The Return of Malacca

It must have been a birthday or an anniversary, a celebration of some sort that required making a reservation and appearing at an appointed time in clothes we never wore around the house. Seated at the bar while waiting for our table, trying to look sophisticated in those unfamiliar-feeling outfits, the bartender asked what we'd like to drink.

This was in the days before I could ask for a gin by name, then descend down my preferred list until the bartender nodded an affirmation. Before I could rattle off "Plymouth martini, very dry, shaken, with olives, please" without thinking twice.

My response was to ask what he'd recommend. In this case, being the late 90s…I suspect around '97 or '98…he suggested a new gin called Malacca, made by Tanqueray, that was a little sweeter, a little more citrus-y than a traditional English gin. The cocktail he shook was a variation on the martini called a Cooperstown, the glass washed with vermouth and rubbed with mint before the chilled gin was added.

I still remember the bartender setting the glass on the bar, the slightly frosty martini glass, the crystal clear pool of liquid with the tiniest of mint leaves floating on its surface, how it tasted of lime and herbs and a hint of mint. We bought our own bottle and made that drink many times and it became, in many ways, our gateway to the world of cocktails. We were shocked a few years later…2001, to be precise…to find that Malacca was discontinued by the company.

While we tried to replicate it many times with other gins, nothing had that herbaceous, citrus-mint glint that we remembered. Then, twelve years later, there was the surprising news that the company had decided to bring back Malacca. Last week we were able to buy our first bottle (actually, two) and make that drink again, remembering nothing of the occasion that brought it into our lives, only the cool liquid pool with its delicate mint float.

Cooperstown

Makes one drink.

3 oz. Malacca gin
Splash dry vermouth
Mint

Fill cocktail shaker 2/3 full of ice. Add gin and shake. In chilled martini glass, add splash of vermouth. Using a mint leaf, rub the vermouth all around the inside surface of the glass. Discard vermouth and mint. Strain gin into the glass. Float a small mint leaf on the surface and serve.

Dave's Perfect Martini, Redux

A classic. Like the Parthenon in ancient Greece or Leonardo's Mona Lisa, it never changes, right?

Wrong.

The Parthenon? The one we know today is a crumbling shadow of its former self. The Mona Lisa has undergone cleaning, revarnishing and "touching-up" at least seven times, from 1809 to the present day.

So it should have been no surprise that when I looked up Dave's original martini recipe from (gasp!) 2007, it turns out that he's adapted the recipe ever-so-slightly from those ancient (in blog years) days. Thus, in the interest of accuracy, journalistic integrity or whatever, I cannot in good conscience simply link to the old recipe, I must record the latest incarnation of this house classic.

Who says evolution is just a theory?

Dave's Classic Martini, Very Dry
Makes 1 martini

Splash of dry vermouth (around a teaspoon)
2 1/2 oz. gin (Plymouth is the current house fave)
Olives (your choice, but we're still fond of anchovy-stuffed Spanish olives)

Fill shaker 3/4 full of ice. Add vermouth, shake, then strain it out. Add the gin to the remaining ice. Shake six seconds or so and pour into chilled martini glasses. Add olives on a pick. Serve.

Camp Stories: A Weekend in Paradise

There are some traditions in my family that are not to be messed with: Christmas dinner means turkey and fixin's…no suggestions of ham, lamb or other funny business allowed. Same goes for Thanksgiving. And Friday evenings are invariably kicked off with Dave's martinis garnished with Spanish anchovy-stuffed olives.

Instant classic: the Sierra cup martini.

Now it looks like the fourth of July is becoming another don't-mess-with-the-best formula: a minimum of three nights of tent camping with a group of four couples sharing food and drink at what has been officially voted (by us) as a 10-out-of-10 campground, Paradise Creek in the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest just north of Carson, Washington.

Classy glassware? Who needs it?

A mere 90 minutes from Portland, it's pretty primitive, meaning no showers, flush toilets or hook-ups for big rigs. But that also means it's devoid of roaring generators, loud music and crowds of marauding children on dirt bikes. Instead the air is filled with the smell of campfire smoke and the sound of the small creek that flows by, and the night sky through the trees is studded with millions of stars.

New classic: Coney sauce.

This year we had dibs on making dinner the first night, so instead of trying to relive the success of last year's campfire posole I decided to try my hand at that hallowed American specialty known as the Coney Island hot dog. What I came up with is definitely a twist on the traditional, but what can you expect from someone who grew up on the left coast?

And the dogs were no Ball Park Franks or even Hebrew National, but a selection from local purveyors Olympic Provisions and Chop. Both types got raves, by the way, though I have to say I really liked the flavor and heft of the Chop dogs. And the sauce is one I'll pull out for a backyard BBQ soon, sided by some potato salad or coleslaw.

Coney Island Hot Dog Sauce

2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 lbs. lean ground beef
3 lg yellow onions, chopped fine
3 lg cloves garlic, minced
1/2 Tbsp. garlic powder
1 1/2 Tbsp. white vinegar
4 Tbsp. ancho chile powder
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. allspice
1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes or hot chile powder
1 Tbsp. cumin
1 Tbsp. salt
1 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
2 6-oz. cans tomato paste
4 c. water

Heat a large Dutch oven on medium heat and add oil. When it shimmers, add ground beef and brown. Add onions and garlic and sauté till tender. Add garlic powder, vinegar, chile powders, cinnamon, cumin, salt and allspice and stir until fragrant. Add remaining ingredients and bring to a simmer. Continue simmering for 3 to 4 hours, stirring occasionally to make sure it doesn't stick. Makes about 10 cups of sauce.

Read other Camp Stories in the series: Trout Creek Campground, Shadow Bay at Waldo Lake, LaPine State Park, Indian Crossing Campground, Frog Lake Campground, Patrick's Point State Park, Harris Beach State Park and Moss Creek Campground and last year's trip to Paradise Creek.

A Really Great Day

The e-mail's subject line was enough to grab my attention: "Oink oink."

Turns out my friend Matt Berson, winemaker under his own Love and Squalor and Behemoth labels, had bought half a pig from Chris and Amy at Square Peg Farm and was looking for some moral support. He'd observed a couple of other butcherings, and taken the hands-on pig butchering class from Melinda at Portland's Culinary Workshop, but this was his first solo effort.

I told him I'd only butchered a pig once under close supervision, but he said the company would be helpful, so I was (more than) happy to come and lend a hand. I climbed the stairs at his friend Matt Johnson's Secret Society and up to the kitchen where Peg the pig (named after its former home) was waiting on a long table.

After consulting a couple of online resources, Matt set to work cutting it into the large primal sections, leaving the leg in a single piece for prosciutto. The jowl came off, then the belly, a nice long slab of bacon-to-be. We threw scraps of meat and fat into a bin for sausage, then after removing the backbone and dividing the rib sections, I had to leave Matt to do the rest of the piecework since I was meeting my friend Kathryn for a lunch date.

Kevin was just turning the "CLOSED" sign around as I got to Evoe, so I grabbed two seats at the prep table, the better to observe the chopping, shaving and mixing of the ingredients that makes this place my personal choice for the best restaurant in town. By the time I'd perused the chalkboard with the day's offerings, Kathryn had arrived and we promptly ordered two house-made elderflower spritzers and the pickle plate.

Knowing as I do that Kathryn's appetite for Kevin's food is as prodigious as mine, despite the fact that she is (quite astonishingly) petite, we set about ordering. Nettle dumplings with cream (left) were the essence of spring, three light-as-a-feather quenelles arranged in a dish of cream and briefly set under the broiler to warm and brown.

To follow that we chose a light salad. Kevin has had a way with butter lettuce salad since the early days of Castagna, and we knew this one would be the perfect mid-meal break with lightly dressed whole leaves tossed with chopped anchovies. The culmination of lunch was duck confit (right), a whole leg that had been sitting in duck fat for several days, which was then toasted to crunchy, crusted perfection and served with a spoonful of thick applesauce. After that we considered splitting the spicy pork sandwich for dessert, but decided that might be a bit too much even for us.

Dave came home that evening in the mood for a martini, so while I cubed up some of the jowl from Roger the pig that he'd cured and smoked the weekend before, he shook up a couple of his house specials. In Italy a cured, unsmoked jowl is called guanciale and, when sliced, looks a lot like bacon with ribbons of fat streaked with meat. It's used in dishes like carbonara and pasta all'amatriciana, and since I had a couple dozen of Clare's amazing eggs, I decided to go with the carbonara, a fitting tribute to Roger's home and an appropriate end to a spectacular day.

Taken For Granted

Long-term couples know this one well: You go someplace for dinner, or maybe you're on your way home after an evening with friends, and suddenly your partner in this walk through life says something that absolutely…cracks…you…up. You look over at him (in my case) through your tears and really see him for the first time in ages. That same smile. The same laugh lines (albeit maybe more of them) around the eyes. But he's just reminded you why you fell for him in the first place.

Because he makes you laugh like nobody else ever has who's not a professional comedian. (And who'd want to live with one of them? Yikes.)

It's like that with my brother. I take it for granted that he's a wonderful cook, a terrific bartender and knows his way around a grill. I'm finding out he's a really great dad, too, not that it's a surprise; after all, he gets a lot of coaching from his lovely bride.

It's the same with his wine business, which operated with stunning success in Sellwood for more than ten years. But now that he's moved Vino to it's new location smack dab in the middle of food heaven on SE 28th, it gave me a chance to see it with new eyes. And what did I spy with my little eye the last time I was in but a shop-within-a-shop he's calling Mercato di Vino.

Bruce has always carried a few good vermouths, some salt, maybe the occasional estate olive oil from one of his wine suppliers and the off-and-on can of what we call "crack olives," little anchovy-stuffed green olives from Spain that, and I have proof, are highly addictive. And go perfectly with the perfect gin martini.

The new location has given him room to expand his offerings and he's bringing in the best of the best: not only our vermouth of choice for Manhattans, Carpano di Antica, and the accompanying you'll-never-settle-for-maraschinos-again Toschi amarena cherries. But also his new favorite mixer, Bonal Gentiane-Quina, along with Cocchi Americano, Lillet and a terrific selection of bitters. Plus a dry goods section overflowing with imported polenta, tomatoes, Spanish tuna, arborio, salts and olive oil.

All this in my brother's wine shop…I gotta look around more often. Imagine what he's hiding on his wine shelves!

Details: Vino, 137 SE 28th Ave. 503-235-8545.

Betrayal, Heresy, Treason?

Though we're a pretty low-key bunch around our house, there are still lots of rules. Thou shalt not use soap to wash the cast iron pans. Thou shalt not pull "weeds" without consulting the gardener (me). Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, call anything a martini unless it's made with gin.

And that goes for food, too. As in thou shalt not try to substitute tea for coffee in the morning because "someone" forgot to get beans at the store. Or allow any "industrial" beers to cross the threshold (especially PBR). And get ready for a full scale call-the-pope-on-the-red-phone moment if you mess with the holiest of holies, spaghetti carbonara.

Now, I have to say that there are certain liberties that are allowed, such as substituting penne for the spaghetti in carbonara. (Even though David Anderson, chef at Genoa, told me once that anything except bucatini was definitely not OK. Fine.) But if I suggest the addition of even some parsley as more than a garnish, rest assured I'm prepared to duck because there will be an unpleasant substance hitting a fan in the vicinity.

But a fan of one-dish dining I am, so when I came back from the farmers' market the other day with some tender collard greens, it seemed like another mooning-of-the-rules might be in order. And oddly enough, whether it was the episode of "The West Wing" (via Netflix) that was particularly engaging or simply hunger-related obliviousness, not a word was said. Maybe I should try to sneak in some chai one of these mornings…

Pasta Carbonara with Greens
Adapted from Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking

Water for pasta
1 lb. dried penne or other pasta
2 eggs
2 egg yolks
1 1/2 c. grated parmesan, or a mixture of parmesan and romano
1/2 to 3/4 lb. bacon, sliced into 1/4” strips
1 Tbsp. garlic, minced
Several leaves of kale, collards or other greens, sliced into 1/8" by 2" strips
1/4 c. dry white wine or dry vermouth
Salt and pepper to taste

Put the water on to boil. In a small bowl, beat the eggs and egg yolks together, then add 1/2 c. of the cheese and beat in.

In a skillet, fry the bacon till it is cooked but still tender. Add the garlic to the bacon and saute briefly, then add the greens. When they have wilted slightly, add the wine and allow to come to a simmer, then take off the heat. While the bacon is frying, add pasta to the boiling water. When the pasta is done, pour it into a colander to drain and then place it in a serving bowl. Pour the egg mixture over the top and stir to combine. Add the bacon mixture and stir briefly just to mix. Add salt and pepper to taste, then sprinkle some of the remaining cheese on top and put the rest in a small bowl on the table. Serve.

The Best Cocktail in the World

I know, I know, calling a particular drink "the best cocktail" is hyperbole on the scale of saying one religion is the true path and everyone else is going to H-E-double toothpicks. And there are going to be comments like, "Whaddaya mean..." and "You're fulla..." But, doggone it, it's my favorite and I'm not afraid to say it.

Now, I've had lots of other great cocktails. After all, there is such a thing as due diligence in these matters and I'm all about fair play. Martinis, mojitos, lemon drops, G&Ts, sidecars, toddies...I could go on. But the Negroni is the one I always come back to as my touchstone, especially as made by my favorite bartender.

And it's not for everyone. You have to have a taste for the bitter (Campari) along with the sweet (vermouth). And the perfect accompaniment is a twist of lemon, though many practitioners are trying to substitute orange peel, giving the drink a cloying oiliness rather than the zing that lemon rind contributes.

So if you're ready to try one, here's the recipe from my brother that we've adopted as our own:

Vino's House Negroni

A good friend of mine described the Negroni as "the perfectly balanced cocktail when made correctly." I've got to agree. The richness of the gin, the bitter-sweetness of the Campari, the balancing acidity of the vermouth. Measure it out if you have to, free pour if you're confident enough, just make it. This is a great old-school drink that originated in the 1930's, and is making a comeback today. Big ups for this very refreshing adult beverage.

1 part Gin
1 part Campari
1/2 part Sweet Vermouth
1/2 part Dry Vermouth

Fill your cocktail shaker halfway with ice, dump in the booze, shake then strain into a chilled martini glass and garnish with a twist of lemon.

A note on the gin: I love Tanqueray, but with this drink I actually prefer the less assertive flavor of a Gordon's Dry Gin or a similar mid-range gin. And also if you look in a vintage bar guide, it will invariably say one part sweet vermouth with no dry vermouth. But I was shown this half-and-half method by the bartender at Bix in San Francisco (a great "must stop" bar for you martini fans!) and this rounds out the flavors perfectly. Cheers!

To Pit or Not To Pit

There are some things that simply shouldn't be messed with. Take, for instance, a recent article where some hot Euro chef was "deconstructing" tiramisu and making it with almond foam and fava beans or something equally ridiculous. Another flagrant example is the current craze that takes the classic recipe for a martini (gin, a hint of dry vermouth and ice) and uses some tarted-up infusion like mandarin blossom vodka that is then shaken with ice to create a "Mandarin Blossom Martini."

Forget that simply shaking alcohol and ice does not a cocktail make. Forget that using vodka and calling it a martini is simply wrong and, according to NYTimes spirits editor Eric Asimov, should properly be called a "vodkatini if you must, but not a martini. Gin and vodka have as much in common hierarchically as a president and a vice president. Vodka can fill in for gin from time to time and might even be given certain ceremonial duties of its own, but at important moments you need the real thing."

And one other thing. There seems to be a penchant developing for using whole olives, pits and all, at certain local establishments instead of the usual pitted olives. Now, I'm not a huge fan of pimento-stuffed olives in my martinis, since they are usually inferior quality olives and taste mostly of vinegar. And we do have a huge selection of very good quality olives to choose from in this town, with olive bars springing up not only in gourmet shops like City Market and upper-level supermarkets like Zupans, but in otherwise pedestrian places like Fred Meyer and Safeway.

But, please, whole olives are meant for eating by themselves. Sticking a skewer in them and plunking them in a cocktail is not only awkward to consume but defeats the purpose of the olive, which is to gently flavor the martini and, in return, to be flavored by the alcohol as it swims in the drink. A pitted olive, because it's hollow inside, can absorb the flavor of the martini and can easily be popped in the mouth with no half-chewed pit sitting unattractively on the table.

So, you bartenders out there, please resist the siren song of the au courant. Some things are best left unadulterated. And, for good measure, here's a recipe for a perfect martini for those who want to know.

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Dave's Perfect Martini
Makes 2 martinis

2 1/2 oz. gin (preferably Boodles, but any good gin will do)
Splash of dry vermouth (around a teaspoon)
Olives (your choice, but we're currently fond of anchovy-stuffed Spanish olives)

Fill shaker 3/4 full of ice. Add vermouth, then gin. Shake five to six seconds and pour into chilled martini glasses. Add olives on a pick. Serve.