Where does it come from?

Over the past year, there was a measure on the California ballot that dealt with how animals are treated while they are being raised for food.  There was also a big to do about how ducks are treated in regards retrieving their livers for foie gras.  There have also been some videos on some of the social media outlets showing animals being slaughtered in a slaughterhouse.

I guess the one that really touched a nerve on social media was the video that showed a horse being knocked out and slaughtered.

IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH OR HAVE A WEAK CONSTITUTION, I WOULD SUGGEST YOU STOP READING NOW.

The horse was knocked out with the backside of an axe.  My only thought was that this had to be in the European Union somewhere (probably France) because horsemeat is sold in the butcher shops there and, in some instances, is a major source of protein.

That being said, I, for one, don’t think I could bring myself to eat horsemeat.  As Col. Sherman Potter said in one of the M*A*S*H episodes, “A horse is a noble creature”.  Granted the character was not only a horse lover, but also rode in the cavalry in WWI.  I am sure that a horse saved the character’s life a few times for him to say that it “is a noble creature”.

But let’s get down to the crux of this.  Did the video upset us or cause a stir because it was a horse or because it showed how animals are slaughtered?  To some degree, I think it is both.

Now, I know the United States does not allow horsemeat to be sold for human consumption.  And I know that there are no slaughterhouses that slaughter horses in America.  The slaughterhouses that do process horsemeat are actually in Canada, so the horses get shipped there.  But you may be asking “Where on earth do people eat horsemeat?”  Well, here is a list of the top countries that love and consume horsemeat…

France                          China                     Kazakhstan                         Indonesia

Germany                     Belgium                Japan                                    Switzerland

Scotland (well, there’s a restaurant in Glasgow that sells it)

I will say for the record that horse would not be my first choice… and if that was the only thing on the menu, I think I would have a salad… and I am not big on salads.

But how are these cows, and pigs, and lambs getting to our table?

Via abattoirs.  And what is an abattoir you may be asking?  Plainly put… a slaughterhouse.

Not really the most pleasant topic, I know.

There are some unpleasantries in life, and where our meat comes from is one of them. But it is an essential part of our way of life here in the US, and for most countries.

So , what happens when the animal goes to the slaughterhouse?  It depends what kind of animal we are talking about.

If we are talking about cows, the process is different than pigs or sheep.  I’m not even going to get into chicken on this one

When a cow is slaughtered, the cow is unloaded off the truck, and at some point after that (which could be immediately or a day or two later) is ushered into a walkway that leads to the slaughterhouse kill room.  The cow is stopped shortly before the room and is gated in much like a bronco at a rodeo, in the sense that it can’t back up and it can’t go forward.  A worker is standing above the cow and places a pneumatic bolt gun to the cow’s head.  At the pull of the trigger, the bolt pierces the skull and hits the brain.  This drops the cow to the floor.  Because the bolt hits the brain, the cow is still alive, but does not feel anything.  It is in a vegetative state.  The cow is immediately hoisted up by its back legs and its throat is slit.  It is at this point that the cow is killed.  The carcass is bled out; meaning all of the blood is drained from its body by gravity.

After the cow is bled out, the skin is removed.  There are two ways to do this… by hand or by machine.  The old school abattoirs would do it by hand.  The skin is loosened off the hind legs and attached to clamps that pull the hide right off the animal.  This is done in about 30 seconds.

After that the head is removed and the carcass is gutted and its internal organs are check for abnormalities.  If there are problems with its organs or tumors are found in the carcass, the animal is not fit for human consumption.  And who checks the carcass?  The resident USDA agent at the facility.

Ok, I can hear the moans now about how the USDA doesn’t do a good job because of the recent beef, peanut butter, and ice cream recalls, and how so many people got sick.  I am not here to defend them or crucify them.

Back to the cow…

After the cow is inspected it is cut in half, from tail to neck.  The carcass is rinsed, cleaned, and put into a HUGE refrigerator to age.  The beef has to be aged for at least four weeks – count ‘em … 28 days – before it is cut down into its primal cuts.  And if you are wondering what primal cuts are, they are the big cuts of beef.

Beef is divided in primal cuts.  These cuts are the chuck (or shoulder), rib, short loin, tenderloin, sirloin, bottom sirloin, round (the top half of the legs), shank (leg) flank, plate, and brisket.

Chuck is used for roasts, stews, and burgers.  Because it is the shoulder of the cow it gets a workout from walking and therefore can be quite tough, and needs to be cooked low and slow.

Ribs… well, they don’t need and explanation, do they?

The short loin, tenderloin, sirloin, and bottom loin are located past the last rib of the animal.  We have all had a top sirloin steak and filet mignon.  The filet comes from the tenderloin.

The top round is the back leg.  Some places use this as a minute steak, but, because it is used so much by the cow, it can be very tough if it is not cooked properly.

Ever had osso bucco?  Well, that’s the leg you were eating.  It’s not something you can throw on the barbeque for 10 minutes and eat.  You COULD… but you wouldn’t want to.

Flank is used for carne asada.  It needs to be marinated for a bit to tenderize it.

Brisket… when I hear “brisket” I think barbeque.  Smoked for 18 hours and tender, with a really good barbeque sauce.

From the primal cuts we get the “food service” cuts, or the portioned cuts, which can be ordered to pretty much any size you want.  From a six ounce filet to a ten ounce filet.  These are the cuts that we find at our local grocery store.

For pigs and lambs, it’s pretty much the same, except for the first part.  The animals have electrodes clamped to the heads behind their ears and the brain is scrambled.  Then their throats are slit, they are bled out, the process is essentially the same, except for the aging.  Lamb and pork can be eaten the day they are killed.

You may say that the process is cruel and inhumane.  Some of you may even say “How would you like to have electrodes put on YOUR head and electrocuted and have your throat slit?”  We are not talking about humans here, folks.  We are talking about animals… the food chain… the “circle of life”.

Yes, there are abuses in the industry.  Yes, there are people who do things to the animals that should NEVER be done to an animal.   These things are wrong and should not be tolerated.

If, however, animal is stressed, the adrenaline system starts pumping on over drive.  And what does this do?  It taints the meat.  The muscle, or meat, get a heavy dose of it and it tastes bad.  If the animals are being abused right before slaughter the meat will not be meat to eat.  The best thing for the animal is, for lack of a better phrase, to walk right in to it.  If the animal doesn’t know what’s coming then the animal will not be stressed.

In fact, there are people who design abattoirs with the sole purpose of keeping the animal calm.  This helps the animal, the person who is doing the deed, the abattoir, and, in the end, you and me.

As a chef, I truly believe that we need to honor the animal that is on our plate.  You may find this kinda weird, but it’s true.  And what do I mean by “honor the animal”?  I mean that every single part of the animal is used, so that there is no waste. Nose to tail…

For instance, what would you do with the intestines of the pig?  Use them for sausage casings.  The blood from a pig?  Make black pudding or, as we here in the US call it, blood sausage.   The head of a cow?  Beef cheeks are really god to eat… very rich, and very good. The tongue?  VERY old school meal and very popular in the Kosher and Middle Eastern cuisines.  Remember those movies set during the Revolution 200 years ago?  What did they carry the gun powder in?  The steer’s horn.  The tail?  Oxtail soup is delicious.  The stomach of a sheep can be used for the delightful Scottish dish, haggis.  One time, surgeons used a pig’s heart to keep a man alive who was on the heart transplant list.  The hide of a cow is used for shoes, belts, pants, skirts, hats, wallets… the list goes on.   For the longest time the NFL was using footballs made of pig skin; hence the nick-name of the ball.

Oh, and all those bones… use them to make a great stock for soup, rice, and sauces.

There is a really good video on youtube.com that shows a family in West Virgina slaughtering pigs.  The care and concern for the animal is really touching, in the sense that they know what they are doing, and they know the good that will come of it.  Here’s a link to it…  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6cXmY7Ln0k

I understand that there are places – and we have all seen them on the nightly news – that abuse the animals, that don’t care for the animals, that act like spoiled children and the animal is their new toy, there are people who have no respect for the animal let alone themselves.  I get it.  There are abuses in the system, as there are in ANY system.  BUT, I think that those abuses are few and far between.  And, although I am not a PETA fan, I do feel that the abuse of any animal is horrific and should never be tolerated.

Take this for what it is.  I am only saying that we need to be aware of where our food comes from, and I mean REALLY comes from.  It’s not from the grocery store.  It’s from a farm whose land is worked and cared for; whose animals are what keeps that family (and ours) going; and whose livelihood depends on those animals that are raised there.

When I was a kid, I saw bumper stickers the read “Farming is EVERYONE’S bread and butter”.  How true that is.

So the next time you cut into a beautiful center loin pork chop, or order the prime rib for Sunday dinner, or get that last piece of meat for the lamb chop, remember where it came from.  And be thankful that someone did the dirty work for you.

Okay… that’s it… I have said my piece.

Until next time…

Eat. Drink. Laugh. Love.

The Unforgettable Bronson…

It has been a while since I have posted anything here.  Lot’s of stuff going… good, bad, and bittersweet.

Work has been crazy.  Not only with the sheer volume of work (last week I put in 92 hours), but also the requests made by clients at the last minute.  I hate that when it happens, but in order to keep the clients coming, I gotta do it.  Being able to accommodate these are, as I feel, necessary evils… much like cell phones.

But work is work.  And that is to be expected.  I can deal with it.  I can adapt to the lack of sleep and the changes.

But there was one thing that happened that I am having difficulty with… even three weeks after it happened.

We found Bronson about seven years ago.  My Beloved One had quit smoking and was training for her first marathon.  I told her that no one likes a quitter and driving the 26 miles would be faster.  She found no humour in that.

Tamara, since we had met, had wanted a dog.  Something, or someone, to greet her with a wagging tail, or open arms, when she walked in the door.  She also wanted a dog to take on runs with her on her nightly runs through Hollywood and Los Feliz.

She came home from work and is greeted by her downstairs neighbor, Steve.  The exchanged hellos and he said, “Hey, I found your running partner”.  Then he brought out what appeared to be a seven or eight week old brindle pit bull-mixed puppy.  Tamara’s eyes got wide.  She ran upstairs, dropped her stuff off on the kitchen table, and ran back down to Steve’s apartment.

She sat on the floor and out ran the puppy.  He was all belly.  He ran right into Tamar’s lap and licked her face incessantly.  For the both of them, it was love at first sight.  For Tamara and me, it took longer to figure that out between us.

She was downstairs for about 10 minutes or so, and then brought the puppy upstairs to her apartment.  I was sitting in, what was considered to be, my chair.  I told her that we couldn’t get a puppy.  I told her that I didn’t want to see it because then I would want to keep it.  I actually did not look at the puppy for 20 minutes, even while it was in the same room as me.  Eric, the roommate, melted when he saw it.  Tamara was cooing over the puppy.  I turned my back so I didn’t see it.

After 20 minutes I finally turned and saw the puppy.  Brindle with a white chest and feet.  He also had what looked like an upside heart on his nose that was white.  It was at that point that I knew we would keep him.  But I had to make a stand and set some guidelines.  It was a pit bull and I had one before.  Tamara had to read up on the breed and learn about their demeanor and quirks.  “Ok,” she said.  “Let’s go to the bookstore.”

She picked up the “Idiot’s Guide to Pit Bulls”.  She was reading it on the way back home, continuously asking “Do they really do that?” “Yeah, they really do that.”

Then came the time that she told her mother that she got a puppy.  That actually went over better than we thought it would.  Her mother, Ruta, essentially told her that she had no business getting a dog and that her plate was full enough and she had no time to deal with a dog.  About a week later, Ruta came over for I can’t remember what.  She parked about a half a block away and we went outside to greet her with Bronson.  Ruta saw this bundle of puppy, ears flopping everywhere as he ran, tail wagging non-stop, running toward her.  I think it was at that point that Ruta’s heart melted.  There were no hellos or how are you’s.  Thing first thing out of Ruta’s mouth was “I’ll babysit for you!”  Bronson had melted his third heart.

Walks at Griffith Park were now a common occurrence for us.  Bronson loved to be able to run and sniff and explore this new world that had been born into.  It was heaven for him.

During the day I would sometimes walk him from Sunset and Bronson to Vine, up to Hollywood Blvd, back to Bronson.  On one walk we passed the Hollywood Suit Outlet.  Two gentlemen were standing out front talking with each other.  As we passed, one of them commented on Bronson and offered me $250 for him.  My response was “My girlfriend would have my balls if I sold him.”  Just by the demeanor of these two guys, I got the feeling that they would make Bronson a fighting dog.  I am vehemently opposed to such activity.  I find it to be cruel, sadistic, and so bass that words cannot describe.

We got ourselves a vet at Laurel Pet Hospital in West Hollywood.  I cannot thank them enough for the years of care that they gave to Bronson.  He got his first check up and all was well.  Shots were given, a file had been made.

Now came the time to get Bronson fixed.  Tamara and I debated on whether we should get this done.  He was a beautiful dog and we tossed around the idea of breeding him.  Actors and Others provided, through local vets, neutering and spaying for pit bulls and chihuahuas.  Kind of weird, we thought, that they would only do those breeds, but apparently they are extremely over-populated breeds.  We made an appointment for the next week at a vet clinic in Los Feliz.

I dropped Bronson, who by now was about three and a half or four months old, at the vet’s office.  We had decided to get him chipped as well and neutered that.  I filled out the forms for the chipping.  When it came to what name to register him as, I decided up on the nickname I gave him.  Bronson Wigglebottom.  The receptionist looked at the paperwork, and glanced a smile at me.  Bronson would be ready to be picked up after four that afternoon.

Tamara called the vet on her lunch break to find out how Bronson was doing.  The receptionist asked “Oh, you mean Bronson WIGGLEBOTTOM?”  Tamara started laughing asking “Did he really chip him as that?”  “Yeah, he did.  He’s doing fine and sleeping right now.”

Tamara picked him up after work.  When she walked into the apartment, she was covered with scratches on her arms.  “What happened?” I asked.  Bronson apparently was so happy to see her that he joyously mauled her, trying to get to her face to lick her.

The year went by and Tamara bought a house with a large backyard in San Fernando.  But we knew after a month or so that we had to get another dog.  Bronson had been raised with Kitty, the roommate’s 13 year old dog who weighed in at about 13 pounds.  Bronson was mopey and what appeared to be depressed.

We had been taking him to the Mullholland Dog Park.  That is where he found Jules.  The first day, they played together and were inseparable.  Come to find out, Jules was up for adoption.  We arranged to meet the foster mother the next day for another play date.  We decided to adopt Jules as a companion/playmate for Bronson.  I always tell people that Bronson met his bitch at the dog park.

Bronson and Jules had become a pack.  They protected each other.  They were a team.  Where one went, the other followed.  When one had an appointment at Laurel Pet Hospital, the other one went, too.  When Bronson was not in the room, Jules would check on him.

But then there are the times that Bronson would explore the bathroom… and lock himself in.  Jules would be beside herself with anxiety.  A few times, Bronson locked himself in the bathroom in the morning.  We wouldn’t find him until we got home from work… at six.  Needless to say, there was immense joy (and tail wagging) over the rescue from the bathroom.

Bronson grew to be a handsome dog.  When we would take both Bronson and Jules to my folks place in Ventura County, they adopted their house as their second home and would protect it from anyone who they felt did not belong there. This caused a few problems, but when we knew when people would visit, we would put the dogs on their leashes.  That rectified that problem.

Bronson loved to explore… ANYTHING.  Coolers, backyards, open fields, drainage ditches, and empty houses.

Tamara bought the house right when the housing market tanked in 2008.  She took possession in late June of 2008.  While she was looking for a house, there had been several reports of realtors getting assaulted in empty houses they were showing.  I suggested that she take Bronson with her and send him in first.  The realtor was a bit leery of letting Tamara do this because Bronson was a pit bull.  But after letting him loose in an empty house the first time, our realtor realized that this was probably a good idea.  Not that Bronson was trained to attack or anything like that, but the presence of a 100 pound pit bull coming at you with jowls flapping is definitely a sight to make you reconsider any wicked actions that you may have at that moment.  Actually, my biggest fear was that Tamara and the realtor would walk into a house, go into the master bedroom and find the former homeowner hanging dead from the ceiling or in the closet.

Our life with Bronson was happy.  He made us laugh, ask “WTH did he just do,” and he protected us.

So fast forward to April of this year.  It was April 6.  Tamara had arranged a get together for my birthday… 13 or 14 people.  The dinner was nice.  Lots of laughing and drinking and good food.

This is beginning of the end.

We got ready for bed.  It was about 12:30am.  Bronson was on the bed, Tamara was brushing her teeth, and I was laying in bed.

Bronson flapped his ears, started foaming at the mouth, and collapsed, falling off the bed with a loud thump.  Tamara ran in to the bedroom.  Bronson was on his side on the floor, his legs moving as if he was running.  His jaw was clenched.  “He’s having a seizure.”  “What do we do?” Tamara asked.  “There’s nothing to do but let it run its course.”

That was the longest 30 seconds of my life.

Bronson came out of it slowly.  The seizure stopped, but he was dazed and confused as to what just happened.  It was the first of a few grand mal seizures he would have.

Tamara took him to Laurel Pet that night.  They said to keep an eye on him, and that, if the seizures get to be longer than three minutes we needed to worry.

Bronson had another grand mal seizure 17 hours later.  This was not good.

Over the next six weeks, he was put on phenobarbital.  That didn’t seem to work, it just made him dopey, lethargic, and not the dog that we knew.

In 6 weeks, he had 16 to 20 seizures, both petit mal and grand mal.

Fast Forward to Memorial Day. I had arranged to have a barbeque at my parents’ house for my oldest son who got his masters degree from CSUN, for my youngest son who would graduate a week later from College of the Canyons and transferring to UC Berkely, and for my daughter-in-law, who would also graduate from College of the Canyons, but transferring to CSUN.  Tamara and I decided to leave Bronson at Laurel Pet for an overnight medical observation.

The 48 hours prior to that were excruciating.  Bronson had lost all mobility in his legs and could barely lift his head.  Tamara could not lift him to take him outside.  It was like lifting a 100 pound sack of potatoes.  And when he did walk, he would only walk to the left.

We dropped him off at the vets in the morning and headed to my parents’ place.  It was a relief to not have to worry about Bronson for a day, though he was still in the back of our minds.

We left for home around 9:30 that night.  I called Laurel Pet to see how Bronson was doing.  Apparently he had three seizures.  Two lasted three minutes, the other lasted four minutes.  Both Tamara and I knew that this was bad.  I asked for the attending vet to give me a call.

A few minutes later, I got the call from the vet.  He remembered Bronson from a previous emergency visit.  He gave me the rundown of what was going on… but it was all in vet-speak.  I asked him to explain to me in plain English what was going on.  Then I asked the big question… “Is it time to put him down?”  The vet would not say yes or no.  I asked, off the record, if this was his dog, what would he do?  “The human in me would put him down, but the vet in me would want to try to fix him.”  I told him that I thought it was time to put him down, to end his suffering, and that we would be down in an hour to say our goodbyes.

We got home, unloaded our gear, told the roommate, Abe, what was going, and the three of us and Jules went to West Hollywood.

We got there and were ushered into a room where the vet talked to us for a few minutes, explaining what was going on with Bronson.  He suspected that it was a tumour on the right side of the brain that was causing the seizures.  Both Tamara and I knew there was nothing that could be done for him at that point.  We gave the okay to put Bronson down.

The vet tech came in and spread a towel on the exam table.  Then they brought in Bronson.  For the first time, throughout all this, he raised his head and seemed happy to see us.  Jules was estatic to see her mate again, wagging her tail and licking his face.

We said our goodbyes.  Tamara was only saying “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything for you.  I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you.”  Through the tears, we said our goodbyes.  Even Abe, a professional boxer, was crying.  For four or five minutes we gave him our last hugs, our last kisses.

I got the vet tech to take Jules away, and then told the vet “Let’s get this done.  It’s time”

A minute or so later the vet walked in.  He explained what would happen and that he would tell us when Bronson’s heart stopped.

The IV was already in Bronson’s front right leg.  I was cradling his head, looking into his eyes for one last time.  Tamara was opposite me hugging him and rubbing his belly.  Abe was next to me, petting Bronson’s right back leg.

The syringe went in… and Bronson’s eyes closed.  He was still breathing but he was asleep.  His eyes opened and rolled back into his head.  “His heart has stopped” the vet told us.  That was it.  15 seconds and Bronson’s pain was gone.  The vet then left us in the room with Bronson.

A few minutes later we left.  There was nothing left for us there.  Bronson was gone. Tamara had arranged to have Bronson cremated.  Cal Pet Crematory would come by in the morning and pick up the body and cremate.

We picked him up the following Saturday. He went from 100 pounds to about 8 pounds.  He was still a heavy dog.

Now I know this was not about food.  I know that this has nothing to do with the culinary world.

Maybe this was a glimpse into what I have been doing and why I haven’t written anything lately.  Honestly, dealing with a sick dog doesn’t make me very creative.  But Bronson was a unique dog.  His moaning in the middle of the night.  His tipping things over with his nose to get our attention.  His ability to hoover the kitchen floor whenever anyone was cooking.  His love for Stella Artois and the Fox and the Hounds Pub.  His snoring like Curly from the Three Stooges.

We miss you, Bronson.  You will be forever in our hearts.  You are unforgettable.

Summer is coming. Well, actually the weatherman says it’s already here.

So what does summer mean to you?  To those in school, it means two and a half months of freedom and possibly a summer job.   To the parents of those on their summer break from school, it might mean finding day care or summer camp for the kids.  Some may say that it means pool parties, or days at the beach, or a week’s vacation at destination’s unknown. Some say barbeques and time with friends and family.

Barbeque is the quintessential summer event.  On a day that is hitting triple digits, who wants to turn on the oven… let alone the stove top?  My Beloved One doesn’t, I can assure you.  So many things to barbeque – Shrimp on skewers.  Vegetables.  Chicken.  Pork.  Beef.  And, yes, even fruit.

When we think of barbeque, some of us can’t have a barbeque without with some ice-cold beers – domestic, import or micro-brew.  Doesn’t matter what kind, beer just goes well with barbeque.  So why not combine the two IN the barbeque?  This can be done, and with impressive results.

Some of you may have heard about Beer Can Chicken.  If not, it is one of the easiest things to do on the grill.  Like the infomercial says, you “set it and forget it”… well, forget it for about 30 minutes, then for another 40 minutes.

First thing I did was get the grill ready and cranked up to the highest setting.  I needed it to get really hot while I prepped the chicken.

I grabbed a whole chicken out of the freezer and left it in the refrigerator for a few days in a mixing bowl.  Why the mixing bowl?  Well, it’s not part of the recipe; I just didn’t want the chicken to leak all over the inside of the fridge.  After a few days it was thawed out.  I took it out of the fridge, emptied out the cavity of the neck and organ meats, and rinsed it out really well.

Why rinse it out?  There are two philosophies on this.  One says to rinse the inside and outside of the bird to get any nastiness off of it.  Rinsing out the inside ensures that you get all of the organ meats out of it, as well as any blood that may have settled inside.  The other thought is that the chicken will be cooked to the point that anything – bacteria such as salmonella – will be killed off in the roasting process.  Call me old fashioned, but I always rinse off the bird.  I can see both sides, but I always rinse.  Some habits are hard to break.

I grabbed my generic rub… the one I usually use for my 8-hour braised pork butt.  I dried the chicken, sprayed it with olive oil, and then rubbed on the rub.  The oil keeps the spice mixture on the bird.  I set the chicken in the same bowl that it sat in while thawing out, making sure the bowl was dry.  I didn’t want the rub to be washed off.

Next I grabbed a 24 oz. can of Modello beer.  It’s better than Corona, but not as good as Pacifico… in my opinion.  I poured out 8 oz. and set that aside.  I filled the can with one stick of butter (cut to fit through the hole in the can), two tablespoons of minced garlic, a couple of good squirts of Sriracha (probably three tablespoons), and three tablespoons of Old Bay Seasoning.  A few things about the Old Bay… be sure to use a funnel to pour it into the beer.  Also, be careful, because the salt in the Old Bay will cause the beer to foam up and overflow.  This is a natural reaction, so be sure to pour the Old Bay in the beer while the beer can is in the sink.

Once everything was in the beer can, I slid the chicken on top of it.  This may be a tricky thing to do if the backside of the chicken is smaller than the circumference of the can.   If this is the case, you may have to use some force and stretch the chicken out a bit.

Here’s a tip… Whether you are cooking the chicken on the grill or in the oven, place the can and the chicken on a sheet pan lined with aluminum foil.  Make sure the foil is about two inches bigger on all sides than the sheet pan.  The foil is useful for two reasons. 1) It will help with the clean up, and who doesn’t want help with that?; and, 2), when the chicken cooks, most of the drippings from inside the chicken will go into the beer can, but some will not, and those will be caught by the foil, which will, in turn, be used for the sauce.

By now, the gas grill had been going strong for about 15 minutes.  I carried the chicken and beer can to the grill and placed it in the middle of the grate, closed the lid to the grill, and lowered the heat to medium-low.  I let it go for about 30 minutes.  After 30 minutes, I checked the chicken.  My rub has brown sugar in it, and I wanted to make sure that I was getting a nice caramelization.  I was getting a good crust on the skin, and the aroma from the rub and the beer can… fagettahboutit. The colour was getting to where I wanted it, and, like I have said in earlier blogposts, colour is flavour.

I wanted to do grilled vegetables with the chicken, but all I had was mushrooms.  I grabbed some parsley, thyme, oregano, rosemary, garlic, salt, pepper, and some of the beer that I reserved from the can.  I tore off a couple of large squares of foil and put the mushrooms, herbs, salt and pepper in the middle.  I poured some of the beer in with the mushrooms and sealed up the foil.

After the first 30 minutes had passed, I cranked the heat up to medium-high/high heat.  I let this go for another forty minutes.  This is when I put the mushrooms on the grill.  After forty minutes, I checked the temperature of the chicken… 189 degrees.  I pulled the chicken off the grill and carried it into the kitchen… it was like carrying a wedding cake… precarious even though I was using both hands.  I pulled the chicken off of the beer can with a large pair of tongs, holding the beer can with a towel.  It should slide right off.  While the chicken was resting, I pulled the mushroom packet off of the grill.  Yes, even roasted chicken needs to rest for a few minutes.

But what about all the goodness in the 24 ounce Modello can?  I measured out ¼ cup of ketchup, a ¼ cup of molasses, and 1/8 of a cup of Worcestshire sauce.  Mixing these three ingredients together in a measuring cup, I added in couple of teaspoons of cornstarch.  I poured this into a saucepan big enough to hold the ketchup/molasses mixture and the can of beer that the chicken cooked on.  Then, I poured the contents of the beer can into the saucepan with the ketchup and molasses.  Remember that, within the beer can are butter, Old Bay, garlic, and Sriracha.  These, mixed with the ketchup and molasses, made your sauce.   All of this is stirred and mixed and brought to a boil.  As the sauce got hotter, it thickened.  This is what I wanted.  Not too thick, just a little.

The chicken was carved up.  Leg and thigh to MBO, and I took the breast.  The sauce was drizzled over the chicken, but not too much.  The chicken was good even without the sauce because of the rub and I didn’t want to take away from that.  MBO made a nice mixed green salad with tomato, dried cranberries, shredded carrot, and a parmesan dressing. The mushrooms came out nice, but I think next time I will add white wine in the pouch of tinfoil. The mushrooms were herbaceous and went really well with the chicken and the salad.

So that was my Sunday dinner.  What will yours be next Sunday?

Barbeque + beer = summer.   But please remember to drink responsibly.  I want you guys around for a while longer.  Enjoy your grills.  Enjoy your summer. And enjoy your families and friends.

And, don’t forget to…Eat. Drink. Laugh. Love.

All those people in the kitchen…

Here’s the scene… You are at your favourite restaurant or café.  The server has greeted you and is getting your drinks.  You can see the swinging door to the kitchen opening and closing with servers or food runners going to tables with armfuls of plates.  You get a quick peek into the kitchen each time the door swings open.

From that vantage point, I know it looks chaotic in there, but luckily, each chef knows what to do and what each is responsible for.

So who are all those people banging pots and sautee pans around, yelling at each other, calling to each other “How long that New York will take”; and “How far out the mash and hericot verts?”  Have you ever asked yourself those questions?

Let’s take it from the top…

Chef Auguste Escoffier, known as the father of modern cuisine, developed the modern day “kitchen brigade”.  Sounds very militaristic, doesn’t it?  But the kitchen must have a sense of discipline and order.   “Brigade” is a good word to describe a professional kitchen. Chef Escoffier was a French chef, restaurateur and culinary writer who updated traditional French cooking techniques and made them popular.  He is a legendary figure among chefs and gourmets; and is one of the most important leaders in the development of modern French cuisine.

Chef de cuisine / Executive Chef / Chef Manager / Head Chef / Master Chef

His is the main guy.  The head honcho.  The last word.  He develops the menu and manages the kitchen staff.  He is responsible for the inventory and ordering.  He is the one the makes the decision on how the food will be plated… how it will be presented to the guest.

Chef de cuisine is the traditional French term from which the English word chef is derived. Head chef is often used to designate someone with the same duties as an executive chef, but there is usually someone supervising a head chef.  This position will be making the larger executive decisions such as direction of menu, final authority in staff management decisions, etc. This is usually only found in chain/corporate.

Sous-chef

The Sous-Chef de cuisine (under-chef of the kitchen) is the second-in-command and directly assists of the Executive Chef.  This person may be responsible for scheduling the kitchen staff, or substituting when the head chef is off-duty. Also, he or she will fill in for or assist the Chef de Partie (line cook) when needed. This person is accountable for the kitchen’s inventory, cleanliness, organization, and the ongoing training of its entire staff. A sous-chef’s duties can also include carrying out the head chef’s directives, conducting line checks, and overseeing the timely rotation of all food product. Smaller operations may not have a sous-chef, while larger operations may have more than one.

Chef de parti

A chef de partie, also known as a “station chef” or “line cook,” is in charge of a particular area, or station, of production. In large kitchens, each Chef de partie might have several cooks or assistants. In most kitchens, however, the Chef de partie is the only worker in that department. Line cooks are often divided into a hierarchy of their own, starting with “first cook,” then “second cook,” and so on as needed.

Station-chef titles which are part of the brigade system include:

Saucier (Saute Chef) is repsonsible for all of the sauteed items and the sauces that go with them.  The person who has this position is usually the Lead Line Cook.

Poissonnier (Fish Chef) prepares all of the fish dishes as well as all of the fish butchering and portioning and the sauces that go with the fish.  Sometimes this station is combined with saute.

Rotisseur (Roast Chef) has the responsibility of the roasted and braised meats and the sauces that go with them.

Grillardin (Grill Chef) prepares all of the grilled foods, but is sometimes combined with rotisseur.

Friturier (Fry Chef) does all the frying in the kitchen.  From fries to croquettes to onioin rings, this guy does it.

Entremetier (Vegetable Chef) prepares all of the hot appetizers, and sometimes, the soups, vegetables, pastas, and other starches.

Potager (Soup Chef) makes all of the soups.

Legumier (Vegetable Chef) prepares all of the vegetables .  This can also be done by the entremier.

Tournant (Roundsman) fills in as needed on the different stations.  He/She is also called a swing cook.

Garde manger (Pantry Chef) does all of the salads, cold appetizers, pates, and charcuterie items.

Bucher (Butcher) does all of the butchering of meats, poultry, and sometimes fish.

Patissier (Pastry Chef) makes all of the baked goods like pastries, breads, cakes, and desserts.  In larger kitchens, the pastry chef will have his/her own crew

Commis (Chef) is a basic chef in larger kitchens who works under a chef de partie to learn the station’s responsibilities and operation. This may be a chef who has recently completed formal culinary training or is still undergoing training.

I know that this is a long and exhaustive list of people in a kitchen.  But keep in mind this would really only be found in very large scale kitchens. There are 13 people on this list.

In most kitchens today, you will find on each shift the Executive or Sous Chef, two or three line cooks depending how big the operation is, a pantry cook or two, and a dishwasher.  Five or six people to handle the dinner service.  For lunch you may find a couple of prep cooks, a line cook, a pantry cook, and a dishwasher, depending how busy it is.

Typically, from what I have seen, you won’t have a butcher in a restaurant.  In the high-end fine dining restaurants, yes, you will have one. 95% of the other restaurants will order the meats portioned from their meat purveyor or get the cut of meat and then portion it from there.

So, just like in the military, there is a hierarchy to the kitchen.  Lots of indians, but only one chief… or chef in this case. While there is always a lot going on in a kitchen, thanks to Chef Escoffier, having this brigade system in place allows amazing food to presented to restaurant guests time and time again

Until next time…

Eat. Drink. Laugh. Love.

Spring and Rack of Lamb…

Spring is almost here.

And when we here that word, we get different images in our heads as to what spring means to us.  Some of us think of the Easter Bunny, some think of “April showers bring May flowers”, others think of Spring Break, still other think of the great weather that we will probably have here in Southern California.

One of the first things that comes to my mind when I hear the word is lamb.  Spring lamb.  Rack of lamb.  Leg of lamb.   Any lamb.

There are many ways to cook lamb. You can roast it.  You can pan fry it.  You can put it on kebob skewers.  You can put it in a stew.  It is the meat used in Shepherd’s Pie. I haven’t seen at the Chinese takeaway, but I probably just missed it on the menu.

I love them all. But the “Cadillac” of the lamb is the rack.

Eight bones with an eye of lean meat.  It is elegant.  It is classy.  It is rich, as are the other cuts of lamb.

It is Spring.

I had a rack of lamb in the freezer.  Every time I opened the freezer door it stared at me.  It was begging to be cooked.  I could hear it say “French my bones.  Cover me with an herb crust.  Serve me with figs.”

Those damn voices in my head… hate it when they talk to me like that.

Backtrack two weeks…

As I mentioned in my little ditty about Nashville, we picked up some olive oils and a fig balsamic vinegar from our friend at Olivia Olive Oil (http://www.OliviaNashville.com… Yes, they will ship!).  I had already cracked open the fig balsamic, along with the Tuscan olive oil, for a salad earlier in the week.  And I was going to use the Fig Balsamic in the gastrique for the rack of lamb.

I thawed out the rack of lamb in cold running water, which took forever and a day, and thought about what else I was going to serve with it.  I finally decided on fingerling potatoes and spinach… and a gastrique.

“What is a gastrique?” you are asking.  A gastrique is a reduction of vinegar and sugar that can be infused with pretty much anything. You can use liquor, fresh fruits, dried fruits, or alliums (onions, garlic, shallots).  Usually you will see a gastrique with lamb, every so often with pork, not so much with beef.

So I decided that I would go for a fig gastrique.  I had dried mission figs in the cupboard.  I had no port, but I did have brandy.  I had sugar and I had fig balsamic vinegar from Olivia Olive Oil.  I had everything.  Except for the accompaniments… the sides.  Off to the store.  By the way, grocery shopping at 6:30 on a Sunday night is not the best time to go shopping. I spent most of the time in line.

First thing to go on the fire were the fingerling potatoes.  I sliced the in half lengthwise, put them in water and cranked up the heat.  I cooked them until they were almost done, as I was going to sauté them to finish them off. Now you are asking why I boiled the potatoes if I was going to sauté them anyway. Par boiling the potatoes saved me about 20 minutes of sauté time.

I started the gastrique by pouring sugar in a small sauce pan and melting it until it got to a nice caramel color.  I then added the vinegar and the brandy.  The sugar seized up, which I was expecting, so I let it simmer for a few minute to melt the sugar again.  When the sugar was melted again, I tossed in a sprig of rosemary, 2 sprigs of thyme, some orange zest, and dried figs.  After a few minutes I tasted the gastrique and seasoned with salt and pepper.

The spinach was in the sink soaking in water to get the sand out of it.  Do you ever do that?  You should always do that with your produce.   You never know what you may find in those bunches.

Now for the lamb.  I seasoned the rack with salt and pepper while the sauté pan was heating up.  Once the pan was hot, I put a good dose of olive oil in the pan.  It was smoking hot.  In went the rack to sear.

When I had good color on the lamb, I brought it out and on to a cutting board.

A few minutes later, the potatoes were done to my liking and strained.  The lamb went into a 425 degree oven for 9 minutes.

The potatoes were tossed in olive oil and salt and pepper and tossed into the same the same pan that the lamb was seared in.  This is how I was going to finish them off.  Saute them to get some good color on them and soak up anything the lamb left behind. The potatoes were going.

I grabbed the Dijon mustard and slathered that all over the lamb. Then I rolled the lamb in herbed breaded crumbs that I had left over from a pork roast I had made.  (The bread crumbs were panko bread crumbs, parsley, rosemary, thyme, oregano, pepper, parmesan, and olive oil that were put into a blender and blitzed.) It was a beautiful bright green and vibrant herbed coating for the lamb.  The whole rack was covered in the bread crumbs.  I set that aside until the potatoes were almost ready to be pulled of the fire.

I grabbed the spinach out of the water and let it drain.  I always forget how much sand and dirt is in spinach until I rinse it off. Into a large sauté pan for that with olive oil and salt and pepper.  That would take 6 or 7 minutes to cook.  The same amount of time to crisp up the herb crust on the lamb.  What a coincidence.

The lamb was in the oven.  The potatoes were done. The spinach was going.  The gastrique… oh, the gastrique.  Beautiful, syrupy, sweet, vinegary, and figgy, with a hint of citrus.  This would counter the richness of the lamb.  And that it did.

Everything was done.  The lamb was a medium rare.  The potatoes had gotten some good color on them. The spinach was sautéed and still had its shape.  The gastrique was waiting to be put on the lamb.

Square plates out.  Spinach in the middle.  Roasted potatoes on top of the spinach.  The rack of lamb had rested a few minutes, so it was time to cut it.  I decide on two two-bone portions that would sit atop the potatoes.  I interlocked the bones and they behaved and stayed in place.  With a drizzle of the gastrique on the lamb and around the plate, I was done.

The lamb was on the rich side, but it wasn’t gamey as it sometimes can be.  It was tender and pink in the middle… medium rare.  The gastrique complemented the lamb really well, adding the sweetness of the sugar, the tang of the vinegar, and the depth that the dried figs gave it, with a hint of citrus.

So that’s how I welcomed Spring this year.

I know it sounds complicated but it really isn’t.  It took me longer to write this than it did to cook everything.

What’s that? The recipe???  Well… gee, I don’t know.

Oh, okay…

Fig Gastrique

1/4 C  Olivia Olive Oil Balsamic fig vinegar                                                                      5 each  dried figs, rough chopped                                                                                    1/6 C brandy                                                                                                                       1/3 C sugar                                                                                                                           ½ t orange zest (optional)                                                                                                 3″ sprig rosemary                                                                                                                  2 3″ sprigs thyme                                                                                                                    Salt and pepper to taste

Place sugar in a small sauce pan. Put over medium heat and cook until it begins to caramelize. Add vinegar and brandy; be careful, it might splatter and it will seize up, don’t worry. Stir until sugar melts again.  Add orange zest, figs, rosemary, and thyme. Lower heat and simmer for 10 minutes, keeping an eye on it to make sure that it doesn’t burn.

Strain through a fine sieve and drizzle over pork or lamb.

Gastrique will thicken as it cools.

 

So try making a gastrique.  And eat some lamb.

Until next time…

Eat. Drink. Laugh. And love.

Nashville

The name of this city conjures specific thoughts, images and preconceived notions.  It did with me.

I will now say three words that no man wants to say out loud… I was wrong.

My Beloved One and I just got back from a six-day stay in Nashville, TN.  In those six days, most, if not all, of my thoughts and unfounded beliefs about Nashville were blown away.

Our friend, Christi moved to Franklin, Tennessee about four years ago.  Her goal was to start a boutique olive oil and balsamic vinegar store, Olivia Olive Oil (http://www.OliviaNashville.com).

Visiting Olivia Olive Oil you are in for a treat!  As the consummate business owner and hostess, Christi has designed her store so that you experience her oils and vinegars. My MBO and I sat down at her bar and were educated on what makes a true Extra Virgin Olive Oil and the health benefits.  We tried probably eight or nine olive oils and the same for the balsamic vinegars she carries.  She taught us about the acidity levels in olive oils and what makes the oil “virgin”, what to look for in an olive oil and how to sip it.  This was a lesson that will not be forgotten.

So we toured Nashville and the surrounding area for the remaining five days.  I was pleasantly surprised at what I saw.

As in all cities, there are neighborhoods.  One of the ones that we checked out is called East Nashville

East Nashville is an up and coming area of Nashville.  It is the “hipster” area of Nashville… kinda like the Los Feliz or Silverlake area of Los Angeles.

We made several stops on our walking tour of the area.  One of them, at Christi’s insistence, was La Paletas.  La Paletas is a popsicle store.  Okay, okay, what’s the big deal about a popsicle shop?  Since you ask, I will tell you.  Other than the fact that there was a line that wrapped around the inside of the store and out the door and around the building (which, by the way, is ALWAYS a good sign), they make ice cream and fruit popsicles daily.  Strawberry-Kiwi-Lime.  Hibiscus.  Mexican Chocolate with Chile.  Mexican Salted Caramel.  Peanut Butter.  Blackberry-Lime… just to name a few.  I had the Chocolate with chile.  It was like a Mexican hot chocolate with a pinch of cayenne mixed in, which is how I drink my Abuelita.  Blackberry-Lime was nice and refreshing.  Even dipped in chocolate (which is optional) it was still refreshing.  The chocolate was not heavy as it sometimes can be.  Delicious.

We ate our popsicles and enjoyed the surrounding area, walking around and checking out various stores.

We passed 1112 Woodland Street, when Michael, Christi’s boyfriend and our tour guide, exclaimed “Rumours! That’s the place I wanted to take you, Christi!”  The four of us walked inside and were greeted by the manager’s wife, Anita.  A group of Nashville investors had just bought the restaurant four weeks prior, but had kept everyone who worked there.  To me, that says that the food AND the service are up to par and that the new owners didn’t want to change anything.  Monty, the manager came out and greeted us.  Monty was friendly and shared that he had spent seven years in the Los Angeles area.  We talked a bit.  He apologized that the restaurant was not open yet. “If you come back in 20 minutes, we should be ready if you’d like some drinks at the bar.”  Twenty minutes later would be 4:30 and the sign said they opened at five.  The women talked amongst themselves and the guys talked to Monty.  He described the restaurant scene in Nashville, comparing it to Los Angeles.  Much more relaxed.  No screaming chefs.  Primary focus is on the food, not how tall it can be on a plate.  Michael networked and I asked questions.  We left to take a walk around and look at the surrounding area.

Twenty minutes later, we were back at Rumours East.

We were seated in the patio.  We ordered our drinks and talked about whether we would do a bunch of appetizers or entrees or a few appetizers and split entrees.  We decided to do the latter.  A bottle of wine came.  My beer came.  Our orders were placed.

Grilled olive bread with mission fig jam and fresh mozzarella.  Charcuterie of house made mortadella, lamb sausage, salami, carrot jam, and crustini.  Pork cheek meatballs.

Can I just tell you that the fig jam was amazing just on its own?  The mozzarella was creamy.  The olive bread light and crispy, but there was a chewiness to it which I liked.

Charcuterie… who doesn’t like a platter of meats?  Mortadella, if you haven’t heard of it before, is, for simplicity’s sake, a kind of bologna.  Bologna that has chunks of creamy fat and pistachios in it and has a little spice to it.  It is a very popular New Orleans staple.

The Salami was tasty with a good ratio of meat to fat.  A lot of time, salami can have way too much fat in it.  Not the case here.  There was a special surprise of carrot jam.  Have you ever heard of carrot jam?  Normally I would have used a marmalade, but the carrot jam worked much better than my marmalade would have.  It had the right amount of sweetness to contrast with the cured meats on the platter.

Pig’s cheek meatballs.  You don’t think about eating the cheeks, but there is some good eating there on the face.  It came with a sauce that, by looking at it, I could not identify.  It turned out to be a raisin-based sauce.  With a small drizzle of sauce on the plate, and yet so full of flavour.  And it was a flavour that went well with the pork.  But a lot of different fruits go well with pork.

We ended up getting a second order of the pig’s cheeks.  That’s how good they were.

Still a little on the peckish side, we ordered another appetizer.  This time it was the braised octopus with white beans and Spanish chorizo.  Apparently, the octopus is cured for two months in a brine.  Amazingly tender and the white beans and chorizo went so well with it.  So well that I don’t know which I liked better… the octopus or the white beans.  Then the chef came out.  Chef Hrant.  No, that’s not a typo.  Chef Hrant immediately recognized Christi from an olive oil demonstration from a previous event they both had participated in.  After he reminded him, she remembered… and another new business connection was made.  Chef talked to us for about ten minutes about the food, asking us what we ordered and how we liked it.  He got no complaints from us.  He then invited me to see his kitchen.  The “steam room” so to speak.

If a chef asks if you would like to see the kitchen, take him/her up on it.  It is a rare treat to see the guys (and gals) in the back in action.

Two ovens, eight burners, a fryer, a pantry station, a sous chef, a line cook, and dishwasher/pantry guy, and the chef.  That’s it for a 100 or so seat restaurant.  When I peeked in the kitchen, the orders were coming in and everyone was calm.  No shouting.  No cursing.  They were there to get the job done.  And they got the job done very well.

Rumours was worth the 4 hours we stayed.  And worth every penny.  Delicious food.  Gracious host.  Personable and talented chef.  What more do you want when you go out?

So that is just a snippet of our time in Nashville.  There are so many other stories to tell, like our visit to the Jack Daniels Distillery, our honky tonkin’ on Broadway in downtown Nashville, the Savory Spice Shop in Oldtown Franklin, our afternoon in Leiper’s Fork.  Maybe in another post.

And, until that post…

Eat. Drink. Laugh. And love

Eggplant

Eggplant.

Also known as aubergine.

That big dark purple thing in the produce section.

“What the heck do I do with that?”  Have you ever asked yourself that when you see it in the produce section of your local grocery store or at a farmer’s market?  I don’t blame you if you have.

Eggplant parmesan.  Babaganoush.  Mousaka.

From Italy to the Middle East to Greece to China.

Eggplant has been around for centuries, if not millennium.  The first recorded mention of eggplant was in a Chinese agricultural treatise from 544 CE.  We can only assume that the eggplant has been around for a while longer than 544 CE.

The Italians make eggplant parmesan.   Breaded and sautéed slices of eggplant with a tomato sauce and parmesan.  This southern Italian classic might be named after the cheese that tops it—but some Sicilians think the title comes from palmigiana, the Sicilian word for ”shutter”, describing the way the eggplant slices are often overlapped, just like the slats on a shutter.

Here is a classic recipe for eggplant parmesan…

1 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
1 28-oz. can crushed Italian tomatoes
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Flour
3 eggs
1 1/2 cups panko bread crumbs
1 large eggplant
12 fresh basil leaves, torn into pieces
1/4 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano
3/4 cup grated provolone

Preheat oven to 375°. Heat 1/4 cup olive oil and garlic in a medium saucepan over medium heat until you can start to smell the garlic, about 1 minute. Add tomatoes, season to taste with salt and pepper, and simmer, stirring, until sauce thickens.  This should take about 30 minutes.

While the sauce is cooking, grab three shallow bowls (pie pans would be good) place the flour in one, the eggs in another, and the bread crumbs in the third.  Add a pinch of salt and a pinch of pepper each into the flour and the bread crumbs.  Be sure to mix the salt and pepper well in the flour and the bread crumbs.

Peel and trim eggplant and slice lengthwise into 1/2” pieces. Dredge each slice first in the flour, then in the egg, then in the seasoned bread crumbs.

Heat remaining ⅛ cup oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat until oil is hot but not smoking. Add breaded eggplant slices to the hot oil and cook until golden on both sides and dark brown on the edges, 2-3 minutes per side.

Spread a thin layer of tomato sauce in the bottom of a large shallow ovenproof dish. Arrange eggplant in a single layer on top of tomato sauce. Spoon remaining sauce over eggplant. Scatter basil on top of sauce and sprinkle with parmigiano-reggiano, then provolone. Bake until sauce is bubbling and cheese is melted, about 20 minutes.

I know it sounds like a lot of work, but it isn’t.  It really is easy.

And, yes… it is vegetarian.  Well, lacto-vegetarian.

And here are a couple of tips to make it even easier…

1. When you dredge the eggplant into the flour, egg, and bread crumb, keep one hand only for the flour and breadcrumbs and the other for the beaten egg.  This will keep things a bit less messy and you won’t have gobs of the flour/egg/bread crumbs on the ends of your fingers.
2. Can you use a jarred tomato sauce?  Yeah, but this one is so much better.  And, you will know what went into it.  You can even add a splash of red wine to the sauce, or even some beef or chicken stock.

Okay… one more recipe.  We’re going Greek now.

Babagonoush is a roasted eggplant dip served with pita bread or lavash, which, in simple terms, is a Middle Eastern tortilla.

8 cloves garlic, unpeeled

2 medium eggplants

⅓ cup fresh lemon juice

¼ cup plus 2 tbsp. tahini (sesame paste)

2 tbsp. mayonnaise

1 tbsp. finely chopped parsley

1 tsp. ground cumin

1 tsp. paprika

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste.

Place garlic and eggplants on a foil lined baking sheet, and broil until tender and charred all over, about 10 minutes for garlic, and about 40 minutes for eggplant. Peel and seed eggplants.  In batches, add the roasted eggplant pulp, the roasted garlic, lemon juice, tahini, mayonnaise, 2 tsp. parsley, the cumin, paprika, and salt and pepper in to a food processor.  Pulse a few times, but not so much that it is a puree.  Place the babagonoush in a serving bowl and refrigerate.

Cut some pita bread into wedges, 6 to 8 pieces per pita, and serve with the babagonoush.

Easy-peasy.

So the next time your grocery shopping, grab an eggplant or two.

Until next time…

Eat. Drink, Laugh. And love.

Farmers’ Market… check ’em out!

WOW!!!

Can you believe the weather?  It’s not winter… it’s bordering on spring and summer right now.   No one is wearing a jacket or sweater or thermal underwear.  The beaches have been populated with sun worshippers.

AND… the summer produce season is still here.  Fruits and vegetables that are normally out of season in the late fall and early winter are still around.  Have you noticed that little anomaly in your grocer’s produce section?

But there are other benefits to this glorious weather we have been having… FARMERS MARKETS!!!

From the organized farmers markets through Los Angeles County that go on every day throughout the week to the roadside stands that you can stop at along Highway 126 through Piru, Fillmore, and Santa Paula, farmers markets are the way I like to do my shopping on a Sunday morning.

And why do I like farmers markets?  Several reasons.

They offer the freshest produce available.  Most of the items were picked the day before.  There was no stop at a refrigerated warehouse or a long haul on a semi or railcar.  They were probably picked the prior morning, packaged that afternoon, loaded onto the truck that night, and displayed at a booth the next morning.  The only way you can get it fresher is if you grew it yourself and picked it 30 seconds before eating it.

I also like farmers markets because they help the local farmer.  Growing up in Ventura County with its citrus groves and strawberry fields, I had the fortunate childhood of eating fresh produce all the time.  Very few things came out of a can in my childhood home.  (Thanks, mom!)  I also went to school with a lot of the kids whose parents were farmers, so I knew them personally.  A bad heat wave or an icicle- inducing freeze could ruin a farmer that year.

I also like the markets because there is always so many things to see and try out… food I have never had (or haven’t had in a looooong time).  For example, there is a guy at the Studio City market who sells mushrooms.  Not a big deal, until you see how many mushroom this guy has for sale.  He’s got mushrooms that taste like oysters, and mushrooms that taste like lobster… yeah, they really do taste like lobster.  Amazing selection.  You can find cheeses at farmers markets, meats, eggs, flowers, fruits and vegetables, jewelry, artwork, and even a minstrel or two.

In LA County there are dozens of farmers markets that go on every week.  From Hollywood (on Selma just east of Cahuenga) to Valencia (at College of the Canyons parking lot) to Van Nuys (on Victory) to Studio City (on Ventura Place, between Laurel Canyon and Ventura Blvd.)  to Westwood (on Kinross) to right off the 10 Freeway (on La Cienega and 18^th), there is always a farmers market near you.

So, take advantage of the great weather and take the family to a farmers market near you.  Take the kids and show them the vegetables don’t always come out of a can or a freezer.  Taste something new.  Pick up some artisan bread and fresh vegetables.

And support the local farmers.

Until next time…

Eat. Drink. Laugh. And love.

Partie cinq… Sauce Hollandaise

Or…

Part Five… the end.

Hollandaise… a necessity for eggs benedict.  Well, that and canadian bacon and English muffins.

There are two ways to make hollandaise.  They are the old way and the new way.  I prefer the new way, as this allows me to use a food processor and no stove.  The old way uses a whisk, strong forearms, and a double boiler.

A few things to remember when making hollandaise.

First, hollandaise is an emulsified sauce in which egg yolks not only serve as the emulsifier, but also as a thickening agent. The final thickness of your sauce will be determined by how much fat is emulsified in and to what degree the egg yolks are cooked. The more you cook the egg yolks, the thicker your hollandaise will be. However, the more you cook your egg yolks, the more chance you have of ending up with scrambled eggs instead of sauce.

Second, to prevent their eggs from scrambling, a lot of less experienced cooks will heat their egg yolks in a stainless steel bowl placed over a pot of gently simmering water (aka double boiler). The gentle heat of the steam is much more forgiving than a direct flame. With that said, let’s go over a couple guidelines.

Eggs start to curdle at 154 degrees.  The object is to heat your yolks to just under that… around 150 degrees.

An acid of some sort will help your eggs from coagulating.  If the acid is right in the hollandaise, the yolks will start to coagulate at around 190 degrees.  Ergo, the need for lemon juice or vinegar in the hollandaise.

Some people use clarified butter, and other use whole butter.  Clarified butter is butter that has been cooked over low heat to separate the milk solids from the fat.  It is the fat that we want for this recipe.  But, for those who use whole butter, you will have to use more butter due to the water content of whole butter.

The fresher the egg, the easier it will be to make hollandaise.

If you want to – or have to – make hollandaise the old school way, use a round bottomed mixing bowl.  Make sure it is stainless steel.  If it is aluminum, the metal will react with the acid and change the color of the hollandaise… not a good thing.

When adding your butter to the egg yolks, make sure that the butter is not hot.  It can be warm, but not hot.  If it is too hot, it will cook the yolks… bad thing… bad bad thing.

Add the butter slowly.  I can not stress this enough: The slower you pour the butter fat, the better the emulsion will be.

Now that I have scared the pants off of you, here is a classic recipe…

1 pound of clarified butter

1/8 teaspoon of ground pepper

1/8 kosher salt

1 ½ ounces white wine… that would be a shot and a half

1 ounce of cold water

6 egg yolks

1 to 2 tablespoons of lemon juice

Cayenne pepper or Tobasco sauce to taste

Grab you food processor and put the yolks in.  Blitz the yolks with a few pulses.  Add a pinch of pepper and an ounce of white wine while the machine is running.  Shoot a couple of shots of Tobasco in the yolk mixture.

Grab the clarified butter.  Make sure it is warm, but not hot.  Turn on the processor and SLOWLY drizzle the butter into the yolks.  Let the butter get incorporated into the yolks and start drizzling again.  Continue to do this until all the butter is incorporated.  The sauce should be velvety and smooth.

Check for seasoning.  If it needs salt or pepper or more Tobasco or more lemon or white wine, add it while the processor is running.

If, by chance, the hollandaise starts to break, add a few chips of ice.  The reason that the butter separated is because it got too hot.  The ice will cool it down and the butter should be able to be emulsified back into the yolks.

If the yolks curdle, strain the mixture through a fine sieve and throw away the curdled bits.  Keep the strained sauce warm.  Add one more yolk and a tablespoon of warm water to a new stainless steel mixing bowl, whisk to emulsify, and SLOWLY add the strained hollandaise to the yolk and water mixture.

That’s it.  I know it can seem like a daunting task, but it is worth the time that it will take to make this rich buttery sauce.

Now that you have your hollandaise ready to go, what next?

Spoon it over a couple of poached eggs. .. over asparagus… over broccoli… over poultry.

And speaking of meat… béarnaise sauce  is a derivative of hollandaise.  The addition of 1 ½ tablespoons each of chopped fresh tarragon and parsley will turn hollandaise into béarnaise sauce.  Spoon this over a steak… nothing better.  Well maybe there is, but this is pretty damn good.

But when you get right down to it, hollandaise is a really fancy mayonnaise.  Think about it… Mayonaise is eggs and fat, be it vegetable oil or olive oil, salt and white pepper, and a little dry mustard.  In fact, if you keep emulsifying butter into the hollandaise sauce, you will end up with a very thick and buttery mayonnaise.

I think offering hollandaise for asparagus sounds a lot more appetizing than offering a scoop of mayonnaise for asparagus.

I may have to try that for a sandwich.  Hmmm…

So that’s it.  All five Mother Sauces for you, as well as some recipes.

Enjoy these sauces.  Play with them.  Experiment with them.  Make your own sauce.

Sorry it has been awhile, but until next time…

Eat, drink, laugh, and love.

Le fin…

Et partie quatre…

Espagnole sauce is a beef based sauce.  As with the other mother sauces, this one is very easy to make and full of flavor.  But the fullness of flavor, as with everything else in cooking, depends on the ingredients.

Do you have to make beef stock at home for this recipe?  No.  You can use a store bought beef stock if you chose.  There are some good store bought stocks out there, but there are a few things to remember when buying beef stock.

First and foremost, read the label.  If the first ingredient listed is salt, then stay away from it.  Ingredient labels are listed by percentage of quantity, meaning that the first ingredient is the most in that product.  If beef is not listed first, then move on to the next item.

Second, I recommend using the low- or no-sodium stocks.  I like to control the salt content of my sauces.  Sometimes I don’t always get it right, but, Lord knows, I try.

Espagnole consists of carrot, celery, and onion (aka mir poix), tomato paste, flour, bouquet garni, and beef stock.

You’re asking what is a bouquet garni?  A bouquet garni , in simple terms, is a collection of fresh herbs that are tied together and thrown into a stock, sauce, or soup.  Typical items in the bouquet garni  are parsley, rosemary, thyme, and bay leaves.  These can also be put in a sachel along peppercorns, and other spices.

Cut up a carrot, 2 stocks of celery, and a medium onion.  These can be rough chopped to a thickness of ½”.  Put them in a hot stock pot with olive oil in it and sauté them until they get some color on them.  Remember the old adage… color equals flavor.  When the mir poix has sufficient color, add a table spoon or so of tomato paste.  Stir it in well to coat the vegetables.  When the tomato paste starts to get dark red, add a tablespoon or so of flour and stir that in to coat everything.  Let this cook until it gets to be a dark brown, but be careful not to burn the flour or tomato paste.  You may have to turn down the heat to keep the flour from burning.  The flour and the olive oil will give you a roux.

Once the roux is a medium to dark brown, add the beef stock to the pot.  You’ll need about a half gallon of stock… or two boxes of store bought stock.  Throw in your herbs and stir everything together.  The herbs don’t have to be tied together or put in a sachel, as the sauce will be strained later on in the process.  What herbs should you put into the pot? Definitely  parsley, thyme, rosemary, peppercorns, and bay leaf

Bring the stock up to a boil and then lower to a simmer.  Let this go for about an hour.   Check for seasoning and add what is needed.

When you get the nape, your sauce is done.  Strain the sauce through a fine sieve.

From here, the directions are endless.  But let’s go to demi glace.

Demi glace (deh-mee glahss) is one part espagnole sauce and one part veal stock and reduced by half.  This is used in a French onion soup, and can also be used as a sauce for steaks.

Now let’s turn to sauce Robert.  Dice 4 ounces of white onion and sweat them in some butter.  When I say “sweat them” I don’t mean interrogate them or harass them.  Sweating is when something, in this case onion, is cooked at a medium low heat until the item is soft and translucent.  This takes anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes.

Pour about a cup of white wine into the pan when the onions are done.  This will deglaze the pan, getting all the flavors off the bottom of the pan and into the sauce.  Reduce the wine by 2/3.  Add a quart of demi glace and simmer for about 20 minutes.

Strain this through a fine sieve and add two teaspoons of dry mustard, a pinch of sugar, and juice from half a lemon, probably 1½ teaspoons.  Add salt and pepper if needed.

Sauce Robert goes really well with grilled pork or grilled steaks.

Next week… HOLLANDAISE!!!!

Until then…

Eat, drink, laugh, and love.