A City of Immigrants
As I am writing this, the city of Los Angeles is under siege – under siege because the current administration in Washington DC has targeted it – sent Immigration Control and Enforcement agents to pull people off the streets, out of businesses – out of Home Depot parking lots, out of car washes, out of restaurant kitchens and clothing factories – to enforce its immigration policies. And it has sent in the National Guard, against the will of the city’s Mayor and the state’s Governor, to quell peaceful and legitimate protests against the administration’s terror. I am in the last couple of days of a week plus long visit to L.A. – the city my parents moved my brothers and me to as young children, the city where I grew up, and the city where I spent over half my life. The city has shaped me as much as the city of New Orleans, the city of my birth and ancestors, which in itself is a city of immigrants. Los Angeles is, of course, and always has been a city completely shaped by immigrants – a city which has freely welcomed immigrants throughout its history. Immigrants currently make up over 35 percent of the County of Los Angeles’ total population. And the city has benefited greatly from its immigrants’ contributions over the years. It would not be what it is – it would have no culture, no industry or no prosperous economy without immigrants. The city is dotted with smaller neighborhood designations – Little Armenia, Little Tokyo, Thai Town, Chinatown, Koreatown, Little Ethiopia, Filipinotown, and of course, its founding square is Olvera Street, at the heart of downtown – a lasting tribute to the city’s Mexican founders (at least half of whom were Afro-Mexican) and immigrants who live throughout the city. It’s hard for me to even begin to know how to talk about how important immigrants have been to this city, and is it my hope and intention to work out my feelings on paper further over the next few days and weeks. For starters, I can’t help think of the industry which the city is known for throughout the world built by European Jewish immigrants. And the fact that L.A. has become a world class food city – a destination food city, thanks in large part to immigrants, who lead and man the city’s many restaurants. Additionally, anyone growing up in Los Angeles grew up eating Mexican food. We, of course, in our own homes ate the food of wherever our family hailed from, but Mexican food for me (and no doubt others) was like a second mother, and I, like so many others, still love it. I was lucky enough, as a child, to sit at the table many a night, at the home of my best early grade school friend, Lillia. Lillia’s family were recent immigrants to the city – her mother spoke almost no English, but her cooking spoke to my heart. I was always welcome in their home, and at their table. Lillia’s mother would deftly pat masa de harina into tortillas right beside us at the table, throw them on to a sizzling griddle, and present them to us, piping hot, to scoop up braised meats, beans and rice, with a slice...
read moreEating My Way Through a Long Weekend in Napa
I took off this past holiday weekend for Napa – only a 45 minute drive from my house – but still, I’ve not visited since I first moved here three years ago. I really have been meaning to get back – just to eat (forget the wineries, which now charge exorbitant prices for a tasting), as Napa is blessed with many great eateries all conveniently located near each other in the downtown area. The downtown is home to Oxbow Market, a large and great market hall – I love a good market hall! – and I’d read that a fast casual offshoot of a higher end Moroccan restaurant in San Francisco, had opened there recently, so Moro was my first stop (and my last, too actually) after checking out the lovely cottage type home where I’d be cat-sitting for the weekend. BTW, the homeowner had grown up in Granada, Spain, where I’d just spent several days this winter. How synchronistic is that! A stroll through Oxbow reveals a beautiful chocolatier, an olive oil shop, a wine and cheese emporium (it is Napa, after all), a spice shop, a produce market – and the bars and restaurants! Okay – lunch at Moro – a very tasty, indeed, Braised Lamb Wrap with Harissa, Toum and Pickled Onions. In fact, it was the favorite thing I ate in my days there. I ordered a side salad of Romaine lettuce and baby kale chocked full of Garbanzos, Cucumbers, Green Olives and Dates (I could have done without the dates, but they are a staple of Moroccan food). The wrap was so good, I grabbed another one as my last act before driving back home. The Fatted Calf – a butcher and charcuterie (it reminds me of Cochon Butcher in New Orleans and those of you who know me will know that it’s one of my favorite places ever) lives on the outer boundary of Oxbow. The next day took me there for lunch where I ordered a slice of a lovely Cherry Tomato Tart with Comté cheese, house smoked ham, and lots of caramelized onions and basil. And almost as an after thought, I grabbed one of the pre-made Porchetta Sandwiches, that wasn’t described as such, but definitely had the elements of a Bahn Mi, with Cilantro and Basil, and Shredded Carrots and Daikon, marinated in a Lemon Chile Vinaigrette. I took both back to the house, and even though I only ate half of the tart slice, I indulged in the whole sandwich which left me in a food coma for the rest of the day… On Saturday morning, it was a trip to the lovely farmer’s market – more about that in a second post. On Saturday evening, it was an early dinner at Zuzu, a Spanish restaurant I had been to a couple of times before, and was anxious to get back to. I – a single woman – walked in on a holiday weekend – which in some cases might land awful service, but not here, the service, as well as the food were both excellent – I’d say outstanding, even. I had Steamed Mussels with Jalapeños, Fried Polenta and get this – crumbled Feta Cheese – served with the most deep golden, crusty bread. I know it’s a...
read moreDevilled Chicken Thighs
A few weeks ago, this photo of my dinner, that I posted on Facebook, garnered quite a bit of attention, and rightfully so. It’s beautiful to look at, making for a great dinner party dish. It also happens to be one of those really luscious and soul satisfying dishes. But what makes it devilled, several asked. Yes, people knew of that southern classic, devilled eggs, but didn’t see the connection. I would also add that devilled crab is another popular New Orleans, and greater Gulf Coast region, dish. So I did a bit of research to find out exactly what it is that makes a dish devilled. It turns out, putting the “devil” in a dish, is as simple as adding a bit of spice. in the case of devilled eggs, it can mean mustard, which is always an ingredient, and a bit of cayenne, hot sauce or hot paprika – even occasionally a touch of horseradish. Another southern classic, devilled ham, also includes a bit of cayenne, and sometimes mustard. In devilled crabs, there’s definitely a bit of cayenne. This savory and piquant chicken dish only includes a good Dijon mustard (definitely a main player), as well as a pinch of cayenne . Although the dish looks like a lot of work, it can be broken down into steps. The chicken is marinated a day before. The breadcrumbs – with that really great extra step of tossing them in the browned butter which adds so much flavor – can be done a little bit ahead, and the blanched leeks, that Ms. Goin serves them over, can be made a day or two ahead of time. Of course, the chicken things can be served without the Blanched Leeks , but it really does add a lot to the dish. I served mine also with a Purée of Roasted Sweet Potatoes on the side. Devilled Chicken Thighs – adapted from Suzanne Goin’s Sunday Suppers at Lucques 8 chicken thighs, trimmed of excess fat 1 medium onion, thinly sliced, @ 3/4 cup 2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves 2 chiles de arbol, thinly sliced 2 dried bay leaves, crumbled 2/3 cup dry white wine mixed with 3 tablespoons white wine vinegar 1 3/4 cups Panko style breadcrumbs 4 tablespoons unsalted butter 1 1/2 tablespoons Italian parsley, chopped 1 large shallots, about 1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon, diced 1 scant cup Dijon mustard 1 egg 1 1/2 teaspoon fresh tarragon, chopped A pinch of cayenne @ 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste Place the chicken thighs in a large bowl or Ziplock bag along with the sliced onion, 2 tablespoons of the thyme, the sliced chiles, the bay leaves and 1/4 cup of the wine/vinegar mixture. Toss to coat the chicken well (cover with plastic wrap if in a bowl) to refrigerate overnight. Place the breadcrumbs in a large bowl. Heat a medium to large saucepan over medium heat for 1 minute, then add 3 tablespoons of butter, and cook until it’s brown and smells nutty. Using a rubber spatula, scrape the browned butter over the bread crumbs. Wait a minute until it cools slightly, then add the parsley and 1 tablespoon of the thyme, tossing well. Remove the chicken thighs from...
read moreSpanish Tortilla (not Frittata!)
I was missing my Spanish breakfasts this morning, so I took the time to make a Spanish tortilla (with some help from José Andrés). This tortilla is everywhere in Spain – on breakfast buffets, at tapas, served as appetizers. In fact, the first one I tasted in Spain was on a tapas tour in Barcelona, at the beginning of my trip. It also appeared as an hors d’ouevre at the heavy hors d’oeuvre cocktail party that closed out my tour of southern Spain. As I spied it arriving at our table on the tapas tour, I said- “Oh, the frittata” – I mean, I knew it was a common Spanish dish – and got a sideways look from my tour guide leader. “No, tortilla!”, he said. It was one of several indications I got over the next few weeks of the similarity of, but also, rivalry between, Spanish and Italian cuisine. I got an even bigger sideways look, and a bit of a sigh when I said I preferred prosciutto to Iberico ham. Ah well… I often make frittatas, but finish them in the oven, rather than on the stovetop. This method of flipping them onto the plate, and finishing them stovetop, produces a fluffier “omelette” if you will (aha! French, too!), without the addition of any cream or milk, which I often add to baked frittata mixtures. This is a simple and satisfying breakfast, and only slightly more time consuming than an American style omelette. Slices can be saved and served as a lunch or tapas style dish later in the day, too, but it’s really best served immediately out of the pan. Spanish Tortilla This recipe serves a very hearty breakfast for one, but can serve two to three, if served on a breakfast buffet, as we had most mornings on tour. My Spanish breakfasts generally included a slice of tortilla, a couple of slices of ham, a croissant, a wedge or two of cheese and maybe some fruit or tomato. 1/2 cups oil – I used a mixture of extra virgin olive oil and canola 1 medium large potato – about 1/2 pound, peeled and thinly sliced (I used a mandoline for even slices) 1/2 large brown onion, thinly sliced, about 1/2 cup 4 large eggs Kosher salt (@ 1-2 teaspoons) and freshly ground black pepper to taste Heat the oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Dip a tiny edge of a potato slice in the oil to make sure it’s hot enough. Then add half the potato slices. Work in two or three batches so that the potatoes aren’t crowded. Drain the slices on paper towels, then sprinkle them with kosher salt. Spoon about 2-3 tablespoons of the oil into a sauté pan. Add the onion slices then sauté them, over medium heat, until slightly caramelized, about 6-8 minutes. Lift them out of the oil with a strainer or slotted spoon, then place then in a bowl. Break the eggs into a mixing bowl, and whisk them until mixed but still retaining “their thick gelatinous quality” (as Jose Andres says). Whisk in about 1 teaspoon of the salt and some black pepper. Then add the potato and onion slices to the bowl. Add a tablespoon or two of the frying oil, over medium heat,...
read moreA Stop at Sánchez-Romate Bodega
Ironically two of the top highlights of my tour of southern Spain occurred in the somewhat working-class town of Jerez de la Frontera – a town that might be passed over by some, considering all the other great cities on Spain one could visit. The morning after the two nights of breathtaking flamenco performances at the Festival de Jerez, we made our way to the Sánchez-Romate Bodega (winery), before heading out of town and on to our next city, for a private tour. Jerez is a city world famous for its Sherry (the word sherry itself is a derivation of Jerez). This particular winery has a long history in the storied region – founded in 1781 by wealthy noblemen, and still run today by the same family. They produce Sherry, Sherry Vinegars and Brandy. Their Cardinal Mendoza is one of the highest qualities brandies produced in Spain. Sherry wines are fortified wines, meaning brandy is added to the wine to preserve it. Better for all those long 18th and 19th century hauls across the Atlantic, right? While other preservation methods now exist, brandy fortification is still used because of the distinct flavors it can add to the wines. We learned that there is a wide range of Sherry varieties, from the pale Manzanillas and Finos, though the amber Amontillados, on to the darker ambers bleeding into mahoganies of Olorosso, all the way to the deep mahogany colored Pedro Jimenez – which to me was really a sipped dessert. I didn’t get to try all the varieties – it was morning, after all, but I absolutely loved the complex burnt sugar flavors in a glass of the Pedro Jimenez. Just skip the dessert and have it with some cashews and blue cheese. Heaven! And to top off the morning, we were lavishly entertained by master classical guitarist and collaborator with many of flamenco’s greats, Alfredo Lagos. All in all, a Sunday go to church experience for me. Luckily for you, I taped a small portion of the concert to share with you now. Click on the link below to view the unlisted video:...
read moreTraveling through Cádiz – and Beyond
A ramble down an old Cádiz street When I told a friend about my upcoming trip shortly before I left, she said (even though she was encouraging to me), “I’m only a New World person”. And it’s true – I, too, have traveled almost exclusively in the New World. But the New World emerges from the Old. Traveling through Cádiz (the oldest city in Western Europe, founded initially by the Phoenicians and later part of the Roman empire), I witnessed my Old World roots in a personal way – learning that this was the birthplace of the trans-Atlantic slave trade, as this port city held the exclusive licensing agreement with the port of Havana in the New World (as early as the 16th century). I wasn’t the only one. Cári, an Afro-Cuban woman traveling with us, was visibly moved after our walk through the port of Cádiz, and learning the history. The connections that I had seen Ned draw, and his insistence on tracing the African roots echoing through southern Spain – in the dance, in the music, in the history and architecture – was one of the things that initially drew me to this tour. I was chasing the breadcrumbs of the “long song” (a phrase coined by early jazz musician, transplanted from New Orleans to Europe, Sidney Bechet), as I took to calling it – the song that echoes across the Atlantic, to the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. I had learned from Ned, in reading his book, that Havana was the capital of the Spanish colonies in North America. And indeed, there was a steady flow of trade (most obviously and importantly, the slave trade) between Havana and New Orleans, lasting from the 1600’s all the way up to the embargo levied in the 1960’s. It’s because of the embargo, still in place, sadly, that there is so little memory of this connection today. The Port of Cádiz The remnants of a Roman amphitheater in old Cádiz We passed the Calle de los Negroes there – in the African section of town. In the old town square of Cádiz, I was excited to see the statue of Moret, a celebrated 19th century politician. I have numerous Moret (almost all of whom believed their ancestry was French), cousins and ancestors in my extended family line. Emilio J. Rodríguez Posada, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons It wasn’t Cádiz alone, though. As if visiting there wasn’t enough connection to my history, after I had begun planning this trip, I received an e-mail out of the blue, from a distant and unknown cousin, telling me that my own 3rd great-grandfather had left the coastal town of Sitges, south of Barcelona, to sail to Louisiana in the 18th century. Breadcrumbs. Pretty amazing, right? When I first began looking into visiting Barcelona, a few people had mentioned that it was worth adding on a side trip to the beautiful little town of Sitges. Now I just had to go. So to end my time in Spain, I added on a couple of days there. It was the perfect place to wind down at the end of this intense 3 weeks. This Mediterranean coastal town was like most coastal towns. There was beach volleyball, people out walking their dogs alongside...
read moreOn Returning from Spain, Part 2 – Soul Busting
Lola Flores – Jerez’s “patron saint” of Flamenco I think it’s safe to say that the return to our every day normal lives was a bit of a task for most of us. Quite a few of us texted back and forth in our What’s App group in those first few days back home, comparing notes on our experience of the trip and the “re-entry”. I said that I felt like my soul just busted open, in ways, as a result of this trip. And that there were life lessons in it in going forward. We saw a large spectrum of flamenco music and dance – from very traditional to true boundary and genre expanding flamenco. What stood out to me most, was the level of passion I witnessed in the performances we saw. I turned to one of my fellow travelers, who was sitting beside me after one of them – of one of Spain’s most acclaimed flamenco troupes – at the Jerez Flamenco Festival – and asked “Where does all this passion come from?” It was an unabashed, deep passion – sung out, stomped out so loudly (in a good way) into the world – through voices, through bodies, feet and hands. After I asked that question, I said to him, “I know that it resides in me, too. It’s in my blood, in my DNA (read more about that in a later post). And it wasn’t just in large theaters. We stopped into a little cafe in Jerez for lunch, where there was a small stage flamenco performance. The pictures in this post are from that cafe. We all loved it, but I don’t think anyone enjoyed it more than the waiter who just couldn’t contain himself from the sidelines and jumped on the little stage, too. (See the video below) This is what it’s like to be truly immersed in a culture, I thought. And I saw the passion in Pepa, our translator – Barcelona born, and now a New Orleanian preaching the gospel of flamenco in that city. I said to Ned, our fearless leader and curator of this tour, in our post-trip chat, that a lesson for me to ponder was how to bring more of that passion into my life. The Flamenco Festival performance the night before the first above mentioned performance, was also one of those true boundary pushing – perhaps the most -performances. I felt the same thrill and awe that I did as a very young woman – and very young dancer – of seeing the Martha Graham and Alvin Ailey companies perform for the first time – full Broadway production values and all. It’s a gift to still be able to be thrilled in that way in what I’ve come to refer to as the “fourth quarter”. There was the classical guitar performance at the Romate winery in Jerez – home of sherry, as well as flamenco – on a Sunday morning ending our private tour and tasting, the night after those flamenco concerts, that felt like a Sunday going to church meeting. (Again – more about that in a later post.) So – the gift and lesson – more passion for life, and brought to our life, in this “fourth quarter”. All of the wonderful flamenco photos...
read moreOn Returning from Spain
I’ve just returned from a bit over 3 weeks in southern Spain. The second two weeks was spent with a group, on a tour curated by Ned Sublette, a favorite writer of mine, who became a personal acquaintance during the COVID shutdown, when he began a Zoom group showing wonderful documentaries, showcasing what he calls the Afro-Atlantic, and who’s now a friend. Our fearless leader, Ned. Ned said to us at the beginning of the trip that he hoped it would be transformative – a pretty big aspiration. But it was, for me, in several ways. BTW, the last time I took a transformative trip – a trip that’s stayed with me throughout my life – and the last time I crossed an ocean – was almost exactly 40 years ago. That trip was more overtly “spiritual” as it was an ecumenical religious tour to India. But during the course of a lifetime, what’s spiritual in ones life evolves, so this trip certainly fell into the realm of the “spiritual”, too. For several years, Ned has led tours to New Orleans (I didn’t really feel the need for that) and to Cuba. Although I didn’t join one of his tours there, it was something he wrote in his book, The World That Made New Orleans, that finally got me there. But when he sent out a feeler last year, saying he was considering an Andalućia tour, and wondering how much interest there was, I thought – now here’s a tour that piques my attention. You know how things go – at least they often do for me. I thought I really can’t afford it. Maybe next year I’ll be better able to afford it. Some other year will be better, perhaps … until Al, my younger brother left us; until he just didn’t wake up one morning, and I got a serious “wake-up” call from the “universe”, if you will. There is no other time. We are not promised some other year. So, shortly after Al’s funeral, I contacted Ned and committed to the trip. I felt Al with me on this trip – like he had given me a gift, even in his death – the wake up call to go out and live my life. One of my fellow travelers, at one of our last lunches together said something similar. She had spent time in Rwanda after the war and the rebuilding of that country. The image of a little boy’s eyes she had seen in a photo in a museum there haunted her. She asked the image what message it had for her amidst all this suffering. Go out and live. Live for me. Live your life, it said to her. I told her about Al, and we understood and shared the solemn charge. She was traveling with her husband who had admitted to me earlier that he was traveling with early stage Parkinson’s disease and a recent cancer diagnosis. It was a gift to me to see so many living their lives – in spite of the illnesses, the age, the uneven gait – a sign of degenerated knees – that I recognized and shared with them. Just go out and live. Live your life. Frankly, I’m still processing it all – and may be...
read moreReflection – 60 Years After the March on Washington
This weekend, a march is being held in Washington DC commemorating the historic March on Washington held this month 60 years ago – a march indelibly imprinted in the mind of this adolescent girl, along, no doubt, with many others of her generation. The first march was considered radical and potentially dangerous, so much so that President John F. Kennedy, stayed away – nervous about attending. Instead, he watched and listened to the speeches being given at the Lincoln Memorial facing the National Mall through an open window from his White House office. Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons The march was seminal, laying the foundation for so much of the progress we’ve witnessed during our lives – including the election of a black man as President of the United States, something most of us felt was unimaginable in our lifetime. Thinking back on it all can elicit exhilarating moments. And yet, it is completely disheartening to know that so much of what Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and others marched for that day – indeed, spent and gave their lives fighting for – we, as a people, are still having to fight ferociously for today. Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons Today the right and easy access, for all American citizens to vote, remains a battle. Young black men are still being killed indiscriminately. Health outcomes for black women and infants – challenged even more so now with the war against safe and legal access to abortion – lag way behind those of white women in the U.S., and many other countries in the world. Today I listened to recordings of Sweet Honey in the Rock, a group I loved decades ago, but hadn’t thought much about lately, until I mentioned Bernice Johnson Reagon’s wonderful lyric in the last piece I posted here, speaking of how the music formed me. The music not only formed me, but fueled an entire movement of change. Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons I was reminded of the lyric again this week when a Facebook friend posted that she was “resigning – staying away” from being a public voice for social change, and I quoted them to my friend. She responded that she was moving her voice into more artistic areas. I get it. I understand the burnout, but I say we bring who we are to our artistic work – whether it’s writing, singing, dancing, acting, creating beautiful food – at least I hope we always strive to do so. And again, I can’t help but think of the beautiful artistry speaking of social change in the work of Sweet Honey in the Rock, and indeed so many of the artists who raised their voices on that August day in 1963 and beyond. We need the artistry to fuel us and keep us going. “We who believe in freedom cannot...
read moreThe Music and Me
I know – It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything here, but today I am beginning again, although with a slight difference. While this blog has never been a typical food blog – I always believed I should offer a well written story, and was concerned with many things besides just offering a recipe or restaurant review – it did adhere mostly to food, travel and entertaining. I certainly haven’t stopped cooking – in fact, I’m probably cooking more than ever – at least at home for myself – but I feel I am compelled now to open things up here. I have so much more I want to talk about. The blog was originally named PainPerdu Blog meaning “lost bread”. There will still be a theme of loss (for the Perdu) running through it, and I hope will deal in a broader sense with the Pain – the bread. Bread, meaning sustenance and nurturance, as there are many things that sustain us beyond just what we eat. And the pieces I write most definitely will still reflect who I am. So, I hope you will join me on this journey. Thanks. This piece was written on May 24th – Bob Dylan’s 82nd birthday, and the day Tina Turner died. Portrait of Harry Belafonte, singing *1954 Feb. 18 *gelatin silver Carl Van Vechten – Van Vechten Collection at Library of Congress What a month it has been – beginning with the death of Harry Belafonte. In my childhood household, like so many others, we heard Day-O, Day-O – the Banana Boat Song – over and over again. We sighed for the Brown Skin Girl, left behind to stay home and mind baby. My uncles sang Scarlet Ribbons to us as lullabies, feeding my nascent love of folk music. We watched the tall, handsome performer march alongside Dr. King on our black and white TV’s. And then a few days later, Gordon Lightfoot – the clear, light baritone voice I fell in love with as a teenager. In the summers of 1967 and ’68. I would lie in front of the stereo speakers listening to him sing Black Day in July, over and over again – the black days, some of which had erupted just down the hill from my childhood home. When I got to college, I was fortunate to have a roommate who loved him, too. We listened to him tell the story of his Canada that “existed long before the white man and long before the wheel, the deadly silent silence too silent to be real”. Between the years of listening to Belafonte and Lightfoot, it was Peter, Paul and Mary, who I sometimes like to joke raised me, as I listened to their voices so often in my formative years. I aspired to speak and sing in the deep rich strong voice of Mary Travers. I grieved for her as if she was a personal friend when she died. International Talent Associates (management), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons And then I was introduced to Joni Mitchell. I had never heard of her before a group of friends bought her album, Clouds, and gave it to me as a gift on my 17th birthday – only one month before I left for college. I stayed awake...
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