Local flavour

An Americana weekend, foodwise, featuring Provel cheese and Maine lobster. But not at the same time.

On Friday night we were treated to handmade pizza at the home of journalism fellow Jamie, his wife Amy and their three, criminally cute, little girls: Ruth, Zoe and Bebe. Jamie makes his trademark pizza using provel cheese – a processed cheese developed from cheddar, swiss and provolone. It’s an invention of St. Louis, a city in the midwest with an Italian-American population, where it is used to make St. Louis-style pizza because of its low melting-point. Provel (pro-VELL) is pale in colour and doesn't have a strong taste - kind of like Velveeta - so it wouldn't overpower other flavours, and it retains its texture when it melts.

Provel isn't widely available outside its hometown so Jamie’s current source is St. Louis gal Julia, another Fellow spouse (and a terrific writer to boot). She once told me St Louis is also the home of "toasted ravioli". Now that is something I have to see.

Incidentally Jamie is something of a culinary mastermind – he also whips up regular batches of a mean Irish cream liqueur.

On Saturday afternoon we had a lobster clambake, organised by the New Englander in the Fellowship. Lobsters are the pride of Maine. Ours were shipped overnight live, alongside New England clam chowder and “steamers”, i.e.: clams. When I peeked inside the tall can it was like looking into a deep-sea treasure chest. I saw of glimpse of dark green shell and large claw and a net bag of clams, all entwined with clumps of seaweed.

I’m sure New Englanders don’t open the lid – surely it’s much better to avoid acknowledging the creatures are still alive when we cook them. Talk about fresh food. Any irksome pricks of conscience are easily brushed aside as the actual cooking process (or moment of death) is so simple with a canbake. Just leave the lid on and put the can directly onto a heat source. There’s no wrestling of critters required – the lobsters cooked directly in the pot: steamed in seawater released from the seaweed, and the two bottles of Heineken Graham added.

We had hoped to eat outdoors on the deck for a true lobster cookout but, Michigan being Michigan, spring was late to arrive. We started bravely with bowls of clam chowder, generous with chunks of meat, but had to retreat indoors for the remainder of the feast. By now the steam was shooting from the hole in the lid of the lobster can, along with the heady aroma of the ocean: of seaweed strewn rocks, saltwater and sand. We were bringing the beach indoors and ushering in spring.

The cooked lobsters were bright red, and their tails had curled beneath their bodies (best not to think why). Graham performed initial surgery on them over the sink, while we sat down with a large bowl of steamers.

Using our fingers, we plucked the clam out of the open shells and pulled off the dark ‘turtlenecks’. Then we dunked them in water to remove any shell or grit, dipped into butter and slurped.

Next, the lobster. Rainey demonstrated how to dismember the beasts for eating, the spots to crack the shells, and where to find the sweetest chunks of meat. We struggled gamely to follow, although Gail found that years of eating crab in Baltimore gave her an advantage with getting the shells to release their bounty. Once we had our prize we pulled the rich flesh apart and sat them in bowls of drawn butter while we worked on the next part of the crustacean. Eventually the lobster absorbed so much butter we had to eat the slippery chunks with a fork.

It all tasted luscious, and the texture of the meat and its mouthfeel made it a very sensual feast. Albeit a messy one – our wine glasses were smeared with buttery pawprints. We drank Australian riesling and Veuve Clicquot, and the champagne was perfect with the lobster. It was acid enough to cut through the rich butter, while its crisp bubbles were a light counterpart to the heavy meat. A match made in heaven. All in all, a meal to savour and linger over. Which is why we hurried out the door to go to... a bowling alley! That’s America.