Consumed

Peninsulares y Criollos

Hispanophilia and hispanophobia run in parallel countermesure along Latino cultures. The very choice of the word "Latino" over "Hispanic" is hispanophobic, a rejection of our cultures' "European", i.e. Spanish, roots in favor of our Latin American identity. Rejection of Spain is a tradition among folk who once fought Spaniards for independence and who, at least in name only, revere our non-European traditions.

Hispanophilia is just as strong, fueled by an immigration from Spain that continued well after Latin countries won independence from the metropolis. Some of those immigrants were my grandparents and part of their brood, half of whom were born in Spain and the other half in Cuba.

That meant my grandmother had to serve two equal but separate sides with her meals. Potatoes for the peninsulares -- those born in the Iberian peninsula -- and rice for the criollos -- those born in the island of Cuba. Spaniards seldom eat white rice, Cubans and other Latinos can't think of a meal without it.

In countries with strong Spanish immigration, these currents have class associations. When U.S. Latinos first developed political consciousness, their knowledge of Latin American history was scant. Thus, they did not know their Hispanophobia aligned them with Latin American oligarchies, precisely the "white" bourgeoisie their ideology rejected. The old, and often powerful, Latin American families were the ones who waged the wars of independence and fostered a republican distaste for the metropolis that they believed oppressed them. The immigrants, whose nostalgia fueled Latin American hispanophilia, often came from the peasant classes of Spain and were snubbed by the oligarchies.

So next time you eat chickpea soup remember an affection for such Spanish flavors hails from "the teeming masses yearning to be free" that, fleeing oppressive oligarchies in Spain, sailed west to the Spanish-speaking land of opportunities. And when you eat yuca con mojo meditate on how much rich, white criollos enjoyed these "Latino" dishes their mixed-blood domestics cooked for them.

History makes suckers of us all. So we might as well eat everything.

Le Thanksgiving, c'est formidable!

"What's that?" my daughter asked, pointing at the dish full of something red, still bearing the shape of the can. It was then that I realized that at 13 years of age, she had never seen, never mind tasted, cranberry sauce.

This year I thought I'd make a more or less traditional American Thanksgiving dinner. Not that I, or someone else in my extended family, never roast a turkey. It's just that when it's up to others it's likely to be a Cuban/Puerto Rican turkey, the bird seasoned like a suckling pig and, in the end, tasting like one. And if it's me, well, there have been turkeys from Italian recipe books, Portuguese, you name it.

My "American" turkey with trimmings was a novelty, perhaps too much so. Was I depriving my kids from their U.S.A. heritage? I believe in heritages, all of them, which is why it's so much fun to eat all kinds of food. And often, when in the company of folk not from this country, which in Miami is often (not always Latinos, don't jump to conclusions; I've been at gatherings with Canadians, French and Peruvians, and not an "American" in sight), I sometimes insist on contributing traditional American food. Like a North Carolina shrimp casserole. Well, not at Thanksgiving. Still, that my daughter did not recognize cranberry sauce came as something of a shock.

A few minutes later, my 15-year old son walked in the kitchen and repeated the, "what's that?" Oh boy, so much for heritage.

In truth, the turkey was not all that "American." Or rather, it was American in the sense that the recipe came from an American chef, reproduced in last year's Thanksgiving issue of Saveur magazine. Lots of apples, which always strikes me as an American flavor, and a spot of Calvados, which reminds me that other folk, like the French, really love apples -- at the risk of sounding un-American I will confess to preferring tarte tatin to apple pie.

There were American pies for dessert, but they seemed like a lazy store-bought afterthought from the family members in charge of the last course. I comforted myself with a piece of baguette and some brie. If I could travel back in time I would introduce this simple Gallic pleasure to the Pilgrims and the Indians and say, get used to it, mes amis, the people of this land will consume French bread and cheese much more than they will eat turkey.

Big Bird

Does anyone agree with Brillat-Savarin's opinion that turkey is better than pheasant? Does anyone eat pheasant? And the obvious, if turkey is so great why do we eat it only once a year?

Actually, we do eat it all the time. Deli counters are filled with turkey meats: mesquite smoked turkey, honey turkey, Southwestern turkey, among many others. And the meat section shows ground turkey, turkey Italian sausage, turkey cutlets (an Italian classic, actually). When the "health" movement that provoked the I-don't-eat-red-meat attitude hit, there was a boom of recipes in which turkey replaced beef -- the local recipe book Miami Spice has one for turkey picadillo, although I still have to see that at Cuban restaurants.

The Cuban turkey tradition is also, more or less, a once a year thing. Except not Thanksgiving, which, to be fair, Cuban-Americans embraced heartily ("It's like Christmas except you don't have to shop for gifts," someone told me), but Christmas Eve.

Nochebuena in my Cuban childhood always involved both suckling pig and stuffed turkey, the latter filled with a ground nuts and meats dressing that my undeveloped taste buds found too rich then and made me love American bread stuffing when I discovered it. The turkey got dropped in the Miami Nochebuena, perhaps because Cuban-Americans had already their fill only a month earlier. Another Nochebuena main course, guinea hens, makes only sporadic appearances north of the Florida Straits.

Puerto Ricans, whose tastes are not unlike Cubans', conflate pavo (turkey) and lechon (suckling pig) into the pavochon. No, it's not like a turducken, not a turkey inside a pig or vice versa. It's simply acknowledging that no one really likes turkey so if you must have one first cook it so it tastes like pork. That involves a heavy hand with a garlic, citrus and spices marinade.

American gastronomes attack the turkey conundrum by going rarefied. Thus, wild turkey for Thanksgiving, a very real tradition in certain parts of this country where a real man will go out and shoot his bird to feed his family -- and leave it to his wife to pull out the birdshot. Or heirloom turkeys, which you must order a year in advance so they will raise one for you. Or brining the turkey. Tastings, however, have shown that one of the best turkeys is good old Butterball, available at any supermarket anywhere. Go figure. And one of the best I've ever cooked was a generic turkey from a lady whose husband works for a local politico and helps distribute Thanksgiving turkeys to the poor (the poor who voted for the politico, I think) and gets to keep one for his troubles. They being an older, childless couple with no use for a big frozen beast, gave me theirs once. I roasted it and it was tender and juicy throughout. So much for fine gastronomy.

And every once in a while, months and months from any turkey holiday, I find a very small turkey at the supermarket and roast it. It reminds me of the ones that shared the table with suckling pig in the Nochebuenas of my childhood, back when I lived in an underdeveloped country where we had yet to learn how to put turkeys on steroids, or whatever pumps them to such mindboggling sizes.

Of course, back then we bought them live, and I remember a gobbler tied up in the utility back balcony of our Havana apartment. I don't recall witnessing the lethal passage, only the gobbler and the roast Nochebuena turkey. But I do recall a movie, Giant (with James Dean!), in which a little kid thinks of a live turkey as a pet and then discovers it roasted on Thanksgiving and starts to cry.

Perhaps the pathos of the scene was based on the fact that too many Americans do not really like turkey and that Thanksgiving, in spite of all the menus in all the magazines and newspapers, is a sad table day. Let them eat pheasant!

Bringing It All Back Home

I'm tempted to say that earthiness is back in cuisine, but it never really went away. Nothing did. Nothing new under the sun, but nothing old gone from it either.

No sooner had nouvelle cuisine raised its head that there was a backlash, as some gourmands expressed preference for a Parisian bistro that had never earned a Michelin star because its bathroom was not clean enough and where the chef/owner apparently had never heard of cholesterol. The prissy diet-consciousness of this new cooking was dumped by some, in preference of big fat goose livers, creamy butter and everything porcine.

I still remember a recipe from the bistro that ran in the NY Times -- or was it from the NY restaurant that aped its cuisine? -- that was so simple I can reproduce it here in a few words. Boil some potatoes, preferably Idahos, until done. As soon as cool enough to handle peel and mash them roughly with a wooden spoon, with a stick of butter and some salt, until the spuds are a mess of chunks. Melt another stick of butter in an iron skillet and dump the rough-mashed potatoes in them, cooking them until brown on one side. Flip, as in a fritatta or a Spanish tortilla de patatas, and brown on the other side. Flip again onto a serving plate. Adorn -- the recipe called for concentric circles -- with chopped up garlic and parsley. Eat.

New American Cooking, nouvelle cuisine's love child, inherited some of its parental prissiness. Again, the reaction did not take long. One sign was the passion for fresh cod -- previously a fish considered too vulgar for serious cuisine -- served with a puree of potatoes and basil. Or a similar passion for oxtail and short ribs. The latter rages on.

Reporting a food story at important chef restaurants I was served braised short ribs at both Talula (210 23rd St., Miami; 305-672-0778) and Michy's (6927 Biscayne Blvd, Miami; 305-759-2001). Different recipes, but both comfort food. There was a time when such basic meat would never appear in a fine menu. Today it's all over the place, in both restaurants and celebrity chef cookbooks.

While what these restaurants do with short ribs may not be your mother's short ribs, they're not that far from the either. And though there are plenty of restaurants that do amazingly fanciful dishes, the trend toward the earthy continues to grow, particularly as the local/regional/sustainable/organic movement takes root in the culinary community and moves beyond the vegan/hippie asceticism of years past into the sybaritic restaurant scene. Save the earth, yes, but have a martini while you ponder the ecologically correct menu.

I'm down with that.

Prudence is, if not the better part of valor, the worthier part of cooking. Years ago, in the Samana Peninsula of the Dominican Republic I found a group of French expats who ran restaurants for the region's then infant tourist trade -- many so-called Green Tourists from Europe, who arrived with nothing more than a backpack. Some of these French folk ran restaurants, sometimes set up in an old fisherman's shack, where one would find simple but elegant tablecloths and wine glasses -- and always a nice wine collection.

The dishes were also French. Or rather a wonderful mix -- I resist the overused word "fusion", which these days translates as food that's neither here nor there -- of local products and French kitchen knowhow. One memorable dish was grouper in Nantua sauce. Nothing innovative about it. The fish was what was available. The sauce what the French owners knew how to make.

But, and here's the rub, the menu also included stewed goat, chivo guisado, a Dominican classic. I asked how they made it and was told they simply let the Dominican cooks do what they wanted.

That attitude summed up for me why French culinary tradition is still the benchmark. It's a question of discipline and restraint. Undoubtedly, traditional French sauces can't be improved upon, and poured on a fresh filet of a fine regional fish like grouper it will create a magnificent dish. But Dominican stewed goat can't be improved upon either, so the French owners' attitude of lassier-faire was absolutely correct.

I tried both dishes and they were both great.

No reason to stay with French phrases. How about "if it ain't broke, don't fix it.'' Some chefs know this, too many don't. More on the former -- why dwell on the latter and ruin our appetites? -- in our area in a later post.

Marrakesh Express

I wouldn't presume to call it an Act of God. Perhaps the act of a minor god who presides over gluttony. Driving north on Ponce de Leon Blvd. in Coral Gables,I found an empty parking meter space right in front of Les Halles.

It's a brasserie and, of course, a basic is steak frites, which I've eaten there often. But the reason I obeyed the sign from the gluttony deity was my hunger -- and having skipped breakfast and gone late into the lunch hours without food, it was quite literal -- for something else.

Merguez. Moroccan lamb sausage -- with frites, of course, and fiery harissa sauce.

I've always loved sausage. All kinds. Fresh, dry, spicy, bland, even sausage patties -- though not looking like sausage, they are not as exciting visually. When I was a kid, I lusted after butifarras at cheap cafes, which my parents kept me from eating, possibly because they were greasy and gross, which is quite likely the very reason I wanted them.

Later, living in Washington Heights in Manhattan, I would eat Dominican butifarra, which tasted very much like the Cuban ones. At Miami supermarkets I can get Cuban butifarra; however, since they are made by the same company that makes Nicaraguan, Argentine, Colombian, Spanish, you name it, sausage, I do wonder about its authenticity.

Argentines call their fresh sausage chorizo, but I grew up giving that name only to Spanish dry sausage. What I didn't know, until I lived in Spain for a few months, was that there were so many different kinds of chorizo -- for boiling in a bean stew, for frying and eating as tapas, for slicing cold as a snack or sandwich filling. And from different regions of Spain. Then there's Mexican chorizo, which though red like the Spanish is soft and crumbly.

Andouille has become so popular -- along with all Creole and Cajun dishes -- that it's no longer a rarity, so anyone can make gumbo -- or jambalaya or add it to red beans and rice. Away from an adouille source, I've made gumbo with plain old Southern smoked sausage, preferably hot. However, there is a French andouille and, may my brothers and sisters in the much mistreated Big Easy forgive me, I do like it better. Though I should just say it's different.

Which brings me to merguez. Until I tasted it for the first time years ago, I didn't know you could make sausage out of anything but pig -- I've also had buffalo (bison, to be precise) sausage in Colorado, never mind the chicken sausage that came out of the "healthy" food trend. Merguez seems like the answer to the problem of eating your sausage and being true to Islam too. For whatever historical reason, the Moroccan lamb sausage rivals its porcine cousins in my book.

Merguez rules!

Comments online regarding my Cuban restaurants story suggest covering Hialeah. It's in the works. We are planning another Hialeah restaurant roundup and, as in the first one, a number of restaurants will be Cuban.

A number of out-ot-towners express serious jones for Cuban food. Nostalgia is the most powerful aperitif. When I lived away from Miami I'd come to town and walk into Latin American Cafeteria on Coral Way with friends, also Cuban and also non-Miamians, going gaga over the Cuban sandwiches, the croquetas, everything. We were wildly effusive and the locals looked at us as freaks. Which we were.

Living here, where Cuban food is everywhere, can tame that freakishness. One grows more discriminating. Though, in truth, my biggest case of the Cuban food jones came in the mid-80s, when I made my first trip back to Cuba. The island in those pre-paladar days was denuded of food. Even the upscale tourist restaurants were iffy -- the state-run ones where Cubans could eat a slice of pizza served stuff that was positively inedible, even though Cubans would stand in line to get some because that was all there was. As soon as I landed in MIA I told the fellow Cuban-American who picked me up, "take me to Little Havana!'' I think we went to El Pub or La Esquina de Tejas. I had a big plate of tasajo with moros and boniato. Was it great? All I know is that there had been nothing like it in Cuba.