Epicure

PSA

2010-05-22T12:26:00.003-04:00

There should be a post about foraging in North Georgia here, but it's not done yet. In the meantime, I'd like to make a humble suggestion to all recipe writers and publishers:
Stop writing recipes with volume measures for dry ingredients. Please. I've been making cookies weekly for work, and measuring cups and spoons are the single-biggest mess-maker in the whole process. Powdery ingredients like flour and cocoa spill easily, come in containers that can't accommodate measuring cups for scooping, and inevitably stick to said cups. Pouring ingredients like sugar is easier, but aiming to hit a small measuring cup is more of a challenge than a large mixing bowl on a scale, and sugar on the floor or counter is no fun. Converting from volume back to weight (how any recipe used by a professional kitchen/bakeshop measures ingredients) is imprecise. Scales are cheap. People learn. Measuring by volume inevitably looks like one of those "you're doing it wrong" infomercial segment, and I'm a professional.
Also: There are two types of cocoa powder, natural and dutched. One is acid, the other is alkaline, and they are used accordingly in recipes to maintain a certain acid/alkaline balance. Mix them up without making the proper pH adjustments, and your cake won't rise, or your brownies will taste funny. So could someone at Hershey's please explain to me the market for their new "premium" cocoa powder, "a select blend of natural and dutched cocoas?" No ratio given, some poor amateur baker, enthusiastic girlfriend--if I'm being sexist, the first man to email me about the cupcakes he made for his lady friend prior to this date wins a beer, courtesy of me--or excited child will grab this, see "dutched" go home, use it...and assume that baking is simply too hard, that it requires some deft, magic touch, special incantations, perhaps a conferring of the power from a high priest. Nope. Hershey's just wants you to buy more mixes.
Also: This is bullshit.Now to craft that into a well-thought-out, profanity-free letter to my councilperson.

Back.

2010-04-06T12:17:00.003-04:00

Sometime in November, I officially dropped below the radar. As days shrink, people seem compelled to spend the lengthening nights in each others' company--attended of course by food, drink, entertainment and revelry. We give the darkest months of the year to excess, and emerge blinking in the sudden light of a world resurrecting itself, with the promise that the grey and dark could inexplicably be beautiful, and soon.
From about November to January, I had, it seemed, only time for work, sleep and laundry. What little time I got with friends is remembered through a film of fatigue.

The past weeks winter has finally ebbed, and I have given more of my time over to exercise and gardening. I'm trying to rebalance, to work with more speed and drive and focus, and to leave it at the door. I am working to be a better cook and a person who can be something else when she's not.
Because cooks, sometimes, are assholes. When one person on the line screws up, other cooks can be merciless. I have seen a cook jabbed repeatedly for an entire shift over one early mistake, miscalculation or oversight. I've seen people fired for ostensibly trivial offenses. I've also seen every cook on the line pull a single person out of the weeds long before there's a problem. We accept these extremes--they're as much a part of the business as the crushing boredom early on a slow night and the pounding, ceaseless rush that goes on for hours.
I've learned so much over the past 6 months, but I have not become a better friend, partner or human. I'm trying to get back to that. I'm also trying to get back to this blog as a space to think, to explore ideas, and, if there's still an audience out there after my long absence, to communicate. Look for more posts soon.

Serenbe Farm Field Trip

2009-08-26T11:49:00.002-04:00

Tuesday most of the cooks and the sous chef at Holeman got the grand tour from Paige Witherington, the farm manager. As you might expect from a line cook field trip, there were a lot of dick jokes, laughter, and a little blood.

The farm at Serenbe is impressive; at just 3.5 acres, it produced 38,000 pounds of produce last year, all of it organic. At the height of the summer season, Paige told us they were harvesting over 500 pounds of of tomatoes every week, and the squash needed daily pickings to keep up with the plants.

In order to keep an organic farm healthy and productive on heavy Georgia clay, Paige practices the "3 Cs" of organic gardening: cover-cropping, crop rotation and composting. She likes buckwheat for its quick turnover--it flowers within 3 weeks of being planted-- and sunflowers. "Their taproots can get 12 feet long, so they break up the soil." And the residents of Serenbe love having all-you-can-pick sunflowers.

The field of heirloom tomatoes was surprisingly orderly, the vines tightly trellised in long rows. They grow red, white and green zebras, and massive Speckled Roman paste tomatoes. Paige picked two and handed them to one of the cooks. "Take these and ripen them. They're great, meaty tomatoes." Later that night, the striped giants had already acquired a vivid blush, well on their way. Heirlooms are one of the most sought-after crops of summer, and demand isn't the only reason they're expensive; Paige said that 2/3 of them don't even make it to market.

Another summer crop is sorrel, which Paige has sown in a patch that she's hoping to make perennial. We've been getting mixed sizes of sorrel leaves, mostly large ones, but the smaller leaves are tender and succulent, and the trademark sourness is more complex and herbal. Getting sorrel year-round would be great

This fall, Serenbe's customers can look forward to carrots, beets, celeriac and parsnips. "I've never grown parsnips here, so I'm really excited." Having grown addicted to parsnips in England, so am I.

An unexpected bonus was the herbs and flowers. We got nasturtiums for the tomato salad, borage flowers, which taste like cucumbers for the bartenders, and spillanthes or toothache flowers for the novelty. These last are like a cross between menthol and novocaine, numbing the mouth and causing serious drooling. Naturally, they found their way, chopped or whole, into wilted nasturtiums offered to unsuspecting staff members with the entreaty, "The wilted ones are more peppery. Try it!" I spotted the spillanthes before popping the nasturtium in my mouth. A waitress and the food runner were less fortunate.

We stopped by the inground trampoline on our way out, and hit up the Blue Eyed Daisy bakery for sandwiches before rolling back to Atlanta and our Tuesday night shift.

I don't think it's late blight

2009-07-17T13:30:00.002-04:00

But some sort of fungus has infected my tomatoes, and after a week of non-growth, I had to pull two of my three plants. This article is freaking me out a little.

Also, made peach ice cream. Lessons learned:

Mark Bittman's French ice cream recipe, plus peaches is too big for my ice cream maker.

Fruit added at the end will stay intact, but fruit pulverized into the base makes for a pretty good ice cream.

The flavor is good, but the texture is grainy and icy. Whether this is just a limitation with home machines, or a function of over-aerating the custard while it cooked and adding brown sugar at the very end (both of which seemed like ok ideas at the time) I have no idea.

Corn Chowder

2009-07-12T20:40:00.004-04:00

I took the notes on the soup chapter Friday, so this week is soup week. Corn is at the height of season right now, and a chowder in the summer is a challenge. Corn is a popular flavor base for chowder and as corn provides its own milk and the boiled cobs make a corny stock for a base. Chowders generally are based on seafood, thickened with cream and potatoes, and contain a salted pork product. To keep the soup light, I started with the corn stock, and eschewed the cream in favor of mexican homily for another corn flavor. I suspect that grits, polenta or cornmeal could have been used, but the texture would have been more rustic and less creamy. I used country ham pieces. I intended to go with bacon, but grabbed the wrong package at the market. It ended up working better when I diced bothe the fat and the lean separately. I left the lean raw and fried the fat cubes in a very hot pan, and garnished with both. Here's the method:

Take the kernels off the cob, and roast with butter and salt. Milk the cobs with the back of a knife into a stockpot. Put the cobs in the stockpot with carrot and celery, cover with cold water and bring to a simmer for 30 minutes. Reduce if necessary.

Chop country ham scraps and render. Sweat onion in the fat. Pour the corn stock over, add half the roasted corn and simmer for 30 minutes. Remove the ham scraps and puree. Add the rest of the corn and bring to a simmer.
Taste and season.

Cut country ham fat and lean separately into a small dice. Heat a pan with a littlle olive oil till the oils just starts to smoke and fry the fat until brown and crispy. Use equal amounts fat and lean to garnish.

The chowder had a strong corn flavor with porky, salty undertones from the ham fat. I like my corn chowder a little sweeter, so I added some reduced cream I'd been simmering just in case. I'll see how it is tomorrow.

We need to talk

2009-07-10T12:39:00.005-04:00

Since I've gotten back to Atlanta, I've heard some great news. More and more friends are gardening, expanding their gardens, or getting loads of produce from parents who have expanded theirs. This enthusiasm for frugality, freshness, and communing with one's food warms a chef's heart.

Yesterday a friend of mine passed on some of the bounty from his parents' garden: a big bag each of squash and okra, and a quart of cherry tomatoes. Having had no good tomatoes in England, I was so excited to get them out of the fridge this morning: Sungolds, little baby red pear tomatoes, all brought back memories of the first summer tomatoes last year at Woodfire. As I cut them for our salad, something seemed...wrong. My paring knife could have been sharper, I suppose, and I used to halve little tomatoes on a cutting board, but it wasn't about the routine, it was the tomatoes. I cursed. The tomatoes were cold.

As we're coming into tomato season, and as I love the tomato with all the tenderness one can lavish on a vegetable, I feel compelled to speak out. Tomatoes are delicate and complex. Their unique, multi-faceted flavor comes from an enzyme system that plays out under the skin as soon as they start to ripen. The interactions between the enzymes give tomatoes their widely variant flavors, their singularly pungent aroma, and that bright, almost sparkling quality on the tongue found only in tomatoes off the vine.

Depending on the enzymes involved, refrigeration either slows or halts the chemical reactions. The smell goes first, then that effervescence, and if the tomato is still cold when you eat it, the tomato itself will taste flat, almost like a supermarket or winter tomato.

When I was taught about the enzyme system, I was told that after refrigeration, nothing can be done. It turns out that's not completely true. Within a few hours, it starts going again, albeit slowly and incompletely. A few days, and it's almost back to normal. I do recall reading that there's one particular enzyme that never recovers, and that may be true.

What's the right thing to do? Store them in a single layer at room temperature: sheet pans are great for this. If you have more tomatoes than you think you know what to do with, here are some ideas:

Make a tomato salad, salsa, or sandwiches.

Roast tomatoes, along with any hard herbs you may have laying around, and freeze them in their oil. Use them later for sauces or to spoon over meat, fish, or other veg.

Can them

Make tomato sauce or paste, and freeze it. Works great for tomato soup too.

Halve them, and dry them on a silpat in a low oven. Keep in oil.

Make tomato jam

Pan con tomate. For breakfast with a cafe con leche.

Give them to me. Maybe I'll give you back a jar of something good.

Any other suggestions?

Can I have my stuff yet?

2009-06-14T06:08:00.002-04:00

While we moved a pallet of our most essential belongings over here, we left behind about twice that, scattered among our parents' homes, friends kitchens and backyards. I haven't yet bid my tearful "See you in six weeks." to my cast iron--I've got a farewell batch of cornbread planned for tomorrow night--but we're slowly whittling down to the wok, frying pan and saucepan that sustained us for our first month in the flat.

This makes my reader--and Mission: Professional Chef--a frustrating experience. I want to tick off brown stocks and sauces in my project book, try any of the awesome-looking grilling recipes in gourmet's June issue, make rhubarb mustard or try my hand at canning. When a chef finds herself unable to cook, stir-craziness can only ensue.

So here are some links. Try what's in them for me, won't you?

I want to try the sweetbreads, the chicken kebabs, and the pork roast NOW. I think that the rest can actually wait five minutes, but no more.

For foragers.

My quince mustard from the fall? Still awesome.

Canning in the NYT. Given the recession and the drive to minimize waste in the kitchen, tactics like preserving and foraging seem poised to become very popular, at least in the press. I loved curing bacon and making sausages; canning seems like a natural extension of the same ethos to make the most of what we have, and a great way for chefs to keep menus exciting by putting little whispers of last season's bounty on the plate.

This doesn't make me drool. But Nan helpfully reminded me of it in her comment to my last post. If you've got time on this Sunday, read about the challenges to our ocean life. If you just want to find out what to get for dinner, click on the seafood guide. If your fishmonger can't answer the necessary questions that you'll have about the source of your fish, don't buy. I know that the Dekalb farmers' market in Atlanta used to display lots of information about the fish that it sold.

I've really gotta get back to staring into space and dreaming of what I'll do with a charcoal grill, a smoker, and a giant stock pot.

POSTSCRIPT!

I nearly forgot--I will likely be in Hilton Head in the next few weeks. I usually try to find markets, exciting if inexpensive restaurants, and fun foodie things to do, and I have little luck finding these things on my own. I will not be there over the weekend. Any suggestions?

Piggybacking

2009-06-07T08:11:00.002-04:00

A new blog that I'm following is Ecoculinaire, written primarily by Nan Kavanaugh, partner of Scotty Schwartz, the Chef at 29 South in Fernandina Beach, FL. When I was still in school, Scotty hooked me up with the chef at PLaE for a stage during my spring break, and then generously brought me down to 29 South to work for a week in his kitchen. We've kept in touch intermittently, and the last news that I heard was that he was going local, probably a little over a year ago.

There's local, of course, and there's planting a year-round garden out back to supply your restaurant. Nan is the garden manager, and started Ecoculinaire a couple of weeks ago. Her blog posts are focused and well-written, and she clearly loves writing about the restaurant, the garden, and larger food issues. Her most recent post, on markets, has me excited to get back to the first one I can in Atlanta.

Here in Coventry, and indeed throughout Warwickshire and the West Midlands, the farmers' market comes monthly. There's some good food available, but eating locally and sustainably has to be a hobby--even in the winter, most veg won't last a whole month. As someone who was pretty good at sourcing food, people who treated it like something that I did for fun, or something out of a pyramid scheme--"But how do you really know that the animal was raised humanely?"--had to be the most irritating response. When people view the responsible acquisition of their food as akin to a love of canoeing or needlepoint, they have no reason to examine what's in their refrigerators, how it got there, and at what cost.

As I was shopping at the supermarket yesterday, I was surprised twice: once when there was no garlic, which I didn't think was possible at a supermarket, and again when I saw wild Alaskan salmon on offer, for a price that, considering the exchange rate, was pretty competitive.

The state of English fish stocks is notoriously dismal; a cookbook I was reading this morning conjectured that soon the only fish that could be legally caught would be mackerel. Cod struggles, salmon has to be farmed, and fish like pollack and mackerel, which are actually abundant, are being roundly ignored by all but amateur fishers and responsible chefs. Wild salmon in America are faring little better, with the southern seasons getting shorter and shorter, or cut off altogether. The demand then turns to Alaskan stocks, which will, if history is any indicator, soon find themselves in the same situation. It's not responsible right now to fish too much Alaskan salmon, or to offer it in supermarkets over 6000 miles away.

The English are moaning at the moment: everyone loves salmon, and fish and chips apparently can't be made with any of the incredibly similar members of the cod family that have healthy populations. What are we to do?

Suck it up. Learn to eat more than two to three species of what the oceans produce. Encourage responsible fish farming or shelve your salmon recipes for the next five years or so. And then when you can eat it again, make it a treat, like anything that rare should be.

Profit

2009-05-14T20:24:00.003-04:00

At my current job, we live and die by the spreadsheet. I weigh everything, quantify recipes, and oh god, I know my formulas.
At my last job, when I wrote down recipes, it looked like a shopping list. Everything was to taste, and quantities were reserved for perhaps 20% of the recipes I was given there. By all accounts, Woodfire was in a more comfortable position than Millsy's. What gives?
Honey and I had a couple beers last night and hashed this dilemma out. This is what we came up with:
Years of experience: Tuohy has over 20 years of experience, and worked extensively in hotel kitchens. If you're going to find a costing spreadsheet, it'll be in a kitchen that is as varied and high-volume as a hotel's. I surmise that after awhile, a chef memorizes the costs of certain basic recipes, the same way that we memorize that a vinaigrette is 3 parts oil to 1 vinegar.
Premium price: Woodfire was fine dining. Millsy's? No. Sure, diners were paying a premium for unique, exciting ingredients, but as we were always told, they were also paying for them to be cooked and presented perfectly. If that's the model, then telling the cook (who is to be preparing and plating every dish to exacting standards) to make a sauce to taste assumes some variability, and the higher price covers that. In a perfect world, that means that the cook making your food can accommodate lovely, inconsistent products. Skill costs in every industry: in a restaurant, it costs the chef in wages, and in the dining room it costs the guest. But when a dish is consistently amazing, everyone's happy.
Waste, menu, and stock. We record every gram of wastage at Millsy's, so that the accountants can square our numbers. You can guess how this worked at Woodfire. Woodfire's menu also changed daily. Crate of corn in the walk-in? Guess how many places you'll see corn in the next three days. People tend to assume that a daily menu is some insurmountable task, that every dish on the menu changes daily. A daily menu means that chefs have the flexibility to find as many ways to sell what's in their walk-in before it goes off as possible.
Millsy's is also a bar, and like several of the restaurants where I've worked over here, if we run out of something, we have to buy it from the supermarket next door. It was probably easier to keep track of the kitchen costs at Woodfire.
Any other ideas?

Old post!

2009-05-14T20:16:00.002-04:00

I usually get all excited about publishing a new post, as my razor sharp editing skills have...declined since graduation, and I'm a perfectionist.
Earlier tonight though, I stumbled upon a post I wrote after last Mother's Day. for the life of me, I can't figure out why I didn't publish it. Here's a link, if you're interested.

Learning outside the restaurant

2009-05-05T08:05:00.002-04:00

I just finished the notes for chapter 25 of The Professional Chef, on cooking vegetables. It was by far the most intensive sitdown with the tome yet. After reading McGee, one thinks about fast vs. slow ways to cook veg and wet vs. dry. I came to the conclusion that were probably about eight different ways to get a vegetable from raw to finished. TPC lists ten. The difference seems trivial, but when committing to memory the advantages, disadvantages and rules for each one, ten feels like a lot. And I haven't even gotten around to the cooking yet.

Restaurant work, especially in a kitchen that doesn't change menus frequently, or approach dishes with ambition, can get tedious, and it's important for a chef to keep learning, even if it's got to be done at home. This week, I've found quite a few motivators to get me cleaning my fridge out at home, and trying things I don't get to try at work.

On working clean: I used to be a damn mess in the kitchen. Then one Saturday night I got the tongue-lashing from the chef. The rest of the week, the sous chef would come over at the correct times during service, and say "You might want to take this time and wipe down." At work now, I don't have a station, and keeping the whole kitchen clean is a sight harder than wiping down one station after every pop. But it makes such a difference, it's breathtaking.

Ratio I didn't get in on the chart and scale giveaway--I need new glasses more than a new cookbook, sadly--but I want this book. So much. Ruhlman's posts about the ratios and the variations one can get from them only fuel my longing. I love kitchen math, and ratios have always been the easiest way for me to make the same thing time after time. I can't wait to see what he's come up with.

Nostalgia?Perhaps. I learned a lot from Tuohy at Woodfire. I remember how amazing the vegetable ragout was, especially as it changed with whatever we had. I also remember the initial tedium of peeling favas, and the accomplishment I felt as I got better and faster at it. Tomorrow morning, I'll be at the market, looking for some asparagus, broad beans (what they call favas here) and spring peas.

Mission: Professional Chef: On Folding

2009-05-01T19:45:00.003-04:00

No, I haven't made an angel food cake. Cake bakery terrifies me. Years of cheap ovens in cheap rentals have instilled a solid love of the braise, and an automatic distrust of promised success in anything as unforgiving as pastry.

This is where working as a chef comes in handy. That which I would avoid at home (where I have a functional oven for the first time since I left the nest), I am forced to do as a matter of prep. My love of measuring things has earned me the dubious honor of "dessert queen" in the kitchen, and thus I find myself making tiramisu and chocolate souffles a couple of times a week.

This, combined with the fact that my promised pay rise is tied to our ability to meet our forecasted GPs (gross profits) has made me fanatical about yield. To wit: I costed tiramisus at a yield of 15 from a recipe. My current--delicious--record is 18. But in the hands of a less-practiced chef, we got a grand total of 12. Obviously, this affects our margins.

My secret is in the folding, and Professiona Chef reminded me of finer points of technique that I'd learned long ago from an Alton Brown program. Folding carelessly or roughly deflates the egg whites, reducing total volume from a recipe. Here, as far as I'm concerned is the proper folding technique:

1. Mix all the heavy stuff together. This should really include everything but the egg whites or whipped cream used to lighten the final product. Taste. It should be delicious, if a little intense.

2. Beat your lightener to the desired consistency.

3. Immediately fold 1/4 to 1/3 of the lightener into the heavy stuff. Go for incorporation more than ethereal texture, but don't batter the lightener into flatness.

4. Fold your now-lighter flavoring mix into the rest of the lightener. Pour into the final pan or mold as quickly and gently as possible.

The above technique has the advantage of bringing the consistency of an often-heavy flavoring mix/component closer to the consistency of fluffy, light, and fragile egg whites or cream. It's easier to fold, and you keep the volume. And in a restaurant, that means two things: a guest ecstatic at the juxtaposition of lightness in texture and richness in flavor and higher actual than forecasted profits.

Plus the cook saves time through saved effort combining two diametrically opposed solutions. Also, I feel like a badass when I get more yield than I predicted. Score one for The Professional Chefas a casual reference.

Mission: Professional Chef: Eliminating Waste

2009-04-22T04:43:00.002-04:00

Chefs who like employment quickly learn to limit waste as much as possible. Any scrap that can be used should be. In a restaurant kitchen a wide variety of techniques is needed to get the most out of what you buy. Whole chickens are ordered, and broken down by cooks, to yield the usable cuts at half the price, plus material for stocks that go into sauces, risottos, soups, or staff meals. Vegetable scraps are saved for the same purpose. Restaurants that budget for staff food can use excess to feed the staff, and through the magic of accounting lose less than if the food were wasted. Specials are created to use excess food.

Unsurprisingly, the vast majority of wasted food in the West comes from the home. With the recession upon us, and my ambition to incorporate the chef's techniques in every facet of my cooking, avoiding waste becomes mandatory. So when I tired of taking notes about what I'm cooking, I looked to the bananas on the counter.

Bought for Honey's breakfast, I knew from their dull allover brown that they were gorgeously ripe. Unfortunately, I still haven't exorcised my food prejudice against bananas, and years of uniform, blemish-free, flavorless food in megamart produce departments have conditioned Honey against brown fruit. So banana nut bread it was. I got a couple of loaf tins and ingredients for the PC's recipe and then I weighed my bananas, a preliminary step that probably should have been undertaken before I left for the shops.

I had 1/6th of the banana needed for the recipe. This was fine; it worked out to one loaf, would get plenty of flavor and moisture from four bananas. I even tried a little of the raw fruit while I was making the batter. I'm not buying a bunch for myself anytime soon, but it wasn't disagreeable.

For the purpose of my project, I learned the blending method, mixing solid and liquid ingredients separately, and then quickly combining. As soon as they come together, they go in the pan and then the oven. Generally, the blending method is used for chemically leavened quickbreads that are supposed to be moist and tender. Mixing thoroughly works against this in two ways: liquid activates the leavening before cooking--since it's a chemical reaction, each recipe has a finite amount of lift-- and overmixing develops gluten in the flour. And nobody wants tough muffins.

The resulting bread convinced me that bananas could be delicious. Especially when the bread was toasted with butter--Grandma's poundcake treatment. Or toasted and turned into a peanut butter sandwich.

Mission: Professional Chef: More than you can chew

2009-04-15T04:04:00.001-04:00

The early stages of any project are marked with vast ambition. Last year I planted about ten different tomato plants of four or five varieties, and three kinds of peppers in our friends' back yard.

Professional Chef was no different. I saw no reason that every part of my meal couldn't contribute to my ultimate goal. Sooner begun, sooner done, right?

What I'd forgotten since my university days is that everything has a process and laying the foundation is the most labor-intensive part of learning. In the case of Professional Chef, taking notes about steaming vegetables, braising lamb and making chicken stock would be terribly disjointed if I neglected to cover the details of mis en place and prep technique. I decided this after buying for our dinner and starting the meal.

The lamb stew was good, the steamed sweet potato and rutabaga played nicely with it, and the brown rice pilaf was...edible. I'm allowing myself some do-overs in the name of perfection. I've gotten about halfway through the relevant sections of the text, finishing the veg mis en place chapter the other day.

Veg mis en place was really helpful. That's where I found the basic knife skills, information that isn't complex or difficult to remember, but is vital. It made for easy and highly productive note-taking, and even found me, Ms. anti-superfluous garnish, fluting a mushroom the other night when we were slow.

I still need to cover the actual cooking of the veg, and the mis and method for the rice. Since then I've cooked quickbreads (notes taken), bechamel (not yet), and I'm finding it much easier to cook through the book than to keep up with the notes.

But the slog continues. There are only so many mise chapters after all. Surely my pen will catch up with my pans eventually.

Mission: Professional Chef

2009-03-30T19:01:00.005-04:00

I've heard it for years. After I got in Scotty's car at the Jacksonville airport in March of 2006, and he sold me on bypassing culinary school. From Chef, every few months when I asked what I should be doing. From linecook on his blog last month.
"Buy Professional Chef, and cook through it. Learn all of it."

Professional Chef is the CIA's textbook. It's big. It's a little intimidating. It's kind of expensive, at least new. For nearly three years, I rationalized spending the money on expensive produce, beer, and to a far lesser degree, kitchen tools. Then I learned to play poker.

My first week here in Coventry, Honey taught me the game at the picnic tables outside the hotel we called home. Two introverts in a pub need a pretense to meet locals, to talk to people, and getting pissed enough to get over our shyness isn't a winning strategy.

It took months, but I'm now consistently decent at poker. I do well at the league game, but the cash games bring out the worst in me. I'm impatient, I try to bully new players, and inevitably get beat by someone I can't read. Finally, two weeks ago I committed. I was going to win money. I would stick it out through large chip stacks and small. I even kept myself from trying to scare off the new guy at the table--a good move, as he was a hell of a poker player. Fours hours later, I won £30 after accounting for our buy ins.

I'd lost my paring knife in February. The temptation to replace it was strong. But my need to improve myself finally, finally won out. Reader, I bought the book. It arrived a few days later, waiting for me two feet from my front door, as though the postman could lug it no further.

It's massive. I threw it down on the pass at work with the announcement that if my fellow chefs--who have heard my unequivocal pronouncements that one cannot put members of the brassica family in stocks and demi glace, that a vinaigrette does not contain that much mustard and can't be made with just malt vinegar--thought I was obnoxious before, they were in for a world of hurt. The plates under the pass rattled. The CD in the stereo skipped. The new commis chef chuckled nervously.

I've bought two notebooks, and will buy a third for the portion of the book that deals with ingredient identification and food safety. I have taken detailed notes on the mise en place and method for stocks, the mise for meat, and tomorrow on the preparation of grains and legumes, the blending (or muffin) method, braising, and steaming. I will work my way through the entire 1200-page tome, taking notes and committing to memory everything that I need to know.

My job here has been frustrating at times, and less rewarding and educational than my year at Woodfire. I am resolved that the next time I have to find a new one, to be confident in my role as chef. Expect updates.

The special you'll never eat

2009-03-03T05:13:00.002-05:00

Every cook coming up the line knows her limitations; those areas where knowledge, experience or palate are lacking. The kitchen, or at least a good kitchen with a good chef, is not forgiving, and if you operate in oblivious unawareness of your shortcomings, you won't do so for long.

I'm not a fish person. I like to eat pork and vegetables. Baking, charcuterie, the types of cooking that take time and care well in advance in order to be successful are where I'm happiest. Fish is generally fast: cook it quickly, and just enough to be tasty. Serve it simply, with light flavors so that the guest tastes the fish he's paying for first. In the world of line cookery, fish requires skill. Also, it's expensive.

Or at least that's how I see it. There's a high likelihood that I've made a bogeyman out of fish cookery. And I want it to stop. Yesterday we got a shipment of red mullet. The chef was out and it wasn't on our specials board. I talked with our senior chef de partie--an admitted fish-hater--about what to do with it.
"What's it taste like?"

"It's awful. Very, very earthy. But the skin stays that gorgeous red colour. Maybe a risotto?"

"Hmmm. or something with orange and olives."

I went on my break and thought about risottos with fish. The idea has never quite appealed to me, but a citrus risotto with an earthy fish fillet sounded promising. And I could introduce the senior chef de partie to gremolata, one of my favorite garnishes for it's ability to lighten and elevate the flavor of dish without overpowering it, and to bring more colour to the plate.

My risotto was too lemony, so it took a lot of butter to bring it back to the proper flavor, and the the fish--seared on the skin side, and finished in the low section of the grill with cracked pepper--stuck to the pan, so I lost that beautiful skin, but the whole dish tasted great. I'd like to add peas to it if we served it.

It won't make it onto the specials list, though. I'm a commis chef, and my duties don't include creating a special. A fish risotto would be pretty out of the ordinary for us. And as today is my day off, I'm not there to make the case to the junior chef de partie and the head chef.

But it was good fun on a slow Monday night. I liked the fish that I made. I'm curious to try other preparations, fish and shellfish.

In other news, I want:
On the Line. I've been looking at the excerpts all morning, and it looks so good.
Ratio. Not out yet, but looks like one of those really useful books.
A bigger case for knives and tools. I haven't found one I like yet, but I'm typically indecisive.

Green Eggs!

2009-02-22T08:35:00.005-05:00

I had the rare Sunday off, and Honey and I were hungry. It was one of those days when what's in the fridge is all technically food, but whether or not it can make a coherent meal is debatable.

The cook's mind immediately goes to fantasies in the face of potential breakfast and an empty stomach. I wanted gofio pancakes, either sweet with fruit, or savory with dried porcinis. No milk, no porcinis, and only a sad banana, killed that dream.

All our cheap knives--which I'm not wild about after the dull chef's knife turned and cut my middle finger a couple of weeks ago--were dirty. So I decided a knife-skillsless meal would be a good idea.

Pancetta scraps, a grated potato and enough time to render fat and wash some dishes yielded passable hash browns.

About a half-cup of Canarian mojo verde, an ounce and a half of grated pecorino that needed to be used weeks ago, and three eggs made an olive-drab omelet batter.

This omelet was not about proportion, delicacy or technique. It was about making three eggs for two people into a meal that would keep us satisfied for more than an hour and using food that would otherwise have been wasted. It was also about being damn tasty, and I plan to keep up this practice of using sauces as omelet-extenders in the future.

American and British breakfasts are meat-heavy affairs, and I completely agree with Mark Bittman about the necessity to consume less meat. I've tried to start treating meat more like a condiment. Since this means adding bacon or pancetta scraps to nearly everything, Honey hasn't complained. And since I'm using pieces that would otherwise be thrown away, we're reducing our waste. Green eggs indeed.

Now if only we could get around to eating more of our leftovers while they're still edible...

Food News and Links I Like

2009-02-12T12:16:00.005-05:00

USDA trims patas negras, doubles price:

Drunken Animals in the NYT

New Orleans Cookbook

Or you could call it recipes for a recession: Cheap Lentil Ragout and Pasta.

Lots of NYT links this time around. I'm cleaning out my reader after the honeymoon. Expect more from Serious Eats and Ruhlman later.

Missing the Point

2009-02-11T07:28:00.002-05:00

In the book that I'm reading, Terry Pratchett describes a desk:

"There was a blotter on the oversize desk, but it was part of it, fused to the surface. The drawers were just raised areas of wood, impossible to open. Whoever had made the desk had seen desks but clearly hadn't understood deskishness."

Sometimes, bellying up to the English table makes me feel like sitting at this fictional desk. Sandwiches in coffee shops are freshly made every day. In factories, and then shipped in. The gourmet sandwiches advertise applewood cheddar--whatever that is--next to "reformed ham."
Pubs make their food fresh, according to recipes in the Ma Broon's cookbook. Then they store the food in a residential refrigerator and reheat it in a microwave to order. Pie and pasty shops advertise deliciously slow-cooked fillings, well-seasoned. They arrive par-baked and frozen at the shop, and a baked the day of service. This is advertised as "fresh baked." A commercial that I'm watching right now is marketing frozen salmon as the sort of high-quality product that deserves the simple treatment. Without salt. I've seen lots of cured meat labeled as salami or chorizo, but it bears no resemblance to what I've had in Spain or in fine delis. Most of it is obviously salted, cooked meat stuffed into casings.

There is a lot available here that looks like food, but it seems that an understanding of foodishness is lacking. Gorgeous Scottish or Welsh salmon could be shipped fresh to the entire country within 24 hours of being caught-there's no need to freeze it. Surely the students who work in the coffee and pie shops can assemble sandwiches and learn how to cook. And as we're fewer than 100 miles from Tamworth, namesake of the famous pigs. Perhaps we could use ham that doesn't sound like it's been on the wagon for awhile?

I'm aware that these little deceptions occur in America, but I know the language to find them there. My only salvation has come from knowledge of processes generally employed.

I've tried to be gracious and inoffensive to the country that's generously hosting me and employing me. But my inability to find the quality food that I know is produced here is frustrating. The acceptance of unpalatable food in tins and jars, just because it's sold by a high-street grocer, is a disservice to a nation that's in need of healthy, honest food. And after six months I feel like accepting these practices condones them.

I'll bring the hot sauce...

2009-01-01T16:38:00.004-05:00

I might be romanticizing, but the food, drink, music, art and other aspects of culture in a place are fascinating, and separate one otherwise indistinct place from another. Since we've moved across the ocean I've pretty much stuck to English and Continental food, with the occasional foray into Chinese, per Honey's newfound interest. I love Southern food, and I still cook a good Southern meal about once a month, but without the stoneground grits, the gorgeous pink turnips stunning array of winter greens, it just doesn't feel, well, Southern.

Of course a lot of major components to the Southern meal can be found in England, and that's what I've tapped whenever culinary homesickness strikes. For New Year's Day, I bought some spring cabbage, English cider, smoked streaky bacon--ham hocks can be found, but it requires more planning than I'd invested--and broke out the black eyed peas that came as part of our flat's furnishings. A little chunky tomato sauce went into the peas, in the hope that Honey would like them if they tasted less like peas. And my gorgeous, gleaming cast iron cornbread pan was pressed into service, along with the stoneground cornmeal from Riverview, smuggled in a Dutch oven back in July.

I should have made pepper sauce months ago, when we emptied our first bottle of olive oil, but I'm indolent at best, and the greens needed something. So I dredged up and modified a friend's hot sauce recipe: Equal parts cider and white vinegar, a good bit of cayenne: at least 4 tablespoons for about 250 mL, and about an equal amount of hot and sweet pimenton, mixed evenly. This is all based on taste, as I sure wasn't measuring while trying to make hot sauce, retrieve cornbread, and dish out peas and greens.

Sitting on the couch and eating for money and luck, with my good smokey hot sauce, humming "Unhappy" by Oukast, I felt comforted, even I daresay optimistic. And honey and won respectably at the casino the next night, so maybe there's something to these old rituals.

Or do you just like the uniform?

2008-12-25T20:18:00.003-05:00

When I first decided to walk down the long, doubt-ridden road to chefdom, I was fortunate. I'd already worked for about 18 months, under three very different chefs. Each of them, and at least one of the chefs at the Italian Restaurant gave me The Talk.

The Talk goes something like this:
"So you want to be a chef."
"Yup."
"Do you know what that means?"
"Yes."(Note to aspiring chefs: your answer does not matter here. Get used to that; in the future, you will be given the answer, whether or not you know it.)
"You will never spend New Year's Eve with your friends, Christmas Eve with your family, Valentine's Day with the one that you love, or Mother's Day with your Mom. You will not get a Friday or Saturday off for a party, no matter how important. Every Halloween, people will ask if you're dressed as a chef, and the answer will be no. You'll work 12 or more hours a day. You will get burns and cuts, and still have to work, and the scars probably won't go away. People will scream at you. A lot. You will fuck up. A lot. You will not have a successful relationship, unless you find another chef, or a saint. And no one will understand what it means when you say 'I'm a chef.' They'll think that you cook really well."

There are certain things that I would add to this, though it might scare potential chefs off from the gig.

You might never earn the right to be called "chef." More and more people get called chef--hell, I get called chef--without the responsibilities that real chefs have. You might find yourself as a line cook at 45, and line cookery is a young person's game. Your job is not just to cook: you must manage people and costs. You need to understand what happens in the dining room, and when it's broken, you must fix it. You need to know food: you must know how to fabricate meat, fish and veg, you must know not merely ethnic, but regional cuisines, and you need to know how to create at least a basic version of most dishes on command. You need to get every red cent (or pence) from every item in your kitchen, and you need to be comfortable harassing slackass cooks into doing the same. You need to be willing to stay up until 1 or 2 in the morning as a restaurant chef, and if you want to be a pastry chef, you'd better be ready to wake up at 3 A.M. You need to know how food gets to your kitchen, how to make that path more valuable to your bottom line, and where something exciting is that your competitors haven't found yet. You need to understand that if people call you Chef, everything that comes out of your kitchen has your name on it. You need to taste everything. All the time. And you need to be brutal with whoever made it, even if it was all you.

If you don't want to do that, if you're convinced that surely there's an easier way, I have to ask: Do you want to be a chef, or do you just like the uniform?

Recently, our breakfast commis, admittedly a kid, was bitching about the hours in December. When I put the above question to him, everyone else on the line assumed I was taking the piss, but it's a question to ask not only other cooks, but oneself.

I have a degree in journalism. I was a smart kid. My parents always wanted more for me, and I like to think that I have the mind for this nebulous "more." Nothing makes me feel better than working well in the kitchen, but I regularly burn bread, make basic procedural mistakes, and need advice for simple processes. I want to work my way up the line, but it's impossible both to be aware of my limitations and assume that I can go where I want to.

Being a chef requires both suspending doubt in one's abilities, and being painfully, constantly aware of one's limitations. The best chefs teach you this, and how to overcome it. They punish mistakes, lend confidence in the face of the unknown, and encourage you in your experiments. And even with the best chefs, you'd better be your own worst critic.

Tomorrow, what a chef, or aspiring chef needs in reading materials.

December in 101 words

2008-12-25T06:54:00.002-05:00

Landing from Atlanta, straight to work for nine days, sous chef quits, day off, seven days, friends from Brussels get embarrasingly poor service at the restaurant, day off, pork soup, carolers in an empty restaurant, easiest set menu EVER, wine for Christmas, new sous chef, grease fire with 26 guests in the restaurant, the show goes on, hockey game, ordering gifts for family back home, contracting the plague, day off, poker win, slow Christmas Eve, drinking with friends in their pub, waking up to potato pancakes, scrambled eggs, tomato sauce and pecorino and Authentic Mexican and The Essential Cuisines of Mexico.
Happy Christmas!

Information wants to be free; Mission Thanksgiving

2008-11-23T15:08:00.005-05:00

I'm visiting Atlanta and have made it to Woodfire, a farmers' market, a friend's restaurant by Oakland Cemetery and Northside. I totally failed at the Highlander, but am about to head to Little's. And maybe Whole Foods.

It's been four months since I possessed the knowledge necessary to eat really well. Having the meager money from my job has helped. But just being able to find good food honestly sold requires being networked through inefficient channels, and that takes time.

I'm reading a book on markets, and just finished a chapter that advocates information's uninterrupted (and thus free) flow in markets, and the existence of entities that facilitate that flow. And I thought about buying locally in Coventry. The terminology of farming and preparation are different. Chemical composition, not ingredient name, becomes the standard, and a constant source of doubt. Knowing as much about the foodways as I do here would certainly make life easier.

So to facilitate the flow of information to the Georgians who read this, here's a link to the Georgia Organics Directory. You can locate nearby markets, CSAs and restaurants, even a farmer if you need one. The printed version has the added bonus of being organized by location as well.

I get to shop because I've been asked to MacGyver a Thanksgiving dinner without a range or oven. My hardware consists of a grill, a smoker, a large outdoor burner, a small sauce burner, a slow cooker, a toaster oven, an electric skillet, a microwave, and possibly a torch. My software thus far is two turkeys of an as-yet-undetermined size, two paper grocery bags of various braising greens, and a few pounds of winter veg: turnips, radishes, parsnips and winter squash. I think I've got a line on some good stuffing. And I possibly have a satellite kitchen.

Now I just need to get a replacement notebook. I have lists to make.

Cowboy caramel, learning new methods and opening a restaurant

2008-10-27T03:53:00.004-04:00

I've been at the new job for a couple of days now, and I'm getting used to working again, to riding 2 miles to and from work, new coworkers, a new kitchen, and a new chef.

We start dinner service in a few days, so I've mostly been working on prep for my station while the other cook and the sous chef run breakfast and lunch services. My station is huge: salads, starters, pizzas and desserts. I feel like I'm in the weeds already, even though the chef has instructed the other cook, an incredibly capable chick, that she'll be helping me. I'm trying to keep positive: work this incredibly busy station, and I will get faster, more organized, clearer. My systema will be strong. I'm a natural optimist, but it's a challenge.

The prep list is daunting, and I can't see how it'll all be done before we open. Opening a restaurant, I've decided, blows like a hurricane. It's hectic, the lists have to be completed, and we only got a copy of the menu yesterday. A cook no-called no-showed on my first day, and was standing outside smoking when I rode up the next day. As a cook, I hate having to talk to cooks who are deep in the shit, usually about to get fired. Inevitably, there are the explanations, the rationalizations, the guesses of the clueless, the desperate questing about for some reason to hope, to believe that they won't soon be finding out how exciting the prospects are on the current job market. When it's a good cook who just made some mistakes, I feel bad, and wish that I could realistically offer some help, but I don't make the decisions. When cooks screw over the team out of laziness though, I just want them to get out of my way and let me do my job. Cooks are funny that way; most are pretty forgiving if you aren't a total fuckup, but screw over the team or half-ass it, even once, and you're already operating in the past tense. You're not here anymore, you're just in the way.

But yesterday was fun. We were slow during lunch service, and chef had me clear away my prep during lunch. He doesn't want any prep done during service, and I've got to get ready to transition from prep to service. Then, of course, we had the slowest lunch service ever. So he showed us how he makes risotto, pasta carbonara, and caramel.

We made risotto at Woodfire, and after a year there, I knew how to do it the Woodfire way. Cooking requires discipline, and if you're learning well, there's only one way to do something: the right way. So I tend to approach different methods with lots of skepticism. But I'm here to learn, and even though his method was different, and didn't look like it would work, the risotto was great. The ingredients weren't the super-special produce that we worked with at Woodfire, but it was simple, hearty and delicious. Especially as I hadn't eaten much that day.

The pasta carbonara was good to watch. It's a dish I've tried once, and predictably made scrambled eggs. I was surprised by how much the copious pepper brought to the dish, by the transience of the sauce--within about 5 minutes, it had broken, something to remember for service. It was also a simple rendition, a reminder as we recalled all the gussied-up versions with peas, mushrooms, meatballs, or cream for people who couldn't emulsify with eggs alone, that Italian cuisine is simple, meant to be whipped up at home, and as it's been exported, it's almost baroque in its complexity.

The caramel was for a special dessert on the lunch menu, and the chef made it "cowboy style" with just butter and caramel in the pan. It came together beautifully, and made me want to go home and try it myself. Of course that was before another six hours and a pizza lesson, complete with excited children. More on that tomorrow.

Notes

2008-10-20T12:25:00.004-04:00

We got bicycles last weekend. I rode about 13 miles Saturday and Sunday, and I think about 3 today. I can already feel my metabolism kicking up. I can't wait to be able to eat more without getting fatter.

I made quince jam. It's pretty nice, but 1 kilo of fruit makes a LOT of jam. My neighbors downstairs were supposed to get a jar, but didn't answer the door. Which sucks, because I want to try and make something else with quince before the season is over.

Purple-sprouting broccoli has shown up in the markets. I can't wait to get some.

Everyone who's spent time in Europe has told us that we'll miss real Mexican food. There appear to be about three types of dried chiles available in the markets, none of which I've ever seen in Hispanic and Latino markets in Atlanta. On an episode of The Restaurant--which I don't like as much as the first season, for the record--one couple actually served Doritos and green bean and carrot "burritos" to Mexicans. They had no clue why the Mexicans were insulted, and claimed that they couldn't make Mexican food because they didn't have a working oven. Right.

Leaving aside the obvious rant, today I found two sources for dried chiles, posole, masa harina, jamaica, tomatillos, and all the other wonderful things that I need to make actual Mexican food. Now I just need to temper my enthusiasm with some sort of budget, lest I spend my first paycheck on dried chiles.

Oh yeah, one other thing: after obsessing about it for days with no particular cause, I spotted Malabar Spinach at the Carribean stall in the market today. Coventry may not provide all the opportunities that Atlanta does, but the daily surprises are nice.

Thank You, Grandma

2008-10-19T17:02:00.006-04:00

When I was a kid, my little brother and I spent at least one evening a week with my mom's parents. Grandma grew up in the tobacco-farming (and last I heard, Nissan-manufacturing) mountains of east Tennessee, and was born smack-dab in the middle of the Great Depression. Theirs was not a rich family, despite the rumoured ownership of a Stradivarius violin--which perished in a fire.

As kids, one of our favorite dinners and Grandma and Papa's was creamed dried beef, known charmingly in the army as "shit on a shingle." Crispy toast, milky gravy, salty dried beef--cut up with scissors, natch--and not a vegetable in sight, it was easy food for kids to love. And last I checked, it cost about 50 cents a serving. I haven't had it in years.

I come to this because tonight I attempted Potted Hough. The British are big on potted proteins as a way of preservation. From what I can gather, they are finely chopped meats refrigerated either in a rich stock or butter (in the case of crab and shrimp.) They're usually served cold, but occasionally warmed and served on toast. After riding 8.5 miles today (see the other blog), I was not in the mood to wait until the paltry amount of stock I had jelled, and wasn't convinced that Honey would be in the mood for cold meat jelly after a day spent out in the brisk wind.

Tasting the Hough (Scottish for beef shin, apparently), I felt that I understand why this delicacy had stayed for the most part in Scotland. Highly spiced beef reminds me of medieval recipes involving eight or nine different warm spices, and a dearth of salt or acid. A cook never wants to disappoint, however, and I'm no different. After such a long day, I felt we deserved something nice. So what to do to this tepid beef to make it delicious?

And here the inspiration of Peggy Belcher's thrift food struck me: a slab of toast would save the beef from being a pile of mush on a plate, and soak up the admittedly rich beef broth. I even got a compliment from Honey.

So thank you, grandma, for teaching me about the food of thrift, and how to make something special out of something that most people would ignore.

Things I'm not in the mood to do:

2008-10-02T11:32:00.004-04:00

Work on another draft of the menu.

Start dinner.

Clean.

Write emails to chef, former coworkers, and family.
Call the butcher to secure venison mince.

Make gnocchi.

Convince English pubgoers to eat gnocchi, ragu and gremolata.

Correct the seasoning on my pumpkin soup.

Find something to do with a litre of aioli.

Check my bank balance.

Order a new steel, four six pans and a two-thirds pan from Nisbets.

Shower.

Clear my reader.

Go to my second shift tonight.

Things I'm in the mood to do:

Sit.

Eat Crisps.

Watch television.

Make unproductive lists.

I didn't know that it was possible to drool and cry at the same time.

2008-09-15T11:29:00.004-04:00

And then I saw this.

Gorgeous, isn't she? I don't know how it'll happen, but I intend to get to The Pit at the earliest possible opportunity.

The photo is off Jason Perlow's blog, Off the Broiler. If you're in the mood for serious barbecue porn, I'd recommend checking it out.

I had my own post, about my lunch, ready to go, but I think I'll wait a day out of deference to the 'cue.

Reading the New York Times in England

2008-09-14T08:29:00.003-04:00

We finally got our internet at the flat, so I've been trying to catch up with my reader. This story in the NYT is a good example of the singlemindedness that occasionally infects the people involved in local food movements.

We're optimists, there's no disputing that, and much of the experience of buying local food involves exciting discoveries: heirloom vegetables, unique produce or breeds that you can't find elsewhere--see ramps in the South--items that haven't been bought, and may not have been cultivated for decades, and new foods that some passionate soul has just dreamed up are all part of the experience of eating locally. We just can't understand why anyone wouldn't want these amazing products, or would accept homogenized industrial products instead of something with a funky flavor and an interesting backstory. And of course there's the old chestnut that if we want to make these foods that we love more available, more affordable and more attractive, we must do everything we can to support the people already producing them.

But professionals are not optimists, and neither are passionate, informed amateurs. The flours discussed in the NYT story may be exciting, delicious and the results of admirable community collaboration, but that doesn't make them commercially viable in a wide range of baked goods. I expect that there are many small-scale heirloom millers who read or were interviewed for this story who've stated that Americans just need to stop expecting these amazing products to make Wonderbread.

That's where optimism and infatuation with a unique, exciting food turns into singlemindedness, and singlemindedness is dangerous. Not for the predictable reasons; I don't care if local farmers resemble street-preachers, or get perhaps frighteningly enthusiastic about their products. I expect it. Their job is to sell what they make, and enthusiasm helps.

By insisting that these flours be used for yeast and starter-risen breads, or even for the usual quickbreads, one ignores some really interesting possibilities. What, these farmers, millers and bakers should ask, were these flours used for the last time that they were grown? Tracking down old cookbooks and recipes is a fulfilling pursuit, and by using the recipes to market the flour (and perhaps to produce value-added products themselves), the flour will be more attractive a purchase than something that tastes nice, but might make your loaf fall.

Another possible use for these flours that I see ignored is in dishes similar to arepas, porridges, and farro. Dishes that use wheat as a starch but not for a baked product are delicious and would surely show off the wheat's unique flavors and stoneground texture better than a grainy slice of what should have been sourdough.

The comparison in the article is made between heirloom flours and small-scale cheeses, and the implication is that the variability of these flours should be enjoyed, not a drawback. But cheese is used differently; a different aged cow's milk cheese on a cheese plate won't do any harm to the plate overall, unless it's rancid. Even when cooking, the chemistry involved in cooking with cheese often allows for a little variability, and the practiced cook can substitute one similar cheese for another with little worry that the sauce will break or that the dish won't taste right.

Baking is far more precise, but farmers, millers and bakers are not without options when it comes to marketing and using these flours in recipes that they're already familiar with. Just as the large flour companies test for gluten content (and other factors), so can artisanal producers test their own flour. If they don't want to adulterate their product--and they won't--by blending it with another wheat's flour, then they don't have to; just label the flour with the results of the test, and note which kinds or brands of flour are most similar to the flour they're selling at the moment. No one will then find themselves making a cake with a high-gluten flour or trying to re-create a chewy baguette with milled soft wheat. Customer satisfaction improves, customers come back for more, and lo and behold, heirloom flour becomes one more viable business model in the local food stable.

And darn it, now I really want to make some bread.

What I'm Eating:

2008-09-04T11:10:00.004-04:00

Y Fenni cheese: I got this at the Polish deli because it said "cheddar" in the description and was cheap. As the lady behind the counter lifted it, I saw what it was. It's made with whole-grain mustard and brown ale, and makes one hell of a grilled cheese sandwich. I think I'm going to make a gratin of potatoes with it for dinner.

Spring cabbage: Now summer cabbage. This is the closest that I can find to collard greens. When I'm feeling homesick (and industrious)I make my collards recipe: garlic, onions and chile flakes get sauteed, then made into stock with "smoked gammon joint"-- British for smoked ham hocks, but they're freakin' huge-- and British dry cider. Add the greens and braise and you've got the most proper Southern greens you can imagine.

Salsiccia Piccante and an unnamed Pecorino: Honey and I went to the Leamington Spa food festival on Sunday, and since Honey's favorite dessert is charcuterie and cheese, we picked up a big piece of salsiccia and a pecorino that I've never had before. Unfortunately, there are more pecorinos than there have been Italian governments, and I was remiss in writing down the name. We had a very Spanish dinner that night of salumi, cheese, and wine, with some gazpacho from the soupery. Mine's better, but it was a nice easy dinner.

Fried noodles with crispy belly pork and ginger and green onions: I suck at ordering. My instincts are good, but servers are never fast enough to keep me from second-guessing myself and ordering the most esoteric thing on the menu. Thus I have gotten mackerel when I should have ordered pork, tried to eat flat noodles in a broth with chopsticks, and all sorts of other nonsense. But after multiple visits to our local noodle bar, I was resolved. I would get the belly pork. I would order it with fried, not soup noodles, and I would not fuck it up with some crazy sauce. I stuck to my resolution and the result was the realization of a culinary dream.

What I'm Reading:

Simple Chinese Cooking: Honey saw a wok at IKEA for three pounds and his eyes lit up, so after a week of improvised noodle dishes (good for leftovers at the worst, awesome at best)I checked out this book. We made sweet and sour pork as a kind of special night in, and the Mongolian beef doesn't suck at all. Oh and there's a deep-fried egg recipe that rivals Theatre of the meat for it's entertainment value. Some of the recipes are a little less than traditional--the sweet and sour sauce uses chopped and sliced veg instead of pureeing the whole thing, but I've never minded the difference.

Writing at the Kitchen Table: I had to turn in French Country Cooking, and when I found this biography of Elizabeth David, I got all excited. Unfortunately, like so many good writers, the personality that comes through her books seems superior to the personality she actually had. She seems to have led an interesting life, born out of a wealthy family that could support her traveling, and her hatred of the traditional obligations of said wealth. But hey, maybe it gets better.

The River Cottage Meat Book: Another one that I promised to just go ahead and buy, but it's seeing a lot more use than the Taste of Britain, which is interesting if one has the context to use it, and poorly indexed. I wish there were more butchery in it, but it includes what looks a lot like a recipe for the belly pork mentioned about. As well as a few other tempting ones.

And today I'm checking out The Pauper's Cookbook, and Prue Leith's Cookery School. We'll see how they treat me.

Local Find: The Farmers Market!

2008-08-21T09:37:00.004-04:00

According to a website that has been consistently out-of-date, there was a farmers market last Thursday at Spon Street. I awoke hopeful, but dubious. Spon Street is very pretty, where they relocated all of Coventry’s remaining medieval buildings after the severe bombing during World War II. It’s now home to a few fine-dining restaurants and generally working-class pubs with convenient access to the nearby clubbing district. I haven’t seen much of it during the day, but it doesn’t get much foot traffic. Sure enough, when I showed up at 9:30, I found no farmers market.

Fortunately I’d been informed that there was a weekly “French market” in Kenilworth, and as the day looked pretty, and Kenilworth is always scenic, decided to go check it out. But if there had been a market, surely it hadn’t just disappeared, right? Any smart organization would have at least tried a better location. So I headed for the upper precinct. It may be a bit of a detour, but the window shopping is nice.

I got just past the library, almost to the fountain in the middle, when a glorious sight appeared: Pavilions, tables in front, striped awning fabric behind. I could see tomatoes. And bread! There was a farmer’s market after all! Of course I’d forgotten my camera, and I’ve been meaning to introduce more photojournalism to this little blog. So I turned around and hot-footed it to the flat, and made it back, camera in hand.
There was plenty of good stuff: crates and crates of eggs: chicken and duck, produce covering the ubiquitous spring onions, cauliflower, spring cabbage, tomatoes, strawberries, red currants and raspberries, sausages, smoked and cured meats from Tamworth pigs, lamb, pork and beef, artisan beers, ciders, fruit wines and cordials, bread, and the sign that excited me the most: cheese.

Sure, we had cheese at home. But it wasn’t farm-made. I got some traditional Warwickshire Truckley, smoked. It’s great, even if the smoke is unnecessary: pungent and chalky, just a touch flaky. I’m only sad that I didn’t buy the walnut bread to go with it.
I also got some spring cabbage, the closest-looking thing to collards. Hopefully since they’re both Brassicas, the flavour will be similar. And a giant smoked ham hock. I’m going somewhere with this, in case you haven’t picked up on it, and I’m trying to convince myself that it’s not worth going back for some of that artisan beer or cider. And next time, I’m trying the blue cheese.
I picked up a flier too, which seeks to convince the customer of the special nature of the products: all are produced within 30 miles, unless they’re a value-added product like honey, cider, bread or sausage: then the producers can come from up to 50 miles away. A producer (farmer, butcher, cider-maker or brewer) has to staff the booth to answer customers’ questions.
I don’t often write about the actual argument for local food: Honey and I debate it regularly, and it comes down to finding value in products that are grown or made near to you, in being able to talk to a farmer about his or her practices and products, and in believing that the symbolic statement of buying at a market like this outweighs the economic statement of buying from a chain supermarket.
I obviously find value in these points. An item’s place of production affects its flavour. It’s why I’ve bought Spanish olive oil for years, why I like South American wines, and why, after years of buying local Southern produce, I got really interested in Southern food.
Now that I’m somewhere unfamiliar, I seek to understand it through the food. I think that if I eat enough of these emulsified sausages, grassy onions, soft breads and sharp cheeses, I’ll come to understand what makes West Midlanders feel comforted and at home, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll come to have the same sentiments.

BOOKS

2008-08-08T07:34:00.003-04:00

All of mine (save The Lee Bros. Southern Cookbook) are on the slow boat to England, along with everything else that I though I could go six weeks without. And I'm still unemployed. So what's a cook to do?

Why, hit the library of course. I have to limit what I check out, as I have a near-pathological problem with turning in books on time, but my new routine is to come in, grab three books, open up the laptop and take notes. Unfortunately, the library has wireless, and I have no discipline. So while I've been trying to get my reader to below 1000 stories, my three books have mostly sat unread.

But I did allow myself to check out Elizabeth David's French Country Cooking yesterday, and it lives up to its reputation. It even made me, the avid fish-avoider, walk to the market to see what comes out of these cold waters. The answer: after 2:30 on a Thursday nothing. The market closes early.

Today I'm sharing my little table with: Le Cordon Bleu's Complete Cooking Techniques, The Taste of Britain, and Complete Italian Cookery Course by Ursula Ferigno.

I've been pleasantly surprised by the selection at the Coventry library. Last week I got to cozy up to The River Cottage Meat Book, and I keep finding slim little surprises, like French Country Cooking, tucked away between the tomes that everyone wants (Larousse Gastronomique, I'm looking at you here).

But this is an apprentice cook's blog, and when an apprentice cook is unemployed, I feel that it's only seemly to keep up the learnin'. Here's why I chose to invite these books to my table today, and what I'm learning from them:

LCB Complete Cooking Techniques: I need to buy a technique book, really I do. I've been told somewhere close to a thousand times, and I know that it's true, but these things tend to be huge and expensive, and there were always other things (food) that my meager salary went toward. Now that there's no salary, it's a lot harder to justify spending 30 quid on a technique book. But I only worked my way up to fry station at Woodfire, and I've got to get comfortable with cooking fish and meat at the restaurant level. So today I'm refreshing my memory on how to clean and fillet fish and how to cook meat and fish. I like this book. It's not huge, it's got lots of good information, and it 17 pounds instead of 30, though it takes a typically British indifferent attitude to meat temperatures, and don't ask about fish. I should really buy one of these...

The Taste of Britain: I should not be reading this today. I already looked at it last week. But it's SO GOOD. There's professional organizations, resources for cheese, local specialties, all the sorts of things that make cooking locally exciting. I have limited time, but darnit, I want to read this sucker cover to cover. And it's beautiful too, complete with the embossed hardcover and ribbon to mark one's place. Unfortunately, it's expensive, so here it stays. Maybe I'll buy it for myself for Christmas.

Complete Italian Cookery Course: I have an interview at an Italian restaurant tonight, so I'm trying to bone up on my Italian cooking. And I'm surprised by what I remember: how to make risotto and gnocchi, pizza dough, some basic pasta sauces. I've got my fingers crossed and have found myself muttering to the universe all day: "Please don't let this place suck." This book, for practical reasons, may come home with me.

And damnit, now I'm hungry.

Good Things to Eat in England:

2008-08-05T07:12:00.003-04:00

Strawberries: The weather is cool and wet here, so strawberry season lasts and lasts here, a nice contrast to Georgia, where the strawberries show up for oh, five minutes. They're aromatic, sweet, and definitely live up to their reputations.

Sausages: I'm used to simple country-style sausages with a coarse textures, but the English-style sausages tend to be emulsified, and far less seasoned. The flavor is deliciously porky and smooth. And they serve them with gravy, like they know what I like.

Mature Cheddar: We picked the cheapest one (that still met my high standards, admittedly) off the shelf at Tesco, and I feel like we cheated somewhere. It's amazing. I've been making more grilled cheese sandwiches than can possibly be healthy. Chop up some spring onions, melt them with the cheese, and I'm in my own special version of heaven. This cheese is sharp, crumbly, and still melts beautifully.

Mustard: I have not seen near enough mustard in British food here, which is a damn shame. The stuff is thick, dark brown-yellow, just like the crayon in the big 64-pack (we didn't have any high-falutin' 96-packs when I was a kid. You used your imagination.) and it's got a heat that might give wasabi a run for its money. I first got the idea of its greatness when we were eating at the cheap pub nightly, and I put the stuff, straight from a Heinz packet, on my burger. I was shocked at how fresh it tasted. Now I've got my own little jar of Colman's, the good stuff, and it makes me weep tears of joy. And pain.

Beer: Go ahead, tell me beer's not a food. Just try it, punk. Most real ales here are called bitters, and they're hand-pumped: work in a good pub for awhile and you'll have one normal arm, and one Popeye arm from pouring the stuff. No, it's not always ice-cold. It's not meant to be. But it's delicious. Thick, flavorful and mellow, even the IPAs. I tried a ginger beer in April that was subtle and lovely, and I can only hope they carry it at our local during the fall beer festival.

There's so much that I haven't yet tried properly: the beef, the lamb, a cheese called Hereford hops that's a creamy cow's milk cheese coated in (of course) hops. I hear cherries are coming into season, as are tomatoes, and I intend to see how tomatoes do without some serious heat. And I saw something called Spring Cabbage the other day that looks suspiciously like collards.

My culinary coup thus far has been, of all things, a salad. I didn't have much for it, but I made a mustardy vinaigrette, crumbled some cheddar on chopped Little Gem lettuce, and lo and behold, a triumph.

And hey, I found buttermilk after all. Now I just need a soft wheat flour...

So long, Hometown

2008-07-25T07:33:00.003-04:00

I am an Atlantan. I was born at Northside Hospital and raised in Buckhead. Early adolescence was spent between the rich greenery of the city's sunken parks--those half-block interruptions whose creeks made them useless for houses--and the consumerist banality of Lenox Mall. I walked to Oxford books and spent hours reading in the kids' playhouse. I graduated to Little Five Points and Virginia Highlands.

My first apartment was a 600-square foot shoebox a block from City Hall East on the unglamorous, ungentrified stretch of North Avenue between Peachtree and Poncey Highlands. I lived in Home Park for two years, walking to find parties, offering to trade Jack Daniels for ice cream to the ice cream man who cannily drove the streets on the long summer days, and battling it out with slum lords, one of whom had a dead, poorly-buried dog on her property when we moved in.

I went to Georgia State, and took a certain pride in the street vendors, tacky clothing shops and tables that took over Broad Street in the warmer months. Downtown seemed metropolitan, even if it was only a mini-metropolis. After school, I'd head up to Buckhead and ply my trade, convincing conventioneers to part with their expense account money for my books.

I've been to shows at the Roxie, the Tabernacle, Variety Playhouse, Smith's, Chastain and Lakewood. I favor Landmark Midtown Arts Cinema--dubbed the Little Drunken Monster by my old roommate--over the Big Purple Monster up I-85. I've played Sunday trivia at the Highlander, our go-to bar when we meet friends from the northern neighborhoods. I think Atlantic Station is a terrible disappointment and an eyesore.

I live in Inman Park, where I walk to the grocery store, the bank, the bars and the liquor store. I like Manuel's (Man-yoo-uhls, not Man-wells) for the history and the liberalism, but prefer Cafe di Sol and the Yacht Club for the atmosphere and quality of food and drinks. Fox Bros. may not be the best barbecue in the city (except that it is), but it's our local meat and two, and it's damn good. I buy groceries at Little's where I chat with Lisa and Maria about raw milk and local politics. We're even getting married in the neighborhood, where I'm sadly discovering a dearth of hotels.

I know Candler Park, East Atlanta, Kirkwood and Cabbagetown. I can tell you the boundaries for Garden Hills, Peachtree Hills, and Peachtree Heights, and the difference between East Buckhead and West Buckhead (money vs. lots of money).

I'm fond of the South, but I love Atlanta. The old truism holds that it's a great place to live, boring to visit. We don't have big landmarks or tourist attractions to draw anyone outside of the Southeast. A dozen other cities have the equivalents of the Zoo, the World of Coke, and Centennial Olympic park. The aquarium and the High are noteworthy, but not terribly unique. But for the daily activities, we have plenty of interesting and great options, usually affordable to boot.

The people are friendly and driven, and there's always someone putting together something that's worth going out for. I watched Atlanta's part-and-parcel skylines grow, and recently be rendered snaggle-toothed by the tornado.

New York and London are huge. They have everything. But when I'm there I feel like I'm in a game that's too rich for my blood; there's so much, the barrier to entry is pretty high for a mid-twenties cook who wants to retire someday. Atlanta is welcoming and modest; there are plenty of places where I can go for great food, drink, and entertainment.

I love the food here; we get fresh produce from one of the great agricultural regions in the country, and a stronger sense of place than you'll find elsewhere. We have Buford highway, with authentic Latino and Asian restaurants and markets. I can't afford the fine dining, but I know that it's a strong market.

I love the summers: the heat is so intense that it feels supernatural, and when we aren't in a drought, intense, pouring thunderstorms cut through and remind us what it's like to be cool and wet. Air conditioning wafts from open doors in the summer like perfume, and we wear sandals, shorts, sundresses and hats to keep cool; the expanse of bare skin bespeaks the easy, relaxed pace that we bring to our recreation.

I'll miss tomatoes and biscuits. I hear that they have tomatoes in England, but I'm convinced that they can't be finer than ones that I've got growing in my friends' backyard now. We've been getting our first tomatoes at Woodfire, and the farmer characteristically undersold them as "not that great." They're small, red pear-shaped ones, red round ones, tiny ones, Sungolds, and we're putting them everywhere. Summer to me is tomatoes, and summer is my favorite season. They're so intense, so uniquely tomato-ey. You can't substitute for a tomato if you ate the last one, you just have to season your food with your tears.

Biscuits were one of the first foods I learned to make, and I can smell them at a distance of 100 yards. I love the tanginess of buttermilk biscuits, the way that butter melts into them, their tenderness, and the rise they get out of what seems like so little leavening. I prefer cut buttermilk biscuits, but I still remember my grand-aunt showing me how she made "drop" biscuits in a cake pan. They mostly steamed with little crust, and they pulled apart at the dinner table. Tenderness, again, was the watchword; a biscuit's inside should yield, should lovingly accept butter, gravy or jam, while just maintaining its structural integrity. There's no buttermilk in England, and White Lily's changing its formula anyway. I think that I'll cry at least once over my missing biscuits.

I'll miss Southern accents: the drawls, the soft "t"s that sound to me like a combination of warmth and humor. I'll miss greens, barbecue and country ham, cold salads with mayonnaise dressings, did I mention biscuits? Cause I'll really miss those. I'll miss peaches so juicy that within two bites my chin is running with it, I look like an untended three-year-old and I've managed to drip juice between my toes.

It's not all bad. I won't miss living in the one liberal enclave in Georgia. I won't miss a governor who would rather go fishing than fund transit. I won't miss the good old boy network that's frustrated me for as long as I've been cognizant of politics. I like the tea, and lemon curd is delicious(it would be great on biscuits). I haven't learned how to make scones properly yet, but I'm convinced that I can. Despite Tony Bourdain's assertion that butchery is dying in England, I've come across at least one shop that looks like a good place to learn the art. The farmland is gorgeous and close to where we'll be living. Foodroutes are well-traced, even in supermarkets. And lamb. I love lamb and England has wonderful lamb.

Beer in England is a craft, and as a beer-drinker, I can't wait. There seem to be more real ales than nights to try them. I'll love my coffee being espresso again, the richness of expression in the language, and the strawberries.

I've cried a lot these past few weeks. After so many years it seems like nowhere else will ever feel like home. I hope I'm just being sentimental.

2008-05-12T00:31:00.004-04:00

Mother's Day
Today I worked 14 hours. It's the only day of the year that we're open for lunch, and as I stumbled in at 9, it looked pretty insurmountable. Especially when I was informed that the tartar sauce I'd made at 11 pm on Saturday had sat out all night, and I needed to repeat the entire process.
I've worked ten-hour days most Sundays, coming in to bake bread at noon and then working my normal station, and as a server, doubles were a way of life, especially on busy days, and especially especially during the Christmas season. When I spent a week at Scotty's, I'd come in at ten and work lunch and dinner. But of course servers usually get a break, and at 29 South I usually got an hour or so between service. But not today. We had about 250 on the books, an intimidating number to cooks who are used to 100 or so reservations on weekends. Plus, spring has sprung. This means beautiful spring vegetables (the carrots are particularly nice), wild salmon, softshell crab, and for good measure, chef put wood-roasted prime rib and his ridiculously tasty crab cakes (featured, as best I can tell, once a year) on the menu. In short: wildly popular dishes, and lots of people. I for one, was scared.
It all went better than I'd imagine. both services were well-paced, and though all the cooks were worried about double-shift-related fatigue, judicious amounts of caffeine, banh mi sandwiches and five-spice roasted duck kept us going. The most striking image of the day: between services, we were all gathered along the line, munching our sandwiches. We're a small restaurant, with a small kitchen and a small staff, but it seemed very full with all of us in there: Chef, our chef de cuisine, sous chef and pastry chef, all of the cooks, all lined up on about 20 feet of line and prep. Chef took that moment to thank us for putting in a day's hard work, and it was perfectly timed: between the quality of the sandwiches and his obvious gratitude, we weren't ones to complain.
So happy Mother's Day, moms of the world, and thanks for doing a job that I personally can't imagine as fun, although my mom is great about highlighting the really rewarding bits. My parents made a surprise visit themselves about an hour before Honey and his mom had their reservation. Dad liked his shrimp and grits, which is high praise from a man who, once he has his recipe established, rarely approves of any others. And mom ordered the crab cake that I was about to send out to her anyway. And Honey and his mom ordered spectacularly. I couldn't have been happier about having family in the restaurant.
What I've learned:
It takes me 35 minutes to grate onions, chop cornichons and capers, zest two lemons and juice several more in order to make tartar sauce. I'm pretty sure it takes less time at 10:30, when I'm motivated to go home.
I can reheat vegetables for the saute cook without screwing it up. Go fry cook!
Sometimes amateur's nights don't suck. Especially when I'm cooking, not serving.
After 14 hours, even making a fruit plate (a point of pride), will become tiresome.
My theory about small doses of caffeine sustained me. But never insult a server who's not only made you coffee, but warmed the mug, by refusing cream or the mug. Even if both are in easy reach of your station.
If one has given up refined sugar, eating two Kripy Kreme doughnuts isn't advisable. Not even a little.

Food in Media: Notes, and a Rant

2008-04-07T23:37:00.004-04:00

Chef has given me an extra day off, which means that I have 24 hours of leisure time before worrying about packing for a short trip across the pond, making the apartment look like a civilized person lives here, and dealing with the bacon that I'm curing. Mostly, I've wasted it, though I made a nice dinner for a couple of good friends tonight. And then I started reading my Google Reader. And then I got my new issue of Food & Wine, in which Atlanta, yet again, got the shaft.

This month's issue included a "Go Guide" of places to go all over the world. The first entry in America's alphabetical list, as always, was Boston. And dammit, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of hearing about how Atlanta is a great place to live, a lousy place to visit. I'm tired of hearing and seeing Southern food disdained as nothing but fried chicken and chitlins. I'm dubious that travelers never find themselves in Atlanta wondering where to eat. We've got some great restaurants. Not just good, great, and although I haven't experienced enough of the world to say it confidently, I think we've got some world class restaurants. I work at Woodfire, which I consider one of the greats. Where else? Off the top of my head, I would say Pura Vida, Bacchanalia, Quinones, Agave and Five Seasons brewing There are plenty of others that I really like, but unless I've worked or eaten in them a few times, I won't give a pass. I'd like to eat a JCT, for example, and wouldn't refuse a dinner at Restaurant Eugene or Watershed.

But every time I get a national publication that purports to list the major American cities, and their best restaurants, Atlanta doesn't make the cut. I mean, Phoenix/Scottsdale qualified, despite the fact that none of F&W's choices served Southwestern food. In fact, there were two Sushi bars. Two. In Phoenix. American Express Publishes F&W, so surely their people have skymiles cards. Can't they come give us a shot?

RANT

Click on the link and read the article. Done? OK. Italians have a strong culinary tradition, to put it mildly. The one thing that has sustained Italians over centuries of political and economic uncertainty has been an amazing agricultural tradition, which argues for the resilience of a society with strong agricultural footing, economically speaking. They're proud-WAY proud-of their food. We get it. As an American cook reading this article, I'm unsurprised, but pissed off.

I've listened to servers bitch about Mexicans in restaurants, and wondered if they were blind or just stupid. I've heard laypeople bemoan that adults from other countries and not teenagers (the children who are our future) work the line, wash the dishes, clean the place, and do jobs that Americans, with our until-recently-famous work ethic, don't want. But I hate it.

I've recently wrote that in cooking "there are strict rules to follow." That's not a lie, and chefs are very clear about what those rules are. Anyone who is proficient in the language, willing to learn, and supervised can produce any dish that will please any grandmother of any nationality. Ever. It's ridiculous to refuse to eat at a place where the labor, or even the chefs, didn't grow up cooking your pasta carbonara. If the chef is well-trained, you won't be left wanting. I would guess that plenty of French and Spanish chefs make pasta in Italy, to the accolades that locals withhold from Turks and Jordanians.

Xenophobia pisses me off. Racism leaves me apoplectic. I don't care if you're talking about food or people in the streets. It doesn't fly. Ever. Cooking is science, and those of us who do it aren't that special unless we have a flawless palate and a genius for innovation. Dear Italy: You're not so special. Get over yourselves.

I Wasn't Gonna, Honestly

2008-04-04T00:38:00.003-04:00

But, well, I posted it to an email list recently, and these two articles seem worthy of comment.

Article 1 gives encouraging news to those who've been insisting that surely organic farms could yield as much in the long run as non-organic, and that the richer (in available nutrients) soil would translate into more nutritious food.

Here's a simplified version of the argument: in order to produce vigorous plants organically, farmers have to cultivate the best soil possible for their crops. Soil that's rich in available nutrients for plants (nitrogen, phosphorous, and potassium) not only encourages healthy, productive plants, it means that those same plants are able to make their fruit chock-full of the nutrients that we eat fruits and vegetables for: vitamins, minerals, and micronutrients which are the darling of nutrition studies lately. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that non-commodity crops are where organics really excel among production and nutrition.

Article 2 presents an imperfect version of an economic argument for non-industrialized food. Mine won't be great, but here goes: the government currently subsidizes crops such as corn, rice, soybeans and peanuts, crops traded as commodities and used to produce industrialized food. Commodities are designed to be identical regardless of the climate, area or methods used to produce them. Emphasis is on yield at all costs: dumping nitrogen into the water supply, producing a crop with low nutritional value and shipping and processing yields with fossil-fuel intensive methods are considered the norm.

Subsidies and the prevalence and profitability of industrialized food encourage monoculture, a type of farming that historically fails, decimates the soil and terrain, and requires greater and greater quantities of nitrogen-based fertilizers to be dumped on crops.

The farmers, the companies that sell their seed and buy their product (often the same, considering global ownership of multiple levels of production) and the consumers who buy industrialized food don't pay the costs of environmental damage from their methods, nor do they support farmers who produce ready-to-eat food in the way that subsidies support commodities.

In case it isn't evident, this is not an economically feasible model. The government must pay, via taxes, not only to produce commodity crops, but also to clean up the mess they make, and must pay more as commodity crops inevitably yield less and less.

Local food, sold ready to eat, usually at farmers markets or through CSAs receives no subsidies. The cost of transport to urban areas is built into the actual price of the food one buys. Further, the people who farm the food pay far less for seed, and little or nothing for distribution of their crops. Thus, while the cost for a bag of local sweet corn may be higher than that of a box of corn flakes, more goes to the farmer, stimulating the local economy and evening the keel in uncertain economic times.

I won't make the argument that we shouldn't buy tropical fruit in winter, or that we must sort less- or non-perishables such as olive oil and flour from our neighborhoods. Trade is generally good for everyone involved, but when you're trading with a large multi-national company, you're not giving as much of the product price back to the producers. Since we arguably want the producers of food we like to continue making it, such tradeoffs should be carefully considered.

Furthermore, as less-processed food becomes more profitable and accessible to people with lower incomes, sustainable production will be more attractive in economically struggling markets where agriculture is a newly developing industry.

Many people believe that rising commodity prices are good for increasing the demand for local, sustainably produced food, particularly produce and meat; I'm among them. I would love to see fewer children raised to only drink their milk through cereal straws, fewer adults dieting via Lean Cuisine or Atkin's certified products, and more people taking a holistic view of their food. Why is it that colonics and intensive juice fasts are reasonable, but fresh fruits and vegetables a burden?

The Tough Stuff: Softshell Crabs

2008-04-02T23:19:00.004-04:00

We first got softshell crabs into Woodfire around last September. I was working cold station, so I didn't work with them much. They were still on the menu when I started training on cold station, but I didn't prep them, I just used them.

"Prepping" softshells is something of a euphemism. They arrive live, like many shellfish, and it's the cook's job to dispatch them. Oysters never really got to me, dumping lobsters in boiling water was old hat; we used to go crabbing every year on vacation, and somewhere my parents have a picture of my brother and I gleefully displaying Freddy, Betty, and Morris, a trio of post-boil blue crabs that we prepared when I was about 5.

Prepping softshells has three steps, in the eloquent words of our grill cook: "Face, ass, lungs." As in, that's what you cut off with a pair of scissors. First the face, across the front of the body, then the apron, then the lung sacs or "dead-man's fingers" as my sous chef was happy to inform me. I began to suspect that some of my fellow cooks were enjoying my inaugural crab-killing, especially the expected squeamishness: Chef even had one cook cry when she killed softshells.

I learned that I'd be working softshells about an hour before I got to them, so I tried to prepare myself. I asked exactly how I was supposed to do this, thought about it, and took the time to clear my station so nothing would be in the way.

The box down in the cooler was heavy, and too large to fit up the narrow stairwell with my knuckles, so I lifted from the bottom.

Crabs are cold-blooded, so their time in the cooler had them pretty lethargic, for which I was grateful. The sous walked me through my first. I cut parallel to the points, taking off the face. A green gel--with which, I informed the sous, I was not cool--oozed out. I turned it over, folded down the apron and cut it off as the legs and claws waved lazily. The top shell pulled disturbingly easily off of the bottom, and the lung sacs snipped out easily, leaving a little bit of sediment which wiped away.

The first few were tough. I know my crustacean anatomy well enough to know that they have a rudimentary nervous system, but probably don't have nerves equipped to feel pain. I have no qualms about eating pork or beef, which come from animals that are obviously far more sentient. I knew that if I worked quickly, they wouldn't warm up enough to be active, which I assumed was better for the crabs, and knew was better for me. None of these intellectual comforts made cutting off the face of a living creature sit easy with me. The crabs began to warm up and move more with each iteration. But it's true that unpleasant tasks get easier with each repetition, and eventually I was churning along like a pro. Chef came by, we chatted about the plating, and he examined the crabs, which he hadn't seen yet. At least I tell myself that that's what he was doing. He reached into the box and turned them with his hand, sing-songing "Wake up little crabs! Wake up for Stella!" I immediately wished that I hadn't mentioned my concern that they'd get "fiesty."

But I didn't cry, puke or get the shakes. The saute cook used to work fry station, and assured me that while it was initially difficult, she'd "made her peace" with it. It's not fun to kill something, but the reality of food is that for some of our favorite things, an animal must die. And in ten years, I'd rather be a chef who's aware of this through personal experience than one who's never done the hard thing.

I expect tonight to have nightmares about faceless zombie softshell crabs chasing me and squeaking in high, reedy voices "Braaaains! We want you giant mammalian braaains! Why did you kill us?" As with the killing itself, I tell myself that comfort lies in mental preparation.

Quickie: Top Chef and Catalan Salad

2008-04-01T13:51:00.004-04:00

The cooks love to talk Top Chef. Love it. The shit-talking that goes on about the contestants is on par with the shit-talking that we do about each other, and the challenges are fun little intellectual exercises for cooks prepping the same stuff day in and day out.

But my attention waned over the past two seasons. The show became more slick, and while the caliber of the chefs has increased, so have the egos and the attitudes. I'm a low-key person by nature, so this has been a turnoff. But the challenges are fun and it's inspiring.

What bugs me about it lately is the amount of branding. The chefs now are transported in Toyota Highlanders, as Padma informs us, they await the verdict in the Gladware dry storage room while drinking beers that looked like Michelobs instead of the anonymous (and not profitable) glasses of wine. And I swear I heard the product placement guy gasp with glee when one of the chefs drew Velveeta as an ingredient. It seems unnecessary for such a popular show to be so committed to greater and more specific product placement.

For lunch I made the Catalan Salad recipe that I've shared. Despite having to prepare the dressing by hand when our blender didn't work, it was awesome-spicy, nutty, nice and thick, I nearly ate it with a spoon. I threw it on some frisee from Crystal Organics. I think I'm going to eat more than an entire day's worth of veg in one sitting. I'll also probably reek of garlic all night.

Life in the Echo Chamber

2008-03-25T13:15:00.003-04:00

I read and hear a lot about farms and farming. I go to farmer's markets weekly, I read The Omnivore's Dilemna and I subscribe on RSS to the NYT Dining page, Gourmet's free online content and my chef's blog. Then I go to work, where we talk about the farms supplying us each week, the produce that we get and the challenges faced in a drought-stricken state.

Honey likes to talk about the economics of it all, so I'm getting better-versed in that aspect of farming, and we take The Economist which does nothing if not cover exhaustively. And since I've been given free reign over a friend's backyard for gardening purposes this year, I've started reading about organic gardening. I've read lots about farming in the past year.

So I was tempted not to share the umpteenth farming article to appear in my Reader. It's good, don't get me wrong, but much of it is information I've already gotten in one place or another in the past few months.

What I forget is that people who don't work and shop where I do often don't think about the importance of farming and farm policy. They aren't aware of the current agricultural landscape in America, and the problems that it poses, economically, culturally, or environmentally. Maybe they didn't have time to read the last three articles that I diligently read and shared.

So I've shared the article from Gourmet. The first three pages are mostly about a specific family; it's interesting, but the most important stuff is on the last three pages. Read it so I don't feel compelled to post the same farm rant yet again. And check out the new links to the left. Atlanta Music Therapy is my old roommate's blog about his weekly music forays, and frontburner is chef's blog. Both warrant investigation and subscription.

He Came! He Came!

2008-03-10T15:48:00.004-04:00

Mr. Edges visited us on Friday. It's like Christmas, but with sharp knives when that happens. He even put a sharp edge on the walmart knife I got when I was seventeen, and donated to the restaurant for cutting pasta. He even remade the tip. And nothing, nothing was better than the first shallot I cut with the new edge on My Knife. Such precision! Such control! Such ease!

Usually the day that the knives get sharpened a note goes on the board: "Caution- Knives sharpened TODAY!" A sharp knife is indeed much safer than a dull one. But if you cut yourself with a sharp knife, you'll do far more damage. Since the servers have to use a kitchen knife for their lemons, we feel a responsibility to warn them.

We cooks on the other hand know that someone will cut the hell out of themselves with a newly-sharpened knife, and joke about it, holding our collective breath. So far, no new wounds (knocks on wood). But the knives are still sharp...

2008-03-03T09:58:00.002-05:00

What the Hell

Normally I share and leave it to my diligent readers to notice new stories, but this is outrageous. And I'm fond of tilting at windmills, but some times there are so damn many.

2008-03-03T01:16:00.003-05:00

On Cooking, Science, and Learning

A quote from what I'm reading right now:

"It could be said that science is boring, or even that science wants to be boring, in that it wants to be beyond all dispute. It wants to understand the phenomena of the world in was that everyone can agree on and share; it wants to make assertions from a position that is not any particular subject's position, assertions that if tested for accuracy by any sentient being would cause that being to agree with the assertion. Complete agreement; the world put under a description--stated that way, it begins to sound interesting.

"And indeed it is. Nothing human is boring. Nevertheless, the minute details of the everyday grind involved in any particular bit of scientific practice can be tedious even to the practitioners. A lot of it, as with most work in this world, involves wasted time, false leads, dead ends, faulty equipment, dubious techniques, bad data, and a huge amount of detail work. Only when it is written up in a paper does it tell a tale of things going right, step-by-step, in meticulous and replicable detail, like a proof in Euclid."

What? What, Epicure? You're quoting a dystopian Sci-Fi novel on a food blog? Well, yes. I hang out with geeks obsessed with science. My fun reading during school was cookbooks and Carl Sagan. I like science.

The first real food text I read was the Bible, and I fully expected to develop my cooking career as a molecular gastronomist: one of those people with weird hair whose pantry included a stock of five-syllable chemicals that make the foams, the gels, the inexpicable possible. Chefs, as professionals and trendsetters must, I thought, work in this form. Otherwise what they produced could only be pedestrian, merely making what the home cook could. And the science involved in cooking seemed so powerful: if one understands how a process happens, one can control and perfect that process.

But I was going back and forth between the Bible and my CSA box, where sometimes the greens were wilted, the strawberries already starting to degrade, and I found myself less interested in the chemistry and manipulation of flavor, texture and aroma than in the processes that would elevate what I already had in front of me.

I've learned that science is cool, and cooking an art. There are strict rules to follow to produce the best results consistently, but cooking itself is not cool. It's painful: I'm averaging a burn a week, and I've learned that the story about how a towel will protect one's hand while shucking oysters is a dirty, dirty lie. I look forward to my days off not for the leisure, but for the fact that my body can recover from what I've done to it.

I've also learned that I love food treated simply and minimally. The CSA introduced me to vegetables in such great variety that I was astounded. Work has only furthered this fascination. The colors, textures, and rich flavors found in what most Americans view as side dishes are inspiring. Much as I love the art of curing meat, vegetables are my first culinary love, one that I feel compelled to friends, with comments like "I never knew that I liked turnips." gratifying my efforts.

I don't have much interest in foams, though I know how the hows and whys of whipping cream, and take a measure of pride in doing it just so, time after time: one Thanksgiving a relative asked if we couldn't just buy Cool Whip as I wore out my arm on a cold whisk. "It's my time, and it's worth it." I snarled. Likewise, I will probably never make noodles out of gelatin, but the body of a jus, the way a glace sets hard in the walk-in give me a sense of pleasure that warms my cynic's heart.

I will be forever indebted to OFaC for fostering my attention to culinary detail: I measure for everything, try to quantify my results. Even if we cook by hand and instinct, I think it's imperative to know why we do what we do. If we know our science, we can correct for woody beets, stubbornly weak stocks, risotto that wasn't toasted properly, and coppa that must, per the health department, cure at far too low a temperature, and thus ferment slowly, or, god forbid, not at all.

Science is knowledge, and knowledge, of course is power. Enough typing for now. I fine-diced a half-pan of onions for mirepoix tonight, and my hands ache. I dream of the day that we're visited by Mr. Edges, and I get a sharp knife again.

2008-03-03T00:54:00.004-05:00

What I learned today:

Focaccia does not take kindly to nearly doubling its cooking time. I can, however, run in my clogs without spraining my ankle.

I sent Honey to the UK yesterday and went to work on a grand total of 5 hours sleep. I'm definitely feeling less than awesome.

But tomorrow? Tomorrow, I start planting my garden proper. Somewhere there are pictures of seedlings, and when I find them, I post them.

And there's apparently a 150-page state health code that I have yet to read. I just started a very cool novel that I need to finish by the end of the week. I don't feel like adding 150 pages to my workload, but I need to learn it eventually, right?

Finally, the breakfast sausage recipe in Charcuterie is pretty durn tasty. We had roughly 15 people consume 5 pounds of pork at family meal today. I can't wait till my sage plants yield leaves though: dry stuff is OK, but I love the flavor of fresh sage. And it never occurred to me that ginger was a normal flavor in breakfast sausage until the oven cook guessed what I was making from the ginger alone.

2008-02-21T13:15:00.002-05:00

Dammit.

We had a health department inspection yesterday. The inspector didn't take kindly to our cured meats, house-made sausage, or our new chemical system: instead of buckets of cold bleach-water from the unlabeled ecolab dispenser, each cook had a bottle of food-safe sanitizer with mild detergent on his or her station. Apparently the buckets are OK despite the fact that dirty rags inevitably find their way in their, and I swear I've read that chlorine in water loses its sanitizing abilities with time, but the new chemicals we'd bought? Verboten.

It was a rough night. We work hard on the sausages and cured meats, and had to literally throw some things away. Nobody was in a very good mood.

So today I pulled up the health code for Fulton County, and read through it. Quite a bit of it was irrelevant, since we aren't new construction or mobile, but I read nothing prohibiting the grinding of meat or making of sausage. Nothing prohibiting meat-curing at refrigerated temperatures, and nothing that prohibited our sanitizing system.

This would be reassuring but for the liberal usage of phrases like "in the opinion of the inspector" throughout the code. Ours had apparently attended some servesafe training, but appeared to lack a basic understanding of the processes at work in the restaurant: that curing and cure salt make foods less attractive to harmful microbes, that sanitizer is sanitizer is sanitizer, no matter how it's stored. Some inspectors dock restaurants for having unwrapped straws for guests; some don't. Many, many parts of the inspection are open to an individual's interpretation. And there's no supervisor to talk to when a restaurant feels that they're being unfairly penalized.

It might be ideal to request a re-inspection, health code in hand, and to counter the missing points with references and explanations, but we scored too high to request one, and they're only granted at the discretion of the department of health. Since we hadn't been inspected in 18 months-the code states that restaurants will be inspected every 6-I suspect that very few restaurants get the requested re-inspections.

It seems that our best bet is to know our code and wait to see what the next inspector says. Or to lobby. You know, with all the free time and money that we have.

2008-02-20T00:16:00.002-05:00

Culinary Milestone

Tonight I ground 119 pounds of pork. Then I went upstairs and finished the cure on some coppa and seasoned it with Spanish spices. Meanwhile, chef seasoned two lomos, and the sauté cook wrapped them while chef cured two bellies. Our sausage guy showed up as we were working on our projects, and watched us make 72 pounds of the pork into sausage.

I now have a theory that Christ was mis-transcribed when he said "The poor will always be among us." I think he really said "The pork will always be among us."

Do I care that it's a cheesy joke? No.

In a shoutout to my friends: tonight I quantified the amounts of seasonings for the coppa. Generally we eyeball it, but I wanted something more reliable. And so tonight I say: SCIENCE!

It works, bitches.

2008-02-19T13:30:00.002-05:00

Those who can't write, share

I haven't been keeping up with my goal to write once a week. I tried a Valentine's Day post, but I try every year, and eventually I just get bored with failure. I tried a Sunday supper post, but I bake bread every Sunday, and writing about the menus without trying one seemed disingenuous. I'm looking forward to spring vegetables, but I still love my winter greens and turnips, and a wishy-washy post about vegetables feels pointless. I'm planting a garden, but feel like updating on that is about as welcome as coworkers' baby pictures. What do you care that the first thing to sprout was the broccoli raab from a 2003 seedlot?

I'm sure that I'll snap out of this soon. Until then I'm still sharing what I'm reading and enjoying; maybe that's worth something. The Golden Clog nominations were announced today, but for some reason, Eater is only offering me the option of subscribing to its comments, so I'm linking through Ruhlman's blog, which I love. Check it out while I languish.

2008-01-31T11:01:00.000-05:00

Time for the NYT Dining and Wine Recap!

Getting it Backwards: OK guys, if this is gluttony, why are you replacing butter and rendered beef fat with margarine and vegetable oil? There's trimming costs and there's cheapening the meal. Fascinating article, though.

This would normally be my soapbox article. But frankly, I think that Bittman does an excellent job of summing up the problems with modern meat production and consumption, the myriad economic and social factors, and he provides the more compelling statistics when it comes to meat and the environment.

Speaking of health and the environment, yes, I did read about the high mercury levels in sushi tuna, and I'm not reading anything else from the NYT about it. The article that came to my reader last week was shameful: there were no scientists explaining exactly what the heightened mercury levels meant, the recommended rates of consumption of fish with certain mercury levels, or the health repercussions of consuming too much mercury, just quotes from consumers who appeared to be as woefully ill-informed as I was. I've since read good articles that gave me all the facts I wanted, but they weren't in the NYT. So I will be going elsewhere for my mercury information.

I've been looking for a Cocida recipe since it was mentioned on lobstersquad

Here's the Soapbox Article

Georgia's got some special liquor laws. We're one of 15 states (as of 2006) that doesn't allow off-premise alcohol sales on Sundays. We have multiple dry and half-dry (beer and wine only) counties. In Atlanta, last call is at 2:30 a.m., except for Sundays, when the bars all close at midnight, but bars in Dekalb can stay open till four, seven nights a week. If you want to buy booze and take it home on one of the six legal days, you have till 2:00 in Atlanta, and midnight in Dekalb. I haven't tried to buy beer at midnight on a Monday in years, but my experience is that if the clerk is even a little dubious as to the legality of the transaction, he or she won't sell, terrified that the customer is a cop.

The most onerous, of course, is the Sunday sales law. I hate the early closing time on Sundays--haven't we all done whatever worshiping we want to by midnight? Let us drink!--but far more people have been tripped up by not buying enough beer for two days on Saturday. For a couple of years, various bills allowing Sunday sales have made their way in front of the state legislature. And every time good ol' Sonny has taken a break from fishing to get on the horn and insult the city that pays the bills for the teetotalling evangelical rednecks who elected him. It's delightful.

But I was born and raised in Georgia, so I can't exactly claim ignorance with the laws. No, what really bugs me, what seems completely intractable, and what is deeply, deeply unfair to small breweries and wineries--we dream of distilleries--in Georgia is our three-tier distributorship system.

Here's how it works: a brewery that wants to sell in Georgia finds a distributor to market and sell its products to grocery and liquor stores and restaurants. The producer of the booze pays for this sort of marketing, as well as the more traditional sort, usually print and billboard ads. The distributors pay lobbyists, who take lawmakers out to lunch and on other free outings to talk up the "purity" and standards that the three-tier system ensures.

It works for Budweiser and other massive companies that can find the money in their budgets to pay enough for the distributors to promote their newest almost-craft-brewed, low-carb, hair-regenerating product. But for small local companies, it's a bit more difficult. Local brewers here have difficulty getting their small-volume products promoted (with the notable exception of Sweetwater, which will give away kegs for anything) by distributors that are getting way more cash from the big guys. It's a system that works for everyone but the small brewers, who don't have the cash to wield influence anyway. It also shut down Dogwood Brewery in 2003.

What about the purity, you say? The standards? Well, the distributors don't actually inspect any of the sites for safety or health codes, and there are laws about what constitute safe beer, wine and liquor in this country. At the end of prohibition, local and state governments weren't inspecting alcohol producers, so distributors fulfilled the roles that those agencies now perform. Importers are responsible for verifying the credentials of foreign-produced alcohol, which, in most countries, is going to be produced according to standards far more strict than the ones we use over here.

That's why I bristled when I read Craig Wolf's comments in this article. First, Mr. Wolf, a system that has "worked" since prohibition isn't necessarily the best one out there, especially since your industry was created as a compromise between dries and wets. Second, jackass, you and your industry have been promoting the "bottle of 1997 whatever" red herring for too long without getting called on it. It's a great way to make your critics seem elitist and unreasonable but it's also disingenuous. Most of the people who want to see you gone want to see a healthier, more competitive market for small, local and emerging businesses. Finally, your business has no need to exist. Every brewery, winery, and distillery is inspected for safety and quality, and you can bet that no outfit worth its salt is going to stand for someone counterfeiting its product. We have laws and lawyers to ensure it; you're simply one more redundancy. If any body of lawmakers ever gets serious about cutting the fat, it will see you, Mr. Wolf, realize that it's already paying more citizens to do the job that you claim to do, and if said government is functional enough to handle basic inspections, it will free you, your lobbyists, and the legislators who oversee you, to fulfill more pressing obligations. Like anything.

2008-01-19T12:43:00.000-05:00

Epicure's Bolognese

I've been at work till 11 watching my chef make Bolognese sauce; pans and pans of it, in fact. And yet it never occurred to me to do so till the other night when we had dinner guests, some expensive pasta and a pound of ground beef. So I broke out The Art of Simple Food and adapted it to what we had on hand. I used less meat, and I didn't bother mincing skirt steak. It was a touch soupy, but after the remnants had reduced during dinner, it was perfect to swipe at with bread. And great the next day with grits.

(1) T Butter, melted

(2) oz. bacon, small-medium dice

(1) medium onion, small-medium dice

(1.5) celery (about 9" total) small-medium dice

(1.5) sticks carrot (=celery), small-medium dice

(1) lb. ground beef

(1) C. dry white wine

(2) C. chicken stock

(1.5) C. milk

(2) T. tomato paste

1. Brown bacon and beef with butter

2. Sweat veg

3. Deglaze with wine

4. Mix stock, milk, and tomato paste, and add to pot. Let simmer for as long as you can-at least a half hour. It gets so much better the longer you cook it, though. And if you can wait a day before eating it, do so.

We also had little beets that I'd roasted off just for Honey and me. I pulled the little gray lumps out of the oven and began to peel them, and discovered those vibrant colors underneath. Ms. Waters suggested a little good olive oil and sea salt for vegetables. I was a little dubious, but I halved and skewered the beets, hit them with some olive oil I bought in Granada, and realized to my chagrin that I only had kosher salt. They were still gorgeous, and they made awesome hors d'oeuvres. The white ones with the red center are Cioggas (I think) and the purple one was a Red Ace, which we've been pickling the heck out of at work.

2008-01-16T14:29:00.000-05:00

I've Got a Post All Ready to Go

Seriously. But I have to leave for work now, and I've spent the past hour fiddling with format changes. Check out the new picture! That's me, 2-3 years ago, in pants that have long since been bleached to a light Georgia Clay. I was chagrined to see, in the other pictures taken that day, that I was such a messy, messy cook. I'm no saint now, but...damn. It was pretty bad.

I want to share articles from my RSS feeds with blogger from my reader page. I can't figure out how to do that, so for the time being, direct your attention leftward to "The Meat of the Matter" from the NYT. We have guanciale at work. And pasta...

2008-01-10T11:06:00.000-05:00

Epicure Makes Sushi

A few months back, a friend's mom contacted me: she was part of this organization and they needed someone to supervise about 40 international students while they made dinner for the 150 people they stayed with over Christmas break. The students ranged in age from about 19 to 35. There were undergraduates and graduate students, a couple of MBA students and a seminary attendant.

I stayed up till 3 in the morning, immersed in the constant activity of the possessed. I made lists, more lists, maps, copies, spreadsheets, sent e-mails, printed things and left the printer running while I went to bed, where I slept lightly for about four hours. It was an 18-hour day, which is really OK by me.

The students were enthusiastic about the challenge, and were grouped by country. China and Taiwan, by far the largest group, made a menu of seven items. Not to be outdone, the Japanese students increased their menu from two to four. All of the students were optimistic, established leaders naturally, and worked diligently after I walked away. They were really quite a crew, although I failed to convince them that a dish could be cooked by fewer than 3 people. I got to chat with a woman from Tunisia who was very pleasant, and very particular about her salad. And I, the pig-worshipping Southerner, was forced to develop some sensitivity to the Muslim students' aversion to the bountiful pork that the Chinese students were mincing, making into dumpling, and frying.

I bought more food than I needed, per usual. But it's getting old, especially since this time I didn't stay in budget. I felt pretty bad watching the subtotal cross my spending limit.

Highlights of the day:

--Realizing that we were going to the International Farmer's Market on Buford Highway instead of the Dekalb Farmer's Market. The choice was fine, even practical given proximity and the need for different ingredients. But I'd copied maps of YDFM on the back of the shopping lists.

--Saying no to making dumpling skins and having make-your-own sushi for the buffet. The Chinese students made the dumpling skins anyway, but gave up when I showed them my old roomie's secret Chinese meatball recipe. (I'll give you a hint: it's just like dumplings, but without the skins.) And the Japanese student who had her heart set on sharing how much fun it was too make sushi went and moved the dumpling-cum-meatball project along. She also cleaned like a sport.

--Similarly, I loved watching the students go work with other groups. They worked very well together, and were incredibly positive the whole time. One Chinese girl in particular minced pork, made sushi and seemed to magically appear whenever someone needed an extra pair of hands. And one of the guys seemed to relish the repetitive prep tasks, and spent the entire time joking.

Admittedly, there was more than one time that I wanted a cigarette, just for the excuse to step out for a few minutes. I got pretty snappy more than once too, hearing three people calling my name all the time. I swore that next year, I'm printing "If it's not food, it's in the storeroom." on a T-shirt. I've heard fellow cooks say that cooks are the reason chefs don't have children. I believe it. I made a French Press of coffee at noon. I drank it at six. I might as well have been wandering around in a dirty T-shirt with stained jeans. Oh wait. I was.

Seriously, it was fun. Honest.

And when I delivered the leftovers to Cafe 458, I got to check out my old stomping grounds. It was looking pretty nice these days.

2008-01-04T13:27:00.000-05:00

The Care and Feeding of Yourself...WITH BACON!

This bacon was brought to you by two of the finest pigs in Georgia: Berkshire breeds from Gum Creek Farm in Roopville, GA and Riverview farms in Ranger, GA. They were grass- and forage-fed. If you want to try their products yourself, contact Gum Creek through this site. Riverview sells pork every Saturday at the Morningside market, or you can place special orders by emailing wcswan at yahoo.com. A word of warning, though: Riverview's butcher is less than consistent. Their pork is wonderful, but if you want the same cut of Boston butt or ham roast that you get at Kroger, you need to be specific, and will likely have to place a special order. Feel free to ask me for specifics on cuts.

Bacon is the meat from the belly, where there's lots of fat, a little muscle, and no connective tissue. In roast form, this makes it almost impossible to overcook, because it can never really "dry out." It's cured by coating it twice: once with a mixture of salt, sugar and nitrate to suck out the water, keep it a nice pink color, and temper the salt flavor, and again in a seasoning mixture. It's then left for osmosis to work its magic. All of this bacon has been roasted once to a temperature of at least 150°F, but should be cooked to desired doneness before eating. While there's practically no risk of trichinosis or any other food-borne illness in high-quality cured meat, the cautious among us are advised that the FDA recommends a minimum temperature of 160°F. I heat mine to a minimum temperature of hot enough to eat.

Slicing is easiest when the bacon is really cold--just this side of freezing. Stick yours in the freezer for about 20-30 minutes before you slice.

Bacon#1 a breakfast bacon, cured with a sweet mixture of honey and molasses and smoked with a combination of pecan wood and a little hickory. It's just a touch Southern. Slice it for breakfast as thick or thin as you like and can, and if you don't want a long slice, you won't lose anything by cutting it in half and making smaller slices. A word of warning though: the sugar in the cure means that the edges of the bacon will burn before the middle is crispy. Try cooking it in an oven at 250-300°F if you like your bacon crispy. A sheet of parchment paper or aluminum will save the lazy from cleaning the pan. And even when it looks burned, it's delicious.

Bacon #2 was flavored with a mix of fennel, black pepper, and garlic from south Fulton county. It's great to slice into batonets (fancy culinary term for little sticks: 1/4" x 1/4" x 2") or lardons (somewhat less precise), cooked briefly in a little water, and sauteed for salads, sauces (try a traditional amatriciana sauce for your pasta), or ground and mixed with beef for meatloaf or burgers. Not that it's bad sliced into strips and fried, either.

Bacon #3 is the "Rendezvous Roast." Coated with a dry rub from Charlie Vega's Rendezvous Ribs in Memphis, it's best browned on its sides and roasted at 350°F until you decide that it's done. It's great sliced against the grain (the opposite of the way that you slice it for breakfast, or on the short end) and eaten with lots of fall and winter vegetables: bitter turnip greens or spicy mustard greens, sweet roasted turnips or radishes, any vegetable with a strong flavor to complement the salty, intense flavor of the rub. If you want to experience an old-school farm family meal, use the bacon as a condiment and eat most of the meal as vegetables. But if you want something a little more modern and meaty, sliced bacon roast goes great with a slice of pork loin, or other lean pork. You can also coat it in honey-mustard to roast. Just brown it first.

2007-12-12T00:03:00.000-05:00

Shoutout

Honey's traveling a bunch lately: nine weeks out of 11. Since his work starts at 6 AM and mine ends at 11 PM, actual talking can be haphazard. When I got out of work at 11 and saw that his last call was 40 minutes prior, I assumed that Honey was asleep.

When I was at GSU, we didn't get to spend much time together. My decision to work in the kitchen rather than the newsroom meant that our catch-as-catch-can lifestyle didn't end with my graduation. I wasn't exactly evasive about this: every time Honey praised my cooking, my ambition, or my dedication I was quick to remind him that we wouldn't have Friday date nights, I wouldn't be home to make a hot meal during the week, and I'd probably become a work-obsessed, insufferable grinch. And yet we're still together.

About two years ago, we decided to go modest with our birthday gifts for each other: we went to Borders, and he gave me a choice between On Cooking and On Food and Cooking by Harold McGee. I can't remember exactly why, but I picked OFaC, and have been calling it the Bible ever since. And for 18 months, he patiently put aside what he was doing so I could read him whatever excerpt was enlightening me at the time.

I read it cover to cover. The knowledge demystified so much of cooking for me, and I'm occasionally surprised by how much I can recall. When I posted the link to the Menu for Hope 4 earlier today, I was thinking of wine, Vosges chocolates, salumi, and other hedonistic little things. I saw the lunch with Harold McGee, and dinner with Heston Blumenthal, but figured the demand would be so great for prizes like those that my paltry $10 ticket stood next to no chance of winning. I figured I'd give myself a day or two to think it over, and see what I still wanted.

When I got home, I saw this message in my inbox:

"I saw your blog post on my Google Reader. I donated $100 - and all of the raffle tickets were to get you to lunch with Mr McGee. If you win I'll worry about the plane ticket to San Francisco then (I want to go too) :) We'll see January 9th. Otherwise, the UN World Food Programme has an extra hundred dollars on our account."

Then he called, and we got to chat for 30 whole minutes.

So I'm giving a shoutout to Honey, who puts up with this insanity and encourages it, apparently just because it makes me happy. I couldn't ask for anyone better.

2007-12-11T14:08:00.000-05:00

Choices...

So I don't have much money today, but this is a worthy cause, and there are so many awesome prizes. Maybe today's paycheck will be extra big...

2007-12-07T01:24:00.000-05:00

This is what happens when the NYT Food & Dining section comes out every week.

I stay up till 3 in the morning, like I have nothing better to do, and read.
Cheese
I ate this. I think it's reason #1 that we nearly needed a sedative to get Epicure on the flight home.
I really want to be interested in this. But I don't drink liquor that much.
Sigh. Raciones.
So I read the ham story before the front page. And it's three in the morning. I miss Spain. But I have something to say here. Perhaps in New York City, there are entirely too many restaurants that offer entirely too few entrees. That's fair. NYC has long been an arbiter of trends.

This afternoon at about 4:45, I ate dinner in the kitchen before service. I'd already had a cookie; for dinner I had a salad, some pasta, and a few pieces of garlic bread. And then another cookie (ginger this time, the first was chocolate-toffee). An hour or so later, I got to drink a latte from the bar.

I'm making two points here: one, I love my job. Did you just check that list out? I got dessert twice and coffee.
My second point is that this was a meal that allowed me to work through the night, drive home, and drink a few beers until 3 in the morning with no problems. It was supremely functional. Perhaps if I worked in an office, I'd want to have this meal for lunch. But there was no entree for me tonight. I had some pasta, but not much more than I had salad.

When news gets slow, or the restaurant industry keeps chugging along inexplicably while the rest of the economy is faltering, pundits are apt to point out two facts: Americans eat out more than ever before, and restaurants keep serving fat Americans far more food than said Americans should eat. Has it occurred to anyone that perhaps Americans have been reading the press about their eating habits and waistlines, and have chosen to at least attempt smaller meals that provide more variety and less filler? I can assure you, as someone who's worked in restaurants that were a la carte, and those that serve all-inclusive dishes, that starches are seen in both kitchens as a great way to make up food costs. And as a consumer, I don't necessarily want to pay for mashed potatoes when I've already had bread, a fried appetizer, and may be tempted to order dessert. Entrees, like it or not, are often seen as one "star" dish surrounded by supporting players that the diner may or may not be interested in. And if I want the greens, but not the fish? I appreciate a place that lets me order a small plate of them.

Finally, small plates sell, and restaurants make money off of them. Honey is wise in the ways of the economics, and has pointed out many times as a server boxes our food, that we'd both be perfectly happy to pay 3/4 of the price for 1/2 the food; the leftovers don't get eaten anyway. We'd have a little more money, we'd enjoy our appetizers and main courses more, and we might even think about a cheese plate and some after-dinner drinks.

Restaurants, particularly the big chains, are terrified that a customer will leave hungry and never return, and portion size has been ratcheted up accordingly, to the extent that many, many entrees at the restaurants that most Americans patronize feature at least half the calories that an adult should advisably eat in a single day.

At The Big Chain Italian Place where I used to work, we were told in training where we could find nutritional information for diners. One employee bought her wedding dress early in her engagement, and knowing that she'd eat most of her meals at a place famous for big portions, she looked up the information. I still remember my disbelief when she informed me that one meatball had 1.5 times the fat that a human is supposed to consume in a day. Never mind the spaghetti, let alone the sauce. One meatball. But no one ever left hungry, and a few months later, I asked for the binder with the nutritional information and was told that we didn't have one.

I just don't believe that I'm the only person who goes out for convenience and still wants the functionality provided by my meals at work: enough energy to get me through the day, and enough flavor to make it worth my money. Restaurants have been slow to meet this demand with entrees, and many of us are happy with small plates. If I'm dining out, and I mean all-out: blow my money on four glasses (not a sensible bottle, I want variety) of wine, take three or four hours, soak up the ambience, I want to taste everything. I don't do this often, and I want my palate begging for mercy. I want to know, intimately, what the chef is proud of, what's good, and what will bring me back. I don't get much time off; if I'm going to dinner, I want to make it worth the dollars I'm not earning. Entrees don't always do it.

I'm also a devil's advocate. Check back for my argument in favor of the entree.

2007-11-04T10:55:00.000-05:00

The Wheels of Justice Turn, Sometimes, not so Slowly.

The Georgia Department of Agriculture moved the public hearing on coloring raw milk from downtown Atlanta to Forest Park two days before the event to accommodate a larger-than-average crowd. Apparently there wasn't a room in downtown Atlanta that could hold the 150 people packed into the meeting room in the back of the Georgia State Farmers Market Exhibit Hall.

I was expecting to see a crowd of mostly urban, mostly young liberals, with a smattering of governmental conservatives, and some of the farmers who would be shut down by the rules change. The people who spoke were nurses, a doctor, lots of pet lovers, farmers of pigs, goats, chickens and cattle, and parents. Lots of parents with shockingly well-behaved children. I arrived 20 minutes after the hearing started, and at 11, people were still talking. Technically, the hearing was over, but tell that to the doctor who'd had the microphone for five minutes. He opened with "I can't believe that we're here giving you people a free education..."

Some, like the doctor, were angry and vented their frustrations on the three members of the Department of Agriculture, who furiously took notes and occasionally grimaced or chuckled at the comments. Others were polite and logical. Animal-lovers made personal appeals, and the Christians cited raw milk as a perfect creation of the "great architect."

The farmers were probably the most persuasive, and with good reason: the rule would have been a severe blow to a young movement. Farmers producing meat or eggs of any quality in Georgia feed raw milk to their animals. They're "small" farmers by today's standards, and Georgia know something about losing small farms. According to Chad Carlton of Carlton Farms in Rockmart, 3,729 Georgia dairies have closed in the past three decades. Carlton also criticized the Department of Agriculture for changing the rules, making it difficult for small farmers to sell. "You encouraged us to find value-added products like this," he reminded them.

Nobody wanted to talk about human consumption of raw milk. "For our animals" seemed to be the mantra, and it's probably best that way till Tommy Irvin moves on. He's been doing what he can to limit or end the sale of raw milk in Georgia since the 1980's, and he's unlikely to stop doing so anytime soon.

Four minutes before the start of service that night, chef tapped me on the shoulder and showed me an e-mail of the AJC story: Irvin had dropped the proposed rule change that afternoon, and the issue was dead for another year. Score one for civic participation.

2007-11-02T00:37:00.000-04:00

Fingers Crossed

I'm driving down to Forest Park in eight hours for the Agriculture Department's public hearing on a rules change that would dye raw milk gray in order to discourage human consumption. It's a hard rule to protest rationally: The dye won't change the flavor or nutrition profile, but seriously, who would ever want to drink gray milk?

There are a few things in our favor: the Commissioner of Agriculture's comments to the press suggest that he might be open to more stringent warnings rather than dye, and the General Mills pizza recall comes as an auspicious reminder that industrial food sickens us far more frequently than raw milk.

Since most in favor of the rules change and further moves to make raw milk inaccessible view its consumption by people as a peccadillo of affluent highly-educated hippies, the argument that consumers are unaware of the inherent risks in consuming unpasteurized milk is ridiculous. Further, Georgia farmers getting Georgia dollars should appeal to anyone with an appreciation for basic economics. And the inverse: Georgia farmers suddenly losing a chunk of spendable capital should appeal to the supply-siders who lack such an appreciation. And since Georgia is a red state, down to the very dirt, I hope that the phrase "nanny state" will induce rabid cuts in governmental involvement, as it usually does in good conservatives, for at least the next few weeks until the newsmedia latches onto the teat of the recent study that finds higher instances of cancer in obese people.

Unfortunately, I've lived in Atlanta my whole life, so I've watched public officials ignore reason before. Are you there, Atlanta sewers? No? Blue laws, can you hear me?

I'm aware that I will likely leave Forest Park disappointed. But I hear that there's a great Oaxacan place with tlayuda down there. And maybe I can find a diner or truck stop with some good eggs and coffee. So hopefully the food with first fortify, and then cheer me.

Wish me luck!

Also:
AJC story by Kessler
Pizza Recall Story
It says they serve breakfast. Pero ellos tienen cafe?

E-mail the Commissioner of Agriculture at tirvin@agr.state.ga.us

2007-10-15T14:20:00.000-04:00

Five Pounds of Fatback

There was only so long that I could be expected to watch the chef, sous chef, and various cooks making sausage, and tasting the results, before making it myself. In true epicure style, I went big. I sent an e-mail to 42 of my closest friends: the first six to reply could make sausage, eat sausage, and divide up the results. I had a party (expanded for extra demand) within a few hours.

My day off was Thursday, the party was Monday. I come home Sunday to an empty apartment, send out a shopping list for my guests, begin making a mis en place list, hyperventilate--five pounds of fatback?!--, pour some cava, clean the kitchen, and measure what ingredients I have. I listen to the Pretenders on Radio Paradise, which soothes the mood while measuring salt. I remember that people will need entertainment while their meat chills, and leave certain tasks for the guests. I make my shopping lists for party day and tell myself that I have enough time to sleep. I send off some last-minute e-mails, sure to be interpreted as drunken due to the hour. I write out a detailed schedule, and spill cava on my Spanish cookbook, thankfully missing Chef's copy of The Chez Panisse Café Cookbook. I write my shopping list and hope I can find cheap spices. I smirk at my naiveté. I remember that I'm making side dishes, look up the base for my collard recipe, and curse the amount of cheap sparkling wine required. I realize that I have no idea what the weight of my market-bought local collards is. I'm buying a scale in the morning, I tell myself.

I put dirty clothes in the hamper and vow to find a way to lock the messy bedroom shut. I shake out the table cloth that's been protecting the counters and ready it for the next day. I realize that it's 2:30 and the hour/cava have destroyed my ability to think cogently. I'm vaguely pleased to remember the word "cogently." I doubt my ability to wake up early enough, and pour one last glass of cava before bed. I stare at my unfinished schedule.

I wake up surprised at my lack of headache and queasiness, discouraged by the fatigue that keeps me in bed ten minutes later than I planned, fifteen minutes after I woke up. I shower, realize that I'm dehydrated--hello Cava--pack the car and hit the road.

I like to think that if the butchers at the Dekalb County Farmer's Market saw me frequently enough, they would have the sense to run. As it is, I only show up every few months, wanting fifteen pounds of london broil or five pounds of fatback. But every time it's the same sad routine: the butcher weighs all of his cut meat, which comes to roughly half of what I need. He looks at me, looks at the pounds of uncut meat on the counter, and I cheerfully proclaim that I'll wait. I've got other things on my list.

I buy. I don't get paid till tomorrow, and I've got a long list driven by guilt at sending out shopping lists so late, and unexpected needs like three kinds of wine, herbs, and ham hocks--which aren't expensive at Kroger but I was already at Whole Foods. I go to Tuesday Morning for a scale, but theirs isn't accurate enough. I go to Target. They've got one, but it's ten dollars more than I have. I trudge across the lot to the Bed Bath and Beyond, and muse on the bleak landscapes provided by big boxes, the mediocre products they deal in--neither cheap nor valuable--and the culture of consumption, the cancer in our economy that their whole business model promotes. Inside I find the scale I need for $10 cheaper than Target. I curse myself for not remembering an expired 20% off coupon and leave with six dollars to my name.

At home I find that my knives are locked inside the (closed)restaurant, and turn to my Chinese cleaver, which has attained notoriety for the time that I stored it blade-side-up and discovered, with my knuckles, that Chinese cleavers are sent from the factory sharp. Surprisingly, it works well. Not as well as My Knife, which doesn't have a stainless steel handle that gets slippery when wet or covered in a thin layer of pork fat, but well enough. I look at my list, the messy apartment, the bags of raw ingredients and the cold stove, and consider hyperventilating again. I remember what I've been told at the restaurant, when staring at an endless line of tickets: one thing at a time. And each one thing takes less time, is less messy, and somehow less monumental that I thought it would be. Suddenly, I find myself doing all the things I'd marked as "optional" on my list.

I clean, lay out butcher paper on the IKEA island and dining room table, cover the counter with a tablecloth folded so that it looks clean. My first guest, the only one who's made sausage before, arrives and hooks up his grinder attachment to my kitchenaid. He makes sausage and grinds it. We set up my manual grinder to stuff on the island. More guests arrive with cheese, crackers, and a giant bottle of wine.

Nothing throws off careful planning like guests. They eschew working in the dining room, the kitchen gets crowded. People don't know what to do or where to go, and in the middle of making and stuffing sausage, start demanding to be fed. Someone asks if we can grill some sausage now. I desperately want extra bodies out of the kitchen, but grilling requires hauling the grill through the (now-packed) apartment to the cement pad across the lot, lighting it, sitting with it while the coals burn down, and generally making sure it's not stolen. The sausage guru points out that it's way faster to poach sausage in beer. Plus there's the great bogeyman of professional cooks everywhere: the possibility that cooked food will end up in the proximity of raw. This is how food-borne illnesses make their way onto people's plates, and the specter of someone's pork being contaminated takes years off my life. I say no, but we've got cries for sausage coming from the couch, the grill is way manlier (and thus more sausage-appropriate) than beer poaching, and after an hour of being asked repeatedly, I give in. The kitchen and living room are cleared out, the grill is hauled outside and started up, and there's at least some extra room.

Someone else asks if it's OK to turn on the TV for Heroes. Sure. As could have been predicted, all activity ceases once the TV's on. At 11, the sausage guru puts my sausage in the stuffer on the kitchenaid, to show me how it works, and we finish. As soon as we finish, someone is drunk and needs to go; is it OK to get their sausage right now, and leave the grill outside? Sure. We divide the sausage, hand it out, say goodbye, and the guru and a couple of saintlike friends actually clean my kitchen for me. I sit down, open a beer, and realize my shoes were quite possibly the worst choice for a day on my feet. After a minute, the kitchen is clear enough to bring the grill back in, and I find that it was set up not on the safe concrete pad, but behind Honey's car, marked by a pile of ash. At least it's closer. I keep my friends here till 12:30, completely oblivious to the fact that they have normal jobs to wake up for.

What have I learned?

1) I need to stop calling educational evenings in which we make food "parties." They're pleasant, they involve friends, but they also take more work, and frankly, partying at these things is a bad idea.

2) Nine people do not fit into our apartment.

3) Making restaurant-quantities of sausage is best left to restaurants. There's a fine coat of grease on my kitchen floor and I suspect that to get it really clean, I'll actually have to do some hands-and-knees scrubbing.

4) My friends are not stupid, and they can mix their own recipes at home the night before. This will actually result in better sausage.

I threatened, if this went well, to hold another evening like it in a few months. I think I might, but I'll take up my friends' generous offer to use their more spacious house, I'll actually stick to my guest limit, and we'll make three batches of sausage. That's it. I figure it's better to be in demand than to satisfy everyone's half-cocked desire to make their own sausage. But my chef was impressed. That's something, right? He also demanded that I bring some in to try. Honey's out of town though, so I have to save some, and frankly, after all the effort that went into it, I'm hoarding this sausage like gold.

2007-09-24T01:59:00.000-04:00

You Know What They Say About Four-Letter F-Words...

A loving God would not allow this. We are (apparently; I found out from the site) in the year of the pig. The Southern Foodways Alliance is holding its annual symposium in Oxford, MS. With a focus on the pig. Because it's the year of the pig, get it? It's October 25-28, with a Delta Divertissment (pre-symposium bus ride and bonuses) that includes a whole-pig demo. And I've asked off for the prior weekend because I have a wedding in the family.

Of course it isn't financially feasible, and the Divertissement is really small, so it's probably sold out, and Honey would not be pleased to see me go away for the long weekend, what with the conflicting hours and all. And I could show up early at work one Pig Day (they happen every couple of weeks or so) and piss off chef with a thousand questions and petulant demands for cut-by-cut commentary. But Alice Waters will be there (More on the Chez Panisse Café Cookbook later). And Anne Quatrano. And Shirley Corriher. And Eddie Hernandez. And other names and profiles that make me stomp my foot like a child and declare, at two in the morning in a full apartment building, "It's not fair!"

Teaser: The Chez Panisse Café Cookbook is good. Real good. Come back in 24 hours to find out how good. Also, I have milk in my fridge. Raw milk. How ever shall I use it?

Resources:
1. Southern Foodways Alliance.
2. Blindly trust me, and buy it before I tell you how good it is.

2007-09-23T01:07:00.000-04:00

Ugh.

I ache right now; I'm too tired to move enough to change out of my nasty clothes, much less bathe. I haven't even finished a beer in the hour since I've been home. And tomorrow, I work from three to ten one more time, before a relaxed and productive Monday of...laundry. I'm working six long, high-pressure days--a completely different set menu daily plus a limited menu for the bar--to celebrate the restaurant's fifth anniversary. Last night I watched my chef literally press his nose against a piece of pork belly that hadn't cured properly before abruptly straightening up with this terrible grimace. Somehow, this combination drives home the magnitude of the "glamorous restaurant" myth.

And of course there was the disparity between me and the rest of the world as I drove home through Buckhead and Virginia Highlands. I watched happy, enthusiastic people get down with their music and convertibles, groups of friends meeting on the sidewalk, bikers outside Belly General, while sweating in my chef's jacket, unable to do more than inch through traffic, pray that I'd make it to Buddy's before midnight, and more than a little resentful that anyone else wasn't in the kind of funk I am.

I'm hoping that this beer, radio paradise, and the vegetable chapter in The Chez Pannise Café Cookbook will restore a positive attitude. And that failing all else, sleep and vegetables will set me right by morning.

2007-09-08T10:44:00.000-04:00

Correction

This article in the AJC quotes a Coca-Cola spokeswoman who tells us that caffeine is largely used as a flavoring.

What does the Bible tell us about caffeine? Page 434 informs us that "[c]affeine is the most widely consumed behavior-modifying chemical in the world. It is an alkaloid ." No mention is made of caffeine as a flavoring. Page 258 answers the alkaloid flavor question: "Alkaloids are bitter-tasting toxins that appeared in plants about the time that mammals evolved and seem especially effective at deterring our branch of the animal family by both taste and aftereffects. Almost all known alkaloids are poisonous at high doses, and most alter animal metabolism at lower doses: hence the attractions of caffeine and nicotine."

Long quotes aside, anyone who has consumed crystalline caffeine or Water Joe knows that caffeine is bitter. The Coca-Cola spokeswoman says that this bitterness is detectable and a selling point in sodas like Coke, Dr. Pepper, and Mountain Dew. But has anyone who's ever drunk these beverages been able to detect the soupçon of caffeine under the calories, acids (for "bite") and various other flavorings? I doubt it.

Coke and other beverage manufacturers put caffeine in drinks because it kicks up people's metabolisms, and there's nothing wrong with that; it's why most people start their days with a cup of coffee or tea. They take it out when their drinkers, having developed an addiction, seek to cut back or quit caffeine entirely. And while some people seek out the bitter flavors in coffee and tea--which have more caffeine, the major source of that bitterness--it's unlikely that young children and habitual soda drinkers are looking for bitterness. In fact, sodas are often seen as more drinkable forms of caffeine.

So let's be honest now Coca-Cola. As one caffeine-freak to another, there's nothing wrong with wanting a buzz, or selling it to someone else.

2007-08-25T14:26:00.000-04:00

Chipotle, FarmAid, and FoodRoutes

Honey and I went to Chipotle for lunch today. I've liked Chipotle since I first read in a trade magazine that, though owned by McDonald's Chipotle uses humanely raised meats, supports worthy causes, and is all-around a responsible corporate citizen. After reading the article, which took the view that fast food was about to become more healthy for people, communities, and the economies in which they and their workers operated--a bit optimistic, in hindsight--I went to Chipotle and was appropriately blown away. I go about once a month now, and the barbacoa and carnitas are my favorites.

August, however, will be a two-burrito month, because I saw a sign in our local Chipotle that all proceeds from meat-burrito sales THIS WEDNESDAY will go to FarmAid, an organization that seeks to preserve family farming in America. For the unfamiliar, the alternative is industrialized farming, which has given us such greatest hits as E. Coli in our spinach, "Blue Baby" alerts¹ in those unfortunate towns downstream of major corn farming centers in the Midwest, and the pink baseballs masquerading as tomatoes in January².
FarmAid also maintains FoodRoutes, an incredibly helpful tool for finding local food without spending more time than most PhD candidates do on their dissertations. I had a conversation with my Chef the other night about the possibility of finding local food for a large party in February and was assured that although farmers' markets are shut down in the winter and CSAs don't usually start till March or April, there is plenty of bounty here in the exceedingly warm South. So now that I can't go to the East Atlanta Farmer's market, and never seem to make it out of bed for the Saturday markets, I'm getting ready to look into local food sources that are more flexible. I even found an apiary (bee farm) nearby. How cool is that?

I know that most people won't donate directly, so I'll reiterate: GET THEE TO CHIPOTLE WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 29TH, and order a meat burrito. Then go to the websites below, and find a nearby farm, farmer's market or apiary to patronize. The food you eat will be far more unique and flavorful than what you'll get at your local supermarket, and you won't have to deal with long lines after work, surly or incompetent cashiers, or the vague sense that you're just one more cog in the machine. You may lose track of which celebrities are having plastic surgery, babies, or breakdowns, so look up a good gossip site while you're at it.

GO HERE:

FarmAid

FoodRoutes

What in the heck is:

1."Blue Baby" alerts: As explained in The Omnivore's Dilemna by Michael Pollan, Blue Baby Alerts are issued in the spring in corn farming states. Every spring farmers who farm monocultures like commodity corn fertilize their fields, and in many cases, desperate for even the chance of a productivity boost, overfertilize. When the spring rains come, they wash the fertilizers, composed of synthetic nitrogen into drainage ditches, and then into the rivers. The nitrates in the water bind to hemoglobin and prevent the blood from delivering oxygen to the brain, an effect that can be fatal for small creatures, like infants.

2. January tomatoes: Honey has informed me that not everyone is aware of the phenomena represented by the January tomato, so a quick explanation: I use January tomatoes as an example of food that is available to use wildly out of season. Usually the quality of the food is compromised; tomatoes aren't meant to grow in January, so in order to make them grow in January, you have to breed them for traits other than flavor, or ship them from far away, and tomatoes are not a food that, at their best, ship well. They're fragile, prone to over-ripening and fermenting at room temperature, and cease ripening altogether the moment they're refrigerated. When you see tomatoes in winter, fragile greens like arugula in the heat of summer, cherries in November, etc. you can rest assured that whatever you're being sold, it doesn't taste like the real thing, and probably traveled far, burning fossil fuels all the way, to get to you.

2007-08-20T14:18:00.000-04:00

"What's 'Hell' in Spanish?"

I didn't have Hot Appetizer. For 3 days, Hot App showed me around the cold station. He'd taught me how to read the menu to find my mise en place¹ for the day. He'd given me a good idea of what quantities I'd need for a shift, and what I needed to do around the kitchen to close down for the night and get the restaurant set up for the next day. He'd worked cold station-salads and desserts, including a cheese plate-for three months and was moving over to Hot Appetizers, the station with the fryers and cold meat dishes. Most importantly, he followed me those three days, cleaning up when I got messy, and finding everything I forgot--and I forgot everything at least once--before an absence became a crisis.

I showed up early for my first solo day, forgetting that Hot App and I prepped so much the night before that there was very little to do. I putzed around, taking my time in an attempt to remember everything I needed. About an hour after I got there, the saute and fry cooks walked in and turned on the hood. Nothing. They flicked the switches a couple of times, and stood with the sous chef under the hood, listening for some sign of life. They checked the breakers. Nothing there. They called the hood guy, who flicked the switches, checked the breakers, and got up on a ladder for a better view of the hoods not working. He informed the fry cook and me-the people who matter, you know-that he couldn't fix the hoods until the next morning, because it was "burn-your-hands hot" on the roof. We decided not to tell him that at 92° F before turning on the equipment, it was "lose-a-cook-to-heatstroke hot" in the kitchen. Not that it would have mattered.

Hoods, or exhaust hoods, are required in kitchens to ventilate "heat, smoke, and grease-laden vapors" produced by equipment. While working in my pampered, seated, air-conditioned office job I'd occasionally heard of hoods going down, and coordinated their repair. But like first-class passengers being loaded onto lifeboats while the Titanic sank, I didn't give much thought to what was happening to the poor schmucks down in steerage.

Here's what: we found fans-initially two, then four-and turned them on the cooks. At least the hot air would be moving. The servers came in to get their helpings of family meal and brought us each a pitcher of ice water. One of them asked the fry cook "What's 'Hell' in Spanish?" Once service started, the servers would dart in and out, get their food, and refill our pitchers, while we spent the slow night sweating, bitching, and chugging water, going back to the prep line where the hood worked when we had nothing to do. Our ice creams, normally soft, were a sick joke, and I considered scooping in the walk-in, till I remembered that the walk through the kitchen would undo any progress I made. Then about an hour and a half before close, the utterly predictable happened: a compressor on a cooler overheated and shut down. We turned fans on the machine, as though a blast of 100ºF air would revive the motor, and packed all of the meat in ice. By the time I got home, I smelled like something that had been dead for days, and my illusions of the glamorous restaurant life were effectively shattered.

What in the heck is:

1. mise en place: "setting in place" in French, or "Everything in place" at the CIA. Or "mess in place" in the American South. Includes all ingredients for assembling an item, plus supplies like portioning utensils, pans and other preparation utensils, and plates. Source

2007-08-08T14:38:00.000-04:00

Epicure's Latest Homework Assignment:

I de-stemmed a box of Filet beans yesterday, and wanting to get more than a sore neck out of the deal, decided to find out exactly what filet beans were.

I couldn't find out what inspired the name, but filet beans are haricots vert, or French green beans. They're skinny, generally short (4" or less) have little seed or string development, and a sweet flavor. Every site that I went to revered them as the "best" green bean.

Good to know that I spent an hour with the best green beans.

My sources:

http://www.kitchengardenseeds.com/cgi-bin/catview.cgi?_fn=Product&_category=3

http://www.deliciousorganics.com/recipes/beans.htm

2007-08-04T16:04:00.000-04:00

Pig Day!

This week I staged twice at a restaurant which specializes in local and organic product. The menu changes daily, the chef has cultivated impressive relationships with myriad local farmers, and the food is treated carefully, and from everything that I've tasted, thoughtfully; the dishes are simple and calculated to the ingredients. The night that I was introduced to the chef, I ordered a dish of fregola sarda¹ with shrimp, fresh garlic, basil, chili oil, and Sungold tomatoes². I ordered the dish for the tomatoes, which I'd been eating for two weeks straight, and which had spoiled me for all other cherry tomatoes. It was like a brothy rice dish with a savory, slightly winey sauce playing well with the other ingredients.

One notable part of my stage was brushing mushrooms, a task I'd never done before; it was slow, frustrating, and left my neck sore. But we suffer to learn, and I think that there's absolutely nothing wrong with forcing a novice to spend a some time handling an unfamiliar ingredient. I also got to make fresh pasta, and core and chop old tomatoes for stewing. That gave me a great appreciation for the restaurant; nothing was wasted.

When I was introduced to the chef, he mentioned that they'd broken down a whole pig earlier that week, another clue that I really wanted to work in this kitchen. Well, stage two happened to fall on pig day. I spent the morning doing the usual prep work, and only got to glance over my shoulder as Chef did the hard work. But later that night he gave me the bony carcass pieces and told me to clean the bones for stock, and save the meat for sausage. I learned the importance of glove-wearing, not to protect me from the pig, but from my boning knife, which slipped in my amateur's hands. Glove on, I managed to draw blood only once or twice more. My left hand now looks like I dueled with a woodchipper. But on the plus side, I got the job.

What in the heck is...

1. Fregola Sarda is made with a semolina-water dough that is rubbed through a sieve to make little nuggets of dough which are then toasted and cooked like rice. Info from here.

2. Sungolds are orange cherry tomatoes with a great flavor, which most guides say are sweet, but I personally think that they've got a great sweet-acid balance. Info from here.

2007-07-29T23:25:00.000-04:00

Work has a subscription to USA Today which published 3, count 'em 3, stories about this:

Consumer Reports has found a growing level of concern among Americans about the safety of our food and the veracity of what's in it, as one food scandal after another rockets out of China.

Rather than taking this moment of public dialog to discover where our food comes from and what it goes through to get to us, 83% of us have, in true American fashion, found an easier way around the problem: We'll only eat American!

Except. Except until we realize that junior will have to give up her bananas, senior his January tomatoes, and sis her beloved Mexican avocados. Oh well. Perhaps we'll limit ourselves to the Americas.

But what of our Italian risotto, our imported cheese? Most of us have forgiven the French enough to eat Brie and drink wine, after all. Maybe we can limit ourselves to the Western Hemisphere. Europeans put so much stock into their Denominations of Origin that surely they're careful about their safety practices.

Then someone informs us that most of our shrimp is from Vietnam and Thailand, that 16% of our ground beef--our hamburger meat, for crying out loud!--comes from China, and we're back where we started.

If American politicians can be frequently and justifiably accused of abusing the slippery slope fallacy in their arguments, perhaps it's because their constituents are comfortably familiar with the process through reductionist solutions like the one above. We're particularly adept at employing simplistic, exclusionary methods when it comes to our diets. In the 1980s, we shunned fats, in the '90s it was sugar, and the new millennium saw Americans abandon carbohydrates, one of four basic food molecules, and a time-honored energy powerhouse, particularly for the poor, who couldn't afford the average American's meat- and fat-rich diet.

This crisis has activists calling for country-of-origin labels on all food, a good idea that's already in practice in multiple other markets, including the EU. Unfortunately for us, many of these markets operate with the ethos that businesses exist to provide something of value to a community, where we in America are an unenviable circumstance: the private citizen has less power over his or her representatives than a company that has its headquarters and the vast majority of its fiscal contribution in someone else's jurisdiction. Indeed, even private groups of citizens dream of holding the kind of influence that corporations have, especially at the federal level. We live in a society where we are expected to provide something of value to business, be it cheap labor, money that we can't afford to spend, or captive audiences of future consumers.

If either house of Congress were to consider a bill requiring country-of-origin labels, it would almost definitely pass, get signed into law, and trumpeted in the media. It would probably also undergo the requisite gutting of standards that we witnessed in the assignment of organic labels. We can assume that manufactured food would be exempt from any labeling standards for many reasons. First, much of this food is produced with commodities, which are grown or made all over the globe and are indistinguishable from one country to the next. Second, no marketer worth his or her MBA wants to admit this to the public. Third, no accountant wants to change this practice, as it makes manufactured food vastly cheaper than less-processed food.

A more realistic solution for the individual American is to do precisely what we tell our children not to: become picky eaters. We can insist on knowing not only where our food came from, but how it was grown, by whom, when vegetables were picked and fish caught, and any of a host of other variables that may be important to a given consumer at a given time. We will undoubtedly run into resistance, but particularly in and around urban areas, it's more than feasible for consumers to refuse to do business with any purveyor who won't research or supply whatever information they want.

An obvious place to start is a local farmers' market; not only can we find fresh, often certified-organic produce, we can meet farmers and learn more about what the local ecosystem produces from season to season, but we can learn what is available in the off-seasons, when farmers' markets close. Those of us with children can demonstrate the links between food and farming, making the process of choosing what to eat more concrete and less bewildering for the next generation.

Much of the environment that we live in has the potential to be toxic in ways beyond our control. I cannot insist that someone clean up the Chattahoochee or any of Atlanta's other water sources, nor can I force my fellow drivers to use biodiesel to clear the smog over my city. I can't rid the old building I live in of lead paint, or asbestos, if it were a problem. But three times a day or more, I can make a conscious decision to ingest something that can help my body or hurt it, something that has been produced in such a way that it adds value to the local community through increased topsoil, a family's income, cleaner water, more available resources--the whole host of benefits that come from sustainable agriculture.

Many times, when I eat out or at work, I fail to do this. But at home, I cook for myself, for Honey, for friends and family who I love and cherish, and it's these meals that I insist give back rather than deplete. When we eat, we have the potential to nourish far more than ourselves, and we should insist that our food give us the chance to do so at every opportunity.

2007-07-10T22:38:00.000-04:00

To market, to market...
I've left the CSA fold. What happened? Last year I said that I was about to become a street preacher on the fineness of the CSA, but the short version of the story is that picking up the box and splitting it was inconvenient, I wasn't cooking enough, and Honey and the couple we were splitting were baffled by some of the produce, so lots of great vegetables went to rot. More than that, though, I decided not to sign up for year three because someone in Atlanta was finally smart enough to organize a farmer's market on a weekday evening; I've been attending the East Atlanta Village farmer's market for almost all of my produce for the past three weeks.

I like the farmer's market. I get to choose what I buy, and how much. I can cruise the produce from multiple farms, so I get access to more variety. I also get to talk to farmers and farm managers about what they're growing and why. Plus, unlike the CSA, I have access to meat and eggs every week. That's a big plus, as I'd never had farm-raised eggs before. Now if only I could find cow shares in Georgia.

For those in the Atlanta area interested in buying local and organic, the EAV farmer's market is convenient, approachable, and affordable; Food for two adults for one week (4-5 dinners per week) costs me about $25 for vegetables, eggs, and sometimes cheese. The week that I bought meat, bread and cheese, I paid $34. To help first-timers navigate the market comfortably, I've put together some pointers.

Browse first: The first thing that you'll notice is that at any given time, most of the farmers are selling the same types of vegetables. In the summer, for example, most stalls will have tomatoes, summer squash, cucumbers, corn, and beans. Before you rush to buy, look around at each stall. Which squash look the best? Do you want smaller specimens, like cherry tomatoes, tiny plums, and baby squash, or will you eat slicing tomatoes on sandwiches and larger squash for grilling more quickly? Think about what you like to eat, what you'll take the time to prepare, and what will go well with the food you've bought or have at home. Most importantly, think about what you need, and what you use; I've discovered that now that I'm out of school, I go through 2 heads of garlic a week, as opposed to half a head previously. Don't be afraid to eschew the corn from one stand only to go to the next and buy their corn either. You're at a farmer's market to buy the best, freshest ingredients, and it's perfectly reasonable for one farm to be a week behind another when it comes to ripeness. Feel free to compare prices as well, which leads to the next point:

Talk to your farmers: And not just about prices, either. Ask if they grow the food in front of you, or sell it for other farmers. Compliment the exceptional-looking tomatoes, and learn as much as you can about the food you want to buy. What is the variety? Does it have a unique flavor profile or an amazing shelf life? When was it picked? Be especially aware of unfamiliar items, and ask about them. Since you'll often find heirloom, rare, or highly regional fruits and vegetables at the farmer's market, a certain lack of familiarity is expected. And some farmers will let you taste a sample, particularly if they're in the midst of the peak season and have a bumper crop to unload. Also ask about items you don't see, like meat, cheese, and eggs, all of which will be kept in coolers if the farmers carry them.

Don't get intimidated by unfamiliar items: Recently, the Moore Farms booth at the East Atlanta Village farmers' market had what looked like very small tomatillos. Upon inquiry, Collins Davis, the farm manager, lit up. "They're ground cherries. Do you want to try one?" The flavor is reminiscent of a pina colada, and On Food and Cooking, the bible of all things culinary, explains that they're relatives of tomatoes and tomatillos, possess "caramelly" flavors, and are often made into pies and preserves. Eating them out of hand, like any berry, is fine too. When you come across something unfamiliar, learn what you can about it, and when you cook and eat it, approach it generally. You won't think of many uses for that black-skinned Russian radish if that's how you think of it. But if you see a large root vegetable, you'll realize it's made to be roasted, and when you do, you'll find a surprising sweetness and mild mustard kick. Imagine what would have happened if, paralyzed by ignorance and a sense of certain doom, you'd just passed it over.

Bring a cooler: This is a good rule for any food shopping that you do. A cooler with some ice (not enough for a deep freeze, just to keep things crisp) gives you the flexibility to search obsessively for wine to complement your grilled Berkshire pork chops with fresh tomato-corn salsa, stop and chat with friends, run other errands, or just avoid traffic for an hour or so. The only caveat is to layer your food, keeping egg cartons, meat, cheese, and cold-tolerant produce like onions and cucumbers on the bottom with the ice, and fragile and heat tolerant items like herbs, tomatoes and lettuce on top.

Bring your own bags: Most of us have the bag of bags of bags in the kitchen or laundry room; the more advanced have those oh-so-attractive bag sausages that make the obscene quantity of single-use bags easier to ignore. Go ahead and bring them to reuse at the farmers market. Most farmers don't provide bags, and the ones that do could surely use the money elsewhere. Many farmers also prefer to keep and reuse their pint containers and baskets, so be prepared, and do everything you can to help them out. They aren't getting rich selling organic produce, and would probably rather invest their container money in their farms. It's also wasteful to use such durable products only once. By reusing bags and cartons, you're reducing demand for products that are produced in factories that pollute and where workers are poorly paid for unskilled labor. The truly advanced among us will invest in reusable cloth bags, but for the immediate future, reusing your old plastic bags until they give out is a responsible option.

Finally, a crop calendar.

2007-03-20T16:18:00.000-04:00

James Beard Nominees I'm Rooting for, and Why

The Omnivore's Dilemna by Michael Pollan; Category: Books, Writing on Food

This book was a journalist's exploration of our food chains, and it finally brought together all the damning evidence for the indictment against industrial food. It encouraged the reader to consider whether he or she should really feel all that responsible for shopping at Whole Foods, and provided an extensive description of what a local farm is, what it can grow and provide, how it might help the local community and ecology, and the obstacles that it faces from government and business. The section on the hunter-gatherer meal was fun and highly personal, and provided a great ending to a very journalistic work of nonfiction.

"2006 Food Issue: From the Farm to Your Table" by Besha Rodell, Creative Loafing Atlanta
Category: Journalism, Newspaper Feature Writing About Restaurants and/or Chefs, With or Without Feature Writing

This nominee, like all the ones that follow, is from Atlanta, and I have a ton of local pride. This article discussed various options for local food in Atlanta, and interviewed four chefs and a farmer. You can read it here.

"SUSHI USA; What does Chinese food have in common with tomatoes, pizza, parmesan cheese, peas and also sushi? Umami" by John Kessler, AJC
Category: Journalism, Newspaper Feature Writing with Recipes

I've been reading Kessler for at least the past eight years, first his reviews, then his food writing after every restaurant in Atlanta had identified him. This is the man whose words first got me to thinking about food as something beyond good or bad, but as something infinitely diverse, complex, individualistic, and vested with significant personal meaning. When he was a reviewer and found himself at a Vietnamese place, he would explain to the reader what pho was, what bun was, what they should taste like, and then compare this ideal to the restaurant. It was invaluable for a teenager who really wasn't that familiar with food, and his reviews and columns are the reasons that I have cravings as specific as "I need Nau Num Tuk from Little Bangkok right now." This piece is part of a five part series about Japanese food. Unfortunately, the AJC is bolstering Atlanta's provincial reputation; they've published multiple articles about the nominations, and have other Kessler articles back to 2003. They have not republished the original series on the site, and there's no sign on the AJC's site that the series ever existed. Idiots.

"The Pit and the Pendulum", "Roadside Renaissance", "Where Coconut Cake meets Sweet Tea Pie" by John T. Edge, AJC
Category: Journalism, Newspaper, Newsletter or Magazine Columns

One thing the AJC has done right in the past twelve months is this: they've introduced a weekly feature that explores traditional Southern food. It's always a quick, interesting read, and Edge manages to update some very old, very traditional recipes, in the hopes that our modern Southerners will one day welcome ingredients like sorghum syrup back into the pantry.
Edge is also the director of the Southern Foodways Alliance, which has worked with multiple local writers to produce some very good Southern Food articles and series. The alliance's work has become more important in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.
They've also decided that these articles were published, which is a plus.

"The Pit and the Pendulum"

"Roadside Renaissance"

"Where Coconut Cake Meets Sweet Tea Pie"

Finally, while I've read great things about Hugh Acheson and Arnaud Berthelier and their restaurants, I'm rooting for Scott Peacock for Best Chef Southeast. His book with Edna Lewis was so pleasant that I racked up a $20 late fee from the local library, and while I haven't made it to Fried Chicken Tuesday yet (and certainly won't tonight), his food is very good, and very Southern.

Now, off to pen a harangue to the JBF bigwigs about Feasting on Asphalt, and why they're philistines for not nominating it.

2007-03-15T16:03:00.000-04:00

Old School

One of my professors gave me a great quote when he said "You're entering one of the last true apprenticeships systems around." This is not as true in America, where I've had to explain even to chefs what an apprenticeship would look like, and it's worth explaining the history and value of the apprenticeship.

For centuries aspiring chefs needing education (and we all need education, even if you father was Escoffier himself) found the best chef that they could, and signed themselves into what amounted to indentured servitude, getting paid little or nothing in exchange for work experience, education at the hands of culinary genius, and all the abuse an old-school French chef could hand out.

That changed in the 1970s with the rise of culinary schools, particularly in the US. Culinary schools had been around, most notably Le Cordon Bleu in France, and the Culinary Institute of America in the States, but by the 70s, interest in food and restaurants, particularly in America, had grown. Plenty of people wanted to be chefs, but few had the desire or means to move to Europe.

The America Culinary Federation now provides an apprenticeship program, and I'm planning on using it, at least as a framework. When I started looking for a job over spring break, I noticed that most chefs were unfamiliar with what I'd need as a first-year apprentice, especially after talking to a chef who used an apprenticeship for his education. He explained that I'd need a restaurant or institution that could teach me, through its regular oprations, butchery, bakery, lots of prep and maybe charcuterie. This isn't difficult to find in places with a long culinary history, where vendors most likely arose meeting restaurants' need for lots of raw product. In the age of restaurant group and providers that are more accustomed to providing bagged lettuce and pre-portioned meat, these sorts of kitchens are few and far between, and Atlanta's a recent arrival on the food scene. We rely on Sysco and United Foodservice for product, even if they go by the names of Buckhead Beef and FreshPoint. Getting beef in anything smaller than a subprimal (roughly 1/9th of a cow) requires special contacts, as does getting anything heirloom that you can legally serve.

An apprenticeship provides a unique opprtunity; aspiring chefs can learn from the best in the business, at the business, since the best chefs rarely have the time to teach at the local community college. Plus, we don't incur massive student loan debt, only to go out and earn ten dollars an hour while we pay our dues. It's practical, but that doesn't make it convenient.

Yet I'm still looking to take an old-fashioned approach to an old-school industry, and this was exemplified by an email that I got while trying to find a job. A local ACF chapter guy told me, of a specific chef who does apprenticeships: "You may not be able to reach him by phone.(but you can try). You could also write him a letter or visit the hotel and apply for a job." No mention was made of email. Talk about old school.

2007-03-08T15:25:00.000-05:00

A Tale of Three Restaurants

It's Spring Break again, and while that means a trip to the beach for most college students, it's time for Epicure to find a job. Graduation will happen in May, Honey and I will go to Spain for a couple of weeks, and then I hope to come back to Atlanta, to start my first apprenticeship.

This week I visited three restaurants, equal in dignity, disparate in every other way, to try and pick one that will start me on the road to chefdom. Everyone that I've talked to has told me to find the best chefs I could for my apprenticeship, and this week has shown me that that mantra will not save me from some tough decisions.

Restaurant #1 is a palace of fine dining in Atlanta, built up over many years by two brilliant, dedicated chefs. It has its own farm and a takeout division that makes money and moves product for the restaurant. I staged there on Monday. Because they deemed my skills entry-level, they put my in pastry for my stage. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself more than capable, and frankly a little bored; it was a slow night. I met the legendary Chef Who Started It All, and once I was in my station, I was promptly ignored by all but one line cook who came over to speak to me at the end of the night. I enjoyed pastry more than I expected to, and I didn't get the outright rejection that I was expecting; they've told me to get back in touch closer to my graduation. It all seems vaguely positive, but there's no resolution yet.

Restaurant #2 is one of two restaurants with a leading local group, and was one of the first modern successful restaurants in the city. Its formula has been copied and applied to a number of new restaurants, and the group is very successful because of it. The chef at this place was particularly interesting, because he came up as an apprentice, and he had some great advice for what to look for in a first-year apprenticeship. His advice ended up pushing me toward Restaurant #1, where they bake their own bread, cure their own meat, and where I might learn some butchery, all of which he stressed as valuable skills for a learning chef. He invited me in last night to eat at his restaurant, and get an idea of the place. The food was delicious, the chef, though unexpectedly busy, was nice enough to stop by a couple of times, and I was sufficiently impressed to really want to work there.

I just got back from Restaurant #3, an American bistro, that reminded me of a slightly larger version of Scotty's place. The chef there likes to teach; he spends time working with local high schools' Pro-Start programs, and though he'd never had an apprentice before, he expressed definite enthusiasm for the possibility. He's also justifiably proud of his restaurant. It's consistently busy, and a combination of a neighborhood following, charismatic namesake, and smart updates have kept it in business for 25 years. It's the sort of place that I'd love to open and keep going till I was ready to retire.

I expected that this choosing processs would be easy, but as I've met great chefs with good advice, I'm finding myself at a quandary. I've begun to sketch out a plan to learn as much as I can, but I'm terrified of pulling this off poorly, and offending any one of the people who have been so generous with their time and experience. The truth is, I'd like to work at all of these places, and hate the idea of saying "You'll hear from me next year, or the year after." to anyone. But as honey says, "The real world sucks like that."

2006-09-23T11:34:00.000-04:00

MEXICO!

As a reward for my Semester from Hell, Honey and I went to Acapulco in August. It was a wonderful vacation, but for out purposes I'm focusing on...Epicure's first Pozole!

Ok, so not really my first. Really, my first was about a year ago at my old job when one of the line cooks brought in his wife's chicken pozole. But this was my first pozole in a restaurant, particularly one where I got the experience I expect from Korean food: tons of little side dishes, with pickles, snackes, and (not something I expect with Korean food) salsas.

I didn't know the distinctions between the Pozoles blanco, rojo, y verde, so I asked the server.
"Qual recomindia?"
"Rojo es picante, blanco es no picante, y verde es mas o meno."
I'm not that tough. I went with the verde. And oh, it was good. Soft, chewy nuggets of hominy. Slow-cooked pork, tons of salsas and peppers to make is mas picante, and crunchy fried corn tortillas with cheese on the side.
What more could you want?

2006-08-23T16:26:00.000-04:00

On Produce

My last table yesterday wanted a caprese salad. Not surprising; the dish is iconic Italian: tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, olive oil and balsamic. And in Georgia, August is the high holy season for the Tomato, patron saint of summer. What I pulled from the pantry window five minutes lately made me ashamed to serve. The tomatoes were only slightly darker than my nail beds, and the mozzarella I recognized as the opposite of "not soggy, not vulcanized, not tasteless" good mozzarella, as described by a local editor.

I grabbed the sous chef, and jerked my hand in the direction of the offensive plate "What the hell is this? We're in Georgia. In August." My chef was kind enough to feed me the line from the Big Corporate Produce Distributor That You Probably Didn't Know is Owned by a Company That Makes Food for Chili's. The heat is ruining our tomatoes. I'll give you a minute to straighten up, wipe the tears from your eyes, and repeat that little joke to whoever's around. Because to Southerners that's a great joke. The heat. Is ruining our tomatoes. Whew. It gets me going here, in a lab, 24 hours later. Anyone who has grown tomatoes in the South can tell you that, water being sufficient, heat will not hurt your tomatoes.

But here's the rub: these aren't Southern tomatoes. These are California tomatoes. And while California grows lots of great produce, when you take something fragile like a tomato and tell me that it came to Georgia from California, that tells me that the tomato is a product of highly industrialized agriculture.

What's wrong with that? We need food, the more the better right? No. We need food. We do not need a system that selects plants based on their ability to produce lots of fruit that can be transferred from truck to truck on a cross-country trip, at the expense of flavor, texture, aroma, and all of those other hard-to-perfect variables. It's worth noting that flavor, aroma, and texture are why we eat tomatoes instead of potatoes (which, not to be nasty to the potato, store and ship beautifully). Certain products grow better in certain regions. Tomato plants in general like heat, humidity, and for reasons most other plants can't fathom, clay-based soil. But the tomatoes grown in California were selected for California, where there's less heat, humidity, and heavy soil. Thus, when heat shows up, it throws off the development of these already-compromised plants, and I hypothesize that the fruit ripens before it darkens, making tomatoes in August look like tomatoes in January.

When we allow this: when I served that salad, when my customers ate it and paid for it, and when I frequent establishments that don't hold that gargantuan produce distributor to its promise of quality (better to boycott them altogether, but that takes a huge amount of work for a restaurant), when we pay inflated rates at market for high-season produce that isn't high-season quality, we're sending a message: keep shipping my produce from farther than a day's travel away. Keep telling farmers to plant species that produce quantity over quality. And please, keep us ignorant about what we eat. If you've never tasted a good tomato, you won't understand the heresy that is a bad one. You won't get pissed at the machines with tables that insult your intelligence and your palate with some of the absolute merde we're asked to accept as food. You'll be a perfect consumer, and your enthusiasm toward food will vary about as much as what you eat, which is to say, not much at all.

Finally, a little inspiration. They sell to restaurants.

2006-07-21T10:14:00.000-04:00

It's Photo Essay on Organic Fruit and Veggies Time!
Or
Guess who's been too busy writing too many papers for too many classes to cook, much less post.

Have I told you about the CSA? I think I may have told you about the CSA, only several dozen times, at least if I see you socially. And I'm about this close to becoming a street-preacher on the fineness of the CSA.

CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture, and the acronym has become a noun for the types of programs by which communities support local agriculture. Here's how the one I'm in works: You pay in advance, either by the week, or by the season for a discount. Every Wednesday, our farmer drives a refrigerated truck down from Northeast Georgia, and drops boxes of produce at various locations around the city. I'd had to go without during the spring, having no time to pick up my boxes. But summer has brought a new season, and honey's job is in close proximity to a drop off.

The box is a mix of whatever's ripe that week. The food is incredibly flavorful, and keeps surprisingly well; during the past week I was writing the aforementioned papers, and had no time to cook. I stuck the tomatoes, squash, and okra in paper bags on the counter and lost a single tomato in a week. The rest got roasted yesterday. Muskmelons (Cantalopues come from France, are less aromatic and sweet, and slightly flavorful; these might in fact be cantaloupes, as you can buy heirloom seeds, but given that this is the South, it's more likely that I've got muskmelons.) have to be cut immediately, but once you refrigerate the pieces, you're good. Oh, and even though my copy of the Food Bible says that you shouldn't refrigerate okra, my okra in a paper bag on the counter grew mold.

As delicious and long-lived as the produce is, this is not supermarket produce. My early corn had a snaggle-toothed ear; the cores in the tomatoes don't grow down, but out, and occasinally in the late spring, I get to learn what the phrase "bolt" means in regards to lettuce. The corn is particularly tricky, often harboring grubs. I don't even attempt to deal with them while alive: the corn goes into a sink of water for a few minutes, then into a 300 degree oven until it smells like roasted corn (usually about 30-45 minutes). Then I shuck it, and cut off the tops, which don't tend to grow kernels, and are where the grubs like to live. Also, topless ears fit into gallon bags.

But I never have seen anything as red as the insides of these tomatoes, or gotten a melon with such pretty striping inside the rind (my friends got the one where the stripes were more pronounced). I know what pink-eyed peas are now, and I may have them for lunch.

This is the time of year for abundance, and it's wonderful to be reminded that there is so much more to our food than the mundane and predictable characteristics we usually assign it. The food is perfect for simple treatments, surprises and this time of year if I'm not coking it, I'm thinking about it. Enjoy the pictures.

2006-07-12T10:14:00.000-04:00

Culinary Milestone

Last night, I had foie gras for the first time. It was seared, Hudson Valley, on a buttermilk biscuit that smelled and tasted like it was baked to order. There was also some bacon and some apple compote, but I was just stealing a bite from someone else, so I focused on the foie gras and the biscuit.

The world didn't quite stop spinning, but it was the best riff on sausage and biscuits that I could possibly imagine.

2006-06-16T14:30:00.000-04:00

Wine Party!

Back in the day, when I had an office job and plenty of money to blow, my friends Juju, Sandy and I would throw together these giant parties. The first one was all Juju; she and her boyfriend hosted an orphan's Thanksgiving for all the out-of-towners who couldn't go back home. Even though I had family in town, I stopped by, and it was a great success. So over the next two years we hosted three more Thanksgivings (not the holiday, just what we called our parties), for between forty and sixty. Always, it was a great success, and the source of many fond memories.

After the last Thanksgiving fizzled (thanks, marketing!), I began planning a wine party. A slightly-over-the-top intimate affair, twelve people, six courses, six wines to pair. I never made the menu, but I even got as far as a reasonable budget, and solicited Juju. Unfortunately, neither of us had the money or time now that she was a big important adult with a job, and I was back to being a lowly college student and waitron.

But honey had the money, and after hearing me rhapsodize one too many times about my fantasy wine party, challenged me to do it, within budget. The catch? The guest list was now closer to 30 than 12.

Nonetheless, I rose to the challenge, we stayed within budget, and 27 of our closest friends came and got varying degrees of smashed with us. I consulted my manager with the catering experience on portions, but we still had about 4 pounds of london broil, a gallon bag of fried catfish, and a quart and a half of grated carrots (among other refugees) when we cleaned up the next morning.

Here, for posterity, is the menu, and the wine pairings:
McManis Viognier with Malaysian Curry Spring Rolls
Miguel Torres Santa Digna Rose with Catfish Mojo Tacos
Castle Rock Pinot Noir with Beef, Portobello, and Red Onion Lollipops
Gnarly Head Zinfandel with Lamb Quesadillas Spicy Tomato and Tzitziki Sauces
Banfi Brachetto d'Acqui Rosa Regale with Rasperry-Chocolate "Petit Fours"

The wines, simply put, were awesome. The wine director at Green's on Buford Highway is an incredible font of wisdom, and I recommend them to everybody. Everywhere. Also, I had help: A couple of Dans, a Mike, and the amazing Juju. And of course there were the homeowners, who let me take over and destroy their kitchen, and spend the whole night telling those who didn't know "No, it's not our house..."

Amazingly, I got offers to do another. Anyone with money is welcome to find me and convince me.

2006-06-16T14:05:00.000-04:00

This One Time, at Restaurant Camp....Day Three

More prep at 10. I got a treatise on roasting bell peppers, and went through about a case. I used the Dangerous Leeks that I'd cut up (see day two) to make potato leek soup. I suppose that you could use a stick blender to puree, but Chef had me go after it with a wire whisk. The result: a sore arm and a full understanding of how vegetables' starch disintegrates in the prescence of wet heat and agitation. It was actualy smooth and creamy when I was done.
I also learned to make risotto, a task that I viewed with much fear. It could not have been easier: Alliums (garlic, onion, shallot, whatever) get sauteed in oil with the rice. Once the rice is opaque (not toasted) you add wine and stock, and stir till creamy. I've gotta make some at home soon, before all the nice spring vegetables go away.

Finally, there was the yellow tomato bisque. I learned another important lesson here: wear your chef's jacket. Even if you're roasting peppers and it's hot. Even if risotto isn't dangerous. Because if you don't put on your jacket when crossing the threshold, an hour or two later, you'll get told: "Some people will tell you that you can't add hot stock to hot roux. You can, but you have to whip it fast. Now go get a whisk." And then the stuff that cook-type people call "liquid napalm" will leap out of the pot and onto your arm, prompting a "Goddamnit!" loud enough to make your chef chuckle.

Over lunch, Richard offered to pay me if I worked Sunday night. Money? I was planning on walking away with burns and cuts, not currency. Obviously, I took it.

That night, I learned a couple of new sauces, including the "yummy", a salt-free sauce for artichokes. I also got a few minutes in behind the line, before we got busy.

Oh yes, and the Yorkshire puddings. These were by far the coolest thing I've done in a while. You make a wet batter, a cross between crepes and pancakes, with duck fat. Then you heat muffin tins with duck fat in a 500 degree oven. You fill the muffin cups as fast as you can, and pop them in the oven. You get these gorgeous brown muffin-things, that are way larger than they should be, and feel and act like a sponge. Awesome.
We got a shift drink that night, as we did more than 200 covers. When Scotty came to get me, I hadn't touched my wine, and was still in the middle of cleanup, so I got to go out with the restaurant crew. Everyone was very friendly; I'm used to big-ass corporate restaurants, and the camaraderie was refreshing and encouraging.

I don't know what to say about my last night at PLaE. I was a little exhausted, and it definitely showed. At this far date, I don't remember exactly what I did, but I seem to have done well.

When I got back home, I spent the next couple of weeks sulking and refusing to go to various classes. That means I liked it, right?

2006-04-21T08:33:00.000-04:00

Does This Ever Happen to You? No? Must Just Be Me.

I came to my senses in the grocery store in the Sweet Auburn Curb Market, balancing an empty styrofoam cooler on my hip, considering whether to spend the extra three dollars on the cooler with handles, and calculating whehter the weight of ice, eggs, asparagus, and country ham would be too much to lug around for the next few hours.

I emerged realizing that there was no asparagus at the Sweet Auburn Curb Market, that the cooler would likely crack and leak on MARTA, and that my dream of picking up ingredients for dinner on a break between classes, rather than stopping at the subpar Kroger between class and home was, well, a dream. Also, I needed to go to class.

The newly-warm weather does strange things to a brain. Interesting, even meaty content in a week or so.

2006-04-13T13:11:00.000-04:00

This One Time, at Restaurant Camp...
Day Two
I got to PlaE at about 10 A.M. and found the note that you see above, on the prep table where I was to start my day. It reads: "Dear Culinary Student, Hope your shoes are good and your knives are sharp. Chop chop, cut 'em, cut 'em." Everyone in the kitchen had signed below, but my favorite was the printed note on the right: "Uncle Dicky loves you, and so does God. "

Richard put me to work immediately, juicing blood oranges, which promptly stained my nice white chef's jacket and made me worry about developing citrus-induced tendonitis.

Next was a case of leeks, to be cut two ways. I ended up going through a case and a half to fill my buckets, and about halfway through I began to get a little careless. When you cut anything in one pass, you're supposed to hold your guide hand like a loose fist, with your thumb tucked behind, pushing the food forward. If you let your thumb get anywhwere close to your knuckles, you're in trouble, and, like me, you'll almost slice through the tip. Fortunately, I've cut myself in a similar fashion many, many times before. After you cut yourself a few times, you know what you've done before you even start bleeding. I asked for the first aid kit, but I've apparently spent too much time in big cushy kitchens. The first aid kit here consisted of duct tape and gauze (I even managed to get a piece of leek in there, which I found that night when I rewrapped it), and Richard telling what one of his old chefs told him: "It's not embarassing when you cut yourself, it's embarrassing when you can't fix it." I wondered what this said about me, put on a glove, and went back to my leeks.

After the leeks, I was given a case of fennel to slice and grill. Damn, was that thing hot. I did about 3-5 full grill rotations, marking the fennel on either side, and finished with very red knuckles and a damp t-shirt.

My last task before lunch was probably the most fun; I got to make cheese bowls. Cynthia, the regular prep cook showed me how to heat the pans, spray them with pan coat, sprinkle cheese on them, and broil them in the salamander till they're brown. You then pull them out, lift off the sheets of cheese, and drape them over a cup. I had about 3-4 pans working at a time, and it was more fun than I can possibly describe.

When I came back that afternoon, things were remarkably louder, busier, and Richard was not in the comparatively jovial mood he'd been in that morning. I was told to start chopping vegetables for the ratatouille. Unfortunately, I started with the eggplant. This was a major mistake, as eggplant turns brown due to phenolic compounds like those found in apples, bananas, and avacados (Thanks, Harold McGee!). Chef told me to quit with the eggplant. I got to cut onions, zucchini, and eventually the eggplant, but I didn't get to do the tomatoes or bell peppers.

Then Kelly (one of the line cooks) showed me how to make a mousseline, which is essentially a hollondaise lightened with whipped cream. To avoid salmonella, we beat egg yolks with water over a burner. A double boiler could be used if you're worried about making scrambled eggs, but it takes longer, and I got the impresssion that a true sauce badass would do it the faster way, because you've got a lot of sauces that have to be made before service. I wasn't fast enough with the whisk, ending up with some scrambled eggs around the edges, but we just let those stick to the bowl and rushed the mixture over to the food processor, where I added cayenne, lemon juice, and eventually clarified butter. The mixture was much thicker than hollondaise, closer to a traditional mayonnaise. There were a couple of reasons for this: 1) when I beat the yolks, I beat them until the impression of the whisk held in the mixture. I was told that I should be able to write my initials and still see them when I took it away. 2) heating the egg yolks causes the proteins to unfold, which means that the yolks can hold a great deal of fat. The final step was to fold in the whipped cream, which I'd made earlier. It came out looking good, and dear god, was it delicious. Artery-clogging, but delicious.

After the mousseline, I was asked to cut wonton wrappers into strips for a garnish. This was the task that I did most poorly, but eventually it was done. And then, onto service.

Service for me was daunting: I have no saute experience, no grill experience, and no fryer experience. All that I know is brunch food; I certainly could not be trusted with a steak, and this was complex food, more than "saute this, reheat that, sauce, and plate."

I was supposed to follow Richard as he expedited, not get in the way, and learn what I could. I'm sure that there was some vague hope that I'd demonstrate a useful skill. I started off watching Richard garnish, and passing him out of reach items. Eventually, he stepped back and let me garnish some plates by myself. After about an hour or so, he let me sell full tickets.

And this is where my one useful skill came forward. I can expo. Usually, it's what I end up doing at the cafe, whether I'm supposed to be working it or not. The servers even liked me, because I'm used to working in a completely open kitchen, where you have to maintain a calm demeanor, and with volunteers, where you have to be nice unless you want to run your own food. The kitchen at PLaE is semi-open; it's separated by a wall of glass, and my back was to the dining room. So there was a little more room to yell, but it wasn't necessary most of the time.

Scotty came and got me toward closing, and we spent the rest of the night hanging out on the patio of his restaurant, drinking wine, and watching the cops pull people over.

2006-03-23T15:36:00.000-05:00

This One Time, at Restaurant Camp...

First, some background:

Spring break was approaching, and I wanted to try something new. I emailed a friend who'd moved to Amelia Island to start a restaurant, bought a plane ticket, and two weeks later debarked at Jacksonville Airport. Scotty's restaurant was not yet open, due to the delays that seem to be inherent in historic districts, but he'd farmed me out to his friend, Chef Richard Grove, at PLaE. PLaE is an acronym for People Laughing and Eating; it's received a great deal of favorable press (go here, here, and here). I also got to witness firsthand the minutiae of opening a restaurant, hanging out with Scotty and Mardie (his GM, and Richard's girlfriend). This is an account of my time there.

Day One:

Shortly after Scotty and I arrived at his restaurant, Richard rode up on his motorcycle. We shook hands and he said that he had some "fun" things planned for me, with a smile that implied that we might have differing opinions on what exactly "fun" entailed.

Most of the morning was spent editing the server training packet, including the wine list descriptions, the menu descriptions and the server's manual. I hadn't edited anything but schoolwork in awhile, and for a moment I got just a little nostalgic for the old office job (selling restaurant equipment).

At about noon, we undertook the most serious responsibility of a restaurateur: wine tasting. The wine rep arrived with a winery rep, and we tasted about six wines, including an old vines Syrah. Three stood out: a light-bodied white that I believe was a Fume Blanc, a red table wine, and a Cabernet that was more tannic than any I'd tasted before. I tend to stay away from tannic wines, but I was surprised to find that I didn't mind the heavy tannins. Go here for information about the wines, sold at Viola in Decatur (full disclosure: this shop is owned by a family friend).

Lunch followed, then a little more time at the restaurant. Afterwards, I took out Scotty's bike and did little exploring, annoying the locals. I am not an accomplished cyclist. We met up after an Historical Development Committee meeting; Scotty, who came to Amelia expecting to live a reasonably quiet life with his restaurant has found himself embroiled in island politics: he's attempting to build a condo behind his restaurant and had to get approval for the building height. Many people signed a against approving the building plans, despite the fact that the building height will be within the zoning requirements. One of the signatures? his girlfriend.

We went out to a few bars. I was amazed at how quiet Amelia Island was. I walked from one bar to another for a Red Bull, without telling anyone where I was going (bad city-dweller!). I felt like a rebel, but very few people were out, and no one bothered me.

By the way, the best part of the evening? Getting an after-hours tour of a store called the Snack Shack, newly relocated and expanded. The amount and types of food, drinks, and nostalgic candy paraphenalia (current want: a moon pie throw pillow) was staggering, as was the proprietors' expertise and the amount of work that went into finding much of the wares. We sampled flavored Tootsie Rolls and we each got a Cherry Mash, a seriously old-school Southern confection made of chocolate, ground peantus, and cherry nougat. It's about the size of a racquetball, and I was a little too intimidated to dive into mine immediately. The phrase "kid in a candy store" was appropriate more than once. I only wish I had a picture of Snack Shack Jack, the fiberglass mascot for the store, who has an ass that many a round-posteriored starlet would envy.

2006-03-06T20:03:00.000-05:00

This post was originally written on 3/6. Look for more excitement in the next day or two.
Carnitas

Having been raised the South, I am a fan of slow-cooked pork. Having recently become attached to Chipotle, I have become a fan of carnitas. Finally, having gotten a mixed bag of Berkshire pork from the CSA, I have a little bit of Boston Butt (really, it's the pig's shoulder, but that's an aside) to cook. So today I went to the expeditor at work, and asked him how to make carnitas. "You take your pork, and put it in oil, and cook it over a medium high flame for thirty, forty-five minutes." I'm told. No seasonings? "No, just salt and pepper, the pork has enough flavor." Having cooked the Berkshire chops recently, I believed him, but I was dubious. My beloved Chipotle makes a carnitas that has a hint of citrus flavor to it, and I'd imagined that carnitas was a braised dish. But the idea of oil-poaching has been teasing me lately, so I decided to give in. I went and bought a frying/candy thermometer, and a gallon of peanut oil (low smoke point), and now my pork is merrily burbling away, albeit for longer than my expo suggested, mostly because my electric burners give me no indication of their gas-flame equivalent.

Prep:

Zest 2 limes and one orange, and slice 2 garlic cloves. Add to cold oil. Heat oil to about 210 Fahrenheit. Add pork, trimmed and boned (I need the practice; I'm not entirely sure that you need to trim and bone.) Cook at around 210-220, for 45 minutes to an hour.

I'm making a salsa to go with it:
About 2.5 poblanos, one jalapeno, and 1.5 serranos, all roasted, some tomatoes (canned, fresh tomatoes aren't worth the time or grief right now), a little bit of garlic and onion and some lime juice.

And beans:

Chop 1/2 onion and two cloves of garlic. Saute with two strips bacon, add 1/2 roasted poblano and 1/2 roasted serrano, sautee some more. Stir into 1.5 cups pinto beans, cooked. Add sofrito to taste, and correct seasoning.

What Have I learned?

1.Keep the oil temperature low, and constant. I let the temperture get away from me a couple of times; the first time it browned the meat, which made me happy. The second time, it dried out the meat to a depth of 1/4"-1/2", and the muscle fibers locked up toward the surface, producing a tough texture. The temperature also destroyed the flavor from the citrus zest and garlic. My old chef suggested I get into sous vide, wherein the pork, oil, and seasonings go into a vacuum-sealed bag, which then goes into boiling water. The fact that it's boiling water means that the temperature would never get above boiling, which is ideal. It means more money on stuff to cram into my tiny kitchen, but I'm strongly considering it.
2. I need jars and bottles. I'm reusing my frying oil, and need a place to put the (as yet) unused quart. Also, see the Sofrito note below.

New Favorites:

1. My candy/fry thermometer, which when attended to, allows for a great deal of control in cooking. It's not one of these , but it's a start.
2.My citrus juicer. I'd been eyeing this at the Viking Store, but it being the Viking Store, I hated the price. I found this one at Marshall's for about 1/3 of Viking's price. The label will tell you that it only works for oranges, but the makers just want you to buy all three sizes.
3. Sofrito in a jar. It doesn't taste as good as I'm sure homemade would, but it does act as a good starting point and quick flavor injection. In an attempt to cook more, I'm trying to find good jarred and canned ingredients. Hopefully soon I'll have a brand that I can definitively say makes great sofrito. Or perhaps I'll come up with a good recipe and storage method.
Hopefully I'll have lots of exciting news and pictures over the next few days, or possibly by next Tuesday.

2006-02-02T15:10:00.000-05:00

I have have an art history test in two hours, and I'm only semi-prepared...so now is obviously the best time to update the much-neglected food blog. I'm on the chapter on batters and doughs in the Bible. This marks a bit of a milestone for me: the past seven months I've been intermittently learning a great deal about the raw ingredients of the kitchen: the various fruits, vegetables, meats, fish, eggs and dairy. Now it's on to the creations we make with those various components.

Dairy in particular takes me back. It was chapter one, and those were heady days. In hot July, I was in the car on the way to an engagement party, having just cracked my brand new copy of the Bible when I exclaimed, "Honey, listen to this man rhapsodize about milk!" That was when honey realized that supporting my ambitions by buying me a highly useful book was a horrible idea. Ever since, it's been one culinary revelation for honey after the other. And honey doesn't cook, though an interest has been expressed. "Just make it something simple, that I can help with." I'm told. We're getting there.

My nostalgia aside, I've been at a turning-the-corner place the past few weeks. I'm applying to culinary schools in a few months, applying for scholarships ASAP, and finishing my bachelor's degree in December. This will be a big year; the parallel that I've reached in the Bible feels completely appropriate. In school, I'm taking my last core classes, and getting deeper and deeper into journalism.

It helps that despite a low interest (comparatively speaking) in pastry, I'm finding the doughs and batter chapter very stimulating. It's far more approachable than I expected it to be, and in some ways, I'm having an easier time than I did with fruits and vegetables. I'm pleasantly surprised.

But haven't I been cooking? Not really, I'm sad to say. I've been working a lot, and spending a lot of time in various classes, which are making their customary massive demands on my time. I've been cleaning and on the one night a week when I'm not comitted to something else attempting to be sociable. I still volunteer at the cafe, but cooking to order, while fun, and valuable practice, is not nearly the same as creating a dish and playing with flavors, textures, aromas and appearance. I miss it, but hopefully soon the February doldrums will ease, I'll be able to work less to pay my bills, and more time can be given over to delicious fiddling.

Finally, one more of my activities has undergone a sea change. I worked at the cafe a couple of weeks ago, and ran the kitchen for the last two hours, as the chef wasn't feeling well. I've run the kitchen before, almost always for an entire day. I've done it short of volunteers, without the meat needed to make a special, and when we've been reasonably busy. I've done it tired and hungover. This last time, something clicked. I was able to give clear instructions to the line, to step in quickly where needed, and to keep everything running smoothly. It was incredibly satisfying. Both while we were taking customers, and while I was directing cleanup, I was able to keep in mind everything that needed to be done. Previously, especially during cleanup, this was nigh impossible. I'd work on something, forget what was next, or what was still dirty, get overwhelmed and frustrated by my forgetfulness, and have to move on to new tasks in a state of mind equivalent to the proverbial "square one". It nearly always assured that I would again, forget what came next, get frustrated, rinse and repeat. Not that day. I forgot one thing, got everyone out of there at a reasonable hour (though not as quickly as the chef), and left the cafe in pretty good shape.

I think that my growing experience as a server contributed to that success, and while I expected to benefit from front of the house experience on an abstract, you've-got-to-know-all-of-the-business level, I'm very pleasantly surprised that the benefits have been so concrete, and assert again what many have before: everyone should be a server for awhile. Not so that they can experience the unique joy of working like never before for your money, only to get a 5-10% tip. That's dehumanizing, and having your work so poorly compensated is something no one should ever know. But it bends your mind in ways that can only be helpful, no matter what your career. When you have held in your head every little detail about four or five (or nine) tables for six hours, you don't get forgetful, and you economize every step that you take. You also learn to focus on what people want and need, relying mostly on nonverbal clues. Tell me that's irrelevant to your job description, and I'll probably tell you to enjoy middle management.

Now, to return to the High Renaissance, Mannerism, and a type of art that I can't produce, but am learning to appreciate.

2006-01-12T22:48:00.000-05:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, We Have a Winner!

Above you see the Nicoise-Inspired Tuna Salad. It might need a sexier name; it is definitely a sexy salad.

The Details

Dressing:
Make a red wine vinaigrette by mixing dijon mustard and red wine vinegar. Add three times as much oil as vinegar. Add vinaigrette to yogurt. Add more vinegar or oil as needed, chopped dill and garlic cut at a medium chop. Set aside.
Salad:
Roast 2 potatoes, cut into chunks. Pit and roughly chop 5 Kalamata olives, and add to potatoes. Also add 1 can tuna packed in oil, about 2 t. capers, 2 stalks chopped celery, and 1/2 c. crumbled manouri cheese. Toss in dressing.
To Plate:
Mound salad in shallow salad bowl, topping with more manouri and a dill sprig.

The Review:
I really like making what I unattractively call meat salads. As you'll see below they're incredibly adaptable to what's on hand. This particular one generally gets made in some form or the other every couple of months, but thus far this is my favorite rendition. I had most of the ingredients for a nicoise salad on hand, but the olives were Kalamatas, and I had Greek cheese, plus some dill laying around. I could have probably used more of the really flavorful ingredients: the kalamatas, capers, and dill were very tasty, and I limited their use out of economy. The cheese was creamier than I'd expected, so unless I find a big chunk, it's a very minor player. Feta or another sharper cheese could help this out. Tuna and potato do the usual good job of demonstrating why they belong together. Celery was another "I might as well use it" ingredient, but injects a nice "crisp" flavor and texture in an otherwise creamy salad.

What could have been done differently?
First, the aforementioned feta. Chicken could probably have been used, though I like the tuna a lot. Some spicy greens or even a mesclun mix would be very good as well, and red onions would do just fine. A lemon-juice dressing would have been more authentic, and oregano could be added or substituted. You could even add peperoncinis if you felt the need, but I don't have any particular love for them.

About the ingredients:
Oil packed tuna is now available canned from most of the major brands. It's nothing like imported, but it's also about a quarter of the price and still retains its shape. I think the flavor is better too, but my disdain for water-packed tuna stems more from an aversion to eating things that look like cat food. Tuna need not be an expensive ingredient, and it's pretty good for you.
Capers and fresh herbs are expensive however, unless your herb garden in January includes a functional dill plant (doubtful). It drives me nuts the prices charged by major supermarkets for bagged herbs. They're 1/4-1/2 the price at the farmers' market, but that's the farmers' market and that takes effort I'm not willing to expend after a day of class.

2006-01-11T21:45:00.000-05:00

Sweet Potato Gnocchi and Pot Roast

Tonight I made the sweet potato gnocchi. What follows is a technical description of the recipe. I'll follow that with evaluation and analysis.
Gnocchi:
Roast and mash sweet potato. Mix with beaten egg and flour, form into a 1" log and cut into 1" sections. Roll off the tines of a fork, and boil for 3-5 minutes. Drain, and allow to dry without rinsing.
Bechamel Sauce:
Make a roux, add hot milk, grate approx. 1/4t. nutmeg into sauce. Add finely chopped pecans, and correct seasoning.
Pot Roast:
Chop carrots, green beans and celery, and add to cold beef stock. Bring beef stock to hot temperature below boil (Ideally, about 140 Fahrenheit; I doubt that I was able to keep it there), and hold at that temperature for at least 30 minutes. Cut chuck roast into cubes and brown. Deglaze pan with beef stock, add vegetables, red wine, and one large sprig rosemary. Bring to boil and move to 350 Fahrenheit oven for one hour. After braising has finished, add demi glace to gravy and reduce to thicken.
To Plate:
Shred beef, and mound vegetables on plate. Top with shredded beef, and spoon over sauce. Scatter Gnocchi on plate, and drizzle bechamel sauce over.

The Review

The gnocchi was not quite as tender or yielding as I would have liked. I believe that this is due to the fact that I roasted the sweet potato whole, and let it sit that way (skin on) after roasting. Sweet potatoes in general are more moist than regular potatoes, which are traditionally used for gnocchi. This meant that I had to use a dispropportionate amount of flour to make the gnocchi dough, which decreased the tenderness of the gnocchi. The flavor of sweet potato was pronounced and recognizable, but not overbearing. The bechamel sauce with nutmeg and pecans was complementary, but a little bland. The pot roast was very basic; I did cut against the grain, and this shortened the strands of muscle fiber; I was not pleased about this, as it didn't shred very well, and took away from the presentation, but it did no detriment to the dish. The flavor of the pot roast was very good, but the sauce was thin; I should have added more demi glace, but when I cracked the bag I smelled freezer burn, and had no interest in adding that particular flavor to the dish. The rosemary flavor was nonexistent; the dish was still very flavorful, but I should have used the rosemary differently to ensure that the flavor was present, and I believe that mincing the rosemary and adding at the end would have corrected this. A sprinkle of rosemary, and possibly a rosemary sprig, would have improved the plating.
What Worked:
The gnocchi had a good sweet potato flavor, and the flavors in the sauce were complementary. Pot roast is easy, and this one went mostly well. The two dishes were complementary, and I used the method outlined in On Food and Cooking for encouraging persistent firmness in vegetables: Start in cold water, bring to about 130-140 Fahrenheit and hold there for 20-30 minutes. The vegetables were still firm, and a little tender upon serving. It should be noted that OFaC recommends this for only some vegetables, namely potatoes, beans, carrots and other.
What could be done better:
The sweet potato should have been cut into chunks and dry-roasted to allow as much evaporation as possible. I need to find a better sauce: the texture, nutmeg and pecans were complementary to the sweet potato flavor, but the combination was bland. The chuck should have been cut along the grain to achieve the desired muscle fiber length. I should have used a thickening agent to make the sauce into a better gravy.
About the pictures:
These aren't great by any stretch, but I need to learn to take pictures of my presentations, so although I was in a hurry, I shot a few and corrected them in Picasa. They're a little grainy, but they get the point across.

2006-01-09T14:38:00.000-05:00

Equipment Malfunction!

I had a plan. I was going to roast a sweet potato on my break today. Sometime this week when not working or in school, I was going to try to make said sweet potato into gnocchi (prohnounced NYOWkee with a long "o" or NYAHkee). I was thinking about a brown butter sauce with rosemary, though I hadn't settled on that particular detail. I don't need a broken stove. But that's what I have, and why is my stove broken? It's electric. Gas stoves work. They may have hot spots. Pilot lights go out, but you don't turn on the stove and find that it doesn't work. This particular range, in addition to not working, has given me a lovely selection of problems. It always smokes when turned on. The largest (and thus best) burner was the site of a recent grease fire (there was no cleanable pan under the burner, and thus grease was allowed to build up mostly unseen), and after about ten minutes of being used, will tilt to the right. A simmer burner (this is only a minor distinction; all the burners are small) is fitted with the wrong knob; thus far I've only found "off" and "high" by trial and error, and this morning, when I went to toast some pecans for my yogurt, I turned the knob, heard a pop, saw a flash at the connection of the wire and the coil, and lost power in that burner. I just discovered that other burners work, but not wanting to be the victim of an elctrical fire, plan to clean my kitchen so I can hit up the leasing office before going back to work.

2006-01-04T10:01:00.000-05:00

Welcome to Epicure! This is a food blog that I'm putting together after watching too many friends' eyes glaze over when I excitedly explain how I got that meat to brown perfectly, those biscuits to finally double in size, or that I've learned the differences between mustard-hot and chili-hot. (Curious? Mustards, including wasabi and horseradish as members ofthe mustard family, are made spicy by isothiocyanates, which are released by enzymes in neighboring cells when damaged, and volatile at room temperature, and thus reach the nose before the mouth, causing what is described as "whole-head" heat; Capsacin is the chemical that causes chili-heat, and as it is not volatile at room temperatures, affects only the mouth.) Now if my friends and family get too much ranting from me on food, they have no one to blame but themselves. I'm also trying to get some practice doing food writing, and recipe development. Obviously, feedback is encouraged.

TURKEY
Last night I had some leftover turkey cutlets lying around. I pounded them to about 1/2" thickness, and stuffed them with a mixture of feta, dried rosemary, lemon juice and lemon zest. I sauteed them till brown, and finished them in the oven. I then made a pan sauce of chicken stock, lemon juice, and some of the feta that had leaked out and browned during cooking (I also added a bit more feta before sticking the pan in the oven). It was good.

What could have made it better?
Oregano, more lemon zest (I used to be very good at getting lemon zest with a cheese grater, but apparently no more), fresh rosemary, and calamata olives. I considered pine nuts, which are universally delicious, but that seems like a bit much. I could have used a little less lemon juice (thoroughly juice 1/2 lemon, as opposed to most of 1 lemon). Also, I should have used turkey breasts. Turkey cutlets are not a natural division of any part of the bird, but rather a pre-fab (somewhat) ready to use shortcut for the home cook; I know this because each piece in the package was wildly variant in size and shape, and generally not well suited to wrapping around a stuffing. Why poultry processors think that home cooks want pieces of meat that will take different amounts of time to cook, and not be suited as a group to the purpose at hand is beyond me. Finally, turkey breast cutlets are expensive. This is what I get for going to a bad Kroger.

What could have been done differently?
Most non-melting cheeses (melting cheeses are generally medium-moisture, medium-hard cheeses with a fat-to-protein ratio of or above 1) would work here, but when I think of variations, I go soft, such as goat cheese or possibly ricotta, or blue, because blue cheeses (except gorgonzola) crumble well, melt well, and are really tasty. Herbs like chives would work well with goat cheese, bacon would work well with blue cheeses, and ricotta could be used as a binder for a vegetable stuffing like spinach.

Pizza

I just got home, and a friend has gifted me with a perforated pizza pan. I don't bake much, having for years lacked a kitchen with a stable temperature, but if I recall(and intuit) correctly, this pan will produce high-quality thin crust pizza. There's also a Morrocan stuffed bread recipe that I wouldn't mind trying on it. Check back for updates.