Big Grateful Bellyache

I have spent the last 4 days in a perpetual state of gluttony. I vacillate between a kind of euphoria that comes from savoring the bounty of rich foods spread out before me and a state of discomfort and shame for not putting my fork down sooner. Mike and I set out on a walk today motivated by the prospect of getting some air in our lungs and our blood pumping, as well as taking in some of the quintessential New York holiday sights. Before I continue, let me explain how we arrived at the moment when we knew it was time to close the fridge and put on our walking shoes (or knee high suede flat boots, in my case).

I'm now in the throes of Level 4 at FCI, which means we spend two week rotations in Buffet, Family Meal, and Production. Family Meal involves preparing the nightly dinner for the entire school based on a loosely followed, oft interpreted menu, while Production, as the name implies, produces food product (stocks, carefully butchered meats, etc.) to be used in the adjacent restaurant kitchen. Buffet is the most creative, offering students a chance to plan a themed buffet menu to be served to the school's chefs and lucky students on the final night of the two week rotation. My groups theme was a fall harvest menu and the final night landed on Thanksgiving Eve. There were two camps in class in terms of this twist of calendar fate: one that bemoaned the bounty of food on the eve of one of the biggest eating days of the year and the other, glass half full types, that celebrated the opportunity to do a little training (and stomach stretching) for the main event. I fell in between the two camps due to my natural tendency to both complain and look on the bright side depending on who I am talking to.

Our buffet was a success featuring nearly 30 items that ranged from housemade sausage and pates to an array of roasted and braised meats (the favorite being the braised pork cheeks), and also included a variety of autumnal side dishes and desserts (roasted brussel sprouts with bacon and pumpkin chocolate bread pudding, anyone?). Below is a photo of my buffet group and Chef Tim, a favorite chef-instructor known for his hilarious stories about private cheffing for some of Manhattan & Hollywood's elite.



The buffet produced a lot of satisfied customers and an unexpected quantity of leftovers. Being that I cannot stand to see good food go to waste (and that FCI is forbidden by law from donating food to homeless shelters because they are a teaching institution), I singlehandedly tried to rescue much of the food that was destined for the compost bin. I packed container after container of potato and cauliflower puree, corn pudding, turkey roulade, poached pears in red wine, country pate...the list goes on and on. When I volunteered to take home the cornucopia of gourds, pinecones and leaves, my classmates took their usual teasing of my food hoarding ways to new levels.

"SERIOUSLY?! It's a leaf! You can find them on the ground!"

"Can someone get her a box? There is no way she can carry all that home."

"I hope you have a big fridge..."

The last comment actually made me take pause and realize that my fridge was currently filled with the makings of a Thanksgiving feast for 12 even though we were only having 2 others over. What can I say? I have a thing for abundant turkey leftovers. In addition to the remnants I had pilfered from the buffet, the Family Meal group had offered me a pork roast and pork loin that I could not refuse. Oh...and some squab pastrami, the novelty of which I would not pass up. I managed to cart everything home in an oversize cardboard box, armed with a plan to Tetris my fridge into a state of maximum food capacity.

I made it work with some repackaging and tossing of rarely used condiments. By 1am I was tucked in bed with visions of my holiday table dancing in my head. Most people think that given my obsession with food and my enrollment in a prestigious culinary institute that I would put out a spread ready to be photographed by Gourmet (RIP). That assumption could not be further from the truth. While I experiment with exotic flavor combinations at home and I am being trained to plate classically fussy food at school, the sanctity of Thanksgiving tradition is something I don't mess with. My parents are fantastic cooks and there is a rich history of savoring long meals with an over abundance of food in my family. I cannot turn my back on the flavors that make Thanksgiving feel like Thanksgiving to me. I may occasionally be tempted by a chestnut puree or an Indian spiced turkey, but I would so miss the sausage stuffing and simple pan gravy that transport me back to Thanksgivings past.

So while I try to spend the next week walking off the creamy mashed potatoes and kick off the season of giving, I will leave you with a post Thanksgiving list of what I am most thankful for. For Mike for being so wonderfully supportive, hilarious, loving and fun and for being the one I get to come home to every day. For my family for instilling in me the value of the shared meal. For my friends for sharing meals and laughter with me. And for TUMS for mildly masking the pain and discomfort I am currently experiencing. Happy Holidays!

The Honeymoon is Over.

I knew when we moved to New York that there would come a time when I was homesick. I figured it would happen early on when we had no friends and were in unfamiliar territory. I waited for the loneliness to set in but we were so busy exploring the city that it never came. I expected bouts of frustration at not knowing my way around and irritation with navigating foreign grocery aisles, but I was so busy marveling at the volume and variety of exotic and interesting food that it never came either. I figured our honeymoon period would come to a screeching halt when the bad weather set in and leave me longing for 75 degree November days in San Diego. That too has not happened because the fall here has been absolutely gorgeous. And yet, slowly but surely, the Big Apple is losing its shine. For the first time since we've lived here, aside from the occasional fleeting thought, I find my mind wandering back to California and wondering what our friends are doing at that exact moment. When I realized that I was having recurring thoughts of life back in the Golden State, I had to ask myself "Why?!". I am still loving school. I've met some really fabulous people and made some wonderful friends. New York is an amazing city and there are endless opportunities to sate my inner gourmand. So why are visions of palm trees and gridlocked freeways dancing in my head?

It took some self analysis and reflection, but I think I've figured it out. It's true that this city offers more food, art, culture, diversity and nightlife than any other city in the country, but when you walk into a market and begrudgingly hand over $50 to pay for the makings of one meal, you feel a little beaten down. When you spend more in quarters on laundry each month than you did on your entire gas & electric bill in San Diego (which included the washer and dryer that was conveniently located in your apartment and not down three flights of stairs and around the corner), you start to think about what you would do if that money was still in your pocket. The bottom line is well...the bottom line of my bank account. The Big Apple is the most expensive damn apple I've ever eaten.

When you eat an expensive apple, the natural progression of thought is to ask yourself how good that apple really is and if it justifies the cost. Let's say that the apple is one of the best that you've ever tasted. I'll go with Honey Crisp because they are my favorite. The rosy pink and lemon yellow skin is gleaming. When your teeth break through to the fruit, sweet and tart juiciness hits your tongue and zings the back of your cheeks. The texture and flavor is a revelation of the origin of its name. When you eat this apple, you understand what tempted Eve and you know you will come back again and again. Oh, there's one more thing, you now have to pay for your apple and it costs $100. So I could beat this analogy to death a little more, but I think you understand where I'm at. I want the apple but I have buyers remorse after eating it.

This doesn't mean I intend to pack up and head back to California as soon as I graduate. (I need to interrupt myself for a second and say that if a few years back someone had told me that I would want to move back to San Diego or the Bay Area in order to save money I would have rolled my eyes and rattled off all the reasons why California living doesn't come cheap. And it doesn't. It just happens to feel that way when you are afraid to walk into a swanky bar for fear of paying $20 for a martini.) I digress, we have no plans to leave Manhattan any time soon. We plan to squeeze as much out of this city as we can...and then we will turn tail and run back to sanctuary of the sunshine and the slightly less horrifying cost of living. So now that the novelty of New York has worn off and the cold reality of being a Manhattanite has set in, Sinatra's words mean a lot more. If I can make it here, I'll make it anywhere...I'll just have a much happier bank account. Now, excuse me while I go blow an entire paycheck on a carton of eggs and my dry cleaning.

Diary of a Mad Fan

A Pre-Game Stroll Through Central Park

I've been intending to document our first ever attendance of a Chargers away game since it occurred the Sunday before last, but I am just now getting around to it. I cleared my schedule of laying in bed catching up on Tivo and I am ready to share this tale of triumph in enemy territory. First of all, my sister and brother-in-law came to town for a visit which was directly influenced by the prospect of a game at Giants Stadium. They are not actual Chargers fans, but they support our habit and root for them mainly out of fear for our mental health on Mondays. We actually ordered Chargers beanies for them and had them sent a few weeks in advance of their trip so they would have some gear to demonstrate their loyalties, not knowing that it would be a balmy 70 degrees at the Meadowlands that day. We took the bus from Port Authority early to meet up with the Charger tailgate that was planned by a group of New York Chargers fans that we are acquainted with through the Charger bar, MJ Armstrong's. We had been seeing Bolts fans all over the city throughout the weekend, high fiving as we passed of course, and it was no different at Port Authority. The winds changed, however, when we boarded the bus and a chorus of boos erupted in a sea of Manning jerseys.



As a football fanatic, I can handle ribbing, taunting, and heckling. I expect it going into an opponent's stadium. Part of the fun of being a fan is trash talking and bragging rights. I mean, let's be honest, if and when your team ever wins the Super Bowl, the big game, the championship, isn't the best part of it the fact that you get to gloat about your team reigning supreme for 7 months before you have to relinquish being called "The Champs"? Maybe not for all, but for me, it's what you want and what you hope for and the only way you can shut up all those Patriots fans or Steelers fans or whatever stupid franchise that has had more glory than any one team should have bestowed upon them. (Seething and grumbling).

Anyway, we arrived at Giants Stadium (poor Jets) and met up with almost 300 Charger fans in full gear causing a huge ruckus with the Giants fans tailgating nearby. It was fantastic. The group of Bolts fans were loud, rowdy, and exactly the kind I would hate if I were the home team.



A group of maybe 40 of us paraded through the parking lots blaring the San Diego Chargers fight song and chanting at the mostly dumb struck and disgusted Giants fans. At one point, I got named parade master and was shoved to the front of the pack to show off my Chargers poncho with pride. I have to admit it was both frightening and fun, with pretzels being thrown along with insults and lone pockets of Chargers fans high fiving and cheering us in our brave march through G-men territory. It was all in good fun though for the most part. There were a few drunken idiots (cough, Jersey, ahem), but it was good natured overall.

That was until we got to our seats. I won't go into gory details but there was a crowd of hecklers behind us that could not have been more of a Jersey cliche (with their ripped off sleeves and head bandanas, Springsteen much?) that made the game unpleasant. My sis and brother-in-law were not only troopers, but at times defended our honor and Mike's blue mohawk. As the story has already been written I won't tell it again, but watching Rivers march the offense down the field like nothing was standing in his way (I'm talking to you Giants D) was a thing of beauty. We could just feel that they were going to pull out the win. I don't know if it was the electricity of the team or the anger brewing in the fans around us, but when Rivers sailed that pass to the back corner of the end zone right into Vincent Jackson's hands...it was the perfect punctuation on a perfect day. (Insert sound of needle scraping across record here with visual of Mike's Charger head band being ripped off his head, thrown 20 rows down with fighting words exchanged).

We left Giants Stadium with a win minus a headband and with renewed excitement about our season. I know that my friends who could care less about football and sports are reading this (if they haven't checked out already) and rolling their eyes, but for us, it was a glorious day. So, like any tumultuous relationship, I will keep going back for more because the good times are so good and they manage to wipe away any memory of the bad. And that is why I am a football fan and will remain one until something terrible happens...like Eric Mangini. I promise to be back soon with something more universally appealing, but until then play this a few times for me.



Happy Bus Ride Home

Halfway to My Tall Paper Hat

Today I'm standing at the halfway mark of my culinary education and by standing I mean propped up in bed watching Glee, drinking diet Sunkist and eating chocolate chips out of the bag because I'm classy like that. Last night was our much anticipated, somewhat feared midterm which accounts for 50% of our Level 3 grade. The curriculum for this level focuses on discipline, timing, and refining your skills. We rotated our way through 16 recipes organized like the stations of a restaurant kitchen: Garde Manger (Apps, Salads, Soups), Poissonier (Seafood, its sauces and garnishes), Saucier (Meat, Poultry, its sauces and garnishes), and Patissiere (Pastry). There were 4 recipes for each station and we had an opportunity to cook each of them at least once and some of them over and over and over again. There was the much maligned Oeufs Poche dish, which is a poached egg with hollandaise sauce served over a bed of perfectly petite cubes of vegetables with so much potential for disaster: broken sauce, overcooked or broken yolks, undercooked whites, ugly knife skills...the list go on. There was the familiar old friend: Poulet Roti Grandmere, literally translated to roast chicken with grandmother garnish, which consists of potatoes turned into cocottes and cooked 3 different ways until they are a crispy, golden brown, meaty chunks of browned bacon, mushrooms sauteed in bacon fat, and pearl onions glazed and caramelized to perfection. We made this dish every class for weeks and every class we would all say "I don't know if I can eat anymore Grandmere!" while gnawing on a drumstick. There were the dishes that had so many components that getting your four required plates to the chefs hot and on time seemed like a cruel joke. I'm talking to you Barramundi with Lobster Sauce, Steamed Mussels, Poached Shrimp, Fennel Compote, Potato Cocottes, and finely chopped Parsley, Chervil and Tarragon. COME ON!

For the midterm we would be drawing a station number which corresponded to the two dishes we would be required to execute for a panel of judges. We're evaluated in the kitchen by a chef-proctor on cleanliness, technique and timing and then we are to walk our plates down an endless hallway to a room housing the judges where we present our food to be evaluated on presentation, flavor, seasoning, etc. We've been told repeatedly by our chefs and Level 4, 5, & 6 students that the midterm is more difficult than the final, that we will screw up, that we should be scared but we shouldn't freak out, that our dishes won't be perfect so we must not make stupid mistakes, that our stations better be clean, and on and on and on. So there were definitely nerves at work as we sat around waiting for the clock to display the time when we could enter our classroom and try to piece together what we might be cooking.

"Surely he wouldn't give us the egg, right? They say the chefs only pick the egg if they want their students to fail!"

"If I get beef bourgignon I am just going to turn around and walk out and plan to do Level 3 over again."

"If I get skate and lemon tart, I am golden!"

Well, I got skate and lemon tart and I was golden. I also lucked out and drew one of the later presentation times which gave me a full extra hour to prep before my skate was due. There were a few minor hiccups with my dishes: my skate needed a little more color and seasoning, my stupid potato vapeur (a larger version of a cocotte) didn't have clean enough edges, and my tart dough was a little uneven on the bottom due to a mishap during blind baking. I had no major missteps and turned out some food I am proud of.

The evening didn't end at the judges table though. It ended at some pizza joint in the East Village around 3:30 after a few solid hours of karaoke with my school pals. Who knew a classically trained musician's go to song would be Bust a Move? As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I had that glowy feeling of contentment that comes from having good people in your life and from doing things that you are happy to put your name on. I'm not talking to you bacon pizza at 3am, but I'm pretty sure we will meet again.