Blogs, I’m told, are all about the moment, all about what people are cooking right now or thinking right now.  I tend to write in long loops, spooling out material based more on memory than the moment.  But I have a short-attention span, so I understand the pleas of those who read like hummingbirds:  make it shorter.  So I’ll offer three shorter entries on Bourdain this week rather than one long one. I’ll also use subheadings, so if you what to flit away to another site and come back, you’ll be able to find your old perch.  Buzz, buzz, buzz.  If you like the old format or have remembered to take your Adderall, you can come back at the end of the week and read all three entries together, as intended.

It may seem odd that I’m willing to unreservedly back Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles cookbook.  I recently dismissed Thomas Keller as overly fastidious, and Keller is one of Bourdain’s heroes.  Keller once made Bourdain a twenty-course tasting menu at the French Laundry, which included a “coffee and cigarettes” course with foie gras and a tabacco-infused custard. I see why he likes the man. But I never used Bouchon as much as I have the Les Halles cookbook, so I’ve learned less from it. Same goes for Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which is more comprehensive, and Paula Wolfert’s The Cooking of Southwest France, which is beautiful, authentic, regional, and rigorous. I like Bourdain because he scales it down to classic, homey French dishes and he does them well. It’s perfect for people who have made French Onion soup or Beef Bourguignon a couple of times and still wonder why they don’t taste as good as in the local Brasseries. You may not like the answer, which is invariably “make your own stock or demi-glace,” but at least you’ll know.

Bourdain is also funny. You don’t see many funny cookbooks. Publishers are clearly aware that cookbook sales are driven by personality.  They like family anecdotes, old sepia-toned photographs, sentimental memories, pleas to protect the culinary traditions, rants about factory farming, but humor?  They haven’t found humor yet. The only writer in Bourdain’s class is probably Calvin Trillin, but Bourdain isn’t hampered by Trillin’s sense of social justice or common decency.

Beginnings

I first discovered Bourdain as most do, through Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly.  I have Jason to thank for that. I was going through a sourdough phase at the time, cultivating a starter that needed weekly care and feeding.  Making sourdough isn’t that much different from making regular yeast dough, but you don’t start with little packets of instant yeast.  You have to cultivate yeast from the air in your kitchen. This is why distinctive sourdoughs are known by regions, like Paris and San Francisco, and why there will probably never be a truly famous Philadelphia sourdough.  Our unicellular bug excretions don’t taste as good.  But I figured if I was going to cook bread, I wanted to know to make the rustic, old-fashioned stuff, and I wanted to know what Philadelphia tasted like.

Sourdough is a commitment, not just because it takes a few days to bring flour and water to life, but because you want to keep it that way. Each week you pour off the excess starter before it gets overripe, and you feed it more flour and water to keep it going.  It’s like owning a pet, only it’s a pet that sheds most of its body weight each week and you get to eat it.  Like a pet it demands attention. It must be fed, and if you’re not making baguettes, you end up pouring that precious bubbling goo into the garbage can.  That’s sad. If you go two or three weeks without making bread, you still feel some moral imperative to keep the starter alive. You’ll miss the opportunity for a weekend in the Poconos because you can’t find a local kid who will feed both the cats and the sourdough.  That’s also sad.

I was bemoaning this fact to Jason, and I suggested I needed a name for the starter. A warm, bubbly name, might help me to bond with the creature that was taking up all my time.  Jason suggested “The Bitch,” which is not what I had in mind at all. I went from puzzled to disturbed as Jason chanted, “Feed the bitch or she’ll die!”  No, it wasn’t early onset spongiform encephalitis.  I just wasn’t clued in to the Bourdain reference, and the 250 pound “foaming, barely contained heap of fermenting grapes, flour, water, sugar and yeast” that shows up as a character in Kitchen Confidential.  Apparently, not recognizing Anthony Bourdain references if you cook is like not recognizing Star Wars references if you’re a sci-fi junkie, or references from Monty Python if you’re socially awkward.  So Jason took it upon himself to fill the Bourdain sized hole in my culinary consciousness, and Bourdain has been living there ever since.

(In the interest of leaving no plot conflict unresolved, the solution to the sourdough problem was pancakes.  Most weeks for several months we made sourdough pancakes on a cast iron skillet, and they were glorious).

Sex, Drugs & Roquefort

Kitchen Confidential is an unsparing tell all about the restaurant industry. If you’ve seen Bourdain on A Cook’s Tour or No Reservations, then you know he has an eight-year olds fascination with eating repellent things on a dare:  cobra heart , fermented Icelandic Shark, and sand encrusted warthog rectum are among the many highlights.  But television offers a watered down version of the Anthony Bourdain we see in American restaurants through Kitchen Confidential. The book follows his education and his rise in the restaurant industry, from a providence, RI coastal restaurant and the Culinary Institute of America, to mob-owned restaurants, dying restaurants, restaurants he works at mostly to help him make drug connections, and restaurants where he witnesses all kind of deviant behavior and unsanitary food handling. One of the more vile incidents involves a cook who partially amputates a finger while cooking, and then decides to lop off the rest of it because the workman’s comp benefits will be better.

Logic dictates that if you write a tell-all about the restaurant industry, two things should
happen to you:  you should be excommunicated, like a magician who has given up too many secrets, or you should stir up outrage and reform like some modern day Upton Sinclair. Yet somehow, Kitchen Confidential did neither. Kitchen Confidential just made a generation of cooks want to be more like Anthony Bourdain. Sure we’re revolted by what he does and what he sees, but he writes about it with such relish that we’re somehow convinced it’s fun. Like if you watch Pirates of the Caribbean, you know that all that scurvy, sodomy, and seasickness of the 18^th century wasn’t a good time, but every eight year old boy still wants to be Captain Sparrow.  Piracy actually turns out to be a significant motif in Kitchen Confidential.  Thewhole book is laden with references to that “subculture whose centuries-old militaristic hierarchy and ethos of ‘rum, buggery, and the lash”.  One of Bourdain’s first jobs is in Providence, RI was at “The Dreadnaught;” a seaside establishment in “Early Driftwood” décor, and when he settles in his own restaurant, he chooses a skull and knife logo that looks suspiciously like the Jolly Roger.  The perspective is also unabashedly and unapologetically male.  The communities are ones which value bravado, one-upmanship, trying to cook something that has never been cooked before, and trying to eat things that have never been eaten before. And above all, they honor their war wounds.

We considered ourselves a tribe.  As such, we had a number of unusual customs, rituals and practices all our own.  If you cut yourself in the Work Progress kitchen, tradition called for maximum spillage and dispersion of blood.  One squeeezed the wound till it ran freely, then hurled great gouts of red spray on the jackets and aprons of comrades.  We loved blood in our kitchen.  If you dinged yourself badly, it was no disgrace; we’d stencil a little cut-out shape of a chef knife under your station to commemorate the event.  After a while, you’d have a little row of these things, like a fighter pilot.  The house cat—a mouse killer—got her own stencil (a tiny mouse shape) sprayed on the wall by her water bowl, signifying confirmed kills.

If I were teaching this book I would no doubt want students to question the representation of men and women in the workplace.  There’s really very few references to women at all, and the one who stands out the most is a co-worker who has to earn her bones by forcing a male co-worker down on a table and threatening to violate him.  As a reader however, I find it all deeply refreshing. Because while the world of cooking and even the world of cookbooks is dominated by men, the target audience of cookbooks is not.  Sure, an occasional cookbook panders—usually in an obvious way—to guys who grill, guys who like to play with fire, guys who make their obesity seem socially acceptable because they want to share their love of pork ribs with the world.  But I’m no more willing to inhabit this avuncular Paul Prodhomme like subjectivity than I am a bubbling Rachel Ray.  But who wouldn’t want to be Anthony Bourdain?

(To Be Continued)

I just finished reading The Belly of Paris by Emile Zola. It’s the third novel in his twenty-volume series Les Rougon-Macquart (subtitle: Natural and Social History of a Family during the Second Empire), which follows the lives of fictional families under the regime of Napoleon III.

The story follows our protagonist Florent, a socialist, who has returned to Paris after having been exiled to Devil’s Island for his political affiliations. In the time that he’s been gone, the markets of Les Halles have grown and flourished, these vendors and their food essentially encompassing the Paris that was once his home. The extraordinarily thin Florent detests what he sees, the mass consumption and consumerism, the fat getting fatter, the once brilliant food turning yellow and black with rot, and a very graphic description of pigeons being bled before being sold as aliment. The bourgeoisie, along with Les Halles, has grown and, is, for better or worse, Paris. Observing the changes of Paris, the disillusioned Florent gradually becomes involved in a plot to revolt against the government, while his neighbors, the gossip-mongering vendors of Les Halles, look on and, in turn, plot the insurrectionist’s downfall.

The narrative itself is rather thin. Instead, the novel consists mostly of vivid description, no detail of the markets are left out. In fact, at one point, Zola takes an entire two (if I’m remembering correctly) pages to describe cheese, in what a passage that is now known as “the cheese symphony.” Here is a taste:

Beneath the stall show-table, formed of a slab of red marble veined with grey, baskets of eggs gleamed with a chalky whiteness; while on layers of straw in boxes were Bondons, placed end to end, and Gournays, arranged like medals, forming darker patches tinted with green. But it was upon the table that the cheeses appeared in greatest profusion. Here, by the side of the pound-rolls of butter lying on white-beet leaves, spread a gigantic Cantal cheese, cloven here and there as by an axe; then came a golden-hued Cheshire, and next a Gruyere, resembling a wheel fallen from some barbarian chariot; whilst farther on were some Dutch cheeses, suggesting decapitated heads suffused with dry blood, and having all that hardness of skulls which in France has gained them the name of “death’s heads.” Amidst the heavy exhalations of these, a Parmesan set a spicy aroma. Then there came three Brie cheeses displayed on round platters, and looking like melancholy extinct moons. Two of them, very dry, were at the full; the third, in its second quarter, was melting away in a white cream, which had spread into a pool and flowed over the little wooden barriers with which an attempt had been made to arrest its course….The Roqueforts under their glass covers also had a princely air, their fat faces marbled with blue and yellow, as though they were suffering from some unpleasant malady such as attacks the wealthy gluttons who eat too many truffles. And on a dish by the side of these, the hard grey goats’ milk cheeses, about the size of a child’s fist, resembled the pebbles which the billy-goats send rolling down the stony paths as they clamber along ahead of their flocks. Next came the strong smelling cheeses: the Mont d’Ors, of a bright yellow hue, and exhaling a comparatively mild odor; the Troyes, very thick, and bruised at the edges, and of a far more pungent smell, recalling the dampness of a cellar; the Camemberts, suggestive of high game; the square Neufchatels, Limbourgs, Marolles, and Pont l’Eveques, each adding its own particular sharp scent to the malodorous bouquet, till it became perfectly pestilential; the Livarots, ruddy in hue, and as irritating to the throat as sulphur fumes; and, lastly, stronger than all the others, the Olivets, wrapped in walnut leaves, like the carrion which peasants cover with branches as it lies rotting in the hedgerow under the blazing sun.

Emile Zola is the master of food writing, of creating an imagery of smell and taste. What a marvelous book.

some ingredients for the recipe

you guys HAVE to make this. It’s not fattening, its fun to make and say, and it will feed your family for two marvelous days. I’m BEGGING you to make this!

pg 202-3, Les Halles Cookbook

2# paleron of beef, cut into 1″ pieces (I had access to sirloin from a butcher shop, so that’s what I used)
salt and pepper
1/4 c olive oil (not necessarily evoo…you’re cooking with it…)
4 onions, thinly sliced (I used plain old white ones…)
1 c red Burgundy wine (I used two cups)
6 carrots, cut into 1in pieces
1 garlic clove
1 bouquet garni
2 tbps flour
a little chopped flat parsley

I added: *some homemade stock I had in the freezer, but if you have demi-glace, USE IT!
*about two tbsp red wine vinegar

EQUIPMENT: a dutch oven or big pot; wooden spoon; large spoon or ladle

make sure you can stay close to the stove; I had three kids climbing the walls while I made this, so don’t feel like you have to be all calm and perfect…put on some seriously loud cooking music, shake your groove thang and…

“season the meat with salt and pepper. In the dutch oven, heat the oil over high heat until it is almost smoking. Add the meat, in batches- NOT ALL AT ONCE!- and sear on all sides until is is well browned (not gray). You dump too much meat in the pot at the same time and you’ll over crowd it; cool the thing down and you won’t get good color. Sear the meat a little at a time, removing it and setting it aside as it finishes. When all the meat is a nice, dark brown color and has been set aside, add the onions to the pot. Lower the ear to medium high until the onions are soft and golden brown (about ten minutes). Sprinkle the flour over them. Continue to cook for about 4 to 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, then add the red wine. Naturally, you want to scrape up all the really good fond from the bottom of the pot with your wooden spoon. Bring the wine to a boil.”

“Return the meat to the pot and add the carrots, garlic, and bouquet garni. Add just enough water (and the stock or demi-glace if you have it) so that the liquid covers the meat by one third-meaning you want a ratio of 3 parts liquid to 2 parts meat. This is a stew, so you want plenty of liquid, even after it cooks down and reduces. Bring to a boil, reduce to a gentle simmer, and let cook for about 2 hours, or until the meat is tender (break apart with a fork tender).”

“You should pay attention to the dish, meaning check it every 15 to 20 minutes, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pot to make sure the meat is n ot sticking or, God forbid, scorching. You should also skim off any foam or scum or oil collecting on the surface, using a large spoon or ladle. When done, remove and discard the bouquet garni, add the copped parsley [(add vinegar at this point, if you plan on it)] to the pot and serve.”

“This dish is much better the second day. Just cool the stew down in an ice bath, or on your countertop (the Health Department is unlikely to raid your kitchen). Refrigerate overnight. When time, heat and serve. Goes well with a few boiled potatoes. But goes really well with a bottle of Cote de Nuit Villages Pommard.”

Bourdain, Anthony (2004). Les Halles Cookbook; New York: Bloomsbury; pgs 202-3.

WOW!  It’s been quite the unplanned hiatus from the blogosphere, but that’s all going to change in the coming weeks.  My Favorite Animal is Bacon will return to a more normal schedule of updates; my plan is to update at least once, hopefully twice, a week.  In the meantime, here’s a tidbit about what’s been going on with me.

I transfered schools in August, and with that also came a move to a new city.  Previously, I was a student at Denison University in the sprawling metropolitan colonial settlement of Granville, Ohio; now, I don’t go there anymore.  Currently, I am a student at The New School in New York City.  That means I now live in, arguably, the greatest food city in the world.  In the hullabaloo that involved me moving here and starting school, I was sort of forced to shift my focus away from my beloved blog.  However, just because I wasn’t writing doesn’t mean I wasn’t eating well!  Since moving to New York I’ve had lots of great meals, and I plan to chronicle all of them in the next couple of months.  As a sort of amuse-bouche, here’s a sampling of some of the places I’m going to be writing about in the future:

- Picholine

- dell’anima

- Otto

- La Esquina

- Craftbar

- Les Halles (Park Ave)

- Lucali Pizzeria

- DBGB

- And many more!

So, READERS (however few of you there may be), my point here today is to RE-ENGAGE and make you all aware of my impending return.  Be on the look out for another post later this week (I promise, it will have some actual content and insight, unlike this one)!

First time in Paris. Enjoy!

HAPPY NEW YEAR’S EVE!

For those that are staying in and cooking a gourmet steak, and couldn’t stand the thought of New Year’s Eve without 2frugalfoodies (there are approximately ZERO of you, by the way) here’s a great addition to any cut of steak.

It’s an Anthony Bourdain recipe, and one that he recommends serving over a sirloin filet steak. We serve it over other steaks as you’ll see tomorrow…

Recipe: Beurre Rouge

Hi there again… As the readers of Catsworking know my Significant Other and I were fortunate enough to have won a trip to New York City and a chance to take in the concerts to celebrate the 25th Anniversary of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!!

I have been promising to post a tale of our trip for quite some time now so I will begin at the beginning.

Being a long time listener to 92.1 CITI fm here in Winnipeg I am used to hearing the big concert and trip announcements that the station gives away during ratings periods. But it really floored me to find out that they were giving away a once in a lifetime trip to see the gathered members of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame perform “Jam Style” at Madison Square Garden.

I immediately had to get in on this opportunity, placing a number of entries into their VIP Club system.  As the weeks went by I had a “Lucky” feeling that we were going to win, and as it turned out we were picked to go into the final round of entries on my 40th Birthday in September.  That sealed it I figured we were a lock to win the big prize.

By coincidence the day of the draw I was home for work,  I told my Girlfriend Darlene to make sure her cell phone was charged and on ready for the inevitable call. She looked at me bemused, but I was unshakable we were going to win…  As promised her phone rang at the appointed time, she was sure that I was pulling her leg.  But when she answered my dream had come true. We had actually won an all expenses trip to New York.

Unbelievable…

We were to be put up scant blocks away from Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building.

Empire State Building from our Hotel Room

Once on the ground in New York we settled into the busy surroundings, apprehensive of how the city and its inhabitants would treat to uninitiated Canadians.  The first order of business was Dinner at Les Halles, a french brasserie on park ave. The very same restaurant in fact where a budding author named Anthony Bourdain wrote a book he thought no one would read called “Kitchen Confidental”.  A book that would launch him into the world of travel television and celebrity.

Outside Les Halles

Quite by surprise we were invited into the kitchen by our waiter Tim Siemens to meet the current head chef Carlos Llaguno. Having been a fan of the restaurant for quite some time I was flabbergasted by our luck.

In the Kitchen at Les Halles

As we walked back to the hotel from an amazing dinner the Empire State Building loomed glowing above us… And we hadn’t even gotten to the best part yet!!!

The Empire State Building in the Mist

Authors Note: For a full account of our dinner at Les Halles please refer to my friend Karen’s blog Catsworking.

I would’ve loved to have been there…

Elegant photos taken “from Paris cafés and nightlife in 1962, the same week Yves St. Laurent’s runway show vaulted Dior to new heights. Many scenes around Les Halles”. From tompalumbo’s  photo set. Check it out here.

The jury will always be out on titles like “Best” but in the Greater Miami area there are two French restaurants that stand out as better than the rest. Les Halles in Coral Gables and Le Bouchon du Grove in Coconut Grove, the latter serving the superior duck.

Le Bouchon is tiny, crowded and sometimes slow, but I’ve never been disappointed with the food. For dinner, the Confit du Canard ($24.50) is salty and velvety,  delicious, served with simple potatoes. For brunch the Goat Cheese and Fresh Tomato Omelet ($10.00) is the best in Miami.

Les Halles is a larger restaurant and features an admittedly more cordial staff. They always suggest wine that fits and delights.  Their classic Onion Soup ($7.50) is spectacular. We also recommend the Petatou de Chevre ($8.50) – a warm appetizer of potato, olive and goat cheese- and the Assiette de Fromage du Jour (m.p). Their Confit is second-best but only lately. Their signature dish,  Steak Frites ($17.50) is probably the must-order item for dinner.

i did know about the catacombs of paris, but i didn´t know about the walls of bones…this is beautiful scary …

some info about how and why there are all these bones in the underground of paris from wikipedia:

The Catacombs of Paris or Catacombes de Paris are a famous underground ossuary in Paris, France. Located south of the city’s former “Barrière d’Enfer” city gate (at today’s Denfert-Rochereau), the ossuary fills a renovated section of caverns and tunnels that are the remains of Paris’ stone mines. Opened in the late 18^th century, the underground cemetery became a tourist attraction on a small scale from the early 19^th century, and has been open to the public on a regular basis from 1867. Following an incident of vandalism, they were closed to the public for an indefinite amount of time in September, 2009.^[1]

The official name for the catacombs is l’Ossuaire Municipal. Although this cemetery covers only a small section of underground tunnels comprising “les carrières de Paris” (“the quarries of Paris”), Parisians today often refer to the entire tunnel network as “the catacombs”.

Paris since Roman times buried its dead to the outskirts of the city, but this changed with the rise of Christianity and its practice of burying its faithful deceased in consecrated ground in and adjoining its churches. By the 10th century, because of the city’s expansion over the centuries, there were many parish cemeteries within city limits, even in central locations. When Paris’ population began to rise rapidly in the following centuries, some of these cemeteries became overcrowded where expansion was impossible. Soon only the most wealthy could afford church burials, which led to the opening in the early 12th century of a central burial ground for more common burials: initially dependant upon the St. Opportune church, this cemetery near Paris’ central Les Halles district was renamed as the ‘Saints-Innocents cemetery’ under its own church and parish towards the end of the same century.

The practice common then for burying the lesser-wealthy dead was mass inhumation. Once an excavation in one section of the cemetery was full, it would be covered over and another opened. Few of the dead buried in this way had the privilege of coffins; often the casket used for a burial ceremony would be re-used for the next. Thus the residues resulting from the decaying of organic matter, a process often chemically accelerated with the use of lime, entered directly into the earth, creating a situation quite unacceptable for a city whose then principle source of liquid sustenance was well-water.

By the 17th century the sanitary conditions around Saints-Innocents cemetery was unbearable. As it was one of Paris’ most sought-after cemeteries and a large source of revenue for the parish and church, the clergy had continued burials there even when its grounds were filled to overflowing. By then the cemetery was lined on all four sides with “charniers” reserved for the bones of the dead exhumed from mass graves that had “lain” long enough for all the flesh they contained to decompose. Once emptied, a mass sepulture would be used again, but even then the earth was already filled beyond saturation with decomposable human remains.

A series of ineffective decrees limiting the use of the cemetery did little to remedy the situation, and it wasn’t until the late 18th century that it was decided to create three new large-scale suburban burial grounds to the outskirts of the city, and to condemn all existing parish cemeteries within city limits.

read more here

buahhh…i think the city of love lost a bit od it´s romance for me now…

Paris – Eglise Saint Eustache

Originally uploaded by Añelo de la Krotsche

Paris – Eglise Saint Eustache

L’église Saint-Eustache is a church in the 1st arrondissement of Paris, built between 1532 and 1632.

Situated at the entrance to Paris’ ancient markets (Les Halles) and the beginning of rue Montorgueil, the Église de Saint-Eustache is a Parisian gothic gem. The church’s reputation was strong enough of the time for it to be chosen as the location for a young Louis XIV to receive communion. Mozart also chose the sanctuary as the location for his mother’s funeral. Among those baptised here as children were Richelieu, Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, future Madame de Pompadour and Molière, who was also married here two decades later. The last rites for Anne of Austria, Turenne and Mirabeau were pronounced within its walls. Marie de Gournay is buried there.

Portrait de Molière

Dans le cadre du Malade Imaginaire, par la Compagnie Opale et présenté par les comédiens : maison du spectateur samedi 21 novembre à 19h00.

Si vous êtes intéressés à connaître la vie de Molière, son époque et son génie théâtral, vous êtes invités à entendre les comédiens du Malade Imaginaire le 21 novembre, dans le foyer du théâtre Les Halles.

Quelques échanges d’avant spectacle qui accompagneront cette soirée théâtrale.

Pour plus d’informations :

Maison du spectateur – Les Halles (Sierre)

El barrio de Les Halles es el más antiguo de la ciudad y el más cargado de historia. Hoy, es uno de los más populares y frecuentados por los turistas ya que la mezcla de gente de diferente razas lo hace muy popular teniendo un toque muy pintoresco y polifasetico. Aquí uno puede contrar tabernas, bares y cafecitos donde puedes disfrutar de una gran variedad de platillos típicos de París así como de comida típica de la gente originaria de otros paises del mundo. Lo destacado de este lugar aparte del barrio es el Forum des Halles, un enorme centro comercial que incluyen restaurantes, cines, videoteca y hasta una piscina. Junto a este lugar se encuentra la bella Iglesia de Saint Eustache, una verdadera joya del arte gótico. Atiguamente esta igelsia era considerada la iglesia real, y fue especialmente célebre porque por ella pasaron, bajo diferentes circunstancias, reyes y personajes famosos, como Luis XIV que recibió aquí su comunión, Moliere celebró su casamiento y Ana de Austria y Mirabeau fueron velados en esta iglesia. Un detalle que descubrimos es que aquí se encuentra uno de los órganos más grandes de Francia el tercero después de Notre Dame y la Iglesia de Saint Sulpice.

www.guiarte.com/paris/que-ver/les-halles.html

Hier soir en sortant d’un vernissage, rue de Montmartre, à ma grande surprise le décor avait changé !

En arrivant la rue était nue. En ressortant les était toute habillée d’un beau marché !

A 19h marché de poissons, de bonbons, d’olives, de vins, de tapenades, de produits du terroir et de tradition, même les fruits et légumes y étaient !

Surprenant, mais réellement amusant ce marché du soir. Dans la nuit noire, tout éclairé, à voir absolument !

By Winnipeg Bob

Now that you’re on the edge of your seat, drooling, I’ll finish my tale…

During dinner, we were chatting with two ladies, a native New Yorker and her friend from Texas, about the differences in Canadian and U.S. heathcare when waiter Tim tapped my shoulder and pointed to a figure leaning tiredly against the kitchen door.

Carlos.

I asked Tim if Carlos was indeed a ball-buster in the kitchen. Tim kinda dodged the question, saying only that Carlos had been pretty grumpy lately.

Just by looking at Carlos, I could tell he was beat, occasionally wiping a bead of sweat or stray hair from his face as he observed the dining room.

“Damn!” I thought. I’d hoped maybe to meet the man conducting the culinary orchestra that had produced my meal, but I returned to my conversation with the Americans, who were intrigued by Canada’s “free” healthcare, explaining that we are taxed accordingly, but otherwise quite happy with our universal system.

Then Tim tapped me again with a grin, and announced we were all invited back to the kitchen to talk to the chef briefly about our meals, and cameras were welcome.

The ladies declined, but Darlene agreed to accompany me “into the belly of the beast.”

What struck me immediately was how tiny the kitchen is. It looks like a ballroom on TV. When Tony said you have to be light on your feet not to disturb anyone, he wasn’t kidding.

As we watched the proud Mexican crew at work, Carlos seemed to pop out of nowhere, but he was probably standing right there.

I was so excited, my memory here may be fuzzy, but I remember Carlos asking what we ordered and how it was. I babbled that everything was exactly as ordered and excellent!

Then I asked about Tony and how he did filming “Into the Fire.” I’m sure I used the words ball-buster and slacker.

Carlos kinda shrugged and said, yes, he was hard on Tony that night because Tony was out of practice and slow to get up to speed.

I then asked if he kicks Tony’s ass when he shows up at the restaurant from time to time. Like Tim, Carlos replied sort of tiredly that Tony never really comes around anymore, he’s too busy for the place.

I’m sure Carlos harbored no ill will, but was merely reflecting on the life Tony now leads.

And maybe, just maybe, the staff of Les Halles gets a little tired of customers asking about Bourdain when he hasn’t worked there for nearly a decade.

Shaking Carlos’ hand, I asked if I could have a picture. Tim grabbed a server and grouped the four of us for this shot I’ll always treasure.

(L-R) Waiter Tim, Winnipeg Bob, girlfriend Darlene, Chef Carlos in the kitchen at Les Halles

My overall impression of Les Halles was as it should be. It’s all about giving its patrons an enjoyable evening. Is it Anthony Bourdain’s hangout? NO. But it never was. It was his employer when he happened to get famous.

Does Les Halles benefit from Bourdain? I have no doubt the association, however stale, attracts some wide-eyed travelers like ourselves. But at the end of the day, it’s the great food prepared by Carlos and his crew, and the friendly, attentive service of Tim and the rest of the waitstaff, that will bring you back though these warm, welcoming doors.

(All Photos - Winnipeg Bob)

I’m a little late to this, but I’ll post it anyway. This comes from a post by foodandwine.com about Anthony Bourdain and David Chang of Momofuku. All you really need to know are the two following quotes:

David Chang on San Francisco restaurants: “There’s only a handful of restaurants that are manipulating food,” and “every restaurant in San Francisco is serving figs on a plate with nothing on it”

Anthony Bourdain referring to Alice Waters (of Chez Panisse) as “Pol Pot in a muumuu” and saying “Alice Waters annoys the living shit out of me. We’re all in the middle of a recession, like we’re all going to start buying expensive organic food and running to the green market. There’s something very Khmer Rouge about Alice Waters that has become unrealistic … I’m suspicious of orthodoxy, the kind of orthodoxy when it comes to what you put in your mouth.”

All I gotta say is I respect all the above chefs, and love the food at Chez Panisse, all the Momofukus, and even Les Halles (to a certain degree). But damn, hating on an entire city’s cuisine? WTF? I knew you were a DOUCHE Chang, but you really are a bigtime douche. You, with your backpack running out of Momofuku Milk Bar that one time I was eating your delicious cookies and needed to shit so bad cause it was so rich with yummyness. I shoulda stepped up to you for what you said about SF, except I was busy desecrating your bathroom (as well as my other two friends messing up the Ssam Bar bathroom, don’t worry, I won’t out you, *cough* cheezu *cough* JiP).

And to Bourdain. You can do no wrong after you said you were gonna move your family to Da Nang, the most gangsta of all of Viet Nam (IMHO), so I’ll give you a free pass for hating on Berkeley cuisine. Just this one time.

It’s that time of year again, when a weekend in New York looms in Big Apple style on the pre-Christmas horizon. I have long associations with this city; it was in New York that, as a foetus, I first kicked my mother from the inside out, thrilling her with the reality of impending motherhood. It was as a teenager in New York that I first rode in a stretch limo and played the piano with my feet at FAO Schwarz, just like Tom Hanks did in Big. It was in New York that my Stateside friends threw me a surprise birthday party, the only one I’ve ever had, when I’d tiptoed out of London in order to avoid another year older. And now, decades after launching that first little kick, the inspiration to skip, and jump my way up and down that little island known as Manhattan still ignites me from the moment I start to plan a visit.

Some people like to shop in New York City. There’s certainly plenty of opportunity to do that: from bargains to be found at Century 21, located somewhat eerily adjacent to 9-11’s Ground Zero and its ever-present conspiracy theorists, through to the air-kissing environs of Barney’s and Bergdorf’s at the other end of the spender’s spectrum.

However, shopping is not what gets my Big Apple Fires a-burning; it goes deeper than that for me. There’s a vibe about Manhattan which ripples invisibly through the air, up and down the grid of streets and avenues, and straight into my soul. It’s the small things, as much as the skyscrapers, that thrill me here: the excitement of buying Motrin at Duane Reade (SO much better and more cost-effective than Nurofen), Chinese being spoken in Chinatown in front of windows of crispy fried ducks hanging by their feet, a glimpse of hand cuffed to briefcase in the diamond district, meetings beneath the clock at Grand Central Station. A smile threatens to break every time I see a yellow cab with bent plastic fender or when I hear someone in a deli order “pastrami on rye!” or when I pass a man wearing a battered Yankees cap or when a debate starts over where to find the best bagels in the city. Even when struggling to decide whether to go to the MoMA, the Guggenheim, the Whitney or the Frick because, goshdarnit, there’s just too much choice, I feel a constant buzz buzzity buzz.

Plenty of people go to New York to make money and/or spend money and there’s plenty to do there for all tastes and ages. Shoppers ogle at the animated Christmas windows, romantics sigh at chestnuts roasting on street corners and in every crowd you will spot Big Brown Bloomingdale’s Bags. It’s a melting pot of art and culture and music and design and hippy and chic – all in a mere 23.7 square miles. As might sound familiar to those In The Epicurienne Know, it’s New York’s food that really gets me going. There’s such a wealth of variety to be had, just begging for the attention of food lovers like me. So where have I been so far?

• The Red Flame Diner with its bottomless cups of coffee and evil stacks of pancakes swimming in maple syrup and crispy bacon is a breakfast favourite. It’s so busy here at weekends that there’s no time for pleasantries. Order, eat, pay and move outta the way for the next in line. Please note: I’ve never seen the place without a line, but it does move fast and it gives you plenty of time to read the How To Help A Choke Victim poster, just in case.
• Les Halles, the restaurant called home by travelling chef Anthony Bourdain. With a mouthful of cassoulet you could close your eyes and think yourself in Paris, so authentic is the atmosphere. It would be easy to believe that a tornado had picked up a brasserie in France and plonked it down, intact, in the middle of New York.
•  Nobu Next Door is the no-reservations little sister to Nobu, located just next door to the main restaurant in Tribeca. It serves delightful small plates, including Nobu’s signature black cod in miso but it’s a bit of a trek and to be assured of a table, you really need to get there after 10pm. Even then, there will be a queue. Your patience will be rewarded, if you can stay awake after a long day exploring New York.
• Mama Mexico’s on East 49th Street (and another located on Broadway) is a Mexican food-lover’s mecca. The guacamole is made at your table by one of the friendly wait-staff, tasting better than any other guac on earth, there’s plenty of choice and the portions are so humongous that we watched an entire table of eight leave smiling with doggy bags. Not one of them finished their main. Nor, as it happened, did I. Mama Mexico’s even offers take-out, a BIG reason for me NOT to move to New York. I’d probably never cook again.
• Union Square Cafe is a place I will always cherish because the grim-faced bouncer carded me there when I was a ripe old 27. I laughed as I pulled out my passport. “This is no laughing matter, ma’am.” he growled. Au contraire, mon frère! I took being asked for ID as a massive compliment, though, and told him so, bless his size thirteen cotton socks.
• Spring Street Natural was recommended by a former colleague who knows New York well. I had a divine tuna steak there, served rare to perfection. The food is as healthy and organic as it is possible to be, but not at the expense of taste or portion size.
• Brasserie Ruhlmann on Rockefeller Plaza is faithful to Art Deco style, as it takes its name from a great designer of that era – Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann. Another former colleague whisked me into this restaurant for lunch and a whirlwind catch-up session when I was in town a few years back and my, what a treat! The food was divine, the service infallible, and the atmosphere absolutely authentic. The disappointment was in having to squeeze as much out of it as we could within the one-hour lunch-break time-frame. I guess I’ll just have to return when we’re less hurried.
• Heartland Brewery is a chain with multiple locations. It’s ideal for a laid-back bite with a Heartland beer in hand. The menu is quintessentially American fare with old favourites like Classic Caesar Salad, Clam Chowder and St Louis Smoked Ribs. You can have Maine & Jumbo Lump Crab Cakes with a side of Idaho Mashed Potatoes or a burger of free-range South Dakota Bison with Hand Cut Idaho Fries, ‘cos ‘dem taters dere dey all do come from Idaho, ya know. Being a brewery I must also mention their beers. They have great names like Indiana Pale Ale, Farmer Jon’s Oatmeal Stout and Indian River Light. I tried Cornhusker Lager and very pleasant it was indeed. With more time on your hands, you might even be tempted to take a Voyage of Beer, enjoying a sampling of Heartland’s six classic beers.

Other New York experiences in the Epicurienne catalogue include eating very average Chinese in an ominously-empty Chinatown restaurant, (now I am furnished with foolproof tips for that area so hopefully history won’t repeat itself in that neck of the woods) where the biggest action took place in the fish tanks. I’ve lunched with the glitterati at Barney’s and twirled spaghetti in Little Italy and ordered pizza delivery at a friend’s Midtown apartment. I’ve hung out with the son of an Irish immigrant who made his fortune pouring beer for the folks of the Upper East Side and I’ve stood with dropped jaw as a woman ahead of me at Dean & Deluca ordered a “skinny decaf soy latte” which is very Sex and the City but defeats the purpose of drinking coffee in the first place. However, my finest hour when eating in New York? Sitting opposite the man I love in the Pomodoro Rosso and NOT getting dumped. You see, the Pomodoro Rosso is THE recommended break-up restaurant in the comedy series, Seinfeld. It also does a very good Sunday brunch menu, which is some consolation if you’ve only just realised that ‘he’s just not that into you’.

That’s all for today. In the next instalment I’m going to write about places on the Epicurienne Hit List, New York Edition. I may need some help choosing where next to dine…suggestions are welcomed because this is a case of so many eateries, so little time. And sadly, only one mouth.

By Winnipeg Bob

Bob’s Disclaimer: Fans of Cats Working, Bourdainiacs, Tim, Carlos, the staff at Les Halles, and Mr. Bourdain, I’m writing through the filter of my recollection, and apologize in advance if I misinterpreted anything.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes, strolling from Desmond’s to Brasserie Les Halles. Dark, welcoming wood accents, shining glass. A charming hostess seated us, to my delight, in the section where waiter Tim, from No Reservations “Into the Fire,” was working. By Winnipeg standards, the seating felt cramped, but we were told quite normal for New York.

While perusing the menu, I looked up and realized that most, if not all, of the lower-ranking wait staff were Mexican. One gentleman instantly filled our water glasses and kept them filled. They served us a basket of very tasty bread with a generous pad of rich butter.

Then a shadow fell over my menu and I glanced up to see Tim’s smiling face. He asked if we wanted something from the bar. I queried about Canadian whiskey. Darlene took Tim’s advice on a Cosmo.

When he brought our drinks, I said, “Thanks, Tim!”

He looked quizzical and asked how I knew his name. I just said I’d “seen him on TV.” That seemed to satisfy him and he left while we decided on dinner. For starters, I got escargots and Darlene ordered French onion soup.

On his return, Tim asked if we were Canadian and where we’d seen him. I told him No Reservations, and when I mentioned Winnipeg, he grinned and said, “No kidding! I grew up in North Dakota.” He regrets not mentioning it in his many TV appearances.

The ice broken, we BSed about hockey and the local Winnipeg football team, the Blue Bombers. When I mentioned we’d won our NYC trip from local radio station 92.1 Citi FM (Classic Rock, also on the Web) he couldn’t believe our luck.

He’d also appeared on Glutton for Punishment with Bob Blumer, and was trying to land other acting roles, and said we should stay on the lookout for him.

Darlene’s French onion soup was simply the finest I’ve ever tasted. Homemade broth, large chunks of sweet onion and bread, Gruyere cheese toasted to perfection over an oversized crock. My escargots were tasty, but they were simply outshone by that soup.

For entrées, Darlene chose pork tenderloin with mashed potatoes. I couldn’t decide, so Tim suggested steak aux poivre. That’s when my next simple question seemed to crack open a door to the Twilight Zone.

Darlene's Pork Tenderloin (All Photos - Winnipeg Bob)

I casually asked Tim how Anthony Bourdain performed in the kitchen when he filmed “Into the Fire,” and if he ever comes by.

Tim seemed to go quiet and replied that Tony really never comes around anymore.

It wasn’t so much what Tim said, but the way he said it. He sounded almost as if I had asked something I shouldn’t have. I may be completely off base, but something just felt wrong.

Coming up next… Into the Kitchen.

[Cats Working note: Check out Part 1 of Winnipeg Bob’s story again. New photos have been added.]

By Winnipeg Bob

We welcome faithful reader Bob as our first guest blogger. On October 28, he had dinner at Anthony Bourdain’s former restaurant, Les Halles, in New York City and has a story to tell…

Well, as you all know, my girlfriend Darlene and I won a trip to NYC to see the 25th Anniversary Concert Series for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame… But that is another story.

We also went to Desmond’s and Les Halles and met the characters that work within.

Our hotel was only about 4 or 5 blocks from the Park Avenue location of Les Halles (Tony’s former location), so as we walked in the glow of the Empire State Building, the objects of my desire were in sight.

Anyone who saw the “Into the Fire” episode of No Reservations knows one of Tony’s favorite haunts mid-shift was Desmond’s Bar, half a block from Les Halles. I must admit I was a little giddy walking in, but quickly regained my composure as Dar and I grabbed seats at the head of the bar.

(All Photos - Winnipeg Bob)

Our bartender was an older gentleman, very nice, and efficient with bringing icy cold beverages for weary travelers. But it was more the bar itself that I was interested in, flags on the wall, and the normal bric-a-brac that normally fills a well-loved bar. The kind of stuff all the regulars would have a story about…

One piece in particular caught my eye.

It was a napkin folded in the shape of a hat with a cross and some writing on it. Took me a minute to figure out what it said, till I got up and looked at it from across the bar. Drawn on the “Hat” was “Tony on Tour in Rome.” I asked the bartender what it meant, but in true bartender fashion, he kept whatever secrets it held, saying, “Oh, that’s just something one of the guys gave me,” then he scuttled off to serve someone else.

Glancing around more, I noticed a framed Newsweek article, signed by Bourdain. A gift to the bar, I would gather.

Our drinks finished and our reservation time approaching, we left Desmond’s and walked to Les Halles.

Stay tuned…

I love Anthony Bourdain. I am envious of him. Bourdain earned his privileges, he was the executive chef at Les Halles in New York for ten years, he wrote Kitchen Confidential (which I will be rereading today), and a number of other books, he writes shorter pieces for magazines and his own blog, and he is now best known as the host of the Travel Channel’s show No Reservations.

You will never hear Bourdain describe food as “Yum-O”, scream “Bam!”, try to “Kick It Up A Notch” with some “Eee-Vee-Oh-Oh”. He’s not a fan of the concept of celebrity chef, and isn’t ironic about having become one. He loves cooking, cooks, and chefs, be they unknown or celebrity; he mocks and derides celebrities who play chef.

Bourdain is too easily hurt, he has a million self defense mechanisms in place, cynicism most chiefly evident. What makes his No Reservations show appointment television in my house is being able to see the cynicism slip, then fall away, as beauty, pure and powerful, undoes Bourdain and transforms him before our eyes.

I have worked restaurants, mostly front of house, waiting tables from Dennys to tuxedo service, and managing a restaurant/nightclub where I made sure I knew how to do everyone’s job in case I needed to in an emergency. I can tend bar, I can wash dishes, I can make soups and salads and prep food, and I can cook. I loved cooking.

In my personal life, I still love to cook. I would like a little more room to do it in, and my 12 year old son wishes that our dishwasher was automatic and not named Charlie, but I love to cook. I have the ability to see a recipe, imagine it, re-imagine it better with mental adjustments of ingredients and cooking techniques, mentally select a perfect pairing wine, then go shopping and come home to execute a wonderful meal…or not. A few of my best dishes took 3 or 4 improvements before they taste as good or better than I originally imagined.

I have been hurt in my past, who hasn’t? Like Bourdain, I spent many years being cynical. Cynicism protects the cynic from hurt, but it also drives away the people you don’t need to protect yourself from. Self inflicted unnecessary and tiring armor.

I have dropped the armor. Well, I may still have a shield handy, but I’m not wearing a full suit anymore. I can get hurt, but I can also join with happier, sweeter, better, and more interesting people. My life is much improved, and continues to improve. Perfect? No, but I think the process of striving for the rarely and transitorily attainable is worth the effort.

Anyway, I am going to be applying for a new job. A winery is looking for someone to get the message of what they do out in a non-traditional way, using social network sites and blog/vblog entries.

I am a native of the area they want described. I worked for a winery for eight years. I know wine, and food, and share what I know with anyone who will listen out of love now. I love Sonoma County, my home, where I grew up. I sold, drank and cooked with wine made from grapes grown by this winery in their own vineyard ranch. I have a Bachelor of Science degree in Marketing. Exhibitor Magazine awarded me the Expert Exhibitor Award three consecutive years for tradeshow marketing of Sonoma County wine. As you are reading this, you know I blog, and am on myspace. I also have facebook and twitter accounts. I post on a number of forums.

I may actually be as qualified, as perfect for the job I will be seeking, as Bourdain is for his. I really can’t imagine anyone else being as good at what I am uniquely able to do, and get the job or not, this is exciting.