Archives Under "eating" (RSS)
Pork Confit…Kind Of.
20 August 2008 | eating, delicious, pig | No Responses
I guess we were really braising, in duck fat, since the meat had already been brined and roasted. Left-over pork loin rejuvenated into a barbeque sandwich. I had some duck fat in the fridge, so I brought it to a boil on the stove and threw in the pork. We covered it, and in a 210 F oven it cooked for 4 hours. The resulting meat was tender and flaky and tore up easily for sauce slathering and sando assembly. The sandwiches provided no photo opportunities as they were quickly munched down by the hungry inhabitants of our household. Jaybill was available to pose with his barbeque sauce, which was delicious. I used some of Chef’s chorizo vinaigrette to make a paste with mayonnaise, we spread that on the toasted buns. The tastiest morsel of the meal was found on the side of the dutch oven we used. An incomprehensible ducky-pork flavored paste stuck to the inside rim. It was like eating candy.
Hamburger Heaven.
13 August 2008 | eating, Ten 01, creative presentation of the week, delicious, food | No Responses
It’s a Chorizo burger, actually. People who don’t enjoy this are stupid. Tomato bacon jam, pickled shallots and fried hen egg. The Chorizo sausage has a good spice, and egg yolk melting all over everything is a fucking mouthgasm. Easily takes this month’s Creative Presentation of the Week. Created one night for staff by line cook Mark, we knew it was a keeper. Sitting tall on the bar menu this burger is the best thing you ever tasted. I recommend dipping each bite into srirachanaise, and washing it all down with cold whiskey. Man, we’ve been putting out good food. Peep this Squab. Seared and served with crab-zucchini salad and Hollandaise? Yes, Please! How about an english pea crepe to sop up that sauce? Delicious!!
Eating Again.
27 July 2008 | eating, Ten 01, food | 2 Responses
I eat good at work. At about nine-thirty, or ten o’clock, I’m about to get fed. One night Perez made me this slider, it had foie torchon and a fried quail egg. I practically inhaled it. Arturo loves to cook for everybody. One morning when we were all hungover he cooked up some rib tacos with black bean sauce. Perfect hangover food. One night, at the end of service, he brought me this tasty pork loin dish, it had this great spicy salad on it. Niell also cooks for me sometimes, like stuffed chicken breast and bacon shallot mashies. I asked him what he could throw together for me real quick and he shows up with a perfectly seared, feta stuffed goodness with smooshy taters. It made my night. He made me a big fat steak one night, too. Still another night, Tony 2 Fingers had a duck tit mac-e-chee for me, with stinky blue cheese. He’s always got some project going for me to taste, like a bacon wrapped terrine. One night I ate this delicious duck confit, Perez made that one, too. But you know, I get hungry. Doing what I do, you can catch an appetite. The kind of appetite that requires a healthy portion of mayonnaise, butter, duck fat or cheese. I wonder what my cholesterol looks like these days. I imagine a delicious looking sludge pumping through my veins, a river of fetid creaminess that would make a good sauce were I to mount some butter. Ah, gluttony…GIMME A RIB!!
Crap Meal In Paris.
23 July 2008 | eating, Europe | 2 Responses
Yes, faithful readers, that, unfortunately, is Foie Gras. A cold lifeless hunk of fatty fat-fat, alongside a pile of stinky aspic. This pathetic terrine was crap, and so was our entire meal at a brasserie in Paris, France. The 27 euro prix fix was just shit. The service staff hovered annoyingly, the dude eye-balling my fork, just bent on that moment when I put it down so he can snatch it away. Our salad, hands down the best course, reminded me of middle school. I felt the bearded cigar smoking lady from 6th grade lunch line watching me from the kitchen as I ate slimy lettuce and hard tomatoes. Even the cream corn was present. Kate had salmon, a flesh colored mass that arrived at the table amidst a broken hollandaise and rice pilaf. The only texture in the fish came from the numerous pin bones. My lamb chops showed up overcooked with no sauce, the “chips” were the only thing more embarrassing than the foie terrine. And what the fuck was that salad? Even Ground Round did it better than that!! At least they dressed the cunting thing. We sat in the middle of the dining room, in sight of the (shudder) dessert table, which housed the included sweets of the evening. A kind of enclosure or sneeze card covered the room temp plates I could almost reach. The profiteroles came from the kitchen, however and the imported Hershey’s syrup the saving grace of the meal. My lemon crap-tart arrived quickly, as it was stored less than a meter from my face in the center of the crowded room. It had the tip broken off of it’s stale meringue. The fucking tip was broken off!! Show some pride people!! This is Paris!! Putain de merde!!
You’ve Got Cheese Mail.
9 July 2008 | cheese, eating | No Responses
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.
Journal Excerpt-4/6/08
3 July 2008 | journal excerpt, eating, Europe | 1 Response
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.
Rival Flavors to Waltz, No Intermission
19 June 2008 | eating, Ten 01, creative presentation of the week, food | No Responses
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.
More Eating.
11 June 2008 | eating, pastries, Europe, delicious, food | No Responses
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.
