Yet again I have been absent for an extended interval, and to you, my readers, I can only say, "mea culpa".
I said something rather different to the court, mind you, for you see, my absence has been due to some unfortunate legal complications of an incident originating with a bit of Châteaubriand billed as Kobe beef. The beef was tough, domestic, badly overcooked, and almost certainly not even Wagyu, let alone properly pampered Kobe. This travesty was served with an architectural wedge of congealed polenta doubtless capable of supporting the combined weight of myself and half the kitchen staff, together with a combination of badly undercooked fava beans and appalingly overcooked brussels sprouts. Oh, and huge sprigs of parsley.
My subsequent rather spirited discussion with the individual billing himself as the chef eventually came to involve a variety of sharp and/or heavy kitchen implements, culminating in what I felt was a very creative though rather messy use of a mandoline and chinois upon his person. This lively exchange was followed by visits from emergency medical services and the Seattle police, the latter of whom sadly failed to see the signficant public service I had done by rendering that charlatan unable to reproduce.
Alas, my difficulties relating to this situation have not yet ended. I am certain that a jury of my peers would acquit me instanter, but given the unlikelihood of finding any of my actual peers attending jury duty, I may suffer further enforced absence in the not-too-distant future.
Regardless, for the moment, I am here, and I am here to discuss food. On advice of counsel, I shall refrain from naming the site of the abovementioned incident. Instead, I would like to give an update on the state of Porcella Urban Market.
Loyal readers (should any such remain) may recall that I recently expressed some trepidation as to whether Porcella would recover from the loss of Chef Noah Mellich.
I am happy to report that I have dined twice at Porcella in the past month, and the quality is indeed as high as ever. True, the character of the place has changed somewhat: It's now a bit more of a normal cafe, and less the fascinating upscale deli market it once was. The quality of service, too, has yet to catch up with the transformation, but nonetheless, I can still recommend Porcella heartily.
For those who are not familiar with Porcella, allow me to re-post my first visit to Porcella as it happened a year ago:
Porcella Urban Market
10245 Main St
Bellevue, WA 98004
(425) 286-0800
(From November, 2006)
Being ever the optimist, I decided today to continue my search for a decent éclair.
First I called Huffman's in Kirkland. They claimed that they would make proper éclairs, but only as a special order with 48 hours' notice. I shall keep that in mind, I suppose, but given the history of my search, I am fairly certain that they would not make the éclairs properly. I would then be forced to resort to pitchforks and torches, tar and feathers, or one of the other traditional remedies one applies to mountebanks who fail to deliver goods as promised. I am trying to cut back on such activities, so I think it best not to risk it.
I then called Belle Pastry on Main Street in Bellevue. I had decided that it might be considered a bit supercilious to use the phrase “crème pâtissière” when otherwise speaking English. Not wishing to appear pretentious (perish the thought, and no snickers from you lot) I foolishly decided to say "pastry cream" instead of "crème pâtissière".
I had a conversation on the phone about how important it is that the éclairs be filled with proper pastry cream, and I was assured that yes, they do use pastry cream in their éclairs. Off to Bellevue with me!
I spend my journey in breathless anticipation of my impending gustatory bliss. Upon arrival, I look in the case and - horrors! - the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream. Those monsters.
Perhaps I am simply missing the real éclairs. Could they be hidden in the back? I call over the clerk. This is the very woman with whom I spoke on the phone. The one who assured me that the éclairs were filled with pastry cream. I point out that the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream.
"That's the kind of pastry cream we use." I am struck dumb. I understand that it can be hard to find good help, but how the hell can anyone work in what purports to be a French bakery and not know what pastry cream is? Worse, how can they not know and assume that they do?
Pretentious or not, I resolve henceforth to call it only "crème pâtissière". In this way, I will elicit either the incomprehension that will warn me to ignore whatever the person says, or I will stumble upon one who knows both what it means and what it is.
I gaze balefully upon the clerk, eyes burning with the seething rage that has infused me at this base deception, this foul fraud that has raised my hopes and dashed them once more upon the rocky shores of desolation. I prepare to vent my overflowing spleen, but then... I cannot. As I regard the face of this poor girl who does not understand even the things that surround her each day, my rage burns away to ash, and I can feel naught but pity for her. I depart.
Crushed with disappointment, I wander aimlessly along the street, thinking perhaps to raise my spirits at a pleasant-looking Italian place I noticed on the way in. I soon discover that they are closed for lunch on Saturdays. Clearly this is not my day for food.
But then...
I plod dejectedly back toward my Mercedes (a C32 AMG, the love of my automotive life, sadly now showing her age). I am trying to decide whether I should continue my search for quality food, or simply resign myself to eating an enchirito, when I see "Porcella Urban Market". From the outside, it appears to be an upscale deli/supermarket. Definitely a step up from Taco Bell, but I expect little more than that.
I wander in, and lo! I find an outstanding French bistro. No éclairs, sadly, but at least there are no bad éclairs, either.
They have a deli-style counter with items like duck confit and what appears to be a very refined pâté de foie gras, but they also have a wide-open kitchen with counter seating, and an excellent, if somewhat pricey, full menu.
I order the rabbit and foie gras pâté, and the Muscovy duck. For a drink, since my stomach sadly cannot tolerate the wine this meal deserves, I ask for a coke. They do not carry coke.
Let me say that again: They. Do. Not. Carry. Coke.
Amazing.
Unable to decide for the moment whether to be impressed or simply bemused by their dedicated snobbery, I look in the drink case, and find a very nice "French Limonade". My unbespectacled eyes persist in reading it as "French Lemonade" when the contents are clearly limonade, but I attribute the mismatch to overzealous translation. Indeed, such mistranslations are often a positive sign as to the authenticity of an imported food, so I am actually somewhat encouraged.
Limonade is what Sprite wishes it could be, the clear citrus beverage that stands above all others. Like most imported sodas, it is made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup, and therefore has a cleaner sweetness that does not interfere with the subtle citrus flavors. (Blame U.S. tariffs and subsidies for the ascendance of corn syrup over sugar; a travesty all around.)
Such mundane thoughts maunder through my mind only for as long as it takes to purchase the bottle, open it, and pour a small glass with just a single cube of ice.
In the instant that this clear liquid nectar touches my lips, I am transported back to my favorite sidewalk café on the Canabière in Marseilles, where I oft would journey when on break from my studies at the Sorbonne.
I once again feel the gentle breeze wending its way past the milling crowds, struggling bravely against the mistral winds to bring me a wisp of salt from the Vieux Port, as I sit beneath the Mediterranean sun with ma belle soubrette Pauline at my side. We share a single bottle of limonade to last us the afternoon, for we can afford nothing more. When our lone bottle is at last as empty as our combined pocketbooks, she licks the final drops of that sweet elixir from my quivering tongue, and... Ah, but some memories are best left unvoiced.
I savor my limonade as I slowly return to the present from my fond remembrance of things past, awaiting my meal and cautiously anticipating further sensory delights.
When the pâté arrives, it is served with the obligatory cornichons (pleasantly garlicky, though never my favorite), sweet caramelized onions, two kinds of mustard, and bread sticks. The bread sticks have me momentarily concerned, until I realize that they are not so much breadsticks as breadstick-shaped mini-baguettes. The crust is thin but just crunchy enough, and the inside is nicely moist. It does not quite meet my standards as a baguette, but it vastly exceeds my expectations for bread sticks, so I elect to call it a victory.
I put a small piece of the pâté on a breadstick with some of the caramelized onions, take a bite... Heaven. The pâté is light on the foie gras, and has a nice rustic texture that accentuates the mild flavor of the rabbit. I settle in to taste all the various combinations of the ingredients on my plate, and all of them satisfy quite well. I will confess that I have on occasion had slightly better pâté, but coming on the heels of the surprising limonade, on a day when I thought my hopes for fine dining had been dashed... How could I be less than content?
Next comes the duck. It is served with figs, on a bed of polenta. I must confess that I have never been a big fan of polenta, and in fact, I almost skipped the whole dish simply because it came with polenta. I am profoundly pleased that I did not.
The Muscovy duck is good, serviceable duck. Slightly on the tough side (for such is the nature of the Muscovy duck; tough yet savory), but cooked to a beautiful medium rare, with perfectly seasoned skin, the figs and a savory sauce on the side... Again I am transported, this time to a small restaurant somewhere in the countryside between Orleans and Bourges, I believe it was...
It was at the end of a long day of travel that I stumbled into a rustic farmhouse with no more than four tables, unable to believe my good fortune at finding a prix fixe that included canard à l'orange, but would not bankrupt me.
The meal that day started with a hearty soupe à l'oignon filled with great chunks of rustic bread and enough gruyere to melt my heart and begin the process of hardening my youthful arteries. I remember rationing myself on that soup, to ensure that I would be ready to fully enjoy the duck when it came.
As I ate my soup, the restaurateur came to the table to tell me that I was in for the rare treat of wild duck that he himself had shot that morning while out walking his fields. When my plate arrived, it held slices of duck (doubtless Rouen duck, though at that age I could not yet identify the species) cut in precisely the same way as the Muscovy duck set before me today. The wild freshness of that duck in France more than made up for any flaws in its preparation, just as the toughness of the Muscovy duck adds to its character, enhancing the sensory experience at this serendipitous meal.
I focus on the duck, dreading the polenta I see beneath it. Until this day, I believed that polenta was little more than a thick, undifferentiated mass with less flavor than unsalted grits and the texture of day-old cream of wheat.
Today, however, the polenta is the star of the plate, even in the presence of that excellent duck. And that, my friends, is a major achievement.
Rather than the usual congealed lump, this polenta is a cross between tapioca and a fine risotto, with a savory flavor having a depth I never knew was possible in the dish. I find myself in the midst of an exceedingly rare culinary experience where there is a complexity to a flavor that I cannot precisely identify. My mouth wants to attribute it to some kind of veal or chicken stock, but the flavor is not precisely what one would expect for those ingredients.
Upon inquiring, I learn that the method of preparation is remarkably simple, if a bit time-consuming. The chef sweats onions, shallots, and sage in butter, adds the polenta, and fills the pot with milk. He then stirs with a whisk, and later with a spoon, until the polenta has achieved a thick (but not congealed) consistency, and then he serves it. This process both imparts the complex flavors I encountered and ensures the outstanding texture I observed.
Why is it, then, that so many restaurants get it so badly wrong? Only now have I come to understand the potential of polenta. I have become a zealous convert to properly-made polenta, and those who do it incorrectly will henceforth incur my wrath.
The meal was so outstanding that I decide to break one of my rules and order coffee from the place where I just had a fine meal. I made this rule years ago after one too many fine dinners was marred by an inferior shot of espresso served at the end, and have not regretted it since.
Porcella, however, has the good sense to acquire its beans from Caffe Vita, which is among the the top few roasters in the region (which is to say it is among the best on the entire continent, if I might exhibit a bit of well-justified regional chauvinism). I take this fact as a sign from heaven, and order a latte to go.
I notice that the man who makes my espresso (an obvious Francophone who seems to truly understand my pain as regards éclairs) draws the shots very short. Clearly the man understands how espresso should be made, so I refrain from adding my usual sugar (which I add to fight the harshness of poorly roasted or poorly prepared coffee), hoping against hope that I have at last found a place where one can obtain both good food and good coffee.
Again, I am hugely impressed. There is no hint of bitterness in the coffee. I drink it unsugared, and I am content with life once again.
Now, if they only chose to add proper éclairs to their menu, I would have to nominate the owners for beatification.
- Ram
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