Russian spies!
Oh
Mi
God
OHMIGOD
OMG!
Living AMONG US! Sharing the same air! LOOKING FOR NUCLEAR SECRETS.
Nuke
Lee
Err!
Oh no! OH NO! Are they going to put plutonium in my foie gras at a HIGH-PRICED LONDON RESTAURANT? Egads! Not the PLUTONIUM PLOY! Anything but that, Igor! We did it to you with the spiked umbrella but THAT'S ALL FORGOTTEN NOW, isn't it?
Do NOT knock on my door! I may ask for your NORAD credentials!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The Internet and Foodie Blight
Am I getting it wrong? After all this time posting about food since the veritable dawn of the Internet (1994) I have come to realise that "foodies" -- they come in many guises and respectability ploys -- are quite the people I just don't want to have anything to do with. I've come to realise that these people (I wish I could categorise them in a neat little package, but then I'd be one of them) are quite the most elitist, controlling, holier-than-thou, obsessive-compulsive "money is no longer an object" people on this planet.
Who knew, all those years ago, when I was trying to search out a decent restaurant review by anyone who could spell, that this would burgeon into a large, balefully yellow bubble just waiting to be pricked? Here is how chatter about food has changed in the past decade or so:
Behold! I place you: Chowhound. From a tiny opinion site it has morphed into a teeteringly top-heavy bloated Frankenschtein's Münster. All the food pundits desperately thumbing their asses in order to keep foie gras on the menus.
eGullet: if there was ever a pretension someone finally abandoned, eGullet snapped it up. They wrap themselves in terms almost reminiscent of the Knights of Columbus. They're a Society! Their name ends in ".org" How fucking pretentious is that? They require you to write an essay in order to swing from the same clubhouse ropes they do.
If it weren't so annoying I'd have a large laugh.
Is this what food, and everything to do with food, has come to? What the fuck, "Locavore?" Words actually being made up to describe foodisms? "The 100-mile experiment." Julie and Julia.
What the fuck has happened to people? Well, I'll tell you. They've gone off the fucking rails. In a world where Anthony Bourdain (don't worry, I rested his soul a long time ago) prances around extending his fifteen accidental minutes into fifteen years and food writers of tiny-town newspapers are suddenly the darling of the papparazzi, where "foodie columns" become a major part of media, where SEVERAL television channels now just exist for programs EXTREMELY LOOSELY based on actual food, well, it's quite all come undone, hasn't it?
That is why montrealfood has been on hiatus (and in remission) for so long.
It used to be fun wearing a black T-shirt with a fake tie printed on it just to stand out. Now that there are 60,000,000 people wearing a black shirt with a fake tie just to stand out, I kind of want to go back to wearing my dad's suit.
Warning: Chowhound: You're assholes who had a lot further to fall than eGullet, who started off at the bottom of the pretentious heap, but only managed to go down.
Warning: food pretenders with cameras and high expectations will be distant laughs in a decade from now.
Warning: newspaper food critics, your days are numbered. You; like the overinflated chefs you love to cover, will be a footnote in "Those Crazy 10s -- what happened to Humanity at the Turn of the Century?" in about 50 years.
I know for sure that my son will be skipping that chapter.
Who knew, all those years ago, when I was trying to search out a decent restaurant review by anyone who could spell, that this would burgeon into a large, balefully yellow bubble just waiting to be pricked? Here is how chatter about food has changed in the past decade or so:
Behold! I place you: Chowhound. From a tiny opinion site it has morphed into a teeteringly top-heavy bloated Frankenschtein's Münster. All the food pundits desperately thumbing their asses in order to keep foie gras on the menus.
eGullet: if there was ever a pretension someone finally abandoned, eGullet snapped it up. They wrap themselves in terms almost reminiscent of the Knights of Columbus. They're a Society! Their name ends in ".org" How fucking pretentious is that? They require you to write an essay in order to swing from the same clubhouse ropes they do.
If it weren't so annoying I'd have a large laugh.
Is this what food, and everything to do with food, has come to? What the fuck, "Locavore?" Words actually being made up to describe foodisms? "The 100-mile experiment." Julie and Julia.
What the fuck has happened to people? Well, I'll tell you. They've gone off the fucking rails. In a world where Anthony Bourdain (don't worry, I rested his soul a long time ago) prances around extending his fifteen accidental minutes into fifteen years and food writers of tiny-town newspapers are suddenly the darling of the papparazzi, where "foodie columns" become a major part of media, where SEVERAL television channels now just exist for programs EXTREMELY LOOSELY based on actual food, well, it's quite all come undone, hasn't it?
That is why montrealfood has been on hiatus (and in remission) for so long.
It used to be fun wearing a black T-shirt with a fake tie printed on it just to stand out. Now that there are 60,000,000 people wearing a black shirt with a fake tie just to stand out, I kind of want to go back to wearing my dad's suit.
Warning: Chowhound: You're assholes who had a lot further to fall than eGullet, who started off at the bottom of the pretentious heap, but only managed to go down.
Warning: food pretenders with cameras and high expectations will be distant laughs in a decade from now.
Warning: newspaper food critics, your days are numbered. You; like the overinflated chefs you love to cover, will be a footnote in "Those Crazy 10s -- what happened to Humanity at the Turn of the Century?" in about 50 years.
I know for sure that my son will be skipping that chapter.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Life
Sometimes I wonder why God (whoever He is) gave us so much time. Yes, not so little time; so much time. To allow us the luxury of thinking. You have to admit, it’s not a luxury easily afforded to the few things in the universe that can actually be called “living.”
I was watching Life, that great program with David Attenborough, and the episode was about plants. That the Bristlecone Pine is the oldest living organism on earth . . . thousands of years older than Christ (whoever he is).
That climbing plants, just like the one on my balcony, have their own agendas . . . namely, furiously marching along, day after day, with our poor eyes only registering their growth as we see the minute hand move on a clock.
How some bamboos grow 150 feet in 90 days. That’s fifteen stories, folks . . . in three months. I would like to take a month out of my time and just sit there, watching them grow . . . saying “There! I saw it grow! It grew while I was watching it!” and such like.
You should see the nimbocumulus I’m seeing right about now.
I was watching Life, that great program with David Attenborough, and the episode was about plants. That the Bristlecone Pine is the oldest living organism on earth . . . thousands of years older than Christ (whoever he is).
That climbing plants, just like the one on my balcony, have their own agendas . . . namely, furiously marching along, day after day, with our poor eyes only registering their growth as we see the minute hand move on a clock.
How some bamboos grow 150 feet in 90 days. That’s fifteen stories, folks . . . in three months. I would like to take a month out of my time and just sit there, watching them grow . . . saying “There! I saw it grow! It grew while I was watching it!” and such like.
You should see the nimbocumulus I’m seeing right about now.
Killing Mood
For some reason I'm in a killing mood. You know, you just encounter them sometimes. Just in a fuckit-fuck-them-all mood. Thank god it doesn't happen too often. It's the mood where it's raining outside and you strap on the headphones and listen to all the music you haven't been listening to because you've been too busy with life.
Last night I watched some TV show about some kids in Afghanistan who got blown away two weeks before they were due to come home, mainly because of some lame-ass decisions by the Usual Suspects, namely commanders who fucked their way to the top and now are puppet-stringing new cannon fodder.
I have no love for the armed forces. I have none whatsoever for violence or the solution of violence ending any conflict, be it even your neighbour parking in your spot occasionally.
But institutionalised violence -- you know, the one with actual rules about how you're allowed to kill someone -- is a tough nut to crack.
Sometimes I feel it in myself, the urge to just abandon everything and go over to Afghanistan and fucking kick these fuckwads' asses. It's almost atavistic. It's almost as righteous a feeling as knowing that one bedbug is going to spoil your whole holiday, therefore it must be eliminated.
But that's a whole theoretical ball of wax. Theory is theory. It's what you think about at 4 a.m. Reality is reality.
When it gets messy is when the twain meet. What some schmuck dreams up at 4 a.m. is the reality . . . because he has the power to make it the reality.
So it's with horror that I hear the stories of some 20-year-old getting hardened to actually thinking about killing someone else, backed by the full might of multinational approval, only to be abandoned in a luckless, desolate shithole like Afghanistan, a place that basically just wants everyone to go away and leave it alone, to lose his short, tiny life defending some forgotten dugout on some forgotten colonel's map.
It's such a disconnect, to be watching the evening news and learning about how the new school tax will affect parents and then see a story about some poor tiny 18-year-old fuck in a shithole sitting there, anticipating his youthful death in a joking, teenaged way, in some godforsaken outpost in Buttfuck, Afghanistan.
No matter how much I despise the military and all their machinations, I think about that poor little fuck on the front lines. And want to join him.
Last night I watched some TV show about some kids in Afghanistan who got blown away two weeks before they were due to come home, mainly because of some lame-ass decisions by the Usual Suspects, namely commanders who fucked their way to the top and now are puppet-stringing new cannon fodder.
I have no love for the armed forces. I have none whatsoever for violence or the solution of violence ending any conflict, be it even your neighbour parking in your spot occasionally.
But institutionalised violence -- you know, the one with actual rules about how you're allowed to kill someone -- is a tough nut to crack.
Sometimes I feel it in myself, the urge to just abandon everything and go over to Afghanistan and fucking kick these fuckwads' asses. It's almost atavistic. It's almost as righteous a feeling as knowing that one bedbug is going to spoil your whole holiday, therefore it must be eliminated.
But that's a whole theoretical ball of wax. Theory is theory. It's what you think about at 4 a.m. Reality is reality.
When it gets messy is when the twain meet. What some schmuck dreams up at 4 a.m. is the reality . . . because he has the power to make it the reality.
So it's with horror that I hear the stories of some 20-year-old getting hardened to actually thinking about killing someone else, backed by the full might of multinational approval, only to be abandoned in a luckless, desolate shithole like Afghanistan, a place that basically just wants everyone to go away and leave it alone, to lose his short, tiny life defending some forgotten dugout on some forgotten colonel's map.
It's such a disconnect, to be watching the evening news and learning about how the new school tax will affect parents and then see a story about some poor tiny 18-year-old fuck in a shithole sitting there, anticipating his youthful death in a joking, teenaged way, in some godforsaken outpost in Buttfuck, Afghanistan.
No matter how much I despise the military and all their machinations, I think about that poor little fuck on the front lines. And want to join him.
A Lonely Task
I'm designing a handout menu for an actual restaurant and trying to put together the names of the dishes, in English and French.
It strikes me that the wording has to be right, in both languages. After all, what is the jumping-off point of food porn but a menu? "Mixed Veggie Grill" might not get Joey's attention long enough to actually order it over the phone ("What the fuck is a mixed veggie grill? Forget it.") but "Peppers, onions, zucchini and potatoes grilled on the Tandoor" might just make the difference.
Add "Smithfield Farms organic" and you've got a winner.
It strikes me that the wording has to be right, in both languages. After all, what is the jumping-off point of food porn but a menu? "Mixed Veggie Grill" might not get Joey's attention long enough to actually order it over the phone ("What the fuck is a mixed veggie grill? Forget it.") but "Peppers, onions, zucchini and potatoes grilled on the Tandoor" might just make the difference.
Add "Smithfield Farms organic" and you've got a winner.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
My Closet
What does your closet look like? I'll bet not very much like mine. From top to bottom: Suits/jackets; Shirts; Ties. Pretty cool, eh wot?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
You Thought I Was Kidding; I'm Not Kidding
I wasn't kidding about G.I. Joe vs Gumby. I'm gonna do it.
Here are today's rushes, for proof. It was an exciting shoot. I won't tell you who anyone is or what the plot's about.
I noticed immediately that any shot I take, I have to leave background room for the speech bubble. Since I have no idea yet what anyone is going to say, I have to take a million pictures of every character and then mold them to fit the story. The more pictures the better! Tonight we're doing The Commander. He has something in a briefcase. That's all I know so far!
But the studios say It's a go!
I noticed immediately that any shot I take, I have to leave background room for the speech bubble. Since I have no idea yet what anyone is going to say, I have to take a million pictures of every character and then mold them to fit the story. The more pictures the better! Tonight we're doing The Commander. He has something in a briefcase. That's all I know so far!
But the studios say It's a go!
Tomorrow: the grunts!
And You Thought _I_ Had a Rant Problem . . .
(Oooh, I love this bizarre peach theme! Brigitte and I just were like, CATS & DOGS about it, darlings!)
Uhh . . . you think I'm a mindless ranter? Just take a look at this, the Atlas of Mindless (in the true sense of the word) ranters.
Uhh . . . you think I'm a mindless ranter? Just take a look at this, the Atlas of Mindless (in the true sense of the word) ranters.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The Evil Within
Masochism is an art, and I'll have to say I'm an expert practitioner of the "M" part of "S&M."
You would have to be, if you suddenly had a brainwave (only one? unfortunately yes, my brain usually only suffers one brainwave a day) about suddenly going to the store to buy pâte feuilleté (the Oxford French-English dictionary translates it as "The Evil Within," although Brigitte insists that it's called "puff pastry") and making mushroom/broccoli creatures in cream sauce baked in The Evil Within for some nice moutherly entertainment along with my masterful Minestrone for dinner.
Silly me, I chose a day upon which the temperature spiked into the lower 90s (about 32 degrees C in the kitchen).
And knowing nothing about puff pastry, I quickly found out that no matter what you do with it, it will fuck you. Fuck you here, fuck you there, fuck you Nearly Everywhere.
First of all, it refuses to be rolled. Doesn't matter if it's cold or warm, it will stick to the wax paper. My good GOD give me pasta dough ANY TIME.
It is the most recalcitrant cooking medium I have ever come up against; my condolences to pastry chefs everywhere.
Second of all, it has all the things that you never want to confront while cooking, a little like minding a mental patient: needs to be not too hot, nor too cold. Needs to be worked with extremely quickly, or it will dry out. However, when it's too wet, it sticks to that stuff they line the Space Shuttle with.
Number three, any fix you come up with in the heat of the moment is doomed to be a hilarious disaster, the stuff of kitchen tales for your grandchildren (or Reader's Digest; take your pick).
You need a culinary version of the National Transportation and Safety Board (NTSB) to come over and analyze the wreck that is your kitchen after a bout with pâte feullieté on a hot day.
It is truly The Evil Within.
You would have to be, if you suddenly had a brainwave (only one? unfortunately yes, my brain usually only suffers one brainwave a day) about suddenly going to the store to buy pâte feuilleté (the Oxford French-English dictionary translates it as "The Evil Within," although Brigitte insists that it's called "puff pastry") and making mushroom/broccoli creatures in cream sauce baked in The Evil Within for some nice moutherly entertainment along with my masterful Minestrone for dinner.
Silly me, I chose a day upon which the temperature spiked into the lower 90s (about 32 degrees C in the kitchen).
And knowing nothing about puff pastry, I quickly found out that no matter what you do with it, it will fuck you. Fuck you here, fuck you there, fuck you Nearly Everywhere.
First of all, it refuses to be rolled. Doesn't matter if it's cold or warm, it will stick to the wax paper. My good GOD give me pasta dough ANY TIME.
It is the most recalcitrant cooking medium I have ever come up against; my condolences to pastry chefs everywhere.
Second of all, it has all the things that you never want to confront while cooking, a little like minding a mental patient: needs to be not too hot, nor too cold. Needs to be worked with extremely quickly, or it will dry out. However, when it's too wet, it sticks to that stuff they line the Space Shuttle with.
Number three, any fix you come up with in the heat of the moment is doomed to be a hilarious disaster, the stuff of kitchen tales for your grandchildren (or Reader's Digest; take your pick).
You need a culinary version of the National Transportation and Safety Board (NTSB) to come over and analyze the wreck that is your kitchen after a bout with pâte feullieté on a hot day.
It is truly The Evil Within.
Okay People, Listen Up
Sometimes blogging is such a burden.
Usually, the burden is more for the reader than the blogger.
I freely admit this. I AM GUILTY of hyperbole, ¡hysteria! exaggeration, transient ischemia and a host of other blogging outrages.
But you, dear reader, have nonetheless stuck by me throughout every moment of self-doubt, anxiety and general trepidation. So I won't bore you any further with my announcement.
I had a dream, yes, a dream, this very morning.
This dream has instructed me to create a comic strip, which shall be entitled "G.I. Joe vs Gumby."
I will start at the earliest possibility.
Readers, the result will be the best thing that I have ever created, and you shall be the lucky people who will be the first to witness this work, the result of my dream.
Please restrain your comments as the Blogger server is only equipped to handle a reasonable number.
Usually, the burden is more for the reader than the blogger.
I freely admit this. I AM GUILTY of hyperbole, ¡hysteria! exaggeration, transient ischemia and a host of other blogging outrages.
But you, dear reader, have nonetheless stuck by me throughout every moment of self-doubt, anxiety and general trepidation. So I won't bore you any further with my announcement.
I had a dream, yes, a dream, this very morning.
This dream has instructed me to create a comic strip, which shall be entitled "G.I. Joe vs Gumby."
I will start at the earliest possibility.
Readers, the result will be the best thing that I have ever created, and you shall be the lucky people who will be the first to witness this work, the result of my dream.
Please restrain your comments as the Blogger server is only equipped to handle a reasonable number.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Cuba, and Things You Should Know Before You Go
As my esteemed colleague Blork admonished me, I have been remiss about Cuba. To tell you the truth, I had been trying to kind of . . . forget about Cuba, in a way. I’ve been burying myself in being back in Montreal, and reminding myself why I love it so much here. After all, you don’t truly appreciate being pain free until you smash your toe and can’t walk for six days, you don’t appreciate freedom until you’re locked in a Peruvian gaol with Joran Van der Sloot . . . well, you get my point.
Let me start by saying that I’m not Mr. Adventure Traveller. I don’t “thrive” on “challenges.” Obstacles do not present me with a thrilling new problem to hurdle. They’re just obstacles.
I’m usually just fine sitting in place with something cold, not worrying too much what’s for dinner or what I have to accomplish to get there . . . y’know, umm . . . “laid back.”
Oh, yeah, Cuba. Well, we opted for the cheapest possible “all-inclusive” trip, so in many ways that was a blessing. Read: gated community, everything done on-site, no taxis to hire, no messy streets with pickpockets etc. Just a bunch of people trained to cater to Turistas.
That was a good thing, in my estimation. The messier parts of travelling to a country you’ve never been to, well, let’s just say I’ve done that a million and one times; I have no interest in mingling with the locals and "participating” in the local culture. Get me a room with an air conditioner and a bed and and absence of insects and I’m happy.
Getting to Cuba was not worse than I’d anticipated. It wasn’t first class, but it wasn’t the nightmare it might be, say, flying into the Democratic Republic of the Congo (which I’ve done countless times).
The resort itself was fine — not quite DisneyWorld Cuba, but definitely trying to be. The beach was most definitely tranquil and white-sanded, the water was warm, the sun shone 24/7 (yes, the sun shines 24 hours a day in Cuba) and there was a nice air conditioner in the room and a TV with, regrettably 12 more channels than the three I truly wanted, namely, the ones with Fidel or Raoul giving thunderous speeches all day and all night. (In all the time I was in Cuba, I saw nor heard hide nor hair of either of them in any form at all).
But then the annoyances began. The constant tipping, for one. Actually, not the tipping itself, but the constant reminders from guidebooks and the inhabitants that the average Cuban, be they doctor, policeman, lawyer or waiter, makes rarely more than about US $30 a month, working full time and many times way overtime. Umm, that’s a powerful guilt trip. And it never goes away.
To think that giving someone a dollar makes for his daily wage in usual life is kind of annoying, to tell you the truth. I’d rather give him the month’s wages, then say “Is it okay if I don’t have to fumble for a dollar every time you pour me a Cuba Libre?”
So it was that between the two of us, we forked out $300 just in tips in one week. I almost had to tip the palm tree outside our bungalow for providing shade each day. But mind you, nobody actually ASKED for a tip nor even hinted at expecting one in any way. That’s what made it so annoying.
And then there were the er . . . hookers. That’s the only way to describe them. You have to figure that when doctors are earning $30 a month, a young girl of 20 is earning, well, uh . . . nothing?
And her parents are only too happy to uh . . . let her go work at the resort? And the chubby Canadian businessmen busy getting lobster red on the first day are only too happy to, uh, contribute to the local economy?
And so it was . . . Mr. Chub and some impossibly svelte “thing” hanging off his arm wherever you looked . . . sometimes the men were well into their Old Spice years . . . a “January - December” romance, so to speak . . . to tell the truth, after a while it just got plain wearisome, and I don’t think I’m a prude. One dude from Montreal that I unfortunately had a conversation with early on in the vacation came up to me breathlessly one day and said “Hey, Nick! I had two of them at the same time last night! You wouldn’t believe how cheap it was! Amazing!”
Trouble is, you can’t avoid these people, try as you might — they flew in on the same plane you did and they’re probably flying out on the same plane you are. They go to the same three restaurants you do and hang around the same pool you do. So Good ol’ Claude was my constant Unwanted Companion (despite Brigitte’s obvious presence) the whole trip.
So . . . a mild depression was the result. Plus the fact that I’d sworn up and down before we went that I would not set foot upon any beach in the world barefoot and then, the very first minute of the very first morning, I walked fearelessly into the surf barefoot and promptly kicked something that left my big toe bleeding, and then it became infected the next day and I had to take a taxi to the next resort to see the doctor and could barely walk the whole trip and was finally getting better the day we had to leave . . .
Ah, the fond memories!
But wait! There’s more! Next time: The Food of Cuba! (I will be your guide, Sahib and Memsahib! Only I know more that the Guide of the Planet of the Lonely!)
Let me start by saying that I’m not Mr. Adventure Traveller. I don’t “thrive” on “challenges.” Obstacles do not present me with a thrilling new problem to hurdle. They’re just obstacles.
I’m usually just fine sitting in place with something cold, not worrying too much what’s for dinner or what I have to accomplish to get there . . . y’know, umm . . . “laid back.”
Oh, yeah, Cuba. Well, we opted for the cheapest possible “all-inclusive” trip, so in many ways that was a blessing. Read: gated community, everything done on-site, no taxis to hire, no messy streets with pickpockets etc. Just a bunch of people trained to cater to Turistas.
The Face of Cuba
That was a good thing, in my estimation. The messier parts of travelling to a country you’ve never been to, well, let’s just say I’ve done that a million and one times; I have no interest in mingling with the locals and "participating” in the local culture. Get me a room with an air conditioner and a bed and and absence of insects and I’m happy.
Getting to Cuba was not worse than I’d anticipated. It wasn’t first class, but it wasn’t the nightmare it might be, say, flying into the Democratic Republic of the Congo (which I’ve done countless times).
The resort itself was fine — not quite DisneyWorld Cuba, but definitely trying to be. The beach was most definitely tranquil and white-sanded, the water was warm, the sun shone 24/7 (yes, the sun shines 24 hours a day in Cuba) and there was a nice air conditioner in the room and a TV with, regrettably 12 more channels than the three I truly wanted, namely, the ones with Fidel or Raoul giving thunderous speeches all day and all night. (In all the time I was in Cuba, I saw nor heard hide nor hair of either of them in any form at all).
But then the annoyances began. The constant tipping, for one. Actually, not the tipping itself, but the constant reminders from guidebooks and the inhabitants that the average Cuban, be they doctor, policeman, lawyer or waiter, makes rarely more than about US $30 a month, working full time and many times way overtime. Umm, that’s a powerful guilt trip. And it never goes away.
To think that giving someone a dollar makes for his daily wage in usual life is kind of annoying, to tell you the truth. I’d rather give him the month’s wages, then say “Is it okay if I don’t have to fumble for a dollar every time you pour me a Cuba Libre?”
So it was that between the two of us, we forked out $300 just in tips in one week. I almost had to tip the palm tree outside our bungalow for providing shade each day. But mind you, nobody actually ASKED for a tip nor even hinted at expecting one in any way. That’s what made it so annoying.
And then there were the er . . . hookers. That’s the only way to describe them. You have to figure that when doctors are earning $30 a month, a young girl of 20 is earning, well, uh . . . nothing?
And her parents are only too happy to uh . . . let her go work at the resort? And the chubby Canadian businessmen busy getting lobster red on the first day are only too happy to, uh, contribute to the local economy?
And so it was . . . Mr. Chub and some impossibly svelte “thing” hanging off his arm wherever you looked . . . sometimes the men were well into their Old Spice years . . . a “January - December” romance, so to speak . . . to tell the truth, after a while it just got plain wearisome, and I don’t think I’m a prude. One dude from Montreal that I unfortunately had a conversation with early on in the vacation came up to me breathlessly one day and said “Hey, Nick! I had two of them at the same time last night! You wouldn’t believe how cheap it was! Amazing!”
Trouble is, you can’t avoid these people, try as you might — they flew in on the same plane you did and they’re probably flying out on the same plane you are. They go to the same three restaurants you do and hang around the same pool you do. So Good ol’ Claude was my constant Unwanted Companion (despite Brigitte’s obvious presence) the whole trip.
So . . . a mild depression was the result. Plus the fact that I’d sworn up and down before we went that I would not set foot upon any beach in the world barefoot and then, the very first minute of the very first morning, I walked fearelessly into the surf barefoot and promptly kicked something that left my big toe bleeding, and then it became infected the next day and I had to take a taxi to the next resort to see the doctor and could barely walk the whole trip and was finally getting better the day we had to leave . . .
Ah, the fond memories!
But wait! There’s more! Next time: The Food of Cuba! (I will be your guide, Sahib and Memsahib! Only I know more that the Guide of the Planet of the Lonely!)
Saturday, June 12, 2010
It Must Be Nice
Rant ahead! Rant! I've been lax, so it's that time of the month!
Come across: a post on Chowhound.
"Help us narrow down our list"! A cry for help. I'll always bite when it's a lonely cry in the night for help.
These nice folk are "Foodies." These nice folk are Foodies with probably a place to call their own in "the Hamptons." And they need our help! Rally forth to help these nice folk find their ideal dining spot in Manhattan, the grazing grounds for Foodies!
But beware: all they mention is that they want recommendations for RESTAURANTS. Did they mention that they also need valet parking for their twin Lhasa Apsos? Or a complimentary ionizer for their luggage? Did they mention that they'd appreciate it with a 10% tip if you could possibly arrange a look-see through the kitchen at DB? Another 5% if you can arrange an audience with Daniel himself?
I'm sorely tempted to tell them to take all that money, invest in some good kitchen tools, go home and learn how to cook. Don't waste all of our time bragging online how rich you are and asking us to be your free online tour guides.
Pathetic. I despise Foodies.
Come across: a post on Chowhound.
"Help us narrow down our list"! A cry for help. I'll always bite when it's a lonely cry in the night for help.
These nice folk are "Foodies." These nice folk are Foodies with probably a place to call their own in "the Hamptons." And they need our help! Rally forth to help these nice folk find their ideal dining spot in Manhattan, the grazing grounds for Foodies!
But beware: all they mention is that they want recommendations for RESTAURANTS. Did they mention that they also need valet parking for their twin Lhasa Apsos? Or a complimentary ionizer for their luggage? Did they mention that they'd appreciate it with a 10% tip if you could possibly arrange a look-see through the kitchen at DB? Another 5% if you can arrange an audience with Daniel himself?
I'm sorely tempted to tell them to take all that money, invest in some good kitchen tools, go home and learn how to cook. Don't waste all of our time bragging online how rich you are and asking us to be your free online tour guides.
Pathetic. I despise Foodies.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Nick’s Kitchen Top Ten Essentials
Okay, I know that there are more than ten, but I’ll concentrate here on the top ten things that a SERIOUS HOME COOK needs in the kitchen, according to my experience over the past two decades or so.
Some things I’ve bought and discarded over the years: anything to do with peeling/crushing garlic. Anything to do with dicing onions. Panini makers. Dedicated deep-fry fryers. Anything that says it’s “two-in-one.” Expensive baking aids, such as huge ceramic oven inserts. Gimmicky barbecue tools. Gimmicky cookware, such as those that “glow red” when you’re ready to cook. The list goes on, and on. My mind grows numb when I consider what I’ve bought and discarded over the years. Circulon pans, which were not cheap, but were pieces of shit. Henckels knives, ditto. Top-of-the line vintage immersion blenders. Gadget after gadget. Now, thankfully, all gone.
And now, in no particular order, my top ten (probably of dozens) of what I still use after all these years. Bear in mind that some of these items I only use maybe once a year, but I would be lost without. Others I use once a week. Some I use every day. But the rule of thumb here is that they’re things that have proven their worth time and again, and things I ireally couldn’t do without.
Again, in no particular order:
1. My chef’s knife, and its accompanying whetstone sharpeners. I have a Kasumi Damascus steel and I’ve had it for at least eight years. It still cuts like a razor blade, thanks to the Japanese whetstones I use to sharpen it.
2. My meat grinder. This is an absolute must-have for the serious cook. I maybe drag it out once every three months, but it’s worth every drag. When I eat what comes out of it I know for sure that I am not eating the meat of 1,000 cows.
3. My One-touch can opener. Stupid as it may sound, this thing really works. This is one of the only “As Seen on TV” items that have actually remained in my kitchen.
4. My potato ricer. This is an awesome beast that makes the most delectable mashed potatoes on the planet.
5. My Microplane graters. I have a couple of them. One is not by Microplane, but uses the same idea, except has an extensible end that spans any container. Cool.
6. My extensible colander. It stretches completely across the sink and is fine meshed so it’s completely hands free when dumping pasta or washing vegetables.
7. My pull-cord salad spinner. I’d have to go look at the make but Zyliss comes to mind. Indispensable for salad.
8. One of the most essential: my Matfer mandolin. I have made some of my most spectacular dishes (scalloped potatotoes, julienned French fries) using this beast.
9. My Zojirushi rice steamer. Do yourself a favor and get the best, which is Zojirushi.
10. My dollar-store white plastic colander. Nothing sticks to this baby. It costs a dollar and you can wash anything under the sun in it: rice, lettuce, herbs, shrimp. And you give it one bang on the edge of the sink and every single thing in it comes out.
Honorable mentions:
My halogen lights above every counter. I don’t know now how I lived without them.
My Gel-pro chef’s mat. If you’re going to stand all day, you’d better stand on this.
The TV in the corner of the counter, tuned pretty much perpetually to the Food Network.
My collection of wooden spatulas. My pot rack, upon which hangs about eight stainless steel and non-stick sauté pans of every size.
My sauce-pot collection, which includes several pasta-cook-sized pots and tiny soup pots and everything in between.
My little gadgets, that always see service eventually: a cucumber groover that leaves grooves up and down the cucumber so it looks cool when sliced.
A dough cutter that leaves a cool roller pattern on a piece of cut dough.
An immersion blender that has a beater attachment so I can purée my roasted cherry tomato sauce one minute and make cappuccinos the next.
My amazing pizza peel that makes loading and unloading pizzas effortless.
My pantry full of everything known to a chef, from Nam Pla to Tamarind sauce to durum wheat flour to Israeli chili sauce to palm sugar to sambal oelek to truffle oil to pink salt to Cuban rice to soy sauce direct from Japan to panko to all sorts of spiced from the best spice purveyor in North America, Penzeys.
Phew. Did I mention the permanent bottle of Boréale Cuivrée?
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Random Cuba Ramblings
One thing I noticed over our week in Cuba was that while at first, the music in general was amazing, after a while the Salsa began to grate and even became extremely annoying at times. They also have this hybrid Salsa-rap music which is powerfully nauseating, far worse than any Stateside hip-hop (imagine Fitty-Cent but with congas and a huge horn section playing variations on one loop endlessly and you'll get the picture).
Another thing was the strolling quartets, usually a mix of women and men but sometimes only women. The first time of hearing "La Bamba" was charming, but the 76th rendition of "Guantanamera" had me grinding my teeth and wanting desperately to escape to some jazz club, one without horns, congas or classical guitars.
That's my ramble/rant for today . . . no doubt I'll think of more soon (yep! Next up: sex tourism).
Another thing was the strolling quartets, usually a mix of women and men but sometimes only women. The first time of hearing "La Bamba" was charming, but the 76th rendition of "Guantanamera" had me grinding my teeth and wanting desperately to escape to some jazz club, one without horns, congas or classical guitars.
That's my ramble/rant for today . . . no doubt I'll think of more soon (yep! Next up: sex tourism).
Flamingoville
And there's a reason "Flaming" is in their name.
We're back from Cuba . . . what a hell of a trip. In more ways than one.
I won't take up too much of your time at the moment but will post some of the pictures I took, with little descriptions below them. The real rant will come later . . .
I think at this point I'd been basted one time too many.
My friend Julio here is wearing the Hawaiian shirt I gave him. He in turn supplied us with surreptitious bottles of rum. Poor Julio. He's a computer specialist but he earns $25 a month working 26 12-hour days busing tables at the beach bar.
And here's who I dubbed the "Pimps 'n' Skanks Gang." Who knows where they came from but they hung around in a pack poolside and drank and smoked till the stimulants ran out.
But of all the footprints on all of the beaches in the world, mine is that one, just there on the left, near the shore . . .
We're back from Cuba . . . what a hell of a trip. In more ways than one.
I won't take up too much of your time at the moment but will post some of the pictures I took, with little descriptions below them. The real rant will come later . . .
Looks just like a postcard, eh? Maybe I've found a new vocation. Postcard photographer. This was just one of the views of the beach. What it can't convey is how damned hot it was . . .
One of the bizarre spider-like plants that seem to be everywhere. I'll ask my carnivorous-plant friend Rick what the hell these are.
I don't think I was in a heck of a good mood when Brigitte snapped this. You might be able to see how swollen my eyes are. I still can't figure out what happened, but one morning they were almost swollen shut. But this is the Italian restaurant . . . the service was bad, but the food was lousy.
One day when I was alone on the beach this guy comes up to me. "What's your name?" he says. "My name is my name," say I, not exactly in a chatty mood. "What's your name?"
"My name is my name too," says he.
Well, I almost said "Okay, jou wanna come in the door again and we can start all over? Is that what you want, mang?" But I didn't.
Looks like some character right out of Scarface, doesn't he? Well, he pretty much was. Someone there described him as "The Mafia boss of the beach."
Well, so long, bub. You're gonna make it big in pictures.
This was one of the buildings at the hotel. All of them were color-coded. I was just transfixed by the juxtaposition of the clean brilliant pink lines against the blue sky. Our building was a drab brown. Too bad.
And these were my lil' friends. Like an old Jewish couple, they lived in a small enclosure near the lobby bar. I fed them table scraps every time we went to dinner. I know you don't know it, but flamingos can make quite a ruckus. They honk. And soon, every time I walked by -- and only I -- they'd honk at me. I named them Pedro and Maria. According to the staff, they'd been at the hotel for many, many years . . .
I don't think I was in a heck of a good mood when Brigitte snapped this. You might be able to see how swollen my eyes are. I still can't figure out what happened, but one morning they were almost swollen shut. But this is the Italian restaurant . . . the service was bad, but the food was lousy.
One day when I was alone on the beach this guy comes up to me. "What's your name?" he says. "My name is my name," say I, not exactly in a chatty mood. "What's your name?"
"My name is my name too," says he.
Well, I almost said "Okay, jou wanna come in the door again and we can start all over? Is that what you want, mang?" But I didn't.
Looks like some character right out of Scarface, doesn't he? Well, he pretty much was. Someone there described him as "The Mafia boss of the beach."
Well, so long, bub. You're gonna make it big in pictures.
This was one of the buildings at the hotel. All of them were color-coded. I was just transfixed by the juxtaposition of the clean brilliant pink lines against the blue sky. Our building was a drab brown. Too bad.
And these were my lil' friends. Like an old Jewish couple, they lived in a small enclosure near the lobby bar. I fed them table scraps every time we went to dinner. I know you don't know it, but flamingos can make quite a ruckus. They honk. And soon, every time I walked by -- and only I -- they'd honk at me. I named them Pedro and Maria. According to the staff, they'd been at the hotel for many, many years . . .
Aren't they just downright adorable?
I think at this point I'd been basted one time too many.
My friend Julio here is wearing the Hawaiian shirt I gave him. He in turn supplied us with surreptitious bottles of rum. Poor Julio. He's a computer specialist but he earns $25 a month working 26 12-hour days busing tables at the beach bar.
And here's who I dubbed the "Pimps 'n' Skanks Gang." Who knows where they came from but they hung around in a pack poolside and drank and smoked till the stimulants ran out.
But of all the footprints on all of the beaches in the world, mine is that one, just there on the left, near the shore . . .
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