cherry and port(o) compote

We happened upon Porto the way you might happen upon a new neighborhood haunt, or a dear friend in the most unexpected of places, or more precisely a great hotel deal while swimming through the depths of the internet. Zach speaks some Portuguese and looks for opportunities to practice so when he spotted the hotel he quickly checked for flights, and then before we really had a chance to question it, we had booked a long weekend in Porto. And since neither of us tends to do a ton/any research before arriving in a foreign city for the weekend it continued to feel like a happy coincidence up until we boarded the plane back to Zürich. 

Porto is tucked in the Douro River estuary, just a few miles from the coast and the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It is a wonderfully bright little city with unique buildings and wonderfully friendly people. We did as we usually do and casually wandered through the city (with the help of the nytimes 36hrs), stopping occasionally to soak it all in with the help of an espresso or glass of wine. 

More likely it was a glass of wine. Like the Champagne region of France, Porto gives its name to its signature beverage, port wine. The grapes are grown inland, the vines terracing endlessly along the hills that define the river valley. Traditionally the port was ferried down river in small wooden boats - like a grownup version of a Venetian gondola with the long wooden steering oar - to Porto, where it was, and still is, stored in long warehouses with terracotta roofs. 

Zach and I can't claim to be wine aficionados, but we do love wine, especially wine from the Ribera del Duero region of Spain, and since the Douro River and the Ribera del Duero are on in the same, we made sure to sample the Douro wines and drive inland along the river and through the vineyards. 

The Douro wine region hasn't fully opened itself up to tourists yet. We drove for along the river for a little while before finding a spot where we could do some tasting and after the tasting we drove for a bit longer in search of something eat. There was one fancy restaurant, a few restaurants that had already closed for lunch, and a woman by the side of the road selling cherries. We went with the cherries, at least as something to hold us over until we got closer to town and found something more substantial, which we eventually did. Much to Zach's surprise I bought a kilo of cherries. I agree that a kilo is a lot for a snack, but it's just so easy to say "um" instead of trying to fumble my way in Portuguese around a half or less. And since we did end up finding lunch we had a lot of cherries left over, cherries that I couldn't possibly abandon, especially since they cost 4x as much in Zürich, so I nestled them in my purse and brought them home. 

On Friday after walking in circles (the good type of circles) through the city we found ourselves at Bugo Art Burger where we ate delicious burgers covered in caramelized onions in a port wine reduction, which we followed up with panna cotta with berry-port wine compote. Heavenly. The panna cotta inspired this cherry-compote dessert. I substituted yogurt for panna cotta (because I'm never quite comfortable with that amount of heavy cream) and cherries for the berries and ended up with a wonderfully summery dessert. And since I had so many cherries I also made a single little jar of cherry jam. Gosh, I love summer!

This picture was taken from the spot we stopped for a tasting. We liked the regular, deeply sweet yet strong, ruby port, but we found the Rose port light and summery so we bought a bottle and that is what I used in this recipe. I think it would be just as good with regular port, or even orange juice if you don't have any port. 

This dessert oozes summer goodness and would be a light, fresh, and cool end to an evening spent outside. I might even go so far as to say that it tastes better eaten outside. 

Zach suggested adding a little crunch to the layers, perhaps with crushed biscotti or amaretti cookies, so if you're with him and like a little crunch I think that it would make a great addition.

// Cherry - Port Compote with yogurt and honey //

adapted from Bon Appetit

enough for 4 servings

ingredients

1 lb / 450 g whole cherries (results in roughly 3/4 lb or 340 g pitted cherries)

1/2 cup / 125ml Rose Port (regular Port or orange juice also work)

1/4 cup + a couple tablespoons raw sugar (or normal sugar)

4 tablespoons of honey, one for each serving 

4 small containers of yogurt (ideally a thick yogurt like Greek), one for each serving

Mix the pitted cherries, port and sugar in a heavy bottomed pot. Bring the ingredients to a boil and then reduce the heat to medium - low and simmer until the cherries begin to release their juices and soften. At this point you will notice the volume of the ingredients will have increased. It should take about 10 minutes. Using a slotted spoon transfer the cherries to a bowl and leave the juice to thicken over low heat until it coats the back of a spoon, about 15-20 minutes, stirring frequently to insure it doesn't burn on the bottom of the pan. 

Pour the reduced syrup over the cherries. Let the mixture cool. 

Place a tablespoon of honey in the bottom of each serving container. Follow with the yogurt and then top with the cherries and their juices. Serve immediately, or place in the refrigerator until about 20 minutes before eating.

For the jam I followed David Lebovitz's no-recipe method. I used about 350 grams of pitted cherries, which was just enough jam to fill one of these cute little pots.

Our hotel was across the Douro from the city of Porto, hovering on top of the long warehouses. Although it might have been nice to be smack in the center of town, it was a quick walk and we were able to appreciate the view. 

rhubarb compote and polenta cake

All I wanted was a kilo of Rhubarb. It should have been an easy, and simple, just a two-sentence exchange that would leave me with a bag of bright magenta stalks to place in my bag before I headed off in search of my favorite dried figs and some oranges. But no, my "Ich möchte gern ein Kilo Rhabarber, bitte" was followed immediately by some throaty, guttural, loopy Swiss German that I could tell had nothing to do with "Yes, that will be 4 francs 80 please."

As it goes with most of my attempted German conversations I had to ask, "Sprechen Sie English?" to which the response was "ein bisschen." If I didn't know any better I might assume that ein bisschen means a lot, or yes of course, or I'm fluent, or even I can talk circles around your native English, don't you even worry about it. (Don't put it past German to have one word for that). It would be sensible to think this because those two little words, ein bisschen, are frequently followed by a fluid stream of perfectly accented English, wholly obliterating the definition of ein bisschen - ein bisschen, un peu, a little, un poco. 

My request for rhubarb followed this all-too-familiar ein bisschen pattern as the woman went on to ask me in English if I wanted thin or thick stalks or a mix of both, and what was I planning on using the rhubarb for? Sometimes I don't even know why I attempt to speak German. Ein bisschen followed by comfortable English sets the bar too high for those of us who would like to say that we speak a little German. I can't rightly say that I speak a little German when a little has come to mean a lot. 

In my push to learn a lot I have started sticking post-it notes on every conceivable surface, especially in the kitchen, so that I can remember that whisk is der Schneebesen (love that one), grater is die Reibe, and measuring cup is der Messbecher. The post it notes are color coordinated; green for der (masculine) nouns, pink for die (feminine) nouns, and yellow for das (neutral) nouns. It's like Reading Rainbow in our apartment right now, just without the butterflies. 

Don't you go assuming that it's easy to know when a noun is feminine, masculine or neutral. It's not. Fork, spoon and knife are a great example of how muddling the German language can be. I would assume that a spoon, with all of it's gentle curves and smooth scooping abilities would be feminine, but no, it's der Löffel. And fork with it's stabbing, aggressive, sharp tongs would be masculine, but it is feminine, die Gabel, while knife with it's typically masculine -er ending is in fact neutral, das Messer.

I'm willing to battle der Löffel and die Gabel because I'm eager to have a conversation in German about rhubarb and where it comes from and whether thin or thick stalks are preferable for jam, and what about for roasting with oranges and a vanilla bean? This is a good place to transition from my German rant to a melt-in-your-mouth rhubarb compote and crumbly polenta cake. Just so you know, these two go-together, don't think about making one without the other, they need each other, literally. The compote is strained and the sweet, slightly tart, juice is poured over the polenta cake, augmenting the buttery almond flavor and softening the pebbly polenta to a point of desirable sogginess. 

I probably lost you at "sogginess," but hold tight because the soggy, crumbly, nature of this cake, is what makes it special. The texture steps softly between cake and custard, but neither one edges out the other, instead they release their competitive edge and sink into one another. This "sigh" is evidenced in the concave shape of the cake, a perfect hollow for sweet rhubarb-orange juices. The vanilla bean, which roasted along side the rhubarb and orange, adds a faint whisper to the entire concoction, nestling it's way into the crannies of the polenta cake and only grabbing your attention when you go looking for it. Each flavor adds something - a little tang, twinge or crispy sweetness - to the cake, and the cake in turn takes on all of these flavors and melds them into something new, something largely unrecognizable, but notably unique and sensational. 

I like to think of this as the marriage of two very talented British chefs, brought together by one very keen matchmaker. The rhubarb-orange compote comes from Nigel Slater and the polenta cake comes from Nigella Lawson, and I'll take credit as the matchmaker who helped them find ever lasting love. Nigella's polenta cake called for lemon syrup, but with all of the rhubarb season at it's peak I couldn't justify not using rhubarb to flavor the cake, so in came Nigel's perfectly tart, perfectly sweet compote. May they live happily ever after. 

// Polenta Cake //

adapted from Nigella Lawson's Nigella's Kitchen

14 tablespoons / 200 g unsalted butter, softened, plus more for greasing pan

1 cup superfine raw sugar (or regular)

2 cups almond flour

3/4 fine polenta - instant

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

3 eggs

zest from one oranges (use orange for rhubarb-orange compote)

Preheat the oven to 350ºF / 180ºC. Line a 9" spring form pan with parchment paper and grease the sides with butter. 

Beat the butter until light in color. Add in the sugar and continue beating until light and fluffy. 

While the butter is beating mix the almond flour, polenta, and baking powder in a large bowl. Once the butter-sugar is the right texture slowly mix this dry mixture into the butter-sugar, alternating with an egg, until all the dry mix and eggs are in the batter. Beat in the orange zest. 

Spoon and scrape the batter into your spring form pan, smoothing the top with a rubber spatula. Bake for about 40 minutes or until a cake tester comes out cleanish and the edges of the cake have started to shrink away from the sides of the pan. 

Using a needle or narrow cake tester, poke the cake all over, from the center out to the edges. 


While the cake is cooling make the rhubarb compote. 

// Rhubarb and Orange //

adapted from Nigel Slater's Tender Volume II

1 1/2 lbs / 750 g rhubarb

4 oranges

raw or regular sugar

a vanilla bean

Preheat the oven to 400ºF / 200ºC. Rinse the rhubarb and cut off and discard any leaves. Slice the stalks into 2-3 inch lengths and place in an oven safe dish. 

Remove the peel from 2 oranges, cutting away any white pith, then slice the oranges and tuck them in amongst the rhubarb. Squeeze the juice from the two remaining oranges over the rhubarb. Sweeten with one heaping tablespoon of sugar - or a bit more if your rhubarb is very tart. Add the vanilla pod, pressing it between the rhubarb. Cover the dish with foil and bake until the rhubarb is tender enough to crush with a fork, about 30 minutes. 

Strain the juices out of the dish. Pour over the polenta cake, making sure to cover the entire surface, not just the center. You will not be able to use all the juice, but add as much as you think the cake can comfortably absorb and pour the rest back into the rhubarb-orange mix. Serve the baked rhubarb along side the cake.  

If you didn't realize, this cake is gluten free. I've taken up the habit of marking gluten free recipes and hoarding them until our friend Jess comes to dinner. It's good to have gluten free friends, they introduce you to wonderful foods like polenta and quinoa and macaroons. Find yourself a gluten free friend (it shouldn't be hard these days, seems to be the new wave), and make them rhubarb-polenta cake for dessert. 

It also doubles as a wonderful breakfast cake. I know, I ate it for breakfast three days last week. It also makes a great snack cake, I know that too, because I ate slivers of it every afternoon. 

All this cake will inspire you to go for a walk, a long walk so you can come back hungry for more cake. 

out and about: kafischnaps

While I regroup after a month of Italy posts I thought I'd share a Zürich favorite. Kafischnaps is a wonderful low key café. It is not a hidden gem - crowded during lunch and on weekends - but it is definitely worth a visit if you are in the area or are just looking for a quiet place to spend the afternoon (it is quiet after the lunch rush). I know because I was there yesterday afternoon writing this post...

Kafischnaps :: website

Kornhausstrasse 57, 8037

Bus #32 & #33 Rotbuchstrasse, Tram #7, #11, #14, #15 Schaffhauserplatz

outdoor seating available

reservations accepted

The energy is good here. There are flowers on the countertop. The light fixtures are like medusa's hair, only metal with lightbulbs where snakeheads would otherwise be, and even though they don't undulate or rotate they seem to pull the room together. So do the black and white check tiles that climb up the walls. The wood tables and chairs, white saucers and clear cups and glasses add a touch of simplicity to the atmosphere. But what I love most are the big pane windows that make sitting here all day both feasible and enjoyable. 

The food service is simple, but surprisingly tasty and quiet reasonable. There are always daily specials and soups, but the staple menu revolves around Uufklappti Brot. Served on hulking slices of french country baguette, these are a version of an open-faced sandwich unlike any open-faced sandwich you've had before. Piled on the bread, hiding its existence, are wonderful mélanges of flavors, such as hummus and grilled vegetables over salad, goat cheese with honey and tomato tapenade, chicken curry with salad, and a few others, one of which includes bacon. I had the hummus and vegetables (pictured above) and it was a delicious mix of smooth and crunchy with enough bread to wipe up the remaining hummus. And at just 13.50chf ($14.50) it was a heck of deal (they range from 13.50chf - 16.00chf). 

If you are still hungry for dessert, or perhaps jsut stopped by for a coffee and a taste of something sweet, there are always pound-cake esq loaves sliced up (Zach and I once shared a delicious walnut slice) and sweet dessert cakes in the case (I've seen chocolate more than a few times). There are also always croissants, plain and chocolate, and if you don't want to get a whole dessert then order a tea and they will give you a little cookie with it. 

In terms of drinking they cover it all, from coffee and tea to wine, bear and Aperol spritz. You could easily stay here and transition from coffee time to tea time to cocktail time because they are open from 8am to midnight everyday, and until 2am on Fridays and Saturdays. And everyday really does mean everyday - they are open on Sundays, almost unheard of in Switzerland. 

buon giorno!

"One doens't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" bowing right and left. "Look at the adorable wine cart! How the driver stares at us, dear, simple soul!"

      - E.M. Forester A Room with a View

This quote from A Room with a View, when Miss Lavish is touring Lucy around Florence for the first time, aptly encompasses my feelings about Italy, in particular our trip to Apulia. It really wasn't that nice; it was gritty and it was real, with abandoned houses and a somewhat forgotten feeling. But within those quiet city corners and olive groves there was a lot of life, true authentic Italian life, being lived, and we got to live it too, even if just for a few days, "Buon giorno!"

This photo just happend. It was pure luck. We had heard the vegetable seller before we saw him, yelling "Carciofi! Finocchio! Arancione!" up to the apartments huddled around the little square. Instead of the customers going to the market, he goes to the customers. The woman on the second floor opend her shutters and yelled down to get his attention, she wanted some carciofi, all while we were standing right there just wishing we had a kitchen and reason to buy something off the back of his truck. I'm often self-conscious of photographing strangers, but I had to capture this moment, so I whipped out my point and shoot film camera, took the photo as fast as possible and then slipped it away. I didn't even realize he was looking at the camera until I got the photos back. It's my favorite photo from our trip. It so wonderfully captures everything that we loved about being in Southern Italy for a few days. 

...and now to get back to Zürich posts...or maybe we'll just have to go on another trip soon!