Poutine, Part Deux

ARE YOU READY? After an unconscionable delay, we continue! Avec le manger du poutine!

But first, a tiny bit of set-up.

It seems fairly common knowledge that poutine is something one eats (and likely you have already come up with this conclusion) when one is, to use my new favorite phrase, “in one’s cups.” Knowing this, and fearing that we might not be able to fully enjoy poutine without the guiltless, hungry attitude brought on by drink (the latter reason, of course, being much of the reasoning behind the former), my supervisor and I set off on a bar crawl that would take us from where we work, near Washington Square Park, down and across the island to our star destination, TPoutine. It was a very successful crawl, which is to say both that we had fun and that, upon arriving at TPoutine, we were quite drunk. By this point, we had also been joined by Lance and by my supervisor’s guy (going on, I shall refer to them as Alexa and Max).

The menu at TPoutine is overwhelming – you can see it on the website, where you should go anyway, just for the intro. There are burgers and sandwiches and ice cream...it's the kind of menu that looks greasy-delicious even when sober. When drunk, it's the kind that makes you want to get one of everything. Luckily, we had a goal. Alexa and I had predetermined that we would get one classic poutine and one variation – in this case we went for the smoked meat poutine, which is really just the classic with smoked meat. You should read that article, too. Seriously, friends, the education I am giving you here is priceless.

Then, we proceeded to stuff our gullets. And oh my goodness, friends. I know I mentioned that I had fallen in love with poutine in Poutine, the original post. But even recounting how happy it made me and my taste buds has me in a tizzy! It was so crispy, so unctuous, so salty! And the way that slight rubberiness of the cheese curds matched the starchy fries and liquid gravy was a revelation. I cannot imagine a more straightforward form of satisfaction than a good deal of drinking followed by a good deal of poutine.

It’s absolutely necessary to note that Lance got what Mr. Trillin claims is perhaps the second most popular variation on poutine: fries and gravy with chicken and peas. I think of it as an homage to Canada’s English colonizers, and though I was originally opposed to it for its lack of cheese curds, it turned out to be possibly as delicious as the original, sweeter and more nutritious-seeming. I enjoyed eating my original or smoke meat versions until I could hardly stand the saltiness, then chomping on a bit of Lance’s for some tasty balance.

It’s also worth noting that TPoutine has some shortcomings. The space is narrow and difficult for groups. The décor tries maybe a little too hard. And our poutine took so long to come that if I hadn’t been rather deep in my cups I would have been rather disgusted. (As a result of slow service, a byob policy that prompted Lance to get us a bunch of forties, and the fact that Max ordered later than the rest of us did, I have no idea what kind of poutine he got. I remember it looked good, though. I think it had mushrooms). Futhermore, the woman at the counter, while friendly, did not seem to have anything invested in knowing her business or giving good service.

But, like the lamer plot points in Avatar, I really didn’t care. The poutine was that worth it: the Pandora of my awesome analogy.

You know what else? Smoked meat is some tasty biz. There’s a Jewish Canadian deli just opened up near my hood. I believe I have some more research to do....

Poutine

SO! Hi, everyone. Happy belated new year to you and yours. I have to say that while I'm perfectly happy about a new year, January is quite possibly my least favorite month. I think it's been this way for a while, but I’m only now starting to see the pattern, possibly because I don’t have anything particular against the month itself. To the contrary, I enjoy the old concept of a fresh start or clean slate, the beginning of something new. I envision a white expanse in the crisp morning light, a cleansing wind: January. But in practice, January is never full of new things, it’s a return, after the manic and exhausting suspension of the holidays, to old things, many of which are delightful (friends, one’s own apartment and city) but many not (getting up early in the mornings, having less time to play, budget). And while I am finally (finally!) in a job that I actually like, that experience has been alarmingly insufficient mitigation to the strain I feel of this return. And I don’t need to point out that it is COLD.

So imagine my thrill to have discovered something both delightful and new! Something decadent and, even better, edible! Ladies and gentlemen, I have been introduced to poutine and I am in love.

Poutine, for those who don’t know (my understanding of just how much in the American collective unconscious poutine is at the moment being minimal), is a close cousin of what we in the U.S. call disco fries, which is to say french fries, gravy, and cheese. But where disco fries tend to have shredded cheddar or mozzarella, poutine has cheese curds. That’s right, friends, cheese curds! Perhaps you remember my enthusiasm about cheese curds from a previous post, although I love them so much that perhaps someday they will warrant their own post.

In any case, poutine comes to us from the same friendly neighbors to the North that brought us Tim Horton’s Donuts. Oh Canada, your culinary gifts are unparalleled. My direct supervisor at work was the first one to tell me about poutine, and her infectious excitement was only increased by an article by Calvin Trillin in the most recent New Yorker that is entirely about poutine. It is also one of the funnier things I’ve read all year and I highly encourage you to peruse it (though you'll need a subscription to do so online. Trip to the library, perhaps?). Both my supervisor, a woman so enjoyable that she also deserves her own post, and Mr. Trillin informed me that poutine now has a presence on the Lower East Side in NYC. And my supervisor, being a genius, gave me a gift certificate for a poutine-eating date for Christmas, which I cashed in last Friday.

Oh no! Will you look at that? My lunch break is over and this post is already long. GUESS WHAT? Two-part post. Stay tuned and I will tell you of my poutine-eating adventures on the LES. I’m pretty excited.

Nostalgia

I just started a book called Downtown, by Pete Hamill, which I am already deeply fond of, in part because the subject – downtown Manhattan – is near to my heart. (At the moment, my heart is in fact in downtown Manhattan, since I’m writing this on my lunch break at work). Hamill says something in the very first chapter that struck me as curious, and in the couple days since I read it, and this being the holiday season, has resounded further and further into my life. The title of the chapter is “The Capital of Nostalgia,” and in it he talks about the impermanence of New York. “The New York version of nostalgia is not simply about lost buildings or their presence in the youth of the individuals who lived with them. It involves an almost fatalistic acceptance of the permanent presence of loss. Nothing will ever stay the same.”

The part that I keep ruminating on is this thing he says later on the page: “New York toughens its people against sentimentality by allowing the truer emotion of nostalgia. Sentimentality is always about a lie. Nostalgia is about real things gone. Nobody truly mourns a lie.” I thought it was curious at first because I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, and it struck me as a little overly semantic. But lately, I’ve been overwhelmed by the urge to watch Christmas movies, and when I do, or even when I see one of those holiday commercials specially engineered to tug at your heartstrings, I feel an ecstatic sadness well up in me. Ecstatic! I want to watch these movies, and I want to weep and weep over them, and I can’t figure out why.

But I think, now, that it’s sentimentalism (in which case, I clearly have several more years here before New York toughens me up). I’m mourning a lie. I’m weeping because there is an idea of Christmas on screen that I miss deeply, even though it does not exist in reality and never did. But it’s difficult to tell where sentimentality and nostalgia end and begin. I got emotional last night trying to recall the words of Clement Moore’s “The Night Before Christmas,” and I couldn’t tell how much of that was triggered by the imagery it provokes and its place in our culture as a holiday classic or if it was because mine is a family that cherishes such imagery and such classics, and that owns a beautifully illustrated book of that poem that my parents would read out loud come Christmastime. It was and still is easy to picture my parents, whose version of nightwear is delightfully old-fashioned, as “Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap,” settling their brains and so on. Something mass-marketed becomes something close to home, and vice verse. (Just for fun, this is a close approximation of what we looked like on Christmas morning)

So I’m finding it hard to suss out, this December, the things I am truly nostalgic for, but I feel I should. I want to be reminded, as we are often called to do, of what’s important to me, and I want to honor it. Having said that, I’m inclined to indulge the sentimentalism as well. It’s fun. I just bought three cheesy Christmas movies online, for instance, and I do intend to watch all of them.

A new entry

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but my sister is one of the coolest people I know. There are so many reasons for this that listing them seems like an insurmountable task, but I bring it up for a specific reason: My sister has a blog. I have a blog. Neither of us have updated our blogs in a long time (with me being by far the worser perpetrator). In fact, the last time I talked with my sister about how I hadn't updated my blog in too long a time, she said "Why? Haven't you eaten any good food lately?" Like I said, my sister is cool. And funny.

Anyway, she just called me to say "Hey! I haven't updated my blog in a while and you haven't updated your blog in a while. Want to hang up, each write a blog entry, and then call each other back to talk about it?" It was an offer I couldn't refuse. And here I am.

This brings up a kind of poignant issue for me, which is my lack of motivation to write. And when I say "lack of motivation," I think that I mean "big tangled bundle of fears, worries, defeatist thoughts, and habitual avoidance." I'm not totally sure. I find it a difficult thing to think about, in a pretty literal sense. I was once asked, point blank, "What are you scared of that makes you not write?" And all I could offer was a tearful "I don't know." Trying to answer that question felt like trying to pin the tail on the donkey and not even being able to find the wall.

But I've been making myself think about it a lot more, lately, and those seem to be my basic roadblocks: fear, worries, defeatist thoughts, and the subsequent, habitual avoidance. In fact, all of them are habitual, and there's some comfort in the familiarity of that. Enough that when my sister called me to say "let's blog!" I felt a small panic: this would mean setting myself up for failure, again, when I feel I've already failed at blogging. What if I write this one post and then never again? What does that mean about me? Nothing good, I am sure. And on and on....

It's so hard to break that negative thought cycle and so easy to stay in safe habits. Easy except for that part of me that wants to write and isn't getting enough oxygen. So thank you, Tasia, for making me take a breath.

HELP!

Friends, for the seven-thousand-millionth time in my life, I am wishing I could be in two places at once. This Saturday (the 22nd) evening, I am going to the second bachelorette party I have ever been to and am psyched! Bachelorette parties, I am coming to understand, involve many of my favorite things: girly-time, drinking, over-the-top entertainment a la drag or burlesque, and penis pops. (Just kidding about that last one. I find the penis-shaped accoutrement to be pretty awful, and I'm not just saying that because my dad reads this blog).

HOWEVER. I then came to find out that a band I would pay ten whole dollars to see is playing this same night - Saturday, the 22nd - for TEN DOLLARS!! At 10pm, at Pianos. I would actually pay more than ten dollars to see this band because this is my friend Dave's band and I have heard rumors about Dave being in a band for quite some time now, and they are finally coming to fruition, just beyond my grasp.

So, dear friends, if you happen to be in NYC, will you go to this show and then tell me all about it? Please?? Dave is very talented and knows much esoteric music, including but not limited to the math rock movement of which Polvo is a part (remember?), so it should be pretty great. Plus Pianos is a good venue, and you can eat somewhere great before/after. Like the Pink Pony.

I mean, that's how I would do it anyway, if I wasn't busy sucking on a penis pop.

Not incidentally, they're called Saturday Astrology. Incidentally, Dave happens to have just married my friend Ixiana, the afore-mentioned pet photographer, AND they just got married. Please tell the happy couple hello for me!

Holy more corn Batman!

Readers! No sooner had I finished my poetical corn waxings of last night than Lance and I went out for some gourmet dinner bites and old-fashioned cocktails at the Clover Club. This is a generally delightful spot in our hood where they take great care with their prohibition-era cocktails (I say generally because of one bad service experience there, which was made up for by the cheerful and competent service of our waitress yesterday eve). We all know how I love a jazz-age cocktail, and the ones at the Clover Club are very good. Their food, I think, is even better. Up until last night, I had tried the crostini, deviled eggs (four ways!), cheese plate, lamb burger, mac&cheese and "Oysters Rock Your Face Off" - their deep-fried (and thus extra decadent) take on Oysters Rockefeller. All of these things have been truly special treats.

Last night I had my heart set on the lamb burger, but just for fun I added something I hadn't seen before: corn fritters. And oh. my. god.

I tried making corn fritters once. They were not very successful. I had done what the recipe said and boiled corn on the cob to subsequently take the corn off the cob by hand, which resulted in too little corn and was a big pain in the ass. I had also fried the fritters in a pan, which made them ooze into pancake-like discs, even though I used a good amount of oil. I don't know what else went wrong (I don't deep-fry my own food often, so that's probably a good part of it) but they were just incredibly disappointing. I remember disgruntledly vowing that if I ever made those fritters again, I would at very least use frozen. Corn freezes exceptionally well.

But at the Clover Club, I could tell they used fresh sweet corn, and the flavor of those tiny pearls of sugary corn popping in your mouth and mixing with the crisp salty fritter batter and the creamy/smoky/salty remoulade - THIS was happiness in a single bite! Plus they clearly have their own deep-fryer, resulting in perfect, evenly-cooked, light little spheres of goodness. I couldn't get over how completely palate-pleasing and mood-enhancing these fritters were, and given that I'd just shared my literal corny-ness with y'all, I felt it essential to follow up with this account.

Now if I could just figure out how to have those fritters and the fried cheese curds from Char no. 4 down the street in one sitting (the only fried cheese curds I have found in the entire eastern seaboard!) I would be in Midwestern heaven.

Steamy Corn in the Cup!

I know it is a crazy steamy day here in NYC and probably elsewhere, and you may not be in the mood to read about a tasty hot treat. If so, please to revisit this post when it's raining. I'm sure, given how this summer has been going, that you won't have to wait long.

It was raining to beat the band two Fridays ago when I had plans to meet my buddy and her buddy for the free Polvo concert at South Street Seaport. (Note: I did not know about Polvo prior to these plans being made. You may not have heard of them either. You should find out.) It was pouring with no signs of stopping, and it was a little cool, too, and by the time I got to the seaport my feet were soaked and I was a good half hour early. So there I was feeling a little pathetic when I took shelter under the highway and noticed this:
This is a terrible picture, but do you see what it says? Do you see? STEAMY CORN IN THE CUP! What IS this, I thought to myself, and do I need to investigate? It took me very little time to come up with the answer: why, of course.

You won't hear waxing poetic about savory snacks very often, not because I don't enjoy savory snacks but because sweet ones usually take mental precedence. But as a general rule of savory thumb, I can't get enough corn. I once proudly declared to Jamie Oliver that I was a corn-fed girl, and because this was at a reading when I was getting an autograph and not over an intimate dinner (as I would have preferred), I did not get a chance to properly explain when he looked properly baffled. Had we been at dinner, I would have said, "You see, Jamie, I'm from the great plains of the Midwest, where fields of corn reach as far as the eye can see. I was raised eating the choicest of sweet, seasonal corns, and running through the fields with my friends on warm summer evenings as the sun turned the corn tassels gold." Then he would have kissed me, obvi.

Anyway, when they say steamy corn in the cup, they mean it. This amazing gent, who's name I failed to get because I am a shoddy reporter......raises that silver, domed lid you see in front of him, and in a swirl of delicious, corny-smelling steam, dishes piping hot, fat and juicy kernels of corn into a cup in front of you. Then you get to choose your toppings. Yes, toppings!

I got the Firetastic. It was phenomenal. I mean DANG it was some tasty steamy corn in the cup! It was all I could do not to get a second one. I especially can't wait to go back and try the one with honey. Here is a picture of the corn that remained when my friends finally got there and I could borrow one of their cameras:
Believe me, it took everything I had to leave even this much left. All for your viewing pleasure, dear readers!

Incidentally, the Polvo concert got moved to Brooklyn Bowl later that night and we went and it was EFFING GREAT. Not the venue, just the band. Srsly, check them out.