Penn Appetit Fall 2016

penn appĂŠtit

FALL 2016

A Gleaming Tower of Cream Puffs!

Make your own croquembouche on page 51

The Joys and Horrors of Eating Alone

Embarrassing or enlightening?

Modernist Cuisine

Is $625 too steep a price for the greatest cookbook of all time?

Mac Marathon

An analytical approach to finding your optimal mac n’ cheese

Growing Community at Novick Family Farm

An urban farm concerned with more than just its bottom line

Chase Matecun chats about what to expect.

Two eaters’ takes on dining solo

Everything we’re reading (other than this!) start to finish

Our step-by-step guide to making a pan sauce for any occasion

Cakes, tarts, and the story behind them at Old City’s tiniest bake shop

Everything you need to know about cooking with cast iron. Don’t even think about putting that thing in the dishwasher!

Much love for the brownie’s underrated little sibling

The classic sandwich of New Orleans is po’ no mo’!

The Cinderella story of one sandwich’s rise to fame and fortune

Pricey langoustines, mushrooms that cost more than your monthly rent, and life on the prep team at one of America’s finest restaurants Our essential guide to macaroni in Philadelphia— cheesiness ranking included

Filipino cuisine leaves the home kitchen at Chef Boquila’s new restaurant on East Passyunk

Get ahead of the super food trend with this tiny Ethiopian seed

$625 for a cookbook?!

Rachel Prokupek tells the tale of one extravagant French dessert.

A summer of tastes a world away from home

Eating in excess one stop at a time— your roadmap for late night eats outside of University City

Going vegan on the way back from summer camp and the long road back

A dietary transformation at a yoga retreat— no gelato allowed

Four gin cocktails you can make at home

An urban family farm interested in growing more than just vegetables

Just when you thought pancakes and eggs couldn’t get any better

All for the Love of Turkey

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for Any Occasion

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Rich cultural fusion stuffed inside a dumpling wrapper

Two variations on compound butter that’ll make your taste buds (and your cardiologist) beg for mercy

penn appétit What’s your go-to guilty pleasure?

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR MANAGING EDITOR “Bananas and hazelnut butter, dipped straight from the jar”

EDITORIAL STAFF

CREATIVE DIRECTOR DESIGN STAFF

“A massive slice of pumpkin pie mixed with frozen vanilla custard (Shake Shack’s Pumpkin Pie Oh My)”

PHOTO DIRECTOR PHOTO STAFF

DIGITAL CONTENT DIRECTOR BLOG TEAM

“Honey wheat pretzels dipped in white chocolate peanut butter”

Chase Matecun Aneri Kinariwalla, Olivia Weis, Blaze Bernstein, Will Constan, Kathleen Norton, Emily Rush, Rachel Prokupek, Tiffany Wang Garett Nelson Leah Sprague, Amber Song, Annie Su, Andrew Cui, Valencia Fu, Michelle Terng, Anna Tang, Ashley Chu Isabel Zapata Noel Zheng, Leah Sprague, Andrew Cui, Angel Fan, Juliana Sandford, Alden Terry, Katie Zhao

Aurore Gugliemi, Jennifer Higa, Hannah Levinson, Melina Gyparaki, Kameron Fisher, Juliana Sandford Brian Rogers

TREASURER

Isabelle Bral

BUSINESS MANAGER BUSINESS STAFF

PUBLICITY & OUTREACH CHAIRS

SOCIAL MEDIA TEAM WEB TEAM COOKING CLUB CHAIR VIDEO EDITOR INTERNAL SOCIAL CHAIR

Lena Antin Anika Jagasia, Natalie Weil, Nathalie Calderon, Jennifer Higa, Isabelle Bral, Marissa Favano Maggie Molen, Parker Brown

“A Ben and Jerry’s pint allllllllll to myself”

Amy Pinkus, Cooper Robinson, Lydia Roberts, Jessica Landon, Ilayda Onur Melanie Lowenstein Camille Jwo, Katie Jiang Janie Kim Keiko Turecamo Ben Blanco

SOCIAL IMPACT CHAIR

Caroline Guenoun

SOCIAL IMPACT STAFF

Phillip Huffman, Kate Kassin, Katie Simms, Katie Wasserstein Olivia Weis

EVENTS CHAIR

“Leftovers straight from the fridge— sans utensils”

Elena Crouch

CULINARY DIRECTOR

PUBLICITY & OUTREACH STAFF

“Buttery garlic bread, freshly toasted“

Byrne Fahey

“Cinnamon roll toast with melty brie and Lyle’s golden syrup”

Morgan Pearlman

“Taking Oreos apart and spreading speculoos in the middle, so good!”

Three years ago, a bubbly upperclassman on Locust Walk shoved a flyer in my hand and asked me to join Penn Appétit. “Sure”, I said, “How can I get involved?”

If you had told me then that Penn Appétit would become one of the most defining experiences of my time at Penn, I would have said you were crazy. Back then, working for a food magazine meant having the opportunity to eat something a bit tastier than what I could find in the dining hall— and maybe scoring a free steak or two— but not much more than that.

As I sit here writing my final letter from the editor, three years later, so much has changed. Yes, there’s been a free steak

or two (and an unforgettable slice of spicy ‘njuda toast from Vetri), but for every rich slice of filet mignon I’ve bitten into, there have been countless cheap kebabs and greasy cheesesteaks split with friends that I remember much more fondly. Rich isn’t always a price; it can be a feeling— a feeling of sharing something meaningful with people you care about.

In that same spirit, I want to give thanks to everyone at Penn Appétit. To the writers and editors who worked so hard to put this magazine together, to the layout, photo, and business staffs for their boundless creativity, and to all of my fellow seniors on the Penn Appétit board.

From sipping wine at blog events with

board members long-gone, to chowing down together on melted brie at feature photo shoots and lazy board meetings, you all have made my life rich in so many ways over these last three years. I still can’t believe our time together is coming to a close.

So sit down, grab a snack, and enjoy the issue.

Always stay hungry,

Chase Matecun

Back to the BasicS on our reading list PHOTO BY ANDREW CUI

Looking for a good read that’s not Penn Appétit? Well look no further— here are three books that we can’t keep our noses out of.

Whether you’re as seasoned a chef of Asian cuisine as your wok is, or you’re a complete novice, “101 Easy Asian Recipes” is the cookbook for you. It offers an incredible variety of simple recipes that satisfy all my cravings for Asian food. Pro tip: you can pretty easily make 3-5 of these recipes at once so you’ll have enough food to make it through your next marathon session of Chef’s Table.

—Will Constan, Editor

“Sweetbitter” tells the story of Tess, a young back waiter at Union Square Cafe, who has a fondness for good food and the rock’n’roller lifestyle.

Inspired by Danler’s own experiences waitressing in New York City, the novel is an authentic, insightful glimpse into the restaurant world. Sweetbitter never fails to satiate the daydreams I have of trading in academia for a seat at the pre-service family meal.

—Kathleen Norton, Editor

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If you have ever been curious about what it’s like to study at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, this funny and brutally honest narrative is entertaining, to say the least. Flinn provides traditional French recipes from her year working in the kitchen and living in Paris, and never fails to make me hungry while I read.

—Rachel Prokupek, Editor penn appétit

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make it at home

BY CHASE MATECUN PHOTO BY LEAH SPRAGUE Red wine reduction? Savory jus?* Sounds like something you’d only find on a restaurant menu, right?

Wrong. If you’re already planning on searing a piece of meat, you’re only five steps away from pulling off a flavorful, silky pan sauce at home. Use this general formula as a guide, but don’t be afraid to think outside the box. Steak with a red wine sauce is a classic, but chicken thighs with cider and sage is one of our personal favorites.

First of all, make sure you’re not using a non-stick pan.

We’re looking for buildup of fond, the delicious brown bits left behind after you remove the meat. Coat the pan with oil and place it over high heat.

Once the oil is shimmering, give the meat a good sear.

Finish it on the stovetop, in the oven—whatever you like.

Get it out of that pan! Set it aside, cover with foil to keep it warm, and let it rest while you make the sauce. Resting the meat will allow the juices to settle back into the cut, rendering it more tender.

clean out the fond! Add ¼ cup diced shallots, a spoonful of chopped herbs—dried or fresh—and let them soften for a few minutes. Listen closely to the shallots. They should be gently sizzling. Adjust the heat accordingly and poke ‘em around a little bit until they’re soft and sweet. You’ll smell them change.

Pour ½ cup flavorful liquid into the pan—a glass of wine, cider, or even some chicken stock (low sodium, please). It should hiss as you pour it in. Scrape up the little bits of fond off the bottom and bring the liquid to a simmer. Let it reduce by about half or until it’s noticeably thicker.

Turn off the heat and whisk in one tablespoon of butter. Your pan sauce should be rich and glossy. Give it a taste. A little flat? Add a squeeze of lemon or another acid. Check the salt while you’re at it and adjust accordingly.

Plate your meat, pour the pan sauce on top, and luxuriate in your restaurant-quality meal.

Is there still some oil left in the pan? Good. If not, add a knob of butter or a splash of oil and set it over medium heat. Don’t

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*a thin gravy or sauce made from meat juices

for steak: + rosemary + red wine for chicken: + thyme + white wine for pork: + sage + apple cider

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in philly spotlight

Tartes Fine Tarts and Pastries: A Pastel Pink Gem in Old City

BY COLIN LODEWICK PHOTO BY ALDEN TERRY Nestled among shops selling Ben Franklin paraphernalia, markets named after the Liberty Bell, and parked double-decker tourist buses in Old City is Tartes Fine Tarts and Pastries. It’s an exceedingly small shop— a tiny, pastel pink brick building with a matching awning embellished with a string of lights. After ordering at the dessert-lined front window, your order is selected, packaged, and handed right out the window to you. It’s a quick and intimate interaction that feels a little voyeuristic­— through the window you can fall 2016

see straight into the shop, into the tiny kitchen where all the delicious tarts and pastries are made.

“I make what I like,” remarks Teresa Wall, the shop’s owner and head pastry chef. For Ms. Wall, each pastry and tart starts with a flavor, a feeling, or with seasonal fruit. She had never planned to sell retail and moved to the location in 2000 because she needed a place where she could operate her wholesale business. Requests for individual tarts, cakes, and cookies soon followed, and by 2002, Tartes was founded.Owning and operating a retail bakery is nothing strange for Ms. Wall, though, as she’s been working in the restaurant business her whole life. Her

love of pastry started when she was only five years old, when she would bake with her mother. Later, she started as a short order cook in a restaurant on South Street before working all over the city as a pastry chef.

When asked about what it’s like to work in such a small space, she notes that it feels completely natural, as pastry chefs are never allotted much space in any restaurant.

This lack of space has become a sort of quality control for Ms. Wall. “If it’s not good, it’s a waste of space,” she says about her desserts. With such a small window to showcase her pastries, everything shown must be the best she can produce. The shop is unique in that

almost everything is made the day of, in small batches. When you order a piece of lavender pound cake or a molasses cookie there’s a good chance it was baked only hours earlier. If you order a coconut cream tart, she will put the whipped cream on top seconds before she gives it to you. This freshness is what makes Tartes so special and what brings people back again and again. Teresa Wall is an expert, and anyone who tastes her key lime tart can attest to that.

Tartes Fine Tarts and Pastries is located at 212 Arch Street in Philadelphia, PA.

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tips from a pro

BY MELODIE GIBSON PHOTO BY KATIE ZHAO Cast iron— the ol’ faithful of the kitchen. The wizard of the waffle and the savior of the Sunday roast. Boasting stovetop, grill and oven cook-ability, it’s no wonder that cast iron has won the hearts of chefs and home cooks alike. Through years of use and seasoning, cast iron pieces become covetable heirlooms often passed down through generations. Stainless steel just can’t compete with the certain je ne sais quoi cast iron imparts to its food.

Remember that Christmas dinner back in 2006? Yeah, that’s what’s giving your 10

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omelet that extra oomph.

While popular, cast iron cookware can be intimidating. So we’re here to break it down for you and help make owning and using cast iron a joy rather than a hassle.

In order for cast iron to perform at its best, it must be properly seasoned. “Seasoning” here means repeatedly applying oil to the cast iron surface to protect the pan from rust and buildup on that nonstick patina. Most cast iron cookware comes pre-seasoned these days. Hint: if your cast iron is black with a sheen on it, it has already been seasoned.

However, if you do end up with an unseasoned cast iron piece,

follow these four steps. First, cover the bottom of the pan with a thick layer of kosher salt and about a half-inch of vegetable oil. Then, heat the pan on high until the oil starts to smoke. Then carefully discard the salt and oil mixture and use paper towels to rub the inside of the pan until it’s smooth and shiny. A properly seasoned cast iron skillet is virtually nonstick!

Not only does this cut back on the amount of oil needed for cooking, but it also reduces ingestion of the potentially harmful chemicals found in pans with non-stick coating.

fore you can abandon that mess in the kitchen. Always clean your cast iron immediately after use (ideally while it’s still warm). Never use soap on your cast iron and never, ever, ever put it through the dishwasher.

Wash the skillet with hot water and a sponge and for stubborn crusty bits, scrub with a paste of kosher salt and water. Once your pan is clean, you must re-season it before it goes back in the cabinet. Towel dry the skillet, use a paper towel to apply a light coat of vegetable oil to the inside of the skillet and then store your cast iron in a cool, dry place.

Now that your pan has been nicely seasoned and you’ve used it for the first time, you’ve got a little more work to do bepennappetit.com

not just a dumb blond(ie)

BY ALIKI KARNAVAS PHOTO BY ELIZABETH TERRY

Blondies are the overshadowed younger sibling of the beloved brownie. They’re underrated but incredibly easy to make. In my mind, the perfect blondie is like an improved chocolate chip cookie; thicker, fudgier, and more butterscotchy. In the pursuit of perfection, I went on the hunt for the best recipe I could find.

I tried the first two recipes that came up on my Google search, as well as one from an old cookbook of my mom’s. After bringing the three blondie batches to my writing class and finding anyone gluttonous enough try three blondies in one sitting, there was a clear winner. The recipe produces rich and chewy blondies with just the right amount of sweetness. I highly recommend lightly salting them right after they come out of the oven for an extra layer of flavor.

My Winning Blondie Recipe:

Whisk together the melted butter and sugar in a bowl until combined.

Recipe modified and adapted from simplyrecipes.com

Mix in the egg and vanilla extract until smooth.

Serves 9-16 ½ cup butter, melted 1 cup tightly packed brown sugar (light or dark) 1 egg, lightly beaten 1 tsp vanilla extract ½ tsp baking powder 1/8 tsp baking soda Pinch of salt 1 cup all-purpose flour Optional mix-ins: 1/3 cup of butterscotch chips, chocolate chips, walnuts, chopped rolos, crushed pretzels, or anything else you can think of!

Preheat your oven to 350°F and grease an 8x8 pan.

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Add the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt, mix it all together until just combined. Fold in the butterscotch chips or other mix-ins.

Pour into the pan and spread evenly. Bake for 25-30 minutes or until a tester inserted into the center comes out with a few crumbs still attached.

Optional: Right after taking the blondies out of the oven, lightly sprinkle them with sea salt.

Allow to cool. Cut into squares and serve.

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BY KALIKO ZABALA-MOORE PHOTOS BY ANGEL FAN

Kare Kare: Short rib, tripe, eggplant, bok choy, long beans, tahini and beef broth

skin of the Berkshire pork belly browned and bubbled.

Beneath, the pork fell off the bone with little need for convincing. Juices spilled out after one bite. The dish was further elevated by the addition of citrus-soaked cannellini beans, fennel, cherry tomatoes, onions, chicken liver, and dates. To me, a daughter accustomed to her Filipino mother's homemade lechon, Perla's upscale take on the roast pork dish was unfamiliar territory.

On August 18th, 2016, Philadelphia’s first sit-down Filipino restaurant, Perla, opened in the East Passyunk neighborhood. Approaching the restaurant, I walked through a triangular courtyard, at the center of which lies the neighborhood’s famous “singing fountain”. The skinny bronze letters P E R L A stood out against charcoal colored bricks adjacent to the restaurant’s entryway. Chef Lou Boquila, the visionary of Perla, stood at the front of the kitchen in a crisp, dark gray apron.

Boquila was born in the Philippines and moved to Philadelphia when he was 8 years old. He started his culinary career as a

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dishwasher at the Knave of Hearts, a former South Street restaurant, which prompted him to go to culinary school at the Art Institute of Philadelphia. In the kitchen of the Rittenhouse BYOB, Audrey Claire, he started as a line cook and worked his way up, eventually earning a job as Chef de Cuisine.

Boquila drew on his experience in the kitchen to create Pelago, a Philadelphia-based hospitality group. Pelago puts on pop-ups throughout the city which feature Filipino cuisine. The success of Pelago prompted a permanent venture featuring a modern take on Filipino cuisine: Perla.

When I visited Perla soon after it opened in September, the menu offered a sampling of Filipino food with accents of calamansi, a hybrid citrus fruit, and coconut. The chilled corn soup, garnished with watercress and peppers, was deceivingly innocent at first.

But after several spoonfuls, the slow and surprising burn of fresh ginger and the hot peppers kicked in.

Our server came to our table with fresh kinilaw, a Filipino dish that closely resembles Latin American ceviche. Raw mackerel, cooked in palm vinegar and marinated

in coconut milk, was adorned by pickled watermelon and thinly sliced cucumber.

The meal ended with a dessert familiar to me, bibingka, a cake featuring rice flour and coconut that is traditionally baked in a banana leaf. Back home, I call it “the sticky rice thing.”

Boquila took this typically messy dish and made it into a dessert as beautiful as it is delicious. His version featured a polvoron (shortbread crumble) topping and an elegant garnish of black sesame seeds and raspberries.

Boquila’s tranlastion of Filipino home cooking into a fine dining setting is more than just an elevation of familiar tastes—it’s a statement about the relevance and importance of Filipino culture as a whole. I have come to love and appreciate my mother’s lechon, but most Americans never have the chance to experience such a rich aspect of Filipino culture. Boquila’s menu at Perla not only makes Filipino cuisine more accessible, but it lets guests taste homestyle foods in an entirely new context, putting Filipino traditions in the culinary spotlight.

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Look outside the dining room at Perla to see East Passyunk’s famous “singing fountain”— a fountain that continuously plays music (we hear Sinatra is on loop)

Pinakbet: Carrots, bok choy, beets, maitake mushrooms, brussels sprouts, delicata squash, and bagoong-demi

Escabeche: Spanish octopus, bell peppers, cane vinegar gastrique, shaved celery

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BY MELODIE GIBSON PHOTO BY ANGEL FAN

In recent decades, chia and quinoa have come to dominate the superfood family, but now another ancient grain has caught global attention— teff. Indigenous to Ethiopia and one of the earliest plants to be domesticated (somewhere between 4000-1000 BC), teff is an annual grass grown for its tiny gluten-free grain. It is primarily used to make Ethiopia’s traditional bread, injera. Injera is consumed with nearly every meal and provides Ethiopians with a calorically dense and nutrient packed dietary staple.

Teff is so inextricably linked to the region’s culture and cuisine that an estimated 4.3 million tons of this tiny grain was produced in 2014 alone.

While Ethiopia remains the number one exporter of teff and teff products, countries around the world are beginning to introduce their consumers to this new superfood crush.

Despite its size, teff packs a powerful punch when it comes to nutrition. One cup

of uncooked teff boasts a whopping 26 grams of protein and 15 grams of dietary fiber, while quinoa falls behind with a mere 8 grams and 5 grams respectively.

Teff also crushes quinoa in calcium, copper, iron and zinc content, and tramples over chia in just about every nutritional category.

With its unparalleled versatility, getting your daily dose of teff isn’t hard. Swap wheat flour for teff flour in your favorite baked goods or throw it into a soup or on a salad for dinner. I like to start my mornings with teff porridge— a gluten-free alternative to oatmeal that’s just as warm and tasty.

Whether in your smoothie, stew, or sambusa*, it’s time to embrace Ethiopia’s tiniest grain and start making room for it in your hearts and pantries.

*Ethiopian samosa

all of the milk is absorbed.

Stir occasionally so the teff doesn’t burn.

Serves 1 2 cups milk ½ plus ⅛ teaspoon of cinnamon, divided ⅛ tsp of allspice ⅛ tsp of cardamom ⅛ tsp of ginger ⅛ tsp of clove Pinch of sea salt ½ cup whole grain teff 2 ripe Bartlett pears, peeled, cored and cut in half lengthwise ½ tsp vanilla extract 4 tbs of brown sugar, divided 1 tbs honey ½ tsp fresh lemon juice ¼ cup chopped pecans (optional) Place the teff in a 2-quart sauce pan. Add milk, spices, salt and 2 tablespoons of brown sugar and stir. Bring pot to a boil over high heat, then lower to a simmer.

Cover the pot and cook for 15-20 minutes or until

While your teff is cooking, place pears in a microwave-safe dish and in a separate bowl combine 2 tablespoons of brown sugar 1/8 teaspoon of cinnamon.

In a small bowl combine honey, lemon juice and vanilla extract. Spoon the sugar mixture all over the pears and drizzle the honey mixture on top.

Microwave pears for 2 to 5 minutes in 30 second increments. They are done when they can very easily be pierced with a fork.

Remove the pears and microwave what’s left in the dish for 2 to 5 more minutes until it takes on a syrupy consistency. Cut your pears to your liking and place on top of your teff porridge.

Place chopped pecans on top and drizzle with the syrup.

Opening My Eyes to Greek Cuisine

BY ALIKI VARNAS

ILLUSTRATION BY JOYA MANDEL-ASSAEL

The first thing I saw were tons of shiny black eyes staring up at me from the center of my plate. My sister and I looked at each other with horror as the waiter placed our appetizer in front of us— whole fried sardines.

My Great Aunt, Thea Veta, chuckled with glee. She squeezed lemon juice over the fish and passed the dish around the table. My mom and Thea Veta knocked the fried sardines back, while my sister and I just stared. Not wanting to be rude, we decided to try them together, on the count of three. I took a deep breath and gingerly held one in front of me. It was about the size of your average french fry— unlike a potato, though, it had fins, scales, a mouth, and eyes.

Yet after seeing my mom and Thea munch on one after another, I figured they couldn’t be that bad. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and hoped for the best.

Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, with just enough salty fish flavor and tart lemon juice; they were surprisingly good.

Despite being someone who doesn’t particularly like seafood, this became one of my favorite dishes over the course of my three weeks in Greece.

My family is of Greek descent, so when we traveled to Greece this past summer to visit family and friends, it almost felt like I was going home. The first thing my relatives taught me was the importance of coffee in Greece. Everywhere you go, you will find sprawling outdoor cafes where you can order the variety of coffees that Greece has to offer.

Ten years ago, the frappé, Nescafé instant coffee mixed with frothed milk, was all the rage. Today, it’s the freddo cappuccino – an espresso with steamed milk that has been poured over ice. Greek coffee is incredibly strong; it makes Starbucks seem like muddy water. Because of this, it’s not uncommon for Greeks to stay at cafés, nursing the same cup for hours. I never perfected this skill.

Instead, I would down the coffee within ten minutes, while my Greek relatives watched in horror.

My family’s favorite meal was the second night we were on the island of Paros. Our old family friends recommended a meze, or tapas-style, restaurant in the center of town.

We walked the stone-paved alleyways to the restaurant, trying our best not to get lost, as

street names proved to be largely non-existent. When we finally got there, we found a quaint little restaurant with only outdoor seating. We ordered our favorites: the horiatiki salata, melitzanes sto fourno, keftedes, and loukoumades.

The first course of almost any Greek meal is the horiatiki salata, or “village salad.” It consists of sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, green bell peppers, red onions, olives, and feta, all drizzled with olive oil and seasoned with salt. Despite its simplicity, this salad strikes the perfect balance, with refreshing fresh veggies, creamy feta cheese, and briny olives. I ate this countless times while in Greece, and just a taste of it brings me back to days spent relaxing on the beach next to the waveless Mediterranean Sea. Melitzanes sto fourno translates to “eggplant in the oven.” The dish is a warm, delicious mess of baked eggplant, topped with tomato sauce and cheese. The tomato sauce cuts the richness with its bright acidity. This dish was perfect for the chilly wind of a Greek island at night.

Keftedes, Greek meatballs, are also extremely popular. They are the Greek equivalent of chicken fingers; you can find them on any kids menu and they’re served at every fast food place. Keftedes tend to be much smaller than American or Italian meatballs, and are pan fried without sauce until the outside is crispy.

Our favorite Greek dessert was loukoumades, or Greek donut holes. They are little nuggets of fried pillow-like dough, traditionally dressed with honey, a smattering of chopped nuts, and cinnamon.

As we approached the day of departure, I found myself savoring every last bite of horiatiki salata and sip of freddo cappuccino. On one of our last nights in Greece, Thea Veta ordered fried sardines again. The waiter brought the tiny fish to the table, and this time, I looked them in the eye and took a confident bite.

I couldn’t help but contemplate how far I’d come, from being sickened by just at the sight of this dish, to now enjoying it. Traveling anywhere is bound to expand your palette, and traveling to Greece certainly did for me. Until my next visit, I’ll just have to live with the memories of crispy fried sardines and keftedes.

“I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and hoped for the best.”

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BY KATHLEEN NORTON “I got your favorite!” my dad said as he got back into the car and handed me a paper-wrapped sandwich. Turkey, cheese, and avocado.

My parents had just picked me up from my weeklong stay at Youth Empowered Activism Camp, or as I affectionately refer to it now, “Vegan Camp.” The camp’s mission is to mentor young social activists, and it just happened to serve vegan food. I thought that was cool and all, but the night before vegan camp started, I had eaten a huge plate of gooey chicken parm and wondered why anyone would forsake such a dish.

Yet seven days later, there I was in the backseat of the car, quietly crying as I chewed, too scared to tell my parents my deep, dark, dietary secret. Motivated by what I had learned about the environmental and ethical impacts of animal products and an adolescent desire to be hip, my fifteen-month vegan roller coaster began.

It started off great. Once I worked up the courage to tell my parents, they were fine with it— my mom hated cooking anyways, and my dad was excited about trying new foods. My cousin had just gotten engaged to a gluten-free guy, so my extended family clumped us together under “dietary restrictions”. We shared many a flourless, dairyfree chocolate cake at familial get-togethers.

I was three months in when Thanksgiving rolled around. While under some sort of Food Network induced domestic-goddess haze, my mom and I decided that it would be a great idea for us to cook a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for the whole family for the first time ever. Not only that, we’d be starting a new tradition with a roasted and stuffed “vital wheat gluten” loaf more commonly known as Tofurkey. Delicious.

I couldn’t wait to carve my vegan masterpiece (with a serrated bread knife, as recom-

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PHOTO BY ANDREW CUI mended by the packaging) and dig in. But then it came out of the oven. I looked at the sausage-shaped, slightly gray thing in front of me. It was strangely bouncy and I felt like if I dropped it on the floor, it would spring back up and I’d be able to dribble it like a basketball. After taking a bite, I wished that I had been eating a basketball. I spent the

rest of dinner hiding in the kitchen, sneaking bites of my cousin’s famous blue cheese bread with (most of) the cheese scraped off.

This marked the beginning of the end.

On weekends, I would cook big pots of pasta in the morning, smother it in vegan “butter” and eat it all day. Many nights I would grow so frustrated by my lack of veg-

an options that my dad would take pity on me and we’d make late-night runs to In-nOut for a dinner of well-done fries. I spent a year trying to find the non-dairy equivalent of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food (there is none). I spent a lot of time thinking about eggs.

The following October, my cousin married her gluten-free fiancé. By the time dinner rolled around, I was starving (really, I’d been starving since the day I left vegan camp). The first course was caprese salad.

“I’ll just eat the tomatoes,” I told myself. But the tomatoes went fast, and I was left alone with a plate of fresh, full-fat mozzarella. I cut off a tiny piece.

It was so small, and I was so hungry.

Cheating at a wedding wasn’t really cheating, was it?

I ate the cheese.

And then I ate the salmon, and the cream sauce, and the mashed potatoes, and the mocha cupcake.

That night, fifteen months of missed opportunities flashed before my eyes. I realized the extent of the deprivation torture I had been subjecting my tastes buds to. I knew what I had to do.

As my parents and I were driving home the next day, I casually mentioned that I’d like to do a week-long trial of not being vegan, and that I thought we should stop for some tikka masala, tandoori chicken, and naan.

“Don’t you think you should ease yourself back into dairy and meat?” my dad asked.

No. No, no, no. No. I had already been through enough.

And that first bite of slightly charred chicken, smothered in creamy tikka, felt like coming home after a very, very long journey.

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Easy Gin Slushie

Gin Virgin: Easy Gin Slushie

Gin Player: Classic Martini

Most gimlets are simply lime and gin and maybe a spot of soda. Here’s a college kid’s take on the classic.

Pull out your nice gin for this­— you’re basically just drinking it straight and cold, so it may as well be the good stuff.

Serves 1 2 oz frozen limeade concentrate or mashed lime popsicle 1 ½ oz (a shot) ice cold gin 2 oz tonic water Open the frozen limeade and scoop a heaping spoonful in a glass. Pour gin in the glass. Top with tonic water, and stir (not shake) vigorously.

Tip: keep your spirits in the freezer— the high alcohol content means that they won’t turn solid and will instead be as cold as possible.

Make Your Favorite Mixed Drinks at Home

BY HANNAH NOYES PHOTOS BY NOEL ZHENG It takes a special kind of person to appreciate the complex liquor that is gin. A recent study found that a preference for bitter tastes, such as that of gin, is “positively associated with malevolent personality traits, with the most robust relation to everyday sadism and psychopathy.”

Like cilantro, country music, and roller coasters, gin is one of those things that most people either love or hate. Its bitter profile is characterized by flavors of juniper berry and other botanicals. Fans of the liquor enjoy its floral taste, while little bitches that can’t handle it might say it tastes like a pine-scented car air freshener. Just kidding. As I said, it’s a polarizing drink.

GinExperienced:Spin on a Gin (and Tonic) This cocktail is pretty self explanatory: it’s gin... and tonic.

Serves 1 1 ½ oz (a shot) gin 3 oz tonic water Splash of elderflower liqueur (trust me, you need this in your life) Stir all three liquids around and toss in an ice cube. Feel free to add more gin and adjust to taste.

Serves 1 4 oz gin 1 oz dry vermouth Strip of lemon peel Fill cup with ice, then pour in the gin and vermouth.

Mix around, then remove ice and pour into a chilled glass. Light a match or lighter and run it over your strip of lemon peel a couple of times– it’ll release the oil out of the peel and into your cocktail. Garnish cocktail with lemon peel.

Gin Promiscuous: Gin-Gin Mule Gin and ginger beer are a match made in heaven. Try on this twist on a Moscow Mule.

Serves 1 Juice of 1 lime 6 - 8 mint leaves 2 oz ginger beer 1 ½ oz (a shot) gin In a glass, squeeze the lime juice over the mint leaves and gently mash with the back of a spoon (aka muddling if you want to be fancy). Add a couple of ice cubes along with the gin and top with ginger beer.

Give the entire thing a good stir and serve with a slice of lime.

For those of you who are in the camp of gin lovers, here are three recipes to bring the sophisticated spirit into your own kitchen. fall 2016

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Classic Martini Contrary to what you may have learned from James Bond, martinis should be stirred, not shaken. Stirring will give your drink a smooth mouth-feel, whereas shaking a drink will cause aeration and force the ingredients to bind together—not what you want in a martini.

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More than a one night stand: Gins to keep on hand Uncle Val’s Restorative Gin: Super

strong botanical flavor, best enjoyed in a gimlet or martini.

Bulldog: Our favorite

overall. Dry, smooth, and particularly aromatic with a blend of 12 different botanicals.

Hendrick’s: The rose and

cucumber infusion makes this great in a gin and tonic.

Gin Mule

BY MELODIE GIBSON PHOTOS BY ANGEL FAN

s I drove through South Philly in search of the Novick Family Urban Farm, I was convinced I had made a wrong turn somewhere. I found myself amongst food service storage facilities, freezer service centers, and big box distribution companies. “King Seafood Warehouse”— this couldn’t be right. There was no colorful fence with flowers laced between the pickets, no hand-written welcome sign. Instead, there was a large warehouse on my right that read “Novick Brothers Corporation.” Corporation? I cringed— this didn’t come close to fitting my expectation of what a family run, urban farm might look like.

My perception of urban farms was based on my experience with a local farm I’d signed up for a summer CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) program with. They had the painted cardboard cutouts, the sunflowers, the families and dogs meandering in and out. But the opportunity to take advantage of their Instagram-worthy backdrop didn’t come cheap. After forking over nearly $400 for my summer membership and ending up with bruised, unripe and overall lackluster

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produce (along with recurring sales pitches for their winter membership), I felt scammed. After picking up my first share of disappointing and grossly overpriced food, I couldn’t help but notice the $10 kombucha and $15 sausages for sale and gawk at fliers for $40 wreath-making classes. It was clear that the farm, despite being smack dab in the middle of one of Philadelphia’s most underprivileged neighborhoods, was priced for anyone but those living in the surrounding community.

Feeling slightly disenchanted with urban farming, I was hoping this farm would be one I could feel good writing about. I warily pulled into the Novick Brothers Corporation parking lot and met up with Adam, my point of contact. He apologized for the state of things, explaining that the farm was in transition between summer and winter crops and that a lot of the flowers and greenery were on the decline. But as we walked through the farm, I noticed brightly painted tires being used as raised bed gardens and colorful handprints sprinkled along the side of the Novick Brothers warehouse. Despite the dreary weather that day, somehow the farm seemed bright.

With a deep-rooted passion for food and farming, Adam had worked with several community gardens over the years and toyed with the idea of starting his own farm. When Grow Philly (a local non-profit he helped institutionalize) acquired the space on the Novick Brothers Corporation land, Adam finally had the push he needed to quit his day job. Thus, the Novick Family Farm was born— their goal being to provide fresh, affordable food to those who need it most.

Through his work with community gardens, Adam met and worked alongside members of the Burmese and Bhutanese refugee community of South Philly. He explained that most of these refugees had come from rural farming communities and were looking for a place to grow food in Philadelphia. The Novick Family Farm not only provided them with access to fresh produce (something hard to come by in most areas of South Philly) but the opportunity to cultivate their own varieties of Burmese and Bhutanese herbs. Adam pointed to a bush, snipped off a leaf and told me to taste it. What he gave me was chin bang (lemon leaf), a sour green that is a staple in Burmese cui-

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sine. I told him I’d be sure to look for it the next time I went grocery shopping.

He chuckled, “Good luck, it’s very very difficult to find.” Adam explained that the farm rarely sells these herbs— they are grown by and for the refugee community. “We have lots of volunteers from the refugee community. They are encouraged to take home as much as they can pick in exchange for their work here. It’s a mutual thing.” I smiled.

As we made our way through beds of cabbage, broccoli, and peppers, Adam pointed to a big greenhouse-like structure at the far end of the farm. “That’s our new hoop house. We had seven Burmese teen interns work with us over the summer, and they helped build it.”

Adam explained that in addition to daily farm maintenance, the interns ran the Novick Family Farm stand in South Philly— where most of the farm’s produce is sold. “That gave them a chance to learn about business and see the impact they’re making in the community.”

Community engagement, educational initiatives— this was a far cry from the picturesque money pit I’d been sourcing my produce from. As Adam led us to the end of the farm, I mus30

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tered up the courage to ask the question I’d been dreading— what about profit? He explained that the first outlet for their food is the farm stand, where everything is sold for a dollar. Whatever isn’t sold there is donated to Philabundance, one of the largest non-profit

food banks in the greater Philadelphia area. While they have participated in a handful of small partnerships with local restaurants, Adam made it clear that the farm’s number one priority is to provide community members with access to fresh, healthy food; no matter

what their budget is.

I was sold. Here was a farm truly invested in the community they were a part of. There were no sales pitches, no overpriced kombucha for sale, just food. Food that gives Burmese refugees a taste of home, food that connects children to those who grow it, and food that breaks down barriers of race and income in one of the most impoverished parts of Philadelphia. Here was a farm I could feel privileged to write about and feel grateful for having visited.

I thanked Adam for his time, shook his hand and asked him to pose for one last picture. “Try to look heroic!” I joked. As he stood there smiling, arms folded across his chest, I couldn’t help but smile. He is a hero. The teens that run the farm stand are heroes. Every single volunteer that plants, picks, or plows on that farm is a hero. And in a city where the worry of hunger rests on the minds of thousands of families each and every day, it’s nice to know those heroes are out there. It’s also nice to know you don’t have to take out a private loan just to pick up some fresh tomatoes. pennappetit.com

OKONOMIYAKI

BY BRENT WEISBERG PHOTOS BY NOEL ZHENG From hotcakes drenched in maple syrup, to crispy potato latkes and tiny buckwheat blinis, almost every culture has its own take on the pancake. Travel to Japan and you’ll find okonomiyaki, an addictive cross between a pancake and an omelet studded with a variety of savory fillings. The dish’s origins date to the Japanese Edo period, where it was served as a special dessert at Buddhist ceremonies. From there, a series of evolutions took place and the dish gradually transformed from sweet to savory, until reaching its current form just after the Second World War. Today, two distinct versions of okonimiyaki exist: the Osaka version and the Hiroshima version. In the Osaka version, the filling is mixed into the batter before being grilled. In the Hiroshima version, the filling is piled on top of the batter and the pancake is then folded over while cooking.

Okonomiyaki can take on a variety of forms, with countless combinations of fillings ranging from shredded potato, to lotus

flower or ground yam. After sliding off the hot griddle, flavorful toppings like Japanese mayo and sweet-tangy okonomi sauce are drizzled on top. The final touch is a sprinkle of bonito flakes—super thin slices of smoked tuna—for a savory finish.

Want to make one for yourself? Take a quick trip to any Japanese grocery store and you’ll have all the supplies you need.

Mayonnaise Dried bonito flakes

OSAKA-STYLE OKONOMIYAKI

In a large pan, heat 1-2 tablespoons vegetable oil on medium heat. Once the pan is hot, pour half of batter into a small circle. Place 2-3 slices of pork belly on top of the okonomiyaki and cook covered for 5 minutes.

By Sho Hashizume Serves 2

½ cup flour ¼ cup + 1 tbs. water 350g cabbage, diced 1 inch slice nagaimo (Japanese sweet potato) ½ tsp. Hon Dashi (Japanese fish stock concentrate) 2 eggs 4-6 thin slices of pork belly Pickled red ginger (to taste) Vegetable oil Okonomi or Tonkatsu sauce

OUR FAVORITE FILLINGS

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In a large bowl, mix the water, flour, and Hon Dashi. Peel and grate the nagaimo.

Add to the water/flour mix. Transfer half of batter into a smaller bowl. Add eggs, cabbage, and some pickled red ginger and mix gently.

Once the bottom is nicely browned, flip it over and cook covered for another 5 minutes. Flip one last time and cook uncovered for 2 minutes. Remove from pan and repeat with second half of batter.

Drizzle okonomi sauce and mayonnaise on the okonomiyaki. Sprinkle on dried bonito flakes and place picked red ginger on top for garnish.

TOPPINGS

pork belly

squid

bacon

dried bonito flakes

octopus

kimchi

cabbage

okonomi sauce

potato chips

scallion

onion

japanese mayo

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The Joys & Horrors of Eating Out, e

Alone

The HorrorS

BY LUCCA CARY

I’m sweating before I even go in. I’ve specifically chosen this restaurant for its propensity to host solo diners, but it suddenly seems so stuffed full of people and company and laughter that I consider granting myself the relief of simply walking away. An inebriated couple stumbles out the door and I meet their blurry stare. Smiling, and ignoring the sudden weakness in my legs, I force myself to walk inside.

Inside, the restaurant is a steam-room.

Waiters and waitress weave their way through the noisy mass, carrying plates of steaming crab, bowls of creamed onion soup, and loaded cocktail trays. My growing sweatiness is a sure indication of the mistake I’ve made by entering. Before long, a small, overly-enthusiastic waitress pops up in front of me.

“Table for…..?” she peeks behind me and sees the empty doorway. As understanding dawns on her, she overcompensates for her hastiness.

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“I love to seat table-for-ones!” she chirps, leading me towards a table that is, of course, almost dead center in the restaurant.

“I think it’s very cool of you to eat alone,” she continues, “it’s very nouveau, quite chic in a way.” She clangs about the table, removing other cutlery so that my knife and fork look like small islands in a sea of emptiness.

Truthfully, I would choose to eat alone every day of the week if it wasn’t so pitied.

It opens up the glorious world of stress-free meals: no uncomfortable talking through a bite of tiramisu, no straining to hear over the constant clatter of cutlery, no accidental swallowing-too-early and then struggling through the unchewed lump. Put simply, a better enjoyed meal— so why on earth must flying solo be unbearably embarrassing?

Why should it be this clammy marathon of nerves and insecurity?

My desire to overcome embarrassment pumps me with a false boldness until I realize that the awkward wait between ordering and receiving my meal has begun. I have two choices: wait patiently and refrain from doing anything, giving the happy-that-I’malone impression, or frantically flick between windows on my iPhone, occasionally giving a dramatic sigh and shake of the head

to give the I’m-so- busy-and- important-Idon’t-even-realize-I’m-here vibe. I settle half-heartedly on checking my phone once, giving a small laugh at a non-existent text message. Then, I wait.

One benefit of eating alone is supposedly that the lack of distractions will cultivate an undiluted focus on the food itself. But even though the broth of my steaming pork ramen boasts an exquisite balance of salty and sour and the pork is warm and tender, the ramen is not what has captured my attention tonight. I am so entirely distracted by how my brazen solitude is received that the ramen becomes a background to this humiliation. And when a noodle slips out from my chopstick and lands messily on my skirt, I laugh reflexively, only to realize that I have become the crazy woman at table seven, laughing at her ramen alone.

So, when I’m offered the dessert menu, I can think of nothing in the world I would rather do less than wait another twenty minutes for a mango soufflé. After sorting the bill, I stand up from my table, inhale one last breath of the pity oozing towards me, and walk out. I’m free. Sucked into the tide of the street, I become, thankfully, anonymous once again. pennappetit.com

Penn Appétit’s Tips for Solo Dining 1. Bring a book or something to read— and we don’t mean emails 2. Sit at the bar— unless you want to people watch, then make sure you grab a table 3. Release your inhibitions (feel the rain on your skin!)— but really, no one’s paying attention to the fact that you’re alone

PHOTO BY ANGEL FAN

The JoyS

BY BYRNE FAHEY

If you’ve never eaten out alone before, I suggest starting with lunch. Treat yourself to sushi, where you can sit innocuously at the bar, or to a panini at a café that is casual enough to straddle the line between lunch place and study spot. If you’re nervous, bring a book. One that you actually like, and one that you wouldn’t mind getting a little dirty. Keep your phone in your back pocket— you’ll probably resort to it eventually, but it’s cool to maintain the illusion of unplugged independence for a moment.

Order whatever you want, even if it has a ridiculously ironic name, like the Best Friends Roll. Slurp your soup, scrape the bowl, pick the poppy seed out of your teeth.

No one is watching. Think. Read. Write.

People-watch. Crack yourself up. Wonder.

Savor. Walk home, despite the weather. Listen to a podcast. Or don’t. Do you. When you get home, pat yourself on the back. You’re an independent person who doesn’t need a dining partner! Congrats. You rock.

I am not somebody who can spend a lot of time alone. If I’ve been in my room for too many hours, I’ll leave to work in a coffee shop, simply to enjoy the presence of strangers, or for the possibility that I

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might see someone I know. If I get home from class and there’s no one in my house, I’m irrationally disappointed. I call my best friend in the ten minutes between classes.

I text and Snapchat until the second my eyelids droop of exhaustion and my head sinks into my pillow. For whatever reason, there is something innately comforting to me about another breathing, beating body in the same space as mine.

But there are days when my cravings for food outweigh my cravings for people.

There are afternoons when my spontaneous texts or calls go unanswered, and I must face myself head on. On these days, I eat alone.

Despite my intolerance for solitude, eating out alone is one of the greater pleasures in my life. I’ll sit alone at the bar at Vic Sushi on 20th and Sansom, crouching over an avocado-filled tuna dumpling, or treat myself to a lofty lunch break at Dizengoff.

The obvious benefits to eating out alone cannot be understated. You can go wherever you want. You can get there however you want. You can order whatever you want. There is no intermittent text message struggle over what restaurant to choose, when to go, when to leave by, or whether Uber would actually be cheaper than SEPTA when split however many ways. You can walk in the rain, if you please (I do). You don’t have to compromise on your order, because your friend is a hater who doesn’t eat mushrooms, or caramelized onions, or

anchovies, or— God forbid­— cheese.

Then there are the less apparent benefits. The liberating feeling of independence that can only be achieved by actually going out and doing things alone. The things you might learn about yourself. The things you might learn about the people at the table next to you, because it’s impossible not to eavesdrop. In addition to being able to eat freely, un-self-consciously, you don’t have to watch other people eat, in all their lip smacking, finger licking, disgusting glory.

And of course, there is the best part of eating out alone: you do not have to share. I repeat: you DO NOT have to share.

Sharing is cute. Sharing is great, when there are too many things on the menu and you want to try them all. But when you know exactly what you want, and it is exactly how it should be, and you get right down to that beautiful, gooey, crispy, tender, hot bite of whatever it is that you are eating, and your friend says, “Oh, can I try some?”

– when you’re eating alone, you don’t have to murder them. Because they are just a figment of your imagination that you have invented due to your social anxiety about being solitary in public. Thank God. A social being at heart, I will almost always text someone to see if they would like to eat with me. But when it’s not in the cards, I relish the solitude, because dining with yourself is one way to ensure a fantastic dinner date. penn appétit

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PHOTOS BY ISABEL ZAPATA

½ cup creamy bleu cheese, crumbled ¼ cup parsley, chopped Serves 6-8 1 wedge triple creme brie 1 bowl cocoa-dusted walnuts 1 bowl wine-soaked cherries 1 crusty baguette, sliced 1 hour before serving, remove cheese from fridge and bring to room temperature. Arrange accompanying ingredients on cheese board and serve.

To make vinaigrette, combine all ingredients in bowl and whisk vigorously until emulsified. Taste and adjust seasoning.

To compose salad, toss arugula, pears, walnuts, and parsley with half of vinaigrette. Taste and adjust dressing, then top with crumbled bleu cheese and serve.

Serves 6-8 1 bottle red wine 1 quart apple cider ⅓ cup honey Zest and juice of one orange 2 cinnamon sticks 2 star anise 6 cloves 2 cardamom pods Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan and gently simmer for around 15 minutes. Pour into mugs and serve warm.

Serves 4 1 4-5 lb chicken 1 bunch thyme or rosemary 1 lemon, halved Kosher salt and pepper Pat chicken dry on all sides and season generously with salt and pepper, both inside and out. Leave in fridge, uncovered, to rest for at least 3 hours and up to 2 days.

Preheat oven to 450°F. Remove chicken from fridge and stuff with halved lemon and thyme or rosemary sprigs. Truss chicken with twine to seal the cavity.

Serves 4-6 For the vinaigrette 3 tbs olive oil 1 tbs white wine vinegar ¼ tsp dijon mustard ½ tsp honey 1 tbs shallot, minced ½ teaspoon thyme, minced ½ tsp kosher salt ¼ tsp black pepper For the salad 1 lb arugula 3 ripe pears, thinly sliced ½ cup walnuts, toasted and chopped

Place chicken in roasting pan, breast side up, and transfer to oven.

Roast for 50-60 minutes, or until a thermometer reads 165°F when inserted into the thickest part of the thigh.

Remove from oven and let rest for at least ten minutes before carving.

Serve with pan juices drizzled on top (or a with a homemade pan sauce— see page 8).

That must be Nigel with the brie! Oh wait, no, it’s just you serving this gorgeous cheese board to your lucky guests.

Don’t forget to bring the cheese to room temperature— or warmer— before serving.

This recipe comes straight from the grandma of Editor Emily Rush. One slice of this thing and you’ll take back everything bad you’ve ever said about the Baby Boomers.

Serves 5-8 For the crust: 1 1/2 cup chopped walnuts 1 1/2 cup Nilla Wafer crumbs 1 1/2 cup packed brown sugar 1 1/4 cup melted butter For the cake: 2 cups sugar 1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour ¾ cup cocoa powder 1 ½ tsp baking powder 1 ½ tsp baking soda 1 tsp salt 2 eggs 1 cup milk ½ cup vegetable oil 2 tsp vanilla extract 1 cup boiling water 2 tubs of Cool Whip Preheat oven to 350°F. Mix together the walnuts, Nilla Wafers, brown sugar, and melted butter. Split mixture in half and pack each half into the bottom of one round pan.

Stir together the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda and powder, and salt. Add eggs, milk, oil, and vanilla, one at a time, while stirring. Stir in water, and mix until batter is smooth.

Split the batter evenly between the two round pans, and pour over the crust mixture. Bake at 350°F for 25-30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Let cake cool. When cool, frost one cake with a liberal amount of cool whip, then layer the second cake on top, with more Cool Whip.

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Serves 4 6 oz sherry 6 oz sweet vermouth 8 dashes bitters 4 orange peel twists Cocktail mixing glass and ice Add sherry, vermouth, and bitters to stirring glass.

Add ice to stirring glass and stir, don’t shake. Strain ice, pour into serving glasses, and garnish with an orange peel twist.

BY ANERI KINARIWALLA There is no food as synonymous with New Orleans as the Po’ Boy. The history of the sandwich can be traced to the streetcar motormen and conductors’ strike that started July 1, 1929.

Bennie and Clovis Martin, of the Martin Brothers’ Coffee Stand and Restaurant, were vehement supporters of the strikers, and they worked to develop a new type of loaf that allowed for massive half-loaf sandwiches 20 inches in length, which they gladly gave to any of the “poor boys” who were out of work because of the strike. When the Depression hit, the brothers’ generously-sized sandwiches became a culinary symbol of New Orleans. This sandwich with humble roots is now nationally renowned; quite the Cinderella story! nce upon a time in a faraway land called New Orleans, there lived a kind and decent little French bread sandwich named Polly, Po for short.

She didn’t have even a penny to her name, and lived with her stepmother and her two Southern belle step sisters, catty Cordelia Catfish and spicy Penelope Pimento. They were very mean to Po, stealing her hard earned dough and beating the crumbs out of her until she c(rye)d. She was shoved to the back of the counter; sitting there day af-

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ILLUSTRATION BY JOYA MANDEL-ASSAEL ter day like one of the sad little Starbucks egg biscuits. But one day, a messenger arrived with a special invitation. There was going to be a ball at le Club Sandwich!

Contract negotiations for the Chew Chew Trains had failed and Prince Striking Boy was on the hunt for the perfect sandwich to spend his life with. Every sandwich was to be considered – including Po! When the stepsisters saw how plain Po was in comparison to their fried catfish and exotic Spanish pepper stuffing, they teased her cruelly, insisting her baguette would never pass for the gourmet French brioche on her international ID. Po ran away to the garden to cry.

Suddenly, her fairy godfather, Mr. Martin, appeared. He wiped away the salty mustard tears dripping from her eyes. With a wave of his spatula, her bread became buttery and crisped and her roast beef was smothered in rich gravy. “Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!” said Mr. Martin, and she was dressed with mayonnaise, shredded lettuce, tomato and a few slices of pickle. She had been transformed from just another sandwich on French bread into something truly special. At the ball, Prince Striking Boy couldn’t take his eyes of her. The orchestra played, and the Prince began to dance with the wonderful sandwich whose name he still didn’t know. For Po, the night was a dream come true. Before too long, the clock began to strike midnight. Fearing that the

spell would wear off and reveal her poor roots, Po hurried away.

“Come back” called Striking, “I don’t even know your name!” Running down the stairs at midnight, Po stumbled and lost one of her pickle slices. Striking ran after her, but couldn’t catch up. As he watched her disappear into the night, all he was left with was his memories and the pickle slice he’d found on the staircase. The next morning, Prince Striking searched through the whole French Market for the sandwich with the crispy bread, but her stepmother tried to disguise her by changing her stuffing from roast beef to fried Gulf shrimp, crawfish, crab, and oyster. The Prince, to the stepmother’s chagrin, still recognized Po as the girl of his dreams. When he kneeled down and offered her the pickle to cast away any remaining doubt, she gladly tried it on. Of course, it was a perfect fit! Po and the Prince Striking Boy were soon married. Po adopted her husband’s last name and became Po’ Boy. New Orleans rejoiced, and Po’ Boy, because of her generous and kind nature and amazing new sandwich filling, became beloved by everyone in the land. She was not only an emblem of the strike, but of the kingdom of New Orleans as well! Her rise to riches continued; she started as the food for poor boys, but her local popularity eventually blossomed to national fame. Po’ Boy and Prince Striking lived happily ever after!

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BY RACHEL PROKUPEK “Rachel, I don’t want to scare you, but Chef Eddy is really mad”.

Shit.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen at Restaurant Daniel during the peak of Saturday’s dinner service, balancing two hotel pans of ripped baby gem lettuce. Chef Eddy, the Chef de Cuisine, shredded me to pieces.

“Where the fuck are the beautiful leaves? THIS IS A FUCKING CATASTROPHE!” he screamed in his French accent, while fishing for the few whole leaves that could be plated for that night’s canapé dish.

I was exhausted, sweaty, and more than ready to go home and sleep after a long day of prep work. I could only say desolée, Chef, I will redo it first thing tomorrow.

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PHOTOS BY JULIANA SANDFORD Chef Eddy shoved the pans back and told me to place it on the speed rack to use for a consommé, and quickly went back to facilitating dinner service. I felt embarrassed as I hurried back downstairs to finish up the night. How could I mess up something as simple as lettuce?

The next morning, I picked up my chef jacket that was obviously made for a man, grabbed my inconsistently sized white pants, and squeezed into the tiny women’s locker room to change. Chef whites?

Check. Kitchen shoes? Yep. Sharpie and notebook? In my pocket. Knife roll and water bottle? That one’s obvious. Mandolin? Got it. I ran upstairs to the main kitchen to clock in, get my apron, towels and hat, and begin the day as an extern on the prep team.

The team prepared the garnishes for pennappetit.com

the Hot Apps, Meat, Fish, and Soup stations at Daniel. Every day, we would find prep lists prepared for us the night before that we had to complete by the start of service. We could tell if we were going to have a good day and get our jobs done in time, or a day “in the shits”, simply by looking at the lists.

The word “brunoise” appeared on every prep list— it’s a French knife skill that basically means “dice into a tiny perfect cube”. I had to brunoise everything from tomatoes to yellow squash to basil to cucumber skin. Yes, just the skin. I spent 4 hours trying to get this right on my first day. Every day I used my paring knife to carefully peel the stems of hundreds of chanterelle mushrooms; every day I perfectly chiffonaded parsley that was inspected by JFK, the Executive Chef; every day I painstakingly peeled the skin off of individual cooked white beans just so they could have the perfect texture for a meat dish. As you can imagine, these tiny little detail oriented tasks were easy to mess up.

But mistakes cost money and unused ingredients chip away at profits. Working with live langoustines was easily one

of the more stressful jobs at Daniel. Each langoustine costs $7, so we would be handling at least $3,000 worth of them at a time. From killing, to blanching, to peeling, to cleaning, there was no room for error, or else the langoustine couldn’t be used at all.

Langoustines weren’t the only risky ingredient we worked with. As the menu rotated, we prepped morel, chanterelle, wood ear, and matsutake mushrooms.

One night, JFK used my mandolin to show me how to thinly slice the matsutake mushrooms and wrap them individually in tissues. He looked at me and said, “This box of mushrooms costs $400. Don’t fuck this up.” Mike, one of the Sous Chefs, also never failed to chime in with his constant refrain, warning us of how much money we would waste with every little mistake.

Who knew something as simple as mushrooms could be so stressful and expensive!

Restaurant Daniel knows “rich”.

Whether it’s the elegant dining room with a dress code, the indulgent meals containing foie gras and caviar, or the expensive ingredients like langoustines and matsutake mushrooms, Daniel lives up to its two Michelin star standard. Every day at work, Daniel transported me into the world of French fine dining and threw me head-first into a kitchen that is conscious about its food and really, really doesn’t like ripped baby gem lettuce.

Rachel spent the summer of 2016 externing at Restaurant Daniel in NYC, as a culmination of her studies at Le Cordon Bleu. She worked in the kitchen on the prep team.

51 North 12th St. $5.95 for a regular, $11.95 for a large

4034 Walnut St. $4.50 for 1/2 lb

Various Locations $2.49 for a small, $3.49 for a medium, $4.09 for a large

BY EMILY RUSH PHOTOS BY PHOTO STAFF

If you’re like me, you love a good, heartburn-inducing bowl of cheese and carbs. I tried six of the most famed macs in Philly, on the lookout for a bowl of mac and cheese that would live up to my idea of perfection: a super-cheesy bowl of al-dente noodles topped with a layer of crispy golden breadcrumbs. Here are my results, officially evaluated for overall cheesiness and accessibility.

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You’ve seen this food truck turned fast-casual joint on your freshman year roommate’s Snapchat story. You’ve wondered, in passing, why piles of its mac and cheese are trending on your newsfeed. The answer, of course, is that Mac Mart is the best thing that has happened to mac and cheese since the invention of Annie’s White Cheddar. With an impressive spread of toppings ranging from bacon and tomato to creamy artichoke dip, you can get anything you’d find in a French bread sandwich from a classy café, but on top of your mac and cheese. On mac and cheese, ladies and gentlemen!

Tucked in the back of Reading Terminal Market, Hunger Burger boasts large buckets of crinkly fries and the some of the best tasting mac and cheese ever created. Foregoing the burger at this place takes some serious willpower, but ordering the mac is well worth it. The dish is smooth and rich on the inside, but crispy on the top. It tastes expensive (it is), but for the mac aficionado, Hunger Burger’s mac and cheese is a must.

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700 Chestnut St. $8.50 for mac n’ cheese appetizer

900 South St. $6 for mac n’ cheese appetizer

104 South 18th St. $8-10 for a personal bowl

Percy Street BBQ is admirable for truly committing to the down-south, home-cooked, fourth-of-July-BBQ aesthetic.

There are picnic tables along one wall, and saltine crackers are served with a cheesewhizzy spread in place of bread and butter. From the gloriously crispy breadcrumb topping, to the casserole dish it comes in, to the cheese coating the noodles, this mac and cheese is just like a summer BBQ: fun, family friendly, but a little too sticky to fully win my heart.

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Let’s be real clear— I did not enjoy this mac and cheese.

The pasta was squishy and I’m unsure if there was any real cheese involved. Wawa’s mac and cheese comes with or without Old Bay seasoning. But I don’t know which option is more horrifying. But sometimes, after a long night in Van Pelt, when midterms are weighing heavy on your heart, a semblance of decadence is the only thing that’ll make it better.

And as far as midterm season late night snacks go, soggy mac and cheese is not the worst it can get. (I’m looking at you, Mark’s Cafe).

Wishbone has a lot going for it. It’s always open when you’re stumbling home on Friday night, and it serves large quantities of beautifully crispy chicken. And yes, you can buy their mac and cheese by the pound, but be careful what you’re getting into. Don’t get me wrong, this pasta dish is good. I simply feel wrong referring to this dish as “mac and cheese” due to the heavy-handed addition of tomatoes and meat. It’s more of a baked ziti in the middle of an identity crisis.

If cheesiness is as much of a priority for you as it is for me, then skip Wishbone’s mac and go for the chicken.

At this upscale diner, I struck mac and cheese gold. Jones sticks to the classics— a breadcrumb topping that’s fabulously burnt on the edges, al-dente elbow macaroni, and an abundance of rich melted cheese— enough to scoop up with the edge of your fork, long after you’ve finished the noodles. The mac at Jones was drool-worthy, insta-worthy, and even go-back-a-secondtime-worthy, if just for another moment with that ooey, gooey, glorious cheese.

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A NEW TAKE ON FOOD: MODERNIST CUISINE a cookbook millions of dollars in the making

BY BLAZE BERNSTEIN PHOTOS BY NOEL ZHENG

What should you do if you really like cooking and you’re willing to spend a few million dollars?

Consider buying a warehouse and transforming it into a kitchen lab to create and test nearly 250 recipes to use in your own cookbook. However, chances are you don’t have a few million dollars lying around.

Even if you did, it would be hard to match what Nathan Myhrvold accomplished in writing the pièce de résistance that looked at cooking in an entirely new light, Modernist Cuisine: The Art of Science and Cooking.

What should you do if you really like

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cooking and you’re willing to spend a few hundred dollars?

Consider buying a $625 copy of Modernist Cuisine, possibly the most influential (and definitely the most expensive) cookbook of the twenty-first century.

The term “modernist” or “modernist cuisine” in the title doesn’t refer to any set of dishes in particular, but is rather defined as a “cultural…revolution” encompassed by two key principles.

The first principle is to always work towards executing dishes in technically innovative and exact ways while achieving

exquisite, unmatched taste. The second principle is to advance the culinary arts by finding new ways to apply analytical thinking skills and creativity to the art of cuisine.

In sum, Modernist Cuisine is not a normal cookbook filled with just recipes and photos, but rather, the tome serves as an encyclopedia or a roadmap to a new, unprecedented way of thinking about food.

In five hardcover volumes (History and Fundamentals, Techniques and Equipment, Animals and Plants, Ingredients and Preparations, and Plated-Dish Recipes) and a spiral bound recipe booklet small enough

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to keep with you in the kitchen, Modernist Cuisine covers everything imaginable.

Over the course of 2500 pages, it delves into topics from why you should be cooking sous vide, to the science behind gels and foams, to a recipe for choucroute royale (described in the book as “a hearty winter feast of sauerkraut slowly cooked with onions, Alsatian Riesling, and goose or duck fat”).

But, the most impressive part of the book is, without question, the photography, which features some of the most memorable and unique food photographs ever captured.

Imagine slicing a wok in half, while you were steaming broccoli, and seeing exactly what was happening, down to every little droplet of steam. Or doing the same to the barbeque on which you’re cooking burgers and examining the sizzling oil and crackling fire. In some unfathomable way, that’s exactly what’s photographed for 36 of the images in the book. These images are used to illustrate topics throughout the book as Modernist Cuisine explores the in-depth science of different food preparations and the culinary history behind them.

The attention to detail in Modernist Cuisine draws from the analytical skills Myhrvold developed through his own career path. After attending UCLA at the age of 14, he attained a net worth of nearly 650 million dollars as Microsoft’s chief technology officer. During his time at Microsoft, he took a temporary leave of absence to move to France and earn his culinary degree.

Eventually, Myhrvold’s love for cooking won out, and he left Microsoft to found Intellectual Ventures Laboratory, a company that combines his love of cooking and food photography. He desperately wanted to find a book on sous vide cooking, and when he couldn’t, he decided to write his own.

To realize his vision, he constructed The Cooking Lab, a warehouse in Washington, which later became dedicated to testing and perfecting all of the content published in Modernist Cuisine. The Cooking Lab continues to turn out modernist recipe after recipe, even today, as the Modernist Cuisine family grows.

Following the first book in the series, The Cooking Lab published Modernist Cuisine at Home, a book perfect for the athome chef who might not have the money to purchase the full six volume version (or the crazy contraptions used to actually recreate the recipes).

The only other book currently in print in the Modernist Cuisine line is The Photography of Modernist Cuisine, which covers how the photographs in the first two books were taken and displays an additional two

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Penn’s copy of the $625 Modernist Cuisine is on the 6th floor of VP, and it’s definitely worth a trip upstairs for more than just those fancy bathrooms.

hundred photographs not seen in the first two books. However, keep your eyes peeled, because in March 2017, The Cooking Lab is coming out with its newest book: Modernist Cuisine: The Art and Science of Bread.

Based on their blog postings, this book will definitely be as in-depth as the first (if not more so) as they use 3-D scanners to look at the inside of loaves and work to perfect bread recipes in their newly-renovated kitchen-warehouse.

As such an ardent admirer of Nathan Myhrvold, I hesitate to belittle his masterpiece by calling it merely a book, or by sug-

gesting that it is not worth the $625 price tag.

The work has earned its title as one of the most influential and noteworthy cookbooks of the twenty-first century. Its depth in research and stunning photography make it unlike any other work out there.

However, the exorbitant price tag for a new set is out of reach for most cooks.

Luckily you can view the book in Van Pelt’s Kislak Center for Special Collections, Rare Books, and Manuscripts. The rich secrets are definitely worth the price, or at the very least, the trip to Van Pelt.

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BY RACHEL PROKUPEK PHOTOS BY KATIE ZHAO

Make sure you read through the entire recipe before you begin! Trust us— you don’t want to run out of pastry cream halfway though.

was transfixed the first time I saw mesmerizing croquembouches in Le Jardin d’Hiver, our student common area, during Basic Pastry at Le Cordon Bleu. I carefully pulled a chouxette, a single cream puff, from a tower without making it topple, and popped the whole thing in my mouth.

I felt the crunch from the caramelized sugar, and then a rush of sweetness from the pastry cream. I was immediately hooked, and shamelessly took an entire croquembouche someone had left at the table to split with friends in between classes. I also shamelessly ate the majority of it.

The croquembouche is the epitome of over-the-top indulgence. Everything about it screams rich, whether it’s the sugary nougatine base, the decadent crème pâtissière, or its status in French culture.

Traditionally seen at French weddings and religious services, croquembouches are rare delicacies and are made solely as fancy eye candy.

Chefs nowadays make croquembouches just to prove that they can, as if it’s a rite of passage into le monde culinaire. After learning this, I became even more excited to make one myself. This masterpiece is so central to France’s rich culinary history that it would literally tower above the other pastries I created throughout the year; grand not only in scale but in cultural significance.

At Le Cordon Bleu, “Croquembouche Day” dragged on for twelve hours: six in demonstration where we watched Chef Mahut carefully craft his tower, and six in practical where we made our own. At the end of the day, I left the practical kitchen exhausted, exceedingly sweaty, and wincing in pain from the blisters rising on the fingers I accidentally dipped into the scalding caramel. I was frustrated that my tasting fork was covered in hardened sugar that would be impossible to remove, and I was pretty sure the girl across the table from me stole my thermometer.

At the end, though, I finally had a croquembouche of my own: a beautiful tower of caramelized cream puffs oozing with pastry cream (I overfilled them because I knew I would be eating mine), all wrapped in delicately spun sugar.

The most difficult part of the day? Creating the recipe. The Chefs didn’t give us full recipes; at the beginning of each term, we received giant notebooks filled only with ingredient lists. Our job, then, was to create the method based on what we saw the Chef do in our demonstrations. Our own recipes were our only guides when we

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were in the kitchen, so they had to be precise. The croquembouche is all about endurance, finesse, and a careful eye, and the result is a beautiful piece that will surely turn some heads. If you have a serious sweet tooth and six hours to spare, give this recipe a shot!

Gloves Parchment paper Cake boards (1 large, one 8-inch) Thermometer

Spray a baking sheet with oil. Prepare materials by oiling everything.

Serves a Crowd (or one, if you’re me) For the nougatine: 275 ml water 750 g sugar 300 g glucose 375 g sliced almonds For the choux pastry: 125 ml water 125 ml milk 100 g butter 5 g sugar 2.5 g salt 150 g flour 200 g eggs For the caramel: 250 g sugar 50 ml water 30 g glucose For the royal icing: 250 g powdered sugar 50 g egg whites 15 ml white vinegar For the pastry cream: 500 ml milk 80 g egg yolks 125 g sugar 30 g flour 30 g custard powder (cornstarch) 25 ml Kirsch For the caramel: 1 kg sugar 250 ml water 125 g glucose Baking sheet Cutting board Chefs knife Paring knife Angled spatulas Pastry scraper Scissors Rolling pin 8 inch genoise mold

Toast almonds at 300°F for about 10 minutes to remove the humidity. They should be toasted, not brown. Keep the oven on at 350°F. Meanwhile, combine the water and sugar in a pot, and bring to a boil. There will be white foam that rises to the top— use a ladle or slotted spoon to remove. This is called skimming the impurities. Once at a boil for about a minute, add in the glucose and let mixture caramelize to a blonde color. You do not want it to get too dark!

Add almonds to the caramel, and fold in with spatula. Pour onto the baking sheet and spread out with a spatula to cool a tiny bit.

WORK QUICKLY! Start working with a scraper and spatula to get nougatine to an even temperature. This is a fine balance between not being sticky and not being brittle. Create a ball and roll out thinly. Line the genoise mold and push the nougatine well into the sides to create the base. Trim off the excess. If you don’t work fast, the nougatine will harden and you will need to put in the oven to warm up.

Keep the remaining nougatine on a baking sheet in 225°F oven.

Beat the eggs in a bowl. Set aside.

Combine water, milk, butter, sugar, and salt in pot. Heat to melt the butter, and just until you see the first bubbles. Immediately take off the heat and add the flour.

Stir vigorously and dry out on the heat for about 45 seconds. The dough should form into a ball as you dry it out and extract the humidity.

Place dough in another bowl and add a little bit of the eggs. Vigorously stir - the dough should split at first but will come together as you mix. Once it comes

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Don’t have a pastry bag to call your own? Cut the tip off a sturdy Ziplock bag and use that instead.

together, add a little bit more egg, and repeat. You may not add all of the eggs, or you may need more. If you pick up some of the choux pastry with your spatula it should start to drip in a “v” shape into the bowl.

cut a tiny tip with scissors. Pipe decoration around the base. If needed, place on top of an overturned bowl and paper towel.

Fill a pastry bag with a small, plain tip (#10) and pipe out 3 cm rounds onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.

Use a fork and water to gently smooth out tips, but don’t press down.

In a bowl, whisk egg yolks and sugar until pale. Add the flour and custard powder.

Bake at 350°F, and open the oven door occasionally to dry out the choux pastry.

Reduce the heat to 300°F to prevent further color. They should be golden. Total cooking time is about 10-15 minutes.

Once out of the oven, remove the baking sheet to prevent choux pastry from drying out.

With the remaining nougatine at 225°F, roll out thin and cut into triangles (approximately 15 small triangles and 3-4 larger, longer ones. Also take into account ones that will break). This process should be done very fast, or else the nougatine will break. Place in the oven to warm up at any point if necessary. Keep the remaining nougatine in at 225°F, just in case anything breaks.

Combine water and sugar in a pot, and bring to a boil. Skim the impurities. Once boiling for about a minute, add the glucose and caramelize until blonde (350°F).

Place pot in ice bath to immediately stop cooking. This caramel should be darker than the nougatine caramel.

On a large cake board, drizzle caramel in a circle the same diameter of the nougatine base and attach. Carefully dip the edges of the small triangles into the caramel and attach around the base. Hold until just set. Be very careful, because the caramel is hot. Let set.

Combine egg whites and powdered sugar with a mixer and paddle attachment until ribbon-like. Heat up the vinegar just until warm, and add to the mixture.

Fill a piping bag with either a tiny tip or

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In a pot, heat milk until almost at a boil.

Pour a bit of milk into the egg mixture and whisk quickly to temper. Pour back into the pot of milk off heat and stir with a spatula until thick. Be very careful that the eggs don’t curdle (if they do, strain the pastry cream through a fine meshed strainer). Pour into a tray or bowl, cover with plastic wrap touching the surface, and cool in fridge.

Cook caramel the same was as the first time (boil water and sugar, skim, add glucose, caramelize, cool in ice bath).

Fill choux with pastry cream: fill pastry bag with cream, poke hole with small pastry tip in bottom of choux pastry and fill with cream.

Dip the filled choux in the caramel. Be very careful with your fingers. You want to dip the top side (opposite of the hole) in the caramel. Once dipped, place the caramel side down on an oiled baking sheet. Repeat with all of the choux.

Assemble the choux tower on a 8 inch cake mold with a 8 inch cake ring in the center. Make sure that the caramel is still hot— if not, place on the heat for a bit, but don’t let burn. Dip the edge of the choux in caramel and place on board, leaning against the inside of the ring. Repeat all the way around until you have a ring of choux. Begin the 2nd row, placing the choux in-between the ones on the first row. Attach choux both on the bottom edge and sides with caramel. After a few rows, remove the ring and begin to build the cone. Use larger choux towards the bottom, and smaller ones towards top.

Each row should be slightly smaller in order to create the cone. Once the cone is complete, place on top of the base and secure with caramel.

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Drunk Eats

BY WILL CONSTAN ILLUSTRATION BY JOYA MANDEL-ASSAEL It’s 2am and Smoke’s has just closed its doors. As you stumble down Spruce Street, the bright lights of Allegro and Wawa break through your drunken haze like a beacon in the night.

The smell of gooey melted mozzarella wafts across 40th Street, drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

Do you need a 4th meal at 2am? Probably not. Should you have one?

ABSOLUTELY. Therein lies the beauty of the late night meal— it is indulgence and richness in its purest form.

But as you stumble across the intersection, brilliance? wisdom? strikes.

Too long have you stomached greasy slices of cheese and pepperoni, and inhaled crispy curly fries by the handful. University City has plenty of extraordinary late night food options, but it’s definitely worth breaking through the Penn bubble if you really want to treat yourself to something rich.

Dos Tacos

120 S 15th St, open till 3am The Ta-Korea tacos meld together flank steak, sweet and spicy Korean BBQ sauce, pickled cucumber, and kimchi to create an unexpected taco filling with a combination of textures and flavors. If you really want to indulge, go for the Phat Pig tacos with crispy bacon, rich pork belly, lettuce, cilantro, radish and pico de gallo.

Little Pete’s 219 S 17th St, open 24 hours Diner classics abound, and you can order anything from fluffy pancakes to griddled strip steak and eggs benedict. Honestly you cannot go wrong here, so just go with your heart.

My heart usually wants waffles.

David’s Mai Lai Wah 1001 Race St, open till 4am

From noodles as drunken as you, to sticky beef ribs as baked as you very well might be, this restaurant is the quintessential Chinatown stop, offering all your time-honored favorites until 4am.

The Good Dog Bar 224 S 15th St, open till 2am

Weighing in at a hefty ½ pound and coming to the table juicy and stuffed with gooey Roquefort cheese, the burgers are the prime attraction here.

Jim’s

400 South St, open till 3am The undisputed king of Philly late night food is the cheesesteak and if you want to experience true cheesesteak bliss, look no further than Jim’s. The cheese sits underneath, rather than on top, of the steak, so that it absorbs into the bread as it melts. Pure genius. I hope I don’t have to tell you how to order it.

Thirty Transformative Days Following the Yogic Diet

BY OLIVIA WEIS

PHOTO BY ELIZABETH TERRY

oubt crept into my mind as the rickety boat slowly crossed the warm Caribbean towards the Sivananda Ashram. As a student of the Yoga Teacher Training Course, I was contractually bound to follow the Ashram’s rules. For the next month, I would be required to wake up each morning at 5:30am and attend twelve hours of meditation, yoga practice, and lectures. This was all to be done while following the guidelines promoted by Swami Sivananda, the “master” of the yogis at the ashram.

Unsurprisingly, I had the most trepidation about the guidelines pertaining to food. During the past few months in Italy, I had become reliant on meat, cheese, and admittedly too-frequent gelato runs. When I stepped off the boat and onto the tranquil tropical retreat of the Sivananda Ashram, my diet had to immediately change. I would be required to eat only twice a day: once at 10am and again at 6pm. Snacking was highly discouraged. Beverage choices were limited to water as no caffeine, soda, or alcohol was permitted. This limited diet that at first felt like an excessive punishment quickly became my health’s salvation.

By 10am the first day of training, I’d already demolished the energy bars I’d packed as emergency snacks, and was craving my morning cappuccino. When I approached the kitchen after the first yoga

practice, I saw the entire ashram standing in line, eagerly craning their necks to read the menu on the chalkboard. I piled my plate high with every buffet item, doubtful that the meal would give me enough energy for eight more hours of training. I struggled under the weight of the heap of sautéed kale, honey-glazed tofu, baba ghanoush, and coconut-based dahl soup on my short walk to the beach. As soon as I sunk into the sand, I took my first hesitant bite.

My smile immediately grew as I began to understand the anticipation of the ashram residents. From that day onwards, I was among the ranks of those impatient to catch a glance of that chalkboard. While the menu changed each meal, it consistently abided by the guidelines of the yogic diet.

Followers of the yogic diet eat only food that is considered to promote sattva: the state of lightness, peacefulness, and harmony, so as to ease intense meditation.

These foods are fresh, nourishing, and give energy to the body without taxing its digestive system. The yogic diet also subscribes to the concepvt of ahimsa, or nonviolence, and is vegetarian.

As the days progressed, my cravings for rich foods began to subside, and an undeniable calmness overtook me. I was surprised to find that my energy and fo-

Yogis also permit themselves to indulge, though while still following the yogic diet.

On special occasions, such as the birthday of a swami, an ashram-wide feast is held. The feast begins with a ceremony to demonstrate appreciation and gratefulness for the food, and a blessing from the priest.

While the ingredients of the food resemble those found in an average meal, the dishes always feel like a luxury. The added dessert buffet with toppling stacks of vegan brownies, mounds of fruity sorbets, and overflowing bowls of chia pudding made the feasts worth anticipating.

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cus began to shift away from surface level issues. With each passing day, I felt that I was gradually approaching the peak of well-being.

In addition to my emotional gains, my body also noticed my efforts. I felt lighter and more energized. I was able to bend into difficult postures, and focus my mind solely on the repetition of my mantra during meditation. Both tasks had seemed impossible just weeks earlier.

A full month later, a few hours before boarding my plane home, I ate my last ashram meal at the same spot on the sand.

It had been a full month since I had devoured gelato or thoughtlessly downed a cappuccino, but I realized that not only did I not miss my old staples, but I felt better off without them.

Five months later, the Yogic Diet still guides my eating habits. While I admittedly frequent coffee shops too often, I still consume copious amounts of kale. Most importantly, my relationship with food has shifted. I no longer value food solely for how it can please my taste buds or shape my body. Rather, I have seen what it can do to my mind, and how it can alter my perspective. And that is enough motivation for me to leave the gelato pint in the freezer section.

Fasting is a vital component of the yogic diet. The yogis, who are advanced yoga practitioners with a high level of spiritual insight, believe that even a mild fast can have profound benefits. Yogis typically participate in at least one day of fasting each week, anything from water fasts to juice or broth fasts.

Beyond improving willpower, yogis view fasting as the simplest cure for sickness and disease. They believe that fasting relieves your digestive system from its typically heavy responsibilities as toxins are eliminated from your body. This can be seen in animals that instinctively fast when they become sick to rid their body of toxins.

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BY TIFFANY WANG Growing up Taiwanese in an American society, I’m not a stranger to combining flavors and ingredients from my two homes.

Mooncakes filled with Nutella are beyond incredible; I eat my Cheetos with chopsticks. Like myself, the food of my childhood was influenced by both cultures, culminating in a result that had a foot in both worlds.

The catch, though, is that we rarely had traditional American meals at home. My mom always did most of the cooking, and emphasized the importance of my Taiwanese roots through her use of traditional ingredients and recipes. None of our hamburgers were made with beef, ketchup, and lettuce. Instead, she used Chinese-style braised pork, Sriracha, and bok choy. The taste of these dishes were always more than the sum of their parts. The rich cultural fusion in her cooking yielded amazing flavor, but I started to long for the massive American feasts I saw on television. The lavish spreads from holiday meals seemed to appear everywhere and I especially zeroed in on the one food that seemed quintessentially American: Thanksgiving turkey.

Eventually, it became my life mission to convince my mom to serve turkey at a family meal. My mom had solid reasoning – nobody in my family really liked turkey, so it would be a waste to roast a whole bird, and I couldn’t live off of turkey sandwiches for the rest of the year. Yet I still craved the experience. I wanted to slice into the turkey’s seared, crispy skin. I longed to pile thick, juicy slices on a plate alongside a heap of steaming golden stuffing.

Despite my obvious passion, I lost the argument again and again. Thanksgiving that year was once again a day of glass noodles with sautéed vegetables, and Christmas came and went with crispy pork over 1

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PHOTO BY LEAH SPRAGUE rice. Eventually, Chinese New Year became my last chance. It was the final major holiday of the season, and I was not going to back down.

In a fit of madness and desperation, I made a thirty slide PowerPoint presentation, complete with animated transitions and ClipArt. At first, my mom showed no sign of relenting. It was only when I landed on the six slides covering the health bene-

fits of turkey that she finally began to thaw.

By the end, I had achieved the impossible: my mom reluctantly compromised, and agreed to include turkey in our meal.

The closest substitute to turkey seemed to be chicken, and the latter doesn’t feature too heavily in traditional Chinese cuisine.1 Despite this, I wasn’t about to question her decision. I just beamed, nodded, and hightailed it out of the room before she could change her mind.

I figured out what she was up to sever-

No, orange chicken isn’t originally from China or Taiwan.

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al days later. For Chinese New Year, a staple dish is dumplings, as they symbolize wealth in the coming year. When I went to fold them that year, though, the filling was a lighter color and had a coarser texture. That was when I realized that the usual pork had been replaced by turkey.

There I was, a dumpling skin in one hand, a spoonful of turkey filling in the other, and a huge smile spreading across my face. After a year-long battle, I was reveling in my victory.

However, like most things, the expectation was far better than the reality. When cooked, the dumpling was horribly bland.

The inside of the dumpling was mushy and fell apart easily. Worst of all, there was an odd flavor from the turkey that overpowered the other ingredients in the filling. Yet I cleaned my entire plate anyways. This was my shining moment, and a little soy sauce went a long way in drowning the weird taste.

A few weeks later, my mom asked what kind of filling I wanted for our dumplings at dinner. I forgot all sense of pride, and immediately told her pork. To her everlasting credit, my mom didn’t say anything in response– and in hindsight, maybe she didn’t have to. After all, I could taste her “I told you so” with every single turkey sandwich I had to eat for the next month and a half.

Yet it was an experience I don’t regret.

I’ll eventually find a way to incorporate the food traditions of both of my cultures into one cohesive dish. While it may not be an overnight accomplishment, it is something to work towards. Then, I can look at the meal in front of me— a mix of my two worlds— and know before I taste it that it will be the richest thing I’ll ever eat.

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Yields 24-30 dumplings For the filling: 1 lb ground turkey (get the highest fat content that you can) ½ lb cabbage, diced 1 tbs ginger, grated 4 scallions 4 tbs soy sauce 1 tbs Chinese cooking wine, or substitute any dry white wine 1 tbs sesame oil 1 ½ tsp kosher salt 1 package pre-made dumpling wrappers For the dumpling sauce: 3 tbs soy sauce 1 tsp rice wine vinegar 1 tsp sesame oil Combine the ground turkey, cabbage, ginger, and soy sauce in a large bowl.

Thinly slice the entirety of the scallions and add to bowl along with all remaining ingredients other than the dumpling wrappers.

To assemble, portion one tablespoon of filling into each dumpling wrapper and fold the dumpling into a crescent shape.

Wet the edge of the wrapper with water and crimp shut with your finger and thumb. Repeat until all filling is used.

To make the dumpling sauce, combine all ingredients and stir to combine.

At this point, dumplings can be frozen for future use or held in the fridge for up to two days.

To cook, heat a glug of oil in a skillet over medium high heat.

Add dumplings and sear until golden brown on one side, about 2 minutes. Add 2 tablespoons water to skillet, reduce the heat to medium-low, and cover. Steam the dumplings for about 6 minutes, or until filling is fully cooked through.

Serve with dumpling sauce.

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Solid Gold BUTTER MEDALLIONS FOR ANY OCCASION

BY KATHLEEN NORTON

PHOTO BY LEAH SPRAGE

When I was a kid, rich meant Aladdin in the Cave of Wonders surrounded by piles of golden coins. I had grand visions of discovering my own wondrous cave around the creek in my neighborhood. I’d enter and sparkling, golden medallions would rain down on me. I’d be loaded, and finally able to buy the Easy Bake Oven I’d been dreaming of.

Now when I hear rich, my mind still goes to medallions, but now, they’re

made of culinary gold: butter. Creamy butter that has been shaped into coins and infused with wild flavor combinations that’ll enhance anything from a pile of roasted potatoes to a stack of golden waffles.

I’ll probably never find a Cave of Wonders full of gold, but I think I could make my own with these butter medallions and be pretty happy with it. Just replace the magic carpet with a piece of flying toast.

LEMON CORIANDER

CINNAMON CUMIN

Suggested pairing: warm corn muffin or roasted lamb chops

Suggested pairing: pumpkin bread or root vegetable hash

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened ½ tbs minced lemon (preferably Meyer) 1 tsp ground coriander seed Dash of salt

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened and divided 1 tsp. cinnamon ½ tsp cumin Pinch of salt

Combine the softened butter, lemon, coriander, and salt in a medium sized mixing bowl. Ingredients can be whipped with an electric mixer or by hand until butter is fluffy.

Use a rubber spatula to scrape the butter onto a sheet of parchment paper. Form it into a mound/log shape. Roll it up in the paper to form a cylinder.

Chill for at least one hour. To serve, slice off medallions and serve over any warm food.

Portion out ⅓ of a cup of butter, set the rest aside to soften.

Brown the ⅓ of a cup of butter over the stove over low heat.

Melt until butter has browned slightly; be careful to avoid burning. Set to the side in a bowl to cool. Do not refrigerate.

Once brown butter has cooled to room temperature, combine all ingredients in a medium sized mixing bowl.

Whip all ingredients together with an electric mixer or by hand. Scrape the mixture onto a piece of parchment paper and form into a log. Roll it up in the paper to form a cylinder.

Chill for at least one hour.

To serve, slice off medallions and serve over any warm food.

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