Have A Mint

Student Loans Are The Least of Your Problems, And Other Rants

2011-02-04T22:52:00.000-08:00

Yeah, that's right, NO picture. That's how frustrated I am right now.

Let's face it, the job market sucks across the board. Whether you're getting your MBA, studying for the bar exam, or just graduating from that prestigious Ivy League college, you're fucked. As a chef (or whatever my given title is), I never once considered the possibility of industry jobs drying up because people always need to eat, right? I mean, am I overqualified or under? But what really adds insult to injury is that I can't even turn to food to truly comfort myself anymore.

Over the past few years, we've experienced a dramatic revitalization of the culinary industry. The overwhelming success of the Food Network has led to an overabundance of "talking heads" (a term typically reserved for ESPN and CNN) and seemingly trustworthy personalities (Guy Fieri acts like a frat boy undergoing a severe mid-life crisis and would probably eat his way out of a coronary, so we give him a tailgating show?), which have spawned the likes of Top Chef and Hell's Kitchen, and unleashed holy hell in popularizing the dreaded "celebrity chef." Suddenly, everyone from Sandra Lee to Eric Ripert is fair game for a book deal, a TV show, and a guest spot on QVC pawning off the next best thing in cookware. Even Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential, while completely transforming the way we view restaurant life and food literature, is also a culprit in its own realm. Gourmet, Saveur, and even the Dining section of your local newspaper is suddenly hot news. Eating out isn't about Chinese take-out or a bucket of KFC any more, it's about that Asian fusion lounge downtown and where to find the new KFC, Korean-fried chicken. The positive response to Alice Waters' Berkeley-bred local and organic philosophies have made Whole (Paycheck) Foods and Trader Joe's the new Safeway and Supervalu of our generation, and the hot new venues where you can pick up quinoa, organic almond milk, and a sixer of PBR with your fellow culturally-aware hipsters and feel good about your purchase. Within our so-called food renaissance, diners have been exposed to ridiculous trends like molecular gastronomy, deconstruction plates, gastropubs, overpriced neighborhood bistros, and Prohibition-style cocktails, and whored themselves out accordingly.

Frankly, this oversaturation of food media has merely temporarily heightened awareness without creating a sustained response, and the end result between kitchen professionals, wannabe foodies (i.e. Yelpers), trend setters, and the ever-unpopular economy, hasn't terribly positive. Food has become fashion, something to forget about in a few months without ever questioning who, what, why, etc. Just because you buy your produce at Whole Foods doesn't make you Earth's love child (Don't get me wrong, it'sstill better than going to Jewel). Just because you can decorate a cupcake using batter and frosting that came from Duncan Hines doesn't mean you're a fucking pastry chef. Just because you know who Paul Kahan is doesn't make you an expert on the Chicago dining scene. Just because you've sprinkled truffle salt on your popcorn doesn't make you a gourmand. It's certainly a step but far from progress because nothing is every explained. Long story short, we're not being realistic with our food and over the past 10-15 years, it certainly feels like we've learned nothing from our troubles.

I wrote an article last week regarding the proper way to roast a chicken (borrowed heavily from Thomas Keller's Bouchon) as a response to an overwhelming number of people just going about it all wrong. Roasting a chicken, at its very core, is an absurdly simple process requiring the absolute bare minimum of ingredients (a whole chicken, salt & pepper, maybe fresh thyme) and utensils (a saute pan and an oven) that perfectly counters the equally absurd techniques and "secret ingredients" maniacally suggested to somehow create culinary magic. Why aren't we giving the chicken its due diligence? Don't we want our roast chicken to still taste like chicken? Perhaps chefs, TV producers, and book publishers are simply afraid of losing business when people find out that cooking is actually really fucking easy, and you don't need to buy that orange-handled Furi knife set from Rachael Ray or non-stick Calphalon pans hawked by Michael Symon to make good food. For a generation of college graduates armed with Master's degrees and PHDs, shouldn't we be capable of making spaghetti carbonara or shrimp wontons like our parents and grandparents without hating ourselves in the kitchen? Did everyone who read/watched Julie & Julia learn nothing from Julie Powell/Nora Ephron's blatant and unnecessary exercise in feminism? Where's Jacques Pepin when you need him?

[While working at the Chopping Block, it never failed to amaze me how many students in the culinary boot camp program wanted to immediately rush into making some ridiculously complicated dish even though they couldn't, say, properly cook pasta. What was more disheartening was that even after four straight days of "culinary education," on their final "Iron Chef" day where they would showcase everything they had learned from a random assortment of ingredients, they still had no clue. Some reverted back to old habits and some were simply too afraid to fail ($2000 for what?), requiring a printed recipe or certain ingredients to successfully pull off a simple dish like a caprese salad ("It says I need heirloom tomatoes!"). This may be a testament to the abilities of the instructors but also speaks volumes to the predicament facing recreational cooks; the inability to read directions, follow instruction, remember instruction, and generally lacking any common sense. If it takes Gordon Ramsay yelling in your face to get it right, maybe that's not so bad after all. But I digress.]

This argument immediately led into a discussion with some friends regarding Stephanie Izard's Girl & The Goat, arguably the hottest restaurant in Chicago right now. Having revisited David Tamarkin's review in Time Out, plenty of criticism was dished out regarding her CCC-stylings and penchant for savory and sweet combinations, particularly the unlikely pairing of potato dumplings with lemon-poached eggplant...as a dessert. I'm not going to argue with whether or not it tastes good because, hell, her lamb and blackberry dish did clinch her a Top Chef title. But more importantly, the ideology represents something fundamentally wrong with food right now; it no longer feels like innovation, but more like a novelty act. The flavors are complex and unique, but the residual feeling is more akin to Stuart's "Look what I can do!" than something genuine and lasting. When the smoke clears, the diner eventually must ask, "Is this something I would pay $40 for again? Is this something I would want to recreate at home?" If not, then what's the fucking point? It's ultimately really sad to consider that perhaps restaurants simply don't care. If the number of new diners at an establishment far exceeds the need for repeat customers, who would? Perhaps I'm over-romanticizing/simplifying things but no matter how cool an Old Fashioned "in the rocks" at Aviary may be, it's still an Old Fashioned (and according to their preliminary test video, a heavily diluted one at that) that I could get down the street for a quarter of the price. For that matter, why question how many cucumber encapsulations you would have to make for a night's worth of gin and tonics when you really don't need to make any at all?. Just like Keller's roast chicken, when you take away all the unnecessary hoopla, all you're left with is the chicken (which brings about an entirely different argument about how the product should speak for itself and the quality of food product these days). The moment we started treating our food more like entertainment is the moment we lost touch with our food and why it's so important in our daily lives. Being a chef is no longer about who can cook the best but more "check out the crazy shit that comes out of my kitchen!"

And that's precisely the conundrum facing food now. When you take away all the glitz and glamour and attention, all you're left with is the food, and it may very well be too boring for the masses to digest. But the vacancy felt now is a result of an overabundance of information and a lack of time to properly process what the fuck just happened. Frankly, I'm torn. As a chef, I'd like to think I understand food and can differentiate (and appreciate) both the traditional and entertainment aspects of my profession. What I'm concerned about it everyone else; a bunch of people who think they know but really know jack. Just because we've transitioned from Totino's pizza rolls to Neopolitan pizza doesn't mean we understand pizza any more than we did in the 5th grade. There's a history and science to it all and until you actually get your hands dirty, you'll never really get it. Proper food education is definitely not whatever the Food Network passes off as education these days. Worst Cooks In America is a completely blown opportunity and infuriating, condescending television. Not only the are the "contestants" sad, pitiful examples of the human race (worse than Hell's Kitchen, if anyone thought that was possible), but the "chefs" in charge carry on their educational duties as if they're god's gift to mankind with a constant, Jay Cutler-esque smirk on their faces. And their math is seriously fucked at well. Let's take Robert Irvine's (I seriously can't stand the smug bastard) "restaurant-quality dish" of pan-seared curried duck breast with julienned vegetables (daikon, carrots, snow peas), and piped sweet potatoes (honey and goat cheese) with an apple-pomegranate reduction sauce." One dish, four components, each component requiring multiple ingredients, steps, and utensils, and a lot of unnecessary time in the kitchen. Not only do the flavors appear to clash but I wouldn't even bother attempting this in a professional restaurant, let alone at home. It's no wonder food sucks these days.

But I digress. What we need to do right now is slow down. Enough with the cupcakes, bacon, bangers, foams, boutique tacos, and ambersands.

Get in touch with your food.

[Note: To expand on the subject of Guy Fieri, his show Diners, Drive-Ins, And Dives has gone from being a fairly respectable show about small businesses and independent personalities making good, decent food to "let's watch short order cooks use artificial ingredients like butter-flavored oil and Italian dressing mix to make gussied up shit that fat people eat." Truly disappointing stuff.]

Snowtorious B.I.G., Like, Really Big

2011-02-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

Not to be mistaken with the great DC Snowpocalypse of 2010.

Amidst today's chaos of CPS snow days, emergency grocery and gas runs, and surprising phone issues, it's as if the city of Chicago has never experienced a blizzard before. Shit, I've got bigger things to worry about than a little extra snow.

The only thing on my mind is choosing the best flavor for a snow cone. I just watched Do The Right Thing (perhaps the polar opposite of what we're experiencing weather-wise) so the thought is still fresh. I'm definitely not feeling lemon.

Who am I kidding? I'm drinking hot chocolate tonight.

Tasty Snacking Is Only Skin Deep

2011-01-31T20:18:00.000-08:00

Pork rinds are white trash. Whether you call them chicharrons or serve them like pomme frites at the Publican, you'll invariably be awash in a strange mix of gas station nostalgia, sheer awesomeness, and swirling guilt (or are those the pork rinds talking?). But fear not because according to Men's Health, pork rinds are actually "good" for you being high in oleic and stearic acid and protein, that is, until you pair them with some cheap beer (gas attack, motherfucker!).

I suppose, then, candied orange peels are the classier cousins of the two skin snacks. I can't attest to them being any healthier (you're basically eating orange-flavored sugar), but they certainly make a quality nibbler, holiday gift, or even a swanky garnish for your Cosmo. (Yeah, I'm talking to you, grrrrlfriend. But definitely not you, dude. AHEM, where's my fucking Jame-o shot?)

It's a beautiful thing, really. Tough, inedible skin sliced off pork belly becomes a crispy, fried treat. Orange peels that would otherwise get tossed into the garbage or compost bin are suddenly candy!

But before I start getting all teary eyed about utilizing the nasty bits, I should probably admit what a pain in the ass this skin business really is. Candying orange peels can take a couple hours of deliberate, well...peeling, cooking, and upwards to two days worth of drying. Cracklin' is a drawn-out process of boiling (warning: it stinks), oven-drying, and frying. In both cases, depending on how much you're preparing, one inevitably must ask: do the ends justify the means?

I suppose that depends on how much you enjoy your skin.

Gnocchi: The Antithesis of Longboat Key

2011-01-20T15:50:00.001-08:00

Nothing deflates one's spirits during the middle of January more than a fitting piece of unfortunate news. Thus, back to the cutting board I go.

Of course, my food-centric mind immediately makes a motion to comfort itself, leading me from carbs to potatoes and then straight to gnocchi (I swear, that's really how my head operates, although I'm surprised I didn't immediately go with chocolate). I suppose ever-wandering thoughts of winter, the Irish Potato Famine, the recession, and "food on the dole" eventually took its toll.

Gnocchi has always been a strange beast to me. Considering gnocchi consists predominantly of potatoes, how are we able to pass off those curious premade packages of drivel made mostly with flour and still call it gnocchi? That's not accounting for the gummy, chewy mess you end up with for dinner and inevitably have to mine out of your teeth like Jolly Ranchers. No matter how "premium" or "high-quality" it is, premade is premade and it's difficult to comprehend why consumers still bother.

Perhaps my fondest memory of gnocchi was experienced during my time at Moto where a "baked potato" dish consisted of fried truffle gnocchi, white cheddar powder, bacon consomme, and standard-issue brunoised chives. The dish evolved several times over but what I remember was how the deep-fried crunch outside contrasted with the pillowy goodness waiting for me inside. It was the pinnacle of gnocchi for me and my new benchmark in its preparation (just don't take your deep-fried gnocchi cues from Steve Ziegler at Webstaurant and you'll be fine).

But finding a proper gnocchi recipe is like finding the perfect curry: it doesn't necessarily exist. Recipes vary like crazy and it basically comes down to trial and error in finding the best fit. While I'm not going to argue against family recipes, I always try to stick with whatever seems most natural, so if a gnocchi recipe calls for baking powder or only egg whites, you kind of feel that's probably not how nonnas rolled in the old country.

Your standard issue potato gnocchi recipe should consist of only a handful of items: Russet potatoes, AP flour, egg yolks, and a dash of fresh nutmeg and salt. A few things to remember:

- Go with Russet potatoes because of their low water, high starch content. In cahoots with flour and egg yolks, they make a strong dough.

- Bake your taters instead of boiling them. The inclusion of water will dilute flavor, add water content, and lead to heavy, tasteless gnocchi. You're going to be boiling these suckers any way. Why jump the proverbial water gun?

- Eat those potato skins, you pansy.

- Make sure all ingredients are room temperature. We want gnocchi, not breakfast.

- You're not done after boiling. Saute your gnocchi in olive oil or "CLEAR FRIED BUTTER!" to achieve that beautiful crunchy coating.

- Freeze any uncooked gnocchi. Refrigerating leftovers only creates additional moisture and gluten development.

Gluten seems to be a recurring theme when dealing with potatoes and even more apparent when breaking them down. For gnocchi, mashing isn't something you necessarily want to do with a fork. It's critical that potatoes are mashed as thoroughly and quickly as possible. Enter the potato ricer or food mill.

However, one does wonder if the nonnas of Italy successfully conquered gnocchi without either tool or if they excused the occasional potato chunk as "rustic." I mean, you could always make gnocchi from a ricotta base rather than potato, which is always a delicious alternative and great way avoiding the pitfalls of gluten and possible "chunkage," but it's hardly as satisfying.

So how about we skip Italy entirely and move over to France where they have "gnocchi a la parisienne," which is a glorified way of saying "we boil pate au choux batter." But in doing so, the French achieve unbelievably rich and soft dumplings of eggy, buttery goodness far superior to any potato gnocchi in terms of effort and equipment. It may not be healthier but you're guaranteed you'll never have to worry about gummy or chunky gnocchi again.

That would only be acceptable if they were fruit-flavored.

Mmm, Mmm Good: Soup That Isn't A Congealed Mess

2011-01-17T00:33:00.000-08:00

So now that you've successfully conquered the roast chicken, what the hell are you going to do with the scraps? Hopefully you haven't completely cleaned off that carcass or thrown it away. That carcass yields some serious flavor power and structure for a good broth. As Carl Weathers would say, "Baby, you've got a stew going."

If you haven't noticed, it's a little frigid outside and knowing Chicago winters it's not going to get any better over the next few months. So outside of a North Face bomber jacket and glass of scotch, nothing warms the soul faster than a bowl of chicken soup. Trust me, I've read the books. So after that Sunday supper, you're going to require some sustenance to carry you into the work week.

Easy solution in four steps:

1. Scrape off any remaining meat from the carcass and set it aside.

2. Toss the carcass in a pot, cover with cold water, and bring it to a gentle simmer.

3. Dice some carrots, celery, and onion. Saute them in chicken fat/olive oil/butter along with the leftover chicken, season, and fold in some chopped fresh parsley and thyme to finish. (By the way, the broth should be done by now. Strain and season that shit.)

4. Boil up some salty water for pasta. If you're a traditionalist, go with egg noodles. I prefer a pasta with more personality like pappardelle. Just don't fool yourself into boiling your pasta of choice in that broth you so diligently prepared with a bunch of unnecessary starch. Godliness is cleanliness after all.

Now bring it all together and voila, a bowl of proper chicken soup. True, this process does buck the trend of one-pot meals that I religiously abide by, but the separation of components is a necessary one. Otherwise, the simultaneous preparation of ingredients would dilute the broth and overcook the vegetables and noodles. I'm not that old yet so I kind of appreciate a little discerning texture in my food.

Sorry, Carl. That only works in stews.

Is That Dinner In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

2011-01-16T16:48:00.001-08:00

Whole chickens have inexplicably become daunting, so much so that they've been silently replaced by generic packages of Perdue and Tyson chicken parts neatly stacked and lined up for your perusal. Unfortunately, this means purchasing a whole bird gets lost in the shuffle to the rotisserie spits of Boston Market and Jewel's "Chef's Kitchen," which is a shame since a "Sunday supper" roast chicken represents one of the better values in cooking and is shockingly easy to prepare.

There's a strange misconception that a delicious roast chicken requires a litany of wundar ingredients and techniques like orange wedges or stuffing to retain moisture, metal spoons or beer cans to draw heat, a generous coating of butter to crisp the skin, and even soy sauce to add "color." It's a frustrating combination of good intentions and kitchen mythology that otherwise works against everything we love about the dish.

The first problem many encounter is, surprisingly, choosing between a "fryer" and "roaster" chicken. Picking up a roaster is the obvious choice but why? Well, roasters are typically slaughtered after 6 months as opposed to the brief 3 months fryer's receive to live. This produces a larger bird that requires a longer, slower cook time but yields more flavorful meat; a fryer's meat is more tender and is better suited for, well, quick frying. If your chicken isn't labeled, just remember that the size of your cock matters (!). Roasters typically weigh between five and seven pounds, while a fryer is usually half that weight.

With the proper bird in tow, it's time to turn to my personal sage Thomas Keller, who has masterfully simplified the art of the roast chicken into three key steps:

1. Steam is your enemy. Pat your bird dry with a paper towel, inside and out. Excess moisture will create steam and take away from crispy skin, which is half the reason to roast a chicken in the first place.

2. Bring your bird up to room temperature. A cold bird takes longer to roast, a room temperature bird allows itself to cook quickly and the skin to brown and crisp up beautifully, and a hot bird probably has salmonella.

3. Salt and pepper are your friends, especially salt. Liberally seasoning the inside and outside of your bird will not only add flavor but also draw any excess moisture from the skin that can quickly evaporate during the roasting process.

That's it. Seriously. Outside of tucking the wings, removing the wishbone, and trussing your chicken (all of which are slightly unnecessary steps at home) and maybe adding a sprinkling of fresh thyme on top, just throw your bird on an oven-safe saute pan and into a 450 degree oven for about an hour. Done. If you're feeling especially cheeky, while you're allowing the chicken to rest, saute some winter vegetables (carrots, parsnips, turnip, pearl onions, brussel sprouts, etc) in the fat (chicken has fat?!) that has inevitably rendered out to serve alongside your bird. Dinner impossible? Fuck you, Robert Irvine.

It's unfortunate that the "boneless, skinless breast" has brought a bad rap to the chicken because it's brainwashed consumers into thinking chicken is a pale, tasteless meat with no character.

Chicken does taste good. If it doesn't, you're just doing it wrong.

[Note: Pair the lot with a Chardonnay; Chalone Vineyards offers a quality and affordable bottle for about $12. Or if you're like me, constantly pour yourself Don Q Pasion on the rocks and get completely bladdered.]

Dude, We Gotta Write Something New!

2010-12-15T11:26:00.000-08:00

No matter how many attempts I make at staking a claim in DC, there appears to be a six-month cap to my stay. Not to say DC isn't a great city but it's apparent a chap like me simply doesn't belong here. Amongst the sea of lawyers, politicians, government employees, and interns, where's a struggling chef and writer like me supposed to fit in?

So kind of like the Last Supper (except for Jesus, his Apostles, the "Et tu, Brute"-esque betrayal, just about everything actually related to the painting), I decided to end my tenure at the historical and ever-popular Ben's Chili Bowl on U Street with a half-smoke and an order of chili cheese fries. I originally wanted to do this at Nationals Park during a Cubs game but beggars can't be choosers, right? It's not like I'm a Nationals fan any way. I don't care who you sign to a retarded contract, my heart will always bleed Cubbie blue...in Chicago.

Ah, who am I kidding? The Cubs will always do you one better.

Oh My Darling, Clementines!

2010-12-12T19:54:00.000-08:00

Clementines are a marvelous fruit and a welcome divergence from the holiday reds, greens, and whites this time of year. Equal parts sweet and tart, and just as capable of tagging along with the warm spices of winter. Looks like it's time to buy a box. Or three.

I loved oranges growing up but was never the biggest fan of dealing with their skin, even with my trusty Tupperware peeler. Clementines made the peeling process easier, almost too easy. And while a five pound box never lasted terribly long in my house, at least I knew I was good with my daily intake of vitamin C.

- Link to accompanying joonbug.com article.

The Great Christmas Carp of Cleveland Park

2010-12-12T07:47:00.000-08:00

It's one thing to forge into the night solely on account of heavy drinking. It's a different beast entirely when the night carries on because of old friends, healthy conversation, and an overwhelming level of hospitality.

It also doesn't hurt when there's a spread of salt & pepper shrimp, bean curd rolls, cong yu bing (made in a Hello Kitty waffle maker, no less), roast carp, Hong Kong noodles, curried cuttlefish, silken tofu, dan ta, lao po bing, and a plethora of booze awaiting your consumption.

I'll take an invitation to a dinner party over a trip to the bars any day.

Orange Mocha Frappucinos Are For Closers

2010-12-07T17:28:00.001-08:00

In the same vein as the McDonald's McRib and Shamrock Shake, the seasonal drinks offered by Starbucks are met with equally passionate fanfare. Facebook and Twitter accounts exploded the day the Pumpkin Spice Latte began selling around Thanksgiving and the reception for their Gingerbread Latte and Peppermint Mocha were just as warm.

But coffee this is not. I know a certain Metropolis-suckling chef who would bid "good day!" to such abominations and unless you're a connoisseur, there's absolutely no way you can taste anything remotely resembling an espresso shot in your cup. These are Swiss Miss, flavor syrup sugar bombs created with soccer moms and teenage girls who use Blackberrys as texting devices in mind. And in a strange, perverse sort of way, there's nothing wrong with that.

Kind of like being a fan of the Biebs when you're in your 20s.

- Link to accompanying joonbug.com article.

Another Fucking Mussel Article?

2010-11-30T20:34:00.001-08:00

When it comes to seafood, crustaceans are considered king while bi-valves such as mussels remain the retarded cousins of the family. Which is a shame since mussels are cheap to buy, easy to prepare, and delicious to eat.

Any gourmand will tell you that when it comes to food it's always better to simplify and few dishes are as simple as moules mariniere. Saute shallots and garlic in olive oil, drop in your (cleaned & debearded) mussels, add a dash of dry white wine, and wait for those suckers to open up. If you're feeling adventurous, finish off your mussels with some chopped tarragon, a knob of butter, and some warm, crusty bread for extra panache.

Either way, you're money.

- Link to accompanying joonbug.com article.

Of Eco-Friendly Mice And Men

2010-11-24T19:31:00.000-08:00

My friend's mother once collectively told us about how pleasantly surprised she was that we continued to stay close-knit after all these years when, in fact, I figured that was standard practice in the realm of friendship.

So color me surprised that despite the choices we make and the distances that separate us, our paths continue to cross and what better way to bridge the gap than over a glass of rye whiskey, plate of shrimp & grits, and good old-fashioned conversation. And somewhere along the way we'll come across Old Bay popcorn, high school memories, and warm doughnut holes.

Whether or not Founding Farmers is certified green is beyond my concern (it is). Frankly that plays very little influence over the meal and the company I enjoy it with.

Chin chin.

- Link to accompanying joonbug.com article.

Parliament & Valrhona, Sitting In A Tree

2010-11-18T13:21:00.000-08:00

I was sitting inside ACKC after a long walk through a late autumn shower enjoying a tall mug of hot chocolate accompanied with a shot of Audrey when it struck me: I love chocolate.

Maybe it's the serotonin spike or the sheer sensuality of the experience but chocolate has a funny way of balancing the world for me. So even as I walk through Logan Circle and watch the rain pull the leaves off the trees, the splashes of warm color left behind on the sidewalk provide a comforting contrast for the winter months to come.

It's like plugging a hole in a leaky ship. Even if the balance is only temporary, it's OK. I've got my chocolate fix and a bar of Valrhona Guanaja from Biagio for the road.

Things are going to be alright.

- Link to accompanying joonbug.com article.

My Dentist Hates Me Right Now

2010-11-03T12:29:00.000-07:00

I've noticed that a lot of grown-ups have become jaded with Halloween. Let's be honest, it's a pretty silly holiday if one can even call it that. It's an excuse for women to dress like prostitutes, men dress like women, and yet another lousy excuse to drink a lot. But while I may not understand the fascination with the grotesque, horror movies, and ridiculous lawn decor, I certainly understand the need to escape the norm, cut loose for a bit, and have some fun.

But the real reason why I like Halloween? After it's all said and done, "Halloween" candy becomes 50% off. Sweet variety pack, fun-size, diabetic Jesus.

Bring on Thanksgiving.

Seriously, What Came First?

2010-10-29T11:35:00.001-07:00

What's not to love about eggs? Rocky and Gaston drank them by the dozen (or more), George Michael dated one, and Dr. Robotnik is one. It seems the culture I've grown up with has dictated that I learn to appreciate them. Simply put, eggs (chicken, duck, goose) are delicious, nutritious, and one of the most important building blocks of food. As a pastry chef they're absolutely integral to a great dessert but even at its very core, whether sweet or savory, they're just as amazing.

A few egg dishes stand out for me: egg souffle, sabayon, creme anglaise, scrambled eggs from McDonald's, and a even a soft-poached egg in a bowl of Shin Ramyun. But the most vivid memory will remain my mother's steamed scrambled eggs resulting in a rustic souffle-like dish that would get spooned over sticky rice and mixed with soy sauce and sesame oil; it was the hallmark of every weekend breakfast. Add some seasoned laver and you're in fucking business.

While I don't recreate my mother's egg souffle on a regular basis, mostly for the sake of watching my cholesterol, I've definitely become a proponent of a couple sunny-side up eggs instead. Maybe it's the way that golden yolk simply envelopes my rice or everything that I'm topping it with these days. I mean, forget Hollandaise or Bearnaise, this is the mother sauce.

But it's important to remember that eggs are delicate. They don't require a lot of heat so it's any wonder that nearly every order of eggs I've ordered have been overcooked, mostly a result of our infatuation/paranoia with salmonella. Ever wonder why creme brulee requires a water bath when baking? Correctly cooking eggs is a slow process. So many times have people eaten a plate of soft, slow-cooked eggs convinced a stick of butter was added to the mix. In truth, that fattiness and creaminess already exists. You just need to reign it in properly.

Which is why hard-boiled eggs will always remain a mystery to me. Not only do they smell sulfuric but the texture and flavor represent, in my opinion, culinary murder.

And let's face it, Cadbury eggs aren't much better.

Better Ingredients, Better Pizza, But Where'd All My Money Go?

2010-10-22T20:14:00.001-07:00

Coming from Chicago, it's impossible to avoid the age-old debate between us and New York, constantly arguing over who reigns supreme in battle pizza: the gluttonous glory of pizza casserole or the greasy transportability of a foldable thin crust? Now, I'm faced with a different debate in DC: Jumbo Slice or 2Amy's?

So leave it up to fedora-crazy Spike Mendelsohn to throw his name into the mix. Already the designated asshole from season four (ironically, the one in Chicago) of Top Chef and the less-than-accomplished restaurateur of the better-than-expected Good Stuff Eatery in Capitol Hill, Mendelsohn is already expanding his brand in DC with We, The Pizza right next door.

Now, just because I'm from Chicago doesn't mean I'm obligated to pledge allegiance to deep dish nor do I believe that NYC pie is really all that. Honestly, all pizza kind of strikes me the same way. It's like when Grant Achatz had his infamous pizza bubble during his Trio days; a novel spin on a classic will inevitably lead me back to much fonder memories of the original experience.

The same goes with We, The Pizza. Yeah, the slices are generous and the ingredients are fresh and sourced from honest, local purveyors like any good restaurant mission statement would demand, but whoever thought we'd get to the point where we'd be paying $10 for a couple slices of less than mind-blowing pizza? Sadly, I kept recalling a college joint called Antonio's that would serve both your classic slice and more adventurous options like steak taco, buffalo chicken, and Philly cheesesteak without ever exceeding $2.50 per slice. Sure, it's a different time, market, and quality of ingredient but does one really ever need to pay more than $3 for a slice? It's the ol' restaurant switcheroo where just because you're serving something on a big, white plate means they get to charge you out the ass even though its not all that different from it's not so polished equivalent. Once I'm paying that much money for pizza, what I ate no longer really feels relevant or special.

This seems to be part of the ongoing debate with food practices and costs. At this rate, we're going to make Alice Waters look like an even bigger classist douche bag. I mean, if Chez Panisse could succeed in a less affluent and educated part of California or the US, I'd be impressed and possibly inspired.

All style and no substance doesn't cut it, no matter what the cost.

Dude, Where's My Mojo?

2010-10-22T16:59:00.000-07:00

It's finally Autumn and it's about damn time. After suffering through a shockingly over-the-top summer, the changing of the seasonal guard couldn't be more welcome. It's always a joyous time when the leaves change colors, the air becomes brisk, and the jackets come out of the closet in order to signify a return to a more productive lifestyle.

Maybe it's the back-to-school mentality that subconsciously kicks in but there's always that post-summer haze to clear first, and this year's version seems particularly difficult to shed. Whereas we're typically chomping at the bit when the weather lifts even the slightest bit come Spring, it seems all I want to do is stay in bed just a few minutes/hours longer. And the lingering combination of a new city, jobs, and less-than-spectacular attempt at handling a long-distance relationship has finally caught up to my dead friend writer's block and resulted in a depressingly long bout of sad sack o' shittiness.

It goes without saying that inspiration leads directly to motivation and without the former it's hard to accomplish much of anything without feeling like you've expended a surplus of unnecessary energy. Whether it's dining at a new restaurant, vicarious freedom through alcohol, the glow of new love, or rampant, unadulterated sex, some sort of new experience needs to conveniently present itself in order to lead to the next step. If any part of the initial equation is left unresolved, then good luck moving on with your life feeling good about any thing.

Thankfully, there's always something to look forward to with food once the weather cools down. Even though you're no longer a student, coffee officially makes sense and seems to be the go-to beverage of choice in combating chronic adult laziness, more specifically, espresso in all it's dark roasted and beautifully smoky, bitter, and robust glory. Like wine, it can take any number of characteristics through its terroir although there's definitely no need to take it so seriously. On the other hand, amidst a sea polluted with watered-down mugs of bottomless diner coffee, mochaccinos, frappaccinos, Americanos, and the looming coffee giant that is Starbucks, it's easy to lose yourself in whatever it is we define as coffee nowadays.

Not that I have a problem with adding a little sugar to your espresso, blending coffee with condensed milk like the Vietnamese, or even enjoying a cappuccino at night, but when you go as far as to dilute the very essence of what makes coffee and espresso unique under a deluge of chocolate and caramel syrup, then Houston, we have a fucking problem. Frankly, all I want accompanying my doppio is a Morsa biscotti at M.E. Swing Co. or even a BLT at Java House to really wake me up and feel like a necessary part of the working universe, although a copy of the Sunday Times and a warm croissant at home will always be my first instinct.

But that's why coffee is so great. It's a catalyst; whether it's how you start your morning or icebreaker on a first date, it gets things going. It also helps you sit back for a moment and appreciate the passing of time without remorse and does wonders for your overall outlook on life.

And like a Blackberry, I'll be damned if it doesn't make me feel more professional.

Mo' Money, Mo Problems?

2010-09-16T16:36:00.000-07:00

Chicago is a splendid city and one that I am, ironically, beginning to understand more now that I'm no longer living there; it's old-school with a new paint job. Visitors will wax poetic over its skyline and giddily stroll around Michigan Avenue's retail glitz and glamor, but at it's core Chicago and it's people are still very much blue-collar.

So it only makes sense that as the city begins to work itself through the throes of gentrification that it would also experience a changing of the guard within its food scene. Ruxbin represents the new trend of no-name chefs opening small restaurants in developing areas. For me, the issue isn't that Edward Kim is pursuing the fusion route with his food. In fact, after experiencing Ruxbin's new Fall menu, I can safely say that outside of an underwhelming apple & beet salad and underseasoned braised short rib that everything worked. Would I return? Probably not but that's just me.

(Note: Just because you call it Calamari Bokkum doesn't hide the fact that Korean moms make that shit all the time.)

The real issues begin when debating whether said no-name chef with a very short list of credentials (I really don't give a fuck where you did your externship) should be charging nearly $30 per entree (Mado, anyone?). Of course, like I always say, if the food's good then who really cares? I certainly don't walk into the kitchens of my favorite taquerias asking the cooks for their resumes. Still, as a chef, it's impossible to disregard the notion that perhaps this guy hasn't spent enough time in the school of hard knocks and should probably give his customers a fucking break.

Then again, maybe it's simply jealousy. Disregarding the lingering question of how the fuck does this guy have the money to open this place in Noble Square, Kim is living every budding chef's dream. And as diners continue to shift away from the realm of big chefs and fine dining institutions, perhaps restaurants with no-name chefs at the helm serving great food is a good thing and a concept that plays to Chicago's great blue-collar ethic. I mean, who's to say that these up-and-comers need to work through the ranks of Alinea or the French Laundry to be considered worthy?

But I digress. What's more important is that during my brief return to Chicago, I enjoyed a fantastic dinner, got myself WARPINSKIED, and had myself a superbly memorable night with great friends.

Despite the dinner bill, that kind of experience is priceless.

New York Times Sold Separately

2010-09-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

I don't understand brunch. Whether you argue that it's breakfast, lunch, a combination of the two, or Taco Bell's 4th Meal, it remains a bit of an anomaly. The sheer mention of brunch conjures up visions of polos, Starbucks, Volkswagens, Birkenstocks, and other stuff white people like. Hell, I'm lucky enough to wake up at a regular hour, let alone, enjoy breakfast.

So when people started raising a ruckus over Jam, I remained steadfast in my indifference. Here was a perfect example of trend-avoiding/abiding hipsters embracing the most well-regarded yuppie ideal in their own neighborhood. And just like Wicker Park is now Lincoln Park with different clothes, Jam is simply a retread of Denny's only without the Grand Slam prices.

It's important to realize that you can prepare breakfast foods better without actually making them taste better, and you can only dress up breakfast so much before you intrude upon precious memories tied to whatever was prepared for you before you ran off to work, school, or Saturday morning cartoons. Case in point, Jam's Panini Cristo is enveloped in wonderfully light, fluffy, and crispy deep-fried French toast with the traditional flavors of French toast mysteriously amiss. The sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg; where the fuck were they?! Their presence surely would have provided a great contrast to the saltiness of the prosciutto and taleggio and bitterness of the rapini, and perhaps paved the way for an incredible new take on the McGriddle.

But more unforgivable was the piss-poor rendition of biscuits & gravy (for the love of god, I demand white gravy!). Even Lorraine's, in all it's gritty, old-school Chicago glory, provides a more interesting dish.

There's something to be said about teaching an old dog new tricks but what if you're fine with the old dog? Frankly, I don't care if you're using local ingredients, creating novel takes on classics, or making my plate look pretty. When all is said and done, you really don't need an amuse bouche to round out your breakfast, and if using prosciutto instead of ham or taleggio instead of Swiss doesn't necessarily improve upon a Monte Cristo, then why bother? Unless the food is good, I don't give a damn.

PS: I don't trust breakfast joints that suddenly add dinner menus.

Please, Don't Get Me To The Greek

2010-08-31T17:03:00.000-07:00

I'm a simple man when it comes to my food, so unless you're fucking Careme or Ducasse, I imagine you'd like your kitchen to turn out simple food as well. So when something as vibrant as the Mediterranean is transformed into a Greek tapas shitshow like Zaytinya, I tend to get upset. And when I get upset, I'm probably leaving your restaurant still hungry.

Let's get a few things straight, I like Jose Andres; it's impossible to dislike the guy. His energy and passion for his work is contagious and the charity that he's extended to DC is unrivaled by any other celebrity chef in the city. However, he's also made Mexican (Oyamel) and Spanish tapas (Jaleo) ridiculously expensive and, well, just plain ridiculous.

That's not to say the food isn't good because it is, if not, entirely unspectacular. I was definitely impressed by the unlimited, piping hot pita bread service and the bottle of Mythos (Greece's Budweiser equivalent, I'm sure) was one of the few lagers I've enjoyed in my life. However, much is to be said about eating kebab and hummus in a soft white dining environment surrounded by a bunch of self-serving douche bags and bachelorettes who simply don't know any better. You can bet that I was staring longingly out the window during dinner hoping a falafel cart would save me from my nauseum.

I'll give props to Andres though. It's difficult enough to survive in this industry and unless you're a purist/masochist, your ultimate goal is to expand and increase profits, and if unknowing tourists and business schmucks are willing to dish out a healthy dollar for your tacos, paella, and ghanoush, then more power to you.

Pardon me for being overromantic but when I imagine Greek, Turkish, or Lebanese cuisine, I imagine something more exciting and organic than Zaytinya. Sure, it's hip and trendy but there's a definite lack of soul in the joint. Mediterranean food, like a Russian wedding, is a communal event best served with a raucous, appreciative group, free-flowing wine, and absolutely none of the suffocating civility of a fine dining restaurant.

Thanks, but no thanks. I'd be more than happy to take my "mid-priced" dollar elsewhere.

Mmmm, Tastes Like Chicken!

2010-08-31T15:19:00.000-07:00

Fried chicken is a splendid thing whether you're soaking it in buttermilk or just enjoying a basket of wings with the game. Either way, you're undoubtedly savoring the impeccable combination of crunchy skin and succulent, juicy meat, and it's definitely one of summer's better perks alongside some dill red potato salad and a pitcher of homemade lemonade.

But we're not talking about your mother's picnic table, Southern fried chicken here. Actually, we're talking about my mother's (or some rendition of) fried chicken. Korean fried chicken is one of the latest trends of the Asian fast food movement going on in the States disposing of the crags and crevices of traditional fried chicken and replacing it with a thin, super crispy skin made possible by a unique two-step frying process. Then, like buffalo wings, it's either tossed in "salt & pepper" or any number of various sauces.

But the greatest thing about Korean fried chicken is that after it's sat on your table for a couple hours after you and your friends have enjoyed a few shots of soju and/or plastic 2-liter bottles of OB, it's just as crispy as when you started. So whether you're eating 5, 10, or 40 pieces of chicken, your first will be just as good as your last, something that can't really be said about most things in life.

Thankfully, NYC and LA aren't the only places enjoying this stuff. Of course, there's a spot in Annandale called Bon Chon where you can eat Korean fried chicken to your heart's content. Tucked away in an unassuming plaza next to a late-night pizza joint, it's the perfect place to start off a night in K-Town. While the place is unusually dim and the seating arrangement sketchy, it's surely designed to accommodate the throngs of Asians coming in since we apparently only travel in packs of 10 or more.

Just be sure you call ahead of time to order lest you feel like being given the stink eye when you come in, or worse, not be served anything at all.

Then again, that's probably about par for Asian hospitality.

The Great Mussel Hustle

2010-08-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

If you haven't noticed, barebones is the name of the game with food these days. The long-underappreciated bistro (save for those ridiculous communal tables) is finally getting its due respect with restaurants reinventing their staff attire, dining environment, and most importantly, their food. Molecular gastronomy is/was an absolutely fascinating spectacle worthy of any coffee table cookbook but unless your last name is Achatz or Adria, you probably have zero ties to the cuisine. People finally want to experience real food and thank god. Bistros live and die by their rustic menus: simple, substantial fare either slow-cooked to braisey goodness or quickly sauteed with only a handful of ingredients. It's a Frenchman's wetdream, and when it's done right it definitely makes you forget about all the gimmicks out there.

The belief that food constantly needs to expand upon its flavor profiles is an easy trap to fall into. Any amateur can devise novel flavor combinations and quickly overcomplicate a dish but it takes an expert to make an honored classic taste amazing. As the list of ingredients increases the possibility of failure follows suit, and the vast majority of culinary innovation leaves us with clashing, or worse, completely nonexistent flavors. So one would assume that Robert Wiedmaier, a chef touted for his highly-acclaimed upscale bistro Brasserie Beck, would be able to pull off something as elementary as moules mariniere with a flick of his wrist.

Located in downtown Bethesda, the brunt of Wiedmaier's Mussel Bar consists of, well, mussels. But the Blue Bay PEIs Wiedmaier exclusively uses are surprisingly tiny and while one can run the gamut of expressions like, "The smaller the dog, the bigger the bite," these suckers are either flavorless or completely overwhelmed by their accompanying ingredients; the Chimay was overly bitter due to the inordinate amount of Old Bay and the Classic wasn't balanced enough with the unexpected addition of cream doing nothing to round out the Sauvignon Blanc. The Wild Shroom was the only one worth noting despite the curious lack of truffle essence (when does that ever happen?) and the mussels once again being overshadowed by the other ingredients, but at least the broth was worthy of the free bread. The Asian and Gratin (the easiest way to ruin seafood) had zero appeal to me.

Outside of an impressive beer fridge, it's disappointing to leave a place called Mussel Bar being most satisfied by a pork belly tart and the frites (the vanilla sweet potatoes were pretty rad). I've had better PEIs courtesy of Plitt/Sailor Girl at Halsted's Bar & Grill (before they dumbed down the menu) for only $10, and that's after having to deal with Boystown's shenanigans. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to blow smoke up Wiedmaier's culinary toothole on this one. If you're going to do something you'd better do it right, especially if you own four big-time restaurants in the DC area.

I Love Sushi Cause It's So Delicious

2010-07-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

I've consumed my fair share of low-end sushi. It started back in college on Mondays with $1 sushi night at KoFusion (that's per piece which, in retrospect, is a terrible deal) and my bimonthly fix of "Sushi Combo A" at the now defunct Sushi County, only to literally grow out of control with the monstrous maki at House of Sushi & Noodles in Chicago (although their $16 all-you-can-eat buffet remains one of the city's better deals). But as much as I enjoy such gluttonous outbursts, real sushi pleasure lies in traditional nigiri: thick slabs of blood-red tuna, vibrant and fatty salmon, and if I'm feeling especially cheeky, a couple pieces of ikura and uni (sadly, I have yet to experience the bourgeois indulgence of otoro).

So it's not Sushi Taro (or whatever the best sushi joint is in DC) but Momo in Alexandria certainly satisfies my needs. It's quaint, friendly, and since it's so busy, you're assured that their fish comes in fresh daily. They may not be sourcing from some special, desolate area in the Pacific but how many of you supposed self-labeled sushi connoisseurs can actually tell the fucking difference? That withstanding, their nigiri far exceeds the typical cliche-ridden maki menu, with concoctions ranging from the Japanese Lasagna (broiled maki with Japanese mayo) to the Old Town (the ubiquitous nod to the Chesapeake with cooked salmon, Old Bay, avocado, and cucumber). Again, it's nowhere near the best but sometimes the dining environment can supersede the food and make the experience worthwhile. After all, Momo is Korean-owned. The only thing we know how to properly do is grill meat and make kimchi, right?

What did set me off was reading a framed review from the Alexandria Times in the hallway where a clearly inexperienced and sheltered food journalist (name yet to be remembered) proceeded to label sushi as comfort food. Really? Someone please explain to me how this title is even possible. The journalist is not Japanese, most likely did not grow up eating sushi as a child, and her sushi palate is probably as exotic as a Dragon roll.

Comfort food is something you grew up with, that your mother prepared for you after school, a characteristically homey dish known for its tell-tale rustic nature. Comfort food is a bowl of mac & cheese, slice of apple pie, or a Sunday morning BLT, not a bottle of Cristal, tin of Beluga caviar, or seared foie gras. Hell, even though my mother was diligent enough to even try to make nigiri for my family, there's absolutely no way I could ever consider it to be comfort food; even if you're Japanese it's not possible! The very essence of sushi is refined, elegant, expensive as fuck, and should be considered a rare treat, not something you simply shovel into your mouth at the county fair. I mean, do we really want to promote a throwaway, white trash class of sushi?

Does one really need to further fuel my animosity toward this guy?

But My Redneck Past Is Nipping At My Heels

2010-07-19T18:16:00.000-07:00

It seems some chefs feel the need to protect their street cred by renouncing fast food despite having spent a majority of their childhood eating and loving it. My disinterest may be attributed to my general avoidance of condiments and pop but mostly something about fast food now feels cold and industrialized, and I try my damnedest to refrain from unnecessarily contributing to the vast empires it has produced. Unfortunately, we live in a busy world and it becomes painfully difficult to continuously ignore its convenience; somewhere, Eric Schlosser is crying.

But once in awhile you come across fast food that actually tastes good. While fast food should be considered an afterthought once you've exhausted other dining options, it does provide a rare opportunity to relive fond memories. So ever since rumor spread last year of a Chick-fil-A moving into Aurora, I decided I needed to get my fill. Thank god the biggest disappointment for a mall in Ballston houses one in their food court.

My first trip to Chick-fil-A was in Atlanta back in 2005 where I mistakenly ordered the chargrilled chicken sandwich. True, that's not necessarily a poor choice but subsequent trips eventually led me to their revelatory original chicken sandwich. What you get is a surprisingly minimalist concoction dressed only with pickle slices and a crispy, tender boneless chicken breast (damn you, Truett Cathy) that actually tastes like, well, chicken. The only other chicken sandwich that comes close is the McDonald's Southern Style sangwich which, ironically, was developed to directly counter Chick-fil-A's popularity. Round out your meal with an order of waffle fries and sweet tea and you're in business.

I suppose that lesser franchises like In-N-Out and Pollo Campero appear to represent the more modest realm of fast food, and I truly believe small business and chains can coexist. But let's face it, success inevitably results in aggressive expansion (and sometimes, downfall) while losing a bit of its unique regional personality. Let's hope that Chick-fil-A holds onto its fast food soul (yes, it can exist) and doesn't lose its appeal by opening outside of the South.

But if there was anything to truly hate, it's those fucking cows and their slogans to "eat mor chikin," even though said chikins are probably cooped up by the dozen in shoebox-sized cages either dead or covered in their own shit awaiting slaughter for your pleasure.

Yeah, let's forget about that.

A Tale Of Two Taquerias

2010-07-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

I love tacos. Tacos rule. They're cheap, tasty, and easy to eat. But no way in hell you're floating an Old El Paso taco past me. I enjoy my tacos served the traditional way: two corn tortillas, meat, onion, cilantro, and lime. Nothing more, nothing less.

I arrived in DC with high expectations stemming from Chicago's fantastic Mexican food scene and it seems that the further from the city you go the more ethnic it becomes, which is disappointing since I don't own a car. Thankfully, a little place called Taqueria Distrito Federa l (pictured above) came recommended to me from an area chef.

It was love at first sight; a tiny basement restaurant in a Columbia Heights rowhouse with an open kitchen complete with three Mexican women preparing everything. Not only is the authenticity appealing but so is the food. Unfortunately, they run on the slightly expensive end of taquerias at $2.50 a taco leaving me convinced that better and cheaper exists out there. In the mean time, I have no problem recommending Distrito Federal to those in the city while awaiting my hidden gem outside it. But while my exploration for DC's best taqueria continues, what I'll never understand is why people continue to bother with perpetually bland and chewy carne asada over the much tastier and tender lengua (that's beef tongue for you gringos).

Which takes me to Taqueria Nacional in Capitol Hill. Outside of their thick-cut yucca fries served with a creamy salsa verde (oh, the memories of El Desmadre in Champaign), their tacos are mediocre at best and more expensive than Distrito Federal. I mean, who mixes their carnitas with onions and spinach, aka filler, any way? That's simply unacceptable. But what's more troubling is the inclusion of quintessential American dishes like shrimp jambalaya and chicken pot pie as throwaway daily specials. I mean, who comes here and orders that shit? Why wouldn't owner Ann Cashion (How is this woman a James Beard award-winning chef? What the hell do the James Beard awards even mean nowadays?) at least try to create a semi-authentic taqueria concept like this place?

The entire concept of dueling personalities is quite baffling in a restaurant as if openly advertising that it can't do one thing right and/or has absolutely zero pride in what it does. I don't care if you're on Capitol Hill trying to appease a predominantly unadventurous lunchtime crowd coming to you for, at most, the three Mexican O's (tacos, burritos, and nachos). Why not take a chance with a mole or birria? What have you got to lose? The only thing Ann Cashion is successfully doing is failing to be this man. Shame on her and shame on you for liking this place.

And does no one spit-roast al pastor in this city? Fuck.

I've Got More Chins Than Chinatown

2010-07-13T19:28:00.000-07:00

It took me nearly three months to finally get my hands on the KFC Double Down, and needless to say, I'm a little disappointed (with myself).

We've all heard of this thing. What started off as a bad joke last August somehow tumbled through the rumor mill to become a full-fledged menu item at KFC. Dietitians and nutritionists (what's the difference again?) are aghast with the sandwich's mere existence, claiming that the Double Down is too high in fat, calories, and sodium amid reports that it also hates puppies, has poor family values, and a tendency to get rowdy after a few too many drinks.

Well, no shit, Sherlock. Of course the Double Down is terrible for you. You would have to be pretty fucking stupid to believe the absence of a bun somehow makes it Atkins friendly and part of a well-balanced diet.

But what's worse? The fact that we need so-called experts to inform us about this or that people are actually expected to eat the entire sandwich along with fries and a coke?

Either way, the Double Down is atrocious. Forget that it's terrible for you but the damn thing doesn't even taste good. In fact, it doesn't taste like any thing more than pure, unadulterated shame. I could only surmise a few small bites before becoming overwhelmed with guilt.

I need to take a cold shower now.

Who Ordered The Jumbo Shrimp?

2010-07-12T22:34:00.000-07:00

Eating out should always be a pleasant and unique experience without breaking the bank. Lately, I've grown increasingly despondent over the concept of fine dining. Such restaurants may have access to rare, high-quality ingredients but they lack the genuine nature and personality of their lesser-touted counterparts. Local diners, greasy spoons, and food shacks may not have the best overall presentation when it comes to food but their dishes tend to be infused with a different brand of flavor.

Crisfield Seafood Restaurant represents that particular style of dining. A Silver Spring institution since 1945, Crisfield serves up legendary plates of seafood in a space reminiscent of the great worn-in diners and soda fountains of yesteryear. The decor has seemingly unchanged and noticeably faded, the servers are older and more experienced than their franchise brethren, the place is decked out with photos of celebrities I've never heard of (except Jon Voight, wait...Jon Voight?), and boasts a menu of classic seafood favorites like stuffed shrimp, clam chowder, crab cakes, and broiled lobster. What's not to love? I was certainly sold the moment I walked in.

But something gets lost in translation. Their signature Norfolk shrimp sounds like a fantastic idea until you realize that it's just steamed shrimp in melted butter served with a lemon wedge. Arguably, that's never a bad idea but when you're dropping $25 for a small portion of shrimp accompanied with a really sad pile of fries and cole slaw and the best tasting part of the meal was the cocktail sauce, then you start to realize that you're paying for the experience and not the food. It's like eating at the Rainforest Cafe and getting caught up in all the jungle theatrics before realizing you just paid out the ass for a grilled cheese sandwich. It's sad and really fucking disappointing.

Perhaps I'm being overly critical with my expectations but the more I eat, the more I sense that my enjoyment of seafood (and food, in general) depends more on the quality and not the quantity with which I'm shoveling into my mouth.

And really, why do people not keep their shrimp shell- and head-on in such cases? Or at least just keep the head on so that I can suck out the chitin.

Please?

In North Korea, Food Eats You!

2010-07-11T22:37:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that it gets hot in DC? Cause it does. Really hot. So what does one do to beat the heat? The nearest beach isn't easily accessible via public transportation, ice cream trucks bearing Bullets and Choco Tacos are few and far between, and security seems to frown up frolicking in municipal fountains. The obvious solution to all this? Noodles.

Gooldaegee Korean Grill in Annandale (aka Koreatown) may be better known for their industrial, blue-collar set-up and serving up copious amounts of BBQ while blaring jarringly-loud K-Pop and Top 40 hits, but they also serve a pretty mean bowl of naengmyeon. Generally a more utilitarian dish from Pyongyang, naengmyeon really hits its stride in South Korea once summer rears its ugly head. There's a good chance you've never heard of the stuff constantly overshadowed by its more mainstream cousins, jajangmyeon and jambong. I mean, how often does one consider eating cold noodles in a beefy, briny soup to cure the summer blues?

But that's precisely the appeal of the dish. The dongchimi (base brine) turns naengmyeon into a vertible flavorgasm loaded with winter daikon kimchi, Korean pear, cucumber, boiled beef brisket, and even a few ice cubes to really help deliver a clean, crisp effect on your palate. Top it off with buckwheat noodles, a boiled egg (preferably slightly underdone), maybe spice it up with Japanese mustard and rice vinegar, and you've got yourself a ticket to good times. Before you know it, you'll be publicly proclaiming your gullet's satisfaction like a drunken Korean business pounding shots of soju.

Seriously, like any good noodle soup, it's the broth that steals the show; that dongchimi is like the nectar of the gods! It's like when water tastes absolutely amazing when you're really thirsty except now you're hot, hungry, and thirsty. Naengmyeon just hits the spot. And like Yechon, my favorite Korean haunt in Annandale, the place is open 24 hours (minus the female servers in traditional hanbok) which means you can combo naengmyeon and Korean BBQ any time of day. That's pretty fucking awesome.

Just don't judge me when you start hearing my people rap. Even I think it's ridiculous.

Let Them Eat Pake!

2010-07-05T15:09:00.000-07:00

The Fourth of July. Independence. America. Pake. It's a logical sequence.

A pie inside of a cake; three layers of cake with the middle layer replaced with a pie. Major credit goes to my dear friend Michelle for planting the idea in my head. You can construct a pake any way your heart desires but the real challenge is being able to maintain its aesthetic presentation and structural integrity, particularly with the the bottom layer. Having a reasonably solid pie filling (not too juicy) and the use of buttercream are key.

It's an appropriately gluttonous, extreme, and patriotic gesture to Lady Liberty. So serve up a slice with a tall glass of milk or cold beer and enjoy the fireworks.

Some For You, S'more For Me

2010-07-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

I am fascinated by marshmallows. You could make them plain, raspberry, passionfruit, I don't care; I'm not a marshmallow snob. But as beautiful as the versions gracing classical French pastry spreads are, I actually turn to the cheapo version found at your local supermarket, aka, the Kraft Jet-Puffed Marshmallow.

Don't judge me. I love those things in all their blindingly-white, pillowy goodness. I mean, let's not kid ourselves. Even though they're not "jet-puffed" (whatever that means), marshmallows in their purest form are still just cooked sugar whipped with gelatin and vanilla (flavor); the addition of tetrasodium pyrophosphate in the store-bought version isn't going to make or break them.

My favorite memories with marshmallows start with the toasted varietal. Unfortunately, that also means turning your marshmallow into a flaming and potentially carcinogenic sugar bomb (albeit a very tasty bomb). The smell of burning wood infused with a vanillin caramelization and the velvety texture of creme anglaise all come together in one delicious, toasty bite. This is the stuff campfires are made for and probably the only thing I really enjoyed about being a Boy Scout (fine, the Pinewood Derby was pretty sweet).

You can relive the experience with a fantastic toasted marshmallow milkshake from Good Stuff Eatery, but for me, the best use of the toasted marshmallow comes from the one and only s'more. Milk chocolate, graham cracker, and toasted marshmallow messily smashed together to create something rather unique in its own gluttonous and irresistible glory. You can go as low-brow as a S'more Pop-Tart (which basically became its own food group while I was in high school), or as decadent as the s'more course at Moto (graham cracker sorbet covered with nitroed chocolate mousse, milk chocolate ice cream, graham cracker dirt, and homemade toasted marshmallow fluff). S'all good.

Whatever route you take, nothing beats sharing the s'more experience with friends and strangers alike, revisiting memories, and making new ones. It's not haute cuisine but that's why it's so comforting.

Get in touch with your food.

You Say Gelato, I Say Give Me Some

2010-06-28T21:36:00.000-07:00

To say that it gets hot in DC would be an understatement. Here, the heat and humidity join forces to create a suffocating, energy-sapping vortex capable of halting any enjoyment in one's day (and destroying the will to stay awake), all of which strangely makes sense considering the entire city was built on a swamp. Suffice to say, after a failed experience at this (which pales in comparison to this), we were feeling a little sluggish and in dire need of a pick-me up.

Located in the heart of tourist hell (Gallery Place & Chinatown), Pitango offers up some really super gelato. If frozen yogurt was made for women and hand-churned ice cream was made for men, then I suppose gelato would be considered the great compromise between the two; all the flavor without the fat and wasted space. Once you've conquered a regular cup ($4.85), try out an affogato (chocolate or hazelnut gelato + espresso). Then you can bust out your inner food geek by pulling the ol', "Affogato give you something," with your friends. Trust me, they'll love it.

The most notable thing about Pitango, judging by their distinguished flavor wall, is the extensive pride they take in their product and using only the best ingredients for it. So while it does run on the pricier end of the gelato spectrum, it's a difference you can actually taste. Espresso retains its trademark bitterness, mojito is jam-packed with fresh lime and mint, and pistachio actually takes on a real buttery nuttiness rather than the Jell-O or Ben & Jerry's artificiality that we're typically used to (and it's not fucking green!).

But regardless of quality, one thing I cannot tolerate is the infamous peanut gallery always making claims about how domestic gelato can't compare to the stuff they had while vacationing in Italy. Seriously? That's like saying a Van De Kamp's fish stick doesn't compare to a slab of otoro from the Tsukiji fish market; it's a completely different beast. If you're fortunate enough to come across good gelato (or anything, for that matter) here in the States, appreciate the craftsmanship that has gone into the product and realize that you are not a connoisseur or an aficionado. You are a douche bag. So kindly take that gelato shovel and stick it where it belongs.

In your big, fat mouth.

Fe, Fi, Fo, Pho!

2010-06-24T08:17:00.000-07:00

Among the growing list of things I miss about Chicago is Argyle, a small stretch of Uptown housing the best authentic Vietnamese cuisine in the city. Like most ethnic cuisines in DC, Vietnamese food is inexplicably gussied up for unknowing customers on large, white plates for ridiculously unimaginative Pan-Asian menus. Thankfully, unbastardized Vietnamese is available at the Eden Center of Seven Corners, VA, and one of many culinary holy grounds I've discovered so far.

Better still, I don't even have to hop on the Orange line because a few blocks away from me is a fantastic pho joint called Pho 75 ('75 marking the Fall of Saigon and reunification of Vietnam). It's not much to look at (which actually adds to its appeal) but once people caught wind of their cheap ($6.20 for a regular bowl), delicious pho, it kind of ballooned into a small chain around the DC and Philadelphia areas. Say what you will about chain restaurants, this shit's legit and at least deserves some credibility for being the original location. It may not be tops on my growing list of favorite phos (that honor goes to Luong Li in Wheaton) but around here, it's the sale of the fucking century.

If you'll indulge me on a little history lesson, pho originated from northern Hanoi as a result of the French colonization and has distinct similarities to pot au feu ("pot on fire"). Like pot au feu, marrow-rich bones are slowly simmered along with charred onions to create the base richness and flavor of the stock before the Vietnamese added their own distinct aromatics (ginger, cloves, Saigon cinnamon, and star anise) to the mix, and basically created another case of people utilizing unwanted scraps and turning it into something amazing.

There are two different styles of pho: Northern (pho bac) and Southern (pho nam). Pho bac is your traditional beef pho but served without the usual plate of garnishes (water bean sprouts, lime, jalapeno, Thai basil, and sometimes culantro). What you see is what you get and the flavor of the dish rests largely on how well the stock was prepared. Pho nam is your modern-day pho accompanied by the garnishes. Also, because of the greater abundance and variety of food in the South, pho nam stock may be prepared completely with chicken or shrimp, and fish sauce and hoisin may be served on the side. For the most part, what we get these days is a combination of the regional styles.

I fell in love with pho after my sister introduced it to me nearly 4 years ago at Pho 75 (inevitably, it's a place of sentimental value). There's something intrinsic about pho that lifts my outlook on life. Is it a natural pick-me up? Hangover cure? The original Red Bull? With it's warm, aromatic beef stock teeming with beef brisket, (fatty) flank, tripe, buttery tendon, and the usual array of garnishes, I could forgive a lot of things in life. Take a nose dive into your bowl, soak up the aromas, tear up some Thai holy basil leaves, squeese in some lime, toss in your jalapeno slices and water bean sprouts, and go to town. Go ahead and add Sriracha and hoisin but I insist you try an entire bowl without or just use it for the meat.

If anything, pho reminds me of Anthony Bourdain's long-standing love affair with the food of Vietnam. It's fresh, ridiculously flavorful, and fucking delicious. There's so much going on in a bowl of pho (and successfully so!) that I wonder why all food can't be like it all the time.

They certainly don't teach that in culinary school.

Give Me Liberty, Or Give Me Crabs!

2010-06-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

In a city rife with lawyers, politicians, and their respective career-driven interns, it's frustrating having to constantly navigate DC in search of satisfying, yet, low-key regional cuisine. So having traveled to Annapolis to witness my sister's official swear-in at Maryland's Court of Appeals, the group consensus was to celebrate lunch with the Chesapeake Bay's offerings. So off to Cantler's we went.

Cantler's is nestled within a small inlet near downtown Annapolis, an area distinctly Mid-Atlantic with its beautiful cobblestone streets, brick row houses, plethora of small businesses, and a harbor bustling with private yachts and pirate adventures. You can walk, bike, drive, and even sail your way into Cantler's own private dock. How cool is that?

If there was anything more symbolically tied with Maryland it would be the blue crab (walk into any tourist shop and you'll understand), so it only seemed right to eat as much of it as possible. I've never indulged in traditional steamed blue crab but I had no shame asking the locals about the proper way to tucker in (don't forget your prison shiv!).

1. Pop the tab.
2. Pry apart the upper and bottom shells.
3. Discard the upper shell.
4. Discard the gills.
5. Quarter and split the bottom shell.
6. Pick out the sweet, buttery meat and consume.

If you're lucky, you'll come across the infamous "yellow mustard" (tomalley), or, if you're eating autumn blue crab, the succulent roe. Once you've emptied the shell, grab a wooden mallet and break open the claws for, in my opinion, the best-tasting meat. In true Chesapeake fashion, dip everything in plenty of Old Bay, melted butter, and malt vinegar, then add some steamed corn, a side of hush puppies, an ice-cold can of Yuengling, and you're ballin'.

Sure, you may nick yourself on a shell or two, it's certainly a lot of work for little meat, and your hands are guaranteed to stink when all's said and done, but I can't imagine a better way to enjoy a hot, summer day away from the concrete jungles of DC.

Welcome to the great state of Maryland.

Let's Go To The Mall!

2010-06-13T10:23:00.000-07:00

sushiWhat started off as a quaint, Kaiten sushi shop for the suit-and-tie crowd of the Golden Triangle has transformed itself into a mini chain within the the DC Metro area. Now with a location inside Tyson's Corner Center, Wasabi has made fast-food sushi readily accessible to soccer moms and trendy teenagers dying for their next California roll fix.

If you're unfamiliar with the Kaiten format, basically, you take a seat, eat as much as you want off the revolving conveyor belt, and grab your check from your "server" based on the number of color-coded plates you've consumed. NEVER return a plate to the belt once pulled lest you wish for an angry samurai to appear, chastise your poor etiquette, and proceed to chop off your hands.

In my opinion, Kaiten sushi and shopping malls are a winning combination. Take a seizure-inducing environment populated with people sporting Ed Hardy t-shirts, Forever 21 bags, and Starbucks cups, and offer sushi that goes around in circles. ADD sufferers, rejoice!

OK, so Wasabi's maki rolls and nigiri are made by machines and the menu is a Nobu knockoff but attempting to compare it to the real deal (you're in a fucking mall!) is like comparing a Rolls Royce to a Kia. You reap what you sow but for what you pay (6 pieces for an average $3.50), it's relatively worth it. If you arrive thinking you'll be greeted with competent staff, fresh fish, and a regularly replenished conveyor belt, well, then you're just dreaming. It may not be the most traditional setting but in a world where monstrous maki rolls dominate Japanese cuisine, I can accept it. Besides, it sure beats a Sbarro coma.

Robin Sparkles would regrettably approve.

They May Automate Our Frozen Yogurt...

2010-06-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

In what appears to be a continuing series of what women want (minus Mel Gibson), one of the first things I noticed here in DC was a local chain called FroZenYo. Just like cupcakes, frozen yogurt is another Hollywood-driven trend that is being championed around the world as the go-to summer dessert for those on the move. Creamy, tart, light, and refreshing: a good batch of frozen yogurt should embody all these traits.

However, we've apparently reached the point where it's unnecessary to have a "froyo specialist" pull a cup for you, and instead turned it into a self-serve operation complete with the ubiquitous toppings bar at the end of the line. Drop by the cashier who weighs out your monstrous concoction, gives you a spoon, and you're on your way to froyo bliss.

But when did bliss include becoming Baskin Robbins-esque and creating 16 artificial flavors (!) of frozen yogurt like cookies 'n' cream, dulce de leche, red velvet (there it is again), and cheesecake? And I can dig fruit toppings, tolerate cereal, but doesn't adding crushed candy bits to frozen yogurt kind of defeat the purpose of it being healthy? You're better off just having ice cream at that point.

Even more, by selling frozen yogurt at $0.39 an ounce and only providing pint-sized cups to store it in, one could eat quite a bit of frozen yogurt and spend a good chunk of change without trying terribly hard. I only had two quick pulls of the the French Vanila (annoyingly artificial) and Cali Tart (annoyingly acceptable) to taste and it already came out to $2.82. I don't even want to know how much people were paying for full cups.

It's a good thing Red Mango set up shop in Clarendon, not only because I prefer my frozen yogurt plain and on the creamier end of the spectrum, but mostly because I appreciate portion control.

So can anyone explain to me why TCBY never caught on?

Snack Attack, Motherfucker!

2010-06-08T20:56:00.000-07:00

What is it about cupcakes that get people so psyched? Ever since Magnolia Bakery in NYC started the whole boutique cupcake craze (no doubt with the support of Hollywood celebrities and this little video), you still hear about people lining up in droves outside every new cupcakery as if they were giving them out for free, and it drives me absolutely banana sangwich.

Let's get one thing straight: a good cupcake is a tasty treat. If a cupcake were to wander my way it would probably end up in my mouth. However, I will NEVER go out of my way for a cupcake no matter how good every one says it is.

As fate would have it, I just happened to be walking toward the Georgetown neighborhood when my sister suggested we make a quick stop at the infamous Georgetown Cupcake; among the four well-known cupcakeries (Bakeshop DC, Hello Cupcake, and Red Velvet) in the DC/NoVA area, this one is apparently top-notch. But as you look away from the perfectly-perched cupcakes at the counter, one begins to wonder: where are all the dudes? [Note: There was one guy in there but he was clearly with his girlfriend. Doesn't count.]

The answer is simple: cupcakes are made for women who somehow cannot condone eating a slice of regular ol' cake. They're like muffins: dress them up as something cute, colorful, and snack-sized and suddenly they become the bee's knees. And not just one at a time. I've seen girls scarf down two or three at a time. The math doesn't add up there. And red velvet? It's just a red chocolate cupcake. I suppose the color just makes it cuter, right? It's no wonder I'm terrible with women.

As for me, I happily munched on my small pink box of Chocolate Squared, Orange Blossom, and Salted Caramel cupcakes. Were they good? Absolutely, the best cupcakes I've had thus far. Do I still hate Sex In The City? A resounding yes.

Thank god.

Duck, Duck, Motherfucking Duck

2010-04-26T23:27:00.000-07:00

Something about Spring beckons the consumption of duck. Perhaps walking by the nesting goose under the Wells Street bridge conjured up memories of dodging suburban flocks of ducks and geese, or maybe the passing of Easter and those ghastly Cadbury eggs with their orange "creme" made me think of the brilliant sunset color of duck yolks. Yes, duck is typically prepared during the colder months of the year doused in heavy, fruit-laden sauces or Asian spices but I believe the heartiness of duck serves as a proper counterpoint for much of Spring's light bounty.

Admittedly the vast majority of my experience with duck comes through Chinese food. Peking and roast ducks hanging forebodingly in the windows of Chinatown BBQs represent a warm and welcome tradition for my palette. Sadly, recreating the Peking duck experience is a frighteningly daunting and nigh-impossible task for the home cook. Thankfully Heston Blumenthal has deconstructed the process into more practical means. While replicating his method, one achieves both the juicy, succulent meat and paperthin, crisp skin characteristic of Peking duck with minimal hassle. Sure, it's not the traditional method of preparation but how many of us have a brick oven devoted to duck sitting in our backyard or porch?

[Note: Knitting is not necessary. Simply put another wire rack on top of the skin as it renders in the oven to prevent excessive curling.]

So in an effort to further explore duck, the culinary-inclined part of me decided to pick up two Pekin ducks from my good friend Anna of the Green Grocer. Sourced from Metzer Farms in Gonzales, CA and raised on Gunthorp Farms in LaGrange, IN, Pekin or Long Island ducks represent approximately 95% of duck consumption in the US. If you don't want to eat them apparently they make great companion animals. But with ten pounds of dead duck on my hands there was no way it wouldn't make its way into my gullet.

A patissier by trade, I rarely ever butcher meat. Thankfully, breaking down a duck is surprisingly simple and similar to your average chicken, the only differences being the meat yield (less than a chicken) and ridiculously thick, fatty skin. Cooking duck is also similar save for a much slower and deliberate process in order to properly render out the fat, very much like slow-roasting or braising tough cuts of meat in order to break down otherwise chewy connective tissues. If you've cooked chicken then a duck should be easy money. Don't worry, Gordon Ramsay has faith in you. Crosshashing the skin allows the fat to render out more easily. Consider it an option.

Duck a l'Orange. Orange chicken. In essence they're the same dish prepared with different birds; using duck simply enriches the dish. Honestly, few things rival a take-out box of trashy, Americanized orange chicken; sweet, tangy, spicy, crunchy, and surprisingly complex for your average Chinese fast food. My friend Cliff introduced me to the joys of orange chicken at Mandarin Wok back in Champaign (still the best) and I haven't been able to look at Chinese menus, traditional or otherwise, the same since. Who would have known it would've paved the way for my appreciation of a French classic?

But duck doesn't stop at the breast. Considering I never experienced the joys of classical French garde manger as a pastry student it's much easier for me to appreciate the beautiful and subtle nuances of forcemeats, especially pate. A good duck liver pate has a smooth consistency and a distinct, almost-fungal earthiness and richness one wouldn't expect from the nasty bits of an animal but that's precisely why I enjoy it. The very basis of pate is innately rustic and appreciative of its source. There's a strange aversion in the States to cuts that don't include the terms "tenderloin" or "boneless, skinless" whereas the rest of the world has long realized the breadth of flavors that exist throughout the entire animal. It's a shame, really, and a huge waste of perfectly good product.

[Note: Don't forget to devein and soak your duck livers in milk to extract any excess blood and lighten your finished product.]

Speaking of duck liver, if you're opposed to foie gras due to notions of animal cruelty, then I sure hope you take as much care in procuring properly-raised and sourced meats and vegetables. Otherwise you're a hypocrite and I hate you.

From the skin of the duck one is able to render duck fat, aka liquid gold, which is truly one of life's greatest culinary pleasures. Use it to saute potatoes, sear off a fillet of fish, or make an old-fashioned batch of duck confit; slowly braise a duck leg in a sea of duck fat, shallots, garlic, and thyme until the meat falls off the bone. The meat is then shredded, jarred, covered with more fat, and saved for a rainy day; I prefer the bistro preparation in keeping the leg whole, skin-on. If you're feeling particularly devilish, freeze some leftover duck skin, grind it, and then fry the ground skin in duck fat for crackling. Otherwise you can fry your frites in duck fat (the smoke point is 375 degrees F, how convenient!) and proceed to become the envy of your city. And for my sake, treat the duck fat like oil; strain and reuse it until it breaks down completely before tossing it.

And don't forget to save the carcass, wings, and neck. Hack them all to pieces, brown them (depending on your color preference), toss in a bouquet of your choosing, and cover it with cold water. Bring it up to a gentle simmer for a few hours and you've got the makings of a great duck stock. I prefer further breaking down the carcass in order to better expose the collagen in the bones during the simmering process.

So $40 spent and I get Peking duck, duck a l'Orange, duck liver pate, duck confit, duck stock, and duck fat? Seems like a good deal.

Get in touch with your food.

But I'm A Food Critic!

2010-04-13T20:13:00.000-07:00

I've become hopelessly addicted to Yelp, much to the dismay of my friends who have suddenly become aware of my grumpy and cynical review tendencies. I'll admit, it's extremely difficult to resist the temptations of a website so willing to bypass any established constructs of social etiquette in order to rip their respective cities, businesses, and even denizens apart. However unsettling, I've come to learn that nothing is safe from the wrath of Yelp, not even the Tamale Guy.

During the course of my addiction, I've confirmed two things: I eat a lot of shitty food and everyone has an opinion about everything especially when it comes to what we put in our mouths. No one enjoys gambling on potentially hit or miss experiences and there are only so many professional journalists for all the bars and restaurants in the city. Thus, we the customer extraordinaire have decided to carry the burden of eating and writing on ourselves. With the Internet becoming more of a social stomping ground we're no longer constrained by the typical means of media. With blogs, podcasts, and tweets becoming the communicative norm, we now possess the tools and resources to spawn a new generation of rogue food critics.

But why write reviews in the first place? If a restaurant sucks we figure that writing a poor review will result in an establishment taking notice of their issues, improving upon them, and coming out stronger in the end, or, they'll never recover and be driven out of business. A positive review allows word to spread and reel in new and curious customers. Increase the number of possible good experiences exponentially and it's any wonder that businesses love Yelp.

Personally I enjoy being the douche bag willing to tear your favorite restaurant a new one rather than stroke its ego. There's a sadist joy in belittling a restaurant's shortcomings through Yelp; it's non-confrontational, cathartic, and a healthy way of channeling diner frustration. Every off-hand quip and uncensored happy hour bitchfest suddenly becomes fair game. But ruining someone's intrinsic interest in their favorite restaurant isn't completely haphazard. No matter where I eat, I want to like it and certainly want others to like it as well. I am admittedly a very fussy eater and sometimes carry unrealistic expectations when it comes to food and service. While I understand that limitations exist (i.e. I don't expect service at a local taqueria to be on par with Charlie Trotter's), the bottom line is that all restaurants are responsible for maintaining certain fundamental standards to create the fabled "seamless dining experience" and very rarely does one actually fire on all cylinders.

[Note: The food comes first. Good food can cover up bad service but never vice versa. You can't eat politeness.]

The downside of a positive dining experience is that it simply doesn't lead to an entertaining review unless you're a hardcore foodie (in which case, anything related to food is pornographic). People enjoy feeding off failure and we love nothing more than to prey upon the trainwrecks of society and, apparently, Yelp the shit out of them. So when a place has good food, good service, and turns out to be worth the money, what's there to argue? Does the writer end up devoting needless paragraphs expounding on the history of the establishment, the chef, or the surrounding area the place inhabits? Dare we romanticize how delicious the food was? How many words before the reader understands that, "Yeah, it was fucking good but what else?" Then again, what is good? Sooner or later it becomes clear that reviews are nothing more than frivolous exercises in subjectivity. Reviews are editorials after all and while everyone has an opinion and is more than willing to share them, really, who actually cares? Does any one actually devoutly follow or agree with everything Phil Vettel has to say about the Chicago food scene? I certainly hope not.

So why do restaurant reviews exist? Why have we placed such great esteem on the opinions of others? The sad reality is that the vast majority of us will never dine in a three-star Michelin restaurant and it becomes readily obvious that such rating systems exist purely for the sake of those directly involved with the food industry. Sports teams are fanatically championed by billions of fans around the world but does your average Joe really care if and why the French Laundry dropped from #7 to #12 on the Top 50 Restaurants of 2009? And let's face it, the big boys of the restaurant industry will almost never suffer from a poor review from the average customer. The New York Times, however, is a completely different beast.

Unfortunately, Yelpers have become deluded into thinking they are direct players in the industry. Lately I've become aware of rumors regarding Yelpers making reservations as food critics with the expectation of better treatment and freebies (comps are for friends; a food critic never formally announces their arrival for the sake of equality). This is egotistical and embarrassing as a fan of Yelp. Most Yelpers are not involved with the food industry and/or possess limited knowledge concerning its inner workings (a trait I believe differentiates the amateurs from the professionals) and are far too subjective and self-righteous to contribute anything positive or helpful. They believe their opinion carries weight when, in fact, it's completely inconsequential. Unfortunately, en masse, every meaningless review begins to add up and businesses themselves become deluded into believing Yelp is important enough to buy their opinion. All this, quite frankly, needs to stop.

So when you ask, "So is ________ any good," are you looking for an opinion or confirmation of your own opinion? In this age of social Internetworking we have been besieged by an overabundance of information. Despite any attempts Yelpers may make to sell you their opinion there's no better satisfaction than taking the plunge yourself. Yelp and any other restaurant review should be considered a reference point and not the reference point (oh, the old adage, "one man's garbage may be another man's treasure"). Is writing restaurant reviews fun? Of course. Are they terribly useful? Not really. With regards to your favorite restaurant, respect the relationship you have developed no matter what others say and dismiss any notions of protecting your culinary street cred. Dining is a very personal affair and should be treated as such. It's impossible to be perfectly omniscient diners but it certainly helps to be adventurous and open-minded when it comes to eating. Experience leads to enrichment; ignore the hype (or lack thereof), be old-fashioned, find out for yourself, and leave it to obsessives like me to chronicle every bump in the road on Yelp. It's only entertainment in the end, any way, and I'm apparently a bit of a masochist.

Two Days At Alinea

2010-04-07T15:16:00.000-07:00

When it became time to consider where I'd conduct my culinary externship, I started sending my cover letter and resumes to the restaurant Ivy League of Chicago; Moto, Alinea, Tru, Blackbird, Avenues, Spring, and The Four Seasons were all potential candidates on my list. Unfortunately the only two I received responses from were Moto and Alinea which, in retrospect, wasn't all that terrible. The molecular gastronomy movement was beginning to peak at the time, and it would've been an exciting "Point A" in my burgeoning culinary career. I mean, the opportunity to work with Grant Achatz at arguably the best restaurant in Chicago, let alone, the nation? C'mon.

Staging at any restaurant is a nerve-wracking experience not so much as a test of one's cooking abilities but because you're literally treading in unfamiliar territory. Imagine arriving in a stranger's home during Thanksgiving dinner, everyone's already hustling and bustling about preparing the meal and you have no idea who these people are, what they're making, what they're in possession of, or what they have in store for you by the end of the day. I can't imagine anything else that would unsettle a chef more than not knowing exactly what to do. So for two days, you're on a tight leash, required to act blindly by the kitchen, ask a lot of seemingly unnecessary questions, and waste as little time as possible in the process. This was especially true of Alinea.

It was a strikingly clear, early winter Friday as I arrived promptly at noon, as per Alinea's request, which means I was there fifteen minutes early. Upon my arrival to the kitchen I was greeted by a moderate prep brigade already buzzing with activity and immediately scouted Achatz typing away on a laptop near the pass. Mind you, this man had just survived mouth cancer so he was looking pretty gaunt, worn, and about as intense as any person I'd ever come across (Christian Bale from The Machinist comes to mind). Just by being there he was putting every other chef or cook that's ever complained about "the hours" to shame.

Any way, the morning sous chef introduced himself and escorted me downstairs giving a quick tour of the premises before leading me to the lockers. Along the way I noticed one of the morning prep cooks diligently hunched over in the dry goods crawl space working a large stack of CryoVac bags and overheard sous chef Nate casually talking to another cook about last night's dinner at Boka courtesy of their sous chef, which I thought was the coolest thing ever, for some reason.

Once I'd changed into my whites and made my way upstairs with my knife bag in tow (note to all culinary students: never bring your knife bag, it'll never be used in a restaurant kitchen), I was immediately corralled by the lead prep cook (who, in a strange twist of fate, I would later cross paths with while he briefly date one of my friends) and charged with peeling a few bunches of young carrots for a carrot cake course. Easy enough, right? What cook hasn't peeled carrots before? But somehow, after nearly an hour of cleaning and peeling, I was already in the shits.

The crazy thing was that while other chefs and cooks began filing in for work, the noise level never increased. It remained a steady hum of business, focus, and concentration. I was accustomed to kitchen folk being obnoxious degenerates, loudly parading in and regaling each other with tales of debauchery, mischief, and mayhem; casual conversation over who fucked who, how drunk everyone got, and bitching over last night's service. No such thing here. This brigade was here to work and only work. There were a few quips here and there (mostly between the sous chefs) but most everyone kept to themselves and the task at hand.

After a couple hours of sorting through a cavalcade of microherbs and greens the kitchen suddenly began to break down and prepare for family meal. Prep equipment was put away, surfaces were wiped down, the main carpet was set with chairs, and lunch practically appeared out of nowhere. The brigade buckled down, grabbed a seat, and hungrily scarfed down their food. Once staff meal was consumed, prep continued for those in the weeds while others took a breather outside for a cigarette or quick phone call. Either way, fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was running full steam ahead toward dinner service. At exactly five o'clock the expediter arrived and announced the covers and then the real show began.

Let me preface by saying that "ordering in" and "firing" food are relatively simple concepts. A ticket comes up, food is "ordered in" by the kitchen, and the designated cook proceeds to cook and "fire" the food. All your mise en place is ready and waiting, and really the only timing involved is understanding how long certain dishes take to prepare and how many at one time you can handle at once. But with restaurants offering tasting menus the system proves to be far more complicated. One must be able to keep track of how many tables are seated, what tables are ordering, what menu they're ordering, what course is being prepared, what course must be prepared, general consideration of specific allergies, restrictions, and preferences, in addition to preparing every dish perfectly, consistently, and on time without missing a beat.

Going back to the Thanksgiving example I suppose this is the difficulty every stage experiences while working in a restaurant. You're expected to take in a great deal of information in a very short period of time with little education in the process. While I continued to help season sarsaparilla antennas, inflate mace pillows, thread brunoise of potatoes, trim coconut gelee-coated vanilla beans, and drop wax apple cider spheres with the garde manger, I realized that I didn't know the order of the menu (Tasting or Tour) nor was I aware of what dishes were being served or what those dishes consisted of. It had been enough of an issue just prepping ingredients but now I had to figure out how to handle and plate dishes during the busiest times of the day, and no one seemed intent on answering my questions. With sous chefs darting in and out of stations with tweezers and garnish plates and food runners swiftly picking up completed plates, it was nigh impossible to feel like you weren't in the way while you attempted to observe and participate in the action. As the first night came to a close I vowed to be more intrusive and obnoxious. I had to make my mark in this kitchen if I expected to land a position in the brigade.

Sadly the second day did not go as planned. My attempts at being more alpha were greeted with looks of disdain and annoyance. Not only was I being intrusive but I was wasting precious time during prep, and while I understood their desire to stay on point, how was I supposed to learn without any one properly answering my questions? Halfway through dinner service, I still hadn't grasped the timing of the expo and the garde manger (!) was already suggesting that I wash dishes in order to remain productive. Instead I was taken aside by sous chef Nate and asked to leave the kitchen as per Achatz's request, no doubt seeing that one of his stages had just turned into an interim dishwasher. I looked at the clock on my way to the lockers. There was still another three hours left in the dinner service.

As I packed up my things and began walking home as the weather suddenly turned to driving sleet, I felt defeated. It was difficult not to feel like a complete failure after the experience. I was embarrassed by how little I had accomplished over the past two days. My goal before the stage began was to make it on the line. By the end of the first day, I would've been content with being part of morning prep (6a-6p) for a year with the best case scenario being that I somehow manage to work my way up to varsity. On the other hand, I knew that every day I would be working under the close scrutiny, not only of Achatz, but every chef in the kitchen trying to work their way up the Alinea ladder (or just trying to stay on board) AND every prospective chef around the world trying find a way into the kitchen. It would've been hell and in comparison with my stage at Moto, my defeat at the hands of Alinea seemed like the best thing to happen to me. Needless to say, I e-mailed Chris Jones (chef de cuisine of Moto) that night accepting his offer to join their team as an extern.

The fact that I didn't make it into Alinea's brigade is besides the point (I later learned that a good number of Alinea's kitchen staged several times before being accepted). The lessons I learned during my stage were life-changing and have, no doubt, strengthened my overall character. The sheer professionalism and efficiency of that kitchen were nothing short of remarkable, and gave me great insight to the standards and responsibilities one must possess in order to be successful. I've heard plenty of complaints regarding Alinea's work environment but that's honestly just restaurant life; you're simply experiencing it at the highest level. As one of the top restaurants in the world, it would be difficult to imagine the kitchen not being tightly regulated and controlled. One can criticize the demands and pressures of Alinea but it's also rather selfish to disrespect Achatz's vision in the process. It's his reputation on the line, after all.