"Si te vas por Chile"

I have been ashamedly absent from my blog. I’ll spare you the longwinded paragraph and break the excuses down as such:

1) A bizarre combination of laziness and being very busy
2) Upgrading my blog to a different host so that it not look so low budget (take that Blogger!)
3) Making preparations for a last minute trip to Chile (leaving this weekend)

The first two are boring so let’s concentrate on the third, shall we? We are LONG overdue for a Chile trip and I’d been feeling the pangs. The truth is that I don’t know to feel without the promise of a future trip to Chile and all the culinary delights there within, other than hungry….and pissed.

Here’s another reason I’m hungry and pissed: my friends who reside in Chile decided to make curanto, the very laborious traditional dish of Chile, ONE WEEK BEFORE I ARRIVE.

Curanto is not the kind of thing you make every weekend, over the holidays, or ever, really. In fact, the only time I had the opportunity to try it was while on vacation in the south of Chile, and during said occasion I bit into what I thought was a potato and very quickly realized was tongue. I was horrified, being the gastronomic imbecile I was back then.

But alas, times have changed, and while I was spending my time trying to decide what I was going to eat while in Chile, while simultaneously concentrating on not deepening the “Bleecker cave” above my nose by furrowing my brow, lest it become so deep I could store my string cheese in there, my so-called friends were busy making this:

Curanto is the quintessential “everything but the kitchen sink” dish, A mix of many things, among them all the shellfish you can get your hands on:


Hello sweet nothings. I’ll be seeing YOU in a week.

More ingredients…..no foamy reduction foofaraws here…just the good stuff: meat, meat, potatoes, shellfish, and more meat.

And then it all goes in the pot:

The traditional method of cooking curanto is in a hole in the ground. You can get away with the giant pot if you live in the capital.

HOW DARE THEY!!! Upon arrival, my first orders of business are as follows:

1) Open up a can of whoop-ass on those who planned such an event in my absence
2) Get my hands on every kind of shellfish possible and refuse to share with anyone

By the way, “Si te vas por Chile” is a famous song welcoming foreigners to the country of Chile, and at our rehearsal dinner every Chilean in the house got up on stage and sang it….with gusto...while tossing t-shirts into the crowd. It was glorious.

Cochon Butcher

There have been a lot of posts on Cochon Butcher lately, so I’ll keep my comments to a minimum to avoid boring you death with repetition. Besides, I think the photos speak for themselves, and quite loudly:

Charcuterie Plate....three kinds of salami and a rillette, which was the crowning jewel. In case you live uptown and need the Cochon rillette in a pinch, St. James Cheese Company also sells it.

Delice de Bourgonne, Roaring Forties blue, and manchego, with some killer peach preserves.


Not usually a fan of boudin (why replace sausage with rice?), but I really liked Butcher's version.

El Cubano

BBQ pork sandwich. Our table erupted in debate over whether the pork in question was too smoky or delightfully smoky.

Pork belly sandwich with mint and cucumber. Good enough for me to forgive that it came on Bunny Bread.

The vegetarian option: fried catfish. We think it was fried in cornmeal, which I thought was a nice touch, but Chloe was not impressed.

My new obsession and the one thing our table could agree on. Combining sweet potato with habaneros? GENIUS. And it’d have to be good to get people to spend $7 on a bottle of hot sauce, right?

I found the beer and wine list a little uninspired, but I was greatly anticipating the alcohol portion of the meal so maybe my expectations were too high. After my engine exploded on the freeway in New Orleans East earlier that morning, I decided straight away (while sitting on the side of the freeway) that that was justification for Saturday day drinking. Thus, after a sweaty hour with nothing to occupy my mind other than dreams of swine and booze, you could say I entered Cochon Butcher with guns a’ blazin.’

Also, and this is a small point to some people but something I always notice, there was a lot of love put into the accoutrements. The potato chips were homemade and fantastic (Chloe’s favorite part of the meal), the sweet bread and butter pickles out of this world, and the pickled okra was tart and refreshing, but not nearly as shockingly salty as the kind you buy in the supermarket that make up half your daily sodium intake.

Stay tuned for the review of the pricey pork roast I purchased from the take home section of Butcher.

Cochon Butcher, 930 Tchoupitoulas St, New Orleans, 504-588-PORK

18 Chico vs. 18 Grande

September 18 is Chilean Independence Day. We’ve made it a tradition to celebrate the holiday in the States, and thanks to our very enthusiastic Chilean friends here in Nola, each year our celebration becomes more authentic. My friend Amanda still lives in Chile, and she sent her pics from their festivities. Our version usually pales in comparison to the carcass roasting, chicha induced “fondas” that take place in Chile, but this year I’d say we came close. You be the judge:

EL 18 CHICO (Cajun style)

Two kinds of Empanada: fried shrimp and cheese and baked "pino" (a mix of ground beef, black olive, raisins, and hard boiled egg)

Pisco sours consumed by my friend Mariela, who donned traditional “huausa” garb.

Anticuchos (Chilean for shish kebab)

Marinades applied with cilantro wand

Two different kinds of pebre, a Chilean accoutrement for any food that combines tomatoes, cilantro, garlic, and green onion in varying quantities.

Traditional dance (La Cueca-Max was third grade champion)

Non-traditional dance (the canoe)

EL 18 GRANDE (the real deal)

Lamb carcass

In Chile kite flying is an extreme sport, complete with razor wire and tiny shards of broken glass applied to the string for those competitive types. Power lines? Not an issue.

Chilean moonshine aka "chicha", as modeled by Ricardo who I think has a future in hand modeling.

Moonshine + threat of decapitation can tire you out

More carcass

And even more carcass!

Prost!

My good friend Denial recently edged her way back into my life. Oh, hello you.

I’ve tried to string summer out for as long as possible, but it’s time to throw in the chips, the gig is up, and the fat lady has sung. Summer is officially over. No more mango salsa.

There are those of you who, like me, live in New Orleans, and are thinking “then why is it still in the 90’s and ridiculously humid?” And yes, I know most of our mangoes and avocados come from south of the border, but this harrowing scene still signaled the end of……something.

But alas, this is New Orleans, and our seasons revolve not around weather, but around food! And festivizing! (not technically a word yet, but I'm working on making it such). Thus, my spirits were immediately lifted upon overhearing two things:

1) The ever amusing chatter at my shrimp stand led to talk of the return of ye olde oyster. We all know how I feel about oysters so no need to elaborate there.

2) Oktoberfest began last weekend. I have a debilitating weakness for anything served with sauerkraut as well as German beers on tap. I once proclaimed Oktoberfest my favorite holiday in New Orleans and tried to convince Max we should have our wedding at the Deutsche Haus.

Did anyone attend this past weekend? Any new additions this year?

Taqueria of Tacos, and other such redundancies

When I began this blog, one of my goals was to sample and rank the city’s taco trucks. This quest came to an abrupt halt when I learned there are only two, yes count them: TWO, taco trucks to speak of. If I’m wrong on this, let me know, but as far as I know, there is only Taqueria DF on Jeff Highway:

And La Chapparral on Claiborne:

Upon further research, I was told there was some sort of ban on taco trucks because local eateries felt they were taking away business. Now, lately people have been throwing around big words like “socialism” and “communism,” but I haven’t paid it too much mind. However, when it comes to my food, and more specifically, my taco trucks, I will engage in loaded language. Does this measure seem a little “anti-capitalist” to anyone else? Especially in light of Mayor Nagin’s proposed goal of “being friendly with our Hispanic-speaking neighbors”? Does anyone speak Hispanic? Is that a dead language like Latin? Interesting aside about said neighbors: did you know that New Orleans’ sister city is Merida, Mexico? I did not know that, and yet I was married there last year. Seems like a crazy cosmic coincidence to me.

Anyhoo, after sampling both trucks, I deem Taqueria DF the better (and cheaper!) of the two. I always got a chuckle out its name, which I thought was “Taqueria De Tacos,” which would be the equivalent of naming something: “Bakery of Baked Goods.” However, my truck-savvy friend Michael alerted me to my error. It is actually “Taqueria DF,” as in Districto Federal, aka Mexico City.

It turns out Michael is somewhat of a mini-celebrity at DF, which made my first visit all the more colorful. If I remember correctly, each taco is $1.50. I had two for $3.00 and was stuffed. DF has quite an array of meat choices, but I was particularly impressed by their salsas. They were served in unmarked bottles so I’m not sure what they were, but I enjoyed mixing and matching them with my tacos. I highly recommend a visit.

Taqueria DF Tacos, located in the parking lot of a Jefferson Highway gas station, approximately halfway between Carrolton and Lowe’s.

The Kanno Sushi Legend….Confirmed

I’ve heard whispers of the Kanno sushi legend for months. Is it really in Fat City? Is it really that good?

I’m always suspicious when someone raves about a sushi place and wonder snobbishly what that person’s criteria are. Ten years and twenty pounds ago I would have told you that my favorite sushi came from a place that serves a roll called the “Multiple Orgasm” and drenches everything with a spicy cream sauce. These days I usually stick to sashimi and therefore base my opinion on how fresh the fish looks, smells, and tastes.

After so much Kanno buzz on the food blog circuit, I’m hesitant to add another post for fear of reader exhaustion or that it’ll get too crowded or the prices will go up, but since I’ve been verbally praising it to anyone who’ll listen or pretend to listen, I figure I might as well take it public (let’s be honest, half of my readers are friends or family from out of town and while I’m sure my mom will think this post is “really great, Annie,” she’s probably not going to frequent Kanno).

I’m drafting a sonnet dedicated to Kanno’s wasabi, but for now I’ll just tell you that it’s a bright green that doesn’t appear to be artificial and a much softer, almost liquid texture so different from the putty ball usually delivered.

LOOK AT THAT COLOR! It's HD sushi. For good measure, we sampled both the austere sashimi lunch AND the sexy, crunchy, sauced-up spider roll (SCHWING!).

I always order the sashimi lunch on sushi excursions, and when I see such additions as snow crab and seared tuna, I either try to bargain my way into a substitution, or just eat them complacently. At Kanno I opted for the latter option and am oh so glad I did as their pepper seared tuna is divine. I like to put a generous helping of wasabi in the middle and roll it up like a burrito. Instead of the usual fake crab sticks, Kanno’s is shredded and comes topped with a whole lotta roe, which is a great texture contrast with the crab.

My enthusiasm over Kanno has helped me overcome the hesitation of my co-workers and such concerns as “are we really going to eat sushi in fat city?” and “can we really make it there and back within our allotted hour of lunch break?” The answers are yes and no, respectively,but it's so good it’s worth the risk of getting back to the office 15 minutes late.

Kanno Sushi, 3205 Edenborn Ave, Metairie, LA, (504) 455-5730

Friday Before & After

I blogged a couple of weeks ago about the heinous conglomerate of wood paneling, linoleum, and inexplicable yellow tile that was our kitchen. Here she is again in all her glory:

Behold!!! The fruits of our labor (90% completed):

Before:

After:

Before:

After:

Before:

After:

Just in time for some serious Labor Day feasting....

The hiatus will soon be ending. The prolonged length of said hiatus is due to my utter abhorrence of purchasing the same thing twice. Even though I’ve known for about a week that I am not going to find my camera accessories, it’s taken me that long to accept that I’ll have to make a re-purchase, where “I’ll have to make a re-purchase” means I made Max go to a camera store yesterday.

Hence, the furlough will soon be ending and I can reassume my identity as low budget food blogger, and just in time too, as the lack of food blogging has left me all strung out and forced to do real work (horrors!).

Hump Day Zen

80% unpacked and still no camera accessories. Sadly I think the reason I can’t find them is because I set them aside precisely so they WOULDN’T be lost in the move and my blog efforts WOULDN’T be halted.

However, I couldn’t let another hump day pass sans blog, so I bring you this photo-less entry:

THE SECRET TO HAPPINESS

1) Add this blog to your favorites: http://www.cbwines.com/blog/
2) Check out “Wine of the Week” every week
3) Go to Cork + Bottle and purchase said wines (don’t worry – they’re generally priced between $10 and $20)

I know everyone is probably sick of my ramblings about Cork + Bottle, but this must be shared. Since I’ve started blindly following the recommendations on their blog, I question why I ever attempted to select wine myself.

M.I.A.

No, I’m not on August holiday. This forced hiatus is the result of our short notice move to our new house. While I have been eating out and photographing my exploits, I can’t find my camera charger or the cord to hook it up to the computer; ergo, I cannot download my photos. While this is disappointing, it is not as disruptive as some of the other things I can’t find, such as my shoes. In the interim I’ve been wearing a heinous pair of work-inappropriate heels that are so destroyed that the leather is peeled back all the way up the heel. The metal rod poking through, formerly known as the heel, makes a lovely scraping sound as I walk across the cement and provides absolutely no traction on slick surfaces.

This morning, after throwing my daily fit about not being able to find my shoes, I donned the aforementioned heels and scraped my way out the door. It was only after settling in to my desk that my olfactory sense led me to discover that I had speared a piece of dog shit with my metal spike.

There is always a silver lining, however. Just before schlepping across the endless landscape of industrial park cement to Walmart to purchase new, equally heinous shoes (the metal on cement producing sparks and a cacophony only slightly quieted by the layer of feces), I thought to check my trunk. Hallelujah! There I found a golf bag full of my shoes.

This week I’ll continue to peel back the layers of 29 years of stockpiling, and will hopefully uncover my camera accessories. Stay tuned…..