Chocolate gravy and biscuits

A friend and I were comparing notes about our favorite childhood treats. As I was raving about my grandma’s chocolate pie, my friend said, “So how’s your grandma’s chocolate gravy?” Huh? Chocolate gravy—is that like mole, I asked. Nope, it’s spooned on biscuits, she said. I had to admit that I’d never heard of chocolate gravy; clearly I’d been deprived.

Curious why I had been denied the joys of chocolate gravy all my life, I called my grandma and demanded an explanation. “Why don’t you make chocolate gravy?” I asked. She replied, “Because I don’t know what it is.”

I see. Apparently, my grandma was in the dark on this secret as well. My only consolation? At least I wasn’t alone.



So what’s the provenance of chocolate gravy? Because I know everything, I assumed that if I hadn’t heard of it, then it must not be Texan.

I was wrong.

I poked around and not only had my friend—a long-standing Texan—grown up eating it within slapping distance of Dallas, but other Texan friends had been eating it all their lives as well. I heard chocolate-gravy stories from friends as far west as Midland and as far south as Houston. Though friends who had grown up in Arkansas, Tennessee and Georgia had also indulged, so it’s not particular to just Texas. But no matter, my family had been missing out on a very good thing.

I needed to make up for lost time. A little research revealed that there hadn’t been much chocolate-gravy recipe evolution over the years. The biggest schism I found in the chocolate-gravy community was whether to use milk or water as your liquid. I was surprised that no one had thrown some chipotle or bacon into their gravy, but actually this pleased me as it proved that chocolate gravy was indeed a classic that didn’t need any tinkering. But enough about thinking, it was time to eat.

I made my first batch and it was a deep, dark concoction—smooth, creamy and thick. I sliced a biscuit in half and plopped some chocolate gravy on each half. My first bite revealed this gravy’s pleasures. Its pudding-like consistency is pure comfort on a cold, winter morning. And while biscuits are in no way virtuous, their texture and heft prevents the gravy from sliding into total decadence, which is important as this is a breakfast treat after all, not dessert.



Does chocolate gravy and biscuits replace my beloved chocolate pie? No, but I certainly wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to pass an occasional morning with it poured on top of a biscuit. And am I the only one who didn’t grow up eating this? No matter, I am very, very pleased to finally make its acquaintance.

Chocolate gravy
Ingredients:
3/4 cup of sugar
1/4 cup of flour
1/4 cup of cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
2 cups of milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon of butter

Method:
Mix together in a pot the sugar, flour, cocoa powder, salt and cinnamon (can sift if it’s too lumpy). Add the milk and while stirring cook on medium heat until it thickens. Stir in the vanilla and butter and serve immediately with biscuits.

Notes: As you can see in the photos I topped mine with some chopped pecans. If you’re not a purist, I highly recommend this; hazelnuts would be delicious as well. And if you’re feeling extra spicy, go ahead and throw in a pinch of Cayenne or chipotle powder!

And this is how fellow-Texan Shawnda makes her Granny's chocolate gravy.

Keep reading...

Queso flameado

I know that somewhere in my head there are eloquent words to describe my love of queso flameado, but right now I’m just too tuckered out from work to find them. Yes, I am very fortunate to have a job—I’m not complaining. But perhaps I’d find my staid desk job a bit more invigorating if there was an element of risk involved.

Take my stint as a Mexican restaurant waitress during college. Sure, I worked there mainly for the endless baskets of chips and salsa and after-work margaritas, but I have to admit the occasional opportunity to serve queso flameado had its appeal as well.

Queso flameado, which you might know as queso fundido, is a bubbling dish of melted white cheese, such as Monterey Jack or asadero, that’s mixed with chiles and often chunks of chorizo or strips of fajita meat as well. Unlike its cheesy cousin chile con queso, queso flameado is rich and thick, which makes it awkward for chips but perfect for spooning into a soft, warm tortilla.



The name translates to flaming cheese, though it’s not necessary to set it on fire for the dish to be successful. But try explaining that to the restaurant I worked at in college, which decided that if a customer was going to request something called flaming cheese, well, that was exactly what they’d get.

Whenever someone ordered queso flameado, we servers would jump over the prospect of danger, which definitely made our jobs a bit more thrilling. To create the spectacle, we’d sprinkle Everclear over the already cooked dish and then carry it out to the table. Upon arrival, we’d strike a match and wave it over the queso flameado, which being soaked in high-proof alcohol and all, would light up with blue flames that danced across the cheese making it bubble and hiss. When the inferno had died down, with two spoons we’d place the melted cheese into tortillas, and roll them into soft tacos. It was a fine presentation and one that made the table feel special.

I wish I could say that I set my shirt on fire or that I was such a queso flameado master that people would drive miles to see me set cheese aflame before deftly rolling it into tacos. That would certainly make for a better story, but that didn't happen. Nope, I simply served people their queso flameado, a dish that made them very, very happy. And sometimes creating happiness is the biggest thrill of all.



So on those nights when you’re too tired to cook something fancy, queso flameado is a wonderful dish. You just throw some cheese, roasted poblanos and cooked chorizo into a skillet, heat it up for a few minutes and you have an oozing, satisfying snack or dinner. And sure, if you’re feeling wild you can douse it in alcohol and set it on fire, though that’s not necessary for enjoyment. But don’t worry; even if you skip that dramatic step know that this simple dish will still bring smiles and maybe even applause.

Queso flameado
Ingredients:
3 cups of shredded asadero cheese
1 cup of shredded Monterey Jack
1 poblano chile
1/2 cup of Mexican chorizo

Method:
Heat the poblano chile under the broiler for five minutes on each side or until its blackened. Place the chile in a paper sack, close it and let the chile steam for 15 minutes. After this time, rub off the skin, remove the stem and seeds and cut into strips.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Break up the chorizo and cook it in a skillet until it’s done, about five minutes. Lightly grease a medium-sized cast-iron skillet or a casserole dish and add the cheese. Top with the crumbled, cooked chorizo and poblano strips and cook for 15 minutes or until bubbling.

Spoon out the melted queso flameado onto tortillas. Serve immediately.

Note: If you can’t find asadero cheese, Chihuahua cheese is a good substitute. But if you can’t find it either, then use Muenster. And if you can’t find Mexican chorizo, make your own chorizo—it tastes better anyway!

Keep reading...

Beef flautas, how to make the best

When I lived in Iowa City, a fellow homesick Texan was tired of the lack of good food, so he opened a Mexican restaurant called La Perlita. The name means little pearl in Spanish and this small restaurant was indeed a gem. The salsas were fiery and bright, the refried beans had depth and flavor, and the tortillas were patted out by hand. But I have to say my favorite dish on menu were the freshly fried flautas.

Not familiar with flautas? Perhaps you know them by another term: some refer to them as taquitos and in parts of Mexico they’re often called tacos dorados. But the basic premise is the same—it’s a rolled taco that’s been fried.



Flauta (which means flute in Spanish) is what I grew up calling them, so I was a bit flummoxed by the variation in names. When I asked my non-Texan friends, they insisted that it was a flauta if it was made with flour tortillas, a taquito if it was made with corn. I have to disagree as I’d never even had flour tortilla flautas (though I don’t doubt their existence). And the Mexican street-food vendors here all sell tacos dorados, but they look just like flautas to me.

No matter what you call them, however, the key to a good flauta is that it needs to be fresh. Often you’ll find pre-fried ones, where a dull tortilla surrounds a cold, lifeless filling. Would you eat a cold nacho? Would you eat a cold enchilada? Of course not! So I don’t understand why people insist on serving old food—you can’t doll it up no matter how much lettuce, cheese or salsa you pile on top of it.

But a fresh flauta? Now that’s a thing of wonder! The tortilla snaps, the filling is alive and no adornment is necessary—though a drizzle of hot sauce is certainly welcome.



Making these is not difficult—as long as you’re brave when confronted with a skillet that is hissing and popping with hot fat. (I wear long sleeves and oven mitts to keep myself safe.) But because of your fearlessness you will be rewarded with the best flautas you’ve ever had. Actually, that’s not exactly true—I still think that the best flautas were those served to me at La Perlita, by a fellow Texan who knew how to make those needing a respite from the cold feel welcome and warm.

I’m curious—what do you call these? And am I wrong—is there indeed a difference between flauta, taquito and tacos dorados? Please let us know!

Beef flautas
2 pounds of chuck roast, cut into four-inch chunks
1 tablespoon fat: lard, bacon grease or canola oil
1 medium Spanish onion, quartered
5 cloves of garlic, crushed
2-4 jalapenos, diced
1 pound tomatillos, quartered
1 cup cilantro chopped
2 tablespoons cumin
Salt and black pepper to taste
Juice of one lime
12 corn tortillas
About 1 cup of canola oil
Salsa, lettuce, chopped cilantro, diced onions and sour cream for garnishing

Method:
Brown the cubed beef in the fat on medium heat in a large Dutch oven or pot (may have to do in batches). Add the onions, garlic, tomatillos, jalapenos, cumin, 1/2 cup of the chopped cilantro, four cups of water (or beer if you prefer), salt and pepper to taste.

Bring to a boil and then lower to a simmer and cook for two hours until meat is tender. Remove beef from the pot, shred it and then toss it with the lime juice and some salt and black pepper. Can also add some of the pan juices if you like. Otherwise, you can reserve the pan juices for another use.

Wrap the tortillas in foil, and heat in a 350-degree oven for 10 minutes or until soft. Take each warmed tortilla and place two tablespoons of the shredded beef into it and roll tightly.

Heat the canola oil in a large iron skillet and when oil is 350 degrees (or hot but not smoking), gently place three flautas into oil, seam side down, and cook on each side until crisp, 45 seconds per side.

Serve immediately with salsa, chopped cilantro, onion and sour cream.

Note: You certainly don’t have to use beef. You can make these with chicken, beans, fish or roasted vegetables. Just figure on having two cups of filling.

Keep reading...

Five things I love about Houston

I was born in Dallas and my family has been in the Dallas area since the early 1800s. But when I was nine we moved to Houston so that’s what I consider my hometown. Sure, Dallas may be in my ancestral lineage but it’s Houston that makes my heart explode.

For some reason, however, as much as I adore Houston I feel that it doesn’t get the respect and love that it deserves. My friends at the Houston Press and the Chronicle , as well as a host of Houston-based food and chef bloggers, do an excellent job of sharing the bounty of this diverse city with the wide world. But I wanted to say a few things as well, so here are five reasons why I love Houston and why you should, too.

Gracious hospitality: When I mentioned on Twitter my plans to come to Houston, in less then five minutes my email box was chock full of invitations from people I had only conversed with online but had never met in person. I was floored. As I was coming home for Christmas, most of my time was occupied with family, but I was able to accept a couple of these generous offers to make new friends.

I had corresponded with Andrea Lazar and Monica Pope about eating at their restaurant T’afia, so the first night I was home Mom and I drove into the city from the suburbs for a night on the town. It was well worth the trip as we were served an exquisite meal comprised of in-season, local ingredients—we were blown away by how creative Monica was with root vegetables and citrus, not to mention the pairing of goat cheese with a beet brownie. But what made this meal extra special was Monica’s attention to us and every other diner—it made fine dining as comfortable as eating at home.



I also had the opportunity to have dinner at the excellent Hugo’s with Anvil proprietor and sustainable rancher Morgan F. Weber and his lovely wife Stacey, which we followed with a dessert tasting by genius pastry chef Plinio Sandalio of Textile. Because we’re all Texans, Plinio chose our great state as the theme of the tasting, with treats such as corny dogs with mustard ice cream, apple and cheddar hot pockets and Texas toast pain perdu with bacon ice cream, among other mind-blowingly brilliant sweets. And while the desserts made me happy, what I’ll remember most about the evening was the warmth that comes from good conversation and generosity of spirit. My only regret was that I couldn’t stay in town longer to meet more Houstonians.



Canino Market: Whenever I go home, a trip to Fiesta is a must with its ample supply of Mexican groceries and the vendors outside selling Mexican corn on the cob and bacon-wrapped Sonoran hot dogs. But this trip I also trekked over to the Canino Market for the first time and I fell in love with this Mexican fresh-ingredient heaven. When you first enter, the space is airy and open but the produce isn’t very exciting. Don't worry, keep going and you'll soon find yourself in the outside back area where all the fun stuff lives. Stacked tall are a wide array of chiles—both dried and fresh—baby tomatillos the size of raspberries, cactus pads, hibiscus flowers, dried homily and mole pastes, to name just a few of the things I saw for sale. It’s also a great place to practice your Spanish. And if you love fresh Mexican pastries, head across the street to El Bolillo Bakery, where they sell the namesake bread as well as a huge selection of conchas, empanadas, bizcochos and other pan dulces.



Sweetbread tacos: Los Angeles may have that Korean taco truck and Portland may have a whole downtown block dedicated to street food, but neither one of those towns has what Houston has: a taco truck that sells sweetbread tacos. Unless you live on a ranch, your encounter with sweetbreads is usually in a rarefied environment such as a multi-star restaurant. So when several people told me I needed to check out the Taqueria Tacambaro cart in back of the Canino Market on Airline, I was expecting an upscale operation. Nope, Taqueria Tacambaro is just your regular taco truck, clean and white with salsas on the counter and a menu painted on the side. I walked up and ordered the mollejas (which is how you say sweetbread in Spanish). The woman working the griddle scooped a generous portion of the meat onto two corn tortillas and handed me my plate. Before drenching the taco in the available red and green salsas, I first lifted a piece of the meat and popped it into my mouth to see how it tasted unadorned. Crisp bits from the grill coated the silky meat and its flavor was creamy with a slight hint of earthiness. These mollejas were fine, if not among the finest I’d ever eaten. And you can only find them in Houston.



Jarro Cafe’s neon salsa: I had been warned that this neon-green salsa would rip apart my mouth. But what completely surprised me was the sheer inorganic nature of the color, which reminded me more of car paint than chile peppers. (Though I shouldn’t have been that surprised considering its name.) I hesitated before taking a dip, but after one bite I was sold. It was sassy and good. And not even all that hot. So now my mission is to recreate this salsa at home.



Amalia’s enchiladas verdes: I know I’ve said this before, but these are the best enchiladas verdes I’ve ever had. Juicy and crisp carnitas are stuffed into fresh corn tortillas, smothered in a tomatillo sauce and topped with avocado slices and onions. On the side is a pile of Mexican rice fragrant with cumin and chicken stock and a pool of refried beans rich with lard. Add a basket of homemade flour tortillas, thin, crisp chips and an endless bowl of green sauce and I know that I’m home. Mom tried to pull a fast one on me, asking me when I got off the plane if I'd prefer to go to her new favorite Tex-Mex joint instead. But just as I was about to agree she let it slip that her new joint had no green sauce. No green sauce? What was she thinking? And even though I ate well throughout my trip, I have to say that nothing compared to this plate of enchiladas. Why? They let me know I was home.

I realize this is just a small slice of why I love Houston; I could write for days. But I’m curious, what do you love about Houston? Let’s give this world-class town the respect it’s due!

Keep reading...