I Love You Man!!!!

Just noticed this column out there in the NY Times.  I had to provide a link as this warms the cockles of my heart.  I don't know Bruce Buschel and never heard of him, but I can tell we're of kindred spirit.  A couple of his rules for servers: "Do not make a singleton feel bad. Do not say, “Are you waiting for someone?” Ask for a reservation. Ask if he or she would like to sit at the bar" or "Never say “I don’t know” to any question without following with, “I’ll find out.”  There are 50 of these gems in the column with another 50 coming next week.(Update: Here they are.)  Such common sense, so rare however, that he sounds stunningly brilliant and a cut above the rest.  His new Bridgehampton restaurant should be a stunner.  Recently, at an upscale restaurant, I asked our server how  a particular shrimp offering was prepared.  Her untrained response was "I don't know, I know they're cooked, (Duh!!) but  I don't eat shrimp"?  (See Bushel Rule #44). The look on my face I am sure said it all. I suggest all waitstaff memorize Mr.  Buschel's lists.

Uh, oh. This Isn't Kansas Anymore, Toto!

Striking out, at least for the time being, for a Jewish Deli in the middle Tennessee area, I ventured out to find a good Italian market.  Certainly there would be an Italian Market with shelves and coolers stocked with soppresata, (soupy for you RIers), dried and semi dried sausages, mortadella, pancetta, ham cappicola, Prosciutto di Parma, aged Romano and Parmesan located right near the bin of bufalo mozzarella. The smell of crusty bread just out of the oven wasn't far I mused.  Not quite.  Not even close.  We found one that might have potential only to find out that the selections were sparse, at best, and fresh, meant something very different here in Tennessee.  With the exception by finding a gallon of very good olive oil at a reasonable price, another strike out.  What is a man to do under such dire circumstances. "Call a lawyer," I said to my wife in desperation.   "What is a lawyer going to do for you?" she exclaimed.  Not just any lawyer, I said, I will call "Jules--problem solver extraordinaire."  Jules my age old and dear friend who still lives in RI and works just a few short blocks from Federal Hill (RI's Little Italy) could certainly find a temporary solution for my cravings while I worked out the details of my crisis. As always, Jules came through and within a few days I had a giant box on my doorstep filled with spectacular meats and cheeses as if handmade by Mother Italy herself (knowing Jules it probably was.) Crisis averted, for now.  As for bread, I have resorted to baking my own.  They must be allergic to anything with a crust down here.

Other Nashville Outings

As any one who has read this blog, probably all four of you, know that I am not from Nashville.  A month or so  before packing up to parts unknown, I researched several things that were important (Read: Imperative).  An Italian market and a Jewish style Deli.   Since I am  not here to out anyone or give anyone any additional problems, I will not share my discoveries.  Although the internet based research suggested that I need not pack my Italian meats and cheeses or arrange for care packages, I did find the reality of the situation bleak at best.  My first venture out brought me to what was considered a Jewish Deli. Nothing Kosher in the place, but they certainly called themselves a Jewish Deli.   I saw pastrami in the display case, and although not a piece that I found overly attractive, I asked for a one pound slab unsliced.  While preparing my order the woman behind the counter asked how I used a slab of pastrami. I explained that I would hand cut slices and probably steam them for a bit and place on a a couple of pieces of rye bread, a touch of brown mustard and off we go.  Being cordial I asked "and you."  I should have kept my mouth shut.  She explained that they put it on "EYEtalian" subs.  Why I asked in almost utter shock, as pastrami is certainly not an Italian cold cut?  She, of course, with her nicest southern mannerisms, said I was wrong: It ends in a "vowel and like salami, and cappicola,  pastrami IS an Italian cold cut."  No point in arguing, I concluded, paid for my purchase and left. True story.

Diversity

Diversity evokes passion.  Whether it evokes negative or positive passion is often a concern.  Many fear diversity for xenophobic reasons; many welcome it as a sign of breaking down historical barriers.  Many take the view of if it "ain't broke, don't fix it." Diversity does not seem to be an issue in the culinary scene here in Nashville.  There is none, unless, of course your concept of divesity involves choosing among Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas City and of course, the ever present, Chinese Style ribs.(Which don't count in my opinion)  Now don't get me wrong, ribs in the South are second to none and certainly whether smoked, grilled or BBQed low and slow, these folk have raised the preparation to an art form. Frankly, I never had a bad rib here.  Smokers and grills line the highway rest stops and every piece of vacant land as far as the eye can see.  Every respectable rib joint has its adjacent smokehouse warming up at midnight for the next evening's dinner crowd.  Pork is king around these parts and although I have fun abusing Nashvillians about, well, just about everything, I can't complain about the ribs.  I just don't understand how all these rib places stay in business.  It seems just about every household has a smoker.  From the ubiquitious Weber models, to the Big Green Egg to the giant truck size, tow along, custom made smoker parked somewhere in the backyard, I don't think I know a household without one.  Now, if you want to see passion just ask a neighbor for the best way to prepare ribs.  There is less passion at a UT-Florida game.

Go Ahead. Guess

Ok, I have ask why?? Is this another Tennessee thing?  A way to keep us Yankees from exploring Tennessee's woods? Go ahead guess.

I am walking through the local market looking for a six of Bud and among the 18,765 varieties of beer now sold at every supermarket, and I notice this.  I assumed perhaps AB came out with another Octoberfest or Bock type beer or perhaps even one celebrating our glorious fall. ( I love fall in Tennessee---its still 70 degrees) Perhaps another beer offering, I wondered?   No, I soon discovered. Of course NOT, I sooned learned,  THIS is Tennessee, after all. These are camoflaged beer cans. Hmmmmm. Why would anyone want a camoflaged beer cans I asked silently. Never having been in the miltary nor having ever hunted I just couldn't figure out why camo??????  Well I said, they do sell camo golf bags, shoes and such and I never saw anyone shoot a deer from a golf cart, so why not camoflaged beer cans? Then it dawned on me:  These Madison Avenue genuises may be targeting hunters---no pun intended.  No, nah, no way that can happen---- too many Philly lawyers living and trolling outside of Philly to allow that to happen. Then another--rather terrifying-- thought occurred. Maybe, just maybe, the beer can is being "used," so to speak,WHILE hunting and the sight of a silver, blue or  red can would scare Bambi right into the nearest AA meeting???? Don't hunters use weapons?  Like guns. Like big poweful guns that shoot big nasty bullets??? Do hunters drink beer while holding a 30 ought six with one hand while resting another cold one on its super deluxe scope that can shoot the left ear off a flea on the  right side of a deer's ass?    No, not in this country and certainly not here in TN.  Why in the world would one want  or need  a camo beer can?  Now, I am no expert and  I am sure AB's legal eagles thought this through, but do guns and alcohol really go together?? I mean at the SAME TIME!!!!!  Beer before playing with a gun sounds dicey. Beer after playing with a gun sounds smarter.  Beer while playing with a gun sound really, really stupid.  But again i am from the North where Possum is NOT the "other white meat."

Imagine what they would do to a yankee walking through the woods.  Blame AB probably. The south is scarier than I thought.

Boy Do I Miss NY---Sometimes

Being a transplanted New Yorker, via Rhode Island, and then to Tennessee, I yearn for some of the food items that we took for granted. Growing up in the Bronx, we often went to the deli for lunch or dinner. It was the "deli." Period. Being of a different faith, we never realized it was an institution called a "Jewish Deli." Terrific corned beef, pastrami, tongue, chicken liver and onion sandwiches, knish, whitefish, lox and so on. You could even order "extra fatty" corned beef. Lean was not a positive description back then. Thoughts of our expeditionary trips to Katz' or Lindy's, or the Second Avenue Deli (not on 2nd Avenue anymore) in the "the City" still makes my mouth water. On the last few trips to lower Manhattan on business, I made sure that I stopped by Katz' for a trip down memory lane. I even made arrangements with my son--the Chef--- to join me as he lives just north of the City. He had never been to Katz' and I started to wonder if I was really that neglectful in raising him. He was 21 years old and had never been to a real Jewish Deli. Shame on me, but I would rather be late than never, as they say. Six inch high pastrami sandwiches; knoblewurst with enough garlic to stop a freight train and, of course, the pickles. Things couldn't be better. The $20.00 sandwich prices were tough to swallow, but the egg cream was as smooth as can be.

A day later reality hit and I was back in Nashville realizing that it may be awhile before I can enjoy Katz' pleasures again. I'll speak to Nashville's version of a Jewish Deli soon.....

Having moved to the South

Let me update you on my culinary thoughts over the past year. I recently move to the South (Nashville), originally from New York and then New England. I am trying not to lose weight but the South is different---very different. Scary too

1. Chitterlings. What and why? It’s not food.

2. Rinds. In a bag no less. Never going to happen.

3. Meat and 3. Three what?????? What kind of meat????? Not food, not edible. No way.

4. Brisket. Send it back to Texas. They don’t know good food either. Brisket should be used for corned beef or pastrami. Period. And it has to be made by a Jewish guy from New York.

5. Speaking of New York why can’t I get a chicken liver and onion sandwich down here?

6. Got duped with friends in going to a “Southern Surf and Turf.” Initially I had visions of a something akin to a Carolina Oyster Roast and spit roasted pig. Turned out to be catfish and fried chicken. They are no longer “dining out” friends. What the hell is wrong with people. This was a very cruel joke.

7. Giovanni’s Ristoranti on 20th Ave. The best in Nashville. Not the best Italian restaurant, mind you---the best restaurant in Nashville. Period. I can identify everything on the menu (and on the plate) and nothing is fried in lard or pig fat to hide its real flavor. Not that I object to pig fat, as in my opinion, it is one of the major food groups and should be there right smack in the middle of that stupid pyramid. It just has its time and place.

8. Speaking of Italian food, it is pronounced "EYEtalian" down here. I guess they think we all come from "Eyetaly." What's the story with that?

9. Okra. Another “what's up with that stuff?” I think they fry it to hide its hideous taste. It should make good compost but I don’t want to contaminate the garbage I mix it with.

10. Pork Jowls. In Italian it is called “Guanciale” and it is a delicacy---or at least can be. In France it called a “Lardons.” Someone should tell these folk, IT IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE EATEN LIKE BACON!!! It is a an ingredient in other dishes that contain FOOD.

11. So close to NOLA, and their idea of Cajun in Nashville, is dredging fish—catfish no less--- through fireplace ash. How about Andouille sausage, She Crab Soup, Turtle Soup, or even a simple Etouffee? Throw in a little mire poix on occasion and don’t forget roux is not something you make with crayons. What are they thinking?

12. Fried pickles. The worst trend in dining since “foam” as food and some pretentious 20 year old serving me “disassembled food” at $80.00 a plate.

Just venting....

What's in a Name?

After years of being abused somewhat by friends, family and occasionally strangers as to my culinary habits, I decided to complain. No, I said, I wasn't a "foodie." A rather yuppie adjective failing to describe anything. A "food snob" wasn't appropriate either as those that know me, know full well that that snobby is certainly not the case. My name and snob can hardly stand to be in the same sentence together. A "gourmand" is rather pretentious and is one of those self described, non-descriptive words of a class with whom I don't belong. A "culinary expert" was certainly not the case except by those that consider catsup and egg noodles as a form of pasta dish. Frankly, I am tired of the term "pasta." In my house, it either either spaghetti(linguine) or macaroni (everything else). "Chef" certainly wasn't the case as my son was the one with a degree from the Culinary Institute of America. He would chuck one of those very sharp knives he use if he heard me referred to as "Chef." "Home cook" seemed appropriate but as Michael Ruhlman, a well known chef, author and, from what I can tell, bon vivant of the culinary world, once mused, that is another term that means nothing. Technically, we are all home cooks, even those that just open a box of mac and cheese. "Home cook" is less than an ideal term. I do prefer to dine in the finer restaurants throughout the country; I do have refined but diverse culinary tastes. A few beers and run past a White Castle can't be beat; nor can Chef Paul Prudhomme's Turtle Soup or Chef Nobu Matsuhisa's Monkfish Pate with Caviar. I read cookbooks---not recipe books---- for sport and practice often. Too often making dishes, however, that end up in the compost or garbage bin as they didn't come out "just right." Mario Batale's culinary cruelty notwithstanding, if the Chef sends out a Lasagna Bolognese made with a Bechamel, it will go back as quickly as it will take me to hit the door.(True story, by the way.) If I can't have halibut in season in Anchorage, I will not eat halibut. Stone crab in Naples; Dungeness in Seattle; Striped Bass in New England. There are rules that shouldn't be broken. Keep your trendy Tilapia, Chilean Sea Bass (a/ka/ Patagonian Toothfish) and Orange Roughy in the freezer---where they belong. Bait by any other name is still bait. There are no substitutes for fresh. I prefer restaurants that do not even have freezers. There are many---ask the next time you call for reservations.  Hang up when they say, "Why Yes." They will get the message. My black pepper, always freshly ground, is a Tellicherry Pepper; my salt is French and looks like little white rocks. I have salt in 3 hues, 4 textures, 3 flavors and as many textures---- and some from Himalayan glaciers.  I roast my own coffee as anything in a can is a mere bad brown beverage and is not coffee, in my opinion.  I have more spices than Whole Foods sells and I know how to use them. Most will be used fresh or thrown out. My son watched me complain to a waitress that Cajun cooking does not involve dredging fish through fireplace ash--as her recent delivery suggested. My wife once winced as I spoke of plans to visit Ferran Adrian's El Bulli to experience molecular gastronomy at its finest while complaining that foam belonged on a beer not on a plate of food. Then it dawned on me: I am a brat. A food brat. Pure and simple. Sometimes childlike (thinking of El Bulli); sometimes spoiled (refusing to eat Lasagna ala Bechamel or whatever mistake was sent out as food.) I can be playful, like the time I ordered and tasted the entire entre menu at a new restaurant just so I could recommend something to guests the next time I came back. Yeah, I  concluded, brat fit. Brat worked and this is my blog to share and discuss with other culinary brats.