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.