Pulled Pork

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am a barbeque snob. My dad cooked barbeque competitively for years (and cooked it for every other reason for years before that), so I don't bother with most other people's offerings or opinions. I know the regional differences between sauces and cuts of meat, I know the various festivals and state competitions, the main competitors, the who's who of BBQ.

And to be honest, besides ribs, I'm not wild on most things pork, so it's no great sacrifice to swear off all other barbeque besides the kind I grew up eating. (The major exception to this moratorioum on barbeque outside the home is Dino, which also got the seal of approval from Dad). My snobbery even continues into my own home -- I am pretty wary of all barbeque attempts by the Boy too. It started when he first made ribs last summer. Thanks to a strange (yet classic Boy) rub, they came out looking green. And he broke my central tenent by baking the ribs in a sauce instead of smoking them. Granted this was before we got the grill, but baking meat in a pan tends to make it super greasy and I have a general problem with the whole idea. Let's just say he's pretty lucky we were far enough into our relationship that this wasn't a deal-breaker.

We have since perfected ribs (thanks to the grill, my father's advice, and my taking over the entire process). So imagine my anxiety when I came home to find a 10 pound pork shoulder rubbed and marinating in our refrigerator. We were going to try pulled pork?? Weren't we (wasn't he) getting ahead of ourselves? Isn't pulled pork something I waited for until my next trip down South? But the Boy was not to be deterred. Nor was he to be guided either. I gave him specific Dad-based instructions at least 5 times. Still he persisted in Fleetwood Mac-ing it. Well, you can go your own way, but you do it at grave risk to others, namely me.

I have to say I was convinced this wouldn't work. The rub was outside the skin, he thought, though he could never find any skin. He didn't rub the rub in with mustard, as I was taught. He didn't cook it at 250 degrees, but rather 300. He didn't let it cook first 3 hours on the rack without foil, then switch to foil for 2-3 more, then back off again. He only cooked the thing for 4 hours total, in a roasting pan, covered with foil. Every major commandment had been broken, nay, gleefully shattered. And yet, the simple proof remained: meat so tender the bone could be pulled out, neither too greasy or too dry. The only thing I could manage to complain about was the lack of smoky flavor (and coloration -- I do loves my smoke rings). Without a rather pricey smoker purchase, there was no real way to get around that one. And once my homemade barbeque sauce and the coleslaw got piled on top in a sandwich, who could notice the lack of smoke?

So let this be a lesson unto you. Barbeque is not an exact science. There is no "right way." There is only your intuition, your personal preference, quality meat, seasoning, and time. No matter what your snobby barbeque-righteous girlfriend might rant about ad infinitum.

It's Pronounced "K-sah-dill-ahs"

Living alone and in Southern California, I learned very quickly that whole wheat tortilla shells are a necessary fixture in dinner-for-one "assemblage meals." I call them that because I rarely went to much trouble to cook anything, beyond the occasional George Foreman foray. So mostly I combined raw (or pre-cooked...shamefully) ingredients into something that closely resembled edible food. Quesadillas and their tortilla-based bretheren were a mainstay. Now that I live with the Boy and far away from the Mexican border, my assemblages have kind of faded to memory (much like laying out at the beach and wearing eyeliner).

But last night, like a soap opera character that died in a mysterious car crash but whose body was never recovered, quesadillas made a bold and startling reappearance. Startling because (a) I was expecting crab cakes and (b) because they were accompanied by Senor Pony Keg, who was certainly an unexpected visitor to our home on a Thursday evening (unlike the Brady-man who is a welcome and somewhat regular mid-week meal-time visitor). And bold because they were stuffed with chicken, mushrooms, bell pepper, cheese and tons of Adobo seasoning, then topped with a salsa fresca prepared by yo (because me is still me in Spanish).

The salsa fresca was really more of a pico de gallo, if you want to be technical about it. I get a perverse joy out of chopping things (maybe it's rhythmic noise, maybe it's the rote movement, maybe it's the danger of severing a finger), so I was happy to be on salsa duty. I chopped three tomatoes on the vine (which weren't quite ripe enough...see what happens when you leave boys in charge?) a small yellow onion, two jalapenos (remembering this time to remove almost all the seeds, no need for brave stoicism), and a handful of fresh cilantro. A little lime juice, salt, pepper, garlic powder, and cayenne and we're cooking with Crisco (as they say in the parlance of our parents' times).

Quesadillas don't take a graduate degree to make, but it helps. Basically you should make them with 2 quesadillas atop one another, rather than attempting the fold over. Fold overs don't work when you have as much stuff to stuff in as we did. And we learned butter works better to coat the pan than olive oil. Use a smaller omelette pan and make sure the tortilla on the bottom lies flat. Layer ingredients, then cheese, then top with the other tortilla, all on low heat. Use whatever spatula (or fancy pancake-flipping) technique you have to turn the puppy over and cook the other side. When done, slide gently out of the pan and cut into quarters. El Perfecto!

BBQ Chicken

The Boy combined my two favorite loves the other night: barbeque and chocolate. Here's how: grilled chicken legs basted with orange marmalade barbeque sauce, and baked red beans with bacon (and cocoa powder).

Here are the recipes:
Orange Marmalade Barbeque Sauce
2 tablespoons orange marmalade
1 1/2 tablespoons lime juice
2 tablespoons orange juice
2 tablespoons ketchup
1 tablespoon dijon mustard
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon Sriracha
1 tablespoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon cumin
1 tablespoon Adobo seasoning
1 1/2 tablespoon Tamari soy sauce
salt and pepper to taste


Normally I cook barbeque sauce, but I think he just mixed these ingredients together and basted the chicken legs, grilling on indirect heat. Grill slow on low because chicken on the bone dries out quickly. Takes nearly an hour, but it's so juicy!

Red Beans
Sautee 1 chopped onion and 3 chopped cloves of garlic.
Add two strips of bacon, chopped
2 tablespoons of Sofrito (Mexican tomato paste)
2 tablespoons tomato sauce
1 can Goya Red Beans (which are light red kidney beans I think)
2 heaping teaspoons of cocoa powder

Let cook on medium high heat for 15-20 minutes to allow ingredients to really incorporate together. I would probably also cook the bacon first, then drain, then do the onions and

garlic. That would make the bacon crispier and the beans a little less fattening.

Our Northern Neighbors

I was in Canada this weekend, so the first restaurant review here will actually not be in Rochester. Don't worry, I'll make up for it later.

It's so easy to hate on Canada. They seem proudest of exporting maple syrup. They have little to no cultural heritage. And of course they talk funny. All the other English-speaking nations have awesome accents (think Bret and Jemaine, Sean Connery, Cool Runnings) but they just talk funny. Though there are many reasons to look down on those Up There, there are few that make it worth a visit-- particularly the food-- even in Canada is a bit bland. Real Mexican food may be amazing, but at least Toronto is not Juarez.

Toronto is a foodie oasis, and two hours closer to Rochester than NYC. It is an ethnically diverse city, so it's a double-bonus of a competitive restaurant market with almost every kind of cuisine featured.

Jumbo Empanada on Augusta Avenue in Kensington Market is a tiny, crowded, Chilean outpost that is very similar to Juan y Maria's Empanada Stop. The Jumbo version had hard-boiled egg, raisins, and olives, just like the Don Francisco that Juan & Maria had (no longer on the menu). This filling is called pino. The Jumbo was more like a calzone though, with a thinner, burnt crust from cooking in a pizza oven instead of a deep fryer. And the beef was boiled down and shredded, not ground. I really liked the pico de gallo on the side, though the tomatoes are clearly not in season yet. It was also bigger than J&M's. It was a perfect start to our late morning, especially since the Kensington Market neighborhood of Toronto operates in the same way as the Rochester Public Market. We got to watch the 10 year old daughter of the Chilean owner buzz around bussing tables and complaining in the most world-weary Latin way. Then stroll through the cheese shops, bakeries, and fish stalls with our Vietnamese coffee and shop at the vintage clothing stores. There are no better Saturday mornings.

Kensington Market is definitely my favorite section of Toronto, but Little Italy, Chinatown, and the trendier Queen Street West area are all short walks away. And in a surprise twist, one of the best meals on my entire life actually took place at a restaurant in the Financial District (pinstripes not required).

The Beer Bistro sounded like the kind of place you could get a decent burger and something besides Labatt. Then we realized it was in the Financial District. As we got further and further from the quirky-hippie vibe that we love about Toronto, my enthusiasm started to wane. When we walked in and were asked if we had a reservation for one of the white tablecloth-covered tables in front of the contemporary art, my doubt had morphed into full on regret. But such auspicious beginnings tend to set up more rewarding meals because the expectations are bottomed out. We luckily grabbed a spot at the bar, facing Kings Street East, a major thoroughfare perfect for people-watching (it became even better when they started shooting a FOX pilot there later). The beer list was almost as long as Tap and Mallet's, but our adorably helpful waitress came through with some mind-bogglingly perfect recommendations so I didn't fall back on the old favorites when faced with so many choices. It helped that I now knew about my hoppiness-aversion and could be slightly more informed to give her clues about what I liked. I also liked that they treated beer like wine and had pairings for everything on the menu, and beers divided up under user-friendly headings like "sociable" and "spicy." She recommended the Neustadt Springs 10w30, a brown ale from Ontario. I've never even heard of the brewery before, but it is definitely a new favorite. Plus I love it when a waitress says it's drinkable enough to have 4 or 5!

Everyone has a "last meal" of choice. It's hard for me to pick just one favorite food, but if I knew I would die immediately after, I'd probably choose to eat moules frites-- mussels with enough fries to scandalously dip into the butter-wine sauce the mussels cook in. Followed by lots of dessert martinis. (Actually that was my birthday dinner at 2Vine). Mussels are both tactile enough to be fun in a play-with-your-food way and sophisticated enough to require their own utensil. They come in their shells, so they seem more tied to their natural state, but they don't require nearly the amount of effort lobster or crab legs do. They're pretty perfect. And the Beer Bistro had a whole section on the menu devoted to them! Which totally made up for the complete lack of hamburgers.

I went with the baked mussels florentine, because seafood + cheese = bizarre. Mussels were cooked on the half-shell and covered in beer, gruyere cheese, bacon, and spinach (Florentine always means spinach, though I don't remember spinach playing a visible role when I studied abroad there). The Boy had Kobe beef tacos. Neither was a lot of food for the price (just two tacos for a little over $9) but the flavor was amazing. And they thoughtfully supplied me with a little loaf of sourdough to sop up the beer-cheesiness to the point of total gluttonous embarassment. Plus they had those Chex mix bar snacks like Lux, but with candy-coated peanuts! I was content to die, and suspiciously close to doing so had the waitress not taken the melted-cheese-covered plate away from me.

Here's a recipe that's a close approximation-- just replace the wine with beer and add bacon. And for the advanced class, an empanada recipe.

Salmon in Coffee Marinade

Sometimes inspiration strikes in the strangest ways. Whilst doing our regular trek through the food Disneyland that is the Pittsford Wegmans, we were offered a free sample (which I never turn down) of cod. The Boy was enjoying a cup of coffee (the Donut Shop blend, v. good) and was resistant to eating the fish when his mouth was still awash in coffee-ness. However, he relented and then (Eureka!) had a vision of this crazy-awesome marinade, which he then used on salmon a few days later.

Since marinades aren't really a precise science like, say, baking, and since The Boy considers himself something of a culinary improvisational artist, this is basically an ingredient list. You can always alter the ratios should your little heart desire.

First you'll need enough fish (we used 6 oz. salmon fillets, I heartily recommend the Pittsford Seafood Market for all your pescatory needs). And a baking dish to fit the fish in. And an oven.

Marinade
Coffee (probably 1 1/2 cups per fillet, enough to coat the bottom of the baking dish)
Soy sauce (I would estimate 7-8 stabbing motions with the open upside-down bottle)
Few drops of olive oil
Little more lemon or lime juice than oil
Brown sugar (probably 1/4 cup or so)
Spices (now this is where it gets interesting-- he used garlic, pepper, and coriander)
And if I know The Boy, there was probably some Sriracha (Vietnamese hot sauce) in there.

Preheat at 350, put fish in the dish first, then combine marinade ingredients in a separate bowl and pour over the fish. Cover with aluminum foil. Cook until the internal temperature (at the center of each fillet) is at least 140 degrees. Take the dish out and the foil off and make sure the fish is flaky. You can do this by scratching the surface of the fillet with a knife; it should start to kind of fall apart.