Food in Films: Jiro Dreams of Sushi

Jiro Ono (Image: Magnolia Pictures)

The Japanese term shokunin is more than a foreign word. It is a foreign concept in America, a land of instant gratification. This is arguably even more pronounced in the culinary world, where diners use Instagram to snap photos of their meals, every culinary school graduate fancies himself a ready-made chef, 30-minute meal cookbooks sell like hot cakes, and cupcakes are a national treasure.

David Gelb’s classically scored documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi (2012) peels back a few of the proverbial onion layers to show us what it means to be a shokunin, which loosely translates to “master artisan.” Jiro Ono is the celebrated octogenarian and subject of the film. He earned a coveted three Michelin stars for his 10-seat, toilet-free sushi bar in the Ginza shopping district. (The Michelin Guide of yesteryear was infamous for rewarding chefs for expensive restaurant upgrades, including toilets.)

Accolades aside, for a man who dreams of sushi, and has chased perfection for more than 70 years, everything but the quest is inconsequential. It may sound cliché, but here is a man who truly does it all for the love of his art. He begrudges holidays–describing them as “too long”–and only ceased making his daily treks to the Tsukuji fish market after a heart attack at age 70.

As fascinating as Jiro himself are the behind-the-scene players in his restaurant. Take his 50-year old son, Yoshikazu, Jiro’s spitting, more youthful image, who patiently apprenticed with his father at age 19 and has assumed the role of his understudy ever since. (He also inherited the fish market duties after Jiro’s heart attack.) Yoshikazu is asked in the course of an interview whether he is envious that his younger brother, who also trained under Jiro, has already opened his own restaurant. Yoshikazu is matter-of-fact in stating that this is the course expected of the older son–to take over his father’s establishment.

Now cut to a former Jiro apprentice who gives voice to our all-too-human thoughts; namely, that Yoshikazu is in an impossible situation because he’ll never live up to his father’s reputation, and that he will likely face an uphill battle running the restaurant once his father either retires or dies. All this despite the fact that diners and Michelin critics are unwittingly eating Yoshikazu’s sushi. (Jiro later generously attributes 95% of the day-to-day work to his son and team of apprentices, although he is quick to say that he trained them all in his fashion.)

Jiro’s younger son, Takashi, acknowledges that he can’t command the prices of his celebrated father (a meal starts at 30,000 yen, or roughly $350 per person, at Jiro’s restaurant), but that some customers prefer eating his father’s style of sushi in a more relaxed setting. It seems the elder Ono has a habit of staring sternly at the diner as he eats the pricy meal, that on average, takes about 15 minutes to consume. We also hear from a former apprentice, and a few current apprentices in various stages–one who has almost completed his decade-long term and a few youngsters who are just beginning.

Every artist needs his tools and palette. For Jiro and his son, they come from the expert vendors at the fish market, some of whom fashion themselves mavericks with their unconventional ways of separating the wheat from the chaff. My favorite cameo, though, is the persnickety rice vendor, who cackles with Jiro as he relates his refusal to sell certain varieties to Hyatt because the chefs employed by the foreign corporate giant won’t know how to cook them. Of course, we don’t learn it, but Jiro has developed a special method to maintain the optimal (room) temperature of the essential sushi ingredient.

Because you eat with your eyes first, there is simply no denying the beauty of the fish in this film. The complexity here lies in the preparation of the ingredients. This isn’t American-style sushi with 50 nauseating components. Meticulously chosen fish and rice are carefully treated to draw out maximum flavor and texture. With a deft hand (Yoshikazu compares the proper gesture to squeezing a chick), Jiro puts them together like puzzle pieces, and then brushes them with soy sauce before proudly placing each before the diner. Indeed, they do look like small canvases–the colors so vivid, the flesh so perfect and jewel-toned. We are treated to everything from fatty and lean tuna, to octopus (massaged for 45 to 50 minutes in order to make its flesh optimally supple), sea urchin and shrimp. After seeing this sushi up close and personal, flashes of conveyer belt and grocery store rolls are particularly offending to the eyes, especially in light of the sustainability issues that they occasion (and that are briefly touched on by the film).

Only sushi (20 pieces arranged in movements to mimic a classical music composition) is served in the establishment–no appetizers or anything else to distract the diners. Jiro is so attuned to detail that he memorizes seating arrangements so as to serve women more petite bites (gender stereotyping? perhaps, but he finds that this way, he keeps the diners in syncopation as they eat), and he makes mental notes of the left-handed so that he can position their sushi accordingly.

Despite the obvious reverence of the depiction, Jiro as a subject maintains quite a bit of mystery. He was forced to leave home at age 9, after his father’s business crumbled. There is no specific mention of his mother. He does make a return trip toward the end of the film to see some of his village childhood friends, who jokingly describe him as a bully. He visits the shrine of his parents with Yoshikazu. In a candid moment, he asks Yoshikazu why he cares for his parents now when they never cared for him, and then laughs.

Who knows how long Jiro will carry on. This film certainly lends him an air of immortality. The joy he finds in his work is eternal: “I fell in love with my work and gave my life to it.”

Thoughts on “Where are the Black Chefs?”

Here’s a list for you:

Charlie Trotter
Thomas Keller
Grant Achatz
Mario Batali

I bet most people who own a television, read the lifestyle sections of online publications, or have some interest in food would be able to tell me that these are all critically acclaimed chefs–indeed, the elite of American fine dining. Some may not even stop to question what characteristics the aforementioned have in common. (The elephant in the room? They are all, let’s say it together, white men. Some of my best friends are . . . )

What if I gave you another list of names? For example, the following:

Morou Ouattara
Leon Baker
Patrick Clark
Richard James

Chef Mourou Ouattara (Image: The Root)

Stumped? What if I added one more? Marcus Samuelsson should make it easy for you. Or, if you are a Top Chef fan, how about Kevin Sbraga?

Chef Samuelsson. (Image: Stephen Lovekin/Getty Images)

Got it now? We are talking black chefs heading kitchens of high-end establishments.

This blog post was prompted by a piece in The Chicago Tribune provocatively entitled, “Where are the Black Chefs?”

As a recent culinary school graduate, I’d certainly thought about the comparative lack of name recognition accorded black chefs and their paucity in professional kitchens. Although Christopher Borelli’s article focused on the city of Chicago, he provides some illuminating context and statistics that cut across the board:

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, about 60 percent of chefs or head cooks are white. Only 9 percent are black (less than half the percentage of Latino chefs, incidentally). Interviews with scores of black chefs and restaurant professionals eventually circle back to this constant: Their entire careers, regardless of where they cooked, they’ve usually been the only African-American in the kitchen, and black mentors are far and few between.

In my *very* short kitchen career, the “one and only” statement rings true, although I did briefly stage for a restaurant kitchen in D.C. that was headed by an African American male chef. While I may be able to name more than just the black chefs above, can the general public do so? And isn’t it the sad truth that those who are charged with leading some of the best kitchen in the countries, are, to a certain degree invisible? For an example of the latter, take Richard James, who, as the article points out, is the power behind the throne in terms of the day-to-day running of Rick Bayless’s Frontera Grill.

It isn’t as if we don’t have a long history of culinary achievement in America. We might not have been presiding at the tables of the Founding Fathers, but we were certainly cooking for them. (As Samuelsson rightly observes, “black people have always cooked but have never been acknowledged.”)

Take, for example, two slaves of our Founding Fathers. After he was named chief cook at Mount Vernon in 1786, the “accomplished Master of the culinary arts” and slave Hercules followed George Washington to Philadelphia to provision the presidential table. Likewise, James Hemings earned his culinary stripes while attending to Thomas Jefferson in Paris and headed the Monticello kitchen once he returned to the States. Hercules would later mastermind an escape from slavery, while James Hemings earned his freedom from Jefferson only after agreeing to train his brother Peter as a suitable replacement.

There were also the 19th century catering dynasties in Philadelphia profiled in Jessica Harris’s High on the Hog: A Culinary Journey from Africa to America. She describes the city of brotherly love as “pivotal . . . for the growth of African Americans in the food-service industry.” Robert Bogle began as a “public butler” servicing multiple households and eventually became the first of Philly’s “major black caterers.” The Augustins and the Baptistes were two Haitian families who also created long-standing catering dynasties (and eventually intermarried). Bogle, the Augustins and the Baptistes paved the way for a multitude of African Americans in the city dedicated to catering “private affairs in the homes of wealthy clients, providing food, waiters, crystal, silver, napery, and more.” These entrepreneurs were accorded great social standing within the city’s African American community and were prosperous enough to open dining rooms that functioned as restaurants and catering halls.

Naturally, as African Americans began to strive for greater opportunity and civil rights, cooking became somewhat of a stigmatized profession. We wanted more college graduates, doctors, lawyers, and other professionals amongst our ranks. We’d been “The Help” in this country long enough, wasn’t it time to break new ground? At least, that was the thinking of my father’s generation, whose mother, aunt, and grandmother were all domestics, and whose great-grandparents were slaves.

Now, in a post-racial world (and I say this scoffingly) with our first African American president in the White House, and in the glamorous age of the cheftestent and celebrity chef, shouldn’t we share the spoils of the culinary world? Get a little piece of the pie?

The theories floated in The Tribune article are all too familiar to me as someone who was formerly an associate at an Am Law 100 law firm. It seems that networking, recruitment and mentorship are all at the crux of the matter. Some chefs in the article note that they are simply not getting the applicants, despite the fact that African American enrollment in culinary institutions is on the rise. (And let’s face it, in this competitive world, while there are a chefs who make it into kitchens without the formal education, it makes it harder to gain entry without it, especially when no one there looks like you). Upon winning Top Chef, Kevin Sbraga was proud to be the first African-American to take home the prize. Although he aims “to see the African American chef community expand,” when he opened his first restaurant last fall, he claimed to have only “2 qualified black applicants” out of nearly 4,000 applicants. Out of the 15 employees in his kitchen, not one is black (at least as of the writing of the article.) I wonder how many of the so-called “unqualified” applicants could become qualified given the opportunity and proper mentoring?

I find it encouraging that a chef and culinary school executive director like Kristopher Murray is making it his mission to tackle the challenge one student at a time, but as the article notes, the problem is “a beast,” and will take a concerted, cooperative effort among schools, restaurants and chefs.

Friday Food Clips: The Agony and the Ecstasy Edition

The last few months, I’ve been playing catch-up via Netflix on some great cable dramas. I have a particular fondness for dark comedy, so I decided to give the Alan Ball series Six Feet Under a shot. It took me a while to get accustomed to seeing Parenthood‘s Adam Braverman in a more three-dimensional (read: troubled and brooding) light, but I’ve come to adore the Fisher clan in all of its repressed glory.

The heart of the series, at least for me, is the rekindled relationship between brothers David and Nate, who inherit their father’s funeral home after his untimely passing. David initially resents Nate as the free-spirited, prodigal son; Nate can’t tolerate David’s judgmental carping.

The scene I have selected for this Friday’s clip is from the opener of Season 2. Ruth, the clan’s matriarch, invites her new Russian florist boyfriend and her children’s significant others to dinner. Instead of the usual painfully awkward and pregnant silences they all anticipate, the dinner table conversation is fueled by Nate’s inane ramblings. Nate thinks he’s high on life. Turns out, he’s just plain high:

Friday Food Clips: The Gifted But Troubled Composers Edition

Today’s Food Clip is from one of my favorite period films. Milos Forman’s Amadeus is most assuredly not a biopic, but rather a fictionalized account of enmity between classical composers Mozart and Salieri. In this lush production filled with shrill operatic notes, sky-high wigs, lustrous silks and brocades, and of course, one abominable giggle (see clip below), we witness Salieri’s descent into darkness as he attempts to bring a dissolute, spendthrift-of-a-genius Mozart to his heels.



Moreover, if you think you’ve seen the worst of stage parents, Mozart’s father Leopold (Roy Dotrice), especially as reincarnated by Salieri in the form of a double-faced costume, is positively chilling.

In the scene I have selected, Constanze Mozart (played by a bosomy Elizabeth Berridge) has clandestinely conveyed her husband’s manuscripts to court composer Salieri in hopes that Mozart may be considered for a royal appointment under Holy Roman Emperor Joseph II. As Salieri is transported by the perfection of the original manuscripts (which are quite astonishingly correction-free), Frau Mozart is busy stuffing face with some very delectable confections. Salieri identifies them by their Italian name, which translates to nipples of Venus: Roman chestnuts and brandied sugar that are shaped like their eponymous female anatomy.



On one hand, perhaps it is a bit strange to offer a lady breast-shaped confections. On the other hand, as I discovered by reading Michael Krondl’s Sweet Invention: A History of Dessert, there is a festive tradition going back to ancient times of sweets and pastries formed in the likeness of both male and female anatomy. For example, in Sicily, the genitalia-shaped mulloli (composed of wheat flour, sesame, and honey) was made to honor Demeter, the goddess of the harvest. Roman-era author Atheneus also recounted the baking of a breast-shaped cheesecake at Spartan bridal showers.

Maybe because Costanze so readily wolfs down the confections, every time I watch this scene, I find myself wishing I could partake. Allegedly, Elizabeth Berridge had quite a time consuming these little beauties. Rumor is that the candies were solid lumps of marzipan, and that she ate so many during the various takes (without spitting them out), that she became ill. Even as a marzipan fiend, I can imagine how swallowing multiple palm-sized hills of almond paste would prove disagreeable to digestive health.

The brief but critical scene, which moves Salieri to declare war on his unsuspecting competition, is admittedly without any shred of historical basis. Clearly, if you are interested in the man, and not the myth, of Mozart, you should seek other sources. The film does however excel in providing a window into the ethnically diverse nature of 18th century Vienna. As Krondl writes:

Vienna was the place where German sweet dumpling vendors competed with Venetian biscotti sellers, where French courtiers rubbed shoulders with Turkish diplomats. To further their dynastic interests, the Hapsburgs imported Spanish princesses and Burgundian princes who typically arrived with their own foreign retinues. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Vienna had the most multinational population of any city in Europe, and possibly the world.”

And besides, Amadeus is just a romp of a tale that proves why good period films are anything but a snooze.

Friday Food in Film Clips: The 1980s Menacing Male Edition

In homage to Friday, and weekend movie-goers everywhere, I will be publishing monthly short and sweet posts on my favorite food scenes from movie and television. I’ll also continue to post my longer Food in Film reviews.

The Friday clips series came to me as a result of a weekly giveaway question that I posed on America’s Test Kitchen Feed. I was so entertained by the diversity of responses we received, that I thought, why not put this on Tortefeaster’s regular rotation?

To kick things off, I am going to start with scenes from classic 1980s films that I count as two of my absolute favorites.  These are both films that I have watched countless times; no matter what I’m doing, if I turn on the television and they happen to be on, I’ll usually stop mid-task and start watching intently.

1. Moonstruck–Bring me the Big Knife!

The 1987 Norman Jewison film that won Cher a Best Actress Oscar is as much about love as it is about food. Most if not all of the turning points for its cast of characters take place in a Greenwich Village Italian restaurant, at Cammareri’s pastry shop, the Cappomaggi’s Italian Provisions store, or around the Castorini dinner table. While it is abundantly clear to all of us that Loretta Castorini (Cher) could do much better than fiancé momma’s boy Johnny Cammareri (Danny Aeillo), it isn’t until she meets Johnny’s embittered bad-boy brother Ronny (Nicolas Cage), that she “snaps out of it” and realizes the error of her ways.

My pick is the explosive “big knife” scene that takes place upon Loretta and Ronny’s first meeting. Here, Ronny embodies the melodrama of the operatic characters that he adores.

2. A Fish Called Wanda–Fish and Chips

The spectacularly zany 1989 comedy A Fish Called Wanda begins with a jewel heist pulled by a most unlikely den of thieves, including Wanda Gershowitz (Jamie Lee Curtis), who is as crafty as she is curvaceous. The heist is not without its hitches, and Wanda quickly double-crosses her former lover and leader of the pack, George, in order to claim the jewels for herself and her new lover, the gang’s “congenitally insane or irretrievably stupid” weapons expert Otto (Kevin Kline).

My scene of choice involves a showdown between stuttering hapless assassin and die-hard animal lover, Ken Pile, and Otto. When Otto can’t extract the information he needs from stalwart Ken, he puts a uniquely repulsive spin on the English dish of fish and chips. You’ll never look at a fish tank the same way! To watch this clip, click here.

The Lansdowne: When at Fenway . . .

(Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Although this is not my first time around the proverbial block in this city, I’m still trying to get my sea legs as a D.C. native and recent transplant to Boston.

So what better way to feel like a Bostonian than to spend a morning down the street from Fenway–the ballpark that needs no introduction–followed by an afternoon cheering on the Pats against the Ravens with my rabid fan of a husband? (I have occasionally witnessed foam coming out of his mouth during particularly tense game moments. And maybe his nostrils, come to think of it.)

The infectiousness of the city’s passion for sports has already rubbed off on me. Lately, I’ve been much more interested in learning some of the nuances of football. Of course, this newfound interest may be partially attributable to my deep and abiding love for FNL (“Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose!”)

But back to that morning . . .

I joined my fellow bloggers at The Lansdowne a few Saturdays ago to get my Boston brunch-on. The Irish pub boasts a handsome interior, with its high ceilings, dark wood and color palate of deep reds. This is definitely a comfortable destination and spacious setting for watching a game.

The Brunchers at Lansdowne (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Our brunch group was a little smaller  and therefore more intimate than the previous week’s Newburyport outing. We also had the pub to ourselves this morning (a nice bonus), so there was no need to shout across tables.

Besides its proximity to the mecca of Bostonian baseball fans (that may even be a redundant phrase as it seems almost impossible to find a Bostonian who wouldn’t give up his first born for the Sox), the Lansdowne has two other qualities that recommend it as a brunch destination. First, it showcases a formidable Irish Breakfast. If you are a fan of white & black pudding, beans & bangers for your first meal of the day, then this is the spot for you. Second, Sundays offer you some live Irish music starting at 1pm (we heard the talented musicians practicing beforehand).

(Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

For me, a traditional Irish breakfast is unfortunately not a draw. That is just way too much protein for my stomach in the morning. I have to say, I’m a confirmed carb gobbler when it comes to brunch, meaning that you are more apt to find me lifting forkfuls of French toast, pancakes, and Belgian waffles or spooning up oatmeal or yogurt and granola as my first meal of the day.

To that end, it should come as no surprise that I ordered pancakes. Yes, I came to the Irish pub and I chose buttermilk pancakes. I know, very adventurous of me! But hey, a craving is not to be denied. And there was Bailey’s whipped cream as a garnish. (There you go, the Irish element!)

After all, I hadn’t had true pancakes for quite some time, so I was quite looking forward to some stacks. (No offense to my gluten intolerant friends, but I had been recipe testing gluten-free pancakes the previous months, and while they were certainly charming, there is just nothing that takes the place of a wheat flour pancake for me sad to say.)

I started the meal off with a cheery and quite tasty mimosa (Ok, another less than Irish pick. I swear, I wasn’t going for a theme!) I noticed others also slurping their drinks appreciatively.

(Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

And then it was time for the carbs of choice.

Buttermilk Pancakes with Bailey's Cream (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

While my plate of pancakes came festively bedecked with sliced strawberries (matching the decor) and a more than generous dollop of whipped cream, I’ll be honest in saying that these were not the pancakes of my dreams. The garnishes were definitely the saving graces. The whipped cream appealed to the (alcoholic, pub-crawling) kid in me. But the pancakes themselves were forgettable–there was nothing to especially recommend them although they weren’t inedible (mind you, I was still a member of the clean plate club). My favorite brunch pancakes, at the now-shuttered Time Cafe in NYC, were everything pancakes should be (bursting with blueberries, or sliced bananas and nuts), generous, and pillowy with a nice tang from the buttermilk. So good that you didn’t need syrup or other window-dressing (or at least not too much of it). Sigh.

The Lansdowne Pie (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Judging from the rapturous expression of the bruncher to my left, I might have done better had I ordered the eponymous breakfast pie. The Lansdowne pie is an early morning edible architectural feat composed of Irish Ham, eggs, potatoes, spinach ,onions and cheddar, served with a side of home fries. The Irish Breakfasters also hummed contentedly while eating their bangers and beans.

While my pancakes may have left something to be desired, my company didn’t. And isn’t that what brunch is all about–good times with new and old friends?

Disclaimer: The Lansdowne provided Boston Brunchers with gratis brunch. We only paid gratuity for the meal. Writing a review of the brunch was optional for all attendees.

Brookline’s (First and Hopefully Not Last) Winter Marketplace

Outdoor portion of Brookline Winter Marketplace (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Saturday’s Brookline Winter Marketplace caught me by surprise. When I arrived early for my 11:00 gym class, I noticed that folks were setting up a few outdoor tables with produce and that one side of the parking lot was barricaded. Faced with the prospect of losing out on getting my butt kicked in cardio boxing (because isn’t that what everyone looks forward to on the weekend?), I didn’t have time to investigate right away, but I definitely intended to do so on my walk home.

Image: Johnisha M. Levi

It turns out that these tables were just the tip of the iceberg. Signage promised a “Brookline Winter Marketplace” with free samples, as well as produce and goods for sale, with a local focus (hence the slogan Eat Local, Eat Smart, Move More). This was just one of the signature events scheduled as part of Brookline’s (second annual) Climate Week.  As I would discover later, Climate Week  here consisted of everything from art installations to seminars on solar and geothermal energy to a styrofoam recycling collection.

Styrofoam Drop for Recycling (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

I wasn’t prepared for the crowd and the abundance that greeted me when I scampered down the stairs of the Brookline Department of Health building in search of the Marketplace. I also promptly realized that I didn’t have cash on hand to make any purchases. But that didn’t deter me from speaking with a few of the vendors and gathering information on how to find their products outside of this event.

I first chatted briefly with a representative of NOFA/Mass, an organization with a mission of educating the public about the benefits of local organic systems. In addition to offering various workshops on everything from bee-keeping, cheese-making and soil-building, NOFA/Mass is also active in anti-GMO campaigning, and advocates for access to raw milk and food safety to name a few of its key causes. You can learn more about NOFA’s upcoming events and initiatives here, including a February 13 fundraiser dinner at Nourish.

As I moved into the main room, I noticed everything from breads to chocolate to pasta vendors offering samples and promoting their wares. Because I am a pastry lover first and foremost, my eye was naturally drawn to the colorful macaron display toward the center of the room.

Blue Macaron's macarons du jour! (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

That is where I met pâtissier Jacqueline Lee and sampled morsels of both her mint and mixed-up berry macarons. The macarons were not only eye-catching colors–the shells were crisp, delicate and airy, and the fillings were nice bursts of flavor. I particularly enjoyed the mint for its fresh mint flavor that didn’t pack the toothpaste punch of baked goods flavored with extract. You will find The Blue Macaron at the SoWa Winter Market on Sundays; she also takes orders.

Jacqueline Lee (Blue Macaron) portions out some macaron samples (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

After moving on from Blue Macaron, I crossed the aisle to visit with Four Star Farms and the L’Etoile family of Northfield. All of the farm’s products are grown and processed on site. I discovered a universe of beautiful flours, including spelt, pastry, whole wheat and buckwheat. I ran my hands through ground cornmeal and weighed some wheat berries in my palm. I quite enjoyed these tactile sensations. I didn’t leave before finding out where in the neighborhood I could purchase these exceptional flours and whole grains.

(Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Although I returned empty-handed from the Marketplace, I am glad that I happened to be in the right place at the right time. I am also planning to follow-up and find out how I can help make the Winter Marketplace more than a one-time event.

Four Star Farms Wheatberries (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

A Pitch Perfect Poach: Ceia Kitchen + Bar

January is traditionally a month for new adventures and hijinks. (Isn’t that one of those words you want to find an excuse to use sometime even it makes you feel like a cartoon super hero?) Last week, I started back at America’s Test Kitchen as a Social Media Intern with the Test Kitchen Feed. Moving from the buzz of the test kitchen to a primarily editorial role certainly constitutes change.

Another new venture? I had heard about a group of food bloggers in the city that call themselves, appropriately enough, the Boston Brunchers. I’d wanted to join in previously, and now seemed the perfect time to get involved. So when I saw the latest announcement posted on the Brunchers site, I promptly entered for a chance to win a FREE brunch at Newburyport’s Ceia Kitchen + Bar. NEWbury: yeah, see. It is a sign.

I didn’t think I would be selected to attend (my track record for winning any sort of contest is pretty abysmal), but sure enough, I was notified last Thursday that I would be joining 14 other brunching bloggers for a field trip on Monday.

I had high hopes for this brunch after reading some background on Ceia and its team.  Ceia’s specialty is coastal European cuisine, meaning it traverses Portugal, Italy, France, and Spain. (The restaurant’s name translates to “supper” in Portuguese).  Proprietor Nancy Batista-Caswell brings a wealth of hospitality experience to her own establishment, and is a fellow Johnson & Wales graduate. Executive Chef Billy Brandolini (“Chef Brando”) is also a (well) seasoned toque.

At the same time that I was optimistic about the talents of both the front of the house and the kitchen, I was a bit hesitant about the menu.

And here, I make a confession that baffles many people. I have an irrational fear of eggs.

Let me clarify. Eggs are an essential emulsifier in baked goods (think lecithin) and for that reason, as a pastry cook in training, I am eternally grateful to the many contributions that they have made to the world of desserts. We wouldn’t have an airy trilogy of genoise, pate a choux, and meringue, just to name a few of our classical delicacies, were it not for eggs.

However, eggs on their own have always troubled me. I fear the quavering and gelatinous mass of eggs on a brunch plate. I fear oozing golden yolks. It would even take a miracle for me to choke down a hard-cooked egg. I’ll eat omelets or scrambled eggs, but usually only when I’m sick. Despite my rules, there are always exceptions. I do love a well-executed quiche, frittata, or tortilla Espanola. I know . . . I stopped trying to figure it out a while ago.

But what did I say earlier about the New Year? This wasn’t a time to shy away from opportunity or let old prejudices serve as obstacles. I was going to eat that poached egg if it killed me. Or at least try it.

You laugh, but for the two days before the brunch, I did some positive visualization. I pictured myself lifting up a perfect forkful of poached egg, placing it in my mouth, and smiling. I was like a runner visualizing the finish line of his marathon. (Hey, I never promised that I was sane!)

Upon my arrival in Newburyport (which looks a little bit like Portland, Maine), I was immediately at ease despite the fact that it was 15 degrees outside. I met some of my fellow brunchers, a smiling and convivial group, and ducked into a nearby coffee/bakeshop, as we were just a tad early. This was a supportive group for a first-time poached egg experience.

Soon enough, it was 11. Time for the main event. Bring on the eggs! My immediate impression upon entering Ceia was warmth. Autumnal and earthy hues, bronze table tops, exposed brick,  and wooden booth backboards. They set a tone of welcome–a stay-here-and-get-comfortable message.

A St. Germain 75 Pulled No Punches

We started off the meal with a St. Germain cocktail  (Tanqueray, St. Germain elderflower liquor, and sparkling rose). Admittedly, I’m not so fond of gin, so the Tanqueray tone of the cocktail was perhaps a little resinous for me, but once conversation began to flow, I took more frequent sips until the glass was eventually dry. Our attentive server wouldn’t leave us hungry for long. I used my rolls as a convenient vehicle for sponging up a beautifully bright tapenade of tomatoes, olives, and roasted garlic–a great warm-up for our introductory course.

All my fears melted away about the impending meal when I tasted my amuse bouche of oyster escabeche. With a prelude this good, I knew I was in capable hands. The oysters were plump, and although fresh, not overly briny. They were prepared in the style of a ceviche 24 hours in advance: citrus notes were prominent but didn’t overshadow the bivalve. A perfect little supreme of blood orange kissed the top of each amuse bouche and released a nice sweet acidity as a complement to the oyster.

Oyster Escabeche with Blood Orange at Ceia Bar & Kitchen (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Just when I thought it was impossible to top the amuse, we were presented with a triumph of an insalate that resembled more  of a painterly canvas than a pedestrian salad course. I marveled at the verdancy and the composition for a bit before I could bring myself to take a bite. The insalate brought together cold-smoked and  earthy shaved asparagus, a delicate fresh mozzarella, shaved cipollini onions (no pungent sulfur compounds detectable here that can typify raw onions in too many careless restaurant salads and mar them), mache (or “lamb’s lettuce”), aged balsamic and a truffle vinaigrette. I have had too many forgettable salads (even in otherwise good restaurants). I have to say that this one both restored and elevated the genre.

Insalate with Cold-Smoked Asparagus (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

And for a closer look:

Insalate with Cold-Smoked Asparagus (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

And before I knew it, it was time to face the music.  The poached eggs with quail Bearnaise perched triumphantly above a nest of sweet potato and linguica (a Portuguese cured pork sausage) hash was simply too exquisite to fear. Not to mention that in my mind, sweet potato is one of those additions, like bacon, that makes almost everything taste better. The textural contrast between the tenderness (no gelatin-like ouef here)  of the poached egg and the slightly crisped exterior of the sweet potato made for a perfect mouthful. The exuberantly hued and flavored Bearnaise simply tied it all together.

Prettily Poached Eggs, Quail Bearnaise and Sweet Potato Linguica Hash (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

At this point in the meal, the very affable Chef Brando came out to greet the Brunchers as they feasted on his perfectly poached eggs. Needless to say, he received rave reviews.

We concluded our meal with an amber-hued late harvest Chilean Sauvignon Blanc and a raspberry coconut pain perdu pairing. When I think of pain perdu, I usually equate it with heavy bread in my stomach, but surprisingly, I managed to finish every bite on my dessert plate without feeling overstuffed. Bread pudding is honestly one of those desserts with which it is difficult to go wrong, so probably for me, the lightness of the dessert was probably more notable than its actual (pleasant) taste

This last observation merits some further comment. I will say that in general one of the great sleight of hands accomplished by the Chef and his team was that they transformed what is undeniably quite caloric fare such as pain perdu and Bearnaise into delicate and deceivingly light (yet satisfying) courses.

A Round of Dessert Wine for the Brunchers (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

My only regret?  That Ceia Bar isn’t one of my neighborhood restaurants, or I would be a regular. I know the brunch is superb, but I could also see cozying up to the bar after work for a glass of red wine; or bringing my spouse here for a quiet and romantic dinner. There is quite a bit of charm and ambiance in those bricks and wood, and of course, the warmth of the attentive staff highly recommends Ceia as a dining destination.

I look forward to exploring Newburyport more . . . when the temperature reaches above 40 degrees. I’m sure it is breathtaking in the summer. I’m also eager to visit some of the historical sites. Namely, Newburyport was the birthplace of the fervid abolitionist and elocutionist William Lloyd Garrison and therefore holds some special interest for me.

Any other regrets? Maybe, just maybe, I wish I had given poached eggs a chance prior to this occasion. But then, as one of my fellow brunchers pointed out, I might not have had such a pitch perfect poached experience my first time around.

Disclaimer: As disclosed above, Ceia Kitchen & Bar provided us with a gratis brunch. Boston Brunchers only paid gratuity for the meal. Writing a review of the brunch was optional for all attendees.

A Happy New Year: 48 Hours of Food and Fun in Portland, Maine

Welcome back to the few but faithful readers who have followed the adventures of Tortefeaster, and welcome to any new readers that 2012 may bring to my door! Besides this constituting the year’s inaugural post, I’m writing on a particularly significant day for me. It is an anniversary of sorts, although not in the typical sense. Three years ago today is the day that I was laid off and the first day in a long process of rediscovering who I am and what I was meant to be “when I grow up.” At the time, believe me, I felt as if my world was crumbling, but after having made some rather  unconventional decisions, I couldn’t be happier with how I have redirected my career. I’m having so much fun now: I am living life, life is not living me.

It was a practially "balmy" 50 degrees in Portland on New Year's Day (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

New Year’s has always been a special time for me and my husband. We don’t celebrate Christmas (usually we end up spending a quiet day at the movies and either making dinner as normal, or grabbing some Thai or Chinese food at one of the few open establishments). Maybe for this reason, we love a good New Year’s eve celebration.

This year, we decided to head to Portland, Maine–a city that I had previously only spent a few hours in one night in September when we were staying in Ogunquit and made a brief dinner excursion. My father-in-law grew up in Portland, and in the short time we wandered its streets that fall night, my husband seemed to be having trouble reconciling the Portland of his childhood with its reincarnation as a  food and art mecca of the Northeast. What follows is my illustrated time line of our roughly 48 hours in Portland. I’m already planning my return trip, because it truly wasn’t enough time to explore this special city.

New Year’s Eve

1. Lunch at the Public Market House

We arrived in Portland around lunch time and had a little time to kill before our chocolate tour in the Old Port. We decided to explore the  Public Market House at 28 Monument Street and get a light lunch. Portland’s original Public Market House, built in 1825, has since been torn down, but its latest incarnation is a space celebrating and promoting small, independent, locally-owned businesses. Besides housing regular vendors, it also provides commercial kitchen space in its basement for small business owners, hosts the Portland farmers market, and supplies outdoor space for day tables where only Maine made, produced or value-added products may be sold.

Vendors Kamasouptra and Granny's Burritos in the Public Market House (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Taking care of business first, we split a sweet potato quesadilla from Granny’s Burritos. Despite my adoration of sweet potatoes, I never thought about putting the root vegetable in a quesadilla. It is a great alternative to a heavier meat-laden or cheese-driven one, and  because the serving is quite generous, one was perfect for the two of us.

Once we were sated, I scoped out more of the Market’s impressive offerings, which included an awe-inspiring cheese case with every kind of fromage imaginable, and beautiful beckoning loaves of English muffin bread from Big Sky Bread Company.

Say cheese! An impressive array of fromage at Portland's Public Market House (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

2. Chocolate in the Old Port

When we settled into our well-appointed but cozy digs at the Morrill Mansion B&B (formerly the private home of B&M baked beans co-founder Charles Morrill), we headed over to the Old Port, where we were expertly guided on a chocolate walking tour. Jesica of Maine Foodie Tours certainly knows her chocolate. She not only regaled us with sweet samples, but entertained us with stories of Portland yore and educated us with discussions of the chocolate making process, chocolate’s health benefits (e.g., antioxidants, flavonoids, and theobromine) and Maine’s role in the triangular trade of slaves, rum, and sugar.

Surprisingly, of our six stops, not one was a chocolatier, but that didn’t mean a dearth of decadent options. We commenced with a savory sample of chocolate balsamic-dipped angel food cake at Vervacious, a specialty gourmet food storefront filled with beautifully packaged and fragrant spices, spice blends, balsamics, and spreads. Stop two was across the street at Browne Trading Company, known for its fresh and smoked seafood. Well, turns out it is also a purveyor of  Sweet Marguerites Artisanal Chocolates, a South Portland chocolatier. (Admittedly, it is a little odd to catch a waft of fish when you have chocolate on the brain, but you get over it fast.) One taste of Marguerite Swoboda’s comely dark chocolate fleur de sel was enough to convince me to buy a box of her assorted handmade chocolates. (Her chile star is my favorite, although I’m looking forward to trying her new Umami line, which includes green tea & ginger, sweet potato caramel, and sesame tahini truffles.)

Dark Chocolate Fleur de Sel (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

We also made a visit to the 12-week old GoBerry, which sources all its dairy for its low fat frozen yogurt from Maine’s own Smiling Hill Farm. The tangy original flavor (which Jesica topped with cocoa nibs) was appealingly light and refreshing, and was honestly good enough to stand alone. The tour ended on a celebratory note at Havana South with an effervescent flute of pink cava paired with a cayenne chocolate torte.

Go Berry Yogurt with cocoa nibs (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

We needed to walk off our chocolate a little bit before our late dinner reservations, so we took a stroll.  We admired the multi-hued seasonal lights designed by local artist Pandora LaCasse (I’ve never seen anything like them), and ducked into the addictive Stonewall Kitchen store for a little window shopping.

3. Bringing in the New Year

Dinner at five fifty-five was quite an indulgence. We had reservations for 9 so that we would still be there when the proverbial ball dropped. My approach for special dinners like these is to order things I rarely eat. I ended up choosing two fowl courses (a duck tart and stuffed quail), while my husband picked two fish courses (a beet-cured salmon and sturgeon with forbidden rice). Perhaps it is debatable whose choice was the fairer. My husband’s salmon appetizer was very artfully prepared and presented.

Beet-Cured Salmon Appetizer at five fifty-five (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

However, the highlight of the night for me was my stuffed quail with black mission figs. We sipped champagne at the end of the meal to welcome in 2012.

Stuffed Quail at five fifty-five (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

January 1st

4. Brunch and Mimosas

Sunday was an impossibly beautiful day in Portland (it was close to 50 degrees). And not surprisingly, we didn’t have much of an appetite after waking late from the previous night’s adventures. I walked around with my jacket unzipped (and for the most part) without my ear muffs. We didn’t have much of a plan for Sunday, other than dinner reservations and catching part of the Pats game. So we took quite a stroll, and enjoyed the weather. Not much was open for business, but when we were finally hungry enough to eat after last night’s dinner, we ducked into The Farmer’s Table for brunch. Despite our best intentions, our waitress successfully cajoled us into ordering mimosas (a pear for me, a pomegranate for the better half) with our “sensible” breakfasts. My bagel with cream cheese, capers, and Duck Trading Company smoked salmon was just the thing to start the new year off on the right foot.

5. Fore Street’s Finest

Dinner at Fore Street that night couldn’t have been better. The heart of the restaurant is the wood-burning oven, grill and turnspit used to prepare vegetables, game, and seafood. As soon as you open the front door (even before) you are greeted by the most pleasing of aromas: the scent of hardwood and apple wood fires working their magic. If you are able to sit in the front of the restaurant, you can watch all the action, but the backroom where we were seated was a little more low key and quite comfortable. I’m not sure if you could go wrong with your menu picks here, but something told me that if I stuck to the Maine seafood, I would be rewarded, so it was Maine mussels in a mustard and white wine sauce for an appetizer,  and for entrees, Maine scallops (for me ) and hake (for my husband).

Maine Mussels at Fore Street (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

The accompaniments to the meal were arguably better than the main (or Maine) proteins (and these were superb): a Bibb salad with a dream of a blue cheese, a side of sweet squash mash (as much as I love Brussels sprouts, it was fortunate that the kitchen had just run out and that we ended up ordering our second choice vegetable), a cabbage with mayo as a surprisingly perfect complement to my scallops, and good glasses of French Viognier and California Chardonnay to wash it all down.

Best Squash Ever at Fore Street (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

Fore Street is not only for the seafood lover. The dessert menu was punctuated with several delights, including a  peppermint baked alaska and a take-home box of handmade chocolates (barks, cassis bonbons and truffles). We chose to cap off the evening by splitting the rum baba. Again, the accompaniments win the day: a silky honey-hued scoop of brown butter ice cream combined with perfectly caramelized banana slices and citrus jus made for an unbeatable trio.

January 2

Some of the mead varieties you can sample in the Maine Mead Works tasting room (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

6. A Taste of Honey

We felt a bit like stalkers or drunks pulling up to the operation five minutes before its 11:00 opening on Monday, but we wanted to head home at a reasonable hour, so sometimes you do what you have to do. I’m talking about our visit to Maine Mead Works, which was my favorite stop in the Portland itinerary, hands down.  As much as I enjoy wine, I confess that I had only had one glass of mead prior to my visit to the Maine Mead Works tasting room. Upon hearing the word, I had perhaps a single and rather dusty, dull association: Beowulf. Groan.

Mead is anything but dull, at least at Maine Mead Works. It is a fermented beverage made with honey, one of the world’s oldest sweeteners. The Works has been making mead for the last three years. (To get some Mead 101 straight from the experts, click here).

The cheery tasting room at Maine Mead Works (Image: Johnisha M. Levi)

The HoneyMaker Mead produced by the Works may first draw you in with its good looks. The colorful bottling makes you eager to “taste the rainbow” of varieties (we sampled 11 varieties during our visit, including three reserves). What is more is that the mead here is not just about style, but substance. The Works talks the talk AND walks the walk when it comes to sourcing locally. The mead is produced using 100% Maine wildflower honey, English lavender from Glendarrargh Farms, Heath Hill Farms elderberries, Maine’s coastal wild blueberries, and Maine McIntosh apples, to name a few of its essential components. (By necessity, the Dry Hopped Mead is processed with hops originating from outside of Maine).

In addition to having the opportunity to taste a splendid and unique Maine made product, we  also had a great time talking shop with co-owner Ben Alexander and one of the mead makers Andrew (who helpfully explained the nuances of the different varieties and gave us some useful Portland restaurant advice). It would be difficult for me to name my favorite varieties, but if hard pressed, I would probably say:

• Lavender because it surprised me. I normally detest the soapy quality of the flowering plant. Here it contributes a perfect note of spicy interest to the beverage–slightly resinous without tasting like a mouthful of perfume. Andrew suggests mixing the lavender with lemonade and mint for a bright summer cocktail.
•  Apple Cyser because of its crisp lightness that perfectly captures the essence of the fruit
•  Semi Sweet because it is a good alternative to a sweet white wine that avoids being cloying (like a nice Gewurztraminer); and
•  Spiced Mead, redolent of clove, cinnamon, and orange, and extraordinary because it exhibits the warmth of a mulled red wine

We have already heard about some of the restaurants in our neck of the words putting HoneyMaker Mead on their menus (besides being highly drinkable on its own, mead is easily incorporated into innovative cocktails), including Craigie on Main (yes, main, not Maine), but we hope more in the Boston area will follow suit (for obviously selfish reasons).  Course if we have to, we are all too happy to make a field trip . . .

7. Food for Thought

Our final stop on our Maine itinerary was the culinary bookstore Rabelais on Middle Street. I was particularly glad we dropped into this store devoted to fine wine and food books before heading back home. It turns out that Rabelais, owned by a former pastry chef and her bookseller husband, is closing its Portland doors after January 7 in order to get ready for its move to a larger space in Biddeford’s North Dam Mill.  The shop is a culinarian’s dream. You’ll find both new titles in addition to collectible and rare cookbooks. I resisted adding more baking and pastry texts to my home collection (at least until I have the time to “catch up” on my latest purchases), but because we we couldn’t leave empty-handed, we purchased Betty Rosbottom’s Sunday Soup as a very useful souvenir.

Portland, we were sad to leave you, but we are looking forward to many return visits. I’ve already made a list of places for trip number three, including  Petite Jacqueline, El Rayo Taqueria, Emilitsa, Standard Baking Company, Duckfat and Miyake. Let’s just hope my stomach can keep up!

Food in Films: Three Stars

Un, deux, trois étoiles. The (in)famous Michelin Guide with its opaque network of inspectors can give its starry blessings, and it can just as easily take them away.

Lutz Hachmeister’s documentary Three Stars underscores this message nicely through an assemblage of interviews with nine very different chefs who achieved the honor–and some would say the curse–of a three star rating. Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts has been screening the documentary, along with El Bulli: Cooking in Progress, for the last two weeks. This evening is the last screening for both films.

But first a few words from our sponsor (joking) before getting to the heart of the film :

• The Michelin Guide was originally introduced by the tire company in 1926 as a motorist’s guide of where to eat.
• Chefs can’t seem to figure out these days what constitutes the dividing line between a two-star establishment (which earns the restaurant national recognition and makes it “worth a journey”) and a three-star one (which is “truly exceptional,” and as Michael Steinberger states, signifies “a culinary colossus”). In the olden days, it appeared that the Guide’s inspectors were heavily influenced by decor and ambience, including something as silly and seemingly inconsequential as grand commodes.
• Japan currently has more three star Michelin restaurants (29 restaurants) than France (26 restaurants). Although the majority of these serve Japanese cuisine, a number are known for Western or fusion cuisine.

The most intriguing of the documentary’s chef portraits were what I deem the “rebel chefs”–those who don’t seem to let the stars phase them.

Dal Pescatore’s Nadia Santini is a virtual earth mother (I could picture flowers springing up under her feet as she walked through impossibly green fields to tend to her garden and her animals).  At the time of the documentary’s filming, she is one of only six women awarded three Michelin stars. How amazing to see three generations of a family working together so seamlessly! Her kitchen is not organized based on a bridgade system (the former political science student rejected this traditional hierarchy as too oppressive). Her aged mother works side-by-side with her at both the stove and in the garden. Her proud son Giovanni, also in the kitchen, proclaims, “It’s not a work place, it’s the way we live.”  Santini refers to it as a generational “bridge.” You can see all three coexisting harmoniously in this clip from the dal Pescatore kitchen:

You can’t get more night and day when comparing this to San Sebastian’s Arzak, another family affair three star (the restaurant has been in existence since 1892), where avant-garde innovators father Juan Mari and daughter Elena proudly reveal their “idea” or “flavor bank.” The so-called bank is a storehouse of 1500 different ingredients organized in wall-to-wall cells. Many of them get dehydrated and turned into powders to enhance the flavor of their dishes’ components. It is Basque cuisine meets molecular gastronomy.

The reflective but guarded Hideki Ishikawa  immediately achieved three stars for his tiny Tokyo restaurant serving traditional Japanese food . The film could have given him a little more of the spotlight, but I suspect he wouldn’t have relished excess camera time. He takes the stars in stride, making clear that he “doesn’t work for stars,” and that it would be a “disgrace” for customers to come to his establishment  “just because of the stars.”

And finally, there is Brittany’s Olivier Roellinger,who ultimately opted out of the Michelin star system when he realized that it was more a burden than a blessing.  Roellinger was a chemical engineering student when his life was turned upside by a violent encounter with a gang. After a long convalescence, he drastically switched gears and began his career in restaurants. He earned his first Michelin star in 1984, and his second in 1994. Although it was expected that he would easily achieve his third star, he became the Susan Lucci of the Michelin–it took him 12 years before the last one was awarded. Twelve years of  what he described as a kid waiting for his present from Santa to come.

Olivier Roellinger (Image: Maisons di Bricourt)

In 2008, he followed the lead of only a handful of other chef demigods and traded in his three star establishment for a better life in the kitchen. Now liberated from the tyrannical whims of the Guide and attendant business pressures, he cooks his cuisine marine, potagère, et épicée (of the sea, the kitchen garden, and the spice shelf), runs a cooking school and owns spice shops in Cancale. Other chefs have not been so lucky to find this peace of mind. The documentary makes reference to the tragedy of Bernard Loiseau, who was driven to commit suicide by a combination of his depression, financial woes, and his fear (Michelin of course claims it was unfounded) that he would be stripped of his third star.

In addition to discussing both the politics of the Guide, and the difficulties of the restaurant business (lifestyle, management and finances), the documentary provides a glimpse into the kitchens of its profiled chefs: how they treat their staffs, for instance. Rene Redzepi, perhaps the most famous face in the film as he has now inherited the mantle of running the World’s Best Restaurant, is as cool as a cucumber when he discusses the non-profit Knowledge Bank initiative.  What a nice guy, right? Well, he is not one with which to trifle when it comes to his food. The film shows a very confrontational moment with one of his noma underlings: some uncomfortable close talking/shouting is taking place in the midst of service. Cut to Chef Ishikawa who says, “I would never tell my people off or hit them.” Hit? Wow.

Then there is the Alsatian Jean-Georges Vongerichten, master of an Asian-French fusion empire headed by the eponymous three star establishment in NYC. He is a personable kind of guy with a winsome smile who you can’t help but immediately warm to . . . that is, until you learn that he  settled a lawsuit for $1.75 million with waiters who sued him for withheld tips. And although his computer records of guests’ personal preferences and peeves is impressive (he laughingly refers to it as “the FBI”), it is just a little bit too Big Brother.

Speaking of Michelin stars, here is a trailer for the forthcoming documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, on the first sushi chef to be awarded three Michelin Stars.

In this neck of the woods, Kendall Square Cinema will be screening the documentary on April 6, 2012. For more info on the film, click here. In the mean time, Happy New Year until I post again in 2012!