Christina vs. Food: A few things I ate in Chicago

The Chicago Skyline

OK, so there’s not much that’s worse than when a blogger apologises for not having posted for a few weeks due to the constraints of their ‘busy rock-and-roll-life’ (after all, who isn’t ridiculously busy nowadays?) But, as you may have guessed from the radio silence around here recently, things have been…well…a little hectic. A week of ridiculous deadlines was swiftly followed by a business trip to the USA, which saw me travelling between Chicago, Las Vegas and L.A. in the space of eight days. All great fun if you enjoy surviving on a diet of adrenalin, caffeine and french fries, and you ignore the jet lag, sleep deprivation and the incident where I called my Mum from Las Vegas and cried “I’M IN A PYRAMID, I HAVEN’T SLEPT PROPERLY IN FIVE DAYS AND EVERYTHING IS GOING WRONG” down the phone.

Las Vegas wowed me by charging $52.00 for three drinks in the Hard Rock Hotel and L.A. saw me commandeering a taxi to take me to the nearest branch of In-n-Out burger. But it was Chicago that really won my heart. Everything about it transfixed me, from the elevated trains running above the streets, rattling over my head when I went out for breakfast each morning, to the gigantic skyscrapers that scrape the landscape and make you feel like you’re walking through the pages of a Marvel comic. While I didn’t get to experience the place fully during my four day stay there, I did manage to shove some excellent meals down my ever hungry maw. These mostly came in the form of sandwiches. For if there is one thing I learned about Chicago during my time there, it’s that it is land of the exemplary sandwich.

Italian Beef sandwich at Max’s Chicago

A perfect example was this bad boy, an Italian Beef from the rather nondescript looking Max’s Chicago. While the decor left a bit to be desired, the food didn’t. A giant sub roll was stuffed full of thin, slightly fatty slices of beef, giardiniera – a mixture of pickled carrots, cauliflower and courgette and served ‘wet’, meaning that a thin beef gravy was spooned over the roll before it was served. All of those delicious meaty, briny  juices soaked into the sub roll, suffusing it with flavour as well as making it perilously difficult to eat in a ladylike manner. I have no idea if this is a particularly good example of the species; I just know that on a cold Sunday afternoon where I was tired, hungry and terrified of skidding on the huge piles of snow littering the pavements, it hit the spot.

Special mention should also go to Ada’s Famous Deli on Wabash, a small Jewish deli I frequently lunched at during my stay. Go for their giant Reuben sandwiches (a $12.00 lunchtime treat that could easily feed two people, but which I decided to eat by myself because I am a giant glutton) and stay for their amazing dill pickles, which are as thick as a baby’s arm. The limp beef rolls I buy from the sandwich shop next to my office will never look the same again.

Garrett’s Chicago Mix popcorn

And then there were the snacks. Numerous people told me that I couldn’t visit Chicago without trying a bag of Garrett’s ‘Chicago Mix’ – a mixture of caramel and cheese flavoured popcorn that sounds utterly disgusting, but tastes amazing. Made fresh in front of you, it’s the perfect conglomeration of salt and sweet – crisp, tangy and oddly addictive. Its neon orange dust also stains everything it lands on, which, in my case, was hotel pillows and duvet covers. I found myself eating gigantic handfuls of the stuff at 5am on a Monday morning, plagued by jetlag, watching awful news reports on CBS (“Are council employees watching Hula-Hooping strippers on YOUR tax dollars?”) I’m not entirely sure that it’s the kind of serving suggestion that the makers would suggest themselves, but it certainly gave me comfort when I needed it.

The Scotch Egg at The Gage

Honorable mention should also go to The Gage, an ‘upmarket tavern’ I visited on my last night in the city. I ate their restaurant week menu and, while certain elements of it disappointed, (such as a soup which tasted like a cup-a-soup with an egg plunked in it) I was pleasantly surprised by their meaty, punchy – if slightly overcooked – Scotch Egg, adored their amazing bread and butter and was utterly wowed by a White Chocolate Sponge. I’m not a white chocolate fan, but this cake was infused with a warm, spicy cardamom syrup that will haunt my dreams.

Sadly, work constraints meant that I didn’t get to see as much of Chicago as I would have liked to. Oh, I had well laid out plans of where I’d go and what I’d see, but by the time I’d finished work each day, I had just enough energy to consume a few cocktails and an easily accessible meal before passing out in my hotel bed in front of the TV. As I have discovered, the problem with work trips is that you actually have to work. However, I’m already planning my next trip back so I can explore more of this amazing city. Oh yes, and get my hands on more of that popcorn.

Christina vs. Food: A few things I ate in New York

A giant mouth image that I saw at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA)

Since my return from New York a fortnight ago friends, family members and colleagues have all asked me what fun-filled activities I participated in while I was there.  While I’ve been trying desperately to appear cultured by telling them how I wandered around the Guggenheim, MoMA and most of Manhattan, the fact is that the main activity I indulged in during my time in New York was eating. I ate everything I could get my hands on. Indeed, I gobbled down snacks like a mega-breasted Pac-Man – only stopping for the occasional pint or to plan where Mr. McMc and I going for dinner. There’s a part of me which feels as though I should be slightly ashamed of my gluttonous impulses, but I was in one of the world’s culinary capitals, it was my birthday, and hey – it would have been rude not to.

The day after my rather epic birthday meal at Momofuku Noodle Bar, we decided to pay a visit to Momofuku Milk Bar in Midtown for a slice of lunchtime Crack Pie. We were served our food by possibly the cutest Barista I’ve ever seen in my life, and we giggled about the sheer awfulness of having to wake up for work at 7am on cold Winter’s days as she served me my food. It was love at first sight, so much so that I didn’t even mind when she forgot to hand me half of my order.

As for the Crack Pie? Well, believe the hype. It might not look like much, but this stuff is fully deserving of its reputation of being culinary crack. Tasting of toast, butterscotch and everything that’s right with the world, it’s a perfect symphony of sugar and butter wrapped up in a sweet pastry case. Its creator, Christina Tosi (one of my baking heroes) says that this is the kind of dessert that should be eaten “with your favourite someone” which is exactly what I did. Mr. McMc and I shared a slice in Central Park while watching schoolchildren chase squirrels and washed it down with some of Momofuku Milk Bar’s signature Cereal Milk (which tastes like a Crunchy Nut milkshake). Romance, a scenic view and tasty pastry products. What girl could ask for more?

Another great sweet treat I tried were cookies from Beurre and Sel, a cookie emporium situated in the amazing Essex Street Market on the Lower East Side. If you read Serious Eats, you’ll probably have heard of Beurre and Sel, it being the store set up by legendary baker Dorie Greenspan and her son. I’m a huge fan of Dorie’s recipes – she specialises in simple, delicious food that can be made from practically anything – so I knew these were going to be good. We bought two cookies – a World Peace Cookie and a Vanilla Sablé. When a cookie describes itself as being so delicious that it could ensure World Peace and Happiness you know you’re in for something good, and it didn’t disappoint. Rich and packed full of chocolate, it was firm and crumbly to the bite, a small piece of deliciousness. However, both Mr. McMc and I preferred the Vanilla Sablé – a sandy shortbread which was exquisite in its simplicity. It tasted of butter, sugar and vanilla and was the perfect accompaniment to a cup of tea. It is a cookie that I can see myself attempting to replicate in my own kitchen very soon.

I was determined to visit Russ & Daughters on the Lower East Side during my time in New York. This legendary deli serves up some of the best bagels, lox (a salted smoked salmon) and ridiculously rich cream cheese you could ever wish to consume. We bought some for a lazy Sunday breakfast and ate them in bed while listening to the football scores on BBC World Service. I also noticed that they served two iconic New York baked products – Chocolate Babka and Black & White cookies. Being a bit of a Seinfeld fan,  couldn’t help thinking of the episode where Jerry and Elaine visit a bakery to pick up some cake for a dinner party  (Elaine tries – and fails – to buy two different flavours of Babka, and Jerry gets sick after eating a dodgy cookie.)  Thankfully for us, when we ate them, we had a significantly better experience than the protagonists of Seinfeld. The Black & White Cookie didn’t exactly like “racial harmony in cookie form,” but it was thick, fluffy and cake-like and covered in sweet frosting. The Chocolate Babka was undeniably the better of the two though – a gorgeous, squidgy slab of yeasted dough enrobed with dark chocolate goo that unraveled into delicious flaky ribbons when cut into slices.

Believe it or not, I did manage to eat some snacks which weren’t comprised of butter and sugar during my time in New York. After wandering around the Lincoln Centre on the Upper West Side, we decided to pop into Épicerie Boulud for a sandwich. Although my Banh Mi was more expensive than it really needed to be (and I found myself paying $8 (!!) for a pint of lager) it was definitely delicious – a thick slab of liver pate wrapped around lovely thin slices of pork and garnished with pickled carrot and radish. Although the baguette wasn’t made from rice flour in the traditional manner, it was still satisfyingly crackly without scraping the roof of my mouth off.

One of the best things I ate in New York, however, was also one of the simplest. It was a Knish, bought from a friendly street vendor near Central Park. A Knish is a little dough pocket which is filled with potatoes, onions and meat and deep fried. I was given a quick education on how to eat mine by a cop who was taking a break from directing traffic by eating numerous hot dogs in quick succession. You should cover your Knish with onions, mustard and tomato sauce, and eat it in the fresh air while drinking in the noises of the city bustling around you. It may not have looked like much, but my Knish was a warm slab of carb-filled comfort; a perfect example of New York street food at its finest.

Not everything I ate in New York was amazing, mind you. I had a terrible meal at a restaurant called Macondo which featured frozen empanadas, over attentive staff and being short-changed by $10. And the less said about Pabst Blue Ribbon, the better (seriously hipsters, why do you drink this stuff? It tastes like barely malted water). But I liked the fact that you didn’t have to spend lots of money to eat like royalty. And for me, that’s what a holiday should be all about.

A postcard from New York: Momofuku Noodle Bar

I turned 30 yesterday. In testament to the fact that I am now (allegedly) a thoughtful and rational adult, I celebrated my third decade on this earth by running away to New York, pumping loads of money into a jukebox in the East Village and dancing badly to ‘Abracadabra’ by the Steve Miller Band. And then, because no birthday would be complete without me eating my own body weight in at least one meat product which will inevitably cause me to have a massive coronary before the age of 65, I went to Momofuku noodle bar to stuff my face with pork belly and noodles. LOTS of pork belly and noodles.

I’ve longed to go to Momofuku ever since I first read about David Chang and his legendary pork buns on Serious Eats. I’ve recreated some Momofuku and Momofuku Milk Bar recipes at home with varying degrees of success, but knew that I wouldn’t be entirely satisfied until I’d tried the real thing for myself. A quick Internet search revealed that I wouldn’t be able to go to Momofuku Ko unless I had booked six days in advance, and didn’t mind spending a ridiculous amount of money on my tea. However, the noodle bar looked like just the thing to slake my thirst for an authentic bowl of ramen.

Mr. McMc and I rocked up fully anticipating to wait for an hour or more before we could get a table, but as it was we were seated within five minutes of arrival (they must have guessed it was my birthday). We also managed to drink what might possibly be the world’s biggest can of Asahi (one can = two pints. Not too shabby considering the tiny glasses we were given to drink it from).

We started with the legendary pork buns (pictured above). Comprising of a giant slab of pork belly wrapped in a squidgy white bun and garnished with pickled cucumber, these were consumed with almost indecent haste. Porky fat, soft melting meat and the wonderful hit of pickles to cut through the richness – these were heavenly, and I only wish that I’d ordered more of them. (They were so good in fact that Mr. McMc scoffed half of one while I was in the bathroom before I could take a picture of it).

Smoked chicken wings weren’t as smoky as I maybe would have liked, but were still absolutely delicious. Punchy with soy, pickled chillies and garlic, the meat practically disintegrated off the bone at the first bite. These were a perfect example of bar food done well, and were just the thing to soak up a pint or two.

I was slightly unsure of what to expect from the Roasted Rice Cakes I ordered. Being a carb fiend, I just knew that I really wanted to try this typically Korean dish that I’d heard so much about. I need not have worried. A firm crunch of toasted rice gave way to deliciously firm, chewy insides. Smothered in a fiery red sweet-yet-spicy sauce, punchy with ssamjang (a fermented bean and chilli paste) they were like nothing I’d ever eaten before. Indeed, I’m already thinking of where I could visit in Manchester to try them again.

The highlight of the meal was undoubtedly the ramen bowls. I ordered the Momofuku Ramen and Mr McMc ordered the Spicy Miso Ramen. Both were absolutely stunning – my bowl was full of pillow-soft pulled pork, chewy toothsome noodles which were firm and springy to the bite and topped with a perfectly poached egg. I also found the thick, fat slab of pork belly to be a nice touch. I could have drunk the broth like a cup of coffee. It tasted like the absolute essence of pork, rich, fatty and slightly salty. It was a bowl of perfection – the ramen which all other ramen I eat from now on will be judged against. Mr McMc’s ramen was equally good. It tasted of spicy, smoky chicken, as though the world’s best portion of KFC had been liquidised and served up to us.

By this point, we were feeling pretty drunk on good food (as well as that gigantic can of Asahi) but I felt that the whole experience wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t try at least one of their signature desserts. A soft serve scoop of peanut butter and ritz cracker soft serve seemed to be almost too salty at first bite. Then, the pow of salt gave way to a slow, creeping sweetness, helped by the twist of grape jelly (jam) the ice cream had been layered over. It reminded me of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches of my childhood, served up to me in ice cream form.

The total bill for four courses of belly-bursting-goodness came to 90 dollars (roughly 60 pounds in UK money), an absolute bargain considering how much food we ate. While I’m in New York for another four days, I have a feeling that eating at Momofuku Noodle Bar will be one of the highlights of my trip, and something I’ll look back on fondly for years to come. It’s certainly set one hell of a precedent for the rest of my 30s.

Down on the mustard farm: A trip to Tracklements

There is something truly wonderful about taking a trip into the countryside on a gorgeous sunny day. The sight of fields of lurid yellow rape seed slowly undulating in the breeze, a bright blue sky punctuated with little fluffy clouds reflected in train windows, and the feeling of sweat down your back when you’ve had to sprint across Cheltenham railway station, having almost missed your train to the Cotswolds because you were so engrossed in reading Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna.  I experienced all of these things (and more) when I was invited to take a tour around the Tracklements mustard farm last month.

Prior to my visit, like many people, I had no idea where mustard actually came from. To me, it was just that ubiquitous yellow spread that came in a jar or squeezy bottle and lived at the back of my fridge. Living in an urban environment, it’s often all too easy to take the ingredients you cook with on a daily basis for granted. So, visiting the Tracklements fields and factory provided me with a nice insight into all of the processes which go into that little pot of wholegrain mustard which I’m so fond of dolloping all over my sausages on a Saturday morning.

I’m a huge fan of Tracklements condiments, and have often bought jars of their jams, chutneys and mustards for my kitchen. The company was founded by William Tullburg in 1970, after he found an 18th century recipe for wholegrain mustard in the writer and gardener John Evelyn’s diary. Struck by the recipes simplicity – and the idea that it would go very well with sausages – he started making small batches of the stuff in a coffee grinder, and served it up to friends.  The praise he received for his products was so rapturous that he decided to leave his job and make mustard full-time.

Nowadays, the company is run by William’s son, Guy, a man who is deeply passionate about practically everything spreadable, and the company produces twelve different types of mustard which they sell in delis across the UK, as well as Waitrose and Ocado.

The first thing we did when we arrived at the mustard fields was to take an up-close-and-personal look at the rows of mustard plants. They were huge things – some over 5 feet tall, and teeming with insects and butterflies.  Mustard grows incredibly easily (500g of mustard seed will produce 5 000,000 seeds in its second harvest), and the story is that pilgrims used to carry mustard seeds with them to sow throughout their travels, as the plants that sprung up would help them to find their way home.

Tracklements grows yellow mustard seed on the land of a local farmer, which, once harvested, can keep for up to three years. (the brown variety is notoriously difficult to grow in this country, so they tend to be sourced from India). We were all encouraged to pick and nibble on the seeds, which popped in the mouth with a slow sizzle.  The leaves of the mustard plant were also delicious – strong and peppery, they reminded me of rocket with a bit more oomph. I imagine they’d make an amazing garnish for a salad, or ground into a pesto.

We were then all treated to possibly one of the best picnics of my entire life, feasting upon an array of Ham, (amazing) Pork Pies, Cheeses, Bread, Faggots (which looked like little meaty cannonballs and had the consistency of paté) and a mindbogglingly large selection of mustards (my personal favourites were the Tarragon and Honey flavours, which complemented the thick slices of Ham perfectly, as well as the Mustard Ketchup which reminded me of a smooth American yellow mustard, but with a thicker consistency – I imagine it would be sensational with Hot Dogs). I don’t know if it was the blazing sunshine, the bales of hay I was sitting on, or the excellent company, but I could have happily spent the rest of the afternoon lying in the sunshine, drinking cold cider, waggling my bare feet in the grass and watching the world go by. But if I’d done that I would have a) been stranded in the middle of the countryside and b) missed the highlight of the day – the chance to see a real life condiments factory in action.

Blame it on my love of wearing a hairnet in public, or just blame it on the trip I took to the Greggs factory in Openshaw aged 16 where they gave me a huge bag of cheese and onion pasties to take home afterwards, but I love a good food factory tour. There’s something quite magical about watching  huge boiling vats of liquids plopped into jars which go whizzing around on conveyor belts (I think I may have watched too much Sesame Street as a child).

When we reached the factory, the first thing I noticed was the smell.  The air around Tracklements is a veritable witches brew, heady with smells of exotic spices and that sharp, unmistakeable tang of vinegar. Wandering around, I saw numerous people hard at work stirring huge vats of chutney, brining vegetables for picalilly and sorting spices such as cardamom, dried chillies and peppercorns to grind into the mustards. At first glance, all of the machines seemed huge and imposing – but in actual fact, they’re just larger versions of all of the tools we’d usually find in our own kitchens. I was particularly taken with the huge sieves thinking of all the amazing things I could do if I had one of those bad boys in my store cupboards.

We boggled at the huge cauldrons which were used to cook all of the various ingredients, saw (and felt) newly bottled jars of fig chutney (their contents still piping hot), marvelled at – and tasted – the huge vats of vinegar that are used in various products (interestingly, they source their cider vinegar from the excellent Aspall’s). And then, we were introduced to the grinder.

At twenty five years old, the Tracklements seed grinder is nearly as old as I am, and still going strong. To the untrained eye, it looks like quite an antiquated piece of kit, but we watched Guy make a batch of mustard by scooping up great handfuls of seeds and throwing them into this whirring, churning device. You could tell that he had been doing it for years, simply because he was able to perfectly measure the quantities by eye, rather than measuring them out with a scoop. Grinding releases all of the essential oils in the seeds – oils which were no doubt enhanced by them being squashed and crunched in a machine that had conducted that process thousands of times over the years. We were allowed to taste the seeds before and after the grinding process, and I noticed how the ground seeds had a significantly more intense smell and flavour.

After the seeds have been ground, they are put into huge vats with their accompanying spices and an industrial amount of vinegar. The vats are then stirred each day for seven days by hand with a huge paddle which looks a bit like an oar. We were introduced to one of the mustard makers, Sam, who outside of work moonlights as a champion Boxer. After a session of stirring the rapidly thickening gloop in each of the tubs, it’s easy to see why you need someone with a decent set of muscles for the job. I felt exhausted simply watching him at work. If I had to stir the required 30 barrels a day, I’d probably end up looking like a female Eastern European shotputter and/or dying of exhaustion.

Afterwards, over a cup of tea, we had a quick chat with Guy about the history and the ethos behind Tracklements. What I really liked about the place was the sense of pride that everyone took in their work, as well as the quality of the ingredients which went into each jar. They’re keen to emphasise that they are a ‘happy food business’ – hence why many of the processes are done by hand, the factory is small, the workers are local, and most of their products are sold in independent stores. There’s also a real sense of history in each of the recipes, and you can imagine many of the products they make being made by small independent cooks at home throughout the ages. (Indeed, the excellent blog Chutney and Spice is currently blogging her adventures in adapting all of their recipes in her own kitchen). I’m now determined to make their signature Red Onion marmalade for myself, which I imagine would go very well dolloped upon a slice of homemade spelt bread topped with crumbly fresh feta cheese.

Laden down with a bag packed with a cacophony of different mustards (including one which had my name on it! I am very easily pleased) I embarked on the long, sweaty, four hour journey back to the North West of England. The train was hot, the journey was long, and, during the last leg, I was been treated to a very loud conversation between three young men as to whether they shaved their arses or not (they did), but it was worth it. If only because the next time I reach for my jar of mustard, I’ll appreciate all of the hard work that’s gone into it.

Thanks to Guy at Tracklements for letting me wander around his factory, and to Emma at Wildcard PR for inviting me on a lovely day out!