Monday, September 29, 2008

There’s a First Time for Everything!


Last night I ate bull penis. Yeah, that’s right, you read correctly; last night I ate a bull’s penis! I’m not saying I’m Andrew Zimmern or Anthony Bourdain and I go around eating the craziest food I can get my hands on just for the sheer shock value, but I’d like to try everything at least once. My philosophy on being a cook is, and has always been: you are doing yourself a disservice as a chef if you are unwilling to find out how certain foods taste. To that end, I’ve eaten Alligator, Rabbit, Elk, Venison, Squab (which is basically a small pigeon), Ants, Crickets, Grasshoppers, Lobster tomalley, Fish Heads (eyes and all), Ox Tail, Pig’s Feet, and probably a whole host of things I can’t remember right now. So when I walked into the restaurant last night and looked that the menu, I knew I’d kick myself if I walked out of there without trying the bull penis.
It took about 30 minutes for my bull penis to arrive, and when my waitress set it in front of me I started to have second thoughts. It’s pretty easy to think you’re s tough guy when you order penis off the menu, it’s another thing when they actually set that penis in front of you, with nary a knife or fork in sight.
I picked it up, stared down the urethra, and took a bite. For those of you who have never eaten another animals’ penis, I can honestly say it is unlike anything you, or I for that matter, have ever tasted before. The only way I can describe it is like trying to chew a large mouthful of unflavored Laffy Taffy with soft pebbles in it that has been soaked in beef stock. In more plain terms, you can chew and chew and chew and what is in your mouth simply refuses to be broken down; which leads to another problem when it comes to trying to swallow. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a gag reflex and having what amounts to a Super Bouncy Ball at the back of my throat kinda put a damper on ingestion.
That said, if you ever get the chance, I highly recommend trying bull penis.
And yes (Megan), I recognize that this makes two phallic related posts in a row…just the way the cookie, or in this case penis, crumbles.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

No Foot Longs, They Make Me Nervous

This is more of a random food-related observation, rather than a recipe or anything, but ya’know. So anyway, Tuesday night my buddy Craig (the names have been changed to protect the innocent; or guilty, as it were) called and invited me to a Mets game. I know I used to write about sports but this isn’t going to be one of those times. I’m also not going to talk about how the Mets are getting a new stadium even though their current stadium is only 44 years old! Nor am I going to talk about the fact that there are virtually zero concession stands at the stadium that accept debit or credit cards…yeah, yeah I know it’s my fault for not getting cash before the game, but to paraphrase Richard Pryor, “it’s 2008, boy, get yo’ shit together!”
Anyway, Craig and I had a few beers and then I went in search of a concession stand that would take my debit card. So finally I found one, and made a rather curious decision to buy hot dogs for Craig and me. Not only that, but I made the further curious decision to buy foot long hot dogs. I returned to our seats handed one to Craig along with several packets of ketchup and mustard (we then had an utterly useless conversation about how I like pickles but not relish) and settled into my seat. It was only after about two minutes of eating our hot dogs, in somewhat cramped quarters, virtually elbow-to-elbow; that I noticed Craig was about finished with his hot dog and I had probably only a few bites left myself. That’s when it hit me: no man wants to savor a foot long tube of sausage while seated next to another man.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

A little bit of New Orleans in New York Harbor


This past weekend I went out to Governors Island with some friends of mine; it was really fun, thanks for asking. Since I’m usually designated the “food guy,” it fell to me to make or bring something to eat. Seeing as I, ya’know, know how to cook, I thought it would’ve been a cop-out if I showed up with a Cold Cut Combo and a Bag of Funyuns. It took me about 5 seconds to come up with the sandwich I was going to make: the Muffelatta. I first "discovered" the Muffelatta about a year ago, while researching regional sandwiches for a Labor Day party. Shortly thereafter, I made my first foray into muffelatta territory and even made Muffelatta's for a Super Bowl party...they were a big hit!
A muffelatta is both the name of a type of Sicilian bread and a pretty damn tasty sandwich. The muffelatta loaf is a fairly large, flat, rounded loaf of bread that’s about 10-to-12-inches across and apparently tastes like focaccia. Although I wouldn’t actually know considering I’ve never been to New Orleans, and it’s virtually impossible to find the real McCoy in New York City.
A muffelatta sandwich is made using the aforementioned loaf, which is cut in half and then layered with alternating slices of cappicola, sopressata, mortadella, and then Emmentaler and Provolone cheeses. The whole sandwich is brought together by an olive salad, which is a combination of chopped olives, carrots, and peppers and then pressed overnight. Up till now I’ve had to make due with cheap imitations or quickly thrown together sandwiches made at home. This time I was determined to do it right. Saturday night I bought a loaf of bread that was the closest approximation of a Muffelatta loaf I could find, all the meats, cheeses, peppers and carrots; the olives I had at home. I did make one change, substituting prosciutto for mortadella; but in my opinion the difference in taste is negligible. Once home, I made the olive salad and tossed it with both an herb and a chili infused oil I had made some months before. Again, I’ve never had the original, but if I do say so myself the one I made was one of the most delicious sandwiches I’ve had in a while.

Elliott’s Muffelatta


1 Large Circular loaf of sturdy bread
½ Pint – assorted olives (mostly green), pits removed & rough chopped
¼ Cup – shredded & chopped carrots
¼ Cup – mixed (sweet & hot) peppers, stems removed
¼ Pound – Cappicola, thinly sliced
¼ Pound – Sopressata, thinly sliced
¼ Pound – Prosciutto, thinly sliced
¼ Pound – Emmentaler Cheese, thinly sliced
¼ Pound – Provoline Cheese, thinly sliced
Olive Oil for drizzling & mixing
Salt & Pepper, to taste


First make the Olive Salad:
Allow olives to come to room temperature, then press your thumb into the center of each olive; this should easily pit the olive. Roughly chop the olives, then combine with the carrots and peppers and chop once again. Place salad in a bowl and season with salt, pepper and olive oil (you can use an infused oil if you have one). Mix the salad together well, then set aside.

Then start the sandwich:
Cut the loaf in half and scoop out some of the bread from the inside of the top half, forming a well (this is where most of the Olive Salad is going to go). Drizzle a bit of olive oil over the bottom half of the loaf and begin to place the meats and cheeses in alternating layers, also on the bottom half of the loaf. When you have finished layering the meats and cheeses, spoon the olive salad into the well in the top half of loaf. Then, carefully holding one half of the sandwich in each hand, place the two halves together and immediately press down on the top half of the sandwich. Wrap the muffelatta in plastic wrap, place on a plate and cover with a baking sheet or plate and weight down, then place in the refrigerator at least overnight.
Remove from the refrigerator, slice and enjoy.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

I See You’ve Played Knifey-Spooney Before

I can’t take credit for this story, but I think its far too fantastic to not retell. It comes to me from my former, and the former, Sous Chef at a Meatpacking District restaurant I used to work at. During a slow service one night, we were talking about whether or not it was smart to take your knives home every night and were exchanging stories about whether or not we’d ever been stopped by the police. I mean, how do you explain to a New York City cop that you’ve got 8 knives of varying size strapped to your back?
So the story goes, when he was working at a Celebrity Chef owned Midtown restaurant they had a Garde Manger Guy who lived in the Bronx and used to take the 6 train home when they were finished breaking down for the night. Apparently one night, they went out drinking after an especially tough but rewarding service and it was well after 2, a.m. when Garde Manger Guy finally jumped on the 6. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m not too keen on getting on the 6 train at noon, let alone 2 in the morning. Anyway, Garde Manger Guy gets on the train and proceeds to read or zone out or do whatever it is that you do when you get on the 6 train at 51st Street and take it up to the Bronx.
So there’s this “Young Kid” sitting on the train listening to a brand new green iPod Mini. At the time, the Mini’s had only been out for a short while, and this was apparently one of the first one’s that was colored, or at least one of the first one’s anyone had seen. So at some point, a guy gets on the train and sits across from the Young Kid. After another stop or two, the guy stands up and goes over to the Young Kid.
“Hey, that’s a pretty cool iPod, can I see it?”
The Young Kid hands the guy the Mini, with the intention of holding onto it, and after a few seconds the guy is holding it in his hand. Then the kid asks for the Mini back, to which the guy responds ,”it’s mine now.” The Young Kid stands up and attempts to get his Mini back but the guy produces a switchblade from his jacket and says, “Whatcha gonna do now, huh?”
Meanwhile, Garde Manger Guy has been watching this whole thing transpire. Quietly as possible, he opens up his kniferoll and removes his 10-inch Henckel Chef’s knife. Then he walks down the train car to where the Young Kid and the other guy are standing. “Give it back,” says Garde Manger Guy. “Oh yeah, whatchu gonna do about it?” says the other guy, as he turns around and comes face to face with 10 inches of sharpened German steel. He looks at Garde Manger Guy, looks at the Mini in his hand; the plug still attached to the Kids headphones; and at the Young Kid and then back at the knife. Then he looks down at his own knife, a flimsy 2 ½ inch piece of metal.
Needless to say, after I heard that story, where ever I go my knives go with me.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Who Are You and What Are You Doing Here…?

Somewhere on the island of Manhattan is a man who looks remarkably, dare I say almost exactly, like me. This, in and of itself, isn’t all that strange; people always talk about their doppelgangers and you’ve got to assume that sooner or later someone who looks like you will end up in the same city you’re in. The strange part is that this guy apparently also works in the food industry and shops at some of the same places I shop at; or more pointedly, I shop at some of the same places he shops at.
In late December of last year, I went to Ottomanelli’s Prime Meats on Bleecker for the first time ever. I was there to buy ground duck, veal and pork meat for a Country Pâté I was making for a friend’s New Year’s Eve party. Upon walking into the store one of butchers (who I have since come to know quite well), turned and smiled at the sight of me. He then asked, “how’ve you been? Whatcha cooking today?” Now mind you, when I first walked into Ottomanelli’s, I was still employed as an analyst at my Wall Street Bank and most likely walked into the shop with a suit on, not sporting a Mohawk. I thought he must’ve confused me with someone else, and this other person also must’ve rolled into a place where the air is heavy with the stink of meat wearing a suit on a regular basis. After exchanging some pleasantries where he attempted to catch up with me, even going so far as to ask how my mom was doing, while I attempted to not let on that I had no idea who he was or that the only time I’d seen the inside of the store was in a magazine. Once there was a break in the conversation, I placed my order and got the hell out of there.
For a couple months I chalked it up to nothing more than coincidence; some guy who looked vaguely like me had stopped into Ottomanelli’s on a few occasions and the butcher probably got a little confused when he saw me. Then, I walked into Broadway Panhandler on 8th Street and got a little scared. Again, it was my first time in the store and when I got to the checkout line, one of clerks said to me, “hey man, I haven’t seen you in a while. What’ve you been up to?” Again, he asked me about cooking and why he hadn’t seen me in a while. And again I went along with it and didn’t let on that I had never seen him before in my life. But of course my story wouldn’t be complete unless it ended with the phrase third time’s a charm…
The Thursday after Labor Day (before I cooked those Prosciutto Wrapped Watermelon blocks, but after I salted five half-racks of lamb to confit), I dropped by Fish Bar on 5th Street to relax and have a drink. I had been there no less than five minutes when one of my friends asked me if I had been on 16th Street or near Union Square earlier that day. I told her I’d only been to Ottomanelli’s and a few other places and this was the first time I’d even come above Houston. She quickly disagreed and told me that she had been sitting outside Chat-n-Chew with a friend of hers, when she saw me walking down the street. Seeing as I’m pretty sure I know where my own body is at all times, I reiterated that at this particular moment; standing on 5th Street; was the closest I had come to Union Square all day. She couldn’t believe it and even went so far as to have me turn around so she could “compare jeans.” Needless to say, the jeans weren’t the same but the guy did have a Mowhawk and was apparently also wearing a yellow t-shirt, which is too weird for words.
So it’s been almost a year since I first walked into Ottomanelli’s, and it seems where ever I go, my doppelganger is a few steps ahead of me…or maybe I’m his doppelganger, always a few steps behind.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Prosciutto-Wrapped Watermelon Stuffed with Goat Cheese & Jalapeño


The Saturday after Labor Day, I cooked a Five-Course dinner for an old roommate of mine and about 18 of our friends (do the math, that’s 100 individual plates of food). The second course was a dish of my own creation: Prosciutto-Wrapped Watermelon, Stuffed with a combination of Goat Cheese & Jalapeño. I had decided that rather than simply taking a piece of watermelon and a piece of cheese and wrapping the two with prosciutto, I would add some depth of flavor. I would cut blocks of watermelon and then use an apple-corer to make a hole in the center, into which I would pipe my mixture of cheese and peppers. I would then wrap the entire block with prosciutto and grill it. Grilling, however; became an impossibility when it began to practically monsoon that night. Instead, I placed the blocks in a hot sauté pan with a little bit of oil and cooked them until the outsides were crisp, but before the cheese inside began to melt. If I say so myself, the combination of the salty prosciutto, sweet watermelon, creamy goat cheese and spicy jalapeño is a perfect match. The other wonderful part about this recipe is the remaining watermelon can be used to make Granitas.
Here’s the recipe. Enjoy!

Prosciutto Wrapped Watermelon with Goat Cheese & Jalapeño

2 Large Watermelons, rind removed*
30 Slices – Prosciutto
2 Cups – Goat Cheese
8 Jalapeños, seeded & minced
1/8th Cup – Honey
¼ Cup – Olive Oil
1 Piping Bag
1 Box – Wooden skewers, cut in half & soaked in water

Slice the watermelon into rectangular pieces approximately three inches long, one & one half inches wide and one & one half inches tall. Cut each piece in half lengthwise and scoop out the center using a melon-baller or small spoon (this center pulp can be reserved for watermelon soup, granitas, &c. The center can also be removed using an apple-corer, without cutting the watermelon blocks in half). In a medium sized bowl, combine goat cheese, jalapeño & honey and mix thoroughly. Take combined cheese & jalapeño mixture and fill each piece of watermelon using a small spoon or piping bag. When each watermelon block is filled, wrap with a slice of prosciutto and secure meat in place with a skewer. Brush each wrapped block with oil, then place in refrigerator for at least thirty minutes. Preheat or turn on grill.
Remove blocks from refrigerator and place on grill at a 45° angle. Grill for approximately 2-to-3 minutes, then rotate 90° and grill for another 2-to-3 minutes (this should ensure nice crossedhatch marks). Flip blocks over and continue to grill, rotating the same way. When the blocks are ready, the prosciutto should be crispy and the watermelon should begin to release its juices.
Remove from the grill and serve warm or at room temperature.

*Each watermelon should yield 15 pieces that are approximately 1½x1½x3 inches.

Setting the Special: First Published 2/11/08

So I’ve been pulling double-duty working in the kitchen of a Zagat-rated and Michelin Star restaurant in the morning and then going to school at night; which is making for some pretty interesting exchanges with my classmates once I get out of work after about nine hours and head to class. I’m heading to bed…setting the breakfast special tomorrow: Orange French Toast with a candied orange slice (maybe, I haven’t decided yet). But, I’m still alive. Just wanted to let you know.

If You Don’t Want to Get Bit, Keep Your Hand Out the Cage!: First Published 1/30/08

I’ve already told you that I can rub people the wrong way, inside and outside the kitchen; but it manifested itself in a pretty pronounced way yesterday when we were making Beef Bourguignon. Apparently, sometimes I don’t let people get enough stove time or don’t let people fabricate meat the way they want to…but not fish or “icky” meats, because girls don’t want to touch icky meats. So as soon as we were ready, I took some beef tri-tip cubes out of the fridge and separated it into three portions for our teams and then started cutting the beef into forkable pieces. One of my classmates came over and took some beef off my board, telling me she wanted to cut some too, I said fine. Fast forward to the end of class when we were getting some butter noodles ready and I apparently usurped the butter noodle duties of one of my classmates who proceeded to fly off the handle. Suffice it to say, when I get into the kitchen, I don’t fuck around. I don’t sneak off to the back of the room to bullshit with people and steal wine from a fucking box because I need a little bit of a buzz to get through class or go down the hallway to hang out with work study students. I am always by the stove or by the table looking for things to do. Excuse me if I want things to work out perfectly. As I said to her and to many of my other classmates, “if you want to cook something, or if you want to get on the stove, just say so. That’s all you have to do, just say so.” But if you sit there and don’t say anything when I grab some black bass, or chicken or shrimp or ginger root or venison and start to fabricate it, then you can’t get pissed off when I don’t see something getting done and decide to jump on it…especially when the chef stood right-fucking-next-to me, put his hand in a Le Creuset pot and said, “put some butter in this and get the drained noodles in it.” Basically, I’m not going to apologize for my behavior in the kitchen when my shit comes out nice! It’s like I told my buddy last night, “I’m an animal in the kitchen, if you don’t want to get bit, keep your hand out the cage!”

I Stink Like Fish: First Published 1/28/08

Well, things started off pretty well today. I got my grades back from the previous term, or rather, I got to actually see my project and my practical examination. I scored a 95 on my practical because my knife cuts weren’t sharp on my Pommes Persillade (basically hash brown-style potatoes, cut into medium dice served with minced parsley and garlic). The flavor profile was spot on, but I’ll admit the cuts could’ve used some work. I don’t know if this is a problem or not, that I knew I could afford to have less than perfect cuts because everything else was going to come out great. Nonetheless, I’ll keep working on my knife skills and plan on scoring nothing less than 100 on my third practical less than four weeks away. My project was to write four chicken recipes: Braised Chicken Rioja; Chicken Roulade, with Baby Spinach & Duxelle of Chanterelle Mushrooms; Sautéed Chicken Breast, with a Shallot-Cream Sauce and Pan Fried Sage & Chili Chicken. I knocked them out of the park, although that’s not saying much because most people got an A or close to it; but suffice it to say, I don’t think our previous instructor would’ve cloned too many of his other students...or basically said as much himself.

Things took a turn when it came time to make fish fume (stock) and I had to gut a couple pre-fabricated fish, rinse their heads out and prep them for a pot of stock. Our stock came out super-tasty, and the resulting soup was great, but rubber gloves or no rubber gloves, when you’re pulling the guts out of anything your hands aren’t exactly going to smell like lilacs and sunshine. Not to mention, I got into a bit of a “discussion” with our new (who was incidentally our first) instructor about the consistency of my dough for a tart…that was fun. So to sum up, got good grades, happy about that. Smell like fish and got into it with my instructor, not so happy about that. What the hell, tomorrow is a new day!

More on my four chicken recipes tomorrow and I’ll also tell you about my first foray into the world of marmalade.

Amuse-Bouche: First Published 1/28/08

We should probably set a few ground rules here, or I should at least tell you a little bit about who I am. I love to cook, I really do. Something about my wiring, I guess, means I don’t mind waking up at 7, a.m. on Christmas morning to pull a Capon out of brine or work all day and then cook at my friends house; and when I say cook at a friend’s house, I don’t mean boil some water for pasta, I mean putting sweetbreads through standard breading procedure, making a vinaigrette and blanching, shocking & pureeing broccoli to mix into risotto. This quality; that I find so wonderful is the same quality that can piss people off. My own mother has essentially banned me from her kitchen on any major holiday lest I repeat the actions of last Thanksgiving & Christmas when I refused any help from anyone even from something as simple as the assembly of salad, the mashing of a potato or even the making of a biscuit, which I refused to make from a Pillsbury tin. I’m trying to be better, I really am, but let’s just say I’ll help someone else out, who I know has more skill than I do, but I’m not exactly enthusiastic about having a sous chef.

As I sit here writing this, I’m getting ready to head to school and do a little cooking, god only knows what we’re doing tonight. I’m even going to take a picture of stuff we cook, show it to you guys and then I’ll probably critique it. So welcome, I look forward to our journey.

Oh yeah, a word about the name. The older brother of an old roommate of mine once dubbed me "the Sherpa" on account of my showing him the ways of New York City. My hope is I can be your food Sherpa.