JAZ

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.

Reminds me of Julia Child and Simone Beck's comment in Mastering the Art of French Cooking about making hollandaise sauce in a blender: "If you are used to handmade hollandaise, you may find the blender variety lacks something in quality; this is perhaps due to complete homogenization. But as the technique is well within the capabilities of an 8-year-old child, it has much to recommend it."

Hmmm, very good points, and I'm rethinking what I posted (which, truth be told, was not very well expressed). I'll let you know if you've changed my mind, or how much. Janet The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to think you’re right, mostly. When I wrote what I did, I was thinking back to a period many years ago when my then-fiance and I would get together with several other couples for dinners in which the hosting couple would make the main course and the other couples would provide the other courses. When not hosting, I was generally asked to bring the hors d’oeuvre. And although I always tried to stay in line generally with what the host was making, I liked the freedom afforded by the set up and often “ran wild” with what I made. Everyone always raved, but looking back on it now, my offerings were not always the best choices for the meal as a whole. More than once I (unintentionally) upstaged the main part of the dinner. And I can remember one occasion when I brought some Asian beef rolls and a Thai cashew salad – everyone ate so much of the cashews, which were of course terribly rich, that no one even wanted dinner. And you’re probably right in saying that in concentrating on socializing and cocktails, your guests won’t necessarily appreciate the full effect of anything served during the cocktail hour. And it’s generally difficult to match cocktails with food. (Or more precisely, it’s very difficult to match them from standpoint of taste only. It’s much easier when it comes to texture, and matching cocktails and food on a psychological level is pathetically easy.) But if I serve cocktails, I always serve my guests something to eat, regardless of how fully they’ll appreciate it; I just don’t like the idea of their downing cocktails on an empty stomach. I do usually keep it fairly simple now (or at least simpler than I used to), and don’t serve much, but I do serve something more than olives and nuts. One final point: I doubt we really disagree all that much, in theory. I suspect that our dinner parties are vastly different, though, so the differences in practice might be somewhat greater. Janet

Hmmm, very good points, and I'm rethinking what I posted (which, truth be told, was not very well expressed). I'll let you know if you've changed my mind, or how much. Janet

Jeez, you guys are making me blush... But it's great to hear that you find this sort of thing helpful. And it's been helpful for me, too, because I was sort of stuck on how to present some of this material, and now I've got some good ideas on how to proceed. So thanks for the feedback. And if you're still interested in more, I did think of two other points that I forgot to mention. The first is to keep your menu on the same general level of (for lack of a better word) sophistication. If you start out with foie gras on savory french toast or caviar and creme fraiche on new potatoes, it's probably better to stick with something on that level, rather than following with a country stew. And it's just as true in reverse -- if you start out with a more rustic dish, you con't want to follow it up with a lobster thermidor (if people actually make that anymore). The good news is, it's pretty easy to do minor tweaks to many dishes to move them up and down the sophistication scale. The second is a way around most everything I've said so far. That's to have a cocktail party. When you have a cocktail party, all food matching rules can be broken, as long as your food is bite sized, has a relatively high fat content, and is flavorful but not too spicy. From a flavor point of view, cocktails are generally palate killers -- alcohol numbs the palate, and cocktails are complex enough on their own that they're hell to match with food. But the good news is that nobody at a cocktail party cares. You're at a party, dressed up, holding a cocktail glass with a cocktail in it, having fun, feeling grown-up and sophisticated. There are wonderful, easy-to- eat, decadent little snacks ready to be snatched up and enjoyed. It never really occurs to anyone to think about whether everything goes together. I love cocktail parties. And yes, that's all sort of tongue in cheek, but it is true. And another thing it entails is that if you have a really showstopping idea for a starter but you're concerned about how the rest of the menu will follow, serve it in bite sized form (as a sort of amuse bouche), away from the table, with cocktails or an aperitif. Then your guests won't really think of it as part of the meal, so it won't have to meet all those endless criteria. Thanks again. Janet

Well, I can't quite put my hands on my notes of the menus (just moved and haven't finished sorting out my files), but here a couple of examples to start. The first was produced by an instructor acquaintance of mine for a class. He doesn't usually err quite like this, but I guess he had a bad night. 1st: cream of portobello mushroom soup garnished with a chevre/crame fraiche mixture. 2nd: a caesar-type salad (no egg in the dressing, but very thick) with parmesan and croutons 3rd: "pan roasted" chicken breasts with sauteed mixed mushrooms folded into a sherry cream sauce. Served with polenta enriched with cheese and butter Dessert: an apple and cherry galette topped with cinnamon ice cream. The first mistake that jumps out to me is that you have cream of mushroom soup for a first course and mushrooms with cream sauce in the third, which is in essense the same dish, just poured over chicken. And although I think you could come up with a successful menu that incorporated mushrooms into every dish, this one isn't it. The second flaw (and this one is a biggie) is the sheer volume of rich dairy products. Too much, and too much the same: cream, cream and cheese in the first course; cheese in the second; cream and cheese again in the third and ice cream in the dessert. Not only is the menu incredibly filling, there's no break for the palate: it starts out with major rich and creamy elements and every course repeats them. Third, although I have no problem with safe and familiar dishes or "comfort" food, a menu composed of nothing but is pretty boring. Sure the cream of mushroom soup is garnished with chevre, but it's still cream of mushroom soup. As for the second course, I suppose you could come with a more trite idea for a salad, but you'd have to try. Caesar salads are a dime a dozen, and although they have their place, in this case it doesn't add to the menu. It didn't even include anchovies, which would have at least provided a little zip for the palate. And the chicken with mushroom sauce, even if it didn't follow the soup, is pretty pedestrian too. Overall, even though the dishes themselves may taste fine, the menu is just like a hike across a not terribly scenic plateau: no ups and downs and no relief in sight. Can it be fixed? It can certainly be improved with some not terribly difficult modifications. If you really want the soup, fine, but maybe garnish it with dill to refresh or some crisped prosciutto (which, yes, is rich, but not creamy, and which would at least add some texture). Then go on with a salad dressed with a tangy vinaigrette. Some bitterish greens or maybe toasted walnuts would also help to refresh the palate after the soup. For the next course, well, if you were set on the mushrooms, then roast them and use them as a base for the chicken breasts (I'd ditch the polenta too). A pan sauce with a little sweetness and acid could make the dish much more interesting, and if you felt the need for some fat, you could still enrich it with a little butter without repeating the creamy mouthfeel of the soup. The second example is actually one I made myself. It was before I really started to pay attention to this sort of thing, and I fell into a trap: I really REALLY wanted to try out a new idea for a salad; but at the same time I'd had a request from one of the guests to make one of my "signature" dishes, beef braised with onions and porter; and I tried to do both. So to start, I had an Italian-ish salad with several types of peppers (including some with a little heat), cherry tomatoes, onion, and olives, garnished with basil. I then followed it with the beef, which I served with mashed root vegetables. The problems were 1) the salad was summery and Meditteranean, while the beef dish (Belgian, incidentally) had a much more fall or winter feeling to it, as did the root vegetable mash and 2) the salad had a lot of very aggressive flavors -- garlic, olives, peppers, while the beef was complex but very much more subtle. The complexity was lost after the forward flavors of the salad. I could have done a braised beef dish fairly successfully after the salad, I think, if I had just changed the flavor profile to something more Mediterranean. I actually have a recipe somewhere for beef braised with tomatoes, onions and olives where the braising liquid is wine-based rather than beer-based. That could have worked well, or at least better than the one I made. No root vegetables in that case though -- noodles would probably be the way to go. But just to show that I do learn from my mistakes, the last time I made the beef dish (I used short ribs instead of my more usual chuck roast), I started with a cabbage salad with carrot and apple, dressed with a warm caraway-studded vinaigrette and garnished with toasted pecans and crumpled crisp bacon. That worked out very well, because first, cabbage and apple are much more fall/winter, and second, the caraway/bacon flavor combination, while pronounced, was subtler than the olive/garlic/pepper flavor of the other salad. Plus it set up the beer and onion sweetness of the beef dish quite well. So those are the sorts of things I think about when I'm putting menus together. And while I've been writing this all, I've thought of two more books with some good information on this sort of thing (they actually concentrate on the flavor and texture elements of one dish at a time, but they're helpful nonetheless). Not sure if they're still in print, but one is Kitchen Conversations by Joyce Goldstein and the other is Ethnic Cuisine by Elizabeth Rozin (an earlier version was called The Flavor Principle Cookbook).

Thanks for the link, Jonathan. Some great advice there. I actually remember the post on the other board about the chestnut soup, and although I didn't offer any advice, your answer ("leave it out") was exactly what I thought. Joyce Goldstein, when talking about putting dishes and menus together, had another great point, "Just because you have a favorite blouse and a favorite skirt, that doesn't mean they'll look good together" (paraphrasing here, but you get the point). Some of my worst combinations resulted from the feeling that I "had" to make a particular dish, despite the fact that it didn't really go with the rest of the menu.

Oh lord, you guys aren't asking much, are you? But here goes: "Is demonstrating knowledge of and interest in restaurants and chefs an effective shortcut (as wine can be) to appearing sophisticated or cosmopolitan? Do most of the people cultivate an interest in food do so for this reason?" Of course it can be (question #1). But do most people cultivate an interest in food for that reason? I don't think so. That is, as with any popular cultural form, some people will pretend an interest, or cultivate a limited interest to seem cool (one of my all time favorite movie food scenes was when Steve Martin was trying to get reservations at "L'Idiot" in L.A. Story). But with most of the people interested in food, it's like any other "cultural activity"; about half are really interested in the activity for its own sake, and the rest will try to parlay their probably limited interest and knowledge into some kind of social prestige. "Unlike interests that engage the intellect more than the body, does the need to sate one’s appetite lessen the legitimacy of becoming well-dined?" Okay, now's where you need to bring Professor Korsmeyer into the discussion. "Can we consider someone cultured who is ignorant of history, literature, architecture or the visual arts, but deeply knowledgeable about restaurants and gastronomy?" No. Being "cultured" entails at least a passing acquaintance with a majority of the various arts. You can consider someone who is ignorant of history, literature, architecture or the visual arts but deeply knowledgeable about restaurants and gastronomy a fanatic (in the benign sense of the term) but not cultured. And, no, I don't expect everyone "cultured" to have a broad and deep knowlegde of every art form known to mankind. But I think the term "cultured" can only be applied to those who know at least a little about a number of fields. Someone who knows "everything" about jazz musicians but nothing about literature, architecture, food, wine and painting wouldn't be called "cultured" -- why should we award that term to the gastronome with no other interests or knowledge? "Conversely, can one really understand New York, London, Paris or Milan without having some grasp of the culinary traditions and the top restaurants in these world cities? Is becoming well-dined an essential part of a person's cultural development?" Well, no (in answer to question #1). Culinary history and tradition is crucial when trying to understand a culture. But does one have to dine in the country to get a grasp on a country's culinary history? No. It helps, certainly. But one can read, and if one is lucky, one can visit ethnic restaurants. "If you consider yourself well-dined, do you feel at all guilty about the time and money it has cost you to achieve this status? Could the resources you have devoted to travelling to restaurants, purchasing books about food and restaurants (not to mention participating in eGullet) have been better spent in pursuit of high culture..." Well. I'm not sure if I count as well dined, but of course I feel guilty about the amount of money I spend on food. But JEEZ, it's not because I think I shoud spend that on symphony tickets; damn, I should spend it on feeding the poor or fighting cancer or something. I mean, I'm not rich by any means, but I look at my books and CDs and my expensive kitchen ware, and yes, I wonder about my priorities. My concern, thoug, is not about the relative weight of cultural amenities; it's about the value of "cultural amenities" at all given the state of the world.

Thanks so much. I've been having a great time browsing through all the posts over the past several days. Lots of great stuff here, and I'm glad I could add to it. (and, believe me, if and when I get a pub date, EVERYONE will know about it.) But I'm at a big disadvantage; I feel I must come up with a signature as distinctive as everyone else's.

It depends on the ingredient (don't you just love answers like that?) Some ingredients are very versatile and could lend themselves to that quite well; some would simply be too much. I can't, for example, see an all lamb menu, but an all mushroom menu could probably be made to work. In certain circumstances I could see a menu in which the ingredient provided the continuity, enabling a chef to compose, for example, a six-course tasting menu consisting of shrimp dishes reminiscent of six different cuisines. It would take a talented chef, and the order of the cuisines represented would have to be very well thought out (off the top of my head, I'm thinking you could start with Latin America, then go to the Caribbean, which shares some of the same flavor elements; then on to Africa, the Middle East and the end with the Mediterranean, except that's only five and I don't know where to go from there...). But that's a special case. For the home cook, I can't see anything wrong with repeating an ingredient, if it doesn't become boring. I'd be much more wary of repeating (to excess) the same texture, or as another poster mentioned earlier, the same cooking methods.

I've had the cioppino at Tadich Grill. Simply the best including the toast they serve it with. I love that place. I'll even consent to wait for a seat. You know, Tadich's has come out with a cookbook...not sure if it has a cioppino recipe, though.

I think a well designed menu does a number of things: it stimulates the palate but doesn’t overstimulate it; it provides a sense of continuity but doesn’t bore; it keeps one’s interest with contrasting elements but doesn’t confuse the palate. So how do you come up with a menu that does all that? I’m sure there are different approaches, but here’s what I do: For continuity’s sake, I stick to one general ethnic cuisine. That is, if my entrée is a Middle Eastern style chicken dish, I don’t start out with an Asian soup. I know it sounds obvious, but especially a few years back when fusion was so chic, it was amazing the combinations that people came up with. I once went to dinner at a friend’s where she started with a pumpkin soup flavored with ginger and coconut milk and followed it with a pasta primavera. Each dish was fine on its own, but the contrast was disconcerting. Also for continuity’s sake, I stay with what’s seasonal, which doesn’t mean that I won’t use tomatoes in the winter, but does mean that I try to stick with dishes that “feel like” summer, or winter (or whatever) or are at least neutral on that front. That was another problem with the afore-mentioned menu: the soup felt like fall, but the pasta was all spring and summer. So, keeping those two elements in mind, I usually (but not always) pick an entrée to begin with. Sometimes it’s a very general idea – “I feel like shortribs” – that I then toy around with possibilities for a while until something more specific emerges. Sometimes (not often) I start with a very specific dish in mind. Less often, I’ll begin with an idea for a soup or a side dish. Regardless, what I do next is to break down my planned dish to its basic elements – not necessarily the main ingredients, but the flavor and textural components. So for my purposes here, "beef" as a main dish tells me very little, because it could encompass anything from beef curry to grilled steak to braised pot roast to Beef Wellington. Each of those would have different elements I'd have to work with, so each would suggest different accompaniments. Some of the taste elements to think about are how strong the flavors are, and how complex; whether one taste dominates or several blend together; and which of the basic tastes (sweet, salty, sour, bitter and umami if you’re inclined to treat that as a separate taste) are present. This last part is crucial, because the basic tastes interact and influence your palate in very definite ways. Overt sweetness tends to dull the palate; acid tends to “wake it up.” A little salt can whet the appetite, but too much is deadening. Likewise with bitter tastes – a little bitterness can be a great palate cleanser, but too much can overwhelm it. Balancing these elements in a menu (and indeed, in a dish) is really important. Aside from the basic tastes, you should keep in mind that very strong flavors – garlic, some herbs and spices, very ripe cheeses – can also overwhelm the palate, which can mean that too much of them too early in the menu will lessen one’s ability to appreciate what comes after. Textural elements include how rich the dish is; the acid content (which plays a crucial role in the mouthfeel of the dish); and whether the dish is crunchy, smooth, chewy or crisp (to name just a few of the possible textures). Then there’s a whole host of what are known as “chemo-sensory irritations” – the burn of chiles, the heat of mustard or horseradish, the bite of mint and the tingle of carbonation (in drinks). Probably the most important textural element is the balance of fat and acid, not necessarily within each dish, but within a menu. Fats and oils are wonderful ingredients – they carry flavor, provide a nice “mouthfeel” and give one a sense of satiety. But too much of this very good thing can be cloying and seem to coat one’s mouth most unpleasantly. Too much acid alone is likewise nasty. But a touch of acid to cut through the fat (or a bit of fat to round out the acid) provides a balance that works. It’s one of the reasons that a simple salad with a tangy vinaigrette is so often served (at least in France) between a heavy meat course and a rich cheese course. The textural components that involve the way food breaks against the teeth – whether it’s crunchy or smooth, crispy or chewy – are where contrast comes into play. No one wants a meal that’s uniformly smooth and creamy, or so unrelentingly crunchy that it seems more like a dental exercise than a dinner. Another element to consider is the complexity of each of the dishes. If you have a very complex main dish – either one with several elements or one with multiple layers of flavor, you might want to consider serving simpler starters or side dishes. For example, if I’m making chicken breasts with a reduction of vermouth and orange juice and finished with cherry tomatoes and capers, I probably don’t want to serve it with a gratin of potatoes and cheese or a complicated risotto. If I really want to make the risotto or the gratin, I’ll be better off going with a simpler roasted chicken. And finally, think about this: you want to stay interested in your dinner all the way to the end. If you start out with a showstopper, chances are that your next course will disappoint. Which is not to say that your hors d’oeuvre or first course can’t be exquisite; it certainly can be. But it should function as does a good opening chapter in a novel: it draws you in, but leaves you wanting more. So to plan a menu successfully, all you have to do is remember all of that and choose your dishes accordingly. Actually, with some practice, you’ll start to do it automatically. Start out small (maybe a starter, an entrée with one side dish, and a dessert). One way to get practice is to critique restaurant menus, or the menus you have at friends’ houses (don’t do it aloud though). And don’t forget to critique your own menus and learn from your mistakes. If you're interested, I can give some some spectacularly good and wretchedly bad examples of menus along with my commentary on why they work or don't. As for books on food and wine, Great Tastes Made Simple by Andrea Immer is a good beginning book on wine and food pairing; Leslie Brenner's Fear of Wine is not primarily about pairing but has a good chapter on the subject. But there really aren't any books with much information on how to combine foods and develop menus. Don't get me wrong, I really like Culinary Artistry -- it contains a lot of great information from some really wonderful chefs, but there's not much theory there. By that I mean that there's a lot of "This is what I do" information but not much of "This is why I do it." On the other hand, if you can wait until I finish my book and find a publisher, there will be a book on exactly that subject. I can't say that it will be great, but I can say that it will be unique.

From my experience with citrus garnishes, flaming them does two things: it burns off the volatile oils and (if it's done over the drink rather than to the side) it results in a barely perceptible burned flavor. Mostly it's for show, which is fine in a bar, but not something I do on my own. I like the smell of those oils and the flavor they add to a drink -- I don't want them burned off. And I've never been a fan of the lighted match smell of sulphur interfering with the taste of my drink. But that's just me.

Maybe it's not so much age as experience? I find that newer cooks (however old they are) can fall into the trap of thinking that "exotic" ingredients and long involved recipes must equal high quality or haute cuisine, whereas more experienced cooks know that simpler can be better (not always, of course). And newer cooks can tend to mistake busy for interesting, and to equate subtle dishes with boring dishes, when those of us with more experience know that subtle food can be deeply satisfying. I know a cooking instructor who's so heavily into "fusion" recipes that everything he makes ends up tasting like everything and nothing. Students of his are impressed at first because of the explosion of flavors in his dishes, but most of them quickly come to realize that the apparent abundance in his cooking masks a fundamental lack of a "core" -- it's as if there's so much there, there's nothing there.

I would have echoed everything said here a month ago, but then I had an unusual experience for me -- helping a friend who's a professional chef and caterer prepare our staff Christmas party. Not that I haven't helped out in (some would say "taken over") many kitchens, and not that I haven't done a lot of parties of my own, but it's different to put oneself in the position of helper only. It was a very different experience to show up and ask "What can I do?" and be given very defined assignments. And it was really hard to ask advice on how best to do tasks I'd not done before (seeding a pomegranate, in this instance). It was, in other words, strange to be the apprentice. But -- she was thrilled to have the help, I love to cook and know I need to learn things, and we had champagne, so everything worked out great. And now, when people ask me if they can help in the kitchen, I hope I will be a little more understanding. But probably not.

Maybe instead of (or in addition to) the market basket challenge, we should have a leftover challenge...

So, okay, I guess I'm not really sure what your beliefs are, or more precisely, I'm not sure of the reasoning behind your beliefs. You keep saying there are few if any parallels between food and music, but you haven't provided any evidence aside from your claim that cooking is fueled by a need for profit. And in response to that I can only say that not all cooking is so fueled; and plenty of music is so fueled (TV themes, commercial jingles, pop singles come to mind). I'm not pretending to have a definition of "commercial" art v. "pure" art, but I think there is a distinction to be made, and I think it can be applied to just about any "art." A lucky few artists -- be they chefs, musicians, painters, or writers -- can truly express themselves, "follow their muse" or however you want to phrase it, and still make a living. Pretty much everyone else strikes a balance between the commercial and the pure art. [Trust me, I know enough hack writers (myself included) to be able to attest to the lure of profit when it comes to that art]. I put forth some obvious (to me, at least) parallels between the processes of cooking and composing music, and you haven't refuted them. Maybe you just think they aren't significant, but if not, why not? As to your other point, that somehow concentrating on music and food keeps one from looking at the other arts for analogies, I don't discount that there are some similar features in the visual and culinary arts, but I really do think there are more similarities between cooking and composing music than there are between cooking and, for instance, painting. For one, take the executive chef (that is, the one who comes up with the dishes on a menu, not necessarily the one who executes them) and the composer. Both have to rely on the talents and skills of others to realize their creations. Playwrights, of course, share this feature as well, but today's painters don't (so far as I know), and neither do most writers. But for the musical composer, or the executive chef, or the playwright, composing the score or the menu or the play is only the first step, if one wants one's work to be accessible to the public. The composer needs an orchestra, or a band, or at least good synthesizers; the chef needs a staff; the playwright needs a director and a cast. And perhaps so far there is no "theory of food" on a level with "theory of music," but Boston University now offers a Masters Degree in Gastronomy -- does that count? (tongue firmly in cheek here, but it is a subject that's getting much more serious treatment than it used to). And I'm sorry to go on at such length; I've no bone to pick with your beliefs either. But I just don't know what your reasoning is, and so I'm feeling at a bit of a disadvantage. I mean, it's a little like that old Monty Python skit about the argument, where after much back and forth, Michael Palin finally blurts out "but an argument isn't just saying 'no, it isn't'" and John Cleese replies "well, it can be."

Try the 21st Amendment (south of Market on -- I think -- 2nd) for good burgers and great beers too. Tower Burger, in the next strip center down from Tower Market on Portola, has no atmosphere, but serves Niman Ranch burgers for very reasonable prices. And I've always like Bullshead in West Portal, even though they have terrible fries.

For clarification's sake, I really was not comparing food with music. I was comparing chefs with musicians, or on another level, I was comparing the act of cooking with the act of composing or playing a piece of music. I think there are some useful parallels to consider there. And why, may I ask, is that dangerous? It was supposed to be a sort of mental exercise.

Think of them as baby portabellas, because that's what they are (or, more precisely, portabelllas are overgrown criminis).

Can I make a cocktail party menu (i.e., all canape/appetizer type things) -- or is that too easy? And if so, do gin and vodka count as pantry staples?