There is a section in everyone's brain that is devoted to lists. Although its exact location cannot be known, I imagine it's somewhere in the frontal lobe near the joyful memories section. Every list you've ever formulated in your head--to do lists, top five countries to visit, names of lovers--they're all there just waiting to be called upon. One of my favorite lists, and one that I call upon almost every week, is the "foods that are better the second time around" list. I'm fond of this list because it has something for everyone, from the obvious (pizza, chow mein, thanksgiving dinner) to the less obvious (pork chops, certain pastas) to the wildly controversial (seafood, biscuits and gravy, most mexican fare.) Today I want to talk about a recent addition to my list that I'm very excited about-- so excited, in fact, that I may have to move it to the coveted number one spot: fried chicken.
I wish I could tell you exactly what happens to fried chicken, on a molecular level, after it sits in the refrigerator for a day. Here's my best guess: 
Beyond that diagram I have no idea. I only know the results of the process, which are a) more manageable skin, b) more intense flavors, especially around the end pieces, and c) easier temperature to deal with. I always feel hesitant to fully invest myself in a piece of hot fried chicken; maybe it's the temperature, maybe it's the grease. But when it's cold I really feel free to roll up my sleeves and do some good work, even in the hard to reach areas.
It's gotten to the point where I actually go out of my way to eat it cold. The last time I was up at my parents we picked up some fried chicken from their favorite place and brought it home with us. I immediately threw mine in the freezer while they ate theirs hot at the table. An hour later I was sitting by myself eating cold fried chicken while everyone else watched a movie.
It was worth it.
Incidentally, the place we ordered from has great fried chicken:
Clementines
4631 Carpinteria Ave
Carpinteria, CA 93013
(805)684-5119
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
It's better cold
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Paean: O Great Chemex
My parents have this crazy hi-tech coffee pot that makes your coffee BEFORE YOU GET UP. They've had it for years; it is their smoother-over of mornings, a trusty butler to be relied upon day in and day out. But all things must pass, and when they upgraded to the 12-cup model (which is a behemoth and not for the small-kitchened) my mom insisted that, being the only coffee-drinking child, I should inherit the old guy.
Imagine her surprise when she came to visit, only to find the beloved appliance unceremoniously wedged under my counter. Which is when I offered her, by way of explanation, a cup of my Chemex. Now I know the Chemex is not for all and sundry. It cannot be programmed; it doesn't even plug in. It's just a glass jar that could pass for a beaker from high school chemistry class, in which you place a rather ill-fitting square filter. But to me, it is perfection. Not only does it brew a fantastic cup of coffee--rich, smooth, all bitterness leeched out via some magic of physics--it represents a way of doing things that my stubborn heart clings to in this gadget-crazed age.
This is coffee you gotta work for: water must be measured and boiled, filters must be soaked, coffee mounded just so. The hot water (not boiling! just under a boil please!) is then poured over the grounds while you watch the alchemized liquid seep out beneath, pooling at the bottom of the beaker. The wait that accompanies the slow pour--for it must be slow, so slow, so as not to flood the grounds--is agonizingly akin to standing on a long line for the bathroom. But what pleasures await the patient coffee-maker! An impossibly clean brew, as if freshly bathed in healing waters! Nothing sour or distasteful, no burn or tang to fret the tongue. This is a drink to be lingered over. And the leftovers make a refreshing glass of iced coffee of a warm spring day...
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sweet Angeli
Some people call what I do “freelance commercial production.” I call it “Blah Blah Blah, Don’t Care, Not Interested—LUNCH—Blah Blah Blah, Sleep with Eyes Open.” With such an emphasis being placed on lunch it is imperative that I make it as delicious as possible. This can sometimes involve such unsavory acts as lying, receipt shuffling/making and even stealing. I’ve been known to make up elaborate traffic accidents to justify the time I took to go to Bay Cities in between buying ink and walking the director's dog.
Fortunately, one of the companies I work for is in a prime lunch zone and at least once a week I get to hit up one of my favorites: Angeli Caffe. Angeli is like the girl you dated in high school and then dumped for the exotic exchange student, only to see her years later at a reunion and realize, a) she’s a sexy doctor, b) she’s funny and c) you made a huge mistake. You don’t see it on any of the glossy top ten lists (its glory days having come and gone in the eighties and nineties,) but it’s 2008 and Angeli has yet to disappoint me. Not that there isn’t better pizza or more exciting pastas to be found in LA, but for the price range I don’t know where you can get better, more consistent Italian. It’s the place I go when the day was long and all I want is to be held close and spoon fed bolognese. It’s hard to find a bolognese in this city that really tastes like it does in Italy and Angeli has it. They also have the Insalata Forte, or as I like to call it, Boca del Diablo—the amount of garlic in the dressing makes The Stinking Rose look like a Gerber test kitchen. The space is simple and relaxed, yet not so relaxed that you can't make a date out of it. The waiters are never overbearing-- they seem less like restaurant employees than friends of the owners who just happened to stop by.
There’s also another reason I love Angeli, a less innocent reason that verges on obsession. When people tell me how happy they are that they’ve cut bread out of their lives my first thought is, “excellent! One less person I have to talk to.” My second thought is, “they’ve never had the bread at Angeli.” Crusty and slightly burnt on the outside, soft and pillowy on the inside, each bread is like a mini dome of heaven—my own culinary Dome of the Rock. Not that I don’t do my best to limit the amount I have. I always start with one half and follow it with a little pinch of the stomach fat, just to remind myself what I'm fighting for. But soon one half turns into a full, and a full turns into two, and before I know it my lunch is fast asleep on a bed of carbs at the bottom of my stomach. At that point all I can do is sigh, look down at my belly and whisper, “sleep babies. Sleep.”
When we order Angeli at the office and the food arrives, someone inevitably emerges from a dark editing bay and asks in a desperate tone, “did they give us extra bread?” They almost always do, but every once in a while you catch them on a busy day. Last time this happened I heard someone mutter from the kitchen, “they didn’t give us bread?” Then in a much louder voice they screamed, “THEY DIDN’T GIVE US BREAD! THERE’S NO BREAD!” A general panic swept through the office as one by one everyone picked up their food and threw it against the wall in disbelief. Then we stood perfectly still and didn’t say anything for two hours. What do you want? The bread has a strange power over me. It’s an edible Rumpelstiitskin, except instead of spinning straw into gold it spins wheat into heroin. Addiction never tasted so sweet.
before we go any further,
