A Finger in Every Pie

On Ashkenazim and Sephardim

It's still actually Passover, although you wouldn't know it from either the contents of my cupboard or the composition of the meals I've been eating up and down the glorious state of Vermont over the past five days.  Before we left town, however, we did have a rather lovely seder. 

We had people up to my father's big old pre-war apartment in Yonkers, which is actually a great place to entertain, since it has a full dining room and a quite large living room, both with lovely river/Palisade views.  Can't quite promise folks the same views or leg-room when they join us in our East Harlem digs.   And besides, my dad is getting on in years, and basically doesn't like to leave the house if he can help it.  So we tend to bring family parties to him.  In addition to the five of us (Dad, bro, sis-in-law, G and me), we had some cousins and some friends, bringing us to a total of 11. 

We had a lot of fun with the seder part.  We do tend to get a little panicky around the religious/ritual parts of it, since none of us are observant and we've never had any formal religious instruction.  So we rely on our friend Teddy (aka my "other brother"), his wife Ruth, daughter Nora and brother-in-law Henry  to bring the Haggadahs and lead us through a lighting-fast version, in deference to my father's age and inability to sit at the table for too long.  This year Teddy & Co. also brought yarmulkes.  If I were a blackmailing sort, I'd post the photos I took of my brother in a little pink velvet number, and G in basic black, which refused to stay on his luxuriant crop of hair.

Dinner was a nice mix of the traditional and some contemporary choices.  We started with chopped chicken liver paté (the real deal -- I made it myself, due to the dearth of ritual Jewish food available in Spanish Harlem; nary a matzoh to be found at the local Fine Fare Foods grocery store).  I updated that one with a splash of cognac -- not kosher, but delicious.  We went on to matzoh ball soup and gefilte fish with both red and the white horseradish.  I made my mother's recipe for potted chicken with meatballs, but gave it a twist by using Molly's recipe for minted lamb meatballs, minus the tomato sauce and cooked right in the chicken gravy.   This was a great success.  It was served with rice pilaf, since my brother recently decided through some sort of complicated logic that is a) known only to him, and b) patently absurd, that we qualify as Sephardic (Spanish/Italian/Middle Eastern/Asiatic) rather than Ashkenazic (Eastern European) Jews.  He decided this based on the fact that he wanted to eat rice, which is allowed the Sephardim but not the Ashkenazim at Passover.  We also had roast asparagus, tossed salad and a noodle pudding (which one of our guests who shall remain nameless insisted was made with "matzoh" noodles).

I love the challenge of dessert at Passover.  As many others do, we tend to turn a blind eye to the kosher laws that we don't observe at other times of year, like the mixing of meat with dairy.  But I always enjoy trying to make flourless desserts.  One of this year's specialties was Thomas Keller's Lemon Sabayon Tart, pictured above.  I made the pinenut crust with almond meal as a substitute for flour.  The filling was delicious, but the crust definitely needs some work.  I'll try the standard pinenut shortcrust pastry next time -- since it won't be Passover any more.  The other dessert was a chocolate amaretti torte, which came out rich, chocolatey and with a nice amaretti crunch. 

What I enjoyed most, however, were the two kinds of charoset we had.  It's one of those things like cranberry sauce, which I love to eat during a holiday and wonder why I can't have it more often.  Charoset is a fruit and nut mixture that represents the mortar used to build the pyramids.  Ashkenazic Jews tend to make a mixture of grated or chopped apples, walnuts, honey, spices and red wine.  Sephardic Jews make a variety of different kinds of pastes composed of dried fruits and nuts.  My brother made a truly delicious apple charoset, despite his recent Sephardic leanings, and the aforementioned friend Teddy brought his wonderful Sephardic version, which I beg him to make every year.  He's held out for years on telling me the recipe, claiming that his charoset gains him entry to the seder.  I've finally prevailed on him, though, and found out that he uses Joan Nathan's recipe for Venetian Charoset, which I'll share with you, since it's already been widely published online.  You should try this regardless of whether or not you celebrate Passover, whether you're Ashkenazic, Sephardic, or Jewish at all.  Like all good food, its deliciousness crosses all cultural and ethnic boundaries.  It's so yummy that I might look into becoming Sephardic, however.  I'll call my brother to find out how that's done, and I'll get back to you. 

Venetian Charoset
From "The Jewish Holiday Kitchen" by Joan Nathan (Schocken Books)

1 1/2 cups chestnut paste
10 ounces dates, chopped
12 ounces figs, chopped
2 tablespoons poppy seeds
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 cup chopped almonds
1/2 cup pine nuts
Grated rind of one orange
1/2 cup white raisins
1/4 cup chopped dried apricots
1/2 cup brandy
Honey to bind

Combine all the ingredients, gradually adding just enough brandy and honey to make the mixture bind.

Makes about four cups.

Postscript:  I got hungry writing this post, and went to the fridge, whereupon I found the remains of this very charoset.  After five days in the fridge, it was even better than at the seder.  The brandy and honey had melded with the orange rind, the figs and apricots were fruitier than ever, and the nuts were still crunchy.  As I stood at the fridge with my spoon, I decided that this would make an incredible filling for a breakfast pastry or even a coffee cake...a babka perhaps.  Ideas began to blossom...

IMBB 14: Orange you glad I made a salad?

Believe me, I really did know that the assignment for this month's IMBB was not about the use of oranges.  The fruit, that is.  I understood from the very beginning that it was all based on color. Our wonderful hosts, LadyGoat and FoodGoat, made that quite clear.  As soon as I head about the color-rich theme, I had fantasies of making a lovely orange-colored Double Gloucester Welsh Rarebit or a sunset-hued Apricot Tart -- or both.  Despite my brief rumination on the possibility of an all-orange dinner,  a simple orange dish was what was in the cards here, in terms of both the fruit AND the color.

Of late, things have been a bit hectic foodwise -- one of those periods when you're doing so much cooking that you don't actually have time to blog about it, despite all the bloggable moments it provides.  This weekend I had two Passover meals to make/contribute to, in addition to SHF and IMBB.  We're also getting ready for our sojourn north to the wilds of Vermont, a state that makes any foodlover's heart beat faster.

At the party we attended on Saturday night, my hostess asked if I would make and bring a few dishes.  I was going to bring roasted asparagus as one of my contributions, but then it struck me that I might put that asparagus into a springtime salad platter.  So above, you see my concotion -- a bed of baby romaine leaves and fresh leafy watercress, spokes of roasted asparagus interspersed with mellow avocado, juicy navel orange slices, and purple onion.  The color orange had a lot of colorful friends to play with on this platter!  All was dressed with a piquant vinagrette which made use of the last of the season's Meyer Lemons as well as the lovely blood orange vinegar from Cuisine Perel.  As the only light, fresh, salad-y dish on a rather rich, heavy menu, this was a huge hit at the party.

Many thanks to Ladygoat and Foodgoat for hosting such a fun and unusual IMBB.  They've posted a round-up so quickly that I'm already enjoying the other entries!   

SHF #7: Chewy, Sticky, Crunchy, Chocolatey and Sweeeeeeeet

Molasses.  Mmmmmmolasses.  It was a bit of a sticky situation when Derrick announced that this month’s Sugar High Friday would feature molasses.  Sticky for me, that is, since I tend to think of molasses as a winter ingredient.  In fact, I use molasses pretty much exclusively for triple-gingersnaps at holiday time.  Clearly I was in for a challenge.  But as I began to explore the idea of molasses, visions of darkly sumptuous sweets began to dance in my head.  Should I make a Treacle Tart?  A Yeasted Molasses Spice Bread?  A War Cake?  At a certain point in my ruminations, I decided that I wasn’t going to use ginger or other spices, mainly because I wanted the molasses to be the star this time.  Molasses is so often in a supporting role, using its considerable talent as a dark flavor enhancer. 

I finally settled on a dark, toothsome bar cookie with a pure molasses flavor.  The inspiration for it came from the childhood memory of a chocolate chip date cake that my mother’s cousin used to make whenever her ramshackle Connecticut house was full of kids.  I never had a recipe for it;  I don’t remember if it had nuts or not, and I doubt that it had molasses in it -- although it probably contained brown sugar, molasses' soft and sandy cousin.  I just remember that it was the first time I tasted dates and thought they were good – probably because they were combined with chocolate. 

So I added luscious medjool dates to my concoction.  These served to underscore the sweet dark chewiness created by all that molasses.  Crunch came into play when I decided to toss in toasted pecans.  And rounds of dark chocolate provided…well, they provided chocolate.  I was lucky enough to have flat disks of excellent bittersweet chocolate from my trip to Jacques Torres' shop a few weeks ago.  This disk shape is a great thing, because once baked into a cookie, cake or bar, they give you these tectonic layers, a sort of series of geological striations of chocolate running through your confection.  But if such a shape is not available to you, chunks or chips will work admirably, I'm sure.   

None of these chunky or chewy ingredients interfered with the deep taste of molasses, which is what I was after.  A fair amount of salt gave a buttery counterpoint to the sweetness, and instead of the vanilla I would normally use in similar bar cookies, I chose to add a couple of spoonfuls of dark rum.   Since both rum and molasses are derived from sugar cane, I thought the caramel flavors would serve to heighten each other.   Which they did -- and do, since we still have some.  We've been savoring them slowly and sharing them grudgingly.   

And that’s the story of how this sweet unassuming bar came into being.  Although it bears only a mild similarity to that childhood cake of Connecticut summers, I think I actually like it better; it may even have the potential to be a memory-maker in its own right.  These bars are similar to that church-supper favorite, the Congo Bar -- although mine are something of an extreme version.  They make a nice change from brownies, yet still provide the choco-crunchy-chewiness you crave.  It has been my experience that bar cookies are greeted with pleasure at any time of year.  I wager that these will run true to form, and create even more happiness if paired with a dish of fresh seasonal fruit, scoops of sorbet or ice-cream.

Extreme Congo Bars, aka Chewy Molasses Bars With Dates, Pecans and Chocolate
1/2 cup melted butter
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup molasses
1 egg
2 tablespoons dark rum
1 cup sifted flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup (4 oz.) coarsely chopped toasted pecans
1 cup (8 oz.) pitted medjool dates, chopped
1 cup (6 oz.) bittersweet chocolate chunks, chips or disks (Jacques Torres’ dark chocolate disks work well here.)

Mix butter, sugar, and molasses together; add egg and rum, beating lightly until combined. Toss pecans, dates and chocolate with 2 tablespoons of the flour.  Sift the rest of the flour with the salt and baking soda, and add to the wet ingredients.  Stir in pecans, chocolate and dates.  Mix well. Spread batter evenly in a buttered, parchment-lined 9-inch square pan. Bake at 350° for about 35 minutes (check starting at 25 minutes).  Cool in pan for 10 minutes.  Turn out onto a rack, then cut into bars when cool.

Spring Slump

No, that's not the name of a fabulous new dessert, styled on an old-fashioned cobbler and recreated with fresh, thrillingly seasonal ingredients.  Instead, it's the way I've been feeling lately.  I haven't cooked, written or posted much, and I do apologize.  Blame it on the usual yadda-yadda -- too much work, too little playtime, etc.  Part of the reason why I barely cooked last week had to do with the prior week's trip to DC -- I never got around to our weekly shopping much less any real cooking, so we ended up eating some freezer staples and relying more on take-out than we usually do.  And this week, somehow I just seemed to have a taste for things that I've already written about here.  I made this again last night.  Despite having cooked it only two weeks ago, I found myself craving it.   I therefore intentionally made a huge batch.  It went well with swordfish and greens, and there's plenty for another dinner and a few lunch boxes as well.

This morning before running off to tutor one of my weekend pupils, I whipped up the apple beauties from this post, because a) my darling guy deserves them -- but then, he always does, b) I wanted us to have something nice and weekendy for breakfast, and c) he has to go down to Baltimore tomorrow at the crack of dawn due to an unfortunate family occurrence, and I figured he would enjoy having muffins on the train.

I did have some nice moments in DC week before last -- laughs with friends from around the country whom I get to see a few times a year at these conferences, a remarkable keynote address by a truly great educator, and some good meals.  I had wanted to try to go to one of Molly's brother's restaurants, but since we were only there two nights, I had to take into account the wishes of others.

Among memorable tastes were:  a glass of Sonoma Valley Sebastiani Pinot Noir at Bistro Bis, their Salade Marché de Toulon, which turned out to be a plate of little bouquets of perfectly cooked cold vegetables with dabs of rosemary aioli, and their Pear Tatin.  The following evening brought dinner at the Tabard Inn, a gorgeous and tiny old hotel that's a perpetual Washington hang for me, although I've never actually stayed there.  We were four women at the table, just come from a cocktail party, so we had plates of appetizers, salads and desserts -- one of my favorite ways to eat.  These included brilliantly briny oysters, a fabulous paté, good wine, and a vanilla malted milk crème brûlée (note to self:  try that at home).   I'm determined that one of these days, the guy and I are going to spend a Washington weekend in that lovely place. 

The biggest surprise was breakfast in our hotel.  Having left things to the last minute, my colleague and I didn't end up staying at the Washington Court, where most of our group was housed.  No great loss, honestly.  Instead, we were around the corner at the Phoenix Park, a much smaller, slightly boutique-y hotel that has a consciously Irish flavor, although no-one Irish actually seems to work there (the staff came from every other nation you can imagine, and were just wonderful).  Even the complimentary toiletries in the rooms were made in Ireland. Their hotel restaurant is a hopping pub called the Dubliner, with live Irish music.   Best of all was breakfast, in a little room right off the restaurant.  On these trips, I've grown sadly accustomed to dreary, hugely overpriced hotel breakfast buffets, replete with steam-table eggs, tired bacon, cold pastries and burn-your-own toast.  At the Dubliner I ordered and received perfectly (and I mean exemplary) poached eggs, crisp, sagey sausage and toasted brown soda bread.  Yum.  Give that one a spin if you're in DC. 

Slump will be over soon, as it must be.  I've already made my entry for the upcoming Sugar High Friday, an ode to sticky molasses sweetness.  I've got my thoughts on an orangey entry for  Is My Blog Burning #14 as well.  All this must be done in advance due to the advent of Passover next weeekend.  Despite the fact that I come from the most pagan of families, and my brother and I have have proceeded to bring ever more cultures to the mix, we celebrate lots and lots of holidays.  In fact, we probably celebrate more holidays, since we get to dabble in everything.  And how do we celebrate, since we're not particularly religious?  With food, of course!  I'll be cooking for two seders -- one at a friend's house, and one up at my dad's.  Then, since it's finally spring break week here in NYC, G and I will take off for the wilds of Vermont, where there will doubtless be eating and shopping adventures.  These may include but are not limited to the following:  Quechee Inn restaurant, The Baker's Store at King Arthur Flour, and the mind-boggling food co-op in Lebanon, NH.  Stay tuned.

Great Balls of Fire

In late-breaking kitchen news, I set our toaster oven on fire the other night.  I was making some nice open-faced grilled cheese frankfurters to go with bowls of just-made black bean soup  for a cozy supper.  I have this bad habit of putting these things directly on the rack, rather than using the neat little grill pan you see sitting on top of the (now clean) toaster oven to the right.    It's just that I like the bread to get all toasty and crisp on the bottom.

To be frank (tee hee), I'm not doing what the manufacturer recommends.  I'm naughty, you see.  You mustn't try this at home, girls and boys.  By a stroke of undeserved luck, the aforementioned franks had already been removed from the toaster oven when suddenly flames began to shoot up from the foil-coated floor of the little oven.  Probably the drippings from our crispy little sandwiches of joy had helped other debris on the oven floor to ignite.  Yes, debris -- now you know all.  The secret's out.  Some things I'm good at -- housekeeping, not so much.  I will now draw a tasteful veil over the tired litanies of how much we work and haven't had a lot of time lately to do things like clean the toaster oven.  Of course, you all know how difficult it is to get decent help these days.  Especially when you yourself are basically living a life of not-very-glorified servitude.

Back at the ranch, the flames were shooting up, and I was throwing handfuls of coarse salt into the oven, trying to stanch them.  G reached for the box of table salt and began throwing that in.  "Don't use your expensive stuff, sweetie," he said.  "The kosher salt's no more expensive than table salt, I don't think," I replied.  "Oh," said he.  "I thought you were using your fancy yuppie f*cko salt."  "My MALDON  salt? " I cringed in horror at the very idea.  "You think I would throw my MALDON salt into the toaster oven to put out a fire?  Better it should go up in flames."  "Hmmm, yeah, better the whole apartment should burn down," he muttered as the flames succumbed to a blanket of salt.

I was tempted to simply chuck the salt-filled toaster oven and buy a new one, but instead I decided to cleanse both my soul and the appliance.  I cleaned it out meticulously, put fresh aluminum foil down, and fired it up.  After a bit of smoking and a slightly strange smell which burned off, the elements heated up nicely, and the whole thing was glowing inside and out, just like new. 

And thus were our lives lit up the other night with this toasty little drama.  In all honesty, G was rather delighted.  He has something of a pyromaniacal streak, and is always hoping that when I mention creating a new dish for "Is My Blog Burning?" it means I'm going to cook by lighting something on fire.  As a matter of fact, he feels that if I were ever to host that venerable event, my theme should be flambée.

Cara Mia

I'm in love, truly in love with this little beauty.  I snapped this in the assistant principal's office at one of my schools, figuring that if Bakerina can make sourdough sponge at work, I could take pictures of my new-found love at school (it was probably the most productive thing to happen in that office all day.  And if you think that the blithe snapping of photos of citrus fruit on top of the stunningly dull standardized test-prep materials shows a lack of respect for the tests themselves  -- well, let's just say you're on the right track.  But that's a story for another place, another blog [earth-shattering expose of the horrors of the public school system?]). 

As you may already be aware, this is a Cara Cara orange.  The Californians of course are yawning their ho-hums, but it's a somewhat newer fruit to those of us in other parts of the country.  They're certainly new to me -- and I am oh-so-glad that I discovered them.   On the outside, they look pretty much like a navel orange.  What I'm a sucker for is their inner beauty; that peachy, salmony, tequila sunrise color is a charming surprise.   A blush-pink orange! 

I've aways had great affection for blood oranges, ever since my mother smuggled some home from Italy when I was a child.  I love the drama of their color and the tiny shock of their haunting flavor.  These Cara Caras, however, are a sweeter and perhaps friendlier treat.  They're not quite so in-your-face as the show-stopping blood orange, but still a wonderful contrast to other orangey cousins.    Let's face it, I love citrus, all kinds of citrus, on its own and in every sort of dish that you or I can imagine.  The problem is that occasionally the acid can be a leetle bit bothersome.  These darlings, however, are not only gorgeous and delicious, but low in acid as well.  The other night we had two homemade desserts in the house, since I was a busy bee last week and made dark chocolate pudding with whipped cream one night and brown sugar-pineapple crumble the next.  But when it came down to it, I decided that I'd rather have a Cara Cara for dessert.  That sort of choice (while not totally unheard-of) is somewhat unusual for me when not based on a dietary or caloric decision.  I love them for themselves alone, you see, not for their healthy or low calorie benefits.

The only glitch is that I could blow the rent check buying them.  But it would almost be worth it.

Lentils of Invention

"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."

      - Anne Bradstreet

Like so many bloggers, I've been rushing the all-too-slow change of seasons; I've been longing for spring.  I've made a variety of spring-like dinners, even on blustery days when something heartier might have been more appropriate.  G, on the other hand, is fond of winter and mourns the coming of warmer weather.  He likes cold  and snow and rib-sticking food.  Not a big eater of sultry-day salads and cold dishes, my G.  Right now we're experiencing neither the winter of my discontent, nor the warmer weather that brings on his.  We're in that awkward in-between stage.  I decided there was a need for a little something to suit this phase of the season.  Wanting  to use just what was already available at home, I found myself in luck; it was one of those days when there were good things in the house, including many fresh herbs.

I made this up to accompany a fillet of good-in-any-season sesame-crusted salmon and a rather summery yogurt salad.    The salmon is a simple standby that I make constantly.  No recipe necessary:  marinate some salmon fillet in lime juice, garlic, tamari soy sauce and and a bit of sesame oil  for an hour or however long you have.  Sprinkle with a thick layer of sesame seeds, and pat them down so they adhere well.  Broil until sesame is crisp and crunchy and brown, and salmon is done to your liking.  If the seeds start to get too brown or burnt before the salmon is done , switch the salmon from the broiler to the (hot) oven, and let it finish cooking.   We kind of like it crisp and even a little burnt on the outside, and just-cooked within. 

I've never really been a big fan of the restaurant trend of pairing fish with legumes.  But you know how I love to play with my own food prejudices, as well as those of others.  I remembered the untried bag of  Puy lentils in the closet, and thought they might make the right accompaniment to our salmon; the caveat was that the resulting dish had to be springlike enough for me, and hearty enough for G.  I combined the cooked Puy lentils with a vegetable sauté, cooked orzo, and a large quantity of fresh herbs.  I'm often a bit concerned when inventing food.  I've had more than enough instances when the dish I conceived fell far short of the original vision.  This time, however, something very satisfying was born.  It was good as a hot side dish, and just as good sprinkled with lime juice and eaten as a salad for lunch the following day. 

I do have to say that I think the nice people at Kalustyan's need a little refresher on Puy lentils.  My sack from that otherwise delightful locale suggested that I soak them for four hours and then cook the poor tiny little things for anywhere from 30 to 60 minutes.  Let's just say that no soaking was required, and even at the minimum 30 minutes, they were on the cusp of being a leetle too mushy. 

Forgive the messy, grainy photo.  Hopefully this situation is going to be remedied in the next post, when I display photos taken with the *new digital camera* given to me by the best of brothers on behalf of himself and my SIL during our lovely dinner the other night at the Modern.  I'm not promising miracles in the photo department, now.  Let's remember what I've said before -- not everyone is good at everything.  But here are some pretty good lentils, bad pic notwithstanding.

Aromatic Lentils and Orzo

1/2 lb. Puy lentils
2 bay leaves
1 1/2 cups orzo pasta

2 or 3 Tbsp. good olive oil (Spanish Arbequina is my new fave)
1 large fat leek, cleaned and diced (I use some of the green)
2 large shallots, peeled and diced
3 carrots, peeled, cleaned and cut into dice or small coins
3 stalks celery, trimmed and diced
1 tsp. cumin
1/2 tsp. ground coriander
pinch cinnamon
salt and pepper
fresh thyme

fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
fresh cilantro, finely chopped
fresh mint, finely chopped
1 or two cloves of garlic, microplaned

Cook the lentils with the bay leaf in water to cover by about 2 inches, until tender but not mushy.  Drain, reserving a cup or two of the cooking water.  Discard the bay leaves.  Cook the orzo to the same point -- tender but not mushy.  (Everybody's version of al dente is a bit different, I think.  I don't like squishy pasta, nor do I like it with too hard a spine.  Like Goldilocks, I like it to be just right.  So rely on your preference, but remember that when combined with other things, pasta soaks up liquid and becomes softer.) Set aside the lentils and the pasta. 

In a large sauté pan or wok, heat the olive oil until shimmering and ready-to-fry.  Add the chopped leek and shallot, and cook for a minute.  Add the cumin, coriander, and cinnamon, and allow the spices to fry a bit.  Then put in the carrots and celery, and continue sautéing for several minutes, until they're crisp-tender.  Add about 1/2 cup of the lentil water, mix and let it bubble up.  Turn off the heat, and stir in a nice handful of fresh thyme leaves stripped from their stems.  Add the cooked lentils and orzo, and toss everything together.  Season with Maldon or herb salt and freshly ground black pepper. 

Now add in the herbs, starting with a couple of tablespoons of each.  Add a microplaned clove of garlic and toss everything together well.  Add a little more lentil water just to moisten if it seems dry -- don't make it soupy; this is not a dish with a sauce.  Unless of course you want it to be, in which case, do as you will.  Didn't mean to sound bossy there.

Taste it.  Does it need more herbs, more garlic?  Does it just want some more mint, or is it calling out for more of everything?  I think I probably ended up adding about a 1/3 cup of each minced herb, but it was measured in handfuls, so it's hard to tell.  You'll have to play with this, since strong herbal flavors are a matter of taste.  When it's zingy and delightful, feed your spouse/parent/child/friend a big cooking spoonful of it, and beam as s/he says earnestly, "This is great."  Eat it, by itself or with other dishes, as soon as possible. 

modern life

We really don't go to restaurants very much, contrary to what my workmates seem to think.  I'm constantly being asked for restaurant recommendations by people who actually eat out much more frequently than I do.  I'm not bad at finding places that are a good value -- interesting ethnic places with good fresh food, fun neighborhood joints, swank restaurants that have great lunch deals or places that you want to try during Restaurant Week.  G and I actually missed Restaurant Week completely this year -- both installments.  I was probably making something at home...maybe enchiladas with green sauce or Russian shepherd's pie.  I would estimate that about 95 percent of the time, we eat at home.  And we eat reasonable, interesting, fresh, home-cooked food. 

Every now and then, however, perhaps a couple of times a year, I go out for a really wonderful meal.  This year, as a belated birthday treat, my brother suggested that he take me to the Bar Room at the Modern, Danny Meyer's latest venture/adventure.  It's the main restaurant of the newly expanded and gorgeously refurbished Museum of Modern Art on 53rd Street, although you can enter the restaurant directly from the street, and so don't need to purchase entrance to the museum if, like some, you're really there for the food.

I'll cut to the chase.  We had a phenomenal meal in a wondrous setting. 

But before I'm quite there, you'll need to allow me the leeway of a moment to dwell upon the setting.  At least I hope you will.  We grew up in a milieu of 20th century modern motif, since my parents had a contemporary design shop which was the first of its kind in the exurb where we lived.  In fact, their shop pioneered Scandinavian, Italian and German furnishings, table and kitchenware.  They were also a venue for selected artisan American crafts of the 60s and 70s.   It was not unusual for us to go into "the city" to MOMA just to look at the design collection, which had many pieces in the permanent collection that my parents sold in their own shop. 

Although both of our own current household styles are decidedly eclectic, it was a delight for my brother and me to dine in this space. It is an homage to the purity of line that was the premise of great 20th Century modern design.  From Thomas Demand's lush photorealistic forest mural to the amazing glass bar wall in which the bottles form their own work of art, it's all quite lovely.  Difficult, even, not to exclaim over the beautiful striated metal bread "basket" or the artful composition of the cocktails.  Lest you assume this sort of environment to be cold or forbidding, let me reassure you that it is not.  The lines may be pristine, but comfort reigns supreme.  The black leather chairs are cushy, and tables are generous.

Another extremely likeable feature of the Bar Room is that it's not defined by any particular group of people -- other than those who can at least occasionally afford a moderately expensive meal by NYC standards.  It certainly draws a hipster crowd, but there were plenty of elder museum patrons, and lots of families with young children, some of whom were seated in the most stylish high chairs I've ever seen.  You could put on your latest fashion-victim purchase, come to the Modern and feel right at home.  On the other hand, you might be wearing your more downscale duds, and that too would be okay.

But the food, yes, the food.  The menu is composed of small plates in three pages -- small cold dishes, small hot dishes, and half-portion entrees.   The more formal dining room has both a series of tasting menus and an a la carte menu.

We ordered three small plates, two half-entrees and two desserts, sharing everything.  I actually love eating this way, since I'm something of a grazer by nature and prefer to have many small tastes.  Our three small plates came first.  To start, we had the celebrated Tarte Flambée, a nod to Chef Gabriel Kreuther's native region of Alsace.  This interpretation is certainly the best I've ever had, with a tender, wafer-thin flatbread crust topped with onions, deliciously smoky ham/bacon/some kind of good pork product, and crème fraîche, which is a stroke of genius.  Those of us who tend to err on the side of excess often assume that cheese is necessary in a dish like this, and the more cheese, the better.  Wrong.  The subtle creaminess is perfect here, playing gently to the other flavors. 

Then came Sweetbread Ravioli in a flavorful sage and balsamic sauce.  The ravioli was tender and toothsome, with an unctuous sweetbread filling -- accompanied by crisply fried sweetbread nuggets.  I couldn't resist ordering the Torchon of Foie Gras, a round of meaty foie gras paté with a foil provided by the crystalline side of muscat gelée.  Unfortunately I was still drinking a cocktail, and this dish cried out for a glass of good red wine.  Next time, I promised myself.

After a nicely spaced interval, our half-entrees arrived.  We had Pistachio-Crusted Black Bass  with a side of wilted spinach.  In all honesty, this dish was pleasant but not a stand-out.  The fish was impeccably fresh, but wasn't highly flavorful; the pistachio "crust" was really just a sprinkling of chopped pistachios, rather than a baked-on crunchy top layer.   The quail, however, was just about perfect.  Subtly seasoned with star anise, to heighten rather than overwhelm, it was crisp and brown, atop a bed of perfectly cooked tiny lentils, vegetables, and tiny green spaetzle that exploded with flavor. 

And then came dessert.  We had thought to share one dessert, but in my greed there were two I really wanted us to try.   I'm so glad we did.  The Modern Chocolate Tart is an exemplary chocolate dessert -- chocolate pastry, pure chocolate, a chocolate cream filling, and a crisp caramel shell on top -- all served with a scoop of house-made vanilla ice cream.  You're right.  It couldn't be bad, and was in fact divine, managing to be both rich and light.  But the winner, even in a company of chocoholics, was the Citrus Macaroon with Vanilla Pineapple Sauce and 10-flavor Sorbet.  This was a delicious almond macaroon with a creamy coconut filling, drifting on vanilla-scented pineapple coulis amid a confetti of chopped fruit -- perfectly ripe papaya, citrus and other things it was too dark to identify.  I don't know what the 10 flavors of the perfect little oval of  sorbet were, although our server told us there were 6 fruits and 4 spices.  The predominant flavor was passion fruit, which was lovely in the composition of the whole.  Both of these desserts were exquisitely plated in a linear fashion on white porcelain rectangles.

Another plus to my way of thinking is that while you may eat rich dishes at the Modern's Bar Room, you're unlikely to overeat or become overly full.  The portions are small and jewel-like, which is why the prices are also moderate for this elegant, highly satisfying cuisine.  If you're hosting relatives to whom the mark of a good restaurant is how full their doggie-bag is likely to be, take them elsewhere.   But do go with a group.  My one regret is that I didn't get to taste more dishes.   I think next time I'd like to go with perhaps three other people -- preferably brave tasters who won't wince at the idea of marrow or octopus.  There are so many things on this menu that I'd love to try:  Venison Terrine, Charred Octopus, Potato and Marrow Cassolette, Tagliatelle with Chanterelles and Black Truffles, Poussin with Caramelized Vegetables, Hazelnut Dacquoise, Papilliote of Hot Fresh Berries.  And at some point, perhaps when that winning lottery ticket shows up, it would be fun to have a full-scale meal in the dining room.

My brother did his standing gag of a hair-raising double-take when he looked at the check.  But that's an old joke between us -- and he assured me that it was actually quite reasonable for all that we'd had.

With thanks and kisses, I took myself off home, where G had embarked on making himself a bowl of ramen for dinner.   He added herbs and vegetables, curry and condiments.  It smelled quite good, so I took my head out of the lofty culinary clouds where it had been, and evinced some interest in his dish.  He brought his tray into our room and stretched out next to me, offering me a bite of his bowl o' noodles.  It certainly wasn't dinner at the Modern.  But in its own way, it too was delicious -- and the contrast between decent home food and lush restaurant cuisine enabled me to appreciate my glorious meal all the more.