A few weeks ago my family joined some friends of ours on their sailboat. I brought beef tenderloin that I cooked sous vide so that it would be easy for the boat owner Ron to quickly sear on his boat barbecue. He wasn’t familiar with the technique, being more of an outdoorsman than a cook, but I explained that sous vide could fit very well into his lifestyle as it’s essentially the least attention-demanding form of cooking around. Sous vide is perfect for sailing adventures or backpacking because you can precook things then all you need to do is quickly warm them on the camp stove prior to eating. Once he had grilled off the steaks and served them to us, he gushed with approval about the tenderness. He asked “so what do you call this again- steak ceviche?” which was met with self-important laughs from those of us in the peanut gallery. But damn, steak ceviche was a brilliant idea I couldn’t shake so decided to make.

Steak tartare exists in France, carne battuta in Italy, but you don’t typically see beef treated the same way as fish in countries where ceviche is popular. I have a fondness for raw, sanguine beef that stems back to my days in Italy eating carne battuta (which translates to “beaten meat”) at the many festivals that dot the Piemontese countryside during summer and fall. These festivals celebrate any number of things, from the sweet Brachetto wines on offer in the gastro-destination of Acqui Terme to the white truffles of Alba, but they all have commonalities such as pimped-out vintage cars, wine served straight from damigianas (giant glass casks) and troupes of flag-tossing marchers that overtake narrow streets and resemble aging high school flag teams. Read more

Every time I go on “vacation” I feel like a jackhammer pummels the buttresses of my known world and shakes loose the filaments that fetter my identity to Seattle, my career, and the choices I have made in life that make me who I am. I put “vacation” in quotes because I can’t remember the last time I had a real one. Every time I hitch a ride in a plane, train or automobile of late, the agenda eclipses the pleasure.

Is the camera battery charged and the memory card depleted of photos of goat cheese dappled by midsummer light? Because god forbid I should forget to photograph every wind turbine and plate of chili along the way in case I choose to feature something. Are the business cards packed? Did I secure the coveted reservation at the newest restaurant in LA and have I invited the correct coterie to join me? Should I change my middle name to Networking? Isn’t the high-profile chef who just got the glowing New York Times review going to be on the cruise? MUST make it a point to share a cocktail or ten with him one evening. Read more

photo credit: victor@alcantaraphoto.com

Americans are squeamish about their meats. When I lived in Italy it was no problem finding horse, rabbit and goat meat, in fact it was the norm. I will never understand how someone can eat a cow with no problem but a bunny is deemed “too cute.” The whole business of butchery is a necessary and often gruesome evil no matter which animal you’re killing, so it doesn’t occur to me to eat my meats based on the ascending scale of adorability.

photo credit: Jonna Bell www.Vasyfille.com

Some of it can be attributed to cultural familiarity. When I tried to get the turkey for American Thanksgiving in Italy every year, more than one butcher looked at me quizzically and inquired as to whether I was Russo aka Russian. According to the Italians, the Russians are the only ones hardcore enough to want an entire turkey, and I soon found out why. In the US, turkeys typically reach market between 14 and 20 weeks of age. They range in size on average from 15-30 pounds. In contrast, Italian turkeys are raised with the idea that the parts of the bird will be sold separately, more like a cow. Therefore they are older and much, much bigger. Read more