To make a grill week interesting, you have to move beyond the basic hamburger, steak, boneless skinless chicken breast, and the occasional fish. We've done steak twice before, and as we espoused during the Shake Shack Alternative week, we're not big fans of the charred-on-the-grill burger (naysayers and defenders, feel free to comment away). Leave that business to dad.
So, we looked for new territory, some item that might be removed from its normal setting and taste better over charcoal. That ingredient was mussels.
My first thought was to find some in Chinatown, but I had no luck (and not that much perseverance). I found them at a couple places in plastic... 
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To make a grill week interesting, you have to move beyond the basic hamburger, steak, boneless skinless chicken breast, and the occasional fish. We've done steak twice before, and as we espoused during the Shake Shack Alternative week, we're not big fans of the charred-on-the-grill burger (naysayers and defenders, feel free to comment away). Leave that business to dad.
So, we looked for new territory, some item that might be removed from its normal setting and taste better over charcoal. That ingredient was mussels.
My first thought was to find some in Chinatown, but I had no luck (and not that much perseverance). I found them at a couple places in plastic... 
And like that, it's over. Summer's stronghold has disappeared. The days no longer top out in the 90's, the sweat only beads down my face around noon, and that funk has actually started to lose it's grip on the 14th Street Station. Last week I only walked on the side of the street completely covered in shadow, and now I can walk wherever I choose. Really, I'm not sad.
But I just got a grill, a real small grill. So I've decided to make one last stab at summer, one last time to remember perfect Brooklyn nights and hot days at Coney, just to give it one last goodbye, so I can happily dive into fall.
I'm grilling like it's June and the hot days will never end.
Not that I have any idea what I'm doing. Set me in front of a...
By Blake Royer
It's difficult, sometimes, to make Brunch plans. They usually happen in a haze at 1:30 in the morning, when everyone's hungry, a bit tired, and getting very sentimental. "Oh, let's all wake up and have a big intimate meal together tomorrow!" It's a way of ensuring, in hopeful and vague way, that the night never has to end--just after a short nap, we'll all get together again and the only difference is that the sun will be out.
This plan works even better when you describe to people that you'll be having tart, tickly mimosas to ease the brain, and that you can have as many as you want. They'll probably agree to it blindly, and then pass it off as ridiculous as they hit the bed later that night...
It's difficult, sometimes, to make Brunch plans. They usually happen in a haze at 1:30 in the morning, when everyone's hungry, a bit tired, and getting very sentimental. "Oh, let's all wake up and have a big intimate meal together tomorrow!" It's a way of ensuring, in hopeful and vague way, that the night never has to end--just after a short nap, we'll all get together again and the only difference is that the sun will be out.
This plan works even better when you describe to people that you'll be having tart, tickly mimosas to ease the brain, and that you can have as many as you want. They'll probably agree to it blindly, and then pass it off as ridiculous as they hit the bed later that night... 
I was out for a "guys night," which is what happens when your girlfriend goes out with her friends and you're expected to go out with exact same people you always do. But when your friends are a fellow paupered chef and Jason, guys night doesn't quite mean poker and beer. Instead, we all met at the little restaurant that was getting some big press: the Good Fork.
There is a top-hatted fellow outlined in the door, which is probably the last sort of person you'll ever see carousing around inside this new Red Hook stop. There is no faint trace of cigar smoke blackened into the ceiling or draped into the upholstery. The Good Fork is a tad too new for that, nor is it exactly a haunt for pompous pricks--though I'm sure at some point in the history of Brooklyn a person donning a top hat has strutted around Van Brunt Street in... 
We christened him Kurt and set about trying in vain to keep him alive. The ride back from Fairway was not long, but we needed some wine, and the car was quite stuffy and hot. Blake, strangely, began developing an affection for the creature, and cared for him so deeply he wouldn't leave him in the car alone. So we carried him into our liquor store, LeNell's, and asked the owners what wine would best go with him. And with two bottles of wine, a lobster, and some more ingredients, we set off to boil him before he died, replete with David Foster Wallace-esque guilt.
It's hard to explain...
Head on over to Cravings, a wonderful and passionate website published by Celia Cheng, based on the idea that passion for food can be "a consuming desire, a yearning, an urgent need." This month's feature is on food bloggers and we had the honor to be included. The blogs The Strong Buzz, The Food Section, The Hungry Cabbie, Cupcake Bakeshop, [Slice/A Hamburger Today], She Loves NY...
Both Nick and I are from the Midwest, proud of our work ethic and nice disposition, and find ourselves a rare breed out here in New York City. I'm not really sure what the conception is--rural, uneducated, whatever--but most people have no idea what exactly goes on in middle of this vast nation, and just assume that most of it is comprised entirely of corn.
Here is an example.
The other day we were at a friend's parent's house, a big, leaning Victorian mansion on Staten Island, and this friend's mother could not help but inform us over three times that Indiana has "SO MUCH CORN! OH, SO MUCH CORN!" What is there to say about such a statement? Isn't that actually true?
Well, yeah. And when they're not growing corn they're growing soybeans to replenish the soil for corn again. But why feel ashamed? It is absolutely the best... The heat was intense, but this roast chicken was the best yet
Yeah, it's true, I did decide to roast a chicken on the hottest day of the year, much to the chagrin of my girlfriend, my neighbor Jason, and my brow which had to battle the entire evening against a downfall of sweat pouring over my forehead. And while the hysterics of previously mentioned cocktail mistress (girlfriend) could be seen as an over-dramatization of slightly toasty dinner, she was right. It was sweltering. Instead of eating at the table, we munched on chicken strewn out on the futon by a fan that was blowing straight on our heads, sending napkins dancing around the air in a symphony of shame. But I swear it wasn't my fault.
The...
On Saturday morning, at the bright and early hour of noon, my phone began ringing. I vaguely remembered excited pronouncements the evening before about going for a bike ride out to Red Hook to visit the infamous ballfields, where soccer and baseball games unfold throughout the weekend, and outdoor food vendors set up shop on Bay St. to serve cheap, fresh food from south of the border (all the way to South America, in fact). As I answered, Nick reported to me, quite ambitiously, that he and his girlfriend were leaving on bikes in five minutes down Court st. to the fields. "Groan," I said quite literally. Then I had a glass of water, made espresso on my brand new Bialetti stove-top espresso machine, and hit the road.... The PC guide to Estonian cuisine.
It’s fair that most Estonians wouldn’t claim their country is known for its food. My girlfriend won’t eat half of it, and I don’t blame her: blood sausage, a dish made from grains shoved into intestines and congealed with blood, is a Christmas specialty. The Irish call it Black Pudding and it’s a part of every traditional breakfast. It’s not half bad, but I can’t see it inspiring the masses any time soon (who knows, though: people would have laughed at the concept of raw fish thirty years ago, and now it’s all the rage). Another one she won’t eat is sült, a pork dish which begins with the boiling of pig’s feet for their gelatin and flavor, to which is added pork and spices and, after a simmer, is poured into molds to come out as meat jello. ...
I have yet to muster up the courage to make pickles, though I guess that would be the wrong way to describe the process. It's more of a creation, something coddled and cared for that takes an inordinate amount of time and makes you wonder whether it's worth the problem to begin with. It doesn't help that Fairway sells fresh pickles that are crisp and lovely, and I know that my own would fail. It also doesn't help that my girlfriend gets squeamish around the juice, and that having, say, a large bucket full of pickles and their aromatic playmate hanging out in the kitchen wouldn't exactly put her in the best of moods. But I always fancy the day when I can have unlimited supplies of the fresh veg cooling in my fridge.
Until that time I'll have to stick with this little...
The Good Life: Zucchini Crostini, A Frozen Rabbit, Easy Summer Pasta, and an Olive Oil Fruit Dessert
It began when my friend Glen T. Tremaldi, who runs a community garden in Boerum Hill, informed me of his zucchini overstock. "You should see the zucchinis I picked. The size of your calves," he said. And he wasn't joking. They were the size of melons. Then he related something about a frozen rabbit that was bought some time ago from a butcher on Court St., who had divided it up into serving pieces while it was still frozen, with a saw. He's been talking about this rabbit for some time, dropping the fact of its presence in his freezer into conversations, waiting for the right opportunity.
I called Nick and the wheels began to turn. Saturday arrived hot and humid, the streets steaming from the monsoon-sized storms that had doused the city the day before. It was hard to think about anything, except how to entertain one's self... 
There comes a point in our party-going lives when throwing a Saturday night get-together does not entail gathering up all the expensive things around the house and stacking them nicely in the bedroom behind lock and key. No portraits need be taken down, no glassware gathered. Laptops need not be stowed away so as to avoid the deluge of spilt drinks. A party can be thrown where people actually wipe their feet on the rugs. Beer cans are neatly gathered in the kitchen, most drinks are kindly drunk, not spilled, and when people leave that night you'll just have to do is sweep up a little bit instead of pulling out the rubber gloves and a large bottle of Fantastic.
When this particular phenomenon occurred to me, I felt a certain pull to stop with...
Searching for the perfect Voisilmäpulla, I encountered beautiful design and large tufts of dill
When I arrived into Helsinki Airport, the Finnish sun had been out for close to five hours: it was 8:02 in the morning. My bag came out of flappy rubber slats onto the belt and I sailed through customs, exiting the terminal onto a pristine pavement platform, a group of bus lanes. Everything was strangely silent. There were four other people waiting for buses, each squinting gently at the white sun. A cool breeze brushed by and I rubbed my eyes, prepared to face the day with only a couple hours of plane-sleep to guide me. I slipped on some earphones, unnerved by the silence, and put on Architecture in Helsinki, to see if they made more sense in their namesake town (not hometown, however; they're Australians). The bus arrived...
**It saddens me to point out that Schnack has closed. What is detailed below is a great restaurant. Hopefully they will reopen someday.**
Like many, many people this week, Blake and I had better things to do. He's living the good life traveling around Northern Europe right now, eating voisilmapulla and trying to get around in Estonia with only a passable pronunciation of three words. And I spent the whole weekend packing up shop and moving out of our humble tenement on the Upper East Side apartment. It's off to the land of houses, churches, and kitchens large enough to fit three people: Brooklyn. West of the BQE, in a little spot called Carroll Gardens West, Red Hook, or Columbia Street Waterfront District, depending on which Realtor you talk to, I...
Before the poor whore jokes start to spouting out, before we talk about how quick and easy this dish was, how lustful and robust the flavors were, I'll dispel the obvious and hopefully show how these ladies of the night were actually thrifty chefs without the benefit of access to fresh ingredients. How the whores of Italy were, actually, quite creative.
Fun fact of the day courtesy of Diane Seed, author of The Top 100 Pasta Sauces:
"To understand how this sauce came to get its name one must consider the 1950's when brothels in Italy were state-owned."
Now, the idea of state sanctioned brothels in the eternal city is quite funny (do they get...
When I started sweating heavily during my morning walk to the subway and began considering a set of "commute clothes," which I imagined would be composed of a pair of running shorts and a tanktop, I figured it was time to stop trying to drink a steaming hot cup of coffee on the way to work. There is simply nothing more miserable than thick New York humidity, being full of sweat, descending onto the stuffy subway platform, getting chills in the icy air of the subway car, being jammed in with a thousand people (who all try to find somewhere they can look without making eye contact), back into the swelter, into the over-compensating office A/C--in short, there is nothing worse than a hot commute.
These things can't be changed. There are ways, however, that they can be helped. Iced coffee is one of them; at the very... 
“So why did you write this book?” Bourdain began, gulping from a green bottle of beer. On Mount Olympus we gathered, two gods of the (celebrity) cooking universe and the scribe who got to tag along, having a casual conversation over beers in front of a packed audience at the New York Public library, at 42nd st. and 5th ave. It was billed as discussion of "kitchen secrets" as revealed in Bill Bufords new book Heat in which he becomes a "Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany." With Anthony moderating (so as to keep the whole...
I’m a sucker for simple, easy-to-prepare pasta dishes that depend on an inspired combination of good, fresh ingredients. The last revelation was from Diana Seed’s The Top 100 Pasta Sauces and involved, similar to this dish, a smoked fish (salmon) and heavy cream. The way cream binds everything together and lends a richness to envelope the smokey-yet-fresh taste of the fish--to this I can’t say no.
It was a jaunt through the Union Square Market that led me to this recipe--a pile of in-season sugar snap peas, in fact. Every vegetable vendor was hocking them by the... 
With half a chicken left and none of the dark meat in sight, I was left with two slabs of white meat and not one good idea. Sure there are thousands of cookbooks dedicated to what to slap on boneless, skinless chicken breasts to give them some semblance of flavor, but I don't like lying to myself. So instead of trying to figure out something creative, I decided to punt and completely destroy the meat and recreate it as my favorite snack. My mom's chicken salad.
My mom won't go anywhere near a piece of dark meat, which as a kid always meant that I had lots of dark meat for myself. But with this recipe she's completely warranted. Three or four times a year when I was a teenager she'd get a pot of...
All content copyright Nick Kindelsperger and Blake Royer.
