Baconfest 2011

Yes, you read correctly - every year (or at least now 3 years running), there is a festival in Chicago "entirely devoted to America's favorite cured meat" in all of its various forms and glory: Baconfest! (exclamation point added by the author, not part of the actual event title, although it probably should be). Somehow, the inaugural Baconfest and its recurrence in 2010 eluded my usually-savvy local food radar, but once I caught wind of it (it smelled sweet and greasy) this time around, I jumped at the opportunity to score a pair of tickets for us, the entirety of which disappeared in only 30 minutes on the day that they were released.

As Mrs. Hackknife and I quickly discovered when we arrived at the UIC Forum on the big day, there are apparently many people that are waaaaaay more into bacon than we are (for example, you don't realize how many bacon-themed t-shirts actually exist until you've been to an event like this - my personal favorite was one that said "PETA - People for the Eating of Tasty Animals" on the front and "There's room for all of God's creatures.......right next to my mashed potatoes" on the back). The line of nearly 1,000 crazed carnivores snaking outside the building eventually made its way indoors to find 50-something local restaurants, bars, butcher shops, and bakeries (yes, bakeries) passing out their best bacon-influenced dishes, a foodie bacchanalia the likes of which made even me (no shrinking violet in such matters) descend into a melange of disgust and guilt a couple of times. We started the afternoon's meat orgy at Miramar Bistro with a small, yet potent plate of caramelized pork belly (which is basically uncured bacon) with wilted escarole and maple pineapple chutney, soon to be followed by a rather-large sandwich portion of Kick Ass BLT (Benton's bacon on bacon-braised Texas toast with aioli, tomatoes, and iceberg lettuce) from the good folks at the 694 Wine and Spirits table. Feeling giddy and emboldened (and with hands mostly full of trash - we determined early on that there weren't enough garbage cans around), we wandered over to Girl & The Goat's table, where we were presented with a little cup of spicy bacon and tomato soup by no less a luminary than past Top Chef champ Stephanie Izard herself (when passing me the soup while I was still chowing down on my BLT, I pleaded to her that I was eating as fast as I could). David Burke's Primehouse had whiskey caramel bacon candies (what they called "bacon daddies"), which I didn't care for, but Mrs. Hackknife quite enjoyed. There were bacon-infused Bloody Marys from Bar Fifty/50 (very spicy), bacon "cannoli" filled with maple and bacon marscapone from Atwood Cafe (damn, that s%#t was good!), bacon and foie gras moon pie from Big Jones (tasty and probably the most egregious use of rich ingredients in the history of mankind), bacon banh mi from the Bristol, spinach and bacon ravioli with parmesan and brown butter sauce from La Madia, spicy bacon grits and cornbread from Heaven on Seven, and on and on. Piece served bacon pizza with its house-made Big Black Mariah porter beer. Spacca Napoli handed out seemingly-large plates of pasta and cheese pie with guanciale (when I expressed dismay at the robust portion size, Jonathan Goldsmith commented something to the effect of "well, we're Jewish here"). I actually attempted to eat a whole mini-hot dog bundle (smoked bacon wrapped-Monterey Jack stuffed homemade hot dog w/pickled jalapenos, salsa fresca, and lime aioli) from Old Town Social AND a mini-bacon cheeseburger with a bourbon bacon milkshake from Park Grill (sublime) within a few minutes of each other. Sable Kitchen's applewood smoked bourbon bacon jam on a crispy polenta cake with St. Andre cheese fondue was amazing, Nonna Santi's bacon biscotti, not so much. The bacon and cheese empanadas from Terzo Piano were terrific. By this time, I was pretty sure I was going to need some sort of medical attention, yet I tried to soldier on as best as I could. Wow Bao had bacon, egg, and cheese baos (little stuffed buns). Our friends at Meatyballs Mobile (visited on the street earlier this year) convinced me to try the Coq & Balls (ground chicken and Nueske's bacon meatballs in red wine sauce) even when I probably shouldn't have. The Ziggy Piggy bacon sundae bar that Cafe des Architectes was offering made me recoil like a vampire from sunlight. Many tables began running out of food, which was just as well, because other than hipsters walking around nursing cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, everyone appeared to be worn down in a daze of overindulgence. The urge to quietly weep started to fall over me as I considered the list of incredible restaurants whose wares we hadn't yet sampled (the Bedford, Boka, iNG, Inovasi, Magnolia Cafe, Piccolo Sogno, Province, Vie....) and, due to my lack of portion control, would not be able to. Then, recognizing one possible sliver of space left in my digestive tract, I gamely tried a piece of bacon chocolate cake (that's what you see in the photo at the top of the posting, a cake slab with a slice of bacon protruding), enjoying the smoky-sweet morsel now, knowing for certain that I would be paying later. After that, I was pretty sure I didn't want eat bacon ever again; however, going back over the menu list while writing this entry, I get giddy in anticipation of Baconfest 2012. Will you be there?

Ireland Trip/Sheen Falls Lodge

Frequent readers of this blog (both of you, that is) may recall that late last year, we took two out-of-town trips with the Hackknife progeny, one to California (which generated enough foodie material for a posting) and one to Disney World (which did not). Apparently deciding that domestic plane travel with a 2- and 5-year old wasn't challenging enough, we just returned from a jaunt to Ireland with said children and Mrs. Hackknife's mother. The trip statistics would probably strike fear and pity into most reasonably-level-headed parents: two trans-Atlantic flights, two stopovers at JFK in New York, nearly 800 miles driven in an overloaded British minivan (read: smaller than ours) on the wrong side of narrow Irish roads in all manner of weather conditions and terrain, one carsick child, one child afflicted with stomach flu (same child), one hotel with no elevator, and difficulties adjusting to European-style resource conservation measures (small hot water tanks, tiny washer/dryer, etc.). That being said, we actually had a pretty decent time and can bore you, er, share much video and pictures if you're so inclined to sit through the gory details.

From a dining perspective, I think I can summarize my Irish experience in two parts. Number 1, if there was a potato famine at one time in this country, it's apparently ended with vigor as the restaurants serve chips (fries) with pretty much everything you order, including often times breakfast. I enjoy chips as much as the next bloke (and these were usually the kind I prefer, thick-cut, not too done), but by the end of the week, I wouldn't have been disappointed if I didn't see another chip as long as I lived. Hackknifette, on the other hand, largely derived whatever nutrition she got over the 7-day period by consuming not much besides chips (in fact, she's enthusiastically promoting Ireland in her own blog as an ideal travel destination for fussy-eating toddlers). Number 2, the general quality level of Irish cuisine is surprisingly good for the most part. This may have something to do with the fact that we spent most of our trip in the southwest part of the country, which is more rural, has a reputation for higher-class dining/hotels, and has better access to top-shelf ingredients (such as fresh seafood, artisanal butter/cheese, grass-fed beef and lamb, etc.) than other regions. Regardless, we certainly didn't go hungry during our visit. One particular meal stands out enough that it warrants detailed mention later in this posting; however, for the sake of brevity, I'm going to simply call out some of the food highlights of the trip rather than attempt a blow-by-blow account of each and every meal.

Our first dinner after arriving in Kenmare (our base of operations for the trip) was at a Spanish place on Main Street (that's actually the street name, by the way) called Salvado's Bistro. Mrs. Hackknife and I enjoyed our respective entrees (venison and duck), but the standout dishes were two tapas plates, one a bruschetta-like bread dish, the other a braised pork belly. It certainly wasn't the best tapas I've ever had; however, this meal put us on notice that we shouldn't expect the greasy fish and chips-based Irish cuisine of the past on this trip (although there was still plenty of that to be had if we wanted it). We encountered many of the varied types of ethnic restaurants (Indian, Italian, Chinese, etc.) that we've come to expect here in the US, but my preference was to nosh on now-spiffed up traditional Irish stalwarts such as beef and Guinness pie (at Blarney Woolen Mills), local crab cocktail/brown bread (pub in Kenmare), lamb curry boxty (a boxty is a kind of thick crepe, eaten at Bricin Restaurant in Killarney - see Photo #1 above), mussels fresh from the bay (John Benny's Pub in Dingle - see Photo #2 above), and the ever-present full Irish breakfast (consisting of toast, roasted tomato, Irish sausages [AKA bangers], Irish bacon [which is more like a fried ham slice], fried potatoes or (yes) chips, white pudding [congealed pork fat mixed with oatmeal], and my personal new favorite, black pudding [congealed pig's blood mixed with filler], which actually sounds disgusting, but is quite delicious). Even the old fish-and-chips plate has gone upscale in some places, with Kenmare boasting its own high-end chippie shop on Main Street, offering three types of fresh fish (hake, cod, or whiting) caught in the local waters, deep-fried to order and served with chips of about 20 different varieties (alas, I didn't get to sample their wares as this was the night that Mrs. Hackknife and I had our fancy dinner chronicled below). We discovered that Wisconsinites were not the first to invent fried cheese, as we found several restaurants serving deep-fried Camembert (to great effect, I might add) as an appetizer. Lastly, I found that it's difficult to get a bad sandwich in this country, at least in the southwest part, whether it's a club sandwich in Askeaton or a tuna and corn salad on baguette from Prego in Kenmare (enthusiastically consumed as lunch during my 10-mile hike through the Irish backcountry) - the bread is fresher and the meats/cheeses are better quality than the slag that usually passes for everyday filler in sandwiches over here.

Not everything was great. We dined next door to Salvado's one night at a place called D'Arcy's Restaurant, not so much necessarily for the food, but more so for the background story. You see, the place's owner (Aileen D'Arcy) is the granddaughter of Tom Crean, an Irish explorer well-noted for his being an integral participant in three major Antarctic expeditions by the British early in the 20th Century. Messr. Crean actually survived both the ill-fated Scott expedition (where 4 explorers, including Scott, perished after discovering that Roald Admunsen beat them to the South Pole by a month) AND the ill-fated Shackleton expedition (where the entire party was stranded for over a year following a shipwreck). During the first debacle, he was forced to walk 35 miles alone to safety, thus saving two of his fellow explorers, while during the second, he and his comrades overcame survival challenges so numerous and daunting (enduring an Antarctic winter with few supplies, sailing the world's roughest ocean via small, homemade boat with minimal navigational aids, traversing the interior of a once-thought uncrossable island with makeshift climbing gear, etc.) that mere words fail to adequately convey the magnitude of his accomplishments. He pretty much gets my vote for toughest man that ever lived. Anyway, back to the restaurant. Understandably proud of his exploits, his granddaughter created a very cool separate banquet room in the restaurant with his vintage photos and equipment, where we fortunately were able to dine that night. Unfortunately, Hackknifette was unusually cranky, Hackknife Jr. was ill, and the duck-pumpkin risotto I had wasn't particularly memorable. Mrs. D'Arcy was gracious enough to sign the book chronicling the Shackleton expedition that I had hauled to Ireland in my carry-on luggage (I think I embarrassed her by asking - probably not the first time I've been thought of as a stalker), but all in all, it wasn't the best experience (we'll try again someday, no book this time).

Which brings me to the pinnacle of dining on our journey - our visit to Sheen Falls Lodge for dinner. This lodge (a Relais & Chateaux property) was actually our 2nd choice for fine dining on the trip, but became our best option as the Park Hotel Kenmare (which is more renowned) was still closed for the off-season. This turned out to be a happy accident. First of all, Sheen Falls Lodge is situated in a much more picturesque location, nestled between a short, but broad waterfall and Kenmare Bay (Park Hotel is practically in downtown Kenmare). Second, given that the lodge had just opened full-time that weekend for the new tourist season, we pretty much had the place to ourselves. When we arrived for our dinner reservation, the hostess initially set us up in the bar for drinks and it became readily apparent that the restaurant patrons were going to be outnumbered by the waitstaff that evening (a Sunday night). The waiter brought our drinks, a bit of a spicy snack mix, and a very nice amuse bouche (fish samosa and a blue cheese/marmalade spread on a slice of brown bread) from the kitchen. Just when I thought we might actually be served the entire dinner in the bar, we were escorted to the main dining room, a French-styled salon with calming yellow walls, 18th Century decor, and a wood-burning fireplace roaring away. We were seated at the head table with views of the waterfall out one window and the bay out the other. Clearly, this was about the most elegant setting that we've yet encountered for a meal and most of the food hadn't even come out yet (not to mention the fact that we were completely alone in this magnificent salon save for the waiter and sommelier making occasional appearances to check on us - we were later told that we had the only reservation that evening). The seasonal menu (a blend of premium Irish ingredients prepared with French culinary techniques) didn't disappoint: after our amuse bouche, we resumed with a grouse and foie gras ballotine w/pineapple compote, followed by our first entree. I ordered a plate of smoked salmon and salmon tartare (caught from Kenmare Bay) w/creme fraiche, which was neatly presented on a black slate tray (see Photo #3 above), while Mrs. Hackknife had tagliatelle w/Kenmare Bay mussels. In between our two entrees, we were served a blackberry sorbet as a palate cleanser, then moved on to the final main course. For this, I chose quail w/onion marmalade and a thyme polenta (which was both artful and delicious - see Photo #4 above) and Mrs. Hackknife opted for black sea bass w/caviar foam (also delicious). We polished the meal off with a plate of 6 Irish cheeses (including Cashel Blue, Wexford Blue, and 4 others of the non-blue variety, ranging from mild/creamy to sharper/hard), which was large enough that we couldn't finish it, followed by chocolate mousse w/passionfruit sauce and a couple of mignardies (little housemade candies). All told, the bill came to a little more than $300, a total bargain considering the quality of the food, the attentive service (of course, the chefs in the kitchen were likely so bored that they were shooting dice between plating our courses), and the uniqueness of the experience, probably the dining highlight of our year so far and one that will be tough to beat down the road.

Gabutto Burger/DMK Burger Bar

I had the occasion over the last few weeks to try not one, but two very unique, very specialty burgers, which is a nice change of pace from the standard McD's version that we consume around here in a pinch. The first came from a kiosk at my favorite local Japanese marketplace center, Mitsuwa in Arlington Heights (I've blogged about this Nippon-wonderland in an earlier posting). Called Gabutto Burger, they bill themselves as the lone "Japanese-style" hamburger stand in Chicago (and, from what I can gather, about the only one of its ilk in America). I noticed them during my first visit to the marketplace last year and made a mental note to give it a whirl on my next trip. Now you may ask yourself, what exactly constitutes a Japanese-style burger? Well, according to the good folks at Gabutto, 3 things: 1) the patty is a blend of both beef and pork, 2) the burger is often served with a sauce, like teriyaki or demi-glace (which is what I had on mine), and 3) bakery-made bun (which isn't so Japanese, if you think about it). These qualities were all evident in the sandwich I ordered, the traditional "Gabutto burger" with cheese (I had to pass over the other varieties this time, namely the teriyaki burger, shrimp burger, and tofu burger), along with an order of original spice-flavor fries. Making my way to the seating area, I had to basically eat standing up leaning against a magazine rack given the large Sunday lunch crowd, but it was worth the effort. The demi-glace really added quite a flavor punch to the burger and the rest of the ingredients were good and fresh. The fries were a little bland, but better after I added some garlic butter powder and some wasabi mayo for dipping. Although I can't see myself eating one of these every time I stop by the marketplace (too much good traditional Japanese food here to pass up), I'll definitely have another someday (and maybe need to polish up on my demi-glace skills to try this at the Commissary).

A few days later, I was having beers with my favorite brother-in-law Dan and favorite cousin-in-law Bobby in the Hackknife ancestral neighborhood of St. Vincent DePaul, mourning the passing of my granny and her sister in the same week (the ladies were 91 and 96, respectively, God bless 'em), when I suggested a dinner stop just about a mile up Sheffield Avenue from our watering hole. DMK Burger Bar was opened in late 2009 by local chef Michael Kornick, who already had a fine dining establishment (MK) in Chicago to his name and has been garnering much positive press from the food cognoscenti. Unfortunately, 6 o'clock on a Saturday is a lousy time to walk into a restaurant in Lakeview and expect to be seated anytime soon, so we waited for about 20 minutes for a table to open. With the 3 of us in attendance, I'm pretty sure the average age of the patrons went up by at least 5 years, as the place definitely had a high hipster quotient - very loud (not conversation friendly), very cramped, microbrew beers and fancy cocktails on the drink menu, etc.). Anyway, after being seated and screaming out a drink order to the waitress, we settled in and reviewed the menu. Our party opted for some sea salt and black pepper fries for the table, along with an order of fried okra and dill pickles. For the main course, I chose Burger #2, which consisted of a grass-fed beef patty with spicy onion strings, Amish blue cheese, and chipotle ketchup, all on a bakery roll. Although not quite in the same class as my favorite burger of this similar variety (that would be Hubert Keller's Burger Bar in Las Vegas), the sandwich and its accoutrements were quite tasty, if not totally filling for the money (Cousin Bob noted that, while he enjoyed his bison burger, they were a little stingy with the meat). Dan dug his house-made peanut butter shake and I was pretty pleased with my Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale (as I would be with all things Dogfish Head). All in all, we agreed that we could return, but only on evenings when the local library club might be meeting there (Tuesdays?).

St. Patrick's Tiramisu

Since we're at that time of year again, it was high time to whip up my corned beef/soda bread here at the Commissary to celebrate St. Patrick's Day last week. These associated recipes were chronicled in a posting last March, so I won't regurgitate them here; however, I added a bit of a twist this year. On the morning of my feast prep, I was perusing Twitter and came across a Chef Fabio posting (you know him, right? He's a former Top Chef/Top Chef All-Star contestant and all-around charming Italian dude) of his grandmother's tiramisu recipe. Why, I thought, how perfect for me! I should make this traditional Italian dessert to accompany my traditional Irish dinner! We're celebrating our mixed heritage! After all, my kids are more Italian than they are Irish! Why am I using so many exclamation points?!?

As I had not ever made tiramisu before, I was delighted to find that the recipe itself was not terribly difficult. I already had the 6 eggs I needed, plus some very strong coffee (not espresso, but this recipe calls for regular coffee anyway) courtesy of Mrs. Hackknife's Keurig coffee maker. I simply had to stop by my local Italian market to pick up a package of ladyfinger cookies and a container of marscapone cheese. Easy, right? Well, trouble started when I was prepping the eggs. I had to separate out the yolks from the shells, which I've done once or twice before, but it's a little tricky as the yolks and whites tend to coagulate together (one egg bit the dust as it slid out in its entirety before I could separate it - luckily, I had a backup egg ready). After mixing the egg yolks with sugar and vanilla, you whip it with a hand mixer for a couple of minutes until it's very fluffy. This is when it suddenly occurred to me (why it took this long I'm not sure) that tiramisu, one of my favorite desserts, contains a s*^&load of raw eggs. Now for those of you unaware, I have a bit of a problem consuming raw eggs. I realize that custard contains raw eggs. I realize chocolate mousse contains raw eggs. I acknowledge that there are literally hundreds of other dishes I've eaten over the years that probably contain raw eggs in some form. Yet, here I am, whipping up a homemade batch of tiramisu, becoming aware that, like the old adage about knowing how sausage is made, I don't know if I will be able to eat this now, or ever again for that matter. Soldiering on, I brewed the coffee and dunked the ladyfingers in it (word to the wise - if you make this recipe, it tells you to dip them "briefly" in the coffee. I discovered that it should say EXTREMELY briefly since they fall apart if you leave them in there for more than about a second. I think I finally got the technique about right around #20 of the 24 ladyfingers in the package), then tried to assemble the finished dessert. My recipe says to use a 10"x10" pan, which, of course, I don't have. My 8"x8" pan was too small to accommodate two sets of coffee-soaked, disintegrating ladyfingers side by side, so I had to use a non-uniform 12"x16" dish. Eventually I discovered why you really need a 10"x10" uniform pan when making tiramisu - without the pan sides to provide support, the whole thing sort of oozes apart under the weight of the top layer of cookies/fluff. Undeterred, I wrapped it in foil and threw it into the fridge, where it solidified into an ugly looking-yet-delicate mass of sugar, starch, and caffeine (and, no doubt, salmonella).

With that description, it's no wonder that the neighborhood wasn't exactly knocking down the door to get a bite. In spite of that, however, Mrs. Hackknife and her mother both found it to be delicious. I somehow managed to choke down a small piece (it wasn't bad, actually) before being overcome by waves of disgust and nausea every time I cast eyes in the direction of the pan (this greatly amused Mrs. Hackknife - "How will I ever get you to make this again if you're so unsettled by it?"). My goal next St. Patrick's Day will be to choose a more appropriate dessert, such as flan or baklava....

Chicken in a Pot

Here's another Wall Street Journal recipe that I clipped a few months ago and finally got the opportunity to try recently. After perusing some bistro cookbooks, I've determined that the French have quite a collection of these one-pot suppers where you brown meat, brown vegetables in the rendered fat from the meat, deglaze the pot with some sort of alcohol, add broth/stock, and finish the whole shebang in the oven until the meat is fork-tender. This is at least the 4th recipe I've attempted that follows this pattern, although this particular one is not without its quirks. First of all, I had to track down some preserved (or pickled) lemon, which requires you to visit a Middle Eastern grocery (fortunately, we have a few of those around here). It comes in a large jar containing about 20 lemons, of which I only needed 1/2 of one (were it not for the expiration date on the container, I could see myself finally exhausting that last lemon sometime around my 80th birthday in 2052). The 2nd difficulty, amazingly, was finding a whole chicken cut up into 8 pieces that weighed about 4 lb. total. I wasn't quite as ambitious this time as far as cutting up my own whole chicken, so I had to settle for what I could find in the meat case, which meant picking a package with 4 thighs and 4 drumsticks (all dark meat, not Mrs. Hackknife's favorite) that came out close to the desired weight. After bringing the bird and all of the vegetables home, doing my prep, browning the chicken (again dousing the entire household in a fine mist of grease for days on end), and cooking the veggies in some bacon fat reserved from breakfast (off-recipe decision of mine, I might add - I'm starting to frighten myself a little by my occasional audacity at the stove), it started to occur to me that all of the contents of the recipe might not fit into my 5.5-qt Dutch oven, in spite of what was directed. Luckily, I was able to sort of massage everything together so that it didn't dump out over the edges and added the dough seal. When 55 minutes was up, I pried the lid off with a screwdriver and found something that actually looked halfway decent (see photo above). The chicken and vegetables were tasty, even if it wasn't the greatest casserole ever (and I don't recommend eating the dough seal, which is just baked flour/water, and doesn't really pass flavor muster), and the dish was received in about the usual fashion from the family (wife eats it, says it's good, I eat it, think it's ok but could be improved, progeny refuses it and stares at the ceiling/sings Doodlebops songs).

Here's the link if you want to give it a go: Chicken in a Pot

A Tale of Two Pizzas

Lately, I've been getting the feeling that we here at the Commissary have been in a little bit of a pizza rut. Mrs. Hackknife grew up eating thin-crust pizza (usually cheese and anchovies) from a prominent South Suburban pizza chain called Aurelio's, which is still going strong today. Since I grew up in a different part of town, we almost always default to Aurelio's when we want takeout or delivery 'za, and it's, well, consistently good, but not really my favorite. In Mt. Prospect, we were fortunate enough to be close to a branch of Geno's East, one of the city's most popular deep-dish pizza joints, so my heart (and associated clogged arteries) belongs more to that calorie bomb variety than thin-crust (there, I said it - sorry, honey. Let the repercussions begin...).

Good deep dish is a little harder to find on the south side of town here, but last year I was made aware of an Italian restaurant in Crestwood called Louisa's (14025 S. Cicero) that specializes in the stuff; in fact, that's the ONLY type of pizza they offer. We gave one of their pies an audition after taking the progeny to a Cubs game and it was fantastic, not the heavy deep dish of my childhood, but actually very light-handed with the cheese/sauce and a buttery, medium-thick crust (is there lard in there?). It immediately rocketed to the top of my South Side deep-dish pizza list (not that there was much competition). Our second, more recent experience with Louisa's came a few weeks ago when we decided to dine in with the kids following a trip to the local science museum. We discovered that, unfortunately, it's not the most kid-friendly place - no kids menu or milk to be served, a 30+ minute wait for the pizza to come out of the oven, etc., but the pie was again very good, if not a little less so than the first time we had it. We live outside of their delivery area and it's a little bit of a hike to get there, so we will probably still stick with Aurelio's for the time being, but it's good to know I have the option to indulge when the spirit moves me.

Now that we have a deep-dish pizza option, we also need a thin-crust alternative and I think I may have found one (although it's not exactly around the corner, either). When I visited Totopo's Mexican Grill last month (see earlier posting), I noticed something called Labriola Bakery Cafe in the same retail development in Oak Brook. I recognized the name Labriola as the provider of some really good artisanal bread loaves at local grocery stores and wondered if there was a connection. There is, in fact, a connection - Labriola the bakers opened the cafe a couple years ago as a retail outlet for bread, pizza, desserts, and other casual fare, garnering a bunch of positive foodie press in the process. When back in the area after visiting my grandmother last Wednesday, I stopped in to try out their Neapolitan-style thin-crust pizza. I ordered a specialty buffalo mozzarella variety to go (being the first day of Lent, I had to pass on any meat toppings, unfortunately) and had to summon all of my willpower to resist tearing into it while careening down the expressway at 70 mph (some people text, I eat pizzas while driving). When I finally made it home about 30 minutes later, I gazed in wonder at the magnificent pie ensheathed in a cardboard box on my counter (see photo above) and dug in. The crust was perfect Neapolitan - chewy, a little charred, nicely flavored - and the toppings were simple (basil, crushed tomatoes, cheese, and olive oil), yet intense. It was wonderful at room temperature, just as good reheated for leftovers a couple of days later. I'm looking forward to my return visit so I can try other pizzas and/or burgers, gelato, and cannoli....

Slow-Cooked Lamb/Veal Shanks in Pinot Noir

Gotta love that Wall Street Journal. We are constantly butting heads on all issues political (yes, I acknowledge that it's odd for a card-carrying left-winger to read an unabashedly right-wing publication every day), but they have really stepped up their weekend reporting on soft news, especially from a foodie perspective. Every Saturday, I can pretty much rely on a decent handful of food-focused articles and recipes from well-respected chefs across this great land of ours (cue the National Anthem). Many of these recipes I can even duplicate in the Commissary with some measure of success. For example, the spotlight a few Saturdays ago was on crock pot meals (dear to my heart since you set 'em up in the morning and by dinnertime, you have a meal ready to go without having to figure out how to entertain the kids while you're cooking away), one of which jumped out at me. Chefs Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo have a renowned nose-to-tail restaurant in Los Angeles (appropriately named "Animal") and contributed a slow-cooked lamb shank recipe for the WSJ article. With Mrs. Hackknife completing her final presentation for partnership last Thursday, I wanted to cook a special celebratory meal and found that this would fill the bill nicely.

Since most crock-pot dishes rely heavily on the sauce to provide the flavor, you usually need to have something to mop up all of the good juice left behind on the plate, so I started out by making a loaf of our rustic house bread to go with the meat. Getting the ingredients for the main recipe wasn't too bad (I had just obtained coriander seeds for the chicken and coconut paella, for example); however, finding 4 1-lb lamb shanks proved to be somewhat difficult. I thought that this would be the perfect time to try out the butcher shop in downtown Frankfort that I had recently been clued into, but of course, they were closed for vacation all week. Large Corporate Grocery didn't have them and my local ethnic grocery just had two - one that was bigger than I needed (about 1.5 lb) and one that was just right (about 1 lb). To compensate, I also bought a couple of veal shanks (lamb, veal, baby sheep, baby cow, what's the difference, right?) and brought everything home. Step 1 involved browning the meat in a Dutch oven, which made the house smell wonderful at first, but ultimately resulted in a fried meat haze settling over everything on the first floor (it's getting better, but I still think I'm entering a kebab stand every time I enter the house). Once the meat was browned, you dumped the excess fat, cooked your vegetables, deglazed with pinot noir, dumped the meat, veggies, spices, and juice into the crock pot, and away we went. After 4 hours, dinner was served and was quite nice, especially since we got the added bonus of a little bone marrow from the veal shanks (by golly, I nearly made osso bucco without even realizing it). The bread was perfect for sopping up the gravy, the progeny quietly refused most of the meal, and everyone was pleased for the most part.