Meet the requirements of full food (15USC3391)

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, a foodie is "a person having an avid interest in the latest food fads." By this definition, I am most assuredly not a foodie. I have no interest in trying to keep up with any trends. After all, I have already failed masterfully with fashion, unable to renew a widespread love for the comfy grunge gear of my college days; flannel shirts, where have you gone? But if I go by the Dictionary.com entry -- "a person keenly interested in food, especially in eating and cooking" -- then I am an undeniable foodie, as my past blog posts and current waistline can attest.

Nonetheless, I refuse to refer to myself as a foodie, because I agree with many of the scathing interpretations of the term on Urban Dictionary, including "a dumbed-down term used by corporate marketing forces to infantilize and increase consumerism in an increasingly simple-minded American magazine-reading audience. The addition of the long 'e; sound on the end of a common word is used to create the sensation of being part of a group in isolationist urban society, while also feminizing the term to subconsciously foster submission to ever-present market sources." But I have to admit that I have suspiciously attended many events that were clearly promoted with marketing ploys of misdirection and misinformation aimed at foodies. So lest you worry about any potential food-based consumerism, isolationism, and feminism affecting me, let me defend some of my recent actions.

I once made TJ go out to dinner three times in 10 days (if you know him at all, you will recognize this for the spousal abuse it is) during Restaurant Week DC. Lucky for him, a similar promotional effort, San Diego Restaurant Week, is separated into two sessions during the year, the second of which was extended to two weeks itself. During the first session, in September, I dragged TJ to only two spots: Cowboy Star (below left) and Roberto DePhilippi's Steakhouse (below right); however, he made the selections, both because of their reputation for good steaks. The former has a butcher shop attached to it, so among its Restaurant Week selections were some unusual cuts; for example, I added a delectable bit of bone marrow to my entree. The latter steakhouse certainly had solid offerings, but its greater attraction was its ambiance: a windowless dining room of red leather and dark wood, complete with waitresses, in fishnet stockings, just this side of Playboy bunnies.

At both places, TJ skipped ordering a martini to try the establishments' signature cocktails, so when the second run of Restaurant Week came around, in January, he definitely grabbed a dirty one at Greystone Steakhouse. This restaurant was a combination of the strengths of the previous two outings: high-quality meats (read: Kobe beef) and high-swank setting. And it serves as an example of why I am not a foodie, but simply a miser. During Restaurant Week, Greystone's set dinner menu -- including an appetizer, entree, and dessert -- is $40 per person. TJ got the New York strip and I got filet mignon, each of which cost more than $40, according to the regular menu, which also listed appetizers and desserts in the $7-$12 range. So you see, we're not snobs, we're just scrooges!

But then again, I bought us tickets to see An Evening with Anthony Bourdain, host of No Reservations and former executive chef at Brasserie Les Halles, at the historic Spreckels Theater (top left) in October. Being a fan of the Travel Channel show probably qualifies me as a foodie, but to be fair, I enjoy Bourdain's cultural commentary as much as anything he describes about eating and preparing food (the episode on his crew's evacuation from Lebanon is actually quite a good primer for Foreign Service staff). I honestly didn't expect to get any good tips on where to dine or what to cook; I just figured he would be a straight-shooting storyteller. And I wasn't disappointed: He showed behind the scenes footage of his travels (top right) and discussed his criticism of the Food Network (which he is now associated with since it's part of the same Scripps Networks conglomerate as his channel) with scorn only slightly toned down from his recent dispute with Paula Deen (bottom). So you see, we're not pompous stuffed shirts, we're just sarcastic smarty-pants!

If going on a food tour isn't the quintessential sign of a foodie, I don't know what is. And yet, in January, I cashed in a Groupon for a Mission Hills Food Tour, which involved walking from neighborhood restaurant to neighborhood restaurant in sort of a rolling dinner. We started with a cheese course at Venissimo (below left), where we sampled five set offerings and picked a few more that looked interesting; my favorite was the cocoa cardona, but we took home an untested wild card: red dragon. We continued with more appetizers at Cafe Bleu, including a braised beef canape and sauteed shrimp with corn relish (below right). This restaurant was definitely a find, especially for its prix fixe menu on Sundays: $17.99 for an appetizer, entree (including coq au vin), and dessert. As the owner told us, it's like Restaurant Week every weekend; and it certainly is a steal, considering the wine pairing costs only a few dollars less than the meal itself: $15.

The food there was so good, that by the time we hit the third stop, I forgot to take pictures, mainly because the food didn't seem as inspired. RK Sushi was where we shifted from appetizer to entree territory, with servings of sunomono salad and pork dumplings. At Olivetto, we dove deep into the meal, with a pear and mascarpone ravioli accompanied with freshly baked focaccia. I was so surprised by the amount of food at the last stop, The Gathering, that I pulled out my camera again. Not only did the restaruant give us a half of a sandwich, a San Diegan, with seafood salad and asparagus (below left), but it was followed up with half a slice of dessert, key lime pie, which seemed like a full slice to me (below right). 

Indeed, by this point many of our fellow food tourists were getting doggie bags. We were so full that when some birthday-celebrating strangers at The Lamplighter, where we stopped for a nightcap, offered us pieces of cake, we declined. So you see, we're not elitist, we're eatists, prejudiced against people who are unable to polish off their plates. We only accept food -- fad or no -- if we can enjoy it fully. And if marketing promotes that food as cheap, interesting, or filling, I guess I'll just have to stand up and say: "Hi, my name is Kim, and I am a foodie."

Retail prices for representative food products made from beef (7USC1636f)

Ever since TJ and I saw the Good Eats episode where Alton Brown makes Pork Wellington, I knew that I wanted to try to make Beef Wellington. In truth, it's a pretty extravagant meal that should be made for some kind of fancy dinner party, usually Christmas, but I thought the tapping of TJ's pale ale was worthy of some gourmet celebration. After all, a fine English quaff should be accompanied by a fetching British dish, right? And one possibly named after the duke who helped defeat Napoleon seemed more than fitting.

But as soon as I bought the meat for the dish, I realized this recipe might be my Waterloo. The centerpiece, literally and figuratively, of Beef Wellington is filet, which is quite expensive -- and the recipe called for 3 pounds! With my other culinary experiments, I could char the whole thing, toss it in the trash, and still feel that the experience was worth the investment. But this hunk of cow was no chump change, so I felt extra nervous throughout the whole process.

It didn't help that the recipe began with making something frou-frou called a "duxelles," which I thought was French for "dookie," considering that the final product looks like something you'd find in a baby diaper (bottom). In actuality, it's likely named after some French marquis, whose chef chopped mushrooms, shallots, and garlic (top left) into a pasty sauce or garnish (top right). I'm not a fan of mushrooms, and after sauteeing the mixture along with thyme, butter and oil (bottom), I didn't think I was doing so well. But after reassuring myself with some photos online, I determined that the British must have found it funny to name the ugliest part of the recipe after the French.

Mexico is not known for its beef, so I ventured Stateside to find filet. The butcher only had pre-cut steaks or this slab (top left), so I opted for the latter and cut half of it into steaks for future dinners. The beef must be seared to seal in the juices but also to conform it to a wrappable size. Having no twine, I opted for some string I had on hand (top right), which probably would've worked well enough if I had tied it more tightly. In the end the filet did stay together as I fried it in some oil (bottom left) then smeared it with homemade dijon mustard -- yellow mustard + mustard seed = dijon mustard in my book -- in preparation for its wrapping (bottom right).

The Brits aren't nearly as insulting to the Italians in this recipe, allowing the prosciutto ham to retain its attractive marbled qualities (top left). Then again, you cover it with that disgusting-looking duxelles (top right) before you wrap it around the seared meat (bottom left). I managed to get the plastic wrap sealed even though quite a bit of duxelles spurted out. But I thought for sure that the whole thing would fall apart when I unwrapped it, so I let the meat set in the refrigerator overnight, as someone suggested in the comments below the recipe. When I took out the meat the next day, lo and behold, it did retain its shape, although I added a few more pieces of prosciutto to secure some duxelles that had leaked out (bottom right).

Real cooks probably would've made the puff pastry from scratch, but I wasn't willing to risk messing up by making the procedure more complex, so I opted for simply rolling out a few pre-made sheets (top left). Then by some miracle, I was able to flip the meat onto the pastry without mushroom paste splattering everywhere (top right). From there, I folded over the pastry, one side at a time in clockwise order (bottom left), which I have always found to hold better than doing two opposite sides at a time. I sealed the pastry with an egg wash before perfectly executing a triple lutz to get the whole thing in a casserole dish (bottom right). (It would've been easier to get it on a baking sheet, as the recipe suggests, but I had a feeling there would be leakage that I wouldn't want to scrub out of my oven -- and there was -- so I opted for Pyrex instead.)

I didn't have any leftover pastry to make decorations, so I just went with a few slits in the top to let steam escape (top left). After 40 minutes of cooking, the meat thermometer only read 80F degrees (top right), typical for the incomprehensible thermostat of our stove. It cooked for 30 more minutes before the temperature hit 125F and the crust became entirely golden brown (bottom left). After resting for 10 minutes, I cut off slices, revealing an obviously -- and scrumptiously -- rare center (bottom right). This was the first time I had used a meat thermometer, and if I win a cooking Oscar, it will be the subject my entire acceptance speech because the meat wouldn't have turned out so well without its guidance.

Technically, the Beef Wellington was accomplished, but I decided to riff on the accompanying sauce recipe promoted by Tyler Florence and other commenters. Actually, I made this right after putting the meat to set in the refrigerator, thinking I might need something to cover up my shameful failure. I sauteed shallots, garlic, and thyme in the oil leftover from searing the meat (top left), then I added Madeira wine instead of brandy. I was in no state of mind to dare a flambé, so I cut the alcohol amount in half and let it simmer for a few minutes instead (top right). The recipe said to strain out the solids, but I thought that was a waste, so I kept them in and just added the cream and mustard (bottom left). Last, I added Tellicherry peppercorns in place of green ones, which weren't worth another trip to the store even if they probably would've added a more subtle flavor.

Although the meat looks great in the baking dish, it was difficult to plate without it getting sloppy, so the sauce actually did come in handy, at least for presentation purposes (below left). And despite my distaste for fungi, I thought the entire dish was delicious. TJ and I both polished off our plates and our pints of pale ale (below right). My British heritage was able to prevail in this battle, leaving me without any regrets about shelling out so many shillings for beefy supplies.

Any adult may, without payment of tax, produce beer for personal or family use (26USC5053)

So here I am, thinking I'm being oh-so-adventurous by trying to make ethnic dishes. Then, bam!, the real cook in the house, TJ, reminds me that I am a mere amateur, with a single round of homebrewing. Of course, I instigated this slap in the face by demanding pumpkin ale, having no idea that making beer is like following the longest and most complicated recipe ever.

Speaking of recipes, I can't share the ones we actually used, mainly because TJ's recipes are a work in progress -- and completely illegible (below left). So here are some suggestions that contain similar ingredients to our pumpkin ale, English pale ale, and mead. A major shopping trip for supplies, including malt extract and hops (below right), took place a few weeks before our brewing on Christmas Day (thus the seasonal Noche Buena bottles in the background of both of these photos).

One of the recipes called for a special ingredient: a pumpkin we picked up after volunteering at a nearby organic farm. TJ bisected the gourd and removed the seeds (below left) before slicing it and roasting it in the oven for about an hour (below right). After brewing, I salvaged the pumpkin meat for soup and hummus, but regrettably, we threw away all but a few seeds, which I deposited in our backyard, in hopes of another batch of pumpkin ale next year.

Besides the ingredients, we already had purchased quite a bit of equipment. TJ had most of the accoutrements, but we needed the infrastructure of containers for fermenting the beer (below left). Considering the frothy returns, the investment is more than worth it. But the investment of time in sanitizing all the equipment (below right) is not as rewarding. Obviously, I don't bleach all the cookware I use when making food, but apparently, it's important in beer because even a small bit of bacteria can ruin an entire batch of beer (read: skunky).

With everything assembled and cleaned, we were ready to start cooking. The first step in our pumpkin ale was "steeping" some grain (barley) and the pumpkins in water to create a tea (below left). TJ occasionally checked the temperature to know when to add the malt (below right), which happens just before a long period of boiling.

Right before the boil began, TJ poured in some dried malt extract (below left). Using extract allows a homebrewer to skip the step of mashing, which makes any beer recipe that much more complex. The boil is carefully timed to determine when to add hops and other ingredients. Typically, the longer the boil, the hoppier the beer. The "minutes" in Dogfish Head's 60-Minute and 90-Minute IPAs refers to how long the hops stayed in the boil.

You actually don't boil all the water that will turn into the beer; some of it is added right before fermentation (below left). (Living in a country where potable water does not come from the faucet made many steps of this process a bit more complicated.) After mixing the boil, sans hops and pumpkins, with the extra water, we had to cool the beer, which we did by setting it outside and putting in ice packs (below right), so the heat wouldn't kill the yeast when we added it.

With the brew at the proper temperature, TJ "pitched" in the yeast (below left). For the pumpkin ale, we used a dry yeast that was mixed with water, much like yeast used in bread; for the pale ale, we bought a form of yeast that was already wet. Yeast ferments the beer by feeding on the sugars leftover from the malt (and pumpkin bits), creating alcohol and carbon dioxide; a little gadget called an air lock (below right) keeps those byproducts in the container and proves, with its little bubbles, that the beer is actually fermenting.

This go-round, TJ decided to ferment his beer in two stages. After a few weeks, we transferred each of the brews into new (re-sanitized) containers. TJ did this to clarify the beer, hoping that removing some spent yeast by scooping it out by hand (below left) and by siphoning it through a strainer (below right) would make the beer less murky.

Besides getting rid of the waste, the transfer from one container (below left) to another (below right) allows a bit of oxygen to mix with the brew, which can speed up fermentation. Although it's tough to wait, fermentation is important to the character of a beer because different types of yeast produce different kinds and amounts of esters, which cause different flavor profiles; for example, Guinness has actually registered its strain of yeast, which the company believes contributes to its distinct flavor. Another way to change the beer flavor is with dry hopping, which TJ did to the English pale ale by adding a bag of hops to its second container.

 

After more days of waiting, we were finally ready to bottle the mead and pumpkin ale. As with the fermenting process, all the bottling supplies have to be thoroughly sanitized (below left), lest you risk even one pint getting spoiled. Some priming sugar, corn sugar dissolved in water (below right), is added before bottling so the beer will continue fermenting -- and therefore will continue carbonating so it doesn't go flat.

TJ gave me a chance to put on the caps, but I deferred to him (below left), because I didn't want to be responsible for too much air getting in and ruining the beer -- or breaking any bottles. After the Great Christmas Ale Explosion of 2010, I am now well aware of how volatile bottled beer can be; therefore, we put them in containers (below right) and covered them with blankets, so glass shards wouldn't scatter if there were a beer blast.

Upon arriving in Tijuana, TJ acquired a kegerator, which meant that at least one beer should and would be kegged. After cleaning out the keg and coating it with some carbon dioxide (below left), we siphoned the English pale ale into the keg, just as we had with the bottles (below right). In case you didn't know, siphoning requires building up some pressure by sucking it like a straw, a method by which TJ performed quality control throughout the homebrewing process.

With the English pale ale, we didn't use any priming sugar because the carbon dioxide would provide enough carbonation. I rolled the keg delicately, like a baby, to mix the gas into the liquid. Then TJ lovingly placed our baby -- I mean keg -- into the refrigerator after giving it one last quality-control taste test.

 

So now, we have about 10 gallons of homemade alcohol sitting around our house, thanks to TJ's expertise and persistence -- and despite my incompetence and impatience. All that's left for me to contribute is a Beef Wellington to go with the English pale ale. From now on, my attempts at cooking will revolve around drink pairings, all based on our homebrews, of course.