Kitchen Monkey Getting Married! (and Restaurant Daniel, and Other Matters)

Yes, it's true! I'm tying the knot, and there's much to tell about that, along with an amazing engagement dinner at Daniel in Manhattan, but first a bit about the long absence.

Shamefully, it has been around a year and a half since my last post. I've been busy with work, recording music, and yes, cooking. Somehow the blog fell by the wayside, but I'm hoping to change that. Yes, I know I've said that before. No, I'm not assuming that you care.

I want to note one other sad aspect of my long absence. Until the later years of this blog, I was linking all the photos from Photobucket. Well...my Photobucket account went dormant, I didn't do anything about it, and now ALL of those photos are gone. In their place you will see an image saying that my account no longer exists. Bastards. Over time I will replace many of them, but many others are on a long-gone computer, and are therefore forever gone. But enough about the past! Onward to the future!

There have been numerous interesting food adventures in the past year or so--sojourns to out-of-the-way butcher shops and farms; fantastic farmers markets; excellent D.C. area restaurants--but two adventures easily stand out. The first is the SASOU Chef cooking competition/supper club that Kitchen Monkey and seven friends formed over a year ago. SASOU deserves its own post, however, and will have to wait. The second was a truly phenomenal dinner at a truly phenomenal restaurant: Daniel.

That dinner was part of what I would say was a perfect day, the day I proposed to my soon-to-be-wife. Without going into too much detail, I proposed in a secluded part of Central Park in Manhattan, she was surprised, and she said yes. She knew we had reservations at Daniel. She didn't know it was going to be an engagement dinner.

This is the lovely dining room at Daniel. Executive chef and owner, Daniel Boulud, opened this restaurant in 1993 and in 1998 it moved to its current location at Park Avenue and 65th Street in Manhattan. In 2008 renovations were completed to its interior, the one you see above. It has been called one of the ten best restaurants in the world. The President of France has made Boulud a Chevalier de la Légion d'honneur. The restaurant has three Michelin stars in the 2010 Michelin, the book's highest rating. It is elegant, grand, and any other hyperbolic synonym you can find for those words.

It is also out-of-this world expensive. Kitchen Monkey is not a wealthy man. He has a mountain of law school debt. But obviously this was an extremely special occasion. Was it worth it? YES. Will I be able to go again any time in the next five to ten years? Probably not.

First, I should describe the service, and if in doing so I sound like a hick who just saw his first skyscraper, so be it. First we were seated in the cocktail lounge to await our table and sip perfect (and we're talking 'Platonic Form' here) martinis. Not too much later, we were shown to our table in the dining room pictured above.

Over the course of the evening we were assisted by at least seven different people, each one with a different role, and each one of them like ninjas: their movements smooth and effortless, sometimes too quick to be noticed. Not long after we sat down, my fiancee asked me if I had seen what had just happened. I had not. She explained how she had sat down, placing her pocketbook (a $12 Filene's Basement affair) on the table. Almost before she had even noticed, a waiter/ninja had silently slipped her pocketbook off the table and placed it on a small plush pedestal next to the table. I had not noticed any of this.

Moments later, we looked up to see another man folding my fiancee's scarf (also from Filene's Basement--$20) in crisp, perfect folds, and setting it across the back of her chair, to keep it from touching the floor. In a French accent he said "this is my job...this is all I do...I fold scarves." It turned out later he was the sommelier.

But the food! How was it? I'm not Shakespeare, but allow me to wax poetic: GOD DAMN IT WAS AMAZING.

I started with sauteed foie gras (feel free to hate, all you haters, I understand why it's wrong and actually agree. I am not always a rational being and am aware that I may spend the afterlife being pecked for eternity by angry geese).

My main course was a stunningly tender venison loin that made me want to weep with joy. My fiancee's main course was a fillet of turbot, which was baked on a block of salt from Spain, I think. It was wheeled out to the table still on said block of salt. Another french-accented waiter effortlessly filleted the fish at our table. It was served with pureed parsnips which I have to assume had as much butter as parsnip and were remarkable.

For dessert I had a ganache, and it was decadent and delicious. During the entire meal we were treated wonderfully. I don't know how much that had to do with the fact that the staff knew ahead of time that this was an engagement dinner. Would we get the same treatment on an average visit? Don't know. Don't much care. They also brought us an additional dessert, with the word "congratulations" written in chocolate in fine cursive on the plate. Nice touch.

After dinner, the assistant manager came over and asked us how everything was. He was very helpful when I asked where we might find a cigar bar. There happened to be one the next block down, called Macanudo. It is one of maybe four or five places left in Manhattan that allow indoor smoking. We finished the night there with a cigar and cognac, and happened to sit next to a woman who had just gotten engaged that day. Even the initially-frosty bartender warmed up to us once she overheard that we had just gotten engaged.

In short, it was a wonderful day. One I will never forget.

Canoe make crepes?

Yes, I went for the cheap pun. Deal with it.

This past weekend several friends and I spent three days canoeing down the Potomac River, and it was perfect. I'm not talking about the part of the Potomac near D.C., which is only slightly less disgusting than the Hudson. Instead, we drove hours northward and launched in Green Ridge State Park in the Maryland panhandle, floating lazily, occasionally rowing, consistently drinking, and tracing the boundary between Maryland and West Virginia.

Our flotilla was ten canoes strong, with twenty people and a dog. Frequently we stopped rowing, and linked two to eight canoes, drifting slowly, sharing Trader Joe's cheetoes, Heineken, Schlitz, summer sausage, and fresh fruit, while relishing the amazing weather and beautiful landscape rising up on either side of the river. Occasionally we joined in song, butchering and belting as we pleased. At one point as we glided along, one of our trusty companions read to us from Moby Dick.

The first night we docked at a campground shared with Adventure Scouts. I had not heard of these, but an inquiry revealed that they are like scouts, but more adventurous. Less rigid. A little less like Mussolini's brownshirts, maybe. (Yes, I hated scouts). Some of us camped down by the river, some of us up on the hillside above. The hillside had a wonderful vantage point over the river, but was very close to the port-a-john. We made ourselves feel better by referring to our exclusive little neighborhood as The Heights (of Port-de-Jean). The rest of our group slept down the hill in The Devil's Crappy Camping Spot, as I liked to call it.

Food duties were split among the various posses, and the first night produced excellent burritos. This was followed by a long campfire parley, wherein much bourbon and tequila was drunk, and wherein jokes were exchanged, many of which cannot be repeated in so wholesome a blog as this. We learned much about some of our travelers that evening.

The next morning there was a beautiful fog on the river. It was very peaceful.

Day two held more beautiful weather, frequent sips of Knob Creek bourbon, a tipped canoe (which, I promise, was unrelated to the Knob Creek), and another excellent campsite. Frisbee was thrown, someone broke out a box of wine (scoff not, ye pretentious quaffers), and while some gathered firewood, others sat around a picnic table playing Rummy or Egyptian Rat-Screw. Brad & posse prepared an excellent vegetarian curry, quickly devoured.

Many conversations were had around the fire. We learned about who of us had been arrested and what for. We learned about who of us hated Bruce Springsteen (not me, that's pretty much like hating freedom as far as I can tell. If you hate The Boss, you have basically let the terrorists win) (I'm half-kidding). We learned about who of us had been on secret missions in Afghanistan (not me) and who had somehow accidentally filled the trunk of a friend's car with gasoline (also not me). Good times!

Kitchen Monkey, not being 100% the party monkey he used to be, turned in around midnight, but there must have been some late goings-on, since this was the scene around the campfire the next morning:

Finally, we get around to talking about the crepes. This is, after all, supposed to be a food blog. KM has made crepes numerous times, but this was the first time while camping. KM's posse was essential to the cause, cutting fruits and mushrooms. The first batch didn't have enough flour in it, but the later ones turned out quite good. All the lads and lasses were appeased. May I just say that crepes, nutella, and fresh strawberries go together like Johnny Cash and June Carter. All in all, a phenomenal trip, with new friends made and much good food eaten.
Kitchen Monkey will try to post more often in the near future, but, sadly, it won't be a regular thing until after the bar exam on July 29-30. Then it's done. Finit.

Until soon . . .

Jamaica - Runaway Bay

Sunset over Runaway Bay, Jamaica

Kitchen Monkey just got back from a week-long trip to Jamaica, and no synonym for "amazing" could do justice to it.

Runaway Bay

We stayed at an expansive villa--owned by the parents of a law school friend--in Runaway Bay, which is an hour East of Montego Bay. The villa has a breathtaking view over the town, the beach, and the bay itself. It also has a staff of Jamaican women who have worked there for decades, make the most delicious meals, and have the loveliest singing voices. Yeah, I felt uncomfortable with the idea of having anything resembling "servants." Definitely not how I grew up. We did our best to help out, taking in our own dirty dishes. Much of my discomfort was overidden by how wonderful the cooking was. Fresh-squeezed (or, if you're from Utah, fresh-squoze) orange juice every morning with French toast, bacon, or pancakes, and always ripe melons of all varieties. The coffee was perfect. Dinner was different and fantastic every night, the most memorable being a giant platter of Jamaican lobsters with butter sauce. Here is breakfast:

A large part of the vacation was spent simply relaxing by the pool or playing guitar on the veranda. I was at least half-way inebriated from noon to bedtime every day. Here are some trip highlights worth going into detail about.

1. The River and the Waterfall
On day 2 we shelled out for innertubes and a couple of guides, who led us down to the banks of a lazy river that traced its way through a jungle that looked almost like a perfect Hollywood version of what a Jamaican river through a jungle would look like. Our guides sang Bob Marley songs along the way, which I imagine is geared to their most frequent tourist demographic (American college students there on spring break), but I swallowed my cynicism in the face of how beautiful it all was. Half way down the river we stopped at a bank where we bought trinkets from locals and jumped off a cliff into the cool river below. I came up out of the water to hear people screaming and to see a ziploc bag with my credit card and $2,000 Jamaican floating down the river. Fortunately I am a fast swimmer.

We hopped back on the tubes and floated down to the ocean, where our ride picked us up to take us to lunch at a restaurant next to a large waterfall. My friend Naila and I wandered above the waterfall where a local was showing a group of tourists around the beautiful garden above the falls. He presented them, and then us, with the leaves of a plant which he claimed was a mild narcotic. Curious, we munched on the leaves. They tasted like ass and provided no mental or physical stimulation at all. Perhaps he and his friends would laugh about it later. I know I would have.

On our way back we passed one of those mountain-size cruise ships near St. Ann's Bay. We wondered aloud why in god's name anyone would want to be trapped on one of those things, since as Naila put it, they're "filled with the kinds of people we go on vacation to get away from."

Later in the day, after more Red Stripe, we paid $15 to hike up through a waterfall. We started at the ocean and hiked up several levels. At first I thought, "this is too perfect." Then I realized that some of the conveniently located "rocks" were actually made of concrete. Still, it looked realistic enough, and there was at least some sense of danger. One person almost took a nasty spill, another lost her glasses (a Jamaican with a snorkel mask found them and earned himself $20 for the deed), and I was bitten by fire ants, which could have been disastrous on account of a nasty allergy. Fortunately, there were only three bites. A dozen or so more and I could have spent a couple hours vomiting and semi-paralyzed.

Amnesia and the Best Jerk Ever
Speaking of vomit and semi-paralyisis (OK, not really) the following night we found ourselves in Ocho Rios at a club called Amnesia where I drank vodka tonics like a fish with malaria. Fortunately, this was not some crap-tastic tourist club, but rather a hangout for the locals. With the exception of random expats and a couple ditzy Canadian girls (who were happy to announce that they worked as Princesses at Disney World), the entire club was filled with Jamaicans dancing their asses off. So we danced OUR asses off, and drank, and danced, and drank.

At about 2 in the morning we stumbled out into the street, looking for Junior, a kindly and elderly Jamaican man who was our driver for the entire trip. While waiting for him to show up, I felt a powerful hunger come on. Fortunately, there were men lined along the street with grills selling jerk, waiting for the clubbers to spill out into the streets. I bought a leg and a thigh of jerk chicken, which the man speared, set on a cutting board, and hacked into four pieces with a large and crusty-looking meat cleaver before sliding it onto some aluminum foil and placing the steaming bird in my hands. Yes, I know, I was at least three sheets to the wind at that point, but I can still objectively say this was one of my top 20 favorite eating experiences ever. The seasoning was rich and spicy, and the bird was moist and tore apart easily. I gnawed greedily and happily licked the sauce from my fingers before piling into the van for a sleepy ride back to the villa.

Equestrian and Roadside Bar Adventures
On Friday my friend Julie and I woke up, had breakfast with the others, and met Robert, a local Jamaican guide who keeps horses. He had brought three horses up to the villa, one each for himself, myself, and Julie. My horse was named Winston, and he is a damn good horse. Robert led us up the hillside to the top, where we could look out across the entire valley and Runaway Bay. Runaway Bay was the first part of Jamaica that Columbus saw upon his arrival. Its name seems to have come from the nearby caves, which served as a hideout for pirates, runaway slaves, and even a Spanish nobleman on the lam. It is far less touristy than Montego Bay or Ocho Rios, and the only nearby resort is Hedonism III, which I'm told is a nudist resort.


After gazing out across the countryside, we took the horses down the hill to the beach, where we rode straight into the bay and traced the shoreline 100 feet out or so. A group of Jamaican children, ages 6 to 8 were splashing in the tide, and when they saw us they waved, screamed and shouted, wanting a ride. It was blissful, and I will never forget it. In fact, Kitchen Monkey is going to break his longstanding policy of not posting any pictures of himself, just so you can see how cool it all was. Behold:


After the horsey ride I was starving, but out of cash. A Jamaican man named Tika, in his late 40s or early 50s, offered to take us to a money machine. As he led us far down the beach, through some woods, across a canal, and under some barbed wire, I began to wonder if this was going to turn into one of those stories about stupid gullible tourists who meet a nasty end, but to tell the truth, I trusted him. I never felt like we were in the slightest amount of danger from this friendly chap. After we reached the money machine, he offered to take us to the highway where we could find food. At a roadside bar called "Bar," which was little more than a tiny shack and an adjacent open air hut with a full bar, I feasted hungrily on aki and snapper, served with black beans & rice and breadfruit. Washing it down with the ubiquitous red stripe, I was in heaven. Check it out:


A Strong Shirk Ethic

And now I'm back in D.C. What did I bring back with me (besides a Jamaican soccer jersey and a bottle of Appleton's Rum)? I would say a determination to take life easier. It just so happens that this determination coincides and conflicts with a mountain of homework for my last semester of law school, not to mention bar applications, and blah blah blah blah blah.

I'm ready to go back. Now. Please.

Les Bistros & les Brasseries of D.C. & Pasta a la Jesse

The Dining Room at Central Michel Richard

First, Kitchen Monkey is posting this from a villa overlooking the ocean in Runaway Bay, Jamaica. I kid you not. But that will wait for a future post. Right now it's time to play catch-up.

Sushi Party
Last month I hosted a sushi party, putting the guests to work making makimono while I churned pork tonkatsu and gyoza out of the kitchen in batches that disappeared almost as soon as they were out the door. I love the frenetic pace of balancing the timing of various menu items and making sure everybody is well fed, but I'm glad I don't have to do it everyday. I finally read Kitchen Confidential, and as exciting as Bourdain makes it sound, the life of a chef would not be for me. In any event, the sake was flowing, and merriment was had. I also managed to find a Japanese market that sells quail eggs! So the hard core foodies in the kitchen were treated to quail eggs atop nigiri with ikura (salmon roe). Little salty bombs of goodness incarnate my friend. Credit is especially due to Tim, who brought miso soup and helped serve the appetizers. Credit also to Jesse who assisted greatly in the kitchen.

Jesse of Key West: a genuine foodie who cooks a mean pasta (more on that later) and has recently joined KM on food escapades to some of D.C.'s french restaurants, each of which deserve various amounts of praise.

Difference between a bistro and a brasserie? If you don't know, but really care, you can probably look it up on wikipedia. It seems like brasseries are more formal. During my few months in France I never really paid attention to the difference. Feel free to fill me in.

Bistro Du Coin
Frequently hectic and always noisy, Bistro Du Coin is the most authentically French in atmosphere and menu. They are located close to Dupont Circle, and are known for their mussels and fries. In fact, I've never had any desire to order anything there besides moules frites. Bistro du Coin packs you in tight, so its very easy to hear the conversation at the next table, which will probably be about public policy or in French.

Montmartre
This brasserie is near Eastern Market, and has a very cozy atmosphere. The menu is fairly affordable and the food portions are plentiful. Nearly everything is appropriately rich and heavy. For an appetizer we had a very good charcuterie plate with some tasty paté.
Honestly, I don't remember exactly what I had for an entrée, though it was delicious. Rabbit? Duck? Whatever it was, it sat in a box in the back of a rented PT Cruiser over night and was tragically never finished. The rental car people I'm sure appreciated the smell.

Belga Cafe
Also near Eastern Market. Not French, but Belgian. Atmosphere is interesting, a bit trendy-looking. I had steak and frites, and though it was good, I thought it overpriced. Also, it was a weekend, and they were cranking people in and out. It seemed our meals were already prepared when we ordered them, they came so quickly. I don't know that I'd go back to eat, but they do have one of my favorite Belgian ales--Lucifer--which brings back pleasant memories of the gallons I drank at La Gueze in Paris a few summers ago.

Central Michel Richard
The best by far of my recent dining experiences. One of the top restaurants in DC is Citronelle, by the world famous chef Michel Richard. To this point Citronelle is beyond my budget, but Jesse and I recently tried his more affordable place, Central, a mere lamb shank's throw from the Capitol Building. About $140 got us two appetizers, two entrées, dessert, and a bottle of wine plus tip. We started off with the "faux gras" board, which you can see in this NY Times review. The paté is made primarily of butter. Delicious, delicious butter. There also seemed to be some rabbit meat in it.

The "faux gras" terrine is chicken liver, and, again, butter. I can't recall the bottle of wine, which was less than impressive. We had a cold ratatouille which came with a mix of greens on the side. It was fantastic. Jesse had a charcuterie plate for an entrée as well, which meant enormous amounts of sausage and prosciutto sliced thinly from the giant hocks hanging in a display window not far away. I had a slow-braised lamb served with a very creamy polenta. On top of all that, we shared a dessert, which can also be viewed in the Times article: a glorified kit kat bar. As you probably know by now, KM has not the sweet tooth, but this was delicately textured, not overly sweet, and served with some of the best ice cream I've ever had. The wait staff was very professional, and kind enough to twice replace KM's napkin when he dropped it on the floor. I choose to blame this on the wine, which the waiter repeatedly poured into our glasses, hoping to get us drunk so that our judgment would lead us into another bottle of wine.

I definitely recommend this restaurant and will go back eventually. But next on the list is Cafe Atlantico, owned by another famous chef, José Andrés, who, according to the Post, is indefatigable. This is my new favorite word.

Pasta á la Jesse
After playing down her kitchen skills, the indefatigable Jesse whips this up from imagination, and daaaaamn eetz gooood. Very simple, fairly quick, and extremely tasty. You're getting the recipe in IM form. Deal with it.

Jesse: it was

ok -

so it's very detailed and intense

first chop one and half tomatoes

i used linguini if you care

me: i do, i really do

Jesse: i sliced, salted, and let the eggplant sweat for an hour

4:02 PM i didn't use any salt in the cooking otherwise

then i fried the eggplant in olive oil

me: lots of it

Jesse: you need lots

yeah

we drained it a bit - the eggplant after frying it right

then while the pasta cooked

4:03 PM i simmered the tomatoes with pepper and red pepper flakes

in a little bit of olive oil

added the eggplant cut into bite size pieces near the end since it's already cooked, just to heat it

added the procciutto right at the end

uhhhhhhhh

i think that's it maybe

4:04 PM i could be forgetting a spice

but i don't think so

i don't think i put onion

maybe i put garlic?

Note from the indefatigable editor: I think there was, in fact, some garlic in it.

Next time, Jamaica. (And fear not, I will not end any of my sentences with "mon").

Sea Bass . . . is that OK?

Yes, it's OK, as long as it is certified "legally caught." And Whole Foods promised me that this Chilean Sea Bass was 100% wholesome and consumer-conscious friendly. And I trust Whole Foods--so far. Nonetheless, it got me wondering: what is all this sea bass hubbub? Which in turn got me wondering: am I spelling "hubbub" correctly?

Setting aside the second question, I turned to the obvious source of information for all things food related: the U.S. State Department. They have a nice page of frequently asked questions related to the sea bass. For instance, did you know that Chilean Sea Bass is neither a bass, nor always Chilean? Talk amongst yourselves.

Secondly, did you know that the Chilean Sea Bass can sometimes live for 50 years? Now, even if it isn't endangered, which it isn't, that fact makes me feel a bit bad for eating it. I prefer the animals I eat to have shorter lifespans (although, the reason I feel guilty about eating veal is the shortness of its lifespan, so the logic doesn't really hold). It just seems sort of strange to munch on something with 50 years worth of memories. On the other hand, without having done any research, I feel safe in saying that fish don't have tremendously good memories. And living for 50 years without any memory of what happened beyond last week? Miserable existence, I say. I did this damn fish a favor, if you ask me.

Really though, it was a fairly delicious meal, and something I whipped up sort of spur-of-the-moment-like. SIMPLE. I minced some shallots, which I'm finding are as versatile as Gary Oldman. In fact, they are the Gary Oldman of the vegetable world. Anyhow, I minced them and sauteed them in butter and a bit of white wine (fairly standard, eh?) but then added a few spoonfuls of real maple syrup. Not too much...just enough to give it a slight sweetness. This was the glaze for the fish, which was simply sauteed in butter and a bit of olive oil. The fish itself had a nice texture--firm, but not rubbery, like Monkfish so often is.

In other news...

I moved to a new part of D.C., known as Mt. Pleasant, so the grand old kitchen (with its 6-burner Viking Range) is no longer mine for the using. Nonetheless, I am living with three very cool people who all cook and appreciate good food, so I'm excited about the coming year.

Also, Kitchen Monkey's sister-in-law has a new food blog, which is simply awesome. However, it is in French. This is possibly the result of her being French. Don't read the French so well? You can still check out the pictures, which are lovely.

Also, I am no longer apologizing for not posting more often. I've done it so many times, and in any case, I've gone so long since posting that I'm not sure if I have any readers left! If I do, then you have my apologies for not posting more often, whoever you are. Mom?

Cheers
-KM

Green Parrot Bar - Key West

That's right kids, Kitchen Monkey is on a much-needed vacation in Key West, Florida. For three days now, nothing but killer food and drink, sun, and meeting interesting people. You see, Kitchen Monkey has friends in high places. One of my college buddies grew up in Key West, and his pa, John Vagnoni, is a co-owner of Key West's coolest bar, the Green Parrot Bar. We're not talking about your bubblegum tourist trap (cough * Sloppy Joe's * cough), but rather a comfortable corner bar with loads of history. Nearly every photo, painting, or tchotchke on the wall has an interesting story behind it. They book an astounding variety of acts, with tendencies toward blues. This is where the locals go, and if you're ever in Key West, you should DEFINITELY stop by for some live music and local flavor (never any cover charge!) But please, if you go, do not snivel. Check it out here.

On to the food:
Day 1
We ate raw oysters and steak at Pepe's Cafe, the "oldest restaurant in Key West." Delicious. Firecrackers were going off in the background. Also, as you may know, the town is crawling with wild roosters. The longer you stay, the less you notice their cockle-doodle-doodling. Also, you need to see this picture of John Vagnoni's great kitchen. Check out this vintage stove! It could date back to the 1930s.

Day 2
The next morning we woke up with a shot of buchi (basically a super sugary espresso) and toasted cuban bread. We then went to the beach, where Kitchen Monkey acquired a beet red sunburn on certain torso regions that somehow managed to escape sunblock. Lunch was a great pastrami sandwich from the Waterfront Market. That night we went over to to the house of a couple of very talented local artists, Tom and Carrie--both lovely people and serious foodies. They made us awesome bar jack fish sandwiches, along with tomatoes and fresh mozarella, and some dynamite kimchi. They'll have to forgive me for posting this picture without permission, but I had to give you a shot of their awesome open air kitchen:


That night was finished off with some live blues and Jack Daniels at the Green Parrot. Life is so good. So to wrap up, an ENORMOUS thanks to Nick and John Vagnoni for all their hospitality, and thanks to John as well for the very tasty bottle of Hendrick's Gin.

Tomorrow its off to Tallahassee, where I will revisit my favorite sushi restaurant and hang with some dear old friends. Expect plenty of posts this summer!