Thursday, July 15, 2010

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

Friday, July 9, 2010

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…