If you’re a Broncos fan, salsa dipping and chip munching may have been the highlight of your Sunday evening. But for all viewers, salsa is a necessary component of Super Bowl Sunday. Scooping it is fun, eating it is delicious; what more could you want from a Super Bowl snack?
Yet it’s that question that irritates culinary enthusiasts, who long for the “all American” sports snack to return to its roots as a meticulously prepared, traditional Mexican dish. Here in the States, there aren’t any guidelines for salsa. Even the ordinary tomato-based salsa at the supermarket comes in countless varieties: spicy or mild, sweet or savory, thick or thin, and chunky or finely chopped. Outside the realm of tomato-based salsas, there are also black bean, peach, mango, pineapple, and even olive oil variations of the dip. And, as the variety in salsa ingredients has increased, so has the diversity in salsa’s dipping partners, ranging from the typical corn tortilla chip to celery or even to fried chicken. But despite the impressive creativity of American salsa producers, salsa aficionados should understand the true origins of the dip before plummeting their chips into it.
In its classical form, salsa is a delicacy. It’s used to complement the rich flavor of dense meats, such as veal or chorizo, or to be drizzled over a dish that may lack flavor, like a simple taco or tortilla. The word delicacy is key; salsa is used in moderation. In other words, people raised in Mexico would be shocked at the American tendency to load chips with spoon-full amounts of salsa.
Additionally, Mexican salsas possess a depth of flavor that American-made salsas often fail to mimic. Traditionally, each salsa ingredient is added merely to highlight the brilliant flavor of chili peppers. First, the type of chili is chosen; if fresh, chefs typically choose from serrano, jalapeño, poblano or habanero, and if dried, they have their choice of guajillo, cascabel, ancho, morita or chipotle. Different chilies are often mixed together in one salsa, but fresh chilies are almost never combined with dried ones. Then, additional ingredients are selected to emphasize certain aspects of the chilies that were chosen. Whether it has a salty, sweet or acidic vibe, the finished product includes a minimal amount of ingredients and gives off an intense amount of heat.
The depth of the salsa’s flavor is developed in its preparation. Ingredients can be soaked in spices or oils before the dish is put together, or the entire blend can be stored for multiple days before serving so that each element has time to influence the others. Chefs also play with variations of heat usage while making salsa. The sauce can be made completely in raw form (salsa cruda), with no ingredients that have been heated during or after the ingredients are combined, or can be prepared by cooking certain elements, either together or one at a time (salsa cocida). Julia Moskin discusses the difference between raw and cooked salsas in her article “Rediscovering Salsa, the Soul of Mexico in a Bowl”. She describes how raw salsas are “explosive, setting off fireworks of heat and acid in each bite”
So maybe authentic salsa isn’t meant for mindless dunking while rooting for your favorite team—for that we have American made salsas— but for your next “Taco Tuesday,” try incorporating a more authentic salsa into your Mexican-influenced meal. Check the labels for very few ingredients and some of the chilies mentioned above to know that a salsa is authentic; or try making your own! I recommend this recipe; it’s a salsa cocida using jalapeño peppers!
I can handle its foaminess, its stickiness, and even its smelliness, but the taste of beer is the reason I abstain from drinking it. I strongly dislike beer for its monotonous and bitter flavor, but more than that, I hate that I hate it. It’s tragic to attend the University of Michigan, an institution that undeniably has the best football tailgates in the country, and have to refrain from the social, carefree environment that beer creates for the students.
Beer, more than just an alcoholic beverage, is an activity. Instead of involving grimacing faces and extinguishing chasers, it breeds a “lets all be friends” type of attitude. People play games with beer, watch games while drinking it, talk about beer, talk while drinking it; the combinations are infinite. So, as last semester closed, I imagined begrudgingly the three beer-less football seasons that were still in store for me.
But my spirits were lifted when BuzzFeed introduced me to an entirely new role for this fermented drink. To my excitement, beer can be used as an ingredient in a variety of foods, sweet and savory, to enhance the dishes’ flavor and complexity. The BuzzFeed article presented 10 mouthwatering recipes that take the bitter, monotonous substance and transform it into soup bases, glazes, dips, and batters.
My favorite recipe calls for sautéing shallots and Brussels sprouts in a light beer and smoky bacon glaze to create a delicious and aromatic twist on a relatively bland vegetable.
A more conventional use of beer simply involves adding a bottle or so to a frying batter to create a thick gold coating on fish. Since beer is dense, the batter will encase the fish while keeping moisture in, so the fish won’t become dry or chewy.
After discovering the BuzzFeed article, further research led me to a plethora of beer-based recipes for all occasions. Turns out that including beer (of all kinds) is a simple and delicious solution for anyone trying to amp up a meal at an affordable cost.
But why does it work so well? Beer is becoming a popular flavor enhancer due to its relatively low alcohol content and its subtle flavor compared to cooking wines and liqueurs. The malty additive complements the ingredients it’s paired with, whether it’s adding a richer and deeper flavor to a sauce or glaze, or incorporating a clean, earthy taste to balance an overly sweet dish.
One small word of advice is to follow a recipe closely when it calls for a specific type of beer. Though it may be tempting to use whatever beer is already in the fridge, light and dark flavors often make a large difference in the end result of the dish. If the recipe doesn’t specify, it’s safe to assume that lighter beers work well with chicken, fish and dessert, while darker beers pair nicely with heavier meats like pork or lamb.
Next fall, while others are busy re-racking and keg standing, I’ll be hard at work filling my solo cup in preparation for a game-day dinner of Beer-Can Chicken and Hoppy Hush Puppies. Go Blue!
While you’re eating a bowl of this stuff, expect to get a little something on you. As you try to keep this food from falling off your fork, it’s almost impossible not to soil your brand new white t-shirt with some sauce. The food that I’m talking about, possibly one of the most entertaining foods to eat, is spaghetti. Spaghetti with meatballs is a go-to meal for many chefs, but you can prepare your spaghetti in so many other ways. Notice that none of these methods make eating spaghetti cleaner. In fact, they create a very chaotic dish.
If you’re in the right mood, getting messy with spaghetti is, strangely, fun. The getting down and dirty portion of your meal should occur during, what I like to call, the “slurpation” process. Quite self-explanatory, slurpation is when you vacuum up pieces of spaghetti one strand at a time. While you do this, the tail end of the pasta hanging from your mouth tends to swing back and forth—the faster you slurp, the more violent the swing. Slurp with caution, if you’re a little girl. I’ve heard of some people going through great measures to avoid getting messy. These measures usually involve putting a napkin on their laps and even cutting up the pasta into smaller, more controllable pieces. Although I can’t bash these people’s livelihoods, I can tell them to loosen up a bit. Have some fun—get some food on your clothes.
Some people put ketchup on their spaghetti, though I don’t understand it. If you want more tomato, add more sauce, which has ingredients to make the spaghetti better. Better yet, get a hot dog and put ketchup on that if you love ketchup so much.
Personally, I like garlic bread with my pasta. And no, I don’t eat it like a high-class woman who is afraid of anything slightly unsanitary. I make a spaghetti-garlic bread sandwich. I usually end up licking sauce off of my hands, just because I don’t want to waste any. By doing this, I use one less napkin, and I get more sauce in my belly, benefiting both nature and my mental state. Get at me.
If you’re feeling pretty crazy, then you may follow in the footsteps of Buddy the Elf from the famous Christmas movie, “Elf.” Make it a savory and sweet experience by adding Pop-Tarts, chocolate syrup, and any variation of candy you can think of to your noodles. If you’re wild enough to try this, then you probably won’t mind eating it with your hands. And while you’re doing that, put on an elf’s suit and some green tights. That’ll make you feel ridiculous.
We all know food is addicting. That bag of chocolate pretzels you just can’t stop eating. Those cheesy chips that turn your fingertips orange, but somehow your hand keeps on reaching into the bag. One after the other, you keep eating your delicious food until there’s none left. Afterwards, tears may form but you hold them back, mostly because you’re embarrassed that you finished your entire stash of food by yourself.
Lately, I’ve gained a new addiction: a nice warm cup of Rooibos tea.
Rooibos, which means Red Bush in Afrikaans, is a tea that is native to South Africa with a unique red color. With it’s sweet yet earthy taste, the tea has spread to cultures worldwide.
Though Rooibos has always been sitting in my cupboard, waiting for someone to drink it, I never truly appreciated all that it had to offer until I became sick. One night, when my sore throat was becoming a distraction from my all-important school work, I decided to make myself some of the tea that had been standing in my cupboard all semester. With steam rising from the cup, I squeezed in some honey. It not only soothed my sore throat, but it soothed my spirit, allowing me to relax—at least until my cup was empty.
Though tea in general has a reputation for helping with relaxation, I’ve found that Rooibos does even more. Rooibos has a wholesome quality overall, with health benefits that cannot be missed. As a caffeine-free drink, Rooibos also has many antioxidants, making it one of the “healthier” teas. It has even been known to help with allergies and asthma: perfect for the ever-changing Michigan weather.
To add to it’s list of amazing qualities, Rooibos is the tea of adaptation. One can drink Rooibos with a variety of added ingredients. In South Africa, milk is added to the tea, along with sugar to taste. Honey can be substituted, and many times it is. When drinking Rooibos without milk, sometimes a lemon is put in, to enhance the tea’s natural flavors.
Whichever way you drink Rooibos, you will not be disappointed. Pair it with a cookie or two, and soon it may become the same delicious addiction that it has for me.
Source: FlickrAdventures in New York: Eating Tacos for 48 Hours, Plus Some Drinking
Last weekend I had the opportunity to go back home for the fall break. Naturally, my first order of business was to take the first 7 train out of Queens and embark on a two day taco binge. In the interest of science, here are a few tasting notes.
Reyes Deli & Grocery, Gowanus
Wedged between Boerum Hill and Park Slope is Gowanus, which is the area surrounding the eponymous canal that used to be both cargo route and sewage line for the tonier inland neighborhoods that border it. Fortunately, it’s managed to eclipse its shit-ridden past and like so many other previously undesirable areas before it, has kickstarted the gentrification process in earnest (yes, there will be a Whole Foods soon, and yes there will be a bar, restaurant AND commercial vegetable garden on the roof). But in the quiet moments before the inevitable waves of boozy brunches and bars with bocce ball, we can patronize places like Reyes Deli & Grocery on 4th Ave and 14th, which is basically what it sounds like: a deli that serves tacos, tortas and quesadillas, and also a grocery that sells bodega staples, BIMBO-brand Mexican snacks, and Lindens Oatmeal and Chocolate Chip cookies, which I used to eat a lot of when I was nine but haven’t seen in over a decade. It’s another entry in the long, proud lineage of deli-cum-taco-joints that are scattered across New York, and I came in with high expectations, given that some of the best meals of my life have come surrounded by random Catholic paraphernalia and the constant hum of Spanish soap operas.
Tacos are $2.25 each here, so get any and everything. Upon receiving your order a guy next to the cashier, face partially hidden by a rack of Cheetos, will start working on your food on the flattop. In the meantime you can stake a claim to one of the five stools provided, read an article or two in a copy of Mexican Maxim, maybe overhear the cashier and the 13 year old shelf stocker gossip about you in Spanish. Takes about 10 minutes but eventually the tacos will come, served on pliant, supple steamed tortillas and with the standard onion, cilantro and lime wedge. The salsa verde is on point, spicy with sharp tangy bursts of tomatillo goodness, and absolutely mandatory. Carnitas, beef, and cecina (salted beef) are juicy, well-seasoned and generously supplied. Wash it all down with a bottle of neon-orange Jarritos. Everything just works together. This sort of meal is the platonic ideal of “satisfying”, like scratching a deep itch, or completing a particularly difficult problem set. Would’ve liked a bit more variety on the menu (some goat or chicharrones would’ve been sick) but otherwise, no complaints at all.
Recommend if: you just moved to Brooklyn from the Midwest and need to rack up some street cred, you are okay with the idea of spending anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours on public transportation to buy a $7 lunch.
Calexico Cart, Flatiron
I try not to think too hard about “authenticity” in food. Fuzzy concepts like “tradition” and “cooking with love” are really just lazy synonyms for “having lots of practice.” It doesn’t take Pierre from Gascony to make coq au vin or an Italian nonna to crank out the perfect orecchiette, it just takes some work and experience (which explains why half of all professional kitchens are staffed with Mexican immigrants). But I may need to revise that opinion for white people, specifically white people who open up food carts for ethnic cuisine. I get that it’s hip and cool now to sling fancy, spruced up street food out the back of a truck like some tattooed James Dean/James Beard motherfucker, but it wouldn’t hurt to spend a few minutes on Google researching the basics before crumbling some bacon on that shit, charging a 50% premium and calling it a day.
Calexico was started by brothers from California who seemed unmoved by the Mexican food already on offer in New York (and who apparently never ventured west of 9th Ave or into any part of Queens) and eventually started up their own cart/restaurant with locations in Lower Manhattan and (obviously) Brooklyn. While I applaud their perhaps uniquely American entrepreneurial spirit, I remain less than impressed with their (also maybe uniquely American) failure to understand the cuisine they are getting involved in. Tacos, and food in general, are all about maintaining balance: each element (tortilla, meats, onion/cilantro, sauce) complements and accentuates the others in an intricate choreography of flavors, textures, and temperatures. This seems intuitive; indeed, Thomas Keller knows this, McDonalds knows this, and Miguel from Oaxaca knows this. The brothers Calexico do not.
This much was clear from the two tacos I purchased from the new Calexico cart next to Madison Square Park. Perhaps even more alarming was the casual disregard for the laws of physics; turns out that wrapping steaming hot tacos in tin foil causes them to become extremely soggy due to the trapped moisture, a lesson that was borne out when the first taco completely split apart at the seams. Then again, that could’ve also just been a failure to Wikipedia the right way to prepare a tortilla. The structural integrity wasn’t helped much by overloading with too much crap: warmed-over shredded chicken, cheese, pico de gallo, ambiguously-labeled “crack sauce.” I ordered both the pollo tocino and the chipotle pork, but it didn’t matter much in the end because they both tasted like indiscriminate meat product with some tomatoes and lettuce chucked in. At some point I switched to a fork and spoon to finish the job because I lost faith in the second taco to hold up much better, which while not a tragedy like global warming, is still a pretty sad way to go. On my way back past the cart I spotted an increasingly long line forming up. New York, I love you but you’re bringing me down.
Recommend if: you live in Murray Hill and think venturing into Greenpoint counts as edgy, you are bored of Chipotle but still want your server to speak English. But seriously, fuck these guys.
Nightcap: Dutch Kills, Long Island City
One day I’ll know that Queens is officially hip when Lena Dunham films herself smoking crack out in Jackson Heights in front of bemused Indian grocers, but until then, I can always head over to Dutch Kills. Incidentally, I should note that LIC is home to the Queensbridge housing projects, which, according to its Wikipedia entry, produces at least 70% of the city’s rappers (Capone-N-Noreaga representing Queens to the fullest).
The neighborhood is kind of an interesting one: it’s directly across the water from some of the swankier parts of Manhattan and Brooklyn, it’s where the 7 train coming from Flushing intersects with about six other lines and the Long Island Expressway, it’s where yuppie-approved date spots like PS1 and Socrates Sculpture Park sit on the same block as boarded-up warehouses and autobody garages. Around the way at Hunter’s Point, a bomb-ass mural of the Notorious B.I.G. scowls disapprovingly at all that he surveys, the corner where he used to sling rock now sporting a boutique organic pharmacy. Back in the day, I used to wait tables in nearby Astoria, and it is genuinely surprising how fast the luxury condominiums and starry-eyed twenty-something transplants showed up in the area, lured by a breathtaking city view and the promise of $2700 apartments that are actually nice.
Luckily, what’s not yet crossed the East River are the alcohol prices. You can expect to routinely pay upwards of $16 per drink, not including tax and tip, in some of the frillier temples of mixology in Manhattan, but thanks to a combination of cheaper rent and a clientele that can’t yet afford to stand for that nonsense, Dutch Kills manages to offer basically the same quality of booze for $11 a pop, $8 during happy hour, which is basically unheard of anywhere that invests in its own custom ice cubes. The vibe is “industrial speakeasy”, the lighting is dark and blemish-hiding, the bartenders rock the vest and mustache look, and it’s almost always packed with the young and flippant, as these types of places generally are.
I got there early, spent a few minutes hovering awkwardly near the bar eavesdropping on at least three first dates, but the waitress was kind enough to eventually find me a seat. Over the course of four hours my fashionably late lawyer friend (who also just happened to move into the neighborhood) and I held court at a booth, sipping whiskey-based beverages and periodically entertaining our female callers. The drink list isn’t huge, but I wouldn’t hesitate in going off-menu, since the bartenders certainly seem to know their Fernet Branca from their Lillet Blanc. The cocktails themselves are fairly straightforward, and lean towards well-executed variations on the classics, which honestly, I am okay with, because sometimes you just want to unrepentantly drink nothing but Old-Fashioneds (or Old-Fashioneds made with Islay scotch and maple syrup) for the entire evening, and if you are that kind of guy, Dutch Kills is here for you.
Recommended if: you’re a first year associate at a law firm but want to meet some hipsters, you’re dating a first year associate at a law firm but are basically a hipster.
Don’t use the fact that you live in a dorm where there is an infinite supply of prepared food as an excuse to abandon cooking. The dining halls provide us with plenty of ingredients to make our own yummy (or not so yummy) dishes. Here are some ideas of foods to prepare to keep your chef skills up to par. (*Many of these dishes can be made in the Markley dining hall at the make-your-own pizza station).
BLT Pizza - Fold over the edges of the pizza dough. Fill the dough with bacon, lettuce, tomato, and a light portion of mayonnaise. Bake.
Rating: 11/10, according to the guy who made it.
Strawberry Pie - Take pizza dough and fill with the strawberry yogurt topping. Cut up another dough into strips and criss cross them over the pie. Bake.
Rating: ?/10, as I am afraid of fruit and did not try it. It does look pretty though.
Cookie Pie - Mix chocolate chip cookies with milk or ice cream in a bowl. Fill a pizza dough with the mixture. It will look disgusting. Consider doing this in private. Then bake it.
Rating: 3/10. It tastes like wet cookies.
Pizza Burrito - Cover a pizza dough with chicken, rice, cheese, sour cream, etc. Roll. Bake. Make sure to keep the dough very thin.
Rating: 8/10. The dough actually works well as a tortilla.
Nachos - Put chips in a pan. Cover with cheese. Bake. Apply sour cream and salsa.
Rating: 2/10. The cheese turned harder than you ever want cheese to be.
Calzone - Make a pizza. Roll it. Fold edges.
Rating: 8/10. It tastes like pizza.
Pudding Pie - Mix together pudding and whipped cream. Fill with cocoa crispies and pieces of cookie. Bake a pizza dough alone, folding up edges. Fill the baked crust with the mixture. Refrigerate.
Rating: 7/10. I thought it tasted good but no one would try it. Turns out pudding is scary.
Tricks
When eating Greek food, take feta cheese from the salad bar
To take ice cream on the go without a cone, put it in between two cookies. Maybe bring a napkin out too
Mix ice cream and root beer to make a root beer float
At midnight they woke us up for border crossing; when it was my turn in line I paid for the visa with the 15 euro I had carefully stored between the pages of a Bosnian novel entitled “Love and Obstacles.” Back on the bus I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the weird angle my neck was bent at. When I woke up I was in Turkey; Turkey the gateway to Asia, straddler of the Black Sea. Turkey the mysterious, the last of the great empires broken in the last of the great wars. Miles of sun-parched wheat emerged against the half-stolen light of morning. A few scattered trees perched aloof and hazy on the horizon. I blinked, yawned, and fell back asleep.
In Istanbul, I ate a lot of kebabs, because that’s practically unavoidable, but I also ate a lot of kokoreç. Kokoreç while I dodged and weaved past impenetrable traffic in impenetrable humidity; kokoreç under the waning afternoon shadows of Besiktas Stadium; kokoreç washed down with a half-liter of Efes and the gentle lapping of the Bosphorus. I ate some other things too, tantuni and midye dolma and even had some Shake Shack on Istiklal Road, past the Urban Outfitters and a McCafe where the hip local kids lined up for soft-serve ice cream at 2 AM and to freeload wi-fi and to be seen and heard.
When I was in Vienna I met a Turkish lawyer who told me to eat kokoreç, and because I crave hipster bragging rights, I had to track it down. After a bit of the typical confused-foreigner routine, I eventually found a stall that sold something that looked like what I found on Google image search: a long, glistening log of fat.
Which is not too far from the truth. Kokoreç is offal (hearts, lungs and kidneys) wrapped in lamb or goat intestines and then slowly roasted on a rotisserie. When it’s turning on the spit it looks vaguely like a giant sausage, wrapped tightly in twine and smoked lightly with off-brand Turkish cigarettes. When you order, the guy slices off a round, minces it, seasons with oregano and red chili pepper, and serves it in a half-baguette. Might set you back $3.
Istanbul has no shortage of meats stuffed inside or served on top of a payload of carbs, but kokoreç is a standout, partly because it’s endemic to this part of the world, something that hasn’t yet been packaged and sold by the Western gaze. I imagine it’s the culinary equivalent of the classic foreign romance: unexpected, fiery, slightly questionable and liable to leave a tingling numbness in your mouth. The first taste is always a revelation; supremely savory but with proper heat, the chewy spring of the intestine countered by the comforting softness of the bread. Sometimes they’ll add chopped tomatoes and bell peppers for a hit of lightness. Sometimes you’ve just gotta man up and chow down some tripe-wrapped thymus. You can ask for a squeeze of lemon juice.
I remember the first time, that texture, the smell wafting from the charcoal grill and the warm juice running between my fingers, motorbikes honking and roaring straight past the wide-eyed Chinese tourists in visors snapping pictures of Suleymaniye Mosque in the distance. Later on, in the afternoons when I sipped black tea in outdoor cafes and read longform journalism about teenage bullying on my Android because I didn’t have anyone to talk to, I thought about eating more kokoreç. Getting a beer, and maybe some kokoreç.
I remember the last time, on my last night, at the end of another winding alleyway choked with exhaust and vapors from sweating humans and panting dogs, a couple of old Turks with graying mustaches and dusty brows running a stand next to a bus stop. Afterwards I sat along the river, chewing slowly with every bite burning away into nothing, observing the lights of Kadikoy, shutting off and going dark in this sprawling, unperturbed city.
At the airport I spent my last few lira on local anise liquor and crepes, which weren’t great. When I passed through security there was a group of British kids arriving with their suitcases in tow, wheels rattling over the automated walkway. In town for holiday, for a lark, to find themselves in others, their lilting voices echoing far away as they fired up their Instagram feeds. Outside, the temperature dipped, and the moon hung low over Istanbul.
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