The terroir of missing out (on a key ingredient)

See Kewpie? Eventually.

MY PATIENCE began to be tested on the third go-round.

Walking the same aisles, seeing the same products, labelled with the same descriptions that I still couldn’t understand, I began to ask myself: is this really worth it?

How far was I prepared to go to get the right kitchen condiment?

The time was last Friday afternoon, the place Asia Market on Dublin’s Drury Street, and the task? Finding Kewpie mayonnaise.

I was sure I could do it unassisted but I was also certain that I needed to get home before midnight. Eventually I cracked and asked an assistant.
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Why Kewpie? Why not Hellmann’s or another brand of mayo?

The Japanese product tastes the part but how much time was I prepared to devote to finding it in Dublin (where it’s stocked in a just a couple of specialty stores)?

My trip last Friday had taken me a couple of kilometres across the city from one Asian grocery store to another, and had cost me the best part of the hour.

Three stores and one day later: crab.

For context: when it comes to regular shopping I usually lose the will to live after about ten minutes. Why is my attitude different when it comes to certain foods?

I recall wading through a storm-struck Dublin last year to seek out just 100g of bresaola.

Likewise my last trip for live crab saw me spend the best part of a day calling to fish shops in Marino, Howth and Abbey Street.

I will drive for 15 minutes, and run up another ten parking and walking, to get the right kind of bread.

Despite my usual shopping impatience none of these tasks bothers me in the slightest.
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I was thinking this over earlier last weekend when I received an email from my sister-in-law.

Anne had just bought David Lebovitz’s new book and sent my wife and I a pic of a paragraph therein on cheese.

Lebovitz explains the importance of the foodstuff to the French, citing the concept of terroir – “the concept that a product takes on certain attributes of the climate, soil, weather and terrain where it is produced”.

Lebowitz: he’s a terroir for the cheese….
Pic: Anne Alderete

Some argue this is solely a metaphysical concept, others (the French in particular) believe it’s in there, in the food on the plate.

On foot of my wanderings I’ve come to believe it’s a bit of both.

Was the bresaola more meltingly pungent because I’d battled storm-lashed streets to get it (rather than ordering it in restaurant)?

Was the crab sauce softer and sweeter because of a three store trek (compared to getting it in one gourmet sandwich place)?

Did the Kewpie on last weekend’s pancakes taste more vinegary than the last time I’ve had in an Asian eatery?

Yes, yes and yes. Perhaps this is my version of terroir, a mixture of effort and taste, a physical and metaphysical culinary concept.

The attention to detail needed to scope out hard-to-find ingredients, combined with their sensations on the tongue. It’s a sense of place, but also a way of eating, a method of appreciating.

If you’re looking for it, it’s in Asia Market, halfway down the second aisle, second shelf.

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Most of all

For those I’m here with.

And do you feel yourself thankful?

I do.

Thankful for being here.

Thankful for those I’m here with, her most of all.

Thankful every morning.

Not thankful enough for most of the day.

But thankful.

For small things.

For the last line of A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.

For the first solo on Autumn Leaves.

And the taste of crab linguine.

And more.

I’m thankful that release exists and that I witnessed it.

That pain exists and has an end.

That love exists and has none.

Most of all I’m thankful that I’m here, and not anywhere else.

Taste another little pizza my heart

Clogherhead. More fishing than flatbread.
Pic: Clare Kleinedler

How far would you go for a slice of pizza?

Eighteen miles across pot-holed country roads in a taxi to a small fishing village perched on the edge of the Irish Sea?

That’s where I found myself last Saturday night, clinging to my seatbelt, en route to La Pizzeria in Clogherhead, Co Louth.

Clogherhead’s more renowned for fishing that flatbread. It’s also the home of Captain RedMan, a headless sea captain’s ghost who reputedly spends his time wandering the area.

If it’s primo Italian cuisine he’s after the RedMan’s in luck – a chef named Jian Carlo has set up there. A local legend on foot of his erstwhile trattoria of the same name in nearby Drogheda (and, er, ‘direct’ customer manner) Jian Carlo opened his new operation in Clogherhead a few months back.

His previous oven produced some of the best pizza I’ve had in Ireland. Eighteen months had passed since we last had a slice there, so my wife and I undertook a pizza pilgrimage last weekend.

My frutti di mare – with added anchovies – was very good. Thin, dry crust, less rather than more mozzarella, just enough tuna.

Bon anchovy! Jian Carlo’s finest.
Pic: Clare Kleinedler

It wasn’t as I remembered it, though. But that may have had nothing to do with the dish itself.

Thinking about it afterwards it occurred to me that memory – the context of place, time, company, weather – influences my palate as much as my tastebuds themselves.

A madeleine-dipping Frenchman realised this long before I did, of course.

Swapping French biscuits for Italian flatbreads I asked myself: what were my most memorable slices?

Here’s my top five, in no order and with taste just one of the ingredients:

– La Pizzeria (the original): the punch is the base and the crust, which could be eaten with just a slather of sauce. Thankfully Jian Carlos added that tuna, prawns and those anchovies (if you asked). For two years we couldn’t visit Drogheda without eating it.

– Pizza Stop: a go-to staple in my single days this alleyway bistro boasted a seafood pizza with the saltiest anchovies (detect a trend here?) of any I’ve had in Dublin. Calamari a go-go too.

Capri – no salad. Frutti di mare at Verginiello.
Pic: Clare Kleinedler

– Steps of Rome: back in my 20s this Chatham Street joint sold €2 slices to go, which often fortified my buddies and I on trips from Neary’s to gigs in Whelan’s. I can still taste the crumbly base – I suspect semolina.

– Ristorante Verginiello: Capri’s overpriced and blinged up. This pizza was neither – I can still taste the mussel juice mixed with the melting cheese. The fact that we tasted it on our honeymoon made it even better. Jackie O, you missed out.

– Artichoke Basille’s: on a 2010 work trip to NYC I hit their original East 14th Street outlet. Eschewing meat I opted for a crab slice. Perfect seafood, incredible mozzarella, this was the best pizza I’d ever had. The following day I wrapped up my morning run by breakfasting on another couple of slices. Next time I’m in town it’s a taxi direct from JFK to 14th Street.

Now that’s a pizza crustacean – Artichoke Basille’s crab slice.