Beyond the bullshit,mind numbing crap one is bombarded with by the likes of the Food network, there is an actual reason chefs of worth do what we do, the way we do it. No created for TV chefs, hey we can teach you just don't lose that smile, no talking heads,but real chefs. Chefs who not only know their craft but love it, live it, feel it to their very being. It is who we are. Hours spent getting it right, sweating endlessly in kitchens ,curiosity, flavors, textures, contrasts, that perfectly done something no matter how simple is a matter of intense pride. These are the ones we need to support, not for them but for what they represent. Passion.It is we who benefit, they make our lives richer more fantastical. Alas food is that moment, that release of ecstasy as great as any arisen from that prefect sunset, work by Leonardo, or word by Hunter S. Everyone who has put knife to board, diced an onion,made anything successful owes a debt to those before us. It is they who showed us right from wrong, how and why, the enlightened path to culinary greatness. Greatness surely not measured by celebrity, greatness measured by palate. Don't forget this, ever.
There is a reason great chefs are the way they are whether they know it or not. Like other artists, chefs may not necessarily do it for money or fame. No, they do it so you can feel what they feel, taste what they taste, see the world through their perspective, taste what it was like when that flavor was burned indelibly into their brain. It is wonderful that beyond the written word, or picture, these experiences can be brought forth as memories as vivid as the day they happened. Not by brush and pigment, or pen to paper but by the very tactile experience of which we all share, eating.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
FOR EVERYONE OVER FORTY
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen.
FUCK"N EH CIA
Ahh yes the Hudson valley, with its lush green rolling hills sloping down to the river for which its named, then up the Adirondacks to the west. Its breath taking scenery eclipsed only by the fables and stories of its past.Farms, winery's,producers of artisanal goodies now dot the landscape, once the domain of hippies, escapees from the city and the occasional redneck. Let us not forget Woodstock, Dylan and the Band and of coarse Tim Leary,Roosevelt , and Vanderbuilt all had their place here. So it seems weirdly fitting that a fledgling culinary school would thrive in such a place. The CIA of the late seventies was not the CIA of today. Roth Hall, the diner, A,B,&C dorms was pretty much it. No gym, no building housing the library,no specialized restaurants, not much donated this and that. It was our treks down route 9 to Marist, that was our haven for such luxuries. The upside to this you may ask? We knew where all the bars, liquor stores and various dens of inequity lay. Cool just the places we love. Gaffney's, to this day I can still taste those quarter pickled eggs, quarter drafts, and quarter pool. Conversation with the Gaffer himself .....priceless. School was much like the kitchen, the shifts were shorter, but the beer tasted every bit as good. Students today look so, so professional. They look like the guys we'd pick on for not drinking to within an hour of class. The ground work laid by intense hours of indulgences, sweat, blood, by nonconforming misfits such as ourselves now broadly supports those who we once looked upon with suspicion.Karma.What other well respected school had their president playing on its hockey team? Top that Harvard. Of course there's lake Ohta, named so for our OTB Japanese classmate/ party animal Sam. It sat proudly between B & C. The famed autumn light of the Hudson valley reflecting off its olive brown surface,made for a grand spectacle,save the smell. In all of its frozen majesty,winter was magical in all of its testicle shrinking frigidness , it became the shortcut of choice. Never mind that roll of razor edged knives, obvious lack of balance, or even the rush of endorphins when head meets ice. Hey I wonder who rolled security's jeep into that beautiful expanse of a cow pond?
We considered ourselves special, we lived in Roth hall. Ten by twenty , ceilings forty feet high, a sink, a window, bathrooms down the hall these were the monks cells. Contemplation of God and sins was the idea. We chose the former. Ironic. The first words from my roommate? " Wanna smoke?" This coming from the pursed lips of a fat, balding at 20, bespectacled, dorky looking dude. As it turns out we had much in common. Like him I wanted to be a chef, check. Like him I never looked like a stoner, check. Like him we got stuck contemplating like monks how to get into the real dorms. Advantage us. We only had to stagger down stairs to the kitchens, all warm and cozy, stroke inducing hangovers an obstacle tackled like Krispy Cremes on Kirsty Ally's night stand. All the while our brethren had to trudge ,from their Motel Sixesque rooms [ yeh I know its not a word]across to Roth hall. Testicle shrinking, nipple hardening, mind numbing cold held no sway,their task,punctuality. So we figured that hey lets dull the shame by ingesting large amounts of alcohol. Note; Beefeaters and Keebler Fudgestripes do not mix under any circumstances, lest projectile vomiting commence.
Organizing the first class kegger, hey we're all chefs, chefs drink, right? Worst case scenario we get piss drink on first class eve, best case scenario, a night of carnal lust. Alcohol is the great equalizer. It cuts thru all lines of society, race, age etc. Held on the cliff overlooking the Hudson, directly above the Montreal express tracks, cold beer, warm bonfire it was a success. Success this time measured by percent of mates hanging, divided by number of fence posts used for bon fire, equals denial to Dean of Students by virtue its only our third day.
First kitchen, baking 1. Class starts at 4:00 am sharp. The anticipation of how can we impress the most, weighed heavily that night. So in our new uniforms Sid and I walked down stairs to the sub floors where the bakeshops are found. Cutting through an outside door we encountered a dark figure leaning perilously against the wall. Heaving like a pro,vomit artistically splattered we quietly passed him in the predawn darkness. Auspicious start as he turned out to be our chef instructor. Hmmm someone to look up to? To emulate? maybe. We tried.
Chartreuse, no not the color, but the six hundred year old elixir for a long life, brought forth by the Carthusian Monks for the pleasure of the chosen few. Carolyn, Doug and myself. Actually it was Doug who by the grace of God, turned us on to it. Carolyn, with her glowing blond hair, infectious smile, quick wit and out going personality, really scared the shit out of me for the first year. J.C.Papini legendary chef par excel-lance, always refereed to her as "Miss Carolyn" all the while trying to get her to go Bear hunting at his cabin ---- bear hunting? yeh right. She had an apartment in Poughtown, scene of at least one great debacle of a party. Note: Seconal and liquor yippee. Doug was way more layed back. Either one I would have never guessed, we joined together to form the Champagne Cocaine Society Extraordinaire. To all else known as the C&C club.CIA had the Beer and Ale Society, Movie Club, Vets Club, Suck my Ass club so we officialy known to the school as the Champagne Society. Fooled more than one instructor. Upon questioning our diversion of flutes from downstairs, wines and spirits instructor even offered school assets for our meetings,A beautiful 69 Dom Rose, not realizing we lacked official sanctioning. Meeting location, Doug's Roth Hall cell. We imposed the strictest methods of evaluation for the Champagnes and illicit substances garnered for each impromptu occasion. Champagne, a social beverage for a few hundred years, has always brought out the best in people. Likewise Cocaine has had a similar effect, just ask Dr. Freud. Of course there was food, borrowed from the slim pickings found in the great hall down stairs and thoughtfully prepared by Doug on his Colemans camping stove ala minute. Our last meal meal so prepared, Shad roe beurre noisette. Into this wonderful mix, and yes it was wonderful, two great people. Now I don't remember impetus for the first meeting, it doesn't matter. Nor does it matter how they were as students. What does matter is that after all these years I have always remembered them as they were, and feel like a real asshole for not keeping in touch. This all changed recently for the good. Doug I would recognize him even after all these years. Carolyn comes for vacation here only a few miles from my home. You see she is one of those, snowbirds. Though it has been some thirty years I'm sure they haven't changed, that down inside they are still those two which drank, partook, laughed,and had the time of our life with. You see this was our thing, La Cosa Nostra of sorts. Graduation came, Carolyn went there, Doug , he went over there, and I came all the way here.
Hey I still have my Tee shirt and membership card.
We considered ourselves special, we lived in Roth hall. Ten by twenty , ceilings forty feet high, a sink, a window, bathrooms down the hall these were the monks cells. Contemplation of God and sins was the idea. We chose the former. Ironic. The first words from my roommate? " Wanna smoke?" This coming from the pursed lips of a fat, balding at 20, bespectacled, dorky looking dude. As it turns out we had much in common. Like him I wanted to be a chef, check. Like him I never looked like a stoner, check. Like him we got stuck contemplating like monks how to get into the real dorms. Advantage us. We only had to stagger down stairs to the kitchens, all warm and cozy, stroke inducing hangovers an obstacle tackled like Krispy Cremes on Kirsty Ally's night stand. All the while our brethren had to trudge ,from their Motel Sixesque rooms [ yeh I know its not a word]across to Roth hall. Testicle shrinking, nipple hardening, mind numbing cold held no sway,their task,punctuality. So we figured that hey lets dull the shame by ingesting large amounts of alcohol. Note; Beefeaters and Keebler Fudgestripes do not mix under any circumstances, lest projectile vomiting commence.
Organizing the first class kegger, hey we're all chefs, chefs drink, right? Worst case scenario we get piss drink on first class eve, best case scenario, a night of carnal lust. Alcohol is the great equalizer. It cuts thru all lines of society, race, age etc. Held on the cliff overlooking the Hudson, directly above the Montreal express tracks, cold beer, warm bonfire it was a success. Success this time measured by percent of mates hanging, divided by number of fence posts used for bon fire, equals denial to Dean of Students by virtue its only our third day.
First kitchen, baking 1. Class starts at 4:00 am sharp. The anticipation of how can we impress the most, weighed heavily that night. So in our new uniforms Sid and I walked down stairs to the sub floors where the bakeshops are found. Cutting through an outside door we encountered a dark figure leaning perilously against the wall. Heaving like a pro,vomit artistically splattered we quietly passed him in the predawn darkness. Auspicious start as he turned out to be our chef instructor. Hmmm someone to look up to? To emulate? maybe. We tried.
Chartreuse, no not the color, but the six hundred year old elixir for a long life, brought forth by the Carthusian Monks for the pleasure of the chosen few. Carolyn, Doug and myself. Actually it was Doug who by the grace of God, turned us on to it. Carolyn, with her glowing blond hair, infectious smile, quick wit and out going personality, really scared the shit out of me for the first year. J.C.Papini legendary chef par excel-lance, always refereed to her as "Miss Carolyn" all the while trying to get her to go Bear hunting at his cabin ---- bear hunting? yeh right. She had an apartment in Poughtown, scene of at least one great debacle of a party. Note: Seconal and liquor yippee. Doug was way more layed back. Either one I would have never guessed, we joined together to form the Champagne Cocaine Society Extraordinaire. To all else known as the C&C club.CIA had the Beer and Ale Society, Movie Club, Vets Club, Suck my Ass club so we officialy known to the school as the Champagne Society. Fooled more than one instructor. Upon questioning our diversion of flutes from downstairs, wines and spirits instructor even offered school assets for our meetings,A beautiful 69 Dom Rose, not realizing we lacked official sanctioning. Meeting location, Doug's Roth Hall cell. We imposed the strictest methods of evaluation for the Champagnes and illicit substances garnered for each impromptu occasion. Champagne, a social beverage for a few hundred years, has always brought out the best in people. Likewise Cocaine has had a similar effect, just ask Dr. Freud. Of course there was food, borrowed from the slim pickings found in the great hall down stairs and thoughtfully prepared by Doug on his Colemans camping stove ala minute. Our last meal meal so prepared, Shad roe beurre noisette. Into this wonderful mix, and yes it was wonderful, two great people. Now I don't remember impetus for the first meeting, it doesn't matter. Nor does it matter how they were as students. What does matter is that after all these years I have always remembered them as they were, and feel like a real asshole for not keeping in touch. This all changed recently for the good. Doug I would recognize him even after all these years. Carolyn comes for vacation here only a few miles from my home. You see she is one of those, snowbirds. Though it has been some thirty years I'm sure they haven't changed, that down inside they are still those two which drank, partook, laughed,and had the time of our life with. You see this was our thing, La Cosa Nostra of sorts. Graduation came, Carolyn went there, Doug , he went over there, and I came all the way here.
Hey I still have my Tee shirt and membership card.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The dream , opening your own place where you can show the world unparalleled culinary experiences never before seen.After all I am the end result of the CIA. All those years of working here and there must mean something right? We are going to show the world a new and better way, youthful exuberance at its finest. King Kong got nothing on us man. We know it all, learned from the best, watch out its time to rock and roll. Never mind, crank up the Zep Hey you get me a cold draft NOW!! Yep buddy only the best.God that Bass tastes good. Now if only----- there you are my little friend whos got the dry bill, quick, roll it lets go I have a reduction going. Fuck that made my eyes water. Shit who's making popcorn, have you ever wondered how red wine reduced to its carbon base actually bonds with the pot? Fuck it throw it for the dishwasher. Its my way or the highway pal. Ah yes we are going to show these uneducated heathens how its done. Making proud those who we have stood toe to toe, taught, yelled, screamed,punched and generally abused us for both pleasure and profit. For all of our experiences nothing quite fully prepares us for the orgasmic feeling of knowing that now,whatever happens its your ass flapping in that shit storm. Been there done that, got away with more shit than MJ at a pre school. Trust me I know how, where, when,got the T-shirt kinds of stuff. Nobody is going to pull this shit on my watch. Jigsawing together all those bits and pieces we have held so dearly, so closely like the dishwasher guarding his stash. Stash of food one might think, not even, food is shoveled down immediately. We're talking the necter of the gods a wonderfully smooth blend beer, cabernet, merlot, pinot grigio, gin, tequilla and whatever else. Tasty. Or how the storeroom turned den of carnal knowledge, oh excuse me, I meant interview room. Nice ass print. Knock next time.
There is satisfaction to be had knowing that your staff is the best. After all you hired them. Using all of the available knowledge and experience gained over the years, you refused to make all of those mistakes seen in the past. OK back to reality. These are the same derelicts, pervs, drunks, misfits, I'm here just for the money fucks you've seen in the past, only better, they are your derelicts, pervs, drunks and misfits. Funny, for most they can act. Acting like waitstaff as soon as they hit the floor. Some literally. Prospect of tips, the motivation. Last drops of Petreus, motivation. That piece of fois gras, motivation. Motivation to put aside ones vices,and physical disabilities [screaming hangovers] to make a buck.For in the culinary world we are gluttons, all of us. Great wines, great liquors, great foods, great preparations we live for this, and anyone who can deny these truths, get out now this is not your game.
Never mind the character flaws,and vices. Precious few can fill that void,wanting or satiate like a great meal. Like this, this very plate is " Le Belle Epoche".
We love this business.
There is satisfaction to be had knowing that your staff is the best. After all you hired them. Using all of the available knowledge and experience gained over the years, you refused to make all of those mistakes seen in the past. OK back to reality. These are the same derelicts, pervs, drunks, misfits, I'm here just for the money fucks you've seen in the past, only better, they are your derelicts, pervs, drunks and misfits. Funny, for most they can act. Acting like waitstaff as soon as they hit the floor. Some literally. Prospect of tips, the motivation. Last drops of Petreus, motivation. That piece of fois gras, motivation. Motivation to put aside ones vices,and physical disabilities [screaming hangovers] to make a buck.For in the culinary world we are gluttons, all of us. Great wines, great liquors, great foods, great preparations we live for this, and anyone who can deny these truths, get out now this is not your game.
Never mind the character flaws,and vices. Precious few can fill that void,wanting or satiate like a great meal. Like this, this very plate is " Le Belle Epoche".
We love this business.
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