Consumed

Contra Starbucks

Want milk? I do sometimes, perhaps even hot milk, before going to bed, though if I'm going to regress that much I might as well have Ovaltine. But when I want coffee I don't want milk. At least not the whole cow.

That's what I get at Starbucks, the coffeeshop that swallowed America -- and perhaps the world. It started in Seattle...

I was living far from the grunge city, though its garage rock and flannel shirts made it to the NY music scene. So did their passion for espresso. Not that the Big Apple didn't have it already. After all, Little italy and Greenwich Village were studded with old coffeehouses, some of them quite beautiful, where you could get great espresso. And though we didn't have quite as many cafecito spots as Miami, you could still get your thick, oversweetened Cuban coffee at a number of cheap joints.

Cheaper than the Italian coffeehouses. And most certainly cheaper than Starbucks.

Still, Seattle fever had caught on and by the late '80s, there were java joints everywhere -- one a block from my apt., which seemed awesome at the time and is pedestrian in the era of all Starbucks all over all the time.

We waited for Starbucks, like mana come down from Seattle heaven. It opened on upper Broadway and, sure enough, I was there. Cool. Trendy. International. A 5 year-old French girl told her papa that my 3 year-old son was cute -- I know enough French to figure when a female from that nation is getting sassy, regardless of her age. Espresso wasn't bad either. Mild. Low acidity. Nice.

Then the chain grew and grew and grew until in that very city there is more than one in every block -- same is true of Irish bars, but I ain't complaining. And the coffee... I don't recall their being that milk-happy at first. A machiatto was an improved cortadito, or rather like a cortado in Spain not in Miami, espresso topped with milk foam. Lately, though, I've asked for a machiatto and gotten a big cup full of coffee-flavored hot milk.

Lattes are worse. Latte is actually the last name of the drink and calling them latte is like calling a cafe con leche leche. And leche is all you get. I ask for the smallest cup, which is disturbingly called "tall" and a double shot of espresso. The milk is barely colored. Finally, I've taken to ask for a double shot of coffee and half the milk. Still a little milky, but better.

So, you ask, why go to Starbucks in the first place. Like the mountain, because it's there. Because I need some coffee and wherever I am, including the Florida Turnpike, there's a Starbucks promising something better than the watered down coffee of old-fashioned truck stops.

I hear the company's in trouble because they've grown too much. Too many outlets give us customers no sense of belonging. Maybe if they just held back on the milk and pumped up the java that lovin' feeling will return. At least I will return.

A fine point

"Gallego, where have you been?"

She was tall with light brown skin, a tight dress and strapless sandals. And she walked in as if she owned the place, as if she owned every place. The man she was talking to was older and spoke Spanish with the distinc accent of his native Galicia -- e.g. all "o's'' became "u's''.

I could've been watching teatro bufo, Cuba's traditional music-hall theater where the typical characters included el gallego -- an immigrant from Spain's Galicia region -- and la mulata -- a statuesque part-black woman. She and el negrito -- a very black man, usually a white actor in blackface -- would match wits with el gallego.

And this was not any gallego, but El Gallego Afilador, as his business is called -- the Galician knife sharpener -- on 3417 SW 8th Street - Miami - FL - 33135. Phone: (305) 447-8177.

"All knife sharpeners are gallegos,'' he tells me. "They've found them all the way in the Philippines.'' Since those Pacific islands were under Spanish rule, it makes sense that gallegos emigrated there. Galicia was poor once -- no longer -- like its cousin country, Ireland. The Irish and the gallegos are Celts and basically the same people. And like the Irish, who are also no longer poor, they emigrated when things got bad. The Irish to North America, the gallegos to the former Spanish colonies.

How they got into the knife sharpening trade, I don't know. But most certainly, they were a fixture of my Old Havana childhood, pushing a cart with a sharpening wheel and announcing their presence in the neighborhood by blowing on a Pan's pipe.

This gallego pushes no cart and blows no pipe. But he does sharpen knifes. And scissors. And even machetes. I take him my kitchen knives, each wrapped in newspaper so they won't cut anything, particularly me.

He chides me for being wasteful and shows me how to wrap all of them in only one sheet of paper. He keeps all my paper, however. "The secret of success is hard work,'' he says, adding, "and thrift.'' Like their other Celtic cousins, the Scots, gallegos have a reputation for obsessive thriftiness. This guy matches all the traits.

Some days later, I get my knives back (wrapped in the same newspaper sheet), and they're sharp. I cut up food at home like a demon, being careful not to take a finger off. I can handle knives, but I've had my share of cuts. I imagine el gallego must have too.

I deliberate on taking him my machete -- a small machetin, legacy of my late father. But I leave it dull at home. I've swung it before -- it was my dad's, and from what I hear, other Cuban dads', idea of a lawn mower. But though it would be cool to have a sharp machete at hand because it makes me feel like my ancestors who swung them precisely at gallego soldier in the Cuban War of Independence, I fear a wrong move might take a finger.

I like knives. And by extension, machetes and swords. But I like my extremeties more and fear my clumsiness more than my ancestors feared the army of the cruel Spanish crown.

Basking in Basque Bounty

Sabino Arana, Eneko Atxa, Aitor Basabe, Aitor Elizegi, Josu Ibarra, Jose Miguel Olazabaga. These names are as daunting to most Spanish speakers as they are to others. The Basque language is unlike anyother and has given Hispanic culture an array of tongue-twisters. Fortunately, Basque food is not daunting. Bacalao a la vizcaina and a number of other Basque dishes are familiar to the entire Spanish-speaking world.

Well, perhaps it was not daunting. Judging from the dishes served by the chefs whose names appear above at a press luncheon in Miami Beach this week, Basque cuisine has enthusiastically embraced the gastronomic revolution that has placed Spain at the forefront of the world's modern cuisines. The Basques are, in fact, an avant garde of that revolution.

Two appetizers were composed of tiny items -- I had my first thimble full of mashed potatoes -- that deconstructed traditional Basque fare. Quite nice, though they made me long for the originals, which I did not know, ignorant diner that I am -- my table neighbors, all serious gastronomes, were totally familiar with them.

Main courses brought down the challenge but kept up the quality. A broiled scallop was just that, a broiled scallop. And a chunk of grilled Spanish beef was also nothing but. In fact, "grilled" is an overstatement. The meat was served totally rare with barely a hint of crust. Although Latin Americans quite often like their steaks well done, I've heard more than one Spaniard complain that you can't get a properly rare steak in the U.S., by which they mean beef barely off the hoof. Or as a Florida good old boy I knew in my Gulf Coast youth used to say, "just cripple'em and drive'em past.''

I skipped dessert, not because it didn't promise to be delicious, but because I was late for a meeting. No matter. With the taste of that ultra rare beef still stimulating ancestral carnivorous instincts carried over from the Stone Age, I left the lunch totally pleased.

A Family Bacalao Recipe

Laura Gonzalez is kind enough to share her family recipe for bacalao con garbanzos -- codfish with chickpeas. She has been making it for Friday dinner for the past 25 years! Enjoy. And feel free to post responses to how it turned out.

I soak the Bacalao with the Garbanzo beans over night.

Next morning take the Bacalao out and empy the water.

Cover the garbanzo beans with water and cook until

soft.

In a skillet make a "sofrito" with garlic, onions,

green or red peppers, tomato sauce and pimentos.

Simmer for about 30 minutes.

Once the garbanzos are soft, mix the bacalao with the

garbanzos and cook for about one to two hours. Add

potatoes too.

He who cuts the codfish

El que corta el bacalao -- an old Spanish-language expression that denotes the man, from the time when cod was a source of wealth and he who cut the codfish was the one in charge of distributing such wealth.

Cod is more expensive than ever, but it's no longer the wealth of nations. It is, however, the wealth of kitchens, or at least the savory dish that comes from them. In Miami, the man is Jaime Perez, the Basque chef at Sinfonia (4825 SW Eighth., Coral Gables; 305-445-1103), who makes the best bacalao a la vizcaina that a reader inquired about. Enjoy!

Actually, another chef is also the man. Fernando Santos, chef/owner of Coimbra (4239 W. Flagler, Miami; 305-446-3633), a Portuguese restaurant with a plethora of that country's great salt-cod dishes.

Either way, you can't lose. Read about them Thursday (March 3) in the Food section of The Miami Herald.

Cod and Caribbean

History, even in gastronomy, is a tragedy, but one that can eventually have happy endings. This Thursday's Food section in The Miami Herald has my story on salt-cod, a staple of the national cuisines of Portugal and the Basque provinces -- of Spain and France. With a Basque immigration to the Spanish Caribbean, bacalao, as it's called in Spanish (not unlike the Portuguese and Italian words), became classic dishes of countries like Puerto Rico and my native Cuba. But salt-cod, or saltfish, as it's called there, is also a classic in the West Indies.

The reason for this is not a pretty picture. Slavery.

The "seconds" of salt-cod were dumped, if you will, on the sugar plantations of the Caribbean, where this food became a cheap source of protein to fuel the slaves' harrowing 16-hour work day. But from such terrible beginnings came great cooking.

But things have a way of righting themselves. Today, saltfish is a Caribbean classic. And it's not the rejects of the Basque and Portuguese trade.

At B&M Market (B&M Market, 219 NE 79th St., Miami; 305-757-2889), owner Nafeeza Ali cooks saltfish from fine looking loins of cod imported from Canada, and she serves it with ackee, that glorious West Indian fruit/vegetable, or calalloo, to my taste the best greens ever.

Salt-cod fritters are popular all over the Caribbean as well, both in the big and small islands. With an ice-cold Caribbean beer or a glass of tropical fruit juice, the fish from chilly waters has found its tropical home.

Of chefs, celebrity, business, lust and vampires

Covering the most upmarket event at the South Beach Food & Wine Festival was not my usual beat. In fact, the only time I covered a festival anything before was going to the kitchen where the chefs were prepping for a major event at a too-hot-for-you SoBe hotel. It was great being there with the cooks, who were all enthusiastic about their food and even offered samples to anyone who cared to taste. I guess I like it better on the working-stiff side of the fence, probably an old New Left knee-jerk response, who knows?

At the Jean-Georges Vongericheten tribute dinner, I ate pretty well, I confess, plus I recall meals at two of his restaurants with fondness. Vong, in particular, knocked me out. Not just the food -- fusion with Southeast Asian traditions was just beginning and lemongrass was not yet available at your neighborhood supermarket -- but the service, which was incredible. No sooner had I thought of something I might want that a restaurant staff member was there with it. I suspected Jean-Georges might have learned some black magic in his Asian forays. Or that some terrible punishment was inflicted on any staff that performed at anything but Jedi level. Worked for me.

Since then, however, celebrity chefs have become, like the Britneys and Paris, all too present, all too fabulous, all too celebrated. I had the good fortune of dining at Emeril in New Orleans when the chef was the new kid in town -- and what a town! It was grand. I never suspected there would be almost as many Emerils as Starbucks, nor that his 15 minutes would get stretched out by the Food Channel.

Except for a handful of true superstars -- mostly the ones who made a serious contribution to the art -- chefs have been little more than gifted domestics, hired by restaurant owners or -- as it still happens -- rich families. Kind of like butlers or valets, though come to think of it, there are celebrity valets now. It's a good democratic thing that someone can rise and rise by cooking. Bravo! But celebrity is a dangerous temptation and I wonder if a chef has to choose between being an artist and making a ton of money. I know some who unabadshedly choose the latter. And some who are obsessive about making great food and everything else is second place.

Celebrity makes some demands. One is visual. Celebs have to be foxes. In gastronomy that has only partially caught on. Due to the nature of the business, some celebrity chefs are tubby. But some, particularly the female, are alluring. They exploit it, that's for sure, offering more than their dishes to the camera. Nothing wrong with hot chicks. But it's the food, no?, that's what matters, or is it?

I can't exactly post how my appetites respond to such stimuli. But with some of these beauties it's not exactly their cuisine... oh, this is a blog in a family newspaper. Let's just remember and extrapolate the words of the divine Count, "I never drink... wine.''

Cuban online

A new blog by food enthusiast Hilda Alvarez focuses on Cuban food and gives step-by-step recipes of the classics. Best of all it's illustrated with photos. Well worth it. Visit http://cubanfood.blogspot.com/.

Spanish cuisine on TV

Coming soon to WLRN or a public TV station near you, Made in Spain, a food series that travels through that country in search of gastronomic delights. Check it out at  www.josemadeinspain.com.

Pizza Latina

Actually, all pizza is Latina, if by that one means from the folk who originally spoke Latin, the Italians -- actually, the Romans, but let's give it to the entire peninsula plus its islands. But besides the Cuban pizza I wrote about in the paper earlier, there are plenty of Argentine pizzas. I will have more to say on Argentine-Italian food in the paper later, but for the time being I'm intrigued by pizza.

Che Soprano's, reviewed this Thursday in the Food section of The Miami Herald -- en ingles, as I have to always say south of Broward and west of U.S. 1 -- serves terrific pizza, which I assume is as Italian as the rest of the restaurant(s). I'm particularly fond of pizza bianca, perhaps from a lifetime of overdosing on the tomato-sauce kind, and Che Soprano's is particularly good: a thin crunchy crust and a luscious topping of cheeses.

What is your favorite Latina pizza? For that matter, what is your favorite pizza. I'd be glad to report my findings, but given the number of pizzerias out there, that might take years. If anyone wants to check in with a particularly good pizza, I promise to check it out if I haven't already.

My own pizza history begins in Havana in the late '50s, when pizza arrived as a sexy and trendy Italian import. Later, in Tampa, the Sicilian bakeries made what they called pizza: big pans of thick dough barely brushed with tomato (paste?) and, I think, a slight sprinkling of oregano. A hungry teen, I devoured them, though their taste was less than subtle or intriguing. Real pizzerias were opening up and my family went to them, moved by the impulse of our Havana life.

Some years later I'd be in school in Indiana, where pizza was the students' mainstay. South of Chicago, Indiana was influenced by that city's notions of pizza and what I found was better than anything I'd tasted in Florida or Cuba. Or so I thought. One must factor in inexperience and the insatiable hunger of a young man barely out of adolescence. And the beer.

I spent a few years in a small Connecticut city where two entire towns had moved to, lock, stock and barrel, from Sicily. But the pizza was nowhere. That is, there was pizza, but less than savory.

A bit later, in Pennsylvania, things got more interesting. But pizza was not the dominant note. Philadelphia style cheese steak sandwiches were -- a judge deciding a case of a crime of passion was quoted in the newspaper describing the sleaziness of a relationship that began "in a greasy cheese steak joint.'' I was very far from trendy Havana pizzerias. But cheese steaks and pizzas were more or less the same thing: spiced meat and Italian veggies on a bready bed.

New York introduced me to two conflicting phenomena. One was the existence of a pizza joint in every block, and not bad pizza either. The other was New Yorkers' abominable habit of rolling up a pizza so they could eat it on the run. If they want to roll up their food, why don't they eat tacos, like they do on the West Coast? The pizza-as-taco entering the mouth of a rushed New Yorker is not a pretty sight.

Still, New York had good pizza everywhere, great pizza in some places and extraordinary pizza in one or two spots. Whenever I got the pizza jones, all I had to do was take a short walk.

Miami brought me to pizza cubana and pizza argentina. The latter, given the country's Argentine heritage, I expected to be good and was not disappointed. The former can be anywhere from interesting to weird. And I'm sure there's pizza from Colombia, Venezuela, Brazil, out there in our multiculti zone. If you know where and it's good, let me know.

Given the life I've led, it's plausible my last words will be: a large pie, half pepperoni, half sausage, extra cheese all over.

Oh yeah, I don't mind anchovies. But that's for another post.