Boots in the Oven

Horseman's Haven

What do you need after a raucous all night bachelor party? If you said grease, carbs and green chile you are totally right.

And an egg.

Serious chowing with friends.

God bless you Horseman’s Haven. Yup, this place was the only restaurant that made mine and Girlie’s absolutely must revisit list from our last trip to Santa Fe. Its straight up, no frills good food transcends its non-descript, hodgepodge pseudo-dive identity problem.

Shoved oddly behind a gas station, close to nothing in particular, this little unassuming diner has been churning out huge messy plates of deliciousness for locals and the college crowd for years.

The green chile cheeseburger laughs at your handheld attempts.

Even though they have recently renovated, you can’t shake the sense that the threadbare under layer is just behind the seams. Horse blankets still cover the vinyl benches, the odd assortment of pictures and nick-knacks hang unconcernedly at odd angles on the walls and the new karaoke machine is just as likely as not to have some crappy, falsetto, R&B song stuck on an endless loop.

Do People Seriously Go to School for This?

As we were jogging our way through the Dallas airport a couple of days ago, I couldn't help being momentarily distracted by this freudian dining experience that appears to be a group effort by Auntie Anne's and Nathan's.

I'm glad two big companies were involved in producing this excellent ad specimen.  I hate to think what might have happened if just one had been involved.

I swear I saw a woman cover her child's eyes as they went by.

Kickin' It in Santa Fe's Railyard Market

We have successfully returned from New Mexico. Friends have been partied with and married off. Green chile, red chile and honeyed sopaipillas have been eaten in copious amounts. Gruet winery stock is most certainly up. But the 105°F thermometer readings tell me that we’re squarely back in Austin. Or possibly the sun.

The trip, as expected, was seriously awesome. So instead of letting my shoes melt to the sidewalk or seeing if I can remove my fingerprints by grabbing my steering wheel, I thought I’d tell you about some prime Santa Fe action.

So many smudge sticks. So Santa Fe.

One of the best parts of this adobe covered New Mexican town is its sweet farmers’ market. It has new digs in a recently built throwback industrial space called the Railyard. The overflow of June vendors put our December experience to shame.

Even though I love it, every time we travel and explore local markets, it kind of feels like I’m rifling through a neighbor’s drawers. I mean some stuff is familiar but they always have so many different and unusual things. (Not that I go through my neighbors’ drawers. Sheesh. They totally keep their doors locked.)

I loved all of the cherries that are in season. Most people had these tiny, tart, bright red, pie cherries.

But occasionally we came across some plump, sweet, Rainiers.

The bakers that set up shop are amazing. This olive and sage flower loaf almost came back with us.

A Fridge Too Full.

Have you ever wondered what it looks like the night before me and Rachel go out of town after we have totally failed to plan and bought way too much stuff at the farmers’ market? Of course you have.

Basically, it devolves into a veggie cooking frenzy; a fire sale where Everything. Must. Go.

It started with the very last of the trout from the previous epic fishing adventure. I steamed it en papillote, the easiest and possibly most delicious way to cook a whole fish. Just lay the little guy on a piece of foil that’s about 3 times its size. Pat him dry, give him a liberal sprinkling of salt inside and out, stuff the cavity with some sliced garlic, a couple lemon wedges, and a sprig of whatever herb you need to get rid of.

Top with some sliced onions, and a hearty pour of good olive oil. Fold the foil over and crimp it all around to make a nice little pouch. Throw it into a 425°F oven for about 20 minutes (depending on the size of the fish) and you’re in business. Once you get the general idea, you can substitute, really, an almost infinite number of vegetables, fruits, herbs and spices.

To give our sea friend something to swim through (and to get it the hell out of my fridge) I cooked up a mess of lamb’s quarters, roasted some baby squash, poached cherry tomatoes in garlic butter, and tossed some small, baked new potatoes with a light mustard vinaigrette. My oh my.

Sure it may be enough food for me, the wifey, both cats, and a small but hungry sun bear, but that’s never stopped me before. I’m pretty sure the bear didn’t like the squash though.

-L. Pants

Furikake Please.

What’s the most recent obsession in the Boots household? Ponies? Designer drugs? The Jonas brothers? No, not this month. This month is all about furikake.

One producer proudly describes it as “crunchy powder rice topping,” as delicious as that sounds. At its base, it’s usually a mix of little nori strips and sesame seeds. The two are augmented by anything from dried Japanese mustard to carrot pellets to shaved bonito to any number of various vegetables, sea creatures and flavorants. 

I’m rather partial to the crispy yolk bits and the salmon myself. The stuff is really good for spicing up stirfrys and leftovers. It’s kind of salty, kind of sweet, full of umami and bursting with different texture combinations. Sometimes I steam rice just as an excuse to eat it.

Oddly enough, we were introduced to furikake in Tuscany- a land almost completely devoid of any hint of the Orient. You could find sushi but it cost as much as a new Vespa and tasted only slightly better. Luckily for us, an adorable Japanese girl in Rachel’s language class smuggled some over from the homeland.

She must have liked us because she would bring over packets and we’d sit around our loft with the lights dimmed passing a bowl of rice and umeboshi plums, trying not to let the floorboards squeak lest we alert the pasta police.

Back in the states it’s much easier to come by. Any asian grocery around stocks at least a few varieties. Do check the ingredients though as some companies tend to get a little gung ho with the additives. At about 4 bucks a jar, I highly recommend adding it to your pantry collection. Or buying me some.

-Logan

Mom's Taste

Whatever you call them – panchan, banchan, pantchan or just those countless tiny bowls of often unidentifiable tasties that cover the tables of all good Korean restaurants – we’ve stumbled on a place that does all the hard work for you so you can bust out an over the top Korean feast on the cheap, in the comfort of your own home. Naked bi bim bop anyone?

Mom’s Taste is a non-descript little door in the middle of an old school strip mall. With the exception of the miniscule two-word title, the whole front is marked only in Korean. The name is actually what drew me in as I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t have any affinity with my own mom’s penchant for cream of mushroom soup or powdered ranch dressing.

Walking in, you have two choices. On the left are dry goods- sesame oils, soy sauces, rices and such and on the right is a bank of coolers holding an entire cultural education at 38°F.

Row after row of varyingly sized little plastic tubs are filled with shoots, sprouts, roots, peppers, meats, fish and more squid than I thought possible. They’re pickled, candied, dried, fermented, fried and every combination thereof. All of it is made in house.

Some of the dishes are marked in English but a good portion remain enigmatically unnamed. Often it’s just as well though, since the translated ingredients tend to say things like codonopsis pilosula, and osmund. It’s not a store for the timid but with just of bit of moxie your efforts are well rewarded.

Taqueria La Canaria

Yellow is the new awesome.

In the continuing theme of taco-truck-obsession I have recently discovered yet another little enclave of Mexican yumminess.

I actually pass this truck all the time on my way to work. I haven’t eaten there though since powerful forces hate me and don’t want me to be happy. Recently (and lucky for me), its siren song of bright color and bubbly hand painted menu items proved too much and I found myself timidly sidestepping up to the little window to see what might be delicious.

The menu offered no real surprises. It was a basic blend of tacos, tostadas, soups and gorditas with a few specials that are mainly to be found on the weekends. I figured I needed to make up for lost time so I decided to order some of everything. (Rachel was inside a nearby gas station buying drinks so her powers of logic and moderation held no sway.)

The two nice ladies inside the box were from Veracruz and Guerrero and spoke zero English. Not a problem. I just do what I always do in situations like this. I open my mouth to confidently order away in my best restaurant Mexican and inevitably end up spouting poor Italian and garbled pidgin. I have a keenly honed talent for making an ass out of myself.

Taking pity on me, the ladies dished up some of the finest street food that I’ve had in this town for a while.

We started with an adorable tostada filled with al pastor. The generous chunks of fresh avocado and fine smear of beans were a great texture contrast to the crispy corn disks. (I loved how the tostada wore an extra one on top like a tiny hat.) The al pastor was a bit chewy but I was pleasantly surprised by the deep savoriness.

Who Said The Depression Wasn't Delicious?

About a week ago a friend of ours wrote and asked us what our naughty food indulgences are. He was inspired by this article that revealed the gastronomic weaknesses of some of San Francisco’s foodie elite.

I got to thinking about my own soft spots. (I’m not bitching, but it’s a total cop out to claim that jamón ibérico and homemade apricot pie are your food sins. Those aren’t meritless indulgences- those should be mandatory.)

I’m a fairly unmoored eater. I don’t have a lot of attachments; foods that I need to consume daily or weekly to feel fulfilled. As long as a dish is prepared with a little love and good ingredients, I’ll eat it and probably like it. New and different gets me all tingly.

That being said, for years I have secretly been icing saltine crackers and eating them tucked away in a kitchen corner or lurking beside the pantry door. Yup, my favorite is cream cheese frosting with Premium brand saltines. Original flavor.

I got it from my mom when I was a young kid helping her out with baking projects. Any leftover birthday or cupcake topping didn’t get tossed and we didn’t just lick it off the beaters. Nope. We would carefully pry open a new package of crispy, salty crackers and slather thick spoonfuls of super sweet creaminess on top.

A Dutch Baby Reunion.

Do you like baked goods? Do you have an affinity for unusual amounts of butter? Do you enjoy eating things named after young people from the Netherlands? If you answered yes to any of these questions, there’s a good chance that you, me, and this Dutch Baby can be friends.

About ten years ago, my wife (hot girlfriend at the time) introduced me to this strange hybrid between a pancake and a popover at the Original Pancake House. I was smitten. For whatever reason though, it sort of fell off my radar and I have encountered them only rarely in the years since.

Yesterday, I woke up with an extreme hankering for something sweet that I could bake in cast iron. (Yes. I know I have strange hankerings. Don’t change the subject.)

After an inadvisable period of estrangement, the Dutch Baby is back on my social calendar.

La Fogata Taco Trailer

I’m surprised by how often I’m surprised by my own ignorance. I really should be used to it by now.

But seriously, I obsessively read about food, eat it, write about it, photograph it, talk about it, roll around in it, and yet all too often I feel like Jethro at a Seder. “That there bitter herb sure do taste funny. Maybe if I tried it with one of them big ol’ crackers…”

Just this weekend I got taken to school by a little trailer not five blocks from my house. I love that Austin sports scores (hundreds?) of little mobile taquerias. My only regret is that I don’t get to eat at more of them, more often.

In an attempt to rectify this shortcoming, Rachel and I committed ourselves to lunch at La Fogata, a tiny white box that we’ve driven by countless times, parked at a self-serve carwash.

Walking up to it, I realized something wasn’t quite right. While the menu had some of the usual suspects in the taco and gordita categories, I had never heard of their specialties. This town is pretty good about providing regional Mexican cuisine if you know where to look. Areas like Jalisco, Oaxaca, and Michoacán are all represented; with a little footwork, excellent pozole, moles, and corundas can all be found lurking around.

To my delight though, I discovered that the amiable proprietress of La Fogata is from San Luis Potosí. Sure my brainiac (and gorgeous) wife had heard of the place but I was in decidedly uncharted territory.