Visiting family in Chicago, I gave my savvy brother marching orders to plot a day of eating in his adopted city. He wanted to tour the south side and eat every animal found in a Midwestern barnyard. But living in a hot dog-deprived portion of the country, I insisted on returning first to Hot Doug’s, the kitschy hot dog joint famous for defying Chicago’s now discarded ban on foie gras. However, the Hot Doug’s that I encountered was effectively closed until further notice while it attempted to feed Chicago’s massive population of hipsters who became acquainted with Doug Sohn’s hot dog funhouse only after watching the recent Tony Bourdain excursion to Chicago. (In the Department of Irony, I find it hugely entertaining that a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker had to instruct the Second City hipsters about where to get a quality Chicago hot dog.) Despite my two pre-noon attempts to go to Hot Doug’s, the hordes of mustachioed, bespectacled Caucasians waiting for hours in single-digit weather for a hot dog prevented a visit.
On the bright side, I was spared the indignity of paying $7.50 for such a Wonka-esque creation as “a mandarin orange and teriyaki chicken sausage with chili-garlic mustard and valfrais chili-paprika cheese.” Or $4.50 for the so-called “Cinci Dog,” which consists of a quarter-pound hot dog with yellow mustard, Cincinnati Skyline Chili, and what I can only imagine must be a blizzard of grated cheddar cheese. As any Clevelander knows, it is an absolute blasphemy to spread yellow mustard on a hot dog, which is nearly as revolting as putting ketchup on a frankfurter. (A hot dog, preferably from Miles Farmers Market, is perfected by Bertman’s Ball Park Mustard and sauerkraut.) Speaking of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, there is a reason that Ruhlman turned up his nose at the doubly repulsive outpost of Skyline Chili on Mayfield Road in the Cleveland episode. (Skyline never caught on in the Cleve, as Clevelanders have extremely refined palates, for Ohioans. Perhaps this is one reason why my very wise former supervisor at the CCPO used to say he lived in the State of Cuyahoga, which tactic has the added benefit of shielding the personal shame of being otherwise associated with the dullardry formally known as Ohio State University.) How Cincinnati “chili” turned up at Hot Doug’s cannot be explained on culinary grounds and remains an enduring mystery. As it were, my quest for a hot dog would be postponed until a visit to the Weiner Circle the following afternoon where I enjoyed a most succulent chardog in the company of a few noisome men lacking adequate shelter, yet preternaturally skilled at the art of self-conversation. That is why Weiner Circle might be the most solid place in Chicago. Ok, onward.
So we began our day with some appetizings at Calumet Fisheries, another Bourdain selection that is so deep in the Chicago sprawl that it is somehow closer to Gary, Indiana, than it is to Wrigley Field, such is the size of the City of Chicago. Located in a dreary shack on top of the Calumet River, Calumet Fisheries is a traditional smokehouse no different than those famed temples of barbeque in Texas, except that Calumet focuses on shrimp, salmon, and trout; and it has no seating. The smoked fish and shrimp, which were served in their shells, were a revelation for their rusticity and the history they represent. In the bygone era of U.S. supremacy in the steel industry, Calumet’s customer base consisted of local mill workers of Eastern European stock who had an affinity for smoked fish. Decades later, it is self-evident how Calumet’s straight-ahead style of smoked fish would be hearty enough to satisfy even a non-unionized steel worker on lunch break. The fish and shrimp have a robust smokiness and an appealing rugged texture. This is food that should be eaten with the hands, just like the beef and pork at Kreuz’s Market. Russ’s daughters would find Calumet completely foreign. The dozen or so deep fried offerings should be avoided, however.
We moved on to another traditionalist, Birrieria Zaragoza, an establishment that shows how much Chicago has changed in recent decades. (It is located on Pulaski Road, a major thoroughfare; if the road were to be renamed today, my hunch is that any new name’s ending vowel would be an “a” or an “o.”) Zaragoza is a lunch counter that serves only birria tatemada, a specialty from the owner’s hometown of La Barca in the Mexican state of Jalisco. The Zaragoza family’s warmth and painstaking devotion to the preparation of (and for the gringos, an education on) birria make the counter a perfect place to watch and converse. Birria tatemada, as conceived by Juan Zaragoza, is young goat slowly steamed for up to six hours. (According to the Chicago Reader’s Mike Sula, Mr. Zaragoza is searching for a wood-burning oven for this stage of the process, which will allow him to incorporate red oak and agave leaves and thus remain more closely yoked to tradition.) Then Zaragoza applies a mole sauce that he makes from ancho chiles, which are effectively dried poblanos. Finally, the goat is roasted in the oven. The Zaragozas serve the goat with a tomato-based consommé that is made without goat drippings and, of course, with the de rigueur homemade tortillas and salsa, as well as toasted chiles for anyone desiring extra heat.
Despite my brother’s noble efforts, I’ll never be a convert to the pleasures of eating goat. But I will admit that Zaragoza’s tatemada was enjoyable and much less gamy than the goat platter served at fellow Jalisciense El Parian, whose once legendary tacos de carne asada have faded into mediocrity in recent years. In fact, it could be argued that Zaragoza’s birria was downright mild and needed the toasted chiles, especially since the mole rub was imperceptible. Nevertheless, Birrieria Zaragoza is a local gem because of the lovely family that runs it and their unwavering dedication to the traditional preparation of one item from the small town of La Barca. While authenticity as a culinary concept is either bereft of meaning or unhelpful in light of its strict constructionist overtones, integrity is crucial, and Birrieria Zaragoza is certainly its winsome votary.
We eventually found our way to central Chicago, the home of restaurateur Paul Kahan’s ambitious project, The Publican. Kahan developed his reputation in Chicago with haute Blackbird and, later on, avec Avec, which offers a hodgepodge of small plates inspired by several northern Mediterranean nations. Kahan is a ballsy and shameless fellow, very clever and a terrific operator. With Publican, he opened up the equivalent of a tragically hip banquet hall, appropriating dominant trends circulating through West Coast and East Coast restaurant circles in the process. Kahan understands what well-heeled Chicago diners want, which is either to be legitimately challenged, or, I speculate, to be in a restaurant that has all the trappings of sophistication. Famed New York chef Mario Batali has of course popularized the consumption of offal, and it is can be seen in some, albeit geeky, circles as a badge of honor to eat, e.g., guanciale, cabeza, or sweetbreads. Kahan understands this trend, almost flauntingly so; on his menu’s list of cooked meats, veal brain, beef heart, and pork belly appear first. If you’re wondering, the chicken is the list’s penultimate item.
Kahan also steals from the best restaurant on the West Coast (and the country), namely Chez Panisse. Accordingly, Kahan understands that restaurant patrons today want to know the source of dishes’ primary ingredients with the understanding that they are farm-fresh, so to speak -- even in the depths of a nasty, brutish, but not-so-short Chicago winter. As a consequence, Publican’s menu is littered with footnotes and citations, including farm name and location. If I wanted to re-read Infinite Jest, I would have stayed home, for four months. Of course Publican succumbs, like Gjelina before it, to the bizarrely irresistible temptation to employ communal seating.
But what of the food? As in any restaurant with a large menu of small plates, there were a few hits and a few misses. Overall the execution was solid, if sterile. I adored the Monterey sardines, which were roasted in olive oil and served with kumquats and celery. The sardines were plump and delicious, and I could tell that that Judy Rodgers's cookbook was somewhere in the building. The fried veal brains had a pleasingly creamy texture, though they never should have been served in a glop of mayonnaise. Much less successful was the grilled octopus in a viscid fava bean puree. It was obvious that the fava beans were not in season in mid-February because the puree’s shade of green was algal, not vernal. (I wasn't responsible for ordering the dish.) The grilled octopus was adequate at best.
The Publican had much greater success with its pork dishes, most of which were from—watch it Chicagoans, for a Smug Alert may now be in your forecast—“Becker Lane Organic Farm, Dyersville, Iowa,” including the pork in the potee, which technically may not have been a potée. According to Saveur, potée is a “French meat and vegetable stew” and “two essential ingredients for most authentic potées are salted pigs' ears and tails.” (Yes, I know.) Potée can be thought of as the pork companion to pot-au-feu, and the famous Alsatian dish, choucroute garni, is a typical potée. The Publican’s “version” consisted of pork tenderloin, boar, and crepinette, a sausage made of minced pork, lamb, and veal and wrapped in pig’s caul, which is the fat covering a pig’s intestine. With all this pork on a single plate, the dish was perforce good. But the “ham chop” was even better. It was a grand cut of pork that was brined and then smoked in hay, and GSG totally and justifiably buried it. I was lucky to snag a slice. The chop was the most flavorful and original item of the evening, and the hay preparation added an element of humor. It was obvious that Kahan’s staff was happiest and most comfortable serving Midwestern pork to its Midwestern clientele.
Calumet Fisheries
3259 East 95th Street
Chicago
(773) 933-9855
www.calumetfisheries.com
Birrieria Zaragoza
4852 South Pulaski Road
Chicago
(773) 523-3700
The Publican
837 W. Fulton Market
Chicago
(312) 733-9555
www.thepublicanrestaurant.com
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Gjelina: Los Angeles's Hottest Mediterranean and Locavore Fusion restaurant
Let’s cut to the chase. Gjelina is a perversion of a restaurant. It is insidious and offends me. It is a trite scenesters’ parlor masquerading as a genuine restaurant, which is why its rank misappropriation of the voguish “Farmer’s Market cuisine” label is so bothersome. Los Angeles, on the strengths of its endless demographic diversity and access to California’s agricultural bounty, is clawing its way to culinary self-respect. (The automobile is also a crucial factor; by comparison only the most intrepid and dedicated New Yorkers are going to take a 70-minute ride on two subways to try some esoteric restaurant.) But this growth cannot rest solely on the shoulders of Suzanne Goin, Jaime Martin Del Campo and Ramiro Arvizu, and Sarintip Singsanong and Suthiporn Sungkamee. There must be some depth, and Gjelina fails to provide it, that is, assuming it even cares.
Graciously invited to a dinner by SinoSoul, the affable, frenetic, prolific, fearless and droll trencherman, and accompanied by the Gastronomyblog.com duo and Miss Insider, we (or at least I) relished ridiculing Gjelina’s lack of identity throughout the evening. The restaurant’s main dining room is rife with communal seating, a practice which should have been retired after New York’s Mercer Kitchen tried it over a decade ago. The restaurant’s spacious rear patio is festooned with a silly architectural scheme that is intended to signify stylish intelligence, but just irritates the eyes. Specializing in the cuisine of at least three large European nations, the menu sprawls over 30 dishes, excluding charcuterie, cheese, and oysters. A.O.C offers a similar number, and even with the illustrious Ms. Goin at the helm and its philosophically more concise menu, it also fails to achieve a high degree of consistency. (Still, A.O.C., unlike Gjelina, would not deign to serve both pizza and cassoulet and is capable of greatness, though not at our dinner there last Tuesday.)
The party split several dishes, including the grilled eggplant with roasted peppers, white anchovy, and pecorino. There was no evidence of any anchovy in the dish, which was just as well, because the combination of white anchovy and any form of cheese is incoherent. Pizzeria Mozza, the local standard bearer on such issues, currently offers two pizzas and one sandwich with anchovies, and none includes cheese. This technicality aside, the eggplant was tasteless and perfunctory.
Gjelina, following yet another local trend, fancies itself as a pizzeria and allegedly possesses a wood-burning oven left over from a former tenant. (Where have we heard this before?) We settled on the margherita, which is the only way to test a pizzaiolo’s chops. Since a margherita consists only of the pizza dough, mozzarella, tomato, and basil, the ingredients and preparation must be pristine. There is no margin for error. Gjelina’s manager, who dropped by the table to check on us, agreed that the margherita is the benchmark for pizza, although he probably regretted it after C told him that Gjelina had no business serving pizza. The manager put up a lame defense, asking whether we had the mushroom pizza, his favorite. (He actually asked if we had the funghi pizza, as Italian is pretentiously spoken in this Venice.) The manager’s query was moot, however, because Gjelina’s dough had more in common with Arabian Joe’s pita bread from Trader Joe’s than good pizza dough. Moreover, the sauce reminded me of gussied up Hunt’s Tomato Puree. Like a slice joint catering to 2am inebriates, Gjelina’s pizza was so flaccid that when holding a slice by the cornicione, it drooped anemically. At this point in the meal, I stopped caring. Gjelina had devolved into a joke.
We labored on with the grilled Peruvian octopus with white beans, arugula and smoked paprika. I don’t know why Gjelina sought fit to tell us that its cephalopod is of Peruvian descent, but I do recall seeing Peruvian octopus on Craft’s menu a year or so ago. I guess if Gjelina is going to steal unabashedly, Tom Colicchio and Nancy Silverton are not bad places to start. (After the weak conclusion of Top Chef 5, I’m not sure I’d steal from Colicchio any more.) Gjelina’s contribution to the dish was overwhelming blandness, a distinction it also brought to the Prince Edward Island mussels in a white wine broth, emasculating the chorizo in its midst. So much for the restaurant’s exhortation to “eat local.” Surely there must be some quality mussels and octopus somewhere along the West Coast.
The dinner culminated in a feckless insult to cassoulet, a Gallic classic and one of my favorites that when prepared correctly, such as at Yountville’s Bistro Jeanty, captures French cuisine’s nonpareil lustiness. (While the San Francisco Chronicle last December documented Jeanty’s purported decline, the Ever Sagacious Primipara pointed out that we have never had a non-sublime meal at Jeanty and were there as recently as last summer.) Gjelina barely followed the basic contours of the dish: crispy duck leg (though not confit de canard), lamb sausage (foolishly, instead of pork), braised greens (irresponsibly), and flageolet beans. Whatever chef Travis Lett’s intentions were, there was no trace of guttural, carnal pleasure here. This cassoulet was unobtrusive and polite. My only conclusion is that Lett, a veteran of hackneyed Tengu, the self-proclaimed “hottest Asian fusion and sushi restaurant” in Los Angeles, should not be permitted to cook in a restaurant east of Doheny. I suppose what he does on the West Side is his business.
Gjelina
1429 Abbot Kinney Blvd.
Venice
(310) 450-1429
Monday, February 16, 2009
Clyde Common
SW Stark Street between 10th and 11th Avenues is further evidence of Portland's evolution as a budding culinary center, though with traces of excessive youthful naiveté. The affordable and modish Ace Hotel anchors the block and is sandwiched by today's subject, Clyde Common, and a branch of acclaimed roaster Stumptown Coffee. (Stumptown's espresso was, if not watery, too thin and overly precious. Coffeehouse Northwest, with its characteristic fastidiousness, achieved greater results with the very same Stumptown beans.)
A brasserie, Clyde Common has a spacious and airy dining room with an open kitchen, a very long zinc bar, and an even longer list of whiskeys. The menu changes frequently, and unlike Los Angeles analogue BLD, Clyde Common avails itself of high quality local produce and challenges its customers, such as with the inclusion of a tongue sandwich on its lunch menu. With limited time before a business meeting, I solicited a recommendation from our sprightly server. He counseled the sole pasta dish on the menu: a fresh egg pasta, basically spaghetti, with arugula pesto and walnuts, topped with shaved pecorino romano. While I normally eschew pasta from non-pasta specialists or chefs of unproven technical soundness, the server's advice and the $11 price tag for the larger portion were all the wheedling I needed.
The dish proved to be inventive and delicious. The arugula pesto was, at least for me, a new idea, and the kitchen succeeded in capturing the leaf's peppery bitterness. The pasta itself was toothsome, and the walnuts and cheese provided the requisite nuance. All in all, the dish was quite nourishing on a sleepy and snowy day.
Frustratingly de rigueur in several modern Portland restaurants, communal dining is also the practice at Clyde Common. Though the Portland everyman is a shade under 30 and has defaced his epidermis with depictions of girlfriends past and kitchen utensils, there is no social compact that requires everyone to sit together. Portland is a vibrant and compelling city and does not need to act like a living, breathing Obama rally. (We already won.) Besides, communal dining is always available at the bar, and Clyde Common has a good one. But I'll forgive the Portland pioneers for this conceit. It may be a necessary evil supporting Portland's rewarding dining scene.
Clyde Common
1014 SW Stark Street
Portland
(503) 228-3333
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Agra Cafe (or, A Brief History of Balti)
Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) are infamous for their lawlessness and poverty, and for hosting the Taliban and Al Qaeda (whether wittingly or not). The FATA’s remoteness and impenetrability have left the region beyond the meaningful reach of the U.S. military and the writ of the Pakistani state; instead, it remains in the hands of the local inhabitants, the disagreeable and dysfunctional Pashtun tribes.
Within the FATA is Landi Kotal, a small and ancient frontier town, located five kilometers east of Afghanistan at the top of the Khyber Pass, the mountainous and ancient trade route that connects Afghanistan to Pakistan. It is hardly a surprise that Landi Kotal is an infamous center of smuggling, drug dealing, and weapons sales. But it is also a center of commerce for the Shinwari and Afridi tribes, which are ethnically Pashtun, and most of NATO’s supplies in Afghanistan come through Landi Kotal and the Khyber Pass. NATO’s supplies have recently come under Taliban attack, just as the British struggled with the Afridi uprising in the frontier town in the late nineteenth century.
According to Khaled Ahmad, a prominent Pakistani journalist, Landi Kotal may be the original home of the deliciously spicy balti stew. Not being a historian of the Pashtun and being a denizen of the ‘wood, I could not discover what the balti stew’s original composition was or when it may have been concocted, especially since the Pashtun are known to eat little other than meat.
We do know, courtesy of Mr. Ahmad, that the balti stew is named for the round, open, double-handled pot in which it is prepared, i.e., the balti. In an unusual fit of linguistic cross-pollination, the Urdu word “balti” is actually a transliterated Portuguese word, introduced into India and meaning a “cylindrical pail.” (Apparently Vasco de Gama brought with him a lot of pails. Yes, I just made a Vasco de Gama joke.) However, in Pakistan’s North-West Frontier Province, the word "balti" bizarrely took on the definition of the double-handed pot, which in southern Pakistan is known as a karahi. (The Portuguese word is actually spelled “balde,” but the revised "balti" is a more convenient spelling according to Ahmad.)
Since Landi Kotal is essentially a small and ancient transit point, the balti dish would have to travel to find a larger audience. It found its way into Punjab, the heavily populated region that sprawls across India and Pakistan, where it rose in popularity. It subsequently found its way into the Western world when South Asians, including many Kashmiris who have claimed it as their own, immigrated into Britain in the late Seventies and early Eighties and served the dish in their new restaurants. A cottage industry of balti specialists, the so-called Balti Triangle, famously took root in Birmingham, Britain’s second largest city and the home of 200,000 “British Asians.” The composition of the dish is now much better known in the English-speaking world:
Balti’s elusive origins of the dish and its popularity in Britain have provoked deeper questions on the issue of “British Asian” identity, providing succor to British social critics such as Ziauddin Sardar, who recently wrote Balti Britain. Peter Barber, reviewing Sarder’s book in the Financial Times, argues that “The ‘traditional’ Punjabi cuisine known as Balti turns out to be an invention of Birmingham’s Asian communities. It is . . . a product of the UK’s long entanglement with the subcontinent. It shows how Asian immigrants have repackaged tradition and mixed it with modernity to create something new, and how the rest of the UK still insists on reducing them to an undifferentiated mass.” Put more crassly, Sarfraz Manzoor argued in the Observer that “balti (which means 'bucket' in Urdu) is a generic term, in this case one that was basically cooked up by enterprising restaurateurs to fool whites into believing they were eating something significantly different from regular curry.” As for Sardar himself, he writes that “By attaching a different label to what is basically the same food . . . the Indian restaurant reframed its image,” such that “British Asians can be authentic to themselves, reclaim their history, in a number of different and innovative ways.”
We’re a long way from Landi Kotal, and much of the story is incomplete. But to the Fress, these writers’ assertions have some validity. One of the foremost balti restaurants in Birmingham is Muhammed Arif’s Adil, which has been in existence since 1977. Adil has such a staggering number of balti dishes on its menu -- well over 100 -- that the word is either devoid of any meaning and really is a marketing tool, or so expansive that it means any food cooked in, say, that round, open, double-handled pot described by Ahmad. We could then refer to much of Chinese food as “wok.” (Which we probably should do, regardless.) At the very least, there would be a link back to the original Pakistani hinterlands.
The complexities of the British Asian experience and the elusive roots of the balti dish have, of course, found their way to Los Angeles. Pursuant to local custom, they have been condensed into a nondescript-looking restaurant -- in this case Agra Cafe -- which is located in the elbow of a shabby strip center, beneath a tae kwon do studio and adjacent to a seedy liquor store (the sign would indicate that it is simply called “Liquor”). Agra is in Silver Lake, which would seem unlikely relative to, say, Artesia which boasts a large Indian population. But if balti is a food for unsuspecting Caucasians like the Birmingham natives, then Silver Lake with its ironically dressed hipster population ("dot-nose" belt buckles, Members Only jackets, etc, etc.) is the perfect home. Nevertheless, I love this place.
Other than its 10 or so distinguishing balti dishes, Agra offers the same standards seen at virtually every Indian restaurant in the city, though the menu is significantly more comprehensive than the ones that so often litter our doorstep. Moreover, Agra executes these Indian favorites with consistency and notable quality. (The smoky and sublime baigan bhartha, or roasted eggplant with spices, is one of my favorites.) The service is efficient if curt, and well-deserved compliments on the food (particularly the excellent lamb balti) are met with silence. According to Agra’s menu, the stew is made with chopped onions, green peppers, turmeric, cumin, garlic, ginger, and crushed tomatoes. Not having been to Birmingham or the Punjab, I cannot make any determination as to the authenticity of Agra’s balti. But I can confirm the accuracy of the restaurant’s description of the dish as “rich and hearty” with a nice balance of “hot & sweet spicing.” The lamb is unfailingly tender; it may be the rare example when take-out is superior to dining in, for the lamb soaks up the sauces for greater lengths of time.
I attempted to interview the proprietor about balti stews, but he seemed to know as little as I did. (Well, he knew how to make them.) He seemed to believe that balti is a Bengali dish, popularized in England. I attempted to inquire further, but he grew annoyed with me and finally just asked if I was going to order something.
Growing up amidst Cleveland’s gray winters and Iron Curtain demographics, this Jewish boy was raised on schnitzel, spätzle, pierogis, wurst, and other Central and Eastern European staples -- the food of classic Jew-haters. A native-born Angeleno, my infant daughter should grow up to love the classic stews and dishes that come from another region of the world not known for being on the Bar Mitzvah circuit.
Agra Cafe
4325 W. Sunset Blvd.
Silver Lake
(323) 665-7818
www.agracafela.com
Within the FATA is Landi Kotal, a small and ancient frontier town, located five kilometers east of Afghanistan at the top of the Khyber Pass, the mountainous and ancient trade route that connects Afghanistan to Pakistan. It is hardly a surprise that Landi Kotal is an infamous center of smuggling, drug dealing, and weapons sales. But it is also a center of commerce for the Shinwari and Afridi tribes, which are ethnically Pashtun, and most of NATO’s supplies in Afghanistan come through Landi Kotal and the Khyber Pass. NATO’s supplies have recently come under Taliban attack, just as the British struggled with the Afridi uprising in the frontier town in the late nineteenth century.
According to Khaled Ahmad, a prominent Pakistani journalist, Landi Kotal may be the original home of the deliciously spicy balti stew. Not being a historian of the Pashtun and being a denizen of the ‘wood, I could not discover what the balti stew’s original composition was or when it may have been concocted, especially since the Pashtun are known to eat little other than meat.
We do know, courtesy of Mr. Ahmad, that the balti stew is named for the round, open, double-handled pot in which it is prepared, i.e., the balti. In an unusual fit of linguistic cross-pollination, the Urdu word “balti” is actually a transliterated Portuguese word, introduced into India and meaning a “cylindrical pail.” (Apparently Vasco de Gama brought with him a lot of pails. Yes, I just made a Vasco de Gama joke.) However, in Pakistan’s North-West Frontier Province, the word "balti" bizarrely took on the definition of the double-handed pot, which in southern Pakistan is known as a karahi. (The Portuguese word is actually spelled “balde,” but the revised "balti" is a more convenient spelling according to Ahmad.)
Since Landi Kotal is essentially a small and ancient transit point, the balti dish would have to travel to find a larger audience. It found its way into Punjab, the heavily populated region that sprawls across India and Pakistan, where it rose in popularity. It subsequently found its way into the Western world when South Asians, including many Kashmiris who have claimed it as their own, immigrated into Britain in the late Seventies and early Eighties and served the dish in their new restaurants. A cottage industry of balti specialists, the so-called Balti Triangle, famously took root in Birmingham, Britain’s second largest city and the home of 200,000 “British Asians.” The composition of the dish is now much better known in the English-speaking world:
It is a type of curry. The food is cooked quickly in some ways akin to a stir fry. The ingredients are generally fresh meat and/or vegetables which are first marinated and then cooked with spices. The meal is served piping hot as soon as it has been cooked . . . The dish contains spices such as coriander, ginger, cumin, cloves, cassia bark amongst others. It is best sampled with naan bread or chapattis.
Balti’s elusive origins of the dish and its popularity in Britain have provoked deeper questions on the issue of “British Asian” identity, providing succor to British social critics such as Ziauddin Sardar, who recently wrote Balti Britain. Peter Barber, reviewing Sarder’s book in the Financial Times, argues that “The ‘traditional’ Punjabi cuisine known as Balti turns out to be an invention of Birmingham’s Asian communities. It is . . . a product of the UK’s long entanglement with the subcontinent. It shows how Asian immigrants have repackaged tradition and mixed it with modernity to create something new, and how the rest of the UK still insists on reducing them to an undifferentiated mass.” Put more crassly, Sarfraz Manzoor argued in the Observer that “balti (which means 'bucket' in Urdu) is a generic term, in this case one that was basically cooked up by enterprising restaurateurs to fool whites into believing they were eating something significantly different from regular curry.” As for Sardar himself, he writes that “By attaching a different label to what is basically the same food . . . the Indian restaurant reframed its image,” such that “British Asians can be authentic to themselves, reclaim their history, in a number of different and innovative ways.”
We’re a long way from Landi Kotal, and much of the story is incomplete. But to the Fress, these writers’ assertions have some validity. One of the foremost balti restaurants in Birmingham is Muhammed Arif’s Adil, which has been in existence since 1977. Adil has such a staggering number of balti dishes on its menu -- well over 100 -- that the word is either devoid of any meaning and really is a marketing tool, or so expansive that it means any food cooked in, say, that round, open, double-handled pot described by Ahmad. We could then refer to much of Chinese food as “wok.” (Which we probably should do, regardless.) At the very least, there would be a link back to the original Pakistani hinterlands.
The complexities of the British Asian experience and the elusive roots of the balti dish have, of course, found their way to Los Angeles. Pursuant to local custom, they have been condensed into a nondescript-looking restaurant -- in this case Agra Cafe -- which is located in the elbow of a shabby strip center, beneath a tae kwon do studio and adjacent to a seedy liquor store (the sign would indicate that it is simply called “Liquor”). Agra is in Silver Lake, which would seem unlikely relative to, say, Artesia which boasts a large Indian population. But if balti is a food for unsuspecting Caucasians like the Birmingham natives, then Silver Lake with its ironically dressed hipster population ("dot-nose" belt buckles, Members Only jackets, etc, etc.) is the perfect home. Nevertheless, I love this place.
Other than its 10 or so distinguishing balti dishes, Agra offers the same standards seen at virtually every Indian restaurant in the city, though the menu is significantly more comprehensive than the ones that so often litter our doorstep. Moreover, Agra executes these Indian favorites with consistency and notable quality. (The smoky and sublime baigan bhartha, or roasted eggplant with spices, is one of my favorites.) The service is efficient if curt, and well-deserved compliments on the food (particularly the excellent lamb balti) are met with silence. According to Agra’s menu, the stew is made with chopped onions, green peppers, turmeric, cumin, garlic, ginger, and crushed tomatoes. Not having been to Birmingham or the Punjab, I cannot make any determination as to the authenticity of Agra’s balti. But I can confirm the accuracy of the restaurant’s description of the dish as “rich and hearty” with a nice balance of “hot & sweet spicing.” The lamb is unfailingly tender; it may be the rare example when take-out is superior to dining in, for the lamb soaks up the sauces for greater lengths of time.
I attempted to interview the proprietor about balti stews, but he seemed to know as little as I did. (Well, he knew how to make them.) He seemed to believe that balti is a Bengali dish, popularized in England. I attempted to inquire further, but he grew annoyed with me and finally just asked if I was going to order something.
Growing up amidst Cleveland’s gray winters and Iron Curtain demographics, this Jewish boy was raised on schnitzel, spätzle, pierogis, wurst, and other Central and Eastern European staples -- the food of classic Jew-haters. A native-born Angeleno, my infant daughter should grow up to love the classic stews and dishes that come from another region of the world not known for being on the Bar Mitzvah circuit.
Agra Cafe
4325 W. Sunset Blvd.
Silver Lake
(323) 665-7818
www.agracafela.com
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Enigmatic Comme Ça
Robert Louis Stevenson would have loved the strange case of David Myers’ Comme Ça. During the day, when Dr. Jekyll inhabits the restaurant, it is a convivial brasserie with quality French standards, adjusted to the Los Angeles diet, with few discernible sacrifices aside from the Restoration Hardware aesthetic. Plentiful sunlight enlivens the main dining room’s dark colors and creates a leisurely atmosphere. The usual crowd of failed Queer Eye auditioners and ladies all gussied up with collagen and faux sophistication is more amusing than grating.
The food is very good during lunch service. The parentals and the now Ever Sagacious Primipara delighted in the lemony smoked salmon tartare. Served on a thin, crispy potato galette, i.e., a latke, the salmon had a bright taste and a subtle smokiness that compelled my parents to order a second helping. My father and I split the mustardy, caper-laden steak tartare, a particular treat because of the beef’s rich texture.
I ordered the moules frites as a main. The mussels and frites were satisfying if less than masterful. The broth revealed David Myers’ sophistication, or perhaps my idiosyncrasies. The kitchen spiked the light, creamy broth with a dose of pastis, specifically Pernod, which provided a welcome nuance. Pernod seems to be the only pastis seen stateside, and it is drunk less as an aperitif than used as a cooking additive, and then with such infrequency that it must be listed defensively, like an adequate warning of anise flavor to unwitting diners under a product liability standard. (For what it is worth, its manufacturer, Pernod Ricard SA, claims that Pernod is not a pastis because it is does not contain natural licorice extracts like Ricard. Pernod has a milder or at least less strident flavor, which may account for its greater prevalence in recipes relative to other anis-based spirits.) For example, on the menu’s description of the dish, “Pernod” appears even before “pomme frites,” when the only question concerning the broth that warrants an answer in print is whether the broth is based in cream, butter, or some other substance. We finished with a delectable tarte tatin from Comme Ça’s sibling and neighbor, Boule Bakery.
Mr. Hyde stalks the restaurant during dinner service when Comme Ça transmogrifies into an echo chamber-cum-nightclub. The half-hearted welcome at the front desk is as gracious as the greeting from the burly doormen at Bardot’s shrine to meretricious phoniness. The sound system broadcasts the pulsating noise euphemized as “techno music,” which irritates regardless of the decibel level. (There must be some middle ground between hearing “La Vie en Rose” on an endless loop and ripping off the soundtrack from O-Bar.) Worse, the restaurant succumbs to the great plague afflicting restaurants popular among Los Angeles Caucasians wherein management’s attention to the food is subordinated to its attention to the scene.
The kitchen demonstrated a perplexing lack of confidence in its brandade de morue gratinée, the timeless purée of salt cod, olive oil and milk. Served in a casserole, the brandade itself was delicious. The cod’s creaminess and salinity were in perfect equipoise, and the zesty, gratin crust was well executed. So why would David Myers, in his infinite wisdom, choose to smother the brandade in a superfluous, scarlet purée of piquillo peppers that seeped its way into the cod, imperiling its consistency? I was forced to use our bread to scrape the piquillo purée off the cod and then conceal the detritus from my vision in the breadbasket’s cloth folds. However, once I finished off the brandade, my own disgusting indiscipline forced me to scarf down the bread, replete with that cloying piquillo gunk.
The Primipara, then still gravid, wanted the aforementioned salmon tartare, which was the impetus for our quick return for dinner. But after dark, the salmon was insipid, its natural richness muted. Marisa’s incisions into the potato galette required the use of a steak knife, as the regular knife simply wouldn’t cut it. To exacerbate matters, Marisa’s “crispy” skate grenobloise was a wholesale disappointment. Sautéed for well beyond the filet’s level of resistance, the skate, like Burger King’s old Whaler sandwich, was ugly, brown and desiccated. At the very least, the kitchen displayed consistency, as the dish was just as bad as when I ordered it several months ago.
My loup de mer, literally the wolf of the sea, or as I later learned, the farm, is a Mediterranean sea bass prized by restaurateurs for the stability of its pricing and the yield of its usable meat. Italian restaurants refer to the same fish as “branzino.” Roasted with lemon and tarragon and served alone, the fish was as dry as the Mojave and was so compact that it could have been the victim of an unattended sandwich press. In fact, the only moisture on the table was from the non-Gallic side of mostly pureed white corn, prepared simply in butter.
We eschewed the desserts in favor of Comme Ça’s most serious endeavor, the cheese course. David Myers dedicates an entire station to its cheese counter and gives it a prominent location—opposite the bar and behind the front desk. Comme Ça may be the only restaurant in Los Angeles that employs a full-time fromagier, effectively a cheese sommelier. After we informed our actor that we wanted the cheese course, the fromagier took over service. She introduced herself and surveyed our tastes. We advised her of our obsession with Epoisses, the runny and deeply pungent proof of continued French culinary preeminence, and entrusted her with the rest.
At least for the cheese, Comme Ça’s perfectionism and sensibilities yield wonderful results. The fromagier brought out five cheeses, each from a different region, and astutely paired four of them with balancing flavors. The cheeses were served in order of ascending astringency and at the appropriate temperature which brought out each cheese’s essential qualities. Indeed, the plate was so intriguing that I finally managed to block out all the cacophony. For the record, we had the Norman brillat-savarin, a triple-cream brie with a flavorful rind, brought out by dried mission figs; the Abbaye de Belloc, a sheep’s milk cheese from the Pyrenees with marcona almonds; the Pico, a goat from the Ardeche and Drome regions in the Alps, accompanied by sun-dried tomato (the most harmonious of the pairings); the Burgundian Epoisses, wisely served unadorned; and at last a raw Roquefort, the famous blue made from Lacaune ewes’ milk in the caves of the mountainous Aveyron region, served with sweet honeycomb.
After the cheese course, the dining room’s unsettling acoustics returned. The waiter by now had switched tacks on the loup de mer, blandly describing the beleaguered farmed fish to incoming patrons with unintentional aptness, as “a Mediterranean whitefish.”
Comme Ça
8479 Melrose Ave.,
West Hollywood
(323) 782-1178
http://www.commecarestaurant.com/
The food is very good during lunch service. The parentals and the now Ever Sagacious Primipara delighted in the lemony smoked salmon tartare. Served on a thin, crispy potato galette, i.e., a latke, the salmon had a bright taste and a subtle smokiness that compelled my parents to order a second helping. My father and I split the mustardy, caper-laden steak tartare, a particular treat because of the beef’s rich texture.
I ordered the moules frites as a main. The mussels and frites were satisfying if less than masterful. The broth revealed David Myers’ sophistication, or perhaps my idiosyncrasies. The kitchen spiked the light, creamy broth with a dose of pastis, specifically Pernod, which provided a welcome nuance. Pernod seems to be the only pastis seen stateside, and it is drunk less as an aperitif than used as a cooking additive, and then with such infrequency that it must be listed defensively, like an adequate warning of anise flavor to unwitting diners under a product liability standard. (For what it is worth, its manufacturer, Pernod Ricard SA, claims that Pernod is not a pastis because it is does not contain natural licorice extracts like Ricard. Pernod has a milder or at least less strident flavor, which may account for its greater prevalence in recipes relative to other anis-based spirits.) For example, on the menu’s description of the dish, “Pernod” appears even before “pomme frites,” when the only question concerning the broth that warrants an answer in print is whether the broth is based in cream, butter, or some other substance. We finished with a delectable tarte tatin from Comme Ça’s sibling and neighbor, Boule Bakery.
Mr. Hyde stalks the restaurant during dinner service when Comme Ça transmogrifies into an echo chamber-cum-nightclub. The half-hearted welcome at the front desk is as gracious as the greeting from the burly doormen at Bardot’s shrine to meretricious phoniness. The sound system broadcasts the pulsating noise euphemized as “techno music,” which irritates regardless of the decibel level. (There must be some middle ground between hearing “La Vie en Rose” on an endless loop and ripping off the soundtrack from O-Bar.) Worse, the restaurant succumbs to the great plague afflicting restaurants popular among Los Angeles Caucasians wherein management’s attention to the food is subordinated to its attention to the scene.
The kitchen demonstrated a perplexing lack of confidence in its brandade de morue gratinée, the timeless purée of salt cod, olive oil and milk. Served in a casserole, the brandade itself was delicious. The cod’s creaminess and salinity were in perfect equipoise, and the zesty, gratin crust was well executed. So why would David Myers, in his infinite wisdom, choose to smother the brandade in a superfluous, scarlet purée of piquillo peppers that seeped its way into the cod, imperiling its consistency? I was forced to use our bread to scrape the piquillo purée off the cod and then conceal the detritus from my vision in the breadbasket’s cloth folds. However, once I finished off the brandade, my own disgusting indiscipline forced me to scarf down the bread, replete with that cloying piquillo gunk.
The Primipara, then still gravid, wanted the aforementioned salmon tartare, which was the impetus for our quick return for dinner. But after dark, the salmon was insipid, its natural richness muted. Marisa’s incisions into the potato galette required the use of a steak knife, as the regular knife simply wouldn’t cut it. To exacerbate matters, Marisa’s “crispy” skate grenobloise was a wholesale disappointment. Sautéed for well beyond the filet’s level of resistance, the skate, like Burger King’s old Whaler sandwich, was ugly, brown and desiccated. At the very least, the kitchen displayed consistency, as the dish was just as bad as when I ordered it several months ago.
My loup de mer, literally the wolf of the sea, or as I later learned, the farm, is a Mediterranean sea bass prized by restaurateurs for the stability of its pricing and the yield of its usable meat. Italian restaurants refer to the same fish as “branzino.” Roasted with lemon and tarragon and served alone, the fish was as dry as the Mojave and was so compact that it could have been the victim of an unattended sandwich press. In fact, the only moisture on the table was from the non-Gallic side of mostly pureed white corn, prepared simply in butter.
We eschewed the desserts in favor of Comme Ça’s most serious endeavor, the cheese course. David Myers dedicates an entire station to its cheese counter and gives it a prominent location—opposite the bar and behind the front desk. Comme Ça may be the only restaurant in Los Angeles that employs a full-time fromagier, effectively a cheese sommelier. After we informed our actor that we wanted the cheese course, the fromagier took over service. She introduced herself and surveyed our tastes. We advised her of our obsession with Epoisses, the runny and deeply pungent proof of continued French culinary preeminence, and entrusted her with the rest.
At least for the cheese, Comme Ça’s perfectionism and sensibilities yield wonderful results. The fromagier brought out five cheeses, each from a different region, and astutely paired four of them with balancing flavors. The cheeses were served in order of ascending astringency and at the appropriate temperature which brought out each cheese’s essential qualities. Indeed, the plate was so intriguing that I finally managed to block out all the cacophony. For the record, we had the Norman brillat-savarin, a triple-cream brie with a flavorful rind, brought out by dried mission figs; the Abbaye de Belloc, a sheep’s milk cheese from the Pyrenees with marcona almonds; the Pico, a goat from the Ardeche and Drome regions in the Alps, accompanied by sun-dried tomato (the most harmonious of the pairings); the Burgundian Epoisses, wisely served unadorned; and at last a raw Roquefort, the famous blue made from Lacaune ewes’ milk in the caves of the mountainous Aveyron region, served with sweet honeycomb.
After the cheese course, the dining room’s unsettling acoustics returned. The waiter by now had switched tacks on the loup de mer, blandly describing the beleaguered farmed fish to incoming patrons with unintentional aptness, as “a Mediterranean whitefish.”
Comme Ça
8479 Melrose Ave.,
West Hollywood
(323) 782-1178
http://www.commecarestaurant.com/
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