The heavens have cleared here in NYC, finally.  After over twenty straight days of clouds and/or rain, we celebrated the welcoming warm and sunny weather with something light and bright.  Before this week, bathing suit season seemed very, very far away – then the heat and sun came and getting into a bathing suit began staring me in the face immediately. Barf.  I’ll need a few less choripáns and patacones and a few more lentils and fish to feel a bit less “Dance Your Ass Off contestant” and a bit more Gisele Bündchen pre-pregnancy (that ain’t no beer bloat, please).

With the abundance of basil out in the garden, we decorated our plate of lentils and quickly seared, sesame-crusted tuna steaks with some fresh, bright basil oil.  Easiest thing to make and extremely delicious.  Nothing much more to elaborate on except to say that this meal cost about $5 each and took about twenty minutes to prepare.  Can’t get any better than that (well except if I really did look like Gisele).

Virtually everywhere they make sausages, and in a lot of places they don’t, some form of sausage in bread combination is sold by street vendors, often to the inebriated, and, in many cases, the consumer is best advised to be under the influence before taking their life in their hands with one of these mystery bag sandwiches. The night I met my wife, for example, I remember being horrified that her sister (who had introduced us earlier in the evening) was reckless enough — even after 50 drinks — to buy an insanitary-looking sausage in a roll from a street vendor in London’s Piccadilly Circus.

Where sanitation isn’t the biggest issue, a sense of disappointment often is, with the boring and insipid offerings available at any of the myriad hot dog stands lining almost every Manhattan street exemplifying this. Do not get me wrong, a New York hot dog — pulled from the disquietingly opaque water, slapped into a curiously spongy potato roll, and painted with mustard and an unidentifiable relish – is certainly a real taste of NYC street life, and when you’ve been pounding the city streets for an afternoon, almost enjoyable, but it is not great street food, regardless of what Adam Platt at NYMag says. (feel free to post your own disagreements with me below)

However, the more I travel, the more I realize that these sausage and bread combos can actually be both safe for human consumption and, in some cases, a delicacy. You may remember our merguez frites sandwich of last year, which was not just the best street food we’d ever had, but right up there with the finest sandwiches too. Even the overtly filthy nature of that vendor in Carcassonne failed to put us off. Indeed, it’s probably true that we would risk a searing bout of intestinal drainage on a weekly basis if only merguez frites were readily available.

So, during our recent trip to Argentina we were intrigued by rusty little cabins that we passed throughout Buenos Aires, either parked-up or slumping shack-ily on the sidewalk, emitting wonderfully aromatic smoke and advertizing choripán and morcipán on gaily painted signs. After one particularly lengthy trek across the city from Palermo to Recoleta to the edge of Balvanera, we were ravenous and mentally-prepared for something of questionable hygiene wrapped in a roll and doused with condiments.

Following a tip we had picked up online, we headed to the corner of Avenida Juan B. Justo and Avenida Santa Fe in Palermo [right next to the Palermo Subte stop (D line)], to a very sweaty looking snack bar for a pre-dinner choripán — a chori(zo) on bread (pan). Smaller than our pitifully-sized Brooklyn apartment and decorated with aging posters of scantily-clad beer models, our senses immediately told us that this cafe was exactly the kind of place that would deliver the equal measures of delicious, greasy victuals and stinging doses of the raging squitters we were looking for. [Happily, only the former arrived.]

Your typical sausage and roll combination features a roll that follows the dimensions of the sausage: long and narrow. However, one of the many things I immediately liked about choripáns and morcipáns is that they invert this absolutist relationship on its head. The sausage is split down the center, seared on both “faces” a la plancha and, dripping with bright orange fat, is placed inside a rectangular hunk of French-style bread. Not only is it texturally superior to its flimsy American counterpart, but its increased surface area and the greater density of the bread, make it a far better designed sandwich than the hot dog. As, enclosed in a larger roll, your choice of condiments — in this case, mayonnaise, “golf sauce” (not unlike Russian/Thousand Island dressing), ketchup, mustard, and chimichurri — are less able to escape and damage shirt or shoes, as frequently happens when biting down on the open-topped frankfurter.

Unfortunately, once you go choripán, you can never go back, and their absence from my everyday street food scene has become a source of extreme frustration now that I’m back in New York. Passing-by vendors of the humble hot dog several times a day, I can’t help sneer a little at their meagre offerings of limp weiner and rubbery potato roll, and I mutter to myself that the magnificent, spicy, chewy choripán is a shining light compared to their ghostly reflections.

Happily, choripáns and morcipáns are easy and fun to make in the comfort of your own home and make a great alternative to the unimaginative backyard barbecue staples of weiners and burgers. Perhaps unsurprisingly, we couldn’t find Argentine-style chorizo in Brooklyn, but the easy to find, and similarly fresh and soft Colombian and Mexican varieties make worthy replacements, even if they are longer and slimmer than their Argentina counterparts. This past weekend, humming “the choripán man, the choripán man’s really got it going on…” inanely to ourselves, we mixed-up a tangy chimichurri, grilled ourselves some chorizo, and enjoyed a taste of Buenos Aires with a cold beer, even if we had to imagine the warm weather and palm trees.

As you may be able to tell, if you are a regular reader of this blog, we love mint.  We use it often in the summer because it grows like a freaking weed.  Because we live in Brooklyn, we barely have any outdoor space (but are very fortunate to have any). Yet, in that small space, we have many, many planters.  Over the years, we’ve managed to inadvertently kill many varieties of plants, flowers and veggies but nothing will kill our mint.  One season, a few things died unexpectedly and we thought maybe it was the soil (we coined the term “soil of death” during this depressing time – witty, I know).  The “soil of death” was most definitely used when we planted the mint and even that crap couldn’t kill it!  Mint is too often underused in cooking, which I don’t understand.  There are a quite a few varieties of mint and some people feel very strongly about it, usually either loving it or hating it (except when it’s used in their mojito or julep).  I love it but love it equally as much in my savory foods as  in sweets or alcoholic bevy’s.

Many are used to sage brown butter sauces so we figured why not try it with mint?  It was delicious.  The heating of the mint mellowed the flavor and added a fabulous “clean” flavor to the dish. It also balanced the creaminess of the butter and paired well with the cheese.  We added some breasaola because we had to use it up before it went off but if you are veggie, you can totally have a fabulous meal without it.  I think some pancetta or guanciale could work as well.  We found fresh fava beans which are still in season and they gave the dish a bit of chew.  Don’t be scared off by making your own gnocchi.  You can follow our easy-to-read instructions.  Gnocchetti just refers to the size – we cut our gnocchi much smaller than we usually do about 3/4 an inch long.  We decided not to run each gnocchi over a fork, hence why they don’t have their traditional ‘ridges’.

So embrace your mint, give it some love.  Hell, you don’t even need to tend to it in your garden unless it’s taking it over and killing your other plants (which can definitely happen).  If it is, make a huge batch of this dish, make a giant vat of mojitos and forget your problems.

There are few things that, when slapped between tortillas and christened with spicy condiments, fail to get me excited. Making it a shame that the vast majority of Mexican restaurants near us have such a limited spectrum of taco fillings. Not that I don’t enjoy carnitas, carne asada, fish or chicken tacos, I very definitely do, but that there is something of a tyranny inherent in this four-point agenda.

Recently, after our meaty dust-up with the Uruguyuan-style tablita parillada, we found ourselves with a surfeit of grilled sweetbreads (aka mollejas in Spanish, aka thymus glands in biology), and were looking for creative ways to use this most succulent of leftovers. Ever the slayers of convention, we sought to break this taco-based tyranny, and gently reheated our sweetbreads combining them with a crunchy, tangy salsa of radish, roasted corn and grape tomato, all wrapped in a blue corn tortilla for a dramatic finish.

In this process, we learned that throughout the South-West USA and northern Mexico, taco stands offering sweetbreads (as well as other tasty fillings including tongue and tripe) are so common you just about fall over them at every corner. All of which made us feel slightly less original in our preparation, but no less enthusiastic about its merits. Indeed, it was reassuring to know that places still exist in this condensed and standardized world where you can be openly and brazenly glandular should the feeling so move you.

We’ve had such a cruddy spring here in NYC and it’s hard to believe the summer solstice is just a week and a half away. Luckily, it’s been chilly and wet during the work week and sunny and warm at the weekends. It doesn’t make you feel that much better, though. You can’t fully get into the swing of summer because the weather just isn’t matching up. It feels like early April and we’re two weeks into June. Sadness. I want to wear my freaking sandals again and eat dinner outside and not wear a COAT ANYMORE!

Venting over. The one way we’re finding we can brighten our rainy, cool day is by cooking meals like this one. Fish (and our Black Cod is sustainable… double happiness) reminds me of the beach, which reminds me of sunny days. Morels and peas remind me of spring which (usually) remind me of flowers and sunny days. Mint reminds me of my garden in the summer which, say it with me, reminds me of sunny days. It was cool enough outside to use my oven, but we could just as easily have done this on the grill. The minty pea puree was fabulous and could have been eaten with a spoon alone. We paired this dish with some sliced Yukon Gold potatoes in their skin, sprinkled with olive oil and some herbs de Provence and crispily roasted in a hot oven. While these are cooling down, you can finish your fish.

Here’s to warmer, sunnier days ahead wherever you are!

I remember the night in Madrid Jonny and I thought it would be a good idea to do a tapas crawl after having many, many drinks. We weren’t yet at that “I’m so drunk I must shovel food in my mouth now” place, but were maybe a few bottles of Mahou away. It was a great idea at first, but as the drinks piled on, the tapas were looking smaller and smaller and smaller to me. This girl was getting hungry!  But we had to soldier through. We had to follow the pact we had made after that bottle of rioja that we would have a drink and a tapa, then move to the next bar and have another drink then a tapa.  We would never surrender to buying dinner that night.  Tapas and drinks. Tapas and drinks only.

After the fourth “drink and tapa” run I began to have that feeling in my stomach. You know how it goes. The feeling that if a whole pizza was put in front of you you’d eat it all in one sitting. Or that you could die for some double crispy fries with a vat of blue cheese dressing (as a dipping sauce, of course… come on, it’s good!). Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to that next tapas joint only to find that the raciones are four times as large as they usually are?

Well, we stumbled upon the next bar and my prayers were answered. There on the tapas menu was everything I was searching for – a bit greasy, a bit spicy and a bit crunchy with a bit of starch and plenty of protein. Soon a rather large cazuela was placed in front of my salivating mouth containing Picadillo de Carne con Huevos y Patatas. Happy happy joy joy, happy joy joy.

Like two rabid dogs attacking a carcass, we dug in. It was amazing. A flavor sensation. But as quickly as it was put on the table it was just as quickly  lapped up and in our bellies. I still remember that day well and we love to make our own version of that tapa at home. Of course, we eat it as a Saturday brunch dish instead of a drunken bar snack. We substitute the beef picadillo for minced chorizo and use the rendered fat to cook the potatoes in. Yes, not the lightest meal to start a Saturday, but you’ll definitely smile while you’re eating it (and then crawl back into bed to sleep it off).

As Odysseus was nearly drawn to his destruction on the rocks by the enchanting song of the sirens, so your hardy WANF voyagers were almost powerless to resist breaking themselves on the plentiful tables of Uruguay. However, unlike Homer’s hero, for whom women were the main weakness throughout his epic peregrinations, during our recent travels in South America, we found that grilled organs, specifically sweetbreads, are the likely source of our eventual ruin.

A comparatively short (by Odysseian standards) three-hour Buquebus ferry ride from Buenos Aires across the Mar del Plata – the enormously wide and constantly brown estuary of the Rio de la Plata (River Plate) – lies Uruguay’s capital and largest city, Montevideo. Arriving by water feels delightfully old-fashioned, and it allows the visitor to get a sense of the lie of the land in a way that a plane ride cannot. Rather than the confusing meander through a city’s outskirts on the way in from the airport, the city slowly revealed itself to us as we approached it by sea, face-first, so that we could see the way it had been built, outwards from the port.

Centered on the port is Montevideo’s cuidad vieja (old town), which with its faded colonial glory and salty night-time reputation, is immediately charming to the visitor. Only the giant ultra-modern cruise ship towering over everything prevented us from wondering if the ferry hadn’t also been a time machine. The hub of the old town is the Mercado del Puerto, a magnificent Victorian-era market with a skylit roof supported by wrought iron pillars, where the air is thick with the thwack of cleaver on meat, the cries of competing vendors and the sooty warblings of its resident pigeons. It no longer serves as a venue for trading fresh produce, a fact that might be sad if it weren’t now a giant parilla (grill/barbecue) serving all manner of traditional Uruguayan meaty preparations.

More accurately, there are actually a bunch of different parillas within the mercado all in friendly and typically laid-back Uruguayan-style competition with one another for the title of best in the city. We spent a good fifteen minutes cagily circling the mercado trying to figure out some way of discerning which might be leading this contest. After inspecting rack upon similar rack of sizzling meats, we decided to let demographics be our guide and plumped for Estancia del Puerto, the place with the fewest available seats (2), and the most drunken dudes with guitars serenading the patrons (1).

We had left Buenos Aires on a very early morning ferry and, having eaten nothing on the journey, arrived in Montevideo in a terrible, bleary-eyed state of hunger. The only way out of which seemed to be robust servings of charred beast. Happily then, the menu was the most extensive of its kind we have ever seen, containing more than eight choices of steak, five of sausage, 3 or 4 matambres (stuffed beef rolls), chicken, pork, and an intimidating selection of organ meats, not to mention a full range of pasta, salads and sides, in both full or half portions. Understanding, by this point in our carnivorous odyssey, that servings tended to be of a generous nature in this part of the world, we ordered half portions of mollejones (sweetbreads), morcilla (blood sausage), lechon (suckling pig), the potentially gruesome chotos/chinchulines (guts), and a bottle of typically Uruguayan tannat (red wine), in the hope that this might save room for further sampling of the menu.

Since, like all good grills, only certain sections of this parilla were used to actually cook meat, with others functioning as warming areas for ready-to-serve meats, we were presented with our choices within seconds, and what a presentation! No garnish, no sides of vegetables, no wasted real estate at all, just meat on plates and silverware wrapped in a paper napkin, with deep, communal tubs of chimichurri and salsa criolla scattered around the bar. We dived in recklessly.

The star of the show was the lechon, or milk-fed baby pig, which was heavenly. So good in fact, that were it not for the perfectly crispy skin overlying a thin-layer of incredibly sweet fat, and the moist, almost milky-tasting, flesh of unweaned piglet, it would truly be a barbaric dish. But our pause for reflection on the plight of young pork was brief as we tore into the golden beauty of the sweetbreads, the complex spices of the morcilla, and the (surprisingly) wonderful crunchy texture and minerally-tasting joy of the chinchulines. It all tasted to us like no meat had before, even the condiments had a singular tang and freshness to them that we found a step-up from those we’d had earlier in the week. And it seems we were not alone in this.

Glancing up at our surroundings and fellow diners as we approached fullness, it was comforting to see that everyone else was head-down and going full-bore into their lunches too. And who could blame them? Like the irresistible song of the sirens, the evocative combination of wood-smokey atmosphere, beautiful Victorian architecture, and the surround-sound effect of wall-to-wall sizzling would surely stir the soul of any meat-lover and be ruinous to the anti-meat resolve of even the most hardcore vegetarian.

Mercado del Puerto
Rambla 25 Agosto de 1825 y Perez Castellano,
Ciudad Vieja, Montevideo, Uruguay
Mercado del Puerto online

This dish was so easy, I could have cried as I cut my onions. I had a hankering for fresh crab and, because it was a weeknight, I saved time and energy by purchasing already shelled crab (not to ever be confused with something that makes me want to gag called krab).   This dish actually raised my mood from not-too-hot (about a 3 on a scale from 1 to 10) to feeling incredibly good (a good 9/9.5).  Sometimes a good dinner can just do that.  The lemon brightened the finished product up, the fennel gave it a bit of crunch and sweetness.  Crab and fresh cherry tomatoes always remind me of warm summer days which, naturally, make me smile.

If we had any leftovers I would’ve loved to have tasted it cold. I actually think it could make a great may0-less pasta salad.  You could also chop up some sauteed softshell crabs and use them instead of the fresh crab.  Maybe I’ll wait for a real summer day to give that a try.  Until then, I urge you to give this a try!

BANDEJA PAISA


SAUSAGE DE MERGUEZ SANDWICH

JERK CHICKEN w/ RICE & PEAS

DECONSTRUCTED LAMB TAGINE

TIRA DE ASADO – ARGENTINE BEEF RIBS

We’ve waxed poetic about our love for our pressure cooker in We Are Never Full’s past posts.  It is one of the best pieces of kitchen equipment to have if you want that long-simmering/long braising flavor without the time to to do so. It is not used as often as it should be in the American kitchen. So if you don’t have one, before next winter, please, go buy one! We decided to bust out the PC for a twist on the traditional rogan josh (Madhur Jaffrey’s recipe as a base). This is a recession meal – but only if you have all the spices at hand. If you don’t, you’ll be spending an additional $20 on those! Lamb shanks are some of the cheapest cuts of meat – for two pounds of these beauties we paid about $6. The flavor is intense and, if cooked correctly, the meat falls right off the bone. This recipe could be made in a dutch oven and cooked for about 2 hours or you can just use little old pressure cooker to do the work for you in about 45 minutes. Lip smacking, finger lickin’ goodness.

• a big sized pressure cooker (or a dutch oven if you prefer to slow cook it)
• 2  two inch cubes ginger, peeled, coarsely chopped
• 8 cloves garlic
• water or stock – lamb stock preferably (enough to come halfway up the shanks – 2 or 3 cups)
• veggie or olive oil
• 2 lbs worth of lamb shanks (about 2-4)
• 10 pods of cardamom
• 2 bay leaves
• 6 cloves
• 10 peppercorns
• 1 inch piece of cinnamon
• 2 onions, peeled and sliced or chopped (we sliced ours to give the sauce a bit of body, but chopping them will help them melt into the sauce)
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 4 teaspoons paprika mixed with 1 1/4 teaspoon cayenne
• 1 hot pepper, chopped (optional)
• salt to taste
• 6 tablespoons yogurt (or more depending on how creamy you want it)

What to do:

1. In a blender or food processor add garlic, ginger and some water together to create a paste.  Set aside.
2. In the pressure cooker, brown the meat on all sides.  Remove from pan and add cardamom, bay, cloves, peppercorns and cinnamon and stir for a few minutes until fragrant.  Add onions (and optional hot pepper) and cook for 30 seconds to get a bit of color on them.
3. Add garlic/ginger paste and stir – cook for 20 seconds or so.
4. Add coriander, cumin and paprika – stir a bit.  Add a ladle of stock to the pressure cooker and scrape up the browned bits on the bottom.
5. Now add the browned shanks back to the pressure cooker, nestling them in as much as possible. Add stock to come up about halfway up the shanks.  They do not need to be covered with liquid but there should be about 2 cups in there.
6. Cover pressure cooker and cook for 40 minutes (0r if you cook in dutch oven, give it about 1 1/2 to 2 hours in a 400 degree oven).
7. Open the pressure cooker when appropriate and remove the shanks – allow to sit on another plate.  Check the liquid level in the pot.  If it looks a bit too thin, with too much liquid and not enough body, allow it to simmer/boil down so it thickens.   When it is thick enough, kill the heat and add the yogurt.  Stir. Add some salt to taste.  Serve with some basmati rice and enjoy!