TLV in NY

This year Tel Aviv celebrates her 100^th birthday.

I found this video on the website of the Israeli Consulate of New England. It depicts the “other side” of Israel that the media rarely shows – largely the fun club scene of Tel Aviv.

And this past afternoon, the Israeli Tourism Ministry and various other Israel and local NY groups supported a Tel Aviv beach party in Central Park. I happened to be in NY where my family converged for a Father’s Day celebration, so I popped over to see what was going on. There was a DJ playing music (I missed the live bands)…

… El Al trip give-aways …

… a few tons of sand dumped in front of the half-shell and covered with New Yorkers, Israelis, confused bystanders, and babies thinking this was just another normal day…

I just took off my shoes and felt the sand run through my toes a bit.

There were a fair number of sponsors, including El Al airlines, Aroma Espresso Bar that has two branches in the City (one uptown, one downtown) …

…  and a hotel chain with a shelf full of tour guides of the city in various languages.

books on TLV - in Spanish and French ("24 heures"), on design (Bauhaus architecture), etc.

I couldn’t walk very far without running into friends (including Neima, Shimon and Ruby) … and then had to run meet my family for dinner.

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beef chewing gum

Willy Wonka: Don’t you know what this is?
Violet Beauregarde: By gum, it’s gum.
Willy Wonka: [happily, but sarcastically] Wrong! It’s the most amazing, fabulous, sensational gum in the whole world.
Violet Beauregarde: What’s so fab about it?
Willy Wonka: This little piece of gum is a three-course dinner.
Mr. Salt: Bull.
Willy Wonka: No, roast beef. But I haven’t got it quite right yet.

- Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971) as quoted by IMDb

About 6 weeks ago, I received a package of Holy Cow Kosher beef jerky after I tweeted the vendor with my interest in trying it, offering to share my opinions with this new market entrant.

The marketing material on the package gives some pretty high expectations: “American’s favorite Kosher beef jerky!” ??? And, I’m not even commenting on the incorrect capitalization of “Kosher” <sigh!>.

I was a little disconcerted by the actual package because there seemed to be a fair amount of moisture surrounding the meat (apologies for the glare – this was the best picture I could get). I thought jerky was supposed to be very dry.

But, hey, I take my job as a food taster seriously. I didn’t want to trust just my taste buds … I wanted to get balanced opinions from a wide range of friends coming from different backgrounds. Waiting for the right occasion took a little while, but it finally arrived – my good friend Sacha was finally back in town from DC and threw a late night barbecue.

Lots of meat. Hungry people. A little beer and scotch flowing. Let the opining begin.

I arrived shortly before 11 pm with my 2 oz bag of Holy Cow jerky poking out of my purse between my wallet and cell phone. After eating a hamburger, I busted the bag out and explained our task for the night, dispensing brown nibbles to all attendees. The comments came fast and furious.

One friend, somewhat prone to (melo)drama, and who admitted to not liking beef jerky in the first place, spit the jerky out and called it “stale plastic in bargain basement teriyaki sauce…like a dog chew toy…” Granted, I’m not sure why he knows what a dog chew toy tastes like, but I’ll leave that for another discussion.

Another non-jerky eater described the flavor as “weird” but was impressed that the ingredient list was all pronounceable with only one preservative.

Our final jerky novice was similarly not impressed, handing her piece to her husband after one tentative bite, dismissing it as “tasting like poop.”

Her husband, on the other hand, our first jerky pro, felt that the meat “was already a little too moist and loose already…had a good taste but went too quickly… it should require a bit more work to loosen it up.”

Sacha, our most voracious meat eater and consistent traveler, said that there was absolutely no comparison between this jerky and what he calls the gold standard, Jeff’s Gourmet dried beef jerky sticks that he buys and eats on airplanes.

The self-described “ultimate cheapskate” who spent time in Texas and therefore should know a thing or two about jerky called the meat “something like a Japanese candy” and eventually had to throw it out despite the starving children in Africa.

Finally the most experienced jerky connoisseur, having actually made jerky with roommates while in Yeshiva in Israel, described the Holy Cow jerky as having a texture that immediately brought to mind “fleishig” chewing gum. Again, not boding well for jerky.

Now, a note on the jerky’s texture. The company’s website states:

Through our revolutionary production process, we’ve mastered the art of Jerky making. The result is truly fantastic flavor with a lean, tender finish – never brittle and dry. Moreover at Holy Cow! Kosher, we never use artificial ingredients, No Trans Fats or unnatural preservatives. If you’re looking for 100% quality, you found it.

So, they seem happy with their “tender finish” but our consensus was that “brittle and dry” is really the way to go with jerky.

The précis for Holy Cow!:

- Nice use of natural ingredients
- Poor texture, too moist for jerky
- Mediocre taste
- I would not buy this again, especially because there are better options out there

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a ribbon runs through it

photo by Barry Munger, downloaded from http://www.thehighline.org/galleries/images/barry-munger

Last Monday (June 8, 2009), Section 1 of the NY High Line opened and my sister, RySq was asked to serve as one of the greeters for the ribbon-cutting event as a volunteer with the Friends of the High Line. This afforded my talented lil sis — a budding architect,  photographer, graphic and jewelry designer, and all-around talented creative person to take pictures of this historic event and to be a fly on the wall. She has been talking about this urban planning and landscaping project for years since we both moved to New York in 2004, she to start her architecture career, I to continue in health care. So when her interest came full circle, I was so proud.

bench detail, photo by RySq

Ry shared over 200 frames and summarized her own thoughts on opening day in an email to friends and family (she rarely uses caps):

only the first phase [of the high line] has opened from gaansevort to 20th street. there are so many interesting moments … it really was  a treat to get up there and see it under construction the last few months and meet the founders of the organization. very inspiring that people can work together to make a difference in their community like this. the high line has truly transformed the entire far west side of chelsea for the better i think.

Ry heard Mayor Bloomberg speak with the press, and Diane von Furstenburg, an early supporter of the High Line with her flagship studio in the Meatpacking District, echoed a sentiment from a 2-minute video (where she described the High Line as “a green ribbon that follows the river into the sunset”), “‘the High Line is like a green ribbon running through the city… and I like ribbons … therefore I like the HighLine…‘”

DvF studio as seen from the High Line, photo by RySq

In looking through some other “High Line Stories” to be broadcast by the Sundance Channel, I found one featuring Adam Gopnik, New Yorker writer and author of one of the first books that I read about an American in Paris, an essay collection called Paris to the Moon about his 5-year sojourn in Paris. In his 2-minute vignette, he shares his thoughts about the High Line after having written an article about it in 2001:

‘It’s a sort of classic romantic subject: the ruins of industry,’ I thought as I say that it was a documentary of something passing. I did not imagine that it was really the foundation of something new. It seemed about as improbable a notion as anything could be that they would actually turn it into a park like the Promenade Plantée in Paris which is exactly like what this will become. And that is it’s an old abandoned railroad that had been turned into a long skinny high park. So when I wrote that piece, the effect was what had seemed to be merely a quixotic scheme suddenly seemed like a sane, rational, and necessary piece of urban planning. What were needed were new green lungs for the city to breathe with.

Sundeck, photo by RySq

Pavement Meets Horticulture, photo by RySq

On the High Line website, there are numerous galleries of photographs, including this one of the “High Line in Operation” with black and white photos such as this one of a train chugging along the West side of lower Manhattan.

Locomotive on the High Line, downloaded from http://www.thehighline.org/galleries/images/the-high-line-in-operation

One of these iconic photos has even been incorporated into an Anya Hindmarch tote as part of the High Line Merchandise Program, whereby local designers including DvF, Trina Turk, and Zero + Maria Cornejo (who created a gorgeous abstract loop scarf) designed commemorative products, some proceeds of which support the High Line.

Anya Hindmarch tote

When Ry gets excited about something, her enthusiasm is infectious. And I often try to learn about what is inspiring her (like when I took a class on Frank Lloyd Wright and Modern Architecture to round out my Freshman year pre-med load to give us a common lexicon), of course, adding in my own special touch. So when my sister introduced me to the High Line a few years ago, I became interested in “NY Export: Opus Jazz the film” – a film of a Jerome Robbins ballet, NY Export: Opus Jazz (that originally premiered in 1958 and was more jazz dance than ballet, often referred to as “an urban ballet in sneakers”), performed by NYCB dancers in locations all over NYC, including on the last untouched area of the High Line.

Rachel Rutherford and Craig Hall in "Passage for Two," photo by Yaniv Shulman (downloaded from earlier version of http://www.opusjazz.com, no longer available)

Rachel Rutherford and Craig Hall in "Passage for Two," photo by Yaniv Shulman (downloaded from earlier version of http://www.opusjazz.com, no longer available)

The trailer for the documentary compares the original ballet, placing it in 1950s context when it aired on the Ed Sullivan show, with its modern adaptation and reinterpretation , and contains commentary by some of the original and current performers. The contrast of the same moves and lifts then and now is breath-taking against the Robert Prince music and urban backdrops, old and new.

Trailer: Jerome Robbins’ NY Export: Opus Jazz The Film

The behind-the-scenes video provides additional footage of the shooting of the film on the High Line, including capturing a scene in the last moment of sunlight of the day against the setting sun with the coming together of the art, luck, and skill that is film-making.

Behind the Scenes: Opus Jazz The Film

My sister ended her email with some closing thoughts.

the motto:

keep it simple
keep it wild
keep it clean
keep it slow

it is a passive park, designed via competition winner diller+scofidio… one of my favorite experimental  and visionary firms in the city

Keep It Wild, photo by RySq

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as we sat on the kitchen floor in front of the oven

When you write a food blog, people think that you cook all the time and that everything you make is gourmet. While I do cook quite frequently, most of what I make is really pretty simple. Recent past dinners have included a big plate of green beans with toasted almonds. Oven-roasted corn on the cob covered with grated cheese. Marinated zucchini alongside roasted cumin and cayenne sweet potatoes. Panzanella. As you can tell, I eat a lot of simple veggies.

So, it is such a treat when someone cooks dinner for me. And a few weeks ago, I was the recipient of just such a treat. Not only was I treated to a home-cooked dinner, but my Israeli friend C. baked me pitot (the plural for pita in Hebrew).

C. had been disappointed to learn that despite my supposed foodie status, I use a bread machine to make challah. “What, it braids it for you in the machine?” he asked.

When divulging this embarrassing little secret (well, I guess it’s not much of a secret since I unabashedly shared it early on right here), I explained that in my experience, baking is chemistry, and while I have in the past studied science, I am no chemist. “But no,” C. said, “baking bread is physics.”

Well, if I am no chemist, then I am certainly no physicist.

Luckily, C. is.

And this is only one of his manifold gifts. He plays guitar, has a knack and appreciation for vocabulary and grammar in all the languages he speaks, and combines a piercing intellect with a direct, no-nonsense style that is refreshingly candid without being harsh.

So, I arrived in his kitchen the other evening to find a square white bowl filled to the brim with a slightly deflated mound of off-white dough. After heavily flouring the counter, C. kneaded the dough a few times…

… and then rolled it out about ¼ inch thick (or a centimeter, in keeping with the scientific and Israeli metric system).

Now, this is where C.’s methodology differs from that of other pita-makers. And it was at this point that C. launched into an explanation about what conditions are important in helping the pita form its pocket. Most people normally separate the dough into about a dozen small balls and roll each one into a flat round. But having each pita the same thickness helps ensure consistent results (granted, we did not discuss the possibility of all the pitot failing to form pockets…). And, perhaps more importantly, rolling out the dough only once is significantly more efficient than rolling dough out twelve times. And, I was getting hungry.

OK, back to physics. Roll the dough too thin and the pita will be crisp and cracker-like; too thick and it may never form a pocket. So, one centimeter is what has worked best in C.’s experience. I think he mentioned something about thermodynamics in the oven, the expansion of gas in the dough as it’s baking, the importance of an oven that distributes heat evenly from top and bottom to ensure equal pita sides (which he has yet to master) … and I’m not sure what else … I was getting hungry.

So C. forged ahead, cutting out pitot in just the right size with a bowl. Rather than re-rolling the scraps (inefficient), C. cuts the pitot close together to reduce wasted dough and bakes the triangular/square/star-shaped scraps which often form mini-pockets with crunchy end-bits.

As he was cutting, C. continued to explain, “the ambient temperature is important for the rising of pitot,” so I checked the wall thermometer: a pretty high 74˚F – plus, it was humid outside. This did not bode well for the pita.

C. looked concerned. My stomach grumbled.

My bread machine was looking pretty good right about then.

But so was the pita as C. finally laid it out on the baking sheets to rise as he turned on the oven to preheat (500˚F). He said it would it would take the oven longer to preheat than it would to prepare the rest of dinner.

While the pitot were rising, we set to work on everything else. I sliced up a caprese salad, cut the tips off the haricots verts that C. sautéed with garlic and dill, and then we  threw salmon on a grill pan with some olive oil and freshly-squeezed lemon juice.

Finally, the pitot and scraps had sufficiently risen …

… and were ready for a quick bake in the hot oven. No more than about 5 minutes per tray. No opening the oven to peek (or to take pictures). Just trust the physics. Patience. Ahhhh…

And the pitot puffed as we sat on the kitchen floor in front of the oven.

We took one pita batch out and put the next in. I continued to sit in rapt attention in front of the oven door.

And then the smoke alarm went off.

I have never been a fan of cooking salmon on a stove top.

C. quickly disconnected the alarm as I removed the grill pan from the fire and opened every single window. And kept checking the pita in the oven (through the glass…I did not open the door!).

After we pulled the last pita out, perfect pockets intact, we sat down to eat, mopping up the olive oil and balsamic from the caprese with the warm fluffy dough.

I am not sure I’ll ever be able to buy pita in a store again.

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Eurovision update

Well, Noa and Mira Awad, who I first mentioned here represented Israel well in Eurovision 2009, coming in 16th place, but Norway took first place with Alexander Rybak  singing “Fairytale.”

One of my favorites among the top 10 is Hadise from Turkey (came in 4th), singing “Düm Tek Tek” — it’s the Middle Eastern rhythms that I like.

I was not a fan of the song sung by one my favorite singers, Patricia Kaas, to whom I was introduced by the family I lived with during a summer exchange in the Loire Valley and the Vendée,  who represented France. I did really like Estonia’s  “Rändajad” performed by Urban Symphony (came in 6th).

Rändajad

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on to the finals

About six weeks ago, I wrote about one of my favorite duets representing Israel in the Eurovision contest in Moscow.

Noa and Mira Awad after performing in the 2009 Eurovision Semifinals (AP)

Well, Noa and Mira Awad made it to the Finals last night and will be competing on Saturday, May 16th against Turkey, Sweden, Portugal, Malta, Finland, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Romania, Armenia and Iceland.

Good luck, ladies!

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mother’s day mishap

Is it really the thought that counts? I sure hope so, because my little mother’s day gift this year got somewhat thwarted. I baked two cute zucchini loaves, one to send to my own mother and one to send to my good friend, Reva — the first friend of mine to become a mother.

Reva is an amazing mother to her two adorable, smiley, fun-loving sons. I could talk about Isaac and Ely (to whom I am Tante Gayle), but today is all about celebrating how amazing their mom is. Because Reva’s birthday always falls close to Mother’s Day (and that of her kids), I wanted to make sure that she gets the full attention she deserves.

Reva and I met during the first few weeks of medical school and became fast friends. I mean, come on, we met on a train traveling from Philadelphia to New York! The most telling story I have about her is that she was the only person to be honest with me when she didn’t like one of my boyfriends. It take real guts to tell someone something she doesn’t want to hear.

So, I packed up my little zucchini loaves in wrapping appropriate for each special woman – wax paper and black tulle for Reva (she’s always been a bit of a health nut, which for some reason I associate with wax paper; and black for NY); green for my mom because it’s one of her colors and a little extra box of notecards that match.

And I went to the post office to overnight them on Friday, excited for the surprise each would receive on Saturday – Reva on her birthday, my mom one day before mother’s day. Alas, I was the one who was surprised with 2 notices on my door Saturday afternoon letting me know that both packages were attempted to be returned to me. I could not clear this up on Saturday because though the notices said that the packages would be available after 5:30, the post office closes at 5. Yup – our tax dollars at work, ladies and gentleman.

Off to the post office I trotted today to fix the dilemma. Turns out the two packages were returned for insufficient postage (I inadvertently used the flat rate for flat envelopes rather than the flat rate for small boxes <sigh>). I had to double my expenditure to send my packages again and hope that the loaves will arrive fresh and not moldy.

Well, ladies, my apologies. Next time I’ll hand deliver. Clearly a trip to Maryland is due.

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I’ve got mail!

With email and vmail and FaceBook and Twitter and all the information overload, it’s always a big surprise to get something real in my mailbox.

And by real, I mean not an unwanted catalog. Or some academic institution asking for money. Don’t get me wrong, there are a few things that I do look forward to receiving on a regular basis. All my NY-centric weeklies. And the cooking magazines that I still like to read in print. And then there are the cards that I cherish. Especially the birth announcements, child-laden holiday cards, and wedding invitations. And of course, birthday cards and the ever-so- special, “just because” cards.

But today, I unlocked my mailbox to reveal a package that felt like true validation that I am a foodie. I received my first (kosher) product to try and review! Granted, I found out about this product on Twitter (no comment about the date I was on the other night with a guy who found out that I tweet and asked if that makes me a twit…) and I knew it was arriving. And I was forewarned because I received a call from my “postal delivery person” (her terminology, not mine) asking if anyone named “Zahavah” lived as my address. Since I mainly use Zahavah for food-related things, I knew that this mail was going to be out of the norm.

I don’t know about you, but receiving kosher beef jerky in a sealed envelope from across the country is not the norm for me. (But buying it in NY and eating it in one sitting sometimes is).

I can’t wait to try my jerky. This time, I will share… my samples with local friends interested in tasting and my opinion with the company.

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stalled

My dishwasher is broken. And I have no idea when it will be fixed.

It had not been cleaning very well for the past few weeks and I have had to half fill a newly emptied washer with recently “cleaned” dishes too many times after a thorough hand-rinsing of caked-on grit. And every time I would roll out the bottom rack, the spinning propeller that spits out water (does it have a real name?) would pop out. Is this supposed to happen? Not sure, but I have been diligently re-snapping that spinner back in every load and trying to rinse off the little screen thing when I can see gunk in it. Fed up this morning, I decided to run the “sanitizer” cycle with the dishwasher empty hoping that any little lurking buggers would be whisked away. I had sanitized in the past with great success.

So sanitize I did.

Steam poured forth from the vents at the top of the appliance. Yeah, I remember that happening in the past – the sanitizer cycle is quite hot.

And then, the smell. It didn’t remember that.

Burning plastic. At first, I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. By the time I got to my dishwasher, it was too late. The bottom spinning piece had popped out and melted on the heating element. Yes, melted. Through and through. One of the propeller arms without a hand. A white powder sloughing off on my fingers as I removed the cooling plastic.

In the grand scheme of things, not a tragedy. But given the photo hanging above my sink that largely epitomizes my philosophy on dish washing (and taking out trash), this could be a major stall in food exploration.

Photo by Veronica V - taken on a camping trip

That being said, I did manage to make an almond-macadamia cremolata inspired by Ana Sortun’s veggie friendly  restaurant Oleana and sesame noodles this evening. But my sink is mighty full and begging for a bit of attention.

My super is supposed to be here first thing tomorrow and a repair man will hopefully soon follow.

Wish me luck – I need it.

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kosher french chorizo

Yup. You heard me right. It’s like a whole bunch of oxymorons rolled into one.

Let’s just start from the end and work our way backwards.

Chorizo, a pork sausage. Recipes for homemade chorizo abound, but the image that most often springs to mind is spicy sausage, encased in I don’t even want to know what. Usually spiced with a combination of garlic and peppers, this sausage has its local variations and can be purchased fresh (requiring cooking) or fermented and cured, the former more often in South America, the latter most often in Europe. Mine is from France (and I can’t tell you how I got it!), so it’s the cured version. And meant to be sliced for sandwiches (or thrown atop salads). Clearly my kosher variety is made with beef instead of pork.

For no good reason, I have been holding onto this lovely quasi-contradiction in my fridge for a few months (as a cured meat, it can last quite a while). And then…something struck…and I had to eat some meat (this might sound a little familiar) and I had to have it right then.

Eager to taste this rare delicacy (rare in the kosher world, that is) that I had heard so much about, I dug in with my knife and made a little dinner. I found that, lacking a deli slicer, my bread knife was the next best option. Thinking about cinco de mayo next week, I threw together a quick guac of avocado, grated onion, grated tomato, fresh cilantro, lime juice, salt, and cumin, slathered it on some lavash, added baby greens, spread out my treasured chorizo, and rolled everything up.

I ate the wrap standing over the cutting board. No plate. No napkin. Nothing. But you’ll keep my little secret, right?

Mmmmmmmm. I heart charcuterie.

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