SPECIAL RECIPE EDITION: Almost Gluten Free Plum Tart

Almost Gluten-Free Plum Tart

A lovely friend of the family gave me a big bag of Italian plums, so I made a couple of almost gluten-free tarts.

I do not have celiac's disease (as far as I know), but I avoid gluten and challenge myself to bake gluten-light, and/or gluten free. If you are gluten intolerant or allergic, you can use rice or millet flour instead of spelt flour. Spelt is actually very low in gluten, but it is not gluten-free. As a general rule, I also bake without cow's milk, but I do use butter.

This recipe is loosely adapted from a combination of recipes I no longer have on paper, but can vaguely call up from memory, and a couple that I found on the web: one from (glutinous) Epicurious and one from Gluten Free in South Africa.

RECIPE
This recipe makes enough dough for two 9 inch tarts. Preheat oven to 425. Important note: When you use flour that is gluten free, or almost gluten free, I recommend using a tart pan with a removable bottom if you want to easily cut pieces that stay in tact. Gluten free crusts crumble and disintegrate easily.

Tart Pastry Dough
2 cups white rice flour

1 cup white spelt flour (or a gluten free flour: millet, rice, quinoa, etc.)
1 stick plus 3 Tbsp unsalted butter cut into small 1/2 inch pieces (very cold or frozen)
1/3 cup organic sugar
2 packets of vanilla sugar (I brought these back from Germany, but you can probably find them in a  European import store)
pinch of sea salt
4 egg yolks
1/3 cup almond or rice milk

Filling
4 pounds of Italian plums (or a big bowl full), pitted and quartered
2 Tablespoons cornstarch
3/4 cup sugar + 2 packets of vanilla sugar (or 2 teaspoons vanilla extract)
Juice from half a large lemon

Preparation
Dough: Put the flour, sugar, salt and butter in a large bowl. I don't have a food processor, so I use two sharp knives and I cut the flour-butter mixture with one knife in each hand, chop chop chop, alternating hands, bringing the knives toward you until the little lumps are the size of breadcrumbs.  This takes some time, but it's fun. Now, mix in the yolks with a big wooden spoon or your hands. I just use my hands. Much more efficient. Slowly mix in the milk, 2 tablespoons at a time until you can form the dough into a firm smooth ball that is not sticky. Divide the ball into two balls and set aside, or refrigerate until you're ready to bake. You can keep the pastry dough wrapped in plastic for several days in the fridge or frozen for a week or two. When you're ready, push the dough into the bottom of the pie pan with your fingers, spreading to cover bottom and sides. You may need to redistribute it a bit to cover all surfaces. Now, you're ready for the filling!

Filling: Mix quartered plums with cornstarch, sugar, vanilla and lemon juice. Allow 10-30 minutes for sugar to dissolve and juices to flow and mingle.  Arrange plums in a circle, skin down, starting from the outer edges of the tart pan. Pointy end towards the center. Layer the next circle on top of the first. Keep creating circles until you fill the pan and cover up all the pastry.  Pour  juices from the filling mixture on top of the tart. 

Bake: Bake at 425 for the first 15 minutes. Reduce to 350 for 30-40 minutes. Crust should be golden and plums bubbly. Allow to cool for at least a half hour.

Enjoy with coffee or tea!

 

 

 

44 Degrees North and BlueWater Bistro

BluWater Bistro (South Lake Union)
http://www.bluwaterbistro.com/loc_lu.php
1001 Fairview N
Seattle WA 98109
(206) 447.0769


....and 44 degrees North Vodka
http://rockymountainvodka.com/index.cfm

This place, the BluWater Bistro (note the spelling of "Blu") is good for one thing, and one thing only: a quick drink on a sunny day to satisfy the need for a little sun on a crowded frat-partyesque patio, and if you like watching seaplanes land, that too. But this is not a final destination. This is where you stop on your way to someplace else. I happened to be there for happy hour the other day. Waitresses were as sweet and accommodating as can be, but also as skanky as they come - hair freshly dyed, with plenty of spray-on-tanned skin showing. Bartenders seemed freshly California, half high, or just stooopid, but, you know, super-friendly. The plastic removable leg on the outdoor plastic table spontaneously fell off as we sat there sipping away. Table even tipped over. Drinks spilled. The place is a mess. However, I discovered a new-to-me potato vodka in the process, and so, despite the BluWater, this discovery blissed me out.

Normally I don't go in for flavored or infused vodkas, but the surfy-dude bartender pointed out a potato vodka grown and raised in Idaho – a choice of either wild huckleberry or Rainier cherry infused. He pointed out this special little cocktail item on the menu: Cherry-Chocolate Press, described as Idaho potato-vodka infused with carob and Rainier Cherries, mixed with soda and sprite. OK. A yummy cherry chocolate soda! A perfect drink for this bubble gum Tiki paradise. I tried it. It was fine – and rather luscious to look at, with fresh cherries bobbing around in the glass with the ice - but it was watered down by all that sprite, and I really just wanted a straight shot of that vodka stuff. So I marched over to a different wingy bartender and asked for a taste straight up. Without hesitation, he poured me a mini shot. Zingy. Cherry. But not over the top. Not exactly smooth as silk, but with a nice zip and flavor, especially in contrast to the watered down sprite-filled “cocktail” I had out sitting out on the patio.

Steve Body of the Seattle Examiner gives 44 degrees North infused vodkas a thumbs-up in his recent review of potato vodkas. Sadly, he neglects my own personal potoato favorites, Koenig (also an Idaho potato vodka…with lovely vanilla underlay http://www.idahopotatovodka.com/vodka/) and Chopin, the best Polish potato vodka money can buy. If you want to check out Body’s incomplete and rather generous potato vodka review: http://www.examiner.com/x-14279-Seattle-Spirits-Examiner~y2009m6d22-QPR-drinks-for-summer-Consider-the-humble-potato

The half-hour BluWater jaunt was worth the table spills and light classic hits.

Now, I’m on a mini mission to try 44 Degree North's Huckleberry extravaganza.

Cafe Presse

Café Presse

www.cafepresseseattle.com 1117 12th Ave Seattle, WA 98122 (206) 709-7674

At Café Presse the tables are so close together, it is hard to squeeze between them to get to your seat. Ogling the adjoining table's food just happens, whether or not you're trying. It is bustling and loud. Soccer games are screened here regularly. The menu is written in French. It is fancy in an understated European way. So....as usual, I resolved to spend under $25, try other people's food, and interact. This time around, I met up with my writer friend,Wendy (see above:  yellow shirt and her comments to follow in grape), for lunch-time nibbles. She had already secured the strategic corner table in the front room, when I arrived, and we ordered two lovely Betons, (a cocktail made with tonic and Becherovka, a Czech liqueur...one of these digestive bitters with 32 or more herbs). Becherovka isn't as bitter as Campari (the electric-red Italian one) or Cynar (the artichoke one, also Italian). Bitters are hip at Cafe Presse. Try to tell the waitstaff that you're too cool for bitters and see them cringe down their nose rings. We were a little concerned when the waitress informed us that today was the bartender's first day of duty, but luckily Betons are a snap and we were able to instruct him. Wendy and I were ecstatically engaged in conversation, not having seen each other for a while (and having the sorts of complicated lives that require frequent updating of friends as well as libations). The server, unusually forgiving (some waitstaff at Presse are snarky and impatient) having given up on the possibility of us actually ordering food, I think, told us about the desserts. She described the strawberry pot de crème as heavenly, and to support this claim, mentioned that the couple at the next table had just ordered it. BUT, we decided on something savory instead of sweet and ordered the gateau au foie de volaille ("Smooth chicken liver terrine, dried cherry compote" - see image below), and continued to ponder drinks, round two. You may suspect it was all about the drinks for us, and truly for me, that's part of the appeal of sassy food. I'm not rich. Roxanne and I wanted two drinks apiece and we wanted to try more than the chicken liver. Can you fault us? I have to admit, I was hesitant about the whole thing. I admire Roxanne's finesse, but I am not nearly as bold. I love reading about her sassy adventures, but how would it go over for a more reserved sort, like me? I worried it would be awkward. Maybe "our prey" would say no. Maybe they would begrudgingly say yes , and we would sample in uncomfortable silence. Maybe they would insist the server toss us out of the restaurant (and I might add, Roxanne says if it comes to that, which it never has, she's okay with it...). Could we get away with Betons on the sidewalk? And what's the difference between pulling a sassy on the sidewalk and being a bum? Anyhow, then... The neighbors' pot de crème arrived and I asked them if it was good (I steeled myself, here it comes...). They replied that it was BETTER than good. That it was perfect and beautiful, far surpassing the mousse. (Oh! Here it comes! Now! No!) My cue to sassy them......... "Can I try some?" The man had ordered this bowl of creamy white stuff and he said (.....after possibly the slightest flicker of hesitation or register of surprise), "Sure."

Immediately, his gorgeous friend, who had ordered the mousse au chocolat with whipped cream, offered up a bite of hers, not to be outdone, I suppose. The strawberry pot de crème, was fine. It was firm and set. It was delicious, as cream tends to be. It was smooth, sweet, creamy, luscious. Cream is cream, after all. Faint strawberry flavor and glumps of strawberry in there too. OK. It was worth a bite or two, but I'm not going to unabashedly recommend it. The chocolate mousse, had no depth of flavor, no soul. It was just a no-nonsense, rather sad fluffy sweet blob of whipped chocolate stuff on the plate, next to the blob of perfectly fine whipped cream. We all four came to that agreement, I think. Pot de creme - good enough (for some of us, really good, opinions varied). Chocolate Mousse - nothing special. Once, a long time ago, say a year, at Cafe Presse, I had a chocolate cake along side a couple of these blobs of whipped cream. I've never forgotten that cake. I loved that cake. That cake killed me. I continue to think about that cake quite often. I've never seen it there again. I'm suspicious that it was made with whipped egg whites instead of the standard baking powder rising agent, because it was smooth, delicious, spongy, rich, and yet simple. Cafe Presse can certainly get dessert right, but today, neither of these did diddly squat for me. But...what was lacking in our bites, we made up for by way of social interaction with our fellow eaters - our tastees. And this is when I converted to sassiness. I had gotten over the ease in which samples were offered up, but what really astonished me was how the act of food sharing allowed for further (non-forced) intimacies between us. We laughed together about the very act of asking a fellow diner for food. The woman confided she has a friend who successfully asks strangers for sips of drinks and told us about her own concoction, a drink we will merely call p.j. Her companion advised us on our next drink choices. Our waitress, rather than bristling at this unusual food-sharing intimacy seemed completely approving, ready to sit down with us if given the cue. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt other diners were taking note and actually feeling a little left out. They were certainly watching us with interest. Perhaps we were just having a slightly better time than one generally has there. You can see from the above picture, how well acquainted we all were by the end of the lunch hour(s). You can see us displaying the aforementioned desserts. Immediately following the snapping of the pic, Wendy and I shared our chicken liver terrine with our new friends. The terrine is lovely. Smooth, full, creamy - that savory fat satisfies the palate. I think the French nutritionist, Besnard, who theorizes a 6th type of taste bud, the fat responder, is right. (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4399584.stm) There is nothing quite like the feel of sweet or salty fat in the mouth (think potato chips, chicken skin, ice cream, cookie dough)...fundamentally (dare I say), gratifying. The fatty rich melds with and complements the strong sharp mustard. Skip the cherries. They don't work.

A little mustard, a little smooth terrine, and a little bit of bread. Mmmm. Winter fat stores. And I was glad that Roxanne neglected the cornichons, all the more for me and such a nice foil for the creamy richness of the liver. (Image of the chicken liver terrine taken at Cafe Presse's sister restaurant, Le Pichet, courtesy of http://blog.foodista.com/) Over the course of sharing the chicken liver, we got to know a little more about our new friends. The chocolate mousse eater owns a daycare off Eastlake, and has developed a nice, wine-drinking community surrounding it. The pot de creme-er works for Monsieur Tom Douglas at Dahlia Lounge. His cocktail expertise helped make up for the bartender's lack thereof. She throws spectacular parties with creative naughty cocktails (as does Roxanne!), and so we traded recipes. Our server was infinitely accommodating as we perused the drink menu and dilly-dallied deciding what drinks to order for round two. Finally, though tempted by Strega, a sweet Italian digestif composed of 70 different herbs and yellow from its saffron, but uncertain as to how to guide the bartender into making a satisfactory cocktail out of it, I chose the bitter old standby, Campari and soda . I wanted to try a St. Germain cocktail (St. Germain is a French liqueur made with elderflower, in a fancy bottle - http://www.stgermain.fr/).

The recommendation all around, including from our neighbors, was to douse some champagne with the St. Germain, but to me, dumbing-down champagne with anything at all, lesser or equal, is a disappointment. I know others disagree. I don't like nuts or crunchy things ruining the texture of my smooth ice cream either. Mixing only works with some things. So....after asking the bartender for his advice, too, and after he had none to give, I settled on a shot of St. Germain over ice. It was sweeter than what I wanted, but I love that spunky floral. The St. Germain website calls its flavor "captivating" and "hard to pin down". I think it tastes like a watery version of muscatel wine. We didn't have any this time, but my favorite dish at Cafe Presse is the Oeufs plats, with jambon, and fromage (“Two eggs broiled with ham and Gruyere”). These beauties come broiled under melted cheese, over salty ham, in a hot French gratin dish. All the egg items are phenomenal here, as are the pommes-frites (french fries). The main entrees are a bit disappointing overall. Oregon Natural Beef hanger steak, for example, is nothing special, and you would be better off having steak at one of Seattle's excellent steak houses for a few dollars more. But Café Presse is always great for its lighter fare, cocktails, liveliness and potential for socializing. Case in point, the first time I ever went to Café Presse, my daughter ordered the pain au chocolat à l’ancienne (“Bittersweet chocolate melted on baguette”). By the end of breakfast, after dunking her bread into warm milk, licking and pawing the drippy goopy chocolate, our neighbors, some nice, heavy-set dressed-in black 40 somethings had taken pictures of her chocolate covered face and promised to send them to my email address. And they did.

But back to the story at hand... ...after a half hour into our new sassy-based friendship, I finally worked up the guts and asked "Uh, can I try some too?" Everyone looked a bit shocked that I even felt the need to ask. "Of course!" they responded. I honestly couldn't assess the pot de creme, so taken was I by the whole endeavor. Wow! Kind of thrilling. I'm now all for Presse's absurdly tight table arrangements as well. I can't wait to go somewhere with Roxanne where she'll have to get up and venture over to another table to get sassy. Then I will really see how it's done! Truly, though, as she says, it really isn't hard. Almost everyone who partakes in food-sharing is secretly or not so secretly delighted to be doing this.

Barolo Ristorante
1940 Westlake Ave
Seattle, WA 98101
206 770-9000
www.baroloseattle.com


It was a quick drink and appetizer the other night at Barolo. I was with a friend who was up from LA on business. We sat in the lounge area on white leather couches with low white coffee tables. I kept knocking my knee against the base of my martini glass and elegantly spilling a Chopin lemon drop on lap. Smooth. Sexy and svelt black-clad hostesses and waitstaff buzzed about. This place is decidedly unrustic. It is loud. It is crowded. It is loud dance music. It is the place to be seen. It is the place to wear your silver belted taupe trench dress and your Manolo Blahniks. Our server was a green-eyed, tight-bodied, dark-haired beauty. Sweet, not too knowledgable, and not too quick on her feet.

To whet the appetite we ordered:

Polipetti e Ceci
Baby octopus, garbanzo beans, fresh herbs and wine reduction

It rocked! Yum. I love when Seattle restaurants can serve seafood without breading and frying it to death. But beware, the little garbanzo beans swimming in wine sauce, bless their hearts. They must be individually speared, or they roll right off the fork prongs and onto the nice white leather couches and dress pants of one's cocktail companion. The luscious herbed garlic-laden sauce is perfect for bread soaking, but the set up (leather couches, low table, well dressed date) is not so ideal. Again, drippings on my skirt and sweater, to the horror of my companion. I stopped slurping.

The couple across the low white table from us ordered something that looked like a bit like mush.

"What is that?" I mused.

"Risotto with veal," they proudly replied. "It's not on the menu, but we have it here all the time. It's one of our favorites. They made it for us."

My guess was that his name was Cecil and she was Miffy. Neither one looked as though they had really ever worked a day in their lives, in a distinguished, public service kind of way. They weren't over dressed, and they had that bored, stiff, but pleased look. She was strawberry blonde and he had swept back dark brown Euro hair. Neither were over 35.

"Can I try the risotto?" I asked.

"Sure," said Miffy, "if you can find a fork." Cecil looked mildly amused. Our place settings finally arrived via the green-eyed vixen.

I tried the risotto. One bite. Didn't get any of the veal in that first bite, so I took another big bite. It didn't impress me and I told them so, "Yeah, it's good, but doesn't knock my socks off. It is very comforting though."

They explained that the risotto and some other meat sauce pasta dish were their favorites, but that this particular risotto wasn't quite up to snuff. I'm not so sure I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt on the risotto. As far as a pasta dish goes, I'm so unaccustomed to ordering pasta dishes at restaurants because it is so easy to replicate good pasta with meat sauce at home, for about one one-hundredth of the price. I mentioned all of this, but they claimed that the meat sauce was really astounding.

I didn't have time to sample anything else at Barolo, but I'll be looking out for the meat sauce next time, and a decent heighted table made for eating and drinking.

The Pink Door Terrace

The Pink Door

1919 Post Alley (Between Stewart and Virginia Streets)

206 443-3241 http://www.thepinkdoor.net/

Pink Door on Urbanspoon

 The rule is: Spend no more than $25, taste as many different dishes as possible, off of other people's plates. September. Perhaps the last warm summer day (over 70 degrees Fahrenheit - this is Seattle). I arrived to meet my friend who had just returned from a five-week research trip in Liberia. She had already ordered a drink: Pimms and Sprite. 

"What is Pimms," I asked? 

"Well, I discovered it through a neo-colonialist ex-pat party network” in Monrovia, Liberia, a young set that has been installed to rebuild, redesign and reconstruct the Liberian government after years of devastating civil war,  Apparently the drink was originally served as a digestive in the United Kingdom – a gin-based, herb-infused, fruity refresher. 

So while she sipped her Pimm’s, I sipped my own summer drink, a Grape Knee-High (vodka, triple sec, Chambord, and lemon juice).

 The Pink Door terrace was abuzz with the after-work, after-shopping-at-the-Pike-Place-Market-crowd.  We got the last no-reservation-required table outside – a vibrant, densely packed patio with views of Seattle’s Puget Sound and the sunset. With around 40 tables outside, it was a perfect place to see and taste everyone’s food. We ordered the Cheese Board Deluxe – a beautifully arranged cheese selection on a wooden board. We picked at the little wedges of artisanal Italian cheeses, dipped and played with the fig and chianti compote, and played with the crispy house-made crackers. 

The cheeses were pungent, flavorful, and varied - one blue, one harder, one mid-aged and mild.  Our waiter was a terribly serious, bespectacled guy and we asked for his recommendations. He offered: the risotto, the Special of the Day (whole fish, Mediterranean style, with head on, accompanied by a nice fresh pesto sauce), and the sautéed calamari. I had a rough road map now, and knew what I was looking for (fish, risotto, fish, risotto). And as the drink started to kick in, I needed some substantial food to soak it up. 

 So…I got up and meandered about, eyeing everyone’s table. I looked at their food. I looked in their eyes. I found a talkative couple finishing off the remains of the whole fish Special of the Day. 

“How was that?” I asked. This led to a long conversation with the couple about whole fish, seafood, the Mediterranean region, Seattle, the Pink Door. I was hunched over their table, standing. I told them I hadn’t been here, to this restaurant, in years. 

“Where have you been then?” they asked. 

“Morocco, I guess,” I said. 

“Ooooh….” and we launched into a long discussion of North Africa. He had driven across the border to Algeria, back in the 60’s…. 

“Is that the pesto that came with the fish??” I asked. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Can I taste it?” It was electric green, syrupy pesto sauce in a little cup. 

“Sure...here, dip the bread in it.” 

“Mmmm…lovely, thanks!" I tried it again, with more bread.  

The woman raved, over and over again about the calamari...it wasn’t deep fried...I just had to order it.  I believed her. Back at my table, my friend had finished her second Pims. And coincidentally, the couple next to us had just ordered the calamari. 

“Is that the calamari?” I asked the couple. 

“Yes, do you have a fork?” 

“Yes, here.” He speared me a nice bit of sautéed calamari in spinach, tomato, garlic and wine sauce. Wow. 

The couple with the calamari then asked me if I wanted to marry their son. What? They explained he was well established, single and living in San Francisco. They had just come from visiting him, and they were frustrated that he wasn't settling down. I wondered what they had in mind. Why me? I eat other people's food! They gave me his contact info. 

We called it a night at the Pink Door and made our way to the next stop on our circuit. Great Grape Knee-High, nice pesto sauce and cheese selections on a beautiful and lively terrace with friendly folks. I may even meet my new husband. And I only spent $25.

Ocean City Restau

Ocean City Restaurant
http://www.oceancityrestaurant.net/

609 S Weller St

Seattle, WA 98104

(206) 623-2333

I scored some chicken feet at dim sum this Saturday at Ocean City in Seattle's International district! It's fun to chew on the bones. I was on the prowl for duck tongue, but two gentlemen at a corner table had a bowl of chicken feet that caught my eye.

I had left my own table and friends to wander around, looking at everyone else's food. These two 30-something guys seemed especially passionate about chewing on their chicken feet, as they established a white cartilage and joint pile in a white bowl. Both looked Southeast Asian (although I didn't ask) and had leather jackets and longish un-washed hair. When I asked, the more assertive of the two said the other was a regular, and ate chicken feet here all the time, although both of them were giving me the "why the f&$k are you asking us these questions" look. They were embarrassed, but I persevered. I wanted to try the chicken feet. I never had. "Could I try one of those"? Ha ha. Nervous laughter from the two of them. They handed me the whole bowl, thanked them profusely. I offered to give them my sticky rice in trade. They refused. I offered again. They refused again, so I took the feet back to my table. Delicious sauce. It is a homo sapien instinct to gnaw on bones. In Morocco they have a special verb for just this: "mishish"= to suck and chew off every last piece of flesh on a bone, like a cat. It is satisfying and primal, and I enjoyed it, along with I'd say 80% of the other clientele (although the thick and goose bumply skin was the hardest to get over). Everyone was eating chicken feet!

After discussing duck tongue for a quarter of an hour with the waiter, and after refusing to order the whole bowl of approximately 20 little 1 1/2 inch tongues, he finally brought me one little tongue in a big old white bowl. It looked ridiculous, lonely and sad in the big bowl, but I was thrilled. The flavor was just like Peking Duck - sweet, succulent, but little Peking Duck tongue is grisly, chewy, cartilage-y. Deelish!

Chinese Food Dare: Elaine gets Sassy

Click on the Youtube link to see Elaine doing what we do, sort of....

Note: We are not affiliated in any way with the Israel Medical Emergency Service, which is advertised at the beginning of this clip. Please be patient...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gepNBBfurS0