Crush Some Soup!

If you live in the Northeast, you've probably noticed an alarming new trend: it's fucking cold as a witches’ tit outside!
Unfortunately, most of us don't have the luxury of sitting on the couch, wrapped in a down comforter cocoon while we watch Top Chef reruns; emerging only to go to the bathroom or answer the door for the take-out we'd forgotten we'd ordered. When I was working a soul-crushing desk job, nothing used to give me greater pleasure, during the cold Winter months, than coming home and turning on the stove. I could've been boiling water for pasta, or making soup from scratch; as long as the stove was on I felt...right.
Today, we're not going to focus so much on boiling water for pasta, but making soup. The kind of soup your grandma used to make, from scratch, that takes half a day, and most importantly, warms your kitchen to the core.
This past weekend I helped cook a pot luck dinner (one of many) for the Brooklyn Kindergarten Society Gala. Until 24 hours before we ate, I still had no idea about what we were going to eat...but I KNEW it had to involve butternut squash soup. So, without further verbiage, here's an awesome recipe for soup.

Butternut Squash Soup, with Cinnamon Toasts, Fried Sage & Chili Oil

Soup
2 large butternut squash, peeled and cut into chunks
1 large Spanish onion, small diced
1 carrot, small diced
2 stalks of celery, diced
2 cloves of garlic, minced
2 TBSP ground Cinnamon
Salt & Pepper, to taste
3 TBSP Olive Oil
½ Cup, White Wine
4 Cups of water

Cinnamon Toast
1 Cup of Brioche bread, cut into 1-inch-by-1-inch cubes
4 TBSP Butter
1 Sprig of Thyme, picked
3 TBSP Cinnamon
1 TBSP Sugar

Fried Sage
12 Sage leaves
¼ Cup Canola Oil
Salt, to taste

Serves 6, with enough soup for leftovers

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F, sprinkle the squash with 1 tablespoon of olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper, to taste.
Roast until soft, but not until the squash takes on too much colour (approximately 45 minutes).
While the squash is roasting, add the remaining oil to a large pot and begin to sweat the carrots, over medium heat. When the carrots begin to soften, add the celery and then the onion and season with salt and pepper, to taste. Raise heat to high and deglaze with white wine, and reduce to a sec.
Add the roasted squash, remaining cinnamon, and cover with water. Bring the whole pot to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer. Simmer until the squash is soft, and the water has reduced by 1 quart.
Working in batches, puree the soup until smooth in a blender or food processor. (NOTE: The soup will be hot, so make sure to be careful and if necessary cover the top of the blender with a kitchen towel to avoid burns).
When fully pureed, return to pot and check seasoning and consistency; adding more water or reducing further depending on how thick or thin you like your soup.

To make the Cinnamon Toast, melt the butter in a large sauté pan, over medium heat, until it begins to brown. Working quickly, add the bread and picked thyme to the pan, tossing frequently to evenly coat the bread with the brown butter and thyme.
When browned, remove from heat and toss with the cinnamon and sugar, until well coated. Then transfer to a sheet lined with paper towels and dry.

To fry the sage, simply heat the oil in a pan until approximately 325 degrees. Add the sage to the oil and fry until crispy (approximately 5-to-7 seconds per side). Then remove to a sheet lined with paper towels and sprinkle lightly with salt.

As far as the chili oil goes, you can buy a bottle from an Asian market somewhere; or you can infuse your own at home. I like to infuse my own, but that takes time; and you probably want soup.

To serve, ladle 12 ounces of soup into a large bowl and garnish with a small mound of toasts in the center of the soup. Then place two sage leaves on top of toasts and lightly drizzle with chili oil.

* The last two times I've made this soup, I've been doing other stuff has haven't taken a picture, so instead you get a funny picture from dinner service a few months back...

I Hate the Food Network

By the way, this post is a lot longer than most of my normal one's, so you might want to settle in with a Biali and a cup of Joe while you read...

In case you couldn't figure out from the title what this piece is about, I hate the Food Network! I hate the network like I hate self-obsessed, overly opinionated vegans who spend every waking moment they’re not eating quinoa and white bean salads and drinking wheatgrass, telling me what's wrong with my eating habits! It should be noted that I re-wrote the first three paragraphs coming home a little buzzed on the train.
I've realized; after many conversations with friends, who both work in the restaurant industry and don’t; that my hatred of the Food Network doesn't stem from a place of jealousy...it stems from a point of fundamental confusion and anger with what they see fit to put in front of their cameras.
Let's start with Sandra Lee; a woman who Anthony Bourdain has devoted pages upon pages worth of ink to. So without belaboring this too much, let’s just talk about my anger that the Food Network would have the audacity to call this hack a “chef,” even though I doubt she's ever even seen the inside of a culinary school; much less knows how to break down a fucking chicken! This lithe, blonde, smiling succubus poses in front of the cameras, as she supposedly “teaches” mid-American housewives how to cook. And what is she "teaching" them? Not how to make cassoulet or pan-roast Brussels sprouts or make a butternut squash bisque; but how to open a can of Brand X sauce, add a tin of Brand Y diced meat and pour the whole unholy amalgam over limp pasta, top it with some yellow cheese and toss the whole monstrosity in the oven. Oh, and lest I forget: how to mix the dusty bottles of booze, laying dormant in a housewife's cupboard into something she can drunken herself with to the point that dinner with her family is palatable. And yeah, I might be speaking in absolutes, here, but I don't think I'm that far off base.



Basically, I don't understand what purpose her show serves. If her aim is to give people a quick alternative to a "home-cooked" meal, then there are plenty of things she could cook that don't have their genesis in a can, package, or spice mix. And if her aim is to cook primarily what's available to a mid-American housewife; then for the love god, use a fucking potato, or fresh corn or any of the myriad bounty that our heartland currently produces. Look, I get it. It's easier to open a can of tuna & mix it with a box of Ronzoni than it is to actually cook something from scratch. And I know that not everyone in America, certainly far more than those that have access to Sandra's little Half Hour of Hell, can afford to go to the green market or plant a garden or be choosy when they’re in the soup isle at the Price Chopper. But that doesn't mean they should be forced to cut corners and eat crap. I guess I should keep my fingers crossed now, that Sandra doesn’t have her Governor-Elect boyfriend send a death squad to my front door…



The next, and quite possibly biggest, offenders on my list; are a pair of southern assholes that manage to offend me on many levels. Patrick and Gina Neely, the co-hosts of their own show; Down Home with the Neely's, or as I call it, “The Step-n-Fetchit Cookin' Hour,” is probably one of the most offensive things I've ever seen on television. These two assholes dance and sing and smile and sass their way through a half hour of TV, while they teach Americans how to make: fried chicken, biscuits & gravy, pork spare ribs, barbequed everything!, mud pie; and wash it all down with watermelon-flavoured sweet tea! They offend me because, as people of colour who cook for a national television audience, I believe they have a responsibility not to perpetuate the stereotype of what “America” thinks black southerners eat and cook at home. But who the hell am I to say what their responsibility is? I’m just an opinionated dude who doesn’t have a TV show. But you know what I also am? I’m a black guy who cooks for a living and when I watch those two it affects me like fingernails across a chalkboard. I just think that maybe perpetuating stereotypes isn’t the best use of their talents. If; and again I know I'm generalizing, but; if most Americans have never come face-to-face with a real live chef who is a person of colour, then why does the Food Network trot these two out, as if to say: "these are black chefs and this is what black people cook. Fatty food that's deep friend and dripping with sweet sauce." The Network has Aaron McCargo Jr., a well spoken guy from New Jersey who actually has good, healthy recipes; and to my knowledge has never danced in front of the Food Network cameras. But I suppose a fairly well-spoken black chef, who may not know how to dance is more threatening to the Network and their viewers.
Next, are the "Private Chefs of Beverly Hills." A group of clueless, wealthy shoemakers who go into even more clueless, even more wealthy idiots homes to make canapes. But apparently, it's funny because the Botoxed broad having the doggie party says she doesn't want her dog eating beef; or at the last minute, the marginally famous person they found decides they don't want anything fried at their parties. No recipes are given, technique is non-existent, and to hear these people talk about food is like listening to me talk about the Flat Tax...it might sound good on paper, but sooner or later you're going to realize I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. On a recent episode, I watched as this cute blonde chick dumped packaged ground chicken and canned pumpkin puree into a sauté pan together, then poked at it a few times with a spatula. We then saw her take the whole brownish culinary abortion and use it as a filling for something she called Chicken-Pumpkin Pot stickers...or something equally as offensive and stupid.



Then, there's the bleach-blonded, goateed tubby bastard Guy Fieri; who I'd just as soon push out a moving car on the 101, as I would have him attempt to teach me how to cook something. He drives around the country sampling road-side fare, withstanding the urge to call everyone he encounters, "brah" and can also be seen judging tailgating competitions, participated in by overweight, mustached Middle Americans.
Recently, I watched this jackass demonstrate sushi; but talk about how Americans "don't like sushi," so it apparently, it's up to him to "jazz it up." You know what I say? You don't like sushi? Don't order sushi! But don't wrap cheese steak filling or whatever, with raw carrots, in rice; call it the Spikey-Haired-Asshole Roll and call it a day. That's about as ridiculous as it is offensive.
What qualifies him to be an authority on sushi, or anything, for that matter? I mean, aside from looking completely ridiculous, I'm not sure he has any discernable talents. It seems the Food Network is telling me they'd rather trot out some bleach-blonded fat ass to teach me how to make sushi, than offering that job to Ming Tsai or David Chang (though I'm sure he'd loudly turn them down), or hell, a Jackie Chan impersonator. And why? Is it a visibility issue? Are Asian chefs not well known enough for the Network to think Americans would be comfortable with them? If that's the case, then the solution is obvious: pack the cast of their laughably rigged Next Food Network Star with a bunch of Asians and grease one through! Either that, or drive a truck load of money up to the guy from Lost's house.
Then there's Michael Symon's new show, "Food Feuds." A rip-off of Food Wars, which airs on the Travel Channel. And lest we forget, Scripps (papa bear of the Food Network) closed on a $1.1 Billion dollar deal for the Travel Channel earlier this year; so exactly what function does this show serve?
Don't get me wrong, I like and respect Michael Symon; and can even forgive his appearances on The Iron Chef, but it’s just him passing judgment on various foods. At least on Food Wars the host sets up a panel of three locals that participate in a blind taste test. This adds a fun element when the die-hard fan of say, Shake Shack picks the burger from Burger Joint (this has not, to my knowledge, actually happened). Instead, Michael thinks about it off-screen, and presents the winner with a giant, and quite ridiculous looking, trophy. I’m not saying this has actually happened, but what’s to stop the owner of Mom’s Happy Cupcakery from taking bald Mikey out back and helping him out with a little hand release to sway the competition in their favour?

Basically, what pisses me off about the Food Network is their seemingly constant view of the American public as generally retarded, completely gullible and in need of constantly being pandered too. And yet, obviously, I still watch the Network. I still know about their new shows, their talentless former skaters and homemakers they call “chefs,” and sheer nonsense that is on their channel at any given moment. I just wish the Food Network would have more respect for their viewers intelligence, because they honestly don’t seem to care…like not even a little bit.

Stuff for your Dressing

With the Thanksgiving holiday fast approaching, I thought it was appropriate to have a little discussion about stuffing...or as my late grandmother used to call it, "dressing."
The general consensus, at least among my northern friends, seems to be that the bread and nut a giblet mixture served with your bird; is called stuffing...regardless of whether it's getting stuffed inside the bird, or served alongside it.
From what I’ve been able to find, stuffing has its roots in the early 16th Century, when the term “stuffing” first appears in print. Prior to that, it seems that anything that got stuffed all up in them (former resting place of the) guts, was called “farce.” Sometime around the late 19th Century, the hoity toity set felt that “stuffing” was too; shall we say common; and “dressing” became de rigueur. Interestingly enough, I’ve always associated “stuffing” with a north of the Mason-Dixon culinary term, and “dressing” with being its southern equivalent. Whatever the case may be, and whatever your personal preference for calling the bread and nut and sausage and if you’re weird fruit, amalgam is; I think we can all agree that stuffing is pretty awesome.

My personal stuffing recipe, one that I also think is pretty awesome, has changed over the years; but it has its genesis in a recipe I got from the New York Times about eight or nine years ago. That recipe, itself, seems to be on the older side, and has what I would call, southern leanings; what with its call for pecans (not walnuts), cornbread (not white bread) and hot sausage (not giblets; although the sausage thing may be more “Italian” than actually southern, but it seems like up north, we ain’t too fond of meat in our stuffing). Those ingredients are mixed with eggs, chicken stock and a healthy dose of herbs, to create a stuffing; that while not your mama’s Stove Top, it will have everyone at the dinner table happily and silently munching away. I also learned, through trial and error and my family's penchant for over-indulgence, to make a lot; stuffing a little bit of my dressing in the bird, but reserving the rest to be baked outside towards the end of the cooking process. Not to mention, my stuffing’s got booze in it; and who doesn’t like a little booze during the holidays?

Elliott Cooks Stuffing
- 1 large Yellow Onion, small diced
- 2 Carrots, small diced
- 2 stalks Celery, small diced
- 2-to-3 cloves Garlic, minced
- 1 ½ lbs Hot or Sweet Italian Saugage, casings removed & crumbled
- 1 lb pecans, shelled & halved or lightly crushed
- 6 Cups, Cornbread*
- 1/8 cup Thyme, picked
- 1/3 cup Sage, minced
- 1/4 cup Rosemary, minced
- 2 Eggs, beaten
- Chicken stock, as needed
- 1/4 cup Butter, unsalted
- 1/4 cup, Bourbon or Rye Whiskey

In a large cast iron skillet or saute pan, sweat the carrots in butter until soft, then add the onions and celery until the onions are translucent.
Add the garlic and continue to sweat, being careful not to brown or burn it.
When all vegetables have been sweated, add the sausage and saute until just cooked.
Deglaze with the bourbon, and reduce until sec (until most of the liquid has reduced).
Add the cornbread, pecans and herbs and stir to fully incorporate.
Transfer to a large bowl and allow to cool slightly.
Add the beaten eggs and mix thoroughly.
Add chicken stock, if necessary.
Stuff a small amount of dressing in the cavity of the bird and place the rest in a buttered casserole dish and cover with foil. Bake along with the bird for approximately 30 minutes, then remove the foil and continue to bake until browned on top (It should stand to reason that the stuffing can be made ahead of time, but unless you want it to sit in the oven, or your kitchen counter, for like four hours; you'll put it in the oven when the bird's almost done).


* Cornbread Recipe
(I don't know about you, but I like having extra cornbread. Cornbread is awesome. So I'm giving you a recipe that will more than fill a 9 by 9 by 2 inch baking dish)

2 cup yellow cornmeal
1 cup all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup milk
1/4 cup melted butter, plus grease for pan

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
Sift, or whisk, together cornmeal, flour, baking powder, salt, pepper, and sugar. Then add beaten egg, milk and butter.
Grease a shallow (9 by 9 by 2 inch) baking dish with butter, then pour in batter. Bake for 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted inside comes out clean.
Cornbread should be made a day early so it has a chance to dry out slightly.

Hide yo’ kids, Hide yo’ wife, Hide yo’ Knives!

Yeah, I’m back, bitches! Somewhere between the return of the Lorax and the return of Kenny Powers; there’s me. The return of the guy who writes about food, complains about shit and gives you recipes; when he feels like it.
I was going to signal my triumphant return with a long-winded, angry, shot across the bow entitled: “I Hate the Food Network.” I had been working on it for the past month, slowly updating it on my Blackberry, on my rides to and from work, waiting until it was just right and I could unleash it upon the world. But then I got drunk one night earlier this week and decided to delete all of my old e-mails…like an asshole. I mean, either that’s what happened, or a big yellow van with cupcakes and Dandelions painted on the side and driven by Paula Deen came up beside me as I was walking home and Sandra Lee, Bobby Flay and that no-talent hack from Upstate jumped out, drugged and kidnapped me, wiped my phone and my memory and then left me face down in a puddle of cloudy bourbon at Charlie Sheen’s apartment. But rest assured, it won't be too long before you get to read my hate-filled little rant.
And yeah, I know I’m kind of an asshole because I haven’t posted anything in a while. But I’ve also been ridiculously busy. When you wake up at ten and are in the shower before noon and don’t leave work until one in the morning…before you probably have a couple glasses of Makers Mark and then crawl into your warm bed at four; writing isn’t especially high on your list of priorities; like say: wiping the crust out of your eyes; finding out why your mouth tastes a certain way; or trying to determine; “if I have So-and-So’s phone, I really hope they’ve got mine!” might be.
But being busy also breeds lots of interesting things going on and happening to me and happening to people I know. Which in turn leads to funny stories I get to tell you; as well as a couple recipes tossed in, for good measure. So get ready for it. I’m back and I’ve got a lot to say.

Now This, I Like

I wake up, almost every morning that I have to get to work, exhausted. It's like a half a Bell Curve, that grows exponentially throughout the week. Meaning, my first day back in the kitchen, I wake up feeling pretty refreshed, especially if I haven't spent the previous night participating in my own personal Alcoholympics, whilst talking shit with Sicilian J, and playing Americas favourite game, "I can drink more bourbon than you can (let me be the first to tell you, there are no winners)." But with each passing day, I wake up a little more tired than I was the day before.
I swing my legs onto the floor and tap my feet on the ground, letting the tingling sensation in my toes subside; then it's downstairs to the living room where I watch SportsCenter while checking my email and surf Yelp to see that the mindless, idiot "foodies" are (incorrectly) saying about food and restaurants. After about an hour, it's into the shower and my day really begins.
On my walk from the subway, I usually smoke a cigarette and go through a list of what I need to have prepared for my mise that day; bumping up big projects like cleaning trout and then wrapping it in caul fat or making a dozen potatoes worth of Lemon-Parmesan Gnocchi, to the top of my list.
If my work week has started on a Wednesday, which it usually does, by Saturday or Sunday afternoon I'm actively thinking about how tired I am, and how I'd like to curl up in a ball on my couch with a quart container full of water, the remote in my hand and a couple delivery menus scattered across the coffee table.
But a funny thing happens shortly after I get to work. It's not quite an instantaneous Superman-into-the-phone booth, kind of thing; but I start to feel better, and I forget how tired I might be. I walk in the door, I say hi to our GM, our waitresses and the lunch cook; I toss my Dunhills and my Blackberry in the cubbyhole on my station and I head downstairs.
Right around the time I've changed out of my civvies and into my whites; that's when the “oh, poor me” feelings start to melt away; and by the time I'm standing in front of a cutting board, my knife laying across it at 45 degrees, and my long black waiters apron is tied around my waist, I'm ready for battle. Fuck, I'd probably take you up on your offer to run a 10K...and do the whole damn thing in my clogs!
This feeling, or rather this change in feeling; is something I never really gave much thought to before. It just happens, and I accept it. But psychoanalyzing myself it seems pretty clear that I feel the way I do when I'm at work, because I actually want to be there. The memories of working on Wall Street are still entirely too clear for me and I'll be damned if I ever feel like that again. The kind of feeling only a privileged asshole, with a good-paying job can feel: “I'm tired, I sit behind a desk all day and get paid to tap a keyboard, I have a paid lunch break which I can fuck off for an hour and a half if I want too, and I don’t want to be here!”
Those days are gone, and they’ve been replaced by strange calmness and a nervous excitement. Calmness because I know that if I do my job, everything will work out alright; and excitement because every day brings something new; a new way making gnocchi, a more efficient way to make Taramasalata, or a new “perfect” way of soft-boiling an egg. Whatever the case may be, I’m happy and at the end of the day that’s all that matters.

What’s On My Mind This Week?:

The weather’s gotten cooler this week, which is awesome, because it means Cassoulet weather is right around the corner.

To Grill is to Live

It's Summertime in New York City; it's hot, it's muggy, you can cut the air with a dull butter knife! But Summertime also provides those of us lucky enough with an opportunity to do so, to stand in front of a flaming grill, while grasping a pair of tongs. I personally like to nervously snap my tongs, while the flames lap at my fingertips and the charcoal stings my eyes...
This summer, I haven't managed to grill as much as I would've liked too. Mainly because, I'm off on Mondays and Tuesdays and the majority of my friends are busy doing little things like working then. But I have been able to sneak in a couple hours in front the grill, so far...
I made pulled pork for the Fourth of July, and I grilled up some of my special blend hamburgers for my step-brothers arrival from Las Vegas. If you know me, you know I'm fanatical about my burgers, to the point that I called my friend's brother on the Fourth a couple years ago and told him to tell my friend to go fuck himself, because he suggested I stop at the grocery store and “just buy beef from them”...you know, completely rational behavior. I don't cook them beyond medium-rare, I don't use pre-packaged grocery store meat and I don't skimp or skim.
Instead, I go to my butcher, or Wegman's (if I'm in Jersey to see my mom) and have them grind me a mix of two thirds beef brisket and one third sirloin which becomes my burger.
I personally use salt, black pepper, a little onion powder, and that’s pretty much it. Also, I’m not telling you how to season your burgers, I’m just saying you should get yourself some high quality ingredients, rather than beef that has the potential to make you sick.
Go to your butcher, have him grind together two pounds of brisket and one pound of sirloin; take that shit home and season your meat, but remember this is definitely one of those: “let-is-more” kinda times. Make your burger patties (the whole pressing your thumb into the center of one side of the patty to prevent it from “baseballing” on you, only happens to me when I use crappy grocery store meat. So don’t use crappy grocery store meat and you should be okay). Since I usually get three pounds of meat I end up making nine, 1/3rd pound burgers; although I think the last time around, I made half-pound burgers and then a couple smaller ones for my mom. Brush your grill and burgers with oil (maybe not the same brush, huh?), and season your burgers with salt and pepper. Because every grill is different, I can’t say for certain that your burgers will come out medium-rare if you cook them about 6 minutes per side; but that’s a pretty good baseline.
While your burgers are grilling, enlist a friend to thinly slice some tomatoes and onions and tear some Boston lettuce and arrange them on a plate. If cheese on your burger is your thing, then put it on your burger about 2 minutes after its been flipped. The temptation to put the cheese on the burger until its almost cooked, tends to lead to either overcooked burgers or under-melted cheese, and neither of those things are good for anybody. Then take your burgers off the grill and dig in. Savor the taste of actual beef that came from no more than 2 different cows, instead of a couple hundred. Sit contented, as you chew, knowing you’ll only go to your grocery store to buy cereal or Gushers.

What’s On My Mind This Week?:

Well, for starters, The Ice Cream Festival at the New Amsterdam Market, Sunday, August 22. Might not be a bad way to start the day before I have to head to work.
Also, watched a few minutes of that new, god-awful Gordon Ramsay show I will not mention; and while I understand “everybody’s got their price” I am seriously disappointed to see he, Graham Elliot Bowles and Joe Bastianich lower themselves to this sad, sad level.

Daikon...

One of my earliest food related memories, that didn't involve my mother's kitchen, was going to the Union Square Greenmarket for the first time. I was, maybe, 8 years old and here I was at my mother’s hip wandering around amongst farmers, and bakers and cheesemongers with no idea what the hell was going on. She took me to several stalls, but the one that sticks out in my memory was the guy who sold Daikon Radish.
He had long, straggly hair, and even longer fingernails; and what he didn't make up for in long hair and long fingernails, he more than made up for with long, brown rabbit teeth. His skin was the complexion of a discarded, greasy, white paper bag from a pizzeria; and had the same crinkly appearance. And his eyes, his eyes had a wild intensity about them that scared the ever-living hell out of me. One look at him, and I knew I wanted no part of being anywhere near his stand...my mother, had other ideas.
She dragged me over to his small table and picked up a gnarled off-white horn.
"Is this a type of carrot?" she asked.
"Oh no. This," he said, stroking one of them with his long thin fingers, "this is a Daikon..."
It was the way he said it too. The foreboding mysteriousness with which he said it, and the way he drew out the "i" and the last syllable; so that each had the same emphasis: "dye-khaan."
I'm sure he went on to explain to her that it was a type of radish and that it was used primarily in Asian cookery, but after he said, "dye-khaan" I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

What’s On My Mind This Week?:
My step-brother is in town and he’s a fan of the burger. What red-blooded American man who’s lived in the Southwest for any period of time isn’t a fan of the burger? So I will be grilling my brisket-blend burgers, with pictures and recipes to follow.

Photo: Feasting on Pixels

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

It should come as no secret to you, that I have a visceral dislike of brunch...I hate brunch the way Lady Gaga hates pants! It very clearly stems from having to work so many Saturday and Sunday mornings. When most of you were ensconced in your comfy beds, I was dragging my ass out of bed at 6, a.m.; in many cases a few hours after I'd gotten in it; to head to the restaurant and start cooking: eggs; French Toast; hash browns; sides of bacon; pancakes and a plethora of other breakfast items I have grown to loathe. It has actually ruined me from even normal interaction at brunch with my friends. Although, in truth, I never understood what drove...what drives...people out of their beds hours after they've drunken themselves, for food they could normally make at home.
But since this is now, the third installment of the above-titled piece you might already know all that. So here goes with a couple other stories…
Back when I was still working with (and talking too*) My Boy Dopp, one of our waitresses...you could say she was a bit of a donkey; okay, she was a donkey...came into the kitchen during an especially busy brunch service to ask if our hamburgers were made with horse meat. The confusion, it seems, arose equally; around our menu description, an overzealous diner and her own stupidity. Our menu stated that the Brunch Burger was served, “au cheval,” which literally translated, means “of the horse.” However, what no one but; it would seem; me was in a position to explain; "au cheval" is also an idiomatic French expression meaning, riding on top...because our Brunch Burger was served with a fried egg on top of it.
So in she traipsed, cocking her head to the side like the RCA dog, and asked, “do our hamburgers have horse meat in them...?” Mind you, at this time Dopp & I are reaching into 600 degree salamanders and 400 degree ovens, while we try to cook for, your hungover, your drunk, your brunching masses yearning to eat food.
I was so shocked that I froze, with a cast iron skillet in my hand, and asked her, “I'm sorry, what the fuck did you just say?” She repeated her question, and while every fiber of my being was saying, “are you fucking serious? You've worked here for how many months and you want to know if there's fucking horse meat in the burgers?”
Instead, I painstakingly explained to her what "au cheval" meant and that she should tell her donkey table that no restaurant in New York City serves people horse meat. She did, and the chick who asked ordered the English Breakfast instead…because, ya'know, they're so similar.
I’ve got a couple more stories to throw your way, but lucky for me I don’t work brunch that much anymore these days, so I’m not gonna blow my wad just yet. Looks like, you’re gonna get a part four coming your way at some point.


* Story for another day, I promise.

What’s On My Mind This Week?:

Aside from the fact that it’s been a friggin’ dog’s age since my last post?
Interesting article in the Times this week has me thinking about Prosciutto Straws again…

Did He Just Say That?

When I worked, for a short time, in the kitchen of a Michelin Starred Chef; not that many things happened that gave me a reason to laugh, let alone smile.
Actually, before we get into that, let's actually start by talking about the word, "worked;" and saying it's a bit of hyperbole, seeing as I didn't see a single red cent, in wages, from the time I was there, for over a year!
Anywho...The man was, for all intents and purposes, a tyrant. He was seldom in a good mood, his "innocent" kitchen teasing had an element of nastiness to it, and he exuded a Nicoise-air of holier than though douchiness at all times. On a regular basis, he would alternate between threatening to remove the cost of say a burned tray of crostini from my paycheck (which was fucking moot!) and making me clock out, then continue working...the most egregious instance, for nearly three hours.
I worked the entremetier station; which is to say I cooked the sides that went along with most of the main courses, as well as picking up hot apps. It did a pretty good job, especially when you consider I was still pretty green.
So, one night, the Manager came into the kitchen to tell our chef that Frank Bruni was in the dining room with four other people. He responded by essentially kicking everyone off the line so that he could cook all the dishes himself. Because, ya’know, that was the kind of trust he had in his staff…
Did I mention that it was my trail night and I was there to simply get a read on the kitchen...? Because it was. Oh, and did I also mention that the chef in question spoke with a, "very teek (bordering on comical) French ag-scent"? Because, he did.
So there I was, on my trail, watching this chef pick up all five dishes by himself; jumping between the pasta station, the grill and the range. It was a kind of poetry in motion...like, slam poetry, but poetry nonetheless.
Then, the wheels came off. Shortly around the time he was realizing he'd bitten off more than he could chew, one of the donkey servers came in and began to pepper him with questions. She was asking about substituting ingredients for a couple dishes, because she had a table apparently allergic to pine nuts, gluten, pollen, air-breathing, and quite possibly, common sense.
He was largely ignoring her, except to occasionally say "no" or “dat will make de deesh taste terr-i-bal!” As he began to plate, and finally asked for help, she returned with more questions; his back was to the kitchen door, a sauté pan in his hand and without turning around he said, “Excuse me, but can you please GET ZEE FUCK OUT OF MY KITCH-EN!” There was a moment of stunned silence before she slinked away, and then he went back to plating.
Looking back on it, I can laugh about it because it was equally ridiculous behavior; she shouldn’t have come into the kitchen peppering the chef with questions and he probably could’ve found a better way to ask her to come back and pester him when he wasn’t plating dinner for, probably, the most powerful food critic in the country.
In short, I thought it was shocking; but looking back on it, kinda funny.

What’s On My Mind This Week?

I used to grab a bite to eat at this Mexican place on 14th Street that’s owned by Chinese people. My buddy, JD calls them “China-Mex,” and I’ve been thinking of actual China-Mex food. I mean, who says I can’t stuff a burrito full of Beef & Broccoli or eat a Shrimp Lo Mein taco, if I want one…?

It’s Spelled S-T-E-E-Z-E, Part II

Hey guys, same steeze as before...more kitchen "vehnack," I.e. terminology for you to wrap your heads around...

On-Back: On-Back is usually the second course part of a ticket. Some people say different things, but when I call tickets, I prefer to say, "on-back." For example, "Order-Fire: Two Special App; One Caesar Salad; One Cheese Plate and One Chilled Soup, no Crispy Shallots. On-Back: Two Roast Chicken, One Fish; One Pork; Two Side Rice; One Side Bean and One Side Potato." This is also an example of a non-donkey ticket, because it isn't order-fire, there aren't any weird substitutions and no one at the table has taken it upon themselves to do something strange (read, donkey), like order a Cheese Plate with the Mains or a Side of Potatoes with their starters.

Fire: Fire is the call given when it comes time to start preparing the second courses on a specific ticket. Usually, a waitress will come to the pass and say, "Fire mains on 12, please," although in larger restaurants waitresses will usually input the fire request into the computer and a ticket will come out of the machine.
This isn't always hard-and-fast; however, as sometimes the chef or Expediter will take it upon themselves to fire a ticket. This is usually done if a fair amount of time has gone by and the server has not fired a ticket. It also happens if there are a lot of tickets hanging and none of them are fired. This preemptive firing of a table can ensure servers don't fire tickets piecemeal; i.e. Firing one table in their section and then another a minute later and then another two minutes later.

Fire the Board: There are times when you may have a lot, or just a few, tickets hanging and either the servers fire all of those tickets or again, the chef or Expediter decides to fire those tickets. Calling out to the kitchen that, "the board is fired!" or to, "fire the board," alerts all kitchen personnel that it's time to get live, because all the dormant tickets hanging, now have dishes that need to prepared and sent out. Depending on how many tickets are fired and how many tickets come out of the machine during this time; this time period can also be known as, "a crush."

Dig Out: When you Dig Out, it means that you've had a whole bunch of tickets fired within a short amount of time and you're trying your best to come up on (i.e. compose, plate & send out) all the dishes in a short amount of time. For example, I had to Dig Out on Wednesday night, when I was fired on: 2 Special Desserts; 2 Apple Pies; 1 Mousse; 2 Spinach Salads; 3 Kale Salads; 1 Head Cheese; 1 Side Potato; 1 Special Soup; 1 Special Salad and 1 Market Salad...plus worrying about garnishing and sending out every main course that came past me. Suffice it to say, it's a whole fuckin' lot and even the best of us get behind. And when we get behind, we have to dig out. Long-story-short, you're digging yourself out of the hole you're in.

Hard: If something is working Hard or coming Hard, it means that particular thing is close to being plated. Either, it's a salad about to come out of the bowl, or a chicken about to come out of the hot oven. This call is usually given on a big table as a way to let your line-mates know what's going on, or that they may need to hurry up.

Come On: I will often ask, or be told, “I'm coming on table X.” This means that, that particular table will be coming out soon and I need to have the dishes I'm responsible for, on that ticket, ready to go. Incidentally, this can make for many jokes, as cooks are want to do; such as asking, “Are you coming on those balls for 12?”
“Yeah, coming hard!”
“Oh man, you're fucking gross!”

True Story: A True Story is an answer in the affirmative, so if my chef asks me, “are you done with the blank sauce for the fish, so we can run it?” or, “we’re Eighty-Sixed on the Special, right?” I can answer in the affirmative, by saying, "that's a true story."
Incidentally, this also works for everyday interactions with people; as I have often times found myself answering a question, such as: "you're not really an asshole, you just hold others to the same high standard you hold yourself, right?" The answer to that question...? That's a true story.

What's on My Mind This Week?

Thinking about my end-of-the-night-sandwiches, and how I can explain to you guys what happens when we've got leftovers and my mind runs amok.
Also, a bit curious about the new "restaurant/club" that's opening up in the old Nell's spot (Plumm, for you youngsters), because I kinda feel like restaurants and clubs go together about as well as a bag full of cats!

Well, That’s a First…

One of my favourite movies, well a movie I really enjoy; is “The ‘Burbs” with Tom Hanks as a suburban cul-de-sac dweller and Carrie Fisher as his frazzled wife. Ray and his two friends Rumsfield and Art get it in their heads that Ray’s new neighbors have killed the previous occupants of their house and possibly the old man down the street…who’s dog has a penchant for pooping on Rumsfield’s lawn. Art even goes so far as to say, “Ray, do you want them to take your family, kidnap them, tear their livers out and make some kind of satanic pate?!?!?”
One scene that always gets me…every time, I wait for it comes towards the middle. Hanks' character, Ray, has just seen one of his suspicious neighbors drive his car down to the sidewalk from the garage, heft a large bag into the trash can and then violently pummel it with a hoe. Ray; equally unaffected and nonplussed; responds by saying, “I've never seen that before. I've never seen anybody drive their garbage down to the street and then bang the hell out of it with a stick. I’ve, I've never seen that.”
Well, the other night I had one of those moments. I was having dinner with my mom and her husband for Mother's Day; yeah, that's right, I'm a good son.
Everything was pretty much your standard fare, although our "bottled" water arrived at our table in opened, in one of those long-necked, Grolsh-style bottles that could've easily have been filled from the tap; and after our waiter brought the bottle of Haut Medoc I’d selected for me to inspect, he disappeared, only to return again with the open bottle. Why he couldn't open it table-side, I have no idea. I'm not accusing them of any funny business (like decanting my nice bottle of wine and replacing it with some donkey bottle of Trader Joe’s Finest), but I did find it a bit odd.
After dinner though, was the real kicker. My mom decided to take her Soft Shell Crab dish home and her husband took the rest of his Bolognese. Several minutes went by and their leftovers did not make a return appearance at the table. As I was getting ready to flag down our scared, college-aged, waiter; he returned and placed two coat check tokens on the table.
“You can use these to collect your food when you leave. Thanks again for dining with us,” he said.
I was slightly confused for a moment. You mean, we turn in these coat check tickets and then we get our food...? Yeah, I've, I've never seen that before. I've never seen a restaurant give me a coat check ticket so I can pick up my leftovers, instead of just bringing them to the table, I’ve never seen that before.

What’s On My Mind This Week:

Cooking dinner for some friends this week, we haven’t seen each other in a while and I’m planning to blow the doors off. This is what I’m thinking of so far: Chilled Pea & Mint Soup; Baby Octopus with Chorizo, Chicories & White Beans; an as yet to be determined Third Course; and a Mixed Berry Trifle with Lemon Verbena Sweet Cream.

It’s Spelled S-T-E-E-Z-E, Part I

As promised, I'm getting at you with a whole host of kitchen terminology and shorthand that will hopefully let you better understand me when I fire off my run-on sentenced, gerund-heavy rants.
I'm going to do my best, and because there are a great many things going on in my head at any given time I’m sure I’m forgetting some; which is why this post is merely part one…

Steeze: Your steeze can be anything. I think, originally derived from "steeze en place," it was like a cooks mise en place; the necessary food, equipment and set-up that was essential to making it through service as easily as possible. But again, your steeze can apply to anything: your state of mind, your flow, the place you're hanging out at, or the drink in your hand. “You're fucking up my steeze right now!” “We should leave, this steeze is seriously dead.” “This steeze is almost done, I gotta get live on another one.”

Get Live: To get live is to start a project, however; big or small. I have been known to get live on “some Mussel Death,” get live on a beer or get live on writing my prep list.

Prep List: Before you leave the restaurant for the night, and before you've had too many shift drinks to care, you write your prep list. Basically, it helps the morning/prep guy know what he needs to do when he gets to work, so he doesn’t have to spend his first 10 or 15 minutes rooting around your low-boy and the walk-in, trying to figure out what needs to be prepared for the day. Because, let’s face it, that would be a dick move. Sometimes, it’s a judgment call. Sometimes I’ll leave and say to myself, on a Wednesday night, “well, we’ve still got three quarts of Wild Rice left, that’ll probably get us through to Friday,” but more often than not, it’ll go on my prep list because I’d rather be safe than sorry. And no one wants to be making something during service because they didn’t plan ahead.

Dupes / Tickets: Back in the day, before the advent of machines, waitresses had pads they would take down orders on. These pads had a secondary, and sometimes tertiary, layer; so the waitress could keep one copy and the other (the “dupe”) could be passed to the kitchen. The tickets are usually broken up course, and are read off by someone in the kitchen; usually the Head Chef or Expediter. Courses help the kitchen break things up and ease the flow, but sometimes servers and diners work in concert and send Order-Fire tickets.

Order-Fire: Order-Fire tickets are the bane of some cooks, and I know some cooks who prefer to make dishes immediately and get them out. Basically, when a ticket comes out there is usually a first course and a second course. Sometimes, however; everything comes out together and this can be a problem when you’ve already got several tickets hanging and a party of five sits down and orders eight or nine dishes…that’s the kind of thing that can fuck up your steeze.

The Pass: The pass is where plates of food from the kitchen are brought, or in some cases literally passed, before they are wiped clean of fingerprint marks or stray dribbles of sauce and the finishing touches: a sprinkling of chives, a drizzle of lemon oil, some Micro Bulls Blood, a tiny mound of croutons, what-have-you, are added before the plates are given to servers or food-runners and end up in front of customers. As some have said, it is the last line of defense; a final checkpoint to make sure the food coming out is servable.

Donkey: A donkey is essentially a stupid person, or someone that engages in stupid or lazy behavior; although, a smart person can be called a donkey if their actions are those of a donkey. But donkey can also refer to: a ticket, a table or even a dish of food. For example, a ticket can be donkey if the items ordered have seemingly no rhyme or reason to how they were ordered; i.e. “Order-Fire: Caesar Salad, Mixed Nuts, Broccoli Soup, Roast Chicken & Side Wild Rice; On-Back: Ham Sandwich, Roast Chicken, Caesar Salad, Broccoli Soup & Fish Special.” This ticket is donkey because at first glance, it would appear that four people have sat down for a meal and one of those people has ordered a Roast Chicken (usually a main course) as an appetizer, and quite possibly has also decided to order the Caesar Salad as their main course.” Plainly speaking, it means stupid. Just last night (read 2:30 this morning), after I’d gotten home from work, and was sitting on the couch eating a sandwich and drinking a glass of wine while I watched the remake of “The Last House on the Left.” At some point, I said to myself, “okay, I’m done with this donkey movie,” turned off the TV and got in bed.


What’s On My Mind This Week?
I’ve started reading Stacy Perman’s book on In-N-Out Burger, which is really stupid of me; because I’m 2700 miles away from deliciousness!

Famous Last Words

So I made a lair out of myself when I told you guys I was going to be more proactive about posting and keeping you appraised as to "what the fuck is goin's on?" So what the fuck is goin's on? I've started working the pass in addition to working my station; something I do four nights a week. In essence, my chef has taken it upon himself to cook one dish; one special; a night, and can no longer stand at the pass to finish or wipe down plates. Our other line cook is busy digging themselves out of the order-fire hell our servers have put them in, so that leaves me.
This means that when I used to just make dishes (at our ridiculously busy restaurant) and give them to our chef to finish; I now makes dishes (at our ridiculously busy restaurant), then bring them to the pass, then wipe them down and finish them, then call for hands so the servers can take them to the proper tables. Oh, and I also busy myself with marking and keeping track of all of our tickets (first course fired, first course out, second course fired, &c.). In all honesty, it's really not that difficult: a ticket comes out of the machine, it gets passed to me, I read it off, mark it with the table number, utilize my wonderfully photographic memory to keep track of everything on the ticket and then put it in its proper place on the board.
(I realize, by the way, that most of what I'm talking about: marking tickets, the pass, fired tickets, the whole steez, probably doesn’t make a lot of sense; and that's why I'm going to explain it all in a "Kitchen Venack" post soon.)
So as I said, it doesn't seem like much, but when the restaurant is slammed and there are ten tickets hanging, with either first or second courses being prepared and I'm making some of those first or second courses; it gets a little tough to take the extra few seconds to wipe down or finish a plate or wait for a server to come collect the plates and tell them where to go, or fire the main courses on a certain table...hell, for that matter, to remember how long ago the first courses went out and either fire the second courses myself or seek out the server to see if those second courses can be fired.
I'm not complaining, or trying to make it seem like I'm a big deal because I'm handling the responsibility that I am; I'm just saying that's why you haven't heard from me. But I'm hoping that in the future, you'll be hearing a lot more out of me; hell, I still haven't told you about my crazy sandwiches or my sick, twisted love affair with Durian.

What's on My Mind This Week?:
I'm still pissed about the teammates thing on the first episode of Season 2 of Top Chef Masters. In my humble opinion, Jimmy Bradley and Govind Armstrong would have fared much better separately than they did together. That, and obviously Sam Sifton is still doling stars out like a subway preacher giving unwanted advice. Oh, and I think I'd like to make Steak & Kidney Pie...even though no one I know would ever entertain eating it.

Really, Guy? Really…?!?!?!?

I would say I'm fairly certain someone has written about this before; and I know for a fact this has been complained about more times than are worth counting...but it's on my mind and now you're gonna hear about it.

The crux of my argument goes like this: "Don't be an asshole!" Sometimes, you go out, you're with your buddies or your little girlfriends or whatever and you're hungry. Maybe you've been drinking, or maybe you want to lay a nice base down before you get drunk...so you decide to grab a bite to eat. So far, I'm right there with you. But you lose me when you walk in the door five or ten minutes before the place is supposed to close.

Look at it this way: the cooks at the restaurant you've walked into at 10:55 have been there; and on their feet; since, probably, 2:30...and they're gonna be on their feet long after you've left (more on that in a moment). The servers and busboys and food-runners have all probably been there since, let's say 4:30. They're tired...everyone's tired. The cooks want to break down their stations*; a job that takes about a half hour to an hour, depending on the kitchen. The front of house wants to wipe down tables, count money, close out the bank, and divy up tips. Oh yeah, the dishwashers aren't totally psyched to still be pulling full racks, loaded with plates out the power washer either. So when you walk into a restaurant, five minutes before they're supposed to close (the hours are posted right on the front door, guy) what you're really telling the staff is, “hey, fuck you guys!” And when the staff feels like you're walking into the restaurant with your middle finger held high, what kind of service do you think you're going to get...? I'll wait...
Yeah, not the best service in the world.

Now sure, if a restaurant closes at 11 on a Tuesday, you should be able to get food until eleven o'clock at night. But if you hung out outside a restaurant every night for a week, I can almost guarantee you could count the number of people who went in there after 10:45 on both hands. It's like walking into Macy's right before they close and asking to be fitted for a new suit. Why would you make the person who’s been working there all day, who’s looking forward to going through their “I do this, this and this and then I can go home” checklist, rush through their job. I guess I’m trying to have you look at this logically. You’d run into a Starbucks right before they closed for a coffee, because maybe you want to be wired until 3 in the morning; you’d walk into a McDonald’s right before they close because the “hamburgers” are already cooked and dehydrating peacefully under a heat lamp, so it takes about a minute to get your food; and you’d walk into a bar (provided you’d even be let in) right before they close for one more beer, but that’s up to the bartender and he or she is going to tell you to “drink up and get the fuck out.” You’d do this because you’d know it’s not going to take too long and it won’t put the people working in a bind; so what tells these asshole diners, “I’m going to walk into a restaurant two minutes before they close and request a dish that takes fifteen minutes to prepare”…?

One quick side note: people who work in the industry should know better. If you work in the service industry and you still take it upon yourself to walk into another restaurant right before they close…or after they’re supposed to be closed and expect to get food and expect to get good service; you’re an asshole! Let’s leave it at that.
So, what I'm trying to say, with my little rant here, is don't be an asshole. Don't be that guy, or that group of guys who walks into a restaurant right before they close and try to get food.


nb: Breaking down a station entails: putting everything you had in a metal 1/9th hotel pan in a plastic quart container before it goes in the fridge; wrapping all perishable goods in plastic wrap and storing them in the fridge or a cool, dry place; changing out any containers with melted ice in them that are currently housing fish or seafood; thoroughly cleaning your workstation (ovens, reach-ins, &c.) with hot water and sanitizing solution; assessing your mise en place and writing a prep list for the morning/prep cook.

What’s on My Mind This Week?:
Still curious about Sam Sifton’s awarding of Stars like Merit Badges, but actually somewhat curious as to where I can find Champale in New York City…yeah, that’s right, I want to try Champale.

Elliott Cooks Rears it’s Not-So-Ugly Head…Again

So I've been out of touch for a while, and the last image most of you have of me, is my whining like a little bitch about some assholes in Queens and a guy who proved himself to not be a friend of mine.
Well, all that is in the past. And you know what I said to an actual friend of mine when I met him for lunch the other day...? "Who the fuck wants to go to Long Island City, anyway?!?!"

So I’ve been working hard, in a kitchen I love with a crew I like and I’ve been spending my free time either asleep, cooking for friends or on a barstool.
A while back someone got on this site and sent me a message telling me to, basically, quit my bellyaching and get back to telling funny stories and doling out recipes and advice. So that’s what I’m doing. It also helps that I was able to convince myself not to go to my version of Cheers and slowly let the minutes slip into hours and the hours translate into being too lazy and too drunk to take the subway home when I decide to leave.

So what can you expect in the coming weeks, ya’know, besides my actually posting on here? Jalapeno & Bacon Chocolate Chip Cookies; grill recipes for Summer; awesome Spring produce coming to a market near you; my second Durian experience and taking the sandwich to new and ridiculous heights.

So I’m back. Hope you didn’t miss me too much. But here we go…Funny stories, recipes, complaints, rants, and a new segment titled: “What’s keeping me up this week.” In short, the whole nine yards, a bag of Funions and juice box!

What’s Keeping Me Up This Week?:
I can’t really talk a lot of shit, because I haven’t been to many of the restaurants he’s reviewed; but Sam Sifton seems to be handing out Stars like bars dole out those NYC Condoms…