Posts Tagged ‘Chocolate’

Hot for Ice Cream

I’ve written before about my favorite local ice cream shop: Bischoff’s in Teaneck, NJ. https://dishingondining.wordpress.com/2014/07/08/screaming-for-it/. It’s been a summer (and other season) staple for more than 80 years. I bypass the supermarket when I crave some all-natural maple walnut ice cream. After all, it’s difficult to get ANY maple walnut ice cream pre-packaged. Tell me oh all-natural Breyer’s – what is so challenging with a little maple syrup and some chopped walnuts? You do my right by your white-colored Mint Chocolate Chip….or as it sounds more natural to me: Chocolate Chip Mint.

I don’t want green or blue or pink-colored ice cream! I don’t want that poisonous-looking food coloring. For some reason, it’s been three years since Ice Cream by Mike has been churning its homemade ingredients into delectable cold desserts on Main Street in Hackensack, and I am just learning of it now! I must attribute it to poor marketing. I could not be so out of the loop when it comes to a glacier, as Mike’s card is titled, being only about two miles away from me. I would’ve smelled it. I should’ve heard it. I could’ve been eating it all this time!!

Tonight, closing time was 10 p.m., and I made it in the door at 9:52. I got a visual sneak preview on the Facebook page of Mike making his own caramel, of caramelized vanilla beans, of his own hot fudge. It doesn’t get more from scratch than this. He has about eight flavors at any given time, and they change daily.

My friend ordered a cone of the Valrhona Chocolate. Mike knew it was great; why? Because, “I use the best chocolate.” Valrhona is a French premium chocolate manufacturer based in the small town of Tain-l’Hermitage in Hermitage, a wine-growing district near Lyon. They claim to produce the world’s finest gourmet chocolates. Me being half Swiss, I might ask them to prove themselves.

I looked at the board and looked in the freezer case. I wasn’t matching the name on the board with any of the tubs I was seeing. But my poor Baskin-Robbins brainwashed eyes didn’t recognize it, even thought I don’t eat that ice cream. It’s the way we see it growing up; it’s the way we see it in every horribly processed carton of store bought ice cream. Do you know what this is?

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I’ll give you a moment. Coffee? Caramel? No! It’s pistachio with whole pistachio nuts that taste like they were just popped out of the shell. And the ice cream tastes like…oh, real pistachio. Imagine that. Well you can do more than imagine. You can go taste it yourself.

Mike gets creative with flavor combinations. He mentioned he would be making a batch of peanut butter honey tomorrow. Maybe this was his subtle way of getting some quick repeat business.

For sit-down atmosphere, I may still opt for my guaranteed availability of maple walnut at Bischoff’s. If I’m open to any other flavor and need a quick fix, I’m heading to Hackensack. Mike’s place has a few iron tables and seats on the sidewalk, but they’re facing a construction site on the other side of Main. I will give him major points, though, for the music being piped outdoors – some Nat King Cole, Bennie Goodman, Louis Armstrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Fresh from the Farm

When your mother guides you toward healthy eating habits through your growing years, it’s only proper to take her to a fine dining establishment that promotes fresh, local foods. Even though I broke my own principle of not dining out exactly on Mother’s Day, I made the reservation at Blue Hill in New York City’s West Village because the four-course prix fixe menu is standard there, holiday or not. Ingredients come from nearby farms, including the Barbers’ family-owned Blue Hill Farm in Massachusetts. While the already over-used term “farm-to-table dining” makes many eyes roll at the pretentious tone, it still evokes a health-conscious-good feeling in advance of the meal.

A short walk across Washington Square Park, and three steps downward off the sidewalk, we entered a private hideaway that could easily have been missed. The dining room was ordinary with some brick wall and didn’t have an embracing décor. With two items to select from for each of the four courses, the best idea was to order opposite dishes so we could essentially MothersDay15 003try the whole menu. The food that was presented before our first course was simplistic yet exciting – farm cheese that still looked like curd in cloth, butter rolled in toasted grains, and crusty bread (I wish I had written down the description of) preceded the complimentary whole carrots with edible tops and radishes with boursin dip. They were served on slate and appeared to have been plucked from the ground that day – to which my mother proclaimed, “I hope they washed them.”MothersDay15 002

The first course consisted of my Rotation Risotto: twelve local grains, legumes and seeds, and her Roasted Asparagus with beet yogurt and stinging nettles. When I asked the waiter about the risotto, he explained it was the rotation of crops used to consistently feed the farm animals throughout the year. The chef played with that concept to turn them into a creamy risotto. My mother then whispered something about us being guinea pigs.

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MothersDay15 007The second course delivered my Maine Halibut with currants, pine nuts, apple, fennel and chickweed, along with her Farm Egg, fiddleheads, morels and ramps. Are you feeling the flood of vitamins yet?MothersDay15 006

The main course for me was Roast Chicken, curried carrots and fighter spinach. Don’t sigh at the boring thought of chicken. This bird did not taste like Perdue. It was something far more flavorful. Even more scrumptious was her Grass Fed Lamb with eight row flint corn, Jerusalem artichokes and pea shoots.

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We finished with poached Rhubarb, goat cheese, quinoa and blue hill milk sorbet plus a plate of Chocolate Bread Pudding, blue hill milk jam and cocoa nibs ice cream. We joked that the coffee would be disappointing after that wonderful meal. They should grow coffee beans because this coffee was watery and contradicted all that we consumed.

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Sunday Baking

Fruit Loops, Wise, Coca Cola and any other chemical-laden ‘food’ products were never welcomed guests at our door when I was growing up. They never saw the inside of our home, and I believed – and in a sense still do – that those names only resided in the bad kids’ homes. Except, now, I think of it more as the bad parents’ homes.

We ate my mom’s home-cooked meals seven nights a week, but we weren’t deprived of a rewarding treat; it came typically on a Sunday. It’s a shame that back then I was on the opposite side of the foodie track – I only ate to survive. Not only did I not appreciate it, but eating was a chore. Sweets had no bargaining power for obedience. That was reaffirmed by a photo I just came across: I was nine years old, and there was a chocolate Gugelhupf cake with melted marshmallow icing, sitting on the table, getting zero attention from my goofy eyes.Picture

Every Sunday, nowadays, I look forward to the approximate 3 p.m. call: “Do you want dessert and coffee?” She must know by now that this is a rhetorical question, unless I’m more than 200 miles away (and even then, I would say, “in a few hours”). There’s never a standard name for the dessert of the week. They’re usually self-titled, “Rosmarie’s something something Special,” and they range in ratings from very-good to damn-that’s-good to incredible.

In European style, the sugar content is probably half of what Americans are accustomed to. I recognized the similarities when recently touring Germany. I always thought Mom was a little “out there” with her need to put at least a shot of kirschwasser (cherry brandy) into every dessert she makes, be it in the icing or the cake layers or the fruit. But I indulged in a slice of Black Forest Cake while, naturally, in the Black Forest region, and realized when I was giggly at the end of consuming this kirsch-soaked piece, that Mom is actually conservative in her doses.

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This birthday, I was enjoying cake made by a restaurant in Lake Titisee. I was nearly 4,000 miles away from my usual Sunday dessert call, and it was quite good, but I longed for my special-request pie. She must have read my mind, though. Upon returning home from the two-week vacation, two days after my birthday, I opened the empty refrigerator to find a decadent home-made gift. “Wow, what is that Mom,” I asked on the phone immediately. “It’s kind of like a tart coated with apricot jam, filled with white chocolate mousse, chocolate shavings, topped with fresh, split figs, and of course…..some kirsch.” It always works!

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The Sinful Sacher Torte

I had long forgotten about that sinful Sacher torte, which is full of chocolate goodness, until the Swiss Miss W. asked my brother, “What would you like me to make for your birthday?” Then came the reminder with his response: “Sacher Torte”.

I recall her making one in my youth, but I was never one for things laden with so much sweetness, so much chocolate, EXCEPT a more recent memory contradicted all of that. On a trip to Austria about five years ago, we were in Vienna, and we found ourselves standing in front of the Hotel “Sacher” http://www.sacher.com/en-hotel-sacher-vienna.htm. I, being ignorant of the history of the Sacher torte (after all, who really cares about intellectual particulars when your taste buds are having a drunken party?) A cartoon bubble popped open above my head: “Sacher? Could this have any connection to the cake I tasted as a child?” The hotel must have seen my bubble and immediately responded with the sign that read: Home of the Original Sacher Torte.

I needed to go into this hotel, and I needed to experience the “ORIGINAL”. Now, history seemed much more interesting when taste-and-tell was involved. One slice was all that was needed to wake up my senses and recall – oh how delectibly sweet and chocolatey smooth. It wasn’t American, hurt-your-teeth white sugar sweet; it was European, glide-across-the palate, delicate yet rich,  kind of sweet. The light spread of Apricot jam in-between the layers was just enough to channel the moisture of the cake itself.

PHOTO CREDIT: http://www.sacher.com/en-original-sacher-tart.htm