Harwell, Ph. B. (no I’m not making this up, it’s a doctorate in barbecue!) and am now a Certified Barbecue Judge, according to the Kansas City Barbecue Society and own a monogrammed maroon KCBS T-shirt and “CBJ” pin to prove it. I’ve recently started to read The Bull Sheet and the National Barbecue News at the breakfast table, in lieu of The New York Times. I’ve come a long way, and now, here in Lynchburg TN (pop. 400+/-, but during event 25,000+), I am ready to taste multiple entries of sauce, choice meat, chicken, ribs, pork, and brisket, with dessert thrown in the mix. It’s a tough job, but I’m ready to handle it like the trained pro that I am.

Ray Lampe, aka Dr. BBQ...

This 2-day event begins with a party “up on the hill” at the Jack Daniel Distillery on Friday night. And though we’re in a dry county, all is forgotten as pitmasters, judges, and event organizers get in line for the 80-proof nectar, ordering it straight up, on the rocks, or with coke or lemonade, the latter referred to as the Lynchburg Lemonade. Though no barbecue is served on the eve of the big competition, the dinner menu is still very typically southern, as in “meat and three,” including fried chicken with mashed potatoes, cornbread, and sugar snap peas. The place is packed with cheerful people eating and drinking, standing or seated at long communal tables. The four-piece band is excellent, playing classic rock tunes, and occasionally shifting gears to more contemporary stuff to please a crowd varying in age. I grab my friend, Traci Rodemeyer (aka @PorkPrincess) who seems to show up with her “Pork, The Other White Meat” team at every BBQ event on the planet, and say “let’s dance!” And we do to Sweet Home Alabama hoping to get some to join in, but no one does. Now, if the party were in New York City, boys and girls would be cutting the rug. I quickly realize that it’s the eve of the competition, a moment they’ve all been waiting for. They drink and eat sensibly, and are simply too preoccupied to really let loose. At least that’s what I tell myself as we both quickly leave the “dance floor” and return to our table where Ray Lampe, Jack-and-Coke in hand, is holding fort and catching up with fellow BBQ pitmasters.

They've come a long way from Poland to compete and did win a prize

It’s dark and cold, but the air is definitely sweet.

The party over by 9 PM, competitors get on buses heading back to the grounds. I decide to follow them for a closer behind-the-scenes look. It’s dark and cold, but the air is definitely sweet. Aisles formed and dotted by uneven lighting, I start to walk up, down, and around each tent complete with cooker, workstation, and RV. A Team from the Mississippi Delta sings the blues while strumming guitars in need of tuning. Another blasts Bon Jovi on the radio, while another puts finishing touches on jerry-rigged oil barrels turned cookers. And though the teams are U.S.-based for the most part, it is an international event with competitors from Luxembourg, Germany, Poland, and England as well. Like them, I can’t believe I made it here. It is a big deal, and more exciting to me than judging, is seeing these guys—and occasionally gals—light up their cookers, mop their ribs, rub their briskets, and inject their pork, for the chance to win the big prize. They smile as I make the rounds, but I feel the tension in their faces. It’s almost as if they can’t wait until it’s over even though it is just the beginning. Technically I can’t talk to them, and don’t other than congratulate them for having made it to The Jack and wishing them luck as they prep and cook. The truth is that while I’m looking forward to judging, what I really want to do is get my hands dirty and cook with them.

Adam Perry Lang, 2009 Honorary Pitmaster and owner of NYC's Daisy May's (FYI: excellent short ribs!)

The oath!

It’s morning and the competition is about to start, but not without first being sworn in with the following oath:

I do solemnly swear
To objectively and subjectively evaluate
Each Barbeque meat
That is presented
To my eyes, my nose, my hands and my palate
I accept my duty
To be an Official KCBS Certified Judge
So that truth, Justice, Excellence in Barbeque
And the American Way of Life
May be strengthened and preserved
Forever

…on the sweet and sticky side…

Now I’ve judge food competitions before, but must admit that this one feels different. The fact that I’m a classically trained chef and food professional, having written 6 cookbooks has no bearing here. I’ve sat through a mandatory 4-hour “how to judge BBQ” class to prepare for this and taken an oath. As I sit, ready to judge the first category, the table captains (a wife and husband team) recite numbers as I note them down on my scorecard. Six to seven entries total each for sauce, then meat upon meat entries presented on parsley or green oak leaf lettuce (not red, an automatic disqualification) and set in Styrofoam boxes. Some are tender, some chewy, some sticky, with varying flavors many of which tend to be on the sweet, sticky side, we the six judges at my table concur (after the judging is over that is, for we can’t talk during).

Good ‘ol Jack would have been proud

Some will go home with a statue of Jack Daniel, some with a bottle of No. 7, others with prize money ranging from $100 to $5000 (the top!), and one team will go home with the title of Grand Champion and braggin’ rights (I-QUE from Massachusetts, the big winners this year!), and the right to compete next year.

Judging BBQ competitions is fun, and I’m already penciling in two more I’d like to judge next year, Memphis in May and The American Royal in Kansas City. And the more I get to know pitmasters from around the country, the more I realize that competitions are really an excuse for them to come together and have a good time. In this case, everyone is winner. Amen!

Entering Smitty's

What I got was a crash course in brisket and BBQ lingo

Friends say that I’m obsessed with barbecue. I’ve always preferred the word “passionate,” myself.  It is an ongoing curiosity with me, and the art—because it is an art—of barbecuing fascinates me to no end. It’s also the people I’ve met while exploring this great culinary tradition that keeps me coming back for more. My Southern friends are like my European friends and family in many ways. They love to take their time to live, enjoying their meals over several hours while eating, drinking, and telling stories. Having lived in New York City for twenty or more years where everyone always seems to be in a rush is something I’ve never gotten used to. So naturally, I look forward to my trips to Austin, TX, where I get to take it all in at a slow and steady pace from the minute I land at the airport and imagine a distinct, enticing smoky aroma tickling my nose.

Kreuz' brisket

On this most recent trip I was on a mission to find the best brisket because that’s what Texas barbecue is known for. The problem is that I’ve tried brisket many times but have never really enjoyed it, finding it dry especially when compared to other cuts of beef I much prefer for their melt-in-your-mouth moist and tender character. For example, a buttery hanger steak, grilled until slightly charred on the outside and juicy medium-rare on the inside, and served with a pile of thin golden frites, a classic French bistro fare; or braised short ribs or oxtail with that sinewy tender meat that locks in all sorts of rich sauces like the fragrant traditional Vietnamese kho, a caramel and fish sauce-based braising liquid spiced with star anise, lemongrass, garlic, and chilies; or a thick slice of prime rib roasted in a hot oven until golden crisp, each bite sprinkled delicately with coarse sea salt and served with a large baked flaky potato on the side. So it’s not that I don’t love red meat, as some friends have argued when I’ve turned down brisket. I love it, but will admit to having shied away from this Texas favorite, until now.

Whole Foods' brisket: the turning point, no pun intended!

My newfound interest in brisket started this past June while I was on my book tour. There I was at Whole Foods on 6^th (the original!) preparing to teach a class celebrating my newly released book, Noodles Every Day (Chronicle Books, 2009) when I noticed a young man sitting in the classroom. He was wearing his chef’s whites and so I decided to strike up a conversation about brisket. It went something like this, “so what’s the deal with barbecued brisket?” Born and raised in Texas, he walked over to me and introduced himself as Lawrence Kocurek, the executive chef of this upscale supermarket. With great enthusiasm he responded, “I love it!” Naturally, I was curious as to why anyone would love a piece of meat that was dry. “Our brisket is not dry. It’s really good and juicy,” he insisted, “would you like to taste it?” I had convinced myself that it would be a waste of time, but when he asked “lean or fatty?” my ears perked up instantly. Nobody had ever given me a choice before in any of the barbecue joints I’d been to in the past. Excited, I quickly answered, “fatty, please,” which seemed logical to me.

Moments later Chef Kocurek returned with a white paper plate containing three thick slices of clearly juicy and fatty brisket. I couldn’t wait to take that first bite, and to my delight, it was tender, juicy, with the right amount of fat. “Why is it so good?” I asked him. “We cook our brisket at 220°F for at least 16 hours.” He then went on to describe the brisket as having two distinct parts, the fatty “top hemisphere” and the lean “bottom hemisphere.” When I explained to him that in the many years I’d been coming to Austin, not one pitmaster had ever offered me the fatty part, he responded, “yeah, they won’t unless you specifically ask for it.” Then I thought, not one of my Texan friends had ever informed me about the two cuts of brisket either, and when I’ve complained about how dry the meat was, it never occurred to anyone, not friends nor pitmasters, to explain to me that there were indeed two ways to order brisket. I was simply floored!

Shannon (meat coma, I think, but what a pal) as we finally get to City Market, our last BBQ joint on this tour.

I wanted a thicker bark and smokier flavor.

After my experience with Whole Foods’ brisket, I was intrigued and wanted to dig into the subject further. I wanted a thicker bark and smokier flavor. I called up my friend Shannon Henry, a competitive extreme mountain biker, and the only friend crazy enough to go BBQ joint hoping all day to taste brisket after brisket with me. I also knew it was Shannon’s favorite meat, and so he picked me up and we were on our way to Lockhart, a town in Hill Country, about an hour outside of Austin.

In preparation for this adventure, I sent out an “S.O.S to all pitmasters” I knew, asking them about the top and bottom hemisphere of the brisket. What I got was a crash course in brisket and BBQ lingo: 1) the whole brisket can be referred to as the “lobe,” “whole,” or “packer;” 2) it consists of two parts known as the “top hemisphere” and the “bottom hemisphere;” 3) the “bottom hemisphere” is also known as the “flat” or “lean;” 4) the “top hemisphere” is often called the “point,” “fatty”, “deckle,” or “good part;” and if you ever were curious as to where the “burnt ends” (quite literally) used to flavor baked beans came from, that would be the “point.”

“…think of it [brisket] as the unruly child of the BBQ world.”

Still, to make sure I had all of my ducks in a row, and before embarking on this beef-eating escapade, I thought I would reach out to pitmaster Bob Devine (most recently of Brother Jimmy’s in New York City) for some last words of wisdom, and sure enough he warned, “brisket is the hardest meat to cook to perfection. You have to think of it as the unruly child of the BBQ world. Not one of them is the same, every piece having a different fat and collagen content. Some will just never cook to completion. So producing a great brisket is something I admire a great deal.” This would explain the inconsistencies I’ve experienced when eating brisket.

And so with all of this in mind, Shannon and I were on our way to Lockhart where we would go to such famous places as Black’s, Kreuz Market, Smitty’s Market, and Chisholm Trail. We also went back to one of my old time favorites City Market in Luling, not to mention The Salt Lick in Driftwood, and Iron Works (known for their beef ribs, especially) in Austin the day before, without forgetting of course Whole Foods where my curiosity about brisket grew drastically upon tasting theirs. But by the time we got to Lockhart, I was confident about ordering, and when I came face to face with the pitmaster in each place I would ask for “brisket. The fatty please!”

At Black's slicing the "good part!"

Black’s was our first stop. When I reached the pit room where the pitmaster was slicing brisket, I asked for “the fatty, please,” to which he responded “ah…you want the good part,” and with that we both smiled as if we were in on a little secret no one else knew about. I walked off the line with brisket, sweet potatoes, and pickles on my plate, which I shared with my friend. I couldn’t wait to dig in and with gusto I took that first bite. Succulent with a good amount of bark, not too dark and not too light, not to thick and not too thin, it was basically balanced, perfect, more perfect than that of Whole Foods. And with that, Black’s’ brisket would become my new standard.

Kreuz was next. The massive, imposing cookers with fire pits off to the side at the very end projected about 1000 or more degrees. They were loaded with brisket among other meats, and made quite an impression. But while their brisket was good, it was not nearly as good as the first I’d tasted, being ever so slightly springy. Still this place was well worth the try and I would certainly go back just to take a closer look at these cookers. (The “original” sausage ruled, though!)

I’d been to Smitty’s before. It’s quite the place. With an old world character, it had a long dark hallway with industrial fans hanging from the ceiling, and a shop outfitted with old ice boxes, butcher blocks, meat scales, and old cash registers off to one side, with the prep and storage room next to it. The place felt as if time had stopped. Sitting at one of the long benches lined up against the wall, I quickly imagined the place decades earlier, people eating or ordering at the meat shop. I then went on to the pit room, where it was just like I remembered it years earlier. I loved the all brick cookers in a rather cramped space, noticing everyone sweating while standing on line in the steamy hot room, getting their orders served on craft paper. In the brightly lit dining room, another counter offered sides of avocado, pickles, and beverages. I ordered the dill pickle to accompany the brisket, which was good, tender, but definitely no match to Black’s’. Shannon and I moved on…

Black's BBQ Two Step!

“…I’d like to taste the point, the deckle, the good part…you know…the fatty,”

As proud as I was to know how to order “the fatty,” I would encounter push back at Chilsholm Trail when the guy completely ignored my request. I asked again, and he returned a look of disbelief asking while holding up the “flat,” “isn’t that fatty enough for you?” Standing at about 6′ and weighing about 300 pounds to my just shy of 5’4” and 125-pound frame, I pushed back “actually, no! I’d like to taste the point, the deckle, the good part…you know…the fatty,” trying every word in the BBQ brisket dictionary to make sure he understood what I was looking for. He returned with the fatty asking “how much?” And with that I said, “one slice, please!” (Remember, this was one of many I would taste that day, so I had to pace myself.) Chilsholm Trail’s walls were adorned with all sorts of recent awards. Strangely enough, their overly salted barbecue brisket (not to mention sides) was nothing to write home about.

Black’s was definitely hard to match, but still we decided to drive to Luling for City Market’s BBQ, one of my old time favorites. There’s something special about City Market. To this day, I’ll never forget the first time I went, which was about 14 years ago. Three guys just outside the joint, on the sidewalk, selling their pecan pies and peach pies while tap dancing and singing the blues, is a scene still vivid in my mind. It was one of those moments you couldn’t make up if you tried, and 14 years ago it was there for the taking. It’s a special place because this is where my love of barbecue began, where I understood for the first time how complex it was, and that it wasn’t just massive amounts of meat cooked in a large pit, but something refined with layers upon layers of flavors and textures intermingled into something that explodes in your mouth, while trying to figure out, “what?” “How?”

Black's brisket...the winner, this time!

Think of it as a religion…

Today, the brisket at Black’s’ wins. Who knows tomorrow? Everyone is entitled to an off day, and to be perfectly fair barbecue is better had during the early part of the day as opposed to late afternoon. Also, I should mention that when discussing BBQ, one should do so with caution. Think of it as a religion, as die-hard, loyal fans will swear by a specific joint, pitmaster, and style as in “wet” or “dry.” Lastly, realize that it is very much a matter of preference. For example, I like my sauce on the side, if any.

And with that, after eating barbecue for days, I came home from my trip appreciating brisket with a desire to learn more about this tough piece of meat turned tender by the low-and-slow cooking process. As soon as I opened the door to my New York City apartment, I dropped my bags and immediately went to my cookbook library, picking out my two favorite books on the subject: Ray Lampe’s Dr. BBQ’s Big-Time Barbecue Cookbook (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2005), and Chris Lilly’s Big Bob Gibson’s BBQ Book (Clarkson Potter, 2009). Written by two of our country’s most celebrated competitive champion pitmasters, both books are loaded with information on technique, styles, as well as tips for competing, not to mention delicious easy-to-follow recipes. Turning to page 59 in his book, Lampe explains that, “the whole brisket consists of two distinct muscles with two textures and very different fat percentages. The grain in both muscles is very coarse, but it runs in different directions,” which is why the brisket is generally split in two parts, the “flat,” being the “prettier muscle of the two,” and the “point” being the fattier and rarely sold alone because it is generally turned into burger meat instead. Turning to page 84 in his book, Lilly further explains that, “the toughest cuts can be made palatable through the slow-cooking process. These results are achieved by breaking down the collagen in the connective muscle tissues, yielding tenderness.”

Reading this book is like talking to Ray Lampe...Fun read with great recipes!

Full of historical and personal anecdotes, Chris Lilly makes you want to "Q!"

Combined, pitmasters Ray Lampe and Chris Lilly have over 40 years experience putting into practice what they preach, and when they talk I listen. I’ve also had plenty of practice eating barbecue, and have even gotten my hands dirty a few times (check out the video right here!). I’ve become a die-hard fan of barbecue over the years, and I too have my favorite pitmasters, BBQ joints, and styles. This year I’m especially excited about the subject because on October 24th in Lynchburg, TN, I will be judging my first barbecue competition and most prestigious of them all, the 2009 Jack Daniel’s World Championship Invitational Barbecue (sign in and click on “Happenings”). I can’t wait to sink my teeth into some award-winning barbecue from around the country when over 70 teams compete for “bragging rights,” while I satisfy my on-going craving for all things smoked…amen!

Join me and celebrated pitmasters Ray Lampe and Chris Lilly for more on BBQ on the “Home and Lifestyle Show with Ron Smith,” Saturday, Oct 17 from 9 to 11 AM on 106.7 FM TALK RADIO, San Antonio, TX.

I had a blast in California. Flew in on Friday August 14, 2009 and went right to Sur La Table for a hands-on cooking class in San Francisco. Enjoyed a full class of eager-to-learn couples. we could have sold this as an “Oodles of Noodles for Lovers!” Every time I teach everyone seems to want the popular summer rolls using rice paper with the spicy peanut sauce for dipping. I’ll make it on television, talk about it during radio interviews, and demo the technique in a classroom setting. Once you learn how to use rice papers, dipping them in water until pliable, you can fill them up with all sorts of fresh vegetables and cooked shrimp or leftover shredded meats, for example. It’s all so much fun to watch them as they learn and eventually perfect the technique.

Enjoyed the next day in Sonoma County’s Russian River Valley at the Seghesio Family Winery where I sampled some terrific Zinfandel’s including Home Ranch, San Lorenzo, and the Old Vine and their new Pinot Noir. These beautiful wines were had with delicious sweet heirloom tomatoes from the Healdsburg Farmers Market. Sprinkled with sea salt, and extra virgin olive oil they not only paired well with the wines, but the local Jack cheese with whole peppercorns as well as a doughy spelt bread. Dessert? some of the most fragrant yellow peaches I’ve ever eaten. So fragrant I could smell them from aisles away.

Heirloom tomatoes from Healdsburg Farmers' Market with Seghesio Pinot Noir. A fine picnic lunch!

Sunday August 16 was a beautiful sunny day when Omnivore Books on Food hosted an event for me…it was a full house in this quaint little specialty book store. Not one seat left empty, instead filled with people who shared the same passion as me. We talked about noodles and so much more in a family-style setting, gathered close together.

I then decided to visit Chef Hoss Zare at his charming restaurant Zare at Fly Trap. This is a man who stands behind his ingredients, allows them to shine through, enhancing but never masking…cardamom, rose water, pomegranate are only but a few flavors to be enjoyed in any number of specialty dishes. I love the cucumber linguini (no wheat in this dish, just Persian cucumber cut into long, elegant strands) tossed with smoked trout and garnished with trout caviar. The smoke-cured pheasant served over crunchy, bitter leafy frisee, peppery watercress, roasted walnuts and refreshing sweet figs, I could eat everyday. This is indeed some of the most memorable foods I’ve had, and the best part was that I got to share it with my friends at Chronicle Books, publicist David Hawk, and editor Amy Treadwell. My heartfelt thanks to Hoss, too!

Sustainable cooking as a matter of course…

While in Los Angeles, I lectured at the 2009 Sustainable LA Conference on cooking “green” or “sustainably” as being the norm in Asian cultures. Many times in Southeast Asian countries especially, no refrigeration means going to market several times a day, where freshly slaughtered meats including offals and all sorts of seafood are on display. Not unusual is owning a pig in Asia. No only is it inexpensive to feed because all it means is giving it kitchen scraps, but when ready to kill, the meat can be cured to last for a long time and feed many mouths, and all the parts are used, from the blood, to the heart, spleen, meat, trotters, etc…I never gave “sustainable” cooking much thought because it is something that is ingrained in me. It’s second nature. Asian cooking is by definition a no-waste type of cooking, and not only when it comes to seafood, poultry, and meat, but also vegetables. I talked about a Japanese home cook I had met while on one of my trips to Kyoto. I recalled her using the crunchy peel of a squash in her stir-fry, while braising the soft spongy inside, and applying liquid soap to the stem-end to wash the pots she had just cooked in. I also talked about our very own food culture often making assumptions about what parts of foods are good versus those that are considered to be less than desirable. As examples I presented the scallion, mentioning how recipes in cookbooks (some of mine included because of some standard dictated by the publisher and current trends) would instruct using the “white parts only,” when the entire scallion white and green parts are perfectly edible and delicious, indeed the green part being more interesting for color alone. I also talked about how often I hear chefs preferring to use only the lower 6 to 8-inches of the lemongrass in a recipe, when again all of it should be used, the bruised leaves and tough grassy parts to flavor a stock, while the meaty creamy 6 to 8-inch stalk grated for marinades, for example. How many times have I seen fish bones and heads tossed in the garbage. In fact there is more flavor in the head of the fish, the cheeks being even more of a treat, than the fillets. The bones are perfect for stock as are vegetables scraps. How much of an onion do we throw out when chopping it? It’s mind boggling when you think about how much waste goes on in the food industry. Hopefully we don’t have to have conferences like these to make such a simple point, rather this simple approach to cooking should be matter of course in every kitchen.

Let’s Get Cookin’…

My California tour ended with a wonderful hands-on cooking class at Phyllis Vicarelli’s Let’s Get Cookin’ school celebrating the publication of Noodles Every Day (Chronicle Books, 2009). I find teaching extremely rewarding on a personal level. To share with others what I know and watch them explore ingredients on their own, puts a smile on my face. We made summer rolls with peanut sauce…I can’t stop making this popular snack. They also loved working with soba and cellophane noodles, watching the latter turn transparent when cooked through. It was an eye opener for the students, and for me another great experience.

I look forward to going to Alabama and Tennessee next.

wonton noodle soup with choy sum and scallions

A Steaming Bowl of Wonton Noodle Soup with Choy Sum and Scallions…

I’ve been going to Wonton Garden, a small noodle shop in Manhattan’s Chinatown, since I moved to New York City from my quaint little hometown of Blois, France over 30 years ago.  Located on Mott, the neighborhood’s busiest street, the shop has always had a window glass façade where the cook can be seen turning out wonton soup after wonton soup for hours on any given day. So enticing is watching this man cooking that I’ve gone in for a serving of these delightful morsels more times than I can count…and every time I go back, sit down at a table, and order a steaming bowl of wontons in broth, I am instantly reminded of my first encounter with the place.

fresh wonton, photo by Christopher Hirsheimer

I visited New York City for the first time in 1978 during what was to be my summer vacation. (That summer vacation turned out to be a permanent situation!) My father, Minh, had been working in Manhattan’s Chinatown since 1977, and my mother decided that my brothers and I should make the trip from France to visit him. It had been almost a year since we had seen him. He had moved here to help his childhood friend Anh, my “uncle,” who had a wholesale produce business in a building on Lafayette at the corner of Delancey, and just south of the small and somewhat triangular-shaped Cleveland Park. And while today the tiniest block in Manhattan where this building stands is now home to a Mexican restaurant on one side, a furniture store on the other, and a Spanish specialty food shop on the next, back then it was my father’s workplace, a huge warehouse full of Asian vegetables in crates, moved around on fork lifts and stacked up high.

step 1, photo by Christopher Hirsheimer

While Dad worked, my mother would drag us kids around town to visit all the major attractions the Big Apple had to offer. For hours we would stand on long lines for the chance to go up the Statue of Liberty, the Chrysler building, the Empire State building, and the Twin Towers. But my favorite part about being in the city was that eventually I knew we’d meet up with Dad for a great meal or some fun snack in a bakery. We could be eating the deliciously crispy skin of a Peking duck, indulging in a fresh-out-of-the-fish-tank seafood dinner, having a simple sweet roast pork bun golden-baked and just out of the oven or spongy white direct from the steamer…or freshly made wontons, one of my all time favorite foods.

On the way to Wonton Garden, my father would get excited. “It’s the best wontons, and for a couple of bucks, you can’t beat it,” he would say with a smile, making the point that he had arrived in the U.S. with $100 in his pocket, a story he tells over and over again to this day. Having worked hard all his life in order to live comfortably he appreciated good value…but he also loved home-cooked meals, something he had been missing since leaving France, and Chinatown was full of family-run restaurants offering all sorts of comfort food he longed for.

step 2, photo by Christopher Hirsheimer

When we finally reached the restaurant, the first thing we did as a family was to stand in front of it, watching the cook in action. First he would add wontons in a huge vat of boiling water. After a couple of minutes, using a Chinese long-handled “spider” strainer, he would then transfer them to a large soup bowl, which sometimes (upon request and for a more filling meal) also contained thin long egg noodles he had cook in the same boiling water. With a large ladle, the cook would then pour the piping hot broth over the wontons. He was so fast that some of the broth would spill off the sides of the bowl. (As a result of watching this cook as a kid, I’ve always appreciated open kitchens, especially the action that goes on in them.) And now it was time to go in…

step 3, photo by Christopher Hirsheimer

Once seated, the waiters gave a performance of their own. Everything was rushed as they walked around screaming the orders across the dining room to the cooks, while seating and serving people. This was no fine French dining experience, but it was just as exciting. And though the waiters may not have been the most courteous people to deal with, the distinct aroma of sesame oil permeating the air, making my mouth water instantly, would turn my attention away from them and toward the food. What I loved most about that experience was listening to the excitement in my father’s voice as he ordered a round of wonton soup for the family. As we were served, my father would go on to describe the meal we were about to enjoy…the wontons made with the “perfect“ amount of naturally sweet pork and shrimp filling, wrapped in the “perfect“ delicate skin, served in the “perfect“ light chicken broth perfumed with roasted sesame oil, and garnished with the “perfect“ amount of thinly sliced bright green scallions and choy sum, a long-stemmed leafy green vegetable. He would also point to the “perfect“ fried red chunky chili oil, adding a small amount to the broth. Piping hot, we would eat the wontons with gusto, sipping the broth in between each bite to clear our palates.

The Wonton Garden was the very first restaurant I went to in Chinatown, and when I go back occasionally or I make wontons at home, I get nostalgic and all I want to do is share this overwhelming feeling I call “food joy” with friends (see recipe below).

CT’S  FAMILY WONTON RECIPE – adapted from Essentials of Asian Cuisine (Simon & Schuster, 2003) and Noodles Every Day (Chronicle, 2009)

Serves 6

2 teaspoons dark sesame oil
2 tablespoons thin soy sauce
1 tablespoon tapioca starch or cornstarch
Freshly ground black pepper
1-1/2 pounds small headless tiger shrimp, peeled, deveined, and minced
8 ounces coarsely ground pork
72 square (or round) dumpling wrappers

1)   In a bowl, stir together the sesame oil, soy sauce, and tapioca starch until well blended. Season with pepper to taste, add the shrimp and pork, and mix thoroughly.

2)   Take a wrapper and put a heaping teaspoon of pork mixture in the center. Dab the edge lightly with water and seal to form a triangle (or half-moon if using a round wrapper). Bring the two ends together, dabbing each with water and pressing firmly. Place on a lightly floured cookie sheet, and continue making wontons with the remaining filling and wrappers. Be sure to place the wontons in a single layer, keeping them separated.

3)   Bring a large pot of water to a boil over high heat, and cook the wontons until they float to the top, about 3 minutes. Using a slotted spoon transfer and divide the wontons among 6 large soup bowls. At this time you can eat them as you would all sorts of dumplings, with soy sauce and chili sauce on the side for dipping. Or serve them in chicken broth (see below)

CT’S QUICK ASIAN CHICKEN BROTH: put a 2 to 3 pound whole chicken in a large stock pot, with 5 bruised scallions and 1 ounce (about 1 inch) piece of thinly sliced fresh ginger. Add water to the pot and up to 1-inch from the top. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a low and simmer until reduced by 1/3, 3 to 4 hours. Strain, discarding the solids. Pour over wontons, and garnish each serving with some sliced fresh scallions.

CT’S FRIED WONTONS: an American-Chinese restaurant favorite is the fried wonton. Heat a small-medium pot filled halfway with oil over medium heat. Working in batches fry the wontons until golden crisp and done on the inside, about 2 minutes. Drain on paper-lined plate and serve with soy sauce and chili sauce on the side.

It’s not everyday that I get to help inject, rub, pull and chop over 3000 pounds (that’s over a ton!) of pork butt and mix hundreds of pounds of coleslaw to feed thousands of hungry mouths…but on Friday, June 12, 2009 I did just that when I reported for duty at the 7th annual Big Apple BBQ Block Party at Madison Square Park in New York City.

Lined up along Madison Avenue and turning the corner and all along 26th street were barbecue rigs—aka cookers or smokers—from some of the best known BBQ joints in the country including The Salt Lick from Driftwood, Texas, Dinosaur Bar-B-Que from New York City, and the legendary Big Bob Gibson’s from Decatur, Alabama where I would be working for two nights and two days in a row, putting in long hours at the pit.

I should premise this with the fact that my fascination with true barbecue began in 1995 when I first visited Austin, TX…and before that my only experience with smoked meats were mediocre-at-best greasy baby back ribs piled up on a plate and covered in sticky, sweet reddish BBQ sauce. Served with sides of equally greasy ruffled potato chips and mayonnaise-laden coleslaw, they could be had in any number of New York City’s theme restaurants or steakhouses. So off putting were these barbecue meals—I think I may have tried 3 times before giving up—that I hesitated for a long time before giving BBQ another try…until I got to Texas, that is.

I was excited to be in Austin because I knew that BBQ was very much part of the food culture there. Of the dozen or so joints I tried in a span of 3 days, the most memorable were The Salt Lick in Driftwood and Central Market in Luling where everything from sausage, to ribs, chicken, turkey, and the much sought after Texas-style barbecue brisket were smoked using 100 percent oak wood. As the former test kitchen director of Saveur Magazine, I had also tested recipes for Kansas City-style barbecued ribs and brisket seasoned with dry rub. Maintaining my pit at a somewhat standard temperature of 225°F, the meat cooked for 12 hours or so, until fork tender. Naturally after these experiences, I knew a thing or two about barbecuing…or so I thought.

low-and-slow cooked pork butts

In October of 2007 I was invited as one of the four guest chefs at a Kingsford Charcoal event that took place just outside of Phoenix, Arizona. One evening, about 80 media guests enjoyed a horse-drawn hayride, followed by barbecue, drinks, and lively conversations at picnic tables or seated around a bonfire in the sandy desert. Just as we were about done with dinner that same horse-drawn wagon pulled up and our attention quickly turned to the tardy guest who happened to be Chris Lilly, a “pitmaster.” I didn’t know anything about him but noticed how everyone was excited to hear that he would be demonstrating barbecuing techniques during the three-day event. A fit, medium-built man with piercing greenish-gray-blue eyes, light brown hair, and sporting a goatee, he showed up wearing a cowboy hat, boots and shirt, and a pair of mildly worn out jeans. Short of wearing riding chaps, his getup, stride, and twang in his speech somehow convinced me that he might indeed know a thing or two about good ‘ol American BBQ. I was intrigued.

Chris Lilly at the Big Apple BBQ Block Party

It was late when we got back to the ranch where we were all staying, when Chris started walking over to his cooker with a bunch of us in tow. That night he started prepping pork butts. What got my attention was the syringe he picked up in his hand, filling it with a spiced, sweet and savory apple juice and Worcestershire-based liquid concoction. Holding the meat with one hand, with the other he quickly hit the butt every inch or so with this syringe, inserting and twirling it deep into the muscle. It was the first time I’d learn about injections, or injecting meats in general. Rubbed with a spice mix, the butts were loaded into the cooker. It was way passed midnight when many in our group turned in as I asked Chris how long the meat needed to cook. “Low and slow throughout the night,” he said smiling. “I’ll get some rest and will check back for temperature in the middle of the night.” The next day we all gathered around the cooker in anticipation, while Chris transferred the steaming hot meat from the cooker to the chopping board. With his gloved hands, he pressed and pulled on the meat, which came apart effortlessly. What I tasted was extraordinary and by far the best, most juicy and succulent, perfectly seasoned and balanced piece of pork I had ever eaten…so memorable, I had been craving it ever since.

“well okay Miss Corinne!” drawled the pitmaster, “let’s unpack the pork!”

Me, injecting

Fast forward to June 12, 2009…after a few phone calls over the period of a couple of months preceding the event, I had convinced Chris that I would make a great apprentice at the Big Apple BBQ Block Party. That night the fun began…“well okay Miss Corinne!” drawled the pitmaster, “let’s unpack the pork!” pointing to the too-many-to-count piled up boxes. Strong as I am, I was sure glad John, Ken, and Owen, my newfound friends (and veterans) were on the job doing their fair share of heavy lifting and encouraging me on.

And then came the moment I had been waiting for since my trip to Arizona… “Pick up the syringe!” Chris instructed. I held that syringe tight in my hand while pricking that meat like mad, squirting my eyes and prep partners a few times in the process…but fear not, at about pork butt number 30, I had my injection technique down, as the pitmaster preached “injections are a quick and more efficient way to infuse and season large cuts of meat throughout, as opposed to marinades which flavor the shell of the meat only.” I hung on every word while using up about a half a dozen syringes, bending the needles on the blade bones I had been warned about! “…and this apple juice-based injection I’m using provides lots of flavor without overpowering the natural flavor of the pork,” and with that the pork butts on our assembly line passed hands…

Me, chopping

The rub was next. Chris pointed to the latex gloves on the table, but “nah, I actually like to feel what I’m doing!” and with great confidence turned them down. He grinned and again at about pork butt number 30, I walked over to the sink, washed my hands, and put on the gloves…so much to learn. We talked about rubs for a moment. For the longest time I had wondered about them, why some were left on the meat for several hours to marinate, while Chris basically rubbed just before cooking. “The potency and concentration of spices within the rub dictates when you should apply it to the meat,” he answered. Of course it all made sense and with that, on the first night we rubbed and immediately loaded up just shy of 200 butts, packing them tightly into 6 massive cookers. They would be cooking “low and slow” all night, and while I didn’t want to leave for the fear of missing out on the action, it was well passed 1 AM when I walked back home. Somewhere between loading up the pork butts, getting a midnight snack, and going home, however, I decided to help the rest of the family…Don McLemore, great grandson of Big Bob himself was on coleslaw duty. I was up for the challenge and tilled several hundred pounds of shredded cabbage, carrots, onions, and peppers with quarts after quarts of mustard dressing and sugar into what would be served as coleslaw the next day.

photo by Nick Solares for Seriouseats.com

On the morning of Saturday June 13, folks started lining up for a chance to taste Big Bob Gibson’s pulled pork sandwich, but also to watch Chris Lilly in action hacking away at the meat. We ran out of pulled pork at around 4 PM, took a half an hour break, and started all over again unpacking, injecting, rubbing, and loading up the cookers with pork butts…and making more of that deliciously sweet, sour, and spicy mustard coleslaw for the next and last day of this amazing event.

Many times I’ve heard this 10-time World Champion pitmaster and most recently cookbook author Chris Lilly say, “barbecue is more than the meat off the grill. It is what you do while cooking outdoors and who you spend your time with. Barbecue is a celebration which if done right, culminates into a grand outdoor feast.”

signed copies here...reads like a memoir with award-winning recipes...fantastic!

…most humbling yet rewarding of culinary experiences I’ve ever had…

I made many friends that weekend during this most humbling yet rewarding of culinary experiences I’ve ever had…and the taste and texture of that tender, juicy pulled pork drizzled with the “winning competition sauce,” and served in a spongy soft bun is deeply ingrained in my mind. I look forward to my next encounter with my favorite “BBG” sandwich, but most of all I look forward to spending time with my friends (and the family!) next year when I’m back behind the pit.

AMEN!

Jeanne, "Mamie," about to celebrate her 100th birthday

Growing up in France meant spending time in the kitchen with Grandma…

I grew up in France’s Loire Valley in a little town called Blois. My parents owned a bar and worked all day and late into the evenings, and as a result I was often with my French grandmother, Jeanne (pronounced ZHAAN). On June 11th, 2009 she will be celebrating her 100th birthday. And while I will not be returning to France for her special day, she is on my mind. Growing up, I spent a lot of time in her kitchen, by her side, watching her cook. She no longer cooks today but the delicious scents that have permeated her kitchen over the years, I recall vividly.

I found great comfort in watching her cook anything and her food always tasted of love…she had that special touch, and I couldn’t wait to get out of school and run home to her everyday because of it. Her greeting was always the same…“que veux-tu manger au goûter?” And as she asked what I wanted for my afternoon snack, the butter was already melting to a hazelnut brown in her old blackened aluminum skillet. And with that she’d hand me a piece of fresh baguette that was crusty on the outside and soft on the inside. “Allez, manges ma cherie!” and I would scoop up that delicious browned butter with gusto.

A short, plump woman, always in a dress or skirt but never pants, with short light brown hair, Mamie (pronounced MAH-MEE), as I called her, had a wonderful go-by-feel approach to cooking.  Probably something she shares with many in her generation. She didn’t know it, but an important lesson I learned from her was to trust my instincts using all of my senses as she did when putting together her meals. These meals, though simple in preparation always included an appetizer, entree, salad, cheeses, and dessert with coffee, tea, or digestif…in that order. And while breakfast was served when ever I woke up, lunch was at exactly noon, and dinner at 7pm sharp by habit and not because we were hungry, necessarily. I used to watch her look at the clock to make sure she was on schedule. Slowly she’d turn away from what ever she happened to be doing at the moment (she loved bidding on horse races, for example, a favorite pass time in France) and put on one of her dainty colorful aprons, then off she’d be in perpetual motion until the table was set and the food was served.

boudin noir before crisping!

Mamie would always start by spreading the food she was about to prep on the kitchen table. As she opened each package, she would look at me and smile. The excitement on her face when she unwrapped boudin noir (black pudding, or blood sausage made with pork blood and fat) fresh from the local charcutier was such that she’d chuckle. Soon she’d reach under her kitchen sink to grab an onion from her basket. If it was nice out, Mamie would walk out onto her balcony overlooking her beautiful garden she’d taken years to plant. Her utensils were not fancy at all. They were the bare minimum…“ce qu’il faut!” In fact I remember her using a pairing knife to prep just about anything from chicken to carrots to herbs, and any number of ingredients. And so she stood over her table, either in the kitchen or on the balcony, peeling onions, cutting them in half, and slicing each half into thin, equal wedges, never using a cutting board, but holding on to the bulb with one hand while sliding the short blade through the layers with the other. Sweet or tart apples, depending on the kind she happened to have, would make it into the dish, peeled, cored, and unevenly cut.

That same skillet she would use to melt the butter for my goûter, Mamie would use to sautee the onions until caramelized. Transfering the onions to a plate, the apples would be next. Adding a little butter and a touch of sugar, especially if the apples were tart, the cut up apples were cooked down until soft and golden. I liked that the apple pieces were different sizes. As a result some were soft, and some less so for a nice contrast in texture. Like the onions, she would transfer the apples to the same plate. The boudin noir would make it into the skillet next, but only after Mamie would slice a piece off and taste it fresh, meaning precooked in simmering water. When the casing of the boudin noir was finally crispy and cracked open a bit, she would take it off the heat and serve it with the sweet golden onions and apples, seasoned with fleur de sel and freshly cracked black pepper. And like every kid growing up in France, I got to have wine with my meal…or water stained with Chinon!

If you asked her what the recipe was, Mamie would say “boudin noir, onion, pommes, sel et poivre…c’est tout!” So read carefully, the recipe is included here.

In the late nineties, I traveled to Cologne, Germany. A beautiful city located on the Rhine, it is known for its art scene and museums, and has a rich Roman history. I was there to lecture at the Fachhochschule Köln (University of Applied Sciences) about bamboo as a food to students who were using it as a building material.

My jolly good friend, Thomas (pronounced TOH-MAAS) was born and raised in Cologne, and though now currently living in the States (somewhere…he moves around a lot, sailing), has always talked about how much he enjoys going back home to visit. So proud are the people that the language, its inhabitants, and beverage, a top-of-the-barrel ale, are all referred to as Kölsch. When we’d get together, Thomas would tell stories of his life in Cologne and reminisce about sending his 6-year old son with a stein to his favorite spot, a well known brew pub called Paffgen Das Brauhaus. There every morning to fill the stein, the kid had already built a reputation as one of the regulars by the time his 7th birthday came around. Thomas, a tall and skinny man, grinned when he talked about how centrally located his home was, “ya, it’s just across from Paffgen…das ist gute!” I was more expecting to hear that his home was near Kölner Dom, the cathedral.

Kolsch at Paffgen

And so on my first evening in Cologne, my initiation to drinking the fizzy brew took place at Paffgen. Thomas was so excited to make me try his favorite beverage that Paffgen would quickly become one of many brew pubs that followed. He spoke about Kölsch, the way I talk about wine, with great passion. That night, I learned a lot about Paffgen or Kölsch in general. 1) the 8-ounce glass is filled every time you empty it…automatically, that is! And don’t dare refuse the refill or you’ll be dealing with one nasty look from your waiter; 2) it always has the perfect head of 1-inch (see pic!); 3) it is drunk at room temperature; 4) it is served out of the barrel fresh and lasts exactly 72 hours at which point any leftover is wasted, if not the customer; and 5) if you really must end the drinking fest, place the coaster on top of the glass…and please no exchange with your waiter, especially if words like “no,” and “stop,” are included. Oh and 6) be sure to take off very very soon—I cannot emphasize this enough—after you’ve finished drinking to make room for customers who REALLY appreciate this fine beverage.

Paffgen is also a place for food, and Thomas always talked about pig’s knuckle and being the adventurous eater that I am, I was ready for some chow after all that ale. He promised a “bubbly gute” dish, and with that I let him order dinner. What came was a 2-pound pig’s knuckle, x2, one for him and one for me. Thomas dug in immediately. Staring at the massive boiled chunk on my plate I simply had to ask Thomas “when you say bubbly…hmm, what exactly do you mean?” and he, food-in-mouth, explained that the little pores in the pig skin filled with juicy fat was the best part. As far as I could see, it was the ONLY part. And so I dug in for some of the bubbly goodness! At about a quarter of the way through, noticing he had finished his, I asked “would you like to finish mine?” to which he responded “oh no…I’m full.”

The next evening he took me to Maximillian’s, another brew pub. It’s important to note here that Kölsch can be tangy, sweet, or bitter depending on where you drink it. So take your time while in Cologne and go brauhaus hopping for the full experience…and if you still have time the museums are quite lovely too. But I digress…so back at “Max’s” while drinking our Kölsch, we looked at the menu. On it was listed pferdefleisch, horsemeat. As a child in France, I ate a lot of horse steaks, and up until recently, there were a lot of butchers specializing in this delicacy. Lean like buffalo, but more flavorful, I ordered horse steak which came with delicious pan-fried potatoes. After enjoying my meal, and many a drinks later, I struck up a conversation with the brewmaster, telling him how much I had enjoyed the meal. Naturally I had to ask “tell me, where do you get your horsemeat?” Getting ready to take the address of the butcher down on paper, he responded…”Texas!”

My comfort food may be different from yours, but the instant warm and fuzzy feeling we get when we eat what comforts us, must be mutual. It’s an all around good feeling that lingers at least until the last bite and perhaps a little beyond. My comfort food often takes me back to my childhood memories…

I’ve had a recurring dream since I was a little girl of my Chinese grandmother in Cambodia. It goes something like this…I’m about two years old, dressed in a lacy white top with black pants, my soft black hair in pig tails bouncing as I sway my head back and forth. Smiling and cute as a button with dimples in my cheeks, I kneel in front of a small chair, awaiting my grandmother. Huong is her name, and she appears to be walking from the kitchen toward me. In her hands, she carries a big bowl of freshly made rice noodles with ground pork and dried shrimp set afloat a steamy crystal clear broth. Fragrant with freshly torn saw leaf, scallions, preserved cabbage, and bean sprouts, and drizzled with garlic oil and a freshly squeezed wedge of lime, it’s called kwayteo, my favorite noodle soup. She sets the bowl on the seat of the chair which is just tall enough for me to reach comfortably while propped up on my knees. Bamboo chopsticks in hand with ceramic Chinese spoon in the other, I proceed to eat my noodles, slurping them while sipping the broth loudly. It’s a good dream.

My parents, older brother, and I left Cambodia when I was just shy of three years old. We had moved there from France when I was barely six months old. I don’t remember a thing about my childhood in Cambodia, yet this dream has haunted me for decades. A few years ago, I finally admitted to my mother that I had been having this dream for years.  When I asked her about it, she mentioned that when we were kids, we were not allowed to talk at the table. The adults talked, and we, the kids, listened. My parents always reminisced about life in Phnom Penh, and it was most likely during these family meals that I started picking up on details from stories told. For the longest time I thought it was all made up, but she reassured me that on many occasions, my grandmother served me food, and that it was very likely that she served kwayteo, which I’ve been having just about every Sunday—come rain or shine, whether it is hot or cold outside—ever since I can remember.

When I asked my mom why that dream was always in black and white, she told me that it was most likely because many of our family photographs of Cambodia were in black and white.

CT’S KWAYTEO
serves 6

2 pounds ground pork
1/2 cup medium dried shrimp, soaked in water for 20 minutes and drained
8 scallions, 4 trimmed and crushed, and 4 trimmed and thinly sliced
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 head garlic, cloves peeled and minced
1 cup preserved Tien Tsin cabbage (optional)
1 cup coarsely chopped culantro or cilantro leaves
4 red Thai chilies, stems and seeds removed, pods thinly sliced
2 cups fresh mung bean or soybean sprouts
1 lime or lemon, sliced into 6 wedges lengthwise
1 pound rice sticks, soaked in water until pliable
Fish sauce

Bring 3 quarts water in a stockpot to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to low. Working in batches, put some pork into a ladle, and breaking the meat up with a spoon, release it into the water. Repeat with the remaining meat, and add the shrimp and crushed scallions. Continue to simmer the stock, partially covered, until reduced by 1 quart, about 3 hours.

In a small sauce pan heat the oil over medium heat and fry the garlic until golden. Remove from heat and transfer to a small heatproof bowl.

Place the sliced scallions, cabbage (if using), cilantro, chilies, lime or lemon wedges, and sprouts, in individual bowls. Place on the table with the garlic oil.

In a large pot of boiling water, cook the noodles until just tender, about 30 seconds. Drain and divide among 6 large Chinese soup bowls. Add broth making sure to add some ground pork and dried shrimp. Instruct your guests to garnish their soups according to taste with some scallions, cabbage, cilantro, chilies, sprouts, and fried garlic, and squeeze a lime or lemon wedge on top. Adjust seasoning with fish sauce if desired.

Note: often times, my father eats the soup dry, meaning the broth is served on the side in a small bowl as opposed to being added to the noodles and its garnishes.