Mozzarella, take two

The learning curve is steep. My hands are burned (seriously). I blew it once again. This time, I got the curds to set, but when I got to the heating and kneading process, my hands just couldn't take the heat, so I followed the advice of Ludacris (among others) and got out of the kitchen, leaving another blob that would not behave as promised. Lame.

Cheese Us, Christ!

After reading Kingsolver, I went ahead and ordered Ricki Carroll's 30-minute mozzarella and ricotta kit, and it turns out that things are much more difficult than ol' Barb lets on when it comes to cheesemaking. Either that, or I'm just a shitty cheesemaker (insert "but I'm good at cutting the cheese" joke here). Here are a few spots where I think I went wrong, just in case your cheesemaking curiosity has led you down the same path:

1. Patience (something I lack after 6 beers at 9pm on a Friday) is requisite. The whey will separate eventually. I don't think I gave it enough time.

2. After you slice the curd and go into the reheat process, be careful with the stirring. I did more harm than good by doing so.

3. Unless you're one of those people that can walk on hot coals, get a pair of gloves for the pulling process. The curd-cum-cheese is literally too hot to handle.

My end result wound up looking more like cottage cheese. The curds just wouldn't come together, so I trashed the whole batch. But I am not disheartened. A future post will document my imminent success. Until then, I'll have to be content as a schmo.

Make no Misteak about it

Beefsteak. A word that strikes fear, envy, and hunger into the hearts of men.

This Saturday I traveled with a group of adventure-minded carnivores into the wilds of Bergenfield, New Jersey. A quick Zipcar trip over the GW Bridge brought us to the world of sweatpants, white sneakers, and volatile EKGs.

Tipped to the longstanding North Jersey Beefsteak tradition by the newspaper of record, we vaguely new what to expect. All you can eat beef tenderloin, dipped in butter; all you can drink soda and beer; french fries; stacks of grease-soaked bread slices; good times.

The event starts with a perfunctory iceberg lettuce salad (skipped by me in favor of reserving valuable beef-tank space), and some pretty solid pickles and black olives. Ten minutes later the first batch of thick-cut fries hit the table, followed closely by our inaugural visit from the beef tray--an oversized baking sheet stuffed with thinly-sliced grilled tenderloin atop baguette slices. Thanks to our Beefsteak veteran tablemates, we knew better than to eat the bread--instead you pool your group's slices in the middle of the table as an archaeological remnant of your bovine-ingesting efforts.

The beef does not stop coming until the diners give their final dismissal (or the room's collective sodium level reach code red). At this point, the evening's entertainment began. A local comedy-hypnotist took the stage, along with my buddy Mark, a willing volunteer, to put on a wholesome family show. One would think that after providing the attendees with about 4,000 calories of beef and fries each, the food availability would cease for the hour-long show. But then one wouldn't be thinking like a true Jersey Beefsteak host. About twenty minutes into the show, plates of cheese puffs, Doritos, and pretzels arrived on paper plates, and, alas, we polished them all off.

I really can't recommend the Beefsteak enough. The admission was only $35 (could you even get all-you-can drink Bud for three hours in Manhattan for $35?), the crowd was a lot of fun, the beef was real tasty, and the money went to support the local volunteer firefighters. A patriotic and gluttonous success all around.

[Special thanks to Fidel Gastro for the photos]