Hello And Goodbye. . .

I have a few minutes at my desk this morning before I jet back out the door to Lord knows what kind of contractor stupidity today, so I thought I'd share something special with you.

Mayonnaise.

Many years ago, and in a different life, I used to cook professionally and sometimes unprofessionally but that's another story. We were readying for Thanksgiving at the Ritz-Carlton and this particular hotel, and maybe others within the chain, offered a full take-away turkey dinner complete with all the accoutrements for the low, low price of about $12499. No, it was a couple of hundred, but frankly I always felt it was ridiculously over-priced for what you ultimately took home. However, it was in Palm Beach and those folks have some serious money, even though the better deal was across the street at the Publix grocery store.

Alas, I remember standing in the banquet kitchen looking at the length of the preparation tables which were studded with dozens of pinkish-white, glistening, slimy, and smelly turkey bodies all being salted and peppered for eventual roasting. The banquet chef Kristoff, a portly German fellow with a shiny bald head barked loudly across the way, "Bring the 25 gallons of mayonnaise!"

Do you remember the old Scooby Doo cartoons when a ghost would sneak up behind Scooby and his head would spin around with the classic Scooby refrain, "Auuuurrrruuuuu?" That was exactly my reaction, but who was to argue with a hulking German chef?

Kristoff spun the lid off the first gallon and plunged his mighty hamfist inside, scooping out a huge mound of the pale white gelatinous goo and began slathering it all over the nearest bird. Before you knew it there were dozens of hands at work smearing the turkeys with the most unlikeliest of ingredients.

Much of the time in a banquet kitchen is spent completing mindless tasks like prepping vegetables or tending to large vats of bubbling animal bone reductions. During those quiet hours is when I would usually get my best thinking done such as conjuring up my next complex scheme to get the crystal green-eyed banquet server from Vermont to dump her douchenozzle boyfriend and go out with me instead. Yes, these were matters of the utmost importance of that time and eventually my well-defined and carefully crafted planning worked in my behalf. But on this day, all I could think of was the smearing of mayonnaise on turkeys and how utterly absurd it seemed to be doing such a thing. I mean really, mayonnaise??

Luckily, I am one of those fools who keeps his mouth shut lest I prove to the world how much of an idiot I truly am and in this case I was happy with my restraint to not question Kristoff's decision-making. Because, and I say this with complete sincerity, once those turkeys emerged from the humming bank of convection ovens they were the most golden brown and glorious looking roasted birds I had ever seen in my life. They were almost regal, nearly majestic, with crisp, brown caramelized skin and abundant juiciness of which I had never seen before.

Those birds were simply spectacular! It was as almost if they had spent a leisurely week drinking mojitos and lounging around the pool at some posh South Beach Miami hotel. It was like they were tanned. And with that notion, a giant mayonnaise filled lightbulb went off in my head. It was like they were tanned. Kristoff, you mad fucking German genius! You gave those birds a tan!

And indeed, that is exactly the function of the mayonnaise. It serves as a moisturizer as the fat within the mayonnaise renders, much like a tanning oil or lotion would on a person. Those fats help maintain the natural moisture of the bird, allowing the sugars present in the skins to caramelize into a nice, evenly brown hue.

I laugh about that fateful day, but I learned a wonderful lesson from Kristoff and every holiday before I cook a turkey I lather that son of a bitch up in mayonnaise just like old times and it has yet to fail me. However, I do modify the recipe somewhat, simply because I cannot leave a good thing well enough alone.

Thanks Kristoff, because of you my holidays are filled with friends, family and. . .mayonnaise.

A word of caution, as the birds below indicate, mayonnaise is flammable, especially if you leave the birds in the oven at 550 degrees for about 5 hours. But you know, this was the work of a French chef, not a German one.

Sometimes it doesn't hurt to step away from tradition like I did this year.  I made chili.  And without mayonnaise.

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Early Morning Culinary. . .

As yesterday's breakfast post highlighted my occasional, inherent laziness when it comes cooking, this morning's preparation follows the guideline theme of using what you have, with a little more flair and effort.

A frittata is an interesting and relatively easy way to spice up the old standard scrambled egg or for those more advanced cooks out there, the omelette.  In reality, the frittata is basically a lazy-man's omelette with all of the yummy items baked inside of it.

Whip your eggs with a little cream or milk, I usually use 4 eggs to 1/4 cup or cream or milk.  Whip this as much as possible because the more air you incorporate, the lighter the finished frittata will be.  In a saute pan of appropriate size, in this case an 8" non-stick saute pan, heat a tablespoon of butter over medium high heat and saute whatever vegetables you desire until some/most of the liquid is removed from the vegetables.  This is especially important for things like mushrooms, broccoli, spinach, zucchini, items that contain large quantities of water.  If this water is not removed it will impede the souffle of the eggs somewhat and when you slice the eggs open for serving, a waterfall of goo is likely to run out of the center.  I know this from experience.

So cook your vegetables appropriately.  Once you have done that, add the eggs to the pan, they should begin bubbling nicely and the bottom should start to set almost immediately.  Leave on the stove for thirty seconds or so and then put the pan in a 450 degree oven for 10 minutes or so.  Check it after 10, shake the pan a little, if the center is still jiggling, leave it for a few minutes longer.  But move quickly, you do not want to lose the residual heat of the oven, this will also flatten out the souffle.

Once your frittata is done, it should be browned nicely and set firm in the center.  Remove it from the oven, turn it out to a cutting board and slice to serve immediately before the eggs fall.  Your finished product should look something like this:

This one is slightly overcooked by a few minutes, but it has a nice color and is obviously set.  Notice the pulling away from the edges of the pan, yours, if cooked properly, should be slightly less so.

The one I prepared this morning contained stewed squash and tomatoes, edamame (soybeans), corn and sharp cheddar cheese.  I served it over a lemony spinach, artichoke and yogurt dip I made yesterday, garnished with purple basil, sliced grape tomatoes and a stripe of chipotle Tabasco sauce for a little smoky heat.

Sometimes I still feel the thrill of making great food and making it look pleasing to the eye.  But then I think of the night that two plates of sauteed scallops fell out of the broiler at the Ritz-Carlton and exploded into a million pieces ruining basically every food product within a 10 foot radius.

Or the time the lamb chops caught the oven on fire during the first sitting of a New Year's Eve dinner service at the Ritz, requiring me to unload a chemical extinguisher into the oven before the overhead system went off and shut down the whole operation.

Or the time, on July 4th in Costa Rica, I sliced my middle finger to the bone trying to split a partially frozen lobster and was rushed to the "clinic" in Huacas where the young doctor's? nurse's? paramedic's? maid's? hands were shaking so badly while holding the needle of  Lidocaine she intended on jamming into my butterflied finger that I was almost convinced I was going to have to do it myself.

Or the time. . .

. . .ah forget it.

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Now That's I-talian. . .

I pulled some ground beef from the freezer yesterday before work with the whole intention of making my grandmother's lovely meatballs simmered in a spicy tomato sauce, but with the arrival of unexpected company yesterday, I decided to cook one of my all-time favorite preparations, ragù alla bolognese also known as spaghetti bolognesa.

A little explanation about ragù, which isn't just a pre-prepared sauce in a jar.  Ragù comes from the French word ragoût and in Italian cooking this is typically a slow simmered meat sauce served over pasta.  Bolognese sauce is usually a mixture of meats like veal, pork or beef and sometimes sausages, but in the following recipe I will stick with the Americanized version that I was taught by a good man, friend and nine-and-a-half fingered cook named Jose.  You may remember Jose from this story I wrote last year about Sancho.

Bolognese sauce is easy to prepare and the real key is the slow simmering which gives the meat a very soft and succulent texture.  Also, bolognese sauce has a secret ingredient that turns the final product from the average spaghetti sauce into something far more divine and satisfying.

Ragù alla Bolognese

3 Lbs. Ground Beef
2 medium onions, small dice
2 carrots, small dice
2 ribs celery, small dice
6 cloves garlic, minced
28 oz. crushed tomatoes
28 oz. tomato sauce
14.5 oz. diced tomatoes
56 oz. chicken or beef stock, or water
1 cup dry white wine or dry red wine
2 Tbsp. Italian Herbs (I used a McCormick brand which has basil, oregano, thyme, marjoram, savory and rosemary)
2 bay leaves
3 Tbsp. sugar
1 cup milk or 1/2 cup heavy cream
Salt and pepper, to taste
Olive oil, as necessary

In a large pot, heat to medium high heat and add sufficient olive oil to cover the bottom of the pan, add the meat in batches to brown and strain away the fat as the meat loses its pink color.

In the meantime cut your soffrito (same as the French mirepoix) into small dice and once all the meat has been browned, add a little more olive oil and the vegetables to the pan.

Cook this for 6 to 8 minutes, then add the garlic.  If you have a good crusty buildup of fond in the bottom of the pan as the photo below demostrates add a little water or stock and scrape the bottom to help lift it from the pan so that it becomes a beautiful part of your sauce instead of a useless scorched business forcing you to start over.

Add the garlic and saute a few minutes more, then delgaze with the white or red wine.

I have read and it was insisted upon by Jose that a white wine be used as is stated in most classic recipes, but I only had red (pinot noir) in the pantry so it will have to do.  Reduce this until the alcohol odor has been removed.  Also a note about tomato products:  Please do not use any products made by Heinz.  If you ask why, this is why.  Enough said?

Add the remainder of the ingredients: tomato products, herbs, sugar, salt and pepper, everything except for the milk.

Bring to a boil, skim the fat and reduce heat to a medium low simmer and cook for 1 to 1.5 hours, tasting occassionally for texture and seasonings.  Adjust salt and pepper and possibly the sugar to balance the acid as necessary.

Once this mixture has simmered for sufficient length, the meat should simply melt in the mouth, but not be some mushy goo that totally lacks texture, like a meat milkshake.  Here comes the secret ingredient. . .add a healthy cup of milk or 1/2 cup of heavy cream to help smooth the sauce out.

And for heaven's sake, please don't use any 2% or skim milk, if you do that you might as well be blowing bubbles with a straw into the sauce.  Useless.

Cook up your favorite pasta, the classic being spaghetti, but tagliatelle or ziti or really any long pasta of tube pasta will do, shave some aged parmesan or pecorino over the top, garnish with basil and a wedge of good, crusty Italian bread and you have a meal so satisfying that I dare you to keep your eyes open long after eating it.  I know I didn't.

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Surprise!!!

Ha!!  And you thought I was gonna put a piece of fish on it!

Well, if the truth be known, I was gonna put that London Broil on it, but I know better than that after some careful culinary thought that I will share in another post.  But I did get the benefit of the cedar for both items and I even let the London Broil take a ride on top of the peppers, onions and sausage for a little extra uh huh.

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Innovation!

Last week or maybe it was this week, I wrote about the glories of cornbread and purple hull peas.  It remains one of my favorite Southern traditions and I can eat several helpings of both with a bottle of hot sauce, preferably Chipotle Tabasco or Trappey's Red Bull, until I am a bloated old goat.

My dear friend and reader Jenny sent me an email a couple of days ago and suggested that while cornbread and peas eaten together is a fantastic and satisfying meal, why not put the peas in the cornbread?  Well hell I say, why didn't I think of that??

Here is her recipe, with lots of other tasty stuff cooked inside the perennial peasant food of the South.

Purple Hull Pea Cornbread

1 lb. bulk pork sausage (use the HOT sausage for some heat!)
1 onion, chopped
1 cup white cornmeal
1/2 cup flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 4-oz. can chopped green chilies, drained
3/4 cup cream-style corn
2 cups grated Cheddar cheese
2 cups purple hull peas, cooked

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Grease a 13-by-9-by-2 inch pan.

Cook sausage and onion in large skillet until sausage is browned. Drain and set aside.

Combine cornmeal, flour, salt, and soda in large bowl.

In another bowl, beat eggs, buttermilk, and oil together. Combine with dry ingredients using a few quick strokes (batter does not need to be blended until smooth.)

Add sausage, onion, chilies, corn, cheese and purple hull peas.

Pour into prepared pan and bake for 50 to 55 minutes, or until knife inserted in center comes out clean.

Cool and cut in pieces.

Serves 8 to 12

I don't know about you, but I'm headed straight to Kroger tomorrow with my shopping list!  Thanks Jenny!

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Taters. . .

Everyone loves potatoes and they can be prepared in a number of delicious and satisfying styles, but here in the South at a bar-b-que you are more than likely to find potato salad.  I love potato salad.  I love to put lots of crunchy aromatics in the variety of versions that I like to prepare, but a few weeks ago I decided to ditch the mayonnaise (and scorn the Miracle Whip) in finding a new ways to prepare a common favorite.

During the recent heat wave we've been having, who wants gobs of emulsified egg yolk and oil sloshing around in the gut?

So here we go. . .

Red Bliss 'B' Potatoes in Vinaigette Piquant

2 Lbs. Red Bliss 'B' Potatoes, partially peeled
1 small white or red onion, medium dice
1/3 each red, yellow and green bell pepper, medium dice
1 stalk celery, medium dice
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 Tbsp. Olive Oil
2 Tbsp. Fish Sauce
1 1/2 Tbsp Worcestershire Sauce
1 1/2 Tbsp. Red Wine Vinegar
1/2 Tbsp Sugar or 1 Tbsp. Honey
Salt and Pepper
Bay Leaf
1 Sprig of Thyme

Peel the potatoes along their circumference and place them in cold water.  Add a healthy pinch of salt.

Add the bay leaf and thyme and bring to a boil.  Reduce the heat and simmer over medium heat until the potatoes have softened.  Check periodically with the tip of a sharp knife until they are tender, but do not overcook  Strain the water and allow the potatoes to cool in a colander.

While the potatoes are boiling, practice your knife skills on the onion, peppers and celery.  Combine these with the minced garlic and the liquid ingredients.  Let this mixture macerate until the potatoes are done.

Once the potatoes have cooled, place them in a sealed container with the vinaigrette and let marinate for several hours, turning the container often to evenly distribute the vinaigrette.

Should look something like this after a few hours.

Serve with your favorite grilled meat and don't forget to spoon a little of the flavorful marinade over your meat too.

Oh yeah, and fish sauce on potatoes?  Trust me folks.  I was once a professional and you ain't seen nothing yet!

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Restored. . .

After a weekend of fun and sun, and beer, I got home today feeling a little, how do we say?  Funky?  Yes, funky.  I felt the funk.  I was all funked up!  So with that I knew that my body was asking for something specific, something restorative.

While browsing the kitchen staples it occurred to me that I am overrun with tomatoes (yes, I am Sherlock) and I can only eat so much tomato and cucumber salad.

I peeped in the freezer and found a half gallon of chicken stock, so hey I made some tomato soup.

But before I dispense with the recipe, let's take another look at that word "restorative."  The word restaurant comes from the French word "restaurer" which means "to restore."  A restorative several centuries ago was generally a soup or stew that was served in these early restaurants.

Today's restorative takes into account the long lineage of cooking history and pairs it with the simple tomato, a food source as old as time itself.  And in this version, we leave the heavy thickener of roux behind and rely solely on the tomato itself, a smidge of heavy cream and a light cornstarch slurry to add the necessary body to the soup.

Garden Tomato Bisque with Thyme and Basil

5-6 lbs. Tomatoes, chopped

1 medium onion, large dice

1 stalk celery, medium dice

5 cloves garlic, minced

1 Tbsp. Red Wine Vinegar

3/4 Tbsp. Worcestershire Sauce

1/2 gal. chicken stock

1/2 - 3/4 cup heavy cream
1 tsp. Thyme

1 Tbsp. Basil

Salt and Pepper, to taste

(Optional:  a little sugar to balance the tomato acid if the tomatoes aren't ripe like these)

Add a bit of butter to a pot of adequate size and saute the onions and celery for 6 to 8 minutes over medium heat.

Add the garlic. . .

and saute for 4 minutes more.

While this cooks, core the tomatoes and chop them anyway you please.  No need to get fancy here, just need to open the babies up so all that good flavor comes out.

Add the tomatoes, thyme, basil and bay leaf, saute for a few minutes until the tomatoes begin to release their juices.  Add the red wine vinegar (or substitute 1/2 cup of white wine), Worcestershire sauce, salt and pepper.

Add the chicken stock. 

Bring the mixture to a boil and as with all boiling operations, a nasty scum will rise to the top which we shall ladle away, right?  The French call this "depouillage" which sounds so much more beautiful than the English "skimming the scum."  Oh well.

Let this cook for about 30 minutes or until you get a reduction of about 1/4 the volume.  Remove from the heat and in batches, blend in your blender to puree the soup.  Now, here I will diverge a bit from typical French cookery.  I only pulsed my tomato mixture for a few second for each batch.  I like to have all the "debris" in my soup, but should you require a finer mixture, simply blend longer.  If you want it to be ultra fine and smooth, pass the pureed mixture through a fine sieve Like a good Frenchman would, which will remove all of the skins and seeds, but also a lot of the body of the soup.


Alternatively, you can peel and seed the tomatoes beforehand, which is a real pain in the nether regions, but you will still have the benefit of the pulp of the fruit that adds body to the soup.  I like it full of stuff, seeds, skins, whatever, it's a personal choice.


Return the mixture to the pot and over medium heat, add 1/2 to 3/4 cups of heavy cream.  Let this cook for about 10 minutes longer until it reduces further and thickens. 
 

Check the consistency and if it is lacking, mix equal parts of cornstarch and cold water to create a slurry. 

Bring the mixture to a boil and add the slurry a little at the time until the desired consistency is reached.

Serve your soup with garlic croutons or even better make some grilled cheese mini-sandwiches to go with it.  Or even a step further, mix 1 part of gorgonzola with two parts butter, smear that on some crostinis and bake in the oven until brown and bubbly.  Add a few tender basil leaves to your soup and you have food fit for a king or a partygoer in need of the recuperative powers of soup.  Enjoy!

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Shroomin'. . .

Mention mushrooms to a lot of people and watch them scurry for the shadows, adults and children alike.  And with all honesty, I was never a fan of mushrooms as a child and I had to "get all growed up" before I realized how wonderful these delightful little morsels of fungi truly are.

The diversity of mushrooms is as infinite as the mind's eye, but most of us are familiar with the common "button" mushroom or white mushroom as it is also known.  Other common varieties include wood ear, shiitake, enokitake, cloud, morel, chanterelle, cep and boletus.  Less common varieties and some that are most prized by crazy, dope-smoking, hippe mushroom hunters are ox tongue, Ceaser's mushroom, Giant Puffball, Dryad's Saddle and Sulfur Shelf.

Today we focus on the simple, but tasty and mildly delicate white mushroom.  We are going to pair this with spinach, a little cream, basil pesto and tomato straight from the garden out back.  This preparation is useful in that it can be used as a delicious side preparation and also as a sauce for a nice piece of sauteed fish or medium rare beef or even chicken or pork.  You can even slather it on your cat and watch the dog go berserk trying to lick it off.

Let's begin shall we, as we bastardize a French word in the process.

Ragoût of White Mushrooms and Baby Spinach in Basil Pesto Cream

1 pint of white mushrooms, sliced
1-6 oz pkg. baby spinach
1 medium onion, sliced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 ripe tomato, large dice, or halved cherry tomatoes as a subsitute
1/3 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup chicken stock or water
1/2 Tbsp. basil pesto
1 Tbsp. butter
salt and pepper, to taste

Begin by sauteing the onion in butter over medium heat for five to eight minutes, stirring often.

In the meantime, slice the mushrooms thinly or not so thinly depending on the texture that you prefer and see if you can slice a pint of mushrooms in the amount of time it takes the onion to cook.  I like a challenge, don't you?

Add the mushrooms to the pan and cook over medium to medium high heat until the mushrooms give off their waters and this cooks away.  You should begin to hear a nice sizzle, which is what you want because we are going to caramelize the mixture to a nice golden point as shown below.  This should take about ten minutes.  Add the garlic and cook two minutes more, then add the juice of half a lemon to deglaze the pan.

At this point, add the spinach and saute to wilt the leaves.  Cook for two or three minutes and add the basil pesto, cream, chicken stock and salt and pepper.

Simmer this until the cream reduces slightly and thickens.  Add the tomato last and continue to simmer for not more than two minutes to heat through the tomato.  Ultimately, you want the tomato intact and bursting with it's natural juice to cut all of that beautiful dairy fat on the palate.  Cooking it to death will do you no good at all.  You'll end up with a mouthful of mushy, unidentifiable junk and who wants that?  Adjust your seasonings and apply to your mouth for an enjoyable and flavorful diversion from the norm.  This is a Beatrice favorite and mine too.  Enjoy!  And if you want to make it even more sublime, add a handful of grated aged pecorino at the end.

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Soul Food. . .

It is not often that I come across a product that I care to endorse, but on occasion a surprise comes my way and I wish to share. Not since my discovery of Bacon Salt have I found a seasoning product that pleases my palate in such a diverse way.

Enter JSU Tiger Spice.

I was passing through the grocery store around the corner from the office a few weeks ago when I noticed a rack of JSU Tiger Spice. I chuckled at the name because as I know, and most of you don't, that JSU stands for Jackson State University, a historically black university that began as a seminary educating newly freed blacks in 1877, and the Tiger, of course, is the modern mascot.

I thought it was pretty cute that the school had it's own spice blend, so I picked up a few bottles because I realized that there are few people on the planet who know how to cook up some good food like our brethren brothers and sisters of color! And ladies and gentlemen, I was not diappointed.

JSU Tiger Spice claims to be good on beef, chicken, fish and pork, but I believe it is far more versatile than that. I have since used it in many vegetable preparations, a particular favorite being a ragoût of okra, corn and tomatoes, known around here as okra, corn 'n maters! I've also used it in salad dressing, various marinades and mashed potatoes.

Here it is working its magic on two pork tenderloins. . .

Quite frankly, I find it to be far more useful than another Southern favorite Tony Chachere's or the Mid-Atlantic classic Old Bay, although I love both of those too! Even the old school Serendipity is no match. There is just some sublime element within JSU Tiger Spice that gives it a broad brush with which to paint on the canvas of food. I'm not sure if it's the Tiger Spirit or the Sonic Boom which tastes so good, but there is no doubt that JSU Tiger Spice is definitely. . .

. . .Makin' It Happen!

So, if you plan on doing this. . .

. . .then don't forget this. . .

Mississippi Made with Mississippi Love and Mississippi Pride. Order some today!

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Sloppy. It's What's For Breakfast. . .

What costs $3.75 and can make a grown man smile?


A total mess.


Cured ham, fried egg, American cheese, lettuce, tomato, white onions, pickles (lots) and mayonaise. And a nice liberal sprinkling of black pepper to boot!

This delightful creation can be found at a dreadful looking establishment called Beatty Street Grocery on the outskirts of downtown Jackson. Beatty Street has been there for ages and well, it is what it is. Old, beat down, kinda dirty looking, but for 3.75 a pop, they make the best breakfast sandwich in town!

I might even skip lunch today.

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Slaw That Kills. . .

Last week, we visited a simple "time saving" recipe hosted by our friends General Electric. I estimate that a whole five minutes would be saved by purchasing pre-chopped or sliced broccoli in a bag. Ok, maybe ten minutes if it had carrots, peppers and other aromatic vegetables.

But really, borccoli slaw in a bag? C'mon people.

I think GE needs to stick with making lightbulbs and turbine engines.

Here is an easy, quick and delicious take on cole slaw that'll have your family and friends saying, "Domo arigato Mr. Roboto!"

Quick and Easy and Tasty Asian Slaw

1 half head of cabbage (green, savoy, bok choy or a mixture), shredded or sliced thinly
2 carrots, peeled, quartered lengthwise and sliced
1/2 large white onion, sliced finely
1/3 red, green and yellow sweet pepper, sliced thinly
3 stalks of celery, halved lengthwise and sliced

Do all your slicing and dicing here. Combine the ingredients and mix thoroughly. You don't have to follow the knife skills as directly as written, but it's nice to make the colorful items look interesting.


Ginger and Soy Dressing

1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup white vinegar (better with rice wine vinegar if available)
4 TBSP. sugar
2 tsp. horseradish mustard (a wasabi mustard works well too)
Juice from whole orange
Zest from half orange, pith removed and minced finely
3 TBSP. fresh ginger, minced finely
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 tsp. sesame oil
1/4 tsp. or less of Hoisin sauce (be careful, the Five-Spice in this can easily take over)
1 cup of vegetable or safflower oil (something rather flavorless)
4 sprigs of cilantro, chopped

Add soy, vinegar, sugar, orange juice and zest, mustard, ginger, garlic and Hoisin to a blender. At full speed, drizzle in the sesame oil and vegetable oil to form an emulsion. Stop before the addition of all the oil and check for balance. Add the chopped cilantro and whizz a little longer and add any remaining oil should the dressing be too strong.

This recipe is not perfectly proportioned, but should get you pretty close. I was just winging it yesterday. I prefer this dressing to have plenty of zippy punch on the front end, sweet, yet sharp from the citrus and vinegar and a nice, musky salt component. Plus plenty of ginger goodness. Adjust to your liking at this point. For the amount of liquid ingredients (vinegars, juices, et al.) you can use up to about a cup and a half or oil. More than enough for this slaw recipe.

Add the dressing to your bowl full of chopped, sliced, slivered, and minced goodness, coating lightly, taking care not to drench. Reserve extra dressing for another use, like drinking straight from the bottle.

Some other goodies you might consider adding to your slaw: baby corn, water chestnuts, edamame (shelled of course), julienned snow peas, zucchini or yellow squash, any variety of toasted nuts (Macadamia, peanut, cashew), daikon radish, green onions, toasted white and black sesame seeds and even broccoli.

Sharpen your knife and get creative! But for heaven's sake, don't buy slaw in a bag. It's just unnatural and Escoffier is tired of rolling over in his grave.

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Salt. . .

Cooking is both an art and a science and there are few ingredients that a cook, amateur and professional alike, cannot live without. At the top of that list is salt.

Sea salt, rock salt, kosher salt, iodized salt, no matter the form, the importance of salt in cooking and health is understated. Not only does it intensify flavor, it also adds a necessary mineral composition for healthy life function.

Needless to say, to improve salt from it's basic form would be a difficult proposition.

Right?


Ok, maybe not!

Somewhere on the planet, a Muslim is outraged.

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The Counter-Attack. . .

Someone give me one good reason why General Electric should be hosting garbage like this on a website somewhere. Aren't they bleeding billions of dollars by the minute?

From a "GE Appliances email" suggesting quick and easy recipes:

Nasty Easy Broccoli Slaw

Ingredients

* 1 (16 ounce) package of broccoli slaw mix (wut??)
* 3/4 cup sugar
* 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
* 1/4 cup water
* 1 teaspoon mustard seed
* 1 teaspoon celery seed
* 1/4 teaspoon pepper

I'm surprised this doesn't start by saying, "open package."

Combine all ingredients except slaw in a microwaveable container (like the one that had the Kingsford lighter fluid in it, glass or plastic) and heat for two minutes in the microwave. Stir well, cook one minute longer.

Add to broccoli slaw (which probably tastes so delightful out of a bag), mix well, cover and leave in the broiling sun all afternoon refrigerate for four hours.

Enjoy!

What do you think Rodrigo?

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Validated!

Only took about ten years, but you're getting the idea, aren't you?

A long time ago, in a lifetime far, far away someone left me in charge of the kitchen. And one night, in a fit of creative frustration over the evening's seafood special, I dug deep in the ol' tool chest of the gray matter and came up with (in my own mind) a genius idea.

We were heavy on Chilean Sea Bass and needed to move some product. I racked my brain and the brains (arguable) of my line cooks for a great idea to no avail. Time was running out quickly and I needed to turn over the specials to restaurant manager/goombah/resident slapdick, Tony, so we could collectively memorize the line of bullshit that would be floated tableside.

Something like this:

"Tonight's fresh fish presentation is fresh, line-caught Chilean Sea Bass, sauteed perfectly to a crisp crust and moist, flaky interior served over a warm gathering of fresh braised doodads, fresh flash fried dilly-dallies in a warm foamed emulsion of fresh micro whatchamacallits, organic thingamajigs and farm fresh gizwhammies.

And during the zen which is the clusterfuck last hour of prep before restaurant service, my great idea was born. What would the toothless old Palm Beach geezers who frequent our restaurant like to eat more than anything with their crispy fresh line-caught sauteed sea bass?

Braised Belgian endive?

Organic cherve and tomato confit tartlet?

Ragout of white beans, wild chanterelle mushrooms, pearl onions and arugula?

How about a big ol' helping of fresh fucking macaroni and cheese! Jesus, I was a bloody genius.

When I finally turned over the menu to Tony, he read through it slowly, mumbling the prose as I picked over a bag full of chervil for garnish at my station. I kept a quiet eye on him as he got to the bottom of the menu and I saw him seize up in his stance when he read the sea bass creation.

Slowly and with his thick Brooklyn-Italian accent he said, "Fucking macaroni and cheese? You can't serve no fucking macaroni and cheese in dis' here fucking Ritz-Carlton."

"Yes Tony, we will be serving macaroni and cheese," mimicking his accent, "in dis' here fucking Ritz-Carlton."

His face flushed and he stormed away muttering something about finding the executive chef to stop me. Yeah ok, whatever. I didn't say it, but I thought, "you'll probably find him doing rails of shitty cocaine off the boxes of whole canned tomatoes in the back of dry storage."

I knew it was going to grind Tony's gullet to approach the tables of the rich, ultra-rich and walking dead of Palm Beach and give his nightly special spiel, ending it with macaroni and cheese. Ahhh, the sweet justice.

The front of the house/back of the house feud has been going on for as long as restaurants have existed and the battle between us and them was no different. FOH and upper management didn't, wouldn't and couldn't see it our way and although we, the chefs and cooks, were generally treated with kid gloves on most occasions, there were some things, no matter how innocuous we may have viewed them, that were clearly unacceptable in a five-star, five diamond hotel. Macaroni and cheese must have been one of those assaults against the sensibilities of a fine hotel.

Anyway, Tony The Blowhard we called him, was a real dickhead and he adapted the art of back-stabbing to levels unknown to man and alien alike. I had myself convinced that he was connected, so there was no direct threat you could make to cool this guy off, thusly, we crafted and perfected a new art of subversive retaliation within the daily specials menu. Every now and then we would slide in some cockamamie creations just to get his wheels burning and then at the last minute, provide him with the real menu, items that gilded well with the staid luxury of our hotel.

Nils and I used to do the same thing at my restaurant, thinking up the wildest names for our nightly culinary delights. The only difference is we actually used these names on the chalkboard menu.

Examples:

The obvious: There Is No Pot In The Pot Roast

A meat and potatoes spread: Evel Knievel Never Made It

Or for the salad: Ruffage, Just The Way Your Mother Likes It

Or the vague: Dorado GPS, which was Mahi Mahi served with a green pea sauce. And when asked by staff or patron what GPS meant, Nils or I with a deadly serious straight face would reply in slow cadence, "Boop. Boop. Boop."

Now, I know some of you are thinking, what kind of an idiot serves macaroni and cheese in a place with an average check of roughly 70 dollars? Well, here he is right here.

I got to work on my mac 'n cheese while Tony pouted downstairs in search of our fresh in from the Kapalua property, alcohol-fueled and drug-addled executive chef. Jacques? Jean-Michelle? Fuckhead? Can't remember.

So, the base for mac 'n cheese is the classic mother sauce Bechamel to which, once cheese is added, becomes Mornay sauce, which for some reason always makes me think of Rebecca de Mornay. Go figure.

To my Bechamel and in keeping with the Ritz-Carlton standard of making shit really expensive, I added 5 cheeses: creamy Fontina, $300-a-wheel pecorino sardo (not casu marzu, mind you), tangy fromage de chevre, zippy aged "Extra" Appenzeller and a slight smattering of smoked gouda. Cause Gouda is gooda! I also spiked the cheese sauce with some delicious Armagnac, nutmeg, fresh ground black pepper (dead French people are convulsing in their graves on that note) and finished it off with mother nature's greatest flavor enhancer, truffle oil. Add that to some whole-wheat rotini and you've got mac 'n cheese fit for a king. Or someone with no teeth.

Tony never got his wish to rat on me. Jean-Claude was probably passed out somewhere after slamming a bottle of Pernod, so I proceeded with Plan X.

We prepared the proper garnishes for the dish, a subtle, herbed bread crumb topping that would be applied to the mac for the short ride in the salamander, a red and yellow heirloom tomato relish to top the bass and balance the creaminess of the cheese. And the final gaaarneeeesh, an herb salad of micro beet tops, micro red amaranth and micro basil for some color balance and a nice blast of earthiness to go with the tang of the tomato, cream of the cheese and sweetness of the sea bass. Solid gold baby. Five-star comfort food, whether the FOH liked it or not!

About 5:30, we mocked up our daily specials for the waitstaff to try and I swear to God even though I'm not supposed to, that waiter Bart, my main man and Rush Limbaugh's long lost Puerto Rican brother, picked the deep bowl up and licked the cheese sauce out of the bottom.

Tony was nowhere to be found and I assumed he was still hunting our perennially-MIA executive chef Marcel Claude or whatever. Had I seen Tony again before service I would have suggested he check the hedges north of the main entrance to the hotel. That's where they found the executive chef's running buddy, chef de cusine Mike, after a night out with a couple of hotel guests. Passed out in the daisies, 9:30 in the a.m. In his chef whites, no less.

The orders started rolling in around 6:15 with the earlybirds that cohabitate in South Florida. Golden Corral or Ritz-Carlton, doesn't matter, some people need to be in bed by 7:30.

Fire that well done Chateau!! On fire chef!

Has a well-done chateaubriand taken a ride in the deep fryer at a high-end hotel before? Ummm, could be.

I also seem to remember four frozen turkeys doing the quick-fire deep fryer ride under careful instruction from our resident-drunk executive chef.

The first mac 'n cheese order came in a little after 7:00 and that made me feel a little better. You never want to strike out on your specials, it gives you a way to depart from the mundane repetition of the dinner menu and to showcase your creative inventiveness. I was getting worried early on though because I expected the Poly-Grip crowd to go nuts on the easy chew food. I felt a little better after the first order came through and like magic, once the first one went out and the other patrons caught a whiff of the pungent cheese augmented by truffle, the dominoes fell. And rapidly.

We sold 37 sea bass that night. And on a 85 cover night, that's one helluva statement. And at $33.50 a plate, not a bad bottom line either.

Proudly, when the printer would spit out another order, I barked it out as loudly as I could:

ORDER IN: 2 MAC AND CHEESE!!!!

The line: 2 MAC AND CHEESE HEARD!!!

We made it a point to be particularly loud and annoying when Tony would pass through the kitchen. You could feel his disgust with our revel and celebration and we were awash in the happiness of his unhappiness. His shoulders hunched ever more as more orders rolled in and eventually he hunched his way right out of the kitchen to never return for the remainder of the service.

One word: panocha.

So, I shared this story with you to share another story. About an hour ago, I was watching RFD channel on the tube and there is a program called California Country and on today's broadcast they highlighted a goat cheese production farm of which I have an interest in, but shortly thereafter, they featured a chef from the Ritz-Carlton Marina Del Ray property making none other than truffle infused macaroni 'n cheese.

A little behind the curve fellas, a little behind the curve.

Read more...

The Galvin Hat, Part III. . .

(For Part I, click here)
(For Part II, click here)

The angry voice again, "I said who dat white boy, homes?"

Hearing those words was like a kick to the stomach. I was twisted in knots with tension, my heart pounding in my temples, tunnel vision closing in, I kept my eyes on Galvin's back as we marched forward towards the entrance. And hopefully, safety.

I never turned to look at who spoke and Galvin never acknowledged the comments as we made it to the door. Several scurrilous looking fellow were congregating in the parking lot, smoking, drinking and it felt, burning a hole in the back of my head. We kept moving.

There was a rather large individual guarding the doorway of the club which was bordered by two large windows allowing a glimpse inside. I could see masses of people and loud music thumped through the doorway. The bouncer made no mention of identification as we passed through and he bumped elbows with Galvin as he passed; cold, dark eyes for me. To the left of the door was a long counter and behind it, a gigantic, friendly-faced woman and a couple of men handing out beer and taking money.

Galvin stepped forward and greeted her with his toothy grin, "Hey Shirl, whassup you big momma!"

Shirley, it turned out was one half of the "S&B" and laughed as she replied, "Bigger is better for skinny little bonesacks like you! What can I get y'all to drink?"

Galvin grinned at me. "I'll take a Bud and my boy here, he'll have a. . ."

"Uh, a Heineken please ma'am," I stumbled.

"Ain't gots no Heineken. All we gots is Bud, Bud Light, King Cobra and Colt 45." she said.

"Bud'll be fine ma'am, thank you."

Shirley reached beneath the counter and pulled out two 40 ounce bottles of screwtop Budweiser from the ice. We paid and carried our giant bottles into the next room.

I was still suffering from a tremendously debilitating case of tunnel vision and I could only hope that everyone else's vision was just as poor as mine. I wanted to vanish into the darkest corner and just fade away, molecule by molecule. I was in, but now what?

Galvin and I forced our way through the dance floor, attempting to dodge the dense universe of wildly gyrating and thrusting, sweaty bodies. More than once, I made contact with a flowing hip and was sent hurtling into some other throbbing body. For a moment in my mind's eye, I sadistically imagined myself as a helpless pinball bouncing uncontrollably among the flippers and bumpers of a vast pinball machine racking up thousands of points. Yet, no one seemed to notice me even though I floundered and bounced my way over, through and around various body parts trying to escape the throbbing mass.

I orbited out the other side of the dancing, my beer sloshing, to find Galvin sitting at a table with three other men and no other seats available. As I approached timidly, one of the men rose and offered his seat with a smile. He stumbled away at odd angles with no particular destination in mind and I sat, bewildered, shaking and disturbed. From here it was an endless series of introductions to uncles and cousins whose names I would never remember and I'm sure I met everyone within earshot at least once, if not twice. And, wait a minute, didn't Galvin just introduce that guy as an uncle a while ago? Now he's Cousin Lamar? I guess it didn't matter.

What mattered in that moment was the beer in my hand. I needed it and I had no choice but to dive into the bubbly goodness with superhuman zeal in an attempt to retake my emotional faculties, which were on full speed ahead, red alert, uncontrollable autopilot. I put the giant bottle to my lips and chugged.

I slurped down the crisp, hoppy brew feverishly, my stomach stretching as the frothy liquid ounces flowed down. I let out a muffled belch, not that anyone could hear it over the ever-growing din of music and loud voices. My eyes watered and I wiped them dry to take a clearer look around.

The place was jumping for a Sunday night. The men were dressed to the nines in their ghetto-wear and the ladies looking crisp and shapely in too-tight blue jeans and occasional mu-mu top. I was beginning to come down from the precipice of high anxiety and the outlook was seemingly brighter. It no longer appeared, at least in my narrow mind, that I was going to be knifed, beat up, stomped or run out on a rail and shot to pieces in the street. My pulse steadied as I took in more of my beer.

Galvin and his "cuzuncles" were hooting and hollering about Lord knows what, but they seemed to be having a good time and were generally ignoring the white interloper that Galvin had brought along. And this was fine by me. I've never been the life of the party by any stretch of the imagination and in a case like this, far away from any comfortable element of security, I was quite content with clamming the hell up, observing the goings-on, and being largely ignored.

I took a few more draws of beer when Galvin wandered away from the table leaving me with, who was it? Uncle Lamar? Cousin Quentin? Who are these people?

I drank faster.

I was doing my best to remain invisible as I admired the incredible gyrations on the dance floor when I felt a huge hand clamp down heavily on my shoulder. I looked up to see a behemoth of a man wearing a fedora, a long, black trench coat with a purple satin shirt underneath and a brilliant, metallic smile. All teeth top and bottom were capped with gold and even in the dim, smoky darkness of the club they shone brightly emitting an eerie glow from his mouth.

"Lemme tell you sumthin' boy," he grunted. I craned my neck around looking up behind me at a crazy angle, nodding submissively in the affirmitive. "If any of dees muthafuckas messes wit' you, you lets me know. I gots yo back." And with that, he was gone, disappearing through the crowd on the dancefloor, untouched.

My mind erupted! "Who the hell was that! What is this place? I must be out of my mind coming in this joint! I'm getting the hell out of here! Does this place have a back door?"

Galvin appeared with another round of "forties" and sat down at the table just as I was about to run`away somewhere, anywhere. Agitated, I told him of my encounter. He feigned concern with a straight face, but couldn't contain himself any longer. He exploded with laughter!.

"Yeah man, dat's Boozie! Shirley's old man, he my cousin too! Ain't nothin' to worry about man, we got you. We got you."

I took the fresh beer from him and drained about half of the cold liquid. My nerves settled a little bit and I could feel the familiar numbness in my face from the alcohol. I was feeling better now, slightly, but still jumpy and the tightness in my stomach still twisting and clenching.

The men around the table continued to laugh; myself, a total wreck. A calamity of stone cold emotional breakdown on the inside, yet I felt for certain that my exterior exuded the same calm, cool and collected Brett. All I could do was drink. And I did. A lot.

Two and a half forty ounce Budweisers later I felt like a new man. My anxiety had waned and in the passing half hour or so I was making friends quick. The clients of the club, Galvin's friends and "family", all seemed genuinely delighted to meet me. My simple charm amplified by the beer, I even managed to make one of the two young women who joined us giggle with my wit. I was having a grand time and in my reverie I turned to Galvin, slapping a flailing arm around his neck and proclaming that the only difference between the white clubs and the black clubs was that, "they give y'all bigger bottles to fight with!"

Laughter!

Galvin turned to me and to this day I'll swear with a tiny tear in his eye, put his arm around me and said, "Bricks, you da best friend a drunk ol' nigga ever had. Take this."

He reached up, pulled of his ugly, corded ski cap and handed it to me.

"I want you to have this," he said.

Our friendship was cemented right then and there as I put on his ugly hat.

I didn't know what time it was and frankly didn't care by then, but Galvin decided we need to leave and in retrospect, I later realized he was saving me the embarrassment of trying to dance with one of the girls in our company. He must have overheard my reply to the young lady's question about whether I could dance or not. My exact words, painfully remembered, were, "I can shake my booty."

Galvin seized me by the arm, navigated us through the dance floor notably easier than when we arrived, bidding fairwell to Shirley, Boozie, a gaggle of my new friends who's names I couldn't remember and out the door we went.

Galvin and I staggered through the parking lot, around the corner to the car and slumped ourselves inside. Galvin, always the good friend, offered to drive. I waved him off with a chuckle; he didn't have a license anyway. I felt good. Not just from the beer, but from the friendship, the camaraderie and the togetherness. I had overcome a great fear and there was nothing to it. They were people too, sociable, out for a good time, inviting and without discrimination.

I started the car and began to back up through the dark parking lot when a short gentlemen close to sixty years of age stumbled over to Galvin's window making a roll down motion with his arm. I stopped the car and the glassy eyed man spoke, "G, roll yo glasses down." Galvin lowered the window.

"G, I needs me a ride home man, can I go wit you?" Glavin turned and asked if we could give a ride to his cousin, he lived in the same complex. I agreed reluctantly and the inebriated fellow climbed in the back seat, sat directly in the middle of the seat with his feet on the hump. He mumbled something incoherent that I ignored and we were on our way.

I pulled out on the main street and kept an eye on our passenger in the rear view mirror. I couldn't see what he was doing, but I kept hearing the rattling of plastic. I had to remind myself to watch the road and guided our way down the deserted street through one blurry eye. I was being mindful of the speed and of keeping the car straight down the road. Galvin reminded me to make a right turn at the four-way stop ahead.

As we approached the stop sign, a police car glided up to the stop sign from the right. My heart sank into my stomach at the sight of the police cruiser and a tiny voice in my head was thinking, "One white guy, two black guys, nice car, ghetto, bad."

I kept hearing that over and over as we rolled to a stop. The police officer had the right-of-way to go, but he didn't, forcing me to turn. And after a complete stop I did. We turned right and he didn't even look at us as we passed him. As we drove away I felt an anvil's worth of weight lifting from my shoulders as I saw the policeman move forward as if to drive away, that is until he spun his car around in the intersection, flipped on his lights and sped towards us.

"Oh fuck," I blurted.

"Keep cool, keep cool Bricks, you didn't do nothing, you didn't do nothing," Galvin reassured.

Cuzuncle no-name in the back seat, fumbling with his plastic rapidly, starting hurling insane obscenities telling me to outrun the police, which in the moment didn't seem like such a bad idea, but I knew inside I wasn't doing any such thing. We were done. It was over.

The police car roared up behind us, squawking the siren as the blue lights coated us with a sickening, strobing beat; the spotlight pointed in the sideview mirror blinding me. I eased the car over and stopped. My heart was racing and putrid waves of nausea were washing over my entire body. Galvin remained calm and Cuzuncle no-name stopped with the plastic noise.

The cop stepped out and walked towards the car. I rolled the window down.

"Let me see your license," he said flatly as he shined his flashlight in our faces and around the interior of the car. My hands rumbling with fear I produced my license from my wallet and gave it to the officer. He studied it for a moment and said nothing, continuing his search of the car and our faces with his light.

"Mr. Brett, do you know these gentlemen in your car?

"Of course I do, this is my friend Galvin and his uncle."

The cop chuckled, "Yes, I know Galvin, but I don't seem to know this fellow back here. Glavin, is this your uncle?"

Galvin responded with his toothy grin, "Well, you see, he's mo like a cousin. You know how it is."

"Indeed I do." He grabbed his walkie-talkie mic and spoke some police jargon about a potential 10-55 and 502, assistance needed.

The officer switched the flashlight from face to face calmly.

"Where y'all going?"

I explained to him our evening of food, family and quick jaunt to S&B's for a beer or two, nothing special, just going home.

"How much have you had to drink?"

Oh, the dreaded question. I thought fast for a simple lie, but I felt my world slipping away and said, "I've had a few."

"Step out of the car please."

Please Lord, please Lord, please Lord. . .

(to be continued)

Read more...

The Galvin Hat, Part II. . .

(For Part I, click here)

Galvin turned to me as he flipped a few steaks around and spoke casually, "Bricks," which was how he pronounced my name, "You need to come on up wit me in my club."

I turned, frozen, a handful of hot fries for a plate sizzling in my fingers, "Well, uh, that's nice of you and all, but uh. . ."

Galvin smiled through his crooked teeth, continuing to work his steaks around the grill, marking them on the hot spots and finishing them on the cooler spots. He stared straight ahead at the tiled wall behind the grills as if seeing right through it.

"Yeah man, come on over to the house on Sunday, we can have dinner with the family, I'll cook, then we'll skip on down to S&B's nightclub and have a few beers," he said.

My mind was going a million miles a minute. How in the hell was I going to get out of this? I formulated and destroyed volumes of excuses by the second, felt lousy for doing so, but I simply couldn't fathom walking up into an all-black nightclub with Galvin. I knew S&B's club. So, did the cops. Talk about standing out in a crowd. A tall, skinny, 130 pound wet weight, white boy had no business going into S&B's Nightclub.

Profusely, I made some lousy excuse about being busy, when Galvin cut his eyes to me with a sharp grin, "You ain't got nothing to worry about. You're my boy, ain't nobody gonna fuck wit you up in there! You have my word."

I couldn't refuse. I'd be a hypocrite, and a miserable excuse for a friend if I backed out, even though my rational mind told me that going to S&B's was a bad idea. The deal was sealed. Our friendship ruled and I was at the mercy of the judgement.

The next few days were like always. Tiny little dramas played out on the small stage of our restaurant. Shondra came to work trying to scalp her food stamps. Maggie, the head chef, raising hell because the meat order was wrong. James, the butcher, hiding out in the butcher's room, cutting meat, and staying away from the 'heat' of the kitchen, mainly Maggie's wrath. Galvin and I sweating over the hot line. I tried not to think of what the future held for Sunday or let my mind work itself up with it's wild, fantastical acts that play out in my skullbone daily.

Sunday finally came. I sat on my old couch in my shabby little apartment dreading the evening. And I hated myself for it. This should be a happy time, a good time with a good friend who was kind enough to invite me into his home and life. I was going to meet his kids and his wife, who I had only seen from a distance, waving every time as I backed out of the apartment's parking lot.

I felt like a shithead. I grabbed my 12-pack of Heineken, the 12-pack of Bud for Galvin and headed out the door, to the ghetto, to the great unknown. I felt sick and shameful.

I turned into Galvin's apartment complex and I could see his kids running around in the common area between two of the battered apartment buildings. His wife, Doreen, a beautiful and sedate woman, a christian, and the obvious rock of the family that everyone leaned upon, sat at the bottom of a stairwell, silently watching her children dart about.

His kids dashed over to me as I got out of the truck, "Hey Mr. Brett," the youngest two screamed in unison. The oldest son, aged about 13, quietly took one of the boxes of beer. He must take after his mother.

Galvin greeted me at the doorway, inviting me in and making sure all of my needs were accounted for. His children were well-behaved and his wife, natural in her homemaking, was setting the table and preparing for dinner.

I sat at the dinner table pushed up against the long wall near the kitchen where I could see everything in the kitchen. Galvin had an apron on and was tending to some braised pork in the oven. He had also prepared turnips greens, scalloped potatoes, cornbread and sweet potato pie.

We chatted and drank beer, laughed and played with the children. I could see that Galvin had been in the sauce pretty well, but no one seemed to mind, and now, in retrospect, I realize they were simply used to the drinking.

Dinner was fabulous, well-seasoned, and cooked perfectly. The pork turned out to be shoulder that Galvin braised in beer, a little whiskey, sage and something I couldn't place. I asked him for the secret, but he never divulged. I remembered this flavor years later when I was recounting some wild story of misadventures as a teen in Jamaica when my mother was in the Peace Corps there. It occurred to me that the flavor was pimento or what we commonly call allspice. The subtlety of it in Galvin's pork was mind-bending. Aromatic, sharp but sweet, savory and mild all in the same and in a instant, gone.

The sweet tea we drank with dinner was just how I liked it, not so sweet that your tooth enamel melted immediately upon contact, but blended perfectly so you could still taste the slight astringency of the tea. An excellent palette cleanser for such a heavy meal.

After dinner, the kids retreated to their rooms as Galvin, Doreen and I sat around the kitchen table, our bellies protruding, stupid smirks of satisfaction on our faces. Our conversations drifted wildly between my stories of childhood and their own, some of the troubles Doreen and Galvin have had with his drinking and pleasant memories of their children whom are fine, behaved kids growing up under tough circumstances.

Then, the whiskey bottle came out. Doreen excused herself and Galvin and I drank from the bottle, pulling long draws of the amber liquor between cigarette drags. We chatted as the whiskey set our full bellies on fire. A heavy, caustic digestive, but when in Rome. . .

My teeth began to feel numb with my brain not too far behind, and my stomach twisted in a knot from the burning whiskey, the heavy food, but mostly from the dreaded anticipation of our departure.

I was scared.

"Galvin," I asked, "are you sure everything is gonna be ok with me going up in this place?"

He stood up and moved over to my side of the table, grabbed my by the shoulder and promised, "Ain't no nigga gonna mess wit you up in there. I knows all them folks and they knows me. And that's it."

With that, we were out the door. The hot, whiskey soaked blood that had once been coursing through my body now sat cold and thick in my feet.

We got in the car, my sister's car which I had borrowed, and turned out of the complex towards S&B's. In my heart I was hoping that it would be a long drive and that when we arrived at 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, there wouldn't be much of a crowd. In both cases, I was sadly disappointed.

A four minute drive and when we arrived, there were scads of people spilling out of the building and dozens milling around the parking lot. On the surface, it couldn't have been a worse situation.

Galvin and I pulled around to the side of the building, sat in the car for a minute or two and with a last deep breath of desperation I opened the door and out we went. I walked behind Galvin and as we turned the corner of the building I felt a hundred eyes burning a hole into me. My skin tingled and flushed, my heart raced and I sweated. I heard from behind me a strange and angry voice, "Hey, who dat white boy?"

"Oh Lord. . ."

(. . .to be continued)

Read more...

The Galvin Hat, Part I. . .

Behold, the Galvin hat!


I had a friend many years ago, a co-worker, a brother in arms in the kitchen named Galvin. Galvin was a lean, lanky, sunken-eyed, black man who couldn't have been more than five years older than myself. He and I worked together in one of those steakhouses where you line up with a tray, order your steak by number and select your dessert from the plastic-wrapped slices of lemon meringue or chocolate pie. On occasion we had peach cobbler.

Galvin was a long time cook, a longer time drunk, but a family man also. For heaven's sake, he rode a bicycle several miles to and from work to provide for his family. And his habit too, I suppose. Yet, at least he was holding down a job and making a living, which was much more than some people who worked at our restaurant could claim. A lot of them, out of wedlock mothers, welfare recipients, Section 8 dwellers, would come to work just long enough to qualify for unemployment benefits and then get themselves fired for some reason or another to get more free money.

My buddy Galvin, on the other hand, showed up for work every day and even though he had to sneak off the line during the middle of service to take a few draws from his whiskey bottle he stashed in the bushes, I could always rely on him when the going got tough in the kitchen.

As with all new jobs, the first few days were difficult as the new guy never knows where everything is; most effort wasted trying to learn and remember the location of everything. Galvin was cool to me at first, simple utterances to do stuff, not much conversation. Finally after a few days passed and I was beginning to hold my own as his prep/fry cook, he turned to me out of the blue and asked, "Are you a racist?"

I thought about that for a second, and after a minute of staring emptily at Galvin I responded, "Yeah, I'm a fucking racist. I hate everybody." Galvin's face seized up in surprise and then he let out a huge guffaw, followed by loud hooting and hollering as he danced around in laughter. I guess that broke our tension, if there ever was any.

From then on, Galvin and I made it along famously. We'd plow through our work daily, delicately grilling the #9, the #22 and the tasty #13. Every now and then, we'd intentionally screw up a #3 so we'd be assured of a night's meal to nibble on. He did the grilling and I did the frying, salads, and plating. We had some damn good times and could hammer out a couple hundred steaks or more without much trouble. Well, as long as Galvin had his bottle. Some days he didn't and the work was usually disastrous.

Every now and then after work, particularly the night shift, we'd toss his bike in the back of my pickup and I'd give him a ride home. We always got a couple of 40oz bottles of beer on the way and Galvin began to open up to me about his life.

He had three kids and a beautiful soft-spoken wife. His life had been one disaster after another, drugs, alcohol, countless incursions with the law, time in the county lockup. This explained his bicycle. I think the court has taken his license away for some considerable length of time and for as long as I knew him, he biked everywhere.

And I mean EVERYWHERE.

I'd see Galvin all over, many miles from home. Out at the new mall on the other side of town. Up around north Hattiesburg where he had some family. And of course, on his way to and from work. Some days he declined the offer for a ride home and I suspected that it was he had another woman. Or maybe it was drugs. He'd leave at night sometimes going in the opposite direction from his apartment, but how could I judge him. I never asked either.

As time went on and we had our after-work beer together, we'd get into long, rambling discussions about politics, life, women and invariably, race. Just as he had no idea what's it's like to be white, I had and still have no conception of the life of a black person. Especially a black in a place like Mississippi with such a sordid and violent past concerning race relations.

He would share anecdotes of blatant, anti-black racism and I could share my own versions of the reverse negative. We would laugh, scowl or chastise our respective race as required and in the end we agreed that we were far more alike than different. As best I could tell, our whiteness or blackness mattered nothing to us. We were just two men, struggling to earn a wage and trying our best to survive.

We had needs, we had families, we had problems. Just like everyone.

One evening at work, I invited Galvin to come with my friends and I out to our favorite dance club. All my friends knew Galvin, not personally, but from the stories I shared of our work life together. He was a figure of legend to them. Hammering out steaks in a flash and swilling whiskey by the bottle was Galvin. They, as much as me, wanted him to come along.

Galvin at first was skeptical of my offer and I could tell, a bit apprehensive. I can only speculate that in his mind he imagined a room full of burly rednecks, whoopin' and hollerin', half of them smashing each other over the head with whiskey bottles and the other half tying up nooses in the corner. Who knew what he thought, but I talked him into it anyway. He bravely went where he thought no black man had gone before.

We walked inside the club, Senor Frogs, and the surprise was evident as he saw hundreds of people milling about, throngs of them throbbing and gyrating on the dance floor, gaggles of them lined up at the bar. And not a bar full of burly rednecks, but a fair cross-section of the USM campus present; blacks, whites, Latinos, east Indians, even a one-armed girl who was just to die for.

And boy, once the tension wore off, we proceeded to drink. And drink. And drink.

I don't remember taking Galvin home, maybe a faint memory of him falling out of the truck. I do remember the next day, both of us sick, queasy and moving in slow-motion. We laughed about our great night together and pieced together the parts each of us could remember. Me dancing with the one-armed girl, Galvin doin' the humpty with some big sista! Man, it was a time and I don't think Galvin sneaked outside once that day. He had finally had enough for once.

And then, the inevitable happened.

Galvin invited me to his club.

(. . .to be continued)

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