Dave the Cook

Did this last night, using a variation (no chervil in the house) of the Chez Panisse recipe. For the record, gribiche is also quite tasty on a cracker with smoked trout. So you could send me a jar, right? Sounds like you've got some to spare . . . Thanks for this info, Russ. Of course it makes sense -- and explains the progression from fat to skinny and back to fat that we see repeated as the crops come in from different places ; it just hadn't occurred to me. Some really good stuff in that topic! Thanks, P.

Nice one.....thats a great idea, many thanks for sharing it ! ← I've been doing this for years and passing it along as a "secret" technique, all the time wondering where I first picked it up. Thanks from me too, Dana. Often, I'll go at it from the other direction, though: add it to a mirepoix at the last minute and let it brown a bit before deglazing. I also use it to "paint" beef parts before I roast them for stock. I've noticed that many canned tomato purees are simply "tomato paste and water," for whatever that's worth. Does anyone know how tomato paste is made? Is it cooked down, or is it a product of a vacuum evaporation process like concentrated orange juice?

After months of Paris Hilton specimens -- skinny, expensive and tasteless -- we've now got asparagus spears at the market that would do John Holmes proud. And it's cheap: $2 a pound. I did a quick braise with shallots last night, finishing with a little mustard and lemon juice. What are you going to do?

All good ideas, but don't forget to reserve a couple of pounds for duxelles, a great thing to have in the freezer (in half-cup portions) for last-minute additions to stews, meat dishes and pasta sauces.

Has anyone tested this theory?

In my experience, WMF makes some really good (but overpriced) stuff, and some not-so-good (but really overpriced) stuff. Still, this grater at least looks cool. Unfortunately, I can't find a US source for it.

Here's a link to Jeff Henderson's story on Oprah's web site. (I don't know how long it will be valid.)

Hmm. I've got four, so I could go both ways. Smoked confit ravioli sounds like it should be illegal, so that's definitely worth a try. Here's another question, though. These have a fair amount of extraneous skin -- like one half to one inch on each piece. (They look like duck meat puddles.) Has anyone worked with smoked duck fat? Is it worth doing some trimming and rendering?

The other day, I came across duck thighs for $1.39 a pound (less, I'll point out, than the usual price for chicken thighs, and less than duck leg quarters [$2.79] -- what's up with that?) Anyway, I already had some pork belly in the smoker, so I popped the duck in alongside. After two hours over maple at 100F, I wrapped them and stuck them in the freezer. Now what?

An obsession with tips and tricks is part of what's wrong with the mainstream food press these days -- as if cooking and eating were sequestered from the rest of life, or that all that cooks have to offer the world is a one-dimensional view of life that doesn't venture beyond the confines of the kitchen. By presenting a warts-and-all self-portrait, Henderson breaks that convention. I'm not sure why one would dismiss Henderson's story because it doesn't meet one's expectations for what a "foodie" autobiography should be (why would recipes and trucs be part of that -- isn't that what cookbooks are for?), or because he's up front about how he learned to cook (who doesn't rely on others' work to get started? -- and at least he's honest about it), or that he admits that professional kitchens are competitive and that chefs get an adrenaline rush from succcess, or even from being in the weeds. I agree that the book is uneven in places -- I would have liked the same level of detail in the sections that take place outside of prison as those that are inside. I think the shifting tenor of narration, which must have been intended to highlight Henderson's post-prison change in attitude, is a bit contrived. But it's a real story -- not a foodie story -- about a three-dimensional person. I think that's a good thing.

All salt is sea salt.

The book is out. Here's an Amazon link. For those of you who missed the preview announcement, there's an additional excerpt there. (In the sequence of the book, it comes before the one above, though it's later chronologically.) As you can imagine, Chef Jeff is pretty busy, but we expect him to be able to participate in the discussion as his schedule allows.

Jeff Henderson's dream of escaping a tough, fatherless, inner-city childhood was financed by drugs. For a while, it worked. At the age of 21, he was a major coke dealer in San Diego, clearing $35,000 a week. But it didn't last: at 23, found guilty of drug trafficking, he was sentenced to more than 19 years in prison. Today, he's the executive chef at Cafe Bellagio. How he climbed out of the trap of incarceration to the pinnacle of the food profession is the harrowing, soul-searching and redeeming story told in his new book Cooked: From the Streets to the Stove, from Cocaine to Foie Gras. The Daily Gullet is proud to present two exclusive selections from Cooked, starting 27 February 2007. You'll be seeing Chef Jeff (as he's now known -- a far cry from his dealer handle of "Hard Head") in USA Today, People magazine and on Oprah. But the only place you'll find these excerpts before you buy the book -- which you will -- is in the Daily Gullet. Happy reading! Oh -- in the vernacular (choose your own millieu) -- here's a taste: <div align="center">- - - - - S I X C O U R S E S I N S I X T Y M I N U T E S</div> By the time I showed up in Las Vegas, I'd been looking for work for more than a month. I had busted my ass in the five years since my prison release, rising from dishwasher at a small restau­rant to sous-chef at one of the most prestigious kitchens in L.A. I was on track toward running my own restaurant when a politi­cal kitchen battle suddenly left me begging for someone to give me a chance to start over. I hadn't been jobless this long since I'd left prison, and my prospects of landing a position hadn't been so bleak since then, either. Every potential employer I met with seemed only interested in the fact that I was a convicted felon. They didn't care that I'd proven myself in some of L.A.'s best kitchens or that I really could cook. They definitely didn't care that I had a wife and two young children to support, and that I'd spent the last of our savings on a one-way ticket to the desert hoping to restart my career. A week into my search, every hotel on the strip had turned me down. When I visited these properties, most of the people I inter­viewed with liked me. My cooking resume was impeccable, five stars across the board, but their enthusiasm had a way of drying up as soon as I told them I had spent time in federal prison for drug trafficking. On the outside, I was what was acceptable for a black man in corporate America: clean shaven, earring hole covered up; I even toned down my walk so that I wouldn't swagger and come off as ghetto during interviews -- I've got a pretty good stroll. Still, it always came down to me being a felon. Everywhere I went, they gave me this smoke-and-mirrors bullshit, telling me, "We'll call you when we're ready." At the Paris Hotel, they were introducing me to my staff before I told them about my criminal record. Then they told me to take a walk. With potential employers, I always explained about my past: I was young, I made some mistakes, and I spent years regretting those mistakes. My criminal past was so far behind me that I regu­larly lectured schoolkids about how crack had been destroying our community since back when I was just a schoolkid myself. None of these execs were having it -- like I was the first ex-con who ever looked for work on the strip. By the time I showed up at Caesars Palace, I was desperate. Caesars was a place I knew well because I used to roll there when I was a dealer. Back in the day, no one knew how to cater to high rollers like Caesars. Me and my boys used to come up from California for all the prizefights with Louis Vuitton bags full of cash. We gambled thirty Gs at a whop. And Caesars management? They loved our asses. We flew in and a limousine driver was hold­ing up a sign at the airport for the "Henderson Group." But "back in the day" was fourteen years back already, and I didn't have any Louis Vuitton bags. I sure didn't have one full of cash. The night before my Caesars interview, I snooped all over the hotel to put my game plan together. If I saw some cooks walk into the casino, I would roll up on them. "Hey, how you doing?" I'd say. "My name's Jeff Henderson. Can I talk to you for a second? I'm thinking of moving up here. What's it like? What's the chef like?" It was a reconnaissance mission. Since I'd have to prepare a tasting meal for the executive chef, I planned to base it on the foods he liked. I wanted to make my mark by showing up for the interview with the full menu in my briefcase. So when he says, "Hey, this is nice," he doesn't know that I've already been on his property eating his food. The cooks tell me he likes Italian, so I go to the Caesars Italian restaurant, Terrazza, and have the Veal Milanese. I even chatted up some of the hostesses to get a feel for the hotel politics. By the time I walked into the man's office, I was comfort­able, confident. It was a huge room decorated from one end to the other with Roman-style artifacts, the walls covered with pictures of prizefighters. The man behind the desk was a smooth middle-aged Italian from New York with black hair slicked straight back. And here I was, this black motherfucker in a $150 Bragard chef's coat made of Egyptian cotton. I went right into my hard sell, telling him that I was ready to go to work on the spot. I told him straight up: "Look, Chef, I've done some time. I learned to run a kitchen in prison. But my resume speaks for itself." I think he liked my aggressive approach. In Vegas, like in prison, you have to be tough to run a kitchen. If the cooks sense any sign of weakness, they'll run you over, tell you how to do your fucking job. "Mr. Henderson," he said. "Did you ever kill anyone?" "No, sir." "All right," he said. "I want you to cook me dinner on Friday. Write up a menu." I opened my briefcase, showed him the menu I'd already typed up and brought along with me, and told him that instead of giving me the usual ninety-day probation period, just to give me a month. "That won't be necessary," he told me. "Just cook me a tasting dinner for six." That tasting dinner would be a tryout for the food and bever­age executives. Six courses in sixty minutes would decide my fate and the fate of my family. It would be the most important meal I ever cooked. I remember I had my game face on, moving up and down the line in that sprawling kitchen like a general on the battlefield, flames roaring from my stove. After I served them an amuse bouche that came out perfect -- a beautiful pan-seared U­-10 diver scallop with a white truffle creamed corn sauce -- my confidence was high. They were impressed. My tim­ing was on point as I was plating the first course, a microgreen and roasted-pear salad with gorgonzola. I knew I had them on the ropes as I plated the next course, Hudson Valley foie gras served with warm minted pineapple. That's when I realized my fucking foie gras had been sitting out for about thirty minutes and started to oversoften. Two things you need to know about foie gras: It is incredibly expensive and absolutely unforgiving in its delicacy. Foie gras has the consistency of butter and can turn into a useless mush if left out in a hot kitchen. With a great piece of steak or even lobster, you can screw up and there are ways to cover it up so that no one will notice. That's not the case with foie gras. Just like when you're cooking co­caine, one miscalculation of heat can destroy your product. <div align="center">+ + +</div> More soon -- in the Daily Gullet.

You can use lowfat dairy (my choice would probably be yogurt rather than cottage cheese) as a substitute. The reason these things separate is because there's enough fat in them to protect the proteins (which are what separates out). A little cornstarch mixed into the dairy before adding it to the rest of the ingredients will do the same thing, and prevent curdling.

We're getting pretty far afield here. The Feingold diet doesn't make any special claims for sugar. From Kate's link above: In general, elimination diets address allergies, not sugar consumption.

Further to this from the NIMH booklet on ADHD: Likewise, there's no established causal relationship between diet and ADD or ADHD (from the same source): Also this from the Mayo Clinic website:

The saturated/unsaturated picture is complicated. Fats with high percentages of saturated fats (and this includes all animal fats) often have significant mono- and polyunsaturated content as well. By the same token, there seems to be a widespread belief that all vegetable-based oils are innocent (though palm and coconut are often exempted). But the fact is that all fats are combinations of the three types. Look at the percentages, and it's not so clear: Chicken fat: 45% monounsaturated; 21% polyunsaturated; 30% saturated Beef tallow: 42; 4; 50 Lard: 46; 12; 40 Compare those numbers with some popular vegetable oils: Soybean: 24% monounsaturated; 58% polyunsaturated; 15% saturated Cottonseed: 18; 52; 26 Safflower: 12; 75; 9

Thyme is almost unique among herbs in that its dried form is as useful (in a different way) as its fresh. So mincing thyme to within an inch of its life is not just tiresome, it's counterproductive. Okay, I'll try the m&p. Smooth or ridged?

I've lived in the South for almost 40 years, and I've yet to see anyone use a covered roaster. What are you implying -- that we like steamed turkey down here? Pam has the right idea. The breast-down/breast-up technique doesn't, as many think, redistribute juices (take a good look at an upside-down turkey, and you'll see that gravity, if not physiology, makes it highly unlikely). What it does is protect the breast from direct heat and the consequent evaporation of moisture. As Pam points out, you can achieve the same protection with far less exertion. ETA: in case it isn't clear, I'm with the "put it back on eBay" contingent.

I made a jerk dry rub tonight (my first time -- hold the applause, please). The recipe called for ground thyme. I understand why: a rub has to be fairly homogenous for application purposes. Tiny green leaves and a bunch of spicy dust doesn't work as a rub. I tried a spice (aka "coffee") grinder, combing dried thyme leaves with toasted allspice berries in the hope that the commingling would help. I got a great load of allspice, and two unrepentant teaspoons of whole thyme. Is mortar and pestle my best shot?

In short, poor temperature control. As you noted in your post, fat can get hotter than water; this simple point is essential to understanding what happens when you fry something. When moisture-laden food (most food is mostly water) comes in contact with properly heated fat, steam is created. As long as the temperature remains high enough, and as long as there is water close enough to the surface of the food to be heated by the fat, release of steam prevents fat from getting into the food. If the temperature drops too low to precipitate boiling, or if moisture is depleted, fat floods in. So: don't crowd the pan (or pot, if you're deep frying); make sure your fat is hot enough; and make sure that large items are close to room temperature, so as not to cause a rapid drop in fat temperature. It also helps to use a heavy pan; its heat capacity helps prevent severe temperature drop. When shallow frying, use enough fat to allow full contact with the surface of the food. If you try to minimize fat in the finished product by using minimal fat in the pan, you will often end up with something that is burned, greasy, soggy, or a combination of all three. Imagine frying something with an irregular profile -- like a breaded chicken thigh -- in too little fat: where the food contacts the pan directly, it will burn; where it's in contact with fat, moisture in the meat will dissipate long before the meat is cooked -- these areas will take in fat, and the breading will be greasy; where the food contacts neither pan nor fat, the water near the surface of the food will still get hot enough to steam, but without fat to carry the moisture away, the surface turns soggy. As a rule of thumb, use enough fat to come halfway up the sides of the food -- this provides buoyancy (as well as a temperature buffer), so your food is less likely to burn. Finally, when shallow frying breaded items, watch the top of your food. When moisture appears, turn it over -- once only.

Comparisons with Craftbar, Hearth and Cafe Gray are mostly beside the point to me -- I'm not a New Yorker -- and I don't know how you can locate Bouley Upstairs and Alinea on the same culinary/price-point/dining-experience map without a slide rule and a tesseract. Bouley Upstairs is successful, in a way, because it doesn't give a damn about any of those places, or about any trend. In the lingo of my generation (decidedly boomer), it's hip because it doesn't care about what's hip. I disagree with Steven that it's in touch with any particular demographic; it's simply in touch with what it wants to be. Deal with it on its terms, rather than the preconceptions that we carry around like a sack of overripe fruit, and it can be a singular experience. I don't really care about the Gen X-ers at the next table, or why they're there, though there are less expensive, more ostensibly comfortable choices for dinner -- so why choose this place? It's for the food. Over the course of a five-day stay in Manhattan, I ate at the Bar at the Modern, the Bread Bar at Tabla, Country, New Green Bo and Eleven Madison Park. While I remember all of them for various reasons (most notably, a meal-long service fiasco at the Modern), the only one I remember simply because of the food is Bouley Upstairs. It's for the atmosphere. The cooks are in your space, and so is the preparation of your meal. When squid or cod hits the plancha, the room fills with fish funk, then it dissipates; the same goes for the burgers and the occasional steak. It's not unpleasant at all; it's like sitting across the kitchen island while your best friend (if your best friend keeps two dozen half-liter saucepans on the flattop and whisks like a dervish without apparent provocation) composes your meal. It's for the energy. If you're a Gen X-er, being in a noisy room of peers is comforting (I say that as someone who was obviously the oldest person in the room). If you're interested in food, the continuous culinary exhibition (including even the mostly idle sushi chefs) and dynamic service ballet are fascinating and astounding. But really, it should be for the food. To add some specific notes: the sauces with the oysters were tomato-horseradish, yuzu vinaigrette and a mixed (heavy on the pink, as I recall) pepper mignonette. The yuzu was particularly good at enhancing rather than masking the oysters. The sauce with the shrimp was a tomato-water broth, heavy on the pepper (Chef Pechous is neither shy nor unskilled with black pepper, something that's apparent in several dishes.) The cod that Steven described is easily the best dish I've had this year, if not in the last twelve months; research suggests that it was Seranno ham rather than prosciutto in the accompanient, but what matters is that it was thinly sliced cured pork, crisped to perfection, and that the presentation didn't sacrifice the texture. The lamb was easily comparable in success to lamb that I had last year at ADNY. I don't think the sauce was a straight reduction; I think it was a more or less classic demiglace supplemented with a reduction. Let's call it lamb syrup (Steven's description). The fruit soup was predominantly blood orange. Of the four desserts, only the brulee was on the menu. We can cavil over the bread or wine programs (they're both deficient, but that's mostly -- especially with the bread -- a comparative evaluation), and we can say that the service is idiosyncratic. Sure, I'd like a better list and a better selection from what's downstairs in the bakery (which tantalizes you while you wait), but what comes to the table is more than adequate, as is the waitstaff. It might not be what you have come to believe is appropriate at this -- or any -- price point, and you can say that what goes on at Bouley Upstairs isn't normal, but it works, undeniably, even if it's not what you expect. (Okay, the coffee really is at best okay; no excuses there.)

The room is great: nearly perfect proportions, and nicely broken up in a way that makes good use of the volume, rather than coming across as a disguise for a warehouse. My only complaint, and it's a small one, is that if you're facing the kitchen (I was), the opening and closing doors create a bit of a flashbulb effect. I thought I would get used to it, but we had an early reservation, and as the place got busier, the flashing just got more intrusive. (I'm guessing that only about four seats in the whole place are subjected to this effect.) I can't comment on the development of the restaurant; this was my first visit (I wish I'd had a chance to try the pea flan). I agree with Steven that Chef Humm is extrememly talented. What still sticks in my mind is a tiny carrot-shaped package of sweetbreads wrapped in something like a wonton skin (it had a phyllo-like texture, but I'm pretty sure you can't manipulate phyllo the way this was). It was a perfect little capsule that demonstrated sophisticated and accomplished mastery of flavor, texture and technique. Of the four desserts at the table, I thought only one would be worth $16, but that brings up something I found odd about the whole dessert menu. Based on the description of this particular dish (Chocolate Peanut Tart with Peanut Butter Caramel and Brandied Cherry Chip Ice Cream), I wouldn't have ordered it. When it arrived, it wasn't even remotely tart-like; it was constructed as a candy bar. Likewise, the "'Exotique' Almond Bisquit with Ivoire Chocolate and Exotic Fruit" was a nearly complete mismatch for what came out on the plate -- an almost incomprehensible assembly that was almost impossible to eat in a way that did justice to what seemed to be excellent ingredients and skillful preparation. The mignardises were, um, disappointing. Dead-nuts on.

There are two reasons the stock doesn't gel. The first is because it's not being simmered long enough for full collagen conversion from the particular bones being used -- KensethFan says he simmers about about two hours. Different bones will render differently, but certainly, four hours would be better, and eight probably wouldn't be too long. The signal that you've got complete conversion is when you can break the bones with a pair of tongs. Bones contain collagen, too; when it's gone, the bones lose their resiliency, and that's as far as you should go. The second reason is the ratio of bones and meat to water. If there's too much water, you won't get gel. Two pounds of meaty bones, simmered sufficiently, will yield about one quart of good stock. I weigh my bones, jot a note, then make the stock. After straining and defatting, I measure. If I've got more than the target volume (I almost always do, because there's no reason not to be generous with water while simmering), I reduce. Upon chilling, gel occurs, without fail -- the degree varies according to the parts used. (I use half wings and half legs -- purchased on sale and frozen -- plus whatever backs and such I accumulate between sesions.)

In most Buffalo-style preparations, the crispy-skin superiority of the flat is compromised by over-saucing, macho-heat-level glazes, or both. This is especially true when you get wings at a restaurant. So while in a straighforward joint-to-joint comparison (say, both roasted plain) it's clear to me that flats win. But in the context we're using, it's a much more difficult comparison. Unless you're in a really good wing joint or you're making them yourself, it's down to meat of the drum vs. the gelatin of the flat, when it comes to pure sense experience. But then, the flat is so much more fun to eat.