Gusto Journal | Spring 2019

SPRING 2019

gusto Boston College’s Food Journal

From The Editor A

nthony Bourdain is the unofficial patron saint of this publication. It was his death in June of 2018, a summer course on food writing I took, and an offhand remark from our Essays Editor, Kayla, that galvanized this project. Our journal’s philosophy is to emulate his cosmopolitan reverence of curiosity and respect over all else. Basically, we wouldn’t be here without him.

But I have a bone to pick with something he once wrote in The New Yorker. Specifically, his call to never order chicken at a restaurant because “chicken will always taste like chicken.”

I was recently in Montréal with my close friend Sam and happened upon a white brick building, marked only by a Haitian flag hanging outside. That building was the restaurant Agrikol, conveniently featured in the Bon Appétit guide to Montréal. It was in that restaurant, with bachata echoing off of the palm frond-print wallpaper, where Sam and I split a whole jerk chicken.

Now, I could describe the spice blend made from peppers, cayenne, paprika, onions and garlic (yes, we asked), or describe the crisp, slightly charred skin that guarded a perfectly cooked interior.

And I truly hope, with all my heart, that everyone reading this gets to some day experience Agrikol and the aforementioned chicken, but no amount of poetry could possibly put you any closer to tasting it, so you really don’t need me to explain any of that.

What I can describe was the perfect 7-minute silence that lasted from the second the chicken got to our table to the moment the plate had become nothing but a pile of bones. I can describe the comfort of knowing you can pig out on chicken in a restaurant and have not a single judgmental stare come your way. And then there’s the inherent bizarreness of eating spicy food while surrounded by palm fronds on a five degree (Fahrenheit!) night in a Canadian city known for its biting winds.

They don’t come often, but these moments, these experiences that are so sensorially engaging that they feel almost surreal are what remind me why we started this. It’s these places that are so serendipitously odd that they make you want to tell everyone you know about what just happened.

And what better way to tell everyone about it than to print 500 copies of it and distribute it around your school?

So to Anthony Bourdain I say: Thank you, and if only you knew about the chicken you had yet to eat.

Anyways, this is it. Our sophomore effort. Our Empire Strikes Back, our Godfather 2. We had learned a lot going into this endeavor, but learned so much more during it. We’ve got a bigger staff and a new look, but we’re still trying to figure out what exactly it is we want to be. I think we’re getting close.

To everyone who put their best effort into this: make no mistake, it’s you who made this issue happen. Thank you.

A special thanks to Lynne Anderson, David Curley, and Juli Stelmaszyk.

I hope you enjoy this issue, and that you continue to eat and be well. ■

Nico Borbolla, Editor-in-Chief

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gusto team SPRING 2019 | ISSUE 2

Editor-in-chief Nico Borbolla Creative Director Daniela Benitez Managing Editor Michaela Santillo 18

Media and Marketing Manager Beatriz Gras Business Manager Jun Choi Features Editor Carolina de Armas Recipes Editor Emily Stevens Essays Editor Kayla Causey Copy Editor Claire Madden Head of Photography Kate Klein Head of Design Zoe Chen Contributing Writers Lucy Bartick, Lauren Blaser, Allie Coon, Caroline Dragonetti, Carolina Gazal, Fusine Govaert, Alicia Lam, Charlotte LeBarron, Yiwei Li, Erinn McGahan, Alex O’Connor, Valentina Pardo, Cassandra Perez, Christopher Sundaram, Contributing Creatives Ngan Tran, Delaney Langdon, Alicia Lee, Beatriz Kauffmann, Yiwei Li Media Team Jessica Thalheimer, Lucy Bartick, Juan Suarez

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4 A Three Course Meal in East Boston Cassandra Perez 8 Peach Panzanella Salad Yiwei Li 10 Mike’s vs. Modern Pastry: Cannoli Contenders in Boston’s Historic North End Caroline Dragonetti 12 Le Restaurant des Rêves Christopher Sundaram 14 Finding Home in Three Brookline Coffee Shops Claire Madden 16 Back To The Basics: Knife Skills Emily Stevens 18 A Local Space for Global Flavors Michaela Santillo

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CONTENTS

46 Zongzi: A Labor of Love Alicia Lam 48 Mamá Dora’s Ceviche Carolina Gazal 51 An Apple A Day...

Michaela Santillo 52 In the Name of Late Night Allie Coon 10

54 Coconut White Russian Affogato Lucy Bartick 56 Artifacts of What’s To Come Nico Borbolla 58 Gusto’s Guide to the Green Line

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21 Pepper Trio Julia Nagle

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22 Indulging in the Process Lauren Blaser 24 Meatless Monday Emily Stevens, Michaela Santillo, Charlotte LeBarron 31 The Magic of Possibility Kayla Causey

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32 Snapshots of a Sustainable Food System Anne Marie Green 40 ¡Salud!

Valentina Pardo 44 It’s All Alien to Me Alex O’Connor

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FEATURE

A Three Course Meal in

East Boston

Words by Cassandra Perez Photos by Kate Klein

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far cry from the hustle and bustle of Boston Common, where people walked with their heads down and headphones in, Maverick Square was alive with culture.

When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the Maverick T Station, I thought for a second that I had stepped into another world. Street vendors hailed passersby down in rapid Spanish as Marc Anthony blared from open car windows and storefronts, a clear bienvenidos to locals and tourists alike. The last thing I’d expected on a cold Saturday morning in January was to stumble upon a scene that so vividly reminded me of my home in Florida, a place whose diversity I’d begun to miss since moving for college.

The community of the affectionately termed “Eastie” is very culturally intact. Since its annexation by the City of Boston in 1836, East Boston has served as a safe haven for immigrants from Central and Latin America, who cultivated the neighborhood into the cultural hub it is today. Visiting the waterfront revealed a problem for East Boston eateries: gentrification. All along the waterfront were towering luxury apartments and condos that stood out in stark contrast to the colorful and cozy businesses found in the square, forcing many working-class immigrants to seek accommodations elsewhere.

East Boston is a far trip, especially from Boston College’s cozy Chestnut Hill community. A trip to Maverick Square requires taking the D Line all the way to Government Center and transfering to the Blue Line, a commute that’s nearly an hour long on a good day. I visited East Boston that cold Saturday morning with the intention of getting a three-course meal, an experience that would make braving the long T ride and the unfriendly weather worth it.

My first stop on my trip to East Boston was La Sultana, a small Colombian panadería steps away from the Maverick T Station. I was enticed by the smell of freshly-baked bread wafting through its slightly ajar door, promising pedestrians respite from the cold and a good meal. The panadería was small enough that it felt inviting, but boasted an eye-catching glass display that was a testament to its delicious variety.

Warm bread, steaming empanadas, and enticing flanes and cheesecakes brought the glass display to life, staying true to La Sultana’s Colombian roots while catering to the diverse East Boston community. The panadería was relatively empty, save a couple sipping coffee at one of the high tops and speaking in hushed tones. The employees were scrambling in anticipation for the morning rush, but when they caught sight of me, offered a smile and a genuine “buenos días.” The display stretched before me, warm with the first batches of buñelos and pan aliñado. I guestered to the pan aliñado—a buttery Colombian bread that’s a staple at any panadería—in broken Spanish and sat at the second high top, watching the neighborhood come to life. The first, crunchy bite of the pan aliñado gave way to a soft, sweet interior. I broke buttery chunks off, dipping it into a fragrant dark Colombian coffee that was so rich and flavorful, it put the Chocolate Bar to shame.

I walked out of La Sultana feeling more awake than when I had entered. After walking the length of Meridian Street., admiring the vibrant murals and houses that marked its back streets, I happened upon and entered Rincón Limeño, a Peruvian restaurant highly revered for its seafood. Having just staved off the lunch time rush, a waiter greeting me kindly and immediately brought me to my seat. With a menu as wide and varied as its country of origin, I enlisted my waiter to

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recommend the best of what the restaurant had to offer. I ended up ordering Choros a la Chalaca: mussels piled high with diced peppers and onions with a squeeze of lime to taste. I didn’t eat a lot of seafood growing up, but the mussels—the first I’d ever had— were fresher than anything I’d ever eaten, with the vegetables and lime adding a tang that was equal parts familiar and novel. The main course was the Plato Montenegro, a plate piled high with juicy grilled steak, rice and beans, fried pork, plantains, an egg, and a side salad.

The meal was something similar to what I eat at home, but with a Peruvian twist that made each bite more exciting than the last.

The steak, although thin, packed a flavorful punch, and when eaten in combination with the rice and beans, warmed and invigorated the taste buds. The Peruvian fried pork was unlike anything I’d ever seen or eaten before, every bite equal parts salty and savory. The sweet plantains and fried egg tied the dish together, and I cleaned my plate entirely. I’d left Rincón Limeño with a full stomach and heart.

Although there was a T station near Rincón Limeño, I decided to take the scenic route, circling back through the neighborhood to get one last look at Eastie. Condensed, colorful living units lined the street I walked.

Cars drove with the windows down despite the weather, slowing down to greet people they knew. Kids, bundled in coats chased each other down the sidewalk, yelling gleefully in a language I didn’t understand. And I noticed a crowd of people leaving from one building in particular, so small I’d never had seen it otherwise: Lolly’s Bakery.

Although the lettering on the storefront was peeling off, the pint-sized bakery was cozy and teeming with character. Like most Mexican bakeries, customers—equipped with a bag and tongs—helped themselves to the beautiful selection behind the glass casings.

I instinctively reached for the conchas (Mexican sweet bread with a crunchy vanilla crust), then filled my bag with delicacies I hardly knew the names of, amazed by the

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agreeable prices of the pastries. I was the only person in the store when I’d walked in, and the employee at the counter quickly registered how overwhelmed I was by the spread in front of me. Quickly coming to my aid, she described each of the foreign pastries before me. With the warm customer service that is a staple of Spanish culture, she pointed me in the direction of the alfajores, a traditional South American delicacy that consists of two soft bread cookies filled with dulce de leche. Despite its simple ingredients, the dessert’s impact was palpable. The sugary cookie—the perfect mix of soft and crumbly—broke away easily, giving way to a smooth caramel interior that immediately made me reach for more. I left Lolly’s Bakery with a bag full of sweets to share with my friends back on campus, and the intention to return someday for more.

By the time I’d returned back to Maverick Square, the sun was setting. Street vendors started closing up shops, eager to get back home to their families. Waiters cleared and set tables through glass windows, preparing for dinner. The sound of Spanish music followed me down the steps back into the dark T station, and all along the commute back to campus. ■

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RECIPE

Peach Panzanella Salad Words by Yiwei Li Photo by Zoe Chen

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riginating from farmers in 16th century Tuscany, panzanella salad was made with ingredients pulled straight from the ground. This summer favorite relies on simple fresh ingredients to create a salad that is truly delicious. But, I have some good news for you: this is a bread salad. Yes, you heard that right. A bread salad. With the anticipation of tomato and peach season, this is the perfect way to showcase seasonal summer produce and of course, bread.

Salad:

2-3 tomatoes (preferably heirloom), diced ½ of red onion, thinly sliced 1 loaf of slightly stale bread (Italian, ciabatta, or baguette), cut into 1-inch cubes ¼ cup fresh basil, torn ½ cucumber, halved and sliced ½ ball of mozzarella 1 peach, diced

Vinaigrette:

6 Tbsp olive oil 2 Tbsp balsamic vinegar/champagne vinegar 3 cloves of garlic, crushed 1 tsp salt, pepper to taste

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Instructions:

Chop the bread into 1-inch cubes. Heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan and toast the bread over medium to high heat until golden and crispy.

Whisk together the oil, vinegar, garlic, salt, and pepper until well incorporated. Combine the chopped tomatoes, peaches, red onion, cucumber, mozzarella, basil, and toasted bread in a large bowl. Drizzle with the vinaigrette and toss well to combine. Let the panzanella sit for 10-20 minutes, tossing occasionally to allow the bread to soak up the dressing prior to serving.

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REVIEW

Mike’s Pastry & Modern Pastry 300 & 257 Hanover St.

Mike’s vs. Modern Cannoli Contenders in Boston’s Historic North End Words by Caroline Dragonetti Photos by Ngan Tran

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night out in Boston’s North End is bound to present some challenges. Whether you’re comparing restaurant metrics on Yelp or trying to find your Uber in the cluster of cars on Hanover St., perhaps the most difficult challenge you’ll encounter will be leaving room for dessert. If you’re someone who can muster up enough willpower to forgo those last few bites of Linguine Fra Diavolo, both Mike’s and Modern Pastry offer a wide range of well-deserved treats to finish the night.

Though the two rival bakeries claim to have the best and most authentic Italian pastries in Boston, the experience that

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they offer customers, as well as their signature cannolis, could not be more different.

From the outside, the establishments look the same. Their neon signs illuminate the faces of young couples lined up on the curb and the gawking passersby. Only after you have shuffled over the threshold do their distinct characteristics and quirks become more apparent.

At Mike’s, you are greeted by the heavy aroma of pure sugar: crushed oreos, raspberry sorbet, chocolate frosting. The fluorescent overheads reflect off silver cases displaying rows

of cupcakes and stacks of pizzelle. Blue and white balls swing from the ceiling as workers secure to-go boxes with twine from a spool whirring inside. The floor is decorated by a constellation of pennies and nickels that have slipped from palms and pockets. They’re cash only and things move fast.

While Mike’s advertises their expansive cannoli range with colorful graphics that read like a Warhol piece, they don’t neglect the classic Sicilian.

The crunchy shells are made in-house and stuffed with enough creamy ricotta that each bite threatens to send whatever remains shooting out the

other side. Finely chopped pistachios satisfy Instagrammers and Foodies alike with a pop of color and earthy taste. It makes sense that you never see anyone leave Mike’s without a box.

Across the street, Modern Pastry’s door barely closes as patrons continuously funnel in and out. The smell of anise and chocolate clings to your clothes. Cans of coffee and hot chocolate line the walls. Bouquets of biscotti wrapped in cellophane top tables stacked with panettone.

Binders boasting pictures of wedding and birthday cakes splay open on the counter where you queue to order your desserts. Overhead, a sign suspended

from the ceiling swings every time the front door opens. With true Italian assurance it reads: “You want cannoli?

WE HAVE CANNOLI!” Unlike Mike’s, where the desserts are pre-made and ready to go, Modern does not fill their shells until they are ordered. This process prevents the shells from becoming too soft or soggy and keeps them perfectly flaky. Though the bakery outsources their cannoli casings, (from “somewhere in Italy,” I’m told) their ultimate product is unbelievably fresh tasting. Another notable difference is the size of Modern’s cannoli. While Mike’s rendition is significantly bigger— think, the size of a fist—those at Modern

don’t get much longer than a finger.

Modern’s take on the Sicilian, however, features pistachio pieces that are larger and more roughly cut, adding for even more texture variety. Customers are treated to a dessert that mimics, if not competes with, what you would find in Italy.

Though there’s undoubtedly some major differences between the two stellar bakeries, it’s clear that finding a damn good cannoli is one challenge you won’t run into in Boston’s North End. Enjoy one while looking for your Uber and, of course, bring a full box home. ■

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ESSAY

Le Restaurant des Rêves Words & photos by Christopher Sundaram

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n a small Parisian street tucked behind the Place des Vosges sits a beautiful little restaurant. One may even walk past the small red door and not think twice about glancing in the windows on either side of it. To do so would be a grave mistake. This past January, when traveling to France to visit my girlfriend, Allyce, we decided that we would go out to one fancy meal. We do not get to see each other much, as she goes to school in France, so the night was already special.

Allyce had gone to this place a couple of months back, and I had been there years ago, and we had both loved it. We decided on it and then, on a quiet Tuesday night, went over to the Place des Vosges. After a pre-dinner drink, we walked to the restaurant at around seven p.m. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, and the tables were placed closely together, as if the goal was for everyone in the restaurant to feel like they were eating the same dinner. The only two diners there, however, were Allyce and me, as people usually eat later in Paris. In certain restaurants, being the only ones there may have been a little bit awkward, but not at Le Bistrot de L’Oulette.

After greeting us with a graceful “Bonsoir,” the waiter brought Allyce and me a couple of steps into the restaurant and sat us down across from each other. I could tell from the beginning that he was a kind man. He was middle-aged, with warm eyes set behind his glasses. As he began to point out our options, he spoke with a voice full of vivacity and passion.

As I scanned through the entrées, plats, and desserts on the menu, I saw traditional French dishes such as snails, foie gras, roasted duck breast, and crême brulée. It was a special

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occasion, so my girlfriend and I decided to get an appetizer, a main dish, and a dessert. First, however, as with all French restaurants, the wine had to be chosen.

Allyce and I are not wine connoisseurs, so our waiter excitedly brought out a couple bottles he thought we would like, splashed a sample of red into our glasses, and asked us to try it. After a taste, the waiter poured the other sample for us, and seeing our faces widen, told us why. He described how there are different kinds of grapes, and pointed out that this wine, a Languedoc from southwestern France, had a flaveur rond or “round flavour.” I could see what he was talking about, as the texture of the wine was rather soft and soothing instead of crisp, and almost seemed to match the calm and warm environment around us.

After a couple sips of wine and a few bites of country bread, the beautiful aura of the Bistrot became apparent to me.

At the far end of the restaurant, a man, presumably one of the owners, was doing some paperwork. He looked up, smiled, and gave me a wave, which I returned with a smile and wave of my own. Behind him was a square opening lined with wood where the waiter would get the dishes, and behind that I could see the chef making our meal. As my chestnut soup arrived, the waiter, who seemed to have taken a liking to us, engaged us once more in conversation.

The restaurant was a conversation lover’s dream, as there were only about two steps separating me from the waiter, who was behind the counter. Both Allyce and I deeply appreciated this man’s passion for what he did. He was smiling, and loved

telling us about his life, whether it be his wine expertise, his days working at a vineyard, or his children. While he did not elaborate fully, I can only imagine the life this man had lived, as he carried with him a sense of elegance and experience beyond his years. I pictured him spending years looking after a vineyard, making wine, and having the same kind of family dinner that Allyce and I felt we were about to have. Before taking a sip of the soup, my experience was already special. I had been sipping on a wonderful, silky glass of wine with my loved one across from me, and the best waiter I have ever had making us feel cultured by telling us about wine. I could have been served a Big Mac and would still have had good things to say about the experience. I have always thought that a restaurant can be best measured by its food, and I still do, but this waiter was beginning to make me rethink what a restaurant is all about.

Regardless of my epiphany, to ignore the food would be a disservice to it. As I looked at my soup, I saw a deep marigold yellow, creamy liquid with some herbs and a few pieces of duck scattered around. As I blew on the soup and took my first taste, I experienced a combination of soothing warmth, startling freshness, and soft texture that made both my taste buds and my heart go buzzing. I told our waiter how amazing it was, and, once again, he told me why. There were six succulent pieces of duck in the middle of the soup, and he said that the duck are treated very well. They roam free and live a wonderful life, which, apparently, was why they tasted so good (a bit morbid, I know). While wine and free-range ducks are not my primary interest, I was so happy to hear the passion with which our waiter spoke about them.

A man entered the restaurant, increasing the total number of diners to three. Despite the new company, it felt as though Allyce and I still had the place to ourselves. I savored every last sip of the soup and, with another glass of Languedoc in hand, conversed with Allyce. In between each course, we would smile at each other and just take in the moment while enjoying each other’s company. As the waiter placed the cassoulet in front of me, my eyes sparkled with joy. I wanted to devour it immediately, but two things were preventing me from doing that: 1. It was really, really hot, and 2. I felt like I had already eaten dinner.

After my first taste, however, I knew that I had to finish it.

I got that same heartwarming feeling I had just received from the chestnut soup. Something about the restaurant, whether it was the decor, the food, the company, or the staff, or everything together, made it feel extremely homely. 4000 miles away from my house, the intimacy and familiarity I felt from both Allyce and L’Oulette reminded me of a family dinner.

The plat gave way to the dessert. While I got a simple chocolate cake with ice cream (which was absolutely delicious), the real thing to write home about was Allyce’s chocolate sphere. With a jubilant “Voilà,” hot chocolate from the pitcher in the waiter’s hand flowed all over the sphere, which caused the chocolate ball to melt and give way to a stunning praline mousse. It was as if the food had sprung to life.

At the end of the meal, I got ready to tell the waiter how special a night he gave to both my girlfriend and myself. The only thing that beat me to doing so was something I will always remember: as the waiter handed us the bill, he said how much it meant to him to have people like us at his restaurant.

I responded with a smile and thanked him earnestly for the experience he gave us. I tried to say more, but due to the fact that I was speaking French, I found it hard to fully express what I was feeling. The waiter understood the impression he had on us, however, as I touched my heart and said “Merci.”

As Allyce and I paid and finished our last sips of wine, we noticed that the restaurant around us was quite full. The waiter became more preoccupied with the multitude of new diners, and the night began to draw to a close. The splendor of the evening dawned upon both my girlfriend and me. While he may not have known it, this waiter helped to give me one of the most beautiful memories of my life. It is touching and heartwarming to know that there are people out there who enjoy their job so much that it brings others joy to hear them speak about it. Throughout the rest of the trip, Allyce and I would keep on reminiscing on the beautiful dinner we had at L’Oulette.

Months have passed and I still remember that night vividly.

The joy in my girlfriend’s eyes, the passion and voice of the waiter, the warmth of the chestnut soup, and the distant visual of the cook making our food behind the small opening in the restaurant wall. When going to a foreign country, what more can someone want than being with a loved one, conversing with a local in the language of that country, eating the country’s food, drinking the country’s wine, and feeling truly at home? It is moments like those that are fitting of a restaurant that I will forever think of as the restaurant of dreams, or, more fittingly, Le Restaurant des Rêves. ■

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FEATURE

Finding Home in Three Brookline Coffee Shops Words by Claire Madden Photos by Kate Klein

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henever I am feeling tired of my apartment, of my bedroom and living room and especially the kitchen, with its frozen berry stains and lemony overhead light, I make a coffee run. I am looking for somewhere new to go and some caffeine, but there is something more pressing about seeking out a coffee shop. I am searching for somewhere warm and fresh, a place I do not have to maintain or nourish myself, a second home. Three Brookline-area coffee shops in particular fulfill this definition of home for me, weary or restless as I feel. Tatte, Caffè Nero, and CafÊ Fixe, all conveniently nestled on either side of the C Line, each present a different and entirely welcome sense of home.

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I

f I were to categorize each of these coffee shops as different rooms in a house— think a sprawling, bright house surrounded by greenery—Tatte would certainly be the kitchen. Walking in feels like you have woken up early in the morning to be greeted with ample sunshine and warm lamps, buzzing conversation, and the smell of fresh coffee and pastries. It is a place that feels like home, down to the apothecary-style table that holds quiches and croissants, the subway tile lining the walls, and the hand-written menus. Glass jars of granola and biscotti dot a well-stocked counter, and just above crisp tote bags for sale, a vintage portrait hangs. You do not feel as though you are intruding on someone’s busy mealtime, but instead you are ushered in, welcomed. A large farm table in the center of the restaurant encourages this kind of community—when I arrived, two impeccably dressed women sat at one corner, looking at photos of their grandchildren, and at the other, a group of students happily chatted over muffin crumbs. Tatte inspires brightness and familiarity, with chairs turned casually toward each other and an abundance of brilliant tile and glassware. I ordered a latte and a crimson berry herbal tea—good for either an energy spike first thing in the morning, or a leisurely start—as well as a lightly sweet strawberry-raspberry meringue. The latte’s artistry was rivalled only by the vibrant berry color of the tea, and the satisfying crack of the meringue. Tatte offers a distinct freshness and openness, the first taste of spring.

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affè Nero, just a few stops up the C Line towards Cleveland Circle, offers a completely different, yet just as comforting, sense of place. If Tatte is the kitchen, then Caffè Nero is the infinitely cozy living room. It is the type of place I would duck into if I was struggling to warm up deep in the winter, or just wanted a quiet place to finish a book or an assignment. It seems like a salve for the homesick—maybe for me in particular, after seeing a basket of Italian Baci Perugina chocolates at the counter that brought me back to my grandparents’ kitchen.

The patrons who frequent the café are equally warm, like an older woman who offered me her chair when she saw I was sitting on the ground to get a quick photo of my chai latte (a particularly incredible one, just sweet enough). Lined with books, old and new, and furnished with brightly-colored plush armchairs and couches, Caffè Nero could be anyone’s dream living room. The abundance of color is striking, from the raspberry macaron I ordered, to their signature sky-blue cups, to a soft pink wall that climbs toward exposed beams. When I arrived, it was crowded but almost completely silent; sitting there felt oddly like sitting with your family, all working or reading or watching something else, but together. The café is centered around a large fireplace and a circle of pastel-blue booths, and even as people enjoy their own sandwiches and salads and coffees and pastries, it does feel as though you are enjoying this time together.

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f Caffè Nero and Tatte are places to settle in and find community, than Café Fixe is the spot to take a breath and have a little time to yourself. I think it is a particularly good option if you are feeling overwhelmed or weary of your own space. Right across the street from Caffè Nero in Washington Square, Café Fixe offers a completely different environment: it is noticeably smaller than the other shops, but this affords a new tranquility and intimacy. I found it to be almost like the sunroom of a house—not as bright and bustling, or cozy and studious, but radiating calm. I ordered a macchiato, which came in a small porcelain cup that fit perfectly atop the slim bar—it was bold and intense, a striking contrast to the serenity of the café itself. The walls are painted pastel blue, and the light wood bar along the wall invites one’s tired arms or large cappuccino beside a laptop. The decor is minimal, yet well-considered: orchids perch on top of cabinets or beside the cash register, and a small collection of pastries and desserts fills a rustic wooden and glass case.

The café does not have a large seating area, but its sparseness does not mean it lacks warmth or closeness--the only other customers in the café at the time were a father and his toddler son, one working on a document, and the other sitting perfectly upright on the high stool, watching a kids’ show. Going to Café Fixe allows you to take a moment, alone or together. ■ 15

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3 Tbsp olive oil 2 medium carrots, brunoise cut 2 celery stalks, chopped 1 large yellow onion, medium diced 5 cloves of garlic, minced 3 oz pancetta, small diced 1 lb 20% fat ground beef

Ingredients:

Makes approximately 4 servings.

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¼ cup tomato paste ¾ cup dry white or red wine 1 ½ cups chicken stock 1 cup whole milk 1 bay leaf 8 oz fettuccine or spaghetti ¼ cup basil, chiffonade cut ¼ cup shaved Parmesan cheese Salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot, heat the olive oil and add the chopped celery, carrot, and onion. Cook on medium heat for five minutes, then add the minced garlic.

Cook for another minute and add the ground beef and diced pancetta. Cook for about 12 minutes breaking up the meat with a wooden spoon.

Instructions:

The prettiest of all of the knife skills, the chiffonade is perfect for any herb garnish. Simply stack your basil leaves and roll tightly. Slice across the roll to produce beautiful ribbons of basil.

Basil: Chiffonade cut

ny great chef would agree: knife skills are essential to cooking. Ingredients that are consistently shaped and sized will cook evenly throughout a dish and improve the presentation. A sharp knife and a basic set of knife skills are the first step in the journey to becoming a great cook. We created this simple and delicious ragu bolognese to demonstrate the vitality and versatility of the knife.

Add the white wine and cook for 4 minutes or until some of the wine has evaporated. Add the chicken or beef stock and tomato paste. Add the whole milk and one bay leaf. Reduce the heat to the lowest setting and cook partially covered, stirring occasionally for two hours.

Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve with cooked fettuccine or spaghetti with a sprinkle of chiffonade-cut basil and Parmesan cheese.

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REVIEW

Allium Market and Cafe 1330 Beacon St., Brookline

A Local Space for Global Flavors Words by Michaela Santillo Photos by Ngan Tran

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here is no other way to fully understand the deeprooted charm of Allium, an independently-owned specialty foods haven, than to walk through the Tudor-style facade and be greeted by the epicure’s dream pantry.

I walk past Brookline Booksmith and the iconic Coolidge Corner Theater towards a market/cheese shop/ café trifecta located in the S.S. Pierce Building. Historically home to the Coolidge & Brother General Store (est.1887), this iconic hub formerly served as the commercial center and namesake of this Brookline neighborhood.

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Allium produces dishes to share with passersby who get hooked by the artisanal charm, and stay for the complete sensory experience. The emerald-tiled wall and the ceiling lined with hanging plants create a grounded, harmonious feeling. Handwritten labels and menu boards echo the casual precision with which the ingredients are molded into masterpieces. It has a familiar feel; the marketplace and cheese shop become your pantry, and the cafe your kitchen.

Catered to the gastronome, the market is filled with specialty items ranging from Cherokee purple tomato

shrub, to walnut mustard, to white truffle honey. The floor-to-ceiling cabinets that showcase the eccentric goods take my eyes on their own visual adventure. On choosing products to sell, founder and General Manager Talia Glass says, “We look for products that have a story to tell with value: products that taste great, that are genuine, that are honest and, usually, simple.”

Beaming from the back corner of the store, cheese cases display the largest selection of domestic and imported cheese in the area. Like a proud farmer showing off their harvest, a team member is always around to curate cheese

boards and answer questions about the unique assortment. Talia’s vision for the cheese section was “a cheese and charcuterie shop with a totally kick-ass selection of cut-to-order cheeses that honor farmstead cheesemaking, small farms and producers, and traditional, global cheesemaking practices, while again, not offering the same stuff that every other shop in the Boston area is bringing in.”

The cafe portion features bread sourced from Clear Flour Bread in Packard’s Corner, as well as coffee from Massachusetts’s own George Howell

Coffee, paying a modern homage to the general store that preceded them.

Instead of focusing on local goods from New England, part of Allium’s philosophy is to source products from small producers around the world. This belief is rooted in the idea that “people sometimes lose track of quality, craftsmanship, and the cultural importance of foods when they are hyper-focused on ‘eating local.’”

The menu itself is inspired by the ingredients, experiences, and insights of Glass and her crew. With a team as carefully selected as the ingredients,

Allium is constantly buzzing as the dishes are realized through their insight.

The food tastes of the honest joy the team shares. Inherent to Allium is their candid philosophy surrounding their food: “It’s pretty simple: Eat good food.

Eat food that tastes good. Eat food that’s made with good ingredients. Eat food that’s grown with good practices. Eat food that’s made with good intentions and systems. Eat food that supports good, local economies. Eat good food.

Cook good food. Celebrate good food.”

The pastry case, filled with impeccably arranged desserts,

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resembles a still-life painting rendered with contrast and crisp composition; a citrus olive oil bundt cake with a blood orange glaze becomes the focal point. A winter citrus infusion gives the base a sour note to balance the richness of the cake. Portuguese olive oil makes up for the lack of dairy in the dessert, making it a great option for vegans and non-vegans alike. Executive Pastry Chef Kelly Fernandes’ attention to taste is embodied in the fresh chocolate chip cookies, which are baked in batches throughout the day. The cookie gets its nuance from the nutty browned butter, adding a depth of flavor.

In their own take on the classic Italian soda, Allium offers tea and shrub sodas. Drinking one felt like listening to a juicy tête-à-tête between two effervescent individuals. The Earl Grey soda was a refreshing take on an iced tea, but nothing superior to the traditional version. I found the strawberry shrub soda invigorating; it celebrated the authentic strawberry flavor often bastardized in commercial drinks.

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The baguette is the star of the Banh Mi, which uses a soy-ginger marinated tofu instead of the usual pork. Biting into the baguette creates a symphony of crackle, as pleasing to hear as it is to taste. Pickled carrots, daikon radish, sliced jalapeño, and cilantro all provide a welcome contrast to the flavor of the tofu. But if the Banh Mi shows off Allium’s innovative flair, their grilled cheese demonstrates their spectacular ability to master the simplest dishes.

Among the more garden variety offerings, the Yaffa salad provides a rather simple mix of fresh leaf lettuce, cucumbers, hearts of palm, tomatoes, radishes, and chickpeas, revived by a bright carrot-ginger dressing.

To order the cheese board is to visit a museum with a personal tour guide.

Beaming as only a proud mother could, Head Cheesemonger Chelsea Germer explains the origins and peculiarities of the masterful collage she has created.

Designed specifically for each customer, the board is a chefs-d’œuvre. Highlights include house-made Italian pickled

vegetables with star anise, a blue cheese cold-smoked cheese over hazelnut shells, a local Capella with truffle honey, and floured almonds coated with dry edible flowers.

A place where food from around the world is explored and celebrated, Allium Market stays true to its historic home as a welcoming commercial center. Rooted in its ingredients but ready to cultivate original dishes, Allium enhances the pantries and palates of the community through its curated market and menu–and the community reciprocates. According to Glass, “Customers bring their families in, hold birthday parties here, and have started to become like family to us...I always tell my staff, our customers don’t need us. They can go spend their money anywhere! It is we who need them, and so it is up to us to keep offering something special, something unique, something worth their time.”■

Pepper Trio, Oil Pastel

Julia Nagle

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ESSAY

Indulging In The Process Words & Photo by Lauren Blaser

Lauren and her dad, July 2000

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y dad loves to cook. To sear, season, and sautée. The timeline of his day, unfortunately, doesn’t allow ample time to produce a meal from start to finish.

Our kitchen, in all of its preparatory glory—a steamy cloud of scents, all four burners occupied, ingredients strewn across every inch of counter space—is an atmosphere of organized chaos just before dinner. Returning home from his IT office, my dad will drop his leather messenger bag in the corner and proceed to dump his keys, wallet, and phone next to the coffeemaker. Immediately afterward, he launches into a string of offers to assist in any outstanding dinner tasks for my mother: “Should I fire up the grill? Can I put this glaze

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on? I’ll make the rice!” Given the opportunity, he jumps to contribute. My mom jokingly swats away his attempts at help, though, preferring to finish what she has started without explaining her every move to the latecomer.

“If we waited for me to get home,” he always laughs, “We’d end up setting the table at eight!” His removal from this process of making dinner, typically a high-stress and time-constrained experience, means that when he prepares food it is for sheer pleasure only, and at a leisurely pace all his own.

A few hand-picked items have become my dad’s pride and joy, and he has undoubtedly reached a level of mastery over them throughout the years. If he hasn’t already coached me

“We have grown accustomed to bursting through the door on weekends, only to find my dad transfixed in a peaceful atmosphere of kitchen alchemy.” and my sister through the production of these favorites, then he has threatened to do so at some not-too-distant point in the future. Whenever the mood strikes my dad, he’ll meander into the kitchen and start to pull out the flour and baking spray.

We have grown accustomed to bursting through the door on weekends, only to find my dad transfixed in a peaceful atmosphere of kitchen alchemy. He’ll look up at us, called back to reality by our turning of the doorknob, as he cheerily draws a tray from the oven. In these scenarios, my mom will typically be bent over the kitchen table, stacks of recipe cards in front of her, scrutinizing the numbered lists and weighing our options for the evening. My dad’s therapeutic baking sessions always earn him a playful roll of her eyes. “Must be nice!” she’ll pipe up from her chair, mocking the frivolity of his kitchen use.

Thanks to my dad’s role modeling, though, I will never be able to bake absent of his influence.

Scones are my dad’s true pièce de résistance. Each batch is a new masterpiece of his. Unless my mom, sister, or I request a different flavor, his go-to recipe consists of a sweet butter dough studded with currants. Why he refuses to simply call the added fruit “raisins” has become easy for us all to understand. The kitchen is where my dad likes to play with the more artisanal side of himself.

Born in Oregon, my dad has a special affinity for berries.

His home in the mountains made for a quaint, almost surreal summer job between the ages of ten and eighteen—a produce picker at a farm across the street from his neighborhood.

Strawberries, raspberries, and broccoli in the fall…he grew up surrounded by fresh ingredients, and was exposed to almost every imaginable method of their incorporation when it came to food. This piece of his childhood manifests itself in the way he attempts to insert the tiny, gem-like fruits wherever applicable. If my mom is making pancakes, muffins…bread in

any form, really, he’ll lean over her shoulder and ask whether she’d like him to retrieve some of our seasonal berry stores from the chest freezer downstairs. “Honey, this is cinnamon coffee cake—it doesn’t call for anything else,” she might respond in exasperation.

“I know, but there are berries…” my dad will trail off, realizing he isn’t clearing any ground. To this point, he will sometimes swap locally picked blueberries or peaches for his classic Sun-Maid currants in scones.

About halfway through his recipe, things start to get complicated. My family has a pastry blender that looks a little like a horseshoe, with five thick, silver wires bent into a loop and attached on either end to a thick rubber handle. In the only instances I’ve ever seen it put to use, my dad digs out this tool for the step of butter-cutting. Patiently jamming the wires into a room-temperature block of margarine, he uses a fork to scrape the resulting slivers off the metal. Painstaking and messy. If my sister and I are helping him, we attempt (with no avail) to speed through this process. “The butter is the most important part,” my dad explains, never possessing any sense of urgency. “That’s where the flakiest layers come from.”

Envisioning the translucent sheets of dough, stacked piping hot under the shell of his golden biscuits, my mouth always waters. I stifle any harbored complaints.

With a handful of currants and a quick combination of wet and dry, my dad is soon placing eight evenly-spaced triangles onto our worn slate baking sheets. The fruits-to-labor ratio in this recipe is a source of personal frustration for me.

An hour of work and only eight pieces in total? My dad, of course, doesn’t mind. Wielding a bristled brush, he furrows his brow and leans over the trays, lovingly brushing a coat of melted butter atop each glistening slice of dough. Deftly sprinkling raw cane sugar onto their tops, his goal is a delicate crunch with every bite. Then fate is left to the oven.

The art of cooking has never intentionally been gendered in my family. Preparing our meals does often fall into my mom’s hands, but this is a pattern which fell into place organically, following her decision to leave work and stay home with me and my sister. She has taught me most of what I know, in a practical sense. It is by her side that I’ve witnessed our family traditions in action: blending coleslaw dressing, rolling a fresh pie crust (store-bought would be sacrilege), simmering winter bean chili. Her wealth of knowledge is a source I will draw from for the rest of my life. My dad’s attitude, however—even more than his unique set of skills—is what will inspire me always.

The whimsical approach which my dad takes to food is one I seek to imitate. He has shown me the presence of bliss in the kitchen. By devoting energy to select cuisinal items, he has allowed himself to explore their intricacies, and so emerge with a level of personal satisfaction which I can only hope to emulate. The thorough advice he presents my sister and I comes from a place of passion rather than a sense of responsibility, and it sincerely shows. Everyone has to eat and drink, and from the point of creation to consumption my dad does so merrily. ■

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RECIPE

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he American diet heavily revolves around one thing: meat. Whether it be chicken, pork, or beef, we are almost indoctrinated to view meat as the feature of a meal and vegetables as secondary.

There is a lot of talk these days about how meat and dairy products can be harmful to our health, and even more harmful to our environment. Some scientists have gone as far as to describe avoiding meat as the single most positive impact a person can have on the environment. Furthermore, it has been estimated by researchers at the University of Oxford that beef generates six times the amount of greenhouse gases and requires thirty-six times more land than do vegetables such as peas. Despite this, the concept of entirely wiping a food group from our diets is daunting. We live in a world that has a preference for the black and white, the right and wrong, the good and bad. The Meatless Monday movement that was started in 2003 proposed an alternative: cut out meat for just one day a week. In doing so, they offered a more “bite sized� approach to sustainable eating that the average person could stick to. We wrote this piece to further demonstrate that not only is participating in meatless monday environmentally conscious, but also delicious.

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Sesame Tofu with Pan-Seared Broccoli and Rice

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n the lineup of protein, tofu is the kid that always gets picked last; if any product needs a rebranding, it’s this one. With a delectably sweet sesame sauce and lots of garlic, we hope this recipe will have you giving tofu the second chance it deserves.

Words by Charlotte LeBarron Photo by Kate Klein

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egin by pressing the tofu by placing a 14 oz block of extra-firm tofu on a stack of folded paper towels on top of a plate. Place more paper towels on top, cover with a second plate, and weigh the top plate down with cans or a pot of water. Press the tofu for at least 30 minutes to extract excess moisture. For the sauce, combine ¼ cup soy sauce, 2 Tbsp water, 1 Tbsp sesame oil, 2 Tbsp brown sugar, 2 Tbsp rice vinegar, 2 Tbsp dried or grated ginger, 4 cloves of minced garlic, and 1 Tbsp cornstarch. Cut the pressed tofu into 1/2-inch cubes and season with a pinch of salt. Sprinkle 1 Tbsp cornstarch onto a plate and coat the cubes. Put ½ pound fresh

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broccoli in a pan with 1 Tbsp oil, 1 chopped scallion, and 1 clove minced garlic. Cook until tender and crispy around the edges. Put 1 Tbsp oil, 1 chopped scallion, and 1 clove minced garlic in another pan. Let it simmer for a few minutes.

Add the prepared tofu, turning every few minutes until it turns golden and crispy on each side. Turn the pan with the broccoli down to low and add in the prepared sauce. Simmer for a few minutes until the sauce thickens. Shut off the heat and mix in the cooked tofu. Serve the tofu and broccoli over cooked rice, topped with chopped scallions and a sprinkle of sesame seeds.

Roasted Cauliflower Tacos with Cilantro Lime Crema Words by Emily Stevens Photo by Kate Klein

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reheat oven to 375 degrees. Thinly slice ½ red onion and place in a bowl. Cover with approximately 1 cup of white vinegar and add ½ teaspoon of salt and ½ teaspoon of white sugar. Allow this mixture to sit in the fridge and pickle for the duration of the recipe. Cut and separate 1 head of cauliflower into florets and spread onto a baking sheet. In a separate bowl combine 2 tsp. paprika, 1 tsp. chili powder, 1 tsp. cumin, ¾ tsp. salt, and pepper to taste.

Drizzle the cauliflower with olive oil and sprinkle with the spice mixture. Toss to coat evenly. Place in the oven for 15-20

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imple, fresh ingredients make these cauliflower tacos the perfect summer’s night meal. With bright, quick pickled red onion and spicy avocado crema, these tacos showcase vegetarian ingredients and will enchant both meat-eaters and vegetarians alike.

minutes or until tender. While the cauliflower bakes, combine ½ of an avocado, ¼ cup cilantro, ½-1 jalapeño (depending on spice preference), the juice of one lime, and 1 cup greek yogurt in a blender. Pulse until the ingredients are emulsified but you can still see pieces of cilantro. When the cauliflower is done assemble the tacos with corn tortillas and the roasted cauliflower. Top with the quick pickled red onion, a drizzle of avocado crema, crumbled cotija cheese, a sprinkle of fresh cilantro, and a wedge of lime.

Makes approximately 8 tacos.

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Sun-Dried Tomato

Chickpea Burger with Garlic Basil Aioli

Sesame Tofu

with Pan-Seared Broccoli and Rice

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Roasted Cauliflower

Tacos with

Cilantro Lime Crema

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Sun-Dried Tomato Chickpea Burger with Garlic Basil Aioli Words by Michaela Santillo Photo by Kate Klein

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reheat oven to 400 degrees. In a food processor or blender, combine one 15 oz can of chickpeas (rinsed, drained, patted dry), ½ cup chopped red onion, 4 cloves minced garlic, ⅓ cup chopped sun-dried tomatoes, and 1 cup packed fresh parsley and blend until smooth. Transfer chickpea mixture to a medium bowl. Add ½ cup panko breadcrumbs, 1 Tbsp ground cumin, 1 egg, salt, and pepper to taste and mix until everything is evenly incorporated. If the mixture remains too wet, add breadcrumbs by tablespoon until the desired consistency is reached. Refrigerate the mixture

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reating a veggie burger that is flavorful and holds its shape is no small feat. We believe we’ve achieved the seemingly impossible with these chickpea burgers infused with sun-dried tomatoes and fresh herbs. Topped with a simple garlic basil aioli, this plant-based entrée is easy to prepare and even easier to eat.

for half an hour to make the burgers easier to shape. Using dampened hands, shape into 4-6 patties, each about ½ inch thick and place onto a parchment paper-lined pan. Bake for 30-35 minutes, flipping half-way through until golden brown.

While the burgers bake, pulse 1 cup fresh basil, 3 cloves of minced garlic, ½ cup mayonnaise, 1 Tbsp lemon juice, and ½ teaspoon kosher salt in food processor to create the aioli. Serve on your favorite bun with your toppings of choice; we were craving a poppy seed bun with fresh microgreens, heirloom tomato, red onion, and a drizzle of the garlic basil aioli.

ESSAY

The Magic of

Possibility

By Kayla Causey

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hen I turned eleven, I waited patiently for my acceptance letter to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I knew it was a long shot—obviously, because I lived in America—but I held out hope. The wizarding world was a tantalizing dream locked behind the pages of my well-worn Harry Potter books, and I pined for the opportunity to trade P.E. for flying lessons, or science for transfiguration. I clung desperately to the hope that life might be hiding its hand, waiting for the right moment to reveal a side more exciting than what I experienced day to day. The mundane drum of reality, however, beat on and after a while I finally had to admit to myself that Hogwarts wasn’t real. I thought that meant that magic couldn’t be either… until the beans.

Two years ago, sometime over Christmas break, my siblings and I hurried a delightfully designed box to the table. Small though it was, especially placed in the center of our expansive wooden dining area, the box demanded attention as well as apprehension. Its colors were bold: red stripes that perfectly matched the blushed cheeks of a baby-faced clown, greens and blues that then filled in the outline of its hat. Most striking, however, were the yellow Grecian columns that framed the sides of a plastic window.

The view left nothing to be assumed of what came nestled inside, yet the box’s real secret still remained hidden. Our only clue lay in the possibility of the name emblazoned on its front: Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

My sister peeled open the top, then tore the plastic inside letting the candy cascade out onto the table.

Entranced by the release of the beans, my sister, brother and I sank slowly into our seats. No one moved to try one, we just stared. They looked like your everyday (muggle) jelly beans: bright solid colors like pink, red, and green were flanked by marbled yellows, reds, and browns. Each of us knew, however, the kind of flavors that lay in wait: “every flavor” meant any flavor.

It was a game none of us had played before. Looking around the table at my siblings, their eyes reflected my own giddy fear of the unknown tastes we were about to experience. We were older and more jaded than we were when we each picked up the first Harry Potter book, but at the whim of the beans, we became kids again, in a candy shop we thought could never exist. My brother and sister

dove right in, picking through colors, guessing flavors, and reaping the rewards and consequences that came with each new bite: a sigh of relief and delight when the brown and cream bean turned out to just be marshmallow or a sudden convulsion when the overwhelming taste of a seemingly plain, white colored bean turned out to be soap. I, on the other hand, played the game much safer deciding to stick to the brightly colored solids. The blue was blueberry; dark green, watermelon; and medium green, apple. The worst it got for me was mistaking a cherry for the slightly darker colored cinnamon, until I realized I’d eaten all of the beans I’d deemed safe. What remained were the suspiciously colored stragglers even my brother and sister didn’t want to touch.

My sister gripped the pamphlet identifying the flavors of each bean. A dark red bean with scattered brown splotches lay in my hand, and its corresponding taste lay in hers. I had gotten away in the bean game unscathed so far, and now was my time to face the deep dark side of “every flavor.”

With foods you anticipate to be bad, always there is that first moment where you don’t taste anything. You know better than to let yourself be fooled, and yet you let your guard down right before it hits you. At first, it’s bad…but it’s not that bad…and then all of a sudden, it’s worse.

Earthworm. The name itself is so frank you can’t help but imagine on your tongue the dirt, the grit, that squiggly thing you try not to smush when you walk in the rain…that squiggly thing you ultimately do smush when you walk in the rain. The picture I had in my head was dark and damp, with an invasion of wet, slimy, faceless crawlers.

And that picture was only half of it. The Earthworm bean was suspiciously spicy, in that the taste traveled up my nose pooling in the orifices of my skull as well as filling the cavern of my mouth. Gasping for breath didn’t help much; the taste remained. And it was bitter, too, the kind of bitter that makes your face scrunch in newly discovered disgust.

I thought maybe water would help, but much like a worm thrives in a moist environment, so did its taste.

I was unable to move from my seat and I couldn’t pay attention to anything but the Earthworm bean that was still very much thriving in my mouth. I gagged. I tried milk.

I tried food. I tried everything and yet it persisted. Even though I’d never tasted a live earthworm before, there remained little doubt in my mind that that was indeed what I was tasting. It was uncanny how thoroughly I was convinced. Inside that one little bean was the world I had so desperately wanted to be a part of since the moment I had been introduced to the world of Harry Potter.

The beans were no flying broomsticks or talking painting, but they were still enchanting in so far as they removed me, in that moment, from the everyday. Not only had the beans transported me from the time that the Earthworm bean remained in my mouth into the body of my younger, more idealistic self, it had brought me face to face with what I had previously thought was impossible. For lack of a better word, it was magic. ■

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Words & Photos by Anne Marie Green

In search of some “evidence,” I endeavored to photograph and learn about some of the food partners of BC Dining, including the kitchens of BC Dining itself. I explored four arenas of the greater food system, visiting two producers (Ward’s Berry Farm and North Coast Seafood), one provider (BC Dining) and one waste handler (Save That Stuff), in order to understand my food better than I did before. At every site, I encountered overwhelmingly passionate people, and was dazzled by the complex and innovative processes behind every meal. I hope these photos empower and inform you in the same way they did me, and that they may satisfy at least a bit of your curiosity about the origin of our food.

onsidering how much time we spend eating each day, rarely do we ask ourselves: where does our food come from? Who feeds us? These are questions I personally find troubling as a devoted foodie and an environmentalist.

We eat with the hope that our food comes from clean, responsible and perhaps even picturesque places, but we really eat blindly, without any evidence that our food got to us in a way that supports our values.

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Snapshots of a Sustainable Food System

FEATURE

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Ward’s Berry Farm

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ard’s Berry Farm is located in Sharon, Massachusetts, and supplies Boston College with vibrant produce like squash, peaches, tomatoes, zucchini and pumpkin. The process of it getting from soil to campus begins with picking. Jenna (photo 1a) and Rory (photo 1c) are year-round pickers, but Ward’s also employs several part time workers during the harvesting season, who, as Rory explained, are typically young people who come from as far as Ecuador looking for temporary work.

While Rory viewed the picking process fondly—savoring long, sunny days spent outdoors—he also described it as grueling. Pickers go out in almost all weather conditions, including heavy

rain and hail. He considered this past season to be unusually rainy, actually over-watering many of the crops.

This picked produce travels to the factory to be washed and packaged (photo 1b). In the factory, two young women wash yellow squash grown at Ward’s in order to send them in a CSA box, which are assembled down the hall. Ward’s does a local farm share with several colleges, providing their “farmer’s choice boxes” to BC Dining’s CSA Program (Community Shared Agriculture). CSA Members get a weekly surprise box of assorted produce grown at Ward’s, often with various squash species, including this yellow one. Every box is like a food puzzle: what dishes can be made so that none of

the vegetable is wasted? My suggestion for turnips: bake turnip “fries” with salt and paprika, and sautee the greens (which are even more nutritious than kale) with maple syrup or honey to cut the bitterness.

While post-consumer food waste is an issue commonly tackled through composting programs, farms themselves also generate a significant amount of food waste. Ward’s efficiently feeds their excess produce to a small pen of pigs (photo 1d). The pigs gobble up produce with baffling speed—they finish one squash the size of a liter soda bottle before you can blink.

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North Coast Seafoods

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orth Coast Seafoods, a seafood company based in Boston’s Drydock, sources all of BC Dining’s seafood. Andrew Wilkinson, a Seafood Specialist and Chef R&D with North Coast, gave me a tour of the fishing docks and North Coast’s processing facility. Andrew and I got there early enough in the morning to see that a few North Coast-sponsored fishermen were unloading freshly caught Redfish, a fairly underutilized but still delicious local deep sea species. Because the species is a small to medium sized fish, much of what the fishermen bring in cannot be sold to restaurants as a standard fillet size. Andrew’s creative solution was to sort and source the smaller catches to local primary schools for a “fish n’ chips” school lunch. Most primary public schools lack healthful and fresh school lunches, he said, so what better way to make use of local, sustainably caught Redfish than to feed our next generation?

Next, Andrew showed me around the processing facility. I was stunned to witness the complex technology that produces the seafood that we, especially as Bostonians, love so much.

Salmon filets travelled through a conveyor belt to remove hundreds of small bones, and employees removed the rest with tweezers (photo 2a). In such a high tech facility, none of the bones, guts or fish heads get wasted. North Coast collects these inedible or unwanted fish parts and creates “gurry”: a highly nutrient dense mixture used in fish oil supplements, pet food and fertilizer. Lastly, while touring the facility I soon realized that it smelled...normal. Andrew explained that when fish are removed from the ocean, bacteria can flourish, materializing in that infamous fishy smell. To prevent this, hanging from the ceiling throughout the facility were hoses of ozonated, or electrically charged, water that when sprayed on fish, eliminates all surface bacteria so that the “fishy” smell disappears.

Andrew excitedly asked me to press my nose right up against a half cut bass to discover the true fishy scent for myself. I sniffed it reluctantly, but it was actually pleasant, earthy and natural.

Andrew said it was his favorite smell.

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BC Dining

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oston College Dining serves approximately 22,000 meals to thousands of students everyday.

But behind the kitchens, it’s clear there are diverse and familial communities within each dining hall (see 3d for a window into the community members at Hillside). Student employees work hard every day to feed their fellow students (photo 3c), and all employees handle massive amounts of food each

day for students’ breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks (photo 3b).

While there is significant consistency across dining halls, each unit adds a unique flair to the food that it serves. This is excellently embodied in the cookies. Each dining hall has a signature cookie recipe, like the wide and chunky Hillside cookie, the giant Stuart cookie, and the famously gooey Eagle’s cookie. This is because the

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bakery for all BC Dining baked goods is located right behind Eagle’s Nest, home to Executive pastry chef Tim Fonseca, a baking master with a competitive edge.

Tim makes sure to add a little extra love and chocolate chips to uphold Eagle’s Nest’s rumored status as the best cookie on campus.

Interning with BC Dining’s sustainability team has given me the privilege of working beside cooks, like

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Derek (Photo 3a), during FRESH to Table Kitchen Demos on Wednesdays.

Every week, the chefs at Lower and the BC Dining sustainability team collaborate to serve and give samples of a dish that is either Fairly Traded, Regional, Equitable, Sustainable or Healthy. Students know this as the night with free (and delicious) samples, but the chefs, managers, and interns like myself consider Wednesday nights sacred opportunities to share our passion for sustainable food. While I enjoy virtually all FRESH Demos, especially the dessert samples, I particularly enjoy when we sample underutilized fish species, like hake and pollock. This reminds me that we have power as consumers of seafood: if we are willing to experiment beyond the typical seafood menu, and are persistent in pursuing responsible sourcing, we can help to balance our overfished oceans by trying one of the many underutilized species.

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Save That Stuff

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ave That Stuff is the processing facility that collects all of Boston College’s recycling, trash, and food waste. While students toss food scraps in bins labelled “compost,” Save That Stuff does not necessarily compost the food that comes to them; they do something a little more novel with exciting ramifications for the future of organic waste handling. First processed to extract non-organic materials like food packaging, food scraps are then handled by engineers like Conrad (photo 4a), who mix the food in a chemically balanced Engineered BioSlurry (EBS). Marc Galardi, Business Development Manager of Save That Stuff, explained that certain companies are obligated to send Save That Stuff their pre-consumer food if the waste total exceeds 200 lbs. This rule explains the unsettling amount of Ben & Jerry’s pints (photo 4d) being stored in the food waste processing room when I visited the facility in November. The pints of Brownie Batter ice cream had never

been enjoyed; Marc explained that they were likely in the facility due to labeling inconsistencies or allergy conflicts, which he said was not unusual. In these cases, waste production is left out of the consumer’s control, rendering even the most faithful environmentalist, like myself, feeling lost and helpless.

But what was done with the EBS restored my excitement for proper waste management practices — after the EBS is stored in giant, dark green industrial cylinders, it is sent to a wastewater treatment facility in Lawrence, MA, to be combined with septic waste. This facility not only converts the gas of this mixture into energy through the process of anaerobic digestion, but also transforms the solid remains into fertilizer pellets. Conrad appeared delighted that the resource potential of food waste is harvested nearly to full completion at Save That Stuff.

With Save That Stuff, the food circle is essentially closed. Our food is grown at the farm or caught from the sea,

prepared and consumed, and then, ideally, re-harvested to create energy or enrich soil to restart the entire cycle.

It should be noted, however, that while these photos represent a microscopic window into the realm of our food, this glimpse is also somewhat utopic. Not always is our food picked by Jenna or Rory, our fish handled with so much care by Andrew, or recycled properly

by Marc or Conrad. This project, while partly curiosity-satisfying, truly leaves me wanting to know more: is there an uglier side of food production, and what would that look like?

I

ndeed, only a small percentage of our food is grown and caught locally by sustainable and caring producers (about 9% in Massachusetts), and unless we actively compost, our food scraps are wasted in an incinerator or landfill. If we allow ourselves the time and research, we can make small decisions that support food production as it should be: regional, sustainable and efficient. In this way, our consumer power and awareness of sustainability become tools to bring a beautiful, responsible food system to fruition—one of which we can be unwaveringly proud. ■

39

REVIEW

!

Barcelona Wine Bar and Restaurant 1700 Beacon St., Brookline

Salud Words by Valentina Pardo Photos by Ngan Tran

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!

I

shifted my weight from one leg to another as we stood in line. A warm sense of familiarity and excitement fluttered in my chest. Laura raised her eyebrow and looked at her watch for the tenth time and muttered something under that heavy accent that I couldn’t understand. Carlota just sighed and kept hovering over the people in front of us, standing in her toes and trying to get a look at the place that had attracted so many hungry people. I ignored Laura’s skeptical eyes; I knew that if they did not seat us in the next five minutes, she was going to walk to the pizza place next door. Over my dead body. Luckily enough, we were invited right in before those two murdered me. If it were any other restaurant, I would not have dared to bring my friends with me, because what right does a Colombian have on taking two born-and-raised Spaniards to eat at a Spanish restaurant? I know...none. But don’t blame me.

I had a craving for jamón and Manchego croquetas that had been nudging at me for weeks.

Barcelona Wine Bar and Restaurant is tightly nestled along the busy and never-ending Beacon Street, but undeniably stands out with its heavy glass doors and gray rustic tiles of vintage looking wood. Sitting at dinner with my friends, we didn’t feel like we were just eating food, we were actually enjoying ourselves without caring about our deafening Spanish voices and unbridled laughter. Most importantly, we

were happy, and in that we were not alone. Smiles seemed to be served by the waiters, along with the golden olive oil and freshly baked bread.

Barcelona’s dynamic menu includes a refreshing variety of seasonal ingredients and complex flavors that keep the customers on their toes. They also serve the best wine from their award-winning selections of bottles from Spain and South America. Hence, their gastronomic combination of tradition and experimentation represents the two different worlds inside the venue.

In the “young and hip” side of the restaurant, you have the big parties of students, in groups of no less than eight to ten people, all sitting in rows of never-ending tables with three or four pitchers of red wine sangria passed around like water.

Sitting in that sea of compulsive selfie takers, you are bound to either hear the well-known “happy birthday” song awkwardly spat out by a bunch of off-tune voices, or the melody of a tipsy, overly-emotional parent commemorating their child who has graduated and barely made it to the merciless world of the labor market. Left and right, servers can be spotted clumsily trying to fit all of the table participants into one single shot so the memory of the evening can be later recalled and shared.

At Barcelona it always feels like everybody is celebrating something.

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Contrastingly, the left side of the restaurant is filled with the “grown-ups” sitting patiently along the bar, individuals with nine-to-five jobs that desperately need a break from the conference rooms and phone calls, and seek to escape with a good bottle of Pinot Noir or Albariño. On this side, though, celebrations are also present, normally caused by unexpected promotions, anniversaries, or the mere fact that the hell-of-a-week they’ve been having has finally come to an end. On Fridays and Saturdays, however, the space catches more energy. All of a sudden, the stools are no longer compatible with the number of bodies seeking to drink and the room begins to look more like a cocktail party than the “sit down quietly and drink your sorrows” type of bar found anywhere else. Barcelona brings out the best in everyone as it becomes a place where people can come together and drink without feeling guilty, because it’s drinking in honor of something, or someone.

Although the types of celebrations can vary between the two different sides of the restaurant, there is a factor that brings all of the people together, regardless of age or upcoming salary: the food. The food is the same in every single table. The beauty

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of eating at a tapas place like Barcelona is that there are no rules when it comes to ordering. You don’t have to choose just one dish, you can order all of them if you want. Can’t decide between the gambas al ajillo or the sweet potato hummus?

Try them both! Eating at Barcelona is a unique experience as it gives you the freedom to experiment. If you don’t like something, chances are somebody else will eat it—this gives you room to keep trying bits and pieces of everything until you find those flavors you’re looking for. Last year’s Executive Chef Steven Brand basically sums it up as he says, “It’s not just dining because you’re hungry, it’s dining because it’s fun.” It’s fun to celebrate and mix things up in your palate. It is fun to let yourself be surprised or even disturbed by the unexpected flavors stuck in between your teeth.

But don’t be fooled into thinking that sharing only applies to the tapas—trust me, you are going to want to order more than one dessert. There is no way of choosing only one. My friends and I ordered the porras, spanish churros. With one bite, I got everything one looks for in a churro: the perfect crunchiness in the outside and the comfort of the softness in the inside. I was not overwhelmed by the cinnamon sugar

“It’s not just dining because you’re hungry, it’s dining because it’s fun.”

Steven Brand, Former Executive Chef

in any way, and it paired perfectly with the taste of the fresh dough and the side of melted chocolate. But, as you may expect, curiosity got the best of us, so we ordered the dulce de leche crepe. The vanilla ice cream on top melted against the warm crepe while the layer of chocolate sauce and crushed walnuts added a satisfying crunch to the bite. This sweet combination was the perfect ending we were looking for to feel satisfied, and after taking a look at the check, we found yet another reason to celebrate.

So, when it comes to properly enjoying this transcendental experience of eating at Barcelona, there is one general rule that you need to follow. Drumroll please...you have to be hungry!

And, yes, I mean this literally and if you are, you will not be disappointed, especially if you order the patatas bravas, or the chorizo with sweet and sour figs. The bravas are the Spanish classic, and the chef respects tradition as he cuts them in the traditional cube form, and adds nothing to them but paprika, the aioli sauce, and their famous salsa brava. The potatoes are fried to perfection—every time I order them they are cloaked by a golden crunch that you have to bite though to get the softness hidden inside. The saltiness of the potato is married to the creamy garlic sauce, creating a perfect balance. On the other hand, the chorizo with sweet and sour figs is everything

but traditional. Who would have guessed that chorizo, an ingredient that is in itself salty and fatty, would get along so well with figs and caramelized brown sugar? A genius, that’s who.

But when I refer to hunger, I also mean another type of hunger, a hunger for celebration and community. Yes, you have to crave the rich taste of Spanish culture, but you also have to yearn for the long conversations and the sense of unity that the restaurant harbors. Barcelona serves the food in small plates on purpose: it wants you to interact with those around you. It sets you up so that when you’re asking for someone to pass the delicious seafood paella, you are inevitably starting a conversation; you are sparking a new connection or strengthening another relationship. Thus, Barcelona Wine Bar and Restaurant celebrates life with you and stays open until the last guest leaves. In the meantime, as those last few plates are passed around and scraped clean and the glasses are refilled until the last drop, you have just enough time to raise your glasses and say, ¡salud! ■

43

ESSAY

It’s All Alien to Me Words by Alex O’Connor Illustration by Zoe Chen

F

ive p.m., five hungry stomachs, a stocked refrigerator, a preheating oven, and important first impressions: the steaks had never been higher. Pun intended. Steak was not on the menu, it was something much simpler but equally as exhilarating. The meal? Chicken, rice, and broccoli—I had never cooked a meal for myself, let alone for five people I only vaguely knew, so simplicity was essential. I didn’t want to set myself up to fail. The night was about first impressions, but not only that, it was about first-time cooking experiences. If I messed this up, the repercussions would be immense.

I was preparing to undergo a month and a half process, a process that would lead to the production of a play called “The Aliens.” And as the director of the play, I was not only the organizer of the production, but also the emotional and spiritual leader of the team. If their first impression of me was a night spent writhing in pain from salmonella, the quality of the show would certainly suffer. I couldn’t mess this up—the show depended upon it.

I wanted the cast and crew to trust me, and what instills more trust than the incredibly domestic and familial activity of cooking? Nothing. Therefore, I assembled my team so that we could all meet for the first time, and I could establish myself as not only the director of our ensemble, but also the head chef of our metaphorical kitchen.

Like any good play, the dinner was full of zany characters: Will, the heartthrob, Ally, my strong-willed and unforgiving

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stage manager, James, the goofball, Matt, the pleaser, and Devyn, the quiet and sweet one. Will was the first person to arrive, and he did so just in time to help me lather curry powder onto the tender chicken breasts. Next Ally arrived.

She and Will began chatting while I put the chicken in the oven. James arrived soon after and introduced his presence with some witty humor; I knew I cast him for a reason. He announced that he smelled burning, making us all laugh. He was preparing to play one of the more comedic roles in the show, and so perhaps he was engaging in some method acting.

The chicken was now cooking in the oven. Next up was the rice.

How much water did the rice need? I honestly had no idea. Too much water, and you end up eating soupy rice; too little water, and you end up with teeth-cracking pieces of rice.

I didn’t want to compromise the million-dollar smiles of my actors. The problem of when to start the rice so that it was ready at the same time as the chicken also remained! I decided that I would follow the instructions on the box and cook it with a two-to-one water to rice ratio, but I wouldn’t start cooking it until after I had flipped the chicken in 15 minutes. My anxiety was clearly visible, I had no idea what I was doing, but as soon as Matt arrived I felt a weight lift off of my shoulders. His warm and gracious presence lightened the mood in the room and our cast really started to feel like a family. A zany and anxious family.

Devyn arrived soon after and our family was complete, but she also commented on the burning smell, (thanks Devyn).

Devyn’s comment wasn’t funny like James’, but was filled with genuine concern and worry. The oven is very old, and as soon as you turn it on there is a vague burning smell. The culprit was not the chicken, I reassured her. Even if it was, at least no one could contract salmonella from burnt chicken.

Things were rushing by rapidly, so I thought I would slow down the pace of the night with a poem from an author who is referenced in our play, Charles Bukowski. It was a poem called, “Dinner, 1933,” which seemed relevant, but what I didn’t realize was the poem was about a child who didn’t like their parents cooking. The poem is quite blunt: “The food that I had eaten and what I had seen was already making me ill.” I should have read the poem beforehand. As the metaphorical parent of this production, I felt slightly attacked. Was it possible that I was sowing the seeds of dissent within my own cast and crew?

Fifteen minutes quickly passed and everyone was having a pretty good time, quietly chatting on my living room couch.

I asked if everyone was ready for the beef bourguignon—the joke was met with mild approval. I flipped the chicken and it looked like it was browning nicely; maybe this would actually work out. I put the rice on and gloated to my cast that I was actually doing alright. One by one they came to micromanage my cooking process, though, judging the pot I used to cook the rice, my rice to water ratio, and even my choice of seasoning for the chicken. Was it too late to hold a second round of auditions? It seemed as though my cast was bonding and getting along quite well, but perhaps they were all united by a common enemy: their director.

We all tentatively waited, with Will and James in particular drooling in hunger. Will periodically helped me check on the rice; it was still soaking in water, so perhaps I got the ratio wrong in the end. Will and Matt insisted that I remain steadfast, but the colander sitting in the kitchen cabinet began to look ever more appealing. Luckily the rice started to harden up.

Five minutes until showtime. I went to cook the broccoli in a pan with olive oil, but before I could cook the broccoli, I had to wash it! The sanity, sanctity, and general sanitation of the whole operation would be compromised by unwashed broccoli. Unfortunately, I had already cut the broccoli—it was in a thousand pieces, so I gently tossed a few pieces back and forth in my hands under running water. I have to assume there is a better and more efficient way to clean away bacteria from broccoli, but this was the best I could do. As I prepared the pan to cook the broccoli, I accidently put too much olive oil in and also turned the heat up too high. The olive oil started

boiling on the pan and making a mess. A few droplets of olive oil bounced onto my skin, leaving me with little burn marks around my hands. Luckily, no one in my team noticed, or they were too nice to say anything, maybe too diva-ish to care about my pain.

The moment of truth was almost upon us, so I took a moment to reflect. What an incredible opportunity to direct a play, and what an amazing moment in time, the inciting event of our whole theatrical process. This dinner, this cast, and me, being worshipped by them, I the chef, with my eager eaters.

Lotus eaters.

The time had come. I ran to take the chicken out of the oven, and I beckoned my cast into the kitchen and handed them each a plate and told them to serve themselves. My face was too close to the oven when I opened it, and I almost scalded myself. Matt made sure to point out that I shouldn’t put my head in the burning oven. Thanks Matt. I put on the oven mitt, but the oven mitt was more of an old kitchen towel rag, and I burnt my hand on the pan trying to remove the chicken from the oven. I still have a mark on my right pinky from the accident. But I played it off like no big deal as to not alarm anyone, and the cast began to serve themselves.

A single tear rolled down my cheek.

I had forgotten beverages, but the night would have to continue with parched mouths. We all took our seats around the table and I put on some smooth jazz. Will was excited about my music selection, but I suspect no one else was. I could barely eat the food as I tentatively watched them, wondering whether they were enjoying it. They all had their fair share— Matt even went back for seconds, but Will barely even finished his first portion. Yikes.

I asked them what they thought, and they all reassured me that they liked the food. Their soft smiles indicated mild satisfaction; it didn’t seem like any fireworks were lighting up on their taste buds as I had expected. They were also all very quick to leave after they finished eating, probably a bad sign.

Did they not realize the magnitude of the situation? Families are built around the dinner table—rule one of domestic life— and yet they all scurried off like they were eating at some fast food buffet style restaurant. I was heartbroken.

After all was said and done, the food’s reception was lukewarm, but honestly, I’m just glad there was no vomiting involved. This wasn’t the perfect night, but it also would not be the perfect show—there would never be a perfect performance, not in the kitchen or on the stage. What I was sure of was that there would be smiles, laughs, tears, and probably a few more burn marks along the way. ■

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RECIPE

Zongzi:

A Labor of Love Words by Alicia Lam Photos by Emily Stevens

A

t ten years old, my grandma learned to make zongzi, a savory rice dumpling wrapped and steamed in lotus or bamboo leaves. My great-grandmother, her mother, taught her how to make zongzi just as her mother had done when she was a child. They would sit together in an open kitchen with no roof above their heads and dexterously portion the rice mixture into cups they had formed with the leaves, before wrapping and tying the packages shut with a string like a present. Living in poverty with seven siblings meant that my grandma’s family needed to subsist on cheap ingredients, all of which produced the rice dumpling that my grandma still makes for my family today.

Zongzi brings me back to when I was living in China as a young girl, running back from school in the humid, sunny weather for a popsicle from the local convenience store to cool

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off. I remember coming home with my popsicle to eat zongzi as my afternoon snack. My grandma would always make large batches at a time, freeze leftovers, and reheat them in the rice cooker with a little bit of water.

Zongzi is a traditional Chinese food made with glutinous rice stuffed with various fillings and wrapped in bamboo leaves. The dish was inspired by a famous Chinese poet known for his patriotism who drowned himself after his capital was taken over by the enemy, during an era in ancient China that was characterized by warfare. To preserve his body in the water from hungry fish, packets of rice were thrown into the river, which was the inspiration for zongzi. These dumplings are traditionally prepared and eaten during the Dragon Boat Festival during late May to early June.

Ingredients: 1 cup dried pork or pork belly (optional) 1 1/2 cups glutinous rice, uncooked 1 cup dried mushrooms, diced 1/4 cup dried green mung beans 1/4 cup peanuts 1 Tbsp MSG (optional, if omitted add an extra Tbsp. of salt) 1 1/2 tsp salt 1 tsp black pepper 1 tsp five spice powder 1 tsp vegetable oil 1 Tbsp soy sauce 1 tsp minced garlic 24 dried bamboo leaves 20-40 long pieces of string

粽�

Makes 10-12 zongzi

Instructions: Soak the bamboo leaves in a large pot of cold water for 8-10 hours.

Combine the rice, mushrooms, mung beans, peanuts, salt, pepper, five-spice powder, pork, MSG, garlic, oil, and soy sauce in a large bowl.

Overlap two bamboo leaves lengthwise and fold inwards, creating a cone shape in the middle with two long leaf flaps above. Holding the cone with one hand, fill with the rice mixture. Whilst folding the top edges of the cone inwards, fold the leaf flap over the top of the cone and wrap around forming a triangular shape. Holding the edges of the leaves closed, wrap tightly with string and tie a knot, making sure there are no areas where the filling could spill out.

Once all of the zongzi are folded and tied, place in a large pot and cover with water.

Boil on high for 30 minutes then reduce to medium heat for two and half hours, adding water and stirring occasionally.

To serve, remove the string and unfold the leaves to reveal a perfectly formed and cooked rice dumpling. Serve alone or with soy sauce.

47

ESSAY

Mamá Dora’s Ceviche Words & Photos by Carolina Gazal

I

am convinced that my grandmother has healing powers.

Mamá Dora, my petite five-foot-tall, white haired and freckled grandmother, has the antidote to nearly every ailment. Within my family, we refer to her powers as brujería, which translates to witchcraft, because some of her cures and concoctions defy the staunch American medicinal traditions we’ve been coddled by. For instance, if I complained about an earache, my grandmother would roll up a newspaper, carefully lodge it in my ear, light a match, and my pain would vanish. She was well aware of the cupping method decades before athletes co-opted it, and knows how to “properly” do so without leaving bruises. She even dispels evil spirits and energies from our home with a mere white egg and her secretive whispers. However, her cooking has proved to be the most magical remedy of all her tricks and cures. Her recipes

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are like potions, undoubtedly guaranteed to heal and cure the most aching hunger to the most painful heartbreak.

I’ve watched in quiet admiration as Mamá Dora has treated and fed every cousin, uncle, aunt, and everyone in between. One of her specialties is ceviche, a dish made of fresh raw fish cured in lime juice, thickly chopped onions, and bits of spicy yellow ají. Mamá Dora’s ceviche is the perfect remedy for the type of sadness that induces hunger, the answer to every exasperated “I miss home.” Ceviche has cured my hunger and homesickness more times that I can remember. It has saved my mother from the anxiety of coming home empty-handed, and is the neutralizer that keeps our family gatherings tolerable.

Instead of receiving a pale and tasteless chicken noodle soup when we’re sick, we receive a spicy bowl of ceviche. Mamá Dora’s potent ceviche has cured us all, and it is only made from

a few ingredients. All she needs is one white fish, an onion, some limes, and cilantro to make a fulfilling meal, like an alchemist turning common metals into gold.

The origins of ceviche are hazy and often argued about.

Most people agree that it was founded in Latin America, but Peruvians like myself believe the legend that ceviche was created when an Incan emperor demanded fresh fish, but could not travel the distance to retrieve the fish. When it was discovered that lime juice would keep the fish as fresh as possible when traveling from the sea to the top of the mountains, an important part of Peru’s national heritage was born. I imagine a chasquis, a professional Incan runner, balancing a carefully constructed bowl of raw fish and lime juice while dashing back to Cusco.

Ceviche’s legacy has been passed down from the hands of Incan royalty to my grandmother’s compact and sun-spotted hands, marked by decades of sitting under the sun, slicing avocados, raising every child in the family, and cooking more than fifty years’ worth of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.

My grandmother must have perfected this recipe more so out of convenience rather than tradition. My grandfather, Papá Lucho, was a fisherman who had access to the finest fresh fish on a daily basis in Peru’s chief seaport, Callao. My mother often reminds me of how hard life was back then. Even though Mamá Dora is a skilled cook and healer, she lacked the education to secure a steady job amidst the rocky political climate. Surviving off a fisherman’s wages was not easy. After an earthquake destroyed their town, they were forced to uproot and move to a safer neighborhood. My mother still dwells on all of her precious childhood mementos that she was forced to leave behind, but notes that this relocation brought her a better life. Although they spent most of their time at school or on the beach, their city was still unsafe. They were forced to live by citywide curfew in order to protect them from criminals that lurked around during the night. They persevered, and even grew stronger from all that they endured. Mamá Dora was able to make her meals a constant in their unpredictable lives.

They could always count on ceviche to fulfill their hunger, and I believe this is what makes Mamá Dora’s ceviche so strong and so good.

My mouth waters when I think of the ceviche Mamá Dora must have concocted, using only the best fish from the oceans of Peru, and freshly picked cilantro that my mother purchased at the local market. Although my mother never specifically speaks about eating ceviche in Peru when she was my age, I have the most vivid vision of what this scene would look like. I see Mamá Dora, short but sturdy, slicing onions but not crying because she is immune to the smell. I see my grandfather, standing tall and dancing to the Beethoven he still plays in his senile state today. I see my mother with the same unruly hair and petite features that I have now inherited. She is squeezing limes next to her two statuesque brothers. They are all tan from days spent at the beach. They tower over my grandmother, helping to cook what is now my favorite meal.

Although my siblings and I don’t get to see our grandmother as often as we would like, a few hours is enough to indulge our cravings for a good meal. Our stays include my grandfather wagging his finger to the sky to the tune of

Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” my mother whispering secrets to my grandmother while she steams sweet potatoes, and an occasional guest who heard Mamá Dora was cooking.

Cousins and uncles that I haven’t seen in months will suddenly appear at the door when she is cooking. Mamá Dora always welcomes them in with a hug and a plate. Ceviche not only has the power to convince me to eat raw fish, but also to teleport relatives from all parts of New York to the very end of Long Island.

One warm spring afternoon a handful of years ago, Mamá Dora decided that ceviche would be the first meal we learned to properly cook. She placed a single piece of white fish onto a wooden cutting board in front of my sister and ordered her to chop it into small chunks. I was on cilantro duty, washing each sprig and plucking only the “good leaves” off of the stem (the bigger leaves without spots). This assignment proved that I was not trusted with a large knife. After Mamá Dora noticed that the pieces of fish were too big, and that I had placed too much cilantro into the bowl, she laughed at our pathetic attempts. I wondered how a dish with so few ingredients could be so complicated. Although Mamá Dora wanted to help us perfect our ceviche-making skills, my mother hurriedly took over, exclaiming that we didn’t have enough time to learn how to make ceviche.

Just as champagne is best served in a flute washed in hot water, ceviche is best served on a flat and wide bowl. It is best displayed to show off the bright orange flecks of ají, the pale white raw fish, and the scattered leaves of dark green cilantro.

My mother likes to add her own flair to her ceviche, placing slices of cooked sweet potatoes around the rim of her special ceviche plate, which perfectly absorb the lime juice and add a shocking taste to the plain sweet potato.

Ceviche is the perfect meal to eat on a hot summer day.

The lime juice, cold and refreshing, is guaranteed to cool you down while the spiciness of the raw onions and ají will surely wake you up. My summer weekends are filled with family gatherings in my grandmother’s tiny and un-air conditioned apartment, but none of us complain because we are eating ceviche. My Tío James sits on a stool smiling, telling my siblings and me that ceviche is good for your lungs and improves your circulation. My grandfather grins without teeth, still wagging his finger to the sky. I reach for seconds and thirds, savoring my grandmother’s meal while it lasts.

If you are truly feeling down, Mamá Dora prescribes a spoonful of Leche del Tigre, or Tiger’s Milk, the juice that remains at the bottom of the ceviche bowl. Best consumed with your largest metal spoon, the juice is fiery and has collected all the cilantro leaves that have been marinating under the fish.

If you are feeling brave, drink straight from the bowl. Beware the splashes that can feel like a cold splatter of salty seawater on a sunburn. One spoonful is all you need to quench your desire for flavor. First you will feel the zesty juice tickle your lips, urging you to drink more. Tears may spring to your eyes if you are unaccustomed to this kind of spice. Then you will feel a cool and invigorating splash on your tongue, quelling the itchiness on your lips. Drink until you feel it in the pit of your stomach, filling you with the strength of a tiger.

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Ingredients: About 4 servings 1 1/2 pounds of fish fillets (basa, swai, tilapia or flounder) diced into 1 inch pieces 1 red onion, thinly sliced 2 ají amarillos, veins and seeds removed (if you like it spicy do not remove the veins or seeds) 1/2 cup of freshly squeezed lime juice 2 teaspoons of chopped fresh cilantro leaves Salt to taste

Garnish: 2 sweet potatoes, boiled, peeled and cut 1/4 inch thick 2 ears of corn, boiled and cut in half

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1 2

Rinse the fish in cold water, drain well and salt to taste.

Soak the sliced onion in room temperature water for 5 minutes, drain well and set aside.

Meanwhile, place the lime juice, ají amarillo and one piece of fish in a blender until smooth. Place fish in a bowl and pour in the mixture, mixing well. Stir in the chopped cilantro. Let it marinate for 10 minutes.

3

When ready to serve, arrange slices of sweet potato and ceviche, and top it with the onions and cilantro.

Note: Aji amarillo can be found frozen or canned in most Latin American supermarkets. Mama Dora’s choice is frozen. ■

An Apple A Day...

Words by Michaela Santillo Illustration by Zoe Chen

Keeps me nourished with the breaking of its defensive shell, allowing me to grow, offering up a piece of itself.

Keeps me pleased through the sweetness of its juice, through the bitterness of its core; the product of a tasteful tiff.

Keeps me fueled through its molecular build; each bite encouraging my body to pedal faster, kick harder, think clearer, breathe deeper.

Keeps me bonded with friends who join me in picking it freshly off of a tree on a crisp New England orchard.

Keeps me comforted through the accompaniment of sweet cinnamon in the pies it has made; the culminating bite of my Thanksgiving feast.

Keeps me grateful a token of my appreciation, a thank you, a job well done; the fruit of my school teacher’s labor.

Keeps me reminiscent of my childhood snacks, the friend to my peanut butter and jelly nestled close in my lunch box.

Keeps me motivated with its revealing core— a clock whose browning complexion sounds an alarm.

Does much more than simply keep the doctor away.

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FEATURE

In the Name of Late Night Words by Allie Coon Photos by Daniela Benitez

P

ast the hour of nine p.m. on a Friday night, hungry Boston College students no longer trek to Lower and Mac for sustenance. They journey, quite intentionally, to Late Night. The label shift—subtle but ubiquitous—signals that a kind of weekly transformation takes place in the hallowed halls of BC Dining. And perhaps it does.

To an outsider, the dining halls themselves don’t feel much changed, though the smell of frying oil is slightly more prominent than usual. The décor is limited, and the dining options are arranged in rows of the same metal trays most of us have seen since elementary school hot lunch. In front of these hangs a long plate of glass, a faint reminder of the ever-present threat of norovirus on the petri dish of a campus which we all call home. Strangely, the Late Night patrons appear intent on transmitting said norovirus. They generously share fries (or onion rings, as the case may be) with both their friends and the linoleum floor. They sway and hang upon one another in snaking lines, fenced in by rope barriers which become ever more disorderly as the night progresses.

Ambience is not a direct signal of quality—there are esteemed restaurants which operate out of subway stations, grocery stores, and farms. But you do not expect an esteemed culinary experience from Late Night. Your mozzarella sticks will be called “mozz sticks,” and the cheese within will stretch roughly as long as their abbreviated alias. You will be unsure, at times, if your chicken strips are cooked all the way through. Your French fries will be more potato than pomme frite, and your pizza most likely will not transport you back to your semester abroad in Parma. Neither the food, nor the location, nor the atmosphere seem particularly worthy of devotion.

Still, something happened when BC Dining attempted to change Late Night at the beginning of

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this year, replacing chicken strips with sandwiches and mozz sticks with wraps. Devotion poured out of the student body at a level higher than that of the Mass of the Holy Spirit, maybe even higher than that of the first home football game.

When you go to Late Night, you are not looking for Sweetgreen, Parma, or the types of civilized culture that the core curriculum so eagerly attempts to impress upon us. The night has gotten too boring or too eventful, or you are, quite simply, very hungry.

As you ascend the steps to Addie’s or approach the counters at Mac, fluorescent lights and glowing menu boards illuminate your friends’ faces. You notice where your hair has begun sticking up in places; you hide behind your roommates from that guy you hate in Globalization. You can hear everything clearly, likely for the first time since you left the house that evening. The voices of your peers blend together into the night’s final song.

The food in front of you glows with what you crave: fat and salt and warmth. You are free to order fried breading in all its glorious forms, un-beset by a salad bar or by hordes of students returning from the Plex. You reach the front, and a server hands you a paper boat of food, holding it high like a bowl of holy hosts.

Behind you, freezers hum with Powerade (your personal cup of blessing) and containers of leftover cake. You stand in the middle of it all, uncontained. The promises of university life are delivered in flawed and fleeting glory—because this is late night after all, and you weren’t expecting much. ■

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RECIPE

Coconut White Russian Affogato Words by Lucy Bartick Photo by Kate Klein

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talian for drowned, the Affogato is the simple dessert that you didn’t know you needed in your life. With a twist that evokes a White Russian, it is the perfect pick-me-up as the weather heats up and the days get longer. This recipe is extremely simple and flexible, and it can be doubled (or tripled) easily. Eat with a spoon and imagine you’re on a bench in Florence, or sitting seaside on the Amalfi Coast.

Ingredients: 1 Scoop vanilla or coconut gelato (regular ice cream will work just as well) 1 Hot espresso (no espresso maker? Strong black coffee also works) 2 Tbsp Kahlua (optional, of course)

Toppings: Toasted coconut and slivered almonds

Scoop ice cream into chilled glass. Combine Kahlua with hot espresso and pour over ice cream. Sprinkle with desired toppings and serve immediately.

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FEATURE

Artifact Of What’s To Come Teaching an old drink new tricks Words by Nico Borbolla Photos Courtesy of Jake Mazar

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ake Mazar’s favorite apple is the Roxbury Russet. It’s a greyish, greenish apple, with a leathery skin. You’d expect it to be sour, but it’s sweet. Not an artificially engineered kind of sweet that Dole and Driscoll’s may dream of, but instead a soft, weathered sweetness. Another admirer of the Roxbury Russet is Nathaniel Hawthorne, who, in The House of the Seven Gables wrote, “But I suppose I am like a Roxbury Russet, a great deal the better, the longer I can be kept.” Nathaniel Hawthorne was definitely a cider drinker.

Jake Mazar, CSOM ’08, decided to start a cidery after growing disillusioned with work in the consulting field. Together with childhood friend (and current Head Cider-maker) Soham Bhatt, who had been working in the biotech industry, he started Artifact Cider. “Something was lacking, and I wanted to do something on my own terms…we had a keen love of cider, something we’d been drinking for a long time, talking about for a long time. Soham started making some at his house in his garage, one thing led to another and slowly we decided to open up a company… and it’s kind of taken off from there.”

It begins, Mazar explains, with locally sourced apples.

Once the blend is chosen and the apples are picked, the process begins to resemble that of wine-making. The fruit is crushed, pressed, and its juices begin to ferment, either with added yeast or with naturally occurring yeasts. It’s fermented for anywhere between a few weeks to a few months, and then aged until it is ready to be carbonated, canned or kegged, and finally consumed.

Given apple picking’s cultural ubiquity, it’s no surprise that cider culture has begun to reemerge in the Northeast.

Due in no small part to the craft beer boom, where many

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“We don’t want apples to be stuck in the past...cider is a progressive, modern beverage.”

Jake Mazar, Co-Founder and Business Manager

have begun to shirk the Anheuser-Busch beverages in favor of locally-produced, small-batch brews, cider has enjoyed a rebirth in the last ten years. As Mazar puts it, “We’re interested not only what’s been done before, we’re interested in what can be done, what’s possible. Reinvention.”

And what serves as a better example of staying true to one’s roots while reinventing oneself than an apple itself? The Roxbury Russet has been in the Northeast for close to 400 years now, and it still manages to find new life every time it’s picked off the orchard, fermented for a bottle of cider, or regrown in a Massachusetts orchard.

Artifact’s name lends a bit of poignancy to this sentiment as well. Sure, the likes of John and Sam Adams might have enjoyed a Roxbury Russet some 250 years ago. They might even have had a glass or two of cider from those apples at the local taverns, taking gulps between discussing the merits of liberalism. So while cider, and the distinctly Northeastern apples that it can be made from, all serve as treasures of our past, they also remind us to look towards the future. I don’t think the Adams’ would have minded a blend of apples in their cider.

Although hard cider still makes up a mere 1% of the alcohol industry, the proliferation of cideries around the United States indicates that it’s not a flash in the pan, and has lasting value. Simply put, if cider can last 400 harsh New England winters, one could assume with confidence that it’s here to stay.

Artifact Cider can be found at Chansky’s Super Market and Gimbel’s Liquors. ■

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Gusto’s Guide to the Green Line Rapid transit/Key Restaurants Map

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