An Open Letter to the Bitch at Table 15

There’s no congenial way of saying this so I’ll just come out with it.....but I hope you die of dehydration brought about by venereal disease.  I know, I know, I know.  You’re probably saying, “Oh, you don’t REALLY mean that.  You’re being hyperbolic and exaggerating so that you can put this on your food blog that you haven’t touched in three years.” 

But no, I really do mean it.  Your visit to my normally delightful little restaurant has been nothing short of a mini-holocaust for the soul....but without the satisfaction of a History Channel documentary. 

First, you paraded in waving a coupon around (it expires today) which historically has been a ‘get out of tipping free’ card.  But I explained to the staff that this was a cynical way of viewing a first time customer, and so we got down to the business of pleasing you. 

And that’s when the trouble started. 

Next, you complained loudly to your server that the wine list didn’t include your favorite Costco swill in a cardboard box (I googled it).  Luckily, for all of us, you managed to find a bottle - the cheapest bottle - which would pair nicely with the food you had no idea you were going to order and have never tasted before. But more on that later. 

***********************DISCLAIMER**************************Now at this point, ladies and germs- I’d like to point out that I, in no way shape or form, have an issue with Costco swill.  I love that shit.  Gallons of sub-par booze for rock bottom prices.  It’s really the only way that a human man of my....oh lets call it grandeur (although I think we can all agree ‘fatassery’ is probably a more apt term for my lapse in judgement) can get shit-faced for $.06 a brain cell.  Most other alcohols of repute do the job for $.09 and who can afford that in THIS economy?

*********************END DISCLAIMER******************

 After gazing at the menu you made a face.  Not a nasty face...more like the face that a dog makes when you decide to teach it algebra. 

“What’s ‘Aioli’?” you asked like a dog who’s being taught algebra.
“It’s basically another word for mayonnaise” your server responded.
“Mmmm.  Sounds weird.  I don’t think I’ll have that.” 


Good to know. You won’t be having MOST of the menu this evening. The question I think we’re all chomping at the bit to hear is what you WILL be having tonight. 

“Where’s the kid’s menu?”

Oh fuck....that’s right. I forgot. You brought your fucking kid. I cannot compliment enough the logic of bringing a child to a restaurant (where actual people are trying to eat and gain a moment of respite THEIR horrible children) where food is served and bringing along your own food.  And the logic of why that food is Cheerios.  WHY IS IT ALWAYS FUCKING CHEERIOS?!?!?!  Is little Timmy not equally entertained and nourished by a food that doesn’t come in a million pieces?  Why not give little Rosilyyn (yes, it’s spelled that way because people don’t think properly) a giant bowl of rice or orzo (shit, I forgot you don’t know what food is. Orzo is a little pasta that kinda looks like rice....ah, forget it).  Cheerios are the legos of the food world. Everyone is having a great time until they step on one.  But your horrible progeny aside, let’s get back to why you suck.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  The kid’s menu.   We don’t have one.  I’m sorry, but we simply don’t have one.  Why not?  Because we have kids in here about as often as often as Michael J Fox has really good penmanship.  But here’s a little industry secret: almost all restaurants have a bag of chicken fingers in the freezer for exactly this occasion.  And no, it’s not because they care about your little fuck trophy.  It’s because we don’t want to hear you bitch about how little Jayden can’t go a single meal in public without having something you’ve never served them at home once ever.  And no, we don’t have mac and cheese.  Unless we do...but it’s not the kind little Michaelangelina will enjoy because it doesn’t come out of a box, glow in the dark, is shaped like their favorite cartoon character, and has ingredients one can find in nature. 

Finally....you've ordered your food.  You ordered the house specialty.  Awesome!  You’re gonna LOVE it.  It’s dish we’ve really worked and focused on to iron out all the kinks in flavor and service.  It makes money, it tastes great, it’s reasonably priced and really shows off the talents of the kitchen and what we can do with the raw materials presented to us. We’re so excited to serve it to you and maybe when you’re done you can tell us....

Eh?
What’s that? 


You don’t want any of that stuff on it?

Oh....and you want us to make sure it’s well done.
No pink.
Opaque.
WELL done.

Dry.
Burned.
Ruined.

Dead.

Gotcha.

Look, lady....I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but I had to physically restrain Jose from coming out there with a knife and asking you what the fuck your problem is.  You see, Jose is the one who created the pineapple chutney that is kinda the binder of the whole dish you just ordered.  He makes each batch lovingly, babysitting the pot which slowly renders astringent pineapple, abrasive peppers, sulphuric onions and a melange of spices and seasonings into a rich, velvety, sweet but not cloying, spicy but balanced, smooth but with texture....sauce that, frankly, ties the whole thing together.  

You ordered it on the side.  Where you can taste it with zero context and decide it doesn’t fit your expectation of what this thing that you’ve never heard of before should taste like.  Your server tells me you took a little bite of it and decided it was ‘too ethnic‘ for your tastes and didn’t touch it after that.

Not only that, but you had a couple of suggestions about what we COULD put on it to make a bit more palatable to you. 

“ I think this would be good with some Ranch!....Ooooh!  Or Dorothy Lynch!!” you said like a dog who's failed his algebra test but doesn't realize it.

“I just LOVE Asparagus spears!  Why don’t you guys serve Asparagus spears!?!”

Your server told you it was just the chef’s choice.  But the real reason is because it’s January and only an idiot would ask for Asparagus.

     

Now where’s your date in all this?  Where IS that guy?  What’s HE doing?  He’s sitting there.  Having ordered his food exactly as it comes, enjoying it with the same abandon as he enjoys a night to himself when you’ve decided to leave town.  So overwhelmed with the ecstasy of his food that he’s having a hard time keeping his hand from shaking while he simultaneously wipes his sweat from his brow, Instagrams the shit out of this meal, and hides his ever growing erection.  That’s who you should be.  You should be the person who....for lack of a better word.....TRUSTS. 

Who hurt you?  Why do you have to hurt others with your fuckery?

In all honesty, I’ve stopped caring.  I’m already outside having a cigarette and joking with Jose.  It’s only been 8 minutes since you got your entree and we’ve already written half the jokes for this blog.

We’re now moving on to what happened in your childhood to make you behave in the manner you have tonight. 

In conclusion, I would invite you to disappear.  Disappear in the same way that the only black person in a horror movie disappears.  Disappear in the same way that a parent in a Disney film disappears.  Disappear in the same way that a minor female character disappears in American Psycho.

Just disappear. 

Hugs and Kisses,
Chef Rob

The Planned Parenthood to Your Self-Inflicted Culinary Abortion

Confit and Loathing in Omaha (the conclusion to the Duck Confit Chronicles as told in the style of Hunter S. Thompson)

3am.  Omaha.

The effects of the evening's festivities are beginning to recede and reality is slowly encroaching.  Once upon a time (a lifetime ago it seems) they flocked to me like motorists on a stretch of highway where a horrific accident has taken place.  Necks cranked to gaze at the heaping wreckage of their own sobriety.  Goddamn vultures choking down huge wet clumps of their own willpower, squawking at me like Tea Partiers at a Glenn Beck rally.  Where once there were my comrades, there is just strewn-about carnage.  Casualties of a night of substance abuse, and too much time between visitations.  The dizzying highs now replaced by a sinking feeling that I've been neglecting something for far too long....and the blog reaper has come to collect his due.  Once filled with the warmth of kinship and home, I look at the collection of empty bottles and vials perched precariously on the counter top and can't bring myself to make the cliched metaphor. Where there was once the sound of laughter and bawdy jokes spat out at the tops of lungs at a machine gun pace, there is only the sound of cicadas outside in the god-forsaken heat.  The heat....God is playing some sort of joke on us, I just know it.

No, it's 3am and my mind is beginning to clear.  I hate this.  Nothing to do now, I thought, but write as the lines and edges become steadily and irrepressibly more contrasted.  No....nothing to do now but write.

And eat.

My god, I'm hungry.  I was able to stave off the dreaded beast while in the throes of debauchery.  But now that the hedonistic fires of excess have smoldered into ash, it returns like a vengeful shark with the scent of human blood hibernating in it's nostrils.  I look in the fridge.  It's a barren wasteland of derelict to-go boxes and condiments.  But there, beyond the 3-day-old Lo Mein and and cardboard box of pizza crust I see it.  Shimmering like a mirage to a man dying of thirst.  My duck confit.

"You magnificent bastard" I couldn't help but mutter.

I pulled it forward and looked at the label.  Scrawled in primitive caveman writing: 'Open on 3-17.'  My god.  Had it been that long? Had I forgotten?  Was it still even good?  I pried off the lid to expose a landscape of pillowy fat, as unblemished as an airbrushed 50's centerfold.  The smell conjured up a million sleepless nights in Paris and the hint of sweet and sour decadence was enough to make my head reel.  They say war is hell.  But there's nothing worse than a man in the throes of a confit addiction with nothing to knock that horrid monkey off his back.  Luckily for me, that wasn't a concern of mine.  Here it was.  My prize.  My desire.  My duck.

After a few minutes in a hot water bath it was ready to go into the pan.  With a great sputtering of duck fat like a radio set to a channel that doesn't exist,  like a madman's thoughts, I set about my work. Meticulously browning one side and then the next; a mad scientist scurrying about with the creation of life stopping only to bellow at the top of his lungs "It's ALIVE!!"

Botulinum Clostridium is the little beastie responsible for what's commonly known as Botulism poisoning.  This tenacious little bastard loves airless environments where it waits, poised to infect the first hapless fucker who comes along.  Exactly the environment created by the production of duck confit.  Botulism is a neurotoxin, the first effects of which are a dryness in the mouth.  Followed by a difficulty in swallowing and speaking....often accompanied by a characteristic drooping of the eyelids indicating the toxin has done it's nasty work destroying the inner musculature. Next the extremities become paralyzed until finally the victim finds the muscles responsible for breathing becoming infected.  When caught early, months of recovery are needed often requiring physical therapy.  Death is the result in most untreated cases.  So why would anyone subject themselves to this sort of risk for the simple act of eating duck legs?  

That's a question only asked by those who have never had duck confit.

I wolfed down every morsel while my knife looked on, useless.  With nothing left but a pile of bones and a guilty conscience (mostly because of how little guilt I felt over the death of several ducks for my own carnal delight), I retired to bed.  Full.  Sober.  Unrepentant.

That night I 
 dreamt of large insects terrorizing small villages.  I awoke to the green light of morning pouring into my bedroom windows.  Head pounding I surveyed the damage.  It was for lack of a better word extensive.  But nothing a good wrecking crew and paper towel or two couldn't fix.  As I cleaned up the glasses and not-so-vivid memories of the previous night's events I caught a glance of the derelict jar where my duck confit once lived.  Empty.  I'd almost forgotten I'd had it.  Or had I?  Had it been a dream?  Was I dead?

No time for that, I thought as I poured myself a glass of scotch.

Rome (if you want to)

Today's Specials: Roulade of Nostalgia Garnished with an aspic of a Lapse in Reason (momentarily)

Set to the tune of The Decemberist's "The Sporting Life"

So here's a fun little story:

Once upon a lifetime ago, your friend and humble narrator was married.

Right? I know.

So anyway....

We were traipsing around Rome as kids are wont to do, and my good lady wife (To protect her identity we'll henceforth refer to her as 'That Bitch Who Took Half My Stuff' – that's not her real name) and I decided one day that we were gonna visit the Catacombs. You know, where they keep the historical dead people which, for some reason, tourists are just so jazzed about looking at.

Now, we had one of those handy-dandy little tourism guides with very detailed maps of the city (a must if you're visiting, btw—hell, probably a good idea even if you live there). And on said map it was very clear that the Catacombs were a small distance away from the southernmost Metro stop. Then it'd be a short jaunt along the Via Appia and take a right at the dead folks. According to the map it was just an inch and a half! We figured if we got an early enough start (we were up at 9am...it being our vacation and all), we could make it there and back to have a late lunch. So once we got off the last Metro station, we walked. No problem, right?

Well....

It turns out that once you got out of the city limits, the map was no longer drawn to scale...

yeah

So 2pm rolls around, and we decide...'Hey...maybe we don't know where the fuck we're going'. So we ask for directions. Let it never be said that your food-blogging friend fell into the man-cliche of not asking for directions. In Italian no less. Well...in an Italian accent. It turns out that speaking English really slowly, like you would to a dog, doesn't go over well with those people. They like it if you...you know, try to speak the language that has been around for a millennia. So I did what I could: “Scuse...quando*....Catacombs?” But in a Brooklyn-Italian accent (I even did that thing with my hand like you're supposed to when speaking Italian). We found out that, in fact, we were only about half way there....

dammit

Now, I look over at my lovely That Bitch Who Took Half My Stuff and I can tell she's disheartened.....and also pretty hungry. We just knew each other like that...where a simple shift in her shoulders or a twitch in her mouth would tell me everything. Plus, she said “I'm disheartened and pretty hungry” so...

**Ok, gang. I can tell by your expressions that some of you are a little uncomfortable by me referring to my ex as That Bitch Who Took Half of My Stuff. At least those of you who aren't snickering each time. Well, rest assured that it's all in fun. She and I have a very good friendship and we speak (nicely) almost daily. She's a great person. She's probably giggling at the 'nickname' as we speak. Well....at least I hope so.**

So That Bitch and I do a little more walking (at this point, we're in the middle of nowhere so it's not like there's a restaurant on the corner) we stumble upon this short gravel road. There's a gate (it's open) and a path leading to a villa-esque restaurant (also open). The sign above the gate read: Hostaria Antica Roma.

Is it any good? Is it expensive? We'd been advised that the places on main tourist thoroughfares should be viewed with skepticism....and we were on one of the oldest and most celebrated roads in Italy (just in the middle-of-nowhere part of it). But at that point we were hungry enough to put anything in our mouths....and yes, you can read that however you want.

So we walk into the little gated courtyard....past the obligatory statuary, past the lush palm and citrus trees, past the Harley parked on the sidewalk, past....wait....WHAT!?!? 

We entered through two glass-paned front doors and were met by a kindly old gentleman who beckoned us into the dining room. 

this is the guy

 The walls are covered in photos of famous people. Actors (I guess DeNiro ate there while he was fattening up for his role in Raging Bull), all sorts of politicians and dignitaries, musicians and John Belushi. 

that's right folks.  the only thing prosthetic in 'after' pic is his nose

 We were sat a lavishly set two-top and handed a menu. Oh, little travel note: the 'classiness' of a menu being written in Italian means less in Italy.
After a short wait a bespectacled, goateed guy bounds up the stairs. He's wearing Harley Davidson suspenders with flames on them and a matching red apron. That's his hog outside...I just know it. It's Paolo and he's maybe one of the most enthusiastic people on the planet. He asks us how were doing and we relate to him the harrowing experience of how we came to be there. He's accommodating...he's fun...he's so very Italian. And not one of those scary ones. He brings us our water and our bread and a GIANT binder FULL of all the press clippings he's collected about the joint. Turns out he's not only our waiter, but the chef as well....and I think part owner(?) so he's very enthusiastic about his place. Frankly, it was difficult to not become enthused just by being around him. According to the binder...a lot of other people are enthusiastic about it, too. There are reviews and clippings from all over the world in every language imaginable (side note: even though there was an Ethiopian review, I'd be reluctant to trust a restaurant review from someone who hails from a place where they don't have food....just sayin).  

That's when we notice the holes....  

What are those, you ask? 


 I'm glad you did. 


 Turns out, that Hostaria Antica Roma is built upon actual Roman ruins. And not just ANY Roman ruins, as Paolo explained to us, but a columbarium (room for housing cremation urns) for the ashes of the liberti (freed slaves) of Caesar Augustus himself.  Each one of those holes once contained an urn filled with the cremated remains of the freed slaves of Augustus and they were everywhere.

Holy shit! We'd inadvertantly stumbled upon not only one of the oldest working restaurants in Rome, but also one built into a bona fide Roman ruin. And all because I have issues with spatial relation.

Still reeling from the revelation, we looked at each other, dumbfounded. Paolo asked if we were ready to order.

Oh, yeah...we were hungry. That's why we came in here.
I'm afraid I don't remember what That Bitch had, but I ordered Fettucine alla Alstice (Fettucine in a Lobster Tomato Sauce). Wait a second...

Yeah, ok, here we go.  According to the receipt (yeah, I saved it....I knew I'd want to tell this story someday) we ordered two waters (still), two orders of bread, one 'Primi Piatti' (main course – mine) and scrawled in all caps, simply the word 'CAPRESE' so I'm guessing that's what she ordered. And a dessert, which if I remember correctly, was Tiramisu (That Bitch liked it).

So all said and done, a great meal in an historic location with a great waiter in great company makes for a great story. All for the low price of 33 euros including tip.
Buon lavoro, tutti!

Paolo thanked us and sent us on our way. But not before giving us a poster of what appears to be a 17^th century drawing of the first excavation of the site. Also, a friendly direct to the bus stop located a block and a half away which would take us directly to the Catacombs with the advisory that they're closed between the hours of 2 and 5 daily. So if we wanted to see some dead shit, we were gonna have to wait. We decided we'd had enough of this particular adventure and took the bus in the opposite direction...back to the city. It took about 20 mins to get there (we'd been walking for hours). After taking the Metro back to our Hotel, we napped and then woke up for some night life. The day had been exhausting but SO worth it.


We never did make it to the Catacombs, though...




I framed that poster and it is hanging on the wall of the very room in which I'm writing this.

Ciao, Braisers.  Coming soon....we make bacon!




*'Quando' means when, jackass