Beans, Beans, Good for Your Heart
(but not your arrest record… or your pedicure)



Last week I read a story in The Evening Standard that opened with the sentence: “Hugh Grant has been arrested after allegedly hurling a tub of baked beans at a photographer.”

O.K., I’ll bite. How can one read an opening line such as that and not continue?

The word “allegedly” is included in the sentence for The Evening Standard’s legal comfort. There is an accompanying photograph of Grant— the movie actor who starred in the quintessential chick flick Four Weddings and a Funeral— midway through his windup, a carry-out container of baked beans at the ready, seconds before they were "alledgedly" hurled at the photographer.





It struck me as odd that a stuffy Brit such as Grant would— not only have eaten baked beans but— enjoyed his serving of baked beans so much that he asked the restaurant for a doggie bag to bring home the half-eaten portion of tomato-and vinegar-spiked legumes.

This is how The Evening Standard reported the incident:

“The arrest followed a clash with the freelance paparazzi photographer outside Grant's Chelsea home on Tuesday morning.”

“Mr Whittaker said he had turned up to take pictures of the actor's former girlfriend Liz Hurley, who lives in the same street. When Grant, 46, arrived in his car he asked him to smile as he took his picture.”

“The film star allegedly snapped, swearing at Mr Whittaker, 43, and reportedly kicking him three or four times. Then, as Grant entered his house, he allegedly turned and threw a plastic container of baked beans at him.”

“Mr Whittaker told a tabloid newspaper: ‘I said Give us a smile please and he looked really angry. I walked backwards and he walked after me. He kicked me hard three or four times then kneed me in the groin.’”

I don’t have much sympathy for paparazzi types but getting knocked upside the head by a pint of beans and then kicked in the groin by a middle-aged actor is certainly demoralizing and humiliating.

The second photograph included in the article was of Grant attempting to kick the photographer. His foot is four inches off of the ground and nowhere near the groin. I’ll give Grant a pass on that count as he had no time to warm up and stretch before the bean-throwing, paparazzi-kicking exercise began.



Typically, I would spend the remaining column inches at my disposal on jokes that make fun of Grant, his movies, the blandness of British food, and beans in general. But as I was writing this, I remembered a humiliating baked-bean incident from my past.

During my college years, while waiting tables in one of those brass-and-fern style restaurants, I spilled and eight-ounce bouillon bowl of baked beans on a woman’s foot.

I had just arrived at her table and the serving tray was still in a position high above my head. The beans fell from a height approximately seven feet above the floor and landed upside down and squarely on her instep.

An eight-ounce bouillon bowl weighs over nine ounces. Filled with beans it probably approaches one pound. Pardon my physics, but a one-pound bowl, falling from a height of seven feet, traveling at a velocity of… Well, you get the picture. The beans fell fast and they fell hard. The woman let out a shrill shriek and then a series of low-pitched sobs and moans.

She was wearing sandals and I stood speechless as I watched the steaming hot beans ooze through her toes and onto the floor. I almost lost my job due to the leguminous pedicure but was saved by the woman’s graciousness. Her husband, on the other hand, gave me the evil eye. When I asked if I could bring his wife another side order of beans, he asked for a towel, the manager, and a baked potato instead.

It seems that baked beans are quickly becoming a weapon of the future. It won’t be too long before someone in this part of the country figures out how to kill a deer with them.

The photographer is lucky that Grant lives in London. Had the actor been a resident of Mississippi, he would have been coming home with a doggie bag full of fried chicken wings and tater logs— both of which would be more effective hurling weapons than baked beans.

In the end, justice was served last week as every man who has had to sit through Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually, Sense and Sensibility, and both Bridget Jones movies in theatres, again on HBO, and then on DVD, every Valentine’s Day, and every anniversary, exhaled a collective sigh of jubilant satisfaction. Karma can be a beautiful thing.

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Cookout Baked Beans

1 lb Bacon, thick-sliced, diced
1 1 /2 cup Onion, diced
3 /4 cup Bell pepper, diced
1 tsp Barbeque Seasoning
1 cup Barbecue sauce
2 Tbl Honey
2 tsp Yellow mustard
1 Tbl Liquid Smoke
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
1 /2 cup Chicken Broth
2 large cans Bush’s Country Style Baked Beans, drained

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

In a large saucepot render bacon. Add onion, bell pepper and BBQ seasoning. Cook five minutes. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Place in a 2 1 /2-quart baking dish and cover with foil. Bake 45 minutes. Yield: ten servings


BBQ Seasoning

1 /3 cup Lawry’s Seasoned Salt
1 /3 cup Paprika
2 Tbl Onion Powder
2 Tbl Cayenne Pepper
1 Tbl White Pepper
5 tsp Garlic Powder
1 Tbl Black Pepper
1 Tbl Dry Mustard
1 tsp Oregano
1 tsp Thyme

Mix thoroughly. Yield: one cup

Roll Out the Vertical Stripes


The diet is over.

On January 8th I began dieting in preparation of a photographer flying in from New York to shoot my next book. My goal was to lose 30 pounds in four months.

The time has come. The photographer is here. I hit just above 50% of my goal. I lost 16 pounds.

Looking back it might have been the visit to the cheesecake factory in the first week of my diet that led to a bad start. Though, if you have never toured a cheesecake factory, I suggest you do so immediately.

The Jubilations Cheesecake facility in Columbus, Miss. is a wonderful place to spend the better part of a morning. From the second I walked into the door and smelled the aroma of freshly baked cheesecakes in the air, I knew that the diet was in trouble. There is not much in this world that smells better than a cheesecake factory after one has been surviving on chicken breasts, broccoli, and oatmeal for an entire week.

It’s almost as if they piped in the aroma to tempt me.

Here’s a million-dollar idea: Someone should make an air freshener or candle that smells like a cheesecake manufacturing plant.

It could have been the 12-course meal at the French Laundry in Yountville, Calif. when I was in San Francisco in February. Or it could have been the new rib place I discovered later that month. Either way, I gave in to temptation more times than not.

Cookbook recipe testing is not conducive to dieting. I have developed, tested, and tasted over 200 new recipes for two new cookbooks over the course of the last three months. Some recipes had to be prepared again and again until we got them right. Some had to be prepared again and again because we got them right and we wanted second helpings.

I was on a roll for a few weeks, and then I hit a plateau. I have been stuck at this weight for the last two months.

More than likely it was the French Bakery that opened across the street from my office in my hometown of Hattiesburg, Miss. that did me in. It’s not the bakery’s fault. It’s my love of food mixed with my fondness for bread that keeps me going back. I can do without sweets, but freshly baked breads and pastries in the hands of an experienced French baker is a temptation that is too tough for me to resist.

Januz, the French/Polish baker, is said to love Polish techno music, and if one gets to the bakery before it opens, one might catch him dancing around the small shop with music blaring.

A friend of mine walked in the bakery early the other day and reported that Januz did, indeed, have Polish techno music blaring from the small stereo and was dancing with abandon throughout the store. I love that. That is exactly what I want in a baker: innate skill, a yeoman’s work-ethic, and a well-formed sense of rhythm.

I have yet to catch Januz dancing through the bakery, but I always look through the windows at 6 a.m. when I am on my way to the gym.

Maybe I should go across the street before I go to the gym and dance around the bakery while holding one of those custard-raisin croissant things to burn off a few calories. It would be the world’s first— and only— French-Polish Cardio-Bakery.

I never read the book “French Women Don’t Get Fat” but maybe the reason they don’t get fat is because they dance more than we do. I quit dancing around the time I stopped drinking. When I sobered up— almost 24 years ago— I realized that my dancing didn’t look quite as cool as I thought while I was drinking. Maybe I should start dancing again.

French women might not get fat, but Southern men sure do. So crank up the Polish techno music, and say, “cheese.”



Creamed Corn Cornbread

1 cup Flour, all-purpose, unbleached
1 cup Cornmeal
2 tsp. Baking powder
1 Tbl Salt
1 cup Creamed corn
1 Egg, large
3 /4 cup Milk
2 Tbl. Butter, unsalted and melted

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Grease an 8 x 8 or 9 x 9 inch baking pan with nonstick cooking spray. Sift flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt into a large bowl. Stir mixture briefly.

Separately, whisk together creamed corn, egg, milk, honey and butter until honey is dissolved. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Do not over work batter.

Pour batter into pan and bake 20-26 minutes, or until golden. Yield: 9-12 pieces


Creamed Corn

8 ears Silverqueen corn, shucked and scraped to remove milk
2 cups Water
1 stick Butter
1 1 /2 tsp Salt
1 /2 tsp Pepper
2 Tbl Half and half
2 tsp Cornstarch

Break two of the shucked corncobs in half. Place in a small sauce pot with two cups of water. Simmer for 10 minutes to make a corn stock.

Melt butter in a medium sized skillet over a medium heat and add corn and 1 /2 cup of the corn stock, salt and pepper. Simmer over low heat 10 minutes. Dissolve cornstarch in the Half and Half and stir into the simmering corn mixture. Return to a simmer. Serve hot. Yield: six to eight servings

So You Want To Be A Rock and Roll Star


When I was six-years old I wanted to be Darren Stevens when I grew up. Not only was I attracted to the idea of being married to a smoking hot woman who could make problems disappear with a twitch of her nose, I liked the idea of working for an advertising agency. The pitching of an idea to a client seemed creative and appealing. I was also enamored with the concept of entertaining clients. I didn’t want to be a policeman, a fireman, or a cowboy. I wanted to be an advertising agency executive.

After my advertising phase I decided to become an astronaut. The United States had just landed on the moon. It was the ultimate adventure. By then, my crush had moved from Samantha Stevens on Bewitched to Barbara Eden on I Dream of Jeanie. Larry Hagman was an astronaut, and once again, the beautiful woman in his life could make problems disappear, this time with a nod of the head. I stayed in my space-traveling phase until I found out how astronauts have to use the bathroom in outer space. I also never developed a fondness for Tang.
The career ambition that took me into my pre-teen and early-teen years was rock star. I started playing the guitar and planned to be a member of Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. I wasn’t sure how one got to that point, but I loved the music, and life on the road performing in front of thousands of screaming girls was extremely appealing.

As we all know I ended up in the food/food-writing business, though food is a major component of rock and roll. That’s right. Not booze, drugs, or women— food.

Occasionally I visit a website entitled the Smoking Gun www.thesmokinggun.com . In addition to celebrity mug shots (Glen Campbell and Nick Nolte, alone are worth the visit) it lists musician’s riders.

An artist’s rider is an attachment to a performance contract that lists specific sound and light requirements, but also specifies the specific food and beverage necessities of the performer.

Paul McCartney’s rider demands, “There will be no meat, or meat by-products allowed to be served in the dressing rooms, production offices, or areas within the ‘backstage area.’” He also specifies no leather furniture or furniture made from animal skins.

The artist formerly known as “the Artist” but once again known as Prince requires “Yogi cocoa tea” and “jasmine and lavender candles.”

The four members of Van Halen demand one-half case “regular local beer” in cans, one-half case premium beer, one pint Jack Daniels, one pint Absolut vodka, one 750 ml. bottle rum, two bottles of white wine, one bottle of red wine, one 750 ml. bottle of top-shelf tequila, Cointreau, Grand Mariner, and ingredients to prepare bloody marys. At this point I should note that Eddie Van Halen didn’t attend his induction ceremony to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a few weeks ago. He was in rehab.

The band Aerosmith asks for “NO alcoholic beverages” backstage and specifies “no pressed meats.” Bon Jovi wants sushi after the show, Sting says that he is “adventurous enough to try local fare,” and Metallica’s catering needs are carefully detailed in three pages of a 24-page document.

Eminem wants turkey burgers, Kansas needs prune juice, and Willie Nelson likes free-range pork chops.

Clarence Clemmons, Bruce Springsteen’s longtime saxophone player, asks that a whole roasted chicken be delivered to his dressing room halfway through the performance and also demands Beluga caviar, while The Boss, Springsteen, requires nothing more than energy bars, green tea, soft drinks, and coffee.

Some artists ask for only green M&Ms while others require bottled water flown in from Europe.

Z.Z. Top asks for “a medium serving bowl of cocktail franks in special sauce (consult with production assistant for the recipe and preparation instructions).” Johnny Cash wanted an American flag “in full view of the audience” while performing.

At sixteen years old I realized that my rock-star career would never materialize into anything more than my being a garage-band wannabe. I made the decision that if I couldn’t be a rock star, I would write about the rock stars and set my sights to be a contributing writer for Rolling Stone. I haven’t written for Rolling Stone, yet. But I’ve got a few years left in me.











Robert (center with guitar) circa 1967. Move over Mick Jagger.


Virginia Ham & Pimento-Cheese Biscuits

I dare you to eat just twelve! It is rare that anyone ever has leftover pimento cheese, but if you do, these biscuits are a great way to finish it off.

2 cups self rising flour
1 Tbl sugar
2 Tbl unsalted butter- cut into small pieces and chilled
1 /4 cup homemade pimento cheese, crumbled
2 /3 cup buttermilk

2 TBL melted butter

Preheat oven to 375.

In a food processor combine flour and sugar and pulse to mix. Add butter and pimento cheese pieces pulsing until mixture resembles coarse bread crumbs. Transfer mixture to a large mixing bowl and make a well in the center. Pour buttermilk into the well and gently blend together the dough, being careful not to over mix.

Allow the dough to set for 10 minutes and then turn dough onto a floured surface.
Gently knead dough for one to two minutes. Roll out to 3 /4-inch thickness.

Cut 1 1 /2-inch circles from the dough and place them on an ungreased baking sheet. Brush the tops with the melted butter.

Bake 12-15 minutes.

Sautee 2-inch squares of country ham in butter until lightly caramelized.

Cut biscuits in half lengthwise and lay a small piece of Virginia ham in the center. Serve warm.

Soft-Shell Crab


Soft-shell crab season is here. Halleluiah, amen, and pass the Remoulade sauce!

Two weeks ago the first shipment of soft-shell crabs arrived— alive and kicking— to the back door of our restaurants. Since then we have received daily shipments and can’t buy enough to keep up with the demand.

There is a simple reason for soft-shell crab’s popularity— they taste great.

Soft-shell crabs are the single most popular feature item offered at the Purple Parrot Café and Crescent City Grill. Every year around this time we start receiving shipments of soft-shells and they sell out within hours.

Hurricane Katrina gave us a short soft-shell season last year. This year started a little slower than normal, but we expect the harvest to kick in any day now.

In the four years prior to Hurricane Katrina, we were able to purchase a steady supple of soft-shells from March through the middle of November.

A soft-shell crab is the same species as other blue crabs that can be found in the Gulf of Mexico, except that a soft-shell has been harvested just as it begins to molt.

Molting is the process by which the crab loses its hard shell and begins to form a new one. The crabs are held in specially designed holding tanks at a constant temperature of 75-80 degrees, and once the crab loses his hard, much smaller, outer shell, there is a two-hour window in which the crab is removed from the water before a new, harder, shell is formed. All crabs molt, some just get caught during the molt, and lucky for us, the ones that are caught end up on our plates.

Soft-shell crab facilities are usually family operations in which each member of the family takes a turn checking the tanks for newly molted crabs. The tanks are checked hourly even during the middle of the night. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication on the part of several individuals to get a soft-shell from the tank to the plate. But the end result is worth the effort.

Soft shell crabs are available in four sizes: whalers (5 1 /2 inches or larger from tip to tip), jumbos (5 – 51/2 inches), large (41/2 – 5 inches) and medium (4 – 41/2 inches).

Soft-shell crabs are an exception to the typical seafood rule— size DOES matter. The bigger the better and the whaler is the most sought after, most delectable, and most flavorsome of the bunch.

“Buster” crabs (3 – 4 inches) are not available in the Gulf anymore due to game and fish regulations prohibiting any crab smaller than four inches from being harvested. Atlantic states still harvest busters but if you’re eating one in this area, it has probably been frozen.

Deep frying is the cooking method of choice, and at our restaurants we always prepare our soft-shells with an extra helping of jumbo lump crabmeat on top or stuffed inside the crab.

As we head in to the warmer days of spring and summer we should pause and give thanks for God’s rich bounty from the Gulf and for the dedicated crabbers who monitor tanks around the clock so that we can eat a dish that is truly one of the best that the South has to offer.



CRAB-STUFFED SOFT SHELL CRAB
with Warm Shrimp-Boil Potato Salad and spiced pecans


Fried Soft Shell Crab

4 Softshell crabs, cleaned
2 cups Milk
2 Eggs
1 Tbl Tarragon, dried
4 Tbl Hot Sauce
2 Tbl Creole Seasoning
3 cups Seasoned Flour
Peanut oil, for frying

Heat 2 inches of peanut oil to 350 degrees in a heavy skillet or deep fryer.

Make the Creole Beurre Blanc and hold in a warm water bath.

Combine milk, eggs, tarragon, Hot Sauce, and Creole Seasoning. Mix well. Gently drop the crabs in the seasoned milk mixture and place all in the refrigerator and marinate for at least 6 hours.

Make the Crabmeat stuffing.

Remove crabs from the milk mixture one at a time and stuff equal parts of the Crabmeat Stuffing under the top shell of the crab.

Lightly dust the crabs in the seasoned flour. Be careful to keep all of the legs attached and separated keeping them from sticking together. Gently glide the crab (shell side down) into the hot oil, being careful not to splash. Cook approximately two minutes and turn over for another two minutes. Remove the crabs and drain on paper towels.

Spoon approximately one cup of the Warm Shrimp-Boil Potato Salad onto four plates. Place the cooked crab in the middle of the plate. Ladle two ounces of Creole Beurre Blanc over the crab and sprinkle Spiced Pecans over all.

Yield: Four servings


Crabmeat Stuffing

1 /3 cup Green bell pepper, small dice
1 /3cup Red bell pepper, small dice
2 Green onions, Sliced
2 Egg yolks
3 Tbl Mayonnaise
1 Tbl Creole mustard
1 Tbl Lemon juice
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
2 tsp Hot sauce
1 Tbl Creole seasoning
1 lb lump crabmeat
2 Tbl Japanese Breadcrumbs

Add first 10 ingredients and mix by hand
Gently fold in crabmeat. Add breadcrumbs


Seasoned Flour

3 cups all-purpose flour
4 Tbl Creole Seasoning

Mix flour and seasoning thoroughly.
Yield: 3 cups


Spiced Pecans

1 Tbl Unsalted butter
1 cup Pecans
1 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper
1 /8 cup Sugar
1 tsp Kosher salt

Melt butter over a low heat in a large sauté pan.
Add nuts and stir continuously.
Add sugar and cook until caramelized.
Add salt and continue to stir.
Add Peppers and stir, then remove from heat.
Cool on a sheet pan before storing


Creole Beurre Blanc

1 /4 cup Shallot, minced
2 tsp Garlic, minced
1 /4 cup White wine
2 Tbl White vinegar
2 Tbl Heavy cream
2 tsp Creole mustard
1 /2 lb Unsalted butter
Kosher salt to taste


In a sauce pan, over medium high heat, reduce the shallot, garlic, white wine, and vinegar until all liquid has evaporated.
Add heavy cream and creole mustard, and reduce by half.
Reduce heat to medium, and slowly incorporate the butter one to two tablespoons at a time, stirring constantly. Strain through a chinios, and hold warm. Salt to taste.


Warm Shrimp Boil Potato Salad

3 cups Red potatoes, diced
1 /2 lb Fresh shrimp, medium
1 /4 cup Celery, thinly shaved
1 /2 cup Fresh roasted corn, cut from the cob
1 cup Fresh asparagus, cut into one inch pieces blanched
1 /4 cup Red onion, finely diced
2 tsp Kosher Salt
1 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
1 quart Water
1 Tbl Liquid crab Boil

Place the water and crab boil in a large saucepot and bring to a simmer. Place the shrimp in the simmering water and cook for 4-5 minutes. Use a slotted spoon and remove the shrimp from the simmering water, and set aside.
Place the potatoes in the simmering water and cook until the potatoes are fork tender, approx. 15 minutes.
Remove the potatoes and drain thoroughly. Place in a mixing bowl with shrimp, celery, corn, asparagus, onion, and salt. Gently toss with the vinaigrette. Serve warm.

Potato Salad Vinaigrette

1 Tbl Shallot, minced
2 tsp Creole mustard
1 /4 cup Sherry vinegar
1 tsp Parsley, chopped
1 tsp Fresh tarragon, chopped
1 tsp Kosher salt
1 /2 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
3/ 4 cup Olive oil

Place all ingredients (except olive oil) in a mixing bowl and combine. Slowly drizzle olive oil while whisking vigorously. Yield: one cup

Bake Sales


Many of our childhood school activities fall by the wayside as we grow older.

Today I don’t play tetherball or box hockey. I haven’t roller skated in years. I don’t think I’ve played an all-out game of dodge ball since the Carter administration, and I haven’t played tackle football since I was in my early twenties, though I’d love the opportunity to go back out there and tear a few of my tendons, pull some muscles, and break a few of my bones.

Some activities I miss, others, not so much. If I never attend another pep rally, or work on an algebraic equation, I’ll be O.K.

One school activity that played a fairly important role in my youth is: the bake sale. Nowadays, I never happen upon a bake sale and I am a lesser man for it.

I loved a bake sale. It seemed like there were two or three a week in my school. The thing that made bake sales in my junior high and high school so memorable were the mothers who baked the product. I grew up in a neighborhood filled with excellent and dedicated cooks. They baked well and they baked often

The bake sales of my youth were held in the hallways of my school. They were mostly low-key affairs. All one needed was a card table, poster board, magic markers, a shoebox for the money, and the store was open. The table was always filled with homemade sweets of all types.

Caramel apples were available but they tended to stick to braces and headgears. Cakes and pies were not popular bake sale items as one needed a fork and plate to eat them and most bake-sale foods needed to be eaten on-the-run between classes. The Rice Krispie treat was the most popular item at my school’s bake sales and they were always the first to sell out. Brownies were a close second, cookies came in third, but nothing ever surpassed the goshamighty Rice Krispie treat.

I was on the road last week, returning home late from a speaking engagement, and stopped in a convenience store to load up on caffeine and a snack. I didn’t want a candy bar, chips, or a microwave sandwich, and I’m not quite dedicated enough to eat a protein bar, granola, or mixed nuts. As I browsed the aisle, there it was— the zenith of the high-school bake sale— a Rice Krispie treat. I didn’t know they packaged them for sale in stores.

I read the nutritional information on the back of the package and was surprised to learn that it was relatively low in saturated fat, cholesterol, and sugar. Who knew we were eating fairly healthy at bake sales in the 1970s?

I bought one.

As I drove home, the Rice Krispie treat took me back to the days at my school. One bite and I was instantly dusting erasers, sharpening pencils, and nervously waiting outside the principal’s office.

We need more bake sales in our adult lives. We tend to gravitate towards black-tie galas, draw-downs, and wine tastings; but I would gladly trade them all for a rickety card table loaded with sweets.

If I were holding a bake sale today, I would sell nothing but Rice Krispie treats and sweet potato brownies. The sweet potato brownie recipe was in my most recent cookbook. It was one of the most popular recipes in the book.

A famous New Orleans restaurateur once said, "Do you know why kids love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? It's because peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are good." Ditto Rice Krispie treats.










Four guys who never met a bake sale they didn't like.
Stan, Chris, Robert, and Forrest-- well-fed members of the Class of 1979, Beeson Academy. Home of the world's greatest bake sales





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.

Viral Victuals


I’ve got a virus.

My particular virus is not influenza, a common cold, or a computer virus. I don’t have chickenpox, mumps, Ebola, or rabies.

There are many viruses with exotic and interesting names such as: cereal yellow dwarf virus, Leaky virus, and Four Corners hantavirus. There are virus named after plants and vegetables such as: squash mosaic virus, tobacco virus, tomato bushy stunt virus, and rice dwarf virus. There are also viruses named after animals such as: squirrel monkey retrovirus, Swiss mouse virus, European elk papillomavirus, wooley monkey sarcoma virus, Turkeypox, camelpox, sealpox, and Gay elephant tycomabanucleoid virus. I don’t have any of those either.

Yesterday I read an Associated Press story with a headline that stated: “Obesity linked to virus, new experiments suggest.” It appears that I have contracted the fat virus and that is the reason that I do all of my shopping in the big and tall section.

I’ve been trying to lose 30 pounds since January. At the moment I’m 15 pounds lighter than I was on New Year’s Day, but a few weeks ago I hit a plateau and the scales aren’t budging. I must have contracted a bad case of this fat virus while I was on Spring Break.

Whew! At least it’s a virus. I though all of those barbeque ribs and late-night refrigerator raids were to blame for my flabby midsection.

When I told a doctor friend of mine that I thought I had come down with the fat virus, he asked if the article mentioned a vaccine. “I don’t think so. But if there were a vaccine, where would I get one?” I asked. He then told me that vaccines are small doses of the actual virus that one is trying to defend against. So I asked him if loading up on gravy-cheese fries, cornbread, and jelly doughnuts would help kick start the vaccination process and assist in my fight against the fat virus. He didn’t have an answer.

Then it hit me— maybe I can battle the fat virus with an antibiotic.

As everyone knows, antibiotics are made from mold. It just so happens that mold comes from bread. I love bread. Around the time I started my diet, a new French bakery opened across the street from my office. At the time, I thought that might make dieting harder as they have many beautiful and tasty pastries. Now that I know about this fat virus and its dangers, I am going to do my best to find an antibiotic. I think I’ll start my search for a fat cure in the C’est La Vie Bakery’s pastry case.

As a matter of fact, as I write this I am eating a custard-raisin filled pastry from C’est La Vie and I feel better already.

The fat-virus study was conducted at the University of Wisconsin which proves that when it’s snowing up North, those people truly have nothing to do. It seems that they could have spent some of their snowed-in time coming up with a name for the fat virus.

My home state, Mississippi, is statistically the fattest state in the nation. Who better to name the virus?

Here are my suggestions for fat virus names: Double Chinfluenza, Dimpled Thigh Disease, Chunky Gut Syndrome, Chronic Lap-Over Flabbyitis, NASCAR Barley Bug, Mississippi Blubber Flu, or Pudgypox.

So it turns out that I am fat-virus positive. It could be worse; I could have come down with that yellow dwarf stuff.










Robert burning calories and searching for a cure for Double Chinitis
Park City, Utah, March '07




Chocolate Pie

1 cup plus 2 Tbl. Sugar
3 /4 cups Heavy cream
3 /4 cups Buttermilk
3 1 /2 Tbl Cornstarch
Pinch Salt
4 Egg yolks, reserve whites for meringue
3 ounces Semisweet chocolate, high quality
1 Tbl Butter
3 /4 tsp Vanilla
1 Pie Crust, baked (recipe below)

In a small saucepan combine the sugar, heavy cream, buttermilk, cornstarch and salt and whisk until smooth. Place over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil, whisking from time to time, allowing the sugar and cornstarch to dissolve and the mixture to thicken (about five minutes). Continue cooking at a low boil for an additional five minutes, whisking constantly.

In a mixing bowl, beat egg yolks lightly. Pour 1 /2 cup of the hot mixture into the egg yolks and whisk thoroughly. Pour the egg yolk mixture into the saucepan and whisk over the heat until thoroughly combined (about 30 seconds).

Pour mixture into a mixing bowl, and whisk in the chocolate, butter and vanilla. Continue whisking until thoroughly combined (mixture will be very thick). Pour the chocolate batter into the prepared pie crust. Prepare the meringue and spread over the pie and bake at 350 until golden, about 8-10 minutes. Allow pie to cool completely before serving (refrigerate at least four hours). Yield: eight slices

Meringue:

4 Egg whites
6 TBSP Sugar
1 /2 tsp Cream of tartar

Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add in the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until stiff peaks form.


Pie Crust

2 cups Flour
1 cup Shortening
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 Egg
1 /3 cup Milk

Blend the first three ingredients together with a pastry cutter or a fork. Beat egg and milk together. Slowly add egg/milk mixture to flour mixture, one tablespoon at a time until pie dough becomes moist and forms a ball. Divide into half and shape into a ball. Wrap and refrigerate one hour before rolling. Roll out on a floured surface. Yield: Two crusts

To roll out dough: Remove dough disk from refrigerator. If stiff and very cold, let stand until dough is cool but malleable.

Using a floured rolling pin, roll dough disk on a lightly floured surface from the center out in each direction, forming a 12 inch circle. To transfer dough, carefully roll it around the rolling pin, lift and unroll dough, centering it in an ungreased nine-inch pie plate.

Blessed Fish and My Grandmother’s Lamb


We are smack dab in the middle of the Lenten Season and Easter is only a few weeks away.

This time of year always brings memories of my grandmother’s dining room. Easters used to be elaborate occasions in my family— new church clothes, hidden candy tucked away in pastel-colored plastic eggs, the annual family photograph, china, crystal, silver, and leg of lamb.

My grandmother worked in food as an artist might work in acrylics or egg tempera. The Easter leg of lamb was her masterpiece.

Unlike lamb chops, leg of lamb should never be cooked to medium rare or medium. It is a tougher cut and benefits from the longer cooking time as the tissue tends to break down and make the meat tenderer. My grandmother always made a simple gravy with the drippings from the roasting pan to accompany the lamb and served mint jelly on the side. It was a meal fit for a king, or possibly a Pope.

A few weeks ago the president of the Kentucky Fried Chicken chain of restaurants wrote a letter to the Pontiff asking him to bless their new fish sandwich.

KFC’s Fish Snacker Sandwich consists of a fried Alaskan Pollack filet with tartar sauce on a sesame seed bun. The Associated Press reprinted a portion of the press release that described the sandwich as, “ideal for American Catholics who want to observe Lenten season traditions while still leading their busy, modern lifestyles.”

I am a Methodist. Granted, I don’t know much about Catholicism, but if the Pope blesses a fast-food fish sandwich, I think I could probably get a deferred blessing for my grandmother’s leg of lamb. It was certainly as close to heaven on a plate as any food I have ever tasted. Her mashed potatoes were better than KFC’s and no one at her dinner table had to use a spork. As for the eleven secret herbs and spices, my grandmother used only salt and pepper to season her lamb— no secrets, there.

KFC can have Fridays for their fish sandwich. Give me Sundays for my grandmother’s leg of lamb.

So if the Catholics get a fish sandwich and we Methodists get leg of lamb, where does that leave the Baptists? What food would my Baptist friends submit to the leader of the Southern Baptist Convention for an official blessing? The Presbyterians? The Lutherans?

In my most recent cookbook, Deep South Parties, I offered several recipes for punch, each broken out by denomination. The Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyterian punches were harmless, though tasty, offerings. The Catholic punch was made stronger with the addition of wine, and the Episcopalian punch— a recipe that came from one of my uncle’s church members (he’s an Episcopal rector)— requires a designated driver.

As of this writing, I couldn’t find a news story that reported a response from the Pope. If the Vatican does indeed officially bless the fish sandwich, I would look for the culinary floodgates to open and requests for Big Mac and Whopper blessings to come pouring in immediately.

In the meantime, I’m going to be roasting a leg of lamb on Easter Sunday— blessed or not.









Ned and me in my grandmother's backyard, Easter '65



Leg of Lamb with Raspberry Mint Chutney

Preheat oven to 375

1 Leg of Lamb, bone in, about 6-7 pounds
12 cloves fresh garlic
1/4 cup olive oil
1 Tbl fresh chopped rosemary
1 Tbl fresh chopped thyme
3 Tbl kosher salt
1 Tbl fresh ground black pepper

Using a paring knife, cut 12 small pockets, spread out in the lamb leg.
Insert one clove of garlic into each pocket.
Rub the leg with the olive oil, the rub the herbs, salt and pepper over the leg.
Place the lamb in a large roasting pan, and place it in the preheated oven.
Roast for 30 minutes, then reduce the heat to 325 and continue to bake for 1 hour and 30 minutes to achieve a medium- medium well temperature. If using a thermometer, it should register 155 degrees.
Remove from the oven and allow the lamb to rest for 10 minutes. The temperature of the lamb will rise a few degrees while resting. Slice thinly around the bone and serve.



Raspberry Mint Chutney

1 Tbl olive oil
1 /2 cup shallots, minced
1 Tbl garlic, minced
1 Tbl fresh ginger, minced fine
2 tsp curry powder
1 /4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground

1 /2 cup sherry
3 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen
1 cinnamon stick
2 cups chicken broth
1 bay leaf

1 cup mint jelly
1 tsp cornstarch
2 tsp water
1 /2 tsp balsamic vinegar
1 Tbl fresh mint, chopped

In a small sauce pot, heat olive oil over medium-high heat and cook shallots 3-4 minutes. Stir in garlic, ginger and seasonings, and cook 3-4 more minutes, stirring often. Do not let garlic brown. Deglaze with sherry and reduce by half.

Stir in 2 cups of the raspberries, chicken broth and bay leaf and simmer 15-20 minutes, until reduced by half. Stir in mint jelly and cook three minutes more, stirring constantly. Dissolve the cornstarch with the 2 teaspoons of water and stir it into the simmering sauce. Allow the sauce to thicken then remove from the heat and strain. Stir in the vinegar, fresh mint and remaining cup of raspberries.

Serve at room temperature.

Spring Break Diary

Day One: Saturday

4:30a.m.— I wake up early for a 9:30a.m. flight out of Jackson. Last night I told my wife we needed to leave the house no later than 6:30 a.m. I organize luggage, locate airline tickets, and condo confirmation numbers. The rest of my family sleeps peacefully.

6:23 a.m.— My wife is putting on make-up. Her hair is still wet. Did I mention that the Jackson airport checks no one in within 30 minutes of his or her departure time? My nine-year old daughter is still asleep. For some reason, my five-year old son slept under his desk last night. The 6:30a.m. departure is not going to happen. I guess there is something that can be said for consistency.

6:52 a.m.— The St.John Scramble officially commences (as it does every time we try to get to an airport on time). No matter what time the flight, or what time I tell my wife we need to leave, we are 45 minutes late. Being a master of the St.John Scramble, I had the foresight to tell my wife that we needed to leave at 6:30 a.m. when we actually didn’t need to leave until 7:00 a.m. Wisdom comes with age.

7:24 a.m.— My wife refuses to get in the car unless we drive through Starbucks. I agree because I am the man of the house and I always call the shots.

7:29 a.m.— My wife forgot her ring at the house. We turn around. The kids are eating Starbucks pound cake for breakfast— mega doses of sugar. My son will be bouncing off of the car windows for the next 90 miles to the airport.

7:33 a.m.— We’re on the road. Our flight leaves at 9:30 a.m. I consider calling my travel agent to check on later flights. My son is loudly singing jingles from cheesy commercials. My daughter is staring out of the car window. My wife is still unconcerned. I wonder how my son knows every word to the Forrest General Hospital television commercial.

8:47 a.m.— Tires squeal as we pull up to the curbside check-in at the airport. Sky Caps scatter as I wildly throw suitcases and duffle bags out of the car in a practice with which I have become all too familiar, and all too good.

8:58 a.m.— We check in 90 seconds under the wire and the four of us run through the airport like O.J. in a car-rental commercial. My daughter asks, “Who’s O.J.?”

9:02 a.m.— My son loses his shoes in the security line. I learn that our fight’s departure has been moved up 15 minutes. We make it. Unbelievable. I still haven’t eaten breakfast.

10:17 a.m.— On a small commuter jet, my son stands up, points, and yells out, “Momma, that man has a huge head!”

11:56 a.m.— After a mostly uneventful flight— one with no foodservice— we have a $92.78 meal at a so-called Tex-Mex café in the Dallas airport. The “house specialty” tortilla soup was nothing more than canned chicken noodle soup with the addition of limes, jalepenos, and Tostitos. My son spills his soft drink on his sister.

1:05 p.m.— Just before boarding the flight to Salt Lake City, I notice that we have seats 17B, 17C, 17D, and 17E. I say a heart-felt, silent prayer for the passenger who holds the ticket to seat 17A.

2:07p.m. — At 35,000 feet, somewhere over West Texas, my wife notifies me that she left all of the ski school vouchers, lift tickets, and all other vital vacation stuff “in the box on the dresser, in the den.” The den is still in Mississippi the last time I checked. The man in 17A is nice and skinny— a ray of hope

2:48 p.m.— Mr. 17A appears to have gastro-intestinal issues. My daughter says, “Daddy, that man is making bad air.”

5:15p.m. — We check into the condo. The brochure advertised a “hot tub” in the unit. It looks more like a “hot bucket.” My fourth grader might be able to fit inside.

6:49 p.m.— Sitting in my favorite sushi restaurant in the world— The Flying Sumo in Park City, Utah— eating Luxury Shrimp, Money Rolls, Utah Rolls, Samurai Rolls, Tuna Nachos, and Funky Rolls. The atmosphere is cool, the music is good, the food is great, and no one is making bad air. I’m watching my children eat food that I wouldn’t eat until I was in my thirties. Sleep will come soon. Tomorrow we’ll ski. All is forgotten. Life is good.


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

Pancakes and Passings


I buried my grandmother today. She was the only one I had left.

I was fortunate to have spent all of my childhood and a good part of my early adult years with both grandmothers, each playing a crucial role in my upbringing. My paternal grandmother passed away 17 years ago, my grandfather 25 years ago, my maternal grandmother, last week. She was 97-years old.

In their respective families, grandparents are usually known for a few specific deeds or character traits among their grandchildren. My grandfather was an avid outdoorsman, sportsman, and history buff. My paternal grandmother was a gracious Southern lady with impeccable manners and a knack for entertaining. The lady we buried today was full of spunk, devoted to her family, an excellent bridge and solitaire player, and the creator of the best pancakes on the planet.

Some cooks are more comfortable cooking specific items such as seafood; others excel at on a certain piece of equipment— a barbeque grill or cast iron skillet. Some cooks pride themselves on elaborate dinners; some are more comfortable with small, intimate lunches. For my grandmother, breakfast was her domain; the early morning kitchen was her kingdom, we were her subjects, a spatula was her scepter, and pancakes were the currency.

When dining at my grandmother’s home, no breakfast was complete without her pancakes. The supporting cast of breakfast items might change with each meal— sausage one morning, bacon the next, grits, or no grits— but there were always pancakes.

I am not sure what made her pancake recipe so much better than others, but it is better, much better. It might have been the amount of baking soda, or it could have been the baking powder, possibly a combination of the two with the addition of buttermilk. Most pancakes are dull, flavorless and too bread-like. Not hers. I am fortunate to have grown up in a home where out-of-the-box pancakes of the just-add-water variety were never served.

Whenever the family traveled she packed her pancake mix into Zip-Loc baggies and prepared them on site wherever we might be. Her pancakes were the constant in an ever-changing family structure.

I would bet three paychecks that my grandmother cooked more pancakes than any other homemaker of her era. A few years ago, as I was thinking back on so many shared breakfasts, it occurred to me that no one had ever cooked pancakes for my grandmother. All of my life, every time pancakes were served when she was around, it was she that did the cooking. At the time, she was living in an assisted living home. I invited her to my house for pancakes. This time I did the cooking. We sat with my wife and daughter and enjoyed one of the more memorable breakfasts I will ever have.

Today, my wife makes the pancakes in our family. She uses my grandmother’s recipe.

There are many options for those who want to leave a legacy to their family. It seems that food, or a particular food item, is a legacy of the utmost significance. Like money, it can be passed down to future generations, but unlike cash, the opportunities for creating lasting memories, are limitless. Sharing a meal with one’s family makes life richer. My grandmother made life richer for us all.


Muz’s Pancakes – The World’s Best

1 cup All Purpose Flour
2 tsp Baking Powder
1 tsp Baking Soda
1 /2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Sugar
1 Egg
1 cup Buttermilk
1 /2 cup Melted Butter, divided

Mix dry ingredients thoroughly. Mix together the liquid ingredients— including 1 /4 cup of butter— and gently add to the dry ingredients, stirring until just incorporated. Do not overwork the batter.

Note: The batter is thick, it can be thinned with a small amount of water, milk, or a little more buttermilk if you prefer.

Cook pancakes on a lightly greased griddle. Pancakes should be turned only once. They are ready to be turned when bubbles form in the middle and the edges appear cooked. Once pancakes are turned, use a pastry brush to spread the additional 1 /4 cup of melted butter on top of the pancakes while the other side is cooking. This will keep you from having to spread cold butter on them, which will tear them. The pancakes will already be buttered once they reach the table. Top with real maple syrup.

Little Biscuits, Big Appetites


The fondest food memories of my youth are drawn from my grandmother’s house.

For 70-plus years my paternal grandmother lived in a large white house on an oak-lined, brick-paved street in my hometown of Hattiesburg, Miss. Her home had 13-foot ceilings, Oriental rugs, crystal chandeliers, European antiques, and a window-unit air conditioner in every room. I spent many days propped on a stool in the kitchen next to the window-unit watching her fry chicken, roast lamb, or roll biscuit dough.

Summer lunches were eaten in the breakfast room. The formal dining room was reserved for special occasion evening meals and Sunday lunches. I spent almost every Sunday lunch for the first 18 years of my life in that dining room.

The Sunday lunch menu was on a revolving schedule. One Sunday we’d eat roast beef, the next week she would serve fried chicken. Turkey and dressing made a once-a-month appearance and was not reserved for Thanksgiving alone. My favorite meal in that house— roasted leg of lamb— was served at least once a month.

The vegetables changed weekly. The starch was usually rice and gravy though mashed potatoes made an appearance on fried chicken day. Iced tea was served in sterling silver goblets and the one constant, week in-week out, were her biscuits. The woman could flat-out bake biscuits.

The biscuits were very small— about the size of a silver dollar— and light, and good. I could eat a dozen of them. Nothing sleeps as hard as a meal of a dozen biscuits, leg of lamb, and rice and gravy for a Sunday afternoon nap.

She served mint jelly on lamb day, but my brother and I always opted for grape jelly— not for the lamb, but for all for the biscuits we consumed. We called it “plain jelly” I am not sure why, unless we thought mint jelly was “fancy.”

I have tried to replicate her biscuits for years, to no avail. She never wrote down her recipe and unfortunately, I never asked for it. Two cookbooks ago my sous chef and I spent almost two weeks trying to recreate my grandmother’s biscuits but hit dead end after dead end.

In the almost 20 years since her death, I have not eaten a biscuit as good as my grandmother’s. Until last week.

Last week I was a guest speaker at the Natchez Literary and Cinema Celebration. Included with the admission to my speech was a luncheon following the speech at Stanton Hall’s Carriage House Restaurant. On the short drive to the restaurant, my host informed me that the restaurant’s specialties were fried chicken and biscuits. I hear this often, and every time I do, I say to myself— good, sure, but not as good as Mam-Maw’s.

While eating and visiting with my hosts, someone passed a plate of little biscuits. Even though they were small, I was polite and took only one. I placed it on my plate where I forgot about it until midway through the meal. When I finally took a bite, I was stunned. “That’s it!” I said.

“What’s it?” said one of my hosts.

My grandmother’s biscuit, this is just like hers. I haven’t tasted anything like this in 20 years.” My hosts asked the server for one more plate. The server brought two. I threw manners out the window and put three biscuits on my plate. Someone passed the butter and then the man next to me handed me a small bowl of grape preserves— plain jelly.

The rest of the meal’s conversation went something like this:

"That was a great speech today, Robert.”

(With mouth full) “Would you please pass the biscuits?”

“Robert, how’s that diet you’ve been writing about coming along?”

“Is there any butter left in that bowl? Where’s that other plate of biscuits?”

“Robert, I just love when you wrote about the diet devil and the diet angel. That was clever.”

“Y’all, I know I’m making a pig of myself, but I think I’ll have a few more biscuits.”

“Robert, would you like dessert?”

“No, but I’ll take a few more of those biscuits. Do you think we could get some more plain jelly?”
Apparently, word of my substantial biscuit consumption made its way to the restaurant’s manager, who handed me a recipe card on my way out the door and invited me for a return visit.

I haven’t prepared the Carriage House Restaurant’s biscuit recipe, yet. But if they’re anywhere close to the ones I ate last week at the in Natchez, a two-decade search is over.


Carriage House Restaurant Biscuit Recipe
Stanton Hall, Natchez, Miss.



2 cups All Purpose Flour
1 /4 tsp. Salt
4 tsp Baking Powder
1 tsp Sugar
5 Tbl Solid Vegetable Shortening
3/4 to 1 cup Milk

Pre-heat oven to 450 degrees.

Mix all dry ingredients and sift. Add shortening and cut with a pastry cutter until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add milk and stir slowly until mixture forms a ball (do not over mix).

Place ball on board sprinkled with flour. Roll out to 1/4-inch thickness and cut into 1 1/2-inch circles.

Place on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake 15 minutes.

Remove the Foot and Eat Some Crow



Over the six-plus years I have written this column I have never missed a week. At 750 words each week, that’s roughly 253,500 words total, depending on how badly I am censored by my editors.

Over the course of that period, I have stirred up more controversy, frustrated more editors, upset more newspaper readers, and received more hate mail than any writer in the history of food-humor columns. Of course, it’s an extremely limited field, as I am the only Southern food-humor columnist I know.

Nevertheless, I have endured the wrath of many groups. The PETA organization sends e-mail frequently. They are easy targets, especially in this part of the country that hosts more hunters per capita than any other region. I have never been intentionally cruel to a domesticated animal, but my love for foie gras and veal has filled my inbox with some of the more hilarious hate mail a columnist could ever receive.

Vegetarians send e-mail quite frequently. But what they don’t understand is: I like vegetables, too. I just prefer that they taste more like meat.

Any time I make fun of Barbra Streisand, I receive a few snotty e-mails from New York and California. Granted, its’ a stretch to fit a criticism of Barbra Streisand into a food column, but whenever I can, fun ensues. They get especially upset when you misspell her name.

The Girl Scouts organization was on my case a few years ago. My daughter was a member and she tried to pull an advance-purchase cookie scam on me, I wrote about it, and Scout leaders from all over the country mobilized against me. The troop was disbanded, the den mother scolded, and my daughter left scouting and picked up tennis. I also wound up with a pantry full of unsold Girl Scout cookies. Though I wasn’t so upset about that— I ate them.

The Atkins Diet people must remain on full-alert 24-hours a day with teams of press clippers scanning the internet for journalists who dare contradict or make fun of the late doctor’s tortuous carbohydrate deprivation methods. They fill their e-mails with a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo and technical jargon. On the occasions that I do reply, I go into great detail extolling the joy and beauty of bread, rice, and potatoes.

I have upset owners and supporters of various restaurants and hotels, lovers of food, haters of food, little old ladies, and people who don’t even like food but have a major axe to grind.

People who eat opossum mobilized against me four years ago as did fans of chitterlings.

When I wrote of my then two-year-old son’s behavior in restaurants, I received letters condemning me, him, our doctors, his teachers, his sister and his mother for actions for which he wasn’t even responsible.

The most surprising aspect of these e-mails and telephone calls is they don’t bother me in the least. Not a bit. That has been a total shock to my wife, who knows me better than anyone. She was amazed when the first batch of hate mail arrived into the inbox six years ago. Knowing that I am normally sensitive to others feelings and their opinion of me, she was ready to come to my aid and comfort. For some reason, the initial group of letters and phone calls didn’t affect me. I actually found them amusing, wrote them off as a differing opinion from my own, and used the controversy to stir more creative energy to tackle more subjects.

The criticism and complaints have never affected me. That is, until last week. In a column I wrote about Easy Bake ovens, I made an off-handed remark and generalization (I won’t repeat it here for obvious reasons. Though, those who were offended know who they are). I later sent an e-mail to my editors in which I reworked the sentence, but it was too late for a few newspapers though several others had already deleted the sentence on their own.

I second guessed the sentence when I was writing the column, but it was early in the morning and I left it in anyway. That’s no excuse. I am a father who has been blessed with two wonderful children and I love all children. So, here it is, a first after 254,223 words, to those I offended last week: I am sorry. I truly am.

Now that I’m getting soft in my old age, I’ll have to admit that I kind of miss the Girl Scout cookies, too. I wonder if I could talk my daughter’s tennis coach into holding a bake sale.


Lamb Kabobs with Raspberry Mint Dipping Sauce

Skewer Soak

24 skewers-
1 cup water
1 /4 cup lemon juice
1 /4 cup red wine

soak for 3-4 hours before using


2 pounds leg of lamb, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
1 /4 cub lamb rub, recipe below
1 Tbl kosher salt
1 /4 cup olive oil


Skewer the lamb onto the soaked skewers, leaving a space at one end so that they can be easily picked up.

Season the meat on all sides with lamb rub and refrigerate for three to four hours.

Preheat oven to 375

Over high heat, heat enough olive oil to cover the bottom of a large cast iron skillet. Sprinkle the kabobs with the kosher salt, and sear six kabobs at a time. Once all kabobs are evenly seared, place on a baking sheet and finish cooking in oven. Although, at this point, kabobs can be held in refrigerator for several hours before baking.

Bake five to seven minutes to medium (a little longer if the kabobs have been refrigerated).

Serve with raspberry mint dipping sauce.

Yield 24 skewers


Raspberry-Mint Sauce

In addition to the lamb application, it is a perfect accompaniment with pork and turkey.

1 Tbl olive oil
1 /2 cup shallots, minced
1 Tbl garlic, minced
1 tsp creole seasoning
1 /4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground

1 /2 cup sherry
2 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen
2 cups chicken broth
1 bay leaf

1 cup mint jelly
1 /2 tsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp creole mustard
1 Tbl fresh mint, chopped

In a small sauce pot, heat olive oil over medium-high heat and cook shallots 3-4 minutes. Stir in garlic and seasonings, and cook 3-4 more minutes, stirring often. Do not let garlic brown. Deglaze with sherry and reduce by half.

Stir in raspberries, chicken broth and bay leaf and simmer 15-20 minutes, until reduced by half. Stir in mint jelly and cook three minutes more, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat and stir in the vinegar and fresh mint.

Serve at room temperature.


Lamb Rub

Works on venison, too.

2 Tbl lemon pepper
1 Tbl dry oregano
1 Tbl dry basil
1 Tbl black pepper, fresh ground
1 Tbl brown sugar
1 Tbl garlic salt
1 /2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp dry ground rosemary
1 Tbl paprika
1 Tbl onion powder

Combine all ingredients and store in an airtight container

Easy Bake Oven 2007


When I was six-years old, I asked Santa Claus for an Easy-Bake Oven.

He gave me one.

My brother his friends gave me a hard time about it, but they always ate the miniature cakes and pizzas that came out of the plastic, cyan-colored cooking toy. They might have ribbed me, but they were doing so with their mouths full.

Last week I ran across a Reuters story on the internet with the headline “Hasbro recalls nearly 1 million Easy-Bake Ovens.” After reading the short news brief I learned that children had been getting their hands and fingers stuck in the oven’s opening.

Wait a minute. Hasbro has to recall one-million toys because 21st Century children aren’t smart enough to keep their fingers out of the oven. Today’s kids need corks on their forks. What do they do at home when a parent tries to cook real food in the real oven? Are they sticking their fingers in there, too? I’ve got news for you. If you can’t pass the toy oven test, you certainly can’t pass the real-live at-home kitchen test. Go back to your Playstation.

At first I figured that the toy company might not be including the long, plastic pan passer that allows one to push the pan through the oven without sticking your hands inside. So I went to amazon.com and looked up a photograph of the Easy-Bake Oven. There was the pan passer along with two small tin pans, two plastic measuring spoons, and three packets of yellow-cake mix.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I never read the directions of any toy I received between the ages of six and 16. But I certainly knew what the pan passer was used for.

The manufacturer’s recommended age for the Easy-Bake oven is 8-12 years old. Folks, my son is five. He can’t tie his shoes, he thinks he can mentally control the weather, and he has yet to master the legible writing of his name. But I guarantee you, if he had an Easy-Bake Oven, he would know not to stick his fingers inside it. Of course, he might try to drop-kick it across the room, but he would at least be smart enough to unplug it first.

The photograph of the Easy-Bake Oven on the website disturbed me. It doesn’t look anything like my 1967 edition. It was pink and looked like a space-age microwave oven. If I was a six-year old boy, and Santa brought me a pink, outer-space-looking microwave oven, I might find the nearest elf and stick his nubby little fingers inside the toy.

A few years ago someone sent me a cookbook that included grown-up recipes to be prepared using an Easy-Bake Oven. The recipes were developed by a dozen or so superstar chefs. I flipped through it, but wrote it off as a novelty publication. Easy Bake Ovens are for kids and they’re not made to cook dishes with exotic mushrooms and free-range chicken breasts. They’re made to cook cakes, and brownies, and bad-tasting pizzas. No matter how modern and space-age they make the design, that’s the way it was meant to be and that’s the way it should stay.

Nothing else in this world smells like cheap cake batter cooking under the heat of a 100-watt light bulb. Nothing. A small whiff and one is instantly transformed to childhood.

Today, my Easy-Bake Oven sits on a shelf in my office next to a lava lamp and an old trophy. It is there to remind me that you’ve got to start somewhere. No matter how simple things are in the beginning, all of your goals can be accomplished if you don’t worry about what others think, and you keep your eye on the ball. But first someone’s got to teach you to keep your fingers out of the oven.




Italian Cream Cake


1 cup Butter, softened
2 cups Sugar
5 large Eggs, separated
2 1 /2 cups All-purpose flour
1 tsp Baking soda
1 cup Buttermilk
2 /3 cup pecans, finely chopped
1 tsp Vanilla extract
1 can Flaked coconut (3 1 /2 oz.)
1 /2 tsp Cream of Tartar
3 Tbl Grand Marnier
1 recipe Cream Cheese Frosting

Grease and flour three nine-inch round cake pans. Line pans with wax paper;grease paper, and set aside.

Beat butter at medium speed of an electric mixer until creamy; gradually add sugar, beating well. Add egg yolks, one at a time, beating after each addition. Combine flour and baking soda. Add buttermilk and flour alternately, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Stir in pecans, vanilla, and coconut.

Beat egg whites at high speed in a large bowl until foamy. Add cream of tartar; beat untilstiff peaks form. Gently fold beaten egg whites into batter. Pour batter into prepared pans.

Bake at 350 degrees for 25 or 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pans 10 minutes, remove from pans; peel off wax paper; and let cool completely on wire racks. Brush each cake layer with 1 tablespoon Grand Marnier. Let stand 10 minutes. Spread cream cheese frosting between layers and on sides and top of cake.



Cream Cheese Frosting

1 (8 oz.) pkg Cream cheese, softened
1 (3 oz.) pkg Cream cheese, softened
3 /4 cup Butter, softened
1 1 /2 Powdered sugar, sifted
1 1 /2 cups Pecans, chopped
1 Tbl Vanilla extract

Beat first three ingredients at medium speed of electric mixer until smooth.Gradually add powdered sugar, beating until light and fluffy; stir in pecansand vanilla.

Angels, and Devils, and Diets, Oh My!



I picked the wrong month to go on a diet.

Like a million other slugs out there, I started dieting the day after New Year’s. Since then, business travels have taken me on several waistline-expanding trips.

For the first several days I walked around with a diet angel and a diet devil on each shoulder. The diet devil kicked back and told me that onion rings would be O.K. Then the diet angel would whip out a picture of me at the swimming pool last summer.

Around two weeks in, the diet devil spread a map on my desk, pinpointed all of the locations that would tempt my palate, and handed over the airline tickets.

During this period the diet-angel was not on my shoulder encouraging me to "do right and eat well" because— as all angels know— it's not polite to speak with your mouth full of cheesecake.

The diet-busting journey began in New Orleans at Restaurant August. It continued to Las Vegas where I sampled several of that town's finest. The diet devil made it easy to get reservations at all of the restaurants I wanted to visit. The diet angel was nowhere to be found— probably playing blackjack in the casino.

The next week, business took me to Columbus, Miss to tour the Jubilations Cheesecake factory (details in a future column). I don't know if you've ever toured a cheesecake factory, but the diet devil and I suggest you do so, sometime soon.

The next week I found myself in San Francisco— again on business— yet this time only in town for 48 hours. At the request of one of my associates I called the French Laundry in Yountville to see if I could secure a table with only 36 hours notice. "You're dreaming," I told my him. "I have people calling me for help two months out. There's no way we'll get in."

Obviously the diet devil has access to the French Laundry’s reservation book. Two nights later I was seated among a six-top in the French Laundry that included three business associates, the diet devil, the diet angel, and me. The six of us participated in a 14-course bacchanalia that one rarely ever experiences. Actually, our web guy from New Orleans— the pickiest eater on the planet— mostly ate bread. Therefore the diet devil and I, not wanting to waste any of Thomas Keller's brilliant offerings, picked up his slack and ate at least 12 courses off of his plate(we didn't share any with the diet angel).

Safe at home, but not for long, a Frenchman has opened a bakery directly across the street from my office. How much can one man take? There are several bakeries in my hometown but most are miles from my office. Out of sight and out of mind equal out of stomach.

The new bakery, C’est La Vie, is exactly 97 steps from the front door of my office, and on top of that, everything there is good. As a matter of fact, everything is fantastic.

The bakery is owned by a French-Polish man named Janusz. That is what his business card states, just "Janusz," like Elvis, Bono, or Sting, one word: Janusz. And folks, Janusz is a rock star when it comes to baking pastries and cakes.

He and his wife are from France and Poland respectively, but he is a bread-baking, cake-making journeyman who has pulled many stints as a pastry chef in multi-starred kitchens all over the world. As a matter of fact, I found out that he trained the pastry chef that is currently working at the French Laundry.

The new bakery has a true European sensibility. The pastries are light and not-too sweet. The cakes are world-class, and the man makes the lightest and best-tasting quiche I have ever eaten. My entire family eats there, often. The diet devil is usually somewhere near the pastry case pushing the chocolate croissants.

During my first visit to C’est la Vie, the diet angel was sitting on my right shoulder and constantly ranting about bread and carbs. By the second visit I made him wait outside while the diet devil and I enjoyed a custard and raisin-filled croissant.

Now I’m back to square one. Willpower was along for the ride during the first few weeks, safe and warm in a secure spot in my back pocket. Then the diet devil found him, shivved him like a jail-yard stooge, and sent him packing.

They say that life is all about timing. It appears that dieting is about timing, too. So now the question: Lose 20 pounds or eat freshly baked pastries and quiche from an extremely talented French baker’s kitchen? Well, I wasn’t ready to buy a bunch of new smaller-waisted pants, anyway.

As for the dieting angel, in the words of Don McLean, “He caught the last train for the coast.”

I have to go now. My friend the diet devil is saving a table across the street for our mid-morning pastry.

Blackstrap Molasses Muffins

3/4 cup hot water
1/2 cup molasses
1/4 cup milk
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped pecans, dry roasted

In a medium-size bowl combine the hot water and molasses, stirring until well blended. Stir in the milk until blended.

In a large bowl sift together the flours, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt.

With a rubber spatula, fold the liquid mixture and pecans into the dry ingredients just until flour is thoroughly incorporated; do not over mix. Spoon into 12 greased muffin cups. Bake at 300 degrees until done, 45 minutes to about 1 hour. Remove from pan immediately and serve while hot.

Makes 1 dozen muffins

The Mississippi legislature is banning fried foods from our school cafeterias.

At least we’re better off than Rhode Island. In that postage stamp of a state they’ve banned talking in the school cafeteria during lunch. Well actually only one school has barred talking, but you know how these things work— once one falls the others are sure to follow.

The legislature has been trying to outlaw soft drinks, too. Fried steak fingers and imitation veal cutlets, I can understand, but I might have to draw the line at Diet Coke.

The legislature is citing our number-one-in-the-nation obesity rate as reason for the fried-food ban. Go figure, we’re always number 49 or 50 in every other statistical category, then we finally reach number one and the politicians want to take the designation away from us. We’re fat. So what, where’s the Lard Lobby when you need them.

My elementary school, Thames Elementary, had a great line-em-up-in-the-back-of-the-room-and-grab-your-tray-for-butter-beans-and-lime-Jell-O, and-a-yeast-roll cafeteria. We ate vegetables, cornbread, strawberry shortcake, and turnip greens on days when they mowed the playground. I don’t remember an inordinate amount of fried food being served, but that was in the 1960s, maybe things have changed.

In the sixth grade I was sent to a small private school in town. There, free of state regulations, we ate hamburgers and pizza and something called a steak sandwich, though I don’t think any form of steak was used in its preparation.

Note: The statement you are about to read is 100% accurate (I have friends who will verify it)— For four consecutive years of high school I ate a small frozen pepperoni pizza, two Coca Colas and an oatmeal cream pie every day, day in day out. Occasionally I would eat a Richeyburger (named after the lunch lady Mrs. Richey) with hot fries. Not French fries that were sliced from real potatoes and fried in grease, but light crunchy fried bits of potato parts, formed into French fry shapes and seasoned with some type of spicy powder, a side item in which— in the words of John Lennon— nothing is real.

The Richeyburger was cooked from a frozen state in one of the earliest examples of a microwave. The school microwave was as large as a desk and most of the mothers were a little suspicious of it. “How can it cook so quickly? It can’t be good for you. Don’t watch the food cook, you’ll go blind.”

My high school years were during the Cold War. No one had a microwave in their home kitchen in those days. The father of a friend believed that microwaves were a communist plot to embed radioactivity into everyday American civilization. My friend brought his lunch everyday.

The pizzas were made by a food vending company; they were frozen, and then shipped to the school to lay in wait in the deep freeze before being placed into the communist cooking apparatus. My friends at the public school were eating fish sticks, chicken fried steak, and fried burritos with a wiener in the middle. We were surviving on a steady diet of Richeyburgers, hot fries, oatmeal cream pies, and Coca Cola.

The man who owned the local Coca Cola bottling plant was on the board of directors at the school and all three of his children were enrolled there. We had Coke machines and snack machines in every hallway and break room. It was great. Public schools didn’t have vending machines in those days. Oatmeal crème pies were there for the taking, along with tubular packets of peanuts for adding to your bottle of Coke. There was no Diet Coke in those days, although some of the teachers drank Tab.

Ten years ago, I would have a field day writing a column against this new piece of legislation. Today, I as a father of two children and in the middle of a three-month diet, it seems like sound reasoning, though I could be suffering from a lack of sustenance.

I don't want my kids eating hot fries, microwave pizza, and burritos with a wiener in the middle. Could we amend the bill to include a once-a-month serving of fried chicken? Actually, that should be a requirement in every Southern school, though I will officially go on record as being in favor of doing away with steak nuggets forever.

At least our children can talk while they eat, hopefully not with their mouths full.



Fried Chicken


3 lb Whole Chicken (fresh)
3 cups Buttermilk
2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Black pepper
2 cups Flour
Crisco for deep frying

Wash chicken well in cold water and cut chicken. Place chicken in a bowl with ice water to draw out excess blood. Pat chicken dry and sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper and marinate in buttermilk for two hours in the refrigerator.

Season flour with salt and pepper. Heat Crisco in a large cast iron skillet to 350 degrees on a deep-fat thermometer. There should be just enough grease in the skillet to come up just around the edge (halfway) of each piece of chicken. Drain chicken thoroughly and dust with flour shaking off all excess.

Place chicken, skin side down, in oil and make sure none of the chicken is touching. Cover the skillet and cook for approximately five to seven minutes, turn and cover for another five to seven minutes. Uncover the skillet and continue cooking for 10 to 15 minutes. Only turn the chicken once.

Cook chicken in smaller batches if skillet is too small. Drain on a wire cake rack with a paper bag or paper towels underneath the rack to catch excess grease (draining straight to a paper bag causes the chicken to sit in the drained grease). Yield: 8 pieces

Olives


When Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast, the Beau Rivage hotel and casino was inundated with water and its future changed forever. Its restaurants were completely wiped out and the entire operation was shut down for one year. In 99.9 percent of the cases, that was a bad thing. For that .1 percent there is Olives.The Beau Rivage’s parent company, MGM Mirage, had a clean slate with which to work and they obviously sunk a sizable portion of the $550 million rebuilding budget into their restaurant operations.

Before the storm, the Beau Rivage offered a mediocre Italian restaurant, an on-again, off-again fine dining restaurant whose atmosphere was dictated mostly by huge saltwater aquariums that lined the walls, a Japanese concept that never seemed to decide what it was, and, a Chinese concept— the only concept Steve Wynn sent down from his Las Vegas mothership, The Belagio— Noodles.

Noodles was my favorite Chinese restaurant in the state, and certainly the best of the original Beau Rivage concepts, but it didn’t make the cut.

Lucky for us, and in a situation that might possibly our first opportunity to say, ”This is better than it was before the storm,” The Beau Rivage has brought celebrity chef, Todd English’s Mediterranean mega restaurant, Olives, to town.

Olives is possibly the most visually appealing and tastefully decorated restaurant in the state of Mississippi. The dining room was designed by architect Jeffrey Beers and is designed to look like an ancient olive mill. It, along with the exposed kitchen, are prime examples that casinos can and will spend money to get the very best. The room is exquisite.

I have never eaten at the original Olives in Boston, but I enjoyed an excellent meal at the Aspen Olives a few years ago. The coast restaurant, at least appearance-wise, is better.On the night of my visit the restaurant had been open one month, the casino was packed, yet the restaurant was only three-quarters full. It should be noted that the waiting line to acquire a table in the all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant stretched about half the length of a football field.

The amuse bouche, a basket of freshly baked breads, two tapenades, and a small assortment of the restaurant’s namesake kicked the meal off with a bang. Both versions of the tapenade were subtly flavorful and probably the best this writer has tasted.

As I am wont to do, I ordered several courses— five from the appetizer menu— and all were first-rate. The fig and proscuitto flatbread and one of the most visually stunning presentations of carpaccio were the best of the bunch. The tuna was a hit-and-miss proposition with each bite as some were flavorful and spicy and others were bland and boring.

The pastrami seasoned ribs were an example of a dish brilliantly conceived yet average when produced. The portion was a little too large. The ribs were melt-in-your-mouth tender though, at least on this night, were the victims of a heavy hand holding the pepper shaker.

The final appetizer— a crab gnocco— was delicate, flavorful, and made perfect use of the classic crab-avocado pairing.

The service at Olives was attentive yet spotty at times with several long drags between courses, though nothing that couldn’t— or shouldn’t— be written off to a restaurant still in it’s honeymoon period.

Halfway through the meal I began to wonder if the three-quarters full dining room was a result of disinterest or of the managers short seating the dining room in a restaurant that was four weeks old hoping not to tax the kitchen. Hopefully, the latter was the case.

We ordered three pasta dishes the best of which was a ravioli that I would certainly order again. The other two weren’t executed to English’s standards but were miles ahead of anything served in the Italian restaurant that previously occupied the space.

The exposed kitchen is a chef’s dream and is one of the best examples of how to incorporate an open kitchen into a dining room that I have ever seen.

The restaurant was filled with a strange mix of casino slot junkies and local members of the upwardly mobile. The man seated next to me asked for steak sauce to accompany his $47 steak and when none was given, settled for a ramekin of ketchup.

By 9 p.m. the music had been turned up a notch with a steady techno beat that screamed “big city” and I almost forgot I was home.

Olives, should immediately be listed among the state’s top restaurants, and is a welcome addition to the Coast’s new restaurant offerings. I anticipate eating there often.


Lasagna with Spinach

1 Tbl Olive oil
2 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 10-oz package Spinach, frozen, then thawed and excess moisture squeezed out
1 10-oz package Spinach, fresh, cleaned and roughly chopped
1 /2 tsp Salt

2 Eggs
15 oz Ricotta cheese
1 cup Romano cheese, shredded
1 1 /2 tsp Black pepper
1 1 /2 tsp Salt

12 Lasagna sheets, cooked until al dente in boiling salted water
2 cups Mozzarella, shredded
1 recipe Tomato sauce (recipe below)

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium heat. Sauté garlic for 30 seconds, add fresh spinach and cook until wilted. Season with salt. Add drained spinach and set aside. In a mixing bowl, combine the ricotta cheese, Romano cheese, eggs, salt and pepper. Stir well.

Ladle two cups of tomato sauce into a three-quart baking dish. Place a layer of three pasta sheets on the sauce and top with half of the ricotta mixture. Spread half of the sautéed spinach on the ricotta mixture. Lay down another layer of pasta sheets and top with two cups of sauce. Spread out evenly. Sprinkle the sauce with half of the mozzarella cheese. Repeat these two steps again. Cover the baking dish tightly first with plastic wrap and then foil. (The plastic will not melt. It will prevent the cheese from sticking to the bottom of the foil). Bake covered for 1 hour. Remove foil and plastic and bake for an additional 10 minutes. Allow lasagna to set 20 minutes before serving. Spoon the remaining sauce on top of lasagna just before serving. Yield: 8-12 servings


Tomato Sauce 2

1 /4 cup Olive oil
2 cups Onion, small dice
2 cups Carrots, shredded
1 /3 cup Garlic, minced
2 tsp Basil, dry
1 tsp Oregano, dry
2 Bay leaves
2 tsp Salt
2 tsp Black pepper, fresh ground
6 oz can Tomato paste
2-28 oz cans Tomatoes, diced
28 oz can Tomatoes, crushed
1 1 /2 cups Water
1 tsp Balsamic vinegar

In a large heavy duty saucepot, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onions, carrots and garlic. Cook vegetables 10 minutes stirring often. Add herbs and tomato paste and cook for five to six minutes (This helps to caramelize the tomato paste resulting in a sweeter tomato sauce). Add remaining tomato products and the water. Turn heat to low (very low). Allow sauce to cook for 3 1 /2 hours, stirring often. Add vinegar. Yield: approximately three quarts.

Sauce is best after two or three days in the refrigerator. Sauce freezes well.

Viva Las Diet


LAS VEGAS— So much for the diet. I was on a two-week roll with eight pounds lost, good eating habits formed, and metabolism ginning like a gnat’s— then came the Christmas present.

Christmas morning my wife gave me a trip to see the new Cirque de Soleil show based on the Beatles’ music here in the town that never sleeps.

An early Friday morning flight prompted me to book a Thursday night room near the French Quarter and a reservation at one of my favorite restaurants— and now Zagat’s favorite New Orleans restaurant— August. Your honor, it was sometime around 8:15 on the night in question that my diet was blown all to hell.

Chef John Besh’s able kitchen crew— a crew that helped him win a 2006 James Beard Award for Best Chef Southeast, and a spot on Gourmet magazine’s Top 50 restaurants in America— prepared a nine-course indulgence that was worthy of every accolade that restaurant has earned over its seven-year run.

The highlights at our four-top were mostly Besh’s signature items. The heirloom beet salad with crabmeat, mustard greens, black-eyed pea croutons, Allen Benton’s cherry wood smoked bacon, and a quail egg is an item I eat every time I dine in August. My wife’s favorite is the subtle, yet brilliant, gnocchi with lump crab and truffle. The agnolotti with chestnut sage butter and country ham and the sugar and spice duckling with grits, roasted foie gras, and quince brought to an end another perfect evening in one of the South’s greatest culinary treasures.

Note: Two weeks ago Chef Besh purchased the famed North Shore French institution, La Provence, from his former mentor Chris Kerageorgiou. I look forward to having a Besh-run restaurant 40 minutes closer to my hometown as we once did when he manned the stoves at Artesia in Abita Springs.

Back to the diet. I defy anyone to eat healthily in an airport. Sure they’ve got bananas, apples and a few muffins at the coffee kiosks, but those cinnamon roll chains guilefully lure avid calorie counters with the strong scent of cinnamon and vanilla that wafts through the air of every terminal. Between the Crescent City and Sin City it took every inch of will I could muster to fight back the desire to jump behind the Cinnabon counter and dive face first in the cinnamon rolls while rubbing pecan sticky buns all over my body. I ate carrot sticks, instead. Good for the eyes, yes, but the junk food joints certainly have the aroma advantage.

Our first meal in Vegas was at Chef Thomas Keller’s French bistro, Bouchon, another one of Gourmet’s Top 50, where I OD’d on bread, butter, and steak frittes. Later that night— sometime around 5 a.m.— after a Prince concert in his new nightclub 3121, I ordered chicken and waffles at an all-night breakfast joint.

I have always wondered about the chicken and waffle combination. Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles in Los Angeles institutionalized the chicken and waffle craze that started in Harlem in the 1930s. I have often driven past restaurants promoting chicken and waffles on their shingles, yet I have never eaten a serving ,and have never understood the appeal of those two seemingly opposite foods. Being somewhat of an adventurous diner— and having been awake for more than 25 hours at that point— I took a leap. It was at that point that I realized that my diet had not only ventured way off of the beaten path, but was headed down a the long and bumpy gravel road that leads to a guest spot on the next edition of The Biggest Loser.

Lucky for my waistline, the chicken and waffle offering was pretty bad due to a strange tasting syrup that was thicker than an Elvis impersonator’s waistline, so I ordered scrambles eggs and wheat toast and veered back onto diet’s main highway.

The next day brought fruit and toast from room service, a wonderful Moo Shu pork at a noodle house, and that day’s only dieting faux pas— a late-night pepperoni pizza after the Beatles Cirque de Soleil show.

I’m not a drinker, and I’m not a gambler, but I am a world-class eater. Las Vegas has slowly turned into one of the country’s top dining destinations. So much for “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”


Waffle Batter

1 cup All Purpose Flour
2 tsp Baking Powder
1 tsp Baking Soda
1 /2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Sugar
1 Egg
1 cup Buttermilk
1 /4 cup Milk
1 /4 cup Melted Butter

Mix dry ingredients thoroughly. Gently add liquid ingredients including 1 /4 cup of butter, and stir until just incorporated. Do not overwork the batter.

Diet Diary Week II


Welcome to week two of dieting hell.

I hesitated to write about this subject two weeks in a row for fear that new readers to this column might think that the only topics ever discussed within these paragraphs are my eating habits (or lack thereof). The hesitation only lasted a few seconds though, as the hunger pangs emanating from my stomach broke my train of thought and I began typing fortuitously.

I am in the early stages of a three-month diet and all I can think about is food. Not all foods, just unhealthy foods. I was walking through the grocery store yesterday looking for healthy alternatives that I could incorporate into my diet plan when a strange phenomenon occurred. I call it a diet mirage. It struck me as I was reading the nutritional information on a Pop Tarts box.

Innocently enough, I had started in the oatmeal section and, before I knew it, I had inched my way past the breakfast bars and wound up in W.K. Kellogg’s pre-packaged, toaster-ready answer to French breakfast pastry— the Pop Tart (according to the label there is nothing nutritious, healthy, or dietetic in a Pop Tart, but I already knew that— that’s the point).

The diet mirage kicked in as soon as I walked through the automatic doors. Like a parched man in a barren dessert, at every turn of every aisle I envisioned a cool, palm-laden, water-filled oasis— though these oases took the form of junk food. Fact: Foods that are bad for you have much better packaging. They jump off of the shelves and beg to be purchased. Healthy foods, on the other hand, are wrapped in dull, boring, and unappetizing containers.

Case in point: the gosh-almighty Pop Tart. I haven’t eaten— or wanted to eat— a Pop Tart since I was in elementary school. Yesterday I was debating whether I should rip the box open and eat a few on the way to the cash register, or rub them all over my body. I did neither. I kept walking down the aisle looking for whole grains, fiber, and sugar substitutes.

The diet I have chosen this time around is one of my own making: a low-sugar, low-fat, nothing-fried, high-fiber hybrid diet I will heretofore now call the St.John Plan. I lost six pounds last week so something must be working.

The St.John Plan is a method I have developed over 10 years of failing at Sugar Busters, South Beach, The Zone Diet, calorie counting, no-fat diets, and Atkins.

I once tried Dr. Atkins’ torturous method of carbohydrate deprivation, and three weeks into the diet wrote this paragraph in my journal: “Everyday I get an afternoon craving for a Milky Way bar. ‘Just eat some pork rinds or beef jerky’ they say. I tried that. Pork rinds are smelly and greasy, and it takes approximately 37 hours to chew one single piece of beef jerky. Note to future Atkins dieters: 50 pounds of dried beef or fried pig skins can’t come close to one tiny bite of a chocolaty, silky, heavenly, wonderfully delicious Milky Way bar— Pure joy in a brown wrapper.”

An obvious side-effect of the St.John Plan is the grocery-store mirage phenomenon. Sweet rolls never looked as good as they did yesterday in my local market. At one time during the visit I actually wondered what a chocolate-covered donut filled with Fritos would taste like. Note to reader: Don’t sign any wills, loans, or other important legal documents while you are on a diet.

Another side effect of my dieting is that everyone who reads your column knows you’re on a diet. Three times in the course of my grocery store visit I was asked how the diet is “coming along.” One lady asked that question while I was holding the Pop Tart box. “How’s the diet coming along, Robert?”

“Take a guess,” I said, as I picked up a box of Strawberry Milkshake Pop Tarts.

As of this writing I have been dieting exactly 198 hours. That’s 11,882 minutes without a french fry, 7,132,920 seconds without an onion ring. No chips, dips, candy bars, cake, pie, or fried fish— many of the things that make life worthwhile. Keep me in your prayers and— come April— pass the Pop Tarts.


Vegetable Beef Soup

3 Tbl Olive oil
1 1 /2 lbs Beef shoulder, small dice
1 1 /2 tsp Salt
1 tsp Pepper
1 cup Onion, small dice
1 cup Carrot, small dice
1 cup Celery, small dice
1 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 /2 tsp Dried Thyme
2 tsp Steak Seasoning
1 Bay leaf
15 oz can Tomato, diced
1 1 /2 quart Beef broth
1 cup Corn, fresh, scrapd from the cob
1 cup Potato, peeled and diced
1 cup V-8 Juice
1 Tbl Kitchen Bouquet
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce

Heat 1 tablespoon of oil over high heat in a large skillet. Season the meat with half of the salt and pepper. Brown the meat in olive oil. Do not overload the skillet. Over loading the skillet will cause the beef to steam instead of brown. Brown meat in batches, add more oil when necessary then place cooked meat in a large stockpot.

Add one tablespoon of oil to skillet and sauté the onions, carrots, celery and garlic for five minutes over medium heat. Add thyme, steak seasoning and bay leaf. Deglaze the pan by adding the canned tomatoes (with the juice) using a wooden spoon to remove any stuck-on proteins. Cook five minutes on high, and add to the meat in the stockpot. Place beef broth in the stockpot and cook over low heat. The soup should just barely simmer. After 1 hour, add V-8, corn and potatoes. Continue cooking another 45 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in remaining salt, pepper, Worcestershire and Kitchen Bouquet. Yield: one gallon