You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?*

You know what really grinds my gears? Restaurant owners. Not all restaurant owners, just restaurant owners who run newly opened comfort food restaurants in the Hunters Point section of Long Island City, New York in the vicinity of a street…or avenue…or road bearing the number corresponding to New Mexico’s order of admittance to the Union...

You know why it grinds my gears? Because guys like this, let’s call him “24,” make certain assurances about positions to be held, monies to be paid and the timeframe therein. Then guys like "24" disregard these assurances, around the holiday’s no less, and don’t bat an eyelash at replacing people with cheap labor.

You know what else grinds my gears? When guys like "24" say they’re gonna do little things like pay people for their sweat equity, and push back the timeframe and then finally pay someone what amounts to say, $2.5 an hour.

It also grinds my gears when people like "24" don’t even bother to pick up the phone themselves and reach out to people to say, “hey, this is the deal. I know you thought this might be the deal, but I wanted to give you confirmation.” That really grinds my gears.

You know what else really grinds my gears? When people go to parties sponsored by certain review websites and spend their time talking-up certain comfort food restaurants. Telling anyone who will listen they should be excited about the pending opening, not knowing that the wheels are turning behind the scenes to use a person’s ideas and sweat equity and then simply kick them to the curb. I bet it would grind your gears if you offered to ask the Editors of food review websites to drum up interest in the restaurant by writing stories and were then thanked exactly once for your trouble. Not to mention looking like an asshole when you have to explain to all of those people why you're no longer involved or drumming up support for the restaurant like you used to. Well, it grinds my freakin’ gears.

Now I’m not telling you to not eat at (or heavens to Betsy, BOYCOTT) this place owned by "24," who treats people in a less than judicious fashion. But imagine if "24" is willing to treat people he knows like garbage and hire guys he can pay less money (well, actually pay money in the first place, but now we’re getting technical) with perhaps less of a trained eye on quality, then what’s he going to do when it comes to people coming off the street.

That really grinds my gears. But I’m moving on…wiser; and now when I treat someone like crap they can thank 24.

* I know this kind of thing happens a fair amount, but that doesn't excuse acting like a dick. And I'm not the kind of guy to just sit there and say nothing...

Sweeter Sweet Potatoes & Pre-Breakfast Gambling

Well, Thanksgiving is two weeks away and the one thing on everyone’s mind (well, other than the super classy Little-Miss-I’m-Down-on-Gay-Marriage-but-Cool-with-Sex-Tapes, “new” skin flick, coincidentally surfacing right before her book drops) is what their turkey’s getting stuffed with…get your mind out of the gutter, I’m talking about a bird.

As I mentioned on Saturday, the last time I celebrated Thanksgiving in Las Vegas, I think I got a little ahead of myself with everything I tried to cook. This time, I’m going to make sure my plan of attack is as perfect as it can be. This however, may prove to be easier said than done considering the other thing that happened the last time I was out there was found myself clutching betting slips in front of the television when I should’ve been in the kitchen. I was up at seven in the morning; not to pull my turkey out of the brine, begin cutting Brussels sprouts or peeling potatoes; but to head over to Red Rock Casino to place a couple bets on the Thanksgiving Day NFL games.

The kind of cool thing about visiting Las Vegas during the winter months; or any part of the West Coast for that matter; is that if you wake up at ten on a Sunday; you can roll out of bed and start watching football because it’ll be one o’clock back East. So that morning, I was awake early; wiping the crust out of my eyes with brine-smelling fingers; and driving down to the casino with BC and my step-dad.

I was too preoccupied with thoughts of the turkey and when to start assembling my Sweet Potato S’Mores to worry about spreads. Okay, that’s not entirely true considering I used to write a pretty dedicated little football blog, so I decided on a 3-team parlay, selecting the Colts over the Falcons, the Cowboys over the Jets and the Lions over the Packers because I didn’t think Favre could cover the spread. Things were looking good until the Packers kicked a meaningless field goal, extending their lead from eight points to eleven and giving me the “Joan Collins Special.”

In the wake of that disappointment, I turned my attention to assembling my S’Mores. I’m not exactly sure when the idea came to me, but at some point I decided I wanted to combine what I thought most people liked about lightly candied yams, with the hint of nutmeg and orange my mother used to make; with the melted marshmallows that top whipped-and-mashed sweet potatoes my aunt makes almost every year.

The night before Thanksgiving I sliced sweet potatoes into thin pieces and quickly poached the slices in a combination of orange juice, brown sugar and orange zest. Then I put them in the refrigerator overnight until I was done donating money to the casino re-beautification fund. Then I crushed graham crackers, and sliced marshmallows for the S’Mores. I placed two slices of marshmallow on each slice of sweet potato and then topped it with another piece; before sprinkling butter and graham crackers over the top and placing the “sandwiches” in the oven. What follows is the S’More recipe I’m planning on using this Thanksgiving, not the one I used a couple years ago. Bear in mind, this is a two-day recipe; with the candying, or braising, taking place the day before Thanksgiving and the assembly of the S’Mores happening the next day. This allows the sliced sweet potatoes to firm up overnight and should make them easier to handle when applying the marshmallows.

Sweet Potato S’Mores

6 Sweet Potatoes, peeled & sliced into ¼ inch rounds*

For the braising/candying liquid:
2 Oranges, juiced and zest reserved
2 Cups, Orange Juice
1 Cup, Brown Sugar
2 TBSP Fresh Ground Cinnamon
1 TBSP Fresh Ground Nutmeg
1/8 Cup, Vanilla Extract

For the S’Mores:
½ Bag Marshmallows or 1 Jar Marshmallow Fluff
1 Cup, crushed Graham Crackers
4 TBSP Melted Butter (optional)

Day 1:
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees F.
Dissolve the brown sugar in the orange juice, then bring to a simmer adding the zest, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla. Simmer for approximately 15 minutes, or until mixture has reduced slightly.
Arrange sweet potato slices in a baking dish and pour orange juice mixture over them. Cover baking dish with aluminum foil and allow to cook in the oven for approximately 15 minutes, or until sweet potatoes pierce easily but retain their shape.
Remove potatoes from oven and uncover, allowing to cool completely before placing in the refrigerator overnight.

Day 2:
Pre-heat oven to 325 degrees F (although in truth, your oven should probably already be on)
Melt the marshmallows in a microwave-save bowl and place in a pastry bag using a spatula, or simply place the Fluff in the bag (a spoon or small offset spatula can be used if you do not have a pastry bag).
Remove sweet potatoes from refrigerator and arrange half of the slices on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil. Spread or pipe marshmallow over each slice, topping with the reserved slices and sprinkling with crumbled graham cracker. Drizzle melted butter (if using) over the top of the S’Mores, then bake for 20 minutes, or until tops of S’Mores are golden.

* Extra sweet potato pieces (from the ends, or pieces too small to use for sandwiches) can be saved for a sweet potato pie or casserole.

If You Want to Help Me, Stay Out of My Kitchen

Sweet Potato S'Mores, from like Thanksgiving 2007 (?)

The five weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas are easily my favourite time of the year. The weather has gotten colder, but not oppressively cold like February; the clocks have just been turned back so the days and nights are still not totally out of whack and most importantly…there’s the food.

Last Thanksgiving I was working, so I think it was Thanksgiving 2007, I was in Vegas at my step-brother, BC’s, place cooking dinner for he, my mom, step-dad and a couple of BC’s friends.

I wanted to blow the doors off and cook an amazing meal, a meal they wouldn’t forget and I think I got a bit ahead of myself and probably cooked the meal I wanted them to like rather than the meal I truly thought they would like. My mother had made sure we could get a Kosher turkey in Vegas, which I brined overnight; I made sweet potato S’Mores; a pecan-sage stuffing with pork sausage; a Chicory salad with candied walnuts, Gorgonzola cheese, raisins and a sherry-orange vinaigrette; roasted garlic mashed potatoes; and a bunch of stuff I can’t even remember.

I was definitely a terror in the kitchen. I was young and cocky and basically saw my family members as a hindrance rather than as free labour there to assist me with the peeling of potatoes, melting of marshmallows and washing of Frisée. Being the crazed maniac I was, I carried my behavior into Christmas; where I had everything timed out to the minute…cooking a coursed out Christmas dinner with several dishes, each with multiple components and all of it cooked by me alone. At one point, my mother popped her head in the kitchen and asked if there was anything she could do to help. Now in my defense, I will say that I had planned everything to a T, and knew the minute everything would be ready for our 4 o’clock start time and my mother had been back and forth in the kitchen to ask if we were still on schedule. So when she popped her head in the kitchen around ten past three to ask if she could help; I answered her with the only thing that came to mind, “if you want to help me, stay out of the kitchen until 4 PM when the food’s on the table.” In hindsight, it was definitely not the way to talk to my mother, on Christmas Day, no less…and it got me temporarily banned from her kitchen.

This year, I plan on doing it right. I’ll be in Vegas again, and this time, BC, if you’re reading this…I’m putting you to work! I’m also going to be nice, I’m not going to freak out and shoo my family out of the kitchen, and most importantly, I’m going to listen to their ideas; although I am going to do the S’Mores again.

Next Time: Sweet Potato S'Mores, Playing with Knives & Gambling Before Breakfast

Ditch the Dog, Keep the Baby

This is just a quick little rant because it’s been a while since I’ve posted something and I’ve got a couple things in the hopper, including a piece about Thanksgiving. But until then, let’s talk about dogs and babies.

About a year ago towards the end of brunch service Dopp and I were standing around looking out at the floor while I cleaned up and seasoned a 30 pound beef shoulder to make a Pot Roast. The couple walked by with a big shaggy dog, looked at the menu box and walked inside. Dopp and I shot the two of them a look that said, “maybe you and your shaggy dog should turn around and go back where you came.”

Look, I’m no Mike Vick; I love dogs and Dopp has two that he used to walk during family meal. But when your dog walks into a place that’s serving food and around people eating, that’s no bueno. So lucky for us, and the couple in question, they left before Dopp and I had to get all “spicy” on them and ask them to leave. But they came back…with a crying baby in tow.

Anyway, I was checking out something on Yelp the other day and read this two star review of a place that I’m not particularly fond of. This chick complained that they made her “tiny Chihuahua sit outside the fence” and that “they didn’t even give our dog a bowl of water!!!!!” Well, heavens to Betsy, they didn’t give Fido a bowl of water? How shameful! Look, it is not the responsibility of a restaurant to provide your doggie with water, when in all likelihood they’re doing you a favour letting your dog in, in the first place. I mean, if you bring a baby to a restaurant, you’re probably going to bring some baby food, right? Are you going to get upset when the waiter doesn’t ask the kitchen for some mashed apples and warm milk? In short, please, leave the mutt at home.

“The Best Sandwich I’ve Had in Years”

Not my sandwich, but I wanted to give you a picture

Not that long ago, I found myself in the lucky and enviable (according to some) position of being on the proverbial ground floor for the opening of a new restaurant. It was almost surreal, sitting in front of a computer; or in my living room with cookbooks scattered EVERYWHERE; researching recipes, knowing I was putting my stamp on a restaurant menu. Then talking to myself in the restaurant kitchen while I tested, and in some cases re-tested, those recipes. Then waiting like an expectant child with a macaroni painting, as I brought the dishes to the owner for his approval; and more importantly, my own personal validation.

While the restaurant has been open less than a month, I can say that my biggest breakthrough came during my downtime. It was a day in which there were no tastings planned and the workmen had left early, so there was no one to babysit. Sitting in the restaurant office, the prospect of getting another mediocre sandwich from the places in the neighborhood was downright depressing. And then this little voice in my head said: "hey jackass, you're a cook. You've got a kitchen at your disposal and the leftover produce from yesterday's tasting sitting in the lowboy; why don't you do something with it, instead of complaining about not having anything good to eat?!?" And with that, I was upstairs trying to decide how to best quiet my grumbling stomach and appease my mouthy brain.

I took stock of what I had and compared it with what I was in the mood for: I wanted bacon, I wanted the bite of red onion and I was pretty sure I wanted fish.
I had some bonito that I had taken out for a grilled fish dish…that got left off the final list of the 19 things we were given 18 hours notice to buy, prep and cook.
Anyway, I sliced some semi-thick pieces of fish and got some bacon cooking in a pan. I thinly sliced some jalapenos and red onion, then tossed the jalapenos in the rendered bacon fat. I spread some cilantro-lime vinaigrette on a baguette, then layered the fish, the bacon, red onion, jalapenos and some watercress on top. I cut the sandwich in half and brought it back downstairs to feast.

Much to my surprise, the owner of the restaurant was back from running errands and asked if he could have half the sandwich…which he promptly inhaled, and then asked me to make another one.
When he was finished with his second sandwich he wheeled his chair away from his desk, turned to me and said, “that was the best sandwich I’ve had in years.”

What follows is my grilled fish and bacon sandwich, or what I what I have dubbed, "the Elliott Sandwich."

The Elliott Sandwich

6 oz Bonito Steaks sliced into ¼ inch pieces
4 slices Bacon
1 Jalapeno, sliced thin and seeded
½ Red Onion, sliced thin
4 Sprigs, Watercress
Cilanto-Lime Vinaigrette
½ French Baguette, halved
½ oz Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper, to taste
Cilantro-Lime Vinaigrette to follow.


Slice bonito, oil each side then season with salt and pepper. Cook bacon in a sauté pan until crispy, reserving the fat and allowing bacon to rest on paper towels.
Place the sliced jalapenos in the rendered bacon fat and cook until slightly browned.
Place fish on an oiled grill and cook for approximately two minutes on each side, then reserve.
Lightly toast the baguette, then spread the cilantro-lime vinaigrette on each side. Place the grilled fish on the bread, then the bacon and arrange the remaining ingredients on top, covering with the remaining piece of bread.
Slice in half and serve.

Cilantro-Lime Vinaigrette

1 bunch, Cilantro
Juice of 4 Limes
Zest of 2 Limes
3 Egg Yolks
24 oz. Canola Oil
Salt & Pepper, to taste


Cut ends off cilantro and wash thoroughly, as cilantro is usually very dirty. Cut cilantro, leaves and stems, into smaller bunches and combine in a Vitaprep Mixer or blender with lime juice and egg yolks, seasoning lightly with salt and pepper. Turn on mixer and fully blend cilantro with lime juice and egg yolks, then increase speed as you slowly add the oil. When mixture thickens, adjust flavouring and thin with water, if necessary.

Yield: 1 Qt

Photo credit: Janet is Hungry

When You’re Right, You’re Right a/k/a The Beef’s Gone Bad!

Now, I’m not one to belabor things or fixate or tell you “I told you so” or beat a dead horse (all of you that are currently laughing, stop it!); but on this one, I felt I had to say something.

Back on July Fourth, you may remember I did a little ranting and raving while discussing why I would not be cooking at my buddy’s place. Without rehashing the whole thing, I was adamant in my desire not to make hamburgers with pre-packaged ground beef. There was the obvious taste aspect, but there was also the E. coli aspect which loomed much larger for me. I wasn’t going to get people sick with low quality ground beef, when perfectly good beef could be obtained at the grocery store.

This past Sunday, New York Times reporter Michael Moss published a piece about a 22 year old former dance instructor from Minnesota named Stephanie Smith; who in 2007 ate a pre-packaged hamburger tainted with E. coli. She had eaten a primarily vegetarian diet; but visiting her mother that day she ate a hamburger her mother pulled out of a box, unwrapped and then grilled for her. She did what millions of other Americans do nearly every day. And whether they’re eating pre-made hamburger patties or making patties at home with pre-mixed ground beef, they’re gambling with every bite they take. Slaughterhouses and grinding companies have “unwritten agreements to stand in the way of ingredient testing, and that can directly lead to E. coli contamination. It can get so wide-spread that the company that produced the hamburger that Stephanie ate ended up recalling 844,812 pounds of hamburger patties…EIGHT HUNDRED FORTY FOUR THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND TWELVE.

I mean, I love a good burger as much as the next guy; but I realize that supermarket ground beef isn’t very good…and it has the added chance of making you very sick or possibly killing you. Most people cite price or convenience as the reason for buying supermarket ground beef, but let’s break it down. The burger that Stephanie Smith ate came from four…F-O-U-R…different sources and from god only knows how many different cows. It was made up of “Fresh fat” (50/50 fat and meat from fatty edges from whole cuts of meat) from Greater Omaha Packing in Nebraska; “Fresh lean” (trimmings from dairy cows and bulls that are too old for feedlot fattening) from Lone Star Beef Processors in Texas; “Frozen lean” (trimmings from grass-fed cattle) from an unnamed slaughterhouse in Uruguay and “Lean finely textured beef” (trimmings warmed and put through a centrifuge to remove fat, and treated with ammonia to kill bacteria). Now read that again and tell think about if that’s something you’d want to eat. The final cost of the Frankenburger eaten by Stephanie: $1 per pound, “or about 30 cents less than industry experts say it would cost for ground beef made from whole cuts of meat.”

Now let’s think about the other side of the spectrum. Labor Day Weekend, I made burgers for the family from a blend of beef as well. The difference was that I called Wegman’s, asked if they could do it for me and then waited while one of their butchers ground two pounds of brisket and a pound of sirloin for me to turn into burgers: two pounds of brisket, from one cow and one pound of sirloin from another cow (or possibly the same cow, but not likely). The final cost of that meat came to approximately $6.31 per pound…five dollars more than Stephanie’s burger, but with the added bonus of knowing where the meat came from (theoretically), freshly ground beef with virtually zero chance of getting E. coli and the added benefit of taste.

Wegman's Call-Ahead Ground Beef

Now I’m not saying you’ve got to go out like I did getting ground brisket and sirloin at close to $7 a pound to eat a tasty burger, but there are alternatives to eating crappy pre-packaged ground beef. Go to a butcher, have him grind you a cheaper cut that came from O-N-E cow.

In short, the New York Times expanded upon what I said back in July…be careful about where you get your ground beef. I’m not going to change the way I eat, I’m not going to stop eating my burgers medium-rare and I’m not becoming a vegetarian. But what I will do is refuse to eat pre-made burger patty out of a box or buy pre-packaged ground beef from a grocery store.

Sufferin’ Succotash!!

Boy, it sure got cold here in the City this week, didn’t it? It was actually a bit cold last weekend when I left the restaurant and went out to Jersey to check up on my mother who seems unable of taking it easy…even in the wake of an appendectomy. Anyway, I went out there to do a little house-cooking and make sure my mom stayed off her feet. I had some ideas about what to cook, but thought better of it.

My step-dad and I took a trip out to Wegman’s, or as I’ve taken to calling it, “The Most Awesome Grocery Store Ever,” to buy some food. He had asked me to recreate a Veal Saltinbocca I had made about a year ago; but because I wasn’t crazy about the pre-sliced veal cutlets in the store (I had brought veal tenderloin which I sliced and pounded myself the last time), we got veal chops instead.

The real fun began when I turned my attention to the produce. I scoured the table with some of the last of the season’s corn on it and thought back to those carefree Summer days when I was a fat, bespectacled kid selling corn to passers-by. Those warm days I was spoiled by my neighbors Butter & Sugar and Peaches & Cream corn…amazingly sweet varieties that in my estimation can be eaten right off the stalk. And at the end of the Summer, if we weren’t already sick of corn, the kernels would be cut off the cobs for succotash and the cobs saved for soup. Wegman’s, unfortunately, had what looked and tasted like Quickie, or possibly Sugar & Gold, Corn, not my favourite, but I thought what better way to make this corn sing than with succotash?

Succotash is, if we’re getting technical, older than America. The Narragansett people’s called it, “msíckquatash” which essentially means boiled corn; and it was referenced in Roger Williams 1643 guide to interacting and understanding the native peoples: A Key Into the Language of America. And succotash, is as varied as there are people to interpret it. Traditionally, it is made from corn and lima beans, but other beans can be substituted for the lima’s and additions can be made; with the one constant being fresh corn. My father’s mother used to make succotash at all family gatherings, hers with corn, lima beans and white onion, as well as a healthy addition of cracked black pepper.

Today; while I’m on my way to the Chile Pepper Fiesta and before celebrating my grandparents sixty-first anniversary and my great-aunt’s eighty-fifth birthday; I’m going to share this particular succotash recipe with you. Bear in mind that this is merely a guideline, because I was more interested in utilizing the corn and making sure my mother’s other vegetables didn’t go to waste in her fridge. You can also feel free to add some butter to this recipe (as I did) to enrich the taste of the vegetables.

Early Autumn Succotash

5 Ears of Corn, Kernels removed
1 Cup Sugar Snap Peas, blanched & shocked
1 Cup Baby Carrots, halved
2 Medium Tomatoes, medium diced
½ Red Onion, sliced thin
½ White (or Spanish) Onion, sliced thin
2 oz (or slightly more) Olive Oil, not Extra Virgin
Salt & Pepper, to taste

Place one ounce of oil in a large skillet and allow to warm. Add onions to pan and slowly begin to caramelize them over a medium flame, stirring so as not to burn them or brown them too quickly; approximately ten minutes.
Add carrots to pan and occasionally stir, cooking until carrots begin to slightly soften.
Add corn kernels and peas, as well as more oil if necessary; tossing ingredients well to combine. Cook for approximately five minutes (or to desired doneness of corn), then add the tomatoes, tossing gently so as not to crush the tomatoes.
Season with salt and pepper and serve.

Serves 6-to-8

I’m Oxidized Metal These Days…

So I’ve been cooking with my buddy Dopp recently, getting a project of his off the ground. The difference, or one of the differences is that this time I’ll be working in the kitchen as opposed to simply designing the menu. It’s been a while since Dopp and I have been in a kitchen together, equally motivating and giving each other hell. We’re at the recipe testing stage, so there isn’t necessarily the sense of urgency that comes with a busy Saturday night; but that doesn’t mean the food still can’t taste good.
But the other day, Dopp was watching me small dice some jalapeno for some Jalapeno-Sweet Corn Fritters and said, “man, just how rusty are you?” And you know what? I am rusty. I’m out of practice and it pisses me off. For the better part of 90 days, I was researching recipes, testing them and looking into buying kitchen equipment, supervising workers and doing about a dozen other things.
Now, I’m not making excuses. It’s my own damn fault. Cooking, like anything else is a skill and like all skills you need to keep them up and practice them, so you don’t regress. The funny thing is that I think since Dopp and I were last together in the kitchen, my food-knowledge has grown, my palette has improved and System D skills are in top form. But I’ve let myself get complacent and that’s unacceptable.
When I got into this business, I didn’t just want to be good. I wanted to be better, hell I wanted to be the best. I got to where I am through a combination of skill and some lucky breaks. But I was able to capitalize on those lucky breaks because of my skill and when I was designing a menu for a place I forgot that.
Well, that changes today. I’m picking up onions, carrots and potatoes and having myself a little Knife-skills Workshop in my kitchen. The one good thing about me is that the motivation I need is directly related to someone telling me I can’t do something or getting called out for not living up to my potential. So I’m putting Dopp in notice…come tomorrow, I’m going to rock out with my Santoku out!

Peanut Butter Frosting, a Glass of Milk & Jelly Everywhere

I have, shall we say, trouble letting go of things sometimes (it’s still eating at me that I missed going to Picnick, Smoked last week). Usually, when I get an idea in my head, it stays there until I do something about it. Recently, the idea that had been rattling around my head was trying my hand at a peanut butter and jelly cupcake. I wanted people to bite into it and be reminded of their childhood, considering just about everyone I know grew up eating, and liking, peanut butter and jelly. Except for one friend of mine who told me he likes peanut butter and likes jelly, but doesn’t like them together in sandwich form…which is almost as inexplicable as saying, “I like bacon and I like cheeseburgers, but I’d never put bacon on a cheeseburger!”

For most of the week, I tried to figure out the best way to go about implementing my plan. After all, I’m a cook; I’ve never even professed to be a pastry cook…let alone someone who enjoys baking all that much. Cooks and pastry cooks are like right-brain and left-brain people. Cooks like the fast-paced life behind the hotline; the constant tension that comes with having to spring into action and start cooking at a moment’s notice; and the pressure that comes with picking up thirteen dishes on five different tables in the middle of a busy Friday night. Pastry cooks, on the other hand, seem to be a serious sort. They (the one’s I’ve known at least) wake up early, not late; their jobs take time and are about attention to detail, not-so-much about improvisation. Pastry is like a science; your measurements have to be precise because if you throw a tablespoon of baking powder into a cake recipe instead of a teaspoon, you could have a problem. Cooking is more fluid; if I add an extra cup of maple syrup to my turkey brine, it’s not the end of the world. Nonetheless, I thought I’d roll the dice, because I’m not going to admit defeat…even when it comes to baking.

Cupcake Mountains...near the Caucasus

My PB&J cupcakes came out moist; but a bit on the dense side, almost like a tiny pound cake. I’m going to work on perfecting the recipe, but since Dopp & I might be putting the finished product on a menu somewhere down the line, you’ll have to make due with this one. This recipe is also a bit on the messy side, since it involves making a peanut butter frosting and then squirting grape jelly into a baked and cooled cupcake…seriously, it looked like a bomb went off in my kitchen. I have been told however, that the finished product was: “yummy,” “delicious” and apparently, “really tasty.”
Oh, and I am well aware of how funny it is that I got fixated on making cupcakes considering how much I despise the current over-proliferation of cupcake places dotting New York City; and generally don’t really like sweets.
So settle in, make your cupcakes, then pour yourself a tall glass of milk.

Peanut Butter & Jelly Cupcakes

Ingredients:

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs, plus 1 egg yolk
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
¾ cup milk
1 cup grape jelly (You can use any kind you want, I went with Welch's)
Peanut butter frosting, recipe follows

Directions
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Line a cupcake pan with paper liners and spray them with nonstick spray and set aside.
Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt over a large piece of paper. In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar with a hand mixer on medium speed, until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, the egg yolk, and the vanilla. Reduce the speed to low and scrape down the sides of the bowl. Pour in the milk and continue to mix until smooth. Pick up the paper with the dry ingredients and gradually pour it into the wet ingredients, continue to mix just until blended.
Spoon the batter evenly into the prepared cupcake tins, about 3/4 full.
Bake until the tops of the cupcakes spring back to the touch and are not too golden; about 20 minutes (took closer to 28 in my oven).
Cool in the pan for 20 minutes, and then allow to cool completely on a wire rack before filling, frosting or decorating (might be a good time to get started on the frosting and filling your squirt bottle, no?).
Fill a squirt bottle (or piping bag with the small nozzle tip) with the grape jelly and screw on the cap. Carefully insert the tip of the squirt bottle as far as it will go into the top of the cupcakes. Gently squeeze about 1 tablespoon worth of jelly inside of each. Ice the tops of the cupcakes with Peanut Butter Frosting to cover.

Peanut Butter Frosting:
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup smooth peanut butter (I went with all natural, because that’s what I grew up with)
1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, at room temperature
4 cups confectioners' sugar*
1 tablespoon milk

Beat the butter, peanut butter, and cream cheese with a hand or standing mixer on medium speed, until light and fluffy. Slowly add the confectioner's sugar and continue to mix until the frosting is smooth, mix in the milk and continue to mix until it reaches a good spreading consisting.

Yield: 2 cups

* Again, because I’m not really a fan of really sweet things (I’m looking at you Crumbs!!), I used closer to 2 ¾ cups of sugar.

Crackin’ Wise, Eggs & Apparently Crab Shells

I’ve actually got a lot on my plate right now. So this is more like a long update, with a promise to fill you in later…and maybe a recipe if you ask nicely…while I scare up some material.

My uncle got married on Friday (big ups to him!) and among the foodstuffs floating around Galapagos were cupcakes from Crumbs, his favourite; which got me thinking. I also just got back from Jersey, where I was cooking and taking care of my mom. She had an appendectomy a following the wedding (she’s fine, thanks for asking) and like any good son would I went out and cooked for her and tried to make sure she stayed off her feet…which is virtually impossible for her to do. I made some banana bread and some Chardonnay-poached Salmon with a Butter & Herb Sauce for she and her husband, which they both enjoyed. I also decided, I think on the train ride back, that I was going to make Peanut Butter and Jelly cupcakes; mainly because I’m curious as to how they’ll turn out (I had asked for feedback from someone, but apparently she couldn't be bothered so I'm going to mad scientist it).

Before I can get cracking on the cupcakes though, I’ve got to head out to Long Island City to meet my man Dopp, that’s right, he’s back! He and I are going to do some recipe testing, and probably a lot of eating. From there, I’m heading to the New Deal Supper Club for some raw food courtesy of Rabbit Mafia. I’m an unabashedly, unapologetic meat eater and cooked food eater, so an evening of raw food that’s primarily vegetarian should be pretty interesting for me, to say the least.

So in the next 36, or so, hours: I’m dropping by the Picnick, Smoked truck for some tasty pulled pork; recipe testing, possibly some ceviche, possibly some fried chicken; making cupcakes; eating like a commie (I kid) and then telling all of you about it.
Until then, here’s a crab cake recipe to tide you over; because apparently you asked nicely…

Crab Cakes with Roasted Red Pepper Mayo

1 pound – Jumbo Lump Crab Meat
1 Red Bell Pepper, small dice (after roasting)
½ Red Onion, small dice
1 Habanero Pepper, seeded & minced
3 Tbsp – Mayonnaise
1 Tbsp – Dijon Mustard
2 tsp – Smoked Paprika
2 Eggs, beaten
Salt & Pepper, to taste
1 Box – Panko Bread Crumbs

Roast the red pepper over an open flame (or in a 350 degree oven) until the skin blisters and begins to turn black. Place in a metal bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let steam for approximately 20 minutes, then remove the skin using a paper towel, being sure to reserve as much oil as possible. While the red pepper is steaming, combine: crab meat, red onion, habanero, mayonnaise, mustard and smoked paprika, mixing lightly.
Once the red pepper is diced (reserve the other half for the Red Pepper Mayonnaise), mix it, the reserved oil, the beaten egg and approximately 4 tablespoons of the Panko into the crab mixture, mixing again to incorporate everything (The mixture should be wet, but not so lose that a small patty will fall apart in your hands).
Pour a good amount of the Panko on a large plate, then form crab mixture into small or large patties and dip each side in the Panko; placing the formed patties on a sheet tray or cookie sheet. Place the tray with the formed patties in the refrigerator for approximately 30 minutes to let the patties firm up and pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Place a small amount of canola oil in one or two sauté pans and remove the patties from the refrigerator. Heat the oil on medium-high heat and brown the crab cakes for approximately 3 minutes on each side. Then place pans in the oven and allow crab cakes to finish cooking, approximately 8-to-10 minutes.
Remove pans from oven and using a fish spatula remove crab cakes, placing them on a paper towel.
Serve with Roasted Red Pepper Mayonnaise.

Yield: Approximately 16 1.5 Oz. cakes

Roasted Red Pepper Mayonnaise

1 Large Red Bell Pepper
½ Small Red Bell Pepper, minced (optional)
½ Habanero Pepper, seeded
3 Egg Yolks
24 Oz Canola Oil
2 oz Fresh Lemon Juice
Salt, to taste


Roast the red pepper over an open flame (or in a 350 degree oven) until the skin blisters and begins to turn black. Place in a metal bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let steam for approximately 20 minutes, then remove the skin using a paper towel, being sure to reserve as much oil as possible. Cut and seed the pepper. Combine the red pepper, reserved oil, habanero and egg yolks in a Vitaprep Mixer or blender and blend until smooth. Season with salt and while the unit is running, add the canola oil in a slow, steady stream. Start the unit on a medium setting, turning it up higher when the egg yolks begin to emulsify the oil.
Taste for deliciousness.
Fold in minced red pepper, if using.

Yield: 1 Qt

One Nut, Two Names & a Day Off

"Thinking I need to stop making chocolate-hazelnut semi-freddo just because I can."

That was my Facebook status update on Thursday night. I wasn't home, I wasn't thinking about being home and then all of a sudden, the image of a frost-coated spring form pan lined with plastic wrap and filled with a mysterious milky-white substance popped into my head.

In the wake of my cornmeal, and subsequent muffin, experiments I had some left over hazelnuts, as well as some eggs & heavy cream I'd picked up when I got the nuts.
I could say it was a surprise, "oh me oh my, look what I'm doing with these filberts! Lawdy, lawdy!" (not sure why I'd sound like Gina Neeley, but whatever) But in truth, I knew exactly what I was doing. I'd planned on having extra nuts and I'd planned on making a semifreddo...the homemade "Nutella," however, was a welcome surprise.

Here, I feel I should mention that I, like George Costanza, “love how there are two nuts that are named after people…Hazel and Filbert.” Technically speaking, George was wrong; as the nut itself appears to be the filbert (Corylus maxima) that comes from the hazel tree. Why it is that the names are virtually interchangeable is beyond me.

Anyway, what I’m throwing at you…when I should be in bed, considering I’ve got to be up early and on a train to New Jersey for a Labor Day Grill-Fest…are recipes for semifreddo and a homemade hazelnut spread. The semifreddo recipe is a good one because it’s versatile; takes about four hours to make; and I’m guessing if you’re like most people who doesn’t own one, it beats buying an ice cream maker for frozen desserts.

The hazelnut spread (slash Nutella) is my own twist, mainly because I went a little nuts with the hazelnuts in the semifreddo and had to beef up the spread with some chocolate-mint sauce from Robert Rothschild Farm I got, who knows, somewhere.

One more thing. There’s an easy way and a hard way to make the semifreddo…you can either toss the cocoa powder into the mix or you can heat the cocoa powder in the heavy cream, then let the cream cool down. And I mean, seriously cool down because you’re going to be whipping that cream later. I’m giving you the easy version and trusting you can figure out how to let cream cool on your own.

Chocolate-Hazelnut Semifreddo

¾ Cup Hazelnuts, blanched, toasted & cooled
1 Cup Sugar
2 Tbsp Cocoa Powder
2 cups Heavy Cream
¾ cup Egg Whites (decent brown eggs should yield about ¼ cup of whites, per egg)
¼ tsp vanilla extract

Grease a 10-inch spring form pan and line with plastic wrap or parchment paper.

In a food processor grind the hazelnuts, 3/4 cup sugar and cocoa powder together, pulsing to avoid over blending so it does not become a paste (but you’re going to have to work really hard to accidentally make hazelnut butter).
Whip the cream using a mixer fitted with a whisk attachment or a hand mixer, until it holds fluffy, soft peaks. Transfer to the refrigerator.
In a clean dry (preferably copper) bowl, whip the egg whites until soft peaks form. Add the vanilla extract and 1/4 cup sugar and continue whipping until glossy and stiff, about 30 seconds more.
Fold into the whipped cream, then fold in the ground nut mixture. Spoon the mixture into the spring form pan. Smooth the top.
Freeze at least 4 hours or overnight*.

* I suggest overnight, because everyone’s freezer is different. My freezer might as well be a blast chiller, but yours might suck, so plan ahead if you’re making it for a party.



Homemade Nutella Hazelnut-Mint Spread

1 Cup chopped hazelnuts
¾ Cup Powdered Sugar
¼ Cup Unsweetened Cocoa Powder
2 Tbsp Chocolate-Mint Sauce (conversely, you can infuse your oil with the mint)
1/8 Cup Canola Oil

Place hazelnuts in the work bowl of a food processor and process until nuts start to clump together in a ball, approximately five minutes.
Add the powdered sugar, cocoa powder and chocolate-mint sauce (if using), and process again for 2 to 3 minutes, until the mixture turns dark and the ingredients are well combined.
Slowly drizzle in enough oil to make a spread.

Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for 4 to 6 weeks.

Next Time: Labor Day and whole bunch of shout-outs...La Rabbitnostra, Smoke on Wall Street & some Brooklyn Juice Guys.

By the way...Happy Labor Day!

When Life Gives You Bad Corn, Make Cornmeal

When I was growing up, my parents always used to tell me, “never look a gift horse in the mouth.” Well, a couple days ago I did. Someone, I won’t say who; but someone gave me the worst…absolute worst corn I’ve ever had in my life. I had grand plans to make a corn consommé; extracting the flavours from the cob, cooking the kernels and even attempting to clarify it with egg whites; but once I started to shuck the ears I knew it wasn’t to be. The ears reminded me of the dried multicolour maize my father has adorning his mantle.

So there I was in my kitchen, casting about for what to do. I tried making a corn stock and then a soup, both of which worked about as well as the plot of an episode of It’s Always Unfunny in Philadelphia. Once I strained the corn pulp out of the soup and tossed it in the freezer, I decided that what the hell, I’d try to make cornmeal. I spread the pulp on some tinfoil and threw it in the oven at 225° F for about four hours, then let it rest in the oven overnight. When I woke up, I put my roasted “corn flakes” in the food processor and ground away, until I had a coarse yellow powder that J. Peterman probably would’ve mistaken for Yam-yam.

It took me still another day to figure out what the hell to do with my newfound cornmeal, but yesterday morning I got myself some hazelnuts and a banana and decided that banana-hazelnut muffins was the way to go. I even tossed some raisins in for good measure; and so far, I’ve gotten good reviews. Here’s the recipe if you’re really interested I’ll give you step-by-step directions on making your own cornmeal. Hell, you never know, the Mayans might be right!

Either way, I suggest serving these bad boys with butter and jelly, fresh and steaming out of the oven.

Banana-Hazelnut Corn Muffins

Ingredients

1 cup cornmeal
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ cup hazelnuts
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 ripe bananas
1 egg, beaten
¼ cup butter, melted
1 cup milk
1 handful of raisins (optional)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400° degrees F. Grease muffin pan or line with paper muffin liners.
In a food processor grind the hazelnuts and sugar together, pulsing to avoid over blending so it does not become a paste.
In a large bowl, mix together corn meal, flour, sugar-nut mixture, baking powder, salt and raisins (if using).
Then blend eggs, bananas, milk and butter together in a blender and fold into dry ingredients, stirring to combine (more flour may be needed, if the dough appears wet).
Spoon into muffin tins and bake for approximately 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Yield: 12 muffins


Next Time: Bunnies, Italian (Sort-of) Ice Cream & possibly Homemade Nut Butters…oh yeah, and Labor Day.

Thumbs Up From “the Swedish Guy”

Everybody likes validation, right? I mean, is there anything better than the day when your boss tells you, “hey, you’re doing a good job”? It’s not going to kill me if my boss doesn’t say anything, although eventually you get the feeling you’re just going through the motions without feedback, or even worse, you start to think your boss hates you almost as much as Anderson Cooper hates Heidi Montag and just doesn’t care enough to even yell at you. But if there’s gonna be feedback, I like the non-yelly, non-screamy variety.

When I was working in the West Village for “the Swedish Guy” I had a pretty interesting chef de cuisine. Obviously, when you’re trying to run a restaurant empire, even a small one, you need have people minding the store for you so you can do things like hit investors up for money or make television appearances. Interestingly enough, he went outside to get his chef, but that’s not important. What is important is that the chef he hired was a little, um, emotional. To say she wore her emotions on her sleeve would be an understatement; she wore her emotions on her crisp white chef’s coat in fucking Technicolor! One day she flipped out on the entire kitchen staff, the GM and a poor reservationist who had the misfortune of wandering by; and told everyone that if they didn’t want to work there, we could all get the hell out…no one left. We were, or should I say I was, a little more confused a couple hours later when she walked into the prep kitchen, put her arm around me and asked how I was doing and if everything was okay with me (um, yeah, feeling great with maybe a touch of bipolar).

I know it takes all kinds in the kitchen, but most people (especially head chefs) end up on one side of the spectrum: either they scream and yell and act like lunatics or they’re pretty even keeled and realize you “catch more flies with honey.” Chef Lithium ran the gamut from both sides, so you never knew what to expect from day-to-day, hour-to-hour. I guess you could say she was more dangerous than typing “Jessica Biel” into my Firefox nav-bar.

So one night, the Swedish Guy showed up while I was prepping and asked for a little help for a television appearance he was getting ready for. Considering I had a light day (meaning I’d gotten done everything I needed to get done) I was more than happy to help him out. He and I got down to business and when he stepped out to take a phone call, Chef Screamy swooped in like an angry gaggle of crows to ask what the hell was wrong with me listening to music while the Swedish Guy tried to get work done? I didn’t see it as a big deal because before she came in and started her yelling; I’d stood across the steel table from him while he nodded his head along with the music as he perfectly…and I mean perfectly diced pumpkin.

Later that evening, I was plating appetizers during an especially busy service. I was picking up Yellowtail, a Lobster Salad, a Mixed Green Salad, Tabbouleh, Oysters and about five other dishes during a Friday night and word had apparently spread that the Swedish Guy would be there, as we only got busier as the night wore on. I was also running between my station and the grill helping plate the shrimp app and the duck salad because my sous chef was super cool and was smart to occasionally put me in the weeds to help me learn to maximize efficiency. The Swede was downstairs finishing getting ready for his television appearance and I was trying to ease into service. Around 8:30 a big ticket (like Alaska big) came out and I, and the rest of the kitchen, furiously got to work.

Things were going well until Chef Screamy turned around from the pass to see me plating somewhere around dish number seven of the ten (I think it was a Lobster Salad), or so, I was responsible for and had a grand mal flip-out. Seriously, it was a tantrum of epic proportions, complete with choice phrases like: “that looks like shit,” and “I’d be embarrassed send that out,” and “you’re so goddamn slow I’d have you re-plate it, but there’s no time.” At some point during the yell-fest, unbeknownst to me or Chef Screamy, The Swedish Guy had made his way back into the kitchen. He’d quietly been surveying things from the corner and before the dish went out, he walked over and took a look at it. I held my breath, the waiter cowered against the wall, Screamy fumed, arms folded across her chest (and in retrospect this entire exchange probably took place in about four seconds), the rest of the cooks paused. The Swede looked at my dish, looked me square in the eye and nodded his head. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His silent implication was clear: nice job, keep doing what you're doing.

I gloated internally for the rest of the night and every day after that.

Next Time: Making the best of a bad corn situation.

Picture: Courtesy Sesame Street

French Toast, Eggs Benedict and Other Small Tragedies, Part II

Last time I gave you a recipe, this time I’m going to give you a couple recipes…for disaster. All kinds of funny stuff happens in the kitchen, especially during brunch service when everyone working is tired and everyone sitting in the dining room is too damn chipper…or hung over or drunk or high…for their own good. Or maybe it’s not so much that funny stuff happens, but that you’re so miserable you just have to laugh. Originally, I was going to give you a bunch of brunch stories, but I realize brunch is just too long/funny/sad to throw at you all at once. Instead, here are the first few shots across the bow, for I hope will be a series of procrastination inducing stories. As always, the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

When I was working at the East Village gastropub with Dopp (my boy Dopp, that I’ve told you about? My “white doppelganger”? Okay, whatever, I’ll tell you about him later), we had this bus boy who knew it all. When he wasn’t slouching against the coffee station, texting; he was hovering around telling us how to plate dishes, complaining about running simple errands (such as: “I’m trying to pick up five tables here and you’re standing around eyeing a half-eaten piece of chocolate bread pudding, can you please get me a quart of heavy cream?”), marking tables or running plates to the wrong tables because he wouldn’t wait for us to tell him where things were supposed to go. Anyway, one of our brunch menu items was French Toast which we served with maple syrup in a shot glass. So a couple weekends in a row Dopp & I noticed he was running plates of French Toast to tables with the shot glass balanced precariously at the edge of the plate. Dopp and I told him numerous times to carry the shot glass separately so it didn’t wobble off the plate and onto the floor; but he knew better and continued to do it. So one Sunday he scooped up a plate and ran it to a table. A few moments later, there was some commotion in the dining room and Mr. Know-It-All came running back into the kitchen looking for napkins and a wet towel. In his infinite wisdom, he had ran plates to a table and held the plate with the French Toast in his hand while he set down some Polenta & Eggs…moving his hand slightly, the shot glass fell (I imagine in slow motion) onto the table, spilling its contents all over the white-Miu Miu-pantalooned lap of a young lady who was there expressly to break up with her boyfriend. You ask how I know she was there to dump her boyfriend…? Because she wrote about it on Citysearch or Yelp or somewhere the very next day. Just goes to show you, you should listen to the guys in the clogs and white coats…we know what we’re talking about.

When I was working in the West Village (not with “the Swedish guy”), I worked brunch on a super small line; cranking out frittatas and sausage and broccoli rabe. It was what you would call a hotspot and as a result we used to get all kinds of people in there: Dr. Evil, the Green Goblin, Sally Heap, Liz Lemon’s boyfriend, Darla Marks, and others.
So one day a certain Lady Editor of a certain famous magazine came in with the Green Goblin and some friends and orders brunch for six: frittata, sausage, salad, broccoli rabe, pancakes and polenta. The waitress also asked that we make a separate frittata with very little salt, withhold sausage and make a separate rabe with no chili flakes for the Lady Editor, as she was apparently not in the mood for eating meat, didn’t like spicy food or salt. If you’re keeping score at home: “picking up, frittata for five; frittata for one, no salt; sausage for five; salad for six; polenta for six; rabe for five, straight up; rabe for one, no chilies; pancakes for six; heard.” Now, my chef and I were friendly, but not friends and while we got along well, we did not see eye on eye on one major kitchen issue: the use of salt. Now, anyone who knows me knows I love me some salt, but this guy worshiped at the Church of Salt! Nothing was ever seasoned well enough to his liking. Any time he tasted part of a dish I was plating, the problem (in any) was invariably lack of salt.
So I started picking up the order and Chef Salty came upstairs and after some back and forth about why I was making two different frittatas for a table of six; I started plating. Guess what happened? “More salt.” Same thing with the rabe…more salt. I noticed Greeny looking over wondering what was going on and where his frittata was. Long story short, the solo frittata came back for being too salty and I had to pick up the rabe three times before it was “right,” all of this to the seeming amusement of the Lady Editor. When it was all said and done, with Chef Salty back downstairs and Greeny and the Lady Editor on their way out, she leaned across the bar and said, “thanks for trying.”

Next Time: The Biggest Compliment I Ever Got

Somewhere Down the Line: More brunch stories

French Toast, Eggs Benedict and Other Small Tragedies

I hate brunch. Or rather, I hate cooking brunch. I would even go so far as to say that brunch is the bane of the existence of the culinary professional. Whether you are a cook, a hostess, a bus boy or dish washer every weekend when you come in it sucks out a little piece of your soul. Look, I don’t; and I haven’t met a cook who does, hate cooking scrambled eggs, bacon, French Toast, pancakes, omelettes and whatnot; hell, I even like going to brunch. It’s just that I don’t think there are any cooks out there who enjoy cooking a busy dinner service on a Friday or Saturday night, getting home at two in the morning and then waking up six hours later, to drag ass back into work and cook that stuff for six hours when you’re bleary-eyed, your mouth tastes like Makers Mark, cigarettes and shame and you’ve got a strange pain in your side you know wasn’t there nine hours ago.

Every time I’ve said, “if I never have to cook brunch another day in my life, I’ll die a happy man,” I get a knowing nod and a shrug from the cook I’m talking to. Almost as if he or she is saying, “yeah, I hear ya, but brunch is a necessary evil; so just suck it up and deal.” Many a Saturday and Sunday I wake up hating myself because of what I’ve done to my body and brain the night before and then stand over a hot stove scrambling eggs, pulling omelettes out of Salamanders, frittatas out of ovens and French Toast off of griddles…a zombie in checkered pants and a white jacket.

Last weekend, I had an opportunity to cook brunch more to my speed. I found myself in Hoboken visiting my old roommate, who through no fault of his own, has been fully domesticated with a dog, girlfriend, apartment combo. He’s come a long way from the booze chugging, skirt-chasing guy I remember from college; he’s grown up, he’s grounded, hell, he’s fucking responsible…and I say that in a good way. So we decided to catch up on one of the free weekends he’s probably had in months and hit some of the bars in Hoboken. I won’t waste your time talking about Hoboken; but suffice it to say, I care about Hoboken about as much as I care about the Rebecca Gayheart sextape. (NSFW)

Sunday morning, we went out and got a loaf of whole wheat bread, some heavy cream, bacon and eggs and then I loosed myself on my buddy’s kitchen. I mixed the eggs and heavy cream with some of the leftover buttermilk from the fried chicken I had made the previous night (not the same buttermilk I soaked the chicken in, c’mon!) and added a couple ounces of bourbon for good measure. Then I got to work cooking my bacon and saving the rendered fat to cook the scrambled eggs in. When it was all said and done, my buddy and I feasted while watching ESPN and discussing the merits of feeding bacon and eggs to a twelve pound dog. I’m including my recipe for the Buttermilk-Bourbon French Toast, just bear in mind this recipe isn’t winning any diet awards. It will, however; cut down on your sugar; because I never saw the need to put sugar in something I was going to cover in Maple Syrup ten minutes later. In addition, it does benefit from healthy whole wheat or filling brioche as opposed to useless white/Wonder Bread (which has a tendency to fall apart like Phil Mickelson at Torrey Pines). Just remember to watch your heat. I personally like my French Toast slightly crispy on the outside, but you don’t want it taking on a whole lot of colour beyond a nice burnished gold.

Buttermilk-Bourbon French Toast

Toast Batter
1 Pint – Heavy Cream
½ Pint – Buttermilk
3 oz – Bourbon
3 Eggs
Cinnamon & Nutmeg, to taste

8 slices of Whole Wheat or Brioche Bread
4 oz – Unsalted Butter

Place an oven-safe plate in the oven and pre-heat to 200 degrees F
Whisk eggs in a large bowl with heavy cream, buttermilk and bourbon then combine with cinnamon and nutmeg. Melt butter in a sauté pan or skillet over medium heat. Soak bread, on both sides, in batter then place in pan and cook until lightly browned on both sides. Remove slices from pan and place in oven until all slices are cooked.


Yield: 8 pieces of French Toast

Bought, Paid for & Cooking…for Vegetarians!

I know I was supposed to write this a few months back, but considering I had to actually undertake the “date” before I could write about it, things got pushed back. I’ve been a busy little cook recently and unfortunately had to push the date back a couple times. Anyway, here we go…with a Quinoa Salad, to boot!
You know that scene at the end of Groundhog Day when Bill Murray rolls over and is surprised to see Andie McDowell lying in bed next to him…? And then he asks her why she’s there and she says, “I bought you, I own you.” That line always made me laugh, in an uncomfortable sort of way. My good buddy from Berkley and I used to joke about those words coming out of her mouth with her Southern accent and the strangely uncomfortable feeling it would give me. Anyway, I joined the overactive, overexcited digital high school that is Yelp a couple months back and have been writing reviews and attending their “parties” and defending myself against the many word twisting, antagonistic fussbudgets that seemingly spend the better part of their lives “helicoptering” the site. They're not all bad, and they do try to do some good; especially the people in charge. They hold little parties for their “Elite” members, which is basically a reason to get drunk and hook up and hold other events.

One such event was a Silent Date Auction for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society of New York. Now, I’ve lost two grandparents to Lymphoma, so I thought that if nothing else it would be a nice gesture to help raise money for a good cause. Seeing as I’m more of a, “how can I help you with my time?” kind of guy, I decided to offer my services, via food. The bidding was going well, okay pretty well and I was excited that I might get a chance to cook for one of the people I actually knew. Then came the day of reckoning and the name I expected to see next to my name, in the “win column,” was different. So I reached out to her (or actually, she reached out to me…I was a busy boy) and congratulated her on her winnings and then asked if she had any food allergies or perhaps if there was anything she was unwilling to eat. And then it came, like a piano falling on Daffy Duck’s head…she was a vegetarian. Now, those of you that know me know I do not suffer vegetarians lightly, so I was in no mood to cook or assemble something that didn’t have parents. Hell, just the other day I walked past a guy who passed Maoz Vegetarian Café to hear him mutter, “commies.” Oh wait, that was me. Anyway, I was fresh off of cooking at a dinner party with a menu that included: Fried Chicken Breast Strips; Thai Beef Salad and a Corn Salad with Chicken Sausage. Not to mention, I had seriously pushed for making a bacon vinaigrette for the salad, but was vetoed.

So while I was cooking Friday night, I was mentally cheating on my dinner companions trying to figure out what the hell I was going to cook the following day. And it came to me quite easily. I set aside a small amount of the Corn Salad, sans the chicken sausage; as well as some of the Peach Crumble, then ate dinner, threw my orange clogs on and tried to figure out my next move.

When I woke up in the morning I found that the quinoa I had brought to my friends house had been cooked, drained and was sitting neatly in the refrigerator. I was working on borrowed time (probably because I made some questionable decisions with my orange clogs on and got to bed late), so I made my way to Whole Foods; with a Solo cup full of quinoa in tow to do my shopping. I decided on a different salad, but one with protein that most vegetarian meals lack or mask with things like beans and whatnot. Quinoa has got a little more than four grams of protein per ounce, which is pretty substantial for something that never had cute ears or a family. So like a tornado, I picked up a plum tomato, a cucumber, some black olives and a red onion; and knew I had mint and feta cheese at my friends place. Then I hightailed it back there, and got to mixing.
Then I put my vegetarian meal in some containers I “procured” from Whole Foods and was on my way to the Belvedere Castle.

Turns out, she was a fan of charity:water, the wonderful organization started by a good friend of mine and even had a charity tote bag; so she scored a few more points for vegetarians everywhere in my book.When it was all said and done, she professed the peach crumble delicious and the corn salad super tasty, but spent the majority of the time eating the Quinoa Salad.

Mediterranean Quinoa Salad

3 Cups, cooked Quinoa
1 small Cucumber, skin on small diced
½ Red Onion, small diced
1 Plum Tomato, small diced
1 Handful, Grape or Cherry Tomatoes
4 oz., Sliced Black Olives
4 oz., Feta Cheese, crumbled
20 Mint Leaves, chiffonade
2 oz., Red Wine Vinegar
2 oz., Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper, to taste

Combine all ingredients except oil and vinegar and mix well. Season with salt and pepper, to taste, but more pepper; as the olives and feta will be salty. Then dress with the oil and vinegar and mix again.

Serves 4-to-6

Oh Sweet, Corn!

When I was growing up, I used to spend my Summer’s in Massachusetts with my dad and because my dad wasn’t one to have his son sitting around the house all day reading books (which was okay for him, but hell, he’d been putting up with snotty college students unable to conjugate their verbs for the previous nine months), it fell on me to get a job. Now, to say I was a lazy little kid might be going a bit too far; but I was definitely a fat little kid. I liked my books, I liked my Devil Dogs, I liked my Tastykakes, I liked hot dogs with ketchup on them and ice cream sundaes from Friendly’s piled high with Reece’s Peanutbutter Cups, hot fudge, peanut butter and whipped cream…yeah, I was a fatty! Anyway, I wasn’t really into things like running around outside, or the joys of salad, and I definitely wasn’t psyched when my dad told me I’d be spending my almost my Summer selling corn by a roadside.
I brought home so much corn that Summer, by dad and step-mom were sick of it by early August and asked my neighbors (my bosses) nicely please stop sending me home with as many ears of corn as my fat little arms could carry…it didn’t work. Looking back, I’m glad they didn’t listen; because I now have an appreciation for what truly good corn is supposed to taste like. And every time I have a really good ear of corn, I remember those Summer’s in Hadley, Massachusetts selling ears of corn by the dozen. Good corn, really damn good corn, can be pulled off the stalk and eaten raw right there in the field; sweet and delicious, with sticky corn-milk running down your chin.
But I digress. A couple weeks ago, after the fun I had with the garlic scapes, I came across an article in the New York Times by Martha Rose Shulman about corn soup, or more pointedly, about fresh corn and finding inventive things to do with it when its in season. Her corn soup recipe was good, but not exactly what I was looking for. She suggested pureeing the corn along with the other ingredients and then adding a small amount of fresh corn to the finished product. My soup varies slightly with the addition of some roasted jalapeno for heat and a lot more corn, turning her soup into slightly more of a stew. But she did make a corn stock with the cobs, which I liked because it added extra corn flavour to the tasty soup. I had to employ a little System D (if you’re not sure, wait and I’ll fill you in) when making my soup because the Robot Coupe and VitaPrep from the restaurant had been spirited away by a good friend who needed it very much.

Incidentally, she owes me after I found the parts to the Robot Coupe in a Sky Vodka box, but that’s also a story for another day. And I’ve simplified this recipe guessing you’ve got a blender at home. So this soup recipe is basically Shulman’s with the addition of some fire-roasted jalapeno for spice and not as much corn pureed into the soup mix. And if I could just add, that when it was all said and done the verdict on the soup was, “you’re the man!” so, ya’know, maybe I know what I’m doing here.

Spicy Corn Soup

For the stock:
The cobs from 3 large ears corn
1 small onion, quartered
1/2 pound carrots, sliced
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
2 quarts water
Salt to taste

For the soup:
1 tablespoon canola oil
1 small or 1/2 medium sweet onion, chopped
Salt, preferably kosher salt, to taste
Kernels from 2 ears corn
1 large jalapeno, fire roasted

For garnish:
Kernels from 2 ears of corn

Make the stock: Combine the corn cobs, quartered onion, carrots, garlic and water in a large soup pot, and bring to a boil. Season with a small amount of salt (you will be reducing this broth, so don’t salt fully at this point). Reduce the heat, cover and simmer one hour. Strain and return to the pot. Bring to a boil, and reduce to 5 cups. (There are 4 cups in a quart, so you’re basically looking to reduce your broth almost by half). Taste and adjust seasoning.
Fire-roast your jalapeno while the broth is reducing, so you can slice it and add it to your soup items.
Heat the oil in a heavy soup pot, and add the onion and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Cook, stirring, until tender, about five minutes, and add the corn kernels and jalapeno. Cook gently for about three minutes, stirring, and add the stock. Bring to a simmer, cover and simmer over low heat for 30 minutes.
Transfer to a blender in 1 to 1 1/2-cup batches, taking care to cover the top with a towel to avoid hot splashes, and blend the soup until smooth. Put through a medium strainer, pressing the soup through with the bottom of a ladle or with a spatula, and return to the pot and add the remaining raw kernels. Heat through, taste and adjust seasonings.
Ladle in stew, and serve.
Yield: Serves four, or about one quart.

Jowls, Scapes & Crafty Farmers

Last Friday I walked over to the Union Square Greenmarket to clear my head from the countless hours I spend in the restaurant, poke around and possibly pick up some goodies to play around with. I did a quick walk-through, turning North through the park winding my way past the various purveyors and farmers selling their fare and trying to undercut each other while still trying to turn a profit: on this side, Kirby Cucumbers $2.60/lb; down the row from him, Kirby Cucumbers $2.25/lb; and around the corner Kirby’s for a scant $2/lb. My plan was to walk down the Blue Water Grill aisle that runs parallel with Union Square West and then turn down the 17th Street aisle, continuing down to the end of the market.
Most of what I saw was your standard farm fare for mid-July: peaches, cherries, a few berries, corn, the aforementioned Kirby’s, and one vender brashly selling tomatoes…next week maybe (the Rutgers and Ramapo varieties both taking nearly 80 days to reach maturation. Not to mention all the rain from June could lead to a late blight which could wipe out crops across the state. Anyway...). Then there were the few expected surprises such as garlic scapes, some small Summer squashes and herbs of all kinds; Licorice-Basil, anyone…?
As I walked from stall-to-stall and chatted with the farmers, a thought popped into my head: showing up at the Greenmarket in your whites is just ridiculously pretentious. Most people would probably think you looked silly any other chefs would probably curse you under their breath and the farmers don’t produce enough crop to start acting like “purveyors,” supplying restaurants with pounds upon pounds of garlic scapes or culantro to have them falling all over anyone wearing a chefs coat.
Anyway, I didn’t see anyone being pretentious and continued poking around, practically laughing in the face of one farmer who tried to sell me garlic scapes for $8/lb. These might be salt of the earth people, or at least saltier than I am being a cityboy and all, but they’re still business men & women at the end of the day. Two Friday’s ago a buddy of bought garlic scapes at the Greenmarket for $2/lb, last week a magazine apparently published an article (that I’m still trying to locate, by the way) about the “hottest chefs” using garlic scapes at the “hottest restaurants.” And by this Friday, the price had risen by $6/lb, which if my high school math is right, is about a 300% increase in price! Instead of laughing at him, I moved on and found a guy selling tightly spiraled scapes in square pint containers that seemed to weight around ¾ of a pound, for $3 each. I also picked up some of the aforementioned Licorice-Basil, and a small pot of cherry peppers and culantro, cilantro’s more potent Mexican cousin. Then the piece de resistance: a beautiful 2lb piece of Pork Jowl.

I practically skipped back to the kitchen.
So what the hell was I going to do with this stuff? I decided to give the plants some water, bias cut the scapes for something…and then smoke and braise the jowl for empanadas. I set up my smoker

and popped the jowl inside. Then I got my braising liquid going, deciding to first reduce it and then add beer before throwing in the jowl. An hour and a half later, I pulled the jowl out of the smoker

and slid into the water, covering it with beer. Then into the oven it went. When I took the pot out, the jowl was practically falling apart…and my jowls were trembling with anticipation. I pulled a small piece off and popped it in my mouth, my cares and worries melting away as the meat melted in my mouth.
Once the jowl had cooled, I pulled the skin off for cracklins, cut the meat into small pieces and tossed it in a sauté pan with my previously cut garlic scapes. Once crispy, the steaming filling went into my empanada dough and the whole thing went into the oven. My reviews were good. My favourite local drunks and my favourite local drinkery raved about them. My bartender buddy around the corner was less kind, but appreciated the free food.
Since then, the remaining garlic scapes took a trip to my mom’s place in Jersey, then came back to the City with me and are currently going to waste in my fridge…and I’m hating myself a little bit because of that. Hopefully tonight I can do something with them before they turn…I’m a little garlic scaped out at this point, so maybe pickled garlic scapes? We shall see.

Explosions of Beef on the 4th of July…

So it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Over a month, goddamn! Well, I’ve been a busy boy (working on some semi-Top Secret stuff); a very busy boy. How busy you ask? Well, I’ve worked thirty-three of the last thirty-four days…THIRTY-THREE out of THIRTY-FOUR; even as I sit here writing this, I do it from work. To that end, you know what pisses me off to no end? People who can’t perform simple tasks and people who complain about how busy they are, when in all actuality, they have no idea what it means to actually be “busy.”
Maybe I’m taking myself too seriously. Maybe I’m just tired because I’ve been working so damn much. I find myself snapping at people and find that my already somewhat short fuse, has gotten even shorter. Either way, I think I’ve got good reason to want to, “put a bullet between the eyes of every panda that wouldn’t screw to save its species…to open dump valves on oil tankers and smother all the French beaches I’d never see…I wanted to breath smoke.”
Let me preface this next statement with something a new friend of mine told me yesterday, “stop being such a burger snob, go to Western Beef and cook some burgers,” now I let you decide whether he’s right or I’m right.
Every year for Independence Day, for maybe the past four years, I’ve gone to a buddy’s place and cooked burgers and wings and whatnot before everyone goes up to his roof and watches the fireworks show in the East River. As my palate has changed and my knowledge has grown, I’ve gotten (shall we say) “fancier,” and tried to be more cognizant of things like: the freshness of my ingredients, the quality of my meat and above all giving the people there an experience they won’t soon forget. Fireworks are nice to look at, but people remember when you make them a Pork and Beef Burger, stuffed with Gorgonzola and Bacon.
As I’ve become more in tune with what I put in my body and what I put into other people’s bodies, I’ve started steering myself away from things like pre-packaged ground beef in grocery stores and prefer to instead buy freshly ground meat; preferably at a place where I can watch a guy in a blood stained apron grind it right before my eyes. Why, you ask? Well, because pre-packaged ground beef gets ground in a meat processing plant in god-knows-where and a single package of beef at a supermarket might contain meat from approximately thirty different cows…if you’re lucky. Why is this a big deal? Well, because in addition to the nasty bits from two dozen cows your package might also contain some really not-so-nice things like: “Salmonella, Escherichia coli O157:H7, Campylobacter jejuni, Listeria monocytogenes, and Staphylococcus aureus.” The biggest danger is E. coli, and this is directly from the USDA website:

E. coli O157:H7 can colonize in the intestines of animals, which could contaminate muscle meat at slaughter.
O157:H7 is a strain of E. coli that produces large quantities of a potent toxin that forms in the intestine and causes severe damage to the lining of the intestine. The disease produced by the bacteria is called Hemorrhagic Colitis.

So freshly ground beef might cost a little more, but I have the added benefit of not pissing out my ass from eating shitty beef.

Whew, that was a lot!
So I asked my buddy to drop by Ottomanelli’s, on Bleecker, and have them grind 2 ½ pounds of beef brisket and 1 ½ pounds of chuck steak. I love the Ottomanelli’s guys, they’re super friendly and they always take care of me. Seeing as I wasn’t able to take Thursday or Friday off, and knew that I’d be working today, I asked my buddy to do me one favour…go to Ottomanelli’s and pick up the aforementioned quantities of beef. That’s it, one favour that did not involve the movement of Heaven or Earth. I even offered to call ahead and let them know he would be coming as my proxy. Wednesday, after my e-mail, I started to receive the first bit of blow back: questions about price and the exact location of Ottomanelli’s. Then, all day Thursday goes by, sun rises, sun sets and he hasn’t picked up the meat.

Him: “Why can’t we just use stuff from the supermarket?”
Me: “Because it tastes like shit and has the potential to make you sick.”
Him: “C’mon, can’t be that bad.”
Me: “I’m not risking getting people sick with my reputation on the line. Go to Ottomanelli’s.”

Friday rolls around, sun rises, sun gets high in the sky and there is still massive resistance to picking up meat that won’t make everyone sick. Mind you, by this point I have spent approximately 22 hours inside a restaurant and my patience in the face of this resistance is beginning to seriously wane. I update my facebook status, now full of visceral hatred (five of my friends agree with me, by the way), but like a fool, hold out hope. Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel after all. I am informed there is a problem with his phone and he will be driving into the City to have it looked at; perhaps the meat can be picked up on the drive? This seems reasonable, considering google Maps tells me it’s only 3.9 miles from his place to Ottomanelli’s. I take a deep breath and smile. Calling Ottomanelli’s, for the fourth time in two days to let them know someone is coming by to pick up the meat I have requested. Things; however, take a turn for the worst when I find myself on the phone with him; standing in the bathroom, my head resting against the wall, my eyes closed, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of my nose; resisting the urge to throttle any and everything within reach; as he explains he’s saddened by the present condition of his phone and was unable to make it to Ottomanelli’s. I am saddened by the sheer laziness of a person who can’t undertake a simple fucking task such as picking up four pounds of ground meat, when they have seemingly done NOTHING for the past two days.
I make one final attempt this morning, as I stand in front of the stove, the hood-vents whirring above me, tongs in my hand and a red bell pepper popping, sizzling and whistling at me as the flames lick its surface. I text the address of an Italian butcher shop in downtown Brooklyn, perhaps the meat can be picked up there? “You don’t even need to leave Brooklyn,” I not-so-jokingly add. My phone rings with, first a sob story about the phone (which seems to be working well enough to place phone calls), followed immediately by news that a mutual friend has just arrived from Spain and then more resistance, with a compromise offered in the form of a “butcher shop” in his neighborhood where the meat can “probably” be picked up. I quickly think to myself, “I don’t remember ever seeing a butcher around there, I’m not even sure they’ll have brisket or if they’re even open today; and furthermore my buddy wouldn’t know an actual butcher shop if it sat on his face! And any place he is calling a butcher is probably a shitty-ass deli. Just because they have a meat slicer doesn’t make them a butcher.” I close my phone, not-so-quietly cursing his name, and go back to roasting my pepper. My phone rings again, but this time I am an in the middle slicing a pepper I roasted yesterday into a fine julienne, in preparation for folding said pepper into my Roasted Red Pepper Mayonnaise; not to mention I am in no mood to talk on the phone.

So am I a burger snob or is my buddy a lazy douchebag who can’t perform a single task asked of him? Personally, I think I’ve got every right to be pissed off.