Party Planning: Perfecting Your Drink Menu

Whenever I entertain, my rule of thumb is to have an option for everyone. Luckily when it comes to drinks, a few staples can be very versatile!

Before a party, I want to make sure the bar is stocked. If it’s running dry, the size of the party helps determine my shopping list.

If you’re simply having a pregame or cocktail party, on average you can expect 3-4 drinks per person. When food is involved, typically guests may have a drink or two before the meal (whether a mixed drink or glass of wine), maybe another 1 or 2 while they eat, and after that many you might expect a round or 2 of shots afterwards.

If I’m stocking up from scratch, this is what my shopping list might look like:

1. One (or two) 750 ml bottle of whiskey
   • Jack Daniels is pretty universal as a mixer
   • Crown Royal or Bulleit work well in cocktails
2. One 750 ml or 1.5 ml bottle of vodka
   • Absolut or Ketel One typically work (I’m not big on vodka)
3. One 750 ml bottle of gin
   • (Depending how much you and your friends like gin, a 375 ml bottle might do)
4. One 375 ml bottle of rum
5. One 375 ml bottle of tequila
6. Two bottle of red wine
   • Personally I like to have a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Malbec on hand.
7. Two bottles of white wine
   • Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay I think are the most universal
8. A case of good ol’ domestic beer
9. A six-pack of craft beer or seasonal
10. *Seasonally/Per Occasion* 2 bottles of champagne or a seasonal liqueur (aka Bailey’s)

That’s a wide selection that basically covers every palate. When it comes to mixers, you can’t go wrong with coke, tonic, ginger ale, and some sort of juice mixer (orange and cranberry are classics)

Root beer works well as a mixer, too. Mango juice (typically a more pureed consistency) works well if you’re making frozen margaritas.

If you want to serve a more special cocktail, below you’ll find some very easy takes on simple classics with a slight, memorable variation:

 

 

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Champagne & St. Germain

Flute of champagne or white wine

St. Germain elderflower liqueur

Pour 1.5 oz of St. Germain elderflower liqueur into a flute of champagne or a sparkling white wine (I like Martini & Rossi’s Asti Spumante). The St. Germain adds an extra sweetness with fruity notes like pear and citrus.

The liqueur itself is very sweet, so mix it with a drier wine or a brut champagne/cava if you prefer.

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Gin & Tonic (Lightly Remixed):

3 oz Gin

La Croix sparkling water (I prefer the lime or lemon flavors)

Lime wedge

In a tall glass filled with ice, pour the gin followed by a can of La Croix sparkling water. For a classic taste, stick with the lime flavor, though the other fruit flavors might offer interesting variations. Squeeze in some lime juice and stir well.

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Gin & Grapefruit Juice

1 large grapefruit

1.5 oz Gin

Cut and juice the grapefruit; if you prefer a version without pulp, store-bought grapefruit juice works too. Pour the gin and stir well. Enjoy!

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2 Rules to a “Healthy, Perfect, Life-changing” Friendship

How many articles do you come across promising a better, faster, stronger (whoops, Kanye distraction), stabler, hotter, more exciting love life?

You’ve seen them: A New York Times feature by a couple’s therapist. A salacious Cosmo how-to with a “sexpert’s” commentary. A mommy blog from Pinterest on how to be a good wife or girlfriend. They’ve all been in your Newsfeed at one point, and they’re always sharing tips to improve your romantic life.

What about being a good friend? Not nearly as attention-grabbing. But I think it warrants the same spot, if not higher, on our  priority list.

Why? (If you’re really asking, this especially applies you)

Think of the people in your snapchat list who get the unflattering selfies. The ones who witnessed your strangest drunk antics in college, were actively responsible for them, and kindly filled you in on your tomfoolery the next morning. The herd that you round up for brunches, Netflix marathons, nights out, nights in, and your biggest life events. Don’t you think they deserve your best efforts too?

Life has led me to conclude two rules for bettering my friendships, no matter what stage they’re in. Never forget these simple steps (that conveniently rhyme): Give a shit. Be considerate.

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Give a 

It’s kind of an all-encompassing term, I know. But the whole point is two-fold: first, have enough self-reflection in your life to really appreciate your friends. Take a step back and be amazed. The moment you realize how lucky you are, your actions will naturally reflect that.

Secondly, actively use your words and actions to make your friends feel wanted. The world is full of enough rejection, but friendship is acceptance, guaranteed.

So when your friends show you who they are, in the form of sharing a personal anecdote or the Harry Potter fan fiction they wrote in 8th grade: give a shit.

When they’re hitting a rough patch and need advice: give a shit.

Even if they choose to stay mum on what’s going on: give a shit.

When they’ve accomplished a milestone, whether they finished grad school or the enormous breakfast burrito: give a shit.

It’s not hard to do. Even if you can’t put it into words, most of the time you don’t even need to.

Me and the gang.

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Be considerate.

"That's the thing about friendship. It's a lot rarer than love, because there's nothing in it for anybody." -Owen Wilson, You Are Here

It’s easy to underestimate the impact your actions have on other people. You never know if a small surprise made someone’s day, or whether your carelessness deeply hurt somebody. Putting a little more thought and intention into your actions can go a long way in establishing trust and bonding between you and your friends.

The beautiful thing about thoughtfulness is that it often inspires someone to reciprocate in appreciation. Do something nice, your friends will likely do something nice back, and you’ve set off a great spiral of kindness!

Kind gestures aside, just be accountable.

Make your friends a priority. Make time in your day to see them.  You probably dedicate 10 hours of your day to work and hopefully 6-8 hours of your night to sleep. In the precious windows in between, it’s not hard to grab a drink or lie comatose on the couch for 2 hours watching Youtube in good company.

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I’ve heeded a lot of advice from the internet. Nuggets like, “The average person will spend 229,961 hours, or a third of their life, sleeping. That’s why investing in a quality mattress is important!” Or how to use tape or a business card to get the perfect cat-eye. Most of these tips showed me how to make my life more efficient.

Relationship articles, too, have provided quite an array of advice (that mostly I take with a grain of salt.) Most have to do with what I have to do to attract someone, amuse them, encourage them, and basically keep them around. Most seem to be long to-do lists that establish strange rituals and rules which ultimately just make me question my instincts and sanity.

So let this be my contribution of sage internet advice that focuses on improving your satisfaction and quality of life:

Want good friends? Start by being one.

Give a shit. Be considerate.

Paris: Single in the City of Love

 

I arrived on a bright but brutally cold Friday afternoon, 2 years ago nearly to the day. Spoiled by Spain’s Mediterranean climate, I had poorly packed for a Parisian winter. But I was happy to see the city outside the cliched norms of fragrant blooming flowers and outdoor cafés.

With only two and a half days in the City of Lights, city of love, my friends and I decided not to stress over checking off every tourist attraction. (I had been twice before, so I was especially inclined to have a more relaxed agenda).

Our first night, we settled into our hotel and wandered around the Latin Quarter, strolling through winding streets until we decided upon a quaint bistro for dinner. A glass of wine, onion soup, and boeuf bourguignon later, I was too full, too tired, and too content to do anything but immediately collapse into bed.

Morning began with a brief walking tour around the hotel’s neighborhood to locate a spot for a petit dejeuner. We entered an elegant café with mirrored walls and dramatic velvet curtains draped along the windows and doors. We ate slow, enjoying rich coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice, and soft, butter-soaked, impressively flakey-yet-gooey, delectable croissants …

. . .

Where was I? Forgive me, I completely lost my train of thought daydreaming about those croissants.

Oh yes, Paris!

After breakfast, we languidly strolled through the Luxembourg Gardens, the typically manicured park frozen and bare. We watched a duck slip its way across a frozen pond, walked around to see Le Sorbonne, and continued our relaxed approach to seeing the city.

Being the reckless 20-somethings we were, we stopped into a small grocery store where a bottle of champagne and a bottle of orange juice were purchased. No use getting cups. On the street, the boys craftily combined the liquids, and a grand mimosa bottle was passed and shared between us as we walked to the Metro towards Montmartre.

Sacre-Cour. A crepe au chocolat. A glance at the art fair, and we returned down the majestic hill towards the Seine. Notre Dame was next, and we took pictures outside, walked through the periphery inside, and debated where to go for dinner.

One of my fellow travelers had never been to the Louvre, so I agreed to take her, separating from the others. We pretty efficiently paced from gallery to gallery, appreciating the ornate architecture, priceless art, and immaculate displays within the last hour of the museum’s admission.

Day two brought us back to the same cafe for breakfast. (Those croissants!) We allotted a generous chunk of time for the Eiffel Tower. The lines were long and the stair climbing tedious, but the views were breathtaking (and not just because I was winded from the ascent!)

Despite the harrowing cold outside the observatory, we didn’t rush our time above the city. There was a large crowd in the small space, but I didn’t notice. My eyes were fixed on the city sprawling beneath me. Baron Haussmann’s carefully planned, wide boulevards  criss-crossed in pristine geometric beauty. The tree-lined streets, green gardens, and neatly spaced city blocks mingled to create possibly the most aesthetically pleasing aerial cityscape I’ve ever seen.

After the Eiffel Tower was the Champs-Elysee and the Arc de Triomphe. We snapped some pictures, circled around the Arc, and found a fancy restaurant for our last Parisian dinner. Sharing a bottle of wine and trying escargot together, it dawned on us that we really had managed, despite our relaxed tempo, to see quite a great number of landmarks.

On our last morning, I requested we wake up early to buy macarons from Ladurée before our flight. We walked passed the American embassy (being the patriots that we are! Actually it was an unintentional but exciting find.)

The emptiness of Paris early in the morning, the chill of the February air, the slight dewy fog of the rising sun: it was so relaxing. So quiet.

On the bus ride to the airport, it dawned on me Valentine’s Day was days away. There was no fuss around Paris in preparation for the holiday. Everything was business-as-usual. But I suppose one doesn’t limit romance to one day in the City of Love? There was no pressure to pair off or make superficial gestures of affection. The love of life, the love of love, were simply principles Parisians lived by daily.

I was happy to have seen the city with 5 near-strangers as opposed to a romantic interest. 3 guys from my Spanish class, a roommate who tagged along, and a girl from my university back home made an unexpected entourage. But the chemistry and rapport was memorable. We saw what we came to saw, enjoyed rich cuisine and good wine, and spent most of the time shivering in the February cold.

 

Guilt-free, Grain-free Cranberry Orange Muffins

If one of your New Years resolutions included the classic “eat healthy,” allow me to say you can have your cake and eat it too. That cake being delectable grain-free, SUGAR-free, paleo-perfect muffins.

You can thank the divine Danielle Walker at Against All Grain for this recipe.

What You’ll Need:

• 2 eggs
• 1/4 cup orange juice
• 2.5 cups blanched almond flour (Danielle doesn’t recommend the brand Bob’s Red Mill because it isn’t as fine as other brands. That happened to be the only brand I had on me, so I used a coffee grinder to make it more fine and it definitely made a difference! Be careful not to overwork the grinder though — you might end up with some almond butter instead, as I did once. Whoops!)
• 1/2 cup honey
• 1/2 cup butter* (Danielle’s original recipe calls for palm shortening instead; I used salted butter and opted out of adding the sea salt*)
• 1 tablespoon coconut flour
• 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon orange zest
• 1/4 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
• 1/4 teaspoon sea salt*
• 1.5 cups whole fresh cranberries

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
2. Danielle gives a genius tip, “Place a heatproof dish filled with 2 cups of water on the very bottom rack in the center of the oven.” This helps the muffins rise additionally and remain moist.
3. Blend all of the ingredients with the exception of the cranberries in a food processor or mixer. Stir the cranberries in by hand.
4. Grease or add paper cups to a 12-cup muffin tin. Fill each cup about 2/3 of the way full.
5. Bake the muffins on the center rack for about 25 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.

These muffins were incredible! Fluffy, sweet, and no different than a “normal” muffin (in the words of my non-grain-free family members). I can definitely attest to that — other “paleo” desserts I’ve tried in the past can have a dry, nutty, or sandy texture, and these absolutely did not! (As the cookbook explains, the finer your almond flour, the better baked goods turn out). This recipe is SO simple and the results are truly irresistible. Confession: our first muffin tin barely lasted 2 days at my house. So tasty!

For those of you exploring a grain-free diet, or even if you’re just looking for a healthier alternative to a classic treat, I will RAVE about this recipe until I turn blue. I’ve tried many other recipes in Danielle Walker’s book and will definitely blog about my favorites soon (with my “experienced” tips.  Certain recipes worked out once and didn’t the second time, so I’ll try to add commentary on what makes each recipe optimally successful.)

I’m so thrilled to have received her cookbook for the holidays – thanks Dad! – and even more excited to share my new-found cooking and baking gusto with you all.

Happy baking (and more importantly, happy eating!)

Wishing you all a happy and healthy start to 2014!

A Plymouth Perspective

I’m a day late, but yesterday was the 393rd anniversary of the pilgrims landing at Plymouth.

Staring out my window at the snow-covered ground, the bare trees and frigid temperature, I realized these were the brumal conditions that greeted a ship of exhausted, starving, nervous, yet hopeful pilgrims.

I’m sure when most Americans hear ‘pilgrims’ they immediately imagine Thanksgiving and a sunny autumnal landscape. Not too many people actually recognize the fact that the settlers landed on December 21, 1621. They didn’t have homes built and fireplaces to warm themselves, no cozy beds to crawl into, no readily available food to eat.

Absolutely nothing. In the dead of winter.

What the pilgrims did have was perseverance. A strong will to survive, to carry on. Faced with death, disease, algid temperatures, scarce resources, and unfamiliar territory, the odds were stacked against them.

Yet they responded with  strong resolve. There were no excuses, nobody said “oh well, at least I tried” and took a ship back. There was work, there were trials and errors, more trials and more errors. There was death. There was pain. There were no comforts. The results of great efforts were humble.

These settlers tapped into the basic human instinct of survival.

In today’s day and age clouded with comfort and reassurance, it seems that American fortitude has dissolved quite a bit. More and more people expect great rewards for little work, and give up at the first trace of unpleasantness.

When people attribute success to hard work, many listeners forget what hard work means. It isn’t luck. It isn’t victory after victory. Hard work means failing at first. Hard work means doors closing, great efforts producing less-than-desirable results. But when faced with these unwelcoming conditions, successful people don’t stop.

The settlers never stopped because they didn’t have a choice. But perseverance can lead to some spectacular results.

A Reason to Celebrate

80 years ago today, on December 5, 1933, the 18th Amendment of the United States Constitution was repealed, officially bringing the 14-year long Prohibition to an end.

A movement originated by the Women’s Christian Temperance Movement, the 18th Amendment first went into effect on January 16th, 1919. Thus, to sell, import, transport, or produce alcohol became a crime. Before the Prohibition, the drinking “culture” of the country was quite different. A beer with lunch, a few drinks after  work, and a nightcap before bed all in one day was not only socially acceptable, but the norm. This, paired with the alcohol consumption of often ostracized immigrants were frequently attacked by the Temperance movement. Many such immigrants found their livelihood through entrepreneurship in the industry as early as the 19th century. Most notable among them are Frederick Miller, Valentin Blatz, Eberhard Anheuser, the brother-in-law of Adolphus Busch, Frederick Pabst, Joseph Schlitz,  and Berhnard Stroh. (Don’t those names ring a bell?) Immigrant-run businesses were often vandalized or targeted during the Prohibition.

While the Women’s Christian Temperance Movement believed a dry America would mean a country with less domestic violence, poverty, illness, and other social issues, their efforts proved misguided.

Just because America was dry, didn’t mean America wasn’t thirsty.

It didn’t take long for bootleggers to illegally import beer and spirits from abroad. Organized crime became rampant and the power of these crime organization networks quickly encroached official government lines. Corruption amongst government officials grew (something I, a Chicago native, know a thing or two about) all as a consequence of the 18th Amendment.

With new troubles arising instead of fixing the old, the 18th Amendment was repealed.

While it may seem like an excuse to drink and be boisterous, there also exists a complex history touching immigration, corruption, crime, religion, protest, and civic participation leading to change.

Therefore it’s not just a drinking holiday, but an essentially American one when you think about it. Cheers!

A Weekend of Whimsy: Costa Brava

Spring had definitely arrived in Barcelona by mid March. (By contrast, spring tends to still debate her arrival in Chicago around that time). By then I was well familiar with every winding alley of the Barri Gòtic,  decided I preferred Santa Maria del Mar over the Barcelona Cathedral, and established a cafe con leche routine at a modern cafe. Of course, such a taxing lifestyle sometimes requires one to escape for a bit. Hence I signed up for a weekend tour of the Costa Brava.

Girona

The tour first brought us to Girona, a city just over 60 miles outside of Barcelona. It was quiet, clean, and colorful. The entire time I was there, I couldn’t quite figure out the city’s character; it was complex. On the one hand, there were neat, colorful row-houses lining the Onyar river. Well kept and pristine, strangely bright yet almost sterile.  (I suppose I was a used to a bit more crumble in my buildings, surrounded by 19th century facades in Barcelona.)

But contrasting these square houses with minimalist facades and modern lines were the city’s old fort, the breathtaking Sant Pere de Galligants Benedictine church, and the Jewish Quarter. I’ve never seen a more perfect embodiment of the term “centuries collide.” That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy Girona. But I left still uncertain of the impression it left on me.

Teatre-Museu Dalí

Next on the trip, and really the selling point for most participants, was the city of Figueres. Birthplace of Salvador Dalí, we had heard tales of wonder, amusement, and confusion from visitors of his famous Theatre-Museum. Though the surroundings are sleepy and slow, the museum is unquestionably Dalí. Bright red and crowned with eggs, the entrance both foreshadows (yet reveals nothing) of the spectacles that await inside.

Some of Dalí’s most famous works are displayed inside, including Port Alguer (1924) and the portrait of his wife, Galarina (1944–45).

I’m having a fiery internal debate about whether to include more pictures from the museum. On the one hand, I want to share what an incredible, eccentric experience it was. On the other, I don’t want to ruin the surprise for future visitors! Part of the fun and wonder was really not having any expectations for what you’d see next. And how could you? This is Dalí we’re talking about! 

Ever the entertainer, even his museum’s architecture can’t be left untouched by his art. Thought provoking images and details are everywhere. Even if one doesn’t “get” Surrealism (I suppose it isn’t a movement that aimed to be understood, but rather is defined by non sequitur… but I digress!), visitors are really in for a treat!

After a stimulating, laughter-filled afternoon at the museum, the group recharged on some cortados and sandwiches before loading back onto the bus to Cadaques.

I really thought the best was over; what I had aimed to see on this trip I saw, and the rest would just be a relaxing blur. But to this day I remember the remainder of the itinerary more vividly than anything else!

Cadaques was the perfect combination of warm and windy when we stepped off the bus. White, Mediterranean houses lined uneven cobblestone roads. The smell of the sea mixed with the aromas of freshly blooming spring flowers. We took deep breaths at Port Lligat, too tired by the journey to listen to all the biographical details of Dalí’s life there, nevertheless still in awe of the view.

Heaven on Earth: Port Lligat, Cadaques

After a few moments of sitting in the sand to regain our energy, the tour group (I should mention there were only about 15 or so of us) wandered into the the center of Cadaques and — after much indecision — picked a restaurant for dinner. We sat in a tree-lined sun room at a long table, sharing countless carafes of red wine and tasting local seafood. The meal was long and filled with vibrant conversation (probably with the help of the wine.)

The sun set on Cadaques that day, and I felt contentment like I never had before in my life. The soothing lapping of the sea, the stillness of the streets, and the company of fellow travelers. I wished the moment could last forever.

We finished up the trip in Coillure, France. On our way, we stopped by a small, independent museum in La Jonquera dedicated to the Spanish Civil War, particularly the Republican exile. The Museu Memorial de l’Exili (MUME), though small, clearly had a strong donor base and many public grants from the Generalitat de Catalunya. Filled with high-tech exhibitions, digitized archives and highly interactive films and digital artifacts, the museum commemorated the harsh, often fatal conditions of refugees forced into exile in France. A somber but important stop, the museum shed light on many details about the Spanish Civil War I was confused about (but too worried to ask a local about such a sensitive subject). The Spanish Civil War certainly still exists in the cultural memory of Spain; the same way WWII was such a fundamental experience for my own grandparents in Poland, their siblings in France, and older generations of my family. There’s a huge difference between learning about war through a textbook and witnessing through storytelling the lives it affected, the faces of its victims. The MUME certainly gave me a new perspective on that era of Spanish history.

Our last stop of the trip was just past the French border in Coillure, France. Another sleepy port town, it was the definition of quaint.

Coillure, France

Small fisherman’s boats would gently rock in the water, and the sun shone so brightly over that little town. Besides the aesthetic beauty, Coillure also had the most wonderful savory crepes, unforgettable violet gelato, and small, old-fashioned violet and lavender hard candies I remembered from my childhood. It was absolute bliss!

It’s impossible for me to decide which part of the trip was my favorite. In its entirety, my Costa Brava weekend was both busy yet relaxing; a packed itinerary of the most tranquil destinations.

If you are ever in Barcelona and want a change of scenery from the hustle and bustle, take a day trip around Costa Brava! You will experience such peace and calm, you’ll never forget it.

(Or be able to recreate it, sadly.)

Grain-Free Breakfast Quiche

There are few things more delightful than a warm, savory quiche on a Sunday. But sometimes that delight can be threatened by things such as, say, a grain-free diet.

Have no fear! Today I am going to share my recipe for a grain free broccoli-cheddar quiche. Though some folks my be intimidated by French fare, I have some tricks to make your eggs fluffy, your crust flaky (and did I mention grain free?), and your quiche perfection!

You will need:

For the crust (I’m using Key Ingredient’s Paleo Pie Crust recipe – my favorite!!):

• 2 cups blanched almond flour
• 1/4 teaspoon Celtic Sea salt
• 2 Tablespoons Coconut Oil
• 1 egg

For the filling:

• 6 eggs
• 1 lb. of frozen broccoli
• 1/4 lb. of cheddar
• 2 large sweet onions
• Salt
• Pepper
• Nutmeg
• A hefty dollop of cream

Begin by making the pie crust. I’ve tried a variety of paleo pie crust recipes from Pinterest, but this one is hands down THE BEST! Many recipes call for coconut flour, which in my opinion results in dry, overly sweet crusts (that are almost chalky in your mouth). Using almond flour really gives the crust a “non-Paleo” taste and consistency. It works well for both sweet and savory dishes — stay tuned for my apple pie recipe!

1. Pulse the dry ingredients in a mixer briefly. Slowly incorporate the eggs and coconut oil, pulsing until the mixture forms a ball. Press the dough into a 9″ pie dish and bake it for 8-12 minutes at 350 degrees.                        
2. Be sure to thaw your broccoli before using it in your quiche – you don’t want the excess water to interfere with the consistency! Once your broccoli florets are thawed, chop them into small pieces.
3. Finely chop two large onions and let them saute over some butter or olive oil, until they turn a golden color. Once they are caramelized, incorporate the chopped broccoli.
4. Warning: when you remove your pie crust, you may find that it has a layer of coconut oil on it. Easy fix: dab it off with paper towel! (That’s easy enough, right? Probably not a Le Cordon Bleu approved method, but it works). Letting the oil soak may make the crust too soggy. Let it cool aside as you finish preparing the filling.                                        
5.  Grate your cheddar. Be as generous with the amount of cheese in this recipe as you’d like! Feel free to vary the kind of cheese you use. I paired the broccoli with an aged cheddar, though a quiche lorraine (with bacon! yum) typically features Gruyère.
6. An excellent quiche has fluffy eggs, which I’m guessing in the French culinary tradition comes from a masterful whisk. In my kitchen, it comes from a Magic Bullet. Crack 6 eggs into a mixer/Magic Bullet along with the cream, salt, pepper, and a dash of fresh nutmeg.  Give them a spin until they are light and bubbly.
7. Once the egg and cream mixture is ready, pour it over the broccoli and onions with the cheddar and mix well.
8. Fill the pie crust with the filling and feel free to add an extra layer of cheese.                           
9. Bake at 350 degrees for about 30-35 minutes (or until it becomes slightly golden and the edges begin to brown). I experimented with both an almond flour crust (the larger pie shown, for which this recipe is measured) and a coconut flour crust. I definitely preferred the almond flour crust!
10. Remove from the oven and enjoy! Happy eating! 

The Perfect Seared Steak

THE PERFECT SEARED STEAK

What you’ll need:

• Your preferred cut of steak (I tend to prefer a filet or sirloin steak)
• Olive oil
• Salt
• Black pepper corns
• Salted butter (Irish butter if you can!)
• Garlic*
• Chives, Cilantro, or herbs of your choice*

*Optional

There is no fancy technique or secret to a mouthwatering steak. Just simplicity and confidence. I’ve included the recipe to an herb butter I tried the last time as a variation, though in my opinion, a skillfully made steak shouldn’t require herbs or additional flavors to be delicious.

1. Marinate the steak in olive oil for about 20 minutes. A frozen or non-room-temperature steak should never hit the pan!
2. *Optional: As the steak marinates, finely chop garlic and combine with chives, cilantro, or other herbs with room temperature salted butter.
3. Heat a non-stick pan until hot to the touch. The steak should sizzle the moment it hits the pan.
4. Sprinkle salt (and/or steak seasoning) to both sides of the steak.
5. Place the steak on the pan and let sear for about 2-3 minutes per side for a rare steak, 4-6 minutes per side for a medium steak, and 7-10 minutes per side for a well-done steak (though I personally think the best steaks are medium-rare). These times are approximate based off my own stove and best suited for a steak about 1″-1.5″ thick; vary the time per side based on the temperature habits of your stove. BE SURE TO ONLY FLIP THE STEAK ONCE!
6. After you remove the steak from the pan, place it on a plate and put a (generous) bit of butter on top, then covering it with foil. *Here you can use your herb butter! As the butter soaks in and the steak settles (always allow your steak at least 5 minutes to settle after removing from the pan), crack black peppercorns with the wide face of a large knife, and sprinkle on top of the ready steak as desired.

This recipe is very straightforward, but does have some essential laws that, if broken, really jeopardize the flavor and texture of the steak. Go forth with gusto and enjoy your steak!

Tackling La Boqueria

One balmy afternoon I strolled down La Rambla, eying the various floral stands, trinkets, and people who sprinkled the famous avenue. Barely a week into living in Barcelona, I only had a mental image of a map and an inkling of a sense of the neighborhoods guiding me. No sooner did I start getting used to the shops and cafes lining the street that I noticed what appeared to be a massive gap between buildings, and a large market tucked within it. Large but unimposing, famous but humble. Bustling with people, but not spilling into and disrupting the life of La Rambla.

La Boqueria.

I barely walked in and immediately wanted to retrace my steps. My eyes were shocked by vibrant colors. Succulent, ripe Valencia oranges and Mediterranean citrus fruits, fresh crisp peppers and fruits with colors, names, and shapes I had never seen before. But my eyes weren’t alone in the shock; the loud hum of locals bartering, the crowd brushing past me impatiently. How could they not be awestruck like I was?

Sensing that I was causing a bit of a traffic jam, I haphazardly ducked towards a fruit stand to the left. Immediately the grocer greeted me in Catalan, and I must have just shot him a bewildered, terrified look. He continued unloading beautiful fuchsia starfruit, and I soaked in the selection in front of me. I saw a fruit I had never encountered in my life, resembling a cross between a pear in color and smoothness, yet a gourd in firmness and weight. I followed my stupid instinct to give it a squeeze, as if I had any sort of notion what a ripe whateverthiswas should feel like. My fingertips barely lifted off the thing when the stallholder swooped next to me.

His rapid Catalan startled me and he snatched the fruit out of my hand.

“Que es esto?” I blurted dryly, immediately regretting my inarticulate question. Again his rapid speech swirled around my head and escaped me, but from his gestures and pointing, I gather he probably was showing me what I should look for in a whateveritwas and when it was ripe. “Membrillo” I heard over and over again, and concluded this large pear-gourd was called a membrillo. He asked me something and I nodded my head. Before I knew it, with movements more rapid than his speech, the stallholder weighed and determined the price for the membrillo. “5 euros.” He said.

Shit. That’s a $7 fruit. But I felt like I had offended the man enough by touching the produce in his stand, asking stupid questions, and now wasting his time as he impatiently wiped sweat off his brow. I forked over the money and wished I hadn’t. I walked out with a stupid heavy fruit I had no idea how to eat and 7 bucks poorer.

I felt cheated. I felt stupid. I felt like I failed at La Boqueria.

Besides deciding I needed to improve my Spanish more than immediately, I also decided on my walk home that I really didn’t want to relive the shame and embarrassment I had that day, and would probably never return to the market. The grocers all seemed like hawks or vultures, and I was the meek dumb tourist who stupidly pays for a (probably massively) upcharged fruit. Stubborn and resentful, my mind was made up.

So it was much to my chagrin to hear my friends, barely a week later, brainstorm what to do after class and hear someone suggest “Let’s go to that market on La Rambla!”

No.

I supposed walking through was no harm, so long as I didn’t respond to anyone who hassled me. I’d take my pictures and follow my friends, and not have to make shameful attempts at Spanish, further revealing my non-native status.

I couldn’t be more grateful (to this day!) that I returned to the market with my friend Markus. A chef-in-training, a foodie, a culinary expert beyond his years, his tour of La Boqueria narrowed my focus onto beautiful details I had missed the first time I was too shocked to process. The freshest, highest-quality exotic spices sold by the pound, sweet lychee fruits and straight-out-of-the-water seafood. Though some sights (ahem, the skinned lambs) made my stomach turn, our walk weaving past every last stand in the market was the most sensory experience of my life.

Noticing Markus had a high command of exotic produce, as we made our way out, I pointed to a membrillo and asked him what it was: “Markus, I bought one of those. I have no idea how to eat it… or what the hell it is. I need you to do something with it.”

Markus politely tried to stifle a laugh, but I didn’t mind him teasing me for my culinary ignorance. He briefly spoke with the stallholder (as I wandered over to the next stall, “la dee da… hope you don’t remember me!”)

Markus spoke so fluently and confidently. The grocer seemed to explain to him the same thing he explained to me days earlier (but with much less irritation in his voice), and I later prodded for a translation.

 “Don’t worry, I have a really great recipe for a quince sauce we can make on crostini.”(QUINCE! That‘s what a membrillo is?! I’VE HEARD OF QUINCE! … but in the form of a little  jam to spread on some cheese, not in its natural state of a massive freaking gourd fruit monstrosity!) His tone was so reassuring. I felt such relief!

That night Markus came by my apartment (with a mission to salvage my culinary creativity and make use of the membrillo I had been staring at for days). He baked the quince with a dusting of brown sugar (if memory serves me correctly) and made delicious toasted baguette slices topped with the baked quince and manchego. And of course we paired this with a great wine. Truly one of the most spectacular things I’ve eaten. And lot of that had to do with the good company.

…as well as the relief that I wouldn’t have to throw away my much-regretted produce purchase.

Related articles

• Las Ramblas (cbarcelona.net)
• La Boqueria in Barcelona, Spain (insearchofthenextmeal.com)