Better III: The Opposite of Everything

(This is the third section of a three part essay) Part I Part II / Part III

In April I swallowed a camera.  This was a first for me.  I’ve eaten strands of pollen, jellyfish, and sliced tongue, but never a camera. Once, I tried to eat a drinking glass, but I was four then.  I know better now.  Certain things are not food.  So I was naturally suspicious when the doctor asked me to swallow a plastic capsule about the size of a .38 round.  The clear bubble-shaped window in the front reminded me of the submarine from the Fantastic Voyage.  The doctor assured me that the miniaturization process that shrunk the camera would not wear off in transit.

The doctor wasn’t sure the capsule endoscopy would reveal anything, but this was the only test left.  That’s a bad sign, right?  The last test. If they didn’t find anything, I’d be a medical mystery, a helpless case, or someone who was just ‘making it up’.  But I’m a diagnostic junkie, so I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have 10,000+ photos taken of my insides.  I couldn’t pass it up. I couldn’t leave just one option unexplored.

“It might get stuck,” the doctor said.  “One percent of patients need to have the camera removed surgically.”  This risk was greater for me, because I was diabetic and presumed to have gastroparesis, a slow stomach. There was talk about taking Reglan to speed up my stomach, but he decided against it because of the potential side-effects, which include irreversible neurological damage.

This turned out to be wise.  He called me the next day, his usual nonplussed self.  “Not much to report,” he said.  Deep sigh.  He focused on the positives. The ulcers had cleared up.  Everything else looked clear and healthy.  “Oh,” he added as if it were an afterthought. “There was one surprise.  The camera went through your stomach in about three minutes.”

“Is that normal?”

Food is supposed to stay in your stomach for two to four hours. That is if you have a normal stomach. As the doctor switched from talking about  gastroparesis to tachygastria, a slow stomach to a fast one, I had to do a double take. How is this not new information?  How is this not the opposite of everything?  The doctor explained, somewhat sheepishly, that people can have both conditions. Basically, the stomach is controlled by pacemaker tissue, much like the heart.  If the contractions in my stomach are too fast, the stomach can’t keep up, so it may skip a beat, slow, or stop temporarily.  But he’s less concerned with whether my stomach is going fast or slow.  He’s more concerned about the symptoms,  and the fact that he still can’t explain the underlying cause.

I thought on this for a while.    No.  It still seemed significant. Through all my diets and diagnoses, gastroparesis was a constant, and the treatment was eat less fat, smaller servings, and more fiber.  For the last eight months, I spent forty-five minutes every morning stirring a pot of steel-cut oats.  I’m not a morning person.  I don’t deal well with the world until I eat or drink coffee, but there I was abstaining from both, stirring my oats and thinking good healthy thoughts.  I not only endured this ascetic ritual, I came to embrace it as a righteous cause.  I was doing what’s good for me, and steel-cut oats are so rustic, so earthy, so utterly devoid of earthly pleasures, that I can easily imagine monks in sackcloth eating it during prayer.  Please God, I would whisper to the pot.  Please Jesus or Allah or Buddha or that bearded guy from Hogwarts. Please accept this offering of my time and trouble and make my stomach better.

But God didn’t want me to eat oatmeal.

He wanted me to eat French toast.

Preferably made from brioche or challah.

To be fair, the doctor didn’t tell me to eat French toast.  He told me to separate eating and drinking, because even a sip of water could trigger the contractions.  But the additional fat from egg-based breads, milk and butter in French toast does seem to help slow things down further.  A little Cointreau or Grand Marnier probably doesn’t hurt either.  Alcohol is notorious for slowing digestion.  I also stopped taking Protonix.  All of these seem to have had a salutary effect.

Don’t get me wrong.  I stand by my last post.  The extended pleasures of food are more important than immediate gratification.  Growing your own food, gathering it, cooking it, sharing it with others gives you reason to eat in spite of suffering.  But you know what else is good?  Less suffering. Less suffering and more French toast.

I still don’t like the word better.  When people ask, “You’re better now, right?” I say yes, but it catches in my throat.  I have to explain.  The heart of my stomach still runs too fast.  It still flutters like a wounded bird.  It’s not better.  I’m just not provoking it anymore.  I’m feeding it what it wants.  I eat more and hurt less.   Maybe that is better . . . I roll the word over my tongue and try to get used to it.  It feels right in my mouth.  Just not in yours.

After several weeks of the French Toast Diet, I decided to really test out my new stomach.  It was May fifth, which Ann insists on calling “Cinco de Ted,” because it was the day I woke up in hospital.  It’s also my parents anniversary, so we’ve often spent that day eating out; now we just have a new reason to continue that trend.  For our first Cinco de Ted, we decided to go to the newest addition in Jose Garces’s empire, JG Domestic.  It’s probably not his best restaurant, but I find its awkwardness endearing.  It tries to combine the idea of local, American food with small-plate, tapas style eating.  Since when have American’s been into small plates?  Or for that matter, since when has a clientele of mostly suits and ties wanted to unwind by throwing back drinks and sharing miniature fondue pots with their almost exclusively male co-workers?   But I like to think Garces, with his regularly rotating menu, might eventually find a way to make it work.  The restaurant has many charms, not the least of which is a tasting menu chock-full of foods that I have been avoiding for the last two years.  I started with an “Adirondack,” a bourbon drink flavored with rosemary agave and mezcal and let it settle in before tackling the meal.  You have to pace yourself with Garces meals.  They start quietly with a few snacks and a salad that should only be picked at tentatively.  They’re good, but unexceptional.  From the Peekytoe crab croquettes onward, the meal seems to get increasingly rich and decadent.

Hickory smoked pecans with maple and bacon; house charcuterie and cheeses; seasonal salad with local mixed greens, seasonal baby vegetables, and citrus vinaigrette; peekytoe crab croquettes with avocado and pumpkin seed; wood oven flatbread with black trumpet mushroom, truffles, shaved cheddar and farm egg yolk; baby artichokes with potato dumpling, black truffle, smoked ricotta; Creekstone natural adobo rubbed rib eye with refried rancho Gordo cranberry beans and Vidalia onion rings; Barnegat light day boat scallops with cauliflower, black truffle, and kumquat; Bourbon beignets with bourbon vanilla mousseline, and Marker’s Mark butterscotch; Richter Farms rhubarb-swirl ice cream & jam with crème fraiche parfait and pickled rhubarb.

Sure, I felt full about a quarter of the way through, and I had to forgo the final bit of gelee served at the end, a dark reminder of Mr. Creosote and his wafer-thin mint. My stomach sounded like a garbage disposal, and I wanted to throw up for at least two hours.  But you know what?  So did everyone else.  That’s what’s important, isn’t it?  Feeling better and eating better is good for the everyday, but it’s nice to know that once in a while, if the occasion demands it, I can still compete in a no-holds-barred bacchanal dedicated to the pleasures of excess.

Speaking of Garces, Marisa McClellan won the Latin Evolution giveaway. She’s been giving away stuff on Food in Jars for years, so it’s nice that she gets to win something too.  Check her site out if you’re interested in all things preserved.

Coming soon:  Seasonal Cookbooks

Jose Garces Giveaway: Get a Free Copy of Latin Evolution.

The Garces giveaway is officially over.  Congratulations to Marisa McClellan of Food in Jars.

Guajillo sauce ingredients

A year ago, I promised I’d cook dishes from Jose Garces’s Latin Evolution, and a year ago I did.  Most of this was written in April of 2010, just before the big bad.  The above flower of guajillo sauce ingredients sits in a blender I no longer use; the camera has been replaced; the store I bought the chiles from no longer carries them. But thanks to my long hiatus and some over-zealous gifting, I now have two copies of Latin Evolution, one to give away to a lucky reader.  If you’re interested, post a response below with a link or address for your favorite Latin recipe.

As noted in my first Garces post, the term “Latin” covers many different culinary traditions, as does the aptly titled Latin Evolution.  It’s not what you’d call authentically Spanish, but a celebration of Latin influences across the globe, principally from Spain, South America and Mexico.  It’s pretty much just like Garces himself.  He may be steeped in the Ecuadorian traditions of his family, and he may have trained with a few Spanish chefs, but he’s also just a guy from Chicago, and to my mind at least, his recipes have more in common with Charlie Trotter than they do with Simon and Inez Ortega.  This is a good thing if you’re eating out, but it’s going to be tough on the interests of the home cook.

Sadly, the contemporary American side of the cookbook means that it has may of the traits I tend to avoid.

  • Architectural” elements. Garces likes to stack food on top of other food.  Recipes are composed out of a lot of little recipes.  Expect to use a lot of those little post-it flag bookmarks.
  • Lots of directions, no reflection.  I’ve made this point many times before.  I’ll follow any instructions, as long as the explanation is sufficient.  You want me to brunoise a shallot while wearing a PVC bondage hood?  Fine, but you damn well better explain how this improves the soup.
  • Foam or Air. I don’t mind foam in my cappuccino, but when foam or air appear in a compound noun, you know it’s time to run.  Foam and air are invariably terms for innovative ways to put bubbles where bubbles don’t belong. Think “lemon air” or “beet juice foam”.

As I struggled through a couple of dishes, however, I realize these concerns don’t really run deep. Yes, in the interest of full disclosure, the cookbook is difficult.  It’s probably best suited for professionals and diehard fans who want to gain a better appreciation of their favorite chefs and restaurants.  Working through recipes helps you to understand the processes and ingredients that go into “restaurant food,” even if it is impractical to make at home.

That said, Garces’s team seems to have worked hard to keep the recipes just this side of possible for home cooking. Yes, Garces uses food additives like soy lecithin, xanthum gum, and agar powder, but only rarely, and I was pleased to find that these ingredients are all baking supplies, available through companies like Bob’s Red Mill.  You don’t need an expensive Ferran Adria chemistry kit to make lemon foam. As such, Latin Evolution saves you the pain and disappointment that comes from someone like Michel Richard, who wanted me to spend more than three hundred dollars on flexipan molds just so I could make faux hard boiled eggs, or that Momofuku-r David Chang, who tantalized me for pages with stories of Frankenmeats before I realized that transglutaminase meat glue (TMG) costs about a hundred dollars a bag.

While the recipes were possible, they certainly stretched the limits of my kitchen and my abilities.

Roast chicken breast with poblano cornbread, charred pineapple and red chile sauce.

Jose Garces cornbread, grilled pineapple, and red chile

Let’s face it, if you work your way through these recipes, you want bragging rights.  So I knew that if I was going to cook out of Latin Evolution, I was going to need discerning dinner guests. Jason and Dee went with us on out first visit to Amada, so I knew they would understand what I was shooting for and why.  I mean, really, who wouldn’t want to be able to recreate some of that?

I let them choose which recipe I should make, because they’re the only people I know who have more dietary restrictions than me. This means we eat a lot of chicken, but when it comes down to it, chickens are surprisingly versatile creatures.  They can be made to do all sorts of tasty things and this recipe was no exception.

Garces assures us that the recipe takes its influences from all over Mexico, from the Yucatan flavors of achiote, orange and garlic, to the “chile spiced cornbread” whose inspiration he attributes to “Zarella Martinez”.  But I think anyone reading the title will know that this familiar gestalt of chicken, cornbread, and chile is probably a tip of the hat to North-of-the-Border Latin. Hell, it may even be North-of-the-Canadian-Border Latin, because I always assume the quantity of sugar in cornbread is directly proportional to how far you travel away from the Mexican border.

The “chile” is a paste made out of guajillos. This is time consuming, but I felt like I was up to the task because I’ve always been a fan of Rick Bayless’s early cookbooks. Bayless calls guajillos his “workhorse” chiles, and speaks of them with considerably more poetry than Garces:

“A puree of roasted, rehydrated guajillo sings with a chorus of bright flavors that combine spiciness, tanginess (like cranberry), a slight smokiness and the warm flavor of ripe, juicy sweet tomato; the flavors go on and on. The puree is a deep, rich, red-orange—the color of good tomato paste”.

I prefer Rick Bayless when it comes to making chile pastes. Even his most uncompromising books, Authentic Mexican and Rick Bayless’s Mexican Kitchen, are still more practical than Garces. Both are big on roasting every ingredient, but Bayless uses a cast-iron pan for just about everything.  Garces on the other hand wants you to deep fry the peppers individually. He wants the garlic to be roasted in the oven, with tomatoes, and he calls for the onion to be cooked on a grill.  After it’s all pureed it goes back into the skillet for frying, which, oh wait, hasn’t actually been used yet. There’s no denying that it makes for an amazing rich, red sauce, but in the end, it’s all going to be used for painting a decorative circle on your plate.  How many dishes do I have to clean now, just get this little undercoat of guajillo?

The second “level” of the dish surprised me. The cornbread called for unusual ingredients in unusual quantities: 1 cup of butter + ½ pound of sugar + 4 eggs + 2 cups rice flour.  Who makes cornbread without any cornmeal?  Who weighs the sugar but doesn’t weigh the flour?  Most importantly, who uses that much sugar? Southern cooks sneer at sugar in cornbread in any quantities, protesting that it is an unwelcome Yankee encroachment on their sovereign cuisine.  I had to imagine that Mexico felt similarly—but since neither Rick Bayless nor Diana Kennedy even mention cornbread in their cookbooks, I’m guessing that they are richly and deservedly indifferent.

I double-checked the Garces recipe on-line against other recipes.  I was disturbed to find that “Zarella” is really “Zarela” with one L, a Mexican born cook who currently works in New York.  Her cornbread recipe was quite similar to Garces’s right down to the poblanos, rice flour, and fresh corn, but she only calls for two tablespoons of sugar. On the other hand, I found another Garces recipe on-line for 3 chile cornbread, which called for 8 oz of butter and 8 oz of sugar.  The ratios were the same, so I decided he must really mean it. Yes, it was a much lighter and much sweeter cornbread than I’m accustomed to, but the rice-flour confection, studded with poblanos and fresh-cut corn, ended up tasting surprisingly like, well, cornbread. Served by itself, I would prefer less sugar, but in the end, I think this was deliberate because the sweetness helped as a contrast to the earthy guajillo sauce and the sour-edge of the chicken and grilled pineapple to come.

Jose garces cornbread

The cornbread is the pedestal to show off the achiote marinated chicken. The dish seems to play on our expectations here, because the color of the marinade for the chicken is very similar to the chile paste but with nothing else in common. Achiote comes in bricks, and its primary ingredient is annatto, the seeds of the achiote trees, also called “lipstick trees”.  Annatto has a very mild peppery flavor, but it’s mostly used for the color.  Achiote gets most of its flavor from the orange juice added in making the bricks. Garces ups the acidity with freshly squeezed naval orange.  So the end result is tangy rather than hot.

Garces call for “4 (6 ounce) skin-on chicken breasts”.  This gave me pause, because it was clear from the weight and the quick pan frying of the breasts that they should be deboned. But have you ever noticed that you can’t BUY deboned chicken breasts with the skin still on them?  It didn’t actually instruct readers to debone the chicken, but I decided it was better safe than sorry, and the results were good, perhaps even a revelation. The breasts are just quickly seared in the pan, and the marinade helped to make a well-marked skin. How is it that I never thought of using chicken breasts this way?  Ann said it was the best, most tender chicken breast she’d ever had.

With all this there’s also a side of roasted pineapple.  It’s the simplest part of the dish, and the one I’m most likely to combine with other dishes. All you do is mark the pineapple on a hot grill—about a minute for each side. Chop the pineapple in ½ inch chunks, add olive oil, shallot, and cilantro. Aside from the tenderness of the chicken, it was the only part of the dish to get singled out for comment from my guests. Dee: “I just have to say . . . pineapple and cilantro?  Yum.”

Sous-vide truffled chicken with fried eggs, rosemary fingerling potatoes, and truffled chicken jus.

Garces Sous-Vide Chicken

Given the range of recipes in Latin Evolution, I wanted to try at least one other recipe before passing judgment. The recipe appealed to me because it basically followed the spirit of Sous-vide cooking without actually requiring a cryovac or an immersion circulator. Sous-vide is French for “causes food poisoning” and it sometimes compared to boil-in-a-bag, but I find this can be a bit confusing because it doesn’t really get at why people are so interested in risking life and limb to produce good food.  If you make boil-in-a-bag rice, you’re not cooking; you’re just warming up precooked food at a high temperature. In Sous-vide you’re actually cooking the food, and you’re doing so by choosing the target temperature that you want, usually one which is well below the simmering point, so the temperature needs to be carefully monitored. In Garces’s recipe, you seal boneless chicken breasts in plastic with cream, and then cook them in a water bath at 155 degrees.  That’s a low temperature for chicken, but you’re cooking it for two hours, so the chicken is not only reaching that temperature all the way through, but hanging there for a while.  This does apparently, guarantee the death of microbes, but only just barely.

Why do you do this?  Sealing the meat in means that it will cook only in its own juice, or in this case, cream.  Cooking at 155 is important, because as soon as you hit 158, proteins start to contract, and juices get squeezed out.  Really, I think no one should recommend Sous-vide cooking at home under any circumstances.  Even if you have a Foodsaver device for sealing food into packets, and a candy thermometer to measure the temperature, you’re still taking chances.  And when someone like me discovers that his Foodsaver machine is broken, and decides to continue on with the cooking anyway, that’s just stupid. I ended up using a standard zip lock bag, which I dangled in the water with twine and an alligator clip to keep the mouth of the bag just out of the water. This had the added advantage of keeping the bag off the bottom of the pot, so I could regulate the temperature a little more evenly.

The downside of course is that the meat doesn’t brown, but it’s easy enough to remedy that after the fact.  Since you dutifully leave the skin on, and the chicken has absorbed some of that cream, a few moments in the pan makes for an amazing sear. The final product was tender and very, very rich.

Otherwise, the recipe is fairly conventional, but it is layered much like the last dish. You start with a Jus on the plate, then the fingerling potatoes, and then the chicken.  It’s all topped off with an egg yolk.  It’s just a regular fried egg, though most of the white is cut off with a three-inch ring mold, or, if you’re me, a slender water glass.  The dish as a whole still seemed to be missing something on the vegetable front, so I threw in some broiled white asparagus on the side.

Even with the extra improvising, I was pleased with the end results.  I always worry that recipes like this will require inordinate time and effort and still leave me with something that looks like Juan Miro threw up on a plate.  But the dishes came through as advertised. Admittedly, I will probably not make these dishes again.  I may only harvest ideas like the grilled pineapple or those tidy egg yolks for other applications, but going through the recipes was worth it. What I hope to get out of a cookbook like this is simply a better sense of how a chef’s mind works and a greater appreciation for the foods I can order in their restaurants, even if, in the end, I feel like the restaurant is where they should stay.  Most of what Garces does well is not about the parts, but about the whole palette he comes up with—and nowhere is that more evident than in the tasting menus at Amada or Tinto.  Imagine, if you have to do all this just to make chicken, what would it be like to put together twelve dishes for a tasting menu?  To cook for a full house?

While fandom requires that I own an autographed copy of Latin Evolution, however, I do not need two. So I’m more than happy to give one away.  I’ll choose randomly among people who respond to my questions in last week’s post or this one. For this post, interested readers should include a link to their favorite Latin recipe on-line.  For last week, interested readers should name their favorite examples of food writing.  I’ll announce the final winner in the next post.

Spain I: Jose Garces and Latin Evolution

(Skip to March 31, 2011 post for a possible free copy of Latin Evolution)

The people have spoken, and the people say Spain. No surprise there. In Philadelphia, Jose Garces has given Spain and its colonial stepchildren much deserved praise through his ever-expanding fleet of restaurants.  I ate at Amada, with Ann and friends a few years back.  It was the first time I ever shelled out the money for a full tasting menu, and I made an oath then and there to try the tasting menu at every restaurant Garces opens.    It’s been hard keeping up though.  In spite of a recession closing doors on many local restaurants, Garces has opened five since 2005.  Amada is the Andalusian flagship, a tapas restaurant with its own charcuterie bar. I hope this becomes a trend in other restaurants, and maybe even home kitchens. Who wouldn’t want to come home to a haunch of Jamon Iberica hanging over the kitchen counter?  Tinto is the Basque version of Amada, a dark cellar of wall to wine-rack, decorated in Spanish Inquisition style. Distrito, just a few blocks from my place of work is dedicated to Mexico City.  It looks like a pink 50s diner decorated with wrestling masks and a marquee advertising today’s tacos and tequilas.  All three have wonderful tasting menus. I’ve yet to try Chifa, named after the Chinese population in Peru or Village Whisky named after, well . . . whisky, but I hope to soon. The only real obstacle will be Marcat ala Planxa, a Catalan restaurant in Chicago.  I made the trip to Chicago for Rick Bayless, though, so I’m sure I can make another round for Garces.  Obsessive?  You bet.   My facebook word cloud shows that I’ve posted the name “Garces” more than I’ve posted the name “Ann” in the last year. This is mostly because I rooted for him through every episode of America’s Next Iron Chef while everyone else was bemoaning the Eagles performance in the playoffs.

Then Garces did the unforgiveable.

He won.

Now he’s trendy.  He has a line of ingredients with his face on it, like Bobby Flay.  Now, how can I take friends to his restaurants and pretend that they are a well-kept secret?  I can’t pretend it’s cool to own an autographed copy of Latin Evolution.  I just look like some sort of trend-following lap-dog. Worse yet, Iron Chef really seems to have jumped the shark this season. Jeffrey Steingarten—one of my favorite curmudgeonly food writers—has disappeared, and every episode seems to have some special gimmick, like “battle twins” judged by the actresses from “Sister, Sister”.

But no, I can put aside my pride and say I’m happy for his success.  I think this, like Rick Bayless winning Top Chef Masters, is a good thing so long as it brings more attention to Spanish food, often hidden in the shadows of its neighbors France and Italy. Growing up, I too frequently associated Spanish food with desultory, bland rice dishes.  It was Mexican food without the spice or the wrappers.  My school cafeteria sold glutinous “Spanish Rice” and “Arroz con Pollo,” leaving me thinking that Spanish food came in two flavors, red and yellow.  True, saffron is one of Spain’s big exports, and I’ve never been that fond of saffron. Saffron is made from the female reproductive organ of crocus flowers, which seems like a lot of work—and frustration for the crocuses—just to turn food yellow.  True too, if you try and make Spanish recipes with nothing but the Goya section of your local supermarket to line your larder, you’re not going to be easily impressed.  But you shouldn’t judge Spanish food by these offerings, any more than you’d want Spain judging American food based on what’s available at McDonalds.  Life is elsewhere.

A brief trip to Spain a few years ago convinced me that even the most traditional Spanish dishes could be wonderful if prepared properly.  It’s often fairly simple fare, but when you’re in the Northern mountains of Spain, the food is usually right from the farm and perfectly fresh. (Yes, those are Spanish chickens above). There’s also a highly experimental side of Spanish cooking, which includes Ferran Adria’s El Bulli.  (See here for Anthony Bourdain’s visit).  For Adria, cooking is an experimental art; he closed up shop at El Bulli each year for months at a time in order to turn his kitchen into a laboratory in search of new flavors and techniques. He’s now closing the restaurant all together and replacing it with a school for advanced culinary study.  And why not?  Given how much of the flavor industry is currently governed by chemical corporations, why not have someone out there who is tampering with cooking on a scientific level who is actually one of the world’s best chefs? (Raffi Khatchadourian on the food additive industry).

Garces, who is from Ecuador, lies somewhere in between the traditional and experimental. While his recipes don’t require any of the custom made hardware and expensive additives that put Adria’s recipes forever out of my reach, they are similarly composite recipes—built up on a variety of smaller, but still difficult ones.   They are brutally complicated, modern in their use of ingredients like lecithin to make foams, and exotic in the reach for Spanish imports. While each dish is inspired by a particular region or Latin influence, none of them are really “authentic”.  For Garces, the experimental side is all about permutations that come about when culinary influences collide.

As every child learns in history class, Hernan Cortes conquered the Aztecs and portions of what is now Mexico for Spain in 1519.  What those history classes don’t always teach: Cortes conquered a people, but not their cuisine.  Before the conquest, the Aztec diet was rich in corn, beans, chiles, and complex sauces, made from seeds.  In the 1520s, under Spanish Rule, the same crops grew in abundance—and they still do.  The Spaniards struggled to tame the land and the palate, growing wheat wherever possible throughout Mexico and Central America and raising grazing animals once foreign to this part of the world.  They brought the cow and the pig—the beef, the pork, the lard—but they couldn’t impose their tastes or recreate the Spanish diet in this new world.  Instead, the Aztec appetite adapted to this Spanish influence, incorporating these newly available foods into an already rich cuisine. Throughout the 16th century that story repeated itself throughout the New World—in Peru, Chile, Argentina, Ecuador, Cuba, Jamaica, and Puerto Rica.

The same might be said about the British Empire’s influence on countries along the spice trail, but keep this in mind:  Spain had a relatively well-established and tasty tradition of cookery prior to setting out to conquer the world.  Britain had roast beef and soggy vegetables.  Whatever we may say about the evils of colonization, we should be thankful for the culinary cross-pollination that has taken place.  It has kept things lively, and, like the poetry of Lorca, just a little bit strange.

My hope is that Garces’s recent success will not only help people to see that Spain’s influence is equal to that of French or Italy, but more importantly, that there’s a market for Spanish ingredients in the U.S.  Because let’s face it, it’s effing difficult to find authentic ingredients.  Until fairly recently, Jamon Iberico, a cured ham from Spain was illegal to import to the U.S. because Spanish slaughterhouses hadn’t been approved by the U.S. Department of Agriculture.  Spanish cheeses like Manchego and Idiazabal weren’t regularly available until the 90s.  But there are still many Spanish imports that are only available on websites like La Tienda, and I can’t find Choricero peppers anywhere. Hirigoyen’s book Pinxtos asks for them regularly, but Barrenechea’s The Basque Table says that they are simply unavailable in the U.S.  Adriana’s Spice Caravan in Ardmore claimed to have every pepper in the world, but when I asked them for Guindillas or Choricero they looked at me like I had grown a second head.  They insisted that I was just mispronouncing Guajillos.  Now that they’ve closed up shop, I’m sorry I spent so many years calling Adriana the “Spice Nazi,” after the affable villain of the Seinfeld series.  They did have piquillos, Piment D’Espellett, and L’Estornell sherry vinegar, which I love. Piquillo peppers look a lot like regular red bell peppers with a “little beak” at the bottom, hence the name.  They taste like most jarred roasted peppers, but have a smokier flavor that goes well not only with Spanish food but just about every sandwich or salad I can think of. I was glad to see that Thomas Keller makes liberal use of them in Ad Hoc at Home as well. Recently, Trader Joe’s has started carrying them.  Their piquillos aren’t as good as Adriana’s or La Tienda’s, but they’re so cheap they’re hard to pass up.

Fortunately, Garces’s most recent Philly offering is the Garces Trading Company, a market at 1111 Locust street. (Click for Madame Fromage’s review). Perhaps this will give me the ingredients I need to make even one recipe in Latin Evolution.  But even with the right ingredients, this book looks to be ruthlessly difficult. Even a tapas style flatbread snack involves four sub-recipes, “Cocas with marinated duck, cabrales béchamel, and cherry-fig marmalade.” In addition to having to make all that, the recipe calls for foie gras mousse, a “basic” ingredient, which turns out to have its own recipe listed in the back of the book. Good luck making this snack during half time.

That said, the people have spoken, and the people say Spain. So I will in the coming month make an effort to make at least one authentic Garces recipe from this slender volume.  It will probably be humiliating.  So stay tuned.  Humiliation is fun.