A Visit with the King: Elvis's Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich

I'm in Tennessee right now, South Pittsburg to be exact, to judge The National Cornbread Festival. As too many locals have reminded me, "This ain't no bagel contest, girl, whatchu know 'bout cornbread?" That remains to be seen, and after today's contest, I suppose I'll be judged as well. But we'll save that for the next posting.

Since I was traveling all the way to Tennessee, I just had to augment my journey with a little side trip to Memphis. I've been an Elvis fan since I was 7, when I found my mom's GI Blues record in the back of her closet. I have spent too many hours staring at that man, while mom would tell me how she used to go over to *her* Grandma's house to watch him on TV (his antics were frowned upon in the home my mother grew up in). I read Elvis and Me twice.

I arrived in Memphis Wednesday evening, and uncharacteristically treated myself to the poshest boutique hotel in town. I found men in Memphis aggressive; a US Marine tried to pick me up at Enterprise, and a Chicago businessman brought me a beer while I was playing with my computer in the lobby, "I hate to drink alone." Yeah? Well I hate to be interrupted. A fine looking M&A professional, he regaled me with stories of his drunken Memphis nights. Impressive.


I had been in Memphis one hour. I don't get this much attention in New York in a month. I walked over to Rendezvous for some ribs. I've had better; I've made better. Onto Beale Street. Apparently, Wednesdays are for Harley riders, so this was a barrel-chested, Lucky Strike-thickened Harley parking lot, with all the Foghorn-Leghorn posturing that goes with it.

I retreated home for a good night's sleep: tomorrow was for my King(s). I dressed for Graceland in a cute blue print dress, nude fishnets and fifties peeptoes. I was first in line, but was soon to be surrounded by at least 2000 card-carrying members of the AARP. This is a social group of tourists, used to standing in line and making polite conversation with those around them. "You're not even old enough to even know Elvis." was the opening line of choice. Not so, Daddy-O.

I'm not going to go on and on about Graceland. There are too many others before me who've gone into great detail about the trippy Jungle room (yes, with a waterfall), the TV room (yup, completely mirrored, with three TV rooms), the white shag receiving room in front, the record room (with *all* those gold records, the costumes (especially the jumpsuits), the horses, and the meditation garden. The dozens of fresh bouquets at his grave site, still pouring in from fans around the world.

What I'm going to tell you is that Elvis' generosity and hospitality can be felt in his home, still. There are six cozy rooms (designed by the King, clearly) where you just want to sit, grab a drink (most rooms have corner bars), listen to some good music, and laugh. Graceland is a modest home, purchased by Elvis for $100,000 when he was 22. He didn't upgrade when he made more money, and he didn't leave town. He had a bedroom for his parents, and always had plenty of play toys for his friends.

His kitchen had four electric burners, a single oven, one refrigerator and one sink. I've more well appointed kitchens in the homes of Manhattanites who don't cook; Elvis was a tremendous host (and eater). But sometimes it ain't about your gear; it's what you do with it.

Elvis is my American success story; a polite boy from Tupelo, who could sing, move, and let us all watch. You can have Justin Timberlake and those boys from Maroon 5. When I want to feel music, passion, and raw heat, I'm turning to Elvis: a boy who loved his mama, served in the Army, and still gets me riled up, decades later.

So move over Great Grandma, I'm coming over to watch Elvis tonight. I'll bring PB&B sandwiches and the buttermilk to wash 'em down.


Elvis Presley's Grilled Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich
I've been making PB&B's for years, much like one would make PB&Js. I'd enjoy them with a sense that by eating this sandwich, I was ingesting Elvis (don't make fun: have you ever heard of communion?). But in my haste to commune with the King, I hadn't paid attention to detail: Elvis' sandwiches are fried.

2 slices of white bread
2 tablespoons of smooth peanut butter
1 small ripe banana mashed
2 tablespoons butter (or bacon fat)

Spread the peanut butter on one slice of bread and the mashed banana on the other. Press the slices gently together. Melt the butter, over low heat in a small frying pan. Place the sandwich in the pan and fry until golden brown on both sides.

The Uninvited Dinner Guest: WD-50 Review

I had been yearning-for-yet-procrastinating a meal at Wylie Dufresne’s, WD-50, Manhattan’s top molecular gastronomy venue, since it opened. And now I know why.
For food lovers, going to WD-50 is like a traveler taking in the Taj. You must go, once. But in a world of Eiffel towers and Antarctic expeditions, and in a city with too many fine restaurants, must you return?

My fellow diners were special-occasioners, tourists, and self-proclaimed foodies from New Jersey. These were not regulars. The majority enjoyed the tasting menu (as letting someone else choose your dinner in a place this cerebrally demanding can put you at ease as much as a house-infused yuzu and Meyer lemon saketini). My tourist friends asked for a chef-autogrphed copy of the menu; too many people were snapping pictures of the dishes with their iPhones. The anniversary couple to my right used words like “different” and “unusual” to describe their experience, over and over again. I fought the temptation to hand them a thesaurus.

Though my reservation was not easy to come by, there were at least five empty tables that would remain so all night. This was a place ventured into with purpose and pre-work; if is not mentally prepared for the experience, one does not amble in.

Molecular gastronomy, pioneered by Spain’s Ferdinand Adria, is a modern culinary trend famous for the application of scientific techniques and tools to cooking. Dufresne takes shrimp and turns them into noodles; pizza into pebbles, and bone marrow into thin discs of fat. There are vapors and flavor tabs that dissolve on your tongue; all that’s missing is the lady that gets sawed in half and her friend who disappears.

There were hits and misses; the dishes were evenly divided between the two. A smoky pear and pepper cocktail was over-smoked and hard to choke down; a bourbon tart cherry drink hit was a perfect 10. When our attentive server asked of our meal experience, and we mentioned that the cocktail was too smoked, he enthusiastically agreed and removed the item from our bill, unasked.

For starters, the foie with fennel, malt balls and sherry vinegar jam reintroduced me to a long term love of mine, foie gras. It was presented as pebbles, tumbling down the plate and turning their way around malt balls that evaporated in my mouth. As one who enjoys a slice or a shmear; I learned how vivid even a tiny pebble of foie can be. This has changed my experience of foie moving forward; it had my devotion, now it has my respect.

Dufresne’s touted popcorn soup was another matter entirely. I enjoy a bright, vivid, flavorful corn soup, but this one lost its way. Had they forgotten to pop the corn? I felt as though I was eating a pureed polenta, or fresh corn cut with oatmeal. The flavors were muddied, and the texture was thick. The color was a dull grey-yellow; not the vivid sunshine I was looking for. Similarly, I like my bone marrow hot and soft in the bone; digging is part of the fun. These room temperature fat discs had no bone in sight, and slicing marrow with a knife and fork just seems impolite. Plus, the temperature made the flavor retreat; I was not to experience any of that crusty, melty, salty, fatty marrow umame I craved so.

As each dish came down; conversation stopped. First, we had to figure out what each item was. The tamarind-soaked jicama suddenly tasted like butterscotch…wait, what was this again? A wave of foaming coconut hanging over my Wagyu seemed more like a stiff-peak beaten vanilla meringue to me. There was deliberating, there was plate sharing, there was investigating, and there was a halt to traditional dinner flow. I enjoy a meal with flavors that are present, noted, and take their seat as the conversation returns. I do not enjoy a dinner guest that is constantly interrupting.

For the mains; the Wagyu tasted like liver, like too much good-quality beef does, and was served more traditionally than the appetizers, which was a trend for the mains. Coffee gnocchi were a grey miss, and the coconut meringue was confusing. These supporting players didn’t add to the dish; they were interrupting our star. The turbot with barbecued lentils, cauliflower and dried apricot was cooked to perfection, and the barbequed lentils could have come straight from the B&M can.

Deserts continued the trend; a toasted coconut cake was fine, and the brown butter ice cream was more of a thrill to conceptualize than eat.

I enjoyed my experience. Perhaps I’ll return, for a lunch special. I am glad that foie and I have a new spark in our relationship. WD-50 is a must-go, and a must-see, and boy am I glad Dufresne is taking the risks he is. In other industries, R&D is carried out in Ivory Towers or funded laboratories, where experiments can go awry. In the business of molecular gastronomy; diners pay for the privilege to be a lab rat.


**
WD-50
50 Clinton StreetNew York, NY 10002Phone: 212.477.2900

Starters: $14 – $17
Mains: $24- $35
Cocktails: $14- $18
Wine list: Complete, complex
Reservations are recommended, though not always necessary
All credit cards are accepted.

Better Than Pizza: Jamacan Beef Patty

When it comes right down to it, I’m cheap. And usually hungry. And a bit lazy, not wanting to wander too far out of my neighborhood to find something tasty. And I crave unusual ethnic food far more frequently than I crave something most of my peers enjoy, like Tasty-D-Lite or Luna Bars. If I’m going to pay money, what I buy needs to be interesting, delicious, unusual, and satisfying. When it comes to cheap snacks, I’m a major pain in the ass.

That said, I don’t have caloric or fat limits, and I take great pride in my omnivorousness. So a city like Brooklyn is made for me – filled with ethnic variety, options, and a respect for thrift. It’s easier to rattle off a list of ten places to try than come up with ten reasons to visit the same shop twice.

So it surprised no one more than me when I started making a once-a-week habit of Christie’s. Christie’s makes pasties, or Cornish pies, or hand pies, or whatever you want to call highly seasoned savory meat stuffed inside flaky pastry. Christie’s calls them Jamaican pattys. Mon’.

Like all remaining urban culinary secrets, it was a place I’d walked by a zillion times, but was finally taken there by a trusted culinary advisor. When I walked in, I noticed that we were the only white people there; everyone else was speaking with strong Caribbean accents and seemed to be regulars. A very good sign.

Growing up, my best friend was from the Caribbean, so I was no stranger to Soursop, Peanut Punch, Coconut Water or Sorrel Drinks. Their beverage cooler contained all the usual subjects, without any riff-raff from the Coca-Cola company.

There was a steam table with jerk chicken, oxtail, callaloo, and curried goat. All good signs. But my friend brought me here for a meat pie, and that’s what I’d be having.
$1.85 later, I had a warm pie crust in my hand, filled with some unidentifiable meat no closer to organic than a packet of Pop Rocks. True comfort food.

The meat was seasoned within an inch of it’s life. Black pepper, allspice, MSG…perhaps a little hashish. But I am ahead of myself; the key to this experience was the first bite – before I even tasted the meat, there was something else entirely:

When I accepted the hand pie (and the $0.15 change, which I *did* leave as a tip; my frugality knows socially appropriate boundaries), I felt its weight and warmth in my hand. I had a look and couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship; this pie that knew no temperature less than 38F. It had been crimped by a person and…let me just take this corner piece off…flake, flake, cleave, steam puff. Indeed. I nibbled at the pastry and my eyes widened – involuntarily. The pastry fissured on my tongue; flake is too lightweight a term to use to describe the oral experience. It cleaved, and dissolved.

Which was a good thing, because I had to take another bite, and another. This is how I got to the aforementioned meat. The texture was as terrible as the pastry perfect. But I got past it, as you look beyond a friend’s chronic lateness and instead choose to enjoy her vivid personality. The seasonings. There are no words.

But there is an address:

Christie’s Jamaican Patties.
387 Flatbush Ave, Brooklyn 11238Btwn Sterling Pl & Carlton Ave Phone: 718-636-9746

Just Say Yes: Fearless Leg of Lamb

I was parallel parking my bashed-up, decade-old Volkswagen cabrio on the streets of Brooklyn when he pulled up next to me.

“Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss? You wanna fix that dent in your fenduh?” He was driving a black 15-year old Mercedes that wasn’t in great shape either.

Ah, the fender dent. It's a bit of a sore spot for me. You see, my parents were watching my car at their home in North Carolina last summer. At the end of their babysitting, my father brought my car to a guy who would wash it and spiff it up for $15 bucks or so. Not a business, just a guy. But my father isn’t above a shady business interaction, so that's how it goes sometimes.

At midnight, my parents got a phone call from the local cops. “Are you the owners of a Blue Volkwagon Cabriolet, license plate number…”

“Uh, yes.”

“Well Mr. Fishman, I regret to inform you that it appears a Mr. Johnny Holden has been driving drunk in your vehicle.”

“I see.”

Before getting pulled over for reckless driving, Mr. Holden was kind enough to back my car into who knows what, accruing many dollars worth of damage.

My parents didn’t mention this to me until I picked up the car and noticed a huge gash and growing rust spot in the back of it. “Uh, what happened here, mom?” I asked, opening the trunk to load groceries for her.

“Oh, your father and I forgot to tell you. It’s the funniest story…” And she proceeded to tell.

I couldn’t help but return to 1989, when I got into my first accident with the second-hand we-don’t-care-what-you-do-to-it car. It wasn’t my fault, and I was more than happy to crack open the bar mitzvah bank account to take care of it. I figured, they're my parents, this car is one step from the junkyard anyway, I was OK and the damage was only cosmetic.

Or so I thought. Let’s just say my parents didn’t laugh off my little car accident as easily as they laughed off this one.

I gave a "harrumph", and drove the car back to Brooklyn, wounds undressed.

So this guy next to me in the beat-up Mercedes had my attention. I got out of the car and asked for more information. “The name’s Nicky. I work down on 4th Avenue, at the body shop. You can take the car down there, and I'll do the same job for you, but the owner is going to have to take his cut, because that's how they do. Lemme give yous a quick estimate.”

Before I could say, “Nick the body man” He tallied up 10 rusting dings, nicks and other reasons for him to bang my body with a hammer for the low low price of: “Tree-fiddy.”

Now that was actually a deal. I added in a few spots he hadn't seen, got the number under $300, and we shook hands.

I called my parents, who agreed to pick up their portion, and Nick got to work on my body. I left Nick to his work and offered to pay upfront but he wouldn't hear of it, "I don't take any money from yous until yous is happy wid my work. Which you will be." We exchanged cell numbers and I went back to work for a few hours.

When a strange man comes up to you on the streets of Brooklyn with an offer that sounds too good to be true, hear him out. Then say yes. Although over-educated girls from the suburbs are taught to say no to men with propositions and thick Brooklyn Italian accents, the street smart city girl in me knew better.

Postscript: His work was excellent, my car is back to it’s old self, and I've redeem my father’s faith in shady businessmen. But even if the work was mediocre and the drama continued, it would have been worth it. For the story.


Fearless Leg of Lamb with Herbs & Garlic
by Allison Fishman
Serves 8

Don’t be afraid of a butterflied leg of lamb – it’s big and ungainly and, yes, lamb-y, but spring is here and the time is right for roasting these suckers. Sure, it’s scary: but take on the challenge: You’ll be handsomely repaid for your fearlessness.

2 tablespoons fresh rosemary leaves
2 cloves garlic
1/2 cup fresh mint, packed
1/2 cup fresh parsley, packed
Coarse kosher salt
1/4 cup olive oil
1 5 1/4-pound boneless leg of lamb, butterflied, trimmed of most fat and sinew
Freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 450°F. To a mini food processor, add rosemary and garlic. Pulse until finely chopped, about 5 to 6 pulses. Add mint and parsley and pulse, scraping down the sides of the bowl until you’ve got a finely chopped herb mixture, about 8 pulses (don’t over process, you don’t want mush, just flakes).

Spoon the herb mixture into a small bowl; drizzle with oil and season with salt. Stir until you have a paste. Give a taste and adjust seasoning as needed; the flavor should be vivid.

Unfold the lamb, and season the inside well with salt. Rub the mixture all over the inside of the lamb. Roll up the lamb, jelly-roll style, and tie it with kitchen string to make a neat little package. Don’t sweat perfection on this one; if you’ve tied your shoes, you can tie this. Just improvise.

Sprinkle the outside of the lamb bundle generously with coarse salt and pepper, and place the lamb in roasting pan in the center of your oven. Roast until instant-read thermometer inserted into thickest part of meat registers 130°F for medium-rare, about 1 hour 15 minutes. Remove pan from oven; let lamb rest, covered with aluminum foil, for 15 to 30 minutes. Save any accumulated juices from the roasting pan.

Remove kitchen string from lamb. Cut lamb into 1/3-inch-thick slices; arrange on platter. Combine any juices that appeared after carving the lamb with the no more than 1/4 cup of the drippings from the roasting pan. Drizzle this over the lamb before serving.