Noshing Out – Get Cured

The work week is over. Whatever else is left to do, can be dealt with Monday morning. A simple salad from lunch, consumed hours ago, has left you hungry for a substantial meal and with no work tomorrow, craving a cocktail. A co-worker and I took this opportunity to explore our temporary transplant city and headed to the Pearl District of San Antonio for dinner. The area is a refurbished brewery, complete with quaint shops and industrially décor-ed apartments above them. A variety a restaurants and bars are sprinkled throughout the complex, including a hotel adorned with steampunk-esque cogs, pipes, knobs and dials from the old brewery. Our destination however, was what looked to be an old bank, the restaurant Cured.

                Stepping into the yellowed brick building, the first and most prominent feature is the meat case. Off-white fat striped and dotted the hanging cuts in the temperature and humidity controlled locker, standing in the middle of the room. We were seated and once handed the menus, my attention was immediately drawn to the restaurant’s namesake, the charcuterie section. With our knowledgeable waiter guiding us through some of the more unique cuts, we ordered the largest sampling platter.

                We needed a guidebook to navigate the white ceramic plate that was set before us. The charcuterie was accompanied by a garlic mustard, slightly chunky with the ground bulbs and heady with the roasted garlic scent. Maple mustard was also painted across the plate, grainy with mustard seeds and providing a dark sweetness to any meat of our choosing. In the upper left, the cannel of chicken liver mousse had a sweetness on its own, creamy with the texture of whipped butter. Just above the bowl of berry preserves was our smoked duck ham. Not gamey at all. The meat was moist despite the cure. While the skin was not crispy, the flavors of the breast came through simple and clean, a meat best used to play the condiments. To me, the most interesting offering was the offal sausage (bottom right). Having sampled organs before, they can be tough, tasteless, gamey, bitter, or some combination of all of them. This sausage had none of those things. It was soft and succulent, its pink striped with white appearance betraying a more expensive cut of meat. Mild saltiness and meat flavor like a tartar came through and paired well with the berry.

                Though mostly full from our meaty meander, I did order something lighter that piqued my interest for novel cuisine: Shrimp pastrami. Using the same seasonings that one would use for the cut of beef, the shrimp were cooked and pressed together in a circular log, then sliced thin and displayed with watermelon radish and a spicy remoulade that tasted not far from a kicked up Russian dressing. The shrimp texture was most apparent, and the slices were only lightly held together from the spider web of red spices that laced throughout. Slightly briny, mildly salty, and clean on the palate, is was a nice, light end to what was otherwise a deliciously fatty meal.

Graham’s Gastronomy – Peruvian Flashback

Readers of this blog know that back in October, I spent about a week and half in Peru, hiking to Machu Picchu, and noshing my way across Lima and Cusco. Inspired to bring part of my gastronomic adventure to my friends, I volunteered to open my home, and my kitchen, to one of my meetup groups for a Peruvian dinner.

                My contributions to the evening were ceviche and pisco sour, two of the most prevalent menu items I experienced. In Peru, the best ceviche was in Lima, made from a cart outside of a local fresh market. White fleshed fish, swimming the day before, sat filleted in chunks in a bowl. The man behind the cart deftly squeezed the tiny Peruvian limes into the bowl, spooning in dollops of cilantro and red onion, “cooking” the fish, created the acidic base known and “leche de tigre.” Doing my best impersonation, I cut both tilapia and raw shrimp into a large mixing bowl. With the same additions, and a bit of slivered serrano pepper, I let the concoction marinate in the refrigerator for about an hour before stacking the seafood into a fluted cup, adorned with boiled potatoes. The fish retained its original delicate flavor, yet was accented with a mildly sweet acidity from the lime. The herbaceous flavors added a green and almost bitter note. The fish had firmed and become opaque from the acid, but was still soft and pliant, the texture of sushi grade salmon. After service, I retrieved shot glasses from my bar and poured small drafts of the tiger milk which where, with a loud cheers to our health, knocked back. The cloudy liquid was swimming with the remnants of green peppers, cilantro, and red onion. Its heavy acidity was tinted with fish flavors, burning slightly on the way down.

                Washing my hands, I switched gears to the cocktail portion of the evening. Similarly ubiquitous, the pisco sour was offered on every drink menu across the country. Made from Pisco, a clear, grape-based spirit, lime juice, simple syrup, and an egg white, the final concoction is shaken with ice to a frothy finish in the glass. An appropriate counterpart to the ceviche, the pisco sour is both tart and sweet, the spirit bringing body and strength but also losing some its own character in the acidity.

                The rest of the evening was a smorgasbord of corn-based salads, potato laden soups, and swoons of exotic food pleasure.

Noshing Out – First Blush of San Antonio – Whiskey Cake

                Last week, I woke up in a mummy bag, lying on block of ice, in a hotel made entirely from compacted snow. It was 25⁰ in my room. The next day, I stepped on to the veranda of my hotel room, overlooking the courtyard of the spa, complete with running waterfall and outdoor pool. Behold the miracles of 21^st century travel. I have been assigned a three month long engagement here in San Antonio, and last week (albeit a short one) was my first time here. Readers will know that this isn’t my first foray into the Lone Star State, but as Texas could be its own country, San Antonio may as well be a whole new adventure. What struck me first upon acquiring my rental car was the near constant commercialization of the area. Walmart after Target after boot shop after chain restaurant was passed on the highway before I got to my hotel. Like a child in the candy store, my head was on a swivel trying to take in my new environment, making note of any signage that was new or different.

 

After days of setting up for the coming months, the team and I set out to The Shops at La Cantera for dinner at Whiskey Cake. It was a late dinner, starting at 9. Despite this, the restaurant was still crowded. Waiters in white t-shirts with suspenders, jeans, and paperboy hats weaved between tables with drinks and food. The lighting was dimmer, playing off the wood and dark colored metal of the tables and decor. A hollowed out glass light bulb and small candle adorned our table as we sat down to cocktails. The figgin’ delicious, made with bourbon, ramazotti amaro bitters, lemon, and black walnut bitters, had light fruity notes, yet was still spirit forward and a glowed with a brownish red hue on the table.

My entrée, the striped bass, came smokey grilled in two fillets, under one was a carrot and kale slaw, lightly tossed with an acidic dressing that brought out the brightness in the fish. The other fillet sat above a roasted gold pepper romesco, the blended nuts adding body, a counterpoint to the lightness in the bass.

Our waitress, upon describing the restaurant’s namesake, convinced us to dry the decadent dessert. With dollops of whipped cream, the whiskey cake was also topped with pecans and a dense caramel sauce infused with whiskey. The cake itself was full of molasses and again, more whiskey, keeping the entire dish moist and heavy, easily shareable, unlike putting down your fork.

Food From Afar – Quebec

After an almost 7 hour drive straight north on I-91, we arrived in Quebec. The primarily French speaking Canadian city felt European with cobblestone streets, narrow and winding. It was Saturday night and snow was softly falling, a perfect way to begin our weekend of the Winter Carnival and Ice Hotel.

                We wandered Sean Jean St, heavily populated in the early evening. The European influence showing itself as restaurants seems in full swing around 8pm. We followed our noses to a bakery/sandwich shop, Paillard. Croissant and baguette were highlighted behind a glass case in the front window. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted as we opened the door, calling to our travel weary stomachs. White-clad bakers took our order in French accents as we sat down to warm sandwiches. My pork- layered creation came with a carrot balsamic slaw and pickle relish, its acidity and mild spiciness reminiscent of a giardiniera. The bread crunched as I bit in, succulent pork and toasty bread melting into a mélange of flavors.

                The next day was filled with the Winter Carnival. Ice sculptures, snow carving, and winter sports were all on display in the central city park. Bon-Homme, the festival’s effigy, was seen in every shop window, his tilted smile and wink greeting all. After a day of wandering the snowy streets, we settled in to a prix fix dinner at Aux Anciens Canadiens, a traditional Canadian restaurant. The interior was softly lit with the feel of an old log cabin. I ordered a wapiti (elk) sausage that came atop a bowl of maple-infused baked beans. The grilled meat was softly sweet and smooth in texture, its casing pliant rather than popping. London ordered the meat pie, the buttery and flaky crust encasing a mixture of ground meats. Again, they were soft in texture, no gristle or extraneous bits. Dessert was a pair of maple confections, a mud pie and bread pudding. Both rich and dense, the dark sweetness of the maple was tempered by the fat of the crème anglaise poured over pudding and the whipped crème on the mud pie.