Taking “Culinary Creeps” for 400, Alex.

“This much maligned meal machine masters magnetron motions to make mushy messes”

“What is a … Microwave?”

Today I asked my students a simple question – if Escoffier had had a Microwave at his disposition, would we find French dishes prepared in it? The answers were split along the same lines I expected them – from holy outrage over the suggestion to contemplative nods.

“I only use one to soften butter,” seems to be a common response to the question. Microwaves, for better or worse, have gotten a really bad rap. Most people equate them with re-heaters and therefore with frozen, pre-made, foods. And freezing, re-heating, and pre-made are cursewords in French cuisine. Which, to a large extent, isn’t their fault. Considering Escoffier’s times, even sophisticated freezers were little more than large stacks of ice – a surefire way to ruin even the most resilient food.

Today we don’t think twice about it. Stock goes in the freezer. So does anything else that doesn’t suffer from ice crystals piercing its innards. Once it’s out, we toss it into a sauce pan, rewarm, and use. Why not use a mirowave? Because microwaves are for ready meals, not for fine dining.

I make food in the microwave. I make Vauquelin (link is to a PDF file of the Nature Magazine article by Herve This), Brioche bread using all the ingredients I’d use if I made it in an oven and noting extra but in three minutes, sauces, soufflé, and more.

Would Escoffier use microwaves? My take is a resounding “yes”. By all accounts, his goals for publishing Le Guide Culinaire were two-fold, first to create an easy compendium to hand to new chefs and cooks and secondly to shill his own wares (owners of older GC editions might still find “Sauce [saucename] Escoffier” addenda to most sauces in the book, offering Escoffier’s own creations in easy to handle pre-made packages).

1960's Microwave

Aiming to streamline the operations in the back of the house, he did away with many of Antoine Carême’s more lofty approaches (Carême started as a pastry chef, it’s no wonder he had a flair for the overly dramatic) and replaced even golden French recipe cows with simpler recipes.

It’s not hard to imagine Microwaves and stick blenders in his recipes if one considers the time- and effort-saving effects of such tools.

Microwave cooking, creating resonant heat, is a method all of its own. Bad things happen if they are used as substitute for stovetop or oven cooking. They do, for example, negatively affect Vitamin B12, which isn’t good. At the same time, spinach retains more folate when heated in a microwave than when prepared on stovetop (that’s a good thing) and bacon doesn’t develop as much nitrosamines (that’s a very good thing, they’re suspected to cause cancer) when cooked in a microwave oven (see also this NYT article).

To conclude: you don’t have to become a slave to the TV dinner shilling overlords to appreciate the magnetron. In culinary circles, microwaves got the bum end of the stick. Being hated not for what they are but what people tend to shove into them, makes them a hard sell even in modern professional kitchens. Maybe this will help:

Making Brioche In The Microwave – a surefire way to upset your local pastry chef, get declared crazy, and make some darn tootn’ good food in the process.

• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon hot milk
• 3 large eggs
• 1 1/2 cups sifted all-purpose flour (sift before measuring)
• 1 1/2 sticks (3/4 cup) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch slices and well softened

We don’t need the yeast as you’ll see in a second, and we don’t need to make a starter or add sugar as feed for the yeast.

Combine all ingredients in a bowl and mix with a stick blender (or table blender, if so inclined) until well combined and smooth. Fill into a restaurant grade siphon (I use a Mastrad .7l) no more than half of the actual volume of the siphon. Charge with two nitrous oxide capsules, shake well.

In the mean time prepare the vessel. I use a small vented cup for this, but in a pinch and to get the hang of it you might as well just go ahead and punch a few cuts (small, just vents, the brioche foam should stay inside) into it. Use the charged siphon and fill the cup about 2/3 up. Place in Microwave. Microwave for 2 minutes. Let stand for another minute. Turn over, remove brioche. Serve warm.

Total time: 3 minutes. Total time for “traditional” brioche: 13 hours (the dough has to rest). Changes to the original: No yeast, no sugar, nothing added.

Of course this isn’t a complete replacement. The magnetron’s rays can not create an appealing crust and I wouldn’t serve it as a side-dish or in place of my six loaves I get every afternoon before service. I use it, however, in dishes and as a fun little starter with oil and balsamic vinegar.

To each its place. And there’s definitely a place for the microwave in modern kitchens.

You had the scallop appetizer at my place, listening to the satisfying crack of its sear under your knife before digging your teeth into a whole new world of happy. Here’s the secret – it’s insanely easy to make at home. If, and that’s important, a few simple rules are followed.

Spciy Scallops by Mochiland

If your scallops taste bland and not at all buttery, if they seem rubbery, it might not your problem. We don’t spend much time on this appetizer when you order it, but a little bit of work goes into it ahead of time. Next time you’re making this delectable and quick treat at home, try the following…

1. We use dry scallops, you might be using “wet” scallops – purveyors tend to use this dirty trick to coax more money from their unsuspecting customers. “Wet” scallops are stored and sold in a solution of sodium tripolyphosphate which is used both as a preservative and a “plumping” agent.  Scallops suspended in STP take on water, thereby “plumping” up and appearing larger and heavier. Since scallops are generally sold by weight, this is a popular way to make more money on less product.

The water inside the scallop will evaporate on cooking, making browning much harder, and giving the crustacean a bland, fishy, taste and unappealing texture.

Buy dry scallops (Atlantic scallops are a very sustainable seafood, Pacific scallops are now on the rebound after having been over-dredged for a few years). When given a chance, always opt for “diver” scallops. The most popular means of harvesting these mollusks is dredging a net along the ocean floor, which can damage the outer shells and impart unwanted flavors early. Damaged scallops also release stress hormones and tense their abductor muscle (which you will ultimately eat), leading to a rubbery mouth feel.

Wet scallops tend to be bright white and bland in color, mushy to the touch. Dry scallops are ivory in color and springy.

If wet scallops are all you can get, read on. There’s a rescue at hand.

1a. Brine - the chemical flavor of wet scallops is a bigger turn-off than most of the other issues which we can and will work around in the next tips. If you have nothing else to turn to, make a 50:25:25 solution of lemon or lime juice, apple cider vinegar, and water. Add 8 tbsp salt per quart. Brine your scallops for at least one hour. This won’t remove the STP inside the scallop but will effectively mask the taste by imparting a counter-flavor. Both the STP and the acid taste should balance each other, becoming subtle notes that aren’t really in the way of a good feast.

Still, dry scallops are the way to go.

2. Season well - seasoning your scallop is a science all in itself. Luckily we have a few decades of experience with the beast and can just stand on the shoulders of greater cooks. The two downfalls of scallop seasoning are “too soon” and “not enough”. Seasoning your scallops too soon will “burn” the surface. creating a rubbery layer. Seasoning not enough – well, you know what they say about seasoning: It’s like a bass player. No one notices you when you’re around, but go missing or off-beat for a second, and everyone hates the song.

I am using a dry seasoning containing dried and blitzed scallop roe. Since it’s highly unlikely you’ll get access to in-shell diver scallops, the seasoning below doesn’t contain it. Holler if you do, and I’ll update the mix for you.

1 part brown sugar

2 parts fine salt (no need to buy it, just crush your kosher salt in a mortar)

1 part paprika

1/2 part cayenne

1/4 part nutmeg

Instead of sprinkling the mix onto the scallop, layer a plate with the seasoning, then place the scallop on it. Its own weight will compact the seasoning layer slightly, pushing it into the cut’s natural cracks and crevices.

3. Sear in a mixture of butter and oil – butter has too low a smoke point to be an efficient searing agent. Oil lacks the browning abilities of butter. So we go with a 50:50 mix. Experts are torn on the question whether this actually raises the smoke point, but I tend to go with This’ and Sacrad’s explanation. Combining the two does not actually raise the smoke point of butter, but pushes a thin layer of oil underneath the milk solids in the pan, preventing early burning and the chain reaction which then leads to unsightly, burned tasting, oil.

4. Walk away – most people seem to have this natural drive to sear-and-flip. Scallops hate to be seared and flipped, as do most meats. Place your scallop into a pan at medium-high heat and walk away. Unless you are using a non-stick pan (and there’s nothing wrong with that, we’re not building a sauce. If we were, which is a great thing to do, non-stick would be a no-no), there’s a simple indicator when it’s time to flip the crustacean. Try lifting it (with your fingers, don’t ruin it by using tools) gently. If the sear still clings to the pan, it’s not yet time. Usually that’s around 2 minutes in for most scallops.

After flipping, add one tbsp of butter to the pan. Baste the scallop evenly with hot butter unless done. You’ll get a pretty good idea of what a done scallop feels like, keep squeezing and observing. Another reason not to use tongs.

5. Walk away, again – scallops, like most exercised muscles, benefit from a brief rest after being subjected to high heats. Place your scallop on a cooling rack for three to four minutes before plating and serving.

6. Make a great sauce – lemon wedges are soooooo 80’s. Beurre blanc might excite the French, but let’s be honest – the last time a French cook did anything worthy of mention they robbed him of the “Chef of the Century” award and gave it to Joël Robuchon. Thusly proven taste-impaired, why should we trust them about other things?

Instead, let’s look west to Spain and Portugal, home of some of the best scallop dishes I ever ate. We’ll make our “red ginger” sauce, which is basically a coulis.

Simply combine by equal weight tomatoes (seeded and concassed, which is a fancy way of saying “remove skin and seeds, then slice[1] into cubes) and red peppers. Add finely grated ginger. I go with about 1tbsp per tomato, season to taste though, not every ginger is created equal. Add sugar and salt to taste, then blitz with a stick blender until smooth.

Add into sauce pan and reduce until 2/3 of the water content is gone. At the last second add 1/2 tbsp of butter per 2 tbsp of coulis (which is about as much as you should put on your plate), incorporate well, and garnish onto plate. Add some finely chopped[1] basil, serve with warm bread. Voila.

See. Making great tasting scallops isn’t that hard, it’s cheap to boot, and it’s one heck of a dinner starter.

Footnote:

[1] Since I had this conversation last week, with three people – all of which have the education to know but disagreed, here’s how food writing should treat the different ways to part things in the kitchen:

1. Slicing – whenever a smooth motion of the blade creates one or more parts. The final outcome is not as important as the movement of the tool. Regardless of audience, food writing is not prose, it is trade writing. Trade writing should be exact. Slicing requires the use of a guiding knuckle against which the blade rests.
2. Chopping – a heavy, inexact, downward motion of the blade. “Inexact” in this context seems to be counter-intuitive since good cooks will chop with almost surgical precision. It is however (unlike the slice) not guided by the guiding knuckle of the offhand, and therefore considered less precise.

Large Dice, Batonnet, Medium Dice, Allumette, Small Dice, Julienne, Brunoise, Fine Julienne, Fine Brunoise, and Chunks are sliced. Fine Chop, Chop, and meat cuts are chopped.

]]> http://chezgeek.com/2010/02/02/why-your-scallops-dont-taste-like-mine/feed/ 9 http://chezgeek.com/2010/01/26/leader-what/ http://chezgeek.com/2010/01/26/leader-what/#comments Tue, 26 Jan 2010 15:36:21 +0000 jluster http://chezgeek.com/?p=1272

Yes, Barry, Jonas said to take him behind the shed and shoot him.

I just received my invitation to the 2010 “Restaurant Leadership” summit in Scottsdale, AZ. Setting aside, completely, the question how real restaurant leaders can make a week’s room in their calendars to attend a summit hosted at a spa resort in one of America’s most expensive places to do so, the real kicker waited below the fold.

This year’s keynote speakers are Mitt Romney, former Massachusetts Governor and former candidate for President, and Emil Brolick, COO of Yum! brands.

Now, restaurants are filled with deviants, illegals, immoral scum, Dirty Harrys and Henriettas, alcoholics, drug addicts, and worse. My side of the kitchen alone is home to some of the finest cooks in the west, and to some 250 years of combined hard time.  None of which has a particularly friendly opinion of Hanging Mitt, the man whose crusade against the world focused and focuses precisely on the same people that make fine dining restaurants in the U.S. tick.

With pretty much anyone but Chef and GM already alienated, true Leadership means to piss of everyone equally. A good way to do so, is to invite Emil Brolick. COO of Yum! brands, Brolick has never seen a restaurant concept he didn’t like to pervert into a soul-less, heart-less, nutritionally challenged mass eatery. The man behind Pizza Hut, KFC, and other abominations of similar proportions would make a great dart board picture for real restaurant operators, whose biggest struggle is not to make good food but to sell it in competition against the chain feed lots of McBell and TacoChicken.

The ’10s will be the decade of Restaurant changes. Away from the extremes of processed, extruded, nutrient deficient, energy dense, mass-produced foods for pennies pitted against expensive fine dining, and toward a trend of small, nimble, eateries, offering cheap, sustainable, local, and healthy foods to an increasingly educated and vigilant dining public. Failure to recognize this (a trend Starbucks picked up on quickly) will inevitably impact the bottom line of small and large food purveyors alike. And, just like for the restaurant down the street, a loss of as little as ten per cent of either one’s base clientele spells financial disaster.

This “Restaurant Leadership” thingie clearly didn’t smell the changing winds, and clearly knows little about the industry it claims to represent.

To quote a friend (who is MUCH smarter than me and therefore comes up with better one-liners): “Who’s getting fired over this?”

My hunch? No one. Real restaurateurs won’t attend, leaving the ensuing circle jerk to those whose idea of “leadership” is the same as that of a pirate captain – steal, plunder, destroy, and dominate. And that’s the intention. The summit’s advisory committee is rife with chain eatery managers, “Restaurant,” in this context refers to the perpetrators of mediocre foods, obesity, and unhealthy living. Maybe step one would be to take back the name, the word coined in 1765 by Boulanger, “restaurant” as what it meant and still means to me – a place in which food is served and services are offered that restore and refresh those who enter.

Likely that won’t happen. Too much good is riding on this word to be dropped by those who need a lot of words and smokescreens to sell. But then, more power to them. Those closing chain eateries in my neighborhood clearly suggest they need a few days relaxing on the links in Scottsdale to cope with their losses.

My introduction is as random as the ensuing conversation. “Got some pork belly?”, “Sure we do”.

From there it leads to modern farming practices, the carbon footprint of cattle transport (it is cheaper to ship a carcass from Iowa to California than to ship the feed needed for the cattle from the Midwest to here), being a Chef (yay, another Culinary grad, and being old-skool he calls it “The Culinary”, not by its newly prescribed “College” name), becoming a butcher, sausage making, “secret” ingredients, and where to go in Europe to learn from the best. We compared notes on chefs and their movements and Commander’s Palace and Emerill. Dave knows his stuff. And he spends time with his customers. This is the European way, the way I grew up with. Where, like in Cheers, everyone knows my name and is glad I came around, even if it’s just for a chat.

We talk about Twitter (if you are in the Alameda/Oakland/Berkeley/East Bay area, follow @baronsmeats for his changing sausage and special meats offers), Facebook, the changing world for blue collar jobs like mine and his and our need to be online, present, and available. We talk about Yelp and negative reviews. And we talk about survival in an economic recession.

Tonight I will eat schnitzel made from pork chops we bought there. I’ll cold-smoke the pork belly for bacon. And I will be back, driving the thirty-odd miles to Alameda just for my meat. It’s great customer service, organic meats prepared by a true artisan butcher, not a few untrained chainsaw operators behind closed doors.

Story Two: Patricia’s Pantry, Alameda

We move to Patricia’s Pantry. This store used to be independent, now it’s part of Pagano’s, but that hasn’t changed the attitude of its then-owner, now-employee for the better. She is, I am assured by anyone who ever shopped there, or attempted to, a nightmare on good days. Figures she’s driving a Prius.

The store is cramped, barely accessible shelf units sport anything from peeler-unitasker contraptions to single pots and pans and cheap knifes (“cheap” being a measurement of quality, here, not end-user price). In the middle of all this sits a saw horse on which, in precious balance, a cutting board is set. As we enter the second isle, the barking ensues: “Can I help you?”, “No, thanks ma’am, we’re just browsing”, “Can I help you?” (is she deaf?), “No thanks ma’am …”. I don’t rattle easily, and I scare even less easily. I am about to get angry, but now I am frazzled. What did I do to this poor woman to deserve the look and tone of voice usually reserved for Nazi Camp officers and serial rapists? Temporarily lost completely in soul searching prior encounters that could possibly warrant  such treatment, I step on the floor tile next to the one on which the saw horse is set.

Which leads to a shifting of said tile, my trying to regain a stable stance, and the tile next to it, the one with the saw horse, to be bumped by my tile. And that, in turn, leads to the sawhorse’s shift, the cutting board’s tilt, and fall.

“Can I help you?”, “NO, ma’am, we are JUST browsing, but I accidentally stepped on this tile and… “CAN I HELP YOU?”

At this point we decide this isn’t worth it. Amidst a flurry of spat comments about how this fragile contraption was used to denote a floor problem (the store itself is such a mess, the saw horse didn’t strike us as out of the ordinary, here), we leave. A sign would have done wonders, a saw horse didn’t really stand out next to the boxes, crates, and ragged goods nearby.

Ten minutes later, she finds us. Browsing the shelves outside her store in another area. “Just wanted to tell you how nice of you to just leave”. What did she expect us to do? Buy something from her? Stay for a chat and tea?

Kitchen appliances are all about fun, happiness, and family. They’re about comfort. Making customers uncomfortable is counter productive. I would have bought, I didn’t buy.

Story Three: Alameda Farmer’s Market

It’d the middle of winter, few booths are open. Some sell specialty goods such as vegan spreads, there’s the always-present Beckman’s bread vendor, Kettle Corn, and a lone produce guy.

Wherein We Conclude

The early ’10s are a challenge to all of us. With no real recovery in sight (unless you’re a finance tycoon, then you’ll recover a few gazillions in bonuses), small business suffer. Money is tight, customer acquisition and retention has moved from board room spreadsheets to small business owner’s late-night worries.

When the bucks hold on tightly to our wallets, it’s all about whom to pay, and for what. Outstanding customer service, presence and availability of subject matter expertise, and selection are the old and new criteria for seller success. Only today it’s a question of making or breaking the next month.

Restaurants can’t afford not to learn from other small businesses. We compete daily with chain eateries, frozen meal sections, and crap-food joints. Even amongst those customers who eschew such banal dining experiences, we are one of a dozen, sometimes even less.

Like the Alameda Farmer’s Market, empty menus will drive diner’s away. Like Patricia’s Pantry, condescending acts, high prices, messy displays, and passive-aggressive demeanor will prevent them from coming back. And, like Baron’s meats, subject matter expertise, friendly folk, great product quality, and availability of both frequent and specialty items, will not only ensure business survival, it will – counter to the trend – elevate customer acquisition and retention.

In this economy the snobbery of the ’07s is dead. As I wrote in “In Defense of Negative Reviews“, consumers have lost our ability to experiment with money. And their will to spend what little hard earned cash is in hand every month on anything but the best. And that “best” includes service, availability, and presence.

Make it count. Those who will, will survive to see another boom. Those who won’t or can’t … well, good riddance to them. If it took a boom to sustain that business, if it took less than perfectly discerning customers to ensure survival, maybe it’s time evolution takes them out behind the shed to be shot.

So here it is:

• Raw Milk. No worries, we’ll sterilize and clean and cook and heat the living crap out of our setup, which will make it close to impossible for the milk to carry any nasty bugs.
• 1/2 cup of white vinegar per gallon of raw milk. I usually make a gallon a time, two on weekends.
• Cheesecloth
• A aluminum wrapped brick (two, three, just for good measure. Keep them in your pantry, they’re heck-a-good for all kind of things. We wrap them in aluminum to be able to sterilize them quickly in the oven.)
• Salt, kosher, lots of it.

1. Pour the milk into a large saucepan. Heat at medium to 194/196 degrees F.
2. Stir with a wooden (not metallic) spoon, watch as a skin forms.
3. Remove from heat and skim off skin.
4. Let cool to below 100 degrees F, then add vinegar.
5. Stir, stir, stir. Slowly, deliberately, while the milk separates into curds and whey.
6. Line a colander with cheesecloth, pour a generous amount of salt onto the cheesecloth – about 1/2 inch. Pour whey/curds into it.
7. Let the whey drip through the colander/salt and either discard or hold to use.
8. Salt the remaining curds, very slightly.
9. Fold the cheesecloth over the curds, and twist shut, squeezing out whatever whey remains.
10. Flatten the cheesecloth satchel, place back into colander, place plate or something else large on top, weigh down with brick.
11. Move into walk-in or something equally cool – ensure the curds will reach ~45 degrees F within 2 hours.
12. Keep weighed down for 6 hours, done.

The trick is to cool the curds to 45 quickly and maintain the salt layer, which will – through osmosis and the magic of temperature and pressure equation in saline solutions – remove internal moisture quicker. Scrub off the outer salt layer before cutting the curd, it also helps to wash the curds in a little milk (use whole pasteurized).

Oh, and consider investing into mesophilic starter powder – it makes things even easier .

Working the Line

Bought six flats of product only to face a delivery of two – Enrique could be counted on to slip out back and come back, minutes later, with the missing goods.

Sous Chef

There was only one problem – Enrique’s status. Having immigrated illegally into the United States, then applied for advance parole and a work permit, the past six years found both Enrique and his Chef in legal limbo. Sure, there was a social security number to pay taxes to, and sure, there were frequent letters to the – back then so named – INS, but as time went by and INS became BCIS, then CIS, the DINS, and whatever else multi-letter acronym the heads in Washington could dream up. And with every change, with every new name, Enrique’s file seemed to slip a little further into the depths of bureaucratic hell.

“Enrique, I’d love for you to be my Sous Chef. But if we do this, we’ll have to re-file work papers, and I am not sure what will come of that,” Pete told him that morning. “Not to worry, bossman,” Enrique replied. “I do love my job, and I have just the man for you to be your new Sous.”

And so it came, that Sebastien joined our merry crowd at the House on the Hill. A CIA graduate, he had spent six years as a personal chef to Sheiks and movie starlets, then opened his own little place in BFE Arkansas, slipped narrowly past both a Michelin and a Zagat starring, served fine French cuisine to diners more acquainted with McKing and TacoBox.

He wore blue jeans and a chef’s jacket that seemed to fit someone 80 lbs lighter quite fine. His sleeves were adorned with patches, from ACF to NRA, ACA, and FCA. And his name read, in gold on black, “Sebastien, CMC, CEC”.

He carried a knife bag the size of a small car, expensive French and Spanish folded steel cutlery inside. The kind of blades some of us kept at home, taking to work only what fit the simple equation “which knife is good enough to use, yet cheap enough to replace once the sleazebag temp cook we hired this weekend steals them and runs off?”

Line Cook

Chef, as he was wont to do most Tuesdays, ran late. Soon we had finished prep, finished introducing ourselves, and Enrique, who had agreed to expedite that day to give Sebastien a chance to observe lingo and get a feel for the line, put aside the menu he’d just deconstructed for the new Sous. A quiet second later “the minute” happened. My favorite time of day, standing in front of my station, looking over my mise, I could hear the restaurant’s door fall shut, a sign that in a few moments a red or brown haired head would bob past the expo window on its way to key in the first order. The ticker over Enrique’s head would start humming, and soon thereafter Enrique would, in calm but firm demeanor, say “ordering two apps, one cabbage one belly, ready for two mains, one rib one rossi”. But right now, listening to the faint voices on the floor, gazing over my mise, quickly summing up what I had postponed until the next calm minutes (which inevitably never come, forcing me to juggle prep and fire at the same time, but space was very limited at the House on the Hill), I experienced zen. The calm before the storm. The seconds between our patient counting down from ten and the nurse handing us a scalpel.

The ticker began to spew. And spew. And spew. Enrique, eyes wide, quickly pushed aside the book he’d been reading, relocating his beloved CD player and the “Kiss The Chef” bobblehead, Pete couldn’t do service without. We needed room. That was one hell of an order.

“Fork me,” Bree on grill spat, and then it came. “Ordering twelve apps, two rossini, three belly, two red, three cheese, one veg special. Ordering also six apps, two green, two red, one belly, one soup. Ordering in addition, three apps, one veg special, one soup, one salad side vinaigrette. Ordering also for in five twenty-one amuse, four veg, two gluten free, six hot, nine cold”.

Only two Tournedo Rossini apps gave me a chance to glance over to Bree, feverishly cutting and plating her pork bellies, while kicking open the lowboy for the “red”, our Kobe beef Carne al’Abese.

Demonstrating his eery ability to see things most Marine snipers would miss, Enrique’s voice called out again, “Jonas, your greens are too tight, loosen presentation, little more reduction, else good, send”.

The corner of my eyes catch a glimpse of Sebastien’s station. There, furiously wobbling around, a helpless and hopelessly stuck man tries to cut croutons for the 19 appetizers that need them. No pan heating the “hot” apps sizzles on the stove, no tray with “cold” ingredients warms on his station. He’s a mess.

Sending my Tournedos, I do what lines do – push in. Today he’s line, not Sous. And today my apps are waiting on the expo window for a line of amuse that aren’t making it out.

I grab the prepped hot amuse, stopping in my tracks. Cuts are uneven, there’s smush on one, another one looks like a limp penis. Cutting every hot back to size, we plate. 30 seconds per. Max.

Enrique catches my eye, smiles, nods, and pushes the ready apps, now filling the expo table, aside. Slowly we turn out amuses, followed by apps.

The ticker hums again. “Ordering for the three-top two fish one beef medrare”, “Ordering for the sixtop two fish, two beef one rare one med, one veg, one sauce on side”, “Also ordering for party of twelve, duck times four, two beef medium and medrare, three fish, three veg”.

Five beef. For me, this means marrow bones, reduction (which is simmering on the stove), beef on the grill, roast potatoes, grab vegs, dress vegs, plate – within eight minutes. Satisfied with my rares and medrares I start sending. Another glance to the amuse station. Sebastien is struggling with his chicken for the salad. Some are burned, others, unevenly cut, seem raw.

Bree huffs, grabs plates, pans, and starts on chicken. By now orders come flying. More amuse, more apps, more mains, and the first order of desserts. We’re in the weeds, three lines doing the job of five, Enrique smiling, nodding, winking. I shoot a look at Enrique, something along the lines of “if you weren’t a lethal killing machine twice my size, I’d kick your ass”.

Nine, order for apps and amuse have slowed to a crawl, a few mains are ready to be sent, and Bree once again pushes Sebastien off the line.

When chef arrives at ten, we have a few words. Choice words. Chef preempts, having been filled in by Aleks, our Maitre d’.

“Enrique, what the f…”

“He suuuuucks, doesn’t he?”

“You sent me a…”

“Total lemon, loser, liar, zero, nitwit”

“You vouched for him, I thought….”

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Beau..,” he sputters, “beautiWHAT?”

“You see chef, you need a Sous. I am your sous. We both know that. So now we have this nitwit. I took the liberty of calling my cousins in this town, every one of them, and no one will ever, ever, again hire him. That means he’s stuck here. Have Jonas show him how to clean and do some prep. Let me Sous it. Pay him eight bucks, he’s not gonna run, everyone knows he sucks. Give me the four bucks you save. You’ll find a way. Cool, eh?”

Let’s say you feel stuck with your business. Let’s say you want to reach the next level. Maybe expand, maybe just attract more diners. Or, maybe, you want to revamp your menu, save money, reduce waste, buy cheaper. That stuff. Now, whom do you ask?

From the sadly now defunct "Pulp It". Social Media Monetizers.

You could, conceivably ask people who’ve been in the restaurant industry for a few decades. Who’ve been there, cooked that. Who ran their own restaurant(s), both as chefs and owners, who felt the cold sting of a recession before, who pulled out of it. You could try to find the guy who got his eleventh Michelin star with his seventh restaurant.

Or, you could find someone who made it a business to know about your business. Who went to school to learn about business. Who has worked with restaurants for years, has seen the in and out of the industry. Someone who knows a grease trap from a deep fryer, who knows what food costs are, and why they come to bite us in the arse every week.

Or would you go and hire someone who eats frequently in restaurants. Someone who has a microwave at home and can re-warm a killer salsa from 7/eleven in two minutes?

Definitely not that one, eh? That’d be stupid.

When you sit down at night, after the lights go out and the line is on its way home. When it gets cold in the back, and when the smell of kitchens, that very specific smell you’ve come to associate with your job, gets stronger, when you bend over your notepad and try to come up with a menu…

Is your first thought “oh, that Rachael Ray woman, she’s on TV, let’s see what her book says about cooking steak”. Or do you turn on FoodTV to learn how to poach an egg?

No, you don’t and you wouldn’t. That’d be stupid.

So why, pray tell, do you do exactly those things when looking for Social Media and technology consulting. You, without hesitation, see through the consumer glitter of Rachael Ray, you wouldn’t turn to Guy Fiery to learn how to make Tournedos Rossini. But every week, every day, every hour, some chef, some GM, some restaurant owner, pays big bucks and a lot of attention to the self styled “experts” in technology and social media.

© KoiFish.

Simple truth: you don’t learn to cook from reading cook books, you won’t learn social media from books, experts, and by paying money. There’s only one way: get in there and get cooking.

As chefs, we have learned to query the consumer but trust the producer. Except when it comes to web sites, Twitter, Facebook, and other technology. Suddenly someone using the service, a consumer, a diner, becomes the expert in making the service.

We have learned to cautiously observe our purveyors. Whenever there’s money to be made by selling to us, we have learned to ask twice, check thrice, question four times, then buy. Except when it comes to new media. A glitzy promise, a quick nod, and we’re in. We buy. We believe.

I know, it’s easy to be overwhelmed and fascinated by the things out there. A MyTwitFace (MySpace/Twitter/Facebook) presence is as important these days as a Yelp profile, a web site, good food, and not pissing off the restaurant reviewer. One might even argue that, with the slow decline of print media, a Facebook faux pas bears more potential repercussions than pouring hot soup down a reviewer’s lap.

Do what you would do for your menu. Ask the expert, not the self-proclaimed one. Ask the gals and guys who have worked, successfully, in social media. Don’t ask the guy who eats at restaurants, don’t ask the guy who has a Twitter account.

There are successful hospitality online presences out there. Ask them. Ask the people who made those happen. And, for all that is good and doesn’t spoil, you don’t turn to “Celebrity Chefs” for advice in your kitchen, don’t turn to “Social Media Consultants” for advice online.

In 2010 we’ll drive our teeth (and watch others drive) into PBJ with a twist – using home made peanut butter. Made fresh, this treat will keep about two weeks in the fridge, but please remember that fat attracts and traps smells, so make sure your jar is tightly sealed.

Step 1: Rinse the jars you’ll be using with boiling hot water. Personally, I clean my sink with 2% bleach, then place a baking rack inside it and let hot water run over the jars. At the same time I bring water to a rolling boil, turn the jars open side up and fill them with the boiling water. Good jars won’t blow on you, partly due to the rather small temperature change, partially because they’re made to not blow.

If you’re just making a small amount (20 oz peanuts is the smallest you can do, however, due to blender restrictions, you have to have some substance in there) you can get by with not being so anal about clean jars, but the longer you plan to store things, the more cleanliness matters.

But, honestly, do you expect something so deliciously cool to last very long? I don’t.

On to the works. Shell and remove the skin from your peanuts. High-oil peanuts, such as Spanish peanuts are better, I try to get mine from the Texas peanut farms, those have the highest oil content you can get in the U.S.

Toast your peanuts in a pan until the peanutty flavor emanates clearly. They’ll turn slightly yellow-ish on the outside. If you have to add some oil (I usually don’t and just toast them as I would other nuts and seeds) use peanut oil.

Let them cool down slightly on a cooling rack, then put in blender. Add 1 tbsp of kosher salt per 10 oz of peanuts. Also add 2 tbsp of honey (Hawaiian is my favorite, since it’s slightly nutty in flavor) per 15 oz of peanuts. Grate about 1/2 tsp of fresh nutmeg per 15 oz of peanuts into the mix.

Turn on blender and pulse six to ten times until the nuts are chopped into chunks and the honey is worked in slightly. Then turn the blender on medium-high and let run for one, two, minutes. Grab your squeezebottle of peanut oil and slowly drizzle about one tbsp of oil per minute into the running blender. Stop once the mixture looks smooth, you might have to stop a few times and scrape down sides, make a note of the consistency at those stop-points.

Now comes the tricky part – refraining from eating it all before it’s canned. If you can overcome this hurdle, you’re all set for this Ten For ‘10 resolution – home made peanut butter.

Want an extra? How about my absolute favorite, peanut butter glazed ham? Here’s how:

• Roast your ham as you usually would, but abort operations about 45 minutes prior to completion.
• In a blender combine 1/2 cup of our home made peanut butter, 1/4 cup of Hawaiian honey, 1 cup of chicken stock (that’s for another Ten For ‘10), 1 garlic clove, 1 tbsp of brown sugar, and 2 tbsp of Worcestershire sauce. Blend until smooth.
• Take out the roast and place on aluminium foil large enough to wrap the roast.
• Brush the smooth glaze over the ham, wrap in foil, finish the roast.
• Serve, be happy.

Here we go? Like it? Lemme know.

I’ve been thinking about chez Geek, lately. And where I want to take it. When I started the blog, having just ended the abusive relationship with my last weblog, kicking the offender to the curb where it belonged, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. So I wrote.

Over the past weeks and months, one thing has come up consistently, however – I’d have this great three-liner conversation from earlier today. Or a picture of that pork rind foam. Or some quick ten-second rant about having to wait six hours for a DMV photo.

None of which “fit” into chez Geek. As a matter of principle, I won’t post pictures of food unless I can explain, to the last bit, how it’s made. I won’t use chez Geek to rant about politics above and beyond food politics, and posting a few funnies from service today just seemed to … banal … for the blog.

The solution, it seems, was to branch out. And for that, without much further ado, I give you … chez Jonas. A quick arrangement of bits and bites. Next time you won’t be missing out on that photo of Bruce Campbell and me trying to speed-eat sausage links (he won). Or the broken fryer that set the kitchen on fire. Stuff like that. And more personal crapola.

While there will be one huge post about  converting my home kitchen into a lab, I’ll regale you with by-the-minute pictures of the construction. And while I likely won’t write about competing restaurants here, I might on chez Jonas.

So, head on over. Subscribe to the RSS feed. And, you know it, you totally want to follow me on Twitter. Right? Right!

We’ll start off simple. Most are aware, that it’s easy to make mayonnaise at home. It’s also cost cutting, healthier, and tastes better. So, instead of teaching you something new, we’ll start with my hope that I can wet your appetite for home-mades with this simple recipe. Go ahead, make some. And post a picture on flickr or elsewhere and let me know, I’ll post them here.

Sandwiches and burgers are but two of many dishes that benefit immediately from adding a little mayo. In the case of sandwiches it even serves a dual purpose, providing taste and creating an insoluble layer between bread and juices, keeping your baked goods stable.

Making mayonnaise is simple. Unless you or someone you know is allergic, use peanut or walnut oil (1 cup), else use the “light” olive oil (not extra virgin) you can get in supermarkets anywhere or clarified butter (that’d be another one in this top 10). Also get 1 egg, juice 1 lemon into a small vessel, a pinch of salt, and – if you want to – some freshly ground white pepper (see the ingredient page for white pepper about grinding vs. buying).

Set up: separate the egg, setting the whites aside for other uses. In the restaurant, where we burn through many flats per service, I tend to freeze my whites and yolks. At home they get a “thanks for showing up” and a swift kick into the bin. Just not worth it for one egg. If food safety is a concern, btw., get in-the-shell pasteurized eggs. I never do, I’ve been eating my own mayo for years now, and nothing ever happened to me. Don’t sue me if you get sick, but the chances are low since mayonnaise has a very low pH and is therefore very inhospitable to bacteria. Adding lemon juice will raise the pH, but by then it’s too late for most gnarly critters.

The egg yolk is what makes our mayonnaise happen. It contains lecithin, a natural emulsifier which binds and thickens. Since this is chez Geek, let’s harp on lecithin for a second, shall we?

An emulsifier is a substance which can be used to bind together two usually noncombinative substances (water and oil, for example). While the chemical definition of lecithin consists of many substances, when cooks and food chemists talk about it, they usually talk about phosphatidylcholine, a phospholipid. Without getting into the nitty gritty of chemistry, here, in a nutshell lecithin swings both ways and is attracted to both water and oil, therefore forming a three’s-a-company bond between the two. And that, again very simply spoken, helps keep water and oil together. Other emulsifiers are mustard and honey. The former, incidentally, finds its way into mayonnaise quite often and I’d suggest trying it out once you have the basic recipe down.

Making it mix: You may go one of two ways. Either use a whisk and a bowl or a blender. In both cases, the key is to whisk briskly and to very slowly add the oil. Personally, I keep my oil in a squeeze bottle, drizzling slowly with my left hand while whisking with my right. At work I place a rolled up moist towel underneath the bowl to prevent it from slipping, at home I have silicone bottom bowls which don’t skid much, even when going all out.

Turn on the blender with the egg and one teaspoon of lemon, mix for a few seconds on medium, then crank up the blender and slowly drizzle the oil in. Once the mayonnaise is all thick and fluffy, which should happen close to the one cup of oil having been integrated, turn off the blender, remove, taste. Add more acid and whisk in, season with salt and pepper, or add other seasonings to taste.

When using a bowl and whisk, do the same. Just whisk where you’d blend. I whisk, because I am not 45 yet, and I hear I am in for cook’s disease (most professional cooks develop arthritis around 45 due to the temperature changes during constant manual labor in very cold and very hot materials) and want to enjoy what’s left.

Tips: If you seem to be grinding a puddle of ingredients, you might have to start over. Your emulsion broke. Try adding the oil slower and try adding a teaspoon of dry mustard for additional emulsification.

Variations: While classical aioli is made without egg (using mustard for the emulsion), sandwiches and dips get extremely cool if you make some. Just proceed as you would with the mayonnaise, adding garlic you ground in a mortar to it. Please, please, don’t use garlic salt. And grind well into a paste, or the result will be chunky.

Traditional aioli, btw, just uses a mortar and oil, drizzling oil as the mustard and garlic mix is ground for ten to fifteen minutes.

Your mayonnaise leftovers hold up to five days in the fridge.