NY Girl Eats World

Our Days of Moro

 

"When we look back on newlywed life, Mark and I will recall it divided into two periods: the pre-Moro days, and the post-Moro days. It is no great exaggeration to say that your gift has changed our lives — or at least our kitchen."

That was the beginning of a thank-you card I wrote this week to my cousin-in-law and his wife, who recently gifted my husband and me with a series of cookbooks — Moro, Casa Moro and Moro East — by Samuel and Samantha Clark, the husband and wife behind the wildly successful London restaurant, Moro.

Their cooking is rooted in traditional recipes from the Moorish south of Spain (a country you know is dear to me), Morocco and the northern coast of Africa, Turkey (a country I fell in love with on a recent visit), and the Mediterranean countries of the Middle East.

The food is unassuming, unpretentious, rustic and uncomplicated. No one would call it art. It's too real for that. Too sincere. These are recipes that appeal to the cook who wants people to swoon from the flavors in their mouth, but doesn't need them to gasp when the plate is set before them:

Smoky eggplant salad with tahini dressing, fresh mint, sweet cherry tomato and the pop of juicy pomegranate seeds.

Cold yogurt soup with grated cucumber and mint, with a healthy drizzle of olive oil on top.

Spinach cooked with saffron and chickpeas, crowned with a golden heap of toasty migas — fried breadcrumbs, Spanish-style.

Or how about: fresh spinach salad, slick with sumac dressing, tossed with tangy feta and toasted pine nuts.

Moro's meals cry out to be served in chipped ceramic bowls -- lots of them -- with heaping piles of bread and shallow dishes filled with glistening olive oil surrounding damp islands of za'atar. These recipes are for feasting but never with your fancy bone china. It's the kind of food that wants to be eaten outdoors, communing with nature, or in a damp, dark tavern near the heat of a charcoal grill.

A quick glance at the recipes in Moro East (the newest book), with the beautiful blue patterned dust jacket, I felt my heart expand with a kind of palpable joy. I bit my lower lip, steadying the emotion that was poised to reveal itself in tears, and told my husband Mark that these were the recipes I've always wanted to make (though I'd never actually known them).

This is the way, I said, I've always longed to cook.

The recipes in Moro East are grouped by season — inspired by the vegetables and herbs the Clarks grew on their plot of land in the east end of London. I tend to read cookbooks like novels, from cover to cover, and with this one, I was completely rapt. By the end, when I learned the Clarks's allotment was bulldozed to make way for Olympic stadiums, I felt like an old friend had died. All that life — old fruit trees, asparagus that took years to grow, plants that were lovingly tended in neighboring plots by a rainbow of immigrants — are all gone.

When it comes to Moro, and the cookbooks, I'm frightfully late to the party. The restaurant opened in 1997 and has steadily stacked up awards from top food critics. The first cookbook came out in 2001, though they remain difficult to buy in the US.

Coincidentally, before I met him, Mark actually lived a stone's throw from Moro, in King's Cross.

Today we are back in London, and tomorrow, Thursday, I make a pilgrimage. I go to Moro — home of the recipes that have inspired my lunches and dinners of the past couple months.

We will arrive somewhere around the tail end of lunch. I want to take a seat at the bar with my husband and order a feast of tapas. I want to watch the faces of the cooks (the Clarks or otherwise) in the open kitchen as they make the food that inspires so much love in me — not to mention a great longing to move away from the city to the countryside, where I can grow my own vegetables and cook by the seasons.

Mark has, somewhat cheekily, cautioned me not to get too excited. "What if it's not as good as what you've already made?" he, so sweetly, suggests.

But I'm not expecting a life-changing experience — that already happened when I cracked open the Moro books. I only hope to feel the way I do when I eat Moro's food at home: deeply, and indescribably, satisfied.

Grande Lakes Orlando: We're Here!

 

Mission Possible: Do you accept?

Tssssssssssssss!

Hear that? That’s the fuse going off on a self-destructing telegram we’ve just received. Quick! Huddle in close, gang. We’ve got a mission on our hands.

A trio of black-clad, stilettoed women leapt out of an Escalade to deliver a top-secret message this evening (OK, so it was an email zipped through cyberspace by a very un-intimidating and amiable PR man, but I found a sexy femme fatale photo, so just go with it). The mysterious ladies dropped a letter in my hand, and before I could utter a word, they were back in their vehicle with Bloomies sale-like urgency. I realized what the rush was when I ripped the envelope across the top: tssssssssss!

So we don’t have a moment to lose. Here we go:

“The challenge: The Chefs at the Grande Lakes Orlando are confident that given 60-days advance notice, they can help guests learn to cook any type of cuisine or perfect time-honored family recipes.

  The mission: You determine the choice of cuisine that you’d like to learn more about and prepare with the Chefs (the sky is the limit!!!).”

The sky’s the limit?  Oh, they’re in for it – aren’t they, gang? <wink>

First, a little background on the Grande Lakes Orlando: Picture 500 perfectly manicured acres in the middle of a nature preserve, and at the heart of it all, two hotels in the upper echelon of the Marriot family — Ritz-Carlton and JW Marriott.

With Orlando International a few miles east and Disney World a few miles west, Grande Lakes is a sanctuary of civility in the hyper-animated heart of America's capital of Family Fun. With its own Greg Norman golf course, “lazy” tubing river and Ritz Carlton spa, Grande Lakes tries hard to leave you with few reasons to ever leave the property. Oh yeah, and then there’s the ELEVEN restaurants and bars. They include an outpost of Primo, a back-to-earth mini empire begun by James Beard award-winner (and fellow Long Island native) Melissa Kelly.

Presiding over all the JW Marriott restaurants is Executive Chef Mark Beaupre (pictured), who is supposed to be super-creative, obviously super-energetic, and apparently feels he has the time to teach me how to cook whatever my fickle heart desires. Make that me and my lovely momma, who will accompany me in September to cook with the Chef and his team for the day.

We’re pioneers of sorts (OK, fine, guinea pigs) for a new offering called “Savory Saviors,” an exclusive series of a dozen experiences that will be similar to my own. Guests can book a private cooking session with the chef, which begins with a lunch introducing the flavors and ingredients that are fundamental to the cuisine they've requested to learn. Then the real fun begins — dinner preparation. Guests learn how to make a four-course meal that they will afterwards enjoy (er, hopefully) with special wine pairings.

The “best” part is that the whole experience will be videotaped. Yep. You thought Throwdown was the last of me?  Oh no, my friends!  I’m following my five minutes of fame with a reality tv show!  Well, a one-episode, reality v-log anyway.

But back to YOU!  Your mission, faithful NYGEW readers, is to choose the cuisine I will learn to cook.

I want to task the chefs with something challenging, out of the ordinary — test their mettle a bit. BUT, it can’t be totally obscure (Cantonese cuisine from the Panyu district of Guangzhou? I know, Steamy Kitchen, you’re like “Pshaw! That’s child’s play!”). Not that the chefs aren’t up for such a challenge, of course — it’s that I want to be able to do some not-too-difficult homework on the cuisine beforehand.

So leave some ideas in the comments section below. Or, if you’re comment-shy, send me an email. I've got until end of day Wednesday to take suggestions. You'll be sure to get a video shout-out if your recommendation is chosen. And I hear something about a special embroidered apron. But you didn't hear that from me.

KAAAABOOOOOM!!!

****UPDATE:  I've had some great suggestions come in (some by email), but I don't have time to post about them just yet because I'm getting on a plane to Austria in a few hours.  So I've talked to Mr. Big (aka mild-mannered PR man) and he's agreed to let me keep the "polls" open through the weekend. So keep the comments coming, guys!  xo, N

Down, boy! Down!

There's a hot dog in there, I swear.

I don't think I quite realized what I was getting into when I ordered a Colombian-style perro caliente at Brasa Restaurant on Long Island. The hot dog, and its doughy cocoon, were the length of my forearm, wrist to elbow — no exaggeration. In addition to being smothered in mayo, mustard, ketchup AND pineapple sauce, it was obscenely embedded with other meat: thick slices of chorizo. Several of them.

Shredded lettuce was in there, too, but I'm not sure why. To make me feel less guilty for devouring this cholesterol fiesta? It sure wasn't in there for crunch factor — that job was taken care of by the confetti of fried potato on top.

Oh, don't get me wrong — I. LOVED. IT. Not to mention all the other Latin food I chowed down on in my quest to find authentic, and perhaps widely unknown, local eateries run by Latinos. It was the subject of my recent NY Times piece, which you can check out by clicking here.

If you care to make the trek to Brasa, consider yourself warned: When your stomach screams STOP, your mouth will remind you that it doesn't have ears.

Pop Rocks and Orange Dreams

I’ve regressed to about seven years old and it’s all Turning Stone’s fault. While a guest at The Lodge at Turning Stone, I was fed delectable sweets that only a childlike imagination could dream up and an adult hand could fashion. By the time I’d devoured them all, I was giggling like a schoolgirl who’d just been slipped a love letter from her classroom crush.

It happened in the most unlikely place, too. The Lodge is a modern Adirondack-style hotel with first-class service and luxurious amenities: spacious VIP suites with private hot tubs on teak verandas; a gorgeous spa with mineral pools and aromatic sage and white pine massages (Michael, the lead therapist, is amazing); turndown service that leaves a dream-catcher on your pillow. The Lodge is a veritable oasis of elegance and relaxation in the middle of cow pastures, not far from ramshackle little Adirondack villages, in upstate New York.

So one evening I was dining in their four-diamond restaurant, Wildflowers, enjoying delightful banter with my waiter, Bill, and a bazillion-course meal that was decidedly adult: a canapé topped with tender ostrich carpaccio for the amuse-bouche; sautéed escargot in a puff pastry case (“vol-au-vent”) with melted brie; thinly-sliced dehydrated vegetables – zucchini, eggplant, carrot, beet – over mesclun with a lemon vinaigrette; and quail stuffed with pheasant sausage and St. Andre cheese.

In between courses two and three, Bill brought out an appetizer he said the chef was considering for a new menu. It was a riff on the corn dog: three shrimp fried in a tasty, eggy batter, skewered, and served with a miniature jar of homemade heirloom tomato ketchup that I spooned up greedily (and I don’t even like ketchup!). Looking back now, this was a hint of things to come. It was kid’s food reinvented.

But I wasn’t ready. When Bill put down a “thank you” plate of goodies at the end of my meal, the seven-year-old, pig-tailed girl inside me was taken by surprise. And when she was awakened, she wouldn’t stop giggling.

The plate had a little demitasse with thick, white liquid and two small candies. Bill pointed to the honey-colored, sugar-encrusted candy and called it a passion fruit gelée candy (ho-hum). He pointed to the cup next and said it was doughnut soup (now I’m listening). Finally he pointed to a little square of dark chocolate and said, “That’s a surprise.”

I bit into the passion fruit candy to get it over with and then set it aside. Swinging my legs beneath the table, I picked up the cup and brought it eagerly to my lips. I took a tentative sip. The liquid was thick and creamy; the taste was indeed that of a powdered doughnut! How’d they do that?

Bill had told me to drink to the bottom because a bit of jelly was down there. As if I needed encouragement, I pressed on, savoring each swig, until I got to the thick purple jelly at the bottom. I coaxed it to my lips with several firm pats to the bottom of the cup. I know. Shameless.

By this time I was so enamored by the liquid doughnut that I’d completely forgotten Bill’s coy comment about the chocolate candy. When I’d all but licked the demitasse clean, I picked up the chocolate and bit into the middle. I expected it to ooze something but instead it was hard. My teeth snapped through the center and I saw a puff of smoke billow from somewhere beneath my nose. It startled me – whatever that was, I didn’t want to make a mess in this fancy restaurant – so I threw the rest of the candy in my mouth.

And then it started. First I felt it on my tongue: little pops, little sparks. Then I felt it back by the hinges of my jaw: small firecrackers exploding against my cheeks. Then a chain of explosions ran clear across the back of neck, tickling my skin as they went off. What the heck was going on?

I was in a state of utter perplexity and mild panic. Then I saw Bill peer around the corner of the corridor to the kitchen. I waved him over unabashedly – the kind of quick pumping wave you give your friend when you want her to come quickly to check out the principal making out with the nurse before they stop and your friend misses it.

Bill stride over all smiles. “I see you found the surprise,” he said.

“What is this?” I exclaimed, pointing to my mouth.

“It’s Pop Rocks.”

You remember those little crystals, don’t you? A fusion of science and pure sugar, they came in paper packets and you poured them onto your tongue not especially for their taste but for the riotous way they rattled and rolled as they dissolved. The candy chef had found a way to make a filling out of them (ground them down and packed them into the center of the chocolate mold?). And I couldn’t stop giggling.

Seriously, it was uncontrollable. I laughed until I couldn’t laugh anymore. Bill, clearly pleased with my reaction, said an older gentleman he’d served recently had the same reaction. Suddenly I saw Bill as the boy on the playground who gave out candy that turned your mouth blue. The unexpectedness, the whimsy of it, tickled me and my inner child. I wanted another Pop Rocket candy.

But I behaved myself. I didn’t ask for seconds. However, the next day I went looking for them. Bill had said they were made in the “candy kitchen.” I didn’t know what that meant but I found out there was a confectionery shop called Opals in the casino at the other end of the resort. It was only 10:30am but I couldn’t help myself. The seven-year-old was awake and she wanted her candy.

Bad news, though. The girl behind the candy counter said they didn’t make Pop Rocket candy. I was distraught. I wanted to cross my arms and stomp off into the corner to sulk. But I was a good girl. I took a deep breath and decided, instead, to check out the cases in hopes that she was simply mistaken.

She wasn’t. But I found something else: “Orange Dream” fudge. OK, so it wasn’t going to explode in my mouth; but I had a feeling it would send me spiraling back to balmy summer days, water gun fights and running barefoot in the grass. My hunch was right. The fudge tasted like a Creamsicle. It was smooth and creamy; all that was missing was an icy texture.

I always knew about “special” brownies; but now I know about dreamy fudge. One bite of the latter and I'm back in my parents' yard, holding the tacky stick of a Creamsicle. My hair smells of chlorine and blades of grass are stuck to my wet feet. I am seven again and my life hasn’t been mapped out yet. The only deadline I have to keep is the one that will prevent a Creamsicle from melting down my arm.

No Ordinary Bar Food

I did not expect to find French fries seasoned with truffle oil or a croquet monsieur with tasso ham while speeding through rural Pennsylvania last weekend. No, no, I’m not knocking PA. You see, I was ravenous. It was 4 o’clock and I’d been traveling on nothing but coffee and a handful of Hershey kisses. I’d reached that point of hunger when you just don’t care what goes down the hatch so long as it’s edible.

I didn’t know where I was – somewhere along the Delaware River between points A and B. It was too early for any respectable restaurant to be serving dinner, but my two companions and I had reached our breaking point. We came into a pretty little town with a jumble of restored 19th-century buildings and spotted Hotel Fauchère, a genteel Italianate building with red-and-white-striped awnings and a broad porch. A sign advertised an interior restaurant, The Delmonico Room, and because I was desperate I went inside to inquire.

The hotel receptionist confirmed that the hotel’s very respectable restaurant was indeed closed – and besides, reservations are strongly advised, eh hem. She kindly recommended, instead, Bar Louis in the basement, which serves all day. In the basement? Before rallying the troops I went to check it out myself. While I didn’t care if the bar only served potato chips and peanuts, I couldn’t expect my companions to agree (even if my stomach was beginning to howl at embarrassing decibels.)

I skipped around the side of the building to a basement stairwell and entered the underground eatery. To my surprise I found a space that was chic and modern – more Soho than Great Gatsby. The booths were sheathed in velvety fabric and accessorized with throw pillows. Striking floral and equine photographs adorned the walls in addition to an enormous black-and-white snapshot of Andy Warhol kissing John Lennon which hung behind the bar.

I asked the barmaid to see a menu and she cheerily gave me one she said I could keep. Skimming it, I read things like Alsatian country pate with onion jam and cornichons, game hen “coq au vin” with escargot, and steak frites. What were French-bistro cooking and a Manhattan ambiance doing in the middle of... of…um, where were we?

Milford, the waitress told us when we’d settled into one of the booths. She was sweet, but I detected apprehension when we inquired where we were. City folk, I’m sure she mumbled as she headed back to the kitchen with our order. A few moments later she returned with a stack of pamphlets and maps that indicated Milford sits in the crook between New York and New Jersey, in the Delaware River Highlands.

Hotel Fauchère dates back to the mid 1880s. It was originally opened by Louis Fauchère, a Swiss-born master chef at Delmonico’s—you know, the “first restaurant” in America—and operated under the Fauchère family for 124 years. Charlie Chaplin is said to have been among the hotel’s famous clientele. Recently the hotel underwent a five-year renovation and reopened last year under new ownership. The 16-room luxe inn maintains a traditional sense of elegance, but in the basement, at Bar Louis, the designers got to have some fun.

An exposed brick wall reminds you of the age and longevity of the place while the rest of the space speaks of cool, contemporary style. The art belongs to Christopher Makos and Paul Solberg, aka The Hilton Brothers: tight angle shots of horses – a face, a neck – set beside blossoms that mimic the equine subject in shape or structure. And that enormous photo of Lennon and Warhol you can’t take your eyes off, it was taken by Makos, a protégé of Warhol himself.

Ah, but enough about the space and let’s get on with the food! For goodness sake, my stomach was howling and I’ve kept you waiting long enough. We started with two soups and an appetizer. Vidalia onion soup had a rich, mahogany-colored broth with a hundred flecks of sweet onion. A brioche croute reclined in the center with a crown of melted gruyere, its belly soaking in the glorious broth. The other soup was a hearty “country” potato and leek soup that was thick from cream and smoky from bacon. My calamari, excuse me, calmar frit, arrived with Japanese soup spoons of tasty tomato lime vinaigrette for dipping. The calmar were perfectly golden-crisp outside and melt-in-mouth tender inside. The portions were so large and my appetite so powerful I had to coach myself audibly: Pace yourself, pace yourself…

I had a hard time choosing my entrée. “The Chicken and The Snail” sounded whimsical and its description divine—that was the aforementioned game hen coq au vin with escargot. Of course there was a Delmonico one-pounder, too, seasoned with cream and Vermont cheddar; but I wasn’t looking to plunk down $40. So I played it safe and chose a $9 croquet monsieur, which is usually a fancy, hot ham-and-cheese sandwich. This one was just that and so much more.

The sandwich (pictured at the top) was stuffed with smoked ham and a real treat, tasso ham, which is really not technically ham but a Cajun-cured smoked pork with a peppery rind. Both were made locally by Leidy’s pork company in PA. The bread of course was rich, buttery brioche and I imagine it was slathered with even more butter before being broiled because it came out seductively crisp and golden. My fingertips glistened too – a definite sign. The sandwich was so rich I could only eat half of it, which made me very sad. The potato gaufrettes (basically thin waffle-shaped chips) also went virtually untouched.

But there were other potatoes I could not pass up. Both my companions ordered the Bar Louis burger made from “prime Angus chuck,” topped with Vermont cheddar, a thick slab of grilled onion, and a thin English muffin. It comes with a shot glass of ketchup and a heap of “truffle” fries. Oh yes, I said TRUFFLE fries.

At first glance they're deceiving. The fries are McDonald's-size -- think long, thin matchsticks -- and look like nothing special. But what you can't clearly see is that they're sprinkled with sea salt (a tad too much, actually) and a healthy dose of truffle oil that makes them shine in the dim mood lighting. Snapping through their crisp outer sheath into the potato pillow within, you don’t bump into the truffle flavor right away. You wait for it. Wait… and then there! Earthy, foresty, like a stroll through wet woods, over spongy moss and damp leaves. One more, I kept saying. Well, maybe just one more…

Needless to say I left Bar Louis with a happy stomach, purring instead of wailing. My taste buds were pleased as well, having earlier anticipated an assault by some belly-bomb burger or a terrible slice of pizza. Instead, they got truffle oil and tasso ham. Not bad for choosing a restaurant by the eany-meany-miney-mo method. Now if I could only find my way back to Milford...

• Bar Louis at the Hotel Fauchère, 401 Broad St., Milford, Pike County, PA, 570.409.1212. Michael Glatz, executive chef, formerly of the Inn on the Blue Horizon, Vieques, Puerto Rico.

Gold Coast Classic

It was Jack who turned me onto the shrimp. We were members of the press at the Gold Coast Classic Wednesday night, New York Institute of Technology’s annual food- and wine-themed fundraiser, and he – my friend, fellow writer, and intrepid partner in culinary adventure – had inadvertently sampled the star dish of the evening: sautéed shrimp with curried white bean puree and basil and chili oils.

I was busy gnawing on a fried patty the consistency of cardboard. The mango salsa piled on top of it was very tasty but the base was inedible and unidentifiable. Jack sauntered over with a plate of shrimp and a big grin as he chewed. He pointed at the food with his fork hand and mumbled his affection through full mouth.

“Yeah?” I said skeptically, depositing my own plate on a nearby table.

So far the only sample that had impressed me was a tasty tuna hors d' oeuvre (pictured above) served by reps from Legends, a casual restaurant located way out on Long Island's North Fork in New Suffolk. Bits of raw, nearly translucent ahi tuna served on a thin wonton crisp with a tangle of seaweed salad, a dash of wasabi cream and a crowning cluster of Tobiko caviar. No, Legends wasn’t reinventing the wheel, of course. But the ensemble hit a harmonious chord of deliciousness that was worth going back for seconds.

Encouraged by Jack, I stepped hesitantly into line for the shrimp. Honestly, I always feel a little awkward at food and wine tastings where chefs stand over hotplates and dish out food like lunch ladies in grade school cafeterias. It’s as uncomfortable as it might be to stumble on Leonardo da Vinci drawing caricatures in the street. First, how can they be expected to turn out exceptional food in these circumstances? And, second, chefs are supposed to be aloof, out of sight -- behind closed doors, ordering around the minions, sulking over the state of the asparagus and crafting dishes that stupefy the recipient. There's a preservation of mystique when it's done this way.

But meeting Chef Chai Trivedi was different. No curtain fell. Indeed, I became increasingly more intrigued the more I observed him. He was stuck in a dark corner within the depths of the institute’s de Seversky Center, a fabulous turn-of-the-century mansion built for Alfred du Pont on Long Island’s northwestern shore. Behind Chai a set of wrought iron panels held tiny tea light candles which cast shadows over the table where shrimp sizzled in a saute pan. He was young and his dark arms were covered in intricate tattoos. He worked quickly and quietly as men in suits shuffled up to the table demanding “a few of those shrimps.”

I admit the shrimp I received on a little white plate did not appear extraordinary. Two or three pink crustaceans rested on a thick cantaloupe-colored sauce of curried white bean puree and, on either side, golden pools of basil- and chili-infused oils. There was a mound of mango and pineapple fried rice, too, but it was the shrimp and its accompaniments that whomped my palate.

The shrimp were succulent and perfectly seasoned. I thought it was the curried white bean puree – silky and creamy – that added a kick of spicy heat. But eaten alone it proved to be mild though wonderfully nuanced. That’s when I discovered chili oil was also on the plate, swirling and melding with bright basil oil. They were a brilliant touch.

I had to know about the white bean puree. Chef Chai smiled when I asked and started enumerating ingredients and steps until the recipe became even more complex and mysterious than I had imagined. Who was this guy?

Chai, 34, is the executive chef at Sitar, an Indian restaurant in Huntington, New York, his family owns. He was born in India and grew up in Queens. He is self-taught in the culinary arts and learned most of what he knows from traveling several weeks at a time, several times a year, through southeastern Asia. He jumps on a motorcycle, he said, and eats his way through Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia, you name it. Whenever he is blown away by something, he stops and asks the cook – street vendor, housewife, chef alike – to teach him how to make it. Oh yeah, and those tats: drawn on his body by Thai Buddhist monks.

Chai has big plans for all the authentic recipes he has acquired. He and his sister, Payal Sharma, 39, hope to open a modern Asian restaurant on 28th and Madison in Manhattan this September. Prana, which means “breath of life” in Sanskrit, according to Payal, will feature a main dining room with 82 tables, a “floating lounge” on the mezzanine level serving Asian street food (think pork balls, mini samosas, steamed buns, pho) and a satay bar. They will also serve “dessert tapas,” because, I guess, everyone has to serve some kind of tapas these days, regardless of cuisine.

I’m going to keep my eye on Chai. I’ve got a good feeling about him. In the meantime, he’s generously sent me his outstanding shrimp and bean puree recipe to share with all of you. Check it out below.

• PHOTO NOTE: Ordinarily I take all the photos that appear on this website. However, my camera was mistakenly left behind during a bit of car switching prior to Wednesday evening's outing. Many thanks to Bob Giglione for the food photos. The shot of the de Seversky Center is courtesy of NYIT.

Shrimp with Curried White Bean Puree
by Chai Trivedi, executive chef of Sitar, Huntington, New York

PUREE:

• 2 cups canned white navy beans or garbanzos
• 5 cloves garlic
• 1 cup tomato puree
• 5 Tbsp butter
• 1 tsp Madras curry powder
• 1 tsp kosher salt
• 1 tsp cumin powder
• 5 curry leaves
• juice from 1 lime
• ½ cup heavy cream
• ½ tsp cumin seeds
• ¼ tsp mustard seeds.
• 1 tsp smoked paprika

SHRIMP:

• 16 (16/20) tiger shrimp, shelled and de-veined
• 1 cup yogurt
• 3 tsp salt
• 1 Tbsp garam masala
• 1 Tbsp minced ginger

GARNISH: finely chopped cilantro, basil oil, and chili oil

The puree:
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Wrap the garlic in aluminum foil and roast in the oven for about 20 minutes.

Place the beans and tomato puree in a Vita-Prep (or blender). Add the roasted garlic and puree until mixture is fine. Transfer the puree to a sauce pan and place it over medium heat. Bring the puree up to a boil, occasionally stirring and making sure it doesn’t stick to the pan.

Preheat a saute pan and add the butter. Next, add the mustard seeds and wait for them to pop. At this point quickly add the cumin seeds, curry leaves, and curry powder, then transfer the mixture to the saucepan with the puree and stir to combine. Add the salt, cumin powder, paprika and heavy cream and mix. Adjust the seasonings according to taste.

Pass the puree thru a chinoise [a fine-mesh, conical sieve] pushing it with a 2 oz ladle. You want a nice creamy puree.
Finally add the acid (lime juice).

The shrimp:
Marinate the shrimps with yogurt, salt, garam masala, and ginger. Let marinate for 2 hours in the refrigerator.

Heat oil in a wok and add 4 shrimps at a time. Add cilantro for garnish. Cook till firm.

Plating:
Using a 2 oz ladle take some puree and put it in the middle of a plate. Spread the puree with the bottom of the ladle into a circle. Arrange the 4 shrimp on top of the puree.

Drizzle chili and basil oil around the puree.

Colombian Comfort Food

When I saw fajitas on the menu I got nervous. I flipped the page: a Cuban sandwich.

Deep breath.

On the third or fourth page I read "Gyro de Pollo Asado" -- a grilled chicken gyro.  I closed the menu.

Gallo Tropical was supposed to be a restaurant serving authentic Colombian cuisine. But this menu looked like an identity crisis.

I might have given up had David Bustamente not come smilingly to our table prepared to assist. Short and muscular, with thick black hair that pointed to the ceiling, Bustamente appeared to be in his mid-twenties -- too young to own a restaurant getting rave reviews from newspaper critics. But it was his youthful passion for all things Colombian, including his family and their cuisine, that coaxed me out of the cranky attitude I was heading toward.

Bustamente was born in the U.S. and certainly sounds like a New Yorker -- don't get him started about his beloved Rangers hockey team. But he has a palpable pride for his Colombian roots. One of his forefathers, he said, was Vicente Bustamente, a colonel who helped liberate Colombia and Venezuela under General Simon Bolivar.

Young Bustamente has decorated his restaurant with homage to the motherland -- a large family portrait, several replica Fernando Botero pieces, a guitar waiting to tell the stories of those who plucked its strings. Bustamente and his family recently expanded and redesigned the restaurant, which is located on Main Street in Patchogue, a small south shore village on Long Island that has attracted a wave of Latino immigrants. My partner in culinary crime, Jack, and I sat in the new "alfresco room" next to windowed doors that can be folded open on warm weather evenings.

The restaurant was quiet this Wednesday evening. Only one or two other tables were occupied. Bustamente had plenty of time to romance us and we fell for him.

"So what do you recommend?" I asked.

Bustamente pointed to what many Colombians consider the national dish, a hefty platter called "bandeja montanera," the mountain platter, and the "bandeja de pollo," the chicken platter. He also insisted we start with empanadas and chorizo. Relieved that he didn't recommend the chicken gyro, I happily sent him away to fill our bellies as he saw fit.

What I learned from Gallo Tropical: Colombians don't leave the table hungry.

The appetizer-sized empanadas were tasty but fairly unimpressive -- they were fried and filled with a smidgen of beef and potato -- however the avocado-onion dipping sauce served alongside was delicious. A link of savory chorizo came with grilled corn cakes called arepas that were rather bland but for good reason. Like Mexican tortillas, they are meant to be blank canvasses for other things. In this case, for slices of smokey, juicy sausage.

True satisfaction came with the entree platters. The mountain platter was just as its name described -- a mountain of comfort food on one enormous plate. For less than $12: a thin slab of tender, grilled beef topped with a wedge of creamy avocado; an amber ring of deep-fried pork rind, crunchy on the outside and melty-fatty-rich on the inside; a sweet, syrupy plantain; a mound of white rice with a fried egg on top, which bathed the rice in velvety golden yolk when punctured; and a bowl of soupy beans on the side. Jack polished the platter off with the help of a good bottle of bitter Colombian beer.

The chicken platter also came with white rice (unfortunately no egg), beans and a plantain. But the quarter piece of burnished rotisserie chicken stole the show, being moist and flavorful.

Having earned our trust, we allowed Bustamente to bring us dessert even though my stomach didn't want it.  When he said it would be flan, I have to admit my mouth didn't want it either. I've never been a fan of flan (sorry, I couldn't resist). I don't find it a satisfying dessert -- sort of flimsy in both taste and structure.

But Bustamente's pride beamed again. This was his own recipe, he said, a flan made with five milks, and he dared us to name them all. A challenge? Give me a spoon!

The flan blew me away. It was nearly as rich and creamy as cheesecake with a deeply caramelized surface. It was not only satisfying, it was irresistible.

Unfortunately we couldn't complete Bustamente's challenge. He disclosed four of the five milks -- heavy cream and coconut, evaporated and condensed milks -- but he left the last one a mystery. Perhaps he wanted to give us a reason to return. But I already had a dozen of them.

• Gallo Tropical, 3 East Main Street, Patchogue, New York (631.475.4667).

Honeybuns

Honeybuns, honeybuns, honeybuns. Stop giggling and say it with me: Honeybuns! Shhhh... don't shout it. The crazy girl in the next cubicle might slap you with a lawsuit. Quietly, now: honeybuns. OK, go ahead, giggle. But quietly! You'll be up the creek if someone asks you why you're giggling.

Uhhh, well, ummm... (sigh) Honeybuns.

Alright, I'll stop.

On Sunday I went with friends to Silvermine Tavern for brunch. ("Brunch" -- it sounds so snooty, right? Why can't we just call it like it is: an excuse for late-risers like myself to eat breakfast at lunchtime.) Silvermine is a not-so-little inn and restaurant tucked into the woods in Norwalk, Connecticut. It has the charm one expects from a 200-year-old building: scuffed wooden floorboards, antique nicknacks and furnishings, brick hearths and views of the gliding Silvermine River. It also has honeybuns.

You can stuff your belly with smoked salmon and poached eggs, French toast and pork sausage, scrambled eggs and pancakes, but don't you dare declare yourself full until you've had the tavern's specialty. Yes, the buns of honey.

Sticky-gooey when they're warm, the palm-sized sweet buns are supposedly baked by only one person. That's how in-demand they are, and that's how secret the recipe is. Unlike those heart attack-inducing cinnamon buns smothered in sugar shock-icing, these honeybuns are not overly sweet. The buns are made from a yeast dough and they do taste like they're more in the bread family than the cake clan.

The buns are made in muffin tins, so they're not gargantuan (unlike a Cinnabon cinnamon roll, which may actually be the size and weight of a human head -- which is eight pounds, as we learned from the cute-but-kind-of-annoying bespectacled kid in "Jerry McGuire.") The clover honey syrup is poured into the bottom of each cup, then a generous sprinkling of Georgia pecans is added, and finally the buttered, brown sugared pinwheels of dough are placed on top.

When the buns are finished baking they are inverted. The sticky, nut-studded honey syrup now clings to their spiral surfaces and oozes down over the sides. The glaze turns tantalizingly crisp as it cools -- like the delicate crust on a creme brulee. I actually enjoyed the buns more this way than when they were warm.

Tee hee... warm honeybuns.

OK, really, I'll stop.

Squid Lips

I am predisposed to like an eatery called Squid Lips. Such a place can’t possibly take itself too seriously and I like that in a restaurant – in a person, too.

Recommended by friends, I found Squid Lips on the Indian River in Sebastian, Florida. It was exactly what I had hoped it would be, except for the 91-year-old man with a banjo, who I could never have imagined.

My friends were turned onto the bar/restaurant by other friends, who described it as "the only true Florida place left in Florida."

Squid Lips is one of those wood-framed seafood joints teetering over the water. The dining room feels like one large enclosed deck. Its windows are void of glass or screens, though dirty plastic shades can be zipped down or rolled up. Garish game fish hang in twisted positions on the walls and a gargantuan manta ray dangles from the ceiling. From almost any table you can smell the tide when it’s low and hear the lapping of the waves against the pilings. That is, unless you’ve got a basket of fried oysters under your nose and the place is full of boisterous people as it often is on a Saturday evening during high season.

Squid Lips serves sugary cocktail concoctions with names like "Dirty Little Monkey." The servers wear kaki shorts and shirts with a turquoise palm tree print. If you have to wait for a table you can watch the open kitchen manned by an assortment of mostly 20-something men with multiple tattoos and unshaven faces. (For the preservation of your own appetite, I don’t recommend doing this.)

In case it isn’t clear, you don’t come to Squid Lips for fine dining. You come here for fatty, uncomplicated food and an opportunity to drop all your pretenses. But you also come here for Billy.

Billy Mure wears a white top hat and bow tie. Even though the top hat looks like something he may have purchased at a party goods store, he still appears too dapper for Squid Lips. Perched atop a stool, he holds a banjo lightly in his lap. His gnarled fingers pluck its four strings with a speed and dexterity that belongs to someone far younger than a man expecting to turn 92 in November.

But apparently that’s Billy. See the buxom 70-something woman playing keyboards at his left. That’s his girlfriend, and rumor has it they’re still, um, going at it. You know – making music together, in private. I am inclined to believe it, too, after hearing Debbie’s breathy rendition of Gershwin’s "Summertime."

Today Billy plays with Debbie and three brass players in a Dixieland band they call, of course, "The Top Hats." They’re a popular act at Squid Lips. But before the Valley Stream, New York native moved to the Vero Beach area, Billy played guitar and wrote songs for a roster of musicians that reads like an old-timer's fantasy music lineup.

He played guitar on Paul Anka’s "Diana," Tony Bennett’s "Because of You," Bobby Darren’s "Splish Splash" and Rosemary Clooney’s "Memories of You," to name a very few. He played on Arthur Godfrey’s show for six years, with Barbara Streisand on her first television special, and in several Broadway shows.

In fact he was doing "Chicago" 12 years ago when his wife, now deceased, fell ill. He dropped out of the show to move with her to Florida, where they hoped the climate would help her get better. "You’re going to leave an $800 [a week] show, Billy?" the banjo player recalled the director asking in disbelief. But Billy, a lifelong professional musician, walked out on the Broadway show without hesitation.

I suppose it’s easy to feel sorry for Billy, especially when you’re watching him play in a dingy riverside restaurant, knowing he has performed in more impressive gigs than the dinner show at Squid Lips. But I couldn’t. Billy makes you believe that a musician really is happiest when he’s playing his instrument in front of an appreciative crowd – no matter where that crowd has congregated. His smile is infectious. His zest is astonishing.

"What’s your secret?" I asked him.

"I’ll tell you the next time I see you," he said with a rogue confidence that nearly took me back. He was holding my hand and speaking closely.

"I don’t give it that easily," he added with a wink.

Yeah, I like a person who doesn't take himself too seriously.

• Squid Lips, 1660 Indian River Drive, Sebastian, FL, (772) 589-3828
• Menu recom-mendations: Try the raw oysters -- fresh and sweet -- and the lightly grilled tuna. Oh, yeah, and anything fried.