Barthelona

So, the last question I posed, in the last blog I posted so many moons ago, was who will I got to Roses with for my (hopefully) phenomenal trip to El Bulli (yet to come). I toyed with the idea of taking a man (how perfectly romantic...in theory). But the man I was dating joined the annals of history in January, and necessity forced me to have an even better idea. I'm taking my mom.

My mother taught me everything I know about food, and primed my palate (and irrational passion for cuisine) throughout my childhood. She remains (and not for sentimental reasons, like other so-called "excellent cook" mothers), the maker of some of the most sublime, surprising, and soul-feeding meals I have eaten. (If you're in Massachusetts, she might take you in--Mom is that nice).

My dumb-luck reservation at El Bulli is on April 25. Guess who's turning 60 on May 1? That's right. So, I'm renting an apartment near the Boqueria market in Barcelona for nine days, and my mother and I will have a Thelma and Louise style adventure. Or maybe not. But we will delight in what will hopefully be an enriching, life-affirming, and absolutely delicious several days in Spain.

Winning the lottery

In early October, I had the trippy experience of attending the Spain's 10 culinary symposium at Guastavino's, sponsored by the French Culinary Institute. Up until that point, my exposure to so-called molecular gastronomy was limited to a cooking demonstration by Sam Mason and a few visits to Will Goldfarb's restaurant Room 4 Dessert. All of that changed when I saw cooking demonstrations by ten of Spain's most prominent chef's, culminating in culinary superstar Ferran Adrià of El Bulli. 

He was the last speaker, and we had seen some pretty nifty, seemingly nature- and gravity-defying tricks by some of the chefs who preceded him. But his presentation was by far the most fully realized and evolved. He mostly did the talking while his helpers demonstrated a few of his recipes, and the rest were shown on a pre-made film of (I'm assuming) his kitchen in Roses. On stage, we saw one of his liquid olives (which you may have read about in Mark Bittman's profile in the Times) made in real time. Bittman had described it as a three dimensional olive, which was in fact a globule of liquified olive held in a sphere form by a thin membrane, much like an egg yolk or grain of caviar. The way Adrià represented it, however, this technique is old hat, and he's moving on to feats of greater complexity (and of a higher mind-fuck quotient). In one of the films,  he showed us how, by using a similar technique, he can serve a raw clam, encapsulated, fetus-like, in a sac of its own juices. My only regret is that I didn't have my camera with me that day.

I won't make that mistake when I get the opportunity to dine at El Bulli. I scored this reservation (as of now, 2007 is already sold out) by having a collision with dumb luck. That day, I ran into a colleague, the lovely Michelle Gentille, who informed me that the restaurant was taking requests for reservations for 2007 that weekend only. So I sent a note, as she had instructed, to bulli@elbulli.com, and forgot about it. Two days ago, I received this reply:

We can offer you a reservation option on

Wednesday April 25^th of 2007, table for 2 people at 8.00 p.m. under the name:

GABRIELLA GERSHENSON

Ferran Adrià will prepare a personalized tasting menu. You will try many different elaborations and it means many different products. It is very important for his confection to know in advance if some problem exists, like allergies or any other product that we could not include for anyone of you.

Rhymes with Viagra
Shmiagra...gutentagra...

	Niagara grapes. Photo by Nick Himmel, fruit chronicler.

For lovers of obscure and underappreciated fruits, here is the latest addition to the growing Eat This Now canon, published the October 5 issue of Time Out New York:

I love the unmistakable bouquet of Concord grapes—a heady, fruity, thick aroma. Recently, I followed my nose to an especially fragrant carton at the grocery store, read the tag and was surprised to learn that the wonderful smell came from bottle-green Niagara grapes, not the purple-black Concords. In season for only another two weeks, Niagara grapes are part of the Lambrusca family, which also includes Concord, Delaware and Catawba varieties. Indigenous to the Finger Lakes, Niagaras have been cultivated in the region since the 1830s and are good for making wine or jam—and for eating on their own.

Like the Concord, they have a slightly clouded thick skin, which slides right off the slippery flesh as soon as you pierce it with your teeth. The skin itself is tannic yet sweet, and the flesh is tart and aromatic. Joe Nicholson, who grows both Niagara and Concord grapes at Red Jacket Orchards in Geneva, New York, says that due to this year’s heat and moisture, his Niagaras are particularly fine. And they smell great, too. Available for around $4 a quart at various Greenmarkets, Whole Foods, Fairway Markets and Agata & Valentina. — Gabriella Gershenson

Picnic in the Berks

	Steve Dunwell's photo of the lawn at Tanglewood does the al fresco dining ritual justice. stevedunwell.com

I just returned from a weekend with my parents, sister, and her boyfriend in the Berkshires (Massachusetts side). NB: If I continue to blog about my "life" as opposed to impersonal subjects, you will begin to notice a trend: I will write a lot about my mother's cooking. Interpret this as you will: grown up mama's girl? Bacholerette lifestyle, i.e. fridge full of condiments, eats her best home-cooked meals when visiting the parents? Both are not as far from the truth as they ought to be at this stage in my life. Anyway... back to the food.

We went to Tanglewood this afternoon for a program that included Mahler and Joshua Bell on violin. I should have saved my senses for the music (it was lovely) but I had spoiled myself by gorging on pre-concert al fresco lunch on the lawn. We've been going to Tanglewood since I was less than a year old (as my mom sentimentally recalled today) but as a family, we only recently got our sh*t together on the picnic front, and now bring those perfect meals I used to envy others for having.

Of course, it was my indefatigable mother (a cook) who threw it all together. Grilled marinated boneless chicken thighs, a salad (avocado, cucumber, radish, snow peas, parsely, feta and about a dozen other ingredients), roasted red peppers and eggplant, goat gouda and a perfect French bleu whose name eludes me (sorry) with baguette and some sauvignon blanc. (Although I still return home for food and pampering, I am old enough to drink with the folks and not have it be "cool".)

For dessert? A cold peach crostada, and half-nap under the rustling Lenox leaves. And yes, the music. 

Smazheny Seer in Central Europe

 

	Oooohhhh smazheny...

Last Monday, I returned from a longish trip through central Europe.  I say "central" because I mistakenly referred to the Czech Republic as eastern Europe.  I was promptly corrected by my cousin, who is spending her semester abroad in Prague and has clearly been brainwashed by the culture police. In the name of sensitive tourism, I relented.   

On the food front: Above is a photo of smazheny seer (fried cheese in a white bun with mayonnaise, like a cheese po' boy), which was recommended to me by my New York Press editor, an ex-Prague ex-pat who advised (now I know why) that I get drunk before eating it.  Clearly I wasn't drunk enough, because the "smazheny" more closely resemebled deep fried chewing gum than a mozzarella patty.  In the name of culture, I ate most of it anyway.

You say klobasa...
Not so lost in translation

	Hello, gorgeous

I was just reviewing my guidebook today in preparation for my trip to Prague (which I'm taking with my sister).  We started to thumb through the comfort food section, and found it to be an unexpected source of mirth. 

We, being of Russian descent, call sausage "kolbasa".  In Czech, it is called "klo"basa. For some reason we found this to be very funny, and were laughing so hard that we were stifling tears. 

Some other foods of interest were "devils toast", which the writer appetizingly (please note the sarcasm) described as a spicy sloppy joe on fried bread. 

Another malapropism was the oveshny knedliki.  In Russian, oveshi means vegetables.  In Czech, they are...fruit.  I would have guessed that oveshny knedliki are vegetable dumplings, but they are dumplings filled with berries or apricots.  In this case, I believe the loss in translation is, in fact, our gain.