tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73217203287714189862024-03-05T14:18:12.169-05:00Elliott CooksIn January, 2008 I realized I wasn't doing myself any favors sitting in an office while going to culinary school at night; so I left a well-paying job at a large Wall Street Bank to start working at a Midtown Manhattan restaurant. Four months later, I finished culinary school and haven't looked back. What follows is an ever-changing collection of my stories, mishaps, nightmares and triumphs of working as a cook, and trying to become a Chef in New York City.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-11081799612332468002011-02-02T22:41:00.002-05:002011-02-03T00:09:11.809-05:00The Worst Kind of A$$hole...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGVvb50xGc5qQFhmK9TcrDC1-2683UOH8OSD8O38DW6fogsWsFpIr_9AFBsxORd75vlp7lQZbf0ZcwqEJuuuRv7DQKC3OeNjDmINjdkdgPSBLJlVnOMcJkLvqmqtjaa2t_prBuHWjW6Ty7/s1600/Shitty+Ticket.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGVvb50xGc5qQFhmK9TcrDC1-2683UOH8OSD8O38DW6fogsWsFpIr_9AFBsxORd75vlp7lQZbf0ZcwqEJuuuRv7DQKC3OeNjDmINjdkdgPSBLJlVnOMcJkLvqmqtjaa2t_prBuHWjW6Ty7/s320/Shitty+Ticket.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569325433419740450" /></a><br />So, you know how, as a writer, you sometimes conceptualize an idea as being better or more interesting in your head, than it is on paper...?<br />(I mean, maybe you don't; after all, I'm the one with the blog that you're hopefully reading...) Well, that happened with what was to be my next post, "There Are No Darlings Here..." Suffice it to say, I went to my new favourite wine bar and as accosted by this agro, gay, server guy. It's not really important that he was gay or agro; the funny part was my buddy the bartender who informed him, "there are no darlings here," upon being called that.<br />So, anyway, this little rant comes to you courtesy of the Late-Night Menu at the restaurant I'm currently working at. I've never really seen the need for a late-night menu at most restaurants, because the man-hours usually outweigh the covers. But, whatever. You gotta do what you gotta do, right? <br />This past Friday, I ended up having to work the late-night shift. It's not important that I wasn't scheduled to work that night; or that a good buddy of mine who lives in Japan was going to be in town for the night and wanted to catch up...or the fact that I found out I was going to have to work the late-night about 10 minutes before I was about to pull up stakes; or the fact that after we got absolutely crushed for dinner service, we were dead from about 11:30, on; or that I was told by "Management," that if we remained dead, we would have last call for food at 1:15. What I feel is important: is the couple that walked in the door at 12:05, sat down, ordered a couple rounds of drinks and made every indication that they were there to drink, and not to eat. <br />The joke, it would seem, was on me. Because around 12:45, they began to look at the menu, which they followed up by closing the menu, and then followed up by asking the waitress if they could substitute certain things on the menu. Well, as my bartender buddy LPD said when I told him this story, "it's one o'clock in the fucking morning, just order something and be done with it!"<br />After they had perused the menu for the third time and still hadn't ordered anything, I asked our waitress, perhaps a little too loudly, "are these fucking people going to order some food, or what?!?!" Was there a better way of asking the question? Should I have been cognizant of the fact that if I could make out their hushed conversation, then odds were good they could hear my angry comment? Should I have been happy to have a job? Yes, on all accounts. But honestly, if you walk into a restaurant that you're lucky enough has a late night menu, then order some fucking food. Don't sit down at a table and drink for an hour, and then decide you're hungry, because if you do that, you're the worst kind of asshole. Look, I get it. It’s a restaurant, it’s open late, it’s my job. I understand all of those things. But there’s nothing more maddening than standing on the hot line, in a virtually empty restaurant, after you’ve already been there for 12 hours, watching two people actively not interested in ordering food, only to change their minds five minutes before last call. <br />I guess what I’m saying here, is don’t be a douche. If you walk into a dead bar at 3 in the morning, odds are pretty good the bartender probably isn’t going to stay open until 4 while you drink fucking ginger ale. So if you walk into a dead restaurant, what makes you think you’ve got unlimited time to order some food off the menu? Bars and restaurants are in the business of making money. There’s no money to be made by people not walking in the door. And there’s very little money to be made by two people walking in the door, not ordering food, and then no one else walking in after them. <br />Basically, I was pissed, and I think I had a right to be pissed. But I’ll concede the fact that I could’ve been a little less vocal in my pissedoffness. <br />But seriously, when you walk into a restaurant, especially late at night; don’t be an asshole…<br /><br />Next Up: <br /><br />My descent into bacon fat, and the dangers of popcorn obsession…<br /><br />* Note: That's not the ticket from what they ordered, it's from an old restaurant when four high kids came in and ordered dessert and apps and a snack all at the same time...Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-79599516802448650752011-01-15T10:54:00.002-05:002011-01-15T11:36:17.436-05:00G-E-T S-O-M-E, or Comeuppance is a BitchSo, I've got a buddy who's a pretty good cook in his own right. We both finished culinary school around the same time and have taken similar paths, thus far, in our careers. That is to say, both of us have tried to work for well respected chefs, in solid kitchens; while shying away from the dying world of "Haute Cuisine," with the likes of Per Se, Daniel, Le Cirque, &c. This isn't so much "his story," as it is, a story about him...<br />A few months ago, he reaches out to me and asks if we can get a drink after service. I didn't think much of it at the time, just figured he'd had a shitty service, and wanted a sympathetic ear to bounce his frustration off of. By the time I got to the bar, he was already there, a thousand yard look in his eyes and a glass of Eagle Rare in front of him. After we exchanged pleasantries, he wasted little time in getting to the point. <br />"So, you guys need a fuckin' line cook, or what?"<br />As it happens, he had; that very same night; been fired from the restaurant he had recently given notice too. <br />To hear him tell it, they got a new chef at the restaurant and the guy was, for lack of a better word, a prick. He apparently came in, badmouthed the way things used to be done and told the staff on his second first official night there, “if you guys don’t want to be here, let’s find that out now.” Now, that’s all well and good, but I’d say it’s kinda tough for someone to tell whether or not their boss is going to turn into an alcoholic psycho after working with them for about eight hours…but I’m jumping ahead. <br />Apparently, their new chef had no idea what he was actually getting himself into, had a big chip on his shoulder and didn’t know how to expedite tickets. This means that servers would regularly stop by the pass to alert him that teams were ready for their second courses; but that the information was never passed on to the people who actually needed to be cooking the food. So my buddy tells me that the entire kitchen staff sized this guy up and started talking about putting in their two week’s notice; but that no one actually pulled the trigger. Then one night, my buddy got kicked off the line. I don’t know why, he didn’t say why; but called it, “a whole bunch of bullshit.” He said he put in his notice the very next day and three days later, there he was, sitting next to me getting drunk on bourbon. <br />So I asked him to back up and say that there must have been some signs leading up to the point that brought us to those bar stools. He said no, but “get this. When that asshole canned my ass, he followed me outside and got in my face!”<br />This in-and-of-itself isn’t all that surprising. Kitchens are high stress environments, and sometimes people say things in a “heat of battle,” I get that. I can even understand a chef yelling at a former employee; even though at that point just let it go...<br />This guy didn’t let it go. My buddy told me this prick got in his face and apparently called him: “a whiny little bitch,” a “punk,” a “little fucker who should rethink the profession,” “to be careful” and apparently even went so far as to stick a finger in his chest and ask, “do you want a fucking piece of me?” I was especially pissed by all of this, although I can only imagine how my buddy felt. The thing that I didn’t say that night, but have told mutual friends when we’ve discussed the story is that it was especially uncool of this guy to threaten my buddy’s future employment by telling him to rethink the profession and to watch out. Those things, to me: sound like the kind of things you say to someone before you start badmouthing them all over town…<br />Long story short, I talked to my buddy about a week ago, to see how his job search was going and he said it was going slowly, but that he had been given a bit of good news. “Remember that asshole who fired me? They fired him about a week and a half ago!” <br />While I’m never happy to hear about someone losing their job, I told my buddy it couldn’t have happened to a better person than that guy….<br /> <br /><br />Special thanks to my buddy (Name Redacted) for letting me tell this story.<br /><br /><br />Next up: There Are No Darlings Here...<br /><br />And maybe an Banana Pudding recipe.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-83642423111639741082010-12-17T02:57:00.004-05:002010-12-17T11:02:56.190-05:00Crush Some Soup!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpr00O2xB63rklIZsou4eI3GyzDDuO6lsjkUSP2PbuRqw1fY4nNsaGWIQO7ahPBVKm1rH7n27HbNVNMs0FAHD5f6131tXTemtdA-KBuCO4kevSN31iN58YZX48xvQB1oTVn8BezUyGZAdi/s1600/Breem+-+Give+Head.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpr00O2xB63rklIZsou4eI3GyzDDuO6lsjkUSP2PbuRqw1fY4nNsaGWIQO7ahPBVKm1rH7n27HbNVNMs0FAHD5f6131tXTemtdA-KBuCO4kevSN31iN58YZX48xvQB1oTVn8BezUyGZAdi/s320/Breem+-+Give+Head.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551560262079287890" /></a><br />If you live in the Northeast, you've probably noticed an alarming new trend: it's fucking cold as a witches’ tit outside! <br />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. <br />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.<br />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.<br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Butternut Squash Soup, with Cinnamon Toasts, Fried Sage & Chili Oil</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Soup</span><br />2 large butternut squash, peeled and cut into chunks<br />1 large Spanish onion, small diced<br />1 carrot, small diced <br />2 stalks of celery, diced <br />2 cloves of garlic, minced<br />2 TBSP ground Cinnamon<br />Salt & Pepper, to taste <br />3 TBSP Olive Oil <br />½ Cup, White Wine <br />4 Cups of water <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Cinnamon Toast </span><br />1 Cup of Brioche bread, cut into 1-inch-by-1-inch cubes<br />4 TBSP Butter<br />1 Sprig of Thyme, picked <br />3 TBSP Cinnamon <br />1 TBSP Sugar<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Fried Sage <br /></span>12 Sage leaves <br />¼ Cup Canola Oil <br />Salt, to taste <br /><br />Serves 6, with enough soup for leftovers<br /><br />Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F, sprinkle the squash with 1 tablespoon of olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper, to taste. <br />Roast until soft, but not until the squash takes on too much colour (approximately 45 minutes). <br />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. <br />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. <br />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). <br />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. <br /><br />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. <br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /> <br />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. <br /><br />* 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...Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-58494548355669435132010-12-08T23:13:00.007-05:002010-12-09T02:16:11.260-05:00I Hate the Food Network<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhak_c8Ubv_K_1lOcj3o-WKey6Yu5isJbBzz0B4QdZLov-ZO1jpIaJE9QSZHFFz9Z6LupSd6bz8k3f2CF7pF1BLLuTAQe_PGMrnRlDwWU4L1E6Yp9esIjAw-fr-MnuPkeJjn-YtkZovn8SN/s1600/Assholes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhak_c8Ubv_K_1lOcj3o-WKey6Yu5isJbBzz0B4QdZLov-ZO1jpIaJE9QSZHFFz9Z6LupSd6bz8k3f2CF7pF1BLLuTAQe_PGMrnRlDwWU4L1E6Yp9esIjAw-fr-MnuPkeJjn-YtkZovn8SN/s320/Assholes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548552911966458338" /></a><br /><br />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...<br /><br />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. <br />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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=navDX3eV2Jk">see fit to put in front of their cameras</a>.<br />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 <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/sandra-lee/cruisin-cooler-recipe/index.html">drunken herself with to the point that dinner with her family is palatable</a>. And yeah, I might be speaking in absolutes, here, but I don't think I'm that far off base. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYMKd2mbn0kLdWkUD_682oEDrmDgcqLNLWNqZ-xFsXapoOgyhPlyw9Fi8IUJDbsRU62wQkPbbKR8naqQs2HJ82y_DuaKyARs-QduFm22iv5ptfwqTOUrQ43E-07QEQhERmXfWRn8CbEHO/s1600/Succubus.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYMKd2mbn0kLdWkUD_682oEDrmDgcqLNLWNqZ-xFsXapoOgyhPlyw9Fi8IUJDbsRU62wQkPbbKR8naqQs2HJ82y_DuaKyARs-QduFm22iv5ptfwqTOUrQ43E-07QEQhERmXfWRn8CbEHO/s320/Succubus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548542887041032386" /></a><br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/sandra-lee/bbq-chicken-pizza-recipe/index.html">forced to cut corners and eat crap</a>. 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…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94YM-LzfotGhzSOViDxZuZr8sdpp3WtJLW6W0U_mta3bDe5yl6f2kuG_7hw0tp4SvIkDhpzrtQ0aCpt84VFB7dAynF3T0DkjJiKsyetGOWHY69k8SdO-GnXyVnT5HjRZcRCS1MRRFmSnq/s1600/The+Neelys.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94YM-LzfotGhzSOViDxZuZr8sdpp3WtJLW6W0U_mta3bDe5yl6f2kuG_7hw0tp4SvIkDhpzrtQ0aCpt84VFB7dAynF3T0DkjJiKsyetGOWHY69k8SdO-GnXyVnT5HjRZcRCS1MRRFmSnq/s320/The+Neelys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548541845213117730" /></a><br /><br />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, “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSx6d1oGyso">The Step-n-Fetchit Cookin' Hour</a>,” 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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bxr5rlo-udI">I suppose a fairly well-spoken black chef</a>, who may not know how to dance is more threatening to the Network and their viewers. <br />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 <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/chicken-pumpkin-wontons-recipe/index.html">ground chicken and canned pumpkin puree into a sauté pan together, then poked at it a few times with a spatula</a>. 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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw229q4y1ZI_bucLvAIivn5S3aG7_hABDN4x6tDohyvxeOhWmOSqMGyCUBT-BnLY-6h3WiQPoY_qr1T39EONgWREY7F2Yp7jVR65Nt_urPCvLqzRdpc2S7_1YFa6_Nce2buJXrYtalyISp/s1600/Giant+Douche.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw229q4y1ZI_bucLvAIivn5S3aG7_hABDN4x6tDohyvxeOhWmOSqMGyCUBT-BnLY-6h3WiQPoY_qr1T39EONgWREY7F2Yp7jVR65Nt_urPCvLqzRdpc2S7_1YFa6_Nce2buJXrYtalyISp/s320/Giant+Douche.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548541625564564882" /></a><br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WuY3YgRF9Xc">drives around the country sampling road-side fare</a>, withstanding the urge to call everyone he encounters, "brah" and can also be seen judging tailgating competitions, participated in by overweight, mustached Middle Americans.<br />Recently, <a href="http://foodnetworkhumor.com/2010/11/epic-guy-fieri-typo-on-abcs-website/">I watched this jackass demonstrate sushi</a>; 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 <a href="http://www.texwasabis.com/">Spikey-Haired-Asshole Roll</a> and call it a day. That's about as ridiculous as it is offensive. <br />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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkF8dXRj3EM">the guy from Lost's house</a>.<br />Then there's Michael Symon's new show, "Food Feuds." A rip-off of <a href="http://www.travelchannel.com/TV_Shows/Food_Wars">Food Wars, which airs on the Travel Channel</a>. 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? <br />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? <br /><br />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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-59066863970491107732010-11-17T23:30:00.004-05:002010-11-18T11:39:31.388-05:00Stuff for your Dressing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1tRi5xfAsdCCsetyQWb7CVHNauSwlR3pPNt-gZ7DFjVVasae8Xpj_Tajdwofi1OUzaGjCFDJb2zT4LKCbVzkduQjOHFKdXlQrbvwT4wRiuYDAJUDP8fvL2yudPjCAcBc-f-Q2RIdPFGe/s1600/Turkey+%2526+Stuffing.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1tRi5xfAsdCCsetyQWb7CVHNauSwlR3pPNt-gZ7DFjVVasae8Xpj_Tajdwofi1OUzaGjCFDJb2zT4LKCbVzkduQjOHFKdXlQrbvwT4wRiuYDAJUDP8fvL2yudPjCAcBc-f-Q2RIdPFGe/s320/Turkey+%2526+Stuffing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540750359760611858" /></a><br />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." <br />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. <br />From what I’ve been able to find, <a href="http://homecooking.about.com/od/foodhistory/a/stuffinghistory.htm">stuffing has its roots in the early 16th Century, when the term “stuffing” first appears in print</a>. 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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuffing">felt that “stuffing” was too; shall we say common; and “dressing” became de rigueur</a>. 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. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://events.nytimes.com/recipes/177/1993/11/24/Corn-Bread-Sausage-Stuffing/recipe.html?scp=8&sq=pecan%20sage%20stuffing&st=cse">New York Times about eight or nine years ago</a>. That recipe, itself, seems to be on the older side, and has what I would call, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnPJmDc0b_M">southern leanings</a>; 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 <a href="http://www.thegreatstuffingdebate.com/">mama’s Stove Top</a>, 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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=504gGMv9apo">who doesn’t like a little booze during the holidays?</a><br /> <br />Elliott Cooks Stuffing<br />- 1 large Yellow Onion, small diced<br />- 2 Carrots, small diced <br />- 2 stalks Celery, small diced<br />- 2-to-3 cloves Garlic, minced<br />- 1 ½ lbs Hot or Sweet Italian Saugage, casings removed & crumbled<br />- 1 lb pecans, shelled & halved or lightly crushed <br />- 6 Cups, Cornbread* <br />- 1/8 cup Thyme, picked<br />- 1/3 cup Sage, minced<br />- 1/4 cup Rosemary, minced <br />- 2 Eggs, beaten <br />- Chicken stock, as needed <br />- 1/4 cup Butter, unsalted <br />- 1/4 cup, Bourbon or Rye Whiskey <br /><br />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. <br />Add the garlic and continue to sweat, being careful not to brown or burn it. <br />When all vegetables have been sweated, add the sausage and saute until just cooked. <br />Deglaze with the bourbon, and reduce until sec (until most of the liquid has reduced). <br />Add the cornbread, pecans and herbs and stir to fully incorporate. <br />Transfer to a large bowl and allow to cool slightly. <br />Add the beaten eggs and mix thoroughly. <br />Add chicken stock, if necessary. <br />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). <br /><br /><br />* Cornbread Recipe <br />(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)<br /><br />2 cup yellow cornmeal <br />1 cup all-purpose flour <br />4 teaspoons baking powder <br />Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste <br />1/2 cup sugar <br />2 eggs, beaten <br />1 cup milk <br />1/4 cup melted butter, plus grease for pan <br /><br />Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. <br />Sift, or whisk, together cornmeal, flour, baking powder, salt, pepper, and sugar. Then add beaten egg, milk and butter. <br />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. <br />Cornbread should be made a day early so it has a chance to dry out slightly.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-23029251297442092192010-11-07T13:53:00.003-05:002010-11-07T14:25:37.849-05:00Hide yo’ kids, Hide yo’ wife, Hide yo’ Knives!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_E6K7p_RR4hFHqPYYHc4pwppJt_VMtAAl7UBKEu26jumzvWPOUXGDeIka8yFeI9olmapNZgd6Z5r3RCmNFJd8DShiiF50hhZ7Tgr5vZNKCZ_p5Z0P_52uG9FyFVcfHszWRwK8crf57nk/s1600/110210-charlie-sheen-inf-credit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_E6K7p_RR4hFHqPYYHc4pwppJt_VMtAAl7UBKEu26jumzvWPOUXGDeIka8yFeI9olmapNZgd6Z5r3RCmNFJd8DShiiF50hhZ7Tgr5vZNKCZ_p5Z0P_52uG9FyFVcfHszWRwK8crf57nk/s320/110210-charlie-sheen-inf-credit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536890863260954594" /></a><br />Yeah, I’m back, bitches! Somewhere between the return of the Lorax and the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8zO_DV09QE">return of Kenny Powers</a>; there’s me. The return of the guy who writes about food, complains about shit and gives you recipes; when he feels like it. <br />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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0auwpvAU2YA">before you get to read my hate-filled little rant</a>. <br />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. <br />But being busy also <a href="http://blogs.villagevoice.com/runninscared/2010/11/50_reasons_to_b.php">breeds lots of interesting things going on and happening to me and happening to people I know</a>. 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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-13017362396610037682010-08-25T10:48:00.001-04:002010-08-26T11:41:27.600-04:00Now This, I LikeI 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. <br />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) <a href="http://www.yelp.com/topic/new-york-whats-the-next-big-asian-food-craze?category=10">saying about food and restaurants</a>. After about an hour, it's into the shower and my day really begins. <br />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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caul_fat">caul fat</a> or making a dozen potatoes worth of Lemon-Parmesan Gnocchi, to the top of my list. <br />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.<br />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. <br />Right around the time I've changed out of my civvies and into my whites; <span style="font-style:italic;">that's</span> 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!<br />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!” <br />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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What’s On My Mind This Week?</span>: <br /><br />The weather’s gotten cooler this week, which is awesome, because it means Cassoulet weather is right around the corner.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-54959255127023356962010-08-05T10:59:00.002-04:002010-08-05T12:02:45.654-04:00To Grill is to Live<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhna7xl5OVx28yyBqEriuv9XHBFyq0yevbSLv-rQjMJ0RG9KUmRC4GOQpdTqolmI2E9x4OW8Qz1bZWwRFxnv3nZDInnpWnPiUCqRnoGkqY6bdRtxP0z4zrVyqqRckXtC_zL-MqK29b7Ugbs/s1600/Burgers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhna7xl5OVx28yyBqEriuv9XHBFyq0yevbSLv-rQjMJ0RG9KUmRC4GOQpdTqolmI2E9x4OW8Qz1bZWwRFxnv3nZDInnpWnPiUCqRnoGkqY6bdRtxP0z4zrVyqqRckXtC_zL-MqK29b7Ugbs/s320/Burgers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501956831044444002" /></a><br />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...<br />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...<br />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. <br />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. <br />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. <br />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 “<a href="http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=show_mesg&forum=389&topic_id=450105&mesg_id=450345">baseballing</a>” 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. <br />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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What’s On My Mind This Week?</span>: <br /><br />Well, for starters, The <a href="https://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/122747">Ice Cream Festival</a> 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. <br />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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-80295428397423916742010-07-15T12:00:00.003-04:002010-07-15T12:45:16.561-04:00Daikon...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv8FOCT08q1Sdy15bmhhnDLIsk_vqIrQbSWFJ3rsiWifU-7Rffl0phAMGD3YoOeTO6k7jWCUtsrpV9IZfAWZdqx3b0QTY6vEpLie1ha-Hu55ZsJVoqekUc7Z9VhE2BO1epbIjqcVqkZPQS/s1600/Daikon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv8FOCT08q1Sdy15bmhhnDLIsk_vqIrQbSWFJ3rsiWifU-7Rffl0phAMGD3YoOeTO6k7jWCUtsrpV9IZfAWZdqx3b0QTY6vEpLie1ha-Hu55ZsJVoqekUc7Z9VhE2BO1epbIjqcVqkZPQS/s320/Daikon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494174399206328610" /></a><br />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. <br />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, <a href="http://lukoagency.free.fr/images/Bruce%20Spence/trainman.jpg">his eyes had a wild intensity about them</a> 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. <br />She dragged me over to his small table and picked up a gnarled off-white horn. <br />"Is this a type of carrot?" she asked. <br />"Oh no. This," he said, stroking one of them with his long thin fingers, "this is a Daikon..."<br />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."<br />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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What’s On My Mind This Week?</span>: <br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">isn’t</span> a fan of the burger? So I will be grilling my brisket-blend burgers, with pictures and recipes to follow.<br /><br />Photo: Feasting on PixelsElliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-90299054664198969292010-07-09T02:41:00.002-04:002010-07-09T02:54:04.638-04:00French Toast, Eggs Benedict and Other Small Tragedies, Part III<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCydw716JY7R04WBGW2o-9lg7ZjdlwDD2TV3ywnuddPtOfThXLtvaTknd7vt30tRLp75K2POLC0gJtBcVF435URPNOOSnFrMHWvKPf4syOz_9WGgkHaPzFNwB11LzGiPQa4aqhPFKq-A7O/s1600/Eggs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCydw716JY7R04WBGW2o-9lg7ZjdlwDD2TV3ywnuddPtOfThXLtvaTknd7vt30tRLp75K2POLC0gJtBcVF435URPNOOSnFrMHWvKPf4syOz_9WGgkHaPzFNwB11LzGiPQa4aqhPFKq-A7O/s320/Eggs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491796145664329554" /></a><br />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. <br />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…<br />Back when I was still working with (and talking too*) My Boy Dopp, one of our waitresses...you could say she <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span> 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, “<a href="http://restaurant-hospitality.com/recipes/rh_imp_17023/">au cheval</a>,” 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. <br />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. <br />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?” <br />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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Full_English_Breakfast.JPG">English Breakfast</a> instead…because, ya'know, they're so similar. <br />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. <br /><br /><br />* Story for another day, I promise. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What’s On My Mind This Week?</span>: <br /><br />Aside from the fact that it’s been a friggin’ dog’s age since my last post? <br /><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/09/dining/09bruni.html?hpw">Interesting article in the Times this week</a> has me thinking about Prosciutto Straws again…Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-66924569702082456132010-05-27T11:10:00.003-04:002010-05-27T13:08:20.542-04:00Did 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. <br />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 <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=squadoosh">I didn't see a single red cent, in wages, from the time I was there, for over a year</a>! <br />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. <br />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. <br />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…<br />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. <br />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. <br />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. <br />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. <br />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, <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/story?id=8343907">the most powerful food critic in the country</a>. <br />In short, I thought it was shocking; but looking back on it, kinda funny. <br /><br />What’s On My Mind This Week?<br /><br />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…?Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-52438017191856197462010-05-25T11:23:00.003-04:002010-05-25T12:20:02.556-04:00It’s Spelled S-T-E-E-Z-E, Part II<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpMXF5bqdw1UlQwL-mAYqcrZhd01vCOpm7E_UFV2LIw-v2XEs0p89MxqA5is3EN8preYSMs34fKrFwnPbV71jyKtKjyAj5AhJhckRPJWVSP4yTIzIDwcN0fYZbxIOeLU6erCxRQn6l0znK/s1600/Dig+Out.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpMXF5bqdw1UlQwL-mAYqcrZhd01vCOpm7E_UFV2LIw-v2XEs0p89MxqA5is3EN8preYSMs34fKrFwnPbV71jyKtKjyAj5AhJhckRPJWVSP4yTIzIDwcN0fYZbxIOeLU6erCxRQn6l0znK/s320/Dig+Out.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475243163850997922" /></a><br />Hey guys, same steeze as before...more kitchen "vehnack," I.e. terminology for you to wrap your heads around...<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On-Back</span>: 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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Fire</span>: 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. <br />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. <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Fire the Board</span>: 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."<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dig Out</span>: 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. <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Hard</span>: 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.<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Come On</span>: 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?” <br />“Yeah, coming hard!” <br />“Oh man, you're fucking gross!”<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">True Story</span>: 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." <br />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.<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What's on My Mind This Week?</span><br /> <br />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.<br />Also, a bit curious about the <a href="http://ny.eater.com/archives/2010/02/nightlife_notebook_nells_update_la_esquina_goes_shopping.php">new "restaurant/club" that's opening up in the old Nell's spot</a> (Plumm, for you youngsters), because I kinda feel like restaurants and clubs go together about as well as a bag full of cats!Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-62109801862152159252010-05-18T10:41:00.004-04:002010-05-18T13:47:57.725-04:00Well, That’s a First…<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9li1f5l5oaENzU136me16yxTbjoV9W3Vut6v3rc1agMC76REO83OzSMuAamI8hBsTVz8476xYD6atSyXfzRXkJNxpiuntRgJBpMLSe_on80c2Y-TD3sqPz50-1wLdAwvQ0KBp593UfsrZ/s1600/coatchecks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 174px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9li1f5l5oaENzU136me16yxTbjoV9W3Vut6v3rc1agMC76REO83OzSMuAamI8hBsTVz8476xYD6atSyXfzRXkJNxpiuntRgJBpMLSe_on80c2Y-TD3sqPz50-1wLdAwvQ0KBp593UfsrZ/s320/coatchecks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472668250324943490" /></a><br />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, “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-7_uwFcI8JE&feature=related">Ray, do you want them to take your family, kidnap them, tear their livers out and make some kind of satanic pate?!?!?</a>” <br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">drive</span> their garbage down to the street and then bang the hell out of it with a stick. I’ve, I've never seen that.” <br />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. <br />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 <a href="http://shop.zsazsaandcompany.com/Chateau-Moulin-De-Tricot-2004-Haut-Medoc-ChMoulinDeTricot04.htm">bottle of Haut Medoc</a> 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. <br />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. <br />“You can use these to collect your food when you leave. Thanks again for dining with us,” he said.<br />I was slightly confused for a moment. You mean, we turn in these coat check tickets <span style="font-style:italic;">and then</span> we get our food...? <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF_qxOa9Fzc">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</a>. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What’s On My Mind This Week</span>: <br /><br />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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-22107999452117778662010-05-11T11:35:00.004-04:002010-05-11T12:02:01.895-04:00It’s Spelled S-T-E-E-Z-E, Part I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjMXRluHx2Rna-AhiNTh9sEf8vuM6sGOPpuskmIdIBsdMeqFnSaSANCmhvm36pFXeZu7ETa9EUCzh85qCQd-VhpWXs4rQuXkxwBgj7JFQBN-VFkRj5Zu3WI6TnvNX7o1GnA-xa1U1bVLj/s1600/donkey.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjMXRluHx2Rna-AhiNTh9sEf8vuM6sGOPpuskmIdIBsdMeqFnSaSANCmhvm36pFXeZu7ETa9EUCzh85qCQd-VhpWXs4rQuXkxwBgj7JFQBN-VFkRj5Zu3WI6TnvNX7o1GnA-xa1U1bVLj/s320/donkey.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470042831395217778" /></a><br />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. <br />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…<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Steeze</span>: 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.” <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Get Live</span>: 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. <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Prep List</span>: 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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dupes / Tickets</span>: 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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Order-Fire</span>: 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. <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Pass</span>: 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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Donkey</span>: 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. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What’s On My Mind This Week?</span> <br />I’ve started reading <a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/books/9780061961588/InNOut_Burger/index.aspx">Stacy Perman’s book on In-N-Out Burger</a>, which is really stupid of me; because I’m 2700 miles away from deliciousness!Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-6321969587732315582010-05-02T12:06:00.002-04:002010-05-02T12:33:49.058-04:00Famous Last Words<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEuZJXOM3riVdHMQJWCBcSOiWkkkF4_U4qN55AawNX1Tok4_Nu3l66DDuqlUKc2KGW-jmqE-MVNOZJJboBl_1UHvg8hksqISQC0Qv_aQuSOVbm0nx9bZyboWIlQlDM4WllD34JjXkYv4B/s1600/Random+Pics+099.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEuZJXOM3riVdHMQJWCBcSOiWkkkF4_U4qN55AawNX1Tok4_Nu3l66DDuqlUKc2KGW-jmqE-MVNOZJJboBl_1UHvg8hksqISQC0Qv_aQuSOVbm0nx9bZyboWIlQlDM4WllD34JjXkYv4B/s320/Random+Pics+099.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466711765564409266" /></a><br />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. <br />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.<br />(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.)<br />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. <br />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.<br /> <br />What's on My Mind This Week?:<br />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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-45506971354935262762010-04-01T13:51:00.004-04:002010-04-03T11:49:51.628-04:00Really, Guy? Really…?!?!?!?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4x_fa2aqFAk2KyAkcnYg6kcZFh11VH_U5lVlzsm2xoR73tRqf9U7nKNDyOTXmrjcqsnhJaEz8TK9OpzNl6nOftpVK3UKeDF8enhVZCGjdjktpFGekT23vTua90979yv4q60ywARwDwK4Y/s1600/IMG_2015.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4x_fa2aqFAk2KyAkcnYg6kcZFh11VH_U5lVlzsm2xoR73tRqf9U7nKNDyOTXmrjcqsnhJaEz8TK9OpzNl6nOftpVK3UKeDF8enhVZCGjdjktpFGekT23vTua90979yv4q60ywARwDwK4Y/s320/IMG_2015.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455229701539108450" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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...<br />Yeah, not the best service in the world. <br /><br />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”…? <br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">after</span> 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. <br />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. <br /> <br /> <br />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.<br /><br />What’s on My Mind This Week?: <br />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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-31499698912615275032010-03-31T13:49:00.002-04:002010-03-31T13:51:08.698-04:00Elliott Cooks Rears it’s Not-So-Ugly Head…Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7dOHml0xH4GcahtY7Mv2Cj54FdXetK9t5cQTqcrRcPYuzsdBeP01GClpnH-s6jIC3lDkH8laoRFkaUdOHcr462BXCP92s0EG_qNfhbsrTJAVMHZLEbMSsVwQjysIEC57DpqsZLHFJys5/s1600/Piggy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7dOHml0xH4GcahtY7Mv2Cj54FdXetK9t5cQTqcrRcPYuzsdBeP01GClpnH-s6jIC3lDkH8laoRFkaUdOHcr462BXCP92s0EG_qNfhbsrTJAVMHZLEbMSsVwQjysIEC57DpqsZLHFJys5/s320/Piggy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454856975874350610" /></a><br />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. <br />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?!?!" <br /><br />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. <br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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! <br /><br />What’s Keeping Me Up This Week?: <br />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…Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-62291395760769236832009-12-12T10:30:00.010-05:002009-12-12T12:20:37.819-05:00You 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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hunters_Point,_Queens">Hunters Point section of Long Island City, New York</a> in the vicinity of a street…or avenue…or road bearing the number corresponding to New Mexico’s order of admittance to the Union... <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />You know what else really grinds my gears? When people go to <a href="http://www.yelp.com/elite">parties sponsored by certain review websites</a> 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 <a href="http://ny.eater.com/">Editors of food review websites</a> to drum up interest in the restaurant by writing stories and were then thanked exactly once for your trouble. Not to mention <a href="http://www.thrillist.com/list/New+York">looking like an asshole when you have to explain to all of those people why you're no longer involved</a> or drumming up support for the restaurant like you used to. Well, it grinds my freakin’ gears. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />That really grinds my gears. But I’m moving on…wiser; and now when I treat someone like crap they can thank 24.<br /><br />* 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...Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-15790054399824601372009-11-12T11:28:00.016-05:002009-11-13T14:32:05.365-05:00Sweeter Sweet Potatoes & Pre-Breakfast Gambling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWfUnBZYmF1DbxwmihGYERgq-Vu5TaFIRdmn6s182E1PzFtylu0YtcOaS5UgwwHLlp-W0OdxUssPJlaDvlcGfxQdyBUNaKQL7L0n-_UPdbNuf37vXhPJDMbYuNGG2THmMP8QGBYZn8NfV/s1600-h/Whiskey+Pete.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWfUnBZYmF1DbxwmihGYERgq-Vu5TaFIRdmn6s182E1PzFtylu0YtcOaS5UgwwHLlp-W0OdxUssPJlaDvlcGfxQdyBUNaKQL7L0n-_UPdbNuf37vXhPJDMbYuNGG2THmMP8QGBYZn8NfV/s320/Whiskey+Pete.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403673246725391634" border="0" /></a><br />Well, Thanksgiving is two weeks away and the one thing on everyone’s mind (well, other than the super classy <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/abraham/detail??blogid=95&entry_id=51581">Little-Miss-I’m-Down-on-Gay-Marriage-but-Cool-with-Sex-Tapes, “new” skin flick</a>, 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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.redrocklasvegas.com/gaming/">Red Rock Casino</a> to place a couple bets on the Thanksgiving Day NFL games.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://tmqb.blogspot.com/">I used to write a pretty dedicated little football blog</a>, 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 “<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Joan+Collins+special&defid=1608695">Joan Collins Special</a>.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sweet Potato S’Mores</span><br /></div><br />6 Sweet Potatoes, peeled & sliced into ¼ inch rounds*<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />For the braising/candying liquid</span>:<br />2 Oranges, juiced and zest reserved<br />2 Cups, Orange Juice<br />1 Cup, Brown Sugar<br />2 TBSP Fresh Ground Cinnamon<br />1 TBSP Fresh Ground Nutmeg<br />1/8 Cup, Vanilla Extract<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For the S’Mores</span>:<br />½ Bag Marshmallows or 1 Jar Marshmallow Fluff<br />1 Cup, crushed Graham Crackers<br />4 TBSP Melted Butter (optional)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 1</span>:<br />Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees F.<br />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.<br />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.<br />Remove potatoes from oven and uncover, allowing to cool completely before placing in the refrigerator overnight.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 2</span>:<br />Pre-heat oven to 325 degrees F (although in truth, your oven should probably already be on)<br />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).<br />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.<br /><br />* 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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-60522327606098079692009-11-07T14:56:00.004-05:002009-11-09T13:48:33.491-05:00If You Want to Help Me, Stay Out of My Kitchen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8LhnuUSBQ67KiZHzvpLKB37xPqC2BBymc4iqkIHyHTL5MakJQWjXWhUAmhXmwBIwUZuGayjj47bjKl69-qxTu2sRweomvEGPkMfxkJPP7te0M27tShPtXk2RNNqaACSwbwrZ0JKFP41w/s1600-h/IMG_2070.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8LhnuUSBQ67KiZHzvpLKB37xPqC2BBymc4iqkIHyHTL5MakJQWjXWhUAmhXmwBIwUZuGayjj47bjKl69-qxTu2sRweomvEGPkMfxkJPP7te0M27tShPtXk2RNNqaACSwbwrZ0JKFP41w/s320/IMG_2070.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402174953244094786" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Sweet Potato S'Mores, from like Thanksgiving 2007 (?)<br /></div><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Next Time: Sweet Potato S'Mores, Playing with Knives & Gambling Before BreakfastElliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-26471023777099096472009-11-05T11:33:00.005-05:002009-11-05T11:44:44.381-05:00Ditch the Dog, Keep the Baby<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVed3jbkBA8UPAjTuCEZwXOeAeM_9jX1WgRTBXFlhoDGinP6hlVWj84HABqIX_vnR6LeldsUwcjzlHn_aaXWp1fmJMomTp8aVO7409Sd15qZ5nCDEIw7lzZySuMFPdfuEDUTpN0YjGh-jR/s1600-h/Random+Thursday+100.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVed3jbkBA8UPAjTuCEZwXOeAeM_9jX1WgRTBXFlhoDGinP6hlVWj84HABqIX_vnR6LeldsUwcjzlHn_aaXWp1fmJMomTp8aVO7409Sd15qZ5nCDEIw7lzZySuMFPdfuEDUTpN0YjGh-jR/s320/Random+Thursday+100.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400661440747560802" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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.” <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-8956093893133906052009-10-12T02:32:00.004-04:002009-10-12T03:00:34.138-04:00“The Best Sandwich I’ve Had in Years”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkZHab1E5nVzN0KqmB1lnz7Wy_OSCNj_ulrpZyml0TYhWeBE7OeSgbQb-Q6QA0STUea-_ccRP4GMg8e-LpB3637Uixru3kAckHmsOL21MWgxlkFKhqp26nOH3qrYAe2ccY_lSaWaTYEVK/s1600-h/ChickenBreastandBaconSandwich.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkZHab1E5nVzN0KqmB1lnz7Wy_OSCNj_ulrpZyml0TYhWeBE7OeSgbQb-Q6QA0STUea-_ccRP4GMg8e-LpB3637Uixru3kAckHmsOL21MWgxlkFKhqp26nOH3qrYAe2ccY_lSaWaTYEVK/s320/ChickenBreastandBaconSandwich.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391603447049938194" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Not my sandwich, but I wanted to give you a picture<br /></div><br />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 <a href="http://www3.timeoutny.com/newyork/the-feed-blog/restaurants-bars/2009/09/the-feed-openings-cantina-latina-the-knitting-factory-and-more/">opening of a new restaurant</a>. 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. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://cgi.ebay.com/48%22-Low-Boy-Refrigerator,-Prep-Table,-Remote,-2-Doors_W0QQitemZ380065111098QQcmdZViewItem">sitting in the lowboy</a>; 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.<br /><br />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.<br />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. <br />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. <br /><br />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.<br />When he was finished with his second sandwich he wheeled his chair away from his desk, turned to me and said, “<a href="http://www.yelp.com/message_board_search?talk_query=bonito+bacon&location=New+York%2C+NY">that was the best sandwich I’ve had in years.</a>” <br /><br />What follows is my grilled fish and bacon sandwich, or what I what I have dubbed, "the Elliott Sandwich."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The Elliott Sandwich<br /></div><br />6 oz Bonito Steaks sliced into ¼ inch pieces<br />4 slices Bacon<br />1 Jalapeno, sliced thin and seeded<br />½ Red Onion, sliced thin<br />4 Sprigs, Watercress<br />Cilanto-Lime Vinaigrette<br />½ French Baguette, halved<br />½ oz Olive Oil<br />Salt & Pepper, to taste<br />Cilantro-Lime Vinaigrette to follow.<br /><br /><br />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.<br />Place the sliced jalapenos in the rendered bacon fat and cook until slightly browned.<br />Place fish on an oiled grill and cook for approximately two minutes on each side, then reserve.<br />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.<br />Slice in half and serve.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Cilantro-Lime Vinaigrette<br /></div><br />1 bunch, Cilantro<br />Juice of 4 Limes<br />Zest of 2 Limes<br />3 Egg Yolks<br />24 oz. Canola Oil<br />Salt & Pepper, to taste<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />Yield: 1 Qt<br /><br />Photo credit: Janet is HungryElliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-81944324032646029452009-10-06T12:35:00.003-04:002009-10-06T14:11:10.213-04:00When 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. <br /><br />Back on July Fourth, you may remember I did a little <a href="http://elliottcooks.blogspot.com/2009/07/explosions-of-beef-on-4th-of-july.html">ranting and raving while discussing why I would not be cooking at my buddy’s place</a>. 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. <br /><br />This past Sunday, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/04/health/04meat.html?ref=dining">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</a>. 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. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/4c7a1df674106061833ac0018177685998b064af_m.jpg">Frankenburger</a> 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.” <br /><br />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 <a href="http://wegmans.com/">Wegman’s</a>, 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. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqRf3_ggyklKiaQr8Xnd_I5FBYY3B3fZyLA6OFe53ZCKHwapgPrj7BOX7bz0yWnOMrrqC3xuxeBmLQfJ9QIGpuUGyg3b3AtzbkH1uPizXoLRhPVWqbsHAjYniCqzxNmdVBvqFJa3RRkDS/s1600-h/IMG_2636.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqRf3_ggyklKiaQr8Xnd_I5FBYY3B3fZyLA6OFe53ZCKHwapgPrj7BOX7bz0yWnOMrrqC3xuxeBmLQfJ9QIGpuUGyg3b3AtzbkH1uPizXoLRhPVWqbsHAjYniCqzxNmdVBvqFJa3RRkDS/s320/IMG_2636.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389550689584282162" border="0" /></a>Wegman's Call-Ahead Ground Beef<br /></div><br />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. <br /><br />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.Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-50172880007743346242009-10-03T10:14:00.004-04:002009-10-03T10:31:58.433-04:00Sufferin’ Succotash!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2LE3GUXdxo6ukaYLLwWrDFjq9q98nv9DdFWyBkLrHD63q16YFo1W_1NLynB774TX6ZfPSGXm7-qRHW6mfz_6mVEZ-V0eweDfxc8r1si7Sc78OWd_UeeBFcba8SvAB52btJmw0aRBVCP3/s1600-h/IMG_2659.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2LE3GUXdxo6ukaYLLwWrDFjq9q98nv9DdFWyBkLrHD63q16YFo1W_1NLynB774TX6ZfPSGXm7-qRHW6mfz_6mVEZ-V0eweDfxc8r1si7Sc78OWd_UeeBFcba8SvAB52btJmw0aRBVCP3/s320/IMG_2659.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388377700221563058" /></a><br />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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EU2W-C8Mo30">what to cook, but thought better of it</a>. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2640/3841125650_5a558e9b02.jpg">Butter & Sugar</a> 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?<br /><br />Succotash is, if we’re getting technical, older than America. The Narragansett people’s called it, “<span style="font-style:italic;">msíckquatash</span>” which essentially means boiled corn; and it was referenced in Roger Williams 1643 guide to interacting and understanding the native peoples: <a href="http://www.smithsoniansource.org/display/primarysource/viewdetails.aspx?PrimarySourceId=1173">A Key Into the Language of America</a>. 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. <br /><br />Today; while I’m on my way to the <a href="http://www.bbg.org/vis2/2009/chilepepperfiesta/">Chile Pepper Fiesta</a> 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. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00uJZ3FYRz7g0VdcxL_dzjbuoXZ0bo1bFSa6V4f2SZODPpdQHsIwhzpcUKQjqKuHVdJaFg6z87uUcYt5RjdmXL_s2EkJbjO-Nokpg7lOrVH8m-j9OiDzyu3qA7KisJNMTSQO64DtcYgyp/s1600-h/IMG_2656.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00uJZ3FYRz7g0VdcxL_dzjbuoXZ0bo1bFSa6V4f2SZODPpdQHsIwhzpcUKQjqKuHVdJaFg6z87uUcYt5RjdmXL_s2EkJbjO-Nokpg7lOrVH8m-j9OiDzyu3qA7KisJNMTSQO64DtcYgyp/s320/IMG_2656.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388381119063092706" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Early Autumn Succotash<br /></div><br />5 Ears of Corn, Kernels removed<br />1 Cup Sugar Snap Peas, blanched & shocked<br />1 Cup Baby Carrots, halved<br />2 Medium Tomatoes, medium diced <br />½ Red Onion, sliced thin<br />½ White (or Spanish) Onion, sliced thin<br />2 oz (or slightly more) Olive Oil, not Extra Virgin<br />Salt & Pepper, to taste<br /><br />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. <br />Add carrots to pan and occasionally stir, cooking until carrots begin to slightly soften. <br />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. <br />Season with salt and pepper and serve. <br /><br />Serves 6-to-8Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7321720328771418986.post-37609067419551502002009-09-27T11:18:00.002-04:002009-09-27T11:46:23.711-04:00I’m Oxidized Metal These Days…<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqnl9S6OyNEySYKxUhHjxLy5LvpJg3f-gAIok7-HntxqUNnbbNYeJZ3MpQt4jXJ84KKapEoN7CQmV_rMHweaYn9ZqMfl9BpmWpzSkQiYbOFNKm5k-8lCWPg8GT0_XzLnXw-Rqql-r1Yi5/s1600-h/Rust.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqnl9S6OyNEySYKxUhHjxLy5LvpJg3f-gAIok7-HntxqUNnbbNYeJZ3MpQt4jXJ84KKapEoN7CQmV_rMHweaYn9ZqMfl9BpmWpzSkQiYbOFNKm5k-8lCWPg8GT0_XzLnXw-Rqql-r1Yi5/s320/Rust.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386172175422409714" /></a><br />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 <a href="http://www3.timeoutny.com/newyork/the-feed-blog/restaurants-bars/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/cantinalatina.jpg">as opposed to simply designing the menu</a>. 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. <br />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. <br />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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/System_D">System D skills are in top form</a>. But I’ve let myself get complacent and that’s unacceptable. <br />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. <br />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!Elliott181http://www.blogger.com/profile/05006014502521991225noreply@blogger.com1