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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.