Manolo’s Food Blog

What accounts for Mr. Henry’s personal sense of style?

Without question, appearances matter. On this he agrees with Oscar Wilde (or was it Racine? or The Manolo??) who said that only shallow people believe fashion to be unimportant.

Those who know him by sight agree he does not conform to the dictates of common custom. More than once while wearing socks with sandals he has been accosted in the streets of New York by Nordic tourists in the mistaken belief that he was one of their own.

On the question of Mr. Henry’s personal style, between Little Henry and Stinky there is a marked difference of opinion. Little Henry maintains that Mr. H. resembles Arwin the janitor from Disney’s The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. Stinky strongly disagrees, arguing that Mr. Henry resembles more closely Mr. Bean.

“But you’re not as ugly as Mr. Bean,” Stinky added sympathetically.

When arranging his morning accouterments, however, Mr. Henry’s mental self-image seldom strays toward fresh faces from among the popular pantheon. He imagines instead a revolving array of legendary bad boys – Harry Flashman, James Bond, Rowdy Yates – icons that have stood the test of time.

Like the imaginary antecedent of “it” in phrases such as “it’s a nice day,” Mr. Henry’s looking-glass reflects not only what is there but what is not. It compensates by adding an imaginary compliment. It imagines his hairline to be closer to his eyebrows than true measurement might find, though lately the eyebrows of their own accord have been striving to bridge that sad gap.

Mr. Henry imagines, as well, that he does not live in a grasping military-industrial empire or a burgeoning police state. Thus, he wakes each day to a glorious egalitarian democracy of free expression and social harmony.

And so it is with personal style. Sometimes the referent is imaginary. For clothing he strives to dress in harmony with the seasons and with attention to practicality. He likes a well-fitting suit, preferably one cut from super-100 worsted wool. But normally he finds his closet offers few solutions more comfortable and forgiving, more soothing to the temperament, more freeing to the imagination than a Patagonia shirt and J. Crew chino. In this everyman disguise he glides unnoticed past average citizens who do not suspect his secret life as an arbiter of taste and fine things.

Recently, spying him dressed in small round eyeglasses and wide round sun-hat, his dog-run friend Mary compared him to Mr. McGoo, a mainstay of his youth but a rare figure on today’s dramatic stage. Sometimes the imaginary referent gets a little misplaced.

Since Mr. Henry’s principal concern is in food as an expression of personality, as clan sign and in-group marker, he seeks expressions in food that others seek in fashion. He notes the most common examples of this, notably the great cry of “yeah!” from the studio audience whenever Emeril says, “and now we gonna add some gaaaaahlic.”

Indeed, food has become fashion. Food is to this decade what fashion was to the last – a popular obsession that is at the same time a genuinely exciting genre of high craft. While this obsession may not last, for the moment throughout the U.S. there is a full-blown, accelerating hunger craze for fine cuisine, a gustatory tulip-mania.

Like all popular movements, this one has born lots of nonsense, e.g., Emeril Lagase and Sandra Lee. Nevertheless – and now Mr. Henry betrays delirious optimism – everyone is not a boob. Here and there good recipes get made, new pairings shack up. Life goes on, except, of course, for those life forms we eat.

Before consuming a beautiful roast loin of pork encrusted with a Mario Batali dry rub (a pulverized mixture of dried porcini, red chili flakes, garlic, and brown sugar), Gail and Jeff plied Mr. Henry with a small shot of syrupy Hendricks gin straight from the freezer.

Mr. Henry has converted. Can there be a summer libation more apropos than this? The juniper is balanced by citrus peel and, surprisingly, coriander. It was the consummate aperitif. Afterwards, sitting in front of his TV, visions of the perfect martini swirled in Mr. Henry’s brain as he watched The Tudors chew the scenery.

Toddson Says:
May 22nd, 2007 at 3:55 pm e

Actually, it IS possible to ruin tiramisu following this recipe. An article in The Washington Post several years ago was written by someone who came from someplace (alas, I forget which) where “ladyfingers” refers to okra. As a result, she sliced okra, soaked it in coffee, and proceeded from there. It was not a pretty sight and, seemingly, tasted worse than it looked.

Ladyfingers in the tiramisu! What a hoot! The South is SO worthwhile. Mr. Henry’s dear friend Trudy, bound in the shallows and miseries of Washington, DC, reported lately that one of her friends there promised to keep her “abreasted” of new developments, and this surely is one.

As it happens, okra is one of Mr. Henry’s secret lunchtime quick-fix foods. He places them in a bowl, rinses them, covers them with a dish, and nukes those fuzzy ladyfingers for two minutes. That’s it. Total preparation time: two minutes and change. Don’t eat the gnarly lil’ stems, by the way. (Mr. Henry is fearful that his reading audience might abandon all common sense in slavish devotion to his recipes.) The rest of the okra is a crunchy and gelatinous treat, a toothsome combination of green vegetable and nutty seeds.

‘

Emboldened by freely wandering the antique byways of Rome, Little Henry’s friend Stinky launched an accusation that Mr. Henry will not permit to stand uncontested in this or any other forum:

“Mr. Henry talks a lot about cooking but never does any!”

Ha! Only weeks ago Mr. Henry prepared a tiramisu at home that even the skeptical Stinky admitted was a bona fide, authentic, and glorious tiramisu.

It wasn’t exactly cooking, mind you, because no heat was applied. But it greatly impressed the crowd. Here for his gentle reading public so long ignored because he has been re-arranging his life, his office, and his books, Mr. Henry offers up a recipe of sorts, or rather recipe guidelines, for la vera tiramisu di Signor Henry.

Don’t worry. The thing is failproof. You can fudge any proportion and it turns out just fine.

Mr. Henry’s Tiramisu

6 eggs
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
splash of scotch
1 large tub mascarpone (500g)
5 ounces bittersweet chocolate
1 ounce unsweetened chocolate
1 package ladyfinger cookies (200g)

First brew some coffee quadruple strength (In deference to the children Mr. H. chose decaffeinated.) and let it cool to room temperature or colder. Grate some good chocolate like Scharffenberger, mixing half a bar of bittersweet with a modicum of unsweetened to intensify the flavor. Have close at hand, as well, a bottle of single malt scotch whiskey. (Mr. Henry believes this to be sound advice for any recipe.) For this recipe, Mr. Henry chose The Macallan.

Separate six eggs. Whip the whites until stiff. Cream the yokes together with a cup (or more) of confectioners’ sugar, beating until the color becomes pale. You raw-egg worry-worts at home, please relax. The sugar preserves the egg. In the fridge the concoction will stay perfectly fresh far longer than it will survive repeated servings to you and yours.

Finally to the creamed yokes whip in a splash of scotch, dark rum, or any other spirit appropriate for a coffee, chocolate, and mascarpone confection. This last touch brings a perfume to the dish that separates it from a quotidian custard.

With big gestures and a big rubber spatula, lightly fold in the mascarpone and then the egg whites. Ecco! Mascarpone custard cream. Now you build.

Slice the ladyfingers in half lengthwise if you like. (This is a decision more of style than of taste.) Spread half of them loosely in a deep dish pan. Using a pastry brush soak them – yes, soak them – with coffee. [A Mr. Henry Dictum: Italian desserts must be either soggy or hard as brick.] Cover with a layer of mascarpone custard cream. Then cover the cream thoroughly with half the grated chocolate. Repeat the procedure to create a second story. Chill until set, at least three hours.

Mr. Henry is reminded of an equally false accusation hurled his way by his diminutive and opinionated life-long consort, Mrs. Henry, namely, that whenever he gets an idea for a new dish he feels compelled to purchase a new kitchen utensil. This is falseness itself! Mr. Henry always makes do with whatever is at hand. (A recent purchase of a Le Creuset oval enameled gratin pan was NOT an indulgence. Someday soon she will thank him for it, and mean it sincerely.)

As an example of his resourcefulness, on the morning after returning late from JFK he prepared a fine breakfast of marmalade and crackers borrowed from several of Italy’s nicer hotel breakfast baskets and conveyed trans-Atlantic in Aunt Bev’s backpack. Although there are grocery stores within walking distance of his apartment, Mr. Henry prefers not to conduct his marketing at 3:30 a.m., an hour when he receives stares from street strays and riff-raffy youth.

He prefers the adoring glances he believes he got in Florence from American college students envious of his casual insouciance and his fluency in Italian. He did not actually witness these glances, mind you, being too polite to stare slack-jawed at breathtakingly beautiful young women. Mr. Henry, you see, has faith in the unseen.

From the perspective of maintaining waistline, the true indicator of male fitness, travel is evil. In Florence how could Mr. Henry NOT try the roast hare and wild boar at Il Latini?

How could he forego the fried artichokes and zucchini flowers at Cammillo? Should he have skipped the pizza in Rome? Skipped the quickly roasted chicory and taleggio at Taverna Fiammetta off the Piazza Navona?

Should he NOT have tried each and every gelato flavor at the Gelateria del Teatro on the via dei Coronari? Should Mr. Henry take vows, renounce all worldly pleasure, seek satisfaction only in the hereafter, and sulk alone in his upstairs garret?

Yes. Because Mr. Henry has grown thick, beefy, almost fat. Little Henry has been taking huge delight in chucking his chins and daring him to wriggle into that Speedo over at the JCC pool. Ice cream, previously relegated to the list of foods favored by the morally craven, has become a hideous obsession. He reaches for it even after breakfast. Without turning to spiritual guidance, 12-step programs, or other superstitious behaviors such as ph-balancing or an all-meat diet, is there no way he can regain the true path?

Facing his summer wardrobe, he trembles, not least because Mrs. Henry may not countenance another mad shopping spree at Patagonia. (Mr. Henry imagines himself surfing pipelines on Hawaii’s south coast, afterwards donning slouchy trousers for their insouciant slacker-headed drape rather than for their abundant “relaxed-fit” seat.)

His sense of self, his inner cool, the requisite confidence for continuing his career path, indeed his entire future depends upon regaining that athletic form he had only two short weeks ago, before Italy, before pasta, before caky white breakfasts and crunchy white breads.

On the tenth day of debauchery in Italy, after a shameless pig-out at Il Latini where he quaffed two carafes of vino da tavola and two glasses of complimentary vin santo, Mr. Henry’s liver went into serious crisis. The next morning on his birthday (one he shares with Olivia) he staggered green with bile along the streets of Florence. Mr. Henry’s liver and Mr. Henry’s American Express card, appropriately positioned in his jacket pocket directly over that benighted organ, throbbed in unison. Dinner for five without wine at a fine but not exceptional restaurant, one much less exciting that the average Manhattan eatery, cost three hundred dollars. Porca Miseria!

But before panic takes hold, Mr. Henry must remind himself that his torso swells each year in spring. He is fighting off a Florentine flu, and extra carbs help keep his energy up. Also, markets don’t offer much fresh produce these days. Wherever lies the blame, Mr. Henry must remember that he is not a victim of the seasons. His own mental rigor will overcome the seductions of Italy. He is made of stronger stuff, even if that stuff feels slightly soft around the middle.

Mr. Henry does not leave well enough alone. Even with well-established recipes, he tinkers.

Last month, to provide a colonial-era touch of sourness to cornbread, a Mr. Henry favorite that can easily become too sweet, he bought a quart of buttermilk. Later that week he poured a goodly portion of buttermilk into pancake batter. In both cases results were splendid. Buttermilk in baking always yields extra fluffiness. Indeed, when using buttermilk, because of its acidity you may decrease your baking powder.

But ultra-pasteurized buttermilk just lasts and lasts. Not wishing to simply throw away perfectly good buttermilk but eager to free up refrigerator space, from time to time he spirited a dollop of the antique sour and creamy liquid – a poor people’s leftover from the preparation of heavenly butter – into other menu items not born with buttermilk in mind.

To grated celery root remoulade made with an entire bunch of chopped dill he decided that a healthy splash of buttermilk might add an appropriate hint of creaminess without overpowering what in essence remains a light, crunchy, winter salad.

Without permission from Little Henry, master of the vinaigrette, he added a dollop there, too, a bright foil to an acidic Italian red wine vinegar. Flush with success, the next night he let the buttermilk dominate the salad dressing, masked slightly by a final addition of grated parmesan to the finished salad, and no one complained.

Tonight he plans a bolder stroke. Because chicken is such a boring bird, Mr. Henry invariably marinates it before cooking. What will happen to chicken steeped for hours in buttermilk? Mr. Henry recalls southern fried chicken from his youth that carried magical aromas possibly attributable to buttermilk, though tonight he will add curry to the marinade and bake it tandoori-style. And with chicken, without question he will make buttermilk biscuits.

Mr. Henry is thankful for the recurrence in New York of a first-class winter storm. Cold weather grants him special sanction to eat with wild abandon. Rules, after all, are meant to be broken.

The True and Never Before Revealed Facts of Mr. Henry’s First Successes in the Kitchen

There came a day sometime around 1966 when young Mr. Henry excused himself from the dining table and declared voicelessly that he had eaten his last bite of Wish-Bone Italian Dressing. On that fateful day at that fateful hour was born a new, true foodie.

Marketing geniuses at Wish-Bone had recently convinced forward-thinking Americans that a packet of “secret herbs and spices” added to oil and vinegar and shaken in a specially designed 3-Mile Island shaped vessel might constitute “home-made salad dressing.” The Henry family took great pride in their reach into culinary sophistication. Feasting on palate-busting “herbs and spices,” an unholy trinity of oregano, garlic powder, and monosodium glutamate, they sat blissfully together on Sunday nights watching Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color.

But though still a boy Mr. Henry already harbored within his breast the fierce iconoclasm and resistance to authority that would lead him before the age of sixteen to denounce another unholy trinity – church, war, and tackle football – the core beliefs of the USA.

Apart from unwrapping a slice of American cheese, placing it on a piece of bread, and running the exotic ensemble under the toaster oven broiler, young Henry had never before performed anything like real cooking. The kitchen was not the domain of children or even the domain of Mom. It was the domain of Bertha, old Birdie, the cook, whose placid demeanor and enormous girth could not be stirred except by the entrance of children over the kitchen threshold. “Chile, get out my kitchen!” she sweetly yelled in a voice utterly devoid of menace. Bertha’s gravies were the stuff of legend. Her roast leg of lamb fell off the bone and into our mouths like ambrosia from Olympus. Great earth mother figure from whom all life flowed, she was our object of worship.

But Bertha did not do salad dressing.

In those simpler times salad was synonymous with iceberg lettuce, cold, crunchy and virtually flavorless. That bottle of Wish-Bone, therefore, was the salad’s only theme, an insistent nightly insult, a gelatinous sock in the jaw.

In the cupboard young Henry found red wine vinegar, cooking oil (NOT olive oil, and not even nearly close to almost being virgin), French’s yellow mustard (What made it so brightly yellow? Best not to ask.), and honey. Without recipe or guidepost, young Henry through bold experimentation visited upon unsuspecting younger brothers finally arrived at a reasonably tasty salad dressing which in its conception was not too dissimilar from the dressing his own little Henry whips up today, the little darling devotee of Top Chef and Food Network.

Yes, the torch has passed. Chez Henry a new obstinacy has emerged with regard to salad dressing, a new direction under the unfailing guide of Little Henry whose authority must not be brooked.

Granted, Little Henry’s vinegar is now from Jerez or Modena, oil from California or Tuscany, and mustard pure Dijon, but the impetus to establish one’s own flavor protocols remains pure vintage Mr. Henry, paterfamilias. Such pride.

Little Henry has already mastered fried eggs, almond cookies, carrot cupcakes, raspberry coulis as well as guacamole. Indeed there are no limits. The future is not so dim as we might imagine.

Floating amidst a new season’s hatch of ski bunnies and buckaroos, Mr. Henry found himself distinctly out of place. At the entrance to the Mangy Moose bar, they carded him, a courtesy and a compliment he accepted very graciously.

Seeing that no one among the beer-swilling mob had been born before the completion of Mr. Henry’s undergraduate education, however, he retreated to the mammoth pine log fireside to read Jane Austen’s Emma.

He was surely the only person reading for a radius of many miles.

A hard day of falling down on slick, packed-powder moguls had left his body humming all over. He was thrilled that each of his knees still retained most of their function. He was thrilled that he had not perished on the slopes, flattened by a snowboarder on energy drink. He was sure the glass of Moose Drool Brown Ale was the finest he had ever tasted. The high-hipped, blond waitress of peach complexion, ready smile, muscular thigh and genuine unenhanced American bosom served him with such graceful enthusiasm that all of Mr. Henry’s resistance against empty-headed, slacker youth began to melt.

Mr. Henry chose his position between the fire and the door with care. The afternoon’s beany lunch of vegetarian chili and ‘everything’ quesadilla served mid-slope in the Casper restaurant was working away at his vitals. To best protect the Moose’s good patrons as well as to protect Mr. Henry’s personal honor, a windy corridor was needed. To its credit, the Moose is appropriately drafty.

The Mangy Moose at Teton Village in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, is a paradise for skiers as well as for meat-eaters. Although the roast beef and pork chop are the toughest he has ever eaten, resistant enough for alpine outerwear, once your teeth manage to soften them Eskimo-style they taste quite good, especially the chop. The real treat comes with the salad course – a genuinely old-fashioned, crisply delicious, iceberg lettuce wedge topped with crumbled blue cheese dressing. Mr. Henry was so moved he tasted Mrs. H.’s ‘Ranch’ dressing, a surprisingly toothsome buttermilk mixture.

The Moose’s finest features, apart from the sunny and robustly beautiful waitresses, are the walls and rafters. All manner of frontier detritus hangs there: bathtubs, tractor seats, stuffed raccoons, bedpans, baseball bats, scythes, arrow points. The Moose is the most interesting museum in Wyoming, the only collection that captures the genuine spirit of the old West without a double slathering of hokum. After all, nothing is phonier than the Old West.

Planning a meal is at least as difficult as preparing one. The planner must imagine which flavors and which textures might survive a culinary marriage all the way through the gastro-intestinal tract of each fussbudget friend.

While Mr. Henry believes that each of us is responsible for his or her own colon, he is mindful that out-of-town guests are stuck eating whatever the Henrys prepare. Therefore, menus must err towards the safe and the familiar.

Since over Thanksgiving the Henry household entertained eight (yes, eight) of Mrs. Henry’s relatives for eight days, the feasting never ceased. Mrs. Henry never left the kitchen and Mr. Henry never stopped ferrying food in and ferrying garbage out.

Eight different palettes with eight different dietary regimens did not intimidate the fearless Mrs. Henry. Undaunted by the closeness of respected elders and rivalrous siblings, she brazenly posted the entire week’s menu on the cabinet, declaring that whoever wanted dinner had better show up on time, devil take the hindmost. She is a courageous woman. Martin Luther was not more bold in list-posting.

Everyone came, everyone feasted, and everyone thanked Mr. Henry, though he had done no cooking apart from the cranberries and some prep work. (A moment, please……Were they happy he had NOT cooked?) Whatever the intention, they complimented him as well on his choices of wine, for which he takes full and deserved credit. Given the size of the party and Mr. Henry’s shrinking holiday budget, none of the wines cost more than $18 per bottle. But given the global wine glut, good table wine is among the cheapest of treats today.

For those less organized than Mrs. Henry, and Mr. Henry suspects such a list does not exclude the U.S. Army quartermaster general, here is the week’s complete menu:

Dinner 1:
Cuban stew: an aromatic slow-cooked concoction of Mrs. Henry’s device made with pork or chicken which includes onions, green olives, raisins, garbanzos, plum tomatoes (seeded), and a splash of liquid (either white wine or stock will do). Sprinkled with fresh cilantro, it is served over brown rice (basmati is tastiest) seasoned with turmeric for color.
Green salad.
Wine: Rioja

Dinner 2: guests all dining at differing times.
Pizza made by each guest upon arrival using Bruno’s bottled marinara sauce (made smoother by a few moments in the blender) and for toppings a choice of mozzarella, sliced Kalamata olives, sweet sausage sautéed and crumbled, sautéed mushrooms, anchovies, and fresh basil.
Green salad.
Wine: Barbera

Dinner 3: pre-Thanksgiving low-fat meal
Broiled farmed salmon (wild was unavailable), broccoli, baked whole fingerling potatoes, Israeli pickles in rice wine vinegar.
Dessert: mixed berries
Wine: Riesling

Dinner 3: Thanksgiving.
Free range turkey, 8 lbs., cooked in convection oven for two hours at 400 degrees, mashed potatoes, sliced baked yams (NOT candied), green beans, Mr. Henry’s signature orange cranberry sauce, fresh applesauce.
Stuffing: sausage, chestnut, apple, fresh sage, and sourdough bread baked in two whole winter squashes.
Dessert: Pumpkin chiffon pie, apple pie, vanilla ice cream
Wine: Pinot Noir

Dinner 4: Post-Thanksgiving, pre-theater
Turkey soup, squash soup.
Ceasar salad.
Dessert: Tia’s dulce de leche soggy cake with peaches and whipped cream. (Hmmm. Thank you, Tia.)
Wine: whatever was open

Dinner 5:
Leg of lamb, lentils with garlic and cumin, broiled asparagus (just toss with olive oil and salt, broil for 6-8 minutes), brown and wild rice, sliced drained cucumber & dill in yogurt, and iced mint tea.
Dessert: leftover pumpkin pie
Wine: Pinot Noir

Dinner 6:
Winter squash soup (made from the Thanksgiving leftovers), filet mignon, potatoes roasted en papillote, peas.
Dessert: mixed berry tart
Wine: Bordeaux

Dinner 7:
Broiled black cod in white miso, white rice, tsukemono (assorted Japanese pickles), umeboshi (salt plum), green beans
Dessert: mochi ice cream from Beard Papa’s
Wine: Riesling

Thanksgiving is the only holiday when what we do and what we eat are both described by the same word: stuffing.

How was your Thanksgiving? The answer largely depends on what you ate for stuffing, as well as how egregiously you stuffed yourself.

There is something tantalizing about a turkey and stuffing dinner. Each flavor follows inexorably to the next, the bland leading the bland. Why do we eat so much of it? Do we lose ourselves in the mesmerizing combination of enormous portions and early memories? Is it because stuffing takes up such a large area on the plate that in addressing the dinner and awaiting the ponderous toast or prayer we feel an Alice-in-Wonderland sensation of suddenly becoming very small? Staring at a heaped, steaming mound of comfort food, each portion elbowing out the other, do we imagine a family snuggling together against the oncoming winter cold? (Who will play the turkey? Who will be this year’s cranberry sauce – shockingly crimson and tart?)

The evidence is overwhelming. We overeat at Thanksgiving, with particular regard to carbohydrates. Which Founding Father decreed that we need to eat stuffing and mashed potatoes and candied yams and pumpkin pie with ice cream else we do an injustice to the memories of fallen patriots?The aftermath is all too familiar. This week we are all, Mr. Henry included, wandering around in carbo-psychosis fighting the deadly addiction hour by hour, skittering past the freezer still replete with that Olympian ambrosia, Haagen Dasz vanilla.

Despite its unappetizing name, however, stuffing can be marvelous.

The very best stuffing Mr. Henry ever ate was Nadia’s 1001 nights chestnut forcemeat cooked inside the bird – a woodsy, oriental, amber and frankincense delight that takes half the day to prepare. If you are in the mood for something subtle and heavenly, read on.

Boil 3 lbs. of chestnuts (slice an X in each before), peel and roughly chop in food processor
Lightly toast 1/2 lb. of almonds, chop together with sugar and cinnamon to the consistency of bread crumbs
Chop a handful of dried apricots
Sauté the turkey liver in a bit of butter, a splash of olive oil, shallots and port wine
Make a turkey stock from the giblets with an onion, celery, carrots, black pepper and saffron
Sauté chopped shallots or onion, then add chestnuts and sugared almonds, next add basic bread crumbs (not too many – this is a principally a chestnut preparation), chopped liver, apricots, orange zest, and enough stock to make a mixture that binds together but is not wet.

Stuff the turkey cavity and sew it closed.

Each guest will get a ladle-full of aromatic chestnut stuffing to accompany, not replace, the standard sage stuffing. The saffron, cinnamon and port lend the high notes. The liver and turkey stock gives bottom notes to the chestnut’s prevailing sweetness.