The Primal Urge for Simple Food: B Spot Transports

If you live in the Cleveland area and haven’t heard of chef extraordinaire Michael Symon, then you either don’t watch tv, don’t eat or don’t have friends who do either. Currently working the media circuit to support his new book “Live to Cook,” Symon is everywhere and his physical presence in this town has expanded, once again.

Michael recently opened B Spot, a burger and beer place in Eton Center, on Cleveland’s East Side. A very different restaurant concept from East 4th Street’s Lola or Tremont’s Lolita, B Spot caters to the Midwesterner’s hearty appetite for simple food – food that requires no explanation because our evolved gastronomical palettes sometimes crave the delicious and satisfying basics that we consumed as children.

I met television chef Anthony Bourdain at a conference I attended in South Beach a few years ago. According to Anthony, “The tipping point in the American palette was when Americans wanted to eat sushi…Suddenly a white fried fillet was not the only acceptable way to eat fish.” Over the past twenty years, our insatiable and often competitive craving for the exotic has overarched our love for the Great American Meal: burgers and fries. And today, when life is complicated, the primal urge for simple food seems, well, almost evolutionary.

My friend Sara and I made plans to meet at Eton at 1:30, on December 26, the day after Christmas - a day that’s not immune to its own cyclical chaos. As I pulled into the parking lot, around 1:15, I spotted Sara pulling out, so I honked my horn. She saw me, rolled down the window and said she would park on the other side of Chagrin, as the lot was packed. Given current economic times, a packed shopping center in Northeast Ohio is an excellent sign. Lucky for me, relying on my Chicago parking skills, I found a spot, right in front of B Spot.

We met inside the restaurant, which, at 1:20 on a Saturday afternoon was quite crowded - another excellent consumer spending sign. We put our names down and were told by the courteous staff, all wearing B Spot t-shirts, that the wait would be 40 – 45 minutes. Sara and I left, perused the mall – the indoor shops and the ones with outdoor entrances, also all jammed with consumers looking for deals - and then returned to be seated at the available table.

B Spot décor is comprised of dark colors – browns, blacks, grays and metallics – and there’s a hustle-and-bustle energy amongst the crew. The atmosphere, including the open kitchen, is informal, and the details create a unique garage-like feel: imagine an industrial lodge during a busy ski season. There’s definitely “green” attention given to the place and the mixed use of metals and woods throughout the restaurant provides a distinct canvas to everything including the silver painted antler chandelier, the closed garage door stretching from the roof to the window wall and the disassembled, re-adhered and monochromed Harley motorcycle suspended right above B Spot’s cozy bar. Symon’s personal stamp is present everywhere.

A few minutes after Sara and I sat down, the server came over to our table, brought the menus and entered our drink selections into an efficient PDA device, one more green step in the ever-changing restaurant scene. The menu’s basic category offerings – Bar Snacks and Sides, Big Salads, Burgers, Bologna and Other, Bratwurst and Bad **s Milkshakes - helped calm the decision–making skills our brains use with far more complex choices at the local coffee place. However, it’s the beer menu that requires deep hops knowledge: it lists approximately 50 different options. Chances are, if beer is your thing, you will find something here.

Sara, a vegetarian, opted for the Tomato Blue Cheese Soup ($4) and for The Simple Salad ($4). I went basic: cheeseburger ($6), medium, with American cheese and an order of Lola Fries ($3), which, like many of menu items, are cooked in lard; they are not for vegans, vegetarians nor those who adhere to strict/religious dietary laws. Sara and I also ordered chocolate milkshakes ($5), which came out quickly and, sipped or gulped through the thick straw, immediately take you back to some happy childhood experience. Milkshakes are Pavlovian and the rich flavor and thick consistency of the B Spot shakes make all of life’s troubles, even if briefly, magically disappear.

There are other small details in this new East Side restaurant that make things just a little more special: in the middle of the crowded space is a condiment bar, thus, if you crave more pickles, take as many as you want. For the napkin-o-holics needing a frequent fix, a vertical metal pipe stands on each table, holding a roll of eco-friendly brown paper towels. And, speaking of fixings, a metal tray containing eight different bottled sauces, from regular ketchup and stadium mustard to Lola’s Ketchup and even Coffee BBQ Sauce are also provided to customize your meal to your liking.

As evident by the crowd on a late weekend afternoon, people like B Spot a lot. Luckily, there’s seating expansion into the inside mall and, in kinder climate, the garage door will open to an outdoor deck. Personally, I can’t wait for that summer outing where, sitting outside on a sunny warm Cleveland afternoon, I’ll be sipping my milkshake, eating my burger and enjoying adult escapism, all at the B Spot.

For location and hours: http://www.bspotburgers.com/

Reprinted with permission from http://www.coolcleveland.com/home/

Adventures in Mole

There are a lot of great food traditions in a lot of different cultures, but few have captured my imagination like Mexican Mole sauce. (Pronounced mo - lay). I first experienced great mole sauce in Chicago at a little place on North Clark called "Nuevo Mexicano". Their mole was second only to their margaritas and I am sure that one only made the other that much better. I never thought much about making this interesting sauce until I left Chicago. After all, why make it when I could go get it and the whole great experience I had around this sauce and restaurant? It's my treat. I currently have the same thinking around Chicken Makhani. Why make it when I can get orgasmic Makhani at "Thali of India" right here in Rochester? Besides, each of these foods take some real effort.

So a few years ago, I started dipping into making a mole sauce. It is interesting to find that there as many varieties of mole sauces as there are Mexican grandmothers. The core is pretty much the same - peppers and a sweetener, often in the form of chocolate. After a couple of different varieties, I have settled currently into one that is in a Mexican cookbook by Marlena Spieler. Here is what it says (Instructions in bold are my additions):

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MOLE POBLANO

Ingredients:

3 Fresh Mulato Peppers (I think peppers can be varied to some degree)

3 Fresh Mild Ancho Chiles

5-6 Frech Anaheim Chiles

1 Onion, Chopped

5 Garlic Cloves, Chopped

1 lb ripe Tomatoes

2 Corn tortillas, preferable stale, cut into small pieces

pinch of cloves

pinch of fennel seeds

1/8 tsp each of Ground Cinnamon, Coriander and cumin

3 Tbsp lightly toasted Sesame seeds or tahini

3 Tbsp. flaked or coarsely ground blanched almonds

2 Tbsp. raisins

1 Tbsp, Peanut butter (Optional)

2 Cu. Chicken Stock

3-4 Tbsp. Grated Unsweetened Chocolate (Hershey's Cocoa Powder)

2 Tbsp. Mild Chili Powder

3 Tbsp. Vegetable Oil

1 Tbsp. Lime Juice

Salt and Black Pepper

Directions:

1. Using Metal tongs, toast each chili over an open flame for a few seconds until the color darkens. Alternatively, roast in an ungreased frying pan over a medium heat, turning constantly for about 30 seconds.

2. Place the toasted chilies in a bowl or a pan and pour boiling water over to cover. Cover with a lid and leave to soften for at least one hour or overnight. Once or twice lift the lid and rearrange the chilies so that they soak evenly. (Make sure to turn off the heat when you add the water).

3. Remove the softened chilies with a slotted spoon. Discard the stems and the seeds and cut the flesh into pieces. Place in a blender. (Do a quick blend)

4. Add the onion, garlic, tomatoes, tortillas, cloves, fennel seeds, cinnamon, coriander, cumin, sesame seeds, almonds, raisins and peanut butter if using, then process to combine. With the motor running, add enough stock through the feed tube to make a smooth paste. Stir in the remaining stock, chocolate, and chili powder.

5. Heat the oil in a heavy based pan until it is smoking, then pour in the mole mixture. It will sputter and pop as it hits the oil. Cook for about 10 minutes, stirring occassionally to prevent it from burning. Season with salt, pepper, and lime juice, and serve.

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I rolled these with cheese into some corn tortillas and baked them in the sauce for 20 minutes at 375F. I would love to spend an afternoon with a real abuela and see how this sauce was made before the age of blenders. There must have been a lot of soaking and hand mashing involved. What struck me in making this great dish is the fact that I already had every ingredient in my kitchen sans the corn tortillas. They are pretty much all the same ingredients I use to make Thai food. Go figure...

The Gefilte Fish

by Elizabeth Cherny

This story begins right before Rosh Hashana - the Jewish New Year. It’s the generational story of a family tradition that was started by my late grandmother and was continued by my mom until she, too, had passed.
   
It was the first year without my mom, and for me it was the time to face the reality and to make the decision: to keep the tradition alive, let it go, or just make a dinner to bring family together?

I was on the phone with Bella, a friend of mine for twenty years. We first met when we just arrived as refugees to this country, with four hundred dollars in our pocket and without knowing what will happen to us next. The time and life that we all shared in the suburbs of Chicago made us more than just friends; we became a family. Our children, not even us, made such a strong statement.
   
With the holidays around the corner, Bella and I were talking about what we will make for the dinner.

I don’t remember who asked first about gefilte fish, a very important dish that has to be served at such a time and, without it, it would be not considered a Jewish holiday dinner.

These days when everybody is busy, you can buy the fish ready to serve. You can order it with delivery an hour before the dinner and it would be okay. But, when the woman of the house makes the fish at home, only then is the meal considered to be a holiday dinner!

The fish, the gefilte fish, becomes the center of attention, the subject of the conversation, a main dish, no matter what else would be served that evening.

There we were, two friends, two women who grew up by traditions with traditions, talking about holidays and talking about gefilte fish. Who asked whom first and who said next, I don’t remember but it was close to this:

“Bella, what would we do with the fish?”

“I thought about it, but I don’t know, yet. Do you know how to make it?”

“I think, if I would start making it, I would remember. I didn’t do it for a long time but I can try,” I said, not even thinking where it will bring me and us. “Do you know how to make it?”

“Well, when my mom used to make the fish I tried to be there, some place around, mostly in her way, so mom would look at me and say, ‘Please, Bella, do me a favor just go and do what ever you want to do, don’t try to help me. I am  fine to be here by myself. I can still take care of this. Your time will come, don’t worry!’ So, I would happily leave, but I saw what she did and some of it I do remember…Lily, what, if we tried to make the fish together?” she asked me. “You remember some and I remember what I saw. Let’s do it?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I asked my friend.

“Yes, I am. What do we have to lose? We will spend time together and, who knows? Maybe between the two of us, we would remember and we would have our gefilte fish on the table.”

“Well,” I said, “let’s do it. I still have pots and pans for all of this. In some of them, my grandma used to cook and we called them ‘The Golden Pots.’ They are from my old home.”

“We can’t use your stuff,” quietly said my friend. “I am sorry, but we can’t. They are not kosher.”

For a brief moment, I was so excited that I forgot that my friend keeps kosher and you can’t mix and use anything that is not kosher in the house.

“Well, what can we do?” I asked her with the all excitement gone. “Too bad, my friend, that you don’t have pots to cook the fish.”

“I have. I do have the pots in which my mom made the fish.”

“Great, so what is the problem? We will use yours. What the difference?”

“We can’t use them, either” Bella replied in a very apologetic voice.

“Why not?” I asked her, not understanding what she is talking about.

“They are not kosher, either,” she answered quietly.

“What?” I think that as much as my friend’s voice was quiet, mine was loud. “What?” I repeated myself. “You are telling me that your mom’s pots, where she cooked the fish for all the holidays through all the years, are not kosher? Bella, what then is kosher, if not your mom’s pots and pans?”

“Please,” said my friend, “don’t be so upset with me! I know. I know, I understand why you are so upset, but I can’t use them because they are not kosher.”

Well.  I couldn’t stop, so upset I was with such a statement. I knew her mother. I knew the woman whose life was nothing but devotion to my friend and to her family, whose love was so unconditional that to me refusing her pots was an insult to her life.

“Well, my friend, let me tell you,” I said in the same very upset and loud voice, “you had better go to your shul and talk to your Rabbi.  Go and tell him how upset I am and ask him what else can be more kosher in life than pots where your mom, your Jewish mom, in the best meaning of the world, cooked gefilte fish.”

“Ok, I will do it.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise you.”

The time passed by and in two weeks Bella called.
   
“I have the news for you,” she said as she started laughing. “We have kosher pots and pans for the fish!”

“What do you mean by this?” I asked.

“Well,” she continued to smile and started telling the story. “I did go to the Rabbi and told him about our conversation. He listened to me and then he said that the pots we brought from the old country are made from such material that it is almost impossible to bring them to the cleaning condition so that they can be called kosher.  But, he promised to talk to another Rabbi who may have a solution. So he called in a few days and said that another Rabbi cannot also make such a decision and that Rabbi needs to talk to somebody else.  I don’t want to make up or to say more than I know,” she continued the story, “but I think the question was brought to the Rabbi from the Rabbinical Court. Well, they told me that, considering the circumstances and my wish, they can make a special cleaning for these pots and pans and they can make them kosher.”
   
My friend was happy and continued laughing telling me the ordeal it was to make it happen. I was listening to my friend, holding tears and thinking about life at large, about all the twists and changes we went through. The gefilte fish that was made by our grandmas in the old country and our moms coming to a different continent and bringing the pots and pans for the special cooked fish, the gefilte fish.

I thought of the tradition that was kept by our ancestors in the country where everything and anything Jewish was forbidden. I thought how they kept it all and without words and explanations, taught us something very special: to keep the tradition alive, no matter where the destiny will bring our families and us.

I thought what our moms would say. Would they smile, or just quietly shake their heads? Our moms, who were watching and listening to us from above. So, we cooked! We cooked gefilte fish the way it was made centuries ago, the way it was made in our homes, and the way we saw and remembered.

In my friend’s large, brand new kitchen that was built before the holidays and was expected and blessed as a kosher, on the new stove in all its’ shining glory, was standing an old, big pot full of gefilte fish - the same pot that was brought from the old country and in which my friend’s mother used to cook the fish before this special day!
     
The most kosher pot in the world!

When holiday came and our families and children were sitting at the table, we told them this story: the story of memories, the story of love and the story of a tradition we all wish and hope they will continue after us.

The memory of scent

I love how a random aroma can transport me back to another time. When I first walked into my new local library, it was as though I had entered my beloved library back home. The scent of old books and papers...nothing like it. There's only one aroma in my house that does that for me, every single time.

Sesame oil.

When I pop open the bottle, I must put my nose right up to the spout and take a deep, lung-filling whiff. That's always followed up by a quiet smile, as the memories come flooding back. When I was about eight, my oldest son's age, my dad took up Chinese cooking as a hobby. We lived in an old Chicago Bungalow, and in the unfinished basement there was a tiny little gas stove. He would cook down there, keeping the heat and oil splatters out of our miniscule kitchen...and ensuring that little kids didn't get underfoot and burned. Once he mastered complex stir-fries, he moved on to our favorite, Hot and Sour Soup. He perfected a recipe that included a drizzle of sesame oil on top, the heat releasing its nutty scent.

It brings back the memory of being young and carefree and happy, with a dad who loved to experiment in the kitchen and share that with his family. We had delicious food, and dinners around the table, and leftovers I'd have for breakfast in the morning. No, really, I did. My sons don't get it either. It brings back the memory of recreating my dad's Hot and Sour Soup recipe in college, going to the only Oriental grocery store in Normal, Illinois to get the precious ingredients. Filling my pit of an apartment with the warm aromas of soup and sesame oil.

With one whiff, the scent of sesame oil transports me back to all those times. Better than any time machine.

Lamb Meatballs and seafood

So I decided to do something new and different for dinner. I took some spices; smoked paprika, ground ginger, cumin, fennel seeds, garlic and a few other things, mixed it into the ground lamb and made small little balls. Added that into a crock pot with hot olive oil, garlic, onions and mushrooms. Let that cook for about 10 minutes. Then added some chimichuri sauce; I know, a bit of the Latin flavor. After another 10 min added the shrimp, and calamari with some dried up rosemary. Cooked that for 10 more min and done.

It was actually pretty good. Had some rice on the side. The only thing I would do is add some tomato paste and a touch of cinnamon into the meatballs to give it a little extra.

Sometimes staying in is better then going out!

We had guests over on Saturday the 7th and I made some sushi. My daughter took the pictures until she got sick with a temperature and fell a sleep. So here is what we got...

Start with rice,

then yellowtail, salmon, tuna, cucumber, avocado,

tempura shrimp,

eel, crab,

red and green caviar,

and most importantly spicy mayo...

Roll it...

and then you get these...

and also these...

Unfortunately, I don't have pictures of the whole feast, because as I said the photographer got sick, but she did wake up for the most important part -- Four hours, 15 rolls, 120 pieces of sushi later... It was probably too much, but I did enjoy making it, and it seemed everyone loved eating it... It beats going out anytime!

Bird Bird Bird, the Bird is the Word

T-minus six days to my very favorite holiday, the one that recognizes gratitude with a roasted flightless bird. Granted, between me and that day there is a 14 hour drive to Iowa from Colorado, but that's what ya gotta do. I love Thanksgiving. I love that it hasn't been commercialized, I love that there's a parade and my husband and I can critique the bands (once a band director, always a band director), I love that it's a holiday that has a day following it simply for recovery. My kind of day.

Funny thing, though, is that I don't like to cook. Sigh.... Yes, it's true. My name is Jen, I contribute to two different food-related blogs, and I don't like to cook. Eat, yes. Cook, not so much. But Thanksgiving is different. I have the whole day, in fact several days, to prepare food. I'm not the only one cooking. And if it doesn't turn out, I can drown it all in gravy and everyone's happy. And if the gravy is lumpy, then let them all eat pie! Pecan. Hot. With ice cream.

It got tougher last year when it was the first Thanksgiving that I had to eat gluten-free. My husband's world famous stuffing suffered mightily from the terrible gluten-free bread we used. I wept, for I usually want to bathe in that stuffing it's so good. We tried again at Christmas and it was a little better, but not much. I have high hopes for this year since finding a wonderful bread mix (Bob's Red Mill, I love you. Mwah!).

We have a few traditional foods, but not many. The bird. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce, the kind with the lines (for easy slicing, right?) AND homemade. Apple salad...yes, it's healthy on this day even though it's covered in Cool Whip. Sweet potatoes. Pie. My husband must have his spiced apple rings or the day is a depressing failure. Anything else for the groaning table varies depending on what recipes caught our eye that year. And everything must be gluten-free.

Parade, lounging around in yoga pants all day, mouth-watering aromas from the kitchen, the gleeful voices of cousins pounding on one another...this is Thanksgiving.

Even if I do have to cook.