The Girl's Gone Country

I'm about as country as Jessica Simpson, but it should be said that I spent the first six years of my life with cows for neighbors. My parents eventually upgraded to a town with a convenience store within walking distance, but the people without teeth still remained.

Back in those days, probably until I was about 10, the can't-wait-for event each summer was the Sussex County Farm and Horse Show, essentially a country carnival, complete with stomach aching fried foods and tractor pulls. It's where I experienced my first-ever thrill ride at the tender age of two, on some sort of red, dusty, merry-go-round contraption with a cow bell attached. Good times were had by all.

I haven't been to the fair in ages and for some reason I really wanted to go this summer. So I rounded up Jay and my parents and we took the long ride out to the fairgrounds via Route 206 in my father's 22-foot long diesel truck, for country-folk authenticity purposes.

I don't remember much about my past times at the Sussex County fair, but I have a feeling that not much has changed since my last visit, except that my father now has Jay to competitively eat against. (Usually he just eats.) Jay put up a good fight, but my father reigned, consuming a roast beef sandwich, pierogies, a cheese steak, popcorn, a slice of pizza, half of an ice cream waffle sandwich, beef brisket, corn on the cob, oysters and finally, a nectarine, all in three-and-a-half hours. For reasons unknown, the only item he refused was the remainder of my funnel cake. (Too sugary, perhaps?)

And just like always, good times were had by all. Pictures here.

Top 5: Feeding Frenzy

When Jenn proposed today’s top-five list—“foods you need to shove down your gullet before leaving”—I thought it would be easy. Then I rattled off more than 20 dishes in the same number of seconds that would vie for only five slots.

Sadly, Telepizza did not make the list. It was a tough call.

To narrow it down, I’m including only things with ingredients that aren’t readily available back home or things that would be difficult for a novice cook to replicate in his kitchen. I’m also leaving off the half dozen body parts of the pig that would have a made my top 20. I’m guessing Jenn, who generally stays away from food that once were body parts, had the opposite problem as she assessed her favorites from this meat-loving country.

In the meantime, we're left with a lot of things to eat in the span of a week. We’re starting right now as we head off to get tapas and hopefully end Jenn’s moratorium on drinking.




Jenn:
1. Queso de Cabra Gratinado. Never—never, I tell you! —has cheese been so mmmmmmm inducing. I'm normally not the biggest rosemary fan, but I'll deal when there's ridiculously soft goat cheese and sweet honey involved.






2. Bacalao. The Spanish cod is delicious when fried. (But then again, what isn't?) Plus, "bacalao" is fun to say in a faux-gangsta-rapper voice. El Rinconcillo's bacalao are a particular stand out, as they seem to be swathed in some sort of funnel-cake-like batter.

3. Croquettas. This may be a shock coming from me, I know, but during our time here we quickly discovered non-ham versions of this tiny treat, like fish, pesto, cauliflower and spinach. Though it must be said that jamón croquettas are the best, especially the ones from Bar Europa.

4. Pisto. Sometimes the food in Spain is so obvious you wonder, "Why haven't I ever thought to do this before?" That's just the delicious simplicity of Spanish cooking, and pisto in particular: Nothing more than zucchini, eggplant, onion and green and red peppers in tomato sauce, topped with an egg. Of course, the tomato sauce makes or breaks the dish.

5. Salmorejo. Blend tomatoes, olive oil, day-old bread, garlic and sherry vinegar; chill—both the soup and yourself, that is, because this is clearly a very exhausting dish to prepare. You could also add chopped bacon or scallions, but you most certainly will want to have a hearty, grainy bread on hand for dipping.

Jay:
1. Queso de Cabra Gratinado. I knew Jenn would lead her list with this, but enough praise can’t be lavished on this one. It’s also been a favorite of nearly all our visitors.

2. Jamón Serrano. Cured ham, hand-sliced thin right from the leg. This stuff makes even the best prosciutto seem like Oscar Meyer baloney. Quite the delicacy, it retails for more than $100 a pound in the U.S. I’m going to miss it.

3. Carrillada. This is pork cheek. I’ve had it prepared a few different ways and every time it’s more tender than the best pulled pork sandwiches I’ve had.


4. Boquerones (at right). These are fresh anchovies, sans the head, deep-fried and served with a little wedge of lemon. I’ve never been a huge fan of anchovies—associating them with those salty gray little bastards you find in the jar. Fresh and fried: It’s a whole different story.

5. Flamenquines. This is cheese. Wrapped in ham. Wrapped in pork loin. Deep-fried. Elaborating is unnecessary.

Top 5: It's over.

There is NOTHING* left to write about. We've seen all Seville has to offer. And Spain? Over it!** We're ready to shake this little town for the city that never sleeps. (Actually, given how many times those damn kids on the Alameda woke me up with their 5-a.m. antics, Seville may have New York beat on that one.)

No matter! Who says you can't go home? Certainly not Jon Bon Jovi, and he's been around the world, so he knows what he's talking about. We've been there, done that; there's only one place left we want to go: home. Herewith, the Top 5 things we can't wait to get back to in 11 days, in order of most importance ...

Jay:
1. English Speakers, Particularly Friends And Family. The Spanish are among the friendliest and most patient people I’ve encountered, and though my skill at speaking the language has improved (it’s not hard to build on a baseline of nothing), I’m still craving good conversations and encounters with friends and family.

2. Burgers. While Spanish food is some of the best I’ve had, and the abundance of pork, fried cheeses and fresh seafood have left me little to desire, there is one thing I miss: the humble American cheeseburger.

3. A Proper Haircut. My lack of Spanish has led to the disaster on top of my head. Barbers are a garrulous bunch who require constant instruction—“A little off the top” or “Oh no. Please stop cutting.” I simply don’t have the command of this language to direct a barber. Instead, I have relied on the kindness of others: Jenn’s occasional removal of neck hairs; Casey’s American-voltage clippers that blew up midway through a trim; and a late-night, wine-fueled haircut, courtesy of Kristen.

4. Television. I hate to admit it. I miss American television. Though we have a stable of DVDs and have taken advantage of the new iTunes movie rental service, I’m looking forward to the feel of the remote in my hand and hundreds of channels of English-language crap at my command.

5. My Kitchen. Currently, we have two electric stove top burners, a microwave and a sad supply of cutlery, pots, pans and utensils. In New York, I’ll return to sharp knives, skillets whose surfaces don’t cling to everything they touch and an actual oven.

Jenn:
1. An Eyebrow Wax, Manicure and Pedicure. Yes, this actually trumps seeing friends and family. I'm just that vain, apparently.

2. Friends and Family. Simply put, I can't wait to see everyone! But not before I have some maintenance performed.

3. Having a Menu at MY Mercy. Lord, how I can't wait to get my hand on a menu where I actually know what I'm ordering. And if I don't like what I see, I can get all Sally Albright on any item.

4. A Looooong, Hot Shower. There is an endless supply of hot water to be had at my apartment in Astoria. Here; not so much.




5. Summer Reruns. Finally, I can actually watch Blair spar with Chuck and Jenny, instead of having to read about it. The quips just never translate as well.






Look for more Top 5's throughout the remainder of our time here--as I said, there just isn't much to write about anymore!***

*This isn't exactly true.

**For the record, Jay isn't "over" Spain; he just lacks a flair for the dramatic.

***See first note.

Call us! We should totally hang.

"She takes soy milk in her coffee. He thinks pork fat is a perfect pizza topping."

All the more reason why I wish Jay and I had run into Gwyneth Paltrow--perhaps my favorite actress no matter how many people hate her--and Mario Batali--absolutely Jay's most favorite chef and restaurateur no matter how much people mock his penchant for orange Crocs--as they take a foodie road trip through Spain for a show that debuts on PBS this fall.



We're still here and this video makes us nostalgic. It also makes us wish we had a professional camera crew following us in our convertible these last three months and that at least one of us possessed Gwynnie's command of Spanish.

Oh, and? NB to Gwyneth: I think I gained those 10 kilos on your behalf.

It finally happened.

Last night, tired of cooking and sick of tapas, we decided to try this sushi joint we stumbled upon a few weeks ago. Big mistake. It was as if, in lieu rice, they soaked white bread in water and wrapped it around the contents of a California roll. Further adding insult to injury, this sushi's craptasticness only made me long for the indomitable Watawa in Astoria.

So it's back to tapas, which doesn't make me homesick.

If all else fails

...I can become a dancer at a vegan strip club. It would be like penance for all the bits of ham I've had since I arrived here. 

He Ate, She Starved, He Ate Her Portions

I’ll eat everything. If you know me, you know this to be true.
I will not eat everything. If you know me, you know this to be true.

It has been said that the Spanish eat everything on the pig except for the oink. I’ve joined them. I’ve eaten my way from the hoof to the hip with fine slices of jamón serrano. I’ve gotten all up in the pig’s face with tasty bits of carrillada, or pork cheeks. I’ve lusted in the loins of lomo de puerco.

I’ve picked my way around the bacon in “vegetarian” quiches and I’ve swallowed a croquette whole to avoid chewing the ham, whilst still getting its flavor. I’ve been turned off from fish after biting into a singular bone. I’ve eaten meals that consist solely of garbanzo beans that were unavoidably stewed in chorizo.

I ate that chorizo.

I’ve begrudgingly eaten salmorejo—delicious as the tomato-based soup may be—peppered with bits of chewy bacon, just to feed my starving body.

Oh, but you begged for a bite of my bacon-wrapped dates!

You weren’t supposed to tell!

Now, we’re off to a “vegetarian” restaurant. I’ll likely order the ham.

And I’ll have the bread basket.

The Mediterranean Diet

After a few days here, between the walking and the biking and the tapas and the shopping at the fresh food markets and the generally smaller portions severed in restaurants, one starts to think, "I'm soooo going to become one of those skinny European bitches."

But then I forget that my version of the Mediterranean Diet involves vino, and when I have too much of it, I get ravenously hungry. Not truly stomach-growling hungry, just drunk hungry, which really isn't hungry at all, probably more like dehydrated, because isn't that what all the experts say--that mild dehydration is often mistaken for hunger? I know this--even in a wine-induced haze I know this--and yet every time, I can't help but stuff food in my mouth.

So so much for becoming a skinny bitch.

Last night we discovered a gem of a tapas place, Casa Paco, which happens to be just across the street from our apartment. Other places we've tried on the Alameda have been just so-so thus far, and though we noticed that the locals jam the place every night promptly at nine, when the kitchen opens, I cannot explain why it took a full week before we finally popped in.

Now it has been a struggle to not go there every night, given the delicious and deceptively simple dishes, such as tuna with peppers marinated in olive oil, bacon-wrapped dates drizzled with honey and the clear star of the menu, as it is escorted out of the kitchen every five minutes: queso de cabra au gratinada, which is basically a slab of goat cheese broiled until the top is crispy, then drizzled with honey and rosemary and served with a side of crostini. Our responses to these delicacies were very Rachel Ray á la her travel show, except genuine.

Sevilla Later: Binge Edition

The day I returned from my month-long stay in England, my parents, driving me home from the airport, asked what I wanted to do on my first day back in the states. "Go to a diner," said I, a born-and-bred Diner State girl, and the 'rents promptly obliged. Therewith, I proceeded to pig out on mozzarella sticks, potato skins (this was pre-vegetarianism) and other various and nefarious fried foods that are hard to come by abroad.

So, with less than a week left before the move to Spain, I made a list of all the foods I knew I could not get (or wouldn't be as good) overseas and therefore had to eat before my departure. These included, but were not limited to: a bagel, sushi, a slice of pizza, popcorn, cheese fries, pickles, et al. This weekend, I went on a bender, aided in part by the free pizza available with every drink purchase at Crocodile Lounge. The evidence...

First, on Saturday night, the pizza:



Then, the morning after, I ate like I was on vacation.



From left to right: pancakes; cheese fries with gravy on the side (for people who like that sort of thing); onion rings (not pictured); grilled cheese with bacon and tomato; mashed potatoes; roast beef sandwich (I did not partake); BLT (not pictured, also not eaten, though I did snag the pickle); scrambled eggs; and a Diet Coke, which is more syrupy here than the Coke Lite available everywhere else in the world.

It tasted oh-so-good going down and I expectedly felt disgusting the rest of the day, both physically and emotionally. In fact, I feel so full I don't think I'll need to eat anything until I actually arrive in Spain on Saturday.

T-minus 10 days...

Witness the cannoli-filled cake that wishes us well in French for our upcoming trip to Spain. Bit internationally schizophrenic, but delicious nonetheless.

Sometimes God has a strange sense of humor

I'm a bit of a closeted hypochondriac. It's not something I readily admit, but I've been known to cancel plans if a friend is coughing heavily or avoid them altogether should they have contracted the flu in the last six months. Now that the weather is too warm for gloves—meaning I actually have to touch things like door handles and subway poles—my hands are cracked and dry from using too much Purell. So naturally, I've been fascinated by this honeymooning jerk off with a deadly strain of TB who eschewed his doctor's advice against flying and jetsetted around the world, thanking the powers that be that I did not fly Air France on my recent trip to Marseilles.

Fast forward to this morning, where I'm avoiding work by running out for a bagel and then eating said bagel while reading Gridskipper, which tells me that Patient X spent an undisclosed 72 hours in Manhattan. Intrigued, I click on the link where Chris Mohney helpfully tells me, "So if you stood in line at Essa Bagel in Murray Hill on May 25 with some other guy who was coughing a lot, you might want to, you know, get yourself checked out."

I'll give you one guess where my freakin' bagel came from this morning.

UPDATE: Patient X now has an identity and CNN has a good roundup of all the infuriating details, including insight into this dude's sense-of-entitlement douchebaggery.

Yes indeed-y, its pious vegetarian time...

This is why I don't eat meat:

People have eaten millions of chickens that were given feed tainted with recalled pet food, federal officials said Tuesday...

I have enough to worry about in life without meat, I can't imagine how much more worrisome I would be if I did consume chickens, cows and pigs. (Now, before you freak out, actually click on the link and you'll see the lede finished with: "though they said the threat to human health is minimal." I was going for shock value, there people. Now where do I sign up with PETA?)

People often ask me why I gave up meat and it's always a hard one to answer, because though the explanation is simple, people usually don't get it.

Sure, I like animals, but I also really like bacon (though I can't recall the last time I had it). I read "Fast Food Nation" several years ago and that was partly what pushed me off the purely plant-eating cliff, but it's not as though I'm protesting weekly outside of local slaughterhouses.

No, the reason I gave up meat is because it grosses me out. That's it. There's no "Save Wilbur" or otherwise worthy cause involved, it's simply a matter of taste. This is usually where people cock their head at me with a puzzled expression of "my, what a high-maintenance crack head."

To further complicate matters, I often add that I do sometimes still eat meat, albeit in small portions. My mother's amazing parsley bread contains chopped pepperoni and Jay makes these life-changing risotto balls with shreds of prosciutto. Both are made so rarely, they're hard to pass up and I never do.

People are even more surprised when I say I'd eat red meat again before I eat chicken. I still crave burgers and steak now and then, so I know I'll go back to eating it eventually (maybe), but I think chicken has left my system forever, never to enter again. For starters, I can't stand that it's white, and therefore resembles (to me) human flesh. I also can't stand that under cooking it can cause severe intestinal distress and if you've ever witnessed my skills in the kitchen, this will make sense. In fact, the few times I cooked chicken for myself and my roommates in college, I sat up half the night waiting to hear them all rushing for the bathroom because I didn't cook it thoroughly enough. I find life is much easier not having to worry about such things as poisoning your friends.

So again, we see that I managed to turn something that is supposed to be for the better good of all beings everywhere that are happy and free, into something about myself. Hello again, selfish!

La dolce vita

As a certain someone likes to remind me, life is pretty damn good right now. I have my own apartment, happy and healthy family and friends, a fabulous boyfriend and a job that lets me travel the world on someone else's dime. Plus, a recent trip to the doctor unveiled a sizable weight loss just in time for my vacation to Cabo. Yippie.

However—you knew that was coming, didn't you?—despite all my recent good fortune, my mind and my body have never been more of a mess. (Hence the doctor's visit.) I've lost weight only because I've also managed to lose my appetite, which happens to me when I'm heavily worried about something. What's the trouble? Having nothing to worry about, apparently.

So thank you to everyone who currently makes life so great.

In essence, you all make me sick.

In a pickle

There’s been a shift in my relationship with Jay and it’s a little disconcerting. (I’m going to get chided for writing about this, but really what fun is blogging if you don’t detail things like your significant other’s bathroom habits? [Don’t worry, that’s not happening here—yet—so keep reading.])

Since our relationship’s inception, I’ve been the healthy eater. I order salad with dressing on the side while he chows on a double cheeseburger with bacon; I blot the grease off my pizza while he laughs at me between strings of melted, cheesy goodness; I coerce him into ordering French fries so I can finish off his leftovers. I’ll never forget the look on his face the first time I ordered my diner staple of a BLT without the B. I could quite clearly see the tears in his eyes as he tried to hold his laughter in.

But lately things have been different. Over Christmas, Jay went to the doctor and discovered that eating cheese steaks for lunch every day will give you high cholesterol. Ever since, he has taken to healthy eating with the fervor of Kristie Alley stumping for Jenny Craig, which now leaves me feeling like a porker every time I want to eat like crap. Witness the following exchange:

Me: Can we please, please break the healthy streak sometime soon and go check this place out? They have fried pickles!!!
Him: I’m down with checking that out sometime. I guess I could really let loose and get the frisee salad or the raw vegetable sandwich…
Me: I’m not feasting on fried pickles while you nibble on frisee. I hear their burgers are good…

Does it get more peer-pressure laden than that? Can’t you sense my desperation? What’s even worse is that it’s not the pressuring him to do something he doesn’t want to do that bothers me—it’s the loss of my healthy eating superiority. It’s not so much about having crappy-eating companionship as it is about bringing him down so I can gain the upper hand again. Boy better watch his back… We’re going to Soho Park for burgers and fried pickles and once he goes to the bar for a drink, I’m switching my order to salad and a water.