As I sit in one of my favorite coffee shops I still wonder when the coffee craze began. Originating in Ethiopia, coffee has circumnavigated the world, caused wars, forged scientific milestones, and forever changed generations' work ethics.
What I have yet to figure out is how people all throughout New Orleans and the world determine the type, method, and time of day to have their coffee. For me coffee is just as important as any libation one will find in this city. A freshly brewed, medium roast coffee from perfectly roasted beans only a day old is vastly different from the coffee left on the burner, brewed three hours ago from charcoal-burnt beans. There are so many steps and areas for imperfections in the coffee making process--farming, harvest, transportation, roasting, blending, brewing, and time--that it is a glorious morning when I get that "perfect cup of Joe".
New Orleans has been one of the largest gateways for America to receive their coffee and is the largest today. We have over 20 local roasters and 14 warehouses, and that does not even include the regional import/exporters. In the past, beans from mainly Latin America have filtered into America's heartland through our port and the Mississippi River in canvas bags that were crane lifted onto the dock. Presently, coffee comes in sealed, tarp-lined containers and lifted into the roasters stationed right on the dock by an old grain conveyor belt.
But what is the impact of this coffee importing on New Orleans' drinking culture? Well, in my opinion, very little. The beans that are brought in are of the medium-low quality varieties and are roasted and then blended to make a better quality blend. Few people even realize the difference in robusta and arabica beans, and let's not even get started on the "shade-grown" vs. "bird-friendly" vs. "organic" tangent. The Italians first discovered the beauty of a quick, powerful, and oily shot of caffeine in the expresso. They use a majority of robusta beans while the French and many others use a mix of robusta and arabica to blend medium roast--high caffeine with a mild flavor. But New Orleanians seem to get their jolt any way they can get it.
Attention over coffee has been held for centuries, starting in Eastern Africa then Italy then Starbucks and now local coffee shops. America has predominately held its poetic role as not the highest-quality coffee consumer, but certainly one with the largest quantity consumed. But what about the milk, sugar (real and fake), honey, and hardware involved. Certainly, with all the attention paid to the dairy industry we should be seeing more soy, almond, and coconut milk products at our local shops in the future...but not yet, it seems.
I have four coffee shops within four blocks around my house and everyday I want to try a different one. I might have a bad cup of coffee at Place A one day, but who knows if the next day will be when they get new coffee in. Fresh coffee is still hard to come by, but I believe that coffee gets overlooked more because of its ability to be masked by milk, foam, honey, sugar, and the like. We need to stop fantasizing about how we seem to look while drinking coffee and focus more on how, why, and by what means we are drinking coffee.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Miso Hungry truly Delivers
Growing up in Alabama and seeing a rise in Southern food trends seems almost comical. It seems that my entire identity growing up is now more "hip" than I'll ever be. I drink PBR because I like it and it's the only beer my preacher drinks from a bottle. One of my favorite breakfasts was black coffee and fried oysters on the deck of my grandparents 60 yr-old beach house in Orange Beach. And Conecuh County link sausage will, and always will be, my favorite.
So, when my roommate decides that her pop-up food stand will serve chicken and waffles I am there in full support---and as a test taster---every time. Comical, laid-back with a razor's edge, and dressed in a long tee with a zebra picture, Louise is yet another amazing person with a story, because unlike most people (myself included) who got formal degrees and ended up in kitchens, she has worked to earn a place in culinary school and takes her skills beyond what any kitchen would do to squash her creativity. She started her own business--Miso Hungry.
In the past she has set-up at The Saint on Saint Mary, and if you missed her this past Saturday night at the Saturn Bar on St. Claude I'm sorry, but there will certainly be more events. The line-up was exactly what you would expect from a Louisiana-born, Asian-inspired chef: tempura chicken with chili-lime pork belly and maple honey syrup ($6!); and, tempura banana with nutella and maple honey syrup ($4!).
This coming month she is preparing to branch out with Miso Hungry Delivers! You can look her up on Facebook and see what delicious, and I do mean delicious, treats she is conjuring up. The idea will be based more on large dinner dishes such as curry, lasagna, etc, but keep posted for updates on her next pop-up location because whether it is pork dumplings, tempura bananas, or chicken done 3-ways I still have not found a better place to spend $5.
So, when my roommate decides that her pop-up food stand will serve chicken and waffles I am there in full support---and as a test taster---every time. Comical, laid-back with a razor's edge, and dressed in a long tee with a zebra picture, Louise is yet another amazing person with a story, because unlike most people (myself included) who got formal degrees and ended up in kitchens, she has worked to earn a place in culinary school and takes her skills beyond what any kitchen would do to squash her creativity. She started her own business--Miso Hungry.
 |
| Louise and the zebra tee |
In the past she has set-up at The Saint on Saint Mary, and if you missed her this past Saturday night at the Saturn Bar on St. Claude I'm sorry, but there will certainly be more events. The line-up was exactly what you would expect from a Louisiana-born, Asian-inspired chef: tempura chicken with chili-lime pork belly and maple honey syrup ($6!); and, tempura banana with nutella and maple honey syrup ($4!).
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Sharing Sherry
Last night I happened to be grafted into the invitation to attend a cheese and sherry tasting at St. James Cheese Company uptown on Prytania. I say grafted because of all things people should know about me it is that: patiently waiting and giving my direct attention at lectures are still monumental undertakings for me. Maybe it is my subconscious recalling boring junior high government classes or Sunday school programs that dragged on just a little too long, but sitting and waiting my turn to eat while trying to remember the alcohol content in a certain sherry is, well, hard.
But not to say that I didn't try with all of my might and in the end I was actually rewarded. Strolling in right as things were about to kick off the patrons of the night were nothing but kind and attentive and set before my friend and I two copies of: a plate of six cheeses, serrano ham, and llomo, a bottled water, and a glass of sherry. Our friend and sommelier at Stella!, John Mitchell was there giving the "bios" of the different sherries. And if you ever want to learn about wine or spirits then this is your guy. He is not pushy, persnickety, or elitist. He is understanding, courteous, and clearly a smooth talker when you get him started on the things he loves.
We ate two aged Manchego (Spain was the theme of the night due to sherry), an English cheddar, one French Crottin, Prima Donna, and a blue cheese. The last cheese and sherry pairing was the most intense and should have been labeled with a "for mature palates only" sign. The cheese, described as "with the texture of peanut butter with tannin mixed in", and the sherry (read here: motor oil), were a bit much and too rich to end on. However, my favorite from the beginning (smelling every cheese like an animal before the tasting starts is not frowned upon, right?) was the Prima Donna from the Netherlands. By accident an employee of Prima Donna walked into St. James about 1 1/2 hours before the tasting and got up to give a more scientific and detailed description of the cheese. Truly testing the limitations of my attention span after four sherries I could not be too angry with him for he too was a very nice man and, like many others such as myself, has a degree in something entirely different from what his job is now. He sells cheese for the love of cheese.
But back to the sherry, because as I came to learn, I should be buying a lot more of this stuff before anyone notices what they are missing out of. Mitchell began to describe how the quickly dissipating quality of an open bottle of sherry, and the public's misconceptions of the fortified wine, force many retailers to sell the splits for much less than their actual work. Some bottles coming from a 14 barrel group made by a 7th generation sherry-maker may be undersold due to the lack of knowledge and demand for the product. I am not proposing that everyone go out and buy cases of sherry now (that would totally ruin my plan) but maybe give the less syrupy, motor oil-esque ones a try and you might be surprised that for your next tapas night you won't have to rely on that dusty bottle of Malbec.
But not to say that I didn't try with all of my might and in the end I was actually rewarded. Strolling in right as things were about to kick off the patrons of the night were nothing but kind and attentive and set before my friend and I two copies of: a plate of six cheeses, serrano ham, and llomo, a bottled water, and a glass of sherry. Our friend and sommelier at Stella!, John Mitchell was there giving the "bios" of the different sherries. And if you ever want to learn about wine or spirits then this is your guy. He is not pushy, persnickety, or elitist. He is understanding, courteous, and clearly a smooth talker when you get him started on the things he loves.
We ate two aged Manchego (Spain was the theme of the night due to sherry), an English cheddar, one French Crottin, Prima Donna, and a blue cheese. The last cheese and sherry pairing was the most intense and should have been labeled with a "for mature palates only" sign. The cheese, described as "with the texture of peanut butter with tannin mixed in", and the sherry (read here: motor oil), were a bit much and too rich to end on. However, my favorite from the beginning (smelling every cheese like an animal before the tasting starts is not frowned upon, right?) was the Prima Donna from the Netherlands. By accident an employee of Prima Donna walked into St. James about 1 1/2 hours before the tasting and got up to give a more scientific and detailed description of the cheese. Truly testing the limitations of my attention span after four sherries I could not be too angry with him for he too was a very nice man and, like many others such as myself, has a degree in something entirely different from what his job is now. He sells cheese for the love of cheese.
But back to the sherry, because as I came to learn, I should be buying a lot more of this stuff before anyone notices what they are missing out of. Mitchell began to describe how the quickly dissipating quality of an open bottle of sherry, and the public's misconceptions of the fortified wine, force many retailers to sell the splits for much less than their actual work. Some bottles coming from a 14 barrel group made by a 7th generation sherry-maker may be undersold due to the lack of knowledge and demand for the product. I am not proposing that everyone go out and buy cases of sherry now (that would totally ruin my plan) but maybe give the less syrupy, motor oil-esque ones a try and you might be surprised that for your next tapas night you won't have to rely on that dusty bottle of Malbec.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Savory, not sweet, Victory
As every good, down home American is apt to do from time to time I made a bet on a sports game a little while back. It was a bet between two cooks and over a meal. And the bet? The loser had to cook the other a victory meal over the LSU/Alabama game on November 5th. We weren't going to make the other cook foie gras, lobster, P&J oysters, or anything else of the sort because, well, ...we are just working cooks.
As history--and the previous post--will tell you I am the Alabama fan and I lost. Painfully. My counterpart actually made it pretty easy for me. He wanted a home-cooked, made-from-scratch grilled cheese and tomato soup. Easy and simple.
However, as the time for the National Championship crept increasing closer I was pondering, rematch? We did not make it a double-or-nothing bet--after all I wanted SOME sort of compensation--and so we simply made the bet over again.
And here is what I have to say about burgers.
Burgers are part of that American spirit. The type that makes silly bets over football games and should be as glorious as the game and victory itself. I, however, have never found the "perfect" burger in New Orleans. The two best burgers I have ever bought were from The Oasis in Cottondale, AL and Pirates Cove in Josephine, AL. The Oasis is the joint you go to wearing blue jeans and a hangover and you can't be intimidated when you waitress serves you while smoking her Virginia Slims. Pirates Cove is very much on the same level as The Oasis except instead of parking your car, ordering a beer, and listening to people talk about Bear Bryant you dock your boat, order a bushwacker, and wait for you number to be called while dogs and children run around the sand covered deck. To most people these are not the places you want to search for their health code grades or pay too much attention to clientele, but for me they symbolize childhood and a damn good burger.
So that was what was on the line for me the night of January 9th. A burger that takes 12 napkins to eat because of the mess and makes you hide in a corner while you devour it so no one else will talk to you.
And last night my friend and I converge in my kitchen with three packages of cheese, buns, sandwich bread, ground meat, two onions, two packages of bacon, six tomatoes, a head of lettuce, a jar of pickles, and beer.
His victory dinner crafted by yours truly: a grilled cheese supreme with curried tomato soup.
My victory dinner crafted by an actual cook: a 1 lb burger patty dressed with a pickle spear side.
It was magnificent and a dinner worthy of the great football season that has just passed. And until I find the next burger that takes me 12 napkins and a moment of silence to consume I will dream of this one.
Grilled Cheese Supreme: 6 oz Grilled Onions, 4 slices tomatoes, 3 strips of bacon, 4 oz Pepperjack Cheese, 4 oz Cheddar Cheese, Dijon Mustard, Rye Bread
Delicious Burger: 1 lb burger patty nestled between two strips of bacon, tomato slice, two iceberg lettuce leaves, ketchup, mustard, bun. Done.
As history--and the previous post--will tell you I am the Alabama fan and I lost. Painfully. My counterpart actually made it pretty easy for me. He wanted a home-cooked, made-from-scratch grilled cheese and tomato soup. Easy and simple.
However, as the time for the National Championship crept increasing closer I was pondering, rematch? We did not make it a double-or-nothing bet--after all I wanted SOME sort of compensation--and so we simply made the bet over again.
And here is what I have to say about burgers.
Burgers are part of that American spirit. The type that makes silly bets over football games and should be as glorious as the game and victory itself. I, however, have never found the "perfect" burger in New Orleans. The two best burgers I have ever bought were from The Oasis in Cottondale, AL and Pirates Cove in Josephine, AL. The Oasis is the joint you go to wearing blue jeans and a hangover and you can't be intimidated when you waitress serves you while smoking her Virginia Slims. Pirates Cove is very much on the same level as The Oasis except instead of parking your car, ordering a beer, and listening to people talk about Bear Bryant you dock your boat, order a bushwacker, and wait for you number to be called while dogs and children run around the sand covered deck. To most people these are not the places you want to search for their health code grades or pay too much attention to clientele, but for me they symbolize childhood and a damn good burger.
So that was what was on the line for me the night of January 9th. A burger that takes 12 napkins to eat because of the mess and makes you hide in a corner while you devour it so no one else will talk to you.
And last night my friend and I converge in my kitchen with three packages of cheese, buns, sandwich bread, ground meat, two onions, two packages of bacon, six tomatoes, a head of lettuce, a jar of pickles, and beer.
His victory dinner crafted by yours truly: a grilled cheese supreme with curried tomato soup.
My victory dinner crafted by an actual cook: a 1 lb burger patty dressed with a pickle spear side.
It was magnificent and a dinner worthy of the great football season that has just passed. And until I find the next burger that takes me 12 napkins and a moment of silence to consume I will dream of this one.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Don't Hate the Plate
The "WOW"-factor is something I use to describe a moment, place, or person when I am speechless...and I am rarely speechless.
However, as a recent immigrant to New Orleans and graduate from the University of Alabama it should come as no surprise that a WOW-factor happened last night as I was made to feel like a champion in my new hometown. The collision of two worlds was never greater.
But this isn't a post about how great it feels to be a champion (it does); or the pride that I feel being a Crimson Tide fan (it runs deeper than most family lines). This weekend I came to the realization that the 2011 National Championship confirmed my place in my new home.
I want to begin by saying just how amazing LSU fans can be. Saturday night three family members and myself went to my favorite restaurant in New Orleans, Boucherie. Boucherie has taught me how to eat collard greens, enjoy the romance and claustrophobia of a small boutique restaurant, and witness Southern cuisine in full presentation. We did get the collards. We did enjoy our meal. And the restaurant was small. But the perfect sort of small. You see, the four of us are part of the "witty" fandom who pride themselves off of playful banter and good tongue-in-cheek fun. So as we began to notice more and more purple and gold surrounding the 3-foot bar space we can not be at fault for striking up a conversation with a friendly, "Roll Tide".
And this is where I say again that LSU fans can be amazing. For the 6'-4'" fellow with a red tan face dressed in a purple button-down and starched Wrangler jeans spoke up to defend his team. It was nothing mean-spirited. A few, "Yes, you can come here and spend your money. We appreciate it here." "Are y'all all family? We know there aren't a lot of forks in Alabama family trees.", and the like. We shared takes on the menu and wine list and at one point were so chummy and loud that a fellow table (of, I would assume, not football fans) looked at one another to ask why we were sitting at different tables if we "obviously knew each other". The 5th generation sugar cane plantation farmer's son was a cook at Boucherie. He too had gone to get a "formal" degree and turned to cooking his way around because he had a love for food.
And as this farmer went on and on I began to realize my lesser WOW-factor. New Orleans may very well have turned into my new home. No, we don't do barbecue very well here. We may drink a little too often for other parts of the country (world). We have a Halfway Holiday because we need a day to dress in costume between Christmas and Mardi Gras. I am surrounded by Les Miles-loving, Saban Nation-haters, Saints loyalists.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Roll Tide until the day I die.
However, as a recent immigrant to New Orleans and graduate from the University of Alabama it should come as no surprise that a WOW-factor happened last night as I was made to feel like a champion in my new hometown. The collision of two worlds was never greater.
But this isn't a post about how great it feels to be a champion (it does); or the pride that I feel being a Crimson Tide fan (it runs deeper than most family lines). This weekend I came to the realization that the 2011 National Championship confirmed my place in my new home.
I want to begin by saying just how amazing LSU fans can be. Saturday night three family members and myself went to my favorite restaurant in New Orleans, Boucherie. Boucherie has taught me how to eat collard greens, enjoy the romance and claustrophobia of a small boutique restaurant, and witness Southern cuisine in full presentation. We did get the collards. We did enjoy our meal. And the restaurant was small. But the perfect sort of small. You see, the four of us are part of the "witty" fandom who pride themselves off of playful banter and good tongue-in-cheek fun. So as we began to notice more and more purple and gold surrounding the 3-foot bar space we can not be at fault for striking up a conversation with a friendly, "Roll Tide".
And this is where I say again that LSU fans can be amazing. For the 6'-4'" fellow with a red tan face dressed in a purple button-down and starched Wrangler jeans spoke up to defend his team. It was nothing mean-spirited. A few, "Yes, you can come here and spend your money. We appreciate it here." "Are y'all all family? We know there aren't a lot of forks in Alabama family trees.", and the like. We shared takes on the menu and wine list and at one point were so chummy and loud that a fellow table (of, I would assume, not football fans) looked at one another to ask why we were sitting at different tables if we "obviously knew each other". The 5th generation sugar cane plantation farmer's son was a cook at Boucherie. He too had gone to get a "formal" degree and turned to cooking his way around because he had a love for food.
And as this farmer went on and on I began to realize my lesser WOW-factor. New Orleans may very well have turned into my new home. No, we don't do barbecue very well here. We may drink a little too often for other parts of the country (world). We have a Halfway Holiday because we need a day to dress in costume between Christmas and Mardi Gras. I am surrounded by Les Miles-loving, Saban Nation-haters, Saints loyalists.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Roll Tide until the day I die.
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