Have Knife Will Travel

It's hard to keep up sometimes. Too many plates spinning at once, and if you're not careful, you'll lose focus and start breaking them, the audience will gasp, possibly boo. Then what? It's mid-April already. How did this happen? How wide and deep is this abyss that consumes time? Does anyone care anymore, or are we all on auto-pilot, pulling days of the kitty calendar and throwing them in the bin? I think I care, but I learned a long time ago that time is ever the victor and we just have to deal with it rolling away like it does. It's like a bad trip. You just have to go with it; to fight it is to end up under the covers, alone, while your friends sync up Atom Heart Mother with the Goonies and laugh and scream as One Eyed Willie eats "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast". Who wants to miss out on that?

Blogging when you work in the industry at this level of immersion is hard. It's an afterthought, at best it's a quarterly post, which is barely comparable to the three or four posts a week I had before I was in a serious relationship, before I was married, before I opened a restaurant and became chained to the line like one of Madame LaLaurie's cooks before the fire. It's like that. The rules changed once I was on the other side of the window. You can't blog the same way. You can't say the same things. You can't. There is a thin line already between pride and pretense on a blog, and the line is thinner once you are a cook. It's one thing to post a pic of your plate when your a prideful home cook, but that same pic as a professional is just douchey. "Hey, look what I did." It gets old. But, you do want to put yourself out there. You want that recognition, because you're human, and you have an ego, and you know someone's getting off on that.

This year has been all about learning. As a student on the path, you can't stop. To stagnate is to die, to be a relic. It's nice to be reminded that you are but another brick in the culinary wall, and that that in its own way is inspiring. I've done a good amount of staging this year. Not because I'm job-hunting, but because it's good to get outside of your comfort zone and go cut veg for someone else and start back at the bottom. I've also spent some time in a few food trucks, which is interesting, different.

The Butcher is now getting recognition. I'm glad he's been a character on this blog for as long as he has. He is finally getting some credit for his skills and not being ignored, or having ideas brushed over by those with less experience. His partnership with Ben at Salt & Time seems so perfectly timed (I introduced them, which is great), and well suited. Things are going well for them, but that's not my story. I've gone out to the shop in Neiderwald, a temple of cured meats in our area, and made sausage, prepped, watched, learned. I've long been a student of his, so it's great to take it further, to keep learning from a master. I was really stoked to help them pull off a successful stint in the SquareSpace food truck during SXSW, where I worked the flat-top making almost a thousand pig face sandwiches. It was a great experience.

I did a night at Hudson's. It was bittersweet, but a great experience. Kelly was a gracious mentor for the night, yet it was eye-opening to see what was going on behind the curtain. They have a great crew, and are still doing great things. I liked working the pantry. Again, it's nice to be on the bottom. Old friends and new out there. I enjoyed the real life dramatic irony of being just another loser stage to the line cooks. The twenty-one year olds with their egos, and their questions about "why are you interested in cooking?" It was great to see their faces when the FOH showed up, most of which I grew up with, and everyone came by and gave me a hug and we talked shit. One of the kids came up to me later and asked how I knew everyone. I know everyone. It's that simple. We had one of the kids come stage at Black Star, and he would have gotten the gig, too, but he's moving in less than a year and we need more commitment.

SXSW came. Came hard. All over this town's face. I took that opportunity to help out East Side Kings for a week. I made new friends, and again, saw the real Wizard behind the curtain. It's fun. It's hard work in a tight space, like sex in the back of a Volkswagon. Those kids, and they are kids, are the real pirates. Sure, their captain gets all the credit, but their out there 14 hours a day manning the sails and making sure the hordes of hipsters don't overrun their bows. I liked working the fryer, and doing prep; lending my hands to an institution that gets a lot of recognition for Paul's successes in other arenas, and in turn, long ass lines. I got to work the window for about seven hours one night, just doing customer service, and that too was great. A real trip back to my roots.

Of course, the chip shoppe, Black Star, is home. It's busy. We've doubled our old food sales records. Fridays and Saturdays feel like the battle of Helm's Deep, and we are the Rohirrim, looking out on a see of faces crashing like waves against our walls. It's badass. We kill it. Lately the focus has been on the future, and new programs, Spring menu, and communication. It's hard to be a team in an industry that is used to having a head man in charge. But that is the point. That's the challenge. The beauty of the fucking thing, ever changing around you, constantly needing attention to sustain. I love it. I love my crew. We're not the pirates of ESK, even if we've stolen a few, but we're similar. We're not adrift either, we have a mission, a vision, a membership to feed and titles to win. Like I said, this, this forum, has to change to stay consistent with that world. I can't just spout off nonsense. There is decorum that must be observed. No more "whites for Tyson." I'm digging around in my bag to find my shades, because the future is bright.

Get Sprung

The ol' timers around these parts have a saying: "If the redbuds are bloomin', the white bass are runnin'." If you've looked around in the past few weeks, you can see that the redbuds are in bloom, and I can assure that the white bass are biting, even if a bit more discriminately than I may like. Does this mean it's Spring?

Where do trees come from, mommy?

Look at that fat sow.

Technically, no, not until next Monday, but I say fuck it, it's close enough. The winter garden has come and gone, those wonderful four days below freezing in February did a wonderful job of getting rid of some plants that I would gladly have eaten; no joy was derived from pulling their goopy, burnt carcasses from the soil. Bummer. This decimation left ample room for Spring crops to rise up and take over. This year, we've planted a good variety of tomatoes (early girl, purple cherokee, mr. stripey, viva italiana, sun gold, yellow pear, and something else that I can't recall), a few strains of beans, some carrots, radishes, and herbs.

Little maters.

One week of molasses fertilization later. . .

Thumbs up from this guy.

With the weather getting a little warmer at night, I've started germinating seeds for chiles and basil. I am hoping to over produce and can, a dream that never reaches fruition for me, due both to crop loss, and improper canning equipment. Yet, with this many tomato plants in the ground, and them already bearing some fruit, it may happen this year. I long to reach for my own jar of strained tomatoes, or tomato paste, or just whole tomatoes. I also want to pickle some beans and peppers, preferably together, as Blackberry Shortcake loves a spicy green bean in a well deserved bloody mary.

The Week in Review

We've been open for just over five months now and the reviews have finally come in. Things are favorable for the kitchen team and that makes me happy. We are definitely helping to bring people in to drink beer and we need that.

I'm glad people are out there eating, and enjoying, the food we are putting up. We're having a good time doing it, and the business is steady and increasing at all times. We're able to deal with it in a manner that wasn't possible at the outset, and that makes me feel good. And that's the point, right—pleasing others while doing something you love?! That's like a double super buzz.

In one week we've gotten some love for our bacon toffee, and larger, favorable reviews from the Statesman and the Chronicle. Someday we'll figure out the music thing, and people just might have to live with the modernity of the place until it gets a little more character over time. Yet, all things take time and we'll get there when we do. Until then, we'll keep up the hard work, and sacrifice that makes it all happen and love every minute of it.

Thanks y'all.

Winter Garden Comes Along, You Must Pick It

After about a year and a half of back and forth, home, girlfriend's, home, girlfriend's, a garden can severely fall to the wayside. A return to stationary, sedentary living and a pre-existing raised bed are highly conducive to planting and reaping the benefits of a small, high-performing, backyard vegetable garden.

Only the beginning.

I love gardening. Two reasons: nostalgia and bridging the gap. We had a garden growing up, and my mother would pick the goodies and cook them. I thought that was pretty cool. As someone who loves food, has worked with food forever, and has gained an assload of knowledge about the woes of the industrialization of the food chain and all of the bullshit related to that, it just makes sense to turn eight by four feet of yard space you aren't using otherwise into something that can feed you. Healthily.

What I mean by bridging the gap is simple: the end user is the producer. In most cases where end user is also producer, the product is better. People want good shit, that's why they do it themselves. Gardening is no different. It's your garden; grow what you want to eat. I like greens, so that's what I've got right now. Plenty too, and some broccoli, radishes and snow peas.

Best garden gnome ever!

Pea shooter.

With spring coming soon, I'm getting excited about starting seeds indoors for all the chiles and tomatoes I'm going to grow, and plans for my new compost bin are in the works. As for now, it's all brassicas and lettuce. Perfect for a salad. Poach a few farm fresh Alexander Family Farm eggs and you're in business.

Aigs.

Money shot.

One Day Closer to Death

Back when we had just opened, one of our Pub Team members—who I will refer to as The Guns of Brixton—showed his daring colors by asking simply for 'cool-ass-shit' on his burger without a bun. What he got was a thing of beauty.

Two pieces of lettuce to make it healthful.

A burger, beer-battered, cooked rare, with beer-battered lettuce, tomato and avocado, and, naturally, to avoid excess carbs and stay on the safe side—no bun. With mac and cheese. We called it the Jared. It was awe-inspiring and one of those moments where we started to find a niche in our kitchen.

He ordered another one the other night, and still wanted some cool-ass-shit on it. No bun, of course. I got to make this one, and it was fun to hammer a nail in my homey's coffin. Deep-fried burger, avocado, bacon, tomato, onion, topped with a fried egg and glazed with melted bacon toffee. Side salad to round it out.

Oh, me-oh my-oh, I'm in love with you.

Oh, The Guns of Brixton, we salute you and your glory. May your arteries stay unclogged and your days be long and filled with deep-fried sensual delights.

How to Get A Head in Business

The name isn't very appealing, nor is the process—but the end result is delicious. It doesn't necessarily look that great to the lay folk out there, as most people are probably turned off to a loaf of meat suspended in it's own jelly, but head cheese is really fucking good. For real, and you can run tell that, homeboy.

We've made a few batches at work recently and there is a highly visceral reaction every time we get the heads out. After they've cooked for a few hours they tend to look like a prop from a Sam Raimi movie, or maybe early Peter Jackson. Sometimes the snout falls off.

Face off.

You can pick your friends. . .

The last batch we made was by far the most beautiful to date. There was a bit more love and care taken in reducing and clarifying the pot liquor, as our previous batches had a darker, greenish aspic, but this batch has a nice, clear aspic. The process of refinement requires more discipline than simply boiling the shit out of the pot liquor until it is reduced. You must skim and skim and skim the scum.

Meat Jupiter.

Head cheese is one of those food items that doesn't call to you if you are the normal restaurant goer. I think you have to know, and be just adventurous enough to go for it and taste its deliciousness. To me, it resembles dark meat turkey and giblet gravy, only with a beautiful meat jelly holding it all together. Like dark matter, or the Force.

Last weekend the Butcher—who also recently made a significant career move—attended a European-style seam butchery class. He was enamored with the new techniques he learned as well as with the kind Austrian folks that put it on. Naturally, part of the class on breaking down whole hogs centered around making delicious things out of the oft discarded parts of our friend Babe. I was so lucky as to get to taste these Austrian-style headcheeses, both a red, and the straight-up, as well as a meat spread (this resembled whipped pate du campagne or a highly aromatic potted meat). We had a beer and ate our little charcuterie plate and caught up on the state of our respective career shifts and life was good.

More like moistard.

There were noticeable differences in the schools of head cheese here. The one we've been making is of British lineage, and you could see a difference in its Austrian cousin. I won't be so presumptuous as to say that one was better than the other, but they were different. For starters, the Austrians used a fresh pot liquor to make the aspic that the head meat is set in. The logic here is that when you use the original pot liquor you have all the "stuff" from the head in there: cranial fluid, mucus, potential hair, etc. Now, sure, this sounds gross to most people, but lets not forget the refinement process of skimming mentioned above and the temperatures at which this is prepared. Most of this "stuff" is going to be be removed and through straining you should get any unwanted hairs out of there. Using fresh aspic seems like a waste, since the original pot liquor is so heavily saturated with collagen and flavor from the head.

Secondly, they set fresh herbs in the aspic, which is something to look into for the finished product. Since it is eaten cold (it is a luncheon loaf after all), flavors are subdued and therefore a little extra greenery may be beneficial. Time will tell. Also, there were pieces of meat that were not of head origin in there, which is great when you have a whole hog to deal with, but we've had no need to use extra meat since these Richardson Family Farm hog heads are enormous and have the cheeks of John Goodman.

The red head cheese was something of dreams. Face meat and blood sausage! Yes, please. I love blood sausage, and this combination made for a rich snack full of ferrous goodness. I left the rest at work, otherwise I would have eaten it with a fried egg. Very good. I don't know about making it at work, as those who freak out watching us fillet a fish would not do so well watching me slowly cook a pot of pigs blood until it thickens into deliciousness. I'll have to save it for the prom.

Bloody hell.

Somewhere Between Meat and Fat

I've got your nose.

The Return to the Life and Times

Don't be duped.

It seems that we often are waiting for the dust to settle—I'm starting to think that it is wiser to live as if you are the settling dust. Besides, isn't that the sparkly shit that is always suspended in some living room dissecting sunbeam? That's stuff's alright, so why not?

I'm out of the grocery biz and back in the Life. Only this go round I'm on the other side of the window, putting up the food instead of taking it away. Fruition. I'm having a good time back there, learning a lot, and generally taking it all in. Making a career switch near thirty seems risky, but if there was ever a time to do so, it is now.

After nearly five years of hard work from an entire community, we have opened the world's first cooperatively-owned and worker self-managed brew pub. I am on the kitchen team, and work with an awesome group of people with ranging experience and a common dedication to making Black Star successful. Our food is pretty damned good, and our beers are coming soon.

We are currently in our soft opening phase, as we are waiting for our house beers to be available before having a grand opening. I don't think it is technically possible to have a brew pub grand opening without the brew pub's beer. This phase been prolonged due to some minor construction issues, yet this extra time has been a good period of refinement for our kitchen team as we work out a few kinks on the menu.

Since we are a worker self-managed organization, we are completely lateral. There are no positions and the only titles are that of Brewer, and leads for each of our four teams: kitchen (back of the house), pub (front of the house), business (administration), and beer (beer production and selection). It's safe to say that no one has been in this type of work environment (partly because the combo didn't exist, and because working for the Man is the far more dominant paradigm), so we have been working with our established protocols as a base for making it up as we go along. It seems to be working fairly well thus far, and will continue as long as we make communication one of our primary focuses.

So far the hours have been long and the business good. We've done no advertising, yet still have a packed house on the weekends and steady service on the weeknights. We've been working towards presenting our first Irrational Menu (locally sourced, seasonal fare - specials from around here) and have a few special tasting/pairing meals in the works for Austin's First Annual Beer Week (this week).

Local, seasonal produce and proteins aren't only on Irrational Menu, they have a dominating presence on our Rational Menu as well. Other than stock items (potatoes, onions, celery, etc.), all of our produce is local and is rotating. We're right on the cusp of seasons, so we still have some summer hold outs like zucchini and yellow squash and cucumbers around, but are also seeing the slow creep of fall crops like yams, butternut squash, radishes and greens.

The only meat proteins (I say this because we have tofu) on the menu that aren't sourced from Texas are the Niman Ranch beef and bacon, which are of superior quality, and therefore exceptions were made. All of our uncured pork comes from Richardson Family Farms in Rockdale, and it is amazing. We source sustainable farm-raised redfish from Lone Star Aquafarms in Palacios and our shrimp are from the gulf. The chickens and the eggs are from Gonzales. We also occasionally mix in beef from Windy Bar Ranch for our burger blend and chili (broke down a chuck roll yesterday). Also featured are the delectable cured meats from Ben Runkle at Salt and Time. Yum.

Using products of this quality and sourcing is crucial to both our mission and my own peace of mind.

The ship has finally left the port and is on a course straight into the heart of the uncharted waters of cooperation. I'm feeling pretty good about it all. People are excited, and this is, after all, for the people. I've been delinquent in my blogging, yet wasn't inspired nor had the time to put any serious efforts into this. I still don't have the time, but the inspiration is there and I'll have to make the time. Thank you for your patience, as I hope I can produce something that will bring you, at best, moderate levels of entertainment.

Stay tuned.

A Tale Of Two Chilies

It's the official state dish of Texas. It does not contain beans. There are no tomatoes in it. It is best friends with ice cold beer, preferably Lone Star. Texas chili. Red. The best.

Growing up in Texas, chili was a staple. My father would make really spicy venison chili. One time, he entered a chili cook-off at the local bar. His chili was dubbed "John Wayne's Nuclear Chili" and it was hot. After they announced what the prizes would be, he tried to change the name to "Third Place Chili" due to the prize for third place. It was some gift certificate to somewhere, maybe the hardware or auto parts store. He won second place which awarded him the prize of a gift set of boating equipment—life preservers, some ropes and a few of those rubber bumpers you throw over side when you tie-up in a boat slip. We didn't even own a boat.

Unfortunately, I must have not paid much attention when Pops was making that chili. My first go at chili many years ago was a complete failure. Epic, epic fail. For some reason, I thought that chili was water based. I had browned the meat, and cooked the onions and garlic and peppers (which were jalapeños, serranos and habeneros—no dried chilies or anything like that) and added the chili powder. Then I filled up the pot with water. The end result was like a thin, hot-as-shit broth that, after some minor excavation, would yield a piece of meat or maybe an onion. I tried to thicken it with flour to no avail, but we still ate it because there were four of us in a two bedroom apartment, we were all in college, and were pretty damn broke.

Years later, a co-worker of mine from the Land of Enchantment opened my eyes to two ways to make chili, both of which have merit and yield a similar result, yet one is far superior in flavor. One way is to take red chile powder—not chili powder—and toast it. Then you make a little roux, combine with the toasted chile powder and then add beer and stock and your own secret goodies until the consistency is to your liking. The other involves a variety of dried chiles, reconstituted in water or stock (save that shizz) that you then puree in a blender. This is the chile base for your chili. I prefer this method.

A few weeks ago, Co-Chef and I were going to prepare a lunch for the workers of the Black Star Co-op. Frito pie was our choice dish. We discussed chili methods and he made the batch that was to be served that day. It was delicious. It contained beef and pork, and had some really beautiful subtle notes of clove and cinnamon. He used ancho and chipotle chiles and some serranos and jalapeños for some heat. There was an excellent underlying smokey quality to this chili. I can't recall the beer he used. Near the time of service, he added a little masa to thicken it up. These made great frito pies enjoyed with a Stone 2006 Vertical Epic.

Fuckin' A right!

When he was making the chili, he reserved a bit of the base that was used to make a vegetarian version with chayote squash, portobello mushrooms and golden beets. This vegetarian chili had some balls. It was really substantial. The sweetness of the chayote and the golden beets played really well with the earthiness of the mushroom and the smokiness of the chiles. Total win.

Last week, I wanted to make some chili. To be honest, I wanted to make some clear-the-freezer-out-chili. There was ground lamb, feral hog sausage, and some pork stew meat that needed to be used up. For the base of the chili I used guajillo, ancho and de arbol dried chiles and fresh serranos and jalapeños. Samual Adams Boston Lager for the beer and beef stock were used as well. For some reason I feel lager needs to be used in chili, not a big stout or something dark or roasty—I want that roasty, smokey flavor from the chiles to stand out.

The resulting color was a glorious red. I like to use some coffee grounds in my chili, as well as some cinnamon and a bit of clove in addition to coriander and cumin. The spices really give the chili a warm, welcoming aroma as it approaches your feed-hole. Some acid at the end sets the whole thing off. Oh, and buttermilk-serrano cornbread. Ice-cold Lone Star was invited to join in the fun.

featuring Way Back When butter.

The subjective nature of chili recipes leads me to believe that there really isn't a wrong way to make it. That is, so long as it doesn't contain tomatoes. Beans, when I want them, are on the side and can be added as an extra. They are not necessary for the flavor profile or the thickness or anything, really. Just farts. My girlfriend frowns on farts, therefore, I frown on beans. Plus, there are no beans in Texas chili and I'm from Texas. You can still be hanged in Texas for things like that, so there's some powerful incentive to do right. Chili recipes are more than likely cultivated over a lifetime much like a writing style, kendo, or calf-ropin'. For now, I'll keep tweaking this recipe and see where the road takes me. As long as there's cornbread and ice-cold beer involved, I hope the road goes on forever and the party never ends.

Excess in the Crescent City

We went there to party.

Of all the places in the world you can say that about, New Orleans is at the top of the list of most likely to succeed. If you find yourself in a daiquiri bar at three a.m. taking photos of WHO DAT? flavored daiquiri, you will know a feeling of success and satisfaction rivaling that of winning an election or getting the girl.

New Orleans.

I could never live there. I'd be dead in three weeks. They say that when you live there, you don't eat and drink to excess every night like you do when you visit. Then why live there?

We were only there for three days and as many nights. It may have been one night too many. I hadn't been since I was nine, and was naive about what to expect. We arrived on a Thursday afternoon. After a meandering shuttle ride, we made it to the Hotel Saint Marie Antoinette on Conti St. (kahnt-eye). Black Berry Shortcake, the Birthday Girl, and I were all famished. We went to a little dive one door down from the hotel that was known for it's crab cakes. More like crap cakes. The French bread my po'boy was on was soft and whole wheat, the blood marys were more like cocktail sauce than a beverage and there were shell bits in the dried out looking oysters. What. The. Fuck? This was all wrong. The crab cakes, as terrible as they were, were the only redeeming aspect of the place. A sad turn of events for our first outing for bloodies, po'boys and oysters.

The Birthday Girl had plans for us go out for barbecue shrimp. I didn't understand what the fuss was about, I mean, I've had barbecue shrimp, big deal? We met her parents at the revolving bar of the Monteleone hotel. Before the meal, her father was persistently talking about the sauce that the shrimp came in, and instructed us how to sop it up properly, which is to say to his liking. He was persistent about everything.

I'd never heard of Pascal Manale's, or this famed bbq shrimp. Upon seeing it, I was confused. These are not barbecued!? These are not shrimp! The sauce was all butter and white wine. The shrimp were the size of small lobsters and the french bread was as perfect as the pattern created by the buttery sauce on my bib.

It was serious business and getting through the entire portion was hard labor. Papa Birthday was insisting I drink rum like he was, so I did. Despite our previous road bump, this meal seemed like an appropriate start to a weekend of excess and over-indulgence.

After a late night, Blackberry Shortcake and I awoke and went to Cafe Du Monde for café au lait and beignets. Unsure of the procedures, we wound up in the to-go line, taking our fried doughballs and chicory coffee off premises to enjoy. Watching people eat these beignets was hilarious, a mound of powdered sugar collecting on and between their feet. We soon became those people.

That night, after more drinks at the revolving bar in the Monteleone Hotel, we went to Jacques-Imo's. Their chicken livers were phenomenal. My panned rabbit wasn't nearly as delicious as Blackberry's cajun bouillabaisse. Overall, I enjoyed my meal. The tasso cream sauce and pasta that supported the rabbit left tasty bits to enjoy all night. After a concert across Lake Pontchartrain, I found myself in a beer bar on Bourbon Street with the Birthday Girl and a man named Mayo, Donovan Mayo.

He looked like part of the chorus in Guys and Dolls and was in from Baton Rouge for a wedding. Sometime around five a.m. a man walked into the bar that sold gumbo from his truck. The staff suggested I buy some of his seafood gumbo, as it was the "best in the city."

The late night gumbo peddler brought me a stryofoam cup filled with goodies, inside half of a soft shell crab bobbed in the thinnish, dark broth. It may have been the best in the city. I don't know. At the time, it seemed like salvation in a non-biodegradable grail. It was five a.m. and our beers were eight dollars.

The next morning came too soon, in fact it was already there. Saturday. The big day. I was going to Cochon's Butcher. I had been wanting to eat there for some time, ever since my own Butcher had made the pilgrimage to this palace of meat. They specialize in house-made charcuterie and offer their art by the pound, to go. They also had a small menu of items you could enjoy while sipping fine French wine and selected beer and spirits.

Ordering the charcuterie plate was obligatory, as was the cheese. Blackberry Shortcake had the Cubano sandwich, the Birthday Girl got the house-made hot dog, and I had the meatloaf sandwich. We shared an order of in-house boudin with homemade mustard. Everything was amazing. The charcuterie that day featured pork rillettes, two salamis and something resembling proscuitto. Almost everything came with spicy bread and butter pickles that were unbelievable.

After a few more drinks we were off to meet Birthday Girl's parents and some fresh-blooded friends for more food and booze.

Gout fest!

Boudin!

An oozing, meaty loaf. . .

We walked around the Quarter, confused, looking for Birthday Girl's sister. Krewe de Vieux was that evening and we were set to see some of the action. Unfortunately some damned fool fouled up the party with conflicting plans. As we waited for the parade, we stepped into what must have been a trap laid by Disney or Ted Turner: Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville. Never go there. Never order a bloody mary there. You may as well drink your own urine.

After that mishap, it was off to Lüke for more meat and booze. By now my body was getting accustomed to consuming at least nine thousand calories of food and alcohol per day. At least we were walking to most places. Lüke was a success. Like round two of an epic prize fight between my liver and the world. Winner take all.

They served duck and rabbit paté in hermetically sealed jars, the texture was elegant; the rosy insides were meant to be inviting. More charcuterie was ordered: headcheese, paté du campagne, stuffed trotters, more rillettes and paté and salami. Then came the order of choucroüte garnie that had been halved f0r me and my new friend, Pappas Chef. For some reason, we added extra portions of duck confit and cochon du lait. The half portions were massive, yet, undaunted, we dove in.

Do you see the confit?

After this ridiculous feast, we went uptown to Tipitina's (after more confusion and jackassery) to watch the Radiators. Much jager was consumed. There was rum and dancing. Old men raged on old instruments. Afterwards, we went to a dive called the Apple Barrel, where we listened to a little band and suffered from bad service. After a few more bars and many more drinks we were asleep.

Radiating.

A brass band rattled me out of bed. I was hoping they would keep walking, but they didn't. They just kept playing. We went for more coffee and beignets. There was a stage set up below our window. Men were wearing dresses. We decided we needed breakfast first and ducked into a convenient eatery for gumbo and jambalaya. Afterwards, we had some coffee and beignets at Cafe Beignet, which in some ways was better than Cafe du Monde.

The sickness hit at the airport and I was down for the count. I wallered on the floor like the pig I was. Over two hundred pounds of filth and debauchery. I consumed an inordinate amount of fluids and felt somewhat better by the time we made it back to Houston.

New Orleans is the Mos Eisley of Earth: you'll never find a more wretched hive of scum, and villainy. Even the music is similar. I'll go back, and I'll know what to expect next time. I know which bar that gumbo-truck-guy was in, how to get to the Faulker House bookstore, where the best guts and bloody mary's are, that the bar is actually moving, and that hats are definitely a must.

Black to the Future

Sometimes keeping things close to the chest is much more difficult than expected. Of course, there are deviations from this (Kennedy? Roswell? Both Bush elections...), and I should feel proud that we're getting our names out there. If you don't know, now you know. Welcome to the future, where are my shades?

The Darkness of Future Past

I tend to spend the first few days of a new year thinking back on the last—a practice I that developed over time as a tool for being a better person—and the experience leads the mind down many paths towards some ultimate goal that I may not have codified yet. I spend a little bit of time examining my successes and accomplishments, yet go to great lengths to really look into my failures, mistakes and poor decisions—it is this practice of introspective reflection that is the cornerstone of my personal growth.

Sometimes I get down on myself in the process, yet it is mostly a positive experience with each failure or mistake being an opportunity for potential growth or self actualization. I just can't feel badly about learning a lesson, even when I was really, really in the wrong.

In the kitchen in 2009 there were many successes, even a few accomplishments, yet there were failures both epic and minuscule in abundance. This is inevitable when you are taking risks and trying new techniques and combinations of flavors. Each food fail has pushed me forward to this point, an event horizon from which there is no turning back, and 2010 will usher in a new era of my culinary awakening. Consciousness and deliberate action must be the foundation for what will be achieved this year. Are we ready?

What to Do?

I didn't make a pie this year for Thanksgiving. For some reason it's the only time of year I ever get the itch to make one. Well, I guess I should have made one or used protection, 'cause this itch isn't going away and I need to take care of it before it festers.

On the way to work this morning I contemplated pie making and it's place in my near future. I have some ideas for pies that I want to do. Possibly gluten-free pie crusts (but she doesn't like pie?)? Just like the post in the link above, my mind has turned to savory pies. Meat pies. Yummy meat pies filled with goodies (offal). Maybe that deer heart my Pops brought me will go to use in a pie.

Right now I'm just thinking about it (a lot). I usually do an apple pie. "Fancy" apple pie, some might say, but really it is just simple, traditionally produced scratch pie. With my finger more or less on the pulse of glorious seasonal fruit, I find myself thinking about foregoing apples all together. Maybe persimmons would be better, more appropriate? Or kiwi? Or. . .

Nature of the Beast

Gourmets and gourmands share several defining characteristics, what sets them apart is that the gourmand's love of food is so intense that it often causes them to eat to excess. Today is our day, get to it.

No NaNo

It's November and that means that NaNoWriMo is in full swing. I can imagine the entire legion of the makeshift novelists click-clacking away on their laptops, looking broody, brows furrowed, hands unsteady from drinking way too much caffeine, while watching their word-count plummet as their blood-pressure skyrockets. That's how it works though. You type a lot of crap and you write a novel in a month. Or at least 50,000 words of a novel.

I am not participating in NaNoWriMo this year, but plan on being back in action by next year. Last year's trip to London pretty much killed my chances last time around, but I still know the taste of victory from crossing that fifty "K" mark back in ought seven and it is kind of like when you find a morsel of bacon in your teeth later in the day—nostalgic and delicious. This is a very challenging competition to impose upon yourself, yet I suggest everyone try it at some point just for the hell of it. You occasionally will write something that will impress you later, but for the most part it feels like you are writing crap and desperately trying to carry a narrative. Good fun!

I recently landed a cookbook reviewer gig for ChefTalk.com. Should be neat. You can read my first review here.

From One Belly to Another

It's interesting how food trends seem to permeate all media at once in what seems to be a bizarre widespread synchronistic event. I've been waiting for a few weeks to cook this piece of pork belly and while I waited, everyone else was digging in. The Statesman ran a piece on pork belly and this week's Top Chef featured Pigs and Pinot, with two cheftestants doing belly.

Interesting. Of course, pork belly is nothing new, but it has been getting a lot of play over the past year or so. If you've ever enjoyed it then you understand why. This is one of things that lets you use the word unctuous in a positive way. Yum.

Slabbage.

Last week I ventured down to the North Buda Bungalow to feast with Shaddley & Co. I already had this nice piece of Niman Ranch pork belly so we were going to go about the evening in the usual fashion of multi-course Dionysian decadence. After a brief stop at a centrally-located market, it was off to the newly revamped kitchen of Shaddley and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl.

I was really excited about the pork belly and even the late start time couldn't deter me from braising it in the loving way it deserved. Yes, we had a late start, around eight or so, which made for an extended evening of dining and drinking.

There was much prep to do for all the other dishes, so I got the belly in the oven as quickly as possible, reserving a small amount for use in other dishes. The belly was the fourth course of this small plates feast. I had time to drink some wine and go about my business preparing the rest of the meal as the pork belly sat in the oven discovering itself.

There was a gap of time between the third course of lamb and tiny dutch potatoes, and the belly. A gap that was long enough, apparently, for one of the guests to suggest that they watch The Dark Knight. I think this time out of the eating and drinking pocket was the demise of two of our feast mates. Shaddley came back from the realms of dreamy floor land just in time to eat this dish. Of course, being that some of the inspiration for this plate was a play on bacon and eggs, it's almost appropriate to eat it after waking up. Then again it was one thirty a.m. and not noon.

Pork belly, I love you.

The braised belly was lightly fried, then coated in a sweet and sour Shochu glaze and served with rutabaga puree, egg white, an egg and apple emulsion and parsley puree. The pork was fun to eat, sticky and sweet with grounding, earthy flavors of pork, star anise and cinnamon. Like the best bacon you could eat. There was something reminiscent of sweet and sour pork as well, which is often made from this cut. The sticky Shochu glaze paired well with the pork belly's unctuous nature.

Bacon candy.

Unfortunately, only YogaMarketingBrownieGirl and I were able to feast on the desert of bacon toffee and panna cotta. I crisped some of the reserved belly for use in the toffee, which came out nicely, redeeming my last overdone batch. Shaddley was forced to enjoy the dessert after coffee the following morning.

Bold Moves

I've never even heard of Eater. Maybe that says something about me or how little I care for the foodienistas out there in the abyss, but I do find it to be a bold move to put a call out for bloggers to hang up their keyboards "in order to make way for stronger reporting of the food world."

Sure, not all blogs are created equal—I actually don't read more than a handful and haven't had the time to keep mine up and running over the past few months—but there is something disconcerting about a food related website asking bloggers to shut it down for a nominal fee. Poking around on this Eater website, I found the usual poorly written foodie crap that I personally don't care about or write about (who cares about Rocco DiSpirito's newest pitch on his long road to selling out?). So, this leaves me poised to ask why—why ask us to stop writing about our passion? Sounds wack.

I'll ramble about whatever mundane shit I want to motherfucker.

Food bloggers out there, don't do it. Resist the temptation of making a quick $25 bucks and don't stop writing about food. Food bloggers in Austin seem more apt to cover locally produced foods, locally owned restaurants and the scene than some shitty national website that thinks it has its finger on the pulse. This move is nothing new. Eater seems to have a lot of advertising dollars coming in from the Food Network and the like, folks who have turned eating into a sport and homogenized food trends and styles into neat little marketable packages with frosted blonde tips, like Guy Fieri. The idea that they will be releasing an 'Eater's Bill of Rights' today, and that it should be in any way taken serious, is a joke.

Keep writing and cooking and eating and loving food the way you want to, not the way the Big Foodie in the Sky tells you is cool. Fuck that shit.

Night of the Michelada

Summer in Austin. Been there, done that. This has been one for the record books, too. So hot and dry that sometimes I think I live on Tatooine. About a month ago, Blackberry Shortcake and I left this arid wasteland in search of cooler, more moist climes. We ended up in Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico.

I miss you PV.

When our plane touched down on the tarmac, the captain announced that it was 78º at our destination. It was about one in the afternoon. We ate before we crashed. I had tacos, she had nachos; we both had micheladas. The food was good, as were the micheladas.

Tacos and nachos. Just like at home.

A damn fine michelada from Costa Vida, I mean Playa del Sol.

The michelada. This version of the cerveza preparada seems to vary in composition nearly as much as the margarita—and becoming just as ubiquitous in Austin bars and eateries. Breaking it down to the fundamental ingredients, you have ice (helada), lime, hot sauce or some sort if spice, salt (if you like), Worcestershire sauce (no thanks), and beer (slang: chela)—preferably a Mexican lager, although any lager will do. I prefer Pacifico. In the end it is yours, or mine (mi). Thus, the michelada. My iced beer. Not a bad concept. Frankly, I don't mind adding ice to a beer that is already rather watery; I would never imagine doing this to a lovely IPA or Wisconsin Belgian Red.

Blackberry Shortcake and I have enjoyed many a michelada thus far this summer. We've even been making them at home—she contends that ours are better than most that we have had out in the world and I tend to agree with her. What's our secret? What makes ours better than the store-bought options? Trechas. Yes. You read right, trechas: the chile salt that little brown kids love to put on mangos and watermelons. I swear up and down that this is the key to a great michelada.

In Mexico, however, there was no trechas. Most of the micheladas that I had had some kind of hot sauce in them. A few had Worcestershire (salsa inglesia) and even fewer were served with tomato juice and no lime. A few times, our micheladas were served with some extra sauces for you to add to taste. Brown sauce, much like the Brit's HP sauce was served, as was hot sauce and Worcestershire. I can honestly say that I enjoyed them all, yet would have preferred to have one of our trechas jobs over any of them.

Worcestershire heavy at Vista Grill.

This is my favorite photo.

Lime heavy at Mariscos Tino.

Summer drinks are funny. Actually, seasonal drinks in general are funny. I used to get all bent out of shape listening to people talk about how they couldn't drink stouts or eat heavy food in the summer. I always got the point, yet out of shear irreverence adopted the attitude of: Fuck you, I'll drink and eat what I want, when I want, damn it—which in hindsight is as dumb as every other attitude or position that I've adopted out of irreverence or for the sake of being a contrarian.

Now, not only do I see the point, I chose to accept it and enjoy these seasonal treats when they come. Like stone-fruit—why the hell would I want to eat a peach in the dead of winter? I can ask that very question about the michelada or the mojito or Campari and orange. As I get older—and inevitably wiser—I'm coming to appreciate these types of things more and more. This doing of things when things should be done. Dare I say that I almost respect the appropriateness of it all. Coming from someone who has striven to be as inappropriate as possible as often as possible, I'd say I just added a +1 to my maturity rating. However, I find it rather ironic that thinking about an alcoholic beverage can cause one to contemplate how appropriate their behavior has become. Fuck it.

Things Done Changed

Fear not, dear reader. We're still keeping it bearded and weird over here, just felt the need for a minor name change. I realized at one of those blogger events as I said aloud the former title of this blog that it was rather long and clunky to say. "The Life and Times of a Bearded Weirdo" doesn't even imply that this is a food blog, right? We don't plan on changing the variety of the content that gets posted here though—"As if you post any content. . ." You joke.

Seriously though, folks, things have been crazy busy around here. Work and food and work and food and work and beer and wine and food and work. You see how this goes. There has been more reading of words than writing going on, as well. So are the way of things. The way of the Force. Anywho, there are good things a coming (which, after all, is what you get for waiting oh-so-patiently).

Bacon and potatoes, bakin' in the Sun! Besos.

Something Summery

This was the statement that Shaddley made as we g-chatted about cooking dinner a few Fridays back: 'something summery'. It had been a while since we had hung out and eaten and drank to excess. Annoying summer allergies had forced Blackberry Shortcake and I to cancel a barbeque the week prior and now, feeling better, it was on. 

I had some ideas for something summery. I sell produce for a living, so knowing what was in season was already covered. When I think about something summery, I think about grills. I think about fish. I think about fruit and booze. Unfortunately, whenever we get together for these multi-coursed Dionysian affairs it tends to be on a Friday, which happens to be my day off. This means that rather than going to Wheatsville, where I work, we go to a more centrally-located market down south. The selection is good, but it is never the same. At least for me, being mostly concerning the produce. 

Shaddley came by and scooped me up and we headed down to the grocery store. I had a few ideas, but wanted to see what kind of proteins they had to work with. I was thinking strictly seafood. I wanted to keep this thing light. I wanted to do several courses and have the ladies be able to keep up. This mostly means that I didn't want to bog them down in the first two or three courses as we have done a few times in the colder, distant past. 

We spent a good amount of time in the produce section, selecting seasonal varieties of squash, eggplant, stone-fruits, berries, rhubarb, figs and snap peas. After that it was off to the meat market. Unlike my place of employment, this centrally-located market offers seafood that is not sustainable. I try and eat seafood in good standing according to the list generated by the Monterey Bay Aquarium—I even keep one of the guides in my wallet—so Chilean sea bass was a big no, as were a few other delicious looking items. 

We sampled some wild caught sockeye and picked out some halibut, Gulf shrimp and Gulf red snapper (red snapper is on the avoid list, yet the piece was so small they gave it to us for free and I imagine it would have been thrown away otherwise—to me throwing away food is a greater atrocity then helping it go extinct). After our brief stint in the seafood section, we only had a few odds and ends to get from the rest of the maze-like cavernous expanse that is this southern, centrally-located market. This had Shaddley a bit freaked. "That's it? We don't need any _____ or _____ ?" Nope. 

As soon as we got to YogaMarketingBrownieGirl and Shaddley's house, I got to work on sauces for the meal and dessert. After all the veggie prep was done, it was time to get started on individual dishes. Since 'something summery' was the goal, a good portion of this meal would consist of cold dishes that could be made in advance. The grill was lit, wine was poured, gazpacho strained and chilled. We were on the track for a great meal. 

The ladies arrived, more wine was poured and I started to plate up the first course: cherry gazpacho. I really like gazpacho. I like it both ways that I've seen it served, strained with a velvety texture and chunky like salsa. I'd say the latter is the more commonly seen option around town. For this celebration of cherry season we went for the former. The result was a cooling, creamy, delicately-flavored soup that had a near bisque-like quality to it. It was very rich for a mix of vegetables, fruit and herbs. If I hadn't have made it myself I would have been certain there was some heavy cream in it. 

Soup shooters. 

Following the pallet-piquing gazpacho, we had a small portion of sockeye sashimi served with a sweet red miso-shozu sauce, toasted nori and a small slice of fresh Texas peach. I would have preferred the more subtle Coho salmon for this dish, but the option at the centrally- located market was farm raised and I don't play that either. The result was beautiful. I was a bit worried about the intensity of the red miso, yet didn't see the reasoning to purchase white miso when I knew that Scotts had the red on hand. All in all, it was good so I'll stop complaining about what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Sockeye it to me.

We had a small salad of snap peas, red onion and garlic dressed in a simple white wine vinaigrette. This was a delicious and crisp little salad, yet you can see from the photograph that I probably should have either cut back on the raw garlic or minced it. Some found it to be a bit too 'spicy'. I had one bite in particular that pretty much wiped out my palette for the rest of the dish. Fortunately, we had plenty of dry, salty Spanish white on hand to rinse out the overly acrid garlic sensation. If you see any of this Txacolina around while you are out and about you should get some. It has a refreshing saltiness about it like Gatorade without all the annoying colored-sweat laden commercials. 

Raw garlic all up in yo face.

Chaw-koe-leena

After the salad, it was on to some lovely red snapper and strawberry ceviche. This was a really fresh ceviche, tossed with valencia orange juice and a sploosh of extra vigin olive oil right before serving as to not tense up the snapper and allow for its taste to still stand out. I love the combination of fruit and fish. This may be the islander in me, but for some reason it just makes sense. We had moved on to the Albarino and it was delicious and complementary to the subtle acidity of the ceviche. This dish was a hit. 

Unsustainably delicious. 

Delicious. 

Just about the time that we finished up the ceviche, the paprika-rubbed halibut and summer veggies were ready to pull from the grill. Continuing with our theme of fruit and fish, the halibut was dressed with a spicy Texas peach relish and a grilled Gulf shrimp. The grilled eggplant and baby zucchini were dolled up with a little dollop of creme fraiche. This dish was a hit as well. 

"Just for the halibut." - Blackberry Shortcake

Well, it wouldn't be a meal with Shaddley without fromage. The funny thing about this course was that we ate the cheese we bought for it before we started our meal. Good thing he is such a cheese head that he had an extra wedge laying about in his fridge. Grilled figs and balsamic were served with this chunk of semi-hard cheese. I had drank some wine by then, so I have no clue what we were having. 

Figs et fromage.

Normally, I don't eat ice cream because it causes me to pass out in about thirty minutes, but I was feeling ballsy. After all, we live in Texas and nothing says 'something summery' like Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla. This lovable treat was served along side some nice fried plantains with a strawberry-rhubarb compote. Shaddley had said he'd never had something with rhubarb that was done 'right', so I endeavored to do so. When he and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl went back for a larger bowl of seconds, I knew I had won. 

I also endeavor to take a photo of dessert that isn't blurry. 

As usual, we drank way too much wine. I don't have any fancy list this time to prove it, but trust me, we did a damn fine job. This meal was the gateway to a summer full of culinary promise and seasonal revelry. The company was great and the food spectacular. It was yet another great night at the North Buda bungaloo. I sat on the couch eating my ice cream as the sustained notes of Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain put the finishing touch on a meal that fused Spain, Japan and Texas into a refined taste experience. Content, I went back for seconds too. I sat there on the couch amongst great friends, full from a fantastic meal and was able to stay awake to enjoy the rest of an evening that was a testament to everything I love about the life I am able to live.