Chris Amirault

I didn't get a chance to write about the wine pairings above because, well, I didn't write 'em down while I was eating. Thanks to Katie, Evan, and Percy for donating their time, insights, and even wine to the cause. I'll say more about this soon, but the participation of the guests in the evening is one important aspect of what makes a meal at SK not only unique but communally remarkable.

I have so very much to say about this experience. I still haven't been able to think about a way to structure my thoughts organically, so I think the easiest thing for me to do is to acquiesce to the bad writer's crutch and write a few individual posts about the three topics that I find most compelling. I'll start with what for me is both the foundation and yet the least compelling: the food. Please don't understand from that last sentence that the food was anything other than utterly compelling. Indeed, as I said above, I had last night, without question, the best meal of my life. Each course was a perfectly conceived and executed dish; nothing was less than outstanding and most was transcendent. Most importantly, all of it was really good food. Let me try to clarify using negatives. None were first and foremost "statements," though there was intelligence lurking behind every design. The liquid praline isn't an intellectual exercise in state manipulation; it happens to be the best name for a remarkably concentrated sauce that plays with and off of a sweet bleu cheese, slices of lamb nudged just past raw, and a few salty potato chips. And none of the dishes were clever -- no easy jokes about middlebrow standards here. Take amuse #2: the egg, potato, and bacon dish was, in fact, a gasp-inducing version of a classic combination, right down to translucent sage leaves pressed between the thin slices of potato. It wasn't an opportunity for knowing glances around the table about the joke; we were all too busy savoring each bite. Ditto each of the three chocolates, such as the drink: the hot chocolate, malted milk, and rice crispies may have been meant to invoke what a Nestle Crunch bar tastes like in Brigadoon, but no one really would have cared one way or another. The allusion wasn't the point. And, yeah, the truffle jus was delivered into the yolk via hypodermic needle, and, yeah, quite a few things hit the sous vide water for long stretches during the previous week. But nothing in this meal existed for the purpose of showing off the technology. You would understand this if you had the remarkable good fortune to allow a forkful of that veal cheek (which had spent three days in sous vide, then had been braised, then had been caramelized under a disk of tart dough) melt into your body. The point of this meal was not to showcase the gadgets that lined the walls of the dining room. The gadgets that lined the walls of the dining room existed to showcase the food. You want positives? Well, let's do a Q&A. What do you need to provide a firm background for Japanese pickled herring, tart yuzu sorbet, and that oceanic hackleback caviar, to bring each of those elements out without any fanfare? Right: spearmint oil. Can't taste it; it's the canvas from which everything else leaps. How about those pesky skate wings, a bit too thin to stand up to a meaty oxtail ravioli: what to do? Yep, press two fillets, grain juxtaposed, for a while in the fridge and then sear them intensely with a Sichuan pepper dusting, then borrow another Chinese technique and place them atop some braised lettuce. Right? Of course it's right. What do you want to dip that quail into, friend? How about pea, parsley, and (I think) scallion, pureed for nearly half an hour to burst the chlorophyll forth? Need something for veal cheek to play with? Sure, agrodolce cipollini and braised mushrooms are nice -- but doesn't it really call out for egg salad beaten nearly to an uncooked souffle, made with perfectly poached eggs, churned-to-almost-butter cream, and truffle oil? You bet it does. If that can't convince you, I offer the last moment of the meal. Mies van der Rohe said that he preferred drawings to words because it's so hard to lie with the former; Jeff's photo of the raspberry cider with cauliflower foam tells the story better than I can. The only thing I can say about that little glass is that, when it arrived at our tables, we all stared at it like kids watching snow cascade through the sky for the first time. We were, in fact, there in that room, the first to watch cauliflower snow cascade through the liquid sky. Shola confirmed: it was his first time, too.

It was minced, combined with apple and cucumber and (I think) very finely minced chives. No rice.

Eight hours of sleep later and I'm still in a state of stunned awe. I've so much to say; "The best meal I've ever had," while among those things, doesn't begin to tell the story. More, much, much more, soon.

Good luck with the Mexican search. El Sombrero in CF is closed now, I believe. Mexico is so-so, Tortilla Flats sucks, and Don Tequila's is decent and horribly over-priced. There's a good new place on Manton Ave that we've only been to once, can't think of the name. Prepare to be underwhelmed at all.

I thought I'd share a little anecdote about a foster grandmother who until recently worked at our preschool. She was a smoker, and of course she had to leave the building (fire codes, bad example, you name it) to get her fix; since her leaving required a bit of communcation so people knew where she was going, she decided on a code word that would be clear for the teachers and inscrutable to the kiddies. So, each day when she needed to fill her lungs with tar, nicotine, and a few dozen other bad things, she'd tell the class that she was going outside for her "peaches."

The date approaches for our visit. Tomorrow we get into the car here in Providence and head Philly way; by late afternoon we should arrive at our hotel. Just got the menu today from Shola: We've also been instructed to expect a surprise or two. I would have to rely on really lousy, hyperbolic writing to communicate how excited I am, so forgive my reticence. Trust that we are utterly, profoundly eager. Are we there yet?

First, I really, truly wish the three of you well. You're among my favorite eGulleteers, and taking on this task together is smart and admirable. (Taking it on while doing a foodblog -- well, let's talk in a week. ) Ex-smoker here, too, but never more than 1/2 pack a day, so I can't really claim to have struggled to quit; my late onset asthma pretty much took care of any residual desires I had for a smoke with a post-meal drink (or, especially, a post-fried-meal drink). However, I learned recently that I have retained my deep need for tactile and oral stimulation throughout the day. So, along the lines of Rachel's suggestion, let me propose small frequent meals a few times a day to keep up your metabolism and blood sugar -- and make it good stuff, too, since you're already depriving yourself -- and good fidget toys. Lately you'd have to pry the Tangle out of my hands with a crowbar. I hope and trust that you'll all succeed with our love and support. Of course, if y'all don't succeed, the eGullet Society will come tumbling down like Pompeii, so there's that to keep in mind.

It's a crucial ingredient in pho stock as well.

Chris, my cure was similarly wet, just like Ron's. I did use the maple syrup called for in the recipe. It made for a very messy application. I put the belly in the ziploc and then put on the rub by the handful . I ended up with crusty maple rub up to mid forearm. It was worth whatever mess was made. Did you use extra maple sugar instead? Or, were you going for a different curing flavor? ← I just did the basic rub with cracked black pepper; I wanted to get some kind of baseline sense of the flavor before messing around with sugar. More soon -- I roasted it and it's in the fridge.

Ron, thanks for the great shots of this process. Your bacon cure was wet, I think; I rechecked the book because mine was dry. Was that bc you added the maple syrup? I wonder what effect dry v wet has....

In the fried chicken cook-off, I posted a lot of photos of Antonelli's Poultry here in Providence RI, where there are a few live poultry shops. Click here for the post.

This name stuff is reminding me of a SNL skit with Nicolas Cage in which he shoots down every name his wife suggests because he can turn them into something that will get the kid teased -- the joke being that any name can be changed in that way. Magus/maggot, McGirt/dirt, burger/booger.... I like Brooklyn Burger, Magus Burger, and McGirt's Burgers, all three. Pick 'em.

Sorry -- I had already started planning a weekend dinner in me head.

Now this is why I'm on eGullet: bacon-skin-wrapped leg of lamb. You are a frickin' genius, Linda.

Looks great, Lyle. Do you always roast the peppers and onions first?

That's definitely Ruhlman's point in the book: when you're on the line and in the weeds, you have to be able to be utterly efficient, no wasted motion. Thing is, most of the time, I enjoy wasted motion. Just to be clear: I'm not making the argument for two-hour scrambled eggs here. I cook my steak, popcorn, etc. just as quickly as you do. I just might scramble those eggs a bit longer -- and a bit more longingly -- than you.

Perhaps I'm being dense, but... how do y'all measure your humidity? Do you have technology for this? Or weather.com? Or what?

I've been mulling around a thought since I wrote this essay review about Sara Moulton's new cookbook, Sara's Secrets for Weeknight Meals. That book takes as its marching rhythm the hasty click, click, click of the second-hand and tries to get you to clock your meal prep in at around 15-30 minutes. I made several of the dishes in the book before reviewing it, of course, and while the recipes themselves panned out very nicely, I kept throwing a monkeywrench into the works. I kept slowing down. Intentionally. I can rapidly dice and whisk and slice with the best of them, and my multitasking props in the kitchen are just fine, thank you. I just like to go slowly. Part of it has to do with my work -- I run a preschool -- which requires twelve hands juggling three balls each; the thought of coming home at night or relaxing on the weekends in order to hurry through cooking seems just like more work. But part of it also has to do with my deeply felt, and at times slightly eerie, pleasure in the varied steps of cooking, both wee and grand. I can't really explain it. I can dice an onion in about fifteen seconds, if need be -- but I always stop to slide each gentle slab of diced onion from my chef's knife into a bowl or off to the side of the cutting board. When prepping my mise en place, I want each bowl to contain just the right amount of ingredients: too few and they're lurking under the lip of the bowl; too much and I've got spills. And when I have to break down a large piece of meat? Grab the crossword puzzle because you're in for a wait. When I first cooked with a professionally trained chef (in college, a friend of a friend), I marvelled at how quickly she whisked egg whites into stiff peaks. For several years, I wanted to be like her, timing myself while deboning a chicken, say. But it didn't stick, and the memory of that desire slowly receded until I read Michael Ruhlman's Making of a Chef, in which he described the hyper-efficient being into which the CIA had transformed him. I've thought about that transformation since reading the book a couple of years ago, and I've come to realize that such efficient cooking, though appealing for the sheen of quasi-professionalism it might bestow upon my ego, would simultaneously drain the craft of its pleasure for me. So what's your relationship to time in cooking? Are you like me, lingering lovingly over the fond on your new skillet when the family is clamoring hungrily? Or do you find your pleasure in the efficient, timely dispatching of the tasks of cooking?

A most excellent use of the Regans', I have to admit, and I always have the ingredients around. This is going into heavy rotation. Quick question: drinking two 3.5 oz PC cocktails in reasonably slow succession qualifies one as an aficionado, not a lush, yes?

I'll say you've been a busy charcutier! It all looks great. Where's the pancetta hanging?

Interesting that you're posting about the meat:fat ratio question. I just opened up a "pork shoulder butt" (trying to be all things to all people, I guess) from Whole Foods, and unlike previous cuts this one was not trimmed to excess. After eyeing it, I decided that I was going to go with no added fat, just the thick, white shoulder/butt fat that was still part of the cut. I'm very curious to see what that ratio is like.

Nope -- but perhaps Michael will weigh in with some thoughts.

I second the recommendation. We've been following the advice in this article for years and can get Miss Silvia up and running in under five minutes with this procedure.

Thanks, Jason, Ben, and Betty, for your responses. Betty, I'll see if I can find that book around here to snoop at the recipe. Ben and Jason, I'm going to try to work through your comments and respond: Ok, so I think I can use my basement when it isn't raining -- that should work. Jason, when would you recommend adding that cure #2? At what stage of the process? Brilliant. I disagree -- thanks! This is consistent with what you write below about the marinade tasting "heavy," Ben. Re: sugar. After you mix the marinade but before you add the pork, taste it. The marinade should have a "heavy" taste that comes from the dark soy, and sugar and salt combination. Sounds good. Yeah, I was thinking about a fan. Glad to see that makes sense. As it turns out, I found some of the homemade lop yuk made by the mom of the purveyor I've mentioned; I went in on a very busy Lunar New Year shopping weekend and the owners grabbed one strip from a special order she made for someone's banquet. I'll be using that as a benchmark, I think. ← So, again, thanks thanks thanks. I will be trying to write all this up and record it.