Chipotle Feeding Veal Cheeks to the Masses?

I'm going to confess to you my most dreaded walk of shame: it's to and from the Chipotle down the street from my apartment.

How could I - someone who claims to live for food adventure and experiment - settle for the ubiquitous Mexican MacDonald's?
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I offer no good excuse.
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It's just that sometimes I succomb to my two worst culinary vices: thift and convenience. Afterwards, I discard the take-out bag and receipt so no one will find them. I devise alibis, and, if asked, I deny any cheap and quick burrito-related activities.

So imagine my surprise to learn that Chipotle might serve an interesting, unusual dish - the same one found in some of the very best restaurants of DC.

That would be cow cheeks.  And, as odd as cheek-chewing might sound, if you haven't had them, you should go as soon as possible to Zaytinya or Cafe Atlantico.  There, you can order veal cheeks and have possibly the tenderest meat eating experience of your life. Don't just take it from me that they're are fantastic; check out the Washingtonian's best dishes of 2010.

Chef Isabella's award-winning veal cheeks at Zaytinya

They are so tender because, after a cow devotes its life to doing little else besides chewing grass, its cheeks are all muscle and collagen. The best chefs know how to braise these three-inch medallions for hours until the collagen breaks down into gellatin, and the cheek becomes as delicate as pate.

Through history, many cultures have braised cheeks like this, but maybe the first to do so were the cooks of Northern Mexico. They wrapped seasoned beef heads in leaves and simmered them in underground pits, and referred to the smoky, velvety result as "barbacoa."

Pic courtesy of osomin.com

Which brings me back to Chipotle, which, by offering barbacoa, has incurred the wrath of barbacoa purists who are skeptical that Chipotle digs an earthen pit in their kitchens or goes anywhere near the head and cheek.

Just the thought of this made me giddy. I would love to be a fly on the wall if and when Joe Meat-and-Potatoes - enemy of interesting food and Chipotle addict - learns he's unknowingly been scarfing baby cow cheeks three days a week for the last ten years.

Chipotle's website didn't say what part of the cow their so-called barbacoa comes from, and their internet customer service never answered my question on the subject, so I decided to do some first-hand research. I went outside, pulled my coat collar up over my face, and gazed straight ahead as I walked quickly over to Chipotle.

The employees behind the counter appeared to be of Mexican descent, so you'd think they'd know about the legendary barbacoa, but all I got were cheeky reactions when I asked for details about this dish. Back at my apartment, though, my first bite fell far below my expectations for long-simmered cheek meat.

All I had to show for my walk of shame was this pile of this somewhat tough, shredded beef?

I needed the real veal.

So I put down my fork and dialed Wagshal's Market. Hours later, the manager, Pam, had hooked me up with a pound of raw veal cheeks.

And this wasn't some pale, factory farm veal.  This was the good stuff.  I could tell by the natural rose color of the meat that these baby bovines had enjoyed a varied, nutritious diet rich with grains during their short but happy lives.

Following a recipe for veal cheeks found in Emeril's restaurants, I mixed the meat in a large, non-reactive bowl filled with red wine and Madeira, along with chopped onions, celery, garlic, bay leaves, rosemary, and peppercorns. I covered with a plastic wrap and marinated overnight.

The next day, I seasoned the cheeks and browned them in hot oil.

In a separate pan, I cooked the vegetables from the marinade until they began to caramelize.

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Then I added back in the marinade along with water, tomato paste, thyme, oregano, paprika, Italian seasoning, and crushed red peppers, and brought the whole thing to a boil.

Want to put your willpower to an extreme test?
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Just try to follow the next step: leave the cheeks undisturbed for five hours while they simmer in the oven at 275 degrees. An insurgent aroma of thyme, Madeira, and succulent veal will stage a coup de'tat on the stale air of your home, drawing you back again and again to your oven door.

I had to find an excuse to leave my apartment, or I knew without a doubt that, two hours in, I would convince myself that the veal was ready for devouring. When, five hours later, I returned to my place, I went straight to the kitchen and found that the braising liquid, vegetables and veal had melded to form an almost pudding-like consistency:

I thought about following the Italian cold-weather tradition of eating everything together as a stew, but I decided to isolate the cheeks to see how they compared to Zaytinya's version.

I wasn't disappointed.

They were incredibly tender without the unfortunate mushiness you sometimes get when restaurants cook them for too long. When cutting into the cheek, my spoon met all the resistance of melted cheese:

The only downside?  Knowing that such an exceptional dish is within my grasp, the occasional walk to Chipotle is going to be all the more shameful.

The Best-Cooked Secret at Spice Xing

The menu at Spice Xing, Sudhir Seth's new restaurant in Rockville, is like a scratch-and-taste history book.  Behind nearly every dish are fate-changing moments in Indian history. 

And, because the restuarant looks through a glass plate into the past, the a la carte items are more interesting and unique than many other Indian joints that sit you through the same old paneer, masala, vindaloo regimen - it's like they think Indian dining should be as rote as drills for cricket practice.

Vegetable Cutless

Take, for example, the vegetable cutless appetizer.  "Cutless" is how East Indian laborers heard the Brits when they first stepped ashore in Bengal and described their batter-covered cutlets. 

It's no wonder they couldn't concentrate on pronunciation, distracted as they must have been by these powerful flavors.  The version at Spice Xing is perfectly crispy and sweetened with beets to contrast the minced vegetables.

Balchao Shrimp

Another must-have is the balchao shrimp.  Sudhir's history lesson?  When the Portuguese colonized the Goan region of India in the 16th century, they brought a new mysterious liquid with them: vinegar.  Indians learned to mix this souring agent with chilis and coriander. 

And the taste?  One of the top masalas in DC.  It's even better than the balchao calamari at Indian Ocean, the excellent restaurant in Van Ness that specializes in Goan cuisine.

The only shortcoming of the balchao: no tears or enflamed tongue.  It seems like a number of the dishes, including balchao, forgo red chilis for the cooler Kashmiri ones.  This place is called Spice Xing, right?  One member of our dining party, Joanna, can't stand hot food, but Xing was no problem for her.

Bread Pakora

But back to Sudhir's food/history lesson - make sure to get the bread pakora, a chutney sandwich dipped into besan butter and deep-fried.  These snacks are a staple of Gymkhana, the oldest and most exclusive country club in India.  When blue-blooded Indian gentry ate pakora in the early 1900s, they didn't just swallow white bread - pride went down the gullet, too, as they tried to assimilate with oppressive British executives.

If I have one complaint about Spice Xing, it's that all the great backstories are lost on the patrons.  Why not include good descriptions on the menu so we understand that the history is as rich as the curry? 

But even then, like all historical accounts, the menu at Spice Xing wouldn't tell you the full story.  Because the most amazing dish at Spice Xing isn't even on the menu. 

Yes, the best-cooked secret at Spice Xing is the chicken saag.  Sudhir cooks pieces of chicken in butter and garam masala infused spinach until they are incredibly tender.

Chicken Saag

I was so taken with this dish that I called Spice Xing co-owner Harry Sanotra demanding to know why its excellence isn't on the menu.  He explained that Indian cuisine is so vast and diverse that it's impossible to list everything. 

Co-owner Harry Sanotra

The chicken saag's spot on the menu was taken by the lamb saag, which Harry described as "even more awesome" than the chicken.

Saag Gosht

Lamb dices simmered with spinach, cardamom and curry leaf

Well, our table had the lamb saag, and we didn't think it was quite as good.  Like history, though, it's open to interpretation.

Other highly recommended plates at Spice Xing:

Gobhi Simlamirch - 9/10 points

Cauliflower & bell peppers, tempered with wild onion seeds

Tandoori Wings - 7/10 points

Spicy tandoor broiled wings

Dahi Papri Chaat - 9/10 points

Seasoned yogurt with crispies and chicpeas

Tandoori Chicken - 7/10 points

Yogurt, ginger, and garlic marinated and cooked in the clay oven

One dish that was less well-received by our table, although it's gotten strong praise from other foodie pundits, was the aloo do piaza - cumin tempered potatos with scallions and bermuda onions.

Perfect Baltimore Funk at Peter's Inn

I thought I understood quintessential Baltimore food.

After ten years living there, I should know. 

Before I went to Peter's Inn this past weekend, if you were looking for a taste of the charm, I'd just tell you order up a linguini with clam sauce in Little Italy.  Or claw your way through a couple dozen blue crabs at Bahama Mama's.  And, while you're at it, get a $7 lamb gyro at any place in Highlandtown.

Don't expect any of these at Peter's.  No, the menu reads like a stuffy New American place on Capitol Hill; a quick scan reveals contemporary dishes like veal cheeks, seared rare tuna, and osso bucco.

This place?  Real Baltimore?  What's a burly, Natty Boh guzzling longshoreman supposed to do with seared rare tuna?

But now look closer.  Why can't you read the last "o" in osso bucco?  It looks like ... someone accidentally erased it -  the whole menu is written on a chalkboard!

In addition to the chalkboard, handwritten menus

New American restaurants in DC would call this ambiance suicide.  And that's not all.  The facade, which consists of nondescript bricks, a scuffed red door, and a crooked, misplaced drainage pipe, could easily be mistaken for a Hamden pool hall.
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Inside, you'll find a biker bar.  No, really.  As recently as the early 90s, Peter's Inn catered to the leather-clad, face-tattooed, unshowered variety of Baltimoreans, and the current owners haven't done much to polish the rough edges.  Yes, that picture on the wall is Johnny Cash giving you the finger.

And while New American restaurants in DC look down at Peter's, the beautiful thing is that Peter's clearly couldn't care less.  That's why it's a Baltimore classic right up there with Cafe Hon and Papermoon Diner.  Because, I realized as I scanned the shelves in the tiny dining room, filled with random articles like little league baseball trophies, what really makes an eating experience scream out Baltimore isn't any one particular kind of food.  What truly says Balimer - whether it's defiling yourself with Old Bay and tomalley during a crab feast, or sharing a bathroom with a punk-rock manikin at Papermoon, or sporting a beehive at Cafe Hon - is funkiness without apology.

Although they might read like the New American menus you find inside the Beltway, many of the items at Peter's are full of that Baltimore funk.  They pack strong, almost overpowering flavors that restaurants in the District shy away from.

Except for the veal cheeks, which were overcooked and mushy, each of the following was tastier and more memorable than versions of the same dish I've had in DC.  Best plates of the night were the shrimp with cheese grits and the seared rare tuna.

Scallops Rockefeller

Side of Cheese Grits

Three of hearts, celery, romaine and palm hearts with a dolce gorganzola dressing

Shrimp and Cheese Grits with Andouille Sausage. 

 Duck leg confit salad with roasted beets and a parmigana panna cotta

Braised Veal Cheeks

Seared rare tuna on fried won tons with seaweed salad

Wild rockfish fillet with a meyer lemon buerre blanc and wilted spinach

Jess looks excited about the French coffee press

What I'm Reading This Week

What's Maryland Fried Chicken? - Young and Hungry

Tim Carman researches Maryland fried chicken – is there such a thing? One conclusion: Maryland fried chicken is sort of like ragu alla bolognesein Emilia-Romagna: The dish can vary from household to household, but they’re all authentic.





School Lunches in Paris - Time

Menus are posted on the wall outside every school in the France. The variety on the menus is astonishing: no single meal is repeated over the 32 school days in the period, and every meal includes an hors d'oeuvre, salad, main course, cheese plate and dessert.  And yet, when I was in school, I was force-fed tater tots three days a week.




Anthony Bourdain Guest Stars as Dr. Tony on Yo Gabba Gabba - Serious Eats
 
Perhaps building his credentials for a new show called No Doctor’s Appointments, Anthony Bourdain brought his existential angst to a children’s show called Yo Gabba Gabba. And he just might have a future in children's programming - he really made me believe that Toody will get better in no time.
 

 
Oprah's Set Made Out of Chocolate - Grub Street Chicago

It looks like Oprah’s diet is over.  Ms. Winfrey belted out, "choooooooo-colaaaaaaaaaate" to announce that her entire set was edible, put together by Godiva-employed "chocolate set designers" (actual job title) to mimic the standard Oprah setup. The walls, the chairs, the chandelier, the fire in the fireplace — the only thing not fit to eat was O's signature on the wall.



Liberty Tavern Team Opens Two New Locations - Washingtonian

In a few weeks, the team behind Clarendon’s Liberty Tavern will open two new eateries in the same neighborhood: first they’ll debut Northside Social, a coffeehouse and wine bar, and later, Lyon Hall, a European-style brasserie.

Cooking Python

You open the freezer at Wagshal's Market at your own risk - it's a little like poking your head into the meat locker in Jurassic Park to make friends with the trapped velociraptor.

I usually spend about ten minutes shivering in front of this icebox, sifting through a menagerie of frozen freaks that includes wild boar, cornish game hen, and ostrich.

But my favorite resident of the freezer?  It's got to be the python.

Yes, python.  The gigantic snake.  The one that slithers through African jungles and occasionally gets the hankering to asphyxiate an antelope and swallow it whole.

Pam, the manager, says Wagshal's is the only place where you can fang a python in the D.C. area. After calling around to every butcher and market I could find on the Web, I can not only confirm her statement, but I'm also pretty sure Wagshal's is the only place that's even considered selling python.

Most of my survey subjects responded with a lengthy pause and then something like: "What do you mean?"  When I finally managed to convince them that I was sincerely looking for a 20 foot, 200 pound snake, they said, "Who would buy that?"

Good question. 

Surely only an eating pervert on omnivore steroids like me.  Surely Wagshal's carries python only as a novelty item.  Give the customers a chuckle before they put on their game faces and buy the brisket, right?

"It sells extremely well," says Pam.

Huh?

Well, well - I would be pretty impressed if District residents were feasting on python.  And while I'm not sure if this is the case, I was more than happy to pay Pam 42 bucks to see if python is good enough that it should be.

There were a few reasons for hope.

(See how the python comes out after the jump)

Sweetbreads and Pork Belly at Proof

It's no accident that owner Mark Kuller, a tax attorney, named his business Proof.   

And although it's a dining establishment, not a law office, Marcy and I found that a few of our culinary claims were rebutted by Proof.

Claim # 1: My offal recipe is the best thing since sliced sweetbreads.

Only hours before our visit, I was seen bragging about town that I'd perfected the art of cooking sweetbreads. 

My sweetbreads were rich.  My sweetbreads were creamy.  Hell, they were even a little sweet. 

But, above all, they were ... humiliated by Chef Haidar Karoum's version. 

There's no use denying it; his sweetbreads belong to another dimension.  The exterior is browned and seasoned with a well-blended dry rub so that it doesn't just impersonate, but becomes a perfectly seared steak.  Biting into the caramelized crust is like diving into one of Peter Luger's porterhouses - and discovering a creamy, unctuous filling.

Before Proof, I thought I had it all figured out.  At the moment, my signature, sweetbread and butter dish has never seemed farther out of reach. 

Claim # 2: Marcy and I can manipulate our waiter into getting whatever we want.

We've talked our way into just about everything. 

We've found our way into kitchens we weren't supposed to access; maneuvered into position for pictures with star chefs that just wanted to be left alone; and charmed waiters into showering us with free desserts.

At Proof, our luck ran out.

I was intrigued when the waiter mentioned that Chef Karoum enjoys cooking his sweetbreads and tartare so much that he's quick to accommodate patrons who want to double, triple, or, in the case of one ravenous diner, quadruple the portion sizes.

That made me wonder: instead of multiplying, could we divide? 

He paused to think it over, and we worked our mark.  Marcy flipped her hair and laughed playfully.  I put on my best nonchalant, take-it-or-leave-it James Bond expression.

It probably played more like Austin Powers, though, because he said no, foiling my designs to taste as many appetizers as possible.

That was a problem because, besides the sweetbreads, my only other appetizer was the pumpkin soup with roasted chestnuts, smoked duck, and foie gras.  The broth was green and the only ingredient I recognized from the menu was the duck. 

I was so convinced that they'd accidentally given me split-pea soup that I asked the waiter whether this was the case not once, but twice.  I proceeded to mutter over and over, "Where's the foie gras?" under my breath while searching sadly through the bowl with my spoon until Marcy shook me by the shoulders and smacked me hard across the face.

Claim #3: Restaurants don't serve dishes like pork belly as entrees because their customers can only handle strong flavors in small, appetizer-sized portions.

I was so sure about Claim #3 that I ran it proudly past our waiter for his approval.  He seemed to agree with me. 

Next thing I knew, he brought out my entree: a cassoulet with a gigantic chunk of pork belly, duck confit, and grilled sausage.

All three had strong flavors that, by my own logic, should have overwhelmed me, but all was forgiven because of that pork belly.  The fatty skin was salty, thick and crisp like a bulky potato chip.  Marcy had as much of it in one sitting as I've ever seen her eat vegetables, staining her vegetarian flag with pig grease.

By the end of the meal, Kuller, the owner, had established the case for his joint beyond a reasonable doubt.  Perhaps the strongest piece of evidence?  I was so full by the time I finished my entree that I had no room left for the much anticipated cheese plate.

More dishes from Proof:

Vadouvan Spiced Alaskan Halibut - steamed jasmine rice, sauteed sunflower shoots, coconut sauce

Path Valley Farms baby Asian greens with watermelon radish - lemon soy vinaigrette, crispy ginger

What I'm Reading

Ferran Adria Closing El Bulli - NY Times

Six months from now, El Bulli, the best restaurant in the world, will close its doors for good. Adria was losing half a million Euros a year on his restaurant and cooking workshop, but the financial problems aren't for lack of popularity - El Bulli has 3,000 people on the waiting list.


Honey Pig expands to Elicott City - How Chow

Honey Pig Korean Restaurant, home to some of the best pork belly in the country, is adding a new location.  And, although the owners could have given me everlasting bliss by opening up a spot in my Friendship Heights neighborhood, they decided to move to Elicott City - eight miles farther away from me than the one Annandale! 


Schitzobama Food Policies - Politico

Food policy observers say the Obama Administration is eating with both sides of its mouth.  On the one cheek, they claim to be interested in helping small farmers and the organic food movement; on the other, they promote biotechnology and genetically engineered crops.

Todd English Shows ABC How to Get Freaky - ABC News

When Todd English is cooking "in the heat of the moment," he prepares eggs that are slow-cooked in the shell, along with oysters and osetra caviar.  But I'm wondering about ABC News' decision to go with Todd for its Valentine's Day cooking special - according to Tom Sietsema, he left his wife at the altar.

Is Soda the New Tobacco? - Mark Bittman
Maybe, but with all the junk food and U.F.O.’s (unidentifiable food-like objects) out there, why pick on soda?  Should we really tax soda sales?  Did you know that sugared beverages are the No. 1 source of calories in the American diet?  They represent up to10 percent of the average caloric intake for children and teenagers.

Sweetbreads, Literally, from Wagshal's

People have lots of theories for why thymus and pancreas, the supreme offal, are called "sweetbreads." 

Some will tell you that "sweet" was chosen as a euphemism.  I guess the European peasants who began eating these glands to use every last scrap of their calves and lambs thought it sounded a bit unseemly to say, "Honey, please pass the neck gland."

Others claim sweetbreads got their name due to their rich flavor.  Rich, I'll spot you, but sweet?  That's a bit of a stretch.  Delicate?  Yes.  Milky?  When cooked right, fantastically so.  Milky Way?  Mmm, no.

Or so I thought.  That was before I checked out the method suggested in the Top Chef Cookbook for brining sweetbreads. 

Typically, you soak your sweetbreads in salt to draw out excess blood.  Other spices and seasonings stay in the cupboard until later in the cooking process. 

The Top Chef recipe tells you to add sugar to the brining broth, and, lo and behold, your sweetbreads are supposed to actually end up tasting sweet. 

It struck me that adding sugar might very well ruin the subtlety that I enjoy most about this delicate offal.  Making your breads literally sweet seems a little like chucking a well-balanced Merlot for a bottle of Manischewitz.  Still, I had to try it.  If you've never at least tasted the Jewish version of Mad Dog 20/20, can you truly appreciate your Merlot?

I got my sweetbreads at Wagshal's Market.  As usual, the manager, Pam, seemed to materialize out of thin air when she heard someone was buying something as cool as organ meat. 

I would hate to be Pam's opponent in the board game Foodie Craze.  Her knowledge is encyclopedic, and after receiving her culinary wisdom for bone marrow, squab, and pork belly, she's officially become my cooking coach.  The only problem is that she delivers her advice in such rapid-fire, it's like she's power reading from a recipe posted somewhere behind me, and I always miss a few details.

The steps below capture her recommendations as best I can recall.  I've vowed never again to enter Wagshal's without a notepad.

If you've never bought sweetbreads, you should know that, prior to cooking, sight and texture will be unpleasant for the faint of heart glands.  And be sure to warn everyone what's in the refrigerator.  Otherwise, your friend's search for a comforting snack will end with the blood-curdling scream of one who thinks he's encountered the brains of an alien.

After I soaked the sweetbreads in sugar and salt, I brought them to a boil.

I admired the organs in my hand, weighing my desire for a luxurious meal against the profit I could possibly make from a black market business deal.

The sinewy outer membranes covering the glands are tough.  How tough?

This tough.

You need to peel these membranes or you'll end up with chewy sweetbreads.  I can tell you from personal experience, you don't want to take that trip.


I dredged in flour, salt, and pepper, and I browned slightly.

I cooked a sauce of chicken stock, red wine, dried cherries, red onions, and trumpet of death mushrooms.  Between the offal and the mushrooms, this dish certainly had a theme of morbidity.

I basted the sweetbreads with the sauce and simmered for 10 minutes.  Then I added lemon juice and basted again.

And I plated.

Maybe it's pride of brothorship, but I thought my sugary brining broth added a subtle sweetness to the meat and a welcome nuance to a food that can sometimes seem bland. 

Of course, it was hard to tell whether the sweetness came from the offal or the syrupy, cherry-infused sauce, which collected in the folds of the trumpet mushrooms and played saccharine notes like a Nat King Cole holiday song.

But, after a series of failures at cooking sweetbreads, what was sweetest about this dish was the taste of success.