Foodie MacFoodface

Hailing, as I do, from the nether regions of the African continent, the arcana of Korean cuisine have never really been my bag. As a consequence of later life travels in the Koreatowns of Trumpistan I have learned that the Han-In diaspora makes a good fist of chicken wings and their indoor barbecue is an innovation that I fully endorse. While I have had occasion to taste it on the restaurant circuit, expanding my use of buried, fermented vegetable matter has hitherto not been high on my kitchen experiments list. A Dutchman of this parish, with whom I compare occasional notes about cookery and home economics, has consistently extoled the virtues of Kimchi (a fermented cabbage matter, stewed in the hot sauce paste of the Korean people, and buried in their yards). Kimchi is, so the Hollander claimed, a cheap, versatile and healthy vegetarian snack one can store in the refrigerator for months without fear of tummy knack. What’s more, he has been known to say, it makes an excellent ...

With Potatoes and Salsa Verde for the Ages! Take your garden variety polar vortex, spice it up with some extra-low atmospheric pressure, sprinkle it with a storm named Grayson , and you are left with the horrifying Frankenstein " bomb cyclone " my African arse has had to endure over the course of the past ten days. It has been utterly miserable: laying waste to dreams of healthier living in the new year, outdoor exercise, and all that. There has been nothing to do but hide under blankets, order groceries online, and drink copious amounts of whisky. There is at least one god... and s/he is a beef pot roast with taters and salsa verde That was until I remembered my pot roasts of yore (!!!). There is nothing quite like a good pot roast to fortify the constitution and warm a cyclone-bombed soul. Executing it again, however, would require the hoodwinking of my stoically vegetarian wife, and the location of precious pot roast notes shouted down a crackling trans-Atlan...

Ah! I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking butternut, and make soup. That shit is going to taste so seasonal. I’m about to head out to the store right now to find that mutant squash fucker, peel and de-seed it, toss it in olive oil, and roast it just right. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my roasted butternut soup, assholes. Guess what season it is — fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of tasty fucking squash soup. They set the clocks back this weekend past, and Thanksgiving is in sight. The summer garden is all but dead, and my toes are creaking at the prospect of frost. It's Roasted Butternut Soup season, mofos. I'm from the nether-regions of the African continent, where butternut squash grows with abandon and every restaurant and household hoards a secret recipe for the sacred soup. At the intersection of the prevailing westerlies and trade winds, the vernacular cuisine of my h...

Yes, dammit, yes! The wife had abandoned me for some far flung journalistic escapade. So, feeling sorry for myself, I retreated to Haikan clutching the London Review of Books to steady the mind, seeking ramen to fortify the constitution. I'm blessed to have Haikan, an outpost of the budding ramen empire spun off from Daikaya in Chinatown, DC, within stumbling distance of my couch. Fuck me, those fellas do know how to rummage through the ramen omnibus. I'm usually partial to Haikan's  spicy shoyu  (put an egg on it). It's a go-to-dish in times of existential need, and when the nip stalks the night. Warm and nourishing, the Japanese equivalent of your Jewish grandmother's chicken soup, spicy shoyu à la Haikan is quite splendid, indeed. But this particular evening itself was warm, inducing a conundrum. I've tried my better half's vegetarian ramen there before (clean, bright flavors, very scrumptious), but not wanting to miss an opportunity to E...