ChefTalk Cooking Forums - Blogs - From Hash to Homework by Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/ ChefTalk.com Cooking Forums - Food and Cooking disucssion for the professional and the at home cook. en Sat, 21 Nov 2009 09:39:18 GMT vBulletin 60 http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/images/styles/cheftalk/misc/rss.jpg ChefTalk Cooking Forums - Blogs - From Hash to Homework by Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/ The Road through Kansas City, Part 5 http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/488-road-through-kansas-city-part-5.html Fri, 26 Jun 2009 04:49:30 GMT Anybody that has questions about the potential of our young people needs only to witness the demonstration of sheer tenacity, unparalleled focus and determination that was displayed at today’s competitions. I saw four-member teams construct fully operational rooms with working plumbing and... Anybody that has questions about the potential of our young people needs only to witness the demonstration of sheer tenacity, unparalleled focus and determination that was displayed at today’s competitions. I saw four-member teams construct fully operational rooms with working plumbing and electricity, complete with drywall, brick walls and wood siding. I was fixated by ‘kids’ racing from police cars with guns drawn in pursuit of ‘suspects.’ I watched a young lady produce scones, biscuits, muffins, pie crust, dinner rolls and loaf bread with the grace of a veteran baker and the composure of a ballerina. I stood by as a trio of cooks and bakers discussed the virtues of their community service to an audience of folks much older than the presenters, answer questions with effortless composure and manage to keep a dry brow despite the pressures of competition. And this was all accomplished by young people, no older than eighteen. Not in my life, would I have ever felt prepared enough to face the challenges of what I saw these kids go through.
I rest this evening, an inspired old guy. I look back on the day as an intimidated teacher, questioning my own fortitude to know more than the students that so methodically demonstrated their best. I overly smile with the anticipation of basking in the thunderous applause that will come the way of the victorious as they cross the stage before 8,000 people at the awards’ ceremony tomorrow evening. My muscles ache here and there from shuttling ovens, baking supplies and throb a bit from the occasional fast-paced jaunt across the competition floor to deliver forgotten supplies. And, I ache just a little knowing that this is the end, beyond graduation, beyond the last day of school for many of my students. We part ways, this team and I, on Saturday. We’ll have tomorrow.

]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/488-road-through-kansas-city-part-5.html The Road through Kansas City, Part 4 http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/486-road-through-kansas-city-part-4.html Thu, 25 Jun 2009 05:06:46 GMT After seven years of living this cook’s life as a teacher, I have come to recognize opportune moments that are indelible, both for my students as well as me. Three of the competitors needed kitchen space to prepare food for tomorrow’s demonstration. We were generously provided unfettered access to... After seven years of living this cook’s life as a teacher, I have come to recognize opportune moments that are indelible, both for my students as well as me. Three of the competitors needed kitchen space to prepare food for tomorrow’s demonstration. We were generously provided unfettered access to a kitchen in a location that will remain nameless for now. What we found was a glorious moment in time that would serve the students well to use as an opportunity to never repeat.


Competitions reign forth tomorrow; why we are here, why the crew has endured, the sunlight wakes the dawn. And we will be up to see it. More tomorrow. ]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/486-road-through-kansas-city-part-4.html The Road through Kansas City, Part 3 http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/485-road-through-kansas-city-part-3.html Wed, 24 Jun 2009 05:51:46 GMT The team's first glimpse of competition hall:


Busy, buzzy day! We fluttered, we flapped… we sweat. Over 100-degrees, for real! But, the vibe, the pulse is very much charged. I am, anyhow. I can’t help but stay firmly in the clenches of the enthusiasm that hangs like the sultry night air that hovers at this late hour. I like to be part of this rush; contest sponsors running around with arms wrapped around necessary supplies; vendors bouncing around with freebies; students dazed with heads full of times, locations, competition details and scoping out the social scene that is that much more charged with hormonal sustenance given the sweat and swelter.



Today’s focus locked in on just getting ready and ‘officially’ cracking the competitions open during the formal ceremony. And calling that mêlée a ceremony is much akin to calling a high school prom a waltz. It is a loud, lightshow-filled hoopla that brings big donors to the center of the stage, speeches of unparalleled inspiration and thunderous rumbles from minions of contestants. Exactly what it should be.



Tomorrow brings Samantha and Malissa’s (see yesterday’s blog for background) contest to the forefront. A year worth of preparation; make or break in fifteen minutes under the microscope.

During an exploration of a remarkably deco building, I stumbled upon a door I had not previously come across. No air of caution and even less concern for getting in trouble, given that I can claim tourist ignorance, I ventured forth. What I discovered was a 2,000-seat theater located above one of the competition halls. Remarkably deco in design and undisturbed with modernizing renovations, Samantha, Malissa and Melissa snapped a few shots of this glorious time capsule. I was pleasantly reassured with the captivating interest these youngins’ had in discovering this behemoth relic. Nothing to do with competition, but some great time shared as a team, as teacher and students, as a quartet of adventurers making a pleasant unearthing. The crushed, red velvet seats were a welcome respite for my gently throbbing, well-trodden toes.



Cold, microwave pizza and flat soda ended the day, with students afoot and sprawled throughout the room and hallways. And that is good. ]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/485-road-through-kansas-city-part-3.html The Road through Kansas City, Part 2 http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/484-road-through-kansas-city-part-2.html Tue, 23 Jun 2009 02:48:57 GMT Today was all about the journey. Two yellow school buses, a flight to St. Louis with a connection to Kansas City. A charter bus to the hotel. A rental car to pick up Schlotzky’s to round-up dinner. I have not been in once place long enough to figure out the time zone changes while simultaneously... Today was all about the journey. Two yellow school buses, a flight to St. Louis with a connection to Kansas City. A charter bus to the hotel. A rental car to pick up Schlotzky’s to round-up dinner. I have not been in once place long enough to figure out the time zone changes while simultaneously trying to get a schedule in place to help get students in the right place wearing the right gear at the right time. Not complaining, just trying to be the dependable counselor that is necessary to meet the occasion.

It started at…
1:30am – Awake. Can’t sleep, but plenty excited to get to Kansas City. Thinking about the crew that I have coached over the year…
Rachel is gunning for gold in Commercial Baking. A formidable competition, that’s for sure. Pie crust, finished pie, quick bread, braided loaf, knotted rolls, decorated cake, biscuits, scones, cookies, muffins. All produced within a seven-hour window and judged by a spectrum of industry members. This kid has a ton of heart and will benefit, both in character and financially, from performing at her best. This is the young lady that I expect to read about one day; she is committed, incredibly intelligent and wrote the book on hard work. And she is a good person.

Melissa worked with a really dedicated teacher with tons of front-of the house experience. But, being part of the Culinary Arts program, Melissa is part of my gaggle of young competitors. Her competition sounds way easier than what it is. Waiting on tables with simulated food, judged by ‘guests’ in their satisfaction with their ‘meal’ is very subjective and even more difficult with which to assist. Melissa is also very head strong, so our challenges together are both in the competition realm as well as interpersonally. She and I have passively clashed over the years, but I have a ton of faith in her confidence, even though she probably doubts that I give a d@mn. In truth, she has a lot of spirit and, with some industry-induced hardening, she will surprise herself with hearty success.

Becky, José and Paul are showcasing an overnight baking project that provided all of the law enforcement officers in the state with cookies during this past holiday season. While a very enticing presentation to showcase the hard work of the student participants, there are a litany of facets of this competition that are in need of attention; a technology component, memorized speaking pieces, an interactive demonstration, catalog of the planning of the project and a attention grabbing brochure. Plenty of logistical nuance to keep even the most determined group of students tirelessly working. Becky is the senior member of the team and has just graduated. She is really a special kid and has been a pleasure to watch flourish over the years. I want her to experience the sensation of a crowd roaring with applause as she takes the stage to receive a gold medal. This, in all honesty, may be the last time that will happen for her, as she doesn’t really seem to have a shot at the summer Olympics, unless of course, gum chewing becomes a competitive sport. José and Paul are the perfect ying-yang to take the competition reigns from Becky as she moves forward onto the next chapter of her epic. Paul is a doer and José has the higher-order mental function to make it happen. Their collective power to compete is energizing and will be an extraordinary feat to witness. They have a real shot on Thursday!

Samantha and Malissa are involved in a really interesting competition. Basically, it is a culmination of all the community service we have done over the past year, put together in a ‘scrapbook’. But, this isn’t your granny’s scrapbook! This is a professional-looking, story-telling, photo-packed bulk of a book. While their competition is not purely culinary based, this is the first time we have taken on the challenge of this particular contest, the duo smacked down the rivals on the state level, so here we are!

These are just the culinary-based team members; all tolled, there are forty students making the trek to Kansas City from my school, competitions ranging from Digital Media to Dental Assisting to Welding, the SkillsUSA National Conference is laden with students demonstrating amazing prowess at such an early age. I certainly never had the opportunity to stand in the competition arena and certainly did not have the fortitude at seventeen to do so, either.

Tuesday brings orientation meetings, planning and opening ceremonies to officially get this thing off the ground. So much to do; hands are willing, brain is clouding over. ]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/484-road-through-kansas-city-part-2.html The Road through Kansas City, Part 1 http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/483-road-through-kansas-city-part-1.html Thu, 18 Jun 2009 02:18:35 GMT

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” -Mark Twain

As I have grown older, I like to think that I have grown wiser. In fact, I know I have grown more emotionally aware. When people move away, I feel a dark shadow fall across my spirit, conscious of life being a series of hellos and good-byes. When my children reach milestones, I realize that I am growing older and will not always be the same, steadfast ball of energy that I am today; as much as I fight it, I know my little, curly-haired, Barney-carrying, lightning-fearing baby starts high school in the fall. With age, I find wisdom in uncommon situations, from uncommon sources; I am aware of my conscience more than ever. President Jed Bartlett’s weekly dose of ‘doing what is right’ on the The West Wing left me dumbfounded with enthusiasm, unparalleled optimism or even just a modicum more intelligent from merely understanding his diatribe. Profound inspiration comes from The Last Lecture that left me in tears as I read it, in one sitting, at Borders; captivated by facing mortality yet drawing inspiration from confronting death with humility and chutzpah; what a site I was, a hulking, bald guy, weeping into an unpaid copy of a book on a Wednesday afternoon, masking a tear-streaked face by faking allergies and inexplicable sneezing! Even explicably dark reaches of the mundane, as plebian as the nightly news grinds at my raw nerve-endings; I do not avoid the news for fear of all the depressing forays down crime-riddled streets and journeys into mistake-plagued hospitals. Rather, I watch the news to be acutely aware of what is right with the world (for the most part) and, perhaps, what I can offer in my own little way. In all, I am more sensitive as my hair has thinned, my waist expanded and patience grown longer as I collect rings in my tree trunk. I like to dole out what wisdom I have gathered as nostalgia run amuck.

This time of year, following the close of yet another school semester, I feel uneasy. Routine has been displaced and the days seem to last forever without much induced substance that doesn’t originate from my own little realm; few deadlines and even less structure make for difficult time-management issues; an hour of writing per day, an hour of housework, an hour of walking and an hour of schoolwork each day is the plan as the days grow warmer. Before I get to settle into my non-routine routine, one humungous blast of inspiration is just on the horizon. All that emotion that I bottle so conveniently along with the inspiration I draw from the most peculiar of sources gushes and spews as I accompany a group of students to SkillsUSA national competitions in Kansas City.

In short, SkillsUSA is an organization that promotes sustaining a skilled workforce. This is accomplished by bringing together employers, advisors, educators and students on the local, regional and national level through programming, service and competition. This really is the short version. It is a culture and a way of thinking; building camaraderie, refining skills, risk-taking and pushing the limits of endurance are all parts of the SkillsUSA mindset. I am not a paid endorser of this organization. However, I am an addict. Seeing over 5,000 students (yes, Kids!) standing shoulder to shoulder competing in their respective areas of study is as inspirational as it gets. There can not be a soul that would argue with the potential of our young citizenry after baring witness to the sheer fascination these competitors have with proving their ability, tenacity and drive.

This journal will chronicle the week of activities in Kansas City, including some background as to how our crew has prepared to meet the rigors of national competition. This part of the journey starts June 22nd with our arrival in Missouri.

State Baking Competition... finished products:


State Hot Food Competition... knife work display:


State Hot Food Competition... finished products:


Waiting for Results at the State Awards' Ceremony:


School Medalists, 40 going on to National Competition:
]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/483-road-through-kansas-city-part-1.html Trip to the Market http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/479-trip-market.html Sun, 07 Jun 2009 19:26:22 GMT Image: http://www.cheftalk.com/photopost/data/598/medium/Reading_Terminal-11.JPG A trip to Philadelphia’s Reading Terminal Market just before the dawn of summer is as much a visit to a showcase of a glorious food as it is an entertaining flight of discovery. Most of the produce is domestic, if...

A trip to Philadelphia’s Reading Terminal Market just before the dawn of summer is as much a visit to a showcase of a glorious food as it is an entertaining flight of discovery. Most of the produce is domestic, if not local, and the spring bounty bears a selection of such timely items that at no other time of the year will they be available; the fiddlehead ferns are gloriously verdant, the asparagus from the Garden State just over the bridge is the broad stroke marking the arrival of warm weather and good eating.





The berries are trickling into the market along with stunning English Peas; at no other time will these peas be as good as they are right this very moment. Plump and smelling of newly-shorn grass, the English Pea descends on the market for all to relish. In this case the juice is worth the squeeze; a few minutes to free the gentle, mossy-green peas is all that stands between an ordinary meal and an extraordinary episode of epicurean food-gasm.



Stop in Jack McDavid's Down Home Diner for a pallet-energizing breakfast and honest study in good food, done right. The diner opens an hour before the market, giving you plenty of time to enjoy the Corn Hoe Cakes with a tall glass of "moo."







]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/479-trip-market.html The most overused word... http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/410-most-overused-word.html Sun, 01 Mar 2009 23:49:07 GMT There is a requirement that goes unstated on the application to cook at any upstanding restaurant. Sure, worthwhile experience is helpful. Jeez, education can even contribute a bit to the potential for meaningful employment. But, there is a certain degree of insanity that must go with the wanton... There is a requirement that goes unstated on the application to cook at any upstanding restaurant. Sure, worthwhile experience is helpful. Jeez, education can even contribute a bit to the potential for meaningful employment. But, there is a certain degree of insanity that must go with the wanton desire to be bitten by the most dangerous of bugs, the Passionus Cookus, as if Passion is The Force. The Mojo. The Moxy. If you do not have that pickle in your jar, there is little in the way of a long term prognosis of sticking with this oft-miserable industry. But Passion is a really overused word. The P-word is really misunderstood, clichéd and thrown around like Rhianna at a Chris Brown party. “To be a cook you have to have real passion,” I heard over and over. “I have a real passion,” I have heard from those that usually are making a stand for a self-convincing argument. If you have to say it, well, it is probably too late; that bug has moved on and you are just left with an itchy rash that will go away as you move on to a more tame job, perhaps peddling overpriced cologne at Abercrombie and Fitch.

But what is passion? Is it applied organization? Is it energy? Is it an unrelenting desire to impress everybody around you? What about an unwavering commitment for perfection? Yeah, I think it is all of those. And more. Passion is in the present. Fascination is, however, present and future. The allure of being a kitchen recluse is a strong urge, one that can force a wedge between you and, well, just about everything and everyone else. Why else do most food people only have friends that are other food people?

Fascination is how I like to label that energy that is necessary to succeed in our peculiar line of work. Fascination plays into the calling that drives us to commit our souls, like a bad deal with the devil, to stand for sixteen hours in dungeon-like conditions, for a mere pittance of pay, and even less respect during the ridiculously foolish, prime time hours. The job of cook can be vile and repugnant. We have to stay after the lights go down, both inside and out. We are usually there before the light comes up, as well. Is it really, really late at night or is it really, really early in the morning? I can never tell! It can hurt. So why do it? Its grasp is captivating and once squeezed hard enough, those not cut from the best piece of apron cloth slip through. The others, well, they are the lifers. They read it. They live it. They sure smell like it.

To outsiders, it piques interest as the latest ‘oooh, that sounds so cool’ with the continued success of Top Chef and Hell’s Kitchen. I think a marriage of the two shows would go over well with real cooks: Chef He11: The Series that Never Ends.

It certainly ranks up there on the list of top 100 worst jobs, right before Special Event Outdoor Chair Folder and just after Dirty Linen Sorter at Linen Rental Place. But it is the fascination that keeps us thirsting for more. And hungering to do more. Being around really good food helps to feed that hunger, so it really is not all bad. It is about commitment, work ethic, sobriety and perspiration. It is not all bad; cooks can be the most interesting people you meet and have the best food at their parties. They just do not ever seem to shut-up about cooking. That’s fascinating! ]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/410-most-overused-word.html Thinking about other people... http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/200-thinking-about-other-people.html Tue, 22 Jul 2008 23:35:50 GMT This is not so much a rant as it is a commentary. An observation. Or, more accurately, a series of observations. Perhaps diatribe is more apropos. It is welling up, like the steam in a pressure cooker and needs somewhere to go. Now, the lid is off… To where did consideration go? No, not the ‘r... This is not so much a rant as it is a commentary. An observation. Or, more accurately, a series of observations. Perhaps diatribe is more apropos. It is welling up, like the steam in a pressure cooker and needs somewhere to go. Now, the lid is off…
To where did consideration go? No, not the ‘r word’. “Yo, you don’t give me no respect… I don’t give you no respect.” Nor is this a polite issue. Considerate: “showing concern for the rights and feelings of others.” Showing concern for others. Take a moment to ponder; there are other people out there? I am not alone? The world does not revolve around me? Somebody has to clean up after me? That is preposterous!
So, dear friends, to what am I referring to? Well, in the last few days, I have jaunted around town as the proverbial free spirit. School is out and, with but a few appointments on the calendar, I have made my way from bookstore to restaurant to mall to here and there. And there is one commonality that has been all but avoidable; I have encountered more inconsideration than would be reasonably believed to be random in nature. Rather, I think it is part of our culture. A dismal part, mind you, but a facet nonetheless. I am not talking sinister intentions. Nor am I talking a sensitivity to every little boo-hoo and batted eye. I am talking about the guy in the car going entirely too fast that cuts you off at the last possible second at the well-advertised merge point. Oh yeah, and he flips you off. Or the lady that nearly runs you down whilst moving through the crosswalk, never mind the 30’ foot sign that indicates “Yield to Pedestrians” then proceeds to roll down her window and yell at you. Or the guy that cuts in front of you at the front door to Panera, opens the door just enough to squeeze his inflated backside through without ever considering (a-ha! There is that word!) holding the door for you. Or the lady on the way out, for whom you hold the door, which cannot spare a breath or whisper of “thanks” as you hold the door for her. Or the young fellow that flicks his cigarette butt on my front sidewalk as he saunters by; that’s okay, though, because as a non-smoker, I indulge in the time I am in the front of my house sweeping up cigarette butts.
I do not endorse Vigilante Consideration Enforcement. Politeness, requisite to being considerate, is taught at home. It is taught at school. It is expected at work. It is expected in every walk of life. Courtesy is not an entitlement. Consideration, however, separates us from the animals. It is “please” and “thank you” that is second nature; part of life and willingly dispensed, without hesitation.
Tomorrow is a new day. I will start with saying thank you to the mailman and offering him a cold bottle of water. I hope he doesn’t leave the empty bottle on my sidewalk. ]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/200-thinking-about-other-people.html Foodgasm http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/98-foodgasm.html Mon, 24 Mar 2008 01:42:08 GMT Somewhere just past indulgence, but before uncomfortable gluttony comes a meal so profoundly over the top, so historically significant to the gourmand, it can only be captured with a flutter of the heart, perhaps skipping a beat, gentle sweat across the brow and trembling to the toes. A raised hair... Somewhere just past indulgence, but before uncomfortable gluttony comes a meal so profoundly over the top, so historically significant to the gourmand, it can only be captured with a flutter of the heart, perhaps skipping a beat, gentle sweat across the brow and trembling to the toes. A raised hair on the back of the neck is not out of the question. Somewhere around foodgasmic is apropos. On a recent foray to Las Vegas, I made my way to the MGM Grand to be in the presence of some of the greats. Tom Colicchio’s got a place there. So does Emeril. But I was after Jöel Rubuchon. L’atelier is the adjoining venture to his namesake restaurant recently bestowed Three Stars from the Michelin guide, to add to the Five Diamonds from AAA and the Five Stars from Mobil. There is some great eating in Vegas, but none as acclaimed as this. I was in Sin City and I needed something for which to repent. The guy came out of retirement to bring this place to the Americas. It has got to be worth a shot.
I was in Vegas for a culinary educators’ summit, so it was only right that a few of the guys head out on the town for an adventure. The view of the fountains at Bellagio is magnificent; the melodic ebb and flow of Claire de lune trickled through my head. But, the gastronomic adventure was what we were after. We sampled some amazing tempura at Nobu over at the Hard Rock; if I were really wealthy and extremely good looking, I would probably do very well spending the rest of my years flouncing around this denizen of very, very beautiful people. We even took a gander at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon; very elegant and refined, as you would expect of a Keller restaurant. I had read a good deal about Les Artistes at Paris, so I lifted the menu from the display table in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. But, I was after the golden ticket at MGM. Rubuchon’s Discovery Menu was that which we had set our sites - ten courses of superior French food to be prepared right before our eyes.
The night started with an 8:30 reservation at the ‘counter.’ From this vantage point, the black-clad brigade was center stage. As a matter of fact, the entire place is black with dazzling splashes of red accents. A red water glass. Red piping on the crew’s uniforms. Very dramatic and very refined. The counter seats were the ticket, as we discovered. We made quick friends of our neighbors and were able to take in the grace and elegance of the kitchen crew moving through their respective domains.
We unanimously opted for the Menu Decouverte, a menu of discovery. At $135 per guest, this is not a profound amount of money to spend for such opulent offerings. While my dining guests opted for martinis, I chose to kick the night off with a bit of a celebratory offering in a Kir Royale. I am a big fan of the classic Champagne and raspberry liqueur combination. This specimen was of particularly good quality. No Freixenet cheap sparkling wine at this establishment. No, I was treated to the real thing at $19 a pop.
Before I get into the food, a brief digression. I have eaten in some really amazing places in Chicago, New York, Philadelphia and more. And each time, there is always some consternation, a nervous, virtuous air that precludes every meal higher on the gastronomic evolutionary ladder than, say, Morton’s. A teenager’s first kiss. Deep and throaty, tingling to your toes; sweaty palms, a gentle pulsing in your head, either from the Kir Royale or the beer that was consumed in order to get that first kiss. Either way, there is always a trepidation, some energy that misguides and sometimes dazes you into the nether reaches of truly fine-dining. Think: First date, new girl. She is pretty cute and you know very little about her. You want it all to be perfect and, at the same time, have a great night. Dining of this magnitude does the same for me. I look around and I see people eating, not sure if they are accustomed to this place or this style of haute cuisine. Maybe they have all lost their virginity on a prior visit and now they can relax in the company of such great food. Or, perhaps, they share the same nervous energy that has crept up and down your spine making you feel like you are being watched from all angles. Or, perhaps, a dining experience to me is completely different than it is to everybody else. I do not know, but I rather enjoy the gentle buzz I get from holding the unfamiliar hand of the new girl.
L’Amuse-bouche is unbelievable. Really. This Foie gras parfait is layered with port wine and a lighter-than-air parmesan foam. It is gently warmed and, we are told, to enjoy this delight all three layers at a time. Yes, it is indeed magical. I could have retired to my east coast cave, content in know that food like this exists. Forget the remainder of the courses, this was a standing ovation before the concert even began.
Le Thon Rouge, tuna with tomato infused olive oil. Okay, I am not a raw fish fan, but this was good. Delicate smattering of the olive oil worked wonders on these paper thin slices of tuna of the highest quality.
King crab nestled in the bottom of a gelee of vegetables topped with classic vichyssoise was course number three. I enjoyed this very much. Whilst in the throws of winter, in the desert it can always be time for a chilled soup, especially one of this distinction. Artfully presented, the flavors smacked of a classic chowder, only much elevated to the discerning diner’s appeal. Had I a straw, the last remaining rivulets would not have gone unconsumed.
L’asperge Verte was a cappuccino of asparagus with a gorgeous dollop of black truffles. A beautiful presentation in itself, the conical shaped stemless martini glass set nestled in a bowl with sea salt. The frothy texture and none too rich creaminess of the cappuccino itself was amazing. The truffles made it even more a tribute to really amazing artistry in the kitchen. I am not sure how seasonal the asparagus was, but it was handled with care to create such an overwhelmingly delicious forth course.
My least favorite course, L’oeuf, was next. I say least favorite in terms that this was a glorious dish of a soft boiled egg over a spicy eggplant stew that was superb. It just paled in comparison, I suppose, to the cappuccino and the soup. The skill of the kitchen in preparing (and handling) this egg is a tribute to the craft itself; a delicate touch and respect for the ingredients.
The “slightly smoked salmon” stole my heart. Really. Garnished with little crispy potato curls, this salmon wore the lightest aroma of smoke imaginable. Yes, salmon is offered on menus from coast to coast. Yes, salmon is often replete with misguided intent. However, this specimen sang from the highest of buildings with an angelic voice that carried an aroma from the flannel jacket of the angel that just got done smoldering the wood chips in the smokehouse. A subtle, sweet smoke that did perfect justice to this perennial fish favorite.
My only choice of the evening was between the foie gras stuffed quail breast and the rack of lamb. Well, I like foie gras. I like it a lot. I like it when it is prepared perfectly and I believe I had already experienced that. But, I relish lamb. I think very well prepared lamb is the litmus test for a kitchen. I have experienced good lamb and I have experienced good lamb. The flavor that lamb brings to the table is the only exception I give to my no read meat clause. Do not ask why, it is just my policy. Lamb is the subversive exclusion to this long standing rule. I made the right choice. Cooked perfectly medium rare, the glistening center-cup chops from the rack were so full of flavor they made me weep. I wept for the four bites that I knew would be the only four bites I would experience. I wept for the degree of expertise that it took to bring them to me from the hands in the kitchen to my plate. I wept knowing that I may very well try a dish as good as this, but none better. I had lost my virginity and, like the other deal, it was over much too soon and hoping to go back to do it again. One of my dining partners opted for the quail. He took one bite, looked at me and, quite peculiarly expounded, “Foodgasm.” That was all he said. We both understood.
The sweet courses are always fun, with little exception. I like the presentation value of good, honest food. I really enjoy the presentation value of extraordinary desserts.
The pear sorbet resting gently on the Banyuls wine gelee with little crunchy ginger bread pieces was fun. A little tart, a little sweet. A very harmonious balance.
To round out the sweet offerings, the hazelnut cremeux with fresh mango followed with the same balancing act, with a little zing of coffee-caramel streusel. The hazelnut garnish was gilded in gold flake and signified a truly opulent and, without sounding canned, gold medal evening.
The espresso made it course number ten. I was done. I could no more. Not that I was an overtly behemoth presence, rather I had consumed the best and it was time to bask in the afterglow.
I have not lost my trepidation with dining of this magnitude. I hope I never do. I enjoy the butterflies, the sweaty palms, the concern of whether I will get it right. The service was relaxed and gently coaxing, like that of someone with infinitely more paramour adventures than I. I knew I was in good hands and that my encounter with this particular food adventure would be gentle, if not a night of somewhat naughty discovery. Foodgasm. ]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/98-foodgasm.html Day 1... or before http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/4-day-1-before.html Fri, 28 Dec 2007 23:17:20 GMT Before I became a teacher, or more accurately, before I started learning how to teach, I had to learn how to cook. I never wanted to be a cook. Actually, I never thought about being a cook. It was not that it was not reputable enough, nor that it lacked moneymaking potential. I really did not... Before I became a teacher, or more accurately, before I started learning how to teach, I had to learn how to cook.
I never wanted to be a cook. Actually, I never thought about being a cook. It was not that it was not reputable enough, nor that it lacked moneymaking potential. I really did not have an inkling of what went on behind the door that the blue-haired lady disappeared behind. It just was not on my top-ten list of “things to do.” Rock drummer, yes. Computer geek, yes. Roadie for Styx, yes. It was long after I started along the professional path that my parents so dutifully paved for me that I misguidedly walked into a kitchen for the first time. I owe my ability to lie my way into my first real cooking job to my family’s “frequent flyer plan” of countless restaurants.

My Jewish family contributed to the local economy by patronizing delis, cafés, dinner clubs and pine-paneled red-gravy houses from one edge of the county to the next. We ate at bars with sweaty, old people propped up on stools over plates of buttered pierogi. My clan ate at family-owned Kosher delis that corned their own beef in big kettles and kept barrels of half-sour pickles in the lobby for the world to see. We ate at Italian places that all had the same menu, only varying by the family name on the door. On special occasions, we ate at places that required a tie and lots of “shhhhh-shhhing.” We ate out because my dad had money and my mom’s cooking bordered on illegal. The Constitution’s “cruel and unusual punishment” comes to mind.

My mom’s cooking is not known for attracting a crowd, other than in the line outside of the first floor bathroom. Would it not be for readily available coupons and great ethnic restaurants spewed throughout Pittsburgh’s diverse neighborhoods, I may very well have starved. At the very least, I would not have been 220-pounds in the eighth grade. I am not complaining about eating out. It opened the door for my career. Had I, however, not been a butterball back then, I would have, quite feasibly, spent less time looking at my dad’s stash of Playboy and more time ogling the real thing. But that is gravy under the bridge.

So, how did it start? How did the prep-school darling crawl into the kitchen?

I sat in the aged auditorium at my definitive private school wondering why anybody would consider not going to college or somewhere down the line, perish the thought, switching schools. It was just a forgone conclusion; expensive private school, one college, marriage, two kids, affair, divorce (or three), remarriage, retirement. So, this was just the precursor to step two. Once a year, the outgoing seniors were herded into the pew-lined, dank cave for a pre-collegiate pep talk. So, now it was my turn for the selection process. The talk was almost as comfortable as the talk my mother tried to have with me about my penis; an adult hashing out details that have already been processed with the important stuff being stored for later use and the rest being thrown out.

What if I did not want college? What if I wanted to, gasp, “work” when I finished school? The rush of inquiry was a result of Mr. Howson fielding questions from the handful of pain-in-the *** students that made a reputation for themselves over the past 3-plus years.

“But, what if I don’t want to go to college?” one kid asked.

“Well, that is something we can discuss alone, after this meeting.” Mr. Howson stammered. I am sure he was thinking “You little ****, you aren’t going to wreck my streak of sending every senior on to college, spoiled ***.” As a matter of fact, most of the seniors in the cavernous auditorium wanted to scribble down their choices for college and get over to the dining hall. Besides, college in my private school was much akin to a prearranged marriage; we all knew who was doing what and the relationship would appear to work, regardless of the feelings of the parties involved. My course was set and that was that.

I went to Syracuse University in upstate New York because my loud father said I was going to Syracuse University in upstate New York. Mind you, Syracuse is a great place full of intelligent instructors, strikingly beautiful girls and plenty of snow. The instructors had their act together, keeping the academic rigor in check. The girls had nothing to do with me. And the snow was plentiful, albeit what seemed to be year-round. The School of Management was not meant for me. True, the new Dean shared my same last name. But that is where my reach into the program ended. What was I going to do with a degree is Management? Manage, I suppose. Go into business? I suppose that, too, was an option. My Jewish heritage makes entering business a birthright, so it follows that my dad’s proclivity for me to enter the field was understandable, if not predictable.

When I left Syracuse after the first semester, I opted to move from my parents’ home to an apartment of my own after a brief stint in the family residence. Living under the roof of my parents put a cramp on my social life. And my mother was making me crazy. I left for a two-bedroom, run-down typical college-kid apartment in a hip neighborhood. The neighborhood where the dogs are as coiffed as the yuppies walking them. The neighborhood where the parties ran well past breakfast. The neighborhood where the restaurants were as numerous as actual residents. My second-floor dump had a great vantage point of the neighbor’s sun deck, too. The neighbors were a group of graduate students from Carnegie Mellon. But, that is for another day.

I needed a job and a roommate. The ad in the paper was taking care of the latter. I needed to take care of the former. I applied at Village Records.
“We’ll call you.” Oy. I know what that means.
I applied at another music store. Same story.
I applied at a toy store. Same. And that was all in the first day trolling the chic neighborhood.
I was hungry and poor. So, it was fate that I headed up the block in search of cheaper food than what was readily available across the street.
“Grill Cook Wanted: Experience preferred” hung the sign in Cappy’s Café front window along Walnut Street.
I ducked in for a chicken sandwich and a Coke. On the way out, I asked the little vixen waitress if they were still in need of cooks.
The application was the back of a guest check ripped from her order pad.
“Gimme your name, phone number. Oh, and put down when you can start.” Made the application complete.
“Oh, do you know how to work on the grill?” before I made my exit.
“Sure”
I lied. But, now I am going to get paid to cook. ]]> Jim http://www.cheftalk.com/forums/blogs/jim/4-day-1-before.html