Uncategorized – Food Woolf

Perfectionism Is A Hustle

“Perfectionism is a hustle.” –Brené Brown

I’ve spent many a night at the office–hours after everyone else has driven home and eaten dinner–to get ahead on my job. I’ve worked through hunger pains, dehydration, and exhaustion all in hopes of delivering a great product, getting ahead of deadlines, and/or outperforming others.

When I first showed signs of overworking and holding myself up to impossible standards, people asked me what was going on. Perfectionism, I’d say with an air of accomplishment. It’s perfectionism that drives me to push myself so hard.

I’ve spent years conning myself into believing that perfectionism is what made me good at my job. But the truth is, perfectionism has done me more harm than good.

Perfectionism may masquerade as a tool for success in the workplace, but it undermines creativity, true productivity, and happiness. Underneath the banner of “Be Perfect” is a bonfire of ego and self-loathing. We say we want to be perfect for ourselves and others, while fanning the flames of self-doubt and low self-esteem.

Perfection is an insidious voice that tells me that if I don’t overwork myself, I won’t get what I want. It whispers to me that I’m the only one who cares about a particular project. It urges me to stay later and work harder because if I don’t do it myself, I will let everyone down. What’s worse, perfectionism has made me turn on myself and others.

Even though many of us in business use perfectionism as a badge of honor, it’s not the key to achieving success. Perfectionism keeps us from living a healthy and authentic life. Trying to achieve the unattainable goal of perfection is linked to depression, anxiety, addiction, and life paralysis. Perfectionism fosters a culture of fear within us and our workplace. Being the Best makes us afraid to fail, to make mistakes, or even be criticized.

Whenever I feel a bout of perfectionism coming on, I enforce mandatory self-care moments. I set an alarm to make sure I don’t stay past my out time at the office. I take walks around the block to break up the monotony of the project I’m working on. I put some music on. I read an inspiring article. Or, when things get really bad, I take an emergency chocolate break.

Despite all the mind chatter telling me the opposite, I have to remind myself over and over again that I am the most productive when I’m having fun and taking care of myself. I don’t need to get everything done right now. There will be more time tomorrow. In the world of tech, the mantra is done is better than perfect. So why not treat myself to a productive next day, after I’ve had a great night of sleep and dinner with my husband?

It’s in the stillness of self-care–deep breaths, meditation, or enjoying a bit of delicious food–that I am reminded that overworking doesn’t earn me a spot at the table. I’m over the perfectionism con. In truth, we are all invited to be part of building something special. But we can’t show up if we aren’t taking care of ourselves. I’d rather be happy as I do great things.

How do you fight off the perfectionist mindset?

March 8March 16

Battle Axes and Bitches

Perhaps the rule book hasn’t been written yet, but I have yet to find the definitive guide to overcoming the unique set of challenges of being a woman, a leader, and a restaurant professional.

But it’s a thing. Being a woman and a boss is tough. I think not enough restaurant people are talking about it.

Since the beginning of restaurants, men have dominated the landscape. Even women as a dining public were not allowed to dine out until the 1900’s. Women diners were not even allowed in the same dining rooms with men until the mid 1920’s.

Becoming a female leader in restaurants has been even more difficult. “Respectable women” weren’t even allowed to work in restaurants (as waitresses and hosts) until the 1940’s. Rare were the women running kitchens, overseeing business, and owning the establishment.

Married women may have been allowed a hand in running restaurants in the early days of America, but owning a restaurant outright was nearly impossible.

Restaurant ownership continued to be a challenge for women well in to the 1970’s. Banks would refuse women credit, restaurant supply companies would overcharge for supplies, vendors would charge high deposits and communities would shame women for being indecent.

Considering history, I shouldn’t be so surprised by the challenges I’ve experienced working in restaurants as a female. The mere idea of women in charge isn’t even something that’s been in existence for 80 years.

If you are the boss and you happen to be female, you are more prone to being labelled a bitch or a battle axe. Bitch is a clever little word that’s meant to demean and shame. Battle Axe the kind of description that’s meant to hurt and give tough women who stand up for something, something to be ashamed of.

In my experience, I have seen men do the same things I have done and instead of being shamed for it, they’ve been given raises, promotions, and earned the moniker of being idiosyncratic.

GET JUDGED. FIGHT FOR RESPECT.

One of the key differences between men and women in leadership is that men are often given respect right away and over time earn judgement. Women in charge, however, get judgement up front and have to fight hard to earn respect.

FEMALE ROLE MODELS ARE HARD TO FIND

When I started out working in restaurants I was a teenager. I was naive, never-been-kissed, and eager to please. So when I stepped into the kitchen of East End Seafood as a “soda girl” I was uncertain where my place was. The males cooked and the women stacked high towers of fried food, made drinks with raspberry syrup and limes, microwaved cups of chowder and rang up customers at the push-button cash register.

80’s rock played on the radio and cooks talked about hooking up with girls and getting wasted. They also spent a lot of time shaming all the girls working in the kitchen, too, about how we looked, how sexually naive we were, and what we could expect to have be done to us.

Once when I was collecting limes in the walk in, one of the cooks stepped into the cold storage closet and rubbed himself against me and whispered something into my ear.

I was scared, confused, and oddly aroused. I laughed, because I didn’t know what else to do. I stood by the box of limes and waited for him to leave. When I went back to making Lime Rickies, I wrote the whole thing off as flirting–even though every word out of his mouth after that was mean and degrading.

At the time, I didn’t think I could go to the people in charge with what happened. The owners were a husband wife team. Tasos called the young women who worked for him chicks (even though I asked to be called a young woman). He kept his chain-smoking wife silent whenever it came time to make decisions.

Later, after graduating from college, I got a job as a bartender in a live music club outside of Boston, Massachusetts.

I was one of the first women to work behind the bar. I learned from my colleagues that the nights I worked behind the bar with them were more lucrative –especially when I wore tight shirts. When I showed up to work in a baggy black tee shirt and jeans one night I got an earful from my co-worker. “You really gotta think about how you dress,” he said. No one seemed to care that his jeans were ripped and his tee shirt hung over his belly like a tent.

I moved to Los Angeles in the late 90’s. After graduating from film school, I eventually became a server in a fine-dining restaurant called Opaline, a ground-breaking restaurant of the early 2000’s. I wasn’t confident in my role as a server. The menu had dishes with elegant names and ingredients I had never seen or heard of before. There was lamb’s tongue, beef cheeks, and a French cassoulet.

It was there at this ground breaking restaurant, that I was first introduced to a female chef who was helping out in the kitchen that night. Her name was Suzanne Goin. She was a stoic, powerful force at the stove. She looked like a seasoned ballerina, with long, lithe limbs. Her movements were precise and elegant.

I was a nervous wreck when I stepped in to the kitchen and approached Suzanne for the first time. She was the first female chef I had ever met, let alone see in action, and I had been working in restaurants for a decade.

I blurted out some meandering story about vegetarians and food allergies and finicky diners when Suzanne put down her sauté pan and stared at me with an intensity I will never forget.

“I don’t care about the story,” she said. “Just tell me what they want.”

Her words hit me in the gut. Her steady gaze made me forget how to speak English.

The strength she had, her drive to get shit done–regardless of how I felt about it–scared the breath out of me. It took me a moment to gather myself and recollect my use of the English language.

“Can you m-m-make the pasta without the meat?”

“OK,” she said. She snapped her head back to the contents of her pan and put it back onto the flame. I stumbled out of the kitchen, stunned.

She scared me.

Months later, I was able to extract from the interaction a precious jewel of experience. Suzanne showed me that to get things done sometimes, you have to be direct. She taught me the importance of communicating quickly and with confidence–especially around a hot stove.

She didn’t resort to talking down to me, or to shame me. She asked me to make myself clear.

My interaction with Suzanne shone a light on my own embedded sexism I had been programmed with my whole life. Her power frightened me. I judged her because she didn’t call me sweetie or say something nice when I came into the kitchen. She was a boss at the stove, and she didn’t give a shit if I liked her or not. She was there to get the job done, and she wanted it done well.

I began to recognize my need to dance around a thing in order to avoid being direct. I wanted to make sure everyone liked me. But Suzanne taught me that if you want to get things done in a kitchen or a busy dining room, there might not be time to be nice. Just say the thing.

Suzanne was the kind of woman I wanted to be.

Continue reading “Battle Axes and Bitches”

April 5March 14

Mint Matcha Latte

Life as a restaurant consultant requires a deep well of faith along with a big dose of hustle. I’m always been prepared for hard work and have to accept the natural periods of rest that come between jobs.

Rather than fret and worry about downtime, I remind myself that taking time to recuperate and to recharge my batteries is a job requirement. I’m so wired for GO! I can sometimes forget the importance of a nap, the inspiration that can come from a dinner at a new restaurant or a book that’s read cover to cover, or even a movie. Because, as a friend likes to remind me, “you can’t transmit what you haven’t got.”

So whenever I have time between consulting jobs, I take what’s given to me as an opportunity to get inspired. This week I’ve been spending more time in my kitchen, taken a fair amount of cat naps, and had the pleasure of reading two great books (Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly—It’s a must if you want to live a wholehearted life—and Don Frick’s biography of Robert Greenleaf, the man who birthed the idea of servant leadership).

One beverage that’s fired up my culinary creativity is a mint matcha latte. I’ve spent the past two weeks trying to perfect a latte that’s balanced with the grassy flavors of green tea, herbaceous mint, and the sweetness of whole milk. Continue reading “Mint Matcha Latte”

October 11October 10

Kale Salad with Figs and Feta

When I go to the market, I always grab at least one bunch of kale to take home. The leafy green is a trusted source of nutrients like beta carotene, vitamin K, and calcium. Curly or lacinato holds up in my refrigerator for days. It’s a perfect choice for someone who is a little too busy to cook everything right away. When other more delicate greens threaten to wilt away the moment their picked, robust kale holds up in my crisper for days on end. Kale is, without a doubt, the perfect food source for a busy lifestyle.

It wasn’t until I had the pleasure of helping the Hatfield’s open their newest restaurant, The Sycamore Kitchen, that I discovered a whole new way of eating kale. Raw kale in a salad may not sound particularly crave-worthy, but the combination of sweet figs (or you could use Medijool dates), tart cheese (I like feta but the Hatfield’s prefer blue), and curly kale makes for a meal that is wholesomely satisfying.

Kale Salad with Medijool Dates and Feta

Serves two

Be sure to use curly kale for this recipe. Wash it well, remove the stems (fold the leaves in half and cut the stem out by slicing down the center fold), and chop the leaves into tiny, bite-sized pieces. The smaller the pieces, the easier it is to eat. I recently discovered a pre-washed and chopped bagged kale at Trader Joes. A super convenient choice, especially if you’re on the go! One note of caution, however, the bagged kale sometimes has its share of stems in it. If you notice some stems have made their way into the mix, chop them off!

For the Yogurt dressing:

1/3 cup plain yogurt
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar
1 teaspoon of agave syrup
salt and pepper to taste

For the salad:
4 cups chopped curly kale (before chopping, remove stems from the center of the kale)
4 whole ripe figs (or substitute with 4 Medijool dates, chopped), halved
1/4 cup feta, crumbled
1 small carrot chopped into small bite-sized pieces
1/4 cup chopped red cabbage
1 tablespoon of rice wine vinegar

To make the salad, sprinkle the kale with a small pinch of salt and a light drizzle of vinegar. Massage the greens for a few seconds until you feel them start to soften a bit. Set aside as you chop up your veggies. I suggest that if you have any random veggies hanging out in the fridge, add them to the salad as well. I recommend chopping up a bit of radish, celery for a bit of extra crunch! Add the carrots and the cabbage.

For the dressing: Mix all the dressing ingredients in a separate bowl. Make sure to mix well with a small whisk or fork to create a creamy dressing. Taste. Season or adjust for taste. Add the dressing to the salad mixture. Toss. Add the figs and the feta. Toss some more. Serve.

November 24November 24

Happy Thanksgiving

I am grateful for my friends, visitors, and supporters in my life. Thank you for coming to this website, reading the words, and engaging in the conversation about food, restaurants and life. Here’s to full plates, abundant hearts, and more blog posts!

February 13February 13

Happy Valentine’s Day

November 18

Grilling vs BBQ

BBQ flames

There are people who never cook. Only grill.

My dad is one of those people. He’s never thumbed through a cookbook, or spent hours planning out future meals. For my father, meals are to be eaten, not planned. He loves take out and the microwave. But hand the guy a plate full of steaks and an outdoor grill, and he’ll happily get to cooking dinner.

What is it about a barbecue that makes people forget their fear of cooking? Maybe it’s the lick of the flame, the smell of the smoke, or just the simple act of stepping outdoors (and away from the kitchen) that turns the whole act of cooking into something fun.

Continue Reading About BBQ »

November 27

Thanksgiving Wishes

A wonderful Thanksgiving to all!

I am so thankful for the wonderful people in my life. My husband, my family, my friends — you enrich my days and fill up my heart with your goodness, humor, kindness, and always recipes! I am thankful for the amazing opportunities this blog has given me. I am thankful for mindful eating, farmers markets, Slow Foods, the inspiration of my mentors, the hope of our new president, and the daily reminder that one person to really can make a change.

I am thankful for you, dear reader, for taking time out of your day to visit these electronic pages. Thank you for your comments, support, and for being part of this wonderful culinary journey. It’s been wonderful meeting such wonderful people along the way!

So today, on this American day of eating and giving thanks, I wish you all the best.

I can’t wait to tell you all about my Thanksgiving adventures and hear about yours!

Love,

Brooke

November 5

Foodwoolf on The Kitchn

Over at The Kitchn, an inspiring food-blog, the editors are running a Pie Bakeoff. Readers are asked to bake and photograph their favorite pie and submit the recipe for judgment. The pie bake off is, as far as I’m concerned, a true challenge: it tests my weakest cooking skills.

In my entire lifetime of cooking, I’ve technically never made a pie. I did make a delicious nectarine and rhubarb pie once, but it required culinary training wheels: a pre-baked crust.

At the beginning of the month, I lurked on the Apartment Therapy’s Kitchn website and read about other people’s pies and wondered if I would ever build up the courage to try out one on my own. When my cravings for my Grandmother’s banana cream pie overtook me, I decided to try my hand at creating my first pie from scratch. And, as I feared, I was not completely successful.

The crust was a perfect texture–crisp and flaky with a touch of flavor boosting salt–but the custard was runny because I omitted the baked meringue element from the original recipe.

Yesterday, while trying to convince myself that my tasty, albeit soupy, cream pie wasn’t so bad, the editors of the Kitchn asked readers what kept them from baking pie. With a culinary “wound” that fresh, I couldn’t help but be honest.

I admitted I am scared silly about making desserts because I can’t make mistakes without it equaling failure. I’m an impulsive cook. I hate reading recipes all the way through BEFORE starting them. I hate EXACT measurements. I like to manipulate recipes. But with baking, I know that if I miss one small and important element I will ruin the entire baking endeavor.

And that’s what I said over at the Kitchn…and they responded with a survey (inspired by my comment!) that posed the question to readers: even if you love to cook, is it possible you’ve never made a pie from scratch?

I sincerely hope I’m not alone.

Do you fear baking as much as I do?

* I should admit that I recently made a crust-free pie for my Foodbuzz.com Iron Chef Challenge. Goes to show you I’ll do anything to avoid making a pie…

September 12

Lunch at Chez Panisse Cafe

I’m on my own and on foot the day I visit Chez Panisse Café for the first time. I take the train from San Francisco across the bay and, mistakenly, 45 minutes south of Berkeley before I realize I’m going the wrong way. I change trains, take a deep breath of calm and start all over again. When the doors of the BART train open to the Berkeley stop, I’m already thirty minutes early for my lunchtime reservation and feeling as breathless as I did on my wedding day.

The second my feet touch Berkeley’s Shattuck Avenue, I suppress the desire to skip and start walking the 9 blocks from the train station to the ivy covered façade of Chez Panisse.

I take in the Berkeley sights. There’s a half off bookstore on the corner that sells cookbooks along side textbooks and philosophy paperbacks. Almost every corner has a different pair of political students campaigning for the environment, peace or the health of a campus tree. A student in an electric wheel chair passes me on the undulating sidewalk with chair that’s tricked out with a keyboard, mouse and stereo speakers and a tiny dog that looks like Dorothy’s Toto perched on her lap.

Approaching Chez Panisse alone is not as climactic as it could be. Had I been with my food-obsessed husband we’d hug each other in delight or slap an excited high five outside the front door. Instead, I am left to snap discreet digital photographs that, in their sheer number, are the only way I can express the intensity of my culinary awe.

I’m first-date giddy as I take two steps up the well-worn stairs of Chez Panisse. My heart beats with a double-time cadence as I push open the front door. Cherry stained hardwood and a bouquet of green and celadon flowers entice me up the steep stairs to the café. Thought it’s quiet outside, once upstairs I’m struck by the noise of the many diners. The afternoon light pours in through the wood-trimmed craftsman windows, illuminating the tables with movie quality daylight. The space is comfortable as a friend’s house and the air is alive with excitement.

At my table for one, I sit on the banquet and watch the diners around me. Another solo diner finishes what looks like a business lunch and snaps a picture of himself with his iPhone. Three generations of women celebrate the youngest blonde’s birthday with stories of her as an infant. With a smile, a back waiter delivers a basket of perfectly made sourdough bread, butter and a pretty little glass water carafe with Chez Panisse and a wreath of olive branches etched into the glass.

Though the dining room spins with front waiters, back waiters and plates of food, Daniel, my waiter, greets me with a Zen-like calm. I confess to him my excitement. This is, after all, my first trip. I require a little hand holding. He suggests some dishes and, after leaving my table, steps up to a wood banquet that has a lid that lifts up like a child’s school desk. Inside hides the restaurant’s Point of Sale System. It’s clear that every detail, from the mirrored wall panels that allow guests unrestricted views of the room, to the perfectly baked sourdough bread, to the architectural details in the overhead lights, that every detail of the guests’ experience has been considered by the Chez Panisse family.

My appetizer of thin rounds of heirloom tomatoes topped with Bellwether farms ricotta, red onion and basil ($10.50) arrives quickly. The tomatoes are a mixture of red, pink and almost under ripe looking fruit that, when sliced, are clearly at the peak of perfection. Little jewels of soft creamy ricotta top the tomatoes along with vinegar kissed red onions, a muddle of basil and crushed black pepper corns. Each bite offers creamy ricotta, well integrated herbs that become a sauce with the sun warmed tomatoes and the bright acidity of the vinaigrette. This is one sexy California Caprese.

Daniel delivers Alice Water’s favorite wine, Domaine Tempier’s Bandol Rose ($16.25/glass). The wine smells of rose petals and Aix-en-Provence lavender and sparkles with orange zest freshness on the tongue. It is a perfect compliment to the Laughing Stock Farm Pork leg and belly with shell beans, rapini and sage ($22).

“This dish is almost like a classic Chez Panisse entrée, the way it’s made,” Daniel says as he presents the dish. I nod, like a dashboard mounted bobble head reacting to a bumpy road, as I take my first bite of the caramelized, salted cloud of pork belly. Past the salty crunch of the perfectly seared meat, it’s a pillow of pork belly fat that’s both light and rich. The pork leg is both dense and moist, with its tight meat and voluminous fattiness. The fresh shell beans–tongue of fire, trail of tears, black, and lima beans–are a revelation of flavor. The outer firmness of the hand shelled beans gives way to textured creaminess as each bite reveals the elemental protein structure of the beans.

As the dining room empties I order another entrée. I try the day’s pizzette in hopes of discovering how my beloved Nancy Silverton’s pizza dough measures up to Alice Waters’. Daniel delivers a glass of Roagna Dolcetto ($11.75/glass) to go with my wild nettle and mozzarella pizza. The simplicity of the oven roasted wild nettles plays against the creamy mozzarella. I can’t help but compare the Chez Panisse Cafe’s Pizzette to Pizzeria Mozza’s wet, almost alive foccia-styled dough. The Café’s pizza is dense and bready like a flour-dusted bialy.

After wrapping up the leftovers of my meal, Daniel winks at me as he delivers a copper bowl of fruit. I’ve heard stories from other diners about the fruit at Chez Panisse. My friend the very talented chef of Hatfield’s Restaurant, Quinn Hatfield, once told me how miffed he was when he was ser
ved a piece of fruit at the end of his meal. Then he bit into it. “it’s was the most ________’ing amazing peach I’ve ever tasted,” he told me with a smile. “Honestly, it was the best. And I’ve had a lot of fruit.”

With my first bite of the Flavor King pluot I am transported to another world. The tart skin gives with the easiest pressure and explodes with juice that tastes of marzipan and candied almonds. I’m grinning ear to ear as the juice drips down my arm and I treasure every bite until there is nothing left but a semi-naked seed.

Next to the plum, I am more restrained as I eat the teardrop sized green and sun red Flame grapes. Their sweet, palate cleaning sweetness and acidity goes perfectly with the herbal infusion of mint and lemon verbena. A perfect drink for a chilly San Francisco day.

By four o’clock, the dining room is nearly empty of diners and the cooks in their chef whites playfully elbow servers as they line up at the bar for a glass of wine. With the bar filled with happy employees with their shift drink in hand, I watch my brothers and sisters of the service industry bask in the glory of the end of the day’s service.

As I prepare to leave, Daniel offers to show me around. We pass the kitchen, glowing gold in the overhead lights, as a handful of chefs drink their wine and another cuts balls of dough for dinner service. Employees grab plates and enjoy the day’s staff meal of orecchette, wedges of watermelon and perfectly dressed organic greens. Daniel smiles at me. “Chez Panisse makes the best staff meal I’ve ever had.” Looking at the bounty before me–and remembering the frozen hot dogs, butter soaked pasta and mystery meat surprises I’ve eaten while working in restaurants–I nod in agreement. He’s absolutely right.

I can’t wait to go back.

June 20

In Italy

In Italy
An excerpt from a poem by Nobel Laureat in Literature Derek Walcott
Published in The New Yorker
April 21, 2008

“…Light
older than wine and a cloud like a tablecloth
spread for lunch under the leaves.
I have come this late
to Italy, but better now, perhaps, than in youth
That is never satisfied, whose joys are treacherous,
While my hair rhymes with those far crests, and the bells
Of the hilltop towers number my errors,
Because we are never where we are, but somewhere else,
Even in Italy…”

******

Reading this incredible poem immediately brought me back to Italy and to my undeniable love of that place. In just a few words, Derek Walcott rekindled my love of all things Italian–the ancient light. The hills. The small stores filled with fresh ingredients and grey haired ladies with rounded bellies. The skyline of green trees, blue sky and sparkling waters. The food, and the love of food of all of its inhabitants. The smell of baking bread, of chestnuts, of wine aging in casks, of olives hanging from the trees just days from picking. The amazing culinary characters we met during our October honeymoon.

Dear reader, though this may not be my traditional post, please consider this a recipe for nostalgia.

June 3

Inspirational Dishes

Eating at a great restaurant is inspiring.

If you can get beyond the the daily challenges of the service industry, working at a great restaurant is galvanizing.

While working in a great restaurant: I met and fell in love with my husband. I found some of my best friends. I discovered (and tasted) wines from all over the world. I became a foodie. I learned how to make a miserable guest happy. I unraveled the mystery of cheese making. I gained an acute sense of taste and smell. I sampled a panoply of dishes and made them my own.

This spring time antipasti, is one of them.

This is one of those great restaurant dishes that once I tasted it, I needed to know how to make it. The following is my interpretation of the dish we currently serve at the restaurant.

Peas Mint and (home made) Greek Yogurt Cheese

3 tablespoons (a full palm’s worth) of Greek Yogurt Cheese
(Note: see previous post for the full recipe). To save time, goat or sheep’s milk cheese will do.
1 cup of sweet peas (in the pod), juilienned
1⁄4 cup red onion, diced
Juice of one lemon
3 tablespoons of a good red wine vinegar
1⁄4 cup Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Maldon sea salt (or a good finishing salt)

*Begin preparation of Greek Yogurt cheese one day before serving with salad!

Toss the julienned peas and onion with the olive oil, lemon juice and vinegar.

Season with salt and pepper to taste. Put on plate and serve with a small round of your home made Greek Yogurt Cheese. Finish with a drizzle of olive oil and pinch of Maldon sea salt.

April 11

Pesciolini in Scapece

How could something this simple taste so good? Typical Roman home cooking, this is a simple, rustic and incredibly savory dish that’s great on bread. It takes a day to marinade, but when if you make it the night before you’ll have yourself one AMAZING lunch!

Pesciolini in Scapece:
Marinated Fish with Vinegar and Mint
From Mario Batali’s Molto Mario

4 to 5 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint
1-2 cup of white wine vinegar. Start with one cup and if it cooks down too much, add more!
¼ cup all purpose flour
2 to 2 ½ pounds small fish such as sardines or smelts, cleaned, scaled and heads removed.

In a small sauce pan, combine the garlic, mint and vinegar. Bring just to a boil over medium-low heat. Reduce the heat to below a simmer. After several minutes, take off the heat and leave the aromatics to steep in the vinegar.

Spread the flour on a plate and dredge the fish lightly through it.

In a 10-12 inch sauté pan, heat ½ cup olive oil over medium-high heat until smoking. Add the fish in batches and cook, turning once until golden brown and just cooked through.

Transfer to paper towels to drain.

Discard oil and wipe out the pan. Add the remaining ½ cup oil to the pan and set over a very low heat to warm. Be careful! You are just WARMING the oil—not getting it hot!

Strain the vinegar into a small bowl, reserving the garlic and mint. Layer the fish in a glass or ceramic dish just large enough to hold them. Distribute the reserved garlic and mint over them. Combine the warm vinegar and warmed oil and pour over the fish.

Cover the dish and refrigerate for 2-3 days. Serve slightly chilled or at room temperature.

March 8

Toss a can on the roof for McNulty

Last year, on the eve of The Soprano’s finale, millions of viewers cleared their social calendars, bought Chianti by the case and pulled out their Italian cookbooks in search of a classic Italian meal that would comfort them through the final minutes of a much loved, six season drama. Soprano’s Finale parties were all the rage. Dedicated viewers and occasional visitors alike, all talked of what they planned to do the night of the show’s finale. Parties of Sopranos fans were organized. Whole menus were designed to celebrate the many meals witnessed by the ever-hungry mob boss, Tony Soprano. Baccala was served alongside lasagna and bowls of pasta brimmed with heavy meatballs.

On the night of the season finale, the Los Angeles streets were unusually quiet. Viewers gathered in groups or sat alone, breathless, watching the final seconds tick by as the drama crescendoed for the final time.

And now, the streets are about to get very quiet again, but for a much different reason.

The Wire, a much loved and too-smart-for-it’s-own-good, HBO series about down and dirty politics of politicians and drug gangs in Baltimore, is coming to an end. After this Sunday, David Chase’s narrative “wire-tap” on the whispered communications of a gritty city will be silenced. No more gritty insights and great one-liners for us arm-chair activists, too scared to get to know the realities of inner-city culture by hanging out with the gangsters on the corner. Anyone that’s ever watched The Wire, is often fond of saying “it’s one of the best shows ever written for television.”

And yet, only a core group of dedicated watchers are racked with anxiety over the show’s coming finale. Granted, the small percentage of us are talking about it, nay, obsessing over the potential final story points, but hardly no one at the breakfast counter or gas pump are talking about the show. Let alone planning their menu around the show finale.

Well, I certainly am.

While others wallow in street-ignorance, I plan my menu.

The Wire Season Finale Party Menu

One 12 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon (or cheap, domestic beer) per person.
Drink quickly and toss onto roof top. Do not remove.

At least one bottle of Jack Daniels.
To be served straight from the bottle, McNulty style.

Take Out Chinese food
To be eaten out of the box with a plastic fork, undercover cop style.

Take Out Wings
Hot and spicy. To be eaten with fingers, corner-boy style.

Alcoholic Roasted Duck
Borrowed and adapted from Food Network Kitchens

1 beer-and-bourbon fed duck (Baltimore Port), about 5 pounds
Six 1 by 3-inch strips orange zest
1 small onion, halved
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 tablespoons unsulfured molasses
1 1/2 tablespoons honey
1/4 teaspoon coriander seeds, lightly crushed
8 whole black peppercorns, lightly crushed
2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 large garlic cloves, crushed and peeled

A day before roasting, have bird drink so much it dies. Cry over your stupid, bone-headed mistakes. Pluck bird. Remove the giblets and neck from the cavity of the bird and discard. If necessary pluck any stray pinfeathers off the duck with tweezers.

Trim the neck flap and excess fat from around the cavity. Rinse and dry the bird well. Set the duck on a rack on a baking sheet, and refrigerate, uncovered, for 24 hours. Go to bar with buddies. Talk about the big score you just landed.

Sleep off hangover then wake up at the crack of noon and heat your mom’s oven to 300 degrees F. Pierce the duck’s skin all over (including the back), every 1/2-inch, with a skewer or small knife. Season the cavity with salt and pepper and stuff with 3 strips of the orange zest and the onion. Set the duck on a rack in a roasting pan, and pour a cup of water in the pan. Roast the bird for 3 hours, removing the duck from the oven every hour to prick the skin again.

Meanwhile, make the glaze: Combine the remaining orange zest, molasses, honey, coriander, pepper, orange juice, vinegar, and garlic in a small saucepan. Heat, stirring, over medium-high heat until warm. Remove glaze from the heat and set it aside at room temperature while the duck cooks. Try not to burn yourself.

Remove the duck from the oven and carefully, pour off the excess fat from the pan. (If desired reserve this fat for frying potatoes or wilting greens.) Raise the oven temperature to 450 degree F. Return the duck to the oven and roast until crisp and brown, about 30 minutes more.

Let the duck rest at room temperature for 10 minutes before carving. Brush the duck’s skin with glaze 4 to 5 five times during the resting period. Carve the duck and transfer pieces to warm serving platter. Serve the remaining glaze at the table to drizzle over the duck, if desired.

Eat bird. Do not try to rob the corner guys, whatever you do.

Baltimore Steamed Crabs seasoned with Old Bay
Cover tables with The Sun newspaper, use mallets or hammers to crack open the shells.

Dessert: Jack Daniels poured into a shot glass. To be drunk with friends.

February 9

History of a Foodie

Food, whether we’re aware of it or not, seems to have always been a barometer of who we are as a people, as a nation, and as individuals. As I come into my own as an eater, I see how my relationship with food defines me and who I am defines the foods I love.

When I was a child, I ate like a child. I was born and breastfed. I was weaned late. I was spoon fed Gerber baby food and chewed on drool-soaked Cheerios. Until the age of five, I grew up in, and ate from, the back yard Victory garden my mother cultivated. After selling our New England farmhouse, my family moved into a commuter home and ate organic food my mother prepared in large batches for weeklong consumption.

Though my mother advocated macrobiotic cooking, I tended to reject freshly cooked vegetables and craved foods I wasn’t allowed to eat. I’d save my allowance, ride my bike three miles to the town general store, and buy a candy bar and a can of Mellow Yellow soda for the sugar buzz. Occasionally, my mother’s healthy resolve crumbled under the pressure of monthly hormones. I’d see that certain, cagey look in her eyes and I knew she’d soon forgo the naturally sweetened treats of the macrobiotic collective market and steal away to the local supermarket for a gallon of ice cream. Being a resourceful, food-driven child, I knew my window of opportunity was brief and took full advantage of my mother’s weakened state in order to guilt her into buying boxes of cookies and Kraft macaroni and cheese for myself and my processed food-deprived brother and sister.

Politics of Eating

When I was a twenty year old, I ate like a political twenty-year old. I was a vegetarian, a pesce-tarian, an occasional vegan, and a perpetually broke college student. I never ate meat, ate salads when I could afford it, had fish on special occasions, and consumed inordinate amounts of noodles and rice. I bought my first cookbook (The Silver Palate) and cooked every vegetarian recipe the book had to offer. I made soup and discovered pesto. I ate veggie burgers for almost every meal. I became lactose intolerant. I discovered Ben and Jerry’s and Lactaid. I was anemic, pale, had low energy, and was sick to my stomach most of the time.

Move West Young Eater

When I turned thirty, I ate like a person that had never tasted fresh food before. I was one of Los Angeles’ newest residents–eager to discover the incredibly diverse culinary world of California. After a lifetime of living and eating in Massachusetts, I moved to LA to attend film school and study screenwriting. I left the comfort of home to dedicate myself to writing. I didn’t move west to enjoy myself. I moved west to learn.

My writing was invigorated by the flood of cultural differences around me. Beyond the body revealing outfits and movie star good looks of everyone on the street, were incredible restaurants and markets selling foods I had never seen before. I ate my first soft taco and fought the haunting temptation to try the grilled birds at Zankou Chicken. In a single walk around the neighborhood I could drink freshly squeezed fruit at the neighborhood Jamba Juice and finish up with a plate of spicy Thai food from a scary looking strip mall. I filled farmer’s market bags with strange fruits (durian, Satsuma oranges) and vegetables (fennel, wild arugula) I had never tasted before. I devoured bagels fresh out of the oven on Larchmont, bought three dollar lunches from a burrito stand and spent my lean script-reader paychecks at the Thai town market. Between studio jobs as an assistant, story analyst and production coordinator I cooked Pad Thai, stir-fry, Thai basil salmon and made shrimp filled Vietnamese spring rolls.

When I realized my low paying jobs kept me from writing, I went back to the restaurant business. Despite seventeen years without red meat, I landed a bartending job at a steak house.

It didn’t take long before I became a meat eater. A month into the job, I forced myself to taste the dry aged steak so that I could describe it better to customers. Once that half morsel of steak touched my tongue —hardly even a mouthful to any serious meat eater—my resolve to remain a vegetarian was ended. That first bite was tender, juicy, salty, meaty, and so alive with flavor that any shred of guilt or questioning was immediately replaced with the gut wrenching feeling that my body NEEDED that meat and WANTED more.

Becoming an Eater

At the age of 31, with my first taste of red meat since I was a teenager, I discovered the love of eating. In that moment, I became an eater.

Nothing has been the same since. At 31 I was reborn. My health was restored. I felt energy I hadn’t experienced since I was a child. Cheese no longer made me ill. My face was flush. My heart beat faster.. Suddenly, I was no longer controlled by food.

The world of food has opened up to me. With no restriction on what I can or cannot eat, I am an eater of all things. I eat to discover the glory of food. For the first time in my life, I eat not just to fulfill an inherent need for sustenance, but for knowledge. I eat with gusto. I eat with passion. I eat to discover.

January 30

Success!

It’s official. It takes five days for the Finnish teaspoon cookie to become a cookie.

Leave it to the Finns to make a cookie you have to wait almost a week for to enjoy. But when those five days pass, something truly incredible happens. The flavors become cohesive, resonant, gorgeous and linger on the tongue for whole minutes. My friend Leah clocked it and she says that the flavor lasts for more than a minute. Personally, I love that she timed it. My friend Susan is already requesting a new batch be made.

What’s so different now? Before, the cookie just tasted “unready”. There was an imbalance with the sugar, the flour and the browned butter. But now…Now there’s a nuttiness, a smoothness, a rich-soft saltiness, a buttery sweetness and a certain je ne sais quois that the passing of days imparts. It truly is incredible what a difference five days make.

So, my food loving friends, the Finnish teaspoon cookie really does need that time to mature.

God love the Finns for teaching me a good, old fashioned lesson in patience.

January 24

Cold Cure

Though we here in LA don’t really get what most people call “weather”, we certainly get a mild version of such things. In place of snow, we get wind. Rather than the mind melting humidity of the east coast, LA experiences dry heat that feels like a sauna.

Rain, when it does fall, comes quickly, and without much warning. The streets flood and people with generally bad driving skills suddenly become like sixteen year olds on their first day of driving school. I know the streets get slick from the rain and all the traffic, but really…How ever is it possible that it can take more than an hour to drive five miles in a rain storm? Being from the east coast originally, I really have no sympathy for us year-round flip flop wearing sun bathers. But, I have to admit, now that I’ve lived out here for almost a decade now, I definitely feel the effects of our “weather.”

It is, in LA terms, cold outside. I haven’t checked the weather channel, but I’d say it’s in the 50’s. Which, for someone that’s used to 70 degree weather every day, is suddenly very cold. I’m embarrassed to say I’m currently wearing a scarf, three layers of clothes, and thick wool socks so my toes don’t freeze.

Okay, I admit it. I’m a wimp. And thanks to my thinned blood, I have this really nasty cold I caught from one of my co-workers. We at the restaurant have been trading colds and viruses like they were a valuable commodity. I’ve probably had something like 5 colds in the past year. I can’t tell you how many customers sneeze and spit on me with their over active super-excited-for-their-food salivary glands. Blech.

Anyway, instead of writing about the state of my cookies, I would like to post my current favorite cold cure:

GINGER TEA
Use the back of a spoon to peel off the skin of a big piece of ginger. Chop it up and put into a big mug.
Thinly slice half of a lemon and squeeze the juice into the mug before dropping it all in.
One yogi tea bag for respiratory issues.
Add a little honey and drink!

The key is to drink at least 2-3 cups of this and to also drink it fast, otherwise the lemon skin will turn bitter and make your tea taste terrible.

Here’s to getting well enough to eat teaspoon cookies!

January 17

On Not Winning the Nobel Prize

If you’re looking for literary and creative inspiration, you should check out Dorris Lessing’s acceptance speech for her recently won Nobel prize for literature.

In her essay, she speaks of the marked loss in the appreciation for reading and the ever-fragmenting culture of those who read and those who find their entertainment on their (TV, movie, computer) screen. Being an impassioned reader, it’s hard to imagine a world where children aren’t inspired to read, or worse, can not find the books they want.

Lessing wrote:

I have a friend from Zimbabwe. A writer. Black – and that is to the point. He taught himself to read from the labels on jam jars, the labels on preserved fruit cans. He was brought up in an area I have driven through, an area for rural blacks. The earth is grit and gravel, there are low sparse bushes. The huts are poor, nothing like the good cared-for huts of the better off… He found a discarded children’s encyclopedia on a rubbish heap and learned from it.

I say a little thank you every time I walk to my local library just blocks from my house and borrow a tall stack of books. I really do know how lucky I am having access to a library system so flush with books. I’d never be able to pay my rent if I bought every book that I read. I’m abundantly glad I’m not in the position of having to choose between a roof over my head or a book in my hand.

Lessing is most certainly right when she says none of us would write if the only words to be found were printed on the containers of food stacked intermittently on the shelves at the market.

Just as food is important to fulfillment, so are precious words.

January 10

The Hulk vs. Leslie Brenner

Okay, so it’s been a while since Leslie Brenner “humbly” proposed her diner’s bill of rights in the LA Times’ Food Section. Yes, it’s true, I should be over it by now. I know it has been almost three months since she wrote about restaurant service and what diners ultimately “deserve” when they go out to eat. But the woman was just SO WRONG about what diners should expect from a restaurant and what is considered good service, that even after all this time I am still just-this-close to popping a blood vessel over what she had to say.

Look, I’ve tried to put it out of my mind. Believe me. I’ve probably written something like ten I-can’t-sleep-so-I’ll-craft-an-editorial-response-in-my-mind letter to Brenner herself and sent none of them.

The problem I have with Leslie Brenner the food critic is that she’s lost the joy of being a diner. In my personal opinion, Brenner is fed up with eating out for a living and wants as little to do with the restaurant scene as possible. Her articles show a growing pattern of disdain for what most LA diners would call “helpful service” and her columns show impatience for anything (i.e. service) that gets in her way of immediately sitting down and consuming her food. I bet if you asked Leslie Brenner if she would be interested in going to a beautiful restaurant where she could order her food on a sleek computer screen and receive a perfectly executed meal via a silent robot, she’d give you a big smile and ask if they could set up a standing reservation for her.

Though some of Leslie Brenner’s articles about food are insightful and well written, many of her critical columns about restaurants are devoid of objectivity and are bogged down by her obvious disconnect with the real needs of her readers. Most people that read the Food Section are hungry to learn about food and want information that will lead them to restaurants that they’ll enjoy. She and other old-guard restaurant critics say they should be treated like everyone else, and yet hyper critical of servers for giving descriptions of ingredients commonly asked about. Brenner once wrote critically of a server in a review because he included in a menu description what Burata was. She snidely stated that he was wasting the table’s time because “everyone in LA knows what burrata is”. I’ll have you know, Leslie, that unfortunately not everyone eats out as much as you (or I) do and most people have no idea what half the items are on any given menu. And to prove my point, I counted one night and I found that 9 out of ten tables I serve asks me what buratta is.

Up until now there was a certain level of professionalism that has kept me from writing any letter in response. That and time…this thing is going to go long…When it comes to responding to some of the unbelievably off-base attacks written by food critics, we in the restaurant business tend to keep to a vow of silence out of self-preservation. Sure, we restaurant folk could spend hours talking about all the baloney that’s slung our way, but we adhere to the unspoken understanding that we must maintain a vow of public silence in order to keep off the radar of angry food critics.

I was doing all right holding in my anger, until the other day I discovered the beautifully designed and gorgeously photographed food blog, Matt Bites. In looking through his beautiful photographs, I discovered a very thoughtful response to Leslie Brenner’s article. In it, Matt was critical of Brenner’s call for a sort of “culinary uprising” and wrote about his belief that in order to get good service one must be in the right mind set and be WILLING to get good service. Suddenly I was angry all over again.

Which brings me to the Incredible Hulk.

Despite moments of real frustration over injustice, inequality and bad reporting, I tend to be a really happy person. But if I hold onto my anger and don’t let it out, I tend to turn nasty. Swallowing anger is not only terrible for my personal life, it’s also really bad for business.

So just as the Incredible Hulk learned every week on his hit TV show in the 80’s, I’ve realized that a person (or half man/half monster) just can’t run away from anger. That person (or monster) must face their anger and conquer it.

First things first. I’ve got to put all that anger and frustration with the cock-eyed “bill of rights” down on paper before I really turn green. Who knows if any one else will appreciating my ranting, but god knows I’ll be a much better (and honest) person for doing so. In hopes of honoring Brenner’s initial premise of a diner’s bill of rights, I humbly suggest we add a few points, take a few away and lastly, do a LOT of editing.

1. Hospitality.Early in her bill of rights, Brenner waved the Danny Meyer flag of what is good service. She quoted his book “Setting the Table” with “hospitality exists when you believe that the other person is on your side.” I believe that getting great service at a restaurant requires the server and the diner to agree that they are entering into a business transaction* in which both people are required to give one one another respect and attention. A nasty server is no more accommodating than a guest with a bad attitude. Just as a server must show individual consideration to each guest and their needs, a diner must walk in the door with an open mind (and receptive stomach).

2. Restaurants are a business: I felt it was important to add this one because more and more I find that on average, most guests forget this. They ignore posted business hours (“what do you mean you can’t open 30 minutes early? My kid’s hungry!”, the lounge at tables for hours (“we’re catching up!”), bring in their own food (“look at the pretty cookies Grandma made!”) and get upset when we charge a “cake cutting fee”. Even though restaurants serve food and must offer good service, guests must realize that restaurants are a business. Tables have budgeted times, each restaurant has a set culinary style (i.e. don’t ask the sushi chef to cook you up some nice tuna), food is portioned and employees are paid minimum wage (however, in NY and Massachusetts, servers are paid less than half the minimum wage). Restaurants are not picnic stands and are not non-profit organizations. Just as a bank, hotel or retail store have certain rules (hours of operation, intolerance of thievery, procedures and protocols), so does a restaurant. Respect them.

3. Equal opportunity. “Restaurants shall not show preference in granting reservations to celebrities or their handlers.” Leslie’s words and I couldn’t agree more. However, her preposterously broad statement that “each di
ner has an equal right to any given table,” is ludicrous. If every two people that walked into a restaurant and demanded the equal right to sit at a table for six, than nearly every family dinner out or birthday celebration would be ruined.

3. Time of your choice. “You shall be given a reservation at or near the time you prefer when the restaurant has tables available. The corollary is that if you cannot show up, you shall cancel the reservation in a timely fashion.” Again, Leslie’s words. It should be mentioned that since empty tables drive customers mad, all diners showing up more than 15 minutes late (without a phone call) should not only be considered a no-show but they, the late customer, will take responsibility for their tardiness and not point blame elsewhere. Like missing a flight or a movie or any other business that runs on a time schedule, the customer pays the price for showing up late. Not the business.

4. Timely seating. When you arrive on time, you shall be seated on time. I agree with this idea as much as I agree with the philosophy of “paying it forward”. But if a diner expects to be seated on time, the diner will respect those who come after them and not sit at the table for an hour after the food is done so that they can “catch up.”

Restaurants budget between an hour to 2 hours (depending on the style of service) per table and book their rooms accordingly. Making other diners wait because you want a place to hang out is unfair. For clarity, see “Restaurants are a business” above.

5. Courteous greeting. “You have the right to be greeted courteously at the door.” Absolutely. Good service is all about good manners. So when a server says hello and greets the diners, the diners will have the common decency to respond with a look or a hello back.

6. Waiter’s anonymity. You have the right not to be told your server’s name.

I’m sorry, Leslie. I can’t even start to understand this rule. This one would make sense if we were talking about a firing squad.
Servers don’t want to be your friend. They appreciate being seen as human. Surely even Jeeves, the manservant, was allowed a name.

In the words of Bruce Banner just before turning into the incredible Hulk, “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like to see me when I get angry.

7. Wait at the table. Brenner believes that guests that “arrive at the time of your reservation and (the) table is ready, you shall be promptly seated, and not asked to wait for your party to be complete.” Not a bad idea if diners that are unwilling to wait for their party to be complete are respectful of the other diners with reservations following their dinner. If the diner’s reservation is for 7 o’clock and the table is needed back by 9, the diner will respect the restaurant’s need to sit the following guests in a timely manner.

8. Know your restaurant. Thought this was a good one to add. If you (or any of your fellow diners) don’t like meat, dairy, wheat or loud music at restaurants—don’t go to a restaurant that offers those things. If you think $30 is too much to pay for an entrée, don’t go to a restaurant that serves $30 entrees. If someone is willing to go to said restaurant despite their aversion to one or all of the above issues, they must either be willing to compromise or able to suspend judgment of said restaurant. Because let’s be honest, a person with wheat allergies in a noodle house, no matter how hard the restaurant tries to make the diner-with-restrictions happy, will not be experiencing an optimal dining experience. If a diner doesn’t like rock and roll and steak, they shouldn’t go to a rock and roll steak joint. Like any business, restaurants choose to do things a certain way for a reason. If you don’t like it, do go there. Save your money for another restaurant. No one is forcing you to eat out.

9. Tell it like it is. Brenner states that diners “have the right to a simple, accurate description of any dish you ask about.” The corollary to this clause should be noted that no food critic will criticize a server for describing an ingredient because they personally believe that everyone knows what “burratta” is.

10. Right of refusal: wine. Brenner is right when she says that “you have the right to refuse a wine that is not in good condition, and you shall not be required to pay for it.” If, however, you order a wine that isn’t corked, don’t feel it’s your inalienable right to change your mind twenty minutes (and ½ a bottle) later when all the glasses have been poured and your friends tell you they don’t like (your choice in) the wine.

So I ask you Leslie Brenner, with the list of demands minimized and reality balanced with expectations, do you think you could abide by these rules? True, the job of a restaurant critic is a difficult balance. One must be a talented writer, an educated diner and have an unflinching critical eye. But after years of eating out every day and writing about restaurants, there’s got to be more for you than getting through the meal so you can soon grind your axe at the newspaper. If you want to have a great experience at a restaurant (or in anything in life for that matter), you have to walk into it with a positive attitude and an open mind. Great restaurant experiences don’t just happen TO you.

December 31

Hello Goodbye

Good bye 2007.
Thank you for everything you’ve given me.
A husband. A whole new family to call my own. Stories. Friends. Inspiration. Amazing meals. Travel to incredible places. Knowledge. Love.

Hello 2008
I look forward to making the most of all the days you have to give me.

I raise my glass to all that has come before me and all that is yet to be. Here’s to life, to love, to inspiration!