GUD BLOG
Pizza Catharsis
It’s been a long week. First, I was up working until 1am three days in a row, which sucked pretty hard. Second, I partied pretty late on Friday. And third, I woke up Saturday morning only to pay witness to a television commercial advertising a wireless cable box that lets people watch their TVs on the patio and in the kitchen and presumably on the crapper. Wireless cable boxes. A notion so grotesque that it made me vomit all over the place.
Well, not really. But I nevertheless needed to get some relaxation. Since my personal masseuse has Saturdays off, I opted to occupy my day of repose with cooking. I had a bunch of tomatoes, a ball of fresh mozzarella, and some lamb merguez sausage from Corridor Sausage sitting around, so en route to Eastern Market that morning I decided to make pizza.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been visiting the Grown in Detroit stand, acquainting myself with papalo, an herb that apparently grows wild across Mexico and some of the southwest United States. It’s not quite as concentrated as cilantro or basil, but it nonetheless packs an awful lot of flavor in a single leaf, simultaneously bright, earthy, and green. The plants can get as tall as 6 feet in prime conditions, and the leaves themselves are about 1 or 2 inches across. The Wikipedia page says it’s also popularly known as Bolivian Coriander. And in its native Mexico, it’s ostensibly served similarly to cilantro, as a fresh herb to accent pork tacos or spicy sandwiches.
I had put it on sandwiches and in eggs last week, so last night, I opted to throw it on a pizza. But not, like, literally throwing or anything. Because that mess would have made a shit hole out of my kitchen.
With onion, papalo, cheese, and sausage in hand (If you’re so moved by the phrase “sausage in hand,” please stop reading, snicker, and take a breath before moving on. No one’s judging.), I moved on to consider an appreciate sauce for my burgeoning pie. Given the Latin-inspired flavors in the meat, I briefly flirted with the idea of a BBQ sauce-based pizza. I definitely like a well-made BBQ chicken pizza as much as the next dude, but I knew wanted to write a blog post so I could mention the papalo. And if I used something as cliche as BBQ sauce for a southwest-style pizza and then wrote about it, I’d have to hurl myself into traffic.
So instead, I threw some tomatoes and a red bell pepper on the grill and charred the living shit out of them, setting them aside as the base of my sauce (more on that later). As I’d hoped, the char gave it more depth than it might have had otherwise.
I mixed together some pizza dough from Peter Reinhart’s Artisan Breads Every Day, a blend of 50% bread flour and 50% whole wheat flour, assembled most of my pie, and slid that shit onto my blazing hot pizza stone in an oven that’d been sitting at 475 degrees. After 4 minutes, I rotated it, added the papalo (I often add leafy toppings a bit late in the process so they don’t get burnt ), and then finished it up.
The results?
Pretty damn good, I’d say. I didn’t get the crust totally perfect, but it was my first time with that particular recipe. And the toppings were totally killer: As always, the products from Corridor Sausage are delicious, the papalo worked out really well, and so on. Nothing revolutionary by any stretch but tasty to be sure.
Should you want to make something similar in the future, I’d recommend starting with the sauce because (a) it’ll be a big ego boost for me personally and (b) it tasted pretty damn good.
To begin, get a single red bell pepper and enough tomatoes to make a couple overflowing handfuls once chopped. Before you go cutting on things, fire up your grill, put the tomatoes and the pepper on it, and cook until the pepper is nice and charred and the tomatoes are soft but not falling apart, kind of like a teenage girl watching Sleepless in Seattle for the first time ever. Skin the pepper entirely and skin most of the tomatoes, leaving some blackened yumminess in the mix.
Then chop them until you’ve basically made a pile of goo. Cook about a quarter of a small onion, minced, and some garlic, also minced, in your sauce pan using some olive oil. Add the tomato goo at the appropriate time, throw in a bay leaf, add maybe a teaspoon or so of vinegar to your liking, add a bit of salt and pepper, and then heat until it has the consistency of a tomato sauce. If you don’t know what any tomato sauce looks like, how the hell have you read this far? Just stop now.
Taste the sauce at this point, removing the bay leaf and being absolutely certain to not to scald your tongue like a buffoon. I rather enjoyed it on the tart side, but I still added a bit of sugar, stirring it in until it dissolved. I cooled it then used it on the pizza few hours later. I had barely any left, so consider this a single serving recipe.
Also, check out the papalo at Grown in Detroit if it’s still around for the next couple of weeks. I’ve enjoyed playing with it quite a bit and the flavor, while not notably powerful, lingers on your palate for a long time.
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And in conclusion, I leave you with this pizza making tutorial and a friendly reminder that when you put stuff on the internet, people will find it and may laugh at you.
2012.07.22 Evan Hansen at 2:17 pm | 1 Comment
Domaine Abbatucci
During dinner with some friends on my patio last night, I opened a bottle of Corsican wine about which I knew next to nothing. It really illustrates one of the things I love about wine, which is that there’s always something new to learn. Whether it be a comparative tasting of different vintages or chemistry or culture or tracing the lineages of grapes, the dive into a wine’s origins can be an absolutely endless journey.
Cuvée Collection “Diplomate d’Empire, Il Cavalière” from Domaine Abbatucci not only occupied a portion of the conversation last night, it has occupied my entire morning. Composed of 37% Vermentinu, 20% Rossala Bianca, 19% Biancu Gentile, 14% Genovese, and 10% Brustiano (from the Kermit Lynch website), the cepage was so foreign to me that I’ve been obsessing about figuring out what the hell all of these grapes actually are.
The wine itself was remarkably dense and rich: Very floral, fleshy nose with melon/white fruit aromas. Sweet on the palate, but not flabby at all. I tasted the fruit first and foremost, but there’s an inherent mineral-driven acidity/structure to it. Viscous and oily texture, it’s got a very serious weight to it and a finish that lingers. It’s really very interesting, luscious stuff. Very distinct and dare I even say unique. I wish I’d gotten a second bottle, because for all of its loveliness, I felt like it had more to offer had I given it a bit more time to breathe.
After having my mind blown, I decided to investigate the winery and those odd grapes a bit.
First, the winemaker has a fascinating history. His father is responsible for saving tons of native Corsican grapes, and they’re directly descended from Napoleon Bonaparte. This Cuvée Collection set of wines are all named after people who were involved in Napoleon’s life: So the Diplomate in question is actually a childhood friend of Napoleon who fought with him at the Battle of Waterloo. The details are outlined on Lynch’s website.
The grapes are equally interesting. Having compared the importer’s notes and the Domaine’s own website, I realized that while Lynch was listing the Corsican names for the grapes, they’re far more commonly known by their Italian names (or the synonymous French names). Vermantinu was obviously Vermantino, prized for its aromatic qualities. Rossala Bianca is, in Italy, Rossola Bianca, and according to a book by Oz Clarke, it’s synonymous with Ugni Blanc from France, most notable for its use in making cognac (where grapes that yield high acid are prized for the flavors it yields through distillation). Of course, Ugni Blanc is also, I believe, know as Trebbiano in Italy. Say what?
So the morning got off to a start that was, to put it bluntly, confusing as fuck.
I kept digging, though, and I could find nothing on Bianco Gentile except some references to other Corsican wines where it was consistently referred to as one of the “lost” varieties that’s recently been reclaimed. As I mentioned earlier, it’s the Abbatucci winemaker’s father who took it upon himself to wander the Corsican countryside and preserve grapes like Bianco Gentile from what would have otherwise been extinction in the 1960s.
I couldn’t find much on Genovese other than some references to a “Bianchetta Genovese,” which is ostensibly a non-descript Italian grape called Albarola according to Wikipedia and a few blogs. The subtle distinctions aren’t really all that important, I suppose, but while it’s known for its plantings in northern Italy, this Albarola simply must be at least a little different in Corsica (assuming its even related). The evolution of distinct ecosystems and how that impacts the resulting grapes is every bit as interesting to me as the food and cultural components to how a particular wine has evolved over time.
Similarly, do a Google search on the last grape, Brustiano, and about a million websites will tell you that it’s synonymous with Vermantino, but clearly the winemaker finds something different since he lists both Vermantino and Brustiano as components to his wine.
Regardless, this combination of mostly soft, semi-sweet grapes and Ugni Blanc created a drink that’s quite profound. Naturally, it’s available in limited quantities. The winemaker makes a number of wines, but the “Cuvée Collection” series are all from a single plot of these heirloom, indigenous grape varieties, farmed biodynamically (down to the weird ass moon cycle rituals) with low yields, and so on.
So its rarity and relatively lofty price tag are easy to understand.
This bottle was recommended to me by Elie Boudt at Elie Wine Company in Royal Oak. There are only two cases, so if you’re interested, get there soon. I drank it along side grilled halibut and veggies as well as a wheat berry salad with a distinctly provençal twist. Pretty much perfect.
2012.06.17 Evan Hansen at 12:47 pm | 1 CommentBreaking News: Elitism Runs Rampant in Cocktail Bars!
We’re under siege, folks. Less than a year after the first dedicated cocktail bar opened in the metro Detroit area, elitism and ego-maniacal bartenders are ruining the spirit of the bar. Gone are the good old days of showing up to a bar, having a nice chat, and paying for whiskey with that lone dollar bill you had crammed into your pack of smokes.
Or at least, that’s what Christine Sismondo of Huffington Post is claiming.
I recognize that linking back to their post is exactly what they’re after with these types of trolls, but (a) our tiny ass website isn’t going to make much a difference one way or the other and (b) I hate the obnoxious practice of requiring a login from Facebook or Twitter in order to respond, so I’m going to write up my response (some uneducated folks might call it a “rant” or something) right here instead.
In comparison with cork-sniffing and vintage-cataloguing, quaffing cocktails seemed a lot more fun — and a whole lot less like work. That was 10 years ago, an era when cranberry juice reigned behind the bar, insisting on fresh citrus was considered crazy and the shaken martini was still de rigeur.
I find claims of sweeping elitism from those who, unlike those of us in and around Detroit, have had seemingly regular access to craft cocktails for a decade to be more than a little disingenuous. I wonder if the author went back to drinking nothing but Jack with sour mix and G&Ts for 5 years if she’d feel the same way.
After she gives us quick history of the resurgence of craft cocktails, we get this gem:
As bartenders are downright fetishized for their ability to combine specific spirits, I feel we’re losing some of the spirit of the bar. People are there to have a good time and meet people, not to pray at the altar of the cocktail.
OK, actually, I agree. After all, every moment of every day is all about ME, and the last thing I should do is go out to enjoy something interesting that someone else worked hard to make. Deriving pleasure from eating and drinking the result of someone else’s time and effort is so yesterday. Who cares if it’s a unique drink that I can’t make it at home? Pass the Blueberry Stoli.
Also, I find that I dine out just to fill up and chat with my friends, not to derive any real satisfaction from what I’m eating. I’m not there “to pray at the altar” of the chef, so I’m just going to patronize McDonald’s from now on. Why deal with pretentious servers talking about farmers and shit when I can just have a seat in an uncomfortable plastic booth and shovel food in my face while eking out a little conversation betwixt huge bites?
There are other aspects of fine drinking (as opposed to fine dining) that are less than democratic. Craft cocktail bars aren’t your drop-by-after-work-and-chat-with-Norm kind of places.
Uh, really? In every city I’ve ever been, I’ve made decent pals with the bartenders at the cocktail bars I’ve gone to. And here in Detroit, anyone who thinks Dave, Chuck, Yani, Lucy, John, and Rick at the Sugar House and Sandy, Adrianne, and Jackie from the Oakland aren’t friendly are crazy.
Also, while it is true that I do not in fact know anyone named Norm with whom I can chat at either of those bars (or any of the other bars in Michigan for that matter), I do see someone I know every time I go to them. Granted, most of my friends are lushes, and this isn’t New York with its 800 million people, but whatever.
Why are we trying to de-socialize the emblem of sociability? And then there’s the price. It’s not unusual for a cocktail to run between $12 and $16 these days.
Sounds like she lives in a crappy place with crappy bars. Move to another city, crazy lady. Par example, as the French would say, Detroit’s tres cool, as the French would also say.
Then after you move to Detroit, if you don’t want an elitist bowl of sea urchin foam layered atop gold-infused gin, just order an Old Fashioned at the Sugar House, which is made well and will cost you five whole dollars. Come to think of it, is there a bar in your city where they are forcibly dumping cinnamon bitters and egg whites down customers’ throats and charging 20 bucks? Because that actually would be a problem worth writing about in HuffPo.
But just in case elitism is even a small component, I’m doing my part to fight it — I’m switching back to wine. And the occasional vodka.
Thank goodness! Because first growth Bordeaux and Grey Goose have absolutely no problem with snobbery or exclusivity among those who serve or drink it. Keep on fighting the good fight!
Meanwhile, I’m going to thank my lucky stars that we’re no longer part of the era where our choices were basically a vodka and cran or a Bud Light. If that’s our alternative, I’ll relish a little elitism in my life.
2012.06.05 Evan Hansen at 5:55 pm | 6 CommentsReal or Fake? Marketing with Blogs
We get a lot of marketing-related emails from people who basically want to pay us to write about their product or who want to give us free samples to say nice things. That’s a perfectly fine way to make a living, but it’s not what we do.
Still, since those emails generally involve a lot of self-aggrandizing, they’re often worth a chuckle or two. What follows may be a real email, or it may be us parodying an email.
What do you think of the text below: Real or Fake?
Todd,
More info below but Mako Vodka, a new vodka to the Detroit area, has a slew of beach-themed cocktails that I thought could work for a Memorial Day cocktail piece. I have drink images to go along with these and can send along a sample of Mako (it recently won a Gold Medal from the Beverage Testing Institute).
I know there are a 101 vodkas out there, but Mako is less about the crazy flavors and more about a mindset. The brand, which is named after the Mako Shark, is trying to cut through the clutter by reaching out to those who are into the nautical lifestyle whether that is boating, sailing, deep sea fishing, etc.
If Memorial Day weekend doesn’t work, there’s always Shark Week (everyone’s favorite cocktail occasion, maybe not quite yet, but it should be), Shark Week airs in July.
Thanks,
Courtney
Fun facts about the Mako Shark:
- Fastest shark in the water. A Mako can swim up to 60 mph when on the hunt.
- Nickname: “The Cheetah of the Sea.”
- Extremely adaptable. Can live in warm, cold, shallow or deep water.
- Slightly famous. The Short Fin Mako was featured in Hemingway’s “Old Man and the Sea.”
- Cool trick. A Mako will leap out of the water. Scientists are befuddled at why they do this. We think they want to check out the scene.
Fun Facts about Mako Vodka:
- The Mako shark may like all types of water, but Mako Vodka uses only pure natural iron-free limestone spring water.
- At 75ft, our stills are about the size of 8 Mako sharks lined up from head to fin. Mako Vodka is five-times distilled for exceptional purity.
- We add oven-dried, medium-roasted malted barley to our mash bill. Sure a Mako shark wouldn’t go for barley, but our fans love the taste.
- We’re also slightly famous. Mako Vodka was awarded a 93 rating, gold medal from the Beverage Testing Institute.
Summer Cocktails
Mako® Shark-in-the-Water Martini
1 part Mako Vodka
1/2 part Blue Curacao
1 part Sweet & Sour (or Fresh Lemon Juice)
Splash Cranberry Juice
Combine in a shaker with ice. Shake and strain. Garnish with lime wedge.
Mako® Raspberry Sharkbite Martini
1 part Mako Vodka
1 part Chambord Black Raspberry Liqueur
1 part Sweet & Sour (or Fresh Lemon Juice)
Combine in a shaker with ice. Shake and strain. Garnish with lime wedge.
Mako® Blue Ocean
1 part Mako Vodka
1 part Blue Curacao
1 part Pineapple Juice
1 part Cranberry Juice
Combine in a glass with ice and stir. Garnish with lime wedge.
Mako® Harborside Chiller
1 part Mako Vodka
1 part Peach Schnapps
1 part Lemonade (or Sweet & Sour)
1 part Cranberry Juice
Splash Club Soda (optional)
Combine in a glass with ice. Top with Club Soda, if desired. Garnish with lime wedge.
Old Forester Rules the World
The Sugar House has now had two blind bourbon tastings, and in both, my favorite whiskey was made by Old Forester. In the first, their 100 proof signature bourbon was hands down my favorite among a crop of modestly priced whiskeys that ranged from so-so to great. In this week’s tasting, the stakes were raised: All the bourbons were between $35-50, and absolutely none of them were disappointing.
Again, my favorite was an Old Forester product, their Birthday Bourbon.
The line up this time was, in order, Four Roses Single Barrel, Angel’s Envy, Jefferson’s, Woodford Reserve, the B-day Bourbon, and Elijah Craig 18 Year.
Elijah Craig seemed to win the tasters’ hearts overall, with a sort of supple, billowy mouthfeel and fat, rich, mildly oaky flavor. It was definitely in my top three, but I found the Old Forester superior in that its smoothness felt a bit less forced, its oak less obvious. On my very first sip, I thought it had a nice woody, almost mineral note, but the more I drank it, the more fruity and full it became.
The Four Roses felt a bit manipulated and obvious, but I have to say, I liked it. Despite any vanilla, which I presume to come from the barrel, there was a clear malty fruit quality that I rather enjoyed. The Jefferson’s I liked more as I diluted it over the tasting. Initially kind of lean and intense compared to the others, it softened with water. Woodford was spicier than I would have thought undiluted, but when I added water, an odd sort of bitter off-flavor emerged. Angel’s Envy was, regardless of dilution, my least favorite. Keeping in mind that I would very much drink the shit out of any of these six bourbons and that I am now, to some extent, just nit-picking, I found the Angel’s Envy to be far too soft, far too fruity, and far too artificial tasting. Layers of artificial, bubble gum-ish flavors, very soft. Not my cup of tea. Or bourbon.
All of these were great bourbons, and I’m pleased to have been there. But for the second tasting in a row, Old Forester is bringing the pain to its competitors at an assortment of prices.
Barkeep, I’ll have another Birthday Bourbon.
2012.05.08 Evan Hansen at 11:50 pm | Be the first to commentAmer Picon
Cocktail nerds hobbyists, like any nerds hobbyists, tend to get a little obsessive: learning the newest trend, finding the latest ingredient, practicing every technique, and of course, hunting down rare things. Whether it’s an original Star Wars figurine from Kenner or a bottle of rum that’s nearly impossible to get, there’s definitely an appeal to finding and, in the case of cocktails, drinking from the holiest of holy grails.
The French liqueur known as Amer Picon is one of those sorts of things for cocktail lovers. Invented in the 1830s, the original Picon was a stiff drink at nearly 80 proof. According to Wikipedia, at least, that changed in the 1870s, and the version that came to be popular in American cocktails around the turn of the century through Prohibition was closer to 25 or 26% abv. Indeed, you can find bottles up for auction or for sale from the WWII era at 26%. In that form, it came to be used in several classics, most notably Picon Punch, the Brooklyn, and the Liberal. Its unique bitter orange flavor was more or less lost to history when the company that produces it changed the recipe again in the late 20th century, eventually bringing it down to 18% abv.
And oh yeah, one other tiny detail: It’s hasn’t been imported to the United States in a long, long time.
Two weeks ago, fate smiled on me when Jeremy, a long-time reader of what is now the Sugar House’s blog, generously elected to share, among other things, two bottles of Picon. He managed to acquire from overseas Picon Club and Picon Biere, the two contemporary Picon products, both of which are commercially available in France and England.
So I found myself in the middle of a pretty awesome tasting of bitter liqueurs from around the world, and I took some notes:
Suze
Unrelated to the other liqueurs, this was an addition to the tasting notable both for its relative rarity and its unique, gentian-heavy flavor. As I later learned, Suze was originally 32% abv with a very little sugar. The bottling we tried was 15% with 200g of sugar per bottle, so much like the Picon, its recipe has changed quite a bit over time, and it even varies between Switzerland and other European markets. This version has a very distinct flavor: While gentian bitterness is a potent force in the overall taste, there’s an unusual combination of dirty earthiness and a sharp menthol flavor. Most unusual. It’s quite striking all around, starting with its intense yellow color.
Picon Biere
As promised, this is a distinctly orange, distinctly bitter liqueur. I expected it to be a bit sweeter than it was; indeed, it’s a surprisingly bright in terms of flavor. Despite the low alcohol, it still asserts itself appropriately, which is important considering its primary purpose – being added to wheat beer or cheap Euro lager to add flavor and finish. Easy, easy drinking.
Picon Club
Rather than being an addition to beer, the newer product Picon Club is designed for use with cocktails or wines. It’s darker and stronger not in alcohol but in color and flavor. Primarily, there’s a burnt caramel flavor with heavy orange peel, and there’s a sort of fruity coffee undertone. Downright delicious.
Torani Amer (and a homemade Amer Picon replacement)
One of the alleged replacements for Picon has been Torani Amer, an American product bottled at a much higher proof. While the added alcohol has some advantages, this was weakly flavored, thin, boozy, and boringly bitter (one note) compared to the actual Picons. There was practically no orange flavor at all. By comparison, Jeremy’s homemade Amer Picon, which follows a recipe outlined by bartender Jamie Boudreau, was distinctly far more balanced with more fruit flavor. That said, while the homemade replacement had the heft and power that’s allegedly closer to older Picon recipes, the modern day Picons were, I think, the most clearly influenced by orange.
Cio Ciaro
This Italian amaro is often cited among the best possible replacements for Picon commercially available in the United States. Tasted alone, I’ve always found it remarkable how much orange flavor shows through the sugar and bitterness. Tasted next to the Picons, it’s still delicious but is barely tinged with orange. Definitely a great product, and it absolutely works in drinks like a Brooklyn, but it’s not even close to a direct replacement.
My sincere thanks to Jeremy as well as Dave and Chuck from the Sugar House for letting me participate so I could enjoy these liqueurs and share my notes.
2012.05.06 Evan Hansen at 3:48 pm | 6 Comments
