What's Good

Self

2011-04-08T18:26:00.003-05:00

The issue that I face with being (or in the process of being) self-sufficient and therefore self-taught and luckily (somewhat) self-made is that I inevitably end up spending a lot of time by myself. Then again, I probably wouldn't have had it any other way.

I've now spent more than a year looking critically at who I was, who I became and who I now want to be. I haven't read a great deal, but I've learned quite a bit. I've taught myself new things. New cooking techniques. New recipes. I built a building. I'm building a business. I'm growing.

Aside from my wife, though, who's pursuing her own goals, her own education and career, I've essentially been alone in this process--and I'm kind of lonely. Professionally lonely, I guess you could say. Forging my own path based on what I believe is right. Cooking food how I think it should be cooked. Watching people's minds change with each simple bite of food I give them. It's what I've always wanted, to change people, to make them think differently, but I never knew that it would be like this. That being a "creative type" (not an artist), meant inevitably doing things alone. The things, at least, that will allow you to make a difference.

I assume that it's probably going to stay this way for awhile, too, if not even forever. This necessary solitude for the sake of creation. Allowing only those people "in" that you feel will either share your same set of beliefs or will benefit yours. (I'm not so narcissistic that I believe I'm some confined genius that is misunderstood. I simply know what I want and no longer feel that I should sacrifice those desires just to make a buck or gain attention.)

I'm mystified almost to the point of being offended sometimes when I meet chefs that I admire or respect, older chefs who have names that people know, names that people use in their writing. They seem so aloof or distant, often vague in their speech, almost unable to get their point across. It's not like meeting young, eager sous chefs who sing the praises of their boss. Most of them may never go on to have "a name." They'll always remain below someone, incapable of moving beyond their teacher. The older chefs, though, the real chefs, know who they are and know that they cannot let everyone in on their secret. It must be understood, not taught.

After years of dreaming that I could be the next Henry Miller, I'm finally starting to realize wasn't so much a myth or a genius as he was a man with a passion for his own purpose, bound by his own message and the need to deliver it to whomever might be interested. He made a difference because he wanted to, not because he was asked to. What I mean to say is that food can hold the same power as a novel, if the person cooking it looks past the spontaneity of each bite and into how it can create a lasting memory by making a perfect moment even better.

Teams certainly aren't for everyone. They've never really been for me. Even a superstar loses a bit of himself when he is surrounded by his coworkers. It's inevitable.

WTF

2011-03-24T00:05:00.002-05:00

The inherent drawback to being a cook or a chef is that, once the "creativity" has subsided, you have a whole fucking kitchen to clean up until well after midnight.

I haven't written in awhile because, as usual, I've been thinking. Thinking about food and how it affects my life. Thinking about where I see food headed.

I've got so much to say. I need to just say it.

So, yeah. I hate kitchens. I hate kitchen work. Pretty big epiphany for a chef.

Longing

2011-02-15T10:24:00.003-06:00

Purple cabbage. Off-white Daikon. A hint of mayo. A cup of slaw. This is not a recipe--this is what I had for lunch yesterday.

I have a knack for being able to memorize and recount meals in my head, sometimes to minute detail. Meals that are worth remembering, that is. Things like kale and beet chips served with mini beet burgers at Blue Hill back in 2008. Black sticky rice and spicy mussels at Michael's back in 2007. Every piece of rotisserie chicken and chicken-soaked fries that I ate while living in Chile. There isn't one piece of food that sticks in my head that wasn't in some way simple, because it's the complex dishes that I find so easy to forget.

The reason I take to memorizing or simply remembering plates of food that I've eaten is twofold: 1. I want to draw off them. Food isn't just about reading cook books or wearing a white chef's coat--it's about experience. It's about eating one dollar tacos on a beach in southern Chile or a just-caught ceviche in the Dominican Republic. So by remembering more of the foods I've eaten and their surrounding circumstances, I can set out to recreate those atmospheres and those emotions in the food I create. 2. They bring me back to good places. Inherently tied to number 1, I like returning to points in my life that made me happiest. Duh, right? Not at all from a chef's perspective, food has often been a source of joy in my life, the comradery that comes from sharing a good meal with a friend or a loved one; the inherent feeling of satisfaction that ensues. When food becomes memorable, it is more than just food.

--o--

Fresh off the sale of a large bag of used clothes and with money to burn, I suddenly developed the craving for a Po'Boy. I knew just the place to get it--Perla's. Opened just two years ago in Austin's famed SoCo (South Congress) district, Perla's is a well-done, but inherently simple seafood and oyster bar. Even without a beach and an ocean view, their outside patio is one of the best places to sit and have a meal in the city. Inside, aged driftwood, subway tiles and beaten concrete floors conjure up images of worn-in class, textured elegance and even a dodgy bathroom (though this last image I removed from my head so I could enjoy my food). In short, the place is comfortable.

Urinals aside, it was the food that caught me most off guard, because I hadn't eaten there since it opened almost two years ago. The slaw, as mentioned above, was perfectly balanced in color, texture, and presentation. The sandwich bread, cracked and toasty, was the perfect vehicle for succulent fried shrimp, tart lemon aioli and crisp lettuce. I can honestly say it was the most perfect meal I've eaten in some time in Austin.

However, I digress, because I didn't intend this to be a restaurant review but rather a critique, an expose, on how simplicity, when done well, can truly be perfect. After two and a half years of working to achieve or simply find here in Austin what I had while working in New York as a commis, I'm starting to realize that Austin is not a gourmet town. It's a beer-drinking town. A comfort town. A laid back town. Duh, right?

Due to many, almost innumerable circumstances, I have come to discover just even in the last three weeks that since arriving in Austin in 2008, my outlook on food, on good food, and even on great food, has started to change. I came fresh off long hours at a more-than-famous restaurant in New York, eager to continue that trend of constantly pushing my own limits. I wanted to take everything that I had learned and pour it into every dish I was cooking, taste it in everything I was eating, essentially bring my own version of New York to Austin. Needless to say, that wasn't going to happen.

When I took the helm of a major new establishment I was convinced that, along with the Exec Chef, I could start to change people's minds about how "fancy, gourmet" food should look, taste or feel (in terms of the space). At the end of the day, though, I was left with complaints about pork belly being too fatty or jalapenos being too hot. The culture was and simply isn't here--yet.

Thus, simplicty. Restaurants ranging from mind-blowing taco stands to nationally acclaimed modern Japanese. James Beard nominees all over the place and cooks covered in tattoos. No Michelin stars and no celebrity chefs or, at least no prominent television personalities--yet.

What you will find in Austin is a wealth of small to mid-sized establishments making delicious food on a daily basis. Perfect raviolis in brown butter, stuffed with fresh ricotta and fried sage. Tacos filled with everything from tongue, tripe and cactus paddles to the more obvious like fajita chicken and fried shrimp. You will find menus that even a serious foodie could get behind, though, for the most part, you will receive these items without the pretense or the price tag. Perhaps you'll even get a free concert out of the deal. After all, Austin is known for being the live music capital of the world.

For me, it is still hard to accept that I need not save half a month's wages for a night of multiple courses, wine pairings and an over-stuffed stomach. While I appreciate a tranquil lunch with a perfect sandwich, I miss the decadence and splendor of food. I miss the restaurants that sit on their block like a sacred place of worship, waiting for patrons to experience food as the French more or less intended it to be so long ago.

Maybe it's time for a pilgrimage.

Damn

2011-02-10T16:12:00.003-06:00

Lest ye forget that cooking is, first and foremost, a craft, and not a form of art, I give you this:

Chefs are not rockstars, butchers are not heartthrobs and Rocco DeSpirito--well, I can't say much for him, but you get the idea.

I Want To Be Great

2011-02-09T13:39:00.003-06:00

The reason I am not a chef / blogger that writes about line cooking is because, well, I don't really care about line cooking. The lessons I have learned in life have not come from a busy Saturday night's service, watching cooks cut themselves or chefs scream at the top of their lungs when a plate is less than perfect. Line cooking is like any other job except for a different set of tools. The pressure to excel and succeed is still the same. The initial pay is awful and the work is often unfulfilling. And in the end, there are only a few successful line cooks that will go on to truly matter, to make a significant difference in the fabric of food. The only reason I ever took on food as a serious part in my life in the first place was for the same reason I have always strived to be a writer--to make a lasting impression.

Before I committed to cooking full time just four years ago, I had spent my time reading books by authors like Henry Miller, Knut Hamsun, Ferdinand Celine. I found comfort, answers and motivation in their words, their sometimes depressing ideas and the overall message that both conveyed. When I reverted back to cooking as a means of income (and perhaps a committed profession) I hoped to take what I had learned from books, education and life and make the same impression that those whom I looked up to had, while at the same time still earning a functional income. I wanted my dedicated two hours to pay off.

Jump forward to just under a year ago when I left the job that I had hoped would be the kickstart to my career. If I had stayed with that job last year, the possibilities would be virtually endless this year. But I quit, and life is different now. I haven't stopped wanting to be great, though.

To read this, a bystander would probably think that I'm just another confused guy without enough balls to make a solid decision regarding what I want to do. No staying power. Non-committal. After all, I've spent the last 11 months doing odd jobs here and there, exploring parts of myself, my personality and food at large looking for some sort of definitive answer to the question I'm always asking, "What do I want to be?" Realistically, there are no answers to those sorts of vague questions, but what I've come to discover since I quit my "real" job and started doing only what felt absolutely right is that by having more free time at my disposal I increase my chances to make deeper, more lasting impressions on those with whom I come in contact.

By not simply being Patrick the chef, the line cook or even Patrick the writer, I've had the chance to be for so many people just what they need me to be. As cliche as it may sound, it's not drastically different from an individual reading their favorite author--while the author's intent for his words may have been different than the reader's impression of them, the effect need not be any less important. Every time I've cooked for someone in the last year, they haven't always been bowled over by my food, but they certainly left the meal talking about it. This is the same reason I don't think I can go back to line cooking or "cheffing" in the traditional sense--if I'm not the one responsible for what I'm feeding people, if I give it to line cooks and trust that they taste or see how I do, then I give up my message entirely and the effort then, at least for me, was all for naught.

--o--

My original intent for this post was to call it, "I'm Available," because I wanted to create a sort of personal ad that said I'm passionate about what I do and I'd like to imbue others with that same verve. By being unimpeded or tied unequivocally by or to one place, yet still excited about what I do, I create the opportunity for myself to give something to others so that they may benefit from what I have to offer, just as the books I read have given to me. After all, I don't just sit around reading books about money written by bankers. I learn from what others have experienced, and I hope others can learn from me.

So Surprised

2011-02-02T23:52:00.003-06:00

(The background to this story is my wife watching Michael Pollan on Oprah's show about she and her staff going vegan for a week, the dependence on Whole Foods and the overall state of American palates today)

When I quit my full-time, Executive Sous Chef job in March, 2010, I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to do. I knew that if being a chef meant gaining weight, being perpetually unhappy and never seeing your spouse, I wanted nothing to do with it. I also had it in mind that rather than simply ordering the local produce that was applicable to our menu on specific occasions, I wanted to work with those ingredients full time, on my own terms. So I printed up some business cards, told the small group of people that I knew that I was available for small, private events and got to looking at what was in season. In short, I had no idea what I was doing.

Before I ever cooked any food for money outside of a restaurant, I got a job at the farmer's market. Not just any job, though--no, I was working for what I still believe to be the most incredible organic vegetable and lettuce farmer working in Texas today. Arugula as delicate, crisp and bitter as I have ever tasted. Cherry tomatoes sweeter than pure honey. Mulberries at the peak of ripeness. I didn't just discover true flavor in its rawest form; I figured out, after several years of trying, what it is that I enjoy about cooking--the simplicty of pure ingredients.

Am I not a chef, though? Shouldn't I already have and employ a deep respect for each of the ingredients that I have in front of me? Shouldn't the sugar content in a ripe summer tomato come as no surprise to me? Of course. And, naturally, the flavor of each ingredient that I use in a dish is never lost on me. But there's nothing that says eating that same tomato, outside of a restaurant and with no other reason than to simply enjoy it, can't change my mind drastically as to how I will think about tomatoes from here on out. How I will make it my goal to show and convince people that shopping at the farmer's market doesn't just mean making a salad or grilling a steak. Or how every time I cook from that moment forth I will force myself to use every bit of flavor that each ingredient gives me before I ever lay hand to another. And thus my goal, like that of the Dan Barbers, the Alice Waters', the Michael Pollans and so many others of the world, was born. Or, rather, affirmed.

Since May, 2010, I have cooked for whomever would have me. I have sourced as much meat, produce and dairy from the local farmer's markets as possible and I have tried my hardest to never duplicate dishes from one event to another, thereby giving each diner a truly unique experience, always making the season's bounty (which hasn't always been so bountiful) the centerpiece of each menu. The food, I feel, in all honesty, has been overall delicious. There have naturally been highs and lows, but I have never put forth a dish that I didn't stand behind, whether or not it was absolutely perfect. And most satisfying has been that fact that every time I have served food, at least one person has walked away with a bit of food knowledge that they didn't have before. Free of charge.

While the last months have been rewarding, educational and reasonably lucrative, the reactions of many of those who have eaten my food have been uncomfortably surprising. At the end of a meal, guests will often come up to me and remark on how stunned they were by the food, how they've never encountered such flavors, such ingredients (no, really, I'm not gloating). Things like yellow watermelon, oranges and jicama, a bean puree made with five very simple ingredients seem to blow them away, always to my surprise, if not simply to my delight. My reaction is because they speak of the meal as though they've never been given such fresh things to eat. That past eating the best, sweetest tomato in their life, they've never stopped to enjoy a tomato, period. And so while, little by little, my efforts seem to be yielding positive results, I'm made strikingly aware of how much work lay ahead of not just me, but every chef, farmer, food writer and food advocate there is working in the business today.

However, there is an inherent problem with trying not simply to encourage people to eat fresh foods, but also to educate them on how to procure these items. Simply put, they don't always taste good. On a recent visit to a North Texas cattle ranch that raises and slaughters 100% grassfed beef for wholesale, we were given a few samples to take away and try. The ground beef that we ate in burger form, seasoned lightly with salt and pepper, was probably of the highest quality, richest flavor that I have ever eaten. The fat was so luscious and buttery, the meat nearly melted in my mouth. We agreed that we had found a goldmine. But moving on to the other cuts, things like ribeyes, porterhouses and T-bones that should normally be swimming in flavor and soft as can be, were tough, and almost inedible. Even at medium rare, the ribeye was like well done churrasco, chewy, dry and bland--a sad realization that best efforts don't always yield best results.

So as I listen to Michael Pollan and Oprah discuss the merits of veganism, knowing thy farmer and why shrink-wrapped meat completely removes us from the knowledge that that steak came from a once-breathing animal, I can't help wanting to simply go back to square one, to something as basic as showing a person how to cut an apple or peel an orange. Before I can ever convince a diner, a friend or a vegan that a ruddy-faced farmer raising marbled, Texas, grassfed beef is better than a shrink-wrapped tenderloin, I have to prepare dishes for people that barely involve cooking, let alone meat. Farmers may smell or have dirty hands and the market might be full of self-righteous yuppies or far-too-politically correct advocates, all enough to drive would be clientele away from discovering peak-of-season specialties, but the grocery store, even the supermarket, need not only be home to boxed cuts, pre-cut fruits and more refined sugars and starches than the man who discovered wheat could ever imagine, but also all the raw ingredients to make each and every one of us healthier, happier eaters.

Bullshit!

2011-02-02T22:49:00.001-06:00

Mussels and toasted ciabatta?!
That's a winning Italian dish?!

Fucking ridiculous.

A Dedicated Two Hours

2011-01-31T11:13:00.002-06:00

As I mentioned in my post last week, one of the main factors in my move away from writing was the mere fact that I didn't have any time. When I moved back from Chile and enrolled in culinary school (a running theme, I know. Don't worry, I'll move past it soon), I was working 50 hours a week, going to school for 25, visiting my now wife and trying to catch some sleep somewhere in the middle. I wrote on my days off, read before bed. For awhile it seemed like there was time, but as my job began demanding more of me, school became what I had to do everyday at 8 a.m. and I started thinking more about marriage, something had to go.

In putting writing to the wayside, though, I was able to completely focus on one thing--cooking. By the time I was awake and putting my station together at work, my mind was razor sharp. I knew what was expected of me and I knew I wanted to get better. Every time I had to cut chickens, make potato puree or clean lobsters, I got a little better--just as a writer would when given the time to write everyday. So while I do have a natural knack for cooking, it wasn't simply cooking that allowed me learn and progress at a rapid rate, but rather the time allowed for that development. Time has long been a strong motif in my life.

The reason I bring this up is because in reading over ruhlman.com, a culinary-centric blog, last night, I found a post that wasn't at all about food, but about a writer who had died and the impression he had left on Michael Ruhlman himself. Most notable / applicable for me of the advice given by the deceased writer was that in order to progress, one need to spend a dedicated two hours everyday, the same two hours everyday, to the craft of writing. A mere two hours, but a dedicated and focused two hours nonetheless.

To sit here now, at 11:30 a.m. on a Monday morning, writing about cooking and how I'm up in the air on both, I realize that it's nice to have time. If I dig deeper and look back at the reasons I finally decided to quit my full-time job almost a year ago, I can say that I ran out of time to simply cook or get better at cooking. I was constantly juggling peoples' schedules, making orders, managing, hiring, firing, bitching and cleaning up messes that I lost the time to simply cook--the whole reason I had wanted to become a chef in the first place. Even amidst 14-hour days there were rarely even 30 dedicated minutes for me to focus on any one thing. So as with writing, I started putting cooking to the wayside.

On the first page of his novel Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller writes "The hero then is not time, but timelessness." This is a line that has stuck with me since I first read it, in part because I've always longed to be that talented and prolific, but also because I believe it's true. As I read it, the line means that time, as I have here and now to sit and blog, isn't what we need, but for our time to be ours, to do with it as we please and to have as much of it as we want.

Writers feed us in ways that chefs cannot. I'm aiming to do both.

January 22nd, 2011. What have I been doing?

2011-01-22T19:31:00.003-06:00

It used to be so easy for me to write on this blog because when I used to write, I was cooking. I began this blog as a side project to my culinary studies because I didn't want to lose what I viewed as talent as a writer. Culinary school, line cooking, the time it took to learn about ingredients and how to use them--I don't think I ever fully intended to use them as a profession. Though I willingly enrolled in culinary school, I hadn't fully thought through what it meant to be a chef. I just liked to cook. So I created this blog as a sort of flotation device, a reminder of who I was and where I had come from before I gave myself over to cooking full time.

Freshly returned from life in South America, I took time with my studies, learned as much as I could as quickly as possible. I surpassed most of my classmates in technique, out-cooked them when it really came time to perform and moved ahead at a much faster pace than even I had anticipated. If you look at the early posts on this blog, my mood reflected this. I wasn't writing everyday, but I was certainly taking the time to go eat, to explore, and to jot down notes about what I had consumed. I was giving myself a complete education. My second.

Along the way, though, as both school and my job cooking became more demanding, my ability to sit and focus on writing as a hobby, as an equal to cooking, lessened. The inner tube started to lose air. I almost completely stopped reading books in my spare time and when Kurt Vonnegut died I barely took notice.

For people like drug addicts, alcoholics or anyone else that has lost their life due to abuse and dependency, I know the consequences are much more dire and severe. For me, though to barely be able to sit here and eek out a few paragraphs when just five years ago I could fill page after page with prose, I feel as though I have lost a great deal of myself. And what's worse is that I was conscious the whole time.

Things have changed, though and I'm no longer cooking full time. In fact, I don't do anything full time at this point, other than worry about how I'm going to make money to pay next month's bills. In many ways I'm better off, because my time is much more open to chance now. The hardest part is rediscovering not only what it is that I used to do when I had free time, but even worse is relearning how to do those things again because it feels like so long since I've done them.

I feel that, moving forward, the writings on this blog, for those of you that may read it, will continue to revolve around food because I write about my life and my life still revolves around food. What I hope to see in the writings, though, is not simply surviving, as one might with a life preserver, but actually moving ahead as though in a boat. Whether or not my time spent in formal kitchens cooking for money is completely over, I can't say for sure. I know that cooking led me down a path that I've never truly been happy with, though one that has led to a great deal of education and awareness of the world around me. Writing, though, my first true love since childhood, will no longer take the back burner.

Permeating Austin

2010-01-08T00:57:00.003-06:00

As shown by the 17 total covers that came into the 160-seat restaurant this evening where I play Sous Chef, Austin is dedicated to Texas. I do honestly believe that in the future, Austin will develop and nurture a viable food culture, one that is knowledgeable, worldly and wholeheartedly interested in not just their ingredients, but their chefs as well, their restaurants and their image. For now, though, and perhaps even in that hopeful future, things like UT football games, the Dallas Cowboys and all things Tex-Mex reign supreme, dictating not just the eating habits but their patterns as well, of not just Austinites, but Texans in general.

What, then, is a progressive-minded, thoughtful and passionate restaurant to do when even the most educated of diners or foodies is torn between Saturday night's game or an enjoyable night out for dinner? For some, the answer is simple: serve your food the way you want, while still paying homage to your roots via some bastardized dish with the word "Texas" in it, regardless of whether or not it has any place on your menu. For those focused on something larger, though, involving not just food, but the way in which food affects us as people, in our own cultures and in others, the answer is not so simple. Tex-Mex ingredients aren't as easy to intigrate, or simply aren't necessary, so the battle continues uphill. The struggle, between chef and diner, to convince the latter that highlights of the game will be just as good once you've gorged on that monthly splurge of a meal and come home completely satisfied.

The solution, I believe, lay in education. Not simply chefs, but also food writers, food critics, purveyors, journalists, diners as educators. An opening of those sacred, "keep Austin weird" doors to the outside world, a permeation of exterior restaurant cultures to thereby inform this smaller community of what they're missing. Not simply bringing New York to Austin, but bringing Austin to places like San Francisco, Miami, New Mexico and even Portland, Oregon! Places that have burgeoned as food destinations because they have learned from other cities and climates, other trends and forecasts of where food is going, where it has been. Places that even local chefs know and read about on a daily basis, secrets that the dining community of Austin should be made aware of.

What I'm getting at is the larger picture, which I believe Austin is missing. There's a reason that Chuy's will constantly be busy, regardless of a football game, a recession, a fissure in the Earth's crust--without a better knowledge of food and the culture it creates, diners won't feel the need to expand their own horizons, right here in Austin. If more diners knew of hunks like Sam Mason, that allure of "possibly meeting the chef" might draw them out. If more writers could do a better job of describing who David Chang really is and why his food has hit such a high note, simply because they themselves were more educated and worldly, diners might be craving more exotic and adventurous food. And if chefs here could stop using fucking queso as a crutch and fill that spot on their menu with something more legitimate, the dining scene here might start to progress and challenge people's pallets.

When, during a recent discussion, someone told me that the blogging community here isn't overly competitive and that people generally get along, it split me right in half. On the one hand, I was truly excited to know that people care about their ingredients and wish each other the best in their preparation and presentation. On the other, though, I thought, without competition, where do we get progress? Without a healthy sense of competition, I believe, Austin will remain a city of ever-reaching goals of becoming great, though always left falling short of what is prime to be an amazing city in which to eat.

Brothers and Sisters, Lemme Get Up and Do My Thing!

2009-11-21T02:32:00.001-06:00

Family.

It's what the television shows edit out. It's what the blogs don't care about, the chef glosses over to make himself look better, the critics can't possibly include in their review. A restaurant family is long nights of drinking together, complaining about work and going back in the next day. It is incest. It is hangovers, late-ins, firings, hirings, comaradery.

When linecook415 gives you the parting quotes on each of his posts, you are not meant to understand. As I said in my last post, these blogs, the nights in the kitchen, on the floor, the nights after work--they aren't for the readers or even the diners. They are catharsis and inside jokes, letting go of the day and looking forward to the next. We don't write about these moments to glorify them; no, we write because we need to let it go and, for some of us, a few minutes on the template is healthier and safer than a beer binge which will inevitably decrease the next day's performance. As he left tonight, one of my cooks, in speaking of his other job and how long they've all worked together, said "it's almost like their a family." Almost? Or altogether? All in, everyday. The people you spend more time with on a daily basis than you do your wife or kids.

I think that for me I am often reluctant to give in to that familial bond for fear of losing touch with the world outside. As I remember the moments we share, though, with the hum of the ovens and the laughter at one of the cook's expense, how filmic it all seems and almost surreal, I know that this is where I belong and why, after countless heartaches and nights I've sworn against cooking, I haven't left yet. Family is security and, in an industry that is plagued with perpetual movement and ladder climbing, security is an asset.

Perhaps those who've made a career out of critiquing, photographing, writing about and just plain enjoying food don't mention family ties more often because the family is not theirs. It's not their grandmother in the back making the best braised veal they've ever had, but a team of highly trained, near-robotic cooks that can and will consistently make it better than grandma with just as much soul. Attributing love and sentimentality to a restaurant and its inner workings would make talking about it that much more difficult. Ignorance it is then, and therefore blissful eating.

Mais, c'est la vie. The burners go on everyday and, just like our grandmothers, we aim to please. Weekends and holidays, grad nights and weddings, we're always there, with each other. Life goes on around us, because of us, and with us. We're all there, playing our role, as those in plain clothes will play theirs, giving, taking, leaning on one another, all with one goal in mind, standards as high as ever.

I'll Get More Sleep Tomorrow Night

2009-11-19T00:33:00.002-06:00

When I set to writing this blog some two and a half years ago, I never really wished to become a spokesperson for the kitchen, a literate and somewhat nerdy link interested in bringing together those who eat and those who cook, even those who are simply interested in the two as a topic of discussion at parties. There are plenty of bloggers, both cooks and eaters alike, that do well in exploring and elucidating the finer points of what goes into a great meal. For them, I'm thankful. They give me a great deal to think about each night when I get home, something to read that gives me just a little something to dream about before, inevitably, I pass out cold only to wake up and do it all over again.

For me, though, it's never really been about giving to anyone else, adding to anyone else's night--it's been something far more personal, something rooted more in my own progression and my own revelations about cooking and food and what those mean to me as a person and, most importantly, the simple need to write them down. I was, after all, an English major just six years ago, an aspiring writer. That goal, though, never really came to fruition, never quite seemed logical or even practical, until I started cooking, really sweating over food, full time. I've written plenty of stories since college, published a couple zines, had small offers here and there, but never really felt moved, self-motivated enough to carry through on my own instincts to write until I tasted my first amazing turnip, ate a multi-course meal and paid more for it than I have for some plane tickets.

Food changed my outlook, if not on life, then simply on how to live it. Nourishment, nature, farmers and the earth they cultivate, these became the things that I started to and still currently think about, how our choices about food, the things that we eat have an enormous impact on how we live. Perhaps these ideas are even a little too deep for me, or at least for a blog but, again, I never really intended this to be for anyone but me. My outlooks on food, where I eat and how that affects me. And as I sit here at 1:00 in the morning, neglecting the sleep that I will so desperately wish I had gotten tomorrow mid-service, enveloped by the smells of beef stew that I made earlier, still slightly reeling from tonight's episode of Top Chef and how challenging it was for me, as a cook, to even watch, I realize that I'm surrounded by food, consumed by what it means to me and the fact that, for over a year, I've done very little in the way of expressing just how important that all is for me.

I didn't choose to give up writing for the last year or, rather, I didn't just one day decide that I'd be better off not writing for a year. I've had countless nights out for dinner, some good, some amazing, some downright frustrating. I've changed jobs and become a proper Sous Chef. I've found a mentor, I think. I've cried, I've laughed, I've threatened to quit cooking all together. I have "watched" Keller and Achatz charge $1500 a plate, Chang and Bourdain make complete asses of themselves to a national audience. Simply put, I've had a great deal to write about. Food, though, isn't always enough.

Without desire, or backing, without inspiration or without a mere five hours of sleep a night, food cannot survive on its own--not as a topic for an essay nor as a medium itself. Food, like those who grow it, those who cook it, those who write about it, has to be nurtured. It has to grow and rest, eat and be stimulated. And for me, for the last year, a year or writer's block or, even worse, writer's apathy, it's been a lack of those fundamentals that's made my relationship with food and my need to write about it feel so weak.

Tonight, however, for whatever reason, that year comes to a head. The night that I cooked while Obama became president. Michael Pollan digging into food television as though we all couldn't use some help right now. Anthony Foot-In-Mouth Bourdain. Nearly being fired three times from a job that I've so exhaustingly grown into. Getting back to what's important, here, tonight, although I don't know why. Nor does it matter. Most important is that I feel like I've gained soemthing back, rediscovered something that I was missing. Writing, or food, my voice, motivation.

Thanks watchman.

Inspiration is...

2008-11-11T22:33:00.001-06:00

...basically just old-fashioned thievery in a nicer looking package.

It's hard for me to just go and quietly eat my food at a restaurant anymore without, in some way, analyzing, critiquing or just plain wondering about what's on the tip of my fork. By no means am I one of those self-proclaimed, self-righteous "foodies" that feels the need to inform the whole table of the dish's ingredients and put in my two cents as to how I would have made it better. If ever asked my opinion on a dish, a meal or some overall experience, I try to offer as educated an opinion as possible, while keeping any personal distaste or bookish criticism to a minimum. After all, I don't go out to eat hoping to be disappointed--that would be a gross waste of time and money, neither of which do I currently possess in abundance. No, I go out to dinner, to lunch, for a drunken snack looking for satisfaction in the form of sustenance, be it to my local Mexican spot or a five-star establishment in New York, hoping to be surprised, to discover something I hadn't tried or tasted before, or to simply be inspired.

Like I said in my last post food, much like an empty canvas or a blank piece of paper, possesses raw potential, no pun intended. Oranges are made of peel, rind, meat, juice, seeds and so on, all of which can be used in some manner to make something tasty. If I'm not aware of every possible use of an orange, though, then how should I go about my research and discovery? Dining out. It's like going to a museum or reading your favorite author's novel (if you are a painter or a writer yourself)--there's always more to be learned than what you know yourself.

So I go out to eat. I go order things that sound good, sometimes things that sound too bad to be good. I try things I've never heard of eat with an open mind. I look for things that I can use on my own menus, for my lunch specials, for my personal use. Then I write it down and commit it to memory. I discuss with my coworkers and continue developing ideas. I politely take what I've seen and, in some way, make it my own. And so food moves forward, bouncing from one cook to another, changing its form, elaborating upon its own uses, evolving.

So, what's for dinner?

Leftovers or...

2008-10-26T21:54:00.006-05:00

I see potential or...
The Importance of Iron Chef

I can't say that I'm impressed by every episode of Iron Chef that I see. Often, I'm left with the feeling that the dishes created are surreal, perhaps a little silly or simply unusable. The chefs involved are certainly capable of the dishes they create, not to mention creating them in the allotted time frame. It's just that things like offal truffles or however many random sorts of savory ice cream have been created could only sell in a handful of restaurants in the world, if even in those. Then again, that's the point. The dishes are only served to a handful of onlookers, some trained food professionals, others food enthusiasts lucky enough to be invited to judge. Either way, the dishes will most likely never make it beyond the collapsible walls of kitchen stadium, leaving us to imagine what they might taste like, however random they may be.

Coincidentally, it's that randomness displayed on Iron Chef that keeps me watching, if only the finale, week after week, just to see how many ways and with what types of cuisine something like a green bell pepper or even a beer could be used. It is the celebration of random, often exotic and even forgotten ingredients that pushes the participating chefs to the limits of their knowledge and, for someone like me, still learning and developing within the craft of cooking, forces me to think outside the box.

For the painter, there is the canvas. For the photographer, the landscape or the silhouette of a turned head against the sunlight. For a cook, a chef, there is a refrigerator and a pantry, chock full of food, ready to be emptied. In each, there is potential. Failure or success. A new exhibit or a nightly special you just can't plate quickly enough.

For myself, it's the leftovers that excite me as much as a fresh delivery of produce, a new product I've not had the privilege of using or the basic menu items I produce on a daily basis. Leftovers can be the difference between going out to eat or having a truly exciting meal right at home. At work, they can mean the difference between losing money or making a profit on specials alone. They can be the dish you might not have otherwise considered but, given this random set of five or so ingredients, come together as something better than you might have hoped for.

The Iron Chef. The home cook. The food enthusiast. For each, there are ingredients. For each, there are inevitably leftovers. For each, there is potential.

For everyone else, here's a recipe:

Frozen puff pastry sheet, thawed and rolled out to fit a large cookie sheet / sheet pan
Leftover Bolognese sauce
Shredded cheese

Top the pastry with the sauce and cheese. Bake at 400 for 15 minutes.

Nights

2008-10-22T22:55:00.003-05:00

Cool breezes and dim lights. An Italian red, a little to eat, dessert a little later. Aromas waft from the kitchen and the sizzle of a hot saute pan means the food is on its way. Night has settled in and, for cooks around the nation, it's time to work. It's been different for me as of late, though, with my new found lunch shift, early morning awakenings and back home by six. For once, I'm missing the stress, the sweat, the allure that cooking by night has to offer.

By no means am I lamenting the working hours of the public majority. When I officially joined the ranks of professional cooks almost two years ago, I just accepted that my work day would begin at 1:00. Wake up, run errands, nurse your hangover, back to work. It became the norm, and I was fine with it. But then came New York, and now Austin, working by day, rediscovering life outside of a kitchen by night. It was odd, but by no means uncomfortable--like putting on a forgotten pair of shoes. Great food in a popular setting was, and is, actually possible. Incredible.

Food doesn't gain recognition, doesn't earn stars or an award-winning reputation by day, though. Not normally, anyway. It's the proper backlight and cars passing that make the evening dining experience truly unique. It's dressing up for a night out that makes the food better, less of a lunch-time function, more of a special occasion. It's cooking for a full house and exceeding expectations, consistently delivering perfect food even in the face of countless reservations that make cooking by night that much more rewarding. However, going home at 5:00 has its rewards, too.

Perhaps it was feeding a Gourmet magazine function in addition to a packed house that made last night seem so intriguing, or perhaps it was simply that I hadn't worked a night like that in some time that made me long again for those whirlwind shifts to which I'd grown so accustomed. Who knows--it just felt right. And undoubtedly, they'll be back, those long, at times agonizing shifts, when the tickets simply won't stop coming, when experience is invaluable and speed, even through exhaustion is necessary. Without a doubt in my mind, they'll be back, and I'll be ready. Accustomed to a five-day, Monday through Friday work week, relaxed and most likely looking forward to a beer, I'll be ready.

Nights.

Unnecessary

2008-10-16T22:38:00.004-05:00

For those of you that missed last night's premiere of Anthony Bourdain's new talk show, At the Table, don't worry--not only did you not miss anything of importance, but you are perhaps better off for having not sat through one of the worst hours of television in recent memory. At his best, Anthony Bourdain is the celebration of what all cooks could and perhaps should dream of one day becoming--a semi-distinguished, retired chef traipsing the world over for a great meal, all the while sharing the ambience of a great meal with friends both new and old. In the Spain and Japan episodes of No Reservations, it felt like he had finally let go of his sordid past, the need for shots of him and his obligatory beer and iconic cigarette. We saw a man that had done his time as a cook, who had studied and learned a great deal of what makes a good cook a great chef, someone who had taken this knowledge and moved on to something more promising and less exhausting. In these episodes, it really seemed like there is life after cooking. Apparently, that wasn't good enough.

Whether or not Bourdain himself or the Travel Channel is responsible for this new (or perhaps simply more intimate) look at the life of a retired chef and one-time bad boy is uncertain, but regardless, someone seriously needs to stand up and reconsider this course of action that's been taken. I should clarify that I wasn't at all surprised to see a new evolution in Travel Channel's love for Anthony Bourdain, simply disappointed. That he could open the show with a question of whether or not supposedly spending $1800 on dinner for two was shameful, while sitting with Ted Allen and Bill Bryson at WD-50 over a multi-course, high-ticket dinner, was just plain tacky. It's not as if people watch his other shows and think him anything less than a celebrity--who else would spend $2000 on a Hawaiian shirt before going to eat papaya-filled hot dogs? So, why the act?

Given that he has been treated to chef's table meals at Morimoto in Japan, Arzak in Spain, Bouchon in Las Vegas and so on, I find stories of the most disgusting things someone has done in a restaurant (discussed on the talk show last night) to be rather inappropriate. Why? Because it makes the rest of us cooks, chefs, restaurant professionals, those of us who go to work everyday, sober and ready for action, seem like the bad guys. Would he do those things today, in any of the restaurants to which the doors are so kindly opened? Then why bring it up in the first place. It's not like people don't already feel threatened by making a special request for fear that one of the cooks will spit in their food, so don't perpetuate the myth even further. Don't create a subculture of restaurant-goers that revel in making a mockery of a restaurant or other establishment's reputation simply for the sake of shock value. You're 50 years old Tony--let it go!

Perhaps I'm being a bit overzealous, but the show frustrated me. As a cook at this point, I can barely afford to go out to the local taco stands here in Austin, let alone a private tasting menu at WD-50 with four of my close friends. At a time when restaurants and their chefs, farmers, purveyors and televison alike are doing everything possible to make food a legitimate, sustainable, desirable medium for expression, highlighting the negative just seems pointless.

In his most recent post, blogger line cook 415 waxes on the question of why we the cooks do what we do day after day while enduring harsh working conditions, exhaustion and an overall lack of praise. Amongst his list of answers that cannot be simplified to just one, he says that we cook to make others happy, that we're hospitable--and this is coming from a line cook! Even crazier is that it's true. We cook because we're good at it, because we love it, because it's our job. What we don't need is a retired celebrity drunk who's upset that the good old days of the Ramones and blowing lines in the kitchen are over making our job any harder. It's already hard enough.

Pilot Light

2008-10-16T22:07:00.002-05:00

At this point, I realize that no one is keeping up with my writing, least of all myself. Six months is a long time to be away from something that was only in it's early stages to begin with. However, things are a little calmer now that I've found myself living in Austin, Texas, working, living, sleeping roughly eight hours a night. Since last I posted, way back in February, I've finished my stage with Gramercy Tavern in New York (an exhausting, at times frustrating, enlightening and ultimately rewarding experience), travelled to Ireland, moved back to Florida, gotten engaged, purchased my first bicycle in over three years, and finally moved to Texas where I now share a one bedroom apartment with my fiance, our couch and my first set of real kitchen utensils that I use nearly everyday. Missing, however, has been the presence of written words, both my own and those of others, owing mostly to the fact that amidst moving, working, choosing a ring and lamenting my ever-expanding mid-section, mental stimulation has been more easily attained by drinking a beer than sitting down to read or write. With my 14th and final move in the past six years behind me, though, it's time to get back to the important things, like food, and eating, and restaurants, and gadgets, and so on.

Thanks, in large part, to my new coworkers Andrew and Jason at Austin's Fino (www.finoaustin.com), where I've managed to land a lead line cook position, my interest in most everything food-related has been reinvigorated. While we do revel in the innane banter and compulsory use of sailor-speak that is life in the kitchen, we spend most time talking about food. It's nice when you realize you're in the right place.

So, before I become any more sentimentally cliche, I'll welcome myself back as I look forward to what's good

Grammar Dies at Menu's Hands...

2008-02-24T15:26:00.002-06:00

...would be a strong contender for the title I'd choose when writing an obituary for English grammar.

Before I return to writing about food, restaurants and the industry as a whole, I'd like to address a semi-related subject that's near and dear to my heart--grammar. At first, it might seem like a rather unlikely topic for a blog that's dedicated to food, but when you consider that signage, menus and specials boards are typically what draws a customer in, grammar plays a huge role in how we sell our food. I'm not saying that words aren't meant to be played with or that menus need be the perfect example of proper English grammar--after all, menus are usually just a menagerie of lists, sentence fragments and headlines that tell us what we're buying. However, within these confines there still needs to be some sort of standard that doesn't allow us, the sum total of English speakers, to forget that spelling matters and that we're only doing ourselves an in justice by simply forgetting all the formative years of education we suffered through.

Case in point--Pazzo's, the new "Cucina Italiana" just south of the drawbridge on A1A in Ft. Lauderdale, FL. Because I haven't eaten there or even considered such a venture, I'll leave my opinions on the food to a minimum, except to say that given the abundance of such restaurants claiming to serve "Authentic Italian Cuisine," what the grim landscape of the South Florida restaurant scene needs is not another family style Italian place; especially not one that's going to blatantly misuse the English language in order to promote their supposed "FRESH" ingredients, however loaded that term may be.

"Fresh Pasta's," "Fresh Pizza's," "Fresh Salad's." If you don't notice the error here, it's the apostrophe at the end of each noun. In short, the apostrophe should be used to denote possession, i.e. "Patrick's Frustration," or to abbreviate "is", i.e. Pazzo's going to kill me when he reads this; not, however, to denote pluralization, i.e. fresh pasta or fresh pastas (no apostrophe). Go ahead and call me a nerd, but when I see signs like this around town, on vans promoting someone's (possessive) business or slowly moving its (the one case where an apostrophe is not needed to show possession) way into other written forms (plural), I fear for the fate of English.

Pazzo's (spelled correctly, ironically, to denote that Pazzo is the owner), is not the first to misuse grammar and they will certainly not be the last. I suppose I just know that in the future, should I become a restaurateur, a food writer or simply a menu writer, I will try to make my grammar as meticulous as possible, and I just wish that others would, too. I realize, too, that within the culinary world and consequently on this blog, there are much larger fish to fry (no pun intended) than whether or not an apostrophe was misused, but it just seems to me that to be a successful restaurant or even one that simply appeals the masses, one shouldn't simply rely on good food to get by--it should be an entire package that sells itself like a fine work of art might, based on overall integrity.

With that, I urge anyone whom I've annoyed by nitpicking at the presence of English in food to call me up for a cook-off. Yours will most likely be cooked much faster, but mine, I would hope, would be much more eloquently presented.

Moving Right Along

2008-02-24T15:05:00.003-06:00

So, for the few fans that have actually been keeping tabs on what's good, you may have noticed it's been more than two months since I've written anything substantial, or even about food, that wasn't a mere update. My plan was to do a summary of what I had missed in 2007 so I could catch up myself. However, 2007 is long gone at this point and a good deal has happened since the New Year, so let's catch up (quickly), move on, and keep eating.

2007 essentially meant getting back on my feet--moving back from Chile after a year and a half, moving to Miami, enrolling in culinary school, meeting Dean Max and, consequently, eating a lot. I threw myself head first into the culinary field, buying books, doing research outside of class, eating my way into my first credit card and finally discovering a field in which I'm fully ready to immerse myself. Michael's Genuine Food and Drink, 3030 Ocean, Gramercy Tavern and Anthony's Coal-Fired Pizza were just a few of the notable dining experiences that pushed me forward, kept me cooking and fattened me up. And that was 2007, in short. Learning and working for, at times, 18 hours a day, not sleeping enough, starting two different jobs, once again becoming an American.

And now it's 2008, the winter is in full swing, and I'm back in New York city for three months, potentially longer. Just after the new year I flew up for a stage with Michael Anthony and his staff at Gramercy Tavern, and they accepted me with open arms. I'm one of just three in my class that either chose or were able to leave the state and go for what should be an outstanding internship. It's a great opportunity about which I have mixed emotions, mostly because I left New York a long time ago with a bad taste in my mouth, and I wasn't really sure if I'd ever return. Here I am, though, on the eve of my first day in a world-renowned kitchen, ready to get back to what it is I've been doing for the past year, eager to get cooking.

The next three months will, I'm sure, prove to be demanding, fun, interesting and, most importantly, full of great food. I already have a great deal to talk about and it's only been a few days. So let's tie up a few loose ends in Miami, pack up and move on. Sounds good to me.

Back in Action

2008-01-13T20:09:00.000-06:00

So, for those of you that may be "regular readers" of this blog, I must first apologize. It's been exactly one month since last I posted anything, and I'm not happy about that. Since that last post, though, I've been incredibly busy. We started our Christmas prep at work, I had two weeks off of school, and basically spent the majority of my time sleeping, buying ideal Christmas gifts for my girlfriend or, mostly, working. We prepped like crazy people and worked even harder. Needless to say, I didn't have much time or energy to write.

Aside from working, the big news is that I traveled to New York on January 4th to do a one-day, observational trail with Chef Michael Anthony at Gramercy Tavern. When I left, I had my externship lined up along with plans to return in late February. I suppose that answers my question, "What's better?" My plans to go to Boulud or any other spot for my externship have been cancelled. I'm quite thrilled and would like to say thank you to all of you that have supported me thus far.

With that, I'm now back in school finishing up my classes before going to New York, and I intend to get back to writing. Within the next week, look for a recap of 2007 in which I plan to briefly, yet thoroughly, touch on everything I couldn't get to and look ahead at what's to come in 2008. It'll be a pretty hefty post full of Azul, the clam farm, Lola's in Hollywood, FL and pizza. I hope you're as excited as I am.

Patrick

Mi-chelle Bern-stein!

2007-12-14T15:07:00.001-06:00

So, as I was saying about those timely posts...

What gets me most is that when I look back to consider what I'd like to say about the places I've eaten only to realize just how much time has passed. The days sort of feed into one another and what I remember as being about a week or two has actually been closer to seven--which is actually the case with my trip to Michy's, amongst others. It was six or seven weeks ago that I, after eight months of work, received my first Friday night off without having requested it, which obviously meant I needed to spend it wisely. And what better way to spend a Friday night than a night out wining and dining with the one you love most.

The decision to actually go to Michy's rather than simply returning to my favorite Michael's Genuine was a little more difficult than you might imagine. It was Friday afternoon at almost two o'clock and I hadn't yet made a reservation. I had heard that Michy's was some sort of high end Latin fusion all the way down on Miracle Mile. Mixed reviews left me wondering if the trip would actually be worth another Latin meal when my neighborhood was teeming with the equivalent of Central American Applebee's.

My first reservation was actually with the Food Gang, thinking it might be fun to go and see Howie Kleinberg's (the argumentative, sweaty bald guy from Top Chef 3) food in real life, but the reviews there were even more mixed. Flipping through a magazine I had received highlighting restaurants in Broward and Dade counties, I finally gave in and called Michy's, delightfully surprised to find out that not only is it North Miami Beach, much closer to my house, but also that the food is actually quite appealing, and not just another take on old Latin favorites.

What excited me most about Michy's was the subtle vibrance of everything. First of all, the place is very quietly located on US1, next to a Starbuck's, a gas station and a residential street. If you didn't know what you were looking for, you wouldn't find it. Then when you enter (as we did, mistakenly through the front door which is actually the back door), you are hit with blue. Blue envelops the room and gives a sense of boundary. It isn't until you look around and realize that the banquette along the far wall is bright orange and the chairs bright white that the room really comes alive, enough to match the clamor of the guests all enjoying themselves. As far as first impressions go, this was a pretty good one.

So we finally sat down, I in the orange banquette, Doris in one of the many white mismatched chairs that fill most of the room. To our right was the dining room, full of well-dressed adults, a family with their kids, smiles on everyone's faces as they took bites of the delicious food. To our left, the wall of wine, the bar and the bargoers out not to eat, but to have a good time. Michy's, I realized, isn't just a place to go and have great food--it's a place to go and have a great time.

Be forewarned--I was easily sold into two $18 glasses of champagne that, admittedly, tasted damn good, but were a little pricier than I had expected. Regardless, they made a great start to a fantastic meal and quickly heightened the romance that only Michy's quirky elegance could create. With the champagne we enjoyed oysters with the apple horseradish mignonette, and the silky, heavenly white gazpacho with almonds, grapes and cucumber. Smoother and less acidic than most any other gazpacho I've ever had, this was like eating a smile and swallowing perfection. Second was the bibb lettuce salad, topped in crispy shallots (which I made at work the next day they tasted so good) and a jalapeno ranch dressing just spicy enough to excite the lettuce, but not so cloying that I kept reaching for my water.

Before I go any further I must talk about ham and cheese. While traveling through the Southern half of Argentina last year at this time, we spent well over fifty hours on busses owned by companies that believed ham and cheese sandwiches were the best option for quick meals. In all fairness, ham and cheese are some of the cheapest and most ubiquitous ingredients to be had in all of South America, but when you are sitting on a bus, stopped-over for two hours in the middle of Argentina only to be fed a trio (yes a TRIO!) of ham and cheese sandwiches with cookies, carbs and more carbs, all in the middle of a 36-hour bus ride, your disdain for the two ingredients quickly rises and you basically never want to see them again. However, when we saw the ham and cheese croquetas on the menu, they sounded too good to pass up, and served as a nice interlude between salad and entree.

Finally, it was the churrasco Steak Frites, served with a Bearnaise and an Au Poivre dipping sauce. For me, it was the least exciting element of the evening, perhaps becuase I've been working a grill station for over five months and therefore am a bit tired of steak and heavy sauces. Then, inevitably, it was the red velvet cupcake and shot of milk served in a mason jar for dessert that we had seen upon entering. There was honestly no room left to stuff a cupcake, but if you could the presentation alone of the cream cheese icing and glass of milk, you'll find a place.

The cool thing about Michy's is that the menu is divided into half and full portions, so you can turn four courses into a tasting for two simply by sharing, just like we did. The bill for everything, including the champagne, coffee and gratuity was $160, not bad considering we left feeling satisfied. Once I've completed more of my tour of South Florida cuisine, I'll definitely go back, though perhaps not for the Steak Frites. It is an environment unto itself, unpretentious and bursting with energy--worth the travel and worth the money.

Michy's
6927 Biscayne Blvd., Miami, Fl; (305)-759-2001

Le Best

2007-12-02T16:05:00.000-06:00

For the first time in the short history of this food blog, I'm going to go ahead and do a timely review, rather than one that comes one, two, even three weeks after the fact. I plan to change this style and do everything in a more timely fashion once I'm out of school and only have work to fill up my days, but for now, c'est la vie, and I'll continue doing my part whenever possible. With that, you're probably wondering (or at least I hope) what has me so eager to get to writing, rather than my usual procrastinating. The answer--Le Tub.

If you're like me, adventure is a part of your regular vocabulary and is graciously applied to any situation where narrow passages, winding through trees, field trips, or anything MacGyver-esque happens. I look for adventure because it makes even the most mundane of days seem a little more fulfilling, and I also like to think it keeps me young. So, upon entering the wooden deck maze of picnic style seating along the water, only to find that our friends were seated in the furthest booth located up some stairs, around a corner, through some trees and past the tiki torches, adventure was the first thing that came to my mind. It didn't matter that Oprah's travel expert and GQ magazine had already voted the burgers as some of the best in the U.S. or that my Floridian friends had raved about the food for some time--I was sold before I ever had a bite. Moreover, we had coincidentally already tried to enter Le Tub's jungle more than six months prior while on a Sunday afternoon trip to the Hollywood organic market, only to find the parking lot packed and wait too long for our grumbling stomachs. Needless to say, this dinner was destined to be great.

Once we finally sat down, the conversation quickly turned to Oprah, or the whole reason we were here in the first place. Oprah and the menu, that is. Sitting right on the water, there were, of course, seafood options on the menu, but none of us were interested. It was the burgers we had come for, the burgers we had heard so much about, and for perhaps the first time in my life everyone at the table ordered the same thing--a burger and fries.

I must digress for a second and talk a little about burgers, because they are near and dear to my heart. Growing up in the Midwest, in the land of meat and potatoes, I was exposed to burgers of all sorts. Frozen patties, my mom's fresh meat cooked to a dry, yet somehow delicious, well-done, burgers in restaurants of all types and, of course, the barbecue burger on lazy summer afternoons. As I look back, it was an education in flavor that could only be enjoyed by a chubby kid that learned to love food while sitting in front of the television for most of his adolescent life. For a while, I even tossed around the idea of driving around the country doing a burger tour, deciding for myself who had the best burger. Having now experienced what has been regarded as the best, I think a tour of this sort might still be worthwhile because, although the burger I had last night was good enough to silence our table for a solid ten minutes, I'm still not convinced that it's "the best." Booche's in Columbia, MO might have something to say otherwise, as well as a few other establishments across this great nation in which I've enjoyed some tasty beef patties.

Moving on, it may, in fact, be the sirloin and the sheer size of the 13 oz. patty that has people raving about Le Tub's burger, because in today's fast-food economy, finding a burger of that girth made out of a superior cut of beef is nearly impossible. Plain and simple, it's a fantastic burger. Upon first bite, the classic ketchup, mustard, onion, lettuce, tomato, bun and burger combo came together in a bite so savory and succulent that it brought back memories of the burger I had my sophomore year of high school after the Sadie Hawkins dance. It set my mind racing to remember all those other burgers I'd had because I hadn't had a burger in quite some time, at least not one this good, of this caliber. And in the end, it was only the burger in front of me, the water off to my right, the steak fries so hot and tender inside, and the ice-cold Corona that matched everything so perfectly that grabbed my attention. At that point, the other burgers didn't really matter much simply because this one was so damn good. Furthermore, I knew that no amount of classical French training in a highly regarded, expensive culinary school could make this burger. No, it was and is truly American, and although I'd never refer to myself patriotic or even proud, it was pretty nice to know that this was entirely ours and that you wouldn't find anything else quite like it anywhere else in the world.

And that was pretty much it. By the end of the meal we were all yawning, exhausted from having consumed so much meat. We finished up our conversation, passed on dessert and headed back through the maze, back to the buzz (albeit low) of Hollywood at night. I look forward to going back again, not simply for the burger, but for the ambience as well. It was, I have to say, a truly unique and utterly perfect burger experience, one that most assuredly slip in with all the others, just another branch of my education in American cuisine.

Le Tub (www.theletub.com)
1100 N. Ocean Drive, Hollywood, Fl; 954-921-9425

What's Better?

2007-11-30T07:22:00.000-06:00

Gramercy Tavern
www.gramercytavern.com

Daniel Boulud
www.danielnyc.com

By now, you've probably noticed the running motif with the Gramercy Tavern, the great meal I had there, my opportunity to work there, etc. I don't forsee this motif losing steam any time soon. Through doing more research, I've found that working for the Gramercy folks would not only put me deep within the boundaries of a ring of fantastic restaurants in New York, but it would also give way to a long string of connections to restaurants such as Blue Hill which, through even further research, I've discovered are right in line with my current mentality towards food. All in all, it's a pretty fantastic opportunity. However, thanks to the generosity of Terri Wallman, my ace in the hole Director of Career Services here at the school, the chance to possibly work at one of Daniel Boulud's spots has become available as well. Therein lay the problem or, rather, the dilemma.

Is putting time in with a wildly successful French chef worth more than going to a restaurant I already feel connected to, or can I get an equally valid and worthwhile education in a setting that's far more appealing to me?

My experience says, go with your gut. Gramercy feels better so go with it.

What's better? Comments welcomed and encouraged.

Birki's Clogs

2007-11-12T23:14:00.000-06:00

White Clogs. Need I say more?
I'm a 43 in case anyone is looking to get me a Christmas gift.
Phenomenally comfortable and kinda cool to look at, they are some of the best money I've ever spent.

...you can make it anywhere

2007-11-11T19:15:00.000-06:00

Unfortunately, what's good isn't always what's up to date or even what's new. While my ambitions for being a chef/food writer/small-time restaurateur are a driving force in my life at this point, my schedule as a cook/student/human being allows me just enough time to pass out around 12:30 every night with half a beer in my hand before I'm forced to once again wake up at 6:00 in the morning and start all over again. It's a schedule that, at times, has found me weary, cranky and ready to quit everything and once again go searching for a nameless job in a sea of nameless jobs only to realize that what I'm doing is quite a good fit.

As with most jobs, even those not quite as demanding as kitchen work, it's good to take a break every so often and allow the brain to get a clearer perspective of the larger picture which, for me, means recognizing that the time I've spent in kitchens for the past nine months has not only enriched and broadened my knowledge of food, but has also brought me to a position where the only clear path I can see is upward. This isn't to say that I'll be made Sous Chef or Chef de Cuisine of a respectable restaurant in the upcoming months, nor would I want to--I still have quite a bit to learn--but having pushed myself to gain as much knowledge in as short of a time as possible has certainly given me a clearer path towards culinary success.

How I go about attaining that success, though, is entirely up to me, and it means constantly being aware of that larger picture, which is why three weeks ago I requested four days off and flew to New York. My goal was to visit with my brother over long meals in fabulous restaurants, to make contacts for my upcoming externship and to reassure myself that I knew exactly what I was doing spending so much time in a kitchen because even in a city like New York, where the cuisine is world-class and the work daunting at best, I felt right at home. What follows is an itinerary and critique of my seven major stops in three days, the food and ambience contained within, and how being back in New York with a definitive purpose opened my eyes.

It goes a little something like this:

Thursday, October 18th
Bocca Lupo, Brooklyn
391 Henry St., at Warren St., Cobble Hill, Brooklyn; 718-243-2522

Originally, my brother had asked if I might lavish him with some of my newly attained culinary talent and cook up a little something once I arrived in New York. The idea sounded great and I intended to make a couple of simple but tasty pizzas with fresh vegetables and fresh mozzarella, the perfect accompaniment to a couple of reunion beers and catch-up conversation. However, by the time I finally arrived in Brooklyn Heights after a nearly two-hour trip from JFK by subway, my desire to sauce dough and julienne peppers was gone. We were hungry and not all that willing to wait for pizzas or even walk to the store for the ingredients, so down the street it was to what has become one of my brother's and now perhaps even my favorite spots.

Bocca Lupo is a simple but sophisticated, hip but not trying too hard mostly Italian eatery designed with flavor in mind. Located in Cobble Hill just around the corner from Red Hook, they cater to families, couples, hipsters and general passersby alike. In looking for the restaurant's exact address for my review I came upon some rather mixed reviews regarding the restaurant, mostly due to its location and that fact that a hot little Italian spot is located in a relatively quiet neighborhood. Staying open until two in the morning on weekends doesn't sit too well with locals, but for those looking for good food at a great price, the hours seem just fine. And after all, the food is what we're here to talk about.

Coincidentally, my brother's first question when we got the menu was, "What is Risotto?" This question came when I had just finished a class in which my teacher tried to convince us that his runny risotto was "genuinely Italian" and my coworkers were trying to come up with a new flavor pairing for their risotto. As it turns out, my brother's risotto was exquisitely cooked, seasoned well and simply plated. Paired with a small pizza topped with fresh ingredients, he seemed quite happy. I steered clear of the risotto and first had us explore the antipasto plate with five different cured meats, all flavorful, some better than others. I feel like I can't go into detail about an antipasto plate because it's basically old hat at this point and not worth detailing. (I also had the privilege of enjoying a cured meat spread in southern Argentina last year accompanied with a sampling of micro-beers in a small mountain town, so other cured meat plates are going to have to try very hard for me to take note.) It was good, though.

For my entree, I ordered a salad of warm farro and shiitake mushrooms in a balsamic dressing, accompanied by veal and porcini meatballs in a tangy tomato sauce. I ordered these dishes not because they sounded good to me (which they did), but because I wanted to taste their preparation of these ingredients--and I was pleasantly surprised. The farro wasn't at all rubbery nor undercooked and the balsamic was the perfect pairing with the shiitakes. The veal meatballs were fantastically tender and the tomato sauce was perfect, something that I'll rarely say about tomato sauce, having worked in several "Italian" pizzerias and tasted some truly delicious tomato sauce.

Beyond our meals, the rest of the menu looked great. The paninis sounded plentiful and pastas sounded like pasta, but with enough heart to make them fabulous. Nothing that we had was under seasoned or poorly cooked and the flavors were outstanding. The wine list was entirely Italian and quite extensive. Service was friendly, expedient and seemingly eager to please. Overall, it was a great first meal back in New York at a friendly little Italian place, so much that we even went back for brunch on Sunday morning. I would not only recommend it but even offer to take anyone there who I happen to be in Brooklyn with in the future.

Friday, October 19th
The Grey Dog's Cafe (www.thegreydog.com)
33 Carmine St., New York, New York; 212-462-0041

It wasn't until my senior year of college that I realized how crucial coffee was to long nights of drinking, studying and generally living. I avoided the black juice at all costs perhaps because my first few introductions were had at places like Denny's where a couple of bucks gets you the deepest cup of coffee you'll ever find, even though you're essentially paying for swill. When I finally found a cute barista worth trying coffee for, though, my dependence on the caffeine, the buzz and the culture was immediate. I quickly became a coffee drinker in love with seedy coffee shops, the ability to stay awake and do more and, quite often, the cute girls that served it up.

When I moved to New York soon after college, it didn't take long before I was introduced to the Grey Dog's Cafe, the coffee shop around the corner from work famous for its dog-friendly attitude, its award-winning coffee, the homestyle comfort food for lunch and dinner and, of course, the hottest baristas in the city. For those of us at the ad agency where I interned, it became an almost daily routine, getting coffee and cookies in the late afternoon so we could rough out the last few hours of the work day and still be able to go out at night. When I eventually quit that job and moved out of the city, I still thought of that coffee every time I had a cup that was less than adequate. Then I moved out of the region entirely and didn't really know when I'd set foot in that cramped, delicious, one-of-a-kind locale again. Needless to say, when I booked my flight to New York this time, I had one cup of coffee in mind.

Almost three years in the making, that cup of coffee was perfect. Hungover from a few bottles of wine and catching up the night before, it got me excited to be in New York again, to be wandering around the city looking for knives, excited about food, high on caffeine and ready for more. I hadn't found the Chinese chopping knife I was looking for that morning nor were the baristas as hot as I'd remembered, but it didn't matter. The coffee was superb and the cookies in all their face-sized glory were soft and thick. Dammit, I want that coffee again.

It was oddly just like old times, too. Outside the weather was wet and overcast and inside humid and deafening with lunchtime chatter. I spent maybe five minutes getting that coffee and cookie, but what an utterly fulfilling five minutes it was. I spent nearly the whole day nibbling on the huge chunks of chocolate in the cookie and the coffee got me to a lunch that I might have otherwise avoided because of my hangover. The Grey Dog's for me is a true New York landmark, worth not only going out of your way but perhaps even a trip to the Big Apple.

Momofuku Ssam Bar
207 Second Ave., New York, New York; 212-254-3500

The great thing about working for a chef that travels and eats is that you'll rarely be at a loss for places to go and try. The bad thing is that he gets irked if you don't listen to him when you give him a suggestion. When I saw a review of David Chang's Momofuku spots as I read Gourmet magazine on the plane, though, I knew that it had to be.

My biggest regret about going to Momofuku is that I was nauseated by my hangover, so the menu's real highlights didn't sound appealing. In Gourmet, they raved about the pork buns which, when I didn't order them and later saw the woman next to me devouring them, I knew were what I should have ordered. Instead, I opted for the chicken ssam box #2, with noodles and a Dr. Pepper. On any other day with a clear pallet and an open-mind, the spicy kim-chee and tangy pickles would have been great. It was grease I had on my mind, though, so the very healthy, tasty meal in front of me just didn't do it. What I can say, though, is that the ssam, essentially a burrito, seemed overly saucy, to the point that I almost couldn't taste the chicken or it's accompanying veggies, designed to be tangy and flavorful themselves.

Would I go back? Most certainly--I have to try those pork buns. As expected, too, it was a cool spot in a great location. The squared-off, all-wood interior fit right in in its East Village neighborhood. It seemed to me a great meeting spot or a healthy, delicious alternative to late-night partying food. The music was great and the employees friendly, not to mention the cost for what was on the menu surprisingly cheap.

Industria Argentina (www.iatribeca.com)
329 Greenwich St., between Duane and Jay, New York, New York; 212-965-8560

The idea behind the culinary school externship is to essentially sum up your coursework with applicable fieldwork in which the skills you've attained are put to use. For many, this means staying close to home, finding a decent restaurant that pays and learning, perhaps, when they get busy for the first time, that maybe they shouldn't have enrolled in school in the first place. For me, though, this means much more than staying with the fantastic job I already have or even staying close to home. It means finding the best, most interesting and exciting place I can to learn even more about food and to basically jumpstart my career as a culinary professional. When I thought of that place or that restaurant, essentially that setting, I immediately came to Buenos Aires, a city I have sworn my love for in a country teeming with culinary possibilities.

Almost immediately, I started doing research on the finest Argentine chefs to work for and, almost immediately, I stumbled upon Fernando Trocca, one of the country's finest young talents, though he's not even in the country all that often. Co-creator/owner of two spots in Buenos Aires, a new one in Mexico and the restaurant that drew me to New York, Trocca pops up in articles from Tokyo to Chi-town, pleasing pallets and gaining notoriety. It's no wonder, then, that having lived in South America for a year and a half, I would want to return to my Chilean neighbor and study food with one of the southern hemisphere's finest. Before making the leap, though, I wanted to catch a little bit of his vibe, nosh on the Patagonian lamb and soak in some American Argentina as only New York could offer.

In an Argentine steakhouse, the portions lean towards the enormous size and cost about a third of what they might in the States. At Industria Argentina, however, where the decor is rustically elegant and the location just enough off the beaten path to be enticingly cool, the food is first-rate and the prices, well, worth it. Upon entering, my brother was immediately mesmerized by the tall beauty that was our hostess--I couldn't wait for the meat. I'd read reviews that said the service was lacking or just plain slow, but we were attended to rather quickly, and so our meal began.

Surprisingly, my brother opted for the marinated tuna, served with a layer of avocado, cilantro and boniato chips. Nothing short of exquisite, the plate was beautifully flat and seasoned to perfection. The layer of avocado on top of the sashimi-thin tuna brought out not only the meat's flavor, but it's beautiful pink color as well. For me, it was the roasted pumpkin and watercress salad in a basil dressing. I don't know if I just expected the pumpkin to be chilled, but the first warm bite of tender pumpkin nearly knocked me out of my seat. Combined with the crisp watercress, the flakes of reggianito cheese and the tangy dressing, I was almost ready to forgo the entree and order another salad. Needless to say, we were ready for the entrees.

Again, with the veal. This time it was ossobucco for my brother, rack of Patagonian lamb for myself. If I were forced to decide which meat was softer, I don't know if I could do it. The veal fell from the bone at the mere touch of a fork and was only made softer by the jus reduction. The roasted vegetables were a nice accompaniment and, thank goodness, were not overdone. Since making the reservations more than three weeks in advance, I had been waiting to try the lamb that was set in front of me, deep in a bowl filled with polenta, tomatoes and an Argentine Malbec reduction. The lamb, in its cool, smoky marinade of paprika and rosemary was cooked, without my asking, to a perfect medium rare, without the slightest hint of gaminess. Every bite was better than the next, again made better by the wine reduction and grilled tomatoes. I can still taste it now. The only disappointing part of my entree was the crispy polenta, which just seemed too greasy, or salty, or just off. It was a nice crisp to contrast the tenderness of the meat, but the flavor didn't hit for me. Regardless, I would order the dish again without hesitation.

Dessert was great, as expected after such a fantastic meal--perfect flan for myself and bread pudding for my brother. They weren't breaking any boundaries, really, but then again, we weren't eating at El Bully or any other such restaurant. The menu was entirely rustic, Patagonian, traditionally Argentine. The flavors seemed modern and full-bodied, everything I would expect from an upper-scale Argentine place in New York. And, as to be expected, the wine list was entirely Argentine which, because I lived and drank in as much of southern South America as I could, was like a return to old favorites.

So, in short, I can say nothing bad about Industria Argentina or, at least, nothing scathing that would deter me from ever going back. It is a unique spot quietly doing its thing in western TriBeCa, serving food from a place that is truly magical. At this point, I don't think I'll be going to Argentina to do my externship, but that's not because they're food isn't interesting, challenging or because I don't wish to return to South America. It's that my meal the following evening changed my perspective on restaurants in general and how I'd like to look at food. Keep reading and find out why.

Saturday, October 20th
Los Dados
73 Gansevoort St. at Washington St., New York, New York; 646-810-7290

Interestingly enough, there is a run-down Mexican grocer / taco stand in East Norwalk, Connecticut, hidden far enough from any sort of beaten path for anyone except locals and explorers to know about. The employees speak enough English to get a gringo their tacos, but otherwise speak their own language when taking orders for tongue tacos and other truly Mexican flavors. I had the coincidental privilege of living in Norwalk for a brief time, and to get to know real Mexican flavors, to gorge on huevos rancheros and to eat tacos not smothered in cheese, spices and general heaviness. I cannot remember the name of this spot, but if you take I-95 north to exit 16 in Connecticut, make a right off the highway and then one more right just before the train tracks, you'll find what looks like an old house two blocks up on the right. That's the place. Go there, please.

Unfortunately, I am convinced that Chef Sue Torres, who runs Los Dados, has not eaten at this spot in Connecticut, much to her detriment. Admittedly, the fault for randomly choosing breakfast can only be placed upon my brother and I, for we were the ones that got up late and met with long lines at the Meat-Packing district's finest bruncheries. Regardless, my brother had already mentioned the Latin-inspired brunch menu at one of his new favorites in lower Manhattan, so when we found ourselves hungry a little further uptown, I jumped at the first Mexican inspired menu I found. With little more than the staff around and they not at all eager to seat or even serve us, we should have known better. We sat down, though, and ordered some food.

Honestly, it wasn't that the food was really that bad--it was simply forgettable. We waited close to an hour for our meal, all the while munching on chips with namless green and orange salsas. By the time we had downed a couple of Americanos and half a basket of chips, I don't think either of us was all that hungry for the chicken quesadilla or chipotle eggs benedict that were put in front of us. We ate what we could and quickly paid our check, or paid as quickly as the molasses-slow service would allow. We walked away full and another couple had even arrived as we finished. I've since read that Chef Torres' other establishments in the city offer fantastic, authentic Mexican fare that leaves visitors feeling satisfied. With such a strong scene developing in the area, though, and a brunch crowd that seems all too content with their regular spots, I have to wonder what fate holds in the cards for Los Dados. Vaya con dios, I suppose.

Ceci-Cela (www.ceci-celapatisserie.com/)
55 Spring Street, New York, New York; 212-274-9179

When I lived in Norwalk, Connecticut, I held four jobs in three months. I worked a day for Wild Oats and quit out of boredom. I worked for the Fat Cat Pie Co. and quit because I moved back to Missouri. I worked at a crossword company and quit for the same reason. In between, though, I worked for a little Italian cafe in South Norwalk called Pane e Panini, for a first-generation Italian with a taste for some of New York's finest breads. When I look back, my time there was a jumbled mess of being broke, drinking a lot of coffee, stress and trips to the city. I took away little, save the ability to fill a canoli, make coffee and a couple names of phenomenal bakeries in New York. Pino, Pane's owner, happened to be friends with one of the managers at Ceci-Cela, so he was aware of the quality French pastries they were putting out. My girlfriend at the time and I dined on the Linzer tarts and almond brioche without paying attention to the countless calories we were consuming simply because they were too good to care. When we had to go to the city and pick them up, though, we were pretty certain we had found a small piece of heaven, right there in New York city.

The beautiful thing about Ceci-Cela is that it's so subtle, you'd almost never know it's there. I guess that's what makes so many places in New York great, though--that ability to develop almost a cult following with little more than a tiny storefront and an outstanding product. And that's what Ceci-Cela is--perfect pastries, great coffee and a cozy atmosphere. I popped in for an afternoon pick-me-up and a reminder of how good the pastries are. The coffee was as good at the Grey Dog's and the Linzer tart spread its powdered sugar goodness all over my face. Perhaps the only drawback is that it is so small you either have to sit down or leave to be able to enjoy your purchases. I did the latter and popped across the street to marvel at this utterly French destination, ideally located between shops, clubs and restaurants.

I think I will always opt for the Grey Dog's as my favorite coffee spot, but having worked with a French chef making French pastries at school, I know what Ceci-Cela is doing, and how well they're doing it. The food is the star and the restaurant so utterly anti-modern it's right at home in New York. Pastries, coffee and comfort--it doesn't get much better.

Gramercy Tavern (www.gramercytavern.com)
42 East 20th St., New York, New York; 212-477-0777

My original plan was to take four days off from work and go to visit my friend Sam and his girlfriend at their cabin in the woods of western North Carolina. We were going to drink and eat in the glory of perfect fall weather, share stories and catch up--sounds familiar, doesn't it? When I found a list of pre-approved externship sites at school, though, with Gramercy Tavern nestled quietly in the middle, I knew immediately that I had to go to New York and eat. It was disappointing to tell Sam that I wouldn't be coming, especially since his company, his dog and his cabin are nothing but comforting, but the prospect of a meal and three months of hard work at what has become one of New York's hottest dining spots had eclipsed any other plans I had.

I contacted them and made a reservation. I told them about my status as a student and my desire to work for them and they gave me the chef's voicemail. I received a call a few days later from one of the managers asking for a return email. Stupidly, I never made time to send an email or return the call, but figured I had the reservation and could talk to them once I was there. When I arrived, though, neither the chef nor his manager were there. However, even my inability to return a short email wasn't enough to ruin what turned out to be the single best dining experience I've ever had. In short, my visit to the Gramercy Tavern dispelled any doubt I might have had about being in culinary school or going in debt for the love of food.

"Hi, I have a reservation for two at 10:30." "
"Oh, yes, Patrick. How are you? What school is it you go to again?"
"Le Cordon Bleu in Miami."
"Right. And you'll be joining us in February, is that correct." I pulled my jaw up off the floor and simply said, "I hope so."

And that's how my meal began. My brother knew it as well as I--we were in the midst of true, undeniable class. They remembered every detail I had given them and were wooing me, the culinary student, into their establishment for a meal, an experience, I'd never forget. We were quickly sat in the heart of the restaurant, in full view of 20th street just outside the bay window, just across from the kitchen which they had gladly told me I could visit after my meal. Colin, our sommelier and host for the evening came by and informed us that the chef or, Joey the Sous Chef, had been waiting for us and was wondering if we wouldn't mind him tinkering with the tasting menu a bit just for us. Again, jaw on the floor. And the wine, same thing. Colin promised creative but appropriate pairings, the perfect accompaniments to an exquisite meal.

First, the amuse bouche. Baby eggplant with walnut pesto that just melted in your mouth. I could barely sit still I was so excited. My brother enjoyed the champagne and waited for what came next.

Second, a salad of calamari with tobikko, pine nuts and a Meyer lemon vinaigrette. Succulent and smooth, it was better than the ceviche I had on a deserted beach in the Dominican Republic a few years back. That fish had literally been pulled from the sea just moments before being cut up by our cook in her little hut. This was even better.

Third, the first of two fish courses. Codfish with zucchini, white wine. Think cod-flavored silk. Think I wish I had never eaten at a church fish-fry as a child because even that beautifully fried catfish pales in comparison to this perfectly cooked cod. Think I cannot believe they remembered me at the door and seem to be waiting for me to work here. Wow.

Fourth, my favorite course, the trout. Seared trout with pickled cippolini, celery root puree and a cippolini red wine reduction, rose. Colin comes over and says he has a surprise pairing for the next course. It doesn't matter because the meal could end now and I would walk away happy. Wow wow.

Fifth, the quail. Au jus with corn, bacon and lamb's quarter (a spinach derivative). I'm from the Midwest, from meat and potatoes. The trout was my favorite but, really, bacon, corn and quail? And then he paired it with beer. Scottish micro beer. Ben and I were almost laughing the food was so good. The pairing truly surprising and the combo unbeatable. That bacon was incredible.

Sixth, veal! Veal, veal veal! Buttery-soft veal with sun gold tomatoes. If you haven't found the veal motif yet, go back and read again. Buy a ticket to New York and make a reservation at the Gramercy Tavern. Go and eat this tasting menu. The money will be well-spent. The veal alone is worth it.

Seventh, dessert number one. Tapioca in a cilantro sauce with passion fruit sorbet. I cannot believe, at this point, that I'm sitting in this restaurant, eating this food, on a Saturday night. In a little while I get to see the kitchen and in a few months I might be working here. Damn.

Eighth, finally, dessert number two, or desserts. For me, the chocolate bread pudding with chocolate chip ice cream, so moist with chocolate it could barely hold its shape. For Ben, the apple tart tatin with sour cream ice cream. Please, just go eat there. You'll thank yourself.

And then we're invited into the kitchen to meet Joey, the 24-year old Sous Chef who previously worked with/at Alain Ducasse. The kitchen was fantastic. They're giving me business cards and telling me to stay in touch with the chef. The kitchen was beautiful. The service beyond impeccable. We saw a table of six come in and order the tasting menu, which was missing half of what we had received on our plates. We had a different waiter deliver every single course and everyone that passed by could tell you what was in front of you. They said goodbye and that they hoped to see me soon.

Excellence does not go unnoticed because it is nearly impossible to achieve. A reputation like that which the Gramercy Tavern possesses is only maintained by consistently delivering excellence. While I would, in later life, jump at the chance to go live and work in Argentina with the South American flavors I have come to love, I know that being a member of the Gramercy Tavern's reputation will set a bar for my career that will only push me to constantly be the best. I hope I have the chance, while there, to cook for you, one of my readers, so you will be able to share in my delight.

Sunday, October 21st
Bocca Lupo, Brooklyn
391 Henry St., at Warren St., Cobble Hill, Brooklyn; 718-243-2522

This time, brunch. It remains my favorite meal to eat because it sets a tone for perfect weekend days. They gave me baked eggs and a perfect Americano. I long to live and eat in New York again like an actor would wish to be in Hollywood. Brunch is still my favorite, thanks to Bocca Lupo.

It was four days of drinking, catching up and eating that this blog can only begin to highlight. The places I ate at were special for me in ways that I would hope others could enjoy. The great thing about New York is that the possibilities are truly endless. Even the most established places will always find ways to reinvent themselves and to keep doing what they're doing, only better. I can see, too, that reviewing for me isn't simply about how the food was or whether I enjoyed, but about the experience itself. That's why I'm going to culinary school in the first place--it's constantly evolving. As of this post, it seems quite likely that I'll be heading to the Gramercy Tavern for my externship thanks, in large part, to the career services staff at my school. They're as excited for me to as I am about going, simply because as the saying goes, if you can make it New York, you can make it anywhere. The four days I spent there were eye-opening because they made me want to try harder. I saw food at its best and actually, in writing this, surprised myself with how much of the city's culinary map I had seen when I lived there. The great thing is, there's so much more to see.

Update

2007-11-05T23:27:00.000-06:00

For those of you who've been checking back, thanks.
Coming soon: my four days of food in New York, reviews of Azul and Michy's, and my trip to the clam farm!
Check back this week!

Thanks,
Patrick

Cuts Like a Knife

2007-10-22T22:57:00.001-05:00

What many people may not consider when they dig into a steak or a creamy bowl of soup is that somewhere along the line of that food's production, a small or a significant amount of knife work took place in order to make it look like it ultimately does. Dice, chop and mince are just a few of the more common words used in kitchens across the world, words that, when used classically, can be understood by anyone in any country because they represent a standard that all of us as industry professionals abide by. Given the importance of these cuts, then, from the most basic chop to the precise measurements of a chiffonade or a brunoise, it's important that we all have sharp, precise cutting tools while in the kitchen. Unfortunately, sharp and quality aren't always the norm even in the nicest of establishments, and a dull knife can only lead to delays, frustration and less-than-perfect dishes that would have otherwise been flawless. So, while in New York this weekend (story to come), dining, walking, drinking and generally enjoying the filling landscape of the Big Apple below midtown, I took it upon myself to find a perfect cutting machine designed with finesse in mind--and, boy, did I find it.

http://www.yoshikin.co.jp/w/products/global/g-2.html

Not quite a chef's knife designed for hacking through anything or an Asian square-head vegetable knife capable of hacking any vegetable into small pieces, this cook's knife embodies the painfully thin blade of a sashimi knife with the agility of an all-purpose chef's knife. I held knives for close to an hour, ultimately deciding on the Global (a knife I normally turn away from because of it's handle) because it felt right in my hand. I knew, too, that cutting beef for tasters and other vegetables for presentation required the clean precision that only a super-thin blade can provide. What I found most interesting in looking for the right knife, though, was the multitude of shapes and sizes they come in, particularly the Japanese blades, and all their different intended uses.
Having researched a little more, knowing that my experiences in different places with different cuisines will be varied, I know that I'll purchase more knives over the years. However, it's good to remember that it's not merely the knife that's going to make the cut fantastic. It's knowing how and when to use the right knife at the right time, with the utmost respect for a piece of equipment that could quickly take your skin off, that makes the biggest difference.

What Makes a Restaurant...Good?

2007-10-22T09:59:00.000-05:00

As I start to align my interests and bring my current culinary studies to the doorstep of my literary, English language background with this, my "food blog," it's precisely that question--what makes a good restaurant good and why?--that I hope to answer. Along with the company and assistance of both friends and family, I've taken it upon myself to visit and enjoy as many restaurants as possible, though in no way limiting myself to "fine dining." With so little time to actually stop and cook a meal for myself, especially after spending close to 15 hours a day in a kitchen, I've found it much easier to go and savor the fruits of others' labor as I try to hone my own interests and attain more focus on my own future. Some of my forays into edible exploration have been less than satisfying (some even downright nauseating), while others have excited me beyond the mere plate as though I were a child again trying chocolate chip ice cream for the first time. Regardless, I keep going back for more, searching for new places, spending more of my truly hard-earned cash in an attempt to find out what really does make a good restaurant good. Unfortunately, as you might have guessed, I haven't yet discovered a concrete answer, basically for two simple reasons.
First, I don't believe that there is a formula to define or create a good restaurant. Chef Dean Max, who I currently work for at 3030 Ocean, recently went and ate at Michael's Genuine Food and Drink in Miami's Design District, per my plentiful and raving reviews. When he came to work and saw me afterwards, his first and most important word was, "Dude," said with a tone that meant, "You were right, that food is amazing." The point he brought up was that Michael Schwartz makes food that people want to eat, which, in the restaurant and general food business seems like all too easy of a goal or accomplishment. Considering the amount of restaurants that go belly-up every year for whatever reason, though, making food that people want to eat begins to seem less obvious and like more of a chore. Plus, there's the fact that food and taste is rather subjective and trends play such a role in what we consume that what people want to eat today may be the cause for a new diet tomorrow. So, when looking at what makes a place like Michael's so good, simply saying that he makes good food doesn't really give us an answer.
My second reason for having yet to discover the secret to a good restaurant is that I haven't eaten at enough yet, in enough places, to find an answer. Until about eight months ago when I started culinary school and really began focusing on food and flavor, I didn't put much thought into what I was eating beyond whether or not I was paying a fair price for food that tasted good. Coincidentally, it was before I returned to the United States and started culinary school that I lived and traveled through various countries in Europe and South America, all the while eating in places that I still remember to this day as being good. Certain places stick out in my mind as places I would and will return to in the future to enjoy another delicious meal, while others are nothing more than a distant memory of an establishment offering something food-related to fill my stomach. So I don't necessarily believe that the credentials of being a certified culinarian or professional foodie will help me answer my question, because I could have told you back then that I did or didn't like something and why. Even if I were given an unlimited budget and a year to eat my way across the planet, trying everything from neighborhood favorites to world-renowned cuisine, I would still probably fall short of a clear definition of a good restaurant.
Basically, I need to just keep eating. I need to keep talking with others, exploring flavors, getting opnions and developing my own before I can say what makes a good restaurant good. And that's the point of this blog, my mounting credit card debt, my attendance at culinary school (even though I learn a great deal more at work)--I want to know. I'm setting myself up for a life's work of cooking my own food, eating others', travelling, exploring and discovering. Essentially, I'm looking for what's good.

Patrick Hieger