In high school, an old boyfriend took me to a tiny, fancypants French restaurant in a neighboring beach city, named after a wine we couldn’t pronounce. Based on that fact alone, we knew it was going to be a worthy (and expensive) place to spend our first anniversary.

The two of us were completely out of place in this cramped dining room, tucked away from view in a corner nearest the bathroom. Other diners were either yuppies discussing business deals over elegantly plated dishes, or the retired crowd, with men in khaki pants and women dripping in jewelry. All of them carried on their conversations looking completely at ease, as if they knew the scene in the dining room was built for them to be part of it. I looked at my beau, who upon being seated, had immediately buried his face in his leatherbound menu. Though I sensed he was also uncomfortable, he said not a word about it.

It’s funny how totally unrelated things can trigger a memory. If you can believe it, that awkward memory surfaced after I sat through an IHOP commercial. The ad is for the restaurant’s all-you-can-eat pancake promotion where a man eats a stack that magically regenerates right before his eyes (see clip). He’s got this baffled look on his face that I’m sure I had when I was stumbling through those French words all those years ago.

The pancake guy’s good fortune stuck with me throughout the week. Who doesn’t have a meal they would love to eat all over again, either because of the food or company? I’d pay to relive the first date I had with my current boyfriend, where we wolfed down wood-fired hot dogs with bacon and mushrooms. Or when I sat down to a chicken roulade meal in my best friend’s new home with her new husband, an ocean away from where we met. Or even that awkward meal I had at that now-shuttered French restaurant, just so I could choose a dish based on something I liked, rather than through a meticulous system of tallying how many ingredients we recognized in each description. I bet that regenerating-pancake guy doesn’t know how good he has it. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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My Food 101 column on beef burgundy ran today in The Orange County Register (woo!), and I’m relieved that So Cal’s weather is finally cooling down. Two days ago, I was fretting mess, imagining faceless people reading the paper in shorts and big sunglasses, chuckling at the thought of attempting my recipe given the hot weather. I love sunny weather as much as the next person, but who wants to eat a winter braise when it’s 85 degrees out? Thank you Mother Nature, for sending rain and allowing me to appear relevant.

• Say ‘Oui’ to beef Burgundy
• By CYNTHIA FUREY
• Special to the Register

Boeuf Bourguignon is a classic French dish, both hearty and elegant when served over mashed potatoes, thick egg noodles or with a crusty baguette to sop up the flavorful sauce. Maybe you’ve shied away from making it the past because it sounds difficult (heaven only knows that I did), but fancy French dishes are often easier than they sound. “Boeuf Bourguignon” essentially translates to “Beef Burgundy,” or beef cooked with Burgundy wine. This French stew is a great intro to cooking with wine if you never have before.

Classically, the dish starts on the stove and finishes in the oven, but you can skip the oven and continue the braising process stovetop. Use a heavy-bottomed pot if you have one, and when in the home-stretch simmer, turn the burner on as low as you can go without the flame flickering. The stew will braise slowly, resulting in a home filled with the sweet aroma of wine, and a pot full of fork-tender chunks of beef.

Most braising recipes call for a sturdy cut of meat that can withstand the low and slow cooking without turning into mush. Cuts like beef chuck and stew meat work well because they contain a lot of collagen, a strong connective tissue that eventually melts down into a gelatin. The result is soft, buttery meat that you can pull apart with your hands (or fork). While you’re cooking, you can actually see this process for yourself: In its initial cooking stages, the meat cubes seem to seize up, and it becomes difficult jab with a fork. But as time passes on and the collagen melts away, the beef becomes softer, taking on the flavors of the wine, until finally you are left with meat that falls apart and is a delight to eat.

Before cutting beef into cubes, trim meat of excess fat, paying close attention to the silver skin, a silvery, thick membrane that may be present on top of the chuck roast. This is inedible. To remove, run your knife under the silver skin and peel it back from the roast.

There are differing opinions on what quality of wine to use while cooking. Some believe that you can use a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck and the stew will be just as flavorful as if you had used a Reserve or high-end wine. And then there are some that swear by cooking with the latter. I’ve always adhered to this rule: If it’s a wine you wouldn’t drink, don’t use it to cook. Which means, if you’ve been known to toss back a glass of Two-Buck Chuck and not even flinch (and there’s nothing wrong with that), then you will be fine using it in your dish. Always use a wine that you enjoy drinking. In this recipe, you can also substitute other dry red wines for Burgundy, like Pinot Noir, Bordeaux or Cabernet Sauvignon.

This recipe is simple: You finish the initial preparation, then dump everything into a pot and let the heat do all of the work. A bonus: Boeuf Bourguignon is more flavorful the following day (the sitting time allows for the flavors to meld) so it’s a great do-ahead dish for a dinner party. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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Beware, fellow foodies, of the population that boasts membership to our brotherhood but who are actually in a different class all to themselves. They’re called “food snobs.” And they’re very, very dangerous.

Foodies are always looking for what we call “authentic” cuisine, but we know that the term is a loose one and can mean any number of things, depending on the individual foodie. But for food snobs, the word “authentic” is rigidly defined.

Examples: Food snobs wanting Italian will only go to a place owned by a Scarface mob boss twirling his moustache and plotting your off if you make a face like his Nonna’s spaghetti has too much salt. For a bowl of pho, food snobs will only walk into the shoebox-of-a-restaurant with a lucky dollar on the wall and an English-translated menu that you want to edit with a thick, red Sharpie.

Foodies also frequent these places (which are actually quite good), but unlike food snobs, we are willing to try that Italian place owned by Koreans or the Vietnamese place out in the middle of Kansas. Food snobs will not.

Food snobs also think “authentic” means “extreme.” $50 for cassoulet at a French bistro? Authentique. 50 cents for a street taco? Muy autentico. Foodies love these places too, but we also frequent places where cassoulet doesn’t cost an arm and a leg and tacos cost $5. Food snobs will not.

Foodies know that cuisine can be authentic as long as it’s made with good intentions. Which means we think stellar of that pizza place owned by the blond with the beer gut. Which means we heart Rick Bayless. In the eyes of a foodie, the people who produce authentic food are the people who produce dishes enthusiastically, with passion. People like you and me.

So what else does authenticity mean to foodies? It means that you can make chicken tikka masala without a drop of Indian blood coursing through your veins. And it means that I, a Viet/Irish/Italian hybrid, can make a decent bowl of pho. My recipe may not be authentic by food-snob definition, but you can be sure that its intentions are good.

(CLICK ON LINK BELOW FOR RECIPE)

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Have you ever read “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant”? It’s a collection of stories in which food writers divulge their secrets of what they eat when they’re alone (and some of it’s not foie gras, that’s for sure). Each story is poetic, telling of loneliness and comfort, whether eating eggplants for months or ingurgitating ingredients that should never have been paired (think egg noodles with cottage cheese).

I have my own version of the latter. It’s my Favorite Things sandwich. The beauty of a Favorite Things sandwich is that a person can have more than one. Mine changes with whatever’s available in my apartment: Sometimes it’s peanut butter, almonds, bananas and chocolate chips on Wonderbread; once it was turkey breast, ground beef, cream cheese and bacon bits on toasted and buttered sourdough. A Favorite Things sandwich can be made of anything you want, even leftovers. The only condition is that it has to be comprised of your favorites. It also has to be eaten alone, or if you must, in the company of someone whom you trust. I wouldn’t eat a Favorite Things sandwich in front of just anybody.

Normally, each blog post begins with a food photo. This post is an exception, simply because I fear that my honesty may appall some of you. Sometimes, Favorite Things sandwiches can’t be pretty, no matter how hard you try. And while this isn’t as bad as some of the Favorite Things sandwiches I’ve had in the past, I still hesitate. The choice is yours, you may click on the link below for a visual and recipe for my latest Favorite Things sandwich. Or you can pretend I said nothing at all.

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If ever there was a particular herb or scent to describe my mother, it’s ginger. It’s her go-to remedy for almost all ailments headaches, flu, whatever you got. When I was a kid, with even the slightest sniffle, she was in the kitchen tossing bits of the nubby little root into a stock pot full of water.

When the pot had boiled, her voice bellowed through the walls into the bedroom we shared, through the sheets and used Kleenex I had burrowed under. It was one word, both used as an announcement and a stern command. “Steam!!”

I shuffled from my bed into the kitchen, where my mother stood exactly as I had pictured she would be: Upright, one hand on her hip and the other hand pointing downward at the ginger pot on the floor, in front of the wooden stool my grandfather had made.

I handed her a wad of Kleenex as I positioned myself on the stool, crouched uncomfortably over the pot that was between my knees. My mom hurled a blanket over my head and the pot, sealing me into a little heat pod. Scalding steam rose from the water, stinging my face. I cried out in discomfort.

“You have to do it,” she said, as I whimpered from under the blanket. She firmly believed that the ginger would cure the sniffles. So I sat, breathing in deeply the spicy-sweet aroma, at the same time trying to keep my knees from touching the sides of the pot. After I emerged from the blanket I was a defeated, sweaty mess. But the sniffles? Gone. I was usually back to normal the following day.

We did this ritual every time I got sick – even well into my teens, when I much preferred self-medication to ancient herbal remedies that had been passed down the family tree.

It’s been years since I’ve posed over a pot of boiling ginger, that is, until I made this recipe for ginger crème brulee. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for more)

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