What happens when Greeks and Turks collide

I am typically too intimidated to make a particuler ethnic dish for someone of that particular ethnicity. I wouldn't dare make sushi for a Japanese person or paella for a Spaniard. But sometimes my drive to learn a new dish overcomes my fear of judgement by the experts.

One of my coworkers is Turkish, and I was in charge of bringing in a dessert for the team (we alternate, its very Office Space of us). Another coworker of mine suggested I bring something Turkish, to which of course I balked. Then my sister suggested baklava, and I was sold. Not only is baklava one of the tastiest desserts of all time, I also happen to have a Greek next door neighbor that would help me learn the tricks of the trade. I had to tread lightly though, this was difficult cultural territory to navigate. Both the Greeks and the Turks like to take credit for baklava, and I was not looking to stimulate conflict.

So my peaceful baklava mission began. I knew that Turkish baklava was made with pistachios, but I wasn't about to shell a full pound of them so I substituted pecans. My Greek neighbor told me to use cinnimon sticks and lemon juice in my syrup, but she was veheminently against my use of honey. Four hours and several sticks of butter later, I nervously covered up my final product to sit overnight.

Now, I'm not going to pretend it was the best baklava anyone had ever tasted, but it was pretty darn good (can't go wrong with that amount of butter, sugar and cinnimon). My Turkish coworker had the most interesting observation though; he said that it was good "American" baklava. Apparently thats what happens when you bring the Turks and Greeks together: pretty darn good American.

The Irish Surprise

I am aware that I am a food snob. I admit that I judge restaurants based on their covers, I turn up my nose at laminated menus and beer flags, and I even make snide comments sometimes like "I'll order chicken fingers, they can't screw that up." However, I actually enjoy it when my snootiness comes back to bite me in the ass.

The first time I was a patronizing patron at Rosie O'Grady's in Ferndale, I didn't even order food, based solely on the decor (you know, traditional Irish... shamrocks and neon orange). I ordered a pint of Guiness and had a good time. Rosie's didn't cross my mind again for two years.

Then last night I joined a group that was going to Rosie's to celebrate my friend Andrew's birthday. I went in with low standards and assumed I would just order chicken fingers and mozzerella sticks. Which I did, and I am so very grateful for it. Now... mozzerella sticks are glorious everywhere, but thats my personal bias, so I will exclude them from this discussion.

The chicken fingers, however, were out of this world. Cooked to perfection, with a crispy flavorful crust - not just the standard brown tasteless grit you would expect in a joint where the water stained ceiling tiles are threatening to crash into your lap any second. No, these fingers had class... they could have been served over a sweet potato puree with a brown sugar mustard drizzle... but I digress.

One of the lovely ladies of the group recommended the chicken dumpling soup, claiming it was the best soup she had ever had. This was a grand statement, one I had to test, so I ordered a cup of the chicken dumpling soup for myself. I couldn't say it was the best soup of my life, but it was delicious; creamy, hearty, and I think the dumplings were homemade! My only complaint was that they went overboard with the salt. Then again, I finished every last spoonful.

So what's the lesson learned? Don't write off a restaurant just because it looks like a shithole... but just in case, order the chicken fingers. It really is pretty difficult to screw up chicken fingers, and you never know, they might just win you over. If not, you can always try the soup.

The Great Chili Cookoff

I am lucky enough to work at my office that hosts an annual chili cookoff, in which I have competed the past two years. I will admit, the first time I heard of this cookoff, I knew I was a guranteed gold medalist. I am not delusional enough to think I am a world-class chef, but I get rave reviews for my "famous chili" and I receive constant requests for the recipe and I was confident that this would be a cake-walk (cornbread-walk?).

So I came to my first chili cookoff with Melissa's Not-Quite Vegetarian Chili, my tried and true palate-pleaser that balanced heat with depth of flavor, and had enough meat to keep it hearty, but was packed full of conscience-pleasing vegetables. And to clinch the deal, I advertised the fact that my chili included everyone's favorite "secret" ingredient: beer. Homebrewed beer, no less!

Of course, I lost. I think I came in 5th place out of 12 contestents. The typical response as a taster approached my crockpot was "ooooh, beer... eeew, is that squash?." My chili ego was crushed.

Year two, I was far less cocky and far more strategic. Weeks before the event, I started my testing. I made a big vat of basic beef chili, no frills, nothing interesting or terrifying, and then split it into 6 separate test batches, with various additions and twists. I then invited my in-laws over and they were given a feedback card, and samples of each of the 6 test batches. Feedback was mixed, but between the four of us we came up with a simple, straightforward chili that we were confident would be a crowd-pleaser. My clincher this time was to bring accoutrements for the tasters to add at their own discretion: sour cream and shredded monterey jack cheddar.

Of course, I lost again. This time, I came in 3rd place, but I am fairly sure that my weeks of campaigning ahead of time is really the only reason for my upward progress. My chili ego suffered again.

This year's chili cookoff is quickly approaching, and I am determined to win. I have been honing my originial recipe over the past year, keeping avid notes when I make an especially tasty batch. My strategy this year is three fold: (1) ratchet up the heat (2) limit the veggies to only those traditionally in chili (3) bring back beef as the main star of the show. I'll keep the beer and the accoutrements and perhaps email Obama for campaign tips (keep an eye out for my new book, The Audacity of Beef) to use in the coming weeks.

Of course, I'm sure I'll lose.

Tater Tot Fantasy

Imagine a "nugget" of mashed potatoes, gooey and with a few chunks, just like mom's. Add some cheese (your preference, I did some with blue cheese and some with sharp cheddar), and a panko crust. What I was hoping for was the ultimate comfort food, with a contrasting texture of creaminess and crunch. Tasty, right?

Unfortunately, it just didn't turn out like my tater tot fantasy. The textures were there, but the comfort part was lacking. What it really needed was a dipping sauce.

So I surveyed my team. I received answers ranging from dijon mustard to tartar sauce, and actually had someone pre-emptively say "absolutely not gravy."

Now the traditional tater tot condiment would of course be ketchup, but it didnt fit into my fantasy as I am not exactly the tomato's biggest fan. So I went with the traditional mashed potato condiment - sour cream. I roasted a few heads of garlic, added them to some sour cream and seasoned with salt and pepper.

There it was, the ultimate comfort food. Creamy, crunchy, tangy, tasty - what's not to love? I have quite the future planned for these little Mashed Potato Bites. I'm going to try a version with bacon, perhaps a version with chives, maybe even a loaded baked potato with all of the above and some broccoli.

Wait... nix the broccoli, it's too healthy and interferes with the fantasy.