Jerky of the Sea

In my memories of sharing bags of dulse with my grandfather on the couch, I was the only other person in the family who would eat the peculiarly salty snack with him. We looked forward to each savory curl of the dried seaweed, ranging in color from dark ruby to black, that bore scents of tobacco and licorice. Owing to its saltiness and chewiness, dulse delivers a satisfying, jerky-like experience.

When dulse is dried, it becomes a shelf-stable snack I can rely on while sitting out freezing northeastern weather, like today. But some of my most recent memories involving dulse recall a much sunnier atmosphere. A few summers back, I had a chance to visit my grandfather’s old Acadian stomping grounds of Prince Edward Island, where the native Mi’kmaqs have been eating this excellent vegetarian source of B vitamins since long before the Europeans arrived. I discovered that on modern-day Prince Edward Island, seaweed consumption has mostly faded away. But after asking around, I found bags of dried dulse at the table of Oceanna Seaplants at the Charlottetown Farmers Market. Dr. Irene Novaczek, a marine ecologist who grew up in nearby Nova Scotia, co-owns the business with her daughter, and she remembers Nova Scotian pubs serving dulse as a snack instead of nuts. One of her favorite ways to enjoy dulse is by toasting the fronds quickly over a small fire on the beach, the seaplant gaining the crispness of bacon.

In New Brunswick, dulse is still prominent at the province’s farmer’s markets. Maine is America’s only commercial dulse outpost, supplying American health food stores with this sea vegetable in flakes (best for soups and smoothies), in granules (a replacement for salt), or in its most snackable form: a bag of fronds dried in an inviting tangle, ready for sharing.

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Queens of the Stone Age’s Latest Album Swaggers and Dances

Villains - Queens of the Stone Age
The term “stoner rock” is one of those swing terms that could serve as either blissful praise or acidic mockery, depending on who is speaking and the tone of voice applied. On one hand, it could describe an arsenal of heavy, hypnotic grooves that excel at outdoor festivals at which joints tend to roam from mouth to mouth. Or, the genre label could peg music that requires an audience of brains helplessly crippled by generous amounts of THC in order to find it palatable (and when the pot runs out, the music starts to suck). Thankfully, Queens of the Stone Age has tended to draw descriptions falling in the former range.

While the band’s eponymous debut offering in 1998 retained echoes of the sludgy rock of Kyuss, Queens of the Stone Age’s predecessor with the same lineup, the band has shed pieces of the sound—having been honed at the outdoor concerts of the Palm Desert, California scene where the band was born—before each new album. With their latest release, Villains, Queens of the Stone Age seem to have finally left the stoner rock orbit. Either that, or the band has distilled and adapted stoner rock to suit a new sonic landscape: one populated with more dynamic, bite-sized songs that retain some of the repetitious distorted riffs of their long-winded ancestors, but succeed in taking the listener from one place to another.

Either way, listeners may be too busy dancing to bother grabbing the bong when it comes around. For Villains, Frontman Josh Homme engaged in a potentially risky maneuver in enlisting producer and pop specialist Mark Ronson (Lady Gaga, Adele, Paul McCartney) to barehandedly grab the buzzing mains of the guitar-driven rock Queens of the Stone Age is known for and bring out the inherent danceability of the band’s succulent grooves without neutering them in the process. Then again, the job of any good producer is to enhance, not to alter.

Some diehard elements of Queens of the Stone Age’s fan base may question the more prominent keyboards and the guitars’ lower levels in the mixes. But the keyboards on Villains, while employed more frequently than on the band’s previous albums, keep the cheese out and the rock in. Just as a glossy 80s production did not blunt the poetry of Patti Smith on Dream of Life, Ronson’s rhythm-forward treatment of Villains preserved the band’s sound while amplifying the material’s accessibility, catapulting Villains to number one on Billboard’s Alternative Albums chart, repeating the success of their 2013 release, …Like Clockwork.

The encroaching tide of the keyboard intro of “Feet Don’t Fail Me Now,” the album’s lead track, serves to launch the listener head-first into the song’s deliciously nasty funk that sets the album’s boogie-friendly tone. “The Way You Used To Do,” the album’s first single, follows next, the electric-razor buzz of the guitars locking into a tight swing rhythm that is probably already breathing life into many a tiresome swing dancing set (no offense, Benny Goodman).

Exploring a contemplative space that picks up where the soft-loud-soft “Kalopsia” from …Like Clockwork left off, “Fortress” is more of a steady rocker, with its introduction of beckoning ambience leading to the album’s most intimate lyrics (“It ain’t if you fall / But how you rise that says / Who you really are / So get up and go through” and “If ever your fortress caves / You’re always safe in mine”). The uplifting song’s mere five and a half minutes may singlehandedly scare off some of the band’s old-guard fans, but I suspect the band will simultaneously gain many more. At their recent concert at Madison Square Garden, Homme spotted a couple arguing in the pit and used the opportunity to stress what the band is all about: “We’re not the soundtrack for your fighting,” Homme said, “We’re the soundtrack for your fucking.” Perhaps “Fortress” will become part of the related soundtrack for pillow talk.

Elsewhere, under Ronson’s clear, breathable production, familiar Queens of the Stone Age stylistic elements flex and strut. There are the requisite false endings; highway-friendly songs (known in some quarters as speeding music), most notably “Head like a haunted house,” whose furious pulse evokes late 70s punk with a touch of glam, an unsurprising outcome considering that Homme had just finished touring with Iggy Pop before recording Villains; and a scattering of Bowie-esque flashes–the chugging “Diamond Dogs” saxophone on “Un-Reborn Again,” the cruising beat redolent of “Suffragette City” at the finale of “The Evil Has Landed.”

Stoner rock has traditionally nourished itself from the proto-metal wells of the 70s and grunge of the 90s, handily skipping the 80s. Queens of the Stone Age rolls out what is perhaps the most damning departure from such a standard in the closing track, “Villains of Circumstance,” in which the singalong chorus reveals hints of Roxy Music’s falsetto hook in “More Than This” from 1982.

Villains is an album for those unafraid of the evolution and cross-pollination of rock music. Dancing is optional. And so is the pot.

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Cyprus’ Newest (and Ugliest) Ruins

With the world’s current flash points, it may be easy to forget one of the longest running conflict areas: Cyprus. In 1974, Turkey invaded the island nation–home to Greek-Cypriot and Turkish-Cypriot communities, some of them mixed–in response to a Greek-instrumented coup. Turkey has since occupied a strip of the island’s northern side. After I visited Varosha, a Greek-Cypriot neighborhood fenced off by the Turkish military since the beginning of the occupation, I wrote “The Concrete Corpses of Cyprus,” in which I consider the effects of political obstinacy while reflecting on an unexpected connection between military zones and fast food. The piece is my latest for Perceptive Travel.

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The Artichoke: It’s Earth’s Own Game Show

For me, the artichoke used to be an abstract horticultural object—a bodiless head, existing in its own peculiar realm detached from other vegetables, part pine cone, part tropical flower, part grade-B sci-fi prop. Then I found one poking up in the middle of a spiky spread of leaves in my mother’s garden in Connecticut earlier this month. We had mostly forgotten about the plant whose seed we had buried in the soil two years ago, a seed that each year had produced that proud-looking foliage, an unapologetic hog of personal space, admirable in its own right, but no artichokes. Until now.

The timing for the artichoke’s grand entrance seemingly employed a dose of well-played drama, but its most memorable statement was the plant itself. There was something rewarding about watching an artichoke growing. Pointing toward the sky from the center of the plant, the globe was no longer a severed head of curiosity, and its life cycle was finally laid bare. Yes, that thing really is from of this world, despite its unearthly appearance—it’s a variety of species of thistle in the same family as more familiar plants such as the sunflower and the dandelion. It reinforced my connection with the planet, ever tenuous since I moved away from rural life to city life over twenty years ago.

All the more reason to eat it. But there are considerations to make in that department. The artichoke is the Price Is Right of vegetables: to harvest it, you have to guess how big the globe will get without going over the size at which the globe starts to open and bloom, because at that point, it becomes too tough to eat. And you want the globe to get as big as it can because as any artichoke fan knows, the heart, the only edible part along with a little of the stem, is pitifully small compared to the size of the globe itself. Sometimes the heart stands barely taller than a stack of a half dozen poker chips. So much work for so little reward. No wonder canned artichoke hearts are more popular than fresh globes. But with the former, you have to accept a flat, metallic flavor as your price for convenience.

I harvested our first artichoke when it was about the size of a large lemon (not sure if that was good enough to win the showcase showdown), so I am generous in calling it a side dish, let alone one for two adults and a child. After opening the globe with my fingers and stuffing it with slivers of garlic and adding olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper and then wrapping it in foil, I roasted it for an hour and served it with a yellow bell pepper/chili pepper cream sauce for dipping the base of the petals, where little pieces of the heart hunker down.

The stack of spent petals filled a whole plate when we finally reached the prize of the artichoke, the heart. It was dense yet tender, free of bitterness, and patty-shaped, as if it were trying to pass as a subtly sweet veggie burger. I could have eaten it in one bite. Better yet, I could have combined the two previous observations and made an artichoke heart slider out of it. That may happen in the future, but this time, I cut it up like the world’s smallest pizza.

So what did the Chowder Boy think of it? The first spoonful I served him contained some of the pepper sauce, whose spiciness he did not seem to care for. But when I served him a piece of the heart by itself, he engaged his pointing finger towards the heart to indicate “keep it coming.” Sadly, only one piece of the heart remained, and I gave it to him. Sorry, son, you’ll have to wait until the next one is ready for harvest, just like the rest of us.

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Travels in Newport with The Chowder Boy

Restored colonial houses, mansions that incite rounds of “whoas” and “wows,” a harbor full of sailboats, gently rolling waves licking piers, and…python jerky? All of the above can be found in Newport, Rhode Island. But don’t worry; I don’t think you’ll find any live pythons making their way up and down Thames Street. At least my family and I didn’t see any last week when we were in town.

We did, however, score many memorable meals in this city that should be considered a foodie destination. Even our 11-month-old son, vacationing for the first time, joined in on the action.

Offering seafood on a pizza reveals something important about the establishment. Since seafood is more perishable, more delicate, and more easily overcooked than most other ingredients, a successful seafood pie is an indication that the kitchen possesses a certain attention to detail that others may lack. Fortunately, Newport’s Nikolas Pizza, a five-minute walk away from the city’s Thames Street waterfront strip, served us a garlicy Greek-style pan pizza with properly browned cheese and sweet, juicy shrimp that popped when we bit into them. The shrimp must have been added halfway through the baking process so that everything was done at the same time. Being a pizza joint didn’t stop them from offering clam chowder, my son’s new favorite dish, easily ousting the crayons he had been starting to munch on.

At Salt Water, the Newport Harbor Hotel and Marina’s restaurant, fried oysters are not just for po-boys at lunch and dinner time. We enjoyed their fried oyster sandwich (with Old Bay aioli) for breakfast two mornings in a row.

Our favorite dinner offering was their chowder fries: a bowl of clam chowder with bacon and caramelized onions, served with waffle fries for dipping. I kept thinking that if the chowder were just a little thicker, the whole thing could be served poutine-style with the chowder poured over the fries, creating an ugly, tasty mess of a bowl. Speaking of messes, our son showed his approval of the dish with a sloppy chowder face.

The meals at Salt Water—and a few nights at the Newport Harbor Hotel and Marina—were part of my prize for winning a gold medal in the NATJA Travel Journalism Awards, courtesy of Discover Newport. The winning article, published by VICE Munchies last year, can be found here.

We happened to be in Newport for the opening weekend of the farmer’s market on Memorial Boulevard, where we met Matthew and Tammi Mullins, the husband and wife team behind the Newport Sea Salt Company, selling their product at the farmer’s market for the very first time. While wearing hip waters, Matthew gathers the sea water himself at Brenton Point Reef, about three miles southwest of downtown Newport. He then evaporates the sea water in a professional kitchen to produce the chunky crystals of salt for finishing dishes. “Reef to table” is their catchy, food-trend-aware slogan.

Sea salt from Newport has a glaring under-your-nose obviousness to it. I mean, the open ocean is right there! Surprisingly, the Newport Sea Salt Company is the first of its kind.

Sadly, I don’t have any pictures of the bag of doughnuts—fried, slightly sweet hush-puppy-like balls of shrimp and lobster morsels with a chipotle-mayo dipping sauce at The Mooring on Newport’s waterfront—because I was too busy feeding their native scallop chowder to our son (see the trend here?). But I managed to get a shot of Sticks & Cones’ waffle on a stick—baked to order on a custom-made waffle iron and covered with white chocolate, maple syrup, and caramel—before the sauces dripped too far down my hand. The ability and desire to eat anything off a stick is proof that America is already great, and has been for a long time. Who knew waffles could be political?

After serving us a cup of her horchata ice cream, the owner told us that “No one from the East Coast knows what it is,” a statement I found curious, since any New Yorker with a nose for our city’s bountiful Mexican food offerings has drunk horchata at least a few times. Perhaps New Yorkers don’t travel to Newport that often and instead choose a bungalow in the Hamptons instead?

We lucked out and scored an unseasonably warm weekend, which called for a visit to the Sweet Berry Farm in Middletown (a 15-minute drive northeast of Newport) for their strawberry ice cream, filled with plenty of strawberry chunks. And hey, the ice cream gave Chowder Boy a non-chowder treat to try, wincing at the coldness of the first bite, but then pointing at the cup for more. The farm also makes their own yogurt and whoopie pies. The latter were satisfying, but not as good as my grandmother’s (because that would be more or less impossible – sorry).

We also happened to be in town for the Newport Oyster festival, where dozens of local oyster farms set up iced tables and shucked their fruits of the sea. But how to choose? I’ll have to admit that I chose some based on the name of the farm, like Walrus and Carpenter. Because anything with the word walrus in its name is worth considering. They turned out to be one of my favorites—yielding a tender taste of the sea—along with the offerings from Rocky Rhode. The latter’s oysters were among the smallest at the festival, but were also some of the most flavorful, with a sweet, friendly finish.

Generally, I don’t count myself as a fried chicken fan. In lieu of seasonings, most fry joints rely on the mouth feel of fat and the crunch of the breading to get the eater through the task. Too many flavorless chicken-oil-breading mouthfuls have warded me off. But my wife had researched the benefits of a visit to Winner Winner Chicken Dinner, and she was right—upon opening their box containing both fried and rotisserie pieces, a very un-fried-chicken aroma hit me, one of rosemary. Chunks of sea salt sat flirtatiously atop the pieces. Winner Winner Chicken Dinner has shown that when done right, fried chicken can compete with seafood in a coastal town.

If you can handle the reality of a respectable fried chicken restaurant in a seafood town, then you should be able to accept not one, but two outposts of Newport Jerky Company, one at the southern end of town and one at the northern end. Their beef jerky is the obvious choice here, and their red wine & herb variety, using wine from Newport Vineyards, topped our tasting list, with its rich beef bourguignon bouquet and soft texture. (Am I the first person to use the word ‘bouquet’ to describe jerky?)

Being in Newport, I had to try the clam strip jerky, made from clams harvested off of Martha’s Vineyard and the Elizabeth Islands. The Newport Jerky Company had wisely added liquid smoke to the clams—a common pairing, found in clam and smoky chorizo stew, or the iconic stuffie, Newportspeak for a clam stuffed with chorizo stuffing. The brown sugar added an odd but intriguing note to the sticky snack strips.

No scientific category of beasts seem to be sacred in the eyes of their jerkying process, as vacuum-sealed pouches of alligator, alpaca, octopus, and earthworm jerky tempt shoppers to roam away from tried and true proteins. The python jerky caught my eye, and would you expect anything less from someone who won a trip to Newport for writing a story about dining on the world’s largest rodent?

There was another reason I was drawn to the python jerky. It was on a shelf next to animals it would consider prey. In the jerky shop, all meats humbly occupy the same rung on the food chain.

The package did not mention if the snake was sourced from a farm or the wilderness, but if it was the former, I doubt it was fed a vegetarian diet. The python jerky wasted no time introducing its flavor—black pepper and brown sugar attempted to tame a wild essence that sent me into thoughts of the creature squirming as it plotted its next move. Half of the pieces were ropy, indicating that the python must have strangled its share of critters in its days. Go python! At $19.99 for 1 ½ ounces, the package is too expensive to make into a habit, unless you have a vendetta against pythons (and if so, I’m sorry to hear about your Aunt Bertie’s untimely end while she was hiking in the jungles of Indonesia).

I wouldn’t fault you for passing on the python jerky entirely. When in Newport, the chowder is a great place to start. Just ask my 11-month-old son.

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