Busboy

In my family growing up, you were allowed to "fork" any elbow that rested on the table at dinner and was considered a great coup to catch an unwary brother -- or even dad, occassionally -- with a swift fork-hand jab. Being raised in such a repressive household I naturally smoked dope, dropped out of college, refuesed to grow up -- even worked in the food service trade. But you know what? I still hate to see elbows on the damn table. My kids dress like skate punks, revel in a pop culture I loathe and call me "dude" when they think they can get away with it. The least they can give in return for my love and tuition money is 45 minutes a night sitting up straight, chewing with their mouths closed and keeping their elbows off the table. Actually, I think having kids gives you some insight into the why etiquette seems so detailed. Some things are obvious: you use silverware from the outside in so that the guy who sets the silver -- me, in a previous life -- knows in what order to lay out place setting. If you use the stuff out of order, then suddenly there's no steak knife or soup spoon when you need it and someone has to come up with one for you. I think the rest of it derives from dealing with kids, who are born litigators. In my family, we have a rule regarding which restaurants demand the use of a fork for French Fries, and which allow finger-eating (no tablecloth? Go for it!). If you just tell a kid "be polite," they will eat like animals or, at least push up to the ludicrous edge of politeness and beg you to say something. (I know, some people have perfect children. These are people I don't know). So, I'm sure that at some point after Catherine de Medici introduced the fork to the French court some dauphin or something was juggling his silver and the nanny had to say: "fork in left hand, knife in right hand and place them at 4 o'clock when you're done," and we had a rule. Another kid was making a big deal of always passing the mashed potatoes and gravy away from his little sister, and the spinach and liver towards her. Hence the "always pass to the right," rule. One can only speculate how the rule concerning the proper way to expel an unpleasant bit of gristle from your mouth was determined, but we are confident that the incidents which sparked its creation weren't pretty. So, I don't see etiquette as a burden so much as the opportunity to bring a brief moment of civilization to an increasingly anarchical society. I don't care how you fold your napkin. But please, keep your elbows off the table. And that's your fish knife, dummy, use it next course!

I finally made it to the Dekalb Farmer's Market this week, while visiting mom and dad in Dunwoody. What a great place! Acres of odd roots (fresh galangal!), exotic tubers, fresh greens, organic fruits and herb bundles, quite cheap. I would love to see the place in August instead of December. The sheer variety of fresh ingredients is extraordinary; I'm well-versed enough -- and enough of a snob -- to be most impressed when an establishment lays out stuff that I don't have the vaguest idea what it is, especially when they do it by the bin-ful. At the DFM, the temptation lurk about for the opportunity to tug at the shoulder of someone in African or Caribbean garb and say "no offense, but what the heck to do you do with that?" is almost overwhelming. I enjoyed Ari's piece, but it should be added that the seafood section offers far more than live blue crabs: lobsters, catfish, trout and maybe more are also available. Next time, I'm bringing a net. In addition, there's a decent cheese selection, a grain choice that rivals or exceeds Whole Foods' vaunted bins, and pasta in every shape. I wasn't impressed with the meat selection, and the bakery seemed to be only half-way up the supermarket-to-boulangerie scale but heck, no place is perfect. For the record we bought basil pine nuts and spinach pasta for a little off-season pesto, and good quality scallops which we served with polenta and a little grapefruit buerre blanc. Oh, and I gambled sixty cents on for little octupi, which I'd been pining for since summer and can't recall ever seeing in a US market. Good stuff, y'all.

There's no cassoulet recipe in Bouchon, unfortunately.

Sorry to take so long to get back. I was travelling and wanted to have a chance to check my cookbooks and notebook before I answered. The short answer is that I don't have a garlic sausage recipe, either of my own invention or in any of the cookbooks around the house. As with my approach to so much else in life and in the kitchen, my approach to sausage-making is, ahem, somewhat undisciplined. If you held a gun to my head -- or a large glass or Corbiers in front of me -- I'd probably start with a decent mild Italian sausage recipe, reduce or eliminate the sage and fennel seed, and add in a good shot of cumin and coriander -- and extra garlic, of course. The long answer is that there is little guidance that I can find, but work is slow right now and I'd be happy to spend a couple of days knocking around to see what I can come up with. The usual suspects are of little help: Bourdain calls only for "pork sausage;" Craig Claiborn's old New York Times Cookbook calls for "garlic or Polish sausage;" Julia gives a recipe for susage cakes spiced only with allspice, bay, cognac and a small clove of garlic; my boys Jacques and TK got nothin'. Julia describes her sausage cakes as a substitute for saucisse de Toulouse, however, and the Larousse Gastronomique calls for saucisse de Toulouse (it also posits three types of cassoulet, and calls for mutton, not namby-pamby lamb-y), so I'll spend a little time today hunting up up recipes if I can find some on the web. Seems like there was a sausage thread not long ago that had a link to about a hundred sausage recipes, but I can't locate it. And, while I won't be getting elbows deep into a cassoulet recipe anytime soon, I'm happy to work alone or in collaboration on the sausage end of things, to see what we can grind out.

I think you're missing the point. Less-sugar frosted flakes is called corn flakes.

When my wife and I wander down to the Vietnamese markets in thich we have never seen another Anglo shopper, the shelves are packed with hoisin and plum sauce with plenty of sugar in them. But, who cares? Arguments like "Chinese cooking does often use sugar as an ingredient in stir fries or whatnot, but usually to balance a flavor, not create a particular sweetness as the end resulting taste of a dish," are accepting of the notion that sugar is somehow bad. It is not. It is -- like beer -- proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy and, sometimes, of the wisdom of the East. I recognized that, in a nation in which dieting is the national sport and Puratinism the national religion, some people feel the need to rail about sugar. But the rest of us, the enlightened, can accept the evidence of our senses and delight in sugar used, as Aristotle teaches, in moderation. Arguments about the proper amount of sugar in Hellman's are aburd, like discussing the brix level of Twinkie filling or the potassium content of a chaterelle. If we want Hellman's on our BLT, we will spread it with joy. If not, with egg yolk and oil in hand, we will make our own. And if we have a few bucks in our pocket, there's always foir gras wrapped in cotton candy. mmmmmmmm, sugar.

The short term is irrelevant. Make enough to sit in a corner of the fridge all winter and when you warm up a couple of drumsticks and make pommes persilladier one cold March night -- about 15 minutes work for a great meal -- you'll be damn glad for your work this week. Remebering the confit in the fridge is like finding a couple crumples twenties in an old coat.

If you had a word or two to say about these, I'd be most appreciative.

Am currently paging through a recently unwrapped copy of Bouchon (thanks, Stephanie ). Many interesting recipes; perhaps more zen observations on the importance of eggs and the like, than strictly necessary. Large enough to be easily found in a kitchen full of dirty pans and first course dishes when you need instructions for finishing and serving the main course and may have been drinking (I appreciate this in a cookbook) and stays open to the right page when opened. No cassoulet recipe, however.

Maybe I'm just a contrary old cuss but, for something like Cassoulet, why not have people cook several different versions of the stuff? Bourdain is God and blah blah blah, but there are a lot of other good sources out there -- I think there's even a thread on eG -- and significant regional variations. Seems odd to me not to cast the net a little wider.

If you need any help making the sausage, feel free to ring me. Also, if you need any help eating the stuff...

Don't eat them. I'm not a purist, but if you have to give in to processed foods (why? if you don't like them?) just lay back and think about England or something. The problem is thinking about sugar as evil. It shows that you've been battered by the food police. Sugar is good, like gin. When sugar is mentioned, you should smile. If you are eating too much, you should cook more, and worry instead about the dearth of proper greens and well-aged beef.

I don't want to sound like Marth Stewart here, but nothing mentioned here so far hasn't sugar-laden can't be made at home, with very little hassle, by anyone. Who cares if there's too much sugar in commercial tomato sauce -- I haven't eaten that since the college meal plan. Barbecue sauce? There's gotta be a hundreds of recipes in dozens of regional styles on the web, calling for between no sugar at all way too much. Asian food? A little tougher to make at home. And my cookbook is a little more heavy-handed with the stuff than jo-mel's probably more authenting cooking. But who eats Sweet and Sour Pork anymore, anyway? (I admit a weakness for General Tso's. I blame society). As for what the masses consume -- I got other problems these days. Like a friend with a limited set of social skills, sugar should, perhaps, be delicately deployed in public. But first and foremost, sugar is our friend and should be spoken of with kindness -- and no party is complete without it. Devil's Dandruff indeed. On a parallel note, a French teacher of mine, passing along the wisdom of her Savoyard Grandmother, opined that every sweet dish should have a pinch of salt, and every savoury dish a pinch of sugar.

Part II tonight!

Bit of a nuanced question, I think. A good deal of Asian food, for example, uses sugar in not insignificant quantities for otherwise savory dishes. Both Corleone family underboss Pete Clemenza and I (as I noticed last night while re-screening The Godfather) put a little sugar in our tomato sauce -- or red gravy, as some would have it. I like a pinch of sugar in a vinaigrette and have a favorite salad consisting of bitter greens and a honey-mustard dressing. As for babrbecue sauce and cole slaw: hell yes. As I'm carving up the cabbage I sometimes remember one of my earliest cooking lessons, one that took place in the kitchen of a restaurant where I was working as a busboy (of course)/dishwasher. I summoned up my courage to tell the chef that the cole slaw tasted off. He shot me an evil look and tasted it himself -- and added a copious amount of sugar to the bowl. Admittedly, this was a guy who did not grow up in the Slaw Belt -- he was more likely raised on Seoul Food than Soul Food -- and he learned to cook as a caterer to the US Army, but the result was quite good, very close to what my Alabama Grandma made. Like everything else, there's a right way and a wrong way to do it.

I actually had no idea what a Toad in the Hole was until I read this article in the New York Times, today. Strikes me as something -- if well out together, and it seems to have been -- an airline like Virgin, which strives to be edgy despite its size and renown, would do. Beats the heck out of one more shoe-leather filet.

Add me to those who think Four Sister's Reputation exceeds its current performance. My family prefers Viet Royale, which is right next door to Four Sisters. I had dinner at Heritage in Glover Park the other night and my, probably unenlightened, palate was unable to detect any slippage in the food quality -- nor any improvement to the service. I have a weak spot for the Bombay Club, which is a very quick jump from NoVa, though technically not there. The food is very good and it's got to be one of the most civilized places in the city to eat.

You could have at least sprung for the price of Capri (also in Wheaton) instead of Pop's - an unforgettable spaghetti in butter sauce which was (God forgive them) ... spaghetti ... in ... butter sauce. Actually, I went to the mildly horrific Tutto Bene this evening in Ballston, and I remember Capri as being just as good (although I was, like, 12). Of course this futile exercise is like comparing Aaron with Bonds (*). The Demise of Luau Hut The Silver Spring Metro is singularly responsible for surrounding, and then annihlating, the first place I ever heard a waiter curse - the resplendent Luau Hut, famous for their Suffering Bastards and Pu-Pu Platter. Carrying a full tray of food for a party of four, this poor man let it tilt, and then everything slid off the edge and crashed onto the floor as he tried to catch the plates, and I heard him mutter, "shit." I was a young child, and this scarred me for life. And we can't forget Dominique's - the only place in town where you could get moose for dinner and mousse for dessert. Chateaubriand and Chateau Haut-Brion. No, scratch that: it was probably something more like Beef Wellington and Barton & Guestier. (*) Joe Aaron and Jim Bonds were two little-known players in the Class D Blue Ridge League. Auld Lang Syne, Rocks. ← Good Lord. I went to the Luau Hut as a 4th grader on a field trip aimed at studying Hawaiian Culture. It's been a long time since I thought about that place. And Dominique's where rattlesnake pate briefly became a cause celebre. I believe they started the tradition of the Bastille Day race where waiters have to carry a tray with a full champagne flute from the White House to the Capitol and back -- now carried on by Les Halles. Had Veal Oscar there once, a classic dish that tasted pretty damn good to this (at the time) waiter at a nouvelle cuisine joint.

We bind with a whole egg per pound of meet, and it seems to work well. Outside: only smashed Ritz crackers give the proper crust, I say. Once you get the basics down, you can play. We make "Mexican" Crab Cakes with cumin and garlic and a little spice and chopped cilentro, "Chinese" Crab Cakes with ginger and whatever looks good at the moment, "Traditional" Crab Cakes with lots of Old Bay and generally riff based on our mood. Sometimes we throw in a little cream, just for fun, or chopped shallots. Buerre Blanc makes a good sauce if you're in the mood, and you can tart that up, too, to match the crabcake. Most important key to success: pick through the crabmeat twice. Nothing's worse than biting into a piece of shell.

I worked across the lobby from the "New" Duke's -- in the new office building they put up on top of the site of the original Dukes -- and used to stop in for a drink every now and then. My fondest memory is the two Lombardi Trophies the Redskins had won, on display in a glass case in the entryway. The food was never that great there, but they poured a nice drink and, as a long-time Washingtonian -- I liked seeing those trophies. I wonder where they are now....

I just serve them with bread and butter. Or oyster crackers, which also taste great when dipped into with a proper 'American' cocktail sauce made with ketchup, horseradish, lemon Worcestershire sauce.

La Rive Gauche in Georgetown was the first fine dining French place I'd ever been to, my parents took my then-girlfriend and me during the first of my many sophmore years at GW. I seem to remember a lobster in a delicious cream sauce, and the waiters using those little carpet sweepers to crumb the table after the main courses were cleared. I know it's fashionable to trash old school French, but I was stunned at how good the food and service were. My girlfriend's father responded with another lovely dinner, at Lion D'Or, supposedly the first of the new generation of French. That's where I found out that there's very little lobster meat in lobster bisque. At 19 or 20 I still felt a kid that had been let in on a secret world, there in my only suit trying to guess which fork to use among Washington's most elegeant -- as I imagined -- and sophisticated diners. I liked the Sans Souci, too, where Jack Kennedy used to dine and where they made my mom a dish of one of her favorites, potato "soufflee". And, don't forget Tiberio, power lunchers' Italian favorite in Carter/Reagan era Washington.

Rather than the Potomac I'd recommend Lake Liberty down on the mall. You can lure the beasts someplace discreet with a street-vendor hot dog and then do one in with a cricket bat or whatever and shove into a backpack. They're about the size of a three-year-old and so should feed quite a crew, and have been living on bread crusts as and tourist peanuts for years, so stuffing is redundant.

Jinmayo is a hard act to follow. Stephanie seared and then braised large bits of pork belly, with a stick of cinnamon thrown in amongst the carrots and onions and garlic chicken stock and wine. I'm very glad I married her. I made a pot of lentils with leeks and vast quantities of roasted garlic and more chicken stock and wine. Combined, they were a fairly spectacular dish, with the $9 bottle of wine we threw in being the only significant expense on a dinner that fed six. Edited to add that we broiled some fresh sardines with garlic and olive oil and bay. You've gotta be in the mood for sardines, but if (as Pepe LePew would say) you like feesh, they're a tasty little treat. Eating like a peasant. feeling like a king.

At this point I'm just weighing in (again) because words and their meanings --subjective, objective, whatever -- are almost as important to me as ingredients, and sometimes even a dead horse can be fun to flog. I'd suggest that "traditional" is more restrictive than "authentic." Authentic strikes me as more of an attitude, whereas tradition seems to hew to some commonly accepted specific standard. Not that there isn't significant overlap. But, if you were a great-grandma from Brittany and you'd been making Dauphine-style cassoulet since before the Great War, it would sure as hell be authentic, even if it weren't a traditional style for the region. Individuals can be authentic, tradition requires a group. Regarding ingredients, I'm not sure that either word is particularly useful. Both "authentic" and "traditional" imply a pre-existing archetype after which the current version or reproduction is patterned. Ingredients, on the other hand, exist without reference to prior versions. Saffron either is or is not from Spain. Truffles are or are not from the Luberon. There's no need to refer to past editions to confirm the worth of the present version, it's simply a fact.