Other

Like a lot of Dogfish Head brews this guy comes with a bit of a back story.  The brewery itself describes it as follows:

An unfiltered, unfettered, unprecedented brown ale aged in handmade wooden brewing vessels. The caramel and vanilla complexity unique to this beer comes from the exotic Paraguayan Palo Santo wood from which these tanks were crafted. Palo Santo means “holy tree,” and its wood has been used in South American wine-making communities.

At 10,000 gallons, our Palo tank is the largest wooden brewing vessel built in America since before Prohibition (and we have two same-sized oak tanks right next to it).

Oh, and it clocks in at 12% ABV.

Appearance – If you could blend iced coffee and motor oil.  Dark.  Thin dark brown foam.

Smell – Malty, nutty, and earthy.  Some cherry on my first few sniffs.

Taste – BANG!  If you weren’t awake every taste bud you have just slapped you in the face.  Malt, cedar, roasted nuts.  Some bitterness.  A finish that hits a little caramel or crème brûlée.

Mouth – Dry.  Very dry with some heat from the alcohol.  Yet the beer remains dangerously drinkable.

Overall – Pretty freak’n awesome.  Not what I’m going to be reaching for a lot this summer, though.  I would be excited to try to pair this with some savory meat, maybe even with a little heat in the mix.

This beer is inches from the edge of cliff that plummets into an overly alcoholic, difficult to drink concoction.  I don’t like beers over that cliff, but love this one.  Another job well done Dogfish Head.

Maybe, God forbid, the place was what it appeared to be–a melange of Okies and thieves and bewildered Jíbaros.

~Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary

Despite an amazing time at the wedding, enjoying the unending vacation weather, finding good food and drink, and the pleasant disposition of people, something about the city seemed off.  I can’t judge based on this 72 hour jaunt, but something rubbed me the wrong way.  It seemed like a shiny new sprawling suburb.  A clean surface with an untrustworthy or vacant interior.  Though, perhaps, I could seen hints of what people love about the city.  It is clean, healthy, with weather that allows you to love the outdoors.  Maybe it’s, as I began to contemplate on my return to New York, me or my life that’s a melange overdue for resorting and re-evaluation.

The epic wedding culminated at the Nixon “I am not a crook!”Presidential library.  Hors d’oeuvres were served in the garden, under the beautiful California sun to the tunes of a live jazz band.  One particularly interesting morsel was a blueberry and a small piece of brie skewered on to a piece of chewy bread with a toothpick.  It’s a combination that I wouldn’t have thought of, but is perfect warm weather finger food.

After the bride and groom fulfilled their photo obligations, all entered an exquisite hall for the dinner.  One of best meals served on that scale I’ve had.  Through the dinner, there were the usual speeches by friends and family of the newlyweds–some funny, many painfully awkward.  And after we all enjoy yet another decadent table of fruits, sweets, and coffee.

Despite a late night, I was out of bed by 8 a.m.; not so much by choice as from the firm grip of timezone differences.  My body thought is was already 11 and time to find adventures.  And I did find a few, but this post is for the wedding and it was time to shed Indian attire for a suit.  The day was filed with ceremony.

The Ghor

This ceremony was described to me as the blessing of the groom.  In the presidential suite of the the hotel, the Fayaz’s friends and family gather to lift any curses and impart good luck.  (Word was that the bride had a congruent, but separate, ceremony.)

Chi tea was available in the room:  a strong brew in a pot with condensed milk on the side.

The ceremony appeared to closely resemble that undertaken before the mess-up the groom.  A tray held a cup of M&Ms and cups of quarters.  However, this ceremony involved all feeding Fayaz and M&M and circulating the money over his head.  By the time Nick and I were up, Fayaz had eaten his fill of sweets and passed the M&Ms off on us.

After all had imparted their blessings, we had an hour or so before it was time to head to the mosque for the actual wedding ceremony.

The Mosque

Once we arrived at the mosque, the men and women separated and removed their shoes before entering their respective rooms in the place of worship.   Inside the moque, there were no seats and all took their places, siting on a softly carpeted floor.  Fayaz and his best man were seated against the wall on pillows near the front.  The Imam sat at the pulpit, a large elevated chair which looked well suited for long speeches.

After words from the Imam on equality, particularly of that between men and women, the floor was ceded in for various words on marriage and the couple.  The men listen in person, while the women watched from their room over video.  The Imam again took the podium and explained variations in wedding ceremony across Islamic traditions.  He then explained that Nushin would come over the speaker system and ask to Fayaz marry her and that Fayaz would then (hopefully!) accept.

The microphone was handed to Fayaz and Nushins voice filled the room and asked the big question in Arabic.  To which Fayaz responded.  The exchange lasted  no more that 30 seconds.   When it was over a man ran into the room to get Fayaz’s signature on the wedding certificate.

As we exited, I saw many large tables covered with food and learned that the separation of  the men and women was to continue to through dinner.  I filled my plate with naan, chick pea curry, beef curry, chicken tikka, roasted veggies, rice, and various Indian deserts.  I happily worked my way through the heaping plate over conversation at an outdoor table with Fayaz’s male friends and family.

The Cake Cutting

This portion of the was a hybrid of Western and Indian ceremonies.  Speeches from family interspersed Indian traditions and the exchanging of rings.  The  event culminated with the cutting of the cake and turning the room full guests lose on a table full of coffee, tea, sweets, and sandwiches.  (It had been almost three hours since dinner!)  Strangely, though all events were, in the Muslim tradition, sans alcohol, ham and cheese sandwiches were in the mix.

After eating the table’s sweets and after wedding cake was passed around, guests were invited to take photos with the beautiful new couple.

The BBQ

Fayaz is hit as he draws me into the action.

After arrival at LAX, I  headed directly to a park for the first event in the weekend of festivities: a BBQ and ceremony for the groom.  At the park, I chatted with Fayaz’s family and friends from Minnesota who I  hadn’t seen in ages.  After maybe an hour, there was a brief ceremony for Fayaz which drew on a number of traditions including negotiations for Fayaz’s purchase of fetched water, the eating of sweets, and waving coins over Fayaz as a blessing.

The next phase was described to me as “mess-up the groom.”  Fayaz said that, while this is usually limited to some shaving cream on the groom, his family takes to an all out round robin of shaving cream, cool whip, water balloons, and silly string.  At the end of the ceremony, the action began.  For about ten minutes, no one was safe.   Things finally calmed down when a brawl nearly broke-out as people were thrown in the lake.  May Fayaz’s Blackberry rest in peace.

A lunch of burgers and chicken tenders was served and, over a meal in the beautiful Cali weather, friends and family had a chance to catch-up.

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The Mehndi

After the BBQ, we all had enough time to check into the hotel and grab a drink or two at the bar before heading over to the Mehndi at the bride’s family’s home.  Well, at least the men had a moment of leisure.   The women headed to the bride’s home early for the  application of henna.

When we arrived at Nushin’s family home we headed to the back yard.  I was instantly stunned.  I felt as if I’d walked into a fairy tale or the set of a bollywood movie. Set-out in the warm California night were lounge areas.  Large white soft rectangles covered with brightly colored and shiny pillows basked in soft light.  The seating surrounded an open walled tent with a wooden floor.  The air was filled with the smells of meat cooking in one corner of the yard and fresh fruit in another.

It was on arrival that Fayaz’s male friends, most of us white, learned we would be dancing in a precision (in front of a few hundred people) to lead the groom to the tent.  After being shown a few dance moves the music started and we were off.  Fayaz, dressed in all red traditional Indian attire lead the way surrounded by his poorly dancing friends (also in traditional Indian attire).   The attire consisted of a long top and light pants held with a draw string.  Large pants, with a draw string that was very tricky for this white boy.  Half-way through the dance in I realized my pants were falling down.  Thankfully the top is long and I was saved from exposing myself to the crowd as I danced with my pants at my thighs.

After Fayaz took his thrown like seat under the tent,  Nushin was carried to the tent in an ornate box supported by a pole.  It is fortunate tradition, as Nushin had broken her leg only two weeks before.  Fayaz picked her up out of the box and set her on her own thrown–looking more like a princess than any bride I’ve seen.  Speeches and rituals followed.

Then, it was time to eat.  Nushin, understanding Fayaz’s intense love for shawarma arranged for several large spinning cones of meat served with a spread of other amazing Indian delights and guests ate until they could eat no more.  We lounged and ate as traditional Indian music from a live band wafted over the crowd.  Once satiated, many retired to smoke from the dozen or so hookah’s set-up in the yard.

The festivities ended around 1:30 a.m. and only then because the police showed-up (I’m sure half of LA had been serenaded up to that point).  In a near daze I retired to the hotel for a brief sleep before another day of Cali adventures and wedding ceremonies.

I’ve just returned home to Brooklyn from an amazing weekend in Los Angeles for Fayaz and Nushin’s wedding.  An epic Indian wedding with events stretching over three days.  While I can’t help but feel a profound sadness for the end of an era (Fayaz and I have been off and on roommates, friends, and co-culinary adventurers for a decade now), I’m also profoundly joyed to see Fayaz enter a new phase in his life with truly one of the most amazing and accomplished women I have ever met.  (She’s cooked for the Park Slope apartment, and it’s a travesty those amazing meals are not represented here!)

Over  the next few days, I hope to post descriptions of the weekend’s events.  At every turn, at every meal (there were many), all stops were pulled-out.  More than once, I felt as if I had walked onto the set of a movie.  And, in between the wedding festivities, I was able to grab some California eats worthy of text here.

The three days of  the wedding and a final day to fly out seem much longer in the best possible way.  Event after event and meal after meal in a city unlike any I’ve experienced before.  Between the new city, two five hour flights in which I surveyed most of America, the experience of a wedding from a fairy tale, and seeing the marriage of one of my dearest friend, I feel a deep stirring in me.  The kind that beings blurry, creates restlessness, and ends in reevaluated life perspectives and goals.  (I’m sure reading Hunter S. Thompson along the trip is a bit of a factor as well.)  I’ll try to keep talk of all that to a relative minimum here and focus on the epic experiences of food, culture, and city.

Though, I have to note my realization that I’ve become a New Yorker.  LA felt like more of a foreign city more than it would have at any previous time in my life.  Cars, highways, malls, sprawl, miles of new buildings, and suburban like environments have all shifted well outside of normalcy for me.  At the same time, flying cross country, looking over vast swaths of open country has given me the itch to take the road and again explore the “back waters” of America.

But good food related posts to follow, I promise.

I mention Union Market in a lot of my posts.  It’s the store that sources a good deal of my cooking and where I often find myself wandering the selves looking for inspiration.  But, I’ve gotta be honest, unless you live in Park Slope, this post might be a bit of a snore for you.  (And if you don’t live in Park Slope, my sincere regrets that you don’t live in the best neighborhood, of the best borough, of the best city in America.  Sorry Twin Cities, I still love you, but it’s true!)

Union Market opened the doors to its first store on Union Street in North Slope (then just Park Slope and probably still is to the folks up there) in 2005.  It has since opened a couple more stores here in the BK and, in a Brooklyn takes on the City move, has a store under construction on Houston Street.

If any Minnesotans are still reading, Union Market reminds of what you’d get if the Wedge Coop on Lyndale in Minneapolis and Whole Foods had a love child.  Larger than a bodega, but dwarfed by Whole Foods, Union Market might feel a bit cramped to those hailing from The Land of Ice and Snow (say shhhh).

Unlike Whole Foods, Union Market doesn’t guarantee a purely organic experience, though I would venture to guess that  nearly the full store is.    I’m perfectly comfortable with that arrangement.  I’m not an organic food nut (buying regularly from a large by NY standards supermarket, Key Food), quality local/seasonal isn’t always organic, and I’m confident the increased selection is selected with care.

I appreciate the smaller size and the lack of pretension that might be found in a Brooklyn coop.   I never have to wait in the seemingly endless lines that plagued me at Whole Foods in Union Square.  I never feel like I’m being pressed through an organic meat grinder just to pick-up dinner.

Today I picked up ingredients to make a salad.  At checkout, the cashier noticed that there was a questionable spot on my package of spinach and encouraged me, over my objections, to get a replacement.  I hadn’t noticed and honestly didn’t think it looked too bad, but I appreciated the attention to quality.

From the fresh baked breads, to the fresh produce, to the amazing selection of cheese that I’ve probably spent hours drooling over, to the fresh meat and seafood counters, to the beer selection, it appears thought and care has gone in the variety and quality of offerings.

The comfort, attention to detail, and quality seems to usually clock-in at less than a similar run to Whole Foods (at least in terms of produce).  The meat, seafood, and cheese can come at a price, but it’s a price paid for quality.  And a number house brand products help me find quality at a lower price.

Union Market helps fuel my culinary adventures and is one of the reasons Park Slope is the best neighborhood in New York.

Did you buy Nutella between between January 1, 2008 and February 3, 2012?  If so, it’s time to get paid!  Apparently some folks got confused by adds like the above and thought the stuff was healthy.   I mean it makes sense to think that it’s healthy, until you think about the fact that you’re basically eating chocolate peanut butter or until you look at the nutritional information.

The great thing is, you don’t have to be one of the dumb-dumbs tricked by Nutella’s big tobacco style marketing.  You just need to have bought the stuff in the last five or so years.  I estimate that I’ve bought three jars myself.

How do you get paid?  Just file a claim at www.NutellaClassActionSettlement.com, the Nutella Consumer Class Action Settlements Website.  Don’t get too greedy though, you’re only able to file a claim for up to five jars.

We all know that America has been falling behind.  Economics, manufacturing, science and math education…  all categories in which other countries of the world have started to lap us.  But the title of biggest meat-eater is one to which I expected America to hold strong.  So I was shocked when I learned in the Economist that Luxembourg holds the number one meat spot.  I mean, sure the U.S. wins in absolute tons of meat consumed, but that small European country manages to beat us in consumption per person.  (I do take solace in the fact the if “world’s biggest meat-eaters” were measured in girth or weight of the consumer, the U.S. would again take the top spot.)

We all need to do our part to restore America’s greatness.  While I’m certain that this is to become a central issue of the 2012 presidential campaign, I’m asking my fellow Americans to not wait for a government solution to the problem.  When you’re staring down the choice between salad and sandwich choose sandwich, choose for freedom, and, for our children and our children’s children, chose meat.

For Christmas, I decided to get my friends Stu and Fayaz the ultimate hot sauce experience.  After some fairly extensive internet searching, I came across the answer: Da Bomb Final Answer.  

At 1,500,000 scovilles, asking what Da’ Bomb tastes like is like asking what a kick to the head tastes like.  There is no flavor, just pure unadulterated burning.

Stu was the first to give the stuff a try.  (Stu is an Indian with a heat tolerance that puts most to shame.  Where others use drops, she treats hot sauce like ketchup.)  Her first attempt ruined her takeout noodle dish.  A couple of drops and her noodles were too hot for her to eat, even after rinsing them in the sink.  Her next attempt to use the stuff quite possibly landed her on the terrorist watch.  In trying to cook with it, she ended-up essentially pepper spraying her apartment, sending her and her roommate running for fresh air.

I took several beers over a poker night before I was dumb enough to touch this stuff.  The cap comes equipped with a dropper to facilitate proper serving sizes.  Iggy and Matt were the first to brave the heat on a brat.  Somehow, after watching their pain, Matt and I decided it would be a good idea to try a drop straight on a chip.  As I chewed and swallowed I felt my head start to swim and my capacity for rational thought diminish.  My whole head was engulfed.  I drank milk strait from the jug, despite realizing it had expired a week ago.  But the only thing that seemed to give any real relief, all be it very fleeting, was ice cream.

As Matt’s and my pain subsided, disaster struck Iggy.  In moving the bottle, she some how got the hellish mixture on her hands which turned bright red and burned for hours.  This stuff is no joke!  The only rational use seems to be as a food additive–perhaps my next batch of chili, if large enough, will be heated with this insanity.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MmpAKnjN5UY