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.

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.

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.

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.

"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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.