Carrot Top

I love this image. But if I do not get to the grocery store tout suite (you know, the one where the take-out is lame ) my children will be eating Mother Hubbard's Bone for dinner. Metaphorically, anyway.

This is an interesting topic. There is much to think about in hearing of the personal experiences and in the numbers that whatever studies exist can provide. One would like to see things fair and equal in this world for all, but how to make it happen either as individuals or as a society is an uphill battle. Change is a creaky, slow, confused thing for both individuals and institutions. My own experience is not in the "restaurant" industry that serves the public but rather in the corporate sector - private dining. As Executive Chef, out of eight cooks, I was able to hire (this was in the 80's and I would guess that the situation has changed somewhat, but from what I am reading above, not all that much) only one African-American. To anyone who looked at the this from outside, it would look as if he was hired as the "token black". The fact of the matter is that out of the many resumes that landed on my desk for perusal, he was the only one that turned out to be African-American when he arrived for the interview. He was hired based on his skills and I am sure that if he decided to stay in the industry (I did hear that he was considering leaving the industry to go into IT) he would have done very well, for he was both skilled and driven, with a great personality. When I grew to encompass front-of-house as part of the hiring responsibilities, it was the exact same scenario, strangely enough. We had one woman who was African-American as a server, again raising the spectre to any onlookers of tokenism. She was unhappy in her solo role, and when positions did open, she tried to encourage her friends to apply for the job, but none ever did - I really do not know why. Yes, this was high-end dining. Not public, but still it was about fine food and fine service, as it was expected that anyone who would be brought to dine here would be entertained with the equal savoir-faire and grace that could be found at any "top" restaurant in the city. Why didn't more people of color apply for these jobs? I don't know. It could be that other avenues seemed better for a secure or happy future. I would not presume to guess or say. One thing, touching on what Pontormo mentioned earlier. When I left my job there (unhappy myself with both the business of food and the business of business) one of the partners asked me what I would do. I said I didn't really know. Maybe travel, maybe consulting, maybe (as some of the other partners of the firm had suggested) I should "open a restaurant". La-de-dah. A blunt and commonsense sort of man was he. "Immigrants open restaurants. Are you really sure you want to do all that hard work?" I blinked at him, not really knowing what to say. "Otherwise, you'll need a lot of money. Probably at least half a million dollars." It's a tough row to hoe, either way. Either having the connections to summon up big bucks then to be responsible to your investors, as Executive Chef - or, alternately, shoe-stringing it with family and friends. This industry is at this moment in time teetering between being considered professional and "fun"; or alternately vocational and hard work. The benefit packages that attend most entry into professions are not inherent in this industry yet - medical insurance, etc, etc. It isn't "right" yet. Will it be? I don't know, but I am sure that it will get better, just as it has for women in the kitchen in higher echelon positions.

Fluffernutter.

Sorry about that. I just felt a story coming on. It's out of my system now.

Jorge still held the guinea pig in his arms. They looked as if they were meant to be together, as if they had known each other in a past life. Kelsey Snidedoodle turned from his rebuff by Nee towards Jorge. "Hah!" he cried merrily. "Wait till the press hears about this! Native guinea pig on the menu?" Jorge moved towards Kelsey angrily, and with a sudden lunge, the guinea pig jumped out of his arms. He landed with a slight plop! onto the sidewalk then he sauntered towards Kelsey Snidedoodle. Kelsey bent down to look at the animal, and with a quick jump, it flew into the air and bit him right on the nose. Kelsey fell back, covering his face and swearing. But suddenly he stood stock still, then keeled right over. ............................................................................ The investigation took weeks. Finally the verdict was given as "death by misadventure". Rumors flew here and there, sideways and up and down. Some thought it was Madame Skordalia (for Kelsey had stolen several of her best-selling ice cream recipes, that she had revealed to him during their lovemaking, then he had sold them for great sums to her competitors). She moved to a different city and changed her name to Spanakopita. Some believed it had been One-Eye. Just because. Others thought it was someone from his past. Kelsey had been baptised "Kevin Gary Snitchphlem" and it was discovered that he was Paulette's half-brother. Nobody really knew exactly where they had come from before appearing in the city ten years earlier. Although it was known that there had been cause to believe that Kelsey's death was due to being bitten by the guinea pig (who, it had been discovered, had been fed a steady diet of the calabar bean by person or persons unknown, - - an ancient bean from which an ordeal poison had been extracted in days of yore - -) it was taken home by Nee to live in her garden. Jorge visited them often. It appeared that it was a female, so the name Cecily was given her, and she lived a long and happy life entertaining Nee's various cats. Jorge brought special food for her when he visited, and Nee enjoyed those meals also. Cecily's Green Beans .......................................... Saute chopped onion in olive oil. Add diced plum tomatoes, chopped green peppers and celery. Cook till slightly soft with salt, pepper, bay leaf, tiny pinch of ground cloves, chopped parsley. Add blanched green beans, toss, cook to blend flavors. All was well for the Glorious Shop, as with appetites sated the moon rose, books were closed, lights turned off, covers tousled and all to sleep.

"If a tree falls in the forest, One-Eye, did it really happen if there was nobody there to hear it?" Randy smiled slowly as he turned to his Uncle Dave. One-Eyed Dave snorted. "Been a long time since my tree fell near her." As he spoke, Kelsey moved near Nee and placed his large paw-like hand on her head and ruffled the short strawberry-blond hair. "Nice cut, babydoll. A pixie?" Nee slapped his hand and spit out "No, a gamine. It's French. That's where I learned to bite stray hands, too." "Nice happy family here", said Jorge quietly. "Dave was married to La Skordalia, didn't you know, Jorge?" Randy laughingly said. "That's how he developed his famous marinade recipe. She still uses it as a facial treatment." Mutton Dressed as Lamb Marinade ........................................................ 1 C plain yogurt 1/4 C fresh mint, chopped 2 Tbs. olive oil 1 Tbs. lemon juice 1 Tbs. minced scallion 1 tsp. honey 1 tsp. salt Mix together and use as marinade for lamb to be grilled. "Looks like we'll all need some of that as a facial before this day is through" muttered Jorge under his breath.

I almost forgot - last year my son loved the word "frittate". "Listen, Mom", he'd say, "Doesn't this sound great?" Frittate frittate frittate Frittate frittate frittate Beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

Madame Skordalia's long leg followed Kelsey Snidedoodle as it stretched itself out of the limo provocatively. She allowed it to dangle there momentarily, then the rest of her followed it out onto the sidewalk. She moved like a cat. A panther, to be precise. When her mouth opened, one expected to hear a meow. Or perhaps a hiss. Madame was famous for her ice-creams in this city where ice-cream was eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. "Hellooooo, all. I've just been up to Rachel's. Feeling a bit under the weather, she was. I brought her some of my Biscuit Tortoni to cheer her up. Now what are you all up to?" "Sweet Skordalia", muttered Dave. "Tell me about your Tortoni." Tortoni de Madame 5" springform pan, buttered or oiled Combine 1/2 C crushed amaretti cookies with 1/3 C chopped toasted almonds. Beat together 2 egg yolks, 1 Tbs. sugar, and 1 Tbs. amaretto till light. In separate bowl beat 1 C heavy cream till stiff with 1/4 C confectioners sugar. In another bowl beat 2 egg whites till stiff with a pinch of salt. Stir amaretti mix into egg yolk mix, fold in whipped cream, then fold in egg whites. Spoon gently into mold and rap against table to expel any large air bubbles. Freeze three hours or till firm. Unmold by wrapping pan with hot towel for a moment then loosening contents with knife dipped in hot water and dried. Decorate with 1/2 C crushed amaretti cookies. "Hissssss", Madame said. For she and Dave had a History.

Ah, Rachel. I never watch those shows. Too real for me. I'm just playin' Pirate. It's fun to swashbuckle. Lookee up the thread a bit and re-read all the lovely things to eat at Rachel's shop. You'll feel good right soon.

Now darlin' why would you ever think that?! ..................................................................................... Jorge opened the front door gently, and the guinea pig retreated slightly but remained in the entranceway, its little whiskers quivering, eyes rapidly blinking. The orange and white fur looked shiny. He was a healthy little fellow. Slowly, Jorge bent double and started to make tiny chuck-chuck noises in his throat, looking directly into the face of the rodent. Its nose wiggled, pushing forward towards Jorge, and it started to move towards him. Lowering himself all the way to the floor, Jorge suddenly reached out and grabbed the guinea pig by its tail and rose, as it dangled from his fist squeaking a tiny protest. "Ah! Nice boy!" Jorge reassured it. "I used to keep guinea pigs." As he stood there holding the animal with everyone's startled eyes mesmerized on the unusual scene, a very long, very white, very shiny limousine pulled up in front of the store. "Oh, no", said Nee. "It's him." "Jesus, no!", breathed Randy. "Want me to get my cleaver, Nee?", snarled Dave. Before the chauffeur could come around to open the door, it had been opened by the passenger. From inside the lap of luxury rose Kelsey Snidedoodle, the city's most famous restaurant and food critic. He was large, dark, well-padded. He had been called Mesphistopheles Incarnate by some, and was well-loved by many others in the popular press. "What have we here?!", he boomed with a large hideous smile. "Local food sourcing! I love it! How are you going to cook it, Nee?" Dave's Winter Soup with Short Ribs (or Guinea Pig) ............................................................................. 2 lbs. beef short ribs (or equal weight guinea pig chunks) 1 C diced onion 3 C chopped carrots 4 cloves garlic, minced Bay leaf, thyme, paprika Toss all together and roast in preheated 450 degree F oven for 20 minutes. Remove to large pot, add 2 Qts. water, 1 small head cabbage (shredded), salt, and Tabasco to taste. Bring to boil and simmer one and a half hours. 1/4 C parsley 3 Tbs. lemon juice 3 Tbs. sugar 1 lb rinsed sauerkraut Add to soup, simmer uncovered one hour. Remove meat from bones and return to pot. Serve with a dollop of sour cream on top.

In her hands Nee held a flat pink cake box. Gold lettered script sprawled across the top. It said "Velma". Behind Nee (as usual, they rarely went anywhere without each other) was Dave the One-Eyed Butcher. As Nee held out the box towards Jorge and Randy, Dave stuck out his tongue, crossed his one eye (which gave him an appealing Scottish terrier look) towards his nose, and pretended he was going to grab Nee around the middle in a huge bear hug. "Where did this come from, guys?" she asked. "Look at it! It's gorgeous!" Opening the box, she showed them what was inside. A cake, or rather a torte. . .gleaming in its dark chocolate dress, a slice had been cut to show the layers inside. Dense cake-y chocolate sparkled with almond bits. Rich sour cherries. A thin light blanket of almond paste, then the dark rich cover of chocolate all over it. "I think Ellen brought that by when she stopped by to check next weeks schedule." Randy reached out to take the box, looking more closely inside. "AAaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiIIIIIgh!!!!" Nee suddenly screamed and Dave screamed along with her. "Look at the front door! There's a huge mouse looking in at us!" Jorge shook his head in disdain. "That's not a mouse. That's a guinea pig. Some kid must have left his cage open. Cute little critters. I'll go see what he wants." He walked with assurance towards the door. Torte with Chocolate and Cherries .............................................................. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 9 or 10 inch springform pan and dust with breadcrumbs. Drain a 24 oz. jar of sour cherries well. Melt 6 oz. sweet chocolate. Blend together 12 Tbs. soft butter and 2/3 C sugar till creamy. Add 2 eggs and beat well. Add 1 tsp. vanilla extract and 1/2 tsp. almond extract. Stir in melted chocolate. Add 1/2 C finely ground almonds, 2/3 C flour, and 1 more egg. Pour into pan, top with cherries, and smooth. Bake 50 to 60 minutes, remove, cool. Meanwhile roll out 8 oz. almond paste into circle to fit torte. Place on top when cooled. Glaze with 1/2 C heavy cream, 2 tsp. instant espresso, and 8 oz. dark chocolate melted together.

Darjeeling. Reblochon (he is from the same family as Rigo). I've had a crush on calabash for some time now. Cherimoya.

Yeah, okay. Maybe Dave the One-Eyed Butcher can whip up something. I'll tell him to start looking through his recipes.

This sounds like it will really be fun to see. Reminds me of an old New Yorker cartoon - a fat tabby cat has brought in a large mouse to the living room where his mistress stands, looking down at the dead mouse in distress. The cat looks up at her and says "Make rattatouille." A classic.

Reading this made me sigh deeply, Velma. Ah, I'd love to be even a little mouse in those shops!

.................................................. Jorge slammed his Chinese cleaver through the bloody saddle of venison that lay on the butcher block before him with a vengenance. "There's something wrong with that chick!" he said loudly to anyone that wanted to listen. "I won't work here if she comes back!" "Something right about that girl, too, if you wanna look at it that way." Wesley the dishwasher walked past Jorge and Randy with a rack of clean pots and pans, giving each of them a leering wink and a sweet wiggle of his behind as he passed. "Man, let me make the soup today." Jorge looked over at Randy. "There's something I gotta do." "Sucking up to the boss, dude?" Randy laughed. "Yeah, okay, go for it. Just put down that cleaver - you look like you might do a ninja move and go postal any second now. But then again, you never liked Paulette because she took Lori's job when she left to get hitched. You thought Lori ruled the earth, the sun, and the moon." "Nee", (everyone called Chef Nerak "Nee" for she preferred it that way. The term "Chef" was never invoked unless it was in one of those rare moments when her temper had risen over something done wrong. In those moments, they had learned that to say "Chef" would make her blink her eyes in surprise then gather together her dignity and temper in the same moment.) "Nee is going to love me." Jorge said, his dark eyebrows pulling together in concentration. "You'll see. She'll love me after this soup." Jorge's Soup ....................................... 2 heads Boston lettuce 1 lb ground veal 4 Tbs. finely chopped onion 1 clove garlic, minced 1/4 tsp. nutmeg 1 lightly beaten egg Salt and Pepper to taste 1 Qt. stock, preferably veal and chicken 1/4 C parsley, minced 1/2 C parmesan, shaved Wash and separate lettuces into leaves. Blend together veal, onion, garlic, nutmeg, egg, salt and pepper. Shape into 1" balls and roll lettuce leaves around to make small packets. Simmer very gently in stock for ten minutes. Serve in shallow bowls sprinkled with chopped parsley and shaved parmesan cheese. Add a whole egg to poach in the broth before serving, if you wish. Jorge did. "I put magic in this soup." Jorge lifted a spoonful to his lips to taste his finished product. "Yeah, sure, dude. Just as long as you didn't put anything else wierd in it!" Randy hooted. A noise was heard behind them, and Nee appeared.

I might get hungry if I had a kid named "Pudding". My old-fashioned romantic soul sees Basil Rathbone when I hear the name. Sybil could never ruin that for me.

That is a sexy food word. Very. Aaargh! This is better than eating, reading these words. A terrible plight to be in.

Makes me want to dance.

Excellent choices. Much more practical and long-lasting than those names of yesteryear that people used to dub their offspring with. Faith, Hope, Charity. These names at least are edible, and easier to live up to possibly.

I can picture "Madame Skordalia" in my mind right now, since you've said the word. . .

Lovely. Absolutely. That's hard to top. It would be a nice name for a girl too, don't you think?

A brisk cold wind and an over-strong scent of perfume blew in the door of the Glorious shop, along with Paulette, glowing in the morning's bright sunshine. Randy was prepping vegetables side-by-side with Jorge. Their eyes, as everyone's eyes did when Paulette appeared, went first to her shoes. The red open-toed sparkly four inch heels certainly commanded attention, sticking out from under her tight jeans. Then their eyes went up to her hair, which was an intended red as it flew out sideways in happy spiral curls in a style immortalized in Zap comic-books - but the black roots when she pulled off her purple Russian-style fur cap shaded a different truth of the matter. Finally, the eyes rested on her chest displayed in a low-cut polyester blouse that peeped out from the open puffy winter jacket. Paulette didn't notice their eyes, she was used to it. She smiled, and her big blue eyes full of canny innocence implored everyone else smile whether they wanted to or not. Randy only smiled briefly, and Jorge frowned. "Paulette, what are you doing here?" Randy asked. "I thought you got another job after you got fired." Paulette continued to sweep into the room, carrying a white enamel dish which she placed carefully down on the counter near the oven. "Randy, darlin'!" she drawled, "I'm not staying long. Just pop this into the oven for me, will you? And when Chef Nerak gets in, pull it out and give it to her to eat. Tell her it's a peace offering." Randy sighed. "Won't do you any good, Paulette. You're trouble. She won't hire you back." Paulette smiled her glowing smile with her shiny red lipstick intact. "You'll see, honey." She turned and whooshed back out the door, leaving the eyes to glance at what the eyes always glanced at on Paulette - that bottom that seemed to be permanently ensconsced in the jeans so tight. "Hasta nunca!" Jorge muttered. "Wonder what that pudding thing is. . " Randy slowly intoned. La Chomeur Paulette .......................................... Preheat oven to 350 F. Blend together 2 C firmly packed light brown sugar and 1 C milk, then add 3 Tbs. cold butter in tiny bits, all in a 1 Qt. ceramic baking dish. In a separate bowl mix 1 lightly beaten egg with 1/2 C milk, 3 Tbs. sugar, and 2 T melted butter. Sift 1 C flour with 1 tsp. baking powder onto this egg mixture and beat well. Stir in 1 tsp. vanilla. Pour over mixture in ceramic baking dish gently, spread carefully level. Bake 45 minutes or till top is puffed and golden. Portion out, serve warm with sauce from the bottom of the dish spooned over top, along with a pouring of heavy cream. "I wonder if Chef Nerak will like it. Maybe she'll hire Paulette back." Jorge sighed as he lifted the pudding into the oven. "Chef can be kind of flaky sometimes."

Darkness has now fallen in the city of the Glorious Food to Go shop. The time had long past since the store had been closed and shuttered to passers-by. It had been a usual day but Dave's nephew Randy had remained late at the shop, alone in the kitchen under a single panel of flourescent light, preparing a dish he'd been thinking of all day. The pan clattered too-loudly against the stainless steel table as he pulled it off the fire and tore the end off a loaf of bread to eat it with, to sop up all the last little bits. He loved this dish. Somehow, it reminded him of Uncle Dave. Calves Liver in Mustard Sauce ............................................... 1 lb. calf's liver, cut into 1/4" slices Flour, seasoned with salt and pepper 1/4 C clarifed butter 1/4 C dry white wine 1/4 C brown stock 1/3 C minced shallot 1 tomato (peeled, seeded, minced) 1/4 tsp. dry tarragon leaf 1/3 C heavy cream 5 tsp. Dijon mustard Dredge liver in flour then saute in butter quickly. Remove liver to side plate while keeping warm during the deglazing of the pan with wine, stock, shallot, tomato, tarragon. Add cream, boil till thick and reduced. Stir in mustard - pour sauce over liver. Devour. Randy thought fondly of Uncle Dave as he quickly ate, finishing the plate by wiping the last drops of hot sauce from it with his fingers. Nobody, no, nobody, would ever say that again about his uncles liver after they tasted *this* recipe. Even pickled liver would taste good with this sauce.

I am required by law to keep a box of Pepperoni Bagel Bites in the freezer at all times. The penalties for breaking this law are heavy and invoke much guilt. The law is my fourteen-year old daughters. It is a law that keeps the peace.