Strolling the aisles of your local Goodwill, you might pause at a shelf piled with old porcelain plates decorated with flowers, vines, and bucolic scenery. These affordable dishes—known as transferware—were invented for the emerging middle class in 18th-century England. Inspired by hand-painted Chinese porcelain but stamped by machine, then exported by the shipload, English transferware became the go-to dish for early American households. 

Transferware’s earthenware base material (sometimes substituted for ironstone, porcelain, or bone china) kept the dishes highly affordable, but their printed-on monochrome designs—featuring castles, courting couples, and other intricate scenes—looked anything but. The technique lives on today, both in pricey, collectible Limoges porcelain from France, as well as in lower-grade plastic servingware that’s suddenly in vogue.

Across the United States, well-known chefs are now reviving transferware, swapping minimalist white dishes for Southern Willow Blue, English Chippendale, Historic American Brown, and other vintage designs. There’s a comfort to these old dishes, which conjure up meals in grandparents’ homes. These days, far from feeling formal or stuffy, the quaint motifs encourage a more relaxed dining experience. Here are the restaurants at the forefront of the transferware renaissance. What’s old is new again.

Gift Horse

272 Westminster St., Providence, RI

Before opening this groovy raw bar, chef-owner Benjamin Sukle (of Oberlin restaurant fame) dove into 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s dinnerware designs to match the new restaurant’s “timeless, brash style.” Rosebud Chintz from Spode was a winner, and eBay and Etsy got the job done. “Every time I have an empty plate in front of me, I can’t help but turn it over to see who made it, what collection it’s from, and how old it is,” says Sulke, a self-proclaimed “lifelong plate flipper.”

Get the look:
Royal Albert Rose Confetti 5-Piece Bone China Place Setting
Villeroy & Boch Audun Ferme Dinner Plate
Gracie China Rose Chintz Porcelain 8-Inch Dessert Plate

Hermosa

4356 W. Armitage Ave., Chicago, IL

Ethan Lim’s modern Cambodian restaurant (named after its neighborhood) pays homage to his late mother, Momma Lim, who ran a noodle stand in pre-war Battambang. With the COVID-19 pandemic in the rearview, Lim “wanted to focus on creating a space where time stood still and the service style was reflective of being at home,” a philosophy that shines through in such touches as his partner’s grandmother’s English Chippendale plates—on which he serves Dungeness crab and caviar.

Get the look:
Royal Albert Old Country Roses 10.25-Inch Dinner Plate
Portmeirion Botanic Garden Dinner Plates
Loki Dessert Plates by Matthew Williamson

Mister Mao

4501 Tchoupitoulas St., New Orleans, LA

At her maximalist “tropical roadhouse,” chef-owner Sophina Uong swaps starched tablecloths and matching plates for a hodgepodge of colorful transferware. “I know it drives our cooks and servers crazy, because nothing matches and things are impossible to stack together neatly, but to me, that’s the beauty of recycling pieces of history,” she says. Menu standouts include avocado chaat and turmeric-potato pani puri.

Get the look:
Bitossi Vintage-Inspired Floral Dinnerware
Gien Les Depareillees Rebus Dinner Plate
Spode Woodland Turkey Dinnerware

Chubby Fish

252 Coming St., Charleston, SC

Housed in a defunct corner store, James London’s dock-to-table restaurant sprinkles in deep blue transferware to complement the casual, nautical feel. “We try not to take ourselves too seriously,” says London, referring to dishes featuring tuna belly toast and caviar sandwiches served on mismatched china. “Guests get excited when they see plates or glasses they grew up with, and often bring us boxes of plates from their garage that they think will work with our lineup,” he says.

Get the look:
Spode Blue Italian 16-Piece Set
222 Fifth Adelaide Woodland 16-Piece Dinnerware Set
Williams-Sonoma English Floral Dinnerware Collection

Troubadour Bread & Bistro

381 Healdsburg Ave., Healdsburg, CA

Boulangerie by day, bistro by night, Troubadour Bread & Bistro’s whimsical aesthetic shines through in the escargot and tartiflette served on gold-rimmed Limoges, a transferware subset popular in 19th-century France. “I love that each piece has a story, and that we get to give these plates a proper stage,” says co-owner Sean McGaughey.

Get the look:
Famille Rose Dinner Plates
RHODE Dinner Plate Sets
Noritake Hertford 12-Piece Set

Ma Der Lao Kitchen

1634 N. Blackwelder Ave., Suite 102, Oklahoma City, OK

The shatterproof melamine dishes at this brother-and-sister-owned Lao restaurant are a nod to the duo’s childhood. “I want patrons to feel like they’re at my mom’s house,” says co-owner Jeff Chanchaleune, who serves mugifuji pork katsu and nam khao on the same plastic, floral-rimmed plates he ate from growing up.

Get the look:
Siren Song Floral Print Melamine Plates
Tarhong Cottage Blue Floral Melamine Dinnerware
Sandia Melamine Dinnerware Set

Oma’s Hideaway

3131 SE Division St., Portland, OR

To create a restaurant that existed “outside the space-time continuum,” the co-owners of this Singapore and Malaysian hawker-inspired eatery leaned into bold, clashing patterns and ornate details such as lustrous fabrics, thrifted floral transferware, and a ’70s-esque iridescent snakeskin bar top.

Get the look:
Bitossi Bel Paese Fruit Accent Plate
Sur La Table Italian Blue Floral Salad Plate
Abi Dessert Plates

The post The Restaurant Design Trend We Can’t Get Enough Of appeared first on Saveur.

Forget that cloying fruit brandy you clandestinely sipped from your grandparents’ liquor cabinet. From Austria to Mexico, a new cadre of eau de vie artisans is taking this classic spirit to new heights. Katja Scharnagl has been leading the charge in the United States, introducing drinkers to these captivating brandies from her role as beverage director at Koloman, a Franco-Austrian restaurant in Manhattan. Behind the bar, Scharnagl has curated a list of over 60 eaux de vie from around the world into what she believes is the largest selection of fruit brandies in North America. 

Eau de vie (also known as schnapps) is a rising trend, but Scharnagl’s appreciation runs deeply, stemming from her own Austrian heritage, and memories of her grandfather making apricot schnapps. She’s also drawn to the magic in how the spirit is produced. “Schnapps is the essence of an ingredient, distilled. It’s alchemy—a way of preserving something to make a perfect product.”

The traditional distillation process is straightforward: Fresh fruit is fermented, distilled (often twice), diluted to a drinkable proof, then bottled. Historically, it was made from ripe fruits left over from the harvest, which were not always in the most pristine condition. Koloman’s selection showcases only producers who are diligent when it comes to quality. 

“Everybody has their signature fruit,” said Scharnagl. Apples, pears, plums, and peaches are popular choices, but some modern makers are broadening the spectrum with tropical fruits, veggies, and even roots. She singles out Austrian master distiller Hans Reisetbauer, who uses only perfectly ripe and unblemished ingredients in his brandies, as a vanguard in the category. “Only the best fruits lead to the best schnapps,” he explains. This fruit-first approach also means the resulting spirits express the unique aroma and flavor profile of each harvest. Enjoyed neat or in a cocktail, Scharnagl’s top-tier selection is proof that eau de vie can provide an unexpected and elegant drinking experience.

Reisetbauer Ginger, Austria 

The purity and intensity of this unusual eau de vie satisfy the palates of even the most fervent ginger fans. Hans Reisetbauer rigorously developed a proprietary technique to convert ginger root starches to sugars, requiring more than 77 pounds of ginger to make just one liter of the seriously bold and spicy spirit.

Branchwater Black Currant Brandy, United States 

New York’s Hudson Valley is an ocean away from Austria, but Reisetbauer’s influence looms large—particularly at the distillery he designed at Branchwater Farms. There, owner Kevin Pike allows his black currant brandies to mature for a year in stainless steel tanks before it is released to the market.

Capreolus Distillery 1000 Trees Apple Eau de Vie, England 

Barney Wilczak sources the fruit for this spirit from a historic orchard with 1,000 heirloom varieties. Imagine the best apples you’ve ever eaten, multiply that flavor by 1,000, then distill it down to its purest essence. The result is spiced and a little sweet, with a distinct and nuanced apple flavor.

Rochelt Wachau Apricot, Austria 

The late Günter Rochelt began making eaux de vie in his garage in the ’70s; since then, his family has carried on the tradition at their distillery. Ripe apricots grown along the banks of the Danube enliven this version. Scharnagl pours it tableside to show off the stunning green glass cruet inspired by the traditional Tyrolean “pincer bottle.”

Edenico Guayaba Eau de Vie #1, Mexico 

A native of Burgundy, Arnaud Fressonnet chose prickly pear, guava, plantain, and mango for his brandies, a result of a collaboration with fifth-generation Mexican rum destiladores Rommel and Alex Krassel. The trio balances their brandies’ sweetness and acidity with fruits at different stages of ripeness, before fermenting with Champagne yeast.

The post Welcome to the New Era of Eau de Vie appeared first on Saveur.

Viticulture has thrived on Crete for thousands of years, but for most of the 20th century, mass production dominated the wine industry on Greece’s largest island. Phylloxera didn’t hit there until the late 1970s—almost a century after it ravaged continental European vineyards—and the blight served as a much-needed reset. In the 1980s and ’90s, high-yielding grapes like vilana were planted. Then, in the late ’90s, a new generation of Cretan winemakers who had studied abroad started to return home, armed with deeper winemaking and farming know-how and a curiosity about the indigenous varieties in their own backyards. Now, those producers’ efforts are bearing fruit as they see their bottles grow both in age and in international popularity.

The new guard has resuscitated Crete’s native grapes, replanting surviving and abandoned vines on hardy American rootstock, and focusing on 11 of the most successful varieties that are now at the core of Crete’s wine scene. Vidiano, a high-acid grape with notes of white pepper and a refreshing salinity, is rapidly becoming the island’s signature white. Liatiko, a high-tannin, light-bodied wine, is Crete’s answer to nebbiolo. And winemakers in Chania, on the western end of the island, turn red romeiko grapes—a type not common elsewhere—into still, sparkling, and sweet bottlings. 

Where there’s great wine, there tends to be great food. Cretan meals typically start with dakos; barley rusks topped with tomatoes, salty cheese, oregano, and a healthy wallop of olive oil. Mid-20th-century research into Crete’s cuisine is the basis for the life-affirming Mediterranean diet, which means seafood, meat, and snails from the island’s mountainous terrain, and plenty of fresh produce, grains, and legumes. Of course, it all pairs perfectly with the local vinous offerings. 

Wines to Try 

Karavitakis, Vidiano

This family-run estate was one of the earliest to produce high-quality vidiano in the late 1990s; this zesty, high-acid bottle is a textbook example of the late-ripening grape’s potential for nuance, complexity, and grace. 

Manousakis, Nostos Romeiko 

Red romeiko grapes are nontraditionally vinified as a white wine in this reflection of Crete’s innovative winemaking spirit. Fresh citrus and sweet almond aromas pair nicely with briny seafood. 

Alexakis, Kotsifali/Syrah 

Indigenous varieties are the focus at one of Crete’s largest wineries, but a little bit of syrah brings international flair into this spiced and cherry-tinged cuvée. 

Douloufakis, Liatiko

The winery tames liatiko’s robust tannins with French oak for a light red wine with berry, black cherry, and tea notes. Age will only increase this wine’s silky texture and complex flavors. 

The post Get to Know the Wines of Crete with These 4 Bottles appeared first on Saveur.

Until a few decades ago, Barcelona wasn’t what you’d call a first-class food town. Yes, it had great raw materials, marvelous markets, and a rib-sticking regional cuisine with medieval roots. Yet often I found, during my earliest forays into the city back in the 1980s, that restaurant-eating in the Catalan capital was uninspiring: The choices were basically calorific classics (the all-in stew escudella being omnipresent), rice dishes, or char-grilled fish.   

Then the 1992 Olympics happened, and Barcelona morphed practically overnight into a scintillating culture-hub—and the city’s food scene followed suit. All at once there was East-West fusion food and Ferran Adrià-inspired molecular gastronomy—rather too much of that, maybe—but also a brave new vision of contemporary Catalan cuisine. It was a great time to be writing about Barcelona food—and I did, in a large-format cookbook for Williams-Sonoma (Foods of the World: Barcelona), which 20 years later reads almost like a work of culinary nostalgia.   

What came next rolled in like waves on a Mediterranean beach. The 2010s brought food-trucks, supper-clubs and pop-ups; restaurants that only served dessert; Japo-Hispanic sushi joints … In recent years, Barcelona has gotten big into natural wine bars, cocktail bars to conjure with, and teeny-weeny market stalls with zippy zero-kilometer cooking. Tapas—which were never one of Barcelona’s traditional strengths—have finally triumphed, opening the kitchen door to fresh fads in snacking—none more appetizing, in my view, than a revival of the Catalan midday vermouth ritual and the salty-vinegary aperitif repertoire that goes with it.   

And now? Well, it’s as if Barcelona has Magi-mixed all these historic tendencies into a richly delicious emulsion. Places that were once super-hip have become neighborhood standbys, while been-there-forever, dyed-in-the-wool haunts have returned to the forefront of fashion. 

Today’s trends seem destined to seep more permanently into the city’s gastro DNA. Down to the bread and beer, there’s a mainstream embrace of seasonality, craft, plant-based eating, and high-quality ingredients—values that are front and center at a new crop of intimate, bistro-esque restaurants that cropped up during the pandemic. Often situated in less-touristed parts of town, helmed by a sole (often young) chef, and with a handful of tables, these cozy neighborhood joints are notable for being oriented more toward the euro than the tourist dollar. The impulse to be small-scale, hands-on, flexible, and free is surely a sign of the times. But if Barcelona has one thing clear right now, it’s the importance of Big Flavor over every other consideration. And for the food-fixated traveler, that’s a serious advantage.  

Ultramarinos Marín

Calle Balmes, 187 
+34 932 176 552

Is it a bar? Is it an asador (grill)? Behind a 1970s shopfront lies this unclassifiable eatery that’s been all the rage since it opened its doors mid-pandemic. Chefs Borja García and Adrià Cartró specialize in seasonal produce with maximum TLC, and seating arrangements follow the typical Spanish gastro-bar model: best to sit up at the bar to watch the frenzied goings-on in the tiny kitchen. Start with an appetizer of crisp pork chicharrones and home-pickled baby onions, then follow that with mackerel escabeche, char-roast vegetable escalivada, a handful of langoustines still sizzling from the teppanyaki, thinly sliced smoked beef tongue … García and Cartró have no truck with garnishing, saucing, or otherwise gussying up these good and simple things: What you see is, essentially, what you get. Either way, pretty much everything is sensational here—including the fun, boisterous vibe. 

Maleducat

Carrer Mansó, 54
+34 936 046 753

In which chef Victor Ródenas, Barcelona born and bred, draws on the fabulous produce at Mercat de Sant Antoni for a short daily menu that fizzes with imagination. Consider, for instance, a lunch of ajoblanco with tomato slush and fresh tuna, rigatoni stuffed with royale of hare, and slow-roast lamb with Idiazabal cheese and tarragon cream. Thanks to Maleducat (whose name means “Badly Raised”) and a handful of other rebellious chef-powered bistrots, the salt-of-the-earth neighborhood of Sant Antoni at the western end of the Eixample has seen its gastro credentials soar. If this casa de menjars (eating house) has a deliberately plain and workmanlike look about it, the food is anything but basic. 

Estimar

Carrer Sant Antoni dels Sombrerers, 3
+34 932 689 197

If there’s one thing Rafa Zafra understands better than most of his chef contemporaries, it’s that sourcing the very best seafood—say, anchovies from the Cantabrian Sea or big fat shrimps from Roses—is more important than fussy preparations. I like the way Zafra cooks clams, for instance, sautéing them with nothing more fancy than a splash of fino sherry. His chipirones (baby squid), another highlight, are crisp-fried in EVOO, Andalusian-style, and arrive with a side of squid-ink mayonnaise. Desserts, too, have a simple elegance: Zafra starts his flan in the steamer, then rests in a bain-marie for a sublimely silky rendition of this Spanish classic. “Estimar” is Catalan for “to love.” And I do. 

Disfrutar

Carrer Villarroel, 163
+34 933 486 896

Whatever you think of the global hit parade that last year proclaimed Disfrutar the best in Europe and second best in the whole wide world, you’re sure to be awestruck by the terrifically avant-garde $315 tasting menu. Chefs Eduard Xatruch, Oriol Castro, and Mateu Casañas were all cohorts of Ferran Adriá back in the day, and to judge by their cooking at Disfrutar (the name means “Enjoy”), the experience has stuck with them. There’s Bulli-esque wizardry in such creations as the “onion soup” reinvented as a puff of onion “bread” with Comté cheese, coconut squid “meatballs” with a soupçon of curry, and “black apple” cooked for two months at 140 degrees Fahrenheit. The pair of baby cuttlefish surrounded with fresh-pea “spherifications” floats my particular boat with its loving evocation of the Catalan terroir. Unlike at Adriá’s old place, however, at Disfrutar even the pyrotechnics have a nonchalance about them, as if these new-gen chefs had outgrown the desperate need to wow the diner. On a recent visit, for instance, I was invited to reach into a box for one course, which turned out to be a large, succulent red prawn from the port of Vilanova ready to be slurped and savored. Enjoyed, indeed.

Sartoria Panatieri

Carrer de l’Encarnació, 51
+34 931 376 385

Impressively sited in a cavernous white post-industrial space, Sartoria Panatieri has quickly established itself among Barcelona’s leading pizzerie and was even voted number one in Europe in a recent “50 Best” ranking. Pizzaioli Rafa Panatieri and Jorge Sastre use organic, kilometer-zero ingredients and cure their own guanciale and salchichón from rare-breed Gascón pork. Their Roman-style crust, blasted until crisp at the edges in a woodfired oven, is textbook, while the toppings skew more new-gen Spanish: sobrassada and Mahón cheese, wild fennel and honey, and escabeche carrot with goat ricotta, to name a few.

Teresa Carles

Carrer Jovellanos, 2
+34 933 171 829

Plant-based dining still feels somewhat novel in meat-loving Spain. But in Teresa Carles, open since 1979, Barcelona has one of the country’s true pioneers of the genre. Inspired by the Catalan flavors she grew up with, Carles sources fruits, vegetables, and mushrooms from her home village of Algerri (Lleida) and combines them with plant-based “fish” and “meat” to make dishes like hearty vegan escudella and an invigoratingly spiced Malaysian vegetable curry. The stone-fronted locale (also with a takeout section) is an airy, high-ceilinged space with bare brick walls and monochrome floor tiles.  There’s nothing purse-lipped or pious about the vibe—a sign that in Barcelona, just maybe, vegetarian eating is finally coming of age.

Le Grand Café Rouge

Rambla de Prim, 6
+34 932 780 423

It’s easy to forget how close Barcelona is to France, geographically and culinarily—until you meet Romain Fornell, a Toulouse-born chef intent on spreading the gospel of la véritable cuisine française. I first sampled Fornell’s food back in the day at his posh, Ducasse-influenced hotel restaurant Diana, but the “Big Red Café” is far breezier. Sunlight off the Mediterranean floods into the high-ceilinged, white-walled interior, sited at the very end of the Avinguda Diagonal where it meets the sea at the Forum. The menu reads like a brasserie highlight reel: There’s pâté en croûte, onion soup made with Figueres onions and Comté cheese, and bouillabaisse with a puff-pastry crust.  As if wagging his finger at Barcelona’s legion of flaccid tartes Tatins, Fornell’s is impeccably caramelized and crisp. 

Bar Pinotxo 

Mercat de Sant Antoni 18–21, Carrer del Compte d’Urgell, 1
+34 933 171 731

In its first life, Pinotxo (founded 1952) was a tiny bar near the entrance of La Boqueria market where shoppers stopped for a restorative drink and a tapa before schlepping their purchases home. With genial Juanito Bayén and his signature bowtie at the helm, Pinotxo became a pilgrimage site for rustic dishes like beef and potato fricandó, chickpea stew with blood sausage botifarra, and griddled shellfish, always made with market ingredients. So when Juanito passed away last year at 88, it was unclear whether his legacy would live on—until we learned that Pinotxo was reopening in the less touristy, newly restored Mercat de Sant Antoni. Juanito’s nephew Jordi, together with his wife Maria José and son Didac, are now at the helm, and they’ve sensibly changed nothing about the cooking. Perch on a barstool, get yourself a caña (half-pint) of beer or a glass of cava, and let them tell you what’s good today.

Paradiso

Carrer Riera Palau, 4
+34 933 607 211

Barcelona’s cocktail scene has something for every kind of fancy sipper, from the hardcore old-school (Dry Bar, Boadas) to the funky and eclectic (Florería Atlántica, Two Schmucks). But when it comes to contemporary cocktailery, Paradiso, the brainchild of Italian bar supremo Giacomo Giannotti, is hot to trot. From outside, Paradiso looks like a humble sandwich bar (side note: the home-cured pastrami might be the best outside Manhattan), but on most nights, there’s a line around the block. Climb through the door of an old-fashioned fridge, and you’ll soon see why. On a cocktail menu loftily titled “The History of Humanity,” you’ll spot ingredients like rose water, olive oil, saffron, sesame, and seaweed—resulting in high-concept mixology that’s breathtaking when it works, tiresome when it (occasionally) doesn’t. Smoke, mirrors, and VR headsets are all par for the course. Me? I’d like another slurp of the Fleming 1928, a hauntingly delicious concoction of tequila, Mancino vermouth, miso, beer syrup, coconut, grapefruit, and lemongrass.      

La Mundana de Sants

Carrer Vallespir, 93
+34 934 088 023

Tucked behind Barcelona’s central rail station, La Mundana has managed to stay under the tourist radar. It’s the kind of place where neighbors pitch up on a weekend lunchtime for vermouth on the rocks, a ham croqueta or two, and a half-dozen oysters. For the rest of us, it’s a Barcelona gastro-bar, among the best of the variety, where Alain Guiard (ex Sant Pau, F12 Terrassen in Stockholm) and Marc Martín whip up original fusion dishes like pig’s-feet rice with bone marrow and a picada of tarragon and pistachios, and roast cauliflower with fried curry leaves and Café de Paris sauce. (Book well in advance.)

Can Cisa/Bar Brutal

Carrer de la Princesa, 14 and Carrer Barra de Ferro, 1
+34 933 199 881 and +34 932 954 797

Can Cisa/Bar Brutal is the restaurant-bar where Spain’s natural wine revolution began back in 2013, when two vino-obsessed twins stumbled on a dilapidated old space near the Picasso Museum with a “For Rent” sign on the door. The twins in question, Max and Stefano Colombo, from Venice, Italy, had been packing them in at their fine Barcelona restaurant Xemei for nigh-on two decades. But with a little help from their friends, the Colombos created what was then a novelty for the city, offering hundreds of organic, natural and biodynamic wines, many served by the glass (look out for Catalan grape varieties such as xarel·lo and white garnatxa) along with Italian-inflected bar bites like porchetta sandwich, ox tartare with Cipriani sauce, and burrata with trout roe. The convivial atmosphere—not to mention the raffish charm of the interior with its formica tables and antique wooden chairs—makes for a great night out. 

Trópico

Carrer Balmes, 24
+34 938 348 624

Barcelona has taken to the imported concept of brunch like a duck to water, finding it compatible with the lazing, grazing routines of the Spanish weekend. Venues in the city peddling avocado toast and eggs Benedict are two-a-penny these days, but few brunch spots go above and beyond as excitingly as Trópico. Brazilian chef Rodrigo Marco takes the globe-trotting schtick of his original Trópico in the Raval—in a nutshell, foods and drinks from between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn—and runs with it at this new place in the uptown Eixample. Playing out against the natural textures of the light-filled locale is a culinary fiesta that brims with the colors and flavors of the global South, zig-zagging from açaí and ají de gallina to Venezuelan cachapas stuffed with pabellón criollo and patacones with salsa hogao, cilantro, and costeño cheese. Marco’s coxinha, a deep-fried potato croquette stuffed with cheese and chicken, is a loving recreation of a Brazilian barroom staple (not to mention a surefire hangover remedy), while his fish moqueca, fragrant with coconut milk and dendê oil, may be the finest version of this Bahian classic anywhere in Spain. 

The post The Hottest Restaurants and Bars to Try in Barcelona Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

When SAVEUR magazine launched in 1994, its photography and design set the tone for something different. In contrast to the pristine studio photography that was in vogue at the time, SAVEUR’s food was messy and real, reported and photographed in the field around the world. For the cover of the inaugural issue, which enshrined the young Oaxacan cook Rosario Mendoza as our brand’s first figurehead, logos and copy were offset from a heroic and lovingly framed cover portrait. With a more formal look than its peers in food media, this design treatment presented SAVEUR’s subject matter—then largely relegated to the frequently dismissed category of “women’s publications”—with the gravitas and elegance global cuisine deserved. 

How we eat, and how we document food through words and photography are ever-changing. Since that first issue, hundreds of creatives have influenced the look and feel of SAVEUR’s covers, which have evolved dramatically over the years. But at its core, the spirit of SAVEUR endures—a publication, as founding editor Dorothy Kalins described it, for those of us who see the world “food first.”

On the occasion of SAVEUR’s 30th anniversary, we return to print with issue number 202. What a fine time to take a look back at 30 vibrant years of SAVEUR cover art. —Kat Craddock, Editor-in-Chief and CEO

Issue #1: Summer 1994

Issue #2: September/October 1994

Issue #3: November/December 1994

Issue #4: January/February 1995

Issue #5: March/April 1995

Issue #6: May/June 1995

Issue #7: July/August 1995

Issue #8: September/October 1995

Issue #9: November/December 1995

Issue #10: January/February 1996

Issue #11: March/April 1996

Issue #12: May/June 1996

Issue #13: July/August 1996

Issue #14: September/October 1996

Issue #15: November/December 1996

Issue #16: January/February 1997

Issue #17: March 1997

Issue #18: April 1997

Issue #19: May/June 1997

Issue #20: July/August 1997

Issue #21: September/October 1997

Issue #22: November 1997

Issue #23: December 1997

Issue #24: January/February 1998

Issue #25: March 1998

Issue #26: April 1998

Issue #27: May/June 1998

Issue #28: July/August 1998

Issue #29: September/October 1998

Issue #30: November 1998

Issue #31: December 1998

Issue #32: January/February 1999

Issue #33: March 1999

Issue #34: April 1999

Issue #35: May/June 1999

Issue #36: July/August 1999

Issue #37: September/October 1999

Issue #38: November 1999

Issue #39: December 1999

Issue #40: January/February 2000

Issue #41: March 2000

Issue #42: April 2000

Issue #43: May/June 2000

Issue #44: July/August 2000

Issue #45: September/October 2000

Issue #46: November 2000

Issue #47: December 2000

Issue #48: January/February 2001

Issue #49: March 2001

Issue #50: April 2001

Issue #51: May/June 2001

Issue #52: July/August 2001

Issue #53: September/October 2001

Issue #54: November 2001

Issue #55: December 2001

Issue #56: January/February 2002

Issue #57: March 2002

Issue #58: April 2002

Issue #59: May/June 2002

Issue #60: July/August 2002

Issue #61: September/October 2002

Issue #62: November 2002

Issue #63: December 2002

Issue #64: January/February 2003

Issue #65: March 2003

Issue #66: April/May 2003

Issue #67: June/July 2003

Issue #68: August/September 2003

Issue #69: October 2003

Issue #70: November 2003

Issue #71: December 2003

Issue #72: January/February 2004

Issue #73: March 2004

Issue #74: April 2004

Issue #75: May 2004

Issue #76: June/July 2004

Issue #77: August/September 2004

Issue #78: October 2004

Issue #79: November 2004

Issue #80: December 2004

Issue #81: January/February 2005

Issue #82: March 2005

Issue #83: April 2005

Issue #84: May 2005

Issue #85: June/July 2005

Issue #86: August/September 2005

Issue #87: October 2005

Issue #88: November 2005

Issue #89: December 2005

Issue #90: January/February 2006

Issue #91: March 2006

Issue #92: April 2006

Issue #93: May 2006

Issue #94: June/July 2006

Issue #95: August/September 2006

Issue #96: October 2006

Issue #97: November 2006

Issue #98: December 2006

Issue #99: January/February 2007

Issue #100: March 2007

Issue #101: April 2007

Issue #102: May 2007

Issue #103: June/July 2007

Issue #104: August/September 2007

Issue #105: October 2007

Issue #106: November 2007

Issue #107: December 2007

Issue #108: January/February 2008

Issue #109: March 2008

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For years, Jing Gao dreamed of opening a grab-and-go market that serves prepared meals she would actually crave. Not hard-boiled eggs and cold sandwiches, but creamy sesame noodles, fiery mapo tofu, and crunchy wood-ear mushroom salad that channel the peppery, piquant flavors of her native Chengdu, capital of China’s Sichuan Province. Today, that vision no longer lives in her head, but on a high-trafficked shopping street in the heart of Los Angeles.

After dabbling in the fast-casual arena with her now-closed restaurant Baoism in Shanghai, Gao left food service and went on to launch a chili-crisp empire with Fly By Jing, her fast-growing direct-to-consumer brand of made-in-Sichuan sauces. She wasn’t eager to re-enter the hospitality realm, unless the right partner came along. Enter Stephanie Liu Hjelmeseth, a lifestyle blogger whose family previously owned the beloved Orange County restaurant Chong Qing Mei Wei. Both Gao and Liu grew up eating Sichuan dishes, and they both liked the casual convenience and accessibility of the grab-and-go framework, implemented profitably by brands like Pret a Manger. “How great would it be to apply modern Chinese flavors to that model?” Gao recalls thinking.

Suá Superette, which debuted last November, does just that by packaging familiar Sichuan flavors into conveniently portable meals, often yielding surprising combinations. At the new market, lazi ji, a fried-chicken specialty of Chongqing, has evolved into crispy tenders dipped in a spicy vinaigrette; cumin-scented beef is swaddled in a wrap for on-the-go enjoyment; zingy mala seasoning jazzes up fried lotus-root chips. “We wanted to combine the Sichuan flavors that we love with the context that we live in,” says Gao of meeting her customers—active, on-the-move Angelenos—where they are. Positioned as a one-stop shop, the brick-and-mortar also stocks a selection of Asian-inflected pantry staples like condiments from Cabi Foods, flower teas from The Qi, and instant packs of plant-based Immi Ramen. By demonstrating how Asian food can fit seamlessly into their clientele’s lives, the two entrepreneurs convey that the flavors of their heritage “are adaptable and versatile, and can be applied to so many canvases,” says Gao. (The message echoes that of Gao’s recent cookbook, The Book of Sichuan Chili Crisp, which shares both traditional and newfangled ways to use the region’s signature flavor profiles.)

Call them superettes, mini-marts, or corner stores: small independent grocers that acknowledge and speak to today’s Asian American (particularly East and Southeast Asian) experience are popping up around the country. These modern businesses are smaller, sleeker, and more specialized than their big-box chain counterparts like 99 Ranch, H-Mart, or Seafood City, and place a notable emphasis on craft, curation, and customer experience. And often, they’re founded by millennials who want to bring visibility to their communities, and bridge customers to those cultures through food.

At the Taiwanese market Yun Hai, which opened its Brooklyn brick-and-mortar in 2022, Tatung rice cookers and Kuai Kuai corn crisps sit alongside artisanal seasonings, condiments, and ceramics sourced directly from brewers, farmers, and craftspeople in Taiwan. Taiwanese-style terrazzo tiles line the floor, while wood paneling and warm colors evoke the feel of a traditional bodega one might find on the island. “We want you to feel like you’re transported to a different place,” says Yun Hai co-owner Lillian Lin. “There are people who don’t know what Taiwan is, and we want to change that. But also, there are people who are familiar with Taiwan and don’t have a way to access that culture. ‘My grandma used to cook this, but I don’t know where to get it.’ Or they might not speak Mandarin.” Yun Hai provides bilingual labels as part of their effort to guide shoppers of all backgrounds.

When first-generation immigrants in the U.S. opened some of the country’s earliest Asian supermarkets in the late-20th century, “they needed to make a living, and were trying to do something for their community,” says Vietnamese American author and cooking teacher Andrea Nguyen. Not only were those stores a lifeline for many immigrants, they also paved the way for greater availability and acceptance of Asian ingredients in the country. “Foods often have strong emotional and nostalgic ties,” explains Jane Matsumoto, director of culinary arts at the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center, which recently opened a mini-shop of its own called MISE. “Access to familiar foods facilitates social integration and helps create a sense of home and belonging in a new environment.” Like many Chinese Americans who grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, I remember trailing my parents around Lion Market, a gateway to our heritage because it carried a seemingly comprehensive array of Chinese products—with affordable pricing to boot, though often without clear English translations—that Safeway and Albertsons didn’t: Chinkiang black vinegar, Sichuan peppercorns, precisely fileted cuts of meat for hot pot, and beyond. 

One might consider Suá Superette and Yun Hai the descendants of those supermarkets, Nguyen observes. Building upon the foundation of cultural awareness and accessibility that big-box grocers fostered, modern mini-marts and bodegas represent the next generation of Asian ingredient purveyance in the U.S. More than an avenue for mere survival and support, these newer shops are outlets for owners to celebrate their heritage through carefully chosen products that not only tell the story of a community, but also uplift small makers from those backgrounds.

While Suá and Yun Hai respectively champion the flavors of Sichuan and Taiwanese cuisine, Yoboseyo! Superette, a micro-grocer and café in Los Angeles’ Little Tokyo, shines its spotlight on small-batch specialty goods from across the Asian American spectrum, with an emphasis on Korean-inspired products created by Korean American entrepreneurs. While waiting for a honey oat latte, on-the-go commuters and busy professionals can pick up gochujang-flavored party mixes from Chingoo Snacks, quinoa-based kimbap from GANCHIC, spiced nuts from Mommylas, and even dog treats from Little Ganshik. “The industry makes it so hard to get your product out there, to get it on the shelves,” says the mini-market’s co-owner Cindy Choi, who opened the shop in 2022 to “be a launchpad for them.” 

Not far away in the city’s historic Chinatown, Sesame LA concentrates on pantry essentials and gourmet treats from small AAPI-owned brands with aesthetically crafted, giftable packaging. Chinese-inspired black sesame butter from Rooted Fare, seaweed snacks from Korean-owned brand Geem, and Vietnamese coffee blends from Little Green Cyclo “pay homage to their cultures by taking [something] classic and making it new, fun, and eye-catching,” says owner Linda Sivrican, who opened the shop in 2021, naming it after an ingredient she felt signified the common threads many Asian cultures share. “I spent a lot of my childhood visiting Chinatown every week with my parents,” she adds. “It was very nostalgic for me to come back and have this little space, 30 years later.” 

Both Choi and Sivrican chose to open their superettes in enclaves that have historically been havens for Asian communities. “In Little Tokyo, when you walk down the street, you see so many legacy businesses that have been there for 20, 30 years that are closing,” says Choi, pointing out that gentrification, rising real estate costs, and other challenges are displacing longtime establishments like Shabu-Shabu House and Suehiro Cafe. After Chinatown lost its last full-service Asian grocery store with the 2022 closure of Ai Hoa, Sivrican stocked fresh produce for a period of time so that local Asian growers could sell their harvests. By launching Sesame LA and Yoboseyo! in Chinatown and Little Tokyo (one of only three Japantowns left in the U.S.) respectively, the founders are waving a flag for the legacy of these communities as Asian hubs, while attracting a more diverse customer base to reinvigorate the neighborhoods. “There’s a palpable sense of pride in these spaces,” remarks Los Angeles native and chef Tara Monsod, who helms the Filipino-inspired San Diego steakhouse ANIMAE. “Showcasing Asian culture becomes a unifying, connecting force.”

It’s clear community pride is a driving force behind the growing availability of artisanal Asian products—and the more tailored inventory at the shops that stock them. This new wave could help not only establish a premium for Asian foods, but also evolve how they are perceived. “One of the biggest barriers facing Chinese cuisine was this hierarchy of tastes—the fact that it’s on the bottom rungs of that ladder of value that we ascribe to cuisines and different cultures, and their people,” Gao points out. Thoughtfully designed and aesthetically pleasing high-quality goods—with appropriate pricing to match—from what Gao calls “a rising tide of Asian-owned brands” are pushing back against the connotations of cheapness often associated with Asian food. “We are not a monolith, and we aren’t just mass-produced cheap products,” emphasizes Ji Hye Kim, the chef behind the restaurant Miss Kim in Ann Arbor, Michigan. “We are also local and crafted with care.” As disruptive entrepreneurs and discerning customers alike assign greater economic value to foods that spring from and represent their heritage, they’re sending a message: “We need to pay fairly for the labor, the ingredients, and the creativity that go into producing this food,” says Nguyen. 

Suá Superette is, notably, not located in a particularly affordable L.A. neighborhood, nor one historically associated with Asian immigrants. Gao and Hjelmeseth decided to unveil their new venture in the walkable, boutique-lined Larchmont Village “to invite more people into the fold—because Asian flavors shouldn’t be relegated only to Chinatowns or 99 Ranches,” says Gao. Grab-and-go fare made with locally sourced ingredients echoes the priorities of busy, progressive urbanites, regardless of their heritage. “We’re seeing [Asian food] become part of cross-cultural intersectional living,” Nguyen tells me. “It’s not something that’s exotic that needs to be saved for a weekend trip. It can be everyday food as long as you love it, and anybody can love it.”

Interest in Asian cuisines is on the rise, as immigration, culinary television shows, social media, and tourism increasingly open portals to the continent’s foodways. “Whenever you go to a new country, food is always going to be the first gateway into that culture,” notes Arnold Byun, who co-founded MAUM Market, a pop-up showcasing food and crafts from Asian makers. “You might have a conversation about where the food came from, how it got there, what the country is known for. It just opens up so many conversations.”  

A compact store can be a more approachable entry point to having those conversations than a sprawling supermarket. For starters, “the smaller selection eliminates some of the overwhelm and decision paralysis you might feel in a big grocer,” notes food blogger and cookbook author Maggie Zhu. Moreover, attentive guidance from a trusted storekeeper can help customers navigate the nuances of cooking a cuisine that’s new to them. Fort Worth, Texas-based high-school culinary instructor Hao Tran streamlines the shopping experience at her mini-marketplace, Hao’s Grocery & Cafe, by assembling ready-to-cook kits—Maesri curry paste and locally grown vegetables for a cozy Thai green curry, or basmati rice and a medley of spices for a Southeast Indian biryani—that forge a bridge to different cuisines. “There are just very few Asian restaurants,” says Tran of the Fort Worth area. “It’s ingrained in me that the community I live in is short of these food experiences.” To fill in those gaps, she’s approached local farmers and asked them for help growing ingredients like daikon, Napa cabbage, and bittermelon. The benefit of a small, intimate store, she explains, is that she can actively engage with shoppers and teach them how to use these ingredients if they’re unfamiliar. “For customers, it’s not as intimidating if you know you can ask, ‘what do I do with this?’ or ‘how do I do this?’” notes Tran, who often fields follow-up queries from patrons over the phone. “That personal connection is more important than ever.”

Though superettes are a fast-growing sector, they’re only part of a larger, ever-expanding network of Asian ingredient supply and distribution in the U.S. Online retailers like Sarap Now, Weee!, and Umamicart are further broadening the reach of Asian flavors by bringing them to people’s doorsteps. Mass-market grocers like Nijiya Market, Mitsuwa Marketplace, and H-Mart continue to expand. As demand for the continent’s ingredients rises, and as supply-chain advances reduce barriers to importing from overseas artisans, says Matsumoto, the availability and footprint of Asian food products in the U.S. will only continue to grow. The more diverse the shopping avenues, the better, she adds. Big-box retailers, with their cooking appliances, live seafood, and wide selection of fresh produce and meat, “cater to a broader customer base with diverse needs,” Matsumoto notes. On the other hand, “niche markets can excel in providing a deeply immersive experience that highlights the cultural nuances of specific Asian regions.”

Where curated mini-marts arguably excel most is how they unapologetically magnify the nuanced, culturally blended Asian American experience of today, which is characterized by both Asian tradition and American lifestyle. Recalling his childhood, Byun says that he “didn’t know if I was Korean enough, or if I was American enough.” Most of these new superettes were dreamed up by first- and second-generation Asian Americans who felt similarly: they wanted to see themselves represented, their tastes catered to, and their flavors amplified.

“These stores are neither this nor that,” he says. “They celebrate the in-between.”

Recipes

Lazi Chicken Wings

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Strange-Flavor Mixed Nuts

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Smashed Cucumber Salad with Yuba

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The post A New Kind of Asian Grocer Has Arrived appeared first on Saveur.

It’s that time of year. The days are getting shorter; we’re saying goodbye to tomatoes and corn; and apples and squash are front and center at the market. Which also means that around every corner and in every shop is something flavored with pumpkin spice. 

Pumpkin spice lattes. Pumpkin spice candles. Pumpkin spice popcorn. Pumpkin spice soap. 

While the relentless ubiquity of pumpkin-spiced everything can get a little overwhelming, I’m not mad about it. It’s warm and cozy, like pulling on a flannel, a sweater, or a favorite beanie.

According to McCormick & Company, the fall season accounts for about 80 percent of the company’s retail sales of its signature Pumpkin Pie Spice, which debuted in 1934. By 2019, the blend was the brand’s fourth best-selling retail spice from September through November. But how—and why—did the combination of ground cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, allspice, and ginger come to so thoroughly signal the start of autumn?

Many credit Starbucks. 

The Seattle-based coffee empire unveiled its Pumpkin Spice Latte (aka the PSL) some 20 years ago, and in doing so, inspired a flavor profile that famously heralds the incoming season. 

Much like spring, autumn signifies change. As we emerge from the heady days of summer, we enter a season marked by routine and tradition. The start of the school year; for many of us, freezing temperatures; and attempts to enjoy the outdoors while we still can. There’s also the steady stream of holidays, each with its own set of traditions. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Al-Mawlid Al-Nabawi lead into Dia de los Muertos and Halloween, which give way to Diwali and, in the U.S., the biggest pumpkin pie holiday of the year: Thanksgiving. 

While Starbucks may have invented the PSL, and McCormick may have popularized the blend, neither really invented pumpkin spice. Amelia Simmons’ American Cookery (1796)—purportedly the first American cookbook—includes two recipes for “pompkin” pie, both of which incorporate many of the spices we associate with the dessert today. The spices that make up the pumpkin spice blend have, of course, been around and similarly combined for ages. Cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves are native to Asia while allspice is native to the West Indies, Mexico, and Central America. All were introduced to North America centuries ago via colonialism and trade.

It’s likely that pumpkin spice blend entered the retail market as a response to the introduction of Libby’s canned pumpkin in 1929. Let’s be honest: pumpkin isn’t the easiest ingredient to prepare, so shelf-stable canned pumpkin not only made life much easier for the home baker—it also made a once-seasonal ingredient available year-round.

And pumpkin spice? In an era of convenience and financial hardship, buying a single jar of spices (rather than four or five) was a wallet-friendly convenience, and McCormick answered the market’s demand.

Which brings me to pumpkin spice-flavored things. While some might feel pumpkin spice mania has gotten out of hand (a quick search for “pumpkin spice recipes” turns up over 100,000,000 results), I prefer to embrace it. For freshness, I like to make my own homemade blend, then have fun with it. I add my DIY pumpkin spice to everything from my morning coffee (why mess with a good thing?) to roasted fall vegetables (think carrots and squash and, yes, pumpkin). I might add some spice to a quick chicken marinade or fluff some into rice with raisins and nuts. Any number of soups and stews would benefit from a scoop of pumpkin spice—especially with a kick of chile and a little salt to make it more savory.

At the end of the day, though, nothing beats a really great pumpkin-spiced dessert—like these sweet-as-pie pumpkin spice snickerdoodles. Soft, spiced, and everything nice, these cookies have a crackly surface and a bit of tang from cream of tartar, which is cool and fun. They’re also cakey and cute, and I guarantee you’re going to eat one, then another, and by the time the day is over, you will have had at least five and go to bed with a slight tummy ache. But it will be worth it.

Recipe

Pumpkin Spice Snickerdoodles

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Pumpkin Pie Spice

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The post Pumpkin Spice Is Here to Stay—Let’s Embrace It appeared first on Saveur.

A few weeks ago, a fellow coffee geek handed me a cup of something that stopped me in my tracks. It tasted like toffee, cedar, and forest floor and was unlike anything I was used to drinking. I thought I’d seen it all (if my name looks familiar, it’s because I founded Blue Bottle Coffee 21 years ago), but I was confused. What on earth was in that cup? 

I marched through guess after guess—was it an Indonesian Cup of Excellence winner?  A new producer in Papua New Guinea? Eventually I gave up. The coffee, my colleague revealed, was a Vietnamese robusta.

The reason robusta didn’t cross my mind is that until recently, robusta wasn’t taken seriously among coffee professionals. Of the two main types of coffee, robusta and arabica, the former has long been the ugly duckling. As its name suggests, robusta (Coffea canephora) is a vigorous, high-yielding crop. It’s so “robust,” in fact, that it grows well at low elevations, and in a variety of soil types (the opposite is true of finicky arabica). The resulting coffee is often described as woody or peanutty—or, worse, like burning tires. Arabica coffee, by contrast, is usually brighter, fruitier, and more acidic. Walk into any specialty coffee shop from Brooklyn to London to Bangkok, and you’ll almost certainly be served arabica.

To understand how arabica became so favored by coffee professionals, and how robusta got marginalized, it helps to know a bit of history—starting in Italy in 1938. Achille Gaggia and Francesco Illy had just patented the first true espresso machine, but there was a problem: Under Mussolini, Italy was impoverished and politically isolated, and much of the coffee available for import came from North African robusta plants. However, the Italians made their cucina povera philosophy work for coffee, too. They discovered that robusta could be surprisingly delicious when roasted slowly in their rudimentary coal- and wood-powered machines, which steamed out any off flavors and gave robusta’s scant sugars time to develop. 

Further, the way Italians brewed their coffee was perfect for robusta. The rapid, high-pressure extraction of espresso gave the liquid body, while the drink’s potent coffee-to-water ratio left the rubbery, gassy flavors in the portafilter. (If all else failed, there was always that sugar dish left suavely on the bar.)  

Soon, robusta wasn’t just a cost-saving compromise in Italy—it had become a sought-after taste. In Italian coffee brokers’ catalogs in the 1980s, it wasn’t uncommon to see 20 different robustas, each with its own unique profile, priced nearly the same as the arabicas on the list.

But around that time, robusta’s reputation started to change. Illy—having invested massively in a process called pulped natural that favored arabica beans—began guiding Italian consumers toward its “100% Arabica” espresso blend.

The mid-1980s were also when the Vietnamese economy was beginning to open up after the depredations of the Vietnam war. One of its key industries? Instant coffee made from low-quality robusta beans, and soon, robusta’s reputation was in freefall. (Originally an arabica-producing country, Vietnam is now the second-largest coffee producer in the world, after Brazil, and 97 percent of its crop is robusta.)

Everyday coffee drinkers have long known that instant coffee isn’t as good as freshly brewed, but they didn’t know their robustas from their arabicas. That all changed when Starbucks and the specialty coffee revolution came along. From 1992 to 2009, Starbucks’ store count went from 140 to 16,662, and suddenly the word “arabica” became common parlance. Starbucks proudly emphasized that it used 100 percent arabica in their blends in order to differentiate itself from its canned and jarred coffee competitors. The takeaway was that robusta, in all its gradations, wasn’t worthy of any serious coffee drinker.

Most of today’s coffee professionals came up during arabica’s heydey, so it’s no surprise they look for that bean’s fruitiness when evaluating coffee—those tart apple, grape, and berry notes. Even now, robusta’s earthier, mustier flavors are viewed as inferior to the point that if present, they lower the score of the coffee in question (and thus the price being paid for it).

But ever since I tasted that cup of robusta, I’ve been wondering: What would happen if we let taste lead? What if we simply listened to robusta without subjecting it to our rules for arabica? 

Arabica and robusta aren’t like, say, merlot and cabernet sauvignon. They’re two totally different species. For starters, robusta has twice as much caffeine as arabica, half of the natural sugars, and half the lipids. Translation? If roasted and prepared like arabica, robusta can be bitter, thin, and unpleasant. 

How is it, then, that robusta still accounts for 40 percent of global coffee production? Cost is the main driver, since robusta plants are twice as productive as arabica, and significantly more resistant to disease and pests. But there’s another reason it’s stuck around: People like it.

I happen to be one of them. I first started tinkering with robusta in 2007 at Blue Bottle. At the time, the specialty coffee community was even more dismissive of the species than it is now, but as someone prone to zigging while everybody else is zagging, I took the plunge and ordered a 132 pound bag of certified organic robusta from India, a favored terroir of the Italian roasters of the last century. 

Like those pioneers, we experimented with longer roast times to bring out the beans’ subtleties, but the most promising development happened by accident. It turned out we’d purchased too optimistically, and had more robusta on our hands than we knew what to do with. This kind of mistake is a killer when it comes to arabica coffee: After several months in storage, arabica beans turn flat, or worse, acquire a straw or “baggy” taste from the jute sacks they’re stored in. A funny thing happened when we sampled  “aged” robusta, however. The taste had mellowed. The edges had rounded. The coffee was sweeter, its petrol-forward aromatics transformed into a pleasing oakiness. 

I didn’t realize it at the time, but we were starting to decouple our approach to robusta from our approach to arabica. 

For robusta, time is an ally. Longer roasting cycles, which can bake the aromatics out of arabica, soften the harshness of robusta. Brewing at a lower temperature, I’d learn, similarly rounds out the cup even more. As one of the first roasters in San Francisco to proudly stamp a roast date on every bag of (arabica) coffee, I’ve realized that while freshness is arabica’s friend, robusta’s it is not.

As I was noticing the salutary effects of time on robusta, other coffee professionals were diving into the agriculture and processing of it. Miguel Meza, a pioneer in the study of arabica coffee varietals, recently offered the first robusta coffee subscription through his roasting company, Paradise Coffee Roasters. “With improvements in quality and processing, you can get fruity flavors. You can get caramel tastes and that mouthfeel that people like in a dark roast—without it being too roasty or sour.”

Sahra Nguyen, founder of Nguyen Coffee Supply, is on a similar crusade to challenge preconceptions, and she’s doing that through her high-quality Vietnamese robustas. Her blends are so compelling that she recently persuaded Whole Foods to drop its rules on only selling arabica coffee. Lately I’ve been dazzled by her anaerobic processed robusta, which plays well with my 1958 Faema Urania espresso machine. 

Nguyen goes as far as to say that robusta’s toasty, nutty flavors often take better to dairy-based coffee drinks than fruity, tart arabica. And she has a point—while most coffee professionals I know drink black coffee and straight espresso (with the occasional short milk drink added into the mix as a treat), the average American consumer occupies a very different world of taste. A busy specialty coffee retailer might sell 10 espressos a day … and 500 large-format sweetened, milky, or iced drinks. If that retailer is purchasing pineapple-bright arabica to please its owners’ sensitive palates, here’s a legitimate question to ask: Would the guests not be better served by a skillfully roasted robusta?

Robusta checks a lot of boxes, so let’s review them: For consumers, its deep, roasty flavors can better complement the milky drinks people drink day in, day out. For businesses, robusta’s hardiness (the way it improves with age) makes it easier to store, reducing waste. 

If we zoom out even further, there are more urgent reasons to embrace robusta. Scientists are saying that due to the climate crisis, there could be a 65 percent decrease in arabica production over the next 20 years. If that’s true, the specialty coffee industry has been handed an opportunity to rethink the approach to its cash crop before it’s too late. As Nguyen says, “If you care about the long-term sustainability of coffee, it’s time to reassess some deep-seated beliefs about all coffee beans.”

But at the most basic level, robusta is worth a second look simply because it can be exceptional—when grown and roasted with care. Take it from one of the most skeptical gatekeepers out there: me.

How To Make Cold Brew That’s Easy and Cafe-Level Good

How to Add Coffee to Your Cocktails

The post The Undeniable Coffee Trend Nobody Saw Coming appeared first on Saveur.

Eliane has always been a bit of a black sheep. Early on, she broke the mold by being one of the few women in her family to read up on topics like psychology and science. At a time when most women were relegated to the kitchen, she was busy advocating for freedom of mind, body and spirit. But no matter how heated things got at home because of her rebelliousness, one dish was always a unifier: her mother’s minestra di verdure. 

Eliane, who lives in Paris and is 86 years old, was born in Tunisia to Italian parents who emigrated in hope of finding work and making a better life for themselves. At age five, she and her family moved to France, where she still lives today.  

A kick-scooter-riding, rap-loving feminist—who’s also on Instagram—Eliane has a youthful spirit that belies a rich, long life. A highlight was fighting for women’s rights during France’s legendary May ‘68 protests. “That was a revelation for me. It was a time of sexual liberation … I knew I didn’t want a husband like my father. I saw other people [romantically], so my husband did too.”

Those revolutionary times shook something loose in her. “Before that, I thought: I’m married, I have a child, so that’s it, my life is this. But I was wrong,” she said. At age 40, Eliane decided to go back to university, and a few years later, she began hosting her own culture show on France Culture Radio, providing a platform for the country’s most intelligent women. 

Yet amid all those life changes, nostalgic dishes like minestra kept her grounded and in touch with her roots. There was a comfort in the recipe’s simplicity: Always beans, carrots, zucchini, turnips, leeks, green cabbage, celery root, and fennel. Always simmered, not boiled. Always made for loved ones, not for one, as a means to nourish and connect.

These days, Eliane cooks the soup for her granddaughter, Lola, the French filmmaker and actress who made the Grandmas Project mini-documentary about the dish. Like her grandmother, Lola celebrates minestra as a direct link to her Italian heritage. “I don’t speak Italian, and my Italian family doesn’t speak French, so nonna’s soup is really the only link we have left,” she says.

But beyond distant family roots, the soup is a testament to the pair’s deep connection here and now. “She’s my best friend, my idol, my role model,” says Lola. 

Each time Lola visits her grandmother, Eliane slips on her sun-yellow jacket, hops on her scooter, and heads to her favorite greengrocer at Aligre market to pick up ingredients for minestra. “She knows I can’t go too long without it,” chuckles Lola. 

Upon her return, the two sit together at the kitchen table, sipping on a glass of red wine as they peel and chop vegetables, talk about their love lives, and belt out Italian songs from Eliane’s childhood. 

That’s Nonna for you. A woman who believes in the plurality of lovers, in the power of psychology and science, and the importance of stepping outside one’s comfort zone. “My aim in life is to be as cultivated as possible by the time I die,” she says.

Recipe

Minestra di Verdure

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When Hugo Martinez first moved from Mexico to the U.S. in 2018 to attend Stanford Business School, every party he attended with his American classmates was stocked with beer, wine, and sometimes spirits. By the time he graduated in 2020, there had been a shift—the beverage selection at student shindigs were now dominated by Ready-to-Drink (RTD) sips. Yet, none of the flavors in the cooler, from the White Claws to the Truly hard seltzers, appealed to his palate. In a sea of strawberry, cherry, and kiwi options—none of which really tasted prominently like the advertised fruits—Martinez missed the vibrant, refreshing, boldly fruit-forward drink flavors he grew up with in Mexico City, like tart limonada, tangy tamarindo, and sweet, floral mango.

Though many of his American peers seemed to enjoy the RTD beverages, “I didn’t see the Latinos, and Hispanics, and me and my Mexican friends get into them as much,” he recalls. Martinez suspected this was because they were accustomed to totally different flavors, many of which are arguably bolder and more distinct than what they were encountering in the ice box.

In his native Mexico, there’s a broad category of delicious drink flavors that go well beyond the handful of bog-standard fruit flavorings that make up the RTD aisle in U.S. grocers. A lightbulb went off in Martinez’s entrepreneurial brain—perhaps there was an opportunity to introduce American imbibers to beloved Mexican ingredients through RTD beverages. So, he developed one, a spiked agua fresca called Picadas. Fermented in small batches, the canned drinks are reminiscent of the non-alcoholic varieties one might find on a traditional Mexican taqueria counter. The flavors represent nostalgic ingredients from Martinez’s youth—the distinctly tropical-tasting guayaba (guava); a sweet and sour limonada helada (made with Key limes rather than lemons); and mango, featuring a much sweeter variety of the fruit than the mangoes typically available in the U.S.   

Picadas is just one of a spate of all-natural Mexican beverages now sweeping the drinks industry in the U.S.—with an emphasis on traditional Latin American flavors. Rafael Martin Del Campo, co-founder of the Los Angeles-based tepache brand De La Calle, was born and raised in Mexico City. He’s the third generation in his family to brew tepache, a naturally fermented probiotic drink made from pineapples that’s popular among homebrewers throughout his native country. De La Calle is already available in grocery stores nationwide, and Martin Del Campo says there’s been interest from both customers and stores in exporting the product to not only Mexico, but South American and European countries, too. 

In Picadas’ case, Martinez and his team distributed their product solely in Mexico for an entire year before launching in Texas, the brand’s first U.S. market. But these beverages have broad appeal and Del Campo says both Hispanic and non-Hispanic populations have embraced his company’s products. As Martinez puts it, Picadas is “made by Mexicans for Mexicans for the world to enjoy. Not just the Mexican consumers.”

Mexican Americans make up 20% of the current U.S. population. That demographic is only growing—and businesses are increasingly trying to cater to the community, says Martinez. He points to the success of brands like Topo Chico, Jarritos, Corona, Modelo, and Takis, all of which have introduced Mexican products to the U.S. market, and explains that, “brands are starting to realize that there’s a huge market that they’re not paying attention to, that needs a different solution or a different product than what’s available.”

Brands like De La Calle may also be riding the zero-proof wave, but these culturally relevant libations aren’t just capitalizing on a trend—Mexican households have been making and drinking flavorful non-alcoholic concoctions for generations. Now, the U.S. market is catching up.

Even established food brands are moving into sips, in an effort to share the familiar flavors of their heritage to a new audience in drink form. Longtime Bronx-based tortilla purveyor Buena Vista recently launched Soda Mexicana, a less-sweet alternative to Jarritos, in pineapple, mandarin, apple, tamarind, and hibiscus flavors, all made with natural cane sugar. With just 15 employees, the small brand hopes to build a local following that prefers a lower-sugar alternative to the treacly big dog that’s carried in virtually every supermarket and bodega in Mexico and the U.S. alike.

Del Campo attributes much of Americans’ affinity for Mexican products to the two countries’ proximity. “We’re neighbors to Mexico,” he says. But the entrepreneur also believes there’s interest in more globally inspired drinks across the country in general, and that interest is only growing. “People are looking into more ancestral, and authentic, foods and beverages.”

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Portland, Oregon-based photographer Jordan Hughes stirred up vehement debate on TikTok earlier this year when he made an espresso martini—a latter-day mixology flex—and finished it with a shower of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. 

“I tried it and I can report back that it’s just crazy enough to work!” wrote one viewer. “Straight to jail,” condemned another. Some were appalled, others tickled, and still others traced the combination to a concrete place in their sensory recollections. “This unlocked my memory of coffee cheese! It’s a Swedish bread cheese (no bread, just sturdy) served in coffee,” one user shared. 

Hughes’ Parmesan-scented concoction may have sparked mixed reactions, but the drink is part of an ever-growing range of salty, spicy, and briny creations showing up on drinks lists all over the world. According to Dave O’Brien, a veteran wine and spirits developer who helped launch Aperol in the U.S., the trend towards savory sips is rooted in the mixology craze of the late aughts—and the evolution of American drinkers’ palates have traced a clear arc. “I’ve seen our collective tastes change from more sweet, to embracing bittersweet, to finally a more bitter and adventurous palate,” he explained. On the other side of the equation (and bar), business owners face stiff competition. “I think bartenders feel the need to innovate to help their drinks programs stand out,” he added. 

As savory drinks take up growing real estate on bar menus, mixologists are incorporating brine into their beverages in surprising, and highly sippable, ways. 

A global movement

Marian Beke, owner of erstwhile London bar The Gibson (which will be reopening in Berlin later this year), is arguably a pioneer of the savory cocktail movement. The Slovakia-born mixologist has been experimenting with unexpected flavor profiles for years. In 2018, he collaborated with Belgium’s Copperhead Distillery to roll out a savory gin featuring five botanicals and 13 pickling spices, including mace, pepper, cassia, bay leaf, ginger, allspice, fennel, and dill seeds. In 2019, Beke launched a liqueur line with Italian spirits producer Casoni featuring flavors like Balsamic Vinegar of Modena.   

According to Beke, savory cocktails correlated with UK customers’ relatively salty palates. Consider the classic English breakfast—back bacon, eggs, sausage, baked beans, fried tomato, fried mushrooms, black pudding, with fried and toasted bread—a sodium-rich way to start the day (at odds with many American breakfast staples like pancakes and waffles). Beke said that UK imbibers were already stalwart fans of unsweetened classics like martinis and old-fashioneds. When he began serving savory drinks, like a martini aged in balsamic barrels and served with truffle onions, it was immediately apparent that customers were into them. So he continued to experiment. “We tried to introduce an element of savory or umami into each cocktail,” he explained. Think sea salt, smoked fruits, a hint of balsamic for syrups, pickled eggs for martinis, or pickles as a garnish. 

In other regions where palates skew sweeter, Beke noted, one might expect a savory cocktail to be met with more skepticism. Take Spain, for example, where people don’t bat an eye at mixing coke and red table wine (hola, kalimotxo). And yet, the country has seen its own savory mixology boom, including recent openings like Especiarium, a cocktail bar in Barcelona’s El Born neighborhood dedicated to exploring the world of spices. There, the menu features cheeky, thoughtfully made sips like the popular Saltbae: Gin Mare, a spicy tomato juice, sriracha, a mix of salsas, and salt and pepper “al gusto” (to your liking). Partner and head bartender Antonio Naranjo described it as their spicy take on a Bloody Mary. “You expect something that everyone does the same—the Bloody Mary—and instead you taste a bomb of flavors. And as the ice melts, you get sensations in different parts of the mouth and the nose.” He called it a “complete sensory experience.” 

Bartenders are flexing their creative muscles, and—despite the authoritative ring to the term “mixology”—not taking themselves too seriously 

Finding inspiration in food

As Beke’s English brekkie-inspired drink suggests, a staple ingredient or time-tested recipe can be a solid jumping-off point for cocktail innovations. In New York City, the menu at Noho haunt Jac’s on Bond features a caprese martini, with notes of olive oil, tomato, basil, and balsamic vinegar. According to beverage director Trevor Easton Langer, the creation phase often starts with seeking inspiration from dishes or ingredients that one already loves—no matter how far off they might seem from the world of cocktails. On the rise of savory mixed drinks, Langer noted, “There have been fine variants of classics like the Dirty Martini, Gibson, and Bloody Mary, but there’s been a massive influx of thought-inducing tipples that you’ll want to try purely out of curiosity—like, ‘How’d they turn this into a drink?’” 

Over in New York City’s Meatpacking District, Genesis House puts yet another spin on a classic with their Kimchitini. Head bartender Leslie Hong, who had been daydreaming about a kimchi-infused martini for some time, used her vegan kimchi recipe as a base. Through trial and error, she figured out the ideal ingredient ratios for the cocktail. “I created a cold-brewed gochugaru-and-salt solution to pull the color and flavor,” Hong explained. “The final cocktail also gets a little muddled fresh Asian pear to bring back a little fresh sweetness.” The resulting drink “marries the best parts of the traditional dirty martini with a beloved element of Korean cuisine,” added Kevin Prouve, Genesis House’s general manager. 

When Dave Kupchinsky, bar manager at Bar Moruno in Los Angeles, was looking to shake up the classic martini, he beelined to the restaurant’s kitchen for ideas. There, chef Chris Feldmeier told him about a salmon martini he onced sipped at Dr Stravinksy, a trailblazing cocktail bar in the seaside city of Barcelona (where the team also produces a curiosity-piquing gorgonzola cheese rum). This birthed Bar Moruno’s popular salmon martini, a fish-forward, briny, and unexpectedly balanced cocktail. “I take smoked salmon and infuse it into Tanqueray gin. That sits for about three weeks, then I strain it off, including a lot of fat—but you have to leave some of the fat because that’s where all the flavor is,” Kupchinksy explained.

It makes sense. Consider the dirty martini: a briny cocktail with an oily touch from the olives. Kupchinsky pointed out that fat has been finding its way into the cocktail shaker for some time now. He recalled the bacon old-fashioned at mythical New York speakeasy PDT, adding, “That was probably 10 years ago.” More recently, mixologists have taken the fat-washing method—infusing a spirit with something fatty, freezing it and skimming off the fat—and run with it, incorporating plant-based ingredients like coconut oil, peanuts, avocados, and more. In New York City, the restaurant Hutong serves its Ancient Old Fashioned with sesame-washed bourbon. Curio Bar in Denver offers a sip called Heathen made with green chili vodka, rhum agricole, coconut, and lime oil. The effect of fat-washing is a richer, rounder flavor and, as Naranjo of Especiarium suggested, a fuller sensorial experience. 

Fermenting is another savory technique infiltrating the beverage menu. At Workshop, a new Portland restaurant with a vegan tasting menu that makes heavy use of chef Aaron Adams’ fermentation lab, the cocktails are inspired by people and places culled from Adams’ memories. One, the K&A, is a tribute to Kevin Farley and Alex Hozven of the Cultured Pickle Shop and features Rittenhouse rye, Cynar, and celery kombucha vinegar. It sounds almost nutritious enough to negate any detrimental effects of alcohol (except, perhaps, that late-night text sent an ex).

Be it fatty, fermented, or generously spiced, you can have your cocktail and (sort of) eat it, too.

A twist on nostalgia

Savory cocktails may be as old as the dirty martini itself, which dates back to 1901, but it’s clear that mixology experts are going bolder than ever with briny ingredients. Sometimes, in getting patrons to embrace seemingly strange combinations, it helps to tap into a spirit of nostalgia, drawing on profiles that might hit a sentimental note of familiarity for cocktail creators and customers alike.

Recently, I popped into Abricot Bar, a buzzy new cocktail spot in Paris’ Belleville neighborhood. Co-owner Allison Kave, a Brooklynite cum Parisienne, served me their instant-hit minitini—a teensy-weensy dirty martini at the right price of five euros. It was perfectly chilled and packed with savory flavor. Kave explained that the team makes their own brine, blending lactic acid, salt, and water, and also uses Baldoria Dry Umami vermouth for its strong notes of mushroom and seaweed. (Obvious by now: the OG briny cocktail is catnip for savory spinoffs.) 

For the next round, Kave poured one of the cocktails on tap—the Cel-Ray, a fresh take on a G&T inspired by the cult-favorite vegetable soda and Jewish deli mainstay of the same name. It’s made with the juice of lemon peels, Citadelle gin, aquavit, and a celery syrup produced in-house using fresh celery and fennel seeds. I sipped the bubbly elixir from its tall glass and got an instant hit of celery. But there was something deeper—an earthy, nutty, maybe even malty character, which I asked Kave about. “That’s probably the rye bread notes that come through from the aquavit,” she told me. The aquavit, Kave explained, is flavored with the same caraway seeds that stud rye bread in those Jewish delis of our native New York. We shared an IYKYK smile. For an instant, two New Yorkers in a bar on a quiet street in Paris’ 10th arrondissement were transported to warm memories of the place they used to call home. 

“This is amazing,” I told Kave. It was easily drinkable—nothing cheesy or gimmicky about it. The woman next to me leaned over the bar and ordered the same.

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