copious amounts of port and some unexpected treasures

Today's mission was singular in focus: we're in Porto... it's time to drink some port.

Our first stop of the day was at Kopke, founded in 1638 by Christiano and Nocolaus Kopke and recognized as the oldest producer of port. Kopke's tasting room provides a fantastic setting for sampling their wines, with large tables and armchairs impeccably arranged on the second floor, large windows overlooking the riverfront, and a sophisticated and modern urban chic to it all. Kopke was also the only producer we visited who had a vintage port available for tasting, which was a real treat. I sampled the following from their selection:

• Kopke Ruby: Deep ruby red color with aromas of raisin and plum. Medium weight on the palate with a hint of a white peppery edge on the finish.
• Kopke Vintage 1978: Burnished golden caramel color with heady aromas of vanilla, toffee and baking spices. Flavors of honeyed toasted walnut and a whiff of burnt almond.
  

The day was spent sampling ports from several producers, and I quickly gained a new respect for port tasters and critics... I have absolutely no idea how they keep their senses receptive to the nuances of different ports, because my palate was crushed after the first four tastings from the sheer weight of the flavor density, sweetness and alcohol content.

To counteract some of these effects--and because the port tasting rooms all closed from 12:30 pm to 2 pm for lunch, we took a late lunch at a small, simple cafe along the waterfront. Shane had been raving earlier about his new favorite sandwich: the francesinha--"little French girl" in Portuguese--so I knew I had to try one.

A specialty of Porto, the francesinha is Portugal's answer to France's croque monsieur, comprised of toasted bread, ham, sausage, steak and melted cheese, all covered in a slightly thickened "secret" spicy sauce. The sauce used varies from place to place, but is generally tomato-based, with onions, garlic, bay leaf, tabasco sauce and beer. I ordered a francesinha especiale, which comes with a fried egg on top. This was a seriously intense sandwich... rich, hearty, filling... a total guilty pleasure devoid of gastronomic finesse but full of primal satisfaction. The sandwich was surprisingly balanced in flavors, with the heat and the acidity from the sauce contrasting the decadence just enough to tie everything together.

We also had an order of caracois, or snails, steamed with oregano. An incredibly simple dish, the tiny snails were tender and addictive, adopting the flavors of the seasonings in the broth. This would be a fantastic bar snack back at home, if only Americans wouldn't be so queasy about the fact that these are snails...

Later in the afternoon, we stumbled upon a warm and friendly older gentleman roasting chestnuts with a bit of salt in a little cart on the side of the road. Roasted chestnuts are one of our absolute favorite snacks, and though I couldn't speak any Portuguese, I think he could sense my excitement. Through a series of hand gestures and nodding, he told me it would just take another minute before the chestnuts were ready. He then proceeded to stick his BARE HAND into the roasting pot (which was literally glowing orange from the heat of the charcoal fire below) to check the doneness of the chestnuts.

Seeing my look of amazement (and envious respect for his hands of steel), he smiled and said something along the lines of "Don't worry, this doesn't hurt at all..." Once the chestnuts were ready, he poured them out and counted out a dozen for me, placing them carefully in a bag, then paused for a moment and added an extra chestnut as a bonus with a wink and a smile. Huge chestnuts, perfectly roasted, the gently sweet meat accented by the lightly salty char... a great way to stay warm on the walk back to the hotel.

Our evening concluded just as it started... with a wide tasting selection of different ports, this time at Solar do Vinho do Porto, a cozy bar in Bairro Alto. Set in a renovated portion of a 19th century building, the bar's overwhelming library of ports by the glass was easily navigated with the help of the endearing servers as we closed out this day--and the bar--in style.

Tomorrow, we're off to try and see where the grapes are actually grown.

12 hours in Spain, then off to Portugal

The first time I ever had tapas was at a little bar in downtown Chicago while I was still an undergraduate. The allure was immediate and powerful... little plates of terrific food at a reasonable price where communal sharing was encouraged. Perfection. The fascination continued through the years, but the "restaurant" context adaptation in the U.S. never felt quite right. From what I'd seen, read and heard, I suspected the "real" experience would be something different... something more spontaneous, more boisterous, and even more delicious.

And here I find myself in Spain, finding those very things to be true, my first true tapas experience being more than I hoped for.

The preceding 48 hours were rough... I was only able to sleep about 3 hours during that time. We landed early in Barcelona early in the morning and commenced our exploration of the city fueled only by excitement and anticipation. As my energy began to take a precipitous decline, we walked in to El Xampanyet, a popular bar we spotted after our visit to the Picasso museum.

Following the crowds is always a good idea when it comes to food, and this was no exception. The bar was elbow-to-elbow crowded... people gathered at the bar and around small tables in pairs, groups, and alone, all focused on boisterous conversations accented by sips of beer and bites of different tapas. Somehow, we squeezed ourselves into a prime location at the bar, ordered two beers, and proceeded to point at whatever looked appetizing. Except it all looked delicious.

Roasted red peppers stuffed with marinated tuna, served with an olive on bread: Simple and spectacular. Supremely sweet peppers with the most delicious olive-oil cured tuna.

Shavings of pata negra: Unbelievable pork flavor, its decadence obvious even before it touches your lips. The pinnacle of cured meat deliciousness. We will become well acquainted many times on this trip, my new friend.

Olive oil cured sardines: Spiked with a hit of spicy vinegar, the sardines were pristine and sweet, beautifully showcasing nothing more than their pure flavor.

Raw bacalao with olive tapenade: Sweet and salty in harmony, the intrinsic sweetness of the cod paired with the briny, but fruity emulsion of olive oil and pulverized olives.

Plate of canned seafood: Wait, what? Canned seafood at the coastal city of Barcelona? Don't worry, this was nothing like canned seafood in the U.S. In Spain, there is a long tradition of canning the very best seafood at the height of freshness... somehow, their canning methods result in an incredible product, giving the seafood a delicately fleshy texture while amplifying its sweet flavor with just a whiff of the ocean dancing on your palate. It seriously makes no sense, but our plate of oysters, mussels, clams, berberechos, and calamari was absolutely fantastic.

Honestly, I was waiting for Madrid to launch into a full scale tapas crawl, but this was a great start. Hanging out in a shaded courtyard after lunch, I had a deep sense that this journey through Spain is going to be very special.

But before any more adventures in Spain, we were off to the airport to meet up with our good friends Shane and Kelly in Porto, Portugal. Flights from Barcelona to Porto were less than $50 on RyanAir, so we planned a 2 1/2 day excursion out there to sample a good amount of port--obviously--get a bit of the Portuguese scene, and hopefully see some of the vineyards in the Duoro Valley. We met up at the hotel at 9:30 pm, and after a long day of travel, I was in the mood for something simple. On the recommendation of our hotel staff, we headed up the street to a small, modest restaurant (whose name escapes me at the moment) lit by harsh fluorescent light bulbs but full of local families happily sharing massive plates of food. In other words, it was perfect for this evening. We grabbed the last open table, ordered a bottle of dangerously easy-drinking vinho verde, and had a small feast:

Arroz de Polvo: An absolutely terrific dish. The stewed octopus was so unbelievably tender, you could easily cut it through it with just a fork. The rice was infused with the flavor of the octopus, whose juices permeated the dish, imbuing a faint purple hue. We all kept coming back to this dish.

Cozido a Portugeza: We wanted to try something regional and traditional... and this dish fit that calling. This was a traditional Portuguese stew made with cabbage, carrots, potatoes, pork belly, pig ear, blood sausage and a single pig trotter, all served on white rice. Super simple and considered a "peasant" dish (though I find that term problematic), the stew relies on inexpensive cuts of meat and offal to impart richness and flavor. I have to hand it to Shane... the guy will try anything I ask him to. Want to share the trotter and all its gelatinous glory with me, buddy? Why yes, I will...

Grilled fresh calamari: Simply prepared, with the flavor of the calamari taking center stage. In contrast to the remarkable octopus, the meat was a bit tough on the grilled calamari. Not a bad dish, but not a particularly memorable one either.

Fried bacalhau: Served with fried potato chips and a quick sauce of sauteed onions with a dash of vinegar, this was like Portugal's answer to fish and chips. Familiar and comforting.

Some great eating in the first day... and looking forward to what Porto has to offer tomorrow!

how to cook pasta without boiling water

There's no way this should work.

I was reading a terrific article in Vancouver Magazine a few days back, talking about the best pasta in Vancouver. One section of the article talked about chef Pino Posteraro's technique for making dried pasta:

One local foodie who has spent years in Italy told me some of the best pasta he’s ever eaten was at Cioppino’s. “It was the most extraordinary thing. Pino cooked the pasta in the sauce he served it in. No boiling water, no colander—nothing. I’d never seen anything like it.”

What, no boiling water???? How many times have I read about the importance of bringing an ample quantity of water to a rolling boil before adding the dried pasta to ensure even cooking, no sticking, and a uniformly al dente texture? I kept reading:

Chef leads me to his pasta station, his mise en place meticulously organized—every container labelled and dated with a short strip of masking tape. He grabs a large saucepan, cranks up the heat, and begins. He starts with two types of garlic (purée and confit), a little chili pepper, and extra-virgin olive oil. “You must cook the garlic properly, otherwise it gives you indigestion.” He adds white wine, chicken stock, prawn jus, salt, and a splash more olive oil. (The servers have abandoned their polishing and are crowded around to watch. Even the cooks, traditionally jaded and unflappable, take notice.) The sauce splashes and bubbles as it comes to temperature. He grabs a fistful of dry, uncooked spaghetti, tosses it in, and covers it, savouring my confused look. “Bello, you don’t need to boil the pasta first,” he tells me. “Just wait”. . .

After a few minutes, he removes the lid to reveal a delectable symbiosis. The pasta is cooked perfectly al dente, and has adopted a slightly pinkish hue from the sauce it has absorbed. The starches from the pasta saturate the sauce, making it richer, more textured. The heady aroma of wine and garlic perfumes the air. He fills three pasta bowls—one for me, one for him, one for the lurking servers (who fall on it like a pack of jackals). He chastises a waiter for using a spoon to twirl his pasta. “It’s served in a bowl for a reason,” he shouts. “Use the edge of the bowl to gather the noodles around your fork!” The sauce clings to the noodles; the crabmeat is firm and sweet; all the ingredients sing out in unison. “You see, bello? Pasta this good, I would even eat for dessert.”

After years of working with dried pasta, this just didn't seem like this should work. But hey, Pino's restaurant, Cioppino's (in Yaletown), has been named the Best Formal Italian restaurant at the Vancouver magazine restaurant awards for six years in a row. And the general premise of integrating the starch from the pasta directly into the sauce to thicken it seemed sound... the sauce would be naturally thickened and enriched as it cooked, eliminating the need to add back any cooking water.

But would the pasta cook evenly? Wouldn't it clump together?

Not at all! The technique absolutely works. It's simple, eliminates the separate step of boiling the pasta, and resulted in a spaghetti e vongole that took 12 minutes to make, start to finish. The pasta had a uniquely toothsome texture while being coated with an unctuous, richly textured sauce full of robust flavor.

All this from a recipe that needs no precise measurements and can learned by watching this simple video. Check it out and try it yourself. You'll be amazed.