Today, Tortas

Warning: If you read this, you’re probably going to want to get your hands on one of South Philly Barbacoa’s tortas. My apologies in advance -- you’ll have to settle for their just-as-stellar tacos on the weekends. The owners stopped making their tortas on the weekdays because they wanted more time for life, outside the restaurant… and we really can’t blame them for that.

South Philly Barbacoa was listed as one of Bon Appétit’s top 10 new restaurants this summer. The tiny taco and torta spot is busier these days – it was especially bustling the week after Bon Appétit published their list, when I met a few friends there for lunch.

I took the opportunity to talk lunch with James, a teacher at Philadelphia Electrical and Technical Charter School (and also a friend of a friend). During his last week of summer vacation, he made his first trip to South Philly Barbacoa.

The feeling of the place is somewhere between a home kitchen and a restaurant. Paper napkins are stuffed in dried gourds that sit next to flower bouquets on each table. There’s an old-school coca cola drink cooler stocked with lemonade, strawberry lemonade, and free bottles of water. We noticed a lone copy of the Bon Appétit summer issue (with their #6 listing) stashed behind the cooler, clearly an afterthought.

From his seat near the window, James had a view of co-owner Cristina Martinez slicing bread for tortas and stirring big pots of simmering beans and albóndigas (Mexican meatballs, typically made with beef or pork).

Martinez’s husband and co-owner Ben Miller came over to our table to tell us the day’s menu. He ran through a list of tortas (their former weekday-only sandwiches): potato chorizo, chicken with mole poblano, albóndigas with salsa verde, and double-cream queso fresco with avocado and refried beans. James ordered the potato chorizo torta and a watermelon agua fresca.

He says his typical lunch is pretty basic during the school year. If he packs a lunch, it’s a sandwich with lunchmeat, cheese, and mayo. No lettuce, no tomato.  “I mean like the basic,” he says. Sometimes he pops next door to grab a sandwich at CVS, or gets something from a nearby food truck. He never eats in the cafeteria. “From what I’ve heard from the kids, it’s not the best,” he says. (I bet you’re not surprised… isn’t it tragic that bad school lunch food is so normal?)

James is happy to have fourth period lunch this year, which means he’ll eat at 11:15 (unless he has to grade papers or talk with students during lunchtime, in which case he’ll wait until dismissal at 2:12). “Some of my coworkers eat lunch at 10:30am,” he says. Those teachers – and students – are stuck in the cafeteria basically just after breakfast and left with a long stretch to last until school is over.

But at Barbacoa, James was able to enjoy his torta right in the middle of the day, without any academic distractions. Soft potatoes smothered in the spicy juices of the chorizo, topped with tomato and avocado and smashed into the fresh torta bread Cristina used to make each week. (I only know this because I tried a bite. When I asked James what was in it, he said, “I have no idea, I just ate it.” He was hungry and it was just too good to slow down.)

Next week he’ll be back in the classroom, teaching ninth-grade English. He says he’s strict with the kids at first, which is hard to imagine if you’ve met the enthusiastic, quick-to-smile guy outside of school. Like in a Mexican restaurant, for example, where he sipped bright pink watermelon juice with and bobbed his head to the latin music. “I gotta get this Pandora station,” he said as we stood up to leave. “I’ve been jammin’ out this whole time!”

Just give him some time, ninth graders; he’ll lighten up as the year goes on.  

Prohibited: Eating on the Deck

 Standing at the pool's edge - dreads pulled back away from his shades - a lifeguard aimed his pointer finger at each swimmer, counting. It was Sunday. It was 88 degrees in South Philadelphia. The community pool on the corner of Carpenter and 13th was at capacity.

With just two lifeguards on duty, the pool could accommodate 60 people in the fenced in area - each lifeguard can oversee 30 people. After completing his count, the lifeguard walked around the deck, hustling people who laid on towels, reading books in the shade. "We got a lot of people waiting," he says. "You gotta get in the pool or get out."

Seems harsh, but there was a line outside the gate. At the end of the line, a toddler shook her red curls as her dad sprayed her down with SPF. She jumped and twisted in her lime green tankini, perpetually on tiptoes in anticipation. About 10 people waited in front of her.

Two women left their chairs behind and walked through the gate with paper bags. They made space for two others as they left, but their intentions weren’t necessarily philanthropic. “We got yelled at,” Daneen said. Of course, eating on the deck is prohibited.

Daneen and Sara settled at a picnic table under an oak tree in the park bordering the pool fence. They’d picked up sandwiches at The Last Drop Coffee House (13^th & Pine) on their way to the pool in the morning. Sara unwrapped hummus with cucumber, tomato, and lettuce smashed between two pieces of Metropolitan’s 9-grain, whole-wheat loaf bread. Daneen had a chicken salad sandwich with tomato and lettuce (which she promptly removed before taking the first bite). “I haven’t had chicken salad in forever,” she said. “It’s good.”

Daneen works at Jefferson Hospital, and often goes to Dibruno’s around the corner for lunch. “But that’s getting really expensive, so now I pack leftovers from dinner the night before,” she says. It’ll be quinoa (if she has the energy to cook after her pool day) or a Lean Cuisine from the freezer for lunch on Monday.

Sara works at Nutrisystem in Fort Washington. She packs her lunch; Monday she’ll likely have a kale salad with chicken, dressed with olive oil and lemon juice. She eats lunch at noon at her desk and takes a break for a walk at 1:00.

She used to go out to lunch at Good Dog Bar. “They have a really good veggie burger,” she says. “All the burgers are really good though.”

Daneen recommends Continental. “If I want to go big, it’s the crispy calamari salad,” she says. It’s a pile of chopped greens topped with sprouts, carrots, tomatoes, crispy calamari and sesame-soy vinaigrette.

The two friends finished their sandwiches quickly, ready to get back to the pool. They would not be waiting the recommended 20 minutes for digestion. “It’s only a four-foot deep pool,” Sara laughed. 

In matching red baseball caps and towels hiked up around their waists, they headed back to the gate to wait in line. In fewer than 10 minutes, they were hopping back in the cool water.

The Ridgway Pool is open for one more week - until August 16th

Pizza and Pickled Dahlias

On a stormy Wednesday morning I potted dahlias in the greenhouse with Owen, the manager at the Roughwood Seed Collection. Rainwater streamed through a freshly punctured hole in the plastic roof onto the back of my neck as I bent over a bag of soil. I was volunteering in a small garden in Devon, PA, where heirloom varieties of plants you’ve never heard of get their start.

The Roughwood Seed Collection comprises 4,000 varieties of heirloom seeds, preserving varieties that might otherwise be extinct. They collect seeds from our region (Tuscarora Flour Corn, for example) and from distant countries (like the Cypriot Skouroupathes Leek) to grow, regenerate - in some cases cross-pollinate - and save.

Retreating from the unexpected heavy winds and showers outside, we worked in the greenhouse sorting and re-potting dahlia bulbs that had been harvested last year and stored through the winter. “We’re essentially cloning the dahlias by separating the tubers,” Owen told me. He hadn’t been too keen on the flowers until he found out that the tubers are edible. “They were originally bred by the Aztecs for eating,” Owen said, “But then Europeans bred them for pretty.”

We’ve since ignored the nourishing part of the flower, which is supposedly delicious. “The texture’s like a water chestnut, and the taste is somewhere between celeriac and carrot, but with a hint of ginger,” Owen said. Roughwood develops varieties that are meant to be eaten, like the Old Velvet dahlia, who’s purple flesh is especially good for pickling.

Owen sorted through paper bags, pulled out clusters of tiny sweet potato-like tubers and divided them into smaller pieces, which he passed to me. I nestled them into pots from the teetering stacks assembled against the back wall, while two other volunteers – Nova and Beth – wrote out new labels. Mary Ellen; Fiesta; Old Velvet; Roughwood grows more than 100 varieties of the flower and correct cataloguing is crucial.

As empty trays filled with newly labeled pots, our conversation turned to lunch; Owen planned to pick up a couple pizzas from Whole Foods – two for $22. A topping deliberation began, and finally, without any clear decision, Owen placed the order.

“Can I have one mushroom and shallot please?” he said into the phone.

“And there was this one with chicken I got once… I can’t remember exactly what was on it,” he paused.

“No, it wasn’t that…”

Another pause.

“Buffalo?” he looked up to get our attention.

“Guys? Buffalo sound good?” We nodded.

“Um… with cheese?” We nodded again.

An hour later we gathered in the kitchen of the 210-year-old farmhouse that belongs to William Woys Weaver, the food historian and author who founded Roughwood Seed Collection after finding his grandpa’s 40-year-old seeds in his grandmother’s deep freeze.

Will leaned against the island’s wooden countertop fingering an antique comb used to collect chamomile blossoms. “It’s from Bulgaria,” he says, “Can you believe I got it on Ebay for next to nothing?” His cat Satch perched on a stool, facing two giant pies.

When there are volunteers around and pizza gets ordered for lunch, Will can’t resist. “When I’m by myself it’s a salad from the garden,” he says, folding his arms across his pale green polo. He adds pickled vegetables and a little pickle juice for dressing. “Of, if I get fancy I’ll use on of my herb vinegars,” he says. He pointed out a jar on the windowsill: his first batch of honey vinegar from a Polish recipe he found in an 1821 farm manual. He mixed one cup of honey (harvested from on-site hives), one quart spring water, and a heavy splash of apple cider vinegar to get it going. The glass jar was loosely covered and exposed to air; “It’s developing mother,” he says. (The mother develops on fermenting alcoholic liquids and converts alcohol to acetic acid, producing vinegar.) He makes it himself because honey vinegar is expensive, “It’s sold in perfume bottles for around $30,” he says.

Will rarely makes it into Philadelphia for lunch, but he knows a few good spots. “If I had my druthers I’d got to Brick and Mortar, Kensington Quarters, or Buckminister’s [now closed],” he says, “I happen to know the chefs and they happen to use ingredients from here.”

Brick and Mortar held a benefit dinner for Roughwood last spring and featured ingredients from the garden in their menu. They made hummus with Roughwood’s heirloom beans and used their Landis Winter Lettuce and Red Rice Cow Peas in the third course. Will even gave them a jar of homemade pickled Old Velvet dahlia tubers to use, which were a hit atop the salad.

From a Lebanese Kitchen

I smell rice as soon as Anita opens her front door. She welcomes me into her South Philly row house and we pad through the wide living room into her fragrant kitchen. Brown basmati rice cooks next to a pot of green bean and tomato stew. Lunch isn’t quite ready yet; “Would you like to see my little garden first?” Anita asks.

The petite woman, about 75 with a cloud of gray curls, opens the screen door to a small back patio filled with pots and boxes and vines. She points out lettuce, tomato plants, and a tangle of sweet peas that just haven’t blossomed yet. A grape vine winds around the fence at the back wall; she uses the leaves to make dolmas. “The ones you can find in the store,” she says, scrunching her nose, “none of them are good.”

Anita moved to Philadelphia from Lebanon when she was 15. She’s lived in South Philly ever since. We struck up a conversation in a grocery store one day and, after our excitement over a shared love of Lebanese yogurt, agreed to get together for a meal. She invited me to her home (which happens to be four blocks from mine) for lunch.

“Mostly we do vegetables and grains for lunch,” she says, “Meat is like a Sunday treat.” She’ll make lentils and rice, or ‘chi chi beans’ (chickpeas), or, especially in the summer, bulgur tabbouli. “My mom always told me: always start with an onion,” she says. Whether it’s finely chopped in salad, caramelized or sautéed in a stew, it should be the base of almost any dish. Today, Anita made stew with green beans, tomato, “And I add Vidalia onion to the dish and let it cook with the vegetables.” She peeks under the lid and stirs with a wooden spoon. It’s still not done; she likes the beans way past al dente.

Along with the yogurt her mother used to make every week, there are a few dishes Anita misses from her childhood. “In Lebanon we used to eat squid and escargot,” she remembers. “After the first rain in October the escargot would come out of hiding,” she scuttles her fingertips across the counter, “They would come into the field like little soldiers.” She’d collect them and take them home for her mother to cook. “My mom would make a sauce with tahini and lemon and olive oil,” she tilts her head back, like she can still summon that exact flavor. “I would wrap mine in pita because I didn’t really want to taste the snail,” she laughs. “But I loved that lemony sauce.”

Anita took the 30-day trip to the US with her mom on an Egyptian ship. The ticket cost $800; she still remembers. She started working as soon as she arrived. Her first job, which she kept through high school, was at Superior Jewelers on Jewelry Row. She made displays for traveling salesmen, puncturing holes in cardboard or satin and fastening necklaces and rings.  She worked without benefits and with low pay. “It probably took me six months to make a hundred dollars,” she says.

In those days, she’d eat pie a la mode for lunch on her way to work. “When I first got here, I was enamored with junk food,” she laughs. Today, she’s very conscious about her health. Besides the onion rule, she forgoes her mother’s old clarified butter and extra salt habits – Anita took care of her after an open-heart surgery and until her death last year.

Ouzi at King Tut’s

Anita drops a scoop of brown basmati in a small bowl and dresses it with stew. We eat across from each other at the island in her kitchen.My tongue tingles from an unfamiliar spice. I ask what she used and she laughed, “Every spice I have!” Turmeric, allspice, ginger…but it’s the sumac that’s getting my tongue. The dried and ground red berries common in Lebanese cooking have a bite I’d compare to the pith of a lime. It’s somehow warming and tart at the same time.

I brought Ouzi (a Mediterranean special occasion dish of spiced lamb and rice with nuts and raisins served in a pastry pocket) and labneh from a Middle Eastern restaurant for Anita to try. She was a bit put off by the olive oil drizzled over the yogurt (“We would never do that,”), but somehow we still managed to work our way through most of the container. 

I walked home from Anita’s carrying a warm Tupperware full of leftovers and two stunning magenta peonies she clipped from her garden. It’s nice getting to know the neighbors.

Exceptional Coffee (and two burritos)

“Do you have any recommendations on where I should order lunch from?” Ross says into the phone, “I’m starving.” It’s 1:11 on a Tuesday and he hasn’t eaten anything since the granola bar and apple he munched at 5:30 that morning. He’s talking to his fiancé, Meg; they’re in their fourth week of running a new business and there’s not always a whole lot of time to eat.

Ross and Meg opened Function Coffee Labs in Bella Vista, replacing Down Dog Café on the corner of Carpenter and 10^th. They’re using carefully selected beans, top-of-the-line equipment, and an obsessive eye for detail to craft the kind of coffee you might appreciate like a good wine.

Ross gets off the phone, sits on a tiny stool in front of his computer and scrolls through Grubhub. He’s briefly interrupted when a couple comes in and scans the chalkboard menu on the wall. It’s a bit different than the usual coffee shop lineup. Four roasts, like Cerrado Gold from Brazil or El Retiro from Columbia, are listed above guidance for the best way to enjoy them. The ‘preparedas’ include pour overs, lattes, coffee shots (same intensity as an espresso shot, without the bitterness of espresso), and cortados (slightly smaller than a cappuccino with about equal parts steamed milk, equal parts espresso). Flavors like ‘honey,’ ‘grapefruit,’ ‘peanut’ are listed under each roast. “All those tasting notes should be there,” Ross says, “You gotta make it taste as good as it says it does on the bag.”

 

As he places the coffee shot on the bar, a slim guy walks in pulling off a blue cooler-backpack. “…I have a burrito order?” he says hesitantly, looking around. Ross looks relieved as he takes the paper bag. Not even pausing to sit down, he unwraps the foil and takes a bite. It’s some kind of breakfast burrito from the new Wild Burrito in South Philly. “It’s really good,” he says, “I’d definitely order it again.”

When Meg works in the shop with Ross, she’ll usually order lunch. She often calls over to Santucci’s and walks down the block to pick it up. Ross likes their BBQ pulled pork sandwich, pizza with prosciutto and longhots, the turkey club wrap, and sweet potato fries (which are “not consistent, but when they’re good, they’re the best I’ve ever had,”).

Sometimes there’s no time to order or pick up. “In the beginning, when we weren’t selling any pastries, I’d just eat pastries for lunch,” Ross laughs, pulling a second burrito from the bag – it’s a 2pm two-in-one. The lunch burrito is vegetarian: peppers, onions, and cilantro lime rice with guacamole and crema. Ross is happy with this one too. He’s perched on a low stool behind the counter, both elbows on his knees, leaning forward and finally filling up. “Mostly my lunch is really sad, so this is nice.”

Ross doesn’t plan to serve lunch at Function. Maybe a quiche here and there, but overall he thinks it would distract their attention from the true focus of the place: exceptional coffee. 

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Here are a few of the things Ross considers in his quest to make the best coffee: The coffee cherries must be harvested at peak ripeness; they must be dried carefully so they don’t ferment; they should be roasted lightly (though not too light or it will taste grassy); they should be ground to even particles; they need to have contact with the right temperature water for the correct amount of time when brewed or extracted; and the final product should be at the proper temperature when sipped. He tasted coffee from 50-60 roasters before he chose their house roaster (Ceremony Coffee Roasters in Annapolis, MD). He uses scales, thermometers and timers every time her makes a drink.

Ross studied mechanical engineering at Penn. After graduating, he moved to England where he taught Physics for six years. He got into coffee around the time he started running marathons and discovered that caffeine was a performance enhancer. After weeding through gas station-like coffee and making his own ‘super strong espresso thing in a French press,’ he found good coffee, and an interest in making it himself. He went to shops all over Europe with Meg and studied coffee blends and barista techniques online. In his last year in England he taught a class on coffee brewing. “I’m the kind of person that, once I get into something, I have to know everything about it and make it the best it can be.”

Hip City Vegan

Woody sat at a four-seat picnic table in the park on the corner of Pine and 11^th. Ear buds trailed to his black leather cased phone sitting next to a plastic takeout container. He stabbed at the last few spinach leaves in the bottom of the bowl.

About a half hour ago, he walked from Groom Barbershop where he works to Hip City Veg in Rittenhouse. He ordered a green smoothie and a spinach BLT salad – tempeh bacon over a bed of spinach with radish, tomato, garlic dressing, “And avocado. I’m a high roller like that,” Woody laughs, “I can afford to add avocado.”

Woody rarely packs his lunch. If he does, he forgets about it and discovers it in the fridge at the end of the day. (“I guess this is dinner now..?”)He’ll typically run over to Makiman or Sumo for sushi, or head to Eat A Pita for the wraps-turned-salad. Hip City Veg is a little further out of the way. “This is my person-right-before-lunch-doesn’t-show-up-and-I-have-an-extra-20-minutes lunch,” he says. It’s sunny and warm; he’s not complaining.

Woody’s been working at Groom for two and a half years, and yes, he does have the impeccably trimmed beard and crafted-casual pomp you’d expect. He wears rounded, black-framed shades and a black t-shirt under a light zip-up fleece.

If he could go anywhere for lunch, he’d go to V Street, the street food inspired (not price-wise) vegan bar launched by the chefs at Vedge. He described some kind of puff pastry with a creamy dill sauce and sweet peppers. “If Eastern Europe invented pizza, that’s what I imagine it would taste like,” he says. He recommends the spicy noodles with red chili-sesame sauce and the tofu kabob. “You have to try everything and then go back for your favorites,” he says. (note: the menu changes often).

Woody has followed a vegan diet for 11 years. “It’s one of the best decisions I’ve made,” he says. He’s glad it’s become more widely recognized in the professional culinary world as well. “It allows chefs to go further with their food,” he says. “Creativity comes from limitation.”

When his extended lunchtime is up, Woody heads back to the barbershop for an appointment with one of his regulars. “He’s a good dude. I finally convinced him to come back more frequently,” he laughs. “He should be coming back every four weeks, but now he’s got kids so he doesn’t care anymore.”

Standing up from the picnic table, he pitches the last sip of his iced soy latte from Elixir and heads toward Locust Street.

Turkey Light

It’s the first gorgeous day of spring. The kind of day that makes you remember what it’s like to wear just a t-shirt outside, that makes you take an extra coffee break, or take the long way home from work. The kind of day that you have to be patient, and then ruthless, to find a spot to sit in Rittenhouse Square.

A 50-something woman bent over the paper bag on her lap had snagged a bench facing the fountain. She tells me it’s usually impossible to find a seat during lunchtime. She looks around the park with a tight smile, “Sometimes you get lucky.”

The woman, her name she’d “rather not say,” wears her gray hair tightly clipped around her pointed face. Her gray pants match the socks peeking out of her sensible black clogs. She peels back the foil on her Turkey Light from Cosi and takes a bite. Cut flatbread holds turkey, arugula, and a smear of mayo – ‘Light’ just means it’s lower in fat than the regular, she tells me (Less mayo? Fewer slices of turkey? No cheese? …these are just my speculations.). This isn’t the usual. “Too expensive,” the woman says, “A once in a while treat.” What’s the occasion? She shrugs, “It’s a nice day.”

She generally packs her lunch, likely a sandwich, and takes an hour off around noon. She likes to get out and take a walk. If she’s treating herself, she’ll go to Starbucks or Cosi, “Someplace quick, easy, and hopefully not too expensive.”

The woman is a paralegal, and has worked for the same firm for 20 years. She wasn’t at liberty to tell me about any of the cases she had looked into that morning. “We do research,” she says, “Glorified secretary work. It’s a boring job.” But it pays the rent, she says. I wonder if she ever imagines herself doing something completely different, if she has a dream-job. “I’d like to retire,” she says. She thinks she's got about eight years to go. “That’ll be my dream-job.”

Whipping Something Up

“I’ve just been to Mexico and I’ve still not had enough,” Laurentine said as she scooped avocado into her favorite blue ceramic bowl. She added diced tomato, onion, garlic, lemon, salt, and pepper and smashed it together with a fork for a batch of fresh guacamole. “We have flatbread from Trader Joe’s,” she said, pulling a package out of the freezer. “I’m going to put that in my very favorite toaster oven.” She leaned her hip into the kitchen counter, blond hair tied up in a messy ponytail, fur-lined slippers on her feet.

Laurentine and I have lived together for the past six months, and she’s soon returning to Holland. I wanted to capture a moment of her cooking - her skill, whimsy, and enthusiasm in the kitchen - that I’ve been inspired (and fed) by before she leaves.

Laurentine doesn’t typically have lunch at home, but she decided to avoid a rainy trip to the office and work at the desk in her room. “I work in a research clinic, Penn’s Women’s Health,” she said, “I’m finishing up a project I’ve been working on for six months.” It’s her first year of med school at University of Groningen in Holland and she came to U Penn to study for six months. She’s been researching fertility preservation and today she’s writing up her final analysis. It’s been a bit of a slow morning. “It feels like an obligation working at home because you kinda want to do fun stuff when you’re at home,” she said. Fun stuff like make lunch.

“Oooo! No avocado pit in there!” Laurentine said, as she reached her hand into the garbage disposal. She spun around, simultaneously tidying up the kitchen and assembling her lunch. She opened the fridge and leaned in. “Cream cheese, or no cream cheese?” She’d been debating about adding it to the guacamole for a “little variation.” Her bright eyes widened in excitement, “I know, we can put a layer on the flatbread and then put the guacamole on top!” Problem solved.

As enthusiastic as she is about the guacamole, lunch is not Laurentine’s favorite meal. Mostly because afternoon time in the kitchen is not a regular occurrence. “I never have time to make something for myself,” she said. She’ll bring leftovers to work or go to her favorite Chinese food truck for soup and vegetables, but that means likely spending more money and not eating as healthy. And she rarely gets to eat with friends, something she misses from lunchtime back home in Holland. “Here I just warm something up or grab something and hopefully there would be someone else in the office eating lunch at the same time,” she said, a tinge of frustration in her voice.

In Holland, her and a few roommates would take an hour and a half off studying to whip something up and eat together. Cream cheese, avocado and Parma ham (a region-specific prosciutto) on a whole-wheat grainy something was a standby lunch. It’s something she hasn’t made in the States because, “Parma ham is incredibly expensive here,” she laughed. “In Holland I would eat 100 grams of Parma Ham a couple times a week.” Generally, though, she doesn’t miss Dutch lunch food. “Dutch people are all about their sandwiches, and I’m not a big sandwich person,” she said.

A slight scent of char started to permeate the kitchen. “Holy Mother, Katherine, something’s burning in here!” Laurentine slid to the toaster oven, chef’s knife in hand, and fished out a little baguette end. From last night’s dinner, she suspected.

The grainy flatbread was unharmed and she flipped it onto two plates (yes, I did get to enjoy the meal I’m writing about). She cut hers in half, smeared a thin layer of cream cheese on one side, piled on a few spoonfuls of guacamole, and almost took a bite… just as remembered the salsa and fresh cilantro in the fridge. She plucked a few leaves to garnish the top and dug in.

“Mmm,” Laurentine’s fingers moved like a piano player over her plate in excitement. “This is actually a really good lunch!” She looked around at our sunny little kitchen, then at me. “We’re the best at just whipping something up!”