A morning without coffee is like....the Pacific Northwest without rain. Oh, that was bad. I've never been good at analogies. I think I'm better at saying what I mean, plain and simple, such as: I want coffee. I need coffee. Without coffee, my standard level of functioning plummets. There's no way I would have survived through law school without it.
As I have mentioned at least once before on clatter, I am a proud former Peet's Coffee barista (picture me throwing up my Peetnik for Life gang sign). I like to think with such credentials to my name, I have a decent palate when it comes to coffee. You may recall that I once praised Starbucks Via instant coffee, but please note that instant coffee is typically, for lack of a better cliché, not my cup of tea. I like the good, strong stuff - not the watered-down kind you might find at your parents' church or a 24-hour Denny's. If it doesn't make me jittery, I'm not interested.
Last month when I visited my boyfriend in Chicago, he served me one superb cup of coffee in his home. Don't think I'm saying such things because I happen to have warm and fuzzy feelings for the barista; it truly was one of the best homemade cups of coffee I had ever had. Of course as I sipped away, I wondered why it tasted so much better than the coffee I make at home. Was it the Intelligentsia coffee beans he brewed? Or the fluffy milk made from his fancy Bodum frother (I use the $2 one from Ikea)? Could it have been the Burgerville mug he served it in? Or was it the method he used to make the coffee? At first I thought he was merely using technology's latest model of the French press, but I was sorely mistaken. This was no French press. This, my friends, was the AeroPress. He swore by the thing, and I quickly considered whether I should do the same.
I suppose it was only natural after my heavenly coffee experience in Chicago that I would need to attempt it myself. Either out of pure kindness or a gentle hint that the coffee made in my apartment is crap (despite his insistence that it's not), he purchased my very own AeroPress over the weekend. This morning before work, I tried it out for the first time. What better way to make Monday morning a little less painful than a deliciously executed cup o' joe? I read the directions ahead of time, and then I began to take action - grinding the illy beans extra fine, boiling water, figuring out what piece goes where, etc. As I added the ground beans, poured the hot water into the chamber, secured the rubber sealed plunger on top and began to apply the "gentle pressure" indicated on the directions, I suddenly realized I forgot a step. I didn't stir the coffee grounds in the water! That's ok, I thought, I'll just stop applying the pressure, remove the plunger from the chamber and stir before continuing. No problem, right? Wrong. Big mistake. Huge.
Take it from me: you don't want to anger the AeroPress. Do it wrong and it will turn on you. Just consider the science behind the AeroPress. Pressing the plunger inside the chamber creates enough air pressure to transform coffee grounds and water into crazy good espresso. If it takes energy on your part to press down the plunger because of the created pressure, it will take energy to pull the plunger up and out of the chamber because of the tight fit. Except that you really shouldn't be doing that at all, because you'll end up being more forceful with the thing than you should until you release the demons and get burned by the AeroPress - both figuratively and literally. That's right - it happened. In my defense, I never claimed to be anything more than a walking disaster.
Have you seen that commercial where a father and daughter conduct a volcano science experiment in the kitchen that goes awry, but then the mom saves the day with her miracle cleaning product? What happened to me this morning came close to art imitating life. Imagine a mini explosive full of coffee grounds and hot water suddenly detonating in a small Portland apartment in front of an unsuspecting girl. Now imagine the chaos that ensues in the aftermath. There is screaming. There is swearing. There is a white shirt. Why does she need the effects of caffeine in the morning when there's an AeroPress explosion to wake her up with one single jolt?
Once I recovered (well, sorta - my left hand burned from the hot water for at least an hour afterwards and my mom never showed up with her miracle cleaning product), I tried the process again. If there's one thing I'm not, it's a quitter. And I sure am glad I'm not. What came next after following the written instructions perfectly was the smoothiest, most flavorful homemade coffee I've had since that cup in Chicago.
Maybe the AeroPress and I didn't become instant friends, but I can say with a great amount of certainty that we are now. I can't wait to bond with it again tomorrow morning. You better believe I'll never forget to stir again before securing the plunger in the chamber! But I might wear black tomorrow just to be safe.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Give me tapas or give me death!
Me thinks I've forgotten how to write. Um, how does this whole 'blogging' thing work again?
Perhaps I've been less than reliable when it comes to posting. And perhaps you thought that I've had better things to do than sit in front of a computer for the last month and a half. The truth of the matter is...I have. Europeans take the month of August off, so I figured why shouldn't I? It was the least I could do really, in order to fully enjoy the summer and properly prepare for my trip to Spain and Ireland. Dear friends, I am happy to report that I have safely returned from foreign lands after two weeks of wondrous sightseeing, girlfriend bonding, and good eating - with plenty of libations to boot.
Weeks before I left for my trip, I read somewhere that the food in Spain is some of the most delicious in the world, and it is considered one of the most underrepresented cuisines in the United States. You can only imagine how reading something like that would get me excited and evoke hype like clatter has never seen before. Throughout our trip, my travelmates suggested on several occasions that I should 'clatter' this, or 'clatter' that...and I agreed. I came across plenty to write about on the ol' blog. The thing is...I should have taken notes. I suffer from short term memory problems, you see. How could I be so irresponsible?! Luckily, sometimes the best things in life, like extra special food memories, won't soon be forgotten.
If there's one food I would guess that the Spaniards love the most, it's got to be jamon. Jamon, jamon, jamon - it's everywhere! Shop after shop, jamon (the Spanish version of ham) would hang from the ceilings, in window displays, and smell, well, like a good hunk o' pig. Good luck finding a menu that doesn't have it in some form or another. I also learned the extent in which Spaniards like to ease very slowly into their day. In a typical day, they might drink espresso or a cafe con leche (mmm) until noon, lunch at 14:30, siesta from 15:30 to 17:30, snack on churros, and then eat dinner at 21:00 or 22:00. Those Spanish folks - they are creatures of the night! Not until well after the sun goes down do they truly come alive. It took a number of days, but eventually we got into the Spanish lifestyle.
Because we only had a couple of nights in Madrid (one of which we were jetlagged and worthless to the world), it seemed that in some ways our Spanish trip didn't truly begin until we arrived in San Sebastian. San Sebastian is a beach town located in the northeastern border of Spain and France. It is part of the Basque Country - which has been dubbed a culinary capital. In San Sebastian, the night is all about txikiteo (don't ask me to pronounce that). That is, tapas bar hopping. While my dear Rick Steves, my pseudo-boyfriend on this trip (sorry, Gabe), explicitly explained in his guidebook (that I carried around like a bible) how the tapas phenomenon works in Basque Country, we failed to listen to him the first night. After that warm Mediterranean sun set, we found that the narrow streets of San Sebastian woke up from its siesta and became bustling with people. Every drinking hole and little restaurant we passed was filled with colorful small dishes and little sandwiches around the bar area. No joke - all of them! The problem was, we didn't know what to do.
We quickly learned that unless you know the language (and I mean Basque, not Spanish), you may have some trouble without the help of fellow English speakers to tell you what to do (Irish and Canadian folks we met helped us out) and sexy Rick, of course. San Sebastian is not the best place to eat as an American tourist unless you know the procedure - but as we learned, once you figure it out, it can pay off immensely. Our first night we hadn't done our homework and found ourselves much too timid to go into any of the bars. We were lame, I admit, but to us, the whole tapas bar hopping thing was very intimidating. (Was this a new kind of Spanish Inquisition - the type that forces you to eat tapas or starve to death?) By our second night in San Sebastian, however, we gave ourselves a pep talk, learned the lingo, and threw ourselves in the ring. In case you're curious, here are the quick steps to succeed in txikiteo for four American girls:
1) After walking into a bar, ask the bartender for "quattro platos, por favor." Until you ask for a plate, he'll only stare at you like you've walked into his home without knocking. Once the bartender knows you're interesting in eating, he'll become alive and happy.
2) Once you're given a plate, pick and choose which little sandwiches and Spanish delicacies (often on sticks) you would like to try. This was the part where clatter got excited! There are plenty of mysterious dishes to choose from (and some that you'll see at every single bar) and I found myself overwhelmed, but I tried my best to be adventurous. Sometimes it's best not to know what you're eating.
3) Order a drink. We stuck with either "quattro cana" (draft beer) or "quattro sidra" (cider) because that's all we knew how to say. The usual beer on tap, San Miguel, is not very good - but it's cold and perfect to wash down any mystery tapas that don't agree with the taste buds.
4) After you're done eating and drinking, figure out how many tapas you had so you can pay. If you want to be really fancy, ask the bartender "Zenbat da?", which apparently means "How much?" I could never manage to say it without sounding Asian, so I never actually attempted the phrase while hopping. Nevertheless, zenbat da (with or without the question mark) became our favorite phrase to use in any situation throughout our trip. The more we used it, the funnier it became. We apologize to all the Basque speakers out there for butchering their language.
5) Repeat steps 1 through 4 at the next bar. And the next. And the next. When you're full (and/or drunk), you are allowed to stop.
Once clatter put a txikiteo feather in its hat, we were off to Barcelona. After getting a recommendation from one of my travelmate's friends who is studying in Madrid, we made our way to Cerveceria Catalana for dinner one night. We ordered all sorts of tapas - portions just big enough to split four ways for one or two bites. Boiled prawns, pork tenderloin, grilled asparagus, fried squid rings with tons of freshly squeezed lemon juice, warm escalivada (roasted eggplant and red peppers) with goat cheese, toasted bread with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, grilled cutterfish....ahhhhhh. With a chilled bottle of cava, the meal was SO good. Between bites, I couldn't help but exclaim, with wide eyes and expressive hands, "This is foodie heaven." Because honestly, it really was. I believe it was at that moment that I felt enlightened as to why the Spaniards are brilliant with their tapas: a bite or two of the best quality food is really all you need to satisfy your palate. Hands down, our evening at Catalana was the best food experience during our trip - and it might even be a clatter Top Five best food moment of all time. Bold statement, I know, but that's how serious I am!
We learned that while tapas can be delicious, sometimes it's nice to have a REAL, full portioned meal. You know, the eat-until-you-are-so-stuffed-you-need-a-gurney-to-wheel-you-out-of-the-restaurant kind. We didn't find that in Spain (the same cannot be said for Ireland), and it is no surprise that the Spaniards are thin and trim. After experiencing the Spanish built-in portion control plus walking all day long for a week straight, I've been thinking a lot about writing a book called American Girls in Spain Don't Get Fat. That's never been done before, right?
Perhaps I've been less than reliable when it comes to posting. And perhaps you thought that I've had better things to do than sit in front of a computer for the last month and a half. The truth of the matter is...I have. Europeans take the month of August off, so I figured why shouldn't I? It was the least I could do really, in order to fully enjoy the summer and properly prepare for my trip to Spain and Ireland. Dear friends, I am happy to report that I have safely returned from foreign lands after two weeks of wondrous sightseeing, girlfriend bonding, and good eating - with plenty of libations to boot.
Weeks before I left for my trip, I read somewhere that the food in Spain is some of the most delicious in the world, and it is considered one of the most underrepresented cuisines in the United States. You can only imagine how reading something like that would get me excited and evoke hype like clatter has never seen before. Throughout our trip, my travelmates suggested on several occasions that I should 'clatter' this, or 'clatter' that...and I agreed. I came across plenty to write about on the ol' blog. The thing is...I should have taken notes. I suffer from short term memory problems, you see. How could I be so irresponsible?! Luckily, sometimes the best things in life, like extra special food memories, won't soon be forgotten.
If there's one food I would guess that the Spaniards love the most, it's got to be jamon. Jamon, jamon, jamon - it's everywhere! Shop after shop, jamon (the Spanish version of ham) would hang from the ceilings, in window displays, and smell, well, like a good hunk o' pig. Good luck finding a menu that doesn't have it in some form or another. I also learned the extent in which Spaniards like to ease very slowly into their day. In a typical day, they might drink espresso or a cafe con leche (mmm) until noon, lunch at 14:30, siesta from 15:30 to 17:30, snack on churros, and then eat dinner at 21:00 or 22:00. Those Spanish folks - they are creatures of the night! Not until well after the sun goes down do they truly come alive. It took a number of days, but eventually we got into the Spanish lifestyle.
Because we only had a couple of nights in Madrid (one of which we were jetlagged and worthless to the world), it seemed that in some ways our Spanish trip didn't truly begin until we arrived in San Sebastian. San Sebastian is a beach town located in the northeastern border of Spain and France. It is part of the Basque Country - which has been dubbed a culinary capital. In San Sebastian, the night is all about txikiteo (don't ask me to pronounce that). That is, tapas bar hopping. While my dear Rick Steves, my pseudo-boyfriend on this trip (sorry, Gabe), explicitly explained in his guidebook (that I carried around like a bible) how the tapas phenomenon works in Basque Country, we failed to listen to him the first night. After that warm Mediterranean sun set, we found that the narrow streets of San Sebastian woke up from its siesta and became bustling with people. Every drinking hole and little restaurant we passed was filled with colorful small dishes and little sandwiches around the bar area. No joke - all of them! The problem was, we didn't know what to do.
We quickly learned that unless you know the language (and I mean Basque, not Spanish), you may have some trouble without the help of fellow English speakers to tell you what to do (Irish and Canadian folks we met helped us out) and sexy Rick, of course. San Sebastian is not the best place to eat as an American tourist unless you know the procedure - but as we learned, once you figure it out, it can pay off immensely. Our first night we hadn't done our homework and found ourselves much too timid to go into any of the bars. We were lame, I admit, but to us, the whole tapas bar hopping thing was very intimidating. (Was this a new kind of Spanish Inquisition - the type that forces you to eat tapas or starve to death?) By our second night in San Sebastian, however, we gave ourselves a pep talk, learned the lingo, and threw ourselves in the ring. In case you're curious, here are the quick steps to succeed in txikiteo for four American girls:
1) After walking into a bar, ask the bartender for "quattro platos, por favor." Until you ask for a plate, he'll only stare at you like you've walked into his home without knocking. Once the bartender knows you're interesting in eating, he'll become alive and happy.
2) Once you're given a plate, pick and choose which little sandwiches and Spanish delicacies (often on sticks) you would like to try. This was the part where clatter got excited! There are plenty of mysterious dishes to choose from (and some that you'll see at every single bar) and I found myself overwhelmed, but I tried my best to be adventurous. Sometimes it's best not to know what you're eating.
3) Order a drink. We stuck with either "quattro cana" (draft beer) or "quattro sidra" (cider) because that's all we knew how to say. The usual beer on tap, San Miguel, is not very good - but it's cold and perfect to wash down any mystery tapas that don't agree with the taste buds.
4) After you're done eating and drinking, figure out how many tapas you had so you can pay. If you want to be really fancy, ask the bartender "Zenbat da?", which apparently means "How much?" I could never manage to say it without sounding Asian, so I never actually attempted the phrase while hopping. Nevertheless, zenbat da (with or without the question mark) became our favorite phrase to use in any situation throughout our trip. The more we used it, the funnier it became. We apologize to all the Basque speakers out there for butchering their language.
5) Repeat steps 1 through 4 at the next bar. And the next. And the next. When you're full (and/or drunk), you are allowed to stop.
Once clatter put a txikiteo feather in its hat, we were off to Barcelona. After getting a recommendation from one of my travelmate's friends who is studying in Madrid, we made our way to Cerveceria Catalana for dinner one night. We ordered all sorts of tapas - portions just big enough to split four ways for one or two bites. Boiled prawns, pork tenderloin, grilled asparagus, fried squid rings with tons of freshly squeezed lemon juice, warm escalivada (roasted eggplant and red peppers) with goat cheese, toasted bread with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, grilled cutterfish....ahhhhhh. With a chilled bottle of cava, the meal was SO good. Between bites, I couldn't help but exclaim, with wide eyes and expressive hands, "This is foodie heaven." Because honestly, it really was. I believe it was at that moment that I felt enlightened as to why the Spaniards are brilliant with their tapas: a bite or two of the best quality food is really all you need to satisfy your palate. Hands down, our evening at Catalana was the best food experience during our trip - and it might even be a clatter Top Five best food moment of all time. Bold statement, I know, but that's how serious I am!
We learned that while tapas can be delicious, sometimes it's nice to have a REAL, full portioned meal. You know, the eat-until-you-are-so-stuffed-you-need-a-gurney-to-wheel-you-out-of-the-restaurant kind. We didn't find that in Spain (the same cannot be said for Ireland), and it is no surprise that the Spaniards are thin and trim. After experiencing the Spanish built-in portion control plus walking all day long for a week straight, I've been thinking a lot about writing a book called American Girls in Spain Don't Get Fat. That's never been done before, right?
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