The Art of Eating In

by Cathy Erway

  My uncle himself had experienced periods of drought in his passion for design. He’d gone on a hiatus from his career once, when I was young, and retreated to a Buddhist camp in California for a few months. He took off to Taiwan and China a number of years later, and rekindled his interest in photography, taking remarkable photos of classical Chinese subjects. Most recently, he’d dropped everything in his life to take care of my ailing grandfather for almost one year. Over lunch in Koreatown, my mother kept voicing her concern over when Jo-Jo would return to work now that Gong-Gong was gone. His previous employer had welcomed his return initially, but they now found themselves with no position to offer him. Jo-Jo didn’t seem very concerned about this. He’d find something, he assured her. He might not return to fashion at all, he’d said. Jo-Jo always had something new up his sleeve he wanted to explore.

  In any case, that Easter, when Jo-Jo and I were riding back from New Jersey, he had asked me whether it was time for me to move on. We had just eaten a meal of rack of lamb, which I had meticulously roasted with fresh rosemary and served with a red-wine reduction sauce.

  “How long are you going to continue this?” he asked, referring to “Not Eating Out in New York”—the blog, the strict diet, or both. I wasn’t sure. This question had been put to me so frequently in the past year or so by others that it almost reverberated in my ears without having an impact.

  I shrugged. Jo-Jo nodded slowly, keeping his gaze leveled at my eyes as if searching for clues.

  “How do you know when it will be time?” he asked.

  I was tempted to give another shrug, as I would have done if he were anyone else. But I thought for a moment.

  “I think I will know. I just don’t think it’s done yet; there’s more stuff I want to do,” I’d told him. “I don’t think it’s run its course yet. ”

  “Okay ... okay,” he said. He kept staring for a long while, and I thought he was about to say something the whole time, and he probably thought the same of me.

  He suddenly broke the silence. “But you have to explore, right? Don’t you want to try new food and explore it? You’re going like this, holding in.” Jo-Jo hugged his arms around his shoulders and folded his torso into a ball.

  I couldn’t stay this way forever, I thought. In no way would that be comfortable. Not eating out in New York ... it was a lot of fun, and a good exercise for me personally in saving money and learning how to make a lot of different foods. But I sensed I was beginning to grow out of its shoes.

  The same flatware image glared from the monitor in my cubicle. I opened up a Word document and started to take notes on its features. Now, it may sound nuts to some, but I had a real fondness for my work, for creating memorable sentences about fine dinnerware that would drive a reader to hit the button and purchase what was on the screen. I also had a huge passion for cooking and for writing about it. Yet as I sat there at my computer screen, staring at the photo, I just wanted to crumple over on my desk and disappear. It wasn’t because I couldn’t force myself to write something pretty about the flatware set—no, I quickly straightened and let my hands amble across the keyboard, typing up some prose about their luminous stainless steel and stamped pattern. I could do it in my sleep.

  Perhaps that was just it: I could do it in my sleep. This was the way I operated in my day-to-day eating routine, too. Sure, there were bursts of creativity, when cooking with new ingredients, or creating an elaborate original recipe for a pie cook-off, perhaps. But for the daily grind, eating in had become something I had once so despised about food—monotonous, ritual, with little thought or care. Jo-Jo had instilled in me a sense that if I was going to do anything, it should be with genuine, uncontrollable verve. I was running out of this type of steam for the concept of not eating out, I began to sense. And I had been genuinely, uncontrollably compelled to eat at the Korean restaurant with my mom and uncle that day.

  That week, I did a lot of thinking about the future of my blog and of my eating habits. On the one hand, my readership had been steadily increasing all summer. How would it look to both new readers as well as loyal followers if I were to announce I was not not eating out anymore? Above all, this was the most difficult question in my head. My blog meant everything to me by then—it had turned into my “real” career, as opposed to my copywriting day job. The last thing on earth I wanted to do was to stop writing it. On the other hand, if I was going to continue writing about food, I’d have to keep learning new things all the time. And that might mean opening some new doors. I smiled, remembering the tucked-up pose my uncle had made on the train that night, illustrating my closed-off approach to certain foods. As mentioned, I always dreamed that my blog might end abruptly, as if by some divine intervention. It occurred to me: Jo-Jo is my divine spirit.

  Several months later, after I had begun eating in restaurants again, I would have dinner with my mom and uncle in Chinatown one night. Over our meal, I suddenly thought to ask them a question that for some reason I had never thought of before.

  “Did you guys eat in restaurants growing up?”

  My mom and uncle looked at each other. “Yes,” my mom said, nonchalantly. “Only on the weekends, usually. We would go for dumplings.”

  “With Gong-Gong?” I asked.

  “Yes,” my mom said. “Especially on days when he got paid. He would want to spend the money by going out with us to eat.” The whole family would pile into a rickshaw, my mom and uncle went on to explain. They had a few favorite dumpling places, which required the ride.

  “Always it was dumplings, for some reason,” my mom said, turning to Jo-Jo, who nodded in agreement.

  “See, dumplings are northerners’ food,” my mom said, referring to people from northern China. “We’re southerners, so we don’t eat many dumplings at home. So it’s something special.”

  “I see,” I said.

  I decided that I liked that way of treating a restaurant meal: as something special. A special occasion, or a special dish you couldn’t easily make at home. Something to savor, a rare treat. Not the normal, de facto eating routine. I had a feeling that many New Yorkers had it the other way around—cooking at home was the special occasion.

  On one of the first weekend nights in September, just before my blog and eating adventure would turn two years old, I told Jordan and Dan over beers about my decision to stop not eating out. Oddly enough, we were at an outdoor beer garden in Brooklyn again, though not the same one where I’d sat two summers ago with Erin and her friend Sergio. This place had recently opened in Crown Heights and quickly became one of my favorite local watering holes. We sat at a small square table on a blacktop patio. It was nighttime, and there was a votive candle on the table that made the last few sips in my pint glass glow amber. Jordan had her leg propped up on a spare chair next to mine. Her crutches were resting against the table. Since the accident, she and Dan had become a steady couple, and I couldn’t have been happier for them.

  “Guys,” I said, “I think I’m going to stop not eating out.”

  Jordan’s eyes widened. “Really?” she said.

  “Are you going to keep writing the blog?” Dan asked.

  “Yup,” I said, nodding. “It’ll still focus on recipes, home cooking, cook-offs, and whatever. But I just won’t be not eating out all the time.”

  “Wow,” Dan said. “What made you decide on that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess a lot of little things.”

  Jordan looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’ve been doing it for such a long time,” she said. “I’ll bet half the people who read your blog don’t even realize that it’s this strict diet thing anyway.”

  I agreed. Many people, I’d come to learn from their comments and e-mails, simply read my site for the recipes and “food porn.” But still others were actively engaged in my unconventional fast. Those were the people whom I still felt nauseatingly nervous about making this announcement to.

  “I think that’s a smart decision,” Jordan said after
I explained a little bit about the doubts I’d been mulling over lately. “I think it’s a good time for you to do this,” she said.

  “So . . . what are you going to do for your first restaurant meal?” Dan asked.

  I grinned widely. During my decision making over the last week, I’d hatched another plan. That, I couldn’t wait to tell them and the rest of my friends about.

  “Oh—me first!” Karol cried the next day when I told her I was going to need some restaurant dates.

  “Oh, my God, there are so many places you have to go to,” Matt said, and immediately began creating a short list of the places I’d have to hit.

  It was simple. For my first straight week of not eating out in September, I’d do the reverse of what I’d been doing the past two years: I would eat out for every single meal, every snack, every day. It would be “opposite week.”

  Fresh Corn and Zucchini Scallion Pancakes

  This is another East-meets-West hybrid of Korean-style scallion pancakes with fresh summer corn and zucchini. They’re dipped in a lightly sweetened soy and vinegar sauce, and once you’ve tasted them, you may never want to eat corn without soy sauce again.

  (MAKES 3-4 SERVINGS)

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  1 egg

  1¼ cups carbonated water (seltzer)

  ½ teaspoon salt

  Dash of white pepper

  4 large scallions, thinly sliced

  ½ cup fresh corn kernels

  ½ cup grated zucchini

  3-4 tablespoons vegetable oil

  1 tablespoon soy sauce

  1 teaspoon honey

  2 teaspoons rice or white vinegar

  1 tablespoon water

  Sift the flour into a large bowl. Whisk in the egg and seltzer until there are no lumps. Add the salt, pepper, and the vegetables and stir.

  Heat a large pan with enough oil to fully coat the bottom over medium-high heat. Ladle a scoop of the batter on the pan at a time, working in batches (probably of two). Check underneath the pancake after a couple of minutes, and flip before the pancake batter on the top begins to cook (it should still be liquid by the time you flip—just like cooking regular pancakes). Cook another couple of minutes on the other side. Remove from pan, add more oil to coat, and repeat with the rest of the batter.

  Whisk the soy sauce, honey, vinegar, and water in a small bowl. Serve as a dipping sauce.

  Stir-Fried Noodles with Cabbage and Shiitake Mushrooms

  This is the kind of dish I’d make repeatedly and often make ahead for lunches. I usually give it a spicy kick by adding plenty of chili garlic sauce (bright red in color, found in most Asian groceries), but this can be left out if desired.

  (MAKES 3-4 SERVINGS)

  ½ pound dried Asian wheat noodles

  2 tablespoons vegetable oil

  3 eggs

  About 2 cups shredded cabbage

  1 cup fresh bean sprouts (optional)

  1 cup sliced fresh shiitake mushrooms

  About 2 teaspoons soy sauce

  1-2 teaspoons chili garlic sauce

  Dash white pepper

  2 scallions, thinly sliced

  Bring a medium saucepan of water to a boil. Cook noodles according to package instructions and drain.

  In a large nonstick pan, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil. Crack eggs into a bowl and scramble lightly. Once oil is hot, add eggs and scramble until cooked. Remove and set aside in a separate bowl.

  Heat the other tablespoon of oil and cook the cabbage, stirring, for about 2 minutes. Add the bean sprouts and shiitake mushrooms and cook another 2 minutes. Season mixture with a few sprinkles of the soy sauce, chili garlic sauce, and a pinch of white pepper. Add the noodles and the scrambled egg to the pan and toss. Add more soy sauce and chili garlic sauce to taste. Add a little more oil to the bottom of the pan if anything is beginning to brown. Finally, add the scallions and toss once more before serving.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Opposite-Week Experiment

  PART I

  “NORMAL WEEK”

  I checked the last sentence one more time and squeezed my eyes shut as I clicked PUBLISH. It was my twenty-fourth “Reason for Not Eating Out” blog post. It was September, roughly two years since I’d posted my first reason of the month for not eating out. This time, I announced not only that it was the two-year anniversary of the blog, but also my plans to bring the not-eating-out experiment to a close.

  I reached for my glass of water and gulped it down. It was past one o’clock in the morning, according to the numbers at the bottom right-hand corner of my computer screen, pretty typical for the time of night I tended to hit the PUBLISH button on my blog.

  I went to the bathroom and began to brush my teeth. I had to get up for work the next morning, as usual. I would sit down at my desk, open up my e-mail account, and sift through the early comments, if there were any yet, on my latest post. Tomorrow would be just like any other day, I told myself, even though I had posted the most unthinkable, abnormal news I could think of in the past two years. Or so it seemed to me.

  To my relief, when comments started flowing in the next day from readers, they were all congratulatory and positive. Comments continued to trickle in through the day, and no hard feelings about my decision were expressed. I was immensely grateful. The uneasiness that I’d tossed and turned about all night long was quickly draining off. Readers even asked about where I was planning to eat out first, as I had mentioned I was doing “opposite week” sometime this month to end my streak.

  There were many different angles I could give to my week of only eating out. I pondered over how to best set up the week’s meals. Should I try to score tables at the latest, greatest hot spots in the city like a true restaurant zealot? A few of my friends suggested this, a whirlwind tour of the city’s most awesome eating-out delights. Or should I play it more by ear? In the end, I decided to combine a couple of carefully chosen restaurant outings with an eating-out regime that seemed typical for the young professional. This would be more or less the way I used to eat two years ago, and the way many of my peers still did. This might include breakfast sandwiches from the deli, Thai takeout weeknight dinners, and a couple of meals at hot new restaurants with friends. I had no set goals or expectations for opposite week beyond these. I figured I’d just enjoy it and see what happened.

  I looked at my calendar and chose a week that didn’t have too much going on: There were two back-to-back weekends where I was cooking dinners with A Razor, A Shiny Knife. I decided to begin my opposite week the Sunday following the second one. The only caveat was that the following Saturday, I was supposed to compete in a special, small-scale Chili Takedown being held as part of an annual chili pepper festival at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. It would be the last day of my supposed “opposite week,” and it would require me to cook, since I had already promised Matt Timms that I would participate. We would also be celebrating Jordan’s birthday later on that Saturday night, and she planned to throw the party in her apartment and serve homemade hors d’oeuvres. These events were both not-eating-out adventures in my book. I sighed and settled on that week anyway (the following ones had cooking events, too). It had become more difficult for me to avoid cooking than to avoid eating in restaurants by now.

  “Normal week” officially began on a Sunday in mid-September. After eating a leisurely oatmeal breakfast, I arrived at Michael’s apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, to start prep for the supper-club dinner we were hosting that night. Daniel and Gene, two other cooks who collaborated with the group, were there already. Previous all-afternoon-and-evening supper-club preparations had taught me how easy it is to forget to eat real meals while we were busy cooking. So I came armed with six chocolate-chip muffins that I’d pulled out of the oven that morning, to share.

  “What’s that you’ve got in the pan?” I asked Gene. It was chicken livers, he explained, for the pate. I hadn’t seen mention of pate on the menu for the night when I’d checked it. The pate, he explained, would
eventually be spread on top of the braised short ribs and torched individually to create a brûlée effect.

  “Do you like pâté?” Gene asked.

  “Yeah, I love it,” I said.

  “Would you want to take over with it? I’m not really a huge fan,” he said.

  “Sure,” I said. I’d made pate from chicken liver before, so I had a pretty good idea of what needed to be done. Using Michael’s food processor, I slowly ground the simmered livers and onions with their reduced wine sauce with some butter, cream, and fresh thyme.