Lone Star, Part I

“The wine’s vegetarian, right?”

I was half smiling, three-quarters serious. We were in Texas after all.

“Aside from the sausage drippings, sure.”

She was actually joking (or so she said) so I grabbed a bottle of the in-house “BBQ Red” wine and a few plastic cups before heading to the family style dining room.

Though designed to complement BBQ, I'd say this wine was pretty good all on its own.

We were at The Salt Lick—the ideal spot for a group of 40 sweaty guys who had just played two games of Aussie Rules Football and the intrepid wives, girlfriends and kids who had endured a torrential thunderstorm to cheer them on. This place wasn’t just a restaurant though; it was more like a temple to the gods of Bar-B-Que, a place of worship for throngs of drooling pilgrims with insatiable appetites.

“The coleslaw and the potatoes are vegetarian,” I’d been told ahead of time by the team organizer, “But don’t eat the beans. They have meat, too.”

It was sweet of her to even ask, and I half wondered if she’d been laughed at on the phone. Who brings a vegetarian to a Texas BBQ joint? While it was no surprise that the menu didn’t have any quinoa or tempeh, I was pretty stoked about the wine tasting room, and the wine was pretty good to boot. I would manage to survive. Somehow.

Towering plates of meat started to come out, and they kept on coming. I admired the centerpieces—old boots stuffed with fake flowers; kitschy, but cute—and nibbled on some bread to keep the wine from going straight to my head (it did anyways). I have to admit, it was one of the rare moments where I did feel like an outsider, albeit by choice, and as everyone passed the plates around me—often with an apology or a shout of “Don’t look! It’ll gross you out!”—I was reminded of what a communal thing it is to sit around the table and eat. It’s really not just about the food, and clearly BBQ was a great way to bring people together.

By the time the peach cobbler got to the table though, I was back in action, spoon poised (and stomach growling).

I admit I went in search of late-night pizza on 6th Avenue once back in downtown Austin that evening. But hey, who says you can’t eat dessert first?

If only these had been in my size. . .

Up for a Challenge

Being frugal is embedded in my Capricorn nature (with a few exceptions, namely shoes, books, travel. . . ok maybe a lot of exceptions). But when it comes to cooking, I’m usually willing to spend more for quality, fresh ingredients (can you say French triple crème brie?). I do my best to make those ingredients last—by taking leftovers to work for lunch, for example—but I have to admit, sometimes I’m appalled by my grocery bills.

So when I saw that Slow Food USA issued the $5 challenge—a challenge to “take back the ‘value meal’”—I was up for it.

Slow food. Healthy food. Not out-of-a-box food. Five dollar food. An oxymoron?

With a bit of creativity, I think not.

As I approached my $5 meal, I also challenged myself to use only what I had on-hand. Our CSA box from Full Circle Farms had arrived the day before, so there were plenty of fresh ingredients in the house.

After poking around in the pantry and rummaging through some recipes for inspiration, here’s the menu I settled on for a simple dinner for two:

Beet Chips
Zucchini and scallion fritters with Greek yogurt dipping sauce
Nectarine granitas

Beets are among my favorites—their earthy flavor and texture and their array of vibrant colors are endlessly enticing. I often peel and then grate raw beets over salads when I’m too lazy (or too hungry) to roast them, but making beet chips is another great variation and really brings out their sweetness and provides a satisfying crunch. I sprinkled a bit of Australian flake salt from the Murray River over them after removing them from the oven. The salmon pink colored salt melted right into the ruby red beets beautifully. My only tip on making these beet chips is don’t expect any leftovers.

Next up—the fritters. A bit of flour and an egg—ingredients that are nearly always stocked and lend themselves to endless interpretations. Fritters feel like comfort food to me. They’re unpretentious (and you can eat ‘em with your hands if you want). Since we’d received two zucchinis and a bunch of purple-coated scallions in our CSA box, finding this Martha Stewart recipe was pure serendipity. Rather than serving with sour cream, I drained a generous scoop of Greek yogurt using a coffee filter while I cooked up the fritters (a trick I learned from the Café Flora cookbook—draining the yogurt with a cheesecloth or coffee filter thickens it up really nicely), then mixed in some freshly squeezed lemon, salt, pepper, and chopped chives. The Greek yogurt dipping sauce added some protein to this vegetarian meal and was a perfectly creamy complement to the fritters. These fritters would even be great for breakfast the next morning, although we didn’t have any left over to find out!

Finally, dessert. To enjoy the last remaining days of summer, something light and fruity was in order. In other words, something that didn’t require cranking up the oven on a warm evening. The recipe card in my Full Circle Farms box suggested stone fruit granitas, and with two ripe nectarines in my hand, it was just the thing. A bit of simple syrup, some lemon zest, and pureed fruit (I skipped the mint since I didn’t have any, though it would be a great addition), and voila. Chilled in the freezer and served in a wine glass, these granitas made for a no-fuss (and no-complaints) dessert. An ideal dessert for sunset-gazing.

I confess I didn’t calculate the costs exactly, but I’m pretty sure it came in around the $5 per person mark. One thing’s definite though—it was delicious.

The Antagonists

Every Saturday at 5 a.m., my alarm would sound. For anyone working in a bakery, 5 a.m. is considered sleeping in. But as a sophomore in college it was a bit of a rude awakening. I would pull in to the parking lot in the dark and shuffle in to the brightly lit kitchen. Several hours’ worth of pouring, mixing and kneading would have already covered the bakers with a fine fairy-dusting of flour—the mark of their trade. Still in my spotless clothes, I would grab the list of special orders for the day then head to the racks to pack up the bread and get the van loaded.

An irresistible baguette from a boulangerie in Aix-en-Provence.

By the time the San Diego sky started to brighten, I would be en route to the farmers’ market with my bounty of baked goods, my fingers crossed that this wouldn’t be the day the rusty white van (which looked better suited for a mob of old school hit men than it did for a bright-eyed English major) would break down once and for all. Luckily, old rusty and I somehow made it each time, though we opted for the side roads instead of the freeway just in case.

No matter how exhausted I was (from ahem studying, of course), the energy of the early morning market was contagious. Once I wrestled the clunky canopy tent (also rusty) into place and arranged the breads and pastries on the table, I would go for a lap around the other booths before the market opened to the public, always grabbing a cup of locally roasted coffee along the way.

There was the salsa lady whose rainbow of concoctions—roasted chili salsa, mango salsa, tomatillo salsa, and more—were irresistible. There was the farmer from Julian with crisp, firm apples too delicious for baking in a pie. There was the immaculately dressed older Italian gentleman who used to be in the fashion industry (market legend had it he even worked with Coco Chanel) who sold olive oil that transported you instantly to the Mediterranean with one taste.

And then. . . .

And then there were “the steak guys.”

A father-son duo, they joined the market a few months after I started and they were, conveniently, positioned directly across from me. Now don’t get me wrong—I had no problem with them being there. And like all the other vendors, we enjoyed a bit of banter and friendly conversation when the crowds diffused and we had time to kill.

But once they found out I was a vegetarian (which didn’t take long), it was game on.

It was totally harmless, but they seemed to find great joy in trying to tempt me to sample one of their steaks or a piece of beef jerky. I wasn’t taunting them with raw carrots or heads of broccoli, so I had trouble understanding why they found it so amusing to make a show of my vegetarianism, to constantly try to provoke me.

I can’t say I spent much time philosophizing about it then, and like I said I don’t think they were mean-spirited, but looking back now it seems to be a poignant example of how vegetarianism is sometimes perceived as different or just a little outside the norm. An alternative lifestyle. A bit subversive even. Hippy-ish.

I feel lucky that I live in a time and a place where it’s really pretty easy to be a vegetarian. There are a plethora of cookbooks, plenty of fresh ingredients, and loads of vegetarian and vegan restaurants (at least in the big cities I know). Servers don’t look terribly shocked when I ask them what kind of broth the soup du jour was made with. For the most part, it’s pretty smooth sailing. But rehashing my farmers’ market days has me wondering: from an historical point of view, how have vegetarians traditionally been perceived? And how do you—any vegetarians out there—feel like you’re perceived today? (Or conversely, what do all you omnivores think about us herbivores? I mean, what do you really think? I can take a guess at how my hubby would answer. . .!) And are the answers to any or all of these questions inevitably fraught with generalizations and stereotypes?

These are questions I plan to come back to.

But for now, I’m going to relive the memory of freshly baked bread and sticky cinnamon rolls at 5 in the morning.

It was early, but man was it was worth it.

Moose Drool, Montana

Montana. It’s a state that evokes images of vast blue skies (it isn’t called Big Sky Country for nothing, after all) and herds of cattle dotting an endless horizon. It’s the ruggedly romantic setting for films that seem to always star Brad Pitt (not saying that’s a bad thing), like Legends of the Fall and A River Runs through It. It’s a place that inspires reminiscence about the good ol’ days when men would tip their hat and call you Ma’am. And actually, they often still do. It’s also a gateway to Yellowstone and the home to its own magnificent mountain ranges, valleys and rivers.

There are many, many wonderful things that come to mind when you think about Montana, and I’d venture to say they’re pretty much all true. But a prime destination for vegetarian cuisine? Probably not at the top of the list of reasons to visit.

I went to Montana for this first time this past spring on a pre-nuptial road trip with  (my now hubby) Chris and my soon-to-be in-laws, who had traveled all the way from Australia. Now, Australia has some of the most incredible natural wonders on Earth, but there is at least one thing they don’t have.

Bears.

So, we packed up a rented SUV and headed from Seattle to Montana on our way to Yellowstone, harboring the highest hopes of spotting a grizzly or black bear (from a safe and secure distance, that is).*

My drink of choice while in Montana.

I knew we were not just entering bear country; this was also meat and potatoes country. After all, ranching is among the primary industries of the region. But I really didn’t know just how much meat would be on the menu.

Before long, I was envisioning that scene in Forrest Gump—you know the one, where Bubba starts listing all the ways to cook shrimp—dubbed over in a drawling country accent: Elk burger. Bison burger. Venison burger. There seemed to be endless variations, though hardly a veggie burger in sight. Good thing meat and potatoes also mean plenty of beer. If nothing else, I could at least wash down my spuds and side salads with a cold pint of Moose Drool.

Of course we didn’t go to Montana for the food, and regardless, my non-vegetarian travel companions gave nothing but rave reviews about the incredible taste and freshness of the meat (which I wasn’t about to argue with; it seems to me if the rest of the meat industry in this country resembled the expansive pastures of Montana, I’d have one less reason for being a vegetarian).

Despite their initial enthusiasm though, even they began to suffer from excess steak syndrome after a few days, and I was longing for something other than frozen and thawed lasagna or the ubiquitous baked potato. I’m sure there is great vegetarian food somewhere in Montana; I just hadn’t discovered it yet. So, we decided to take matters into our own hands.

We would have a picnic, no reservations required.

Sometimes the best thing about a picnic is its simplicity. We grabbed the freshest bread we were able to find in the local market along with a variety of vegetables and some cheese, a bit of hummus and crackers, some carrot cake for dessert and a six pack for starters. After dragging a table and chairs in front of our adjacent motel room doors, we roughly sliced the veggies with a Swiss Army knife and each made our own towering sandwich.

Still sweaty and dirty from the day’s hike, we chowed down hungrily. As we sat outside, the mountains became silhouetted against the setting sun as if they had put on their night robes, their craggy faces masked for the evening. The stillness was interrupted occasionally by a bird call, but not by passing traffic or blaring city sirens, and that stillness somehow made those sandwiches even better.

Next time I’m in Montana (I’d love to go back), I still may seek out some new vegetarian dining options. I’m sure they’re out there. But you know what? I’d trade a fancy meal for a rustic picnic in a serene, picturesque setting any day.

Just don’t forget the Moose Drool.

*Wondering if we saw any bears? We sure did, and not exactly from the safe and secure distance we had hoped for! While hiking Beaver Lake, we witnessed this bull elk in full flight with a black bear not far behind it. Seemed the bear was just having a bit of fun though as it didn’t pursue the elk any farther once the elk reached the water. Luckily, it wasn’t hungry enough to come after us, either.

A close encounter for this bull elk (and for us!) at Beaver Lake, Yellowstone.

Viva Veggie in Barcelona

Any vegetarian who has dared to cook for a crowd of carnivorous guests knows there is one ultimate compliment that can be bestowed at the end of the evening, one little sentence that symbolizes the sweetest success to the veggie chef.  And that is the omnivore’s admission: “I forgot I was even eating vegetarian food.”

Surely the chefs at Sesamo in Barcelona, Spain hear that refrain all the time, such is the allure of their sumptuous veggie creations.

Fearing I would starve, my friend in Barcelona went to great lengths to find at least one vegetarian restaurant for us to sample during my stay. Though I was hardly fading away (there was Sangria aplenty to keep me afloat), I was still thrilled to go to a restaurant where—even though I could hardly read the menu—I knew I could eat anything and everything.

A cozy table near the open kitchen and a promptly popped bottle of Cava made us feel immediately welcome at Sesamo. Despite the fact that the small dining room was packed, there were only two staff members: the server and the chef. Slim staffing didn’t mean slow service though; these two were dancing a finely-tuned tango (with the occasional clang of a few dropped plates from our slightly clumsy, yet prompt and attentive, server).

The waiter propped a large chalkboard with the day’s menu next to our table and it was immediately clear—this was not a place where one could choose a single dish. Luckily that made the decision even easier. We would have the chef’s tasting menu, no deliberation necessary.

A worthwhile destination for vegetarian and non-vegetarian travelers alike, Sesamo is an intimate restaurant located in the El Raval area of Barcelona.

A parade of colorful, flavorful dishes followed, each accenting one or two main ingredients in an unostentatious way. Of course we started with grilled baguettes rubbed with bright tomato, a staple starter in Barcelona. A simple dish of Manchego cheese cut into isosceles triangles and served with sun-dried tomatoes was intensely satisfying without being complicated. Then the more serious entrees were marched to our table one at a time, promptly delivered from the single-cook kitchen a few feet away where a soundtrack of seductive sizzling continued to play.

After greedily inhaling a fluffy couscous dish speckled with Indian spices, raisins, peppers, zucchini and other fresh veggies (What was this, our fourth dish, our fifth? Who was counting, anyways?), the chef emerged from his castle of towering pots and pans to kneel beside our table. He was—to put it bluntly—the stereotypically sexy Spaniard, with dark shoulder length hair which he brushed behind his ears before saying with a grin, “Hola chickas.” I’m pretty sure our only response was a girlish giggle.

He asked if we had room for more—there were still several dishes yet to come!—and luckily my friend’s Spanish exceeded mine (not too hard since I don’t speak a lick of Spanish, let alone Catalonian). Si, we were stuffed to the gills. But si, we would continue in our valiant quest to sample everything that graced our table, even if it meant we would be crawling home on hands and knees.

I can’t recall how many more dishes were served, but I do recall that dinner at Sesamo was not just dinner. It was an event. And while I’m sure my friend and I talked about many things that evening—we have never been at a loss for words when out together—the only thing I really remember her saying as we finally walked out was, “I didn’t miss the meat. In fact, I forgot I was even eating vegetarian.”

Our compliments to the chef.