If you are what you eat, this could be Daniel three months from now...

While I am very, very excited to be in back in my old NYC stomping grounds for the next three months, learning the tricks of the trade of food writing and working on a couple of other projects, I am feeling incredibly sad at being apart from my dear Daniel. We love the idea of being bicoastal, but in the future, hopefully, this dream bicostality will involve periods of unicostality, that is two people on one coast, not one on either.

Anyway, as he drove me to the airport this morning, we discussed his food options in my absence, since I am the primary font of the food we eat, in restaurant choices and in grocery lists and in actual preparation. When I asked about how he might feed himself, he gave me a list of possible options.

Here are some ideas he had that I agreed were acceptable:

Quorn, our longest-lasting friend from our stint in Ireland, a fungus- based meat substitute, Naturally, Daniel likes them dipped in ketchup.

Five, five, five dollar foot long. "Turkey, toasted, with avocado, please," says Daniel.



This is the staple of our diet even when I am around. Without me, Daniel's new nickname may very well be Chickpea, or perhaps if we're feeling adventurous - Garbanzo!

When combined with a variety of fruits and vegetables, some lean (non-chickpea derived) protein, some good calcium, and a nice, healthy breakfast, these choices are just fine. But I'd feel a lot better if I were with him, heating up said quorn nuggets, whipping up a little spicy ketchup to accompany them, and throwing in some baby carrots and celery just for good measure.

It was condiment to be - Peruvian aji sauces

If one were to examine our refrigerator (and since we recently gave it a really profound cleaning, I wouldn't try to stop you), one would quickly discern that Daniel and I are condiment maniacs. We each have those condiments that first made our hearts go pitter-pat- his was ketchup, mine was mustard (in fact we love these so much that we dressed up as such last Halloween).

So there are many, many bottles of mustard lining our shelves - curry mustard, Dijon, beer honey mustard, good old fashioned yellow, I could go on. Ketchup being less of the refined condiment is only represented with the one (big) bottle, but it is Heinz, and Daniel wouldn't have it any other way.

Also lining the shelves are myriad hot sauces, jams, jellies, chutneys, relishes, pickles, and preserves. The list is long. The beauty of the condiment is of course that it can entirely change the flavor of an otherwise simple dish. I can't tell you how many variants of the turkey sandwich I make each week, each time slightly altering the make-up of the meal by changing up the condiments.

Given this love, it is with great pleasure that I introduce a new feature on this here blog, where I will semi-regularly feature one or two of these jars that adorn our shelves.

Today - two Peruvian aji sauces, both of which were introduced to me by dear friend Ariel who spent a year in Lima. She sent me a care package full of delightful Peruvian sundries, but it was these two hot sauces that have stuck with me and that I now make sure to have on hand, courtesy of the South American shops in the Mission.

Aji Amarillo Salsa

Background: From a beautiful yellow pepper, of the C. baccatum species native to South America, this salsa is particularly used in Peru in cebiche or as a dipping sauce or marinade for various meats like anticuchos. The hot (pun intended) Peruvian chef , Gaston Acurio, whose La Mar restaurant opened not too long ago in San Francisco, says that this pepper is essential to his native cuisine.

Flavor: Medium spicy, but slightly sweet, with a very creamy texture. (The pepper itself rates between 5,000 and 15,000 on the Scoville scale)

How I use it: Really the question should be how don't I use it. It makes regular appearances on turkey sandwiches, combined with hummus and often a carrot pickle. When I make a Mexican mush pots, I combine beans, rice, veggies, and a whole lot of this salsa.




Aji Rocoto Paste

Background: Also from a pepper (C. pubescens) used predominately in Peru (and Bolivia), this red sauce is often paired with fried fish, according to a really great article in the most recent Saveur, entitled "A World of Peppers." Unlike most peppers, rocoto have black seeds!

Flavor: Quite spicy, a little smoky. This sauce has a slightly grainy quality to it. (The pepper is between 30,000-100,000 on the Scoville.)

How I use it: Where a bean is involved so is this sauce. Also excellent on eggs.

Kesty/Keste

As a child I had an imaginary friend named Pierre who strangely only appeared when we stayed at hotels. His primary function was to stand guard of our room while we explored the sights of the city we were visiting.

Perhaps it is a sign of the gradual acculturation of a family as it moves away from its immigrant roots that my imaginary friend was a foppish French boy who like me favored hotels with interior corridors and chocolates on the pillows, whereas my father, a first generation American growing up on those storied Brooklyn streets, had a friend named Kesty Kestenbaum.

Now whether Kesty was real or imagined remains a point of great contention. My father always claimed that he had in fact existed, but my mother never quite believed him. Regardless of the veracity of his actual existence, Kesty certainly played the role of a child's imaginary friend in that whatever capers my naturally mischievous father got into, Kesty inevitably shouldered the blame. It was because of Kesty claimed my dad that he never learned Hebrew properly while studying for his Bar Mitzvah. It was Kesty who taught him every dirty word he knew. Broken window? Kesty. Broken promise? Kesty. But time and time again, in spite of my father's best efforts to avoid trouble, that devilish charmer Kesty Kestenbaum convinced him to participate in one wild scheme after another.

Now all this is just to explain that when I learned that the hot new pizza place in Manhattan was called Keste, I felt an immediate sense of intrigue combined with skepticism. Sure it was pronounced with an accented E on the end. Sure the chef was famous for his extreme precision in meeting the standards of the Associazione Pizzaiuoli Napoletani. Sure it had made all sorts of top pizza lists in the height of an ever-growing pizza craze. But with that name, could it be trusted? Or was it just to a ploy to make me spend a lot of money on a mediocre pizza?

I had to find out, and so the ever-game Daniel and I set out to explore. As reservations are not accepted and as we were not a bevy of sexy Italian speaking pretty young things, we gave our names to the affable man at the door and prepared to wait. We waited. And waited. We ate the tiny sliver of free pizza offered to the hodge podge of non-Italian speaking hotties with whom we were waiting. And then we waited some more.

At last, we received the nod in (Daniel's name was not called; perhaps the host had memorized the beard.) We perused the menu and given the heavy representation of pork products, we were able to choose without too much discussion.

I insisted on the Marinara because it is with this simple, cheeseless pizza that I think you can truly judge a pizza place.



The Keste version was good, and a true model of simplicity. The tomato, olive oil blend was a sweet and tangy melange, broken up by the occasional clove of garlic or oregano leaf. Very nice flavor. Of course with pizza these days, that is not sufficient. Connoisseurs of the real Neapolitan deal obsess about the crust, and here is where the you began to feel that perhaps this Keste was using a bit of the other Kesty's wily ways to pull the wool over your eyes a bit. While the cornicione, or outer charred ring was incredibly well flavored - a wonderful combination or saltiness and that doughy floury taste - and while it looked the part with properly appointed brown bits, it lacked any of the crunch that such pies usually have. It had the chew but not the bite. Because of this perhaps, by the time you got to the center of the circle, the pizza was almost a bit soggy. It still tasted great, but something was off.

There was a similar problem with the Pomodorini e provola that we ordered for our second pizza.


It looked delicious. The same crunchy looking charred bits. Loads of bright red cherry tomatoes; the sheen of smoked mozzarella; a sprinkling of wilted fresh basil. But again, it didn't quite all add up. There were the same crust issues and in the cooking the tomatoes had lost enough of their snap and tartness that they couldn't quite counter the overpowering flavor of the cheese.


Now none of this was enough of a problem to prevent us from stuffing ourselves to the point of stomach aches for all or from bringing the rest home to have for breakfast the next day. But as with the original Kesty, we were left to wonder if all the hype was real or somehow fabricated. And as it seems was often the case with my dad and his buddy, we emerged a little poorer and with that belly ache that comes when you've overindulged (although in our case the excess came by way of smoked cheese and not too many games of craps.)

The true strength of Roquefort

Back in good old SF and had to run to Bi-Rite to stock up on some California staples - lemon cucumbers, stone fruit, some gorgeous dry-farmed tomatoes (made delicious because they don't get wet and mushy tasting from over-irrigation.)

As I was checking out, I noticed some cheese samples behind the register waiting to be placed. Never one to pass up a free soupcon of flavor, I oh so subtly hinted to the man who was helping me that I might be interested in a taste, if it was no bother.

With no hesitation, he obliged, first handing me a very creamy, very lovely piece of brie. It was nice but gave me no pause in continuing the business of unloading my basket onto the counter. Then he handed me something else. I was paralyzed.

It was salty and creamy and just a little stinky. It had tiny little bits of blue that had an ever so grainy texture, making the silky smoothness of the surrounding cheese even more luxurious. I had to know more.

The man at the register had never tried it, so he sampled a piece, and now we were both in states of rapture. We needed to know what we'd just eaten and like a junky I needed to know how I could get some more. We discussed the texture, the flavor, the complexity of this cheese as we waited for the cheese caretaker, as they are known at Bi Rite, to return and enlighten us. The line behind me grew long and impatient, but I didn't care.

Finally, he was back with some answers. It was Roquefort and it cost $27.99 a pound.

And again I was paralyzed by this dazzling cheese. Sure the fortitude of flavor of this dazzling Roquefort had stunned me, but now the veritable barrier of its price would keep me from this new found high.

Well maybe.

"Do you think I could get a tiny little piece," I murmured.

The cheeseman looked at me, at my face, wan with need, and he handed me this...



Yep. Two dollars and eighty cents of the best that sheep have to offer.

I went home and offered Daniel his own little morsel. While he is not a great lover of cheeses of the blue variety, he gave it a try. First on a knife to sample it in its purest form and then spread on a piece of the Zomicks challah that we'd brought back to California. This was all he was allowed to have in one sitting.


While the mystery persists of why this Roquefort is so dazzling that it sends grown people into utter reverie, one thing is certain. Until we truly understand it's power, we will only sample it in tiny bites. Any more than that could send the body into a shock of the senses. (And be cost-prohibitive.)

Oh what a tangled web we weave...

I've got a new website with some clips and stuff.

Yeah, yeah. Check it out.

www.katiesallierobbins.com

It's Friday in New York...

Which means I have this to look forward to...


Hummus from Damascus Bakery on Atlantic Avenue, which makes the creamiest, most flavorful, most perfect hummus that I've ever had.

AND

A beautiful Zomicks challah, which I will pick up later today from Garden of Eden. This is the challah that I have devoted myself to recreating. It is sweet and eggy and a little heavy. And dipped in that hummus. Oooh boy. Just a few more hours. I can't wait.

The dulce life

I am currently staying in my lovely and generous brother's apartment. A lover of all things Italian, his presence pervades the space, and so I felt inspired to create a dinner involving flavors from that delectable boot of Europe.

As a little amuse bouche, some onions agrodolce , courtesy of Mario Batali.


For a main course, lamb ragu with papparadelle, served with a spoonful of ricotta and a sprinkling of mint.

For sides, two from Food and Wine. A lovely spicy rabe with anchovies and garlic. And an eggplant camponatina, served room temperature, replete with pine nuts, salt packed capers, celery, and green olives.


These were all very good. Some perhaps even delizioso. However, it was the dessert that this time sent me over the edge.

Also from Food and Wine, it was a dulce de leche torte, known as a volador. And I loved it immediately when the recipe's description mentioned its rustic informal nature (meaning it could look a little funny and crumble when you sliced it.)

And it was a funny looking fellow, surprisingly savory with no sugar involved. It's crust was a four layer number made of thin, thin disks of an incredibly yolk heavy dough, each of which puffed up considerably (hence the name's reference to "flying up" in Italian) as it did it's brief stint in the oven.


After cooling, between each delicate, bubbly, bumpy layer, I spread a coating of a mix of dulce de leche and water, before stacking another layer on top.


At the end, I sprinkled the top layer with powder sugar.


I then served slices of the room temperature torte with scoops of simple vanilla ice cream. It was stunning, if I do say so myself. The rich sweetness of the dulce de leche playing in incredible tandem with the snap and crunch of that remarkably flavorful eggy crust, with the creaminess of the vanilla ice cream coming in to add a little more moisture to the mix. Really, truly sweet.


The only thing perhaps sweeter in all of this was the view as we ate -


While I can't offer a recipe for the magic of this panorama, I can for the torte, which again comes from Food and Wine.

Dulce de Leche Torte (Volador)

Ingredients

For the pastry:
-12 large egg yolks
-1 teaspoon whole milk*
-1/8 teaspoon salt
-1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

For the filling:
-2 cups dulce de leche
-3 tablespoons water
-1 tablespoon confectioners sugar

*Not wanting to buy a big thing of whole milk just for this, I stealthily procured some from the bodega down the street. No, I didn't steal it; I just poured a small splash of the stuff into a coffee cup and paid the 75 cents for that. Really, it was less than the amount that someone who likes light coffee would use and I didn't even get any coffee out of the deal, so I feel no remorse.

Directions

Make pastry:
1. Preheat oven to 400°F with rack in middle. Generously brush a large baking sheet with vegetable oil.

2. Stir together yolks, milk, and salt.

3. Put flour in a large bowl and make a well in center. Add yolk mixture to well and gently stir with a fork, gradually pulling in flour closest to egg mixture to make a paste. Knead in all of remaining flour with your hands to form a dough (dough will be very firm).

4. Transfer dough to a work surface and knead, lightly dusting with additional flour as necessary, until smooth and elastic, 8 to 10 minutes.

5. Flatten dough into a disk, then quarter and form each quarter into a ball.

6. Keeping remaining dough covered with a kitchen towel (not terry cloth), firmly roll out 1 piece on a clean surface into a 12-inch round, lifting and turning dough as necessary. (Dough will be slightly sticky but will lift up easily; round will be very thin with uneven edges.)

7. Transfer to baking sheet and bake until edge is golden and curls up, about 5 minutes. Carefully turn over and bake until cooked through and both sides are golden in some spots (lift to check), 3 to 4 minutes more. Transfer to a rack to cool.

8. Repeat with remaining dough. (Pastry will overlap on racks.)

Make filling:
1. Stir together dulce de leche and water in a bowl. If mixture is not spreadable, warm in a small heavy saucepan over medium-low heat, whisking until smooth. Thin with additional water if necessary.

Assemble torte:
1. Arrange 1 pastry layer on a serving plate and spread evenly with 2/3 cup filling. Repeat with 2 more pastry layers and remaining filling, stacking layers.

2. Dust remaining pastry layer with confectioners sugar and arrange on top.

3. To serve, cut or crack torte into portions using 2 large spoons.