Rhubarb Rose Ramos Gin, Minus the Fizz. Lessons in Forgetfulness.

I can generally behave myself on beer, and wine if there isn’t bubbles involved.  Gin, however, lends an air of invincibility.  Invincibility followed by waves of death in the morning.  One particularly infamous New Year’s Eve, after drinking a bottle of champagne, I ushered out the evening with an extra dry gin martini.

Except the bar was out of olives and cocktail glasses, so technically I drank a glass of gin.  What happened next is what one might call a broach, in sailing terms.  I quickly found myself in danger of capsizing, crisscrossing to “Come Fly with Me” and clinging to anything semi-stationary.

Some 2 AM scrambled eggs and cheese helped.  But I’ve certainly had Saturday mornings that were more pleasant. I suppose we shouldn’t cast champagne as innocent in this tale, but that is not the point of the story.

I mention all of this because I drank a gin fizz on Friday night.  A rhubarb Ramos gin fizz.  Except I forgot to add soda water.  So technically it was a rhubarb Ramos gin.  No matter.  I’m prone to a jettison of classic cocktail elements.

I followed it with pasta carbonara.  Partly because I had a leftover yolk to use.  And partly because, in my twenties, I may have formed an unbreakable bond between gin and eggs.  Not to say things got all slant-y Sinatra.  For one, I know the limits of my thirty-something liver.  For two, I was in my bathrobe.

This might be my new favorite way to drink gin (the bathrobe is optional, but encouraged).  I had to share it, immediately.  It's frothy, and tart, and behaves a bit like a well-balanced spring creamsicle.  Which I say with trepidation, because I don’t want to give the impression we’ve sugarcoated a classic. 

It is flower petal pink, for certain.  But also a breath of fresh air in the booze department.  Dare I say something even a gin-hater could love.  Which usually turns gin-lovers off, but I assure this cocktail will win most rational—and nearly all irrational—drinkers over. 

Despite the name, and its appearance, it’s not incredibly difficult to make.  It just doesn’t take well to impulse.  You’ll need cold rhubarb syrup, for one.  And also the cocktail accoutrement of a well-seasoned drinker.  But the result is something a Bogart heroine could love.

Sure, a martini still has its place.  But mostly when I want to hate myself in the morning.

Rhubarb Rose Ramos Gin Fizz

Adapted from Food52

Ingredients:

for the rhubarb syrup

1 pound rhubarb stalks, cut into 1-inch pieces

1 cup sugar

1-inch piece of peeled ginger root

pinch of salt

for the cocktail

2 ounces gin

½ ounce lemon juice

½ ounce lime juice

2 ounces rhubarb syrup

1 ounce half and half

2 drops of rose water

1 egg white

Instructions:

In a medium saucepan, place the rhubarb pieces, sugar, ginger, salt, and 2 cups of water.  Simmer on medium heat, stirring occasionally.  (Reduce the heat if the liquid comes to a vigorous boil.)  Cook about 35 minutes, or until the liquid reduces to slightly more than half and turns deep pink.  Strain out the rhubarb pulp using a mesh strainer; save for another use.  Chill the syrup.

In a cocktail shaker, combine all ingredients and shake vigorously for 30 seconds.  Add 4 or 5 ice cubes and shake for another 30 seconds.  Strain into a cocktail glass.

Makes 1 cocktail

Notes:

-As is de rigueur with gin fizzes, the recipe originally called for soda water.  Which is optional here.  I’d start with an ounce, if you are adding it.  I should also note I used half and half in place of heavy cream (simply because I always have it for my coffee).  I suspect this helped to cut down on the thickness of the drink a bit, much like the soda water would.  (Add the soda water after you shake and strain the cocktail.)

-Gin fizz recipes often call for orange blossom water.  This one uses rose instead, which lends a subtle, soft perfume that I absolutely loved. 

-The rhubarb pulp would be great on top of yogurt.  

The Good, the Bad, and the French: With Minted Fava Beans and Peas

It’s about two pm as I write this.  Which means it’s nearly eight in France.  I still haven’t quite acclimated to being back home.  Around this time in Paris my mother and I would start our nightly ritual.  We’d head out for dinner.  We’d be tired.  This would be an early night, we’d say.  And then we’d find ourselves trudging home around midnight.  Sometimes later.

Travel changes you.  Challenges you.  Exhausts you.  But also replenishes you.  Nudges you to see the world a little bit differently.  Stay up a bit longer.  And perhaps drink a bit more wine.  The ten days I spent in France were certainly no exception. 

My trip was filled with little treasures that I carried back across the Atlantic.  I returned to my Boston apartment and put away narrow, petite cake pans from E. Dehillerin; cinnamon gros sel and fleur de sel from the Boulevard Raspail market; green olive tapenade from a winery we visited, Château de St. Martin; Bourgueil and Sauternes from Spring’s wine boutique; and unpacked my new memories.

There is the memory of my mother and I eating lunch at our first Parisian café, near the École Militaire, which served a delicate couscous with a crisp dice of zucchini and cucumber.  And an even better bun curry, a light orange brioche roll with the flavor of curry baked in. I wish I could remember the name of the café. We ate at a long, wooden table. Our waitress wore bright red lipstick and a bare face.  She brought us a basket of chewy sourdough bread.  She was kind and tolerated my very rudimentary French.So I suppose the name of the café matters only in that I cannot sing its praise more specifically. No-name cafés and forgotten carafes of wine remain lodged in the crevice of my vacation mind.

Another one of my favorite lunches was at a little café in the 1^st arrondissement. We sat outside under an awning and ate rich olive oil-laden ratatouille as it poured outside.  I drank a delicate glass of Chinon that cost as much as my mother’s Earl Grey tea.  Later that evening, we dined at Verjus.  I had seven wonderful courses, each paired with wine, and eaten in a dining room lit by candle in a way that only the city of lights could pull off. 

Duck breast with red onion ravioli and a 2009 Nicolas Réau Chinon, “Garance.” Grilled lamb with braised artichoke and gnocchi and a 2010 Domaine Bordes Saint-Chinian, “Les Narys.”  Strawberry tarragon sorbet and salted peanut butter mousse paired with a 2010 Château la Tour Grise Ze Bulles Zéo Pointé Rosé.  I could go on.

Later in the week we drove down the freeway from Paris to the French Riviera, listening to techno versions of Carly Rae Jepsen and Lady Gaga songs that played hourly, while snacking on Poilâne’s pain d’épices: a spice cake that wasn't overly sweet and was good even when dried out and eaten out of hungry desperation days later.  We drove through Burgundy and the Rhône, speeding by old French villages and all-white cows.

We sipped rosé the color of ballet slippers in Provence.  We sat on a dock on the Côte d’Azur, drank in its teal water and walked on sand that I could swear contained actual specks of gold.  We ate roast chicken with olives and lemon prepared by a chef from our resort in Mougins who dripped French charm and took a particular liking to my mother. Though—let me be frank—our trip was not filled with carefree with glasses of vin, charismatic men, and sandy beaches. 

Our Volkswagen broke down in a tollbooth lane somewhere along A6.  The police we talked to spoke very little English and sent us off down the highway in search of an SOS phone.  And driving back into Paris was sheer terror, quickly having to adapt a key French axiom: where I am, you cannot be.  Paris was, at times, quite unkind. The inside of my flats came to look like a murder scene from my blistered and bloodied feet.  We had our fair share of missed streets and crumpled maps.  And I had a near critical incident after consuming a midday cheese plate carelessly followed up by a croque-madame and soupe à l'oignon. (See: lactose intolerance.)

But the good far outweighed the unpleasant. Perhaps my favorite memory of the trip was opening (and then later closing) the dinner service at Au Passage.  The first to arrive around eight, we drank a bottle of Le Cousin Rouge and had little plates of food.  A fresh, drippy burrata.  Smoked potatoes with dill and sea snail.  Grilled spring onions with pesto and parmesan.  Along the way we befriended two cute, quirky French men who asked if we cared to split a leg of lamb.  A slow braised lamb arrived that required carving, served with a large plate of mustardy lentils.  After consuming another carafe or two of wine, we were the last to leave, apart from our new French friends and the staff.

And so I have arrived back to Boston both inspired and admittedly a bit overwhelmed with all my new memories.  I have a long list of food to cook and a new collection of French tools to use.  But one of the first meals I made when I came back was this one, which is best explained as a dissected version of our trip.

Many of the restaurants in Paris had fresh ricotta on their menus. Green plants like zucchini, fava beans, and mint also made frequent appearances.  As for the bread, it’s Jim Lahey’s no-knead version with poppy seeds, lemon zest, and coarse ginger gros sel added. 

It's simple, elegant, and a bit of a pain in the ass to make when you are jet-lagged.  But as the coup de grâce for my French vacation, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ricotta with Minted Fava Beans and Peas on Poppy Seed Bread

Ingredients:

A handful of shelled fresh peas (or frozen if fresh is not available)

A handful of shelled fava beans (still in their white outer coverings)

~1 tbsp bacon fat (bacon reserved for another use)

Fleur de sel

Black pepper

6-8 sprigs of fresh mint

1-2 tbsp olive oil

A few drops of lemon juice

Ricotta cheese (see note)

Poppy seed bread (or other variety, see note)

Instructions:

Cook peas briefly (if using fresh) in salted boiling water, for about 1 minute, and then remove them using a slotted spoon; set peas aside.  Add the shelled fava beans to the boiling water and cook until their inner flesh is tender when pierced with a knife (typically this takes less than five minutes).  Once cool enough, peel the white shell of the fava beans.  Add bacon fat to a hot pan and add the fully shelled fava beans; season with salt and pepper and sauté until the beans are crisp and slightly browned; set aside.

Meanwhile, finely chop the mint leaves; mix in the olive oil, lemon juice, and season with salt to taste; toss the fava beans and peas in the mint dressing.  Spread ricotta cheese on a slice of poppy seed bread. Top with minted peas and fava beans.

Notes:

-A recipe for homemade ricotta can be found here.  I halved the recipe and it made about a cup.  (You probably won't want to let it drain for an hour or it may get too dry.)  If you are looking for a little more richness you may want to try this.

-The inspiration for the poppy seed bread came from a jambon et fromage sandwich (on white poppy seed bread) from a French rest stop on the drive down to Provence.  You can find the recipe for making Jim Lahey's bread here.  (Though the original recipe I have calls for 1/2 tsp yeast and 1 1/2 tsp of salt.) I added the poppy seeds, zest of one lemon, and salt before the second rising of the bread.

-This is a very loose recipe. (Please excuse any errors that may have been made due to jet lag and/or excessive wine consumption.)

A Time For Hope and Peas

Spring is here. On the sunny days it can feel like you’re standing on top of a mountain after a long hike. You made it. The air may be brisk, but it still feels crisp and clean: even in the city. For a moment you feel like you can do anything.

You’ve made it through the windburned cheeks, gray earth, and seemingly endless supply of winter squash. You’re ready for green: for fava beans, asparagus, and English peas. But this is New England. We have a good two months before we’ll see the likes of anything like that grown at an arm’s reach. Let’s face it.

Luckily, we’re a hardy bunch. We’ve been through worse. It’s rumored to snow tonight.

We’ve learned how to cope. We eat clam chowder. We wear coats the size of sleeping bags. We put long underwear on underneath our suit pants. We find ways to eat root vegetables that involve a shameful amount of cream. We carry on. We make do.

Which is just what I did over the weekend, when I was craving something green to usher in spring. I scoured the market for anything—imports included—that I could smash into a creamy green paste. I got a little ahead of myself. Other than some artichokes from California, I was pretty much out of luck in the seasonal green department.

So frozen peas it was. Which I didn’t feel too terrible about. Fresh peas are really best—and most sweet—on the day they are picked; it will be awhile before I snag them at the farmers’ markets here. (Sigh) So I turned to basil and a hint of pernod for some sweetness. Like I said, we make do. And sometimes we eat frozen peas dressed in basil leaves to usher in spring. Given that it’s been bitterly cold here, I suppose a pea with a little chill on it is fitting. We are straddling seasons, one foot in winter and one in spring.

But that’s springtime in New England. It keeps you guessing. Some days it brings you hope and some days it brings you frozen peas. Today, I’m just happy to have the peas.

Pea Pesto

1 pound frozen peas

2 cups basil leaves, packed, and divided

3-4 slices bacon, plus about 1 tbsp bacon fat reserved

3 garlic cloves, minced

Splash of pernod (about 2-4 tbsp)

2 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

1/4-1/2 cup grated pecorino cheese, plus additional for tossing

Salt and pepper, to taste

Bring salted water to boil in a large sauce pan. Add frozen peas and cook until the water just about returns to boil. Meanwhile, fry up the bacon in a sauté pan until crispy and reserve 1 tbsp bacon fat. Drain bacon on paper towel. Wipe down sauté pan and add bacon fat to pan; cook garlic in fat about 1-2 minutes, being careful not to burn it. Add pernod to the garlic and let alcohol burn off, about 1-2 minutes more. When water with peas is just about boiling, add 1/2 the basil leaves and cook for about 30 seconds more. Drain water and add peas and basil to kitchen aid or blender. Add olive oil, lemon juice, pecorino cheese and sautéed garlic; blend into a paste. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed.

Toss pasta with pea pesto sauce and top with crispy bacon pieces and additional pecorino.

Makes about 2 cups pea pesto sauce

Notes:

-This is also lovely as a topping for crusty bread and marinated artichokes