Spicy!

I am having a love affair with my spice merchant.  Well, not him, exactly.  But with his exotic spices and herbs.  As someone who typically marvels at the beauty of simplicity, my recent romance with complex and mysterious layers of flavor has me daydreaming of new spice combinations and applications.  It is January, after all, and the highly acclaimed tomatoes, carrots, and baby lettuces of summer seem so far away.  I was gazing out the window this morning at the whitish-gray bleakness swallowing all of Washington, grinding toasted coriander with pink peppercorns and meyer lemon zest for Petrale sole on the canvas of empty sky.

In December, I entered World Spice Merchants in Pike Place Market.  I was immediately overcome with the I-want-one-of-everything feeling of a comic book junkie upon discovering Comicon.  And then I was overcome with a sneezing fit.  How do these spice gods and goddesses survive with their sinuses intact?

After curiously watching my hummingbird like flight from jar to jar, the merchant recommended The Spice Lover’s Guide to Herbs & Spices by Tony Hill.  I felt like Buddy the Elf when I actually started speaking with the expert spice blenders and toasters, “Hi!  I’m Aimee, I cook food.  What’s your name?  What’s your favorite spice?  What’s your favorite food?  Do you have a best friend?  Can I be your best friend?”  If I hadn’t been mopping my eyes and nostrils from overexposure, I surely would have tried to hug them.

Seventy six dollars and thirty two cents later, I arrived back home with enough spices and herbs to season the entire Pacific Ocean.  I did pick up the recommended book, but that still leaves me with over fifty dollars in spices.  Had I slipped and fallen on a wet grate upon leaving the store, the Puget Sound would have become a spicy dungeness crab and killer whale stew.

I spent the first two hours back home reading spice profiles and origins, (aloud, I may add, how annoying to be anyone around me, in this case Jaimy).  “Hey did you know that the black lemon is actually a lime?”  Of course he didn’t, who would know that?  “Well, it is.... ooh! Hey, we can make them ourselves, we just have to....”  Before I was finished, I had already mentally planned to plant an organic rooftop garden that included ginger and lime trees, a trip to India and China to taste how the locals used everything from finger root to Chinese five spice, and a trek across La Mancha to pick our own saffron.

In the meantime, I figured I should actually use the spices.  If you happened to receive some spice blends for Christmas from Jaimy and me, this was the story leading up to it.  Our apartment smelled like the neighbors everyone complains about.  Mixing, toasting, grinding, adjusting, jarring: we went into full production mode.  We debated the benefits of hand grinding with a mortar and pestle versus blending with an electric spice grinder.  We tasted the difference between the dry spices themselves and their toasted versions.  At the end of the night, the kitchen was powdered with everything from finely ground cassia-stick cinnamon to ras el hanout.  I swept the surface remains into a pile and set it aside for a seasoning surprise dinner later.  Don’t worry, I won’t use it on you.

Toasting Chinese five spice

Grinding Chinese five spice

I am very aware of the fact that I am probably committing spice blending blasphemy here.  Last night I put Chinese five spice in a pork belly brine with kaffir lime and ginger.  While China and Southeast Asia seem pretty close together from my vantage point in Seattle, I am sure that I broke a rule in regional cuisine.  Mixing the spices from one country with citrus from another region, well, I may as well be saying they’re all the same to me.  But I want to try them together, so I do so secretly at first.  I then admitted my sin to Jaimy, and now today to all of you.  I’m not planning on serving my pork belly to President Hu Jintao or anything, or even Morimoto (who is Japanese, so why am I assuming he’d know all about Chinese five spice?!  Of course he does).  But still, I feel guilty.*

There are a few projects in the works, and we plan to update with how the pork belly turns out.  We are doing a comparison between dry rubbed (and slightly cured) belly and brined belly, both with a Chinese five spice base.  Since I keep mentioning it and not elaborating, Chinese five spice is a blend of star anise, fennel seed, cassia-cinnamon, cloves, and Sichuan or black peppercorns.  After marinating in these flavors overnight, they’ll be slow roasted, (though braising is another favorite pork belly technique).  I’m thinking steamed buns, although Vietnamese sandwiches (Banh Mi) also sound good.  Anyone have any ideas for serving the belly?



*Upon further reading this morning, kaffir lime is used quite often in Chinese cuisine, even if it’s point of origin thousands of years ago was a few miles down the road.  AND, the kaffir lime is in the same family as the Sichuan peppercorn.  It was even recommended to use some lime to replace the absence of Sichuan peppercorns in spice blends (they've been banned for import through the years due to blight).  Sichuan peppercorns do not grow well in the U.S., but they've had success growing kaffir lime trees in California.

First To Leave The Party

I was invited to a post-holiday holiday party last night.  In the restaurant industry, we are typically so busy before and during the holidays working AT events that if we have a party at all, it is not until mid-January.*  The party was for the restaurant that I left back in April.  It was a peaceful and polite departure, as I had simply found that it wasn’t the direction I wanted to head in for the long term.  Strangely, over the course of the year, I began to second guess my decision, wondering (even if just for a moment), where I would be had I stayed.

If I haven’t made this clear yet, it really was the best decision for me.  Sometimes continuing to work for the best in the industry doesn’t mean that we will be the most successful, the happiest, or the most fulfilled.  Like everyone, we cooks all have our niche, the uniqueness being what we are passionate about; otherwise all restaurants and the cooks in them would be the same.  Take the contestants on Top Chef, for example.  Each cook has a different set of memories and experiences to draw from and develop new dishes (often on the fly).  Rarely do we see two dishes that are quite similar, even when the same few ingredients are required across the board.  Years ago, when walking onto a line for the very first time, did these cooks understand at that moment that each and every day of cooking would mold their cooking skills, menu development, thought process, even neatness and organization? 

Cooks seek out line jobs for a number of reasons.  And many cooks, at different points in their careers, seek out different types of jobs with varying needs in mind (or not in mind).  Sometimes we have an ideal of working for a mentor, a leader in the industry with a food ideology.  Other times we simply need income.  As time passes, we often trade in low positions at high end places for high positions at... well, a variety of establishments.  Each experience, from the process used to check in new produce and manage inventory to the method preferred to blanch fava beans, will differ slightly (or, perhaps frighteningly, differ a lot), from one establishment to the next.  And, in turn, these experiences will influence how we teach others when the time comes.  I find that the influence comes from wanting to either model an inspiring experience or from wanting to get as far away from a terrible experience as possible.  Regardless of the line of work you are in, either way can be an effective teaching tool.

To get back on topic here, I left the restaurant eight months ago.  I am going back for a party, partly to visit with old work friends, but also to (and I really hate to admit it), gauge my culinary growth with that of my old colleagues. 

Steamy windows back lit by lights and moving shadows, I round the corner into a stiff evening breeze as I approach the entry.  Am I even going to recognize anyone here?  In previous years, our holiday party was a potluck, a patchwork of items consisting of everything from watery casseroles and store-bought cookies to fresh rolls and tart tatin.  It was obvious that some cooks, unable to drive the menu on a daily basis, were aiming to impress.  Others simply resented having to cook on their one day off.  On this night, I walk into a party in full swing, with a complete balanced and decorated buffet with every accompaniment imaginable.  Some guests are even dressed in coconut bras and grass skirts.  This party is organized. 

It is an interesting experience to suddenly be surrounded by those who stayed when I left.  I recognize many of the faces around me, and I can guess by the mannerisms of the new faces whom they may have replaced.  My old line partners update me on the promotions/hiring/firing over the course of the year.  One line cook who I helped train is now the Chef de Cuisine.  An apprentice who trained with me is now the Sous Chef.  I am mixed with happiness and envy for my old partners in battle, but there is this other feeling.  It is the one deep in my chest, seemingly protected by my rib cage, an ache that instantly fills my head with regret for jumping ship.  Could I have been the next Sous Chef?  Or better? 

It is not until today that I revisit that feeling.  Why did I suddenly feel again that this one restaurant holds my future in its hands?  I didn’t align with the menu, the food preparations, the ridiculous hours, or the painfully low pay that required me to spend part of my retirement plan just to pay rent on a studio apartment.  I didn’t get the lightness of step that tells me that I am on the right track.  My aching back and feet, the disconnection between the guests eating the food and the cooks preparing it, the lack of overall direction that I felt I needed to become a stronger cook.  How would getting a promotion make any of it better, I mean really better, not just a temporary boost? 

It wouldn’t. 

But what is the lesson here?  Is it that I shouldn’t second guess my decision because it was the right one to make, or that I shouldn’t look back and fret over it because I can’t change the past and just need to move forward?  Or both?  I have friends who have given their notice at a bistro, only for that place to win a James Beard Award a few months later.  Others who have stayed aboard at a sinking ship of a restaurant, forgoing their own paycheck and picking their drunk and crying owner/Chef out of the gutter to sleep on their floor.  Cooks who have quit over a dispute for one single night off to go see Radiohead, cooks hired because they staged on the day the lead saute cook walked out over a complaint about too rare halibut. 

Surely months of writing down my life goals and the steps to reach them, then taking the appropriate action - surely that is the right path.  Right?  Is my cause more legitimate than quitting to go to the Sasquatch Festival?  Does it matter?



*Thinking of the movie Coming To America, when invited to a party by a previous or current employer, be skeptical when they ask you to wear something that sounds uniform-like.  You might end up serving the meal or parking cars...

The Kitchen Cabinet

At 7:15 pm on a Monday, I head out into the rainy Seattle night on foot.  Walking the first few blocks, I feel invigorated, inspired, even empowered.  As I approach my local butcher shop, Rain Shadow Meat, my heart sinks at the dim light and lack of sidewalk board.  Closed.  I take a moment to stand under an awning of a nearby store to gather my thoughts and construct a new plan.  I glance at the time on my phone, then up at the night sky.  Turning around, I begin the long trek over the freeway toward Whole Foods.

To walk in the frigid rain may lead you to believe that my refrigerator is empty.  Perhaps some wilted lettuce and a bendy carrot, and just a can of garbanzo beans and the remains of a burlap sack of basmati in the kitchen cabinet.  But that is not the case.  The refrigerator is stocked with leftover braised rabbit thighs, an herb roasted chicken, chicken liver pate, the remains of a cheese night from a few days earlier, brussels sprouts, arugula, as well as the typical staples.  In the freezer are pierogies and the last of the season’s king salmon.  As for the pantry, it has recently taken over the adjoining cabinet with dried flageolets, three kinds of rice, canned tomatoes, and a variety of pickled and preserved items.  The beans hollered, “pick me, pick me!” and the jasmine rice chimed in, “we’re the perfect team!”  I peered to the back of the cupboard, bored with the options in front of me.

So why am I standing in a puddle up to my ankles waiting for the crosswalk to give the go ahead?  I blame occupational hazard.  Some of you have experienced the Stephen Taber first hand.  While an amazing sailing (and to toot my own horn, culinary) experience, there is one specific geographic hurdle.  We are on a boat.  On the water.  There is no last minute run on a Wednesday to grab an extra head of lettuce, or even half and half for coffee.  When we back off the dock every Monday morning, I scan the landing for the last minute purveyor I may have forgotten about.  I always expect to see our fishmonger, Jamie, running down the gangway, one arm waving, the other cradling our precious stone crab, Pemaquid mussels, and Atlantic salmon. 

But we always manage to get through it.  Ask any schooner cook.  We forget even the most important of ingredients from time to time.  Most often we can improvise.  Low on milk? Use melted ice cream (churned the night before by our guests) or left over creme anglaise to soak bread for French toast.  Guests meeting us at the breakwater for dinner and need to stretch the protein?  Make a farce with chorizo and apples and stuff the pork tenderloin.  And what about forgetting ingredients altogether?  No apples for crisp, we turn to a chocolate and caramel dessert.  If the star ingredient for crab cakes doesn’t make it into the icebox, we’ll have fritters with leftover corn and prosciutto and a horseradish dipping sauce.  When the problem presents itself, us schooner cooks may take a moment to fret or sulk (or at the end of August, burst into tears), but then we jump into action.

There are, of course, those special moments when I realize that the swiss chard has wilted beyond saving or the last tomato saved for bruschetta went into the lentil soup.  I walk aft, eyeing Captain Noah (sometimes I fret out loud, and it is usually in the form of whining) and I hear those magical words.  “We’re taking afternoon walks in Stonington, and today is the farmer’s market.”  And thus my desire to just have things go my way as planned wins over the part of me that wants to heroically solve the problem without being saved by modern conveniences (if a visit to the farmer’s market can be called a modern convenience; although after being on a schooner in Maine it feels like a trip to New York City).

And so here I am, back on land and feeling pretty good about it.  While I love the simplicity of life on the boat, I fully indulge in the luxuries of being ashore.  Yes, I savor a queen size bed, central heat, and hot water.  But when I am in the kitchen, I marvel at the fact that I can cook on a whim.  I can make whatever I am craving to eat or create, and I don’t have to row a mile to get there.  Sure, the food processor, instant heat on the stove, and dishwasher are luxurious.  But it is the freedom to cook that I love.

I consider this as a car splashes puddle water across my chest, soaking my scarf, jacket, and will to push on. 

An hour later, I am pounding pork tenderloin medallions into flattened tender meat for Schnitzel and setting potatoes on the stove to boil.  The meat counter is fresh out of veal, but I am hell bent at this point to create a dinner that at least vaguely resembles my initial plan.  I am also surprised to see that I had used the last few ounces of flour, and can’t make the accompanying spaetzle (a spaetzle story to follow soon, perhaps in a collection of kitchen disaster stories).

I can hear the dried beans laughing at me, shaking like a pair of maracas.

Later, Jaimy and I bite into the first crispy corner of breaded pan fried pork, a slather of cheesy chive mashed potatoes bulging off the fork.  I commit to cooking from what we have in house before going to the store again. 

Moving On

It has been almost a year since my last blog post.  We all neglect things from time to time to focus on other areas of our lives, and writing has been the one thing I have put on the back burner that I long to return to.  In updating my profile, I noticed that the "About Me" section of my profile is completely outdated.  To get myself and all of you up to speed, I am updating my profile and copying the old one in this post. 

Who I was:

I am a recent culinary school graduate residing in Seattle. I am amazed every day that I work on the line at a restaurant that is regarded very highly in the industry.  It is competitive.  The hours are long.  The work is highly physical and emotionally taxing.  This blog will dive into what I am learning in the kitchen, from ingredients and food preparation to working with others and realizations about myself.  If you ever wondered about the reality of a romantic career, I am here to provide a glimpse.  So far, it kind of resembles a collage of the worst day of my life, the best day of my life, from feeling defeated to feeling on top of the world.  I wouldn't change a thing.

Well, perhaps I would change a thing or two, or all of it.  But my purpose stays the same.

Who I am:

I love cooking food.  I love eating food.  I love what food does for us.  It brings us together, creates a vessel to celebrate life, ourselves, each other, what can grow from the earth and how it can nourish us.  I left the line this year to pursue my love for food on my terms.  I was exhausted and under-nourished.  These days I try to treat myself in the way I treat those I cook for. 

Midnight Madness

As I mentioned in the beet entry earlier, I eat a lot of my meals at work. From family meal once to twice daily to the grazing and tasting I do while cooking, I probably consume more at work than most individuals do in a day. So why is it that when I walk out the back door into the night at the end of a shift, I am ravenous for food?

We talk about our bodies when changing into our chef whites, or at those other times when our bodies in their shape and size make themselves apparent, such as getting a hip snagged by the swinging lowboy door or bruising a bony shoulder when passing the shelves of hotel pans. Almost everyone has a story regarding their body and what happened to it when they became a cook. It usually refers to gaining or losing 20 or more pounds, blaming empty calorie beer or the hours, which apparently can argue for either scenario. Nobody ever says their body has stayed the same.

We make jokes about the burn slashes across our forearms or the thumbnail that will never quite grow back straight. (Don’t worry, we always find the tip of thumb or finger and start fresh with a clean cutting board). Singed eyebrows and lashes, hot duck fat burns less than a centimeter from the eye, the fiddler crab lack of symmetry in our forearms, the callus as thick as the wall between my tiny apartment and my neighbor’s (it’s thin, relatively speaking about walls, but thick for a piece of skin on my hand).

Most of my cooking friends are as thin as a stalk of celery. They also are never hungry, as though they absorb nutrients through osmosis by touching the food all day. But that is not the case with me, I am always hungry! I am not of celery or any other kind of stalk thinness, but I have also managed to avoid looking like a butternut squash or a pear. Perhaps a fingerling potato, minus the bumps. Mmmm, potatoes.

I don't cook well enough for myself when I am outside of work. I realize that if I ate the way I did before becoming a professional cook but continued the on-my-feet-12-hours-a-day-carrying-heavy-things-regimen that I am on now, I would look like an Olympian. This summer, I worked three days a week while in school and spent all of my free time cooking. Now I hardly cook at all on days that I work. I have managed to avoid fast food places, but I seriously eat at least two frozen pizzas a week. I cook them first, so at least there is that. Some nights I go to Cafe Presse, where they make a mean croque madame, but drink three glasses of wine while I am at it because the spicy nuts they serve make me thirsty. And then there is the Deluxe, open when all other kitchens are closed, where I get a burger with cheese and bacon and fries and I am not kidding a side of ranch to dip not only my fries in, but also the corners of my burger! (One time at Deluxe I ordered deep fried balls of macaroni and cheese, and I liked it) And then there is the canned tuna. Some nights I make tuna melts. And I eat a bag of salt and vinegar chips while I wait for them to heat up. Once in a great while I go to Barrio and someone ALWAYS orders churros and then I have to also. I literally smear the chocolate on my face. But the most pathetic, most sad, is when I simply take a leftover baguette home from work and sit on the couch and rip pieces off and eat it until I get the hiccups. (I think it is the setting that is the problem with that one, because if I were eating baguette while sitting in a cafe in Paris, it would have an entirely different ambiance).

Obviously I value food, specifically food grown near the earth I live on, breathing the same air and drinking the same water. But it is as though I have given all of the food love I have to give, leaving nothing left for me. Is this another cobbler story, or am I simply lacking balance? Friends and I have tried several attempts at late night healthy food. We’ve made shepherd’s pie and lasagne, freezing individual portions for reheating later. I have pre-made salad to dress when I arrive home. I have even packed up the leftovers from family meal at work to reheat when I arrive home. But all it takes is the power of suggestion. One cook mentions he’s craving a burger and beer or those spicy tater tots from the hill, and I am off the healthy food wagon. I convince myself that I deserve to eat whatever I want because I worked hard that day. I’ll start tomorrow.

No burgers, bacon, frozen pizzas, or ranch dressing were consumed in the writing of this entry.

For the Love of Beet, Give Me a Banana!

Our produce deliveries since October have given me a serious workout. Do you know how much a box of celeriac weighs? Well, it is a lot lighter when I get through with it, those bulbous root vegetables rolling away from me while I heave the box onto our loading counter.

Anyone who has tried to faithfully eat local foods can attest to this- February in Washington means you’ve been eating root vegetables for four months. The thought of those first tender shoots of wild asparagus appear as an oasis on the horizon. But the first vegetables of the season are still two months away, and those beets promise to hang in there as long as you are willing.

For the record, I am not claiming to be a locavore. In August, with the exception of my South American coffee, spices, and Italian olive oil (and I haven’t been able to source any local gin), I eat mostly local and seasonal foods. I would be a fool not to. But I am a bit of a fair weather locavore, which makes me feel like I should not use the term for just part of the year. Granted, I probably eat more carrots, celeriac, beets, turnips, parsnips, and onions in the winter than anyone I know. It is easy because more than half of what I eat is at work, and that is what we have around. Local lentils and beans are added to the mix, along with some plums, apricots, and cherries that we preserved in the summer. With that kind of base, I am off to a good start.

Right around this time of year, however, I start to become desperate. I want a banana. Now, if I were a real locavore, I would only eat bananas when on exotic vacations (incentive enough, really). Eyeing the pyramid of bananas at the grocery store like a candy display, I grab a handle and hide it in my basket. To make myself feel better, I select the organic variety. I convince myself that the sticker signifies that they sailed here from Hawaii under wind power, instead of in a cargo liner followed by an eighteen wheeler. In case my daydream of sustainable banana travel doesn’t convince me, I reinforce it by telling myself that at least it isn’t a frozen pizza. And it has a compostable package.

Back to the season at hand. Last night an order came in with some extra words scrawled across the bottom in all capital letters. “NO BEETS!” This is definitely not an uncommon request, with an increase in frequency during the gray of winter. So we scan through their order, replacing roasted beets with braised cabbage or roasted parsnips, making a mental note to omit the beet coulis from the beef main. Ten minutes after this order came in, another ticket was pushed across the pass, again with words scrawled along the bottom. But this time it was different, it read “LOVES BEETS!”. I was overjoyed. After conferring with my line partner, we decided to put together a trio of beets on one course, an homage to beets if you will. It showcased everything from a beet and celeriac terrine wrapped in beet greens to beet consomme with a raviolo made with beet slices instead of pasta dough. We had most of these items on hand, with the season being what it is. But all lined up, with pickled beets arranged in a nest beneath herbed goat cheese, even beet coulis dragged into heart shapes (they were celebrating a late Valentine’s Day), this was a beet feast for the masses. Or not the masses, really. More of a feast for a few beet lovers out there.

So last night I was reminded to embrace the season. Go all in. Sink your lifeboats. Eat beets until you pee magenta.

Happy Valentine’s Day to You, and You, and You, and Every Other Two Top

Some people talk about how Valentine’s Day has become such an obnoxious holiday. The cards, candy, flowers, spa packages... what makes this a special day other than the fact that we are taught from a young age to give cards and hugs to loved ones? I still remember picking out boxes of tear-apart cardboard Valentines with a Garfield or Spiderman theme, struggling over whether to give my 7 year old crush Joey the one with a funny joke or the one with hearts. What message was I trying to send?! I remember thinking, if I didn’t make the right move, I would destined to be alone every Valentine’s Day for the rest of my life! Or, to be less dramatic, Joey would make fun of me on the playground for revealing my young love.

As it turns out, I will never be alone on Valentine’s Day. I will never be sitting at home alone on the couch watching sitcoms with a Valentine theme, eating chocolates given out by a co-worker. I will be cooking for two tops.

This year I haven’t spoken the words Valentine’s Day together, all I have talked about is Valentine’s Weekend. Weekend! A whole weekend! Take that, Hallmark! I am in the middle of this three day heart shaped gastronomic extravaganza at work. Over Friday and Saturday of this weekend, my co-workers and I have dished up over a thousand plates of food. Today is Sunday, THE day, and we will be dishing up close to 600 plates before the night is through. I am drinking my morning coffee and contemplating this extraordinary number, becoming aware of the fact that today is the holiday where men and women take their partners out to dinner. Our waiting list for reservations could keep another restaurant in business this weekend.

I often hear people say that we should express love to our partners and friends every day, not simply on Valentine’s Day. I agree wholeheartedly. After discussing this on the line during prep on Friday, I became curious about who these people are. Why are they coming in on Valentine’s Day and not every other day? Who do they think they are? Standing at the computer screen, I opened the reservation program to find out. I was overjoyed to see that our guests ranged from first timers just looking for something special to people who have come in over 50 times. Most of our guests had eaten with us before.

It made me that much more excited to share our special menu with our guests. It seemed more familial, not simply a bunch of strangers looking for a show. So bring it two tops, (and that weird occasional three top, whatever your story may be). We’re ready and excited to feed you.