Photo by geminder

Post by Brian Underwood

Anthony Bourdain does not come off as a man easily rendered speechless -- but he may have met his match.

His talk on Thursday night at Flint Center brought out an eclectic crowd of spirited and often rowdy foodies, many of whom seemed quite capable of getting into a bar fight over the relative merits of Anderson Valley Pinots versus Amador zin. Fortunately no fists flew, just steady waves of enthusiasm at Bourdain's dynamic dissertation of Food Network gossip, friendly bashing of Alice Waters and Rachel Ray, and tales of his culinary philosophy and many testicle-eating adventures.

"No Reservations" often details some of the bizarre foods he ingests when traveling abroad, which he explains in terms of social propriety: often he is the guest of local families, who often have very little material wealth, but who generously put forth some of their most cherished cuisine. If they were to offer their honored guest the platter of poached puppy dog heads that would normally feed the family for the whole month, then it would be unconscionably rude to refuse the gift on the grounds of pickiness, squeamishness, or heaven forbid, vegetarianism. He professes a more rabidly inclusive form of gastronomic diplomacy.

While taking audience questions, he called on one fellow who had been interjecting various yells throughout the talk -- "F--- EMERIL!", for example -- addressing him as "you, the angry, belligerent dude in the hat." The Mr. Belligerent said something about a tattoo, and Bourdain invited him onto stage to provide proof.

The madly grinning Mr. B took the stage and lifted his pant leg for all to see. His entire right thigh was tattooed with Bourdain's face, looking brusquely cherubic as a softly lit Stevie Nicks in a biker bar.

Clearly Bourdain sees many unusual things in his travels, but his own face on the body of someone he didn't know left him looking some combination of flattered and mortified. It may have at least been reassuring to note that the other limbs bore similar portraits in ink, a walking Pantheon of Food Network personalities: Mario on the forearm, Alton on the shin, Fieri not visible in polite company...

Mr. B, having leveraged his unique opportunity to win over the roaring crowd, handed his idol a Sharpie and asked him to autograph the leg. Bourdain could have easily signed at the knee or even refused and called security, but instead, reaffirming his unflappability, urged Mr. B to hike the cuff up a little further, to get the scribble right onto the bikini line.

I can only assume he will remember the incident as Cupertino's gift of poached puppy dog heads.

Related Links:
Anthony Bourdain's blog
No Reservations on Twitter
No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain on Facebook
Anthony Bourdain books and DVDs on Amazon.com

Listen Live to Mark Kurlansky on KQED 88.5FM Mon, May 23, 2009 -- 9:00 AM.

Listen to the audio archive of Mark Kurlansky on KQED's Forum. (archive posts 5/25 late eve)

Mark Kurlansky
In a pre-recorded but never-before-aired program, Mark Kurlansky joins us to discuss his new book, "The Food of a Younger Land." It examines the diversity and variety of pre-war American cuisine. Using abandoned documents from the Federal Writers Project, Kurlansky looks at a forgotten America where food varied greatly from city-to-city and state-to-state.

Host: Michael Krasny

Explore and buy The Food of a Younger Land: A Portrait of American Food--Before the National Highway System, Before Chain Restaurants, and Before Frozen Food, When the Nation's Food Was Seasonal

Mark Kurlansky's books on Amazon.com

Listen Live to Ruth Reichl on KQED 88.5FM Mon, May 11, 2009 -- 10:00 AM.

Listen to the audio archive of Ruth Reichl on KQED's Forum.

Ruth Reichl
Ruth Reichl is best known for her work as editor in chief of Gourmet Magazine, but she's also a best selling author who tackles subjects outside the world of food. Her new book, "Not Becoming My Mother: And Other Things She Taught Me Along the Way" examines her mother's life as a woman in the early 20th century.

Host: Michael Krasny

Guest: Ruth Reichl, author, editor in chief of Gourmet Magazine, former restaurant critic for the New York Times and four-time James Beard Award winner

Explore and buy Ruth Reichl's books on amazon.com
Follow Ruth Reichl on Twitter @ruthreichl
Follow Gourmet on Twitter @gourmet
Gourmet.com website

Rhubarb. I have loved it for years. And why not? It's a tart, refreshing, and completely extraordinary thing when handled properly.

Of course, it is also highly seasonal. It's one of the first bits of produce to show up in markets when the ground warms up in the spring, it hangs around in the summertime, when the living is supposedly easy, but it has a predictable habit of disappearing when the weather gets rough. It's a fair weather thing. And, though most commonly lumped together with fruits, it is, in fact a vegetable-- a truth I've found very difficult to grasp over the past few years.

When you slow down long enough to really notice the word, when you break it down into its two syllables and sound it out, it just seems like a really bad idea. "Rue," as a noun connotes sorrow. As a verb, it means to regret. And barb? It can mean any sharp protrusion that points backward, like a hook or an arrow. It is something that prevents easy extraction. When you put the two pieces of the word together, however, it evokes freshly baked pies and springtime. Or, of course, it can conjure up some sad, sorrowful thing that pulls you in and won't let you go. Take your pick. I have been historically attracted to both, but that is one for my therapist. I can just see the silhouettes of the Electric Company's Oscar-winning duo, Morgan Freeman and Rita Moreno, sounding it all out for me. Rhu. Barb. Rhubarb. They make it sound like so much fun.

The Latin name for the plant, Rheum rhabarbarum, should give one pause. At its base is barbarum, which indicates that the plant was, for the Greeks and Romans at least, from some place other. In the case of the rhubarb plant, this place was the Volga river-- an area at the time populated by what the "civilized" Mediterraneans considered barbarian: bearded and coarse, with a language totally incomprehensible to their own.

And Rheum? From the Latin rheuma, it means "a watery discharge from the mucous membranes, especially the eyes and nose." Charming.

The Greek word bárbaros, by the way, refers to the sound of random, incomprehensible noises one hears when listening to a language one cannot understand. The sound they made to mimic this was "bar bar." The terms "babble" and "blah blah," may be derived from this. One usage of the word "rhubarb" certainly is-- it is one of the words chosen by stage actors to chatter repeatedly in order to provide indecipherable background noise in crowd or party scenes.

Only the stalk of the rhubarb plant is edible. The green leaves of the plant-- the part of the organism from which it derives its strength and energy-- are toxic, containing the nephrotoxin oxalic acid. When eaten in quantity or over a long period of time, one may suffer kidney damage. The roots that give the plant its stability are rich in anthraquinones like emodin and rhein, which are natural laxatives and cathartics.

Well, I've had about enough catharsis, thank you very much. I no longer see rhubarb through the rosy-hued glasses that bare a remarkable resemblance to the color of the stalk itself. With the exception of the following recipe, I'm not giving rhubarb much thought anymore. Instead, I shall focus my energy and attention elsewhere. Like going to Paris for a week-- a place where the only rue-ing I'll be doing is wandering the streets of that city and the only barbs I will encounter are the bons mots flung by a couple of charming and very clever friends.

Now that's the kind of rhubarb I can really get behind.

Rapaperikiisseli (Finnish Rhubarb Soup)

And why not Rapaperikiisseli? It is a word I do not understand and could never hope to pronounce. It's all bar bar to me. I've simplified the dish somewhat, omitting the need for cornstarch. It is, in a real sense, rhubarb boiled down to its essence, with just a little help from its good friends Mr. Sugar, Señor Water, and a couple of spicy numbers from down the street. It requires little in the way of time and effort, and even less in terms of thought, which is pretty much what I should have been giving rhubarb all along.

Enjoy.

Serves: 2 to 4, depending.

Ingredients:
2 cups cold water
2 cups rhubarb, chopped and peeled (reserve the peel for use, please)
1/2 cup sugar
1 cinnamon stick, whole
a pinch of ground clove
mint, if you like, for garnish (I am not one of those people who garnishes everything with mint. It just happens to work nicely in this particular case.

Preparation:
1. In a medium-sized saucepan equipped with a lid (for future use), place water and rhubarb peel. Bring to a simmer and cook the peel until the color has been leached out. Remove and discard peel.

2. Add to the now-pink water the sugar, chopped rhubarb, and cinnamon stick. Stir, bring to a simmer, and cover. Simmer until the rhubarb falls completely apart. In my experience, it will do this with some regularity over the span of a few years. In the case of this recipe, however, give it 15 minutes. Remove the cinnamon stick and let cool enough so that, when put in a blender, the top will not burst off and scald you with hot liquid.

3. When the rhubarb is blender-ready... ummm... blend. Continue to do so until it is of a smooth, even consistency. Set to chill in the refrigerator.

4. Serve chilled in appropriate serving bowls with bits of torn mint thrown over the top. Or add little fluffy clouds of whipped cream or a dollop of crème fraîche. Your choice. The rhubarb is yours to do with as you please.

And I know a lot of them. Last weekend, I was (cheerfully) roped into helping prepare and serve a "proper" English tea by an old friend who had offered up her home, her china, and her silver tea pots for the benefit of my goddaughter's school. I have placed the word "proper" in quotation marks, because this was a tea hosted by Canadian-Americans, which means that it just might have been even more so than a true, English tea. The Canadians, after all, still celebrate Queen Victoria's birthday. The English, however, have long since moved on.

Scones were baked and served with Devonshire cream, butter, and jam. Little tea cakes were made available as were a number of precious, crustless tea sandwiches: cucumber, egg salad, smoked salmon, and Coronation Chicken.

It was the last one that really caught my attention. I asked Mary Pat, my friend Shannon's mother (and my former, formidable piano teacher), about it and she explained that the dish was called Coronation Chicken Salad because it was served at a luncheon in honor of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. Well, that seemed straightforward enough.

It also fit in nicely with the conversation about World War II food rationing I was having with my friend Craig and my goddaughter, Zelly, on the way to their house. Don't ask. These things just happen. We got so involved talking about u-boats, the Battle of Britain, and how Queen Elizabeth (mother of the present queen regnant) was glad Buckingham Palace was bombed so that she could then "look the East End in the face," that we forgot to stop for some necessary but overlooked tea supplies.

The Back Story
Coronation Chicken Salad was created by chef Rosemary Hume and the credit grabbed by one Constance Spry, a social-climbing society florist when students at her Winkfield Domestic Science School (at which Miss Hume was an instructress) were asked to cater a luncheon for the leaders of the Commonwealth Nations gathering together for the new queen's coronation.

Yes, Winkfield. The dish was anything but new at the time; merely a rehashing of the chicken in curried mayonnaise concocted for Elizabeth's grandfather, George V, in celebration of his Silver Jubilee. The name of the dish was, unsurprisingly, "Jubilee Chicken." And you'll never guess what was served in honor of Elizabeth's Golden Jubilee. It's true. Jubilee Chicken.

But we made it because we thought you loved it so much. I can just hear her mother (god rest her soul) saying that.

The recipe was published in the newspapers ahead of the coronation so that the common people might partake of what their new queen would be eating on her very special day. However, since food rationing did not end until 1954 (several months later), it is very doubtful that most of the common folk had had sufficient amounts of chicken and dairy products on hand to whip of a batch of the stuff. If they had learned anything in 14 years of food restrictions and shortages, it was to make do, to improvise. Perhaps that is why there are so many different versions of this particular salad. Individual households approximated the dish with what they had on hand.

Today's Coronation Chicken Salad is, essentially, cold chicken in curried mayonnaise. Simple but good. The original version, however, is a much more complex organism that included a cooked-down sauce of red wine, bay leaf, and tomato purée, and an addition of apricot purée and heavy cream. Throw in some mayonnaise and curry powder and...I'll put it this way-- I get the feeling that anyone who ate it would be spending more time on the throne than Elizabeth Regina.

Coronation-ish Chicken Salad
This is not the original recipe. Given the food rationing of the time, I think it's entirely in the spirit of the thing to improvise with ingredients one has on hand. For example, if a bottle of red wine is opened in my house, there will never be any left over for use in a chicken salad. Instead, I have added vinegar. I've also omitted the original call for heavy cream, and the cooking of the onions, owing to my own preference for bolder flavors and an even stronger tendency towards laziness. Feel free to add or subtract whatever ingredients you like. Except for chicken, mayonnaise, and curry powder. I don't mind, and I don't think Her Britannic Majesty will mind much, either. For the original recipe, please visit The Greasy Spoon, a site I stumbled upon and of which I am now rather fond.

Note: I had chosen to serve my salad clad in nothing but a crown of watercress. Upon examination of the opening photo, however, I realized that crowns are meant to be worn upon the head, not sat upon. It is a small but important error. If it bothers you, please feel free to turn the whole thing upside down and place upon your head or the head of the queen nearest you.

Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients:
4 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, poached and diced
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon curry powder (more or less, according to taste.)
2 tablespoons mango chutney or apricot preserves
1/2 yellow onion, finely diced
1 stalk celery, finely diced
1/4 cup currants or raisins
1 tablespoon vinegar: cider, champagne or whatever
the juice of 1/2 lemon
salt and pepper to taste
1/4 cup chopped cashews for garnish
watercress, washed and de-stemmed, for garnish

Preparation:
1. Combine mayonnaise, curry powder, vinegar, chutney, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Stir well.

2. Throw in the chopped chicken breast meat, celery, and currants/raisins. Stir until everything is well-coated.

3. Refrigerate overnight to let all the ingredients get to know each other a little better.

4. To serve, place on a bed of watercress and top with chopped cashews. Or slap some between two slices of bread. I will leave the decision of whether or not to discard the bread crust up to you.

I have this thing about history books-- especially ones about food history, military history, and the misdoings of European royalty. If its got a lot of useless trivia packed into it, I will read it, digest it, and annoy my friends with the opening line, "Hey did you know...?"

And if what I'm reading includes all of the above, I am one happy nerd.

Thanks to my recent reading, its finally happened. I've met him-- my new historical crush, Stanislaw Leszczynski. He might not have been the handsomest fellow in the world, but he had it going on: he lost the crown of Poland, became the French Duke of Lorraine by marrying off his daughter Maria to Louis XV (after losing Poland a second time), and, most likely by virtue of is own good nature and a heavy dose of pity from Frederick III, was made a count of the Holy Roman Empire. It doesn't matter much that, by the 18th Century, The H.R.E. was neither holy, nor Roman. It wasn't even much of an Empire, but a cluster of bickering Central European states. Still, it was a nice title.

But it really isn't his laundry list of honors that impresses me. I'd still like him if he were merely an viscount or baron or margrave. It's his penchant for popularizing and ascribing names to food that I like. Really, really popular food. King Stanislaw, it seems, was quite a gastronome, as his painting might hint at. Just look at those multiple chins.

According to my latest read, The Food Chronology by James Trager, Stanislaw started a craze in Paris for pigs' feet, tripe, and most importantly, onion soup soon after his daughter became queen of France. According to legend, he was so taken with an onion soup he was served at an inn on his way to Paris that he visited the kitchen in his dressing gown and demanded the chef to show him how to make it. Et voilà, everyone was eating Soupe à l'Oignon.

It is also culinary lore that Stanislaw would drench kugelhupf with rum from the French West Indies to create Baba au Rhum. Though it is more than likely he did not name the dish "Baba au rhum", three points of truth indicate his possible involvement in some ways-- kugelhupf was a well-established dish in the regions of Alsace and Lorraine by the time Stanislaw took up residence, he loved alcohol, and the word "baba" is derived from the Polish word for "good woman" or grandmother. Think "babka."

And finally (unless you want to get into the quiche Lorraine, which I do not), he's got the madeleine-- that tea cake enshrined by the famously self-obsessed shut-in, Marcel Proust. Not everyone will agree that Stanislaw was the man who named it. What is known is that the madeleine originated in the town of Commercy, in Lorraine, where Stanislaw was in residence. Some say he named it after a maid who served them him. Others say they had long been baked by the local nuns of St. Mary Magdelen convent.

Oh, there are lots of theories on the origin of madeleine, but I won't bore you with them.

I think what I'm rather taken with is the fact that this man seems to have had his finger in a number of culinary pots. I am jealous that, because of his stature, he was able to influence the tastes of a country which was then becoming famous for its food-- a country that wasn't even his.

Of course in the 18th Century, anyone of note was aching to have their cooks invent dishes to be named for them. Think Sauce Richelieu or Sue Anne Nivens' favorite, Veal Prince Orloff.

Are people naming dishes today or has everything already been named? It feels as though everything has. Apart from delis with a penchant for naming sandwiches after Borscht Belt comedians, I'm coming up blank. We just don't see elegant dishes like Asparagus Britney Spears or Tournedos à la Brenda Fricker coming into common usage. There is no flourish these days. Everything is so bloody straightforward, a long string of words listing ingredients. Flank Steak with kohlrabi pudding, sunchoke fries, and anchovies. Or whatever. Are we so unsophisticated that we now have to have everything spelled out for us?

I mean really.

Give me the days when an old Polish king could wander into France, have a bit of cake and say, "Oh, let's call this a madeleine." Perhaps his French wasn't good enough to say "I would very much like one of those delicious, buttery cakes with the faint whiff of lemon." It doesn't really matter. One says "madeleine" and one knows exactly what one is getting.

And to that I say, "Dziekuje, Stanislaw." Thank you. You've given me an idea. I shall start naming everything I eat. Sadly, the best name I've come up with for anything lately is Chicken Statutory, which is an Americanized version of Chicken Cacciatore, but made with younger, fresher chicken.

I think it needs a little work.

Haggis. For some reason, that word seems to conjure looks of extreme disgust on the faces of most Americans. "Do you even know what it is?" I ask. Or, better yet, in between the "icks" and "ews" I question "Have you ever even tasted it?" Not surprisingly, most people answer with a sheepish "No."

Granted, haggis, which is essentially a spiced lamb and oatmeal sausage, gets a bum rap in the U.S. primarily because much of what you find in this country is canned and more closely resembles a mushy, livery blob. Authentic, fresh Scottish haggis cannot be imported into the United States due to strict regulations.

But haggis really can be delicious. So I decided to prove it to my friends. Luckily for me, and my Scottish husband, Friday night January 25th just so happens to be Burns Night, a Scottish holiday celebrating the birthday of Scotland's beloved poet, Robert Burns. A night when the homely little haggis is properly revered.

A key element of Burns Night--whether a grande formal affair or just a few friends getting together--is haggis, traditionally served with neeps (turnips; although I believe what they use in Scotland is actually what we know as rutabagas in the U.S.) and tatties (mashed potatoes) and a wee lick of whisky.

My first order of business was finding an edible haggis in the Bay Area. Either that or make my own, which I was willing to do if it came down to it. Fortunately, there are enough people in the Bay Area who like it that I found a few excellent referrals to a little shop called The Scottish Meat Pie Co., who actually make their own fresh haggis. Granted, I still had to work for it as they aren't officially in the Bay Area, but in a little town called Dixon near Sacramento. But I love my Scottish husband and I wanted to celebrate his Scottishness properly. As well as prove to my friends that haggis is delicious.

Therefore, on Monday, I made the drive out to Dixon (and sat in a massive traffic jam for 2 hours) to pick up my previously reserved haggis. The very friendly folks at the Scottish Meat Pie Co. definitely recommended reserving one at this "wild haggis time of the year." In fact, they had just finished making a big batch of haggis--lucky me!

So with my fresher-than-fresh haggis I made my way home, and tomorrow night I'll be serving up a platter of haggis, neeps and tatties, and shots of Scotch whisky, while reciting Robert Burns' poem To a Haggis.

A few asides:
• There are lots of Burns Nights happening all over the Bay Area, such as the one at the Edinburgh Castle Pub on Saturday January 26th, of you want to get your Scottish on.

• The next time someone offers you haggis, rather than scrunching up your face into a grimace, perhaps take a bite.

• Yes, haggis contains offal, typically lamb meat, liver, and heart, but remember that eating the whole beast is a sustainable, responsible way of eating!

The Scottish Meat Pie Co.
245 N. 1st Street
Dixon, CA 95620
view map
707.678.5354