The Ethiopian experience

Often I like to sit and have a nice revere about times when life was simpler, when dinner consisted of pre-chewed mush and utensils were an afterthought.

For most of you, this likely takes you back to when you were two or so years old sitting in a high chair. As for me, I only have to go back about two hours. I have, however, graduated from having to use a bibb.

Tonight for dinner I had the distinct pleasure of visiting Meskerem, a local Ethiopian restaurant here in Charlotte. I was at a table with four other classmates, none of which (including myself) had ever quite had this sort of experience. On the plus side, it's harder to make a fool of yourself if no one there knows what they're doing.

We did have a bit of instruction (yes, we knew that there weren't going to be forks). The food is meant to be shared, and often the entire table's order will be placed on a single large plate. Injera, a form of sourdough flatbread, is used as both dish and utensil. The injera comes in a large circle, getting close to two feet across, and is folded on the plate as a base for the food (often in pureed form). At Meskerem were were each given a second piece to use as our utensil. Just rip off a piece and use it to scoop up a bit of whatever looks good. And trust me, it went beyond looks.

This whole idea really goes to show how food is viewed in Ethiopia. It's no secret that food is a bit more scarce than it is here in the US. The act of communal eating is such a great way to hold on to the intimacy of food that we seem to have thrown out the window in recent years. I happen to be a rather large fan of sharing food. It's one of the reasons why I love cooking so much - food brings people together. For me, it's a way to share something I love with people I love, a way of sharing myself. So sharing a plate may seem simple at first, but when you look at it, look at what it really is, you'll see what a beautiful thing that simple act is.

On to the actual food, though.

Wanting to get the most out of the evening all of us at the table made sure to order something different. I went for the shro wat, a dish of ground seasoned chick peas with berbere sauce. Among the other dishes were miser alecha - a puree of split lentils, doro wat - a classic chicken dish with berbere sauce, a lamb dish with some very delicious peppers, and "vegetable #2", a very tasty - if somewhat unimaginatively named - combination of cabbage, potatoes, and carrots.

The only semi-complaint of the night seemed to be the injera bread, and only that because of its texture. Different than anything I've ever had it's something like a thick, soft, spongy tortilla. But hey, that's what happens when you try new things. New flavors and textures have a habit of popping up. Overall, I give the food a solid thumbs up.

I'd say, though, that going to Meskerem is as much about the experience of eating as it is the food itself, and would encourage people to go at least once for this reason.

Tonight was pretty eventful. I tried not only a new cuisine, but a new style of eating altogether. Who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll leave the forks in the drawer.

Smile for the camera

I recently read an article by Frank Bruni titled You May Kiss the Chef's Napikin Ring. More than just a catchy title, it offers an interesting view on the (relatively) newfound glamour of being a chef.
Celebrity chefs are new creatures, in the scheme of things. By all counts I'm enrolled in a trade school. But I still hear about all of the "Ooh's and aah's" that fellow students have received from family and friends when they announce their choice of study. I feel kind of bad for the mechanics of the world.
That's not to say that it's an entirely bad thing. Who doesn't appreciate a little bit of recognition? I'm not going to chastise people for getting a kick out of my career plans. I like it when people ask my opinion on things, or try to glean a bit of advice. I'm all for it. I love cooking food, and I love talking food. I wasn't drawn to this because of some magical aura that seems to go along with it, but it does have a few perks.

That said, there is a darker side to the story.

Bruni writes about a number of restaurants that seem to be taking the power out of the diners' hands. An attitude of "This is our food, our restaurant, our night... so sit back and take what we give you" permeates the air. It shows up in a variety of ways, from one chef chosing to get rid of the 5 course tasting menu and only offer the 9 course menu (requiring a significant amount of time to sit through), to a restaurant deciding to place the view of the city on the cooks' side of the open kitchen and letting the guests simply watch the food being made.

I have mixed feelings on the issue. I'm of the opinion that, should a chef decide that the 9 course menu is the only way to truly get the full experience, then said chef should feel free to put only that menu as an option. Of course, seller beware. If someone doesn't have that much time, that much money, or whichever other of a number of reasons, that someone won't be coming to your restaurant. I've never been one to do elongated matched pairings, but if I went to the trouble of putting the whole thing together then I would be put off a bit if someone decided to only try half of what I had to offer.

On the issue of giving the best view to the cooks or, like in another case, having a strict two-hour limit on certain tables, I think people are getting their priorities mixed a bit. I love the idea of an open kitchen, and I'll watch Iron Chef with the rest of the crowd, but I enjoy a nice skyline view too. Taking something away simply for the reason of demanding the attention yourself seems a bit pompous to be honest. If the food is good, they will eat. If the making is entertaining, they will watch. To me, that is enough.

I'm afraid it goes deeper, though.

I like the Food Network. I think it's fun to see chef's as celebrities, those select (often simply lucky) few who have made it big. Some I really like, others not so much. Rachel Ray comes up all the time as one of those "love or hate" people. Would I call her a big culinary authority? Probably not. She's got no formal training, and was discovered doing small demos for some sort of grocery store. Now, can she cook? Obviously. Is she good at what she does? If she wasn't she wouldn't still be on TV. That, at least, I can respect. But at the same time I will jump up and down saying that what she does isn't indicative of the greater chefdom. These people, all of them, be they from the industry or not, are the lucky few. They are the exception to the rule.

I've heard that the freshman class here was asked "How many of you want to be on the Food Network". Just about everyone raised their hand.

Good luck with that.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's not going to happen. One, maybe - and that's a big maybe - will get some level of recognition beyond simply being a good chef. If you're going into this industry to be famous, though, you're going into the wrong industry. Generally there's a lot of work, a lot of sweat, a lot of long days, and not a lot of individual recognition. One thing that tends to irk me is the idea of celebrity chefs opening a restaurant, hiring someone to actually be the chef, and no one giving them the credit. It's still Emeril's place (who, coincidentally, can actually on occasion be found cooking at his restaurants so I'm told - kudos to him). No one hopes to get a glance of the guy who peeled and cut all of those potatoes. They want to see the famous face.

Give credit where credit is due, that's all I'm saying. Emeril's a fine cook, a good entertainer, and is good at what he does. But everyone else working in his restaurants, those that actually make the restaurants work... they deserve some props themselves.

Is gaining a bit of a celebrity reputation bad? No, not at all. But you have to take all things (good and bad) in stride. Don't let it go to your head. Don't think that you're not still there to serve someone else, that at the end of the day you don't still rely on everyone else's choice to come eat at your place.

What's in a name?

I have a confession to make. Until recently, I would have told you that roasting and baking were, for all intents and purposes, the same technique. Roasting, perhaps, would imply work with vegetables or meats. And I have to say that, despite my newfound knowledge, I still see (and in all likelihood continue to use) these terms switched and swapped and otherwise confounded into one general idea.

So I should guess that you may be asking "What is this all powerful difference that grants cooks across the globe the right to call it something completely different, and is it really that important?"

Why, it's elevation, my dear Watson!

Be it via rack or a large diced mire poix (an aromatic combination of one part carrot, one part celery, and two parts onion), elevating the item in question changes the heat transferance method from conduction (hot thing - in this case the pan - touching the food directly) to convection (hot air from hot thing - in this case still the pan - wafting around the food and cooking it).

The end result is largely the same, with a couple of differences along the way. Roasting tends to be more even, since it's circulating hot air doing the work instead of a hot pan on one side (imagine trying to cook a steak without ever flipping it - by the time the top was anywhere close to done your fire alarm has been going off for five minutes). Of course baking isn't quite as disastrous as that no-flip technique would be, but the principle remains. Also, there's the matter of the juice. I love me some drippings. They make a great sauce (which I'll get to later). What I don't like, though, is the idea of whatever's in that pan simmering in it (I'm roasting here, not braising). Elevating the roast means that the drippings can actually drip down, gathering flavor from any mire poix in the bottom of the pan, and otherwise waiting patiently for your wondrous saucemaking skills.

Now, the actual technique of roasting? It's pretty simple. For simplicity's sake, we'll talk about roasting some form of meat, rather than vegetables (which, by the way, is probably the most common culprit when it comes to calling something roasted when it's actually baked... but let's face it, "baked red potatoes" just doesn't have the same ring to it).

A) Sear the meat. This can be done either in a pan on the stove, or by using high heat (maybe 450) for maybe 10-15 minutes in the oven to give it a nice brown crust.

B) Cook to the proper temperature - 145 (for 15 minutes), or 165 if stuffed. Note that poultry still should hit 165 regardless.

C) Remove from oven and let it rest. How long depends on the size of the thing. Sure, you can tent some foil over it or put it into a warm oven (200 or so degrees) if you want to be extra-super-duper-sure that it won't go cold.

D) Devour with a vengeance.

If you think about it, this largely means turn on the oven, insert item, and let cook. It doesn't get much simpler than that. Roasting is a beautiful thing.

There are, i'm afraid to say (or would be, at least, if they weren't so handy and/or delicious), footnotes to check out along the way.

First off, trussing. This just means wrapping some butchers twine around the meat to hold it in the shape you want while it cooks. In the case of a bird, this can help to keep the legs closed to hold in any stuffing that you may have (and hopefully did) put inside. Please note that by "stuffing" I don't necessarily (or at all, really) mean the classic Turkey Day bread stuffing - I mean something as easy as throwing in some butter, herb stems, and maybe some lemons.
For a roast (meaning pig, cow, llama, you name it), not only will it hold in any stuffing but can also be used to form the whole thing into a nice uniform shape, which means even cooking, which means even deliciousness.

I'd try to describe the actual proceedure, but I just don't feel that simply writing it would get the idea across. But hey, if you've made it here that means that you've got internet access (go you) and you should be able to find a video demo out in cyberland pretty easily. Trust, it's not that hard to do.

Next, we talk sauce. I like this part.

There are those who tell you that a roasted item is not complete without an accompanying sauce. In any case, my practical tomorrow isn't. So here's the deal. There are three types of sauce that you have to choose from.

Jus - Basically just drippings from the roast, maybe fortified with some stock. Add any other flavorings you want (onions, garlic, fresh herbs, you know the drill)

Jus lie - Same thing, just slightly thickened with pure starch. Cornstarch or arrowroot are the main choices. Arrowroot has a lot of extra benefits, but is of course more expensive as a result. I suggest a simple slurry (cornstarch plus just enough water to give the consistency of heavy cream) to thicken it up a bit. It won't take much - one tablespoon of slurry is enough to bring two cups of liquid to a "medium viscocity". Yeah, saying "medium viscocity" is kind of like saying "medium yellow". Just know that it doesn't take much, and you can always add more if you want.

Pan gravy - This time the drippings are thickened with flour (there will be plenty of fat in the drippings to smooth it out). This is done by what's called "singer" (pronounced 'sahn-zjay'). Essentially you're just dusting the pan with flour, then mixing it in. Then add your stock, or whatever liquid you choose. Note that any aromatics (like that garlic and onion) should be tossed into the pan before the flour.

And always, always deglaze the pan (usually wine, but anything acidic works) first. That's how you get the fond (the little black bits of delicious) up from the bottom of the pan.

Roasting is pretty simple, all told (but hey, most good food is). Toss it in the oven, fix up the sauce while it's resting, and you've got an impressive dinner on your hands.

Call it baking, call it roasting, for all I care you can call it mommy, but I call it delicious.

Let's talk about someone else for a change

My first assignment (other than having to read 60 pages by Tuesday in the book that I can't purchase until Monday) for my food writing class is to review an article. Seems pretty simple, and, well, it is. I'm rather a fan of Anthony Bourdain and also conveniently have his book The Nasty Bits, a collection of his writings. I'm not one to make life unnecessarily hard on myself, so I re-read a few of the pieces and picked one to do my assignment on.

I'd put up the original article, but I don't really feel like getting sued. And, I can't seem to find a link to an online version. Short version, it's about Bourdain's distaste for a lot of the classic fine dining service styles, the strict dance and etiquette performed by the service staff, and the joy of new restaurants that ignore it all and still bring you the best food possible.



I hate ties. Not so much ties in particular, but more so getting dressed up in general. I’m just not a formal sort of person. So you might say that there was a bit of personal significance for me when I read Anthony Bourdain’s article Counter Culture, which talks about chefs opening new restaurants with a dumbed down dress code.
And beyond the clothes it’s the entire atmosphere that Bourdain talks about, with the pomp and circumstance of fine dining service giving way to a casual air with, as the title suggests, sometimes even diner-style countertop seating.
When it comes to food, it’s about (you guessed it) the food. Yes, good service is nice. I like a bamboo bar top and cool lighting as much as the next guy. But if the best pommes frites you’ve ever eaten are served on a paper plate by a guy in a sweaty baseball cap and a food-stained t-shirt, they’re still the best pommes frites you’ve ever eaten. And after all, all that strict service can get a little stuffy. Bourdain writes in his article about how he had the various attributes and qualities of different bottled waters dutifully explained to him. In the same sitting, after asking for the restroom, he was not only escorted through the restaurant but to inside the stall itself. He was then educated as to how he might operate the commode. I can’t speak for everyone, but I don’t normally invite company into the stall with me. And I’m pretty sure that I can figure out how to use a toilet on my own. All in all, the idea of keeping the great food but dropping some of the over-the-top service is plus in my book.
Of course, it’s not just my opinion that matters. So what makes these words ring true in more ears than just my own? It’s because the experience is about sharing good food with good friends, not being afraid to sneeze in the wrong direction. Relaxing, talking, laughing, and being proud that at the end of the night you made it without actually busting the button off of your pants.
Bourdain is known for his up front, no-holds-barred writing. He doesn’t sugarcoat things, he doesn’t try to hide anything in the back room. In fact, he’s more likely to bust down the door and point out each and every gritty grimy little speck. And in this case, despite being a seasoned chef, having served in multi-star restaurants, he’s here to say that he could care less about the difference between Dasani and Evian. So ditch the napkin service, forget about the restroom tour guide, grab some friends, and bring on that plate of frites because that’s what we came for.

A new term, a new world

Today marked the beginning of my second term at Johnson & Wales. It promises to be interesting, to say the least.

My first lab is New World Cuisine, which focuses on deep frying, broiling, roasting, and grilling. Regionally, the class looks at the Americas and the (relatively) nearby island areas. Speaking of regions, the first assignment (a small paper on the South American country of our choice - and accompanying cuisine) is due Thursday. And yes, I really should be working on that rather than writing this. But like I said, it's been a while, and I do hate to deprive the gathered masses.

I have to admit, whenever I think of - or rather try to think of - "American cuisine" I come up short. South America, sure. Mexico... while my experience is largely that of the US's commercialized version (and by "largely", I mean completely... maybe minus the salsa I've made a time or two which I like to think is a fairly accurate representation, and either way goes great with blue corn chips), I at least get the general idea.

That's the problem, I think. So much of what we eat is supposed ethnic cuisines from around the world. We take bits and pieces and americanize them to our tastes. Pizza here is nothing like what you'd find in Italy. Tacos are street food in Mexico. I really don't even want to think about what a true Chinese connoisseur would say about the buffets that, I've heard, outnumber McDonald's in quantity. I know that they at least do in my hometown.

Is it wrong to borrow things and combine and meld them into our own culture, our own cuisine? Of course not. I'm not saying that I don't like american pizza. I've never even been to Italy to try the original (a sad fact in my eyes) so I can't offer some longwinded explanation as to the varying differences. But it does give me pause whenever I think of what "our food" really is.

Then again, at the same time there are a few things that strike me as classically American. This list also seems to fall under the category of comfort foods. Not mine, so much... oddly enough I don't feel that there are any particular foods that inspire in me thoughts of home and a happy childhood... a bit odd considering that overall I spend way too much of my time thinking about food. But there are certain items that are pretty common on the Everyman's list of comfort foods. You know, the Family Feud Top 5. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, chicken and noodle soup. Of course, this could be because I'm from Indiana. The US is, as you may have been aware, a rather large landmass. This often leads to varying cuisines in different areas.

Just as the foods of Peru will differ from those of Brazil, Californian dishes are going to look a lot different than those from the South. That's another problem of mine. I'm looking at too large an area, expecting the tastes of 50 states to accumulate into a few simple dishes. Down here in Charlotte comfort food is just as likely to be fried chicken, biscuits, and bar-b-que. Let me tell you, I have no complaints about that idea. I do love me some good biscuits.

I suppose that I feel that, as a country, we should be more united in our culinary endeavors. I've come to expect it. Afterall, Classical French Cuisine is its own class - why not Classical American?

Is it really a bad thing to be this diverse, though?

You know what, I think I'll manage to suffer through it. There is, as it turns out, something to be said for variety.