Sage Mice

The holiday season is upon us, the time when all good boys and girls become gluttonous alcoholics with shopping addictions.  I more or less hate the holidays but the one thing I remember fondly about them is my Swiss grandmother’s cooking- the smell of hot ham and delicate almond green beans still makes me salivate.  Taught to cook by her French mother, my Meme could cook Mario Batali under the table, and luckily, I was able to unearth my most cherished recipe of hers––Salbei Muesli (sage mice).  The name comes from their shape- sage leaves, as it turns out, do actually resemble mice when you leave on their stems and plump them up with batter and a frying pan. The idea is, you pick up the “mice” by the “tail” and dip their “bodies” into a cold vanilla sauce bath.  After all of that rich food, this light(er) dessert is a nice break from that god-awful fruit cake that everyone jokes about using as a door-stop.

This is my grandmother’s recipe, which I’ve translated from her pidgin English and Swiss units of measurement into something a bit more coherent (and added some of my own instruction too).

Sage Mice

Hopefully you have a grocery store or a farmer’s market nearby that has whole leaves of sage (or even better, if you have your own growing in a pot).  Get several bunches.  Inhale them.  Get a slight high.  Then start cooking.

The vanilla sauce can actually be made one day in advance, but I wouldn’t try to make it in less than an hour.

“Vanille Sauce” (serves 4):

2 cups milk

1 egg

1 tablespoon flour

3 tablespoons sugar

1 whole vanilla bean (expensive, I know, but totally worth it)

Stir together the milk, egg (yolk and all), and flour.  Take your vanilla bean, cut into it length-wise, but don’t cut all the way through it.  Throw the vanilla bean into the bowl.  This must be stirred until you don’t think you can stir anymore.  And then some more.  This sauce should be silky, any lumps would ruin it.  Once smooth, transfer to a pan and heat it up VERY SLOWLY. Stir and stir some more.  Remove from heat before it begins to boil- boiling the sauce will cause the egg to separate and then you’ve wasted $5 on a vanilla bean.  Keep stirring to avoid lumps.  Put into a glass bowl (you really don’t want the flavor to be tainted by anything, so fine is this sauce) and refrigerate.  The sauce, once the “mice” are ready, should be very cold.  Meanwhile, make your batter.

For the batter:

1 cup white  flour

1 cup water

1   little pinch of  salt

1/2 cup  whole milk (you’d better be using some nice organic stuff)

Stir together the flour and water, making sure there are no lumps.  Stir in the milk and salt.  Keep stirring until your arm aches, and then stir some more. You really don’t want lumps in this batter.  Once it’s completely smooth, set aside for an hour.

Once you’ve waited an hour for the batter and the vanilla sauce has been in the fridge for at least an hour, you can wash your sage leaves.  Do not remove their stems- not only do they make the dish what it is, but also they are useful in the frying process.  Dry the leaves on kitchen paper (my grandmother’s way of saying “paper towels”).

In a frying pan, add enough olive oil so that the sage will be covered on both sides in it.  Heat up the pan on high heat (you’re frying so you need the oil to be pretty sizzling).  Take your “mice” and pull them through the batter, holding their stems.  Stick them into the hot oil, frying until golden brown.

The trick with the sage mice is that they should be served hot.  You’ll want to batter them quickly, because that’s the time consuming part, and put them all in around the same time.  If you are not as skilled at this (I still can’t quite figure out how she made enough for an army and was still able to serve them piping hot), you can pre-heat your oven, and transfer the done leaves onto a baking tray to keep them warm while their buddies are frying.

When they’re all done, put them in a heaping pile on a plate, take the sauce out of the fridge, and serve immediately.  This is a surprisingly simple recipe, and pleases children and adults alike.  There’s something refreshing about that earthy flavor and crunch of those fried leaves with the simple sweetness of the cool vanilla sauce.

At the end of her recipe, my grandmother added this:

If you have leftovers from the dough you can make a little omelet – stuff it with fine sliced cooked vegetables or with crushed sardines add parsley and chives and roll them. Or take your omelet, spread your favorite marmelade on it, roll it top it with a little bit of sugar.

Unfortunately we didn’t have any leftovers.

Marlow & Daughters

Walking into Marlow & Daughters on Broadway just shy of Berry, I am tempted to be a cocky bastard and ask if they do, in fact, know which rib to cut for a roast. Then I lay my eyes on the display case. Crimsons, velvety Bordeaux and deep port wine stains marbled with ivory fat and pearly white bones- a carnivore’s watercolor.  I am giddy, in love with the marvelous world of meat, at once a lusty teenager and shy child all over again.  Knives hang from the walls, Neil Young bleeds from the speaker, and right there, in front of me, on an enormous butcher block table, is a giant hock of meat, tickled to slivers by a nimble lady butcher.  She is strong, her thick hands moving quickly and with ease, as though slicing warm butter.  Her apron is mottled with blood, her eyes deep in concentration.

Andrew Dorsey, a late twenty-something, stocky bearded blonde, examines me from across the display case.  At first, he is quiet, muted in a navy sweatshirt, wary of my presence.  Once I tell him though, that a butcher from one neighborhood over seems to have some beef with his work, Dorsey is quick to invite me back to the walk-in fridge.

Have you ever been inside a butcher’s walk-in? Have you ever seen hundreds of pounds of uncut meat, hanging on hooks, bodily definition still distinguishable?  Legs, ribs, shoulders?  All you can see, at first, is how red everything is, how the bones jut out at you in the small cold metal box of the walk-in.  And then you begin to adjust.  Two plucked chickens, prickled as though they were a bit chilly, sit off to the side.  They are plump, bowling bag-sized with soft, fleshy skins, such a far cry from the sad, yellowed birds at Lou’s. There’s meat everywhere, most on hooks, some boxed up in large, rectangular containers labeled “Sweet” (as in “sweetbreads,” of course) and “ Ribs.” There are price tags on some of the more broken down cuts, $275 for what looks like a whole, rolled breast of lamb.

Lou the Butcher  told me that these guys get their meat in plastic wrap, just like he does.  Dorsey, calm as ever, counters the charge.  “We essentially, know the animal from birth,” Dorsey says, nodding at the hanging meat.  “We know the farm it comes from, we pick out the animals, and then have them sent to a processing plant, where they break it down for us.”  I stare sideways for a moment at a rib cage several times my width.  If the processing plant sends them back cuts so large, I can only imagine about how big the whole animal must be.

The guy to talk to at Marlow & Daughters, though, is TJ Burnham.  TJ isn’t an enormous man, but he’s wiry.  With his jet-black ponytail sticking out of his chef’s cap, and his sharp-as-knives defined sideburns, he reminds me of many a heavy-metal-loving chef I’ve met. He calmly washes his hands at the metal sink basin, and walks my way.   “I was raised doing backyard slaughters in New Mexico,” he tells me, and he looks like it.  “I worked in the culinary arts, in kitchens, and then doing this…it came in a round-about way.

So how can Lou sell his meat so cheap?   “There’s a lot of licensing that you need, from the Ag-Market [The New York Department of Agriculture and Markets].  Our meat is really easy to track down, it’s all USDA stamped, and it helps that we’re getting it from people we actually know.  The whole smoked and aged meats thing, that’s a whole different set of licenses.”  Both butchers seem to agree that Lou’s misfortune probably stems from different licensing, or perhaps his clientele, or even his too-low pricing. At Marlow & Daughters, though, the $32 per pound veal medallion might tell their Land Rover driving clientele all they need to know.

Their produce displays are gorgeous, worthy of a Vermeer still life.  $5.99 for a liter of organic whole milk with cream on top.  $7.99 for a liter of the most delicious looking, creamy maple flavored organic yogurt. Another $7.99 for a dozen organic, cage-free eggs.    “We have three restaurants [of our own] that we have to supply,” TJ reminds me,  “plus others, and we also have our network of farmer friends, and then their friends who supply our organic produce.  If we know that one of our friends is having an animal sent to be processed, then we piggyback and send a lamb to be processed as well.  We work with a transportation company that specializes in locally raised animals, local farming, farm-to-table stuff.  The whole network of us use them.  It’s like a meat carpool.”

This must be priciest daycare you’ll find for something dead. I realize that I could easily drain my entire bank account in the store in just one go, in probably under twenty minutes. I find myself justifying the expense; you wouldn’t send your child to a half-assed daycare.  You would want them to be in the best hands.  Marlow & Daughters is going that extra mile on all counts.  “We use everything,” TJ says.  “The bones are used for stocks, and the scraps for dog food.”  Well, if you want to eat ethically, and you want your children to eat ethically, then dammit, your dog should be eating ethically too, at $6 a pint.

The lady butcher is still slicing up those Flintstone-sized ribs.  I admire the beauty of the meat, of its healthy pink hues, of the humbling experience before me.  “It’s funny,” she says, “parents come in here with their kids, and when the kids come over to the butcher block, the parents cover their eyes.  And then they go right over to the glass case and let the kids pick out pork chops and steaks. Harumph.”  And then they probably leave the store and drive off in daddy’s Land Rover, like the one parked outside.  For the rest of us, Marlow & Daughters is a religious experience, a rare, special occasion––pure, like an old fashioned Christmas.

The Meatless Bachelor

We’ve been a little meat obsessed lately.  Though, after some thought-provoking (i.e.- tear provoking) research, it’s high time we  take a little meat-hiatus.  Not only that, but the whole meat thing is a little expensive.  That being said, our roommate came up with a novel idea to make Mexican lasagna.  “Mexican lasagna?” you ask?  Why, it’s the greatest everything-but-the-kitchen-sink recipe, no meat needed.  In all honesty, our roommate had ulterior motives- namely the pretty girl next door, so he invited her over for dinner.  She’s Italian, and he’s got Spanish blood, so he did a “Here’s hoping” and blended the two styles of cuisine.  Olé.

Mexican Lasagna

What you need:
-Flour tortillas
-Olive oil
-Cheese (I suggest cheddar, then grate it until your wrists hurt)
-Any tomato sauce you have lying around
-Vegetables (We used diced green and red peppers, onions, garlic cloves, mushrooms, and black beans, but the great thing about this dish is that you can use whatever you have lying around)
-Cilantro
-Spices: salt, pepper, cumin, red pepper flakes
-Hot sauce (We live in a Chalula’s kind of house, but your favorite hot sauce brand will do just fine)
-Sour cream
-Some kind of deep baking dish

For the guacamole:
-4 Avocados
-Cilantro
-Diced Red Pepper
-1 whole lime
-Salt, pepper to taste

Coat baking dish with a thin layer of olive oil. Cover bottom of pan with the flour tortillas. Meanwhile, saute your mushrooms.

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.  Put together in an iron skillet: diced onions, green peppers, and garlic. Saute until browning and steaming.  Add tomato sauce, cook over medium heat.

Now for the fun part, the layering.  You can do this in whatever order you want, but make sure that you put layers of cheese under and over tortilla layers.  We started with black beans as a base, then the tomato/onion/green pepper ragout.  Spread this throughout the dish.  Add a layer of cheese, then go ahead and add another tortilla layer.  Add more cheese on top, and then whatever other vegetable you like, we used the sauteed mushrooms and raw red peppers (we wanted a nice crunch) and then the rest of the tomato ragout.  Add more cheese, top with another tortilla layer.  Sprinkle with cracked pepper, olive oil, and tuck any overhanging tortillas inward.  Sprinkle with cilantro, shove into your preheated oven.

For the guacamole:

Halve your avocados, and to remove the pits, if you have the dexterity, hit them with the blade of your knife.  If the avocado is ripe, those suckers will come right out.  If you are not so knife-skilled, remove the avocado flesh from its skin using a large spoon, then spoon out the pit. Add lime juice, salt, and pepper.  Mash up using a fork. Don’t beat into a puree, you want to have some nice avocado chunks for texture.  Add the diced red peppers, and give another quick mix. Voila! Guacamole.

After about twenty minutes, check on your Beaner.  It should look like this (pretty girl-next-door not included):

Know Your Meat

This here is Lou. He’s been a butcher for his entire life. “I was sweeping bloody sawdust off this floor when I was five.” Lou’s butcher shop, Model T Meats Corp. in South Williamsburg, Brooklyn belonged to his father. He remembers when freshly slaughtered cattle were delivered to the shop, when cuts of meat were hung above the register on ominous looking steel hooks. Now all these hooks hang are keys. When I ask him for a steak, he mechanically pulls out a baguette-sized pre-packaged, plastic wrapped eye round. “I used to break down the animal myself. You think those young guys know anything about meat? Ask them, then, if they cut a rib roast at the 12th rib. Just see if they know.” Lou’s been set back in the past ten years, when butchers were forbid to hang their cuts, as it became a health department issue. “They just send me this pre-packaged stuff. I don’t do anything myself anymore except make sausage, and that comes from these packages too.” You can track down your meat- each package has a serial number that can be located in a giant bible of meat suppliers. Lou pulls the book out from a large plastic bag behind the counter and sighs. “Those hot dogs are from New Jersey.”

He gives me two sexy, marbled portions of t-bone steak, which he cuts from just the front end of the short loin, just before the porterhouse. They are inch and a half cuts, dinner plate sized. “That’ll be $9.00.” For one? “Total.”

You can’t get this kind of cut at the grocery store, and you sure as hell can’t get it for under $10 at Whole Foods. Lou is an animated, opinionated man. He tells me an ear full about the neighborhood’s mafioso glory days, lighting up when the upstairs tenant comes in to pick up her mail. His sausage fingers gently hand over her mail, and asks her how she liked her rib roast. He looks a breath away from collapsing when I ask him about the new meat industry standard. “They don’t cut their own meat at Marlow and Sons. They get it just like us,” he insists. “You know they’re doing away with the butcher block? Yeah, unsanitary, they say,” he says, pulling out a raw chicken right next to my raw steaks, showing me how to disembowel the bird, miming the procedure. “You can’t forget the feed sack. You forget to pull that off and you got bits of corn in your whole bird. Ruined. Just see if the guys at The Meat Hook know that.”

Model T-Bone Steak

2 cuts t-bone steak, bone in, 1- 1/2 inches thick, about three lbs.

1 pound brown mushrooms

6 sprigs rosemary

1 cup red wine (I prefer a Barolo)

several pinches kosher salt

several cranks cracked pepper

olive oil

Preheat your oven to 375. Make sure the steak is at room temperature- leave out at least a half hour before you cook em. Place on a large plate, lightly drizzle olive oil onto the surface of both sides of the steaks, but don’t lube the pan- too much oil will drown out flavor. Rub with kosher salt and pepper, both sides. Heat up a pan, I suggest an iron skillet to really draw out that wonderful natural fat. When your pan is so hot that a drop of water makes it hiss, drop those fuckers in, making sure that they don’t touch so that your pan doesn’t smoke. Sear on both sides one minute each. Take a few rosemary sprigs, drop them into the pan. Using tongs, take the steaks out of the skillet, and place into another pan, transfer into the oven. For medium-rare, you want to cook them for six minutes in the oven. While you’re waiting (and salivating- the smell is going to take hold, I promise), start cutting up the mushrooms, and throw them into your skillet. Add wine, I usually just pour some out of the glass I’m drinking from. Saute them in the steak fat, wine, rosemary mixture, and add a splash olive oil. Once browned, let simmer until the steaks are ready. Pull the steaks out of the oven, and place onto a cutting board. A good rule of thumb is to let the meat rest for as long as you cooked it. Transfer to a plate, pouring any leftover juices on top. Dole out your earthy mushrooms on top. Enjoy.

You will eat this all. Trust me.