Yes, it'd be nice to cook a perfect Beurre Blanc or Bavarian Creme. It'd be swell to wrap a boned duck in pastry decorated with little frills or crank out sheets of fresh pasta and make ravioli. All that, cooking, eating, is wonderful.
But when I think of the best meals I've had, I often can't remember what I ate. It was the people, the laughter, the big group gathered around the table, maybe on a summer night in France deep in the heart of the Auvergne, or last Thanksgiving at my moms, or even a bunch of cater-waiters, giddy from a long shift hunkering down with plates of leftovers at someone else's wedding, commiserating over this annoying guest or making obnoxious comments about the maid of honor.
I think that's what's missing from this whole food equation, for me personally. I'd rather have a pizza with two or three people I genuinely love, or at least who make me laugh- then vichysoise
done to perfection all by myself.
Is this me angling for a dinner invitation? Absolutely.
I'll bring wine and dessert.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
best 20$ taco ever
This goes out to my reader Tim-Dog Redmond.
No you didn't spend 20$ for a taco at one of the new boutique eateries that are springing up everywhere all the time. You made it at home and it was so good if you had it on your menu at your boutique eatery it could easily fetch a Jackson without making a Blackberry toting patron blink twice. Adjectives: spicy, juicy, dripping, fresh, filling.
Here's how it happenned:
Last Friday at your favorite market, the Latin supermarket Mi Tierra on San Pablo, you got a pound of their pre-diced pre-marinated Adobo pork, 3 bucks a pound fer that. This morning you noticed the following bits in your fridge;
-one slightly ragged last big flour tortilla
-like a 5th of an avocado starting to look a bit too wizened
-chunky salsa (bottled)
-cilantro
-crema ( liquid, pourable sour cream, sold in blank containers at the same joint, 2.77 a pound)
-a few random slices o' pepper-jak cheese.
-aforementioned pork
You placed the cheese on the tortilla, popped it in the oven, sit right there on the rack, don't go anywhere.
You sauted the pork in your thinnest iron pan till it started to burn a little and you got a whiff of "is someone grilling next door?" Of course you sprinkled browning meat with Smoked Paprika you got at the Spanish Table because everything tastes better with Smoked Paprika.
You put hot meat on tortilla when cheese was melty, added Avo, green stuff, salsa, salt, poured cream all over, your tortilla is crisp and cracks a bit when you folded the molten mass into a taco. You ate this for a late breakfast thinking "why does anyone ever go out?"
Imagine substituting carne asada for this next time?
Mmmm. You got filled again, for cheap.
Ole.
No you didn't spend 20$ for a taco at one of the new boutique eateries that are springing up everywhere all the time. You made it at home and it was so good if you had it on your menu at your boutique eatery it could easily fetch a Jackson without making a Blackberry toting patron blink twice. Adjectives: spicy, juicy, dripping, fresh, filling.
Here's how it happenned:
Last Friday at your favorite market, the Latin supermarket Mi Tierra on San Pablo, you got a pound of their pre-diced pre-marinated Adobo pork, 3 bucks a pound fer that. This morning you noticed the following bits in your fridge;
-one slightly ragged last big flour tortilla
-like a 5th of an avocado starting to look a bit too wizened
-chunky salsa (bottled)
-cilantro
-crema ( liquid, pourable sour cream, sold in blank containers at the same joint, 2.77 a pound)
-a few random slices o' pepper-jak cheese.
-aforementioned pork
You placed the cheese on the tortilla, popped it in the oven, sit right there on the rack, don't go anywhere.
You sauted the pork in your thinnest iron pan till it started to burn a little and you got a whiff of "is someone grilling next door?" Of course you sprinkled browning meat with Smoked Paprika you got at the Spanish Table because everything tastes better with Smoked Paprika.
You put hot meat on tortilla when cheese was melty, added Avo, green stuff, salsa, salt, poured cream all over, your tortilla is crisp and cracks a bit when you folded the molten mass into a taco. You ate this for a late breakfast thinking "why does anyone ever go out?"
Imagine substituting carne asada for this next time?
Mmmm. You got filled again, for cheap.
Ole.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
64 Words on Ranch Dressing
Easy -As hell.
Good -On everything.
Two parts buttermilk, one part mayo.
Salt and pepper. Few dashes of vinegar.
Small crushed garlic clove. Mix.
-Done.
Gets better each day in fridge. No MSG or 4.79$ price tag.
Eat with: Left over chicken shredded and tossed on a salad, spread it on sandwiches, dip for veggies, great with apple slices.
Hidden Valley can suck it.
Good -On everything.
Two parts buttermilk, one part mayo.
Salt and pepper. Few dashes of vinegar.
Small crushed garlic clove. Mix.
-Done.
Gets better each day in fridge. No MSG or 4.79$ price tag.
Eat with: Left over chicken shredded and tossed on a salad, spread it on sandwiches, dip for veggies, great with apple slices.
Hidden Valley can suck it.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tips For Eating Out Smarter
1. Don't go to restaurants for great food:
Cook that at home. (Read some of my other posts for inspiration) Go for the exciting atmosphere, maybe a beautiful bar or room, (the round bordello-red room at Ducca in SF) a terrific chef who you can chat with about what he's cooking and is happy to share jokes and tricks with you (Anthony at Sea Salt's grill station counter in Berkeley). Think about restaurants no longer as places to go when you're hungry, but special occasion places to go for energy, entertainment, revivifying, inspiration.
2. Once you're there, order smarter.
I go to Sea Salt and order from the bar snack menu (usually available from 3pm on) wonderful small and eclectic plates of things like Deviled eggs with smoked salmon, Duck Tongues, sauteed Maine shrimp etc... These plates can be as low as 5$ - order four for the price of one entree and you have a diversified feast. (It's just like in the Stock Market baby: Diversify.)
I've gone to Ducca twice in the last week. Yesterday I went at 1:30 in the afternoon and oozed myself onto the red leather circular banquette in the Red Room. Looking up at the glowing red chandelier I totally zoned out. I could watch the big screen TV in the distance over the bar or just enjoy the quiet. The bartender was washing glasses and I ordered an espresso and Cannolli (which came beautifully presented on a porcelain raft with shards of meringue studded with roasted Hazelnuts, chocolate sauce was Jackson Pollacked nicely over the whole deal, the Cannolli itself- well, come on, it's Cannolli, it doesn't get better than that.) An hour later I had figured out what I was going to do with the rest of my life and faced only an anemic 10$ check. Fonda, on Solano Ave. in Albany also has a late night menu where great food and premium cocktails are in the 5$ range from 9 till 1 in the morning. (try the "Que Sera, Sera": British Gin, lime juice and thin slices of Serrano Chile, wicked good.)
3. Portions are way too huge at some places: Take Advantage.
Going to that place that where you always leave food on the plates? Okay big guy if you can't resist the big ticket entrees, order them and take home half in a doggie bag and plan on eating it for lunch the next day. But only if you're actually gonna eat it. That twenty dollar entree just became two meals, nice. Little bits of left over BBQ from T-Rex in Berkeley are great when I shred them and toss them into a salad, I even use the left over sauce for a weird but tasty lil BBQ vinagrette, sounds odd but try it.
I'm sure i'll think of more later. Let me know any I missed that you thought of, thanks..
-jw
3
Cook that at home. (Read some of my other posts for inspiration) Go for the exciting atmosphere, maybe a beautiful bar or room, (the round bordello-red room at Ducca in SF) a terrific chef who you can chat with about what he's cooking and is happy to share jokes and tricks with you (Anthony at Sea Salt's grill station counter in Berkeley). Think about restaurants no longer as places to go when you're hungry, but special occasion places to go for energy, entertainment, revivifying, inspiration.
2. Once you're there, order smarter.
I go to Sea Salt and order from the bar snack menu (usually available from 3pm on) wonderful small and eclectic plates of things like Deviled eggs with smoked salmon, Duck Tongues, sauteed Maine shrimp etc... These plates can be as low as 5$ - order four for the price of one entree and you have a diversified feast. (It's just like in the Stock Market baby: Diversify.)
I've gone to Ducca twice in the last week. Yesterday I went at 1:30 in the afternoon and oozed myself onto the red leather circular banquette in the Red Room. Looking up at the glowing red chandelier I totally zoned out. I could watch the big screen TV in the distance over the bar or just enjoy the quiet. The bartender was washing glasses and I ordered an espresso and Cannolli (which came beautifully presented on a porcelain raft with shards of meringue studded with roasted Hazelnuts, chocolate sauce was Jackson Pollacked nicely over the whole deal, the Cannolli itself- well, come on, it's Cannolli, it doesn't get better than that.) An hour later I had figured out what I was going to do with the rest of my life and faced only an anemic 10$ check. Fonda, on Solano Ave. in Albany also has a late night menu where great food and premium cocktails are in the 5$ range from 9 till 1 in the morning. (try the "Que Sera, Sera": British Gin, lime juice and thin slices of Serrano Chile, wicked good.)
3. Portions are way too huge at some places: Take Advantage.
Going to that place that where you always leave food on the plates? Okay big guy if you can't resist the big ticket entrees, order them and take home half in a doggie bag and plan on eating it for lunch the next day. But only if you're actually gonna eat it. That twenty dollar entree just became two meals, nice. Little bits of left over BBQ from T-Rex in Berkeley are great when I shred them and toss them into a salad, I even use the left over sauce for a weird but tasty lil BBQ vinagrette, sounds odd but try it.
I'm sure i'll think of more later. Let me know any I missed that you thought of, thanks..
-jw
3
Friday, April 3, 2009
Berkeley Bowl
Shopping or Zombie Death March?
Apologies to my faithful readers in Dubai and Lichtenstien, but I'm gonna write a little locally today, I'll try to keep you filled in enough to get my point.
Cambodians have Angor Wat, Indians have the Taj Majal, Jews have the Wailing Wall; foodies in Berkeley California have the Berkeley Bowl.
Berkeley Bowl is a vast supermarket with seas of citrus, miles of meat, and lots of everything else. The produce section itself is the size of a modest supermarket. A whole landscape of yellow, orange, red, purple, green and brown hills, peaks and plains of every apple, pear, plum, grape, leafy or root vegetable that is being grown anywhere on the planet. In the heart of February tiny glistening red tomatoes from Mexico are 79c a
pound . Star Fruit, Dragonfruit, Chermoyas, Juju Bees, even giant armored Durians emanating the fetid odor of shit, and ten other fruits you've never heard of are there for the taking.
Three aisles of food in bulk bins, enough vats of white powder to bring back Studio 54 flashbacks: Sea Salt, Fine Sea Salt, Cake Flour, Organic Cake Flour, Arrowhead Organic Pancake Mix, Garbanzo Flour, Tapioca Flour.
True, navigated carefully, great bargains can be found. I recently fought with several short Hispanic woman over some 99c clearance bags filled to bursting with tomatoes, eggplant and sea green grapes. I managed two bags before getting elbowed out by a guy in a blue oxford shirt.
But here's the rub; shopping at Berkeley Bowl is like being an extra a zombie film. The shoppers and myself are the senseless zombie hordes hurriedly clanking our oversized carts down the aisles, jostling into each other in the search not for brains, but something equally urgent to our survival, like say, seaweed salad or sustainably farmed Loch Duarte Salmon. And there is no director to yell "Cut!"
The zombie quality is palpable. A ninety pound woman in Crocs with frizzy hair , eye glasses and a blank stare (is that drool?*&!) knocked her cart into my kidneys and continued down the aisle without a backward glance. A dreadlocked white guy with a cart full of Tofu gives me a hungry glare as he reaches for a cheese sample ahead of me. It's bumper to bumper in front of the wall of Lettuce, traffic ground to a halt, and we all stand there stupefied, no one has the initiative to make a move as herd-thought takes over.
Depression overtakes me as I start to feel I'll never get out, or never get out with the best apples if I take the time to look at all forty-seven varieties. By the time I get to checkout, I'll be too late to pick up my kids from school.
Then you see the lines.
They stretch, half, even three quarters of the way up into the aisles themselves. This is not uncommon. And what is even stranger is that the people waiting in them are resigned to this thirty minute wait. No one seems upset or looks down the line with a frown or even a "hurumph".
Listless and quietly we wait. If a register opens up we all turn our pale faces slowly in that direction.
Brains... Brains... Brains...
Some of us, the stronger ones, move toward it. Others stay, calculating a shorter wait now.
I want to abandon my precious Chilean Pears and grassfed Beef from Argentina, but I am slouched over and tired. Stay with group now. Stay with group. Must buy. Must buy.
Soon I will see the sunlight again. And next time I'll go to Grocery Outlet.
It is spoken of with awe and reverence, Berkeley Bowl. True, it is not a chain, the workers are unionized, and good prepared foods may be enjoyed in a seating area.
And compared to the Whole Foods I recently visited near Lake Merritt in Oakland, in which each potato seems airbrushed to Penthouse-page perfection, it seems like a corner store.
Where are we going with all this? It is baffling, such scenes of plenty, but what is stranger is that in these cornucopian halls of total copiousnesness, that we do not marvel in wonder at everything. That is the strangest part really. How all of us are so numb to anything -no matter how wonderful or peculiar- that we see too much of.
Apologies to my faithful readers in Dubai and Lichtenstien, but I'm gonna write a little locally today, I'll try to keep you filled in enough to get my point.
Cambodians have Angor Wat, Indians have the Taj Majal, Jews have the Wailing Wall; foodies in Berkeley California have the Berkeley Bowl.
Berkeley Bowl is a vast supermarket with seas of citrus, miles of meat, and lots of everything else. The produce section itself is the size of a modest supermarket. A whole landscape of yellow, orange, red, purple, green and brown hills, peaks and plains of every apple, pear, plum, grape, leafy or root vegetable that is being grown anywhere on the planet. In the heart of February tiny glistening red tomatoes from Mexico are 79c a
pound . Star Fruit, Dragonfruit, Chermoyas, Juju Bees, even giant armored Durians emanating the fetid odor of shit, and ten other fruits you've never heard of are there for the taking.
Three aisles of food in bulk bins, enough vats of white powder to bring back Studio 54 flashbacks: Sea Salt, Fine Sea Salt, Cake Flour, Organic Cake Flour, Arrowhead Organic Pancake Mix, Garbanzo Flour, Tapioca Flour.
True, navigated carefully, great bargains can be found. I recently fought with several short Hispanic woman over some 99c clearance bags filled to bursting with tomatoes, eggplant and sea green grapes. I managed two bags before getting elbowed out by a guy in a blue oxford shirt.
But here's the rub; shopping at Berkeley Bowl is like being an extra a zombie film. The shoppers and myself are the senseless zombie hordes hurriedly clanking our oversized carts down the aisles, jostling into each other in the search not for brains, but something equally urgent to our survival, like say, seaweed salad or sustainably farmed Loch Duarte Salmon. And there is no director to yell "Cut!"
The zombie quality is palpable. A ninety pound woman in Crocs with frizzy hair , eye glasses and a blank stare (is that drool?*&!) knocked her cart into my kidneys and continued down the aisle without a backward glance. A dreadlocked white guy with a cart full of Tofu gives me a hungry glare as he reaches for a cheese sample ahead of me. It's bumper to bumper in front of the wall of Lettuce, traffic ground to a halt, and we all stand there stupefied, no one has the initiative to make a move as herd-thought takes over.
Depression overtakes me as I start to feel I'll never get out, or never get out with the best apples if I take the time to look at all forty-seven varieties. By the time I get to checkout, I'll be too late to pick up my kids from school.
Then you see the lines.
They stretch, half, even three quarters of the way up into the aisles themselves. This is not uncommon. And what is even stranger is that the people waiting in them are resigned to this thirty minute wait. No one seems upset or looks down the line with a frown or even a "hurumph".
Listless and quietly we wait. If a register opens up we all turn our pale faces slowly in that direction.
Brains... Brains... Brains...
Some of us, the stronger ones, move toward it. Others stay, calculating a shorter wait now.
I want to abandon my precious Chilean Pears and grassfed Beef from Argentina, but I am slouched over and tired. Stay with group now. Stay with group. Must buy. Must buy.
Soon I will see the sunlight again. And next time I'll go to Grocery Outlet.
It is spoken of with awe and reverence, Berkeley Bowl. True, it is not a chain, the workers are unionized, and good prepared foods may be enjoyed in a seating area.
And compared to the Whole Foods I recently visited near Lake Merritt in Oakland, in which each potato seems airbrushed to Penthouse-page perfection, it seems like a corner store.
Where are we going with all this? It is baffling, such scenes of plenty, but what is stranger is that in these cornucopian halls of total copiousnesness, that we do not marvel in wonder at everything. That is the strangest part really. How all of us are so numb to anything -no matter how wonderful or peculiar- that we see too much of.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
10 Complaints About The Farmers Market
1. A woman ahead of me in line, wearing tight yoga pants and Prada sunglasses fondles a one dollar tangerine and asks "what varietal is this?".
2. Twenty five people wait in line for a two dollar cup of coffee. (And you ask why we are a nation of debtors?)
3. It is not hard to find a loaf of bread for six dollars.
4. Half the people are eating from prepared food stands like crepes or Thai- wasn't the point of this to cook affordable and seasonal food at home with our friends and families?
5. Damn, I missed the "cosmetically challenged" box of apples, SHIT! I coulda saved like two dollars. Too late now.
6. Customers 95.3% white and upwardly mobile or bearded (both sexes) and totally off grid.
7. I'm broke and can't afford a three dollar fruit turnover from Frog Hollow.
8. The Hog Island oyster guy has no cocktail sauce or limes anywhere in sight (oysters the one thing better to eat on the street- see Montclair farmers market in Oakland for that.)
9. Girl with tattooed arm bands and dark curly hair way too hot to see this early in the morning, I look like fuckin' boxcar Joe right now and I have no game- SHIT.
10. I can't think of a tenth. If you can, let me know.
2. Twenty five people wait in line for a two dollar cup of coffee. (And you ask why we are a nation of debtors?)
3. It is not hard to find a loaf of bread for six dollars.
4. Half the people are eating from prepared food stands like crepes or Thai- wasn't the point of this to cook affordable and seasonal food at home with our friends and families?
5. Damn, I missed the "cosmetically challenged" box of apples, SHIT! I coulda saved like two dollars. Too late now.
6. Customers 95.3% white and upwardly mobile or bearded (both sexes) and totally off grid.
7. I'm broke and can't afford a three dollar fruit turnover from Frog Hollow.
8. The Hog Island oyster guy has no cocktail sauce or limes anywhere in sight (oysters the one thing better to eat on the street- see Montclair farmers market in Oakland for that.)
9. Girl with tattooed arm bands and dark curly hair way too hot to see this early in the morning, I look like fuckin' boxcar Joe right now and I have no game- SHIT.
10. I can't think of a tenth. If you can, let me know.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Electric Stoves: Far Superior!
I'm f%#ing kidding fer chrissakes.
Yes I have a janky electric stove circa 1950 in my little two bedroom apartment. The kind with the funny coils that glow orange. This is the kind of thing you can't even admit around foodie folk, so I'm confessing this to you.
So I can't modulate the flames, but I have found a few useful things.
Always start it on High no matter what, or else you'll be standing and staring down at the thing for half an hour.
That done, with iron skillets or steel pans, "HIGH" becomes frickin HOT, so get ready to go down to MED HIGH and MED, then back up to MED HIGH often. And if things start to smoke and your deep frying oil is about to ruin your nice stainless steel All-Clad with that polymer burnoff thing, just REMOVE PAN FROM HEAT. Another seemingly obvious but-never-really thought-about-it-that- much thing I learned at Kitchen on Fire. Things getting hectic, oil burning while you chop that garlic you shoulda prepped? Just take the pan off the heat... No big deal. Remove pan and breathe.
So before I fall asleep tonite, for all my poor fellow electric stove brethren, i'll brag about the grilled cheese sandwich I made tonight on mostly the MED and then LOW settings.
1. Melt a pad of butter on HIGH, the after it sizzles, turn down to MED HIGH
2. Put sandwich in. Then turn to MED, then LOW. Slow and low, slow and low is the key to a perfect grill cheese.
3. When side one is golden, lift out of pan, plop in more butter, turn up if you need to for it to melt and sizzle, replace sandwich. Wait, slow and low, Do some dishes so you're not tempted to mess with it. LOW... When the second side is golden brown, it should be nice and oozy inside.
So the moral of this one is, use what you have. Life gives you a nice AGA gas range? Flambe your damn cherries with Kirsch and roast your red peppers on the open flame. Me, I'll make another grilled cheese for now.
Yes I have a janky electric stove circa 1950 in my little two bedroom apartment. The kind with the funny coils that glow orange. This is the kind of thing you can't even admit around foodie folk, so I'm confessing this to you.
So I can't modulate the flames, but I have found a few useful things.
Always start it on High no matter what, or else you'll be standing and staring down at the thing for half an hour.
That done, with iron skillets or steel pans, "HIGH" becomes frickin HOT, so get ready to go down to MED HIGH and MED, then back up to MED HIGH often. And if things start to smoke and your deep frying oil is about to ruin your nice stainless steel All-Clad with that polymer burnoff thing, just REMOVE PAN FROM HEAT. Another seemingly obvious but-never-really thought-about-it-that- much thing I learned at Kitchen on Fire. Things getting hectic, oil burning while you chop that garlic you shoulda prepped? Just take the pan off the heat... No big deal. Remove pan and breathe.
So before I fall asleep tonite, for all my poor fellow electric stove brethren, i'll brag about the grilled cheese sandwich I made tonight on mostly the MED and then LOW settings.
1. Melt a pad of butter on HIGH, the after it sizzles, turn down to MED HIGH
2. Put sandwich in. Then turn to MED, then LOW. Slow and low, slow and low is the key to a perfect grill cheese.
3. When side one is golden, lift out of pan, plop in more butter, turn up if you need to for it to melt and sizzle, replace sandwich. Wait, slow and low, Do some dishes so you're not tempted to mess with it. LOW... When the second side is golden brown, it should be nice and oozy inside.
So the moral of this one is, use what you have. Life gives you a nice AGA gas range? Flambe your damn cherries with Kirsch and roast your red peppers on the open flame. Me, I'll make another grilled cheese for now.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Awful Offal
Enticed by the new and untried, I ordered three pounds of kidneys from the butcher. I saw a recipe in Tony Bourdain's Les Halles cookbook for "roignons a la etc.." and decided to try it. Of course in English it would've been "Kidneys in Mustard Sauce" which doesn't sound so cool, but I was intrigued.
The call sounded conspiratorial, like a spy talking in code: "you're kidneys are in". I picked up a big hunk of a package, brought it home, unwrapped it and found several vaccum packed packages of Caravaggio colored little balls of flesh.
They taste like liver. Unless you like liver, I wouldn't mess with kidneys. Of course, it could always be the chef, and not the ingredient. But I think I treated them well enough. I browned a bunch of onions and garlic, set them aside. Dredged the organs in flour and browned then too.
Deglazed the pan with red wine, squeezed in a bit of mustard, stirred it around till there was a nice gooey pan sauce, then put everything back in the pan...
I did eat it all, some inner-50's housemom urging me on in red heels and pearls (so hot) "finish your liver, dear", but I can't say I enjoyed anything but the fact I was actually eating something new that I'd wanted to try for a while. The sauce was great over rice, the meat was okay, nice and pink in the middle of each little ball. A kidney is a cluster of about 6 or 7 little nuggets, all tied together by a strip of fat.
Maybe, I'm discovering, there's a reason you don't see Fergus Henderson clones all over the place serving nose-to-snout menus filled with kidneys, livers, pancreas, tripe, and tongue (ignore that last one, tongue is ALWAYS good.) The kidneys were 3.99 a pound. At the same butchers they had lamb shanks on sale for 4.99. I was really missing those lamb shanks as I toothed those little fists ' o kidney.
Maybe you have prepared kidneys in some delicious way, if so please let me know. I'm sure they're good for you.
I had 2 and a half pounds I had left, and though I debated tossing them out, I made a kidney
stew. With a whole bottle of red wine. I can't bring myself to eat it. My dad might. We have a date to cook kidneys this Saturday. I either have to pretend to be sick or buy some lamb shanks.
The call sounded conspiratorial, like a spy talking in code: "you're kidneys are in". I picked up a big hunk of a package, brought it home, unwrapped it and found several vaccum packed packages of Caravaggio colored little balls of flesh.
They taste like liver. Unless you like liver, I wouldn't mess with kidneys. Of course, it could always be the chef, and not the ingredient. But I think I treated them well enough. I browned a bunch of onions and garlic, set them aside. Dredged the organs in flour and browned then too.
Deglazed the pan with red wine, squeezed in a bit of mustard, stirred it around till there was a nice gooey pan sauce, then put everything back in the pan...
I did eat it all, some inner-50's housemom urging me on in red heels and pearls (so hot) "finish your liver, dear", but I can't say I enjoyed anything but the fact I was actually eating something new that I'd wanted to try for a while. The sauce was great over rice, the meat was okay, nice and pink in the middle of each little ball. A kidney is a cluster of about 6 or 7 little nuggets, all tied together by a strip of fat.
Maybe, I'm discovering, there's a reason you don't see Fergus Henderson clones all over the place serving nose-to-snout menus filled with kidneys, livers, pancreas, tripe, and tongue (ignore that last one, tongue is ALWAYS good.) The kidneys were 3.99 a pound. At the same butchers they had lamb shanks on sale for 4.99. I was really missing those lamb shanks as I toothed those little fists ' o kidney.
Maybe you have prepared kidneys in some delicious way, if so please let me know. I'm sure they're good for you.
I had 2 and a half pounds I had left, and though I debated tossing them out, I made a kidney
stew. With a whole bottle of red wine. I can't bring myself to eat it. My dad might. We have a date to cook kidneys this Saturday. I either have to pretend to be sick or buy some lamb shanks.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Why That Burger Sucks
"What's done cannot be undone"
I think Shakespeare said that somewhere, and it's very true of cooking. You can't unsalt that dressing once you've oversalted it. Once you've roasted your chicken to the moisture point of the Mohave, that's it.
Likewise, I recently discovered that I was ruining every hamburger I made, just by doing one stupid thing that can't be undone.
I'd flip the burger, once or twice, then press it down with the spatula so it makes a nice sizzling sound. It always seemed like the chefy thing to do... Don't you see the guys at the stainless steel grill at the local diner put some sort of weight on the burger patties?
Yes, you do. And that's why most burgers you get are flat, grey, dry and knobby. I have been pressing all the nice juicyness and airyness out of my burgers just to hear them sizzle. Duh.
I'll be brief:
1. When you make your patty, don't massage or sculpt the damn thing, just tear off a hunk and squash it a bit. Make it just a big flatter than you want it to look like on the bun, (but no frisbees) and with your thumb, make a nice little dimple in the center on one side. Get the pan really hot.
2. Plop it in the pan, on either side. Gently turn when the first side is nice and browned. A nice caramelly crust helps to keep those juices in.
3. Let it be for god's sake, no pressing. The biggest cooking mistake people make at the stove is bothering the food too much. You'll notice it's puffing up a bit, why? Lot's of nice juiciness, that's why.
4. Optional.. At this point I take a little tin foil and make an incomplete top or seal for the pan. I don't want to steam it and end up with that greenish thing from your college cafeteria, I just want it to cook through a bit without burning the crust. I just give the burger a little hat. Adding your thin cheese slice is a good idea now.
5. Is it done? Well you could hack into it and give it a big scar while you let some juice out, or give it the finger test I learned at Kitchen on Fire. Press the center with your finger. Mushy? then it's pretty rare. Gives back a little bounce? Then it's done.
Respect the meat.
Be gentle. Just because it's a burger, it still came from the same steer as the Filet Mignon or Crown Roast, don't go crushing it, and don't put it on a cutting board or any other holding station. Your animal spent a few years eating grass (hopefully) so you could enjoy and be nourished by this experience; why let those juices go to waste when they could soak nicely into the bun?
Once you've made a juicy burger like this for yourself or your friends, you'll forget all about sizzle, because you've got steak.
I think Shakespeare said that somewhere, and it's very true of cooking. You can't unsalt that dressing once you've oversalted it. Once you've roasted your chicken to the moisture point of the Mohave, that's it.
Likewise, I recently discovered that I was ruining every hamburger I made, just by doing one stupid thing that can't be undone.
I'd flip the burger, once or twice, then press it down with the spatula so it makes a nice sizzling sound. It always seemed like the chefy thing to do... Don't you see the guys at the stainless steel grill at the local diner put some sort of weight on the burger patties?
Yes, you do. And that's why most burgers you get are flat, grey, dry and knobby. I have been pressing all the nice juicyness and airyness out of my burgers just to hear them sizzle. Duh.
I'll be brief:
1. When you make your patty, don't massage or sculpt the damn thing, just tear off a hunk and squash it a bit. Make it just a big flatter than you want it to look like on the bun, (but no frisbees) and with your thumb, make a nice little dimple in the center on one side. Get the pan really hot.
2. Plop it in the pan, on either side. Gently turn when the first side is nice and browned. A nice caramelly crust helps to keep those juices in.
3. Let it be for god's sake, no pressing. The biggest cooking mistake people make at the stove is bothering the food too much. You'll notice it's puffing up a bit, why? Lot's of nice juiciness, that's why.
4. Optional.. At this point I take a little tin foil and make an incomplete top or seal for the pan. I don't want to steam it and end up with that greenish thing from your college cafeteria, I just want it to cook through a bit without burning the crust. I just give the burger a little hat. Adding your thin cheese slice is a good idea now.
5. Is it done? Well you could hack into it and give it a big scar while you let some juice out, or give it the finger test I learned at Kitchen on Fire. Press the center with your finger. Mushy? then it's pretty rare. Gives back a little bounce? Then it's done.
Respect the meat.
Be gentle. Just because it's a burger, it still came from the same steer as the Filet Mignon or Crown Roast, don't go crushing it, and don't put it on a cutting board or any other holding station. Your animal spent a few years eating grass (hopefully) so you could enjoy and be nourished by this experience; why let those juices go to waste when they could soak nicely into the bun?
Once you've made a juicy burger like this for yourself or your friends, you'll forget all about sizzle, because you've got steak.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sloppy is as Sloppy Does
I was at my mom's house, in her vegetable garden, complaining, "no, please, I love when you watch the kids, 'cause you leave the kitchen spotless. When dad watches them I come home and the place is trashed, so can you watch them this Thursday?"
"Well, that's the way he always was," she says. The she adds very casually, "you're sloppy too," and continues carefully re-potting a geranium.
?
I didn't really know what to say. She didn't say it accusingly or harshly, but still.
My mom called me sloppy.
We figured out the childcare logistics I needed to deal then I went home in a self-righteous sour puss mood.
I'm busy! I have two kids! I can't clean up after myself all the time for gods sake. My older brother Aaron, the financial advisor is and always has been compulsively and effortlessly neat. He also has the dough to hire a cleaning lady. Mom obviously loves him more and thinks he's better at everything, which is probably true. Last Thanksgiving morning, trying to plan who would carve the bird later, she looked right in my eyes and said, "Aaron's probably a good carver right? "
I got home and looked in the kitchen. There was a little brown pool of slime in one corner of the counter top. The yellow Formica dinner table had a few days tea stains on it. A large mountain of dirty silverware was cross-polinating in the sink. I didn't have anything I was gonna do that afternoon but go on Facebook and avoid looking at the girls page who just dumped me last week. Or watch the songs go by on Pandora maybe, that's always fun.
Mike C from Kitchen on Fire always cleaned while he cooked and never really stopped to eat until the kitchen was spotless. "Clean as you go! Clean as you go!" he's say.
My old greek freind Nike would burst up and clean her creaky old coal-fired New England kitchen perfectly before heading up to her freezing bedroom. And by that time she'd smoked a pack of Carletons and had two Jim Beams and four glasses of wine. Whisking her tiny five foot frame around the cavernous room, organizing silverware in what had been the butler's closet several generations ago, she'd continue busily conversating as she scrubbed the deep old slate sink, talking about the novel she was writing or her early days in New York and how her husband had bought a painting for 60 dollars in 50's from a neighbor in East Hampton who needed money for whiskey. "It was Jackson Pollack, and we lost it our someone stole it or something I was just furious at Robert about it..."
So three morals to this story.
1. Don't be gross. Respect the food and the cooking and clean as you go. That could be some fucking Ebola sprouting in that little pool on the counter.
2. Your mother may sometimes be right about you.
3. Eat alone as rarely as possible. Then you have someone to talk with while you clean.
Yes I clean up the kitchen almost every time we cook and eat. I make my kids do dishes as well. It actually makes things taste better. Look, I hate doing dishes, but I love doing them at other people's houses. I like to feel useful. So invite me over, feed me, and your work is done.
"Well, that's the way he always was," she says. The she adds very casually, "you're sloppy too," and continues carefully re-potting a geranium.
?
I didn't really know what to say. She didn't say it accusingly or harshly, but still.
My mom called me sloppy.
We figured out the childcare logistics I needed to deal then I went home in a self-righteous sour puss mood.
I'm busy! I have two kids! I can't clean up after myself all the time for gods sake. My older brother Aaron, the financial advisor is and always has been compulsively and effortlessly neat. He also has the dough to hire a cleaning lady. Mom obviously loves him more and thinks he's better at everything, which is probably true. Last Thanksgiving morning, trying to plan who would carve the bird later, she looked right in my eyes and said, "Aaron's probably a good carver right? "
I got home and looked in the kitchen. There was a little brown pool of slime in one corner of the counter top. The yellow Formica dinner table had a few days tea stains on it. A large mountain of dirty silverware was cross-polinating in the sink. I didn't have anything I was gonna do that afternoon but go on Facebook and avoid looking at the girls page who just dumped me last week. Or watch the songs go by on Pandora maybe, that's always fun.
Mike C from Kitchen on Fire always cleaned while he cooked and never really stopped to eat until the kitchen was spotless. "Clean as you go! Clean as you go!" he's say.
My old greek freind Nike would burst up and clean her creaky old coal-fired New England kitchen perfectly before heading up to her freezing bedroom. And by that time she'd smoked a pack of Carletons and had two Jim Beams and four glasses of wine. Whisking her tiny five foot frame around the cavernous room, organizing silverware in what had been the butler's closet several generations ago, she'd continue busily conversating as she scrubbed the deep old slate sink, talking about the novel she was writing or her early days in New York and how her husband had bought a painting for 60 dollars in 50's from a neighbor in East Hampton who needed money for whiskey. "It was Jackson Pollack, and we lost it our someone stole it or something I was just furious at Robert about it..."
So three morals to this story.
1. Don't be gross. Respect the food and the cooking and clean as you go. That could be some fucking Ebola sprouting in that little pool on the counter.
2. Your mother may sometimes be right about you.
3. Eat alone as rarely as possible. Then you have someone to talk with while you clean.
Yes I clean up the kitchen almost every time we cook and eat. I make my kids do dishes as well. It actually makes things taste better. Look, I hate doing dishes, but I love doing them at other people's houses. I like to feel useful. So invite me over, feed me, and your work is done.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
My Fennel be Bangin'
Fennel
I know, it's February and you've eaten so much fennel you want to puke right? No? Good. Then read on.
I'll make it short, since it's a quick recipe and my boss is lurking around somewhere.
Here's what I did:
Cut a fennel bulb in four quarters, each chunk had two nice flat sides. Throw in some of the pubes too, (the fronds) those will soak up the goo nicely.
Into a small hot saute pan I poured in the last little ooze of some anchovy vinagraitte left over from my dad's birthday dinner, (see last blog) but you could just pour in two fingers of olive oil and one of vinagar.
When that was bubbling I put in the fennel, flat side down. When that side started to carmelize, switched it to the other flat side... I had one glass worth of red wine left, I poured that in the pan, then sorta half-assed covered it in tin foil, turned down the heat and forgot about it...
(If you have any dying carrots at the bottom of your veg drawers, add those around now too)
What I ended up with was this amazing sweet purply soft braised fennel that even my daughter ate, she of the only-white-starchy-dishes-please persuasion. The fennel pubes act as a nice mop for the sugary winey stuff left at the bottom as really all the wine cooks off in about 10 minutes.
Mm mm good....
I know, it's February and you've eaten so much fennel you want to puke right? No? Good. Then read on.
I'll make it short, since it's a quick recipe and my boss is lurking around somewhere.
Here's what I did:
Cut a fennel bulb in four quarters, each chunk had two nice flat sides. Throw in some of the pubes too, (the fronds) those will soak up the goo nicely.
Into a small hot saute pan I poured in the last little ooze of some anchovy vinagraitte left over from my dad's birthday dinner, (see last blog) but you could just pour in two fingers of olive oil and one of vinagar.
When that was bubbling I put in the fennel, flat side down. When that side started to carmelize, switched it to the other flat side... I had one glass worth of red wine left, I poured that in the pan, then sorta half-assed covered it in tin foil, turned down the heat and forgot about it...
(If you have any dying carrots at the bottom of your veg drawers, add those around now too)
What I ended up with was this amazing sweet purply soft braised fennel that even my daughter ate, she of the only-white-starchy-dishes-please persuasion. The fennel pubes act as a nice mop for the sugary winey stuff left at the bottom as really all the wine cooks off in about 10 minutes.
Mm mm good....
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Life is Dolce
It hit me at two in the morning, the missing link. Something else from the sea, but what?
I had the menu, and most of the cooking already figured out. Six courses for my dad's 71st birthday dinner, Six guests. Small plates. Check it out:
1) Sauteed warm mixed olives, thin sliced fennel salad, and re-marinated anchovies.
2) Mixed greens piled onto a butter lettuce leaf, topped with marinated baby octopus and roasted, marinated red pepper.
3)Linguini a la "b.l.t" with baby arugula pesto, smoked bacon and roma tomato.
4) Braised lamb shanks in olde vine zinfandel, served on fried bread with roasted baby carrots, brussell sprouts and very tiny baby yellow squash. (Marrow bones to suck on request.)
5) Cheese Plate "four cheeses from four countries" Gorgonzola Dolce from Italy (holy shit it was good), blue veined Stilton from England, Manchego from Spain, and Queso Fresco from Mexico. Served with a strawberry/balsamic and black pepper jam, and bourbon-soaked prunes and kumquat confetti.
6) Carmelized apple clafouti served with melted ice cream (flavor: Salted Caramel from BI-Rite creamery)
Highlights:
-My brother literally bowing his head in silence, then shaking his head slowly and smiling stupidly. "Damn, that cheese with the jam..." The gorgonzola was as soft as cream cheese, sweet and nutty and just ridiclous slathered on the dark brown Cranberry Walnut bread from Acme Bakery.
-My dad saying "you know, this is the first time anyone has thrown me a birthday party that i didn't ask for or plan in some way." And the fact he cleaned out two marrow bones the size of Tapioca Drink straws from Chinatown.
-The Stilton.. Blue veins in a creamy but just sliceable cheese the yellow hue of pages out of old books in a smoky library. Stuffing some inside a prune and digging the sweet and earthy collision of flavors.
-The fact that the salted caramel ice cream was the best fucking ice cream i've ever had and that i took it out an hour before plating the dessert so it was melted and frothy and soupy and salty sweet to pour over the custard.
-the fact that we got up and danced to some song on Pandora after the pasta course, and realizing it was probably the first time I had ever danced with my stepmother in all of the thirty-plus years I've known her.
-My ex-wife who doesn't eat anchovies or lamb and how she ate both and practically licked her plate. (I soaked the anchovies in milk first to leech out thier old oily-saltness, then put new clean olive oil over 'em... and the lamb sat in an airtight bag overnight with garlic, rosemary, olive oil and a little red wine vinegar before cooking)
And the missing link, the surprise not-listed-on-the-menu first course. One perfect prawn, sauteed in hot butter for 1 minute forty-five seconds and served only with a tiny lemon wedge. A sweet Georgia prawn from Monterey Fish market ("Don't cook it for over two minutes or i guaranteee it will be bad"), juicy and pink.
Dare to be Simple.
There's always so many reasons to be depressed. You're single, it's raining, you have no friends and you can't pay your rent. But honestly, who the fuck cares about all that when you have a different wine paired with each course and your bread is soaked in buttery gravy that smells of wine and rosemary, I mean come on.
I had the menu, and most of the cooking already figured out. Six courses for my dad's 71st birthday dinner, Six guests. Small plates. Check it out:
1) Sauteed warm mixed olives, thin sliced fennel salad, and re-marinated anchovies.
2) Mixed greens piled onto a butter lettuce leaf, topped with marinated baby octopus and roasted, marinated red pepper.
3)Linguini a la "b.l.t" with baby arugula pesto, smoked bacon and roma tomato.
4) Braised lamb shanks in olde vine zinfandel, served on fried bread with roasted baby carrots, brussell sprouts and very tiny baby yellow squash. (Marrow bones to suck on request.)
5) Cheese Plate "four cheeses from four countries" Gorgonzola Dolce from Italy (holy shit it was good), blue veined Stilton from England, Manchego from Spain, and Queso Fresco from Mexico. Served with a strawberry/balsamic and black pepper jam, and bourbon-soaked prunes and kumquat confetti.
6) Carmelized apple clafouti served with melted ice cream (flavor: Salted Caramel from BI-Rite creamery)
Highlights:
-My brother literally bowing his head in silence, then shaking his head slowly and smiling stupidly. "Damn, that cheese with the jam..." The gorgonzola was as soft as cream cheese, sweet and nutty and just ridiclous slathered on the dark brown Cranberry Walnut bread from Acme Bakery.
-My dad saying "you know, this is the first time anyone has thrown me a birthday party that i didn't ask for or plan in some way." And the fact he cleaned out two marrow bones the size of Tapioca Drink straws from Chinatown.
-The Stilton.. Blue veins in a creamy but just sliceable cheese the yellow hue of pages out of old books in a smoky library. Stuffing some inside a prune and digging the sweet and earthy collision of flavors.
-The fact that the salted caramel ice cream was the best fucking ice cream i've ever had and that i took it out an hour before plating the dessert so it was melted and frothy and soupy and salty sweet to pour over the custard.
-the fact that we got up and danced to some song on Pandora after the pasta course, and realizing it was probably the first time I had ever danced with my stepmother in all of the thirty-plus years I've known her.
-My ex-wife who doesn't eat anchovies or lamb and how she ate both and practically licked her plate. (I soaked the anchovies in milk first to leech out thier old oily-saltness, then put new clean olive oil over 'em... and the lamb sat in an airtight bag overnight with garlic, rosemary, olive oil and a little red wine vinegar before cooking)
And the missing link, the surprise not-listed-on-the-menu first course. One perfect prawn, sauteed in hot butter for 1 minute forty-five seconds and served only with a tiny lemon wedge. A sweet Georgia prawn from Monterey Fish market ("Don't cook it for over two minutes or i guaranteee it will be bad"), juicy and pink.
Dare to be Simple.
There's always so many reasons to be depressed. You're single, it's raining, you have no friends and you can't pay your rent. But honestly, who the fuck cares about all that when you have a different wine paired with each course and your bread is soaked in buttery gravy that smells of wine and rosemary, I mean come on.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Green Goddess Boddhisatva
I showed up at Kitchen on Fire on Sunday night at six thirty for knife skills class. During my Tuesday classes I've discovered I don't know jack with the knife and Mike commented once that I was "pointing at my food" , placing my index finger along the top of my knife. From his dry tone I could tell it wasn't good.
I knocked on the door and no one answered. I looked at the schedule, yep, 6:30, Knife Skills. Knocked again, no one there. Hmm. It was 6:30. Then 6:35. I was about to get back on my bike and go home, but I didn't want to. I'd been with the kids all day and needed a break. I was standing like an idiot in front of Taste, looking this way and that, as people sipped wine and laughed looking cool in the sunglasses. Finally I just sat down at one of the nice curbside bar seats next to all of them and figured I'd eat there. Since it is owned by the Kitchen on Fire guys, at least I'd sort of be taking class there, in a way. I ordered the Cuban sandwich.
The greatest Cuban sandwich in the world is made at Houston's in Martha's Vineyard. But this was tasty. Toasty baguette, ham, pork, mustard, pickle. It wasn't pressed all together and bound with the cheese and soft bread, like at Houston's, but it was very comforting. It was open and could breath, it wasn't trying to blow you away... This is what is cool about Taste. It's not Chez Panisse and doesn't want to be. Mike does not try to be Alice waters. He's Mike C for gods sake. He's into Transformers remember?
Then I got Zabaiglone, which is the world's coolest dessert. This was a test of Mike C's restaurant, to see whether it would be actually Zabaiglone, warm and made to order and served in a martini glass, or some fake pre-made custard.
It was real. Someone has just whisked the shit out of some eggs over hot water. It was ambrosial. Yellow, foamy, sweetened lightly with Moscat. The strawberries only distracted.
Then I went upstairs for the hell of it and Mike was up there all alone, prepping for a team building event the next day. I just said hi, told him I'd missed knife skills. But then asked if he needed any help.
"Sure, you can cut the corn off those cobs over there."
So I put on my apron and started cutting. Lucky for me, he critiqued my knife work. "Pinch it like this, wrap your fingers around it..." he showed me how to line the handle up with the fatty muscle at the base of my thumb, and line the whole knife up so it points staight back at the elbow.
We cut stuff up in the quiet kitchen. He made mango salsa, I washed several bunches of fresh herbs, shook out the water, then rolled them into a cone in two paper towels, so they looked like a big white ice cream cone. ("you can keep your fresh herbs like this for days, when the paper towels totally dry up, just do it again") It was cool to see a little behind the scenes, what goes into getting our kitchen ready for the Tuesday classes where we tear into all the nicely prepped ingredients and cook.
We made Green Goddess dressing together in the big blue food processor.
Side by side we minced a few bunches of flat leaf Parsely, lots of green onion. A small can of anchovy. Then in the machine we put all that, lemon juice, sour cream and mayo. ("If you want it lighter, more sour cream, heavier, more mayo")
It whirred until it was a beautiful mint green color with a light speckling throughout. He brought over the glass filled with plastic spoons and we tasted.
"Perfect." I said. Damn. This dressing is so incredible I am going to put down the exact recipe here. But you'll have to wait because Grilling class is tonight, and the dressing goes with grilled Romaine. But I have to say this dressing will change your life and you will spoon it in to your mouth like soup.
But the real treat was to cook with the chef, to get a few tips from someone who knows a lot, to experience the silent, patient cooking, no flames shooting up from pans. It was like Zen with the occasional crude sexual comment thrown in to break the Zen. But with a dressing like that at the end, I'll take that over transcendental meditation any day.
I knocked on the door and no one answered. I looked at the schedule, yep, 6:30, Knife Skills. Knocked again, no one there. Hmm. It was 6:30. Then 6:35. I was about to get back on my bike and go home, but I didn't want to. I'd been with the kids all day and needed a break. I was standing like an idiot in front of Taste, looking this way and that, as people sipped wine and laughed looking cool in the sunglasses. Finally I just sat down at one of the nice curbside bar seats next to all of them and figured I'd eat there. Since it is owned by the Kitchen on Fire guys, at least I'd sort of be taking class there, in a way. I ordered the Cuban sandwich.
The greatest Cuban sandwich in the world is made at Houston's in Martha's Vineyard. But this was tasty. Toasty baguette, ham, pork, mustard, pickle. It wasn't pressed all together and bound with the cheese and soft bread, like at Houston's, but it was very comforting. It was open and could breath, it wasn't trying to blow you away... This is what is cool about Taste. It's not Chez Panisse and doesn't want to be. Mike does not try to be Alice waters. He's Mike C for gods sake. He's into Transformers remember?
Then I got Zabaiglone, which is the world's coolest dessert. This was a test of Mike C's restaurant, to see whether it would be actually Zabaiglone, warm and made to order and served in a martini glass, or some fake pre-made custard.
It was real. Someone has just whisked the shit out of some eggs over hot water. It was ambrosial. Yellow, foamy, sweetened lightly with Moscat. The strawberries only distracted.
Then I went upstairs for the hell of it and Mike was up there all alone, prepping for a team building event the next day. I just said hi, told him I'd missed knife skills. But then asked if he needed any help.
"Sure, you can cut the corn off those cobs over there."
So I put on my apron and started cutting. Lucky for me, he critiqued my knife work. "Pinch it like this, wrap your fingers around it..." he showed me how to line the handle up with the fatty muscle at the base of my thumb, and line the whole knife up so it points staight back at the elbow.
We cut stuff up in the quiet kitchen. He made mango salsa, I washed several bunches of fresh herbs, shook out the water, then rolled them into a cone in two paper towels, so they looked like a big white ice cream cone. ("you can keep your fresh herbs like this for days, when the paper towels totally dry up, just do it again") It was cool to see a little behind the scenes, what goes into getting our kitchen ready for the Tuesday classes where we tear into all the nicely prepped ingredients and cook.
We made Green Goddess dressing together in the big blue food processor.
Side by side we minced a few bunches of flat leaf Parsely, lots of green onion. A small can of anchovy. Then in the machine we put all that, lemon juice, sour cream and mayo. ("If you want it lighter, more sour cream, heavier, more mayo")
It whirred until it was a beautiful mint green color with a light speckling throughout. He brought over the glass filled with plastic spoons and we tasted.
"Perfect." I said. Damn. This dressing is so incredible I am going to put down the exact recipe here. But you'll have to wait because Grilling class is tonight, and the dressing goes with grilled Romaine. But I have to say this dressing will change your life and you will spoon it in to your mouth like soup.
But the real treat was to cook with the chef, to get a few tips from someone who knows a lot, to experience the silent, patient cooking, no flames shooting up from pans. It was like Zen with the occasional crude sexual comment thrown in to break the Zen. But with a dressing like that at the end, I'll take that over transcendental meditation any day.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Kitchen on Fire Class #6 Let's Fry!!
Impressionistic Beatnik Blog Entry about Pan and Deep Frying Class
(read aloud to bongo drums)
woks filled with boiling oil
candy thermometers attached to side
don't go over 380 farenheit or you'll taste burning
won ton wrappers filled with nutella
Panko bread crumbs
fried food is nirvana
i slice a zuchini and take it through the three stages:
flour (shake it off)
egg (let it drip)
then the bread crumbs
drop...sizzle..whoooossshhhhhh.... Boiling
not the oil
oil can't boil
only the water inside your food being released makes the bubbles
in forty seconds it's brown and crispy
"oooh yes! make more" they love them
fried food is nirvana because it is crisp on the outside
but pure and steamed on the inside
a fried mushroom is contrast, paradox -
a fatty slick exterior, candy like crunch- guilty pleasure
but inside the locked and protected essence of the food, watery and pure
untouched by the grease if your breading holds
mike divulges his recipe for Rochester NY buffalo wings
"you gotta shake them up with the sauce, don't stir,
the shaking cracks the skin a bit so the sauce can permeate"
we gather around the plate of wings, almost glowing red with their
coat of sauce (Frank's Hot, KC Masterpiece and because brown sugar was not on hand, maple syrup)
we dip the hot wings in the blue cheese sauce (tonight it has feta, there was no blue)
and the combination in the mouth, the hot and acidic with the tang and cream of the dip, sucking the steamed up meat between the tight bones of the wing....
there is silence...
mike's face still red from getting popped with ferocious oil bursts
(who didn't dry this pan!!! there was water in it and it just forced it's way out!)
....but now all is calm
my fingers are sticky as i eat one after another, chasing these tastes as they pop and vanish in my mouth.
I have wasted my life.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Before The Porn
There she was. Spread-eagle in front of me. I tilted the glossy pages to get the full picture of her. My mouth hung open, a little drool formed, as I thought about how she'd taste and feel when she was mine. In my mouth. ...And she could be mine couldn't she? She was looking at me as if she were attainable. She begged me to say her name, her whole long name, and I obeyed as I stared at her curled up by the fire, wet with anticipation. I spoke her name slowly, deliberately;
Slow-Roasted Spiced Pork Loin with Black-Eyed Beans and Tomatoes.
But she could be anyone couldn't she? She could be the buxom, bronzed glistening temptress that transfixed me last week;
Chicken Breasts alla Vendemmia.
Ah food porn. You know you love it and you know you buy it.
I do. Lots.
I have made exactly one of the recipes in Jaime Oliver's Jaimes Dinners, and it was fine. But the real reason I bought the book is because each Oliver book is basically a two inch thick portfolio of : "Jaime Having A Great Time Shopping Cooking, Eating, and Drinking With Me Handsome Mates." Jaime horsing around with the fishmonger. Jaime opening a thermos of soup while his buddies skate. Jaime laughing hyterically about something in the bakery.
Think of it not as sex porn, but Life Porn. In sex porn, you imagine yourself doing the acts depicted in the photo or film. In food porn, it isn't Jaime Oliver frolicking in a bed of organic lettuce, it's you.
I'm no Tipper Gore. I approve of food porn. It gets me excited about cooking and eating, and sure, it's a way to escape for an hour into someone else's perfect dining room table or to leave your desk of unpaid bills and walk the sun dappled streets of New York with Mario Batali, in search of the best Proscuitto. In orange clogs.
But yesterday at Moe's Books in Berkeley, I found a slim, dusty book sandwiched between used and remindered cookbooks. It has a simple black spine, is half an inch thick, and the cover has those swirly peacock feather watermark things that old antique books have.
In miniscule silver letters on the spine it modestly informs you of it's content: The Art of Good Living, by Andre L. Simon. It dates from 1930, is English, but feels and sounds as if it is from another world. A long quote is necessary I think, to convey the feel:
Isn't that fucking great!!
I know it's a bit crusty, but to me this is refreshing. In these days of farmers market reactionaries (Eat only what's fresh and in season, all the time, and sustainable, and organic!!! no wait, BEYOND ORGANIC! ) as well as extreme health conscious folks eating things that should only be used to fertilize gardens or join together bricks, it's nice to be reminded what all this madness is for:
ENJOYING LIFE.
But wait. What is it all for?
Is it to be sustainable? Yes, Michael Pollan has taught us that in Omnivore's Dilemma. The price of being blinded to where our food comes from and it's real cost is tremendous. And true, he explores the enjoyment and social role of food and eating beautifully. But for right now at least, I've given my sweaty palms a rest, as well as my biceps, and put the three pound colorful food porn tomes away. The Art of Good living is dated for sure, and written for people for whom Polo means more than a shirt:
"If at home, one has to remember the limitations of one's cook, and choose the dishes which he or she has been most successful with on previous occasions."
What is different and useful about this point of view though, is that is has as it's raison d'etre, enjoyment. Pleasure. It talks about Wine not as a second thought to pair with the thing you want to eat, but as something which walks hand in hand with what's on the plate. In fact most of the book is given to wine, it's origins, varieties, etc. Not what to drink with the food, but what food to cook to go with your wine.
And there are no pictures of Andre Simon romping on the beach with his family grilling fish.
Better yet, there is my mental image of him, sitting in his London Townhouse, ignorant of the fires and bombings and war that was just around the corner, examining his bottles of Claret and Tawny Port, trying to anticipate the moods of his guests that evening, and whether they might clash with the Poulet Hongroise.
The first sentence of the book shows that he was not ignorant of things outside his drawing room:
"Like all arts, the art of good living has known many vicissitudes. Like all arts, the art of war excepted, it needs peaceful and prosperous times to attain any degree of perfection."
I hope he had enough of those times. I hope you and I do as well.
Isn't that what all this is for?
Slow-Roasted Spiced Pork Loin with Black-Eyed Beans and Tomatoes.
But she could be anyone couldn't she? She could be the buxom, bronzed glistening temptress that transfixed me last week;
Chicken Breasts alla Vendemmia.
Ah food porn. You know you love it and you know you buy it.
I do. Lots.
I have made exactly one of the recipes in Jaime Oliver's Jaimes Dinners, and it was fine. But the real reason I bought the book is because each Oliver book is basically a two inch thick portfolio of : "Jaime Having A Great Time Shopping Cooking, Eating, and Drinking With Me Handsome Mates." Jaime horsing around with the fishmonger. Jaime opening a thermos of soup while his buddies skate. Jaime laughing hyterically about something in the bakery.
Think of it not as sex porn, but Life Porn. In sex porn, you imagine yourself doing the acts depicted in the photo or film. In food porn, it isn't Jaime Oliver frolicking in a bed of organic lettuce, it's you.
I'm no Tipper Gore. I approve of food porn. It gets me excited about cooking and eating, and sure, it's a way to escape for an hour into someone else's perfect dining room table or to leave your desk of unpaid bills and walk the sun dappled streets of New York with Mario Batali, in search of the best Proscuitto. In orange clogs.
But yesterday at Moe's Books in Berkeley, I found a slim, dusty book sandwiched between used and remindered cookbooks. It has a simple black spine, is half an inch thick, and the cover has those swirly peacock feather watermark things that old antique books have.
In miniscule silver letters on the spine it modestly informs you of it's content: The Art of Good Living, by Andre L. Simon. It dates from 1930, is English, but feels and sounds as if it is from another world. A long quote is necessary I think, to convey the feel:
"The art of good living is above all a matter of appreciation, the appreciation of what is good...
It is perfectly true that we all have, and should cultivate, our own individual tastes in food and drink, just as in painting books and music. But, above all individual tatses, there are general rules which are the frame upon which hang individual tastes: when those rules are broken there are no individual tastes left- merely a nondescript heap of rubbish.
We do not dress in exactly the same way in summer and winter, at funerals and picnics, and we must also choose our food and drink according to the seasons of the year, the occasion and the mood of the moment. Variety and harmony are the essence of all arts, and the art of good living aims at avoiding monotony and clashes between colors, savours, and flavours.
...three of the most important factors when attempting to solve the problem of a perfect dinner, i.e.:-
1. What is the best food, and what are the most suitable wines available?
2. What is the weather likely to be?
3. What are the personal likes and dislikes, likely mood or expected dispositions of your guests?
It is perfectly true that we all have, and should cultivate, our own individual tastes in food and drink, just as in painting books and music. But, above all individual tatses, there are general rules which are the frame upon which hang individual tastes: when those rules are broken there are no individual tastes left- merely a nondescript heap of rubbish.
We do not dress in exactly the same way in summer and winter, at funerals and picnics, and we must also choose our food and drink according to the seasons of the year, the occasion and the mood of the moment. Variety and harmony are the essence of all arts, and the art of good living aims at avoiding monotony and clashes between colors, savours, and flavours.
...three of the most important factors when attempting to solve the problem of a perfect dinner, i.e.:-
1. What is the best food, and what are the most suitable wines available?
2. What is the weather likely to be?
3. What are the personal likes and dislikes, likely mood or expected dispositions of your guests?
Isn't that fucking great!!
I know it's a bit crusty, but to me this is refreshing. In these days of farmers market reactionaries (Eat only what's fresh and in season, all the time, and sustainable, and organic!!! no wait, BEYOND ORGANIC! ) as well as extreme health conscious folks eating things that should only be used to fertilize gardens or join together bricks, it's nice to be reminded what all this madness is for:
ENJOYING LIFE.
But wait. What is it all for?
Is it to be sustainable? Yes, Michael Pollan has taught us that in Omnivore's Dilemma. The price of being blinded to where our food comes from and it's real cost is tremendous. And true, he explores the enjoyment and social role of food and eating beautifully. But for right now at least, I've given my sweaty palms a rest, as well as my biceps, and put the three pound colorful food porn tomes away. The Art of Good living is dated for sure, and written for people for whom Polo means more than a shirt:
"If at home, one has to remember the limitations of one's cook, and choose the dishes which he or she has been most successful with on previous occasions."
What is different and useful about this point of view though, is that is has as it's raison d'etre, enjoyment. Pleasure. It talks about Wine not as a second thought to pair with the thing you want to eat, but as something which walks hand in hand with what's on the plate. In fact most of the book is given to wine, it's origins, varieties, etc. Not what to drink with the food, but what food to cook to go with your wine.
And there are no pictures of Andre Simon romping on the beach with his family grilling fish.
Better yet, there is my mental image of him, sitting in his London Townhouse, ignorant of the fires and bombings and war that was just around the corner, examining his bottles of Claret and Tawny Port, trying to anticipate the moods of his guests that evening, and whether they might clash with the Poulet Hongroise.
The first sentence of the book shows that he was not ignorant of things outside his drawing room:
"Like all arts, the art of good living has known many vicissitudes. Like all arts, the art of war excepted, it needs peaceful and prosperous times to attain any degree of perfection."
I hope he had enough of those times. I hope you and I do as well.
Isn't that what all this is for?
Monday, July 16, 2007
What I've Learned So Far
Yesterday I had fifteen people over for Sunday lunch. I made Posole with chicken, enchiladas stuffed with summer veggies and goat cheese topped with Mole sauce, and guacamole.
It was a milestone for me.
The idea behind starting this blog, as I wrote on my other one, Cooking My Ass Off, was to see if all these cooking classes and all my practicing in between could lead me back to France. I don't mean the actual food, but the practice of large Sunday gatherings with people, good times and good food.
Yesterday felt a little bit like France. To you, dear reader, it may not be much of a feat to do this. You may be able to throw together a great party without much ado at all. If so, you may not want to continue reading. But, if you are the kind of person who, like me, is filled with anxiety about these things, I need to tell you this: It was easy, fun, and the clean up wasn't even that bad.
Here's how i did it.
1. I made a list and a schedule. A few days in advance.
I sat down, and really read, not just skimmed, the recipes from Dara's packet (for the class that inspired what I made, see "Cooking At Dara's House" on my cookingmyassoff blog) After doing so, I made a shopping list and a schedule of when I would do what. This was on Thursday.
2. I made several things ahead of time.
I shopped, and boiled the chicken breasts on Friday. I shredded it off the bone so it'd be a cinch to add it to my Posole. I kept the boiling liquid as a little stock for the stew as well. Dara's Posole was vegetarian, but she'd suggested using chicken and I was gonna try it. I bought canned Hominy to save time and the soaking and re-soaking hassle. I even bought the avocados, just slightly firm so that by 12:30 pm on Sunday, they'd be ripe to smash into Guac.
I made the Mole on Saturday. Mole is unbelievable and you should steal this recipe. You end up with this thick red sauce, so deep red and complex (it has cloves, raisins, cinnamon, chiles, chocolate) it is hard to stop eating. Poured it into a Tupperware and forgot about it.
3. I only cook on the day of, what HAD to be cooked on the day of.
The enchiladas were simple. I sauted a huge amount of zucchini, summer squash, onions, shrooms, and carrots. (Sorry Mike C, I overstuffed the pan, major saute faux pas, so really I steamed them.) When they were soft I put a log of soft Chevre into the pan, stirred and cooked for longer. Don't do this in a non-enameled cast iron as I did though, it stuck like hell. I probably could have prepped these a day ahead, but I though the veggies would make the tortillas soggy if they sat.
Dara did not fry the tortillas first, but since Rebecca is from Texas and has the enchilada mojo in her blood, I let her assemble them. She pre-fried the tortillas, layered sauce on the bottom of the pyrex, then covered them when they were all in there.
4. Think of the people you invite over as ingredients.
It's tricky. You don't want just one set of friends, in the same way you wouldn't serve a meal of three different kinds of rice dishes, or six green salads. You want variety and compliment.
I had eight people over who were students of mine, actor kids who are now in college or have graduated from acting programs in New York or L.A. they are on the cusp of their twenties, which for me was exciting but also scary and lonely. So many open paths.
So I also invited some older theatre folks, directors, actors, who wouldn't be so olde farty as to have nothing to say to the kids, but might both be inspired by thier youth and also have some wisdom or connections to offer them.
A good idea in practice. But the highlight of the party was basically me with my ex students drinking mini Coronas in my back yard laughing about stupid shit we did in acting class.
But in theory, and for a few moments in reality, the recipe of friends was good. Maybe a little overpowering on the youth. Like Chili pepper or Cinnamon, certain ingrdients tend to overpower others, as simply part of their chemical makeup.
5. Set up everything before the guests come. Everything. Who wants to run around and wash forks or jog to the corner store to get ice while the reason you threw the damn party was to hang out with people you don't see enough.
6. Ask for help.
Rebecca worked her Tex Mex love on the Enchiladas. My nine year old daughter Faye made the guacamole which was fun for her since it had twelve avocados and I told her she could eat as much of it as she wanted. My six year old son Dash arranged the cookies on a giant platter. "Why are you crumbling the chocolate ones dude!" I yelled, panicked. "You'll see" he said.
He had actually made a giant face, and the face had an open mouth crunching cookies: thus the crumbs. Brilliant.
7. Taste as you cook and let others taste too.
At one point I bragged about how good the Posole was and let Rebecca taste it. "Mmm...great. But where's the Hominy." Shit. I had actually forgotten the ONE thing that actually makes it Posole, the f**ing big white corn kernals.
8. BE THERE.
I had a great time. People were there who mean a lot to me. I was present enough to really talk with them and listen. They gave me ideas about what musical to do next year. they dragged me outside to take a few pictures with them. "Everybody bring your beers, we gotta get a picture of Winer and us with the beers." We did. A few pictures. A few beers. More enchiladas.
The crowd polished off a huge pot of Posole. It did turn out great, the toothsome hominy, the green grainy texture from the roasted pumpkin seeds blended in with the tart Tomatillos. Garnished with lime and cilantro. ( I posted directions by the pot so I wouldn't have to take each person into the kitchen and coach them through the assembly.)
9. Clean UP afterward.
This was actually fun. I put on Madelyn Peyroux, the house was empty, and while I cleaned up I could still hear the voices, and I was smiling and proud of myself.
Eating alone just aint the same.
It was a milestone for me.
The idea behind starting this blog, as I wrote on my other one, Cooking My Ass Off, was to see if all these cooking classes and all my practicing in between could lead me back to France. I don't mean the actual food, but the practice of large Sunday gatherings with people, good times and good food.
Yesterday felt a little bit like France. To you, dear reader, it may not be much of a feat to do this. You may be able to throw together a great party without much ado at all. If so, you may not want to continue reading. But, if you are the kind of person who, like me, is filled with anxiety about these things, I need to tell you this: It was easy, fun, and the clean up wasn't even that bad.
Here's how i did it.
1. I made a list and a schedule. A few days in advance.
I sat down, and really read, not just skimmed, the recipes from Dara's packet (for the class that inspired what I made, see "Cooking At Dara's House" on my cookingmyassoff blog) After doing so, I made a shopping list and a schedule of when I would do what. This was on Thursday.
2. I made several things ahead of time.
I shopped, and boiled the chicken breasts on Friday. I shredded it off the bone so it'd be a cinch to add it to my Posole. I kept the boiling liquid as a little stock for the stew as well. Dara's Posole was vegetarian, but she'd suggested using chicken and I was gonna try it. I bought canned Hominy to save time and the soaking and re-soaking hassle. I even bought the avocados, just slightly firm so that by 12:30 pm on Sunday, they'd be ripe to smash into Guac.
I made the Mole on Saturday. Mole is unbelievable and you should steal this recipe. You end up with this thick red sauce, so deep red and complex (it has cloves, raisins, cinnamon, chiles, chocolate) it is hard to stop eating. Poured it into a Tupperware and forgot about it.
3. I only cook on the day of, what HAD to be cooked on the day of.
The enchiladas were simple. I sauted a huge amount of zucchini, summer squash, onions, shrooms, and carrots. (Sorry Mike C, I overstuffed the pan, major saute faux pas, so really I steamed them.) When they were soft I put a log of soft Chevre into the pan, stirred and cooked for longer. Don't do this in a non-enameled cast iron as I did though, it stuck like hell. I probably could have prepped these a day ahead, but I though the veggies would make the tortillas soggy if they sat.
Dara did not fry the tortillas first, but since Rebecca is from Texas and has the enchilada mojo in her blood, I let her assemble them. She pre-fried the tortillas, layered sauce on the bottom of the pyrex, then covered them when they were all in there.
4. Think of the people you invite over as ingredients.
It's tricky. You don't want just one set of friends, in the same way you wouldn't serve a meal of three different kinds of rice dishes, or six green salads. You want variety and compliment.
I had eight people over who were students of mine, actor kids who are now in college or have graduated from acting programs in New York or L.A. they are on the cusp of their twenties, which for me was exciting but also scary and lonely. So many open paths.
So I also invited some older theatre folks, directors, actors, who wouldn't be so olde farty as to have nothing to say to the kids, but might both be inspired by thier youth and also have some wisdom or connections to offer them.
A good idea in practice. But the highlight of the party was basically me with my ex students drinking mini Coronas in my back yard laughing about stupid shit we did in acting class.
But in theory, and for a few moments in reality, the recipe of friends was good. Maybe a little overpowering on the youth. Like Chili pepper or Cinnamon, certain ingrdients tend to overpower others, as simply part of their chemical makeup.
5. Set up everything before the guests come. Everything. Who wants to run around and wash forks or jog to the corner store to get ice while the reason you threw the damn party was to hang out with people you don't see enough.
6. Ask for help.
Rebecca worked her Tex Mex love on the Enchiladas. My nine year old daughter Faye made the guacamole which was fun for her since it had twelve avocados and I told her she could eat as much of it as she wanted. My six year old son Dash arranged the cookies on a giant platter. "Why are you crumbling the chocolate ones dude!" I yelled, panicked. "You'll see" he said.
He had actually made a giant face, and the face had an open mouth crunching cookies: thus the crumbs. Brilliant.
7. Taste as you cook and let others taste too.
At one point I bragged about how good the Posole was and let Rebecca taste it. "Mmm...great. But where's the Hominy." Shit. I had actually forgotten the ONE thing that actually makes it Posole, the f**ing big white corn kernals.
8. BE THERE.
I had a great time. People were there who mean a lot to me. I was present enough to really talk with them and listen. They gave me ideas about what musical to do next year. they dragged me outside to take a few pictures with them. "Everybody bring your beers, we gotta get a picture of Winer and us with the beers." We did. A few pictures. A few beers. More enchiladas.
The crowd polished off a huge pot of Posole. It did turn out great, the toothsome hominy, the green grainy texture from the roasted pumpkin seeds blended in with the tart Tomatillos. Garnished with lime and cilantro. ( I posted directions by the pot so I wouldn't have to take each person into the kitchen and coach them through the assembly.)
9. Clean UP afterward.
This was actually fun. I put on Madelyn Peyroux, the house was empty, and while I cleaned up I could still hear the voices, and I was smiling and proud of myself.
Eating alone just aint the same.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Transformer 'R Us
"You're kidding right? Transformers? "
"No...It was awesome."
Mike C. told us that the first movie he has gone out to see, in over two years, was the new robot destruction fest Transformers.
"I used to play with those as a kid man, they were the coolest toys, better than Star Wars action figures, G.I.Joe with Kung Fu grip even."
People expressed shock that he did not see Ratatouille, the Pixar film, which, despite it being an animated kids picture has all the foodie types excited, at least in this neck of the woods where you can't swing a baguette without hitting an organic heirloom tomato. Then he went on to do his lecture about Saute and Stir Fry and I forgot the whole subject. Until last night.
I started thinking about Transformers, or rather about transformation. It hit me that transformation, more than anything else, really sums up what the process of cooking is all about. Not just for Ferran Adria in Spain making a foam out of cucumber or a filet mignon from a mango, but even the simplest things. Take class #3, Sauces; what is a vinagraitte but two very unlike substances, oil and an acid, beaten up together until their molecules are forced to emulsify.... transformation.
Crack a gooey egg in boiling water and see it transformed into a solid white saucer holding a still liquid golden center. Poached egg. Go back to my first Kitchen on Fire class, Stocks and Soups. Take water that has no flavor at all, and big bones, a few plain vegetables, boil it for hours and you transform that into the base of your Veloute sauce for the priciest entree on the menu.
It made perfect sense that a chef would prefer Transformers to Ratatouille. At least a chef like Mike C. who despite his knowledge and skill is really still a kid in the kitchen, a very serious kid, playing around, transforming things into other, better things, searching always for new transformations.
That's also what our life is about, outside the kitchen. And it's not always pleasant or easy. My wife is transforming herself from a full time mom to a nurse, and the knowledge she's had to pick up has been astounding. She's metamorphosed from the overwhelmed student of ten months ago to someone who can put on scrubs, check a chart, witness someone having their trachea removed, and then go start an I.V. drip without batting an eyelash. We've been married for ten years. Ten mostly very good years. We have two fantastic kids. But our marraige, in spite of what we want it to be, has slowly transformed into something else, something we have to decide if we like or not.
Can we control the transformations that we go through, that our relationships go through? I doubt it. "Rough hew them how we may" I think our fates are set. Like Hamlet says, "the readiness is all."
Transformation can be a bitch. But without it, dinner would taste like crap.
"No...It was awesome."
Mike C. told us that the first movie he has gone out to see, in over two years, was the new robot destruction fest Transformers.
"I used to play with those as a kid man, they were the coolest toys, better than Star Wars action figures, G.I.Joe with Kung Fu grip even."
People expressed shock that he did not see Ratatouille, the Pixar film, which, despite it being an animated kids picture has all the foodie types excited, at least in this neck of the woods where you can't swing a baguette without hitting an organic heirloom tomato. Then he went on to do his lecture about Saute and Stir Fry and I forgot the whole subject. Until last night.
I started thinking about Transformers, or rather about transformation. It hit me that transformation, more than anything else, really sums up what the process of cooking is all about. Not just for Ferran Adria in Spain making a foam out of cucumber or a filet mignon from a mango, but even the simplest things. Take class #3, Sauces; what is a vinagraitte but two very unlike substances, oil and an acid, beaten up together until their molecules are forced to emulsify.... transformation.
Crack a gooey egg in boiling water and see it transformed into a solid white saucer holding a still liquid golden center. Poached egg. Go back to my first Kitchen on Fire class, Stocks and Soups. Take water that has no flavor at all, and big bones, a few plain vegetables, boil it for hours and you transform that into the base of your Veloute sauce for the priciest entree on the menu.
It made perfect sense that a chef would prefer Transformers to Ratatouille. At least a chef like Mike C. who despite his knowledge and skill is really still a kid in the kitchen, a very serious kid, playing around, transforming things into other, better things, searching always for new transformations.
That's also what our life is about, outside the kitchen. And it's not always pleasant or easy. My wife is transforming herself from a full time mom to a nurse, and the knowledge she's had to pick up has been astounding. She's metamorphosed from the overwhelmed student of ten months ago to someone who can put on scrubs, check a chart, witness someone having their trachea removed, and then go start an I.V. drip without batting an eyelash. We've been married for ten years. Ten mostly very good years. We have two fantastic kids. But our marraige, in spite of what we want it to be, has slowly transformed into something else, something we have to decide if we like or not.
Can we control the transformations that we go through, that our relationships go through? I doubt it. "Rough hew them how we may" I think our fates are set. Like Hamlet says, "the readiness is all."
Transformation can be a bitch. But without it, dinner would taste like crap.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Kitchen On Fire, Class 5
"Kitchen on Fire!"
Mike C. and Olivier Said obviously named their cooking school this for a reason.
"Kitchen on Fire", someone hollered as a portable burner went nuts and sprayed flame onto a kitchen towel. Mike C. was calm as he tamped it out with his hands. It was no big deal as there was high heat and flames jumping everywhere last night. It was the most exciting class yet: Stir Fry and Saute.
We were all jonesing to cook. It had neen two weeks since the last class as the 4th of July had cancelled last week. We got antsy toward the last part of Mike's lecture and people started fingering their aprons and sitting on the edge of their seats. Or maybe that was just me. The lecture was short as this kind of cooking is, in theory, simple and easy.
"So, pass in your homework if you did it." We put our two recipes on the main cutting board for him to peruse before the lecture. The homework was to get two recipes -one saute, one stir fry- and read them closely. This takes all of twenty seconds on theFood Network website.
"I hope this time when you read them you were looking at technique, yes?" We nodded and mumbled in agreement.
My stir fry was Chili Prawns, curtesey of Yan Can Cook, my saute was 2 Minute Calamari Sicilian Lifeguard Style, from Molto Mario. In looking at them, I saw a theme jump out that was echoed by Mike's lecture. "This cooking is FAST, it is HIGH HEAT, and it is LOW OIL."
The times given in my recipes were broken down to seconds.
Mike gave us the basic procedure before setting us free. (And this time, same as two weeks ago in the Braise class, there were lots of recipes in our packet, but we were not asked to follow them when we cooked.)
I jumped up before anyone else and grabbed two long Chinese Eggplants and a wok. I'd never been successful with a wok, and I've always loved that soft jelly like eggplant you get in Chinese restaurants, so my heart was set on trying it. Bianca, a fashionable mom from Piedmont, partnered with me and I began to chop. I was a little nervous about collaboration, but what the hell.
We prepped. Bianca searched the jars of sauces and mixed up a tasty little combo of black bean sauce and chili paste. We had our "finishing sauce". I sliced garlic, and confessed to Mike that I usually end up with lots of burnt garlic bits in the pan. "Do you put it in first with the oil?" he asked.
"Yes" I said.
"That's why... put it in with the eggplant. The veg will protect it."
The black steel wok started to smoke. A few squirts of vegetable oil. My two wok spatulas in the underhanded, salad-tossing position.
"Make it jump!" Mike said. "Don't do this in your wok..." and he demonstrated a bored, distracted, one handed stirring. Like someone stirring cream into coffee. "Pick up the food with both tools and jump it into the air so it hits as much of that hot pan as possible."
I was having fun throwing the eggplant and red pepper into the air, but it seemed like the pan was too dry so I added a little more oil despite Bianca's grimace. When the eggplant looked glassy, we tossed in our scallions, cilantro, toasted sesame seeds and a little chicken stock, and finally our spicy sauce, when we plated it up, it looked like something from a restaurant.
But honestly, it didn't taste that great. "We didn't taste it" I said sadly.
Mike is always remind us to taste as we cook, taste taste taste.....
We added some soy sauce and that helped. We put it on the buffet and moved on. I wandered around looking at people braving very complex things, Mango Beef and Garlic Green Beans, Fried Rice Cantonese Style.
We were encouraged to keep going. "Hey Guys, this is a TEST kitchen , so do something else when you are finished, just clean your station first....try something else."
There was a recipe for Mushrooms with Peas and Cream, in the packet, so I grabbed a bowl of peas no one had taken and started improvising on that theme. I sweated over a hot wok and conquered eggplant; it was time to saute.
I put a big hunk of butter in one of the wide Analon stick-proof saute pans. I slivered two velvety Shitakes. Chopped up two cloves of garlic, a shallot, the flowery head of a celery stalk. In went the garlic and shallot. Then the Shitake.
I was having fun. This is so cool!!!!!
Cooking freely in this bigass and badass modern kitchen with refrigerator drawers of fresh herbs, ziplocks of real vanilla beans and lots of cool liqours around to flambe with.
OOh, yea, I gotta flambe!
Wait, concentrate... The Shitakes were softening, so I removed them and the shallot/garlic. I put in a layer of peas. "Don't overcrowd the pan, or you'll steam or Braise!" -this was the oft-heard mantra of the night.
"If I see anyone using a spatula to stir your saute, I'm gonna take it from you!" Mike growled. Damn, I forgot that we are supposed to be practicing our food-flipping. I quickly got rid of my wood spatula, and started doing that cool-chef flip thing.
Lift up pan, angle it downward, away from you, and with a quick down and IN motion of the arm, your food (if things go well) with surf up the outer edge of the pan, do a 360 Tony Hawk spin, and land nicely turned over in the saute pan.
The peas were the right thing to have in the pan to learn the flip. "If you ever want to practice this at home, use a cold pan and some beans" Mike said. People were flipping everywhere, oil was spattering arms, chicken and onions were falling through the burners, but people were happy.
I added back in the shroom mixture, then squirted in some cream and white wine, tasted... more salt, then plated the peas.
They were tasty but too mushy.
I was having so much fun being a flipping showoff that I overcooked the peas. But the Shitakes still tasted great, funky and woodsy, so, no big deal.
I wandered around, tasted some incredible Mango Beef. Mike opened a drawer, slammed two big apples down on the cutting board and said "I never said you couldn't saute fruit right?"
The we all gathererd around the cooktop for a tutorial in FIRE!
He had an empty saute pan. He tilted it up vertically.
"Heat the lip, get it very hot. Remove from heat. Put in your alcohol. It has to be at least 40% alcohol to flame. Each ounce will give about a foot of flame. Do the math."
He poured in the tequila while his pan was removed from the flame. Then he put it over the fire doing a thing where he tilted the pan up, getting dangerously close to pouring the alcohol out, away from him. This allowed the burner to creep up the lip of the pan, and BOOM, catch fire with the liquid. FLAMES four feet high!!
"Then do the hibby hibby shake, until the alcohol is burned off." Until the flame was out, he just moved it neatly back and forth over the burner.
The rest of last night was a flaming blur as two other guys and I cut up the apples, sauted them in butter and flamed them with good rum.
Over and over and over.
Some brown sugar, a little ginger. Each of us taking turns doing the fire process. Heating the lip. Remove. Add Rum. Replace, and then tip away from you so the fire creeps over the lip and WAM. FIRE...... Shakey, shakey, shake.
Not only was this the most fun all night, three guys lighting things on fire and laughjing like goofy kids. When we plated the soft apples, and put a scoop of vanilla ice cream over it, it was f**ing incredible.
We all got high fives from Mike C, and everyone gathered around the plate and ate.
It was like Rum-Apple pie a la mode on a veranda in Trinidad or Tobago without any crust to interfere with the sugary goo factor, and the rum had left only it's sugar cane glow. Any bracing liqour taste was gone.
But really, it was just fun to cook that. And probably no accident that the most fun thing was the tastiest.
(p.s. Mike C. and Kitchen on Fire are putting together a DVD set, so if you want to get a much deeper feel for the classes and their content than I can give you, you may want to check those out.)
Mike C. and Olivier Said obviously named their cooking school this for a reason.
"Kitchen on Fire", someone hollered as a portable burner went nuts and sprayed flame onto a kitchen towel. Mike C. was calm as he tamped it out with his hands. It was no big deal as there was high heat and flames jumping everywhere last night. It was the most exciting class yet: Stir Fry and Saute.
We were all jonesing to cook. It had neen two weeks since the last class as the 4th of July had cancelled last week. We got antsy toward the last part of Mike's lecture and people started fingering their aprons and sitting on the edge of their seats. Or maybe that was just me. The lecture was short as this kind of cooking is, in theory, simple and easy.
"So, pass in your homework if you did it." We put our two recipes on the main cutting board for him to peruse before the lecture. The homework was to get two recipes -one saute, one stir fry- and read them closely. This takes all of twenty seconds on theFood Network website.
"I hope this time when you read them you were looking at technique, yes?" We nodded and mumbled in agreement.
My stir fry was Chili Prawns, curtesey of Yan Can Cook, my saute was 2 Minute Calamari Sicilian Lifeguard Style, from Molto Mario. In looking at them, I saw a theme jump out that was echoed by Mike's lecture. "This cooking is FAST, it is HIGH HEAT, and it is LOW OIL."
The times given in my recipes were broken down to seconds.
Mike gave us the basic procedure before setting us free. (And this time, same as two weeks ago in the Braise class, there were lots of recipes in our packet, but we were not asked to follow them when we cooked.)
I jumped up before anyone else and grabbed two long Chinese Eggplants and a wok. I'd never been successful with a wok, and I've always loved that soft jelly like eggplant you get in Chinese restaurants, so my heart was set on trying it. Bianca, a fashionable mom from Piedmont, partnered with me and I began to chop. I was a little nervous about collaboration, but what the hell.
We prepped. Bianca searched the jars of sauces and mixed up a tasty little combo of black bean sauce and chili paste. We had our "finishing sauce". I sliced garlic, and confessed to Mike that I usually end up with lots of burnt garlic bits in the pan. "Do you put it in first with the oil?" he asked.
"Yes" I said.
"That's why... put it in with the eggplant. The veg will protect it."
The black steel wok started to smoke. A few squirts of vegetable oil. My two wok spatulas in the underhanded, salad-tossing position.
"Make it jump!" Mike said. "Don't do this in your wok..." and he demonstrated a bored, distracted, one handed stirring. Like someone stirring cream into coffee. "Pick up the food with both tools and jump it into the air so it hits as much of that hot pan as possible."
I was having fun throwing the eggplant and red pepper into the air, but it seemed like the pan was too dry so I added a little more oil despite Bianca's grimace. When the eggplant looked glassy, we tossed in our scallions, cilantro, toasted sesame seeds and a little chicken stock, and finally our spicy sauce, when we plated it up, it looked like something from a restaurant.
But honestly, it didn't taste that great. "We didn't taste it" I said sadly.
Mike is always remind us to taste as we cook, taste taste taste.....
We added some soy sauce and that helped. We put it on the buffet and moved on. I wandered around looking at people braving very complex things, Mango Beef and Garlic Green Beans, Fried Rice Cantonese Style.
We were encouraged to keep going. "Hey Guys, this is a TEST kitchen , so do something else when you are finished, just clean your station first....try something else."
There was a recipe for Mushrooms with Peas and Cream, in the packet, so I grabbed a bowl of peas no one had taken and started improvising on that theme. I sweated over a hot wok and conquered eggplant; it was time to saute.
I put a big hunk of butter in one of the wide Analon stick-proof saute pans. I slivered two velvety Shitakes. Chopped up two cloves of garlic, a shallot, the flowery head of a celery stalk. In went the garlic and shallot. Then the Shitake.
I was having fun. This is so cool!!!!!
Cooking freely in this bigass and badass modern kitchen with refrigerator drawers of fresh herbs, ziplocks of real vanilla beans and lots of cool liqours around to flambe with.
OOh, yea, I gotta flambe!
Wait, concentrate... The Shitakes were softening, so I removed them and the shallot/garlic. I put in a layer of peas. "Don't overcrowd the pan, or you'll steam or Braise!" -this was the oft-heard mantra of the night.
"If I see anyone using a spatula to stir your saute, I'm gonna take it from you!" Mike growled. Damn, I forgot that we are supposed to be practicing our food-flipping. I quickly got rid of my wood spatula, and started doing that cool-chef flip thing.
Lift up pan, angle it downward, away from you, and with a quick down and IN motion of the arm, your food (if things go well) with surf up the outer edge of the pan, do a 360 Tony Hawk spin, and land nicely turned over in the saute pan.
The peas were the right thing to have in the pan to learn the flip. "If you ever want to practice this at home, use a cold pan and some beans" Mike said. People were flipping everywhere, oil was spattering arms, chicken and onions were falling through the burners, but people were happy.
I added back in the shroom mixture, then squirted in some cream and white wine, tasted... more salt, then plated the peas.
They were tasty but too mushy.
I was having so much fun being a flipping showoff that I overcooked the peas. But the Shitakes still tasted great, funky and woodsy, so, no big deal.
I wandered around, tasted some incredible Mango Beef. Mike opened a drawer, slammed two big apples down on the cutting board and said "I never said you couldn't saute fruit right?"
The we all gathererd around the cooktop for a tutorial in FIRE!
He had an empty saute pan. He tilted it up vertically.
"Heat the lip, get it very hot. Remove from heat. Put in your alcohol. It has to be at least 40% alcohol to flame. Each ounce will give about a foot of flame. Do the math."
He poured in the tequila while his pan was removed from the flame. Then he put it over the fire doing a thing where he tilted the pan up, getting dangerously close to pouring the alcohol out, away from him. This allowed the burner to creep up the lip of the pan, and BOOM, catch fire with the liquid. FLAMES four feet high!!
"Then do the hibby hibby shake, until the alcohol is burned off." Until the flame was out, he just moved it neatly back and forth over the burner.
The rest of last night was a flaming blur as two other guys and I cut up the apples, sauted them in butter and flamed them with good rum.
Over and over and over.
Some brown sugar, a little ginger. Each of us taking turns doing the fire process. Heating the lip. Remove. Add Rum. Replace, and then tip away from you so the fire creeps over the lip and WAM. FIRE...... Shakey, shakey, shake.
Not only was this the most fun all night, three guys lighting things on fire and laughjing like goofy kids. When we plated the soft apples, and put a scoop of vanilla ice cream over it, it was f**ing incredible.
We all got high fives from Mike C, and everyone gathered around the plate and ate.
It was like Rum-Apple pie a la mode on a veranda in Trinidad or Tobago without any crust to interfere with the sugary goo factor, and the rum had left only it's sugar cane glow. Any bracing liqour taste was gone.
But really, it was just fun to cook that. And probably no accident that the most fun thing was the tastiest.
(p.s. Mike C. and Kitchen on Fire are putting together a DVD set, so if you want to get a much deeper feel for the classes and their content than I can give you, you may want to check those out.)
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Fame Whores Star Fuckers and A New Onion
Last night my wife and I ate dinner at Incanto's in San Francisco. I had been there a month ago with my dad and brother, and since then had seen the chef, Chris Cosentino, battle Mario Batali on Iron Chef. Cosentino lost, but only by a hair and looked about 10 times cooler than Mario, with his good build, and frosty blond mohawk and gotee. Mario -god bless the man he's my hero- looks like a chef. Cosentino looks like someone you'd see at Cannes by a pool with a cell phone.
But his restaurant is great. An Italian, Dante-themed place with nothing familiar on the menu. No meatballs, no marinara, no Carbonara, but lots of house made head cheese, tuna-proscuitto and roasted lamb necks. No Cannoli, instead you find olive leaf panna cotta softer than the divine thighs of Beatrice herself, and a plum crostata with a crust so soft, grainy, and flaky all at the same time that you'd swear the pastry chef had sold her soul for her talent.
So my wife and I ate there last night with the unreachably high expectations with which we all go to restaurant these days, expecting revelations and epiphanies in each course. Impossible. Like the Molto man said himself (in his latest glossy cookbook which of course I have) the opening of a new restaurant has replaced the opening of a new play as pure anticipated event.
Last night Mr. Cosentino himself was behind the bar, plating desserts and appetizers, his mohawk lay flat, and he was more relaxed than he'd been with the TV camera and the big red haired god of Guanciale cooking across from him.
Appetizers were nice but not ethereal. A grilled peach buried in a snappy salad of wild arugula, and the cured proscuitto made of tuna was nice and fishy but too salty even for me, which is saying a lot as I sprinkle salt on everything but ice cream. And I've tried that too.
We both had the braised pork shoulder which was fall apart soft, laid on top of thin gondolas of grilled eggplant, half a roasted tomato, bread crumbs. It was very good. Satisfying.
Then in walked Michael Chiarello. Chiarello of the Napa Style stores and all the TV programs of him casually whipping up great feasts in his modest Napa Valley home. Founding chef of Tra Vigne and dude behind the first big cookbook I ever really cooked from and ogled over, "Casual Cooking".
"There's Michael Chiarello", I said to my wife, trying to act casual since she is the one who informed me, in therepy, that I am in fact a "fame whore" . She's right of course. I confess I am a total fame whore. If you and I are sitting in a restaurant having a deep conversation and Mario or Thomas Keller, or Nigella Lawson walked in, I would totally blow you off mentally and be thinking about what that person is thinking and doing and saying because they are who they are and they are famous and they hold the secret of food wisdom somewhere deep within their sparkling personalities.
Hi, My name is Jordan Winer and I am a fame whore.
But God is testing me because I am always seeing famous people! Chiarello walked right up to me in his store about two months ago and started telling me about the salvaged cigar rolling blocks I was looking at. "Aren't these great? " he said with that big smile and casual tone, like you're in his house and he's welcoming you with a cold drink, "I found these in Germany, I keep cigars at the house so, this is sort of a conversation starter, if anyone can figure out what it is- they get a cigar."
And I actually bought one for 65 bucks. And it is a conversation starter.
Then the next week at Bouchon in Yountville, Thomas Keller walked bumped into me as I came in the door.
But last night I stayed focused. I glanced only a few times at Chiarello being led down into the hidden wine cellar. Chiarello slapping hands with the Maitre 'D.
The onions helped. Just on a whim, Rebecca ordered a side dish of "Suckling Cippoline" and I went with it, figuring it'd be those little flying saucer shaped onions, maybe carmelized with some Balsamic. Whip-ee.
But these were a modest revelation. The onions themselves were white and no bigger than garbanzo beans. They had their roots attached like tiny whiskers. Best of all, their green stalks were still on too, so they were a wonderful tangle of mermaid hair with the little glistening pearls of the onions hidden like jewels.
They were only sauted in oil, but they were the best thing about the meal. They crunched like greens and got caught in your teeth, and were so young a sprout that they only hinted at the mature onion heat and taste. We twirled them on our forks like pasta, stirred them into the braised pork juice on our plate. In a meal that cost 125$ bucks, I will remember most these onion sprouts which probably set them back 2 dollars. Perhaps that says something about Italian food. Or simplicity, or something.
Yes dessert was nice. The crostata I spoke of, with Honey-Lavender ice cream that was as deep as Purgatorio, and as soft, and blonde as the hair of Dante's beloved Beatrice.
But nothing was more poetic than the onions. With their roots in the underworld, and their sprouts heaven bent, I can still taste them now.
As we left, Chiarello was paging through the wine list the size of a phone book. He'd been there half an hour, and still no wine. What price fame...
I do have one regret. Not that I didn't go over and say high, or get an autograph, or thank him for inspiring me to cook this or that... I should have just approached him, as one eater to another, and suggested he order the cippoline. I hope he did.
From the point of view of the onions, we are all the same.
But his restaurant is great. An Italian, Dante-themed place with nothing familiar on the menu. No meatballs, no marinara, no Carbonara, but lots of house made head cheese, tuna-proscuitto and roasted lamb necks. No Cannoli, instead you find olive leaf panna cotta softer than the divine thighs of Beatrice herself, and a plum crostata with a crust so soft, grainy, and flaky all at the same time that you'd swear the pastry chef had sold her soul for her talent.
So my wife and I ate there last night with the unreachably high expectations with which we all go to restaurant these days, expecting revelations and epiphanies in each course. Impossible. Like the Molto man said himself (in his latest glossy cookbook which of course I have) the opening of a new restaurant has replaced the opening of a new play as pure anticipated event.
Last night Mr. Cosentino himself was behind the bar, plating desserts and appetizers, his mohawk lay flat, and he was more relaxed than he'd been with the TV camera and the big red haired god of Guanciale cooking across from him.
Appetizers were nice but not ethereal. A grilled peach buried in a snappy salad of wild arugula, and the cured proscuitto made of tuna was nice and fishy but too salty even for me, which is saying a lot as I sprinkle salt on everything but ice cream. And I've tried that too.
We both had the braised pork shoulder which was fall apart soft, laid on top of thin gondolas of grilled eggplant, half a roasted tomato, bread crumbs. It was very good. Satisfying.
Then in walked Michael Chiarello. Chiarello of the Napa Style stores and all the TV programs of him casually whipping up great feasts in his modest Napa Valley home. Founding chef of Tra Vigne and dude behind the first big cookbook I ever really cooked from and ogled over, "Casual Cooking".
"There's Michael Chiarello", I said to my wife, trying to act casual since she is the one who informed me, in therepy, that I am in fact a "fame whore" . She's right of course. I confess I am a total fame whore. If you and I are sitting in a restaurant having a deep conversation and Mario or Thomas Keller, or Nigella Lawson walked in, I would totally blow you off mentally and be thinking about what that person is thinking and doing and saying because they are who they are and they are famous and they hold the secret of food wisdom somewhere deep within their sparkling personalities.
Hi, My name is Jordan Winer and I am a fame whore.
But God is testing me because I am always seeing famous people! Chiarello walked right up to me in his store about two months ago and started telling me about the salvaged cigar rolling blocks I was looking at. "Aren't these great? " he said with that big smile and casual tone, like you're in his house and he's welcoming you with a cold drink, "I found these in Germany, I keep cigars at the house so, this is sort of a conversation starter, if anyone can figure out what it is- they get a cigar."
And I actually bought one for 65 bucks. And it is a conversation starter.
Then the next week at Bouchon in Yountville, Thomas Keller walked bumped into me as I came in the door.
But last night I stayed focused. I glanced only a few times at Chiarello being led down into the hidden wine cellar. Chiarello slapping hands with the Maitre 'D.
The onions helped. Just on a whim, Rebecca ordered a side dish of "Suckling Cippoline" and I went with it, figuring it'd be those little flying saucer shaped onions, maybe carmelized with some Balsamic. Whip-ee.
But these were a modest revelation. The onions themselves were white and no bigger than garbanzo beans. They had their roots attached like tiny whiskers. Best of all, their green stalks were still on too, so they were a wonderful tangle of mermaid hair with the little glistening pearls of the onions hidden like jewels.
They were only sauted in oil, but they were the best thing about the meal. They crunched like greens and got caught in your teeth, and were so young a sprout that they only hinted at the mature onion heat and taste. We twirled them on our forks like pasta, stirred them into the braised pork juice on our plate. In a meal that cost 125$ bucks, I will remember most these onion sprouts which probably set them back 2 dollars. Perhaps that says something about Italian food. Or simplicity, or something.
Yes dessert was nice. The crostata I spoke of, with Honey-Lavender ice cream that was as deep as Purgatorio, and as soft, and blonde as the hair of Dante's beloved Beatrice.
But nothing was more poetic than the onions. With their roots in the underworld, and their sprouts heaven bent, I can still taste them now.
As we left, Chiarello was paging through the wine list the size of a phone book. He'd been there half an hour, and still no wine. What price fame...
I do have one regret. Not that I didn't go over and say high, or get an autograph, or thank him for inspiring me to cook this or that... I should have just approached him, as one eater to another, and suggested he order the cippoline. I hope he did.
From the point of view of the onions, we are all the same.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Solo Lunch, #3
Everything disappoints, except food.
1. You find out your oldest buddy is actually a homophobe when he gets a few pints in him at the baseball game and starts calling fans of the opposing team "Cocksuckers", and congratulating them on their timing, "hey you're in town just in time for Gay Pride Day!"
2. Your wife never reads your blog, once.
3. I find myself getting pissed off at my kids in the same fucked up, scary way that I my own dad did when I was a kid. At nothing for chrissakes.
Yes you might have a bad meal at a restaurant. You might cook yourself something bland, but then it's the cooking then isn't it, not the food?
Back to the Monterey Fish market. We should all eat more fish, especially from places like this. The place is no bigger than the average bedroom because they only stock what is seasonal and sustainable at the moment. I nod at the bearded wildman who gave me the wonderful anchovy lesson (see "Song of the Anchovy") I notice some beautiful Skate wings, cut in glistening half spans. The striations are gorgeous, so rippled you can see these things flying slow motion in the sea. It's 6.95$ a pound, easily the cheapest thing here.
Once about a decade ago, again in Boston at a little hidden away restaurant that Wendy my food guru and hero took me to called Sage, I had Skate ravioli with sage-brown butter and I have never forgotten it. I'm not adventurous enough for ravioli yet, but I buy half a wing.
"Anything else" the kind blonde haired fishmonger asks.
"Yes, tell me how to cook it."
After a short giggle, she says "you can saute it, maybe some brown butter, if you like capers, a a little garlic..it's a mild fish so it's gonna pick up any flavors you use..."
Cool. I stop in at the Monterey Market, greatest veg/fruit spot on earth. I buy green figs. I get house made bacon from Magnani's cut superthin. I don't know the plan at this point but I feel it's all heading somewhere coherent.
I get home, the skate has a thick piece of cartilege in the center, then thins out to just a blade at the edges.
I wrap the figs in bacon and put them on the grill. Can't be kosher. Oy.
Ack! My wing is sticking to the saute pan? Not enough butter? Pan not hot enough? Should I have dredged the flesh in a little flour? Now that I'm learning stuff, when I make mistakes I can at least have some options flash in my head of where I could have goofed. Progress?
I cover the pan and go get the figs. The bacon has crisped and stuck itself to the figs which look on the verge of exploding. They've gotta be hot inside.
I put my wing on the plate with the caper berries and garlic bits. I cut into the wing.
Huh? The knife won't go through it..
Duh. There is a totally flat but tough web of bone and cartilige in the exact middle. Of course, how else would they do that flying thing. I discover the easiest way is just to scrape the meat off both sides of this, against the grain and I end up with an ugly pile of meat. Cool, all its bones stay inside the cartilege flapper! This stuff would be perfect for stuffing into pasta...
Ugly, but tasty, is has a shellfishy quality, like a Lobster mated with a haddock and came up with this grey tasty stuff.
The figs are so outrageously sweet I have to drizzle some balsamic on them to balance that with the smoky sweet bacon.
Yes it would be nice to share this with someone. Everything is better shared of course. With that same friend who I went to the game with because he's probably the truest most faithful guy I know. With my dad who inspires me with his love of eating and improvisational cooking, with my wife who is probably my biggest fan in the world.
Maybe next time.
1. You find out your oldest buddy is actually a homophobe when he gets a few pints in him at the baseball game and starts calling fans of the opposing team "Cocksuckers", and congratulating them on their timing, "hey you're in town just in time for Gay Pride Day!"
2. Your wife never reads your blog, once.
3. I find myself getting pissed off at my kids in the same fucked up, scary way that I my own dad did when I was a kid. At nothing for chrissakes.
Yes you might have a bad meal at a restaurant. You might cook yourself something bland, but then it's the cooking then isn't it, not the food?
Back to the Monterey Fish market. We should all eat more fish, especially from places like this. The place is no bigger than the average bedroom because they only stock what is seasonal and sustainable at the moment. I nod at the bearded wildman who gave me the wonderful anchovy lesson (see "Song of the Anchovy") I notice some beautiful Skate wings, cut in glistening half spans. The striations are gorgeous, so rippled you can see these things flying slow motion in the sea. It's 6.95$ a pound, easily the cheapest thing here.
Once about a decade ago, again in Boston at a little hidden away restaurant that Wendy my food guru and hero took me to called Sage, I had Skate ravioli with sage-brown butter and I have never forgotten it. I'm not adventurous enough for ravioli yet, but I buy half a wing.
"Anything else" the kind blonde haired fishmonger asks.
"Yes, tell me how to cook it."
After a short giggle, she says "you can saute it, maybe some brown butter, if you like capers, a a little garlic..it's a mild fish so it's gonna pick up any flavors you use..."
Cool. I stop in at the Monterey Market, greatest veg/fruit spot on earth. I buy green figs. I get house made bacon from Magnani's cut superthin. I don't know the plan at this point but I feel it's all heading somewhere coherent.
I get home, the skate has a thick piece of cartilege in the center, then thins out to just a blade at the edges.
I wrap the figs in bacon and put them on the grill. Can't be kosher. Oy.
Ack! My wing is sticking to the saute pan? Not enough butter? Pan not hot enough? Should I have dredged the flesh in a little flour? Now that I'm learning stuff, when I make mistakes I can at least have some options flash in my head of where I could have goofed. Progress?
I cover the pan and go get the figs. The bacon has crisped and stuck itself to the figs which look on the verge of exploding. They've gotta be hot inside.
I put my wing on the plate with the caper berries and garlic bits. I cut into the wing.
Huh? The knife won't go through it..
Duh. There is a totally flat but tough web of bone and cartilige in the exact middle. Of course, how else would they do that flying thing. I discover the easiest way is just to scrape the meat off both sides of this, against the grain and I end up with an ugly pile of meat. Cool, all its bones stay inside the cartilege flapper! This stuff would be perfect for stuffing into pasta...
Ugly, but tasty, is has a shellfishy quality, like a Lobster mated with a haddock and came up with this grey tasty stuff.
The figs are so outrageously sweet I have to drizzle some balsamic on them to balance that with the smoky sweet bacon.
Yes it would be nice to share this with someone. Everything is better shared of course. With that same friend who I went to the game with because he's probably the truest most faithful guy I know. With my dad who inspires me with his love of eating and improvisational cooking, with my wife who is probably my biggest fan in the world.
Maybe next time.
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