Coq au Vin Meatballs

 

Coq au Vin Meatballs

 

Quite a few recipes online for coq au vin meatballs.  And for those timid souls who treat recipes as scripture, I say, cast away your fear….best to sip some wine before you cast.   See, I view a recipe as merely a blank canvas, upon which the cook doth slap on the paint.

 

But, wait a sec.  Let’s chat briefly about the name coq au vin. The literal translation is rooster in wine.  Never heard of anyone using a rooster, but my knowledge of barnyards is sketchy at best.  Mostly, recipes call for chicken pieces, bone-in, root vegetables and wine. Traditional coq au vin uses a deep, rich Burgundy, but that varies depending on which French region you’re in.  In the Alsace, right across the Mosel River from Germany, Riesling is the wine of choice.  Mine, too, especially in the summer time.  Riesling has a brighter flavor and it’s that time a year to once again embrace the sunny days of summer.

 

The traditional recipe also calls for bacon (lardons) and garlic, neither of which I chose.  Why?  Because I didn’t have any bacon in my frig! But, I did have some patties of Jimmy Dean sausage.  And garlic?  On this fine, summer day, the flavor just didn’t appeal to me.  Then there’s the question of whole chicken pieces versus ground chicken that’s turned into meatballs.  And then when you add the extra ingredients to the ground chicken…. Ou la la, c’est magnifique!

 

I’m sure you’ll spot other twists and turns in my recipe that bypass the traditional, but as Rhett Butler famously said, “Frankly, my dear…..”

 

But, enough twaddle and prattle.  Let’s get straight to slapping the paint on the canvas.

 

Coq au Vin Meatballs

 

Les Ingrédients

 

1 lb ground chicken or turkey

1 egg

½ cup panko breadcrumbs

1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

salt and pepper to taste

4 patties of Jimmy Dean regular sausage (or any other brand you favor or happen to have in the refrig)

½ sweet onion (or yellow onion) chopped

4 carrots, peeled and chopped

2 handfuls of fresh spinach (For timid souls, don’t worry about the size of your hands.)

2 handfuls (about two cups) of mushrooms, sliced and chopped

1 ½ cups chicken broth (I used one of those cubes that good for 2 cups, but I used 1 1/2 cups to make it richer.)

2 tablespoons tomato paste (I buy it by the tube since many recipes call for only a tablespoon or two.)

1 cup Riesling wine (or another dry white wine)

a pat of butter and heaping teaspoon of rice flour (or corn starch) mashed together as a thickening agent

½ cup chopped parsley for garnish

½ cup sliced green onions for garnish

sweet potatoes, sliced in half lengthwise and baked (to accompany)

 

Mettre Ensemble (Putting it together)

 

Make the meatballs and heat the oven to 400ºF

 

Cover a baking sheet with parchment paper. Mix the ground chicken, egg, breadcrumbs and parmesan.  Add a little salt and pepper. Roll into tablespoon sized meatballs (should yield 15-20) and place them on the baking sheet.  Bake them about 20 minutes, turning once.

Hint:  Saves time if you bake the sweet potatoes as you bake the meatballs.

 

Make the Sauce

Fry the sausage, breaking it up as it cooks.  Turn down the heat to medium. Add the onions and cook until translucent.  Add the rest of the vegetables, except for the spinach and the garnish.  Stir often.

 

Add the chicken broth and wine.  Cook until the vegetables are tender.

 

Add the baked meatballs and the spinach and cook until the spinach wilts.

Add the thickener if you wish.

 

Serve in a bowl beside the baked sweet potato. Add the garnish.

Voila!  Wasn’t that fun?  Wasn’t that easy? Don’t you want to celebrate by polishing off the rest of the Riesling? Yeah, me too!

 

 

Jeffrey Archer’s Nothing Ventured

 

Jeffrey Archer’s Nothing Ventured

 

At last!  My heart be still!  A detective novel that doesn’t cover the floor and walls with the blood of the guilty and innocent comingled.   Listen to me, novelists!  Please listen!  You can write a wonderful story, wound and bound in mystery, intrigue and villainy without the crack of the pistol, and the plunge of the knife.

 

Jeffrey Archer’s Nothing Ventured is explained as: Not a detective story, but a story of the making of a detective.  Yes, there is villainy galore and nefarious crimes, but these are cases that enlighten you with the dark sides of the art world, stolen masterpieces, fabrications, crosses and double crosses, matrimonial disharmony and true love.  This is an exciting tale, laced with rye British humor and very few annoying clichés.

 

Detective Constable William Warwick is a rank beginner in the business of becoming a policeman, but he’s bright, well educated and in no time is plunged into the world of stolen art and the department at Scotland Yard dealing with Money Laundering, Arts and Antiques.  It’s a perfect place for a university graduate whose major was art and art history.

 

Yes, there is a place for art history majors to earn a living and Jeffery Archer has found a place most intriguing.  The son of a noted barrister, Warwick is more than familiar with the law, but he’s also able to grate the nerves of superiors by often being outspoken and correct.

 

You may have found, as I have, that large organizations tend to be stifled by the happiness of contending with the same old problems in the same old ways. The organization finds fresh ideas as uncomfortable as announcing the king has no clothes.  And Detective Constable Warwick is a prince of new ideas.

 

So intriguing to watch him keep his balance and find his way through the dark and dusty halls of bureaucracy. 

 

Nothing Ventured is a new adventure in detective fiction that relies heavily on real personalities, humor, and ingenious plots, as Jeffery Archer’s creation, Detective Constable Warwick, weaves his way across the breath of Western Europe and through twists and turns of English justice, all without sloshes of blood and murder. 

 

I read this book rapidly.  It’s one of those stories that begs you to read just one more chapterbefore turning out the bedside lamp, then to read just one more chapter before your first morning cup of coffee.

 

Happily, Nothing Ventured is just the first volume of three in the adventures of Detective Constable Warwick. I’ve already ordered the second book!

Carburetor Tales

 

Carburetor Tales

 

Most of this story is true, or at least as true as my close friend, Bryan Pace, could make it, which leaves room for disturbing doubt. 

 

There are some things you need to know about Bryan, besides his often subtle prevarication. He was retired and short of statue, but was the kind of guy you noticed immediately, for his thick crop of silver hair, friendly, expressive eyes, a ready smile and a slight pouch around the waist. Despite age doing its damnest to creep into his life, he still exuded intensity and the boiling energy of a man with things to do. 

 

Part of his defiance in the face of sullenly creeping age, was attention to detail, allied with a magnetic memory, and a low tolerance for folks wasting his time.  He also often slashed with a wit as keen as the tip of a polished rapier.

 

After his retirement, he worked in a small carburetor shop in an old, garage that used to be a store, whose original purpose was well past memory, and bore the jagged scars of severe neglect, with gaps of peeling paint on the once white cinderblocks, and a collection of grayish, dust decorated windows. A broad, stained and cracked concrete apron, as wide as the shop, completed the look.  The only thing new was an oval, white sign advertising Jimmy’s Carb Shop, in blocked black lettering.

 

The shop faced a potholed, neighborhood street whose houses had already seen better days, many of the yards littered with rusted bikes, cars on blocks, and backyards that served as graveyards for rusted barbeque grills.

 

Bryan was the shop’s lone worker.  Didn’t bother him a bit. Precision required patience and stony silence. 

 

The absentee owner was called Melvin, so no telling where the name of the shop came from.  But, I had to ask and Bryan had to tell me, beginning with Sherman’s march through Atlanta.

 

The only reason Bryan worked in the out of the way shop was his fascination with the mechanical and as an encouragement to get up each morning and continue the task of living. Visions of floats and gears, gaskets and springs, differences in each model of carburetor, danced in his head, and held his attention more than a large busted stripper shaking her assets at a frat party.  Both were definitely more entertaining than his ex wife, Dracula’s ruthless stepdaughter. Fortunately, she was out of his life, having run away with a man named Wooster, whom Bryan called Pimpster.

 

Visitors to the shop were few, but even the few sometimes presented challenges.  There was a rebuild for the carb off a 1958 Desoto, and a 1952 Chevy carb more grease than carb.  He also had his favorites. And one carb Bryan still remembered reverently was the four barreled beauty from a powerful Plymouth.  He’d searched the broad horizons to find the parts, but one thing led to another, and he finally got a phone call from a Plymouth fanatic in southern California. 

 

Bryan worked from a broad desk, so high he had to sit atop a brown, wooden kitchen stool, with a footrest bar a foot off the oil-stained concrete floor.  Meticulous was not too strong a description of the man or the array on the desk.  Small plastic boxes, only an arm’s length away, held parts for rather routine carburetor fixes.  Three rust streaked gray cabinets against the back wall held hundreds more parts and screws.  One glance at a carb and he’d know what he was looking for and seconds later he’d find it, except for the very occasional rarity which maybe took two seconds, and except for the Plymouth. 

 

A mountain of dog-eared parts catalogues, with dark soiled covers, dating back decades, sat in a stack on the floor by the desk.

 

Oh occasion, other necessities drew his attention, such as the day a friend of his, J.D. Collins, appeared with six large, over-stuffed garbage bags in the back of his scruffy, lime green pickup.

 

“Need some carb work?”

 

Collins shook his head and pointed to black bags.

 

“What’s in ‘em?”

 

“Shoes.”

 

 “Your wife cleaned out her closet?”

 

Collins ignored the jibe. “I bought a former shoe store and these are the refugees.”

 

“New shoes?”

 

“Yep, but cheap and uglier than my wife’s dog. Know where I can dump ‘em?”

 

“Tried the kennel?”

 

Collins gave him a look.

 

“I’ll get rid of them for you.”

 

They toted the bags into the shop and Collins drove away happy.

 

The next morning, Bryan put labels on the black bags.  FRED I HAVE TO LEAVE EARLY.   THESE ARE THE NEW SHOES YOU ASKED FOR.  He took the bags to the curb, went back in the shop, and waited and watched out of a smudged window.  He didn’t wait long.

 

A man Bryan didn’t recognize slowly approached, a skinny guy wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The guy stopped and looked both ways, his knees slightly bent like a runner waiting for the crack of the starting pistol.  A moment later another man showed up, then a third. All three looked around suspiciously, then grabbed the bags and ran off down the street.  Problem solved.

 

Another day, a businessman in suit and tie, drove up, and stayed in his car talking on his cell phone.  Bryan walked over.  “Can I help you?” The fellow rolled down the driver’s window, but continued an animated conversation, holding up a wait-a-minute finger.

 

Bryan waited, but the man didn’t stop.  Bryan walked back in the shop.

 

A few minutes later, Bryan walked back out to the car.  The man was still on the phone and once again held up a wait-a-minute finger.

 

Bryan went back in the shop, sat at his desk and opened a newspaper.

 

In about ten minutes, the man came in and started to speak.  Bryan held up a wait-a-minute finger and kept reading.  Eventually, the man left, never to return.

 

Weeks later, a Muslim guy pulled up in the driveway.  Bryan met him at his car and noticed the Koran on the dash.

 

“I need some help with this goddamned carburetor!  Jesus Christ!  This thing is awful!”

 

Bryan looked under the hood.  “Holy Allah!  If Mohammed saw this he’d eat a pig!”

 

“HEY!  YOU INSULTED MY RELIGION!”

 

“Well, you insulted mine!”

 

The Muslim guy took a deep breath.  “…..I guess you’re right, I did.”

 

They ended up shaking hands and becoming friends.

 

On another day, the owner of the shop came in on Bryan’s day off and rearranged things, including Bryan’s desk.  Bryan was livid!

 

“Do you know where the float valves are for Ford carburetors?”

 

“Uhhh….no.”

 

“How about the gaskets for a four barreled Chrysler?”

 

No answer.

 

“Well now, neither do I!  Don’t ever touch ANYTHING in this shop again!”  The owner never did.

 

But, the days of carburetors were becoming more and more rare.  Soon, Bryan only rebuilt one a month and then it dwindled to one every two months.  The owner sold the shop.

 

Even then, Bryan couldn’t stop.  For a while, word spread that there was a guy who still rebuilt carbs from a workshop at his house.

 

When I helped his widow clean out his home workshop, all of Bryan’s carburetor catalogues and mounds of plastic boxes of parts were all there, reminders of a man dedicated to perfection and friendship, and who until the last awaited one more car to pull up in his driveway, and offer him a carb to rebuild.

 

 

 

Concours d’Élegance in Fernandina Beach

I wrote this last year, but now the Concours is back!  May 20-23.  The huge tents are up and the cars are already arriving.  It you missed this fabulous and world famous car show, don't miss it this year!  There may be some admission prices during the auction days, but on May 23, there are no fees.  But beware of deep traffic.  You may have to park aways and make a stiff walk.  It'll be worth it!

Fernandina Beach’s yearly Concours d’Élegance in every way matches it’s twin in sunny Carmel, California.  An extravaganza!  What exactly is an extravaganza?   Allow me to clutter your mind with a word picture.

Huge tents sprung up across the multitudinous acres of both the Ritz Carlton and the Omni International, each large enough to hold several hundred cars.  You know of these resorts?  Just to give you an idea, the Omni stretches for several miles along route A1A, with golf courses and a massive hotel, massive neighborhoods, both public and private, The Sanctuary, where I presume the celebs hide out on their visits to the island, and more enclaves I’ve yet to discover.  I’ve been around the world and never have I seen resorts of the magnitude of the Ritz and the Omni.  It’s not an exaggeration to suggest they are the size of med-sized towns.

Back to the prep for the Concours.  Huge trucks and trailers brought million dollar cars to the island.  Normally lightly trafficked roads were jammed. The municipal airport was crammed with executive jets, parked wingtip to wingtip.  At times, roads approaching the venues were closed to normal traffic. State and local police guarded intersections, directing traffic.  Highways had miles of yellow no-parking tape and accompanying signs.  Even businesses sold parking spaces.  Spots for RVs had been sold out for over a year ahead.  On one day, dozens of the cars had a parade through the streets.  People with cameras jammed the sides of the roads.

There was also a parade of show cars that parked on the closed off streets downtown, allowing you to see the cars up close and talk to the owners.

So, what was the big deal?  The cars. And if you’re not a car person, or at least an admirer of the beauty and design of automobiles from the beginning of the horseless carriages to today’s multi-million dollar autos, then you’re right, it was no big deal.  But for the rest of us, whose numbers span the globe, Concours d’Élegance was a very big deal.  Name a famous car and I’ll assure you it was there.

While the auctions required a ticket in the range of $100-$150, there were many displays and open houses that cost nothing.  You could roam the golf course at the Ritz, for example, and view automobiles you’ve only dreamed of and seen photos of.

This short exchange took place at the Lotus exhibit:

Me:  What a great looking car!

Guy standing beside me:  Well, for 2.5 mil it should look good.

Me:  For 2.5 mil it should come with a thousand sexual favors.

Guy:  I think that’s one of the options.

Before I show you some cars and the venues, I know you want to know some prices at auction.  The most expensive I saw from Gooding and Co, was a 1914 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost that went for a paltry $2,205,000.

A 1932 Bugatti Type 55 Super Sport Roster auctioned by Bonham, sold for $7.1 million.  As a matter of interest, Steve McQueen’s car from The Thomas Crown Affair, something called a 1967 Con-Ferr Buggy Myers Manx, took in $456,000.  Overall, Bonham sold 84% of their auctioned cars.  Interestingly, a 1952 Jaguar C-type sports racing two-seater failed to sell, despite a bit of $5.4 million!

The 1932 Bugatti Type 55.  7.1 Million bucks!

Steve McQueen's beach car from The Thomas Crown Affair

I could go on and on, but it’s time to show you some interesting cars, many of which I cannot name, even if I know the brand.

Putting' on the Ritz!

By the way, on Saturday at the Ritz golf course, mixed drinks sold for $12, but to lessen the pain, they were served in large to-go cups and the barkeeps poured until you told them to stop.  I think I had a thimble full of grapefruit juice in my spiced rum.  

But, oh those cars were beautiful and they got even more beautiful!  Must have been the grapefruit juice.

The Concours d’Élegance at Fernandina Beach was an extravaganza and a celebration of cars, past and present that filled the streets and the town.  An event for everyone and damn near everyone was there!

Salad Dressings: Everything Starts with Vinaigrette

 

Salad Dressings:  Everything Starts with Vinaigrette

 

 

I haven’t purchased commercial salad dressing in a LOOOOOONNNG time.  It’s not the cost that bothers me with commercial stuff, and I confess I can’t make it like the big factories do.  See, I don’t have MSG, phosphoric acid, xanthan gum, EDTA, inosinate, and Guanylate handy in my kitchen.   I’m just a simple guy who did pass chemistry, but didn’t use that ebullient knowledge to plot my way through life.

 

I wouldn’t even know exactly what to buy, so I decided to find out.  When I looked up disodium guanylate, my spell checker ripped off it’s mask, coughed in my face, and shot me an evil look.

 

Disodium guanylate, also known as sodium 5’-guanylate and disodium 5’-guanylate, is a natural sodium salt of the flavor enhancing nucleotide guanosine monophosphate. Disodium guanylate is a food additive with the E number E627.  It is commonly used in conjunction with glutamic acid.

 

Nope. Decided to skip that ingredient, along with a host of others and start with the basic ratio for vinaigrette:  3 parts oil, 1 part vinegar.

 

Started with, I said, not finished with.  See, that’s just too oily for me, so I dropped the ratio down to 2 to 2.

 

But, there are many many oils and vinegars.  To start, I had to pause a minute for a sip of wine and ponder the variations.  Pondering took longer than I’d expected.  And more wine.

 

I settled on olive oil and rice vinegar, which is not so strong as other vinegars.  And to help out my sweet tooth, I used seasoned rice vinegar.

 

But, once you begin adding ingredients and since your blender is being ignored, it was time to invite the blender to join the team.  Finely chopped garlic….oh, hell, add another clove.  No need to be stingy.

 

Want the dressing to stick more easily on the salad greens?  Add an egg yolk.  Make the blender happy!

 

I don’t like to splash salt and pepper directly on salad greens, so I add a dash of sea salt and freshly ground pepper to the mix.

 

Damn good, but in days to come, I fiddled and added different ingredients, but not all at once.  Sometimes I wanted a hint of Dijon mustard and sometimes something citrusy. 

 

Lemon zest lends freshness.  Orange slices add a bright flavor.

 

Like things creamier?  Sometimes I do. Best to add an egg yolk and blend it in before adding some cream or buttermilk.

 

How about an Asian tilt?

 

Try this:

 

Sesame oil and olive oil, or canola oil (one portion each)

Peanut butter (2 portions)

Lime juice (one portion)

Soy sauce (one and a half portions)

If you didn’t use seasoned rice vinegar, add honey to suit your taste

A clove or two of diced garlic

Hot sauce if you like, plus salt and pepper

 

Once again, blend it well.

 

For the Asian salad, I add shredded cabbage to the greens.

 

I prefer to tell you the portions instead of a tablespoon of this and that ‘cause I don’t know if you’re making salad dressing for two or twenty.  But, as a rule, I make more than I need, so I’ll have some in the frig ready to use.

 

Yes, I have added wine or sparkling wine to the dressing.  And sometimes I use a mix of vinegars, such as balsamic, or unseasoned rice vinegar.  

 

Fresh herbs, like rosemary or basil, or cilantro will serve you well.

 

I realize this is a shotgun blast of dressing ideas, but that’s part of the fun.

 

A few years ago, as I visited a friend and his wife, he asked me to “Please make that salad, with the dressing you made when we were at your house.”

 

“’Fraid I’m going to have to wing it, bro.  I never make the same dressing twice.” 

 

See even salad can be exciting, especially if you get to piddle with the dressing.

 

What if you don’t have a blender?  Well, if you’ve got wine, you’ve stomped grapes, right?