Primo Grano Pasta from the Abruzzo
Buying better pasta is one of the easiest ways I know to upgrade the quality of one’s cooking (unless of course you don’t eat pasta). Seriously, it’s as simple as that. You just start with better pasta and presto your meal can go from a solid B to an A+. I’m not overstating this; at least to my taste there’s a sort of majorly big difference between the pretty good “artisan” brands they sell in most upscale supermarkets and a handful of really, truly great artisan pastas like this one. It’s the difference between buying a pretty good farmhouse cheddar and a piece cut from one of the Neal’s Yard Dairy selected and matured wheels of Jamie Montgomery’s best cheeses. The depth, character, complexity and everything else just goes up a couple of notches. Are you going to suffer from eating mass market pasta? Of course not. It’s perfectly fine. But what I’m talking about here is taking your meal up from “perfectly fine” to “pretty darned fantastic,” at the cost of a couple of dollars.

The Primo Grano pasta from the family-owned Pastificio Rustichella, in the Abruzzo region of Italy’s east coast, is one of a handful that can make that happen. It’s made from a special wheat that Gianluigi Peduzzi has spent around seven years developing in the interest of replicating the flavor of the grain grown back when his father got the pasta factory going in the 1920s. As with all the Rustichella pasta, the Primo Grano is mixed at cooler temperatures (protects the flavor of the wheat), extruded through the old style bronze dies (rougher surface), and dried very slowly (48-60 hours to get the proper texture in the bowl). As with all the great pastas, I prefer to cook it very al dente, the better to taste the wheat. And be sure to salt the pot liberally when you’re cooking—unsalted pasta is like unsalted potatoes—something serious gets lost at the expense of a few cents worth of salt.

Right now I think we’ve got the best collection of artisan pastas we’ve ever had. It’s really kind of an all-star line up, and one that I think is probably not quite understood in its entirety. It’s all too easy to assume that what’s on the shelves at the Deli is only slightly better but a lot more expensive than what’s in the “specialty” section of the supermarket these days. But really, I can’t say enough about how good these are. Martelli and Morelli from Tuscany, Faella from Gragnano, Rustichella from the Abruzzo and the others, really are pretty amazing. For anyone who loves pasta, a box of six or eight different kinds would be a very special gift.

For more on what makes better pasta better see the Pasta chapter in Zingerman’s Guide to Good Eating.

Owens Creek Olive Oil from California
If you’re not sure which oil to give as a gift this season, I’d say start here. It’s from Owens Creek Ranch, the farm of Walter Hewlett and family, in the central valley of California. Made from Sicilian varietals, handpicked and pressed within 24 hours, the oil is delicious. I’ve been using it regularly since we first got it in late last spring. I’ve written at length to tell Walter’s story: about his grandfather, A. Walter Hewlett who was a pioneering cardiologist at U of M in the early years of the 20th century; about his father, Bill Hewlett, who co-founded the world famous Hewlett-Packard electronics company; and about his skills as a musician, an academic with more advanced degrees than—I don’t know but he has a lot more of ‘em than I do—and his successes as a runner
of marathons.

Above and beyond all that, due to Walter’s generosity and commitment to helping enhance his grandfather’s early work and loyalty to Ann Arbor, $4 from every bottle of this most excellent oil will end up in a fund for research at the Cardiovascular Center here at U of M. Delicious. Delicate. Respectfully big olive flavor that’s slightly spicy, delicately assertive, is oil is being made by really nice people in the spirit of generosity and giving back to the world. All of which is probably a good recipe for achieving greatness in pretty much anything in life.

Naturvie Olive Oil from Spain
Only recently arrived, this oil comes from the western part of Spain (the land of Iberico ham if you’re into great pork), from a family-owned farm just a bit south of the beautiful walled town of Merida. The folks at Naturvie actually do their growing biodynamically, but more about that to come in future essays. The key for the moment is merely that they’re doing a very nice job of mindful, sustainable farming. As, I suppose, is fitting, the oil’s following around here is growing organically as well (I’d like to tell you sales of it go up when the moon is full, but methinks that would be a bit too much of a poetic fiction).

Naturvie is made from the Cornezuelo varietal, an interesting old school olive that’s unique to that area. All the olives for this oil are taken from trees planted no later than the year 1800. You read that right. All the trees in use are over two hundred years old. This isn’t just a nice story—very old trees of this sort have very low yields but produce oils with very interesting, complex flavors. The olives are handpicked and then delivered to the press in under three hours. The complexity of the oil’s flavor reflects the age of the trees, the care taken in handling and the quickness of the press. The flavor of the Naturvie oil is an interesting blend of sweet and spicy, almond and olive . . . really a very nice oil and one that’s little known here in the US.

Pasolivo from the California Coast
I’ve had a long and very rewarding relationship with this oil. I’ve loved this oil since the first day I tasted it, which is probably ten years ago now. At the time, California oils were just beginning to move towards the top shelf spot they now have earned. I first tried it at a food show in San Francisco, and we had it here five or six months later. It’s made in Paso Robles in central California by Joeli Yaguda from Tuscan varietals, which means a green, peppery, big ol’ olive flavor characteristic of the Chianti region of north central Italy. All the olives are handpicked and then pressed on the farm’s own Pieralisi press within hours of being taken off the tree. Seriously, the oil’s been exceptional every year that we’ve had it. I eat it regularly now just as I did when we first started getting it—a sign to me that it’s a product that’s got serious quality issues (in a GOOD way!).

Over the last two years, Joeli has worked hard to develop a special Pasolivo tin. While pretty much the entire industry has long since been going out in bottles, Joeli’s become convinced that the best way to care for the oil is to store it in tin, away from the damage caused by light. Of course the rest of the industry has stayed away from tin to avoid having to deal with consumer confusion—tins historically have had a less than high-quality connotation. Stereotypes here, as in most things, have their holes. While there are certainly low-end, not-great oils that are sold in tins, the truth is that there are modern-era tins that allow for far better product storage and care. And so rather than go with the flow, Joeli went ahead and did what she felt was the right thing for the oil.

Over the years, I’ve gotten to know Joeli—in fact, we’ve become good friends, appreciating the better parts of the food world, laughing together through adversity when it’s arrived. Recently, it seems she’s had more than what I’d say is her fair share of the latter. Sometimes not so great stuff happens to really great people. So . . . really out of the fact that a) I’ve long loved the oil, b) I really like Joeli and c) I’d like to support both her and their product in a time of need, I’m putting the word out to everyone I know to buy and support Pasolivo. I am. It’s on my counter for high frequency personal consumption. And it’s on my gift list—along with the Naturvie and Owens Creek oils—to send to friends around the country this fall.

Txakoli Vinegar
Rarely seen but really, really good vinegar from the Basque Country in northern Spain. We spent, literally, nearly three years working to get this special, small-production vinegar over here; I’m glad we did because I’ve been partaking in it regularly since it arrived. Made mostly from the indigenous Basque grape variety Hondarribi Zuri, Txakoli (pronounced CHA-koh-lee) is the everyday wine of the region. The wine itself is fresh, light, a bit honeylike, but without being at all too sweet. It’s the work of a winemaker by the name of Emilio Luengas, who set to work on it nearly ten years ago. Sr. Luengas and his colleagues make only about 1200 liters of the vinegar a year—it’s a story you’ve heard around here so many hundreds of times over the years that it should probably make it into some sort of Zingerman’s mantra: supply is small, flavor is really big, I love it and I hope you will too. It’s not like anyone NEEDS this vinegar to live, but it sure is delicious, and a great gift for anyone you know who likes special stuff.

Joseph Vinegar
It’s like five years now since I first accidentally stumbled on this amazing Australian vinegar in a small shop in Melbourne. Seriously, it’s amazing stuff. Sweet, rich, complex, delicious, mouth-watering, marvelous. For everyone who loves balsamic vinegar, I wish only that you’d take a small taste of the Grilli family’s little known jewel. It’s not balsamic and it’s not meant to be but some of that same soft, sensual, hard-to-steer-clear-of-once-you’ve-had-it sweetness is there. To make the vinegar the Grillis, take the fresh grape must from just-harvested Colombard grapes and then cook it down over open wood fires to half its original volume. I actually got to watch the process in person when I was there. The fire and the cooking were set up on the edge of the vineyards; within about an hour of our arrival it had cooked down about 20 percent. They then add more grape must (juice) to top things off and cook it all down again. The next day they set the reduced must into previously-used-for-wine, oak barrels where it then stays for a period of years. In the barrels it starts to turn into the rustic sort of sherry-like wine that Italians call “vino cotto,” or “cooked wine.”

The Grillis then blend this vino cotto with old vinegar along with corks that have been sitting in the old vinegar that’s already aged up in other barrels. The corks basically act like a starter would in bread or cheese; they bring the old cultures into play and help begin the conversion and flavor development. It takes about twelve months for the conversion to take place using this traditional process. In total, the vinegar is aged in the barrels for at least five years. While we were watching the fresh grape must cook, Joe made us bruschetta the way his grandparents did it for him when he was growing up. Bread toasted over the wood fire of the grill, dressed with a bit of olive oil, sea salt and lots of the vinegar. It’s really great. Excellent with some anchovies on top as well. While I’m sure the majority of Americans will live their lives just fine without ever tasting it, the truth is that if you like fine food I really believe this is a DON’T MISS product.

Butternut Squash Seed Oil from Stony Brook Farms
One of the best new foods I’ve tasted this year. Made in upstate New York by Greg Woodworth and Kelly Coughlin, by pressing the seeds of locally grown butternut squash. This is one of those easy to use, truly delicious foods that no one you know is likely to be able to identify but is almost as likely to fall in love with. I did. It’s very rich and a little goes a long ways. I was writing about it last summer when I started to think of it as the “foie gras of finishing oils.”

If you try the oil, start with the visuals. Pour a little on a white plate or into a glass bowl where you can see it’s full spectrum. It’s kind of deepish gold in color with a hint of green shimmering just under the surface. If olive oil is on the green end of that oft-used “green-gold” color descriptor, the squash oil is on the other end. It’s only a teeny bit green, mostly gold and deep, dark, a touch mysterious maybe but actually almost luminescent if you let it sit in the sunlight. Texturally, it’s really thick—a lot more so I think than olive oil. If you put your nose near it, it has a great aroma, something akin to the smell of caramelized squash when you take it out of the sauté pan.
The oil is really rich, buttery, nutty, nice nose, a touch toasty. It’s almost pine nutty, if that’s actually an adjective, with a very clean finish. Salad is an obvious option, but it’s great drizzled onto fish, sautéed, roasted or steamed vegetables, and quite excellent on mozzarella with roasted peppers. Outstanding, actually, on avocados with some blue cheese and toasted walnuts.

Marieke’s Gouda from Wisconsin
I think when I first met Marieke Penterman it was at a little cheese gathering outside of Madison. She and her husband, Rolf, were only just getting going in their new business. They’d arrived a few years earlier from the Netherlands, coming over in the hope that they’d have an easier time finding land on which they could farm, and then, eventually make cheese with the milk. When I first tried it, the cheese was already good. Happily though, that was just at the beginning. When I tasted her cheese again a year or so later it blew me away. Her year-old raw milk Wisconsin gouda was really something special. The couple, their five young kids and their herd of cows all come together to make what I feel like now is one of the country’s most tip top tastiest hard cheeses I’ve tasted in a long time. Buttery, caramelly, complex—an amazing after dinner treat for cheese lovers or a great way to warm up for pretty much any meal! Makes a great gift for almost anyone who loves good cheese!

Roadhouse Bread
Although literally almost every day I come across some customer who’s just “discovered it,” the Roadhouse bread has been my solid Bakehouse favorite now for the last two or three years. It was actually a favorite of 18th and 19th century New Englanders, but for whatever odd reasons of historical trends, has completely fallen out of fashion. Back then it was known as “Rye ‘n’ Indian” or also “Thirded Bread.” Here we just call it Roadhouse bread since that’s where we serve so much of it. A mix of wheat, rye and corn, subtly sweetened up with a bit of molasses, it’s really quite excellent. I, as you might already know, like it in the very large 2 kilo loaf. Even though I live alone that’s how I buy it; the loaves last up to about two weeks sitting in a paper bag on the counter so don’t be too worried about shelf life if you like bread. The bigger loaves just taste way better. They’re particularly well suited to shipping! I’m also a big fan of very dark crusts—the darker the crust, the more the natural sugars in the grain caramelize and the better the bread tastes! If you haven’t had this great bread yet, ask for a taste next time you’re in the Bakeshop or Deli. If you go the Roadhouse, you’ll probably get it in the bread basket that comes to the table. One way or another, check it out! It’s a great old American bread that’s ready to grace your table this holiday.

Hand-Rolled Farm Bread
We’ve been baking this bread for over 18 years now and it’s long been one of my favorites. But thanks to leadership of Zingerman’s Bakehouse co-managing partner, Frank Carollo, and the hard work of the bread bakers, we’ve taken it up a notch in the last six months by going back to the oldstyle hand-rolling. It’s the same move we made—with equally marvelous results—last year with our French baguettes. What’s always been very good, gets notably better almost overnight. You really can tell the difference. The farm is just a touch nicer in texture, a bit more alive in the flavor. As with the Roadhouse bread, I like it in the bigger 3-pound loaves with very dark crust. Order one up and enjoy!

Nick Spencer’s Old Style British Bacon
I don’t have room here to give you the full story, but for the moment let me give you the highlights. British marketing man Nick Spencer marries a nice American woman and moves to the U.S. Missing his morning “rashers,” he eventually decides he’s going to try making his own. Using old style, dry-curing techniques and pork from sustainably raised heirloom hogs, he begins making traditional British bacon. Six months later, Nick’s driven up from Chicago to speak and share his story here at Camp Bacon and the Deli starts selling his sliced bacon by the pound. British expats everywhere (including Jamie Cameron who works behind the cheese counter, which I’m starting to think we should rename “the bacon counter”) love it and tell me regularly how much it reminds them of home. If you’ve been to Britain and had a traditional breakfast, you’ve had some version of this old-style back bacon. More likely than not though, you’ve not had one made from this quality of pork and using the traditional dry cure. It’s very different from American belly bacon—the British style is leaner and not smoked—but for those who are wired that way (like Nick and pretty much every other English man and woman I’ve ever met) . . . Nick Spencer’s bacon is sort of like coming home.

For more on British bacon see chapter 3 in Zingerman’s Guide to Better Bacon.

Cristal Peppers from the Basque Country
The little known cousin of the much loved (by me at least) Piquillo peppers from the Basque Country. If you like roasted red peppers a lot DO NOT MISS these. I’m serious—they are that good. I could eat a whole jar with little more than a sprinkle of sea salt, a splash of good olive oil and a loaf of bread from the Bakehouse. If you’re having company, you will most definitely get the attention of anyone who loves great food simply by buying a jar and putting these beautiful deep red peppers out on a small plate with the above-mentioned sea salt and olive oil.

Farmhouse Parmigiano-Reggiano
While there are hundreds of dairies in the Parma region making solidly good and officially certified Parmigiano-Reggiano, not all those cheeses are of equal quality. A small minority of the many producers do all the little things that take a cheese up to the top. We’ve been buying ours from this same special dairy for probably fifteen years now, and it remains really, really good. I have a piece on my counter at home that caught my attention; not easy to do for someone who’s been eating Parmigiano-Reggiano regularly for twenty years. You REALLY can taste the difference!!

Almond Pound Cake from the Bakehouse
This is one that I wouldn’t have expected to fall in love with. Not that I thought it would be bad. It’s just that almond-type desserts aren’t typically my thing. But you know what, it’s really exceptionally good. Rich, moist and packed with pure almond paste. Apparently, we’ve been making it for years for the wedding cakes. “We all loved eating the trimmings,” Amy Emberling, co-managing partner at the Bakehouse, said. “And then,” she added, “we started wondering if we shouldn’t just make it to eat on its own.“

I’m glad the Bakehouse crew decided to go with it. It really is great. The texture is terrific. It’s like a cake with no “low notes.” All the action is from the tongue on up and lilting into the nose—it’s got great aromatics and a light delicate clean finish. It’s so flavorful it’s a real treat all by itself. Or, try it with a little raspberry sauce, a dusting of powdered sugar or a scoop of coffee gelato. It’s akin to an angelfood cake, but a bit more down to earth. Maybe it’s what the angels eat when they’re kicking back over coffee on their day off?

I guess I’ve taken this cake on too because I kind of like upstarts. And, seriously, this stuff could give our other coffeecakes—the original (super best-selling) sourcream, lemon poppyseed, hot cocoa cake and (my other current favorite) the gingerbread—a very good run for their money. Of course, working with an abundance mentality, as I always try to do, that’s not a bad thing—there’s more than enough coffeecake love (and quality-oriented customers) to go around. Adding one more great coffeecake to the Bakehouse mix can only strengthen our mix (get it?) for all involved. From the local economy to the spirit of those who snack on it to those who are adamant in their passion for all things almond, this stuff is pretty easy to pick as a winner!

Ethiopian Sidamo Natural Process Guji Coffee
Speaking of coffee . . . Allen Leibowitz, co-managing partner at the Coffee Company has been very high on the recently arrived Ethiopian and I’m inclined to agree. One thing I’ve learned with coffees is that every brewing method makes for a different tasting cup. While brewing won’t make a bad coffee good, it can make a good coffee bad. And while a great coffee is probably delicious however you brew it, certain styles of brewing seem to lend themselves to certain coffees. In this case, it’s the Chemex method—it makes for a really clean, softly nutty, delicious cup of coffee with a nice touch of subtle flavor of berries (I’d have to say blue or blackberries if you want to know; that said, I’m talking subtle here—it’s definitely not anything remotely like a berry smoothie). Really quite tasty.

“I’ve always loved Ethiopian coffees,” Allen shared. “We cupped dozens of them this summer, and this was the one we picked. Honestly, we tried some that cost three times what this one did, but this is the one we liked. It’s a natural process coffee. It’s from Guji, which is an area inside the region of Sidamo. We roast it very light; a bit darker and you lose all of that berry flavor. We actually discovered that by unfortunately overroasting a batch just a bit and it lost all that berry flavor. But I really don’t think that we’ve ever had a better Ethiopian at any price.”

Christmas Cookie Club – an Ann Pearlman/Zingerman’s Production
This is our second year of offering this special gift package based on local author Ann Perlman’s best selling novel, The Christmas Cookie Club. I like pretty much the whole package. I like Ann, I like that her two daughters used to work at the Roadhouse. I like that a local author who has lit up national headlines nevertheless chose to let us do the cookies (even though I’m sure she could have quickly found fifty lower-end, far bigger bakeries to do it with). I like that the story is about getting support—it’s about a group of women who get together regularly to share cookies and support. The cookies they make mostly get donated to folks in need in the community. The book came out last year and is now available in paperback, along with a follow-up, The Christmas Cookie Cookbook: All the Rules and Delicious Recipes to Start Your Own Holiday Cookie Club, and the movie is in the works.

On top of all that, each package is filled with a great set of cookies, all sealed up in a beautiful box to boot. In addition to thin little ginger crisps and pecan butterballs which are out of Ann’s book, there are also some of my long time favorites—the mint chocolate shortbread from the Bakehouse. This trio of tasty treats is packed into a book-like box designed by our graphics crew. The whole thing—especially if you pair it up with a copy of Ann’s book—would clearly make a great gift for anyone who likes to read and eat cookies, which is probably a pretty high percentage of people out in the Zingerman’s universe. Stay tuned for the Wendy Finerman-produced (Forrest Gump and The Devil Wears Prada among other famous films) movie, which is likely to start filming next fall! Ann’s been pushing hard to have the filming done here in Ann Arbor so hopefully that will work out. In the meantime, come on by and taste a cookie and celebrate some nice local success and the start of a sweet holiday season!

Going Rogue—Bean to Bar Chocolates from Minnesota
A great set of chocolate bars from Colin Gasko up in Minneapolis. Working from beans all the way through to bars, he’s doing a fantastic job of getting full flavor into his chocolates. Colin’s crafting several different bars, but I’m particularly partial right now to his Hispaniola. Few folks know the name but it’s actually the Caribbean island on which two modern day nation states—Haiti to the west, and the Dominican Republic to the east—currently coexist. The cacao for this bar comes from the latter, from a small, quality-focused co-op. The native peoples on the island were Tainos. Columbus and crew appeared in 1492 and started the process of pushing them out and bringing European influence to bear. The people became independent (again) in 1821, were quickly conquered by Haiti, and then fought a war of independence against the Haitians in 1844. The island is actually best known here at Zingerman’s because of Carlos Souffront, Deli cheese master extraordinaire, who was born there.

The key of course (I don’t really know why I bother saying it any more) is how it tastes, which I think is terrific. Everyone’s taste is, of course, their own but I’m liking this one a lot. Very nice texture—a touch on the less creamy side of things. In a good way. It’s sort of a sturdier chocolate I think than many—kind of sleek, modern Scandinavian. Not soft and overtly sensual in tropical sort of way, but more like the lines of Danish modern design.

El Rustico Chocolate Bars from Shawn Askinosie
It’s been I think three years since Shawn Askinosie started making this special bar. I loved it then and the truth is that I love it still, three years further down the road. I bought a bar the morning that I sat down to start writing this piece, and I looked forward to it all day. Dark chocolate that starts with the cacao that Shawn has personally gone down and sourced from the Soconusco region of Mexico (known since the Aztec era for the quality of its cacao) with hand-chopped bits of organic vanilla bean laced into it. Where most bars that use vanilla have it in there like background vocals, when the El Rustico goes on stage the chocolate and vanilla are singing a strong, well-balanced duet. Tangling lovingly. Delicious. My usual—full flavor, good balance, long finish. Sounds like a good recipe for living life now that I think about it. Buy a bar. Eat a square. Appreciate the work that the growers in Mexico and Shawn and his staff in Missouri have made happen. The only work we have to do with it here is to focus fully on enjoying when we nibble on it. No? Get going. Eat.

Zingerman’s Creamery Cream Cheese
A classic here too, the Creamery cream cheese is ten years in the making and I love this more than ever. There’s no way around it. I feel fortunate to have it. 99.999999 percent of the American population is living in what, in essence you might say, is some sort of original cream cheese sin; Most people have no idea that they’ve never had a chance to eat the real thing, the way it was made before all the stabilizers and stuff were added. They don’t realize it but they’ve never tasted cream cheese the way it was once made. The scene is actually so dismal that . . . it’s, I guess, akin to the way it is with wild rice—but probably worse. Hardly anyone knows that real cream cheese (as it was made over a century ago) even exists in 2010, let alone has the chance to eat it. Anyways, it’s been ages since I’ve written about this stuff so I decided it was time to get it out there again. Woe to the artisan producer who fails to tell his or her story regularly.

Will everyone love it as much I do? Probably not but . . . that’s their prerogative. Not everyone loves farmhouse cheddar or real rye bread or dark chocolate either and that doesn’t make them bad people. Just means they probably eat a lot differently than I do. And no one who grew up just fine on Philadelphia Cream Cheese is walking around worrying because they can’t find some handmade alternative that costs like six times as much. But for those of us who’ve had it, who eat in the know, the factory made cheese is to the artisan version from the Creamery (or if you have someone else near you that makes it) what Jim Northrup’s driveway rice (see page 10) would be to the really wild wild stuff he sent us from Perch Lake.

Details? The Creamery crew makes it all by hand using milk and cream from the Calder family’s farm, about 45 minutes southeast of us. Fresh milk is set with vegetarian rennet, ladled into linen bags, allowed to drain naturally, lightly salted and lastly enriched with fresh cream. The flavor is very, very good. If you’re like me and you taste it regularly you know what I’m talking about. No offense to the really amazing gelato that Josh and the creamery crew make, but I’m a savory eater not a sweet eater and I’d honestly rather eat a nice cream cheese “cone” more than I would a similarly sized one of gelato. That may sound crazy but it’s true. A scoop of cream cheese on a cone would be a good way to start the day. Of course you don’t have to have it on the cone—just put it on a Bakehouse bagel or a slice of the Caraway Rye (I go for one cut from the 2 kilo loaf which comes at the end of each week—it’s not formally on the iPhone calendar or in the Old Testament, but Friday, as a few of you I’m sure have already found out, is Ryeday!)

Of course the other great thing about this cream cheese is that it’s an extremely excellent base for a dip or spread. If you’re thinking holiday entertaining or just making a sandwich for lunch, it’s hard to do better. A bit Tunisian harissa sauce from the Mahjoub family; a spoonful of Italian olive paste. A bit of jam or jelly of your choice… or order a cone of it at the Creamery!

Zingerman’s Bakehouse Bagels
Speaking of which, I am ever more appreciative of the bagels from the Bakehouse. Frank and the bread bakers have continually worked to improve on an already very good product. And of late, there are those who find the traditional techniques to make a bagel yeild a product that’s a bit too chewy for their taste and . . . that’s their call. But having tasted bagels all over the place, there are few of the old style ones left standing. I’ll say, from the heart, that these are some of the best bagels.

A few weeks ago a woman stopped me to say that our bagels were the closest thing she can get to the much-loved Montreal bagels she grew up on and that they were the only ones here she would eat. Given that few Americans know that Montreal is the alternative capital of the bagel world, I’ll just say that that’s quite a compliment. Montrealers take their bagels every bit as seriously as New Yorkers (they just don’t make remotely as much noise about it). Anyways, very few folks in America get the chance to eat hand-shaped, truly boiled, baked on boards and then stone hearth bagels. I feel fortunate to be one of them. Toast one
up today.

Christmas Berry Honey from Hawaii
Having just spent six days in Maui earlier this fall (doing ZingTrain work with the Old Lahaina Luau group—they’re great, in case you’re going), I’ve got a much-heightened sense of Hawaii. We were fortunate to be working with folks who have a strong love and dedication to Hawaiian history, language, tradition, and food, all of which radically enhanced the richness of our experience. I’m working on getting a few Maui products into our businesses, but in the moment this is one of my favorites from the islands. It’s too good and too timely (Christmas berry?) to pass up. Great butterscotchy flavor, it’s a late season honey which means that the yields are very low.

The plant came to the islands originally from Brazil. It’s in the evergreen family, grows to about six feet with lavender to white flowers and bright red, Christmas-colored berries. Birds apparently are big on eating the berries. The bees like to land on the blossoms. I like to eat the honey they end up with! Very good by the spoonful, in tea or with cheese—try it with that Comte or a bit of Marieke Penterman’s Wisconsin raw milk gouda.

Aji Amarillo: Amazing Yellow Chile from Peru
Some people get excited about big TV appearances and book releases. I get going when we’re able to get really amazing but almost unknown (in Ann Arbor) traditional foods from other parts of the world. So with that in mind I’m super psyched that this amazing chile has arrived in Ann Arbor from Peru. Aji Amarillo means “yellow chile,” but don’t let the rather mundane literal translation lead you to underestimate its importance in the homeland of the Incas. To quote Betsy Power, our importer who’s grown ever more passionate about Peruvian foods in the last few years, “It’s the soul of Peruvian cooking.”

While I haven’t yet been in person (I’ll get there soon, don’t worry), I’m getting the sense that Aji Amarillo is to Peru what green chile is to New Mexico. While the latter likely means little to those who don’t haven’t spent time in the Land of Enchantment (see the essay I wrote on it ages ago on the Roadhouse website), I’ll just say that visiting New Mexico during chile season it is a big deal. It’s in everyone’s home. It’s on every menu and at every market; New Mexicans long for it when they’re away from home for more than a few days. I’m getting the sense that much the same is true for Aji Amarillo. Rick Bayless taught me ages ago that chiles are actually the key to the flavors of the food in many Central and South American dishes. Although up here we tend to think of the chiles as accent, in their respective homelands, chiles are actually the key flavors on the plate, not the pork, poultry, beef, or fish that might get more attention up here. Basically chiles are the chimes that ring the bell of Latin American cooking.

This particular source, through the work of the above-mentioned Betsy Power, comes from one of the first organic farms in Peru. They’re near Chincha, grown at the edge of the Peruvian desert. It sounds like they’ve done some very nice work to train local growers in organic techniques, provide health care and infrastructure. The flavor of the Aji Amarillo is hot for sure, though not enough to smoke you out. Well, that’s a personal judgment—everyone’s heat preference is their own. For me at least . . . Aji Amarillo is notably hot without searing my senses. It’s got a light, slightly citrusy flavor to go with the heat.

Peru is probably the homeland of the original chiles. They use any number of chiles but as Betsy Power put it so nicely, the Aji Amarillo is the star of their chile show. Use it in ceviche for sure. I’ve been doing a simple chile sauce (a bit of olive oil, warmed, with a touch of flour stirred in and then ground yellow chile added. Stir in a bit of warm water. Simmer softly for a few minutes. Add a bit of sea salt to taste). I like it with . . . pretty much everything! Fish, scallops, vegetables, meat of most every sort. Comes in a paste too so you can spread it on sandwiches. If you like pepper jelly, you could up the Aji ante a bit and spread it on some slices of rustic Italian bread with your favorite jam. Chile and jelly sandwiches.

Really Wild Wild Rice
It’s probably been ten years now since I wrote the chapter on really wild wild rice in Zingerman’s Guide to Good Eating. But this all-American food has been on my mind and my table a lot again of late, inspired in part by dialoguing with Meg Noori, who teaches Ojibwe at U-M and is doing amazing work to get language down in writing and up in regular use. (Email me and I’ll fill you in on my covert campaign to make Michigan the “Aanii State.”) But in the moment I’ll share a couple or six key points about what makes this totally traditional aquatic grass (yes, wild rice is not a rice; you can chalk the name up to more confusion from the early European settlers here—they thought it looked like rice so that’s the name it got.) so good.

Confusion remains the norm even now, hundreds of years later. The problem today is that hardly any of what’s sold as “wild rice” in this country is actually wild any more. Sad but true, something like 90 percent of the product sold from supermarket shelves and cooked in restaurant kitchens is actually an odd cultivated (that’s right, not wild) cousin. While the latter probably isn’t genetically modified, it easily could be. The total truth is that the real thing—really wild wild rice—and what amounts to a commercial counterfeit—have almost nothing in common other than a modestly shared appearance and half a name. It’s some sort of agro-culinary silliness without the soul. The commercial bastardization of the authentic article is basically baseless. I’m sure at some out of touch (and out of tune) level, the people who did the work to make it happen were nice enough. But those who grow it, have, I think ended up in a situation that is akin to marketing goldfish (crackers) as wild salmon. The shape and color are kind of the similar and the word “fish” is on the label of each, but beyond that . . . you tell me?

Just to get the point across again before I move on to the more positive part of this—telling you about how great the real stuff really is—Jim Northrup, author of Rez Road has sworn off even using the name wild rice. He says it’s been so degraded as to be basically banned from his conversation and his regular newspaper column. Instead he’ll only use the Ojibwe word for it, Manoonmin. He also told me that on the reservation in Minnesota, the cultivated paddy grown stuff from California is known as “driveway rice”—you can use it, he says, like rock salt on the road when it gets slippery.

By contrast is honestly probably one of the world’s most spiritually-sound, culinarily-compelling, historically-interesting foods. There are, of course, many others and I’m not trying to rank them. I just merely want to continue to convey how special really wild wild rice is. As I said above, really wild wild rice is not actually rice—it’s an aquatic grass that’s native to much of the northern part of North America. Having had its habitat encroached upon by the sprawl of modern cities and pollution problems, it’s now mostly found in Minnesota (some still here in Michigan, the Aanii State) and then a good bit up in Canada. It grows (this is the real stuff, not the substitute) on the lakes and rivers and is harvested every year in late summer or early autumn depending on the sun and other good stuff like that.

Really wild wild rice is still totally hand gathered—two humans, a canoe, one long pole to push, two sticks to “knock” the rice into the front of the canoe, one “Creator” (to use the Ojibwe term), a little luck, and a good bit of skill. Ricers have their secret spots in the same way fly fisherfolk do. The “green” rice is gathered, parched, husked, winnowed and dried for storage. Unlike the pseudo stuff (which takes upwards of an hour to cook and still isn’t really done—see the Jim Northrup quote in the Guide to Good Eating) the real thing is actually incredibly convenient. It’s an enormous amount of work to gather and get ready to eat, but once we buy it, it’s actually naturally fast once you get it into the kitchen. Just put it in boiling water and simmer with some salt for about 15-20 minutes (times vary depending on the lake and the vintage), drain and eat.

Honestly I kind of like to eat it just like that. Simple. Delicious. It’s nutty, its nice. It’s subtly earthy. Beautifully in balance and extremely clean, with a lovely long finish. So yeah . . . I really kind of just like it the way it is, either as a main course, or on the side with most anything else. But I wouldn’t be a good Ojibwe-phile if I didn’t like to dress it with either a bit of hot bacon fat or, alternatively, some maple sugar (or syrup, which is, of course, just maple sugar with more liquid left in). In fact, it’s actually good with a bit of both; I guess it’s an Ojibwe alternative to a bacon and pancake breakfast.

On top of all that, really wild wild rice is a very healthy food. Look it up online—I’ll spare you the nutritional details here since space is short. It’s also an enormously important element in Ojibwe history, culture, religion and economics, all in one amazing, native American (or Native American depending on how you want to hear the word) food. I just ate a little bowlful for my midday snack and I’m totally satiated.

In the moment, I’m eating the stuff we have at the Roadhouse which came, literally, from Jim Northrup’s personal stash from this past summer’s “ricing.” I can’t really tell you that a great writer’s rice is necessarily going to be better than any other ricer’s, but Jim’s been ricing for nearly six decades now, and at least I think Jim’s is exceptionally delicious.

Fresh Candy from Zingerman’s Candy Manufactory
It’s kind of strange when you think about it, but actually a couple entire generations of Americans have been raised without ever eating fresh candy. Seriously, while per capita candy consumption is probably higher than ever, the truth is that unless you work in the factory and get to take home some seconds from that day’s production, no one in the U.S. is eating fresh candy. Not surprisingly—artisan candy is a food like any other—you can most definitely taste the difference the freshness makes. How do I know? Because we have our own little artisan Candy Manufactory, right here in Ann Arbor which means we all get to consume candy that was made within a matter of days and weeks.

On top of the freshness factor, the other thing hardly any Americans have gotten to eat is candy made from really great ingredients. While nearly every other element of the food world has been elevated in the last twenty years thanks to the work of all the amazing artisans in the US (including those within our own organization at the Bakehouse, Creamery, Candy and Coffee companies), candy remains something that is still almost always only consumed in its mass market, highly industrialized commercial form. Thanks to the work of Charlie Frank and his little crew (thanks Sara!) at the Candy Manufactory you and I are able to avoid that problem. We get to eat fresh Zzang! artisan candy bars, made from the same kind of excellent, full-flavored ingredients that we use everywhere else in the Zingerman’s Community. And not surprisingly, you can totally taste the difference. It’s a rare day that goes by that some first time candy taster here doesn’t declare something along the lines of “Wow! I’m never going back to the other stuff!”

If you haven’t had a chance to taste a handmade Zzang! bar—we have four varieties: Original, Ca$hew Cow, What the Fudge? and Wowza—definitely stop by the Bakehouse, Deli, Coffee Co. or Roadhouse and ask for a taste today. If you’re not near here, check the Candy Manufactory website to see which towns across the country now have local shops selling them. And if you’re looking for a gift for a candy lover near and dear to you, don’t miss out on the new four-packs with the special gift card insert. Easy way to win friends and influence people in a very fresh, full-flavored traditional way!

Two-Year-Old Comte Cheese from Valoreille
Comte is hardly new on our counters. This isn’t really even from a new source—we’ve been buying this classic mountain cheese from Eastern France from friend Daphne Zepos and the folks at the Fort St. Antoine for many years now. But this batch is so good as to be impossible not to include here. I gave it a wholehearted 9.8 on a ten-point scale, and I’m not an easy grader. The Deli retail crew liked it so much they sold half a wheel in the first few days the cheese was in. Lest you think that’s not all that impressive you should know that each handmade round of Comte comes in at about 80-plus pounds.

This outstandingly compelling Comte comes from a fruitiere (village creamery) called Valoreille, right in the middle of Valoreille village, very close to the Swiss border, about 1200 feet up. If you’ve never had a good wheel of Comte (or even if you have) I would all out totally really recommend getting over to the Deli to do up with a bit of this one. Seriously, it’s that good. While mass market Comte can be rather on the mild side of things in a “nice but who needs it?” kind of way, these wheels from Valoreille are something special. They’re gutsy without being over the top, clearly in the same family as say Gruyere. Nutty, buttery, bold, this is the kind of Comte that puts its arms around you and gives you a big hug or a firm handshake, all the while holding meaningful eye contact. Honestly I’ve been eating it just as is along with some buttered French Mountain Bread (from the 2 kilo loaf). But it’s great on salad with toasted walnuts and walnut oil. Or in a fondue Comtoise for some cold weather entertaining. Supremely good cheese. Check it out ASAP!

First Flush Darjeeling Jungpana
On the list of top ten questions I get asked almost every week, there’s almost always some version of: “If you could only take one ___ to a deserted island what would it be?” I think of it more like if I could only take one thing to an all day meeting; no offense to nature but the odds of me getting stranded on some island with nothing on it are next to nil, whereas, not complaining, the odds of sitting through an all day planning session are fairly high. Which is why the radically more relevant question actually could be,“If I could take only one tea with me to an all day partner offsite, which one would it be?” The likely answer, right now at least? Although there are actually half a dozen teas I’d actually happily take with me to the meeting, what I’ve been drinking for the last few days has been the new season—2010—First Flush Darjeeling. This year it’s from the Jungpana estate in West Bengal. Even for mountainous regions, the Jungpana garden is particularly hard to get to. There was no road going in to it until recently. The tea came out and supplies went in only by mule. Today the tea still has to be carried down five hundred feet on 380 concrete steps to get to the road.

Anyways, all that background left aside, the reality is that First Flush Darjeeling has long been one of my favorite teas. And this one’s making me really happy. Better, I think than any I’ve had in a long time. Amber. Alive. Nutty. Hard to describe. Like a lock with fifteen tumblers. Starts out turning your taste buds one way, then back a bit, then back in the direction you started out in. “Mysteries of the universe” might be excessive, but it really does have a kind of hard to describe, full mouthfeel that sort of spreads out first sideways, then slowly from there to the top and down the bottom. It’s a long nice finish that sits well on the palate. It has some of the tannins that I like a lot. If you don’t like them, first flush probably isn’t the tea for you. Vanessa Sly (the Deli’s tea mistress) and I have tasted dozens and dozens of Darjeelings over the years. Interestingly both of us decided independently we loved this one way more than any of the others. If you want something more well-rounded, I’d day stick with Yunnan or Second Flush Darjeeling (don’t get me wrong—I like those too). But if you want a tea that will take you radically left of center, intentionally out of balance in a way that will lift your taste buds out of any spell in the middle of the market, this tea’s for you!