MAISON PICKLE DELUXE FRENCH DIP

It is hard to estimate the importance of French culture in America. From the Louisiana Purchase to Alexis du Toqueville to Marquis de Lafayette to freedom fries, France has played an integral role in shaping the American imagination, including its very real palate. I am tempted to demonstrate the differences between the two, pointing to the bread being crusty, chewy and savoury, or soft, white and sweet. There is a reason that we say ‘this is the best invention since sliced bread’ in the settler societies. But, I am always tempted to look for similarities, to find out what brings people together even if they retain a certain individualism. In that way, the root of the Franco-American love affair is to be found in a shared revolutionary spirit, a kindred desire to overturn monarchs even if that means installing tyrants in their place. They have both encouraged a society that is passionate, grand, dramatic, which comes through in imperial presidencies with cults of personality complete with entourages, tanks and triumphant music.

The revolutionary spirit in cuisine though is somewhat different, with France perceiving itself to have a tradition to uphold; an empirical reality that means good taste is to be found in the palate of every citizen. However unenlightened the average Frenchman gets, he will always know how to dress a salad. The same cannot be said in America, notwithstanding that, at the top end, they are able to do it with the very best. Rather than excelling at delicate croissants, it is the processed donut that becomes the apotheosis of common taste here. I say this as someone who loves to eat in both nations, particularly in Paris and New York, where you can find Japanese or Chinese or North African that lifts you up by your very bootstraps.

What all revolutions share is a desire for the new, a reset button that marks a year zero and allows the people to re-boot. This is there in Paris to which one only need to cite Adeline Grattard’s restaurant yamT’cha that fuses French and Cantonese into something wholly new. In the American case, this has meant the proliferation of new dishes and the re-working of flavours into distinct combinations. This comes about is in fusion food such as the celebrated Korean-Mexican. As delicious as that is, French and American is the dominant fusion, at least when it comes to the meeting of cultures (rather than chefs and New World ingredients). It is there most explicitly in the dishes from New Orleans, but we get it in New York too. I am not talking about the steak frites and onion soup that one gets at Bar Olivier in Park Slope or the coq au vin at French Roast just down the road. I am speaking here of American dishes that betray a French influence. One exemplar of this is the Deluxe Beef French Dip from an Upper West Side haunt called Maison Pickle.

The French Dip is a sandwich of thinly sliced roast beef served on a baguette with a side of jus that you dip your sandwich into, hence the curious name. There are competing claims as to who invented it, but it is a toss up between two Los Angeles restaurants. This is a rivalry that started in 1908 between Cole’s Pacific Electric Buffet and Phillipe the Original. At Cole’s you dip your own sandwich while Phillipe serves it ‘wet’. The use of ‘French’ in the title comes from the type of bread used and the dip tends to be quite thin, not something thick like hummus or yoghurt or aioli. There are variations of this found in Chicago and across the Midwest, but it is not synonymous with one place like the cheesesteak is in Philadelphia. To be certain, it is part of the burgeoning sandwich culture of America. What should be noted is that the French do not have something similar. In that way, the bread has crossed the Atlantic but, in a revolutionary twist, is now part of a new dish.

In the Maison Pickle version, one first notices the mood of the restaurant. As it is French in America, it is built for romance. The dim candlelight takes a little while to adjust to and the waiters in white shirts pour water out from silver jugs. Across Broadway, there is a cinema with flashing bulbs and they cast shadows across the bar. People come here on dates, or date nights when the kids are asleep around the corner, or pop in for tuna nicoise on their way home from the office wearing cashmere jackets and wondering where the day’s stocks ended up, scrolling through news about NFL players kneeling in protest of this president. K and I first came here before we went to Murder on the Orient Express, spending our daily budget on two glasses of (very good) wine and pull-apart bread that was garlicked to high heaven before being entertained by a campy interpretation of a classic tale.

Tonight though, we have come for French Dip sandwiches. I take mine Deluxe Beef and it comes with strands of onion that are like necklaces of caramel, a rich gooey gruyere fondeau that is silky smooth, and packed with rare roast beef that is thinly sliced. And, of course, a side of jus that is thin, perfect for dipping into or drinking as a soup. I love it and make short work of it. But, as with any revolution, there are dissenters, and K has a few things to say: 'the most disgusting eating experience'; 'it's repulsive and I never want to eat meat again in my life'; 'this is for people with gout, you might as well be dipping it into fat'. I have learnt that it is not good trying to persuade her otherwise (especially with raw meat or fish), but she agrees that the atmosphere is convivial and it is a welcome place to be when it is cold outside. That makes her enough of a fellow traveler for me.

Maison Pickle 
2315 Broadway, New York, NY 10024
Subway: 1 at 86th. 
Open 9am - 4am on weekends.

LANI'S FARM JERUSALEM ARTICHOKE

The farmers’ market has been a commonplace during my time in America. When I lived in Philadelphia a decade ago, I used to frequent Clark Park where Amish people would sell whoopee pies, relishes of a great many types, and acorn squash when the season was right. There is a farmers’ market I visit every Thursday here in New York. Located just near Columbia’s campus, there is a handful of stalls that have the seasonal basics and the regular items that one lusts for – moist cakes decorated with nuts and spices; boutique soda with old school flavours like maple cream and apple cinnamon; cheese, oh what cheese, from goat to blue to brie and back again past cheddar and gouda and everything in between; baked treats like focaccia with olives and tomatoes, small tarts with custard and fruit; cider that has beads of moisture on the side of the bottle looking like the gods have presented refreshment itself. The farmers’ market is a treat, a kind of fete for those of us who miss the dirt in this concrete city.

When I wander along here, seeing the hot air rise from the subway below, a million recipes come into my mind. Should I make herb barley soup with roasted heirloom carrots be they white, orange or purple? Should I make pasta with julienned zucchini, slivers of eggplant, a glug of olive oil? Should I splash out and break the tradition of not eating meat at home, buying a shoulder of pork to baste and roast with a love so tender that the mouth begins to water simply thinking of it? This is to say nothing of what happens when one starts to talk to the people here. You say that the pak choi today is particularly good? Maybe I can make a stir-fir with a sticky garlic sauce. The spaghetti squash has just been picked this morning? Maybe I can roast tomatoes and toss it with basil on top. And you think that this arugula is peppery and fresh, the last harvest before the snow? Well, maybe I can dress it with walnuts, balsamic vinegar and honey.

The stall I go to most often though is Lani’s Farm. Their produce, like every other place, is arranged simply on foldaway tables. They have a great selection of leafy greens, root vegetables and apples as well as a handful of jarred goods. What keeps me going back though is the monopoly they have on Jerusalem artichokes. The artichokes here are fresh and relatively inexpensive. These knobbly vegetables are worth the seasonal blues. They keep me happy when it seems like the winter has got me down and they are something I always look forward to. When I see them on a restaurant menu I always order them – pureed or creamed or made into a soup. Jerusalem artichokes are where my heart is at.

All we do on Thursdays is roast them in high heat (say 450 degrees) and sprinkle them with salt. The outer skin is golden, crisp and chewy, a kind of earthy caramel, and the inside is soft, moist and fluffy, a kind of wet chestnut. We eat them almost without fail every week and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why they are not the most popular vegetable in the world. And, thanks to Lani’s Farm, I have them all winter.

Farmer's Market
Thursdays at Columbia University
Subway: 1 at 110th, 116th.

CITY DINER BLUEBERRY PIE

The other month, K and I went up to New England to catch up with our friends J and M. The live in Cambridge and we planned to take a trip with them through Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Vermont, peeping at leaves, walking through woods and sampling local fare. I wanted to renew my relationship with clam chowder, cook with any number of squash that were then in season, and eat candy corn in light of Halloween. We ended up in Springfield but only after detours to Peterborough (for sandwiches) and Keene (for coffee). 

The best experience of the trip was enjoying the strong diner game in these small towns. Perhaps the highlight was when we were at Timoleon’s and the waitress, fake lashes and all, said, ‘I don’t want you to get offended, I ask this of all the customers.’ I replied, ‘No, it’s fine go right ahead’ thinking that she would warn me off my request for a side scoop of ice-cream because of my expanding waistline. With a kind of heartfelt trepidation, she then said ‘Ice-cream costs an extra $1.75. Are you ok with that?’ Breathing a sigh of relief, I replied that I was, of course, up for the charge to which she breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed both of us were looking forward to my side of ice-cream with a slice of banoffee pie.

Timoleon’s was no exception to the rule that diners seem to come from the 1950s; a homage to an automobile, spaceship, suburban era, with curved edges and hints of chrome. The menu has inevitably changed over time but one can still expect burgers, soups, waffles, pancakes, eggs, and pie. Pie is something that has yet to really land in Australia – there has been a wave of doughnuts in the last few years covering all bases and all flavours, but pie seems to be a quintessentially American experience for me. To eat pie in a diner adds to the dish, precisely because it is American in America in America. 

In our neighbourhood, there are three diners that are close by. All three are on Broadway: Metro at 100^th; Manhattan at 95^th; City at 90^th. There is something charming about each of them, and K and I often find our selves sitting at the counter on a walk home, drinking bottomless cups of joe (her) or iced water (me).  We prefer City Diner but not for any reason in particular. We like it because it is close by but also because it has a good community feel. The other night when we were there, three or four people sat reading the Times, exchanging casual asides and bringing down hellfire on Weinstein, Spacey and Trump, in between their spaghetti bolognaise, chopped salad, sides of cottage cheese. I might add in here, that City Diner’s side of cottage cheese is generous and it is something curious to watch people scoop it into their mouth thinking nothing of what they are doing; another relic of the past alive and well right here in our neighbourhood.

Given that City Diner is open for 24 hours, the clientele changes depending on the hour. K and I have sat in a booth alone in the restaurant, or being bunched up in a line while it rains outside, and all with a wide array of people. When we were away with J and M, the appeal was in the price, a kind of Main Street hygge but here the appeal lies in how the diner mirrors public space in the city as a whole. In other words, the diner is home to diverse experiences and people that cover the whole spectrum of economic interests and tastes. It can be cheap with bottomless cups of coffee that appeal to anyone and everyone, and it can attempt to be mid-range, which in our case, is somewhat high end given that we live on a writer’s budget. You can get a hamburger as cheap as a fast food franchise or a steak that will set you back $35 including tip. It offers a real range of choice, which is what I love about it.  Often, K and I come here for a night out, reminded of Just Kids when Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe had just moved to the city and lived on tomato soup and grilled cheese at various diners. It was cheaper then, but still, diners can be a good deal, and, like I said, they are like a kind of public space that mirrors the city itself where you can sit and be warm, read the Times and put away as much cottage cheese as you will ever need for $2.99.

City Diner is a place for pie of any particular measure. Displayed in a cabinet with other sweets, there is always plenty to choose from. Today there is cherry, apple, peach, pecan, but it really is the luck of the draw depending on what day you go. I like the pie here because it seems to suit diner culture, to be a capsule from another time and the kind of middle Americana that has a retro, kitschy, foreign appeal. I get blueberry and K gets apple – they are jammy and sweet, the pastry firm and crunchy, it comes with stars of cream. It is a good spot to take a break from the cold and contemplate what ‘the  New York public’ thinks is good taste.

City Diner

2441 Broadway, New York, NY 10024

Subway: 1, 2 at 86th; ABC at 96th. 

PEACEFOOD ROASTED PUMPKIN SANDWICH

Q: How do you know someone is a _______  ?

A: They tell you.

Q: What do you call 1000 _______ at the bottom of the ocean?

A: A good start.

Q: What’s the difference between _______ and _______  ?

A: _______ knows they are a dickhead.

In versions of these jokes, I have heard the person in question be Harvard alumni, corporate lawyers, and vegans. I am sympathetic to the vegan cause and with K being an aspiring one, we mainly have a plant based diet at home. Yet, it will be noted from the first post that I do not count myself among their ranks and in future posts there will be meat involved. If I were going to advocate an ethical style of eating, it would be one that was resolutely local and involved some killing and butchering of wild meat myself. In that way, I take deep pleasure in eating the fish, lobster or abalone I catch down on the south west coast back home.

But in New York, the options for eating meat are somewhat different. Meat here runs from factory farmed, agribusiness, monstrous flesh to the pasture raised, locally sourced, organic varieties that one purchases from local markets where you know the farmer’s name. When dining out, it is harder to determine meat’s provenance, and sometimes that causes concern or changes our choice of dishes. This brings me to one of our favourite places to eat lunch – Peacefood Café. K and I prefer it to nearby vegan restaurants Mana and Blossom du Jour, though all of them have appealing qualities.

Peacefood serves a menu that is all American café – Caesar salad, gyoza, corn chowder, cheeseburger, not-chicken tenders, sushi, fries. The staff are friendly in an absent-minded way, kind of gentle and fluid, never rushed or hurrying, daggy too in sweatpants and joggers, or socks and sandals. Over the speakers they play an eclectic selection of music from slow and smooth R'n'B to jangling freeform jazz. On one wall, there are old posters and Disney figurines, near the window a large round table and plants. It is lived in like a sharehouse, reminiscent of undergraduate lentil stew that was eaten while you spend hours in a fire bath humming reggae tunes. Peacefood is a restaurant paved with good intentions. It is charming in the way that one’s local pub is charming, rather than being a magnetic destination that pulls one from miles away, and we like it because it is close by.

I have eaten their soup and their salad, but what I like best of all are their sandwiches. They bear very little resemblance to the stacks of meat, cheese, sauces found in delis right across New York. At Peacefood, they are made of crumbling house-baked brown bread that tastes like reason in a society high on sugar and missing fibre. Mine is filled with roasted pumpkin puree, caramelised onions, ground walnuts, cashew cheese and greens. As a whole, it is sweet and jammy, kind of soft and welcoming in a pliable, mushy way. The pumpkin is rich and has been roasted brown before being mashed, the onions cooked low and slow so they complement it with an intense depth of flavour, the greens are fresh and crispy, and the nuts do the work of flavourful condiments. It is served with a side of pickled jicama and a bunch of alfalfa sprouts, both of which lift and refresh.

The effect of eating here matters. One feels satisfied and somehow enlightened as though the tasty good times have become tasty good vibes, that one has taken into the body the peace that the café is trying to cultivate. When it comes to walking out the door, one does so with a spring in the step. You feel uplifted in your body, clean if somewhat self-congratulatory, and in very different shape than if you had downed a stack of cold cuts slathered in creamy dressing on white bread. Maybe now you can do 100 sun salutations and greet the stranger on the street with smiles that are beatific, and all because of a $12 sandwich.

Peacefood Café

460 Amsterdam Ave, New York, NY 10024

10 AM – 10 PM

Subway: 1 at 79th Street; C, B at 81st Street.