Chris Amirault

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I offer the following as exhibit A in my self-defense, by reason of obsessive insanity coupled with poor food safety protocols, against charges that I have a single clue about what I'm doing: Phone cords, twine, and a fan, baby! You're looking at the top of the stairwell on the third floor of our house, which thanks to poor insulation and a solid door at the base of the stairs up, stays a cool 50-55F. (Don't you like my snappy new Radio Shack hygrometer?) It's also a bit drier up there right now than people have suggested thanks to a cold snap -- and I'm assuming that drier is fine, yes? Now I just have to hope that having this entire contraption fall twice, covering the lop yuk in, well, yuck, won't have a deleterious effect. But, then again, if things start to go wrong, I'll just start channeling MacGyver again.

But in that same Installation Manual [CLICK] to which you refer, Arne, on page 9, there's a reference to adjusting the flame height. So... isn't that directly related to pressure? If not, do you know what that's for? Still seriously confused -- and the folks at Whirlpool are seriously not helpful. I think Linda's suggestion about using that 19th century gadget to phone up some help might be in order!

Thanks for all the ideas, folks. I set out to determine whether it was indeed the pressure of the gas, and all I determined was that my owner's manual is referring to parts of the range that don't seem to exist. I also have tried to call Whirlpool, but that's a bit more complicated than I had anticipated. Actually, Karen's idea is very promising. I did find information about the propane/natural gas switch and wondered about it. I'll take a look at that tonight. Of course, if I can't solve it, Andie's trip to the metalshop is very appealing indeed! More info soon!

We were back this week and had some great cheap food (hanger steak sandwich, a big burger). I also like their Les Heretiques $5 red. But, man, the service sucked. The fact is that they're so busy they can get away with it. They were packed on Monday at 7.

The Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA, while not the powerhouse that is the 120 minute, clocks in at 9% ABV and is, in our estimation, excellent. It's our go-to house brew.

Recently we yanked our old electric range and put in this swell Whirlpool gas range. It's quite fantastic for many things, and we're particularly impressed with the oven so far. But there's one problem, and it can be a real PITA: the gas jets are very wide, and as a result the flame licks up the sides of even medium to large pots and pans. This is particularly true for high-heat cooking, of course; it's very hard, for example, to get a small skillet hot enough for a good blistering sear without overheating the handle and sides (of my new Sitram pots and pans -- ). Does anyone have any ideas for, I dunno, centering the flame somehow? Or making adjustments to the range? Or... ???

Ron, what books have you been using?

Dave, can you paste a photo in that indicates these lines?

Thanks to the help of folks here and using the ratios in the book as a guide, I got a 3# batch of lop yuk started this morning. Here are the fantastic strips of pork belly that I got at one of our local Chinese/Phillipino shops: I then mixed up the marinade with the following items: scant 3 g DC #2 10 g kosher salt 10 g sugar 50 g dark soy 50 g soy 30 g shaoxing I started with less of the liquids but needed to add more to dissolve the salts and sugar. Here are the strips in the marinade: I'm going to let them sit in the fridge for a day and then hang them in the morning tomorrow in the cool attic with a fan. Pictures then as well. edited to fix formatting -- ca

Don't worry, Marlene. The fridge fairies clean it at night. I have this on very good authority.

Which begs (at least to this shamefully monolingual member) the question: how do other languages handle the meat/animal distinction?

I made a nameless bourbon sour-y thing with 2 oz bourbon, 1 oz demerarra ginger syrup, 1 oz lime, and a healthy few dashes of Regans' -- all shaken with crushed ice to foamy wonder. This I recommend to you, my friends.

Thanks for the feedback. I appreciate it. I actually was planning a third post that focused specifically on Shola, but instead I think I'll just react to some of the things that other people have posted. Jeff, I think that this really gets to an important point, which comments about treating Shola as a god miss utterly. Anyone who's been there knows that Shola is, very happily, just a smart, attractive, articulate, friendly man who happens to cook remarkably well. Considering how easy it would be to fawn all over him, his refusal to act the star is an accomplishment all by itself. Given what a good bloke he is, it's great that he's just this side of a dining companion for much of the meal. He wants to know what you think, talk about what you're talking about, join in without butting in. Of course, when he's not chatting about D'Artagnan's quail or that night's BYOW selection with you, he's whipping you up the things shown above in his ClosetKitchen (which, I cannot resist to add, alone makes comparisons to other chefs in spacious, well-appointed and -staffed kitchens absurd). I think that John's got it -- and will have a very enjoyable experience soon as a result: I couldn't agree more -- and, John, unlike most other restaurant experiences I've had, the chef in this case is a central part of the conviviality. And stop and think about that for a moment. What restaurant dining experiences have you had that have left you feeling any human connection with the chef? And what restaurant dining experience have you read about that have left you feeling that way?

Susan, you are my hero. As a result, I won't count how many times you used the word "smoke."

I feel for you, Sugarella. I tasted butter for the first time when I was twelve or something. Grandparents: not all sweetness and light.

Those look fantastic, Adam. I defrosted and cooked up the merguez sausages from Charcuterie tonight, served with a potato pancake and a simple salad. They were great.

It's been more than seven hours. Am I the only one wondering whether or not Dave chose Marlboros over Bern's? Fingers crossed.

I made simple potato pancakes (minced onion, two shredded potatoes, baharat, salt) to serve with merguez sausages tonight, and, well, they stuck. Seriously. I think I used way too little fat (lard, as it turns out), but adding extra oil turned just produced sopping pancakes. You have been warned: start with plenty o' fat.

My mom's mom made pretty damned good biscuits back in the day. The only thing I can remember about my dad's mom -- whose husband was a Gloucester fisherman -- is her cooking haddock for two hours in the oven. In case you think that this is a homey version of baked fish, please try it yourself.

Forgive my obsessive posting but I must continue. I'm not sure what to call the subject of this second installment of my reaction to dinner two nights ago. "The experience" seems too flakily phenomenological, Husserl cum Hendrix, so I'll go with the event. When I read Steven Shaw's Turning the Tables, I found myself deeply agreeing with his comments about establishing your own local favorites and becoming a regular there. It's what I do here in my own town of Providence; we have a handful of places (shops as well as restaurants) at which we know we can feel that strangely contradictory comfort of out-at-home. Sometimes we have dinners at those regular joints that include friends, people with whom we feel relaxed and convivial. Of course, my interest in food is a bit over-the-top for virtually all of my pals, and as such I usually rein it in a bit. That is to say, my intense attention to food doesn't really promote social lubrication. In a perfect world, I'd have all of these things: an experience at a restaurant that feels out-at-home, shared with friends, during which we all can indulge in our love for food. That's a good way to describe my experience at StudioKitchen. When I was walking up to Shola's door with Holly, Carman, and Andrea after Holly had parked, I felt as if we were walking into the home of someone I knew from another context, that sense of slight familiarity overshadowed by an awareness that I really had no idea whatsoever what to expect. We walked up the stairs, and before we could get to the red door, Jeff opened it up and escorted us up two flights of stairs with no decoration whatsoever. And then? Well, then you walk into the coolest space you've ever seen. There are lots of shots of the space elsewhere on this thread, so I'll spare the enticing details about the Thermomix, the gazillion All-Clad pots, the anti-griddle, and the meticulous storage system. What I want to emphasize here is how much the place still felt like a space that was full of life. Shola, who was already toiling away in his postage-stamp-sized kitchen, waved hi to us as we snooped around. We milled about the dining room, pointed and joked, and I realized that I had immediately felt at ease. On the drive back home, Andrea said that it was like having your pal over to cook in your house because he's such a great cook. I agreed: it was more like being in our own house than in a restaurant. We were, indeed, out-at-home. What's more, the StudioKitchen requirement of eight to ten people forces a very particular sort of social planning. You've got to pony up $100 for a meal not of your choosing (though you can excise allergies and intense dislikes), select and bring your own booze, and find at least seven more folks to join you. I confess to a bit of anxiety about the last thing on that list, but I shouldn't have worried: I had dinner with a remarkable group of people. Everyone was eager to talk and share their experiences of the food; most of us shared anecdotes about other food-related things while we waited for Shola to finish or plate the next dish. Most of all, everyone was terrifically excited. This was not a crowd of jaded food snobs waiting to have our suspicions confirmed or denied; this was a group of people who felt truly thrilled to discover what each sights, smells, textures, and flavors each next course would bring. When the courses did arrive, we set upon them slowly, carefully, with great delight and attention (and, yes, with a few digital camera flashes). And then, we'd start talking, producing an analysis that was motivated not by smug superiority nor by a desire to criticize but by a shared belief that such analysis would heighten and extend our individual and shared senses of pleasure. We did this for nearly five hours, and I enjoyed every second. I realize that there certainly must be people who do not want this sort of out-at-home experience when they go to a restaurant. As must now be pretty clear, that ain't me. Until I walked up those stairs, I would never have been able to describe my ideal for eating out. Now I know. When he was serving one of the courses, Shola quietly said, "Damn -- I thought I put this chipped plate away." "Put it here," I blurted. Even though I hadn't known it before he set them down, both the dish and the plate were just what I wanted. edited to fix some spelling and clarity problems --ca

Aren't you just supposed to replace those fans when the gunk is so thick it stops rotating? Learn somethin' new every day....

Sorry -- I had a sentence in the post but accidentally deleted it when I pasted in that photo from my foodblog. Them's NY system weiners, my food of choice on really, really crappy days. Today wasn't one of them, I'm glad to say!

I'll say it's more impressionistic. If I compare the best meals I've had at restaurants in the last few years -- Korean BBQ and tons of soju with a close friend at Soot Bull Jeep in LA; just two days ago with a bunch of new friends at StudioKitchen in Philadelphia; my five-day-old daughter's first trip out of the house with me and my wife to have dim sum at Lucky Garden in Providence; just me sitting at the bar of Zaytinya in DC -- well, I have very few terms of comparison that aren't impressionistic. Talking about those experiences using categories such as cuisine, price, size, quality of ingredients, service, and so on so utterly misses the point that it's silly.

Well, that really sucks. I've been twice and had two great meals there. Having said that, I can totally imagine this scenario: they want to turn those tables and have the cattle lining up to do it. They even have a waiting room across the street (Starbucks). ... sigh ... This depresses me.