Fresh off Lifehacker, one of my omigodwhatwouldidowithoutit links, it's the Pint Lock, an ingenious system for keeping your 'scream safe from the prying paws of roomies, coworkers, kids and other sneakthieves with industrious spoons.

(Unfortunately, it's merely deterrent, since anyone with half a nut's worth of sense will just flip the pint over and saw it open with a serrated knife.)

Alas... my digi camera is dead dead dead. Mourning its decline, I perused my archives and thought y'all might enjoy this little "back of the house" tour from the perspective of a veg cook (one of my kitchen stations back in the day).

Keep in mind, we're not talking short-order slapdash here. This ain't no Denny's. This is how it's done in a *good* kitchen.


Prepwork.
It's the foundation of your station. You never find a line cook in a high-end kitchen just standing around. There's always something to chop up or clean up. This is Davey making quick work of a ginger julienne.


Mis en place (mees-ehn-plahs).
It's all about prepwork and organization, folks. In this cooler drawer (called a lowboy) we find lovingly trimmed turnips, boiled potatoes, lamb bits, braised squash with mustard seeds, toasted coconut, blanched green beans and brussels sprouts, and on the upper left, roasted shallots, turnips and cauliflower, methinks... I can't remember what that reddish stuff is. The meat cook made that.


On fire.
When you hear the order come in, down go the pans. This is a chickpea panisse for the lamb dish. You'll note the blue "side towel" in my friend's hand here. You don't see hot pads or oven mitts in professional kitchens. You see side towels, and god help you if you don't have a dry side towel, because you'll learn the conductivity of water in a heartbeat if you grab a hot handle with a wet towel. Zow!


The lineup.
These plates just came out of the warmer, so they're still pretty warm on the fingers. The veg generally goes in rings to shape it while it waits for the meat cook to finish slicing and fanning out the meat.


The product.
Here we see the lamb veg (turnips, potatoes, leeks and bits of lamb roast) and the afore-mentioned chickpea panisse just before the meat cook makes his addition. You'll note that my veg plays backup to that juicy spread of lamb. All this dish needs is a drizzle of sauce, a garnish, and an approval by the chef. I'm actually hungry just looking at it...


Chef puffs his cheeks, deep in thought.
Nothing goes out without scrutiny from the chef or whichever of his sous chefs happens to be manning the front line. He's got a whole palette of funky garnishes he can use to give your entrée a finishing touch. You know... stuff like finely chopped chives, cilantro chiffonade, mint chiffonade, microgreens, fried ginger, fried lotus root strips and the like.

Just in case any of this makes you hungry, all these photos are from the kitchen at Tabla (Corner of 24th & Madison, NYC). The chef is Floyd Cardoz, and the disembodied hands belong to my brother in arms, Dave S.

A group of us recently had dinner at Lamb & Jaffy, a neighborhood newbie from Michael De Prima (formerly of Oceana) and Tara Steilen. This surprisingly good Greenpoint bistro is a lonely pioneer up at that end of Manhattan street, kept company only by Bleu Drawes' adorable little Jamaican joint and a handful of bodegas.

Bottom line: Lamb & Jaffy isn't flawless (Leaving skin on the red bell pepper julienne? That's just laziness...), but for the cuisine they offer, I found them to be inexpensive (especially since you get to BYOB), uncharacteristically (for NYC) accommodating and (big bonus) endearingly fun.

We were the first folks to arrive at 6 p.m., towing two bottles of cheap table wine (from the slim-pickings bottle shop next door), a few out-of-towners and a wiggly pre-schooler. Although we were reservation-less, we were escorted into seats immediately. This pleasure of convenience is certainly doomed; once word catches up with the place, it'll be brimming.

Starting out with slices of whole-grain bread, a searing skillet of addictively snackable "devils on horseback" (bacon-wrapped dates), and perfectly seasoned garlic-sautéed spinach, my tablemates oohed and ahhed while and the little one and I colored pictures with the crayons provided by our gracious hostess.

Our entrées were slightly slow to arrive, but lovely presentation and smart flavor interplay made their ultimate entrance a tablewide success. While my tilapia dish (slightly underseasoned, but balanced by a brightly acidic braised vegetable mix) was a delight, I found I was a covetous eater, also swooning over the skirt steak across from me and the rich chicken dish at my side.

Upscale dish presentation and ingredient choices give this place a feeling of maturity, while its sweet, thoughtful details maintain levity. You'll find the bathroom is lined with a shabby-chic collection of mirrors. Single-sheet paper menus are affixed with rubber bands to veneer boards. The overall aesthetic is grounded, yet airy, which seems appropriate when you learn that Lamb & Jaffy's intriguing name refers not to cuisine, as one of our party guessed, but rather the owners' favorite childhood toys. Aw!

The clientele, too, seem to represent the youthfully mature (or maturely youthful?) hipsters in the neighborhood. (Ugh.. am I mature now? There's an ugly thought.)

Maybe Park Slope, Cobble Hill & Williamsburg are all chockablock with these places, but Greenpoint is still thoroughly a world of pierogi and Zywiec. It's a crapshoot as to whether I can score a New York Times on a Wednesday.

So, with a measure of nervous hesitation, I'm just going to say it: I think Lamb & Jaffy is the neighborhood bistro I've been waiting for, and frankly, I can't wait to go back for seconds.

Lamb & Jaffy
(718)389-3638
1073 Manhattan Avenue (off Eagle Street)
Greenpoint, Brooklyn

I realize that writing food ad copy is a form of manipulation. But I have to admit, food fictions feel so much more noble than other ad copy because I actually buy into what I'm selling.

Via the food section sidebar, I found the Guardian Unlimited's report on scientific evidence on the way words can sway sensory perception.

As the article points out, this is news of the Captain Obvious variety. Advertisers have understood how to write persuasive copy for centuries. The whole thing is so Pavlovian: Those who have had positive experiences with rich, juicy steaks are more likely to be sucked in by a tomato description that evokes thick, meaty slices. Tell someone that the wine has notes of melon and tropical fruits, and they're going to subconsciously seek out those flavors.

Some research that would really help me out: an infallable list of the most universally mouthwatering words. Serve me up a beaker of that action.

Oh, how time flies when you have a ticking time bomb sitting in your refrigerator. I'm talking about my super-abundance of garlic, as mentioned in a previous post. Although the expiration date is past, they seem to be holding up well, so I've had some time to play with these stinky little gems.

After discovering the many ways one can use up one's supply of roasted garlic spread, making 40-clove chicken (twice), pumping out a bunch of Indian cusine and sneaking slices of the stuff into everything short of breakfast cereal, I was casually wondering why I haven't had a date in weeks. That's when I received this note from an old friend:

Found your garlic dilemma interesting.

Here's a suggestion: I went to a party in Colorado a few years ago. The host, Tom Cavelli, made something he called bona calda. I don't remember the exact recipe — we both had a lot of beer that night — but it included a huge amount of garlic.

Here goes:
2 cups, yes cups, of finely chopped garlic.
4 ounces of anchovies
enough cream to kind of hold it all together

It seems like he sautéed the garlic and anchovies, then added the cream.

We all dipped bread and vegetables into the bona calda while it was still in the pan. I thought it was wonderful, but as I said, I had a lot of beer that night.

For the next three days, I could not get toothpaste to foam up in my mouth.

This helpful suggestion seems to fall into under the "when your cup runneth over with stinky bulbs, pile on fermenting fish" school of thought, and I believe that only the addition of Corn Nuts could ensure a more foul perfume.

But following Dan's lead, I did, indeed whip up a delightfully nasty frenzy of garlic, fish and fat. I recommend you pair this recipe with a hoppy India Pale Ale, a pile of Netflix and a weekend alone.

With five cups of garlic still remaining, it seems a garlic jelly looms in my future... so I'll document that conclusion in Part III of the garlic saga.

A Note From Miss Ginsu : Seeing has how this is one of the most popular posts on The Hedonista, I thought I should provide a bit more background on the dish.

More commonly known as Bagna Cauda (bahn-yah cow-dah), this creamy-salty-fragrant sauce is of Northern Italian (Piedmont) extraction. The name translates as "hot bath," and it's traditionally served as the hot bath for cut veggies (think: fennel slivers, sunchoke strips, carrot sticks, sliced red peppers, zucchini sticks, etc.).

As one of the folks in the comments mentioned, it's a popular Italian New Year's Eve appetizer (with, of course, attendant rumors of good luck and good fortune).

Additionally, as you might gather from the name, it's intended to be served warm (maximize that aroma!), but don't boil it. Many folks do as Dan and his crew did, gathering around the kitchen and eating the bagna cauda straight from the pan. A piece of bread is often used as an edible platform for any delicious drippings that are bound to occur.

Labels: garlic recipes holiday

Hilarious... The Observer offers up a sparkling silver platter of The top 50 things every foodie should do, and I'll add few more just for fun...

51. Make dinner entirely from food you grew/caught/picked yourself.
52. Tour a meat packing plant/large-scale butcher.
53. Work in a restaurant (if only for a day).
54. Write a recipe.
55. Go foraging (with a guide) for edible wild mushrooms.

The endangered North American wild burger's wetland homes are being destroyed by the minute...

Sassy-smart food blogger Adam Kuban just launched his freshest new venture, A Burger Today, with hope of glorifying the burger genre with the same adoring eye he's lent his beloved slice.

This baby's bicoastal (although I'd bet the barn that the finest burgers come straight outta the heartland), and I foresee ample fodder for old-school web-style flame wars over the finest in flame broiled.

Join Monsanto and together we'll rule the marketplace as father and son!

Ever-so cute. Unfortunately, if Episode 1 and 2 are any indication, Grocery Store Wars might just be better than Episode 3.

So many have dedicated love songs to New York. But Minneapolis? Nobody's really written an epic of gushing praise like you'll find in "New York, New York," but then, MSP isn't half the peacock as old NYC, and maybe those winters make her a bit harder to embrace.

A more appropriate anthem probably lies somewhere between Lucinda Williams' dark terror piece, That Dog's anthem of adolecent longing, and The Replacements' earnestly sad and beautiful "Skyway," with a bit of Prince's "Uptown" funk, just for levity.

I'm a bit homesick, if you hadn't noticed, after spending last weekend in the city of lakes, where the grass was lush, the trees were in full, belting bloom and an herbaceous mixture of lilacs and fresh-cut grass scented the air.

When I decided to move to NYC nearly five years ago, Minneapolis had a sleepy culinary scene (not to mention how difficult it was to find a decent meal past 10 PM back in the day). And now... pow! They've got James Beard award-winning food journalists all over the place, and exiting new restaurants and specialty shops popping up like mushrooms.

Some notes from my weekend forays:

Hell's Kitchen... damn fine brunch! Hella good Mahnomin Porridge chock-a-block with wild rice, nuts and fruits; tasty bison sausage; undeniable bread basket; all served up by waitstaff in PJs amid killer-cool decor. Lovelovelove.
Loring Pasta Bar... fresh, simple foods in an enchanting shabby-chic la belle epoque fantasyland, but no quantity of mints could quell my noxious garlic breath.
Herkimer Pub & Brewery... A brilliant hefeweisen with gorgeous banana notes. Good salads and a plate ringed with the most adorable quintuplet of tiny hamburgers (damn my busted digital camera!)
CC Club... hello, smoking ban! The CC sans-smoke is an entirely different experience, but my companions were on a crazed quest for a pitcher of Grainbelt.
Galaxy Pizza... great reviews from the locals, but the place was stuffed to the gills, so we'll have to test their slices another day.
Patel's Grocery... a vast playland of Indian foods. The produce looked sad, but the freezer section was a robust circus of samosas, parathas, rotis and naan. Even everyone's favorite doughball, Poppin' Fresh (the Pillsbury Doughboy) joined in the chilly fun, thanks to that company's line of Indian freezer treats.
Tea Source of St. Paul... best chai ever. It's a two part system with a masala mix that steeps in sweetened, condensed milk and is later doled out into cups of floral, earthy black tea. Heaven.
Penzey's How I love a stop at Penzey's spice shop. So clean, so organized, so informative. Unfortunately, they broke my heart this weekend when they told me that Szechwan peppercorn is now banned in the U.S. due to "citrus canker", a disease associate with Szechwan peppercorn that attacks citrus trees. No wonder I'm having such an awful time finding the stuff...

Barkeep, serve it up hard and bitter!

You've probably tried one of Pete's beers. A longtime homebrewer, Pete Slosberg's now ubiquitous Pete's Wicked Ale launched out of the basement in 1986 and has since bubbled up into a whole hoppy, happy family of award-winning brews.

You'd think Pete would be happy with being a well-known national brand. You'd think Pete would kick back and pop a cap, admiring a job well done.

Apparently, you'd be wrong. Waiting on line at the checkout last night I discovered beer-brewin' Pete's been moonlighting. Doing what? you ask. A pizza shop? Nope. Hot dogs? Nope. High-end vodka? Nope.

The wicked one left the brewery to ferment on its own and went to culinary school to start up a second career as a chocolatier. Under the pseudonym
Cocoa Pete, the intrepid everyman's gourmet tries his hand at crowd pleasin' chocolate products in an attempt to stock America's shelves with something better than the waxy packs they pump out of Pennsylvania.

I was sucked in by the Caramel Knowledge bar, a dark chocolate (joy!), caramel and coffee confection that fuses three of my favorite vices in one four-mounded "bar." The pieces conveniently break off into dome-like chunks reminiscent of a quartet of caramel-filled dark chocolate igloos. I had one of the sections last night (one rich, sweet chunk was about as much as I could take at a go) and it was, indeed far more satisfying for a dark chocolate lover than its closest comparison, the Cadbury Caramello.

If you really, truly prefer milk chocolate, I'm sorry, and this may not be the bar for you, but Pete's site allows you to download a groovy chocolate 101 flavor chart, so you can compare what you already know you like to what you might possibly like.

My favorite aspect of Pete's new venture, however, is the "Bill of Rights" under the Chocolate Rights section of his website. That document that should be required reading for anyone stepping close to the rack of nasty chocolate bars at the convenience store. At the very least, it should be posted on the sides of waxy chocolate bars like the Surgeon General's warning.

Ah, IKEA... the home of the chic, cheap and poorly constructed. Looks fab in the store, goes together without too much suffering, but just try to move one of those freestanding closets from your old to new apartment... it groans and dies a bitter, splinter-filled death before your eyes.

But every 12 months or so, the catalog looks sophisticated, hope springs eternal, and I hop on the bus for another trip to the mothership.

Home delivery is only $99, but short on cash and anticipating a visit from one of the parental units, this spring's IKEA foray forced me into hoisting an eight-foot, 50-pound burrito-shaped rolled mattress up and down through the New York City public transportation system.

I clearly needed appropriate fuel for the trek. And lo! The IKEA cafeteria promised refreshing lingonberry juice and tender meatballs the likes of which I'd never experienced. I stood in line among the masses wondering how I'd bypassed the übercheap IKEA caf for so long. Selecting their meatball special and a slice of chocolatey Daim cake (try the Chocolate & Zucchini recipe... it's a guaranteed winner), I snagged a cuppa joe and joined the roomie at a sunny table with a view of the turnpike. Heaven, truly.

The meatballs, frighteningly tender (what's in those things?) and without a notable flavor personality of their own, benefit greatly from their creamy sauce and the accompanying dab of sugar-sweet lingonberry sauce. On the same note, the lingonberry juice reminded me of what Kool-Aid might aspire to be. The Daim cake was sweet, crunchy and best washed down with the surprisingly good coffee.

Not fabulous food, but certainly comfort food, and the sugar, fat and carb fix did the trick. My bulky mattress burrito came home with no pulled muscles (lingonberry power?) and my stomach didn't cry out for another several hours. For the uninitiated, visiting the IKEA caf is like dining out in another world... a world in which all the furnature is cheap and all the meatballs bathe in white sauce... like maybe the food court of Target... but in Sweden.