The Winding Stair is worth the climb

The Winding Stair restaurant is a quaint little bistro on Bachelor’s Walk looking out at the Ha’penny Bridge over River Liffey in Dublin.

20110912-101042.jpgThe name is taken, perhaps obviously, from the entry which is a stair that twists back upon itself before lead to the dining room.

Decor is like something out of a Bogart and Bacall movie but on a smaller scale. The bar is dark heavy oak and a large espresso machine.

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On the opposite wall is a chalkboard listing the rather lovely wine list and featuring bookshelves containing the kind of odd assortment of titles a decorator would choose for the broken clothbound and gilded spines. There was Albert Schweitzer in the original German alongside Coleridge. See what mean?

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The emphasis of the kitchen clearly was organic and local food though. In other words, exactly what I hoped to find.

There is an early bird menu at 5 p.m., as well as daily specials but, after a quick scan of the main menu, I wanted only the mussels and chips (pomme frite) served with a gorgeous paprika enhanced aioli.

The mussels were harvested on the west coast of Ireland and were generally quite fine– flavorful in an onion and white wine broth. A few were gritty however and several had not opened.

Nevertheless, I was served so so many, the dish was still more than enough for one. The broth certainly enhanced the already tasty mussels but it was a bit too salty to sip afterward.

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The chips were thickly cut and crispy. No oil was evident and their flavor was fabulous, especially when paired with the smoked paprika aoili. Mmmmmm. The Portuguese Syrah I drank was also really nice.

The service was also helpful and attentive, although the dining room admittedly was sparsely populated when I was eating at a little before 5 p.m.

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Overall, this was a very enjoyable meal and the sort of place that should be supported as Ireland earns it’s place at the big-people table in European cuisine.

Rawr!

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Overall:
Four Bones

Food:
Four Bones

Ambiance:
Five Bones

Murphy’s Ice Cream has changed what I mean when I say “creamy”

Finding Murphy’s Ice Cream meant crossing the Liffey River from the suits and order of downtown straight into throngs of foreign tourists, religious figures, pan handlers, gypsies (pardon me: Romani), and hawkers of goods and services appealing to all of the aforementioned–then hanging a right.

Along a relatively quiet side street is a small shop serving ice cream that would change the way I defined several terms I thought I knew the meaning of. Terms like creamy, fresh, smooth, and satisfying.

An Irish food blogger, I can has cook recommended the brown bread flavor, so I had a small cup of it to start. He wasn’t wrong.

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The cream comes from Dingle, I was later told, as I’m sure, did all the dairy. That local sourcing showed in the indescribably fabulous flavor range and mouth feel of this magical stuff.

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You see, I hadn’t ever before experienced ice cream as refreshing. Cold, sure, but that’s not the same thing.

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The same with “creamy.” Apparently, I had confused that with a certain mouth coating quality. Not the same thing.

This stuff even had Haagen Das beaten, notwithstanding HD’s emphasis on simplicity and texture. As it turns out, nothing can beat Ireland at dairy. Nothing.

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As an added bonus, there was an audit going on while I was there. And audits mean free ice cream for the American blogger who chats up the corporate representative from Dingle itself.

In this instance, the young ice cream server was being tested on his ability to produce a peanut caramel sundae topped with whipped cream. OMG! I’d say he passed.

As delicious as the whole of the sundae was, this little (Read: huge) bonus also gave me the opportunity to analyze its components. The caramel was the most buttery and flavorful you can imagine; the whipped cream, light, and again, fresh.

Murphy’s Ice Cream taught me many things I never expected about how delightful dairy desserts can truly be. I may never eat American ice cream again! (Yeah, right.)

Rawr!

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Overall:
Five bones

Food:
Five bones

Ambiance:
Five bones

(Warning: little bones pics may be added later. I don’t know why that necessitates a warning but it seemed amusing at the time.)

Momma’s Place–but only if you like food

Come here.

Why? If the funky-cool juxtaposition of the old, pink and lavender dining furniture with the seriously hard-core steel breezeways and red and slate walls running through the space or its near-total integration with filmIreland’s filmbase isn’t enough, then for heaven’s sake, come for the food.

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The hostess recommended the special lemonade and smoked trout tartine. The lemonade was made at the time of order so I was able to ask for less sweetness than I feared might otherwise occur. The pomegranate and mint provided a lovely richness and balance to the acidity you usually find in even the best lemonade.20110909-033643.jpg

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The tartine was a pair of wheat crostini topped with a yogurt-dill dressing, lovely smoked trout, which was slightly pink and not too smokey, and finally, olive oil dressed arugula. The result was a nod to the traditional smoked trout and dill but a deviation with the addition of the yogurt and cucumber that imparted a new level of freshness. No fishy taste it turns out is NOT all you can ask from smoked seafood.

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In final analysis, Momma’s Place is a great place for brunch, lunch, even a light supper, as it’s open 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.

Rawr!

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Overall:
Four bones

Food:
Five bones

Ambiance:
Four bones

(I will add pics and graphics some other time, Chrissakes.)

Foodie Goes to Ireland–for Indian?

And before you ask, yes, there is a method to this madness. You see, I’ve heard good things about Indian food but living, as I do, in the American South haven’t yet experienced it in a restaurant.

So being jet-lagged, wet, and cold from my day’s travels, when my host gave me a list of nearby places including the Mint Leaf, I jumped on it! My convoluted reasoning went something like this: Ireland close to England; England former occupier of India and popularizer of all things Indian; therefore, Indian in Ireland would be better than Indian I normally ate. Turns out, I wasn’t far off–whatever the cause.

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I dined from the early bird menu and as it was lunch time back home, dinner at five o’clock seemed like a great idea. For €16.95, there were a choice of appetizers and entrees plus a beer or wine of your choice. I went with the samosas and chicken bhuna (I think) and house red wine. I have no way of knowing whether these were good examples of either dish as I’ve never eaten either before. All I can say is everything was delicious.

The wine was every bit as good or maybe a little better than a $20 bottle in the States. The meat samosas (they also come in veggie) reminded me of really good, Indian-spiced taco meat in the best kind of eggroll wrap, fried in triangle-shapes like spanakopita. There wasn’t a trace of oiliness, the spices gave the lamb stuffing a warmth without overpowering, and the chili sauce was fabulous.

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The chicken entree was served in a red curry slash brown onion reduction, medium-hot. Definitely a touch of turmeric was present, as it was in the basmati rice side, but other than that, my untrained palate was unable to discern.

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Beautiful dishes, well-prepared, good service, and decent-sized portions. I was not disappointed (which, sadly, cannot be said for my past encounters with this cuisine). My newly-informed opinion is we Americans in the South should demand more of our Indian restaurants. This is really great stuff it turns out!

Rawr!

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Overall:
Four bones

Food:
Four Bones

Ambiance:
Four bones

(I’ll insert little bone graphics when I get back home. Dammit.)

The Hampton Street Vineyard is a little slice of bistro heaven in Downtown Columbia

Back in Columbia, S.C., it seemed someone’s Aunt Patti had a gig one night at a place called Hampton Street Vineyard. I would love it. Okay, so we went.

Turned out Aunt Patti (Ficken) played guitar in an outfit called Total Denial, with Liz Cameron, Jody Creel, and Mike Cameron, which just happened to be a very fine four-piece bluegrass band. The all-acoustic group was set to play on the sidewalk out front near the restaurant’s umbrella tables. But we decided to walk down to the entrance, slightly below street level, to have a drink before moving outside.

It seems we were a bit early, but the house mojito special was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat on the street above. The drink was served from a large jug and was perfect. Most of the patrons at the bar seemed to know each other but were very friendly to strangers nonetheless.

To fortify us against the mojitos that fortified us against the heat, we also opted to get some appetizers. I went with the steamed mussels special. Though most of the mussels were very good, I was disturbed to find a few in broken shells or in shells with holes in them.

A companion also pointed out the one he tried tasted “fishy” (not a good thing) and some appeared browned and rather dry on the surface. I’m not sure but suppose the strange appearance of some and any slightly fishy taste may have been a function of too little steaming liquid. The crostini were perfectly black-brown however, and delicious dipped in the rich broth.

Soon it was time to move outside with the band. Unfortunately, after a few numbers, the wind began to pick up; then the rain came. So we decided to move the whole event under the cantilevered roof over the entrance of the Kreel building next door, which we did. That bought us another hour or so of rain falling around us while we continued listening from patio chairs we dragged over.

Then the wind blew through with a force strong enough to send us into a small corner of the entrance. That was the end of the gig—at least for a while. So we went in to eat instead.

For an entrée, I ordered the Crispy Breast of Duck with warm red bliss potato salad, glazed baby carrotsn and a blackberry brandy glazed, which I asked for on the side. Dessert was a Ginger Pear Cobbler with French vanilla bean ice cream.

The duck was a breast that was seared “crispy” and served perfectly medium-rare, cut into medallions, and strewn along the edge of the plate around the potato salad and carrots. The potato salad was a simple one in, what I call, the “German style.” Accordingly, it was slightly vinegary and redolent of bacon. The carrots were glazed but no offensively so. Just enough to give them some spice and to highlight their flavor. A very successful course!

The Ginger Pear Cobbler did not appear as I would have expected—i.e., in a shallow dish with fruit on the bottom and something like pastry or crisp on top. Instead, it was rather like a pear fritter with chunks of fruit enrobed in an oblong pancake-like breading with a scoop of ice cream on the side. But the scent and the taste were amazing.

The ginger accented the pear perfectly. There also seemed to be complements of cinnamon and allspice. The pear came through the exotic spice notes, nonetheless, and with the vanilla bean ice cream made for a fabulous summer dessert.

All in all, Hampton Street Vineyard was a perfect setting for a laid-back but enriching culinary experience. The wine, friendly patrons, and musicians playing bluegrass on our way out made for a memorable evening in Columbia.

Bon Appetite!
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Myrtle Beach and the Deep Blue Sea

About two hours almost due East of Columbia, S.C., is Myrtle Beach, a lovely seaside resort town resting beside the green Atlantic Ocean. I recently had my first opportunity to visit there but could only stay for a couple of days. Nonetheless, my esteemed hostess found the time to introduce me to a few of the seafood delights of Eastern seaboard and, one, not so delightful.

Our first stop was a porch facing a marina along Murrells Inlet belonging to a restaurant called Drunken Jack’s. This place is one of about five restaurants hugging the waterway. They all looked pretty good but my friend wanted me to eat at this one and one other—a combo place called Divine Fish House that included an outdoor raw bar named Wahoo’s.

I don’t know what the inside of the restaurant looks like because from our seat we had an excellent view of Goat Island (so-called because of the herd of goats inhabiting the place), were serenaded by the co-habitating peacocks, and even got a front-row seat of some guy having trouble backing his cabin cruiser into a slip just below. Given that, the décor of another kitchy seaside beach restaurant just didn’t seem to warrant a trip inside. Besides they brought my order right out to me.

The first thing I learned was South Carolina had recently become a “free-pour” state with regard to liquor orders. This is a big deal as, in the past, it seems, all liquor served in bars was required to be delivered in those tiny mini-bar bottles. So if you ordered a mixed drink with six different liquors, you got six different bottles. You can see how that might add up.

Now, South Carolina is normal-er so you can buy your mixed drink 1 1/2 ounces at a time. Or if my experience at Drunken Jack’s is any indication, maybe just a smidgen more than 1 1/2 ounces….  Anyway, because we were planning on moving along at some point, we ordered only appetizers from the limited porch menu. I had the fried softshell crab with butter sauce.

Although the crab had a little more visible fat than I care for, it was unbelievably fabulous. It was the kind of crab I used to fish out of the water myself.  Ah, memories. Oh, and the lemon butter I wanted to drink as a vodka chaser!  But back to our story: the next stop was Wahoo’s.

Now one thing not many people know about Foodiesaurus is that of all the food in all the world, there is just one thing she has met so far that she totally cannot stand to eat (although she respects those who do) and that is raw oysters. So it was the special steamed mussels for me this round.

These mussels weren’t the absolute best I’ve ever had but they were right up there with the best—that is, those at a Belgian place I loved in Houston and those at two different Italian restaurants in Birmingham (one of which is owned by a perennial James Beard nominee). The traditional white wine and garlic treatment was just what I was looking for, and the crostini were crunchy and nicely toasted.

All-in-all, the Murrells Inlet crowd was way ahead of expectations.

Before leaving the shore, however, I decided to sample local seafood once more at a place called < a href=”http://www.sarajs.com/” target=”_blank”>Sara J’s.  At least I think it was local.  In all fairness, this restaurant bills itself as a “family-friendly” place so it makes no claim of grandeur.  Even still, I was disappointed.

The soft-shelled crab with horseradish marmalade sounded far more interesting than it was—notwithstanding the fact they did clean it free of fat unlike Drunken Jack’s. Likewise, the shrimp scampi was bland and tasteless. Even the hushpuppies were overly dense and free of any of the interesting bits of onion and bell pepper that are mandatory in Louisiana.

On one hand, my evaluation may seem unfair given the fact my standard of comparison on the hushpuppies is Louisiana. On the other hand, I didn’t like their soft-shelled crabs in a head-to-head comparison with a restaurant located a stone’s throw away.

I think the execution of Sara J’s restaurant was likely proper, I just think whoever developed these recipes failed to take advantage of the abundant and fabulous natural resources that give this area its reputation for amazing seafood.  Or possibly, everything I ate had been precooked or from frozen.  Either way, it is unfortunate then that “family-friendly” seems to have become a euphemism for tasteless and weak.

Although the restaurant appeared clean and neat and the service was friendly, the food was subpar by design, if not by execution. I consider that a major fail.

Bon Appetite!
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DRUNKEN JACK’S/WAHOO’S—

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SARA J’S—

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Rule, Brittania! The English Tea Room in Covington, Louisiana, brings the Motherland within reach

Every so often I return to visit the Motherland—Covington, Louisiana. Because I haven’t lived there in more than twenty years, I am often surprised by the dramatic ways in which this formerly sleepy old town has changed; first, becoming a bedroom community of New Orleans and then, after Katrina, when the city decided to spend all day there too.

On one particular trip a few years ago, I came upon something odd while taking an old familiar detour one block off of East Boston Street; something that changed my visits home thenceforth. A bit of Britain in Southeast Louisiana, it was the English Tea Room.

From the classic black limousine to the classic red phone booth to the two-out-of-five flags raised out front being the Union Jack, the first thing you realize is the proprietors of this establishment are hard-core Anglophiles. The interior of this converted Arts and Crafts bungalow is similarly welcoming with several small rooms and porches radiating from around the central kitchen and counter.

Looking more like your Grandma’s parlor than a restaurant, it is filled with chintz-covered tables and simply dripping with mismatched floral china and teaspoons, flower buds, and more tiny Union Jacks. So what keeps this shrine to shabby chic just on this side of grotesque? A very subtle undercurrent of irreverence permeates the place. Just the very tip of a tongue-in-cheek. You see, this is England with a twist.

For example, the establishment maintains a supply of men’s Bowlers, ladies’ hats suitable for Ascot, and feather boas for those who left theirs at home. The funny hats are optional, however. There is also a large cardboard cut-out of the Queen in full formal dress for those wish to obtain photographic evidence that they were once a seriously underdressed security threat at a British state function.

Sadly, Martin, the third in a line of authentic British ex-patriot managers, had been repatriated by the time I returned for my most recent visit, so my server was one of the actual (disappointingly American) owners. I arrived at two o’clock, thereby neatly avoiding both the lunch and tea crowd.

After choosing a table on one of the lace-enclosed sun porches, I ordered a Petite Windsor tea tray and a pot of Versailles Lavender Earl Grey from a list of, like, a hundred excellent and unique teas. The Earl Grey was served in its own three-cup pot and was divine with just a small lump of raw sugar.

Accompanying the tea pot was a three-tiered tray, the bottom plate of which contained four finger sandwiches—ham, cheddar and onion, cucumber, and egg salad. On the center plate were three tiny quiches, including two, warm bacon and cheese, and one, cool spinach and water chestnut. And on top were the desserts which consisted of warm scones (plain and chocolate chip), a mini-cake covered in fondant, a chocolate-covered strawberry, and three small bowls and demitasse spoons—one with lemon cured, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. (The full-sized Windsor tea is roughly double the size of this one.)

I ate everything. Well, the edible stuff, anyway. And the food was really good, even if the post-Martin service was just a tad slow.

On a side note, it may seem strange to outsiders that my favorite English tea house is in Louisiana, but the North Shore region, including Covington, originally was part of a British colony founded in 1763. The oldest families in the area are predominantly English, Irish, and Scottish, as a result.

In fact, St. Tammany and seven adjacent parishes were not even part of the Louisiana purchase and had very little in common with either the Spaniards who captured it from Britain twenty years later or nearby French-speaking New Orleans, which is roughly 30 miles to its South across Lake Pontchartrain.

Finally, in 1810, the “Florida Parishes” staged a successful rebellion against its weak Spanish government and formed an independent republic. Seventy-three days later, representatives of the Republic of West Florida negotiated its annexation by the U.S., which included it in the Louisiana Territory it had purchased seven years before. (The Republics of California and Texas were the only other independent republics annexed by the U.S. to form the fifty states.)

So you see, we shouldn’t consider it is strange for there to be such a staunch bastion of the Commonwealth of Nations to be found in South Louisiana—only that it hasn’t been there always.

Bon Appetite!

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Adventures in Pressure Cooking—Boston Butt

Those of you familiar with this blog should be well aware of my serious obsession with pork. ‘Cause if pork were a person, I’d stalk it!

So when I recently spotted the most bea-U-tiful, locally-raised 4.43 pound Boston Butt with an Animal Welfare Rating of 4 I have ever seen in any Whole Food’s butcher’s case, naturally, I snagged first and planned later. The snow white fat rind covering the roast’s top and sides enrobed evenly-marbled pink flesh. I expected great things of this roast.

A quick Google search on my craptastic Blackberry turned up a John Folse recipe for “Soul Pork Roast.” It seemed like a good start. The “suggested” cook time was 2 to 2-1/2 hours in a 375 degree oven, but I had a better idea: 40 minutes in the ole new pressure cooker! So I promptly e-mailed to myself a link to the recipe’s site before setting off to find all remaining ingredients.

The roast came enrobed in one of those elastic nets, which I promptly replaced with a length of butcher’s twine. (No nasty rubber aftertaste.) I followed the rest of the recipe using lard as the oil and with only a two modifications—(1) instead of waiting to the green onions, parsley, and the dash of hot sauce, I included them with the stock, and (2) I added an extra cup of water to compensate for the loss of liquid through steam. (The extra water was likely unnecessary, however, given the relatively short cooking time.)

I didn’t wait to bring everything to a boil as suggested by the recipe either, and closed the pressure cooker right away, bringing the whole thing to full pressure at a medium high heat. Like last time, when I prepared beef short ribs, the pressurizing procedure took about ten minutes.

When the little yellow button popped up, I started a ten-minute timer and lower the burner temperature to slightly less than medium. After ten minutes elapsed, I checked the steam level to be sure it was steady and then reset the timer adding another half hour.

When the timer alerted the second time, I removed the cooker from the heat and performed the depressurizing procedure. I then plated the roast before carving.

In hindsight, the roast probably should have been cooked another ten minutes for a total of roughly 50 minutes as the very center of the roast was still a bit rare. Because I was serving only two, however, I simply saved that rare part to reheat the following day by searing it in a dry skillet.

The outside parts of the pork, however, were soooooo delicious! Tender and juicy, the roast’s thick, white rind had melted to a soft buttery consistency infused with the flavor of the stock and aromatics.

As with the beef short ribs prepared on my first foray into the world of pressure cooking, all of the seasoning penetrated the surface of the roast and seemed to infuse every bit of it in a way I never achieved using a mere Dutch oven.

All things considered, this really cheap cut of pork—already my favorite readily-available part of the pig—was just as fabulous a subject for pressure cooking as was cheap beef. And feeding four in about an hour for less than $25, the Fagor Splendid 10-Quart Pressure Cooker/Canner proved itself once again to be an appliance I should never have waited to try!

Bon appetite!

Jim ‘N Nick’s is Raising the Bar in Bar-B-Q

Barbeque is to Alabama as gumbo is to Louisiana as chili is to Texas and so on.  In other words, people living elsewhere generally think that’s what we do best (or possibly at all). 

So naturally when I moved to Birmingham in 1996, I was on the prowl for the best of the best authentic slow-cooked spare ribs I could find.  Then, as now, there were a large number of barbeque joints to choose from.  But having sampled the famous, like Dreamland Ribs, and the not-so-well-known, like Full Moon, Golden Rule, or Johnny Ray’s, there was one barbeque joint I kept coming back to—the then-10-year-old local chain, Jim ‘N Nick’s.

And that was weird in a way.  I mean, how does a restaurant owned by a Greek-American kid who worked his whole life in an Italian restaurant end up making the best barbeque in the biggest city of a state known for the stuff?  Who cares.  He just does—still—to this day—15 years later.

In fact, Jim ‘N Nick’s Bar-B-Q is better than ever and is no longer just locally known.  Everybody in the world now knows about Nick Pihakis (the aforementioned Greek kid).  He is a semi-finalist for the 2011 James Beard Award for Outstanding Restaurateur.  That’s right.  Pihakis v. Steve Ells of Chipotle, Roger Berkowitz of Legal Sea Foods, etc.

If a James Beard Award nominated barbeque joint seems impossible, it’s only because you’ve never eaten at Jim ‘N Nick’s.  The Hamburger Dave or The Burger 1920, a Company Salad with shaved Parmesan and pulled pork, a big, meaty rack of 14-hour spare ribs, an onion ring appetizer or side, creamed spinach or spinach and artichoke dip, the smoked pork hot links, hand-cut fries, lemon icebox or chocolate or coconut cream or pecan pie, and even the complementary cornbread muffins are all the best I’ve ever eaten anywhere.  Moreover, at a time in our collective culinary history when the norm is for quality to tank as expansion occurs, Jim ‘N Nick’s has done the exact opposite. 

Back in the day, 11 years ago, for example, my favorite Jim ‘N Nick’s was on Highway 31 near the Riverchase Galleria.  It was head and shoulders above the others.  And even as late as three or four years ago, the Highway 280/Greystone location was still my least favorite of the Galleria, Five Points South, or Highway 280 alternatives.  

But then an unexpected thing happened: the quality got substantially better at the Five Points and Highway 280 restaurants.  Now they are all my favorite locations.  Hmm.

In other words, as this chain has expanded, the consistency between locations has not only improved but the overall food and even the décor is now better than it ever was.  Could Jim ‘N Nick’s recent emphasis of locally-sourced ingredients have anything to do with it?  I think so. 

And diners are not the only beneficiaries of this constant emphasis on improvement at Jim ‘N Nick’s.  Jim ‘N Nick’s has also benefitted ’cause, let me tell you, a similar salad at another fine local barbeque establishment goes for a good bit less than the one at Jim ‘N Nick’s and yet no one cares.  People literally stand in line for the good stuff.

So, 25-year-old barbeque chain, exceedingly great food, local ingredients, higher than average prices, James Beard Award semi-finalist, and lines to get in the door.  Yup.  That about sums it up. 

In short, Pihakis and company have found a way to raise the bar in barbeque.  What’s not to love?

Buon mangiare!

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Adventures in Pressure Cooking—Beef Short Ribs

Pressure cooking.  The very phrase evokes terrifying images of food dripping from ceilings.  But after considering the vastly improved safety reputation of newer equipment, finding braising had become a regular player in my cooking repertoire, rarely having time to babysit a pot for four to five hours, and discovering  I actually did have space to store yet another piece of equipment, the final decision to purchase one actually came upon me quite suddenly.

I was shopping for a wedding gift for a friend when I saw the model I wanted on sale.  The Fagor Splendid 10-Quart Pressure Cooker/Canner was a sight to behold, all shiny and simple-looking! 

And I figured I could always return it to the store if my loving husband objected to my evicting the Cuisinart Ice Cream maker from the big lazy Susan to make room for the new gadget.  But my sweetheart was all in favor of the concept.  He only awaited my foray into the breach before passing final judgment.

The only question remaining, what to prepare, was simply answered—my favorite braised beef short ribs recipe from the Whole Foods meat counter: .  Admittedly, I changed a few things….

In preparation for my first test, I carefully reviewed the instruction manual twice to be absolutely sure I knew how to lock the lid, pressurize the cooker, what to do in the event of trouble, and perhaps most importantly, how to avoid trouble to begin with(!).  Then I took the plunge.  While hubby was away—naturally.

I started by seasoning the organic, grass-fed short ribs and heating a tablespoon of lard (not olive oil) in the pressure cooker, on high heat on the large burner of my electric stove.  The lard got a little smokier than I might have liked, but bottom of the cooker distributed the heat very evenly, and the ribs browned beautifully, as did the onions and garlic I put to deglaze the pan in after removing the ribs. 

Next I added wine, canned tomatoes, beef broth, Worcestershire sauce, orange zest, and fresh rosemary.  (I also decided to add about one cup of filtered water to the mix, in addition to the amount of liquid called for by the recipe, to ensure the liquid wouldn’t steam away entirely during the cooking process.)  After bringing the liquids to a boil, I returned the ribs and juices to the pot. 

I also added all the carrots right away, rather than steam for 10 minutes, open the lid, add the carrots, and THEN return to steaming.  I also made the executive decision to omit the pearl onions.

So, I checked the amount of food and liquid in the pot, ensuring it was no more than the 2/3 full maximum stated in the instructions and sealed the cooker by lining up the two hash marks per the instructions, turning the lid clockwise to lock it.  Then I turned the dial on the operating valve to 12 o’clock (high), slipped the purple pressure lock toward the lid, and continued to cook on high heat to pressurize the cooker. 

The instructions explained that it took some time to pressurize after sealing.  In my case, it took about 10 minutes.  Upon pressurization the safety valve button popped up, deploying just as it should have, and I began timing the cooking at about 25% of the time the dish would have required in a Dutch oven—about one hour. 

The safety valve is a small, yellow plastic button that rises when fully pressurized and prevents the pressure lock from sliding open.  The safety valve will only fall when the pot is fully depressurized.  Only following such depressurization can the pressure lock be released and the lid unlocked.

After full pressurization, I lowered the burner heat to a setting of 4 and monitored the steam flow for about 10 minutes to ensure that a continuous, gentle steam flow was maintained from the operating valve.  Unfortunately,  the flow all but stopped, so I raised the heat to 5, after which the steam flow began again.  Per instructions in this event, I just extended the cooking time by a few minutes. 

Be advised, the cooker is not silent. You will hear the release of steam throughout the cooking process, but this is normal.

At the end of a little more than one hour, I opted to use the “automatic release method” and turned the dial on the operating valve to the “steam release position.”  Steam shot out far more vigorously than before and from a vent to the left of the dial as opposed to the vent at the top of the dial.  The steam stream was so powerful water, in fact, that it condensed on some utensils in a holder next to the stove!

After a few minutes, the steam pressure slowed considerably diminishing to nearly nothing, but the safety valve’s pressure indicator still had not fallen.  When I touched it, however, the pressure indicator button dropped, and I was able to slide back the pressure lock and turn the top half of the handle counterclockwise to unlock the lid.

And the results were… 

…amazing!  Not only were the ribs more tender than ever before, but they were also far more flavorful.  It was as if the pressure had forced the flavor of the spices, herbs, and aromatics farther below the surface of the meat than was ever possible at normal pressures.  Every flavor was blended with all of the others but was not lost.  Somehow, each ingredient was made simultaneously more intense as well.

Clean up of the cooker was also a snap.  The pot and lid were returned to sparkling new condition with very little effort using liquid dish soap and a scouring pad/sponge combo.  Even the light grey rubber gasket looked perfect with no tomato or red wine staining.  Fabulous!

In retrospect, my only regret is how long it took me to try this cooking method.  I already can tell my new-found love of pressure cooking is poised to evolve into a life-long passion.

Bon appetite!