Hot Douggin' it

A few days ago, Randy and I exercised our rights as Unshackled (read: Unemployed) People Who Take Lengthy, Indulgent Lunches and drove over to Hot Doug's to sample a couple of extraordinary examples of encased meats.

This was only my second visit to Hot Doug's, but it's the kind of place where you sit down, take one bite of your food and begin wondering whether it might be possible for you to undertake a thoroughly researched and highly scientific study of exactly everything on their menu. Could I do it? I think so, yes, if one of my loyal readers is willing to underwrite the cost of a lifetime supply of Pravachol.

Speaking of which, the foie gras levels in my system had grown perilously low since my departure from Paris (seriously, my hands were shaking, my breathing jagged, etc.), so I felt obligated to replenish my body's fatty duck liver stores by ordering the weekly special: Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Sauce Moutarde, Goat Cheese and Foie Gras "Butter".

Let me repeat that. Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Sauce Moutarde, Goat Cheese and Foie Gras "Butter".

I admit, I was skeptical. I thought it sounded overdone, too Baroque, too embellished, too American. Sort of like that last sentence. But in this case, Mae West was right: too much of a good thing can be wonderful. Doug is a master. The sausage was rich and robust with duck flavor; the moutarde was thick with flecks of black truffle, and the hearty chunks of goat cheese sprinkled atop the dog mirrored the texture of the foie gras without overpowering it.

Before living in Paris, such a meal might have posed problems for me. I would have eaten slowly and lacked confidence, worried about the impending gastronomic implications of eating so much fatty stuff. But now, after my Olympic food training, I knocked back that dog in about five minutes and snarfed down way more than my fair share of cheese fries, even though the cheese topping was of the inferior variety that I kvetched about in an earlier post.

I vaguely recall that Randy ordered a chorizo sausage topped with mole and chihuahua cheese. I'm sure it was great, but my tastebuds were too riveted on my meal to notice.

What did I order again? Oh yeah. FOIE GRAS AND SAUTERNES DUCK SAUSAGE WITH TRUFFLE SAUCE MOUTARDE, GOAT CHEESE AND FOIE GRAS BUTTER.

Ohhh yeahhh.

Nerds and food together at last

Unlike San Fran and Paris, there just don't seem to be many food blogs based in Chicago. This is odd cause Chicago is one of the best food cities I know. There are plenty of people here who are obsessed with eating (a quick perusal of the LTH Forum proves this), but perhaps they just don't feel the need to blather on about it like I do. Even my blog barely qualifies, since I haven't spent much time in Chicago lately and don't eat at many interesting places cause I'm stuck in the suburbs. Out of some strange sense of Midwestern loyalty, I'm currently compiling a list, so if you know of any, post them in the comments below.

FoodNerd maintains a genuine Chicago food blog, so I was excited to receive this swell party invitation from her last month while I was still mistily munching on Pierre Herme's pastries in Paris:

"We're deep frying anything we can get our hands on, next Saturday night."

Clearly we had much in common, and showing up at a stranger's house with a six-pack and something that might benefit from an oil-soaked swim - pickles, Twinkies, whatever - seemed like a perfect way to dive right back into the Chicago food scene.

As I packed up my apartment I fantasized about the possibilities. Mostly I dreamt of deep-frying candy: Whoppers, York Peppermint Patties, marshmallows. I could coat the marshmallows in panko - but would they just dissolve into nothing? Would the center of the Whoppers retain their crunch?

Sadly, a conflict arose and I couldn't attend the fryer festivities. But we still managed to meet up for dinner last week at Moon Palace, a Shanghainese place that FN had scoped out. It's located in Chinatown, an area of the city that I want to love, but which inevitably leaves me feeling depressed. It's dreary down there; grim and glum and sort of forgotten, while the skyscrapers of the city skyline twinkle off in the distance.

But Moon Palace is cheery on the inside, so I promptly forgot about the empty streets and started studying the menu. I had written out a list of recommendations but of course had forgotten it the car.

"Crap. I forgot my list," I muttered.
"That's okay. I have an agenda," FN replied.

Anybody that enters a restaurant with an agenda is somebody that I want to know. She knows her way around Shaghainese cuisine, and before you could say "baby eels" we had five dishes in front of us.

Do you know about soup dumplings? I'd never had one, but people always swoon and rave about them, so they comprised my agenda for the evening. [Insert swooning and raving here.] So, so good. Moon Palace's version are stuffed with ginger and scallions and I don't know what else. Maybe crack. That's the only way to explain why I couldn't stuff them in my mouth fast enough.

We also tried the pork shank, which was served on a giant bone and rested in a pool of rich, caramelly sauce; rice noodles with Chinese pickles, pork and bamboo; shrimp in clear sauce, and bite-sized spare ribs that had a whiff of five spice about them.

It was a great night of food and converation that produced a hefty amount of leftovers for both of us. Can't argue with that.

Polish reunion

After three weeks at home, I felt almost entirely settled back into my post-Paris, pre-San Fran existence. But something was missing. I felt empty, and I couldn't quite put my finger on why. Then one day I found myself heading east on Lake in Wilmette around lunchtime, and realized that I had not yet snarfed down a polish sausage since my return. I felt like a parent that forgets their child's birthday.

I veered right and zoomed into the Irving's Red Hots parking lot. I'm not really a polish sausage snob; sure, some are better than others, but Irving's is more than adequate for my needs. I've been going there since I was about eight, and I swear the same guys have been behind the counter the whole time.

I ordered my usual: polish sausage with everything, cheese fries and a diet Coke, and scurried back home (Irving's has no ambiance to speak of; frankly I'd rather eat in my car then in the restaurant itself). There are only two issues at stake for me when it comes to the polish sausage meal:

1) When I order my sausage "with everything", I do not mean ketchup. This is a controversial issue for many Chicagoans, and I believe the mustard-only directive has its roots in the city's historic preparation of German sausages (I could certainly confirm this with two minutes of Googling, but I am feeling extremely lazy at the moment). When you are used to eating a polish avec moutarde, the addition of ketchup seems like a sweet, sugary affront to the balance of flavors.

2) The cheese that covers the fries must be of superior quality. There seem to be two types of cheddar sauce available in the Vienna Beef stands around the city: one is smooth, slippery and bland, and the other is chunky (almost grainy), tangy and clumpy. I prefer the latter.

Irving's fulfills both of these requirements, so they have earned a place in my polish pantheon. Maybe I'm just getting a little too grabby here, but I also think it's an extremely good sign if the polish's paper bag begins to bleed grease in the ten minute drive back home.

Greasy bag.

Polish with everything.

Cheese fries of superior quality.

I hunkered down with my dog, my fries, and my diet soda (stop laughing) and then added another Chicago product to the mix to complete my lunch: the Jerry Springer show.

I think I prefer the polish.

Yes, I went to the Chicago Chocolate Eating Contest

And no, I did not compete.

You can read the story on Sugar Savvy; please check it out, because ...well, it was a really funny experience.

Here's a preview:

Living like a pig

Culinary Fool posted recently about a new Seattle-based blog called The Life of a Pig, which is written by Tamara Murphy, the chef and owner of Brasa.

This is a restaurant that I have only experienced through its half-priced happy hour bar menu. I fuzzily recall ordering their cheese plate in a pathetically tardy attempt to counteract the effects of a dizzying progression of lemon drops that I managed to guzzle during a delightful afternoon with my friend Jen last spring.

But that doesn't matter. Life of a Pig is meant to bring us into closer contact with the meat we eat by chronicling the lifecycles of pigs raised on the Whistling Train Farm in Kent, WA. Right now they're piglets, but after eight weeks they'll weigh 100 pounds and will be ready for slaughter. Their journey will end in Tamara's restaurant. Hopefully her blog will help educate us about the importance of supporting small farmers and sustainable practices, and will bring us closer to the real animals that give up their lives for our nourishment.

I'll be reading...

Out of breath, thanks to my wok

Right before I left Chicago last summer, I bought Grace Young's Breath of a Wok. I only made one recipe - Szechwan Peppercorn Chicken - but it was so good that the cookbook has haunted me for the last six months, and I've told everyone I know to buy it. After returning home, I finally got the chance to make a dinner featuring three of her dishes, after going on a short shopping spree at the new Golden Pacific Market on Broadway. The owner there is really friendly, and obligingly helped me locate ingredients like black soy sauce and shaoxing rice wine.

I haven't done much Chinese cooking in general, unless you count all the hippie stir-fries featuring burned brown rice and undercooked broccoli that we assembled in college. Um, yeah, that doesn't even come close to counting. I was surprised by the amount of prep work involved; I started chopping and cleaning at 3:30 and didn't get dinner on the table until 6:30. But once everything was assembled, I fired up the wok as hot as the burner could go and started throwing things in.

I don't think my parents' stove had ever seen such excitement. My poor grandma kept trying to engage me in a conversation, but I was so distracted by the heat and the flames and the endless tiny bowls of mise en place that she eventually gave up and went home, muttering, "Things are getting pretty scary in here" under her breath as she left. Sorry, Yi Yah.

The spicy eggplant was the clear winner with my family, but I have a soft, smooshy spot in my heart for soft, smooshy tofu dishes like Margaret Loo's Braised Tofu and Mushrooms. The texture winds up being similar to scrambled eggs, and oddly enough I have learned that many people find this quality unappealing. Oh well, more for me!

Cookbooks rarely elicit particularly strong reactions from me (maybe because I have so many, I never stick with each one long enough to fall in love!), but Alice Medrich's Bittersweet and Breath of a Wok are two clear standouts from the past year. These women have done their homework, and the results are delicious.

Ray Lee's Chicken and Choy Sum.

Spicy Garlic Eggplant.

Margaret Loo's Braised Tofu and Mushrooms.

Touching down in Chicago

I'm back home again. So far, it's been a weird combination of comfortable familiarity and uncomfortable unfamiliarity. They changed the nickels on me. When did that happen? Why wasn't I informed?

On the plane home, I was seated next to a Frenchman bearing an uncanny resemblance to Vegetable Lasagna. This was enough to keep me occupied and amused for the eight hour and forty-five minute flight, because I am a simpleton. I passed the time by sneaking glances at him and giggling to myself, imagining Elaine berating Puddy for "making time with some floozy across the aisle." And before I knew it, we were coming in for a landing over the Rosemont Horizon, where I rocked out to INXS in seventh grade. I was pretty cool then, with my perm and all.

I immediately dragged my boyfriend to Bittersweet Bakery, out of some sick need to attempt to replicate Paris in Illinois. I didn't really succeed. It's a perfectly lovely bakery, but the chocolate macarons I tried seemed chewy and slightly stale, probably because nobody orders them. My boyfriend's turtle tart was good but tasted tooth-achingly sweet to me. I felt a little crestfallen, but it was my own fault. I just need to stick with our strengths: pizza, polish sausage, spicy food, Mexican, milkshakes at Homer's and so forth.

The Chicago readjustment has made me feel like Alice in Wonderland. My bowl of pho at Tank Noodle seemed ridiculously enormous, almost the size of a bathtub. The scale of everything here is just so giant. The cars, the skyscrapers, the people, the portions. Even the discussions are big. At lunch the other day, my fellow diners at Opart Thai seemed to be shouting at one another. I could hear their entire conversation across the room. "Are they being really noisy, or am I just used to extremely hushed conversations?" I asked my boyfriend. "A little of both," he replied.

It's also been hard to shake the "hello" habit. In Paris, you're expected to greet the clerks in every shop. If you fail to do this, they think you're an asshole. It's become so ingrained that yesterday, I chirped a cheery hello after walking into a big, gloomy Vietnamese supermarket on Broadway. The bored-looking checkout girl just glanced at me briefly and then looked away, presumably unimpressed by what seemed like my desperate attempt to make friends.

Other than that, it's back to life as usual, except now I have to find a job. But of course this means there will be lots of culinarily-induced procrastination in my near future, so check back. I might even post a good recipe or two...