​One of the many famous dishes originating in New Orleans is Barbecue Shrimp; in my opinion, also one of the very tastiest ever created in an Italian-themed restaurant in this country.  Barbecue Shrimp were first cooked at Pascal’s Manale, a restaurant in business since 1913.  Its heritage is Italian – Manale, after all – and it still advertises itself as “Italian-Creole.”  But, like most Italian-named eateries in the New Orleans area, the Creole is far more prevalent than the Italian.
 
I had it this past weekend at Mr. B’s Bistro, the long-standing Brennan family restaurant in the French Quarter that I had not visited in years.  Though service was something less than prompt and professional, surprising at a Brennan restaurant, the barbecue shrimp were terrific, and terrifically messy.  Thankfully, plastic bibs are provided, an unsightly necessity. 
 
A few things about this garlickly and buttery preparation are unusual when remembering that it was devised at an Italian restaurant.  Though delicious, it hardly registers as Italian or even Italian-American, to be honest.  It is Creole.  “Barbecue” is a complete misnomer.  The shrimp are not barbecued, or even grilled.  The shrimp are actually baked.  Also, it takes its inspiration from Chicago.  It was created at the restaurant in the 1950s after a customer raved about recently having the well-known Shrimps de Jonghe in Chicago.  Yes, Chicago once had a renowned shrimp dish.
 
As flavorful as the dish is, it is also surprisingly easy, and great for parties, since most of the work is done beforehand.  It can be a little, or a lot, messy, which can make it fun for informal get-togethers.  The recipe below is from The Guide to Ridiculously Easy Entertaining.   It comes from my co-author, Michael Wells, who is originally from New Orleans. 
 
New Orleans-Style Barbecue Shrimp
 
Serves – 8 to 10
 
Ingredients: 
Large shrimp (uncooked & heads-on) – 4 to 6 pounds
Butter – 3 sticks (24 tablespoons)
Olive Oil – ½ cup (4 ounces)
Garlic – 4 cloves, finely chopped
Bay Leaves – 2, crumbled
Lemon Juice – 4 tablespoons; use juice from freshly squeezed lemons
Worcestershire sauce – 2 tablespoons
Flat-Leaf Parley – 1 tablespoon, finely chopped
Oregano, dried – 2 teaspoons
Paprika – 2 teaspoons
Cayenne Pepper – 2 teaspoons
Louisiana-style Hot Sauce – 1 teaspoon
Black Pepper, freshly ground – 2 teaspoons
Chili Sauce – ½ cup (4 ounces)
Lemons – 2, thinly sliced
 
Cooking Steps: 

1. Melt the butter in a large saucepan over medium-low heat.  When butter is melted stir in all of the contents, except for the shrimp.  Simmer for 10 minutes.
2. Place the shrimp in a large baking dish and then pour the butter mixture over it.  Cover it with plastic wrap and then store in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours.  The longer the better.
3. Preheat the oven to 300°F (149°C).
4. When nearly ready for your guests, put in the oven at 300°F (149°C) and cook for 20 to 30 minutes.

 
To Serve: 
Serve with steamed rice and crusty French or Italian bread.  For more casual settings, the bread alone will suffice.


A side of the delicious barbecue shrimp at Mr. B's Bistro in New Orleans

​Last week my brother texted that he had just spotted the Austin-brewed Celis Raspberry at his local HEB in Katy for the first time, but did not see their Grand Cru.  I responded that I hadn’t seen it in the area since I had it just over a year ago at an event at The Hay Merchant with owner Christine Celis to publicize the introduction of the relaunched brewery’s products into the Houston market.  The Grand Cru was absolutely delicious that evening, even better than I had remembered during the Celis’s initial go-round in the last decade of the last century.
 
I was surprised to happen across Celis Grand Cru in cans yesterday at the Spec’s flagship store on Smith Street, the first time I had seen the beer in Houston, either in stores or on in bars or restaurants since that release party.  I had to pick up a six-pack. 
 
I’m especially glad that I did, as I ended up having few friends over in the afternoon.  Along with the Grand Cru, I had several beers from other small breweries to share.  The Grand Cru was wide favorite among all four of us, and clearly also the best made beer to me.  Fittingly described by the brewery as featuring “a combination of full rich taste with fruity and spicy accents,” it tasted like a true and delicious Belgian tripel, with a hint of citrus and tropical fruitiness and a welcome subtleness and complexity, finishing with a long, smooth aftertaste.  Made with plenty of light malts to bring it to a substantial 8.6% alcohol, in line with the style, but it nicely doesn’t taste nearly as hefty.  The combination of Saaz and Cascade hops add some aroma and spicy bitterness – it’s only around 20 IBUs – and the ground coriander seeds and dried orange peel add to the fruit notes.  It’s also “made with the same special yeast strain used in the original 1965 recipe,” helping it retain some of the character of its predecessor, Hoegaarden Grand Cru, that Christine Celis’s father, the legendary brewer Pierre Celis, created a half-century ago.  Famed beer writer Michael Jackson called that beer “outstanding” and “a liqueur of the beer world,” which might well apply to its newest incarnation that’s now available in Houston.
 
Celis Grand Cru
$9.78 per six-pack at Spec’s   

​As with many Houstonians, my first taste of chimichurri sauce was at Churrascos, where the bright green, oily salsa was a wonderful accompaniment to the long, thin plantain chips that were a great way to start a meal there.  But for a more traditionally South American and complex version, in Houston it’s tough to beat the chimichurri sauce at Saldivia’s that is placed on every table and complements nearly everything that I order there.
 
After too long of an absence, I had dinner last weekend at Saldivia’s where I ladled heaping amounts of their nearly addictive, rustic-style chimicurri sauce – a mixture of mostly olive oil, vinegar, bits of garlic, parsley leaves and short stems, oregano, I believe, and scattered red pepper flakes – over the fresh, crusty rolls to start, trying vainly not to eat too many slices before what would invariably be a big steak dinner.  Then it found its way over the sweetbreads, which were terrific that night, the blood sausage, chorizo and a couple of different types of empanadas that had started the procession from the kitchen.  When my main course featuring an entraña arrived with its smattering a chimichurri sauce, I instinctively had to apply some more to the always delicious grilled skirt steak, making it more to my tastes.  And the chimichurri sauce made the accompanying grilled vegetables that much better, of course.  I ended up leaving a few small puddles of sauce on the table as much and as greedily as I was using it. 
 
The ability for this sauce to make nearly everything tastier has certainly been noticed by others.  I read on a couple different sites proclaiming the incredible versatility of chimichurri sauce, including one that claimed it might be the most versatile sauce, period.  I can’t think of another one that matches its utility off the top of my head.
 
Contrasting the chimichurri sauce at Saldivia’s versus the one at Churrascos, Saldivia’s hues toward the traditional recipe that is found in Argentina and Uruguay, where the proprietors of Saldivia’s hail, while Churrascos founders are from Nicaragua, and those restaurants use a simpler version that is used there, which seems to be an adaption of what originated in Argentina and Uruguay.  The differences in the chimichurris are that the Uruguayan / Argentine recipe calls for the tastier flat-leaf parsley versus the curly parsley, uses red wine vinegar instead of white, and includes oregano and red pepper flakes, and probably more garlic, than the sauce at Churrascos.  Those additional and different ingredients, plus a lifelong familiarity with the sauce, give the version at Saldivia’s a greater depth of flavor and versality.  It’s just better at Saldivia’s.
 
Saldivia’s South American Grill
10850 Westheimer (between Walnut Bend and Westheimer), Houston, 77042, (713) 782-9494
saldivias.com

​To paraphrase that boisterous British bard of the pre-millennium, Billy Idol, Moscato d’Asti might be enjoyed best when it’s dancing by itself.  With its bright bubbly character, it does dance.  In the flurry of pairing recommendations that I solicited from winemakers when I was in the Asti area last month, on a trip partly sponsored by the Asti DOCG consortium, one of them told me that Moscato d’Asti is really best as dessert, by itself.  This was somewhat echoed by a writer for Jancis Robinson’s website who spoke at the Asti event.  I confirmed the solo approach last night with a post-prandial glass from a not-the-most-highly-regarded producer that had been sitting in my refrigerator for over a week after opening.  It turned out to be nearly perfect for me in a satiated state about an hour before bed.  The wine was sweet, but not cloyingly so like all Moscato d’Asti’s because of their high acidity, and just what I was in the mood for.  I imagine I will be so in the future, and feel the need to start purchasing Moscato d’Asti on a regular basis.
 
Some of the suggestions for pairing I had heard during the trip: included: cheeses though not aged ones, salami, gorgonzola dolce, even when in a pasta or risotto with pears, possibly with pork with prunes, soy sauce, spicy dishes, Chinese dishes, as the Chinese like the sweetness Moscato.  From the Asti consortium’s website: “it’s canonically paired with…dry pastries…. pastries that are not stuffed with jelly, cream, or custard etc.…. it’s also a great wine for pairing with fresh fruit.” Justin Vann, a proprietor and acclaimed wine guy at Public Services in downtown Houston, told me that Lay’s potato chips, in their especially greasy original form, might be the best match.

Trying it with several things when I returned home, including the Lay’s potato chips, which actually did go better with the wine than the raspberries, blueberries, chocolate cookies, raisins, various cheeses, and at least a couple of other dessert-like items, but the Moscato d’Asti was clearly the most enjoyable by its lonesome for me.
 
I recommend giving it a try if you enjoy a little sweetness. Moscato d’Asti has between 120 and 130 grams of sugar per liter.  Lot’s a lot, and more than tawny port or Coca-Cola, which has about 105.  But, again, because of the substantial acidity that most sweet wines, and sweet beverages in general don’t have, Moscato d’Asti can be somewhat refreshing sweet finish.  Based on my recent experience, it can last for at least a week in the refrigerator sealed with something like a Vacu Vin that I used.  Even with its low alcohol content of around 5%, two people might not want to finish a bottle after dinner most nights.  Most nights.

Moscato d'Asti wines after harvest on a cool morning at the end of November.

​Courtesy of a trip to learn about the changes in a few wine regions in Piedmont, I was going to be in Alba – the heart of white truffle collection – at the end of November, which is prime time for indulging in these seasonal, very ephemeral and very expensive gustatory treats.  The king of the truffles.  I’d had fresh truffles before, during this past summer in Umbria and in the town of Acqualagna in the Marche region some years earlier, but never white truffles.  So, I had to make sure that these were part of at least one meal, or one dish at least, so I made it out for lunch on my own soon after arriving in Alba; I wasn’t sure how generous my hosts were going to be.  They turned out to be quite generous, as Italian hosts are apt to be, but I didn’t know that at the time.
 
Choosing a restaurant recommended by the Michelin guide from which I’ve had terrific luck over the years in Italy, I made it out for lunch around 1:00.  Just a five-minute walk from our hotel, Osteria dell’Arco was booked on a Wednesday, a good sign, and I had to make a reservation for a half-hour hence.  When I was able to be seated, it seemed that I was only the only non-Italian and only non-Albese, which I took to be another positive.  I ordered a tasting menu filled with traditional dishes and which included white truffles shaved over the Tajarin “40 tuorli” al burro d'alpeggio, the deep yellow, angel-hair-thin fresh pasta made with a ton of egg yolks that was served simply with melted butter.  The pasta was a bit clumpy, the sauce a little too watery as the pasta was not fully drained, and the white truffles, some a bit damp, were almost without aroma and without much taste at all, if not unlike a pleasant, if not-so-assertive mushroom.  A more generous share might have helped.  It certainly wasn’t worth the €22 (about $25) surcharge for the truffles for the dish.  I couldn’t help thinking that I might have gotten an older nearly spent truffle, and prepared somewhat indifferently, with the restaurant thinking the foreigner wouldn’t know the difference.
 
The dish at Osteria dell’Arco turned out to be the only disappointing pasta I had on the trip.  The exact same dish served the next day in stages to a group of over well over a hundred people out in a covered courtyard on a cool afternoon was much better, with the pasta a tad firmer and much tastier, and the truffles fresher, much more fragrant and with a richer flavor.  The dish was delicious.  The kitchen of the Michelin-starred San Marco restaurant in the town of Canelli did a terrific job serving a multitude, and the truffles it was shaving were seemingly in much better shape than what I had been served the day before.
 
But, as much as I liked the dish there and the several other times that I had white truffles shaved over carne cruda, risotto and ravioli and agnolotti before the end of the trip, I affirmed that white truffles really aren’t worth the hype to me.  They added a richness and an earthiness to the taste of the dish, but it is really the aroma, that deep musky fragrance, that is the best thing about white truffles.  Possibly the most enjoyment I received from the truffles during the trip was when a bowl of very fresh truffles, distractingly aromatic, were set next to before they were to be shaved onto the pastas.  They certainly aided a dish and I would not turn them down, but to pay for them, and to pay an additional $25 in Alba – which might have cost $75 to $100 here at the rare restaurants that serve them – that’s another story.  I thought that very good quality Parmigiano grated over a pasta dish was a better complement than the white truffles.
 
Maybe my tastes are too pedestrian, too American, but I was left thinking, concerning the white truffles, is that all there is?... If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing…. Let's break out the booze and have a ball…. If that's all there is.

A delicious pasta with white truffles at San Marco in Canelli a month ago.

​Beer cocktails might not be the most exciting of beverages.  Beer is usually meant for unadulterated enjoyment.  And when mixed, like in its most common form these days, the taqueria-favorite michelada, it’s identified as simply a working-class concoction.  Of course, there are some exceptions including the Black Velvet that magically combines Guinness and champagne into a clubby London stalwart, and somewhat obscurely, but deliciously, the Cruberry.  This involved a couple products from the initial go of Celis’s eponymous Brewery in Austin in the 1990s and was invented by Steve Black, a co-owner of the terrific Falling Rock Tap House in Denver while he was managing The Ginger Man in Houston.
 
There seems to be at least another one, too.  After returning from a trip to Paris, a beer-savvy friend quickly e-mailed about a drink he and his wife really enjoyed there, something brand new to them, Bière Picon.  It’s something I had also never heard about – neither had any of the very knowledgeable local bar operators I soon asked – I was very intrigued to investigate given my friend’s enthusiasm and, more so, after learning it was a beer cocktail featuring a French version of bitters.  As my tastes have embraced more bitter flavors as I have matured, like a good portion of the country’s imbibing public in the past decade, and buttressed by a number of trips to Italy, I had become a fan of bitters, at least the Italian version, amaro that is usually consumed as a digestivo. 
 
I found a recipe for Bière Picon (or Picon Bière as they call it) from the online drinks magazine Punch that is essentially:
 
Amer Picon – 3/4 ounce
Pilsner beer – 5 to 6 ounces
Ice – A few cubes
Orange slice for garnish
 
Pour the beer and Amer Pico into Collins glass over a handful of ice cubes and garnish with the orange slice.
 
Unfortunately, Amer Picon, the French spirit that makes a mixture a Bière Picon, is not sold in America.  This is quite odd given the explosion in the range of spirits in the past decade and that Amer Picon is owned by the beverage behemoth Diageo.  Though Amer Picon is not available, there is a fine substitute according to liquor and cocktail historian David Wondrich, which is widely available, the Italian amaro CioCiaro.  The unusual name refers to the region where it is made in the province of Lazio, about 100 miles southeast of Rome that takes its name from the distinctive sandals long worn by its inhabitants.  Milder and smoother than most yet more flavorful, it’s also one of my favorite amaros. 
 
Using CioCiaro, the best ratio I have found is one part of that to eight to ten parts of a well-made light- or medium-bodied lager like a fresh-enough Czech pilsner or a Munich Helles beer.  Karbach’s Love Street, which tastes like a lighter version of a traditional Helles, can work well, too.  Belgian-style white beer like Celis White does a very good job, too, for different, more citrusy taste.  Ice is silly with this, and a garnish doesn’t fit into the mold of a beer cocktail as something unfussy and to be concocted with a minimal amount of effort.  Here is my version ready for state-side consumption:
 
Birra CioCiaro [BEER-ah cho-CHAR-oh]
 
Amaro CioCiaro – 1 ounce
Helles, pilsner or Kolsch-style beer – 8 ounces
 
Pour in a pint glass.  Stir a few times to combine amaro and beer.  It should then drink quickly.  It did for me, and maybe too quickly.  The concoction was certainly beer-like, but it did not taste like the Czech pilsner it was made with.  The Saaz hop characteristics of the beer were muted, but the drink was still slightly bitter, and had a touch of sweetness from the CioCiaro. 

This works well as an aperitif, though I’ve found that one was very enjoyable, but sufficient for my palate.