There’s a First Time for Everything!

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

No Foot Longs, They Make Me Nervous

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

A little bit of New Orleans in New York Harbor

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

Elliott’s Muffelatta


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


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

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

I See You’ve Played Knifey-Spooney Before

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