Tag: Thomas Keller

The Purpose of Eating is To Relieve Pain, or, Farewell, Anthony

You’re on your hands and knees, naked, pawing the dingy shag carpet with your scratched and cut hands, looking for scraps of crack that might have fallen from the pipe a few hours earlier. The bright sun streams through dirty windows, the day is already hot, and you want to die. The fun is gone, over, and you don’t derive any pleasure from cooking. That’s been the case for a while now, ever since the night you looked up from the piece of meat in your hand and drew a blank. You had no idea, no thought or plan, nothing. You put down the knife, and the steak, and walk out the back door, throwing your apron on the wet ground.

It’s still early, so you run your fingers through your hair, wipe the sweat from your face, and walk through the door. Your place at the bar is unoccupied, and Mike nods at you, puzzled look on his face. Why are you here at this time of night, instead of at the restaurant? You sit, he puts the glass of whisky in front of you. The odor of sweat and onions and blood overtakes the moment, and you reach for the glass and drink, an attempt to annihilate the stench. The whisky burns, tastes good, and for a minute you relax.

But the minute passes and you want to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. But not there, not the room with no curtains and splotchy walls and unopened mail strewn on the counter that once held bowls of fruit and loaves of bread. You stand up and shake Mike’s hand, walk out of the bar and into the night headed nowhere on purpose but end up back in that room, on the couch hungry and hot and sweating, trying to remember the feeling of meaning something to someone, anyone, you, her, them. It doesn’t come back to you.

The notebooks are full, so you send a story to Paul, the friend with connections in the publishing world who thinks your stories are good. You had put down the knife and picked up the pen, an act that when it happened meant nothing to you, an act for which you had no forethought, no plan. The words and ideas and desires in your head, those things meant something, and they were jumbling up against one another in your brain and they frightened and aroused you so you probably saved yourself by committing them to paper, to reality. You wrote about what you knew, and loved and respected and detested, and Paul was right and the publisher loved your thoughts and statements and you saved yourself, because when your goal is becoming a good heroin addict, what remains after that?

Les Halles in the late afternoon, the Park Avenue weeknight crowd passing by the double doors, the bar full of men in ties and women wearing pearls and wedges. You’re feeling good, and cooking well. You like the honest food and the unpretentious place. There’s something comforting about the macaroni gratin and the meats in the glass case and the Gamay on the wine list and the people enjoying your dishes and you got a new apartment and this one has wood floors and you had them take out the carpeting in the bedrooms and the desk at which you write is overflowing with books and you sent another manuscript to the publisher and the book tour starts next week and the night is easy.

What you always tried to do, since the time in that boat in Brittany when you sucked the oysters from their shells in the warm sun and wondered about the fish under the water and how they would taste, what you wanted to capture always, was an entire existence in a mouthful, a feeling that nothing was wrong and the horizons, your horizons, were wide open and the next breath you took would lead surely to the next a step and movement and thought that meant something, that meant you meant something, mattered.

That’s how it was for a long time, and that’s how it was again. You are not in France, but you are in New York and cooking and laughing and the guys respect you — the book helps, of course — and the magazine articles and photographs  and the people coming to the restaurant hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

Your parents had taken you and your brother to France, and you became, after those oysters, what you are, the man seeking that complete, meaningful, worthy existence in a mouthful, with others you respect. The bread and cheeses and foie gras had split your brain wide open, turned you into something that was at first frightening but that after several months you gave no thought to, because it was who you were supposed to be and that felt right and good and you no longer shook your right leg nervously when you sat. You had wine, and you walked on the beach and kissed Simone and her hand was cold then warm and you wanted to stay in that place forever with her.

You are in a car in California with Eric and Michael and the sun is high and the three of you want to eat and drink and the meal ahead will be long and pleasurable; the chef, this man who gives you “vapors”, is going to cook 21 courses, and the wines are chilled and open as the car pulls up to the restaurant’s driveway. You think of Bocuse and Lyon and the stall in Hong Kong and the old woman in Mexico whose mole is the best you’ve ever tasted (that’s the very moment, when you and Eric and Michael walked through the restaurant’s door, that you had the idea of bringing all the food you love to one place, a pier on the Hudson in Manhattan) and cannot believe that the person in your body is the real you. You are not supposed to be here, you are supposed to be in a small kitchen somewhere in Manhattan, cooking for businessmen and tourists. You’ll feel this way forever, that you are a fraud, that at any minute it will all end and you’ll be Tony again and you’ll be on your hands and knees looking for that feeling again, the one you first had on that small boat on calm waters off the coast of Brittany when the briny oyster first touched your tongue.

That fear, of it all suddenly ending, never leaves you, no matter what you’re eating or whom you’re talking to, whether you’re sitting at a sushi bar in Tokyo or squatting in a hovel in Cambodia. One of the problems is that you don’t like the person you were, the one who was an asshole to people, the one who, just to shock, carried a machete around with him, the one who yelled cruelly for no reason. You can’t seem to give yourself a real chance to accept the idea that you changed, have overcome that man and was someone else, someone with a family and respect and genuine, unselfish emotions, a man whose passions for life and all of its experiences outstripped his attraction to self-denigration and dissipation. Your intelligence is, of course, more than sufficient to allow you to realize that, but what’s intelligence up against emotion and fear?

You stuck at it, the filming and the running and flying and you even quit smoking cigarettes and lost weight and took up martial arts and honed your speaking persona and your causes — who can forget the episode you filmed in Lebanon? — and your books continued to sell and a new generation of admirers came aboard (to say nothing of the acolytes, the guys who would give their left testicle to be you, a cohort you were not always comfortable with, especially after you realized that machismo and excess were not the road to great food). You were admired, and you, most of the time, admired yourself. There is no disputing that your dedication to the reality that food and respect for it, and the individuals who produced and cooked it, was honest and real. You were not a fake. James Beard Awards? Who cares. Ruth Bourdain deserves one, however, you state, so much more than those food writers with their panties in a wad, “a bunch of old hookers complaining about the new girl who kisses on the lips.” No, you are not a fraud.

Demons. They never leave, though, do they? Your parents divorced when you were young, and that, though hard for you to believe, still hurts, always hurt. You married your high school sweetheart, you two stayed together a long time, that was important to you. Your daughter came to you late, and that was a good thing for you. But would you fail, you asked yourself incessantly. How can I be a good father? I’m fucked up, I’ll fuck this up.

(Image: Instagram account of Ottavia Busia-Bourdain)

Keep moving, you say, don’t stop, there are too many people out there who need me to tell their stories. Maimed and sad people, people whose food deserves exposure, you sent that dying boy on a feast journey to Spain and made his wish come true and you made sure writers and chefs and cooks and just plain people you admired and respected got the recognition they deserved (that was the best part for you, the thing about yourself you most admired). Keep moving, through those years.

France is the key, of course. Those oysters and that girl and the mouthfuls of perfect moments leading from one to the next, no one asking anything of you, no one begging you to come to their restaurant or have lunch with them or sign their book (how many books did you sign?) or adopt their cause or make their city famous. France and Eric and Bocuse and nothing but … hunger.

Dining and Cooking in New Delhi With Friends, and Foie Gras and Mushrooms

A  mixture of fresh and dried mushrooms in a New Deli kitchen.

A mixture of fresh and dried mushrooms in a New Delhi kitchen.

Sean and I descended on the market armed with a mental menu and an abundance of rupee. We walked past the hardware vendors and the mobile phone stalls and entered the vegetable and meat areas, looking for mushrooms and onions, and we found some, and corn, and we had duck breast and some beef tenderloin. We were assembling ingredients for a dinner that evening and we had everything we needed.

Sean and Surya – our hosts – a friend of theirs whose name escapes me (David?), and Angela and I would be at the table. Sean and I transported our goods back to their apartment and started prepping in the kitchen, assisted by Angela and Surya. I took care of the mushroom bisque, using both fresh and dried mushrooms. I base my method on a Thomas Keller method (which you can read about here), and it is among my favorite things to make. On top of the bisque I placed a few pomegranate seeds, which Sean patiently procured.

Sean has his way with a pomegranate.

Sean has his way with a pomegranate.

A small glass of richness.

A small glass of richness.

A table graced with good lighting.

A table graced with good lighting.

A man and his knife.

Sean had some foie in a tin that a friend had left him, and he took care of that. (I had envisioned an amuse of seared foie gras with strawberries and a balsamic and Madeira reduction, and that is what we made.)

An appropriately rich beginning.

An appropriately rich beginning.

Sean and Surya’s kitchen is large, and has much light, which streams in from tall windows on the space’s rear wall. I liked cooking in that kitchen. We seared duck breast, and made a spicy corn and tomato “salsa” for the tenderloin. Sean grilled the beef to perfection.

Corn, tomato, and chili.

Corn, tomato, and chili.

Beef and arugula are always good company.

Beef and arugula are always good company.

Dessert was molten chocolate, ice cream, and strawberries. Surya enjoyed hers with relish.

Chocolate, strawberry, and ice cream closed the meal.

Chocolate, strawberry, and ice cream closed the meal.

A hostess can eat her dessert in any manner that suits her.

A hostess can eat her dessert in any manner that suits her.

Those days spent in Delhi in April of 2013 were good ones. The four of us shared other tables, most notably one at Indian Accent (about which more later). But no meal was more enjoyable than the one on that evening, when all was perfect and lively and warm.

Surya and Angela on the way to another table in New Delhi.

Surya and Angela on the way to another table in New Delhi.

Dining on rabbit and lamb with Chris Stanton

I’m in Houston, and I’m eating a lot, immersing myself into this sprawling city’s culinary offerings. Angela and I have dined at several places recently, and I have been solo at some others. With one exception – Triniti – the food has been good, some of it very good, including an excellent snapper at Reef and some wonderful Thai (including a soft shell crab) in the waterside town of Seabrook, south of Houston toward Galveston. Angela especially loved her scallop and shrimp curry there, and the evening ended up at the bar with two of the town’s finest, one of who gave us his recommendations, which included a sushi place in Houston.

Yesterday for lunch I had tacos at Tacos A Go-Go … pork and chicken guisado (stewed). Perfect bites, long, slow cooking, corn tortillas. All for $4.00. Last night Chris Stanton, a friend and former colleague of mine from the Abu Dhabi and Dubai days, and I shared a table at Provisions, and the meal began with Bone Marrow Brioche/Tomato Jam/sheep’s cheese, followed by Ham O’ Day (a prosciutto from America’s Midwest).

Provisions' Ham 'O Day

Provisions’ Ham ‘O Day

I would have liked more marrow and marrow taste in the bread pairing, an opinion that Chris shared, and the tomato jam was a tad too sweet, but the cheese was excellent – a bit crumbly, soft mouth feel, slightly creamy yet pungent. The ham, which came atop a light mustard sauce, imparted a salty taste at the back of the palate, which at first Chris and I did not like. But then a funkiness set in, and that made us hunger for more. We agreed that the curing was carried out well, and we were happy.

We were drinking a 2008 Bodegas Aster Crianza, and the ham’s funkiness enhanced its taste. At $32 a bottle it is one of the least expensive wines on Provisions’ list, and is a good value.

Sweet (overly sweet) lamb ribs at Provision

Sweet (overly sweet) lamb ribs at Provision

To the lamb. And to Korea, because that’s the first thing my brain thought of when I put one of the ribs in my mouth. They were crisp on the outside, and fairly tender meat was underneath. Unfortunately they were overly sweet. We tasted plum and brown sugar, and I would swear that some molasses was in the mix. We wanted less sugar, richer meat. But that did not stop us from finishing the dish. (We turned our attention to the paté before we finished the ribs, and when we returned to them they had cooled off, which enhanced their taste. They were better close to cold.)

Rabbit paté en croute, fit for a fine Spring

Rabbit paté en croute, fit for a fine Spring

A first bite of the rabbit paté told us that, while excellent, it should never be ordered with the lamb ribs. Pea tendrils graced the top of the rabbit, and a bite of that dish, followed by a taste of the ribs, took us from the freshness of spring to a brisk and smoky autumn evening. Too jarring, too discordant. Both great plates, but if they eloped their romance would never last.

How many people does it take to make pasta?

How many people does it take to make pasta?

Chris prepares pasta, in the Dubai kitchen that Angela and I shared.

Chris prepares pasta, in the Dubai kitchen that Angela and I shared.

Chris and I shared an apartment in Abu Dhabi in 2008, and when I first met him I considered myself very fortunate, because he loves food, and he loves to cook. And he is a good cook, intuitive. We teamed up well in our kitchen, and produced some great plates together, including a salmon tartare cone (thank you, Thomas Keller) and, with the help of his parents, a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner for 14.

During our dinner at Provisions Chris asked me as we were eating the ham how much I knew about curing meat, and told me that a visit to the Staten Island home of a friend of his father’s marked the beginning of his passion for food. Chris was 8, and they made fresh pasta and sliced some homemade prosciutto and drank some wine made by a grandfather from Italy. Chris showed me a photo of the salumeria in that Staten Island home, and I share it with you. (Please notice the crucifix at the upper left of this photo. It is indeed blessed meat.)

Meat cures on Staten Island. (Photo courtesy of Chris Stanton)

Meat cures on Staten Island. (Photo courtesy of Chris Stanton)

I replied that I knew a lot about the process of aging and curing, but other than dry-aging a steak I have never had the opportunity nor time to do it. That is going to change, however, and Chris and I are making plans to create a salumeria of our own, so stay tuned.

To read, to cook, and to dream (Thank you, M.F.K. Fisher)

Books and cooking are perfect companions. I never tire of reading about food, about the preparation of it, the soul-nourishing properties of selecting and preparing what we eat, the way we dream and think about ingredients and countrysides and fields and markets and tables. Or the way we recall meals enjoyed in restaurants and gardens and backyards.

Cookbooks and volumes on wine and food and all things culinary occupy large amounts of space on the shelves of my bookcases, and I consult them often. (Or, I should say, will again once my books are out of boxes and back on said shelves.) Indeed, I miss terribly sitting with The French Laundry Cookbook and The Gift of Southern Cooking, among others, and delving into the passions of Edna Lewis and Thomas Keller. I miss my Le Guide Culinare. In the past several months I have found myself wishing I had easy access to On Food and Cooking and the words of Mencken on food and drink.

I have been traveling and cooking in Europe since July; Paris is the next stop. My books are in the dark, packed away. I wanted to take a few volumes with me when I began this journey, but suitcases fill rapidly, and shoes and knives and clothing are surprisingly heavy once one begins packing for an extended sojourn.

Reading about tête de veau and M.F.K. Fisher's days and nights in Dijon. (Photograph by Angela Shah)

Reading about tête de veau and M.F.K. Fisher’s days and nights in Dijon. (Photograph by Angela Shah)

I have with me one title, The Art of Eating, by M.F.K. Fisher. I recommend that anyone interested in food and life and love – not to mention good writing – get their own copy, or anything by the author. (I am sure many of you already have.) M.F.K. Fisher has nourished me in Germany and Spain and France and Switzerland thus far on this trip, and she’ll continue to do so for a long time. She has shared her thoughts with me about dining alone, which I have been doing a lot of lately, and her love of tête de veau and sweetbreads and the sorrow and frustration resulting from the fact that more people have not discovered the joys inherent in making a meal of these fine staples. (Of the latter, that sorrow and frustration, I feel the same.) The Art of Eating includes a great recipe for tête de veau, and these lines on eating such honest things:

“Why is it worse, in the end, to see an animal’s head cooked and prepared for our pleasure than a thigh or a tail or a rib? If we are going to live on other inhabitants of this world we must not bind ourselves with illogical prejudices, but savor to the fullest the beasts we have killed … People who feel that a lamb’s cheek is gross and vulgar when a chop is not are like the medieval philosophers who argued about such hairsplitting problems as how many angels could dance on the point of a pin. If you have these prejudices, ask yourself if they are not built on what you may have been taught when you were young and unthinking, and then if you can, teach yourself to enjoy some of the parts of an animal that are not commonly prepared.”

Ms. Fisher dreaming about that perfect trout.

Ms. Fisher dreaming about that perfect trout.

I have been reading this volume of collected works (a partial offering of her output) in an effort to get to know Ms. Fisher a little better, and I have. Recently in Switzerland I took the book high up into the hills above Montreux and Vevey, where she once lived and cooked and loved. I was hoping to make my way to what remains of her house in those hills, but instead met some very fine people as I searched for remnants of Ms. Fisher’s life. I’ll tell you about them soon, and of their kindness and hospitality and love for food. And, I have much more to say and write about Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher’s work and life.

M.F.K. Fisher and one of her admirers.

M.F.K. Fisher and one of her admirers.

In the meantime, read her. And live and love and cook and eat, well.

Straining Details, or, the Craft of Thomas Keller

Shiitake mushrooms, coddled in cream, can be transformed into a soup worthy of a place at your table.

Shiitake mushrooms, coddled in cream, can be transformed into a soup worthy of a place at your table.

One thing I like about cooking is the power of being able to transform disparate ingredients into an organic whole, something that has all of the nuance and integrity of each of its constituent parts but ends up as something greater than any of them alone, something that satisfies you as a cook and pleases the people for whom you created it.

With that power of transformation comes the responsibility of respecting what you’re cooking with and the techniques necessary to create the organic whole. If you don’t have that, forget it. Details matter; you can assemble ingredients of the highest quality, but if you don’t treat them right, you will be less than happy with the outcome.

I’ve lately been going back to “The French Laundry Cookbook,” which a friend gave me a few years ago. It is one of my favorite cookbooks, but I have never read it from beginning to end – I am doing so now, and cooking from it. This week, after rereading the section in Michael Ruhlman‘s great book “The Soul of a Chef” on Thomas Keller, titled “Journey Toward Perfection,” a passage about soups stuck in my mind:

Mr. Keller loves soup, and he might begin a meal with a dazzling quartet of contrasting flavors that arrive in espresso cups. Fresh slightly bitter sorrel soup, the essence of green, is quickly followed by tomato consommé that is crystal clear but tastes bright red. Two thick soups look similar, but one is an ineffably rich lobster bisque, the other a clean smooth puree of cranberry bean.

In “The French Laundry Cookbook” is a recipe for Cream of Walnut Soup. I did not have walnuts, but I had some shiitakes, so I made a soup using Chef Keller’s recipe as a guide, with mushrooms instead of walnuts. And I made a few changes, not to make improvements, but because my ingredients called for them.

And that takes me back to detail and technique. One thing that all great cooks and chefs have in common is paying attention to both. No shortcuts, no half measures. The ingredients, and you and whoever is going to eat your food, deserve nothing less. You will need at least one strainer or chinois for this recipe, and if you have more than one you will be the better for it. If you have only one, make sure you clean it thoroughly each time before using it.

What a mélange: A shallot, some shiitakes, a bit of butter and two cups of cream

What a mélange: A shallot, some shiitakes, a bit of butter and two cups of cream

Take about 20 or so shiitakes and brush them clean, then chop coarsely and set them aside. Next, mince a shallot and sweat it in some butter in a medium sauce pan until soft. Add two cups of heavy cream to the pan and about 1/4 cup of milk. Next, split a vanilla bean and scrape the seeds into the mixture. Finally, add the mushrooms and bring all to a simmer, then turn down to just below simmer – you’ll let the flavors meld for about 45 minutes or so.

In his Cream of Walnut Soup, Chef Keller uses pear purée, and I thought it would go well with the mushrooms, so while the cream mixture is gaining strength peel and core one pear and cut it into eight wedges. In a medium saucepan, bring to boil one-half bottle of dry white wine and skim any foam that rises to the top. To this add 1.5 cups of water and 1/2 cup of sugar. Return to the boil and stir. When the sugar is dissolved add the juice of one half of a lemon and to this mixture add the pear pieces; cover with parchment lid (or loosely cover with lid if you don’t have parchment paper) and bring to a simmer. Cook for about 15 minutes, until pear wedges are soft to the tip of a knife. Remove the poached pears from the heat and return your attention to the cream and mushroom mixture.

No shortcuts: Straining liquids is key to this soup.

It’s coming together now, and if it has been about 45 minutes since the cream-mushroom mixture has been on the flavors will be wonderful; it’s amazing how the shiitakes impart their earthiness to the cream, and underneath it all is the essence of shallot. Pour this mixture through a strainer into a clean pan and discard the mushrooms. You’ll end up with about 1.5 cups of liquid. Taste it now for seasoning; I added a pinch of salt at this point.

Going back to the pears, transfer the wedges to a blender; pour about 1/3 cup of the poaching liquid through a clean strainer into the blender, then purée. If your mushroom cream has cooled reheat it, gently; then, with your blender motor running, pour the hot cream into the blender.

A first taste: a soup this rich is the perfect way to begin a meal.

A first taste: A soup this rich is the perfect way to begin a meal.

Finally, using a clean strainer, strain the soup into a clean saucepan and reheat gently. As Chef Keller does at the French Laundry, I like to serve the soup in warm demitasse cups as the first thing diners taste at the table, other than Champagne or wine. It is rich, the poached pear brings the slightest touch of sweetness, and the umami factor will have your guests thinking, “I can’t wait until the next course.” (It’s best to serve this soup immediately, but you can cool and store in the refrigerator for one day. Reheat gently.)

To end, I’ll touch one more time on detail and technique; you will notice that I strain the pear purée and the cream mixtures more than once. What you are after is a smooth, almost whispering touch on the tongue, so any specks or particles will ruin the effect. You must strain the liquids, through a clean strainer or chinois, showing your respect for the mushrooms, your guests, and your craft.

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