84 High Street Cafe

The first time Judy and I ever ventured into 84 High Street Cafe in downtown Westerly several years ago, we wanted to have a "celebratory" dinner. What we were celebrating, and who recommended the place, I have quite forgotten (a friend of Judy's, I think?). Every other aspect of that first experience, however, is pinned firmly in place in my memory. We disagreed on what to order, which was not unusual, as we nearly always split an entree when we go out. Judy, being a frugal soul, voted on the rotisserie roasted chicken dinner at $12.99. (Or was it $11.99?)

I scoffed at that and, with a chutzpah that astonishes and amuses me now, announced that I didn't want something I could get at any grocery store. This was meant to be a special occasion and I was therefore ordering the pan-seared filet mignon. At $18.95 it was an astonishing amount for us to spend on a single meal out at the time. (Nowadays it seems to be simply the going rate at even the most lackluster eateries.) But I carefully reasoned that it really wasn't that much more than the chicken dinner and furthermore, I was going to pay for it. An offer even Judy couldn't refuse, and irrefutable reasoning to boot.

The fact that I was willing to spend that amount of money on the meal suggests that what we were out celebrating, in fact, was my having gotten a job.

Thankfully, my willfulness on this occasion was rewarded. Two pan-seared medallions arrived on the plate, in a pool of dark portobello brandy demi-glace, accompanied by mashed potatoes garnished with thin, light and crispy vegetable "fries", and grilled summer squash. The tenderloin was as rare as I had requested it, pink and juicy, of the quality that elicited a many groans of pleasure and still sits happily in my memory as one of the best meals I've ever had.

Admittedly we don't go back to the cafe as often as we should, or would like to, given the quality, but we have never been disappointed on any of our return trips. That time we were in the front restaurant but generally we dine in slightly more casual bar area; I say "slightly" because the elegance of the decor still puts most bars in the area to shame, but the welcome we always receive from staff makes us feel very much at home. There is never the least snootiness about the restaurant or its staff.

Yesterday Judy and I were driving home from a gorgeous and memorable day spent Jamestown, RI. We had packed a picnic lunch: potato salad Judy had made the night before, her best ever; boston lettuce from the co-op and tender chard leaves from our garden; chopped fresh tomato with olive oil, parmesean and fresh basil as a dressing; and Wild Planet sardines in spring water (mild and slightly sweet, similar in flavor to tuna, they were a revelation compared to the oil-packed variety and the first time I've ever enjoyed sardines). After a day of hiking on the island, exploring graffitti-covered Fort Wetherwell (which has become a strange sort of work of art in its own right), discovering live starfish in a crevasse between the rocks and looking out over the intensely blue-green water foaming against the granite cliffs of the island, etc; the last trace of lunch was mysteriously vanished from our bellies. We were ravenously hungry in the way we can only be when we've spent the day in the hot sun and strong salt-laden breezes of the ocean. Which meant that we wanted seafood; good, fresh seafood, thank you very much, and not fried. Yes, I know that a piece of fish can be both "fresh" as in freshly caught, and "fried", but I've never understood the appeal of destroying a perfectly good piece of fish by coating it in batter and dunking it in a vat of hot oil. (On the other hand, I have polished off plates of potatoes and onions given the same treatment. Call me a hypocrite.)

We left the island, not seeing anything that appealed to us, drove to Narragansett and were given directions to a seafood place in town that the locals assured us was a good one; upon arriving we were informed that all the seafood was fried. We were by now hungry enough to rip open a box of oyster crackers simply to have something in our stomachs.

"We could go to Westerly," one of us said to the other.

"We could," the other replied.

Downtown Westerly offers a plethora of dining options; and we probably went to every one of them (excluding those we assumed we could never afford), looked at the menus, hesitated, changed our minds, quibbled with each other and wandered from place to place; none of them were quite hitting the spot, mentally at least. Only those damned oyster crackers kept our blood sugar levels from plummeting to dangerous lows.

"We could go to 84 High Street again," one of us said to the other. "We've never been disappointed with it."

"We could," the other replied. "The portions are always generous."

And there we were, perusing the menu; if either one of us balked this time our only option left would have been the rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. Fortunately our eyes lit upon the "thai shellfish stew: shrimps, scallops, littlenecks and crabmeat in a red thai coconut cream broth with julienned vegetables, tomatoes and roasted red peppers." While we waited on the mail course we slackened our hunger and thirst with rosemary-flecked bread, garden salad (all dressings made in-house; I chose blue cheese), beer (Judy) and root beer (me.) The beer menu offers several craft beers on draft as well as Guiness (my partner eventually went with a black-and-tan); but the root beer deserves special mention. I don't drink alcohol, except the occasional sip from Judy's glass, and finding non-alcoholic options when dining out, aside from water, iced tea, and mass-produced sodas can be a bit of a challenge. 84 High Street offers Saranac root beer, and any establishment that offers non-alcoholic options, besides juice and water, so I'm not left staring at Judy whilst she enjoys her Guiness automatically gets points from me.

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As it happens, that rotisserie chicken, which I'm sure is much better than anything I could get at the grocery store, is now $15.99, and the filet mignon medallions are $24.99.

Wild Raspberries

The first raspberries of the summer arrived just this week, a mounded handful from Judy, my sweetheart (significant other? "spousal alternative"?) who gathered them and brought them to me quietly on a late afternoon. I was just waking (just barely) from a nap induced by the day's merciless heat; the surprise treat she delivered snapped me instantly back to life.

Wild raspberries grow profusely on our property, and like any good weed become more numerous every year, becoming a thick green boundary all about us, filling up the edges and corners of the land. Generally I am the "guardian" of the raspberries, watching and waiting each year for the countless living rubies and garnets to ripen, filling up our refrigerator and freezer, serving them fresh at breakfasts, turning them into countless jars of jams and jellies. In the ten years I have lived on this property, I have been, in fact, the only person who notices and gathers the raspberries, as well as the mulberries, the black raspberries (not nearly so numerous), the fox grapes, etc., or at least as far as I can tell. (I'm excluding our friends Jake and Laura, who moved off the property some years ago.) So the fact that Judy spotted them before I did this year was a sweet irony.

There are moments (more and more numerous lately) in which I feel as though I have given up on myself, on life, in many ways; or rather, I have learned to expect less and less. At times it feels as though I have squeezed my life into a box so small I can scarcely breathe. When it comes to the wild raspberries, however, I am unapologetic and uncompromising, fueled by a greed that borders on lust.

I have done things for them I would do for no other thing or person on earth; I have spent hours gathering them, sweating profusely under a long-sleeved jacket in an attempt to protect my arms from stinging nettles; I have ditched the jacket in frustration, forgetting that in a couple of hours I'll be coating my arms in lotion in attempt to soothe my badly-scratched and stinging skin. When it comes to picking raspberries my amnesia regarding this issue is astonishing.

Last year we enjoyed them fresh by the handfuls for breakfast or a snack; threw them into smoothies (lesson learned - the seeds are annoying in a smoothie); froze them in ziplock bags (I still have one left from last year); topped vanilla ice cream with raspberries and a sprinkle of homemade granola. Primarily, though, I made them into jellies and jams; if there is any task more time-consuming, labor-intensive (and sweaty), this just might be it. Jelly especially so, which Judy prefers to jam or preserves; since I haven't a foley food mill (yet), my other option is to put them in a thin white linen or cotton pillowcase, and squeeze every bit of juice out of them. A good bit of it seems to end up soaking the cloth, not to mention staining my hands and every other surface in sight. I told myself last year, "No jelly, people can eat the seeds and like it!" But I ended up making it anyway. This is the year I get myself that food mill.

My pride and joy was the batch "raspberry-ginger-lime" jelly I invented on the spot. I thrilled with the results, but no one else seemed to favor it; they all preferred the peach or grape. That's all right, more for me. (I still have one jar left.) I think it has a wonderfully "bright" flavor that balanced all three elements, and went equally well on a piece of toast as on a rice cracker with a bit of cheese or coconut cream cheese as an appetizer.

"Did you write down the recipe?" A friend asked recently.

My answer to that was predictable. "No. I was just winging it." And I did truly "just wing it". All I could offer is to take whatever your favorite raspberry jelly recipe is (mine came from a combination of the sheet inside the pectin box and the instructions on the Pick Your Own website), and add freshly-squeezed or bottled organic lime juice, and organic fresh gingeroot, grately finely. Leave out the threads or "sinews" of the ginger (or strain out later), and be sure to put in any juice from the grating process. Do not add the ginger in chunks because the flavor will not come through as strongly.

More Summertime Grilling Fun - Basil and Sage Chips

Grilled basil and sage leaves: the taste sensation that's sweeping the nation? Perhaps not - but they've fast become a mealtime treat at my house. Something has to be done with all that basil and sage we planted in the garden this year, after all.*

Basically, it's the same recipe/treatment as for the grilled kale chips in my previous post. Use large leaves, of course; in the case of the basil, these would be the ones that "got away from you" and got a little too big to be tender or flavorful because 1) you can't watch the garden every minute of they day, plus 2) you planted too many plants, and 3) there are only two of you in the house to try to eat all of it. (That's how it works at my house, at any rate.) Don't forget the touch of salt and cayenne in the mix of olive oil/ tomato sauce/dash of wine or cider vingar and what have you.

Marinate at "room temperature" for about 2 hours; less and the leaves, especially the sage, will not have absorbed the marinade adequately. More, and you will find yourself dealing with very limp leaves that need to be manually uncurled and flattened as they are laid on the grill. At that point, even the most devoted slow-food enthusiast will find themselves wishing they had stopped at a burger joint on the way home. (I won't tell if you won't.)

As with the kale, you put these on low (and very low) coals, watch carefully, turn at least once if necessary; the basil leaves especially start to curl at the edges and will take on the color of - well, of dead autumn leaves. Not pretty, but surprisingly tasty and addictive. Stiffness to the touch indicates crispness. I've used both sweet italian and thai basil, because that's what I have in my garden; I haven't tried lemon or red basil varieties, but I can see myself planting those next year just for the sake of putting them on the grill.

I can't call the kale chips "mine" because their are so many recipes out there for them; I will however, stubbornly and proudly call the basil and sage chips "mine", if for no other reason than they were born of a happy accident: I had thrown some of each herb into an olive oil/tomato sauce/etc marinade with portobello mushroom caps, the leaves ended up on the grill with the 'shrooms and were crispy when I removed them. Of course I had to pop them into my mouth - if it's grilled, it has to be ok, yes?

Is this the "wackiest" thing I've ever put on top of a grill (and then into my mouth)? Possibly. Have I hit the wall in terms of what I'm willing to try out on the grill, to "see what happens"? Almost certainly not.

What's the most unusual thing you've ever cooked on the grill (successfully or unsuccessfully)?

*Yes, I have tried air-drying them, as I've done very successfully ever year past; this year, however, the humidity is slowing the drying process to a crawl.

Kale Chips...on the Grill? (A Summertime Twist)

I've had several requests from friends for "my" kale chip recipe, which has become a staple at parties since last fall. Full disclosure - they are not "mine"; I found out about them via What Would Cathy Eat? and adapted Cathy's recipe slightly. I eliminated the black pepper and tabasco; I double the amount of olive oil (about 3-4 tablespoons), then sprinkled with ground sea salt and about 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper, then baked as directed (adjusting my oven to a lower temp and shorter cooking time, as my oven is hotter than Cathy's, apparently.)

I had been wondering for a while, now that grilling season is in full swing (I've brushed off the old Weber and have been loading it's hungry belly with the surplus of hardwood twigs and sticks on our property), if kale chips could be done on a grill as well as in the oven?

Oh yes, ma'am.

Tear off the leaves (discarding the ribs, as per Cathy's recipe) from 1/2 a bunch of lacinato or toscana kale*. Massage it with about 3-4 T olive oil, 2-3 T tomato sauce, 1-2 tea. red wine vinegar, 2 tea. soy sauce, and a dash of cayenne. Toss the leaves until thoroughly coated. Marinate at room temperature for about 1-1/2 hours. Heated up the grill (I only burn hardwoods, no coal or gas, so please adjust for your own grill); when the coals are "medium hot", grey on the outside but burning red inside, put a well-oiled tray for vegetables and small foods atop the grill. Place each leaf atop the tray, watching each one carefully and turning once or twice. Make sure the leaves are flat and not folded or twisted up. A leaf is ready when it's edges begin to curl upward and it is stiff, not limp when you touch it with your tongs; plus it will slide easily across the tray. If it seems stiff at one end but still limp elsewhere, turn or rotate and leave on a few more seconds. When ready, gently drop each one on a plate or in bowl; they will continue to crisp as they cool.

It probably goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that this is not an operation you can walk away from.

Do make sure to set some aside for yourself, because these will disappear FAST, just as their oven-baked siblings do. Hungry friends, family (and significant others) will no doubt take advantage of the fact that your attention is focused on the grill. (There is no such thing as unselfishness when it comes to something this addictive.)

* I haven't tried this yet with the gorgeous toscana kale from Hunts Brook Farm (Quaker Hill, CT) I saw yesterday at New London's Fiddleheads Food Co-op, but I'm sure it would be superb. HBF's kale resembles the lacinato but is lovelier and lusher than the lacinato the co-op has been carrying.