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

Pudding for a Day, King for a Lifetime (a word on friendship)

Set to the tune of Primus' "Pudding Time"


As the calendar slowly and methodically creeps towards a day that will mark the 32nd year of my presence on this planet, I ponder the vast intricacies of life.  I search for conclusion....I test my meddle against unfounded fears and to the heights of gorgeousness and gorgeosity.  I've come to a conclusion...and there's no possible way to deny it at this point, so why put up the pretense?  The conclusion is this:

A lot of my friends are kinda douchebags.

I know what you're thinking. Wait, YOU'RE calling someone a douchebag?  Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?

Yeah, I know, right?  but here's the thing: we can spot our own...also, you're a racist (it's like the pot calling the kettle African American).  But that's why I like em, I 'spose.  Anyway, when my foul-mouthed, abrasive, and especially douchey semi-acquaintance Clint sent the public request to contribute to his pudding review blog (coincidentally called Puddingreviews.com), well....I knew I had to lend a hand.  If for no other reason than I would get a chance to call him a douchebag publicly and, more than likely, he'd probably publish it.

Now, I've never really been a pudding connoisseur, so I was gonna have to take a crash course.  To the supermarket!!

Mercy Christmas! There were a lot of fuckin' puddings there.  Spanning the flavor rainbow like a promiscuous Skittle.  Apple Custard Pie, Pumpkin Spice, Flan, Creme Brulee, Dulce De Leche, Chocolate, Dark Chocolate, Double Chocolate, Double Dark Chocolate, Chocolate Swirl, Cinnamon Roll, Ice Cream, Strawberry Cheesecake, and even one that changed colors as you made it!

Ho.

Lee.

Shit.

This man does not love you

But there was a problem.  As I pulled one box of Gell-Oh (fuck em, if they ain't paying me, I ain't saying their name) after another, I noticed that there were a lot of ingredients listed that weren't real food.  Do YOU have any idea what Adipic Acid is?  What about Xylitol, Acesulfame Potassium, Disodium Phosphate, Fumaric Acid, Phenylan, or Maltodextrine? Not to mention Red #40, Blues #1 & 2, and Yellows #5 & 6.  And just to make sure there's no question about it, something called "Artificial Flavors."  

I've been looking after my health a little bit lately in an effort to shed some unwanted poundage, and one of the rules I made for myself was that I wouldn't put anything but actual food in my mouth....and unpronounceable pudding chemicals didn't really qualify.  I suppose I could have gone with an organic pudding mix from Whole Foods, but who needs to spend $30 bucks on pudding and have to deal with the hipsters with neck tattoos and an affinity for the Indigo Girls?

THE SITUATION:

No.  I was gonna have to make my own pudding.  Here's the problem, though....I'd never done it before.  Custard, sure, pudding no.  So, time to hit the books.  No, this isn't necessary, but I wanted a good sample group of various puddings.  Turns out, in the average pudding....there's only about 5 ingredients, all recognizable.  The most direct and (seeming to me) versatile recipe came from my good ol dogeared and stained copy of "The Joy Of Cooking."  It read thusly:

THE RECIPE:

Vanilla Pudding

makes 4 servings

1/4 C sugar

3 Tbl Cornstarch

1/8 Tsp salt

1/4 C Milk, reserved

1 3/4 C Milk

1 Large Egg, beaten in separate bowl

1/2 Tsp Vanilla

1. Mix sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a heavy sauce pan (not over heat).  Whisk in 1/4 Cup milk, making a smooth, runny paste.  Then add the rest of the milk.

2. Place pan over medium heat and stir constantly until the mixture just comes to a simmer.  Remove from heat and stir 1/2 Cup of the milk mixture slowly into the bowl with the beaten egg.  Stir this mixture back into the pan and bring to a boil for 1 minute, stirring constantly.

3. Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla.  Pour the pudding into your serving bowl and refrigerate for 2-4 hours.  To keep a skin from forming, take a piece of plastic wrap, cover, and press it into the pudding before refrigerating.

THE REVIEW:
Ok...so it's not as easy as going to the store and buying colored chemical goop in a non-biodegradable coffin.  But here's the thing, you can actually make MORE of the above and put them in little cups.  Reusable ones....hell, bowls full of the stuff can easily be made.  Then you get all of the joy of opening up pudding (let's face it, it's like a mini-Christmas) but you actually KNOW what's in it and can pronounce most of the ingredients properly on the first try.

So how did it taste?

Well....like vanilla pudding.  Like damn fine vanilla pudding.  The vanilla is the star here, so I would def go with as high quality vanilla as you can find.  This may be the time to pull out the fancy stuff you bought for big bucks and were "saving for a special occasion." I added an extra element also:  Meringue.  And then I torched it to give it a nice toasted marshmallow overtone to the whole thing.  After all this is Puddingreviews.com....not rateyourdessert.net, or puddingratings.com, or even Reviewsofpudding.org.  No, no....this is PUDDINGREVIEWS.COM and as such, the dish demanded class!  Meringue it was.  Also I discovered that you can sprinkle some sugar on top of the thing and torch it to make a very no fuss Creme Brulee.  Classy as shit, right here.

So give it a go.  Make big ol' batch of pudding and share it with your douchebag friends.

I Wanna Duck You Like an Animal (a brief affair in which i learn to love)

Today's Specials:  Roulade of Gratitude, Raised Expectations, & Pride in a Raspberry and Scotch sauce.  Garnished with a Penchant for Duck Fat.

Set to the tune of Ween's "I Can't Put My Finger On It"

Gang.

I know we've only been together a short while....but I really feel like I can tell you anything...you've just got that kind of face, I guess.  So I'm gonna let you in on a little something about me.  You all know I love bacon.  But what you may not know is, duck confit comes in a pretty close second.  And guess what?!?  I got to make both of them this week!!  I wish there was a 'scream like a little girl' emoticon!!

I see some of you out there are confused.  "What's duck confit?" you may ask.  To which I reply, I don't want to know you anymore.

kidding

We're here to learn, right?  So I'll tell ya.  It's duck legs that have been cured, poached in duck fat, and packed in a container along with the aforementioned fat.  That's it.

Did I mention it stays good (and actually improves in flavor) for up to six months?  Yeah...true story.  Turns out, 'confit' (pronouced CON-fee) is a pretentious-sounding French word for 'preservation'.  I could go on about how packing the meat in fat halts oxidation especially when combined with the salt curing blah blah blah.....if you want to know all about it, it's here.

So here's my duck confit adventure.....*cue Indiana Jones Theme.*

Ok, this isn't a recipe for you guys, per se and I'll tell you why.  Reason #1, this is the first time I've made duck confit in a sous vide machine* and as of this writing the jury is still out on the results.  I certainly wouldn't pass-along information to you without testing and verifying the end-product.  If it works out ok, I'll post a recipe later....with some modifications.  Which brings us to Reason #2, the method I used to sous vide is......questionable.  And not exactly FDA approved, if you know what I mean.**  And frankly, I may have fucked it up.  But, I made a promise to you dear readers and I intend to keep it.  Victories and failures are ours to learn from!

 *What the hell is a sous vide (pronounced soo-veed) machine?  Simply put, it's a hot water bath that is precisely temperature controlled.  You place the food to be cooked in little plastic bags and the bags are immersed in the water for long periods of time until fully cooked.  The result is a fully cooked, tender, moist (as no moisture has left the food at any time) and relatively easy product.  If you want to learn a little more about the practice, check it out here.

**The traditional method for duck confit is 1, cure the legs for a few hours or a day.  2, heat up some rendered duck fat.  3, pour the fat onto the legs and cook (either on the stove top or in the oven) at a very low temperature (never to exceed 200 degrees). Then put it all into a sealable container and let it ripen.  Use it when you want awesomeness.  The sous vide method is 1, cure.  2, place into little bags with rendered duck fat.  3, place into water bath and cook for hours (the temperature never exceeding 200 degrees).  I....sorta did a hybrid of the two.  It's not exactly the safest method (and I don't recommend it), but I figure if something went wrong, we'll know long before it's time to eat this stuff.  That's the good news about duck confit.  It doesn't KINDOF go bad.....it's rancid meat that's been sitting around for months.  My guess is if I didn't do it right, when the time comes to eat this stuff the bacteria would have evolved to the point of sentience and would be able to tell us themselves if they've gone bad.  Or it may just get up and walk out on it's own....I guess we'll find out.

So here's how I did it.

We got our ducks in whole....I butchered them and put the legs in one pan, the breasts another.  The rest gets roasted and turned into a stock.  On the left are (of course) the legs....the breasts have another amazing fate (we'll talk about it in another post - we'll also be talking about breasts in general I imagine). 

Then I rubbed them in salt to cure them.  This is just salt.  Then they're covered and refrigerated for 24 hours.  Then they're rinsed off and patted dry.  Unfortunately your jackass photographer and humble narrator did not get any pictures of the result of the cure.  Suffice to say the meat was darker in color and firmer in general....in other words, cured.  They're then put on a wire rack to dry a little further while I prepare the rest of the procedure: Melting rendered duck fat.  You can render your own if you'd like....but I was doing a lot of legs here and I wanted to make it as easy on myself as possible so I bought the stuff in 10 lb buckets from the same farm as the ducks.  Again, jackass picture boy didn't get a shot of it...but it's basically a tub of fat.  White, very soft, creamy. Fat.  I accidentally dropped some of it onto a piece of toasted bread and had to eat it (we can't have any waste, now can we?).  It was delicious.  This was a good idea.  So I warmed up the fat in a pot until it was fully clear (didn't take long) and we were ready for the next step.  Combining the two.

The legs were layered into my trusty Sous Vide Supreme machine and covered with the now hot fat being (carefully) poured over. According to the machine's thermometer, it was 202 degrees.  Slightly high for the need, but perfectly acceptable.  The temperature was set to 188 degrees and the lid was placed on it....and we were on our way to Confit-land.

So who wants to hear something funny?  Ok, good.  I started this whole process around 1pm....I did mention this was a 10+ hour cooking process, right?  So about 1130pm rolls around and I have to excuse myself from my drinking companions so I can "check on my duck legs."


I'm not sure how many of them knew what I was talking about....I'm not sure I want to know.  But I come back and this is what I see....yes it looks a lil.....strange.  But my god...the smell.  So. Fucking. Good.  Like sex, but in my nose (so exactly like sex).  


The only steps left were to pull the duck legs out carefully....they were perfect:  Not falling off the bone unless they were carelessly handled (which, incidentally, is just how I like my women).  The legs were gently layered in  a sealable container, covered with the poaching fat, and placed in an ice bath for quicker chilling.  Then into the fridge.  

We'll check back in on them in a couple months....


Anyone curious as to what's going on with that bacon?

It's Like Sex, But The Fork and Knife Are Optional (a philosophy)

Todays Specials:  Bacon-wrapped Terrine of Lurid Conversation in an Honesty Sauce garnished with some Sage Advice from a Female Perspective.  Served with Sushi.


Set to the tune of Does It Offend You, Yeah?s "With a Heavy Heart (I Regret to Inform You)"

"'To Serve Man'......It's a COOKBOOK!!!"

I'm a simple man. I like the little things in life....a sharp knife, rendered duck fat, old episodes of The Twilight Zone...

Oh, and a woman who EATS!

And I don't mean the casual, laissez-faire fork and knife eating. Everyone does that....it doesn't impress me. No, I'm talking gums deep in a turkey leg. I'm talking nachos by the fistful. I'm talking two handed BBQ annihilation with juices running down her arms and off her elbows; indecipherable noises coming from somewhere deep inside the core of her being.  Sounds usually reserved for wedding nights or lead singers of metal.

You know, the kind of woman who knows how to lick a bone clean....

**Disclaimer: Ok gang...time to be real here for a second. It's not gonna get any cleaner or more appropriate for work from here....so if you're offended already by the double entendres and lurid epicurean imagery, then I'd suggest you stop reading and go back to your funny pictures of cats with spelling errors and poor grammar. End Disclaimer**

Ok, how many of you stuck around? Good.

Now here's what I really want to say now that we've gotten rid of the prudes.

Food is sex. There's no way around it, and I can't say it any more simply. Food is sex....food is fucking.

I mean, other than cooking, what other activity do you offer a part of yourself (and if you're cooking properly, you're putting something of yourself into every dish) for someone else put it into their bodies?

Maybe Scrabble....maybe. 

I was recently told by a good friend of mine (to protect her identity we'll call her “Orange Blossom” - that is actually her real name) that: “I refuse to have sex with a man if I can't stand the way he eats.” 

That's a very telling statement....and, reflecting, I'm guilty of the same thing. I can't tell you how many nights I've spent sitting across from a woman who is gorgeous....or would be if she hadn't ordered a salad with light dressing and 'just water'....and then spent 30 minutes of my life that I'll never get back pushing it to and fro on her plate with the same look on her face that I'm sure she gets when she accidentally drops something in the toilet. I mean, let's face it, if she's looking that way at her salad, what's she gonna do when she sees your naked body? And no bullshit, ladies....if you ordered just a salad, you probably don't want to have either inside you.  Not really, anyway.  Though, I'm sure Ranch dressing would help....


The point is this: You can tell a lot about a person by the way they eat. And I'm not just talking to the men. Ladies, if your date salts his food before he tastes it, not only do you need to question his worth as a person, but be prepared for strictly missionary position and occasional orgasms. Maybe on your birthday he'll get creative....but he's still a prick for salting his food preemptively. You don't need that kind of aggravation...plus he probably kills kittens. And gentlemen, if a chick you're into doesn't want to try new foods, then the sex you two will have will probably not require a towel...and that's just sad.


What's that?  Your partner eats their steak well done?  My condolences....to both you and your genitalia.

Now compare that to the satisfaction I have received on many a night upon hearing sex noises coming from the people I've been lucky enough to cook for.  Things like: “MMMmmmmmmmm!!” and: “Oh my fucking, GAWD!!” and: “I need to change my pants” not to mention: “I wonder what Fred Savage is doing these days”.....Simply put: both my most successful dinner parties and my most successful liaisons have required an hour cleanup (always after....never during) and a load of laundry. Hell, one time I needed to run the dishwasher on it's 'Heavy Wash' cycle.

Maybe I'm getting off point here....

Orange Blossom tells me about the time she served her guy sushi off of her naked body....and wasabi burns aside....it was the best sex she'd ever had.  She says it was because it made him taste for the first time....which made him come back for seconds.

Then a horror story about the guy that ate his food so fast he was done before anyone else had really gotten started...

Man...I DO love a good double entendre.  

Then she tells me about a guy she used to see that made love to the spoon with which he used to eat his ice cream....and that it was telling (and ultimately true) of how he'd perform in the bedroom, but that he was 'finnicky' and 'picky' when it came to meat (“I had to do all the work”) and that was  also telling (and also ultimately true). She also said he liked going to Applebee's....but we'll leave that one alone. For now. 

Fuck you, Applebee's.

Ahem....

So what does this say about cooking? 

Plenty. 

Are you afraid to use ingredients or techniques that are foreign to you? That says something.

Do you adhere religiously to recipes? That says something.

Do you go to a new restaurant and ask the chef for his speciality? That says something.
Do you pull a Meg Ryan when your food is perfect? You're my kind of girl.

Marilyn Monroe loved steaks and she used to cook dishes she learned from DiMaggio when friends would come over.

Now I want to be clear about something. I'm not talking overly ornate, elaborate, and technical cooking. It doesn't have to have a million ingredients to be good. No.  Good cooking (like sex - are we sensing the theme, here?) does not require great skill or experience....enthusiasm goes a LONG way. There's poetry in a simple meal prepared simply. There's magic in Boeuf Bourguignon (which is a pretentious-sounding French word for Beef Stew).  I mean, don't get me wrong,  you gotta know some basics: the difference between a simmer and a rolling boil...which muscles to flex for vigorous whisking and which to flex for a gentle stir (and the stamina/patience to accomplish either)...when butter is appropriate (hint: always.)  ....and those basics are easily learned, but after that....have fun. Cooking...sex...hell, life isn't a recipe. It's improvisation. Do not be constrained by your ingredients.

Audrey Hepburn claimed to eat pasta and chocolate everyday.  Now, while she didn't say if she ate them together....I can respect that.

So what have we learned, Braisers? Besides not to come to my dinner parties without protection? Which reminds me:

**Public Service Announcement: Remember kids, always, ALWAYS use a napkin. Every time. Keep a wetnap in your wallet or purse if you need to. It's better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. End Public Service Announcement.**

We've learned to have fun with it. Experiment. Enjoy. Sometimes you won't like it....that's ok. Sometimes you'll make a weird face. Sometimes you'll be disgusted. Sometimes you'll need a drink to wash that flavor out. All of it is ok. Keep putting it in your mouth.

Oh...and try some new food every now and again, too.

But now I gotta go...Orange Blossom is coming over and I wanna hear her make some noise.

Rind of Bleu (a recipe)

Set to the tune of Bob Dylan's "Tombstone Blues"

"I am in the kitchen with the Tombstone Bleu"

  

I'm gonna level with ya, Braisers.  I'm not a fan of bleu cheese.  I've just never been able get beyond the dry/tart/sour/gym sock flavor that foodies seem to love paired with cranberries and walnuts and pears and people who liked your favorite band before they 'sold out.'

No, no.  Not my scene at all.  So bleu cheese and I just never hit it off.  

It wasn't until I went to a restaurant here in town some years back.  I had a friend working there and a cabbage and bleu cheese soup was suggested to me, as it was one of the specials.  I immediately made a face of someone who has clearly sat in something wet and warm and continued to look at the menu.  "No, no, no....just try it.  Tell ya what, let me get you a small bowl and you can have a taste...if you don't like it, no problem.  But it's really good!  Even if you don't like bleu cheese."

Ugh.  Fine.

You know how I feel about people that won't try new things....so I tried the damn soup.  And you know what?  It was delicious!  The cabbage tamed the bleu and the creaminess brought it all together for me.  Add a couple bursts of caraway here and there and it was a delightful surprise.  My dinner companion, That Bitch (you remember her, right?) also enjoyed it a great deal.  We enjoyed the rest of our meal and had a lovely evening....but that soup was nagging at the back of my mind.  Where did it get the nerve of making me....and I can't believe I'm saying this.....enjoy bleu cheese?

Bastard soup.  What did it have up it's creamy, caraway-kissed sleeve? 

So I resolved then and there that I would no longer fear the dreaded foodstuff (I mean it's CHEESE after all....now bad could it really be?).  Instead I would learn to make it myself and tweak it even further to see if I could get others to enjoy it as well. And that's what I did....I reproduced it as I remembered it tasting that night.

So now when someone says they don't like bleu cheese, I have a secret weapon.  I still think your favorite band sucks now, though.

Don't let the name fool you.  The soup is pretty bangin'.....even if you don't like bleu cheese or cabbage.  Just try it.  Don't be a pussy.

You're gonna need:

2 Tbl Butter

3-4 lightly packed cups of  Shredded Cabbage

2 Tbl Chicken Base

7 cups Heavy Cream

8-10 oz Bleu Cheese*

5 sprigs of fresh Thyme

Pinch of Caraway Seed

Salt & White Pepper to taste

*I used Maytag Bleu for this recipe, but just about any variety will do.  Beware different brands, and varieties will have different strengths.  It's all about taste, not about a recipe.

Step 1:  Melt butter in a medium, heavy-bottomed sauce pan.  Once the foam subsides, add cabbage.

What were looking for here, gang, is to sweat the cabbage, not brown it (although a little bit is ok).  So keep the heat pretty low, and stir a lot until the cabbage starts to release some liquid.  Keep tossing it around and cover the pot for a few minutes until the cabbage is completely soft.  

A quick word about the cabbage.  You can use pre-shredded or whole and shred it yourself. I've done both and either one works beautifully.

Step 2:  Pull the leaves off of all but two Thyme sprigs and add them (the leaves, jackass) along with the Chicken Base, & Caraway Seed.  

Stir it around a little, and then add your cream.

Step 3:  Turn up your flame slightly until the cream comes to a light simmer....you don't want to go any more than a simmer on this or you run the risk of curdling, and overflowing.  And cook for about 10 mins after the simmer starts....we want to reduce slightly. Stir it occasionally...taste it.  Once the flavors impart themselves into the cream you're ready to add your bleu cheese.  I like to crumble mine in - and keep tasting as I go.  You can always add more...but it's pretty damn hard to take bleu cheese out of the soup once it's in there.  Plus adding it in increments makes the cheese melt a little faster.  Keep stirring until the cheese has all melted and you're good to go.  Lower the heat if it starts simmering again.  Taste it...season with salt and white pepper....add more bleu cheese if you want....it's your life, you don't need me to run it for you.

Garnish with the Thyme sprigs and impress your friends and influence members of your family.

See ya next time, Braisers!

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

The Chef's Manifesto; or....How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Blog (a promise)

Today's Specials: Galantine of Excitement Stuffed with Nervous Apprehension. Drizzled with a Passion Reduction and Chiffonade of Self-Depricating Humor.


Set to the tune of  Nirvana's "Dive"


Ok, with a show of hands, who's already eaten today?

Not bad.

Now, with a show of hands how many are planning on eating again today?

Wow...that's a lot.

I've got some bad news for ya, gang. It seems to me like you're addicted to food. Don't believe me? Ok, how's this. According to the Mayo Clinic, signs of addiction include:


-Neglecting Responsibilities: How many of you take a whole hour out of your workday to get a fix?

-Your Life Revolves Around Your Drug: Does it seem like you can't go to a wedding, funeral, party, or family get together with out needing some form of culination (yes it's a real word) to lubricate your enjoyment of the whole thing? Do you sometimes even eat alone...or are you still holding on to the delusion that you're just a 'social eater'?
-Sudden Weight Loss or Gain: Does your weight fluxuate with how often and what kinds of food you eat?
-Unexplained Mood Swings: Can you go a whole day without food without feeling like you're gonna die? Do you get anxious? Light-headed? Short of breath? Irritable? And when you finally do get some food, does relief to the point of giddiness wash over you like so much gravy?

Yeah....you got it bad, kid. And believe me, it takes one to know one. I've been struggling with my addiction to food for years. So many back alleys....paper cuts from menus. It was so bad at one point I was selling crack just to get a shot of tuna ceviche....dark days indeed.

But there is hope, dear readers. I, your savior and humble narrator, bring you help in the form of Braised in Captivity. It's a support group. It's a shoulder to cry on. It's an ear and a voice for those who have lived with the shame of their addiction for too long. In the posts to come, we'll be discussing the nature and treatment of our affliction. I know it won't be easy...but it will be worth it.

I promise.

In the posts to come there will be tales of love lost and found, the meals we've shared, the restaurants we love (and despise.....DO YOU HEAR ME APPLEBEE'S), recipes, and instruction. I will teach you...I will learn from you.

And so, with my right hand raised, and my left hand on my chef's knife (carefully, that fucker's wicked sharp):

I swear to always uphold the standard of culinary excellence. To never put ketchup on things that don't warrant it. To keep my knives clean and sharp. To share with you both the victories and failures of the projects I undertake. I promise I'll elaborate on things needing explaining and to keep no 'secret ingredient'. I promise to swear profusely. I will do my best to present all information in a fun and humorous way and have some fucking fun with this.

With this first post, we set to sail. Cheers~