Greg Henry's Travels

Photos: Tybee Island, GA

jgreghenry — Fri, 6 Mar 2015 12:07:00 GMT

Tybee Island, GA

Little Tybee Island, GA

jgreghenry — Fri, 6 Mar 2015 11:59:00 GMT

The older I get the more I realize that stories that start with the phrase “I remember when...” usually have a point to make. My story is about Tybee Island, one of the barrier islands off the coast of Georgia, USA. A place where “nature lovers mingle with movie stars, bird watchers [and] good ol boys”. I’m sure you’re wondering how I ever found myself in such a place.

Turn the clock back to the early 1990s. That’s when I visited Tybee Island for the first time. My brother was living just 18 miles up river in Savannah, GA. I lived in California (and still do), but I’d spent some formative time in Georgia. So I used my bother’s place of residence as an excuse to return. In those days Tybee Island was a beautiful but odd place where tacky t-shirt shops lined a 3 mile stretch of buff colored sand– simply referred by the locals as Savannah Beach.

I remember small cottages and bungalows laid out in a grid just steps from the Atlantic ocean. Many were turn of the century clapboard houses with a vaguely Victorian vibe. Others were very Southern in style with wide wrap-around screened porches. Mish-mashed between these were simple 1950s cement block homes. The mix of styles gave the area a very funky charm. The only activity in those days (besides the beach and ocean) was an old lighthouse (original structure c.1736), a small military monument, and ice cream parlors every which way you turned. Barely drinking age myself, I remember watching locals pedal through the short main drag that passed as town with beer holders affixed to the handlebars of their bicycles.

I’d done a little research on Tybee before I arrived that long ago summer. So I knew it hadn’t always been just a sleepy little beach community. Way back before I could possibly remember it was a well-known Southern resort town– Tybee.

This historic barrier island gets its name from a Native American word for salt– Tybee. Which is probably how it became a very fashionable place in the 1800s for the genteel set to take the salts cure for all that ailed them. Resorts were built to accommodate the visitors. A railway was put in, followed by a paved road in 1923. These improvements made access to the island as easy as the ocean breezes that kept the summertime heat and humidity at bay. The Tybrisa Pavilion, with its famous crystal ball, big bands, and dances became a popular destination. Tybee Island flourished. By the time the Tybrisa Paviliion burned down in 1967 the island had drifted into a quiet period and became a place mostly enjoyed by the residents of nearby Savannah.

All of that info is the “I remember when...” part of my story. Because today Tybee Island is an entirely different place. It retains its free and easy attitude. The homes are as funky and charming as ever, but it’s become one of those truly great American beach towns again. The kind of places that are a traditional part of the summer months on both coasts (and some lakes and rivers dotted in between). These spots serve as emblems of our God-given right to get too much sun– and to eat and drink whatever we damn well please. Yes, that means fried food.

However, the resurgent popularity of the island also means the island fare has gotten far more interesting. Of course there is still fried food and a lot of ice cream parlors. Warm portable beers are (probably) still allowed on the main drag. But as America’s tastes have evolved, so have Tybee’s. These days there are places like Tybee Island Social Club, a sophisticated but casual “shack” of a place that honors the summertime tastes of folks like you and me. Simple is fine. But delicious is better. Simple and delicious (while wearing flips) is of course the best. Tybee Island Social Club serves gourmet tacos, upscale burgers and fresh seafood (some of it fried) in a casual beach bungalow atmosphere. If they have them, don’t miss the peel and eat shrimp. The shrimp from coastal Georgia are special. They’re part of the “I remember when” part of my story.

They also serve cocktails. Creative cocktails. I’ve got one from their menu that features basil, grapefruit and gin. Little Tybee Latitude.

Tybee in the summer is a great way to beat the heat. Tybee in the winter? Well, someday I hope to find out what that’s like.

Little Tybee Latitude

Ingredients:

3 to 5 large, fresh basil leaves (roughly torn)
1/2 fl. oz. grapefruit juice
1 dash simple syrup, or to taste
medium ice cubes, as needed

1 1/2 fl. oz. gin
1 splash tonic water, or to taste

Instructions:

1. Add the basil, grapefruit juice and simple syrup to the bottom of an old-fashioned or similarly sized heavy bottom rocks glass.
2. Use a long handled cocktail muddle or the wrong end of the wooden spoon to crush the basil until well bruised.
3. Fill the glass with medium ice cubes.
4. Pour the gin over the ice; top with a splash of tonic water, to taste.
Source: Adapted from Tybee Island Social Club

Photos: The Beaches of Uruguay

jgreghenry — Fri, 6 Mar 2015 01:49:00 GMT

The Beaches of Uruguay

Photos: Buenos Aires, Argentina

jgreghenry — Thu, 5 Mar 2015 09:20:00 GMT

eating great steak in Buenos Aires

Eating Beef in Buenos Aires

jgreghenry — Thu, 5 Mar 2015 09:13:00 GMT

Buenos Aires is like no other city I’ve been to. I was told to expect a city quite like Paris with its wide boulevards and fashionable apartments overlooking the chicest shopping areas. While it’s true that Buenos Aires has both those features, it has a whole other vibe than Paris, especially when it comes to food.

Where Paris seems to quietly evoke its culinary superiority, Buenos Aires jumps out right in your face, and begs you to love her. She’ll leave you screaming for more.

The abundance doesn’t stop at the dinner plate either. Architecturally, it’s the kind of place where fanciful Belle Époque curlicues dance next to boxy concrete apartment buildings whose heavy edifices keep both feet firmly planted on the ground.

Most of the food I’ve enjoyed here follows this same fanciful/utilitarian dichotomy. Lunches particularly can be hours long affairs, spent lingering over a simple but impeccably grilled steak with all the accompaniments including dessert, coffee and of course wine.

It’s a major metropolitan area, so you find all kinds of food. However, in general the food is heavily Italian-influenced, with undeniable Spanish flair and uniquely South American ingredients. First and foremost among these ingredients is beef.

Argentina is a beef capital of the world. They have galloped their way to the world’s second highest consumption rate of beef. I’ve heard it said that the only part of the cow that Argentinos won’t eat is the moo. So it’s safe to say that they know how to cook a cow. The restaurants where they cook that cow are known as parrillas, or grill restaurants They are seemingly everywhere. They specialize in grilled beef, but also serve lamb, chicken, pork, offal, and more types of sausages than you’ve ever imagined. All accompanied by world class Malbec wine. You’ll want to make time for at least one evening of meat debauchery when in Buenos Aires.

The Wines of Anderson Valley, CA

jgreghenry — Mon, 2 Mar 2015 10:53:00 GMT

Northern California’s Anderson Valley is a wine lover’s paradise. It’s more remote and less traveled than Napa and Sonoma, but still just 2 hours from San Francisco. The best introduction to the area is a slow-paced drive from one end of the valley to the other.

Being off the beaten path is a good thing in the Anderson Valley. These days I find myself in an always-on, gotta have it now, whatever’s closest, anxious mindset. Not so in the Anderson Valley. Though only two hours north of the high tech, high brow San Francisco scene, and a lovely 9-hour coastal drive from the megalopolis that we call Los Angeles, the Valley’s laid back natural beauty is a world apart. Serenity aside, it’s also a great place for wine.

The area’s wide diurnal range in temperature, which can span 40-50 degrees in a single day, plus the variation in elevation (sea level up to 2,500 feet) combine to produce a bevy of micro-climates. Add in the coastal fog and variety of soil types and you’ve got yourself a recipe for many distinctive expressions of place, or terroir. Generally speaking, these conditions are very well suited to both the finicky and revered Pinot Noir grape as well as Alsatian varietals such as Riesling and Gewürztraminer.

And bubbly. French Champagne house Roederer Estate placed a bet on the Anderson Valley for their New World outpost back in the early 1990’s. Makes sense, as two of the three grapes used for Champagne production, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, thrive here (I didn’t come across any Pinot Meunier). We had a particularly delightful and informative session of, er, sparkling conversation with Scarlet at the Signal Ridge tasting room located on the grounds of The Madrones. As Scarlet poured the current release of their 80% Chardonnay, 20% Pinot Noir blend brut she explained that the grapes came from a vineyard with the highest elevation in all of Napa, Sonoma and the Anderson Valley. Small grapes, big concentrated flavors: a luxurious bouquet of fresh citrus and apple with a bright clean finish. Different from a toasty French Champagne, elegant in its own way.

Navarro Vineyards has been crafting popular, very well-priced Pinots and Alsatian varietals (dry, sweet, and even non-alcoholic versions) for decades. Like much of the Anderson Valley, the stunning setting is enhanced by the warm and welcoming staff (as well as a couple of llamas). After savoring a pair of Pinots, I was treated to a taste of their 2013 Late Harvest Gewürztraminer and an older Late Harvest Riesling: both were lush, honeyed yet surprisingly crisp and refreshing. Noble rot indeed.

That said, Pinot Noir truly is the king of the Anderson Valley wine. From the five distinctive offerings at Goldeneye Winery (Anderson Valley wine with a Duckhorn pedigree) to the outstanding 2006 Baxter we had with dinner on our last night, each sip sang a song of cherries (some tart or sour, some ripe and red, some fortified like Luxardos), herbs and love.

In the Anderson Valley the term Wine Country is both a physical reality and a emotional state of mind. The Wine County here is a quiet place to spend your day surrounded by beauty, and perhaps visit a winery or two. Of course, with good wine comes good food. The combination of the two is exactly what I was looking for.

Peruvian Tiradito

jgreghenry — Fri, 27 Feb 2015 14:05:00 GMT

I’ve got more culinary delights to share from my recent trip to South America. The first stop we made was in Lima, Peru. The oldest parts of Lima are rich in Spanish colonial history. Architecture buffs could wander the streets in awe for days. While its connection to ancient Incan civilization will keep a visitor occupied even longer. However, I fall into the category of gastro-tourist and the new Lima is so rich gastronomically that it puts many of the world’s other great cities to shame.Tiradito is the dish I'd like to discuss here.

It’s tempting to compare Tiradito to the National dish of Peru– Ceviche (where it’s known as Cebiche). Both are fresh, raw seafood dishes that have been “cooked” by citrus juice. However, Cebiche has the bold pungency of onions, and uses sweet potatoes and oversize kernels of corn (choclo) to balance the bracing marinade. Tiradito uses more subtle charms to bring the sweet, raw fish into focus.

One of the main purposes of my trip was to learn as much as I could about Peruvian cooking, then share some of that knowledge wherever I could. The first thing I learned in preparation for this trip is that Peru has a 500-year tradition of Italian, Spanish, African, Japanese and Chinese immigration mixed with the native Quechua culture. Making modern day Lima a highly creative culinary melting pot.

I also learned that most Latin cultures make some version of Cebiche. However, Peruvians claim this dish as their own and insist it was first developed in Peru. Which may explain why Peruvian Cebiche tends to limit itself to indigenous ingredients like Pacific seafood, Andean potatoes and choclo, as well as native onions.

Tiradito leaves more room for experimentation. Good Tiradito embraces its fusion roots and is influenced by Japanese Sashimi and Italian Crudo. Both feature fish that is thinly sliced– as opposed to cut into chunks or dice, as is the case of Cebiche. Onions are also omitted from the mix. The taste is intended to be more subtle and to highlight the fresh fish. Adding to the subtlety is the marination method. Tiradito is sauced just a few minutes before it’s served.

Of course the key to good Tiradito is the freshness of the fish. The joke I heard said that the fish must have been sleeping in the sea the night before, and still wearing its pajamas when served.

Tiradito de Pescado

Ingredients

    1 tablespoon yellow aji pepper paste (or more to taste, see note)
    ½ cup freshly squeezed lime juice
    2 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
    2 tablespoon freshly squeezed orange juice
    1 tablespoon mild flavored oil
    3 thin slices fresh ginger
    clove garlic (peeled and lightly smashed)
    1 pound very fresh white fish (such as sea bass, mahi mahi, or flounder)
    ¼ cup fresh raw corn kernels (or cooked Peruvian choclo if you can find it, both are optional)
    2 teaspoon chopped fresh cilantro (or to taste)

Directions

Make the tiradito sauce: In medium bowl whisk together aji paste, lime juice, lemon juice, orange juice, and oil. Drop in ginger slices and smashed garlic clove; set aside in the refrigerator to chill for 20 minutes, then remove and discard ginger slices and garlic clove. The sauce may be made up to 3 days ahead of time to this point. Store covered and refrigerated.

When ready to serve: Thinly slice the fish on a slight bias against the grain. Make the slices as thin as you can manage, no more than ¼-inch thick. Lay the fish, barely overlapping, onto a chilled serving platter. Pour enough tiradito sauce over the fish slices to thoroughly coat; you might not use all the sauce, use your judgment. Let the platter sit no more than 15 minutes.

Garnish with corn kernels (if using) and chopped cilantro. Serve immediately.

Photos: Mendocino, CA

jgreghenry — Fri, 27 Feb 2015 13:41:00 GMT

Eating in Mendocino, CA: Little River Inn’s Crab Cakes

jgreghenry — Fri, 27 Feb 2015 13:32:00 GMT

So, I’m in Mendocino sitting on a barstool at Little River Inn. I decide maybe it’s time to do a little whale-watching. After all, I’m in Mendocino. It’s possible to spot whales all year-round. A steady stream of California gray whales migrate south from Alaska to Baja from November through February, and return north from February through April. The rest of the year– summer and fall– you can see humpbacks, blue whales, and sometimes even sperm whales. Or so I’ve read. And so I hope to find out.

I could get on a boat. There are plenty of whale-watching tours on this part of the California Coast. Or I could could sit right where I am. Because the bar at Little River Inn is known as Ole’s Whale Watch Bar. You can sit here, look out through the large windows just behind your friendly bartender, and see the ocean. 180 degrees, covering many miles– both north and south and as far as the eye can see westward.

As I sit, waiting for the tell-tale waterspout that all of the locals at the bar seem to have experienced, I notice I’m starting to get hungry, and my mind is slowly turning from whale watching to eating in Mendocino.

Fortunately for me I don’t have to decide between the two. Little River Inn has one of the best restaurants along this stretch of Highway 1. I could get up and walk 10 or 12 paces east and sit in the well-appointed dining room. It’s a lovely spot, there are large picture windows that frame garden vignettes. These views are as beautiful as any painting you can imagine. I could do that. Instead, I raise my glass of locally brewed Anderson Valley Saison 75 (a special beer developed for the inn’s 75th anniversary) and toast the gardeners and their artistic skills. I’ve heard the entire menu at Little River Inn’s restaurant is available right here on the whale-watching stools. Since I haven’t seen a whale yet, I think I’ll stay where I am and order the (local and sustainable) Dungeness crab cakes from a bartender named Sue. After all, eating in Mendocino is one of the reasons I’ve come to this beautiful stretch of the California coast, and why I pulled up a stool here at Ole’s Whale Watch Bar in the first place.

When I was researching eating in Mendocino I saw several ALL-CAP shout-outs about the crab cakes at Little River Inn on sites like Yelp, and I knew they’d won awards. I also hoped to get the courage to ask Chef Marc Dym for the recipe. So I kept my stool, ordered the crab cakes and another beer for courage.

Though I’d already decided beforehand that I was having the crab cakes, I couldn’t help but take a peek at the menu. It’s nice and concise, yet the choices are quite varied. Of course fresh oysters make an appearance (as they should in this part of California). There’s also Sole Almondine and Slow-Braised Lamb Shanks as proof of five star chef Marc Dym’s interest in classically prepared food. However the pine nut crust on his salmon and the choice of flat iron for his Steak Diane show his modern flourishes as well.

As I wait at Ole’s Whale Watch Bar for my crab cakes to arrive I begin to scan the horizon again– still hoping for a whale sighting. The buzz at the bar says this is prime-time whale time. Cool.

That’s when the crab cakes arrive. I love crab cakes, but lets be honest– crab cakes are everywhere: virile steakhouses, flirty cafés, and every waterside restaurant in the nation. They can be disappointing. I’ve even seen crab cakes at Japanese restaurants, where they’re fried in tempura and served with rice and avocado in a gyoza wrapper. Fancy, huh? However, I’m eating in Mendocino, where Dungeness crabs flourish. I expect cakes that will let the pure, sweet flavor of the Dungeness crab shine.

Well, I’m pleased to say that Little River Inn delivers a plate of shining crab cakes. So, with my sights set firmly on the delight in front of me, I pick up my fork just as the oohhs and aahhs become audible all around the bar. Are my comrades celebrating in a chorus of glee for a slow-poke sperm whale lollygagging just outside the window? Maybe. But it’s also possible these exclamations are directed at the crab cakes in front of me. Oohh! Aahh!

Yes, I’m sure that’s what it is. GREG

Dungeness Crab Cakes with Mustard Dill Aioli

Ingredients

    1 cup mayonnaise
    1 tablespoon minced fresh dill
    1 teaspoon mustard powder
    1 ½ pound cleaned and drained Dungeness crab meat (about 2 whole crabs)
    ½ cup fresh corn breadcrumbs
    1 large egg (lightly beaten)
    ¼ cup crème fraiche
    ¼ cup sour cream
    1 teaspoon lime juice
    1 teaspoon lime zest
    1 teaspoon orange juice
    1 teaspoon orange zest
    ¼ cup finely diced red bell pepper
    ¼ cup finely diced red onion
    1 tablespoon minced chives
    2 teaspoon ground coriander
    2 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
    sea salt and white pepper (for seasoning, as needed)
    2/3 cup Panko bread crumbs (for coating only)
    ¼ cup butter (or more as needed to sauté crab cakes)
    fresh dill sprigs (as garnish)

Directions

Make the mustard dill aioli: In a medium bowl beat mayonnaise, dill and mustard powder until well-combined. Ideally you should let it rest at least an hour before using. Though this is optional.

Make the crab cakes: In a large mixing bowl combine all the ingredients except the panko breadcrumbs. Season lightly with salt and white pepper. Gently fold the mixture until well-combined, but still loose in texture. Do not over mix and do not compact. Try to keep the lumps of crab intact.

Pour the panko into a shallow bowl and season lightly with salt and white pepper; set aside.

Shape the crab mixture into 12 cakes, about 1-inch thick. Gently roll each cake in panko, carefully patting crumbs so that they adhere. Once they’re well-covered set them aside on a large plate, spaced so that they do not touch. The cakes will be difficult to form and easily fall apart while you work. This is a good thing. Resist the temptation to compact them too much or add more binders. The results will be tough crab cakes.

Melt butter in a large cast iron or non-stick skillet set over medium heat. Once it’s melted and foamy, but before it begins to brown, sauté the crab cakes rotating them in skillet as necessary, until lightly browned and crisp; about 5 minutes per side. Do not crowd the skillet, work in batches if necessary. Transfer each crab cakes once cooked to a paper towel lined plate to drain for a moment; serve hot garnished with dill sprigs and mustard dill aioli on the side or drizzled on top.

Photos: Peru

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 13:49:00 GMT

Peru

Al Toke Pez Restaurant: Lima, Peru

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 13:45:00 GMT

There’s so much good food in Lima, Peru. Choosing just one meal to highlight is difficult. However, I chose Al Toke Pez (Avenida Angamos 886) because everything about the place defied my expectations of what Peruvian cooking could be.

Particularly the location. Lima may be the throbbing epicenter of Peruvian cuisine but, like my hometown of Los Angeles, it’s not always a pedestrian friendly city. So getting to all that good food can be tricky. When I travel I like to walk. Partly so that I can work up an appetite for my next meal, but also to understand how the city works and to discover the places not in guidebooks. Despite the lay of the land, I wanted to walk around in Lima as much as possible.

I’m pleased to say that neighborhoods like Central Lima, Barranco and Miraflores are exceptions, as they are fairly navigable on foot. However, since public transportation isn’t really an easy option in Lima, if you want to venture further afield you’ll need to get in a car or a cab. Like most places experiencing a cultural renaissance, the culinary explosion means some of the most creative restaurants are popping up outside of the traditional city centers. Young chefs particularly are willing to take a chance and start restaurants in untested areas.

One of these restaurants is Al Toke Pez. It was opened in 2011 by 20-something Chef Toshi Matsufuji, son of a famous Japanese-Peruvian chef. He chose Surquillo, a blue collar neighborhood filled with American fried chicken franchises and incessant car alarms. It lies just north of Miraflores and really isn’t too far away (maybe 3 miles) from the trendy Barranco neighborhood where I stayed, so I was tempted to walk to the restaurant. However, Al Toke Pez sits on the wrong side of the Paseo de la Republica highway. Walking seemed a bit of a challenge as I wasn’t sure how or if I could get across the major thoroughfare on foot. Maybe there were walkways, but I wasn’t willing to go there and find out there weren’t. So I grabbed a cab at my hotel and let the driver figure it out for me.

What I found was an inexpensive, blink-and-you-miss-it restaurant with no pretensions and a view of the busy street. The counter inside has six or seven stools that overlook a tiny cook space where the self-confident chef and his assistant work shoulder to shoulder preparing the orders for a non-stop lunch crowd; there’s often a line stretched down the block. Most people get their plates to go. I chose the counter as I wanted to watch the show while I gulped tall glasses of chicha morada (sweetened purple corn juice) that were filled and refilled by Toshi’s mom for everyone who walked in the place.

As with a lot of the creative fare in Lima, Al Toke Pez specializes in Pacific seafood, and features some of the boldest Asian/Peruvian fusion cebiches and stir-fries in the city. The menu depends on whatever ingredients the young chef sources at the fish market each day before dawn. Whatever he finds will have your taste buds shivering with excitement, as slivers of pink-tinged sea bass tiradito fly down your throat. If you’ve never had it before, this is the time to introduce yourself to tiradito, a more subtle form of cebiche made of thinly sliced raw fish. I’ve had tiradito before in Los Angeles, but under Chef Matsufuji’s sharp knife there’s a freshness and zing I just wasn’t prepared for.

The orders are filled by a boleto system. Meaning as soon as you can catch Toshi’s mom’s eye, you should get your order in. If you luck into a stool by the time the food is ready, good for you. All of this isn’t as hard as it sounds, as I said many people take their plates to go. Still, I’m glad the man next to me helped us navigate this system. He also mentioned he was here for a new menu item he’d heard about. Almejas a la Chalaca. It’s a spicy shellfish ceviche that is made from some conch-like creature and served on clam shells. It was the highlight of the meal. Other winners include: The fresh cola negra (sea bass) tiradito I mentioned, sudado de cachete (stir-fried fish), the combo plate (cebiche, seafood rice and chicharrón) and the cachete frito (fried fish cheeks). Which all reflect the Al Toke Pez philosophy of local products, low prices and a limited menu.

Photos: Norway

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 12:58:00 GMT

Norway

Lingering Over a Late Lunch: Gamlastovo Farm, Norway

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 12:53:00 GMT

To understand Norway, you need to spend some time outside Oslo. The Norwegians are people who enjoy the outdoors. Outdoor recreation and sports are popular. Skiing, fishing, hiking… But an outdoor life also includes work. Rural life is still a vital part of Norwegian culture. Many people make at least part of their living working on the family farm. From dairy, to meat, to produce.

That’s because, even today there is a very strong farm culture which defines what is traditionally Norwegian. The harsh climate helped shape this tradition. Long dark winters made travel and commerce more difficult than in more temperate zones. Families and communities developed to be quite self-sufficient. That's a core element of what it means to be Norwegian, from this outsider’s perspective.

Being an “outsider”, naturally I wanted to get outside of Oslo and see some of the countryside that helps shape the Norwegian farm culture. I'm glad I did too. The countryside of Norway is breathtaking. Mountains, lakes, rivers, and fjords. Each one grand in scale. Each one touched by God, I believe that.

We stopped in one such place. It’s called Gamlastovo Farm. It’s a working farm, sure. But it also has a 250 year old restored farmhouse that serves as a small restaurant, bringing food in the traditional Norwegian style. Simple, rugged and perfectly practical.

The meal we enjoyed was very much a product of the place we were. Gramlastovo Farm is located near an area known as Ulvik Hardangerfjord. The Hardangerfjord is Norway’s second largest fjord. It cuts inward from the ocean a full 111 miles. It defines the area in so many ways.

It defines transportation. For centuries the only way around a fjord, was across a fjord. Hence their proud boating heritage. Farming of animals had to be done seasonally. The only way to get an animal from down here to up there was pulleys. Really.

The sheer power of a protected body of water as large as the Hardangerfjord has a steady effect on the weather. I live beside the Pacific ocean. I know how stong a presence water can be. Bodies like that create a more constant climate. In the Hardangerfjord’s case, it creates a climate that is perfect for apple. So Ulvik is known as fruit garden of Norway. It has all the beauty of the best gardens you can imagine, plus the bounty of apples and cherries and more.

On our way to Gramlastovo Farm for our Middag (a late afternoon meal) we stopped at Lekve Farm to see the fruit gardens in full flush. Lekve produces several styles of apple juice and cider. Yep, hard cider too (am I smiling?). In fact the farm has even begun to produce a quality apple brandy (am I smiling even more??).

Now I like hard cider. You know I do. But what I really want to talk about today is the meal we shared at Gamlastovo. The cottage where meals are served is charming. Picture perfect, fairy tale– cute as button charming. If I did not know better I’d think a set designer was behind the whole damn farm.

As I stooped to enter the darkened building (the doorways couldn’t have even been 5 feet tall)– I was struck by the sturdy sort of permanence that buildings as old as this maintain. As my eyes grew accustomed to the low light inside, several small rooms outfitted as dining chambers came into focus– tables and chairs in the country Norwegian style. Plenty of shelves and some interesting utilitarian objects spread around the room as decoration. I hesitate to even call them antiques, though they were surely quite old. But the moniker “antique” suggests that these rooms were “decorated” in the “style” of a Norwegian farmhouse. No decorator could ever reproduce the feeling of exactness that permeated these small dining rooms.

The tables were set with pretty china, nothing fancy. But appropriately special. There were pitchers of cold Eplesaft (apple juice) set on each table. The kitchen was several (small) buildings away. But I still caught the whiff of something meaty in the air– I knew we were in for a special meal.

We were served flatbrød (flatbread) and gjetost (brown cheese). There were compotes of local berries too. But this was just something to nibble on as we settled into our places. Now you know me. There are few things as exciting as a new culinary experience. And we were having one.

The first thing I set my eyes upon was a side dish. Rutabaga, baked and mashed. Now I have had baked rutabaga before– baked and served like a potato. People like rutabaga, even if they don’t like the name. Maybe I’ll start calling them by their Norwegian name, nepestappe. Because these rutabaga were creamy. But without cream. Sure there was plenty of butter, but the creaminess actually came from-hand mixing. I can taste hand-mixing. It tastes like love.

In Noway you might say: “Vårt kjøkken tilberedar maten etter lokaltradisjon, akkurat so gryta hjå ho mor“. Which I think basically means: a home cooked meal just like mother used to make. Which in Norway means boiled potatoes. Simply adorned with butter and parsley. Gamlastova served these alongside a farm sausage (gardskorv) and house smoked lamb (røykt kjøtt).

Of course something sweet was needed to end this traditional Norwegian country Middag. So after a leisurely walk around the farm, we gathered back around the table for dessert. True to our geography, dessert was made from the excellent local fruit. This time plums. Served as a porridge with vanilla sauce, Plummegrøt, as plummy as you could imagine. Now where’s that apple brandy?

Norwegian Plum Porridge with Vanilla Sauce

serves 6

Ingredients

1/2 cup butter, cut into chunks
1/2 cup granulated sugar, divided
1/2 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/2 cup cream
1 tablespoon vanilla
3 lb ripe plums
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 cup apple juice
1 tablespoon potato or corn starch

Directions

Make the vanilla sauce: Combine butter chunks, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, brown sugar, and cream in a 1-quart saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until mixture thickens and comes to a full boil (5 to 8 minutes). Stir in vanilla. Set aside to come to room temperature.

Make the plum porridge: Chop the plums into small 1/2-inch pieces, removing the pits as you go. Have a large bowl nearby to collect the plum flesh and any juice that accumulates as you work. Toss the plum pieces with the lemon juice and remaining 4 cups sugar. Add the apple juice and any accumulated plum juice. Let the mixture sit about twenty minutes.

Choose a large, wide heavy-bottomed pot. Add the plum mixture and bring it to a low, slow boil over medium-low heat heat. This could take a half-hour or more. Do not rush it. Stir the mixture frequently scraping the bottom of the pot to make sure the fruit doesn’t stick or burn. Once the low boil is achieved adjust the heat and allow it to simmer an additional 20-25 minutes, skimming off any foam that develops on top. The texture is important, you don’t want to overcook or over stir the fruit to the point that it breaks down too much.

Create a slurry with the potato starch. Turn the heat off and slowly drizzle in the starch, stirring the whole time. Cover the pot and let it sit until it comes to room temperature. The porridge is served at room temperature with a drizzle of vanilla sauce on each portion.

Costa Rica: Eating Local

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 12:32:00 GMT

Simple food honestly prepared. Whole fried fish with plantains, served outside on the weathered boards of a rustic table, accompanied by beer and hot sauce.

Ocean breezes and shanty shade to protect us from the heat and sun. The sound of something Latin and soulful crackling through speakers that have spent too much time in the salty air. The beat, somewhere between Soca and Salsa, competes with the crash of the waves.

These are the kinds of places I seek out when I travel.

I found one such place in Quepos, Costa Rica. It’s called Bahia Azul. It’s a simple place with rusty fixtures, broken chairs and happy people. It’s not the kind of place you’ll find many tourists, it’s a bit off the beaten path. From the outside it may even seem a bit intimidating– it may not “clean” in the way Americans are used to, but it's authentic, and perfectly delicious.

It’s the kind of place locals stop in to get a bite to eat and a quick beer or four on their way to or from the day’s activities. I can tell the regulars knew just who to expect to see sitting at the bar. There aren’t any menus. All the patrons know what is served. Afterall, this is Quepos, a fishing town on the Pacific coast. The people here have earned their living from the sea long before the tourists came to town. One after the other I watched the people who ambled up to the bar sit down smile and simply say pescado. That means fish.

When you say pescado at a place like Bahia Azul, you get a whole fried fish, served with scorching hot fried plantains, and the local version of a salad made with whatever vegetable the cook has handy. Naturally, when we took our table we simply said, "pescado, por favor". Oh, and "dos cervezas!"

What we got was the perfect marriage of delicious food, served with no pretense. Which perfectly reflects the relaxed atmosphere. It was a great culinary moment for me. We spent the whole afternoon there. Drinking beer, playing backgammon, watching the water taxi ferry folks back and forth across the bahia azul surrounding us.

Costa Rican Guaro Sour and my Journey to the Jungle

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 12:17:00 GMT

It’s a bit late to get started, I’m thinking to myself. So I impatiently shuffle in my Tevas at the entrance to Manuel Antonio National Park on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. I’m with a fairly large group that includes a boisterous, inquisitive six-year-old. The sun is sitting high enough in the sky to be blazing down, so I try to keep to the shadows at the rim of trees that define this edge of the rain forest. Several other groups, our size or larger, begin to encroach on my shade. I’ll admit I’m feeling a bit bamboozled by the cost of this guided tour. Or maybe I just mean the idea of it, because a guided tour is not how I imagined I’d spend my time in the rainforest.

You see, I’ve been to Costa Rica before. I’ve experienced the hush and the heat. The buzz and the beauty. I’ve stood next to my partner Ken, no words between us, as the deep, dark quiet gets blasted bright by the supercharged scream of a lonely male howler monkey. I don’t expect that kind of electricity today.

For most of the group, this is an initiation into the mysteries of the Costa Rican jungle. I sense my companions’ excitement, and keep my “been there done that” attitude to myself. It may be a national park, but it holds secrets nonetheless. I know this from previous visits. It’s why I fear we’ve started too late and with the wrong intentions.

Our guide William finally shows up with all requisite equipment. I feel a little silly standing here, neck draped with outdated binoculars and a point-and-shoot camera. I fumble to shake his hand and grapple with the equipment I wish I’d left behind.

William is a Costa Rican and is handsome as hell. Not that this matters in the jungle. Or maybe that’s exactly where it matters the most. He wears standard-issue trousers tucked into brown leather boots. His shirt is official. His hair trimmed and neat. He doesn’t seem to sweat.

“Okay, Amigos,” he says with a certain radiance about him. “You should know that the park is undependable.” It’s William’s job to introduce the forest to us. His success depends on how many plants and animals he can identify in 90 minutes. It worries me that he seems to be back-pedaling.

Our group moves forward– hushed and expectant. There are too many of us and I fear we won’t see a thing. William leads us down the wide trail. We’re followed by other groups who seem nearsighted and lead-footed. I get the feeling I need to let my trepidations go– the joy of a six-year-old experiencing life for the first time does that to you. Because he’s right, he may be six, but he’s right– no matter what happens we’re in a beautiful place.

What happens however is magical– not five steps into the park, we come across a doe-eyed sloth. So close I could touch him if I wanted. He’s moving as slow as a glacier. Considering the heat, I think that’s quite an accomplishment.

Now William is explaining that we’re walking through a secondary forest. The virgin forest was cut down to create pastureland 50 or so years ago. The primary forest lies ahead.

We file by huge buttress-like tree roots and inter-planetary-sized philodendrons. A strangler fig with tendrils as thick as arms chokes a neighboring tree. William points out clusters of touch sensitive plants called Mimosa Pudica (Touch Me Not). A huge Blue Morpheus butterfly flutters past. Next we see a frog as tiny as a thumbnail and a bird impossibly sitting on the ground looking as much like a snake as bird ever could.

Suddenly, there is a racket in the canopy overhead. “A white-faced capuchin monkey” William says. Suddenly I realize I’ve seen more nature today than I had on any previous visit.

We barely have time to recover when that electricity I described earlier fills the air. Sure enough, a howler monkey sounds his warning. It’s nothing like the muffled woot-woot of Tarzan’s chimpanzee, Cheetah. It peels like the opening sound track of a sci-fi movie. Somewhere between a blast furnace and a gale– it makes you think of the TV news when those who survived a tornado try to describe how they knew it was coming. The scream of a howler monkey is both lonely and aggressive.

We round the corner and the ocean smacks us right in the face. Two perfect beaches, split down the middle as an isthmus comes into view. Our group is in awe. Of course we are. Just then there is a crashing in the underbrush, a snout-faced cross between a big rat and a little pig screams towards us. He seems injured and confused. Which begins to worry me. Just what sort of creature is chasing him? William is laughing. “It’s an agouti.” He’s harmless.

We end our perfect hike at a perfect beach. One among us gets the idea to sneak some beers in. Beers are prohibited in this national park, but this is a perfect day and our beers get by security with no problem. I’m ashamed and thrilled… and happy.

We head back to the rented house (Casa Elsa). Once “home” I decide to make a cocktail. Something as authentic as the experience we had today. Something with guaro.

Guaro is a clear spirit. It leads the list of traditional alcoholic drinks in Costa Rica. It was once the province of the cash-challenged drinker and has a reputation of being the “rot gut” of this country. Which explains why so many consider it a crude spirit and most tourists pass the stuff right by. But that’s why they are tourists and we are travelers…

When I came here I knew I was going to seek out guaro. I have met people who have come home from Costa Rica raving about the stuff. But before you run out to the liquor store you should know that guaro is also a generic term for rum, so there is some confusion between actual guaro and rum. Like rum, guaro is distilled from pressed sugar cane. The taste and quality varies in different parts of Latin America, but in Costa Rica the Cacique label is making a very refined guaro, distilled and filtered using only quality ingredients.

In Costa Rica guaro-based mixed drinks usually consist of pouring a shot or two into a glass with ice and pouring Fresca over it. Which has its appeal I have to admit. It also mixes nicely with other tangy citrusy soft drinks and fruit juices. This is the Tico (Costa Rican) way to enjoy this spirit.

But I decided to make my first experience a bit more elegant.

Guaro Sour

Ingredients

½ fresh lime (cut into 4 wedges)
1 teaspoon sugar
cracked ice (as needed)
3 ounce guaro (preferably Cacique)
1 splash club soda (or to taste)
1 sprig mint (for garnish)

Directions

Add the sugar and lime wedges to the bottom of a double old-fashioned or similarly sized heavy bottom rocks glass.

Use a long handled cocktail muddler or the wrong end of the wooden spoon to crush the limes until the juice is extracted and the rinds are bruised.

Leave all the pulp, rinds and sugary juice in the glass; fill the glass to heaping with cracked ice.

Pour the guaro over the ice; top with a splash of club soda, to taste.

Garnish with mint sprig; serve with a straw for stirring and sipping.

Notes: White rum or cachaça cane spirit can be substituted for guaro.

Photos: Costa Rica

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 12:12:00 GMT

Gallo Pinto: The Breakfast of Champions Tico Style

jgreghenry — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 12:03:00 GMT

I’m in Costa Rica. I have actually been here a few days. But I wanted to get my local groove on before I posted about my experience. But I am ready to start this Costa Rican travel adventure and what better way to start than with breakfast. In Costa Rica, comida tipica includes rice and beans. They are a staple. They often make the plate three times a day, at breakfast, lunch and dinner.

But it’s breakfast where Gallo Pinto reigns supreme and is Costa Rica’s favorite way to start the day. Costa Rican food usually consists of a combination of rice, beans, meat, and vegetables. The typical Costa Rican breakfast exemplifies what comida tipica is all about. Most families in Costa Rica eat a full serving of Gallo Pinto every morning before heading off to their daily activities, sometimes eggs, toast, tortillas and plantains are included. Most tourists have this combination at least once during their stay. Maniacs like me have it every day because I wanted to come up with my own version.

Naturally I want my version to be as authentic as possible. That’s why I ordered it at every opportunity I could. But I soon discovered that Gallo Pinto is one of those foods that can be as different as the household or restaurant where it is prepared. The only essential ingredients are rice and beans. But red beans, pinto beans and black beans seem to prevail.

Now Costa Rican rice and beans differ from the Mexican versions you may be used to. Most notably because bold spices and chilis are not common in this country’s cuisine. The main flavor come from a bottled sauce called Lizano. It reminds me a bit of Worcestershire, in fact I used a combination in my version because I saw a cook here use Worcestershire in the kitchen and serve Lizano at the table. I am sure Worcestershire alone would make a fine replacement. But I have seen Lizano sauce in Latin markets in Los Angeles, so maybe you can get your hands on some. Because it’s this sauce that makes Gallo Pico so memorable. If you’ve ever tried authentic Gallo Pinto you’ll want to have it again. If you’ve never had it, it’s so easy you’ll want to make it yourself. So, here’s the recipe I came up with to make Gallo Pinto like a Costa Rican.

Gallo Pinto serves 4

    3 tablespoons vegetable or corn oil

    1⁄2 cup onions, peeled and cut into 1/4″ dice

    1⁄2 cup red bell pepper, cored, trimmed and cut into 1/4″ dice

    1 cup pre-cooked black beans

    2 cup pre-cooked long grain rice

    1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce, or more to taste

    1⁄4 teaspoon salt, or more to taste

    2 tablespoon cilantro leaves, minced

    Lizano sauce to taste

Instructions

Heat the oil in a skillet set over medium heat. Add onions and cook, stirring often, until just beginning to brown, about 6 minutes. Add the red bell pepper, and cook stirring often until softened, about 2 minutes more Add the beans and some of their liquid. Lower the heat and stir for a minute. Add rice, Worcestershire sauce, salt and cilantro. You may need to add a tablespoon or so of water to achieve a neither dry nor soupy texture. Mix well and simmer for 5 minutes. Serve hot with eggs, toast, possibly fried plantains and the Lizano sauce on the side.

Photos: Passport & Plate - Buñuelos de Algas (Seaweed Fritters)

jgreghenry — Wed, 18 Feb 2015 17:05:00 GMT

Ingredients 3 large eggs 3 cup milk 3 cup all-purpose flour 2 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon coarse sea salt (plus more for seasoning) ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (or more to taste) 4 ounce fresh or reconstituted dried seaweed, chopped peanut or canola oil (as needed for frying) lime wedges (to taste) aioli (for dipping) How to prepare this recipe In a large bowl beat eggs and half the milk until well combined. Slowly stir in the flour, in 3 or 4 additions, then add the baking powder. Once fully incorporated and relatively smooth, add the remaining milk, salt and cayenne pepper; stir until smooth. The batter should be slightly thicker than pancake batter, and not at all lumpy. Adjust consistency with water or flour as needed. Stir in the seaweed. Set aside to rest at least 20 minutes. Meanwhile, heat about 3-inches of oil in deep, straight-sided pot over medium-high heat until a fry thermometer reached 375 degrees F. Carefully drop batter by rounded tablespoons into hot oil and cook until golden, turning and rolling them with a heat proof utensil as needed for even browning, about 2 minutes. Do not crowd, work in batches, making sure to return the oil to the proper temperature between each batch. Drain on paper towels; season with salt while still very hot. Serve then hot with fresh lime wedges and ailoi on the side. The story behind this recipe When I travel I like to try new things. I was recently on a driving trip along the coast of Uruguay where I sampled Buñuelos de Algas (seaweed fritters). Humble hostels & high-end restaurants all serve them. The guidebooks call them a must-try. I agree. But if it weren’t for a freak rainstorm I might not have. We’d just spent 2 nights in Punta Del Este where the days are filled by tanned, buffed, bikini-clad boys & girls plopped on the beach. The nights are late & the music is loud. We were craving some laid back beach time, so we got in the car & drove with no particular plan. About 2 hours outside of Punta the rain come down in sheets so thick we had to pull into the first town we saw. That town was La Pedrera. We snagged a bluff top, oceanside table in a café. Without even being asked we were brought Buñuelos de Algas. They were hot & savory. They tasted just like the sea. As we sat with our beer & fritters the rain moved on and the sun came out. We discovered a town whose lifestyle may be simpler than Punta and environs, but its beaches are as good as they get. La Pedrera may well be the next bohemian-chic hideaway along this beautiful coast. But none of that has happened quite yet. For now the days are lazy & streets still close at sunset. Pedestrians wander eating hot fritters while drinking cheap beers from liter bottles or sipping Maté through silver straws. Musicians & artisans set up make-shift stands, creating a boisterous scene full of music & light. It’s fun to watch the streets fill with lusty-eyed teenagers hanging out in board shorts & bikinis, calculating each others every move. For all this activity La Pedrera is quite small. Walk a block in either direction & the lust, laughter & lights are replaced by the smooth sound of the ocean, and the twinkling glimmer of Orion (standing on his head, from this American’s perspective). All in all it’s quite a special place. One I’ll always think of whenever I make this recipe for seaweed fritters.