The branding and packaging of Valrhona chocolate just begs to be treated trashy.  The sexy black box and flashy gold wrapper simply scream: do your worst, I can take it and still be good.  Nothing is more ghetto to me in the world of pastry than s’mores.  The latest tableside “twist” or lofty “deconstruction” did not, for me, change the fact that this is a campfire treat, a gooey mess that was never intended as a plated dessert.  These days, anything goes. If a chef wants to do s’mores as a plated dessert, that’s just fine.  In fact, my old chef Tony made a kick-ass “Rocky Mountain S’mores“  With homemade graham crackers, marshmallows and Bailey’s ganache.  Anyway, I wanted to make s’mores with this bad-assed Valrhona, and seeing that these bars go for ten plus dollars retail, I decided to go budget as possible with the other ingredients.  Ever heard of a good Western Family product?  That’s because there isn’t one.  The gold standard of sub-standard in gas stations everywhere, I was surprised to find both of these gems at New Seasons.  My first couple s’mores started out great.  I trimmed up the chocolate and crackers.  I split the mallows in half and set to work.  I cranked up old blue and within 5 seconds had a flaming stinky white goo dripping off my skewer.  I turned down the heat and split a few more of the puffy little orbs.  7 seconds, flaming goo.  It was time to scale this operation down.  Old Blue sported way to many BTU’s for this project.  Plus it was cold and rainy outside.  Inside, my camping stove proved to be the perfect marshmallow toaster.  I used some little corn holding prongs to get in there nice and close, slowly rotating and toasting. Once lightly toasted and warmly gooey, I transferred them onto the chocolate.  Waiting a minute or two for the chocolate to melt, I drank a beer.  Slurping down the messy-mess was funny-fun.  I couldn’t help but smile as the marshmallows dripped everywhere.  The sumptuous 64% chocolate had melted just so, a delightful tiny snap as I bit down.  The crackers were meh.  I wasn’t surprised.  On my second s’mores I did opt for five seconds in the microwave.  I wanted to finish off the melting of the chocolate bar, and make it as drippy as ever.  It was pretty tasty I must admit.  I may not be an authority on cookery, but I still can’t see making it at it in a fancy restaurant.  It just seems contradictory.

This is certainly my most exhaustive Photoshop effort to date. This silly thing took at least five times as long to make as the gnocchi, and isn’t half as delicious. For this recipe I used Ile de France goat cheese, the second installment of product they wanted me to eat and write about. The last cheese they sent me I basically ate straight, so I thought it better to cook with this one. The cheese had a creamy texture and showcased that distinctive goaty taste. The flavor carried through to the gnocchi, and was exceptional. I liked this cheese better than the last one they sent, it had a little more personality. I also found the packaging more pleasing, this time with a picture of a goat rather than a picture of cheese. Still a bit flashy for me but a step in the right direction. This company is bringing some great cheese into the country. I hope some more of it finds its way to my doorstep. I chose gnocchi because I have always wanted to try it. I’ve seen Perez and before him Arturo making these things three times a week for the past eight months. I had the process memorized just by seeing it done so many times. I won’t include a detailed recipe because I’m quite sure there isn’t one. You basically knead the ingredients into a dough, form it into a wiener, and you’re good to go. You’ll have to forgive the penis humor, faithful readers, but I gotta be me.

I get sent home with a fair amount of food.  Working in kitchens, you don’t go hungry.  Often, pre-seared lamb won’t get sold, and won’t make it until Monday.  Enter the fat kid!!!  And how about a deli cup of those delicious fucking beans with the shredded duck confit? That would go great with this lamb.  I’ve got that balsamic glaze from Italy in the cupboard at home, for drizzling.  All the cooks know they can get rid of their various use-able odds, ends, bits and pieces.  I used to have a line on some halibut scraps, but I haven’t seen him in a grip.  Yes I will have two deli cups of garlic oil.  Yes I will take home a day old loaf of brioche.  (French Toast, bitches!!) How’s about Chimichuri marinated flank steak? Why yes I can find a use for that.  To feed my ever growing teets!!  With power-lunch-stlyle sammy action on old blue.  Enjoying  some vino from the vineyard  always helps wash this all down quite nicely. In light of some rather alarming new statistics, it’d good to know that food isn’t going to waste, but to my waist.

The last night we were in Paris we ate at Les Cocottes, a short walk from The Eiffel Tower. The chic dining room and meat hanging in the windows drew us in.  Our glorious meal was accompanied by a bottle of Beaujolais and dark rainclouds. Our appetizers arrived as it began to drizzle.  I had a crab salad which had been meticulously packed into a tiny mason jar.  Shaved cucumber and homemade mayonnaise blended together well.  Kate’s salad was simply mounded with bacon, and an oozing quenelle of goat cheese sat melting on top.  Kate sipped her wine as I drank her in.  What a babe.  Later that night we got engaged.  The small restaurant was filling up, people bustled in from the blustering rain.  The place was full and people were waiting by the time our entrees arrived.  I was immediately jealous of Kate’s scallops.  They swam in a foamy and delicious smelling sauce.  I was straight drooling.  She gave me only one taste.  Good Lord.  C’etait delicieux!!  My steak dish was very meat and potatoes for Paris, but was well executed and well, it was meat and potatoes.  Man I wanted those fucking scallops.  We laughed and talked for awhile, digesting and enjoying the wine.  This was our last night in France, and we were savoring every minute.  We finally ordered dessert, she the chocolate tart, and me the clafoutis.   The simple dark tart sat silky on the plate, a texture that would prove to taste as good as it looked.  My dessert was strewn with port soaked prunes, a pot of pancake.   Totally sated and elated we paid our bill and left with smiles.   I lifted an umbrella from a pot by the door on the way out.   That rain was really coming down.

My brother Jaybill has perfected southern style smoked pork.  He finally showed me how to do it, and it really got my faithful readers excited.  The 20 hour process involves brining, rubbing, smoking, roasting and only about 15 minutes of actual work.  Most of it is a drinking waiting game.  The night before you’re going to smoke, you need to get your pig in the brine.  I used two six or seven pound boned-out boston butts.  Jaybill swears by the bone-in cut, and I tend to agree with him.  I think the bone adds flavor as it cooks, and my dogs just love those things.  So you’ve got your meat, now crack a beer.  The brine is a simple recipe, taking just a few moments to prepare.  Whisk the ingredients together then sink in your meat.  Make sure the pork is covered with the flavorful liquid.  Optimal brining is about 12-14 hours.  Any longer, it might get too salty.  I floated mine at 6 pm the day before I was going to smoke, and pulled ‘em out at around 7:45 am the following morning.  Pat the meat dry to remove any excess moisture.  Now comes the rub.  As a cook, there have always been certain jobs that I’ve found naughty, almost erotic, and spice rubbing meat is certainly one of them.  Prepare your rub and go to town on that meat.  Every inch of that sucker should be crusted with spicy goodness.  When the meat is enrobed in deliciousness, get the smoker ready.  The genius of Jaybill’s smokers comes from their simplicity.  The parts for which can be found at any home and garden store, the heating element at your local Fred Meyer.  These things are everywhere.  Fellow Alton Brown fans the world over embraced this DIY set-up, and our recipe featured here is adapted from his “Q” episode.  Jaybill taught me to smoke the butts for four hours.  You’ll need at least a 12-pack of crsipy Longhammers for this part.  When four hours is up, remove the pork and tightly wrap it in tin foil.  Roast for an additional four hours in a pre-heated 300 degree oven.  Don’t be tempted to raise the oven temperature to shorten the cooking time.  All of those delicious juices you’ve worked so hard to create are going to escape.  Don’t you know, that with the pork bro, slow and low that is the tempo?  After 8 hours of cooking you’ll be well brined yourself no doubt and ready for the fun part, pulling.  After proper resting (about 20 minutes)  pull back the foil and take in the sweet smelling steam.  A pair of latex gloves will ensure your tender skin won’t get too warm as you pull apart the porky goodness.  At this point, the entire neighborhood will be lined up to sample your pork.  The smoke signal was sent out hours ago.  Don’t  Jersey up your meat with store bought barbeque sauce.  I recommend a North Carolina style vinegar sauce and some srirachanaise.  You can find AB’s original recipe here.  For our adapted ones read on.

Brine:
1/2  cup molasses
24 ounces kosher salt
1 gallon water
2- 6 to 8 pound Boston butts

Rub:
2 tblsp whole cumin seed
2 tblsp whole fennel seed
2 tblsp whole coriander
2 tblsp chipotle powder
2 tblsp onion powder
2 tblsp paprika

Combine molasses, pickling salt, and water in large bucket.  Completely submerge pork in brine, cover, and let sit in refrigerator 12 hours.Grind all spices to a fine powder in a coffee grinder.

Remove pork from brine and pat dry.

Rub them shits!!

Smoke them shits!!

Eat them shits with Foie Gras Baked Beans!!

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.

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!!

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!!