School Lunch: A Disaster of Epic Proportions

I have been angry about school lunches for a while. They are served to millions of children in this country every day, and for many children, lunch may be the only meal of the day. While we could be teaching children the importance of fresh, nutritional meals, we are instead serving them the same processed food they probably eat at home. School lunch is a missed teaching opportunity.

Jamie Oliver’s TED talk on teaching children about food recently got me thinking about this topic again. The video includes a clip of Jamie’s visit to a school in West Virginia where the children cannot identify onions, tomatoes, or beets by sight. How can we be sure children don’t like to eat vegetables if we can’t so much as tell them what they are? School lunch programs are often designed with a set of assumptions about what children do and don’t enjoy eating. Hot dogs, yes; carrot sticks, no; hamburgers, yes; quinoa, no. Why do we set such low standards for children? Why can’t we expect more of them? Surely kids in the nineteenth century ate what was placed in front of them. Processed food is a recent invention, and yet so many Americans are almost wholly dependent upon it for nutrition.

Few items on current school lunch menus would have been recognizable 100 years ago, and yet somehow children survived to adulthood. Surely they must have eaten something else. Something unprocessed, and, dare I say, natural? Food is central to culture, so what we serve children at school says a lot about us. About our desire for efficiency over quality; our willingness to do the bare minimum.

America has the potential to develop a great food culture. With immigrants from every corner of the world, we could be serving our children the most diverse menu on the planet. Instead, you find the same tired, apathetically-prepared items in cafeterias across the country. Instead of teaching children how food can nourish us and bring joy into our lives, we teach them the efficiency of the assembly line.

School lunch policies in America favor big business. While big business may be good at things like drilling oil and setting up cell phone networks, the corporate takeover of every aspect of American life has drained us of sentiment and endangers our culture. Children who cannot identify vegetables have no idea where those vegetables come from. For that matter, no one has any idea where the chickens constituting a nugget may have lived. We are in danger of losing our connection to the land and to other people. How many of us personally know a farmer or a buttermaker? Processed food affects more than our health. Our identity as a people is at stake. When we can no longer experience the joy of sharing a meal of real food with friends or family, when food becomes nothing more than calories scarfed down in front of the television, then we have lost something. The battle to restore American food culture has already begun in farmers markets and in upscale restaurants across the country. But if it is ever to become a mass movement, I think Jamie Oliver is correct in insisting that it starts in the schools.

Toscanini's, 3/25/2010

3 Drunk Musketeers, underneath which b3 is buried.

In accordance with longstanding custom, my friend Nora and I went to Toscanini’s again on Thursday. Several interesting flavors were available, including Black Sesame Wasabi Pea. I tried it but was not in the mood for such a savory ice cream, so I settled on Three Drunk Musketeers, a mixture of Kahlua, Bailey’s and 3 Musketeers bars. Since I can never choose just one, the other half of my ice cream cup was filled with b3, which first appeared on their menu perhaps six months ago. B3 is amazing. It is revelatory. It sits in your stomach like a rock. It is a mixture of brown butter, brown sugar, and brownies. In case you haven’t heard, brown butter is one of the most delicious substances known to man. It is butter which has been heated until the milk solids begin to brown. I’m not sure how much they add to the ice cream, but I’m guessing it’s a lot, because an hour later it hits you that you’ve got a brick sitting in your stomach. While it’s possibly the most delicious ice cream I have ever had, I cannot eat it often.

The Three Drunk Musketeers was comparably light. They thankfully took it easy with the candy, so the ice cream was dominated by Kahlua and Bailey’s. It was fun and tasty, but paired with b3, it was but a puddle evaporating in the bright light of its competing star.

Erbaluce: Boston's Most Innovative Italian Restaurant?

I’ve always wanted to explore Bay Village—Boston’s smallest neighborhood, wedged between Chinatown, Back Bay, and the South End—but I’ve never managed to walk through it, despite its central location. In fact, it can seem isolated from the rest of the city, even though it is mere steps from some of the city’s most popular attractions. So when my dad told me he would be visiting for just one night, I decided we should head over to Erbaluce, a relatively new, Northern-Italian restaurant.

Chef Draghi hails from Piemonte, which actually rather surprises me, as the area is known for its exceptionally rich cuisine. The best dishes at Erbaluce, on the other hand, tend to be on the lighter side, full of fresh herbs, fruits, and vegetables.

We started with focaccia, served with white bean puree and some exceptional olive oil. It was addictive and I ate far too much of it, but the appetizers were slow in coming and I needed something to soak up the wine I was drinking. Speaking of the wine, the list was on the intimidating side. I consider myself fairly knowledgeable when it comes to Italian wines, but through a combination of the overwrought font, dim lighting, and a questionable decision to leave the grape varietals off most of the list, I was lost. Thankfully, the staff was obliging and helped me select a reasonable, earthy Morello di Scansano. I was sorely tempted by a Cannonau di Sardegna, as I don’t often see it, but I wasn’t sure if my dad and my friend Katie were in the mood for such a funky wine.

Spaghi with bottarga

And now we arrive at the part of the meal which I regret most. I decided to be adventurous. Sometimes this works out for the best, like the time I tried bone marrow for the first time. After overcoming my initial fear which rose up when I was first confronted with a giant hunk of bone, it turned out to be a revelatory experience. Therefore, when I saw bottarga, a Sardinian dried mullet roe, on the menu, I thought I would be brave and give it a try. I’ve wanted to sample it ever since I saw Anthony Bourdain’s Sardinia episode, wherein he frequently proclaimed its merits. Yet when I was presented with a beautifully-prepared plate of Spaghi dressed with fresh parsley, lobster essence (I think?), and grated bottarga, I was overwhelmed by its odor. It tasted intensely of the ocean. More so than ocean water itself. Clearly, I am not ready for bottarga.

My dad ordered the most successful first course: speck with apples and a few other things. One can never go wrong with cured pork products. Katie ordered celery root soup with smoked mushrooms. I thought the smoke a bit overwhelming; I adore a good, simple celery root soup, and thought this an indelicate treatment.

Braised veal breast

Our second courses were much more successful. I settled on braised veal breast with a complex, light sauce, the ingredients of which I cannot recall. I remember fresh marjoram, a lot of fresh lemon zest, and perfectly-cooked veal. It was perched atop a pile of slightly undercooked large beans and what seemed like cabbage. I love braises, and am accustomed to them incorporating very deep flavors. Though this was very flavorful, it was not as rich as a traditional braise in a way that I really appreciated.

A very blurry plate of roasted potato gnocchi.

My dad ordered a beautiful plate of roasted potato gnocchi with duck egg, butter, and herbs. (Oh how I wish the menu were posted online; it changes daily, however). The gnocchi were impossibly light, and had a pronounced potato flavor. Katie had braised beef with fruit mostarda, which was a bit on the sweet side for me, though the sweet sauce contrasted appropriately against the rich meat.

Braised beef with fruit mostarda.

I had hoped to share a desert with Katie, but I had eaten far too much food. I managed to have a bite of her spice poached pear with a lavender caramel sauce and mascarpone, however, and was very impressed. Poached pears are offered far too rarely on dessert menus; they are such an appropriate way to end the meal. Not that we were completely finished –chef Draghi personally presented us with a plate of homemade chocolates; one was a dark chocolate with balsamico, while the other may not have incorporated chocolate at all, in fact. It was a small sticky ball with sesame and marzipan, among other things I cannot recall, though it was a creative flavor combination.

And so, three hours later, we walked out of the small dining room, through the intimate bar in front, and back out into the city, mere yards from the monstrous Smith and Wollensky. If only I had not dared to try bottarga, the evening would have been an unqualified success. I can be very hard on Italian food, because I often feel that I have tried it all before. At Erbaluce, however, I was not bored. I was excited to try new things and new flavor combinations, and I’m glad that I had the chance .

Springtime Outdoor Dining at Stella

Saturday was a rare thing: a beautiful New England March day. At 70 degrees, it was warm enough to dine outside. We usually have to wait until May for such pleasures, but for whatever reason, fortune smiled upon us and shed a brilliant March-tremulous light over the city. It seemed that all the world was outside on Newbury Street, where I went for gelato with a friend of mine. We stopped in at Piattini and had two kinds: Thai coconut milk and rosemary-honey. Piattini gets its gelato from Capogiro, and they were both lovely. I’d have photographed them, but they were white and boring in appearance. In taste, however, they were a different story altogether. With just a hint of sweetness and a very light texture, they rivaled the gelati of Italy, and I appreciated that they offered these interesting flavors in addition to a few old favorites like chocolate-hazelnut.

Afterwards, it was time to get away from the spring-delirious hordes on Newbury Street, so we headed over to the South End in search of quiet and a restaurant patio. Unfortunately, this turned out to be more difficult than we expected, but at long last, we landed a table at Stella, an Italian restaurant on Washington Street. While the menu was generally unexciting, I was pleased with my linguine with asparagus cream, poached egg, truffle, and thyme. When the plate arrived I was dubious, as the noodles were sitting in a pool of sauce, but after tossing it together and slicing up the egg, it turned out to be quite good. The linguine was clearly homemade, the egg well-poached. It was loaded with fresh parsley, which offered a welcome respite from the richness of the asparagus cream sauce. However, I did not taste much thyme or truffle, not that I’m complaining. I have never been a fan of truffle oil, which is what I assume they used. My friend Lauren ordered orecchiete with tomato sauce and meatballs, which was swimming in sauce. She did not seem to be a huge fan of it. I don’t feel like I tried a wide enough array of dishes to offer a definitive opinion on Stella, but I can certainly say that the linguine and the atmosphere were worth it.

Regardless of the amount of sauce on anyone’s pasta, I appreciated the patio and the fact that every chair on it included a blanket. Let’s face it; it’s not that warm out yet, particularly once the sun begins its inexorable descent into the horizon, so the blankets were a nice touch. I also really liked the minimal yet comfortable décor inside the restaurant. I may head there again before the patio at Toro opens up and I have a wider array of outdoor dining options available.

Toscanini's, 3/19/2010

Chocolate hydrox cookie ice cream.

Boston is blessed with a vibrant ice cream culture, one that I think has been woefully under-documented. Supposedly, Bostonians consume more ice cream per capita than any city in the country. I have a number of theories on this, but my favorite is that winter here is so long and dull, than when summer finally arrives we begin to consume ice cream in prodigious, celebratory quantities.

My other theory is that we just have a whole lot of good ice cream, and that the supply generated this city’s insatiable demand for frozen dairy products. My favorite shop is Toscanini’s, which serves the best ice cream in the world (it’s true, the  New York Times said so). They’re always creating interesting new flavors like pancake and burnt honey. I also really appreciate the purity of flavor and often near-melted consistency.

Bourbon ice cream on the left; macadamia-nut blondie on the right.

 On a recent trip, I tried a number of flavors, but settled on an old favorite, bourbon, paired with a new offering, macadamia nut blondie. Pure flavors without a bunch of added ‘stuff’ mixed in tend to be Toscanini’s specialties, and indeed, the bourbon ice cream was flawless and had a perfect, soft consistency. The macadamia nut blondie was absolutely packed with nuts and blondie chunks, but the texture was more traditional.

I plan on visiting Toscanini’s weekly over the summer, and will try to post about new flavors as often as possible. I’m hoping they rise to the challenge and provide something new and delicious every time.

Zeppole are here; winter is over

I’m a big fan of any holiday that involves a food tradition, so when I heard about zeppole, an Italian doughnut made to celebrate the feast of St. Joseph, I was pretty excited. I meant to grab one last year, but somehow never made it to an Italian bakery in time. This year, however, I was more prepared. I heard through the grapevine that most shops started carrying them in February, far in advance of the March 19 holiday. This gave me plenty of time to plan my angle of attack.

And so, one morning, when my alarm failed to go off and I was running super-late to work, I decided to stop by Maria’s in the North End on my way and pick up a few specimens. Maria’s is generally my favorite spot for Italian pastries in Boston; their cannoli and sfogliatelle are noticeably better than those at Mike’s and Modern.

But honestly, I was a bit disappointed by these zeppole. I sampled both the ricotta and the more traditional yellow pastry-cream version. Though I preferred the ricotta zeppola, I was disappointed by the rather wan doughnut in both cases. It was very light and airy, and reminded me a bit of a dry French cruller from Dunkin’ Donuts. That might sound harsh, but I can appreciate zeppole anyway, though next year I may sample them from a different shop. If nothing else, they herald the end of winter, and highlight the connection between food and culture, which in case you haven’t noticed, I’m really interested in.

T.W. Food: A Review

Photo from boston.com

Every once in a great while, I fall in love with a restaurant. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it can be kind of intense. I find myself thinking of it longingly when I’m hungry. I find myself wondering if I can re-create some of the dishes myself. I plan my triumphant return.

Though I haven’t yet dared to attempt any of the dishes I had at T.W. Food in Cambridge, I have a feeling I might do so soon. T.W. Food and I were pretty much destined for one another from the start. I love small restaurants, seasonally-rotating menus, and slightly out-of-the-way places. T.W. Food matches all of these criteria.

Tucked away in Huron Village, a quiet corner of Cambridge, T.W. Food contains perhaps ten tables. When I arrived one rainy, blustery February day, it felt warm, intimate, and welcoming. The menu is fairly small, but changes daily. I started with a gratin of winter greens, cabbage, taleggio, and cranberries. If there’s one dish I will try to make myself, this is it. Though I was dubious of the cranberries, they functioned sort of like a gremolata, providing a high acid note that sang above the basso profundo of the cabbage and cheese. It can be difficult to create a seasonal vegetable dish during the winter, but this was certainly a success. My friend’s appetizer, tuna confit with grapefruit and fennel, was decidedly less successful. It rather resembled canned tuna heaped on a plate, strewn with garnishes.

As an entrée, I had a Vermont beef pot au feu, with ribeye, brisket, and merguez sausage. The waitress presented the meat and poured over a steaming foie gras bouillon from a kettle. The broth was richly decadent, and the smell emanating from my plate was quite nearly intoxicating. My friend’s Swiss potato rösti with “braised pig” (yes, the menu strangely referred to it as pig rather than pork) was also reportedly a success. This dish even sent me to Google, as I had never heard of rösti before. Apparently it’s a potato pancake. Both dishes had clearly been finished with a sprinkling of sea salt that may have been applied just barely too-heavily.

The wine list is very small, but I like that each wine appears to have been chosen with care. We were in a celebratory mood, so ordered a bottle of Merlot/Tannat, which went very well with the food. The mini french press of coffee was also good.

I have heard others criticize T.W. Food as “precious,” or insult the chef as “in love with his own ideas,” but I found no evidence to support either of these claims. Everything about T.W. Food is attended to with great care, which perhaps turns some people off. I thought it was lovely to be surrounded by a restaurant staff who were clearly passionate about food. Nothing we ate was obnoxiously clever or even trying too hard. T.W. Food is so intimate that it almost feels as if you are dining in the home of a good friend. I left in such a warm glow that I did not mind stumbling a mile through the driving rain to the T, and cared very little that my umbrella flipped inside-out not once, but three times.

Polenta with Mushroom Ragú

Is polenta hard to make? Are people intimidated by corn gruel? I’m not sure why polenta might have a reputation as the difficult member of the Italian starch family, but it’s really no more complicated than pasta, and certainly less finicky than risotto. Though there are many techniques in polenta cookery, from Mark Bittman’s slurry method to Zuni Café’s double-boiler method, I really don’t think it has to be that complicated. After all, polenta is not all that different from grits. It’s just cornmeal.

That’s not to say that one should not keep certain things in mind. I of course stay away from instant varieties, and go straight for the bulk section of Whole Foods, where stone ground polenta costs less than two dollars a pound. I would think that standard cornmeal is ground too finely for use as polenta, but I’ve used it before in emergency situations. When using 1 cup of cornmeal, I bring 5 cups of salted water to a boil and add the polenta in a thin stream, whisking as I do so. After that, it should be held at a low simmer for 30-45 minutes and whisked every five minutes or so. I’ve never had any problem with lumps. After about 30 minutes, I start tasting for salt and consistency. I usually have to add a bit more water and a bit more salt. I like it on the runny side, and like the grains to retain a bit of a bite.

Another thing I’ve learned is that adding a bit of mascarpone to polenta turns it into something magical. I never really understood mascarpone until I started buying the version by Vermont Butter and Cream. This stuff is amazing in all applications, but a few dollops stirred into polenta is nearly transporting. I’m sure imported versions are similarly delectable, but I’ve had several bad domestic mascarpones. It’s also nice to use a local product whenever possible, and I prefer to think of anything from New England as local enough. They generally do amazing things with dairy in Vermont, but that will have to be a topic for another day. As for polenta toppings, any thick sauce will do, but I devised a mushroom ragú with shallots, tomatoes, and a carrot. Click below for the recipe.

Rome Food Crawl

I believe that the best way to experience a city or a neighborhood is through its food. I'm therefore inaugurating what will hopefully become a series of posts on food crawls with a report on my favorite places to eat in Rome.

Almost exactly a year ago, I spent 10 days in Rome, so, basically, I was in the center of the world. Or at least that’s what it would have been a few thousand years ago. And, in a way, Rome still seems to tug at me, to draw me in during forlorn moments. So perhaps that whole ‘center of the world’ thing, though hopelessly Eurocentric, is not a complete falsity.

Rome is not a simple place. George Eliot has written of its “unintelligible weight,” and it is certainly burdened with the triumphs and failures of Western culture. But it’s also a living city, the corrupt capital of a modern country, and a home to millions where you are likely to happen upon a trattoria serving the simplest of food wedged between an audacious basilica and a Bernini fountain.

What struck me most about Rome was its symbolic weight; it’s a city crammed full of meaning, or of people looking for it. Every church, every monument, every fountain, every piazza was built for a reason; and similarly, the food is made in a purposeful way. Yet Rome is almost embarrassingly provincial. It can be difficult to find food from other parts of Italy, let alone other parts of the world. I imagine this is because Roman food is pregnant with meaning; it is the result of thousands of years of living off the fruit of Lazio and has been hubristically preserved in the face of globalization. Were Rome not such a bustling, vital city, it would be in danger of becoming a monument to itself.

Produce at the Campo de'Fiori (photo from flickr.com)

I think the best way to experience any city is through a food crawl: to walk the streets, soak up the atmosphere, and eat the best food available. To experience Rome through its food is to make the unintelligible intelligible. And therefore, in the morning, you should start at the Campo de’Fiori, the main market in the city’s historic center. Pick up a few blood oranges or whatever fruit happens to be in season; examine the goods; pretend to be Roman.

A Cook's Manifesto

photo from flickr.com

If I am to be completely honest, I became interested in food for primarily economic reasons. While I wish I could wax poetic about a moment of culinary inspiration, about a perfect ratatouille draped across a plate, I’m afraid it would be a lie. As a poor college student in South Carolina, I was living in something of a food desert. Affordable options were limited to McDonald’s, Burger King, Chick-fil-A, and, even worse, the Sodexho-operated school cafeteria. None of these options provided what I would call “real food,” so if I wanted to eat something that was neither processed nor injected with artificial flavoring, I would have to learn to make it myself. And so I began my slow, inexorable journey toward conscious eating, a journey which has had its disasters—an attempt at Thai curry using Indian curry powder—but also its revelations.

My discovery of food has happened contemporaneously with America’s own culinary awakening. Over the past decade, many Americans have begun to think seriously about the contents of their dinner plates. We have finally started to ask where our food comes from and whether it might be good for us and the environment. Michael Pollan’s books have played an important role in forcing us to ask these questions, and have provided a way into the discussion for hordes of farmers market shoppers.

Yet I fear that many Americans, notably the working poor, have been left out of these discussions. Food deserts persist throughout great swaths of our national landscape, and, besides planting a White House garden, very little political progress has been made. We’re still subsidizing corn and soy production to the detriment of our health and the environment; we’re still factory-farming animals and eating far too much meat.

I think Italy is an interesting example of a place where people of all economic backgrounds continue to eat real food and where vegetables are often a centerpiece of the meal. Food is intimately tied to culture in Italy, where nonni shop daily for fresh fruits, vegetables, and seafood. The historic Tuscan town of Lucca has even banned non-Italian restaurants from its city center. While this reactionary response to a popular kebab house may be crossing the line, it is certainly interesting how central food is to the Italian sense of cultural identity. While it may be ceding some political power to the European Union, food is a sort of nationalist rallying cry, a way to separate itself from its more multicultural neighbors. The center of the matter is that Italians continue to eat as they have for generations, which has allowed people of all stripes to stay away from newfangled processed and artificial foods.

In America, we are much more open to change and the desire to produce more and to produce it cheaply. When processed foods began appearing after World War II, American housewives saw a way to free themselves from hours slaving over the stove. TV dinners, canned goods, and boxed mixes are an easy and inexpensive way to feed a family and allowed women to enter the workforce in impressive numbers. Yet we have lost something along the way. Perhaps our error was to view cooking as a chore and a bother.

Our homogenizing melting pot has encouraged generations of immigrants to leave behind their age-old foodways and to construct Americanized recreations of traditional dishes – how else can one explain such creations as Sweet and Sour chicken or Chicken Parmesan or lasagna piled six inches high?

America’s journey away from fresh, simply-prepared ingredients has been aided and abetted by our failed agricultural policies. With our surplus of corn and soy we have found managed to subsist on cheeseburgers (made from corn-fed animals) and  French fries (fried in corn oil) and Twinkies (made with high-fructose corn syrup and corn-derived fats).

To avoid these baroque industrial concoctions, we must rediscover the joy in cooking and in sharing meals with our families and friends. We should shop at farmers’ markets, many of which now accept food stamps. We should eat less meat and more seasonal vegetables, though I admit this becomes a difficult task during the interminable New England winter. We should buy fewer prepared products and rediscover what it means to make things from scratch. I cannot live up to all these goals all of the time, but slowly I have become a more conscious eater, and I think consciousness is perhaps the most important step to eating in way that is good for us and good for the environment. For only the unconscious eater can sit down to enjoy a McDonald’s hamburger and not think of the land and of the humans and of the animals that were abused; of the way it manipulates one’s primal desire for salt and sugar; or of the health problems it will cause down the line.