Mise en Place

Month: June 2018

History will repeat itself.

The World Cup Truly Begins Tomorrow (June 17): Deutschland Versus Mexico

June 16, 2018 / / 0 Comments

For four years, Die Mannschaft has held the World Cup trophy, and on Sunday, Germany’s campaign to retain it begins. I’m biased, of course, but, as I predicted Löw and company would win the tournament in 2014, I’m stating now that I fully expect to see Neuer and his teammates emerge victorious come July 15. Yes, Germany will be the first team to win back-to-back World Cups since Brazil’s great sides of ’58 and ’62 accomplished the difficult feat.

Back in 2014, I was interviewed about the World Cup and Germany’s prospects by Colin Randall, a former colleague of mine at Abu Dhabi-based The National, on Salut! Sunderland, a site he publishes, and to kick off the 2018 World Cup I’m sharing the dialogue here. (Visit the piece on Salut! Sunderland here.) Randall is an intelligent and experienced observer of Fußball, and I am certain he’ll be in front of a telly tomorrow to watch Germany defeat Mexico 3-1.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Salut! Sunderland: You are naturally a supporter of the United States first, but what is an American doing also rooting for Germany?

James: Actually, my first team is Die Mannschaft (Germany). I lived in Germany and attended high school there, and played for a club team and for my American school. I have written a bit about the genesis of my love and passion for the German side here: https://jamesabrock.com/2014/06/12/man-and-woman-cannot-live-on-food-alone-one-must-have-fussball/

Do you speak German and do other aspects of German life and culture fascinate you?

I do speak German, and Germany changed me as a human being. Living there taught me to expect excellence and order, to strive for it, and to, unfortunately, have little tolerance for the absence of those things. I love wine, and went to high school in the Pfalz, which produces some of the world’s best Rieslings. In addition, beer is one of my favorite libations, and I don’t think I need to tell your readers about the excellent quality of German beers.

 

Who wore short shorts?

Who wore short shorts?


At what stage of Brazil 2014 did you decide it was winnable for Germany? Or does it just go back to that old Gary Lineker quote about football being a game played by two teams of 11 in which Germany win?

Since the late 1970s Germany has been, to me, an invincible team. In every match since then I have not expected them to lose, and always expect them to win. I felt from the beginning of the tournament that Germany could win the trophy.

And at club level, I presume it would be Bayern Munich every time for you? How closely do you follow the Bundesliga?

I am a big fan of the Bundesliga, but my club is not Bayern München, it is FC Kaiserslautern. (I do support Bayern in European competitions.) FCK is a storied Bundesliga team with a passionate fan base and a great stadium. It is called the Betzenberg, and I spent many a day and night in the stands. My ticket cost 5 Marks at the time, and that small sum gave me such joy, and the chance to see the team knock Real Madrid out of the Cup, Elton John in the stands during a match against Watford, and great players like Briegel, Brehme, Klose, and Ballack, all of whom played for the Red Devils. They are and always will be my club team.

Germany have had a strange World Cup, emphatic against Portugul then a few stutters , disciplined rather than exhilarating against France, unstoppable in the semi. Explain!

I am not worried about Germany’s form in Brazil thus far. They have been to four consecutive semifinals and the final will be their eight appearance in the ultimate match. They do what they need to win. Sometimes they do it with aplomb, other times they do it with efficiency. I will take the wins no matter how they come — though I do prefer the Beautiful Game.

Neuer looks as good as any keeper at the tournament but who else has really made the difference in getting Germany to the final?

I will state that Neuer is the top keeper in the world. Germany always has great keepers, going back to Sepp Maier and Harald Schumacher [ouch – Patrick Battiston] , and through to Oliver Kahn. As for other players at this tournament, Hummels is having a great time, and his goals have been good ones. Müller is a gem, and he is destined to break Klose’s World Cup scoring record in 2018. Lahm has been his usual world-class self, and Khedira is back on track after his knee injury. Kroos is perfect, and has scored some great goals in Brazil.

How important is it to have an accomplished coach and what are Joachim Löw’s most impressive qualities?

I think Loew’s greatest quality was his willingness to embrace change, as he began doing when he was Klinsmann’s assistant. He never hesitates to bring in new blood, fully supports his players and staff, and always looks good doing it.

James wore them, at uni in Florida

James wore them, at uni in Florida


You share my contempt for diving and playacting. Would you also agree it’s a particular shame when truly gifted players – eg Robben, Suarez, Muller, Ronaldo and, though absent from Brazil, Bale – indulge in it as well as the limited ones who feel the need to compensate for lack of technique?

I detest diving. When I played I never took a dive, and I admire players — Messi comes to mind — who push on despite the tackles. The Robben example is a perfect one: he is a supremely gifted player, and should be much more respected, but his dramatic flopping sours everyone. FIFA must crack down.

Give me your assessment of the 2014 World Cup so far, the highlights and the moments you’d rather forget

I have been watching the World Cup since 1982, and this one is right up there among the best — I would say that along with 1982 it is the best. The US had a great run, and I would say that, with Germany’s dismantling of Brazil, count as the highlights to me thus far. Oh yes, I will add Klose’s breaking of the scoring record. He is one of my favorite players, and is a real gentleman to boot. However, on Sunday, when Germany lifts the trophy, I will be crying tears of joy and pride, so that will be the highlight.

If not already dealt with, what is your impression of the state of English football and, this being a quite different thing, the Premier League?

It is known that I am not a fan of English football. There are several reasons for my aversion, one of them being the attitude of many English fans, behavior I have observed over the decades. In addition, so many of the players, at least for the past 15 years or so, are unlikable. I can no longer be gleeful about the national team’s failures, because they have passed into the territory of pitiable, but I do take joy in seeing them squirm and falter. As for the Premier League, I follow the teams on which Americans play, but the league as a whole does not appeal to me, mainly because I think it has sold its soul to monied outsiders, some of whom are suspect when it comes to ethics. I cannot stand Man City for that reason.

A few Americans latch on to Sunderland – I hesitate to say “support” though some would say they do – because of Jozy Altidore. Wretched season for us, heartbreaking early injury in Brazil; what do you make of him?

I think he is a good holding forward, strong. He scored many goals for his team in Holland. But I would not buy him if I was an owner.

* Closing stages of voting for the finalists of your choice:

The 2014 World Cup final: choose you team
 
Describe how you and where you will watch the final

Ah, the final. I will be watching it with Angela Shah, who has been very gracious in her support of Germany. She likes Loew, and though she is also a supporter of France, will I am sure be happy for me if Germany wins the trophy this year. We will be serving a nice dry Riesling and a Weissbier, and enjoying some great sausages. (We are still deciding between watching it at home or joining in with the crowds out somewhere.) [And Monsieur Salut says a special bonjour to Angela, with whom he also worked in Abu Dhabi]

What will be the score?

Germany will win the final 3-1.

* James Brock on himself:

Now he'd sooner tackle this ...

Now he’d sooner tackle this …

I love food and cooking, and I love football. I started play in Florida, then my family moved to Germany and the real education began. I speak about this in the blog post to which I earlier linked, but I cannot overstate the importance of Germany to my education and formation, in football and other walks of life. Journalism has been my money-earning profession for a long time, but I am now formulating a second act, one that will involve food and cooking and wine.

Interview: Colin Randall

6 RESPONSES TO “GERMANY VS ARGENTINA WHO ARE YOU?: (1) ‘WHY DIE MANNSCHAFTARE INVINCIBLE’”SUBSCRIBE

  1. JeremyJuly 10, 2014 at 3:51 pm #

    Nice article James. I agree about Neuer. What has impressed me so much about him is his decision making which is so far ahead of the majority of goalkeepers in my opinion. When he can’t catch the ball and has to parry it away he always considers how to put it somewhere safe. He isn’t content with just making the save and hoping his defenders do the mopping up for him,.

    You might say that this is something all goalkeepers do but Neuer seems to be able to do it when other GKs simply can’t, and that’s what separates him from the pack for me. He has also shown that he’s a very effective sweeper coming out for through balls confidently and fiercely. In a WC that has featured some fantastic goalkeeping performances Manuel Neuer has stepped into a league of his own. He may be the match winner on Sunday for Germany.

    Rate This
    REPLY
  2. Eric012July 10, 2014 at 5:08 pm #

    Germany are everything that England are not. James says “they have passed into the territory of pitiable”. Can’t argue with that.

    Rate This
    REPLY
  3. DennisJuly 12, 2014 at 8:58 pm #

    One of the first things a keeper learns when starting out is that he is the last man on defense and the first man on offense. Never has given the world a clinic on this concept.
    Germany 4, Messi 1.

    Rate This
    REPLY
  4. JeremyJuly 14, 2014 at 12:00 am #

    Yes Dennis, and the clinic continued in the final. We saw him do things that normal “mortal” goalkeepers couldn’t even imagine.

    One of the summarisers on our coverage (in the US), said that someone had described Nueor as “the best ever,” which may be a little strong, but he seems to have “redesigned” goalkeeping and has produced some paradigm shift in what a goakeeper can and might now be expected to do.

    That may be the first time that the term “paradigm shift” has appeared on Salut. That’;s just the way it is on Salut, constantly shifting paradigms. and sofas, sacks of coal and sundry items.

    Rate This
    REPLY
    • William CJuly 14, 2014 at 11:20 am #

      I’m always doubtful about ” best ever ” comparisons.

      Lets just say that he is the best of the modern era. He certainly is in my opinion. As you said earlier, he has to some extent redefined the role of sweeper.

      Rate This
      REPLY
“Life is complicated. It’s filled with nuance. It’s unsatisfying... If I believe in anything, it is doubt. The root cause of all life’s problems is looking for a simple fucking answer.” (Image: Jenny Antill)

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

June 10, 2018 / / 10 Comments

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.

Ella Brennan in the kitchen.

Rest in Peace, You Ladies of the Kitchen and Table: Bidding Farewell to Raffetto, Council, Kafka, and Brennan

June 3, 2018 / / 1 Comment

It gives me solace that they each lived a long life, these woman whose cooking and writing and spirit gave happiness and nourishment to so many. Pasta, fried chicken livers, a recipe for shrimp and asparagus with sorrel, and eggs Sardou: these things are evocative entry points to, respectively, Romana Raffetto, Mildred Council, Barbara Kafka, and Ella Brennan, four women whose legacies won’t soon fade. Losing them all within the space of a few weeks is a tough blow, but let’s try to celebrate the exuberance and love of food they displayed.

One of my favorite things to do in New York is to walk the streets of the West Village and make the rounds of my shops, including Murray’s, Faicco’s, and Ottomanelli & Sons. For pasta, when I did not want to make my own, or lacked the time to do so, I would stop at Raffetto’s on West Houston Street, pasta whose quality never disappointed. Romana Raffetto, who passed away on May 25, was behind the counter on most days, talking to customers and extolling the virtues of her family’s products, which evolved over time to include all the shapes and types that are now ubiquitous in even the most pedestrian of grocery stores (think pumpkin ravioli and squid-ink tagliatelle). The store, officially known as M. Raffetto & Bros., opened in 1906, and there’s no telling how many meals have been composed with Raffeto’s pastas and sauces since then. I enjoyed talking with Raffetto, and her pride in the store, and what her family had created, was obvious. (If you want to try a few things intriguingly delicious, order the following from Raffetto’s: pink sauce made with cognac, gorgonzola and walnut jumbo ravioli, and black squid Tagliarini all Chitarra. Those are my favorites.)

Romana Raffeto stands at the counter of her family’s store in 1978. (Photo courtesy Gino Raffeto)

Stores like Raffetto’s are national treasures, and in many cities are extinct, if they ever existed at all. As I write this, the aromas of that wondrous space in the West Village are all around me, and I know what one of my first stops will be the next time I am in New York. In the meantime, mail order will have to suffice.

Here’s a look at the place and the people behind it:

Mama Dip. What can you say about Mama Dip, otherwise known as Mildred Council? What about her Community Dinners? Or the courage and bravery she exhibited in choosing to end her marriage after 29 years, in 1976, having endured emotional and physical abuse? “The biggest turning point in my life was when I left my husband,” she told an interviewer in 1994. A cookbook that has so far sold 250,000 copies (“Mama Dip’s Kitchen”)? Fried chicken livers adored by Craig Claiborne (and thousands of other individuals)? How about the fact that she opened her first restaurant in 1976 and had but $40 to make breakfast, and at the end of that first day went home with $135? Her food was honest and filling and delicious and spoke of the lessons she learned cooking for her poor family, which she began to do at the age of 9, when her mother passed away. She was tall — 6 foot 2 — and she was loving and gracious, and Chapel Hill will never be the same.

“I’m not a chef. And I don’t like people to call me a chef because a chef is more like—I call them the artists,” Council told the Southern Foodways Alliance’s Amy C. Evans in a 2007 interview. “They have so much artist in them, artistic, ever what you call it. Artist, I guess, because they can just make things so pretty, you know. And I try to make things good.” Did she ever.

Mildred Council left countless fans and admirers, who will forever miss her cooking. (Image courtesy Mama Dip’s)

Barbara Kafka’s books sold millions of copies, and her advocacy of using a microwave to prepare food — she even used the appliance to deep-fry, alarming many and disgusting others — earned the disdain of many chefs, but the indefatigable author didn’t let the criticism bother her. She pushed on with her testing and writing and consulting, and in 2007 was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award from the James Beard Foundation.

“I do try to write in English, I don’t write ‘kitchen’ and I don’t write French,” Kafka told an interviewer in 2005. “What’s wrong with saying matchsticks instead of julienne?” Clearly, her straightforward — many would say brash — approach spoke to legions of home cooks, who devoured her writing and learned their skills from her books and articles. She supported Citymeals on Wheels early on, spent thousands of hours testing recipes, and maintained a passion for the transformative power of food and cooking. If you like cookbooks with a definitive voice and point of view, Kafka’s are for you. And you know what? Though I do not use the microwave to deep-fry my chicken livers or cook artichokes, I do start my roast chickens at 500 Fahrenheit.

New Orleans is one of my favorite destinations for food and eating. I can still recall the first time my family visited the city; I could not have been more than 10, but the flavor and sights and smells are still vivid in my senses. Strong black coffee, beignets covered in powdered sugar, shrimp and gumbo and everywhere, it seemed, the sounds of jazz.

Ella Brennan and the Crescent City were made for one another, both colorful and romantic and stubborn. “Hurricane” Ella was definitely a force of nature, and her love of restaurants and the people who made them work is worthy of much admiration. Here is all she said at the podium at the 1993 James Beard Awards (Commander’s Palace picked up the Outstanding Service award that year): “I accept this award for every damn captain and waiter in the country.” Classy lady was she.

If you want to read a lively autobiography, get a copy of “Miss Ella of Commander’s Palace: I Don’t Want a Restaurant Where a Jazz Band Can’t Come Marching Through“. Then set aside a part of your evening and watch “Ella Brennan: Commanding the Table.”

The experience will be all the more pleasurable with Miss Ella’s Old Fashioned in hand, a fine drink with which to toast the memories of these four amazing and strong women.

Miss Ella’s Old Fashioned

Ingredients
2 ounces Bourbon
2-3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
one half-cube sugar
lemon peel for garnish

Fill a rocks glass with ice and a touch of water. In a second rocks glass, muddle the sugar cube with Peychaud’s bitters , then add Bourbon. Swirl the ice in the first glass to chill it, then discard the ice and water. Pour the drink into the now-chilled glass. Run the lemon peel around the rim of the glass, then toss the peel into to the drink for garnish.

© 2024 Mise en Place

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑