Busboy

About the same as anybody on a book tour who addresses an enthusiastic but decorous crowd in a formal setting---a little stiff, despite the fact that the entire crowd would really rather he just have taken off his clothes and told bawdy stories. Today's Atlanta Journal & Constitution featured an interview with John Kessler, local restaurant critic (though he doesn't do so much of that anymore, regrettably) that was interesting mostly for the fact that Bourdain didn't come off as particularly witty or interesting, because Kessler usually manages to make people sound witty and interesting. Grillbitch was, by the way, very cool. ← Tony was actually pretty impressed by the Dames and had a good time both event itself and afterwards, at the bars they recommended. Evidently they pointed him in the direction of some of Atlanta's more depraved nightspots -- dives with which they had had more than a little experience themselves, though perhaps not recently. Taking off clothing appears to have been a theme of the evening.

These “rings of light” so quickly dismissed as Vegas kitsch harbor a complexity lying outside the field of the Paris scope, reaching downward from the ceiling and serving to contract the angle of the diner’s perceived azimuth down, down, down and away from the hard-featured grizzly white ceiling tiles, at once forming an amalgam of the central balustrade of the dining room’s circular columns with the equally circular concavity buried in the courtyard outside, echoing the annular selvage of the Rios building, and expanding, expanding their wake into the four surrounding monuments, the circle of Fort Defenses, the Washington beltway, the Chesapeake watershed, the eastern seaboard, the western hemisphere, the earth itself, the exosphere, the elliptical orbit around the sun, the Milky Way, the periphery of the heliopause, our globular cluster, the spiral arms rimming our galaxy, the Local Group, the Virgo Supercluster, and perhaps even to the edge of the visible universe itself. I call on Tom Sietsema to resign as Washington Post Food Critic. It is time someone who cares about our galaxy to step in and lend a more appropriate fashion aesthetic to our expanding nebula of restaurants. Did I mention that I hate stars? Rocks. ← Allright, Rocks -- what was in the brownies?

The thing to beware of, as well, is that the Thanksgiving dinner is sometimes an inter-generational/intra-family family battleground. Thank goodness that this has never happened in my family, but the advice columns and even some of the threads on eG are rife with tales of families where the dinner draws conflict to the serface: mom thinks daughter is trying to overthrow mom's kitchen dominance, or worse that daughter's criticism of the turkey means "you were a bad mom." Brothers who stayed behind and never got rich think that their lawyer siblings are putting on airs; plus the normal battles that come out in times of stress and forced togetherness. I remember one of the Washington Post's on-line food columnists, Kim O'Donnel, having a public crisis over her mother's refusal to allow Kim to cook anything for Thanksgiving. This went on for a copuple of years until they finally reached some sort of compromise, but it was clear that there was a lot more going on than differences over whether or not to brine the turkey. Which leads to the thought that compromises can often be brokered. Bring dessert or a side dish, open a good bottle of wine, find a way to enhance, rather than criticize, the dinner you're served. Let them -- if anyone -- be the ones to take themselves or their dinner too seriously and find some other way to have a good (or escape early ).

So, anybody else see Miles' anal-retentive relationship with wine not as a love affair with wine but as a prop that gave him the appearance of sophistication while concealing the fact that he was scared shitless to enjoy any action, woman, taste or wine for the sheer glee of experiencing it? His laughable snobbery -- contrasted with the relatively fewer moments when he fucks up and actually drinks wine because he likes it -- is indicative of his fear and loathing of life and passion. It's an oversized codpiece meant to give him leverage against his buddy who, despite being a prick, at least know how to use one. I loved the moments when the dialogue meandered between authenticity and parody. I'm guilty of the occasionial pompous pronouncement myself, but hearing wine people talk about wine can be desparately amusing, if you don't take then too seriously. Haven't you ever wondered why some people spend more time talking about wine than drinking it? It's because they prefer to appear passionate than to be passionate -- becuase they're afraid, like Miles, or because they're just asses. And so Miles, gun-shy and reclusive, finally wolfs down the Cheval Blanc out of the styrofoam cup. Why? Because, he's finally realized that talking about life, analyzing it, even understanding it, is not the same as living it. Bragging about the bottle in your cellar is bullshit, drinking it is real. It's a rare and delightful moment, the moment when he begins to move back from the sterile world of arid conversations about malolactic fermentation and into the more dangerous and rewarding world of drinking the wine and seeing what happens. Good flick.

It's been a while since you've had Mad Dog, then. Right? I'm still recovering from my introduction to it 2 years ago. Those mental scars run deep. ← As I recall, Mad Dog goes well with someone's dad's aging convertible and a summer evening's drive to a baseball game. Also with pretzels and a joint, or (I hear) certain Jewish religious ceremonies at the home of aging relatives.

There are no bad wines. Only bad pairings.

I think BN is overpriced these days, but back when it was cheap and I was poor, I quite enjoyed knocking back a bottle or two of the stuff as the holiday season approached. One year we had friends over to make and hang Christmas tree decorations and do a Beaujolais Nouveau "tasting". We all got schnockered and one friend made little replicas of her absentee boyfriend's naughty bits that, along with the more traditional offereings, hung discreetly from the tree for many years. It was a fun night and the big, grapy wine felt appropriately festive, if not particularly sophisticated. Maybe the quality's gone down as the prices and marketing efforts have risen, but my memory of the wine is that it makes quite a pleasant little beverage, especially if consumed in front of the fire on a cold night.

I just make them in a cast iron Dutch oven; my daughter helped me make them on Thanksgiving. We don't wash or dry, but that's not a bad idea. The best batch I ever made involved baking the potato slices briefly before buttering and stacking them, the layers separated more exquisitely, but it's ridiculously time consumeing. Acrually, the best batch I ever made was when I slided a layer of black truffles in the middle of the potatoes and then served them with lamb chops in a truffled stock reduction. But that's not exactly an everyday recipe.

Sure. Bring shellfish and Gewurtztraminer.

We hate turkey in our household, as well, and in damn near 20 Thanksgivings together, Stephanie and I have only served it once. Nasty stuff. This year we had the braised pork butt mentioned above. After five hours of cooking, an overnight rest, and another three hours on Thanksgiving day, it almost fell of the bone and we served it with the braising liquid -- pork and chicken stock, Gewurtztraminer and the usual vegs and herbs -- reduced and fortified with Grand Marnier and a little cider vinegar. We made Pommes Anna and corn pudding and a lemon tart; Nora --11 -- helped mom make a pumpkin pie and me make a couple of brioches; friends brought over a vast array of side dishes and more pie than we thought could ever be eaten, though we came damn close to finishing them off. It was a pretty wonerful evening all around.

Oh, I think good cooking always goes over with diners regardless of their past experience and present sophistication. Think about a properly cooked steak or a turkey with crispy skin: both are delightful, neither is intimidating to less sophisticated diners. There are plenty of dishes out there that fit this description. Avoid the temptation to go too far from the mainstream and cook simple food well -- you'll be happy, they'll be happy. And remember: no one is born eating machengo after the entree; you had to learn it just like I and everybody else did. There are too damn many food snobs in the world, please don't become another one. Cook what you like, trust your guests, serve the cheese course with a little humor ("forgive me for trying to be French, here") rather than hauteur, and remember that their company -- always, always, always -- is more important than your food.

My understanding is that, first, many of the vinyards had been given over to the church, through the benificense of wealthy landowners trying to ensure an eternity in Heaven, so they were a ripe target for the revolutionaries who were virulently anti-cleric. And, second, Burgundy was both much closer to Paris and more politically active/threatening than Bordeaux - the Dukes of Burgundy having historically been very powerful and loathe to submit to Paris -- so the revolutionary government was more eager to ingratiate themselves to the locals and to attack the entrenched aristocracy; liberating the vinyards allowed them to do both. ← thanks, however, it was due to the code napoleon (1804), not the french revolution of 1789, that broke up the great land estates/vineyards of burgundy by enforcing the code, which required the estate to be split among all heirs, thereby breaking up these large holdings into many smaller ones. hence, the small little vineyards in burgundy vs. the large vineyards in bordeax. prior to the code, the estate usually passed, in full, to the designated heir. my question/inquiry is why weren't the large land estates/vineyards also broken up & subdivided among ALL the heirs in bordeaux?? ← I think you are incorrect. I believe that the reason Burgundy vinyards are so maddeningly subdvided has nothing to do with splitting the vines up amongst various heirs of individual owners I believe it was seized by the state and given over to the peasants. The 80-plus owners of Clos Vougeot are not the many descendants of one owner, they are the descendants of the original 80 peasants who got a row or so of vines back in the 1790s. However, now my inner wonk is awakened, and I will try to hunt down somebody with credentials who can support mye, and look forward to hearing similarly authoritative word from you.

My understanding is that, first, many of the vinyards had been given over to the church, through the benificense of wealthy landowners trying to ensure an eternity in Heaven, so they were a ripe target for the revolutionaries who were virulently anti-cleric. And, second, Burgundy was both much closer to Paris and more politically active/threatening than Bordeaux - the Dukes of Burgundy having historically been very powerful and loathe to submit to Paris -- so the revolutionary government was more eager to ingratiate themselves to the locals and to attack the entrenched aristocracy; liberating the vinyards allowed them to do both.

You may know better than I, but if was headed to Provence this time of year, I'd try to hunt down some game: sanglier, the wild boar; ]marcassin which is the younger version of the same pig; rabbit and game birds, maybe served as a civet, a stew finished with blood or read wine, and hopefully consumed near a fireplace with lots of burly red Rhone -- maybe a Gigondas or a Vacqueyras. Bon voyage. I an vert with envy.

How hung over were you today? ← Everyone was well-behaved and restrained. Dammit.

This is an interesting report. I would guess, based on it, that you work for a mid-level chain restaurant? And that the goals of the chain/secret shopper is not wholly to provide quality service (checking back), though that is part of it, but to provide uniform service (the precise timing required) from store to store and to maximize customer spending (pushing a specific appetizer, reciting the specials list immediately). I suppose it lifts service levels above a certain minimum level, but it's also another contributor to the homogenation of America and another symbol of lack of corporate faith in their lower-level employees.

After exactly one attempt at these, this is my thought. I think the breading is more about texture than anything; how you add a little crunch to the oink is negotiable. The drawback to frying, I suspect, would be taste and texture. Although they aren't quite as fatty as pork belly, imagine deep frying strips of uncured bacon and you get some idea what deep fried pig tails might be like. Also, roasting both cuts the richness -- melding the fat and meat somehow -- and adds another layer of depth and taste.

For years, thanksgiving at the Busboys has been spiralling out of controll -- a couple dozen people at a sit-down dinner, plus another dozen or so washing in and out over the course of the day and into the evening -- so this year, we decided to kill the beast and have an anti-Thanksgiving: carryout chicken wings and delivery Thai food, some Indian, maybe a little Mexican, all eaten in front of the TV and a steady diet of old movies. Unfortunately, the only open carryout we can find is Chinese (City Lights, for the curious) and we just don't think it will be Thanksgiving without Nam Sod, Crispy Thai Duck and and Buffalo wings delicately sauced with my own secret combination of Wish Bone dressing and Pirate's Cave Blue Cheese. So we're braising a pork butt in cider and calvados. The guest list is already up to 15. If you're in Mt. Pleasant, drop by -- everyone else does.

For what it's worth, we had the turnip bake from "The Whole Beast" last night and -- while it could be argued that anything tastes good with enough butter and slow-rasted onions added to it -- we now have proof that even vegetarians can get good eating out of Henderson's book. Rounds of turnip were cooked on a small iron skillet, with the onions and butter, the result being something that looked a lot like Pommes Anna and tasted delicious.

Just wait until it's 6 PM and you're exhausted and don't feel like chopping carrots. You'll remember I said this, Rocks. ← Hehe, I am not going to argue against the convenience, but even in the world of dining and convenience food there are healthy and unhealthy options. Instead of heading off to McDonalds or Burger King why not go to Subway that has an entire array of salads and subs that can be made fairly healthy (and pretty decent for fast food), or head out to whatever ethnic places you have in the area, build up pallates for different taste profiles from a young age that way too. ← Yeah, there's a moral victory. Subway instead of McDonalds. And my kids ate damn near every ethnic food there is before they were three. They retain an affection for Ethiopian to this day. But, you know what? They still like fast food. The idea that children are somehow pre-disposed to eat wholesome food is not rooted in reality. If "uneducated" palates didn't love Big Macs and Domino's, they wouldn't have locations at every major intersection in America. And no palate is less educated, and no mind more open, than that of a child.

I'm curious, do you have kids? Personal responsibility is very big in my book, too. But, as a parent, you're fighting multinational corporations with nine-figure advertising budgets being disbursed by people who have spent decades learning how to manipulate their target audience -- it's a bit of a struggle for, say, the overworked parent of a four-year-old. By the way, the wholesome stuff you prepare at home doesn't always appeal to children. Just as they prefer cartoons to Joyce, they often prefer hot dogs to steamed vegetables. I'd suggest you cut mom and dad a little slack.

"Duct tape: sometimes it's all you need." --motto of the American Duct Tape Council

For reasons that aren’t entirely clear, Mrs Busboy and I developed a craving for pig’s tail last weekend and pulled our woefully underutilized “Nose to Tail Eating” off the cookbook shelf and looked up Fergus’ recipe for this cheap – if off-putting to some – porcine delicacy. We hunted up a butcher’s stall that offered fresh tails at DC’s Eastern Market and stashed the tails in the ‘fridge, pointlessly lobbying the children to join us in the feast-to-be and, by chance, hunting up this video on the Internet. In the video, Fergus himself walks the viewer through the magic that is Crispy Pig’s Tails, whilst an interviewer – insensitive even by my standards – queries him about Parkinson’s and some gangly junkie-ass assistant whisks mustard into the eggs and does a little behind-the-line minuet with Chef Henderson. The video also gives the recipe for those who want get a feel for “variety meats” and such-like before dashing out to buy the whole book. Or for the cheapskates among you. The pig’s tails held up fine for four days in the fridge, but displaying them to the kids was the final blow to any hope that they’d join us in eating them. Almost had second thoughts at this point. Mrs. Busboy – Stephanie, who did virtually all the cooking and deserves all the credit -- assembled the ingredients. We were fortunate to have on hand homemade chicken stock; given its importance to the recipe I’d be very hesitant to substitute store-bought, especially canned. There seemed to be a dearth of English mustard at the store, so we reconstituted some dried Coleman’s. Based on the can, it is apparently the condiment of choice in the House of Windsor, “by appointment of Her Majesty the Queen.” I guess you can’t get more English than that. The supporting cast. Rounding up the ingredients is by far the most difficult part of the whole process. It’s an alarmingly simple recipe: a long simmer “low & slow” with the stock and the “happy herbs,” a cooling off period, then bread, fry and bake. This is food that can be cooked while drinking -- there’s barely ten minutes’ work in the whole thing. They shouldn't actually be this brown at this point, but this is a forgiving dish. Ten very well spent minutes. We were half-worried that the result would be a chew-toy on a bone, but braising had rendered the skin to insignificance behind the crispy breadcrumbs, and there was a good deal more meat than we expected. It’s very rich, comparable to pork belly, but with a meatier flavor and a slightly different texture. Two were plenty for Stephanie, I made it through three. The peppery, bitter cress was a good foil, braised greens would work, too and help make the non-Atkinsonians among us feel better about eating fried porkfat for dinner. That's good eatin'. Thanks, Fergus (and piggies)! One eccentricity in the recipe, an eccentricity many of Henderson’s recipe’s share, is that there is no salt called for at all. Though we threw a little salt and pepper into the breading, I think in our next effort, Stephanie and I will add some either to the braising step or the “resting” step, in hopes of insinuating a little into the meat itself. We would also roast the curly little delicacies longer. Though the crumbs were browned, the fat didn’t quite get that caramelized edge that, on roast pork products says: “cooked just right.”

You can't find a gyro you like in New York? Maybe over in Astoria?

For what it's worth, in Greece, the first letter is one of those difficult-to-pronounce consonants foreign languages specialize in. It's very similar to what I believe to be the first sound in the Hebrew pronunciation of "Chanukah", the bastard spawn of the "j", "h" and "ch" sounds. In the US, I just call it a "g"-sound gyro, as an American trying to authentically pronounce Greek for a Hispanic counter guy in a shopping mall food court seems a bit much. I could imagine that if you were a Greek shopowner, however, hearing your mother tongue butchered a hundred times a day could get old, fast. It's also, generally called a "souvlaki gyro," souvlaki being the name of the dish and "gyro" -- "wrapped" specifies that you want the round, hand-carried version wrather than kind where they lay the ingredients out flat, atop a plated pita. Not that any of this information is particularly useful, but it's slow at work today. Daniel -- not sure if you can make the gyro at home, given the importance of the skewer-roasting to the final product and the difficulty of obtaining proper Greek youghurt for the tzaziki. Your marathon search for the perfect gyro may have to continue, Sisyphus-like for eternity. Where do you live?