Is the Term "Supertaster" A Misnomer?

Supertasters were in the news this month, thanks to a recent study out of Penn State describing a bunch of differences between God’s chosen tasters (25 percent of Americans), normal tasters (50 percent), and those damned to whittle away their days with a mouth full of tasteduds.

In a classic case of overconfidence, much like Captain Smith calling the Titanic unsinkable, I immediately proclaimed myself a supertaster. The scientific basis for this conclusion was that I think about food constantly, and for some reason most of my friends seemed willing to buy that explanation. Where I went wrong was actually conducting an experiment trying to prove my tongue’s superiority.

The test was simple: swab some blue food coloring on your tongue, slap on a .25 inch reinforcement ring, and use a magnifying lens to count the number of bumps, or papilla, inside the circumference of the ring. Then, when you’re unsatisfied with your count, check for aberrations in your mirror, try placing the ring on different parts of your tongue, and then just look dejectedly for a while at your own reflection.

Loser                        Who Cares                   Bad Ass        

Courtesy of BBC

My "normal" papilla

As you may have guessed, I discovered that I am not a supertaster. You need to tally 35 or more papilla to qualify, and I could only find 24. That meant I was only an “average” taster.  I hear Tom Colicchio has 856.
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At least I could still look down on the pathetic non-tasters, but the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. That is, until I did some research, which has led me to seriously question the appropriateness of the term “supertaster.”

What’s so super about supertasters? Taste scientists believe people evolved extra papilla for detecting bitter tastes, which helped us avoid poisonous plants. That was nice hundreds of years ago, but it only comes in handy these days if you choose to spend your free-time snacking on randomly chosen jungle flowers. And these superb tongues carry some super burdens. Because they have thousands of extra tastebuds, supertasters are easily overwhelmed by sweet, sour, and bitter flavors. For example, they find themselves avoiding vegetables and missing out on cancer-fighting flavanoids and other nutrients.

See? The way it's used now, “supertaster” is a total misnomer.  (I assumed the term must have been skewed by the originator's world view, but the former Yale professor who coined it, Linda Bartoshuk, happens to be a non-taster.)  A real supertaster is one whose tastebuds afford maximum food enjoyment. The true gustatory giant combines the ability to accept a wide range of flavors, even the strong ones, and enough sensory acuity to be able to appreciate them.

I believe the perfect balance of these qualities is only achieved by a very small percentage of so-called normal tasters. You know, the ones with exactly 24 papilla.

Profile of Korean Vendors: If You Can Take the Heat, Get the Kitchen Outside

It's a typical summer day in downtown D.C.  The sun is high in the sky.  Thick air and exhaust fumes form a soup de stink.  Lawyer types sneer at packs of pit-stained tourists before ducking into dehumidified offices.  

It's an environment that other food vendors have struggled in, but Andy and Sun Kim, the mother and son team that runs the bright yellow Bulgogi Cart at 14th and L, have done a lot more than just keep their cool.  They've earned a following that includes the high-power lobbyists of nearby K Street, who seem to make a habit these days of trading their silver platter lunches for bulgogi platters in Styrofoam boxes.  As in nature, the reward for food vendors coping with their surroundings is reproduction: next month, the Kims plan to open a second cart in the heart of George Washington University, at the 1900 block of Pennsylvania Ave. 

A few key adaptations have ensured survival since the first cart opened in 2006.  In the beginning, they only offered the sweet marinade of traditional bulgogi.  In response to requests from customers, they soon decided to offer a second option: a hot bulgogi that might elicit some head-scratching if served on the streets of Seoul, where sweet bulgogi is the norm.  Is it possible the U.S. is reclaiming control over its sugar addiction?  "Americans love spicy!" says Andy.

The Kims have also learned to be vigilant about competition.  A couple years ago, a family friend from Annandale dropped by the cart asking questions.  Seemed innocent enough.  But the Kims say that, once the friend had gleaned enough insider info, he used it to open his own Korean food cart just a block away.

"He told us it wouldn’t be the same, but it is," says Sun, adding that the other cart copied their kimbap (seaweed wraps, which they no longer serve) and bimbimbap (mixed rice combo).  Still, they didn't let it upset the bulgogi cart: "Our regulars try the other place, but they always come back," Sun says.

That the Kims won this battle for the hearts of bulgogi lovers - and have actually expanded their customer base despite operating in an area where food carts and Korean restaurants, let alone Korean food carts, rarely succeed - shouldn't be too surprising.  They honed their butt-kicking skills years before opening the cart.  Make that face-kicking.  They used to run a taekwondo studio in Annandale, and Andy is a level five instructor (the highest designation offered) who took second place at the 2002 U.S. Open.  Sun isn't too shabby either - she's level three.

Taekwondo keeps them match tough for the food cart game.  "Helps with endurance," says Andy.  Maybe that's how they summon the energy to chop, brine, and spice about 48 heads of cabbage a week to make the cart's zesty homemade kimchee.  That is, when they aren't working the wok in 95 degree heat for three hours every day.

Fortunately, they refrain from turning the TKD gloves on each other.  There’s no telling how many accidental elbows to the ribcage are exchanged as mother and son grill bulgogi and scoop kimchee side-by-side, but they rarely bicker.  They're too busy scheming about the future, and, if you watch closely, gazing longingly across the street, where a storefront just opened up.  In April, Roy Choi, father of the L.A. bulgogi taco truck, made the leap from street cart to restaurant.  Why can't they? 

Something tells me they'd miss the heat.

Thanks to Min for translating during the interviews.

First-of-its-Kind Whole Foods Garden Opens in Short Pump, VA

Short Pump, Virginia: population 182.  Yeah, it's a tiny town at the outer edge of Richmond, but it's at the cutting edge of grocery store efforts to incorporate local foods.  Short Pump is now the only place in the nation you can find a Whole Foods "field-to-store" garden.  The grand opening is today.

Whole Foods built the community garden on a plot of land located only a few hundred yards from its front door.  The garden will supply the local store and could expand to six acres as necessary.

As much as I love my Friendship Heights farmers market, I'm intrigued by the marriage of fresh-produce gardens and supermarkets.  Farmers markets certainly save fossil fuels, since locally grown produce doesn't have to travel as far to land on your table.  And yet, I always wonder how many fossil fuels people burn after they buy local.  The garden-crisp zucchini you bought at the farmers market tastes good by itself - and it tastes great with that Cava hummus you can only find at your supermarket a couple miles away.

Intriguing, yes, but practical?  Finding real estate for a garden in Short Pump is one thing.  How's the Whole Foods in downtown Chicago supposed to do this?

Just so happens that, on the same day Whole Foods unveils its new garden, BBC News reports that a supermarket in north London has converted its roof into an organic vegetable garden. The effort to construct the garden, a.k.a. operation "Food from the Sky," only took six weeks.

"It's a farm on top of a supermarket," says Andrew Thornton, owner of the market.

It might seem like a pie (pea?) in the sky idea, but as written about by Triplepundit earlier this month, an urban agriculture company called Sky Vegetables is championing the concept in the U.S.  They plan to build their first urban hydroponic rooftop farm above a former shoe factory in Brockton, MA.  They will shoot for food to go from farm to table in only 48 hours.

Spike's New Cookbook: Gooood, Stuuuufff!

A few nights ago I bought Spike Mendelsohn's new cookbook.  It's called "Good Stuff," as in the name of his Capitol Hill burger joint, Good Stuff Eatery, but the ex-Top Chef contestant writes in the preface that good stuff "is more than a descriptive title.  It's a declaration, an inspiration, and a rallying cry."

What, like a real rallying cry?  Were these burgers going to transform me into William Wallace in white facepaint and a tartan kilt screaming, "They may take our lives, but they'll never take our GOOD STUFF!"

That sounded worth the $24.95.

As I leafed through the sections on salads ("wedge with an edge"), sides ("err on the side of ... sides"), and, of course, burgers ("the game changers"), I wasn't convinced that the experience would be so profound.

Enter, stage left, to spotlight, the Tamarind-Glazed Pork Burger with red cabbage slaw and grilled pineapple. 

Spike says this burger is an homage to the flavors of Vietnam: "Traveling through Vietnam you see grilled pineapples everywhere and I thought pairing it with tamarind pulp would make a great combo."

I was intrigued by the photograph, in which the topping of red cabbage slaw, lightened just a bit with mayo, takes on a flourescent hue not unlike the hairdo sported by Pink.  This Namburger was rocking out!

I also noticed that the recipe had no less than four ingredients from Spike's burger bible: in addition to the mayo, red wine vinegar, salt, and pepper.  But the real players in the tamarind glaze were honey, fish sauce, a couple Thai chilis, and fresh garlic - sweet, salty, sour, and spicy.  I echo Spike's sentiments about these flavors: "Can't.  Get.  Enough."

The good stuff stars were aligning as I noticed the slogan of the ground pork I'd coincidentally purchased:

Like most of the dishes in Spike's book, the tamarind burger was easy: I just mixed together the glaze, formed the pork patties, and grilled until medium rare.  Interestingly, Spike clarifies in the preface that, while he's all for outdoor grilling, he loves the way an indoor flat top grill sears the burger. 
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"Instead of all the juices dripping and marinating the charcoal, they marinate the burger," he explains.  "You can achieve this by pan-searing in a saute pan ... in your kitchen."
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As one whose apartment's backdoor opens out onto a freefall of 12 stories, I look forward to repeating Spike's expert opinion about the virtues of kitchen grilling to the guy at work who's always bragging about the awesomeness of his backyard 'cue.  The stovetop isn't a lost cause, afterall.

Now, by the time I'd toasted the bun with butter and layered on the sweet-smelling glaze, the tender pork burger, juicy pineapple, and tangy slaw, nothing could distract me from attack mode.  Nothing except page 123 of the book, entitled, "It's Worth the Extra Step."  Summoning the willpower of a burger-craving Samurai, I wrapped the burger in a precut 12-inch square piece of wax paper, and let it sit for 3 minutes.  This method allows the bun to absorb all the flavors.  Spike calls it "the secret to our success."  I call it agony.

At 2 minutes 59 seconds, I unwrapped and had my first bite.  This was one king-hell of a mother f-ing burger, as Anthony Bourdain would say.  Most impressive was the assortment of sweet flavors, all a bit different from each other.  There was the juicy sweetness of the pineapple; the rich sweetness of the tamarind pulp; the bittersweet slaw; even the fresh-tasting sweetness of the pork itself.  Yet it wasn't over the top, like how painters overlay different shades of the same color for a subtle look that doesn't overpower you.

My best point of comparison would be the Taiwanese burgers you can get at Bob's Noodle 66 and a few other Chinese places in the D.C. area.  I've raved about those burgers - and their combo of pork belly, pickled cabbage, cilantro, and peanut sugar - on this site, but the flavors of this tamarind burger beat it.  Easily.

Now that the Vietnamburger has inspired my full confidence, I can't wait to try Spike's other "show off" burgers such as the pork and pancetta with smoked mozzarella, peperonata, and basil pesto.

But was this so good I'm screaming like a Scottish rebel taking on Longshanks?  The name of Spike's restaurant comes from his Greek grandfather, Sunny Nakis, who, whenever he enjoyed something in life, always pumped his fist and said, "Gooood, Stuuuuufff!" 
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I'm yelling it too, Sunny.



Here's the recipe straight out of Spike's new book:

TAMARIND-GLAZED PORK BURGER WITH RED CABBAGE SLAW AND GRILLED PINEAPPLE (SERVES 6)

TAMARIND GLAZE
.5 cup (6 ounces) tamarind pulp with seeds
.5 cup boiling water
¾ cup honey
¼ cop Thai fish sauce
2 Thai chiles, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
Sea salt

ASIAN PORK BURGERS
2 tbsp canola oil plus more for cooking
.5 red onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, chopped
30 ounces ground pork
2 Thai chiles, chopped
¼ cup dark brown sugar
2 tbsp freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons Thai fish sauce
1 tbsp sea salt, plus more for sprinkling
6 potato buns, cut in half
.5 pineapple, cored and sliced into ¼ inch thick slices
1 cup red cabbage slaw

To make the glaze, in a medium bowl, combine the tamarind and boiling water, stirring to separate the pulp from the seeds. Strain through a coarse-mesh strainer, pressing with a rubber spatula to extract all the liquid and remove the seeds and fibers. Stir in t he honey, fish sauce, chiles, and garlic, and season with salt. Divide the glaze into two batches: one will be for grilling and one for topping the burgers. Set aside until ready to use.

To make the burgers, heat the 2 tbsp oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When the oil is smoking, add the onion and cook, stirring, until lightly brown, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, for 2 minutes more. Remove and set aside to cool.

In a large bowl, combine the ground pork, the onion-garlic mixture, the chiles, sugar, pepper, fish sauce, and salt and mix very well. To make the patties, roll six 5 ounce pork balls and form each ball into a patty. Arrange on a tray, cover, and refrigerate.

Toast the buns. Set aside.
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Preheat a grill or griddle and brush with oil. Alternatively, heat large skillet over medium heat and brush with oil. Brush the pineapple slices with oil, sprinkle with salt, place on the grill, and cook until caramelized on both sides. Add the burgers to the grill and brush from one of the batches of glaze, and cook for 5 to 7 minutes. Flip the burgers, brush with the glaze again, an cook for 5 to 7 minutes more. (Alternatively you may cook the burgers in the large skillet over medium-high heat.)
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To assemble the burgers, brush 1 toasted bun bottom and top with some of the unused batch of glaze (do not use the batch you used for brushing the raw patties). Place 1 patty on the bun bottom and top with 1 slice pineapple an d1 spoonful slaw. Cover with the bun top. Repeat with remaining ingredients. Don’t forget to wrap the sandwiches in wax paper. Let rest for 2 to 3 minutes and serve.

D.C. Top Chef Episode 2 Recap

Tonight's D.C. Top Chef episode was all about the kids.

And by that, I mean it was about Top Chef contestants acting like kids, and towards the end, helping the kids achieve early onset diabetes.

First up, the chefs were told to form pairs and make sandwiches.  They all jumped at the opportunity to play teacher's pet by cackling moronically at Padma's extremely witty "bipartisandwich" pun.

But no one was happier about this quickfire than Tracy.  See, the twist was that you had to make the sandwich while sandwiched together in one apron with your partner  ("Who got high and came up with this idea?" asked Tim.  My money's on John.).  And Tracy's partner just happened to be her dirty little European fantasy, Angelo.  When Angelo said their fish sandwich was like "sex on the plate," security was seen fire extinguishing Tracy in the background after she burst into a ball of flames.  Is there a Josea/Leah-esque late-night couch cuddle in the offing?

A significantly less compatible pair was Amanda and Tamesha.  Tamesha couldn't get through fixing a prosciutto sandwich without noting the possibility that she was going to "kick Amanda's ass," while Amanda summed up her own collaborative spirit with this statement: "Taking one for the team is not in my vocabulary."

The lamb/egg hoagie prepared by Tim and Alex looked appealing, but the prize of immunity went to Angelo and Tracy.  Incredibly, Angelo had now conquered each of the first three Top Chef challenges, and he gave his signature victory cry: "HA ha ha!" (although this time he omitted the quite sportsmanlike "I win!").

"You can take off your aprons," said Padma before using a crowbar to pry Tracy off Angelo.  It was time for the elimination challenge, for which the chefs would head to a local middle school to cook a meal for the kids of D.C.  Along for the ride as guest judge was Assistant White House Chef Sam Kass, sporting a crisp dress shirt less fitting for a chef than a Lands' End model. 

Teams of four contestants were given a mere $134 to feed 50 kids, simulating what it's like to have a very limited budget to accomplish the important job of nourishing school children.  The Great Colicchio served notice that he would not be cracking up at any food stamps jokes when he mentioned his mother ran a school lunch program for 20 years.

What brilliant talking points had the White House prepared for Chef Kass to sufficiently convey the Administration's heartfelt respect for this country's future, our children?  "Control the herd," he advised the contestants in advance of the challenge.

Kelly got off to a rocky start with her team when she told anyone who would listen that she and no one else was responsible for the carnitas.  Teammate Arnold took exception and accused her of showboating.  Personally, I don't think this statement makes Arnold hypcritical just because he mentioned during the previous episode that he hired a personal stylist to prep him for Top Chef.  I'm sure the purpose of Arnold doing that was just to make him seem like one of the guys.

Angelo picked Kenny for his foursome, then took about as long as an Isner/Mahut Wimbledon match to make his peanut butter mousse.  Was Angelo, emboldened by his own immunity to elimination, throwing the challenge to try to get his rival Kenny booted?  I can see it now: as Kenny packs his knives and leaves the kitchen for the last time, Angelo runs up behind him - "HA ha ha ... you lose!"  Angelo later told his budding paramour, Tracy, a "secret" - "I don't like Kenny."  Thanks for the news flash, Angelo. 

After all the dishes had been prepared and enough ill-will generated, we got to see the cute kiddies enjoying all the good food in their school cafeteria.  They seemed genuinely thrilled to get to eat such professional quality meals, which one fine lad demonstrated by repeatedly referring to the food as "nasty."  Another distinguished student was seen yelling in mock agony while chewing, and, subsquently, dry heaving.  Okay, maybe "thrilled" isn't exactly the right word.  Possibly a better description: out of control herd. 

Nevertheless, Jacqueline felt that her spirits had been "lifted" because her banana pudding had sold out.  Ah, but a rollercoaster of emotions, Top Chef is - minutes later, the judges picked her cooking performance as one of the bottom four along with dishes prepared by Amanda, Kenny, and Ed.

It was at this point that we learned precisely why the kids so eagerly snatched up all of Jacqueline's desserts: she put two pounds of sugar in them.  Not exactly the nutritious meal the Top Chef judges had in mind.  The judges also reprimanded Kenny for serving peanut butter.  "Do you know how bad peanut butter is for you?" piped up contestant Amanda, who felt entitled to criticize other people's dishes despite Tom C.'s comment that her sherry chicken was "like someone put a turd on the table because the kids didn't go near it."

After the four took turns alienating one another, the judges told sugar-loving Jacqueline to pack her knives.  Oh, and Kelly earned top dog in the elimination challenge for her carnitas while Arnold fumed that he didn't win.  Clearly, he just needs a new personal stylist.

Do Your Friends a Mitzvah: Throw a Jewish Food Party

Have you heard the one about the Nigerian, the WASP, the Indians, the Chinese guy and the southerner who walked into the Jewish deli?

To figure out the punch line, I decided to host a diverse set of friends for a Jewish food party. But this wasn't just a bad joke. And it wasn't just a great excuse for me to devour salty gefilte fish, the fresh vegetables and lemon juice dressing of an Israeli salad, and other Jewish treats.

The party was also a chance to reaffirm my Jewish heritage and atone for over four years of avoiding temple. What better way of keeping up with the Steins and getting back in the good graces of Yahweh than to introduce a bunch of non-believers to matzah ball soup?

In planning the party, I started with the basics: I asked for help from another Jew who hasn't been to temple for an even longer time than me. In the Jewish hierarchy of needs, being able to share your guilt with someone else comes right after securing food and shelter. Enter my girlfriend, Marcy.

The menu came together easily enough – we picked the tastiest dishes from our favorite Jewish holidays. Among other recipes, an apple noodle kugel sprinkled with raisins and cinnamon; fried, oily pancakes, or latkes, made of sweet potato and egg, and topped with apple sauce; and poached fish patties called gefilte fish, made from a mixture of ground deboned white fish and carp.

And, of course, we also chose a few of the delicacies that no Jew can survive more than a few days without, holy day or not: lox and bagels, challah, and sour pickles – mainly thought of as New York icons, but Jewish in origin, as well.

Setting the ambiance was more challenging: the World Market and Party City were sold out of Jewish-themed decorations. I even gave Elli Chai's One-Stop Judaica Shop a try, but I forgot they would be closed on Friday evenings (did I mention I'm a bad Jew?). I felt like I needed a private investigator just to track down some Jewish paraphernalia, but Marcy reminded me that Peter Falk of Detective Columbo was probably busy observing the sabbath. We regrouped and located dreidels and gelt in Pikesville.

As we finished cooking the food, the guests started to arrive and their inquisitive nature took over almost immediately. First came the easy questions, like, "Why do you guys celebrate Hanukkah again?" but then they graduated to some real stumpers. For example, my Chinese friend, Dan, said he knew someone who celebrated Rosh Hashana by eating the head of a fish, and wanted to know why. We had prepared for just this moment. I smoothly reached for Marcy's copy of The Jewish Book of Why and quoted the Code of Jewish Law, which says: "May the coming year help us to achieve leadership; may we be the head and not the tail." Safe to say, we had thought of everything.

Secure that our friends didn't think we were completely ignorant about Judaism, we focused on the food. As it turned out, our diners hadn't been exposed before to many of our Jewciest dishes, and it was pretty entertaining to watch them take their first tastes:

1. Our bubbes would have been proud of us for our sweet potato latkes. Oily and just crispy enough, and studded with salty scallions, their excellence was unanimous. My friend Keith said he'd choose potato casserole over potato latkas any day, but he's from South Carolina, so I discounted his grits-centric view of the world. And for anyone who agrees with Keith that country cooking beats Jewish soul food, last time I checked we don't eat fried pig intestines.

2. Regardless of the continent they or their families originally came from, our guests loved Manischewitz. Historically, the Jews had to sweeten this Kosher wine just to make it palatable because of the limited grape selection in the areas where they settled. The nectar struck a chord with our group; over the course of the night, we guzzled two 48-ounce bottles. The biggest fan was my friend from Nigeria, who was so drunk that he openly admitted that he couldn't think of any alcoholic drink from his home country that was as good.

3. When we said we were making gefilte fish, my friend Rupa's eyes grew wide with fear, as if we had proposed to beat her about the head with the Torah. She grew up in an Indian household, so her only exposure to gefilte was working in a law firm where one of her many Jewish co-workers used the office refrigerator to store a jar of pale gefilte balls, suspended in a slimy broth for months on-end. Traumatized, she thought we were about to serve her something out of an anatomy display at the Natural Museum of History, or maybe Christian Bale's freezer in American Psycho. But, like the stereotype of the Jewish mother relentlessly shoving food in front of her child's face, we insisted she try it - "Have you lost weight? Eat something, bubelleh!" And when she saw other people enjoying the fish, sitting so appetizingly in a bed of lettuce, horseradish sauce and a slice of tomato, she threw off the shackles of her post-traumatic gefilte fish disorder. Soon she was raving about how good it was. That success was short-lived, though. Maybe the Manischewitz had impaired our friends' short-term memories, but we had to explain what gefilte was at least three times. When we thought that we had thoroughly explained the concept of mixing together two or three different types of fish, Dan asked, "So it's like spam?" Not the kind of reaction that earns you an honorary membership in the Tribe.

4. They were also a little confused by kugel. A sweet dessert made with noodles and topped with cornflakes? How much Manischewitz did the Jews have to drink before they came up with this crazy idea? It was so unique that they couldn't think of any analogy to kugel from their own ethnic cuisines – which was a point of pride for the two Ashkenazis in the room. Overall, the kugel got good marks, but not before my caucasian friend Lolly said that Jewish food has way too many carbs.

But when the dust cleared and the dreidels stopped spinning, we'd won a lot of converts. Our sauced guests snatched up the last mini-bagels with lox, and, despite the comment about spam, I celebrated our interfaith friendship by officially welcoming them to the Tribe. Maybe next weekend I'll take them all to temple.

Are You What You Say You Are, A Supertaster?

According to an assistant professor of food science at Penn State College of Agricultural Sciences, there are supertasters and non-tasters.

"Supertasters live in a neon taste world - everything is bright and vibrant," says Dr. John Hayes.  "For non-tasters, everything is pastel. Nothing is ever really intense."

What separates superstar tongues from the insipid existence of the masses?

This CNN article explains:

Experts aren't sure what makes some people supertasters. Taste sensitivity is believed to be genetic, and it may partly depend on the number of tiny bumps on your tongue (known as papilla) that house taste buds. "When you have more of these, you have more taste nerves that send a stronger signal to the brain," Hayes explains.

But, like a supersmeller dog poking his head out a car window to get away from your stinky backseat, supertasters are sometimes overwhelmed by offenses like bitterness that others can tolerate.  Their version of panting out the window, Hayes' new study suggests, is to prefer foods with higher amounts of salt that block flavors that would otherwise be too strong.  Supertasters in the study perceived, for example, "low-sodium cheddar cheese to be twice as bitter as the Cracker Barrel, and liked it far less than the other study participants did."

Sounds like supertasters might be destined for super high blood pressure.  But don't call your tongue surgeon for that papilla-ectomy just yet.  There's also some good news:

Previous research has suggested that supertasters need less fat and sugar to satisfy their taste buds (and food cravings).

Onion Goggles from RSVP International

Trying to figure out what to get your foodie dad for Father's Day?  These onion goggles from RSVP International might be the gift that says you care (enough to spend $19.95 on him).  The padded rims form an impenetrable forcefield between the cornea and sulfuric acid that otherwise makes your big strong dad break down and cry.

Be careful, though - he might see the gift as as an insult to his culinary skills.  Real chefs don't need goggles when chopping onions.  And that's not just because their tear ducts no longer function due to years of overexertion in a profession notoriously tough on the emotions.  They've also learned how to mince onions so the compounds don't spray into the air.

The proper knifing technique sounds pretty simple, still my execution is only good enough to keep the acid out of my eyes part of the time.  So I placed my order with Amazon as a Father's Day present to myself.

I hoped my new specs would give me a cool Shaun White snowboarding look, but they made me more closely resemble the Hamburglar. 

Marcy's party trick: no-look, mid-air onion chopping

It's true, though, that I didn't commit to the onion goggle style as much as the guy on the package.  He wore a matching Fear No Onion track jacket, plus his head was a lumpy-looking bulb.

Wearing the goggles, I was able to mince two large onions without a trace of discomfort.  Plus they don't fog up or leave red lines like swimmer's goggles.  But if your dad has too much pride in his knifemanship to accept them for Father's Day, here are some tricks he can try that are a bit more subtle:

- drop the onion in a bowl of water before slicing, or place it under running water
- run a countertop fan to blow the vapors away from your face
- light a candle; it supposedly burns up a lot of the acid
- cut while standing so that the onion is as far away from your face as possible
- use a sharp knife
- refrigerate before slicing

Korean Fried Chicken - Colonel Sanders Battles the Orient

Koreans have a habit of taking U.S. inventions and making them better. Consider television – does anyone actually buy Philips over Samsung these days? Or the internet – Korean connections are now four times faster than those in America, not to mention cheaper.

But if there’s one invention I never imagined another country improving upon, it’s fried chicken.

I grew up in the deep south, but I didn’t develop a psychological attachment to fried chicken until I was a junior in college - that’s when I moved into an apartment in the same building as a Royal Farms.  It didn’t take long for Ro Fo chicken – soaked luxuriantly in buttermilk, rolled in a thick cocoon of spices and breadcrumbs and deep-fried – to become an important part of my daily routine. Oh, and Ro Fo's early morning grease fires that frequently required me to bolt for my life out of the building in nothing but my underpants? A most reasonable tradeoff.

But, recently, I heard of a new kind of fried chicken made in Korea that's supposedly even tastier – and actually sort of healthy.  Over the past 20 years, fried chicken has become a popular bar food in Seoul, and, in 2007, Korean entrepreneurs first marketed their version to American palates at a place in New York called Bon Chon.

As much as I love Korean food, I approached their recipe (which I found on the bitten word, a cool blog where they cook recipes found in food magazines) for fried chicken with a touch of good ole U.S. chauvinism.  Did Colonel Sanders really have any reason to worry about Colonel Kim?  Kicking our butts when it comes to cathode ray tubes and open networks is all well and good, but, capital cities and Kia SUVs aside, do Koreans have the soul to beat us at fried chicken?

A couple of my New York friends and former Royal Farms dining companions, Ed and Dave, seemed to validate my skepticism.  Ed said he knew Bon Chon had some die-hard fans, but his own description was lukewarm: "pretty tasty."  Dave couldn't remember if he'd had them or not, and complained that he was aging too rapidly. 

My doubts began to fade, though, as I shopped for ingredients at the Rockville H Mart and imagined gochujang, the fantastic Korean chili paste, mixed with sesame oil, honey, vinegar and soy sauce, and poured generously over some extra crispy chicken.
 
See how my Korean Fried Chicken turned out after the jump!
 

Some Restaurants Discouraging Food Photography

At a five-star restaurant, a waiter presents the signature dish, and your jaw drops like a shaggy 13 year old kid in the front row at Nirvana’s Pacific Rim Tour circa 1992. You instinctively grab your camera to capture the moment, but the famous chef, one of your culinary idols, struts to the table and angrily tells you to put it away.
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It’s an ugly scene that might be playing out with increasing frequency at trendy eateries across the country.  See this story for more info: http://bit.ly/az3YMn.  Can you believe the ingratitude of celebrity chefs to snarl when their fans simply attempt to honor their art with a photograph? As a food blogger, I should be incensed.
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To the contrary, I eat this up. I believe that most foodies share my boredom with the accommodating approach of today’s rockstar chefs. Rockstars are supposed to be intriguing bad boys, not Pepsi poster-boys. If they are truly artists, they will entertain us with more self-destructive, anti-social behavior. Less Iron Chef, more Iron Maiden. Chefs shouldn’t just tell you to put your camera away; they should earn those tattoos and shatter it. I would no sooner get upset with Kurt Cobain for giving me the middle finger.
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Note:  In a previous version of this post, I used the name of Chef Grant Achatz in a dramatized, present tense description that took creative license loosely based on an assertion in a recent Time article. I'm surprised and honored that Chef Achatz read the blog (although I wish it could have been under different circumstances), and he has informed me that he does not rebuke his customers for taking pictures. I certainly believe him.  I apologize that the post erroneously implied otherwise (and misinterpreted, much to its detriment, an assertion that I now believe could have been more clear). In response to some insightful reader comments, I changed the content and posted the revision above. The revision now conveys exactly the same points that I meant to convey before, but hopefully without the same confusion. Any comments on the central questions posed – such as, whether the cliché of the "rockstar chef" deserves reexamination – are really appreciated. Thanks.

2 Amys in Dupont: Pizza by the Rules, Toddlers Gone Wild

Maybe it doesn't make sense for me to write a review of 2 Amys in Dupont.  Sure, I like pizza, but I'm not one of those pie-crazies who spends his child's tuition money reconfiguring the kitchen with a wood oven.

An example in a different context: should anyone besides professional joke tellers be allowed to write movie reviews of comedies? For all I know, A.O. Scott is hysterical to those who know him, but who do you trust more to tell you what's funny, him or Tina Fey?

Still, A.O.'s review of Get Him to the Greek might be useful for the intense and unsmiling - just like my review of 2 Amys is probably appropriate for the pizza apathetic.

The place makes a valliant effort to convert ye who yawns in the face of cheesy flat bread.  Led by owner/chef Peter Pastan (Obelisk), the kitchen kneads up Neapolitan pizza in accordance with the Denominazione di Origine Controllata (DOC).  That is, an Italian quality assurance label that demands dough with soft-grain flour, fresh yeast, water, and sea salt.  The DOC also curbs toppings to Italian plum tomatoes, mozzarella di bufala, extra-virgin olive oil and fresh basil or dried oregano.  All these rules might sound too limiting, but they deliver a crisp and flavorful bread, which, in the case of the Margherita, sets up a good contrast for creamy, ample mounds of mozzarella and (DOC infraction?) plump capers. 

The Margherita (DOC pizze)

Crispy underside of the DOC

Named after the wives of Pastan and former co-owner Tim Giamette, 2 Amys doesn't just rest on its Italian bona fides.  The restaurant seeks out locally farmed ingredients, offers fruit-forward wines that go well with pizza, and boasts a menu of small plates that give you a break from all that dough-chewing.  Is any other pizza joint in America capable of encoring a slice of puttanesca with head cheese (tangy and delicate) and venison jerky (way more moist than Macho Man's beef and spice)?

Head Cheese

Venison Jerky

Plus, whereas the less savvy might have tried to fit a stuffy restaurant for squares into a round Vongole, Pastan smartly made his place an unassuming family-style parlor.  Pizza's informal, blue collar fate was sealed by the potty-mouthed pie slingers in Mystic Pizza.  Anywhere else, the pearled uppercrust wouldn't stand for a serenade of screaming children, but at Amys, tomato-stained toddlers gone wild are just "part of the scene."

You want to like 2 Amys, and the above dishes will have you grunting "Pizza Pizza!" with an occasional "offal!"

Unfortunately, given the rigorous Controllata on the amount of ingredients, there are only three DOC pizzas on the menu.  The other "pizzes" disappoint.  Take the 2 Amys: the two toppings, tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, fall flat; I think I require at least four or five Amys.  The Calabrese has six, but for all the tomato, onion, anchovy, mozzarella, parsley, and olives, it really should be tastier.  Although most of the pizze fizzle, one noteable exception is the Vongole, which combines juicy cockles and hot pepper.

The 2 Amys

The Callabrese

The Vongole

I've yet to go to 2 Amys with any pizza lovers.  I can say, though, for the pizza liker, the place is fun and memorable, but so is trying to get to 21 while devouring a slice of clam pizza at cross-town Comet Ping Pong.

Strategy over Luck at Bob's Noodle 66

When he named his noodle restaurant, former journalist Bob Liu tacked on “66,” which is a lucky number in China. But when ordering the Taiwanese street food at Bob’s Noodle 66, you’ll want to hedge your bets.
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Make no mistake: this is the best Taiwanese place in Rockville, if not the whole national capital region.  The restaurants of Wokville are much better than D.C.’s Chinatown, and 66 is the tastiest and most authentic.
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It’s just that, to the uninitiated palate, some of the most authentic dishes taste terrible. Want to roll your dice with pig’s stomach herb soup or stinky tofu? The latter is the same dish that revolted Andrew Zimmern at Dai’s House of Unique Stink; it leaves your tongue with a chemic burning sensation and swallows your table in a cloud of odoriferous evil. The huge serving sizes don’t help.

                                       Stinky Tofu

Other tosses of the mahjong tile at Bob’s will win you the jackpot. The Taiwanese hamburger, or gua bao, is a fatty spare-rib topped with salty-sour pickled cabbage, relish, and cilantro, and sprinkled with that peanut-sugar powder that works so well in Pad Thai. The spicy pig ear is sweet and crunchy, and the duck tongue goes well with basil.
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The trick at Bob’s is balancing the thrill of chance with your desire for a good meal. The staff is flexible, so request a reduced serving size of the hit-or-miss exotica. Then, for your main event, go with a heaping plate of familiar. Given that Bob can make something as odd as pig ear taste good, it’s no surprise he’s capable of turning cornerstore fare like salt-and-pepper shrimp, stoked by greasy, spicy basil, into a knockout.
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                                   Salt-and-Pepper Shrimp

For a meal overlooking the sea at sunset, avoid Rockville. Asphalt and dinginess are difficult to overcome in this strip mall haven, and it wouldn’t take much heavy-lifting to convert Bob’s Noodle and its big parking lot into a car dealership.
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But a plush ambiance would feel wrong here; Bob’s Noodle is all about self-acceptance. Other ethnic restaurants steer customers away from home-country oddities, but here you’re encouraged. Just resist the gambling kicks and you’ll get yours at 66.

Pani Puri at Masala Art in D.C.

Any good gallery has participatory art to let the audience engage in the creative process.  So when owner Atul Bhola chose "Masala Art" for the name of his new restaurant on Wisconsin Ave, he made sure to include pani puri on the menu.

My friend Rupa, who just got back to D.C. after a year in India, explained that, when you order pani puri, all you get is an egg-shaped ball of paper-thin fried bread.  The rest is up to you, Picasso.

She frankly questioned whether I was game for the challenge.  "It's a lot of work," she warned.  "And you have to eat the whole thing in one bite."

I brushed aside her concerns with a guffaw, called over the waiter and demanded a large plate of this intriguing Indian street food.

He returned with four gold spheres, slightly misshapen like a seabird nest, each perched on a ceramic soup spoon as if ready for catapulting.  I was a little upset that they'd already poked a hole at the top.  I could've done that; masala artists are so micromanagerial.

Inside each ball was a mix of diced potatoes, chickpeas, and chutney.  But there wasn't enough, so I reached for more stuffing.  Rupa watched in horror as I sacrilegiously crammed another appetizer, the bhelpuri, into the ball.  Don't judge me.  Bhelpuri is an excellent salad/stuffing of puffed rice, chickpea vermicelli, chopped onion, diced mango, cilantro, and tamarind chutney.

Sacrilege

Horror

Bhelpuri

The last step in creating my masterpiece was a tricky maneuver fraught with danger.  It was time to pour on the jaljiri, or "spice water."  It's a dense minty liquid, laced with cumin and fennel.  It's also the exact same water that makes you protector of the island on Lost.  The more you pour into the little hole, the better it tastes, but if you get carried away, the fried bread falls apart.

Go away, I thought as the waiter watched and recklessly encouraged me to, "Keep pouring."

Luckily, the puri retained its crispiness.  Between the fried bread and the bhelpuri, I don't know if I've ever had so many different textures in one bite.  Phoochka! - is what it's called in Eastern Indian states instead of pani puri because of the bursting sound when eaten. The spice water gives it the kind of kick that led Thi Nguyen of the L.A. Times to call it a "gazpacho hand-grenade." 

It was like a giant piece of popcorn filled with Indian spices, and I wanted more.  In India, roadside vendors serve the puris one at a time and keep count of how many each person has had - often as many as eight.

Tip for your next dinner party: spike your pani puri with some vodka.  Drunken party puri is the latest fusion trend at upscale Mumbai social events.

Other recommended dishes at Masala Art:

Tiranga Paneer - Exotic kabab made with home made cottage cheese and layered with tri colored stuffing

Adraki Lamb Chops - Ginger flavored, cumin marinated, juicy lamb chops done to perfection in a delicious sauce

New Zealander So Hungry It Brings Him to Tears

Chazz Reingold lives. 

Chazz, a character from the Wedding Crashers, famously observed that grief is nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.  It seems that he broke through the silver screen and inhabited the soul of a voraciously hungry man from New Zealand. 

According to a New Zealand newspaper called the Dominion Post, the man "appeared at up to four funerals a week in March and April to enjoy the finger food but clearly did not know the deceased."

But the man wasn't satisfied just picking over the comfort food of the bereaved.  Like Chazz, he decided to bring his prey home with him.  The funeral home director noticed him because he had a backpack full of tupperware containers.  While friends and family wiped the tears from their eyes, he stocked up. 

According to the director, the man was "always very quiet and polite, and did as the rest of the mourners did in paying his respects."

The finger food thievery subsided when the man was taken aside by a funeral home staff member who informed him that "he could come to funerals but could not take food home with him."

No word on whether the New Zealander ever screamed out for meatloaf.

Village Vines Offers 30 Percent Discounts at Premium Restaurants

Thanks to Don for telling me about an interesting new website called VillageVines that offers discounts, usually between 25% and 30%, on upscale restaurants. The site offers up any tables that didn't get booked at several restaurants each day. Membership is free, and users only pay $10 in exchange for the discount.


Don’t make that Komi reservation just yet, though – for now, you can only save money through VillageVines at restaurants located in New York. Rumor is that the company plans to take on more cities in the next couple months. Perhaps their expansion list includes the District?

By the way, I had the particular pleasure of finding out about this website before my friend Dave – veteran New York foodie and April Bloomfield neighbor. When I told him about it, he was quick to admit it was news to him. “But I'm also the breed of consumer that subsidized these types of discounts through my own brazen laziness and stupidity,” he noted.

UPDATE: On September 8, VillageVines expanded to DC!