Consumed

Still in a Spanish mood

I slipped into Las Tapas de Rosa (449 SW 8th St. Miami; 305-856-9788f) for lunch. The special was paella and a colleague who was having it told me it was quite good. Still, I didn't want that much food so, once again, I ordered their callos a la madrilena, Spain's classic tripe dish. Since Rosa, the owner, is herself from Madrid and a home cook (her restaurant kitchen is the first time she's cooked professionally), I knew her callos were tops.

Indeed, while practically all Spanish restaurants serve either callos a la madrilena or a la gallega (with chick peas), Rosa's are unique. For one, they don't melt in the clay pot. I know, I know. For some folk to be bluntly reminded by texture and appearance that one is eating cow's stomach can be less than appetizing. Still, the ever so slight chewiness seemed right for people who love offal. And the taste, oh, the taste. Something hot, I imagine the spiked chorizo that is an alternative to the usual mild style. And morcilla as well, which gave the dish even more bite.

Rosa has boasted that madrilenos who sample her callos have told her they're better than what you get in Madrid. Sounds preposterous, but I believe her. Certainly as good as you can get in Miami.

Will the real octopus raise one of its eight hands?

Following Hilda's suggestion I went to El Gallegazo (7463 SW 24th St., Miami; 305-261-4935) for some pulpo a la gallega -- octopus boiled until tender and seasoned with olive oil, salt and Spanish paprika. The latter is important for Hungarian-style paprika, though fine for goulash, does not give the right flavor to Spanish dishes. Indeed, their pulpo was quite good and, most importantly, quite tender. Nonetheless, I did not find it any better than what I have at my favorite gallego haunts, La Taberna de San Roman and Meson Ria de Vigo, nor, up the street from Meson, at Xixon. Pulpo a la gallega requires good ingredients and a good hand, that's all. But the same can be said about so much downhome cooking, from Galicia to Alabama.

Which brings me to greens. The other suggestion was for their lacon (ham shank), which they serve boiled or baked. But without greens. Lacon con grelos (ham shank with greens) is the ham cooked with choizo, potatoes and greens. As always, there's nothing like the real thing and that can be only found in Spain. Gallegos will tell you that Americsn potatoes are nothing like their chachelos. And many a gallego restaurant, like this onhe, will not serve lacon con grelos because they can't get the right greens. Me, I'll settle for either collards or turnip greens. And small Yukon potatoes will do -- as for chorizo, you can buy Spanish imports these days, but we've been making decent chorizo this side of the Atlantic for a long time. In other words, my appetite for Spanish food trumps my desire for strict authenticity.

The cook at El Gallegazo, I overheard, is Honduran. The help is all Central American. The owner, though, is always there and he's gallego. And the place looks about as funky Spanish as can be. I like it.

Fried eggs on everything

Penelope Casas, the Julia Child of Spanish cookbooks in America, once said that, researching a book of regional cuisines, she asked restaurant owners and chefs all over Spain what their favorite dish was. Invariably, Casas reported, it was fried eggs and fried potatoes, sometimes with fried chorizo. The reason? That's what their moms made for them at home.

Fried eggs are comfort food for Americans as well, except that here we only eat them for breakfast. Not in many European and Latin American countries. While steak and eggs is on all American breakfast menus -- usually the priciest item, unless there's eggs Benedictine -- bistec a caballo (steak on horseback) is a common course for lunch or dinner in most Latin countries, and by "Latin" I include European countries where they speak Romance languages, like France.

Hamburgers a caballo are not unusual. So much so that I recall reading an anti-American leftist rant by a Latin American leftist that included a bitchy aside about gringos going to McDonald's and eating a hamburgersa a caballo, which was somehow a sign of American inmorality and decadence. Macburgers can be way over the top in size and trimmings but I don't recall any fried eggs -- actually, a hamburger made with good quality ground beef and cooked rare is good with a fried egg on top. An egg over a piece of meat dispenses with the need for a sauce: the egg yolk is sauce enough and, actually, is a good match for meat. Cholesterol count is another matter. But if one eats eggs Benedictine one is already playing cholesterol Russian roulette -- and possibly worth the risk.

At the Spanish-restaurant in New Jersey where I met Ms. Casas, she and her husband, a Spanish-born New York physician, ordered something not unlike what their (they had worked on the book together) research had discovered. Dr. and Mrs. Casas asked for breaded veal cutlet over a bed of home-fried potatoes and a fried egg on top. Since Penelope Casas was a fashionably thin woman, I wondered where all those calories went.

I don't have to wonder where they go in my case, but still I couldn't resist following in the Casas' footsteps when I found that at Manolo (Manolo, 7300 Collins Ave., N. Miami Beach (305) 868-4381), the local branch of a Spanish/South American coffee-shop, they had milanesa (breaded cultet) with egg -- and fries -- on the menu. They also serve steak sandwiches, with skirt steak topped with a variety of goodies, like cheese, palm hears and, yes, fried egg. It's delicious in a vulgar, comfort-food way.

Not that I mean anything derogatory by vulgar. Rather, I refer to the fact that this is not elite cuisine, but answers to a pop sensibility, in this case Latin. You may want to try these excesses, either at Manolo's coffee-shop or at home -- if you're willing to do the damage to your waistline or have the metabolism that has allowed Ms. Casas to write about, and devour, such sinfully voluptous treats.

Borinquen

That Puerto Rican pig-out -- which included roast pig -- at Nochebuena gave me the jones for more Puerto Rican food. So driving along Red Road (57th Ave.), I spotted Old San Juan Restaurant 1200 SW 57th Ave., Miami; 305-263-9911)and made an almost too sudden turn into a parking space up front. I knew they had a lunch buffet ($8.95) that included cuajito and was curious to know what that was -- my knowledge of Puerto Rican cuisine is spotty, having never lived in the island.

It turned out to be pig's stomach -- the Spanish word panza sounds gentler and kinder -- cooked in a criollo sauce, same as the mondongo -- cow's stomach, i.e. tripe -- next to it. I tried both. I had never had panza and now know why Puerto Rican food fanciers love it. It's texture is smoother than the honeycomb of tripe. I had to have seconds.

Other items on the buffet, all addictively tasty, inlcuded garbanzos with chorizo, which is basically Spanish; a beef stew with fork-tender meat; chicken and noodle soup; white rice; red beans; and chicharron de pollo, which is fried hacked chicken that's been flavored with a garlic marinade and sauce. There is mofongo on the menu, as well as a number of other dishes, including a nice salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, onions, cucumbers and peas -- same ingredients as your standard Cuban restaurant salad, but much fresher and nicer.

The bold flavor of Spanish or Argentine wine goes well with the equally bold seasoning of Spanish-Caribbean food, but, in truth, in that part of the world we're partial to beer. Of the brews available I chose Presidente -- they had Mexican Corona, but having tasted a superior Puerto Rican beer by the same name I regretted it's no longer made and, as far as I know, never imported. I figured Dominican beer would match Puerto Rican food and that, of course, gave me the jones for Dominican cooking.

Next time.

Gastrolinguistics

Language is a tricky issue in South Florida, with many locals getting annoyed when they hear anything but English. Leaving the politics of that issue aside, I can say that gastronomy is an exception, here and anywhere.

I've walked into a restaurant in New York's Chinatown where I had the hardest time understanding or making myself understood. Was I frustrated? Of course. Annoyed? No way. That linguistic hurdle meant only one thing: This was an authentic Chinese restaurant, where the staff, the clientele, and most importantly, the food was the real Chinese thing.

Things get to the point where waiters will put on a "foreign" act. Or at least a different kind of foreign. At an upscale Italian restaurant in San Antonio, the maitre d', who handled the orders, spoke with a thick Italian accent, when all the time I knew he was a homegrown Mexican-American. Even more pointedly, at a Miami French restaurant the waiter addressed a fellow Cuban-American and I in Franglais, i.e. a calculated mix of English and French. My friend, smelling a canard, and not a l'orange but more likely from Hialeah, talked to him in blunt street-Cuban Spanish, which the "French" waiter understood perfectly, yet refused to come out of character and continued to speak French -- the kind of French anyone who dines at French restaurants understands. Mamma Mia! Mon Dieu! Or rather: Que onda, guey? Que vola, asere?

So it was with great joy that I found myself having a hard time on the phone with La Rotisserie, a new casual French joint in Surfside ( 9487 Harding Ave., Surfside; 866-443-5954). When I went, indeed, everyone who worked there was French -- not faux French. And so was the food. As the name indicates, the specialty is roast chicken, but they also serve some casual dishes, daily specials and that bistro classic, steak frites.

Read about it in my restaurant roundup Thursday in The Miami Herald's Food section. Or look for it online. So, to put a twist on the old Latino standup line, you're in South Florida now, parlez francais!

Spanish cuisine

"Do Anglos like Spanish food?", a fellow Hispanic asked me recently. Gastronomes do, I replied, explaining how Spains's nueva cocina or cocina de autor had become the rage, El Bulli's the world's most celebrated restaurant, and its chef, Ferran Adria, the most influential chef.

That, however, had little to do with what most folk, Hispanic or otherwise, know as Spanish food. Only if one looks closely can one find the Spanish origins in the foams and other laboratory inventions this new cuisine has spawned. And, in our city, the answer might be: no, for the most part the diners at Spanish restaurants are of Hispanic origin. Of course, that is also true at Italian restaurants.

Spanish cuisine was not very well known in the U.S. until the World's Fair of 1964, where the Spanish Pavillion was a hit. There are Spanish restaurants in New York that hail from that time. And I've met flamenco artists in Miami who came here for the fair and stayed -- the Spanish Pavillion also launched a passion for flamenco.

This Spanish Imposition was due, for in the early 60s Spain was the favorite destination of the Jet Set, the era's globetrotting elite, and they made everything Spanish fashionable. The cuisine that came out of that time was not exactly nuanced or particular about Spain's regional diversity. For the most part, it was rustic, colorful and cheap. Paellas became popular and led to the misconception that this was Spain's national dish, as opposed to a regional specialty.

This paella-and-flamenco trend was well matched by the tastes of American Hispanics, Cuban-Americans among them, for whom things Spanish were viewed through a veil of notalgia for origins and the Creolization that took place when Spanish food crossed the Atlantic. Thus, paella was seldom if ever the original wetlands dish -- not unlike some Lousiana dishes -- of Valencia, where the dish orignated and where the meats, instead of seafood, were rabbit and snails. And the rice was cooked soft, not al dente, like Valencians like it. I know Cuban-Americans who claim paella in Valencia is no damn goood because the rice is undercooked -- the pasta of my Cuban childhood was also boiled until soft.

Miami is awash in Spanish restaurants, some of them run by Spaniards who did stints in the New World, or who have accomodated their offerings to Caribbean tastes, e.g. plantains on the menu. Nueva cocina has not fared well here either; the restaurants that offered it were forced to close.

Is there authentic Spanish food in Miami? Yes. Xixon (1801 SW 22nd St., Coral Gables; 305-854-9350) serves the kind of tapas you'd find at a good Madrid bar. Ideas (2833 Bird Ave, Coconut Grove; 305-567-9074) focuses on the regional cuisine of Castilla y Leon. While Sinfonia (4825 SW 8th St
Coral Gables; 305-445-1103) specializes in the dishes of the Basque region. You can find the food of Galicia and Asturias in other spots, but the menu tends to include a number of dishes from other regions, including the ever-present paella.

What is your favorite Spanish restaurant? Postings, please.

A Young Food Critic

A while back I wrote a Consumed column on taking my daughter, then going on 12, to a "grownup" restaurant. I deliberately picked one that would take liberties with dishes -- the casual nuevo Latino restaurant Chispa. And I did not bring her older brother so she would be the only truly young person at the table.

Now, I though it was time to take the young man, who is 15, to an even more sophisticated spot. Not that he does not dine out; in fact, he was asking me to take him to a restaurant. Plus he enjoys the pleasures of a good table, good service and a fine menu. But so far our forays have been into places where some kind of traditional food is served. It was time to reach higher.

"This is the hottest spot in town,'' I told him as we walked into Michy's (6927 Biscayne Blvd
Miami, FL 33138; 305-759-2001). "And the chef, Michelle Bernstein, the most celebrated in South Florida." I wanted to let him know we was getting bang for our (well, my) buck.

Because we did not have a reservation we had a wait -- it was a Wednesday, right after New Year's, and I did not expect a crowd, but a crowd there was, proof that, indeed, it was a hot spot. We sat outside, by a heater that kept us warm during the recent cold spell, and I asked for a glass of Pinot Noir and something to snack on. "Some croquetas?", the waiter suggested. I agreed. When they came, the croquetas were light as a feather -- the opposite of the thick, starchy, but addictive missiles one gets at Cuban coffee counters -- and the inside was mostly a melted cheese. I dug into them, but number 3 son (two much older brothers from my earlier life) was not impressed. "They're not croquetas,'' he said. "They're cheese sticks." That almost ruined it for me as I realized that, yes, they were cheese sticks, albeit heavenly ones.

Inside, he expressed a desire for meat and when he heard about the ribs, he jumped on them. I explained that it would not be a rack of barbecue, but short ribs, with meat falling off the bone. He pronounced them only "OK" when he ate them. I had ordered an appetizer of American country ham, sliced paper thin, like serrano or prosciutto, which we both liked. I had a half-order of sweetbreak cutlet for my main course; it was lovely, but then I'm a sweetbread fan. My dinner companion passed on tasting it, saving room for dessert, which I, lacking his adolescent metabolism, do not indulge in -- I get fat enough without sweets.

Considering the dessert menu, he ordered a cuatro leches, Michy's take on what is now a classic Miami evolution of the Nicaraguan tres leches. At first, he was skeptical, but when he really dug in, he became more enthusiastic.

Still, my son was underwhelemed by the experience. Perhaps it was because Michy's has moved beyond the New Cooking expected of fine restaurants into the earthier dishes that forward-looking chefs like Bernstein are returning to. In other words, the food was not fancy enough to impress a young person. Nor was it traditional enough to feel like a young person's comfort food. Maybe to dig that groove one has to have traveled with American cuisine to its present settings.

There was a big "cowboy steak" special, and I realized we should've split that. Or maybe the lad would've devoured it by himself. Food is culture and culture takes a while to settle in. Taking a younger generation out to dinner is instructive because expectations are different. Of course, there are also individual differences. But age has something to do with it. And there are always surprises. In any case, the tabula rasa of a younger palate makes one reconsider one's preferences. Am I overly impressed by a chef's and a restaurant's reputations? Do I give high points to cultural developments I approve of? How much of what I taste is really taste, in the purse sense of flavor, or taste, in the sense of how my tastes have evolved? I would've given Michy's at least 3 stars. My son, two if that. Neither one of us holds the truth.

It all depends on the size of the dog

Some years ago, I thought it'd be wise to have a hangover cure ready to consume on January 1. The really old-fashioned kind, which consists of a hot, nourishing soup. In Paris, it used to be the classic French onion soup. I say "used to be" because the market district where it originated, Les Halles, some time ago was turned into the site for a museum. In my native Havana, revelers would also go to a market district to have sopa china, soup made by the local Chinese with supposedly magic curative powers. In Mexico, hangover cures are a fine art and a party often ends in the morning with a rich broth -- I onced made the mistake in Mexico of going home early and awoke the next morning feeling like death while everyone who had stayed for the restorative soup was ready to party again. In Cartagena, Colombia, it's a plunge in the ocean, while further inland it's a plunge in a very cold mountain stream; otherwise, Colombians suggest chugging a very cold beer. That is, of course, the famous hair of the dog: some alcohol will soothe the booze-withdrawal symptoms, although there's the temptation to just get wasted again.

But truth is I never need a remedy the first day of the year because I never party that hardy on New Year's eve. Don't know why really. Not motivated. Couple of drinks diluted by tons of food and that's it. Home not much later than any other party night.

So, if you were foolish enough to wipe yourself out last night, first, I hope you had a designated driver because the police set up sobriety checks. "Have I been drinking, officer? It's New Year's Eve, what the #@!&! do you think I've been doing?" Secondly, because it is truly dangerous to drive under the influence. And, finally, it's best not to wonder too far from home and, most assuredly, not take any major highways, which on any late night of the year in South Florida become Grand Prix race tracks -- though not as bad as in the 80s, when after midnight cars were driven by illegal substances not human beings. Still, if you did party, you should've made yourself some strong soup. If you didn't, here's a simple recipe for Spanish garlic soup.

Brown a lot of garlic in olive oil. Pur in broth -- from a cube will do, we're after a cure not a gourmet recipe. Toast a slice of French bread and put it in the bottom of a soup bowl. Crack an egg and slip it on top of the toast. Get the soup very, very hot and then pour it on the bowl. Consume.

If that doesn't work, try a shot of tequila and go back to bed.