All-American Apples

I have been feeling incredibly proud to be American as of late. One of the interesting things about the process of food writing is that you discover a great deal of what makes you tick as a person. I have explored ethnic cuisine, and have read about the history of food and its direct correlation to culture. I have cooked things that have no reference point in my my own upbringing, and have explored ingredients from across the globe. And when all is said and done, I cannot help but return to a place of gratitude for the fact that I had a privileged upbringing in this wonderful country. A country so diverse that a notion of a clearly defined 'American' cuisine is virtually impossible to define (it brings tears to my eyes that many people in the world would consider fast food as our defining culinary offering). This is not about politics, conquest, the lens of history, or some notion of global superiority. My country is my home, and I love it dearly. I never went hungry as a child. I was given a wonderful education. I was allowed to be the person I became, to think freely, to express myself as I saw fit. This has not been the collective experience of every American, but we continue to make strides to realize a better America for everyone. The story of our country is certainly sordid at times, but I am enamored with the manner by which so many people have come here to forge a new existence, a better life, pulling up a seat at the the table for "a piece of the American pie", a pie that in my humble estimation would most certainly have to include apples.

The apple is a remarkable ingredient to say the least. Its mapped genome contains 57,000 genes in comparison to a human being which clocks in at about 30,000. That makes it one amazingly complex fruit, and it has spread around the world with a seemingly endless amount of varieties available today. Like so many of our ancestors, apples are not native to the Americas, first coming to this country with colonists who quickly planted seeds and developed orchards upon arrival. Most of the apples went to the production of cider (cider always referred to the alcoholic beverage until Prohibition when unfiltered apple juice came to be called cider, with anything containing alcohol now referred to as hard cider) which became the most common beverage of Colonial America. Young and old enjoyed alcohol with every meal, making it hard to imagine how so many things actually got done. With their apple seeds the colonists also brought recipes for pie, which had been a staple since medieval times. Over the centuries Apple Pie has become part of the American lexicon for good reason, with greater results. It is delicious, it tends to conjure up nostalgic memories, and it is something best made in the home. I long for the days when home economics was part of a basic education. Bring it back, and make the gentlemen take it as well, and for God's sake, teach our next generation how to make pie!

With a healthy helping of American pride, and an ever-growing fascination with apples I came to the conclusion that making an apple pie was paramount to an enjoyable fall season. I had never made a pie from scratch, so I perused several recipes until I felt that I had a pretty good base of knowledge for the technique. Throughout the process of making the pie I tried to keep memories of childhood at the forefront of my mind. Cooking has a wonderful way of bringing out the distilled essence of the events that make up the formative years of our existence. In the case of apples I was blessed with a New England upbringing wherein fall was always marked by trips to orchards to pick or buy apples and fresh unfiltered apple juice (cider as it is best known today). This would always be followed by a fresh baked apple pie, which has a way of scenting a home in a way that seems just right, for lack of a better description. With these images and scents floating through my consciousness I set out to bake a flaky pie. The results were lovely, though it quickly became apparent to me that pie making is most certainly an art learned over time, which probably accounts for the lack of home production these days. It is all about the crust, the humble, yet defining vehicle for the apples we love so much. My pie was delicious, flaky, and just far enough from what I remember to make apple pie my current project. As soon as I craft my rendition of the perfect apple pie, the recipe will be posted. Until then I will continue to experiment, thoroughly enjoying every mistake and triumph along the path.

With the current abundance of apples at the farmers market, in all their inexpensive and tasty glory, I decided to also try my hand at some form of an apple cake. I settled on an Apple Kuchen, which is a German cake by ancestry. I love the idea of new people bringing old food to our land, and the Kuchen seemed to embody that perfectly. I made a Brown Sugar and Cinnamon Apple Kuchen with New England Cranberries. Because of my propensity for moistness when it comes to cake, I decided to make an apple jelly (essentially homemade apple sauce pressed through a tamis to remove any trace of fibrousness, allowing for a silky mouthfeel) and a classic creme anglaise for service. It looked amazing, and filled the house with a smell reminiscent of Christmas, a fireplace, and a well written short story. This morning it made for a wonderful day starter, as an accompaniment to press pot coffee. I will continue to cook with apples, and I will continue to love my American experience, fore they seem to go hand in hand.

"For Mom and Apple Pie"

-stock answer given by soldiers to journalists when asked why they were going off to fight in World War II

Raise Your Glass To New Experiences!

I have often been described as a person who is not afraid of a little adventure, and yet for all my interest in the culture of food, I do not have a litany of notches in my culinary belt. I have never traveled outside of North America, I have not eaten at any of the gastronomic temples of haute cuisine, and my experience with most ethnic foods is limited. If someone would like to pay for me to do any of these things, I am more than willing. Until then, I will have to make do with my books, my home cooking, and the fact that I am privileged enough to live in New York City where cultural diversity is a way of life.

This weekend I ventured out to Flushing, Queens for the very first time. I had an appointment in the vicinity, and with its reputation as the Asian capital of New York, I must say I was thrilled to check it out. My plan was to shoot out to Flushing on the subway, grab a bite to eat, and head to my appointment. It seemed simple enough, until I strode up the stairs of the subway station onto Main St., and my head nearly exploded. It was Saturday night and the sidewalk was an undulating mass of people moving in every possible direction. It was a situation where the quick pedestrian merge was required, lest someone barrel me over. My decided advantage in the situation was my height, allowing me to peer out over the throngs of people. My decided disadvantage was my height which made me stick out like a sore thumb in this crowd of primarily Asian people of shorter stature. That and the fact that I had no idea where I was or where I was headed. I didn't hear a single person speaking English, so instead of asking for directions, I did what so many male travelers have done before me, I pretended I knew where I was going. After walking a few blocks I realized I was headed in the wrong direction so I decided to cross the street, then head back from where I came. Why didn't I just stop and turn around? That's a very good question. I suppose I was convinced that the elderly Chinese woman directly behind me would spend the remainder of the evening telling her whole family about the uncomfortably tall white man who didn't know where he was going. I know it's silly, but in that moment, that's exactly what was going through my head.

As I walked down Main St. I was overcome by an urge to eat. There was roast duck hanging in several windows, glistening, calling out to me in some primordial kind of way. There were markets overflowing with produce, some of which were completely foreign to me. There were people hawking various food items right on the sidewalk, shouting out in what I am guessing was Mandarin (Mandarin is the dialect of choice in Flushing). There were smells wafting out of every restaurant, scenting the early evening air with an intoxicating perfume of culinary triumph. Seriously, the whole scene was amazing. So I did what any good aspiring gourmand would do: I freaked out. That's right, sensory overload got the best of me and I froze like a flagpole in a Midwestern winter. I had given myself so little time that I felt pressured to make a choice about what to eat. Unfortunately most of the restaurants used Chinese as their only form of writing which did not exactly help my cause. The other problem was that I saw so many exciting things that I just didn't know where to start. The lights, the sounds, the smells, the foreign language, the fast-paced excitement, it got to me. I realized that I would have to walk to my appointment, on an empty belly no less. As I strolled through the residential neighborhoods of Flushing the reality that I am not the culinary equivalent of Indiana Jones set in. It was a tough blow.

After my appointment two acquaintances asked me to go out for a bite to eat, upon whose completion they would give me a ride back into Manhattan. If I'm being honest, I must confess that my initial reaction was clouded with a great deal of skepticism. You see, I have been the victim of countless outings where the company was far better than the food. I have a real problem with going to a hack restaurant where I'm charged an incredulous sum for some insipid meal that makes me curse my decision to attend. Am I a food snob? Maybe, but not in an arrogant highfalutin kind of way. I just like to eat good food, where I don't feel completely ripped off. Tales of $8 bowls of watery oatmeal and the $12 Diner Pancake incident of 2009 come to mind (where I could actually see the Biquick on the shelf in the kitchen, I guess this is acceptable on the Upper East Side). Or maybe the unspeakable moments of terror induced by the phenomenon of "friends making friends go to bad restaurants". Everyone has been a victim of this cultural malady. You have a group of friends who always go to the same place. The food has always been bad at said place, it's never getting any better, but they 'know us there' goes the logic, as if we were inviting the staff to dine with us. Some how I'm convinced that they aren't the only restaurant that will gladly take our money. It's better to eat bad food at a place that knows us than try and go to a place where the food is actually enjoyable to eat. I make a proclamation right here, right now: people who do this are being stupid! There, I said it. I feel better already. The thing is, I love many of the people who are all to happy to fall victim to this gastronomic transgression. But alas, I digress. (I've always wanted to say that)

I decided to agree to a meal with my new close friends Dan and Simone. Whenever I am putting my eating fate in the hands of someone else, we have officially become quite close, hence my new close friends. Fortunately I didn't make a huge mistake. I asked where we were going to be dining, expecting a response that would induce fear, maybe 'Charlie O'Toole's' or 'BJ's Grill', or any other faux Irish or generic American sounding restaurant of which I had no desire to offer my patronage. As I cowered in the back seat like a child who had just pissed Dad off, ready for a verbal scolding, Dan eased all my fears by saying that we were going to a little place in Flushing called OK Ryan. Strange name to say the least, but I was intrigued. It was a small place located in a strip mall slightly off the beaten path. When we arrived I had an overwhelming sense that everything would be okay. And it was.

The menu at OK Ryan seemed like some amalgamation of Chinese with a Taiwanese influence, but that is gathered from the ten seconds I spent looking at the menu. Basically I deferred to Dan and Simone, deciding that we would share several dishes, their choice, being that they had experience with this restaurant. This is where I must confess that I am a vociferous omnivore, with a substantial appetite, and incredibly poor food blogging skills. As the food started to come, I suppose the thing to do was to begin taking pictures of each dish, with the camera that was in my pocket the whole time. Instead I was drawn in by the food and the great conversation to the point where I forgot about my food writer aspirations. And yet, as I write this I am beginning to feel that this might not be a bad thing, that food is to be enjoyed more than fetishized. And the truth is that I enjoyed every minute of our meal, every morsel of food, every aroma. To my recollection the meal consisted of this:

Eggplant with Chiles and Minced Pork: Unbelievably good, to the point where I kept going back for seconds, then thirds, then the "well.....if no else wants to finish this I guess I will have to."

Smoked Eel: My only experience with eel is Unagi sushi, but this was long fillets in a red sauce, maybe Taiwanese, but I'm not sure. It was melt in my mouth fantastic, very rich.

Noodles: A chow mein type dish that was good, but not the highlight.

Pork with Bamboo Shoots and Vinegar: It was very unusual. Unlike anything I have ever had in its tang. That said, it was addicting!

Salt and Pepper Soft-Shell Crabs: I believe that I was born to eat soft-shells. Some people are born to hit a baseball, some folks are drawn to be doctors, and some paint exquisite landscapes. I believe I may have been placed on this earth to eat soft-shell crabs, and this version of fried soft-shells in a salt and pepper spiked coating was just so good.

Orange Slices: Who doesn't love the orange slices at the end of a meal? It is an awesome end to a meal. I love it every time.

It was a great meal, and my gratitude goes out to Dan and Simone for a wonderful Flushing experience, my very first, and for reinstating my deeply held belief that good food for reasonable money still exists. I will be returning to Flushing very soon to explore, to learn, and to seek out the deliciousness I smelled and spotted when I first landed on Main St.

My Own Two Hands

There is something unmistakably satisfying about making something with your own two hands. It is an experience not to be missed. It rings true in a way that is so different than eating a great meal in a restaurant, and undeniably miles apart from opening a box or space-age package containing unpronounceable ingredients. The beauty of cooking at home is that it isn't nearly as hard as people make it out to be. I think sometimes we forget that it was only a couple of generations ago that cooking, and creating by hand was simply what the vast majority of people did. The process of turning raw ingredients into something greater than the sum of its parts is not to be missed. I happen to love it, and I cook every day. I think it is honorable, creative, inspirational, and centering. After all, food is what we count on to live. Remember that the next time you are in a grocery store picking out what will become the fuel for you our your family to survive, and hopefully thrive.

Am I opposed to eating out? Absolutely not. In fact this post was inspired by a restaurant owner. One person's commitment to practicing a craft, and treating it like an art. Using two hands to make magic. Does this all sound lofty and pretentious? It's not. Dom DeMarco, owner of DiFara pizzeria in Broooklyn, NY has been making pizza for a long, long time. Let us examine for a moment what a long time is. In 1977, after owning the pizzeria in tandem, he bought out his partner and has had made every single pizza his shop has sold with his own two hands since that day. Every one. He has owned the shop since he was a young man in his twenties, and has been making pizza since he was a child. This my friends is dedication to a craft. The commitment that he would turn out the best product he could, using great ingredients, and never rushing is old-school at its finest. Fifty plus years, and a lot of pizzas. This is not about whether DiFara is the best pizza, or worth $5 a slice, and $25 a pie (though many refer to it in religious tones, and the wait for a pizza can often approach two hours). This is about someone who takes what he does to heart. At the end of every day at the shop, Dom has a glass of wine and a slice of pizza he made that day, to assess what he has produced.

So what does this have to do with cooking at home? It's about attention to detail. It's about caring about what you produce. It's about using your hands. When I cook I try to always remember that I am participating in a legacy that has been around for the course of civilized history. Cooking never has to be some mysterious activity practiced by a few. In fact it is one of the most democratic activities that exists, because it is simply about what you do. Knowledge means nothing in cooking without practical application. Practice. Practice some more. And then practice again. The beauty is that as you practice you have the opportunity to eat the results, and those results get better and better as time goes on. Why was Grandma's cooking so good? Maybe because she had been doing it for 50 years. Just a thought. Dom DeMarco made pizzas in relative obscurity until 1999 when a review in a restaurant guide drew the attention of the general public. It took forty years of making pizzas in Brooklyn before the world cast its gaze upon his little shop on Avenue J. That's a long time to practice. Obviously Dom loves what he does, because at the age of 73 when most people have packed it in for a slower existence he is still making pizza. Dom says that he will continue to do what he does until his body stops working. It isn't about money, and it's certainly not about fame. Dom cares about making great pizza for people. When we cook at home we should remember that. After all, we are usually cooking for family, friends, and ourselves. These are all incredibly important people if you ask me. Remember that the next time you prepare a meal and all will be just fine.

The pictures above are a few examples of food I made this week. Pancakes, I love pancakes. One was plain with apple and brown sugar compote. The other simply had dark chocolate chips in it. Both were lightly drizzled with real maple syrup, and both were delicious. The second picture is sweet potato gnocchi with sage butter, sprinkled with freshly grated parmigiano reggiano. Know most people's reaction would be, "who the hell is going to make fresh gnocchi at home?" I guess I would. People have been doing it for centuries after all. In fact, I had never made them before. It wasn't that difficult and it was well worth it. It was really really worth it in fact. The last picture is a typical 'what do I have on hand' sort of a meal. Here is how it played out. I have this yellow squash from the farmers market, I should probably use that today. I could saute that up in some olive oil, made a sprinkle of sicilian oregano. Then I could dump some fresh cooked pasta in the pan, a little bit of the starchy cooking water, salt, pepper, touch more oil, and we are golden. I have these cippolini onions that are amazing, maybe pan roasting them with butter would be nice. Oh yeah, I have the two different colored sweet potatoes that I roasted yesterday. Why don't I slice them and quickly pan fry each slice for a crunchy exterior. Now I will stack the sweet potato slices and onions because it kind of looks cool, plate the pasta, sprinkle with parigiano, and dinner is served. That's how my brain works a lot of the time when I cook. The thought process is not where it's really happening though. It's my hands that carry out the cooking, it's my tongue that I rely on to taste everything I make. How do you learn how to season food? Season and taste, and practice. My hands don't produce what Dom DeMarco does, but he certainly does inspire me to care deeply about what I make. For this I am incredibly grateful.

"Pizza has become considered a fast food. This one is slow food. Anything you do, when you do it too fast, it's no good. The way I make a pizza takes a lot of work. And I don't mind work." -D. DeMarco

Noodles and Friends

The time 12:20pm.

The place, Ippudo NY.

Outside, fall has officially set in, with grey overcast skies, and a biting wind that makes summer feel like a long forgotten memory. The chill in the air brings a bit of sad nostalgia that is strangely comforting. And when the cold sets in like it did today, few things soothe the soul like a steaming bowl of beautiful broth filled with noodles and assorted accouterments. In fact, when it is hot as sin outside, I still sometimes seek the refuge of this sort of meal. It is one of the single most satisfying things to eat on the planet. I feel supremely justified in my love of these dishes because something tells me that millions of people simply can't be wrong. In Southeast Asia they eat it for breakfast, and I tend to think that they are onto something.

Today, the subject at hand is japanese ramen, and Ippudo NY does it incredibly well. Now I've never had the opportunity to eat ramen in one of the famous Tokyo shops. To be honest with you, I've never traveled outside of North America so I don't know that I have that much to compare it to. Is it the best in the City? I don't know, and to be frank, I don't particularly care. I simply don't have the willingness or the fortitude to be one of those guys who spends years eating one type of food at hundreds of spots in and around the city in order to proclaim their own personal "top five" list. Ippudo is my current ramen spot and that's that. Is it authentic? That's a really stupid question. I'm not in Japan, so of course it's not authentic japanese ramen. Authentic is the most overused word in food commentary today. If something tastes truly amazing, why would I ever care about whether it is authentic or not? Now tradition, that is a word I can get behind. Why you may ask, do I scoff at authenticity and yet embrace tradition? Because tradition implies a set of principles that really make sense. Where as authenticity has become a sad marketing gimmick, tradition springs from decades, centuries, even millennium of shared experience passed down from one generation to the next, usually falling in line with two key ideas, it tastes good and it will keep you alive and kicking. I think that sometimes we overlook the fact that it wasn't too long ago that many food decisions were rooted in survival. This is a point that I don not take for granted. For the vast majority of the world, food is a daily battle, so I try to stay immensely grateful for the fact that I never go hungry. With that in mind I can officially report to you that Ippudo's Akamaru Modern will most definitely provide the sustenance that you need to tackle your day. Oh, did I mention it has the ability to make your eyes roll into the back of your head from pleasure? It's that good.

If there is one thing that can never be questioned about food, it is that it is better enjoyed with company. We aren't talking about late night face stuffing escapades while curled up on the couch. No pints of ice cream to the dome. I'm talking about nourishing, soul lifting sustenance that makes you happy to be alive. These are the experiences that are translated through the lens of good company. I have taken many people to Ippudo, and almost all of them have had the same experience. It went something like this. The bowls of ramen are brought to the table. Silence falls. After a couple of spoonfuls of broth and a single mouthful of noodles, they look at me and say, "this is really good." And then it happens. A few more sips of broth, followed by a much less demure slurp of noodles, and they lean back as a smirk takes over their face. We look at each other, and without a single word being exchanged, we both confirm that this is one of the satisfying things that a person could eat. That flood of joy is unmistakable. If you look around the restaurant you can always spot it happening, as if the shouts of the waitstaff, and the buzz of the open kitchen are somewhere off in the distance. When someone is fully present for a great bowl of ramen, time seems to slow down, the worries of the world fade, and the tension in the shoulders that has become a byproduct of modern life melts away. I will say again, it is that good. Two of my best friends, Ben and Dustin, have both experienced it on separate trips to New York. And they didn't have to tell me what was going on in their head because it was clearly displayed all over their face. Ashley got it too, taking pictures of the mysterious bowls of goodness for posterity's sake.

As I now sit here alone with my bowl of ramen, I am struck by the overwhelming desire to share the experience with someone else. Believe me, I am fully enjoying my bowl, so much so that it is empty in under ten minutes. But the enjoyment seems fleeting because I never have the chance to glance up, mid slurp, and silently convey to someone else that yes, life really is good.

Roast meat, play music, be happy!

Who among us can deny the allure of a piece of roasted meat. I'm sure that deep within each of us is the belief that this is a good thing, maybe even our vegetarian brethren. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for eating less meat, because I think it is clear that in today's day and age our meat consumption has gone off the charts, leading to obesity, environmental catastrophe, and an industrialized food system that is criminal at best. I certainly don't eat meat everyday, having even gone weeks without a single indulgence, but when the desire arrives, quenching it with a good roast is tough to beat. And when I think about a piece of meat roasting to perfection, I can't help but think of days of old when people would gather round the fire, play music, dance, celebrate, and eat. In my mind, music and food seem to go hand in hand. The right music at a restaurant adds so much to the experience, while the right track played at home while cooking can elevate the entire creative process. Now I'd like to be super hip and tell you that I have a deep collection of vintage vinyl that I play on my German turntable, but I'd be a big fat liar. The truth is, many times when I cook I listen to my ipod with headphones, as my girlfriend studies away. Yet that simple act of creating a cooking soundtrack transports me to a wonderful place, and adds yet another element of fun to the daily meal. Food, and its preparation, should be enjoyable remember. I even think it is allowed to be classified as fun, but don't tell too many people about that or we may disturb the delicate balance of daily drudgery that so many people have bought into.

Shall we roast some meat? I think so.

Step #1: Go to a good butcher or farmer's market if possible. Procure a piece of humanely raised, antibiotic-free meat. If they can tell you where it came from it is a very good sign. In my case I went to Dickson's Farmstand Meats (dicksonsfarmstand.com) and purchased a beautiful Boston Butt pork roast. If you question my use of the term beautiful, just look at the picture above. It is beautiful, with plenty of fat, proof positive that good pork was never meant to be the 'other white meat'. The sad fact is that 'the other white meat', encased in styrofoam and plastic wrap at your local Mega Super-Duper Mart, tastes like shit. Good pork is a revelation for those who are uninitiated.

Step #2: Turn your oven on to 450F. Take your roast out of the fridge and allow it to come up to temperature while the oven is heating up. This is a step that so many people never do, and it makes a huge difference.

Step #3: Put on some great music. (My choices are listed below, and will be attached to many of my future posts. You don't have to like what I do, but try and put together a sweet playlist the next time you cook, if you don't already)

Step #4: Season the outside of the roast with whatever you damn well please. In my case I went pretty straightforward, salt, pepper, and herbes de provence.

Step #5: You should already own Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's River Cottage Meat Book. If you don't, you should stop reading this and go buy that, you owe it to yourself. Use Hugh's 'half hour sizzle' method of roasting (half hour at 450F, then take the oven down to 325F to finish the roasting). For my pork, I was looking for an internal temp of 160F. On that note, make sure you have a good thermometer. They are incredibly useful, yet men in particular seem to shy away from them at all costs. Cooking a large roast without a thermometer is similar to the 'I'm obviously lost, but refuse to stop and ask for directions' maneuver.

Step#6: Make some vegetables, maybe a starch. I had some cute little mini acorn squash, and a bunch of multi-colored baby carrots from the farmers market. The oven was being used for one thing, why not use it for two? Squash and carrots on a baking sheet, toss a little olive oil over top and pop them in the oven. I don't salt vegetables beforehand when I roast them because it hinders the caramelization process, which is the whole point of roasting them in the first place (thanks Mr. Carmellini). Salt later if necessary.

Step #7: When the roast is done (you will know with the use of your trusty thermometer remember), take it out and let it rest for at least fifteen minutes, reserving the roasting pan and its contents for a pan sauce/gravy. Letting it rest means not touching it, AT ALL! Don't cut into it to see if it is done (remember the thermometer? if you used it, you already know it's done). Don't poke, prod, or shake. Think about when you want to rest. During those moments, would you appreciate someone poking at you? Well neither does your meat.

Step #8:Finish your vegetables or starch. I took out my squash and carrots when they were nicely roasted and preceded to make a little beurre monte. This is just the french term for butter sauce. You heat a little water and whisk in some butter, emulsifying the two together. Drop a couple sprigs of time (or any herb) in there and gently toss the carrots in the sauce. I placed a half a squash on the plate, placed some carrots on top, and placed a small spoonful of the beurre monte inside the natural well of the squash.

Step#9:Make a gravy or pan sauce. I'm not going to tell you how to do this because at some point I want to talk extensively about the lack of sauce making in home kitchens, and how to remedy this ugly reality. It's not that hard, I promise. The River Cottage Meat Book also has great instructions.

Step#10:Now that the roast has rested, cut nice slices for service. Not too thick, not too thin.

Step#11:Spoon a bit of sauce over the meat, and serve to someone you love, which could be yourself, though people seem to avoid cooking for one at all costs.

Step#12:Enjoy the fruits of your labor, and thank the pig for being the magnificent culinary creature that it is.

10/12/10 Playlist

Mumford and Sons: The Cave

White Blank Page

John Lennon: Beautiful Boy

Drake: Unforgettable

City and Colour: Live at the Orange Lounge EP

Black Star: Definition

The Black Crowes: Freak 'N' Roll....Into The Fog (2 CD)

Three Cheers for Rene!

As I have said before, I love cookbooks, and few things get me as excited as the release of a new one that has been on my radar for some time. NOMA by Rene Redzepi dropped this week, which to most people means nothing, but to me was a very big deal. Quick breakdown as told by the press: Rene Redzepi (chef/owner) is a genius, NOMA has defined an entire regional cooking style (Nordic), ranked #1 in S. Pelligrinos 2010 50 Best Restaurants list (a big deal to say the least), NOMA's food is strictly comprised of ingredients that are native to Denmark and the surrounding countries (save for exceptions like chocolate and coffee), etc., etc. With that out of the way, I can talk about what I think is the most important thing in the book, purity. The truth is I will most likely never recreate a single recipe in this massive tome, both for lack of equipment (unless someone cares to purchase a Thermomix and Vacuum Sealer for my amusement), and lack of ingredients (buckthorn berries and such). But I really don't think that matters, because within its pages NOMA holds a bounty of inspiration that can be taken to any home kitchen.

The story of how the restaurant developed is amazing, and the pictures perfectly capture the amazing plating skills of Redzepi. But what really comes through as the pages are turned is the idea that food should really taste of itself. How can a cook most honor the ingredients at hand, making them as delicious as possible? How does seasonality go from being a buzz word at the latest restaurant opening, to a storyline that allows the cook, and subsequently the eater, to appreciate the bounty of any region? It is this purity of intention, and purity of ingredients that makes NOMA such a compelling read. "A sense of time and place" is a quote that can be referenced in just about any article on Redzepi, and it is important not to overlook the power of that statement. Believe me when I tell you that I am not a diehard locavore by any stretch of the imagination, but I am strongly drawn to the idea that every place has a bounty of ingredients that can help the cook find their own voice. After all, it is easy to be a great cook when you have a perfectly ripe tomato. When I go to the farmer's market I really try to take in the signs of the changing seasons, the smells that abound, the farmers that have produced the very things that I am taking home in my bag. It becomes much easier to tell a story when you have really soaked in the backdrop that it springs from. The only unfortunate aspect of the book is its ability to remind us of how far we have drifted from this ideal.