The Poor Mouth

[Insert Phở Pun Here]

NLY MY REALLY LONGTIME readers know this, but I got my start in soup. My very first non-Ramen foray into cooking, in a cockroach-terrorized Philadelphia micro-kitchen, was something called cock-a-leekie soup. Before that, when I lived in Manhattan’s Chinatown, I ate a particular variety of beef phở almost every day at a particular restaurant in my neighborhood. I told everyone it was the best—their meatballs didn’t have those kernels of gristle or hoof or whatever it is that you sometimes find in phở meatballs—but nobody listened. What made me the expert?

Well, whaddayah know, skeptics, contrarians, and haters? New York Magazine has pronounced the phở at Pho Bang the finest phở in New York: “The national soup of Vietnam isn’t hard to come by in Chinatown, but this one stands out for its rich, mellow flavor and beautiful balance. The #1 combination rice-noodle beef soup is heavy on the pinkish eye of round and light on the brisket, with just a sliver of tendon and whisper of omosa, or cow stomach, which, for some, is plenty ($5.50; 157 Mott St., nr. Grand St.; 212-966-3797).” I can’t plead superb judgment, though; I liked Pho Bang mainly because it was in lurching distance. 

[Phở ga: the one that got away.]

Despite dining at Pho Bang dozens of times, I never got around to sampling the phở ga, or chicken phở. I couldn’t imagine how, in a phở contest, chicken could compete with beef, or how, in a chicken soup contest, phở could compete with, say, the purity and goodness of Campbell’s. So, overcome by curiosity, I gave this recipe a try. “Rich, mellow flavor” is putting it too mildly. This broth is liquid gold, and has made star anise my favorite spice by a wide margin. (If you’re wondering why anyone need have a favorite spice: This was an actual question on a Penzey’s application I came dangerously close to filling out.)

The secret to beef phở is cow parts. Look at this guide: You’ve got flank, crunchy flank, fatty flank, brisket, tendon, tripe, and meatballs. The secret to chicken phở is the broth, plain and simple. Chicken is chicken, and this goes double for chicken that cooked off a stewing bird for hours. The meat isn’t really the point, which is why most of it—along with a hundred tiny bones—ends up in the trash.

All credible phở recipes call for charred onion and ginger, and I’m in no position to argue, but I have to admit that I didn’t taste much ginger in the finished product. I did taste excellence, however, so I’m not going to advise you to deviate from Steamy Kitchen’s procedure: “Place ginger and onion on a small baking sheet. The top of the onion should be about 4″ from the oven’s heating element. Set to broil on high for 15 minutes. Turn the onion and ginger occasionally, to get an even char. . . . After cooling, rub to get the charred skin off the onion and use a butter knife to scrape the skin off the ginger.” Perhaps my oven sucks, but I needed about twice as long to get the vaguest intimations of an “even char.”

Once you’ve prepared your onion, ginger, bouquet garni (two tablespoons of coriander seeds, four cloves, two star anise pods), and “small bunch of cilantro stems,” it’s time for the fun part: mangling your stewing bird. Part of your broth’s chicken flavor comes from chicken meat, but most of it comes from marrow. The more thoroughly you score or break the chicken’s bones, the more delicious, super-healthy marrow leaches out into your broth. Don’t be shy! Those bones will give a surprising amount of resistance, but if you persevere, you will show that nasty, beady-eyed little bastard who’s boss.

I’m tired, and it’s Christmas Eve, so I will now refer you back to the recipe. DO parboil your chicken and change its water! DO simmer your broth for as long as you can stand (the fragrance will make this extremely difficult). And DO strain the finished product with at minimum a fine-mesh strainer and preferably a cheesecloth. The satisfaction of making perfectly fine, particle-free broth from a nasty mess of chicken carcass is well worth the trouble. It’d make a fine meal even without the chicken, noodles, mung beans, cilantro, sliced jalapeño peppers, hot sauce, and, in this case, “bonus shrimp.”

Party Marty

OW’S THIS FOR a weird-ass thing to celebrate? “St. Martin’s Day (or Martinstag or Martinmas) is November 11, the feast day of Martin of Tours, who started out as a Roman soldier. He was baptized as an adult and became a monk.” That tidbit comes from Wikipedia, but since it’s a Catholic saint we’re trying to learn about, we must dip into a much older source of widely accepted half-truths: the Legenda Aurea or Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine. Here’s what this collection of medieval hagiographies has to say about our man Marty: “Martin is as much to say as holding Mars, that is the God of battle, against vices and sins. Or Martin is said as one of the martyrs, for he was a martyr by his will, and by mortifying of his flesh. Or Martin is expounded thus: As despising, provoking, or seignioring. He despised the devil his enemy, he provoked the name of our Lord to mercy, and he seigniored over his flesh by continual abstinence in making it lean. . . .”

Sorry, what? I must have dozed off. At any rate, speaking of “flesh,” St. Martin’s Day happens to be celebrated by feasting upon a delicious goose. Often there’s also a parade of children carrying lanterns (see above, from some creepy country like Germany). Over the weekend I was invited to both a lantern walk and a goose carving. Since I’m not a Krampus, I decided to pass on the former—but who could say no to this?

I have no idea how the hostess prepared that thing. I’ll try to find out. It all happened before I arrived, and besides, I was too shellacked (hi, Mom) on French 75s (hi, St. Martin of Tours) to have the faintest clue what was going on. Here’s my associate Max Watman—the author of this forthcoming masterpiece—on the French 75, the queen of cocktails.

Isn’t she beautiful? Sketchy dudes take note—the womenfolk were practically unintelligible after like two sips of this thing.

It’s lucky there was some stick-to-your-ribs carbohydrate to soak this up. The following picture puts me in mind of a probably apocryphal story about Diogenes of Sinope. A well-meaning friend told Diogenes something like, “If you would only learn to flatter the tyrant, you wouldn’t have to eat lentils.” To which Diogenes said, “If you would only learn to eat lentils, you wouldn’t have to flatter the tyrant.” To which I said, “If you would only learn to make lentils this tasty, we wouldn’t be standing around in togas having this dumb conversation.” (The finished dish included candy-like chunks of sugar pumpkin.)

So I don’t know how to roast a goose or cook lentils—what am I good for, except, as one friend put it, “eating-related self-calls”? I can tell you how to mix up something that will blow the effin’ doilies off your Thanksgiving appeteaser table this year: cranberry salsa dip with cream cheese. First, you click this. Then you do what it says. Then you get a big mouthful of cranberry, capsaicin, cream cheese, cilantro, ginger, and the elegant cracker of your choice.

Just look at that. Festive enough for ya?

Greasy Grimy Goblin Guts

HEN I WAS a kid, the day after Hallowe’en was the saddest day of the year. The vampires were back in their coffins, the mummies in their sarcophagi, the zombies snug in their wormy soil . . . It’s now closer to a week after Hallowe’en, and I’m still struggling to catch up with my horror and food pairings. Let’s make believe that these posts are a sop to everybody who misses October, rather than evidence of my laziness and inefficiency in the face of a deadline. Let’s turn our attention to a tried and true classic: Pumpkinhead.

All I know about the original Pumpkinhead film is that it stars veteran Abraham Lincoln impersonator Lance Henriksen, and that I’ve seen it at least once and don’t care to see it again, or even to Google for a plot synopsis. Basically I needed something with a pumpkin motif to pair with pumpkin seed mole. I almost went with John Carpenter’s Halloween, because there’s a jack-o-lantern in the opening credits, but my oldest and lamest friend, N—, requested that I discuss this celluloid catastrophe instead. Why? The stray cats that sun themselves on the hood of my car look scarier than that thing. The demon, I mean. Lance Henriksen looks like a catcher’s mitt that got attacked by a riding lawnmower.

The first thing you need to know about pumpkin seed mole—“mole” is Spanish for “concoction,” according to Wikipedia—is that you can’t make it with the seeds what come out of your jack-o-lantern. You have to buy these little green guys, called pepitas, in the Hispanic section of your grocery store’s insultingly small international food section. In an iron skillet, toast a half cup of them with a teaspoon of cumin seeds, half a teaspoon of oregano, and half a teaspoon of cracked black pepper, on medium heat for five or six minutes. Let the mixture cool somewhat before powdering it in a blender.

Next, put all the ingredients depicted above and listed here in a food processor: “tomatillos, serrano chile, garlic, lettuce, cinnamon, cilantro, radish tops, onion and salt.” It will look just like spicy brains, and you will want to eat it.

“Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large saucepan heat olive oil over a high heat. Carefully, pour in pureed tomatillo mixture, and let sizzle for 30 seconds. Stir in stock. Reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Turn up the heat to high and bring to a boil. Stir in ground nut mixture and remove from the heat. Puree in a food processor or blender, in batches, if necessary. Pass through a fine strainer, pressing with the back of a ladle to extract all the juices, into a 13 x 10-inch flameproof baking dish. Place the chicken breasts in the sauce and bring to a boil over moderate heat. Cover with foil and bake for 20 minutes. Serve the chicken and sauce over a bed of white rice. Sprinkle radish slices over the top.”

POSTSCRIPT: I neglected to mention that you should not pass your mole through a fine strainer. I have no idea where the author of this recipe got that bright idea, but even were you able to get this thick mess through a screen, it would completely ruin the consistency. It’s ready when it comes out of the blender.