Beer Chicken and Potatoes with Salsa Verde

 
I've never liked the taste of beer. I have a high school friend who deemed it was like drinking “carbonated piss”, but ever since last summer, I found myself slowly enjoying the bubblyness and developed a newfound respect for pee beer.

A few weeks ago, we got a taste of summer—in March. It was sunny, blue skies, I even drove to work with the window all the way down, letting the warm air blast through my hair. As the temperature continued to rise, I switched on the air-con at home, which would have been effective if I didn’t cook coconut lentil soup for dinner. Apparently burning hot dishes are better left for a cold winter’s night.

I still don’t know the difference between the various families of beer/ale/lagers/pilsners and always look up each one on Wikipedia when curiosity strikes, but I do know one thing’s for sure, beer makes food, both sweet and savoury, taste freaking awesome. 
 

This beer chicken, adapted loosely from Laura Calder’s French Food at Home, is a fine example of how an ordinary can of an everyday beverage can convert you. It’s a simple recipe, so simple in fact, I bet you can do it blindfolded. All you need is chicken pieces (I used chicken thighs—I’m a dark meat kinda girl), wash and pat them dry, then tuck in some bacon and plenty (and I mean plenty) of garlic cloves between the skin and scatter it over the roasting pan. Pour beer over the pan and stick it in the oven for about forty-five minutes, until the chicken is cooked through. 
 
Trust me, fifteen minutes in, your home will smell like a garlicky bacony microbrewery. You will wonder what took you so long to make this dish. You will find it hard, excruciatingly painful even, to wait for the chicken to cook, because at this point, it will smell so damn good. The good news (I promise there’s always good news) is you can crack open the same beer and lounge on your balcony, enjoying the beautiful sunset while your dinner bubbles away in the oven. 




If you’ve ever had drunk chicken, this is what the meat tastes like with a distinct bitter flavour. The chicken is exactly how it should be, moist, tender, juicy, laced with sharp garlic and smoky bacon. I highly recommend you eat this double-fisted, with your elbows on the table, chewing loudly and with a second (or third, or fourth, why stop there?) glass of cold beer on the side--it's the only way.

The words salsa verde have always allured me, its fancy name slides off the tongue like a slick dance move. I used Molly’s recipe which is a slurry of lime juice, cilantro, olive oil, jalapeno and lots of raw garlic, drizzled over plain baby potatoes to give it a kick. It’s not only pretty, but the acidity brings out the brightness in the beer chicken. In other words: try it. If were like me and think beer tastes like fizzy piss, this might just change your mind.

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Boeuf Bourguinon and Steamed Baby Potatoes in Parchment

This stew would have been much easier to make if I wasn’t distracted by Charlize Theron’s charming good looks. Let me explain. I don’t own a fancy wine opener, the only one I have is a cheap one I purchased at the LCBO a few years ago, it’s fairly dependable given I’ve successfully uncorked a number of wine bottles since then, but then I learned that when an awesome movie like The Italian Job is playing on TV, my focus should really be on opening the wine.



The wine opener I had was a simple metal corkscrew with a little lever that leaned on the bottle’s lips to lift up the cork. If I was smart enough, I would have began twisting at the cork’s centerpoint, but alas, Ms. Theron took my breath away and I had started twisted the cork to the side. When I tugged it out, there was a loud crack and I was left with a broken corkscrew in one hand and the remaining metal stuck snuggly in the cork (enter loud swearing).

I looked on YouTube, Google, and Chowhound on ways to solve my problem. Nothing. So for the next painstaking 93 minutes, I dug through the cork with a knife, scattering cork debris all over the kitchen instead of marinating the beef and vegetables for the stew. It took me the full length of the movie (and commercial breaks) to get through the damn cork. I hate cork.

But I don’t hate boeuf bourguinon. It’s miraculous how the simplicity of time can make everything taste so much better (except mold, I suspect that’s not very delicious, except I suppose cheese, since it is technically “mold” but I digress). From Clotilde Dusoulier of Chocolate and Zucchini (who I had the honor of pouncing on meeting), comes a beef stew that makes all that stubborn cork-fighting worth it.

I first made this in university, when I was discovering my love for food and all things culinary. As I danced in my slippers filling the kitchen with the salty, irresistible smells of bacon from my roomie’s fire engine red Le Creuset dutch oven, I was intoxicated from not the whole bottle of wine that marinated the chunky meat overnight, but by the sheer excitement of cooking something new, something different. I remember tucking into a steaming bowl of bourguinon hours later, sopping up the juices with a hunk of bread, oblivious to the loud, raucous behavior from nobody other than my drunk neighbours.

 
This time I was just as thrilled to make bourguinon, there was also dancing around the sizzling pot and The Weeknd blasting in my apartment for added effect (music makes food taste so much better, you should try it). I gave the bourguinon a Canadian touch and sweetened it with maple syrup instead of chocolate as Clotilde suggests. It’s marvelous. Even though I don’t have a super palate and can’t distinguish the syrup, the sugar is a must to tease out the complex layers of fruity wine, earthy carrots and sweet onions (and Ruth Reichl gives additional tips on how to bring your stew to the next level).

 

As a side dish, I bought baby potatoes (Purple! Potatoes!) and used David Tanis’s recipe for an alternative to roasting them. Coating them in olive oil, sea salt, and a slurry of herbs, you wrap them up in parchment paper and steam in the oven to allow those simple flavours to meld and infuse. It’s so good it’s ridiculous. Although the purple potatoes are surprisingly bland and drier compared to the red skinned variety, I still love their color and they make a beautiful accompaniment to the boeuf bourguinon. In fact, I can’t get enough of them.

As with most stews, this bourguinon tastes even better with age. They made delicious leftovers the following day, I didn’t even offer my coworkers to sample a taste, I hoarded it all to myself (and that’s saying a lot since I often share). Just don’t be like me and screw up the wine opening ceremony, unless cork-stabbing is your favorite thing to do.

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Potato Gratin

For a while now, I've been craving potatoes. Whether it be potato salad, baked potatoes, rostis, or even potato chips, I want it. My mom (a.k.a. Chef of the House) doesn't cook it much. Sometimes she adds it into Japanese curry and we eat it with rice, or she might cook taro (another root vegetable and similar in texture to potatoes) but adds pork and other flavorings that outshine the humble tuber.


A few weeks ago, I was reading one of my favorite food blogs and I stumbled on mouthwatering picture of potato gratin. It stayed on my mind for a while. I've also recently cracked open On Rue Tatin by Susan Loomis and she incessantly talks about the ease of making potato gratin during her summer months in Normandy, I can only assume it's a sign to roll up my sleeves and make gratin.

So last Sunday became A Day in Potato Heaven. I delegated Minh to peel the potatoes, I sliced them and buttered a glass pan, layering each slice followed by a liberal sprinkling of salt, pepper and swiss cheese. Two more layers were piled on top, milk was poured over the potatoes and then dotted with butter. The dish was baked for about an hour...et voilà! Out came a bubbling pan of golden potatoes crusted with cheese.

The great thing about this dish is the simplicity and flexibility. I didn't have enough cheese nor did I bother measuring exactly a cup of milk, but it worked. I used small yellow potatoes instead of large baking potatoes which probably prolonged the preparation, but it turned out fine. Though the most difficult thing was waiting for the damn thing to cook (we were so hungry and began scavenging the kitchen for something to nibble on).


I was too excited for the gratin that I inhaled through the appetizer of apple and fennel salad and helped myself to a generous serving of potatoes. I moaned with pleasure after each forkful. It was amazing earth shattering. Each satiny layer of potato congealed with nutty cheese sang a harmonious symphony in my mouth. Between bites, I wondered: Why hasn't anyone told me of the unbelievable wonders of potato gratin? Who has been keeping it a secret? Why keep it a secret? Sharing is caring. But I know the only fair question is: Why didn't I just make this sooner?

It was so good we finished the entire pan of potatoes, with me scraping the crusty bits of cheese and eating it guiltily under Minh's disapproving glare (its the best part!). I'd try adding minced garlic, cooked spinach, or even dashes of thyme to spruce up the gratin. And maybe I'd get started on preparing the dish earlier, to avoid the risk of a hypoglycemic episode.

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Prague

The most memorable moment of Prague was not getting nauseous from two shots of plum brandy and a tall glass of dark beer on an empty stomach hours within arrival, nor was it the lovely view of the rooftop houses against the azure sky that temporarily numbed my back pain from excessive walking. No, the most memorable and bizarre moment was sitting in a stranger’s house in the suburbs of Prague after hours of bar hopping, talking ever so casually about relationships and looking up infatuation in the Oxford dictionary. We left promptly, feigning sickness--too wierd (Oh Prague, how you blind me with your beauty).

I’ve heard so much about how pretty Prague is, that my expectations were sky high. It's definitely gorgeous in its own ways: the rippling waves on the Vltava, the really good jazz music on the Charles Bridge and at this rad jazz club, the romantic sunsets and delicious dark Kozel beer.



Yet somehow my breath wasn’t taken away. When we climbed down from the top of the hill, back onto street level, we couldn't escape the ubiquitous graffiti (though there was some good artists out there), there wasn't a lot of greenery in the new town and the winding streets threw me off. I swear, it took Milos and I four days to find the same bus stop just to take us home every night. I knew my bearings in Paris, but I had such a hard time deciphering Czech that I blatantly gave up on our second day.


To be honest, the food didn’t win me over either. I didn't like the heavy meat dishes, potato and bread dumplings, or the sauerkraut (the sheer thought of cabbage gives me the chills since my one horrid experience where I laid in bed doubled over from pain for days. Sour cabbage, if you're listening: I hate you). The food for the most part was mediocre. We were probably so spoiled with French delicacies (chocolate, baguettes and butter, and more chocolate) that Czech food just didn't satisfy.


Though I will give the Prague credit for a few things. The best dish for instance was when I was recovering from my wretched dinner of alcohol and pretzel sticks. Milos’s cousin Alexander took us to a pub (whose name doesn’t stay with me) three stories high, crammed with people, a thick cloud of cigarette smoke hovered in the air. When we were seated, Alexander rattled a few menu items to the waiter and within minutes, dishes magically appeared before our eyes: pork sausage links and mashed potatoes topped with fried onion, thick fries with cheese, and tortillas with spicy salsa. Oh mi oh my, the mashed potatoes were a hit. My eyes widened with each bite, the crispy onions was such a surprise contrast to the silky starch I just couldn’t put my fork down.

There was also Trdelnik. A yeasted roll of dough dusted in cinnamon sugar and baked on hot cylinders. We found another shop that sold these but cracked it up a notch by slathering the insides with nutella or caramel. I hear that these treats were a traditional Christmas food, until it became so popular people decided to sell it all the time—which I concur.



Prague also offered plenty of interesting occurrences. One warm day we were strolling along the Vltava, on the new side of Prague when the sun was setting. It was that part of the day when the sunlight isn’t too strong and illuminates everything in its path with a golden glow.


Once bypassing the Duck Lady (she was suddenly began screaming in an unidentified language at the ducks minding their own business on the river), we stumbled upon a charming cobblestone restaurant patio. We sat on a bench and admired the view of the trees, the flowing water, the sunset.


The view was beautiful, but not more long. A group of shirtless (and unattractive) men clearly drunk out of their minds were acting like imbeciles and yelling nonsense. Seated next to us on the bench was a bear, posing for picture (yes, you read that right). This sad looking man with a mullet was crouching and snapping endless photos of his fluffy toy. No more than five minutes passed when one particularly rotund and intoxicated fellow with obscure tattoos emblazoned on his chest grabbed the bear (who we dubbed Misery Bear) and found it a new home...on its lap. He bellowed in British accent, “Oy! Why you taking photos? Is this your bear? Can you take a photo of me and your bear?”

Poor Mullet Man. He mumbled something and tried to claim his furry friend. We left and walked through the curvy streets in search of icy drinks.


We returned the following day for dinner praying that the raucous morons had found somewhere else to party (preferably a black hole). Alas! They had! As we waited for our meal to arrive, the sky changed from gold to orange to purple to a deep emerald. The food was forgettable, but the two men at the table next to us appeared to be picking up two Russian ladies were trying to make the night unforgettable.

There was another time we were walking away from the clock tower, through the hoards of tourists when a tall breaded man walking towards us shouted towards Milos, “Want some mariWANA?” Wow. I didn't know my friend fit the stereotype for pothead.


But the most frustrating and head scratching part of our stay has got to be on our last day when we were scheduled to leave to Budapest by train. Desperate to make sense of the Czech language and signs, we searched for the correct platform to leave from. We failed. We asked the information desk (the man not once made eye contact with me, instead, kept his stone cold eyes on his computer screen) and were informed we had to make a transfer at Breclav to catch our second train to Hungary. Transfer time: 3 minutes. The woman next to him nonchalantly said, “No worry. You miss, next train in 2 hours. You ok? You wait. Yah?”

Forgetaboutit! We played it safe and waited for the next direct train a few hours later. We plopped onto the grassy park nearby and sunbathed, reading up on Budapest, excited for things to come.


Prague was memorable in terms of the people we met, saw, and eavesdropped. But Paris definitely swooned me and my tastebuds.

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