Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

Murder & Redemption in Sweet Home Alabama

There is a reason that redemption comes after murder. I suppose you could redeem yourself first and murder after, but that’s just not the natural order of things…

Eric and I pull into a small town called Falkville in Alabama not too far from Birmingham after a seven-hour drive from Charlotte, North Carolina. “My Aunt lives out here… somewhere…” I think out loud as we drive through land that looks uninteresting and rural in every direction.

Grey, everything looks grey. The blue sky is smoky and dusty orange from a controlled burn, the land has yet to spring into green, the trees thin, twiggy, and barren.

 

We pass countless little churches with spiky white steeples pointing rigid and straight up to the heavens. The signs outside quote and paraphrase various bible scripture that do more to scare people into prayer than welcome with open arm: “When you die, you will meet God” and “Heaven or Hell, you choose.”

Eric and I come up with our own versions, the best being: Admit mistakes and get good returns.

And in between these small simple white country parishes are supersized churches. Religious compounds. They look powerful. A twenty-foot banner hangs from the side of one Baptist mega church like an advertisement for a new movie: The hammer, the steeple, the body…

This church looks like a business not a humble place of worship and I can’t help but to wonder if there are actually enough people in this sparse county to fill an auditorium that no doubt seats 2000 people or more. And I wonder if the little parishes are even full on Sunday.

This part of Alabama is a dry county. And there is something about this that irks me.  Well anyone trying to tame my bottomless wine addiction puts me on the defense.

The people that I meet at the truck stops and along the way to ask for directions, because my GPS is lost once again searching for signal, are warm and gracious. They are friendly in earnest wanting to help and chat about where we are coming from and where we are going to. They are as curious about us as we are about them.

Why here? Why would my Aunt want to live here? This is some lonely living. No movie theaters, no bustling down town. The closest center of action, besides the supersized Babtist churches, is a Wal Mart Mega store where you can pick up groceries, clothes, jewelry, electronics, and more.  No beer though. You cannot pick up beer. No ma’am.

We peel off Highway 31 onto Old Highway 31 and my GPS is telling me my Aunt lives on the left but there is nothing but hay bails on the left for miles.

 

We look right and see a long gravel driveway leading up to a gracious old brick house. I see my Aunt’s P.T. Cruiser parked outside and know this must be the Tune Farm: Annie Tune’s Certified Organic farm.

We pull the Budget truck slowly up to the back porch where a harem of multi colored cats are lounging lazily and looking distrustful of our presence through bright yellow and green eyes. A fuzzy grey jezabel walks to my feet and curls her bushy tail around my ankles attempting to inlisit a back scratch.

 

I knock on the door and nobody answers. God, I hope we’re at the right place! We walk in and I know we’ve hit the mark from the mix-matched antiques that have a certain country comfort kind of feel. It’s like an Anthropologie home store, feminine and rustic.

I call through the house for Annie and no one answers. I run up the stairs searching the five bedrooms for signs of life but find nothing but space heaters buzzing room to room.

The only sign of life besides the cats are a pair of peacocks that make the most God awful squawking noises.

The sun is setting and the temperature drops drastically. I thought Alabama was supposed to be warm but it is freezing cold. Much colder than New York. Eric is still in shorts and doesn’t seem to mind the frostbite nipping at his heels.

We search the tool shed, the old animal barn, the back forty my teeth chattering uncontrollably and come up empty handed. Then we find the greenhouse.

“Lordy, lordy! It’s Missy Glaze!” My Aunt calls, dropping her hand shovel and coming up to me with wide stretched arms. “I jus can’t believe you’re here!”

She gives me a big hug, grabs my chattering jaw with her warm hands and says, “We better get you inside! You’re freezin’ to death!”

 

This is a big farm for one lone farmer and Annie has through a stroke of luck or genious or both found two young farmers recently graduated from UC Berkeley to intern for a year.

They come sauntering up to the greenhouse weapons of mass destruction in hand (pitchfork and shovel) and greet us with big hugs. They are, with no condescension implied, adorable. Their worn-in overalls covered in dirt, layers of flannel soft with use, mud caked work boots, and generous smiles impress me.

 Suzie and Oliver are doing what they want to be doing: farming the land and making it grow. Inspired by the prospect of forming their own CSA they have been steadily preparing the farm for Spring. And they are bubbling with ideas, fresh with inspiration, and loving every minute of having a big ol’ farm to call their own and make of it what they want.

Suzie is a kindred spirit and earth mother. She likes to grow things. In the kitchen she has glass jars filled with different fermenting concoctions. Her latest fascination being homemade Kombucha. She grows fermented chains called ‘mothers’ and places them in various sweetened teas to create vinegary refreshing cold drinks.

And she bakes bread. God does she bake some mean bread. We’re talking whole wheat soft loaves stuffed with cheddar cheese & jalapenos and dill & garlic. Bread to break and sustain the heartiest appetites slathered with homemade butter.

 

To add to the fermented list is sauerkraut pickled with cranberry juice and carroway (a throw back to her Polish ancestry) and hard apple cider, a prisoner’s desperate and delightful deliverance. I eye the Happy Jack wondering if she’ll miss a gallon of it if it magically disappears.

In the vein of true Southern hospitality Annie and I hit the road to find alcohol. A little time alone with my Aunt is just fine by me and we throw the PT Cruiser into drive and speed down the Old Highway to the next county of Decator which promises some cheap whiskey, wine, and beer.

“Don’t get caught!” Oliver calls to us through the kitchen doorway laughing at two old women in need of drink. We buy our bottled sins and make a quick trip to a BBQ house to pick up a gallon of Brunswick stew and a coconut cream pie to take home.

“You can buy a gallon of stew here? I don’t know why, but that just sounds wrong.”

“Oh yeah, you can get a big ol’ gallon jar of it. Suzie loves the glass jars anyways. She makes her Kombucha in them.”

 

Annie and I drive and drive and pull up the gravel driveway to her cozy farmhouse. We enter to the smell of fresh baked bread...

 

and a wonderful cumin and blackeyed pea stew with wilted arugula from the garden and a little bacon grease for flavor. A tossed salad graces the table with lettuce picked only minutes before.

 

“I’m not leaving.” I announce.

“Me neither.” Eric chimes in both of us in foodie heaven.

 

We put the Brunswick stew in the refrigerator for another day since Suzie and Oliver have cooked their hearts out in our absence. I pour red wine for the ladies and crack Budweisers for the men. Actually Annie and I are double fisting with wine and beer. Well, why not. Budweiser tastes more like flavored water anyways.

 

We eat like Kings. Polish off the magnum of table wine and an 18 pack of Bud and hit the hay. I sleep deep on a featherbed with a little space heater desperately trying unsuccessfully to do her job.

In the morning Suzie and Oliver are at it again cooking up food so fresh and delicious I’d pay twice the amount of a fancy restaurant just for second helpings. She spoons a big dollop of her cranberry sauerkraut next to my farm fresh eggs and places some strong black coffee next to my seat. I scarf down.

 

“I will buy your sauerkraut for my restaurant. Anything you can or jar I will buy. Just tell me what you want for it and we’ll work it out.”

“Really? That could be cool. I’ve never thought of selling any of it. I guess I’ll have to perfect the recipes.”

“Well you should think about it. And don’t worry about perfecting it – you’re already there. I’d hire you in my kitchen just so I could eat your bread everyday.”

After breakfast we hit the local flea market where my Aunt Annie runs the parking lot collecting 50 cents per car. There is everything to be found here. Animals, chickens, saddles, food, antique cast iron pots and pans, junk, and blue eggs.

  

Oliver, Suzie, and a new addition to the intern team, Alex, find a shabby looking dog in a cage and debate with Annie over whether or not they should buy it for $20 and take pity on its sorry state. It’s a mixed breed: beagle and hound.

We talk the owner down to $8 and he swears tooth and nail through tobacco stained yellow teeth that the dog does not bark or chase chickens.  The dog is not a chicken killer. Annie gives him a once over through her crystal clear turquoise eyes suspecting that he’s fuller in shit than his crusty appearance is letting on.

We take the dog anyway against better judgment.

“We need a dog that will kill the groundhogs.” Suzie and Oliver justify their nurturing hearts. The other dog on the farm is a gentle rotwilder that prefers swamp swimming to hunting.

We get the dog back to the farm after I get shooed away from one woman’s stall for taking photographs of her $1 grab bag collection (why? Did she think I was going to copy her idea?!!). Our motley crew is feeling good after our dog rescue. It is a sweet dog.

 

At the farm the dog is unleashed. It makes friends with Carla the rotwilder, a good sign, then it takes off after one of the chickens semi killing it by grabbing its feathery neck and thrashing the chicken back and forth. The other chickens squawk and we run over to the crime scene.

Annie is in shock and visibly upset. She pens up the dog who immediately begins barking its head off and yodeling for us in hound-dog fashion to unleash it. Oliver grabs an axe and lops off the chicken’s head to put it out of its misery.

 

But now our crew is left with a chicken and no idea what to do with it. I’ve gutted and plucked numerous feathered creatures and skinned rabbits and baby boar, but none that are freshly dead. And I’ve heard it’s hard to get the feathers off of fresh kill.

After quickly researching the farmers put a big pot of water on to boil. Dunk the chicken by the feet into the pot and pull off the feathers. They come off easily. They singe the pinfeathers with a torch and debate on how to gut it.

 

 

I explain that I like to go through the neck sticking my fingers up to the top of the breast bone and fingering the lungs loose then reaching back further and pulling out intestines and all in one clean swipe.

But a book on Country Living says to cut the chicken across the thighs to gut it. I’m wondering if this is the way to go with a freshly murdered chicken as opposed to one that has had time to firm up with rigamortis.

I’ve also cleaned chickens through the butt hole. I know that sounds bizarre. But in France we clean capons through the backend. You cut the anus a tiny bit larger and then pull all the innards out while everyone in the kitchen cracks jokes at your expense in French. Executive chefs included.

The reason for this innard enima is so the skin over the breasts is not torn. And the opening around the neck is kept smaller. It is very important that a whole cooked bird has beautiful crispy skin that is fully in tact.

Oliver, very much wanting to gut his first chicken, makes an expert incision with a buck knife from thigh to thigh reminding me of a field cesarean section. Warm gelantinous yellow fat spills forth but no intestines. The crew gathers around and debates the next step.  They are fearful of puncturing the gall sack and ruining the flesh of the bird.

 

I’m afraid my gall sack warning has caused hesitation so I shove my hand in the bird and reach far back to the neck into the warm gushy innards and blood feeling around for the lungs to loosen and pull as much as I can out.

The blob does not come out in one neat grab probably because the bird is still warm. There are still odds and ends to rip out and Alex and Oliver take turns reaching in and fishing out the rest.

 

We wash the bird, crack open some beers to celebrate, and feel mightily redeemed that we have turned a wrongfully murdered chicken into something useful like dinner.

 

Eric and I leave the farm and hit the road aiming the truck towards Oklahoma City by way of Tennessee and Mississippi. Suzie packs us lunch and hands me a large jar with Kombucha mothers so I can make my own when I get back home. I squeeze Annie promising to come back in the Spring.

 

Goodbye Sweet home Alabama, hello Oklahoma O.K.

Fried Bologna is Back: From New York to North Carolina

Saturday, and Nico a friend from work who has been given a full weekend away from the hot line, comes to help me pack up my NYC apartment.

No small feat considering I have just spent the previous day puking my guts up for hours on end and have no real desire to carry heavy boxes and furniture. Just my luck, my last weekend in New York City and I am food poisoned. Either from the cheap BBQ wings I had feasted two nights before or the Chipotle burrito the day after which only digested for roughly one hour before emerging looking surprisingly un-chewed in my toilet bowl.

I’m sure there are worse things to regurgitate, but I can’t think of many that top black beans, hot sauce, and marinated chicken.

Nonetheless, Nico the “French Terminator” as we have lovingly dubbed him at work for his make-it-happen work ethic and funny sounding French Alsatian accent, get to work wrapping everything we can in shrink wrap and loading up the truck. Nico is a master packer. Not suprising because he is a very efficient and organized cook.

The decision to drive my apartment across country was out of necessity although the romantic idea of driving through America’s backbone easily turned my grim reality into an exciting adventure.  When will I have an excuse to make this kind of trip again? No doubt my new home at Le Club restaurant in San Franciso will keep me fully engaged for years to come.

Road trip. God it’s been ages since I went on a road trip.

I rent a Budget truck after many blog readers advise me against using U-Haul trucks to drive across country. (And I must add a quick ‘thank you’ to the reader who provided the low down on rental insurance). Before Nico arrives on Saturday afternoon, I go to the rental place, take a look at the 10’ truck I’ve rented, shove open the roll gate cargo door to check out the space that will house my apartment, and realize it is much to small. Much, much too small.

I go back to the office and sweet talk the manager into giving me the 17’ truck for the same price. Things are looking good so far even though my stomach is still not sure if it wants to be cooperative on this journey.

Climbing into the cushiony driver’s side I adjust the seat, my side mirror and reach for the rearview mirror when I realize there isn’t one. Shit. I’ve never driven a truck before. I roll down the window on the passenger side and adjust the other side view mirror.

Keys in ignition, radio blaring Lady Gaga’s overplayed hit ‘Bad Romance’ I peel out of the Budget truck parking lot onto the Westside Highway and commence in making my way South to the financial district, my home.

This is fun! I am so much taller than I’ve been before riding higher than the cars all around me. I can’t believe I’m doing this, I think out loud laughing for nobody to hear but Lady Gaga.

I make a left off of the Westside Freeway and head over to 7^th street and now I’m a little nervous. The streets are narrower and I have too much stimulous to take in trying to negotiate stoplights, parked cars on my right and traffic passing me on my left.

And then the worst happens. As I’m looking out my side view mirror I hear a deafening smack. I automatically look into my nonexistent rear view mirror and then to the passenger side mirror which is no longer outstretched but firmly folded into the window.

I have just taken off some parked car’s side mirror. Shit, shit, shit. Do I turn back? Do I keep driving? Oh my God, I can’t believe this.

I pull over, shaking, get out of the truck and adjust my mirror then slowly walk down the street to see what kind of damage I’ve caused. And there it is, a car with a demolished side mirror. Some guys standing outside work on a smoke break are laughing their asses off. I smile sheepishly.  

I’m waiting for some one to come running out and start screaming at me, but no one does. I leave a note, nervously take another quick glance around, and get the hell out of there.

This time I keep the radio off and drive slower down the street until I make it to my enormous apartment building. And now the real fun begins: parking a 17’ truck in New York City. 

There is no parking in the financial district. My building, a block away from the Stock Exchange is a heavy security area with guards up and down the block and meter maids that fly out of nowhere giving double and triple tickets to illegally parked cars.

I drive around the block once, twice, three times, four times. I need to park oustside the building but it is a ‘no standing’ zone and the moving trucks that have dared to risk the vengence of Rita the Metermaid all have little yellow slips underneath their windshield wipers. I pull up outside the entrance to my building and leave the truck running.

There is a black Surburban in the ‘no parking zone’ (not to be confused with the ‘no standing zone) on the other side of the street. A famous name is plastered in the window and I ask the driver if he is going to leave soon. He is. 

Since it is Saturday I can park in the ‘no parking’ zone but not in the ‘no standing’ zone. Go figure. I wait and wait and finally the world famous passenger leaves the apartment building. He waves to me, I wave back wishing my camera more accessible and then attempt to negotiate parallel parking the beast without any more casualties.

In my apartment I look at the twenty boxes I’ve managed to pack over the last few days in between sudden and swift naseau attacks and flop on the sofa waiting for NIco. The rest we will do together. And I’m sort of at the giving up point. Maybe I should have just paid the extra $1000 for some one to make my crap disappear.

Nico arrives with enough energy for the both of us. We pack, we talk shop, and I attempt to convince him unsuccessfully to leave New York and join me in my new adventure. I can tell he’s thinking about it. I have already secretely attempted to win over his wife, who has trained in France and who holds a Master’s  Degree in hospitality and management. A dynamic duo in my small restaurant would be awesome.

Nico and I are around the same age and both ready to have creative input. The idea of burning yourself out for yourself is always more alluring than being a burnt out cog. We brainstorm recipes while loading up and he promises to at least make a trip to San Francisco with his wife. I repay him with cold beer and hot pizza and he leaves to enjoy a layman’s holiday with a promise to return on Sunday and finish the job.

Thank God for Nico. I could never have packed up without him.

Eric, a chef friend from San Francisco and my newest and only other team member thus far, flies out to help me make the drive across country.  This is team spirit. I trade him a free one way ticket to New York and promise a quick and fun tour of the city’s attractions before heading out. He’s never been to New York before and hasn’t taken a vacation in over 7 years.

I can’t imagine how driving 8 hours a day would be considered a vacation. But Eric tells me he loves to drive. And he’s excited to make the cross country trek. Growing up in logger country, and working for the family business as a kid, he has driven just about every truck known to mankind and driving long distance is no big deal.

There is a God after all. How I ended up with a talented chef who also happens to like driving trucks long distance is beyond me and I think qualifies as a bonefide miracle.

Now Eric is funny. He shows up to my apartment in shorts. It’s still Winter in New York. “Don’t worry, I have a pair of pants.” This is so Californian. The rest of the East Coast is bundling up in layers and face masks and scarves and mittens. And Eric is still surfing the West Coast. He’s of Nordic descent, Viking no doubt, and apparently cold weather or ‘weather’ as we call it on the East coast does not affect him.

“Is there anything you really want to eat in New York?” I ask before dragging him around the freezing city?

“Not really, I just want to see what I can, and maybe eat at one of David Chang’s restaurants. Good pizza would be awesome.”

Not a problem.

Times Square. Check.

Central Park. Check.

Kespe Pizza in the West Village. Check.

Pool and jazz at Black Cat. Check

Cocktails at Daddy-O’s. Check.

Pork Buns at Momofuko’s ssam bar. Check.

Cocktails at DPT. Check.

Leo’s Bagels. Check.

The morning of the our first travel day things go wrong. I am forced to park the truck in the ‘no standing’ zone outside my apartment building in order to load in the last of my stuff. Rita gives me a $95 parking ticket but promises not to double or triple ticket me out of something resembling pity. I’m not sure that metermaids have pity, but she is cutting me some slack anyway.

We’re ready to roll and I go to wash my hands in my kitchen sink and the faucet comes straight out of the socket spewing water everywhere.

“Are you kidding me?!?!?!?!”

I get it fixed delaying our trip to Williamsburg, Virginia by hours and say goodbye to the concierge staff who have taken very good care of me over the last two years. And then it hits. I’m leaving for good. I give Oliver, the doorman and my constant protector, a big bear hug and tears start flowing.

Oliver looks over to Eric and says, “Take care of my girl. Or I’ll find out where you live, if you know what I mean.”

Eric laughs and promises to do his best. Oliver is smiling, but I know he’s not kidding either. Oliver has helped me to my apartment in some interesting conditions. He has been a good friend and easy listener. If there’s anything I need he’s there to help and not just because its his job.

“Don’t say goodbye Amy. Just say ‘I’ll see you later’. Come back and open a restaurant here. I’ll get the investors…”

I wipe my tears and muster a half smile and a ‘see you later’.  Eric and I hop into the truck. Me in the passenger seat with a plethora of GPS devices and out of date maps and we begin the adventure navigating New York City streets to the New Jersey turnpike before the incoming snow storm hits.

We cross into New York and the Statue of Liberty is holding her flame high. “Eric, look, there she is! Now you can say you’ve seen that too.”

He responds with a simple, “Statue of Liberty. Check.”

The route we have come up with is not the real Backbone of America that bisects the country in two but a Southern route, I-40, that starts with a slight detour into Williamsburg, Virginia where my older sister lives. I’ve lived two years in New York and never once made the visit and there is no way in hell I’m going back to California without seeing her.

We had hoped to get there by early evening, but our trip is now more than four hours behind and we pull up to her house late in the evening. Nonetheless my sister and sister-in-law have a steaming bowl of beouf bourguingnon ready for us and some nice cold beers. We catch up filing in the blanks over the last few years and then I fall asleep with her three dogs snuggling up around me like a re-found pack member. That was some good sleep.

Day two of the adventure we head to Knoxville, Tennessee where a fellow blogger and chef, Kevin Weeks of Seriously Good, promises us some sofa to sleep on and a hot meal. It’s a good deal: we bring the wine, he makes the dinner and gives us a place to stay.

But we get lost and end up in North Carolina around 6PM. We somehow manage to miss the I-40 connection from I-85 and continue on it until we are far South of Knoxville.

I call Kevin, who I am very excited to meet, and say “I know you don’t really know me yet, but I think you’re going to very much dislike me. We somehow ended up right outside of Charlotte in North Carolina and we don’t really know how long it will take us to get to Knoxville, Tennessee from here.”

“Oh you poor thing!” He says with a reassuring voice “I’ve missed that connetion before too.”

“Really?” I ask feeling not so inept as a navigator. “You have really missed that connection before? How long do you think it will take us to get to Knoxville? My now-working GPS says four and half hours.”

“Oh, no way. There’s a rockslide that you will have to detour so plan on 7 hours.”

“Oh my God. Okay, I guess we better find some place to stay here and then head up tomorrow.”

Kevin wishes me well and reassures that the dinner he has prepared for us is no big deal. But I know he’s not telling the whole truth. I know he has something special up his sleeve. He’s a chef after all and a good one. However, he lets me off the hook without even a slight guilt trip. I’m bummed. I was looking forward to meeting a fellow food blogger. And I think he is too.

Parked outside a diner called Bicuitville Eric gets on his cell phone and me on mine as we call friends and family trying to see if anyone knows anyone in Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m coming up empty handed but Eric is making headway. He knows a cook who knows a cook who just moved back to North Carolina from California. It’s a long shot. We don’t even know if they live close to Charlotte or if they will have us.

Within fifteen minutes we are heading over to a suburb of Charlotte, the Biscuitville truck stop growing smaller in the rearview mirror and the promise of a biscuit and fried bologna sandwich. “Fried Bologna is Back” the posters around the diner boast.

Really? It’s back? Where did it go?

We arrive to our new host's house and are greeted with ice cold Budweisers, hospitality, and a hot plate of pinto beans, fresh cast iron skillet cornbread, and sautéed cabbage. It is a great meal. Homey and nourishing. 

 

We polish off six pack after six pack swapping hilarious cooking horror stories comparing burns and scars. My cheeks hurt from laughing. Our host is funny, and I can only imagine what cooking on the line with him is like, no doubt a good time.

In the morning we re-route. Our next stop was supposed to be Oklahoma City after Knoxville but this will mean a 20 hour drive. Without internet connection we feel lost, so I call my Mom, our new On-Star navigation system, and she quickly comes up with a new plan.

"Listen, you are going to have to add another day to the trip. That's all there is to it. Enjoy yourselves and don't risk the long drive. From Charlotte you will drive through Alabama and then up to Oklahoma City. That's the quickest way to get to I-40."

"Alabama?"

"You know what. Your Aunt Annie has a farm in Alabama. She would love to see you."

"Yeah, but is it on the way?"

I can hear my mother clicking away on her key pad inserting new information into our trip.

"Actually her farm is right on your way. You will have to go through Birmingham anyway and she's just 50 miles North from there. She would love to see you, you know."

I have only heard rumors of my Aunt's certified organic farm. And although we talk on the phone and keep in touch via email I have never visited. 

We fortify ourselves with biscuits and gravy at Bojangles and hit the pavement.

 

Alabama here we come! 

 

 

Goodbye New York hello San Francisco!

Have you heard of the 'saying goodbye curse'? 

It goes like this: you live in a city for two years and think it's kinda cool and suddenly it becomes magnificent.  

 

And then you run around snapping pictures, walking aimlessly ogling over skyscrapers, jogging over bridges you have never crossed, taking cruises to the Statue of Liberty and crying at her feet...

 

stuffing pizza into your mouth, eating at every vending truck on every street desperately hoping that each precious experience will absorb itself into your being before it's just a memory. 

What a stunning city it is this time of year. All sunshine and snow once the storm clouds pass. The skyline defiant and strong in the sharp winter light. It is hard to live in New York and not take pride in what it means to be American and what it means to live the American Dream.

 

The unity here in New York city will rekindle any misconceptions you might have. It will inspire you!

However moving companies do not inspire. They swindle. They scam. And they are absolutely crazy if they think I can afford $4,600 to move home. And if they think $900 doesn't raise one eyebrow in an are-you-f'ing-kidding-me untrusting arch, they are wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

So I have decided to drive home. And the newest member of my three person kitchen team is hopefully flying out to help me do it. 

I couldn't be more excited! I have never driven across the country. I always hoped it would be in a huge plush comfortable cadillac and not a noisy U-Haul truck, but it has been ages since I went on a road trip! 

I'm planning on taking I-40, the Southern route across the country. If you live along that route and would like to put up two cooks for the evening who don't have a lot to offer other than great knife skills and fantastic dishwashing abilities please let me know. I know that doesn't sound like a great swap. It isn't. But I figured it was worth a try?

Any tips, places to eat, national parks & monuments that are must-see detours would be greatly appreciated. 

Cheap gas too. Cheap gas is good. Keeps my eyebrows level. 

The Ending Chapter And the Beginning of a Restaurant

This has been the most insane two weeks of my life. 

Fourteen days ago I was unsure of how I was going to buy groceries. Now I still don't know how I'm going to buy groceries, but if I use the Enron mark to mark balance sheet module I might be able to bank on potential profits. 

I'm opening a restaurant in San Francisco!

 

I came home to the Bay Area to find and apartment and found myself a job instead. Gina Milano, a life long friend and owner of several popular establishments in San Francisco called me last week and the conversation went something like this:

"Amy, Babe, where in the world are you right now? Are you still at Le Bernardin or are you in Paris, or where?!?"

"I'm flying back to SF this week. Why? What's up?"

"You want to cook a dinner party for 30 people on Wednesday at Le Club?"

"Sure! What's the menu? Or do you have one yet?"

"Yeah, it's easy. It's a salad with three choices of entrées: chicken, filet, or pumpkin risotto and chocolate pots de crème for dessert."

"No problem, I can make that happen..."

"Call me when you get in hon'."

I'm great at committing myself to things and then freaking out over how I'm going to accomplish them. So I call one of the sous chef's at Le Bernardin and ask for advice because he is the master of running private parties. 

"How much filet do you think I'll need to order for a party of 30 texan doctors with 3 choices on the menu? I don't want to over order the filet because it will go to waste."

"Are you kidding me? You better expect all of them will order filet."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." I respond with calculator in hand adding up pound per pound.

"What are the other options?"

"Roasted chicken and pumpkin risotto"

"No one's gonna order the risotto." 

"Yeah, not when there's filet on the menu. So I'm cooking this alone. I gotta pre-sear stuff or I'm going to get seriously crushed."

"Oh yeah, pre-sear everything. You really gotta take the bull by the horns, ya know? I mean you have to embrace it even if you don't want to embrace it or you're going to fail. Failure is not an option, remember? See, now you understand why I was such a control freak in the salon parties."

"Yeah, I understand a lot more now, that's for sure. I wish I had taken better notes."

"You'll be fine. Just don't leave anything up in the air and trust no one. If you mess up something in the cooking process then you can blame yourself, but it you let some one else f'ck it up then that's a different story. You'll be fine. Let me know how it goes, huh?"

It's not that preparing a meal for thirty people is so difficult. But picking up three different entrées simultaneously and getting food out hot and timed correctly for thirty people is challenging when you have limited help. 

The evening was a total success. Knowing that it would be impossible to plate thirty dishes and pick up three different entrées alone, I brought in a new cook friend of mine to help out and we just had a blast in the kitchen.

It's been a long time since I actually had fun cooking. I forgot how much I loved it. Working in 3 Michelin star restaurants is exciting, but the pressure can be draining. And it's hard to find time to really talk to colleagues and get to know them. Crazy, considering we work side by side day in day out.

I blaze through most of the prep the day before and Eric comes in after his daytime shift at a different restaurant to help me finish up. We're ready to go. No rush. We're confident. We're swapping cooking stories, jokes, comparing burns injuries, talking about knives, gossiping about cooking schools and restaurants. We're having fun. 

We wait and wait and still the tables haven't ordered and now we're getting bored and Eric, no doubt, is getting tired having already worked 10 hours or more. The servers bring the tickets back to us and sure enough each of the three tables has ordered a staggering amount of filet. I sell one risotto. What a waste of time and effort! But thank God I ordered enough filet to cover the board. 

 

We pump out the orders table by table all the while loving the 12 burner stove from the 1940's that burns hotter than any stove top I've ever worked with. And then one of the ovens dies. The chicken is semi-done. Not good. I put my hand in the oven and realize it's gone kaputz. 

 

But it's not a major catastrophe. I switch the proteins to the other oven and in minutes we're ready to plate. The first table is turned out a few minutes later than I would have liked, but the servers reassure me there is no rush. The party is giving speeches, drinking wine, and enjoying themselves.

 

I pick up three more last minute private parties in the same week. All the parties go smoothly and the regular customers happily eat up the extras I send out to the bar. Everyone agrees that it's time to bring the food back.

The last chef was fired a year ago for soaking the restaurant in outrageously high food and staff costs and Gina has kept the restaurant closed ever since keeping the three lounge rooms open for cocktails. She books the small restaurant with private parties and normally brings in a chef to cook. We've flirted off and on this year about re-opening it. But with the bad economy and my work commitment in New York, the timing was off.

Now the timing is perfect!

I am scared, nervous, and totally excited. It is rare that a cook can walk into a kitchen that has everything in place and do exactly what he or she wants to – with in limits of course, we are working on a tight budget. Which makes it even more of a creative challenge and will translate into an affordable menu that clearly everyone is looking for these days. We're bringing 'bistro' back. (As if it ever went out.)

 

I love the venue. I always have. It's one of San Francisco's last true historic gems. In fact the name, Le Club, dates back to the original restaurant/lounge in the 1920's. It has an old Paris bistro feel with a certain San Francisco speakeasy flare. And the kitchen is amazing. Small, but loaded with goodies.

 

 

And the piano! Oh my goodness I have never worked on a piano quite like this one. Twelve burners, two rows of six, with unusual flower shaped cast iron and btu's that are out of control. An energy saver's nightmare for sure. Now if I can just get that oven calibrated...

I will be heading back to NYC to pack up and move out. We hope open next month. In the meantime come by for a properly made cocktail or glass of champagne on the top of Nob Hill! Or, book a reservation for March...

I can't believe this is really happening!

Le Club

San Francisco

1260 Jones Street, 94109 (top of Nob Hill)

Voici! The New Executive Chef at Michel Rostang in Paris

Introducing Nicholas Beaumann, the new Executive Chef at the two Michelin star restaurant Michel Rostang in Paris!  

Nicholas did his apprenticeship at Michel Rostang after culinary school and worked his way up through the brigade to Chef de Parti. After five years, he left to take the position of sous chef at Le Meurice, under Executive Chef Yannik Alleno, and helped drive the team to 3 Michelin Star success. 

I met Chef Beaumann during his tenure at Le Meurice five years ago. And if rumors in the Parisian cooking world hold true, he was highly regarded then for his consistency in leadership and dedication to perfection. He's a bit of a whip cracker, but a good one.

Now he is back at Michel Rostang as the Executive chef, and I am sure he will be reaching for a third Michelin star in the near future. 

What a small world the Michelin star restaurant business is. Everyone knows everyone... 

I sit down to dine at Michele Rostang and instantly I'm treated like an old friend. Bruno, The Maître D, and Alain, the Chef Sommelier, who I've met only a few times in the past keep me company asking about my exerience at Le Bernardin in NYC. 

How's Maguy Le Coz? (the owner of Le Bernardin). Is there a man named Tommy there? He works on the floor? We remember Le Bernardin when it was in Paris! (This was over 20 years ago and once located in the space that is now Guy Savoy). Are you coming back to live in Paris? (No, wish I was). Work at Guy Savoy peut-être? (No, don't think I could handle the long hours again or the double taxation).

Guy Savoy, the restaurant I cooked at in Paris is located just a few blocks away from restaurant Michele Rostang in the 17th arrondisement close to the L'Arc de Triumph and the Champs Élysées. The two restaurants share clientele, a similar style of cuisine (traditional yet modern), and often cooks jump ship from one to the other. It's a good relationship and one that has spanned 20 years.

This small world does have it's perks. The Maître D takes me with him to another table to demonstrate how the 'duck press' works. (I just asked to see it, I didn't ask to be part of the table-side presentation.)

 "Are you sure they won't mind? I don't want to disrupt their dinner."

"Oh don't worry, they won't mind, they're regulars, come on, I'll show you how to press a duck, it will be fun!"

I can't imagine being a regular at any Michelin star restaurant, but follow along for the ride. Bruno expertly cuts the legs off the duck and then the breasts. He places them to one side. 

"Amy, you cook the duck rare, very rare. See? The breast is almost bleu."

I watch from the side feeling slightly self-concious that I have now been included in the entertainment. But at the same time realize that this little teaching demonstration is something special. 

He takes the bones and the legs and put them expertly in a silver canister. Then loads the canister inside a very large silver hand cranked press that is decorated with ornate silver ducks.

 

"Now watch. You must come over on this side to see. I will turn the press, and the blood of the duck will run out of the spout. I add it to this duck jus here and the blood thickens the sauce turning it a rich dark brown color."

It's beautiful and a little bizarre at the same time. What Bruno is really doing is crushing bones in a very expensive bone-crusher machine. I watch in amazement at this lost art of table side presentation. Servers in France go to school to learn how to do this sort thing. It is a career – a profession! – not a temporary job to make a few tips in between Broadway musicals auditions.

The Maître D whisks his mixture over a low burning flame. As the blood heats up it acts as a thickener turning the thin duck jus into a velvety sauce thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Blood, as we all know, coagulates. 

He pours the chocolate colored sauce onto a large porcelain platter that rests above silver bunsen burners, not exactly camping material. Next, he returns to the breasts and slices off extra thin cutlets placing them directly into the sauce

"You see, the sauce will cook the duck just a little more. If you cook the sauce too much over the heat it will separate because of the blood. You must pay attention here. It's a strong tasting dish, but a good one."

 

I have tasted several blood sauces in my Parisian past and made plenty at Le Cordon Bleu. For me they are normally a little too rich for my taste. And blood does have a special metalic taste. Nonetheless, the platter is gorgeous with bright red cutlets of duck breast floating in the earthy sauce. A server whisks away the platter to serve immediately. 

I am escorted back to my table which faces the kitchen so I can watch all the action of the evening. Chef Beaumann has prepared a truffle menu that is truly inspired. I wasn't presented with a menu upon arrival, just a glass of champagne and a huge basket of truffles to ogle over! Some one pinch me please?!?! 

 

I love truffles, but in many cases truffle menus can be somewhat redundant with the same flavors repeated. Not so in this case. 

The menu begins with a special amuse bouche: 1/4"-thick slices of black truffles sandwiched in between two pieces of pain de compagne (country bread). The sandwiches are toasted in truffle butter and cut into bite size fingers. Simple yes, but totally decadent. 

Actually, I'm lying, the amuse bouche is not so easy to prepare and it must be assembled days in advance to allow the truffles to fully permeate the bread and butter. But the idea is easy enough and the ingredients, although expensive, are few.

My two favorite courses of the evening are the seabass and pigeon. The fish is cooked sous vide (in a water bath at low temperature with a thermo circulator that holds the temerparture steady) garnished with thinly sliced chestnuts, perfectly cut triangles of leeks, and a frothy truffle infused seashell foam.

 

But the real winner is the last course: pigeon stuffed with foie gras and black truffles under the skin, cooked sous vide until perfectly tender and then pan roasted to sear the skin crisp. The plate is garnished minimally with caramelized salsify. A perfect pairing for the pigeon. 

 

Caramelizing (glazing) vegetables is an art. Too cooked and the vegetables fall apart, too much butter and the lacquer separates, too much sugar and the flavor is ruined.

The pigeon jus is just what jus is supposed to be: pure. There is no roux, no flour, no butter – just pigeon jus reduced for a long time until it has the consistency of oil. I know from experience, this is time consuming. We're talking hours of reduction here.

The wine pairings are fantastic, and by my last course I'm wondering why I'm still not totally wasted. This little wine habit I've developed has definitely got to be reined in. I have tasted (and finished, bien sûr!) five glasses of wine. Starting with a glass of lively Gimonnet Blanc de Blanc Premier Cru Champagne 2002 and ending with an earthy Nuit St. Georges Premier Cru Vaucrains 2003. 

But the most exciting wine of the evening for me is the golden yellow Beaucastel Blanc 2005, paired with the seabass. I absolutely adore white Chateauneuf du Pape Blanc and it is so difficult to find in the U.S. 

If you've never tried a white Chateauneuf du Pape, I suggest you do. It has viognier grape blended with 12-13 other obscure white varietals. It's sexy with a nose of ripe melon, pear, peach and loads of minerality. A heavier white for sure, compared to other French whites.

The desserts start rolling in and Chef Beaumann takes a break from the kitchen and joins me at the table while the rest of his kitchen staff is scrubbing down the stainless steel.

I sip a 6th glass of wine, a nicely acidic Gewurztraminer Grand Cru Furstentum 2005, while inhaling an apple-truffle pastry as he fills me in on his last few years: his recent marriage (Congrats! It's about time!), his beautiful son (adorable!), his bid to be the next M.O.F (scrreeeeech – wait whuuuuut????).

 

For those not familliar with the title of M.O.F. it stands for Meillure Ouvrier de France and it is a craftsmen competition held every three years in France. To win this title for cuisine is like winning an Emmy. Every chef that makes the grade gets to wear (forever) a special chef's jacket that has a collar made of red, white, and bleu – the French flag. It is an honor hard won.  

The sommelier refills my wine glass and now I'm headed straight to hell, because I'm still not even close to tipsy. I finish it, of course, then slurp down an espresso with little cakes and cookies. 

 

Normally I would never get this kind of attention, but it's a slow Monday night. For the most part restaurants in Paris are closed Sunday and Monday and folks generally stay home. And I think it's fun for the staff to treat a cook to 'the other side' once and awhile. I know we do it at Guy Savoy and at Le Bernardin.  

Chef Beaumann takes me back to the kitchen to meet some of the staff and I am happily surprised to see an equal number of female to male cooks. I recognize the female Chef de Viande (meat chef) as the wife of the Sommelier at Guy Savoy (small world, small world) and we exchange greetings before she goes back to scrubbing.

"Chef Beaumann, you have so many women in the kitchen!"

"I knew you would like that." He laughs.

And just when I think the evening can't get any better the daughter of Michel Rostang, Caroline, who is the director of the restaurant introduces herself. Another female in the kitchen! I couldn't be happier.

 

I float out the front door (glass slippers and all) a little high on the whole experience. The frosty winter Parisian air hits my lungs and my thin silky dress instantly feels like cheesecloth. The wine has no doubt warmed my core and my spirits or I'd be a five foot five ice cube. 

I catch a taxi, replay the photos on my camera during the drive home, and wonder if I'll ever have another dinner quite like this one... 

Restaurant Michel Rostang

20 rue Rennequin, Paris, 75017

+33 1 47 63 40 77