"ANOTHER MARTINI FOR MOTHER CABRINI"

If you find yourself in Chicago you might very well see this fine mural of Muddy Waters, one of the godfathers of Chicago Blues:

I can’t remember who first said that the Blues is an empty, transparent vessel into which you pour yourself.  The rudiments are simple, can be quickly learned, and the moment you start playing you reveal yourself completely. If you have the soul of a suburbanite that will show.  If you’re touched by the Muses, that will immediately show too. 

And so it is with the martini glass, a transparent, empty vessel into which the bartender pours his or her soul.

Yes I have been in Chicago. I was alone and in the evenings I was enjoying some “melancholy man sits alone at the bar with a martini” moments. This one was at the Congress Hotel.  

It was so-so. As hotel martinis often are.  There may be a few guys working in hotel bars who pour their souls into their work, but they’re rare.

This next one was at Miller’s Pub, on Wabash Avenue, made by an old and caring Latino guy, and considerably better.

And the one below was consumed at the Exchequer, also on Warbash and made by an East European female bartender.  

I suppose the non-standard martini glass could be considered subversive, and the cocktail stick in the shape of a sword could be knowingly kitsch, though I’m not sure.

But then, and hold onto your cocktail napkins, I went to Rudy’s Bar and Grille on Madison Street – (also “Home of the famous Martini Milkshake” which I didn’t investigate).

And I was asked by the woman behind the bar who’s name was Ally (it was on the bill) whether I wanted my martini shaken or stirred!!  Holy Wabash! That’s an absolute first, a hit right out of the park before we’ve even started. I was also asked what kind of gin I wanted – Hendricks, and if I wanted my olives stuffed with blue cheese (I did not).  It looked like this:

It was so good, complete with the oh-so-necessary and oh-so-rare gin meniscus (which I know you can't really see in my picture). It was just wonderful, everything a man or woman might ever want in a martini.  I don’t know Ally and she doesn’t know me, but if her soul is as fine as the martini she made, then she is one of the Chosen.  The drink cost $14.50, and yes in other circumstances I might have said ouch to that.

And you know a part of me realized that it was folly to go back to Rudy’s the next night, I knew there’d be disappointment, but I did go back.  And when I sat down at the bar a fellow patron told me it was martini special night, but I didn’t know what that meant.  I wasn’t served by Ally, it was another woman, and I wasn’t offered a choice of shaken or stirred, or of gin or even of olive.  And it came with no meniscus.  It looked like this:

In most other circumstances it would have been considered a very superior martini.  And since it was martini special night, it only cost $7. Can you put a price on your soul? Yep about $7.50.

TWENTY FIVE OR SIX TO FOUR

I'm going to Chicago for a spree.  I think it'll be good, but I think it won't look like this, alas:

EAT THE HEAD

Let’s imagine, for reasons too complicated to explain, that you happen to own a largish Hulk Hogan cake pan (maybe 15 inches across) that looks like this:

Actually I’ve always thought it looked like Will Ferrell. And let's imagine one day you think to yourself, “You know, I’ll bet I could use that thing as a jelly mould.”  Even as you think that, you’re pretty sure it’ll never work, you’ll end up with a big mess, but heck, it’s only jelly.

So you get the pan and you get some pineapple slices and you add some “grape” flavored jelly and you put it in the fridge, and you hope for the best and you’re still thinking it’ll never work.  But look at this.  Out it popped without too much trouble.  Hey, sometimes I surprise myself as well as other people.

 I didn't have a plate that was anywhere near big enough to hold the finished article.   Many people have said, cut off the head and the body will die, but since this body was never really alive it didn’t seem such a big deal.  And yes, that’s lime sorbet adding the final touch.

MORE POTATO MADNESS

I’ve been thinking about spuds again, and the local Vons had these red white and blue potatoes – all-American and patriotic, though I understand there may be other countries in the world that have red white and blue in their flags

I started by boiling them.  And you know, even before I started I knew those blue potatoes were going to be a problem. I’ve cooked them before in “potato medlies” and I know they always cook faster than the other types.  And if I’d had my wits about me I’d have tossed them into the boiling water later than the others.  But I didn’t.  Call me a fool.  And then I sautéed them in goose fat with rosemary. Other than the blues being a bit soggy, they were pretty darned good, if I say so myself.

And then I saw something concerning that TV series The Deuce, the one about sex and porn in New York in the 70s.  Having seen some pornographers at very close quarters, it seems to me that Maggie Gyllenhaal is not the most convincing pornographer (pornographeuse?).  James Franco on the other hand is quite sleazily credible.

One of the show's writers, Richard Price, has been spreading the word that Campbell’s potato soup was used on camera as a substitute for semen.  He says, somewhat ironically, “I guess it took the stress off multiple takes of the ‘money shot’ although there was a certain risk in regards to excessive starch. I wonder if it boosted sales of canned vichyssoise in Times Square.”

           It seems to me there’s plenty enough real semen in the world without having to use fake stuff.  There’s long been a semen cookbook, and I discover there’s now a semen cocktail book.  Ah me.  I wonder if they're using soup on this cover shot.

So obviously I went out and bought some Campbell’s cream of potato soup. And really it was so bland that it didn’t much taste of anything at all, which I suppose was the whole point as far as the makers of The Deuce  were concerned.

On the other hand it did have all those little chunks of potato in it (one still had a bit of skin on).  I suppose it was somebody’s job on the set to pick out those chunks.  Oh, the glamor of the movies.

THE GRASS IS SOMETIMES GREENER

      And speaking of the importance of presentation when it comes to jelly, and the difficulties of finding the right kind of mould; a couple of winsome interns sauntered into the Psychogourmet Test Kitchen the other day, brandishing this can of Grass Jelly, an Asian, in this case Taiwanese, dessert.

It’s officially made from Platostama plustre, aka Chinese mesona, a member of the mint family though it tasted nothing like mint.  It was put in the fridge for 24 hours – nobody told me to do that, it just seemed like a good idea – and when it was opened it looked like this, which frankly wasn’t so very decorative:

Anyway what else was there to do except cut it into chunks, put in on a plate, pour a little cream over it, and hope for the best?

       It seems idle to say it tasted like grass because I have never eaten grass, but it certainly tasted very herbal; not much immediate flavor but an aftertaste that lingered for hours.

But you know, getting jelly out of a can seemed just a little unadventurous so I decided to make one of my own:  orange Jell-O poured over a can of crushed pineapple.

But you know, that didn’t look very adventurous either so I decided to add some food coloring. 

I poked about in it with a fork, and I had in mind that there might be some marbling, something like this:

But there wasn’t. 

And when it was chilled and set, it ended up looking sort of like a burned rice pudding though obviously it tasted nothing like that.

In fact it didn’t really taste much of either orange or pineapple, though it was good enough, and with a spoonful of lemon sorbet it definitely tasted better than the grass jelly though I’m totally well aware that these things are culturally specific.

HOT COLES

So we went to Cole’s (118 6th Street, downtown Los Angeles) which proclaims itself to be “Originator of the French Dip Sandwich.”  This is the beef, which seems to me the only true French Dip, but other options are certainly possible.

Philippe The Original, less than a mile and a half away, also makes claims to be the begetter of the French Dip.  I have no dog in that origins fight, but on the day it seemed to me that the Philippe version is slightly superior sandwich, although the vibe and the décor at Cole’s is much better.

Not least of the good things at Cole’s is this plaque in the gents:

Although now that I think about it, I’m sure that Charles Bukowski was the kind of guy who pissed everywhere.

SWIFTLY FLY THE BEERS

   

Sometimes a man has to search long and hard before he finds the drink that entirely suits and expresses his personality.  Other times he just wanders into a Japanese supermarket and buys a beer, pretty much at random, and it gets him to a t.

And so it proves with Kawaba Sunrise Ale, or at least with the words on the label, in small print 

I’ll take a pass on the “malty and crisp” but “with mild bitterness” - hell yeah - that’s me all over.

Kawaba Sunrise Ale, c’est moi.

WHERE IS YOUR LUSTRE NOW?

I was thumbing through an old copy of Gastronomica magazine and came across this staggeringly fine ad for Tryphosa jelly dessert.  

I had never heard of Tryphosa which apparently is also the name of a woman in the Bible, but the spelling is alarmingly close to Typhosa, which is a form of salmonella.  I suppose people worried less about salmonella back then.

The Tryphosa ad is in fact so great, shining with the light of Liberty, that it’s hard to imagine the taste could possibly live up to it.  Compare and contrast with the aesthetic aspirations of the current Jell-O pack.  Not so much to live up to there.

And I did find ads for a jelly dessert named Bromangelon (which sounds like a bromance between cro-magnons). Their use of imagery was more modest still. 

The fact is, when it comes to jelly, presentation means a lot.  When I was growing up, we had jelly all the time, although my mother only approved of strawberry flavor, and she made it in a Pyrex mold much like the one used in the Bromangelon ad and as seen below.  She never tried to unmold it, and present it freestanding. I assume she’d tried at some point, possibly before I was born, and she’d had more than enough failures.

         Of course the Pyrex was the problem, glass being a poor conductor of heat, so the classic move of dipping the mold in hot water to free the jelly inside wasn’t going to do much good.

I’ve been sniffing around looking for exotic and eccentric jelly molds.  Bompas and Barr are the bosses of this kind of thing, but theirs are bespoke, and in the “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it” category.

I did find the one below, which has its appeal, but it might offend more people than it amuses, even if you could say it’s an allusion to La Grand Bouffe.

I guess the real problem with jelly molds, as with my brain version below, is that they're amusing once, but only once.

But I did find one (I mean I found pictures of it online, it seems you’re unlikely to find one in the real world outside of a museum) that might be entertaining for quite a while

It’s a Wedgewood jelly mold in the shape of an obelisk.  What you’re seeing there is an an outer form and an inner core.  The latter sits inside the former, and you fill the mold with clear jelly – it has to be clear to show the pattern.  I think it might take quite a while to get bored with that.

MORE SPUD LORE

So I went back to Franklin and Company to have their waffle cut duck fries.  They were good, although you could easily have imagined something gamier and more duck-intense.  I suppose I was thinking of goose fat, which I know costs more than duck fat, though I’m not entirely sure why: roast yourself a goose and the fat just pours out - enough to   satisfy most of your fat needs for at least the next year.

Even so, it’s really it’s all about the potatoes, and my idea for a grand and quixotic book titled something like The Secret Life of the Spud hasn’t been completely abandoned.  And so, being the freewheeling researcher that I am, I Googled “potato+porn.” In a world of “food porn” and “ruin porn” I thought this might be quite innocent, and in the main it was.  

There’s even a (rather neglected) tumblr site:  
http://potatopornpotatoporn.tumblr.com
It has very few words, though there are links to recipes and pictures like this one:

But the world being as it is, my googling also brought up quite a few pictures (more of men that of women) doing ill-advised things with potatoes – pretty much the opposite of eating them.  Here is a more decorous image (which I suppose is actually selling the handbag), by James Piatt and Ted Walton, though those names took some finding.

And I did discover that there’s a (completely unpornographic) Potato Museum in Munich - Das Kartoffelmuseum.  I’ve been to Munich – how did I miss that?  In that museum they have one of these things:

       It’s a ceremonial vessel, dedicated to, possibly in the shape of,  "Axomama" – the Andean potato goddess.  There’s a lot to be said about these things, and The History and Social Influence of the Potato by Radcliffe Salaman says a fair amount: human sacrifice and mutilation of the upper lip seem to have been involved.

       It now seems that I might not get to the Idaho Potato Museum, after all, so here’s a picture of their prime exhibit, what they say is the world’s largest potato chip, measuring 25 inches across - though in fact as you can see, it’s actually a giant Pringle: 

Now I’d have thought Pringles were so “constructed” you could make them any size you wanted. Why stop at 25 inches? You could have one ten feet across.  But more than that, the Honorable Justice Warren, British High Court Judge, has declared that Pringles do not met the legal definition of a “potato crisp” at all, since they’re made from potato flour, corn flour, wheat starch and rice flour together with fat and emulsifier, salt and seasoning, with a potato content of a mere 42%.  Quite right, Judge.