VittlesVamp

Haute Indian Winter in Brooklyn

After my trip to London, I couldn't stop thinking about the superlative Indian restaurants I visited there. I needed a replay - but London is far. And, the high-end Indian spots in NYC are so popular that it is hard to score a table. So, I needed to put the matter in my own hands. Well, my hands and my pal Brett's hands as well.

We started with the above - a brunch of Bombay Scrambled Eggs from the late great Chef FLoyd Cardoz, and Curried Potatoes and Cashews, a riff on a Madhur Jaffrey recipe.

It wasn't just good. It was delicious.

A dinner party idea was born. And so it was...

That plate of Dal? It was in-freakin-credible. Brett outdid himself.

Next up, an Indian Chicken Rice Pilaf scented with coconut milk, ginger, tumeric, and more. Alongside, an umami-packed Oyster Mushroom Curry.

And then there was dessert...

Hell-to-the-yes! Tejal Rao's Quick Mango Kulfi recipe is pure genius. The trick? Canned mangos from India. Seriously. Canned. Soooo good.

Do I still want to return to London's haute Indian restaurant scene? Do I want to nab a reservation at Sona and Semma in Manhattan? Yes and yes! But in the meantime, I am trying my best to get Brooklyn to deliver as best as my kitchen (and Brett's) can muster.

My Thanksgiving

I know. I get it. What the heck is this photo? Where is the picture of a perfectly cooked Buttermilk-Brined Spatchcocked Turkey?

Well, I made it. It was tasty. That's not what this post is about. Deal with it.

That photo above? It's of my friends David and Cat shucking oysters. They generously brought two dozen to Thanksgiving dinner and had my guests and me transfixed as they wriggled each of these precious crustaceans open for a special treat during cocktail hour. Between the whole "dinner and a show" effect and the briny delights slipping past my lips, it made for a marvelous holiday memory.

And, then there were the cheers. The many cheers. We all bordered on tipsy at certain points in the evening, but always slid back gently with a glass or two of sparkling water. That said, some of the wines were fantastic.

Conversation? There was plenty. Furious intellectual debates about Freud and the true nature of art had me thinking that "Thanksgiving-as-a-salon" wasn't a bad idea. (Besides, Mama Vamp threw out a few zingers that were glorious!)

Of course there was that aforementioned Turkey alongside Ciabatta Stuffing with Sausage, Wild Mushroom Gravy, Fall Fruit Chutney, a Wilted Escarole Salad with Crispy Shallots and Prunes, as well as Spicy Sweet Potato Puree with Pineapple and Lime Zest.

But was there pie? Yes. Yes. There was a Chocolate Pecan number which I served with homemade Vanilla Ice Cream. But, there were also drop-dead gorgeous cupcakes that looked more like a bouquet than any Edible Arrangement ever could...

They were also quite delicious.

But then was the evening's grand finale.

Sherry? Port? Amaro?

Guess again.

The correct answer is: song.

From karaoke warbling of Janis Ian's classic At Seventeen to belting out Kiss Me Kate's I Hate Men, the evening had taken a turn in a way that was sad, wistful, joyful and truly celebratory.

I have no idea if I'll ever be able to top this Thanksgiving. But I am awfully thankful for it.

Sri Lankan Feast

Back to the whole topic of "not trying this at home," led me to cooking at the home of two friends - a couple who do not know the meaning of "do not try this at home."

And, so we make a Sri Lankan feast. More exactly, they made a Sri Lankan feast.

I may have made the dish above, a Chicken Kottu Roti, which I think of as a cross between stuffing and fried rice, with strong dashes of curry and pandan tossed in the mix. I also whipped up some Ginger Snaps laced with Sri Lanka's answer to maple syrup - Kithul Treacle. But, my friends most definitely whipped up the lion's share of the evening's repast, including two Cashew Curries...

...as well as curries showcasing fish, beef, and plantain.

They prepared sombals for days. Pol Sombal, fragrant with coconut, chili peppers, and dried fish flakes, was an all-around favorite. A bright Mint Sombal was another winner. Then there was the refreshing Pathola salad with snake gourd...

And, did I mention that my friends got up at the wee hours of the morning to make their own coconut milk from scratch? They woke up at dawn and started cracking coconuts. Seriously. COCONUT MILK FROM SCRATCH.

I am officially put to shame. And, yet, just glad that I have friends that are willing to go to that much trouble - delicious trouble.

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!

Chyn & The Chips

My friend Chyn is obsessed. Seriously obsessed. I do like a potato chip now and then - especially if I am able to plunk a bit of creme fraiche, caviar, and snipped chives atop - but Chyn is the Queen of the Chips.

She cannot resist a new flavor, texture, or brand.

I took her to Shelsky's for a smoked fish fiesta, and although she was enchanted by her first bialy and downed two different sorts of herring, it was their selection of potato chips that had her swooning. All three pictured above were purchased - Iberian ham, black truffle, and caviar. Then she bought a different brand's white truffle chips to round things out.

The other night, walking home after being mightily stuffed on brilliant Thai food at Brooklyn's Ugly Baby, she stopped short when she spied some Korean BBQ-flavored potato chips in a bodega. It took some persuading to get her to agree to keep moving and not buy a bag.

Right now, Chyn is somewhere in deepest darkest Montreal. I imagine she has a bag of foie gras-flavored potato chips by her side. Or maybe they are poutine-flavored. Then again, perhaps they are smoked meat-flavored.

Any which way, I am sure she's happy. Or should I say chipper?

Pasta Envy

I'm about to embark upon my annual 24-hour fast in the name of Yom Kippur and its blow-out-sale on penitence and redemption.

I have most certainly sinned over the course of the last year. This is a necessary Yom.

But there is only one major sin in the culinary realm that I can think off -- mad kitchen skills envy. The object of my jealousy is my pal Nick and his gift when it comes to making pasta.

Just take a look at the glorious squid ink fettuccine he made. In its raw form, it looks like a Jackson Pollack. Don't you agree?

Well, it wasn't just beautiful. It was delicious too. Here it is served up with a coconut milk-rich Thai curry...

Notice the crustaceans to ensure that this was full-fledged sin for a nice Jewish gal from "Lawn Giland."

Sin is so darn tasty!

And, with that timely confession, I'm off to have my "final meal" before the holiday begins.

No Sleep Till Barcelona

Time to break out the tapas! Planning a trip to Spain for May and decided to get a head start with a little help from my friends.

Sangria was poured. Asturian cider was gulped. Pinxtos were eaten. We're talking about toasts piled with sweet piquillo peppers and rich bits of glistening sardine, skewers of baby tomato, manzanilla olives and mouthpuckering white anchovies, and more toasts with even more piquillo peppers, this time stuffed with buttery blue cheese and hot peppers for good measure.

Platters of Serrano ham and lomo, alongside Manchengo and Idiazabal cheese were nibbled. Chorizo was stewed in wine and shrimp was sauteed with good olive oil and slivers of garlic. All was consumed with gusto.

Then the Spanish Tortilla was served toasty warm from its oil slick pan, dotted with red pepper, onion, and eggplant, slathered with homemade, garlicky good aiolli.

Dessert was densely perfumed Olive Oil Cake infused with orange zest and topped with a flurry of sliced almonds.

While I'm hoping that culinary stops in Seville, Madrid, and Barcelona kick it out of the parque, it's nice to know that I can get my Español on closer to home -- or at home as it were.

Christmas Eve, Jewish Guilt

Ever since I was a little girl, growing up surrounded by malls and diners on Long Island's North Shore, I dreamed of Christmas. I would flip through my mother's December issue of Better Homes and Gardens, entranced by page after page of holiday decor, Christmas cookie recipes, and glittering, gorgeous, ornament-festooned Christmas trees.

It was torture.

For I am a Jew.

No Christmas for me. "How about a Hanukkah bush?," I asked?

"No, we're Jewish! There is no such thing as a Hanukkah bush!," was the reply.

Mama Vamp had a mean streak back then.

But that was a long time ago, in a land far away. (Maybe, not so far away, but it's not like I've visited the Walt Whitman Mall lately.)

I'm grown-up now and could quite easily purchase a Christmas tree for my home. I could live out my Better Homes and Gardens holiday dreams. Yet, I don't.

The closest I have come is my annual Christmas Eve pilgrimage to Otto in the West Village for Italian fare and a merry glass or two of Prosecco. Mama Vamp even deigned to join me one year.

Last night, however, was different from all other Christmas Eves before. It was one in which I was invited to a spectacular Christmas Eve repast with presents under the tree, festive caroling (if singing along to Adele's "Hello" counts), and children dressed in their holiday best. And, the food...

Unsurprisingly, the feast was planned and prepared by two Jewish gents - my pal Peter and his comrade in bromance, Josh. It was a holiday miracle for that little Jewish girl who grew up on the Island: Two nice Jewish boys cooking up a Christmas Eve dinner that would have me too full to ever dream of sugar plums again.

First up? Ham. Not just any ham. We're talking a platter of sliced, luscious Iberico. They followed that up with Beau Soleil oysters with a tart mignonette. The remnants of the bivalve wonders are pictured above.

That was only the start. In the kitchen, the pair were prepping a massive Prime Rib, aged for no less than 50 days...

They lovingly saved the drippings for their fatty goodness, dribbling them generously into muffin tins to bake up Yorkshire Puddings.

As if that wasn't enough by way of rich starch, Peter whipped up a Potato and Sweet Potato Gratin. And, because something green was called for, there was a heaping pot of Creamed Spinach...

But the meal's pièce de résistance, was an "only Peter could come up with this" creation: Torchon of Foie Gras served with Manischewitz en Gelee, Roasted Peanuts and Toasted Challah...

Which brings us back to Judiasm. The Manischewitz gelee snapped it all back into place for me.

I was enjoying myself thoroughly, but at the same time I had to recognize that Christmas is not my holiday. It never will be.

Then my friend Max rubbed Kosher salt in the wound. This afternoon, I read his latest on Saveur - an ode to the importance of Jewish Christmas, extolling the virtues of "finding freedom in a holiday that leaves you out in the cold." And, as he eloquently rhapsodizes about Sichuan specialties and dim sum in Flushing, he shares a worry.

Is "Jewish Christmas" becoming too popular a phenomenon for its own good?

To that I say "Bah humbug!" There is enough Lo Mein to go around. And, I do not see Gentiles around the globe giving up their twinkling trees and Christmas hams for our Hunan holiday.

So tonight, no guilt - just a Jewish gal at home in Brooklyn with Chinese delivery for dinner.

Thank Full

You're expecting a photo of a turkey. I get it. Hate to disappoint. In truth, I made a gorgeous bird on Thanksgiving and then - as I traditionally do - turned the carcass into gorgeous gumbo. But, thought I'd take a breath post-turkey-palooza to reflect on some of the tastes I've been particularly thankful for over the past year...

For example, I can't help but smile thinking about that plate of juicy Himalayan lamb dumplings from a Momo truck in Jackson Heights, Queens.

Then there was the classic Porteño breakfast of a freshly baked Medialuna served alongside a serious cup of coffee, which I consumed fairly regularly when I was living in Buenos Aires this summer.

Once home, I tried my hand at recreating Argentina's great steak dinners at a pal's Brooklyn apartment, complete with wine from Mendoza and a Mallmann-esque fire pit in the backyard.

Just a couple of weeks ago, I made "all gone" when presented with a plate of chilled Gulf shrimp at Peche in New Orleans.

And then there has been the spirted New Orleans-style indulgence of a well-crafted Pimm's Cup at my Brooklyn local, Jack the Horse Tavern.

Can only hope that I'll have a few more food and drink memories to regale you with before the year is out.

Barcelona By Way Of Brooklyn

There is nothing like a trip to Europe without a passport and jet lag. Not that I wouldn't want to hop aboard a plane bound for Barcelona or Madrid right now, but I was lucky enough to get a taste of el estilo de vida Español when a bevy of foodie friends descended upon Chez Vamp for a Spanish feast that was nothing short of exquisite.

There was Paella, of course -- in this case, graced with wild Patagonia Shrimp, Monkfish Cheeks and Littleneck Oysters. Admittedly, that was the low point of the Spanish groaning board. (What can I say? It may look beautiful above, but my socarrat skills are sorely lacking.)

My pals were really the ones that made this dinner sing, with an array of tapas and pinxtos that would make a Catalan proud. Heck, we even indulged in a jar of Banderillas -- little plastic swords balancing tiny sour pickles, slivers of sweet red pepper, olives and pickled onions. Downed in one briny, mouthpuckering bite, we moved on to attack the rest of the Barcelonean banquet.

A major highlight: a platter laden with wafer-thin ruby red slices of Jamon Iberico Bellota, Jamon Serrano and Serrano de Lomo. It was all gobbled up within minutes of being laid on the table.

Thankfully, there was more to come. Much more.

Vegetables took centerstage long enough for us to pretend that maybe we were eating healthy. (Didn't I hear something about the Mediterranean Diet being great for your waistline?) There were Grilled Artichoke Hearts with brightening splash of fresh lemon juice, a hearty Tortilla Espanol and Steamed Broccoli with the traditional red pepper Romesco Sauce, warmed with toasted hazelnuts.

Then, bringing us back to the sea, we oohed and ahhed over a gorgeous plate of Razor Clam shells stuffed with diced clam meat along with chopped eggs, a garlic aioli and fennel fronds...

And, yes, there was dessert too. Pears poached in Sherry, served with Turron Ice Cream and topped with toasted almonds and dried cherries.

It was all quite splendid. The recipe most requested at the evening's end? No surprise: my Sangria.

Didn't I mention that I stirred up a pitcher at the night's onset? No? Well, perhaps that's because it was gone even quicker than the platter of Spanish ham.

So, here it is. May it quench your thirst and put a bit of Flamenco in your footstep all summer long...

Sangria

1 bottle Spanish red wine
1/2 cup brandy
3/4 cup triple sec
1 cup orange juice
1/2 Granny Smith apple
1/2 orange
6 strawberries

Pour wine, brandy, triple sec and orange juice into a larger pitcher. Stir. Add a cup of ice and the fruit cut into bite-sized chunks. Allow to chill the fridge for at least an hour, so the fruit gets soaked through with the Sangria mixture. Serve in glassed filled with ice.