Cole’s At Last

I had wanted to go to Cole’s for a long, long time, long enough to slow roast a beef on an LA sidewalk. Cole’s and Philippe the Original are neck-in-neck on the French Dip-o-drome, that is, if you believe the hippety-dippety-dipped-up-hype. Neck-in-neck, but not beef neck, silly. Roasted beef, the sandwich kind, the kind sliced thin, so your teeth don’t have to do it.

You oughta see the penny tile floors and the mahogany bar and the light orbs and vertical dills and happily stacked meat and the bowls of liquid mahogany edible beef shellac.

I was there with fabulous Jenn, cool in the shade of her LA savvy.

Cole’s is a bit more high-brow than Philippe the Original. Lower lights, higher brow. Bout the same level on the roast beef layer. Medium-brow, not too thick, not too thin.

Shellackety-stacked piles of beef on rolls, rolls that soak, rolls built to soak, built to absorb, built to absorb under the orbs. Dip, dip, dip. More like dunk, actually, for a duration.

Truly, anyway you slice it, long as it is across the grain, a French Dip, done the LA way, in other words, IN LA, is fine fine fine. Mighty fine. Not much room in my life for food superlatives. You get to a certain level of nirvana and the sandwiches levitate on the same heavenly plane.

Toast Poast Number 02/14/11

Call me the mistress of the mutual admiration society. A card carrying, flag waving, allegiance pledging member of too many to count. You count. I’ll bet you count better than anyone in the world cause you are brilliant. As brilliant as I. As crunchly warm and slippery brilliant as two foods fated to merge, butter oozing deliciously into the crispy crevasses of toast. Brilliant.

Fuzzy Grapefruit on Etsy

For Valentine’s Day, taking note of a few of my lovablely favorite things:


My son’s non-relationship with perfectionism.

The spaciousness of the mind.

Winter, with the promise of spring and summer to follow.

Butter.

Bread.

The space between butter and bread.




One Giant Leap for Mankind


The BIG New York Sandwich Book

Just how big is it? Big compared to what? Big New York or Big Sandwiches? I am kinda excited about this book.  Mike Rhode of ComicsDC clued me in to its impending release this spring. Ohhhh, maybe it’s a big BOOK. That would be good. Gonna bounce on down to my local bookstore and get me a copy.

A tease here.

Soon we will have lots of daylight in which to sprawl and read. Spring forward and snap it up!

The Hard Stuff


Put this in your pipe and smoke it.

Because bacon is one- to two-thirds fat and also has lots of protein, it speaks to our evolutionary quest for calories. And since 90 percent of what we taste is really odor, bacon’s aggressive smell delivers a powerful hit to our sense of how good it will taste.

In other words, bacon is the easy stuff. You think you aren’t easy, until you are. There is forgiving with bacon, but not forgetting. The smell lodges itself deep within your psyche and hangs on with the toughness of spider’s silk.

Must. Eat. Bacon.

Or anyday.

Thank you LRoy.

Food Regretsy

A friend with a good eye, and even better sense of the absurd, sent me this Sandwich Bowl-a-Drome-in-a-Dishrack, which came to her via Facebook. Batten down the hatches, boys, reinforce our foundations of gastronomic superiority, secure all dishracks! Seven layer dip is one thing, chicken wings another, stadiums of cheese and coldcuts will not gain entree in these parts!
Funny you should mention wings. I just happen to have styled the wing story for Express Night Out this week. Marge Ely took the pictures. Lovely to work with Marge, as always.



Kick Up Your Wings

And one more tiny thing:

GO PACKERS!!

(Shakes dishrack at the Steelers)

Don’t USuper My Trip, Man

It hardly seems right to watch the Super Bowl while eating the kind of highfalutin fare that excites Michelin-starred chefs. Except this year, because the dish inflaming culinary passions is decidedly football-friendly: the sandwich.

While the word may conjure up infantile PB&Js or over-stuffed hoagies, chefs are taking sandwiches seriously, embracing their all-American familiarity while using them as a platform for global influences.


The new school of sandwiches, built around layers of highly seasoned meats that are braised or slow-cooked to fork-tenderness, ooze with just enough cheddar or pungent olive oil to be moist. They get kick from condiments such as tomato jam or Moroccan harissa.


Read more here.

Honestly, does competitive cooking have to highjack everything?? I know, I know, chefs are “the new rock stars”, blah, blah, blah. We don’t need high profile chefs, people. High profile, as far as I can see, is created in the name of cash flow. You may think me a sour grapes wet blanket and that is okay. Puffed up celebrity has always made me ill at ease, particularly when it comes to food. Not that I have a gripe with any hardworking and talented chef making lots of dough. I don’t. They should. And it’s okay with me if we leave them in peace, in the kitchen, not ready for their close-up. Telegenicity is not one of my prerequisites for notoriety.

Okay, okay, I take it all back. Holy c**p these wiches look good. Still…..reading about food….sometimes it is all too much. Am I the only one who occasionally wants to head for the hills with only a bowl and spoon? Just after I watch the Packers clobber the Steelers, bratwurst in hand.

End of rant.

Since the Dawn of Time, The Fruit Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree

Post Express, Wednesday, February 2, 2011

An Extra Helping of History: Culinary Historians of Washington, D.C.

At the December meeting of the Culinary Historians of Washington, D.C., members started their gathering in the usual way — by engaging in culinary show-and-tell. Congregating in the decidedly unappetizing surroundings of a government conference room in Bethesda, the cadre of chefs, foodies and history buffs passed around what seemed to be the tiny stone club of some bloodthirsty pygmy and a small, white, plastic device that resembled those three-legged alien spaceships in “War of the Worlds.”

After lots of exclamations of “What they heck?” and handling of the oddities, club vice president CiCi Williamson, 66, a writer from McLean, Va., revealed that the club would’ve been used in Micronesia to pulverize breadfruit, and that the UFO was actually a hard-boiled egg peeler from the 1950s. “That looks like more trouble than it’s worth,” Williamson said as she passed the egg peeler back to its owner.

History may be written by the winners, but it’s what denizens of past decades had for dinners that concerns the Culinary Historians of Washington, D.C. (ChoW/DC for short). For 16 years, the group has met monthly to hear speakers, compare old recipes and, of course, eat a combo of retro foods and modern dishes. “Having a bite gets people talking,” said Shirley Cherkasky, 83, who is the group’s founder.

At the December meeting, folks snacked on candied pumpkin slices inspired by ancient Mexican customs, corn bread made from one member’s old family recipe and Southern-style hummus made from black-eyed peas. Once a year, the group gets together for a history-themed dinner. The last feast starred Native American dishes such as bison stew, cactus salad and cornmeal hotcakes with prickly-pear syrup.

But it’s the lively appetite for knowledge that really keeps members showing up. In December, Katie Leonard Turner, a visiting assistant professor of history at Philadelphia University, chatted about turn-of-the-20th-century convenience foods, from the hot dogs that working-class Philly men enjoyed in saloons to the pre-made pastries (meat and vegetable filled pasties not unlike empanadas) favored by stay-at-home moms.

“Food provides a window into what peoples’ day-to-day lives were like back then,” Turner said. Other talks have covered morsels from the invention of the hamburger (probably in the 1880s in the U.S., FYI) to the origins of chop suey (it, too, was created in the United States, not China, back at the end of the 19th century).

“The average American doesn’t know where their food comes from and the story behind it,” Williamson said. “But if you look back at history, you can find out how we got to where we are today.”

It’s no surprise that, as the members of CHoW/DC wandered out of their December session, they were talking about food trucks and the roots of Caribbean cuisine, a sure sign that they’re making the sort of tasty history members will be pondering at meetings far in the future.

Written by Express contributor Nevin Martell

What’s All the Huff About?

You get the picture. Aaaaeeeeiiiiiiiieeeeeeee!

America’s Top Ten New Sandwiches
Forget who piles pastrami highest or fits the most varieties of cold cuts onto one hero roll. A great sandwich has come to mean more than just bigger, better and meatier. Across the country, a new breed of sandwich artisans are taking lunchtime to a whole ‘nother level. From California to New England, here are Endless Simmer’s top ten favorite new sandwiches.
Huffington Post

From Mike Rhode and Gabriel Paal, who wrote:”What’s the travel budget for the Lunch Encounter? You may have to go try all of these. My vote goes for the Pibil Torta or the Fried Chicken Sandwich. On the other hand, the sandwich at Church Key in DC just looks like a big, fat mess.”

By and By


grahamwich

This just in from the Lunch Encounter’s northern Mid-Western link.

The good news:

The restarurant uses bread from artisan bakeries including Pullman loaves.

And the puzzling news:

No homemade graham crackers on the menu. Was thinking they belonged on the snack menu, sandwiching homemade fluffernutter.

And the caveat:

Why oh why do chefs/restauranteurs feel the need to burden us with their pretentions? Please, oh please, let the sandwiches do the talking. Pontification, not just for the pope anymore. Takes a lotta soda to wash down that throat-sticking bologna.

Pontification, it’s okay when I do it. Let’s hot foot it to Graham’s place and get our sandwich face on.

Toast Poast Number 911


Currlllzzz

When he was small  we attempted…. tried,  coerced, bribed, teased, chided, and connived…him into… well, to teach him a bit of responsibility taking. I started with a very short, important phone number. Not that he wasn’t with an adult at all times, an adult who would be in charge of the phone, an adult who would be doing the “dialing” were it necessary. Still, it seemed like a good idea. I read it somewhere, and other mothers at the bus stop were bragging about all that their children could repeat by rote. Baaaa. Baaaa. Call me a sheep in mother’s clothing.

“When there is an emergency, such as a fire, what do we do? We call 9 1 1.”
“9 9 1, Mom.”
“No, 9 1 1.”
“9 9 1, Mom.”
“No, 9 1 1.”
I set it aside for several years.

Dial ahead to now. We are on the threshold of buying him a phone. Will I ever see his face again? More likely just the top of his head:(