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We cooked at the Outstanding in the Field event at Domaine Serene Winery. The bus rolled up and set up the table in the middle of the vineyard, then we showed up and cooked on the hillside. Adam and Chef shucked over 200 oysters while the rest of us cut up melons. Soon after I cut my finger opening a bottle of truffle oil for the confit garlic and mushrooms. The sun baked us as the guests toured the vineyard and the servers scurried to ready the wines. The scene was set for an epic five course, including great food, wine pairings, and good company. As always we came prepared. We served up herbed melon salad with goat cheese and prosciutto. We heated the duck confit and cherry farro in a nearby oven, everything else was precariously perched on screaming hot grills. Chef seared of the duck tits and I grilled the pork tenderloins. Our farmer from Sweet Briar Farms double fisted the meat as it was sliced up, gleefully telling all it was one of her pigs they were about to eat. It was as sweetly serene service, I drank chilled red wine and nibbled on everything. After the pork and lyonnaise potatoes we chatted and drank. People came up and clapped us on the backs and cheersed us as we watched the sun settle low on the trees. One guest was quoted “…fucking fantastic,” she would travel the country for three more Outstanding meals. A sepia coated everything as Chef told me to start the dessert. Everybody quickly plopped the cheesecakes on the plate while I mixed the berries and balsamic reduction. People ate, the elation was audible.

So a few weeks ago I received an email from a guy at Ile de France cheese company. They wanted to send me some cheese, and then write about it on the blog. Well eat the cheese, and then write about it. So here goes. I received my cheese in a small box containing a styrofoam container with some ice packs and bubble-wrap shrouding the cheese. My first thought was that great care was taken to get the cheese to me in good shape. After pulling away the packaging I must admit I was a little disappointed at the packaging. It immediately looked to me like an everyday mass-produced household cheese. I’ve been sampling a lot of good cheeses lately and most good ones don’t have a picture of cheese on the package. Our resident Frenchman also pointed out, here was an imported French cheese without a word of French on it. But cheese is good, and one of my personal favorite “cheeses” isn’t actually cheese at all and barely which meets the legal definition of cheese. I pulled it out and let it come up to room temp. Me and the boys sampled the cheese on top of some Pearl Bakery bread. The cheese smeared nicely onto the bread and had a subtle aroma. The creaminess hit me first, rich and buttery. The rind was slightly firm and reminded me of Brie, unsurprisingly. Camembert is the cousin of the King Of Cheese. A fun fact about Camembert: Salvador Dali got the idea for The Persistence of Memory from a wheel of melting Camembert. This cheese was that good. I wrapped what was left up, I wanted to enjoy it later with wine. When I got off, work, that’s just what I did. Since this cheese had such a buttery quality, I decided to finish the wheel in one of my favorite butter ways; on toast with jam. I poured some red wine as the bread toasted. I spread on the cheese, then scooped on some jam. My mouth watered as I sat in the evening sun. The cheese was just barely melting from the warm bread, and when warm, had a certain nuttiness. I read about Camembert later that evening and learned that it was one of the first industrialized cheeses, the advent of its wooden box dating back to 1890, making it possible to send the cheese over further distances. I started to make some connections. I guess the original Ile De France was one of the first refrigerated ocean liners, sailing the seas with cheese just 40 or so years after the wooden cheesebox was invented. Brie and Camembert were one of the first cheeses imported by America, and by this company. I guess between then and now they learned that Americans like their packaging flashy, and in English. And yes, a picture of what’s inside would be helpful. Overall, I really liked the cheese. A simple example of an age-old cheese. Not showing off, not falling behind. Right in the fat part of the curve. A cheese I would eat every day.

We ate a quick, early breakfast of poached eggs, croissants, charcuterie and cheese. After checking out of our room, the owner of the hotel offered to drive us to the bus station to begin the next leg of our journey. Leaving much loved Riva Del Garda was bittersweet, but we were bound for Rovereto, then Bellagio. We waited at the station for about an hour, dozing on our heavy backpacks. On the bus, we marveled at the beauty of the Italian countryside. In Rovereto, we had just enough time to grab some snacks- cappuccino, “light” coke, and a panino. The train ride to Verona was a quick and easy on hour. A twenty minute lay-over and then a train to Como. When it arrived we wandered empty car after empty car looking for our seat numbers. In the very last car, which was packed, we found our seats next to an ancient nun and a smelly old lady reading the funnies. Her cell phone kept buzzing loudly as she dozed, completely oblivious. We arrived in Como around 3 pm and had beers and a package of cookies. Our final bus of the day to Bellagio left in about an hour. When it finally rolled up in the warm afternoon sun we barely got seated before the driver hit the accelerator. Riding through the city of Como, the bus loudly banging and creaking over bumpy streets, I could hear it’s roar over my ipod. I commented to Kate about how roootie-poot it felt, we soon found out why. The bus ride from Como to Bellagio is one I will remember for the rest of my life. A white-knuckle nightmare of blind corners and blaring horns. Our driver, the picture of calm in the rear-view pounded that bus around impossible corners, up narrow-assed streets, gassed it through too-tight curves and hammered it up and down steep grades. He leaned on the horn often, as if to warn oncoming cars of their two options: pull over or die. Near-miss was met by close call and again with the horn. Too-tiny streets where houses and buildings teetered over the cliff’s edge, the asphalt winded up around and over and through. I gritted my teeth and held on to the seat-back in front of me, which I then noticed had roller coaster style handles. Motorcycles passed us at regular intervals. Fucking death wish? At one point, a particularly narrow corner, road work had closed off one lane. What did our driver do? Again with the horn…but this time his trumpeting was only met with more trumpeting, of another oncoming tour bus. Screech!!! Hilarity ensues. Picture this, on one side a thirty foot rock wall, about three inches from the side of the bus. On the other, another huge bus crammed in at a weird angle between us and the guardrail, the hundred plus foot drop into Lake Como over houses and gardens. Italian men from both buses were in the road cursing and waving their arms, comically creased brows and incomprehensible shouting. Bottlenecking traffic, cars and motorcycles piled up in front and in behind, ever inching closer as the buses eeked back and forth, trying to get around each other. After about fifteen minutes of this, our driver manages to squeak out, how he didn’t scrape the rock wall is beyond me. But now you see, we were off schedule. The fifteen minutes spent maneuvering the construction zone had made us late, and our driver knew it. I don’t think he let off the gas once over the following twenty minutes, even when he slammed on the brakes to carry us careening around cars or through narrow tunnels. Arriving in Bellagio and screeching to a halt, he promptly killed the engine and jumped out, no doubt in search of a stiff drink. As I peeled my fingers out of the grooves I had created in the seat in front of me, I wanted one, too. We checked into the Hotel Bellagio, and on the third floor found our room with stunning views. After settling we wandered the tiny winding staircase streets inquiring at several eateries about dinner. In this town, apparently, dinner wasn’t served anywhere until after 7 pm. We sighed and parked our butts at a patio cafe and ordered drinks. They brought cream cheese and chive crostini and cheap chips with our beverages, we ate and watched the sun sink low in the sky. An hour or so later, we were in front of Far Out, a swank feeling restaurant with a good looking menu. Once seated, we were told service would not begin for another fifteen minutes, in which time we were completely ignored. I walked over to the bar and ordered us a couple of drinks. At our table, our server told us they didn’t serve wines by the glass, even though I just bought one at the bar. Our empty glasses stayed on the table the entire meal. We ordered our food and waited, pondering how Italian restaurants put out bread and olive oil, but no plate to dip. During our caprese salad and bruscetta, we watched a bunch of obvious looking Americans pile into the seating area. Our server, who also was also hosting, told them “Sorry, we are full.” We glanced around the empty dining room just as they had and exchanged confused looks. The group left, looking puzzled. I thought maybe the tables were reserved or something, but as the room filled up with random walk-ins I realized they certainly were. For non-Americans. They had reached American capacity. I enjoyed my Head-on Tiger Prawns and Beef Tenderloin but really wanted to stiff these assholes on gratuity. Kate wouldn’t have it. She loved her Salmon Ravioli too much. We left three euro on a fifty euro check. Back at the hotel we watched old sci-fi movies (in English yay!!) and fell asleep to the sounds of a thunderstorm.

I made a bunch of pastries for an off-site event a few weeks back. Eight hundred some-odd tarts, cakes and candies. I felt like I was back in the hotel for a minute. Boo-YA!! Summer is in full swing and I think it’s aiming for my head. Busy nights, multiple parties, off-site events, wedding cakes…all that jazz. The restaurant launched a new website this week. We had a professional photographer come in and shoot some pics of the food. He had this crazy light/pup-tent set up in the private dining room. His Mac instantly showed the photos so he could adjust and tweak the food and equipment. The detail his images captured was amazing. I wanted to lick his monitor….Jeezusss. Anyhoo…still eating pretty good. Check out this dinner Arturo made me the other night. I’ve got it pretty good.

Another Spirit dinner hosted by Kelley Swenson and Timothy Davey. The two passionate mixologists poured Italian bitters, and Jack and Anthony were cooking in the street. The sun sunk low in the sky and filled The Cleaners with an ethereal light. At the door we were handed a tall orange cocktail which refreshed us thoroughly. We sat at he head of one side of the large L shaped table. Godfather footage was being projected onto the wall. The Chefs laid down some sweet courses and the bartenders offered educational interludes with the drinks. A bright and fresh tuna tartare with rhubarb and pine nuts, a tea smoked duck breast that I can still taste if I think about it. A Compari cocktail that I knew Tony 2 Fingers was drinking in the back. Jaybill and I enjoyed the food and cocktail pairings, the conversation at the table was nerdy, and laughing, we sipped our drinks. Third course was a trio of scallops, Foie, and pork belly paired with three shots. This was a really fun dish. The richness of each of the items washed down with a syrupy spirit. The infused herbs and vegetables in the bitters trumped us. My head was buzzing with delight. I felt an elation that would last the rest of the night. As our lamb T-bone floated over, I floated in my seat. Elbows hit the table, and the tiny bones were chewed clean without looking up. I almost forgot my drink as I took a breath. Delicious!! A weird sensation coursed through me as I thought about my day so far. Getting to work and spinning ice cream and baking cookies, I picked mint as Jack and Tony prepped. I helped Jack set up the Foie mousse, and when my brother met me at the restaurant I carried it down the street. A few months ago I was thinking about getting out of this business, and now I’m carrying little votives of pureed Foie Gras across Burnside. Attending a nerdy white tablecloth foodie dinner where I actually know a few people. Chef introducing me to the crowd as I sit there half-drunk, waving. “That’s right…I make the cookies!” Jack waved me over to verify mint plouche placement. We fell into a methodical rhythm of plating. I smiled as Chef scooped, and Tony and I sandwiched the cookies onto the plates. I returned to my seat and gulped at my mini Fernet cocktail. I took a bite of the ice cream sandwich. I slowly nodded my head. Then we peaced.

In Beaune, France, I visited real pastry shop. Near our hotel there was a spot with delicious smelling individual pastries, all smart and clean and made similar modular molds and built in frames. I bought a triple chocolate mousse cake. The delicate chocolate garnish on top caught my eye, and the barely gelatine-ized mousses melted easily in my mouth. I felt myself getting closer to Paris as I ate my little cake in the park. My mecca of food and cooking was on the next horizon. I felt it all deep-like. We visited the local cheese shop, the smell of moldy funk filling the air, the streets. Viva fucking France, Man!! For lunch, we wandered an open air market We bought cheese, bread, tapanade, and fruit. We ate by the merry-go-round and people watched. Our dinners were good in Beaune, everything from snail shaped foie to burger and fries and carpaccio. We played cards at night and talked while drinking local wine. We woke early one morning and boarded a train to Paris. I knew soon I would be eating at Pierre Herme’s shop, the epicenter of my pastry dreams. A few days later, in a jewelery shop style setting, precise desserts were handed to me by white gloved employees who openly mocked my poor French. OK, maybe they didn’t have white gloves, but I couldn’t get my mind around this perfect pastry shop. I could barely take it in. I was all jittery, starstruck. Perfect soldier-like rows of macrons and chocolate masks. 60 euro boxes of truffles and what looked like loaves of quick-bread. I ended up buying a chocolate dome called Plentitude and two macarons. The two cookies we ate while walking through the Tuileries Gardens outside the Louvre. One cookie was olive oil, the other salted caramel. Kate found a huge wrought iron spider. Later, inside the Musee Dorsay, I ate the chocolate mousse dome. We saw several great paintings and cool sculptures. I saw paintings by Van Gogh and Degas. Pierre Herme’s mousse cake left a more lasting impression than either. Fractal shapes of uber-thin chocolate fit into a seemingly random pattern, covering the dome. Underneath, a glossy ganache coated a luscious dark chocolate mousse and a crisp cookie base. I went back a second time, and bought more delicious stuff. More macarons of course, and in Luxembourg Gardens, I ate another dome. This one had a creamy salty caramel center and milk chocolate mousse. A chocolate macaron made a base for the tempered chocolate hemisphere. I have got to get me one of them molds. I also visited Laduree in Paris, and had a fine meal. Seared Foie with crisp brioche and foie fat. Veal Sweetbreads with parsnip puree. Kate had Scallops with Black Rice. My first taste ever of sweebreads left me drooling and the foie was cooked perfectly. Kate cleaned her plate and we ordered dessert. An opera cake sort of, and a chocolate passion fruit tart. Both were cleanly executed and delicious…but I still had Pierre Herme’s in tongue-memory. The macarons we bought on the way out weren’t nearly as good. I could feel myself getting fatter and I didn’t care.

People go nuts for this dessert. Eyes pop out of people’s heads. It changes worlds. Even Chef cleaned his plate and he rarely does with sweets. So it’s this month’s Creative Presentation of the Week. Just a little New York Style Cheesecake with Balsamic Strawberries and Hazelnut Scone. As I look at the plate now, I marvel at how I put TWO leaves of mint. C’mon dude! It’s a basic cheesecake recipe I learned from Mark Metzger at the Vail Cascade. I used it also at Carlyle for the cheesecake three ways. Thanks Mark!! The balsamic strawberries were Chef’s idea, and after some tinkering we reproduced them. Look at those babies! All glistening and shit. The “crust” on this cheesecake comes form of scone. I always liked scones for strawberry shortcakes and this dish had strawberries so I thought, what the F. Toasted hazelnuts and sugar crust it up. It’s a little weird, sure, but damn yummy. My faithful readers need these recipes. So…here:

Metzger NY Cheesecake

1 1/2 # cream cheese at room temp

6 oz sugar

Pulp of 1 vanilla bean

3 eggs

1. Preheat the oven to 250 (200 for convection.) Place the cream cheese, sugar and vanilla pulp in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle. Beat on low speed for 5 minutes

2. Scrape the bowl thoroughly with a spatula.

3. Add the eggs, one at a time scraping thoroughly between each addition. The more careful you are here, the better your end product. Add and scrape!! Visualize that nipple in the bottom of the mixing bowl, and scrape it well!!

4. Transfer the batter to a square flexible mold.

5. Bake in a water bath for 25 minutes, then rotate the pan, and bake for another 15 minutes.

6. At this point, the cheesecake should be set on the outsides, and slightly jiggly in the middle. Open the oven door for a sec, then close it and turn the oven off. Set a timer for 45 minutes. I finish all of my custards this way, it works really well. Thanks Alton.

7. Chill the cake for at least 3 hrs before attempting to de-mold and slice. I usually flash mine in the freezer for about 25 minutes to get a clean square.

Balsamic Strawberries

3 cups balsamic vinegar

1 cup honey

granulated sugar to taste

2 vanilla beans scraped

2 pods toasted star anise

2 1/2 - 3 cups hulled local strawberries

1. Measure the balsamic and honey into a pot and whisk to combine. Whisk in the the sugar 1/2 cup at a time until you reach the desired sweetness. Remember the strawberries have a good sweetness as well.

2. Scape the vanilla pods into the pot and bring the mix to a boil.

3. Add the berries and kill the heat. Cover and steep for 25-30 minutes until berries are tender but still slightly firm. They will carry over, so…

4. Create an ice bath with water, ice and two vessels. Stop the cooking process.

5. Carefully pour the steeped berries and liquid into the ice bath. Try not to agitate the berries as they cool, they become very fragile.

Scones

I left the scone recipe at work. Eat your fucking cheesecake. Here’s a good scone recipe for you. And here’s a picture of some ice creams.

I wanted to write rap song and wear gold chains and shit but instead I’ll just post these images. A little self-promotion never hurts. My faithful readers know, I’m humble as shit. Above is Baking and Pastry North America. I’m in the same magazine as Pierre Herme and Claire Clark, the pastry chef at the French Laundry. I guess I’m in good company. Remember this dessert? Funny how things work themselves out. Really I have my sister-in-law Keri to thank for this. Her picture of those funnel cakes is gorgeous. The other article is from Bon Appetit. Yeah it’s only two sentences. Fucking Bon Appetit!! Thanks everyone. A lot has happened for me at Ten-01. The life of a cookie baker is a wild ride.

Here’s a pork loin sandwich created by Ten-01 sous chef Arturo Lopez. Brined and slow roasted pork loin with provolone, pickled shallots, and pea tendril salad. Arturo puts such love and concentration into everything he cooks, I love when he cooks me food. For example, on this sandwich, he puts the shallots in between the slices of cheese so they don’t slide around. He thinks about shit like that. He’s got the love, simply put. He always sends extra food my way or over to the dishers. Like Thai-Style Pork Ribs. Lately I’ve been enjoying the new Lamb set, with the ever-delicious goat cheese gnocchi (which Arturo always makes) and artichokes. I watched him cook me one up the other night. He knew it was for me but he still bent over it in concentration, standing up the pieces just right. Arturo is the kind of chef who watches all day. He even observes when I don’t eat, and then brings me some food. “I saw you ate some fries but…” He knows the mise on my station, so he’s always asking me if I need this or that, and if I know about today’s party. He’ fucking on it. Chingon. I’ve learned so much working with this him that I feel like I’ve known him for years. He humbly knows all I know, and if he doesn’t know he can still do it better than me. He’s always got a better way, from the simple to the complex. Chef and he have been working together for a long time, and I can see why. It’s like father and son almost. Also coming off Arturo’s station is Chef’s new Squab Dish (below.) The legs are meticulously de-boned and stuffed with foie-gras torchon. Then they get bacon wrapped. I haven’t eaten this one yet, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

We ate twice at the Stockhorn in Zermatt, Switzerland. We arrived in town on the Glacier Express in snow storm. Big flat flakes blew everywhere. An overgrown golf cart picked us up from the station and brought us to the Albatross Hotel. After checking in, we inquired about the local fondue joint. A short walk from our hotel landed us in a stinky cheese cellar. Travel weary and eager to relax, we ordered wine and beer. Shortly afterwards, a salad and charcuterie plate arrived at our table to our delight. The meat was fatty without being greasy and had nice spice. Steaming and stinky, our cheese fondue was delivered next with toasted bread. Garlic and white wine filled the air, and a slight aroma of vinegar. Drool flooded my mouth as it wafted into my face. There was more melted cheese than we could possibly eat but dammit, we had to try. As we dipped towards the bottom, our pores oozed with oily cheese. I knew the best cheese was burned to the bottom of the crock, all crunchy and dark. I chiseled with my fork to get those last few bites. After eating our fill, we waddled back to the hotel in hopes of hot tubs and glasses of proseco. The following day the hotel served a buffet style breakfast. I ate three croissants, scrambled eggs, bacon, cottage cheese, two kinds of dried meat, yogurt , and buttered bread. Afterwards, we frequented swiss bakery fuchs, where the smell of chocolate lured us into to melty heaven. We sat around our hotel most of the day, sporadically venturing out for snacks. We wanted to catch a glimpse of the Matterhorn, but as much as it teased us we never did. We watched old Frank Sinatra movies and BBC sitcoms while drinking and playing cards. Our hotel room in Zermatt was one of the nicest we stayed in. Later that night we wandered down to the StockHorn again. We sat in the upstairs dining room this time, with a great view of the fire place. Here all the proteins were cooked. A server would bring up little plates of raw meat from the kitchen. Dude would then toss them all into a bain of marinade for a few minutes , then throw them on the grill. I ordered beef tenderloin (44 francs,) and sure enough, right into that sticky sauce, then onto the grill. As we watched it leave the flames, a server dished out sides from a chafing dish near the grill. Au gratin potatoes and sauteed veggies met the steak on the plate. It all came to the table moments later with a crock of garlicy compound butter. Kate and I split the perfectly temped beef and side salad. As the night got rolling, dude flew through his orders, a blur of motion. A little intercom on the mantle kept him in touch with the kitchen. This guy cooked fifty or so steaks plus chicken, as we ate and watched. The night winded down and we drank more wine. We walked dreamily back to the hotel for more chocolate and sleep. The following day we would travel to France.