WTF with Phil Roberts

WIENERSCHNITZEL…what an inelegant-sounding German word, right up there with “ausfahrt” (off-ramp or exit).

Yet despite its ugly moniker, wienerschnitzel is such a beautiful dish. In fact, it’s so delicious that, in one form or another, practically every country on the planet has a version.

The word “schnitzel” roughly means cutlet – a thin slice of meat, pounded ‘til tender, then breaded and fried. The word “wiener” doesn’t mean hot dog or weenie. It means “of Vienna,” as in Austria.

Together the words represent the national dish of Austria, where wienerschnitzel is actually protected by law. The meat MUST BE VEAL and it must be prepared and served in the traditional way – fried in lard and accompanied by fresh lemon wedges.

FIGLMUELLER RESTAURANT, founded in Vienna in 1905, is thought by many to be the first restaurant to serve wienerschnitzel. There it comes in several iterations, including “jagerschnitzel” (smothered in mushrooms) and “à la Holstein” (with anchovies, capers and a fried egg on top).

BUT…HOLD ON. The origins are complex and even today are subject to debate.

See, Vienna takes credit for giving us the dish. It is said that wienerschnitzel was introduced to the masses by Austrian Field Marshall Radetsky, who discovered it while traveling in Italy early in the 19^th century and returned to Vienna with the recipe.

Ask the Italians, however, and they’ll tell you that it was well established by that time – that, in fact, wienerschnitzel was first offered in Italy on a menu dating from 1134 for the Abbots of the Cannons of St. Ambroglio. It was called “cotoletta.”

I’ve been privileged to enjoy delicious cotoletta à la Milanese, pan fried in clarified butter (not olive oil) at SOLFERINO RISTORANTE in the elegant and artsy district of Milan.

But, then again, does anybody really give a shit as to who invented it?

Paris has a version – a “skinny” one – called “paillard de poulet” (we serve a version of this pounded chicken cutlet at Salut).

The epicenter of the Paris iteration is on Avenue Montaigne, the world-famous fashion avenue and home to the collections of Gianni Versace, Christian Dior, and Salvatore Ferragamo as well as other world-renowned designers.

And that’s perhaps why the fashionista restaurant L’ AVENUE prepares its chicken version of the schnitzel without flour, breadcrumbs, clarified butter, or – for that matter – flavor. Is it because of all the fashion models that work in the area? 

In Copenhagen, Denmark, the waterfront restaurant BURR specializes in free-range pork schnitzel, served three distinct ways. The first is wonderfully plain. All you taste is pork, butter and lemon. The second version sees the schnitzel buried under a load of chanterelle mushrooms sauteed in Danish Lurpak clarified butter. And the third iteration is topped with a mixture they call “boy” – a weird name for an intense garnish of lemon, capers, horseradish and brined anchovies.

As recently as the 20^th century, the Ashkenazi Jews of Eastern Europe brought schnitzel to Israel.  And since veal was not popular in the Eastern Bloc, chicken schnitzel was introduced, not so much as a main course but as a popular hand-held street food snack. When served as an entree, the chicken was breaded in challah breadcrumbs (sounds good). But at Passover time, Matzo cracker crumbs were swapped for challah (doesn’t sound so good, but I’d still dig in).

Speaking of “not so good,” Russia has also gotten into the act – except they grind up the chicken…parts (innards? Feet? Beeks? Damned if I know) and call it “Pozharsky.” Never tried it.

A surprise to me was that Japan and parts of Southeast Asia have their own take on the dish. It’s called “Tonkatsu” – “Katsu,” for short – and has absolutely conquered my tastebuds. A flattened chicken breast, it’s always dredged in Japanese panko bread crumbs for that extra crunch and is typically accompanied by a Kombu seaweed salad. The other topping of choice is wonderfully immoral: It is called “Katsu sauce” and involves, among other things, brown sugar and ketchup. I love it.

Great Britian also has a version of schnitzel that, to me, seems reflective of its inability to shake off its post-World War II “make-do” culinary history. Called “parmo,” it’s a humble chicken cutlet inartfully smothered in bechamel sauce and crowned with cheddar cheese (what else?). It’s gooey and melty – a real “tummy-stuffer.” You’re most apt to find it in northern England.

So what’s the point? Well, MANNY’S is going to tip their toe into the “SCHNITZEL WATERS” this month with an exclusive interpretation of Chicken Milanese,” available for a limited time. It’s two flattened (but not too flat) fresh, hormone-free chicken breasts, seasoned, dusted with flour, dipped in…….well, the rest is secret.  It’s topped with a tiny  salad of arugula, cherry tomatoes and a misting of extra virgin olive oil.

What is not a secret is that the plump chicken breasts come from a hen that has been specifically bred for her rather large breasts, the kind that may cause Playboy Playmates to wince.

WTF

PHIL

It seems to me that people eat out for two main reasons.

One: They’re hungry, require restoration, and need to fuel up. They have to eat.  

Two: They wish to dine. People aren’t dining to stave off vitamin D deficiency.

John Bennett, editor and writer for the New Yorker magazine, once said, “While people would doubtless go to a restaurant because they are hungry, the experience is more complicated than hunger alone.”

He’s correct. Jay Rayner of the London Guardian said it best: “I’m going to get out of my house, be around people I like, and have a good time.” For those folks, restaurants are a magnet of pleasure. They sell a total experience. The restaurant is a retreat, an oasis, a destination.

Things change the moment you step inside when someone smiles at you. It’s like a vacation from yourself. There’s a rhythm to the evening.

But I’ve seen a disturbing trend the last few years…post Covid-19.

And that’s DINING AGAINST THE CLOCK.  

“You and your guest, sir, have 90 minutes allotted to eat. Then we will need your table.”

Okay, I get it.  Quick service and casual restaurants, having a lower check average, need to turn their tables as frequently as the can. And for higher-end places, profitability typically hinges on getting two turns a night – early and late.

Again, as Jay Rayner states, “Time limits are not my idea of a relaxing night out.” A 90-minute time limit (or whatever) for three courses, elbows on the table, wine, coffee and a good chat? And then being told to leave if, God forbid, you make the mistake of ordering a second cup of coffee? THAT’S not pleasant.

And what if your longer-than-expected meal owes not to your poor time-management skills but matters beyond your control? If it takes 20 minutes for your server to approach your table, will they add minutes to the clock? If the kitchen is backed up and ticket times are horrible, does that eat into my allotment as well?

Remember, I get it. The less time spent at a table, the more times your tables turn, the more profit you make. So many restaurants these days are struggling just to stay open. With the economics of everything – food, labor, utilities and government rules and regulations – it’s tough (really tough) to navigate the brutal tension between HOSPITALITY and PROFIT.

I first encountered the time-limit practice a few years ago in London at a fine restaurant called ROAST in Borough Market. We were a party of eight, on a PARASOLE dining trip. Hoping to learn as much as possible, we ordered half the menu; I have no doubt that our party exceeded their guest check average by a hefty margin. Nevertheless, after two hours, the manager approached our table and told us it was time to leave. Waiters were glowering and hovering around our table so that they could re-set it. Our dessert was half eaten and the wine bottles still half full. But, no matter. Our dining time had expired.

What a joyless end to the evening.

On the way out, I said to the manager, “You spoiled our experience. I thought you were in the HOSPITALITY BUSINESS.  You’re NOT. You are in the GROSS PROFIT business.”

Haven’t been back to ROAST. Don’t intend to.

Unfortunately, our experience was a harbinger of things to come. In recent times, local restaurants – good ones, too – have been infected with the time-limit disease. A few weeks ago, Joanne and I made reservations online at one of our favorite spots, and there it was on the screen in black and white: For a party of two…90 minutes. For three or four guests…1 hour 45 minutes. Party of six? You get 2 hours.

That, my friends, IS NOT HOSPITALITY. And as you can tell, I’m NOT a fan of time limited dining.

At all PARASOLE restaurants – MANNY’S…PITTSBURGH BLUE…SALUT…and GOOD EARTH – tare NO TIME LIMITS. No “BUM’S RUSH.” Our managers feel that for every guest that stays long, another leaves early. It all balances out. But even if it didn’t, you are free to stay for as long as you like. It’s your table for the evening. Our hospitality is human and heartfelt. Dining is for PLEASURE.

And we want to you to leave happier than you were when you came in.

W.T.F.

PHIL

Hard to believe it now, but Joanne and I visited Bangkok 25 years ago.

It was a glorious trip – with wonderful people, amazing sights, and zesty, zippy, frisky, memorable food.

But, wow: the heat.

It was beastly…sweltering…sticky, steamy, muggy hot. I remember asking Joanne, “Do you have to sweat so much?”   She said, “I don’t sweat, I perspire” !

We’d leave the comfort of our air-conditioned hotel in the morning and by the time we had walked 10 minutes, our clothes were wringing wet. No wonder our room rate included laundry service.

But it turns out that the scorching temperatures were serendipitous. Because of the daytime heat and humidity, the residents of the city by and large didn’t surface for air until after the sunset when the temperature dropped. And surface they did – in droves and throngs – onto the nighttime streets.

You see, over hundreds of years the tradition developed that food vendors would set up humble little stalls on both sides of the street, offering bright, adventuresome, fiery, flavorful Thai comfort food ranging from pig jowls to duck eggs and everything in between. Grilled cuttlefish…snake (tasted like chicken)…stinky-fresh durian.

These agglomerations became known as NIGHT MARKETS. They were both a dining venue and a social gathering place. And now they thrive not only in Bangkok, but in cities throughout Thailand such as Chang Mai and resort destinations like Phuket.

Each night Joanne and I would roam Sukhumvit Road, wandering from stall to stall, sampling everything from scalding hot unknown chicken parts to octopus and innards. The small offerings were served up on paper plates, paper cones and sometimes in a plastic baggy and were not expensive at all…maybe 2 or 3 bucks each, if that.

It was about then that I said to Joanne, “We could create a restaurant around this idea of exotic small plates in Minneapolis.”

She replied, ”Are you nuts? Are you really friggin’ nuts this time? There’s way too much Lutheran DNA in Minneapolis for folks to ever try this kind of food!”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, “but the small plates are the key.”

After all, folks could try a small sampling of something exotic like octopus (unheard of in Minnesota at the time) and if they didn’t like it, well, they could just pitch it in the trash. After all, it wasn’t as if they had bet the farm on a $25 plate of cephalopod. And if they did like it, think of the bragging rights they would have in front of their colleagues at the water cooler the next morning. “Oh yeah, I’m cool. I had octopus last night.”

Well, on the way home from Bangkok, I wrote a draft menu on the plane.

A few short months later, CHINO LATINO – offering “Street Food From the Hot Zones” – was birthed in Uptown.

What fun it was! Char-grilled lemongrass lamb lollipops…fire-roasted hot chili shrimp…BBQ Pork belly bao buns…Lamma Island salty squid…and multi-colored, multi-flavored steamed dumplings.

Then, after 20 years, CHINO LATINO’s run came to an end. I’m sad that it closed (but glad that it happened).

But a few weeks ago now – a quarter-century later – we were in New York on a Parasole dining trip and tried a new place with a glowing red neon sign that read, BANGKOK SUPPER CLUB.

Located on Hudson Street in the West Village, it’s the creation of chef/owner Matt Wittawat, a restaurateur whose menu of refined Thai street food and family recipes reveals an an eye for artistry and a true grasp of culinary yin-yang: color and contrast…soft and crunchy…high and low…hot and mild…sweet and sour…all curated for a young urban New York audience.

You can imagine how thrilled I was. It was like seeing an old friend.

So…let’s go…

The place radiates low-grade chic.  Even at 6PM, it was crowded, alive and buzzy. There were 9 of us, but we had reservations and were seated in two cozy horseshoe shaped booths (#12 and #13) in the dead center of the action.

Cocktails were beautiful, bold and generous.

We began our culinary adventure with a couple dozen two-bite tartlets packed with blue swimmer crab, lemongrass and coconut relish…all capped with a small dollop of caviar.

What followed?

Hokkaido Scallops Ceviche buried beneath a watermelon granita with a flicker of red chiles.

Char-grilled Tiger Prawn Satay with cilantro and red chiles over curry-cashew butter…$23

Fried Duck Egg with cherry tomatoes, celery root, grated egg yolk and trout roe.

Rounding out our starts was a Grilled Mushroom Salad, featuring little gem lettuce, oyster mushrooms, chrysanthemum shoots, Thai basil, toasted coconut chips and cilantro-coconut dressing.

Next came Beef Cheek Massaman Curry, slow cooked for 12 hours with roasted shallots and topped with crushed cashews…$37.

Pan-Seared Wild-Caught Chilean Sea Bass Chakram Curry was redolent of Thai basil leaf, sea beans and red chili flakes.

Whole Branzino, dry aged with crispy skin, came with nam jin sauce on the side…$45

Ba Jang Lobster was brown-butter poached and served over powerfully flavored aromatic black pepper sticky rice with oyster mushrooms, nasturtium leaves and toasted garlic chips.

Deep-Fried Pork Jowl with savory garlic baked rice and pork cracklings won applause all around…$35

“Crying Tiger” was a 32oz., bone-in, beautifully marbled Rib Eye steak with fresh Thai herbed salad, char-roasted tomato mash and garlic chips.

Gai Yang Chicken was grilled Thai-style with lemongrass, fish sauce, garlic and honey…$38

Then came dessert:

Coconut-sweet potato ice cream over pound cake with wavy toasted coconut ribbons…sweet, but spicy too.

Pandan Coconut cake arrived nestled inside a young coconut with crushed pandan leaf ice cream custard. (Hint: Be sure to scrape the tender coconut meat from inside the shell).

So, there you have it. It would be a shame if you traveled to New York and didn’t dine at Bangkok Supper Club. It has a coveted Michelin Star. And if you do decide to go, be certain to make a reservation well in advance.

And of course, if you happen to vacation in Thailand, do not deny yourself the many culinary pleasures of the NIGHT MARKETS, whether you’re in Bangkok, Chang Mai or Phuket.

Just be sure that you pronounce PHUKET correctly.

W.T.F.

PHIL

I don’t think I’ve ever addressed two more pompous and expensive topics.

Last week I posted a lengthy piece on the luxury of Caviar. And here I am this week taking a deep dive into FOIE GRAS.

They’re worth exploring because each epitomizes FRENCH GASTRONOMICAL EXCELLENCE. Each rewards the eater with a deep, sensual taste that elicits sighs of ecstasy.

But with both products – especially with FOIE GRAS – there is a DARK SIDE. It’s not pretty. Let’s just leave it at that. For now.

FOIE GRAS is fatted duck or goose liver. You may be surprised to learn that culinarians have been perfecting foie gras not just for centuries, but millennia. As far back as 2,500 BC, Egyptians were harvesting liver from wild hyenas…yes, those ravenous creatures that are all teeth and jaw.

Ancient frescos and hieroglyphics show us that they also prized ducks and geese as vehicles for foie gras.

….Which brings us to the now controversial practice of FORCE-FEEDING (or “gavage”).

The birds have a flexible tube inserted down their throat and a slurry of grains is forced into their bodies during the last couple of weeks of their lives, causing their livers to swell. The fattened liver can weigh up to a pound when “harvested.”

France continues the practice today and it has become deeply embedded in the country’s culinary identity. As a matter of fact, the French Parliament declared “gavage” a part of French cultural heritage and enshrined it in French law to ensure that the birds are not harmed (any more than necessary) during feeding.

It should come as no surprise that PETA and other animal rights groups are outraged with the practice of force-feeding. “Ducks and geese have feelings, families and fall in love.”

BUT WAIT. There is more to this story.

In France there are a number of producers who claim that force-feeding is not at all cruel. While human beings gag when force-fed, these producers contend that ducks and geese have no gag reflex. Their physiology allows the throat to stretch (think swallowing whole fish several times the size of their neck). They claim also that the geese queue up with a swagger to be force-fed at feeding time.

Then there is a third group of foie gras producers who do not force-feed at all. They note that because ducks and geese are seasonal migrating birds, they naturally gorge themselves and store as much fat as they can before their 2,000-mile journeys in the spring and fall. Instead of force-feeding the birds, they simply allow them to eat their fill when they’re driven to devour. The livers in these birds are slightly smaller than those of their force-fed counterparts, and thus make the end-product more expensive and less competitive in the marketplace.

Speaking on this topic, the late chef and author Anthony Bourdain said, “PETA has chosen an easy target. A distressed, unhappy animal is bad food. If a human enters a barn and all the ducks waddle toward you, that indicates that their experience with humans is not awful.”  

Others say that PETA protesters would do well to focus on Colonel Sanders and grocery store factory-farmed chickens. Those poor caged and confined birds have never had a chance to spread their wings before being hooked and dragged to their death.

Now, the French claim to have the most respected and prestigious cuisine in the world and FOIE GRAS has come to symbolize the notion of French gastronomical superiority.  French chefs don’t seem to give much thought to the likes of PETA and the protesters. Perhaps if there were a ban or a movement against VEAL and LOBSTER they might get their GALLIC UNDIES in a knot.

But France has powered through the debate.

The best foie gras comes from Gascony in the southwest of France and is centered near the village of Perigord, where foie gras festivals abound. Local restaurants celebrate the legacy with multiple iterations of foie gras.  

Among the attributes that all versions of this almost indescribably indulgent delicacy have in common are a buttery, smooth, delicate sweetness…silky, a little bit meaty, savory…melty in your mouth…creamy and rich.

Popular preparations include:

• 1. The butter-seared fatty LOBE itself.

• 2. As a TERRINE molded into a squarish shape

• 3. Mixed with other meats in a pastry crust (PATE EN CROUTE)

• 4. As a MOUSSE for easy spreading

• 5. A TORCHON….fashioned into a cylinder and sliced.

• 6. And almost always paired with fresh fruit, jam or chutney….and BRIOCHE BUTTEREY TOAST.

There are many more possibilities – and restaurants with Michelin stars invariably feature creative presentations. YOUR TONGUE WILL THANK YOU.

And so the FOIE GRAS WARS continue on.   Except now, we leave the hyenas out of it.

W.T.F.

PHIL

During my food travels over the last couple of years since Covid, I’ve sensed a trend among higher-end, polished-casual restaurants toward luxurious offerings…e.g. FOIE GRAS and CAVIAR. I don’t know if they’re capitalizing on “revenge spending” by customers who are making up for lost after the COVID-related dining and travel shutdown. Maybe it’s what happens when the Dow reaches 40,000.

Whatever. It’s out there now and happening across the United States as well as Europe.

Caviar and foie gras have never held a particularly high visibility on my radar screen. I guess I thought they were a little hoity-toity for us – more the province of “tweezer” restaurants in the major metropolitan markets of Paris, New York, Moscow and the like.

History tells us that human consumption of fish eggs began as far back as 2,500 – 3,000 years ago, when our ancestors began catching the pre-historic looking sturgeon that swam the waters of the Caspian and Black Seas. Earliest records indicate that the name “caviar” came from the Persian word, “khav-yar.”

Russia is most often associated with caviar since it shares a border with both sturgeon-populated seas, and also since Russians have a love for VODKA…and lots of it.

But around 1500, caviar started to penetrate European society – particularly Parisian high society – as a luxurious treat for royals (who preferred to pair it with Champagne rather than some potato-based swill).

A word or two about caviar…

First, while all fish eggs are called ROE, only the eggs from sturgeon can be called CAVIAR.

Second, it ain’t cheap and can be hard to find. That’s because the population of sturgeon has declined dramatically due to over-fishing and habitat destruction.

Third, always serve it at room temperature. And don’t eat caviar with a metal spoon. Plastic or Mother of Pearl is best.

It’s also worth noting that caviar is seldom cooked.

Today, China has become the world’s preeminent source of caviar – producing 40 tons annually.

Worldwide, there is a sort of hierarchy to the prevalent types of caviar.

• BELUGA STURGEON is, by far, the biggest member of the sturgeon family at over 1500 pounds. The eggs are rich and buttery, and it has a very nuanced, mild fish flavor that tastes of MONEY. It’s frequently sold in exquisite packaging as if it were a gold, diamond-bezeled Rolex. A pound can cost more than a car. Beluga is not sold in the United States at this time due to the reasons cited above.

• The SEVRUGA is next in weight and has the most robust-tasting eggs – saltier and brinier than Beluga. It costs about $150/ounce.  

• OSETRA STURGEON CAVIAR comes from the smallest fish, which typically weigh between 50-90 pounds. The eggs – nutty, creamy and firm – pop in your mouth. Expect to pay about $100/ounce.

While sturgeon roe has traditionally been marketed to the One Percent, certain kinds of caviar have recently become more affordable. Among them are WHITE STURGEON CAVIAR, which is farmed in northern California, and WILD WHITE STURGEON, which still swim in the Sacramento River.

And from the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers, as well as Wisconsin lakes, there’s caviar produced by SHOVELNOSE STURGEON and PADDLEFISH. The shovelnose gives us HACKLEBACK CAVIAR, which is slightly sweet, mild, buttery and nutty…and quite good. Paddlefish, on the other hand, produce eggs that look exactly like caviar eggs, but as they’re not actually sturgeon, the roe cannot be classified as caviar. Still, it’s tasty, with an herbal, earthy quality. I’d say that paddlefish roe would be ideal for large parties on a buffet table.

Finally, there are salmon eggs, which for some reason can be legally called “salmon caviar.” I like ‘em. They’re a little saltier than sturgeon eggs (not to mention a whole lot cheaper). When paired with tiny blini Russian pancakes and a dollop of tangy crème fraiche, I have to wonder: Would a $ 100 portion of OSETRA make me that much happier than a $15 serving of SALMON CAVIAR ?

Maybe if someone else picked up the tab.

Oh, I should also mention IKURA JAPANESE SALMON CAVIAR, which is highly prized in Japan due to its rich umami flavor.

So, what’s the best way to enjoy caviar? It’s found in a wide variety of dishes, some definitely better than others. Typically, chefs just throw a spoonful of caviar on top of something simply to elevate the dish or give their restaurant a halo of fanciness. Does that seem LAZY or FORMULAIC to you? It does to me.

So let’s run down the list of caviar dishes (which is by no means comprehensive. I’ve certainly not had them all).

I already mentioned the delicate saltiness of caviar served on an airy blini with some funkalicious crème fraiche. There’s a reason this preparation has become a classic

At breakfast once, I had loosely scrambled eggs nestled atop thinly sliced smoked salmon and crowned with a scoop of caviar. Yum.

I’m not a fan of soft-boiled eggs in the shell, but with a bit of caviar on top? HuMMM…

What I AM a fan of – though not often – is caviar on pasta.

Caviar as an accompaniment to fresh oysters? I guess so.

The list goes on:

How about a FLIGHT OF 4 CAVIARS with blinis? And for a table: a TOWER OF CAVIAR TREATS.

Each can be paired with a VODKA MARTINI WITH CAVIAR resting on a slice of cucumber.

I’ve also seen caviar sliders on Parker House Rolls, baked potatoes topped with crème fraiche and caviar, and miniature cone appetizers of caviar (think Thomas Keller).

Would caviar be good on a FRIED CHICKEN LEG WITH CRÈME FRAICHE? I love fried chicken. I’ll have to try it sometime. Same with CAVIAR TACOS. Never had ‘em. I CAN tells you that caviar sprinkled on a smoked salmon pizza is delicious.

What doesn’t sound good is a “mile-high,” stacked-with-everything HAMBURGER LAYERED WITH CAVIAR. To me, that’s an example of culinary laziness – just dumping it on top to make it sound fancy and expensive.

At the end of the day, some of these iterations sound good. Some…not so hot.

I tend to lean toward dishes that treat caviar as a “pure play” – using a relatively small amount in a preparation that doesn’t have too many other ingredients to overshadow it. Restraint is the watchword here…although Oscar Wilde once said, “Everything in moderation, including moderation.”

Which brings me to…THE CAVIAR BUMP: a decadent, rather sexy and slightly naughty ritual of LICKING or SUCKING a DOLLOP of CAVIAR off the back of one’s hand – or, better yet, off your partner’s hand, with one swipe of the tongue.

And I don’t know if Marilyn Monroe, the most famous sex symbol of the 20^th century,  was talking about caviar bumps or not when she said, “Fame is like caviar, you know. It’s good to have caviar, but not when you have it at every meal.”

W.T.F.

PHIL

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never given much thought to Russian food. Never thought of it as good or bad….just never gave it much consideration.

I suppose that if pressed to talk about it, among the words I might have used in the past would include: peasant food… heavy… filling… fattening… robust… substantial… potatoes… cabbage… beets… and rural.

And yet, in my travels I’ve found otherwise. Because I may have been fortunate enough to have had some of the best of what Russia has to offer…right here in the U.S. of A. (..if it was actually Russian food).

To wit…several times Joanne and I have dined at THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM, a block south of Central Park on W. 57^th Street in New York. The red and green dining room with bright gold theatrical accents, is rich, vivid and warm. Joanne and I were so young back then and had never tasted real caviar. But we couldn’t ever afford any of the finest glistening black choices like Beluga, Osetra and Sevruga. However, we came close (well, sort of), because the restaurant also had a pink-orange salmon roe at less than half the price of the expensive real stuff. Both were served atop blinis (tiny pancakes) with wads of delicious crème fraiche. Woody Allen, who once sat in a booth next to Joanne and me along the wall, no doubt thought that we were a part of the moneyed glitterati just like him. If only he knew.

After the fake caviar, Joanne and I would most always order the CHICKEN KIEV, oozing with hot melted garlic butter and parsley, or the BEEF STROGANOFF, laced with mushrooms and sour cream over handmade noodles. Once in a while, we would break the pattern and share an order of PELMENI…but more about that later.

As usual, I was star struck by celebrity sightings. In addition to Woody Allen, we also saw Mary Tyler Moore and her co-star Georgette (played by Georgia Engel) lunching in the coveted “lady-slipper” booth – smack-dab in the center of the dining room. 

And then the movie Tootsie came out, and there, in the film, in a red leather booth, sat Dustin Hoffman.

Another spot, opened early on in 1996 and well hidden in a basement on Lafayette Street in lower Manhattan, was PRAVDA, a vodka bar created by Keith McNally – the wizard of New York restaurateurs. Think BALTHAZAR, PASTIS and MINETTA TAVERN. The basement seemed warm, cozy and secretive with low vaulted ceilings, cigarette-stained ocher walls and patinated buttery leather furniture.

Pravda was Soviet-chic, sporting 70 different kinds of iced-down vodkas as well as a plethora of house-infused vodkas. They also were big on caviar, including a do-it-yourself sampling of three iterations. While Joanne and I couldn’t swing the real caviar sampler, we did dig deep enough to share a Smoked Salmon Pizza with dollops of industrial caviar. Soft cheese-filled blintzes with black cherries and sour cream put a nice veneer on our evening of pizza with caviar and big-boy vodka indulgence.

Now Vegas is Vegas, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I discovered the over-the-top RED SQUARE bar and restaurant in the Mandalay Bay Hotel. It was everything you could have imagined about the USSR, from the emblematic architectural Stalinist style of the 1930s to the soaring 30-foot-high ceilings, as well as a beheaded bronze oversized statue of Vladimir Lenin (whom Stalin deeply distrusted). Most notable about Red Square was its bar, the length of which was ice, cooled from beneath and illuminated. This was the first time I’d seen such a thing. We didn’t eat there – just sat at the glacial bar with dropped jaws, sipping and sipping ice-cold vodkas.

WRITER’S NOTE: Sadly, both PRAVDA and RED SQUARE have closed recently. THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM lives on.

I should note another restaurant that closed some time ago. This one was local: ST. PETERSBURG RESTAURANT & VODKA BAR, located above Robbinsdale’s American Legion post, near Hwy 100 at 36^th Street & N. France Avenue, in a building that has since been replaced by apartments. This place was FUN – especially if you booked a table on a Saturday night, when there was live entertainment. Invariably, large groups would be celebrating birthdays or anniversaries – maybe even a wedding. The main dining room was a large rectangular space with a stage on one end. Adjacent to it was an intimate vodka bar. We went back again and again.

Perhaps that’s why it took me until recently to make my first visit to MOSCOW ON THE HILL, which opened in 1994 in St. Paul on Selby Avenue, near the St. Paul Cathedral.

It was worth the wait.

To my knowledge, Moscow on the Hill is family owned and operated by the Liberman family, Marina and Naum, who emigrated from Russia not long after the collapse of the Soviet Empire in 1991. In honor of their homeland, the menu seems to be fundamentally RUSSIAN, UKRAINIAN and EASTERN EUROPEAN comfort food.

Yes, vodka plays a central role. But the food was what draw us to Moscow on the Hill. It’s clearly a neighborhood spot with a few curious interlopers like ourselves. Hosts, servers, food runners, managers and even bussers warmly greeted and chatted with what appeared to be locals. I’ll bet they even know their guests’ kids’ names.

A few tables appeared to start by sharing the impressive six-shot flight of house-infused vodkas ($25).  Our group? White wine, Dewar’s on the rocks, and one Shirley Temple.

A nice homey touch was a wandering accordion player, playing what I assume were familiar old-world Ukrainian and Russian tunes. The music selection seemed to fit hand-in-glove with the genuine home-spun vibe of the place. It was not loud or intrusive…just nice.

THE FOOD….

We started with a melty, cheesy and gooey bread boat called KHACHAPURI…….nicely chewy and warm…$11.50.

Crispy potato pancakes called DELUNY were topped with a slightly sweet caramelized onion relish and a dollop of sour cream. I love potato pancakes.

The assortment of appetizers looked so unfamiliar and yet had such appetite appeal, that we just kept exploring.  

ESCARGOT A LA RUSSE…snails bathed with a garlicky white wine butter sauce married with Asiago cheese followed.

PELMENI…stuffed boiled dumplings are apparently foundational to much of Russian cuisine, as they are at Moscow on the Hill, where they appear in several different iterations. We tried ‘em all.

First SIBERIAN PELMENI, which are beef and pork-filled dumplings lavishly buttered and served with a gob of sour cream and vinegar. For an extra kick, order them with the chili-garlic vinegar. It will clear your sinuses.

Then there is PEASANT PELMENI, a step up the delicious calorie ladder. It consists of dumplings also stuffed with beef and pork and mixed with mushroom sauce and cheese, then broiled ($16.95).

DEEP-FRIED PELMENI? Of course! Filled with beef and pork and served with fruit preserve, sour cream, cilantro and freshly grated horseradish. YUM. Another vodka, please.

And finally…VARENIKI, which are of Ukrainian origin and filled with potato and sauteed onions and garnished with sour cream. They’re slightly tangy and soft with Asiago and fresh-cut herbs.  $16.95.

THE MAINS:

Believe it or not, while most all these dishes were a brand-new adventure to me, there is actually one Russian dish that I grew up with in our uber-Swedish household on Central Blvd. in Kewanee, Illinois. I don’t know how that happened, but we had it rather often and I loved it. What was it? BEEF STROGANOFF. But the difference between my beloved childhood rendition was that we used hamburger. Moscow on the Hill uses filet mignon strips…$26.95.

BABUSHKA STEW…braised pork and root vegetables with rice pilaf. This never adorned my childhood dinner table, but I wish it had. Our guest pronounced it, ”hearty and satisfying.”

Actually, another dish of Eastern European origin also graced my pre pubescent dinner table from time to time – stuffed cabbage, filled (as I vaguely recall) with rice. Consequently, I just had to try GRANDAMA’S GOLUBTSY: cabbage rolls jam-packed with pork, beef and wild rice braised in a rich tomato sauce. Were they better than the stuffed cabbage my mother made? I can’t recall. But they were damn good and very affordable at $20.95.

Remember VARENIKI, the Ukrainian dumplings stuffed with potatoes and caramelized onions and Asiago cheese in sour cream? Well, Joanne had them topped with a grilled salmon filet. The Italians say NEVER have seafood with cheese. Joanne snorted, ”What do Italians know…this is delicious!”

Among our sides, we ordered MOSCOW FRIES, seasoned with garlic and fresh dill; OLIVIER, a traditional Russian potato salad with chopped vegetables; and UKRAINIAN BEET SALAD with chevre, walnuts and prunes. All were family sized, all about 10 bucks.

For dessert, we ordered ZAPEKANKA, Russian-style cheesecake with cranberries; PUSHKIN TORTE, traditional Russian cake with alternating chocolate and honey layers…$8.95. SWEET BLINTZES, filled with lemon-vanilla mascarpone cheese, candied pecans and whipped cream, drizzled with cranberry port wine, also offered, there’s a WHITE RUSSIAN TIRAMISU, featuring lady fingers soaked in espresso and Kamora coffee liqueur in whipped mascarpone cream.

I would guess that really good, really authentic Russian food can be found in several major metropolitan areas around the country if you search hard enough.

But is it really necessary to seek it out when we’ve got MOSCOW ON THE HILL right here in the Twin Cities?

My answer….

NYET!

W.T.F.

PHIL

It wasn’t exactly Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but as a high school junior from Central Illinois, I felt plenty bold heading up to Chicago on the Burlington Zephyr, with four buddies to see Bill Haley and the Comets perform “Rock Around the Clock” on a hot, humid summer morning at the Chicago Theater, then catching an afternoon Cubs game at Wrigley Field.

We were so innocent, and such good boys.

I also remember the Gothic Revival castellated Chicago Water Tower – completed in 1869 – and wondering, What the hell does that thing do?

Later I learned that the Water Tower was a key part of a solution that brought clean water to Chicago at a time when the waters near the shore had become too polluted to drink. Engineers built a pipeline that extended far into the lake, where the water remained pristine, and the pumping station that drew the water cityward was located at 805 Michigan Avenue. The Water Tower enclosed the tall machinery of the pump.

Maybe not so coincidently, it opened around the same time as the Chicago Stock Yards. 

I recall my mother talking about a childhood visit to the Stock Yards with her aunt Edie, and how she cried and cried at the sight of it.

As Chicago grew, so did the stockyards – their expansion fueled in part by the proliferation of the newly invented REFRIGERATED RAIL CAR. It opened up markets for fresh beef all over the United States. Suddenly saloons and taverns from coast to coast began serving fresh steaks and chops. No bells and whistles. Just beef on a plate.

With thousands of cattle arriving each day, it’s no surprise that Chicago would soon become America’s steakhouse capital.

One of the greats was – and remains – GENE & GEORGETTI, which still thrives after 84 years in its original downtown location on Franklin Street in the heart of River North. There’s a lot to love about this never-ever-changing steak institution. First of all, it’s family owned and operated by Tony Durpetti and his wife, Marion. Old-school waiters who really know their stuff serve heavy, dark-crusted, prime-aged steaks from a white-hot 1100°F broiler. What stories the servers could tell – if ONLY they would. My guess is that regulars Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Jack Lemon, Lucille Ball, Bob Hope and Mayor Richard Daley might be involved.

Gene & Georgetti offers best-of-class renditions of all the steakhouse side dish classics – shrimp cocktails, cottage fried potatoes, onion rings, broccoli with cheesy, nutmeggy cream, etc. – along with a number of items (Clams Casino, spaghetti with clams) that reflect the restaurant’s Italian heritage.

The beef? It’s PRIME. The portions? ENORMOUS. The cocktails? STIFF. And the atmosphere? More masculine than a RUGBY SCRUM. Then there’s the dining room. It’s “Air Conditioned for Your Comfort.”

Everything about Gene & Georgetti expresses Tony’s philosophy: “Stay just as good as we are, and people will continue to come over and over.”

In my opinion, that is the equivalent of A FIRM HANDSHAKE.

But there is a NEW CHICAGO today – different from 1941. While Gene & Georgetti refuses to change, now carnivores can choose from a wide range of newer, more modern steakhouses – a few serving dairy cow steaks, some serving bison, some with newfangled iPad wine lists. Some, God help us, even have DJ booths. 

Among the best and highly respected of the newer breed are GT Prime Steakhouse, Bavette’s Steakhouse & Bar, Mastro’s Steakhouse, Maple & Ash, and RPM Steak.

A week ago, I and a group of PARASOLE colleagues dined at RPM STEAK on W. Kenzie Street in downtown Chicago. I chose RPM because Richard Melman is involved. And I think he is a genius.

RPM tends to have a more modern feel – smart, sleek and more elegant – and its steak offerings embrace the latest trends. PRIME DRY-AGED CORN FED…WET AGED FILETS…PURE JAPANESE WAGYU (at $28 to $55 per ounce!)…CROSS-BRED AMERICAN and AUSTRALIAN WAGYU…various GRASSFED OPTIONS (don’t bother)…they’re all on offer.

A word about WAGYU. “Wa” means Japanese. “Gyu” means cow.” As near as I can tell, the Japanese purebred WAGYU BLACK COW has, over the centuries, become the dominant and most desirable breed for Wagyu steaks.

The pampered cows, born and raised entirely in Japan, are highly controlled and were  not exported until a very limited few were allowed to leave between 1975 and 1997. Most went to the United States and Australia, where they were cross-bred to various degrees with BLACK ANGUS breeds, thus spawning the American and Australian Wagyu brands.

PURE JAPANESE WAGYU spends no time at all grass feeding. It’s lovingly nurtured by grain and beer, and is so heavily marbled that the meat is almost white. The American cross-breeds, while also heavily marbled, don’t go that far. I’ve tried them all and can report that each is loaded to the brim with fat and flavor. All are delicious. Unless I could try them all in a side-by-side taste test, I’m not certain which is best. I suspect that any distinction is without much of a difference.

Compared to classic American, dry-aged, corn-fed, perfectly marbled beef, Wagyu steaks have their own flavor profile and a totally different chew. The intense marbling and rich fat make for a steak that practically melts on your tongue and involves little chewing. Choose Wagyu for a luxurious and decadent eating experience. If you prefer a longer-lasting, nuttier umami and chew, then the dry-aged American Angus is for you.

As noted above, RPM offers steaks of every variety, each with a different “mouth feel,” texture and flavor. But the differences between RPM and an old-school steakhouse like Gene & Georgetti don’t stop with the steaks.

While RPM offers a traditional Caesar Salad and expected sides like steamed broccoli, the fun begins right from the start with a basket of FRESHLY MADE POPOVERS ($11) – which, by the way, are made from the exact same dough as British YORKSHIRE PUDDING, but are baked in muffin tins. When they rise high above the rim, they POP OVER.

Caviar service is offered at market price.

Risotto with rare White Truffles was special, as was Risotto with Morel Mushrooms. Neither is frequently seen at a steakhouse. Both are expensive.

Dover Sole, prepared tableside, is a show stopper…prepared with butter, butter, and more butter.

The “Millionaire’s Baker Potato” with fontina cheese and black truffles?  Oh, no! Not that again!  ($21)

For dessert, our table ordered the icy-hot Baked Alaska ($21), flamed tableside with maximum pizzazz.

And then, out of the blue…came COTTON CANDY. 

No, RPM Steak is not your father’s steakhouse. Gene & Georgetti is.  

One is not better than the other. RPM is a Corvette. Gene & Georgetti is a Mercedes. After all, a great steak is just a GREAT STEAK.

WTF

PHIL

Every now and then, I revisit my fondest memories of dining in Wisconsin. I’m not talking about squeaky cheese curds, or brandy Old Fashioneds, cranberries and booyahs, either.

No, I’m talking about dishes and restaurants that are forever welded into my culinary brain matter.

In Milwaukee, at the iconic KARL RATZSCH’S RESTAURANT, I feasted on the Platonic ideal of WEINER SCHNITZEL: a Viennese veal cutlet, pounded thin and lightly breaded, pan-fried ‘til crispy and golden, and served with several fresh lemon wedges (which, btw, are not ornamental; they’re for squeezing all over the cutlet). It spilled over the plate and into my gaping maw.

Among the supper clubs throughout the state, I think of the Wisconsin Dells and ISHNALA SUPPER CLUB, where I devoured a serious bathmat-sized hunk of incredibly flavored ROAST PRIME RIB with fantastic marbling and just the right amount of fat for taste, texture and big beefy flavor. Oh, and a sinus-clearing side of horseradish.

And speaking of big, beefy flavor…I don’t think you can beat a CULVER’S BUTTER BURGER, a fresh meaty treat with a butter-coated soft bun. It’s juicy, steaming hot and perfectly grilled to order on a searing-hot flattop. It’s a burger that makes you smile.

Finally, I remember ELSA’S in downtown Milwaukee. After all, how often do you eat a boneless, thick-cut PORK CHOP SANDWICH? Especially a country spice-rubbed half-pounder that’s simultaneously juicy, tender and smoky.

So it was that on a road trip to South Bend, Indiana to attend our grandson’s commencement a couple of weeks ago, we were routed through the heart of Wisconsin.

On the way, we spent the night in Madison…and, of course, dined (not just ate) at L’ETOILE, an icon of fine dining in the Midwest, situated across the street from the Wisconsin Capitol with a sweeping view of its white granite dome through floor-to-ceiling 30-foot-high windows.

Now, Joanne and I have immensely enjoyed dining at L’ ETOILE on several occasions, but this time we had the advantage of being joined by our friend Tim, riding “shotgun” with us, therefore enabling us all to see more plates of stunning food.

The menu is French-inspired American fare….and it is Michelin Star worthy. L’Etoile is helmed by its chef, Tori Miller, and his wife, Katherine, who is the pastry chef. Tori has a pedigree that includes a James Beard Award winner as well as a stint at 11 Madison Park in New York. The two are impassioned about supporting a tight network of local artisan farmers.

OK….LET’S GO……

Our friend Tim began with a LALO SOUR cocktail: meticulously prepared with Lalo white tequila, orgeat (don’t ask), almond, lime, star anise and orange bitters……which he dubbed as MAGICAL.

Sommelier Michael Kwas guided Joanne and me toward a bottle of FAILA Chardonnay 2021, from the Sonoma coast. Citrus driven and crispy, it ran $75.

Then we began with a PRE-AMUSE BOUCHE: 3 tiny French almond cakes (Financiers) topped with a dollop of intense whipped local goat cheese.

And then…the MAIN AMUSE BOUCHE: Honey Greek yogurt, grilled rhubarb, cucumber salatim sauce and a spicy SHUG – a kind of hot sauce.

PAIN D’EPI was offered next. Here’s where Katherine struts her stuff. Housemade epi – wheat sheaf-shaped, pull-apart French rolls – were airy yet substantial, with a golden crispy crust, and served with sweet local butter.

Lamb is not particularly popular in the U.S. and especially in the Midwest. Some say it’s because sheep do not do as well as cattle in our climate. Others say that because sheep are basically helpless, they are easy victims for rogue dogs, foxes and, in some parts, wolves. Not-so-hot memories from post-World War II still remain of eating mutton from tough, grizzled old sheep….much stronger, fattier and gamier than lamb.

And finally, lamb is a staple in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern countries. And there just aren’t a lot of Middle Easterners in much of the Midwest.

However, when our Greek friend, Tim, spotted LAMB TARTARE as an appetizer on the menu, he couldn’t resist. And thank God he ordered it. Featuring lamb from Wisconsin’s Pinn-Oak Ridge Farms, Tony Yang’s rhubarb, egg yolk, crispy baguette, and Bleu Mont Dairy bandaged cheddar, it would make Paul Bocuse proud…$27.

I couldn’t resist the FOIE GRAS TORCHON…creamy duck liver spread over toasted brioche with toasted pistachios, wild fennel and sorrel.

Joanne’s choice was fine art on a plate: MI-CUIT OF SEA SCALLOPS. Three mighty sea scallops, grilled rare with charred spring ramps, chanterelle mushroom conserva and fennel-saffron emulsion. BTW: Chefs sometimes use TURMERIC instead of SAFFRON to achieve that precious golden yellow on the plate because it’s cheaper, but economy comes at the expense of flavor. THIS WAS SAFFRON…..$ 27.

Now for our MAIN COURSES.

It’s called KING SALMON for a reason. A true Alaska delicacy, this majestic fish boasts a bright red color, rich flavor and a unique texture. L’Etoile crowns it with local Black Earth Valley asparagus barigoule (a Provençale white wine sauce), Castelvetrano olives and green garlic…$52, which today sounds like a bargain.

Tim, a dedicated red meat eater, chose the BEEF RIBEYE STEAK from Andrew and Lisa’s family-owned Son of a Beach farms in Monroe, Wisconsin. It came with smoked Maitake mushrooms, Sue Vang’s local fresh spinach, short ribs and spring onion…$62. I think steak always feels good and tastes like a winner. This preparation was dazzlingly complex, with unending nuances of flavor that never obstructed the primal pleasure of a ribeye. Every steak lover should be lucky enough to enjoy such a dish.

Lastly, I opted for the STURGEON ($52), a fish that’s something of a mystery to me. I know it’s found in Wisconsin lakes and is usually speared. Tori serves his version with a ration of fatty pork belly, escargot, fennel, mussels, clams and green tomatoes. It had a rich, buttery flavor and a firm meaty texture. In all? Flavors were precise and potent – a fat-and-protein party in my mouth. (BTW, FAT is the most misunderstood and maligned of ingredients. FAT IS FLAVOR. It’s also worth mentioning that many seafood dishes improve when socked with some kind of meat.)

L’Etoile had a VEGETARIAN MAIN DISH on the menu consisting of kale shoots, wood sorrel, yogurt, pickled ramps, poblano emulsion and breakfast radishes.  “NO FRIGGIN’ WAY,” I said to myself. I’ve heard somewhere that vegetarian cooking is like Casablanca without Bogart.

And now….DESSERT.

I love a pure, classic FRENCH CRÈME BRULEE made with nothing but heavy cream, egg yolks, vanilla bean and sugar. But I also like ‘em “tricked-up” a bit. L’ Etoile gives this elemental dessert a springtime kick in the pants with the addition of rhubarb compote and bourbon cream, and then tops it with a rosemary cookie…$15. Joanne is a crème brulée connoisseur and she loved it.

Tim, who believes that the only appropriate follow-up to a ribeye is chocolate, chose a dessert called – wait for it – “Chocolate.” This showstopper paired a chocolate-peanut butter caramel bar with three dulce de leche profiteroles crowned with hot fudge, fresh blackberry sauce and salted peanuts. I can’t tell you how it tasted; he refused to share.

Poor me: I had to make do with Wisconsin Artisan Cheeses – three different wedges…probably all made by hand in small batches. But I’ve been to the mountain top. And I have had the mother of all blue cheeses…SOCIÉTÉ from the town of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon in France.  Made from unpasteurized sheep’s milk, it’s creamy and moist with emerald-green veining. And I have yet to find a blue cheese in the states that rivals its taste…BUT WAIT….WAIT.

The blue cheese wedge on my cheese board was spectacular – different than Société, but equally as good in its own right. Although our server undoubtedly told us, I don’t remember what dairy farm produced it.

At the meal’s end and after dessert, a plate of three deep, dark chocolate truffles were presented: the perfect finale to a delightful meal.

And as we were getting ready to leave, our server showed up with a warm, soft and gooey cellophane-wrapped OATMEAL COOKIE for each of us to take home. NICE TOUCH. I ate mine (and perhaps Joanne’s) before going to sleep. It was that kind of night.

A word about the prices: L’Etoile’s six-course tasting menu is $175 (more with wine pairings). Dine à la carte as we did and three courses will run about $100-120 before alcohol, tax and tip). To be on the safe side, budget maybe $175 per person and probably two-and-a-half hours minimum for dinner. That isn’t everyday dining for most folks, but it’s a bargain nevertheless. L’Etoile (which in French means “the star”) is indeed shooting for the stars. From the quality of ingredients and caliber of cooking to the standard of service and appointments (widely spaced tables in front of those amazing windows), this restaurant is aiming for perfection. Being on the receiving end of such an effort is a privilege that’s hard to assign a price to. All I can say is that we walked out of there feeling like our dinner was a bargain – and that L’ ETOILE is one of our very favorite spots in America.

I ain’t lying.

WTF

PHIL

P.S. EYE CANDY…..

Here are a few more images of L’Etoile’s magic cooking that Joanne and I have enjoyed over the years….

1…..In the late summer, I remember the smooth, buttery and silky CORN SOUP made with a rare hybrid corn and especially the garnish on the rim of the bowl…..a mix of blackberries, popcorn kernels and candied violets.

2……MEATY PORK BELLY and CRISPY RICE PUFF….salty and yummy.

3……CHAR-GRILLED OCTOPUS with Japanese eggplant, pearl onions and cilantro.

4……BELLE FARMS FOIE GRAS, with sweet corn and wild chanterelles.

5……In the fall, I had RABBIT TERRINE EN CROUTE with brown butter-braised carrots and sauce gribiche (a cold hardboiled egg-based sauce with mustard, cucumbers, capers and tarragon).

6……FOUNTAIN PRAIRIE FARMS’ dry aged Scottish Beef New York strip steak with green and yellow beans, mushrooms and spring onion confit.

7……As a petit four, we once had house-made CARAMEL POPCORN with two chocolate truffles on the side.

8……Oh yes, from time to time, they also make their own salty and sweet FIDDLE FADDLE.

L’ ETOILE has dishes that you or I will probably never, ever make at home.

It’s FRISKY and FUN.

And it’s HEAD, SHOULDERS and GENITALS above most any restaurant that you’ll find in the Midwest (or most anywhere else).

WTF

PHIL

As many of you readers know, I grew up in rural Illinois among factory workers and farmers. Corn was the crop and consequently the cows in the area were well fed and well marbled – no grass feeding in America’s heartland.

Living cheek by jowl in a household of three families was wonderful for me as the only child in the house, doted over by two grandmas, one aunt, an uncle and, of course, my mom and dad.

And as stretched as our budget was, we always seemed to eat well, if frugally.

Beside wild rabbit and squirrel in the fall and crappies from the Illinois-Hennepin Canal in summer, BEEF was the main domesticated meat at our supper table. Hamburgers were always served on sliced Wonder Bread. When she felt like getting fancy, my Mom treated us to platters of Sloppy Joes.

Kewanee had a lot of Eastern Europeans and a particularly large Polish population from whom someone in our household must have pilfered a recipe for Stroganoff. Ours, however, was most always made with hamburger and only rarely with delightfully flavorful and chewy bottom round steak.

Birthdays and anniversaries often called for a chuck roast, cooked until it was falling off the bone and served with winter vegetables that had been braised for hours.   It was a lip-smackingly good pot roast.

All in all, we did pretty good with not much money.

But Sunday was different. Sunday Dinner was the meal of indulgence. After church, all members of our household would gather at the dinner table as well as a guest or two. A frequent invitee was Leo Lester, who worked at the liquor store. I marveled at how many helpings of food he took and I was especially impressed with his ability to sop up gravy with soft-folded slices of white bread from the six-inch stack in the center of the table.

What made the meal special? My mom would shop at the A & P on Saturday and pick up a 5 lb. bottom round rump roast for Sunday dinner. No premium beef cuts for our house. Our rump roast came directly from the tough ass end of the cow. But mom roasted it LOW and SLOW and WELL DONE. I loved it.

Dinner was accompanied by scalloped canned corn and buttery mashed potatoes. Much to my frustration, cousin John often positioned himself within easy reach of the potatoes and loaded his plate with countless spoonfuls so that by the time the potatoes were passed to me, only a few flimsy, mushy scraps remained. Periodically I fixed it so that I reached the table first and claimed the potato-adjacent seat. I fondly recall the look on John’s face when the empty serving bowl reached him. It was delicious.

All that maneuvering took place around 1948 or 1949. Now, set your clock to the present.

Joanne and I are checking out food at London pubs.

One Sunday evening we dined at THE HARWOOD ARMS in Walham Grove W-6. It’s the only pub in London with a Michelin Star. 

On the menu was SUNDAY ROAST.

It was a one-plate feast consisting of sliced rare roast beef, braised vegetables, roasted potatoes and a hot popover – all worthy of that Michelin star.

Over the course of our trips to London, we took note of just how many restaurants, pubs and hotels were touting Sunday Roasts. Advertisements were everywhere.

Luxury hotels, oozing with grandeur, like CLARIDGE’S, THE CONNAUGHT and THE LANESBOROUGH carved their SUNDAY PRIME RIB ROAST elegantly at tableside from vintage rolling silver trolley’s for about $100 per person.

But it wasn’t just fancy places that served up a Sunday Roast. Old school pubs, many of them quite modest, were also in the game. THE AUDLEY, in Mayfair, served a version tempered with a weenie to lower the cost (the weenie was good, especially with an eye-watering dollop of hot English mustard). The price? About $40.

Other Sunday Roasts in that price range featured roast chicken or roast pork loin instead of roast beef. I have no doubt that if you ventured out of Mayfair into London’s less hoity-toity neighborhoods, you could enjoy a version of this dish for somewhat less than $40.

I can’t understand why it didn’t occur to me sooner, but recently I asked myself: WHY NOT SUNDAY ROAST AT MANNY’S?

And so it has begun. Chef Jason Smith invites you to enjoy a PROPER SUNDAY ROAST with all the trimmings:

Salt roasted, 40 day aged PRIME RIB ROASTED pink right to the edge, lashed with homemade gravy and served with warm crispy pan-roasted potatoes and root vegetables, accompanied by a freshly baked popover….Every Sunday, from 4:00 PM, priced $44.95.

W.T.F.    ENJOY, ENJOY

PHIL

P.S.  A bit of history: Sunday Roast has been an English tradition since the 15^th century, when rounds of beef were spit-roasted and served only on the Christian Sabbath, as many abstained from weekday meat eating for reasons of religion. In fact, King Henry the VII is said to have commanded his chef to commence the roasting before church, so that the meal would be ready upon his return. Among those who joined him were his serfs and members of the Royal Guard (who, to this day, are referred to as “Beefeaters.”). I invite you to join us at Manny’s and make Sunday your Day of Roast.

Growing up in Kewanee, Illinois, my experience with Italians and Italian food was limited to two things. First was the curious MATRANI FAMILY, my grandmother’s friends who lived a few blocks away from us over on Burr Street. I liked them well enough – they were always friendly – but I must admit that as a seven-year-old, I thought they talked kinda funny. Out of suspicion and perhaps a little fear, I gave them a wide berth.

The second memory is of my Mom occasionally making EYE-TALIAN SPAGHETTI on winter Sunday afternoons when she was off work. I recall the hours she spent watching her sauce simmer on our two-burner stove. The moment of drama came when she added the olive oil, an ingredient so exotic that the local A&P grocery store didn’t even carry it. In Kewanee at that time, olive oil was only sold in pharmacies. So, after her Saturday afternoon shift at Knepps Dress Shop, she’d walk down to the BERG & DINES DRUG STORE and pick up what I guess was a 3-ounce bottle of the enchanting and slightly alien liquid.

Near the end of the cooking process, my mom would summon me to the kitchen. I’d watch her would take the tiny bottle, add only a few scant drops to the sauce…and then recoil, saying “OH NO, Phil! Do you think I added too much?”

I don’t remember what I said, but as a second grade student and blossoming vulgarian, I probably responded, “F**K NO, MA”…HIT IT AGAIN”. A Palmolive soap mouth cleansing followed.

That’s it: my Italian food experience growing up. We didn’t even get a PIZZA HUT in Kewanee ‘til 1972.

Just recently, one of our Parasole colleagues took a two-week vacation to Italy and spent a lot of time on the AMALFI COAST. She sent numerous pictures back to all of us during her visit.  And Joanne and I couldn’t help but recall our trips there during the BUCA days.

Among my favorite regions is CAMPANIA, home to the towns of POSITANO, NAPLES and CASERTA – each known globally for a culinary masterpiece.

Let’s begin with POSITANO and the surrounding region.

LEMONS. Herculean in size, grown on the steep, steep terraced hillsides of Amalfi on the Mediterranean Sea.

A staple of the region for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years, these gigantic lemons were – according to lore – cultivated to provide the vitamin C necessary to protect seafarers from scurvy. 

Today Amalfi lemons are protected by the official and rigid rules of the COSTA d’ AMALFI I.G.P.

The pulp is pleasantly sour, but the thick peel, with its superior aromatic potency, is what’s prized in dishes like SPAGHETTI AL LIMONE and LEMON TIRAMISU, in which layers of flavor-bombed lemon sponge cake are cemented together with creamed mascarpone cheese.

And, of course, there’s LIMONCELLO, the digestivo made by steeping lemon zest and peels in vodka until the oils are released, then adding simple syrup.

Can you get drunk on limoncello? YOU BETCHA!

And now, BONUS TIME: a restaurant not to miss if you are in Positano…

LA SPONDA RISTORANTE at the HOTEL SIRENUSE. In this Michelin two-star dining room, iconic and beautiful seafood towers are paraded through the dining room like a trophy wife. Snag an outdoor table overlooking the Mediterranean at sunset. Engagement rings are passed out as you enter the restaurant.

Next is NAPLES – plucky Naples, gritty Naples, with the ever-present smoldering MT. VESUVIUS as a backdrop.

This is the home of the luscious, justly famous SAN MARZANO TOMATO, the product of Italy’s long, hot summers and the volcanic soil in which it’s grown.

Note: U.S. supermarkets abound with imposters. Last week I saw fresh “San Marzano” tomatoes labeled “Product of Mexico.” So be sure to look for the official “D.O.P.” designation of origin.

I’ve never seen fresh San Marzano tomatoes in American grocery stores. But do not despair! LUNDS-BYERLY’S carries the officially designed ALESSI canned product.

Is it any good? Well, when I was in MARCELLA HAZAN’S cooking school in Bologna, Italy, the master Italian cook used canned San Marzano’s in her marinara sauce because, she said, they were harvested and canned at their absolute peak of ripeness, and therefore more predictably flavorful than fresh.

BTW, just before serving, Marcella socked her marinara with a slug of insanely good BUTTER.  That made for some TASTY-ASS sauce.

Another bonus if you’re Naples: MIMI ALLA FERROVIA restaurant near the train station.

“Ferrovia” . in Italian, means train station. A word of caution, though: Hire a taxi or car and driver to take you to and from the restaurant and you’ll be just fine. REALLY…YOU WILL.

Known for traditional Neapolitan cooking, MIMI boasts “just off the boat” seafood that’s prepared not to impress, but only to bring you pleasure. The best part? It does both. Mimi is Michelin starred, and Mimi is IN THE HOUSE.

Finally, we arrive at CASERTA, a tiny town a few kilometers north of Naples just off the A-1.

This is epicenter of BUFFALO MOZZARELLA or as they spell it, “bufala mozzarella.”

Yes, it’s mozzarella made with WATER BUFFALO milk (as opposed to “Fiori di latte,” or cow’s milk).

Now, water buffalo are said to have been brought to Italy from East India several hundred years ago – possibly the 10^th century – because cows could not tolerate the region’s heat. By contrast, water buffalo thrived in Italy’s south. Better yet, they happened to produce milk that was creamier, richer and fattier than cow’s milk. And as we all know, FAT IS FLAVOR. It’s also double the calories. Who cares?

Many of the “Caseifici (dairies) are still family owned and operated, as was the one we always visited: CASEIFICIO IL CASOLARE, where we were warmly and genuinely greeted.

In addition to the most famous antipasto, INSALATA CAPRESE (tomato and mozzarella), there are a host of other bufala mozzarella preparations worth trying – all with basil, all with olive oil and salt. My favorites include mozzarella with fresh figs and mozzarella with summer peaches. They’re the culinary embodiment of a sunny beach day.

But here’s the rub: Bufala mozz has an exceedingly short shelf life. Only a very few stores, primarily on the East Coast, carry the fresh product. The cheese is made in Italy on day one. It’s shipped by air on day two. And it better be sold by day three.

By day four, IT’S NO LONGER GOUDA.

Sorry.

BUT…W.T.F. PHIL