Outstanding food writer Michael Ruhlman tipped me off to the story. Apparently, the Chicago City Council voted yesterday 37-6 to repeal the ban, which Mayor Richard Daley had previously called “the silliest law the City Council has ever passed.”

The Chicago Tribune has the parliamentary details, and they are interesting.

But the bottom line is that the council did the right thing, and a city with some of the world’s best and most creative chefs (I’m looking at you Chef Achatz), finally came to its senses. I’m sure there will be foie gras celebrations across Chicago in the coming days.

I shall raise a glass of Sauternes tonight to celebrate.

I’ve been in Warsaw for a couple of days visiting with colleagues.

Last night, one of them suggested dinner at U Kucharzy (”The Chefs”), and then told us, with what we suspected was more than an ounce of hyperbole, that it might be the best restaurant in Poland.

Obviously, I’m in no place to evaluate that question. But I can now declare that U Kucharzy is a world-class restaurant that would distinguish itself just as well if it were in London, Paris or New York.

We entered through a non-descript door that only a local would know to look for, and we found ourselves in a shabby hallway with a bench along one wall and a worn red carpet that looks like a holdover from the communist era. After a moment, we were greeted by a well-dressed gentleman whose long beard was a throw-back to a different era of Polish history. He led us through a maze of tables and counters and directed us to two seats at a raised platform.

It was only when we sat down that we discovered our seats in the rather ordinary dining room gave us a complete view of the Chefs at work.

The view from our table.

The meal that followed was extraordinary. I started with pate, while my colleague Wolfgang began with pork aspic. Both were amazing. Dinner for me was “deer” served with braised beets and local potato dumplings similar to gnocchi. Wolfgang’s main course was “roast beef.” (You can see Wolfgang’s review via Seesmic here.)

Needless to say, the descriptions don’t do justice to the food. Nor do they do justice to the method of service. Rather than being plated in the kitchen, all of our dishes were prepared and served at table side.

Between courses, the appetizers arrived for the table next to us, and we watched as a chef prepared steak tartare from scratch, completely by hand. We discovered, while we watched, that the table in question was occupied by the restaurant’s owner and his friends. After they passed around the tartare, they shared it with us. It was a wonder. Absolutely delicious.

All in all, it was a superb dinner. For my money, the best of Poland. Were in Warsaw again tonight, you can be sure that I would be headed back for more.

Oh. And the bill? About £75.

Here’s more on U Kacharzy from the Daily Telegraph and the Warsaw Voice.

I am dying for Cam’s perspective on this story and this related post from Cato@Liberty.

Amid the goods found in the stores, there is one thing that many owners and employees say they cannot do without: their cats. And it goes beyond cuddly companionship. These cats are workers, tireless and enthusiastic hunters of unwanted vermin, and they typically do a far better job than exterminators and poisons.

[snip]

But as efficient as the cats may be, their presence in stores can lead to legal trouble. The city’s health code and state law forbid animals in places where food or beverages are sold for human consumption. Fines range from $300 for a first offense to $2,000 or higher for subsequent offenses.

“Any animal around food presents a food contamination threat,” said Robert M. Corrigan, a rodentologist and research scientist for the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene. “And so that means anything from animal pieces and parts to hair and excrement could end up in food, and that alone, of course, is a violation of the health code.”

[snip]

“He wants me to get rid of the cat, but the rats will take over if I do,” Mr. Martinez [a bodega owner] said. “I need the cat, and the cat needs a home.”

[snip]

Many bodega owners reason that a cat is less of a health threat than an army of nibbling rats. “If cats live in homes and apartments where people have food, a cat shouldn’t be a threat in a store if it’s well maintained,” Mr. Fernández [another store owner] said.

So, the city doesn’t want the stores to have rats, but it also doesn’t want the stores to keep cats in order to keep the rats away.

Just one more example of the government getting in the way of common sense.

Cam: Back in the old days before I met my wife, she lived in public housing in Camden, New Jersey. She hates cats, but had to resort to having one as a mouser.

I hate cats too, but I’d much rather see a cat in a convenience store than a rat. Then again, when you have a rat as a mayor, what do you expect?

When you really stop and think about it, you don’t actually experience a truly new flavor all that often.

Consider a bottle of outstanding wine. Even the myriad of flavors within can be shuffled off into descriptions that include familiar tastes — plum, apple, courant, chocolate, pear,
etc. Sometimes, discussion of a new flavor — “wow, I’ve tasted anything like that before” — is simple a proxy for a superlative that one can’t fully grasp. But rarely do we mean literally what we say.

Tonight, for the first time in many, many years, I experienced truly new flavors. A moment when the food that I was eating manifested itself in way that I had never experienced before.

My wife and I were dining at WD-50, the nearly eponymous creation of Chef Wylie Dufresne.

To my mind, Dufresne is a disciple of the school of Keller. He develops his menu with an eye toward new discovery, pushing the envelope ever forward to discover new flavors and textures.

Tonight, we enjoyed his creations, and they were extraordinary.

My first course was described in the menu as, “Slow poached egg, chorizo, pickled beets, dried black olives.” By design, the description does it no justice. But neither will mine. Indeed, no description can. It was, in short, an utterly new flavor. Unlike anything I had experienced before. To be sure, there was a soft boiled egg. There were beats. There was a hint of spicy chorizo. There were finely chopped chives. But who would assemble such things? And assemble them in just such a way — in the perfect proportions — to create something entirely new. And, lest you skeptics doubt, the entirely flavor was also entirely wonderful.

My second course was pork belly. It was accompanied by corn. And it too was extraordinary. Each bite was a different flavor. Some were familiar. Some were totally new. The pork belly was cooked to perfection. So was the corn. But what was one to make of “miso-walnut panacotta”? It doesn’t matter. It worked. Perfectly.

The last time that I experienced something entirely new was eight or nine years ago, eating octopus salami in Chef Roberto Donna’s Laboratorio del Galileo. It’s gone now. Temporarily, anyway, while the building is gutting and rebuilt. But the memory of that creation remains.

So, too, I suspect, will the memory of perfectly cooked pork belly and a masterful creation that began with a simple, humble egg.

If the dinner at WD-50 had ended just so, it would have been among the best I’ve ever experienced. But it was the final bite that vaulted it to one of the truly best.

As we finished desert, our waiter brought us what could be described, I suppose, as petit fours. The first was a marshmallow, coated in a delicious powder. It was excellent, but in the context of what had come before, ordinary.

But the second. The second was an invocation of familiar, like a cozy old chair. The waiter described it, as “Our take on sweet potato pie.” Now, sweet potato pie holds a special place in my heart. In short, it’s my favorite dessert, in a long list of favorite pies. (My first word, apparently, involved my reciting the letters p-i-e back to my mystified parents.) Dufrane’s single bite was perfection itself. The prefect flavor. An journey into long lost memories. A trip to a place of comfort.

Chef and author Tony Bourdain likes to say that great food comes at the junction of great flavor, memory and emotion. After the single bite of sweet potato pie, that’s where I found myself.

Dufresne’s ability to merge to entirely new and the mysteriously familiar are pure magic. I hope I get to experience it again someday soon.

According to this story from the Associated Press, “A “fat tax” on salty, sugary and fatty foods could save thousands of lives each year, according to a study published” by Oxford University researchers.

Know the difference between liberty and tyranny?

Liberty is having the freedom to make our own choices.

Tyranny is having the government make our choices for us.

And that’s exactly what these nanny-staters are proposing in yet another effort to have government save us from ourselves. Well, you know what? I don’t want to be saved. Indeed, I don’t think there’s a role for government to play in the obesity discussion. If I want to eat unhealthy food and die young, that’s my decision and, more importantly, it’s my responsibility.

Cam: Amen to that. When I got fat, it wasn’t the government’s fault. It was my own. And it wasn’t the government that’s making me lose weight, it’s me (and my wife, but whatever).

One final post about my trip to Los Angeles for Windpower 2007.

On Tuesday night, a couple of colleagues and I slipped off to dinner at Spago, Wolfgang Puck’s famous eatery in Beverly Hills. (Note to co-workers who might be reading: I won’t be submitting this tab on my next expense report.)

Notorious foodie, food writer and restaurant blogger Kate was able to secure a prime reservation only three days before we planned to dine. She claimed she got the reservation through Open Table, but I can only assume she bribed the maitre’d.

In any case, even before we were guided to our table, the star spotting had already begun. Through a miscommunication with my companions, I wound up cooling my heels in the bar for a few minutes. And as I waited, I spotted former Masters champion Raymond Floyd as he strolled past. Moments later, a leathery George Hamilton glided by as well. And once I found my way to our table, I noticed former Secretary of State Warren Christopher dining nearby.

At that point, the kitchen could have sent out grilled cheese and potato chips and it wouldn’t have spoiled the evening. And frankly, when I heard we were going to Spago, I wasn’t expecting much better. I surmised that Spago was a little past its prime and would probably attract more tourists than fine diners. I suspected that given Chef Puck’s expansive empire, his flagship restaurant might have suffered without his hand firmly at the tiller.

Boy was I wrong.

The food was impeccable.

I started with ricotta gnocchi with morel mushrooms and braised duck ragout in a delicious sauce built on a wonderful veal stock. For my main course, I had liberty duck breast, which was impeccably grilled. Along the way, I enjoyed a delightful Cabernet Sauvignon.

As Kate relates in her own, much better review, she began with sashimi, which brought the only slight miss of the evening. Tantalizingly fresh toro and hamachi was oversauced and overwhelmed. But the recovery was as quick as it was decisive. For her main, Kate selected the Peking Duck served with house made lo mein. Everything on the table was stellar, but I have to say that the lo mein was the best. Simply made with great ingredients, it was noodle perfection.

Our other companion started with a basic salad which looked astonishingly fresh and crisp. She then followed up with a the restaurant’s Salmon offering, which lived up to our waiter’s recommendation.

For dessert, Kate enjoyed strawberries and cream, and I had the peach cobbler. For me, it was these dishes that confirmed Spago’s greatness. The cream was a perfect consistency and sweetness. The strawberries were fresh and perfectly ripe. The simplicity spoke volumes, and the resulting flavors were delightful.

The cobbler yielded a similar experience. Now, I’ve had peach cobbler in the four corners of the United States and across the south. I’ve had it smothered in brown sugar and topped with homemade pound cake. I’ve had it with lard, butter, shorterning and every conceivable assortment of flavorants.

Nothing I’ve had compares to the oh-so-simple treatment at Spago. The peaches were fresh. They were cooked in a simple syrup and topped with sweet homemade biscuits the flavor of which would give even the most traditional southern grandmother a run for her money. Pastry Chef Sherry Yard more than measured up to her own stellar reputation.

All in all, it was a wonderful evening. Spago far exceeded my cynical expectations and confirmed its stature as one of the top restaurants in one of the world’s great restaurant cities.

Of course, there was one other celebrity siting during our meal at Spago that’s worth mentioning. Between appetizers and dessert, Wolfgang Puck himself popped by our table to say hello. Out of touch with Spago? Not a chance. And, as Kate reports, during our brief chat with him, Chef Puck revealed to us that Spago is coming to Washington, D.C. A variation of the Beverly Hills mainstay will be opening in the soon-to-be completed Newseum on Pennsylvania Ave. this fall.

Pretty cool, huh?

And, again, don’t miss Kate’s post. She captures the whole thing much better than I do.

Cam: Okay… how do I say this nicely? If Warren Christopher is a) easily identifiable for you and b) considered a “star”, you’ve spent waaaaaay too much time in D.C., Marshall.

Secondly, while the meal sounds fantastic, I’m boycotting Wolfgang Puck for his work with the Humane Society of the United States. I completely understand that Puck has the right to do what he wants in his restaurants… I just don’t have to eat it.

Being a barbecue snob is a little like being a wine snob. Either you get it or don’t. Either you feel passionately about such issues as beef versus pork and vinegar versus rub, or you think those who do are a little bit silly. (And if you think that you have a “barbecue” sitting in your backyard which you use for cooking burgers and steaks, you can stop reading this post right now.)

But no question about it: I’m a barbecue snob.

Barbecue is the ultimate regional American cuisine. I grew up in Virginia, and while there used to be a discernible Virginia style, it’s getting harder and harder to find, so on all of the great questions of barbecue, I find myself gravitating towards North Carolina style.

That means pork. Period. And, broadly speaking, it means a vinegar-based sauce.

It also means that I don’t understand people who like beef barbecue. I mean, I go to Texas, and I’ve had it, and if you had to, you could live on it. But given the choice between beef and pork, I just don’t understand how a person with taste buds could, you know, choose to eat beef barbecue.

Okay, I’m kidding.

Don’t tell anyone, but I actually really like Texas-style barbecue. And I’m especially into the delicious sausages that good barbecue joints in Texas make by hand. I also like Memphis-style, although I’ll never understand why folks in Memphis insist on slathering a perfectly wonderful pile of pulled pork with that thick tomato sauce. I can’t get into Kansas City style — which basically means beef ribs — because I just don’t like the mess. But that’s the point. There are about as many styles of great barbecue as there are little towns with smoky joints that have been there for decades.

Heck, even in North Carolina, there’s a schism between east and west. In the eastern part of the state, the sauce is pure vinegar with the chef’s inevitably secret mix of spices. In the western part of the state, they add a little tomato paste to the party and give the sauce a little thickness. Put me in the eastern camp, but as long as it’s vinegar, I can be happy with either.

Then there’s the cooking method. The best places smoke the whole hog over wood or charcoal. But many places — including my personal favorite joint, King’s barbecue in Petersburg, Virginia — just cook the shoulder or Boston butt.

Finally, there’s the presentation. Some people seem to like to eat their barbecue on a hamburger bun. I can’t abide this nonsense. Why would you want to fill yourself up on a nasty, tasteless, puffy bun when you could eat more barbecue? Then there are the folks who want their pork sliced. These people are usually from up north and just can’t be expected to know any better. But for the record, it’s the worst way to eat barbecue. There’s just no good way to slice pork. It ends up tough and dry, no matter how many hours the pit master has spent smoking it to tender, juicy perfection. Don’t go there. Instead, go with pulled or minced. Your barbecue will be moist and delicious. Trust me on this one.

Ready to eat? Ready to really eat?

Great. It’s time for a road trip. USA Today reports that the state of North Carolina has just launched its Historic Barbecue Trail. It’s “the brainchild of Jim Early, an attorney by profession and barbecue nut by avocation. The author of The Best Tar Heel Barbecue: Manteo to Murphy crisscrossed 22,000 miles of North Carolina blacktop researching his book. He at in 228 barbecue joints, 140 of which made it into print. But the trail pays homage to just 25 establishments that prepare ‘cue the old-fashioned way. They cook over open-pit fires, make their own sauce, offer sit-down dining, have been in business at least 15 years and, as Early puts it, ‘have the esteem of their community’.”

First of all, this Jim Early sounds like my kind of guy.

But kudos to North Carolina for pulling together this trail. It’ll be a great road map for people looking for the best. And it’s a great nod to the states culinary heritage.

As food becomes more and more homogeneous with the proliferation of chain dining, I hope more states and localities will follow the Tar Heel state’s lead, calling out and celebrating regional food traditions. In Virginia, that could mean everything from barbecue to ham to peanuts. Not to mention Brunswick stew. (Which originated in Brunswick County, Virginia — not the eponymous county in Georgia.) But there are similar local distinctions in every corner of the nation. Burgoo in Kentucky. Grits in the tidewater of South Carolina. Chili in west Texas. The list is as long as it is varied.

And then, the burden is on us. When we eat out, we ought to make an effort to eat in the local joints that are owned and operated by our neighbors, not some commercial conglomerate. And when we travel, seek out the local places and avoid the boring chains that you can visit in every city and town in America.

And if you’re in the south, and you look hard enough, there’s a great place to enjoy barbecue in almost every town.

Jim: I’m not quite the fanatic/pro that Marshall is, but I’ll just throw in that I’ve always liked Old Glory’s method of providing six variations of barbecue sauce at the table. Because once you’ve tried them all, you do begin to understand the variety and regional tastes…

Cam: I’m not a big fan of barbeque (I absolutely hate getting messy while I eat, unless my hands are getting covered with lobster juices), and North Carolina-style has been a hard sell for me. Growing up in Oklahoma City, you typically get either Kansas City or Memphis-style barbeque. The vinegar-based barbeque just takes some getting used to, and I haven’t eaten enough of it to aquire the taste.

If there’s a better burger place in the world than In-n-Out, I can’t identify it.

I’m in Los Angeles for a client event, and just had the chance to slip over to the Hollywood location for a little lunch. I had the double-double burger, fries and Coke. It was, in a word, awesome.

What makes In-n-Out the best? Eric Schlosser devotes an entire chapter to the Southern California institution in his book Fast Food Nation. Schlosser attributed In-n-Out’s success to its insistence on the freshest, local ingredients, its decision to eschew certain modern technology (most notably machine-cut, flash frozen fries), and its long-standing policy against franchising. (The last point, by the way, explains why In-n-Out remains confined to southern California, Nevada and Arizona.) By and large, I think Schlosser gets it right.

But he forgets the most important part. The food just tastes great. The fries are cut fresh with an old fashioned, hand-powered fry cutter and cooked in vegetable oil (just as they were in 1948). The burgers are hand formed and seasoned at each location. The sauce is a closely guarded secret.

And there’s one other key point: In-n-Out does one thing — makes burgers and fries — and it does it very well. You won’t find In-n-Out trying to be everything to everyone by selling salads or chicken or breakfast. That’s a lesson that a lot of today’s third rate businesses could learn.

Bottom line: If you like burgers, In-n-Out is a treasure, and one that you simply must enjoy on each and every trip our west. (Not sure if there’s an In-n-Out near you? Use their handy location finder.)

Cam: In-N-Out is good. It’s probably one of the top three burgers I’ve ever had. But I also think In-N-Out has some serious marketing savvy. For instance, I actually own three In-N-Out t-shirts (from CA, AZ, and Vegas). There’s a certain “coolness” cachet about In-N-Out.

Now the fast food franchise I dream about here in Northern Virginia is Sonic. Since they’re headquartered in Oklahoma City, I grew up with a Sonic on every corner, and I have to say their Double Sonic burger with mayo is at least the equal to In-N-Out.

Also, while you’re out in L.A., try a Fatburger. I’ve heard those are pretty darn good as well.

Marshall: Cam, your friend Farrah just laid the smackdown on you over your Sonic comment.

Let’s pretend there’s such a thing as a burger quality scale. On the top of the scale there’s In-N-Out. It’s not a subjective measurement, it’s a scientific fact. Like global warming.

Moving on down the scale, below the acceptable burgers and the burgers you’d only eat under threat of bodily harm…there’s Sonic. How can a burger from a place that has fried cheese on the menu be equal to an In-N-Out burger? Not possible.

Don’t shed a tear for poor Sonic. The poor Sonic burger is in good company. Congealing at the bottom of the list is the red-headed stepchild of California burger institutions…Tommy’s Burger. And congeal it does. Any burger joint open 24 hours and puts chili on everything on its menu can’t do much more than congeal.

Well said, Farrah. And from where I sit, I couldn’t agree more.

Cam: Y’all are high. There’s simply no other explanation for your belief that Sonic is not only equal to In-N-Out, but a sub-par burger. Sonic is overall the greatest fast food restaurant in America, and insulting their burgers is a Cindy Sheehan-esque move designed to showcase your hatred for America (or something like that).

• Shortly after you are seated, the waiter hands you his “cheat sheet” on which he has scrawled the evening specials so that you can review it while he gets your water.
• Later, the waiter asks your dining companion, “How would you like your chicken cooked?” Without missing a beat, your companion responds, “All the way, please.”
• As your table orders a second round of drinks, the waiter looks at one of your female companions and intones sincerely, “I’m so glad someone at this table is drinking beer.”