My acquired tastes

When I was little, I had a short list of things I didn't like to eat. This didn't really matter, since I grew up in a household where you ate what was served to you--personal preferences were moot. But I had the list anyway: Things I Won't Eat When I Grow Up.

Mostly the list consisted of vegetables. Looking back, I don't think the ones I didn't care for were too unusual: Brussels sprouts, asparagus, peas, radishes, and of course the lowly lima bean. Plenty of adults don't like those things.

Now, decades later, I've learned to like all of them, with the exception of lima beans. I still can't quite embrace their starchy texture. But I've learned to roast asparagus, rather than steam it and serve it with Hollandaise, as my parents used to. And I've found that Brussels sprouts also benefit from roasting, though recently I've been blanching then cooking them stovetop, with bacon and shallots. Peas I'll add to nearly any pasta, and I find they go especially nicely with a little ham and cream.

And radishes. Finally, I learned to love them. I especially love watermelon radishes. You'd be hard-pressed to find a more stunning and surprising vegetable (with the exception of romanesque broccoli, another one of my vegetable obsessions, along with cardoons). I have tried the French way, with sweet butter and sea salt, and while it goes against every particle of my being, I'm not sure this pairing is for me. The Barefoot Contessa would shake her head sadly at me, and maybe I really am a rube, but the thing I like about radishes is their clean, sharp bite. I understand how it goes with the butter and salt, but I like them plain, in a green salad. I'll save my butter and salt for something else.


Last night, we ate salads comprised completely from farm vegetables: little lettuces, Nantes carrots, tiny Yukon Golds, and thinly sliced bright red radishes, dressed with a Meyer lemon vinaigrette. Since we're having a brief but intense heat wave here in the City, it was about all we could muster, cooking-wise, but it suited us just fine.

Eat your vegetables

After several days of eating downright decadently (including the heavenly burger at the Slow Club, wild nettles and pancetta pizza at Gialina, and that damn lemon cake), last night seemed like a good time to rein things in a bit.

I had my mind set on a zucchini gratin, which I figured would be quick, light, and satisfying. Gratins are great for using up vegetables you don't have a plan for and wilting herbs you wish you could revive. Throw them all together with a bit of milk, whatever cheese needs to be used up, and a couple of eggs and you're good to go. Actually, the recipe I use also calls for cooked Arborio rice, which adds an extra step but some much-needed body to what would otherwise be...a frittata?

To go with the gratin, I sliced up some of those garnet yams I'd been dwelling on a few days ago, and cooked them first over high heat, then over low, with some Swiss chard,chicken broth, and nutmeg. It wasn't exactly a vegetarian dinner, but for us it came pretty close.

Spiced Garnet Yams with Swiss Chard

• 4 T. olive oil
• 1 yam, peeled, quartered lengthwise, and cut crosswise into 1/4-inch slices
• 1 bunch swiss chard, chopped
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 1/2-3/4 c chicken stock
• whole nutmeg

Heat 2 T. olive oil in a wide frying pan over medium-high heat. Add yams and cook, stirring occasionally, but letting them brown. Cook for about 5-6 minutes.

Turn down the heat to medium and add the remaining oil and garlic. Cook 1-2 minutes.

Add swiss chard, turn over all the ingredients. Add chicken broth, turn down to medium-low, and let simmer for about 10-15 minutes or until the yams are cooked. Salt/pepper and grated nutmeg to taste.

Serves 4.

The Hungry Dog's Reading List

Something I enjoy in addition to cooking food, eating food, and writing about food is reading about food. In a way, food writers have the job I really want: they get to try something someone else poured their heart and soul into, then coolly pass judgment. Seems like a good set-up for lazy, judgmental people like me.

I don't particularly love restaurant reviews. They often come off as kind of snobby, and I don't think a critic has the authentic restaurant experience a regular person has. When you go out to a restaurant, of course you notice the food and the service and the atmosphere, but much of your experience might be colored by what day of the week it is (a Friday night dinner will always be more fun than a Monday night one), who you're with, how dull or interesting you find the conversation, how hard it was to find parking, if that was your first choice restaurant or if you're already disappointed by settling for second or third on your list, and any other number or variables. So when a reviewer gets to go back to the restaurant multiple times and order whatever they want while someone else foots the bill, and remove all of these other elements from the experience, it's hard for me to take it very seriously.

It's also tough for me to read a negative review and not feel loyal to the restaurant, even if I haven't been there. I guess my nature is to root for the underdog, and there is a clear imbalance of power between the reviewer and the restaurant.

Mostly I like reading food writers who just write about their cooking experiences. There's no shortage of bloggers out there, but my favorites for the last few years have been writers for the Times. I very much like Mark Bittman (although I wouldn't say I always love his recipes) and I am extremely fond of Melissa Clark. She's a good writer and her approach to food seems intelligent and sensible. And for many years I followed Amanda Hesser, though now I find her column in the Times magazine too gimmicky.

I also like to read food memoirs. Right now I'm reading Wrestling With Gravy by Jonathan Reynolds, longtime writer for The New York Times Magazine. It's more about his life than food, although he does pull the entire book together with recipes that signify key events in his life. Reynolds is very funny and comes off like a slightly less insane, slightly more affluent David Sedaris; reading about his childhood made me picture Sedaris cooped up in J.D. Salinger's New York apartment.

One thing I've noticed before with these kinds of books but am noticing particularly with this one is while I'm enjoying the chapters quite a bit, I am only skimming the recipes. Some of them are interesting, but only in regard to the narrative, not really for actual cooking. For example, he includes recipes for things like "Pheasant Under Glass" and "The Boston Ritz-Carlton's Creamed Finnan Haddie." Interesting in relation to the story, but not to be replicated in my little San Francisco flat.


Anyway, haven't yet finished the book but so far so good. It's likely to join some of my other current favorite food books, which include The Apprentice by Jacques Pepin, Heat by Bill Buford, and of course Julia Child's My Life in France.