Rooftop Gourmet

It’s been two years since I’ve started blogging, and I’ve sworn that I’ll never turn into “one of them”. My biggest pet peeve in the entire world: a food or wine blogger that uses his or her “blog factor” to gain special attention, free meals & drinks, or more importantly… reviews a restaurant that they have no business reviewing in the first place. They strut in (or probably call ahead), and announce their IP address to the hostess, like she gives a crap. Perked up at the table, they scan the menu for something that they recognize. After silently attempting to pronounce the word, “Valpolicella”, they order a glass of the house Pinot Grigio with a big shit-eating grin on their face and then Tweet about how bad it was. Fresh and creative menus confuse the hell out of them, forcing safe orders such as Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad. Then they have the audacity to shred and nitpick the poor salad apart because the portion size didn’t live up to massive dog bowl they  devoured at the Olive Garden the week before. Most of these food bloggers don’t even eat seafood because it’s too “fishy”. Don’t even get me started on that one. Just because you’ve recently DVR’d an episode of Iron Chef America, doesn’t make you Jeffrey Steingarten and give you the authority to criticize the texture of your Barramundi skin. Order a few dozen, cook a few yourself, then come talk to me. Oh yeah, and put away your damn cameras when you’re at the table. I don’t care whether you’re just trying to look important, or that you really believe that your mom, aunts, and sister-in-law really think that the food looks delicious when amateurly snapped in a dim-lit dining room.

That being said… I was so impressed with my dining experience tonight, that I felt compelled to write about it. Maybe it was to alert other Southie foodies, maybe it was a way to give certain South End and Cambridge eateries a heads up that I won’t be by as frequently, or maybe it was just so that I could get that first paragraph off of my chest. For whatever it’s worth, I’m proud to be a South Boston resident and when friends and family come in from out of town, now I don’t have to take them over the East Berkeley Street bridge for dinner. Local 149 has taken over the late Farragut House on P Street and has promised to change the way Southie eats and drinks. A promise that I’ve heard way too many times before , only to get my heart broken over a plate of crummy, deep-fried, God-knows-what and a warm glass of Woodbridge Chardonnay. Open for merely a week, I urged myself to stay away. Let them work out the kinks, don’t get your hopes up, and it’s too good to be true, I told myself countless times. This past Sunday, the snow melted, the weather was ideal and I was starving; I couldn’t wait any longer. I literally got down on my hands and knees inside of my Telegraph Hill condo and prayed to the food gods not to disappoint me again. We casually walked down East Sixth Street through the heart of South Boston’s old neighborhood in search for this new food joint. As we approached, we noticed the harmony between old homes, with kelly green, formica countertops and thirty-seven porcelain figurines covered in dust in the window sills, and the new homes, with fresh construction and an Audi SUV parked out front. People have said that a place like Local 149 would never last in a neighborhood like this but I have reason to believe otherwise.

We walked in and the place was hopping like a Sunday afternoon at the Beer Garden. Yuppies everywhere! The space was beautiful. A casual yet sophisticated area with a stainless steel bar, copper ceilings, and large black chalkboards everywhere. I noticed the daily specials written on the wall. If you ever saw the word, “littlenecks” written in chalk on the wall of the Playwright it was probably a derogatory rant on the inside of a bathroom stall. Here, it’s just one of the fresh, raw bar items that rotate on and off of the menu. We parked ourselves at the bar and started to look around. The first thing that I noticed was the bartender infront of us, hand-shaving ice for a cocktail, casually sticking a clean, plastic straw into the shaker, licking it, and throwing it away. The look on his face said, “yup…perfectly balanced”. This guy meant business. When was the last time you ordered a cocktail in Southie and the bartender actually cared about how it tasted? It was then that I realized that it was 6:45pm on a Sunday in South Boston, and I was ordering a pint of Pretty Things “St. Botolph’s Town” Brown Ale served in a snifter and sitting next to a couple wearing tweed blazers who are regulars at Cragie on Main. Somewhere in Southie, an iron worker named Brian O’Sullivan just threw up in his mouth. Coming from the wine business, I appreciated the quality, and value of the “by the glass” options. There were also a few eclectic, lesser-known varietals as opposed to the typical dirt cheap options marked up through the roof because it’s the only Merlot on the menu. Here’s a quick tip: If there’s a wine on the list that you don’t recognize… it’s probably there because someone really likes it and wants you to give it a shot. The wine here is great, but it clearly plays second fiddle to the suds. This is a craft beer lovers paradise! I was overwhelmed by all of the options so I left my decision up to the bartender, John who expertly matched my appetizer with a tall pint of Sierra Nevada’s Spring Glissade Golden Bock.

We started with the chalkboard special, the Cajun chicken wings which were lightly battered and served in a copper bowl with a small side of homemade ranch dressing. I was happy to see that the breading was minimal unlike other bar wings, and it even contained a hint of cinnamon which I thought was pretty cool. The outside was crisped to perfection while the meat was juicy and tender. Not your typical, previously frozen, deep-fryer ready chicken drummies that come in a plastic Hefty bag. From there, we moved onto an assortment of local charcuterie and cheeses that were served on a wooden Lazy Susan with house made pickles and other accoutrements. My grandfather is from Parma, Italy and I purposely won’t bring him here to taste the Johnson County Prosciutto in fear that he will be ashamed of his heritage. The fire-engine red deli slicer in the corner tipped me off that the cured meats were going to be served paper thin and the Champlain Organic Triple Creme from Vermont melted in my mouth with just the right amount of funky, buttery tang. While our second round was being poured, we sucked down half a dozen littlenecks that were shucked infront of us.

I loosened my belt and took a deep breath before ordering the Grass Fed Ground Sirloin Burger with Caerphilly Cheddar, Pickled Green Tomatoes, and Cherry Wood Smoked Bacon. I have to admit, I was pretty nervous because I am extremely picky when it comes to burgers and I knew that this could make or break my outlook for the Local 149. The bartender passed my first test by recommending that it be served Medium-Rare to which I responded with “rare please”. You know that a chef takes pride in the quality of his beef when he suggests that his burgers be purple in the middle. My second test was passed when the burger arrived and no one asked me if I wanted any ketchup. Why would you want to smear fake tomatoes all over your burger unless you wanted to mask the flavor of what you’re actually eating. The patty was very gently hand packed, well seasoned, and was tender to the bite. Halfway though, I actually shed a tear. This was far from your typical frozen patty that oozes grey boogers while it steams on the griddle. I held in my fingertips the last bite for a solid two minutes, hoping that it would never end. But it had to. It was time to leave. As we walked home, Siobhan strutted a good ten feet ahead of me because she was sick and tired of hearing me talk about how good the meal was. I think that I speak for all the foodies in South Boston when I say… “It’s about time!”. Watch out Pan Fried Pork Chop with Toasted Spaetzle, Mustard and Local Honey… I’m coming for your ass!

Unless you’re an avid hunter with excellent aim, or know a great butcher, it can be hard to get your hands on some quality game meat. Luckily, our friend Leigh’s father is a certified, wildlife ass-kicker, who goes on hunting trips armed with a massive bow and arrow. He snipes all sorts of delicious animals such as elk, caribu, deer, and goose just to name a few. Last Sunday, Leigh was generous enough to empty out her freezer for us while we watched the big futbol game.

We had plenty of time to plan the menu in between all the scoring going on between Spain and Netherlands. It was beautiful out, so we moved the party up to the roofdeck and opened a few bottles of crisp white wine to enjoy with our first course… Sliced venison summer sausage with extra sharp cheddar and three peppercorn mustard.

 As soon as the deer was killed, it was professionally butchered, ground up with pork fat filler, and piped into natural casings. It had the appearance of Genoa Salami but the flavor was definitely different. There was an intriguing gamey flavor that came out in the aftertaste, which was perfect with the velvety pork fat and the tangy cheese. This was some serious charcuterie!

After a few craft brews and a Spain victory, I opened some celebratory Spanish Godello to go with our next bird course. This was the first animal of the evening that I have yet to try. Breasts were removed from a goose, corned by boiling in salted water for a long period of time, and them dowsed in peppercorns before getting smoked. This is how pastrami is made.

The goose pastrami looked like two, bright red, clenched fists that were dipped in black pepper. We sliced them very thinly to reveal the bright purple, flesh and a wonderful, smoky aroma. We made a huge platter of goose pastrami crostini, topped with a chiffonade of shallots and sage, followed by a healthy drizzle of black walnut balsamic reduction.

The sweet, vinegar complimented the smoky meat nicely as I wolfed down a handful of these gamey treats. It brought me back to the days of sitting Indian-style in my living room, clenching my bright orange weapon, and picking off virtual ducks, which is obviously as close as I’ve come to hunting real birds.

Even my friend Tommy, whom I had to get “back up” food for, chomped away at the goose while pretending to line up a sea gull that swooped over our heads. The sun started to set along the skyline and it was time to start cooking the main course. This is what I had been waiting for all day. The giant elk that is getting pummeled by Rambo in the attached picture is what went into our burgers.

 Elk is not only the largest species of deer, but also one of the largest mammals found in North America. It was shot by Leigh’s dad, butchered, ground immediately to ensure freshness.

You know you’re not eating your typical dose of hormones and other additives when consuming a free range animal. The flesh was bright red and extremely lean. Even though elk has tons of natural flavor, I added some chunks of cubed butter to the patties so that the burgers didn’t dry out during the cooking process.

 I pan seared the burgers in a giant cast iron skillet and then finished them off under the broiler to melt the smoked gouda on top. I also adorned the half pounders with some sauteed shiitake mushrooms, and grilled scallions that were marinated in Fig Balsamic Vinegar. The earthy flavor in the shrooms, combined with the sweet char on the onions accentuated the gaminess of the elk. I didn’t want to mask the flavor of the giant deer with tons of unneeded bread, so I simply slid it into a paper thin pita pocket to serve.

 I marched up the spiral staircase, with a giant platter of elk burgers, slightly chilled Pinot Noir, and tons of napkins. The burgers were jaw numbingly huge, and freshly pink and juicy. There was no way that this treat could pass for beef because the wild flavors were so intense and concentrated. It was by far one of the most interesting, and most delicious burgers I have ever consumed. After all this food, everyone was pretty full, but we brought up one final course to nibble on as the sun dipped behind the Prudential.

Even if we had to remove our belts, we were going to make room for some grilled skirt steak, sliced, and tossed with some Asian Sesame noodles. The cool ocean breeze cut through the humidity, and made it bearable to digest under the stars as we finished off some more wine, and planned a massive hunting trip in the Fall. It’s one thing to be a gatherer, and pick up your own food at the supermarket, but to be a hunter and truly appreciate the flavors of what you catch is something that I really want to experience.

I judge a good burger by how many times I have to wipe the juice off of my elbows… among other things. I love experimenting with different ground meats, cheeses, toppings, condiments, and serving vessels. The possibilities are endless when it comes to burger building; which is a science in itself. I love caramelized onions because they show you how an ingredient can become something completely different with just a little heat and patience.

The strong, pungent raw onion releases its natural sugars very slowly and transforms into rich, sweet,  glob of melt-in-your-mouth goodness. Last night I took caramelized onions to a whole new level. Not only did I cook them in rendered bacon fat, I let them overcaramelize  for over an hour in my dutch oven. Once they were dark brown in color I added some red wine, balsamic vinegar, sugar, and black pepper. I let everything slowly reduce for another half hour until what was left in the pot was a sticky, sweet bacon-onion marmalade.

I had to hold my girlfriend back because she was a repeat offender of sneaking spoonfuls when I wasn’t looking. The underlying smoky bacon flavor combined with the sweet onions and tang of the balsamic reduction was just what I was looking for to spread atop my oversized beef patty.

I always choose a ground chuck or a ground beef that has at least 20% fat and season it liberally; in this case, I tossed in some finely minced garlic as well. The next step is the cheese and for me this is a huge decision because I am a cheese fanatic. If I was stranded on a deserted island I’d take a wheel of stinky Linburger over a gallon of water in a heartbeat. Because I spent so long in the kitchen creating this should-be-everyday condiment, I decided to let it shine and keep the cheese in the background.

 I picked a simple grated Gruyere because it’s an excellent melting cheese with tons of flavor. The final step is choosing the ensemble that will adorn and cradle the beef patty. I have always been a huge supporter of the sandwich-sized english muffin, but I came across some Italian ciabatta bread, still warm from the bakery. I buttered and toasted the sponge-like loaf which awaited the arrival of the bloody rare beef, ready to soak up all the flavor.

I topped the finished product with a tiny handful of baby arugula to add some freshness to this handful of heart attack. In order to get my jaws around the first bite, I needed to be wearing a poncho, because the juice ran down my chin and forearms until I didn’t care anymore. As soon as all of the flavors came together in that magical first bite, my physical appearance and hygiene were thrown out the window.

I paired the burgers with Harpoon Brewery’s 100 Barrel Series Island Creek Oyster Stout. I must say, when I heard about this beer, I was extremely skeptical even though I am a huge oyster fan. I love a nice pint of Guinness with some raw oysters more then the next guy, but I never thought I’d ever taste a beer that was brewed with the actual oysters in it!

 The roasted barley and chocolate rye malts give this brew a rich and smoky nose to it with just the slightest hint of brinyness. It has a gentle mouthfeel that isn’t too over bearing and finishes with strong minerality and a lingering flavor of burnt pumpernickel toast. I really enjoyed this pint with the burger because the roasted barley and the smoky-sweet marmalade were a perfect pair. If only my hands weren’t so messy I would have been able to get better grip on the pint glass.