The Luger Hoax

I've been angling for an invite to JChef's parent's place for weeks now. He speaks Oedipally of his mom's steak and potatoes, and has even brought me by her butcher for an appraisal, though it's unclear which one of us was being appraised. I was hoping my bat mitvah birthright would give me some sort of parental clearance; but as I sit by my phone, fingering my star-of-David, it fails to ring.

That said, there's a blog that needs writing, and all his talk of steak leaves me wanting, so I schlepped over to Peter Lugers. That mecca of meat, coliseum of carnivory; the palace of power for Wall Street's well-endowed. The ultimate New York steakhouse resides in Brooklyn, as it should.

Until Monday it was a place I'd never been. Sure, I'd worked those T-bones in the middle of the night, standing in my nightshirt with the fridge door open, eating out of a doggie bag that was a gift for my pup (she can have them when I'm done). I've begged for descriptions of Lugers, and it was true to it's legend, a German yesteryear functional with bleached tables, Brooklyn attitude, and the tangled odors of money and flesh.

O but were it still a fantasy; I could look forward to eating there again.

The onion rolls were good, yes, but wasn't my Grandfather bringing these home from the corner bagel shop decades ago? The tomato and onion salad; is it me, or is this the most basic platter of an out-of-season fruit and a sweet onion? Thank god for the Luger Sauce, and for the good sense of my dining partner who ordered a couple of pieces of uber fatty, perfectly charred melting bacon. If only they would have cryovac'd a few slabs for me to take home; this blog would be different.

The only take home I got was a couple of pieces of Lugelt, some big gold coins of waxy milk chocolate with the name Luger on it. Oh, and a USDA approved list of internal temperatures for cooking meat, better known in cook circles as "How to ruin a good piece of beef." I don't know what kind of Luger lobbyists had to work their magic in DC to get this thing through, but a home cook trusting enough to cook their steak to this degree would be hanging up their tongs for good. It's guaranteed failure.

I felt taken. Or maybe I'm just pissed that I got put in the front room with the other non-players, including:

• Martini Mum: Wearing sweatpants, running sneakers and some sort of Irish knit. Fell asleep twice in her martini, but motivated herself to finish an entire plate of beef.
• East Side Lady, Husband in Tow: The Bergdorf and Barney's bags spoke volumes. She tossed her floor length fur on the back of her chair, and I believe she ordered chicken.
• Out of Town Clan: Long-legged, red-haired Daisy Duke-a-like daughter, extremely overdressed and made up (you get the feeling that selling her was the last option before the bank foreclosed on the farm), Pappy in overalls and a plaid flannel, Momma with one thick long braid down the length of her back, the size (and width) of a piece of rope you'd use to secure a large boat to a dock.
• Lugers Wouldn't Be Complete Without: The low-grade mafia crowd, white t-shirts and thick gold chains, greasy hair slicked back, all talkin' like Cristopha. The cash-only policy doesn't phase them; they haven't paid with credit since they started working...uh...construction.
• Fat Bankers with Golden Cuff Links: It's so Bonfire. Haven't the really rich people moved to khaki's and buttondowns? I date myself; I'm still in the nineties. Must be why we're all in the front room together.

And yes, the T-bone came out spitting butter on it's hot plate, and yes the waiter did that cool serving trick with the two spoons, and basted the steak with more and more butter (hoping to get some fatty goodness in it). The meat was slightly overcooked, medium instead of medium rare, but as soon as I was done with the meat I picked up that bone up and went to town, becoming:

• Why is She Here Girl: A shot of makers and a steak. Probably a first timer, certainly knows how to wear her food. Keep an eye on her; may run out on the check.

All told, with the $200 that was spent, I'd rather go to a New York restaurant like Annisa or Perry Street, or a classic like Eleven Madison or Gotham, where someone is at least making an effort with the food.

As a home cook with $200, I could buy 7 first-cut 5-pound briskets at an overpriced grocery, or fill my freezer with some meat from Costco, some fatty ribeyes, and some cheap stuff like skirt steaks and hangar steaks. If I wanted food-ter-tainment, I'd go to Tony and Tina's Wedding. Or just invite my friends and family over. They're characters enough.

But I was at Lugers, and I paid a initiation fee. Country clubs are never known for their food (I just love what you've done with Tuna with Miracle Whip. Can I get the recipe for your Cream Cheese and Jelly on White Bread? I mean, just the other day I was longing for a little Tomato Aspic...); they are known for their exclusivity. In fact, fingering my star of David as I was, I was lucky to be let in. Next time I want tasty piece of meat, I'll be cooking it.

Skirt Steak that Satisfies
By Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon

Skirt is a basic cheap cut whose meat appears a bit shaggy, but is fatty where it counts and oh so flavorful. A great cut for college kids, summer bbq’s, Tuesday nights, or anyone on a budget. No ceremony, just good steak. Serve with a dollop of pesto, on top of a salad, or stuff into onion rolls smeared with Luger sauce.

1 1/2 pounds skirt steak (3/4-inch to 1-inch thick)
Salt and pepper
Canola oil

1. Remove the steak from the fridge and let sit at room temp for 10 or 15 minutes (let it warm up a bit). Pat dry with paper towels, if needed, and season very, very well with salt and pepper.

2. In a medium skillet over medium high heat, heat the oil. Place steak, fatty side down in the hot skillet. Cook 4 minutes, or until nice and brown. Turn and cook the other side until browned, 3 to 4 minutes. If you poke the steak with your finger, it should have a good amount of give; less than when it was raw, but more than a toned bicep. Supple. This will be a good medium-rare, just warmed in the middle and reddish pink.

3. If you want it more well done, you’re on your own. Turn on your oven and throw the steak in until you’ve cooked out all the flavor. Bon Appetit!

Puntarelle and My Brooklyn Vegetable Man

My first crush landed on the shoulders of one Vinnie Barbarino. He babysat me from the age of three until I was a ripe old seven. It was the first time I felt anything, you know, special for a guy.

My mom knew about this crush, the way moms do. One day, after a grueling afternoon at Brownies, she tossed me a trading card of the Supreme Sweathog. The card was one that you'd get in a set, packed with some stale gum. I cannot explain how my mom came to own such a thing. I blushed, and asked, "Why are you giving me that?" She said, "I don't know, because you're glued to the set whenever he comes on, I thought he was your favorite..." I jumped off the couch and shouted, "I don't like him! I don't like him at all! I hate him!" I stormed up the stairs to my bedroom and slammed the door.

My mother will assure you that I have not yet graduated from this phase.

Our babysitter, Jimmy Metzler, was a lot like Vinne Barbarino. He was tall, he had brown hair, and he was in high school. He, too, was originally from Brooklyn.

Jimmy drove a motorcycle and once I got to ride on the back of it. In the winter months, he drove a Rabbit. I remember the day he showed me that he had his girlfriend's initials engraved in the passenger door, enclosed in a heart. I was brave for a few minutes, until I could no longer contain. I ran to my house, up the stairs and onto the bed where I sobbed, until I gained the strength to play a little Gloria Gaynor on my Fisher Price record player. Jimmy is a cop now, and he married that high school girlfriend. I was invited to the wedding service, but I chose not to attend. I had something better to do; a date with a 6th grader, I believe.

Now this pre-pubescent star-crossed romance walk down memory lane has a point, and it is this: There's something about a guy from Brooklyn. And I know I'm not alone when I say this, so kindly give a shout out if you know what I mean. There's something vital, protective, gritty, and real about these men; it's primal in a way I can't explain.

Enter Vesuvio, my vegetable man. I was sent to his shop by JChef, as he's the produce supplier for the better Brooklyn restaurants. His shop in Cobble Hill borders on ironic; a stubborn remnant of a time that's going, going, gone. I think Juan Epstein worked there during high school. I hear Tony Manero used to hang out there all the time, picking up produce for his mom. In fact, he's the reason Loretta Castorini got fired and had to find a job on Bleeker Street.

Vesuvio won't be there for long, but he's there now, and as long as he is, I'll be stopping by. Not because he needs the revenue, because I think he's doing just fine if not better with the restaurants, but because I. need. him.

The first time I dropped by his shop, I hitched my mutt to the parking meter in front, and strolled around casually (the place can't be more than 200 square feet, tops). I asked about the salsify (a tip either that I know a thing or two about food or that I know nothing but enjoy eating in yuppie restaurants). It piqued his curiousity, and he asked if I'd tried the tiny turnips that he gets from a Japanese farmer upstate. I said no, he pointed to the cooler and said, "Try some," and walked away.

An aggressive salesman. I picked up a few and tossed them in my basket. He returned, and asked what I thought. I pointed to the basket, and he said, "No, I meant try them. Eat one." I was surprised. A raw turnip? He saw my hesitation, and said, "What, you need me to eat one first?" He grabbed one, took a bite, and handed it back to me."

It was like Adam and Eve in reverse.

I bit, and it was crisp and light. Not sweet like an apple, more like endive, but thicker, and incredibly refreshing. It lifted me.

He watched me eat it, and sensed that I liked it without me having to tell him so, "It's good, right? I eat them all day like candy." And with this, he went outside to have his 25th cigarette of the morning. The man with access to the best produce in Manhattan has a nasty old nicotine habit. We couldn't have him be too perfect, now could we? Nah, then we'd lose the JChef storyline.

He noticed some green cabbage in my basket while he was ringing me up (in another country, he'd be using an abacus; in Cobble Hill he uses his fingers). He got a little ageda and said, "You sure you don't want my Savoy instead?" Indeed I did. Quite a catch, My Vegetable Man.

Vesuvio is the reason home economists the world over encourage home cooks to become friendly with their butchers, fishmongers, and green grocers. These guys know something we don't. They know the who, what, when, why and how of what we eat, we get it when the process is 90% over. But part of what they enjoy is helping us enjoy. They'll remember if we appreciated something delicious and unexpected, like a baby turnip, and they'll notice if we order filet mignon and used it as stew meat because your friend from Connecticut told you "it's the best."

I recently went in to scope out a vegetable I'd read about, and enjoyed in Italian restaurants, but never seen in a grocery store: puntarelle. Since he supplies the restaurants, I figured I might have a shot. No puntarelle on display, but a quick query to Vesuvio rewarded me with a big head of the pointy, lacy chicory, and a lesson.

"So you know how to do this, right?" he asked. I nodded, unconvincingly. He knew better. "You take these outer parts, these dark green guys here..."

I interrupted, "They're the best part, yeah?"

Kindly, patiently, "And you get rid of em. They're bitter and disgusting. GARBAGE. The rest, the inside, tender and sweet. You cut these up, put em in a bowl with water. You know the rest, right?"

Pause.

"C'mon, Allison, you make the anchovy vinaigrette, eh? The lemon juice, the good olive oil, anchovy, garlic, you know how to do this. It's terrific. Want to have it even better, go over to Al Di La and get theirs, she does it real good."

"I've had it at Frankie's," I said, dropping a familiar local.

"They're good, too." And he checked me out.

Now Vesuvio's no angel, mind you. He likes to look, I mean leer, I mean appreciate a fine young thing, and he's got a picture of Monica Lewinsky in a low cut dress in his shop, for reasons I'd have to have Y chromosome to fully understand.

But until he kills himself with all that smoke, this man is alive. He's a man that handles salsify, parsnips, celeriac and artichokes all day. He knows his domain, and if you're a pretty girl experimenting with food, or a rough and tumble guy running a restaurant, hell, if you're at all interested in and appreciative of that which he's offering, he'll be more than generous with what he knows.

What more could you want from a Brooklyn Vegetable Man? Trading cards and motorcycle rides? Nah, that's for girls. Women graduate to the seductive description of a well dressed vegetable, and that's more than enough to satisfy.


Puntarelle with Anchovy Vinaigrette
Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4

Before you turn away -- if you don't have any puntarelle, mix up your chicories, and give this vinaigrette a whirl. Substitute 2 big heads of endive, sliced 1-inch thick and some frisee, or some radicchio and baby spinach. Hell, just toss some asparagus in it. It's good, that's all. Try it.

1 large head puntarelle
4 anchovies
1 small clove garlic
Coarse salt
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3 tablespoons very good olive oil
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Remove the long outer leaves from the puntarelle and discard; if you don't believe me, taste and see how bitter they are. (If they're not too bad, soak them in water with the rest.) Take the inner leaves and pull off the spikey bits. If the bottoms are thick, slice them. Toss everything together in a bowl of cold water and let sit 20 minutes.

2. In the bottom of a wide salad bowl, place 4 anchovies. On your garlic & onion cutting board (trust me, don't go cutting cake on this for the next month or you'll be sorry...), smash the garlic clove and chop. Sprinkle with coarse salt, and use the side of your knife to grind the garlic into a paste. Add to bowl with anchovies. Use the back of your fork to mash the anchovies and garlic, making one big paste. Add the lemon juice and olive oil, season with pepper.

3. Drain the puntarelle; toss in the dressing with your hands. Taste, season as needed, serve.

Brrr? Beurre: Sauces For Women Who Like Their Curves

The holidays are over and I’m up five pounds. I’ve got genes to be plump, with a nice Jewish rump, though I do what I can to stay lean. I typically give myself the holidays to indulge, and make a sincere New Years effort to hit the reset button. Trading in the egg nog for egg white omelettes, the creamy hot chocolate for the fiber-rich hot oatmeal. January bliss.

But I find myself in an odd situation this year. While I like to stay thinner than a cook really can, if she's eating enough to grow her palate properly, this winter, I'm questioning why. And it’s all JChef’s doing.

JChef began our romance by picking up my marathon-ready body in his arms and saying things like “Why, you’re just a little thing! You can’t weigh more than a sack of rice!” People, listen up: A sack of rice is 100 pounds. His internal scale is off a generous 30. I did not share this with him at the time, I just cooed sweet and let him think what he wanted.

And now, post-marathon, post-Holidays, currently dating a late-night eating Chef (a hellish trifecta of weight-gain!), I’m rounder. My clothes aren’t fitting. I’m soft, and I’m less likely to wear hip huggers with a tiny t. My belly is a little, er, puffy. JChef hasn’t demonstrated the slightest bit of concern for the five that is driving me up a wall. In fact, he’ll take a particularly generous area of my hip in his hand and say something like, “The perfect combination of hardness and softness.” I’ll pull away, given that he’s now got his hand on an icky fat zone, and say, “Well say goodbye, because in a month there’s going to be less of me to grab.”

After years of dating men who’d trade me for a rail-thin Los Angelena, or anyone else who has the body of a young pubescent boy, I find myself in that enviable position of dating a man who likes curvy women. A man who’ll look the other way at a gain of a stone, as long as he gets to eat sweetbreads with me at two in the morning.

So I’m perplexed. I want to swear off eating after 8PM in efforts to trade my curvy-girl Joe's Jeans for a pair of skinny Sevens, give up chocolate and pasta and Cubans, but at what cost? So I can watch sweet JChef have his evening Bourbon alone? Saying no to our trips to Jackson Heights to get Pork Chops for breakfast? Denying him a shared platter of pierogies on Montague Street? Gracelessly saying no, please don't bring anything home special for me when you're done working at the restaurant tonight!? To refuse his Billy-burg famous Biscuits and Gravy in favor of a Cobb Salad at brunch?

That I should deny him this pleasure?

I think it’s time to put my foot down. To say, hey, I’m going to go to the gym, yeah, I’ll get my heart rate up, jog, lift weights, do silly step classes, what have you. But guess what world? I’m eating this winter. Short ribs, ribbolita, chocolates on Valentines Day, hot chocolate every day. (I live a half mile from Jaques Torres. What kind of a local, community girl doesn't support the mom & pops?) My five pounds are an investment in my happiness, and when it’s time for spring shedding, I’ll have my frisee and my gazpacho, and I’ll lighten up. This winter, I’m staying huggable.

If you’d like to join me, and you’re interested in the simple, delectable world of butter sauces, allow me to introduce to you: Monsieur Hollandaise, Signore Brown Butter Sauce, Sir Lemon Beurre Blanc. These men take pride in the Rubensian beauties they create.

My blender hollandaise should take you no more than 5 minutes, the brown butter no more than 10, the beurre blanc maybe 20 minutes, and most of that is unattended. If you want to do something a little nice for company, or for yourself, make one of these sauces. They compliment eggs or grilled fish, and that Brown Butter Sauce is my favorite paired with Squash-filled Ravioli (it’s a classic!). This small addition to your meal prep will add indulgent flavor without taking a lot of time.

Enjoy, and remember, we've only got a few months to splurge on what the sweaters hide, so enjoy!


BLENDER HOLLAINDAISE
Developed by The Wooden Spoon

2 large egg yolks
Squeeze of 1/2 lemon
Pinch cayenne pepper
1 stick unsalted butter
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Warm water, as needed, to thin sauce

1. Put the egg yolk, lemon juice, and cayenne in a blender. Pulse a couple times to combine. Put the butter in a small microwave safe bowl and melt in a microwave until just melted. With the blender running, gradually add the melted butter into the egg to make a smooth frothy sauce.

2. If the sauce is very thick, blend in a teaspoon of lukewarm water loosen it up. Season with the salt and serve immediately or keep warm in a small heat-proof bowl set over hot (but not simmering) water until ready to serve.



BROWN BUTTER SAUCE
Developed by The Wooden Spoon

1 stick unsalted butter
Juice of 1 lemon
8 fresh sage leaves, cut into long strips

1. Melt the butter in a saute pan until it foams and subsides. When it turns a nice light brown color, turn off the heat and squeeze in the lemon juice. Be careful, as the butter with sputter. Add the sage leaves. Toss with pasta, or drizzle over fish, and serve.



LEMON BEURRE BLANC
Developed by The Wooden Spoon

1 minced shallot
¼ cup white wine
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
Salt and white pepper to taste

1. Combine the shallot, wine and lemon juice in a saucepan. Reduce it slowly until almost completely dry (about 1 tablespoon of liquid is ample). Turn off heat.

2. Gradually whisk in butter (tablespoon by tablespoon) and season to taste with salt and pepper.

New Years Consolation: Spicy Peanut Sauce

On New Years Eve Day, I received one of those calls to which there is only one answer. A friend, visiting NYC from Chicago to spend the holiday weekend with her boyfriend, was on the other side of the line, crying. It could only be the dreaded New Year’s Break Up.

I told Lady Luck to take the 4/5 to Brooklyn, and I’d be waiting there with a box of Kleenex. She erupted at the sight of me. “But why would he tell me to come to New York if he wants me to see other people?” She cried, hugged my dog, and cried some more. We got pedicures, manicures, waxes, and she knit me a scarf. A proper mix of hedonism, masochism, and old world functionality.

It was New Years, so the night was up to her. She could watch the ball drop at home, or welcome 2006 the festive way. I had no time or inclination to do any grocery shopping, but this woman clearly needed a soothing meal. I looked through the kitchen for soothing foods: ah, Peanut butter. Linguine. Shrimp. (Are you feeling me?) Spicy Peanut Noodles with Shrimp, coming right up.

She got on the phone and called around to her network of loved ones to tell them that the big trip had gone bust. (Clearly, this was before having my transcendental, last-minute, throw-together-what-I-find meal). She sat on my kitchen floor as I whipped this thing together in half an hour. I knew that she’d soon turn the corner from sadness to anger and on to completion; I was hoping a little extra Sambal Oelek might speed the process.

She ate the crunchy, rich, spicy peanut goodness with joy. She even had seconds (which I took as a real compliment, since her last breakup led to a 15 pound drop). Lady Luck emerged the victor, rallying to go party hopping that night.

It’s amazing what a little home loving can do. Try this on your friends and family, drama or no drama. It’s sure to soothe what ails you.


LUCKY’S SPICY PEANUT NOODLES WITH SHRIMP
By The Wooden Spoon
Serves 2

In this recipe, I’ve listed the stuff I had in my kitchen, with the “preferred” ingredients in parens if the primary ingreds are not available.

½ pound linguine (or ideally, fresh Chinese egg noodles)
½ garlic clove, smashed
2 tablespoons dark sesame oil
½ cup natural peanut butter
2 tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon light soy sauce
2 tablespoons sugar (or just 1, if you’ve only got some processed sugary peanut butter)
Juice of 1 lime (I had to use orange juice and rice wine vinegar. Kinda yucky. Get the lime)
1 teaspoon sambal olek, (get it, have it in your fridge. A staple. If you don’t have it, Tabasco is okay, but not great)
6 ounces frozen shrimp, defrosted
1 apple, or ½ cucumber, peeled and chopped into 1/3-inch cubes (1 cup mung bean sprouts, preferred)
1/3 cup chopped cilantro (again, I didn’t, but if you have…)
¼ cup roasted salted peanuts or cashews, roughly chopped

1. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Boil pasta according to package directions, and make it al dente – cook it to the lower end of the recommended cooking spectrum.

2. In a medium bowl (you’ll be making the whole dish in this bowl, so be sure it can fit), whisk together garlic, peanut butter, fish sauce, soy sauce, sugar, lime juice, and sambal. Stir, taste, adjust seasonings as needed. By this time this is all assembled, your pasta should be done. Take it out of the water, and toss it with the sauce.

3. Laziness test: If you’re not into doing a ton of dishes, simply toss the shrimp in the pasta cooking water, wait for them to turn pink and curl (2-3 minutes), and toss them with the noodles. If you want to maximize flavor (and are a better friend then I…) coat the bottom of a skillet with oil, and sear the shrimp on both sides (1 minute per side) until pink and curled.
Combine with the noodles.

4. Add apple (or another crunch item), cilantro, and nuts. Toss well, Serve with a few shrimp on top, and take away the Kleenex.