Logic over creativity

Pity is thrown upon the chef who fancies himself as an artist. An artist of what exactly? The ingredient was here before you were. The chemistry existed long before you dredged your greasy lotion sopping pretty man hands all over it. Forgot how to tie an apron? Perhaps you should return to culinary school for a couple more decades, then I’ll teach you how to cook.

Let me clarify.

Creativity in the sense of creating something new does not exist. In terms relating to ingenuity and innovative compositions of preexisting formulas, sequences, and applications- creativity remains untouchable. This, many greenhorns do not distinguish clearly enough to allow the industry to benefit from their efforts.

A few nights past I hosted a colleague of mine to wine and after work chat. The subject of creativity came up and this colleague went on to explain her creative process. One thing leads to another in the kitchen, all in domino sequence- colors, flavors, things that to most civilians would be taken at less then face value. It makes sense to a chef, most things that shouldn’t.

That is why we are mostly defensive when we are told something other then what we believe about our craft. The food, consistently under scrutiny while the front of house prances around for their share of crumbs off of each table, without criticism.

Back to the subject at hand- all this talk about the creative process got me thinking.

There is no true creative process in professional cooking. I don’t care who you are. Maybe the younger your career, the more artistry you imagine, but true artistry is nonexistence on a plate. Logic is the only palatable non tangible.

I prefer simplicity. Minimalist to an extent, the ingredient is what matters, not the chef. Strip away the fuss, strip away the complication in preparation and think of what is left on a plate. If garnish is a must, then your dish should never me served. If skill is the showpiece, then go build a shuttle. If technique is what you’re trying to showcase, then maybe a tightrope is a better place suited for your talents then a kitchen.

Flavors have to make sense. Components must dance. Less is always more and green is never a flavor.

Scorched earth.

In the way of personal relationships, there are few industries like mine that attribute to the term as if it were a trophy. Obsession is one thing, my career- a straight forward illness. No one chooses this path, it is engraved within our soul. Every drop of blood encrypted with the desire and termination to abandon all hope for emotional attachment. I could never be a food writer. I rather leave that to the Bourdains of the world, far more talented individuals whose words elevate experiences in food further then the value of the moment which they immortalize. I have chosen the path of giving you an insight into the wondering, tormented, and most of the time lonely mind of the chef.

This post, this very moment however, not about me. It’s about one of the few men, few people who I will give credit to for the inspiration that has brought me here.

As I ponder on the cover of one of the most controversial cook books written in the past century, I see the face of a man torn. Marco Pierre White took the stage at a time when the world needed something to be hungry about. A renegade tormented by hunger for success and lust for amortization.

“I have done nothing apart from cook for the last ten years. I’ve had no social life to speak of, no real time to myself and there’s been a lot of pain and suffering getting there. One day
I’ll go to France; That’ll be my finishing school. Now it’s time to make money, because no money, no love, no food.”
This, the opening quote to the his first book. A testament not of the food which he prepared but to the life which he gave up to elevate this profession. Without ever speaking a single word of french, he beat the culinary power at their own game. Simplistic style fueled by love and a fire raged by passion. There is comfort in reading this , knowing this thought didn’t transcribe from my brain alone and first off. Social life, commitment, alone time, there is no such thing. I’m never alone in my brain, I wonder to sleep thinking of how to better prepare a dish, I awake with the answer, as if in the sleep I worked through the problem.

“If I came to your house for dinner an hour late, then criticized all your furniture and your wife’s haircut and said all your options were stupid, how would you feel? People still come here and expect a three-course meal in an hour. What do they think I do- pull rabbits out of a fucking hat? I’m not a magician.” Marco understood the importance of pristine ingredients, softly coaching them to that careful balance between perfection and ruined. There is a connection between him and the cooks of today, myself included. Understanding the importance of keeping a full house, while wanting the full house to understand the importance of keeping their mouths shut as they wait for a meal. A meal prepared with the same balance and dedication Marco used to rise to the top.

“When I go out to eat, I’m the ideal costumer. I eat the meal and go home and don’t complain. I’d never make a fuss. But the difference between me and the other customers is that my expectations are realistic.” To be anonymous in this profession has it’s benefit. The wait staff never knows who you are, the kitchen prepares the meal the same way it would for every other customer that night. The advantage is going home knowing that you are better. Learning what not to do, and the satisfaction in the delicate comprehension that your so believed competition is of no contest.

“I am a man of extremes. I can’t stand things that are diluted- only drinks benefit from that. I want a hundred per cent of everything, or everybody, or nothing at all.” This is the downside to loosing yourself in a single focus. Like blinders on a race horse, that horse has no clue it is running against anyone else. It only knows to give the track abandoned attention. Unsatisfied with every performance, no matter of the success. A bit depressing it may be, that no matter how far we come in our search for perfection there is nothing to be happy about. Only thoughts of how different things would have been in the presence of the ‘what if’.

We are not rock stars, us chefs. We are not satisfied or content. We live one morsel at the time, wondering how much more it will take, how much more is left, before we accomplish contentment. Contentment however is only a word, never to be reached. Marco had accomplished every accolade available. Gathered every award created and still nothing satisfied his search. Finally coming to realize that he was being judged by people who knew less about his profession then he did. And with that realization he disappeared from the stage without a bow. Unsatisfied that satisfaction only lived within himself. Unattainable, and diluted.

“At the end of the day, its just food, isn’t it? just food.” It’s not about the food, Marco. It’s about filling the void created by a craft with too many opinions, too many voices to satisfy them all. In his footsteps I find myself wondering- how much will it take to no longer be hungry.
All quotes collected from Marco Pierre White; White Heat.

I’ve been absent from writing for a bit now. I won’t lie to you (and by you, I am assuming that there is only one of you out there who actually reads this. And that one person is probably my wife, who only reads my blogs because she also happens to be my publicist, constantly making sure I don’t do anything stupid. moving on.) I wont lie to you by saying that I’m back. I don’t know how long this urge will stick around, but tonight somewhere between the termpranillo and delirium of exhaustion from a menu release binge, there are a couple of things I’ve got to get off my chest.

The socially acceptable thoughts of a chef are few and far in between. It’s not that we are fried from the pseudo rock star lifestyle, but more like we don’t have the time to think about anything else except for – ourselves. Selfish, no doubt. But it’s the craft at fault. The consuming passion that drives us is infectious. We retreat to our purgatory and set up camp. Life outside of the kitchen is something we dread. It takes away from where we really want to be. The sacrifices are many, and yet with knowing all of the side affects and complications from this brutal habit we pretend the caution tape doesn’t exist.

Its funny in a way that patrons never think about the person actually cooking their food. Chances are, if you frequent a real restaurant (and by real I mean an establishment that thrives to progress the profession) those guys and girls fingering your favorite food aren’t there for the paycheck. Even more ironic, they aren’t there for the client. They are there for themselves. To feed the fire that keeps them up all night thinking about how to better peel an egg instead of catching some shut eye like an actual human being.

A chef- no longer human. Part beast, part machine. Designed, stripped of all prior programming and rebuilt to spend every second of every hour agonizing over everything that you are too busy to notice as you shove food down your throat. I don’t mean to be rude but its time that someone tells you to pay attention. The notion that cooks are uneducated and unable to hold any other career is about as retarded as segregated water fountains. I have some seriously talented people in my kitchen. No doubt rough and unfit for any other social environment other then a sweatbox filled with sharp blades and scorching surfaces- these people are fucking brilliant. 


I know this because I refuse to surround myself with anything less. The little success that I have so far accomplished is totally from their dedication, loyalty, and sometimes fear to my vision. By now you should know how I feel about the word “chef”. I am a cook. That is my craft and thankfully the only thing that I have so far in my short life not managed to make a soup sandwich out of.

I have some serious complications to my personality. I consider myself fortunate that the craft is the love of my life so much that it leaves time for nothing else. Too many cooks turn that addictive personality to substance abuse in hopes to catch that same high from being assaulted by an onslaught of orders every night. Even more unfortunate is that there is no drug like this craft.

My main flaw is that I am never satisfied. I am in love with this trade, but I don’t love all of it. The backstabbing, piracy and gossip I could do without. There has never been a moment where I have found myself at peace. A single slice of the pie doesn’t cut it. I want the whole thing. And I will stop at no measure, short of being an asshole and treating people like shit like some other chefs (cough cough.. Ramsey.. cough cough) to get it. It’s unhealthy- but that is me, and I either have to find a way to harness and control it, or let it destroy me. The later, I honestly doubt it’s success.

I believe in the Universe. That is my religion. I take things as they are given to me, listen for instructions and seek the direction it wants me to take. The Universe has shoved its massive foot up where it doesn’t belong in the past few days. The message- now it’s time! Confidence is on my side. And even more dangerous, so is the felling of being utterly bullet proof. My blood is at boil with an exploding willingness to break the rules and take risk.

Knowing that you are not at home is a disturbing realization. The calm settles when you identify where home is, and to spread more cheese on the topic – home is where the heart is. I honestly believe I live in one of the best places on earth. I will forever claim the little easy my starting point, but I am dying for excitement. I am a city boy at earth. Give me a concrete jungle, you can keep your beach. I’ll take the smog over the sun. I’ll choose sirens over crashing waves. There is something amazingly comforting in being in a place that swallows you whole. Being totally surrounded and flooded by mass population. A city where you matter nothing is a very beautiful thing. The knowing that all opportunity is sitting there waiting for you to earn its respect is the challenge I cannot do without forever.

Today was the first day in the past four months that I felt in control of the world around me. Watching my daughter playing in the grass, sun shining on her skin. Tapping of branches along a fence post, the smell of crawfish water lingering about. Blankets scattered on the lawn, cold beer in my hand. I enjoyed a conversation or two with a couple friends. Good friends, which I had forgotten existed.

New chapter in the life of this chef. Never before had I gone through such a shift in routine. Going from the rebel who fought to free a kitchen of its tyrant to full control of the entire operation. It is lonely at the top. Each day a new struggle to keep things in harmony. Hoping, crossing fingers, praying that the day flees just as fast as it had arrived.

I’ve been borderline mental lately. One panic attack away from a trip to the shrink. The first quarter of this year wasted to anxiety, sleepless and completely consumed by what might go wrong.

Fearful of missing a single moment of my daughter growing up at the expense of providing enjoyment to people I have never met before. The constant question in my head of “ what the hell am I doing here?” I wonder at times if I was ever cut out for this. Did I rush things along to find out that I was not equipped to meet expectations? I made it thus far, so that must mean I did something right somewhere along the line. I wonder how many times I can keep repeating it.

I have lost track of time, and I am completely unable to remember or even distinguish any pasted day from another. My memory consist of a million flashes, it is like starring into a dark room with a million cameras going off trying to capture a single still moment. There’s nothing there.

For some reason today feels different.

I have learned a lot about myself lately. And a lot about my profession and what it takes to play at this level. I thought about getting closer to religion, in hope to make all things better. Instead this is my church. This is my time in the confession box. Putting these thoughts on paper is what feels right. I belong to an overly romanticized profession. The part you don’t hear about is what it takes to make it all work. The sacrifice and consuming passion that drives you beyond every reservation, every fear of failure.

This is more for me then it is for you. I don’t plan to make this entertaining. It is simply one cook’s realization that he can’t make it on his own.

And so it begins, the story of my life. The delicate and often unstable balance of love and hatred for the kitchen.

Dear Amélie,

Daddy is a duck killer. And it doesn’t stop there.

There is an entire array of animals.

Innocent, yes.

But always the happiest and raised with the outmost respect. Killed out of affection for food- a pleasure you shall find irresistible.

You see dear, food comes at a price. One that dollars signs would have a difficulty assigning value to. There is love in food. There is pain and there is sacrifice. All of which are important in order to truly appreciate the nature of things.

In this at times sad world some kill for pleasure. Some do it for sport. And there would be no wrong in that if the kill were put to good use. I will not tell you that it is a simple to follow lesson. There are not many of us who see animals as equal.

I’ll spare you from the religious spill. That is for you to learn on a later date. Perhaps someone more qualified than I to fill you with a spirituality built of good morals. But what I will preach to you is the importance of respecting what has been given to you.

Food is substance beneath all the glamour. Gussied up with bows and bells to cause a distraction. A distraction that is much needed, in my opinion. That distraction keeps people like me from living under a bridge.

The theatrics of food are captivating. The kitchen is a stage where the main character always meets a tragic end. An entertaining spectacle where the puppet master is often given too much credit. The curtains fall and the puppet master takes a bow, never so much as recognizing that without the puppet there would be no show.

Is it this fashion of entertainment that allows myself, and the like-minded few to earn a dicent living through proper manipulation and a couple chemical reactions.

It would be proper for me to say that I hope you get everything you ever wanted. But that would be one sure way to guarantee that you’ll never really appreciate fully the quality of a good ingredient.

It is true, in food at least, that necessity is the mother of innovation. You take what you have, use it wisely and fully so that there is the least amount of waste.

Growing up, this was a lesson my parents made sure I understood well. I cannot think of a time when looking out into the backyard there was not a future meal inhibiting the field. It wasn’t a gesture of rebellion against ill habits of the industry. And long before the activist trend towards better practice arrived.

It was just how things where.

If it was poultry, beef, pork, or vegetables that you wanted- you grew them.

It was the nature of things.

You spent time each day making sure your food came to good health. And when came time for slaughter you remembered all that time spent by using up everything that could somehow provide some sort of substance.

On some distant subconscious level, I like to believe that the animal knew this as well. Allowing its master to nurture it to full capacity.

Knowing that it would be treated well.

Dying in good favor to provide the substance needed.

Dying in content.

It’s flesh, tasting of time well spent.

Dear Amélie,

In daddy’s world there are many ingredients that cooks and chefs alike covet with outmost esteem.The woods of Alba come alive in the fall with foragers led by trained hogs to find these things called truffles. Knobs of dirt covered fungus, that unfortunately for their reputation are very expensive, yet a true wonder of the culinary world. Tiny purple flowers soak up the warm sun of the Mediterranean where they birth thin golden strands of a fragrant spice called saffron.

To me a new ingredient has come along that has replaced the importance and affection devoted to all these exotic items. Breast milk. The stuff that makes and keeps you happy. I know, it sounds totally weird but each sip of this stuff that you take in is a tiny little gift to me. With nervous hands I handle each bottle, attempting to avoid the heartbreak it would bring if something were to happen to it. But besides the obvious, what’s really in that bottle?

Your mother and I were very nervous of our first week home with you. In preparation we stocked each crevice of refrigeration with foods that would render a quick relief to our starved, sleep deprived minds. We batched out pots of soups and stews in chill bags, ready to be dropped in warm water for a no-brainer meal.  To our good fortune, you have thus far been a dream, and as a result I have done my best to make sure you get what you need to grow strong and healthy.

When you bring a newborn home for the first time you try to prepare for the worst. Your mind goes into survival and prevention mode, as if boarding up each window in preparation for a frightening hurricane. I could see making many exceptions and changes to our usual routine, but feeding you guys well I am not willing to compromise. One of the biggest things I was worried about was if there were any unknown allergies hiding in your fragile immune system.

I figured there was only one way to find out. In each meal I carefully and hopingly pushed you a bit further.

Nuts.

Gluten.

Dairy.

So far, so good.

You ate well. We all ate well. Which was quite the surprise compared to what we were ready to face.

Your very first “meal”, the one that was very important to all three of us, as the first meal we shared as a family was gumbo. Which made a very happy Cajun girl out of your mother.

We had crepes filled with apple, pecans and country ham. Dad’s pastrami on rye with spicy mustard and slaw. Roasted eggplant, and sweet peppers with corn chowchow. Chi teas with loads of cinnamon and spice. Charred salmon and quinoa tabouleh. Southern style pork chops with proper mash potatoes. Good cheese. And for the first time in 10 months your mother was finally able to enjoy some good charcuterie.

It must be incredibly frightening being an infant. No wonder that as we grow older our minds erase every memory of this first stage of life. Completely dependent on the people around you to survive, each time you wake is a new struggle to communicate to us your simple needs.

You’re at home here sweetheart. Home, to two very loving parents whom so far you know only as the splotches of color that constantly kiss your tiny nose. As you nap next to me I hope that you rest easy, knowing that you are very well taken care of.

Corn Chowchow

Chowchow is a relish used widely in southern cooking. Typically made from cabbage with chilies and other vegetables. The east coastal chowchow is sweeter than the stuff we use in the deep south.

Chowchow can be eaten by itself, or in most cases used in cooking to add flavor.

I made a batch of this a few weeks before Amélie was born and it has come to good use in stuffed peppers, sauces and as a condiment for home-made burgers and crispy hot dogs. Next time I make it, I plan to use it with some Indian or Korean style lamb ribs.

1 ½ pound fresh shucked corn

1 cup finely chopped red onion

1 tablespoon kosher salt

½ cup sugar

½ cup water

1 tablespoon mustard seed

1 tablespoon pickling spice

½ cup apple cider vinegar

½ cup seasoned rice vinegar

The hardest part about this recipe is shucking the corn. Peel the ears free from the husk. With a sharp knife, cut each ear of corn in half. Stand each half onto the cutting board and slice the kernels free as if you were trying to peel it.

If you are using pickling spice that is in whole spice form, give it a few zaps in the spice grinder. If you do not have a spice grinder, place the pickling spice in a small square of cheesecloth and tie it tightly with a string of kitchen twine.

Place the liquids in a non-reactive pot. Bring to a slight heat and dissolve the sugar and salt into the liquid. At this point, drop in pickling spice to infuse the liquid. If you are using the cheesecloth pouch, you will remove this when the chowchow has finished cooking. In the liquid add the corn, onion and the mustard seed. Bring to a simmer, turn to medium low heat and stir occasionally until most of the liquid has evaporated.

Sitting in the post delivery room with your wife and child is a feeling indescribable unless you’ve been there and done that. Cliché, perhaps, but within the course of 24 hours wrapping your head around just how much has changed can be a bit overwhelming if not altogether traumatizing.  Family comes and goes. Steady trots of friends trickle in with constant flow.  The conversation is the same here as in every room around ours.

Amélie Rose was born one Friday morning, weighing in at 7 pound 3 ounce, 20 inches long, with the head the size of a small cantaloupe. She’s absolutely gorgeous. At first, my wife and I thought it must have been just us. Of course we think our little girl is gorgeous. Frankly we were expecting the “interesting” looking baby. But sitting here now, watching her squirm within her aquarium like crib, strugleling to remain asleep, I am becoming worried of the countless hearts this child will break.

She’ll learn plenty from all of us. A child’s surroundings are as important as any education. But what of what is actually going to allow her to grow? What will she like? Will she be a comfort food slut like her father or will we have to put up with a picky eater in some unfortunate twist of karma? I hope she has no interest in being a vegetarian, vegan or any of that other silly bullshit that will prevent her from enjoying the simple pleasures.

I’ve been already tempted to rub a piece of saucisson sec on her tiny lips in preparation of the good stuff to come. She is only 36 hours old and I already cannot wait for her to know the joy that comes from a truly good piece of country bread. Or the nearly illusive nature of a really good croissant. A slice of moldy cheese. Good champagne and woodsy mushrooms.

I’m planning all kinds of things for you, Amélie. Your debut into the foodie world will certainly be one memorable. We’ll take things slowly. Each day you’ll grow a bit as will my fear of raising a food wimp. For now I’ll concentrate on feeding your mother. Making sure she gets what she needs to make you strong.

Love,

Dad.

A couple of weeks ago my team, consisting of my wife- the event planner, a good friend- the mixologist, and a handful of loyal volunteers hosted an underground dinner party. One of seven thus far. The dinners go by the name of blue dinner underground. Each one has a different theme, setting, and likewise different menu. We’re not quite sure why it is that we do this. Each time we push ourselves further to the breaking point, and like addicts searching for a fix we desperately seek out the next high. The process is simple, a location becomes available- office buildings, roof tops, back yards, whatever, the theme is dictated by the location and the menu follows.

 Sometimes there is a kitchen, most of the times there is none. Blue’s concept is to keep all things true to form, manipulate as little as possible. Planning takes weeks, sometimes months of nonstop thought and brainstorm sessions. The day of the event begins early typically before the sun is up and ends late into the night. The week itself is an easy 100+ hours of planning, manual labor, and preparation. We call this fun. Our escape from the everyday routine.  

 At our last dinner, in hopes of spending more quality time with our guinea pigs (blue does not host guest but instead test subjects of our madness), I decided to take on help for the execution of a 7 course, 210 plate menu. I couldn’t have asked for a better setting to have done so. The conversations were intriguing and the questions led me to realize the fascination behind a chef’s psyche.  

 Although happily enslaved by my profession for most of my life, I can only speak for myself in attempting to deconstruct the mind of a chef.

 The word chef makes me uncomfortable. So easily tossed around it has become a term representing any numbnut that places food onto a plate. There is no respect behind the word as there once used to be. A term implying someone in pearly whites who hardly comes in contact with what they produce. Unfortunately for me there is still romance within the term chef, making me unqualified among my peers if I do not reside within its allure.      

To better understand the food you are eating you must first understand the psyche of the person who prepares it. In my work I seek an understanding of food a few ever truly find.

 Major insult- call me an artist.

 I am a craftsman, a humble cook, but artist I am not. The word itself cheapens what I do. Artists have the freedom to create for themselves, they do not have to take under consideration their audience. A luxury I wish I had.

 I understand where the confusion begins. Yes, I do get to play around and express my imagination but first and foremost I am a technician. I alter the structure of substance which will become part of you. There is almost a sexual intimacy between the cook and the patron. We understand the elements we work with, respect their reactions and follow a science unwritten. Our methods of control are touch, sight, and hearing. All mastered by years of repetition, trial and error.

 Much like blue’s concept I aim to keep things true to form. My goal- to cook with intent and purpose.

I have been engaged in a lot of soul searching lately. Actually, soul searching sounds depressing. It’s been more like self defining.

 The question I’ve been asking is- what sets today’s chef apart from its prototype?

 In my profession, there is a tragic scene. The chefs of years past, now burnt out, fat and for the most part drunk off their ass pretty much all day long. They don’t come out of their underground hideout much. Like Well’s morlocks they live in darkness, remnants of a cruel and unforgiving industry. But what happened to these guys? Why do they all share in the same story? They don’t speak of their past career, as most of them are frightened by the thought of walking into a profession kitchen. Once titans in their local restaurant scene, and respected for their work, they have been forgotten about like an area 51 gift shop.

 The few that still practice in the industry have somehow slipped through the cracks. They saw the change coming and quickly adapted to the new school.

 A couple of nights ago, with the help of a good bottle of Malbec, I came to a theory. While sitting on the back patio of my boss’s house discussing restaurant life and all subjects food the realization dawned on me that we are standing on the fault line of a major industry shift.

 The shift consists of the old school cookery, where resources are consumed unremorsefully, and the new move towards consuming only what is available. The chef of today must learn to be flexible with a keen sense of adaptation for change of season, and ingredient. This quality is in my opinion what sets the chefs of today apart.

 It is absolutely ignorant to be part of this industry today and not be mindful of the world around you. It’s not a political statement, it’s responsibility. What are we going to cook in forty years when resourced begin to dry out? a lot of damage has already occurred, produce doesn’t taste as it should due to its out of season production. Fish prices are through the roof as less of it is available. And the meat industry is an absolute soup sandwich of greedy CEOs.

 Not all hope is lost. There is a lot of good going on out there. Words like sustainable and seasonal are actually beginning to matter some- bad news for chefs who don’t care, great for the ones that do. I hate to sound like an environmental documentary but what is going to make the biggest difference in the future is the costumer – that would be you. Start asking for sustainability. Purchase more local and organic when you can. There are many of us out there trying to fix where all the others have faltered.

 Is this too “green” for you? Good. I happen to like the color green.