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.

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.

Remember Kids, Try This at Home (or even better try this at Rome: a recipe)

I have a confession to make, dear Braisers.  I haven't been making desserts lately.  I don't know why....maybe it's my decision to be a little healthier that has steered my subconscious away from sugar (and towards duckfat, bacon, and cream soups), maybe there's some insecurity in the face of some of the wonderful desserts presented by my friends.....or maybe it's just that I have a penis.  Who can say?  But I recently had the opportunity, nay privilege of making one.  And not just any dessert....one of those fancy ones with the foreign names.  Of course I'm referring to....Tiramisu. 

 Here's how it all went down. 

I don't know how many of you remember, but a little while ago, I wrote a little story.  It was about how, while traveling in Europe, my traveling companion and I, in a star-crossed attempt at walking to the Catacombs accidentally stumbled across a gorgeous and unique restaurant.  One of the oldest working restaurants in Rome, actually...Hostaria Antica Roma, and it's chef/server/owner/all around friendly guy, Paolo.  You can read all about it here, if you'd like.

In doing some of the research for the entry, I sought out their website and Facebook pages (the story took place many years ago, so I had to drain some of the scotch from the old memory bank).  When I was finished with the whole thing, I sent a copy to Paolo.  Thought he might get a kick out of it.  That was all...

...and then about a week or so later I got an Email.

It was Paolo.

He was giving me his Tiramisu recipe to use in the blog!

Fuck.  Yes.

I HAD to make it!  There was just no way around it....people don't just give up their money-making recipes to some douchebag online everyday, do they?  No, really.  DO they??   Lemme tell ya gang, this is the real deal and it is bangin'  I'm just gonna give you the straight text from Paolo himself (any procedural notes I have will be made in red...and any dick or fart jokes I have will be in blue).  So without further ado:

Paolo's Tiramisu

Yer gonna need:

500g Mascarpone Cheese (approx 1 lb)

6 Pasteurized Eggs

2 Pkgs Savoiardi Lady Fingers

3 Tbl Sugar

8 Espresso-sized cups of coffe (approx 14 oz)

4 Tbl Powdered Unsweetened Cocoa

**Couple of notes on your ingredients before we get started:  There are a couple different kinds of lady fingers to choose from, they range from long slender LADY fingers, to thick, flabby, spongy PLUMMERS fingers.  Get as close to you can to the slender ones.  They'll look more like crisp cookies than spongecake.  Also, I took a look at there's about 20 different ingredients (mostly unpronounceable chemicals) in the spongy fingers compared to 5 (all of which easily recognizable) in the cookie fingers.


Also it may be interesting to note that this is absent of the brandy, rum, or coffee liqueur often found in Tiramisu recipes.**

Primary Steps:

1. Bring all ingredients to room temperature.  [This cannot be stressed enough.  Mascarpone is similar in texture to cream cheese and should be pretty soft before trying to incorporate anything into it.  Overnight is perfect (don't worry the packages are sealed, so it won't go bad or anything) but a minimum of a couple hours is required.  DO NOT SKIP THIS]

2. Make and pour espresso into a shallow, flat-bottomed container.    Add one Tsp cocoa and allow to cool to room temperature.  [At this point Paolo points out that if you've decided instead to use regular coffee; take it and put it into a cup.  Then drink it and make some real espresso, so don't skimp out.  ]

3. Separate Egg Yolks and Whites.

air incorporated into yolks

Mixing:

 1. In the first mixing bowl, beat yolks and sugar until cream and lightened in color.  Add Mascarpone & mix until blended.  

mascarpone added

mixture fully incorporated

2. In a second mixing bowl, beat egg whites until fluffy.  If you use pasteurized eggs, this may take a while.  [Boy he's not kidding.  Pasteurized eggs are eggs that have been heated to a specific temperature for a specific amount of time in order to kill any harmful bacteria inside.  Since we're using raw eggs and we're not gonna be cooking them, it's important to have them.  But if you trust your egg source and haven't had any problems or anything, go with regular.  The pasteurized egg typically behaves and tastes like a regular egg, but it DOES take a lot longer to whip.  I enlisted the aid of my trusty stand mixer.]  

2. Fold beaten egg whites into Mascarpone mixture.  Mix only enough to blend.  Over mixing will deflate the egg whites.

3. Quickly dip Savoiardi in the espresso bowl.  To get the right amount of espresso on the Savoiardi, lay the finger flat in the bottom of the container with the espresso sugar side UP.  Immediately pull it out.  Then place each finger in your serving dish sugar side DOWN.  The finger will quickly soak up the espresso, so if you soak the Savoiardi, you'll end up with a soggy mess instead of moist fingers. [heh....moist fingers].

Assembly:

1.  Build a layer of Savoiardi across the bottom of the pan.  If some of the Savoiardi do not look 'dark' from the espresso, spoon a few more drops of espresso to darken.  Any excess espresso in the bottom of the pan will be absorbed by the Savoiardi, but too much will turn the fingers into a soggy mess.  

2. Spoon a layer of the Mascarpone mixture across the layer of Savoiardi.  Use about 1/2 of the Mascarpone mix.  The layer should be about 1cm (3/8 in) thick.

3. Dip and lay another layer of Savoiardi on the Mascarpone layer as before, sugar side down.  Drip more espresso over the fingers if they're not dark enough.  

4. Spoon a second layer of Mascarpone/egg mixture across the second layer of Savoiardi.  Use the remaining Mascarpone mixture.  The layer should be about 1cm (3/8in) thick.  [I still had the materials; lady fingers, mixture, and espresso, as well as the headroom in the dish to do a third layer.  My dish was a 2qt, 8 1/2 x 10 or so.]

5. Sift cocoa on the final mascarpone layer.  Do this evenly by spooning the cocoa into a fine mesh sieve.  Hold the sieve over the Tiramisu and tap with your finger.  Cocoa should sprinkle down in an even layer.  Use this technique to cover the Tiramiso with a very thin layer of cocoa.  

Refrigerate for at least 4 hours before serving.  The Tiramisu will taste quite good for several days if refrigerated.  [This might be true.  It hasn't lasted that long.]

So how does it taste?  Brilliant.  Make no mistake, though...this is not the Tiramisu you'll find at the Macaroni Grill or...(shudder)....Applebee's, with it's cloying sweetness and sterile coffee flavor.  This is a completely different animal: the coffee is forward and vibrant with it's many nuances coming through (which is why it's important not to skimp on the real espresso), and the texture luxurious without being heavy, moist without being soggy with just a hint of chocolate.  I didn't even miss the booze, though I'd be curious to see what it would be like with it....next time.

Thanks, Paolo!  And thanks to you all for reading.  See ya next time.  I'm feeling like some corned beef....

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.