by Nick Kindelsperger on February 8, 2010
by Blake Royer on February 4, 2010

Good pizza means good bread. For me, there's just no other way around it. Good bread is the soul of good pizza.
But baking has never been a subject I'm comfortable with. Give me a skillet, some pasta, and a well-stocked pantry and I can improvise countless meals. But if I'm supposed to bake something, I freeze. I immediately picture failure, a leaden cracker or a gummy mess. I hate the confusion of baking, the way it never quite turns out how it's supposed to in the recipe. I hate the way flour gets all over the place. And more than anything else, I hate the conflicting information, recipes never agreeing with each other, and how no matter how long I knead my bread I never get that damn "windowpane" effect that everyone talks about.
But I love pizza. I can buy good bread around the corner, but not good pizza that's warm out of my oven. I love it enough to brave the storm. I've tried to make good pizza in a cast iron skillet, and I've had fun. But I have to admit it's never quite been good enough.
So a couple of weeks ago I theorized about using a simple recipe for focaccia bread as the dough. This focaccia is the only bread that's ever lived up to my expectations. I make it all the time. It doesn't require much investment of time, turns out pretty well, and most importantly, is ready to bake after a couple hours. No waiting around while the dough rests overnight and all that. I figured, why not use this recipe, and I would have delicious pizza the same day I craved it? It seemed to simple. I thought about Sicilian-style pizzas, which resemble foccacia unlike thin brick oven Neopolitian-style pies. Then I set out to see if it would work.
Well, I got my butt kicked. Pizza taught me a lesson. And that is that there are no shortcuts if you want to create something truly special.
But in the process, something unexpected happened. I actually learned a lot about how to make bread. I learned some truly amazing things. And I feel like I have something of a handle on the process now. After diving into a world of unfamiliar terminology, some brain-aching calculations, and a lot of conflicting information, I feel I've emerged with some wisdom.
It wasn't as easy as I thought. But I am happy to report that I've found a method for making pizza that really works. It involves some math, but I've already done the calculating for you. With a scale and a little time, quality pizza is not far away.
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by Nick Kindelsperger and Blake Royer on February 3, 2010

[Photo by Basil Childers for The New York Times]
Welcome to Wednesday Links. This is our weekly collection of four of the most interesting food links we've discovered in the past week. Enjoy!
The Olive Oil Barons
Awesome story about growing olives and pressing them into oil from a couple of complete amateurs. Who knew that slightly less ripe olives are important for a peppery taste?
Exploring Tokyo Through its Ramen Shops
An experts guide through Tokyo by way of their ever expanding ramen culture.
Design Sponge: In the Kitchen With
If you're a DIY guru or into design, Design Sponge is already daily reading. But if not, the recurring food column, a sort of mini food-blog, is worth checking out. Great stories and beautiful photographs.
Five easy steps to making bad drinks and getting poor tips.
by Nick Kindelsperger on February 2, 2010

I have this large bottle of vodka and I don't know what to do with it. It was lugged over by a friend (Blake) during a party as some kind of gift for the festivities, but I could see through his evil plan. He was trying to pawn this half finished bottle off on me because he didn't want to drink it. Sure enough, while the whiskey and gin were manhandled during the party, stirred and shaken into all manner of cocktails, that bottle of vodka sat undisturbed on the counter. And that's where it sits today, since it's too cumbersome to fit in my liquor cabinet.
Obviously, drinking it is not an option. I like gin in my Martinis, and haven't had a Cosmo since 2005. Bloody Mary's are fine, but I'm not going to drink 35 of them, or whatever it will take to empty this bottle. I could just empty it down the drain, but then my inner college student mind screams, "Dude...what are you doing!" So what now?
I honestly took a shot to see if my hatred was just blind prejudice for a misunderstood liquor, before I gagged at the rubbing alcohol burn. While I adore Gin and love my Bourbon, I knew this bottle of vodka needed to be transformed or destroyed quickly. I don't have the patience to use it teaspoons for Vodka Sauces or pie crusts. It needs something dramatic and vengeful.
I'm thinking about an infusion. I know these were dirty words a few years ago when it seemed like every cocktail bar was making vodka infusions to try and hide their disgusting spirits. But I've got an interesting idea that I'm hoping will turn my neglected spirit it something really interesting.
My mind is on infusions thanks to Michael Nagrant, Chicago food writer extraordinaire who created Hungry Mag and has written for just about every other publication in Chicago. He proposed that I could make gin by infusing juniper berries in the vodka for a short amount of time.
I'm still playing around with other ideas, too. What about limoncello or homemade bitters? Anyone have a plan for when you end up with an unwanted bottle of vodka?
by Nick Kindelsperger and Blake Royer on February 1, 2010

Our weekly roundup of what the two of us have written over on Serious Eats.
"Dinner Tonight" Column
Quick meals to your table five days a week.
Stuffed Chicken Cutlet With Ham, Cheese, and Sauerkraut
A breaded chicken cutlet, oozing provolone cheese between a layer of ham and tangy sauerkraut. What's not to like?
Beginner Almond Shrimp Curry with Tomatoes
New to curry? Even though this recipe is easy, it doesn't taste like something a beginner could turn out.
Barley Risotto with Cauliflower and Red Wine
Even though it's not made with rice, this risotto-like dish is authentic nonetheless, with roots in the Friuli region of Italy. The warming and tender result is also pretty good for you.
Egg in a Hole with 'Shrooms
On a nostalgic trip for the first thing he ever learned to cook, Blake follows Mark Bittman's lead in updating this breakfast-for-dinner classic.
Shrimp and Scallion Pancakes
Inspired by a Korean side dish called pajeon, these savory pancakes are crisp and aromatic.
Standing Room Only
A column about the best of Chicago's restaurants--with no seats.
Al's #1 Italian Beef
Nick finally visits the Italian Beef stands that inspired the Standing Room Only column, and is reminded "why I fell in love with the sandwich in the first place."
by Nick Kindelsperger on January 28, 2010

What is a slider? A slider is a particular thing. It's particularly American. It's a small subset of our great culinary tradition, the hamburger. But as I explained last week, it's not just a mini-hamburger. To be a slider, it cannot be perverted with expensive ingredients like foie gras or tuna tartar, a cutesy version of a burger for a chef to play with. A slider consists of a thin layer of beef, American cheese, a soft bun, and way more onions than seem necessary or right. At some point in the cooking process, the meat should steam above the onions, turning the patty richly aromatic and strangely beefy considering its small stature.
That's the secret about the slider, and why I am infatuated with them. It's that strange dichotomy of being petite yet robust, flavorful, and meaty despite its littleness. I can't think of many other dainty foods that have such a seedy reputation.
And, yes, sliders are rather seedy. The slider joint has a stigma, booths haunted with the funk of cooking onions, a smell that seems to follow you out the door and all the way home. To get right to it, cooking these at home will make your place smell like White Castle. Perhaps this is why there aren't many recipes online for how to do it correctly. "Leave it to the take-out place," seems to be the message, or use just a little onion (or even onion salt). But these recipes are not authentic, nor as delicious.

But as I found out, making sliders at home is easy, cheap, and produces one of the best hamburgers I've ever eaten. By the end, it seems like a noble trade off. To be perfectly honest, I kind of like the aroma.
I could easily show you how sliders are made at a White Castle, where most people have probably encountered them. But you could also find out for yourself, since the whole griddle is showcased behind glass. They just place ultra-thin frozen patties atop a bed of chopped onions. But I wanted to make the burgers from fresh meat. I wanted to do it how White Castle probably used to make burgers, before they switched to frozen patties.
The question became: how do you get the patty so thin? Luckily, there are some places in New Jersey that still keep the slider flame alive and make them the real way. I need to point out the excellent coverage Nick Solares has done over on A Hamburger Today about this subject. One of his favorite places is White Manna, and that's where this video came from of the griddle man in action. This was my ticket. To my surprise the technique showcased in the shaky YouTube video was backed up by a comment that I got from George Motz, who wrote Hamburger America. I figured he'd eaten a few sliders in his day.
Don’t pre-cook the onion. Use Vidalia (the way they do in Oklahoma), slice paper-thin on a mandoline so they cook faster, and never use a grind higher than 80/20. Smash the onion into the patty first – don’t wait to flip before you add the onion.
And that's pretty much exactly how to do it. For the burger aficionados out there, it's like a modified Smash Burger. A small ball of meat is placed on the cooking surface, topped with thinly sliced onions, and then flattened with a spatula to the desired thickness. When the bottom is done, it's then flipped onto the onions to finish cooking. The second part, where the burgers steam on top of the onions, is the genius of sliders and why I love them so much.
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by Nick Kindelsperger and Blake Royer on January 27, 2010

Welcome to Wednesday Links. This is our weekly collection of four of the most interesting food links we've discovered in the past week. Enjoy!
Cocktail Techniques
Recently Gary Regan released his list of basic cocktail techniques, and the San Francisco Chronicle convinced Neyah White and Jackie Patterson to demonstrate them on camera. Of particularly note: how to correctly stir a cocktail.
Restaurant Critics State Into the Abyss
Has the democratizing power of the Internet made restaurant critics obsolete? Considering that utter crappiness of most Yelp reviews ("I loved the food but they didn't offer coat check -- 1 star!"), we think the answer is no.
How to Wash Mushrooms
The eternal question: should you rinse mushrooms under water or awkwardly brush the dirt off with a brush?
Grits: What's for Breakfast
Even though the author believes "you have to be born below the Mason-Dixon Line to truly understand grits," this article goes a long way for a couple of Chicagoans.
by Blake Royer on January 26, 2010

My Chicago is about life as a cooks and eaters in our home city. Markets, restaurants, secret finds, really tasty bites--or just a great story. We're lucky to live here.
Bottarga would handily win the award for "foodstuff with least correlation between attractiveness and deliciousness," if such a thing existed. It is a brown, firm lobe, and, poor thing, really quite ugly. A cured, pressed, and dried fish egg sack. How good does that sound? Hungry yet? That be why it has never taken the food world by storm.
But grated over pasta, bottarga's magical properties come alive. It transforms a simple bowl of noodles dressed with some breadcrumbs and a knob of butter into a umami-rich, nutty, remarkably complex experience. Bottarga is grate-able magic dust. It's the Italians' answer to MSG.
Since I moved here, I've been searching for this product in Chicago, which has led me to read about its best Italian grocers, including the famous Bari Foods down on Grand ave, where, over their famed Italian sub, I inquired about the fish roe sack in detail to the owner. He was polite, considering, but hadn't heard of it, saying that Chicago always got the short end of the stick when it came to imports from Europe (I used to buy it in New York at a wonderful Italian importer in the Chelsea Market, where I first fell in love with good pasta).

So then I tweeted about my quest a couple weeks ago, and @saucissonmac recommended a place called Caputo's. I looked it up and saw it on a map--officially known as Caputo Cheese Market--way out in the suburbs. Yelp reviewers promised an emporium of Italian goods at cheap prices.
Essentially, Caputo's is a large bare-bones warehouse, where the aisles are makeshift, informally created by towering racks of canned goods, dried pastas, tins of olive oil, sacks of flour. When Elin and I arrived at 5pm on a weekday evening, it was practically empty. A capacious interior held all the dried and preserved goods, and off the main room we found a massive cheese room full of a vast selection of both imported and domestic cheeses.

The emphasis at Caputo's seems to be on "cheap." Hunks of Sicilian Pecorino went for $3.98/pound and the wonderful in-house mozzarella for $3.49/pound, tender and pillowy like refrigerated mozzarella never is.
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by Nick Kindelsperger on January 25, 2010
by Blake Royer on January 21, 2010

Personally, I didn't need any convincing, but after seeing the above picture, I can see why you might. It's the same reason Alton Brown went to great lengths on a recent episode of Good Eats to hide a central ingredient in his recipe. Something small, something oily, something canned, something with a rather poor reputation. This particular foodstuff was apart of a puzzling, yet intriguing little sandwich that was the centerpiece of a diet that dropped him 50 pounds.
I speak of sardines.
Alton was in fact so afraid of people dismissing the sandwich immediately that he referred to his sardines for most of the episode not by their well-known name, but instead as "brisling." It was only after extolling their economy, health benefits, and tastiness that he let the truth out.
Yet the sandwich--a slice of bread, smeared avocado, and a healthy helping of sardines--is delicious. The avocado and sardine complement each other beautifully; the buttery richness of avocado tampers the fishiness, while the nutty taste of sardines bring a whole new complexity. A sprinkling of lemon juice brightens the whole thing.
But even more than how good the sandwich tastes is the way this confession of Alton's made me feel. See, I haven't talked about it much. But I've been nursing a love for tiny little fish for awhile now. The sprats, herring, sardines, and anchovies of the world, the bottom of the food chain.

With Alton Brown going public, I feel like maybe I can step out into the light, too.
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