Frank Picchione

China Beach Salad

This entry is going to kill me yet.  Apparently I am a digital camera moron.  First I could not get the lighting right in these photos - except for the one of the toasted sesame seeds.  Then I was unable to upload and send them into one folder.  At some point while trying they all vanished from my computer - after I had deleted them from my camera.  Lucky for you my mother was able to email the photos from her computer, where I had uploaded them over the weekend after making the salad. 

I say lucky for you because you will want to make this recipe.  It's right out of the Frank Picchione Spa Repertoire.  But if you intend to use anything other than organic ingredients, don't even bother.  And before I list the ingredients, let me say that nothing is optional.  For those who don't like heat, the jalapeno is almost undetectable.  I would actually prefer habaneros, so I'm already making allowances.  Now, without any further ado, the long awaited recipe.

No, first a little story.  If you want to make this recipe authentic, as I'm sure you do, you must get your hands on a unique little device made from bamboo and flimsy metal.  Good luck.  I will call this trinket the China Beach vegetable spaghetti maker.  Where can you find it, you ask?  If you can track down Miss Vy in Hoi An, Vietnam, she may have an extra for you.  It is she who gave mine to my generous friend Sandra, who in turn passed it on to me.  Here it is pictured atop of the ginger grater you will also need to make the salad. 

Hoi An is a beach town on the east coast of Vietnam bordering the South China Sea.  During the Vietnam War our soldiers went to the famous China Beach, 12 miles from Hoi An, for their much needed R&R.  Here are photos of China Beach and Hoi An today. 

Rather touristy, Hoi An consists mostly of shops, restaurants and a covered market.  The town is well known for its well priced custom suits.  During a month long excursion Sandra happened into a restaurant where the 27 year old Miss Vy had worked since she was 12, chopping onions from 6AM until closing.  Having moved up the chain of command she is now a sous chef and cuts intricate roses out of tomato peels.  According to Sandra she speaks excellent English she learned from the tourists.

It is in this restaurant that Sandra met Miss Vy and took her cooking class, where she demonstrated the China Beach vegetable spaghetti maker.  It does not simply make long thin strips out of vegetables.  When you scrape the slicer down the sides of carrots, zucchinis and cucumbers perfect spaghetti-shaped strands emerge from the tiny holes.  The "noodles" are so flexible they twirl 'round your fork like the real thing.

Shocked as I was, I could find nothing available in the States that achieved the same results.  Even my top of the line mandoline creates only a variety of shreds, crinkles, waffle cuts and juliennes.  Ultimately I discovered that a lemon zester, pictured here, achieves an approximation of the desired results.

Note: In recipes nuts, seeds and spices should almost always be toasted, which releases the oils and greatly enhances the flavor.  Examples of this are pecans tossed in a salad, walnuts sprinkled over ice cream and curry powder whisked into the sauce for chicken curry.  You don't want a great deal of color.  Gently shake the the pan from time to time until you are able to smell the aroma and remove from the heat.

Now on to the ingredients...

2 huge organic carrots

2 organic cucumbers

3 organic zucchinis

6 scallions, sliced thinly on the bias

1 Perfectly minced jalapeno (by perfectly I mean sliced into thin julienne, then cut cross wise into perfect tiny cubes)

3 Tablespoon Rice Vinegar

3 Tablespoon toasted sesame oil

1 Tablespoon toasted sesame seeds

1 Tablespoon minced cilantro leaves (okay, this may be optional because Sandra hates it)

1 Heaping teaspoon grated (not minced) ginger (done by peeling and rubbing a two inch piece of ginger against the grater - the pulp and juice gathers in the well)

1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt

Freshly ground white pepper (to taste)

First make spaghetti out of the vegetables and set over a strainer to exude their water while you make the dressing.

To make the dressing whisk together the scallions, jalapeno, rice vinegar, sesame oil, sesame seeds, cilantro, ginger, salt and pepper.  Very simple.

Toss the dressing over the "spaghettied" vegetables directly before serving.  This recipe serves however many people will eat it.

China Beach Salad (click photo to see details)

Turkey Tree

I know.  This is a rather uninteresting photo of two turkeys sitting in a tree.  I thought it would be more impressive, what with the snow covered branches.  And how often do you see two turkeys sitting so high in a tree? I'm posting it because it's the first photo I took with my new camera, before I knew how to zoom on my subject, and it continues the turkey theme from the beginning of the blog.

Speaking of Chihuahuas, I got the Canon Power Shot from the Maria Sharapova commercial I love so much.  You know, the one where she's trying to photograph her dog and the dog keeps calling her Maria Sharapova instead of just Maria.  His little accent cracks me up every time.  Only, now that I think about it, maybe the dog is a Pomeranian, which totally blows my chihuahua connection from the Faux Pas post.

Anyway, I love my new camera.  It is teeny tiny so it fits in my pocket and goes everywhere with me.  My photography skills are bound to improve.

Introducing...

Click image to enlarge MooPoo, the little green cow.

www.MooPooPower.com

Faux Pas

There are two types of benign small talk I try to avoid.  The first is commenting on the weather.  Though I admit I often fail at refraining from this one.  As hard as I try, sometimes I simply lose control and end up sounding ridiculous.  You know, when you're standing with the doorman at your friend's building waiting for her to get her ass downstairs, and the wind is just whipping off the park, and you find yourself breaking the silence with, "This must be the windiest corner in the whole city."  Whenever I say this (and I've said it more than once, but never twice to the same person) I receive an unintelligible mumble in response.  Then I cringe.  At other times my lugubrious nature gets the best of me and I cannot resist moaning in misery about the rain or the cold or the lack of sunlight in winter.  Because you know this lifts everybody's spirits.

The second kind of chit chat I refuse to participate in (and usually do a better job of avoiding than weather talk) is dog Q & A.  That's what happens in New York when you and your dog encounter someone and their dog.  If Dudley had it his way, as he usually does, he would say hello to every dog we pass.  Unless I am running very late or the approaching dog appears to be "unsocialized" we will stop and sniff.  That's when the questions follow.  "How old is he?"  "What's his name?"  "Is that a schnauzer?"  "No, a Scottish terrier."  I always smile and answer these questions pleasantly.  But I rarely ask them in return unless the other dog is a super cute, playful puppy.  Which is what happened yesterday.

One thing I pride myself on is my ability to identify almost every breed of dog.  I would never make the mistake of asking if a Scottie is a schnauzer, for example.  But I have a big rule about not asking someone if their dog is a such and such if there is the slightest chance that it is not.  Once my friend Jennifer asked a woman if her dog was a purebred English bulldog.  Of course it was, so I felt it was my duty to reprimand Jen; insisting that she never ask someone if their dog is a purebred, since her asking implies that it could pass for a mutt.

The only time I really ever ask is if I know a dog is some obscure breed and I want to impress the owner with my knowing.  I have never been wrong.  Until yesterday when we met a girl and her papillon.  Now I am fully aware of what a papillon is.  Their butterfly-like ears are unmistakable.  As we approached I swear I thought "what and adorable little papillon wanting to play with Dudley."  Well I don't know what possessed me, but as soon as I said hello I asked this very sweet young lady if her dog was a long haired chihuahua.  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"  I screamed to myself after it was too late to take it back.  Ever so politely the girl said, "No, she's a papillon."

I died.  You wanna hear a blubbering idiot?  "No no.  She's beautiful.  I KNEW she was a papillon.  I don't know why for a second I thought she was a long haired chihuahua.  Do people ask you all the time if she's a long haired chihuahua?"  "Yes, sometimes", she replied.  "Oh, you must hate that. [Oh god please Frank, SHUT UP!]  Not that there's anything wrong with long haired chihuahuas.  I really like them. [He can't stop!] But I guess if I didn't have a long haired chihuahua I wouldn't want people asking if my dog was a long haired chihuahua."

Isn't that just awful?  Then as I walked away, my head hung in disgrace, I asked myself why I found it so hideous to have made this faux pas.  I think it must be because, although I really do like chihuahuas, they practically wear signs reading "BORN IN A PUPPY MILL" or "BOUGHT IN A PET SHOP".  And there are images of impulse purchases of these fury rhinestone wearing props by certain blond celebrities and the dummies who want to imitate them.  I knew this girl with her papillon was not one of them.

Loose Hair

This is my Scottish terrier, Dudley.

So, I've been getting a lot of flack for writing about such morbid things as the Canadian seal hunt.  Actually, not so much for the bloody topic (which no one seems to want to wake up to), but for not balancing it with something lighter and more humorous.  Abigail wants me to recount one of my tales from the dog run, which I hope will not sound like one of those you-had-to-be-there stories.

Speaking of tales, my vet, or rather Dudley's vet, Tom DeVincentis, has just written a book called Tails of the City: Confessions of a Manhattan Pet Vet.  Caroline Roehm wrote the introduction, and there is a reception and book signing at Rizzoli on the 26th.

Now on to my tale...  Well, you all know only the crazies take their dogs to the run.  I'm always the only non-crazy there... me and whomever I'm there with or talking to.  But everyone else is just nuts.  You never see more fights than you do at the dog run.  You know there are rules at the dog run.  Rules that need to be followed for everyone's comfort and safety - especially mine.  But still there is that freak who insists on bringing his dog's personal favorite toy.  And of course that becomes the toy every other dog wants to play with - especially Dudley, whose favorite dog run game is the "I've just stolen your toy and you can't get it back unless you chase me" challenge.  This of course has lead to my own freakish behavior and arguments when the owner of the toy expects me to return it to his dog.  Over and over again.  Not gonna happen.

So one day my friend Abigail (you know, the one who wants to hear no more about the poor baby seals and their bashed in brains) and her Jack Russell, Tags joined Dudley and me at the dog run.  Tags is a super cute rough-coated, short-legged Jack Russell who was Dudley's best friend when we were neighbors.  They played all the time and knew each other's names.  Tags once came for a sleepover and he was the only one who got any sleep, curled up on my pillow. 

It was a beautiful day - at least that's how I remember it.  Sun shining, blue sky, East River sparkling below... and the endless drone of the 59th Street Bridge traffic.  Truly relaxing.  Abigail and I were sitting on the ledge on the far side of the run - the side farthest away from the seats where all the loons sit, acting crazy, with their dogs gathered 'round.  Another day I'll tell the story of the unkempt "life coach" who brushed her dog and sent its loose hair sailing over the run for all to inhale. 

But this story too has to do with loose dog hair.  Clumps of it in fact, that gather everywhere around the edges of the run.  A lot of it I'm sure is from the life coach's dog.  So there was this woman standing. Pacing.  She was a dirty smoker.  No offense to you smokers, but she was dirty and she was a smoker, so I am calling her a dirty smoker.  And she paced and she stood - entirely too close to us I might add - but we weren't moving because we always stake our territory on the far side of the run, our body language saying, "freaks stay away."  She ignored our signals, intruding with her cigarette.  The cigarette hung from her shriveled liver lips; a long ash threatening to drop on her dog's head. 

The dog was quite a character too it turns out.  Enormous dog, gigantic head, long tail.  And fours legs, each about three inches long.  It wasn't a basset hound, but it must have had some very short-legged breed in its elaborate lineage.  Don't get me wrong.  I love all dogs.  I almost adopted a pit bull mix with a bum leg.  I had a three legged dog growing up and I thought this dog and I were brought together though Timber's divine intervention.  I spent hours getting to know Lil' Pit at The Center for Animal Care and Control on 110th Street.  In fact, I introduced her to Abigail, who was there when the pup went berserk - just for a second.  Just long enough to scare me into my search for Dudley.

So the dirty smoker's dog, with its huge head held just inches from the ground, paced too, right along side her.  But rather than joining her in a cigarette, the dog's vice was loose hair.  As his master inhaled he scooped up clumps of it.  He stepped from one pile to the next, scooping and chewing.  And as he chewed the hair made a crunching sound.  Loud.  Have you ever heard the sound of someone chewing hair?  Crunch crunch.  Step step.  Scoop scoop.

You can imagine Abigail's and my horror.  And anyone who knows me knows I don't easily contain my disgust from showing plainly on my face.  I glared at the woman - actually I glared from the woman to the dog and back, my eyes scolding.  "Don't you see your dog is eating piles of dog hair, you freak?" I imagined myself asking.  I say imagined because I was too intimidated to speak to her.  You see, she stared right back at me.  Blankly.  And she finally flicked that long ash and looked down at her munching dog.  Abigail and I starting laughing - giggling really.  And whispering - of course loudly enough for her to hear.  Is that what one calls passive aggressive?  "Abigail, can you believe that woman is letting her dog eat all that hair?"  "I know.  Is she crazy?"  "Obviously."  Glaring, upper lip curled to the right.  "Do you suppose her dog needs to eat hair for medicinal purposes?"  "Oh Frank, that's ridiculous."  "Do you think she's trying to kill him?"  "Why would she be trying to kill her dog?"  "I don't know.  Maybe she's old and tired and has only enough energy left to lift that cigarette."

Another reason I did not confront the owner is that, as every dog owner knows, there is nothing worse than a doggone know it all about dogs.  Everyone has a suggestion about food, training, grooming etc. etc.  Even about dogs eating dog hair I'm sure.  And I always said I would not become one of those busy bodies - unless someone asked.  She did not ask - like I wanted her to.  I don't remember which of us left first, but we never saw her or her dog at the run again.  I wonder why.

MooPooPower

Get ready for MooPooPower!

Bourbon

Wild Apple Turkey Cocktail

2 parts apple cider, 1 part Wild Turkey bourbon mixed over ice in a glass.

The wild turkeys are thriving in Wilton, Connecticut. 

Photos by Michele Kelly