Food and life

We played a fair bit of football back in the day, in high school, and the cruelty of adolescence is such that more often than not our inadequacies were too soon and too deliberately found out by our peers. In my class I recall with admiration a fellow E---, who as an athlete was unfortunate to have been blessed with limited ability. As a character, though, he had a great deal of heart and a tremendous sense of purpose, and always went about his business on the field as best he could. He always had the choice not to play, which he never exercised, and as long as he was thrust into a game he would always make a fist of it. What he lacked in strength and speed and pure athleticism he made up for with dedication and application, and it was this spirit – which he carried into his other activities – that was all the more admirable.

I have always found it quite curious how much people take their attitude and ethic toward work and in a larger sense, life in general, everywhere with them – and in particular, the kitchen. Jose, for example, had a carefree and cavalier attitude towards cooking that he seemed to have towards much else. He could do everything and anything, he thought, and he was usually right. Tomatoes in winter, and artichokes in spring; it was all no matter as long as he wanted it so. He would always cook with music – for what was the point of doing without, he asked – and the grace with which he moved around the kitchen made you think he was dancing instead of cooking. But there was method to the madness, and Jose’s methods were underpinned by a Catholic perfectionist streak that marked his dedication to fullness of preparation, and the production of that which was the best possible outcome with the available resources. He eighty-sixed sauces regularly when they did not meet his lofty standards, and never had a moment’s hesitation to throw something out and start over.

Morgan, as I have written before in these pages, worked with a simple dedication borne of the belief that cooking was an art of the ages, and the kitchen his ever-expanding canvas. He was someone who felt strongly about things and would be consumed by that which took his fancy, to the exclusion of everything else which did not. When he was cooking he made it look all so easy but it was the work that he did when he was not cooking that really was the measure of the man. He took notes and wrote things down, and pursued all cuisines with a child’s thirst for knowledge. He consulted books regularly and revered the weight of culinary history, and it would show in the kitchen. In the kitchen he would move with that absent, professorial look, seldom speaking, inside a flurry of thoughts and forethoughts. Yet these were thoughts that had been, at some time or in some form, rehearsed. His passion was of the kind that comes along only several times in a man’s life; it was a passion that was singular and all-consuming, and it produced a dedication that drove him relentlessly forward.

What is especially fascinating to watch is how people who are not particularly skilled at the culinary arts try their hand at it. I am always reminded of E--- when witnessing this. Clayton, for all his virtues, is decidedly not a cook and has no aspirations to be one. When he ventures into the kitchen I involuntarily shudder from apprehension. He once pan-fried potatoes – he called them Po-Clay-toes – which while well-meaning turned out to be an absolute disaster. His poor heat management meant that the outsides were burnt while the insides barely cooked, and he served the dish woefully underseasoned. But he treated cooking much like he treated his other endeavours, and carried the belief that limitations were arbitrary and that no matter what the task, he could realize his limitless potential with application and the right attitude. I taught him to make pasta from scratch, and he listened intently and carefully as I explained the steps to him. I only ever had to teach him once, and he soon went on to make it for his parents and his nearest and dearest. Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t; you’re invariably right.

I have cooked with, or seen others cook who have rather less of the interest and the passion that I do for food and its preparation and it is always interesting to see people rise to the challenge. There are the methodical ones – always checking the recipe, double-checking quantities, cautiously doing things in order – and the maniacal ones – a flurry of seasoning, tasting, mixing, matching and hoping for the best. It is particularly revealing how people respond to setbacks – spills, missing ingredients, inadequate equipment. Problem solving in the kitchen is always interesting because arriving at a solution is almost always time-critical, but also because there is always a scientific element – adding an acid to a base has a predictable outcome – and always an artistic element – no amount of science can explain the success of some flavour combinations.

I have long since lost touch with E---, and I have no idea what he is up to now, or if he is any good at cooking. But I have no doubt that whatever the case, he will have approached it with the same gutsy dedication with which he approached football all those years ago. And that gives me some cheer.

Viva Espana

Taberna del Alabardero
1776 I St NW
Washington DC 20006
202-429-2200


With the football team’s Euro victory, Nadal’s successes at Roland Garros and SW17, and more recently Castre’s triumph in the Tour de France, this has undoubtedly been a great year for Spain. It is recognition that has come somewhat belatedly in all other arenas but cooking. In cooking, Spain has been leading the way for quite some time now – names like Ferran Adria, Santi Santamaria and Jose Andres are almost requisite knowledge for any gastronome. I love Spanish food for its big, bold flavours; I love the bitter tang that olives impart, I love the defiant orange hue that saffron brings to a dish. And so it was with high expectations that I ventured to an establishment that the Spanish government calls “the best Spanish restaurant outside of Spain” – a restaurant right here in little old Washington DC. I had heard many good things about Taberna del Alabardero, not least from RK who has certainly eaten at enough good restaurants to know the real deal when he sees it. I expected great things.

The consultants in my company got together recently for a training course in DC, and I selfishly anointed myself the “One Who Gets To Pick The Restaurant”. We all enjoy a good meal out (I honestly believe that is the only reason they hired me) and fighting off the sly self-serving suggestions of others in order to fulfill my own self-serving wants was trickier than I thought. But in the end not too many people were disappointed when I picked this place – Ty had been there before and had only good things to say about it.

The Taberna is in an odd location, right in that no man’s land between downtown and the West End on 18th St, one of the busier throughfares in the District. Tall office buildings soar around it and with its Rioja red awning and distinctive lettering – it looks rather out of place. I arrived early and immediately ordered myself a tinto de verano. Hunter had recommended this, and it turned out to be exactly what I needed.

Tinto de verano, translated as “summer red”’, is a refreshing seasonal drink much like sangria, but made by mixing equal parts of red wine and soda - typically La Casera, which is similar to Sprite. It is one of the secrets that the Spanish do not market abroad extensively. I much prefer it to sangria, which can be rather sweet and stick to the roof of your mouth sometimes. Also, with sangria there are more combinations and possibilities for people to absolutely screw it up, whereas any bartender with half a brain can pour a tinto de verano.

There is a bar of tapas right outside the main dining room, where you can take your pick of cold and warm appetizers. But what caught my attention was the leg of Jamon iberico just chilling on a table, in plain sight, illuminated by the dim glow of the heat lamp, half carved and tantalizingly appetizing. Sheer marketing genius – just like bars that serve peanuts because they make you thirsty – but I fell hook, line and sinker for it anyway. I was already hungry, and now I was ravenous.

I could hardly wait for everyone to arrive, and when we were finally seated I paused to take in the surroundings. The walls were painted a deep red, with just the right amount of trim and flourish adorning the hallways and furnishings – it was just shy of kitsch and oozed a certain Old World charm. We started off with a heavy-hitting wine, a 2003 Bodegas Mauro Vino de la Tierra – which while enjoyable was a little too concentrated to open our palates with. It had wonderful accents of vanilla and tobacco but was very dark and not very fruit forward, which I thought rather atypical of Tempranillos, and of Spanish wine in general.

I always find it amusing when people are unsure whether or not to order a personal appetizer, and as a result suggest one, or several “communal” appetizers for the table. Nobody wants to be the one who decides on what to order, and it takes a special breed of friends to agree exactly on what those choices are. I always keep my mouth shut in instances like these, for I know there is never the right thing to say. For every person in this world there is a palate and a preference, and – particularly when there are more people at the table – it is often hard to reach a consensus. Somebody is inevitably disappointed, and it is never polite to say so when you are.

So when Ty hesitantly suggested getting the bacalao, I was pleasantly surprised. Not many people know what bacalao is, let alone like it. Ty was very gracious about the whole issue, and immediately qualified his suggestion with a non-committal “But we don’t have to get it if you guys don’t want to.” I did want to, and immediately threw my backing behind him. Sadly it did not turn out to be very good, and neither were the other appetizers that we picked. Democracy, as history will no doubt prove, does not always yield the optimum result.

I was convinced I had found my gastronomical soul-mate when Ty beat me to suggesting that we should also get paella for the table, and squid ink paella at that. Now there are very few things I love more than seafood, and being a nice Chinese boy I am partial to rice. A rice dish made with assorted seafood, to me, is heaven on a plate. I also like squid ink very, very much. The dish that arrived was lovingly spooned onto our plates by the waiter, with the final drizzle of a squid ink sauce the coup de grace. It was beautiful presentation, and I am glad to report that the paella lived up to the hype. The squid ink and fresh seafood added a mariner’s tang to the gummy, starchy goodness of the rice, and I tasted the sweet accents of saffron and paprika, judiciously used. I did not have to pepper the dish, and in my world that is very high praise indeed.

I had the pork loin for an entrée, and it was good without being spectacular. It clearly bore the hand of a skilled cook, for it showcased the big, bold flavours and spices of Spanish cuisine, sauced classically – which is to say heavily – but not once was it overbearing, and the flavours melded together as if by some strange force.

What did stand out was the wine that the sommelier picked for us – a 2002 JC Conde “Neo”, Ribera del Duero. This was a Spanish wine to end all Spanish wines and for me typified what Spanish wine was. It was bright and full-bodied, very fruity and sensual, with rich, opulent aromas of espresso, crème de cassis and white chocolate. If ever there was a wine that made you feel like dancing, this was it.

The Taberna was a good experience, but when the bill finally came I had a little sticker shock. It is funny how much the price of an item casts a relative judgment on its quality. I found myself thinking, “Well my pork loin was good, but was it thirty-six-dollar-good?” One of the main reasons why the Taberna is so expensive (and probably also the main reason it is so authentic) is that it sources many of its ingredients directly from Spain. I signed the check and sighed inwardly, and as I did so I started thinking of the explaining I would have to do.

Peaches

How can I say enough good things about this restaurant?

Peaches, a restaurant deep into the (former?) jungle that is Bed-Stuy, is just the sort of restaurant that an emerging neighborhood needs. I'm extraordinarily pleased that I got to eat there in its infancy and I hope to see how it develops.

Allow me to set the scene:
Yesterday, while I was setting up the restaurant, the bartender, Greg, gets a call on his cell. It's his special lady, who had just been at a supermarket in Bed-Stuy, in front of which someone pulled a handgun and fired 4 shots. Apparently everyone and their mom hit the deck both indoors and outside. No one called the police; in the middle of the day.

Blocks away (actually quite a few blocks, Bed-Stuy is a large neighborhood by NYC standards), Craig and Ben are serving up some ridiculously reasonably priced grub to what appears to be the adoration of the neighborhood. I knew of their work from the Smoke Joint, a BBQ spot close to the very fine restaurant at which I toil. I like their work and I like their investment in Brooklyn and Bed-Stuy.
Both were formerly cooks at some very choice restaurants in Manhattan, but when they went for ownership they went for Brooklyn and they went for BBQ. Both seem a step back from pretentious and a step back from expensive: an ideal combination for mere mortals like myself.

Part of why I wanted to try this restaurant was motivated by my own greed for a bargain. For now it is still BYOB. This makes such a difference; it's just insane. I brought a bottle of vinho verde and a bottle of gruner veltliner. Both were delicious, both were reasonably priced for their quality, $8 and $18 respectively. I could easily have been whacked between $60 and $90 (if not much more) for the same wines on a Manhattan list.

What we ate:
Apps:
Watermelon salad, arugula, shallots, lemon ginger dressing
Fried green tomatoes with remoulade
Asparagus salad with buttermilk dressing

Entrees:
Blackened Tilapia with summer squash and tomato
Andouille and Crawfish Gumbo

Dessert:
Peach Cobbler
Brownie a la mode

Every dish was extremely delicious. I could have small criticisms, but with a final bill of $50, how could anyone complain?

If you live anywhere even vaguely nearby, go there (preferably in the next 8 weeks, pre-liquor license,) eat well, tip well, and stumble home.

Morgan Is A Waiter

George Orwell, in Down and Out in Paris and London, wrote some of truest words about the restaurant industry. Obviously, there are dubious statements, many chefs prefer female cooks, and not everyone is a total d-bag. And yet the essence is still there:

What keeps a hotel going is the fact that the employees take a genuine pride in their work, beastly and silly though it is. If a man idles, the others soon find him out, and conspire against him to get him sacked. Cooks, waiters and plongeurs differ greatly in outlook, but they are all alike in being proud of their efficiency.

Undoubtedly the most workmanlike class, and the least servile, are the cooks. They do not earn quite so much as waiters, but their prestige is higher and their employment steadier. The cook does not look upon himself as a servant, but as a skilled workman; he is generally called 'un ouvrier' which a waiter never is. He knows his power--knows that he alone makes or mars a restaurant, and that if he is five minutes late everything is out of gear. He despises the whole non-cooking staff, and makes it a point of honour to insult everyone below the head waiter. And he takes a genuine artistic pride in his work, which demands very great skill. It is not the cooking that is so difficult, but the doing everything to time. Between breakfast and luncheon the head cook at the Hotel X would receive orders for several hundred dishes, all to be served at different times; he cooked few of them himself, but he gave instructions about all of them and inspected them before they were sent up. His memory was wonderful. The vouchers were pinned on a board, but the head cook seldom looked at them; everything was stored in his mind, and exactly to the minute, as each dish fell due, he would call out, 'faites marcher une cotelette de veau' (or whatever it was) unfailingly. He was an insufferable bully, but he was also an artist. It is for their punctuality, and not for any superiority in technique, that men cooks are preferred to women.

The waiter's outlook is quite different. He too is proud in a way of his skill, but his skill is chiefly in being servile. His work gives him the mentality, not of a workman, but of a snob. He lives perpetually in sight of rich people, stands at their tables, listens to their conversation, sucks up to them with smiles and discreet little jokes. He has the pleasure of spending money by proxy. Moreover, there is always the chance that he may become rich himself, for, though most waiters die poor, they have long runs of luck occasionally. At some cafes on the Grand Boulevard there is so much money to be made that the waiters actually pay the Patron for their employment. The result is that between constantly seeing money, and hoping to get it, the waiter comes to identify himself to some extent with his employers. He will take pains to serve a meal in style, because he feels that he is participating in the meal himself.

I was recently promoted to "server" at the very fine restaurant at which I toil. This is, as Mr. Orwell so rightly pointed out, a totally different world. A cook is a craftsman. A chef is a leader and organizer. As a cook, you quickly learn the correct and incorrect way of doing things. Whenever you fail to live up to your potential you should and do feel like an asshole. If the chicken is over cooked, or the steak is undercooked, you're an asshole. You're only as good as your last dish.

A waiter, on the other hand...
What is a waiter, and what do you want out of him? For me, I prefer a waiter who does his job well, while still being friendly. I don't care how much personality you have, if you don't bring me shit when I want it, I really couldn't care less. Am I waiting a long time for a drink? Do I need more water? Where's the bread? Obviously, I try to be friendly and wise, punctual, attentive and useful.
You rarely, rarely, rarely, hear a cook talk about money. Unless it's "I spent so much money at the bar last night, I'm staying home today." Or, "If I had a little more grip I would..." When it comes to the front of the house, the amount of money made or not made is on everyone's lips. I account for this with several reasons: Obviously, a waiter's income is more closely tied to the amount of money the restaurant is making. Also, receiving money in cash every day makes you wonder what you're going to walk out with. In my case it makes me wonder how many drinks I can have (or buy) at the bar. Furthermore, there are very few people in America today who want to be waiters for the rest of their lives. Bartenders, maybe. Most waiters are in it just for that reason: the money. For many, to be a waiter today is to say "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing but I need some money." (Excepting waiters who are angling to be restaurateurs, a thought with which I comfort myself) I fall smack dab into the middle of this category (professionally lost) and I don't like it one bit.

My transition has me wondering not just what the fuck I'm doing professionally, but also what sort of man I want to be...
Am I selling my soul for a hell of a lot more money and a new challenge?

Wish List: Places Where I'd Like to Eat

If wishes were fishes...
Here are a couple places I'm looking forward to eating in the coming months; wind, tide and funds allowing.
James, in Prospect Heights www.jamesrestaurantny.com
The Good Fork, in Red Hook www.goodfork.com
Peaches, in Bed-Stuy (do or die) no website yet.
The Grocery, in Carroll Gardens thegroceryrestaurant.com
Lupa, Manhattan www.luparestaurant.com
Ali's Kebab Cafe, Astoria, Queens, no website.

(Dive) Bars where I want to get my drink on:
Farrell's Bar and Grill, Windsor Terrace
Montero's, Atlantic Ave.
Sunny's Bar, Red Hook
Hank's, Atlantic Ave.
Frank's Cocktail Lounge, Fort Greene
O'Connor's, Park Slope

El Malecon Restaurant

A beloved classic that stands as a salty, greasy, shiny symbol of the Dominican diaspora, El Malecon has become famous for their rotisserie chicken. [Do not confuse this with the word marecon, which has an entirely different meaning and is not a restaurant at all.] I happened to be in Washington Heights for some Center for an Urban Future research and I knew that I had to make a stop at this landmark. There were many, many options for Dominican food in that 'hood but this is the classic.

I am sorry to say that I was disappointed. There are two fundamental issues with roasting a chicken,
Number 1: Getting a crispy skin.
Number 2: How to get the white breast meat and the dark leg and thigh meat to be properly cooked.
Malecon's chicken was a tour de force in the first department, with a crisp, salty, spicy skin that crackled in my mouth. Unfortunately, while the leg and thigh were both delicious (I love meat on the bone) the breast was dry and bland. My preferred method at home involves an extremely long resting time to let that dark meat come up to temp, followed by a quick run under the broiler to reheat the bird and get that skin the way it ought to be.

In sum, next time I'm going to ignore the hype, and am going to follow my gut to "Elsa, La Reina Del Chicharron".

That magical animal

For my birthday last year several of my friends got together and surprised me with a year-long membership to the Bacon of the Month club. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me and without a doubt, an amazingly appropriate present.

So now I receive a package of artisanal bacon every month, and every time I see that familiar box sitting on the doorstep it brings an extra spring to my step. I haven't had to buy any bacon this entire time, and truth be told all that bacon is too much for two persons. We've had to throw some out - an outright travesty. Some of the bacon has been really good - I remember a maple-flavoured one which is probably my favourite to date. But there have been misses too - ene month I threw an entire package out after tasting a strip of the bacon. Yes, it was that bad.

The point is, to use up all that bacon requires some creative methods. I recently stopped eating meat for breakfast (probably not going to last, since I've been craving breakfast sausage like whoa). But I don't think there is anything that you cannot add to or top off with bacon. There really isn't. Bacon makes the whole world better. And even if you don't want any bacon in the final product, starting things off by rendering bacon fat in the pan is a great way to add a smoky, savoury accent to lots of dishes. I find it works particularly well in soups and sauces, or really any dish in which you have to build a good soffritto, or flavour base.

I made a beet salad the other day and topped it off with some bacon bits. The Times recently had an article in the Wellness section, listing the 11 best foods for you that you probably weren't eating, or eating enough of. Beets were #1, and frankly I don't understand why they aren't more popular. They're delicious! And colourful! What more do you want? Another of my favourite flavours - cinnamon - was also on the list. I love cinnamon. I try to sprinkle a healthy dash of it in my coffee every day if I can. Good times.

I made a lamb burger to eat with the salad but unfortunately I had no hamburger buns. I'm a huge fan of basting meats. I like to cook meat in a lot of fat (usually butter), and temper the fat with spices and other flavours (always garlic, and others as appropriate), then spoon the fat over the meat continually as it cooks. A simple thing, but something I find amateur cooks like myself do not do enough of. The result is a moister, more flavourful piece of meat. There really is a difference. In this case as in all other human endeavours - it's doing the little things and doing them well that separate success and failure.

Leaving Las Vegas

After several hectic weeks of travelling I finally had an entire week in DC, and resolved to make the most of it. The kitchen, much less the refrigerator, was down to its bare bones but I soon put that right with one of those trips to the supermarket.

I had not had a trip like that to the supermarket since the days when we lived in Grad Center. We did not have a car and our only access to a decent supermarket was the weekly trolley to Eastside MarketPlace. Every trip was like a new beginning, flush with possibility, and we threw things into the cart with reckless abandon. We were never ones for lists, or methods. It was all there for the taking, and it made us feel in control of our destiny.

On Monday I made dinner for a bunch of folks, including my oldest friends in DC. Amanda leaves on Friday for Kinshasa, and I wanted to see her and cook for her one last time. She loves scallops, so even though they were hopelessly out of season I had to make them for her. The fresh ones from Whole Foods were particularly large, and I paired them with a watercress coulis and grilled corn. Laura, who is vegetarian, was in the kitchen with me looking on as I seared them on my cast-iron pan. She quickly hurried out of my way - no doubt weirded out by my yelling and convulsing with joy as I flipped each scallop to reveal a deep, golden-brown sear.

For a main course we had grilled pork chops, and I made some brandied peaches as a topping. It was tart and savoury, and the pork chops were cooked quite well - with a crisp exterior but an even, juicy center. We drank a 2003 Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon (Alexander Valley), which I have absolutely adored in the past but was strangely subdued this time. The air conditioning chose that very moment to fail, which I cursed silently under my breath as I sweated through the meal, my face flush from standing in front of the grill. Still the flavour was enough to keep me happy, and even more than that, the satisfaction from having done good.

For dessert I tried to recreate Shanaz's panna cotta from several weeks back, but I did not use enough gelatin and it didn't set in time. We slurped down the semi-solid mixture, which was still delicious. I had flavoured it with lemon and vanilla and used goat's milk ricotta.

It was a little sad at the end when Amanda had to leave. Of the four of us from 1721 T now only Laura and I are left, and soon I, too, will be gone. I remember Jeff's departure and Sarah bawling her eyes out at the Townhouse Tavern. It was a lot of emotion to deal with and I felt strangely helpless. I suppose the way I am it is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about stuff, and I remember lots of times seeing people coming to tears and wondering if it really was worth it. But I did not question the value of those tears, and when Jeff left it was like the sun had come down on something.

Amanda leaving was not so dramatic because she is a sweet girl and always very cheery. She did not cry, and neither did I. It seemed hardly worth it. I kissed her goodbye one last time and rubbed her arm because it was all I could think to do. As she turned and walked away it did not quite hit me yet but later that night I felt that same emptiness I had felt when Jeff, and many others, had left.

I don't deal with goodbyes so well, I realise.

----------------------

A couple of days later I grilled again - this time a swordfish steak, which I did not do too much with. A little lemon, oregano, salt and pepper, and onto the grill it went.

It was Jose who taught me to cross-hatch whatever I grilled, and even now when it comes out perfectly I get a silly smile on my face.

I served it on a bed of bok choy, and had a nice cool beer. It had been a long day, and the making and eating of the dinner was just what I had needed.

Photo journal update

Colours, colours everywhere! How are there tomatoes of so many different colours? Certainly makes for a nice-looking salad.

Shanaz made this beautiful panna cotta when she visited the other weekend.

I made grilled salmon twice in two classic ways in the last three weeks - the first with a maple syrup and white wine vinegar glaze, and this is the second with a ginger and teriyaki sauce.

I paired the ginger-teriyaki salmon with a broccoli and shitake mushroom stirfry. It was the first home-cooked meal I had had all week and as I cleaned the last bits off my plate I felt curiously satisfied. Dishes be damned, I was going to sit and vegetate for a little while.