Holy Mole Oaxaqueño

Or: Yes, I did disarm the smoke detector on purpose.

“No hay ningun mayor amor que el amor de alimento,” said George Bernard Shaw.

(Well, he said it in English, but I’ve translated it to stay consistent with today’s theme, and for your reading pleasure.) What he actually said was, “There is no greater love than the love of food.” This certainly rings true for me, and served as my inspiration for Valentine’s Day.

I thought long and hard about the best way to really show my love via gastronomy. How can I make something delicious that is also romantic AND not overdone? (I mean that in both connotations; I’m not interested in offering up some tired heart-shaped cookies with pink icing, nor do I want to serve a pork chop cooked to a nice brick-like consistency.) Of course, chocolate comes to mind, but can I make that interesting? Sure, Hallmark has clichéd it all up by loading it with fat and sugar and a nice dose of guilt, but I think chocolate in its pure form is worthy of its romantic roots. The Aztecs started chocolate’s reputation as an aphrodisiac, and they have like 10 gods and goddesses associated with love, sexuality, or pleasure, so they must know what they’re talking about. Anyway, I figured I’d stay away from the red plastic packaging and invoke some serotonin with a traditional love molli. (Meaning, “love stew” à la Náhuatl, which is the language of the Aztecs. That’s right, all kinds of cocktail party conversation starters coming your way today.)

*Note: If you really want to reap the benefits of chocolate, make sure it’s got at least 70% cocoa solids. That’s seductive, complex, dark chocolate folks. Here’s one of my favorite varieties.

So, obviously, chocolate got famous in the dessert sector, but it also has some lesser known hits in many main courses around the world. Think of entrée chocolate as the indy rock band to the pop-radio brownie. The b-side to the Hershey Bar. (I’m a big fan of b-sides myself, so if I were chocolate, I’d take this as a huge compliment.) Since I got my inspiration from chocolate in its original form, I decided to keep it traditional and work with the antioxidant-packed bittersweet variety as a compliment to our other mood-enhancing little friend, the chile pepper. Chocolate and chiles, you say?!? This could be a pairing of the ages. All we need are a few other star ingredients and we have a culinary Traveling Wilburys on our hands. Alright, I’ll stop with the dorky music metaphors.

If you haven’t guessed it already, I decided the best way to incorporate creativity, romance, and deliciousness while using chocolate and honoring its origins was to attempt a traditional Oaxacan mole (moh-LAY) for my Valentine. Oaxaca is famous for its moles, and while there are many varieties of the concoction (seven, actually), the most famous for its chocolatey, spicy complexity is mole negro.

So, why is this a culinary marathon, you ask? Well, if you ask around, most home cooks (and restaurants) don’t make their mole from scratch because it has like 30 ingredients and takes at least a full day to complete. And no, I’m not talking a full day like homemade marinara, where the beauty of the sauce comes largely from simmering it slowly and hanging out drinking Chianti while it’s cooking. (Nothing against homemade marinara. I love me some marinara.) I’m talking a full day of chopping, frying, toasting, roasting, grinding, pureeing, and reducing. A full day. Sorry Rachael Ray.

Just as there are many varieties of mole, there are even more ways to make the stuff. Everyone has his own secret ingredient or special process that makes it his own. This being said, I had no freakin’ idea where to start. So, I read up on a bunch of recipes and theories, but decided next to having an abuela Oaxaqueña to teach me her secret, the Rick Bayless school of thought was my best jumping off point. And now, the marathon begins!

The chiles are probably the most important ingredient, and for those I went to a little tienda in town called Tortilleria Y Tienda de Leon. Inside I found a nice variety of dried peppers, some small bags of whole spices, and (most exciting to me) a huge tortilla press, rolling out fresh, hot corn tortillas by the dozen. I asked if I could buy some of the fresh ones, and the lady handed me a bag of 3 dozen for less than $3. “Still warm,” she said. (Mouth now watering profusely.) I left with guajillo, pasilla, and mulato chiles, a handful of tomatillos in their little husks, some Mexican cinnamon sticks, and my warm tortilla bounty.

So, the final mole is the result of 4 purees blended together, but let’s start with the chiles. The first step to this love potion is to deseed the chiles, reserving the seeds in a bowl. The chiles need to be toasted or fried to bring out their flavor, so I stuck to Rick’s advice and fried them in a little bit of oil, just until they lighten in color slightly and achieve their true piquancy. Next they go into a bowl of warm water to rehydrate for at least 30 minutes.

Chiles, post-fry. (Not beef jerky...)

Mixture #1: Seed and Nut Puree. Now, one of the most unusual steps of the process comes into play. You throw the chile seeds into a dry skillet with a torn up corn tortilla and you burn the crap out of them. That’s right. ‘Til they’re black. (Open windows, turn on the fan, and disarm your smoke detector first.) Seems weird, but it helps your mole achieve that dense, smoky flavor and rich dark color. Once you’ve fully blackened the seeds and smoked out all your roommates, throw those babies in a blender with some chicken stock. Next, toast your nuts. I used pepitas (pumpkin seeds), almonds, pecans, and sesame seeds. (While you’re at it, roast some onions and garlic for later. This multitasking will come in handy.) Into the blender the nuts go with the chile seeds and puree as smoothly as you can. Set this mixture aside.

Mixture #2: Tomato Puree. Blend a can of roasted tomatoes, some chopped tomatillos and chicken stock until smooth. Strain to get rid of some of the seeds, and set aside. (That was an easy one!)

Mixture #3: Spice Puree. Add your roasted onions and garlic (see, I told you), some cloves, cinnamon, black pepper, oregano, thyme, a handful each of raisins and dried cherries, a glob of peanut butter, and a ripe plantain to the blender with some more chicken stock and puree. Set aside.

Mixture #4: Chile Puree. By this time, your chiles should be rehydrated, so add them to the blender with some of their soaking liquid and puree until smooth. You know the drill.

Now you have four purees, and probably a really messy kitchen. But let’s focus on the purees. Add some oil to a large pot or Dutch oven and set to medium-high heat. When hot, add the tomato puree and stir until reduced and thick, like tomato paste. Then add the nut puree and reduce, and repeat the drill with the spice puree and the chile puree. All this stirring and reducing will probably take like an hour, but at this point, who’s counting? Once everything is nicely reduced and incorporated, add chicken broth (Rick says 7 cups) and chocolate (I used an unsweetened variety and a bittersweet variety). Season with sugar and salt to taste. I used a combination of brown sugar and evaporated cane sugar, mostly just because I had both and I wanted to experiment with flavors. The one thing I did that really took it out of me was strain the stuff. Yeah, all of it. I think I did it in about seven batches, and it really did help get ride of the grainy, seedy stuff the blender didn’t catch. Now that you have a smooth, beautifully seasoned, rich molli, throw in a Mexican cinnamon stick and let it simmer on low for, well, I’m gonna say the longer the better. (Now you can break out the wine.)

To make this into a meal, my advice is to keep it simple. (If you just fell out of your chair at the thought of keeping it “simple” after all that, let me explain.) The mole should be the star of the meal (I mean, it better be), so make the other flavors mild. I browned a whole cut up chicken in a large oven-safe skillet, then covered it in mole and braised it in the oven at 350F for about an hour. I served it with white rice seasoned with cilantro and lime and some refried black beans. (You better believe I bought canned refried beans.) Oh, and be sure to serve some warm corn tortillas on the side to help you sop up the extreme deliciousness that is the mole negro you just created.

If you fancy some wine, I paired this meal with a spicy red blend from northeastern Spain. So now you’ve got chocolate, chiles, AND red wine. Could this be any more romantic? I think not. Maybe try some Buena Vista Social Club in the background to set the mood.

Feliz Día de San Valentín

Gilty Pleasures and a Fallen Soufflé

No, I didn't spell that wrong.

I know Valentine's Day has gotten sort of a bad rap over the years, what with the whole "Hallmark Holiday" commercialization thing, but I'm actually going to defend it this time. I don't dig the pressure people feel to buy flowers or find a date, but, if nothing else, it gives us an excuse to spread the love, and that's not such a bad thing. Oh, and it usually also somehow involves indulgent, decadent eating...

My Valentine's Day extravaganza started on Friday the 13th, which, as it turns out, can be quite a lovely day. My always-thinking-ahead sweetie decided it best to beat the crowds and go out the night before the big day, so after some organic IPA at the HUB (that's another story), we pulled up to the swanky, seductive, not-sure-if-it's-a-restaurant-or-a-strip-bar, Gilt Club on NW Broadway for a guilty dining experience.

First of all, if you're not familiar with the PDX scene, this place screams Portland. The walls are swaddled in hedonistic red fabrics and leathers that glow in the low, Sinatra-esque light oozing from vintage-style chandeliers. Not a table sat unoccupied, and the milieu was ever-so-Stumptown in its variety of colorful patrons. (Dress code?!? This is my formal attire!) To our left was a long table of posh, high healed 30-somethings on what looked like an extended happy hour, not to be outdone by the modest, collared shirt couple dining quietly to our right, and of course, the flannel-wearing, messy-haired threesome at the back wall, all sitting slightly to one side so as not to look too interested in any one thing...or to sit directly on their bike locks. (The awkward mélange of "cool" that keeps the heart of Portland beating to its own drum is one of the most endearing qualities of the city.)

While the venue is called the Gilt Club, referring (I assume) to the chic setting of the place (metaphorically "covered in gold"), there is certainly an element of guilty extravagance that accompanies that notion, and the menu shamelessly reflected just that. Certain words in each description were flaunted in bold type, namely oysters, fois gras, pâté, soufflé, manchego, oxtail, and frites. Now, even if you don't know or care much about food, you have to admit that oysters, fois gras, and the French word for "fried" invokes at least a hint of the adrenaline that usually accompanies unabashed luxury. My handsome date, never concerned in the slightest with his "manhood" when he orders the vegetarian dish, opted for the fallen fingerling potato soufflé and a glass of Barbera. While I was intrigued by a number of menu items, I went with the server's recommendation (always at least worth asking, in my opinion), and ordered the southern fried quail with onion and bacon bread pudding and a warm mustard vinaigrette. And since I was getting down and dirty with my dinner, I washed that down with the infamous Moscow Mule: vodka, house made ginger beer, lime, ginger zest, and a splash of soda...served in a copper mug.* What? I'm being indulgent, remember?

OK, so now for the nitty gritty of it all. The ambiance was perfect, my date was smokin', my cocktail was buzzing with sweet, tart, and zingy goodness...and my dinner was...well, pretty good. I know, I know! Oh how I wanted to tell my man and you and the world that this was the best, most gaudily delicious noshing experience I could imagine, that I barely lived to tell about it, that I almost just keeled over in sheer satiated bliss! But alas, my loyalty is to the sacredness of food, and I have to say that it wasn't the best part of the evening. I liked the theory, really...but creativity has to be followed up with execution because while we may all be superficial first-impression hound dogs only after a pretty plate...the lasting relationships are always based on tasty, lip-smacking satisfaction. Southern fried quail is a risky endeavor, in my book. Quail is a lean, delicate little bird, traditionally served medium-rare to keep him tender and flavorful. OK, I'm from the South (spent a lot of my childhood in Kentucky), so I can appreciate a good deep fry. While the batter and fried-ness may have slightly overwhelmed the little guy, it did keep him moist and filled me up nicely. I'm not sure that the idea was executed exactly as intended, but I'll say I ate it all and didn't mind too much doing so. My biggest disappointment was the bread pudding, which may have something to do with the fact that I almost chose the dish because of it. Sure, there are plenty of bread pudding schools of thought: dense and homogeneous, moist and chunky, or even an ooey-gooey mess of mush that melts in your mouth. Well, maybe it was the savory flavors or the large, ham-like chunks of bacon, but to me, this bread pudding was more like a little lost breakfast quiche. The texture was overwhelmingly eggy and really filled out that heavy, salty mouth feel that left my meal begging for a crisp green salad or a mini treadmill. Interestingly enough, the star of the dish was the warm mustard vinaigrette. The dollop of sauce swooshed abundantly across the plate, proving to be maybe the only element of the dinner that chose function and flavor over looks. It was a thick, creamy vinaigrette (we are still in Guiltville, mind you), complete with whole grain mustard for a nice texture contrast, and exploding with the tangy roundness that the rest of the meal needed. So thank you, warm mustard vinaigrette, thank you. You are the little vinaigrette that saved the meal...the dreaded curve-breaker of the class. (Though I doubt you'll be making a lot of friends at the bus stop.)

My honey's soufflé was similar: beautifully advertised, strikingly presented, and unexceptionally executed. To me, the appeal of a soufflé is its light, airy, angelic texture. This one was actually described as a "fallen soufflé," so maybe the irony was on us, but it just came across as dry. And for the price on the menu, some fallen whipped potatoes better be pretty friggin' fabulous. And they weren't.

However! (Yes, of course there's a however.) I'm still smitten with the sultry atmosphere and theory of the Gilt Club. I think you'd be best served to go for the drinks and the lush ambiance than for the meal of a lifetime, but all-in-all it was a worthy experience. The menu really was fun and played into the theme accurately, the service was friendly, the drinks were delicious, and the environment was just what a hip young couple would want on a romantic Friday the 13th. Or a quiet older couple. Or an angst-ridden group of hipsters. Or a Pearl District office party. Or me. (Which means, yes, I'd gladly go back, but this time I think I'll try the pork loin with apple and bacon relish, or maybe the burger with secret sauce.)


*Note: I have a strange attraction to all things ginger, the words "house made" and drinks served in copper mugs. Or mason jars. This will most likely come up again in a later posting, so just learn to expect it. And love it.

The Fish that Almost Got Away

OK, I'll admit it. It's just the slightest bit more difficult for me to get inspired about cooking when all the markets are out of season and it's all gray and gloomy outside. My pantry looks more like the boat dealerships around town during the economic crisis than a kitchen in the heart of Food Town. i.e. it's EMPTY. I had my grocery brainstorm written, but after a long day at work, I thought twice out venturing back out. And then it hit me...the freezer! Ah, what a wonderful invention. It magically locks all of that summer and fall goodness in time so I can relive it whenever I feel the urge. OK, so there's some Thai basil, some green beans, some veggie corn dogs...oh yeah, and a veritable mountain of wild-caught albacore tuna.

Brilliant! What better way to invoke the sunshine then to break out the tuna, pulled straight from the Oregon waves by my fearless fishing friends back in July? I spent that sweltering day enjoying the heat wave on my deck, sipping frozen cocktails and soaking up as much Vitamin D as I could stand, but some of my mates were up before the sun and en route to Newport Bay on a single mission: tuna. Needless to say, since my freezer is still mostly overtaken by vacuum-sealed loins of the stuff, they were very successful.

Granted, it's been frozen for a few months now, but I still think you should honor the food you cook, especially when it's literally traveled straight from the ocean to my little stuffed freezer. So, I decided to keep it relatively simple. I found one of the smaller loins (still a honkin' good size) and sliced it into thick medallions, and then for a quick assembly line: flavor, crunch, sear. For flavor, I mixed together some low-sodium soy sauce, a splash of rice wine vinegar (I like the seasoned kind), a shake of sesame oil, ginger, garlic, a blob of local honey, and a healthy dose of Sriracha (that's "Rooster Sauce" to some of you). Half of that went in a little sauce pan on the stove, and the other half stayed on the assembly line. Next on the line was a little plate of Panko, which are Japanese bread crumbs made from bread without crusts. I like these better than regular bread crumbs when you're really going for texture because they are much more coarse and impart and lovely crunch.

So it's as simple as that: tuna in the flavor on both sides, tuna in the crunch on both sides, then tuna in the pan (medium-high, with a bit of oil) and seared for just a couple of minutes on both sides. (Remember, ocean-to-plate tuna does not appreciate being over-cooked.) The sides were just as simple: some whole grain couscous with a bit of salt and lemon zest, and a couple of baby spinach leaves for color and to keep us Popeye-strong. The flavor I mentioned in the little sauce pan was just simmered with a bit of palm sugar to be drizzled over the finished product for an extra punch. Added bonus: it's pretty healthy, too!

Right before we sat down to eat, my boyfriend decided to set the mood by lighting a candle, setting the table, and stabbing himself right through the palm with a kitchen knife. Luckily, he survived and still has two functional hands, but due to this incident I can happily report that this meal is also pretty tasty as a cold entrée.

Viva la freezer!

I Spent Years in a Relationship with Food, But All I Got Was This Blog

It's funny how sometimes the Stream of Consciousness can actually lead somewhere. Mine seems to have landed me in Portland, Oregon.

People always ask me why I up and moved to Portland, pretty much out of the blue, after having spent most of my life bouncing around the right side of the country between Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and Washington, DC.

"Well, the food, of course!"

This is what I tell them, but it's usually not deemed a satisfactory answer, so I have to rephrase it a bit. I moved here because I love the quality of life Portland offers. I love the beauty that surrounds the place--the city, the mountains, the people. I feel right. I "fit." (And I don't fit anywhere.) And for me, Happiness is largely found amidst the stacked rainbow tables of the local farmers market, or swirling through a tulip-lipped carafe of Willakenzie Estate Terres Basses Pinot Noir, or in my own humble kitchen stocked with local bounty.

Portland is a food town at it's best--creative yet classic, indulgent yet modest, and fabulously positioned in the middle of a palatable wonderland. (Think Willy Wonka's edible room, but replace the gum drop trees with filbert trees and succulent marionberry bushes, swap the marshmallow mushrooms with golden chanterelles and shitakes, and drain the chocolate river and refill it with hop-heavy microbrews, organic house-roasted coffee, and earthy, inspiring wines the leave the French shaking in their chaussures.)

My first (and only) trip to Stumptown prior to my hasty move was in mid-September, and I had a day to kill with a local chef friend who gave me a tour of the kitchen before we hit the streets of downtown. It was a Wednesday, as luck would have it, and we stumbled upon the Park Blocks Farmers Market. There, we sampled fragrant herbed cheeses, sipped organic Hood River cider, and left with a crusty multi-grain baguette and the world's most luscious white peaches at their juicy, flavorful peak. It was all over for me right there.

I'm not exactly sure where my affair with Food started--maybe somewhere circa 1986 when I was pulling spices and dried beans from the cabinets, mixing them all in a bowl, and then patiently waiting for my terrified cats to indulge in the treat I created for them. Maybe it was in 8th grade home ec, the true manifestation of my middle school awkward phase (sure, we'll call it a phase), where I secretly reveled in that hour of grilled cheese-making bliss and didn't mind staying after class. (Alright, I'll give it another shot. I'll give home ec another shot...) Or maybe it's just that I'm always hungry. Needless to say, we dated briefly, Food and I, and then I, being the codependent one, dove head first into a serious relationship. Now one of us just has to commit. Culinary school? Restaurateur? Assistant line cook, at least? Nope.

Always the difficult one, I didn't think taking this infatuation and putting it to logical use was the right path for me. My professional life has nothing to do with the culinary world at all, but I still get at it in any way I can on the side, changing our relationship from healthy coexistence to something more like addiction. And now that I'm in Portland, all bets are off. So, since rehab is clearly not an option, (you wouldn't drop a recovering alcoholic in the middle of Oktoberfest and expect her to stay on the wagon, would you?) my fetish needs some sort of outlet while the farmers markets are out of season. This brings me to the blog. My first blog! Well, what else would I write about? Coworker woes and shamefully contrived soul-searching? I know what you're thinking, but don't worry...I'll save that melodrama for my journal try to focus my public musings on adventures in gastronomy.

No, I don't have "credentials," but I like to think of my experiences as the Culinary School of Hard Knocks. Oh, you learned to make a perfect Béchamel in Sauces, 101? Well, I was spiking Prego with basil stolen from the neighbor's yard and my parents' cooking wine. I mashed potatoes for an entire Thanksgiving feast for 20 with nothing but a plastic fork! OK, enough already. (My tuiles could beat yours in a fight!)

I've never had a blog before, so I can't say exactly how successful I'll be at keeping up with it, or really how it's supposed to work at all. I find it slightly self-indulgent to put my inner monologue into writing and expect people to care about it, but hey, I love to write, and I can't really help it. (Addict, remember?) Let's say, in theory, I'll try to write about my food adventures, indulgences, feats and failures, and hope that at the least it comes out in a mildly entertaining way. Anyone who decides to read this, I hope you know that you are just feeding my addiction, so thanks a lot. (Enablers.)

Disclaimer: while this is a serious attempt at offering some actual food insight through my twisted affair with the culinary world, it is also just that; a glimpse at a personal relationship, which always brings with it an element of incoherency, emotional bias, and depending on the strength of the Stream of Consciousness, some unexpected debris.

Cheers!