mikro beer bar

November 26, 2011
eat here
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Hamden, Connecticut doesn’t spring to mind when I think of great places to have a meal. In fact, Hamden, Connecticut doesn’t spring to mind when I think of anything, really. In the past few months, however, I’ve been spending a good chunk of time there, and thankfully, there’s MiKro.

On Whitney Avenue, in a small shopping strip of sorts, you’ll find this little beer bar wedged amongst a UPS store and a pizza joint. The beer selection is wealthy yet manageable, the menu is sophisticated but not pretentious, the barkeeps know their stuff, and the food—oh, the food. I can easily say it’s the best food I’ve had in Hamden to date, and I don’t see it falling from that position.

Head to MiKro and order one of these:

And once you get to this point:

Order another.

everyone else is doing it

November 24, 2011
ramblings
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I guess I should mention what I’m thankful for, since it’s Thangsiving and all. In reality, the basis of this holiday is gruesome and not something that should be celebrated. That being said, what it now represents is what I’m all about: good food, lots of drinks, all with the people you love.

I am thankful for my parents, because of their love, support and friendship, and because they gave me my brother, my best friend and partner in crime. I am thankful for my S.S., who actually tolerates me, and I think even likes me. I am thankful for my friends, both new and old. I am thankful to be on the path to pursuing my life goals.

And, of course, I am thankful for salt, bacon and butter.

Happy and healthy Thanksgiving to all my faithful readers.

chicken soup for…who’s soul?

November 22, 2011
the main event
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There was little in my fridge to write home about, except for the makings of a mire poix–carrots, celery and onion. Oh, and in the freezer: chicken drumsticks that have been patiently awaiting my attention. Since I had nothing to do all day, I committed to making chicken soup.

After defrosting the legs, I browned them real good in the pot on all sides. Removed the legs, browned the veggies well, filled the pot with water, and added aromatics (garlic, parsley stems, peppercorns, etc.).

Simmered the stock and skimmed skimmed skimmed all the foamy crud that collected on the surface. About 20 minutes later, I removed the legs, pulled the meat off the bone and reserved for later; replaced the bones in the pot. After a couple of hours, I strained the whole bit.

Next, I transferred the stock to a clean pot, boiled thinly sliced carrots and celery, and, once cooked through, added the chicken meat.

I then seasoned the soup with salt, garnished with parsley, and cozied up on the couch with a steamy hot bowl. It was worth all the effort.

football sunday requires…

November 21, 2011
ramblings
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Well, not much, really. Greasy food is typical, beer is mandatory.

I have come to accept that football is now a part of my life, and I’ve actually begun to enjoy it. Sundays should be dedicated to slothing around and enjoying the final respite from the work week, preferably in your underwear.

Football is the perfect excuse to do pretty much nothing all day, and for that reason alone, I welcome it into my life.

my cousin vinny would approve

November 20, 2011
somethin' on the side, the underwear diet
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If you’re Italian, you call it polenta. If you’re from the South, it’s known as grits. I call it delicious. This creamy side dish errs on the side of indulgence, but when plated with leaner fare, it creates a healthy dish that actually satisfies.

I used medium-ground cornmeal, which gave the dish a chewy texture. Prepare the polenta according to the package’s directions; I recommend using whole milk in place of water. Once cooked through, toss in corn (fresh, frozen or canned will all work) and season generously with S & P, butter and cheese (I used Pecorino Romano, but you could easily substitute with Parmigiano Reggiano, or even smoked Gouda or cheddar cheese).

I served the creamy polenta with salmon and sauteed spinach:

I didn’t feel the least bit self-conscious when I stripped down to my underwear at the end of the night. And neither did my S.S. And, I’m sure, neither would my cousin Vinny.