Hungry

New Year's Eve, Cops in The Kitchen

2012-01-12T16:45:00.000-05:00

New Year’ Eve first appears in my memory as the sounds of cops in the kitchen.

I wake up on the couch, TV going and the ball already dropped. The kitchen light is on and there are men's voices, barely muted for sleeping children and sleepy wife. I get up and wander out to the clatter of cuffs and creak of thick belts. Four or five policemen are standing there, my father one of them, loading plates with pork and sauerkraut from the oval aluminum crock from the oven.

They take great bites, bits of kraut hanging in mustaches trimmed sharply above the lip. Conversation is small, centered on discussion of the events of the night. Smells of cigarettes, black leather, and Old Spice foul the sweet roasting softness. Bright yellow walls, color chosen to compliment Sears oak veneer cabinets and just-lighter-than-Army-green appliances, serves only to increase their presence. The color can barely get around the negative space the consume. They all have guns, billy-clubs and saps, hanging by my face. I wonder at them, whether they get used, and why and how.

They eat quickly, in good humor, pile their plates in the sink. They thank my mother, the more familiar of them hug her, and they all head back out on duty. I can’t remember if any of them noticed me. They have been in the house maybe five minutes. In the stillness after they leave Mom shuts off the TV and ushers us to bed.

Pork and sauerkraut is my tradition for the first food to be eaten in the new year. It is eaten to bring luck in the coming year. Both my Father’s side (Polish, Stanislaw Okinski became Stanley Fuller on Ellis Island) and Mother’s side (Maiden name Zemak, Pennsylvania Dutch which means German) follow the tradition and until long after I left home did I believe that every person did the same thing. Pork roast, cook long and low, with kraut and sometimes potatoes added later in the process. In some families, sausage would be added, or even take the place of the roast. I had no Italian friends (they lived in different neighborhoods than we), missing the delicious love of the Seven Fishes until I moved to Pittsburgh at age 27.

My father was a police officer in DuBois when I was a child. He invited all the local police, City as well as from outlying Sandy Township, and the few Staties with which he was friendly, to stop by our house for pork and kraut. Police cars would fill little dead-end Burt Street, and everyone would hope for a better new year in that tiny kitchen. We kids would have some too, a little bit before bed then full steaming plates for lunch the next day, added insurance I suppose. Seemed to work for me.

I still keep the faith. And, like Steeler fandom, I am devoutly indoctrinating my kids. Attached is a good approximation of my recipe (family cooking lost to us already). Start it at 6, you’ll be sure it will be ready by midnight. And if you are working, as I and many of my friends will be, share it with your co-workers. They need the luck too.

Pork and Sauerkraut

I make pork and sauerkraut every New Years Eve make sure that there is a batch in the corner of an oven at the restaurant as well as in my house. Everyone needs the good luck it brings to eat pork and sauerkraut for the first meal in the new year.

1 ea. 5-7# piece bone-in pork butt

½ C. Brown sugar

½ C. Salt

½ C. Black pepper

2-3 Tbs Dried thyme

1 ea. 12 oz dark beer, Porter or Stout

3-4 C. Cider

At least 2 # sauerkraut

2-3 # All-pork sausage, hopefully Serbian Kielbassa, cut into 1” chunks.

1. Mix sugar, salt, and pepper in a mixing bowl.

2. Place pork butt in a deep baking dish with room around. Rub cure mix into meat on all sides. Place in baking dish with fat side up. Let pork butt cure in refrigerator overnight.

3. Scrape excess seasoning from pork butt. Remove pork butt from dish. Rinse dish.

4. Return pork to baking dish fat side up. Season top well with dried thyme.

5. Pour beer and cider around pork. Cover and place in a 325° oven for 4-6 hours. The pork butt is ready when the bone pulls out of the meat easily.

6. Add kraut and kielbasa. Allow to cook for another 30 minutes.

7. Eat at 12:01 January 1 for good luck all year.

It's another Tequila Sunrise...

2011-11-21T23:46:00.000-05:00

“Not Thanksgiving At All” Steak and Jalapeno Quesadilla

The morning after Thanksgiving I have no desire to eat the leftovers. By the end of Thanksgiving evening, I have spent a great portion of discussing, planning, shopping for, cooking, and complaining about the dinner. My skin smells like stuffing, turkey repels me, and I drank probably half a bathtub of Beaujolais Nouveau and whatever Alsatian-style whites Jen, my sister-in-law with exactly the same tastes in wine as I have, has brought. The film coating the kitchen matches the film over my eyes, and as I start the coffee, I think about brunch.

In addition to shopping for the big day with all its Brussels sprouts, flour, and butter nonsense, I throw a couple of items in the cart so I can start my day after the Day consuming completely differently tasting food. This year, I will be making a little item I developed while opening Mad Mex # 11 in Willow Grove, PA (Philly suburb).

Most non-restaurant people don’t know that it is eminently important to drink until the wee hours after the first real day of business at a new restaurant. It builds camaraderie and relieves stress after that 18-hour day. The best part is arriving back at work the second real day of business after four hours of sleep to attack another 18-hour day. To celebrate surviving this long, stressful, and hung-over day, it is again important to drink tequila until the wee hours.

The Sunday morning after these two long opening days greeted us with the inconsiderate feature of a brilliantly sunny morning and a lot of work to do. The opening team needed inspiration. It was important that I make a rich, flavorful, greasy breakfast that was achievable with the ingredients on hand yet did not really taste like Mad Mex food. I grabbed a flat of eggs, an onion, some jalapenos, and some flank steak and got to work. The following is a reconstruction of what occurred that morning.

1 # Flank steak

1 Tbs. Dijon mustard

1 Tbs. Salt

2 Tbsp. Olive oil

½ ea. Stick of butter

1 C. Medium sliced raw onion

1-4 ea. Jalapenos, sliced into rings

1 Tbsp. Mexican Oregano, dried

2 tsp. Cumin, ground

2 tsp. Salt

8 ea. Eggs

More butter

4 ea. 10” flour tortillas

1 C. Shredded Monterrey Jack Cheese

Salt and pepper

Guacamole

Sour Cream

1) Prepare Guacamole. Reserve.

2) Place steak in a bowl. Add mustard, olive oil, and salt. Allow to marinate.

3) Heat cast iron skillet over high heat. Sear steak until crusty on the outside and a gentle medium in the center, about 140°. Set aside and allow to rest. Return skillet to heat.

4) While steak is cooking, melt butter in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add onions, peppers, oregano, cumin, and salt. Cook with stirring until onions soften but do not become soggy.

5) Heat comal (flat cast iron skillet).

6) Slice beef across the grain.

7) In skillet, add a generous knob of butter. Crack 2 eggs into the pan. If you desire, poke the yolks so that they cook solid.

8) While eggs are cooking. Place a tortilla on the comal. Sprinkle with cheese. Allow to melt.

9) Place onion and pepper mixture across half the tortilla. Add some beef. Add two eggs.

10)Fold and remove from the griddle. Cut into thirds and serve with guacamole and sour cream.

11)Repeat steps 7 – 10 until everyone is fed. Hopefully, one of these bums will have made you a Tequila Sunrise. Sip it as you cook.

Guacamole

3 ea. Avocados

Juice of 2-3 limes

1 ea. Large clove garlic grated on a microplane grater

¼ C. Chopped Cilantro

1-2 ea. Diced ripe tomatoes

Salt and Pepper to taste

1) Peel, seed, and dice avocados

2) Add everything else. Adjust seasonings.

You Too Can Write a Book Review!

2011-11-16T10:34:00.000-05:00

John Allison of the Post Gazette asked me to write a review of Adam Gopnik's newest book, "The Table Comes First: Family, France, and the Meaning of Food" Sweet! Nothing more fun for an amateur writer than to criticize in print a professional writer! When I got the book, the first advance copy I of my life, anxiety set in. "I agreed to read this book, intelligently assess it, and deliver an engaging written review. All in a reasonable amount of time."

Turns out, getting the book read presented the biggest challenges. Two active young children, a busy and growing restaurant company, a professional spouse, and silly things like friends and sleep all conspired to keep me from finishing the book. After getting through a dozen or so pages over the course of three nights reading in bed, I switched to reading on the couch. I covered more ground but at the cost of having to drag myself up to bed at 4 AM.

John would send gentle e-mails, checking on my progress. Still not much past halfway through the book, I assured him that the review was progressing well and I just needed to do a little more work. I assume that this little lie to an editor surprises nobody. I look forward to a time in my life where I have an opportunity to deliver immense lies camouflaging catastrophic delays to a really powerful and frightening editor.

Finally I finished. I mostly dug the book. In reading it I saw the reflection of a lot of my thoughts on current and future food trends. Gopnik's dissertation on the birth of the modern restaurant out of the same social changes that drove the French Revolution engaged me.

But most of all, I developed an incredible jealousy of his life. How is it possible? Traveling the world, dining at brilliant restaurants, cooking for his family in NYC, chatting with hot French food revolutionaries like Zoe Reyners, being brilliant and well-educated, and seeming to have a blast at it all. Amazing! By what accident of birth did I miss that all?

Anyhow, here's the review. I haven't seen a check for it. When I get it, if I get it, I plan to use it all to buy Cognac.

Gopnik Review

Discovered While Cleaning the Attic

2011-10-11T21:17:00.003-04:00

I delivered papers as a boy, beginning at age 10 with a route of 29 customers and quitting right before I turned 16 with somwhere over 140 - all the customers that got the Courier Express in my small home town of FallsCreek, PA. I amassed this formidable empire by absorbing the other paper routes as kids got sick of them. Sure, I spent hours after school (evening route) trudging through slush while avoiding the group of thugs that resided across town. Of course I smelled like ink every day, and my hands were stained black. But I had cash, free flowing tip money. And when those Christmas cards started showing up, look out!

Here I am pictured with my younger brother, whose route I absorbed soon after this picture was taken, paper domination global.

If you can read the text, I'd like to inform you that while Chuck still digs motorcycles and I, obviously, continue to be an amateur writer, we have moved past our shared interest in D+D.

From last October's newsletter

2011-09-29T10:26:00.000-04:00

October 2010

“Never Give an Inch”

My favorite novels are ones that tell stories of passionate and alienated anti-heroes trapped on a quest of their own design. Single-mindedly pursuing a ridiculous goal whose purpose lies in opposition to all their best interests, they neglect everything except that which is eminently material to the cause. The goal is true, and noble, and there is no question that it must be achieved. On the Path, those of lesser vision fall to the side, or are discarded. Great personal injuries occur, often leading to death at the fulfillment of the quest, or just before. But most of all, our hero’s wracked torture as he watches everything close stripped from him, trailing away in fish-eyed confusion, broken and torn by his mission, is the meat that keeps me turning the page. “Will he come to the conclusion that he is wasting everything?” “Will he die in his pursuit?” “Is there any compromise that he can fashion to achieve his truth and stay human?”

Unfortunately, in life, things do not get tidily wrapped up in 427 pages. The hero rarely gets to give everything for the one true holy thing. There are PTA meetings to attend, spouses and children, and it’s nice to keep a friend or two in pocket. This dilemma, the fractured interface of the ideal of the perfect restaurant with the compromise of reality, is where we, the Chefs, find ourselves. We believe in our vision; for the dish, for the concept, for the kitchen, for the restaurant. And the requirements of our trade make sacrifice a fundamental theme. We truly bleed for the craft, and sacrifice our backs and friends and weekends, and thrive in a milieu where the truest yardsticks are pain. How many hours spent over the stove, how wickedly scarring the burns, and how many screaming attacks survived are strung like black and jagged pearls along life’s string. The quest strips us, breaks us, isolates us, and we follow it through the darkness for our light at the end.

But the light is never to be found. Every day begins anew. No matter what the achievement of yesterday; covers served, excellent sauce, perfect medium rare, rocking service, today winds a new clock and sets it to tick. Yesterday’s masterpiece is gone, washed down with wine into the organic soup of life. Today we begin anew to bang nature’s raw products into form and flavor to please our eyes and tongues. When finished, they fly from us, never returning as we turn to the next plate. And so go the days and weeks and seasons and years, continually trying to accomplish the goal of assembling perfection amid the erratic beauty of this earth. The stone is rolled up,

But we believe that we can. That we will. That we HAVE to. And that if you don’t like it, then f__k off and go away and leave us to our mission. Because if you can’t be there with me, then I’ll do it myself. And for the hours of sweating, cursing, and screaming, we find the occasional bits of beauty and that keeps us moving forward.

That, and off color butternut squash humor.

But there is no redemption. A good chef believes that he or she is right, completely and without question. And this right needs not be questioned. To competently lead a disparate group of young men and women into the stressful pressures and conditions of service, they must be prepared to execute the commands of the chef. To question, to disobey, is to slow down the machine and break the flow. And without the flow, there is chaos. And chaos is the enemy of the restaurant. Only by applying incredible organization and control can the endless details of the evening’s dinner service be executed.

Chefs are jerks by definition. A chef is an egotistic creative control freak, usually with a neatness fixation. He has little patience for fools and no time for drama. Play your part, carry the weight, and step in line. This does not make for a great personal life as these traits carry into relationships with friends and family. Even with other restaurant people, the chef is alone. Between the competition with other chefs (don’t even try to deny it, every last one of you), the master/student relationship with the cooks, and the flirty yet distrustful connection to the servers, there is a quiet place where the Chef sits alone, even in the center of the room.

But we have no choice and love it. We grow, and adjust, and develop some ability to step back from the quest and breathe

Stone Soup for Chef in the Garden

2011-09-21T23:15:00.002-04:00

Making this on PGH Today Live in the AM (9/22/11) then 10 more times for kids @ Dilworth Traditional Academy for Chef in the Garden Thursday and Friday. I love the story and can't wait to tell it! Sharing, community, working together, and just a little sneakiness.

Stone Soup

1 ea. Stone, clean and hopefully sterilized

2 # Potatoes, diced

1 C. Lentils

2 ea. Bay leaves

1 C. Diced onion

1 C. Diced carrot

1 C. Diced Celery

3 ea. Garlic cloves, sliced

1 ea. Small bunch greens (mustard, kale, chard, sliced/chopped)

2 C. Green beans snipped and cut

4 C. Diced tomatoes

1 C. fresh cut corn

Whatever fresh herbs are available

Olive oil

Salt and pepper, very important

Splash of olive oil.

1 ea. Baguette, cut into chunks

1. Place stone in pot. Cover with water and season well with salt and pepper. Perform this act in full view of poor, hungry villagers.

2. Make a fire. Begin heating pot on fire. When first villager comes to question, describe the soup that you are making and that it would be delicious if only you had a few potatoes. When villager brings potatoes, dice them and add them.

3. When second villager arrives, describe how you are making Stone Soup and that it will be delicious, and that all you need is a few lentils. When villager brings them, add to soup. (Be careful to inspect the lentils for rocks before adding.)

4. Continue to suggest ingredients as villagers arrive. Add in sequence. Allow pot to simmer all the while. Chat with villagers. Relax around the fire.

5. Stir occasionally.

6. When olive oil and fresh herbs have been added, remove from fire. Ask if anyone has a stale chunk of bread. Cut it up to fit in bowls. Pour soup over bread. Serve everyone!

Grilled Hanger Steak, Fresh Creamed Corn, Warm Green Bean Salad with Pancetta Vinaigrette

2011-09-07T21:26:00.000-04:00

Grilled Hanger Steak, Fresh Creamed Corn, Warm Green Bean Salad with Pancetta Vinaigrette

4 ea. Hanger steaks, about 8 oz. each

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

2 # Assorted pole beans (green, wax, etc.) sliced thinly on a bias

½ # Arugula

Pancetta Vinaigrette

Fresh Creamed Corn

1. Make Pancetta Vinaigrette. Hold warm. Reserve extra rendered pancetta

2. Make Fresh Creamed Corn. Hold warm and covered.

3. Preheat grill.

4. Blot steaks dry. Lightly rub with olive oil and season well with salt and pepper. Grill to a nice medium rare.

5. Allow steaks to rest for 10 minutes.

6. Place beans in bowl. Drizzle with warm Pancetta Vinaigrette. Toss in arugula. Adjust salt and pepper.

7. Check creamed corn for seasoning and consistency. Adjust the latter with a little water if necessary.

8. Slice steak. Place a pool of creamed corn in the center of the plate. Fan steak over corn. Drape warm bean salad over the top.

Pancetta Vinaigrette

¼ C. Rice vinegar

¼ C. Red wine vinegar

¼ C. Balsamic vinegar

½ C. Diced, rendered pancetta

1 ea. Shallots minced

2 Tbs. Picked fresh thyme

Zest and juice of 2 lemons

1 Tbs. Sugar

½ C. Rendered pancetta fat, warm

½ C. Extra Virgin Olive Oil

1) Combine all ingredients in blender, except for pancetta fat and olive oil.

2) Start blender and slowly drizzle in oil and fat to emulsify. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Fresh Creamed Corn

6 ea. Ears corn

1 tbs. Chopped fresh thyme

salt and pepper

up to a ½ C. water

3 Tbs. Whole butter

1. Cut corn off cobs with a knife. After cutting off corn, scrape cobs with the edge of the knife

2. Place all corn and liquid into a skillet. Add thyme. Bring to a simmer.

3. Season well with salt and pepper. Adjust constancy with water if necessary.

Pork, the New Pink

2011-05-24T14:12:00.004-04:00

The USDA has finally realized that whole muscle pork meat is safe at temperatures much lower than those previously reported. From a very well done 160 degrees down to an acceptable 145 with a three minute rest. I can eat this.

This new guideline defies the tenets of Central Pennsylvainia pork chop cookery. Pork chops, the thin ones on sale at Riverside Market, are seasoned, floured, and fried, well, on two sides until the juices run clear. Grandma shingles them into her Pyrex dish and covers them with a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup. She pops this in her oven and lets it braise until bubbly. Mmm. I remember this meal being served with unseasoned canned green beans (that actually tasted good with the pork chop/mushroom soup "gravy") and steamed rice. Chew chew.

Grilled pork chops, another delicious dish. Unseasoned, unoiled, and sometimes undefrosted, the chops land on the screaming hot grill. They cook until bowing off the grill. By this point the chops are cooked pretty much through. We turn 'em now, allowing the second side to cook. Now exhausted, bowed into bowls from the tension of the silverskin, holding the last drops of desperate final juices, the chops are allowed to cook "the rest of the way". Luckily for all of us, grilled pork chops necessitate runny macaroni (not pasta) salad. Miracle Whip replaces the juices and flavor lost to fear.

Trichinosis nearly eradicated, incidence of bacteria inside whole muscle meat gone, the USDA awakens from its torpor to proclaim it safe to properly cook the muscle from the top of the pig. I imagine the joy at this news in Punxatawney.

"Mom, you mean we can have pork chops that don't suck the saliva out of our cheeks?"

A new day for America.

Feeding Hungry People With My Feet

2011-05-11T11:45:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow morning, I'll be on Pittsburgh Today Live. I'll be talking about the upcoming Pittsburgh Marathon and how big Burrito has promoted it among the staff. We are sponsoring 44 employees to enter, from first time half marathon walkers to full marathon runners hoping to qualify for Boston. There are relay teams galore as well as a number of chefs out to run the half. Danielle Cain, Sean Ehland, and myself will all be running the half. We all expect to die.

In addition to promoting health and general well-being among our teams, we are raising money for the Greater Pittsburgh Community Food Bank. Transforming, as it is, the fat calories on our butts into food calories on the plates of out less fortunate friends and neighbors. We have established a website for giving; big Burrito's Donation Site. Please take a moment and drop a few bucks on the hungry. I'd like to raise a total of $5,000 company-wide. We have exceeded the half way point but can use all the help we can get.

In case you are curious, I'll be cooking a pasta dish in the morning, Fresh Ricotta Cavatelli with Asparagus, Chicken, add A Lot of Fresh Herbs From My Garden. I'll be on the show first thing @ 9 AM, so tune in quickly.

Oh, and I'll be on air in the hot, new big Burrito Marathon shirt. And shorts.

BTW, here's the recipe:

Fresh Ricotta Cavatelli With Asparagus, Lemon, Chicken, and Herbs

1 # Ricotta Cavatelli (See below)

3-4 Tbs. Olive oil

4 ea. Small chicken breasts

3-4 ea. Small, young carrots, sliced thinly

3-4 ea. Cloves garlic shaved thinly

2 # Asparagus, cut into 1” chunks

zest of 1 lemon, julienned thinly or zested

juice of 2 lemons

2-3 Tbs. Fresh oregano, picked

1-2 Tbs. Fresh tarragon, picked

2 ea. Sprigs thyme, picked and chopped finely

A few leaves of lavender, chopped finely

½ C. Grated parmesan

Soft whole butter

Salt and pepper

Pine nuts

1.Place a pot of salted water on to boil.

2.Heat a wide skillet over medium heat. Add olive oil.

3.Add chicken breasts. Brown on both sides. Remove allow to cool slightly and slice.

4.Add carrots and garlic. Cook for 5 minutes or until barely tender.

5.Add asparagus, and lemon zest. Reduce heat. Add lemon juice

6.When at high boil, add cavatelli. Cook until pasta just floats. Drain and reserve pasta water.

7.Add pasta, herbs, cheese, and a little pasta water to vegetables making a little sauce.

8.Finish with butter. Place on plates and top with sliced chicken breast.

9.Sprinkle with pine nuts

Ricotta Cavatelli

1 # Lamagna ricotta

3 ea. eggs

4 C. All purpose flour

1.Combine ricotta and eggs in mixer fitted with dough hook. Mix well

2.Add flour. Mix for approximately five minutes.

3.Touch. If dough is sticky, add a little more flour. Mix.

4.Turn out onto counter. Wrap in plastic and allow to rest at least half an hour.

5.Roll dough out to ½” thickness. Cut into ¾” strips.

6.Roll through cavatelli maker onto lightly floured tray.

7.The pasta freezes excellently at this point. Make a lot and have it around.

Foie Gras Letter

2011-04-22T21:22:00.002-04:00

Ms. P..., Ms. O..., Ms. B..., and Mr. S...

Thanks for your notes. I understand your feelings and, upon review of the information supplied you, I fully understand your dismay. The images and claims of anti-foie gras literature make strong statements that are impossible to disregard. I know, they caught my attention too. If you'd allow, I'd like a moment to reply and share with you the knowledge I have acquired personally.

I have always deeply appreciated and fully respected the choices that people make when they eat. Every day, I and the almost 1000 people that work with me at big Burrito Restaurant Group feed thousands of people. We feed celiacs, diabetics, gluttons, anorexics, vegetarians, raw foodists, Atkins dieters, low carb dieters, high carb dieters, fat-free dieters, Kosher Jews, Christians eating only fish on Fridays, carnivores trying to observe meatless Mondays, local foodies, gourmands, people completely oblivious to any food politics and issues, and, of course, vegans. We take great pride on being able to provide food that is appealing, safe, delicious, satisfying, and healthy to everyone that comes through our door, no matter how they eat or what the eat or don't. And we take great care with the food we make watching for freshness, flavor, quality, and safety. And because there are only two interactions actions in life more intimate than placing food from one's hands into another's body, what we do, we do seriously and with respect.

Part of this duty we feel involves ensuring that the food we provide is safe and wholesome and is respectful to ourselves, the diner and the earth. We believe that there is honor in the efforts of the farmer to grow the tomatoes, the forager to find the ramps, the baker to make the bread, and the rancher who raises and kills animals. We also believe in cooking, we need to honor the ingredients, to respect the life that is passing so that we all may sustain ourselves. To waste food is to desecrate the sacrifice of the steer or wild ramp that died to feed us. Finally, we believe that to be able to serve the foods we do, we must have understanding of how these foods are produced, and what processes they endure to arrive at our back door. From understanding the three year lead time and annual spring harvest of the asparagus to knowing and seeing with our eyes the nature of the feedlot and slaughterhouse, we continually push to educate ourselves on all manner of food production.

Of course, there is more at stake in understanding the lifecycle of swordfish than in knowing the recent history of a head of cauliflower. In my lifetime as a cook and a chef, I have watched these powerful fish shrink from multi-hundred pound beasts to pups less then 90 pounds that were captured long before they matured to breeding age. This is why you'll almost never see us sell swordfish unless it is from a hand-harpooned animal well in excess of breeding size. I have visited slaughterhouses and chicken farms to witness first hand how the animals are raised, killed, and processed. The chicken we use, whether the chicken fajita at Mad Mex or the Heritage Farms chicken entree at Eleven, is from healthy birds that have lived with access to clean air and water, been allowed to socialize and move about, and are killed in a rapid, humane fashion. Furthermore, this meat needs to be processed cleanly, safely, and in a natural, healthy way.

So, it is in this vein that we looked into the industry of the production of foie gras. As we have looked into our hearts and at our food chain, we long ago decided that this process, one fraught with extravagant claims from both antagonists and supporters, one that engenders so much emotional response, necessitated our investigation. When we set out to understand this process more, we were absolutely surprised with what we observed. Honestly, we expected to be upset, to find that there was truth behind the grainy black and white pictures and frightening statistics spread by VFA and similar organizations. Would this have proven to be true, we would have ceased to serve the dish and to never serve it again. What we found at Hudson Valley Foie Gras was a model of animal care with a real dedication to the animals' welfare.

The birds are treated with better care than any animal production I have ever witnessed, including the pastured chickens raised for us by Heritage Farms. During the first part of their lives, four weeks or so, the ducks at Hudson Valley are free to wander about poultry houses, interacting and having access to unlimited food and water. The houses are well-ventilated and comfortable, although kept dim to ensure a calm environment. At that point, they are separated into large pens in groups of ten where they spend the last three weeks of their lives. From this point on, they only ever interact with one human person. This person provides all feeding and care for the next three weeks until the end of their lives. The attendant feeds them, brings water to them, monitors their health and well-being. The attendants are paid well and are generally congenial. The only stress evidenced is when, as the feedings are done and the handler moves the animals from one side of the pen to the other, the last duck expresses distress at being separated from his/her penmates. When they are killed and processed, it it with as much dignity as any process in any slaughterhouse we've seen.

Funny, but in all the years I have thought about foie gras, whether it was right or wrong, whether I was supporting an elitist, brutal food product or sharing a delicious morsel produced with care and dedication, I never until recently thought about how the economics of the process drive the care of the animals. In chicken farming, each 4# bird brings the farmer approximately $2, or about $0.50 a pound. The price per pound to a hog farmer or beef farmer is about the same. But in foie gras production, each 6# duck can bring the farmer up to $60, or around $10 per pound, most of that from the sale of the livers. If the livers are not top quality, which happens when the birds are ill or stressed, the farmer loses a lot of money. Liver quality is inverse geometricly related to animl stress. So it is within their best economic interests to treat the birds well as much as it is for Kobe beef producers to keep Waygu cattle happy. These farmers have learned, as many moder, holistic animal producers are learning, that to respect the health and happiness of the animal not only leads to a more humane existence for the animal but is economicly

So, is the purpose of this letter to convince you to love foie gras? No. Is it to convince you that eating meat is good and that you should renounce your values? No. It is simply to share with you the fact that our actions go not unconsidered, and that we do not serve things once living with callous disregard for their lives.

Thank you for your time.

Bill Fuller
big Burrito Restaurant Group
bill@bigburrito.com
@chefbillfuller
www.bigburrito.com

Foie Gras Letter

2011-04-22T21:22:00.001-04:00

This is a letter I wrote in response to a couple of letters in protest of us serving foie gras at Eleven:

Ms. P..., Ms. O..., Ms. B..., and Mr. S...

Thanks for your notes. I understand your feelings and, upon review of the information supplied you, I fully understand your dismay. The images and claims of anti-foie gras literature make strong statements that are impossible to disregard. I know, they caught my attention too. If you'd allow, I'd like a moment to reply and share with you the knowledge I have acquired personally.

I have always deeply appreciated and fully respected the choices that people make when they eat. Every day, I and the almost 1000 people that work with me at big Burrito Restaurant Group feed thousands of people. We feed celiacs, diabetics, gluttons, anorexics, vegetarians, raw foodists, Atkins dieters, low carb dieters, high carb dieters, fat-free dieters, Kosher Jews, Christians eating only fish on Fridays, carnivores trying to observe meatless Mondays, local foodies, gourmands, people completely oblivious to any food politics and issues, and, of course, vegans. We take great pride on being able to provide food that is appealing, safe, delicious, satisfying, and healthy to everyone that comes through our door, no matter how they eat or what the eat or don't. And we take great care with the food we make watching for freshness, flavor, quality, and safety. And because there are only two interactions actions in life more intimate than placing food from one's hands into another's body, what we do, we do seriously and with respect.

Part of this duty we feel involves ensuring that the food we provide is safe and wholesome and is respectful to ourselves, the diner and the earth. We believe that there is honor in the efforts of the farmer to grow the tomatoes, the forager to find the ramps, the baker to make the bread, and the rancher who raises and kills animals. We also believe in cooking, we need to honor the ingredients, to respect the life that is passing so that we all may sustain ourselves. To waste food is to desecrate the sacrifice of the steer or wild ramp that died to feed us. Finally, we believe that to be able to serve the foods we do, we must have understanding of how these foods are produced, and what processes they endure to arrive at our back door. From understanding the three year lead time and annual spring harvest of the asparagus to knowing and seeing with our eyes the nature of the feedlot and slaughterhouse, we continually push to educate ourselves on all manner of food production.

Of course, there is more at stake in understanding the lifecycle of swordfish than in knowing the recent history of a head of cauliflower. In my lifetime as a cook and a chef, I have watched these powerful fish shrink from multi-hundred pound beasts to pups less then 90 pounds that were captured long before they matured to breeding age. This is why you'll almost never see us sell swordfish unless it is from a hand-harpooned animal well in excess of breeding size. I have visited slaughterhouses and chicken farms to witness first hand how the animals are raised, killed, and processed. The chicken we use, whether the chicken fajita at Mad Mex or the Heritage Farms chicken entree at Eleven, is from healthy birds that have lived with access to clean air and water, been allowed to socialize and move about, and are killed in a rapid, humane fashion. Furthermore, this meat needs to be processed cleanly, safely, and in a natural, healthy way.

So, it is in this vein that we looked into the industry of the production of foie gras. As we have looked into our hearts and at our food chain, we long ago decided that this process, one fraught with extravagant claims from both antagonists and supporters, one that engenders so much emotional response, necessitated our investigation. When we set out to understand this process more, we were absolutely surprised with what we observed. Honestly, we expected to be upset, to find that there was truth behind the grainy black and white pictures and frightening statistics spread by VFA and similar organizations. Would this have proven to be true, we would have ceased to serve the dish and to never serve it again. What we found at Hudson Valley Foie Gras was a model of animal care with a real dedication to the animals' welfare.

The birds are treated with better care than any animal production I have ever witnessed, including the pastured chickens raised for us by Heritage Farms. During the first part of their lives, four weeks or so, the ducks at Hudson Valley are free to wander about poultry houses, interacting and having access to unlimited food and water. The houses are well-ventilated and comfortable, although kept dim to ensure a calm environment. At that point, they are separated into large pens in groups of ten where they spend the last three weeks of their lives. From this point on, they only ever interact with one human person. This person provides all feeding and care for the next three weeks until the end of their lives. The attendant feeds them, brings water to them, monitors their health and well-being. The attendants are paid well and are generally congenial. The only stress evidenced is when, as the feedings are done and the handler moves the animals from one side of the pen to the other, the last duck expresses distress at being separated from his/her penmates. When they are killed and processed, it it with as much dignity as any process in any slaughterhouse we've seen.

Funny, but in all the years I have thought about foie gras, whether it was right or wrong, whether I was supporting an elitist, brutal food product or sharing a delicious morsel produced with care and dedication, I never until recently thought about how the economics of the process drive the care of the animals. In chicken farming, each 4# bird brings the farmer approximately $2, or about $0.50 a pound. The price per pound to a hog farmer or beef farmer is about the same. But in foie gras production, each 6# duck can bring the farmer up to $60, or around $10 per pound, most of that from the sale of the livers. If the livers are not top quality, which happens when the birds are ill or stressed, the farmer loses a lot of money. Liver quality is inverse geometricly related to animl stress. So it is within their best economic interests to treat the birds well as much as it is for Kobe beef producers to keep Waygu cattle happy. These farmers have learned, as many moder, holistic animal producers are learning, that to respect the health and happiness of the animal not only leads to a more humane existence for the animal but is economicly

So, is the purpose of this letter to convince you to love foie gras? No. Is it to convince you that eating meat is good and that you should renounce your values? No. It is simply to share with you the fact that our actions go not unconsidered, and that we do not serve things once living with callous disregard for their lives.

Thank you for your time.

Bill Fuller
big Burrito Restaurant Group
bill@bigburrito.com
@chefbillfuller
www.bigburrito.com

Raku

2009-04-24T13:37:00.004-04:00

Had omakase at Raku in Las Vegas last night. Fantastic meal. While dishes came one after another, sometimes they came in clusters. Sometimes one dish was left to stand alone. This was one of the best meals I have had in a long time. It was fascinating to have this sort of rustic omakase at a tiny Japanese Charcoal Grill in a strip mall in Vegas and compare it in my mind to the refined omakase of Morimoto in his $10 million restaurant in Philadelphia. Earthy, smart, rich, balanced, interesting, humble, proud, and honest.

The run down:

Tofu Salad - home-made tofu, very delicate, with slices of plum tomato. topped with tiny dried fish. We were instructed to dress it ourselves with a green tea powder and house-made soy sauce. The texture of the tofu was delicate. Flavors subtle.

Asparagus Crispy Tempura - Asparagus spears dipped in Tempura batter then into crushed rice crackers and deep fried. Served at the same time as:

Potato With Corn - Wheels of corn on the cob but with the cob cut out and replaced by mashed potatoes. This was then lightly browned on both sides.

Fried Homemade Tofu in Hot Broth - What appeared to be and inverted dome of egg omelet was actually a raft of mashed, fried tofu in a smokey, rich broth. If I were told that there were ham hocks in the broth, I would have easily believed it. Except that no ham hock I ever cooked with gave that delicate of a smoke flavor. After pressing, I was told that the smoke came from the bonito flakes. I can feel the texture of the tofu as I portioned the raft with the ceramic soup spoon and the light crust split to give up the creamy center. Great textures. This was the first of three brothy courses.

Yari Ika ( Sweet Squid) - rolled large squid bodies, julienned, served with soy, wasabi, radish, finely grated fresh ginger. Favorite combo was the sweet squid with a bit of the ginger, a tiny bit of soy, and a slice of radish.

Kama Meshi (Salmon Rice) - Sushi rice brought to the table in a large bowl topped with ikura, crumbled cooked salmon, flecks of browned salmon shin, super-fine julienne of ginger and shiso. The server mixed it for us and spooned it into small bowls.

Negima-nabe (Bluefin Tuna with Tokyo Onion) - Cubes of bluefin tuna lightly poached in a dashi broth with half inch pieces of scallions. It was brought to the table in an earthenware pot over hot coals. The server quickly removed it from the fire after serving us because (she told us) it had cooked enough. The tuna was just cooked, not raw but barely cooked. I was lucky to get a stray cube of tuna that sat in the communal pot after each of us had been served. It was solid, normal poached tuna, a mute corpse of the angle of a few minutes before. Great to see the exactly perfect specimen and the barely-overdone-but-ruined model.

Poached egg with Sea Urchin and Salmon Roe - This was a cold dish. A barely poached chicken egg in a bit of liquid topped with ikura and uni. A study in cold richness, this was an opportunity to compare/contrast the three eggs.

Kobe Beef with Wasabi - Marinated cubes of Kobe beef filet skewered and grilled rare. A thin stream of fresh wasabi was drizzled on each skewer. The smoke of the grill (I was told the type of wood that was used there and promptly forgot) was light but present. The meat was super-tender and, of course, it's richness was well-balanced by the wasabi. This was served at the same time as:

Korobuta Pork Cheek - Small nuggets of pork, skewered and grilled and brushed with some marinade, were deliciously chewy. I wondered as they were served, what the texture would be. Would it be tender from long braising? Would it be chewy? It was the latter, but in a pleasant way. We chefs have grown accustomed to the long braise on our pig pieces these days and this intentional chewiness was a welcome reminder that we were eating meat, in fact, and maybe owed this pig a little effort, a little work, to appreciate his sacrifice.

Seaweed and Sea Urchin Soup - Another light but delicious broth, with tender cooked wakame and topped with pieces of uni. Reminded me of Japanese collard greens - soft cooked greens, richness of the roe standing in for the fatback, and the lightly salted broth like the collard pot juices.

Grilled Squid - A single large squid was grilled whole and chopped into large pieces. We were given a half a key lime, freshly grated ginger, and a little soy to garnish it. The squid was tender, but with a touch of intelligent chewiness like the pork cheek. This dish was the only dish that had any obvious use of acid and a flavor element.

Green Tea

The tiny bathroom with the ceiling of flowers and the recorded sounds of birds singing was one of many indications of the complete attention to comfort. Every dish was beautiful with excellent textures, the service staff was gracious, happy, and helpful.

Great meal.

Eating Appalachia, Part 2

2009-03-25T13:26:00.002-04:00

Eating Appalachia: The Pursuit of Fried Squirrel

March 20, 2009, 12:00 pm

In this second installment of a four-part series exploring Appalachian cuisine (read part one here), Eat Me Daily’s Kathleen Willcox explores the rapidly evolving culinary scene across Appalachia. With recipes! Today, we're looking for places to get some real, authentic Appalachian grub.

What does a girl need to do to get some fried squirrel and boiled groundhog up in here? For all the talk of Appalachia's family farms, robust produce, and idiosyncratic recipes, the true test is tracking the real stuff down. Traditional dining is getting harder and harder to come by as fast food chains, ho-hum burger joints and fancified but ultimately uninspired and insipid takes on cuisine you can just as easily find in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan or Greenwich, Connecticut.

I figured if anyone had fried squirrel, it would be the ground zero for authentic (if old-school) Appalachian culture: Clinton, Tennessee's Museum of Appalachia. The throngs of tourists might think they're coming for enchanting exhibits of traditional quilts, toys, musical instruments, baskets and furniture, or for glimpses of whimsical beauty amid hardscrabble lives. But what they wind up staying for is the food, so irresistable that it's a favorite among locals as well, who come daily sniffing their way down memory lane for fried green tomatoes, fried apple pies, and meat and two — a meat of the day with the choice of two sides.

Photo by jsrice00

From Farmers to Miners

The kitchen at the Museum of Appalachia is run by Faye Smiddy, who is almost 85 and has no plans to retire anytime soon, thanks very much. Smiddy vividly recalls both a carefree life on her family farm and a very different one in a coal-mining camp: “I lived on my family’s farm until I got married,” she told me. “My mother starting teaching me how to cook as soon as I could sit up. We grew all our own vegetables and meat too – beef, pork and chicken. The only time we all left the farm was for coal-mining camp in 1931; we lived there for 10 years or so because dad could make more in the coal mines. But life in the camps wasn’t as good – especially the food.”

That's more than just one woman's opinion. The coal-mining industry dropped on the region with all of the grace of an atom bomb. When coal mines came to Appalachia, they knew they’d hit more than mere anthracite – they’d hit pay dirt. Well into the 20th century, coal industry bigwigs found makeshift roads, zero electricity and a population of willing workers who up until that point had spent their whole lives farming, trapping, hunting and cutting timber.

While some fled the reach of the mining corporations, many were attracted by the steady work and decent pay. While they brought with them better roads and electricity, the mines also did fine work breaking down the region's reliance on family farms. Smiddy and her eight siblings were hardly the only ones directly affected by the coal-mining industry’s steely-eyed determination to force-feed modern times (and modern food) down locals’ throats.

Photo by Southern Foodways Alliance

You Can Take it With You

The radical lifestyle change brought by the mining industry nearly demolished the old ways of life, and in response, people like Smiddy have made careers out of undoing what the mines have done, devoting themselves to the preservation of traditional Appalachian dishes, sharing them with younger generations, and laughing in the face of the Applebee's reign of terror.

While Smiddy doesn’t live on a farm anymore, she loves serving traditional Appalachian food to people who’ve never experienced it – especially in the spring and summer, when she can gather fresh ingredients from the museum’s garden.

“Kids in Appalachia don’t eat the way they used to, but no matter what they’re used to, our chicken n’ dumplings are always popular,” Smiddy said. “The tourists love it too. Everyone loves chicken n’ dumplings! Oh, and the desserts – the Appalachian Cream Pie and the Fried Apple Pies are always the first to go.” Sadly for my search, there's no fried squirrel on the menu. But if you call ahead, Smiddy will happily set aside an entire pie or cake so you can take it home with you.

Photo by rjones0856

A Return to the Roots

In pursuit of that crispy fried-up rodent, I chatted with the communications and marketing coordinator at the Appalachian Sustainable Agriculture Project, Rose McLarney. The ASAP, based in North Carolina, helps family farmers find markets in restaurants, hospitals, and cafeterias. While McLarney couldn’t help me with my squirrel hunt, she did give me hope about the future.

“We’re seeing a huge resurgence of interest in traditional Appalachian foods,” McLarney said. “Younger farmers are getting interested in growing both heritage vegetables and tending to heritage varieties of meat. They’re committed to sustainable growth practices and grass-fed meat – they’ve found that both the vegetables and the meat tastes fresher and better when it’s cultivated naturally and residents and restaurants are responding."

One of ASAP's goals is cultivating interest in Appalachia's agricultural heritage, and it's working. McLarney continued: "People are recommitting to preserving their cultural roots. They’re committed to going out to local farmer’s markets every week to connect with the people who grew their food instead of just buying something in a grocery store. The influx of convenience foods definitely changed many people’s diets and their approach to food for a long time, but I really see people taking a step back and reassessing.”

David Darugh, the webmaster for the Georgia Mountains Foodways Alliance and the owner and operator (along with his wife Gayle) of the Beechwood Inn in Clayton, Georgia, agrees: “We’ve been shocked by the response to the Foodways Alliance,” Darugh said. “At our first meeting two years ago, we were expecting five people. Eighty showed up; and now we have dozens of small farmers, wineries, orchards, basically any form of farm-to-table producers, involved. Every generation for the last 100 years or so got farther away from living off the land and traditional cuisines, but now people are starting to realize just how much they stand to lose for the sake of convenience and they’re banding together before the traditions are gone forever.”

Photo by Jacob...K

Taking Fried Squirrel into Your Own Hands

So is fried squirrel gone forever? Sure, it's a little bit of an Appalachian cliche, but all cliches start somewhere. Other than borrowing pa's gun and taking matters into your own hands, there's got to be a way.

If you happened to be around when the Travel Channel’s Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern zipped into Showshoe, West Virginia, you might have had the chance. Brian Bell, head chef at Snowshoe's Embers Restaurant, lured Zimmern and his crew to tape him at work with squirrel – even though he’d never before cooked the critter. The result: squirrel au vin, chicken-fried squirrel, and skewered squirrel leg. Ball and his crew didn’t stop there — they really get to the good stuff, cracking open the skulls, old-school style, and eating the brains. “I guess the flavor reminded me of foie gras,” Ball told the Charleston Daily Mail. “It had a really smooth, velvety texture. It was a little like the texture of hard-boiled egg yolk, but smoother.”

But since the Andrew Zimmern roadshow has packed up and left town, and Ball hasn't put squirrel on his permanent menu, there's an easier option: TheWest Virginia Road Kill Cook-Off, an annual autumn harvest festival where the discerning glutton can sample possum, groundhog, polecat, squirrel gravy, bear, and other culinary delights. This year it's September 26th, and the squirrel will be a-flowing.

Recipe: Faye Smiddy's Fried Apple Pie

If you don’t can’t up and high-tail it to Appalachia, but you all this talk of fried deliciousness has you hankering for some home-cooking here’s a recipe courtesy of Faye Smiddy at the Museum of Appalachia, that should hit the spot:

Ingredients:
6 Cups of Granny Smith Apples (cored, peeled and chopped)
1 tsp. Salt
3 tsps Allspice
3 1⁄2 cups sugar
3⁄4 cup water
4 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsps baking powder
1 tsp salt
1⁄2 cup milk
1 1⁄2 cup shortening

1. Mix apples and next 4 ingredients and cook on medium heat until thick. Set aside.
2. Cut shortening into dry ingredients until crumbly. Add milk.
3. Roll out dough on floured surface and cut into 6 inch round shapes.
4. Put about 2 tablespoons of apple mixture in the middle of the dough, fold over once into a half round shape. Crimp the edges with a fork to seal.
5. Fry in hot oil (not too much!) until golden brown.

Makes approximately 16-18 individual-serving apple pies.

— Kathleen Willcox

Earlier on Eat me daily:

Eating Appalachia: In Search of Real American Cuisine in Hidden Hollers

Tags: America, Appalachia, Features, locavorism, Recipes, regional cuisine, squirrel

2009-03-16T13:27:00.003-04:00

Here is an article that hits pretty close to home. From Eat Me Daily, one of the many food blogs worth following.

Eating Appalachia: In Search of Real American Cuisine in Hidden Hollers

March 12, 2009, 2:00 pm

Photo by Radio Rover

What qualifies as truly American cuisine? In this first installment of a four-part series, Eat Me Daily’s Kathleen Willcox explores the question through the prism of Appalachia and its intrinsically delightful, regional cooking style. With recipes!

From the American Revolution onward, food wonks have been doing battle over the definition (and very existence) of authentically American cookery. James Beard himself wasn’t even positive if there was such a thing as American cuisine, saying that “I think we have good food and we don’t need to label it. We have one important thing that grew up in this country and that is the definition of regional cooking … we have a breadth of view and understanding.”

Beard was onto something. Among other things, the sheer size, immigration and settling patterns of the United States has snookered any attempt to document, define and dispatch, a la Careme and Escoffier in France, a systematic distillation of our sprawling, disparate nation’s various food traditions into one neat package. Instead, we’re left with a wealth of delightful regional cuisines to celebrate and fight over, all of which are developed and perpetuated by the tried-and-true methods of word of mouth and recipe swaps. The food of Appalachia is perhaps the truest example of this hyperlocal, community-driven cuisine.

Photo by cw

The origins of the original

"Regional cuisines develop in unpredictable ways and spread like wildfire,” Mark Sohn told me. Sohn, a writer and expert on mountain food, has lived in Appalachia for three decades and the scribe of the soon-to-be released Bourbon: A Kentucky Tradition (American Foodways Press, March 2009) “It’s very possible for one dish to develop in a tiny geographical area and just fan out into the region at large; or just remain unique to the tiny town it was developed in. Take France: each tiny region has a cheese or a wine, often created by one family of cheese or winemakers that’s particular to that area.”

Despite its unique position as one of the oldest, most constant forms of American cookery, classic Appalachian cuisine is the red-headed stepchild of regional cuisines. Sohn enumerated Appalachia’s culinary idiosyncracies: “It has ingredients like ramp and sassafras; recipes like dried apple stack-cakes, cream-pull candy and sweet potato biscuits, and unique pairings like potatoes and gravy and all kinds of things with bologna, from gravy to a salad we have called funeral home salad.” And the roots run deep — “it really goes back as far as 15,000 or so years ago when you had Cherokee people settle in the region. Then of course, Italians, Germans, English, Scots, Irish, Spanish and even more recently, Hispanic immigrants came and they all influenced the food traditions, initially incorporating their European roots with foods that the native populations ate. White settlers were helped immeasurably by the native population and their mark remains on the food today.”

The holy trinity of Appalachian ingredients is corn, beans and squash – something that has remained unchanged for hundreds, if not thousands of years — when white settlers arrived, they found those crops and others already being grown by Native Americans. Because the region is geographically isolated, settlers and successive generations ate what they could grow. As a result, traditional Appalachian food is flavored with locally grown ramps, hot chilies, ginger, honey, sweet sorghum syrup. It's all brought home with a generous dose of lard and meat drippings — meat, primarily roasted or smoked pork and chicken, was generally used as a flavoring ingredient, not the main attraction.

Photo by jon1204pdt

The accidentally hip cuisine

Often, Appalachia’s trademark dishes look like they belong on chicly worn New Brooklyn Cuisine restaurant menus. It wouldn't be out of place to see ironically mulleted hipsters ordering preparations like like chow chow, a pickled vegetable relish comprised of local vegetables including cabbage, lima beans, apples, green tomatoes, green beans, onions, corn and cucumbers; or dishing up ten bucks for a serving of soup beans, a pinto bean dish flavored with pork, lard and salt.

Contemporary food hipsterdom seems to have intersected almost uncannily with the foundations of Appalachian cuisine. A natural adoption of local, sustainable, and organic principles means that Appalachia really should be ground zero for city-slickers planning their next culinary odyssey.

But interestingly, the region and its entire glorious repertoire of (unintentionally virtuous) delights is generally overlooked and ignored. And it’s not just food-trend obsessed blowhards who fail to recognize the potential of Appalachian cooking; the region and its cuisine are dismissed offhand by vitually everyone who isn’t from the region. It’s hard not to think that this neglect comes from a place ofsnobbery, ignorance and an irrational fear of hillbillies — a group Sohn calls “the last acceptable stereotype.”

Photo by cw

Who's afraid of hillbillies?

The thing is, Appalachia isn’t all hillbillies. “What people have to understand is that most of the people out here are just regular middle-class folks,” Sohn said. “Sure there are problems, but problems exist everywhere. Very few people have gardens these days, never mind farms with pigs and chickens running around. Maybe 1 in 10,000 people out here has a pig it’s raising as a hobby – but most people just don’t want to see that.” Sohn mentions a recent episode of the show 20/20 that purported to show the “real” Appalachia. “A lot of people I’ve talked to out here think the region was not represented accurately at all.”

Though some residents in the area believed the show (featuring families marked by incest, drug addiction, alcoholism, ne’er do wells and, yes, Mountain Dew-induced tooth decay) was not entirely without journalistic merit, its oversimplification of Appalachian culture left most residents of the region appalled. The mayor of Hazard, Kentucky, rather succinctly referred to it as a “load of crap.”

Too late for the real thing?

Many in-the-know food hounds may have been discouraged from sniffing around the fragrant hills and valleys of Georgia, Kentucky and Tennessee by a fear of a Deliverance-style ass-whooping, but those who aren’t may be too late. The purity of the region’s agriculture and cuisine has been slowly fading as the coal mine industry, McDonald’s, and microwave meals moved in and replaced independent farms, homemade chicken and dumplings, and front-yard gardens. Like the rest of the country, most Appalachians opt to pick up a Quarter Pounder with cheese or a box of Bisquick instead of going to all that trouble to whip up a pork salad or new potatoes and gravy.

There is hope though – as Appalachia finally starts to move onto the national culinary stage, an unofficial movement is afoot among local restaurateurs, cultural talking heads, and general fans. They're starting to preserve the recipes, cooking style, and commitment to traditional, locally grown food, working to keep Appalachia's culinary bounty from disappearing along with the region’s ad-hoc gardens and hand-raised chickens and pigs.

In spite of the region's slow decline (and due in some part to the folks committed to its preservation), there are still enclaves of authentic Appalachia that flourish. In future installments on Appalachian grub, we’re going to explore the best places to (still!) find authentic chow chow and soup beans, the best under-the-radar mountain food fests, and the current — and future — state of Appalachian cuisine. To tide you over, here’s a tried-and-true mountain recipe, courtesy of Sohn, that’s sure to make you want to holler for the hollers.

–Kathleen Willcox

Recipe: Dried Apple Stack Cakes

This authentic Appalachian recipe is courtesy of Mark Sohn

Note: The apple filling should be prepared ahead of time and allowed to cool.

For dried apple filling:
18oz soft-dried apples
4 3/4 cups water or apple cider
1 cup sugar
1 tsp. ginger
1 tsp. ground nutmeg

For stack cake:
5 cups plus 1/4 cup flour, divided
1/2 cup sugar
2 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. salt
1 cup melted shortening
1 cup pure sweet sorghum (you can substitute molasses or dark corn syrup)
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla

For the glaze:
1 1/4 cups sugar
1/3 cup water
1/4 cup shortening or butter
1 tsp. ginger
1 tsp. vanilla

For the filling:
1. Bring apples, water and sugar to a boil and let simmer for 30 minutes, stirring to combine.
2. Stir in ginger and nutmeg. Using a mixer, food processor or potato masher, break up apples and blend until they have an applesauce-like consistency. Let cool before proceeding with the cake and glaze.

For the cake:
1. Heat oven to 350 degrees and grease several 9-inch non-stick cake pans. (You can reuse pans if necessary).
2. Mix the 5 cups flour and other dry ingredients in large bowl, reserving the 1/4 cup flour.
3. Make a well in center of flour mixture and pour in shortening, sorghum and vanilla. Crack the eggs, and drop them in. Whisk until well-mixed. Using your hands, slowly incorporate flour as you would with bread. When the dough is dry enough to handle easily, stop adding flour. (If the dough is too dry, moisten it with a little water).
4. Roll the dough into a log and cut into 6 equal-sized pieces . Form the pieces into balls and evenly roll in the extra 1/4 cup flour.
5. Roll out each ball, making rounds that are 8-9 inches in diameter. Place each layer (by rolling or folding) in a greased 9-inch pan. Unroll dough and pat evenly across bottom. Bake 12 minutes or until brown on edges and light brown across the top. Repeat for each layer.
6. Remove layers from oven and cool on racks. When all layers are cool, spread filling and stack layers.

To assemble:
1. Place first layer on cake plate and spread 3/4 cup filling over each layer. Repeat with each layer, leaving the top layer uncovered.
2. Let the cake stand six to 12 hours at room temperature (this allows moisture from the filling to seep into the layers). Refrigerate 12-36 hours before serving.
3. Brush the top of the cake with egg white before it’s refrigerated or just prior to serving. Dust with powdered sugar. Serve as is, or with glaze.

For the glaze:
1. Combine sugar and water in small saucepan over high heat. Bring to boil, simmer for eight minutes or until it reaches the soft ball stage (around 234 to 236 degrees).
2. Remove from heat, slice and stir in butter or shortening, then ginger and vanilla. Pour glaze over cake, starting at the edges, dripping it down the sides. Spread remainder on top of cake with a knife.

Tags: America, Appalachia, Features, locavorism, Recipes, regional cuisine

Pittsburgh, Solid

2008-10-14T13:30:00.002-04:00

We have water, resources, affordable living spaces, friendly people, and, somehow, our economy is a great example of sustainability. See the story:

Time Magazine Story About Pittsburgh Economy

Articles in Restaurants and Institutions

2008-10-03T10:30:00.002-04:00

Nice mention in this gazpacho article.
And taquitos here.

Rachel Ray and Soundgarden

2008-09-30T22:41:00.006-04:00

At the gym tonight, trying to treadmill away a few bottles of wine, I clicked on the TV to the food network. I normally don't do this, and normally can't stand the treadmill for more than five minutes, but I was armed with a new set of headphones and wanted to try out the individual treadmill TV with said headphones. I usually try to run to CNN with no sound - no 'phones = no sound - and the 4 minute news cycle is perfect for my limited appreciation of the charms of the treadmill.

But tonight, I switched on the Food Network and there was Rachel Ray (hereafter referred to as RR). RR was making chili mac. She didn't call it that, just kept referring to the combination of pasta in meat sauce with chili. But it was true chili mac, and a nice one. I watched, listening through the new headphones, for a good fifteen minutes. At the commercial break, I popped the plug out and back into my ipod. I picked Soundgarden's "Badmotorfinger". Easily one of the best three albums of all time. I kept running, picking up the paste with 'Rusty Cage".

Then RR came back on. Silent, of course, but digging the food and the camera, moving lushly around the kitchen, smashing a garlic clove with that huge smile, and leaning over to show that huge rack, and I got it. Again. I love RR. And I love Soundgarden. And the modern heavy metal grunge of Badmotorfinger fits perfectly with RR' curves and obvious love of food.

Confused? I was too. Now, four hours and two glasses of wine later, I am working to tease the connection out of my mind. Why? I love Soundgarden. Great sound, great album (BMF) that changed my perception of music forever. Blasting and morose and brutal and beautiful. Described by one reviewer as a "funeral dirge for the millennia" or somesuch. Peak of their creativity and of grunge heavy metal.

I also love RR. She is fun and loves food and loves life and laughs loud and a lot. I'd like to spend a long weekend with her in a t-top Camaro touring northern Arizona with a bottle of vodka in a bag of ice on the floor. Rob a convenience store with squirt guns and hole up in a Holiday Inn. Laugh all day long and grab burgers from the diner and sleep 'till noon. Not creepy or sexy, just blasting through the sun and having a ball and throwing litter out of the car as we finish burger and beer.

How do they go together? I feel it, but struggle to say it. The small town teenboy, cruising McDonald's Friday night cranking Rush and digging the girls with the tight Chic jeans, too young yet to run to fat but definitely headed there, he digs them both. The chef that just wants his music and his food to be bold and powerful, simple and strong on the surface with a complex detail accenting the basic, he digs them both. The man that longs for the simple, solid sounds and tastes, but unable to let go into solid stolidity, he digs them.

Rachel Ray and Soundgarden.

For President.

http://www.last.fm/music/Soundgarden/Badmotorfinger

Grandma Pie

2008-09-11T11:32:00.005-04:00

My grandmother, Ruth Marie Ball Fuller, died recently. She was old, 85, and had lived a long, hard-working life. In the end, she just decided to go to sleep. It had been some time since I'd seen her. In fact, it had been a long time since I was around the family and the hometown at all. I was one of those, "When I graduate I am outta here!" small town kids that really never looked back. In the intervening years, my memories of my relatives faded to gray as I lived outside the verbal history loop that families use to remind themselves of who they are.

Grandma shot crisply back into focus when, at the viewing and at the funeral, the preacher, my dad and uncle and aunt, family friends, cousins, and neighbors laughed and joked about Grandma Fuller's famous sweet tooth. Seems she loved cookies, pie, and fudge. Of course. Who doesn't. And in the aggressively independent DIY life of the Fullers, she made them all herself. Of all of her baking, her pies were the best. Every dinner, it seemed, had a pie or two at the end. Thanksgiving had a table full. Of course, if you didn't eat, there was no pie. And we all ate to eat pie. Even green beans.

My favorite story, one that I hadn't heard in probably thirty years, was of the two pie day. Seems, that after making the pie for dinner one autumn morning, Grandma decided to cut just a sliver to taste it. I guess it was good, because she cut another little sliver. I know it was good, because she ate the whole thing buy lunchtime. Now, the only way we know this story was from testimony of her neighbor. Seems Grandma didn't have enough sugar to make the second and quietly slipped next door to borrow some, hoping to have a second pie ready for dinner before hungry husband and kids returned home. She pulled it off and had the second pie on the table, only to years later be outed by her neighbor. Grandma, I'd have eaten the whole pie too, and tried to sneak a new one out of the oven before I was found out.

I remember the plastic pie rolling sheet that she worked on - opaque plastic imprinted with red circles to measure crust and conversion charts. Worn and floured, every single pie shell was rolled out onto it. And every shell was laid into clear glass pie pans, filled with hand-peeled and cut local (from the yard or down the street) apples, topped with crust, and baked in her old oven. We were admonished to not mess with it until it was cool as we burned our finger to dip in the crust drizzle at the edge.

I ate a lot of those pies. And until her death, never realized how much they were missed. Thank you Grandma Fuller.

(And yes, she was my elementary school Lunch Lady.)

Her obituary below.




	FULLER

Ruth Marie Ball Fuller, DuBois, 85, died Saturday at the DuBois Nursing Home.
Born Dec. 17, 1922, she was the daughter of the late Daniel and Ada M. Potts Ball. She was married to William L. "Let" Fuller. He preceded her in death Feb. 25, 1995.
She worked at Olive Avenue and Highland Street grade school cafeterias for 21 years before retiring in 1985.
She was a member of the Mt. Zion United Methodist Church. She was a life member of the Sandy Hose Company Ladies Auxiliary and the Daughters of the American Revolution, where she had served as a registrar and as a past regent.
She is survived by two sons, William L. Fuller Jr. of New Bethlehem and Ronald J. Fuller of Lemoyne; one daughter, Mrs. James (Susan) McLaughlin of Knoxdale; 12 grandchildren; 20 great-grandchildren; and several nieces and nephews.
She was the last surviving member of her immediate family and was preceded in death by two brothers, Daniel and Arthur Ball; one sister, Dorothy Gearheart; and one grandson, Ronald J. Fuller Jr.

FULLER: Ruth Marie Ball, DuBois, died Aug. 16, 2008. Friends will be received from 2-4 and 7-9 p.m. today at the Mohney-Yargar Funeral Chapel Inc. in DuBois. Daughters of the American Revolution will hold a service at 2:15 p.m. today at the funeral home. A funeral service will be held at 11 a.m. Wednesday at the funeral home with the Rev. Ron Lindahl officiating. Burial will be in Morningside Cemetery, DuBois. Memorial donations may be made to Agape Community Services, 320 W. Long Ave., DuBois PA 15801 or to a charity of the donor's choice. On-line tributes may be made at www.mem.com.

The Omnivore's Hundred

2008-09-05T09:32:00.005-04:00

Not my idea originally, but fun. My comments are in italics.

Here is the original link:

http://www.seriouseats.com/2008/08/the-omnivores-hundred-akuban.html

The Omnivore’s Hundred

Here’s a chance for a little interactivity for all the bloggers out there. Below is a list of 100 things that I think every good omnivore should have tried at least once in their life. The list includes fine food, strange food, everyday food and even some pretty bad food - but a good omnivore should really try it all. Don’t worry if you haven’t, mind you; neither have I, though I’ll be sure to work on it. Don’t worry if you don’t recognise everything in the hundred, either; Wikipedia has the answers.

Here’s what I want you to do:

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile (Aligator, yes)
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Of all of them, I am a little embarrassed to have missed horse, insects, Blue Mountain Coffee, Roadkill and Haggis. I will definitely look for Phaal on any and every Indian menu I see (but I believe that it is probably only really good in India, maybe London).

And I have to try poutine.

Looks like I have some eating to do!

Margarine

2008-07-07T21:15:00.002-04:00

Growing up, we had no butter in our house. It was too expensive. Period. We always bought only what was cheaper. This included but was not limited to whipped margarine, mealy hot dogs with secret bone chips, discount grocery store brand pop, off-brand spam, white bread, and endless bologna. Butter cost twice margarine and that was that. I didn't have it until I left home at seventeen.

I, of course, never thought much of it. I knew that Country Crock was better than the supermarket brand. But I knew too that, while it was better, I never really liked it. We put it on white toast though, in great melting heaps, and passed the toast to our mother to cover with a thick layer of sugar and cinnamon (which we always kept handy) then drizzle the mess with coffee. The best result of this was a thick layer of coffee-moistened sugar - not dissolved but melted into a thick, sweet sludge with oily yellow margarine streaks. At times, however, there would be a gap in the sugar or the coffee would pool and punch through the sugar to soak the toast to mush. Or my mom would try to save money by buying a cheaper brand of margarine resulting in a slimy mouth-feel.

I found butter at the Occidental. There was never margarine in that restaurant, and butter everywhere. It went into everything. Everywhere. I learned to cook with butter there; in sauces, to finish a vegetable, to brown with oil sauteeing fish, everywhere. At the Occidental, we used only Beaver Meadow brand butter, manufactured in DuBois, PA. My hometown. How did it end up here? We stockpiled the labels as we unwrapped the blocks, using the red, white, and blue wax paper to cover foods as we cooked and held them. When the mashed potatoes were finished and placed in sixth pans, we'd cover them with butter paper. A piece of sauteed fish, waiting on a resting rack to be picked up, was protected with a butter paper. Poaching sweetbreads, you get the idea.

But, "if there was so much butter, why did we eat only margarine in DuBois?" I didn't much like it at first. Soft, it wasn't firm enough and spread mushy. Cold it wouldn't spread. Pain in the ass. Needs management. Not engineered to be spreadable at all temperatures. Why? But we kept pans of butter out at kitchen temperature. It softened, sometimes warming too much and melting. But we worked long days, with little time to eat. One quick nibble was always available - bread. A piece of bread coming off the table, grabbed from the server as they returned from the dining room, swiped through the butter and sprinkled with kosher salt, keeps the line cook motor humming.

So, I digress. Margarine. I never touch the stuff. Butter, butter. When it was reported a few years ago that, no duh, butter was healthier than margarine, I was overjoyed. Margarine sucks.

Local Chicken Stock in a Box

2008-05-29T13:57:00.005-04:00

When asked what to use instead of home made stock, I usually suggest Kitchen Basics brand chicken stock. Clean, simple flavor without a lot of sodium, MSG, and other junk, I use it at home if I am a little light on homemade. I found out today that they are based in Brecksville, Ohio, a little south of Cleveland. Who knew?

Pig Roasting

2008-05-28T09:24:00.011-04:00

I roasted a pig this weekend. Slow cooking and all day discussion of the pig, what it will taste like, is it going too slow, and man does it smell good. Thursday night we prepared our sacrifice. We splayed it flat, inserted serrano chilies and cracked garlic cloves into slits in the exposed inside flesh, rubbed the whole thing with chopped garlic and black pepper, and covered it with sliced limes, thyme, and oregano. We placed the head in the belly and tied the whole pig back 'round to marinate. Sunday morning (7AM), we built the pit, wired the pig on the rack, started a fire with good charcoal and McConnell's Farms apple wood, and prepared to start the pig. We were on schedule, the pig looked great, and the machine of this long day had been properly set in motion. In a burst, I decided to put a little more charcoal on before we started the cooking. Get it going good. My opinion was met with disapproval.

I didn't listen.

We placed the pig over the pit, covered her up, and started the rest of the day. I returned about 20 minutes later to find the bottom of the pit on fire and the back of the pig blackened. Emergency operations ensued - putting out the fire, opening the sides of the pit to allow the heat to escape, putting out the charcoal. Once the disaster was stalled, we turned the pig to look. Crispy black and smoking. Three previously excited chef faces looked and me, crestfallen. Really crestfallen, never a more appropriate time to use the word. The day had stalled, collapsed, disintegrated, and died in the pit. I didn't look at them, I felt them trying not to look at me, trying not to look at each other.

Only one solution, move forward. We surrounded the pig and removed the burnt skin with fingers and tiny tongs. For a final rinse, we stood the pig rack up and washed her down. The pig was returned to the pit skin side down, a light, smokey apple wood fire re-kindled, and we proceeded gently.
It turned out mostly fine. The meat was tender and delicious, especially in the belly, of course. There was a nice smoke flavor with no trace of acrid burnt skin aftertaste. but the golden, smoked, browned, crackling, fat-seeping skin was not there, giving us a sad, ugly pig to serve.

Every day we seem to re-learn what we have known for our whole lives. Take the slow things slow, start solid, and follow along. Fast processes go fast and slow go slow and respect must be paid to each type in turn. Start the pig slow, catch up as the day goes if you need to, be flexible with the finish time.

Read This!

2008-04-03T11:28:00.002-04:00

Nice article on cured meats and Parma by Virginia Phillips in Pittsburgh Quarterly.

http://www.pittsburghquarterly.com/pages/fall2006/fall2006_84foodfare.htm

Two Signs of Spring

2008-03-31T22:53:00.000-04:00

A pretty little girl in an Easter dress and freshly popped crocuses.

Pig Shirt

2008-03-31T22:35:00.004-04:00

In case you can't read it, the box is a pig butchering key. You can get one at the link below.
http://thewarehousesite.spreadshirt.com/us/US/Shop/Index/index

Beef, it aint for dinner

2008-02-19T22:43:00.002-05:00

So, I am now grossed out. After sufficient footage of downer cows being cattle prodded, shoved with forklifts, and walking on seemingly backward-growing legs; after seeing bizarre fatty tumors in the middle of a muscle on a loin of supposedly USDA Prime beef as I cut it; after recalls and recalls and recals; I am done. I am no longer choosing beef as a meat. I will eat it for professional reasons, but not indiscriminately.

Of course, I will look for options in humanely raised beef. I will seek out grass-fed, well-tended flocks as soon as I can. I will bring to the table clean and safe beef. As a chef, it is my duty.

But as an eater, I am completely in love with the pig right now. It is a holy animal, edible from tail to snout, easy to grow, easy to preserve, easy to eat. Why worry about infected beef supply when we are already cooking pork to safe temperatures and the lure of tartare is not there? Why have a steak when a sexy young generation of butchers are creating poetry with swine? Why worry about marbeling and pay $25/# for Prime steer loin when well-marbled pork loin is at most 1/4 that price? And what is the beef equivalent of jambon serrano, prosciutto, or Virginia ham? And the beef equivalent of bacon? We pay a bunch of money for beef steaks and turn the rest, some 85%, int cheap burger meat. Completely unsustainable.

Viva la Swine! The only thing you can't produce out of a pig is good whiskey.

Ten Food Goals for 2008

2008-02-03T09:32:00.001-05:00

So it is February 3. I don't care. Here is what I will be doing about my relationship to food in 2008:

1. Convert my home eating to more local. Call it laziness, or lack of planning, but I got awfully far from being a good locavore. We do way better at the restaurants than I do in the house. I'll subscribe to a CSA, order my swine and chicken from farmers, hit the farmers' markets at least once a week, and get back on the program.

2. Focus on the quality of every single ingredient. This is obvious, and I should do this with every waking second of my work life, but I am going to go back to previous decisions and touch consider every over-looked ingredients to make sure we are cooking with the best products possible. This is the year I switch Mad Mex to all local pork. This is the year I get Elysian Fields in Mad Mex. This is the year I make the spices better. I am going to get a better avocado. This is the year of the perfect ingredient.

3. Eduction. I have the unique position that my ruminations on food can reach a lot of people. Not, of course, from this little lark, but from speaking at various events, the newsletter, and TV. I will continue to talk about great ingredients and good eating, but never preaching. I believe that there is an eating crisis in the US, that people eat junk all day every day, and that we all need to reconsider what goes in our bellies. But I think that I can lure that horse along with the fresh carrot and avoid the preachy BMI stick as much as possible.

4. I will increase the amount of fresh fruits and vegetables in my diet and make a better example to all around me. If it kills me. Really. I will also eat fewer slabs of cold, braised pork belly from the walk-in cooler. Because this will kill me eventually.

5. I will drink better wine, and maybe a little less of it. I will expand my wine palate to the enjoyment of new regions and grapes (to me). I will pay even more attention to the pairing of wine and food. Goodbye savings account.

6. I will become as much an expert on Mexican food and tequila as I can. (This is a vow every year, but worth noting every year).

7. I will cook more. Home, work, wherever.

8. I hope to transition my food writing to more humor, more information, and more quality of content. Less schmaltzy remembering and silly commentary. See item #3.

9. Like things more. I want to enjoy what I eat more. I'll still identify opportunities for improvement in my/our cooking and act upon them but in general I'll really dig what it is that I am eating for what it is. See the person in the food, respect that, and praise it whenever possible.

10. Get my kids to eat more vegetables.

Maybe the last one should be first.

It is going to be a great year. I feel a huge surge of excitement for the world of food and cooking and think, through my many channels of contact to the bellies of the people around me, I can fill them with happier product.

Time to eat!

Why Hungry

2008-01-27T18:14:00.000-05:00

In 1984 I left my hometown with some clothes in a backpack, a new mac card, and my thumb stuck out. I was headed to Seattle to live with high school friends. Powered by Jack Kerouac, Ken Kesey, and Bob Dylan, I was on the road, tangled up in blue, ready to fish for my own trout in the 300 million streams of America. I was setting out in the full regalia of young naivety to discover the world, become a man, and have some fun. Hopefully, a girl or two would figure in at some point. I figured it would take a week or so to hitch to Seattle, I told my post-operative breast cancer mother, and I'll call you on the way.

Amazing, that point in my 17 year old life. I can remember it pushed through the tammis of 23 years, 8400 days. But that day, that June day I stopped by to see my mother in the hospital and had my sister drive me out to the Interstate, that day I cannot recapture in any memory of mine. What was I thinking? How did it feel? I don't think I realized I was bailing on my mother, sister, and brother, leaving them to tilt at cancer, the eventual cause of my mother's death. I would be absent for that healing, as I would always be. I can't imagine what I, today, in my grown up calculus would say about that young man. As a father, I would be disappointed. As a man, angry that the eldest son left at such a juncture, such a point in time where his mettle was to be tested. The leaving, from this vantage point, was a failure. The man that I am now judges that boy and says "You failed." But that coward(?!), that nervous boy, that runner, he became me. Can the tree denounce the seed?

I wasn't some stoned out hippie, lost from family and friends. Just a normal kid, fairly good student, not too much trouble. I wasn't running from a pregnancy, a court date, a bad home. I was happy to depart my hometown, of course, small of course and poor it was as is the American legend. But not running. Not trying to get away and afraid that my actions would disappoint so many around me. Not running.

It was a going towards. A desire. Hungry. I wanted. What? Wanted. More room more memories more space more hope more perspective more food more. Wanted. Not greedy, for the greedy have and need to hold and ache for more. Not desperate, for in desperation hope is lost. Not hopeless on that sunny June morning I walked up the exit ramp onto I-80. Not angry not lost not scared.

Hungry.

My life has been defined by hunger. Hungry for food in our poor, poor childhood. Hungry to feel, to taste, to see, to try. Hungry to make a warm place and secure, to build a stockpile, to have and trust. Hungry.

The many numbered days have been filled with tastes. Some reckless, really foolish, the dirty acid death just missed. Really. Some warm, the soft umami of flesh and peace and love. The salt of blood and sweat with the struggle to make, to land, to be. Tastes of spice and sugar from great adventures in life where the oceans and mountains and sun and rain all existed in that moment to be beautiful for me to scream "Life Is!" and I take it to fill the belly of that day. Nude girls eating seaweed cross-legged on the floor in a circle around my not naked nervousness. My first sushi eaten to get a girls attention. Ingera for the first time - same reason. Krishna kitchens waiting through stupid sermons for free Indian food. Burritos from carts, stolen Baked Alaska eaten over the dish machine, the daily burger practice test of the young grill cook, papusas, the squid cart, dim sum chicken feet, the progression of fluke at Le Bernardin, ribs and ribs and ribs. Crab feasts and Virginia ham and long nights of Barcelona tapas and eating eating eating. Corn and tomatoes, every year is delicious. Ramps. Pig roasts. Tacos.

Eating is best told.

How a 6 year old watches a Steeler game.

2007-08-27T12:23:00.000-04:00

With special appearance by her little brother.

Canning Sunshine

2007-08-26T11:52:00.000-04:00

It has been a really busy summer and I have not had a chance to put up any preserves. I missed strawberry season, rhubarb season, blackberry season, local cherry season, and blueberry season. As we roll into the last week or two of local peaches, I had to get out the funnel and the lids and get to canning. So I got a bushel of peaches from Amy McConnell Shaarsmith (hell of a long name for a farmer) and got to work.

McConnell's Farm, out in Moon, grows the best peaches in the region. Their family has farmed the same land for over 200 years, the original land granted in 1787 for service in the American Revolution. You can see it all here:

http://www.mcconnellsfarm.com/

So Amy was kind enough to hook me up with 4 pecks of peaches that were culls, pick-outs, seconds, etc. They cost nearly nothing and were perfectly fine. I sorted into three piles; eating, juicing, and peach butter. The eating peaches were peaches with scars, small bruises, and spots, perfectly solid but not pretty enough for sale. I got about a peck of these and sent most of them to Jake's preschool for snacks for the day. A few others we kept at home, sent to the in laws', etc. The juicers were a little more damaged, but not too bruised or mushy. I got about a peck of these too. Most of the peaches went into the peach butter pot.

So, I have tried over the years to streamline the processes of putting up foods. I always follow the safety guidelines as set out by various Aggie universities but most often from the Penn State site for home canners:

http://foodsafety.psu.edu/preserve.html

but I try to use some tricks of the professional chef to make it less work in the kitchen. For the peach butter, I washed the peaches, cut out any really messy spots, removed the pits, and filled two large roasting pans. i placed these in the oven overnight @ 225 and cracked the door. This serves two purposes; it cooks the moisture out of the peaches and it fills the house with delightful peach aroma. In the morning, I put the peaches through the food mill into a large pot. This I left on the stove over low heat and asked Mary, my wife to watch and stir it. When it got thick enough, she shut it off and covered it. At night when I got home from work I added sugar and adjusted the taste and put it up.

Result: 26 half pints of peach butter.

For the jelly, I used Sure Gel Pectin and the juiced peaches. Juicing ripe peaches, as one may imagine, produces a thick peach juice and very little waste. I used this pulp and the instructions for peach jam from Sure Gel - 4 C. pulp, 1 box Sure Gel, 2 Tbs. lemon juice, and 5 1/2 C, sugar and it worked out to make the prettiest peach jam/jelly/curd. The jam is opaque, with a color halfway between egg yolk and sunshine. The process went pretty quickly: I juiced enough peaches to make almost 5 quarts of peach juice/pulp first. I cooked a batch of jam, sealed it and boiled it, and as the full jars boiled, I cooked the next batch of jam. Four batches of seven half-pints each was done in about 1 hour.

Result: 28 half pints of peach jam.

Of course, Jake had me open a jar first thing the next morning. We ate some together by the spoon.

A recent interview in the Tribune Review....

2007-08-18T14:04:00.000-04:00

http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/tribunereview/search/s_522362.html

Tacos at the beach

2007-07-06T09:42:00.000-04:00

I made a big taco feast during my two week hiatus at the beach. Here is what we had:

Margaritas - 1 part lime, 1 part Cointreau, 1 part tequilla (half Herradura reposado and half Cuervo, we ran out of the Herradura)
Pulled pork "al pastor" style - seasoned with achiote, chile guajillo, and Mexican oregano and slow-roasted in the oven all day
Cornmeal-crusted very fresh local tile fish
Fresh tomatillo salsa
Chipotle salsa
Mango-habanero salsa (the mangoes were so sweet and ripe we drank the rest of them the next day as margaritas)
Sliced beautiful avocados
Iceberg of course
Chopped white onions
Chopped fresh cilantro
Some cheese of course
Mexican sour cream
Posole in green chile sauce
Rice
Little corn tortillas warmed on the griddle

The max tacos munched was, I believe, ten. I don't know, I was busy eating. The leftover pork made for great lunch snacks the next day.

Check out the video by Leslie of the introduction of dinner:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YbOxmes_k6Y

San Francisco - Peet's Coffee

2007-05-22T10:54:00.000-04:00

I am sitting in Peet's Coffee on Polk Street near Broadway, the crisp (yes not foggy) early morning California sun is shining down as I sip a cup of America's best coffee. On an eating trip to this amazing food city, sneaking out for coffee before the day starts, I feel like I am spending the morning with an old lover. My favorite coffee house, I haven't seen you in over a dozen years. You still look great, a little older and maybe a touch worn on the edges, but still beautiful. I remember falling in love with you and the years we spent together. And I sadly remember having to leave. I have missed you. Only at this moment do I realize how much. I absorbed the loss and made my own way and am happy. But here with you this morning, drifting back to what was, I see how it could have been, how our entwined paths would have led to a very different life these years later. For an hour this morning, I imagine the last decade with you; stopping in for coffees on the way to work, chatting with friends at these tables, bringing my kids by on the way to the playground, quick work meetings at the tables on the sidewalk. It would have been a beautiful life together, me and Peet's. Soon we'll return to our own ways and I'll mull over what might have been and whether you feel the same.

I love this coffee. The beans are great, the roast is dark but not burnt, the brand is engaging but not cute, and the coffee is really freaking good.

When I was at Berkeley, I met Peet's. The other members of Ken Raymond's research group were obsessed with it. To my taste, it was burnt and too strong. But over time Peet's wore me down and won me over. Maybe it was the scent of eucalyptus trees or the Pacific breezes or the endless artichokes for free from Ken's garden. But that strong coffee is as Bay Area as any scent/taste memory I have. When I left California almost 13 years ago, I had to leave it behind. Later, I re-discovered Peet's when they implemented their shipping program and I jumped aboard. But while the coffee is great at my house, it is not Peet's from the shop on the corner.

But today I'm here. Digging the 60 degree breeziness. Watching the sexy barristas make coffees. Digging on the stream of casually dressed office workers, young mommies, artsy/student-y/hipsters, neighborhood hanger-outers, guys in bike clothes, and other beautiful San Franciscans. Peet's is firing up a day that will include a long walk through Chinatown, an early dim sum lunch, a late afternoon meal at Slanted Door (a recap of last night's amazing dinner), and dinner at Bong Su. I'll have at least two more cups of Peet's today, maybe three. I'll eat great food and sample great cocktails and continue to enjoy an amazing day in California.

Alaskan Halibut Medallions, Fiddlehead Ferns, Ramp Coulis

2007-05-03T00:08:00.000-04:00

4 ea. Halibut medallions (about 4 oz. for a light course, 7 for a full course)

Olive oil

Soft whole butter

1 # fiddle head ferns, trimmed and washed

2 oz. white wine

2-3 sprigs of tarragon

Little bit of very nice, sweet olive oil

Salt and pepper

Ramp Coulis (See below)

1) Prepare Ramp Coulis first.

2) Lightly season fish with salt and pepper.

3) Place skillet over medium-high heat. Oil skillet well. Place halibut in skillet, giving the skillet a gentle shake.

4) Allow fish to brown. When nicely colored, turn and finish second side.

5) When fish is cooked, remove from pan. Turn down heat a little.

6) Add a tablespoon or so of whole butter and the fiddle heads. Sauté for a minute or two. Add wine and cook to nearly dry with stirring. Stir in tarragon and a shot of olive oil. Adjust seasoning.

7) Place pool of Ramp Coulis on plate. Place halibut portion in pool of sauce. Spoon fiddleheads and liquid atop fish. Sprinkle a fiddlehead or two around the plate.

Ramp Coulis

¼ # Cleaned ramps, leave and bases separated

1 ea. Shallot roughly chopped

1 Tbs. Butter

¼ C. Heavy cream

Tiniest grate of nutmeg

Salt and pepper

1) Finely chop ramp bases. Sweat in butter with shallots until soft.

2) Add cream and nutmeg. Bring to a simmer.

3) Finley chop ramp leaves.

4) Place cream mixture in a blender. Add ramp leaves. Puree well.

5) Strain, adjust seasonings, and keep warm.

Finding Spring

2007-05-02T22:50:00.000-04:00

We go out and find Spring every year. I roust the family on a nice Sunday morning and badger them around the house until, finally, they surrender, get dressed, and climb into the car and we drive north to our "Finding the Spring" place. Once we arrive and extract ourselves from the car, we all relax. Especially the dogs and I. Man and his canines get really antsy when they don't get out to the woods much. While the whole family truly enjoys walks in the woods, only Emma and I really believe we could depart society and live like savages in the wilds of Western Pennsylvania. Hannah thinks she could join us but would only last until she realized that there is a shortage of couches in the woods. I know Emma shares my fantasies of a feral existence without alarm clocks and no-cat-killing rules (man and dog fantasies, respectively). But for now, we all hike together.

How do we find Spring in the woods? Spring=ramps. It doesn't matter what the television or the calendar says, when I can walk through the woods and fill my sinuses with the sulfur skank smell of mature ramp funk, spring is here. Asparagus, a delightful spring treat, is about two weeks behind. Strawberries at least a month. Of the six creatures that go to the woods, only I search so eagerly for the first ramp patch. Zoe loves the trilium flowers, Jake the mud, Mary the chance to let the rest of us walk ahead while she climbs a tree in kid- and husband-free silence. Hannah and Emma enjoy rolling in fresh deer scat and long-dead animal carcasses. But I get off on finding the ramps. Sure it is great to see the young skunk cabbage (completely worthless as food) and the dwarf ginseing (absolutely non-medicinal). But the ramps, with their flavor and purgative qualities, are what I come for.

Since I have included a picture of ramps that grow in this place, I politely decline to disclose the location of our spring hike place. Suffice to say that it is on Western Pennsylvania Conservancy land and any harvest or picking is prohibited. I am loathe to encourage a soul unfamiliar with responsible wild foraging to make a digging foray and destroy the ecosystem there. However, the fact that my amazing ramp patch is off limits to harvesting is just fine with me. If I was allowed to harvest my ramps, I'd feel obliged to dig a shopping bag full and bring them home and worry over using them up before they rotted. And a small family can only take a few ramps. I get mine from people that have cultured their own patches or who I know are responsible wild-harvesters. Of course, I cannot deny that I'll pinch a leaf or two to munch as we walk. Never hurts anyone, just helps me to assess the quality this season.

My breath is bad, the ramps are good. It is a good year so we should eat them up!

A random e-mail from Jean Marc...

2007-05-02T22:45:00.000-04:00

Completely unrelated to this blog, just happened to show up the other day in response to, I assume, a picture of me in chef jacket and blue jeans:

Chef Fuller,

I’m highly offended to see you in a dirty old pair of blue jeans.

And how can you be a real chef if you aren’t wearing a chef hat?

Huh, you tell me that!

And what the hell is this asparagus you’re talking about?

I have an idea for an article: “why the French can kick anyone’s butt when

It comes to cooking.”

Love,

Your favorite customers

He and his family are big fans of Mad Mex. I agree with the guy, the French sure can cook. They don't make very good donuts, however. Somehow, the French never worked that out. In case anyone missed it, he is being humorous in the e-mail.

Tasting a BIG Wine/Jean Marc

2007-04-17T22:41:00.000-04:00

Next week, I am doing a wine dinner featuring wines from Montes vineyards in Chile. www.monteswines.com This event is in connection with the Pittsburgh Wine festival and I am being joined by Derek Stevens, Executive Chef at Eleven, and Alan Peet, Executive Chef at Casbah. We have worked out a simple menu that should showcase the wines. Of course, to write the menu I needed to become more familiar with the wines, taste them, consider them, wrestle with them, know them carnally. They were kind enough to send me a case or so to taste while I work out the menu. As you may imagine, there is little in life more exciting than having a bunch of free wines (and good ones at that) which you HAVE TO taste. I really believe that free expensive wine is easier to taste and appreciate than purchased expensive wine. Maybe I'm cheap.

I made it through the whites and Syrah rose over this past weekend and am currently working through a bottle of the Montes Alpha M. Huge wine. Giant. I wish I had a skillet-seared ribeye the size of my head crusted in salt and cracked pepper with some brown butter ramps on top. A chunk of cabrales and some dark fruit bread on the side. I ate some brats with brown mustard, the wine wiped them out. Some ham from the fridge with Uplands Farms Pleasant Ridge Reserve Cheese http://www.uplandscheese.com/farm.html, gone. This wine is a bulldozer.

Crazy enough, we are serving the Montes Alpha M with the dessert course. We will be serving a selection of five miniature chocolate preparations: hazelnut chocolate napoleon, dark chocolate tiramisu, white chocolate crème brulee, chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich, and Mexican hot chocolate. It seems like fun to me to taste this rock star cock-swinger of a wine with a bunch of different chocolate flavors. So as I prepare to retire for the night, I decide to try some chocolate things with the wine to see how this will work out. I rummage around in the kitchen and find leftover easter candy from the kids' baskets. Cheap milk chocolate just washes away in the thick rush of flavor. A Reese's peanut butter egg, gone. But a couple of dark chocolate truffles from Jean Marc Chatellier http://www.jeanmarcchatellier.com are just the thing. The dark chocolate ameliorates the temperament of the wine, and allows some of the complexities of both the truffles and the wine to show through while reducing Alpha M's arrogance. After the chocolate is out of my mouth, the big wine seems softer, tamed and friendly. I like it best now, rounder and warmer. The braggadocio is tempered and true warm emotions filter through. Thanks Jean Marc.

I love to visit Jean Marc's shop. Every Saturday morning I take my beautiful and willful 5-going-on-22 daughter Zoe to riding lessons. We have a routine. As we wind though O'Hara Township we listen to the Saturday Light Brigade radio show. We get there, she rides Gypsy for a half hour, her teacher Erica way more patient than I ever am with Zoe's sass, and then we cruise to Sharpsburg to visit Jean Marc Chatellier's bakery. For about a year and a half I slipped in unnoticed, a complete stranger to the young women working the counter. Pittsburgh is a small town, the food scene even smaller, and I like to avoid being noticed as much as possible. I worry that I'll get caught talking to someone who needs/wants something from me or I'll be placed in a position where I'll need to give/do more than I want to. Call me a crank. It is what it is.

Finally my luck ran out, sort of. One morning Jean Marc peeked out from the back, probably a slow wedding cake week, and recognized me. We chatted for awhile and it turns out he loves to go to Mad Mex and really enjoys the Southwest wing sauce. This fact completely disarms me as I am a huge fan of the sauce, our worst seller of course, and have never understood why it is not more popular. If the French dude likes it (in the hierarchy of food-ness, French is always right unless Japanese are in play then then they win over the Frogs) then it is good, sales notwithstanding. I agree to get him a recipe, which I do a few weeks later, and we connect in a cheffy sort of way. I still have to pay for my croissants (best in the city) but Zoe gets a free treat now and then. I have yet to break it to Jean Marc that all Zoe wants are regular donuts and really dislikes his complex Napoleons but we'll get there.

Did I mention best croissants in the city? Jean Marc, help me find a pastry chef for Eleven!

God Hates Line Cooks

2007-04-12T21:59:00.000-04:00

Years ago, after an especially vicious run of days filled with broken equipment, missing dishwashers, crazy-busy dinners, giant catering events, and extra-surly waiters, we at Soba came to the realization that God, in whatever form He/She/It exists, Hates Line Cooks. We are chosen to suffer, to live a life of pain and sorrow, our only recompense the glory of surviving. We make little money, work on our feet in pain over amazing heat, suffer burns and lacerations expecting of course to continue to function, and endure the verbal onslaught of the particular alcoholic, oedipal, insecure, anxiety-ridden, cokehead chef of the day. We are the Children of Dune.

Even as Chefs, the Wrath of God stays with us. We are expected to be charming, attractive, and brilliant. We need to be available to balance the books at 9 AM and coddle the food critics at 11 PM. How dare we leave the restaurant for a vacation or a date with our sainted spouses? Surrounded by the lascivious temptations of young girls (and boys) of the service staff, we should remain true to these poor sainted spouses yet, if we transgress, so much the better for the titillation of the waiting public. Make money for the investors yet give the guests the best ingredients and a lot of 'em. Why would we be left riven like Job except to be tested? God hates us, he tests us, and we fail so often, so easily, so obviously.

But to survive and succeed, this is so holy. To work the hardest station and be crushed all night on a punishing Saturday, knowing as you fly that each plate shines and that you are fast and sure and in control of every move and that the flavors are correct and the fish is cooked perfectly and the Asshole, Over-worked, Sleep-deprived Chef cannot find fault with you except with your choice of date for later on, that is Brilliant. Nobody who hasn't achieved that can ever understand. I have never broken an athletic world record or recorded a #1 song, but I sure enough outplayed Jeff Bubin and Trent Conry at the Occidental on a few tough nights. And those nights, I know, I beat the odds and the Gods and I glistened like a diamond shard in coal tar mud. I beat God at his own shitty game and rose out of His muck and won. I beat it. I crushed it. I ruled.

God Hates Line Cooks but, hell with him. We are the chosen and we build our powers on his hate. We are Supermen and Superwomen, succeeding AGAINST God's will.

God Hates Line Cooks but Tony Bourdain is the Devil.

CORN CRISIS TO HAVE MAJOR IMPACT 2007-2008

2007-04-04T11:05:00.000-04:00

This was forwarded to me by one of my suppliers. Corn prices and supply will be major issues in food over the next two years. (All caps theirs not mine, but not unwarranted.)

ETHANOL DEMAND TO PRESSURE CORN SUPPLY

FUEL PRICES DRIVE COST INCREASES TO GROW CORN

CORN INVENTORIES HAVE FALLEN SHARPLY

COMMODITY TRADED CORN PRICE HAS DOUBLED

FARMERS PLANTING MORE CORN PRESSURES OTHER VEGETABLE COMMODITIES AS SUPPLY IS REDUCED

CORN FRUCTOSE- MAJOR INGREDIENT IN FOOD PROCESSING-RESULTING IN HIGHER COST OF GOODS

CORN IS MAJOR FEED COMPONENT FOR ANIMAL PROTEIN PRODUCTION DRIVING UP COSTS OF BEEF, PORK, & POULTRY

BOTTOM LINE IS OUR COSTS & OUR CUSTOMERS COSTS WILL BE HIGHER

To break it down, rising oil prices have driven the government to subsidize ethanol production as an alternative fuel source. This has caused speculation in the corn market as funds are dispersed to underwrite the costs of building new fermentation plants. This will pull corn out of the food chain, or at least make it more dear, which will drive the costs of producing meat. It will also drive the costs of a lot of food manufacturing as corn is the base material for a lot of goods, most noticeably as high-fructose corn syrup. Soybean prices will ride with corn as a replacement in feed and other uses.

This is a frightening picture as chicken and beef prices have been on the rise and produce prices are already high as a result of the food crisis. The best solution is to become a non-tofu eating vegetarian and go live in the hills where you'll grow your own food. Pick a spot near a stream for a grain mill and some hydroelectric power. Arm yourselves and build a windmill and learn how to compost.

But really, this will be huge. If our food infrastructure is to change for the better, the time is now.

Spring Vegetables

2007-04-03T18:37:00.000-04:00

At the restaurants, we buy a lot of vegetables from local growers. This being Western PA, the growing season has barely begun and there is little local to get. Peas are sown but not sprouted and everything else is started in a greenhouse or is still only being considered by the farmers. Wild ramps have just appeared but are not yet large enough to harvest and there are only rumors of morels coming down from the mountains. I have begun my pre-harvest ritual of begging for asparagus from the very few local asparagus growers in this region. Sometime three or four weeks from now I'll be driving out the farm early in the morning with a wad of asparagus cash to negotiate. We'll be looking for rhubarb, then strawberries. Soon, not yet.

This is a painful point, the place of almost becoming yet not being spring cooks. We ship stuff in by air from warmer climes where fiddleheads and asparagus have already appeared. I know it isn't sustainable but neither is waiting for true local springtime ingredients when the temperature reaches the upper 70's and our restaurant patios are full. How do I continue to justify roasted beets, squashes, and duck confit when my pasty winter nose is burnt by the spring sun? And of course I am impatient. I'm a chef after all.

What I really want is a farmers' market. They don't even begin to open for a month. I miss the farmers I see regularly throughout the summer. After years of buying from them for my home and for the restaurants, good friendships have developed. I'll find out about their children and grandchildren, dogs that were puppies last fall, new plans for plantings, and thoughts on items tried last year and rejected this year. I'll ask around to ascertain who will go through the trouble to grow me fava beans this year. I'll find my garlic guy in his usual spot and rush to his table realizing too late that the garlic he has at this point is little better than what I bought from him and cellared last year. I'll buy it anyways.

At this point in the year, I also take stock of canned vegetables in my basement. I know that I am nearly done with tomatoes 2005, the year of the amazing crop, and am getting into 2006, not such a great year. My refrigerator pickles are nearly gone but I know I'll never finish all the jam and apple butter I've put up and those six jars of salsa verde actually scare me a little. I'll begin to think about the seasons, what I'll put up and when it will come ready, and what I want to get eaten soon. I'll do a lot of tomato sauce dishes over the next few weeks, trying to clear out shelves and jars in preparation for the summer. I do want to make rhubarb jam this year. I missed the whole season last year.

Finally, I visit my herbs. Of course the trusty thymes and sages have wintered over. They're supposed to. And the winter savory has survived it's fifth winter, duh. There are a lot of onion-looking plants in the herb garden, either onions sprouting from seed or flower bulbs gone astray. I'll eat one soon and find out. Garlic has greened and begun to grow and I know that my tarragon, veteran of four winters now, will re-appear as it has every year. I consider the tarragon the apogee of my gardening career. I have never gotten it to winter over and now I have the super-herb. But both rosemary plants are gone. They seemed okay a month ago but somehow in the spring freeze-thaws they got whacked.

But it all will come soon and by late July, the profusion of light and heat and fresh vegetables will overwhelm me and make me wish for a simple time when the choices were fewer and decisions easier. Instead of trying to figure out where to get something green, anything green, like I am now, I'll be wondering how we'll use up these three bushels of zucchini I had to buy because the smelled so sunny and warm they must taste great. And the buzz of the June bugs will ring in the dust. And I'll wish for winter, and the peace and introspection that brings. And so it goes.

An Essay From Earlier This Year

2007-04-02T16:24:00.000-04:00

There is a reason that the emotions of Valentine’s Day are wrapped around food. Chocolates, breakfast in bed, candlelight dinner for two, a quiet meal at your favorite restaurant, these are all distinct gestures of love. This is because one of the most intimate acts possible is feeding people. What I cook, the dinner I craft with my hands and my mind and my mouth, goes inside your body. Think of that. There are few connections more intimate, more intense, or more fraught with repercussions as feeding and being fed. Cooking for your love is about as romantic as you can get. Really.

Cooking is the only art from where the creation truly becomes part of the recipient. Each atom in your body (with the exception of oxygen) came from food or drink that you placed in your mouth. From milk nursed as an infant to the junk food of adolescence to last Saturday night’s steak, you are what you eat. Your health is affected, your mood, your soul. And without love by the cook, food is simply nourishment. With love, it is beauty and life.

When we opened Casbah eleven years ago, we had an unusual problem in the dining room. People were getting busy. In the course of the first year, we had couples making out on the bar banquette, fooling around under the tables, and going all the way in the bathrooms. It seemed every weekend gave the staff another ribald story to titter about at the bar after work. Never in my life have I worked in a restaurant with so much action going on, the occasional cook and waitress making out in the stockroom notwithstanding. It could have been the excitement of a new, darkly lit, fashionable restaurant. It may have been the racy art on the walls. But I have always thought that it just might have a little bit to do with the fact that the Chef had fallen in love and was cooking with the passion and desire of the newly smitten. I was in love with her, and in love with the food, and in love with the world. I wanted everything I made to be perfect and everything she ate to be delicious. By extension, everything in the restaurant had to be perfect. People ate my love, and drank my love, and felt it bloom in their hearts. Some of them got frisky.

So those of you reading this that were involved in those private and not so private trysts at Casbah all those years ago, I am glad to have helped you get lucky. And to any children who are a product those wild nights, you are almost of the age where you will begin to fall in love. I hope those once wild parents of yours give you the benefit of the doubt and let you revel in the bittersweet ecstasy of new love when you stumble into it.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Chicken and Dumplings for Mary

Veuve Clicquot Champagne

Chicken and Dumplings for Mary

2007-04-02T16:23:00.000-04:00

When I really want to make a nice dinner for Mary, I don’t roll out the foie gras and caviar. I make a big pot of old-fashioned chicken and dumplings. Making the chicken stock permeates the house with delicious warm aroma making everything seem soft and comfortable. If you want to make a large batch of stock, freeze it in pints or quarts and keep it on hand for future projects. Nothing is better than having some good chicken stock in the freezer for a quick soup.

3 or 4 bone-in skin-on chicken breasts
Chicken Stock
2 C. Diced onions
5-6 ea. Cloves garlic, sliced thinly
2 C. Diced carrots
1 C. Celery, sliced into half moons
1 C. Celery Root, peeled and diced
2 # Red Bliss or small Yukon Gold potatoes, quartered
2 Tbs. Chopped fresh thyme
Salt and pepper
Dumplings

1) Place chicken in large pot. Cover with chicken stock and bring just to a simmer. Cook until chicken is just done. Remove to a plate and allow to cool.
2) Add all vegetables and thyme to stock. Season well with salt and pepper and add more stock if necessary. Bring to a boil and reduce to a simmer. Cook until vegetables are done.
3) While vegetables are cooking, remove chicken meat from bones and shred or dice large. Add to pot when vegetables are cooked.
4) Spoon in dumplings while keeping pot at a simmer. When completed, allow to simmer for a few minutes. If broth becomes too thick for your taste, add a little more stock. Personally, I like it thicker. Also, check seasonings. Pepper and salt make a world of difference in a simple dish like this.
5) Scoop out two bowls and eat in front of the fireplace with some champagne and some crusty bread.

Chicken Stock
5 # Chicken necks and backs (a whole chicken or various pieces and parts work well enough)
1 Large onion, peeled and chopped
1 Carrot, peeled and copped
2 Stalks celery, chopped
3 Head garlic, split crossways
1 tsp. Black peppercorns
1 ea. Bay leaf
Lots of sprigs of fresh thyme

1) Place chicken (organs are good too but not livers!) into stockpot.
2) Place onions, carrots, and celery into pot.
3) Place garlic and herbs in pot. Cover with cold water to 1” above ingredients and place pot on stove.
4) Bring to a boil and reduce heat to a minimal simmer. Skim fat and foam immediately! Cook 2 hours at a low simmer, skimming fat and foam regularly.
5) When done, skim fat and strain through a coarse mesh strainer. Strain again with a fine mesh strainer.

Dumplings
6 ea. Eggs, brought to room temperature
¼ # Butter softened to the point that it is partially melted (one stick)
1 ½ C. Flour
(2 Tbs. Chopped fresh thyme or rosemary, optional because I skip this when I want my small kids to eat them and don’t want to freak them out with green stuff.)
Salt and pepper

1) Whisk eggs lightly to break yolks. Add butter and incorporate well. If the butter is not very soft and beginning to melt and the eggs are not room temperature, this will be difficult to do. There may still remain little pieces of butter in the eggs. This is okay.
2) Add flour and seasonings and stir in gently. Do not over-work the dough. It should be soft and sticky, a little thicker than a batter but not as tight as a soft dough.
3) Place a small amount of dumpling dough onto a spoon and scrape two or three dumplings into the simmering pot with another spoon. When the dumplings float, allow them to cook a minute or two more. Remove and taste. If the dumpling falls apart, add a little more flour and stir it in gently. If the seasonings need to be adjusted, add salt and pepper.
4) Continue to scrape dumplings into pot. I like to make them the size I get when I scrape 4 or 5 off a large tablespoon.
5) Bring back to a simmer and allow to cook for a few minutes.

Gnocchi with Rapini, Squash, Braised Chicken, and Figs

2007-04-02T15:45:00.000-04:00

8 ea. Whole chicken thighs

1 bu. Fresh thyme

½ C. White wine

1 qt. Chicken stock

¼ C. Olive oil

1 Tbs. red pepper flakes

3-4 ea. cloves garlic, sliced thinly

1 # Rapini

¼ # dried figs, sliced

1 ½ # Fresh gnocchi (frozen)

¼ C. Grated Parmesan cheese

Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 325º
Heat a large, high sided skillet. Season chicken thighs generously with salt and pepper. Sear, skin side down, until the skin is well-browned. Turn legs and brown the second side.
Place whole thyme sprigs over chicken. Deglaze with white wine. Add chicken stock to cover.
Place in oven and cook until thigh meat is tender, about 45 minutes. Remove and allow to cool. When cooled, remove liquid and reserve. Separate meat from bones and reserve.
Heat a large skillet on medium-high heat. Add oil, pepper flakes and garlic. After a few seconds, add rapini and toss. Season with salt and pepper, add figs, and cook with tossing for 5 minutes or so. Add reserved chicken.
While the rapini is cooking place gnocchi in pot of boiling salted water. When done, drain and add to rapini mixture in pan. Place pasta pan over heat, add a little of the chicken braising liquid, and bring to a simmer. Serve in pasta bowls with crusty bread, top with Parmesan, and serve with crust bread

Rosemary-roasted Chicken Breasts, New Potatoes, Garlic Pan Broth

2007-04-02T15:42:00.001-04:00

4 ea. Whole bone-in chicken breasts

2 # Small red bliss potatoes, halved or quartered

1 ea. Large onion, diced large

6 whole heads of garlic, all cloves peeled and whole

¼ C. Olive oil

1 bu. Fresh rosemary

2 C. Chicken stock

2 Tbs. Butter

Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 500º . Place a heavy cast-iron Dutch oven with lid inside while pre-heating.
Toss potatoes, onions, and garlic with olive oil. Season well with salt and pepper.
Season chicken breasts on both sides with salt and pepper.
When Dutch oven is very hot, place potato mixture in Dutch oven. Place half the rosemary sprigs on top, then chicken breasts, then remaining rosemary sprigs.
Close lid and cook for 45 minutes without opening. Gently shake Dutch oven occasionally to move potatoes around.
When done, remove chicken and potatoes to a platter. Place Dutch oven with onions and garlic on a burner. Add chicken stock, bring to a boil, and simmer until reduce by ½ to 2/3.
Remove from heat, stir in butter, and serve with potatoes and chicken. A crispy, simple salad of iceberg lettuce and mild blue cheese goes nicely with this dish.

Family Meal

2007-04-02T15:40:00.001-04:00

Nothing can engender more controversy in a restaurant than Family Meal. For those unfamiliar with the term, Family Meal or Staff Meal is the dinner prepared by the kitchen to feed the staff before dinner service. Too often, it is cheap, poorly prepared, insufficient, and/or downright disgusting. Nobody wants to be the one to make Family Meal. It usually falls to the lowest ranking cook. When I first worked at the Occidental Restaurant in Washington, DC, it was me.

A shelf was set aside in the walk-in cooler for all the leftover mise en place, bits of vegetables a little old for service but not too bad to eat, a pile of grilled steaks from last night’s banquet that didn’t get served because the host didn’t account for the Indian family, lettuce beginning to wilt, poached bits of fish trim, yesterday’s bread, and, on Monday, a big bucket of cracked eggs left from Sunday’s brunch service. My responsibility was to convert these bits and pieces into a suitable meal for forty to fifty people. It had to be presentable enough for the raging and abusive Sous Chefs. It had to be filling, satisfying the brigade of Salvadoran dishwashers that frugally ate their one meal a day at the restaurant. It had to have vegetarian options for the two servers who, stridently vocal, didn’t eat meat and haven’t eaten meat in 11 years and have a right to a meal without meat. It had to taste good or I’d risk the ridicule of the senior cooks, which at that point was everyone. And, ideally, in the Chef’s eyes, it should cost nothing and take no time away from my set-up, itself a formidable task.

Theoretically, my morning counterpart would set me up for Family Meal. But as busy as he was with prep and lunch service, he’d usually leave me little help. Usually, none. He’d leave me nothing prepared for staff, little mise en place for my station, and scant notes about what was needed for either. Demoralizing at first, my survival of this situation made me a nearly indestructible line cook. I began to arrive early, working off the clock for a few hours to get my prep done. I drove myself to get faster, becoming more efficient in my work. Finally, I’d take items home and prep them there. An especially daunting item was the daily production of perfect lemon, lime, and orange segments, at least a pint each, as well as hair-fine lemon, lime, and orange zest, blanched, 1 cup each. Picking thyme was a good one to take home as well, because it is a slow and delicate process, and because it was a favorite piece of mise en place for other cooks to ‘liberate’ from my station.

Once I developed a program where I was consistently ahead on the menu mise en place, I began to turn more attention to staff meal. I’d toss out a simple meal one day; salads with focaccia pizza, and then use the time to prep the next day’s meal. Two ingredients that were perennially on the Family Shelf, squash guts and greens stems, were always a challenge. Squash guts were the remnants of yellow squash and zucchini that had had their yellow and green exteriors shaved off with a mandoline for vegetable spaghetti. This was the most despised ingredient, always present, always flavorless. Greens stems were the stems and heavy leaves of greens, often Swiss chard and rapini, that were unsuitable for ala carte service. These two vegetable parts danced with each other in my meals. I’d try to get the texture and flavor of the greens to balance the bland sogginess of the squash guts. This dance occurred in pastas, risottos, casseroles, soups, and on pizzas.

Pasta was and is a Family Meal favorite. Cheap, fulfilling, and easy, we always kept a big sack of dried inexpensive penne for Family Meal. Everything can become a pasta. Chicken hind quarters were usually in abundance as we butchered whole chickens for the chicken breasts. Occasionally we’d pull all the beef, veal, and pork trim out of the freezer and grind it up for meat loaf. The two days worth of Family Meal this provided was a godsend, giving me a whole day off of Family Meal to catch up on ala carte mise en place.

Of course, what I learned through this process, in addition to how to plan my production days in advance, please entirely disparate groups of hungry people, and keep up with a ridiculous load of prep responsibilities; was to cook, really cook real meals for real people. The process of preparing plates of food in a fine dining restaurant is assembly and production. We make this sauce, pre-roast that meat, pre-blanch these vegetables, then, to order, finish the sauce, re-heat and slice the meat, and re-warm the vegetables in butter and season it all. It is the only way to produce hundreds of plates a night, and I was learning that skill every day at the Occidental. But what I also learned every day was cooking at a more fundamental level. I made stews, soups, and casseroles. I roasted, grilled, and barbecued chicken hind quarters every way imaginable. I cooked dinner, placed it on the stainless steel table in front of my station, and stood there prepping my station for dinner service. Each member of the staff then filed by and filled their plates, commenting on what I had presented them. They would comment after too, mocking or praising, sometimes both at once.

I fed the people. At 3:45 PM, every day, I was the most important person in the restaurant, especially if some particular tasty treat had wandered onto the Family shelf. If Family Meal was especially bad, I’d not be invited for beers after work and the chefs would scream at me and everyone would complain. If really good, I might get a smile from the pretty redheaded waitress named Sara that I knew I never had a chance with. But it was immediate, the pain and joy. And intimate.

Two meals, simple and quick to prepare, are adaptations of Family Meals I have made. Both are chicken, and you can actually use the leftover Rosemary-roasted chicken to make the Gnocchi dish if you like. One might even get you a smile.

Gnocchi with rapini, squash, braised chicken, and figs

A white Burgundy, such as a true Chablis or an unoaked American Chardonnay such as 2006 Ponzi Chardonnay Wilamette Valley

Rosemary-roasted chicken breasts, new potatoes, garlic pan broth

Icardi Barbara d’Alba ‘Suri Di Mu’ 2000