Dave the Cook

Me too. No kidding, dinner's late, partners. I've just finished the mise!

Fish. There's been plenty of hearty red meat in this blog, but we need some seafood. If not just fish, how about a quick cioppino or linguine with clams? ← I was thinking the same thing. I spent a week on the Gulf Coast, and couldn't find a decent piece of grouper.

I agree, and I'm sure Maggie does, too. If you haven't read her Bacon, Eggs and a Toast piece in the Daily Gullet, please do so. Now.

Bastard! Assuming he knew you were trying to quit, that was a sh**** thing to do! ← He didn't know. He just assumed I was out of cigarettes, and stranded at the convention center as I was, it would be a while before I could get more. Marlene and Susan have talked about telling or not telling friends and colleagues. I suspect self-sabotage here. Had I said to him, "No thanks, I've quit; I just lapsed for this one," he'd have snatched them back up and apologized. Thanks! My writing skills must be improving. I'm back on the wagon this morning, and my main strategy continues to be: simply don't have them around. But after the last five days, I'm more than ever convinced that group support (say, 15,000 Society members) is a huge help. Had I been able to participate during the week, I might never have slipped. For a committed loner like me, that's a big admission.

Nice braises, ladies. I'll have to try it. Marlene, your fearlessness is an inspiration; the steak looks great. A couple of equipment notes: You're not the first person I've heard complain about the dullness of the Oxo blades. It might be worth taking back in exchange for a Benriner. I know it's kind of cheating, but for "crushed" peppercorns, this is my tool of choice. It's also great for a half-dozen cloves of garlic at a time. The blade has a grinding side and a slicing edge; you flip it over to change. My butt is in brine -- I added a half-part of sugar. What's for tonight? Suggestions?

Okay, I'm slow catching up. For dinner last night, the emphasis was easy. Chuck-eye steaks (note whiskey sour; I'm feeling sufficiently recovered to take up drinking again): Marinated in soy, brown sugar, orange and lime juice, and ancho for an hour at room temperature: The mac and cheese was left over from my absence. I suspect it's Stouffer's, but I didn't inquire. Better not knowing.

A buttload of thanks to my fellow bloggers, and Maggie too, for holding the fort during my absence. You guys are the best. A combination of poor networking and a really efficient virus (possibly accompanied by a newly developed allergy to mildew) laid me low. Following a record-time run to Atlanta, I'm back in the land of DSL and the simple and predictable effects of pine pollen. Some background: one of the things I do for a living is trade show support. That means building the exhibition stand for my company, hanging around during the show for meet-and-greet, then tearing things down and packing them up for shipment to the next show (which is next week). After Sunday's lapse, I was doing pretty well with smoking, between the illness and the work. In fact, the worst thing I could confess would be eating at chain restaurants: Carrabba's and Chili's. There was a little Cuban cafe in between -- roast pork, yellow rice and black beans, and the night I ended up at Chili's I had plans for a Vietnamese place that came with a recommendation, but I was too late (family places close early, don't they?) Thursday, the show ran from 10:30 to 2:00. Tear-down went well -- I cajoled a sales guy into helping for a while. But I was exhausted by 4:00, when the hired help (local union labor) took a mandatory break. I could have kept working, but my feet were killing me, and I needed some time to clear my sinuses (all the material movement raises lots of dust). I went outside. The Tampa Convention Center has a tiered series of patios overlooking the bay, and the view is gorgeous. During the week, I'd come out on breaks to breathe in the salt air and rest my feet. Unlike earlier in the week, it was pretty much empty. Attendees and vendors had cleared out, on their way to the next call, to Ybor City, or to the Clearwater beaches. But there was one guy left, with his butt slung in a vinyl-strapped chair and his feet pressed against the railing, a notebook computer open on his lap. We knew each other. In fact, he's on retainer as a consultant to my company, and I like him -- or I did. We reviewed the last few days, trading observations and notes, during the course of which, he offered me a cigarette. I hesitated. But whether it was the stress of the week, the feeling that a smoke would help me relax, or just my weariness at resisting, I accepted. I figured it was a one-time thing. I'd go back in and finish my work, I'd go back to my room and crash in anticipation of the drive home (did I mention I'd given up alcohol on Tuesday?), and that would be it. Instead, after a few minutes, he slapped the computer shut and stood up. He reached into his pocket and tossed a slightly crumpled, almost empty pack of Marlboro Lights on the table between us. "You look like you need these more than me," he said, and walked away. And that, my friends, is how an otherwise rational person changes -- in a single motion -- from a non-smoker into an unrecovered addict, worrying about where he's going to get his next fix.

This trip is cursed. Knowing that the blog would be underway, I took pains to ensure that I would have a reliable connection. Unfortunately, it seems the definition of "high-speed access" still has some flexibility in it. I've tried to post this twice, and the first time, I lost the connection. So the second time, I copied the post to a WordPad document every couple of paragraphs. Maybe I'm still scatterbrained from withdrawal, or maybe it's the flu, but for some reason, I assumed that copying alone was sufficient. Which is to say that I didn't actually save the WordPad file. So when the power went out (what hotel has a power failure?), I lost it anyway. Let me catch everyone up on the last three-and-a-half days quickly. I drove down from Atlanta Sunday afternoon, leaving at about 2:00, with an ETA of 9:00. Smoking-wise, I distracted myself by running up the cell-phone bill; swigging Starbucks Frappacino; listening to NPR and an interesting station in Valdosta that simply feeds the CBS TV audio into an AM transmitter (60 Minutes on radio); cranking up the Cars, Buddy Guy, Van Halen and XTC and howling along. Then I stopped for gas and lemonade. The next thing I knew, I was hurtling through the tepid Florida night, singing Promised Land with Bruce, shredding wisps of bluish smoke out the open window of my recently rented smoke-free Durango. I saved myself by having reserved a non-smoking room. Inside, I soaked the remainder of the pack, a la Matthew. I wanted a drink. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to bring my nifty travelling cocktail kit. And while I had remembered gin, maraschino and triple sec, I had forgotten lemons. Glasses? No problem, I've got plastic. Shaker? I can just chill in machine ice. But citrus is a conspicuous absentee. A trip to the local grocery solved two of three problems: Usage hint: put your thumb over the dispensing hole, rather than trust the flap to contain the contents. Dinner? It was too late to go out:

Just checking in. I made it. No Bern's. I have to run now, but I'll be back later.

Wish me luck, everyone. I'm off on a seven-hour drive to Tampa. Marlene and Susan's meatfests have made me remember Bern's, which many people consider the best steakhouse in the country. If I behave myself on the drive down, maybe I'll treat myself. See you later.

I'm with Marlene -- I'm not eating any more, and there hasn't been a marked difference in the taste of things, but my sense of smell has picked up considerably. And yes, salt and crunch have taken center stage.

I love wings, but I have to say that most recipes are failures in that they don't leverage the best feature of a well-cooked wing, and that's its great crisp-to-meat- to-fat (or is it gelatin?) ratio. In fact, those recipes that call for cooking the wings and tossing them in a bowl with a bunch of liquid are downright disrespectful. You might as well boil them. But this technique is a feature of the majority of recipes. What am I not getting?

Is this a Marlene-blog first?

Don't count on it, Marsha. A dedicated smoker will rationalize anything, even puffing through intestinal meltdown. One thing this blog has confirmed is my suspicion that the Society has a disproportionately large proportion of smokers compared to the population at large. The connection between food and smoking is pretty strong, especially among professionals. I actually picked up the habit in a restaurant kitchen, where everyone -- chef, line cooks, dishwashers -- smoked. Two weeks and I was hooked.

Don't rub it in. Am I the only one who can't sleep? If I hadn't had a martini or two, I'd be hitting the vicodan. I need a good night's sleep. ← I've had no trouble falling asleep at the drop of a hat -- in fact, most of the time, I've felt drained, but I think part of that is lack of nicotine, and part is the virus that's working its way through the system. What's been trouble has been staying asleep. Finally I used the excuse of this cold to drop a few Benadryl (all we had in the house), and got a straight six, anyway.

Despite the pleas for those I'm leaving behind as I go out of town, I couldn't bring myself to fire up a big solid chunk of flesh. Still, I wanted to be in the spirit of subjecting a relatively dense mass of meat to heat. Plus, the overwhelming consensus in the house was for beef. So I compromised. First, tonight's (first) cocktail: This is a Last Word, modified. At Pegu Club, they make it with equal parts gin, green Chartreuse, Maraschino and lime juice -- one of those equal-parts drinks. I doubled the gin in proportion to the other ingredients, and I liked it better. I'm still not sure it's going to be a favorite, though. It's quite sweet, though the herbal note of the Chartreuse is still apparent. To cooking. I trimmed three artichokes. They've turned up in volume here lately, and they're almost affordable. They went into this ridiculously large saucepan, which, because it's big and round and sort of good for a lot of things but not particularly great at anything, my daughter calls "Mr. Shaw." I found a slab of flank steak that could almost be called cute -- a little over a pound: I butterflied it: Then laid it on a sheet of plastic wrap and layered it with roasted peppers, ricotta cheese, spinach and reconstituted dried shitakes: The plastic helps when rolling it up: Then I tied, and tidied up: I filtered the mushroom liquid then reduced it, added some brown sauce and a lump of tomato paste. Later, just before serving, I stirred in a teaspoon of Dijon mustard and a tablespoon of butter -- sort of a Shitake Sauce Robert. When the artichokes were done, I stripped the leaves and arranged them with a lemon-crab mayonnaise for an appetizer. Time for another cocktail, a Bee's Knees: applejack, lemon juice and honey. In honor of Marlene, I used Canadian honey: When the roast was almost done (125F), I pulled it, brushed on some mustard, and sprinkled it with sesame seeds. I put in back in the oven to let the sesame seeds toast. I did a quick slice of the artichoke bottoms, and crisped them in olive oil. White and wild rice with toasted pine nuts finished the plate: Considering it was all made up this afternoon, I was pretty pleased. Next time, I'd leave out the ricotta, and use duxelles instead of the shitakes. The rice needed something, but I feel like I'm operating on half a brain, and can't figure it out. Shallots, maybe? I'm exhausted.

FLASHBACK! I haven't thought of this in many years. My Mother used to make us a "special treat" called Toast Boxes. It was just toast cut into squares and served on a plate! SB (has a clever Mother) ← My grandmother used to cut the toast in strips and build log cabins out of them before serving us. Why she thought it was necessary to entice us to eat toast is beyond me, because Peter's right, I think.

If you have a convection oven, the skins are even better (a tip I got from Marlene). And thank you. You're very kind. Okay, I could go this direction, too.

Susan, I think the tenderloins make more sense. I'm hard pressed because there's only two of us, and I'm going out of town tomorrow. For the former reason, I rarely do big roasts anyway. I'm just going to go to the market and see what looks good. I promise to get as big a hunk of meat as is practical, Marlene!

I finally decided that toast would be okay. Then, maybe because it smelled so good (are there any better smells?), my appetite started to come back. I drizzled a little honey over the butter. This is Morat's English Muffin Bread.

Whatever works, right? I've heard of the rubber band thing, but not the salt. How did you come up with that?The only reason I haven't given in is because there are no cigarettes around. It's been reduced the simple proposition that if I don't buy them, I'm safe. "Just keep passing the 7-11, Dave" is what I tell myself. Indeed. Marlene mentioned it earlier, but Maggie is the reason we're doing this at all. I'm grateful. So far.Speaking of checking in, where's Brooks? I think this is an excellent idea. I still have no interest in breakfast. Oops. I roasted last night. Oh well. I probably roast more than anything else, so it's not a hardship. I'm thinking something celebratory. Four days!

I did. The cold I've been fending off all week finally broke through last night. I know a lot of people refrain from smoking during illness, especially those that are respiratory, but I've rarely stopped. In fact, for some reason, the urge increased, and I almost went out in the plummeting temperatures for a pack, fever and all (I did the car- and house-scouring the night before, and turned up nothing). I went to bed instead. Sorry I'm late. There was a rumor of crab at one of the local chains, but all my search turned up was big ol' king legs and snow clusters, when what I wanted was a couple of whole Dungeness. So I grabbed a chicken. Why I thought that this was a reasonable substitute for crab is beyond me, but a lot of things are fuzzy this morning. When me and the chicken got home, we washed some russets, brushed them with oil and sprinkled them with coarse salt, and put them in the oven at 375F. Then we made a drink: This is Gary Regan's Missing Link, a simple sour made with dark rum. While sipping, I spatchcocked the chicken. I toasted a bunch of cumin seeds, set some aside and ground the rest. I took two-thirds of the that, added some ground black pepper, and toasted a bit more, then added olive oil, garlic and chopped fresh rosemary. When the mess started to sizzle, I took it off the heat and stirred in the zest of a small orange. Once it cooled, I spooned this under the thigh, leg and breast skin. While it was cooling, I trimmed some zucchini, halved it lengthwise and thirded it crosswise. I salted it heavily and set it to drain. The chicken joined the potatoes in the oven. The potatoes needed another 15 minutes, so I made another drink. Since I had a naked orange, I decided to make something I've never made before, a Monkey Gland (the version with absinthe substitute rather than Benedictine: It was good. But if you're not used to making this cocktail, trust me -- be careful with the green fairy. The Herbsaint made me think of New Orleans, so I decided to turn the potatoes into Cajun-style twice-baked. I scoooped them out and mixed the starch with salt; butter; sour cream; red, white and black pepper (the other trinity, in my book); parmesan cheese and green onions. Some smoked paprika on top, and beck into the oven. I flipped the chicken somewhere in there, and then flipped it back fifteen minutes later. While it was on the last leg, I rinsed off the zucchini and tossed it into a saute pan filmed with oil. Once they got going, I turned the heat down and let them cook pretty slowly. There's something weird going on with the photograph there. It looks like the pan is really warped, and there's a pool of oil on the right. That's how the camera saw it, but there was really minimal oil. I mixed the leftover cumin with some orange juice concentrate and brushed it on the chicken for the last few minutes. Miraculously, everything was done more or less at the same time:

Okay, now I want this.

Every Friday, our company does something called "wind down," a ritual that, as far as I know, dates back to the early high-tech days of the late 70s and early 80s. Back then, it was beer and hot dogs. High-tech has matured, so these days it's soft drinks and . . . salty/crunchy things. Giant bowls of Tostitos, pretzels and potato chips. Chocolate cake, and cookies, too, but they didn't interest me. I ate my weight in starch and sodium. Now I want a cigarette. Those were good. Are southerners allowed to substitute pecans?

Where's Percy, of the infinite knowledge of and talent for eggs? ← Maybe he's out back having a cigarette.