Steamed Mussels with White Wine, Garlic, and Tomatoes

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Our first restaurant here was not our restaurant.  A coast away, I pored over reviews hoping to find the perfect spot to commemorate our inaugural dinner in our new town.  I settled on an Italian trattoria with simple fare made from local provisions.  Think pappardelle with wild mushroom ragú, braised short ribs with root-vegetable mash, stone-fruit crostata.  Not knowing that August in San Francisco means sweaters and scarves, I reserved a table in the courtyard and imagined us sunned and eating surrounded by walls draped with purple bougainvillea and fragrant jasmine.  I was right about the flora, but it was foggy—cottony, quiet ocean-born fog.  It demanded sweaters and scarves, and we had none.  So the heat lamps sufficed.  I don’t remember what we had to eat.  There was wine and delicious conversation.  We were in California.  California! we grinned.  Despite our elation that night, we never went back.

We fumbled our way through neighborhood restaurants, though rarely in our neighborhood.  After a few months, I would come home from school exhausted from the Socratic method and too tired cook; all we had to do was look at each other to know where we both wanted to go: our restaurant.  And so we went.  We waited in the tiny vestibule, or, more often, on the street of mishmash continental home decor shops, bohemian coffee houses, and Asian variety stores.  And of perpetual fog.  Most visits, the little hostess with the helium voice seated us at the communal round table for 10.  Tea-leaf salad, please.  Moments later arrived an artist’s palate of textured flavors—fried garlic, lettuce, peanuts, tomatoes, yellow peas, Burmese tea leaves, and 16 other ingredients (really)—each explained and then tossed table-side.  Samusa soup for two followed.  We ladled big scoops of rich broth with muted spiciness, wilted cabbage and jalapenos, and samusas, little fried dough pillows reminiscent of crushed velvet and filled with a mysterious vegetable paste.

After our Burmese spot was a Thai restaurant with maddeningly good pumpkin curry, and then we went French.  In our neighborhood nonetheless.  We watched as two blocks from us a vacant corner space transformed into a glossy French café with a zinc bar and outside seating under a persimmon awning.  This time, though, the designated slot was Sunday brunch.  We would leave at 9:56 am to make the the 10:00 am opening, take a seat at a wobbly iron table outside, and order a pot of French press coffee and two eggs Benedict.  Tempting as the croques or tartlette of goat cheese and roasted tomato may have been, we always chose Benedict.  And for good reason.  The kitchen executed each element flawlessly week after week: cumulous, lightly toasted brioche draped with gossamer ham and an expertly poached egg—center still soft—quivering atop.  Then, of course, was the hollandaise.  So dignified it was, thin and buttery with a whisper of lemon.  Each mouthful was a testament to the chef’s carefully balanced restraint.  To waste not, we swept leaves of the accompanying salad, dressed in champagne vinaigrette, through the remnant sauce and  yolk.  And then I went home to study until next Sunday.  This went on for months.  But then the service turned apathetic and the Benedict arrived cold, so we moved on.

To be precise, we moved down the hill to a bistro we discovered near the end of the summer I interned for my law firm.  With the fog finally entering into its retreat phase, we would walk the seven blocks down the hill and admire the Marina neighborhood’s angular, pastel-colored buildings bathed in golden light.  The bay, the color of jade milkglass, glistened behind it.  We turned the final corner and saw the sign: “cafe · comptoir · restaurant.”   The owner, with a puff of kinky blond hair and paunch for balance, was there to charm us every night except Mondays.  “Hi, guys,” he would greet us with a thick French accent.  “The same?”  We nodded; soon after arrived my kir royale and Dave’s beer, then my roasted beet salad with green beans, goat cheese, and pistou oil, and Dave’s onion soup gratineé.    For the main course?  A juicy burger with an egg, bacon, and Roquefort for my fellow.  And for me, mussels, always mussels.  I smiled as I would scoop the meat from a shell with an empty half-shell.  Most nights it was mariniere with white wine, parsley, and garlic, though sometimes I went astray and ordered the version with tomatoes to add some extra tang and color.  Frites to sop up the briny, rich juices?  Yes and yes.  No dessert, just a walk back up the hill to finish.  Of all of our restaurants, this is the one that repeatedly sent us into a mutual state of bliss, so much so that we must have eaten there three or four nights some weeks.

We thought it might always be our restaurant, but new restaurants arrive.  And so do babies.  Now we’re on to a Mexican kitchen.  At 5:00 pm.  On Sundays.[/donotprint]

Steamed Mussels with White Wine, Garlic, and Tomatoes

Adapted from Fish & Shellfish by James Patterson

Steamed mussels are a high-yield meal: minimal effort, big result.  This recipe rarely takes me more than 30 minutes to prepare and produces surprised, grateful faces.  I also love any dish that makes it own broth.  As the mussels cook, the release their briny juices, resulting in a rich, savory sauce—perfect for dipping crispy fries or toasted bread rubbed with garlic and drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil.  Further, according to the Environmental Defense Fund, farmed mussels are sustainable (“eco-best”) and are among the least concerning for mercury and PCB contamination.

6 pounds mussels
2 cups dry white wine
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 bay leaf
2 fresh thyme sprigs
1/4 cup finely chopped parsley
3 tomatoes, peeled, seeded (I rarely do either) and chopped
1/4 pound (1/2 stick) butter (optional)
Freshly milled pepper

Serves 4 generous portions for dinner; half the quantity makes an excellent light meal for 4.

C O O K .

• Rinse and debeard. Rinse the mussels, and pull out any protruding pieces of beard.  A mussel beard is a brown curly mass; most mussels are sold debearded.
• Simmer the sauce. Bring the wine, garlic, bay leaf, and thyme to a simmer in a huge pot (10-quart) over medium heat for about five minutes.
• Steam the mussels. Turn the heat up to high.  When steam shoots out from under the lid, lower the heat to medium for 5 minutes more.  Shake the pot (hold the lid down) to move the mussels around and cook for another 2 minutes.  Remove the lid.  The mussels should still be plump, not shriveled.  If the mussels haven’t all opened, cover and cook for another 2 minutes.
• Finish the sauce and plate. Spoon the mussels into bowls.  Pour the broth into a clean saucepan, leaving behind any sandy grit.  Add the parsley, the butter, if using, and freshly milled pepper.  Ladle the broth over the mussels.

E A T  A N D  D R I N K . Serve with crispy fries (stay tuned for a post about real frites fried in tallow) or the toasted garlicky olive-oil bread.  Drink with beer, such as the tart, dry Belgian gueuze or a Belgian or German wheat beer.  The classic wine pairing is Muscadet, a light-bodied white from France’s Loire Valley, but a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc would be a good match for the garlicky, herby elements in this recipe.

V A R Y . Our little French cafe also served these variations:

• Catalane. White wine, merguez sausage, tomato, harissa.
• Louisette. Mushrooms, leeks, and cream.

L I T T L E  E A T S . I chopped up some of the mussels and put them back in the shells so that Elinor could have fun looking for her booty.  She was clamoring for more.  Once she gets a little older, I’ll give her a bowl exactly like ours.

Text and photo © Blue Egg Kitchen 2010

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