Matters of Taste

More (mmmmmmmmmm, good!) on Memphis

Poor Konrad Spitzbart. As Executive Pastry Chef at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Spitzbart was given a tough task recently when the Association of Food Journalists convened at his hotel. His audience of 125 food writers, editors, cookbook authors and bloggers had just returned from a fabulous, multi-course luncheon of vegetarian soul food at Felicia Suzanne’s restaurant in downtown Memphis. And they were due to attend AFJ’s annual multi-course Awards Banquet just a few hours hence.

Spitzbart was challenged to wow them during the hotel’s mid-afternoon “coffee break,” serving a “little something” between the two heavyweight feasts.

                                       
            

And he did just that. Wowed us. Thrilled us. Left us licking our lips and fingers, with his heavenly peach crisps served in individual cast iron pans. “I just poach the peaches lightly so they retain their firmness and flavor,” said the Austria born chef in his soft German accent. “The local peaches are so delicious, that’s all they need.”

                                   

 

But, hey, a little homemade maple ice cream, laced with bacon bits, doesn’t do a peach pie any harm, does it? Apparently not, because I saw nary a soul turn down the creamy wonder being scooped personally by Spitzbart. Then there were the shot glasses filled with Jack Daniel’s Caramel Sauce, all lined up on a table nearby, begging to be slurped. How luscious was that? Well, let’s just say that not everyone got his/her portion because after I poured one shot on my peach pie and tasted it….I grabbed another shot and downed it neat. That luscious!

Munching my Way Thru Memphis --- Part II

On the first official day of the Association of Food Journalists conference, all 125-plus food writers and editors trotted off to Court Square for a “Food Truck Rodeo Lunch.” About a half dozen colorful trucks were parked on the pretty square; customers stood in line, then fought over the few tables that offered shade from the blistering sun.

                                     

(Apologies for small photos in this post. Working in the boonies of Colorado with limited internet access and impossibly slow upload times.)  

I opted for Central BBQ, which came highly recommended by Memphis-born friends.  Fighting off the urge for a BBQ Bologna Sandwich (not!), I opted for the classic pulled pork, a heap of tender meat with crisp, charred edges, topped with cool, creamy cole slaw.  CBQ’s sauces – mild and hot -- were sensational. So good, in fact, I didn’t want them to get lost in the unremarkable bun. Instead, I savored each bite of meat on a fork, liberally dunked in the sauces. Homemade potato chips were delicious. "Watermelon Lemonade" from another truck was, well, cold.

                                     
                                     
                                                              

Central BBQ was fired up in 2002 by two guys, Craig Blondis and Roger Sapp, who met on the BBQ circuit in the mid-80s. They’ve opened two other Memphis locations since then. The men brag that their meats -- ribs, pork, chicken, turkey, beef brisket, sausage and, yes, bologna --- are rubbed with a secret combination of dry spices, marinated for 24 hours, then smoked low and slow in the pit over a combination of hickory and pecan woods. Sauce is added only after cooking, a fact, I learned, that is almost as important in these parts as using real wood instead of fake smoke flavoring.

Mindful that I’d be eating again in just a few short hours ---- “A Smokin’ Taste of Memphis” at the Stax Museum of American Soul Music was on tap for the evening --- I slipped away from the conference in the afternoon to walk the Mississippi Riverwalk. 

                                      

With scenic views of the meandering Mississippi, the concrete path runs south for about a mile and a half, then crosses a pedestrian bridge to double back on the Riverbluff Walkway dotted with beautiful homes and pocket parks. With temperatures in the ‘90s and off-the-charts humidity, the exercise was a treadmill-sauna combo that burned up calories while allowing me to see more of Memphis than the inside of the Peabody Hotel conference rooms.

 

                                       

Next up: The Peabody Hotel's Deep-Dish Peach Pie with Maple-Bacon Ice Cream.

Great Gus! Fried Chicken in Memphis

Within 30 minutes of touchdown last night at Memphis International Airport, I was eating deep-fried pickles, drinking Fat Tire beer, and chatting with foodie friends, old and new, at Gus’s World Famous Fried Chicken.

                                            

In town for the annual conference of the Association of Food Journalists, our group  wasted no time in checking out one of the city’s most iconic foods.

The fried chicken was sensational. Crisp, golden-brown outside; so moist and flavorful within that it must have been brined first. Served piping hot , straight from the fryer….and hot, too, from the additional of plenty of cayenne (and who knows what else) in the batter.

                             

On the side last night: terrific cole slaw and cooked-to-death greens, which is not an insult because greens are supposed to be cooked-to-death in this part of the world. The chicken was plunked on a couple slices of Wonder-like bread; part of the ritual, I presume. (Gus’s also offers beans and/or French fries some nights.)

Gus’s, by the way, has been around for about 60 years and now has three Tennessee locations plus a few scattered about in other fried chicken-crazy states. The downtown Memphis eatery is casual and friendly… and hot --- at least it was on a night when it was still 89 degrees at 7:30 pm.

The antithesis of “fast food,” Gus’s chicken can easily take 20 or 30 minutes to make its way to your table. That’s where the deep-fried pickles came in. And the Fat Tire. Beverages are basically iced tea, water and beer from a short list heavy on American “lites.”

                                      

Served with plastic utensils, paper napkins and a smile, the feast cost me just 16 bucks, tax included.  Gus’s World Famous Fried Chicken was about the best “Welcome to Memphis” anyone could ask for.

                                         

Vienna's New Park Hyatt Hotel. In a Word: WOW!

No one has ever called me a woman of few words, but I was reduced to one, awed “Wow” when I walked into the restaurant of the then-ten-day-old Park Hyatt Hotel in Vienna, Austria. The handsome stone building, built in 1913 on the graceful square called Am Hof, formerly housed the Lower Austrian Escompte Bank. Hence, the new restaurant’s name: The Bank.

                       


Wow Factor #1: The open kitchen. Actually the two open kitchens. One for savory courses; one for sweets. Each a vast sprawl of marble and glass with elegant finishing touches that will knock the socks off even the most jaded foodies. Between the two spaces sits an oversized dining table where a party of up to eight guests can gather for a special menu, served family-style.

                         

                                     

Wow Factor #2. Soaring ceilings, stunning chandeliers and shimmering floor lamps that pay tribute to the famed Secession art museum,  which is just a short walk away. Home to Gustav Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze, the museum is visited by virtually every visitor to this city.

                                    

Wow Factor #3: An enticing menu that includes the classic dishes that people expect of Vienna, as well as some very clever riffs on those traditions

After oogling the surroundings for a good long while, I settled down to a still-life of Ricotta Maultaschen, which is a delicate Austrian version of ravioli.  The oversized pasta package was light and thin; the cheese filling rich and creamy.  And a flurry of snipped wild herbs polished an already shimmering production.

                                     

I also loved The Bank’s velvety white asparagus soup that was creatively topped with hazelnut pesto. And braised lamb, teamed with an aromatic red pepper stew, eggplant and creamed polenta, was superb.

Only the "de-constructed" blue cheese tart left room for improvement; its attractive “components –-- Blauschimmel blue cheese, toasted walnuts and apricot compote --- desperately needing something to hold all the flavors together.

                                      

Dessert, on the other hand, needed no help whatsoever. The Bank’s rendition of Meringue Glacée was sensational with luscious semi-freddo-like chocolate ice cream in one bowl, Viennese whipped cream in another, and crumbly “slices” of meringue in yet another. 

                                       

As a hotel restaurant, The Bank has to provide all the basics along with the cutting-edge cuisine, and it does so with panache. There are some nice vegetarian options, simple pasta dishes, and a couple of steaks with interesting sauces.

As a hotel restaurant, too, it has to have flexible hours. We arrived after a concert, at 10 pm, when most center-city restaurants had closed their doors. Pearl, the hotel’s bar/lounge also stays open late and offers a nice menu and terrific people-watching.

The Vienna Park Hyatt has now been open for about two months.

                                              

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride: Slovenian-Style

Yesterday we drove from Austria’s wine country to the Bovec basin, in Slovenia’s Julian Alps. When I Google-mapped the route, I found three options, all of which went around the imposing mountain mass called the Triglav National Forest. But I could see on a map that there was a road, up and over that range, the Vrsic Pass. The road is renowned, a mercilessly steep ascent and descent with a combined 50 hairpin turns that redefine the word hairpin. It was built across the pass for military purposes, to supply the Isonzo front of World War I. Opened in 1915, it is known as the "Russian Road" in honor of the Russian prisoners of war that were forced to build it. 

                                     

I was nervous about driving a road that Google Maps tried to hide from me, but was intrigued enough to give it a shot. Things started smoothly out from Kranjska Gora, the border town with Austria. We climbed, twisted and turned, awed by the surrounding mountain peaks. There were very few cars on the road (we enencountered fewer than ten in the whole hour-long adventure) but many motorcycles driven by lunatics.

About 15 minutes into the adventure, we came to a screeching halt when we rounded one hairpin and found an enormous tour bus stuck on the next turn. With its butt scraping the road and one of its back wheels suspended in air, that bus was going no-where. Scores of people lined the road along with police cars, tow trucks and a few totally perplexed worker bees attempting to right the ship with long wooden 4x6s.

                                  

With a U-turn was out of the question, we figured we’d be stuck there for hours. But after much feverish chitchat by the assembled cops, I was told I could squeeze around the far side of the bus. Really?  There seemed no possible way that that was going to happen, but I gamely inched my rented Hyundai toward the back of the bus and saw on the other side a strip of road that MIGHT have accommodated half of my car.

The cop in front waved me forward. Really? As I crawled forward, rounding the left corner of the beached whale, my husband gasped and said I wasn’t going to make it, that I was less than an inch from the bus. The police woman continued to wave me forward, directing me to steer straight which put my left wheels off the road, onto a steeply declining shoulder. With gravel crunching and breath held, I crept a few more feet and was free. Stunned and relieved, I chugged upwards, passing a few parked downhill cars that the police had deemed too big to make the turn.

                                   

At the top of the pass, we parked on the side of the road to admire the views, and found a steep, gravelly hiking path that took us in 15 minutes to even better views. Returning to the car, we found yet another “roadblock.”  This time, a posse of some 40 or 50 baaing sheep jammed the three-foot trail -- an obstacle we could not by-pass even with the help of 4x6s or Slovenia’s Finest.

                                    

The downward spiral of curves was hair-raising but spectacularly beautiful, and our destination town, Bovec, with what I am calling my Hershey’s Kiss mountain, was a welcome sight.

                                    

 

What Marie Antoinette COULD Have Said

Early on my first morning in the coffeehouse-crazed city of Vienna, Austria, I did the unthinkable. I went to Starbucks. It was strictly a matter of necessity. I hadn’t had time to stock the kitchen in our rented apartment; and the city’s elegant, centuries-old coffee houses hadn't yet opened for the day.

 But, I’m glad I went, because I also discovered the Duffin. 

                                     
 

I knew nothing about this muffin-donut hybrid --- in the U.S. the cronut seems to get all the press.  But I now know that it was developed in a London tearoom a couple of years ago, and that last fall “Duffingate” exploded when Starbucks UK’s factory supplier (Rich Products) trademarked the name, threatening the livelihood of poor little Beas’ of Bloomsbury.  (Photo above by Bea's of Bloomsbury.) Nothing like a flap over global corporations trampling the under-baker to work up your appetite for a funny-shaped donut.

The Guardian and Grubstreet can tell you all the details. I’m here to tell you that it was pretty darn delicious --- moist and cakey, with a hint of buttermilk tang, a tiny pocket of raspberry jam, and a dusting  of sugar on top.  It’s the only decent pastry I have ever tasted in a Starbucks, on any continent.

                                     

It seems fitting that I had my first encounter with a Duffin here, smack in the shadow of Vienna’s Hofburg, family palace of the Hapsburg dynasty.

You see, this was the birthplace and home of Marie Antoinette, one of Empress Maria Theresa’s 16 kids. From my windows I can see the wing of "palace apartments" and the Burg garden where the kiddies played.

                           

The Starbucks Duffin is photographed on my terrace roof, with the Hofburg in the background.

If only Marie Antoinette had let the angry people eat Duffins instead of cake, she just might have held on to her head a bit longer.

Poutine: Another Taste

If you found my recent post about Poutine mouth-watering (or weird or gross or inspiring), you'll definitely want to check out an entertaining Wall Street Journal piece on the notorious Canadian conccotion of fresh cheese curds, french fries and gravy.

In "Quebec's Baddest Poutine," author Adam Leith Gollner tells about "Poutine Week" in Montreal, an event where chefs, professional and otherwise, attempt to gild this already-over-the-top lily. (WSJ photo by Will Lew.)

                   

The article is informative --- "For a cheese (curd) to squeak its utmost, it needs to be less than a day old;" and pretty funny, too --- "The problem with aiming to make poutine fancy is that the dish is meant to be trashy. Trying to improve it is like adding a penthouse to a mobile home."

Gollner goes on a roadtrip in "poutine heartland" and shares with us the good, the bad and the inedible. (Chez Ben, below, falls into the "good" category.

"This may all sound a little off-putting (off-pouding?), but I can testify, as a native Quebecer who grew up making poutine as an after-school snack, that a good poutine is often a bad poutine. When you're craving one, you don't want something exquisitely prepared with seasonal heirloom veg. You want a down-and-dirty dish."

                   

"Unlike other lowly-yet-delicious foods like mac and cheese or pizza, there's not much of a range between the best and the worst poutines. Even at its zenith, poutine is still kind of gross. As pleasurable as it can be to eat one, you never feel better afterward—unless you're hung over."

Read it (in WSJ) and weep. Or make your own. Or book a flight to Quebec.

Local Color: Katz Orange Restaurant, Berlin

On a short visit to Berlin last summer, I fell in love with the darling of that city’s booming dining scene: Katz Orange.

“The Orange Cat” is a small bistro-like eatery with a big personality and a commitment to local organic ingredients and an eclectic style of cooking. Occupying two floors of a handsome brick 19^th-century brewery, Katz Orange has a rustic charm and inviting ambiance that won me over the instant I stepped inside. (Actually, as soon as I stepped into the front courtyard which is dramatically illuminated at night.) (Photo from HollywoodReporter.com.)

                            
                                 

Inside, the lighting – mostly by huge candles -- is low and artistic; the furniture, an appealing blend of hipster modern and vintage. There’s an eye-popping red lighting installation on the ceiling, a cascading chandelier by the door, and a small “art gallery” in back. Servers are a friendly, accommodating group that includes an American sommelier in love with Pinot Noirs. (Photo by Scoop.it.)

                           

Katz Orange’s clientele, a mix of hip young people, important-looking older people, and everything in between, is eminently watchable. The vibe is comfortable, cool, and playful.

The food, too, is cool and playful, a deft blend of classic German, contemporary German and tried-and-true American favorites, such as Philadelphia  Cheesecake with fresh rhubarb. The focus is seasonal and locally sourced. The menu changes often and usually includes two Tasting Menus, along with a la carte options.

We started dinner with an elegant little salad of wild herbs, leafy, flavorful, and laced with raw marinated fennel, pear chutney, “sweet-and-salty” sunflower seeds, and a misting of carrot and fennel cream. Equally exciting was the soup of young spring garlic speckled with small ground lamb meatballs.

It’s not often that I opt for an all-American hamburger when I’m in Europe, but I couldn’t resist the handsome specimens being trotted past our table. It was a great choice: top-notch juicy beef, loosely formed into a massive burger, perfectly cooked and topped with homemade condiments. I loved every bite. Ditto every bite of the crisp French fries, cooked in organic goose fat, and served with lip-smacking homemade ketchup and curried mayonnaise.

                            

Asparagus Risotto was also impressive, its al dente rice studded with local green and white asparagus and roasted romaine lettuce, and crowned with a poached “farmer’s” egg (no store-bought eggs for this chef) and a drizzle of chervil-laced cream.

In addition to the Philly Cheesecake, seasonal mousses and a cheese selection, the Orange Cat offers a lovely little plate of petits fours that sends guests off satisfied but not stuffed.

                                    

Since we didn’t get to taste the dish Katz Orange is most famous for ---12-hour-cooked specialty pork, with champagne cabbage, braised onion and potato puree, we have a good excuse to go back to Berlin again sometime soon.

The restaurant, in Berlin's trendy Mitte neighborhood, is open daily. Prices range from 7 to 26 Euros ($8 to $36).

POUTINE: Delicious Dish or "Dog's Dinner?"

You could call this an “Out of the mouths of babes” story. Or, more accurately, an “Into the mouths of babes” story.

You see, it was my 20-something sons who got me to try poutine. They had discovered this Canadian creation at Whistler Mountain, B.C., then at Salt House in San Francisco. They both raved about the glories of the mishmash of French fries, fresh cheese curds and brown gravy. They marveled at how it was always served in an enormous portion.

                       

For years, I've listened and wondered where the hell I went wrong in raising these kids. I mean, really. What could possibly be appealing about a huge load of soggy French fries trapped in (barely)edible sludge.

But last fall, I decided to give poutine a chance when I was in Montreal, said to be its birthplace. (Technically the dish is thought to have been invented in either Warwick or Drummondville, small Quebec towns not far from Montreal.)

I was lucky enough to be guided in my exploration by Julian Armstrong, the former food editor of the Montreal Gazette and a close friend of mine for decades.

Julian was quick to defend the dish, saying that it was pretty darn delicious when it first became popular sometime in the 1960s.

“It came in an individual small soup bowl type of styrofoam container. This allowed the freshly fried fries to stand up in the bowl, with very fresh cheese curds dropped into the bottom where they could start to melt. Over this went a little chicken gravy. You raised a fry and it would have a slight amount of melted cheese dripping from it, as if you had dipped it in a good cheese fondue. The gravy was only a garnish,” she explained.

However, more recently, when she and a photographer were looking for poutine to photograph for her book on Montreal street food, she had a rude awakening.

“I found the arrival of a low, wide Styrofoam container and a super-abundance of gravy. The look? Dog’s dinner. What hath the popularity of this simple dish done to it?”

                                       

I opted to taste my first poutine at a popular food truck parked by Montreal's Convention Center. There were about 20 people clustered around the truck, waiting to order or pick up. Everybody was very jovial. This was clearly not just lunch but a cherished ritual. I was excited.

I stuck with the basic poutine, made at this truck with braised beef cheeks, which were very tasty. The cheese curds were OK; a little chewy and with minimal cheese flavor (cheese curds don’t normally have a lot of flavor anyway). But, oh, my, the poor French fries. When I finally rescued one from the gooey gravy sea, it was long past resuscitation.

My first poutine was likely to be my last.

But, for those of you who think you can, indeed, polish a meatball, there are poutine variations including Greek, with feta cheese and gyro meat; Italian, with spaghetti and tomato sauce; and New Jersey poutine with mozzarella.

Armstrong also tells me that Montreal's hot-shot chefs pride themselves on their “designer” versions:  Martin Picard of Au Pied de Cochon adds duck foie gras (below). David McMillan of Joe Beef fries his potatoes in duck fat and adds Stilton cheese. Chuck Hughes of Garde Manger adds lobster.

                                    

Moreover, each winter during Poutine Week, the chefs at some 30 Montreal restaurants try to outdo each other with the likes of poutine with lamb shanks, flower petals, fried eggs, Hollandaise sauce, roasted root vegetables and wild mushrooms.

Not a bottle of ketchup in sight.

 

The Great Gastro-Adventure of 2013

The only thing better than a mind-blowing meal in a magical setting is a mind-blowing meal in a magical setting when you know you’ve already burned off all the calories!

             

That’s pretty much my definition of a GastroAdventure. I had lots of them in 2013 but one stands out: A foray into the Austrian wine country called Steiermark (Styria in English) where we ate fabulous food at Restaurant Kreuzwirt and hiked during the day in the enchanting Altenbachklamm.

                     

Home base for the two-day adventure was Pössnitzberg (above), a family-run winery with about 20 elegant hotel rooms and a Gault-Milau-celebrated restaurant, Kreuzwirt.

On the day we arrived, we walked the serpentine country road called the Panorama/Weinstrasse (wine road), taking in the vast expanses of manicured vineyards, meadows full of flowers and cows eating them, and picturesque clusters of old homes and barns. That night we dined at Kreuzwirt (below), a sleek modern restaurant that appears to be floating in open space, thanks to two sides of floor-to-ceiling windows that were completely open on the warm June night we visited.

                     

Dinner was a thrilling procession:  A “martini” of homemade vermouth sorbet flecked with olive bits and herbs to mimic the “juniper” flavor of gin; a single raviolo (below) holding a poached egg, sautéed spinach, browned butter and shaved white truffle; local venison with summer mushrooms and tiny dice of speck (bacon); raw milk mousse and rhubarb sorbet, and more, much more. (Click here to read about the whole dinner.) Every course was accompanied by award-winning Gut Pössnitzberg wines.

                                   

The next day, after a terrific breakfast served on the sunny terrace, we drove 20 minutes to the trailhead at Altenbachklamm. (Klamm means gorge or ravine; this Website is not available in English but you can use Google to translate it.)

South Styria is well known for its hikes, especially the panoramic walks on country roads and through vineyards and farms. But we were looking for something more challenging and, given the fact it was 95 degrees, something in the shade.

                               

After a short hike thru some vineyards, we found ourselves in heavy woods and climbing steadily. A billboard at the beginning of the trail described how the Klammsteige (“ravine climb”) was created in 2009 by local climbers and engineers. This masterpiece of bridges, steps, ladders, and one unattended hut, turns a terrifyingly steep and dark ravine into a pleasurable day hike.  Miles of railings, ropes and iron cables allow hikers to traverse the challenging terrain, and crisscross the deep ravine over and over again. Bridges are numbered -- I lost count at 25 – with the most impressive being a 100-foot long suspension bridge.

                                       

A bit of dappled sunlight peeked in now and then but mostly we were in a cool, dark wonderland that we had all to ourselves. Ninety minutes later we emerged onto a vast, grassy plateau, and gazed out over the vineyards and valley floor from the terrace of Gasthaus Tertinek, a family-owned inn where we stopped for cold drinks and a donut.

You heard that right. A donut. Known as Krapfen in Austria, these beloved jelly donuts are almost always homemade and always scrumptious. The way I figure it, you can enjoy one completely without guilt if you have just clawed your way up 1,200 feet in a veritable jungle. (Photo by EuropeanBusinessJournal.)

                                           

That evening, we enjoyed a quiet dinner on a tiny outdoor terrace overlooking the Pössnitzberg vineyards.  We drank Sekt (sparkling wine) during sunset, then enjoyed iced cucumber soup, garnished with minced salmon tartar, that hit the spot on an 85-degree evening.  Next came a lightly creamed ragout of local mushrooms, studded with diced speck, topped with a fried egg from the neighboring farm, and accompanied by a small green salad. Apple-rhubarb strudel, drizzled with raspberry sauce, was a colorful conclusion to the GastroAdventure of 2013.

Like most of the wineries in the region, Gut Pössnitzberg offers appealing package deals. We opted for the “Culinary Time-Out” package that included two nights’ accommodations with buffet breakfasts, one dinner in the garden from the hotel’s menu, and the four-course dinner, with wines, at Kreuzwirt. The cost was 199 Euros (about $250) per person. For more details, check out Gut Pössnitzberg.