Sunday Morning With The Asparaguru

A version of this article appeared in The Financial Mirror issue of February 22-28, 2012. Since it's currently wild asparagus season, I thought I'd share it with you.

Therein hides the wild asparagus...

Evading thorny situations are not my specialty. That obviously came to the fore one random overcast and cold Sunday morning in the fields near the village of Agrokipia, only twenty-five minutes outside of Nicosia and right off the single-lane road that meanders into the Pitsilia region immediately east of Mount Olympus. Decked in black sweatpants, a warm fleece jacket and running shoes, my hands protected by cushiony and expensive goalkeeping gloves, I repeatedly dug a strong tree branch into the bundle of spines that provides shelter to agrelia, the island’s wild asparagus. The goal seemed simple—to create enough room through the prickly brush to handpick the few asparagus shoots that might be tucked in the ground. In reality, though, wild asparagus picking is a grueling game that requires a combination of patience, good eyesight, dexterity, tolerance for pain and a willingness to get down and dirty. It is somewhat like going to protracted war with nature.

Hunting

In retrospect, it was quite wise to bring along my friend Marios’s mother-in-law and her years of picking experience to show us the ropes. First off, Marios and I had to dispel any preconceived notion we had regarding what a wild asparagus plant looks like. The grayish-green bush is a labyrinth of branches, each jutting out dozens of small and very sharp thorns, that hides the vegetable from plain eyesight. Without proper assistance, neophytes would be hard-pressed to recognize the correct plant. Furthermore, the only way to reach the asparagus—if in fact there are any visible ones under that particular plant—is to push aside the protrusions with any sort of robust stick-like instrument and open a gap large enough to move in with your arm and carefully pull the shoots out. On the way in, it is likewise prudent to mind the spines (heavy-duty gardening gloves help) and either dig one’s feet deep into the ground for added stability or kneel down for greater extension. To make things even trickier, the vegetable is often hard to spot since it is so well camouflaged by all the other branches nearby. Given all these complications, it is not surprising to find wild asparagus at local supermarkets selling for about six Euros for a rather meager bunch.

Once we were done searching under one bush, we would move on to the next, each time praying to hit the mother lode, quickly fill up our white bucket and shorten our somewhat fatiguing outing. Little by little, our collection of wild asparagus—some short like a thimble, others as long as a grown man’s arm—became a semi-respectable batch. I must admit that most of it was tracked down by our astute aspara-guru, Marios and I adding only a handful of shoots to the gatherings. After a couple hours scavenging through the soggy fields, our feet and pants’ hemlines crusted with mud courtesy of the rainiest Cypriot winter in years, we called it a day and sped back to Nicosia to cut, wash and divide our spoils. 

Cleaning wild asparagus is a relatively simple task when compared to the arduous gathering process. However, what is most frustrating is realizing that only about forty percent of the batch is actually edible. To clean, snap the stem into roughly four centimeter pieces as you work your way down from the pointy tip, discarding whatever is left once it simply bends or no longer breaks off cleanly. Then, run the salvaged asparagus under cold water and pat dry.  After all that work, we had only collected enough to serve as a side dish for four, making me doubt whether it was worth our time to hit the trenches and scour the fields in search of the vegetable in the first place. 

The yummy end product

Cypriot preparation methods usually consist of tossing the asparagus with a few lightly beaten eggs and some olive oil in a sizzling pan. To soften its natural bitterness, my mother-in-law suggested briefly blanching the vegetable before sautéing for a few minutes and then adding the eggs, salt and ground black pepper. Other people prefer coating the pieces in olive oil before jacking up the heat on the stove-top, stirring until the asparagus turn a bright green and then mixing in the remaining ingredients. Once at home, I tried both techniques and the results were rather similar, the latter being just a bit oilier than the former probably as a result of my unsteady hand when pouring the oil. In my position as daily apron-wearer of the household, I believe the key is to not overcook the shoots so that they remain crunchy and hold back on the number of eggs to allow the umami-packed vegetable to shine through. A good rule of thumb is to use two eggs for each cup of asparagus.  

Overall, my experiment cooking the asparagus was quite successful. The pieces turned a beautiful vibrant green and remained firm to the bite. They also kept their tanginess and just a hint of bitterness that was softened nicely by the eggs’ creaminess. If matching with wine, I believe it would have been perfect alongside a chilled glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, Santorini Assyrtiko (unoaked) or one of Cyprus’s wonderful rosés. 

In the end, did it make sense to hit the countryside early on a gloomy Sunday morning to learn how to pick wild asparagus? I would say yes since there is always something quite satisfying about harvesting your own vegetables, fruits and herbs. If in trained hands, the food usually tastes better as each bite serves as a well-earned reward for standing up to all kinds of hardships—pricks, sludge, itchy eyes and the eventual sore back. So rest assured, we will be back next month to comb the wet land for bladder campion, thyme and any other wild edible greens available to foolish local adventurers like ourselves.

Mapping Cyprus Wine

Here's WineriesCyprus.com, a cool little gadget developed by Elena Sophocleous Toth and designed by Robert Toth. Basically, the website maps out all Cyprus wineries, includes contact information for each, and allows users to rate and comment on their favorite ones. I believe it's a handy tool to visually locate wineries across The Rock and could be very helpful when organizing wine tasting excursions. Kudos to the Toth Team!

Barreling Down The Falls

As of yesterday, I am the proud owner of a French oak barrel. My original plan was to go over Troodos' Caledonia Falls stashed inside it as a daring publicity stunt for the blog, but Little Miss Despot and The Wife, Ph.D., forced me to reconsider. Any other brilliant ideas, dear readers?

Whomever first guesses the winery that sold me the barrel will receive a Whine On The Rocks' kitchen towel. One answer per participant, and family (Radio Free Cyprus and Cousin #2, hush-hush!) and close friends aren't eligible.

One For The Environment

This post was inspired by a good friend of mine who's working as a consultant for Greentizen, a South American start-up that seeks "to leverage the power of Social Networks to promote and coordinate environmentally friendly actions." Check it out!

As a wine blogger, father and husband, it is quite challenging to strike a balance between the tasting of hundreds of high-quality wines and a lifelong duty to my daughter and wife to keep our household’s carbon footprint at a minimal level. Brace yourself because an average bottle of wine, according to Mike Berners-Lee’s How Bad Are Bananas?: The Carbon Footprint of Everything, contributes approximately 1040 grams of CO_2e to the environment with about 70 percent of it being produced during the grapes’ harvest, vinification and bottling. If, like my wife and me, you consume two bottles a week, your yearly carbon footprint from tickling your palate with Dionysus’ drink of choice translates to a 225 kilometer drive in a run-of-the-mill car. Of course, this begs the question, what can you do to reduce your carbon footprint from uncorking a bottle of wine? 

Mike Berners-Lee, an expert in carbon foot-printing, and Tyler Colman (aka Dr. Vino), a noted wine blogger and university professor, offer several suggestions, some better suited than others for the environmentally-conscious oenophile. 

In my opinion, Berners-Lee’s best proposal is to consume locally-produced wine, a habit that “could cut the footprint by 25 per cent” by reducing ground, air and maritime transportation. For example, if you live in Uruguay, instead of picking up a bottle of Argentine Malbec or Chilean Carmenere, selections that probably made it to your local cava via land, choose the local Tannat, a variety originally from southwestern France that has become Uruguay’s national grape. For one, I’ve embraced this practice as I tend to prefer Cypriot wines over flashier options that have racked up long distances to make it to our island.  Besides, in times of financial difficulties, local industry—be it here in Nicosia or in Montevideo—needs our support. 

Another good suggestion is to opt for organic and “natural” wines over conventional ones. Both organic and natural wines avoid the use of herbicides, pesticides, fertilizers and other artificial chemical additives, and many of them rely on hand-picked grapes instead of mechanically harvested ones. Per Dr. Colman, “organic farming has lower greenhouse gas (GHG) intensity than conventional farming,” even though the difference is not as drastic as one would expect. 

On the downside, buying boxed or Tetra Pak wines, which according to Berners-Lee cuts carbon emissions “by a factor of five,” limits your choices and leaves a lot to be desired in terms of quality. Non-discerning consumers who are looking for simple and affordable everyday wines could very well switch to these environment-friendly recipients, but I don’t envision myself or many aficionados giving up elegant and complex bottled wines and the fanfare that involve their opening. Albeit, as more producers adopt these containers and start packaging higher quality wines, I could adapt for the sake of my daughter’s future. For now, though, it’s best to consume a Magnum (1.5L) or Jeroboam (3L) rather than the standard 750ml bottle given the lower glass-to-wine ratio, or wines by companies like, for example, Palo Alto and Emiliana in Chile that have switched to eco-friendly lightweight bottles. 

Of course, at the end of the day, the most obvious contribution to Mother Earth would be to curtail your overall wine consumption, but where is the fun in that?

Something Different #2

I originally submitted this story fragment to a competition organized by "Reading the Lines: "the Other" in the stories we tell about ourselves," a project funded by UNDP-ACT and run by the Cyprus Association on Books for Young People. Even though it did not make the final cut, I thought I'd share it with you in this second installment of "Something Different."

The perfect first sentence never came easily to Samuel. He spent hours planted on a creaky mahogany stool as inadequate words tumbled onto A4 sheets of scrap paper and his green pen doodled them out of their misery. Instead of crumpling up each failed attempt, pages full of angry scratches, cartoonish faces and repetitive patterns became airplanes (The Moth, The Stealth!) that glided out the only window of his sixth floor studio. Often, Samuel peered over the ledge until his words disappeared behind other soot-laden buildings or dived down like a kamikaze onto the sidewalk below. He then returned to his messy Davenport desk and the stacks of paper waiting to be weighed down by his fickle scribbling. 

Telling people about Candela’s murder only made things harder. His memory of her unveiled itself and drowned out any semblance of a thought process. A humid midnight inside Club “La Venia.” High-heeled women in flowing dresses skipped to the Nuyorican salsa, their partners biting their own lower lips and spinning the girls around like flimsy tops. Cheap watered-down rum and light beer spilled out of plastic tumblers, and the strobe lights raced against the brass section’s trilling. Samuel held Candela close on the dance floor, peppering her chocolate-toned neck with short kisses and naked toes with untrained footsteps. 

Caption to be used as "inspiration."

He creased another page and ventured towards the window. A gust of wind swept the plane (The Arrow, The Dart!) and it spun uncontrollably and darted the roof of a parked white sedan. Part of him believed the city would collect his sophomoric language, recycle it and reward him with a more promising beginning. Samuel imagined garbage men in their fluorescent yellow vests, grey rubber boots and unbecoming smell spearing his aeronautical origami with their paper pick-up sticks and tossing them into the dumpster, a ravenous mouth that opened wide and spat out words threaded together like dense Zardozi embroidery. As the city was cleansed each dawn of its impurities, so too he thought was his inability to move past unlocked. 

Candela and Samuel walked arm in arm, the music’s beat long gone from their bodies but that anxiety that comes with first-time love creeping in as a warm light through cracked blinds. A gang of miscreants, five lanky men with grimy tattoos that rolled from under their tight white t-shirts like sinister clouds, accosted them four blocks away from Samuel’s studio. They heckled Candela, mocking her wide hips, her burnt wheat complexion, the unusual staccato of her pleas. Two of them locked Samuel from his neck and waist and forced him to watch. The skinny bald one with red wire-rimmed glasses and swastikas patched onto his militaristic cargo pants belted out obscenities, smacked Candela across her teary face and tugged at her obsidian, iron-straightened hair. Ad nauseam, he yelled that Candela (The Black Bitch!) did not belong. The other two cackled and joined in on their twisted version of social justice. An unsettling fog moved in as if commandeered by evil. Samuel sobbed and with little fight left in him resigned himself to a life removed from the garrulous Latina he loved. 

With a thick black permanent marker, he spelled out H-A-T-E C-R-I-M-E on the back of an outdated Cantonese take-out menu. Samuel carefully folded the food-stained sheet into an origami balloon (The Balloon!) and set it on the windowsill. One quick flick and the cube disappeared. As a journalist, understanding and deconstructing run-of-the-mill crimes was effortless. Albeit, the sheer hate evinced that moist night latched onto him unexplained—the beasts’ foaming mouths and bloodshot eyes, their song and dance of reproach, that inhumane and senseless attack on difference. The emergency room’s doctors proclaimed Candela dead at four thirty-three a.m. yet Samuel only found out hours later under a haze of painkillers and covered in bulky bloodied bandages.  

Her funeral amassed hordes of distraught people—friends, family, co-workers, salseros and bachateros and former lovers, many of whom entertained the noble but irresponsible idea of playing vigilante for a night and disemboweling Candela’s murderers. The cassocked priest spoke about tolerance and love and forgiveness, and the mourning crowd let out several high-pitched and offbeat Hallelujahs. A collection of medium-sized balloons, each one a different color and marked with single words describing the deceased, took to the sky and slowly floated west. A morose Samuel sat by the closed casket, his scarlet and fern green scarf wrapped clumsily around his neck and a three-day scruff spreading like crab grass across his dislocated jaw. No one heard him mumble that afternoon that his revenge, inspired by the fond remarks he saw vanish behind a few scattered clouds, would take the strange shape of a short story. He missed his old flame, his fiery Candela.   

Another blank sheet of paper challenged Samuel to tarnish it. Too many paper cuts and green pen marks competed with wrinkles and fingerprints for open space along his weary hands. He brushed aside the sheets and pens with his forearm and dropped his tired head on the desk for a minute. After what seemed like years, Samuel picked up the antique typewriter that reposed atop three hardbound novels and tip-tapped its loose keys: “The perfect first sentence never came easily to Samuel…”

Love At First Bite

It was love at first bite. Raw fish—it was either salmon, tuna or yellowtail—mounted on a thumb of sticky rice and dipped in the traditional wasabi and soy sauce mixture. Many people shun away from the uncooked seafood, some disturbed by its slippery texture and fishy smell, others simply nauseated by the mere idea. For me, however, there was no turning back once that initial morsel hit my molars and slivered down my throat at the ripe young age of seventeen. Since that day, wherever my travels lead me, I have kept eyes, ears and taste buds open for high-quality Japanese food, particularly nigiri sushi, sashimi and maki rolls.  

Eventually, a different kind of love landed me on The Rock and my search for good Japanese food hit a rough patch as restaurant after restaurant, primarily in Nicosia, failed to excite my palate. Then one evening almost five years ago my luck changed, and I visited Larnaca’s Nippon, to this day, in my humble opinion as a cultural-anthropologist-cum-wine-blogger, the best Japanese restaurant on the island.

After not having eaten there since 2009, I decided to stop by earlier this year to (hopefully) confirm my staunch belief in the joint. As usual, Gil Panayiotou, restaurateur and mastermind behind the popular eatery, welcomed our party with a wide grin, cracking a few jokes and lightening the mood as we were led to our table. There is nothing remarkable about the space; white minimalism and some colored fluorescent lighting define its décor. A long sushi bar with high stools anchors the h-shaped room and black tables, which are somewhat uncomfortably close to one another, occupy the remainder of the place. Then again, this is all trivial since what truly matters is the food and its inventiveness. 

We kicked off the meal with a bottle of 2011 Domaine Vlassides White, a Xynisteri and Sauvignon Blanc blend that was crisp and citrusy with a pleasant herbal component but not as complex and aromatic as the 2010 vintage. A few sips certainly got us in the mood to tackle the extensive menu, chock-full of salads, soups, tataki, makimono, appetizers, temaki, nigiri sushi, sashimi, gunkan maki and cooked specials. For those patrons who are either lazy, inexperienced, indecisive or just plain confused by the wide array of options, Gil is more than happy to hear their likes and dislikes and design a somewhat pricey meal based on their preferences. Even though he offered to help us out, this time around our party took to the menu like crazed bibliophiles, diligently working our way through the list and jotting down the reference number for each selected dish to avoid delays when ordering.

By night’s end, our stuffed party of five had sampled twenty-nine different dishes. Vegetable tempura, perfectly battered and fried and surprisingly diverse and light, served as our appetizer alongside a few bowls of salted edamame and tasty miso soup. The sashimi—salmon, tuna, sea bass and yellow tail—was ultra-fresh and dissolved in our mouths, while the Shake & Tuna (thin slices of raw tuna and salmon in a ponzu sauce, vinegar, ginger, soy and spring onion) had a nice kick thanks to the savory acidity of the soy sauce and vinegar. Gil treated us to an unbelievable seafood carpaccio drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and topped with parmesan flakes and fresh basil, a dish he proudly said is a staple chez lui.  The makimono rolls—we ordered eight different types—were, for the most part, creative and properly balanced. We particularly enjoyed the Kani (fresh blue fin crab with black caviar and sweet soy), which had a wonderful briny accent thanks to the caviar, and the Yawakarakai’s (soft-shell crab, mango, cucumber, teriyaki sauce, lettuce and crispy flakes) sugary crunchiness. Additionally, the spicy tuna rolls—a standard at most Japanese restaurants—was uplifted by a lovely and creamy spicy mayonnaise. The Suzuki Cilantro (breaded sea bass, white wine, sweet chili sauce, ginger, coriander and spring onion) took basic fish fingers to a whole different realm, balancing sweet and spicy to perfection, while the Razor Clams with ginger onion leeks and coriander were pops of spiced sea water in our mouths. Ironically enough, despite my adoration for raw seafood, the highlight was the cooked dish Gindara—miso marinated black cod grilled with mirin, sake and soy sauce was flaky, buttery in texture and complexly sweet, worth every penny despite the small portion and hefty price tag of almost thirty Euros. 

Yes, there are a few disadvantages to the establishment. Of the dishes we sampled, our party disliked the scallop tails with fresh chili, coriander and masago sauce, mainly because the tails had a processed food-like consistency and rather tame flavor despite the delicious sauce. Also, I personally felt that the prawns tempura, avocado and salmon in the Angel makimono roll were overwhelmed by the cream cheese’s richness. Furthermore, the restaurant is on the expensive side—for a good meal with wine, expect to pay anywhere between thirty to sixty Euro per person—and the atmosphere feels somewhat cramped. At the end of the day, however, none of these detract from the culinary experience to be had at Nippon, something that certainly explains why so many people from Nicosia drive south to satiate their desire for food from the land of the rising sun.

Whine On The Rocks Rating: 5 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

Oh You Pretty Thing!

Unless you believe a couple KEOs, a loaded tray of grilled meats and a bottomless appetite constitute the epitome of gourmet, haute cuisine is hard to come by in Nicosia. Only a handful of local restaurants possess the creativity, refinement and technique to produce truly innovative and hedonistic food, and none of them are better than No Reservations.

Center stage at No Reservations

After strapping a sleepy Little Miss Despot to her crib and letting the babysitters in on her head-swaying fondness for David Bowie's "Oh You Pretty Things" in case of emergency, The Wife, Ph.D., and I marked our first night out in what seemed like centuries with a visit to Chef Martino Speciale's restaurant. Housed on Stasinou 16 only a few meters away from the D'Avila Bastion, the high-end eatery is sparsely yet tastefully decorated and seats about thirty patrons. All eyes though land on the rectangular cream-colored bar and kitchen in the middle of the room that serves as culinary laboratory for Chef Speciale and his team. The tasting menu is fixed, a unique practice for a gourmet establishment on The Rock, and ch-ch-changes every two weeks based on seasonality and availability of fresh ingredients. Diners may opt for fifteen (35 Euros), twelve (30 Euros) or five (20 Euros) tasting dishes, and the hunky-dory wine list focuses on Italy—the 2008 La Braccesca Vino Nobile di Montepulciano for us that evening—with a few other Old and New World selections.

If I had to pick one word to describe our fifteen-course meal, subtlety comes to mind. The most successful dishes were balanced, delicate and artfully presented. We kicked off with a crunchy fried mozzarella ball that sat like a little egg on a nest of spinach chiffonade with smoked pepper. The potato-stuffed tortelloni with broccoli and Taleggio cheese that followed melted in my mouth, and the simple homemade orecchiette with shrimp and a tomato-chestnut broth was something your nonna would prepare on a cold night yet rather refined. Likewise, the seared scallop with pancetta and a cream of peas, as well as the foie gras terrine with figs and olives, were perfectly executed, while the five mini desserts, spearheaded by the luscious flavors found in the chocolate lava cake, amaretto ice cream and pistachio crème brûlée, were a fitting culmination to a local gourmand's dream of something—anything—different in The Rock's capital.

Dessert anyone?

Other components of the meal, I thought, would have benefited from some slight tweaking. While matched with a vibrant, aromatic truffle oil foam, the porcini mushroom strudel was too doughy and overwhelmed its stuffing's inviting earthiness. The polenta and cod cakes with stewed garbanzo beans called for a dash of acidity and some textural contrast to brighten the dish. Furthermore, the veal cheek, albeit tender and tasty, was plopped next to the turkey with rosemary-infused stuffing and seasonal vegetables instead of being served separately, something that would have prevented the muddling of each creation's fine flavors. Finally, and of crucial importance to an amateur wine aficionado like myself, this style of meal screams for a wine tasting menu (say, two whites, two reds and a dessert wine) to complement the courses and their well-thought-out progression.

Despite these minor hiccups, I crave a return visit to No Reservations to see what sort of brave new culinary tricks Chef Speciale has up his sleeves. Next time, though, I hope to drag along the temperamental Little Miss Despot—stroller, rattles, Ziggy Stardust action figure, polka-dot tights, drool and all—to introduce her to Nicosia's most refined restaurant and give the valiant babysitters a well-deserved rest.

Whine On The Rocks Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa

I'll be the first to admit I am wrong.

About a year and a half ago, I reviewed Silver Star, one of Nicosia's favorite wine bars and awarded it only 3 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas. At the time, I disliked its carelessly decorated interior and limited wine selection for a bar owned by a cava located across the street. On my next visit a few months ago, though, things couldn't have shone brighter. With The Wife, Ph.D., horizontal on our red couch thanks to Little Miss Despot's nine-month synchronized swimming training for the 2032 Summer Olympics, My Zolpidem Supplier and I sat on the stools outside and had a Malbec-fueled rager for the ages.

Silver Star—its outdoor patio in particular—shines as a happy hour haunt. That evening we drank our livers to the ground, suited men and women, students and artists shared the narrow sidewalk, bottles of fine wine and stacked yet carefully selected local and imported cheese and charcuterie platters. The menu includes about twenty-five options by the glass and a note informing the dissatisfied, fickle or greedy like myself that the cava's wines are available for consumption at only a 10 Euro surcharge on their retail price, a practice I applaud. Likewise, DJs spin down-tempo electronic music that add a cool vibe to the sidewalk seating, and the service is friendly yet professional.

At the end of the night, after picking a bottle of 2008 Kir Yianni Ramnista Xinomavro as our nightcap—in retrospect, a grave mistake that sent me on a path not unlike that of an early-rising two-month pregnant woman—I introduced myself and this blog to Silver Star's owner. Fueled by the bottles of 2010 Amalaya Red and 2009 Colome Malbec we had earlier imbibed, I apologized for my—unbeknownst to him—mediocre review and complimented them for the few yet crucial improvements that have elevated the joint's overall quality.

Whine On The Rocks' (Revised) Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas