Amidst the telling signs of economic collapse, the craft beer world has been suffering similar ravages. Aside from the "F" word, those that head the frontlines of the small batch brewery face the rising costs of the few elements of their mana: grain and hops. For the macro world, meaning the producers that barely put any of these holy leaves and seeds in their bottles, these costs are just as astronomical, prompting more advertising and gimmicks for the mildest of beers. For the breweries we like, the strain shows itself on the bottle price; these are companies that can't absorb cost like McDonalds where (bafflingly enough) a Big Mac still costs less than three dollars.
Of course, we're happy to spend the extra dollar on a bottle we like from a brewery we love. Allagash Brewing Co., from the other Portland, has aptly named the recent edition of their buck per bottle campaign after an old time Rogue who's response to today's economic crisis would have either been a persistent and clandestine beer black market, or conversely, the violent overthrow of the government by persistent and clandestine beer fiends.
No Shit: Hugh Malone was an Irish hops farmer who basically pioneered the American style of over hopping ales back in the early twenties. Brewers and their minions used to refer to hops as "Hugh Malone's" because his name was stamped on the fragrant gunnysacks of smelly heaven they dumped into vats. Hops was so ingrained into the old Man's persona that mythic rumors surfaced, claiming "all those hops" were making Malone more bitter by the pint.
When prohibition hit Malone penned a book titled: "This Would Never Happen In Ireland."
The ale graced by the old brute is a similarly no-nonsense concept. The on-the-darker-side-of-amber ale, is hopped at almost every stage of the brewing process, which makes for an evolution of tart flavors that runs the gamut of the American bitterness palette. A sturdy soapy head maintains itself to the last drop, slowly succumbing to the bottom of your glass. A quick and painlessly sweet mouthful gives way to long lines of medicinal sour, wrinkles on a timeline of the face of a long dead hard-ass.
Squinting in the sun, silently contemplating our own IBUs, we realized the importance of heavy handedness during questionable times...Even though this beer would never have happed in Ireland.
Dairy Pairy: Stinking Bishop: a runny, stinky masterpiece
Soundtrack: The Clash, "Police On My Back"]]>
The Spencer-Wing wedding... Dang. We can't exactly remember how our involvement came about, whether we were asked or we volunteered our services (come to think of it, hopefully we didn't drunkenly interject ourselves into their happy day). But catering these dudes' May wedding was a brilliant idea. And some of the best cooking we've done this year.
To be clear, Hot Knives is not really a catering company. Or even 'dudes who cater.' But we do live to feed people and flaunt our ideas on food, so on those few occasions where we cook "live" we get supremely siked. In this case it seemed only fitting: We first met Matt and Laura online. We met face-to-face at a summer barbecue party we grilled for last summer, where we realized that they eat and slurp with the same reckless abandon we do! So we were utterly honored to help them party down with a vegan wedding feast of the kind of food they like, believe in, and could feel good about forcing their family friends to eat.
After laboriously harvesting well over an ounce of fennel pollen we focused on a dish that would highlight the flavor of the famed pixie dust without overpowering its delicate vibe. Fortuitously enough, tomato season really starts to hit at the same time the forests of wild fennel bear their yellow fruit. By using every edible part of the fennel plant (bulb, stem, leaves, seeds, and pollen) and a gloriously ripe Japanese tomato, this dish covers every inch of one of our favorite veggies.
Until last week, wild fennel was a great frustration to us. In the early summer months the stuff sprouts all around us; glorious fragrant fennel, but with no bulb worth braising. After much discussion and consternation we realized the answer to our woe was staring us in the nose: Fennel Pollen.
In Tuscan cuisine the pollen of Fennel flowers is referred to as "fairy dust," or "the spice of angels." It imparts a fragrant and flavorful vibe to anything on which you choose to sprinkle. Dose you're evening tea, rub the pollen on greased vegetables before grilling, or if you're really feeling randy: finish your roasted (non-wild) fennel bulbs with a spoonful of their own seed...sick.
The Summer of the Can continues. You remember that metal vessel that for most kids' high school years was the definitive method of putting beer in one's body? Whether "shotgunning" in someone's backyard using a car key to punch an air hole to chug in seconds, or lined up in a magnificent row in a party fridge, the can always seemed more palatable to us as young drinkers. The bottle on the other hand somehow seemed too luxurious, adult, and even snobby with its green tinted curves. Well, thanks to Oskar Blues, the Colorado-based brewery we recently praised for canning their brews, we're reverting!
Luckily, the Lyons facility also pipes its Gordon Double India Pale Ale into metal canisters (along with their Chubb's Scotch Ale and Dale's Pale Ale). Now, finding a pale ale in can form is one thing -- but a strong and piney IPA is something different entirely. And don't judge a can by it's cover: At first glance Gordon's looks more like a fancy ginger ale or a sparkling New York seltzer than a legit beer. But we welcome that. It makes for supremely easy outdoor summer boozing, even if you're at a public swimming pool or state beach. We suspect it could be the most appropriate camping beer in America. Three weekends in a row we've touted this brew to pool parties to can-smashing success.
Once popped, the fizzy but headless liquid trapped inside will dribble into the can top where you can detect a rich, red-gold velvet soda. The can says "Big. Red. Sticky." And that's fair. Sniff the top and you get whiffs of pine needles, even Pine-Sol -- clean, bright and slightly metallic. The maple-brown sugar, and to a slighter degree toasted malt sweetness, hints are higher in this IPA than most, nearly cloyingly sweet, which makes for a noticeably less gulpy beer. Eminently sluggable, but not quite chuggable. Drink hard enough and there are tastes of grass and grains. A lotta spritzy bubbles make it a little less food friendly, we recommend it with sunshine and an empty stomach. Gordon's stands among some of the better Double IPAs, though we'd prefer a more complexly hopped concoction given the choice. It's the can that gives it an edge. As some have noted, the aluminum shield keeps this kinda beer from skunking. And makes it easier to stay cool in the sun. And feels icy in your palm. Unlike our friend Dave's more proper advice, however, we can't bring ourselves to pour this stuff into glassware, or drink it on tap. Then it's just any other sticky icky red-ale IPA. In its metal, it shines.
Dairy Pairy: Red Windsor port and brandy English Cheddar
Soundtrack: Animal Collective's Sung Tongs
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If you couldn't tell by now we're a little into cutlery. And although we share steel like some people swap spit, we definitely have different preferences in the Cut Department. Here's a rundown of the three most used blades in Alex's kitchen...
In the next installment of our introspective equipment analysis, we're detailing the knives that make both of us tick, because we believe the easiest first step to good cooking is sharp knives. If you're weary of shiny, sharpened steel, believe this: You will cut yourself worse on a dull knife. First we'll take a look at Evan's arsenal. We'll show off Alex's preferred weapons later this week...
It's unofficially the doldrums of summer, when things like job performance and precise maneuverings of time and space take back seat to the more important goals of porch sitting and pool seeking. And coming in a close third - cold beer sipping. Traditionally this activity should be done from an icy, sweating can.
Alas, it's been nearly half a decade since either of us drank beer from cans on any regular basis. That was when a beer run for Olympia was the closest thing to a summer vacation we had and we swigged enough Tecate to build a 1-story pyramid out of Tecate cans in the backyard. But a couple years ago when we got deep in good beer, that swill no longer sufficed, so we said 'goodbye aluminum' and 'hello 750 ml bottle.' We didn't look back either. But when one of our local liquor stores started carrying beers from Colorado's Oskar Blues, the only craft beer brewery we know that cans their beers, we realized we deeply missed the experience of closing our lips around the cool, tinny mouth of a beer can. Suddenly it seemed like such a simple summer pleasure we had been missing out on. So we bought a six-pack of the brewery's flagship brew, Dale's Pale Ale, and "porched it."
Now, for drinkers accustomed to pouring bottled beers into proper glassware, the act of simply cracking a can and tilting it in the direction of one's face can be startling, even disturbing or liberating. Thankfully, the beer locked inside immediately registers as bitter, hop-intense and floral. We've seen some pool-goers nearly choke because they were expecting the watery feel of High Life. Dale's Pale is close to an Anchor Steam ale, hoppy but not an IPA; stingy but not quite an ESB. There's very little head, obviously, otherwise it'd foam out the top of your can, and a soda-like spritzing of bubbles that congregate nicely on the rim of the can after a couple sips. When it does, you'll notice a gentle reddish blonde hue in the beer, unimaginable compared to most fizzy yellow cans. But don't get too curious, that's half the can's mystique. And definitely don't make the stubborn mistake of pouring Dale's into a glass; it's not the same. You are paying for the experience of cold metal in your hand.
Dairy Pairy: Fiscalini's raw milk bandage-wrapped cheddar
Soundtrack: Black Sabbath's "Iron Man"
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Consistent with our ingredient credo, when it comes to kitchen equipment we have a penchant for the finer things and a love for the thrifty. In our homes we have some pretty upper-middle-top-of-the-line items, as well as some that we found in chain stores, some second-hand. With few exceptions we love our instruments as much as we love salt, booze, fennel and flames.
Due to some consistent requests from you readers out there, we've decided to start posting about our favorite and most used kitchen devices; our 'batteries de cuisine.' We hope you'll get a kick out of our seeing our treasure; maybe we can help you build your own arsenal.
Like in other walks of life, the young beer punk can be an insufferably snobby dolt, who swears by the harshest beers and flicks off more moderate brews. We know because that was us - still is, kinda.
As underage beer geeks, we gave Ommegang ales like Hennepin the brush off. Back then the means of production for our livers' stunting was, well, stunted. We would do a fly-by perusal of the beer aisles at known haunts of strong ale, and then spend a good couple of hours lurking in the parking lot chain smoking and hunting for a willing, trustworthy shoulder to tap for help. We had to drink whatever we could get out of stores like Jubilation Spirits, but when our second-hand buyer returned with Saison it felt like a waste of time. We wanted hops, tons of malts, and booze percentages that surpassed ten. We wanted something that tasted like the long wait; we wanted obliterators of our taste buds, dullers of our teenage minds...
A decade later our taste buds have grown sharper and our denial of the delicate and yeasty has faded with our love of drinking in a gutter. Punk rock or not, there's something undeniably wise about exploring the less in-your-face beers to find ones that pass muster. Some with history and soul have already won us over. But American takes on tradition are a harder sell.
In the case of Hennepin - Ommegang Brewery's tribute to Father Louis Hennepin, the Belgian explorer who found Niagara Falls, we respectfully acknowledge that we may have been a little brazen, even brash. The stuff is simple and subtle, yes, but pretty damn tasteful. Impressive foamy head falls out of this 750ml bottle like a steady pummel of white water rapids. As if stuck in an undercurrent, the asterisk-shaped yeast pebbles float suspended in your glass. Hoppier than we remember, this 7.5 % ABV brew also packs a clean, sugar-free dessert bent, like a not-so-spicy ginger snap lemon bar. Less strong than we'd prefer, but perfect for fun, foamy beer mustaches at barbecues, Hennepin falls safely in the 'Suds We Like to Chug' category.
(Beer goggles by Molly)
Dairy Pairy: Banon (de Chalais), a leaf wrapped, brandy dipped, cow's milk.
Soundtrack: The Ramone's Blitzkrieg Bop
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When we got knee-deep in the nitty gritty of planning how we were going to pull off our recent wedding catering gig, we quickly realized the difference between making some big-ass salads and nourishing a nuptial celebration: a proper wedding cake. Not being known for our sweet teeth, or sweet knives, we had to decide whether to shop out such an intimidating item or tackle it head-on. We wavered.
In the end, the Hot Knives wedding team's 'stay-legit' subcommittee realized what a shitty proposition it was to rely on a San Diego vegan baker to seal the matrimonial deal for us. So we got to researching and everyone involved liked the idea of cute little cakettes instead of a full fledged wedding cake. So we dug up a solid vegan cupcake recipe and added a few Hot Knives twists in flavor and our own shiv of decoration. The cake is vegan, the frosting's vegan. Both are sugary as hell and cute as a button of peyote. This recipe makes a dozen; we made 100. Wedding guests chewed on the cuties, while the bride and groom shoved an intense multi-tiered cupcake masterpiece. Full debriefing on that menu later this week.
While last summer was all about textured soy marinated in Miller High Life, this June grilling season has started off a little more au natural. We wanted to come up with some sort of vegan equivalent to that street vendor staple bell pepper and grilled onion smothered hot dogs wrapped in bacon. It all started with a simple search term: "vegetarian sausage casings."
To our chagrin, that turned up little more than crazed vegan Internet gossip trying to track down such a product. (Apparently, such casings do exist, but they're only available to commercial buyers in industrial numbers and the idea of storing 10,000 vegetarian sausage casings was not appealing.) Instead we came up with another idea: use a grilled chile for the casing! And it worked, sort of. For a meaty filling, we mixed up a slow beer-infused onion mushroom and chorizo-spiced stuffing, held together by the magic of risotto. Though starchy for sure, the veggie rice mixture makes for a pillowy hot dog replacement. Experiments to find the perfect stuffing are on-going.
After a long hiatus from grains and greens we felt the need to clean out our closets and get back on the fiber horse. The heat of the summer and the impending peril of innumerable events, social obligations, and overtime often keep us from hearty meals. When time is of the essence, sometimes a snack attack is the only source of sustenance solace...
Here's a little ditty to help slow down the clock and regain focus on proper meal time pleasure. We'd been eyeing a bag of Farro, an ancient heirloom grain that used to feed the Legionnaires, and had just procured an unholy (both in cost and quantity) amount of sweet pea sprouts. The grain salad plus green salad vision was almost instantaneous; the sweet crunchiness of the sprouts floating atop a chewy pile of unhulled grain. We rounded out the fiber bomb with some stovetop grilled squash grown by a favorite farmer dusted with some Raz Al Hanout recently procured from Morocco.
As we understand it, the tendency for Belgian beers to have Satanic names is something of a tradition. Amidst the aftermath of a 1919 no spirits in pubs law, brewing the liquid gold was brought out of the barns of Abbeys and into the realm of the secular. Perhaps to poke fun at the fathers of suds (you know, Monks), many brewers gave their golden ales names that bespoke he that is called One: Duvel (means devil), Satan, Beelzebub, Lucifer, etc. These beers were meant to fulfill the true and timeless creed of quality ale: they never fill you up and rarely let you down. Spicy, dry, and strong enough to steer you or your drinking partner towards doing the devil's business, strong golden ales pray on the playful side of Satan.
Lost Abbey's Inferno Ale stands in direct line to the transmission of Satanic dubbed beers that are more mellow than mean. Out of the bottle this Belgian Strong Pale style brew is fluffy and light, with a murky golden hue that leans towards the likes of North Coast's Prankster, or the hazy yeast peppered Kwak. The head bespeaks not the bubblings of Beelzebub's caldron, but the overflow from a kindergartner's post-nap bath: soapy bubbles piled on cappuccino like espuma. The mouth feel is light, the flavor mild. Rather than a progression of flavors and texture, Inferno captivates the tongue with a long steady note from first swill to after the swallow. While this is not a force-you-to-sip-it-slowly-with-friends ale, a la Avery's The Beast, this devil brew makes for a great food beer, complimenting grains and charred things especially well. A yeasty beer to be sure, Satan's spores have a soft savory ness to them that balances the sweetness of an 8.5% abv. Way less serious than the label implies, this is not some taste bud torturer: the Dark Lord likes to party!
Dairy Pairy: Gorwydd Caerphilly--an unpasteurised Welsh cow's milk cheese.
Soundtrack: Satan's Pilgrims' Que Honda!]]>
If this feels like a dejavu, don't bother pinching yourself: you have seen this dish before, allbeit in different forms. Most recently, we came up with a take where tomato confit balanced delicately on a sliver of expertly carved hearts of palm. But the recipe you're looking at here is what happens when a great idea for a dish meets reality and you're forced to scramble to fix a problem. In this case the problem being that those cute little caprese spears we dreamt up for our San Diego wedding catering gig simply refused to stay in people's hands. (Not to mention our original stab at the recipe meant throwing away half of a can of hearts of palm, and when you're dealing in bulk, this sucks. ) Good thing we found this out a week before the wedding, and planned accordingly so that insanely nice tuxedoes were spared from Hot Knives goo.
To make the dish stick, we baked off a baguette of crostini rounds to be the dish's base. To act as a glue, we plopped down a puree that saved us from having to toss the extra hearts of palm. And then on top came the actual meat of hearts of palm and confit with garnish and a drizzle. From the clean plates, this dish was one of the biggest hits, but more on that later this week when we debrief the entire 14-course wedding menu. (Photo by Aubrey)
Caprese Bites w/ hearts of palm and tomato confit
(Makes about 30)
1 baguette (day old)
1 1/2 cups olive oil
2 tsp. sea salt
2 cups grape tomatoes
2-3 shallots
1 can hearts of palm
2 sprigs dill
4 sprigs basil
1/2 cup balsamic vinegar
2 cloves garlic, peeled
fresh black pepper to taste
1. Prepare your tomato confit (this can be done as far as one day in advance). Pre-heat your oven to 375 degrees. Wash and dump the grape tomatoes into a deep baking dish or bread pan. Add enough olive oil that the tomatoes are mostly submerged, about one cup. Thinly slice shallots, placing them over the tomatoes with salt and pepper. Roast in oven for roughly 30 minutes or until tomatoes are translucent.
2. Make the crostini: turn down the oven to 300 degrees and slice baguette into thin rounds, just less than 1-inch thick. (Most proper baguettes will yield about 30 slices.) Dab each round quickly with drops of olive oil and sea salt. Then bake on a sheet pan for 15 minutes, or until slightly brown.
3. To cut hearts of palm, go through the can and slice each heart of palm lengthwise so that you have two long semi-circle shaped rods. Then remove and set aside center piece to create a half-pipe. Cut each long half-pipe into two or three squares. This will be the section that gets splayed out on the crostini.
4. Recycle all the hearts of palm remnants into a blender.
5. Strain what you can of the oil from the tomato confit, gently so as not to burst the delicate tomatoes. Add that oil to the blender and pulse until creamy with dill and half the basil. Chiffonade the other half for garnish.
5. In a small saucepan put the balsamic vinegar on high heat and reduce by half. Once reduced, press garlic into pot and remove from heat, letting it cool for about one hour.
6. Construct crostini bites. Lay out crostini bread. Next comes a dollop of herbed hearts of palm puree the size of your ring finger. Follow it with a hearts of palm square. Then place a smaller dollop of puree, the size of your pinky on the square, to act as glue. Finally plop down two of the tomatoes. Finish with a careful drop of balsamic reduction and chiffonaded basil.
Beverage: Brasserie Dupont's Foret
Soundtrack: Stereolab's Space Age Bachelor Pad
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