Un retour à la Source Friday, Mar 4 2022

Kind of a chicken and the egg thing if you squint and un-focus your eyes a lot.

Its not that I am lazy or have exhausted the number of shits left to give, dear reader(s), I assure you. I’ve been working my stubby fingers beyond the conventional 40 hrs in order to satisfy the conscientious and well heeled groupies, but, just as today’s abrasive music might as well be a rusted steel brush scraping my eardrums, anything worth reading is printed in blurry typeset and what used to be a manageable dose of brown liquor lays me out stiff like a merciless Sonny Liston uppercut, I’m not into fetishizing the punch clock like I used to. The world is spinning at a different cadence and now that I’ve increased the global population by a soon to be 30lb soul, priorities have changed.

You’re welcome, humanity.

My bedrock commitment to trade-crafts of food stuffs and its satellite pleasures has not wavered, even if my over-ripened cynicism is well beyond salvaging for any worthwhile purpose beyond inoculating others to critical despair and disparities. Think of my reliable hopelessness for America society like a sourdough started or a salami’s musty -yet vital- bloom that entrepreneurial folks sell for $25/oz.

Reading this blog is more riveting than watching meat cure.

Sure my posting frequency has become somewhat impotent compared to the explosive weekly discharge of yesteryear’s culinary basement lust but if reader traffic stats are a motivating indicator, the number of eyes and bots using my blog for spam instructions and/or content have skyrocketed downward along with my investments in retirement, goofy exercise equipment and social band-aids during a pandemic. I take full responsibility for declining activity by selflessly sharing the blame with my waning, yawning readership. But there’s no deadline for a reset and on a weekend getaway to ground zero of my culinary renaissance we listened to Kitchen Confidential, read by the late author (at 1.25 times the normal speed which assured me that he scribbled the whole damned thing on a 3 day amphetamine spree) and we were supremely delighted. Borrow an audio copy from your library. I was inspired to squirt some revitalizing hot sauce onto our mutual indifferences and for those willing to endure more than 140 characters and anything more involved than a caption, meme or 15 second video of a dolphin catching a frisbee…settle down for 3 minutes and strap on some goggles because you are about to get fucked in the eyes.

For those who covet gluten, we salute you.

Chef Tony was a master raconteur from the tippiest, toppiest shelf. A distillation of Tom Robbins’ flowery vernacular and Bukowski’s blunt, mostly harmless depravity. Chef Tony had a prodigious prep list of vices, would happily lure unmoored cooks to his port, picked quick money over long-term tutelage, got tuned up on school nights and school days, but, much like the hungover working man’s anti-hero Hank Chinanski, neither was a crook. Morally spoiled, sure. Discount purveyors of bad ideas, yup. Slovenly drunks, chain smoking itinerants with platter-sized chips on their shoulders, absolutely. But they weren’t scofflaws. If they drove drunk they did their best to abide by the rest of the tenets of conventional traffic law and felt bad about it next day (hangover notwithstanding).

You can almost taste the fancy.

I met Anthony Bourdain, briefly, a few months into my resettlement in the Nation’s capital. It might have been November of 2002. I was working at Bistro Bis on Capitol Hill and I think Chef Tony was in town for a book related chit-chat. The chef-owner, Jeffrey Buben, was cut from the same cheesecloth as Bigfoot. He would pick through a case of limes and demand restitution for any lime that wasn’t uniformly green (the driver was always flummoxed and the math way above his pay grade). He’d curse the price of salsify and ask me if I’d pay the same price for weed (depends on the quality I suppose). Buben would guard the trash like a border agent, redirecting anything that was still edible to distinguished shelf on the walk-in where food scraps and leftovers reincarnated into meatloaf divinity. A pint of diced celeriac, a couple ounces of huckleberry sauce, limp scallions, a piece of lamb not worthy of FIFO. It all went into the grinder and it was curiously as tasty as it was resourceful. There was a standing freezer packed full like a teenager’s locker with scraps of raw salmon accumulated over 6 months would would become profitable salmon cakes during the biannual “restaurant week”. Buben was the unicorn who made money during “restaurant week”. He would scrub the bottom of the dish machine during service and it would shine like chrome. The cleaning supplies closet was locked after inventory and if you didn’t have a scrubby to clean, you were shit out of luck and resigned to elbow grease. As a matter of business principle, Buben never bought chicken bones. He had some barter with a Chinese restaurant and would come back with a cooler full of chicken leg bones once a week. He would pick carrot chunks out of the veal stock, extol their tender, veal soaked virtue and use them as a garnish on the next day’s special. Frugality was his superpower and stock in trade.

Starsky & Hutch inspiration.

Legend lent him a “bubbles” nom-de-plume after it was said that he climbed onto the stove at his flagship restaurant during service, throwing plates, frothing at the mouth about too much that wasn’t up to snuff and his shoes began to bubble on the hot flat top. Want to run tuna next week? A colleague was enlisted in the wee hours to go fishing off the North Carolina coast, the only, albeit not exactly legal, alternative to the indignity of paying a wholesaler for the same thing. It was a 4 hr drive each way (boat registration was probably cheaper there or something) and the boat was then fastidiously scrubbed to the point where the vessel had appreciated in value. He had crunched the numbers and even with the cost of time and fuel, there was enough juice worth the squeeze. A dishwasher would scrape the sinew, chewier parts were transformed into tuna salad and if collards, eyeballs, scales and deep-fried tuna assholes were the rage, the trips would have paid off even more dividends. Everyone was happy all around, except for the server who had to moonlight as a deckhand during the summer and required more sleep than Buben’s low-power mode.

Your move, 19th century.

We were cleaning up towards the end of the night when a 10-watt bartender (we told him once to ask a patron on their way to the restroom whether it was a #1 or #2, so that we could time the plating of their main course and he wasn’t sure if we were joking. In hindsight, we should have insisted that we weren’t) shuffled back to the kitchen and told me that a gentleman (who’s name I was able to decipher as “Bourdain”) would like to buy the kitchen some suds. I was the only one on the line and the only one who recognized the name and made haste to fetch my drink. Tony was at the bar by himself and was thoroughly satisfied by the “soupe de poisson”, which I hadn’t made and wasn’t my recipe and the selection of high-brow cheeses, which I hadn’t ordered, cut or plated, but I was honored by the compliment. I can’t remember what we talked about. I invariably asked some dumb questions impulsively but he was kind enough to offer me a Doral cigarette, a testament to rock ‘n roll thrift. In retrospect, 20 years ago, given a second chance, I would have taken him to the basement of the Townhouse Tavern to drop the plow, reminisce about childhood in France, goof on the sticky parts of the carpet and politely decline solicitation from neighboring club’s fellas to watch us pee.

The tubesteak summit.

If it were last week, I would have settled for a fancy liquor bar 1^st, then cheap beer and shots somewhere else, still reminiscing about childhood in France with bonus toasts to our mentors, culinary stalwarts, epicurean epiphanies and how to make some parts of the planet a little better. I don’t have nearly the same stories to tell and my stupider days are generally in the rear view mirror though there is an emergency reserve in the glove compartment. I’ve got responsibilities and am still determined to figure out how to make things well. Hot-dogs and mortadella are my moonshot. Chef Tony inspired me to tickle the keyboard again and offer more to posterity than trolling the MAGA dipshits. If you miss Chef Tony’s sardonic appraisals of the culinary atmosphere, its peripheries and the honest joy of piecing together good places, better people and the best food (such conflictions may have led him to call it quits) then I urge you, committed reader(s), to rediscover his reading of Kitchen Confidential through your local library’s audio books. I’ll bet a flounder sandwich that he is cursing Roadrunner not being free despite a cable subscription and will wait patiently until it is.

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Été nous consomme Tuesday, Jul 18 2017

Summer consumes us.

Leg of lamb.  All fancy like.

The circle of farm life has left us busily but happily scrambling to dispatch the creatures in a judicious, efficient and resourceful manner. Beyond the achingly ubiquitous pork chops -which call into question our charming consumers’ knowledge of porcine anatomy, breadth of cookery skills and unlimited credit- there are hams, shanks, offal, shoulders, bellies, nipples, wings and horns to deal with.

The only cut it would seem that comes from the pig.

Tournedos. Tenderloin in the loin, wrapped in salt cured fatback with herbs.

Pork paupiettes. Pork cutlet stuffed with sausage, wrapped with pancetta and caul fat.

Pâté en croûte. Pork with almonds and cranberries soaked in brandy from down the  road.

Mini boneless hams. Breaded, pressed shanks.

The ham. Pressed.

Tubesteak. All kinds.

Boudin blanc with black olives and cappocola.

Culatello. In a fresh pig’s bladder courtesy the fine folks at Craft Butcher’s Pantry.

With the lard we’ve been making brioche and Cherokee biscuits with the bacon drippings and bacon bits. Using Farmer Ground Flour from upstate NY.

Coq au vin. Leg simmered in wine and a sauce made from onions.

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Chant du Cygne Sunday, Apr 10 2016

Swan song en croûte.

Inscribe the date.

A final somewhat selfish fabrication to celebrate and honor the nuptials of 2 cherished, well deserving friends who are straight after all.   Tamworth pâté en croûte with heart, tongue, wedding vegetables and mini-mortadella inlay.

Both their birthdays, too.

After 13 years and a few months, there’s no more juice left to squeeze, so fuck it, we’re done.  There have been countless friends, a reunion with a sister, 5 issues of Gluttony Digest, a dozen freedom BBQ’s, suckling pigs, turkey variations, fancy pumpkin, jobs here and there, bars that have expired, bars that have been raised, 2 cats, 2 presidents, legalized pot, statehood not, some competitions, softball, a blog, pictures, trips, broken thumb, brownouts, blackout, heartache, dwindling friends, steeper rents and relentless sirens at all times of the day and night.

There’s a swell bell.

My sweetheart, the cats, bric-a-brac and I going out to pasture to become sharecroppers and manage a little slice of country living in Einstein’s getaway on the Northern tine of  Eastern Long Island  nestled between the LI sound, Peconic bay and some shitty vineyards.  We’ll be living in a 1940’s house with an original built-in murphy-bed style ironing board on an organic sheep farm with pigs, chickens and a garden; upstream and closer to the source of food. We’ll eventually help open and run a full service butchery & grocer using products grown on the 28 acres outside.  What’s more, there is a 2 acre garden where we can grow jelly beans, cotton candy and our very own dildo tree.  Hurray.

A little lopsided, as is often the case with love.

Thank you all for your readership. There are arcane liquor and zoning laws up here, cellphone service is sporadic, there are many spiteful low-watt Trump supporters and public transportation is virtually non-existent save for the occasional single-track diesel train that still runs in 2016. So we are pretty much moving back in time with the rest of you, but the barns and people are charming even if they tawlk funny.

Looking out my backdoor.

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Merci-Donnant 2015 Sunday, Dec 6 2015

Thanksgiving 2015

A well altered classic. Thank you JL David.

Hopelessly dated French food has always been the war-cry of this withering electronic diary, and the recent tragedy across the pond called for something with a more pro-populist, Tyranny stifling design and seasonally garnished quote from a revolutionary rabble-rouser.  The menu came together with only a few laps left since I’m running on flat tires and will probably abandon this bloggy thing in the New Year.  This food career never really came together and despite flaky assurances on behalf of others and 19 years or dedicated effort on mine and more than a year of fruitless odd-job plum jobs that fulfilled a need for cash, the pieces never fell into place.  So savor this penultimate post, all 7 of you readers.  I think I’ll take up hawking antique cookware and corny mugs at a bric-a-brac store somewhere in the countryside or upper 14^th St and hook my wagon up to ISIL’s tech scooter which might be an edgy way to get some hardcore intraweb fans.

Birdman: or the unexpected virtue of making dated food things.

Got the 16lb pastured turkey from the Mennonites.  I’ve never been up there, so maybe they got it from the pious Safeway and repackaged it.  I’ll never know.  But a bonafide Mennonite delivered it.  Decent bird, no heritage breed or anything and all the parts & accessories were there.  Roasting it whole is more boring than life itself and the drumsticks have those irritable plastic tendon things that I would have liked to have yanked out, but the bird was amputated below the ankles.  Recent Thanksgiving misgivings have been the noticeable absence of the whole bird centerpiece, but there is always a better way and the style of a whole roasted bird suffers compared to the practical and delectable substance of a compartmentalized critter.  In the past, the legs have been deboned, rolled up and stuffed with all the holiday party favors or ground up into regional meatballs and such that generally went over the convives’ heads who wore sweatpants and scarfed down pedestrian chips.

Photogenic pickled fish.

Pickled fish is just about the next best thing and some surprisingly fresh mackerel (never seen anyone else buy any there) made for a fine product.  Brined in 10% salt brine for 3 hours facing Mecca, then in a pickling liquid with onions, vinegar, wine, lemon juice, lemon zest, garlic, rosemary, some bullshit spices and who cares.  Photographed very well in the natural sunlight though, and that is what counts (on the Instagrams).

B-cup chest nuts.

Got some Virginia chestnuts which was nice since the North American chestnut tree was essentially wiped out in the last century by Japanese imports.  A bit small perhaps, more or a “marron”  than a full fledged chestbump. Soaked for 20 minutes in dihydrogen monoxide, scored, roasted and easily peeled.  Tasted and peeled much better than the cheap imposters Bestworld was peddling.  Not where the later came from,  but they were starchy, crumbly, hallow and exactly what $3.75/lb gets you.  Shame on both of us.

Less filling, tastes OK.

Bestworld is still the best place around and the kooky Korean-owned, Latino-run, gringo-serving emporium came through with plenty of other misspelled sundries. They always have smoked turkey parts so I got a neck while the turkey carcass and bone scraps barely simmered for well over, like, 2,880 minutes (modernists rejoice) and once the turkey pot-au-feu juice was cooled and strained, a white knuckle consommé path was plotted with some ground turkey, egg whites, cardboard, lawn clippings and other things that go in a raft sturdy enough to brave white water rapids. You, extreme reader, know what I mean.  I picked the smoked meat, added some broccoli and carrots and called it a day.

For the pervert who is into bondage and raw poultry.

Standard practice is to take the legs and do something to them that eliminates the inedible tendons that run through the drumstick in a fashion that makes for a preparation that is consistent, flavorful and easy to serve.  Ballotines (essentially a round meatloaf)  show some culinary proficiency and some showing off, which is the purpose of documenting holiday meals anyway.  These followed similar turkey leg fabrications; ground drumstick with liver, eggnog, cream, bit of pork, booze and then mixed with confit gizzards, thigh meat, some of the busted up chestnuts, sequins and were roasted in extra consommé, root vegetables and fresh cranberries.  The cooking juices and garnish were blended smooth and made some gravy of sorts.  Hurray.

It is a very nice platter.

Browned some Brussels sprouts in duck fat, then some fresh cranberries and poured the sauce over it.  Photographed rather well, particularly in a bowl by Daniel Castel.

Gizzards and thighs, oh my.

Couple air pockets which could have been mitigated by a pastry bag and caring more, but the passion is fading and there were some re-runs to watch on the TV.

At the very least, it is colorful

Done this one a few time before and the sauce of white cauliflower, sweet onion, butter, cream and lemon was particularly flavorful and a pleasant texture compared to the roasted florets.  Taking pictures during the meal is kind of tacky nowadays, particularly with people tethered to their phones so this portrait was snapped before it got gratinéed with clarified brown butter and lemon-toasted breadcrumbs.  Could have cooked the eggs a bit less, but whatever.

Colorful, and with 10% more gluten

The girlfriend likes vegetables tremendously and I like to whittle and cook them.  Most stuffings taste like a wet sandwich that got stepped on by a crowd, so these vegetables were glazed in duck fat and finished with lemon juice, vinegar and some flabby whole grain bread left to go stale; or as I and other closeted modernists like to call it “blanched air-toasting”.  Plenty of bread, vegetables, leafy Brussels sprouts, what’s not to like?

Not an endorsement of FIFA.

Still clinging to the pâtés, for better or worse.  I was the 1^st and so far only American to qualify for the World Pâté Croûte Championship 3 years ago in France.  Cost me a lot of money to get there and while I learned 2 things about the pastry, but I didn’t do that well and aside from the jet-lagged memories there wasn’t much of a payoff. Not even a T-shirt.  Should have invested in PR or had a more selfless Top Chef boss at the time. If there is any advice to give to a buddy cook, it would be to invest in hype and/or tattoos rather than substance and technique.  The former gets you the dining public’s attention and validation and by that time the later deficiencies are exposed, it doesn’t really matter because with the right type of irreverent hipster stoner food, you’ll be able to smear peanut butter on a coaster and there will be a 2hr wait at your door.

Yes, the stars are a bit much and it looks like prom night.

Pastry is the standard 50% clarified brown butter short crust and I broke out the fancy game-pie mold.  Made some black pastry with non-toxic (hopefully) shoe polish for the artsy fartsy flair.  Found a District of Columbia cookie cutter in a freebie box and stamped one out for the side, a carved a feather on the other side and some stupid stars on top for no other reason than they being a bit more interesting than fluted circles.  Pretty much the same forcemeat as the ballotine with the addition of dried cranberries, pecans, a piece of black truffle that has been soaking in port wine for about 6 years (that is not really a good thing).  Had some extra forcemeat and pastry so I made a pithivier shaped pâté pantin and planned to serve it hot as well.  But most guests’ appetites and attention were satisfied by that point so we just kept drinking.

It is the District of Columbia, or South America

Not exactly traditional for Thanksgiving, but it is something to do when you get tired of watching re-runs and drinking alone. Sure it is a bit effeminate, but such fabulousness will soon earn the respect that they, house-made vinaigrette and cake pops deserve.

Stuck a feather on the side and called in turkey dinner.

The pâtés always look sharp in the raw, but sag and droop once they’ve cooked.  Oh well, that’s life. Those guys at the fancy meatloaf championship made some fantastic decorations with sharp, crisp lines and they are true craftsmen.  Not sure how they do it, if they embed the colored dough or super-impose it.

Like a pastry urchin.  The last one of 2015

I filled the untouched one with apple cider aspic and tossed it in the fridge.  There is a post-partum sluggishness that takes over after the big day, during which I am too nervous to eat, though I am content to eat leftovers at 3am with my fingers in the twilight of the Frigidaire for a week.

Inlay sagged a bit, but you get the gist.

Some friends came over and we stabbed at the leftovers a bit and took a couple slices of the round meatloaf in pastry with the brown starfish on it.  Girlfriend took some to work but I think it was to use as a shim for a wobbly table or doorstop.  Form and function, how about that!?  But I should have made turkey ramen with uni ice cream and gold leaf on mismatched vintage plates and charged $85.

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Le Grand Non-Gagnant de Cochon. Monday, Apr 22 2013

The Grand Non-Winner

Cochon 555 Washington, DC 2013

This little piggy went straight to the bar afterwards.

Behind a fawned over figurehead’s formidable speech (Theodore Roosevelt notwithstanding),  is generally an obscured speechwriter worthy of a couple kudos, snap-shots, blogs, high-fives and twatters.  I am such a wordsmith with an equally subjective, savory craft who doesn’t always receive the credit they work hard to earn.

After all but begging my employer to get me to participate in the DC Cochon 555 edition since my requests to be considered as a candidate were routinely ignored, I had 5 weeks to develop a menu and after delivery of a decent Large Black hog from Leaping Water’s farm, 6 days to execute.  With the exception of a few fabrications and tasks that were delegated to colleagues, I made 96.83% of all the food; butchering the hog, brining the hams & bellu, making the aspic, the rillettes, the cheese sausage, the loin, the pâté en croûte, the pickles, the liver terrine, the pojarski, the breading, the gribiche and even cut the booties for the Pojarski.

Ham jam 2013.

As dictated by the contest rules, I would be judged based on usage of the entire animal, flavor, creativity, affability, star appeal and apparently marketing.  In hindsight, the menu should have mentioned the parts used, which have now been added in parentheses. The quality of the animal was not remarkable and any enthusiasm was quickly snuffed out by the presence of a few blood splashes in the shoulder caps, a symptom of careless slaughter and not being bled quickly enough.  Nonetheless, it was a decent hog.

Cochon 555, DC 2013

Range

Prosciutto Cotto (hams) & Mortadella (top sirloin, fatback)

Asparagus in blood aspic  (bones, feet, skin, blood)

and chicories in a smoked ham-hock vinaigrette. (shanks)

-∞∞∞-

Leverpostej.

Danish-style liver terrine wrapped in cured belly. (liver, trimmings, belly)

Salted and cured anchovies, a couple of marinated capers.

-∞∞∞-

Pâté en Croûte 

It’s heart, tongue, kidneys, fatback, pistachios and a few figs. (lard, trimmings, offal)

Some pickled rhubarb and mushrooms.

-∞∞∞-

Pork Belly Pojarski

Breaded and fried.  (belly, trimmings)

Ramp gribiche

-∞∞∞-

L’Astet

Loins roasted with spring garlic. (loin, tenderloin)

Warm confit potatoes and rillettes (jowl, belly)

-∞∞∞-

Saucisson en Brioche

Clothbound cheddar sausage baked in a leaf lard brioche. (trimmings, lard)

And cracklin’ whipped lard.

Hams (and shoulder caps) were given a heavy brine, tied and simmered.  Mortadella was stuffed into smaller beef middles so as to be more manageable to cut and serve.  Shanks were brined, smoked and simmered with tomato juice after which my sponsor assembled a vinaigrette with the diced meat, gelatin enriched tomato juice, pickled mustard seeds, olive oil and banyuls vinegar.  Stock was made from the feet, skin and bones then clarified with blood and egg whites.  The blood doesn’t impart so much of a flavor as it does an amber color, which didn’t necessarily produce a credible sanguine color until it was supplemented with clarified beet juice.  The asparagus was manicured and gently blanched, then tediously dipped like a candle in the aspic.

Me cook pretty one day.

Danish style liver terrine was comprised of liver, belly, milk, eggs, salted anchovies, salt tears, madeira, lemon zest, picked thyme and a purée of onions cooked in lard.  The terrine was wrapped in slices of brined and poached belly.  I should have dry-cured the belly as the wet cure yielded flabby slices that were difficult to work with.  This was a very good terrine (a pressed pâté) with a proper balance of liver and meat and the lightest touch of anchovy, which could have been more pronounced.  The slice was adequately garnished with marinated salted capers and pickled white anchovies.

For the pâté en croute, lard represented the fat content of the dough, malt syrup supplemented the mixture for added strength and color and the corn starch was entirely eliminated so as not to compromise the amount of protein in the dough –so as to eliminate breakage.  Tongue, gizzard and heart were brined & cooked; premium trimmings marinated with Armagnac, lemon zest and thyme, figs plumped in booze and a delicate inlay of pistachio assembled with the addition of chlorophyll, egg whites and a nominal amount of trimmings.  The hinging properties of the mold were properly used to apply a decorative pig emblem and after learning a thing or 2 at the Pâté Croûte World Championship, the pâté was built upside down to ensure a clean top and eliminate fissures.   This was a very good pâté, and with absolute humility, better than any other there.

Good enough for government work, but not the judges.

Pojarski’s were diminutive, fancy mock-cutlets fashioned from trimmings of raw shoulder, cured belly, onions cooked in lard, spices, toasted bread crumbs and cream.  Twice breaded and gussied-up with a paper bootie.  Gribiche made with barely boiled eggs became seasonal with a surplus of ramps; the bottoms sweated in olive oil, the top blanched & chopped, along with gherkins, mustards, lemon and whatnot.  They were fried to a golden George Hamilton  and down right delicious.

The loins and tenderloins were brined (without #1 curing salt) in a 5% brine flavored with rosemary and fennel seed. I do not remember any of the other contestants using the loin, surprisingly.  L’Astet is a regional pork dish from l’Aveyron that involves a trussed loin and garlic.  In this case, the tenderloin was cut in half lengthwise and threaded through the center of each quarter loin.  The loin(s) were expertly trussed, nice & tight, and left to marinate in olive oil with spring garlic.  It was later cooked to 145F internally, roasted fat-side down and sliced for the contest.  It was completed with one of the best batches of rillettes I have ever made –jowl, belly, 4 spice and meyer lemon.  Yukon gold potatoes were punched out, blanched and finished in rendered fat with mustard seeds.

A variant of saucisson à l’ail (garlic sausage) had clothbound cheddar replace the garlic and after a quick steam in the combi oven was wrapped in lard-based brioche dough and baked.  The prototype came out much better.  Inexplicably, these ones had a significant gap between the sausage and the dough which we had not experienced when using the garlic sausage.  It was a worthwhile sausage, though the binding properties of garlic make for a better, firm texture than cheese.

Complimentary smoked fat-back truffles with Bavarian pretzel crust were offered courtesy of our pastry chef and a testament to the amount of rendered lard that we used.  We had a modest amount of food left over after the liquor drenched event and with the exception of a pound or 2 of fatback, used up the entirety of the animal. 2 of the more reputable judges validated my efforts with firm handshakes and solidly honest compliments, but their votes were diluted by the great unwashed whose palates and eyes were fooled by pedestrian fare and stickers.  Congratulations and thanks to the teams from Proof, Vidalia and Birch & Barley for providing creative and satisfying fare under such considerable time constraints, particularly to those that did the work.  If there is a next time, I’ll develop a winning recipe for making T-shirts. Tremendous thanks to Richie Havens too, even if your career really took off before I was born.

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Mes salaisons Wednesday, Feb 27 2013

My salted wares

How dry I am.

Rather successful  bovine dry curing.  Viande de Grisson, bresaola and saucisson sec.  Randall-Lineback eye of round for the VdG was cured in 2 stages (half the salt cure for 3 days, the other half for 3 more days), wiped clean of the cure mix, rolled in herbs (thyme, rosemary, oregano,  and marjoram) wrapped in cheesecloth and hung in a refrigerated room –no need to ferment the whole muscle, just to dry it. Very nice color, sweet taste, but I don’t know how much the herbs contributed to the flavor.  Kind of musty actually. It eventually developed a bloom after 3 weeks and when it had sufficiently dried to my liking, I pressed it (to achieve the traditional pressed shape) between wooden boards weighed down with cans of tomatoes, though any canned good with equal weight would have worked just as well I suppose.  A friend of mine once pilfered in my pack a can or roasted red peppers from Buca di Beppo, whose “Pope Room” is the gold standard for Italian dining with your delinquent friends, and there is a crappy nudie bar next door  (gnudi bar, by the way, would be a very good idea for a gnudi menu themed room).  I was pleased as punch by the plucked can, though upon shaking it, it seemed like there was quite a bit of water in there.  That sloshy sound was consistent with the contents –dihydrogen monoxide.  What was most amazing, was that the cans were authentically labeled, painted on, nutritional info, imported, importer address, contents, ingredients…  A very convincing 5lb can of roasted red peppers that would fit in on any Costco shelf. Who makes such a mock product?  And what will become of the Pope busts that bless the Pope Room tables?

A square meal.

The bresaola was fabricated from an Angus eye of round, cured in the same manner as the VdG, put in a beef bung casing, brushed with vinegar and left to dry in the same refrigerated room.  After a week, the bresaola began to develop a healthy white bloom and 3 weeks later was completely encased in the cherished bloom which other manufacturers artificially replicate with rice flour. Very nice color and sweet beefy flavor.  Far better than the desiccated beef often passed off as the real McCoy.

Saucisson sec was more of a challenge. Lean Randall-Lineback eye-of-round was used in lieu of pork, primarily because of the abundance of the former, and pork back fat supplemented the fat.  No starter culture.  Standard procedure was applied and the pieces were incubated in a plastic tub for 72 hours.  The refrigerator conditions were not ideal for the proper curing (too cold, not enough humidity) and the ph of the meat may not have been sufficient. While the flavor was enjoyable, particularly the lucknow fennel seed, the sausage itself was a bit softer than desired in the middle, though the face of the slice was encouraging –no air pockets or festering inside, but the fat distribution left much to be desired.

Bloom County.

Randall-Lineback secca (the French variety of bresaola) was successful and absolutely delicious.  Cured in the same manner as the Viande de Grisson and bresaola.  Stuffed in a beef middle.  Top notch bloom.  I could have snow angels in that bloom if I was smaller.

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Championnat du Monde de Pâté Croûte 2012 Tuesday, Jan 8 2013

2012 World Pâté Croûte Championship:

Special Chump Edition.

World Champ. Slices of life on the farm

Here is a close approximation of my performance at the 2012 World Pâté Croûte Championship. I was exposed to dizzying level of professionalism and experience and feel that I fell short. Having to bring my wares from so far away put me at a considerable disadvantage, perhaps more so without the ooh-la-la garnishes & flair (though presentation accounted for few of the 200 total points) and I picked #12 at random, placing me last in the tasting, at which point the judges may have had their fill of 23,000 calorie forcemeats. Judges included Regis Marcon (Le Clos de Cimes ***), 2011 winner Eric Desbordes (Le Bristol ***) and numerous MOF’s. My mistakes were significant, but at least my slices stayed together –another contestant’s aspic was too loose and the pastry collapsed when cut. First and foremost, my pastry (80 points) did not achieve enough color, likely a result of baking 3 at once, thereupon lowering the temperature of the oven. Had I cooked it longer at that temp, I would have risked overcooking the forcemeat. I did not have a consistent gap for the aspic either.

Color me humbled. Bravo Yohan (insert applause emoticon).

Upon speaking with Patrick Henriroux (La Pyramide **, MOF) he said that the judges prefer a chunkier forcemeat, and that I should have kept the gizzards whole. Keeping pace with the gin flavors I finished the slice with fleur de sel mixed with lime zest and ground juniper berries. M. Henriroux explained that juniper is not a flavor that the judges crave. Pickled cauliflower lightly dressed with an orange zest & confit fat soffrito didn’t compare to some of the Bocuse d’Or inspired garnishes put forth by other competitors, but wasn’t worth many points anyway. Lastly, I should have pulled the pâté out of the fridge earlier so that it would have been served at room temperature which otherwise mutes the flavors. Now I know better and being exposed to such work has been invaluable.

My piddling pâté, in all its underbaked splendor.

This is the high water mark of cookery; the confluence of discipline, theory, practice, technique, artistry and finesse. It is an absolute honor and pleasure to have been selected. Any and every cook should aspire to have the substance of their work judged blindly in such a format that transcends the stylistic pandering to photogenic tattoos and irritable congeniality. The gentleman whose work I witnessed and tasted are legitimate craftsmen*.

I represented, at the very least, be it ever so crooked.

Yohan’s pâté had been in the works for almost a year and was stunning, though I thought the liver flavor was a bit strong. The theme was “the farm” and included something from every farm animal. The black dough fabrication & application of the lettering was clever and the detailed flower inlay nicely centered. Virtually all the forcemeats were chunky to the point where they fell apart after cutting the slice (mine had a firm yet moist texture) and more than half featured exceptional quality foie gras, not the excessive 2 ½ lb+ David Crosby sized lobes generated here which loose too much fat. Very rich and significant amount of care went into layering and inlays. One criticism from the judges is that they fear the aesthetics may begin to trump the flavor. Other inlays included especially savory ballotines, intricate designs and even whole cèpes with an intensely mushroom flavored aspic. All other pastries were cooked closer to perfection than I have ever seen and nothing short of delicious. An absolutely remarkable event with plenty of Mumm bubbles and M. Chapoutier Crozes-Hermitage Les Meysonniers to wash it all down. We plated in 10 minute intervals and I was not able to see the first 8 pâtés plated.  I got pretty juiced on complimentary wine afterwards.

1% meatloaf sampler.

*The romantic suggestion that cooking at this level is art is nonsense. I do not know of any artist that must consistently replicate such a varied standard of work on a daily, weekly, monthly basis (we each had to bring 3 identical pâtés). These cooks are in the rare league of polished tradesmen like woodworkers whose creative artistry is seen through clean dovetails and moldings. Artists make one-offs. Craftsmen don’t.

Bocuse d’Or is next month, sir.

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Pâté en Croûte: Distraction Spéciale «Merde Sandy, Il Pleut». Monday, Oct 29 2012

Pâté en Croûte:

Special “Crap Sandy, its Raining” Distraction.

Ivy League Edition: Beats Harvard and Yale. Both flooded.

With the absolutely crippling, thrilling, paranoid fantasy of a shotgun full of delusional diluvial rain pointed at what seems like the crotch (the good kind of crotch) of North East America, take the time to call up your local utility provider and courteously thank them for the thankless services they provide  before rabidly barking at them 72 hours from now when you have to suffer the inevitable consequences of weather and the fallibility of electricity when you are not able to sustain your sedentary lifestyle with less than 3,800 calories of raw fruit.

It might float your boat.

This silly culture of irrational fear is remarkable.   It has been suggested by the media, home improvement store magnates and toilet paper manufacturers that such coincidental weather patterns are more likely brought on by the really very real threat of Al Qaeda, gays marrying homosexual pets or iced cream, a second socialist term of a totally radical left-handed Muslim president and running out of milk.  A scholarly professor-type in the family posits that America’s atavistic pilgrimage to the milk aisle before hyperbolic warnings of fire, rain and brimstone is a terrifying emotional regression to an infant state nurtured by mother’s milk.  An erudite cynic at the local tavern professes that toilet paper consumption during fo-rizzle rapture-inducing drizzle can be attributed to giardia brought on by desperately drinking tainted river water.

The Arc that I baked.

But rather than curse your flooding basement, here’s a metaphorical lifeboat, or, if you still have electricity, a worthwhile distraction since this thing will sink like a 3^rd world ferryboat.

Sturdy hull.

This “inadvertent argyle peppercorn-nipple edition” is hardly waterproof, is not sea-worthy and will not power a flashlight or lightsaber, but doesn’t need any appliances or utilities to cook.

Rivet(ed)ing.

Baking Bad.

Chunky ration.

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Andouilles et Andouillettes chez Gilles Verot: Édition Spéciale « ouf, ça fouette! » Tuesday, Nov 1 2011

Andouilles and Andouillettes at Gilles Verot: 

Special “wow, that stinks” edition.

Very special hotdogs.

 The confluence of stubborn tradition, soulful ambition, and epicurean pride centers on inimitable Paris, France,   and hard sought apprenticeships for further exposure to the uncompromising practice and theory of traditional European meat trades at decorated master charcutier  Gilles Verot and celebrated artisan butcher  Hugo Desnoyer.

A city which transcends all others.

For 3 weeks in September, on the cusp of fall in enchanting Paris, I had the exceptional opportunity and pleasure of being taken in by the staff at Gilles Verot’s production shop on rue Lecourbe in the 14^th arrondissement.  While the sheer quantities of raw product exceeded my expectations (1800 lbs of hams, jowls, fat, shanks, blood and loins received on a Tuesday), the fabrications remained deceptively simple.  Not easy, but not contrived or needlessly manipulated either.  Streamlined –though laborious- steps that ensured a high rate of production and unwavering consistency with minimal processing of Spartan parts.

Meet the meat.

Not too many mystical fabrications match the genuinely unpleasant appeal (more in terms of robust odor, as with certain cheeses, than flavor) of artisinal products lingering in France’s dusty recesses of charcuterie and its olfactorily offensive offal fraternity:  andouilles, and their sisterly andouillettes -a charred tubesteak eaten 4 years ago- composed of innards which carry body badness outwards offering a texture and whiff of organic balloon ends last inflated by the dying breaths of death deities who subsisted on Maroilles and Vieux-Boulogne cheese hot pockets.  In the annals of comestible western civilization, many coprophagous analogies have been made.  I have come closer to those than most (except puppies and sürstromming consumers). I would gladly regale my own grandchildren with tales of ancestral courage if my proliferation were not sanctioned by the damned prophylactic tongue-wilting barnyard sausage which even copious mouthfuls of strong mustard could not assuage.

Andouilles. Now with 10% more real assholes!

The business end of a 150lb batch of “andouillettes à la ficelle” still evokes the collective backsides of Animal Planet and its musky attributes range from removing pleats and wrinkles out of trousers to perm straightening sex panther cologne.  These andouillettes are in the style of Troyes, but not named as such since the Code of Charcuterie Usage mandates, like other appellations, that the product must conform to geographical provenance and ingredients*.  Ficelle corresponds to the string that is used to pull the filling through the casing.  The French homonym of andouille is “imbecile”,  though the term is said to be derived from the Latin inductile which means “to introduce into or insert”

bucket list #74 Clean buckets of pork middles.

Large intestines from pigs are soaked in warm water to remove their packaging salt, stretched flat, cut lengthwise and left to soak in a white wine vinegar and water mixture to neutralize some of the god-awful smell.  Pork stomachs are poached  -resembling fleshy WWII era aviator caps once cooked, though far more tender- and sliced into strips.  Pork deckles are cut into equally sized strips.  The middles are blanched until they reach a peyote shape and once cooled are mixed with salt, spices and enough Dijon mustard to sooth the sinuses of 4 college football teams their drug dealers and respective marching bands.

Whiskey bottles and pork middles…Ooh-Ooh that smell.

Aside from stifling heavy handed aperitifs the night before, such simple  tubesteaks -though lengthy, arcane and very stinky- are a sobering Fernsehturm palast der republik-ish  monument to austere, resourceful, natural ingredients, which, along with blood sausage (blood, fat, onions, casings and occasionally cereal grains -a delectable Estonian version has barley) are surprisingly refreshing considering the abusive levels at which American foods are so highly processed and filled with a different, lab derived, kind of (s)crap, though distributed to more traditional –even pioneering- palates.

P-pp-pull it. Pull it real good.

A revised verdict includes andouilles de Vire (brined belly, cooked stomach, poached intestines and ground pork stuffed into a beef bung, smoked then poached) and Guémené (butterflied intestines, poached then rolled in concentric rings, often with a cured belly center) to be acceptable, both of which can be chewed on cold or hot, though neither repast merits  walking  any amount of miles in flip-flops to savour. The Troyes variety however  remains confined to a personal bastion where it can do no harm.

At last, a bag for the gastroenterologist who has everything.

The true merit of a charcutier’s skill might be measured by the noble, forgotten dirty work.  Few fabrications involve such minimally processed, austere raw ingredients.  Pork middles, pork stomachs, salt, mustard and spices.  Simmered, cooled, cut, seasoned, stuffed, cooked again and kept in fat or its own gelatin.  And yet, the final product is a hard pill to swallow, though an appreciation for the humdrum otherwise discarded ingredients in endearing, almost bearable with enough mustard and nasal congestion.

Like the rings on a tree, only they measure how many years your hands will smell.

A close relative, Andouille Guemené from Brittany is like scoring an emerald Jujubee in the dark at the movies after a handful of ebony ones.  Not quite a fruit cocktail, but at least a palatable flavor reminiscent of toothpaste.  Guemené is like a belly section of the pig built like a Combos, but not really snack worthy.  A crowd pleasing center of pork belly wrapped in concentric rings of pork middles.  Cooked, wrapped in some sort of wax and can be enjoyed cold, like revenge.  Or, heated up in rows along side coins of blood sausage slivers and braised pork belly on savoury pastry:  a calorie-rich slice of pizza at the rugby equivalent of the SuperBowl.

The definitive American contribution to sausage ingenuity.

At the very least, particularly for the sensorially vacant veterans who indifferently jiggle the goods bareback, fabricating andouilles ensures ample personal space on public transportation and a wide “stinking drunk” buffer zone at the bar. Still, it remains a time honored monument to resourcefulness,  patience, practice, dedication,  discipline and pursuit in making gilded purses from intestinal burlap.

*pig insides have been used exclusively since veal tripe were forbidden in 2000 after the crazy cow case, thereupon halting the production of Andouillette de Cambrai.  Since 2008 however, new regulations lifted the ban.

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Timbale de poussin aux saveurs de fin d’été Sunday, Nov 14 2010

Cornish hen timbale with end of 1928’s summer flavors

It came way before the Cadbury egg.  And was fed corn.

Old timey variety of whimsical cooked charcuterie from the brittle, forgotten French food files of zephyrs (haute vegetable custard consommé garnish), cromesquis  and such.  The timbale, a cylindrical metal mold in which preparations are cooked or shaped, named after what percussion enthusiasts will know as the kettle drum it so closely resembles.

Don’t hate, marinate.

Originally, the molds were lined with shortcrust pastry, blind baked, filled with whatever satisfied the executor’s palate, topped with a deftly decorated lid and generally sufficed to please a dozen discriminating eyes while sustaining their half dozen preferably sophisticated gullets. Tangental representations ditched the pastry jackets for more blubbery, almost parka-like qualities of meat & fat insulation made fashionable by migratory cetaceans and other portly creatures predisposed to letting themselves go girth-wise for the sake of polar extremity wanderings.  Plant-custard based encasements exist as well and make a compelling case for the paradox of fat vegetarians.

Sample, in a jar.

This particularly involved fabrication, a savory allegory to any stuffed doughnut application matrix or fancy chocolate type confection demanded a smooth protein based forcemeat which would slovenly encase an unctuous liquid filling.  Traditional metal timable molds that were not readily available. Diminutive glass canning jars from a “Hoarder’s”  flavored, compulsive, personal collection were used in their  stead.  The delicate operation took place in the waning days of summer (in a basement) when garden tomatoes and sweet market corn were plentiful staples of the season.  The forcemeat housing was comprised of cornish game hen meat, marinated in corn derived bourbon, rosemary, dried glue, dandruff and garlic. Leg bones and carcass were roasted then supplemented with chicken stock and aromatics to build a fortified jus into which blanched corn and diced tomato were incorporated to produce a moderately lusty, sweet ragout with whispers of acidity and perhaps coquetries of rosemary if one isn’t so sensorially prude to such confident herbal fragrance.

Two more Boleyn sisters.

B-bbreast meat was ground thrice and puréed in the food processor with an egg,  bread panade (to prevent shrinkage) in the proportion of 5% by the weight, then seasoned with salt, black pepper and juniper.  The resulting forcemeat was lined into mason jars with use of a right handed teaspoon, an ambidextrous tablespoon’s worth of filling placed in the cavity and remaining forcemeat spread on top like a lid.  Raw timbales were left to firm up a bit in the fridge while a liquor deficit was replenished at “Lapland’s” Nordic themed nudie bar.

Duchampian chicken breasts.

Vessels were slipped into an unseasoned water bath (the reasoning being that too much salt would cause the timbales to float, an observation from having bobbed in the Dead Sea) and baked for 20 or so magic minutes.  Cooked timbales removed themselves from the jars easily, though one of the specimens sprung a modest leak.  When cut into, a luscious filling of sweet corn, tomato and roasted, concentrated poultry juices dribbled along the plate.

Do you love anyone enough to give them your last savory Rolo?

Verdict room door is ajar: Flavors of the ragout were practically impeccable.  A supplement of properly minced shallots cooked in white wine would have been especially tolerable.  Forcemeat texture was acceptable for a pioneering endeavor, though a higher fat content (pork fat or foie gras) could make a moister, lighter cooked product, what with poultry being so lean.  Pastry version will be next, followed by a report on the heat tolerance of mason jars.

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