Isn't all of life just a re-make anyway?
Cleverly introducing tonight's dinner recipe with a rhetorical question (my forte - I am told).
The tuco that Victor Sosa, Uruguayan ex-pat poet and painter, possibly still living in D.F., made for me the one time he lured me into his house...
Let's back-pedal... I needed to get away to the beach, and spent the time just between Christmas and new year's with a lover on a virgin beach half-way up the Guerrero coast. Of course, Christmas had been spent with the family of the previous lover, and my visiting parents, but we will repress that memory for the time being.
Lover 1 (in this narration) and I traveled to Acapulco, and then spent the night at a club to wait for the following morning's third-class bus-ride up the coast to an insignificant little aldea, a typical rural village center in all ways but for its proximity to a gorgeous and mostly uninhabited coast-line. He preceded to get roaring drunk, so much so that not only did I have to sit by our stuff and try to fend off the encroaching gringa-seeking regulars (I tried pretending to be Argentine, but they were insistent... they wanted me to sing the National Anthem to prove it... which of course I had long forgotten) but then I had to drag him onto the bus and plead with the driver to let us go to the back and sleep it off. This was a rather uncomfortable situation due mostly to the fact that it was a four hour bus ride, he was snoring and exuding the rancid post-alcoholic binge drinker's sweat, that sickly sweet mixture of anaerobic respiration fumes and salt, and there was no bathroom on board. I believe that he even drooled on me, which is never a good way to start a romantic getaway. Add to that, I was footing the bill not only for his alcoholic stupor but also for food, lodging and transport. Honestly, sometimes I wish that I were a little less afraid of traveling to remote villages by myself, but it is always safer to at least shield yourself with the pretension of an honor-protecting amante... So I thought...
After a less-than-stellar vacation (at least relationship-wise) we decided to take a late night bus back in time for New Year's in D.F. I think I just wanted to get away from being trapped on the far side of a brackish lagoon with no running water and a boyfriend who seemed more interested in the local boys than in me. Victor was on the boat on the way back that night, and we started talking literature. He was tall, lithe, late 30's early 40's, with slightly longish hair and, of course, bespectacled. I found myself enjoying his conversation eternally more than what was previously being offered me by my narcissistic dancer-boy, and he and I talked all night across the aisle, while my slightly significant other slept off what must have been another hangover... The bus arrived at the central station in the wee hours of the morning, and for some reason, it was Victor that accompanied me home. Always the gentleman, he left me at my door and continued on. When he called the next week I decided to visit him at his home and he prepared a simple and marvelous Tuco to accompany ñoquis (or gnocchi)... Of course Montevideo is practically Buenos Aires and Buenos Aires at least pretends to be an Italian colony... I don't want to address why I didn't keep seeing him, I don't know if I am sure now. Mostly it was because there was no promise of a future (though the promise of an incandescent present seemed manifest). But, the thing I remember most about that day was just him standing across the room from me, bright mid-winter light filtering through the gauzy white curtains, his head bent in concentration, chopping carrots. Carrots! How curious, the secret ingredient to a good tuco, he claimed, and I have faithfully used his secret each time I try to reproduce the elusive tuco of my Miramar days. It never works, and I am always left wanting, but this new recipe has evolved and is, in fact my favorite accompaniment for couscous. Today there is no couscous available, so I will replace it with Quinoa, a more healthful stand-in, to say the least:
Salsa a la Victor:
Sautee Onion, and several cloves garlic in 2 TBS extra virgin olive oil.
Add finely chopped vegetables that are available - broccoli from the garden!, cauliflower, zucchini, always carrots (diced), tomatoes.
Add sliced mushroom (I prefer crimini, but all I had were white).
Add liquid - today a Pinot Noir that was practically un-potable, but worked just fine for cooking (white wine or rum works too)
Reduce liquid and maintain over a low heat until mushrooms render some of their liquid, and lose their crunch.
Season with salt, pepper, ground rosemary... If I had fresh basil, I would have chopped it and sautéed it with the onion and garlic briefly.
Garnish with parmesan, pecorino or romano... et voila - a low cholesterol high flavor remake, perhaps better than the original, if, for no other reason than its presence on the table this evening instead of the table of my memory.
The tuco that Victor Sosa, Uruguayan ex-pat poet and painter, possibly still living in D.F., made for me the one time he lured me into his house...
Let's back-pedal... I needed to get away to the beach, and spent the time just between Christmas and new year's with a lover on a virgin beach half-way up the Guerrero coast. Of course, Christmas had been spent with the family of the previous lover, and my visiting parents, but we will repress that memory for the time being.
Lover 1 (in this narration) and I traveled to Acapulco, and then spent the night at a club to wait for the following morning's third-class bus-ride up the coast to an insignificant little aldea, a typical rural village center in all ways but for its proximity to a gorgeous and mostly uninhabited coast-line. He preceded to get roaring drunk, so much so that not only did I have to sit by our stuff and try to fend off the encroaching gringa-seeking regulars (I tried pretending to be Argentine, but they were insistent... they wanted me to sing the National Anthem to prove it... which of course I had long forgotten) but then I had to drag him onto the bus and plead with the driver to let us go to the back and sleep it off. This was a rather uncomfortable situation due mostly to the fact that it was a four hour bus ride, he was snoring and exuding the rancid post-alcoholic binge drinker's sweat, that sickly sweet mixture of anaerobic respiration fumes and salt, and there was no bathroom on board. I believe that he even drooled on me, which is never a good way to start a romantic getaway. Add to that, I was footing the bill not only for his alcoholic stupor but also for food, lodging and transport. Honestly, sometimes I wish that I were a little less afraid of traveling to remote villages by myself, but it is always safer to at least shield yourself with the pretension of an honor-protecting amante... So I thought...
After a less-than-stellar vacation (at least relationship-wise) we decided to take a late night bus back in time for New Year's in D.F. I think I just wanted to get away from being trapped on the far side of a brackish lagoon with no running water and a boyfriend who seemed more interested in the local boys than in me. Victor was on the boat on the way back that night, and we started talking literature. He was tall, lithe, late 30's early 40's, with slightly longish hair and, of course, bespectacled. I found myself enjoying his conversation eternally more than what was previously being offered me by my narcissistic dancer-boy, and he and I talked all night across the aisle, while my slightly significant other slept off what must have been another hangover... The bus arrived at the central station in the wee hours of the morning, and for some reason, it was Victor that accompanied me home. Always the gentleman, he left me at my door and continued on. When he called the next week I decided to visit him at his home and he prepared a simple and marvelous Tuco to accompany ñoquis (or gnocchi)... Of course Montevideo is practically Buenos Aires and Buenos Aires at least pretends to be an Italian colony... I don't want to address why I didn't keep seeing him, I don't know if I am sure now. Mostly it was because there was no promise of a future (though the promise of an incandescent present seemed manifest). But, the thing I remember most about that day was just him standing across the room from me, bright mid-winter light filtering through the gauzy white curtains, his head bent in concentration, chopping carrots. Carrots! How curious, the secret ingredient to a good tuco, he claimed, and I have faithfully used his secret each time I try to reproduce the elusive tuco of my Miramar days. It never works, and I am always left wanting, but this new recipe has evolved and is, in fact my favorite accompaniment for couscous. Today there is no couscous available, so I will replace it with Quinoa, a more healthful stand-in, to say the least:
Salsa a la Victor:
Sautee Onion, and several cloves garlic in 2 TBS extra virgin olive oil.
Add finely chopped vegetables that are available - broccoli from the garden!, cauliflower, zucchini, always carrots (diced), tomatoes.
Add sliced mushroom (I prefer crimini, but all I had were white).
Add liquid - today a Pinot Noir that was practically un-potable, but worked just fine for cooking (white wine or rum works too)
Reduce liquid and maintain over a low heat until mushrooms render some of their liquid, and lose their crunch.
Season with salt, pepper, ground rosemary... If I had fresh basil, I would have chopped it and sautéed it with the onion and garlic briefly.
Garnish with parmesan, pecorino or romano... et voila - a low cholesterol high flavor remake, perhaps better than the original, if, for no other reason than its presence on the table this evening instead of the table of my memory.
posted by ilana at 6:33 p.m.
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