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.

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.