Radish has been in our food for a very long time, probably several centuries, like a turnip. Potato was brought from Holland by Tsar Peter the first in the 1700s. And more recently, sweet potatoes have appeared, which costs as much as kiwi, that is, quite expensive. And beets are very cheap, like carrots. Fried beets are sometimes put in borsch. I personally cook boiled beets in a pressure cooker for borsch and do not fry it at all for this soup. Or other people and restaurants cook beets in a pressure cooker for a vinaigrette or Russian herring under a "fur coat".
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The web claims it was a 1930's growers association marketing ploy to differentiate their product and it stuck. True sweet potatoes come in white, orange, and purple.
Sob. Season over here and due to lockdown missed the chance to raid my Brother in Law's plant (he bought a house with a rhubarb plant but his wife has no idea what to do with it).
If you've ever taken young kids or grand-kids to a restaurant, you'll appreciate this story by Ruth Reichl (former food critic for the NYTimes):
Our New Friends
by Ruth Reichl
“Do we have to?”
My 8-year-old son, Nick, was tired of traveling. By the time we got to Paris — our last stop — all he wanted to do was go home. He missed his friends, he missed his room and he missed familiar food.
He frowned as he watched me dance around our hotel room, thrilled that I had managed to snag an impossible last-minute reservation at L’Ami Louis — a restaurant I’d been vainly trying to get into for years. Michael, my husband, was only moderately more enthusiastic. “Another overpriced French meal,” he grumbled, making it clear that this was his idea of hell.
In the end, they grudgingly agreed to come along.
L’Ami Louis is a famous paean to the past. Since 1924, the restaurant has steadfastly resisted change; even the waiters looked as if they’d been there since the beginning. Nick edged in, sniffed the oak-scented air and watched a golden heap of French fries make its way across the dining room.
“It might be OK,” he admitted, looking around the small, crowded room with coats piled on racks above the tables. The waiter studied him for a moment and disappeared. He returned bearing a huge plate of those airy fried potatoes and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “You look ’ungry,” he said as he set the plate in front of Nick.
“I think I’m going to like it here,” my son announced.
“Isn’t that Carole Bouquet?” Michael pointed across the room to a family seated with a boy about Nick’s age. I thought it probably was the famous French actress, but in the dark, smoky restaurant it was hard to tell. “Could be,” I said. “Film people love this place.”
“I do, too.” Nick stuffed a fry into his mouth.
The waiter appeared with sizzling snails, sending a cloud of garlic and butter floating across the table. Setting the platter down, he whispered something in Nick’s ear. He pointed, and Nick followed the boy from Carole Bouquet’s table out the door. “Do not worry, Madam,” said the waiter solemnly. “It is only the maître d’ organizing games for neighborhood children.”
While we tucked into a plump chicken with crackling skin, Nick ran in to say the woman upstairs had shouted out the window. “She’s calling the gendarmes!” he said, thrilled, before dashing out the door.
The boys were not seen again until the waiter conjured up a whole chocolate cake. They sat together, old friends now, reluctant to join the grown-ups. That was fine with us; we were sipping Cognac strolling from table to table, making friends. The waiters stood on the sidelines, watching us with fond eyes. The entire restaurant had turned into a dinner party.
It was late when the evening ended. “That,” my son announced as we made our way back to the hotel, “is a very fine restaurant.”
“But all you ate was French fries and chocolate cake,” I pointed out.
“C’mon, Mom,” he replied. “You know restaurants aren’t really about the food. Can we go back tomorrow?”
Our New Friends
by Ruth Reichl
“Do we have to?”
My 8-year-old son, Nick, was tired of traveling. By the time we got to Paris — our last stop — all he wanted to do was go home. He missed his friends, he missed his room and he missed familiar food.
He frowned as he watched me dance around our hotel room, thrilled that I had managed to snag an impossible last-minute reservation at L’Ami Louis — a restaurant I’d been vainly trying to get into for years. Michael, my husband, was only moderately more enthusiastic. “Another overpriced French meal,” he grumbled, making it clear that this was his idea of hell.
In the end, they grudgingly agreed to come along.
L’Ami Louis is a famous paean to the past. Since 1924, the restaurant has steadfastly resisted change; even the waiters looked as if they’d been there since the beginning. Nick edged in, sniffed the oak-scented air and watched a golden heap of French fries make its way across the dining room.
“It might be OK,” he admitted, looking around the small, crowded room with coats piled on racks above the tables. The waiter studied him for a moment and disappeared. He returned bearing a huge plate of those airy fried potatoes and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “You look ’ungry,” he said as he set the plate in front of Nick.
“I think I’m going to like it here,” my son announced.
“Isn’t that Carole Bouquet?” Michael pointed across the room to a family seated with a boy about Nick’s age. I thought it probably was the famous French actress, but in the dark, smoky restaurant it was hard to tell. “Could be,” I said. “Film people love this place.”
“I do, too.” Nick stuffed a fry into his mouth.
The waiter appeared with sizzling snails, sending a cloud of garlic and butter floating across the table. Setting the platter down, he whispered something in Nick’s ear. He pointed, and Nick followed the boy from Carole Bouquet’s table out the door. “Do not worry, Madam,” said the waiter solemnly. “It is only the maître d’ organizing games for neighborhood children.”
While we tucked into a plump chicken with crackling skin, Nick ran in to say the woman upstairs had shouted out the window. “She’s calling the gendarmes!” he said, thrilled, before dashing out the door.
The boys were not seen again until the waiter conjured up a whole chocolate cake. They sat together, old friends now, reluctant to join the grown-ups. That was fine with us; we were sipping Cognac strolling from table to table, making friends. The waiters stood on the sidelines, watching us with fond eyes. The entire restaurant had turned into a dinner party.
It was late when the evening ended. “That,” my son announced as we made our way back to the hotel, “is a very fine restaurant.”
“But all you ate was French fries and chocolate cake,” I pointed out.
“C’mon, Mom,” he replied. “You know restaurants aren’t really about the food. Can we go back tomorrow?”
Not often I am going to post about a regular old weekday meal but for some reason this was something special. As you can see it's chicken thighs, noddles and aspergrass (Mrs. Weldon's pronunciation). On the surface just a nicely balanced meal. In the mouth is was something to behold. You know those meals when everything clicks? Those nights when there is nothing to improve? Those nights where you wish you had written down what you did? That's what happened to us last night. 
BTW, the air fryer is a heck of a way to do that chicken.
BTW, the air fryer is a heck of a way to do that chicken.
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Nice story, we didn't do fine dining restaurants with all 4 kids until the youngest was 12. But they were all totally into it, never once did we order anything that was not on the main menu. At a three star in Paris the head waiter noticed how much they liked the pommes souffle and brought out a huge extra platter. I broke protocol and slipped him an extra 100F.
I'm so glad we did a self planned European tour with all 6 of us around 2000, we would never try it today.
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Part of the garlic plant, a flower shoot that is cut off to encourage the growth of the bulb. Sort of like chive flowers whose stalk is harder than the rest.
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My 4 year old grand-daughter told me: "You can take us to Disney this year", not likely this year, but mbe next.
Ruth Reichl's mom was an awful, horrible cook. She would serve the family leftovers mixed in a jello salad to clean the refrigerator. It may be a bit apocryphal on her part, but she did relate the story on WNYC radio about a dozen years and blamed survival on her desire to cook!
My step mother was a close second as far as bad cooks go. We ate cheap hot dogs "roasted" in canned baked beans at a rate that should have put us all into a salt coma by the second week. Having lived with my grandmothers for several years before she arrived on scene, I was appalled. At 12 years old I had no choice but to cook something edible and eat it whenever the opportunity presented itself.
I guess I should thank her, my cousin who was raised by a grandma trained cook won't get near a stove. I think it is because he never needed to.
