Holidays for the Mouse
I am currently two books into a three-book publishing deal with Hyperion Books. Hyperion is based in New York and is a division of ABC, and ultimately the Walt Disney Company. I, too, now work for the mouse.
The first book in my Hyperion deal was Deep South Staples, the second book in the contract, which was just released a few weeks ago, is Deep South Parties. Both books are filled with everyday recipes for family dinners and entertaining, but they are also filled with recipes that can be used for the holidays.
Two days after I signed the book deal, the editors asked my thoughts on the next book in the series. My first response was Deep South Holidays. I love this time of year. The weather is cool, the air is crisp, attitudes are festive, food tastes better, family is closer, and the excitement that I experienced as a kid always returns at Christmas.
The editors didn’t want to do a holiday book for several reasons that I won’t go into here. They are the big dogs, they have the experience, and if there is one thing I have learned over my 25-year business career, it is to put your trust into the hands of those who have more knowledge and experience and let that expertise go to work for you. I’ll not argue with the mouse. However, my next choice Deep South Parties was, in a way, a tribute to the holidays of my youth. Shhhh, don’t tell Hyperion (or the mouse), but it’s a perfect book for cooking during the holidays.
When I sat down to compile the recipes that were to be used in Deep South Parties I looked back to the neighborhood parties of my youth and remembered all of the foods that were served. I also sat down with my across-the-street neighbor, Barbara Jane Foote, and plowed through her extremely organized recipe files using many of those as a starting point and inspiration to create new twists on old favorites. Most were served during the holidays. In the end, one-third of the recipes in the book were a nod to the party foods of my youth, another third came from 18 years of catering parties and events, and another third were new and developed specifically for the book.
Down South we accelerate our entertaining during the holidays. Deep South Parties has recipes that can be prepared in spring and summer, but I predict the book will be used most often in the nine-week stretch between Halloween and New Year’s Day.
My entire Thanksgiving meal can be found in Deep South Staples: roasted turkey, cornbread dressing, gravy, green bean casserole, a wonderful cranberry dish, and the most amazing sweet potato casserole you will ever taste. My Thanksgiving desserts can be found in Deep South Parties: pumpkin cheesecake and sweet potato brownies.
Two weeks ago I taught a cooking class in which I demonstrated recipes from Deep South Parties. The dessert that I chose to demonstrate was the sweet potato brownie recipe. Last week at a book signing, a woman who had attended the demo approached me and said that she had prepared the sweet potato brownie recipe three times over a six day period. I don’t know if she ate that many brownies in less than a week, or gave them away to friends, but I couldn’t ask for a more dedicated and enthusiastic endorsement. Then I thought of the mouse, and my friends at Hyperion, and the excitement that fills the air when the foods of the holidays are prepared and enjoyed, and I wished for my New York friends many batches of sweet potato brownies over the course of the next nine weeks.
Sweet Potato Brownies were one of the original recipes I developed specifically for the book. They are perfect for a holiday snack and portable enough to take to someone else’s home if you’re not hosting a Thanksgiving meal.
Sweet Potato Brownies
If you don’t like sweet potatoes, don’t worry, you’ll love these. If you don’t like brownies, have no fear, you’ll love these. If you like sweet potatoes and brownies… get ready for an amazing treat!
1 /2 pound butter
2 cups sugar
1 1 /2 cups flour
1 tsp Salt
4 eggs
2 tsp Vanilla
2 cups raw sweet potatoes, grated
1 cups pecans, toasted
Preheat oven to 350.
In an electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add remaining ingredients in order, stirring after each is added.
Pour into a buttered and floured 9x12 inch baking sheet.
Bake for 30-40 minutes.
Allow brownies to cool completely before cutting.
Glaze
2 Tbl butter
1 /4 cup orange juice
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
Melt butter and add remaining ingredients. Let cool. Glaze brownies after they have been cut.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Joints
I receive a lot of e-mail about the fine-dining restaurants I visit. I eat out often. It’s my occupation and my hobby. So far this year I have dined at eight of the top restaurants in New York and others in Atlanta, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, and the Napa Valley. I love foie gras, crisp white linens, and overly solicitous service. But what I love even more are “joints.”
I love a joint. You know the place. At first glance, it might not look like a restaurant one wouldn’t even want to step into, much less dine in. Typically, the atmosphere has accidentally evolved over the years. Nothing is contrived. The food is above average and mostly consistent. The wait staff is blasé, but efficient enough to take care of your needs. They know you by name by the second visit and know what you will order by the fourth. The place is clean in all of the places the count and is usually run by a family, or co-workers who have worked together so long that they consider themselves family. A joint is usually located in what a realtor would consider a B or C location, but it wouldn’t have the charm if it were located anywhere else.
A joint is a nice respite from the sterile, themed, corporate environment of so many just-average restaurants that are no different than the one down the road at the previous interstate exchange.
All hail the joints of the world.
A joint is full of character and is usually operated by characters. At our restaurants we strive hard to offer top-notch service and superior food. We spend hours training our wait staff and kitchen staff. Not so the joint. The typical joint appears to have handed a server a pencil and pad on their first day on the job and told them to “get out there and take an order.” Yet it works.
Most joints specialize in one particular food item. It is that food that has put them on the map. It might be one individual dish or it could be a broad category of food such as steak or barbeque. It might even specialize in a particular meal period such as breakfast or late-night dining.
There are joints with good food, bad food, and excellent food. They key is to find the ones with excellent food and put them into your dining rotation.
The one universal characteristic of a joint is that it is casual. A joint wears its casualness as a badge of honor. I love casual. It is Casual Friday every day at my office.
The other day at a speaking engagement, I was asked which restaurants— other than my own— I frequent most often. The audience seemed surprised by the answer I gave. They were all joints. They are places where the food is above average to excellent in its category, the service is friendly and efficient, and the atmosphere is casual and proud of it.
In Hattiesburg, when I want barbeque I go to Leatha’s on U.S. 98. They have beach towels for curtains, but the meat is tender, the smoke ring goes to the bone, and Bonnie takes good care of me.
If I want catfish, I go to Rayner’s on U.S. 49 North. It’s nothing more than a cinder block building but they’ve been frying catfish for over 40 years and it shows. The cole slaw is good, and the service is friendly.
When I eat steak I go to Donanelle’s on U.S. 49 South at the North Gate of Camp Shelby. When speaking of Donanelle’s, my friend said, “It ain’t much to look at, but the steaks taste great.” Donanelle’s is the quintessential joint. They serve steak, ribs, yellowfin tuna, and that’s about it. If you want a salad, your dressing choices are: Ranch, ranch, or ranch. No apologies. The rib-eye steaks are highly seasoned and marinated just like I like them. They are cooked over live charcoal, and my son can watch while they cook.
I love steak and eat it often. I visit the chain-operated steak restaurants occasionally, but I usually have to wait 30-45 minutes before I am even seated. I can leave my house, drive the nine miles to Donanelle’s, eat dinner and be home before I would have finished my salad at any of the near-the-interstate-exchange restaurants. If the food is good, I am always willing to give up atmosphere and a few of the finer points of service.
Do you have a favorite joint? If so, e-mail the name, address, and any pertinent information. I am compiling a list of The South’s Greatest Joints and would love to add your favorite to the collection.
Robert’s Marinated Steaks
6 Ribeye steaks (12-14 oz.), USDA Choice or Certified Black Angus
1 /4 cup Steak seasoning (recipe below)
3 Tbl Lemon pepper seasoning
1 cup Dale’s Steak Marinade
1 cup Stubb’s Beef Marinade (or other meat marinade: Allegro, etc.)
2 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 Tbl Liquid Smoke
Freshly ground black pepper
Heat grill to a medium-high heat. Rub steaks liberally with dry seasonings and pat them making sure the seasoning adheres to the steak. Set aside.
Mix the remaining ingredients together in a bowl. Place the seasoned steaks in a gallon-sized Ziploc bag (no more than 2 steaks per bag) and pour enough marinade into the bag to cover the steaks halfway when they are laying flat. Squeeze all excess air out the bag and seal. Allow the steaks to marinate in the refrigerator, lying flat, for no longer then two hours. Remove steaks from refrigerator 30 minutes before grilling.
Place steaks on the grill and immediately pour a little of the excess marinade on top of the steaks and sprinkle with freshly ground black pepper. After the steaks are turned (and you should only turn grilled items once) add a little more of the marinade. Yield: 6 steaks
Steak Seasoning
1 /2 cup Lawry’s Seasoned Salt
1 /3 cup Black pepper
1 /4 cup Lemon Pepper
2 Tbl Garlic Salt
2 Tbl Granulated Garlic
1 Tbl Onion Powder
Combine all and mix well. Store in an airtight container.
I receive a lot of e-mail about the fine-dining restaurants I visit. I eat out often. It’s my occupation and my hobby. So far this year I have dined at eight of the top restaurants in New York and others in Atlanta, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, and the Napa Valley. I love foie gras, crisp white linens, and overly solicitous service. But what I love even more are “joints.”
I love a joint. You know the place. At first glance, it might not look like a restaurant one wouldn’t even want to step into, much less dine in. Typically, the atmosphere has accidentally evolved over the years. Nothing is contrived. The food is above average and mostly consistent. The wait staff is blasé, but efficient enough to take care of your needs. They know you by name by the second visit and know what you will order by the fourth. The place is clean in all of the places the count and is usually run by a family, or co-workers who have worked together so long that they consider themselves family. A joint is usually located in what a realtor would consider a B or C location, but it wouldn’t have the charm if it were located anywhere else.
A joint is a nice respite from the sterile, themed, corporate environment of so many just-average restaurants that are no different than the one down the road at the previous interstate exchange.
All hail the joints of the world.
A joint is full of character and is usually operated by characters. At our restaurants we strive hard to offer top-notch service and superior food. We spend hours training our wait staff and kitchen staff. Not so the joint. The typical joint appears to have handed a server a pencil and pad on their first day on the job and told them to “get out there and take an order.” Yet it works.
Most joints specialize in one particular food item. It is that food that has put them on the map. It might be one individual dish or it could be a broad category of food such as steak or barbeque. It might even specialize in a particular meal period such as breakfast or late-night dining.
There are joints with good food, bad food, and excellent food. They key is to find the ones with excellent food and put them into your dining rotation.
The one universal characteristic of a joint is that it is casual. A joint wears its casualness as a badge of honor. I love casual. It is Casual Friday every day at my office.
The other day at a speaking engagement, I was asked which restaurants— other than my own— I frequent most often. The audience seemed surprised by the answer I gave. They were all joints. They are places where the food is above average to excellent in its category, the service is friendly and efficient, and the atmosphere is casual and proud of it.
In Hattiesburg, when I want barbeque I go to Leatha’s on U.S. 98. They have beach towels for curtains, but the meat is tender, the smoke ring goes to the bone, and Bonnie takes good care of me.
If I want catfish, I go to Rayner’s on U.S. 49 North. It’s nothing more than a cinder block building but they’ve been frying catfish for over 40 years and it shows. The cole slaw is good, and the service is friendly.
When I eat steak I go to Donanelle’s on U.S. 49 South at the North Gate of Camp Shelby. When speaking of Donanelle’s, my friend said, “It ain’t much to look at, but the steaks taste great.” Donanelle’s is the quintessential joint. They serve steak, ribs, yellowfin tuna, and that’s about it. If you want a salad, your dressing choices are: Ranch, ranch, or ranch. No apologies. The rib-eye steaks are highly seasoned and marinated just like I like them. They are cooked over live charcoal, and my son can watch while they cook.
I love steak and eat it often. I visit the chain-operated steak restaurants occasionally, but I usually have to wait 30-45 minutes before I am even seated. I can leave my house, drive the nine miles to Donanelle’s, eat dinner and be home before I would have finished my salad at any of the near-the-interstate-exchange restaurants. If the food is good, I am always willing to give up atmosphere and a few of the finer points of service.
Do you have a favorite joint? If so, e-mail the name, address, and any pertinent information. I am compiling a list of The South’s Greatest Joints and would love to add your favorite to the collection.
Robert’s Marinated Steaks
6 Ribeye steaks (12-14 oz.), USDA Choice or Certified Black Angus
1 /4 cup Steak seasoning (recipe below)
3 Tbl Lemon pepper seasoning
1 cup Dale’s Steak Marinade
1 cup Stubb’s Beef Marinade (or other meat marinade: Allegro, etc.)
2 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 Tbl Liquid Smoke
Freshly ground black pepper
Heat grill to a medium-high heat. Rub steaks liberally with dry seasonings and pat them making sure the seasoning adheres to the steak. Set aside.
Mix the remaining ingredients together in a bowl. Place the seasoned steaks in a gallon-sized Ziploc bag (no more than 2 steaks per bag) and pour enough marinade into the bag to cover the steaks halfway when they are laying flat. Squeeze all excess air out the bag and seal. Allow the steaks to marinate in the refrigerator, lying flat, for no longer then two hours. Remove steaks from refrigerator 30 minutes before grilling.
Place steaks on the grill and immediately pour a little of the excess marinade on top of the steaks and sprinkle with freshly ground black pepper. After the steaks are turned (and you should only turn grilled items once) add a little more of the marinade. Yield: 6 steaks
Steak Seasoning
1 /2 cup Lawry’s Seasoned Salt
1 /3 cup Black pepper
1 /4 cup Lemon Pepper
2 Tbl Garlic Salt
2 Tbl Granulated Garlic
1 Tbl Onion Powder
Combine all and mix well. Store in an airtight container.
Monday, October 23, 2006
West Indies Salad
One of the most popular crabmeat recipes in the Gulf Coast region is West Indies Salad.
West Indies Salad, a cold hors d’ oeuvre usually spooned onto crackers, is a simple combination of lump crabmeat, onion, vinegar, oil, salt, and pepper. The dish was invented by the late restaurateur, Bill Bayley of Mobile, who has also been credited with the invention of fried crab claws. Bayley owned and operated Bayley’s Restaurant in Mobile which opened in the late 1940s.
Bayley, a former merchant marine— and a figure straight out of central casting if Hollywood was looking for stereotypical Southern café owner of that era— short, rotund, and never without a cigar, invented the dish while serving as a ship steward. As the legend goes, while Bayley’s ship was docked in a faraway port, he purchased a sack of lobsters and returned to the ship where he boiled them and added ingredients that were available: Oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper. A few years later, when he opened his Mobile restaurant, he remembered that dish, and since fresh lobster wasn’t available in Lower Alabama, he substituted crabmeat. The port where he originally purchased the lobsters was in the West Indies, hence the name, West Indies Salad.
That is the story according to some accounts. Another version states that Bayley always liked the oil and vinegar based onion-cucumber salad that is served in a lot of Southern seafood houses. He simply substituted crabmeat for cucumber and a legend was born.
I like the first version, and I’ll choose to believe that one. Some things just taste better when there’s an interesting story attached.
Whatever the origin, the salad put Bayley’s restaurant on the map and for years the cigar-chomping restaurateur was asked to serve his specialty from Mobile to Montgomery to Washington D.C. The restaurant closed for a period, but Bayley’s son, Bill Bayley Jr., reopened the historic establishment and has been doing great business ever since.
Last week I ate at Bayley’s restaurant. It’s a simple, but clean, porcelain-coated concrete block building on the Dauphin Island Parkway in a part of town called Bayley’s Corner. The original restaurant was located next door.
The West Indies Salad at Bayley’s is served by the pint (12.95) or by the quart (17.95) and arrives to the table in a large bowl to be shared, family style. My group of eight ordered a quart and had trouble eating all of it. It looked like a lot more than a quart and I have no idea how they are making any profit by serving that much crabmeat for that price.
There has been one change to the original recipe in that the dish was originally made with lump crabmeat. Today, Bayley uses claw meat— the darker, less attractive, less expensive alternative— instead of the all white crabmeat. Nevertheless, it tasted just like my mother’s West Indies Salad. She prepared hers from the “Jubilee” cookbook published by the Mobile Junior League.
Typically crabmeat, a delicate ingredient, is paired with similar delicate components. Not so with West Indies Salad. The crabmeat almost becomes a vessel to carry the onions and vinegar.
I was asked to speak on behalf of West Indies Salad at a recent Southern Foodways Symposium. I offered to bring a few gallons for all of the attendees to sample. Linda Nance, Purple Parrot Café Sous Chef, and I played around with Bayley’s original recipe trying to update and possibly upgrade the dish. His recipe calls for Wesson oil. We used all types of exotic and expensive olive oils and flavored oils. The results were good, but not necessarily an improvement on the original. Whereas the Bayley recipe called for cider vinegar, we also tried substituting boutique vinegars, to no avail. Ultimately we learned that if we wanted to serve West Indies Salad, we would need to follow the original recipe.
Bill Bayley’s West Indies Salad
1 lb. Fresh Lump Crabmeat
1 Medium Onion, chopped fine
4 oz. Wesson Oil
3 oz. Cider Vinegar
4 oz. Ice Water
Salt and Pepper to taste
Combine all ingredients and gently toss. Refrigerate for several hours.
Crabmeat Martini
1/4 cup Red onion, small dice
1 lb Jumbo lump crabmeat (gently picked of all shell)
2/3 cup Lemon-flavored salad oil
2 Tbl Olive oil (not extra virgin)
1 1/2 tsp Absolut Citron Vodka (optional)
1/2 cup White balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup Ice cold water
1 teaspoon Salt
1 teaspoon Freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon Hot Sauce
2 teaspoons Cilantro, chopped fine
2 teaspoons Parsley
In a large mixing bowl, combine all ingredients and gently toss with a rubber spatula. Be careful not to break up any of the lumps of crabmeat. Cover and store in refrigerator 12 hours (toss every hour or so) to let flavors marry. Gently turn over just before serving, as the lemon vinaigrette will separate.
Divide crabmeat mixture between 4 lettuce-lined martini glasses. Drizzle excess vinaigrette over the crabmeat to wet the lettuce. Garnish with a rosemary skewered olive for a light and cool first course or double the recipe and serve on a lettuce-lined plate for a luncheon salad.
Serve the leftovers in a decorative bowl on the coffee table to be spooned atop your favorite cracker.
Yield: 6 servings, appetizer
4 servings, salad
One of the most popular crabmeat recipes in the Gulf Coast region is West Indies Salad.
West Indies Salad, a cold hors d’ oeuvre usually spooned onto crackers, is a simple combination of lump crabmeat, onion, vinegar, oil, salt, and pepper. The dish was invented by the late restaurateur, Bill Bayley of Mobile, who has also been credited with the invention of fried crab claws. Bayley owned and operated Bayley’s Restaurant in Mobile which opened in the late 1940s.
Bayley, a former merchant marine— and a figure straight out of central casting if Hollywood was looking for stereotypical Southern café owner of that era— short, rotund, and never without a cigar, invented the dish while serving as a ship steward. As the legend goes, while Bayley’s ship was docked in a faraway port, he purchased a sack of lobsters and returned to the ship where he boiled them and added ingredients that were available: Oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper. A few years later, when he opened his Mobile restaurant, he remembered that dish, and since fresh lobster wasn’t available in Lower Alabama, he substituted crabmeat. The port where he originally purchased the lobsters was in the West Indies, hence the name, West Indies Salad.
That is the story according to some accounts. Another version states that Bayley always liked the oil and vinegar based onion-cucumber salad that is served in a lot of Southern seafood houses. He simply substituted crabmeat for cucumber and a legend was born.
I like the first version, and I’ll choose to believe that one. Some things just taste better when there’s an interesting story attached.
Whatever the origin, the salad put Bayley’s restaurant on the map and for years the cigar-chomping restaurateur was asked to serve his specialty from Mobile to Montgomery to Washington D.C. The restaurant closed for a period, but Bayley’s son, Bill Bayley Jr., reopened the historic establishment and has been doing great business ever since.
Last week I ate at Bayley’s restaurant. It’s a simple, but clean, porcelain-coated concrete block building on the Dauphin Island Parkway in a part of town called Bayley’s Corner. The original restaurant was located next door.
The West Indies Salad at Bayley’s is served by the pint (12.95) or by the quart (17.95) and arrives to the table in a large bowl to be shared, family style. My group of eight ordered a quart and had trouble eating all of it. It looked like a lot more than a quart and I have no idea how they are making any profit by serving that much crabmeat for that price.
There has been one change to the original recipe in that the dish was originally made with lump crabmeat. Today, Bayley uses claw meat— the darker, less attractive, less expensive alternative— instead of the all white crabmeat. Nevertheless, it tasted just like my mother’s West Indies Salad. She prepared hers from the “Jubilee” cookbook published by the Mobile Junior League.
Typically crabmeat, a delicate ingredient, is paired with similar delicate components. Not so with West Indies Salad. The crabmeat almost becomes a vessel to carry the onions and vinegar.
I was asked to speak on behalf of West Indies Salad at a recent Southern Foodways Symposium. I offered to bring a few gallons for all of the attendees to sample. Linda Nance, Purple Parrot Café Sous Chef, and I played around with Bayley’s original recipe trying to update and possibly upgrade the dish. His recipe calls for Wesson oil. We used all types of exotic and expensive olive oils and flavored oils. The results were good, but not necessarily an improvement on the original. Whereas the Bayley recipe called for cider vinegar, we also tried substituting boutique vinegars, to no avail. Ultimately we learned that if we wanted to serve West Indies Salad, we would need to follow the original recipe.
Bill Bayley’s West Indies Salad
1 lb. Fresh Lump Crabmeat
1 Medium Onion, chopped fine
4 oz. Wesson Oil
3 oz. Cider Vinegar
4 oz. Ice Water
Salt and Pepper to taste
Combine all ingredients and gently toss. Refrigerate for several hours.
Crabmeat Martini
1/4 cup Red onion, small dice
1 lb Jumbo lump crabmeat (gently picked of all shell)
2/3 cup Lemon-flavored salad oil
2 Tbl Olive oil (not extra virgin)
1 1/2 tsp Absolut Citron Vodka (optional)
1/2 cup White balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup Ice cold water
1 teaspoon Salt
1 teaspoon Freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon Hot Sauce
2 teaspoons Cilantro, chopped fine
2 teaspoons Parsley
In a large mixing bowl, combine all ingredients and gently toss with a rubber spatula. Be careful not to break up any of the lumps of crabmeat. Cover and store in refrigerator 12 hours (toss every hour or so) to let flavors marry. Gently turn over just before serving, as the lemon vinaigrette will separate.
Divide crabmeat mixture between 4 lettuce-lined martini glasses. Drizzle excess vinaigrette over the crabmeat to wet the lettuce. Garnish with a rosemary skewered olive for a light and cool first course or double the recipe and serve on a lettuce-lined plate for a luncheon salad.
Serve the leftovers in a decorative bowl on the coffee table to be spooned atop your favorite cracker.
Yield: 6 servings, appetizer
4 servings, salad
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Long Forgotten Nest
Recent book business took me and my family to the Mississippi Gulf Coast.
While riding down Beach Boulevard and lamenting the loss of so many beautiful and historic homes and classic Coast restaurants I developed a craving for seafood.
In the past, when eating seafood on the coast, I stick with one of the old-line seafood restaurants of the broiled-flounder variety. I have fond memories of spending summers on the Gulf Coast in the days where fried shrimp served by a waitress was a treat. I ate my first raw oyster at Baricev’s. My first fried oyster, too.
They’re all gone. All of them. What the casinos didn’t purchase, Katrina washed away.
My best option was McElroy’s in Ocean Springs. I had eaten often at the McElroys when it was located at the Biloxi Small Craft Harbor— and even though they’re in a new building— they might be the last of the old-line seafood restaurants still standing.
On our way in, I was having a discussion with my five-year old son about fish sticks. I don’t remember how we got on the subject, but he had never seen or eaten a fish stick. I hadn’t seen or eaten a fish stick since the Nixon administration, but they were a staple in my home as a kid.
Fish sticks were fresh on my mind, and with a slight melancholy over the loss of the historic Coast restaurants of my youth, I ordered fried red snapper. When the waitress asked which side order I would like, I asked, “What are my options?”
The standard reply of, “Baked potato and French fries” was delivered, and then she threw in another option, “…or English peas.”
English peas? At an old-line Coast seafood restaurant? I never remember eating English peas at a seafood restaurant as a kid. I ate them at home all of the time. Did the recent spinach crisis have something to do with this particular option being offered as a side item?
I love English peas. I never eat them, anymore, mainly because my wife hates them and refuses to buy them. Therefore, my kids haven’t grown up eating them. English peas, you say? Why yes, and throw in a baked potato, too.
When the food arrived, I added butter, sour cream, salt, and pepper to my baked potato and mashed it inside the skin. The potatoes were sitting next to my small bowl of English peas. I took a bite of potato, then a bite of peas, another bite of potato, and another bite of peas. Before long, I scooted my pea bowl as close as I could get to the baked potato on the plate and took a bite of potato and a bite of peas at the same time. Ah, the taste of my youth.
Eventually, I broke down and added my English peas to my mashed-up baked potato. My children looked at me like I had grown a third eye.
The one thing that was well-known in my family when I was young was that Robert liked his English peas in a nest of mashed potatoes. That combination represented one of the few vegetables that I would eat. I remember my grandmother telling me that my dad liked them that way. I didn’t know my father, and I suspect that is the reason that I always ate English peas in a nest of mashed potatoes. Sunday night at the St. John’s circa 1968: Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color, Ed Sullivan, Bonanza, fish sticks, and English peas in a nest of mashed potatoes.
At formal luncheons or dinners, others would eat rice and asparagus, but you could guarantee, I would be eating English peas and mashed potatoes. Simple, pure, youthful.
Currently, in my restaurants we are serving crispy eggplant ratatouille, black-eyed pea and banana-pepper relish, roasted-garlic flan, and tri-colored orzo pasta with mirliton and cilantro. This summer I ate dozens of expensive, complicated, and exotic vegetable pairings at restaurants from New York to San Francisco. All of the aforementioned vegetables might pale in comparison to my first English pea-mashed potato nest in the last 25 years.
Sitting in McElroy’s Seafood Restaurant, I felt like I was back in elementary school— Fried fish, mashed potatoes, and English peas, except with a view of the Back Bay in Ocean Springs. My wife just doesn’t know what she’s missing.
Mashed Potatoes
3 lbs Idaho potatoes, peeled and cut into quarters
2 Tbl. Salt
1 gallon Water
1 /2 cup Butter, cold
8 ounces Cream cheese, softened
1 cup Half and half, hot
1 1 /2 tsp. Salt
1 tsp Black pepper
In a large saucepot add potatoes and salted water. Cook at a low simmer to avoid potatoes breaking apart. When the potatoes are tender, carefully drain. Return potatoes to dry pot and place over heat for one to two minutes to remove all moisture.
Place potatoes a mixing bowl. Using a hand-held potato masher, mash the potatoes. Add cold butter as you begin to mash. Next, add cream cheese and mix until melted. Stir in the half and half, salt and pepper. Potatoes may be covered tightly and held in warm place for one hour before serving. Yield: 10 servings
Recent book business took me and my family to the Mississippi Gulf Coast.
While riding down Beach Boulevard and lamenting the loss of so many beautiful and historic homes and classic Coast restaurants I developed a craving for seafood.
In the past, when eating seafood on the coast, I stick with one of the old-line seafood restaurants of the broiled-flounder variety. I have fond memories of spending summers on the Gulf Coast in the days where fried shrimp served by a waitress was a treat. I ate my first raw oyster at Baricev’s. My first fried oyster, too.
They’re all gone. All of them. What the casinos didn’t purchase, Katrina washed away.
My best option was McElroy’s in Ocean Springs. I had eaten often at the McElroys when it was located at the Biloxi Small Craft Harbor— and even though they’re in a new building— they might be the last of the old-line seafood restaurants still standing.
On our way in, I was having a discussion with my five-year old son about fish sticks. I don’t remember how we got on the subject, but he had never seen or eaten a fish stick. I hadn’t seen or eaten a fish stick since the Nixon administration, but they were a staple in my home as a kid.
Fish sticks were fresh on my mind, and with a slight melancholy over the loss of the historic Coast restaurants of my youth, I ordered fried red snapper. When the waitress asked which side order I would like, I asked, “What are my options?”
The standard reply of, “Baked potato and French fries” was delivered, and then she threw in another option, “…or English peas.”
English peas? At an old-line Coast seafood restaurant? I never remember eating English peas at a seafood restaurant as a kid. I ate them at home all of the time. Did the recent spinach crisis have something to do with this particular option being offered as a side item?
I love English peas. I never eat them, anymore, mainly because my wife hates them and refuses to buy them. Therefore, my kids haven’t grown up eating them. English peas, you say? Why yes, and throw in a baked potato, too.
When the food arrived, I added butter, sour cream, salt, and pepper to my baked potato and mashed it inside the skin. The potatoes were sitting next to my small bowl of English peas. I took a bite of potato, then a bite of peas, another bite of potato, and another bite of peas. Before long, I scooted my pea bowl as close as I could get to the baked potato on the plate and took a bite of potato and a bite of peas at the same time. Ah, the taste of my youth.
Eventually, I broke down and added my English peas to my mashed-up baked potato. My children looked at me like I had grown a third eye.
The one thing that was well-known in my family when I was young was that Robert liked his English peas in a nest of mashed potatoes. That combination represented one of the few vegetables that I would eat. I remember my grandmother telling me that my dad liked them that way. I didn’t know my father, and I suspect that is the reason that I always ate English peas in a nest of mashed potatoes. Sunday night at the St. John’s circa 1968: Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color, Ed Sullivan, Bonanza, fish sticks, and English peas in a nest of mashed potatoes.
At formal luncheons or dinners, others would eat rice and asparagus, but you could guarantee, I would be eating English peas and mashed potatoes. Simple, pure, youthful.
Currently, in my restaurants we are serving crispy eggplant ratatouille, black-eyed pea and banana-pepper relish, roasted-garlic flan, and tri-colored orzo pasta with mirliton and cilantro. This summer I ate dozens of expensive, complicated, and exotic vegetable pairings at restaurants from New York to San Francisco. All of the aforementioned vegetables might pale in comparison to my first English pea-mashed potato nest in the last 25 years.
Sitting in McElroy’s Seafood Restaurant, I felt like I was back in elementary school— Fried fish, mashed potatoes, and English peas, except with a view of the Back Bay in Ocean Springs. My wife just doesn’t know what she’s missing.
Mashed Potatoes
3 lbs Idaho potatoes, peeled and cut into quarters
2 Tbl. Salt
1 gallon Water
1 /2 cup Butter, cold
8 ounces Cream cheese, softened
1 cup Half and half, hot
1 1 /2 tsp. Salt
1 tsp Black pepper
In a large saucepot add potatoes and salted water. Cook at a low simmer to avoid potatoes breaking apart. When the potatoes are tender, carefully drain. Return potatoes to dry pot and place over heat for one to two minutes to remove all moisture.
Place potatoes a mixing bowl. Using a hand-held potato masher, mash the potatoes. Add cold butter as you begin to mash. Next, add cream cheese and mix until melted. Stir in the half and half, salt and pepper. Potatoes may be covered tightly and held in warm place for one hour before serving. Yield: 10 servings
Monday, October 09, 2006
Winsor Court After the Flood
New Orleans’ Windsor Court Hotel opened in the early1980s around the time the World’s Fair came to town.
From day one, Windsor Court has been consistently listed among the top hotels in the world. It has garnered more awards and more acclaim than any other hotel in New Orleans, and probably more than any hotel in the South. In 2001, Conde Nast Traveler listed Windsor Court as the “Number Two Hotel in the U.S.” Every reputable travel publication has— at one time or another— listed the Windsor Court among the nation’s best hotels.
My wife and I have traveled often— 90 miles to the southeast of our home— for a getaway weekend. The service at the hotel has always been impeccable.
One of the aspects of the Windsor Court’s service that always impressed me was the name-recall ability of the staff. Once a guest checked in— anytime a member of the staff passed you in the hallway, opened the front door for you, or gave you directions at the concierge desk— the staff was able to call you by name. It was amazing. I never figured how they did it.
The rooms were plush, the bathrooms were adorned with marble, the towels were soft and thick, and the bedding was plush and comfortable. Over the years, I have run into Elton John, Eric Clapton, and several other high-profile celebrities and politicians in the lobby.
The restaurant at the Windsor Court— The Grill Room— was, at one time, listed as the top restaurant in New Orleans. In the early 1990s, when Kevin Graham was manning the stoves, the dining room was hard to beat. At that time, the food Graham was preparing was on a much higher level than most of the other restaurants in New Orleans.
I have just returned from a weekend at Windsor Court, my first since the New Orleans levee system failed after Katrina blew through Mississippi.
told that there were still several FEMA employees staying on the government’s tab.
The Windsor Court isn’t the hotel it used to be, but it’s not too far off. The problem is the lack of available labor. A recent Washington Post article stated, “The population of 187,525 is about 41 percent of the 454,000 people estimated to be living in Orleans Parish before the storm hit Aug. 29, 2005.”
The population of New Orleans was 191,000 in 1870. It’s going to be a long time before the city reaches the pre-storm level of service personnel. Immediately after the levees broke, Burger King restaurants were offering potential employees a $6,000.00 signing bonus and still not able to fully staff their restaurants.
On this recent visit to Windsor Court, there were noticeable problems that never would have been visible two years ago— mold on the ceiling of the room and above the shower, dirty silverware, and cheap, thin towels. Nevertheless, the service was close to what guests have come to expect.
The bellman who brought our luggage to the room was the same man who served our brunch the next day. I don’t know this for a fact, but I got the impression that the hotel is severely understaffed and running on a skeleton crew. Nevertheless, the workers who are there and in the trenches are working with the same commitment to exceptional service that has always marked the Windsor Court.
The hotel was fully booked that weekend, but the dining room was virtually empty for brunch. The food was not the food of the 1990s, but everyone in New Orleans deserves a pass these days.
In the larger scheme of things, the quality of food and service at a luxury hotel doesn’t matter much when people have lost their homes and all of their belongings. Nowadays, the Windsor Court Hotel is no different than all of the other businesses in the Crescent City— just taking it day to day, trying to patch holes in employee scheduling, hanging by a string until the convention trade returns, and hoping that one day soon life will return to some semblance of the days before August 29, 2005.
Sweet Potato Nachos
This recipe has the perfect blend of flavors, colors and textures. Make sure that the chips are fried crispy. Floppy chips can’t hold the topping.
1 large sweet potato, sliced into very thin potato chip-like circles
Peanut oil for frying
1 cup Boursin cheese (recipe listed below)
1 /2 cup pecan pieces, toasted
1 /2 cup roasted red peppers, cut into 1 ½-long strips
1 TBL fresh chives, chopped
Preheat oil to 325 degrees.
Fry the sweet potato chips six to seven at a time. Move chips often and cook to a light brown color.
Drain onto paper towels.
Preheat oven to 325.
Once drained, place the chips on a baking sheet. Top each slice with 2 teaspoons boursin cheese and 3 strips of roasted pepper. Bake three minutes.
Sprinkle with toasted pecans and chives and serve immediately.
Boursin Cheese
This is the recipe we serve in the Crescent City Grill. In addition to being a good spread for crackers, it can also be used to stuff mushroom caps, and as a filling for miniature puff pastry turnovers.
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 Tbl salted butter, softened
1 /2 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 /4 tsp Minced garlic
1 /8 tsp thyme, oregano rosemary, chives, basil, dill, sage
1 tsp fresh parsley, chopped fine
2 Tbl half and half
1 tsp sherry vinegar
1 /4 tsp Worcestershire sauce
1 /3 cup sour cream
Place all ingredients in the bowl of an electric mixer. Using the paddle attachment, beat on high speed until all ingredients are well incorporated, scraping sides of the bowl occasionally to ensure all ingredients are combined.
Yield: 2 cups
New Orleans’ Windsor Court Hotel opened in the early1980s around the time the World’s Fair came to town.
From day one, Windsor Court has been consistently listed among the top hotels in the world. It has garnered more awards and more acclaim than any other hotel in New Orleans, and probably more than any hotel in the South. In 2001, Conde Nast Traveler listed Windsor Court as the “Number Two Hotel in the U.S.” Every reputable travel publication has— at one time or another— listed the Windsor Court among the nation’s best hotels.
My wife and I have traveled often— 90 miles to the southeast of our home— for a getaway weekend. The service at the hotel has always been impeccable.
One of the aspects of the Windsor Court’s service that always impressed me was the name-recall ability of the staff. Once a guest checked in— anytime a member of the staff passed you in the hallway, opened the front door for you, or gave you directions at the concierge desk— the staff was able to call you by name. It was amazing. I never figured how they did it.
The rooms were plush, the bathrooms were adorned with marble, the towels were soft and thick, and the bedding was plush and comfortable. Over the years, I have run into Elton John, Eric Clapton, and several other high-profile celebrities and politicians in the lobby.
The restaurant at the Windsor Court— The Grill Room— was, at one time, listed as the top restaurant in New Orleans. In the early 1990s, when Kevin Graham was manning the stoves, the dining room was hard to beat. At that time, the food Graham was preparing was on a much higher level than most of the other restaurants in New Orleans.
I have just returned from a weekend at Windsor Court, my first since the New Orleans levee system failed after Katrina blew through Mississippi.
told that there were still several FEMA employees staying on the government’s tab.
The Windsor Court isn’t the hotel it used to be, but it’s not too far off. The problem is the lack of available labor. A recent Washington Post article stated, “The population of 187,525 is about 41 percent of the 454,000 people estimated to be living in Orleans Parish before the storm hit Aug. 29, 2005.”
The population of New Orleans was 191,000 in 1870. It’s going to be a long time before the city reaches the pre-storm level of service personnel. Immediately after the levees broke, Burger King restaurants were offering potential employees a $6,000.00 signing bonus and still not able to fully staff their restaurants.
On this recent visit to Windsor Court, there were noticeable problems that never would have been visible two years ago— mold on the ceiling of the room and above the shower, dirty silverware, and cheap, thin towels. Nevertheless, the service was close to what guests have come to expect.
The bellman who brought our luggage to the room was the same man who served our brunch the next day. I don’t know this for a fact, but I got the impression that the hotel is severely understaffed and running on a skeleton crew. Nevertheless, the workers who are there and in the trenches are working with the same commitment to exceptional service that has always marked the Windsor Court.
The hotel was fully booked that weekend, but the dining room was virtually empty for brunch. The food was not the food of the 1990s, but everyone in New Orleans deserves a pass these days.
In the larger scheme of things, the quality of food and service at a luxury hotel doesn’t matter much when people have lost their homes and all of their belongings. Nowadays, the Windsor Court Hotel is no different than all of the other businesses in the Crescent City— just taking it day to day, trying to patch holes in employee scheduling, hanging by a string until the convention trade returns, and hoping that one day soon life will return to some semblance of the days before August 29, 2005.
Sweet Potato Nachos
This recipe has the perfect blend of flavors, colors and textures. Make sure that the chips are fried crispy. Floppy chips can’t hold the topping.
1 large sweet potato, sliced into very thin potato chip-like circles
Peanut oil for frying
1 cup Boursin cheese (recipe listed below)
1 /2 cup pecan pieces, toasted
1 /2 cup roasted red peppers, cut into 1 ½-long strips
1 TBL fresh chives, chopped
Preheat oil to 325 degrees.
Fry the sweet potato chips six to seven at a time. Move chips often and cook to a light brown color.
Drain onto paper towels.
Preheat oven to 325.
Once drained, place the chips on a baking sheet. Top each slice with 2 teaspoons boursin cheese and 3 strips of roasted pepper. Bake three minutes.
Sprinkle with toasted pecans and chives and serve immediately.
Boursin Cheese
This is the recipe we serve in the Crescent City Grill. In addition to being a good spread for crackers, it can also be used to stuff mushroom caps, and as a filling for miniature puff pastry turnovers.
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 Tbl salted butter, softened
1 /2 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 /4 tsp Minced garlic
1 /8 tsp thyme, oregano rosemary, chives, basil, dill, sage
1 tsp fresh parsley, chopped fine
2 Tbl half and half
1 tsp sherry vinegar
1 /4 tsp Worcestershire sauce
1 /3 cup sour cream
Place all ingredients in the bowl of an electric mixer. Using the paddle attachment, beat on high speed until all ingredients are well incorporated, scraping sides of the bowl occasionally to ensure all ingredients are combined.
Yield: 2 cups
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Destin Lament
DESTIN, Fla— Two fellow Mississippians, Jimmy Buffett and Mac McAnally, wrote a song about being down in this part of the country during the off-season: The Coast Is Clear.
Twenty years ago when I first heard the song, I couldn’t relate to it. I thought, that’s just two old guys who don’t like to be around the action any more. I was living here in Destin at the time, and could imagine how boring it must be when the crowds are gone. I was young and foolish.
Today I assume my official role as one of the old guys who doesn’t like to be around the action anymore. This is a beautiful time to be in this part of the country. No crowds on the beaches, cooler weather, no traffic, lower rates, no long waits in restaurants, did I mention cooler weather?
I am here to celebrate my 45th birthday (I told you I was one of the old guys), and to get a little rest before the release of my next book and subsequent promotional tour.
Every time I am in this part of the country, the romantic in me sadly reminds me of what this area was like 35 years ago, and I lament the loss of the quaint fishing village with miles of unspoiled beaches. I long for the days of no high-rise condominiums or sprawling strip malls serving up the same tired retailers one sees in the suburbs of Everytown U.S.A. Although being here in October seems a little closer to “The good old days” (you see, I’m sounding like an old man already).
The redfish are biting and the seafood is plentiful. I almost ate my weight in steamed crab last night. One of the benefits of so-called “progress” is the proliferation of good restaurants. The restaurant Fish Out of Water at Watercolor is performing on a higher level than most. I still love Bud and Alley’s at Seaside, and Harbor Docks— where I worked during one of my extended stays here— is as solid as ever.
The new fine dining places are great, and those who know me know I love to eat that type food. Though I also like the old-line restaurants, the ones that remind me of what this place was like 35 years ago. The places my parents, and my parents friends took me in the days when getting to eat a plate of fried shrimp was a rare treat. The one place I keep returning to when I visit this area is Bayou Bill’s on U.S. 98.
During the summer, the crowds at Bayou Bill’s are enormous. They are lined up in the parking lot before the restaurant opens, and once the doors are unlocked; the restaurant fills up immediately, and stays on a wait all night long.
Two nights ago, at 7:30 p.m., we walked right in, and I subsequently began to eat my weight in steamed crab.
Last night we were dining in one of the trendy restaurants-of-the-moment and the Destin lament struck me again: It’s a shame we can’t have the restaurant growth and leave everything else the same.
From now on, I think I’ll take Mr. Buffett and Mr. McAnally’s advice:
The tourist traps are empty, vacancy abounds
It’s almost like it used to be before the circus came to town
That’s when it always happens, same time every year
I come down to talk to me, when the coast is clear
Yellowfin Tuna Tartar with Avocado Relish
The ingredients must be fresh. Do not substitute. You won’t be sorry. A true crowd pleaser with a lot of “Wow” appeal.
1 /4 cup minced green onion
1 tsp fresh minced ginger
2 Tbl chopped cilantro
2 Tbl toasted sesame seeds
1 Tbl sesame oil
1 tsp fish sauce
1 /2 tsp hot sauce
2 Tbl soy sauce
1 tsp honey
1 tsp sherry
1 tsp rice vinegar
2 Tbl cottonseed oil
1 /2 pound fresh Yellowfin tuna, small dice
Combine all ingredients except for Yellowfin tuna and blend well. Diced tuna should be added to sesame seed mixture just before serving.
Avocado Relish
1 Tbl fresh lime juice
1 tsp cottonseed oil (or canola oil)
1 tsp sesame seed oil
1 /4 tsp garlic, minced
1 TBSP red onion, finely diced
1 tsp fresh chopped parley
2 tsp red bell pepper, small diced
1 medium sized ripe avocado
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper
Combine first seven ingredients and blend well. Quickly fold the avocado. If making in advance, place the seed in the relish and press plastic wrap directly on to the relish, sealing it off from any air exposure. Refrigerate.
5 sheets fresh egg roll wrappers to make wonton crackers
Using a cookie cutter, cut 2 1 /2-inch circles into the center of egg roll wrappers. Fry according to the package directions.
To serve, place 1 1 /2 tsp of the tartar mixture and 1 tsp avocado relish on the wonton crackers.
Yield: 25-30
DESTIN, Fla— Two fellow Mississippians, Jimmy Buffett and Mac McAnally, wrote a song about being down in this part of the country during the off-season: The Coast Is Clear.
Twenty years ago when I first heard the song, I couldn’t relate to it. I thought, that’s just two old guys who don’t like to be around the action any more. I was living here in Destin at the time, and could imagine how boring it must be when the crowds are gone. I was young and foolish.
Today I assume my official role as one of the old guys who doesn’t like to be around the action anymore. This is a beautiful time to be in this part of the country. No crowds on the beaches, cooler weather, no traffic, lower rates, no long waits in restaurants, did I mention cooler weather?
I am here to celebrate my 45th birthday (I told you I was one of the old guys), and to get a little rest before the release of my next book and subsequent promotional tour.
Every time I am in this part of the country, the romantic in me sadly reminds me of what this area was like 35 years ago, and I lament the loss of the quaint fishing village with miles of unspoiled beaches. I long for the days of no high-rise condominiums or sprawling strip malls serving up the same tired retailers one sees in the suburbs of Everytown U.S.A. Although being here in October seems a little closer to “The good old days” (you see, I’m sounding like an old man already).
The redfish are biting and the seafood is plentiful. I almost ate my weight in steamed crab last night. One of the benefits of so-called “progress” is the proliferation of good restaurants. The restaurant Fish Out of Water at Watercolor is performing on a higher level than most. I still love Bud and Alley’s at Seaside, and Harbor Docks— where I worked during one of my extended stays here— is as solid as ever.
The new fine dining places are great, and those who know me know I love to eat that type food. Though I also like the old-line restaurants, the ones that remind me of what this place was like 35 years ago. The places my parents, and my parents friends took me in the days when getting to eat a plate of fried shrimp was a rare treat. The one place I keep returning to when I visit this area is Bayou Bill’s on U.S. 98.
During the summer, the crowds at Bayou Bill’s are enormous. They are lined up in the parking lot before the restaurant opens, and once the doors are unlocked; the restaurant fills up immediately, and stays on a wait all night long.
Two nights ago, at 7:30 p.m., we walked right in, and I subsequently began to eat my weight in steamed crab.
Last night we were dining in one of the trendy restaurants-of-the-moment and the Destin lament struck me again: It’s a shame we can’t have the restaurant growth and leave everything else the same.
From now on, I think I’ll take Mr. Buffett and Mr. McAnally’s advice:
The tourist traps are empty, vacancy abounds
It’s almost like it used to be before the circus came to town
That’s when it always happens, same time every year
I come down to talk to me, when the coast is clear
Yellowfin Tuna Tartar with Avocado Relish
The ingredients must be fresh. Do not substitute. You won’t be sorry. A true crowd pleaser with a lot of “Wow” appeal.
1 /4 cup minced green onion
1 tsp fresh minced ginger
2 Tbl chopped cilantro
2 Tbl toasted sesame seeds
1 Tbl sesame oil
1 tsp fish sauce
1 /2 tsp hot sauce
2 Tbl soy sauce
1 tsp honey
1 tsp sherry
1 tsp rice vinegar
2 Tbl cottonseed oil
1 /2 pound fresh Yellowfin tuna, small dice
Combine all ingredients except for Yellowfin tuna and blend well. Diced tuna should be added to sesame seed mixture just before serving.
Avocado Relish
1 Tbl fresh lime juice
1 tsp cottonseed oil (or canola oil)
1 tsp sesame seed oil
1 /4 tsp garlic, minced
1 TBSP red onion, finely diced
1 tsp fresh chopped parley
2 tsp red bell pepper, small diced
1 medium sized ripe avocado
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper
Combine first seven ingredients and blend well. Quickly fold the avocado. If making in advance, place the seed in the relish and press plastic wrap directly on to the relish, sealing it off from any air exposure. Refrigerate.
5 sheets fresh egg roll wrappers to make wonton crackers
Using a cookie cutter, cut 2 1 /2-inch circles into the center of egg roll wrappers. Fry according to the package directions.
To serve, place 1 1 /2 tsp of the tartar mixture and 1 tsp avocado relish on the wonton crackers.
Yield: 25-30
Monday, September 25, 2006
After-School Snacks
One day last year, while my wife was out of town, I picked my daughter up from school.
On our way home we stopped by one of my restaurants to deliver some paperwork. While there, my daughter and I sat down in the dining room, shared a plate of French fries, and talked about school, church, work, and the joys of being a third grader. It was a spur-of-the-moment occasion and a good opportunity for a meaningful visit.
Last week, my daughter asked if I would pick her up from school again. “But what about your mom,” I said. “She’s not out of town and she always picks you up.” My wife usually bakes cookies for the kids after school while they do their homework.
“Dad, I want you to pick me up so we can go eat French fries again like we did last year.”
Wow. The first thing that hit me was that she remembered that afternoon. The second was that it had been over a year since the two of us sat down in my restaurant and shared a plate of fries.
Don’t get me wrong, I spend a lot of time with my children, but that time is usually spent with my wife and son, too, all of us together. It was a treat to have my daughter make the request and was even more special that we spent the time in the dining room of my restaurant.
I picked her up that afternoon and we sat at a small table upstairs with a full view of the dining room. We ordered fires and soft drinks. It was three in the afternoon and the lunch traffic in the restaurant had long since cleared. While she dipped her fries in a ramekin of bleu cheese dressing we overheard a manager interviewing a potential employee at the next table.
I took the opportunity to explain the job-interview process and what a potential employer looks for when hiring someone. I told her about the benefits of a higher education and the importance of graduate degrees, and then we played a game in which we interviewed each other.
Although most of the mock interviews were spent joking and making up funny backgrounds and personal histories, she was able to think on her feet and deliver some extremely creative answers.
As a kid I ate a lot of oatmeal after school. I made bowls of instant oatmeal, baked oatmeal cookies, ate oatmeal cream pies, and drank a lot of Hawaiian Punch. My father died when I was six and my mom was usually in school or teaching school. My after school snacks were usually eaten in front of the television or running out of the door on my way out to play neighborhood football.
I don’t know what it was about oatmeal and after school, but it— along with the occasional Milky Way bar— was my after-school snack of choice. In those days, French fries would have been a special occasion food.
Eating fries after school with my daughter was significant because the conversation was fun and the company was exceptional, but it was made even more special because she initiated it. We laughed, and ate, and enjoyed each other’s companionship. She picked up a few pointers on applying for a job and begrudgingly learned the benefits of a Masters Degree.
It’s good for a father to share a plate of fries with a daughter— for no other reason than to slow down and catch up— and if you can throw in a few laughs and a couple of life’s lessons at the same time, it will serve as a memorable and magical moment.
Sweet Potato Brownies
If you don’t like sweet potatoes, don’t worry, you’ll love these. If you don’t like brownies, have no fear, you’ll love these. If you like sweet potatoes and brownies… get ready for an amazing treat!
1 /2 pound butter
2 cups sugar
1 1 /2 cups flour
1 tsp Salt
4 eggs
2 tsp Vanilla
2 cups potatoes, grated
1 cups pecans, toasted
Preheat oven to 350.
In an electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add remaining ingredients in order, stirring after each is added.
Pour into a buttered and floured 9x12 inch baking sheet.
Bake for 30-40 minutes.
Allow brownies to cool completely before cutting.
Glaze
2 Tbl butter
1 /4 cup orange juice
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
Melt butter and add remaining ingredients. Let cool. Glaze brownies after they have been cut.
One day last year, while my wife was out of town, I picked my daughter up from school.
On our way home we stopped by one of my restaurants to deliver some paperwork. While there, my daughter and I sat down in the dining room, shared a plate of French fries, and talked about school, church, work, and the joys of being a third grader. It was a spur-of-the-moment occasion and a good opportunity for a meaningful visit.
Last week, my daughter asked if I would pick her up from school again. “But what about your mom,” I said. “She’s not out of town and she always picks you up.” My wife usually bakes cookies for the kids after school while they do their homework.
“Dad, I want you to pick me up so we can go eat French fries again like we did last year.”
Wow. The first thing that hit me was that she remembered that afternoon. The second was that it had been over a year since the two of us sat down in my restaurant and shared a plate of fries.
Don’t get me wrong, I spend a lot of time with my children, but that time is usually spent with my wife and son, too, all of us together. It was a treat to have my daughter make the request and was even more special that we spent the time in the dining room of my restaurant.
I picked her up that afternoon and we sat at a small table upstairs with a full view of the dining room. We ordered fires and soft drinks. It was three in the afternoon and the lunch traffic in the restaurant had long since cleared. While she dipped her fries in a ramekin of bleu cheese dressing we overheard a manager interviewing a potential employee at the next table.
I took the opportunity to explain the job-interview process and what a potential employer looks for when hiring someone. I told her about the benefits of a higher education and the importance of graduate degrees, and then we played a game in which we interviewed each other.
Although most of the mock interviews were spent joking and making up funny backgrounds and personal histories, she was able to think on her feet and deliver some extremely creative answers.
As a kid I ate a lot of oatmeal after school. I made bowls of instant oatmeal, baked oatmeal cookies, ate oatmeal cream pies, and drank a lot of Hawaiian Punch. My father died when I was six and my mom was usually in school or teaching school. My after school snacks were usually eaten in front of the television or running out of the door on my way out to play neighborhood football.
I don’t know what it was about oatmeal and after school, but it— along with the occasional Milky Way bar— was my after-school snack of choice. In those days, French fries would have been a special occasion food.
Eating fries after school with my daughter was significant because the conversation was fun and the company was exceptional, but it was made even more special because she initiated it. We laughed, and ate, and enjoyed each other’s companionship. She picked up a few pointers on applying for a job and begrudgingly learned the benefits of a Masters Degree.
It’s good for a father to share a plate of fries with a daughter— for no other reason than to slow down and catch up— and if you can throw in a few laughs and a couple of life’s lessons at the same time, it will serve as a memorable and magical moment.
Sweet Potato Brownies
If you don’t like sweet potatoes, don’t worry, you’ll love these. If you don’t like brownies, have no fear, you’ll love these. If you like sweet potatoes and brownies… get ready for an amazing treat!
1 /2 pound butter
2 cups sugar
1 1 /2 cups flour
1 tsp Salt
4 eggs
2 tsp Vanilla
2 cups potatoes, grated
1 cups pecans, toasted
Preheat oven to 350.
In an electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add remaining ingredients in order, stirring after each is added.
Pour into a buttered and floured 9x12 inch baking sheet.
Bake for 30-40 minutes.
Allow brownies to cool completely before cutting.
Glaze
2 Tbl butter
1 /4 cup orange juice
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
Melt butter and add remaining ingredients. Let cool. Glaze brownies after they have been cut.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Fall Peaches?
Is it fall yet?
I don’t know when the first official day of fall arrives, but around here, it doesn’t feel like “fall” until mid December. The first day of autumnal equinox is September 23. But on September 23 rd in South Mississippi it doesn’t feel much different than August 23 rd or July 23 rd for that matter.
Autumn is a term reserved for people who live in a part of the country where leaves turn brilliant shades of red, yellow, and orange. They wear wool sweaters in October; start worrying about when the first frost will arrive, and whether the snow blower needs a pre-season tune up.
We have no leaves. We have green pine needles which turn a dull and ugly brown. We use our lawnmowers into November, have no idea what frost looks like, and— with the exception of those attending an Ole Miss football game— our wool sweaters, skirts, and jackets stay packed in mothballs until they are ready to be pulled out for the two-week period in late January we call winter.
Autumn is a season that sounds cool and brisk. It was 92-degrees, yesterday. It has been said that South Mississippi has four seasons: almost summer, summer, still summer, and Christmas. I have friends who measure the seasons as: dove, deer, duck, and turkey. We badly want to have a fall in South Mississippi, though all we can really do is keep raking pine straw and reading Southern Living to find out when the leaves are at their peak in every other Zone but ours.
Our weather does have its advantages. I was traveling down U.S. 49 last week and noticed a sign at a fruit stand that advertised fresh “Tree-ripened peaches.” I wheeled in and checked out the newly arrived crop. When I asked the lady where they were picked, she said, “South Carolina.” I was expecting the typical off-season answer of California, Mexico, or South America.
To my knowledge, I had never eaten South Carolina peaches. As far as I was concerned, the summer peach season started with Chilton County, Alabama and later moved to Georgia where it ended. I guess it makes sense that the late season would keep the crop moving farther east into South Carolina.
I bought two baskets and dreamed of sliced peaches for breakfast.
I went to the South Carolina Department of Agriculture’s website to research South Carolina peaches, and learned more than I ever needed to know. They seem to resent Georgia’s peach popularity and don’t hide their discontent with statements such as: “South Carolina ranks # 3 nationally in fresh production. (At one time, one county in South Carolina could produce more commercially grown fresh peaches than the entire state of Georgia.” They have also adopted the motto “Tastier Peach State.” Talk about a chip on your shoulder.
Ultimately what I learned from this entire experience is that no matter where the peaches come from, unless you are buying them in late June, July or early August, they just don’t taste like summer, no matter how hot it is outside.
Miniature Fried Peach Pies
A true Southern dessert staple. These work well with apples, too.
Sweet Pie Dough:
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 1 /2 Tbl granulated sugar
1 /8 tsp salt
1 large egg
1 1 /2 cups all-purpose flour
2 Tbl ice water
Filling:
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 /2 pound frozen peaches, thawed, or 1 cups fresh peaches, small diced
3 Tbl granulated sugar
1 /4 cup peach jam or preserves
Pinch of ground cayenne pepper
1 tsp cinnamon
2 tsp corn starch
1 Tbl peach schnapps
1 Tbl sugar
1 /2 tsp cinnamon
Vegetable oil for deep frying
To prepare the pie dough, beat together the butter, sugar, and salt for three minutes on medium speed in the bowl of an electric mixer. Add egg and beat for 30 seconds. Add flour and water and beat for 15 seconds. Turn off the machine, scrape down the sides of the bowl, and beat again for 10 seconds.
Scoop up dough with your hands and form into a one-inch thick disk. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least one hour.
Melt butter over medium-high heat in a sauté pan. Sauté peaches and sugar until sugar is dissolved, approximately two minutes. Add the preserves, cayenne, and cinnamon; cook, stirring frequently, for 3 minutes.
Dissolve cornstarch in the schnapps and stir into hot peach mixture. Remove from heat and cool.
On a lightly floured surface, roll out dough into a 16 x 11-inch rectangle about 1 /8-inch thick. Cut out 3 1 /2-inch circles and place two teaspoons of filling in the center of each dough circle. Fold the circles in half and pinch the edges together. Refrigerate pies for 30 minutes before frying.
Heat 2 1/2 inches of vegetable oil to 350-degrees in a heavy four-quart saucepan. Fry pies 4 or 6 at a time until golden brown, 1 1/2 -2 minutes per batch. Drain on paper towels.
Keep warm in a 200-degree oven until all pies are fried. Serve immediately.
Yield: 24-26
From Robert's newly released Hyperion cookbook "Deep South Parties"
Is it fall yet?
I don’t know when the first official day of fall arrives, but around here, it doesn’t feel like “fall” until mid December. The first day of autumnal equinox is September 23. But on September 23 rd in South Mississippi it doesn’t feel much different than August 23 rd or July 23 rd for that matter.
Autumn is a term reserved for people who live in a part of the country where leaves turn brilliant shades of red, yellow, and orange. They wear wool sweaters in October; start worrying about when the first frost will arrive, and whether the snow blower needs a pre-season tune up.
We have no leaves. We have green pine needles which turn a dull and ugly brown. We use our lawnmowers into November, have no idea what frost looks like, and— with the exception of those attending an Ole Miss football game— our wool sweaters, skirts, and jackets stay packed in mothballs until they are ready to be pulled out for the two-week period in late January we call winter.
Autumn is a season that sounds cool and brisk. It was 92-degrees, yesterday. It has been said that South Mississippi has four seasons: almost summer, summer, still summer, and Christmas. I have friends who measure the seasons as: dove, deer, duck, and turkey. We badly want to have a fall in South Mississippi, though all we can really do is keep raking pine straw and reading Southern Living to find out when the leaves are at their peak in every other Zone but ours.
Our weather does have its advantages. I was traveling down U.S. 49 last week and noticed a sign at a fruit stand that advertised fresh “Tree-ripened peaches.” I wheeled in and checked out the newly arrived crop. When I asked the lady where they were picked, she said, “South Carolina.” I was expecting the typical off-season answer of California, Mexico, or South America.
To my knowledge, I had never eaten South Carolina peaches. As far as I was concerned, the summer peach season started with Chilton County, Alabama and later moved to Georgia where it ended. I guess it makes sense that the late season would keep the crop moving farther east into South Carolina.
I bought two baskets and dreamed of sliced peaches for breakfast.
I went to the South Carolina Department of Agriculture’s website to research South Carolina peaches, and learned more than I ever needed to know. They seem to resent Georgia’s peach popularity and don’t hide their discontent with statements such as: “South Carolina ranks # 3 nationally in fresh production. (At one time, one county in South Carolina could produce more commercially grown fresh peaches than the entire state of Georgia.” They have also adopted the motto “Tastier Peach State.” Talk about a chip on your shoulder.
Ultimately what I learned from this entire experience is that no matter where the peaches come from, unless you are buying them in late June, July or early August, they just don’t taste like summer, no matter how hot it is outside.
Miniature Fried Peach Pies
A true Southern dessert staple. These work well with apples, too.
Sweet Pie Dough:
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 1 /2 Tbl granulated sugar
1 /8 tsp salt
1 large egg
1 1 /2 cups all-purpose flour
2 Tbl ice water
Filling:
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 /2 pound frozen peaches, thawed, or 1 cups fresh peaches, small diced
3 Tbl granulated sugar
1 /4 cup peach jam or preserves
Pinch of ground cayenne pepper
1 tsp cinnamon
2 tsp corn starch
1 Tbl peach schnapps
1 Tbl sugar
1 /2 tsp cinnamon
Vegetable oil for deep frying
To prepare the pie dough, beat together the butter, sugar, and salt for three minutes on medium speed in the bowl of an electric mixer. Add egg and beat for 30 seconds. Add flour and water and beat for 15 seconds. Turn off the machine, scrape down the sides of the bowl, and beat again for 10 seconds.
Scoop up dough with your hands and form into a one-inch thick disk. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least one hour.
Melt butter over medium-high heat in a sauté pan. Sauté peaches and sugar until sugar is dissolved, approximately two minutes. Add the preserves, cayenne, and cinnamon; cook, stirring frequently, for 3 minutes.
Dissolve cornstarch in the schnapps and stir into hot peach mixture. Remove from heat and cool.
On a lightly floured surface, roll out dough into a 16 x 11-inch rectangle about 1 /8-inch thick. Cut out 3 1 /2-inch circles and place two teaspoons of filling in the center of each dough circle. Fold the circles in half and pinch the edges together. Refrigerate pies for 30 minutes before frying.
Heat 2 1/2 inches of vegetable oil to 350-degrees in a heavy four-quart saucepan. Fry pies 4 or 6 at a time until golden brown, 1 1/2 -2 minutes per batch. Drain on paper towels.
Keep warm in a 200-degree oven until all pies are fried. Serve immediately.
Yield: 24-26
From Robert's newly released Hyperion cookbook "Deep South Parties"
Monday, September 11, 2006
Benton’s Bacon is Best
I have discovered the world’s best bacon.
Chef John Besh, recently introduced me to Allan Benton’s bacon. Besh was introduced to the product through Chef John Fleer of Blackberry Farm in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, not too far from the smokehouse where Allan Benton does his magic.
Benton has been curing hams, bacon, and prosciutto for 33 years, though the business has been in operation in Madisonville, Tenn. for almost 60 years. Madisonville is located a few miles off of I-75 between Chattanooga and Knoxville and from this day forward will be known to me as the center of the porcine universe.
In 1947, a dairy farmer named Albert Hicks began curing hams and making bacon for his neighbors. In 1973, Benton, a former high school guidance counselor, purchased the business, and luckily for us, has been smoking and curing pork using the tried and true methods passed down from generations of Smoky Mountain farmers ever since.
Benton’s bacon is perfect. I am convinced that when God invented bacon, this is how He wanted it to taste. When I asked Benton why his bacon was so superior to the store-bought variety, he stated, “We do it like your grandparents would have done it. Like my grandfather did it, and like Albert Hicks did it.”
The country’s taste buds are waking up from a decade’s long dry spell. The heirloom vegetable movement is taking hold and the general public is beginning to recognize the impact of individual flavor on a dish. Today’s mass marketed tomatoes have been genetically altered over the years to have thicker skins so they will ship well, redder color so they will have more eye appeal, and grown to be picked early and ripened in a box on the way to the market, sacrificing taste at every alteration.
Bacon is the same. Mass produced commercial pork bellies are injected with brine in the packing house, flash-smoked in a smoke room, and— 24 hours later— are being packaged and shipped. It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s profitable, and the result tastes nothing like bacon did years ago.
The Allan Benton process for curing and smoking bacon takes time— a minimum of five weeks. First Benton mixes together a dry-rub blend of salt and brown sugar, rubs the pork bellies and stacks them in a 38-degree cooler for two weeks. Next he transfers the bellies to another cooler where they hang in a 45-degree environment for a week and a half. They are then moved to an aging room for two more weeks before they are taken to Benton’s smokehouse where they spend 48 hours in an intense billowing fog of thick hickory smoke.
“You wouldn’t believe how much smoke you can generate out of an old wood burning stove,” Benton says. I believe it because I have eaten the end result.
In the past few years Benton’s bacon has found a home in some of the finest restaurant kitchens from New York to Napa. “For years I thought I would starve,” Benton says, as he gives credit to Chef Fleer for introducing his product to top chefs around the country.
The operation is still small by most standards. Benton cures approximately 12,000 hams per year, smokes around 3,500 pounds of bacon each week, and produces a prosciutto that will rival any produced in Parma, Italy. The prosciutto is cured for 14-16 months and on occasion 18-22 months. “I like to cut the prosciutto into 1 /8 th inch strips and eat in on a sandwich,” Benton says.
He makes sausage, but doesn’t ship it retail like the bacon, ham, and prosciutto. I ordered bacon and ham last week and am going to have to place another order soon; it’s so good that I keep giving it away to my friends. Benton ships anywhere in the U.S. and the bacon keeps for up to four months in the refrigerator. Benton’s Smoky Mountain Country Hams: 423-442-5003 www.bentonshams.com .
I have discovered the world’s best bacon.
Chef John Besh, recently introduced me to Allan Benton’s bacon. Besh was introduced to the product through Chef John Fleer of Blackberry Farm in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, not too far from the smokehouse where Allan Benton does his magic.
Benton has been curing hams, bacon, and prosciutto for 33 years, though the business has been in operation in Madisonville, Tenn. for almost 60 years. Madisonville is located a few miles off of I-75 between Chattanooga and Knoxville and from this day forward will be known to me as the center of the porcine universe.
In 1947, a dairy farmer named Albert Hicks began curing hams and making bacon for his neighbors. In 1973, Benton, a former high school guidance counselor, purchased the business, and luckily for us, has been smoking and curing pork using the tried and true methods passed down from generations of Smoky Mountain farmers ever since.
Benton’s bacon is perfect. I am convinced that when God invented bacon, this is how He wanted it to taste. When I asked Benton why his bacon was so superior to the store-bought variety, he stated, “We do it like your grandparents would have done it. Like my grandfather did it, and like Albert Hicks did it.”
The country’s taste buds are waking up from a decade’s long dry spell. The heirloom vegetable movement is taking hold and the general public is beginning to recognize the impact of individual flavor on a dish. Today’s mass marketed tomatoes have been genetically altered over the years to have thicker skins so they will ship well, redder color so they will have more eye appeal, and grown to be picked early and ripened in a box on the way to the market, sacrificing taste at every alteration.
Bacon is the same. Mass produced commercial pork bellies are injected with brine in the packing house, flash-smoked in a smoke room, and— 24 hours later— are being packaged and shipped. It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s profitable, and the result tastes nothing like bacon did years ago.
The Allan Benton process for curing and smoking bacon takes time— a minimum of five weeks. First Benton mixes together a dry-rub blend of salt and brown sugar, rubs the pork bellies and stacks them in a 38-degree cooler for two weeks. Next he transfers the bellies to another cooler where they hang in a 45-degree environment for a week and a half. They are then moved to an aging room for two more weeks before they are taken to Benton’s smokehouse where they spend 48 hours in an intense billowing fog of thick hickory smoke.
“You wouldn’t believe how much smoke you can generate out of an old wood burning stove,” Benton says. I believe it because I have eaten the end result.
In the past few years Benton’s bacon has found a home in some of the finest restaurant kitchens from New York to Napa. “For years I thought I would starve,” Benton says, as he gives credit to Chef Fleer for introducing his product to top chefs around the country.
The operation is still small by most standards. Benton cures approximately 12,000 hams per year, smokes around 3,500 pounds of bacon each week, and produces a prosciutto that will rival any produced in Parma, Italy. The prosciutto is cured for 14-16 months and on occasion 18-22 months. “I like to cut the prosciutto into 1 /8 th inch strips and eat in on a sandwich,” Benton says.
He makes sausage, but doesn’t ship it retail like the bacon, ham, and prosciutto. I ordered bacon and ham last week and am going to have to place another order soon; it’s so good that I keep giving it away to my friends. Benton ships anywhere in the U.S. and the bacon keeps for up to four months in the refrigerator. Benton’s Smoky Mountain Country Hams: 423-442-5003 www.bentonshams.com .
Monday, September 04, 2006
One Year Later
I spent the one-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina with my friend and noted New Orleans chef, John Besh.
We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner while filming a television program. Besh cooked breakfast at his home in Slidell, took us to lunch at Café Reconcile, and finished the program with a nine-course feast at his flagship establishment, Restaurant August.
One year earlier, Besh was riding out the storm in his restaurant on Tchoupitoulas Street in New Orleans. The next day he headed into Mississippi, chainsaw in hand, to look for supplies. Back in New Orleans two days after the storm he commandeered a boat, fired up a makeshift cooking station using a propane-fueled crawfish boiler and delivered red beans and rice by boat as he and a co-worker paddled around New Orleans rescuing people from their homes. A rescue mission with food— that’s pure Besh.
The 38-year old Besh is one of the unsung heroes of Katrina. A former member of the U.S. Marines and a Gulf War veteran, he worked under battlefield conditions to be the first white tablecloth restaurant to reopen in New Orleans, all the while feeding over 1,200 displaced people breakfast, lunch, and dinner seven days a week.
What endears me to Besh is that, with his talent, knowledge, and skill set, he has every right in the world to be haughty and arrogant, yet he is the last who would ever be so. As the days drift away from August 29 th, 2005, I continue to discover stories of his heroism and bravery, but always from others. Besh would never focus on any of his accomplishments in the course of an everyday conversation, and would actually go to great pains to steer the dialogue in another direction.
Besh welcomed us into his home that day and, as the cameras rolled, cooked breakfast from the hip— nothing planned, nothing pre-cooked, a pure unadulterated case of winging it. It would be one of the more memorable breakfasts I have eaten.
He chopped onions, bell pepper, and celery and sautéed them in a skillet with a little bacon fat. Next he added garlic and a few seasonings. He then pulled out two of the sweetest tasting heirloom tomatoes I have ever eaten, chopped them, and added them to the pot. It wasn’t until then that we realized that breakfast was heading in an etouffee-like direction. He cooked a simple pot of grits and then pulled a plate of crawfish from the refrigerator. The main course was crawfish etouffee and grits topped with a fried egg. He prepared homemade biscuits and served preserves made from the fruit trees in his backyard. A highlight of the meal was a small plate that held house-made sausage from August and a few pieces of Allan Benton’s bacon shipped in from Madisonville, Tennessee.
Not to the reader: If you take nothing else away from this column, go to the website: www.bentonshams.com and order some of Allan Benton’s smoked country bacon. It is by far the best bacon I have ever eaten, hands down, bar none, end of story.
For lunch we traveled to Café Reconcile, a non-profit restaurant formed to teach at-risk youth a trade and life skills. There we ate fried catfish and a beautifully prepared shrimp and okra dish.
The dinner at August was— as all dinners at August are— amazing. Besh sent out nine courses of culinary brilliance. No one in the entire South is performing on a higher level than John Besh, post Katrina. He purchased the restaurant from his former partner a few weeks before the storm hit and, with his name now on the note at the bank, saw New Orleans’ long-standing convention business dry up overnight. Most chefs would have thrown in the side towel. Not Besh, he stepped it up a level and won the James Beard Foundation’s award for Best Chef Southeast (for those unfamiliar with Beard Awards, if Besh would have been in the movie trade, his mantle would now be sporting an Oscar).
John Besh and the restaurants of New Orleans came through after Katrina. They rescued us, they fed us, they sheltered us, and they performed one of the most important functions in the post-Katrina environment— giving us a sense of normalcy, and a look into the days when New Orleans was truly the city that care forgot.
I spent the one-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina with my friend and noted New Orleans chef, John Besh.
We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner while filming a television program. Besh cooked breakfast at his home in Slidell, took us to lunch at Café Reconcile, and finished the program with a nine-course feast at his flagship establishment, Restaurant August.
One year earlier, Besh was riding out the storm in his restaurant on Tchoupitoulas Street in New Orleans. The next day he headed into Mississippi, chainsaw in hand, to look for supplies. Back in New Orleans two days after the storm he commandeered a boat, fired up a makeshift cooking station using a propane-fueled crawfish boiler and delivered red beans and rice by boat as he and a co-worker paddled around New Orleans rescuing people from their homes. A rescue mission with food— that’s pure Besh.
The 38-year old Besh is one of the unsung heroes of Katrina. A former member of the U.S. Marines and a Gulf War veteran, he worked under battlefield conditions to be the first white tablecloth restaurant to reopen in New Orleans, all the while feeding over 1,200 displaced people breakfast, lunch, and dinner seven days a week.
What endears me to Besh is that, with his talent, knowledge, and skill set, he has every right in the world to be haughty and arrogant, yet he is the last who would ever be so. As the days drift away from August 29 th, 2005, I continue to discover stories of his heroism and bravery, but always from others. Besh would never focus on any of his accomplishments in the course of an everyday conversation, and would actually go to great pains to steer the dialogue in another direction.
Besh welcomed us into his home that day and, as the cameras rolled, cooked breakfast from the hip— nothing planned, nothing pre-cooked, a pure unadulterated case of winging it. It would be one of the more memorable breakfasts I have eaten.
He chopped onions, bell pepper, and celery and sautéed them in a skillet with a little bacon fat. Next he added garlic and a few seasonings. He then pulled out two of the sweetest tasting heirloom tomatoes I have ever eaten, chopped them, and added them to the pot. It wasn’t until then that we realized that breakfast was heading in an etouffee-like direction. He cooked a simple pot of grits and then pulled a plate of crawfish from the refrigerator. The main course was crawfish etouffee and grits topped with a fried egg. He prepared homemade biscuits and served preserves made from the fruit trees in his backyard. A highlight of the meal was a small plate that held house-made sausage from August and a few pieces of Allan Benton’s bacon shipped in from Madisonville, Tennessee.
Not to the reader: If you take nothing else away from this column, go to the website: www.bentonshams.com and order some of Allan Benton’s smoked country bacon. It is by far the best bacon I have ever eaten, hands down, bar none, end of story.
For lunch we traveled to Café Reconcile, a non-profit restaurant formed to teach at-risk youth a trade and life skills. There we ate fried catfish and a beautifully prepared shrimp and okra dish.
The dinner at August was— as all dinners at August are— amazing. Besh sent out nine courses of culinary brilliance. No one in the entire South is performing on a higher level than John Besh, post Katrina. He purchased the restaurant from his former partner a few weeks before the storm hit and, with his name now on the note at the bank, saw New Orleans’ long-standing convention business dry up overnight. Most chefs would have thrown in the side towel. Not Besh, he stepped it up a level and won the James Beard Foundation’s award for Best Chef Southeast (for those unfamiliar with Beard Awards, if Besh would have been in the movie trade, his mantle would now be sporting an Oscar).
John Besh and the restaurants of New Orleans came through after Katrina. They rescued us, they fed us, they sheltered us, and they performed one of the most important functions in the post-Katrina environment— giving us a sense of normalcy, and a look into the days when New Orleans was truly the city that care forgot.
Monday, August 28, 2006
A Riot in the Cafeteria
The food police are at it again. This time they’re targeting school lunchboxes.
The Center for Science in the Public Trust has recently issued a Lunchbox Makeover for school-age children giving them, what they believe are, “10 tips for a healthy school lunch.”
It is my belief that— to a person— everyone who works at the CSPI is childless. Here are their supposed “easy” suggestions for making over our children’s lunchboxes:
1. Encourage your child to choose one percent or fat-free milk. The problem is not the milk, but how to keep the milk cold. It’s already hard enough to get cold milk at school. I can remember the milk cart at my school used to arrive mid-morning immediately after recess. There’s nothing quite as unrefreshing as a glass of warm milk immediately after running for 20 minutes in the scorching Mississippi heat.
2. Leave the cheese off sandwiches, unless it’s low-fat or fat-free cheese. My daughter inherited her cheese addiction from her mother. Their philosophy: “If it tastes good, it’ll taste better with cheese.” I’ll let the CSPI try and fight that battle. Though I know the adversary, and they don’t have a chance. My wife thinks cheese is one of the major food groups and should be reclassified as chewable calcium.
3. Switch from fatty luncheon meats to low-fat alternatives. If God would have wanted us to eat low-fat bologna, he would have made skinnier pigs.
4. Include at least one fruit in every lunch. I have no problem with this one. In elementary school, I used fruit as a bargaining chip to trade for other people’s bologna and cheese sandwiches. An apple and two bananas were usually good for three chocolate chip cookies and a Pop Tart.
5. Sneak vegetables— like lettuce or slices of cucumber, tomato, green pepper, roasted peppers, or zucchini— onto sandwiches. What planet are these people living on? My wife, who is somewhere over the age of 30, doesn’t even eat cucumbers, tomatoes or green peppers, how will she sneak them onto my child’s bologna and cheese sandwich?
6. Use whole grain bread instead of white bread for sandwiches. Amazingly enough, we’re a step ahead of the game on this one. At our house it’s always been 100% wheat bread since the children were born.
7. Limit cookies, snack cakes, doughnuts, brownies, and other sweet baked goods. Actually, my vote is for no sugar for anyone under the age of 16. When they’re able to drive, we’ll let them eat sugar. I’ll support that legislation, tomorrow. At our house, we don’t let our children eat sugar-filled foods before they go to school, and certainly don’t want them eating processed sugar while they’re at school. To our kids, sugar is like granulated amphetamine. My children are active enough; I couldn’t imagine loading them up on doughnuts, cake, and brownies, and turning them loose on their teachers. Although, while babysitting, my mother seems to take great delight in feeding them a few scoops of ice cream just before she drops them off at our house. Once, I think I heard her laughing hysterically as she drove out of the driveway.
8. Limit potato, corn, tortilla, or other chips. At this point, I think we need a quick recap— warm milk, no cheese, low-fat processed turkey, kiwi, roasted pepper, cucumber, and tomato with a slice of wheat bread— no Fritos, no Ruffles, no Tostitos. Where’s the benefit of being a kid, if you don’t get to eat a few potato chips? I’m not talking about sitting in front of a television or video game and eating a large can of Pringles. We adults spend the rest of our lives watching what we eat. Kids run and play and spend all day burning calories. I say, “Pass the Doritos.”
9. If you pack juice, make sure it’s 100% juice. Good luck. Have you ever seen an all-out riot created by a nine and five year old? It can turn nasty pretty quickly.
10. Don’t send Lunchables. Do we actually need someone to tell us that?
Are these healthy suggestions? Yes.
Are they “easy” suggestions, as the CSPI states? No.
In a nutshell, be realistic. Don’t load your children up on sugary and fatty foods. Don’t let them lounge in front of the television all day, and for your own safety, wait until they’re 21 to feed them zucchini, green peppers, and cucumbers.
The food police are at it again. This time they’re targeting school lunchboxes.
The Center for Science in the Public Trust has recently issued a Lunchbox Makeover for school-age children giving them, what they believe are, “10 tips for a healthy school lunch.”
It is my belief that— to a person— everyone who works at the CSPI is childless. Here are their supposed “easy” suggestions for making over our children’s lunchboxes:
1. Encourage your child to choose one percent or fat-free milk. The problem is not the milk, but how to keep the milk cold. It’s already hard enough to get cold milk at school. I can remember the milk cart at my school used to arrive mid-morning immediately after recess. There’s nothing quite as unrefreshing as a glass of warm milk immediately after running for 20 minutes in the scorching Mississippi heat.
2. Leave the cheese off sandwiches, unless it’s low-fat or fat-free cheese. My daughter inherited her cheese addiction from her mother. Their philosophy: “If it tastes good, it’ll taste better with cheese.” I’ll let the CSPI try and fight that battle. Though I know the adversary, and they don’t have a chance. My wife thinks cheese is one of the major food groups and should be reclassified as chewable calcium.
3. Switch from fatty luncheon meats to low-fat alternatives. If God would have wanted us to eat low-fat bologna, he would have made skinnier pigs.
4. Include at least one fruit in every lunch. I have no problem with this one. In elementary school, I used fruit as a bargaining chip to trade for other people’s bologna and cheese sandwiches. An apple and two bananas were usually good for three chocolate chip cookies and a Pop Tart.
5. Sneak vegetables— like lettuce or slices of cucumber, tomato, green pepper, roasted peppers, or zucchini— onto sandwiches. What planet are these people living on? My wife, who is somewhere over the age of 30, doesn’t even eat cucumbers, tomatoes or green peppers, how will she sneak them onto my child’s bologna and cheese sandwich?
6. Use whole grain bread instead of white bread for sandwiches. Amazingly enough, we’re a step ahead of the game on this one. At our house it’s always been 100% wheat bread since the children were born.
7. Limit cookies, snack cakes, doughnuts, brownies, and other sweet baked goods. Actually, my vote is for no sugar for anyone under the age of 16. When they’re able to drive, we’ll let them eat sugar. I’ll support that legislation, tomorrow. At our house, we don’t let our children eat sugar-filled foods before they go to school, and certainly don’t want them eating processed sugar while they’re at school. To our kids, sugar is like granulated amphetamine. My children are active enough; I couldn’t imagine loading them up on doughnuts, cake, and brownies, and turning them loose on their teachers. Although, while babysitting, my mother seems to take great delight in feeding them a few scoops of ice cream just before she drops them off at our house. Once, I think I heard her laughing hysterically as she drove out of the driveway.
8. Limit potato, corn, tortilla, or other chips. At this point, I think we need a quick recap— warm milk, no cheese, low-fat processed turkey, kiwi, roasted pepper, cucumber, and tomato with a slice of wheat bread— no Fritos, no Ruffles, no Tostitos. Where’s the benefit of being a kid, if you don’t get to eat a few potato chips? I’m not talking about sitting in front of a television or video game and eating a large can of Pringles. We adults spend the rest of our lives watching what we eat. Kids run and play and spend all day burning calories. I say, “Pass the Doritos.”
9. If you pack juice, make sure it’s 100% juice. Good luck. Have you ever seen an all-out riot created by a nine and five year old? It can turn nasty pretty quickly.
10. Don’t send Lunchables. Do we actually need someone to tell us that?
Are these healthy suggestions? Yes.
Are they “easy” suggestions, as the CSPI states? No.
In a nutshell, be realistic. Don’t load your children up on sugary and fatty foods. Don’t let them lounge in front of the television all day, and for your own safety, wait until they’re 21 to feed them zucchini, green peppers, and cucumbers.
Pineapple Sherbet
One day last week the weatherman at my local television station reported the day’s heat index as 117 degrees.
Earlier that afternoon I had been running errands for my wife. My children were with me. One of our errands placed us near Kamper Park in my hometown of Hattiesburg. As a child I spent countless days in that park during the summer months. Funny thing, I don’t ever remember being too hot. Running, swinging, sliding, and jumping in the Mississippi heat with more energy than I’ll ever know again never slowed me down, the temperature outside never mattered.
However, last week’s heat slowed my pace considerably. Maybe it was age. I was certainly feeling all of my 44 years, maybe more.
As we drove down the road that led to the park, I showed my children— a nine-year old girl and a five-year old boy— the place where I ate ice cream as a child. It was an ice cream parlor owned by the Seale-Lily Ice Cream Company.
The “Seale-Lily” as it was known around town, was a soda fountain of the standard 1950s/1960s variety, which served ice cream in bowls and cones, sundaes, splits, milk shakes and light sandwiches. I held the place in high regard.
At the Seale-Lily I only ate pineapple sherbet. It was my favorite then and it is my favorite today, when I can find it. When making homemade ice cream, my family usually prepared vanilla or peach. To me, homemade peach ice cream tastes like summer, but pineapple sherbet tastes like my youth.
I am not sure what it was about pineapple sherbet that steered me away from the typical childhood choices of chocolate and strawberry. It has only occurred to me as I write this column that pineapple sherbet might be a strange choice for a kid.
Today a liquor store occupies the space where the employees of the Seale-Lily scooped thousands of cones.
My children asked about the Seale-Lily and wanted to know if there was a place in town that served pineapple sherbet. Hattiesburg has several ice cream shops which offer excellent gourmet ice creams, varieties in every color and flavor, places where exotic candies and fresh fruits are mixed by hand to one’s selection. I am a regular at The Marble Slab Creamery and my waistline is a testament to those visits. However, I couldn’t think of one place that serves pineapple sherbet.
At 44, I might not be as active as I was at six years old, but I am much more resourceful. After thinking for a minute, I walked over to the Sunflower grocery store that anchors the shopping center that housed the Seale-Lily and bought a quart of pineapple sherbet and a box of hard-plastic spoons.
I drove my children next door to the park and took them to the giant gazebo that has been there as long as I have been alive. We sat at a picnic table in the sweltering August heat, no cones, no air conditioning, no worries, and ate pineapple sherbet straight out of the box.
In an instant I forgot about the heat. I watched as my children ate with abandon and wondered if one day they would tell their kids about the joys of pineapple sherbet in the hot Mississippi heat.
Do yourself a favor, today; buy your son, daughter, niece, nephew, grandson, granddaughter, or friend some ice cream. Whether it’s in a cone or straight out of the box, you’ll be making memories for you and them. Pineapple sherbet or not, you’re likely to forget about the heat and humidity, but you’ll never forget the joy of eating ice cream with a child.
One day last week the weatherman at my local television station reported the day’s heat index as 117 degrees.
Earlier that afternoon I had been running errands for my wife. My children were with me. One of our errands placed us near Kamper Park in my hometown of Hattiesburg. As a child I spent countless days in that park during the summer months. Funny thing, I don’t ever remember being too hot. Running, swinging, sliding, and jumping in the Mississippi heat with more energy than I’ll ever know again never slowed me down, the temperature outside never mattered.
However, last week’s heat slowed my pace considerably. Maybe it was age. I was certainly feeling all of my 44 years, maybe more.
As we drove down the road that led to the park, I showed my children— a nine-year old girl and a five-year old boy— the place where I ate ice cream as a child. It was an ice cream parlor owned by the Seale-Lily Ice Cream Company.
The “Seale-Lily” as it was known around town, was a soda fountain of the standard 1950s/1960s variety, which served ice cream in bowls and cones, sundaes, splits, milk shakes and light sandwiches. I held the place in high regard.
At the Seale-Lily I only ate pineapple sherbet. It was my favorite then and it is my favorite today, when I can find it. When making homemade ice cream, my family usually prepared vanilla or peach. To me, homemade peach ice cream tastes like summer, but pineapple sherbet tastes like my youth.
I am not sure what it was about pineapple sherbet that steered me away from the typical childhood choices of chocolate and strawberry. It has only occurred to me as I write this column that pineapple sherbet might be a strange choice for a kid.
Today a liquor store occupies the space where the employees of the Seale-Lily scooped thousands of cones.
My children asked about the Seale-Lily and wanted to know if there was a place in town that served pineapple sherbet. Hattiesburg has several ice cream shops which offer excellent gourmet ice creams, varieties in every color and flavor, places where exotic candies and fresh fruits are mixed by hand to one’s selection. I am a regular at The Marble Slab Creamery and my waistline is a testament to those visits. However, I couldn’t think of one place that serves pineapple sherbet.
At 44, I might not be as active as I was at six years old, but I am much more resourceful. After thinking for a minute, I walked over to the Sunflower grocery store that anchors the shopping center that housed the Seale-Lily and bought a quart of pineapple sherbet and a box of hard-plastic spoons.
I drove my children next door to the park and took them to the giant gazebo that has been there as long as I have been alive. We sat at a picnic table in the sweltering August heat, no cones, no air conditioning, no worries, and ate pineapple sherbet straight out of the box.
In an instant I forgot about the heat. I watched as my children ate with abandon and wondered if one day they would tell their kids about the joys of pineapple sherbet in the hot Mississippi heat.
Do yourself a favor, today; buy your son, daughter, niece, nephew, grandson, granddaughter, or friend some ice cream. Whether it’s in a cone or straight out of the box, you’ll be making memories for you and them. Pineapple sherbet or not, you’re likely to forget about the heat and humidity, but you’ll never forget the joy of eating ice cream with a child.
Monday, August 14, 2006
For Whom the School Bell Tolls
I am now the father of two school-aged children. This week my daughter enters fourth grade and my son enters kindergarten (let’s all bow our heads and say a prayer for Mrs. Prine, his teacher).
Back to school means returning to the daily routine of getting to bed early, waking up early, the before-school scramble, and waiting in a long line for the after-school pick-up. It also means lunches away from home.
Throughout the summer my children eat late breakfasts and large lunches. Lunch might be eaten at 11:30 a.m. or at 2:45 p.m. it depends on several factors: how hot they get while playing outside, what’s on television, which friend is visiting, or what’s being served. Not so in the school year. Back to school means back to a daily routine that will be followed— with the exception of a few brief holiday interruptions— until next May.
I love the fall. Though Mississippi won’t see a hint of fall-like weather until the middle of October, it is my favorite season. The excitement that comes with returning to school— a new teacher, new books and supplies, the possibility of making new friends— is an excitement that we never relive in our adult years. Fall just smells different.
The sense of smell, like the sense of taste, has strong connections with our memories. Today, the scent of pencil shavings from a pencil sharpener will instantly take me back to Mrs. Smith’s fourth grade class at Thames Elementary School. Nowhere in my average workday do I encounter the smell of pencil shavings, these days it’s all rolling-ball pens with precise grips and Microsoft Word with dull and odorless keyboards and screens.
In my youth, the aroma of yeast rolls wafted through the corridors of school signaling the approaching lunch hour. My elementary school had an honest-to-God line-them-up-in-the-back-of-the-room grab-a-tray-and-a-carton-of-warm-milk we-only-eat-greens-on-the-days-they-mow-the-grass cafeteria.
The school cafeteria is an important place for childhood socialization. One is not supposed to talk in a classroom, recess is usually spent running, playing, or competing in kickball or basketball games. In the lunchroom the pressure is off. That is where the art and politics of conversation is learned, friends are made, urban legends are spread, and meals are shared.
Sharing a meal with friends is one of the few elementary school activities that we carry into adulthood. We no longer dust the chalk off of erasers, or line up in single file lines, we don’t turn in homework, take tests, or carry a lunch box, I haven’t played kickball in several decades, but I share a meal with friends all of the time, and I don’t do it much differently than I did when I was 10-years old.
In those days lunch boxes were— like today’s bumper stickers— a statement or extension of one’s personality or views. I had a Charlie Brown and Snoopy lunch box. It was lame and didn’t really make a bold statement about who I thought I was, or what I believed, but it was on sale when my mom bought it, and that was that. As a kid I always wanted a Beatles lunchbox. In retrospect I had more in common with Charlie Brown than John Lennon, but a kid has to dream.
A few years ago I compiled a list of the items that I longed for as a kid, but never got. The list was long and extensive. Most were toys that I no longer wanted or material junk that no longer mattered. Though, sitting at the top of the list were a Beatles lunchbox and a Lava Lamp.
I write this column surrounded by three large Lava Lamps and a Beatles lunchbox, reminiscing about the school cafeteria, yeast rolls, and the many hours I spent dusting erasers, a punishment then, but a fond memory, today.
I am now the father of two school-aged children. This week my daughter enters fourth grade and my son enters kindergarten (let’s all bow our heads and say a prayer for Mrs. Prine, his teacher).
Back to school means returning to the daily routine of getting to bed early, waking up early, the before-school scramble, and waiting in a long line for the after-school pick-up. It also means lunches away from home.
Throughout the summer my children eat late breakfasts and large lunches. Lunch might be eaten at 11:30 a.m. or at 2:45 p.m. it depends on several factors: how hot they get while playing outside, what’s on television, which friend is visiting, or what’s being served. Not so in the school year. Back to school means back to a daily routine that will be followed— with the exception of a few brief holiday interruptions— until next May.
I love the fall. Though Mississippi won’t see a hint of fall-like weather until the middle of October, it is my favorite season. The excitement that comes with returning to school— a new teacher, new books and supplies, the possibility of making new friends— is an excitement that we never relive in our adult years. Fall just smells different.
The sense of smell, like the sense of taste, has strong connections with our memories. Today, the scent of pencil shavings from a pencil sharpener will instantly take me back to Mrs. Smith’s fourth grade class at Thames Elementary School. Nowhere in my average workday do I encounter the smell of pencil shavings, these days it’s all rolling-ball pens with precise grips and Microsoft Word with dull and odorless keyboards and screens.
In my youth, the aroma of yeast rolls wafted through the corridors of school signaling the approaching lunch hour. My elementary school had an honest-to-God line-them-up-in-the-back-of-the-room grab-a-tray-and-a-carton-of-warm-milk we-only-eat-greens-on-the-days-they-mow-the-grass cafeteria.
The school cafeteria is an important place for childhood socialization. One is not supposed to talk in a classroom, recess is usually spent running, playing, or competing in kickball or basketball games. In the lunchroom the pressure is off. That is where the art and politics of conversation is learned, friends are made, urban legends are spread, and meals are shared.
Sharing a meal with friends is one of the few elementary school activities that we carry into adulthood. We no longer dust the chalk off of erasers, or line up in single file lines, we don’t turn in homework, take tests, or carry a lunch box, I haven’t played kickball in several decades, but I share a meal with friends all of the time, and I don’t do it much differently than I did when I was 10-years old.
In those days lunch boxes were— like today’s bumper stickers— a statement or extension of one’s personality or views. I had a Charlie Brown and Snoopy lunch box. It was lame and didn’t really make a bold statement about who I thought I was, or what I believed, but it was on sale when my mom bought it, and that was that. As a kid I always wanted a Beatles lunchbox. In retrospect I had more in common with Charlie Brown than John Lennon, but a kid has to dream.
A few years ago I compiled a list of the items that I longed for as a kid, but never got. The list was long and extensive. Most were toys that I no longer wanted or material junk that no longer mattered. Though, sitting at the top of the list were a Beatles lunchbox and a Lava Lamp.
I write this column surrounded by three large Lava Lamps and a Beatles lunchbox, reminiscing about the school cafeteria, yeast rolls, and the many hours I spent dusting erasers, a punishment then, but a fond memory, today.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Beautiful Swimmers
When I was a child my family owned a small, rickety fish camp on the Pascagoula River near the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.
When the year’s final school bell rang, shorts were put on, shoes were kicked off, and the slow pace of summer kicked in. I spent those days fishing, trolling for shrimp, and water skiing.
In an era before catch-limits, we filled ice chests full of redfish— this, a full decade before Prudhomme blackened one in a skillet and started the national craze that created the subsequent redfish shortage. Other days we attached a small shrimp trolling-net to the back of our boat. We trolled slowly all afternoon, hauling in the net every hour or so and separating shrimp from the other sea life that had been netted. Most of the other species were tossed back into the water except for the occasional flounder or sheepshead. We then returned to the small camp and boiled the shrimp just minutes out of the water.
All summer we kept crab traps in the water. No matter where we were traveling on the river, or into the Gulf, we stopped on our way home to check the crab traps. The day’s crab catch was added to the ice chest and the crabs were boiled and picked that evening.
The refrigerator was always full of crabmeat, usually in the form of West Indies Salad. My mother loved West Indies Salad and was never too far from a Tupperware bowlful and a box of crackers.
West Indies Salad is a simple creation of crabmeat with a light vinaigrette dressing and is said to have been created by Bill Bailey, a Mobile restaurateur who operated a long-running establishment on the Dauphin Island Parkway. My mother used a recipe from the 1964 Mobile Junior League cookbook, Recipe Jubilee!.
As Labor Day drew nearer, afternoon showers became lighter, the days grew shorter, and the crabs traveled upriver with the brackish water. I can remember using hand nets to scoop crabs out of the shallows of the tiny beach near our swimming hole, always returning the sponge crabs (those bearing eggs) to the water. On some days, ice chests could be filled in mere minutes.
The generic and specific name for the Gulf Blue Crab is Callinectes sapidus, and according to the Mississippi Department of Marine Resources website, “Its generic name, Callinectes is a combination of two Latin words meaning ‘beautiful swimmer,’ while its specific name, sapidus, means ‘savory.’”
I have always loved the term “beautiful swimmer,” and though the Blue Crab’s swimming motion is more of a herky-jerky sideways scamper than a graceful and fluid movement worthy of the title beautiful swimmer, I think the name is befitting if only for the crustacean’s wonderful flavor, unmatched versatility, and culinary stature in the Gulf South.
The three most beautiful words in the Mississippi cooking lexis are: Jumbo Lump Crabmeat. The majority of my restaurant career has been filled using dishes featuring crabmeat. It is the first and foremost ingredient in my larder. One would have a hard time finding more than a dozen savory seafood dishes that couldn’t be improved substantially by the addition of crabmeat. It is sweet, and delicate, and versatile.
Since childhood I have associated the month of August with crabs. It is the most plentiful and economical month for purchasing crabmeat and, to this day, the abundance allows me and my chefs to focus on developing dishes featuring the Gulf’s most versatile delicacy. At the Crescent City Grill in Hattiesburg we use over 400 pounds of fresh crabmeat each week during the annual August crabmeat promotion. The slow and tedious effort of picking through the fragile lobes in search of stray shell or cartilage is worth every man hour of overtime.
My mother sold the fish camp 20 years ago. A few years after my son was born, I drove down to see if I might be able to buy the property back from its current owners. The old camp, the neighboring camps, and the entire area was in such a state of disrepair that I immediately lost the desire to return, and haven’t.
Today, summer is shorter and the pace is faster. My kids don’t have the luxury of a Memorial Day to Labor Day vacation as school now starts in the middle of August. Something seems wrong about a world that makes a kid sit in a hot classroom while there are so many beautiful swimmers to be caught.
West Indies Salad
2 lbs. Jumbo Lump crabmeat, picked of all shell
1 Medium Red Onion (chopped fine)
1 /2 cup Light Olive Oil
1 /2 cup Champagne Vinegar (or White Balsamic Vinegar)
1 Tbl. Parsley
1 tsp Hot Sauce
2 tsp. Worcestershire Sauce
Salt and Pepper to taste
Gently combine all ingredients and refrigerate for four hours or overnight.
Serve on sliced tomatoes, a bed of lettuce or as an appetizer with crackers.
When I was a child my family owned a small, rickety fish camp on the Pascagoula River near the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.
When the year’s final school bell rang, shorts were put on, shoes were kicked off, and the slow pace of summer kicked in. I spent those days fishing, trolling for shrimp, and water skiing.
In an era before catch-limits, we filled ice chests full of redfish— this, a full decade before Prudhomme blackened one in a skillet and started the national craze that created the subsequent redfish shortage. Other days we attached a small shrimp trolling-net to the back of our boat. We trolled slowly all afternoon, hauling in the net every hour or so and separating shrimp from the other sea life that had been netted. Most of the other species were tossed back into the water except for the occasional flounder or sheepshead. We then returned to the small camp and boiled the shrimp just minutes out of the water.
All summer we kept crab traps in the water. No matter where we were traveling on the river, or into the Gulf, we stopped on our way home to check the crab traps. The day’s crab catch was added to the ice chest and the crabs were boiled and picked that evening.
The refrigerator was always full of crabmeat, usually in the form of West Indies Salad. My mother loved West Indies Salad and was never too far from a Tupperware bowlful and a box of crackers.
West Indies Salad is a simple creation of crabmeat with a light vinaigrette dressing and is said to have been created by Bill Bailey, a Mobile restaurateur who operated a long-running establishment on the Dauphin Island Parkway. My mother used a recipe from the 1964 Mobile Junior League cookbook, Recipe Jubilee!.
As Labor Day drew nearer, afternoon showers became lighter, the days grew shorter, and the crabs traveled upriver with the brackish water. I can remember using hand nets to scoop crabs out of the shallows of the tiny beach near our swimming hole, always returning the sponge crabs (those bearing eggs) to the water. On some days, ice chests could be filled in mere minutes.
The generic and specific name for the Gulf Blue Crab is Callinectes sapidus, and according to the Mississippi Department of Marine Resources website, “Its generic name, Callinectes is a combination of two Latin words meaning ‘beautiful swimmer,’ while its specific name, sapidus, means ‘savory.’”
I have always loved the term “beautiful swimmer,” and though the Blue Crab’s swimming motion is more of a herky-jerky sideways scamper than a graceful and fluid movement worthy of the title beautiful swimmer, I think the name is befitting if only for the crustacean’s wonderful flavor, unmatched versatility, and culinary stature in the Gulf South.
The three most beautiful words in the Mississippi cooking lexis are: Jumbo Lump Crabmeat. The majority of my restaurant career has been filled using dishes featuring crabmeat. It is the first and foremost ingredient in my larder. One would have a hard time finding more than a dozen savory seafood dishes that couldn’t be improved substantially by the addition of crabmeat. It is sweet, and delicate, and versatile.
Since childhood I have associated the month of August with crabs. It is the most plentiful and economical month for purchasing crabmeat and, to this day, the abundance allows me and my chefs to focus on developing dishes featuring the Gulf’s most versatile delicacy. At the Crescent City Grill in Hattiesburg we use over 400 pounds of fresh crabmeat each week during the annual August crabmeat promotion. The slow and tedious effort of picking through the fragile lobes in search of stray shell or cartilage is worth every man hour of overtime.
My mother sold the fish camp 20 years ago. A few years after my son was born, I drove down to see if I might be able to buy the property back from its current owners. The old camp, the neighboring camps, and the entire area was in such a state of disrepair that I immediately lost the desire to return, and haven’t.
Today, summer is shorter and the pace is faster. My kids don’t have the luxury of a Memorial Day to Labor Day vacation as school now starts in the middle of August. Something seems wrong about a world that makes a kid sit in a hot classroom while there are so many beautiful swimmers to be caught.
West Indies Salad
2 lbs. Jumbo Lump crabmeat, picked of all shell
1 Medium Red Onion (chopped fine)
1 /2 cup Light Olive Oil
1 /2 cup Champagne Vinegar (or White Balsamic Vinegar)
1 Tbl. Parsley
1 tsp Hot Sauce
2 tsp. Worcestershire Sauce
Salt and Pepper to taste
Gently combine all ingredients and refrigerate for four hours or overnight.
Serve on sliced tomatoes, a bed of lettuce or as an appetizer with crackers.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Jennifer
Several years ago I wrote a column about funeral food and how people in the South band together to feed the family of the bereaved when a loved one has passed away.
I never expected to be so close, so soon, to the phenomenon.
A few days ago my wife’s 37-year old sister lost a long and hard-fought battle with her heart. It was a battle that she fought with guts and grace, always positive, always resilient, and— even in her most weakened state— a battle in which she spent most of her time caring more about the well-being of others than her own.
Within hours the food began arriving. Fried chicken, potato salad, cakes, cookies, and fruit were the first to show up. The refrigerator filled to capacity in the first hour.
One friend, whose wife was out of town, and had no idea how this drill worked, dropped by the grocery store and came over with a mixed-bag smorgasbord of groceries and paper products in various sacks, no rhyme, reason, or theme to the gift, just supplies for people in need from someone who truly cared.
Family and friends were all over the house. Some hadn’t eaten in days and were ravenous; others had lost their appetite weeks ago. Three of my wife’s friends cooked an entire dinner and brought it to the house. One of those same friends came over and washed clothes and cleaned the children’s rooms.
It was a beautiful thing to see. At times, it felt as if the entire community had mobilized in honor of this one cause. The chefs at my restaurant were ready to load us up with even more food but I had to tell them that we had no more refrigerator space.
Four years ago, when writing the original column on funeral food, I stated: “Down here, communities band together during times of tragedy. Food is the common vein that runs through it all. However, my generation doesn’t seem to come together like the generations before us. Are we so busy that we have forgotten the importance of community, friends, and family?”
I was wrong. Very wrong. Community, friends, and family are alive and well and living in and around Hattiesburg, Mississippi. My generation stepped up to the plate and knocked it out of the park in this time of need. It does my heart good.
With dozens of out-of-town family and friends traveling in, all of the food will surely be consumed— homemade bread, pies, crudité, sweet rolls, sandwich platters, chips, dips, and more fried chicken— everything but sausage balls. My wife’s sister always cooked sausage balls. They were my daughter’s favorite. The two of them could eat dozens in one sitting. Every Christmas, Easter, and Fourth of July our kitchen was filled with sausage balls. Whenever my sister-in-law asked my daughter what she would like for her birthday, the answer was always, “Sausage balls.”
The sausage-ball recipe wasn’t a passed-down family secret, or a much-sought-after prize-winning formula, just a simple recipe off of the side of the Bisquick box. What made the recipe special was the love that went into the preparation of the dish. It was the same main ingredient in the food that recently kept our refrigerator bulging.
We lament the loss of a sister, a daughter, a wife, and an aunt— a woman of exceptional strength and courage. We thank our friends who kept us in their thoughts and prayers. We thank those who kept us fed, and we try to move on with a large, empty, and seemingly endless void in our lives, a space where a courageous young woman used to be.
Bisquick® Sausage-Cheese Balls
3 cups Original Bisquick® mix
1 pound bulk pork sausage
4 cups shredded Cheddar cheese (16 ounces)
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary leaves
1/2 teaspoon parsley flakes
1 . Heat oven to 350ºF. Lightly grease bottom and sides of jelly roll pan, 15 1/2x10 1/2x2x1 inch.
2 . Stir together all ingredients, using hands or spoon. Shape mixture into 1-inch balls. Place in pan.
3 . Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until brown. Immediately remove from pan. Serve warm.
Memorials can be made to The Mississippi Organ Recovery Agency in memory of Jennifer Pender
Several years ago I wrote a column about funeral food and how people in the South band together to feed the family of the bereaved when a loved one has passed away.
I never expected to be so close, so soon, to the phenomenon.
A few days ago my wife’s 37-year old sister lost a long and hard-fought battle with her heart. It was a battle that she fought with guts and grace, always positive, always resilient, and— even in her most weakened state— a battle in which she spent most of her time caring more about the well-being of others than her own.
Within hours the food began arriving. Fried chicken, potato salad, cakes, cookies, and fruit were the first to show up. The refrigerator filled to capacity in the first hour.
One friend, whose wife was out of town, and had no idea how this drill worked, dropped by the grocery store and came over with a mixed-bag smorgasbord of groceries and paper products in various sacks, no rhyme, reason, or theme to the gift, just supplies for people in need from someone who truly cared.
Family and friends were all over the house. Some hadn’t eaten in days and were ravenous; others had lost their appetite weeks ago. Three of my wife’s friends cooked an entire dinner and brought it to the house. One of those same friends came over and washed clothes and cleaned the children’s rooms.
It was a beautiful thing to see. At times, it felt as if the entire community had mobilized in honor of this one cause. The chefs at my restaurant were ready to load us up with even more food but I had to tell them that we had no more refrigerator space.
Four years ago, when writing the original column on funeral food, I stated: “Down here, communities band together during times of tragedy. Food is the common vein that runs through it all. However, my generation doesn’t seem to come together like the generations before us. Are we so busy that we have forgotten the importance of community, friends, and family?”
I was wrong. Very wrong. Community, friends, and family are alive and well and living in and around Hattiesburg, Mississippi. My generation stepped up to the plate and knocked it out of the park in this time of need. It does my heart good.
With dozens of out-of-town family and friends traveling in, all of the food will surely be consumed— homemade bread, pies, crudité, sweet rolls, sandwich platters, chips, dips, and more fried chicken— everything but sausage balls. My wife’s sister always cooked sausage balls. They were my daughter’s favorite. The two of them could eat dozens in one sitting. Every Christmas, Easter, and Fourth of July our kitchen was filled with sausage balls. Whenever my sister-in-law asked my daughter what she would like for her birthday, the answer was always, “Sausage balls.”
The sausage-ball recipe wasn’t a passed-down family secret, or a much-sought-after prize-winning formula, just a simple recipe off of the side of the Bisquick box. What made the recipe special was the love that went into the preparation of the dish. It was the same main ingredient in the food that recently kept our refrigerator bulging.
We lament the loss of a sister, a daughter, a wife, and an aunt— a woman of exceptional strength and courage. We thank our friends who kept us in their thoughts and prayers. We thank those who kept us fed, and we try to move on with a large, empty, and seemingly endless void in our lives, a space where a courageous young woman used to be.
Bisquick® Sausage-Cheese Balls
3 cups Original Bisquick® mix
1 pound bulk pork sausage
4 cups shredded Cheddar cheese (16 ounces)
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary leaves
1/2 teaspoon parsley flakes
1 . Heat oven to 350ºF. Lightly grease bottom and sides of jelly roll pan, 15 1/2x10 1/2x2x1 inch.
2 . Stir together all ingredients, using hands or spoon. Shape mixture into 1-inch balls. Place in pan.
3 . Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until brown. Immediately remove from pan. Serve warm.
Memorials can be made to The Mississippi Organ Recovery Agency in memory of Jennifer Pender
Monday, July 24, 2006
The French Laundry
Yountville, Calif. — “I have just eaten the best meal of my life. Hands down. No question.” Those were the opening sentences of a column I wrote just five weeks ago after dining at Per Se, in New York.
Stop the presses. I have just experienced a humbling, 32-course culinary bacchanalia at the hands of Thomas Keller, and the statements made just five short weeks ago are now old news.
I have once again eaten the best meal of my life. Hands down. No question.
On a warm evening in July, I experienced a slight hint of what Sir Edmund Hillary might have felt when he reached the peak of Mt. Everest. Though mine was a culinary pinnacle, it was a zenith, nonetheless. For years, The French Laundry has been my gastronomic Mecca. I have finally reached the summit.
The French Laundry in Yountville Calif. is widely considered the nation’s finest restaurant, a reputation it has dutifully earned over the course of the last 12 years. At The French Laundry, excellence seeps from of every nook and cranny and percolates from every personality. It exists— actually thrives— several strata above even the finest restaurants in New York. Nothing compares.
I arrived with three friends; an artist, an architect, and a CEO. Our reservation was scheduled for a 7 p.m. seating but we arrived an hour early and were seated immediately. In an instant the server informed us that Chef Keller had developed a special menu for our party, and instructed us to sit back and enjoy the ride.
There were sixteen rounds of culinary brilliance on tap for our small group. I sat across the table from the architect. The artist and CEO faced each other to my right and left, respectively. When each course arrived, the artist and CEO were served the same item, which was an entirely different dish, though similar in flavor profile, to the course served to the architect and me. As I always do when dining out, we shared and tasted each dish, all 32 of them.
The wine pairings were made with the artist and CEO receiving a similar pour, while the architect was given a different wine to compliment his course. I, as always, being the only teetotaler in the group, resigned myself to drinking distilled water and focusing on the food. Gladly, this would not suffice at The French Laundry. It was after the first course, when the sommelier learned that I would not be drinking, that I was blessed with one of the most brilliantly amazing “touches” I have ever witnessed in a restaurant.
Sensing that I would more than likely be turning down every wine offering, he asked, “Would you like me to design a non-alcoholic beverage tasting to be paired with your meal, sir?”
I have been eating professionally for 18 years and not drinking for even longer— 23 years. Never had that question been posed. I had resigned myself to a life without pairings. Not if Thomas Keller’s staff was going to have anything to say on the matter. Not at the French Laundry.
I’m not talking Shirley Temples’ and Roy Rogers’. Before each course, after he had poured the wines, the sommelier presented me with some of the most unique and inventive beverages I have ever tasted. While the others drank rare French champagnes with their chilled avocado soup, I was served a sparkling apple cider that was the perfect accompaniment. When the artist, architect, and CEO were poured a fine Maderia with their White Truffle Custard, I was given a gourmet root beer with a truffle syrup reduction that paired with the dish perfectly. Other courses were accompanied by such inventive beverages as a Lavender and Chamomile Mimosa, “Chaud Froid” Corn and Truffle Cappuccino, and Golden Monkey Black Tea with Porcini Shavings. Each inventive, each a perfect pairing, and each created on the spot. Brilliant.
Typically, this column comes in at 750 words. I could use twice the column inches allowed and still not begin to breach the surface of the truly amazing aspects of this meal.
After eating a meal such as this, a food writer runs the risk of using overly flowery verbiage and exaggerated adjectives to describe the experience. The problem with this restaurant is that any description I would commit to paper couldn’t do justice to actually sitting in the dining room and experiencing the actual meal. From the maitre d’ to the servers, to the kitchen staff with whom we visited after the meal, everyone was at the top of their game. I couldn’t find one single negative in the entire experience, a rare treat, indeed.
It is the only meal I have ever eaten that needed a halftime break. After the 10th course, the maitre d’ asked if we would like to take a short break in the garden. We did, and the overly attentive service continued, even outside of the restaurant.
A quick tour of the kitchen, and an opportunity to thank Chef Keller in person ended, with what will now be described, as the finest dining experience of my life. While browsing through my notes of the meal I see comments such as “extremely professional and informed staff,” “perfect service,” “best ever,” and “truffles, truffles, truffles!”
In conclusion, 32 courses, five hours and 15 minutes from start to finish, brilliant food, excellent service, good friends, and the country’s greatest culinary institution made for a most memorable evening.
Yountville, Calif. — “I have just eaten the best meal of my life. Hands down. No question.” Those were the opening sentences of a column I wrote just five weeks ago after dining at Per Se, in New York.
Stop the presses. I have just experienced a humbling, 32-course culinary bacchanalia at the hands of Thomas Keller, and the statements made just five short weeks ago are now old news.
I have once again eaten the best meal of my life. Hands down. No question.
On a warm evening in July, I experienced a slight hint of what Sir Edmund Hillary might have felt when he reached the peak of Mt. Everest. Though mine was a culinary pinnacle, it was a zenith, nonetheless. For years, The French Laundry has been my gastronomic Mecca. I have finally reached the summit.
The French Laundry in Yountville Calif. is widely considered the nation’s finest restaurant, a reputation it has dutifully earned over the course of the last 12 years. At The French Laundry, excellence seeps from of every nook and cranny and percolates from every personality. It exists— actually thrives— several strata above even the finest restaurants in New York. Nothing compares.
I arrived with three friends; an artist, an architect, and a CEO. Our reservation was scheduled for a 7 p.m. seating but we arrived an hour early and were seated immediately. In an instant the server informed us that Chef Keller had developed a special menu for our party, and instructed us to sit back and enjoy the ride.
There were sixteen rounds of culinary brilliance on tap for our small group. I sat across the table from the architect. The artist and CEO faced each other to my right and left, respectively. When each course arrived, the artist and CEO were served the same item, which was an entirely different dish, though similar in flavor profile, to the course served to the architect and me. As I always do when dining out, we shared and tasted each dish, all 32 of them.
The wine pairings were made with the artist and CEO receiving a similar pour, while the architect was given a different wine to compliment his course. I, as always, being the only teetotaler in the group, resigned myself to drinking distilled water and focusing on the food. Gladly, this would not suffice at The French Laundry. It was after the first course, when the sommelier learned that I would not be drinking, that I was blessed with one of the most brilliantly amazing “touches” I have ever witnessed in a restaurant.
Sensing that I would more than likely be turning down every wine offering, he asked, “Would you like me to design a non-alcoholic beverage tasting to be paired with your meal, sir?”
I have been eating professionally for 18 years and not drinking for even longer— 23 years. Never had that question been posed. I had resigned myself to a life without pairings. Not if Thomas Keller’s staff was going to have anything to say on the matter. Not at the French Laundry.
I’m not talking Shirley Temples’ and Roy Rogers’. Before each course, after he had poured the wines, the sommelier presented me with some of the most unique and inventive beverages I have ever tasted. While the others drank rare French champagnes with their chilled avocado soup, I was served a sparkling apple cider that was the perfect accompaniment. When the artist, architect, and CEO were poured a fine Maderia with their White Truffle Custard, I was given a gourmet root beer with a truffle syrup reduction that paired with the dish perfectly. Other courses were accompanied by such inventive beverages as a Lavender and Chamomile Mimosa, “Chaud Froid” Corn and Truffle Cappuccino, and Golden Monkey Black Tea with Porcini Shavings. Each inventive, each a perfect pairing, and each created on the spot. Brilliant.
Typically, this column comes in at 750 words. I could use twice the column inches allowed and still not begin to breach the surface of the truly amazing aspects of this meal.
After eating a meal such as this, a food writer runs the risk of using overly flowery verbiage and exaggerated adjectives to describe the experience. The problem with this restaurant is that any description I would commit to paper couldn’t do justice to actually sitting in the dining room and experiencing the actual meal. From the maitre d’ to the servers, to the kitchen staff with whom we visited after the meal, everyone was at the top of their game. I couldn’t find one single negative in the entire experience, a rare treat, indeed.
It is the only meal I have ever eaten that needed a halftime break. After the 10th course, the maitre d’ asked if we would like to take a short break in the garden. We did, and the overly attentive service continued, even outside of the restaurant.
A quick tour of the kitchen, and an opportunity to thank Chef Keller in person ended, with what will now be described, as the finest dining experience of my life. While browsing through my notes of the meal I see comments such as “extremely professional and informed staff,” “perfect service,” “best ever,” and “truffles, truffles, truffles!”
In conclusion, 32 courses, five hours and 15 minutes from start to finish, brilliant food, excellent service, good friends, and the country’s greatest culinary institution made for a most memorable evening.
The French Laundry
Chef’s Tasting Menu
July 17, 2006
SALMON TARTAR IN A TUILLE CONE
CHILLED MELON SOUP
Summer Melons, Mint, and Yogurt
CHILLED HAAS AVOCADO SOUP
Haas Avocadoes, Cilantro Shoots and Espelette
Laurent Perrier “Grand Siecle” MV
Sparkling Apple Cider, Sonoma Sparkler
BEET SORBET
with Granny Smith Apples and Black Pepper
“QUININE SORBET”
with Lime Scented "Gelée" and Fresh Juniper Berry “Tuile”
CAULIFLOWER “PANNA COTTA”Beau Soleil Oyster Glaze and Russian Sevruga Caviar
“OYSTERS AND PEARLS”“Sabayon” of Pearl Tapioca with Beau Soleil Oysters and Russian Sevruga Caviar
SOFT SHELL CRAB
Vanilla Mousseline, Bananas and Shaved Hazelnuts
“SASHIMI” OF SPANISH BLUEFIN “TORO”
Marcona Almonds, Globe Artichokes, “Mâche” and Pedro Ximenez Glaze
Manzanilla “La Guita”
CODDLED HEN EGG
Minced Périgord Truffles and Toasted Brioche “Soldiers”
WHITE TRUFFLE CUSTARD
with a “Ragoût” of Périgord Truffles
Barbeito, Sercial, Madeira 1978
Root Beer, Truffle Syrup
SALAD OF SUNCHOKES
with Apricot “Confit”, Marinated Peppers, and Curry “Aigre Doux”
SALAD OF YOUNG GLOBE ARTICHOKES
Baby Leeks, Sweet Carrot “Ribbons,” Red Pearl Onion “Petals,”
Spanish Saffron “Mayonnaise” and Garden Basil
Emmerich Knoll, Gruner Veltliner, 2004, Austria
Lavender and Chamomile “Mimosa”
“AGNOLOTTI” OF SWEET GOLDEN CORNBlack Truffles from Provence and Corn Pudding
BLACK TRUFFLE GNOCCHI
with Grated Périgord Truffles
Domaine Boillot, Meursault “Les Perrieres,” 2004
“Chaud Froid,”Corn and truffle Cappuccino
ROASTED HAMACHI COLLAR
Artichokes, Wilted Arrowleaf Spinach and Lemon
SAUTÉED FILLET OF JAPANESE “SUZUKI”
French Laundry Garden Summer Squash, Niçoise Olives, “Fleur de Courgette”
and San Marzano Tomato “Marmelade”
Chateau Simone, Palette, 1998
“PEAS AND CARROTS”Maine Lobster Tail “Cuite Sous Vide,” Garden Pea Shoot Salad
and Sweet Carrot Buttons
SWEET BUTTER-POACHED MAINE LOBSTER “MITTS”
Green Grape “Confit,” Melted Belgian Endive, Périgord Truffles and Sauternes-Lobster Coral Emulsion
SAUTÉED MOULARD DUCK “FOIE GRAS”
Medjool Dates, Celery Branch and Pumpkin Seed “Vinaigrette”
MOULARD DUCK “FOIE GRAS AU TORCHON”
with Silverado Trail Strawberry Jam and “Frisée” Lettuce
Domaine Weinbach, Gewurztraminer, “Cuvee Theo” 2003
“PORK AND BEANS”
All Day Braised Hobb’s Shore "Poitrine de Porc",
with a "Cassoulet" of Pole Beans and a Whole Grain Mustard Sauce
WOLFE RANCH WHITE QUAIL “EN CRÉPINETTE”
“Ragoût” of Golden Corn, Applewood-Smoked Bacon, Piquillo Peppers and “Béarnaise” Reduction
Radio Coteau, “Savoy,” Pinot Noir, 2004
WAGYU
Spring Onion, Cèpes, French Laundry Green Beans and “Sauce Bordelaise”
BULLION-POACHED TENDERLOIN OF SNAKE RIVER FARM PRIME BEEF
“Nameko” Mushrooms, Broccolini, “Kohishikari” Rice
with Sweet Garlic and Ginger-Scented “Jus”
Modicum 2001
Golden Monkey Black Tea
“COB SALAD”
Tomato “Confit”, Applewood Smoked Bacon, Hard-Boiled Quail Egg
and Haas Avocado “Puree”
“MONTE ENEBRO”
Slow-Baked Heirloom Beet, Fennel Bulb “Relish” and Juniper Wood-Aged Balsamic “Vinaigrette”
ROYAL BLENHEIM APRICOT SORBETMarcona Almond “Streusel” and “Gelée de Noyaux”
ROYAL BLENHEIM APRICOT SORBETMarcona Almond “Streusel” and “Gelée de Noyaux”
VALRHONA ARAGUANI CHOCOLATE TART
Caramel Ice Cream and Butterscotch “Crunch”
Toro Albala, Pedro Ximenez, 1971
“MIGNARDISES”
Wisdom...or Lack Thereof
When speaking of his wisdom teeth, my grandfather used to say, “I’ll never get my wisdom teeth cut out, I do some of my best chewing with those teeth.”
Once again, I should have listened to my grandfather.After 44 years and some extremely successful chewing, I have removed all four of my wisdom teeth.Day after day, I kept waiting for the wisdom to kick in, to no avail.
After returning from the dentist’s office, heavily medicated and without a care in the world, I fell into the bed. My wife did as the doctor instructed and placed two ice packs on my cheeks to help prevent swelling. The bags wouldn’t stay in place and so she looked for anything to help secure the ice packs. This is where the trouble began.
Feeling all powerful and a little mischievous, my loving wife of 13 years dug deep into her closet to find the ugliest, most flower-filled scarf in her drawers. She returned with a gaudy blue, orange, and yellow number with assorted spring flowers which she proceeded to tie around my face, securing the ice packs, and leaving a large floral bow on the top of my head.
My head— full of some heavy-duty medication at the time— had no clue, or care, as to what was occurring.Moments later I was awakened by a series of bright flashes. I opened my eyes to find my wonderful spouse— the love of my life, my supreme caretaker at that moment— laughing, camera in hand, taking incriminating photos of her chipmunk-cheeked, floral-scarf clad, big-bow adorned patient. I am sure the photos will resurface at a later date. Still very much out of it, I mumbled a few choice words, gave her a gesture or two, and rolled over.
She whispered, “I’m going to the drug store to get your prescription filled. The phone is right here if you need me.”
Approximately five minutes later the doorbell began ringing, and ringing , and ringing. I tried to ignore it, but it continued to ring. Finally, I slid out of bed, wearing only a pair of shorts and the aforementioned bow-tied floral scarf. I shuffled through the house and opened the door.
Standing across from me were four of the most shocked housekeepers you have ever seen. To my recollection they were speechless. I looked at them. They looked back at me. I looked at them a little longer, they stood, jaws dropped, looking back at me. Finally, still only an hour out of surgery, I mumbled, “I got my wisdom teeth out.” Which, with my mouth full of gauze, probably sounded like, “I duh muh wunnuah teee how.”
Note: I am never home during the day on Fridays when the housekeepers show up. They don’t know me and I have never met them. We know each other intimately now.
I shuffled back to the bedroom, crawled back into the bed, and dreamed of banana pudding.
When my wife returned from the drug store I was sprawled out, flat on my back, in the middle of my bed, knocked out cold and without a care in the world as the housekeepers were busy vacuuming and dusting around me.
Like my grandfather, I, too, used to do some of my best chewing with those teeth. I’ll think of them often (mostly when I’m eating steak) and wonder why they never imparted any wisdom.Alas, I’ve always got banana pudding.
Joan Holland's Almost Heaven Banana Pudding
1 cup Sugar
6 Tbl Flour
Pinch of Salt
4 Egg yolks (reserve whites for meringue)
2 cups Milk
2 tsp Vanilla
6 Tbl Butter
Vanilla wafers
4 Bananas, ripe, peeled and sliced
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Combine sugar, flour, salt, eggs, milk and vanilla in a small nonreactive sauce pot. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly until the custard thickens. Remove from heat, stir in butter until dissolved.
Butter a 2-quart baking dish. Arrange the vanilla wafers around the outside and across the bottom of the baking dish. Spread a layer of custard over the wafers. Place sliced bananas on top of custard and spoon the remaining custard over bananas, spreading evenly.
Meringue
4 Egg whites
6 Tbl Sugar
1/2 tsp Cream of tartar
Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until soft peaks form. Spread over the pudding and bake at 350 degrees until golden, about 8 - 10 minutes. Allow pudding to cool completely before serving (refrigerate at least 4 hours).
Yield: 8-10 servings
Robert St.John is an author, chef, restaurateur, and world-class eater. He is the author of “A Southern Palate,” “Deep South Staples,” “Nobody’s Poet,” “My South,” and the upcoming “Deep South Parties.” He can be reached at http://www.robertstjohn.com/ or nobodyspoet.blogspot.com
When speaking of his wisdom teeth, my grandfather used to say, “I’ll never get my wisdom teeth cut out, I do some of my best chewing with those teeth.”
Once again, I should have listened to my grandfather.After 44 years and some extremely successful chewing, I have removed all four of my wisdom teeth.Day after day, I kept waiting for the wisdom to kick in, to no avail.
After returning from the dentist’s office, heavily medicated and without a care in the world, I fell into the bed. My wife did as the doctor instructed and placed two ice packs on my cheeks to help prevent swelling. The bags wouldn’t stay in place and so she looked for anything to help secure the ice packs. This is where the trouble began.
Feeling all powerful and a little mischievous, my loving wife of 13 years dug deep into her closet to find the ugliest, most flower-filled scarf in her drawers. She returned with a gaudy blue, orange, and yellow number with assorted spring flowers which she proceeded to tie around my face, securing the ice packs, and leaving a large floral bow on the top of my head.
My head— full of some heavy-duty medication at the time— had no clue, or care, as to what was occurring.Moments later I was awakened by a series of bright flashes. I opened my eyes to find my wonderful spouse— the love of my life, my supreme caretaker at that moment— laughing, camera in hand, taking incriminating photos of her chipmunk-cheeked, floral-scarf clad, big-bow adorned patient. I am sure the photos will resurface at a later date. Still very much out of it, I mumbled a few choice words, gave her a gesture or two, and rolled over.
She whispered, “I’m going to the drug store to get your prescription filled. The phone is right here if you need me.”
Approximately five minutes later the doorbell began ringing, and ringing , and ringing. I tried to ignore it, but it continued to ring. Finally, I slid out of bed, wearing only a pair of shorts and the aforementioned bow-tied floral scarf. I shuffled through the house and opened the door.
Standing across from me were four of the most shocked housekeepers you have ever seen. To my recollection they were speechless. I looked at them. They looked back at me. I looked at them a little longer, they stood, jaws dropped, looking back at me. Finally, still only an hour out of surgery, I mumbled, “I got my wisdom teeth out.” Which, with my mouth full of gauze, probably sounded like, “I duh muh wunnuah teee how.”
Note: I am never home during the day on Fridays when the housekeepers show up. They don’t know me and I have never met them. We know each other intimately now.
I shuffled back to the bedroom, crawled back into the bed, and dreamed of banana pudding.
When my wife returned from the drug store I was sprawled out, flat on my back, in the middle of my bed, knocked out cold and without a care in the world as the housekeepers were busy vacuuming and dusting around me.
Like my grandfather, I, too, used to do some of my best chewing with those teeth. I’ll think of them often (mostly when I’m eating steak) and wonder why they never imparted any wisdom.Alas, I’ve always got banana pudding.
Joan Holland's Almost Heaven Banana Pudding
1 cup Sugar
6 Tbl Flour
Pinch of Salt
4 Egg yolks (reserve whites for meringue)
2 cups Milk
2 tsp Vanilla
6 Tbl Butter
Vanilla wafers
4 Bananas, ripe, peeled and sliced
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Combine sugar, flour, salt, eggs, milk and vanilla in a small nonreactive sauce pot. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly until the custard thickens. Remove from heat, stir in butter until dissolved.
Butter a 2-quart baking dish. Arrange the vanilla wafers around the outside and across the bottom of the baking dish. Spread a layer of custard over the wafers. Place sliced bananas on top of custard and spoon the remaining custard over bananas, spreading evenly.
Meringue
4 Egg whites
6 Tbl Sugar
1/2 tsp Cream of tartar
Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until soft peaks form. Spread over the pudding and bake at 350 degrees until golden, about 8 - 10 minutes. Allow pudding to cool completely before serving (refrigerate at least 4 hours).
Yield: 8-10 servings
Robert St.John is an author, chef, restaurateur, and world-class eater. He is the author of “A Southern Palate,” “Deep South Staples,” “Nobody’s Poet,” “My South,” and the upcoming “Deep South Parties.” He can be reached at http://www.robertstjohn.com/ or nobodyspoet.blogspot.com
Monday, July 10, 2006
Santa Fe
SANTA FE— Travel notes and food quotes from my dining diary the week of July 8th:
Have you ever wished for something for so long that there is no way the experience will live up to the “build up?” For 15 years, one of the restaurants on my “get-to list” has been the Coyote Café in Santa Fe, N.M. I am a big fan of Southwestern cuisine. It is one of my favorite regional/ethnic cuisines.
Chef Mark Miller is one of the foremost authorities on Southwestern cuisine. Actually, he has been credited for starting the Southwestern food movement in the early 1980s. I used to frequent his Washington, D.C. restaurant, Red Sage, and enjoyed many fine meals there.
Although Coyote Café was the restaurant that started it all, it has been surpassed by many. The meal I paid for at Coyote Café and the lunch at Miller’s neighboring Rooftop Cantina didn’t live up to the billing or acclaim.
I was in Santa Fe to meet with a movie-director friend who is helping me with a TV project. I learned a lot in two days. I learned that movie making is not magic. Watching the filming of a movie is akin to watching water evaporate. Even if it’s an action-comedy, it’s long and slow and boring. I watched two days of filming that will amount to 10 seconds on screen. In addition to that epiphany, I learned that John Travolta is tall and friendly, William H. Macy is even friendlier (and had a grandmother that lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast that made fine gumbo), Ray Liotta is intense, Martin Lawrence is gracious, and Tim Allen is difficult.
Note: I hesitated to write the above column for fear that some might think I was dropping names. Actually, I believe that one earns the name-dropping moniker only when the names that one drops happen to be friends or acquaintances. The actors listed above have no idea who I am, and had forgotten me within seconds of meeting me, possibly while meeting me.
I did, however, meet a veteran actor and Jackson, Mississippi native, M.C. Gainey, who has friends in Hattiesburg and eats in my restaurants when he is in town (Now that, my friends, was a first-rate name drop).
Two restaurants that were pleasant surprises, and one meal that will certainly make my 2006 Top 10 List, were Café Pasqual and Geronimo. The former being an example of one of the best Southwestern breakfasts I have ever enjoyed and the latter being one of the finest lunches, of any style, I have enjoyed this year.
The breakfast consisted of an organic breakfast quesadilla made with top-notch chorizo, scrambled eggs, guacamole, cheese, salsa, in a grilled whole wheat tortilla, and an impressive order of French toast. Beautiful.
Geronimo, in my opinion, is tops in Santa Fe. The multi-course lunch began with sautéed morel mushrooms served with an English sweet-pea potato cake finished with first press New Zealand olive oil. A second course of macaroni and cheese, was the highlight of the meal, it consisted of Eliche semolina pasta, aged Asiago, Sage Derby, and Fontal cheeses, a julienne of smoked country ham, white truffle essence, English peas, and fresh herbs. A mesquite-grilled flat-iron steak with New Mexico roasted chilies, pommes frites, and veal sauce was the main course, and a banana tart ended the meal.
Possibly the most interesting entrée on the menu was one my dining companion ordered. The entrée was listed as “Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup.” However, just as with the macaroni and cheese, it was nothing like your standard lunch variety grilled cheese and soup combo. This entrée featured Artisan smoked cheddar cheese, prosciutto ham, and black truffles sandwiched between two slices of delicately toasted brioche and served with a frisee salad and a roasted Roma tomato soup with burgundy and grilled calabacitas (Southwestern squash and chilies). Amazing.
Geronimo was a stark, yet elegant, space located on Canyon Road among hundreds of art galleries and studios and is a not-to-be-missed dining experience when one is visiting Santa Fe.
The disappointment of the Coyote Café and the bursting of the bubble of movie-making magic were not trip killers as they were surpassed by two excellent meals, beautiful art, and 70-degree weather.
SANTA FE— Travel notes and food quotes from my dining diary the week of July 8th:
Have you ever wished for something for so long that there is no way the experience will live up to the “build up?” For 15 years, one of the restaurants on my “get-to list” has been the Coyote Café in Santa Fe, N.M. I am a big fan of Southwestern cuisine. It is one of my favorite regional/ethnic cuisines.
Chef Mark Miller is one of the foremost authorities on Southwestern cuisine. Actually, he has been credited for starting the Southwestern food movement in the early 1980s. I used to frequent his Washington, D.C. restaurant, Red Sage, and enjoyed many fine meals there.
Although Coyote Café was the restaurant that started it all, it has been surpassed by many. The meal I paid for at Coyote Café and the lunch at Miller’s neighboring Rooftop Cantina didn’t live up to the billing or acclaim.
I was in Santa Fe to meet with a movie-director friend who is helping me with a TV project. I learned a lot in two days. I learned that movie making is not magic. Watching the filming of a movie is akin to watching water evaporate. Even if it’s an action-comedy, it’s long and slow and boring. I watched two days of filming that will amount to 10 seconds on screen. In addition to that epiphany, I learned that John Travolta is tall and friendly, William H. Macy is even friendlier (and had a grandmother that lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast that made fine gumbo), Ray Liotta is intense, Martin Lawrence is gracious, and Tim Allen is difficult.
Note: I hesitated to write the above column for fear that some might think I was dropping names. Actually, I believe that one earns the name-dropping moniker only when the names that one drops happen to be friends or acquaintances. The actors listed above have no idea who I am, and had forgotten me within seconds of meeting me, possibly while meeting me.
I did, however, meet a veteran actor and Jackson, Mississippi native, M.C. Gainey, who has friends in Hattiesburg and eats in my restaurants when he is in town (Now that, my friends, was a first-rate name drop).
Two restaurants that were pleasant surprises, and one meal that will certainly make my 2006 Top 10 List, were Café Pasqual and Geronimo. The former being an example of one of the best Southwestern breakfasts I have ever enjoyed and the latter being one of the finest lunches, of any style, I have enjoyed this year.
The breakfast consisted of an organic breakfast quesadilla made with top-notch chorizo, scrambled eggs, guacamole, cheese, salsa, in a grilled whole wheat tortilla, and an impressive order of French toast. Beautiful.
Geronimo, in my opinion, is tops in Santa Fe. The multi-course lunch began with sautéed morel mushrooms served with an English sweet-pea potato cake finished with first press New Zealand olive oil. A second course of macaroni and cheese, was the highlight of the meal, it consisted of Eliche semolina pasta, aged Asiago, Sage Derby, and Fontal cheeses, a julienne of smoked country ham, white truffle essence, English peas, and fresh herbs. A mesquite-grilled flat-iron steak with New Mexico roasted chilies, pommes frites, and veal sauce was the main course, and a banana tart ended the meal.
Possibly the most interesting entrée on the menu was one my dining companion ordered. The entrée was listed as “Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup.” However, just as with the macaroni and cheese, it was nothing like your standard lunch variety grilled cheese and soup combo. This entrée featured Artisan smoked cheddar cheese, prosciutto ham, and black truffles sandwiched between two slices of delicately toasted brioche and served with a frisee salad and a roasted Roma tomato soup with burgundy and grilled calabacitas (Southwestern squash and chilies). Amazing.
Geronimo was a stark, yet elegant, space located on Canyon Road among hundreds of art galleries and studios and is a not-to-be-missed dining experience when one is visiting Santa Fe.
The disappointment of the Coyote Café and the bursting of the bubble of movie-making magic were not trip killers as they were surpassed by two excellent meals, beautiful art, and 70-degree weather.
The Sword, the Bathroom, and the Pirate
My son has a the bladder the size of an English pea.
He also likes pirates.
These two seemingly diametrically opposed statements converged during one fateful incident in a restaurant bathroom.
I have often written of my son’s bouts with bathroomitis. Bathroomitis is a malady that strikes early in life and usually affects boys in the three to five-year old age group. It is not a condition recognized by the American Medical Association, but it is surely experienced by fathers of young boys everywhere. The symptoms are easily detected and the condition is effortlessly diagnosed. During any restaurant visit, my son makes multiple trips to bathroom.
He might not need to go for hours while at home. But take him to a restaurant and he’s up every five minutes.
What does any of this have to do with pirates, you say? Read on, dear reader, read on.
My five-year old son chooses a favorite toy as some might choose a pair of underwear. It is a random procedure that usually involves picking up the first thing he sees in his toy chest or the toy nearest the back door on the way out of the house. No deep thought goes into the process and he likes it that way.
During a 48-hour period in June his favorite toy happened to be the Elite Operations Medieval Fantasy Sword, Barberia design, from Toys R Us, $5.95. Granted, an ancient Celtic sword is out of place in the world of pirates and buccaneers, but five-year olds don’t split hairs when playing games, it was the toy that was at the top of the pile when he was in search of a pirate weapon, and one sword is as good as another when forcing someone to walk the plank.
The sword is approximately 36-inches long and is made of hard, shiny plastic. If one didn’t know it was a harmless toy, it might look like an intimidating weapon. At a quick glance, it might even look like a real sword. In the hands of my son, a swashbuckling kindergartener, it can be the cause of much grief and embarrassment.
While driving my daughter to camp last month, we were to meet my mother-in-law, who was going to babysit the five-year old buccaneer for a week. The rendezvous point for the obligatory child trade off was a restaurant just off of the interstate in Vicksburg, Mississippi.
At this point I should note that when my son chooses his toy-of-the-moment, the choice is made and he doesn’t turn back. At least until the next toy catches his fancy. Nevertheless, the toy, whatever it may be, stays in his hands. He doesn’t let go. Whether it is a small rubber ball, a Star Wars action figure, a Sponge Bob pencil eraser, or a pirate sword, it goes everywhere with him. It is the parental path of least resistance. Better to let the boy keep his toy— whether in church or in a restaurant— than to deal with the alternative. As parents we choose our battles. His affection for the toy-of-the-moment is a battle we choose not to fight.
Back to the mother-in-law trade off.
So, we were in the rendezvous point making the exchange when the wannabe pirate was struck with his usual case of bathroomitis. I took him to the restroom, sword in hand, to do what needed to be done. Unfortunately it was a small restroom and there was only one stall, and what needed to be done, needed to be done in that stall. As fate would have it, the stall was occupied. I know this because my son said, “Look daddy, cowboy boots.” He had done as we all do— the universal method to make sure the stall door isn’t stuck and there’s actually someone inside— the-bend-down-and-peek-under-the-stall-door maneuver.
While waiting for the stall to empty, nature called. Daddy was struck with a case of bathroomitis and I went to the urinal to stand and do what one does at a urinal. While standing, I turned around to check on my son.
The boy was bent over with his arm reaching under the bottom of the adjacent stall. Unfortunately it was the arm that held the aforementioned pirate sword and he was waving it back and forth on the other side of the stall wall.
I was stunned for a moment and baffled to the point of speechlessness as I tried to figure out why my son was waving the sword under the stall. Then I remembered the cowboy boots.
For some strange reason the man on the other side of the stall wall remained silent. Maybe he was struck speechless as he sat in his most private of private moments, dumbfounded as a 36-inch sword appeared under the stall wall swishing back and forth cutting the air.
My son had a strange look on his face as he was up to his elbow in swordplay. It wasn’t a look of mischievousness, but rather a look of determination to try and make contact with whatever might be on the other side of the wall. To my knowledge he never did.
“Stop!” were the only words that would come across my lips. He looked up at me puzzled. It was a look that said “Why in the world would I stop doing this? It’s too much fun.”
I grabbed him and ran out of the men’s room, shoved him towards my mother-in-law and said, “Run! Good luck! See you next week!”
In conclusion, to the cowboy-boot wearing man who was nearly assaulted by the Elite Operations Medieval Fantasy Sword in the stall of the Shoney’s restaurant in Vicksburg, Mississippi, around noon on June the 3rd, 2006, wherever you are, just blame it on a chronic case of bathroomitis.
My son has a the bladder the size of an English pea.
He also likes pirates.
These two seemingly diametrically opposed statements converged during one fateful incident in a restaurant bathroom.
I have often written of my son’s bouts with bathroomitis. Bathroomitis is a malady that strikes early in life and usually affects boys in the three to five-year old age group. It is not a condition recognized by the American Medical Association, but it is surely experienced by fathers of young boys everywhere. The symptoms are easily detected and the condition is effortlessly diagnosed. During any restaurant visit, my son makes multiple trips to bathroom.
He might not need to go for hours while at home. But take him to a restaurant and he’s up every five minutes.
What does any of this have to do with pirates, you say? Read on, dear reader, read on.
My five-year old son chooses a favorite toy as some might choose a pair of underwear. It is a random procedure that usually involves picking up the first thing he sees in his toy chest or the toy nearest the back door on the way out of the house. No deep thought goes into the process and he likes it that way.
During a 48-hour period in June his favorite toy happened to be the Elite Operations Medieval Fantasy Sword, Barberia design, from Toys R Us, $5.95. Granted, an ancient Celtic sword is out of place in the world of pirates and buccaneers, but five-year olds don’t split hairs when playing games, it was the toy that was at the top of the pile when he was in search of a pirate weapon, and one sword is as good as another when forcing someone to walk the plank.
The sword is approximately 36-inches long and is made of hard, shiny plastic. If one didn’t know it was a harmless toy, it might look like an intimidating weapon. At a quick glance, it might even look like a real sword. In the hands of my son, a swashbuckling kindergartener, it can be the cause of much grief and embarrassment.
While driving my daughter to camp last month, we were to meet my mother-in-law, who was going to babysit the five-year old buccaneer for a week. The rendezvous point for the obligatory child trade off was a restaurant just off of the interstate in Vicksburg, Mississippi.
At this point I should note that when my son chooses his toy-of-the-moment, the choice is made and he doesn’t turn back. At least until the next toy catches his fancy. Nevertheless, the toy, whatever it may be, stays in his hands. He doesn’t let go. Whether it is a small rubber ball, a Star Wars action figure, a Sponge Bob pencil eraser, or a pirate sword, it goes everywhere with him. It is the parental path of least resistance. Better to let the boy keep his toy— whether in church or in a restaurant— than to deal with the alternative. As parents we choose our battles. His affection for the toy-of-the-moment is a battle we choose not to fight.
Back to the mother-in-law trade off.
So, we were in the rendezvous point making the exchange when the wannabe pirate was struck with his usual case of bathroomitis. I took him to the restroom, sword in hand, to do what needed to be done. Unfortunately it was a small restroom and there was only one stall, and what needed to be done, needed to be done in that stall. As fate would have it, the stall was occupied. I know this because my son said, “Look daddy, cowboy boots.” He had done as we all do— the universal method to make sure the stall door isn’t stuck and there’s actually someone inside— the-bend-down-and-peek-under-the-stall-door maneuver.
While waiting for the stall to empty, nature called. Daddy was struck with a case of bathroomitis and I went to the urinal to stand and do what one does at a urinal. While standing, I turned around to check on my son.
The boy was bent over with his arm reaching under the bottom of the adjacent stall. Unfortunately it was the arm that held the aforementioned pirate sword and he was waving it back and forth on the other side of the stall wall.
I was stunned for a moment and baffled to the point of speechlessness as I tried to figure out why my son was waving the sword under the stall. Then I remembered the cowboy boots.
For some strange reason the man on the other side of the stall wall remained silent. Maybe he was struck speechless as he sat in his most private of private moments, dumbfounded as a 36-inch sword appeared under the stall wall swishing back and forth cutting the air.
My son had a strange look on his face as he was up to his elbow in swordplay. It wasn’t a look of mischievousness, but rather a look of determination to try and make contact with whatever might be on the other side of the wall. To my knowledge he never did.
“Stop!” were the only words that would come across my lips. He looked up at me puzzled. It was a look that said “Why in the world would I stop doing this? It’s too much fun.”
I grabbed him and ran out of the men’s room, shoved him towards my mother-in-law and said, “Run! Good luck! See you next week!”
In conclusion, to the cowboy-boot wearing man who was nearly assaulted by the Elite Operations Medieval Fantasy Sword in the stall of the Shoney’s restaurant in Vicksburg, Mississippi, around noon on June the 3rd, 2006, wherever you are, just blame it on a chronic case of bathroomitis.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Destin
DESTIN, Fla— Greetings from the remnants of the world’s luckiest fishing village.
As a kid, when driving over the bridge into Destin, I was greeted by a large plywood sign that stated “Welcome to Destin… the World’s Luckiest Fishing Village.” A few days ago I crested the peak of that same bridge and was welcomed by a behemoth condominium structure being constructed where the pass meets the harbor, some call it progress.
A good portion of my youth was spent in the bars and on the beaches of this town, but it wasn’t until the mid 1980s that I became a fan of the food.
At that time, regional cooking was just coming into favor. Paul Prudhomme had put redfish on the culinary map a few years earlier. Alice Waters and Jeremiah Tower had started the California food movement, and Norman Van Aiken was just getting cranked up in South Florida.
In 1986 Destin had its own cuisine. A classically trained French chef from Baton Rouge was hired to man the kitchens of the Beachside Café. Located at, what was then the center of town, Beachside was one of the first restaurants to deviate from the old-line, stuffed flounder and fried shrimp, tried-and-true dishes from the 1950s Coastal cafes. At the time, Beachside was the hottest restaurant in town.
When the Beachside Café Executive Chef moved to Destin, he brought with him a group of high school boys who had worked in the kitchen of Joey’s restaurant in Baton Rouge. Some came as dishwashers and busboys, others were line cooks. At the time, most of the boys were more interested in playing on the beach and chasing bikinis than working in the kitchen. Before long, the restaurant bug bit the young chefs and their passion for cooking grew and the Destin restaurant industry blossomed overnight.
It was an exciting time. I was working as a waiter and watched, one by one, as each of the Beachside sous chefs ventured out into other restaurants, some built exclusively for them, others long established. Before long, the Flamingo Café, Louisiana Lagniappe, The Marina Café, Paradise Café, Prescott’s, and others began to flourish.
There was one common factor that held all of 1980s new-line Destin restaurants and cooking styles together— The Beachside Café. The dishes that the new chefs were developing came out of the Classical French School of cooking. They used hollandaise and its many variations and paired it with soft shell crab. They used the recipe for Joey’s beurre blanc, one of the classic French butter sauces, to finish filets of fresh red snapper. And veal-stock based meuniere sauces, which were more derivative of New Orleans and Baton Rouge than France, were used to accompany beef and veal.
Overall, the Destin cuisine of that era focused on fresh seafood of the Panhandle treated simply and finished with rich butter sauces. It is the first fine dining food— outside of New Orleans— that I fell in love with. It is the cooking style that I first learned, and one that I revert to, often.
The opening chef at the Purple Parrot Café was one of the Baton Rouge boys that traveled to Beachside Café in the mid 80s. Although he only worked here a few weeks, his touches still show up in some of our dishes.
By the 1990s the chefs had mostly moved on or burnt out. A few remain, others have gone into other fields of work and forgotten the restaurant business altogether. In the early 1990s, Harbor Docks restaurant introduced sushi, and Destin cuisine began to move in a lighter direction blending Asian influences with natural reductions.
Most of the restaurants that popped up in that era are gone. A Mexican restaurant opened in the Beachside Café’s location, and The Marina Café has followed the Asian trend and left its French roots behind. The young chefs have scattered and settled down to become family men and responsible business owners. The next food trend is waiting to be born. I’ll be there ready to embrace it, but I doubt it will replace the excitement I experienced the first time I ate a piece of grilled grouper topped with jumbo lump crabmeat, beurre blanc, and lemon meuniere at the Beachside Café.
DESTIN, Fla— Greetings from the remnants of the world’s luckiest fishing village.
As a kid, when driving over the bridge into Destin, I was greeted by a large plywood sign that stated “Welcome to Destin… the World’s Luckiest Fishing Village.” A few days ago I crested the peak of that same bridge and was welcomed by a behemoth condominium structure being constructed where the pass meets the harbor, some call it progress.
A good portion of my youth was spent in the bars and on the beaches of this town, but it wasn’t until the mid 1980s that I became a fan of the food.
At that time, regional cooking was just coming into favor. Paul Prudhomme had put redfish on the culinary map a few years earlier. Alice Waters and Jeremiah Tower had started the California food movement, and Norman Van Aiken was just getting cranked up in South Florida.
In 1986 Destin had its own cuisine. A classically trained French chef from Baton Rouge was hired to man the kitchens of the Beachside Café. Located at, what was then the center of town, Beachside was one of the first restaurants to deviate from the old-line, stuffed flounder and fried shrimp, tried-and-true dishes from the 1950s Coastal cafes. At the time, Beachside was the hottest restaurant in town.
When the Beachside Café Executive Chef moved to Destin, he brought with him a group of high school boys who had worked in the kitchen of Joey’s restaurant in Baton Rouge. Some came as dishwashers and busboys, others were line cooks. At the time, most of the boys were more interested in playing on the beach and chasing bikinis than working in the kitchen. Before long, the restaurant bug bit the young chefs and their passion for cooking grew and the Destin restaurant industry blossomed overnight.
It was an exciting time. I was working as a waiter and watched, one by one, as each of the Beachside sous chefs ventured out into other restaurants, some built exclusively for them, others long established. Before long, the Flamingo Café, Louisiana Lagniappe, The Marina Café, Paradise Café, Prescott’s, and others began to flourish.
There was one common factor that held all of 1980s new-line Destin restaurants and cooking styles together— The Beachside Café. The dishes that the new chefs were developing came out of the Classical French School of cooking. They used hollandaise and its many variations and paired it with soft shell crab. They used the recipe for Joey’s beurre blanc, one of the classic French butter sauces, to finish filets of fresh red snapper. And veal-stock based meuniere sauces, which were more derivative of New Orleans and Baton Rouge than France, were used to accompany beef and veal.
Overall, the Destin cuisine of that era focused on fresh seafood of the Panhandle treated simply and finished with rich butter sauces. It is the first fine dining food— outside of New Orleans— that I fell in love with. It is the cooking style that I first learned, and one that I revert to, often.
The opening chef at the Purple Parrot Café was one of the Baton Rouge boys that traveled to Beachside Café in the mid 80s. Although he only worked here a few weeks, his touches still show up in some of our dishes.
By the 1990s the chefs had mostly moved on or burnt out. A few remain, others have gone into other fields of work and forgotten the restaurant business altogether. In the early 1990s, Harbor Docks restaurant introduced sushi, and Destin cuisine began to move in a lighter direction blending Asian influences with natural reductions.
Most of the restaurants that popped up in that era are gone. A Mexican restaurant opened in the Beachside Café’s location, and The Marina Café has followed the Asian trend and left its French roots behind. The young chefs have scattered and settled down to become family men and responsible business owners. The next food trend is waiting to be born. I’ll be there ready to embrace it, but I doubt it will replace the excitement I experienced the first time I ate a piece of grilled grouper topped with jumbo lump crabmeat, beurre blanc, and lemon meuniere at the Beachside Café.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Per Se
New York, N.Y.— I have just eaten the best meal of my life. Hands down. No question.
That is a powerful statement for someone who eats for a living. Yet, there is no other way to describe my dining experience at Per Se as anything less than “perfect.” From the service to the food to the atmosphere, it just doesn’t get any better.
These days the Holy Grail of restaurants is The French Laundry in Yountville, California. Reservations are taken two months in advance and seatings fill instantly. I rarely travel to the Napa Valley, so Per Se, The French Laundry’s New York cousin, is my East Coast Grail. Reservations at Per Se are hard to come by, too. I applied the “squeaky wheel theory” and received a table on the last night of my visit.
Per Se is located on the third floor of the newly constructed Time Warner building. The elegantly sparse but spacious dining room has only 16 tables. The view overlooks Columbus Circle to the tree line of Central Park South with the Upper East Side skyline in the distance.
Never have I eaten such a worldly meal in one place. Eleven courses featuring jet-fresh foods flown in from all over the world. The first course was salmon crème fraiche in a tuille cone. The next course featured oysters from Greece, poached in butter and served over a savory sabayon of pearl tapioca with Russian Sevruga caviar.
The third course was a salad of Hawaiian hearts of peach palm. It was at this point that I realized that no component of the meal would be overlooked and all details would be covered down to the two butters that were served with the bread. One came from a small creamery in France and another from an organic farm in California. The bottled water was shipped in from a small company in Wales.
The fourth course was a seared lobe of foie gras dusted with finely crumbled walnuts and served with a small compote of poached apples. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never eat foie gras prepared as expertly as that one.
The fifth course was a sesame-crusted filet of Hirimasa, a Pacific fish that might have been the mildest, whitest fish I have eaten. That was followed by a fricassee of Nova Scotia lobster with a confit of artichokes, Pincholine olives, oven-roasted Roma tomatoes, Piquillo peppers, and a spicy lobster broth.
After a rabbit course, the server brought a pan-roasted sirloin of Australian Wagyu beef that was served alongside a Wagyu brisket that had been braised for 48 hours, a roasted potato gratin that was 16 layers thick but less than one-inch tall, a forest mushroom duxelles, crisp haricots verts and sauce bordelaise.
The next course featured pickled Tristar strawberries from a farm in Upstate New York paired with Tellicherry Pepper shortbread, cheese from France, and Blue Moon Acres Mezza arugula. A pineapple sorbet course followed, and was served with a compressed pineapple and Macadamia nut “nougatine” which, when I look at my notes from the meal, I described as, “unbelievable” and, since I am not allotted enough space in this column to do the dish justice, I will let that description stand.
Two more courses followed the sorbet course, but I was numb.
I was given a guided tour of the kitchen, unusually large by New York standards, actually, large by any standards. During the day, 40 chefs do the advance work to prepare that evening’s meal. At night it takes 14 chefs to carry out the dinner service. That’s a total of 54 chefs working to service a 16-table restaurant. Again, unbelievable.
On the kitchen wall was a 60-inch plasma monitor with a live, closed-circuit camera focused on The French Laundry’s kitchen, Per Se’s Napa Valley cousin. The French Laundry, on the other hand, has a monitor in their kitchen showing the Per Se kitchen. Wherever Chef Thomas Keller is, he can observe his chefs at work.
The meal was perfect, down to the silverware, serving pieces, china, and crystal, each unique and of the finest quality. As I write this column and think back to my meal at Per Se, I am trying hard to be critical and think of something— just one thing— that was even slightly disappointing. I can’t think of one thing. I guess when a restaurant goes to the trouble to import their water and butter from thousands of miles away, every other detail, whether large or small, is covered.
Will I eat a better meal sometime in the future? Maybe. I certainly hope so. I am currently trying to get a table at The French Laundry for my July visit to that area. Stay tuned.
New York, N.Y.— I have just eaten the best meal of my life. Hands down. No question.
That is a powerful statement for someone who eats for a living. Yet, there is no other way to describe my dining experience at Per Se as anything less than “perfect.” From the service to the food to the atmosphere, it just doesn’t get any better.
These days the Holy Grail of restaurants is The French Laundry in Yountville, California. Reservations are taken two months in advance and seatings fill instantly. I rarely travel to the Napa Valley, so Per Se, The French Laundry’s New York cousin, is my East Coast Grail. Reservations at Per Se are hard to come by, too. I applied the “squeaky wheel theory” and received a table on the last night of my visit.
Per Se is located on the third floor of the newly constructed Time Warner building. The elegantly sparse but spacious dining room has only 16 tables. The view overlooks Columbus Circle to the tree line of Central Park South with the Upper East Side skyline in the distance.
Never have I eaten such a worldly meal in one place. Eleven courses featuring jet-fresh foods flown in from all over the world. The first course was salmon crème fraiche in a tuille cone. The next course featured oysters from Greece, poached in butter and served over a savory sabayon of pearl tapioca with Russian Sevruga caviar.
The third course was a salad of Hawaiian hearts of peach palm. It was at this point that I realized that no component of the meal would be overlooked and all details would be covered down to the two butters that were served with the bread. One came from a small creamery in France and another from an organic farm in California. The bottled water was shipped in from a small company in Wales.
The fourth course was a seared lobe of foie gras dusted with finely crumbled walnuts and served with a small compote of poached apples. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never eat foie gras prepared as expertly as that one.
The fifth course was a sesame-crusted filet of Hirimasa, a Pacific fish that might have been the mildest, whitest fish I have eaten. That was followed by a fricassee of Nova Scotia lobster with a confit of artichokes, Pincholine olives, oven-roasted Roma tomatoes, Piquillo peppers, and a spicy lobster broth.
After a rabbit course, the server brought a pan-roasted sirloin of Australian Wagyu beef that was served alongside a Wagyu brisket that had been braised for 48 hours, a roasted potato gratin that was 16 layers thick but less than one-inch tall, a forest mushroom duxelles, crisp haricots verts and sauce bordelaise.
The next course featured pickled Tristar strawberries from a farm in Upstate New York paired with Tellicherry Pepper shortbread, cheese from France, and Blue Moon Acres Mezza arugula. A pineapple sorbet course followed, and was served with a compressed pineapple and Macadamia nut “nougatine” which, when I look at my notes from the meal, I described as, “unbelievable” and, since I am not allotted enough space in this column to do the dish justice, I will let that description stand.
Two more courses followed the sorbet course, but I was numb.
I was given a guided tour of the kitchen, unusually large by New York standards, actually, large by any standards. During the day, 40 chefs do the advance work to prepare that evening’s meal. At night it takes 14 chefs to carry out the dinner service. That’s a total of 54 chefs working to service a 16-table restaurant. Again, unbelievable.
On the kitchen wall was a 60-inch plasma monitor with a live, closed-circuit camera focused on The French Laundry’s kitchen, Per Se’s Napa Valley cousin. The French Laundry, on the other hand, has a monitor in their kitchen showing the Per Se kitchen. Wherever Chef Thomas Keller is, he can observe his chefs at work.
The meal was perfect, down to the silverware, serving pieces, china, and crystal, each unique and of the finest quality. As I write this column and think back to my meal at Per Se, I am trying hard to be critical and think of something— just one thing— that was even slightly disappointing. I can’t think of one thing. I guess when a restaurant goes to the trouble to import their water and butter from thousands of miles away, every other detail, whether large or small, is covered.
Will I eat a better meal sometime in the future? Maybe. I certainly hope so. I am currently trying to get a table at The French Laundry for my July visit to that area. Stay tuned.
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