Eating Out Vocab Test

There are so many damn weird ass words for food these days that it’s a nightmare to figure out which language to learn, so you can speak the words of food with smartness. Give it up. Latin, French, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, on and on and on. So many fucking words for a cut up potato. But sadly, a lot of them do a good job of describing the state and condition of the food item in question, some intimating entire recipes or several combined, just by it’s name.

Motherfuckers.

So, in the short but illustrious history of Eating Out Fresno there have been some high falootin’ kewlinairy turms that have been bandied about that do bear a bit of explanation. We’ve got boil, fry, bake and sauté down. But what in the living fuck is a concasse? Great grandma knows. She called it getting ready for canning season. What jackass called cut ribbons of leaves a chiffonade? Fuck me sideways if I know, but I’ll do my best to tackle these fancy linguistic sudoku puzzles and put them in regular, if overly wordy terms.

Concasse: as in concasse’d tomatoes. This is where you quick boil (blanch) and shock tomatoes that you have scored on the bottom, so that the skin of the fruit will slide off of the flash cooked exterior without cooking the majority of the fruit. Then removing the seeds and stem area. Leaving them ready to chop or puree. (the ACTUAL definition is just to chop up something…stupid language)

Shock: (not the Shocker!  Dirty minds...) When you boil an item and then remove it from the heat and immerse it in ice water to stop the cooking process.

Score: In the case of tomatoes, to make a shallow ‘X’ at the bottom for the skin to peel away from or to otherwise make a shallow cut into the exterior of an ingredient in some form.

Sachet: Bunch of spices and herbs in a teabag or cheesecloth that you figure some magical way of closing (sewing anyone?)

Chevre: Silly French word for goat cheese.

Herbs de whatever: This is always a good one to Gooble. Whichever one it is (5 spice powder, chili powder, herbs de provence, etc) it’s usually pants-easy to make yourself and you might even have most, if not all of the components in your spice rack already.

Chinois, china cap: Fine mesh strainer and something to mash stuff through the mesh. Easily faked in the home kitchen with a decently tough wire strainer and a wooden spoon. If it’s about well strained, clear broth, a wide mesh coffee filter will serve the purpose in a pinch. After all, all they do is throw a cheesecloth into the chinois.

Brunoise: A tiny cube-ish dice. It’s the old trick with an onion or other veg where you make several horizontal cuts, then several vertical, then slice across the grid. Tiny 1/8th inch squares of whatever. At some point I think I’ll actually make a video of how to do it, or at least link a better example of how (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpqEu-YDWVQ)


And so there we go! A small handful of words that I had to bug the shit out of people to learn what the hell they really meant and how to achieve the actual reality that they implied. They’re all bloody sonovabitches, that’s for sure. And if there are any more bizarre food words that are puzzling you, send them to me! I promise to learn to the best of my interweb abilities what they actually mean and compile them into a further list of culinary vocab that I’ll wind up drunkenly posting at 3am. Promise!


-Pook

Eating Out Sadness

I heard recently that my very first Chef passed away last week. Part of me was shocked at how much anguish I truly felt. One can get close with co-workers in just about any job. I have lost co-workers and acquaintances before. But this is very different. Even though it has been close to 4 years since we last saw each other, he’s always remained in my thoughts and I would check up on him via mutual friends still in the kitchen trenches.

There’s something different with the relationships that one develops in a kitchen. For good or for ill, there’s always much more passion in the feelings you have for your fellow kitchenite. And just as some could completely get my goat, shave it and put mascara on it. Or then you've got Frankie reaching out and trying to teach me how to not be a complete screw up and ruin everyone’s day. A kitchen is a hard place to learn without guidance. To put it plainly, people are dicks until you have earned their respect in some form. That pretty much means being a complete screw up for a month unless someone takes pity on you and explains how fryers work and the methods you need to practice to not burn food. Seems simple. But when you’re in an environment that can be more cliquish than jr. high, where EVERYONE is on their period, ALL THE TIME. Where you can find yourself in the most absurd pissing matches, over the most ridiculous shit. Frankie was my life preserver. “Send the servers to me, they shouldn’t even be talking to you.”, “Don’t even worry about that manager, they’re just like that on Tuesdays.”, “See? That’s how you don’t burn shit!”.

Take that and add a sprinkle of fuckitall humor and you’ve got the guy that you wanted to work with, no matter what shift. When you were in his kitchen, he had your back. And you had his. His kindness and his leadership style made it very easy to want to give him your loyalty. He really understood the meaning of the word. And honor. In a corporate kitchen, some astoundingly stupid things come down the pipe. From unreasonable prep requirements on the line to outright stupid uniform decisions, he’d be in the office giving them what-for. It’s hard to stop the moronic will of corporate, but at least we knew we had an advocate fighting on the side of common sense.

Kitchen families are weird dysfunctional messes. Much like regular families. And we all shared each other’s triumphs and tragedies. I remember the mutual happiness we all felt for Frank when we found out he was going to be a father. And how awful we all felt when he fell ill and found out it might be cancer. I was overjoyed for him when he got well and said he was planning to finally leave the trenches to finish his degree and get a job that involved things like sitting and air conditioning. It was around there that we lost contact as his life decision had inspired me to leave the drudgery of the kitchen-that-doth-not-teach-one-to-cook and continue on my own path to learn how make good stuff to eat.

Though paths diverged, I would still hear from pals about how things were going. Asking after him and his family, wondering if his dad was still the head Chef for the restaurant, if his sister had finally grown sick of the yearly Mother’s Day and all-you-can-eat holocausts in the dining room. But this week, the check-in held no joy. I found out that he had again fallen ill and rapidly deteriorated in the hospital. At that point, it really hit home how much of an impression he made on my life. And how disappointed I was that we’d never have the chance to get together and laugh about old times in the lobster mines.

I know how shallow that sounds in the face of what his family and close friends must be feeling. To me he was a great guy and a great teacher. But to these folks he was a husband, a father, a son, a brother and a close confidant. My heart goes out to all of you for your loss. I really can’t think of warm words of comfort that wouldn’t ring hollow in this moment of mourning.

Frank Peres, you were an awesome man. A big man with a heart bigger than the sky. I shall miss you keenly. And I will think fondly of you any time I’m in a kitchen, sweating, worried and in the weeds. I’ll remember your words of wisdom. "Dude, chill out. It's just food, bro." I'll miss you man.


-Pook

Eating Out Assholes

Not so much the eating of offal, I’m speaking of the chefs and restaurateurs who are stupid enough to think that their particular brand of “edgy” is going to sell well for television. I’m sure some names jump to mind immediately. Gordon Ramsey right at the top.

In what world does it make sense to slather your restaurant or personal brand with a giant, flaming neon “I’m a huge prick and wholeheartedly believe that you’re all idiots!” sign. Call me crazy, but aren’t these people in the hospitality business? Don’t they charge us anywhere from hundreds to thousands of dollars to turn their food into feces? Somewhere I like to believe that business owners understand that customers want to like them. Want to like their employees, their building and their style. So why is it that there are so many successful raging assholes flaunting their shitty attitudes who still have jobs, businesses and contracts?

Well, I can wholeheartedly pledge that the following examples of poor parenting won’t receive a single penny from me. Not even those fractional pennies that they get from Google ads. Each day I pray that Moloram and his Thugee cult from the Temple of Doom will kidnap them to work in an Indian rock mine until ultimately pulling their still beating hearts from their chests to be burned as an offering to Kali the Destroyer. May their rectums rot out and drip down their pants leg.

Number one on my list, Michael Chiarello. Well here’s one good reason to skip Napa entirely. This blowhard knowitall is a prime example why a cook should stay in the kitchen and quietly sodomize the dishwashers like a pedophile priest. You just don’t let someone with this guy’s social deficiencies speak in public. He’d be better off having a PR guy with tourettes. Fuck this guy.

A rapid number two, Rick Moonen. I swear these two have to be related. Your typical cock-centric prince of pissantry. He likes to bellow. Safe in his belief that his experience is vastly superior to your own, he strides into any situation like a monarch waltzing in to take a dump on your coffee table and tell you that it’s gold bullion. He comes across as the type of guy who sees a special order come into the kitchen asking for no onions, but in his ebullient wisdom, purees them and sneaks them into the dish anyway…sending you to the hospital with a severe allergic reaction to the onions that you asked to be omitted. I hope his favorite dishwasher gives him Hepatitis.

Alex Guarneschelli. If there is anyone who has done more than Margaret Sanger to get women out of the kitchen, it’s this furburger. I know it’s considered poor form to use the word “cunt” in conjunction with a woman, but there is no other word in the language that can properly describe cuntyness. Maybe it’s the harsh environment that French trained chefs experience in their apprenticeships. But being a TV watching, slope browed, knuckle dragging, food TV fan, I have no empathy. Sorry that school sucked. But with that attitude, I’d rather eat off the hot dog cart up the street from her restaurant than allow my cash to justify her attitude.

And topping our list, Donatella Arpaia. Man, now I wish I would have saved “cunt” for later. Especially because she’s not even a chef! She’s just a grossly successful restaurateur from Manhattan. What a horrible representative for such a wonderful town! I’ve been lucky enough to vacation for a week in the Big Apple. And in that week, running all over the area, from Rockaway to the Bronx. We never ran into anyone so "obviously" superior, rude or hollow as this sticky vag-gremlin.

Crazy people? For sure! It’s New York! But even the strangest of locals were interesting and kind to we tourists, quite fun. The restaurants we visited, while not being Nobu (we’re poor), were amazing. The food was gorgeous. Tapas, sushi, all very elegant. And the service given was excellent. So I must implore, WHY NEW YORK? Why heap accolades on a woman who would have singlehandedly turned me off of your food scene had I not experienced it before she was released from whatever finishing school that Satan sends his kids to? Ship her ass off to the Jersey Shore with the rest of the toxic waste.

Really, if you’re ever been a judge on Chopped, you should probably rethink your public persona...if you want business from anything other than born-again assholes. But, I guess their demographic is larger than I thought. And it’s certainly the assholes who have the stupid amounts of money to keep their ilk in business. Can’t we just lock them all onto Martha’s Vineyard? Property values would skyrocket there. I’m told that sort of thing makes them goo in their monogrammed silk undies.

Now, that’s not to say that any chef to ever show their gob on the small screen should be sent to the camps. Not at all. This whole thing got out of control because the early TV chefs were so warm and reachable. I remember getting home early from school before the good cartoons were on and sitting down to watch Justin Wilson, the Cajun Cook. That man cracked me up! He’d be red-nosed sloshed before the gumbo was done simmering. And he had the most awesome belly jiggling stirring style that I must admit, I have totally stolen. Julia Child was so sweet she got her own semi-biography in film. And the PBS crew of Martin Yan, the Galloping Gourmet and Rick Bayless all made their particular culinary styles very reachable to neophytes. And there are current TV chefs that don’t engorge my prostate with rage too.

The most picked on would be poor Emeril. I hate his show too. The whole format has that Oprah meets paid programming feel to it. People moaning in wild abandon over a man adding an extra clove of garlic to a dish. Men openly spilling their seed on the studio floor as he pours in twice the booze that the recipe calls for. Women sacrificing their children upon a tastefully created altar so that they can get on the waiting list to purchase his spice rubs. That shit was annoying. But as time marches on, I see an older, more tired Lagasse. You can read the lines of stress and regret on his face as you see him relegated to Food Network’s AAA league channel again. Bandying about “green eating” and other empty headed buzz words that make the aforementioned rich assholes feel good about what they’re pooping. In my eyes, it seems that underneath the TV character, the gregarious, coke snorting, wild man-party hound is pretty pissed at what he’s had to do to turn a buck. Can’t hate a cat for making cash if he knows that he should hate himself, I guess. And really, he seems in reality to be more of a warm character. The type of chef that you’re positively giddy when he comes out to do a round of Hello’s at the tables. Not because he’s some celebrity. Once he was just the guy in charge of the food. But that guy was friendly and funny and warm. He’d tell you a story, or you could ask him a hundred questions about your dinner to have them all explained in detail. Crappy show formats haven’t really knocked that vibe off of him. So, we’ll grudgingly admit that we like ya, ya fat, rich bastard.

I love Anne Burell. She’s chunky, she’s a line cook, she probably can cuss more fluently than an Irish limericist. She’s everything that’s not made for TV. And thank god, she avoided the worst part of reality chef shows. She’s got that tough but caring kitchen mom vibe. She’ll kick your ass all day at work, but let you cry on her during break or let you out 15 minutes early so you can pick up your babies. A good person who understands earned respect. She reminds me of my old assistant manager at the Slobster. I still miss her. And her delivery reminds me of being instructed how to make a new plate on the line. She’s proof positive that you don’t need Hollywood porn-polish on a girl for her to have a great TV persona. I’m looking at you Giada, with your French Riviera look and 10,000 tiny perfect white teeth.

Another new favorite is Sunny Anderson. She comes from a radio background, but also ran a catering company specializing in soul food. So, she’s not so much an excellent advocate for a specific restaurant, but she is an excellent example of a friendly face that can make people enjoy learning how to cook. She comes across the magic devil-box rays in a confident cookerly manner, but speaks to you as someone who has also struggled with pain in the butt recipes. It’s nice when a good cook knows when and how to explain complicated or obscure techniques in a reachable way. Here’s hoping that she can keep her feet rooted with the rest of us as she’s buoyed by her television success.

And rounding out the examples I place on wobbly pedestals of adoration. The reigning King of American Cuisine. Thomas Keller, chef, restaurateur and a seemingly awesome guy. Any foodie blog, show, etc, simply fall all over themselves to kiss this guy's ass so hard his butt cheeks are a constellation of hickeys. Yet he always comes across as a reserved and modest fellow. Lacking an ATM in my butt, I have yet to taste his food. But people who are actually PAID to be snarky food snobs seem to agree that he’s untouchable in the shit-talking category. Fresh, local foods, on site gardens and outreach programs to budding chefs. Unless this guy likes putting babies on spikes or something, he’s pretty much the most likeable face in food today. And I think he’s a good example to the shittily successful types mentioned earlier, and their Gordon Ramseyan ilk. You can be successful and sought after, with something resembling grace and be rewarded for it.

One thing about all this still weighs heavy on my mind. How in the hell is Gordon Ramsey still alive? Because, if that’s not a carefully crafted TV persona, he’d have gotten himself stabby stabbed in any kitchen I ever worked in. The servers would have found him stuffed into the hopper of the ice machine, to be tossed out with the garbage after the restaurant closed. I’d think that he’d be put in the poorhouse by employees successfully suing him for abuse, using his shows as evidence. This is the type of guy I wouldn’t piss on if he was on fire AND covered with jellyfish who happened to have athletes foot. I hope Jamie Oliver winds up fucking him to death with a Serrano ham on national television in front of obese Midwest 8th graders. Now THAT’S food TV entertainment!

-Pook