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These blog posts were written by a sausage.
By the gracious leave of the C(h)levers, I bring a guest post to describe a dish that deserves to adorn these meaty halls. It’s called Rolladen, and is part of my family’s holiday tradition: I can remember my German-born grandmother cooking this recipe decades ago. I helped out then too, and counted the rolls with equal glee, since the usual recipe size is about 50.
You start with a beef round roast that you ask your favorite butcher to slice as thin as possible against the grain, leaving you with little medallions of meat. Then on each slice, put a schmear of mustard, two onions, two pickles, and a small piece of bacon; roll it up; and fasten it with a toothpick. When you’re done, you should have a ziggurat of meat.
Although you’ve already combined two different kinds of meat, it gets better: brown all of them in fat from the Christmas goose (animal #3). Then layer all 50 of them in a casserole, pour wine and stock to cover, and bake for an hour or two in a 350°F oven. The rolls should practically fall apart by this time (but for the toothpick) and the flavors will have melded together and mellowed.
We always serve it with Spätzli, which are little boiled dumplings that soak up the incomparable sauce. And although you don’t technically need to make so many all at once, they do taste better the next day.
But know that this description carries an undercurrent of melancholy, for neither C(h)lever has experienced it. So let me dedicate this to their future meeting, since it is a holiday recipe and bound to reappear where they can taste it.
Apparently I made some errors in the previous post. I am only human.
1. The rodent is evidently known as a bamboo rat, not gopher or possum or whatever the hell I called it. It eats the roots of bamboo, tea, and sugar cane plants.
2. Xishuangbanna does not border Cambodia.
3. Technically, the rat was probably NOT roadkill. I think the guy had laid a trap for it somewhere in the woods. But a girl can dream.
4. On second thought, I highly doubt that the bamboo rat had been dead for a week. It had no evident maggots or foul smell. Its leg stub had crusted over, though, and mysterious yellow liquid was dribbling from its mouth. I do think that it was pretty fresh.
I’m not going to bother making these corrections to the post because I like the raw emotion I conveyed. I’m sure Kurt Cobain wrote factually incorrect lyrics at some point. I’m like the Kurt Cobain of the Cookery Pokery team.
(Poll: Which pop culture icon describes Chlever?)
The Day I Almost Ate Roadkill
I went to a village in Xishuangbanna, on the border of China and Laos and Cambodia and Myanmar and all that good stuff.
My uncle took me to his tea farm, and we ate delicious, normal, freshly killed livestock, like chickens and stuff. I even ate an unlaid egg! I’m sure that’s a euphemism for some sort of sexual misadventure. But I am referring to literal action of eating an unlaid egg. The egg had not yet been laid by the hen, and I ate it out of the hen. I hope that is not a euphemism for a sexual misadventure. To be painstakingly specific, the hen was dead and in a soup.
One of the farmhands’ cousins mysteriously vanished for about half an hour. I was chasing ducks like some minor character in Charlotte’s Web when he returned holding a giant possum. The animal had a stub for a leg and bright yellow front teeth. It was terrifying.
He insisted that it was the most delicious meat, prized locally. He kept saying that he’d saved it for our visit.
“The animal just died, right?” I asked him repeatedly. “Yes, yes, it just died,” I think he said. He did not speak very good Mandarin. He let me hold the animal for a second. The animal was no longer warm, which made me doubt that it was freshly killed, but he was the expert, not me.
He described slathering the internal organs in spicy marinade and laying them on an open fire. ”And the brains are medicinal!” he kept saying.
He said it so many times that I began to believe. He ran to the chicken coop/barn area and started boiling water to defur the rodent.
“Once we get all the fur off, this thing will be as white as pearl,” he told me, grinning.
I began to see this as a test of my willpower. It’s just like a mini-pig, I told myself. If you can’t stomach this process, you don’t deserve to eat pig-meat. The altar of Lord Piggy deserves a worthier servant.
He threw the rodent in boiling water. I squatted next to him and began to help him pull off the fur. It came off in giant chunks, like your skin a few days after a bad sunburn. I watched as he scraped off the fur off its bright white hide.
“Your disgust for this rodent is a cultural construct,” I kept telling myself. “If he were holding a dead piggy and describing a pig pickin’, you’d be hootin’ a different tune.”
Then he built a fire and threw the carcass over it. The white body began to char and burn. He picked it off and told me it was time to take out the entrails. We headed back toward the spigot, and I watched him break its breastbone and cut open its body.
But right as he finished cutting open the animal and showing me the liver, the lungs, and the intestines, my uncle yelled that we had to leave. I was both relieved and sad that I would never get to eat the giant rodent.
“Sophia really wanted to eat that giant rat earlier,” my uncle later said to Li, the gopher-eating man’s cousin, after we had left the farm. Li also worked on the farm.
“No one should have eaten that,” Li said.
“But he told me the brains were medicinal!” I said.
“I think that animal had been dead for about a week,” he said.
“But he told me that it had just died!” I said.
“Nope,” Li said.
“But the meat of that animal is delicious, right?” I said, hoping that the guy had not completely lied to me.
“Yes,” Li said.
“And the brains are medicinal?”
What did Li say? Cliffhanger ending. Maybe no one knew what they were talking about. I’ll never tell, you’ll have to try it yourself.
圣诞快乐 from Taigu! Tasting notes for our first China homebrew, a Christmas ale with ginger, dates, cinnamon, honey, Cascade and Mt. Hood hops from Amelea and me…plus a surprise at the end. I call the beer “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground” but no one else liked that name. Suck it, guys. It’s Cookery Pokery official now.
Cookery Pokery was born in the fiery pit of hatred that Chlever and I had for beans. Our co-op at Oberlin (the truth has come out, yes, we were Oberlin students) would cook giant pots of tasteless crunchy kidney beans. We would squirt Sriracha on the beans and crunch away with disdain. I, having been weaned on my mother’s well-seasoned, savory Chinese dishes, and Chlever, being from California, did not stand for this.
But being in China for the last month has made me realize the power of Beans. Specifically, the Forgotten Bean: the soybean, affectionately known as the “yellow bean”—黄豆 (huangdou) in Chinese.
China is the Rumpelstiltskin of soybeans. By this, I mean that if you locked the country of China in a room full of soybeans and told them to make anything out of it, perhaps a Prius with leopard print seats or a whale vagina, they could probably do it.
Let me just go briefly through some of the soy products that pop up in Chinese cuisine:
1) Edamame. (BLASPHEMY! I used JAPANESE to describe something in CHINESE cuisine! Quick, someone deport me now!) These are young immature soy beans, eaten from the pod. In Chinese we call them 毛豆 (maodou), or fuzzy beans, because the pods are fuzzy. You can boil them with spices—I like salt, Sichuan peppercorns, and maybe anise—to be eaten as an appetizer/bar food/snack, or you can stir fry them with pork. (This is a common theme in Chinese cooking, you can stir fry just about anything with pork.)
2) Mature soy beans, duh. These can be roasted as a snack. You can probably stir-fry it with pork. Another common way of cooking it is braising it with pork, shown above (红烧肉, hongshaorou or red roasted pork). My mom likes to braise pork feet in soy sauce, anise, sugar, and ginger, and then she adds soy beans and lets the collagen-infused sauce solidify in the fridge. Then you get what is not popularly known as Meat Jell-O, with soybeans suspended in it for an extra crunch. I am an indifferent-to-moderate fan of Meat Jell-O. Those unaccustomed to Meat Jell-O may be weirded out by the texture.
3) Soy milk. In China they call it 豆浆, doujiang, which literally means bean…slurry…or something like that. (Apologies, literal English translations in Chinese cuisine are usually not very appetizing.) This is made by soaking soy beans, grinding them up, and straining the bean aftermath. It’s pretty easy to make, actually—my grandma used to make it from scratch, and for a while we had a soymilk maker at home, where we could basically press a button and make fresh soymilk.
Unlike in the US, soy milk is drunk hot here, often in bowls, traditionally as a morning beverage. It doesn’t have some sort of thickener added to it to make it more like the texture of milk. Also unlike in the US, it is not flavored with vanilla or chocolate or some other bullshit. It’s straight up mothafuckin’ BEANS! And I like it WAY more! You can often get it freshly made, sometimes in sketchy food stalls on the street.You can also buy it in bags at the grocery store, which also seems mad sketchy, except I’ve had it, and it was fine.
3) Tofu (豆腐, doufu in Chinese—apparently the English word comes from the Japanese word for it). This is where the magic is. The Rumpelstiltskin of soybeans came up with this one. Hey, let’s boil soy beans and add some magic shit and then press it into bright white curds. Hey, this is crazy healthy. Why don’t we stir fry it with some pork. Why don’t we experiment with different types of firmness. Why don’t we eat it in the morning with pickles (豆腐脑, doufunao). Why don’t we make it mad spicy and numbing and name it after a pockmarked old lady (麻婆豆腐，mapodoufu). (Fun fact: apparently mapodoufu was invented by a Chen! I take full credit of this one!) Okay, this isn’t exciting enough. Let’s keep manipulating these curds into five zillion other different types of foods.
And then you’ve got all the tofu derivatives:
3a) dried tofu (豆腐干). This is REALLY good when you stir fry it pork.
3b) fried tofu. Can be found to shitty effect in Taste of Nirvana.
3c) frozen tofu (冻豆腐). This sounds like a stupid thing to include, but when you freeze tofu, the water in it expands to become ice, and after you defrost it, you get an entirely differently textured food. It becomes like a sponge and soaks up sauces real well. It’s popular in hotpot.
3d) Probably 500 other tofu-related products that I forget or have never tried.
4) 豆腐皮 （doufupi). Literally, “tofu skin,” but you definitely can’t make these by peeling a block of tofu. They are made during the production of soymilk: you get a thin protein layer on top of your soy milk, and you make tofu skin by collecting and drying the film. You can cook this with meat, surprise. Also found in dim sum as a wrapper around delicious savory shiitake mushrooms/water chestnuts/bamboo/other shroomy filling!
5) 腐竹, or bean curd sticks. This is another form of #4, tofu skin, but these are crinkly. Also quite delicious with meat. They also make excellent cold dishes—mix with some sort of crunchy vegetable, like carrots or celery, vinegar, sugar, soy sauce.
6) Soy sauce. This one also makes me say, what the fuck, China. Take cooked crushed soy beans, roasted wheat, brine, and some sort of mold, ferment away, strain the whole mess, and you get soy sauce. Did you know there are many varieties of soy sauce? I am no connoisseur, the only two I really know are shengchou (生抽), which is lighter in color and what is commonly found on your tables in Asian cuisine restaurants, and laochou (老抽), which is motherfucking dark and thick, and sometimes can have molasses in it. If you’re interested in other types of soy sauce, refer to Wikipedia. After reading Wikipedia, I realized soy sauce is kind of like beer…fermenty and with many different shades and tastes. I miss beer.
Other fermented soy derivatives:
6a) Yellow sauce (黄酱，huangjiang), which is a misleading name: it’s a thick brown paste made from fermented soy beans. This is what you use make zhajiangmian, 炸酱面, or as the Koreans have appropriated and recreated it, jajangmyeon.
7) Fermented tofu (豆腐乳, doufuru). This stuff ends up tasting a bit like stinky cheese. It’s used as a condiment with rice or steamed buns. You buy it in a jar, and it’s very soft. I like it a lot, it’s got a nice kick. If you ever go to a hotpot restaurant, the red sauce is made from fermented tofu.
8) Stinky tofu (臭豆腐，choudoufu). I have never had the fortune of eating this. It’s a common street food that has also been fermented and aged like #7, doufuru, but it smells really bad. However, if you ever read the Wikipedia article, notably the section on the (lack of) regulations, you will never, ever want to eat it, ever.
We can’t end it on this note.
9) Fermented salty black beans (but really they’re made of soy) (豆豉, douchi). These are made by salting and fermenting soy beans. Sometimes they are seasoned with chili peppers. They are EXCELLENT when stir-fried with pork, or their own relative, tofu.
10) I learned from Wikipedia today that Textured Vegetable Protein (TVP), a common ingredient in our co-ops of yore, is also made from soybeans. We shall speak no more of that here.
I think there are probably 4000 other soybean-derived Chinese foods that people eat here. We’ll stop for now.
Who the hell am I shittin’, I ain’t in Italy no more! I’m in the land of pork buns and vinegar, the good ol’ Middle Kingdom, where olive oil costs a whopping $20 or so for a liter, but a grilled squid skewer costs 30 cents. I’ve been cooking with a hot plate and drinking bright blue vodka coolers mixed with soju and umeshu. (Terrible. Never do it except if you’re desperate, or if you’re playing a drinking game to Fellowship of the Ring. I was both.)
I never got a chance to cyber-drool in front of everybody about the Italian food I ate on my trip last month. Consider this both a grab-bag food update on Italy as well as an opportunity for me drown in a pool of nostalgia and my own saliva.
A brief Italian lesson for the ham-lover
prosciutto crudo = uncooked cured ham, also known as The Best
prosciutto cotto = cooked ham, less expensive than crudo, but also not as tasty
bresaola = cured horse meat, very lean. “For girls who are on a diet,” the owner of a panino shop informed me. It’s more expensive than prosciutto and doesn’t taste as good. It’s dark red and tastes vaguely acidic.
pancetta = Italian bacon
mortadella = like American bologna but with fat cubes in it
porchetta = fatty savory pork roast. According to the panino man, this is the best meat for sandwiches. Unfortunately he told me this after I had already ordered my prosciutto.
salami = a wilted arugula salad
Bistecca alla fiorentina—a three-finger thick T-bone steak, grilled rare, in the Florentine style.
One of the best types of prosciutto crudo is prosciutto di Parma. Who knew that the second-best thing to come out of Parma (after Matt Furda) was ham? Ham-buying tips for the tourist: the charcuterie of Italy is called salumeria, and you order it by the etto, short for ettogrammo, which means 100 grams, and they cut it up for you, real thin, with a machine. They often sell bread (pane) as well, so you can ask them to make you a sammich (panino). While I didn’t meet any ham girls like we did in Munich, all the meat vendors were very amused by my attempts to speak Italian. The Italian phrase that I got the most mileage out of was “Un etto di prosciutto crudo, per favore.”
I can get behind Italian desserts
I like to tell people that I don’t like sweets, and then Chlever gets angry and starts listing all the times I ate sweet things and liked it. So, for old time’s sake: I don’t like sweet things. (Cue the Chlevalicious rage.) But fuck it, I love gelato. Surprising find: the cantaloupe (melone) gelato is my favorite. It comes with chunks of real cantaloupe, and it’s super refreshing, sweet, aromatic, and delicious.
Oh, the pasta
My momand I hit up a grocery store and counted the number of types of pasta. We counted up to sixty and decided that we needed a ham break. The fresh pasta is also amazing; I tried taglione (long ribbon-y pasta), bucatini (round spaghetti-like pasta with a hole down the middle), gnocchi (potato-flour lumps). They serve pasta as a first course in Italy, so for a full-blown meal, first you get your appetizer, then you get your pasta, and then you get your main course, and then you get your dessert, and then you get your espresso. Something like that. I may have left out some courses. I never ordered all the courses, but I thought about it, a bit excessively.
Good pasta is good pasta. One of the stupider sentences in this post. Can you spot the other ones?
Escapades as a Soulless Pagan
I drank Jeebus’s tears. More precisely, I drank a wine called Lacrima Christi, after a type of wine grape grown in the region of Campania, the capital of which is Naples. I don’t know shit about wine, but all I can say is that Jesus could’ve cried more, man.
An Offal Adventure with a happier ending
I ate lampredotto in Florence, which is a very deliciously seasoned cow stomach sandwich, bought on the street. Unlike tripe, which is usually made from one of the first three stomachs of a cow, lampredotto is made from the fourth stomach, the abomasum, which secretes rennet used in making cheese.
I doubt any of that sounded appealing to anybody, including myself. It is difficult to convert a non-offal eater, but I’m telling you, this sandwich was delicious. First of all, despite that my tour guide told me that it was stomach, I thought he had misspoken. It had the texture of flesh, not chewiness like tripe. Second of all, it is seasoned with celery, salt, red pepper, garlic, oregano, and the beef fat provides nice full flavor that soaks into the bread.
Berkeley Bowl and the Embarcadero had a love child in Italy
Near the Piramide stop on the Rome B Line Metro at Piazzale XII Ottobre 1492 is a monolithic eatery called Eataly. Despite its lack of clever punnery, Eataly was better than any food establishment I could have ever dreamed of. The place was four stories high, with a gelateria, a salumeria, a fuckin’ fried food bar, a raw seafood bar, a cooked seafood bar, a roasted meat section, a beer section (they had Gulden Draak, Saison Dupont, AND Sierra Nevada, among a bajillion others), a candy section, a pasta restaurant, a fresh pasta vendor, a cookie section, and an olive oil section probably the size of the first floor of my house. The ham section had prosciutto crudo, ibérico, and hams that I hadn’t even heard of. (Yes, there is such a thing. Though I am by no means a wide-eyed ham virgin, I do have a ways to go in terms of experience with ham.) Things that I must make/eat again: roast chicken stuffed with prosciutto and rosemary, raw scampi drizzled with olive oil. Jesus muthafuckin’ Christ, fresh raw scampi is delicious—it’s a little sweet, and it’s got that briny sea flavor without the occasional sketchy sandiness that comes with oysters. Plus the best part is the head—umami at its best, full and creamy and fatty like pork fat or marrow, but lighter, and with the fresh saltiness of the ocean.
My mom got too excited and ordered an entire plate of deep-fried fresh anchovies, which came out after we had finished the rest of our food. She couldn’t eat anymore, so my dad and I each ate about fifteen fried anchovies. It reminded me of the time Savannah and I ate 50 cocktail shrimps for breakfast.
If you are in Rome, you need to go to this place. I have included several pictures of the place in this post, but really, no pictures do it justice. It’s like you’ve died and gone to heaven, and then someone hands you a plate of fresh seafood and the most divinely seasoned ribs you have ever eaten. Shoutout to Andrea, our walking tour guide who told us how to get there.
I am tough and cool now
In other news, I have bought myself an Italian leather jacket.
COOKERY POKERY and the CLEVER BREWING CO. is very proud to present to you:
“Shh…Just Let Me Do This”
S…JLMDT is our third beer* inspired by and named in tribute to our favorite chamber music newgrassicians, The Punch Brothers. This particular track comes from the LP of their newest album, and is only available on vinyl. I’d like to point out that wewere hardcore enough to purchase the vinyl (sans vinyl player of our own) in order to listen to their sweet, sweet tracks.
But let’s get back to the beer! We brewed this together when Clever visited the land of plenty that is the Bay Area, and I have been tending to it since then with the help of my fam. A few weekends ago we all dedicated an afternoon to racking and bottling this baby, and now it’s just ready for consumption. “WHAT’S THE VERDICT?”, you say! Well lucky for you I filmed my brother in law’s discovery of and reaction to “Shh…Just Let Me Do This.” The film speaks for itself! Please try to ignore my giddy snickering.
A few tasting notes of my own:
Floral, almost like potpourri with spicy and rosy overtones. Fruity, stone fruit- apricots. And that’s only the nose! Poured a dark amber with a lacy head, balanced carbonation (maybe a *little* under carbonated, but that might get better with a few more weeks.) Packs a hoppy punch.
*In case you were wondering, our first two beers were:
“The Blind Leading the Blind” Ale (since none of us knew what we were doing,) and
“Don’t Need No” IPA (don’t need no recipe. We got this.)
I’m on my way to Beijing to spend 10 months in China studying coal power plants. I had a four-hour layover in Seattle on my way to Beijing, and I had Tom Haverford from Parks and Recreation, talking in my head.
I don’t even remember the episode. At the end of senior year at Oberlin, Jacob was obsessed with Parks’n’Rec. I would watch it with him on the couch at Lite House on Kelly’s LCD screen. Man, that couch. I remember complaining with him for hours on end slumped on that couch, Dogfish Head in hand. The content of the conversations could usually either be summed up with “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing in lab, or life, for that matter” or “Girls suck, except for me because I’m awesome,” but we managed to sustain them for hours. I watched Sherlock on that couch for the first time. I also bruised myself terribly on it at a dance party once in the middle in of the winter.
I think Tom Haverford was referring to clothes shopping. He was treating himself to some sort of high-end designer clothing.
I don’t give a shit about clothes. The average date of acquisition of my wardrobe is 2008. It used to be 2006, but I just bought some new clothes this summer. Me, I was ogling an overpriced seafood bar at the Seattle airport.
I think one of the stupidest things for a foodie to do is to splurge at an airport restaurant. But I really wanted to splurge at this airport restaurant.
I gave in.
I bought some seafood dish with salmon, Alaskan cod, mussels, and clams in a tomato herb sauce. It was pretty good. What I really wanted was a beer, an American microbrew. I’m not going to drink any in 10 months.
It hadn’t hit me that I was leaving America until that moment.
I ordered a Pike’s American IPA. I’d never had it before. They brought it to me in a glass shaped like a tulip that had mated with a stein. The first sip tasted like peaches and flowers. It wasn’t even that good of an IPA; I was just getting sentimental. The hops, the motherfucking hops.
“Nationalism is so stupid,” I thought to myself. I took a big swig. “Fuck, I love America.”
I overdid it, though. The beer snob in me was overtempted. I ordered an American Hefeweizen after that. It didn’t taste like a Hefeweizen. They served it with a fucking lemon wedge. No one serves good beer with a fucking lemon wedge. It reminded me too much of PBR without the lemon, so I squeezed the wedge over the beer. It tasted like college.
I had thirty ounces of beer. It was just enough that I wouldn’t throw up all over the airplane lavatory.
Mariko’s friend Nicolo’ lives around Rome. My parents and I were about a week into our trip to Italy, and I was getting tired of going to bed at 10:30 p.m. every night. So Mariko gave me Nicolo’s contact information, and I called him up. Turns out, he had friends visiting from Portugal, so he was coming into the city that very evening.
“Want to have dinner?” I asked him.
I’d read about Roman cuisine on Wikipedia, and I was excited to have a local dude introduce me to the food: bucatini all’amatriciana, spaghetti carbonara, and of course, offal. Tripe, intestines, beef parts.
Nicolo’ took us to a Roman pub called Peroni, and he ordered a pitcher for the table. Liliana, one of the girls from Portugal, taught me how they toast each other there. Liliana was very attractive. She had dark hair and large, blue eyes and was quite nicely shaped. She pronounced her a’s in the back of her throat and had deep, gutteral r’s when she spoke Portuguese. She told me that to toast, not only do you click steins, but you also must bang the bottom of the stein on the table before drinking.
“In Portugal, if you don’t do this, we say that you will not have sex for seven years,” she told me, laughing. I hoped it was a pick-up line. It was not.
Anyway, I didn’t have reason to believe it was a pick-up line. I had not been very smooth in the early part of the evening. I’m not used to the way people greet each in the Mediterranean, with the fake cheek-kissing. Nicolo’ had instructed me to meet him in front of a bookstore at Largo Argentina, and he’d been late, so I met Liliana and her friend Margaret first. Nicolo’ had texted them to look for me, as I didn’t have a phone. They found me leaning against the building trying to look like I didn’t give a shit. Once they figured out who I was, both Margaret and Liliana launched themselves at the sides of my face in quick succession.
It took me half a second to realize what they were doing. I had another half a second to decide what to do with my face. I wasn’t sure if it was cheek-to-cheek contact or lip-to-cheek contact. So I just went for it: I kissed them quite forcefully, almost mashing my lips against their faces.
They didn’t seem to care, though. They liked speaking English with me. “My English is not good,” they both said repeatedly before rattling off in conversation. “Well, I speak zero Portuguese,” I told them. They told me that they’d been friends since elementary school and were traveling around Italy together. Liliana is an elementary school teacher in Porto, and Margaret is a nurse working in the Canary Islands. Once Nicolo’ and his girlfriend Elisabetta showed up (I kissed both of them excessively as well—they moved too fast for me to prepare), we walked to Peroni, while exchanging tidbits about our home countries. Nicolo’ spoke Italian, English, and Portuguese, so we made him interpret for us.
When we got seated at Peroni, I started looking for offal. “Do you like trippa alla romana?” I asked Elisabetta, who is a born’n’bred Roman.
She seemed quite surprised. “No, I think it’s bad,” she said.
“Do you like tripe?” I asked Margaret and Liliana.
“God, no,” they both said. Liliana shook her head vehemently.
“Do you like tripe?” I asked Nicolo’.
“I like it the Florentine style,” he said. “I don’t like the way they make it here.”
He watched me tilt my head in skepticism.
“It has a lot of fat,” he added. “It is very heavy.”
Despite these glowing endorsements, I thought to myself, I came here for OFFAL. I will order the motherfucking OFFAL. So I ordered the tripe. They brought it to me in a heaping plate, with the tripe submerged in a tomato-based sauce. I dug in with my fork. The tripe itself was pale white and had a rich flavor.
“Do you like it?” Nicolo’ asked me, watching me chew it slowly. It was softer than the tripe I was used to. Dimsum tripe is almost crunchy.
“Yeah,” I said. I shoveled in another piece.
The conversation kept flowing. Liliana told me about teaching in Portugal, how they got rid of tenure, and she has to work on a year-to-year basis. She has to change professions eventually, she said. There’s no opportunities for her to be an elementary school teacher in Portugal, and she’s job-hunting right now. I asked her if she knew what she wanted to do, and she told me she had no idea. I asked her if she wanted any tripe. She did not.
I kept eating. I was starting to feel the heaviness, like when you eat a bowl of whipped cream after eating a pound of Swedish meatballs and a mug full of peanut butter. The intense flavor of the tripe was also starting to get to me. I felt a little nauseous.
Nicolo’ then told a story about a Mardi Gras that he and Margaret had spent together in Portugal. He had dressed as a woman, and Margaret was a 50’s lady. She and her friend were drunk, and Nicolo’ drove them both home. They accidentally caught the attention of a policeman, with Nicolo’ in his dress with his beard, carrying two drunk girls in his arms from his car into their home.
“I don’t drink much anymore,” Margaret said.
Liliana winked at me and whispered loudly, “Not true.”
I noticed that the tripe seemed to come in a magical, bottomless plate. I must have eaten at least ten pieces of tripe, and the dish still looked untouched.
I told them about Drag Ball at Oberlin and how we cross-dressed in every April. Nicolo’ finished his sausage.
The conversation turned to beer. “This is good beer,” Liliana said, pouring me another glass. Peroni was good beer. It was a lot better than the other really bland Italian beer that I had at the beginning of the trip.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, strategically mopping up some of the tomato sauce with a piece of bread in hopes of finding the bottom of the plate. I can’t eat this anymore, I thought to myself. But then you’ll look like such a n00b, part of my brain moronically replied. They told you not to order it. You’re already the idiot tourist for not listening. Don’t make it worse.
As if they knew they should taunt me, the people around us in the restaurant began to chant.
“There’s a tradition in this restaurant,” Nicolo’ explained. “If you order a certain kind of wurst, they bring it out to you—like that.”
He started chanting too. I turned away from the tripe to watch the waiters bring out a plate with a sausage perched on it like an erect penis. Not entirely sure how crude Roman humor is, I looked slightly quizzically at Nicolo’.
“It’s a penis,” he said.
“It even has mayonnaise on top,” I said.
“And you have to eat it like that,” Elisabetta said. I watched as the unfortunate middle-aged lady had to take a bite out of the mayonnaise-tipped sausage-phallus without using her hands in front of the entire restaurant. Everyone kept chanting. The tripe started to taste worse. I started washing the tripe down with the beer. Tripe pills, I thought.
Elisabetta finished her hamburger. Margaret and Liliana seemed to be done with their pasta as well. When the waiter came back, he took their plates and looked inquisitively at me. I hesitated.
“I’m done,” I finally said. He took the plate, still brimming with tripe, away. I watched it go. Someone else ordered the penis-wurst—it was a guy this time. Everyone was giddy by the homoeroticism, and we all started chanting again. Elisabetta taught me how to say “The bill, please” in Italian while Nicolo’ sneaked off and actually paid it. He bought me my trippa alla romana, which was probably now filling half a trash bag.
He also offered to drive us back to our hotels. What a guy. “You’re a good man,” I said. “You’re a good man, Nicolo’!” I don’t think I’ve ever used that phrase, “good man,” to anyone. The tripe and the beer and the slow, clear English I had been speaking the whole night was affecting my diction.
We walked back to his car and scrambled inside. Liliana was sandwiched between Margaret and me in the back seat. Margaret threw her arm around the both of us and kind of poked me in the back.
“That was good,” she said. “I’m happy.”
I just kind of leaned my head against Liliana’s shoulder and wrapped them in a sort of hug. After mashing my face against four different strangers’ faces, after watching two different people eat sausages decorated like an erect penises, after failing to work through a bottomless plate of tripe, there was no need for subtlety.
“I’m happy, too,” I mumbled, as Nicolo’ pulled up next to my hotel.
To all to whom this blog post shall come, Greetings:
Be it known that with this 100th post, Cookery Pokery has graduated with highest honors from Bovine University, with all the rights, privileges and honors thereunto appertaining.
You can look forward to some “Best of CP!” posts in the coming weeks!
Earlier this month, I had the great fortune of visiting the Dalby homestead in Berkeley, California. Having already visited the Bay Area briefly in December, I knew not to expect Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top, nor popsicles melting willy-nilly due to the hotness of the girls. Chlever does not live the California lifestyle that I had learned about from my living room couch in Ohio as a high school student:
Instead, the Berkeley that Chlever showed me was something out of a dream. First of all, the entire place was swathed in fog. Second of all, the place has all the food that exists, ever. Chlev took me to a giant supermarket called Berkeley Bowl that had a beer aisle that was longer than my house. My entire body seized up, or else I would have fallen to my knees. It was better than a dream. I once had a dream about buying beer in a supermarket before I was 21, and the beer aisle was a quarter of the size of the one in Berkeley Bowl. In addition to the beer, the place had an entire table covered in heirloom tomatoes, and Chlever was kind enough to let me dither at the cheese section. I squealed as I picked up blocks of cheese and palpated them with my grubby hands. If I had any dignity before, I lost all of it at Berkeley Bowl.
I also deepened my bond with the genre of Sour Beer. We first experienced sour beer in Brussels at the Cantillon brewery earlier this summer. Sour beer, unlike lagers and ales, does not have yeast added. Instead, it relies on spontaneous fermentation: microbes and yeast in the AIR cause the fermentation, which leads to a unique fruity tartness. It’s also usually not as carbonated. For those who are skeptical—it reminds me of both cider and wine in addition to beer.
Chlever took me to the 25th anniversary celebration of a San Francisco beerpub, Toronado, which opened that Saturday at 11:30 a.m. Toronado commissioned the Russian River Brewing Company (of Pliny the Elder fame) to brew a blend of six different sour beers for their 25th anniversary brew. The line into the pub stretched an entire block when we got there at 11:20. (After this we wandered to the Castro district, where I saw 4 naked dudes—“nudes”—who effectively killed my buzz. Thanks, nudes.)
I also learned that the Dalbys have mastered the picnic. On a lovely weekend afternoon, we took the ferry out to Angel Island, where they used to detain (largely Chinese) immigrants before they entered the US during the early 1900’s. In addition to learning about the interesting history tidbits, I benefited also from soft olive rolls and chili cheese rolls (not to be confused with chili cheese dogs) that her father baked, along with various cheeses, salami, fresh fruit, pickles’n’beer, and we enjoyed our meal in the seabreeze.
I was also able to fulfill a dream that has been 3 years in the brewing. I first learned about jamón ibérico, or as Chloe’s mom likes to call it, pata negra (black hoof) when my friend Harmony went abroad to Spain. I found out about it on wikipedia when I was trying to learn about Spain, and more often than I would like to admit, I would send her websites and close-up photographs describing the richly marbled hams. (I found this website that boldly claims that the jamón ibérico is steeped in mystery and romance.) These pigs are raised on acorns; the most expensive ones are raised ONLY on acorns as adults, and the hams are cured and aged.
Then I found out that Chlever had tried it, and I made her describe it to me.
“It’s like”—here she squinted, swallowed, and I could see her remembering— “an entire sandwich in a piece of ham. The bread, the meat, the cheese, all of it, in a piece of ham.”
Time and time again, when I needed something to cheer me up, I would say, “Tell me again, describe to me how that fabled ibérico tastes.”
She would tell me to shut up and that I just wanted to hear her say it again.
To that, I say, yes, yes, that is exactly what I wanted.
I actually got to experience ibérico for myself. And now that I’ve had it, I can squint and think about it for a long time, and I will still sell it short. You eat in thin slices, like prosciutto, but the meat is dark red with marbled fat, and the flavor is fuller than any ham that I’ve ever had. I might even say that it has the fullest flavor of any single food I have tasted.
Two ounces of ham cost $15. For those of you who say that it is a waste of money, I will have you know that it is less expensive than weed. So go yell at the people who smoke weed first before you attack the ham-lovers, and let me eat my pig in peace.
It was luxuriant times indeed in good old Berkles.
1) Drink sour beer. ALL SOUR BEER!!
2) St. Bernardus, worthy of monks. If beer could be candy, this is candy. (Note: unlike children’s candy, this candy is 10% ABV and gets you maaaaaad drunk, maaaaaaad fast.)
3) Saison Dupont. My sister had this in France, and it slipped under my radar until I slopped it up at The Trappist in Oakland. Light, refreshing, and fruity.
4) Racer 5 IPA -Not much to say, this is just a good-ass IPA.
5) Mendocino White Hawk IPA. Ignore the mediocre ratings on Beeradvocate, it was good.
6) The Clever Brothers’ “Shh, Just Let Me Do This” IPA. I will never have the opportunity to try it, but we brewed it together in Berkeley, where we sparged and hopped and aerated the wort. Let’s hope the wild yeasts don’t get to it.
P.S. 100th post coming up!
That’s right, there’s a global holiday where brewers, drinkers, bloggers, and any Venn diagram combination thereof may come together to celebrate the bittersweet baby of the craft beer movement: the India Pale Ale. If this isn’t a reason for day-drinking I don’t know what is!
Pictured here is a glimpse into the brewing process of our “Don’t Need No” IPA. An extra shout out to Dogfish Head Brewery, which makes delicious range of continually hopped IPAs from 60 minute to 120 minute. Cheers!