Dinner for Two, Please.

“No,” Eli said. “Going out to dinner is supposed to be fun.” Humphrey wrinkled his eyebrows together as the waiter poured Prosecco into two red wine glasses. Humphrey watched the wine shimmer and sparkle in the wrong glass. 

“Is everything ok?” the waiter asked kindly. 

“”Everything is great. Cheers!” Eli held out his hand toward Humphrey waiting to toast. Humphrey smirked, hoping he’d break his glass, but didn’t. 

Humphrey thought about how he hand washed all his stemware and even after that, one still had to use a thin cotton towel to polish them. He loved how a clean glass made wine dazzle inside. Some things were meant to be pretty, almost beautiful and  this ritual was one of them. Wine in a completely spotless glass made life worth living.

“Should we get a bottle for dinner?” Eli asked, while perusing the wine list. The waiter noticed immediately and hopped over almost tripping on his now rising tip. 

“This is our wine list. Let me show which are whites and reds. What kind of wine do you like? These here are all from Italy and these Rieslings aren’t what your used to. So, what looks good? DId I mention I spent some time in France? Do you know what kind you like?”

“All of them.” Humphrey replied. Eli coughed, asked for a minute and ordered an appetizer. The waiter offered to continue his prolonged service. Humphrey lifted his hand in a universal sign that said, enough.

“He spent time in France while he was in high school jacking off to his host family’s daughter.”

“He’s not that bad,” Eli tried consoling Humphrey who was lost in rolling his own eyes. 

The appetizer arrived. “Enjoy!” The waiter congratulated. Humphrey grabbed the menu he continually kept by his side no matter where he dined. He frantically searched the cheese platter’s description.

“There are two extra components. What the hell is this? Hummus? There are only three acceptable accoutrement for a cheese platter,” he said this while counting on his fingers, starting with his pinkie and ending on his middle finger. “One, olives. Two, grapes. Thirdly, sliced ripe pear,” he said while sticking his finger in the other offending sauce. He disregarded the apple as an option for the simple reason that they oxidized, which was unattractive “Just because you can make a roasted red pepper puree doesn’t mean you always should. Call Jaques Pepin back here.” Eli took a deep breath, signaled the waiter back and questioned in a mannerly fashion as to the origin of these stow away sauces. 

“Were they just along for the ride,” he said, “too hot in the kitchen?” And to his complete horror the waiter replied in the most cool, calm and collected manner, “I have no idea what those sauces are.” Humphrey dropped his napkin. His eyes bulged for the second time this evening. He couldn’t believe that, one: he wasn’t served sparkling wine in a flute, which was also his favorite glass of all time and two: the wait staff couldn’t commit to memory the whims of a chef that clearly wanted to impress a much stupider person.

He whispered, “I can’t be expected to eat here. Not with this level of incompetence. Get the check when he returns.”

“Just taste it! You might like it and we are not leaving.” Eli scolded. 

“Alright, but it is under duress. There is no reason ever to serve garlic hummus and a squeeze of roasted red pepper puree with an artisanal cheese platter. This is ludicrous and I totally don’t trust this chef’s vision. Do I dare order a burger medium rare?” 

“Dare yourself. Live on the edge,” Eli replied while shoving a crust of baguette dripping with hummus into his mouth.

Humphrey put his knife into the wedge of cheese. There was resistance. Not even room temperature. He decided that tonight he was feeling a touch of nationalism. A California red would improve his mood. At least there was science involved in it’s production, which signified a hint of precision. He signaled the waiter back and said, “Where is your made in America section on this list?” 

Dinner for One (Out Again)

Every time Humphrey went out for dinner, he hated himself. Fifty, sixty bucks wasted and on what? overcooked meat and pasta, vegetables that were not fork tender. “Al dente,” a waiter once told him. Humphrey, of course, gagged on the notion that fad words could be used anywhere and at any time, thus rendering them completely void of meaning.

Humphrey spent a fair amount of the past five years teaching himself how to cook. He started out with Betty Crocker, a significant detail he’d admit to no one, even though his favorite and deeply satisfying banana bread recipe came straight from her pages unchanged. After Betty, he moved on to Fine Cooking Magazine. He started to pair his meals with the wine suggestions given at the end of each recipe. This reading, this following of directions, seemed to come so naturally to Humphrey, that he withered at all the subpar food he had eaten up to this point. “No more,” he said. 

So, the biggest moral dilemma of Humphrey’s every day life became: going out to dinner. His utter disdain began with the first words spilled from a waiter’s mouth,“Can I get you something to drink,” is an impossible question when one hasn’t even considered the food menu. How could the wait staff be so incompetent? 

Water could be served without question, as long as the waiter kept his grubby fingers off the complementary lemon wedge. Humphrey couldn’t stand how they would drop it in, as if one was kindly asking for germs. Please wipe your nose and touch my lemon wedge, Humphrey thought. The world was ending. This was absolutely certain.

Next, was the terrifying notion of the obligatory bread basket. Why didn’t the waiter just say, “here accept my shitty service and pacify thyself with this Gordon Food Service bread that we heat up in the microwave to fulfill the illusion that it is freshly baked each day and not frozen.” 

As always the first two offerings made by the waitstaff were returned: 1) a glass of ice water with floating diseased lemon wedge; 2) the bread that is never worth the space it will consume in one’s stomach. He just knew that someone’s bare hands had touched the steaming and freshly growing bacterial surface.

Already, Humphrey knew he should leave. 

After committing to a main course and a salad because he’d given up on soup, he put in his vote for a glass of wine, which lead Humphrey to sweaty hands and twitchy feet. When one doesn’t order an entire bottle, one is given the short Holiday Inn wine glass that only make sense if it has orange juice in it. No proper aeration can possibly take place. Humphrey was immediately reminded that he was alone and therefore must suffer with an inferior glass.

Humphrey’s heart was broken. He stared at the glass, wanting to sip, wanting to swirl, doing neither. Was it impolite to ask for a second empty glass? He could divide the wine, just barely enough to move it around even the tiniest amount. Just a wave. A little wave. No ocean. He looked around and took a swig. Sighs, swirls and smells. What a fucking evening. He said that out loud, but no one was paying any attention.

Tortilla Chips

Here’s an easy way to make tortilla chips or tostada shells. I don’t like to fry because I find the whole ordeal disheartening to clean up. 

So, buy your favorite fresh corn tortillas. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. You may rub the tortillas w/ oil, salt or other spices but it is not necessary. If you want chips, cut the tortillas into your desired matching shapes. If you want tostadas, then leave them whole. A typical cookie sheet will hold six tortillas. Place the tortillas on the cookie sheet. Put the cookie sheet in the oven. Cook for 12 minutes. Rotate the pan and flip over the tortillas. Cook for 10 more minutes. Done!

Anchovies? Yes, Please.

Here’s a simple dish. One that you could serve w/ a salad or meat. I chose a beautiful fillet of steelhead. 

What you’ll need:

angel hair pasta

4-5 garlic cloves sliced thinly

crushed red pepper flakes

3-4 anchovy fillets minced

1 pound of fresh washed and dried spinach

1 chopped roma tomato

parmesan

black pepper

Directions:

When the pasta only has about two minutes left to cook, heat about 1/3 of a cup of olive oil in a small sauté pan. Add garlic, anchovies and crushed red pepper. Cook over low heat and stir often, until the garlic is golden. Immediately remove from heat. Drain pasta, return it to its cooking pot. Add spinach and toss, which will wilt the spinach in such a pretty way. Just so you know, it turns bright green. Quickly, add the hot oil and toss it to coat the pasta/spinach. Add chopped tomato. Put it on plates. Grate parmesan over top. Finish w/ fresh cracked black pepper. Eat.

Not My Mama's Picadillo

The weather is cool. It is a perfect time to consider picadillo. My family makes this dish as a soup. I suppose my grandma may have made it the conventional way (which is similar to a hash) at one time but she did have five kids to feed. It makes sense to stretch the dish out this way. Every time I make this soup, I think of my mom. She loves it. Maybe not my version so much. She says, there isn’t enough tomato. As with all things, change is inevitable. 

Picadillo is ground meat and tomatoes. From a glance at some recipes, those two things seem to be pretty certain. I didn’t however find it as a soup any where. 

What I do is this: peel potatoes, chop them into cubes, pour water over them by three inches, add diced tomatoes and boil until they are tender. Only then do I add salt.

Next, I cook ground turkey or chicken with cumin, chopped onion, minced garlic, minced chiles of choice, chopped cilantro. I add the finished product to the soup. Stir. Let it cook together for maybe ten minutes.

Last, heat a tortilla, rub a little lemon and salt on it, roll it up and dunk it into this marvelous bowl of picadillo.

And if more tomato feels necessary, a can of tomato sauce never hurts. P.S. Don’t forget to call your mom.

Two Years

Where have I been for two years? First, I went to culinary school for one of those, taking a couple of baking and pastry classes. I’m ServSafe certified. Which basically means that I wash dishes really well and I probably won’t poison anybody. Second, I was allowed entrance in the work force. All the while, this pretty little website my husband made for me has been hanging out, getting lonely. I decided to no longer neglect it.

My project for today is huevos rancheros. Not a scoop of beans with salsa on top. No sour cream. No inferior tortillas. I’m attempting to recreate a dish my husband and I enjoyed at Rick Bayless’ XOCO. We’ll see what happens.   

Update on Sep 23, 2011 by Monica

The huevos rancheros received applause from my husband. They were great. I made enough sauce for leftovers. Maybe something else? The magic of chiles! Next time, I’ll take a photo. I was too hungry.