The Epicurean's Dilemma

Victor Decker: One Hell of a Guy

2010-10-27T16:24:00.012-04:00

I almost always write about food.... sometimes food doesn't matter.... The following is my thoughts over the last couple of days.... My friend, and loyal police officer, Victor Decker - Gonna Miss you buddy....

We all have our own memories and stories.... laughs and jokes....tears and sadness. Especially now. Never more than now....It is hard to sum up a man's life in a couple of words, or paragraphs, and this certainly won't do any justice - writing has always been my escape, and I would much rather marvel and dance in the light of his life with these words than accept the painful truth that we are all dealing with in the loss of a great man, Victor Decker. For me, I heard the news and like, just about everybody, refused to believe it. Coping with death is something we all do differently and there certainly isn't any right or wrong way to cope. All I know how to do is appreciate the life that has been taken and somehow try and merely focus on the positive that this life represented.

It will take a couple of weeks working at Baxter's those same hours Decker was patrolling the streets, to finally believe and accept that he is gone. Right now, as I scribble away here in the office at Baxter's, I think that if things were different, he might be out at the bar joking around with customers and playfully giving my staff a hard time. That was his routine he almost nightly came in to check on things at Baxter's, where we would catch up on life, his newborn baby, or the progress of our sandwich shop, the 3Way Cafe, which finally opened back in May. When we did open the cafe he religiously ordered our "Pilgrimage" sandwich and over the course of his lunch moaned and groaned about the pains of having to sit through court, especially since he most likely worked until 3AM the night before. He always parked that F150 right out front, and it is hard to look at the pictures from the scene of his death where that truck is mounted on the tow truck - Shouldn't that convince me? I just don't want to believe, or come to grips with it, because its one of those things I will never understand.

Victor was exactly what a police officer should be - a public servant. He was fun and approachable, though took his job and responsibilities seriously - his accolades speak for themselves. Above all else, he cared - not just about us - his friends and the community, but he cared about anyone he could help. When he stopped by the restaurants, it wasn't to check in on and keep tabs on anybody - it was the opposite. It was to catch up on life, to tell us about the 3 hours of sleep he got the night before because of the baby crying, or to tell a joke. If I ever needed help downtown at the restaurant, I sent him a text, knowing if he was working I'd have an answer within minutes. If not, he was probably at home asleep, and in which case I reached for the house phone to call the police non-emergency line. I wasn't the only one - all of us bar managers had him on speed dial, and that wasn't because he was a loyal, and respected police officer, it was because he was a friend. It is incredible when you think about the relationship Victor Decker had with downtown Norfolk, and especially the bar and nightclub scene. He was omnipresent, and looked out for everyone's best interest, and above all a true servant.

One night a waitress of mine had too much to drink, a situation that unfortunately happens all too frequently in this industry, and Victor stumbled upon her bar hopping down Granby Street, and instead of charging her with being drunk in public or giving her a hard time, he escorted her over to Baxter's where I met the two of them. He and I made eye contact and he broke into an unforgetable grin, "She's all your's now - I'm done babysitting for now. When her old man gets here to drive her home, tell him to leave my check for babysitting...." We chuckled, and he wandered back to his bike where he was off to log another couple of miles, before the night was over. He was always proud to mention the number of miles his bike had logged since he began riding it back in January, and as we were closing up, Victor passed back by, and stopped in to make sure that my waitress did, in fact, make it home safely. He didn't have to do that. He wanted to....because he cared. He genuinely cared, and that seems all too rare these days. Take this story of compassion, and multiply it across all of downtown Norfolk and that is how Victor Decker will be forever remembered.

About five months ago, when we were in the process of opening our sandwich bistro, The 3 Way Cafe, myself and the other partners were working long, 18 hour days. Daryl Bresach one of the partners, along with myself calls this last summer, the "Summer from Hell". It was the night before opening the shop and all day we spent, with friends and restaurant employees, putting the finishing touches of paint on the walls, hanging the various pieces of art around the restaurant, and doing all of the last minute things that barely ever get done before opening. We finished around midnight with blood shot eyes, and drained immune systems. For three months sleep was an after thought, but we wanted to show our appreciation to our friends who were able to help make this day a of becoming a restaurant owner a reality, so we wandered over to one of the local bars where we treated our generous friends to a couple of cold beers and a round of shots. My body was tired from the long weekend managing at Baxter's, and any other time was spent at the sandwich shop trying to tie up loose ends. I knew the morning would be here before too long, and the last thing I wanted was to spend the first morning at the new restaurant hungover. I wandered over to my car and began the trip home, to Chesapeake with a slight buzz, which turned out to be a bigger buzz than I perceived. Flashing police lights lit up my rear view mirror and I appropriately pulled my beat up Lexus over to the side on City Hall Avenue. The officers did their duty, and I tried to explain my hellish day, my forgetting to eat dinner, and offered to stay at 3 Way Cafe, a mere block away, to sleep it off. Within five minutes there were three police cars at what you thought would have been a drug bust, or worse. I was asked to step out of the vehicle, and I blew into their breathalyzer, which of course is standard operating procedure. In my mind all I could think about was where the hell is Decker, he's gotta be out tonight..... It turns out he wasn't out. He was at home sleeping. I told the officer who pulled me over that I was the manager at Baxter's at the beginning of the ordeal, and pleaded for mercy. It turns out that the officer, without my asking, called Victor Decker at 2 AM and was sound asleep with his beautiful wife. The baby would be waking in a few short hours, and he almost always religiously turned his cell phone off, in order to get a good, uninterrupted night sleep. "He's a good guy, a real good guy - tell that knucklehead to take it easy and that he owes me a free sandwich if that sandwich place ever opens."
"Turns out its openning in the morning, get some sleep buddy."

Well, sure enough Victor Decker came in that first week we were open and ordered the "Pilgrimage". I noticed him, though didn't want to make eye contact with him, since I felt the kind of disappointment equivalent to that of letting one's parents down. He smiled at me, I walked around and gave him a big hug. All he did was shake his head and smile. The officers didn't know that I knew Victor Decker, they did however know the relationship he had with all of us, all of us restaurant people downtown. They knew if I was a guy worth giving a break, then Victor would know and vouch for me. I didn't deserve this, its simply the kind of guy he was. He was selfless, larger than life, and will always be a part of this street. I still don't have the words to express my sadness and anger and pain. The only hope is that time will heal, and with time we will all be stronger. Now all we can do is give time, time and remember the joy he brought to all of our lives, and if nothing else encourage the public servants we know in each of our lives to use him as an example. Hell, if they did, this would be a much better place. See you on the other side my friend. Thank you for everything.

Deep Thoughts Analogized with Soup.... ha.......

2010-10-24T22:33:00.005-04:00

Creamy Potato Soup with Havarti, Crispy Pomme Frites and Chive Oil - Recipe Below

There is something special and eternally gratifying about creating a meal.... Think about it - whether you are cooking for yourself, your loved ones or patrons at a restsaurant, the end product, whatever makes its way onto the plate or into the bowl is your creation - it will never be eaten nor exactly replicated ever again.... Sure there have been a million Cream of Potato Soups - some of which are very similar to mine, but none identical. Perhaps I am looking too deep into all of this or maybe I merely using this as an example of merely one facet of my life - our lives... So work with me here.... take that idea and spread it across your life, community, country, culture religion and the world. If you take this idea across the idea of human nature and through the spectrum of life which are defined by inherent emotion and worth, you recognize how incredibly distinct every person is with the choice to create their own future...We are continually defining it and creating our own "dishes" every day....Why not try and make it a good one..... So here, I am making an analogy in relation to soup which could potentially come across silly, though the soup is very tasty soup, and one I am proud to serve - whether my customers like it or not is irrelevant, because its mine - the biproduct of my efforts, both physically and mentally, and is the result of many educated choices along the way. Make educated choices, and start actively defining your future, thats what I vow to do, in my own life...... Anyway, back to the soup..... I can't wait to serve it tomorrow... I just hope our guests make the right choice by ordering it... :)

I just finished cooking soup for tomorrow's Lunch at 3 Way Cafe..... Cream of Potato... So, what I did is as follows..... I cooked the potatoes which I made into 1 inch cubes, in chicken stock. I added some onion powder, white pepper and a small pinch of nutmeg. Halfway through this cooking process (15 minutes at medium high heat) I tossed in the white part of green onions, some garlic cloves and a bouquet garni (a bundle of herbs tied together - here I used thyme and parsley), until everything was tender....I let things cool just a bit, and pureed everything, though started slow, as to not sending steaming hot liquid up and out the side of the machine. Once I had pureed everything, I passed it through a strainer to ensure that no clumps were still lurking. This also helps make the puree incredibly silky. I returned the mixture to the stock pot, added some Heavy Cream and a Havarti Mornay.....A mornay is a cheese cream sauce that is made from a roux, which is a mixture of a "fat" and flour - I used bacon grease, to give that "loaded baked potato" feel... Combine the flour and grease over low heat, stirring constantly to ensure that the flour doesn't burn - this also helps prevent any raw flour taste from leaching into the final product. So, once the flour and grease are incorporate and mixed for a minute or two, whisk in heavy cream and bring to a slow boil and add cheese. For me, I have chosen to finish it with Chive Oil and Crispy Pomme Frites....I feel the intense green color of the chive oil will be a wonderful contrast to the rich, creamy and blanket white soup that it will be garnishing.

Soups.... Almost that time of year.....

2010-09-28T00:36:00.001-04:00

SOUPS

Everyday for the openning month of 3WAY CAFÉ I made three soups a day – we were trying to run with the concept of “3” as much as we could to detract from the sexual undertones that the name implied. We did, however, open in May, not the most conducive month, or time of year to move a lot of soup. The first week I even ran two cold soups: Canteloupe Bisque with Mint, and Hawaiian Black Sea Salt, then also a Guajillo Pepper Gazpacho – I sold a cup or two of each over the course of a sixty person lunch. After that first month we cut it down to a “Soup of the Day”, atleast for the blazing hot summer months, and on average still on served a couple cups a day – there would be days when I literally wouldn’t sell any. Talk about frustrating.
Fortunately we have some good regulars, and everyone seemed to be responding well to the new sandwich bistro downtown. A local artist in the nearby arcade comes by atleast twice a week and gets a cup of soup and enjoys lunch by herself, reading the newspaper while Frank Sinatra whistles over head. My face brightens when an order for soup comes in, I look at Ron and blurt, “Hell ya!”, and once my excitement is over, I always do my best to see how the customer liked it. Almost daily, somewhere around halfway through lunch the batch of soup is almost always half gone. My business partner Daryl, and his girlfriend Kat are two of the biggest soup fanatics I know…… Ironically, I don’t really even like soup. Sure, I like them as much as the next guy, but I enjoy making soups because I enjoy layering and building flavors, and seeing ingredients come together into something special. Like every other aspect of cooking the art of saucier is merely understanding and recognizing your ingredients, how they work with each other, how the flavor profile changes upon cooking it, and determining the right amount in relation to every other ingredient you have.

Anyway, Daryl and Kat give my soups unwavering praise, and I always have them try a couple spoonfuls before we open to ensure that it’s to their liking. Our cook Ron and our delivery driver Barrett have joined their team in an assault to put a hit on my soup. Just last week the four combined ate nearly all of my soup before 1 PM – it was a Roasted Tomato Bisque that we were running as a special with a “souped-up” grilled Cheese – we sold a near record 5 cups of soup, which sounds silly, though three of these came after the lunch rush – we only had two cups left to sell. I literally, in 5 minutes scrambled to stretch the two cups with some cream, a little chicken stock and some corn starch. I made Barrett puree some roasted tomatoes for me, and by the time I was done making the soup nearly every four-letter word escaped my mumbling breathe, and Ron who was putting the final touches on a few salads for a to-go order could barely keep from breaking into an enormous laugh. Daryl, the biggest soup culprit of them all was reclusive in the back office knowing my head was about to explode. All I kept murmuring was, “can’t y’all just wait until “expletive” lunch is over and then you can have all the “expletive” soup you want!” I ironically was frustrated at the fact that we actually sold soup! HA! In those first couple of months, it couldn’t have been more frustrating to see batch after batch of soup go to waste, not to mention the countless man hours it took to create these soups, though it did however give me a chance to refine my recipes, and thankfully Kat kept track of how many different soups were made in those first months, and the number is somewhere in the thirties. Many of those recipes are in the pages to follow – some are cold, most are hot. Most aren’t very difficult to master and they are pretty tasty. Well, that is atleast what Daryl tells me – that way he can eat all of my soup, butter me up, and I can’t get mad when we run out. So, that afternoon, Daryl finally came out of hiding as Ron and I were cleaning up the kitchen. We were joking about my rare explosion over the soup incident. I looked at Daryl, Daryl looked at me then he made eye contact with Ron. Ron turned away, cracking the slightest of smiles, “Damn, Daryl, so nice of you to come on back now…Now that he’s done screamin and cursin….” Daryl, started, “Chris makes great soups, Ron – you don’t think this episode is going to stop us do you? Hell, he just better start making bigger batches….

Birthday... Number 29....

2010-09-08T19:23:00.001-04:00

The sun is trying its best to relocate for the night as the sky turns a million different shades of blues, yellows and reds. the beach begins to empty for the day, aside for a couple hand in hand and a young couple who is playing in the surf with their young child -they appear to be fighting the waves from their sandcastle, and since high tide is only a few minutes away, maybe they will succeed, but by the sun will be down and i will be sitting down to dinner with my family for our last meal here on the perfect vacation. today is my birthday, and i can think of no greater way to spend it, except for having my brother peter here and perhaps a small handful of close friends. this vacation has helped me clear my head and refocus my life on the things in life that truly matter. family is at the top of my list....

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Thoughts from the Carolina Coast....

2010-09-07T17:49:00.001-04:00

I'm sitting here in my rusted and barely able bodied beach chair watching the waves lazily slide across the sand in front of me as my niece, elle, runs in circles sending her golden lockes in every possible direction as an omnipresent smiles glows from her innocent face. i barely remember those days and my life now is the antithesis of that childhood carefree naivety. we spent the morning on the water in the inner dwellings of the wando river where the sign of human life barely seemed present. the occasional hum of a boat motor drums in the background and a couple minutes later a couple half hearted wakes come splashing against us, rocking the boat ever so slightly.... we caught some 40 fish over the course of four hours, many of which we couldn't keep due to the size, though we returned with 7 pounds of seawater brined red fish and flounder that our captain fileted for us. it doesnt get any fresher than this anywhere.... its hard to believe that earlier today these fish were swimming in the vast atlantic ocean a few hours ago, living their lives in much the same way as my precious little niece..... the sun is starting its grand descent over the salt marsh and mud flats through the intracoastal water way and behind the various bridges conjoining the various barrier islands... seagulls glide with the wind parralel to the wando river and another flock simultaneously flies in the opposite direction parralel to the beach towards charleston. i suppose its time to go inside and help dad prep for dinner. kitchen 101... pan roasted red fish with lemon beurre blanc....

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Sunsetim

2010-09-05T16:34:00.001-04:00

I'm here on vacation with my family right outside of chaleston, south carolina...... we are here on the porch catching up on the the lives we have missed out on over the past couple years and months..... its funny how the future sneaks up on you and all of the sudden I see my parents continuing the traditions that my grandparents most likely carried on from their parents. its amazing how much better the sunset looks when you know work is atleast a couple sunrises away and you are with the people you most care about.... I'm making an horsd'ouvre tomorrow night and a cocktail to go along with it.... that is all the cooking I will be doing.... I'm pretty sure that's what I need....

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Pride and Parents

2010-07-18T13:25:00.001-04:00

My body hurts. Badly. Everywhere, and that includes my head. My eyes don’t want to open, and they don’t really have to yet, atleast I don’t think they do. The humming of lawn mowers innocuously blare in the background, and my thoughts are that it is still early. Yesterday was another 18 hour day, and I keep thinking that pretty soon this is all going to catch up to me. Maybe it will at some point…..
I have since , crawled out of bed and into my car and headed to work for our monthly bar clean. It is over now and I sit at the bar and reflect on the past week with a mimosa, my laptop, and golf whispering in the background behind me.
I have lived here for nearly two years and am well on my way to making some of my dreams a reality. I wanted to be a restaurant owner by the time I was 30 and, with hard work, dedication and a little help along the way that dream has been realized. My parents came into town for the first time this past week, and while anxious and somewhat emotional, I was incredibly proud to show them my first restaurant. I cooked them lunch as they wandered around the restaurant inspecting the art, perusing the menu and talking about what was, partly mine. I constructed a couple sandwiches for them, plated them with chips, walked them over and explained exactly what they were, and grabbed a seat next to Cheryl, my adoring and ever gracious stepmom. They ate, and we caught up on life - how things were going back home, how I was liking life here and the whole time they seemed to be smiling at what I had made for them. It is hard to describe the emotion that shot through me on that first day my parents came into my restaurant. If nothing else, it shows me that I am doing the right thing with my life, and that moving up here, while risky and uncertain, has paid off. I can rest now, knowing that my parents are proud of the steps I am making towards the future, but I won’t rest, because this is only the beginning. It seems ironic to me that, the very same day my dad and Cheryl came in for lunch to see the restaurant, was also my Mother’s Birthday. She would have been sixty, and though she couldn’t be here to see it, I know she is looking down with a smile.
The rest of the day I showed them around town, and drove the streets of the beach community where my Dad and Cheryl both grew up, though none of it had any sense of familiarity to them. All of the nostalgia has been replaced with over-commercialized streets that are lined with tourist ridden sidewalks, shops and restaurants. We had dinner and drinks and enjoyed each other’s company, which came all too brief, when we hugged at the end of the night.
The next morning as I was putting the final touches on my Cream of Mushroom soup for lunch service, Cheryl wandered up to the door. Her and my dad were on their way to the airport, and wanted to say goodbye one last time. I hugged her, as my dad smiled from the rental car in front of me, and we embraced for a couple of moments. I then thought about our wonderful time yesterday, what exactly it meant that they came to see me, and how this emotion could be translated into the future. My dad beckoned her, and I offered my thanks for them stopping in. I told her to wait momentarily and I ran into the kitchen quickly, poured some of the soup into a carryout cup for her, blew them a kiss, and wandered back inside where the hot kitchen was again waiting for me. We got busy over the next couple of hours and it wasn’t until after the lunch rush that I got the message, “Soup was delicious Kiddo.”
All along I knew this was the right move, I just needed this to help realize that. The future is mine, and the possibilities are endless….For now, it is back to the cutting board……
CH.

Sandwich = Happiness

2010-06-02T22:36:00.004-04:00

I just got off the phone with my cousin, Courtney, who in a lot of ways is like myself. I think we both felt the pressure, as we worked our way through college and trying to figure ourselves out, to live the lives of our fathers have - the lives of picket fences that are bought with stock dividends, Country Club memberships that are granted through work relationships, and the notion that driving expensive cars seems to convey one's level of education. Hell, we both went to some of the best schools in the country, had great jobs, but weren't happy doing what we were supposed to be doing. So, we talked about 3Way coming a reality, and how she recently finished a week long seminar on opening a Coffee shop. I am excited for her, and regardless hope she follows in the way of her dreams. I can't begin to describe how important it is to spend your life at work being happy, and feeling fulfilled. Literally, today - they highlight of my day was one sandwich.
King Matt, a friend of the downtown Norfolk community and an employee at two of our other restaurants came in to 3Way for lunch, ordered a Corned Beef and Swiss Sandwich, with one request and that was to leave off the Mustard. I, smiled back at him, "Dude, the mustard literally makes the sandwich...." His hungover eyes offered no rebuddle, but I pulled the meat out of the fridge, emptied it from the portion bag and slathered it over the hot griddle, which sizzled and screamed as the two contrasting temperatures played games with each other. I grabbed a handful of previously caramelized onions and tossed them amongst the meat, and laid two pieces of jewish rye bread face down, in order to create a buttery sear on the outside of the bread. I momentarily neglected the sandwich as I was prepping a soup for tomorrow, and when I returned, everything looked perfect. I mounted the sandwich with grace, placed a slice of swiss cheese centrally across the bread and meat, and gave it the chance to melt in our convection oven for a couple of moments. I don't think I have ever seen a more beautiful toasted piece of bread. The shear goodness of a buttery shine bounced off the flesh of the rye and swiss cheese began to drape itself around the meat, infringing on the bottom piece of bread. I delicately relocated the sandwich onto my cutting board as I took it out of the oven, inserted frill picks into either side of the sandwich, and, on the slightest of biases cut through the sandwich. It was one of the most beautiful sandwiches I have ever made, and it was simple - nothing special or unordinary about it. I plated it with a pile of parmesan-cracked peppercorn chips and eyed the sandwich as I walked it over to Matt. I smiled at him again, and wandered over to the soda fountain for some Diet Coke. A moment or two later I walked back passed him, and he said this - "Chris, ya know I left my house a couple of minutes ago, and thought where do I wanna go? How about 3Way I.... then I Got here and was still unsure of what I wanted.... then I ordered this sandwich and you were giving me shit for leaving off the mustard, and thought is that what I realy want? I just took the first bite, and I am pretty sure I knew all along what exactly it is I wanted, I just didn't know it would be this damn good." I smiled at him and walked back to the cook's line where I needed to tend to the soup I was working on.
So, ya that is a story about making a sandwich, but when it comes down to it, it is all about caring - caring for the ingredients you are working with, and caring for your customers. For me, it is all about making people happy.....

The Last Month.....

2010-05-30T15:42:00.002-04:00

I haven't had the chance to sit down and write in some time now. The blarring of Chunk from The Goonies voice is on the TV behind me as I flip my perfectly golden egg-white omelette...My toast smells lightly browned, and the heat from the oven slips out and into my face as I open the door to retrieve the buttery potato bread. I just now realize I haven't turned the TV on at home in probably a month. Maybe longer. My legs hurt, and I haven't been to the gym in 5 days. I feel old, and am waiting for gray hairs to pop through my scalp, and for a doctors visit that is laden with blood pressure medicine. The last month has been a whirlwind of excitement. I am more behind on laundry and cleaning than I ever thought imaginable, and I have been a bad friend, brother, son and Uncle. So, sorry guys. Our sandwich shop,the 3Way Cafe transformed from merely an idea into a restaurant, and it happened through dedication, working 18 hour days and ceaseless vision. We opened this past Monday, and I was exhausted after having worked all weekend at Baxter's, then spent 12 hours on Sunday prepping the kitchen - making soups and sauces, and portioning meats for what would be our first lunch the next morning. I made a Southwest Broccoli and Cheese Soup, and Chix Tortilla garnished with fresh Salsa, and a Balsamic Glazed French Onion Soup. After about a week, I realized how old it can become to make three soups everyday in an unorganized and cluttered kitchen. Everyday as we were closing up, my soups simmered away, and as I pulled my phone out to check the time, I had a handful of missed calls, twice as many text messages, and knew I was going to be late for work at Baxter's. I have always said, well, that's the life of a restaurant manager. Now, I can atleast replace manager with "owner". Hard work and dedication pays off. This is only the beginning....

Between the Bread

2010-04-09T00:51:00.003-04:00

I could write an entire book on this topic, and honestly I will probably attempt to do so at some point in my life….. Sandwiches are transcendentally universal. Virtually every restaurant in the country serves some kind of sandwich. Bread, instead of restricting welcomes just about anything, and serves merely as a glue for what you want to put inside. I recently dined at the Route 58 Deli in Virginia Beach to do some market research for our new sandwich shop the 3Way Cafe, and here the sandwiches are piled high with nearly a pound of meat. There is not nearly enough bread, and virtually everyone takes their leftovers in a box. While, it is a hell of a lunch, it’s gonna run you 20 bucks when you throw in a drink and gratuity – hell the sandwich doesn’t even come with a side, and you have to pay extra to get your sandwich grilled! Don’t get me wrong, everything was delicious. We feasted for an hour on our sandwiches, French fries, and desserts, while we analyzed the restaurant. I began to think about the perfect sandwich and how to define that. I’m unable to do so, but I think it begins with the bread, and the bread is the first problem I had with the Warm Pastrami sandwich I had for lunch that day. There wasn’t enough of it. It couldn’t stand up to the massive amounts of meat…. Or is the over abundance of meat the root of the problem?

4 Keys to Sandwiches
Bread: Balance between crunchiness, softness and thickness – it needs to be durable, but not teeth-breaking hard. This is the most important element to any sandwich.

Proportional: Everything should be proportional. Meats – to Cheeses – to Veggies – to bread – to sauce – If you can’t taste everything in a single bite than the essence of what you are making gets lost. A Reuben consists of Rye, Corned Beef, Saurerkraut, and Thousand Island. If there is too much Saurerkraut then the meat fades into the background, or if there isn’t enough dressing then the sweet creaminess to balance the sharp taste of the kraut doesn't prevail. Everything should have a reason.

Balance of Flavor: If you have a spicy component, cool it off with a fruit glaze or spread. If you have a strong cheese, it needs to be balanced out….. think about how you can incorporate fruits, and caramelized vegetables, which will add an added depth.

Temperature:Hot vs. Cold – I will almost always order a hot sandwich when one is available…. As long as the ingredients, when warm, have a combined balanced flavor profile, and that the ingredients work well warm. I.E. – I despise tomatoes and avocado when warm.

Hospitality in Business

2010-04-06T19:24:00.004-04:00

Busy is a good thing, though at times we can become distracted from the important things that keep us going, the things that drive us to be here in the first place, and it is those things that continually move us in the right direction - in the direction of our dreams.... Anyway, I have about a months worth of ideas, stories and life from the food world to share, so that should be enough material to keep me busy for a while.... Now,if there were only 4 more hours in every day I would be set....
As the local downtown area worsens in terms of construction and desired clientele I naturally take a step back to look at the way we operate as a business. The number of heads that walk through our door are less than they were six months ago, and it is something that traditional advertising has no control over.... As we engage in more direct social media there are definitely ways can further leverage those mediums and tap into them(i.e. facebook, myspace, twitter)in ways our competitors currently don't, but irregardless, I still spend more time on marketing our brand than ever before. So in times when the negative factors surrounding us, as a restaurant, outweigh the positive reasons for coming in, how do you increase your market share? How do you convince your target market to jump through hurdles like the local construction, a lack of parking, and a diminshed desired local demographic. How do you? Speecials can do it, differentiating your product offering can, but in an area with competition is stiff, what can do you? Well, its simple - you work as hard as you can every day to make and keep your customers happy. You make them feel like they are a part of the restaurant, and the community. You take an active interest in their lives, you make them feel like you care, because in reality you do care..... For any of us that are in the industry, it should be because it is what we love, however so often we get clouded with the rigorous grinds of daily life in this industry. The long hours begin to take a toll on us, the complacent staff can at times be unbareable, the competition is brutal and the challenges to business survival never seem to want to go away. The other day there was a situation involving a waitress of mine - A customer was greeted at the front door, a server took care of the customer by directing them to a table and handing her a menu. The guest ordered a glass of water which was delivered, but then the customer was neglected - not intentionally.... the waitress forgot about the lady for ten minutes, until while circling the dining room she was delivering food and drinks to other diners, and was flagged down. The guest bantered with my waitress in a serious though friendly tone regarding the situation. Apologies were made, the lady ordered some food and it was delivered some fifteen minutes later - it was a medium-well burger which we overcooked - when I learned of the situation my waitress commenced to complain about how the customer was being rude, and kind of testy. I handled the situation appropriately, explaining that I wasn't really upset at the fact that the customer was neglected. Yes, that is terrible customer service, and shouldn't be tolerated, but what grinded my gears was that she acted almost as if she was being inconvenienced by the customer. My thoughts are this - Okay, first we messed up by giving poor service, then on top of the poor service we improperly cooked her food. Does she not have a right to be upset? Why would this customer ever come back? We didn't do a damn thing right in this situation. Hell, once a mistake is made it is up to us to correct it, then coddle the customer so much that they recognize we, as a business, don't accept mistakes. We are here to make and keep them happy, and so many workers in this industry don't get it!!! So often, I have taken a situation that could have potentially turned for the worse and twisted it to make a story that in the ened the customer ca't help but see in a positive light. Hospitality is an ideology, and something that I think, for the most part we are either born with or we aren't. I firmly believe that my purpose on this earth revolves around making people happy. I smile when someone cuts into a perfectly cooked steak, or downs a perfectly salted dirty martini. Groups of friends gathered around the bar enjoying beers and each other's company is incredibly satisfying and humbling, and it is something that I am happy to be a part of. I, as often as possible, attempt to show an active interest in our customer's relationship with us as a restaurant and a place to escape. All it takes is a smile and a thanks, a message on facebook, or asking somehone how their day is going. It isn't hard and is the greatest way to create valued customers who will in turn become ambassadors for your brand. So, no, we aren't perfect here, but if we, as ambassadors for hospitality, truly pride ourselves on taking care of our customers by making them feel appreciated and part of our community, then they will be a part of us, and regardless of the circumstances make an effort to support us, for no other reason than that they enjoy being a part of us..... So... Construction? Who gives a damn.... Inadequate parking? Hell, the customers we want, if treated hospitably will walk a couple blocks if we give them a reason to make it worth it. It is up to us to make it worth it. It starts with each and every one of us making an effort everyday. Every single person can make a difference, and if someone isn't making one, then its time to ask, why are they still working for us?

The Art of Tipping

2010-01-27T15:48:00.001-05:00

A restaurant in any downtown area will inevitably be confronted with the strangest of circumstances and our’s is certainly no exception. Last night I had to out kick four homeless guys that were trying to bum money for a drink or to satisfy their crack habits and this was a slow Tuesday. Way too much drama for a slow Tuesday. This next story happened last night and while dramatic, to me is more of a combination of sad and comical.

To set the stage, our restaurant hosted a series of video game tournaments for XBOX featuring John Madden’s NFL football game. Basically, a bunch of nerds, rednecks and thugs(it is amazing the diversity of culture, or lack there of this type of event brings) get together and play against each other in a double elimination tournament. By seven o’clock the restaurant was beginning to fill with customers for the tournament as well those who were simply looking to wind down with a cocktail after a long day at work. One of our most seasoned waitresses approached me in the kitchen as I spoke with Baxter, my cousin and the owner of our restaurant. She showed me the credit card receipt where customers who pay with credit card are to leave gratuity, then below that total the bill and sign. It is something we have all done probably thousands of times, and being in this industry it a piece of paper I see several hundred times a week. Sometimes the gratuity is considerably more than expected, sometimes the inverse, and sometimes there is nothing at all. It all comes with the territory of working for tips – not everyone appreciates and understands the idea of customer service and the respect that should be given to the ones who serve us. It is my job to ensure that if someone chooses not to leave a tip, or if the tip isn’t proportional to the typical standard in relation to the bill, to find out why exactly they didn’t leave a gratuity for the waitress or bartender. There are circumstances where on a busy night our staff is overworked with customers and potentially gave poor service, or maybe one of our feisty girls was having a bad night and came across rude or unprofessional. There are a number of reasons why someone might choose not to leave a tip, and one of the circumstances in which I approach a customer is when I feel their actions have intentionally disrespected my staff. This time, Kat, my waitress handed me the signed slip and on the line allotted for a tip it said, “Sorry not today, great service though.” I looked at her, then at Baxter, baffled trying to figure out what she meant by this and how this person could justify writing what they did. To me, this made no sense whatsoever. If you get received great service, and recognize that then there is no circumstance in which you shouldn’t take care of the service staff. Not a single one. Kat motioned towards the table and the individual that paid for the two drinks, that during happy hour only totaled $4.50. She didn’t even leave a tip on discounted items! It was an overweight middle age black woman who was short with orange tinted hair, wearing tighter than appropriate acid washed jeans and the hue of gold lining her teeth –they seemed to match her hair. She wasn’t our typical customer and far from our desired clientele, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt, walked over to her and in a surprisingly pleasant tone had the following exchange with her.
“Mam, my waitress showed me your bill and the signed credit card copy, which stated that you got great customer service…. If you don’t mind me asking, if you acknowledge that you did, indeed, get good service, then why would you choose not to leave a tip?”
“I didn’t leave no tip, cause I ain’t got no money.”
“I see, but you had enough to purchase the two drinks, it seems like you could have potentially purchased one less drink in order to take care of the service you received?
“I ain’t gonna overdraw my account just to leave a tip. I don’t gotta leave no tip.”
“If you can afford a drink, but not the gratuity on it then maybe you should reconsider going out. My waitresses make two dollars an hour and rely on their customers to make money.”
“What the fucks that s’posed to mean? Maybe you should pay them more,” she exclaimed beginning to get fiery.
“Mam,” I paused trying to find the words that might help her understand, “ I am selling you a vodka tonic for two bucks, so yeah, I could pay them more if I was charging twice as much for a drink. Additionally, my waitresses and bartenders are personally taxed by the government on the assumption that they are receiving gratuity on every credit card transaction. Thus she is essentially losing money by waiting on you. So keep that in mind.”
“I’m not keepin’ nothing in mind! I find you so disrespectful approaching me like this, I said I ain’t gonna leave no tip, now get the fuck outta mah face. If I were white, would you have come hollerin’ at me like this”?

“Okay, racial epithets are where I draw the line. You disrespected my waitress first – I think it’s time for you to leave. Get the fuck out of here,” I retorted feeling my face get red and the veins in my neck beginning to excite.
“I will leave, I can’t believe this shit is hapenin’,” she mumbled to her friend as she collected her belongings. I stood within a couple of steps to ensure that she was indeed leaving, but certainly gave her the space she desired.
“I done told you im leavin – get outta my fuckin face,”
“Mam, please lower your voice, I am giving you plenty of room.”
She grabbed her belongings and waddled towards the bar before heading to the front door.”
“Hey you, hey you – BARTENDAH!!!!” She screamed hoping to get Mike’s attention. He wandered over shaking his head – he despised this type of customer more than anyone else on our staff.
“I need the phone numba to da owner.”
“I can give you the number to our restaurant here, it is 757.622-XXXX“
“I need his ceeellll phoneee numba ya dumm ass,”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that, but you can call him during the day on the number I just gave you to setup an appointment with him.”
“That ain’t,” she began before I disrupted her.
“Mam, it is time to go, like he said call up here if you want to speak with Baxter. “
She begrudgingly made her way to the front door cursing under every breath she took. I shook my head as the door swung behind her and the echo of her profane voice faded away. A couple bar regulars grinned at me as Mike questioned the altercation. I explained to him and the regulars what had happened, and not five minutes had elapsed before the phone rang.
“Thank you for calling Baxter’s, may I help you,” I answered after the second ring.
“I need to speak with the manager on duty – wait – this is you – what’s yo name?”
“My name is Christopher Hill, what can I help you with?”
“Ya damn bartenda gave me the wrong fuckin’ numba – I told him I need the numba to the owner, and he gave me this. “
“This is the best number to reach him, but-“
“What is the number to your corporate office?”
“Mam, we only have one location, so again this is the number to our “corporate” office.”
“Yall stop bullshitting with me.” This went back and forth, until she seemed convinced that this was indeed the only restaurant until she called back about ten mintues later and asked for the number to our district office. Some people just don’t seem to get it, and she certainly seemed to be one of those people. When she called back she was more profane than before, and began threatening our business by stating that she was going to call the alcohol beverage control as well as the federal business bureau and get us shut down. I let her ramble and curse and finally hung the phone up when she, for the second time in a matter of 30 minutes, called me racist, and this time did so with profane language. I laughed about it for most of the night sharing with regulars and friends of mine who might find the story entertaining. At the same time I reflected on how sad this woman’s behavior was, and how eating in a nice environment outside of one’s home seems like a privilege and one’s behavior should reflect that. I wandered back to the office where Baxter was crunching some numbers for the sandwich shop we will be opening in the coming months and told him of the phone call I had with the crazy lady, he laughed and we swapped stories about similar situations, but neither could come up with a story that rivals this one.
When I added the part about her calling the authorities on us, he responded with this.
“Just tell her if she is going to call the federal business bureau then we will call the sheriff’s office and see if there are any warrants out for her arrest. That’ll shut her fat ass up real quick.“
We both chuckled for a couple of minutes. Just another day at the office……

Respecting the Food we Eat and An Ideological Flaw with Vegetarianism

2010-01-16T11:55:00.003-05:00

It is probably way too early to be this philosophical, especially in relation to food at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, but this has been on my mind.

Earlier this week our restaurant hosted a party for PETA, an organization with which we are all familiar and all inevitably have varying sentiments. This organization provides us with twenty thousand dollars a year in business for essentially making our establishment vegetarian and vegan friendly for two days out of the year when we are rented out for their biannual staff parties. With that being said, I appreciate the business and am not about to ramble about my disdain for the organization. I am, however, going to raise what I see as a rudimentary and ideological flaw with their philosophy.
I fully support anyone that chooses to be a vegetarian for whatever reason – it is often noble and done with good intentions. The choice to become a vegetarian doesn’t really effect me and the number is never going to increase so dramatically that the restaurants I support will be threatened. There is a certain part of the world that chooses to be vegetarians due to devout religious beliefs and you can hardly blame anyone for that. Another class is the most recent emergence of Vegetarians - those who are looking for a healthier lifestyle (something that is an entirely different argument all together) and they are abstaining from foods that are sometimes high in fat or cholesterol, but in most cases, are inversely depriving their bodies of other nutrients, which are often found in meats. Their commitment to vegetarianism is not one grounded with philosophy, or ideology – still, it is an individual’s choice. There is another group of individuals that refrain from eating meats or anything tangentially related because of cruelty to animals. This is presumably the largest segment of vegetarianism, atleast in the western world, and is undoubtedly admirable. Obviously there are a lot of poorly run farms out there not treating animals with the respect they deserve, but there are also a lot of great farms that do respect these animals. This is obviously the wave of the new world, and is something that excites me as it does many of the great chefs around the world.
PETA is undoubtedly an organization striving to do good, I enjoy having them in our restaurant, and there has been a lot of good done in the name of animals, but I feel that along the way a certain misdirection has surfaced. I am not going to get into the seemingly fanatical views PETA has on some issues(breast milk ice cream, their views on seeing eye dogs and domesticated animals), and the perspective they take on certain circumstances in the real world. Last year I was walking one of their executives through our Private Lounge where we host parties and while talking I spoke of the catering we do and mentioned that a lot is done out of our other restaurant Sterlings as well, and when I explained to him that it was as steakhouse he commenced to pierce my eyes with daggers as if I had just put a bullet through the head of his six month old puppy. I refrained to explain the business behind the size of the Vegan/Vegetarian share of the market and how unrealistic it would be to have a world of vegan restaurants, or how hard it would be to support even one exclusively vegan friendly restaurant in this city! His response almost made me mad - something hard to do most of the time. Nevertheless, I kept my emotions to myself and have since thought a lot about that conversation and the close-mindedness he imbued.

So, here is the problem I have with the organization, and certain vegetarians who choose to be vegetarians based on animal cruelty. For the sake of this argument, the people who have chosen to be vegetarians for the sake of a healthier lifestyle are exempt, as well as those with religious commitments. When we host PETA, our chef works with their corporate chef to get products and ingredients that work well with the theme of the dinner. We have had several pizza parties where a soy cheese and fake sausage were used, which I don’t really embrace, but can handle. The menu for another PETA party consisted of this, and keep in mind the descriptions while not implying vegetarian indeed are; BBQ Chicken with vegan coleslaw, Burger sliders with vegan American cheese, Fried Chicken Tenders, Quesadillas, and a couple more items that were, believe it or not, intrinsically, and ideologically vegetarian such as mixed vegetables. My problem with the menu is this: the foods they are eating, and choose to eat don’t embrace the philosophy of vegetarianism. The foods mentioned above were created to replicate the flavor of something this segment of the market chooses not to eat - for whatever reason. This seems a bit heretical. They embrace the flavor of barbecue chicken, freshly grilled burgers, and the creaminess of melted cheese on top. They love a ranch dipping sauce for a crispy fried “chicken finger” or a fennel laced sausage for their pizza. Sure, this is stuff is so intrinsically American, things we are familiar with, and I am sure the challenge of being a vegetarian is difficult, but with the accessibility to farms vegetarian options are greater than ever before. Instead of embracing the flavors of the foods they vow not to eat, instead why not find ways to reinvent the foods that are distinctly and ideologically vegetarian. Hell, I probably eat as much philosophically vegetarian food as many of them. I adore just about every vegetable, fruit and legume. Granted, I eat meats, and I love seafood, but in a sense they do too. I do my best to eat locally, cook organically, and use vendors that are responsible and treat the products I eat with respect. As long as we remember where our food comes from, embrace how it came into existence by acknowledging the hands that cared for it, and most of all respect the life itself then a meal becomes more than the contents on our plates. Food should be a part of us, and it is up to us, as consumers, to be educated and informed about the foods we choose to eat and the farms we choose to support. If you respect something, then in the end it doesn’t go to waste, but rather becomes a thing of cherished beauty. This is how it works and always has. To me, that is what it all comes down to.

The Last Night

2010-01-08T14:15:00.003-05:00

This is a short story that I recently wrote that is loosely based on real events. It is, however, fiction. I hope you enjoy.

January has come and the bone chillingly cold air is obvious proof of that. Crevices where sidewalks dip to meet the road are lined with sheeted ice. The leafless branches of trees sway with the howling wind that sweeps detritus down Granby Street. The moon is just as hidden as the sun was some six hours ago before it set, so the sky is hazy, which is just about right for a cryptic winter day.
“Sorry guys, another shitty night – but hey – look at it from the bright side, we are gonna have a chance to make it over to Cask for a quick drink, first round’s on me,” I exclaimed locking the front door. There were six guests left, half of which were employees enjoying a beer and some shots on their night off. Additionally, there were a couple of navy guys playing pool, trying to prolong their night, seeing as they would soon return to the Naval Base a few miles down the road. I slowly brought the lights up, indicating that last call was here and it was time to order the final drinks of the night, and to finish them in a timely manner as well. It was only midnight and we could legally serve alcohol for two more hours, but that didn’t matter since there was no one there to serve. I began doing paperwork for the night while sitting at the bar that was still sticky from a previous guest, who had drunkenly and haphazardly spilt his Captain and Coke. I began thinking about how much longer we could operate doing nights like this, and it frustrated me to think that on a slow night the bartender still hadn’t gotten around to clean the bar that was dirtied some two hours ago. This type of thing a restaurant owner or manager reflects on constantly, and as my mind began drifting elsewhere, out of the corner of my eyes I saw a group of guys approaching the front door. I wandered over to address them and see if I could be of help, but was reluctant to invite them inside. They, obviously drunk, begged for me to let them in, exclaiming that the morning would bring their deployment to Afghanistan and they wanted one more night of drunken happiness. I couldn’t argue that, so I granted them access, and motioned them to the bar where Jessica was waiting and sighing with discontent at me.
Scampering a couple steps ahead of the crowd, Johnny, an overweight Asian was the ring leader, and took the liberty of ordering shots of Rumpleminze – peppermint schnapps, a cordial that is so iconically appropriate during the winter months. Jessica lined up the shots, they looked on and cheered as each glass filled to the brim. She handed Johnny two at a time, and he began issuing the chilled glasses as I fielded a phone call asking what time we would be closing tonight. He motioned for her to pour four more, which upon his receipt, handed two right back for us, and he motioned that the others were for our off duty bartenders sitting at the bar who were already half drunk. I smiled as Jennifer handed me the shot, and I motioned that she could have one as well. This was a special circumstance, it was an honor to be a part of this quasi-last supper, and I was excited to embrace the occasion. Johnny motioned for everyone’s attention, and began his toast as the group circled around.

“Here's to other meetings,
And merry greetings then;
And here's to those we've drunk with,
But never can again.”

The toast seemed to echo the harsh truth of military life and the possibility of death, while sobering, was reality for this group that had worked so hard, together, in harsh conditions which would inevitably worsen upon arrival in Afghanistan. Johnny raised his glass, circled the bar clinging his against everyone’s and I half smiled at Jessica knowing I could never really relate to them – I would never have the fears, doubts, and sleepless nights by which their adventure on the other side of the world will be defined. I can, however, understand this desire to drink away the pain of leaving behind all they ever knew, and though brief, and unsustainable the notion of drinking away the pain makes complete sense. Perhaps at a certain point in drunken cloudiness the frightening journey for which they embark in the morning begins to fade and emotions of love, happiness, and peace will persevere. This indeed did happen but not before another two rounds of shots. Jamie the youngest of the group, just out of officer candidacy school was ironically from my hometown of Atlanta and we began swapping stories of our childhoods there, our families, and our forlorn love for that sacred place. He jumped in and offered to buy the next round, which also meant the next toast belonged to him as well.
“Okay guys – you know I love every goddamn one of you… including you bar keep – you are so damn cute and you too – Jeff, my fellow Atlantan,” he slurred, prefacing his toast in obvious discomfort from the spotlight. “Grab your glasses, this shit is much better than that peppermint bullshit! We got some Goldschlager… this stuff has real gold. Bring it on baby!!! Grab your glasses,” he hollered as the crowd gathered around laughing at the buffoonery he brought to the table.
He paused and continued solemnly, trying his hardest to keep his poise:

Here's To Singles,
Friends And Heroes.
They say in life we need friends and heroes,
As I look out upon all of you today,
I raise my glass and say to you....
I am glad I can be both.

“I love you guys – you know that – we have something special…. We are friends, but above that we are heroes, and wherever this journey takes us,” and he paused as a solitary tear slid the length of his cheek, trying to conquer the emerging emotions. He proceeded, “Wherever it takes us I am proud to be a part of this, and I am not talking about being an American, or even a Navy officer, I am talking about being a part of this fraternity, this eternal and sacredly formed friendship we have here tonight and I am a lucky son of a bitch to know every damn one of you.”
I looked at Jennifer who now had tears running down her face and she smiled softly at me. Later that night I found out that her father’s life had been taken in the Persian Gulf War, and this incredible display of emotion was something that was perhaps eerily familiar to her. She walked over, we wrapped our arms around each other’s goosebump lined shoulders and we soaked up the wonderful display of passion from these often cold and hardened souls. They held each other, smiled and opened the floodgates to their hearts that would, come tomorrow morning, be shut off from the world for six months. I lined up ten more shot glasses, and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark, perhaps the most iconic of American Liquors. I put eight glasses in front of them, and began.

“Guys, this is an incredible honor to have you all here. I’m happy as hell that you guys showed up when you did, and for me it is a raw and vivid look at fate that you came into our lives tonight. What you are doing for us and this country will never be forgotten – the sacrifices you have all made are selfless, and real and more than I will ever fathom. I know that you guys have to get out of here, but before you do, I want to buy each of you a shot and make a quick toast.
I began:

“I wish you health, I wish you well, and happiness galore.
I wish you luck for you and friends; what could I wish you more?
May your joys be as deep as the oceans, your troubles as light as its foam.
And may you find, sweet peace of mind, where ever you may roam.”

We raised our glasses simultaneously and they motioned for Jennifer and myself to come around, and out from around the bar so that we could be a part of them for a couple of moments. Johnny kissed me on the cheek with tears now streaming down his face, and we embraced for a couple of emotion filled moments. He was drunk, as were the other seven, but that didn’t take away from what they were feeling, because it was real. They vowed to return to my bar on their way home six months from now, and I insisted that all eight of them would be back and we would celebrate the occasion appropriately. As the bar cleared out, I turned off the lights and muted the music and locked the doors. Crossing over the Chesapeake Bay on the Berkeley Bridge I looked towards the waters that would soon be taking those eight Navy guys to a different part of the world, and I thought about their life on the ship and how grateful I was to have my life of blessing. This night helped me put life into perspective, and it helped me understand how truly blessed I am in so many ways – most of which I take for granted. I then began to think, in respect to these eight individuals that I really haven’t made much of a sacrifice in my life at all.
It took two months for Jessica to tell me the secret of her father’s death in the war of our childhood’s and we did it over shots on an eerily similar March night, and her toast was this.

“Life lives, life dies. Life laughs, life cries.
Life gives up and life tries.
But life looks different through everyone's eyes.”

I’m not sure what to make of the toast she made that night, however I feel that she had been trying to gather the courage to give it and tell me of her father’s death since that emotion filled night with the Navy guys. I guess I will never really know what she was trying to say, what it is like to lose a father in battle, or watch a fallen comrade never make it home, but I know I am blessed and Johnny, Jamie and the rest of those guys helped me realize that. It probably means more to me that Jamie, my fellow Atlantan, never made it home from Afghanistan. The other eight did and when they returned we hugged, laughed and cheered with thoughts of Jamie in the forefronts of our minds. Goldschlager tastes a lot better when drinking to the memory of a life that was sacrificed for his country.

Thanks to all of you who serve our Country. Hurry home Greg.
CH.

Oyster: The Great Wager

2010-01-02T13:04:00.002-05:00

One of the greatest memories of food from my early life comes from the beautiful island of Nantucket.
My childhood friend Doug had invited me with his family to Nantucket, the wonderfully historical whaling island off the coast of Massachusetts when I was 10 years old. They annually rented a house for the month of July to soak up the beautiful beach culture, where they rode their bikes from one side of the island to the other as the beaches filled, adorning themselves with tourists. As the sun began to grow lazy in the western sky they would stroll to the wharf where ubiquitous fishing boats constantly weaved in and out of the inlet, back from their day on the open seas. The bewilderment of the incessantly swarming seagulls over each fish laden boat matches the amazement of the onlooking children that take great notice and excitement as these local fishermen butcher the day’s harvest.
While preparing for the trip, my mother told me the tales of her childhood, and her family who like Doug’s rented a house there every summer. While there, we daily hustled to the beach, neglected to lather ourselves in sun tan lotion and slowly encroached upon the waters of the Atlantic Ocean as our bodies loosened to the seemingly frost-bitingly cold water. We enjoyed that week during the summer before our fifth grade year of school with innocence and resolve in hopes of sucking every bit of joy out of our time spent on that island. The cottages, cobblestone roads and Inns are forever imprinted in my mind, the echo of sea shells in my ears, and the taste of my first oyster on my tongue.

We made the short walk into town whose streets are lined with ancient cobblestone, equally archaic buildings that date back to the mid 17th century as we talked about the wonderful trip that was drawing to an end, and how this paradise was everything but that centuries ago when the locals survived by whaling these cold, north Atlantic waters. The island itself has the ability to transform you into an ironically new and distant world, especially walking down wondrous Main Street where, like the days of old, the hotbed of activity occurs. There was a particular restaurant we were in search for on this breezy summer day as our sunburnt bodies hobbled down the various corridors of Nantucket. The sun was still high in the sky, but as tourists began crowding the downtown area, the sun escaped behind the island, descending towards Boston, a few miles west. We arrived at our destination, one of the island’s most acclaimed oyster bars that I later discovered was also religiously frequented by my mother and her family an entire generation in the past. I look back at my childhood Christmases when her sole contribution to the dinner table was undoubtedly Oyster Casserole, and I can’t help but think that her inspiration stemmed from that beaten up, brick building where the floors are bruised, stained, and in dire need of a polish. It probably looks no different now then when I was there some twenty years ago, or even when my mother was there as a child. It all seems to work, and is in fact a part of the reason why you love this place so much. That and of course the oysters…

“Gang, it looks like there is gonna be a hell of a wait – they told me close to an hour. Don’t worry Christopher that is to be expected. We come here every year and it gets better every time, I promise,” This, Doug’s father jolted at us with sheer excitement while directing it at me, the lone newcomer to the group. “So what do y’all want to drink? We can get some drinks and a couple appetizers to munch on while we wait.”

He returned a couple of moments later with a bottle of black cherry soda for Doug and myself, and a couple of beers for he and his wife. He was followed by a waitress carrying a Last Supper size platter which had, at the time, unidentifiable and grotesquely foreign objects. He had ordered a seafood platter with clams, mussels, and of all things freshly shucked raw oysters that were still nestled in their half shells, and everything was locally harvested – something I had no appreciation for at the time. We gathered around as he dared all of us to dig in and enjoy the wonderful foods that were born of the ice cold water in which we were swimming a mere couple of hours ago. Mussels were a piece of cake, and despite the occasional bit of sand that also created among these very waters some thousands of years ago, the clams were palatable. This was at a time in my life when I was slightly over weight, and called the “Vacuum Cleaner” by my family because of my tendency to devour anything in sight within reason. I was absurdly famished and knew I wouldn’t be eating for atleast another hour since we were still deep on the wait list, and as the mussels and clams slowly vanished I grew nervous. The oysters were looking me dead in the eyes, and I could barely stand to look at them. They were slimy, and had the appearance of some unknown and internal human infection.
“Come on guys, who wants to try an oyster – I promise these little buggers are good… much better than they look. ”
I kept telling myself, “nope – not gonna do it”, and I have the feeling Doug, in his mind was vomiting as well at the sheer thought of attempting to digest the mollusks that sat fat and juicy on the platter in front of us.
“No, thank you though Dr. Murphy – I think I am gonna stick to the Mussels and Clams, they look delicious though,” I responded with obvious sarcasm.
“Comeeeee onnnnn Christopher! Give them a try. I promise you will like them. You can go home to your mom and dad, as a proud, self-respecting young man, and brag about the adventures you had in Nantucket, and how you have found the love of your life – the oyster!”
“Dad – they look disgusting! You couldn’t pay me 10 bucks to eat one of those creatures,” Doug chimed in agreeing with me, trying to divert the pressure from me, seeing as I was quiet and unable to deter the attention.
“Okay I tell ya what. How about this – I will give 25 dollars to the first one to eat an oyster, but you have to keep it down. None of this running off to the bathroom business. Deal?”
Most of the negative thoughts escaped my mind at this point as Dr. Murphy began waving money in our faces, and for me, 25 bucks was quite appealing. I thought for a couple of moments before responding.
With skepticism I blurted, “Okay, I will do it! Just one though right?”
“Just one.”
I grabbed some saltine crackers, severed the package and readied my cracker for the slimy mollusk that to my knowledge was still alive. I motioned for a cocktail fork, which Dr. Murphy handed over, I stuck it into the oyster and like a construction crane, dropped it on top of my cracker, where it rested – sitting plump, intoxicating the air with the smell of the sea. Dr. Murphy squeezed a slice of lemon over the oyster, issuing acid downward in all directions as a seed escaped from the flesh of the citrus, landing on the oyster I which I was soon to be paid handsomely for eating. I childishly flicked the seed towards Doug, and smiled nervously, attempting to grasp the challenge ahead. A crowd gathered who were ease dropping and looking on with excitement as I painted a dab of cocktail sauce over the top of my prey, readying myself for the dare. I smiled again, before closing my eyes, and tilted my head back. I opened my mouth and slid the oyster,then cracker into my mouth. I chewed the cracker as the oyster slid down my throat - the texture was outrageously foreign to me, and it indeed tasted like the water in which I was splashing earlier that day. I swallowed the oyster, chewed the cocktail basted cracker and upon completion threw my hands in the air claiming victory and motioned for my winnings. I grinned emphatically at Doug and his dad, and the crowd of people who were all clapping.
I paused for a couple of moments after eating the mollusk as I mentally digested what had just happened. “That was great!”

So, Dr. Murphy forked over the $25 and I immediately wandered inside, found a waitress and purchased two dozen more oysters for us and the onlookers who had been cheering me on. That night I ate oysters until my belly was full, and by the time our table was ready I had probably consumed two dozen by myself, and was no longer hungry, but that didn’t matter because I ordered more for dinner. Our meal finished and we wandered home, laughing about my new love for oysters, and how I ironically was paid to try something that I ended up falling in love with. Of that trip, the memory of Nantucket is beginning to fade, but that island will, like I said before, be forever imprinted on my mind. My first experience with an oyster, however, is a memory that is still very vivid. It is a memory that I will cherish, and not a single meal I have where oysters are present is finished without the tides of Nantucket crashing against my mind. Oh, to be an innocent ten year old again, who would try just about anything for some cold hard cash.

Day After Christmas Blues

2009-12-26T07:44:00.003-05:00

It is 7:10 AM the day after Christmas. I am concurrently connected to facebook - right now I have 1 friend online out of over one thousand. Everyone I know is asleep, recovering from a long festive day that is typically defined with overeating and excessive alcohol, though the airport is bustling with travelers that are off to who knows where. Christmas was fantastic. We had a perfectly cooked beef tenderloin with a Potato-Leek Gratin, a warm Beet and Mission Fig Salad with caramelized Goat Cheese, a and a tradatitional Squash Casserole. It was a meal defined with some of the old times favorites, but was complimented with some new, rustic winter dishes that seem to work so well this time of year. They did. I think it was the best meal I have had in my father's dining room. He pulled the tenderloin out of the oven at the optimal time, let it rest, then began carving, as I broiled the top of the various casseroles to caramelize and crust the cheese on top. It was all wonderful. We enjoyed it, as we always do, though no more than the company. It was our first Christmas with my brother's wife, Liza, and it was the first Christmas that my baby niece, Elle, really started to understand the way Christmas works. Holidays to me, are always about preserving rich family tradition, while at the same time playing off of those traditions and taking changes into the future. I already miss my family, and the holiday season, and it isn't even over yet. CCH

Off To Atlanta

2009-12-22T03:17:00.003-05:00

So, I am off to Atlanta after a long and frustrating couple of days at work. I am tired after having just gotten out of work - I always take this 630 am flight..... It works out perfectly when you get out of work at 2 am..... there is just enough time to head home, do a load of laundry, soak in the bath and pack the bag destined for the south..... It is cold there and that is how it should be. I can't wait to see and smile with my family.... See my buddy john, where we will play a round of golf and make a toast to our poorly played round with a couple of stout cigars.... I am going to try and post something in the midst of the holiday madness.... Y'all have a great Christmas - We shall talk soon......CH

2009-12-22T02:51:00.001-05:00

A Christmas Story

2009-12-15T09:32:00.003-05:00

It’s funny how inspiration comes from the strangest places and often in the strangest of times. My latest came while driving downtown in the cold December pouring rain. While looking at the beautiful buildings of Downtown Norfolk and thinking about my trip to Atlanta next week. I got to thinking about Christmas and what this time of year means to me.

Nineteen ninety five was the fourth Christmas in a row that my mother was bald – and it wasn’t by choice. We were what from the outside appeared to be the idyllic American family, though behind the scenes, like any other family we were, to an extent, dysfunctional, having our own set of problems. My parents worked so hard to keep our family happy and together but with four kids, two full time jobs, and private school tuitions, stress slowly took a strain on their relationship. So, during this same Christmas my parents had marital problems, but were doing their best to keep things together for us, for the kids, in what none of us knew at the time, but all but expected to be my Mom’s last Christmas.

After the Christmas Eve service at the beautiful St. Phillip's Cathedral, my dad weaved through the Christmas lights of Atlanta as the excitement and energy of Christmas resonated from our Suburban. We returned home to our already-dressed table which was decorated in coastal paraphernalia - fishing nets, oversized clam shells, and bowls that were inked with crustaceans. It was time for our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. My mother’s side of the family for as long as I know religiously steamed lobster every year, and to me this tradition has a greater importance than the holiday itself. It is a meal I annually cherish, look forward to, will never get sick of, and I vow to carry on for as long as Christmas exists.
Before sitting at the table my parents took us into the living room where a surprise was in waiting. The fireplace was burning embers from earlier in the day with which my brother and I struggled bringing back to life. My father guided us, and flames appeared, beginning to wave back and forth, almost at us. The ledge overhead was hung with stockings, manger scenes, and candles whose blazes were pale in comparison to the erratic flames below. My frail mother began speaking of her love for us - making allusions that this would probably be her last Christmas, how much her family meant, and how having each other is paramount. She had been fighting for years. Surgery after surgery debilitated her strength, though never her spirit. She was always proud, and strong, and ceaseless, but options were running out and we all knew that, but coming to terms with that is undoubtedly harder. An experimental laser surgery had failed, and the cancer had learned to combat the radiation and chemotherapy, thus eliminating options. Emotions were always tense and threshold-like, always preparing me for the worst. She didn’t say anything of it though, and neither did my dad. She merely walked into the dining room, returned with a camcorder, and the red light on the front told us that it was recording. This was our big Christmas present in 1995 – a camcorder. Though unsaid, it was so that we could remember that last Christmas with my mom – so that we could remember her voice, gestures, smile and most importantly her spirit. Looking back I am pretty sure those are things that someone never really forgets about their mother, no matter how far away, or how long away they have been gone. That voice, that touch, that spirit though at times cavernous and distant is always in the inner dwellings of a child, and inseparable. We joyously sat around the table passing the camcorder while cracking lobster claws, laughing, and enjoying each other. We were enjoying a family that had been through so much, but would in the end know what was really important ,and what really mattered. As kids, we grew up too fast and were faced with many of the harsh realities of life at a young age, though on the eve of Christmas in 1995, none of that mattered, and we spent this holiday season cherishing whatever remaining time we had together. That night we read Christmas books, held, hugged and loved each other. My mother passed away four months later. While expected, none of us were ready for it. To this day, Christmas Eve will always be synonymous with my mother, and of course Lobster.

2009-12-08T17:01:00.000-05:00

Dani. Older than the typical restaurant manager, and not quite as rough around the edges. Atleast it appears that way from a distance. Before every shift her name swirls around curse words as waiters gripe about the difficulty of working with her. Surviving a shift with Dani is somewhere in the neighborhood of walking on coals…. Chinese water torture…. Waiters stroll in a couple minutes after ten – most are hungover. They had 45 minutes before the pre-shifting meeting to get everything ready for service, and they gossip while brewing iced tea, straightening tables that are poorly dressed from the previous night, and fill sugar caddies with the appropriate sweeteners. The abundance of light beaming through the patio windows reveals crumbs, used cocktail straws, and dirt, from the night before which is swept by the busboys who are readying their stations. The private dining room needed to be set for a thirty person pharmaceutical luncheon that would be arriving at eleven-thirty. The party had a pre-planned menu on which the kitchen was currently working. The restaurant had 700 seats. 20 waiters and waitresses. A six page menu, a fifty seat bar, and one kitchen. Every piece of food eaten at this restaurant came out of the eight man kitchen which included four fryers, a ten foot grill, twelve burners and a six-foot flat-top. Maybe two of the eight kitchen guys spoke passable English. Kitchen language was Spanglish at its finest.
Lunch is always chaotic. For two hours it is a constant flurry of business meetings. Executives walk ten minutes each way from neighboring buildings. They only have 45 minutes between meetings. Do the math. They need a full meal in twenty to thirty minutes – this is impossible. For the typical lunch shift there is one seating around noon, and then another 45 minutes later, and for the duration the kitchen is in a constant scurry, never looking up, never pausing, and never speaking. Dani always worked meticulously and systematically at the expo window. Responsible for sending each plate out of the kitchen to the appropriate table, she was the liaison between the kitchen and the service staff. At a quarter til eleven she gathered the front of the house staff for the pre-shift meeting.
“Hey everyone, before we get started, I have some terrible news I need to share with everyone,” Dani started then paused trying to gather strength. She comes across cold, hardened and resistant to pain. She continues,” Jennifer Jones passed away last night. I got a phone call from the police department this morning, and they said that she was found on the corner of Baldwin, and 12th Street. She jumped off a building there, or was maybe pushed. They don’t really know, but they are running blood tests, are trying to get some answers and will most likely be in here later this afternoon to question some of you. Especially any of you who might have been out with her last night.”
The previous night Jennifer and several other servers worked, then headed over to Spirits- the watering hole for local restaurant people. Servers and bartenders in the area flood the bar around midnight, when their work days are over. They smile at the bartenders and begin the relentless ordering of shots and drinks as they talk about their abnormal, and underachieved lives being lived. Some sneak off to the bathroom to fuel their bodies with cocaine, or other foreign substances. Some sneak off to the bathroom to vomit after one too many shots of Jagermeister. Restaurant workers form familial relationships that are often, confused, incestuous and a dysfunctional. These people work long, hard hours, together. They finish work when others are already asleep, and are out partying when others are nearly rising for the new day. The night before would be a blur, and receiving news of Jennifer’s death would be all but traumatic, since most aren’t alert enough to comprehend what was just said. Some were out with her the night before. Some were close to her….. Close in a restaurant sense. They had become friends through circumstance…. Through being thrown into this chaotic, whirlwind lifestyle, void of equilibrium. These relationships are born out of necessity. Born out of a need to fit in, and to be a part of something…. They existed because they had to, not because they were meant to or destined to….
This kind of news didn’t surface often, but the staff would find a way to see it through. They always did. Everyone is caught off guard, sitting silently for several moments thinking about the life that was lost and what that meant. Why did this have to be her denoument, her time to exit the stage? It was hard not to think about that, but at the end of the day life moves on, and so does the restaurant. Dani continues, in character as always, a couple moments later, and conveys the specials for the day nonchalantly, as if nothing has happened. She then gives specific instructions regarding the private party, and discusses some featured wines that would now be offered by the glass. It’s lunch - nobody drinks wine during lunch. Regardless there are two whites and a red, all from Australia….. One of the male waiters, under his breath notes that Jennifer never liked Australian wines, and Dani glares with disapproval.
11 AM arrives, waiters tie aprons around their waists, review the specials scribbled in their books, and Dani unlocks the doors to the world outside. The bartenders finish cutting fruit as guests trickle in. The hostess directs them to a table. “Y’all enjoy your lunch.” She returns and more guests are waiting for a table. She seats them, and each subsequent return to the front desk results in a larger crowd waiting to be sat. The lunch rush has begun, orders trickle into the kitchen and some to the bar, and then speed up exponentially as noon approaches. The pharmaceutical party is seated, and the two servers working exclusively on the party scurry to get drink orders.
“I need food runners,” Dani yells as servers walk directly past her and into the kitchen where drinks are made for the customers who have just been seated. By noon everyone has a full section, the kitchen has twenty tickets, and there is a line at each computer terminal where servers wait impatiently to place orders. Each one is different. Different items with different modifications, and different cook times. These kitchen guys were cooking, but not fast enough - they were running nearly twenty minute ticket times. Twelve was the goal during lunch, but when there was food for a group of thirty coming out of the same kitchen, twenty minutes wasn’t all that bad. “I need food runners, goddamnit!” She scolded each server that walked by her that was too busy to run the food that was for their customers….the ones who were tipping them... So now, the food was not only taking too long, but when it was finally ready there was no one there to deliver it to the table
“I swear to God, the next person to walk out of this kitchen without food in their hands isn’t going to have a job. I fucking mean it!” This was Dani in her early stages of stress. She is seemingly refined until the pressure begins to mount. In the kitchen plates are finished and garnished , but have nowhere to go – the heat lamp under the expo window is full. Why should the kitchen hurry to pump food out of the kitchen, if it is going to sit in the window for three minutes? Frustration mounts in the kitchen that is dealing with ninety degree heat. Tickets print and are called out by Jose, who runs the kitchen – he ensures that the appropriate cook knows of the incoming order. Dani, reads the ticket that is printed on her side, and mentally notes any special modifications that she would need to look for when the food was ready some twenty minutes down the road. Every couple of minutes a server hurries over to the window. Dani, I need the sauce on the side for the Chicken at 26. I need that steak sandwich medium rare, not medium at 33. The Tuna Salad for 42 needs to be cooked all the way through, she is pregnant. I need the calamari for 42 as an appetizer. Sorry. Every time one of these mistakes is made Dani interrupts the kitchen from what they are doing, and explains the mistake, and makes a note on her ticket. The problem could have been avoided if the server paid a touch more attention. The kitchen and Dani would now both be out of rhythm in the middle of a busy lunch shift. From here, things could easily spiral out of control if attention wasn’t refocused immediately. The first turn is made, the busboys hurry to change tablecloths, and reset tables with water glasses and still warm silverware. The restaurant is on a twenty minute wait, but that will change soon, because the first group of diners all arrived within minutes of each other, and would therefore leave within minutes of each other as well. The kitchen would then have the chance to get caught up before being hit with another influx of tickets, with new modifications, and new mistakes from the waiters. Atleast there wasn’t a private party to deal with this time around.

When service slows down, Dani leaves the expo window feeling confident that the servers are caught up enough to run their own food. The kitchen crew cleans their cutting boards, as the service staff polishes silverware and wine glasses that will be used for dinner. The busboys take fully loaded bus pans to the dishwasher and unload them. The food runner hangs around to make sure the final tables receive their food in a timely manner as the cooks step outside for a cigarette. The dining room empties by 2 PM, aside for a well dressed gay couple who was lingering over a final sip of white wine. They, surprisingly, actually did sell some wine today. Dani sees this then heads to the office for a cigarette where she can rest the legs that seem to be getting to old for this. Working expo during a stressful lunch is as straining as it gets. It is only for a couple hours, but more intense than dinner, because of the time crunch. People expect to be in and out in shorter than possible, and she knows this. Everyone knows this. Dani is always thinking of ways to make lunch less stressful. Maybe we can shorten the menu, bring in more cooks, or an additional food runner. There has to be something we can do, she keeps telling herself – she has been doing this for nearly four years, at this restaurant and has tried everything. It was the nature of the beast. Atleast the stress is short lived, and only comes in spurts. She then thinks about Jennifer, something exponentially more important. Did it really matter how fast they could get the food out on a day like today. One of her employees killed herself the night before. One of her employees was so disturbed that she took her own life, and of all ways did it by jumping off a goddamn building. She imagines those final thoughts from atop the Atlanta skyline. The clouded thoughts that were swirling painfully, telling her life wasn’t worth the trouble. Those troubled thoughts will never be told, and are lost forever. That is a good thing – they couldn’t have been encouraging, or uplifting. Maybe Dani was too hard on them. This was a business, not personal and when she is hard on them, can they distinguish the two. In business its never personal.

Dani receives a call from the hostess stating that two gentlemen are here police department. They are waiting for her in the reception area. What information would she have for them? Jennifer’s job was stressful; at night she drowned her stress with alcohol, and dulled the pain of life with drugs. Dani couldn’t speak of her family or her past. Remember, the relationship is never personal. There are a thousand other girls just like her dealing with, and struggling with what they saw as inadequately lived lives…. Jennifer’s was a life that was supposed to be so much better, but somehow, and for some reason it wasn’t…Somewhere along the way things went terribly wrong….Atleast there was no more pain. Dani took the final drags of a lipstick stained cigarette and lumbered to the front of the house trying to figure out what to say. For maybe the first time ever, she had nothing.

A Saturday Night Off.....

2009-12-07T13:05:00.001-05:00

This writing gig seems to be getting harder and harder, as my life seems to be getting busier and busier but I am determined to keep it going, as it is so enjoyable from my end, keeps me striving towards my goals, and keeps me in constant reflection at my life and things that matter to me. I am sure that some of you laugh at the idea of writing about food and how that could translate into intense introspection. That is okay. At the end of the day I guess as long as we understand each other, where we are coming from, recognize that the presence of passion in life is paramount and is what makes waking up everyday meaningful , then it is a good thing that we all come from different backgrounds, ideologies and centers of passion. I am just grateful that I am passionate about something, that I have people with whom I can share it, and hopefully atleast some of you might be getting something out of it. I know I am. I know this writing will take me somewhere. Where? I am not quite sure yet….

I am in the process of writing a piece entitled “What We Do When We Are Not Working” ….. it is a story from this past weekend with my cousin Alec, and my buddy Vin. What do us restaurant workers that typically work every weekend night do when we get that infrequent night off. I worked the day shift so that I could get off work and watch the Alabama vs. Florida SEC Championship game………Rarely do I get the opportunity to have a weekend night off, but I was off by halftime, and sitting at the bar enjoying the game with my cousin over a couple of Yuenglings. Before the second half started, Alabama was winning by a considerable margin, we were both buzzed from a shot of Goldschlager, and I couldn’t have been happier. The night only got better…. Well more interesting…Foggy….. Foggy almost always means a good time, and yes a good time was had. Expect the full story in the coming days…. Hopefully Tuesday afternoon……

Our Culinary Roots

2009-11-27T12:20:00.001-05:00

Cut it like this. No, a little finer, and make sure it is straight….. It has to be straight or the dish won’t have any uniformity, any cohesion, any symmetry. The chef in slightly dirtied kitchen whites explains to his prep cook the importance of creating the perfect julienne, and how that translates to everything else he does. If you can’t cut the perfect julienne, how can you create a perfect brunoise? Similarly, in food, writer Michael Ruhlman’s “The Soul of a Chef”, Thomas Keller explains this very idea. He asks, “Do you really care about everything that’s going on or just the finished product…. Because it doesn’t begin with the plate. It begins when you wake up. It’s got to be a philosophy. You have to be determined, determined to do it everyday. If you are going to have a clean plate, you’ve got to have a clean oil bottle.” For Thomas Keller it started in south Florida, which took him to France then to New York, then eventually to California. His culinary resume doesn’t include the Culinary Institute of America, nor Le Cordon Bleu or one of the Art Institutes. He learned classically, in France the art and history of cooking, where they had been doing this for decades. He learned how to make clear stocks and how to fix a cloudy one, mastered hollandaise but most importantly he was taught to understand and respect the ingredients he was using – what they were, where they came from and why they were valuable. This type of cooking had been going on for centuries, for millennia – and it had been occurring for no other reason than the fact that people had to respect and understand the value of their ingredients to survive. There was no supermarket around every corner, nor 24 hour fast food stops, and to this day it is like that in many cultures throughout the world. Even for the cultures that have made the transition into the modern day world of mass transit and urban lifestyles, we still very closely associate their cultures with certain, seemingly, primitive foods. In Mexico there is a tripe stew called Menudo, in France they marvel over calves brains, beef tongue and other seemingly foreign edibles, in Russia it is liver in the form of a Pate. In the American south we use chicken livers and gizzards; dust them, fry them up and the tender mineral taste can be otherworldly. In Italy, as their fish begins to go bad they make a hearty soup out of whatever is available – Cippino. They call it a Bouliabiase in France. In Portugal they catch Cod fish, preserve it by curing it with salt and, and it is subsequently available for months. Simply soak the fish in some water, and it will reconstitute, bringing it back to life – making it, well, edible. In Italy they call this baccala. You get the idea. This type of cooking and creativeness was imperative for the well being of cultures of the world that existed before the transport of produce cross country, before chicken farms were infested with hormones, and the idea of farm raising a fish, oyster or a softshell crab seemed asinine. Anyone that appreciates good food, understands and appreciates this type of cooking, but we also understand it is humbling, and was created out of a primitive necessity. Techniques that have been around forever are still used today, but things have changed, for the better, and culinary skills have turned into an art form. We see this with the perfect julienne, a perfect brunoise, or using a bottle of oil laced with herbs to garnish a plate. Metal into making rings to create a perfectly round portion of risotto, creates a focus on presentation that never mattered before. It didn’t have to, and that is how it all began… that is our culinary roots…. We have come a long way, haven’t we? Of course we have, but really good cooking in a way always goes back to our roots, never undermines the importance of basic foods, and always respects the lives that were sacrificed to make what we eat, well, food…

Have a Great Thanksgiving Weekend.
CH

Thanksgiving Day

2009-11-26T15:43:00.002-05:00

I awoke with a surprisingly subtle headache after a night of prodigous drinking with my brother and some friends. It was an interesting night for us and the reasons why, I won't go into, but it was nevertheless a good night, and one that will not be easily forgotten. All afternoon we have been finalizing the menu for the day. I made a couple suggestions to the Apricot Sage Glaze we are using, I made an herb butter for injecting the Turkey, then helped my dad make our family friend Isaac's famous Bloody Marys, that are divinely laced with a wonderfully refreshing acidity from the lemons soaking in the large vat. It is time to get the Turkey in, and I need to make sure my sweater is dry. I hope everyone has a fantastic Thanksgiving. Enjoy it. Eat lots. Drink less, and enjoy the ones you are with.

Thoughts on Thanksgiving.... and Old Friends....

2009-11-22T14:14:00.003-05:00

We had a good weekend – busy. I just got called in to help with some faulty equipment at the restaurant. I guess when you live with your boss that kinda thing happens...and that's okay. Anyways, I just left - being able to break away for a couple hours, before having to return. Starbucks to write. Then gym. Then, like I said, back to work. Then Atlanta for Thanksgiving. I love my family…

Thanksgiving to me, is the holiest of days. It is a holiday that for me and my family, while staying consistent has evolved with age, time and maturity…. I can’t wait to be back in Atlanta, where Thursday morning I will awake to the already roasting turkey that will be seeping into the stuffing with its juices, creating the most glorious of smells....It is ironically a day of complete contradiction. A day of being thankful, and appreciative of the things we have, therefore we will eat until our bellies ache, drink so much that we create memories we can’t remember, and we are busy all day, but really aren’t busy at all. There are no meetings to attend, weddings, or concerts. We are busy spending time with the ones that we have been spending this holiday with for as long as we can remember....Some of them we see not nearly enough, and others perhaps too much. While family it is merely family maybe once every couple years there is an addition.... A spouse....a girlfriend... A family friend... or a new baby... but the dynamics rarely change and it is always the important things that matter most…..

I am sitting in starbucks right now... and as I think about my family and my favorite holiday, my buddy, Rene who is from Mexico, but living in Seattle, calls me on Skype. I haven’t talked to him in three years, and I have never before used Skype. When I saw his incoming call on my computer while writing about the nostalgia of family and those things that we are thankful for, it seemed like a perfectly fatalistic moment. We caught up, and after a couple minutes of talking, we realized nothing had changed. The moderate language barrier didn't matter. We were just as close as before. We joked back and forth, talked about how we both missed our families and each other, and talked about the good ole' day back in Atlana. It all seemed right, perfect. I, unlike him get to return home to my family, and that I am thankful for. Rene, well, his family is a couple thousand miles south, and he would go through several more years worth of holidays before seeing them again. I am thankful that my trip home is only an hour and a half south on a plane. I will board the plane Tuesday morning with others returning to see their loved ones as well. We will land at the busiest airport in the world, and be greeted with many more who will be just beginning their voyages home. Thanksgiving and family are, in a sense, synonymous. I guess in the end the important things aren’t all that hard to identify, and rarely truly change....

Storms + Macaroni and Cheese

2009-11-18T15:14:00.005-05:00

Last Thursday I didn’t leave the house. I opened the door to the patio and was greeted with spiraling winds and the persistent pounding of rain. I had never seen weather like this, or atleast not for this duration. It was like this for three days. Baxter -my boss, roommate and cousin went to the steakhouse attempting to rectify the gaping holes in the ceiling that subsequently ruined the carpet and private dining room over the following days. I offered to go into work at the Sports Lounge, but he insisted that no one would be out. The exits off the interstate into downtown Norfolk were closed. Granby Street was a wind tunnel and everyone was bracing for the worst of the storm that would occur at high tide that night. I watched two movies from my bed that afternoon - the lights were off all day, and I could have sworn that it was midnight at any point. I can’t remember the last time I just laid in bed, feeling no obligation to do anything.

On his way home from the steakhouse, he bought a variety of cheese – various cheddars, gouda, havarti gruyere and some parmesan - we worked on Macaroni and Cheese recipes. We made Rouxess, then Bechamels, then turned them into Mornays. We swapped suggestions, and ideas about what might make each taste better, creamier, or richer. A touch more salt, or pepper…. Maybe some garlic…. Or maybe some extra sharp Cheddar next time……too much roux, or milk…… We ate spoonful after spoonful of one of the great comfort foods…. It is one of those foods that everyone eats and most likely has a favorite recipe and almost always has associated memories of childhood. The rain had no signs of letting up, and the wind slapped the house as the dogs circled the kitchen hoping for a dropped spoonful of cheese coated pasta. They got lucky. Unfortunately the restaurant and the majority of Hampton Roads didn’t fare quite as well.....

Beginning of the Week

2009-11-16T11:47:00.004-05:00

Beginning of the week update. I hope everyone has enjoyed the most recent blog entries.... My hope is that you will continue to read while spreading the word. Things have been busy here (I guess that is what happens when you head out of town for 5 days), and my hands have been busy in a number of things, so over the last week or so I have had limited time to write, but I will have something new on Tuesday, and I think you will enjoy it. I have intentionally made entries longer, and less frequent with the hopes that people with their busy lives don't have to tune in everyday for new content, but at the same time, when they do check in I want it to be something enjoyable... something real.... and something that, well, makes it worth coming back to. Thanks for your support, and keep your ideas rolling in.... I guess I should start posting some recipes on here too.....

CCH

The Breakdown: A Short Story

2009-11-11T15:00:00.002-05:00

The incessant pounding of rain comes down on the world around me as I try to unify my thoughts…. My thoughts are cluttered, and the weather isn’t helping. Not in the least, so the blog I have for today is a short story I wrote a while back. Just so you know, it is NOT autobiographical, and is entirely a work of FICTION. No character described actually exists. The narrative is simply a loose interpretation of how easily our lives can spiral out of control. It is called “The Breakdown”, and it’s tone mirrors this dreary fall day.
I hope you enjoy.

THE BREAKDOWN

“Goddamnit,” he muttered. Debris flooded through the ceiling tile and onto table 20, the worst table in the restaurant. Every restaurant has a worst table, and Pat and Linda Johnson were sitting there tonight, and celebrating their wedding anniversary. Not to mention he is the president of the chamber of commerce. They needed to make him happy.
“Why does this shit have to happen tonight, to this table” he cursed under his breath making his way through the crowd over to their table, and continued audibly this time, “Folks I am so terribly sorry – Mrs. Johnson, let me have your hand,” he said, helping her out of her seat. The table was covered in dust, and detritus - the pounding of water against the seventy-five year old roof had taken its toll. He escorted them to a dimly lit, corner table that was supposed to be seated within minutes – the company accountant and his wife were bringing in their daughter and son-in-law. He was a pain in the ass anyway, he could wait. Besides, he eats for free.
“Why do we pay $6500 dollars a month in rent and they won’t fix this fucking building, huh Danielle,” Sammy the Maître’ D screamed across the bar, “It doesn’t make any Goddamn sense. Not a bit of sense – get me another glass of cabernet and a glass of chard,” he demanded trying to amend the situation. He wasn’t usually like this. Something was more wrong than usual. The Johnsons were first time diners, and it wasn’t the impression he wanted to make. Curse words stuck in his mind, and spun like a rolodex out of control.
Transforming into the personae he was paid to be was easy. This, he thought as he approached their table with a fresh glass of wine in each hand. He placed them adjacent to the water glasses that sat directly in front of the butter knives. The glasses had yet to be filled. “I am so terribly sorry – just so you know, everything you have tonight is on us, my most sincere apologies and please don’t hesitate to let me know if there is anything you might need. I am here for you.”
Sammy had a way of smoothing things over; he was a bullshit artist, and a master of his trade. Dressed in a two piece pinstripe suit that lay snug against his chest he walked towards the kitchen attempting to get things under control. A full restaurant saw the embarrassing sequence of events, and the dishwasher was now out in the dining room cleaning up, trying to hide the evidence. Mrs. Johnson had bits of rubbish nested in her graying hair, her charcoal shawl was specked with white, and Mr. Johnson’s navy blue blazer was now pinstriped and damp.
“Table 20 is now 41 – they moved – damn ceiling tile fell down right on top of them – right fucking on top of them. They are VIP – make sure it all comes out good – can you get me a tartare app on the fly – I wanna get something in front of them. “
“Actually I got one right here. Take this one - Hector I need one more Tartare to sell - now,” the chef uttered. He was nearly in the weeds.
“Thanks chef, I owe you one.”
He grabbed the plate and headed back over to the Johnsons who were now laughing at the situation. Their wine was void of debris, their table clean, and their plates were shiny.
“Folks I have our signature trio of tartares – beef , bison and venison. I hope you will enjoy,” he smiled finding a place in the middle of the table that would be accessible for both of them.
“This looks fantastic. Thank you so much, that is very kind of you…… Oh, and just so you know, I have a great roof guy – he would probably come out here tonight if you really needed him,” Mr. Johnson said teasing, knowing the torrential rain didn’t seem to be going anywhere. There was now a bucket of water on table 20 nearly full,catching the water that dripped from overhead.
“Very funny sir – you have a better sense of humor than I do. I would still be cursing right now if I were you.”
“Actually it is my brother, and he does great work. I will give you a card before we leave, I think I have one buried in this purse of mine.” This, Mrs. Johnson chimed in as Sammy leaned over, brushing specks of white from her husband’s shoulder.
“I might have to take you up on that offer. Y’all enjoy the rest of your evening, and I will check back in a bit. Just so you know, the sauce drizzled over the bison has a bit of heat and tends to sneak up on some people – so be careful!”
Sammy made his way towards the hostess stand, knowing he had fixed that situation, but there was now a restless crowd. They were assembled around the podium like protesters. Every table was full, and the hostess was nowhere to be found. She was probably on a smoke break at 7:30 on a Friday night. Sounds about right. The accountant Mr. Gibbs was loud, excessively annoying and trying to ensure that Sammy knew he was not only there, but was also waiting. He made every attempt to divert the situation.
“Sammy, come on baby – we have been waiting for fifteen minutes. Whatcha got for me,” Gibbs yelled across the crowd of people.
“I am working on it sir – It won’t be too much longer. Mrs. Gibbs you look beautiful tonight. Y’all go grab a couple of martinis while you wait for your daughter to arrive and we should have something ready for you shortly,” he said, hoping to ease the situation. Sammy then walked away, and into the office. There were too many people out there, and each needed something. A drink. An ashtray, or maybe a cigar cutter. They tug at his shirt trying to steal his attention. Sammy, could you talk to my four top, one of their steaks was overcooked, and they are being a real dick about it. Sammy, is my table ready? Just wanted to say hi. Hi. Is that a new suit, it fits you so well. Mom and Dad why are you here tonight, I told you we were full and there aren’t any cancellations. The roof caved in on a busy night. Goddamnit. Why tonight?
The restaurant one night at a time was destroying his life. He was only 29. He reached for a paper bag, then breathed into it– inflating and deflating it rhythmically. He reached for his pouch of pills, grabbing two, and a bottle of water – medicine always seemed to help. There was a restaurant out there; a kitchen that was buried, waiters were knee deep in the weeds, and a bar piled with drunks. Concurrently, food piled in the kitchen and soon there would be nowhere to put it, and no one to deliver to the appropriate table. The food runner only had 2 hands. On the computer he pulled up the cameras that documented nearly everything going on in the restaurant…. Everything that was going on outside the door he was too petrified to open. The cameras confirmed what he thought. This place was going down in flames. His hands were shaking, and the beat of his heart couldn’t keep pace with the anxiety presiding over him.
“I need a drink – a fucking drink,” he said over and over, reaching for the bottle of scotch hiding in the office. It was Macallan 12 year. Pulling the top off, he tilted his head back and swallowed. One, two, three. Therapeutic was the burn of alcohol, so he took one more generous sip, emptying the bottle, and fell into his chair knowing he had to face the crowd outside before things worsened. The agonizing pound of his heart dissipated over the next couple minutes, and his hands ceased to shake. The medicine had done its trick. Before heading back into the restaurant Sammy swung the safe door open and pulled out a ziplock bag, emptied enough powder to get him through the night, lined it up, and leaned towards it…….

“Sammy, Sammy – are you in there, open the goddamn door.”
It was loud and the clatter of people made it hard to distinguish whose voice it was. Sammy, laying in the same chair as before, looked at his watch, which now read 10:15PM – three hours from when he originally escaped to the office. His white shirt was tinted red and a strip of dried blood had crusted and ran the length of his face and down to his shirt collar. His shirt was soaked with perspiration as he sat, choosing to ignore the voices outside. The ziplock bag had fallen to the ground and emptied itself onto the floor of the office. It was smeared into the carpet creating a white cloud in the contrasting, dark checkered carpet. Moments later the door swung open, and a crowd of coworkers peered in.
“What the fuck is going on – get out of here,” he pleaded.
Bob McFadden entered, pushed the crowd away and closed the door behind him. He had a right to be here – he was the owner, and had been drinking at the bar when the chef alerted him of Sammy’s absence. McFadden was a large man with a demanding presence. He looked at Sammy for a couple of moments trying to gather the right words.
“Sammy,” he paused, “What is going on?”
“Bobby, I don’t really know – I don’t. I… I….I broke – I couldn’t handle it,” he responded, glossy eyed and sedated.
Mcfadden kicked the empty plastic bag towards the trash can, shaking his head, and paused. For longer this time.
“Look at you…. Let’s get you out of here. Chef can close up tonight. I will give him some keys and we can do the money later,” the boss insisted with visible disappointment.
“Did the Johnson’s leave happy,” Sammy questioned, diverting the attention.
“They did, they actually said you were great.”

Sammy actually was great… always. Atleast from a distance. From someone looking in from the outside…. someone from the audience. He is a thespian. The curtains eventually draw, and Sammy exits stage left, returning to the green room, He will hang his costume in the wardrobe and wash his face of makeup. Beneath it all is a tormented soul – a soul masked by an award winning performance. A performance that is put on every night. Alcohol and drugs had taken hold of him. They had gripped his soul and wouldn’t let go. The Johnsons would never know this. Neither would the Gibbs, or most of his coworkers. Guests would come in, and enjoy great food in one of Atlanta’s prized settings. That is what they were supposed to do. Their enjoyment was fundamentally dissociated from the performance put on by Sammy and the others that make this play go on. They are all actors. They all go home to their own lives of dysfunction. Lives of crying babies, their nearly foreclosed homes, and their love affair ruined lives. One of the cooks at the end of the night returns to the Fulton County jail where he is serving the last six months of a four year prison sentence. No one would have ever guessed. Here, it is their job, and they are paid to leave it all behind. At some point it all begins to catch up with you - there is nowhere else to run, no one else to turn to, and no one else to confide in.
McFadden walks Sammy out the back door where waiters and cooks gossip. They amble to his car and McFadden, from the remote on his key unlocks the car. They get in. A few words exchange before exhaust begins to pump from the back of the car, mingling with the humid air. The fogged windows hide the vehicle’s occupants as they drive out of view, leaving the busy restaurant in order to tend to more important things, the things that really matter. Atleast the Johnsons enjoyed the rest of their meal. Speaking of that.
“Did you get a business card from Mrs. Johnson before they left…. She was saying that her brother does roofing and we could maybe use his help since the damn landlord can’t seem to get it right” Sammy chimed in beginning to come out of sedation.
“I sure did – I was gonna give him a call in the AM, and I figured by the time you get back, we will have it all fixed up.”
“Back from where,” Sammy questioned.
“Let’s get you some help – I think you could use some,” Sammy’s boss suggested in the most earnest of tones.
They sat for a couple of moments in silence. Then Mcfadden turned the radio on so that it was barely audible. Sammy knew not to fight it.
“Okay, I can do that, let me get some rest tonight and we can talk about it tomorrow. Will you promise me one thing though,” he asked.
“Anything in the world,” Mcfadden insisted anticipating a serious request
“Let’s invite the Johnson’s back the night after the roof is fixed. I think they earned it tonight.”
“It’s a deal. I just hope it rains, they sit at table 20, and we don’t end up taking care of their tab again.”
Mcfadden patted Sammy on the back, rubbed his shoulders and smiled over at him. He was the father Sammy never had. Maybe that is what it all came back to. Sammy would have plenty of time in the coming weeks to think about that and the other plagues of his adult life. His time to start thinking started now, on his ride through the city back to his lonesome three bedroom house on a night he would never forget. Maybe it’s a good thing the tile over table 20 came crashing down. This he thought, and smiled, thinking about the debris that was probably still sitting loosely in the gray curly hair of Pat Johnson.

The Unwanted Job: The Dishwasher

2009-11-09T15:28:00.003-05:00

The silhoutte of Atlanta’s skyline is ingrained in my memory, and the gold flecked capitol building has tinted itself in my mind. Forever. This place will always be home I keep thinking as the train rides into the tunnel towards the airport, hiding itself from the city. This journey South through the city has come to an end and it is one that has come to be all too frequent. I know the train stops like the back of my hands, and the people riding this train look eerily familiar, people I see in my dreams, and while driving, though none I know or have ever really seen. I am returning to a different kind of home, one away from my family with whom I shared the last weekend with – one of the greatest weekends of my life.
************

From the time he clocks in, he throws an apron over his neck and then ties it around his waist, fastening it close to his body, and is working harder than anyone else in this restaurant. The dish area is piled high from an afternoon’s worth of prep done by the opening cooks who hustled trying to get the kitchen caught up for dinner service after a busy weekend. Busy, receiving orders all morning the opening cooks were behind within moments of arriving. That’s how it always is on Mondays. Dirtied cutting boards, sauce slopped Robot Coups and bacon greased baking sheets were piled high in front of Margaro’s station, the Dish Pit. This was all to be done before anyone actually sat down to eat in this restaurant. He clocked in at 4PM and knew what to expect – it was a Monday after a busy weekend – this was his work, and he did it with fortitude and grace, never undermining the importance of his job. While yes, the dishwasher’s job isn’t one requiring high skill, it does require patience and strength to press on when dirty dish after dirty dish comes rolling in from the kitchen, dining room and bar. He scrapes, sprays and runs a load through the machine, then again – ensuring it’s cleanliness then stows it appropriately. Finally caught up from the earlier kitchen mess, Margaro sprays down the final sauce pot which was used for Beef Stock and rubs it feverishly with steel wool, placing it upside down in the machine, then presses the start button and walks away. He wipes his dirty hands on the bar towel that hangs from his waist, makes his way to the back of the building and pulls a cigarette from the half smoked pack in his back pocket. In the kitchen, Margaro is in his own world – communicating efficiently and infrequently – only when necessary and only when it involves work. On break though, he enjoys a single cigarette with the other kitchen guys before the chaos of dinner service has begun – it was a Monday though, and there were only 45 reservations in the books, meaning that he would most likely get the opportunity to sneak one more smoke in before the night was over. For Margaro it wasn’t an addiction, but rather a chance to step outside of the hot, steam packed kitchen whose temperature on a good night hovered around 85 degrees.
The night went smooth – plates from waiters were brought into the kitchen and scraped of any remaining food before being stacked appropriately near the dish area, where Margaro would seize them once a considerable pile had accumulated. The same was done with a steaming hot trough of silverware. Waiters tossed forks and knives, splashing the soap spiked water onto the already damp floor below. Cooks stepped around Margaro, tossing their final scorching hot sauté pans into the adjacent, half full sinks. By the time he would get around to cleaning them, the skillets would have lost all of their heat to the water in which they were bathing. “Caliente, Caliente guey,” echoes through the kitchen throughout the night indicating that yes, the pans are extremely hot. This is the last time Margaro would hear those words tonight. It was done. After 57 covers, and an early last call, the night was over.

Mexican mariachi music sways from the kitchen signifying the upbeat mood of the staff that is nearly finished closing up. Foods are wrapped and placed in the refrigerators, as certain sauces and side dishes are placed into smaller, more economical pans, The smaller pans are wrapped tightly as well, then dated, signifying when the contents inside should be used. The final dishes come over from the kitchen and are stuffed with dirty knives. The last stack of clean plates is placed above the expo window denoting their readiness for use the following day. After a couple more loads, Margaro cleans his machine, then mops the floor – attempting to free the kitchen tile of the grime that has accumulated since the restaurant opened years ago. Confident no more dishes are lurking, the dishwasher is turned off, as is the music, and is then followed by the light. Into the computer Margaro punches his four digit number for the second time today, indicating his work was done for the day. He tosses his filthy apron into the linen hamper, collects his belongings and wanders out to the front of the house, the part of the restaurant where he doesn’t really belong. The bar and the rest of the kitchen staff sip over a beer at the bar as he walks out the back door, barely able to catch the last train home. His plain white t-shirt is clean except for the areas that were uncovered by his apron, and it sits loosely around his narrow torso. Margaro’s black pants are bleach-stained around the ankles and his socks are soaked down to his toes - pruning and further callousing his worn out feet. After speeding past three metro stops worth of city lights and tunnels, Margaro peels himself out of the last row of the last rail car that is on it’s last run of the night. The walk to his one bedroom apartment was a half mile, and was enjoyed with a cigarette, while reflecting on the tiring day that is now over, and of the family he loves which is so far away. His four children and wife live in Mexico, and the sacrifices he had made are hard to comprehend. He works six days a week ….. Six hard days that result in enough money to send back home to his wife and kids….Enough to offer them a life of luxury, a life he never knew.
Walking into his lonely, bare boned apartment, Margaro turns on the stereo that sits above the pawn shop television, and the same Mariachi music from the restaurant begins to simmers softly, increasing in volume until he is content. He pulls a Tecate from the refrigerator, cracks it open and walks out to the front porch, leaving the door cracked so that the music coming from the living room was perfectly audible. He drinks the first beer quickly, grabs one more and a handful of chicharrones he fried just before work. The evidence of fried pork still lingers subtly in the air.
***
While thinking about those nights of Margaro sitting on that porch, rocking back and forth, singing inaudibly to the music that takes him to his homeland, I can’t help but think about how much he truly misses his family, and the wonderfully unselfish life he has chosen to live - all for them. Most nights he would return from work too late to call home, since his wife and children had long since retired for the night – they were living their own lives, and would awake to their own obligations and responsibilities. After having lived four years in the United States, how much longer could he work these long hours away from his family? When would he move back to the ones he sacrificed everything for? Based on experience, I have a suspicion it could be another four years, and at that point his children would never recognize him, and a life without him would almost seem normal……
Margaro will finish off the better part of a six pack and ache his way into the bedroom, falling into bed - forgetting to mute the music that would play throughout the ill-furnished and modestly sized apartment into the morning hours. He will wake up in a few short hours and do it all again. Atleast he will wake to the music of Mexico, and there will be pictures of the ones he cares about on the table next to him. He will shower, dress, and grab some more chicharrones for the road. The restaurant was awaiting him with a pit full of dishes, half full trash cans, and a stereo sitting above his station ready to take him home…........

Weeds - Weeds - Weeds -

2009-11-04T10:59:00.002-05:00

For those of you who don't know what it is like to work in a restaurant on a busy night, here is a glimpse into that life......atleast the way I see it........Enjoy.

“I will have the Filet Mignon special, medium rare, with a side of béarnaise and for an appetizer the beef carpaccio. For the wife how about the snapper special, but if you don’t mind, please put the sauce on the side, then for an appetizer she will have the shrimp cocktail. With dinner please bring us each a glass of the oakiest chardonnay you have,” Mr. Benson screamed across the table trying to battle the crowd, hoping Russell Hodges, the most veteran waiter at this top notch steakhouse, would hear. Russell gives him a thumbs up, signifying he had everything locked in his brain, atleast for the time being. He better hurry over to the computer to type their orders in before his brain lets him down. Russell has six tables right now and is in the weeds, and at this point everything running through your brain begins running together. Waiting for Russell at the bar are two grey goose martinis that are extra dirty for the Bensons – the thin sheet of ice over the top of the martinis has now melted, signifying the elapsed time since the vodka was strained into the glass. Additionally, there is an Amstel Light, a Budweiser and a bottle of California Pinot Noir for the couple in the corner that is celebrating their 20th year anniversary. They called ahead and notified the maitre’d of the occasion and he in turn adorned the table with rose petals, started them with two glasses of sparkling wine, and treated them to a complimentary appetizer as well. They were pleased, but suffered from Russell being overly busy and unable to maintain his section. The maitre’d could tell and kept a close eye on Russell’s section. His walls were about to come down, and there was nothing he could do about it except to keep going. Two of his tables had paid, one was relaxing over coffee while the other sipped on the last sips of an 18 year old scotch… neither seemed to be in any hurry. This would help buy some time. Sweat dripped from his chin as he began his voyage to the bar.

The bar area is completely full with no passageway for the cocktail waitresses and servers. They are forced to dive through the crowd that is talking, drinking, and enjoying the music coming from the baby grand piano that is tucked away in the corner. Couples dance, while businessmen ash their cigars at a nearby table looking on – the customers are having a good time and are oblivious to the intense work that every single employee is currently dealing with. It is stressful, and all Russell wants right now is a beer and a shot of jager. That time will come in a couple hours, but for now he is buried with guests, 18 of them right now. After fighting his way to the bar and back to the dining room he delivers the martinis to the Bensons’ table, hands the overweight businessman in pinstripes his Amstel Light, his colleague the Budweiser then presents the bottle of wine to the anniversary couple. He nervously and frantically begins opening the bottle of wine, knowing his food for them was probably up in the kitchen window and starting to cool. He still needed to mark his six top with steak knives since their meals would be arriving soon, and drop off a cocktail fork for Mrs. Benson’s shrimp cocktail. After pouring the wine, Russell placed the bottle in a bucket next to the table that was filled with ice, keeping the bottle cold until they were ready for another glass. He then draped a white napkin over the bucket, and made his way to the kitchen, but not before another bead of sweat slipped off his bony cheek and soaked into the same white napkin covering the wine. Russell brushed the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his white oxford, and tossed his curly gray hair behind his ears. Weaving in and out of tables he made it to the kitchen where Jeff, the newest server had begun garnishing the plates, handing them to him. Hurrying to the table, Russell with four plates in his hands cursed under his breath remembering that he had forgotten to bring them steak knives. The plates were placed on the table accordingly, and he began the trek back to the kitchen but was interrupted when the host of the party asked for two bottles of Stags Leap Cabernet – a Napa Valley favorite. Russell nodded his head, and returned to the kitchen, moving faster than he has all night. More weeds. There are too many things to do – he asks one of the waiters if they could drop off six wine glasses to his party, and tells the food runner that the Bensons were ready for their appetizers, that they would probably be sharing and that they would need two appetizer plates, which he forgot before when he dropped of the cocktail fork. At the computer he prints out a check for his four top that is now done, and have passed on dessert, then orders the two bottles of Stags Leap. The bottles of wine are at the bar when he arrives within the minute, grabs them, drops off the recently printed check and begins presenting the wine to the host of the party. He asks and ensures that all of the steaks were cooked properly. They were. The kitchen is good – really good, and Antonio on the grill has beef cookery down to a science. He has been doing this for as long as Russell has been waiting tables. Russell pours each of the gentlemen a glass and thinks that he is almost caught up, and might be able to smoke half a cigarette in the next couple of minutes. The thought of nicotine plays with his mind. Cigarette smoke from the bar wanders into the dining room, as he walks by the Bensons who are now enjoying their appetizers. The beef carpaccio has a beautiful drizzle of truffle aioli that Mrs. Benson soaks up with bread the bus boy just dropped off. Russell walks by each of his tables making sure no one needs anything, then pours another half glass of wine into the glasses of the anniversary couple that smiles with half full mouths. He returns to the computer remembering the two glasses of wine that he needed to deliver for the Bensons when their entrees arrived. The wine would be waiting for him at the bar upon returning from his cigarette break. He passes by the window looking food that might be ready and then checks with his fellow servers to see if there was anything he could do to help them. He prances out the back door fleet footed and excited for that first taste of nicotine since the night began. Outside it is dark, and cold, and loud from the noise within. The nearby dumpster smells of rotten fish and stagnant water has collected near the door. A bowl filled with sand is overly filled with cigarette butts – most of which are half smoked, because no one in the middle of a restaurant shift has time for a full cigarette.

The night winds down. Tables are cleared, and then redressed with silverware napkins and appropriate glassware. Tea lights illuminating individual tables slowly disappear, as the wicks, then flames slowly run out of fuel. One after the other extinguishes darkening the room that is now nearly empty aside from bus boys who are sweeping the floor and refilling the salt and pepper shakers that sit uniform on every table. They joke in Spanish and wave goodbye to the Bensons, the last patrons to leave the dining room. The front door creaks behind them and the valet brings their Mercedes around to the front of the building. The bus boys scamper over to that last table which has been cleared aside from the two glasses of chardonnay which are finally empty and smudged with fingerprints. One is painted with red lipstick nearly all the way around the rim. The servers congregate near the bar chain smoking and retelling the night, counting their money. The restaurant did 190 covers, a better than average Saturday night- everyone made money, everyone is tired, and everyone is ready for a drink. Danielle pours each a shot of jagermeister. The glasses are drained instantaneously, and the group heads out the front door and into the world outside these walls, towards the bar across the street. Danielle will follow closely behind, escorted by two of the three bus boys. Margaro the dishwasher will see himself out the back door, hoping to catch the last bus home. At the bar Russell finds a seat with the rest of the service staff, enjoying the simple pleasure of sitting down after a long night, orders a beer and another shot – and a couple shots of tequila for the bus boys that would be arriving momentarily. After a couple rounds they call it a night and wander towards their appropriate cars waving goodbye to one another. Russell unlocks the driver’s side door to his Jeep, hops in and the cold leather of his seat chills his body. Tossing his apron and it’s contents into the backseat, he starts the engine, lights a cigarette and screeches out of the parking lot puffing smoke out the side of his barely cracked window. It was a normal Saturday night. Stressful, tiring, and exhilarating. Russell will do it again next Saturday. It will most likely be busy again, and the same need for Jagermeister will be present. The taste of black licorice never gets old after a hectic night in a restaurant.

Barcelona Part II - The End of the Story

2009-11-02T14:16:00.002-05:00

Walking through the corridor attaching the kitchen to the dining room, we followed closely behind the waiter who was laden in all white, aside from a beige ankle length apron that was fastened around his waist swinging with every step, wrapping around his legs. A wine tool hung from his back right pocket, and the stencil of a pack of cigarettes was outlined in the other. He motioned for us to seat ourselves in the corner table, which appeared to be the only current vacancy. The dining room modest in size had a dozen tables, all holding two or four people and were lined up bistro style, except for a round table in the middle of the room. A 5 person bar sat against the wall contiguous to the kitchen. There were two waiters – Ernesto our waiter, plus one other - a short, stocky older man who seemed to be friends with each of his guests. Ernesto brought us a wine list, and in passable Spanish I asked, and pointed for the Txacoli - an interestingly complex and very unique Basque white wine.

The interior was musky and dark, with attractive, black cherry wood floors – the perfect contrast to the starched white linen hanging over each table. There were two square windows adjacent to the front door that looked into the lazy street outside. It was entirely dark aside from the occasional storefront lantern. From time to time young couples passed by walking their dogs casting enormous shadows along the cobblestone streets behind them. Our waiter returned in no particular hurry with our bottle of wine, and an amuse bouche of prawns over a nest of salsa romesco. He poured her's first, and then mine and placed the bottle behind the salt and pepper grinder. He pointed to a nondescript chalkboard hanging behind the bar, and written were the day's offerings. The chalk was faded, smeared and I was under the impression that this board didn't change all that frequently. Included were all of the unique Catalan favorites that the Barcelonans cherish - Sarsuela - a seafood combination with white wine, sherry and paprika, Fideua - a cousin of paella, and other local favorites including rabbit, snails and poultry. He merely gave us a thumbs up and smiled. Anna's glass met mine as we rubbed the final bites of our prawns in the last of the nutty, vibrantly orange salsa romesco, while chatting about the remainder of our six weeks in Western Europe. We were at the halfway point, and would be traveling to the Italian Riviera in a few short hours - a new country speaking a new language along a different strip of the Mediterranean Sea. We spoke of the amazing places and things we had seen thus far on our trip, spoke of life back home, how we missed our families but how we never really wanted to go home. Every day was a new adventure, a new cultural experience and this dinner was no exception. After a few short minutes two plates were placed in the middle of our already overcrowded table. We played chess with the various preexisting items in front of us - rearranging things in an orderly fashion that would allow us to eat comfortably. We never ordered anything. We smiled at each other, looked at Ernesto who was chatting with the chef and bowed our heads in appreciation. He returned the gesture. We were given Sarsuela, and the other dish - it was rabbit loin with currants and a smokiness of paprika served over a wildly aromatic saffron rice. We ate, marveling at the unique flavors of Spain. It wasn't European, nor North African, nor Mediteranean. It was all of those braided together and was wonderfully harmonious. We cherished the incredible meal from the back alleys of Barcelona while the restaurant slowly emptied out. We enjoyed the remaining sips of our wine, chatted with Ernesto about this city, where we were from, and why we were here. Conversation was minimal and elementary, since there was an obvious language barrier, one that couldn't be hurdled with my many years of school taught Spanish.

For dessert we sipped on sherry and when our glasses were dry and I asked for “la cuenta” Ernesto notified us that our meal had been taken care of. At this point the chef was sitting at the bar with a brown tinted aperitif, and a stack of papers with a pen behind his ears. There was still a meat thermometer in the sleeve of his chef’s coat, and he was going over the night while determining what needed to be purchased at the local farmer's market the following morning. Anna and I approached him. His face was dark and tinted with a combination of two to three day old black and gray hair. I introduced myself and grasped his hand, shaking it firmly - it was rough and calloused, signifying the life of a restaurant chef.

"Thank you so much for wonderful meal, that was too kind," I said with extreme gratitude.
"No, thank you. It has been nearly a month since an American has walked through these front doors, we are hard to find for most of you guys," he responded with, well, what seemed like an American accent.
"I find that hard to believe, but I guess you are a little off the beaten path. Your food was fantastic though. Every bite of it," I insisted, and then continued," If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?"
"Me, oh I am from Boston originally, but that was many moons ago. I visited Barcelona when I was about your age. I was in culinary school and wanted to get away, had to get away, so I decided to do my externship here and never left. Being from Boston I had to be by the water, but the weather here - the culture here - the people here - you can't beat it. I couldn't leave. So here I am twenty something years later."
"Wow, that is incredible," Anna responded.
"So here you are - that really is incredible. I wish I could do something like that.... that we could do something like that," I said, then thought about the implications of what that would mean.
"Why can't you?" He inquired.
*****

I didn't really have an answer. Neither did she. Several moments passed and he smiled at us, shrugged his shoulders, then poured another scotch and offered us one - we passed. The rest of the night that question wandered through my head. Why couldn't I do that? Why couldn't I live that life? A life that is real, emotion driven and passionate......

The door swung behind us, muting the music within. We left the empty restaurant and found ourselves on an equally empty street under a cloudless sky, exposing the wondrous stars above. These were the same stars illuminating a similar sky across the mighty Atlantic Ocean, in a land very far from here. The flicker of flames from gas powered lanterns swung back and forth with the wind, and the smell of the salty sea took hold of me. It was eerily quiet except for the infrequent howl of a distant dog, or the chatter of Spanish drifting from one of the nearby porches. Though together, the walk back towards Las Ramblas was forlorn and introspective. Our thoughts coincided - thinking about the lives we were living, what they meant, what we were destined to do, and who we were to become. Slightly buzzed and full from a fantastic, authentic Catalan meal, we walked back towards a world we were more familiar with, a world that was safe and one which was filled with tourists that would return to their own lives, just like we would be doing at some point soon.

Barcelona - Part 1

2009-10-29T12:17:00.000-04:00

The streets of Barcelona were bombarded with tourists and the smell of the salty air with it's healing power fortunately had the ability to clense my pores from the toxins that my body acquired last night at the discoteca. It was a night that ended at 5 AM, and was one that consisted of exotic tourists, a $50 cover, a $100 Euro bar tab, and five floors of utter insanity. It was an American nightclub on steroids... or maybe on ecstacy... yeah that is probably more accurate. Techno music blasted until the wee morning hours, and that is all I remember. Not sure if that's a good thing, I have a sneaking suspicion it's probably not. My liver is screaming at me, as my head whispers angrily into my subconscious......

We awoke at noon attempting to sleep off the hangovers from last night's insanity. Glass was shattered on the floor beside me - how it got there, I have no clue. I am trying to piece back together the night. I fail miserably. Shots of absinthe coupled with local Spanish wine clouded my mind as we discussed our plans for the day. We decided on Park Guell - a park that sits atop Barcelona looking down over the beautiful, ever changing, though historic city with the water of the mediteranean as a backsplash to this wonderous setting. Extraordinary mosaics, and statues line the park that was created by the Spanish artist Gaudi - it is marvelous and an inspiration to every tourist that ascends those steep steps to the top of this park that gazes down on the world below. Cars are tiny ants, trees are blades of grass, and buildings, I suppose they are pebbles. The ocean is bluer than blue, and a pencil thin strip of white is the beach - the last bit of land before the vast, endless ocean. The view from atop is spectacular and my girlfriend and I wandered the park, hand in hand with a crisp white wine, that wasn't nearly cool enough. This didn't matter though. We were content, and without a care in the world.... nothing else seemed to matter.....atleast for the time being.

We wandered down to the bottom of the park, and in my broken Spanish I told the cabbie we were heading to Las Ramblas, the entertainment district - he smiled and responded in English, nodding his head. We weaved in and out of the narrow streets of Barcelona at a frightening pace and he pointed, showing us all of the local attractions that we wouldn't get to experience since we were leaving Barcelona in the morning. We would be off to a new, and different city on this cultural adventure through Europe. We arrived at our destination where the streets were lined with vendors, restaurants, bars and boutiques. The area was congested, overcrowded with tourists and full of energy. Locals and tourists alike lounge on patios sipping sangria and eating appetizers of pulpo, tortilla and an assortment of olives paired with local cheeses and artisan breads. The sun is decending upon this beautiful city as we decide to venture off the beaten path in hopes of finding some authentic cuisine... something real.... We find an alley that seems to lead to know where - exactly what we are looking for. The cobblestone streets are rugged, seemingly centuries old and are ill-suited for vehicle traffic. There are no street lights, and the only sign of life is restaurant employees - we are apparently on the back side of a restaurant and they are on a smoke break, joking in Spanish, living their ordinary lives. We smile and they motion for us to enter. Why not? We are lead into the restaurant through the back door, the chef glares at us as he diligently sautees local seafood in their undersized kitchen. The restaurant is dark, with wood, and stone..... one thing is missing though.......

This is the end of Today's Blog - Tune in tomorrow for the =continuation.......

A Perfect Meal

2009-10-26T14:06:00.000-04:00

The rastafarian next to me on the train is banging on his bongos like we are on the beach somewhere tropical. He is wearing earphones and seems to be the only one not bothered by the insane ruckus he is making. We are very far from tropical - the middle of the urban epicenter of the south, Atlanta, on a train nonetheless. Some of us are heading to work....some to school.... me, I am off to the airport to return to the life of a restaurant manager - a life of unparalled absurdity..... one of long, often unappreciated hours. I have just realized I left my keys at my parents house. These keys grant me access to my house, the restaurant, and my car. I guess I should get off at the next stop and turn around. I can always board a later flight.
Besides, that gives me more time to write. I need this time......

***

After a three hour ride through the countryside of Georgia, up the foothills of North Carolina and around their mountains and cliffs with the prestigious view of the world below, we arrive in Cashiers, NC. This is my Aunt Cynthia's house and this place is a sanctuary, however on this night it was dark, rainy, and cold; never a fun or desirable combination. The reason for the trip was a family reunion
for my mother's side of the family, the Porters - a family that I had never met, and knew nothing about, except that a quarter of my genes came from here. In the preceeding weeks, we were all given a family tree and other tidbits of information that might prove useful in unearthing and explaining a side of me that I simply knew
nothing about. My mother passed away before I ever got to know her as an adult, and shortly there after my cousins, my only attachment to the Porter side of the family moved away, thus here I was in North Carolina, with 30 people who I had never met. At the same time we had so very much in common, and it didn't take long to realize this.
We were crowded around the kitchen, living room and porch, chatting, playing games, and drinking in order to warm our souls from the cold air outside, while the translucent smell of a dijon crusted pork tenderloin roasting in the over began toying with our taste buds, as the apple and white wine chutney simmered away on the stove, gracing us with the wonderous flavors and aromas of fall. Bluegrass music whispered softly from the speakers overhead, and I was nominated to carve the meat a mere moments after walking in the door, not yet having met all of the people who by the end of the weekend I could truly call family. I took a quick swig of Woodford Reserve and headed into the kitchen. I asked my cousin Seth for a refill, thinking I would need one. Yes, more alcohol please. We had 16 pounds of screaming hot pork cooked perfectly, though not by me - I was just here for my knife skills. Apparently a number of my relatives had begun reading my blog and were insistent on seeing my skills at work. Though, the real skill was my Aunt Cynthia taking the meat out at the exact right moment, allowing it to rest for a couple of minutes, and at this point it would be nearly impossible to screw up. They marveled as a sliced the meat in 1/4 biased slices, exposing the pink tinted flesh within. They all cheered as the final pieces were plated and a generous portion of the apple chutney was then sprinkled on top. It was beautiful, and tasted just as good. It was served with winter vegetables, and some salad. As we enjoyed the thoughtfully cooked meal, stories were told, jokes were had, and we caught up on the decades of life we had spent without each other. We drank whiskey, and wine, ate homemade apple pies, and enjoyed each other's company until the wee hours of the morning.

I think a lot about the meals of my life. I often sit in my kitchen with a glass of wine or a beer mulling over menu ideas and recipes. I often create a really unique meal for myself, and I always plate it up like I am in a restaurant kitchen - I squeeze sauce over the meat, garnish the plate appropriately, and determine how it would fare in any high end restaurant. This is a meal that I have chosen to eat alone, but have spent no less time or put any less effort into. I equally enjoy going to restaurants with a beautiful girl on a date, or having a summer bbq with friends under the hot sun with cold beer and a football, but the meals and times I most remember are the ones that tend to happen with special people in special places in unordinary circumstances. My favorite foods don't necessarily correlate to my favorite meals. But rather those meals are.....Sharing tapas in an off the beaten path tapas bar in San Sebastian, Spain with the girl I, at one point, thought I would marry. Christmas with my family eating Lobster, spraying lobster juices in every conceivable direction. My first oyster with my best friend in Nantucket as a frightened ten year old - that was for a bet, and I won. Shrimp and Grits at my buddy Rich's wedding - seeing him happier than I ever thought imaginable. These are meals, but more than that they are memories, and have positive feelings and emotions attached. They were in special places with special people. So, yes I love Foie Gras, and I can't tell you how many fantastic, perfectly cooked Filet Mignon's I have had at Hal's Steakhouse, but if you were to ask me what my dying meal would be, it would be one that is based on a very unique and special memory.. When the great chefs of the world are asked what their dying meal would be they almost always respond with their favorite soup from their mother as a child, or the fried chicken their grandmother made until she died when they were adolescents. Yes, food is fantastic, and has the potential to truly take us somewhere else, but more often than not the thought of my favorite meals take me somewhere else - maybe home.... maybe to the coast or to Europe, or maybe to the mountains of North Carolina with the glorious Porter family that I have come to truly love. I guess when you think about it..... The food isn't really that important if everything else falls into place.......

The next morning we had locally stone ground grits, venison sausage which was also local, scrambled eggs and sourdough toast. I had three cups of coffee on the porch and looked into the crystal clear valley below. The colors of red, orange and yellow hung from the trees below, and smoke faded upwards into the sky from the fireplace that was glowing a beautiful hue of orange, sending the smell of burning wood into my mind. It doesn't get any better than this. It is now time for a hike - I just hope I am not too full, or hungover.... Hell, if I am, it is Saturday and it is the fall.... there is always college football.....

*****
The plane is making it's initial descent into Virginia, and I should probably go ahead and send this before my computer batter dies or the flight attendant verbally assaults me. I hope you all enjoy. Who knew family reunions could be so much fun? I had a sneaking suspicion they could be.....

Tailgating - Does It Get Any Better Than This?

2009-10-23T12:14:00.000-04:00

RVs roll in by the dozen. They exit off I-2o coming in both directions and head towards the outskirts of campus. They start arriving on Thursday, and on some big game weekends their influx starts on Wednesday - beginning their massive takeover of our institution for the next few days. The parking lots around our beautiful campus methodically fill up with die hard football fans who will soon begin their tailgating festivities. This is a cult following that every saturday during the fall season travels around the southeast following the Alabama Crimson Tide. Every university with any football tradition has these fanatics, the ones who take off half of the work week in order to start prepping for Saturday's big game. So, the campers get settled in, creating their impromptu homes for the weekend..... They set up tables surrounding their area, connect televisions and radios to the RV's power supply, organize coolers properly, align chairs systematically and do all of this with precision and exactness in order to accomodate the numerous groups of friends and family that will stop by in the coming days to eat, drink and share the joy of football in the South. After all, this is their home until Sunday morning.

Friday comes and Tuscaloosa is considerably overcrowded. The town of 100,000 is now bombarded with atleast 150,000. Hotels are full, dorm rooms are packed, and old college bungaloo houses hold students from neighboring colleges - sleeping on the floor, on the couch, wherever they can lay their heads. After all, it is Friday morning when they wake and they most likely went out drinking the previous night - played a game of beer pong, or funneled one too many beers, thus the sleeping arrangements aren't paramount.... They will sleep just fine. Their friends that actually go to school here are most likely too hungover to go to class, and are simply resting up for the coming weekend - trying to deter the oncoming headache - usually some wings at Buffalo Phils does the trick, or a hearty breakfast from The Waysider. But the restaurants are packed and have a consistent hour long wait, and if you are looking to make reservations for Friday night you are atleast two weeks late, because there isn't a chance in hell you are gonna get one. Even with cancellations every restaurant in town is overbooked. Streets are blocked off with police baracades as they direct traffic, trying to maintain some sense of order as old college buddies wander the streets bouncing from bar to bar reminiscing about the good ole days - the days when they wandered these streets as students, inhabitants of this utopia. Friday night comes and the energy on the streets and around town is electric with chants of "Roll Tide Roll", as drunken college kids scream the chorus to "Sweet Home Alabama". They will be hoarse before the game on Saturday even starts, and after a game weekend in Tuscaloosa you will vow to never enjoy listening to that song ever again - it is played that much. Sorority girls dab their makeup on, getting ready for the hoardes of fraternity parties they will attend where they will drink crappy keg beer and Hunch Punch - a lethal concoction of juices, rum and if I had to guess, lighter fluid, that with a couple sips makes me feel like a lightweight, like I am eighteen again, trying to choke down that first beer that I hadn't acquired a taste for yet. They will get drunk, be asleep by midnight and most likely not remember anything after 10 PM, but that means that they will get a good night's sleep, which is important because they will be awakened at 10 am to commence the tailgating festivities....Everyone in town is up at 10 AM to get ready for this game, afterall that is what all of the commotion and excitement is about.

Saturday morning comes and the streets are lined with crimson, and every passing car seems to have an Alabama flag hanging from it. Groups of fraternity guys in khakis, buttondowns and sports coats walk their cute sundress wearing dates over to Bryant-Denny stadium on this prototypical fall day. Vendors are on every corner with hats, shirts, and other paraphenalia. The quadrangle, surrounded by white columned buildings, has been held captive by football fans - Tents with tables, chairs and TVs begin to fill with food. Chicken wings are frying; this I know because you can smell the poultry flecked oil from a mile away. Charcoal brickettes are being dusted with the juice from hamburgers and hotdogs, igniting the air with smoke and the heavenly smell we are all so familiar with - the smell that is so very American. Beers are poured into sixteen ounce red cups and flasks are filled with whiskey as tailgaters ready for the big game. Faces are stuffed with food and the tables that were once filled with burgers, wings, brats and brownies are now being packed up - saving some for later, for the postgame festivities, assuming we win. The streets and sidewalks that were once crowded are now unbearably full as game time approaches. The band in perfect uniformity marches, following the cheerleaders into the stadium . They play the school's fight song as on-lookers cheer, knowing that in a couple short minutes the game will have begun, and there will really be something to cheer about. Fathers hold the hands of their precious young daughters who marvel at the cheerleaders. They are wearing a smaller version of the same uniform, cheering the same cheers, dreaming of being here, a student, as one of them a short decade from now. They were born to into being an Alabama fan.... it wasn't a choice, it was a birth right, a destiny of sorts.

So, the game plays, and chances are we won - unless the game I am recounting occured during my tenure at this beautiful university. I'm not sure what our record was while I attended the University of Alabama, but it wasn't good - this didn't matter though. I guess that is what I am writing about. Tailgating stems from a passion and a pride for an institution - college or professional. It is about sharing a common pride, a common loyalty. So yes, for me Tuscaloosa, Alabama will always be the tailgating epicenter, the mecca of football tradition and pride, but as you read this I know you will have your own set of memories, stories and understandings of football and the pride associated with truly being part of a team, a university, an institution. I guess, what I am saying is, we tailgate for football games, but at the end of the day it is about so much more. It is about being a part of something. My heart aches for those beloved Saturdays in Tuscaloosa as a student, rallying around our football team, our university and the cammaradie that is the Crimson Nation.

Post you favorite tailgating stories..... maybe it will come from this weekend.... I am gonna post mine on Sunday.... Alec and Seth.... this is for you...... Y'all have a great weekend..... I am off to spend my weekend in the mountains of North Carolina with a bunch of Ohio State fans. All I have to say is - who is undefeated and number one in the country? That's right. Roll Tide. I actually might get to watch the game this week......

Wine - In Georgia?

2009-10-22T12:19:00.001-04:00

I keep trying to put together some good content for the next couple of days, but I am continually distracted by all sorts of things, as I am back here in Atlanta, only for a day or two, and then off to North Carolina for a family reunion where I will meet half of where I come from for the first time..... I have a lot weighing on my mind, and I have some decisions to make, so the words aren't flowing freely like they usually do. They are slowly making their way onto my page.....onto my computer.... type .... delete... type ... backspace.... Okay, I think I have it. Here goes.......

Some time ago I traveled to the North Georgia Mountains where I did a piece for a magazine on local wine, so I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon driving north up I-75 to Crane Creek Vineyards. Aside from a small college, in the town that I have now since forgotten it's name, not much is up there. It is farms.....agriculture... and more farms.... I assume this is how it has always has been up there.... Fields of cotton, corn, and the other commodoties that have supported the local communities for centuries. Then a few daring individuals said, "Let's make some wine" - Why not? There are a dozen or so vineyards that drape these mountains and roll through the foothills and valleys of North Georgia that put out a decent quality wine.

The emergence of quality wine making in regions aside from California, and Europe is a relatively new concept. While I am not typically a fan of Australian wines, they have some top notch wines - both red and white, and they have mastered Shiraz. The same can be said about South America, and their love affair with Malbecs. Me, I love Chilean red wines. Now, I am not going to go the extreme of saying that the wine I have tried on a regional level here in the American South is comparable to the heavy hitters on the other side of the country - the one's in Napa, Sonoma and the Russian River Valleys. This, however, isn't necessarily a bad thing. The climates are drastically different, thus the grapes are different, and you can tell. Crane Creek didn't have a full bodied, incredibly robust red wine like the kind I prefer to eat with a nice piece of red meat, but they had wines with interesting complexities, using grapes I had never heard of. I have included that piece below - I hope you enjoy.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Nestled in the foothills of the Southern Appalachian Trail is a vineyard that sits two thousand feet above sea level in Brasstown Valley - the silhouette of Georgia's tallest peaks. I visited this quaint establishment on a rainy day in early April when the clouds sat like blankets on the nearby hillsides and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The trip to Crane Creek Vineyards is a quick two hour drive through the Georgia countryside. Situated in its' own little world in the sleepy, quasi-college town of Young Harris. The vineyard, founded by Eric Seifarth grows an expansive variety of grapes; both new and old world varietals ranging from Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc and Chardonnay, to new world varietals of Norton, Catawba, and the recently engineered Chardonel, which is a hybrid Chardonnay grape that was created in the labs of Cornell University.
Eric Seifarth, a native Atlantian, spent several tours of his career in the Army in the northern countryside of Italy after his graduation from West Point. Exposed and educated in an old family orientated cultural, which cherish there food and wine, Seifarth decided to take the knowledge he had gained in the countryside of Tuscany and start anew; an entirely new, foreign career. Seifarth's vineyard, opened 13 years ago, and was originally merely a supplier of grapes to local vintners, but has since grown into a full service vineyard with, a tasting room, and a guest house that sits on the side of a knoll overlooking a pond stocked with fish, and more grape vine draped hills.
Seifarth commenced to tell me the story of how he and his wife met, while she was working for the Army as a veterinarian, which she still practices to date. The couple, which purchased the land in 1995 lived in the charming farmhouse that was built in 1886, which has since been refurbished and is home to the retail shop, and tasting room.

Seifarth's wines are what he calls "accessible", and for any number of palates. For being a mid to small sized vineyard, in a state not necessarily known for it's wine, Crane Creek produces a surprising number of varietals. For reds, they offer a Claret, their Brasstown Red, which is a Merlot/Cabernet Franc blend, and a Norton, which is a full bodied bold and hearty wine (atleast bold for this region) perfect for the enjoyment of a steak dinner. For whites they have their Enotah, which is an okay Chardonel, very reminiscent of California style chardonnays. Additionally they have a blush and a Vidal Blanc which is an off dry, fruity, fresh, and grassy wine that begs to be drunk on the porch of a blazing summer day. While being walked through the production process, and through the barn, festooned with Oak and stainless steel casks, I was offered a tasting of each variety alongside other visitors, and with each we were pleasantly surprised. All of the wines had a surprising balance to them, several were fruit forward, while others were dryer. Tannins, which often contribute a sharp, overarching imbalance to young reds, were unexpectedly nonexistent, and this anomaly he attributed to the malolactic fermentation (the wine's secondary fermentation).
Noting their geographic location in north Georgia, home to some of the world's worst soil, I was beyond curious in wanting to know the effect the infamous Georgia red clay had on the production and the outcome of the wine, and Seifarth exclaimed, "Oh, the grapes, they love the clay. Perhaps too much. The Georgia red clay retains a ton of moisture, which results in absorption of water that is completely dissimilar to places like Sonoma and Napa Valley and other semi-arid places." This response led to my next question regarding the recent and seemingly ongoing drought that has plagued this part of the country over the last year. He commented, "The drought was beneficial for me, and every other vineyard in this part of the country. It allowed us to monitor the development of the fruit unlike ever before. I have a feeling that the 2007 season is going to yield our best season yet."
Well, we shall soon find out, since the 2008 vintage is virtually ready to be bottled, and to that I can attest. I had the opportunity to try the Sevyl Blanc right out of the stainless steel barrel, where it has been maturing for months. This is their first vintage for this variety, and it is what Seifarth is most eager about. It is an old world variety that was created in the 1880's and was at one point an extremely popular grape for producing lush whites. The crisp wine, Seifarth describes as, "becoming dry, austere and a somewhat flinty white, much like a good northern European Sauvignon Blanc. Here at Crane Creek we like to produce a very simple, classic style. It is a 100% stainless steel fermentation aging and it is a perfect match with fish dishes and chicken or veal with lemony piccata sauces."
I will admit up front that I was skeptical and simply unconvinced that reputable vineyards even existed in the state of Georgia. On the rainy day that I made the trip up I-575 to Crane Creek Vineyards, I was reluctant and even contemplated delaying the trip for a spring day when the sun was out and the flowers were blooming. I realized the beauty of the drive itself is almost worth it, though wait until you are there; the wine will send your taste buds into a frenzy, and will undoubtedly test all of your senses with an assortment of distinct flavors. Dreams that were dreamt in the Italian countryside have been born in a very distant land to a man with a vision and a passion to follow them. La Dolce Vita - the sweet life seems to flow from every glass, which seems quite appropriate. After all, their motto, "Wine is proof that God loves us", reigns so very true.

Home Sweet Home

2009-10-20T14:50:00.000-04:00

In Norfolk:
This place is vacant. There are literally 6 people in the airport right now, not counting employees. It is dark - of course it is - it is 5:15 AM. Starbucks wasn't open, so I had to settle for the generic magazine vendor coffee. I am actually surprised that someone was working the stand. It tastes stale, almost like it is leftover from yesterday, and it is entirely too hot to get anywhere remotely near my face. I am filthy, and tired - exhausted beyond belief. I still have my bar key in my back pocket, and my mismatched socks are wet from the dishwasher that overflowed behind the bar tonight, and I am pretty sure that there is a chard of glass penetrating the bottom of my shoe. My body aches. That is what the restaurant industry does to you, especially when you haven't slept yet, and worked 15 hours.. Maybe I shouldn't have gone to the gym today..... or yesterday... I am not quite sure what today is.... the last two days have kinda melded together, and have become one continuous episode in my life.....

In Atlanta.....
Keep in mind it was 5:30 AM or so when I boarded the Atlanta bound flight. I headed straight to the airport from work, and arrived in Atlanta by 7:30. When free time runs sparce you learn to make the most of it, so I spent the plane flight reading the most recent issue of Maxim, we landed, I headed over to baggage claim, and hopped on the metro heading northbound towards the city I dearly love. Fellow Atlantans head off to work, to school; to live their daily lives. The sun is as bright as I have ever seen it, moisture is kissing the windows of the train from the outside, and a cool breeze slides through the rail car at every stop as nameless passengers load and unload. I begin to think about the previous night - we had a really good night at the restaurant- but all I can think about is my family - how I miss them, and how I just want to be with them right this second. I'm almost there, 3 more stops a cab ride through the autumn leaves of Buckhead and im there. The crisp Autumn air is unparalleled and the spectrum of colors that are naturally created in the forests surrounding this beautiful city ignite my passion for the South whenever I am gone for any extended period of time. Anyway, this trip home will be a nice break from work. For the next couple days I get to frequent the bars and restaurants in which I used to work. I get to catch up with old waitresses, managers, dishwashers and prep cooks. Banter in Spanish with my mexican kitchen buddies, and perhaps choke down a mouth full of Jager with old bartenders. Things are always the same..... Some of the people will have changed but, not much, and in most instances that is a good thing. I will enjoy that, but first I am looking forward to a nap, and waking up to a drool soaked pillow..... To me that is always the sign of a good sleep. There is always time for family later.

Our Bread and Butter

2009-10-20T11:03:00.000-04:00

It has been a long day already, and it is only 8:30 AM. Since typically I work until 3 AM, I'm usually not up at this hour, but here I stand in line at Starbucks and just received a phone call with some bad news. It is too early for bad news, especially when I haven't had my first cup of joe. The coffee shop is bustling with a line nearly out the door. The barista with efficient steps rolls drinks out from behind the bar one after the other, barely looking up. He is in the zone. By the time I reach the counter to pay for my drink it is ready. No one asked me what I would like. They knew, then asked if I would be having some coffee cake as well. I nodded my head, paid for my coffee and breakfast, and found my seat in the corner. I looked on, as this streamlined operation pumped coffee out of this tiny retail location with grace and efficiency. Then I realized that every single person in line appeared to be a regular, just like me. Some were in suits, some in workout clothes, and others appeared to just have rolled out of bed, as did I. They had been coming to this Starbucks location for however long on a daily basis, ordered the same thing, and by the time these regulars walked through the door their drink was nearly half made - their lattes, their cappuccinos and iced coffees. They were greeted with a smile by name, and every couple minutes I would hear, "Get So-and-So's drinks started, he is parking right now." I then began started thinking about our restaurants.... the way we do things... and how regulars are a staple, and the core of any good service operation..... our bread and butter......

Often, over the course of the night I will wander the dining room, in order to gauge the way things are going - who seems to be having a good time, who has had too much to drink, who is suffering from bad service, and who simply isn't enjoying themselves for whatever reason. It isn't hard to distinguish these four situations from one another, though more often than not it is a combination of atleast two. I think the ideal cross section would be happy and drunk. That is usually me, well, atleast off the clock. I then wander behind the bar, catch up with a couple of regulars, send a beer or a couple shooters their way, banter with the bartenders and mull over the crowd at the bar. Why do they choose to come here? What sets us apart? What makes this place, this bar, well, home to some people. I think about the drinkers and diners who frequent our establishment alone and think more about this. Often, in other restaurants I am the one alone - I love it. I love going somewhere and treating myself to a really good night out. It could be a burger, could be a three course meal, or maybe just a ketel one martini splashed with a hint of olive juice and the toss of an olive. I believe that this is the ultimate compliment to a restaurant - when someone, without the influence of someone else says, "you know what, I really feel stopping by XYZ for a Beer, for a glass of wine, for a bite to eat...." There is no business meeting, anniversary celebration, or the obligatory couple's night out with your wife's annoying friend and her tech-junkie husband who hasn't seen a live sporting event since his senior year of high school's homecoming game.

We all have the places that we frequent for one reason or another. We feel comfortable in these establishments, and the staff makes us feel like we are one of them.... that we belong. I guess that is why I am in this industry. I understand that at the end of the day we all have choices in life, and those choices are based on experiences. My goal every day is to make people happy. That is why I run a restaurant. That is why I write. If you believe in the product you are selling, and strive to make people happy then anything is possible....

Now off to get ready for my trip to Atlanta, then to North Carolina....There are a lot of loose ends to tie up....... I am starting to miss the real South... I don't think Coastal Virginia really counts, does it?..... See you guys tomorrow....

God's Gift to the Atlantic: The Blue Crab

2009-10-19T15:00:00.000-04:00

I hope everyone had a great weekend. Mine was well, entertaining...... We had Virginia Wine Fest here in Downtown Norfolk..... I love wine, and it holds a special place in my heart, but for the love of God... Around 5 PM, both Saturday and Sunday, the restaurant was bombarded with drunken bafoons. Literally every person that walked in the door would have failed a field sobriety test..... Beer bottles were broken every couple minutes, restaurant napkins were folded and tied around guys heads and used as bandanas.... Patrons would leave the restaurant and urinate on the street in front of us.... Female patrons attemped to take their shirts off, while the wine spoke to other patrons as they provocatively kissed, and groped their dates in the corner. I can't count on one hand how many people fell out of their chairs, or tripped coming down the stairs. One guy got thrown through the front door.... he cut his head on the railing outside our door.... don't worry he totally deserved it.... Anyway... the weekend is now over.... and I am now winding down work... All I have left is the 3 block walk to my car through the gale force winds, and the unseasonably cold air that has been haunting us for the last week or so.....I just hope the misting rain has stopped, and the leather seats in my car aren't too cold....

There are so many reasons to call it the Holy City. Businessmen step down the front steps of their 300 year old, vibrantly colored, colonial homes onto Meeting Street and stroll towards their law offices, brokerage firms, and doctor's offices. They are laden in 3 piece suits, or perhaps searsuckers, carrying briefcases, and wearing Cole Hanns - living the same lives as their fathers, grandfathers and the generations before that lived in this tide swolen city. Embraced with salt marshes, barrier sea islands, and tidal rivers, Charleston is beautiful in every since of the word. Every bronze tinted sunset that collapses over this city is unprecedented, marvelous and a new miracle. As the sun begins to set, the fishermen exit the harbor heading inland up Shem Creek with a boat full of the day's harvest. They are stalked by herds of seagulls as porpoises occasionally surface, catching a breathe of air, drifting in the opposite direction.... drifting back to their homes in the vast Atlantic Ocean. Vacationing children look on from the front porches of the restaurants that line this creek , and gaze in wonder at the boats, and the fisherman below who have docked and are beginning to clean the fish that paddled this ocean only a few hours prior. For years I was one of these children - a vacationer, an outsider; one that so desperately wanted to belong and be a part of this beautiful, mysterious city. Something about it had a magnatic, radiating pull on me. My family spent our carefree summers on Charleston's beaches. Our mornings were spent splashing in the tides building sandcastles, while our afternoons were spent with my grandfather, Pop, religiously devoted to catching the sacred crustacean of the Atlantic - the blue crab. At the inlet where Sullivan's Island and Isle of Palms meet we would cast our crabbing lines into the salt water and wait patiently while marvelling at Fort Sumter in the distance. Our modest grossings of a dozen crabs was pale in comparison to the myths we heard of my father and uncle, when they were our age, in this same salty water some 30 years before. Growing up on the Chesapeake Bay they wrung in hoardes and hoardes of these tasty creatures. They pillaged these waters and in doing so created an unattainable standard in the eyes of my grandfather. When he felt like we had been adequately sunburnt or when he felt like we had captured enough sizeable crabs to yield a modest appetizer for our oversized family, we would pack up, and head back to our beautiful house over looking the vast ocean. For hours my grandfather meticulously picked crabs as we laid down for a nap, or maybe played cards in the living room - out of the danger of the sun - this was our parents orders that were intended to distract us from the sun, and the exacerbation of our sunburnt skin. Occasionally I would help my grandfather, but however mundane and tedious it was, I got the sense that he enjoyed the solitude of this task. Sitting on the porch, cooled by the slight breeze coming off the water, I got the sense that this was his time to reflect on the long, admirably lived life that was now in it's denoument - it's final chapter. Pelicans glided overhead dancing with kites in the sky, as his eyes chased cargo ships exiting the horizon in the east, heading off to sea, off to another port, another world , a world very far from here. Nevertheless, the crab was always picked flawlessly and we always had a homemade cocktail sauce to accompany it. Our parents would sip on whiskey sours, while us kids relished the gift of Coca-Cola. Life was good. The crab was great and will always hold a special place in my heart. Thank you Pop. Crab to me will always in a sense be, well, you.

I have been working on a couple different crab cake recipes that are a little more unique than the typical Crab Cake.... I will probably attach one at the bottom of this post. If y'all have any recipes to share leave them below, or search the Food Bar at the top of this page for Crab Cake Recipes - There are some good ones.... Just make sure you use Jumbo Lump Crab, go easy on the fillers, and easy on the mayo......

The Weekend - Important - Please Read!

2009-10-17T13:24:00.000-04:00

Instead of posting additional essays, stories and tidbits on food, restaurants and life, I would rather have the weekend serve as a chance for everyone to catch up on my writings from the past week. The last thing I want to do is burn out, or burn anyone else from out from what I am doing. I want it to maintain a sense of freshness, reality and a feeling that it is alive. So, I will still be here in Starbucks writing over the weekend for next week, but I will save those stories for Monday through Friday when you are sitting at your office desks, or are sitting in the last row of class not paying attention to your professor's powerpoint presentation. Anyway, I have some great additions for next week that I hope you all look forward to.
When I began this blog I was unsure of the direction it would take. Perhaps I merely started it for myself, but with the response I have gotten, and the energy that has stemmed from it I have a hope, and a vision that it could turn into something special. Google advertises on my site, and sends me money when the ads they post generate click-throughs. For those of you who don't pay attention to those ads, there are some really good ones related to food - locally, and nationally. My thoughts are that if I am able to attain a strong readership through family, friends, work colleagues and get a true following on a national level this advertising income could turn into something substantial. What if I were to donate that to the community? I have a couple prefered charities, but some that stick out in my mind, and work with the ideals of the general topic of my writing are some of those that give back to the hungry, to the needy. Perhaps, that is another way to encourage all of your friends to check out the blog. I am here to write, to tell you about what I am passionate about, and get my name out there at the same time, and if I can create something positive for those who need it, I would jump at the opportunity. So, if you believe in what I am doing I encourage you to spread the word - it is for a good cause - and if any of you have suggestions for charity donations let me know - they will of course be considered. Have a great weekend. I hope it is warmer and dryer where you are. Here it is cold, and rainy. I want to lay on the couch and watch football all day... and all night. There will be time for that later... For now, back to the writing... Then off to work....

Barbecue - What It Means To Me -

2009-10-15T13:50:00.000-04:00

I am consciously openning a can of worms that doesn't need to be opened. BBQ, potentially a topic that could be argued for the rest of eternity - with no right answer. We all have our favorite road side barbecue stops along the interstate that we insist on stopping at during road trips, even if it means driving twenty miles out of the way, just so we can indulge in the incredible smokiness of the beloved slow roasted pig... or beef..... Having gone to school in Tuscaloosa, Alabama it didn't take long for me to realize that Dreamland BBQ was an institution. For the first year and half I lived in this sleepy, college town I merely heard the myths of this BBQ sanctuary, because, of all things, I couldn't find it! Nestled in the woods, after passing through farms, and crossing streams there was an old wooden billboard with faded lettering signifying the appropriate turn for Dreamland BBQ. Drive too fast and you will miss it....this I guarantee.... Their slogan "Ain't Nothin' Like 'em Nowhere," is what I think we all feel about our favorite BBQ joints. They, however did things a little different - Fast cooked ribs, a homemade sauce, a stack of white bread, iced tea and Coca-Cola in cans. It was that simple - no coleslaw and no pulled pork or baked beans, or other seemingly obligatory sides and condiments that accompany barbecue. They had one type of sauce, one type of meat, cooked one way for years upon years. And it worked. People loved this place, though things have changed. Dreamland is now franchised and offers much more than the basic offering that they were once known for.......I always enjoyed Dreamland and would consider it heresy if I were to return to Tuscaloosa and not stop by this mecca of barbecue in Alabama, but it is not my favorite barbecue stop for several reasons. I much prefer a slow roasted, tender, ethereal and falling off the bone type rib, but also above that, I prefer pulled pork. I prefer those pulled or chopped bits that are slathered in dry rub that have then been tossed in pig juices, absorbing the incredible flavor of pork fat.

I went to Dallas for a wedding a couple years back, and naturally the first thing I ate upon my arrival was smoked beef brisket. This was the rehearsal dinner. We know they are serious about their meats in the Lonestar State, and to Texas BBQers, a smoke ring isn't created from the puff of a cigarette or a cigar, but is rather a heavenly chemical reaction that takes place in the meat when it properly smoked, cooked low and slow......a beautiful pink ring forms in the flesh of the meat, signifying the pitmaster's expertise. North Carolina BBQers bicker back and forth about vinegar based sauces versus tomato based sauces, and the state is essentially divided in half geographically between east and west regarding this controversy. In Memphis their Babyback ribs are served dry, and you head a couple states over to Missouri, and in St. Louis barbecue is made with spare ribs. They are equally passionate and convinced that their's is the best, and well, the only way to do barbecue.

A week from now I will be in the mountains of North Carolina. The autumn leaves in the mountains will be subtly turning from green to yellow, then eventually to red before falling to the ground below. This signifies that the air will begin to cool, and we will begin to drape ourselves in sweaters, cardigans and scarves. My favorite BBQ joint is in these foothills. It is along a windy road that connects two small towns, both of which are hung in the mountains and begin to look deserted this time of year. Cars are scarce, as the smoke from the hickory wood barbecue pit levitates towards the sky, spiraling into the abyss disguising istelf among the omnipresent fog. I gather with my cousins and huddle around the fireplace that is warming our hands as the barbecue warms our souls. Fog hangs lazily in front of us obstructing our view of the valley thousands of feet below, but we know what's down there, and we know it is beautiful. This is about as good as it gets. Time spent with family, eating some of the world's best barbecue, telling stories of the good ole days - back before we had jobs, responsibilities and college degrees. I am ready to be there now. I am ready to see them, and ready to eat barbecue. I'm just glad it is pulled pork, and there are two options for sauces. One vinegar based, and the other tomato. I know which one I am leaning towards.....It doesn't get much better than this..... It really doesn't....

The Way We Approach Life Does Make A Difference

2009-10-15T12:49:00.001-04:00

I am extremely encouraged with the response I have gotten from many of you.... It is gratifying to track how many visitors have come to the site, and it is good to know that is not just me, my family and close friends! For those of you who don't know me well, or are merely getting introduced to me through this writing, thank you. I began writing, because I enjoyed it, and for no other reason than that, back when I was in high school - I spent time fantasizing about all sorts of things in class, not just girls, when I should have been learning of the French-Indian War, the marvelous poetry of T.S. Eliot, and spanish verb conjugations.

My mother, was a writer and a beautiful one at that. She was in the middle of writing a memoir when she passed on of cancer, that damned disease we are all too familiar with, when I was an awkward eight grader trying to find myself. Maybe this is me carrying on her legacy, or maybe I am now writing those words that she never got to..... That is what I would like to think atleast...

A Landshark beer is tucked between my legs, as I eat a sleeve of girl scout cookies watching the new episode of Top Chef Las Vegas. For those of you who don't watch, it is quality entertainment, and is one of few shows I watch religiously. Andrea Bocelli echoes softly in the background from my computer while my cousin sleeps gingerly on the couch across from me, letting out an occasion snore, awakening the dogs from their much cherished slumber. My head is now clear from the self inflicted torture I brought upon myself known as a hangover.....

Today is Blog Action Day, meaning that us bloggers are supposed to rally around a certain topic of global signficance and the idea is that, worldwide there will be thousands among thousands of folks with different points of view, coming from different cultures, speaking different languages, and praying to different gods - united in vision for atleast one day regarding a single topic. The topic this year happens to be Climate Change. I was very hesitant to participate. Very. Being new to the blogging community my goal was to create a loyal following of readers who would participate in what I was doing, and appreciate my writing for what it was. For the stories, recipes, imagery, and everything else that this blog is about. I then thought how much the restaurant industry is attempting to and striving towards minimizing it's impact on the environment and how at the very least I could discuss this, and maybe in the process get some positive PR for my participation.
So here goes, though instead of writing about climate change, all I am going to say is that if restaurants and superemarkets on an individual basis made choices that would support a healthy environment we would all be so much better off. Obviously we would be living in a healthier and cleaner world, but we would be healthier as people in general - no hormones in our meats, no sprays on our fruits and vegetables - everything would be natural, the way things were meant to be, but it falls back on us as consumers. Unless we consciously make the right choice as individuals we will be fighting a losing battle. Go support your local farmers. Think about the decisions you make on a daily basis and how that effects the world around you. Think about that impact, however big or small, then multiply it by, say, three or four billion. My favorite quote from my Mother's writing was this. Simple, and to the point - "The way we approach life does make a difference" - What difference are you making?

I am done preaching now - I think I am going to write about barbecue tomorrow......Always an enjoyable, nostalgic and ever controversial topic........

2009-10-14T15:04:00.001-04:00

First of all I want to thank you all for your support - Feedback has been great, much appreciated and if you are reading this you are investing in me. So, thank you.

It is gloomy - there are no signs of the sun today and and the sky is one giant ribbon of gray. a soft drizzle of cold rain is enough to keep the sidewalks empty, though the coffeeshop is moderately busy with customers trying to warm their blood, and I guess their hands as well. My typical day in this coffee shop consists of two venti cups of coffee with enough ice so that I can drink it immediately and a piece of berry crumb cake - the coffee doesn't seem to be going down very easily today and I passed on the cake. My mind is clouded from the inordinate amount of alcohol I consumed last night, though thankfully my headache is slowly dissipating. The other day at the restaurant we were tinkering with some seafood gumbo recipes so maybe I will go home and work on that. Or maybe some chicken tortilla, or french onion soup with a creamy gruyere melted over the top. It is a comfort food kind of day. Chicken Pot Pie, Shrimp and Grits, Mussels in a white wine broth with rustic french bread....

I am longing for those foods that take me home. Back to my childhood of canned tomato soup and grilled cheeses, when we would on a weekly basis have breakfast foods for dinner - made from scratch biscuits, scrambled eggs, cheese grits and bacon. We had one nanny from England whose Shephard's Pie was otherworldly, and Virginia, god rest her soul, made the world's best fried chicken. Her arms were scarred with oil burns from a lifetime of frying chicken. Being dropped off at home after school as a young boy I would always sneak a drumstick fresh out of the fryer while she had her back turned. To me the smell of chicken frying is celestial in the most literal sense of the word, and it never fails in taking me back to my innocent, carefree childhood.

My coffee is just above room temperature, and I am now getting hungry for that piece of berry crumb cake that I passed on.... I need something in my stomach before I go to the gym ......

What is your favorite comfort food? Leave a note and vote in the poll to the right!

The People - The Industry - Restaurants Baby!

2009-10-13T13:24:00.000-04:00

Kinda Long Winded - but I hope you enjoy....

Cars come and go, soccer moms stroll their children down the sidewalks gossiping of the Junior League as older couples walk their poodles and Yorkies. I sit on the patio of a Starbucks on the corner of a modestly busy intersection here in Ghent. Restaurants line these streets and the waft of baking bread scampers past me every couple of seconds as I check my emails, go over the sales numbers from last night’s dinner service, and chat with liquor reps about upcoming promotions and product launches. My night ended around 2 AM when the last, half drunk patrons stumbled out of the bar and into the safety of a cab. I ensured that the kitchen was ready for prep in the morning, and that the bar was reasonably clean, after all this is a restaurant and a working one at that – one that gets dirty then clean and dirty again – on a daily basis. I made sure all important equipment was adequately turned off, secured all exit doors to the world outside, and counted the money, assuring it was in order. I took a shot of whiskey at the bar hoping it would sufficiently sedate me so that my arrival home would be nothing more than a brush of my teeth, the guzzle of a bottle of water and a tumble into bed – maybe I should have made sure my cell phone was charging, because now it is only half full and it will undoubtedly die when I least need it to – probably when one of the cooks calls out, or when a supplier calls saying that he has ran out of god knows what. Murphy’s Law right? I think that defines our industry. I can’t remember the last busy night we had when at least something didn’t go wrong, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It is just the way it is…. And we know that……

I look at our lives as restaurant workers and the subculture that stems from it. On six hours of sleep, with my veins half pumped with roasted coffee beans I look at my life, where I am, where I want to be and how the restaurant business has helped me get here. Or has it hindered me? The lives of restaurant employees are albeit unique in the sense that we are in the business of making people happy, whether we stumbled into this business transiently or if we are in it by birth right, or we make a conscious, goal driven decision to be here. We do so by working some of the oddest most stressful hours conceivable, and by doing so create some of the strongest bonds imaginable under the most unique of circumstances. Things are frantic, and fast paced and after pouring drinks for 8 frantic hours, or grilling off steaks a dozen at a time while concurrently reducing sauces on a full stove during the dinner rush we can’t help but look at our lives and wonder how we ended up here, whether we were destined to or not. These are the things we talk about over drinks in the dimly lit ambience of the bar after the doors are locked, after the outsiders have long since come and gone. Some of us are in the restaurant industry because we are raising families and it is a decent, though challenging way to make a living and provide for the ones that need us. Some of us are here, because we are in school, are working for tips and there is nothing that pays comparable with such minimal amount of commitment and responsibility. Then there are some of us that are here because it is what we truly love. We love making people happy - Seeing our guests smile , cutting into that rack of lamb that is perfectly dressed with sauce sitting over a flawlessly cooked risotto, as the fragrance of rosemary and parmesiano reggiano liven the tastebuds of the neighboring tables. We love the hustle and bustle of the dining room on a busy Friday night – watching waiters slide by each other with inimitable grace- their nimble steps nearly missing each other and the guests as they weave in and out of the rows of occupied tables. Guests converse, laugh, banter, and are carefree, simply enjoying a night out at a place they truly love. It is their escape, and we know that. We love the chatter of orders incessantly pouring out of the kitchen printer signifying to the cooks that they are about to be buried with tickets and stressful waiters for the next couple hours in the 90 degree heat of the kitchen. This is the trenches. This is our moment to shine – our stage, our theater, where we are under the lights and are destined to shine. We love rejoicing at having made it through one of these nights…. Maybe the A.C. went out, a bad storm came through outing the power, or a ten top showed up 30 minutes late on a night where every table was accounted for, for at least 3 turns. Something happened, it doesn’t matter what - we all reacted with exuberance, resolve and determination. Why do we do this? Why do we work in this industry? We are here – for how long? It doesn’t really matter.

So, I am finishing up my paper work, here on the same patio where I started writing this piece a half a day later. The autumn sun has since gotten warmer, and my iced coffee is perspiring, nearly leaking over to my computer. My arms are a shade browner than they were when I woke up and my face has taken on a few subtle shades of red. Anyway, I did get a phone call, but it wasn’t a cook calling out, but rather one of my waitresses. What does this mean? Nothing really…. It’s the same old… nothing will change…. It will always be like this. This is why we do it. Because every day is different… an excitement, and utterly, well… a different world….. Roll with the punches, paddle through the storm, hell that is the only way to stay afloat - at least in the world of restaurants.
CCH.

A Night on the Town....

2009-10-12T11:43:00.000-04:00

I sit at the 15-seat marbled bar, alone. The ponytailed male bartender, draped in all black, offers me a wine suggestion. I take it, he pours and then paces desperately, trying to find a way to occupy time until last call.
It is like a ghost town --or Christmas Eve or the day after Valentine's Day. No one is out. The faded sconces hanging overhead cast a dull haze as the light intertwines with cigarette smoke sifting from the couple at the other end of the bar.
I sit next to the service well, where every now and then chatter from the printer tells the bartender what he needs to make for one of the cute, college-aged female waitresses. These girls amble to their tables, inform their guests of tonight's chef's specials and reconvene by the computer terminal, where they talk about the weekend -- the prodigious amounts of alcohol each consumed, the hangovers that lasted all Sunday, and who got fired from the restaurant for oversleeping their brunch shift.
After all, it's a Monday and the economy is slow as hell. Just as the servers do for their customers, the bartender tells me the featured dishes for the night, some by-the-glass wines that would compliment each, and I nod in appreciation, take his recommendation and wait patiently for my meal.
A moment later, the middle-aged manager, dressed in a three-piece suit, walks over and asks his bartender for a taste of the new Napa Valley cabernet that will soon be added to their wine list. He pours one for the manager -- and one for me-- and I thank him with a nod. I swirl the glass, tilt my head and drain the oaky, succulent red. Maybe I should have ordered this instead. I have always had a love affair with Napa Valley cabernets.
My food arrives. The seared yellow-fin tuna is a purple-tinted red, attesting to its freshness. It's served over an ordinary, cold noodle salad. But the tuna is good. In addition, I order some bruschetta of artichoke hearts and heirloom tomatoes, which has a celestial balance of acid from the balsamic vinegar and sweetness from the perfectly ripe heirlooms.
This is undoubtedly the best food I have experienced in Virginia since I arrived. So I sit and enjoy the rest of my wine with a full belly and a slight buzz. As always, I contemplate dessert, though I will most likely order a 10-year tawny port, or perhaps an 18-year scotch.
A year ago, I moved here from Atlanta, home of Top Chef's runner-up Richard Blais, Iron Chef America competitor Kevin Rathbun, several five-star restaurants and a multitude of James Beard nominees. Tom Coliccio recently opened a restaurant there, and it is a town that eats out more than anyplace else per-capita in the U.S. In Atlanta, I could walk out my office onto Peachtree Street and there would be 10 top-notch restaurants within a block in any direction. So, I look at the quality of restaurants here, and the quality of chefs here, and the access to the finest ingredients and I have incredible hope.
I also look at the economy and how the population is eating out less and less, and how people are attempting to save and cope. One thing that won't change, assuming we support them, is the quality of food available from our restaurants, and the access to wonderful ingredients that line our shores and farms. Visit the local chefs! Rejoice in the passion of what they are doing! It will be well worth it.
***
Just so you know ... I went with the 10-year tawny port. As I wound down a great evening, by myself, and as I glanced over the empty dining room I wondered what will happen if things don't change. What if people don't start going out to eat more? What if the economy doesn't change? I don't want to find out.
***
The girls sweep their sections and the bartender cleans his bar mats and polishes the remaining glasses that were used during the night's service. They close down, leaving kitchen and dining room ready for service the next morning. Knives are polished, napkins are folded and salt and pepper shakers are filled. It didn't take much work since this 120-seat restaurant only did 25 covers tonight. The chef, still in his whites, wanders out to the bar, unties his apron and asks for some Gran Marnier. The bartender obliges, pouring it into a snifter, and pours himself one as well.
"Thanks, Barkeep," he says. "I hope you were busier than the kitchen tonight."
The bartender glances over the empty bar, except for me. He hoists his glass, makes eye contact with me, and his chef, and we raise our glasses to meet his. "Let's try it again tomorrow."
----Christopher C. Hill is manager of Baxter's, a restaurant and sports lounge on Granby Street in

The Epicureans Dilema: Welcome!

2009-10-12T02:44:00.000-04:00

Thank you for embarking on this journey of food and restaurants with me.

Epicurean philosophy is rooted in the narcissistic idea of obtaining pleasure in order to obtain a state of tranquility and a freedom from fear. When I began thinking about it, I thought, isn't that why we indulge in food? From the succulence of Maine lobster, perfectly seared foie gras, or a glass of a '97 Napa Valley Cabernet, to the pulled pork from our favorite local barbecue joint, a shotgunned can of PBR while tailgating with old college buddies, to the butter soaked popcorn we so closesly relate to our neighborhood cinema, food, in a very real sense equals pleasure. That is why I am here today, because for me food goes way beyond pleasure, or contentness; it goes to the idea of making others happy. Since for many of you I will never cook, the least I could do is share my thoughts on food through my writing. Unfortunately, it doesn't and won't compare, but hell, it's better than nothing. I appreciate your feedback, support and thoughts - please spread the word. The first real post is coming soon....