An ongoing inquiry: why is brunch such shite? I been disappointed, even offended by bad brunches so often it's now just a cliché. These days I'm happier at a greasy spoon because at the very least it's predictable and cheap.
For example: this past Sunday we were at the farmers' market in a posh, condo-booming district. We ventured into what seemed a cute brunch spot and chose from the formulaic menu (variations on eggs and bacon, variations on Benedict, granola, pancakes, burger). What happened next was as banal as traffic. My Benedict was predictably sub-par: undercooked eggs leaking their gelatinous whites over peameal that tasted like it was stored in a used hockey sock; sauce dubbed Hollandaise which looked like foam insulation and tasted like dusting polish; tepid home fries slimed with peppers and paprika; half a Roma tomato, as firm and crunchy as a cucumber, snowed with shelf-stable "parmesan" and waved under a lit match. For this, we paid over $40. Vile. Embarrassing for all involved. And it has happened countless times at various establishments: bad food, weak service, high price.
So what's the problem? On the industry side, brunch is a nightmare to work whether you're at the stoves or on the floor waiting tables. Customers are fussy and tired, often hungover and so either ravenous or nauseous or both. They want comfort food, cooked to their own subjective ideal of perfection, and quickly. Satisfying these savages is futile.
I blame the egg -- the hallmark ingredient of brunch -- which is impossible to cook to everyone's liking. As a customer I'm just as bad as everyone else: I like my scrambled eggs soft and creamy, my omelettes well-whisked and not one bit browned and my poached eggs with a runny yolk and fully cooked white. You're likely retching because you like your scrambled eggs in firm curds, your omelettes puffy and golden and your poached eggs almost totally cooked with just a whisper of raw yolk. See?
It's smarter in the end just to go to the diner and order the 3-egg special knowing full well that it will be overcooked scrambled eggs and deep fried potatoes (laquer them both with HP sauce and all is forgiven), garden-variety toast moist with margarine, sausages cooked at 6am and kept in a warmer for 4 hours and -- bliss -- lots and lots of high-test coffee hot enough to scald off your taste buds. All for $4.99.
There's more to say here. I haven't even started in on the subject of stuffed French toast.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Eating Trash
Just about every chef I know has a soft spot for some kind of junky food. Bunny dreams about tuna noodle casserole made with canned soup, Donnie Dee eats mini ravioli cold out of the tin, Kiki treats herself to those weird Mac Do pancake-sausage-egg sandwiches. These are our secret indiscretions, too embarrassing and horrendous ever to admit in public. Unless we're macking on trash together. So when the remains of a Happy Retirement cake made their way to the work kitchen Thursday afternoon, Kiki and I descended upon it with the kind of guilty glee reserved for playing hooky or watching The Young & the Restless. That store-bought white slab crusted with liquid paper-white frosting and eerily blue rosettes is the kind of naughty trans-fat heaven that makes your spine shudder. I had a little sliver. Then another and another. Then brushed my teeth to try to break the cycle, only to return to the sugary trough half an hour later. At some point Mama Jen (our moral compass) sighed "I do not understand you girls". You should see us when we're testing deep-fried cheese sticks, or anything deep fried for that matter. It's a little disgusting and a lot discouraging, no doubt, to watch chefs with refined palates and high calibre cooking skills stuff our faces with breaded, cheese-stuffed chicken fillets. Oh don't even mention macaroni and cheese.
In my own case, there are 2 possible explanations here. One, I appreciate the processed food because it is the very opposite of what I have chosen to do with my professional life. Kind of an anti-"busman's holiday" excuse. The second possibility has something to do with my tortured relationship with food and its relation to my identity and self-esteem. But it's way too complicated to spend any time on that one.
In my own case, there are 2 possible explanations here. One, I appreciate the processed food because it is the very opposite of what I have chosen to do with my professional life. Kind of an anti-"busman's holiday" excuse. The second possibility has something to do with my tortured relationship with food and its relation to my identity and self-esteem. But it's way too complicated to spend any time on that one.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Recipe work
Certainly one of the more interesting elements of this job is the recipe development. We work on recipes for products themselves, but then we also develop about 200 recipes a year to show the new stuff "in application". So if there's a new jam, we develop a recipe for jam squares or trifle with jam or -- our standard -- puff pastry with jam. For the most part these are the recipes that show up on the backs of bottles and packages.
But a proper recipe doesn't happen like a sneeze. No, as with everything in the corporation, we make the process as long, drawn out and complicated as possible. First, develop the recipe, making sure to use lots of our other control brand products, but only the ones that are available in every one of our stores across the country. Figuring this out is a weeks-long process in itself. Then the recipe's flavour and ease of preparation have to be approved by our boss, then we send it for nutritional analysis. Next we buy all the groceries and send the recipe with groceries out to three people in the company to make at home. We sit down and pore over their feedback, along with the nutritional analysis, make any changes necessary and finally send it up to the powers that be to either print on a package (high exposure, much risk, many calls to customer service if there's a snafu) or tossed into the vast emptiness of the website, never to be seen again (low exposure, no biggie). By the end of it all the recipes are as poked and prodded as a brunch buffet, and just as appetizing to me. Frankly I'd rather never cook them again. (For the record, stay away from buffets of all kinds. Really. Everything you are imagining is true).
And after all that work, I still surprise friends and -- ah!-- colleagues too when I tell them to check out our recipes on the website. Oh, you have a website? with recipes? Pity the poor, tasty little red pepper - Parmesan souffles I made today, the creamy, subtle celery risotto with tiny scallops, the wicked cheddar-sour cream shortbreads, the tapenade puff pastry straws.
But a proper recipe doesn't happen like a sneeze. No, as with everything in the corporation, we make the process as long, drawn out and complicated as possible. First, develop the recipe, making sure to use lots of our other control brand products, but only the ones that are available in every one of our stores across the country. Figuring this out is a weeks-long process in itself. Then the recipe's flavour and ease of preparation have to be approved by our boss, then we send it for nutritional analysis. Next we buy all the groceries and send the recipe with groceries out to three people in the company to make at home. We sit down and pore over their feedback, along with the nutritional analysis, make any changes necessary and finally send it up to the powers that be to either print on a package (high exposure, much risk, many calls to customer service if there's a snafu) or tossed into the vast emptiness of the website, never to be seen again (low exposure, no biggie). By the end of it all the recipes are as poked and prodded as a brunch buffet, and just as appetizing to me. Frankly I'd rather never cook them again. (For the record, stay away from buffets of all kinds. Really. Everything you are imagining is true).
And after all that work, I still surprise friends and -- ah!-- colleagues too when I tell them to check out our recipes on the website. Oh, you have a website? with recipes? Pity the poor, tasty little red pepper - Parmesan souffles I made today, the creamy, subtle celery risotto with tiny scallops, the wicked cheddar-sour cream shortbreads, the tapenade puff pastry straws.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
My Good Family
After much pestering, I'm back in the family fold for about 36 hours. As usual, the prime directives are Cook and Eat. This means that after flying in late Friday night and enjoying several drinks with a dear friend, I woke up Saturday to learn that my older brother and his lovely girlfriend will be here for brunch at 11am. Mum at least allowed me a coffee and dish of porridge before I hit the stoves.
I kind of hate cooking brunch -- it has to be eggs, it's a bit of a rush, and no one is terribly interested in trying something new. For all this, and my second straight hangover, I think we nailed it. I curried some canned tomatoes and simmered halved hard-boiled eggs within, broiled 2 bunches of fat asparagus, diced half a watermelon and half a pineapple and cooked a pot of rice. It was really easy, the eggs could sit until we were good and ready for them, and we were also able to eat through a half-pound of bacon without creating too much flavour chaos. We ate outside on the porch and had one of those delicious, rambling conversations that encompassed all manner of topics, from municipal politics to the superiority of 4-on-4 hockey to whether or not we had ever replaced the glass table top. I drank 4 cups of my mum's blisteringly strong coffee and jittered through the afternoon.
Us being us, the next task already called: making meringues and lemon curd to take to my cousin's for supper. My coz, the eldest of all 9 of us, has long been the family chef, creating elaborate, exquisite dinners for the family. It's always a blow-out at his place. On this gorgeous summer evening, he served a pork loin crusted with fennel and porcini powder cooked on his outdoor rotisserie, a pureed fennel sauce and grilled veg. To Die For. Inspirational. Ok, we were deep into the wine, but still. The salad of watercress, cilantro, cuke and watermelon refreshed us well enough that we devoured the meringues. The whole affair lasted about 6 hours. The rest of the party -- my aunt and uncle, Mum and Dad, coz and his wife -- are some of my favourite people. This is my good family, the ones who tell raucous stories, ask probing questions, demand all the details, tease and laugh. And eat and drink like the Irish Catholics we are.
At one point my aunt asked me "do you cook for yourself?" and I had to explain that no, I don't, and that I always feel guilty about it. Years ago, this very cousin made the most wonderful speech at our Nana's memorial, describing how Nana (a gay divorcee just like me) always took such pleasure from cooking for herself. It's true. She wrote us long, expressive letters, and in each one she would describe her evening's supper. Most often it was a few little lamb chops, sauteed in garlic, butter and oil, with a baked potato and some steamed broccoli. She was so excited about these meals that she would often have hand-written a "yum!" next to the typed passage.
I should see if I still have any of her letters.
I kind of hate cooking brunch -- it has to be eggs, it's a bit of a rush, and no one is terribly interested in trying something new. For all this, and my second straight hangover, I think we nailed it. I curried some canned tomatoes and simmered halved hard-boiled eggs within, broiled 2 bunches of fat asparagus, diced half a watermelon and half a pineapple and cooked a pot of rice. It was really easy, the eggs could sit until we were good and ready for them, and we were also able to eat through a half-pound of bacon without creating too much flavour chaos. We ate outside on the porch and had one of those delicious, rambling conversations that encompassed all manner of topics, from municipal politics to the superiority of 4-on-4 hockey to whether or not we had ever replaced the glass table top. I drank 4 cups of my mum's blisteringly strong coffee and jittered through the afternoon.
Us being us, the next task already called: making meringues and lemon curd to take to my cousin's for supper. My coz, the eldest of all 9 of us, has long been the family chef, creating elaborate, exquisite dinners for the family. It's always a blow-out at his place. On this gorgeous summer evening, he served a pork loin crusted with fennel and porcini powder cooked on his outdoor rotisserie, a pureed fennel sauce and grilled veg. To Die For. Inspirational. Ok, we were deep into the wine, but still. The salad of watercress, cilantro, cuke and watermelon refreshed us well enough that we devoured the meringues. The whole affair lasted about 6 hours. The rest of the party -- my aunt and uncle, Mum and Dad, coz and his wife -- are some of my favourite people. This is my good family, the ones who tell raucous stories, ask probing questions, demand all the details, tease and laugh. And eat and drink like the Irish Catholics we are.
At one point my aunt asked me "do you cook for yourself?" and I had to explain that no, I don't, and that I always feel guilty about it. Years ago, this very cousin made the most wonderful speech at our Nana's memorial, describing how Nana (a gay divorcee just like me) always took such pleasure from cooking for herself. It's true. She wrote us long, expressive letters, and in each one she would describe her evening's supper. Most often it was a few little lamb chops, sauteed in garlic, butter and oil, with a baked potato and some steamed broccoli. She was so excited about these meals that she would often have hand-written a "yum!" next to the typed passage.
I should see if I still have any of her letters.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Victory!
I have consumed nearly all of the market wares from last Sunday. Incredible, particularly for me, and especially on a week that had me eating out 4 nights. Here's the play-by-play:
Monday: I invited myself to a young gentleman's to cook for him the sirloin, marinated in Korean kalbi and topped with half of the radishes (thinly shaved on a Benriner), the shell peas with leeks and some of the spinach (and bacon for added oomph), the new potatoes boiled and banged up with butter and dill, and the berries, eaten plain while watching an excellent BBC doc on TV chefs.
Thursday: the remaining spinach sauteed Italian-style with lots of garlic in spicy oil, with the rest of the beautiful tomatoes halved and added, the rest of the asparagus.
Today: does this count as cheating? I brought the dirty dirty head of lettuce and what remained of the radishes to work and made a Big Salad for the crew's lunch.
Meanwhile, throughout the week I've also been bringing slices of the bread into the office for my breakfast.
So now the fridge accounting stands thus:
Half the bread
A handful of the shell peas which escaped from the bag and into the depths of the crisper (I have low expectations for these escapees)
And all the condiments you can shake a stick at.
I think this is progress. Or else just more encouragement for me to overspend at the markets. I'm going out of town this weekend, though, denying myself the best farmers' markets. What will I do for food next week?
Monday: I invited myself to a young gentleman's to cook for him the sirloin, marinated in Korean kalbi and topped with half of the radishes (thinly shaved on a Benriner), the shell peas with leeks and some of the spinach (and bacon for added oomph), the new potatoes boiled and banged up with butter and dill, and the berries, eaten plain while watching an excellent BBC doc on TV chefs.
Thursday: the remaining spinach sauteed Italian-style with lots of garlic in spicy oil, with the rest of the beautiful tomatoes halved and added, the rest of the asparagus.
Today: does this count as cheating? I brought the dirty dirty head of lettuce and what remained of the radishes to work and made a Big Salad for the crew's lunch.
Meanwhile, throughout the week I've also been bringing slices of the bread into the office for my breakfast.
So now the fridge accounting stands thus:
Half the bread
A handful of the shell peas which escaped from the bag and into the depths of the crisper (I have low expectations for these escapees)
And all the condiments you can shake a stick at.
I think this is progress. Or else just more encouragement for me to overspend at the markets. I'm going out of town this weekend, though, denying myself the best farmers' markets. What will I do for food next week?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Taste Test
At work, and my total egg use count is already up to 30, and it's not even 11 am. Six cheesecakes (again!) and a dozen individual red pepper-Parmesan soufflés which I'm delighted with. I'm developing application recipes for new products for the website. This means that my diet today has consisted of raw cheesecake batter and soufflé. Oh, and the 3 espressos we tasted -- Illy, Lavazza and our own brand. It's such an education to taste coffee with our resident expert. Now I can taste caramel, chocolate, bitterness, acidity and body in what I previously would have referred to simply as "a great espresso".
Tasting is such a huge part of the work we do here. When we critique and develop, it's never enough to say "I don't like it", you must describe exactly the taste or texture you don't enjoy. It's a whole new lingo: cheese can taste "hoofy", shrimp "pondy", beef "livery", chocolate "thin" and pork is --ok, not the cleverest expression of flavour -- "porky". Those are all faults, by the way. When we like something it's "moreish" (I want more!).
When we interview new people, we put them through a sensory exam. It's brutal. These poor suckers -- nervous as it is no doubt -- have to tell the difference between tomato sauce with added thyme, oregano, rosemary and basil; between iced tea sweetened with honey and with sugar; between homemade mayo and purchased mayo; and more. And if you don't ace the test, you're not likely to get a job here.
But maybe you don't want to work here. Our afternoon yesterday was kyboshed by a three-hour information session for our 200-person division. Read: brainwashing and empty promises with a patronizing team building exercise thrown in. Argh. Our company has been undergoing an alleged "transition" for almost 2 years and while Mum always said a change is as good as a rest, it's now just ridiculous. People are still getting terminated, many others have left from frustration, and the rest of us are on tenterhooks waiting and wondering what's going to happen to us. My fear is not that they will fire me (frankly, give me 3 months severance and I'll dance my way out of here) but that they will change my job on me, and expect me to just soldier on. For now I'm keeping my head down. And hoping for something decent for lunch.
Tasting is such a huge part of the work we do here. When we critique and develop, it's never enough to say "I don't like it", you must describe exactly the taste or texture you don't enjoy. It's a whole new lingo: cheese can taste "hoofy", shrimp "pondy", beef "livery", chocolate "thin" and pork is --ok, not the cleverest expression of flavour -- "porky". Those are all faults, by the way. When we like something it's "moreish" (I want more!).
When we interview new people, we put them through a sensory exam. It's brutal. These poor suckers -- nervous as it is no doubt -- have to tell the difference between tomato sauce with added thyme, oregano, rosemary and basil; between iced tea sweetened with honey and with sugar; between homemade mayo and purchased mayo; and more. And if you don't ace the test, you're not likely to get a job here.
But maybe you don't want to work here. Our afternoon yesterday was kyboshed by a three-hour information session for our 200-person division. Read: brainwashing and empty promises with a patronizing team building exercise thrown in. Argh. Our company has been undergoing an alleged "transition" for almost 2 years and while Mum always said a change is as good as a rest, it's now just ridiculous. People are still getting terminated, many others have left from frustration, and the rest of us are on tenterhooks waiting and wondering what's going to happen to us. My fear is not that they will fire me (frankly, give me 3 months severance and I'll dance my way out of here) but that they will change my job on me, and expect me to just soldier on. For now I'm keeping my head down. And hoping for something decent for lunch.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Afterglow
The best comment about the paté was from the pretty young thing who remarked "this is such great hummus!". Being a vegetarian, she wasn't particularly pleased when I disabused her of the notion that liver pate contains no meat. Sorry, I am mean to vegetarians sometimes. And pretty young things.
For no good reason -- I love pretty young veg and rarely cook meat at home. This morning's farmers' market was like some kind of acid trip for me. In the heady humidity the surfeit of gorgeous radishes, greens, tomatoes (in June!) and berries made my head spin. Naturally, I bought way too much, and now must focus the rest of the week's energies on consuming:
1 bunch red radishes
1 big red leaf lettuce
1 gargantuan bunch spinach
1 pint of the sweetest multicoloured grape tomatoes
1 loaf of Monckton's whole wheat-flax bread
1 quart new potatoes (so dirty they must be delicious)
1 grass-fed sirloin steak
1 quart shell peas
1 pint strawberries (which I gave away)
Good grief! It's enough veg for a family of 4. I had to clean out the fridge just to make room. But did any of this hyper-stimulation inspire me to out-do my self for lunch? I made a fried egg sandwich on the new bread and ate half of the tomatoes on the side. So that's a no. And then promptly accepted a dinner invitation. When will I learn?
Bunny is house sitting at the mansion where he is personal chef, so he invited some of us up for rotisserie chicken. This gorgeous house is filled with the best of everything, so the barbeque is a Viking built-in with about 18 square feet of grilling space and an industrial-like rotisserie. The smell of those chickens was to die for, and the four of us destroyed two of them. He is an inspired, self-possessed chef who takes utter delight in his creations, but guess what? He never cooks at home either. Take-away sushi and leftovers from work are the principle meals chez lui. Tonight though, in his stunning, kitted-out work kitchen, he was on fire, bringing out three of his homemade ice creams and sorbets after dinner as well as homemade dulce de leche and gluten-free chocolate pecan cookies. "Cooking at home is so annoying" is his simple explanation. Another single, apartment-dwelling professional chef whose fridge contains more condiments than edible sustenance. We are friends for a reason.
For no good reason -- I love pretty young veg and rarely cook meat at home. This morning's farmers' market was like some kind of acid trip for me. In the heady humidity the surfeit of gorgeous radishes, greens, tomatoes (in June!) and berries made my head spin. Naturally, I bought way too much, and now must focus the rest of the week's energies on consuming:
1 bunch red radishes
1 big red leaf lettuce
1 gargantuan bunch spinach
1 pint of the sweetest multicoloured grape tomatoes
1 loaf of Monckton's whole wheat-flax bread
1 quart new potatoes (so dirty they must be delicious)
1 grass-fed sirloin steak
1 quart shell peas
1 pint strawberries (which I gave away)
Good grief! It's enough veg for a family of 4. I had to clean out the fridge just to make room. But did any of this hyper-stimulation inspire me to out-do my self for lunch? I made a fried egg sandwich on the new bread and ate half of the tomatoes on the side. So that's a no. And then promptly accepted a dinner invitation. When will I learn?
Bunny is house sitting at the mansion where he is personal chef, so he invited some of us up for rotisserie chicken. This gorgeous house is filled with the best of everything, so the barbeque is a Viking built-in with about 18 square feet of grilling space and an industrial-like rotisserie. The smell of those chickens was to die for, and the four of us destroyed two of them. He is an inspired, self-possessed chef who takes utter delight in his creations, but guess what? He never cooks at home either. Take-away sushi and leftovers from work are the principle meals chez lui. Tonight though, in his stunning, kitted-out work kitchen, he was on fire, bringing out three of his homemade ice creams and sorbets after dinner as well as homemade dulce de leche and gluten-free chocolate pecan cookies. "Cooking at home is so annoying" is his simple explanation. Another single, apartment-dwelling professional chef whose fridge contains more condiments than edible sustenance. We are friends for a reason.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Chicken Liver Paté
Well it’s 6:27pm and I’m due to go help a friend set up for a party later, so I should eat, but there isn’t much in the fridge except the sheep milk ricotta and the Mennonite bacon. This means pasta of course. If it wasn’t for pasta I’d likely starve. The bacon is sizzling now. That bodes well.
But it was a hell of a day for cooking. I was going full tilt by 7:25am with the shallots and the livers for the paté. It’s a recipe from my apprenticing days and as soon as the brandy hit the pan I had one of those amazing moments of olfactory memory. It’s always a thrill immediately to feel transported right into the hot summer of 1997 when I made this paté every other day. I can hear Chef Steve telling me to “use a shitload of Dijon and buzz it while it’s hot”. We used Frangelico then but in the interim there has been some unpleasantness between Frangelico and me, so I chose Marsala. Hurray, another use for the Marsala! That bottle of Marsala sits in the pantry and I imagine it just sighs to itself while an endless stream of other liquor bottles take up residence and get drunk relatively quickly. A suitor came over and made zabaglione with it at the beginning of April and I haven’t cracked the bottle since.
Once the liver paté was done, I had dried beans and lentils to cook and present -- kidney beans in a salad, barley (pot and pearl) as lemony side dishes, soup mix (ack) as soup and split peas as dal/soup. Second olfactory transport moment of the day, back to the hippie cafe in 2001. That soup (boil split peas; melt a shitload of butter, sizzle in some curry powder and honey and add to peas. Done.) saved my behind on numerous occasions when the realisation that we were About to Run Out of Soup hit me 10 minutes into the lunch rush. Great soup, and the work crew loved it. There were cheesecakes again today, to check out how different bricks of cream cheese behave in application. Blimey, it’s a whole trip down memory lane, what with having made that recipe about 800 times from 1997 to 1999 at the Italian takeaway. Nothing says Italian like New York cheesecake. The day continued in a similar manner till quitting time, a blessing to be busy during these trying times at work.
Still, all that said, I hardly feel like cooking right now. I’ve been to the chiropractor and the eyebrow shaper and the cobbler (seriously, his name is Rocco and he just fixed my favourite Miz Mooz mules). But I’ll put an egg yolk in my favourite pasta bowl, whisk in a big gob of ricotta with a bit of cooking water, snip the non-slimy leaves of parsley over it all, add a shitload (the word of the day I guess) of pepper, the crisped bacon and the pasta. A glass of rose from what remains of last night’s Frustration bottle and I should be just fine, once again sustained by Italy’s best.
Chicken Liver Paté
Cook 4 big, thinly sliced shallots very slowly in at least 1 stick of butter. Once they are totally translucent add a smashed clove of garlic and about 750 g of chicken livers. When the livers are cooked, splash in about 1/4 cup of brandy or Marsala and a good glug of 35% cream. Cook the liquor out a bit then add a big gob of Dijon, a tiny pinch of allspice, salt and a shitload of pepper. Buzz it in the food processor until very smooth, taste for seasoning and press it through a fine mesh sieve and into a serving bowl. Chill at least 4 hours.
But it was a hell of a day for cooking. I was going full tilt by 7:25am with the shallots and the livers for the paté. It’s a recipe from my apprenticing days and as soon as the brandy hit the pan I had one of those amazing moments of olfactory memory. It’s always a thrill immediately to feel transported right into the hot summer of 1997 when I made this paté every other day. I can hear Chef Steve telling me to “use a shitload of Dijon and buzz it while it’s hot”. We used Frangelico then but in the interim there has been some unpleasantness between Frangelico and me, so I chose Marsala. Hurray, another use for the Marsala! That bottle of Marsala sits in the pantry and I imagine it just sighs to itself while an endless stream of other liquor bottles take up residence and get drunk relatively quickly. A suitor came over and made zabaglione with it at the beginning of April and I haven’t cracked the bottle since.
Once the liver paté was done, I had dried beans and lentils to cook and present -- kidney beans in a salad, barley (pot and pearl) as lemony side dishes, soup mix (ack) as soup and split peas as dal/soup. Second olfactory transport moment of the day, back to the hippie cafe in 2001. That soup (boil split peas; melt a shitload of butter, sizzle in some curry powder and honey and add to peas. Done.) saved my behind on numerous occasions when the realisation that we were About to Run Out of Soup hit me 10 minutes into the lunch rush. Great soup, and the work crew loved it. There were cheesecakes again today, to check out how different bricks of cream cheese behave in application. Blimey, it’s a whole trip down memory lane, what with having made that recipe about 800 times from 1997 to 1999 at the Italian takeaway. Nothing says Italian like New York cheesecake. The day continued in a similar manner till quitting time, a blessing to be busy during these trying times at work.
Still, all that said, I hardly feel like cooking right now. I’ve been to the chiropractor and the eyebrow shaper and the cobbler (seriously, his name is Rocco and he just fixed my favourite Miz Mooz mules). But I’ll put an egg yolk in my favourite pasta bowl, whisk in a big gob of ricotta with a bit of cooking water, snip the non-slimy leaves of parsley over it all, add a shitload (the word of the day I guess) of pepper, the crisped bacon and the pasta. A glass of rose from what remains of last night’s Frustration bottle and I should be just fine, once again sustained by Italy’s best.
Chicken Liver Paté
Cook 4 big, thinly sliced shallots very slowly in at least 1 stick of butter. Once they are totally translucent add a smashed clove of garlic and about 750 g of chicken livers. When the livers are cooked, splash in about 1/4 cup of brandy or Marsala and a good glug of 35% cream. Cook the liquor out a bit then add a big gob of Dijon, a tiny pinch of allspice, salt and a shitload of pepper. Buzz it in the food processor until very smooth, taste for seasoning and press it through a fine mesh sieve and into a serving bowl. Chill at least 4 hours.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The work kitchen
Have purchased 2 lbs of chicken livers and 3 boxes of crackers. Big plans, clearly. But still I won’t be cooking at home -- I’ve got all the ingredients packed in a bag to take into work tomorrow to cook there. The thought of smelling fried livers the next time I wear my jean jacket is enough to get me out of bed early, on the road and into the work kitchen before the rest of the crew is in. Chicken liver paté is always a hit at a party (and I'd like to make a good impression at this Friday's bash), and it's cheap and easy to boot. I just don't want to cook it at home.
This has happened before. Many times. When Nana died and several of us decided to make her Famous Chocolate Cake for the memorial, I made it at work. Taking fresh bread to friends for supper? Better make it at work. Braised oxtail to woo a suitor? Certainly don’t want to have that in my apartment. Not that this behaviour raises any eyebrows at work, and I’ve never been told to cease and desist, as long as there are leftovers for the crew. Likely our (human) dishwasher begrudges me the few extra dishes, but that’s nothing new.
It's a decent kitchen, my work one. Lots of space, lots of gear, and a great crew. I'm particularly proud that it is, like any good home kitchen, a gathering place where people speak freely. Product developers and quality assurance specialists and executives drift through looking for a snack and to have a little chat. I've learned more about the business this way than by any of the countless wasted hours spent in meetings or dreaded information sessions. That said, I cannot bear the way visiting strangers in my kitchen seem to believe they have an instant camaraderie with me because I'm wearing whites. Jerks in suits sidle up to me and say "what are you cooking me for breakfast" in that self-important, jokey way that boils my blood. Perhaps they'd like me to strip for them as well. There are always elements of prostitution and slavery in cheffing, but I'd like to choose those moments myself.
This has happened before. Many times. When Nana died and several of us decided to make her Famous Chocolate Cake for the memorial, I made it at work. Taking fresh bread to friends for supper? Better make it at work. Braised oxtail to woo a suitor? Certainly don’t want to have that in my apartment. Not that this behaviour raises any eyebrows at work, and I’ve never been told to cease and desist, as long as there are leftovers for the crew. Likely our (human) dishwasher begrudges me the few extra dishes, but that’s nothing new.
It's a decent kitchen, my work one. Lots of space, lots of gear, and a great crew. I'm particularly proud that it is, like any good home kitchen, a gathering place where people speak freely. Product developers and quality assurance specialists and executives drift through looking for a snack and to have a little chat. I've learned more about the business this way than by any of the countless wasted hours spent in meetings or dreaded information sessions. That said, I cannot bear the way visiting strangers in my kitchen seem to believe they have an instant camaraderie with me because I'm wearing whites. Jerks in suits sidle up to me and say "what are you cooking me for breakfast" in that self-important, jokey way that boils my blood. Perhaps they'd like me to strip for them as well. There are always elements of prostitution and slavery in cheffing, but I'd like to choose those moments myself.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
2 hot Italians
June 7
I’m starting to go to the Saturday morning markets as much to chat and see people as to get provisions for the week. So half the pleasure came from just asking Elvis the cute young butcher for “2 hot Italians”. They are great sausages -- in this market sea of every imaginable sausage meat-seasoning combo – but when your butcher’s eyes light up and he flashes a killer smile and then undercharges you for these chubby, spicy sausages, well, it makes a girl want to eat more sausage. Even if I am an inveterate flirt. Let’s drop it there.
But when I looked at the rest of the contents of my shopping bag it was clear that once again I had shopped without A Plan. A giant bunch of rhubarb ($4.50), a tiny tub of Monforte sheep milk ricotta ($7 gasp), 2 bunches of sorrel (why 2? Why why why?). So it’s now Sunday afternoon, 36 sticky, humid degrees, I have a laundry list of chores to do (including, ironically enough, the laundry) but all I can do I sit and pant a bit. Off to the movies to cool down for 2 hours (and heat up, thank you Robert Downey Jr). Now I can finally turn on the grill and cook these hot Italians. Yes, the grill, keep all that cooking heat out of the tiny apartment! But no, because I’m still a professional idiot, the only starch in the house is pasta, so on goes the boiling water and the kitchen turns even more hot and humid. Vegetables? Sorry Mom, keep dreaming. There’s the rest of the Dirtiest Head of Lettuce from Tuesday’s market, but the humidity wilts it right in the salad spinner. Can I huff out an exasperated “BAH!” yet? Thank goodness I like my beer on the warmish side because just minutes after the Marston’s is poured, the glass is soaked with condensation (hmmm, much like my forehead). Regardless, the meal of penne, sausage, some of our excellent 2007 red pepper relish and a warm beer made me glad. Not elated, just glad to have accomplished food preparation in a heat reminiscent of Bombay noon after a too-short thunderstorm.
I’m starting to go to the Saturday morning markets as much to chat and see people as to get provisions for the week. So half the pleasure came from just asking Elvis the cute young butcher for “2 hot Italians”. They are great sausages -- in this market sea of every imaginable sausage meat-seasoning combo – but when your butcher’s eyes light up and he flashes a killer smile and then undercharges you for these chubby, spicy sausages, well, it makes a girl want to eat more sausage. Even if I am an inveterate flirt. Let’s drop it there.
But when I looked at the rest of the contents of my shopping bag it was clear that once again I had shopped without A Plan. A giant bunch of rhubarb ($4.50), a tiny tub of Monforte sheep milk ricotta ($7 gasp), 2 bunches of sorrel (why 2? Why why why?). So it’s now Sunday afternoon, 36 sticky, humid degrees, I have a laundry list of chores to do (including, ironically enough, the laundry) but all I can do I sit and pant a bit. Off to the movies to cool down for 2 hours (and heat up, thank you Robert Downey Jr). Now I can finally turn on the grill and cook these hot Italians. Yes, the grill, keep all that cooking heat out of the tiny apartment! But no, because I’m still a professional idiot, the only starch in the house is pasta, so on goes the boiling water and the kitchen turns even more hot and humid. Vegetables? Sorry Mom, keep dreaming. There’s the rest of the Dirtiest Head of Lettuce from Tuesday’s market, but the humidity wilts it right in the salad spinner. Can I huff out an exasperated “BAH!” yet? Thank goodness I like my beer on the warmish side because just minutes after the Marston’s is poured, the glass is soaked with condensation (hmmm, much like my forehead). Regardless, the meal of penne, sausage, some of our excellent 2007 red pepper relish and a warm beer made me glad. Not elated, just glad to have accomplished food preparation in a heat reminiscent of Bombay noon after a too-short thunderstorm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
