The weather gods have not been kind to the Hudson Valley this summer. Waterways flooded, roofs ripped off, trees downed, crops flattened. Radar maps splashed with streaks of red like tomato sauce stains on an apron. Some people might be tempted to quit; then again, what is it they say about farmers being the ultimate optimists? It requires a certain resilience to grow what is meaningful to a place, let alone create a prize-winning whisky that is finally about to receive a designation of origin from the U.S. Treasury Department’s Tax and Trade Bureau. It’s the kind of game-changer that might give the old guard of the brown spirits world restless nights.

On sunnier days while driving down certain winding stretches of New York State’s Taconic Parkway, the Berkshires heave into view to the east, and then a few miles farther down the road, the Catskills appear across the Hudson, where the westerly peaks turn purple in the low light of dusk. This almost absurdly romantic backdrop enraptured mid-19^th-century landscape painters like Thomas Cole and Frederic Edwin Church, and spawned an art movement known as the Hudson River School.

Since childhood, the vista has always caught my breath. The temperate valley between these two old mountain ranges certainly catches rain clouds. The region has a long history of agriculture, dating back to early Dutch settlements in the 1660s, with first crops like wheat and rye, hops and barley, grapes and apples. An obvious byproduct was booze: applejack, hard cider, brown spirits, beer. A wealthy brewer founded the college I attended in Poughkeepsie—on Founder’s Day every year, it was customary for the president of Vassar to chug a pitcher of beer, although I hear the practice has since gone out of vogue. (Shall we say the legal drinking age was lower back then?) More recently, with the passage of state liquor laws that incentivized microbrewers and distillers to launch projects here, the Hudson Valley has seen a new boom in production of small batch beverages.

“Our whiskies and beers taste like here,” said Dennis Nesel, owner of Hudson Valley Malt, based in Germantown. A retired financial adviser with a grizzled goatee, he now favors overalls and wields an old-fashioned malt rake. “We call it re-localization. There was a time when the grains were grown here and shipped downriver by sloop, but after Prohibition all that stuff moved West, so we’re bringing it back, trying to make the supply chain grown here, harvested here, distilled here.”

That aspiration has shaped a three-way collaboration. The others include a third-generation farmer, as well as one of the newest distilleries in a pocket valley near the Massachusetts border, where the family behind Tenmile Distillery is gambling on a rising demand for American single-malt whisky. Note: no “e.” We’re not talking bourbon or rye, but closer in spirit to uisge beatha, Scotland’s original water of life.

A few weeks before the valley was swamped with torrential rains, I climbed into a utility truck with farmer Ken Migliorelli to look at one of his fields planted with winter Scala barley. “We’re about a week away from harvesting,” he said, as we parked along the rural road near his crop outside the town of Tivoli. It’s a pretty grass, with a spiky seed head on a long stem that turns from emerald green to platinum blonde as it dries in the sun. Migliorelli took to farming when he was a teenager, and eventually expanded his family’s vegetable business, adding a fruit orchard, farm stands, and weekly market stalls, including Union Square Greenmarket in Manhattan. He still grows the same variety of broccoli rabe his grandparents brought over when they emigrated from the Lazio region of Italy in the 1930s. Citing the new demand for spirit grains, the 63-year-old farmer has almost 350 acres of barley and another 50 acres of rye in cultivation, despite the challenges he faces growing these crops in the Hudson Valley.

“In 2021, that was a rough July,” he said. “It just started raining and wouldn’t stop. I lost the barley that we were combining because it pre-germinated out in the field. I could only sell it for animal feed.”

The vagaries of weather are a standard risk for any farmer; however, this spring a half-acre barn went up in a blaze, and Migliorelli lost 15 tons of barley, hay, tomato stakes, and a lot of equipment. His neighbors and loyal customers launched a fundraiser to help rebuild. He gazed out at his waves of grain, undaunted. For him, it’s one crop out of dozens during a year that starts with tender greens and crescendos with apple picking season.

When harvested, Migiolrelli’s grain heads to the malt house, less than ten miles away, for the next step in the process. “It’s a pretty tight circle from here to Dennis, and then down to Tenmile,” he said.

On a good day at Hudson Valley Malt, Nesel and his wife Jeanette Spaeth load 6,000 pounds of malted barley, rye, or wheat into a kiln. By hand. That’s the last step after the raw grain has been steeped and raked in a thin layer on a smooth concrete floor to germinate and develop the sugars that will convert to alcohol. “Floor malting is a craft and an art,” he said. “We do it old school, the way it was done in the 1850s. It’s definitely not glory work.”

Nesel and Spaeth both grew up in the Hudson Valley. After retiring from corporate life, they decided to convert their horse barn instead of downsizing. In 2015, they recognized that area distillers needed a local malting operation. (They have a hopyard as well.) “It would be too easy to go south, but we’re not snowbirds,” he said. “I was looking for a way for our farm to be more sustainable.”

The turnoff for Tenmile Distillery is a shunpike called Sinpatch. An apparent allusion to the area’s checkered past, it leads to the repurposed barn complex with a tasting room and a dining patio next to a parked vintage Airstream that belongs to Westerly Canteen, a restaurant popup serving a seasonal snack menu sourced from Hudson Valley producers. While in residence, chefs Molly Levine and Alex Kaindl celebrate summer with floral infusions, delicate crudos, and heirloom vegetables. In addition, chef Eliza Glaister of Little Egg favors wild game for her popups and occasional private tasting dinners.

When the couple delivers a load of malt, Tenmile’s master distiller Shane Fraser takes over. He walked me into the darkened cask warehouse where his single malt rests in French oak barrels that once held sherry, bourbon, and California pinot noir. (Tenmile founder John Dyson, who formerly served as New York State’s agricultural commissioner, also owns Williams Selyem Winery in Healdsburg.) Born in Aberdeen, Fraser learned his trade at several marquee distilleries, including Royal Lochnagar and Oban, before taking on the lead role at Wolfburn, a startup in the far north. Almost no one who achieves the elevated title of master distiller leaves the job security of his peat-and-heather homeland, but Tenmile presented Fraser with a challenge almost unheard of back in Scotland: creating a new brand of single malt. His first batch of fresh New Make—what we call moonshine or white dog—was barreled in January 2020. He also experimented with unorthodox cask woods, including smaller Italian cherry and chestnut barrels typically used for aging balsamic vinegars, because regulations remain fluid in the States for now. Fraser patted one on a rack. “That’s the thing with the new designation,” he said. “You have to be careful to make sure that it will be defined as American single malt. Because when those rules come out, you can’t use cherry.”

Currently, single malt producers in the States number fewer than 100, which means it’s still an exclusive club, but not the stuffy kind full of tufted leather chairs and cigar smoke. Establishing a formal standard of identity, and having that recognized at the federal level, will give distilleries here a better chance to compete against the global establishment. Single malt no longer means it has to taste like a burned-over bog.

Fraser pointed out another 140 acres of Ken Migliorelli’s ripening spring barley planted beyond a formal apple orchard and beehives. Then we entered the whitewashed brick dairy, where copper stills imported from Scotland have been installed behind a glass curtain wall in the converted great room. The bar, at the opposite end, has a full cocktail program designed around the distillery’s gin, vodka, and whisky.

Fraser and I sat down in the wood-paneled tasting room, and he poured a cask strength dram of Little Rest, Tenmile’s first edition bottling, into my tumbler.

We lifted glasses to our noses.

“I get tropical fruits coming through,” he said. “Some chocolate notes, and once it sits awhile on the tongue, there’s a bit of spice, almost like cinnamon. Every time you go back to it, you smell something different, because it’s so young and still got a bit of life to it. Some of the older whiskies, when you smell them, it’s like, well, whisky.”

I took a sip.

The Little Rest was released this April, after three years and a day in barrels, the minimum to be officially characterized as whisky. Comparably light in style, more like a subtle Speyside than a peaty Islay.

“You can see what a little rest does,” said Fraser.

He told me that someone else compared the flavor to a green Jolly Rancher, and sure enough, it did have a perky apple note. 

Rain or shine, it tasted like home.

Recipe

Paper Plane

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Clover Club Cocktail

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Tuna Crudo with Chamomile Oil, Cucumber Salad, and Pea Shoots

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Braised Rabbit with Pan-Fried Radishes and Creamy Polenta

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The post Our New Favorite Single Malt Whisky Comes From … New York? appeared first on Saveur.

When you think of Seattle, you might imagine seafood shacks and life-changing fish and chips. And while we have those, the city’s laid-back restaurant scene is better defined by the freedom it gives chefs. Take Dungeness crab, the super-tender crustacean caught off the coast, which might get curried and folded into scones, or tossed with mint and crispy fried onions in pappardelle.

This genre-bending and boundary-busting makes Seattle an unpretentious food town that harbors surprises at every turn and prioritizes flavor and function over formality. My list of essential local restaurants tells the story of a city in constant flux—and invites you to join in. Whether you wind up tucking into Lebanese tacos at an art bar or sharing an order of Ethiopian-spiced green beans at a Halal butcher shop, use this roadmap to plan your culinary adventures. Along the way, you’ll get a true taste of Seattle’s diverse communities.

Ahadu

1508 NE 117th St.
(206) 440-3399

Samuel Ephrem and Menbere Medhane’s Ethiopian restaurant evolved from a butcher shop when customers started asking if the duo could cook Halal beef. It wasn’t long before the ribeye was destined for kitfo (raw chopped beef with spiced butter) and the bone marrow for a stew called kikel. They still bring in fresh local meat and break it down themselves. But the expert butchery can’t explain why their (vegetarian) green beans—heady with caramelized red onion and floral coriander—are such a sleeper hit.

Mike’s Noodle House

418 Maynard Ave St.
(206) 389-7099

The food and decór at this cash-only Chinatown-International District standby are as straightforward as its name implies. The chatter of elderly couples, the clatter of families serving up soup, and the slurps of solo diners fill the room better than any wall art could. Mike’s light, flavorful broth and needle-thin egg noodles draw lines out the door on weekends. The soup comes in almost 30 varieties, from standard wonton to house-made fish balls with beef brisket. And there are nearly as many styles of dry noodle and congee.

Wedgwood Broiler

8230 35th Ave NE.
(206) 523-1115

Stepping into the Wedgwood Broiler is like journeying back to the ‘60s, when this steakhouse opened—and the old-school booths and sassy waitresses still charm customers like they did back in the day. But my favorite part of the retro set-up comes in how they carry on the prudent custom of turning the beef trimmings into fresh burger patties and French dip sandwiches. Either pairs nicely with an equally old-fashioned martini in the wood-paneled lounge, or with a milkshake in one of the dining room’s many booths.

Situ Tacos at Jupiter Bar

2126 2nd Ave Suite A.

When the pandemic forced drummer Lupe Flores to cancel her shows, she found a new way to entertain audiences: by making them tacos like the ones her Lebanese Mexican grandmother cooked for her as a kid. Fastened shut with toothpicks, the crisp-fried tacos come filled with brown-butter beef, garlic mashed potatoes, or harissa cauliflower and cilantro chickpeas. Place your order at the stand in front of the quirky, sprawling art bar, then head over to the arcade consoles to knock out a game of pinball or Street Fighter II while you wait for your food.

Toshi’s Teriyaki Grill

16212 Bothell Everett Hwy.
(425) 225-6420

In 1976, Toshi Kasahara opened a tiny shop near Seattle Center selling his spin on the teriyaki of his childhood in Japan. Filling Styrofoam containers with piles of steamed rice and shiny, crackly-crusted chicken year after year, Kasahara honed and defined Seattle-style teriyaki. When Seattle teriyaki took off, so did Toshi, expanding and franchising until he completely burned out. Now, he’s back to his roots, with a single spot which harks back to the original: small and simple enough that he can run it himself, serving only teriyaki—no extras or ceremony.

T55 Pâtisserie

18223 Bothell Way NE.

Muhammad Fairoz Rashed shapes his pains au chocolat like flowers, dotting each petal of feather-light croissant with semi-sweet chocolate, which ups the ratio of chocolate to pastry. The same attention to detail and innovation fuels the savory specialties, such as the curry crab scones or black truffle goat cheese focaccia served in T55’s sleek, minimalist space.

Local Tide

401 N 36th St UNIT 103.
(206) 420-4685

This casual spot specializes in fun and funky seafood lunches. The bounty of the Pacific Northwest’s chilly and pristine waters shines through in dishes inspired by Seattle’s favorite foods, like the bánh mì filled with ground rockfish and pork patties. Subtle surprises also tweak familiar flavors in the house clam chowder, enriched with clam fat, the “BLT,” which swaps in crispy salmon skin for bacon, and Local Tide’s own “Filet-o-Fish” starring Dover sole.

Billiard Hoang

3220 S Hudson St.
(206) 723-2054

When this Vietnamese pool hall sprung up off Martin Luther King Jr. Way in 1986, Seattle barely knew its bánh mì from its bún thịt nướng. But today, locals line up at Billiard Hoang for both those dishes, plus soups and rice and noodle bowls. The latter come topped with tender short ribs or puffy fried tofu, which pair well with either Vietnamese coffee or beer, no matter the time of day.

Mashiko

4725 California Ave SW.
(206) 935-4339

Seattle has an outstanding sushi scene, but Mashiko stands out for being the first established sushi restaurant in the country committed to serving only sustainable seafood. Those limitations elevated the skills and resourcefulness of the chefs, who have created a thrilling menu centered on offbeat species like spot prawns, geoduck, and herring.

Mezzanotte

1210 South Bailey St.
(206) 466-6032

After flirting with fame on Bravo’s Top Chef, dabbling in Middle Eastern cuisine at Mamnoon, and briefly trying on taco cheffery at a brewery, Jason Stratton has settled back into his sweet spot: high-end, Northwest-inflected Italian cooking. In the casual low-slung brick dining room in Georgetown, expect seasonal gems such as tender asparagus cloaked in bagna cauda sauce, burrata draped over sweet grated carrots, and Dungeness crab pappardelle. Other menu stalwarts include Stratton’s signature tajarin al coltello, hand-cut noodles in rich sage butter sauce.

Salima Specialties

11805 Renton Ave S Suite C.
(206) 906-9331

When Salima’s Restaurant closed in 2009, the region’s significant Cham population lost its community gathering point—and Salima Mohamath’s bold peanut sauce. For those unfamiliar, the cuisine of these Indigenous people of Southeast Asia is a blend of local and Islamic cuisines. At the new Salima Specialties, which opened in 2022, expect Malaysian-style satay, rich lamb curry, and Vietnamese sandwiches with housemade Halal chicken “ham”—plus that killer peanut sauce.

Midnite Ramen

Seattle, WA
(425) 524-1604

Elmer Komagata made his name cooking in LA’s fine-dining restaurants in the 1980s, then spent decades running hotel kitchens in Mexico. But he always dreamed of something smaller, like the tiny ramen cart he and his wife now park outside Seattle breweries a few nights a week. The concept is modeled after yatai, the evening mobile food stands he remembers from growing up in Japan. His balanced broth is a testament to decades spent cooking and studying French, Chinese, Mexican, and Japanese cuisines; it combines Chinese preserved vegetables and ground chicken breast. The noodles are specially made for Midnite and parboiled to his specifications, so they cook in 15 seconds. That keeps the lines outside the cart for the limited number of bowls each night moving just a little bit faster.

The post Where to Eat in Seattle Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

Rise & Dine is a column by SAVEUR Senior Editor Megan Zhang, an aspiring early riser who seeks to explore the culture of mornings and rituals of breakfast around the world.

As our car wound along the coastline, I glanced at the time. It wasn’t nine in the morning yet, but the sandstone bluffs surrounding the beach at La Jolla Cove were already packed with beachgoers and birdwatchers. Sea lions sunbathed in the sand, while snorkelers bobbed in the ocean.

Growing up in Northern California, I’d been to San Diego many times. La Jolla, a community known for its golden beaches and protected marine life, always seemed to exhibit picturesque suburban life. I wondered aloud to our Uber driver, David, if mine was merely an outsider’s oversimplified perception. He told us he’d grown up in the area and raised his daughters here: “Everybody knew everybody. We didn’t knock on the door—we just walked in the house.” As we drove on, he pointed out his childhood friends’ homes. “Everything closes early at night though,” he added. “Everyone’s an early bird.”

What La Jolla may lack in nightlife, though, it makes up for in vast breakfast options. As if on cue, David dropped us off at the end of a line stretching down the sidewalk outside a local bakery. Early-to-rise La Jollans, it appeared, are zealous about their first meal.

A wait is the norm at Wayfarer Bread, a bake shop founded by Crystal White, an alumna of San Francisco’s famed Tartine. The small bakery churns out baguettes, English muffins, cinnamon buns, sweet and savory scones, and seasonally inspired croissants——black sesame and passionfruit in late summer, plum and hazelnut for autumn, and housemade marmalade and pistachio during winter. “Everyone likes to get up, seize the day here. Surf, swim, bike, run,” White told me. After relocating to San Diego to open her business, the habits of her fellow townspeople, coupled with the demands of running a daytime cafe, quickly turned her into a morning person, too.

Gripping our Americanos and a box of pastries, my boyfriend and I headed in the general direction of the ocean, until we spotted a secluded bench at the end of a cul-de-sac overlooking the water. A group of guys in flip-flops and board shorts strolled past. “That pistachio croissant is so good,” one of them said, nodding approvingly as I took a bite and brushed crumbs from my chin.

A couple blocks away, Dodo Bird Donuts opened recently as the daytime complement to the splashy new restaurant Paradisaea, in part to meet the local breakfast demand. Like Dodo Bird’s dinner-focused sister spot, the locally-owned café nods to the area’s coastal ingredients and Mexican influence. Energizing sips like sea-salt-infused mochas and lattes featuring cajeta (Mexican caramel) made with goat’s milk promise a well-fueled morning hike or dip in the ocean. A rotating donut line-up from Paradisaea’s chef Mark Welker, who previously helmed pastry at Eleven Madison Park in New York, features flavors like horchata, starring a cinnamon-scented cream filling; maple, topped with a coffee cake crumble; and matcha, with a tea-scented glaze. In the mood for something savory, I zeroed in on the breakfast sandwich roster and chose a Cubano-inspired number: rosemary-infused prosciutto, gruyere, dijonaise, bread-and-butter pickles, and eggs from a local purveyor. Washing it down with a matcha latte, I remembered that everything tastes better—and becomes breakfast-appropriate—with an egg on it.

After two morning meals, we needed a stroll, and traced the coastline back toward La Jolla Cove. I knew we were getting close when I could make out the distant sound of a lifeguard and his megaphone warning beachgoers to avoid approaching the sea lions. By the time the marine mammals were in view, we’d worked up an appetite for one more breakfast.

Brockton Villa Restaurant opened its doors in the ‘90s, after the family behind the local company Pannikin Coffee and Tea renovated the beachfront bungalow into an eatery. Megan Heine, daughter of the Pannikin family, fell in love with the storied architecture and ocean-facing hillside, and took over the restaurant in 1994—exactly a century after the property was built. Today, a menu item served since day one remains the restaurant’s most popular: Heine’s famously soft and custard-like French toast, the inimitable (and trademarked) Coast Toast. “We grill the bread first, brown it, and then we put it in the oven to order, so it poofs up like a soufflé,” said Heine, explaining how the kitchen achieves the remarkably pillowy texture.

As we ate our toast on the balcony and watched the beachgoers below, I caught snippets of conversation between patrons and waitstaff. “How was your daughter’s school year?” “The new sitter is great, thanks for asking.” Later, I told Heine how our Uber driver had enthusiastically given us an impromptu tour of the area to showcase its small-town-within-a-big-city character. “Was he wearing a bow tie?” she asked, and I nodded. “Yeah, I know him,” Heine said with a laugh. Serendipitous? Maybe—or just what one would expect in La Jolla.

Though many of the community’s longtime families have stuck around, she told us, the everyone-knows-everyone vibe is evolving. “I have seen decades of change,” said Heine, who also owns Beaumont’s, a dinner spot in La Jolla, with her husband. “The downtown La Jolla that I knew growing up was all locally owned single stores—everything from children’s clothing stores, to the drugstore.” Over time, as San Diego’s economy, population, and real estate costs grew, some of the locally owned businesses that once dotted the main thoroughfares of Prospect Street and Girard Avenue closed up shop, and chains like Banana Republic moved in. However, many of these big-name stores wound up closing, too. “The cost of the rent, and maybe the seasonality of the town—they weren’t able to survive like they do in a mall setting,” Heine speculated.

Yet, amid the ebb and flow of growth and change, many longtime family-owned eateries never left. The third-generation breakfast haunt Harry’s Coffee Shop, dating back to 1960, bills itself as “La Jolla’s oldest diner,” dishing up morning classics like oatmeal pancakes and carne asada breakfast burritos. The Cottage, established in 1992, continues to draw weekend crowds with coastal California brunch fare: crispy crab cakes sandwiched between sourdough, shrimp omelets with poblano peppers, and Mexican-inspired eggs Benedict topped with chorizo and cotija cheese.

Today, though the downtown area is still home to some chain stores, Heine said she feels as though the neighborhood is gradually returning to its former character. “It seems like it’s going back to a bit more unique stores and smaller businesses,” she noted, listing off some of her favorites. “Wayfarer is fantastic. Crystal, the woman who owns it, does a really great job.” When I admitted that I’d visited earlier for my first of three breakfasts that day, Heine’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you were already there? Yeah, I love that pistachio croissant! I walk there from my house to get it.”

After a lifetime in La Jolla, Heine said she can’t imagine living anywhere else. I don’t blame her—Brockton Villa’s balcony boasts one of the neighborhood’s nicest views, overlooking La Jolla Cove with an exceptional front-row seat to nightly sunsets. “We joke that it’s sort of like the Nature Channel. You can just watch everything right here,” she said.

It’s hard not to dream idyllic suburban dreams in a place like this. During another weekend getaway to San Diego back in 2020, we drove to La Jolla to watch the sunset. Half of the city, it seemed, had done the same. After finally hunting down a parking spot, we navigated on foot through socially distanced picnic blankets and sat down in an unoccupied patch of grass. As the red sun inched toward the ocean, the crowd’s chatter fell to a hush. Finally, the star creeped its way below the horizon, leaving a flare of iridescent clouds, fuchsia and lavender, streaked across the sky.

San Diego surely has awe-inspiring sunsets, but they’re matched by an equally arresting phenomenon on the flip side. Back before Wayfarer had a brick-and-mortar location, White would frequently spend the whole night baking, then bring the pastries to pop-up locations as the sun was coming up. One spot was by the beach, so she’d take a break there and watch the sunrise on Ocean Beach Pier. “I remember one sunrise was so gorgeous that everyone in the water started cheering and clapping,” said White, recalling how amazed she felt that this was her home. “It was breathtaking.”

Recipe

Custardy French Toast

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The post The Coastal Village That Runs on Breakfast appeared first on Saveur.

At the tip of Cape Cod, on a narrow strip of land 60 miles out to sea, lies Provincetown, Massachusetts—the end of the world (or, at least, New England), and the place I’ve called home for close to two years. Locals might call me a “washashore,” but I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

That’s because Ptown is (per capita) the queerest town in the country and one of the most sought-out vacation spots for anyone on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum. It’s a place of extraordinary natural beauty (the dunes! the beaches! the gardens! the architecture!) as well as a playground for freedom and pride. The main drag, Commercial Street, runs the length of the town along the bay side and is home to the majority of the restaurants, clubs, shops, and galleries. During the summer, it overflows with people of all flavors of gender expression, kink, and sexuality.  

I landed in Ptown after 20 years in professional kitchens ended in epic burnout. In 2021, mid-pandemic, I sold Willa Jean, my restaurant in New Orleans, and headed north. Love was waiting, as was eventual heartbreak and, ultimately, recovery and healing in Ptown. 

I’m not sure if it was the sunset G&Ts with friends on the beach, the impromptu clambakes, or the slices of pizza I devoured in the street after raucous nights out, but eating my way through the city has taught me that to be a queer person in Ptown is to be part of a community. Every restaurant and bar contributes to this spirit, and these are some of my favorite places.

Nor’East Beer Garden

206 Commercial Street

The Nor’East Beer Garden is an unassuming outdoor space on Commercial Street that serves some of the best food and cocktails in Ptown. That’s because you never get bored: The culinary “theme” changes each season; this summer, it’s “light Italian,” which means you can savor dishes like mushroom pâté, burrata with fried dough, and minty brown-butter mussels. 

Sal’s Place

99 Commercial Street

Sal’s is by the water in the West End, which makes for spectacular views. Cash-only and often difficult to reach by phone, Sal’s is worth the trouble of getting a reservation, whether you’re booking dinner with friends or a date. Don’t skip the cauliflower Caesar with baby romaine, which I love to order alongside the charred octopus with garbanzo beans and smoked chile oil.  

Relish

93 Commercial Street

This inviting little bakery in the West End makes a variety of breakfast and lunch sandwiches—great for a handheld meal while strolling about, or as beach picnic fare—but I always go for the pastries. Spring for a wedge of key lime tart, or grab a cookie or a slice of coffee cake.  

Tea Dance at the Boatslip Resort

161 Commercial Street

Shirtless muscle gays, margarita-sipping drag queens, straight vacationers who love to party—Ptowners of all stripes congregate every afternoon at the ultimate pregame called Tea Dance (or just “Tea”), held at the Boatslip Resort from 4 to 7 p.m. The legendary bartender Maria reigns over the right side of the bar, the end closest to the water, and will happily start you off with the Planter’s Punch, their official cocktail. 

Strangers & Saints

404 Commercial Street

After Tea, many revelers flock to Strangers & Saints, housed in an incredible 1850’s Greek Revival homestead. The Ken Fulk-designed interior, and well-made cocktails make for a dependably enjoyable second stop. The food goes well beyond basic bar snacks with dishes like meatballs with salsa verde and cucumber kimchi (my go-to dish), which pair nicely with the charred shishito peppers or spicy Moroccan carrots. Eating at Strangers & Saints feels like being welcomed into the home of someone with impeccable taste who loves throwing dinner parties.

The Mayflower

300 Commercial Street

Long before Provincetown was an LGBT+ mecca, it was a Portuguese fishing village. Remnants of that past can be found at the Mayflower, where traditional Portuguese flavors endure in dishes like the Portuguese kale soup, made with spicy linguica sausage and red beans. Its obligatory sidekick is an order of garlic bread, and if you’re still feeling peckish, a dozen steamers, a Cape classic of brothy soft-shell clams that you dunk one by one in melted butter. Family-run with a no-reservations policy, the Mayflower has an old-school diner feel with a down-home friendliness to match. They also happen to make the best Manhattans in town.  

Irie Eats

70 Shank Painter Road

Provincetown has a large, vibrant Jamaican population—many first arrived as seasonal workers and wound up making Ptown a year-round home. A little off the beaten path is Irie Eats, which offers spicy Jamaican food that fuels my summer season. My favorite dishes in the regular rotation are the curry goat, jerk chicken or pork, salt fish, and oxtails—all of which come with rice and red beans, and slaw. It’s a grab-and-go vibe, but they do have a small outdoor seating area to soak in the sun (and the flavor). 

Pop + Dutch

147 Commercial Street

My personal “best sandwich shop” award goes to Pop + Dutch. Their slogan is “Sandwiches. Salads. Lube,” and their tiny market selling vintage, often slightly titillating textiles and art only adds to the appeal. The shop carries everything you need for a day at the beach or pool, including sunscreen and, yes, lube. The fridges are stocked with fresh potato salad, pimento cheese, chicken salad, dolmas, and a variety of drinks including a great Arnold Palmer. But the sandwiches are the main event (lately, I’ve been loving specials like turkey topped with Cool Ranch Doritos and ranch-flavored mayo). In the morning, they make a mean scrambled egg sandwich on brioche, but slugabeds be warned: It’s only available from 9 to 10:30 a.m.

Crown & Anchor

247 Commercial Street 

The grande dame of Ptown is Crown & Anchor, an entertainment venue that sits in the center of town. Housing six bars and entertainment venues, a restaurant, a pool club, and a hotel, it caters to visitors and locals of all types. In 2021, it got new owners who were determined to turn the complex into a safe (and profitable!) space for queer artists, musicians, and chefs, among others. The restaurant concept changes daily, while the oyster bar is open seven days a week. Brunch (Thursday through Sunday) is hosted by yours truly and features a New Orleans-meets-New England menu. Expect my famous biscuits and gravy, plus live drag performances fueled by talent and fantasy. 

Lobster Pot

321 Commercial Street

The bright neon lobster sign, one of the Cape’s most recognizable images since 1979, welcomes stampedes of seafood lovers to the Lobster Pot. Tanks of fresh lobsters? Check. Ocean views? check. Consistently friendly service? Check.

The plan of action here is to venture upstairs to the “top of the pot,” snag a seat at the bar, and kick things off with a perfect bloody mary. Then, it’s lobster rolls all around—or, for the lobster-averse, a wide-reaching menu of all sorts of fish and shellfish that you can order pan-roasted, grilled, stuffed, baked, blackened, fried, and more. There are also to-go dishes around the corner at Lobster Pot Express (5 Ryder Street). 

The Red Inn

15 Commercial Street 

Happy hour at the Red Inn is peak Ptown. From 2 to 4 p.m. daily, you can enjoy a raw bar menu, cocktails, and wine specials—all on a deck overlooking the beach that’s blessed with the best natural light in town. If oysters won’t cut it, chase them with heartier dishes like panko-crusted shrimp with sweet chili sauce, bacon-wrapped oysters, or shrimp remoulade salad. 

Helltown Kitchen

338 Commercial Street, Unit 3

Legend has it that Provincetown, because of its remote location, used to be a hideaway for smugglers and pirates. That’s why Puritans began calling it Helltown, a nickname that inspired the name of this restaurant that blends international flavors with New England ingredients. There’s truffle-scented, South American-spiced lobster risotto studded with peas and mushrooms. And if lobster isn’t it for you, Helltown does an incredible pork vindaloo that comes with mango chutney, basmati rice, and naan to sop it all up. 

Provincetown Brewing Company

141 Bradford Street 

Provincetown Brewing Company is fueled by community activism, and its business model reflects that. Not only does the brewery donate 15 percent of proceeds to LGBTQIA+ and Outer Cape causes; it also buys from queer-owned businesses and farmers. I’m big on their artichoke-cheese dip and jerk chicken sandwich, which I wash down with a flight of whatever PBC beers happen to be on tap. Keep an eye out for themed parties, trivia nights, “fag-out Fridays,” women’s night, and even a “yappy hour” for dogs. 

Atlantic House

6 Masonic Place

If Tea is where the party starts in Ptown, the Atlantic House (aka “A House”) is where it ends (or at least where last call happens). Most patrons have no idea that the establishment is a contender for the oldest gay bar in America, having been in continuous operation for over two centuries. It draws the biggest crowd of any bar in Ptown and has three spaces: little bar, macho bar, and the dance floor, where the lights are low, the music is loud, and little by little the clothes seem to disappear. 

Spiritus Pizza

190 Commercial Street

Spiritus pizza is an old faithful and has become the staple stop between the party and the after party—so much so that the hour from 1 to 2 a.m. is called “pizza dance.” Spiritus is the only late food option in town, and after last call at the bars, the pizzeria fills up with hungry crowds, who overflow onto Commercial Street to revel in what’s essentially a nightly pizza party. There are three New York-style slices: cheese, pepperoni, or Greek (cash only!).  

Chalice at the Land’s End Inn

22 Commercial Street

Chalice is a new favorite wine and beer bar on the manicured lawn of the Land’s End Inn, which sits atop the tallest point at the end of the Cape. Complete with a fire pit and stunning views of Provincetown and beyond, it makes an ideal pitstop on your way to Tea or pre-dinner cocktails.  Look out for the pink martini flag: If you see it flying, then Chalice is open and well worth the uphill walk.

The post Where to Eat and Drink in Provincetown, Massachusetts appeared first on Saveur.

This Cioppino recipe is undeniably a San Francisco original, made famous in the 1850s by Genoese immigrant Giuseppe Bazzuro at his eponymous restaurant. Derived from the traditional ciuppin—which means “little soup” in the Genoese dialect—the tomato-based seafood stew was originally a purée of cooked vegetables and leftover fish scraps. Over the years, Bay Area chefs transformed it into a more luxurious dish using local delicacies such as Dungeness crab, as in this version from the city’s legendary Tadich Grill.

This recipe originally ran alongside Thomas McNamee’s 2001 article, “Big Soup.”

The post Cioppino appeared first on Saveur.

A bowl of thịt kho trứng crackles on the table at the Houston restaurant Xin Chào, steam rising from the hot stone bowl that cradles the fatty braised pork belly and crispy rice. “Ah, it smells like childhood,” longtime Houstonian Stevie Vu tells me while spooning golden-brown grains from the bottom of the still-sizzling pot. Xin Chào’s chef and owner Christine Ha, beams and lifts her own spoon. “Can I dig in for some?” she says, dishing a caramelly bite of pork onto her plate. Though Ha, who won the third season of MasterChef, has tasted this Vietnamese dish countless times—her late mother’s version as a child, and now her own, served in a non-traditional vessel inspired by her husband’s Korean heritage—it never ceases to take her back to her childhood.

In a place like Houston, I imagine food memories must flood the atmosphere for many Asian immigrants. On the handful of occasions I’ve visited the Bayou City, the density and breadth of its Asian dining scene has stunned and dazzled me every time—from Bellaire Boulevard, the main artery of a massive six-square-mile Chinatown; to Saigon-Houston Plaza, anchoring a vibrant Vietnamese community; to the Spring Branch suburb, home to a thriving Koreatown district. Houston is, after all, the fourth most populated city in the country, and nearly one in four residents were born outside of the U.S. Over the past century, waves of immigrants and refugees have settled down here—some fleeing dangerous circumstances back home, like Vietnamese people who arrived after the fall of Saigon; some drawn by work opportunities; others attracted by the affordable cost of living and warm climate. These influxes have helped the sprawling port city become the most diverse metropolitan area in the nation—giving rise to a mind-bogglingly multicultural food scene that Ha, a longtime Houstonian, has long appreciated. “I really feel like Houston knows flavor,” she muses. “Diversity in the demographics here translates to diversity in the food.” 

That diversity is only growing. In fact, locals are increasingly referring to the Asian enclaves in Southwest Houston more broadly as Asiatown, to acknowledge how deeply multinationality and cultural exchange are shaping the dining scene—and that’s exactly why I’ve come to the city to ring in the Lunar New Year. The joyous festival is observed across many Asian cultures, with families preparing auspicious foods to invite good fortune for the new year, and different communities cook unique celebratory dishes. An Asian restaurant scene as diverse as Houston’s, I figure, is bound to offer a window into delicious cultural deviations.

To navigate the holiday-themed specialties, I join Vu, director of operations for the Asia Society Texas Center, and his longtime friend Terry Wong, co-owner of the beloved Bellaire eatery Blood Bros. BBQ, as they visit their restaurateur friends around Houston and wish them a prosperous new year. The two are among the biggest advocates of the city’s Asian-owned restaurants. In early 2020, the duo teamed up to launch Chow Down in Chinatown, an active Facebook page dedicated to promoting the area’s Asian-run businesses and combating prejudice and stigma. Its 25,000 members regularly post mouth-watering pictures of meals they enjoy around Asiatown.

For Wong, the seeds of his love for the city’s Asian dining were planted long ago, when he was growing up in the suburb of Alief. He regularly hung out at the restaurants his friends’ families owned, as they bounced from spot to spot snacking on different Asian dishes. Since then, the diversity of the culinary offerings has flourished, with a new generation of chefs and owners adding their own signatures to the mix.

The Los Angeles restaurant MDK Noodles opened its first Texas location two years ago in Houston’s Sterling Square shopping plaza. Stacey Shin, who was born and raised in L.A. and whose father owns the original California location, trained there for a few years before venturing east to expand the eatery into the South. One of the restaurant’s best-loved orders is tteokguk, or rice cake soup, a new-year must-have. “Colors mean a lot in Korean culture,” Shin explains while ladling us helpings of snow-white cakes bobbing in broth. The hue, she explains, symbolizes fresh starts and new beginnings for the Lunar New Year, which Koreans refer to as Seollal. “You’re getting a clean slate,” she says.

As Shin looks ahead to the new year in anticipation of the restaurant’s expansion (she’s soon launching an Austin location), she’s also taking stock of her family’s journey thus far. As the second generation to run the restaurant, she often thinks of the small noodle shop her father and uncle once ran together in Myeong-dong, a busy shopping district in Seoul. “We started from humble beginnings,” Shin explains. Their eatery eventually became a community gathering place, where even those who were homeless could receive a warm meal. “I feel like chicken soup, throughout all cultures, it’s kind of representative of home,” she adds. After her father immigrated to America, he opened his own business—naming it MDK Noodles as a nod to his sibling (the MD stands for Myeong-dong)—which has since become a popular Koreatown fixture. Though Shin’s parents collaborated well in jointly operating the restaurant, they didn’t work out as a married couple; after they divorced, Shin’s mother moved to Texas, where she found a vibrant Korean community that welcomed her more than she felt Los Angeles ever had. Now, Shin lives here, too, slinging rice cakes, noodles, and dumplings alongside her mother to build up the family business in the Lone Star State. Shin hopes MDK Noodles in the South will become—in a continuation of her uncle’s and father’s legacies—an inclusive gathering place, but for a new audience.

It seems to be par for the course in Houston for not only new restaurants but entire dining enclaves to pop up regularly. Bellaire Food Street, a plaza housing modern eateries like the Malaysian restaurant PappaRich, Japanese franchise Pepper Lunch, and shareable stir-fry spot Chongqing Chicken Pot, became Asiatown’s newest strip when it began welcoming diners in 2019. A few years ago, the western suburb of Katy built an entire Asian Town of its own, which now boasts a colossal 100,000-square-foot H-Mart Korean supermarket, food and karaoke at Soju 101, and Malaysian and Singaporean street food at Phat Eatery, helmed by Malaysian-born, Hong Kong-raised chef Alex Au-Yeung. Every year, the James Beard Award semifinalist goes all out for Lunar New Year.

Wong, Vu, and I arrive at Au-Yeung’s restaurant shortly after 1 p.m. to find crowds of expectant diners waiting by the entrance for a table. Before long, Wong and Vu are chatting with some familiar faces they’ve spotted in the crowd. “Houston is really big and really small at the same time,” says Vu, explaining that many people who work in or with the city’s Asian-owned restaurants know each other. When Au-Yeung appears behind the bar to say hello, I point out the stunning decor: delicate paper lanterns, lucky red envelopes, and auspicious symbols deck the walls. “The feast of the year is Chinese New Year,” he says—so of course, going all the way is a must.

In Au-Yeung’s native Malaysia and its neighboring Singapore, the holiday banquet isn’t complete without a massive platter of yu sheng, or yee sang, also known as prosperity toss salad—a dish I’ve never seen in the U.S. before. The name translates literally as “raw fish,” which refers to the recipe’s star ingredient: salmon. In Chinese, the pronunciation of the word fish makes it a homophone for the word surplus, or abundance—which is why fish is a holiday necessity in Chinese culture. Every ingredient in the salad symbolizes a favorable wish for the new year: according to Au-Yeung, the sweet chile sauce represents affectionate and enduring bonds among loved ones, the ginger symbolizes health and longevity, and the fried wonton strips invite wealth and prosperity. During the Lunar New Year banquet, the custom is to gather everyone, chopsticks in hand, to toss the salad together—the higher the salad is tossed, the more good luck and fortune the new year will bring.

As with much of Malaysian and Singaporean cuisine, Au-Yeung’s yu sheng draws influence from other Asian countries, apparent in ingredients like the Japanese-style seaweed salad some cooks like to include. Wong and Vu say that cultural exchange similar to what shaped those cultures’ food traditions is thriving in Houston thanks to the city’s vast assortment of restaurant owners and diners of varying backgrounds. “‘Have you ever tried it with this?’” says Vu. “‘No, that sounds like a great idea!’”

Giovan Cuchapin loves that about his hometown. The born-and-bred Houstonian and co-owner of the Filipino restaurant Be More Pacific originally launched the eatery as a food truck and then brick-and-mortar restaurant in Austin, where he attended college after leaving Houston, never expecting to return. But the magnetism of his home city ultimately compelled him to move back. “The more I came back, the more I kind of fell in love,” Cuchapin admits. “I think the biggest thing that made me want to move back here is the diversity,” he adds. “You can meet any type of person, eat any type of food in Houston.” Now, Cuchapin is introducing his hometown audience to Filipino cuisine, which he says is still underrepresented in the U.S. beyond mom-and-pop shops mainly frequented by the diaspora community. Be More Pacific’s breezy outdoor deck, laid-back bar, and modern decor draw many a diner who “doesn’t even know what Filipino cuisine is about,” he observes. “They’ll come in here, and it’ll just blow them away.”

Filipino cuisine should feel approachable and even familiar for most Americans, Cuchapin adds. Many classic Filipino dishes have roots in other Asian cuisines: lumpia (also referred to as lumpiang Shanghai), or crispy fried spring rolls, draw influence from their Chinese-style counterparts, a classic Lunar New Year dish symbolizing wealth and good fortune in Chinese culture. “Filipino cuisine in general, it’s just a melding of a whole bunch of different cultures, from Chinese, Indonesian, Malaysian, Indian,” Cuchapin explains, noting that he in fact perfected his rolling technique while working at Shu Shu’s Asian Cuisine, a Chinese restaurant in Austin. Spring rolls’ festive connotation lives on in lumpia, which Cuchapin calls “the ultimate party food”—most Filipino celebrations, including New Year’s, are bound to feature it.

Be More Pacific’s unique take on Filipino food likely makes the cuisine feel extra recognizable to American diners—yet still wholly unexpected. The restaurant’s kare kare, a rich peanutty stew popular in the Philippines, swaps the more traditional oxtail for—in true Texas fashion—cuts of brisket. It also serves a special rendition of lumpia featuring imitation crab, cream cheese, and green onion; Cuchapin proudly calls the dish—which was inspired by the American Chinese dish crab rangoon—Gio’s. This Lunar New Year, he’ll be serving his signature lumpia alongside his Vietnamese American in-laws’ own version of spring rolls, also an auspicious dish in Vietnam’s new year celebrations.

I came to Texas in search of classic Lunar New Year dishes that migrated to America alongside the Asian immigrants cooking them. But what I discovered is that many of those dishes transformed along the journey, adapting to new inspirations, influences, and tastes as the people themselves grew and changed with each passing holiday. This is Houston, after all, where multiculturalism is woven into the fabric of the restaurant scene—and where cultural exchange and melding that organically lead to experimentation and evolution are welcomed, even celebrated. In this city, the culinary hybridization that has shaped centuries of cooking traditions and eating habits across Asia is happening in real time. On a bedrock of Southern hospitality, there exists a special “unity between those that are food lovers and those that are operators and owners,” Vu observes. “They come together and share ideas.”

Rather than define rigid borders of what a cuisine can and can’t be, Houston’s Asian dining scene simply wants cooks to serve the most delicious food that’s true to them. Especially if it means good fortune for all.

Recipe

Yu Sheng (Prosperity Toss Salad)

Get the recipe >

The post Welcome to America’s Most Underrated Food Destination, Where Lunar New Year Is for Everyone appeared first on Saveur.

Cyrus Schultz thinks Champagne is always a good idea. Born and raised in Maui, Schultz cut his teeth serving wine in celebrated fine dining establishments throughout Hawaii and California, including Roy’s in Maui, Benu in San Francisco, and the French Laundry in Napa Valley. When the now-sommelier signed on to run the wine program at Sonoma County’s Cyrus (the shared name is a coincidence), he took great care to ensure that the restaurant’s aperitif service set the tone for the whole meal. That’s why, heading into year-end festivities, I reached out to him for advice on how to serve Champagne at home like a pro—from optimal glassware to perfect food pairings.

If ever there was a time for the Cyrus team to break out the Champagne, it’s now. The Northern California wine region’s most anticipated new restaurant of the year, Cyrus is actually about to embark on a new chapter. After a lease dispute in their intimate and widely loved original location, co-owners, chef Doug Keane and mâitre’d Nick Peyton abruptly closed up shop a decade ago. This September, after years of false starts and pandemic woes, the pair finally opened the doors on this second act. Barely three months later, reservations for the 17-course tasting menu are booked solid, and the team recently took home Cyrus 2.0’s first Michelin Star.

The morning before the Michelin news came through, I happened to be on the premises, scoping out the space and sipping a graciously poured glass of bubbles before dinner service. The room was designed as a reimagining of the famed pre-dinner Champagne and caviar cart guests had come to love at the original location. Diners begin their meal with bubbly and small bites overlooking acres of surrounding vineyards and, beyond that, the rolling hills of the Alexander Valley. Even in the daytime, an understated luxe permeates the room. “It’s hard to not fall for the space,” Schultz tells me. “We offer three seatings each night, and for each of those, we’ve built in a half an hour where you can just sit, get a glass of Champagne, and watch the seasons change over the vineyards.” 

Whether you’re hosting everyone you know this season, or are looking to make the most of a special bottle with your favorite dinner companion, your evening deserves just as much. Here are Schultz’s tips for bringing a little bit of Cyrus’ Champagne chic into your own home.

The Glassware:

At Cyrus, stemware is the first thing diners bring to their lips, so Schultz was acutely aware just how important it would be to choose the proper champagne glass. In the Lounge, he uses Zalto tulips to serve all effervescent pours. “You want something that doesn’t cage all the flavors,” he explains. “A more generous glass shape allows the wine to be more expressive and speak louder” than it might in a standard, straight-sided flute.

For elevating the Champagne experience at home, glassware is the clear place to start. If your space or budget demands that you streamline your options, though, Schultz finds that sparkling wines can shine just as brightly in an elegant, all-purpose white wine glass that “lets the bubbles breathe a little.” (He uses the Sophienwald brand at home.)

Feeling festive, or setting up a Champagne fountain? “I also do love a coupe,” he admits. “For the right time and occasion, with a wine that’s fresh and vibrant and super-cold, a coupe can make you feel like you’re in that Great Gatsby era.” In other words, the glass sets the mood. “Coupes may not be the most functional, but sometimes they make you feel great, and how you feel when you’re drinking something is so important, too.” 

Keep it Cold:

When it comes to Champagne, you’re going for cold—significantly colder than other white wines, but not freezing. “You don’t want your champagne so cold that its flavors start to close down,” Schultz warns; he suggests aiming for somewhere around 46 degrees Fahrenheit (or a touch colder for non-Champagne sparklers, like cremant or Prosecco). 

The reason for this chilly temp boils down to physics. With still wines, proper temperature is all about flavor and fragrance, but with bubbles, temperature also has an impact on texture. Rising temperatures cause carbonation to expand, resulting in a more open mousse (i.e. fatter bubbles). “Effervescence is a texture rather than a flavor,” Schultz explains, “and there’s a point where the mousse behaves on the palate in a way where the wine just sings. I usually like Champagne to be very finely, tightly wound, and have that really delicate bead, but depending on the wine, sometimes it can warm up a touch, and become much more expressive.”

How can you tell when a bottle is cold enough? After years in the business, Schultz relies on instinct and physical touch, but admits that, for most, this method is not precise. For a 750-milliliter bottle, three hours in the fridge is a safe minimum starting point. An ice bucket can be faster and convenient, but Schultz reminds us that when using one, the bottle should be fully submerged in order to chill evenly. (Also remember that magnums and larger bottles take substantially longer to chill than those standard 750s.)

Food Pairings:

For nibbles to pair with their Champagne, chef Keane sends guests dainty canapés—often featuring uber-luxe ingredients like wagyu and truffles—to tease the lengthy dinner to come. They may also choose to enjoy a serving of caviar. While the ingredients are lavish, the bites are intentionally petite. 

For a more casual—yet still elevated—home experience, Schultz likes to offer more generous portions of simple, fatty foods: think fried chicken or potato chips, or the occasional silky slice of foie gras. With fuller, fruitier rosé Champagnes, though, he prefers to veer in another direction, looking to his home state for inspiration: raw tuna, seasoned with scallion, soy sauce, sesame, and inamona salt. “Rosé has enough power to stand up to the rich, oily nature of ahi,” he tells me.  “Don’t sleep on rosé Champagne and ahi poke!”

The Main Event:

Schultz built Cyrus’s 800+ bottle wine menu from scratch; today, the restaurant’s cellar boasts just over a hundred Champagnes (and a handful of stand-out Sonoma sparklers). Rare vintages from well-known marquee houses are listed alongside niche grower-producers, and while many of the selects are near impossible to find outside of private collections and wine-focused restaurants, some of the somm’s favorites are available in stores. In the $40 to $60 price range, he suggests seeking out Chartogne-Taillet, Pierre Peters, or the consistently delicious Pol Roger. 

For folks looking to splurge, Schultz points to Krug or cult favorite Salon—an early pioneer of the Blanc de Blancs style which only produces wines in the most exceptional of vintages. “[Salon] only makes one wine, so you know it’s going to be delicious. You don’t have to do all this homework about, ‘was that a good vintage or a bad one?’ They’ve done it all for you—but it is a splurge!”

A Note on Gifting Champagne Like a Pro:

Schultz has thoughts on gifting Champagne, too. “The biggest thing I try to let people know is that if I’m giving them a bottle of Champagne, I’m saying, ‘Hey, this is something for you to drink and enjoy now.’” Recipients of wine gifts may instinctively save the bottle for another special occasion, but Schultz reminds us that the holidays are about enjoyment and fun. “Nothing does that like opening a bottle of Champagne.”

How To Open Champagne Like A Swashbuckling Sommelier

The post How to Serve Champagne Like a Pro at Home appeared first on Saveur.

I came for the cake. When Jean-Georges Vongerichten opened his eponymous dining room on the ground floor of the brassy Trump International Hotel and Tower in early 1997, it was the most desired reservation in Manhattan. The launch catapulted the Alsatian-born chef to stardom and soon after he earned a four-star rave from restaurant critic Ruth Reichl. Every night, stretch limos lined the curb outside the front door, while celebrity sightings and opulent flourishes were delivered tableside. Poached foie gras and creamed morels, rack of lamb in a green garlic crust, Muscovy duck with Chinese five spice were all tempered with Vongerichten’s signature vegetable broths and emulsions.

When I first sat in one of the sleek leather banquettes with a view of Columbus Circle, Mike Tyson and Donald Trump were in the house. (The combover was weirdly bad even back then.) I don’t remember much about the meal, although thankfully, someone else picked up the tab. But the finale? The dessert menu’s pièce de résistance had such an underwhelming name. “Warm chocolate cake.” It arrived at the table embarrassingly under-dressed for a restaurant with a no-jeans dress code. A fluted mold baked good, dusted with confectioners’ sugar. A quenelle of plain vanilla ice cream on the side. And yet, one swipe with a dessert spoon released the molten flow of bittersweet Valrhona chocolate, oozing from the soft center like lava escaping Kīlauea on a moonless night. No wonder everyone ordered it. Luxe in a Y2K fin de siècle way. I may have licked the plate.

Like any viral culinary creation, this cake came with its own disputed origin story. In 1981, French chef Michel Bras invented coulant au chocolat—cookie dough with a creamy ganache center—inspired by the après ski hot chocolate. Vongerichten also claimed ownership, after he accidentally pulled a runny chocolate sponge from the oven a little too soon in 1987, during his residency at Restaurant Lafayette in the Drake Swissôtel on Park Avenue. Eventually, variations appeared on menus all over town, and then all over the world. One bastardized version even wound up trademarked as Death By Chocolate at Bennigan’s, the fast casual Irish pub-themed chain. Still another can be microwaved in a coffee mug. Sadly, warm chocolate cake soon lost its exclusivity, and as the millennium turned, other swanky desserts sang a sweeter siren song.
Enough time has passed that I almost miss that retro cake. Not that I would ever order it again, or be caught dead in a dining room owned by a chef who admitted in a recent memoir that he lost his cool and beat up a dish washer in the walk-in. But maybe I’ll bake my own, minus the dark gooey history.

Recipe

Molten Chocolate Cakes

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The post You Don’t Have to Apologize for Loving This ’90s Dessert appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Parla’s Pastas, a column by the Rome-based, New York Times best-selling cookbook author Katie Parla, whose latest title is Food of the Italian Islands. Get ready for a carb-driven journey through the trattorias of Rome, the rural reaches of Campania, the kitchens of Sicily (her ancestral homeland), and beyond. Fire up a pot of water, and andiamo!

As a 20-year Rome transplant with six Italian cookbooks under my belt, I’d love to say I first encountered focaccia at a traditional Genovese bakery, but my initiation actually happened at a (now-closed) Macaroni Grill, the Italian-themed chain restaurant, off Route 1 in New Jersey. 

The year was 1993, and in spite of growing up in an Italian American family, I’d never been exposed to Italy’s flatbreads. My Southern Italian ancestors no doubt baked their own version of focaccia, but the tradition didn’t make it to my generation. Sometimes I daydream about those lost recipes—about a mythical focaccia some distant nonna made using (geographically appropriate) durum wheat. It would’ve been drenched in extra-virgin olive oil, almost certainly, and topped with tomatoes with twisty, caramelized edges like the focaccias in bakery windows of Bari today. 

And then my thoughts wander back to that Macaroni Grill, where a 13-year-old me was staring down at a tender and spongy focaccia made with soft wheat flour. It came unadorned, simply seasoned with salt and herbs. The crumb was so compact, it practically repelled the olive oil I dragged it through before taking a bite. Based on several Italy-wide trips researching regional doughs, I have an inkling the recipe was inspired by the springy focaccias of Northeastern Italy, specifically Genova and its environs. Frankly, I loved it. And I bet I’d even love it now.

Like pizza, focaccia arrived in the U.S. via Italian immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and has an unclear origin story. In Italy, the incarnations are many and change from region to region—even village to village. What we do know is that flatbreads have been baked in hearths for several thousand years on the Apennine Peninsula—even if the olive oil-enriched slab we know as focaccia today is far more recent.  

Italy’s most famous focaccia hails from Genoa and emerged around the late Middle Ages as a Catholic wedding dish symbolizing blessings and prosperity. It has since lost its religious affiliation, as anyone who’s had a layover in an Italian airport can attest. Sold at bakeries, supermarkets, and even bars, the bread is enjoyed on its own, dipped into cappuccino, or draped with cured meats. 

As focaccia evolved in Italy, across the Atlantic, American bakers were making their own versions, riffing on the recipes from the Mother Country with toppings like lemon slices that would’ve been novel in the bread’s homeland. The tinkering continues both Stateside and abroad, as demonstrated by the massively popular recipe featured in Samin Nosrat’s Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, which draws on Liguria’s famously spongy, springy, oil-rich focacce for inspo, and the Insta-famous focaccia from Bari that appears on the cover of my own cookbook Food of the Italian South. 

The 1990s, as many of you will recall, were a simpler time for focaccia. Most of it was spongy and rosemary-perfumed à la Macaroni Grill. The bread was a gateway to a world of Italian flatbreads Americans are still discovering. There’s no end in sight! So, embark on your own focaccia journey—this version, a happy middle ground between Italy and America, tops a Ligurian-style dough with nontraditional lemon slices.

Recipe

Crackly Lemon-Rosemary Focaccia

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The post How ‘Italian’ Is Rosemary Focaccia, Anyway? appeared first on Saveur.

Rise & Dine is a SAVEUR column by Senior Editor Megan Zhang, an aspiring early riser who seeks to explore the culture of mornings and rituals of breakfast around the world.

Laurence Louie’s phone rang. It was his mother calling from Boston, and she wanted to give her son one last chance to take over her Chinese bakery before she retired.

Louie, who was working as a chef in London at the time, had rejected his mother’s offer the previous times she’d asked. Having cooked in the kitchens of Oleana in Cambridge, Massachusetts, as well as the Turkish restaurants Oklava and now-closed Kyseri in London, he thought of himself as a fine-dining chef—and now that he’d been furloughed during the pandemic, he had plans to open an eatery of his own in England. But Louie’s time away from professional kitchens had given him space to think about what kind of cuisine he truly wanted to cook. Increasingly, the food of his heritage had been tugging at him—specifically, the buzzing and homey Cantonese cafés his family would frequent when he was growing up in Boston. 

“Sunday brunch was always in Chinatown,” he recalls. For Louie’s mother, who immigrated from Hong Kong to the U.S. in 1973 and has only returned a handful of times since, those weekly visits to Boston’s cha chaan teng-inspired diners helped keep her hometown close. 

Cha chaan teng, often called Hong Kong-style diners in English, are humble cafés that emerged in the former British colony around the 1950s and became a bastion of the cultural confluence that has come to define the international economic hub’s identity. Serving affordable versions of British-influenced food to the working class, cha chaan teng offered eclectic menus teeming with hybridized Canto-European dishes like macaroni-and-ham soup and baked pork chop rice smothered in tomato sauce and cheese. “It was a lot of Hong Kongers’ first step toward eating Western-style food,” says Lucas Sin, the Hong Kong-born chef behind the fast-casual American Chinese chain Junzi Kitchen.

With their accessible prices, efficient service, lively atmosphere, and old-school charm, the egalitarian establishments are still popular spots today for people from all walks of life to grab a bite or beverage. “Everyone can just be themselves,” says Samuel Lai, a University of London PhD candidate currently researching the culture of cha chaan teng. Amidst ever-urbanizing surroundings, many of these old neighborhood joints have managed to remain microcosms of the 1950s and ‘60s, frozen in time. “When you enter those cha chaan teng, you feel like you enter that era of Hong Kong,” says Alison Hui, a Hong Kong-based illustrator who developed an art exhibition celebrating the iconic diners.

Louie and his wife decided to take his mother up on her offer. When he thought more deeply about “what kind of food I would want to honor the space and her legacy,” he says, it became clear to him that he wanted to salute cha chaan teng. “It’s close to my heart.” In September, he and his family opened Rubato in the Boston suburb of Quincy, where Louie infuses cha chaan teng classics with non-traditional flourishes—Hong Kong-style French toast topped with cookie crumb, and buttery bolo bao (pineapple buns) with a crispy fried chicken filling.

Through his homage to these diners, Louie hopes to help preserve the spirit of the establishments, many of which now face an uncertain future. “A lot of the old cha chaan teng in Hong Kong are struggling, and a lot of them have closed,” says Sin. (Mido Cafe, which opened in 1950 and was one of the oldest, shut its doors earlier this year.) As elderly owners reach retirement age, many are choosing to shutter their diners. While some want their children to pursue more lucrative career opportunities, others find the young generation uninterested in the prospect of taking over the family business, Lai explains. The role of Hong Kong-style diners in society, as community-driven establishments where regulars catch up with their neighbors and socialize with waitstaff, has also shifted alongside the advent of smartphones and social media. In today’s fast-paced, technology-driven society, “everybody looks at their phones,” adds Hui. Finally, economic strain related to rising rent and the pandemic have dealt blows from which many historic cha chaan teng couldn’t recover.

In the U.S., immigrant-run eateries reminiscent of these diners are facing similar challenges. “The places I used to go to as a kid, they’re not there anymore,” says Louie of Cantonese joints in Boston and New York City. 

Both in Hong Kong and among the diaspora, there is a growing desire to see these restaurants continue to thrive. “Nostalgic feelings are so heavy in Hong Kong,” says Hui. In the wake of the Beijing government forcefully imposing its governance in Hong Kong, many locals feel an urgency to hold onto traditional elements that epitomize the place’s distinct culture and diversity. Cha chaan teng are “something that is very Hong Kong, and so they identify a lot with that,” says Lai. 

Many famed and cherished Hong Kong-style diners are still alive and well, supported by legions of regulars who continue to rely on the eateries’ brusque but efficient service and dependable, unchanging food. At Australia Dairy Company, Sin’s favorite cha chaan teng, he knows exactly what to expect every time he stops in for breakfast: “You sit down, they ask you two questions. The first question is ‘How do you like your eggs?’ and the second is, ‘What do you want to drink?’” he says. Minutes later, the meal arrives, prepared just as he requested.

In recent years, some newer restaurants have tried to tap into people’s nostalgia for cha chaan teng by replicating the menus of these long-standing mainstays while modernizing the business model. Many of these enterprises, Lai points out, fall short: “Nostalgia is hard to recreate,” he says, “and it entails much more than just the food.” When these new spots introduce elements like electronic ordering systems that minimize human interaction, “it changes the whole atmosphere,” he adds.

Overseas, some young chefs are eschewing imitation or modernization in favor of celebrating cha chaan teng’s unique magic, and folding it into dining experiences that also acknowledge their immigrant upbringing. Louie recalls that when he was developing the concept for Rubato, he asked himself, “How do I reconnect with something that’s my own?” For him, the answer lay in the very spirit of cultural synthesis that gave birth to cha chaan teng in the first place. He drew influence from both his American upbringing and his experience cooking other cuisines professionally to infuse Rubato’s menu with his own singular flair. “We’re not a traditional cha chaan teng, and we’re not trying to be,” he says. “Food is ever-evolving.”

Elsewhere in America’s Northeast, the Cantonese American restaurant Bonnie’s in Brooklyn also pays homage to Hong Kong-style diners. The tiles that deck the floor “are exact replicas of the classic cha chaan teng mosaic floor tiles you would still see today in Hong Kong,” says chef and owner Calvin Eng. “We also incorporated a lot of stainless steel touches throughout the space, which you see quite often in Chinese establishments because of its practicality.” The dishes being served on those steel countertops, though, aren’t typical Hong Kong diner fare. Eng serves up one-of-a-kind creations that meld different food cultures together: cacio e pepe with fermented beancurd, McRib-inspired cha siu sandwiches, and yuenyeung-style espresso martinis.

Cha chaan teng, which usually focus on breakfast and lunch foods, also sling all sorts of coffee and tea drinks, including one that marries the two caffeinated beverages: yuenyeung. “You have sweetness from the tea and bitterness from the coffee, tied together with this velvety evaporated milk,” Sin describes. The drink’s namesake refers to mandarin ducks, which are usually found in pairs in the wild; in Chinese culture, the birds symbolize perfect pairings. The moniker, Lai explains, speaks to how the two beverages “mesh together and become a very perfect combination of the two.”

Those unfamiliar with yuenyeung might find the cultural mash-up surprising, Lai adds. “But here in Hong Kong, we embrace that.”

Recipe

Yuenyeung (Hong Kong-Style Coffee Milk Tea)

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