Shana Tova Sandwich

Shana Tova, Happy New Year, readers! Today (well, last night) marks the holiday of Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of the year 5771 in the Jewish calendar!

Like many other holidays, Rosh Hashanah (literally "Head of the Year") has a couple of traditional foods (though not as many as some other Jewish holidays). We still tend to serve challah, but in a different form -- rather than being braided, the dough is wrapped in a large circular bun shape and it often will have raisins.

The other traditional "food" is pretty vague; if I had to define it, the food is "something sweet" to symbolize our hope for a sweet new year (very deep, I know). In American Reform Judaism, "something sweet" normally means apple dipped in honey. There's a song.

Now, in modern American culture, pretty much EVERYTHING is sweet, so I suppose the notion of eating something sweet just isn't that special. This, however, was not always the case, and as with all rituals, it is the underlying sacred meaning and interpretation of otherwise mundane or profane actions/objects that gives it power.

I go into all of this just to provide the cultural milieu in which I crafted the following sandwich.

I took two slices of fresh rye bread (with caraway seeds), added a thick slice of maple-smoked vermont cheddar, some avocado, two macintosh apple slices, and toasted this in the broiler for a few minutes. Then I added as much of the mango walnut chicken salad I made last night as I could and closed the sandwich. THEN I ATE IT. (With a delicious Imperial Pumpkin Ale from Weyerbacher Brewery in Easton, PA. God, there are some awesome breweries in PA.)

It looked like THIS!

It was a great sandwich, and eating it outside in what has felt like perhaps one of the first true days of autumn was a special way to spend my Rosh Hashanah afternoon.

B'teavon!

Crab Cakes: A Quest Ended before it Began

Today I am going to Annapolis, driving deep into uncharted Mary-land to see what's up in what I've heard is a pretty cool place.

Under any, ANY, other circumstances, I would during this trip stop at various locations, taste-testing crab cakes, looking for the ultimate in near-DC crab cake perfection.

Too bad I found it already. That is to say, several weeks ago, and then again last night, I was the fortunate recipient, one of a Chosen Few, to enjoy crab cakes the likes of which my poor New England imagination could not quite grasp. They were just one dish of several -- but clearly the brazen highlight -- of the meal so graciously served to me aboard the U.S.S. Sequoia, the erstwhile Presidential yacht, by its President and owner, Gary Silversmith. And if the notion of a cruise aboard a floating, sailing Presidential historical landmark doesn't excite you as it does me (and it does!), these crab cakes should.

But allow me to be precise: there is nothing cake-y about these treats -- in fact, the restaurant from whence they come, Jerry's Seafood in Bowie, MD, calls them "crab bombs." The ingredients, if I'm not mistaken, are: Epic lumps of crab meat, butter, mayo and Old Bay seasoning. I could be wrong, but I'm not. The bombs fall to pieces as you take fork to them (it took a couple tries to get one that looked fully cohesive -- attempts that constituted real hardship, to be sure). The meat is almost creamy, so tender and smooth as to melt in your mouth, with the requisite and exceptional kick provided by the traditional Old Bay (or homegrown equivalent).

These are just TOO GOOD. It's as though the Patriots had won the Super Bowl in 2007 in addition to winning every other game that season -- I would have needed to just stop watching football, because, let's face it: nothing else could possibly compare.

Fortunately for my exploration of Mid-Atlantic cuisine, I have a stronger heart and a firmer will when it comes to crab cakes. We're going to MD. I'll try not to compare everything I eat to crab bombs -- I'll try.

Interlude: Lobster, and Make Mine a Moxie

Why yes, that is the best-looking lobster roll ever. Good eye, good eye. Since you asked, I'll also tell you it is the best-tasting lobster roll I've ever had. Here's another picture (please excuse the bizarre lighting):

Now, I won't pretend to have had them all, but as a Mainer born and bred, weaned on claw meat and tested on hard-shells, I know a thing or two about a good lobster roll. I'm sure there are many opinions; apparently the oldest form is lumps of meat on a toasted hotdog bun with melted butter and maybe some lettuce.

As you can see, I think we have flexibility, but the guiding principle is simple: the more meat and the bigger the chunks, the better. See, some places (never in Maine; there'd be a lynch mob of tourist regulars) attempt to give you something resembling a lobster puree in mayo on some bread. This is an abomination.

What my family has found in Anania's Variety Store lobster rolls is close to perfection. They're enormous; for the price of one beer in D.C. you'll get a whole lobster's worth of meat, barely chopped, with just a touch of mayo and a twist of lemon -- as close to pure, unadulterated lobster as I think I can handle (this is actually a small!). I love the addition of tomato (mostly for texture), the fresh sub bun, and salt and pepper, too. On top of that, Anania's adds the truly sweet meat that is a bit harder to find for the unschooled: the leg meat on the interior of the body and inside the arms. The pieces are smaller, but the flavor is bounds more intense than that found in the tail or claw. Far and away the best all-purpose lobster roll I've ever had. The chips are kettle cooked sea salt and cracked pepper, sharp and spicy.

Now for the drink: Moxie. Moxie is my favorite soda. It is a type of root beer, one made from the gentian root, and America's oldest, dating from 1884. Back then, it was marketed thusly:

Moxie and has proved itself to be the only harmless nerve food known that can recover brain and nervous exhaustion; loss of manhood, imbecility, and helplessness. It has recovered paralysis, softening of the brain, locomotor ataxia, and insanity when caused by nervous exhaustion. It gives a durable solid strength, makes you eat voraciously; takes away the tired, sleepy, listless feeling like magic, removes fatigue from mental and physical overwork at once, will not interfere with action of vegetable medicines.

As I seek to avoid "loss of manhood, imbecility, and helplessness" while simultaneously encouraging voracious eating, this is clearly the dirnk for me. While found now primarily in Maine and a few other locales in New England, it was once an extremely popular national beverage, touted as "Magic" by spokesmen such as Ted Williams. Some find it too bitter, but they're wrong. Trust Hungry Sam on this one.

Next time, I'll ACTUALLY finish my rundown of the best meals of the last month (which included this, but this one really deserve its own post).

The Categorical Imperatives of Salad

I generally feel a little lame ordering a salad at restaurants -- after all, one of the reasons to eat out is to benefit from the wisdom and verve of a real chef. Salads are often the menu items which involve the least skill or forethought, and so I compensate by ordering Cobb salads, stacked with bacon, chicken, egg, etc. Somehow, it helps.

Photo: Flickr CC/Nemo's great uncle

But tonight, as I chowed down a Cobb at Trio on 17^th and Q NW (Washington, DC), this flexibility as to what constitutes a salad ate at me even as I ate at it (HUMOR!). So what IS a salad? What makes a salad a salad and not something else? What are the necessary conditions of salad-ness?

After much thought and some debate with Liz, I contend that four key factors lie at the firmament of any salad:

1. A salad is a stand-alone food – it does not inherently require a complementary food outside itself;
2. A salad is composed of a semi-random mixture or “tossing” of multiple distinct ingredients, each of which exists as a legitimate food unto itself;
3. The ingredients of a salad are themselves fully cooked or prepared prior to inclusion into the salad;
4. A salad must have a dressing, sauce, or relish which complements and connects disparate ingredients.

NOTE: The above are all, of course, reliant upon the general intent of the salad creator and each can be perverted for the creation of pseudo-salads, such as fruit salad which (with few exceptions) has no unifying dressing.

These attributes, I feel, constitute a sort of set of Kantian categorical imperatives; properties necessary to the nature of the proposition (in this case, a salad). They exclude some related foods, such as mixed nuts, dips and stews while effectively including salads ranging from traditional vegetable salads (leafy-greens-based or otherwise) to chicken, potato, pasta, tuna, and even Waldorf salads.

The key, however, as mentioned above, is intent. What makes a salad a dish and not just a pile of random foods is that a Creator-figure (e.g. chef) intentionally chose the elements and combined them in a pleasing way. Whether working from a recipe or improvising on a theme, human creative energy is a necessary condition for a true salad.

I know that this and other descriptors are controversial, and some people seek to modify salads in such a way that they cease to be salads. One common example of this is the situation in which people take a perfectly well-designed, intentional salad and ask that it be served without dressing. These are no longer salads; they are crimes against salads – aberrations of the lowest sort. This denies the plan of the Salad Creators and the salad's intended deliciousness.

As a final note, I'll add that the dressing factor (Key Factor Four) was a tough call. Traditional fruit salad is considered by many a salad and excluding it was no easy decision. But I feel strongly that fruit salad, while delicious, is far more reliant upon the inherent tastiness of the fruit than upon the techniques, talents, and recipes of the chef.

Oh, and the Cobb at Trio was pretty good.

Lawson's: A Simple Idea Done Well

Yesterday, a couple of friends and I visited Lawson's, a soup, salad, sandwich, and sushi joint in Dupont Circle. (If the latter offering seems somewhat out of place, that's because it kind of is.)

RLK, LPG and I were in the mood for something new. Having all worked in the Dupont Circle neighborhood for about five months, we'd found a few consistent and excellent options in that neck of the woods and had been lazily enjoying these standbys without much thought to branching out. With a great effort, we overcame our sloth and ventured a few blocks further than our regular restaurant radius, to some success.

Though pretty crowded at noon, Lawson's has three or four distinct ordering counters and two registers spaced out down the axis of the interior, the effect of which is efficient crowd management. Drinks and pre-made stuff in a cooler along the back wall, ordering and assembly stations along the front, place your order, get a number, etc etc. Not really breaking new ground, but you've got to appreciate it when a basic model is just executed well.

Actually, that's pretty much the theme of the place. The menu is generous without venturing too far into wild creativity and includes the basic deli meats, clubs, and BLTs; the salad ingredients were again the basics but everything looked fresh and appetizing. A pair of soups (MD crab and a split pea) graced the menu and appeared to rotate daily. I didn't get a good look at the sushi, but all seemed well in the land of Americanized Japanese food. The prices were all about $5-7, perhaps some of the cheapest eats in the area.

I ordered Lawson's version of the best sandwich I've ever had -- a California Turkey Club. In my hometown there's a ridiculous little deli which is pretty much never open for business, but if you're lucky enough to catch them and smart enough to order a California Turkey Club, you'll find the toasted rye stacked high with a basic turkey club PLUS avocado and brie. Damn. Well, Lawson's used the more mundane swiss rather

than brie but the club was tasty, the bacon offered a good crunch and flavor, the sprouts and avocado were fresh and the turkey thick-sliced from a roasted breast resting on a cutting board. Add in the price (about $7) and I declared sandwich victory.

RLK seemed to enjoy her jerk chicken salad, noting that they grilled up the chicken then and there (in contrast to several other Dupont salad joints which just toss in pre-cooked cold meat). LPG, however, is unlikely to return; her tuna melt had bacon and she doesn't do non-swiming animals. I ate it, it was tasty. I declared sandwich victory x2.

Lawson's

Service - 4/5 (great)

Price - 4/5 (great)

Options - 3/5 (fine/average)

Tastiness - 3/5 (fine/average)

How likely I am to return - 5/5 (XTREME!!1!11)