When the Layover is Just the Beginning

I thought our night in Albuquerque was going to be one of those means-to-an-end stops.  The “means” being a late night arrival from the East Coast, needing a bed on which to put our heads and a restaurant to fill our bellies the next day before we hit the road.  The “end” being those more desirable, storied parts of New Mexico- Santa Fe, Taos- for which we were destined.

As with so many times when I have had no expectations, a city managed to surprise me. 

John had booked the Hotel Andaluz with little more to go on than their claim to be the only boutique hotel in Albuquerque.  Driving through the rather desolate streets of downtown, in the shadow of large, chain hotels, it was a bit of a shock (and a relief) to walk into serene interior of the Andaluz, complete with intricate wood paneling seemingly lifted of the walls of some Moorish hacienda in Spain.

It turned out the Andaluz is the only historic hotel still standing in Albuquerque.  After a recent $30 million renovation it is unique in an otherwise sea of standard room offerings.  Though just steps from the Convention Center and the somewhat seedy nightlife of Central Avenue, the Andaluz had the charm more often found in boutique hotel-rich cities like San Francisco and Miami.  Further, at only $100 for the room, the Andaluz would turn out to be the best hotel deal in our three week American West Road Trip.

By the time we checked in, the hotel’s restaurant, run by one of New Mexico’s most well respected chefs, had long since closed.  But the pleasant woman at the front desk recommended a nearby bar she claimed to hang out at herself on her nights off. 

Crowd lining up to order at the counter at Frontier.

Even though it was past midnight on a Monday, The Anodyne did not make us feel unwelcome.  There were still enough people milling about, playing pool, or nursing a beer from one of the thirty-plus taps that we felt right at home.  The bar doesn’t serve food but we had heard there were chips and salsa available, apparently all gone by the time we arrived.   Unperturbed, we ordered a Macallan each and called that dinner.

Even before the hotel clerk recommended Anodyne, it turns out we had already heard the best tip we would have from a local.  The employee at Thrifty Car Rental, a friendly girl with white-blond hair dip-dyed Smurf-blue, had given us the full run down at the counter on all her favorite things to do in the area.  Frontier, she insisted, was the place to go if we wanted a taste of “real” Southwestern cuisine. 

Frontier was the sort of restaurant we would have driven right by without a second look if not for the recommendation.  The red and white barn exterior, not to mention its location directly across from the university, seemed more Waffle House than Beacon of Authentic Southwestern Cuisine.

Chicken enchiladas with chopped green chiles. 

I realized with one bite of my chicken enchiladas buried under a mountain of chopped New Mexican green chiles with just the smallest sprinkle of melted cheddar, that all these years I had been eating enchiladas the wrong way.  As for John’s adovada soft tacos, I had never before heard of that particular way of marinating pork in a red chile sauce.  The heat on both was just right- the slow tingling that develops over time without burying the flavors of the sweet marinade, savory pulled meats, and salty chips on the side.

It was hard to imagine we would eat better Southwestern food after Frontier, and that was our very first meal in New Mexico.  There would be more excellent meals as we took the high road out of town to Santa Fe and then on to Taos. But that first amazing meal, on the recommendation of a total stranger, was a good reminder than on a road trip, sometimes the “means” was the “end” you were looking for all along.

Hotel Andaluz
125 2nd St NW Albuquerque, NM, 87102888 734 8503

Anodyne
409 Central NW, Albuquerque, NM 87102

Frontier
2400 Central Ave SE, Albuquerque, NM 87106

Amy Powell is a food and travel writer currently on her honeymoon, en route to a new home in Hong Kong. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell

As Some Locals Do: Paris

Baguette shopping in the 16th

 Is there anything better than a weekend in Paris?  Mais oui! How about a weekend in Paris staying with dear friends in their très chic flat in the 16^th arrondissement?  In our case, said flat and hospitable friends came complete with two smart and charming teenage children, a well stocked wine cave, and one fluffy, excitable Tibetan terrier named Bandit.  (If I could have taken home one souvenir in my suitcase, it would have been him.)

Perhaps staying beneath the mansard roofs in the lofty confines of the 16^th, adjacent to the spectacular Haussmann commissioned park, Bois de Boulogne, is not every Parisian’s experience of home.  But for our friends, this has been their world for the last ten years and we were more than happy to tag along for their typical weekend affairs.

If you really want to rub elbows with the locals, the Saturday market is the way to go.  We grabbed a pushcart (we are told it is standard practice for tout le monde to bring your own reusable shopping bags and carts) and headed to the nearest out-door market to help our friends stock up on food for the week.

The crêperie

As John and I were on vacation, and it was his birthday weekend, calories were of no concern as we saddled up to the crêperie and ordered two with ham, cheese, and a cracked egg.  Our friends explained that the young couple behind the griddle had just recently purchased the stand from another older couple that had hung up their aprons to move into retirement.  This was surely hard work, setting up a moving restaurant each morning in a new market site, but if their early efforts at crêpe-making were any indication of what the future will bring, I expect they will find much success.

Making Lebanese "pancakes"

Our next stop was the Lebanese pancake stand for a stack of stuffed flatbreads that their kids would reheat like pizza throughout the week.  On the way we passed a long line at a vegetable seller.   Our friend told us the line was for kale. Kale?  You mean the lowly vegetable that has been in fashion on New York salad plates for years?  Yes, that vegetable.  Thanks to an enterprising expat who started pushing farmers to grow the plant as part of The Kale Project, the curly variety has slowly grown a following in Paris to the point where lines form on Saturday mornings just to get a coveted bunch.

But the weekend was not all shopping and home-cooking.  We were in Paris, after all, birthplace of haute cuisine, steak frites, and the practice of eating cheese for dessert.  A couple of meals out were in order.

Paris-Brest at Paul Bert

First up was a return to a classic I had visited a year earlier, Bistrot Paul Bert.  At a time when as many as 70% of French restaurants are buying food from large industrial kitchens instead of cooking from scratch, Bistrot Paul Bert may be the last of a dying breed of what we outsiders consider the “classic” French bistro. 

The cheese course

My entrée of braised beef cheeks came in an adorable cocotte, the lid removed by the waiter and hung off the side, I was enveloped in the aromas of slow cooked meat in red wine with winter vegetables.  Someone must order the steak frites, and that task landed with the birthday boy, who declared it one of the best he’d ever had.  A bottle of Anne Gros Richebourg 2009 chosen by our hosts was as sublime as a Burghound like me would expect.  Even though fine wine here is served in tiny glasses perhaps better suited to juice as opposed to a more appropriate goblet, the effect just added to the restaurant’s charm. 

It is nearly impossible to not order dessert or cheese at Paul Bert, as with the prix fixe menu it amounts to a single euro more than you would be spending ordering and appetizer and entrée à la carte. Then, we hardly needed persuading watching plates with Paris-Brest the size of tracker-trailer wheels whisk past, bound for other tables.  Then there was the cheese course, which here is served as the entire board of fromage and an eat-what-you-will policy.  I’m sure Parisians generally take respectable slivers.  Confronted with such a magnificent display it was hard not to carve off pie-sized slices for myself of the pungent Camembert, Morbier, and Tomme de Chevre.

Sole meunière at Le Relais du Bois

Sunday evening, generally our favorite night for going out to dinner in New York, is a challenge in Paris.  The French take their days of rest seriously judging by how few restaurants are open Sundays.  However on this particular night, one place in the 16^th was not only open for business, it was packed to the point of a wait outside.

Cassoulet as it should be

Le Relais du Bois is the sort of dimly lit, old-fashioned, health department-be-damned type restaurant that I dream of.  The sole meunière came perfectly crisp and adorned with a few boiled potatoes and a single lemon wedge.  The cassoulet was bursting with nine kinds of meat and a breadcrumb crust crisp enough to rival the crack of a crème brulée. The crème fraîche to accompany the tarte tatin was served in a giant urn with a spoon to scoop as much as you please.  And if it was possible to feel more relaxed and homey here, dogs even have a place at the table, at least under the table and assuming they behave as well as Bandit did that evening. 

During our weekend the Paris of postcards was never far away- the Eiffel Tower looming on the skyline behind the outdoor market, the drive past Notre Dame on the way to dinner.  But to have such iconic views while still tagging along for the everyday routines of a few who live there we felt almost, for a weekend at least, like locals.

Amy Powell is a food and travel writer based in New York City. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell

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A Winning Recipe for Oscar Night

"Ligurian Chicken"

Who’s your money on for Best Picture?  Did you pick Gravity in the office pool?  Or maybe you are banking on actor favorite American Hustle to take the gold statuette?  Or perhaps after the Golden Globe Awards, BAFTAs, and various Guilds (Director, Writer, Actor, etc. etc.) you are just ready for this Oscar campaigning to be done with so we can get a jump start on watching the nominees for next year’s race.

No matter who you are rooting for, there’s a pretty good chance you will be part of the 40 million people who tune in Sunday night for the glittery dresses, tearful speeches, inevitable gaffes, and of course, those fateful envelopes.

And if you are cuddling up to the television for the evening, you are going to need something to eat.  Given how long this show runs, might I suggest something hearty enough for the long haul and comforting enough to soothe the pain of watching your favorites lose (or just losing the office pool)?

Typically food for Oscar viewing parties seems to run the theme of elegant cocktail affair, with snack food as dolled up as the starlets themselves- think truffled popcorn, caviar blinis, champagne cocktails, and gold-dusted chocolates.

But you don’t have to wear a cleavage bearing skin-tight dress and stand in front of the cameras, so why not embrace your comfortable digs, throw on some sweatpants and eat something a little more substantial?

As this year would have it, there is some good inspiration hidden in the award nominee lineup.  (No, I’m not talking serving astronaut ice cream in solidarity with Sandra Bullock.)

Between the gorgeous shots of Rome, haunting music, and existential crisis of the main character in Best Foreign Film nominee The Great Beauty, there is actually a recipe- a recipe that ends up being a crucial part of minor character’s personality sketch. 

At a dinner held in honor of a nun nicknamed “The Saint”, a self-absorbed, pampered Catholic Cardinal tries in vain to horde attention as he explains how to make coniglio alla Ligure, or Ligurian Rabbit.  As he walks through the steps of cutting the rabbit into pieces, browning each in olive oil, adding olives, tomatoes, and wine, I had a moment of recognition.  I know this recipe!  In fact, I have been making it for years. 

It all started with a similar recipe from a Jamie Oliver cookbook.  Rabbit, however, can be hard to find.  And though I’m a big fan, I understand some people can’t get past thinking “Thumper” when they see rabbit is on the menu.  So I adapted the recipe to work with chicken, a fine substitute and a universal crowd pleaser. 

Browning the chicken

Essentially, the steps I do are the same as the cardinal’s.  I start by dredging a quartered chicken in seasoned flour then brown each piece in a heavy pot (think Le Creuset) with a good amount of olive oil.  To the pot I add a sliced onion, garlic, pitted olives, chopped tomatoes, and rosemary.  White wine comes up to the sides of the meat and a lid goes on.  Twenty-five minutes later the house is fragrant, and dinner is made.  All you need is a good loaf of crusty bread to sop up the juices. 

All ingredients in the pot

In the movie, the cardinal’s grandstanding may have failed to impress the other dinner guests, but the recipe made an impression on me.  A few nights after watching the film I cut up a small chicken and made a pot of Ligurian Chicken.  John and I polished off a baguette dipping the bread into our bowls to soak up the rich braising liquid. 

There will certainly be well-dressed people on Sunday night who go home empty-handed.  And you might not win the office pool.  But when it comes to viewing party food, there's no excuse to feel glum.  With dish of movie-inspired braised chicken to dig into, everyone is a winner.

Another food that plays a prominent role is the blackberries that Solomon Northrop crushes to make a form of ink in order to write a letter in 12 Years a Slave.  Blackberries are not in season now, but if you can find a pint, a simple dessert of berries with maybe a dollop of whipped cream would be a fitting finish. 

Ligurian Chicken

1 small chicken, quartered

1/3 cup flour

1 tsp. salt

½ tsp. ground black pepper

3 T. olive oil

1 small onion, cut in half and thinly sliced

4 garlic cloves, lightly crushed

8 kalamata olives, pitted

2 Roma tomatoes, chopped

2 spring rosemary

½ bottle dry white wine

salt and pepper to taste

Quarter a small chicken or have your butcher do it for you, leaving skin on.  Mix flour with 1 tsp. salt and ½ tsp. black pepper on a large plate.  Dredge each piece of chicken in the flour mixture shaking off excess.  Heat olive oil in a large heavy pot over medium high heat.  Add breast pieces skin side down.  Cook until crisp and browned.  Turn over for a minute on the other side.  Remove to a plate and let rest.  Add thigh pieces to the pot skin side down.  When thighs are browned on the skin side, turn over.  Add onion and garlic around the chicken thighs.  Cook for 3-4 minutes until onion has begun to soften.  Nestle breast pieces and their juices back in the pot with the thighs and onion.  Scatter olives and tomatoes with their juices around the chicken.  Tuck two sprigs of rosemary in with the chicken.  Add wine until it comes ¾ of the way up the sides of the meat, but do not fully cover.  Bring wine to a boil.  Reduce heat to medium low.  Place the pot lid on leaving it slightly askew to let out some steam and allow the wine to reduce.  Cook for about 20-25 minutes until chicken is cooked through and liquid is slightly reduced.  Add additional salt and pepper if necessary to the sauce.  Remove and discard the rosemary.  Serve chicken with the braising liquid and a side of crusty bread. 

Amy Powell is a food and travel writer based in New York City. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell