JAZ

The inside of the Creamsicle is ice cream; the inside of the Dreamsicle is ice milk. This according to Cecil Adams, from his Straight Dope website. http://www.straightdope.com/classics/a1_356a.html

My thoughts on this topic are from the point of view of the diner, not the chef, and certainly not the owner or investor (I'm afraid I can't add anything to the discussion from those viewpoints). I begin with a short personal reminiscence, but bear with me; there is a point. My family didn’t eat out very often while I was growing up (large family; government salary). When we did go out, it wasn’t to three-star restaurants, either, just your run-of-the-mill family places. But regardless, because it was rare, it was a big deal. We planned, we looked forward to it, we dressed up, and it was special. I don’t remember the food; I doubt it was anything great. But I do remember the occasions. And even though I eat out much more often now, I’ve continued to nourish the feeling that eating out at high end places is something special. Even if I could do it financially, I wouldn’t want to go to French Laundry, Fifth Floor, or Chez Panisse every week (and understand that I’m merely picking out local names at random here, not making any claims about the quality of the food). Now, I know I’m an anomaly among the posters on sites like e-gullet. But I think most people carry at least a little of that feeling that fine dining should be special. And I think that the sense of “specialness” I’m talking about starts to disappear when the dining experience is too easy to come by. When eating at one of these restaurants isn’t a big deal anymore, I think it’s bound to be a lesser experience for the diner. So, in that sense, I think the very fact that a chef expands, opens more restaurants – or restaurants at lower price points – dilutes the pleasure of eating at the original. And in this sense, I think the details of how and why a chef expands are irrelevant (whether a well planned and apparently thoughtful expansion like Ducasse’s or a misguided attempt like Wolfgang Puck’s canned soups). But now, another side: From another angle, though, I applaud the thoughtful expansion of high quality restaurants – like that overseen by Ducasse, which seems to retain most of the quality of the original restaurant – because it does expose more people to better cuisine, and I think that’s a worthwhile goal. [And if you’re thinking that I can’t have it both ways, I know that. It’s one of the things that keeps me up at night.] From this angle, there’s obviously a big difference between various types of expansion. Here, maintaining something close to the original quality is crucial. I don’t think such quality can be maintained below a certain price point, for example, and it certainly can’t be maintained with mass marketed prepared foods (I hate to keep picking on Puck, because I have no experience eating at his restaurants, but his frozen pizzas and canned soups are no better than Stouffers or Campbells, and do nothing to expose anyone to good cuisine). Discussing the criteria for what constitutes “good” v. “bad” expansion, would, of course, require a whole separate post. I suppose the best of all possible worlds (which is probably close to what actually happens) would be one in which some great chefs keep their places small and special (or stick to one place), and some others expand carefully and thoughtfully.

If you want to do a little reading, Andrea Immer's book Great Tastes Made Simple is a very good resource on matching food and wine. You would probably get more out of it with a little basic knowledge about wines, but I think it would be helpful even for a real beginner. And if you can find a copy of a book called Kitchen Conversations by Joyce Goldstein (I don't think it's in print anymore, but I could be wrong), there's a section in the beginning on matching foods and wines. It's written by Joyce's son, Evan, who is holds the Master Sommelier designation. He does provide a chart of sorts with wines broken down into categories, which you can then use to match wines with the recipes in the book (all of which have a Mediterranean flavor profile, so it's not going to help directly with other cuisines, but at least it's a start).

I don't actually think that Steve was saying that I'm wrong for disliking blue cheese. I think he was saying I'd be wrong if I said that blue cheese is "bad," and that's a different point entirely. Since I'm the one who brought up the blue cheese example in the first place, let me add just one more thing. I do often say that blue cheese is bad -- actually I use much stronger terms than that: "vile," "nasty" and "loathsome" are the ones that come to mind. But Steve's right (egads, did I actually write that?) -- I don't and can't really say it's "bad" in a serious, gastronomic sense. The reason I can't is the same as Steve's oyster example -- there are too many people whose palates are educated and with whom I'm in agreement on most other culinary matters for me to ignore them. And in that sense, I'm "wrong" about blue cheese. I can understand everyone's reluctance to talk about being "right" and "wrong" in such cases, but I think Jonathan hit the nail on the head -- if we use it the terms context and understand that they're merely shorthand for something more, they're useful. Janet Does that mean I ever think I'll like blue cheese? God no. It's vile.

The last time I made short ribs, I braised them with porter and onions (a la Carbonnade Flamande). Started by sauteeing about 4 onions, sliced, with salt, pepper and a large pinch of dried thyme. Browned the ribs (probably about 5 lbs). Deglazed the pan with porter (I used Anderson Valley's porter, but anything that's not overly hopped would work). Piled the onions back into the pan and covered with the ribs in a single layer. Added more porter to come up about 3/4 of the way up the ribs. Into the oven at 325 for about 2 hours (uncovered). When the ribs were done, I merely degreased and reduced the sauce, adding a tablespoon or so of prepared Dijon style mustard. Depending on the beer, sometimes the sauce requires a touch of vinegar or brown sugar, but this one was pretty well balanced on its own.

I'm a little confused here. I was providing an example where I'm willing to say my palate is the one that's defective (I'm not crazy about the term, but I'll use it since it's the one you chose). You're the one who asked for an example. I gave one. But now you say my example is ...what, boring? Trivial? Meaningless? Not relevant? Why did you ask for examples, then? Was it merely a rhetorical question? If it was rhetorical, what was your point?

Oh, the Solis Maestro...my dream grinder. Snowangel, if you are planning on a new grinder, this is the one.

Well, here's an example: I loathe blue cheese. Blue cheese in any form -- Roquefort, Stilton, Gorgonzola, even Cambozola, which every one else says is so mild it hardly counts. I'm not allergic to it because I can eat it when I have a bad cold and can't tatse it. But the taste, literally, makes me sick (I'll be polite here, but I mean literally). (Incindentally, everyone else in my family loves it, so it's not a learned reaction). And yet I know, obviously, lots of people with very well trained and refined palates who like it, even love it. On other culinary matters, I agree with these people. I have come, over time, to conclude that in this matter, my palate is the one that's "off" (I won't say "defective"). The situation leaves me with the question of whether the blue cheese tastes the same to them as it does to me, and we simply disagree about the pleasurableness of that taste, or it tastes different to us. I lean toward the latter possibility because, quite frankly, I cannot conceive of anyone liking the flavor that blue cheese has for me. (To me, it tastes like vomit, and how can anyone like that?)

Maybe I'm missing something here, but why can't he grind two batches in the morning, if he's so concerned about freshness? I often grind my coffee the night before, and except for the aroma, don't notice any difference (and it's not that the ground coffee doesn't smell great; but you don't get that blast of volatile aromatics that comes right at the moment of grinding).

I'm fortunate to be in a temperate climate, but I've spent my share of cold winters. I like to slow braise things in the oven, if only because it means you get to keep the oven on for so long. Short ribs are one of my favorites.

The mother-in-law of a friend of mine used to be one of the editors of Taste of Home, so my friend got it for free for several years. I borrowed some of the issues to see if it might be a possible market for some articles. Turns out they only accept submissions from subscribers, and even then I think you have to be on what they call their editorial board, which seemd to be a group of women who like to cook at home but have no professional background. They have columns on subjects like theme parties (I recall one such column describing the author's "dairy party" complete with a picture of the hostesses dressed up in black and white cow costumes, uddrs and all). Think church fundraiser cook book with photos and a test kitchen.

Are you sure about mango acting as a tenderizer? I hadn't heard or read that anywhere. Pineapple does too (which is the reason that manufacturers of gelatin desserts tell you not to add raw pineapple). And most commercial meat tenderizers contain the same enzyme as papaya.

I've had the week off from my "real" job and have been working on some some course outlines, which since I teach classes on cocktail parties, involves new ideas for cocktails. So far two experiements stand out. #1 2 oz. light rum Juice of half a lime Juice of half a blood orange half oz triple sec Beautiful color, as well as a nice balance of sweet and tart. Not terribly complex; over ice and with a splash of soda I imagine it would be a great poolside drink. #2 2 oz. vodka Juice of half a lemon half oz. simple syrup Big dash bitters If you're thinking this sounds like a lemon drop with bitters, that's exactly what it is. The bitters turn it into something much more interesting but not too esoteric. Nice pink color too -- looks like a Jasmine. Now back to work. Janet

Bottling sucks. It sucks so bad, that it's why I rarely brew. How much does a decent 5 gal. keg operation cost? How much to buy and convert one of those little fridges? As for brewing in plastic -- never seemed right to me, but lots of people I know have a plastic primary and/or secondary. When I used to brew with my ex, we switched to kegs and CO2, extra fridge and all, although we didn't ever put a tap in. It was easier, but I always thought our bottled beer was better. And it was very difficult to get the amount of CO2 right. Our primary fermenter was plastic, and we never had any trouble with it. Everything else we used was glass. Janet

Oh. Didn't anyone notice that I was attempting to contrast something beautiful but untouched by human technique with something beautiful and man-made? And of course the comparison doesn't make sense. Neither does comparing a ripe uncooked peach with a peach dessert (in terms of one being "better" than the other). That was my point. But you're right about it all getting too tedious. Sorry I dragged it on. That's it for me on this topic.

One of the criteria by which we are able to exercise a fair comparison of different products is our ability to evaluate these products based on a certain set of rules and common sense. To produce a cooked, sauced peach requires not only more time, but also a certain level of execution to achieve technical perfection of the end-result and satisfy the taste of experts whose experience lies in tasting poached peaches day and night and whose expertise is such that it will allow them to appraise the product accordingly with placing a price tag. Therefore, complex as a stand-alone definition may not be valid in assuming better; however, complex to achieve a satisfactory taste confirmed, without doubts, by experts, where an additional effort is involved and other auxiliary elements are taken into the consideration like scarcity of the raw material or uniqueness of the recipe, falls under the category of “better.” ... Your comparison is invalid as it simply compares apples and oranges. For an argument to be applicable, the conclusion must follow logically from the premises where the premise in this particular case would represent a fruit of the same origin or one painting vs. another painting or a spectacular sunrise in Alaska vs. one in Hawaii. Otherwise, “in logic class, we call that” (JAZ) a straw man where, as the term implies, the straw man is an argument without substance. I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you mean. But yes, I do know what a "straw man" is. The straw man fallacy occurs when Person A, rather than refuting Person B's real argument, refutes a related but weaker and more easily assailable argument (i.e., the "straw man"). And again, I'm sorry, but I just don't see your point.

Yes. What do people have to do with it? Corn flakes is to corn on the cob is to corn souffle. What do people have to do with the increase in complexity I have just outlined? Ummm...they're responsible for the corn flakes and for the corn souffle, unless there are some really talented cows out there that we don't know about.

But here's another point: if you didn’t have the educated palate in the first place, could you have appreciated the beurre blanc at La Grille to the extent that you did? And if, by some miracle, every other beurre blanc you ate was as good as that one, then how would you know how special it was? If everything is perfect, doesn’t perfection lose its meaning? And, in fact, doesn’t the lesser food that you eat in the course of your life make the good stuff all that much better? Here’s an example: my family grew up with butter, never margarine. To me it was standard, not exceptional. So imagine my surprise when I went off to college and the toast was spread with this liquid oil crap that never been near, let alone inside, a cow. After that, when I went back home on vacation, that butter that I’d always taken for granted was all the sudden incredible. So instead of being disappointed in bad food, be grateful for its ability to make you appreciate the good stuff. It’s one way to make the best of an imperfect world.

Not really, Toby. Sometimes we'd eat the perfect peach out of hand, and sometimes we'd cook beyond - sometimes way beyond - the most basic level. The two aren't mutually exclusive. "Better" is just the wrong frame of reference. Exactly.

But when you refuse to accept the “multi-dimensional” aspect of the dining experience and insist on applying “linear” standards, aren’t you forgetting that human beings are, themselves, multi-dimensional? Not to start a philosophical debate or a psychology lesson, but humans obviously operate on a number of levels. To oversimplify, we are, on one level, physical animals with physical appetites, urges and instincts; on another, we are thinking, cultured beings (on yet a third, we’re social animals, but that raises an entirely different set of questions). Food and cooking affect us on both levels, and can therefore be analyzed in different ways. You say that a plain, natural peach is objectively not as good as one manipulated in various ways by a chef. I gather from your comments that your reasoning is that it requires no technique to present a peach on a plate, that good cuisine is about technique, and therefore the peach that is cut, cooked and sauced is better. But I would argue that -- regardless of whether that is true -- on the physical, instinctive level, the unadorned peach is better. From that perspective, the peach is a delicious, sweet, caloric, juicy fuzz-enclosed ball of immediate nutrition – no waiting necessary. Now, the cultured side of us may prefer a little more sophistication with our fruit, but sometimes that animal just wins out. I’d go further and argue that for a dish to be called truly great, it would have to appeal to both levels (and others, but let’s not complicate things). Trying to say that a great peach dessert is better than a great raw peach is like trying to say that the Mona Lisa is better than a spectacular sunrise; it’s not wrong, really. It’s just woefully misguided. But then you change tack, so let me try to keep up here: Wait a minute... if I poach a peach in Belgian ale, glaze it with a horseradish-apricot reduction, garnish it with pureed chickpeas, toasted hazelnuts and sichuan peppercorns, that's better than the ripe, uncooked peach? It's complex, so that makes it better? Yes, of course I'm exaggerating. But let me just leave the peach example behind and present a real one. I once had a soup (incidentally, made by the executive chef of a well known and respected restaurant in San Francisco) that was constructed as follows: a base was pumpkin and sweet potatoes cooked in chicken broth and pureed with some nutmeg and cloves and enriched with some cream. It was garnished with: creme fraiche, some diced and partially rendered pancetta, some sprigs of chervil, a sprinkling of dried saffron threads and a grilled prawn. Complex? Yes. Good? No. "Wretched excess" is the phrase that springs to mind (and don't ask about the cornbread made with pine nuts, diced roasted red pepper, currants, minced onion, cilantro, orange zest and garlic). Then: But that begs the question (in the original logical sense of the term, which means not that it avoids it, but that it assumes the truth of a premise that's at least as doubtful as the conclusion it's supposed to prove). I mean, if we could agree on "better" as meaning "more complex," we wouldn't be having this discussion, would we? Finally, you end with: Whoa, there...back up the horse. First, you're going on about technique. Okay, fine; you have a good point to make there. But then, you switch to complexity, which is much more problematic. But I'll concede that it is an element to be recokoned with, if not anything close to the sole criterion for a definititon of good cuisine. But come on, don't try to muddy up the waters by sneaking in an extra little phrase about "quality," hoping that no one will notice. Look at your conclusion: if you take away the unproven and suspect element of "complexity" then what you've said is this: "It's reasonable to use the definition of 'better' that means...of better quality which is pretty much the standard in every industry." In logic class, we call that a tautology.

I know several people who have taken the pastry program. It's intensive and thorough and apparently fairly well regarded in the business. I don't know as much about the cooking side, but I imagine it's good. And I can't think of any alternatives in the area that I think are better.

If the chicken packets can be secured some other way (besides, I mean, wrapping them in foil), then the best way to get crispy skin would be, I think, to brown them in a skillet as a first step. Once the chicken is cooked, you won't be able to do much about the skin, and even less about rendering out the fat underneath. Or, if you use the foil method, remove the skin before you start. It may not look as good as appealing without a nice crispy skin, but you could always sauce the chicken before serving.

It’s no contest, for me: I’d take cooking over being cooked for any day. I used to cook to impress; now I cook to please, to give – and, of course, because I really do enjoy it. I enjoy the sense of satisfaction and of accomplishment when I produce a good meal. And, despite the fact that I played the flute for years and have been writing in various professional capacities for years, cooking alone has afforded me a truly creative medium. I think my favorite part of the cooking process is when I’m formulating ideas for a meal, looking through cookbooks for inspiration, taking bits and pieces from several and putting them all together. I love shopping for food, browsing, altering my plans depending on what looks especially appealing at the market (Oh, the sight of fresh, boned quail lying there in the butcher’s case when you’re not expecting them). I even like the prep work. Chopping vegetables, trimming meat, toasting and grinding spices, making stock – it’s soothing, relaxing. And then that feeling when what I’m making comes together the way I envisioned, when, with the last pinch of salt or squeeze of lemon juice, the dish is there – it’s like seeing my name in print when I get something published. (No, seeing my name in print is better. But it’s still exceptionally gratifying.) Oddly enough, the one time I thought about cooking professionally and catered a couple of parties for my sister and friends, I hated it. All of my enjoyment disappeared when I was cooking “for real,” so I gave up that idea after only a few attempts. I do like teaching cooking classes though – imagine being paid to tell people what to do in the kitchen – and feel that I’m good at it (better, certainly, than I was at teaching philosophy). At least my students tell me I am, and I find that very gratifying. When I go out to eat, I want to eat food that I can’t or won’t make myself. I’ve fallen into the unfortunate habit of constantly analyzing my meals out in order to get ideas for my own cooking, which can interfere with the dining experience if I’m not careful. Actually the one sure sign that I’m eating extraordinary food is that the analytical part of my brain turns off. And I will say that all of the “transcendental” food experiences I’ve had have been at restaurants. But regardless of the quality of food, the quality of service has to be high, because that’s what I most enjoy about going out – being waited on. When I’m eating a meal prepared by a friend or a family member, it’s a different story. Like Jonathan said, my critical faculties are not engaged on the same level – I can’t say that I can ever really turn them off, but they’re very far in the background. And even if the food is not very good, knowing that someone has taken the time and effort to cook for me is touching. The only time in my adult life when I didn’t enjoy cooking was during the tail end of my relationship with my then-fiance. We’d lived together for about five years by this time, and for the last four of it, I was cooking virtually every dinner we ate. He cooked occasionally on the weekends (or rather he grilled something and I cooked the rest of the dinner) and we went out or ordered takeout very, very rarely, but aside from that I was at the stove pretty much every night. I still liked cooking in theory and sometimes even in practice, but the feeling that I had to cook dinner every evening was dreadful. So when I left him, I luxuriated in not cooking. I was broke and didn’t much feel like going out to restaurants anyway, but I ordered a lot of take out, cooked store bought pasta with store bought sauce and lived on scrambled eggs and toast for months before I started cooking again. Finally, one last note: One of the reasons I wanted to start this thread is that I have never understood those people who love food but don't cook and hoped to learn something about that phenomenon. Anyone in that category?

Janet, you've hooked me with that last sentence...in fact with the entire quote. What do you mean? (Or is this the basis for a new thread on menu design for cocktail parties? -- if you think so, why not start one?) I think it probably is a separate thread, so let me pull some notes out, and I'll start a new topic. (I originally thought to put it in the "other spirits" forum, but now I think it's better off here.)

I work in a cookware store that carries most of the major food magazines, and so I can read any and all of them. I always read Cook's Illustrated and find it interesting but rarely agree with their opinions on anything, except macaroni and cheese. (And since I'm now holding them personally responsible for the failure of my Christmas peanut butter truffles, I'm carrying a bit of a grudge). Once in a while a recipe in Gourmet, Food & Wine or Bon Appetit will appeal to me and I'll copy a page, but that's about it for my interest in them. Fine Cooking is my favorite cooking magazine because it's all about cooking -- no travel, no restaurants, no lifestyle crap. I'm actually seriously considering subscribing to it again (I stopped when I started working at the store, because I could read it for free, and can usually take home a remaindered copy sans cover) because I've found more and more I want the issues at home, with covers, right when they come out. I keep thinking that I should like Saveur, but I just don't. Not sure why. Cuisine (now Cuisine at Home) would be a much better magazine if the so-called writers for it could write. Good ideas, recipes that can be made at home, nice technique stuff for the beginner to intermediate cook. But, ack! the writing is awful. I can barely make it through a couple of paragraphs before I just want to sic my college grammar professor on the entire staff. Eating Well's new incarnation seems to be not as good as its original format but miles ahead of what it dwindled into before its well-deserved demise. I hope it continues on the right track, because it would be great to have a good, moderate magazine devoted to relatively healthy eating (Cooking Light is positively the worst excuse for a supposed cooking magazine in the entire Western Hemisphere). Art Culinaire is pretty to look at but vapid. I love Gastronomica, but it's not really a cooking magazine. Great for the aspiring food writer, not so useful if you're looking for recipes.