Just came from a Sarah Silverman event in Soho and then went straight to St. Mark’s for my favorite sandwich of all time: Vietnamese Banh Mi.

I agree that Vietnamese cuisine is the IT cuisine today. Thai is so 2000s. The Banh Mi never fails to make me happy. Actually, it made me smile more than Ms. Silverman. It is a sandwich only masters can make. The pickled veggies, the special paté, the out of this world house mayo, and the assorted cuts of meat, all these are tucked in the center of a freshly baked baguette. Whew!

If the US government’s reason for meddling in Vietnam in the 60s was to get the secret formula for an authentic Banh Mi, the war would have made sense and I would have supported it. Well, in the 60s I was but a potential human floating in a sea of possibilities, so I really couldn’t support it but you know.. whatever.

The sandwich is a unique blend of Asian and French flavors that never fails to satisfy.

I am a locavore and as I said, I prefer to cook at home. But sometimes I allow myself the occasional dine-out so I could experience what’s great out there.

However, I only have some rules when I eat out: I only eat traditional cuisines from different cultures and I make sure the place adheres to sustainable practices, uses fresh ingredients, true to the culture it represents, and definitely no fast food.

The Banh Mi places is one of these restaurants. If you are in the area, check it out. It’s called Bao-guette.

By the way, I am expecting another delivery from my meat and dairy coop. Last week, I was informed that the farmer has some lamb and game meats available (all pasture raised of course) so I ordered some along with my weekly ration of raw milk, eggs, and cheese.

I am planning to make some roasts and I’ll let you know if they are any good.

Oh before I forget, I must admit though that Ms. Silverman was indeed funny, cool, and kinda hot.

I imagine a backyard like Don Vito Corleone’s: Patches of land blossoming with tomatoes, eggplants, and asparagus. There are trees bearing lemons, apples, and oranges. Like wise a hammock made of hemp in between two big trunks of trees and a small table with homegrown nuts and a pitcher of lemonade. That is a backyard no one can refuse, but me.

Because for a guy who couldn’t even grow a beard nor plant an occasional decent kiss, the thought of a self-sustaining garden is far fetched. It is not even in the neighborhood of what is possible. It is hopeless. Don’t believe me? Here are some of the many roadblocks in pursuing the dream of having a backyard garden to grow my own food.

You see in my city:

• The only green thing in my neighborhood is one of the three bulbs of a nearby traffic light. Everything else is grey cement, including my thumbs.

• Some of my neighbors have garden hoses, but not for watering plants but for washing away dog poop, bird droppings, and sorrows.

• The phrase “getting dirty” does not pertain to gardening at all.

• Among many of my friends and co-workers, “planting seeds” means impregnating women.

• A hoe is a person who sleeps with anything that walks.

• Dead head could be the head of a dead person, Jerry Garcia, or his fans.

• Humus is a Middle Eastern spread eaten with pita

• A plant is either Robert or a factory.

Hopeless, isn’t it?

One time, Sheryl Mae and I attended a wedding and the souvenir we got was a bamboo plant in a glass vase filled with water. The bride told us that the thing is almost maintenance free. All we needed to do was to place the plant near a window so it gets sunlight. No need to water or feed the thing some compost–just sunlight.

Of course it died!

But we did place it near a window. Unfortunately, the view from that single window we have is a hallway.

Yes, we suck at plants so much that even moss wouldn’t survive.

So thank God for these amazing farmers!

Yes, you gave the city a championship.

Yes, you gave us thrills.

I am grateful.

However, dear Yankees, you didn’t need to go the extra mile and offer diabetes to your avid fans, did you?

The candies look cool, though. I still have this as a souvenir encased in a small glass dome.

Photo taken during the Yankees Parade last November

In most of my readings about real food, I have always encountered the term French Paradox. The term refers to the unexplainable fact of how most of the French people don’t get fat despite eating fatty, sweet, and ultra-rich foods.

I have never really given that any thought at all. My guess was that the French get laid more than they eat, hence cancelling out any of the excess calories that usually convert itself to bellies and bulges.

My ignorance with French food is vast.  So far, the only French food I had are the ones with the word French in its names: French Onion Soup, French Fries (There is considerable evidence though that French Fries actually originated in Belgium and I think the Muscles from Brussels, Jean Claude Van Damme, is an advocate of this campaign to rename the fried potato strips to Brussels Fries), French Toast, and French Bread. Oh, does French Maid count? I guess not. Truth is, I know a little French food, and tasted a few.

So last Friday, after buying some products in Union Square, we decided to try and eat in an authentic French restaurant. I didn’t want a fancy French place with an elaborate chef’s tasting menu that costs a few dollars short of a month’s rent, but rather just a typical French restaurant that serves casual French food for the common French citizen. With this in mind, we ended up at Les Halles on Park Avenue between 29^th and 28^th. It was my first time in a French restaurant.

We ordered the following just to taste and experience what and how these people eat:

Foie Gras Poëlé aux Pommes for appetizer

A classic Cassoulet for entrée

A dark chocolate soufflé for dessert

*My friends ordered the following, which I also tried.

Steak Frites, Pavé de Thon Grillé, sauce Vierge Légumes Grillés à l’Huile d’Olive,

Coq Au Vin, Escargot, and Gratin de Macaroni.

The Politics of Foie Gras

I know that Foie Gras raises a lot of eyebrows. But I guess if we view it as a cultural thing for a specific people, in this case, the French, we would understand. The French make and eat Foie Gras because it is a part of who they are. It is embedded in their culture. We should let them be. They raise their own duck, anyway,  so let them do what they want with them and their livers. Perhaps they just don’t see Donald Duck when they see ducks, like most Americans do. Instead they see Duck Confit, Duck fat and Foie Gras, which is fine with me.

Besides, they do not force others (non-French) to eat it or make it. If you don’t want it or couldn’t sleep with how French ducks are being maltreated, then by all means avoid it. In the same way as the French will never in a million years bother with our Chicken McNuggets, which they probably think is the bigger atrocity.

By the way, Americans have pushed Chicken McNuggets to the global stage, which is more embarrassing that nourishing.

The Experience

Anyhow, the Foie Gras arrived and I immediately noticed how small the serving was. It was a slice of liver as big as half-a slice of bread coated with brown sauce and sprinkled with walnuts. The dish was $18.00. A little pricey for such a small portion, but the moment I put some in my mouth I forgot who I was. For a while, in a haze, I thought I was Philippe Petit walking on a wire towards Megan Fox’s dressing room.

The thing exploded with flavor and texture. The closest thing I could compare it with, experience wise, is the experience of slurping high-quality grass-fed roasted veal marrow right off the bone.  I was overwhelmed with flavor like a rush of the best illegal things on earth shooting up my brain and leaving me in an orgasmic seizure.

It was so rich and unbelievably delicious. No wonder the French are determined to start a war with any nation that plans to take Foie Gras away from them.

After my first experience with the fatty liver, I did something different. No, I didn’t collapse signaling for the defibrillator, instead, uncharacteristically, I didn’t crave more of the fine stuff.  It was strange! But yes, I thought it  was so good that a bite of the super rich delicacy seemed enough, and a second bite won’t in any way take me any higher. It was akin to being on top of Everest, where there are no more peaks climb. A complete experience and many answered questions in a single bite.

Right there I realized that French food is all about quality not quantity. Their food is so good, you only have to taste it once to be satisfied. To be full is not in the question at all. Unlike most of us here in the US, where the sign of satisfaction is when we can no longer raise our arms to signal for the check due to a bursting stomachs, the French people are all about the sensual and social pleasures of eating. They eat well without eating more!

The Cassoulet was the same experience. The $23.00 succulent, fatty, slow cooked bean casserole with preserved duck, bacon, ham, and sausages satisfied me without the need of cleaning up the whole earthenware pot. And mind you, the pot wasn’t even big.  The fat infused beans with its meats literally melted in my mouth and I often found myself grimacing with pleasure like I knew all the answers to the greatest mysteries. I was enlightened.

The soufflé did not disappoint either. For a $10.00 cake the size of the Apple logo on my laptop and bathed in dark chocolate syrup, it was unforgettable. I shared it with my friends like I did with the other dishes and they all felt the same: satisfied to the brink of howling.

We ate there for a while, mostly talking about the great stuff we were having. We probably spent more time talking and walking around blocks to find the restaurant than actually eating the heavenly French offerings (I think when we were taught by our elders to give thanks to God for every meal, they meant THIS kind of meals not Happy Meals. For that we can thank red haired clowns and burger monarchs).

In the end, we all got out of Les Halles satisfied but not stuffed. Well, that doesn’t sound like it makes a lot of sense, does it?

That is why it is called a paradox.

I have been introduced to this after seeing Food Inc and I am still in the process of learning more about it.

So based from what I understand as of now, I would try to share what I know about this new grass-fed buzzword that is taking the food industry by storm. But let me begin by writing what grass-fed beef is not:

• It is not meat coming from cows who satisfy themselves on a field flourishing with high–potency–designer quality marijuana.  Therefore, It does not come from cows that are tripping all day, bobbing their heads slowly as they hear unusual hidden sounds while fully grasping the meaning of The Beatles’ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. No, these cows are not potheads. They do not laugh for hours long just by looking at their dung, nor sway along to the movements of the cosmic force, but yes, they are happy.

• It is not meat rich in scandalous amounts of fat. Since the standard grading of beef today is based on marbling, which is the amount of fat in its meat, I am pretty sure that grass-fed beef will flunk and probably get an F from the USDA, just like my grades in high school. You see, grass-fed cows move a lot. They do so because they roam around the vast fields of grass picking the best species of grass that they desire. Once the grass in one patch gets consumed, these cows move on to the next appetizing salad bar. Therefore these cows are muscular, lean, and lacking of the fat that is of high value in today’s standards.

• It is not cheap meat. Local grass-fed beef is expensive–about twice the price of conventional corn-fed-feedlot beef. It is expensive not because it is bloated with premium fat, but because the human labor involved in growing the pastures allowing the cow to graze, and keeping everything in nature balance is costly. It is costly because it is clean, safe, and free from E-Coli worries.

Why grass-fed?

Cows evolved to eat grass in as much as modern humans evolved to eat Doritos and I Can’t Believe It’s Butter, which should be renamed as “I Can’t Believe I Am Eating This.”

These cows can transform pure chlorophyll into protein. Likewise, these cows don’t need antibiotics to defend themselves from diseases because they get their natural defenses from the greens they are eating.

Sadly, most of the beef we eat here in the US are not grass-fed but rather corn/grain fed. The beef industry adapted this new feeding system to speed up the growth of the cows to meet the demand of the fast food industry. In addition, to accommodate this new system, the industry introduced the feedlot system, where cows are confined into military barracks-like sheds and get fed there with millions of tons of surplus corn feeds.

Corn-fed cows require hormones and antibiotics to supplement their nutritional deficiencies resulting from eating non-grass feeds. Not to mention that the milk from these nutritionally deficient cows is equally deficient, hence the industry adds the missing vitamins in the milk after the fact. That’s why we have processed milk laden with every imaginable additive to compensate for the missing goodies.

For a more complete understanding of grass-fed beef visit this awesome site.

By the way, my order finally came last night from Udder Milk. I ordered some grass-fed beef for stewing, and some ground beef for making hamburgers. Oh, how I miss having burgers! I haven’t eaten any since last year! It will be my first time making homemade burgers using organic locally available ingredients: local grass-fed beef, local cheese, and locally grown produce and fresh bread.

In my past life, homemade burgers for me meant pre-packaged patties, supermarket ketchup, pre-bottled mustard, grocery mayo, and wonder buns. I know, I should have just walked into a McDonald’s and ordered me a triple angus burger and fries and save me the effort of assembling this pre-made things since the nutritional value of my homemade burgers and the ones in the store are just about the same.

But that was then and I am trying my best to eat well now.

I also ordered grass-fed raw milk and raw cheese.

I haven’t tasted any of the beef products, so I cannot write about it yet. But the raw milk and the cheeses are beyond belief. I can’t even put it into words! For now I’ll just write this to describe it: $%QO&#!!!!

Grass-fed beef is available also at our local Whole Foods Market. I already purchased some locally grown grass-fed beef shanks for soup last month. You have to remember that most grass-fed beef are local–meaning supplied by a farmer near you area. This way, you are also helping the environment by minimizing the use of petroleum to obtain your food.  Imported beef from Argentina? California? No need. It pays to know that you have a local supply of healthy and happy herd of cows grazing over nutritious pastures making high quality meat for you in the future.

Tomorrow, we might check the farmer’s market in Union Square and buy some produce. This food search has been really awesome so far!