VittlesVamp

The Melon Trick

Can't take credit for this incredibly simple trick that takes melon to a new level.

Chef/owner Tony Migliaccio at my beloved neighborhood Italian hang Noodle Pudding served me up a beautiful slab of melon for dessert one night. But it wasn't just melon. He zested an orange on top for a bit of bite and citrus.

I don't think I can eat melon again without a sprinkling of orange zest to take it up a notch.

This trick paid off big time when I decided to make melon and prosciutto. SO. DAMN. DELICIOUS.

I implore you to try this at home. You'll develop a whole new appreciation for a slice of melon at any time of day.

A Refugee Chef Brings A Taste Of Iran To Manhattan

I had no idea that a Refugee Food Festival existed, let alone that it had started in Paris and expanded into restaurant kitchens across 15 cities the world over. It's an impressive endeavor, designed to change perceptions about refugees and find common ground - all through sharing food at the table.

Food has a power all its own. A meal made with love and talent can bring people together in a way that nothing else can. Think Babette's Feast. But, this wasn't about Blinis Demidoff or Cailles en Sarcophage. The setting may have been very French - Gramercy's Le Coq Rico - but the dinner was pure Persia. This past Saturday night, Chef Nasrin (who only goes by her first name to protect family still in Iran), served up a mesmerizing menu filled with saffron, mint, and pomegranate - food that excited the senses and satisfied the soul.

Starters, pictured above, featured a baked rice cake called Tahchin, with a crackling, crisp rice crust encasing moist delicate saffron-infused grains and bits of chicken, sprinkled with dried barberries and nuts. It was accompanied by yogurt-cucumber-mint dip called Mast Khiar, and a Persian roasted eggplant and walnut dip topped with frizzled onions, called Kashke Bademjan. Then came the main course...

...a pomegranate and chicken stew called Fesenjoon, served atop sour cherry rice. Sweet and sour, rich and bright, it was unlike anything else I've ever eaten. A couple Iranian falafel also graced the plate with a vivid green chutney, just in case you needed the combo of crunch and cilantro to serve as a palate cleanser.

When the chef emerged from the kitchen, I couldn't congratulate her enough. I wasn't alone in doing so. Diners flocked to her side to compliment the meal and recognize her gifts.

While I know proceeds from the dinner are going to help causes that fight for refugee rights in this country, I can't help but think that one weekend of festival events is not nearly enough. Refugees fill restaurant kitchens in New York and all over the U.S., feeding us all year round. They need to know that they are home. We need to find a way to welcome them, their cultures, their cuisines, their families, their hopes and dreams.

The American melting pot will be all the better for it.

BBQ Dreams

I took Mama Vamp to Austin and she joined me in eating some mighty fine BBQ. We're talking Freedmen's for some serious smoked turkey and ribs, and a killer G&T. We followed that up with a Mother's Day brunch stop at Kerlin BBQ for the decked out plate pictured above. See that brisket? See those pork ribs? How about that sweet ear of corn?

How was it?

Amazeballs.

And, now Hill Country is buzzing about opening up an Austin-style food hall in downtown Brooklyn, with - what else? - BBQ. Breakfast tacos will be thrown in for good measure.

Will I be there?

Why, yes!

Will Mama Vamp be in tow?

You better believe it!

A Sandwich That Has You At "Hola"

It is Cinco de Mayo, so food sites, Facebook pages, and Twitter feeds are filled with talk of tacos and burritos, as well as tequila and mezcal.

Now, I am most definitely a fan of a fine taco, as attested to recently on this blog. I also adore a well-made tamale. But, there is a Mexican foodstuff that rarely gets the attention it deserves - and that is the one-and-only cemita.

The cemita is a "torta" - better known by Gringos as a "sandwich" - that originally hails from the Puebla region of Mexico. It is a killer, layered beauty.

The specimen pictured above was most definitely a masterful example. It was from one of Durham's most beloved taco shacks, La Vaquita. Juicy roasted pork (aka carnitas) was piled high on a toasted sesame roll, accompanied by a slathering of fried beans, a glossing of ketchup, mayonnaise, sliced onions, lettuce, pickled jalapenos, avocados, and tomatoes.

It was messy. It was massive. It was love.

Similar beasts are available in Brooklyn at various outposts in Sunset Park. My favorite? La Flor Bakery. Haven't been there in ages, but after being enraptured by that carnitas cemita in North Carolina, I think a visit to Sunset Park's Little Latin America is most certainly in the offing.

Stop Messing With My Sazerac

Why do barkeeps continue to do wrong to what is so right? Why, unless I am in New Orleans, can't I order a Sazerac cocktail with confidence?

Both Maison Premiere and Jack the Horse Tavern in Brooklyn understand the finer points of the drink - but they are a rarity in a field of disappointments.

It's not an inordinately complicated cocktail, but I am always astonished at places that say they can make me one and then don't have a key ingredient - like Peychaud's bitters or an anise-flavored spirit like Absinthe, Herbsaint, or Pernod.

A glass of Rye whiskey with Angostura bitters and simple syrup is not a Sazerac folks. Try to substitute orange for lemon peel? That is a big nope!

The recipe for a Sazerac is quite simply...

A chilled glass coated with an anise-flavored spirit - preferably Absinthe. Then in a separate glass, Rye whiskey, simple syrup, and several dashes of Peychaud bitters (maybe Angostura too) are stirred over ice and strained into the other awaiting glass. Take a piece of lemon peel and run it around the lip of the glass, twist over the drink and drop in for good measure.

It is a classic for a reason.

So, stop screwing it up!

Tell me that you can't make it or don't have the ingredients. I will happily order something else. But, please, no more f*cked up Sazeracs. It is a drink that deserves respect and when rightly made, has earned it.

Cooking in California: The Spanakopita Edition

My pals Amelia and Shyam just moved to Oakland and their new apartment has a great kitchen - a baller kitchen. How could I resist playing in said baller kitchen when I was lucky enough to be their houseguest this past week?

My dinner dish of choice? Spanakopita. Had I made it before? Nope. Did I consult several recipes and then toss them in a jumble to create my own take on the Greek classic? Yup. Was it delicious? Hell to the yup! Is the recipe below? Um, yeah...

Spanakopita

1 box frozen phyllo dough (defrosted)
3 10oz. boxes frozen chopped spinach (defrosted)
8 oz. good feta (diced or crumbled)
5 scallions (thinly sliced, whites and greens)
1 shallot (minced)
1 lg. garlic clove (minced)
1 cup fresh dill (chopped)
1 TBSP salt
1 tsp ground black pepper
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
3 eggs
3/4 cups ghee (melted)
1/2 cup plain breadcrumbs

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly grease an 8X8 pan with a bit of the ghee. Strain the spinach using cheesecloth or a dishtowel to squeeze out all of the liquid. Saute the scallions, shallot, and garlic in two tablespoons of the melted ghee in a small pan until just starting to brown - about 4 - 5 minutes. Add to the spinach. Mix in the feta, dill, salt, pepper, and nutmeg into the spinach as well. Lightly whisk the eggs and then incorporate in to the spinach mixture. Layer the phyllo at the bottom of the pan (neatness is not necessarily) and brush with melted ghee and sprinkle with breadcrumbs in between each layer. After 6 - 8 layers, place the spinach mixture in the pan and spread evenly before layering on another 6 - 8 sheets of phyllo with ghee and breadcrumbs on top. Finish with a layer of phyllo brushed with ghee. Bake for 1 hour. Allow to cool for 10 minutes before cutting into squares and serving,

Croissant Curmudgeonry

It's Passover. I should be thinking about all things unleavened. Instead I am thinking about croissant. Yes, puffy, flaky, buttery croissant.

But, there is a new trend that is turning the classic croissant into a fad-riffic Instagram star -- I call it croiss-insanity. Bakeries across the country are contorting croissant dough around a never-ending merry-go-round of unorthodox ingredients. Think purple yam, cod roe, black garlic, white miso, chamomile tea, and pineapple jelly. The New York Times calls them "frankenpastries."

I have tried to be open-minded.

The croiss-insanity pictured above is called an "everything croissant" and was purchased at my local Joe's Coffee. It was so very wrong. It didn't taste bad, mind you. It just wasn't a croissant. It wasn't an everything bagel. And, in the end, it wasn't enough of either to be anything I wanted to eat.

I ventured to Supermoon Bakery on the Lower East Side, where they have a croissant described as: "dual core croissant with matcha creme patissiere and lemon curd, topped with white chocolate shards." Don't get me started on the "cruffins." Each croiss-insanity was spotlighted in a precise, highly photogenic line on the counter, like a parade of overeager models strutting down the catwalk for the paparazzi. And, oh the paparazzi arrived. They descended in the form of foreign tourists. They thrust their cell phones in front of each other to snap the odd colorful frankenpastries, grabbing at a bit of social media foodie glory.

I think it is time for me to close my mind now - snap it shut tight.

Give me a perfect plain croissant with a bit of raspberry jam and I will be more than content. A chocolate croissant also has a place in my heart (and stomach). And, an almond croissant, when made expertly, is a thing of beauty as well.

I have no need for this newfangled breed of pastry. You can keep my "everything" on a bagel, thank you very much.

Best Taco Ever? It's In Philly

I had a hard time thinking this spot was going to be a big win. A weird little taco joint in Philadelphia's Italian Market that opens a the ungodly hour of 6am to accommodate workers getting off the night shift? My friend John insisted we go and go early - and John usually is right in these things.

Right he was.

At first glance, El Compadre seems more than a bit makeshift. Ice cold agua frescas are poured outside the door, as customers line up to order tacos and tortas. As soon as you get past the doorframe you are asked to order from whatever hunks of meat the kitchen has on hand. Accompaniments? Find them on a tiny table to the right. Pile on whatever suits you.

Doesn't sound like the makings of a gourmand fantasy - right?

Wrong.

The hunks of meat in question are glorious. Simply remarkable. In particular, the barbacoa, meltingly tender lamb, is a stand-out. And, the tortillas for the tacos? Handmade in the kitchen from masa ground from local Lancaster County corn. Warm, they emit the nose-tickling aroma of fresh corn on the cob.

Toppings range from marinated nopale leaves and bright green cilantro to chopped white onion and housemade guacamole.

These were unquestionably the best tacos of my life. Seriously. Best. Tacos. Of. My. Life.

And, El Compadre's presence in the Italian Market isn't a Mexican oddity among a sea of pasta stores and pastry shops on the strip. Slowly, but surely, the Italian Market has welcomed a new set of immigrants, becoming home to Mexican butchers and tortilla makers too. As a result, there seems to be a South of the Border vibe in the land of Rocky Balboa and cheesesteaks. And, if El Compadre's tacos are an indication of what Philadelphia has to look forward to by way of Mexican fare, I think we can confidently say - Viva La Ciudad de Amor Fraternal!

Tati Is In Town

Those in the know have primed their livers accordingly.

My pal Tati has descended upon New York, intent on drinking in every last gulp of good times this city has to offer. I am excited to see her in the morning - ready to take on a veritable whirligig of executive chefs, pastry chefs, sous chefs, bartenders, somms, ice cream makers, cheesemongers, butchers, sandwich makers, wine merchants, and more.

Not sure how to categorize my friend Peter, who owns Shelsky's, but I know she's planning on a stop there to get her fill of herring. Lots of herring. Copious amounts of herring.

Tati is one of the most gregarious gals I know - and dang if, in addition to making "all gone" with a school of herring, she can't polish off a bottle of pink champagne like a pro. Haling from Russia, she has a way around a bottle of vodka too. It's impressive. She's impressive.

I wish I could live up to her revelries, but I always fall short - needing to down glasses of water instead of a cocktail or vino, when she is imbibing. And, let me be perfectly clear, my friend stays perfectly sober. Well, maybe a buzz...

Still, she's a marvel.

In the past, unbeknownst to Miss Tati, I would bribe bartenders to give me soda water instead of another drink, garnishing it just so, as not to give up the charade that I was matching her drink for drink.

Now, I know better. And, I am coming clean.

I may admire Tati's stamina and her unbridled joy - but I am a cheaper date. That has to count for something, right?

At the very least, it should leave us a bit more moolah to hit a few of New York's hot spots this weekend. I can't wait!

A Dining Dream Come True

I am such a fan girl sometimes. I have always swooned at the notion of visiting the James Beard House for one of their gourmet dinners. Passing by the West Village townhouse I always try to steal a glance through the windows, craning my neck to get a look at the tables inside - jealous of the guests, aching to be one of them.

Well, last night I wasn't just a fan girl. I was a dinner guest.

And, it was everything it was cracked up to be - from kicking off the evening with a flute of NV Ruinart, Blanc de Blancs, Champagne, Brut and bits of Korean Bacon with Spicy Mustard to Steak Tartare served with addictive crispy beef tendon puffs and glasses of NV R. Geoffroy, Champagne Rose de Saignee Brut.

That was just the beginning. The food was courtesy of Cote, the new hot gourmet Korean steakhouse in Flatiron.

Let me say, the steak was freakin' sublime. We had a Vertical Tasting of Dry Aged Rib Eye. What is that, you ask? Think about a rosy red slab of seared beef aged for 28 days, next to one that was aged for 55 days, next to one aged for 110 days. Oh, yeah. They brought the funk. They brought the kimchi jam!

I could go on, but why make you even more green-eyed with jealousy than necessary?

So, fan girl no more, I might need to step up and buy tickets to a few more of these James Beard Foundation dinners. Next time I hope they seat me at the table in James' bedroom, mirrored ceiling and all. I think that'll suit me just fine.

Dim Sum Sunday

There is something celebratory about hitting one of New York City's dim sum palaces at high noon on a Sunday. The mad crush of people, the clattering of the carts, children darting around the room, the never-ending pots of tea -- all of it contributes to a rollicking good time.

In Manhattan, one of the finest spots for traditional dim sum is Jing Fong. Its massive dining room is a sight to behold -- bright red, decorated with gold flourishes and over-the-top crystal chandeliers, and packed to the gils with Chinese-American families and friends. A few tables here and there host diners who are visiting from neighborhoods other than Chinatown, but this place is seriously popular with locals. It is the real deal.

Watching the cart ladies do their thing is quite the entertainment. Whether they are hawking platters of crispy duck with hoisin for dipping, or ready to pour out piping hot bowls of savory congee, or are piling bamboo steamers one atop the other filled with gelatinous chicken feet and steamed pork riblets, I am entranced. My go-to's are the sticky rice in lotus leaf, har gow, and the classic siu-mai...

I have a hard time deciding if dim sum is the ultimate New York Sunday brunch or if that award should go the Judaic combo of bagels and smoked fish. Either way, this gal is happy to have either one next Sunday.

Who wants to join me?

Bún Love

Most of the Vietnamese food fans in my life fit squarely into two camps: pho devotees and bánh mì aficionados.

While I appreciate both in their finest forms, I typically look at another part of the menu when I'm lucky enough to be dining on Vietnamese fare -- I am transfixed by the búns.

For those of you not familiar, a bún is a bowl stuffed with cool rice vermicelli, chopped lettuce, mint leaves, pickled carrots and daikon, sliced cucumbers, scallion, flash-fried shallots, and peanuts -- then topped with a variety of different lemongrass-scented, grilled meats and/or a crisp spring roll. Douse it with a vinaigrette spiked with fish sauce, lime juice, garlic, and hot chiles, toss it about, and grab a pair of chopsticks.

Yum doesn't come close to describing it.

Have yet to find a New York City go-to when I need to get a fix, so I've been counting on trips to Philadelphia and San Francisco to get my bún on. The superb specimen pictured above is from one of fave spots in SF called Tin.

Already dreaming of a January visit to Philly, and one in February to San Francisco.

If rail and air miles are necessary to get me my bún bliss, so be it!