also called amuses-gueule, are tiny bite-sized morsels served before the hors d’œuvre or first course of a meal. These are served as an excitement to the taste buds to both prepare the guest for the meal and to offer a glimpse into the chef’s approach to cooking.
The word is French, literally translated to “mouth amuser”. Don’t you just love that?
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While folding clothes the other night I pulled my chef’s coat out of the laundry basket and got this little shiver of pride. I hung it up and admired the embroidery above the left pocket and the familiar folds forever indented on the sleeves. My new ACF patch will fit perfectly on the right side. I checked to see if that red wine reduction had come out in the wash… nope. The third button from the top needed mending.
I adore my coat; it makes me feel cool. I’ve worn many uniforms and have thrown most of them out. Whether my other work clothes were identifiable at all doesn’t really matter. This white double breasted jacket with the odd shaped pocket on the upper left arm is immediately recognizable. In this, I am a Chef.
The company I started a few years ago is built up and around food. For appearances sake, I figured a really nice jacket seemed appropriate. Wearing the coat just wasn’t the same when donned in my prior restaurant jobs. We’d just put on whatever was clean, fit reasonably well, that could button all the way up. Those jackets didn’t have my name on them, so they don’t count. I never did care for the look of the toque; it makes my ears stick out, or the neckerchief, too sweaty; basic black pants, please. We all have our own personal style, we artisans of food.
I read somewhere recently there exists a debate as to whether those of us in the culinary arts are true artists. You must be joking! The painter spends hours or even months playing with reds and browns, oranges and ochre in order to create the perfect sunset. The Chef spends hours or months playing with stocks and herbs, wine and roux in order to create the perfect sauce. Artists, one in the same.
One of the more interesting yet somewhat controversial things about us artists is our passion and our pride. We have a language all our own yet it knows no boundaries. The food language is included here. It is international, with few barriers and is filled with that same passion and pride. It is understood … everywhere.
Just last December I was in Borneo enjoying a holiday meal at a local resort. Having had my fill of Nasi Lamak and all things stir-fried, an identifiable western dish sounded nice. If you’ve never been to Southeast Asia you should know that all resorts and many restaurants offer buffets along with made-to-order cooking stations. The pasta bar had some fresh ingredients and looked pretty tasty until I spied the buckets of butter and cream that SE Asians sometimes equate with all western taste. Without much humility, I asked the cook if it would be okay to show him a different way to prepare seafood linguine. He looked a little uneasy until I flashed my chef credentials, then he gladly invited me in.
While I sautéed my onions, mushrooms and garlic, we got into a wonderful conversation about America, what I did for a living, where he learned to cook and his aspirations. He was anxious to share knowledge of his profession with someone from so very far away. One who held the same beliefs, the same passion, the same joy. My dish completed, he gave it a try, nodded and smiled. I wished him a Happy Christmas and went back to my table.
A few minutes later, my new pasta buddy came around proudly escorting the resorts Executive Chef. He introduced himself to me, presented his card, his smile and a warm hand shake. He praised my linguine and then suggested a few signature Malaysian dishes that I just had to try. We had a lovely chat about our favorite thing – food.
In the end, that is what we’re all about. The stuffs that in their most elemental form sustain the world are the very same things that spark our imaginations, awaken our senses and make us who we are. I love my job and am very proud to wear my coat.
Please excuse me; I need to go fix that button.
What a Crock……Pot.
That’s right. The old crock pot is back! The only difference being that the kitchen tool producers slapped a shiny new surface on it and renamed it the Slow Cooker. A new name, what ever for? Could it be because the word “crock” became associated with another word “*&#@*” thus making it a compound bad word? Honestly? It’s all about copyrights and who owns what. Anyway, the principle is the same; a long, slow, easy braise.
On the heels of the “Slow Cooker” came the inevitable “Slow Cooker Cook Books”. Before you spend a ton of cash, please take a moment to read my idea of a crock pot recipe: Take a whole chicken and put it in your crock pot, add some roughly chopped vegetables: let’s say carrots, onions, mushrooms and turnips; pour in a cup or so of liquid, i.e. chicken stock; toss in rosemary, oregano, salt and pepper. Put the lid on, turn the dial for 8 hours, boil some potatoes and once those are done – voila’ – dinner!!
Now, that’s what I call a non-recipe! No endless list of ingredients that you need to special order from Thailand, no scary terminology that you have to look up on the internet! Throw your inhibitions and fears out with the trash, step up to the stove top and get ‘er done. Just think of how fantastic you will feel when you sit down to eat and someone says, “Wow, this is great! Can I have the recipe?” You proudly announce that you made this up on the fly. Your friends and family can only wonder how you became such a phenomenal cook when only yesterday you couldn’t fry an egg.
It’s all about technique and so much simpler than you may think. Trust me, you can create, not just replicate. Find the flavor friends that turn you on. For example, you can take the same dish from paragraph 2 and turn it into Fiesta Chicken by substituting the rosemary and oregano with cumin and red pepper flakes, eliminate the turnips and add a can of corn instead. Throw in a little extra onion and a jalapeno and bring on the tortillas!
Don’t get me wrong, I love my slow cooker. My mother-in-law buys only the best and I got one of the best for my birthday last year. They are extremely convenient and make for great clean up. However, on those rainy Sundays when all we do is watch movies and play board games I say to hell with this “no peeking” issue and braise in my dutch oven on the stove top, peeking to my hearts content. My kitchen fills with good smells and all is right with the world.
I challenge each and every one of you to blaze a trail and create your own braised delicacy! If you don’t own a crock pot, call someone you know over the age of 40 and I bet they’ll let you borrow theirs; unless, of course, they sold it a garage sale and bought a slow cooker.
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My 9 year old daughter came home from school a while back. She’s beautiful, you know. I’d been racking my brain trying to come up with a new snack for after school and the “I’m so hungry” cry that comes from children prior to opening their math books and sharpening a pencil.
I’d been patrolling the local grocery store for something other than goldfish and apples or ice cream and oreos and stumbled across a childhood favorite: Graham Crackers and Vanilla Frosting.
My girl was wary of this new concoction for she hadn’t heard tell of something quite like this before. It wasn’t cookies or cake or wrapped in bright colored paper with an enticing website written on the inside. I assured her that she’d love it, but her early years of unquestioned acceptance were long gone. She’d only seen this cracker combined twice before: as a pie crust and a camp fired shmore. What more could you possibly do with this cookie come cracker, she thought? Just how versatile could it be? She questioned its origins and opened the door to stories from my childhood. So I told her.
Sometimes my mother would change it up with chocolate frosting, but not both at the same time; my brothers and I never traded that particular ‘cookie’ from our lunch box; we’d copy, as best we could, the Oreo cookie twist with a square cracker – what a feat that was! We’d sit together in the kitchen, after school, with our plates of graham crackers and frosting and cold milk and share our day with our mom.
My daughter and I sat together and had a snack. I listened as she told me of her day and watched her delight in spreading the sweet cream frosting on each cracker and measuring each sip of milk to make sure she had enough to last through that final bite.
It was a lovely moment that I will never forget. Afternoons are not always that sweet which makes them all the more precious. I always hold a little hope in my heart that when she comes walking through our door after school, whether Graham crackers are present or not, she’ll say, “Hey, mom? Do you want to sit and talk with me?”
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
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