Bluth bananas in LA

We went to Los Angeles a few weeks ago. We did many things, and most of them involved eating. In between mouthfuls of food, we occasionally managed to converse with our friends Jake and Lexi. Here we are at the Farmer's Market, eating perhaps the most well-documented chocolate-covered frozen bananas EVER:*

There's no way to eat a frozen banana suavely. You just have to go for it, assuming a position not unlike the Al's-Italian-Beef-Eating Stance: hunched forward, raining detritus all over yourself and on the floor, gnawing away.

Bananas and I have a complicated relationship: I never ever eat them, except in airports. (There's quite a bit of neurosis lurking behind that statement, but I'll save the explanation for another date.) I don't care for that pasty texture. But, like raisins, I enjoy bananas when they've been gently coddled in a nice warm bath of butter and sugar, and even better, lots of booze. In LA, I learned that I really like them frozen, too. The pastiness becomes rich and creamy, and dark chocolate tempers all that fruity sweetness.

Jake was full of great suggestions for us, so during our short stay we managed to eat piles of strawberry pancakes and huevos rancheros at The Alcove (where everyone was extraordinarily good looking); heaps of yummy spaghetti and meatballs at Il Capriccio; out of control gelato at Pazzo Gelato; strange BLTs in the middle of the night at Piper's; and last but not least, an enormous box of Stan's Donuts. Their specialty? Imagine a glob of peanut butter squished into the pocket where the jelly would usually be, and you get the idea. One bite, and you too will come to believe in the power of the chocolate chip peanut butter donut.

*Except for the Bluths', of course.

The Egg

Marcel from Top Chef always irked me, but that didn't stop me from poring over his biography on the Bravo website with a voyeur's delight. Initially I found his response to the "What is your go-to ingredient?" question unspeakably pretentious: "The Egg." With Its Unnecessary Capitalization and All. But it stuck in my head. Months later, I'm still thinking about it.

The Egg.

I must give the man some credit. It's true. The Egg is fascinating. The Egg is also mind-numbingly versatile. The Egg strides purposefully from breakfast to lunch to dinner and onwards to dessert with ease. The color, the flavor, the textural possibilities ...and let's not forget that shell. Eggshells are both works of art and feats of engineering. (Although I have not yet read it, Michel Roux's book apparently does great justice to this ingredient.)

Yes. The Egg.

Recently we had too many eggs rapidly approaching their expiration date. Hard-boiling is always a solid way to buy some time, of course, and Chinese tea eggs are a great twist. They are only marginally more complicated than the usual recipe, which in my family goes something like this after an unfortunate incident a few summers ago:

"Drop eggs in boiling water. Try not to forget and go out for ice cream sundaes, only to return hours later to find a scorched pot, a shrieking smoke detector, and every kitchen wall pasted with exploded egg bits."

And Chinese tea eggs produce far more striking results:

I like to eat these eggs straight up, with just a bit of salt. I think this complements the admittedly subtle flavors that are imparted by the boiling liquid. You'll miss out if you dose each egg with a tablespoon of mayonnaise and a hit of paprika. Just keep it simple.

Chinese Tea Eggs
4 eggs, previously hard-boiled
3 bags black tea (I just used PG Tips; loose tea is fine too)
2 T. soy sauce
4 star anise
1 cinnamon stick
1/2 t. Sichuan peppercorns (optional)
A little orange peel (optional)
Approx. 3 cups of water

Use the back of a spoon to lightly crack the shells of the hard-boiled eggs. This creates the marbling effect that will emerge later. Place eggs in pot and add all ingredients except water. (If you are using tea in bags, open bags and empty tea leaves directly into pot). Add water to cover. Bring to boil, then reduce heat and simmer gently, 1.5 to 2 hours. Remove from heat and let stand in liquid one more hour. Remove eggs from liquid, allow to cool, and peel. Rinse them if they are covered with tea leaves, and serve.

Lillet

Have you ever had Lillet? Have you ever heard of Lillet?

I mostly hadn't. I am generally intimidated by aperitifs and digestifs, and all I had to go on was a vague notion that Lillet fell into one of those categories. The only drink of this ilk with which I felt remotely comfortable was Suze, a bright yellow, bitter aperitif made from the root of the wild gentian flower. I got to know Suze through my friend Manina, who typically begins a night on the town in Paris with un petit Suze, despite (or perhaps because of) her awareness that Suze is not a particularly fashionable beverage for young swinging Parisian gals. I suspect her of revelling a bit in the waiter's double-take when she places her order.

"What's the deal here?" I asked one night. "What's with all the funny looks?"

"Suze is for old people," she explained. I have no way of confirming this since I no longer live in France, but it appears that one Christian Lacroix designed a few limited edition bottles for good old Suze a few years ago. Maybe it isn't quite the musty old tonic that I imagine?

Soon I too would be on the receiving end of the waiterly double-take. One night we were at an amusing bar with a vast drink list, and I decided it was time to branch out and try Lillet. I'd read an essay somewhere expounding on the drink's delicious qualities and, like many things food-related, it had stuck in my head. (At this very moment, for example, Poco Dolce bittersweet chocolate tiles, Aztec Chile flavor, are stuck in my head. I dreamt about them last night, for God's sake. Somebody help me.)

"I'd like a Lillet," I said.
"A WHAT??" asked our charmingly pageboyed waitress.
"A Lillet?" I asked, speedily losing confidence. "It's...um...I actually have no idea what it is."
"Do we even have it?"
"Well, it's on your menu, right here."
"Hmm. Never heard of it. I'll check with the bartender."

[Five minutes elapse. She returns.]

"Would you like Rouge or Blanc?"
"Um...I don't know. Blanc I guess."
"Ok! This is a learning experience for me too!" she said chirpily.

Too late, I already felt like an ass. After a few soothing sips of Lillet Blanc, however, my shame was forgotten and I was hooked. Blanc has a light, lovely, citrus flavor that always brings to mind summer weather--at least, summer weather in places other than San Francisco. (My summer requires the repeated donning of a fake-fur-trimmed parka and the occasional set of mittens.) Lillet Blanc is not tooth-wrenchingly sweet, nor is it fist-clenchingly strong. It is a blend of wines and fruit-macerated liqueurs made with various types of oranges. Unfortunately, my adoration does not extend to Lillet Rouge, Blanc's vampy, brothel-red cousin. I've tried, I really have, but I just can't stop thinking, "This tastes a lot like Manischewitz." And I don't know anything about aperitifs, but I'm pretty certain that's not a good thing.

At home I serve Lillet Blanc over ice, and it gently dulls the pain of whatever solemn pre-dinner activity I might be participating in, such as paying bills or listening to Bush saying anything at all over the radio. And for the knowing Lillet fan, even dinner is optional. The company's website features a subsection entitled, "Lillet ...As a Meal". How did they know?!