After all the European style, some American substance.
It's rustic in preparation and presentation, bold in flavor and portion. My Principles of American Cuisine class starts in South America and ends in New England, hitting all relevant destinations between. Really, it's a beautiful change of pace from stuffy and more or less bland European fare. Really, I've had enough of the French.
But let's see, it's been 3 or 4 weeks since my last post, so let's get everyone up to date on things. The ringing in my ears from Chef Alfred's constant slamming and screaming faded just long enough for me to enjoy a trip to New Hampshire to visit Mom, Leigh and all the assortment of animals. It rained a lot, I cooked even more, and I watched CNN more in that week than I have collectively in, say, forever. We all took a long early morning drive to the New England Culinary Institute campuses, where I got the grand tour - more on that later. Another highlight involved a nearly stunning 4 course spread set out by yours truly for Ma and some friends. It was nice, though I spent the entire day in the kitchen. Face it, though, that's where I like to be. Coming back to SF, the first thing I did was make dinner for a bunch of friends (nothing special, grilled flank and grilled vegetable quesadillas).
When we got back to school, it was yet another chef instructor to break in. Chef Alain is even more French than Chef Alfred, and even less intelligible. Alain tries very hard, and ends up overpronouncing his horrendous versions of English words, to the point that I stopped trying to take notes about 15 minutes in. This is not good when considering that his lectures would go anywhere from 2 to 3 hours. Alain was also more buy-the-book than Alfred. Whereas Alfred would essentially scrap the syllabus recipe for Lapin Au Whathaveyou in favor of a better preparation, Alain stayed the CCA course(book). Whether by the luck of the draw on recipes or not, the food we turned out for Chef Alfred was much better. Alain did allow us to plate our own dishes, which I appreciated.
At any rate, the short week of France with Chef Alain felt like a vacation. In fact, on the final Friday, only about 10 students showed, making for a quiet, easy kitchen. At one point, a fellow student said to me, "Man, I like it quiet like this. You don't have to fight for burners." True. But, dude, wait until you get in a real kitchen. If you think class can get bad, you are screwed. SCREWED. I'll admit that having worked successfully in a kitchen that churns out more covers than any fine dining restaurant in the City has pumped my ego up quite a bit. The last week I found myself just sort of idling around the kitchen during our production time knowing I could knock out whatever meager amount of food was on my list quickly. Granted, I'm not doing Peking Duck or anything. And it's funny how my definitions of 'busy' have changed since Skills. Back then, pumping out a couple of entrees and sides in 3 hours was considered rough. On a slow day now, four or five of us will produce at least that for 25 people and in far less time. For instance, last night, when our lecture ran long, we were left with only a little more than an hour for production. My team had an intensive veal, pork and squash stew that needed at least two hours of cooking. We worked ways around the cooking time, took short cuts, and had our dish ready to go on the dot. And it was perfect.
My hands are healing nicely, though I will admit to being fond of the scars that are hanging on. There was a similar rationale in football, during the short time I played. You would get smears of paint and chips and notches taken out of your helmet when making tackles, slamming into other players, etc. At practice, after games, you'd compare what we called 'stick marks' with other players. In the kitchen, we do sometimes compare scars, always detailing the when and how of its existence.
The American Cuisine kitchen is big, nearly as big as our skills kitchen. Chef Drew is our fearless leader, and for the first time we've landed a chef that doesn't act like a chef. He's a fairly normal guy, devoid of the ego I've seen in the rest of the faculty. He's the instructor you'd most want to go get a beer with after class. Well, with the exception of Chef Susan, though I assume that particular pairing to be my own fascination.
We are seven months deep in the program (time flies), and there seems to be increasing attrition among the class. No one has dropped out altogether, but those that were missing days sporadically are showing up less frequently. At a guess, 5 or 6 students will have to repeat Euro at the very least, precluding them from graduating with our class.
Today in class, as a get-to-know-you, Chef asked that we write down our last meal in testament on a scrap of paper. Then he read them off and asked the class to guess which student. I chose Mom's spaghetti sauce, being that a final meal had to be either entirely alcohol or entirely comfort food. When it comes to home cooking, Mom's sauce defines me palate. I make a mean sauce, a variety of them actually, but I'll always be chasing Mom's (without ever really wanting to reach it).
I really, really needed this American Cuisine class. No question, even two days in, that my culinary heart lies in the spicy preparations of South America and the US cuisine they've influenced. Enough of the cream and butter of European styles. That said, on Friday I pureed foie gras with almost equal parts butter and served it on crostini. I don't necessarily condone force feeding a goose with a feeding tube until its liver has swollen up to ten times it's natural size, but, christ, it might just be worth it.
It's rustic in preparation and presentation, bold in flavor and portion. My Principles of American Cuisine class starts in South America and ends in New England, hitting all relevant destinations between. Really, it's a beautiful change of pace from stuffy and more or less bland European fare. Really, I've had enough of the French.
But let's see, it's been 3 or 4 weeks since my last post, so let's get everyone up to date on things. The ringing in my ears from Chef Alfred's constant slamming and screaming faded just long enough for me to enjoy a trip to New Hampshire to visit Mom, Leigh and all the assortment of animals. It rained a lot, I cooked even more, and I watched CNN more in that week than I have collectively in, say, forever. We all took a long early morning drive to the New England Culinary Institute campuses, where I got the grand tour - more on that later. Another highlight involved a nearly stunning 4 course spread set out by yours truly for Ma and some friends. It was nice, though I spent the entire day in the kitchen. Face it, though, that's where I like to be. Coming back to SF, the first thing I did was make dinner for a bunch of friends (nothing special, grilled flank and grilled vegetable quesadillas).
When we got back to school, it was yet another chef instructor to break in. Chef Alain is even more French than Chef Alfred, and even less intelligible. Alain tries very hard, and ends up overpronouncing his horrendous versions of English words, to the point that I stopped trying to take notes about 15 minutes in. This is not good when considering that his lectures would go anywhere from 2 to 3 hours. Alain was also more buy-the-book than Alfred. Whereas Alfred would essentially scrap the syllabus recipe for Lapin Au Whathaveyou in favor of a better preparation, Alain stayed the CCA course(book). Whether by the luck of the draw on recipes or not, the food we turned out for Chef Alfred was much better. Alain did allow us to plate our own dishes, which I appreciated.
At any rate, the short week of France with Chef Alain felt like a vacation. In fact, on the final Friday, only about 10 students showed, making for a quiet, easy kitchen. At one point, a fellow student said to me, "Man, I like it quiet like this. You don't have to fight for burners." True. But, dude, wait until you get in a real kitchen. If you think class can get bad, you are screwed. SCREWED. I'll admit that having worked successfully in a kitchen that churns out more covers than any fine dining restaurant in the City has pumped my ego up quite a bit. The last week I found myself just sort of idling around the kitchen during our production time knowing I could knock out whatever meager amount of food was on my list quickly. Granted, I'm not doing Peking Duck or anything. And it's funny how my definitions of 'busy' have changed since Skills. Back then, pumping out a couple of entrees and sides in 3 hours was considered rough. On a slow day now, four or five of us will produce at least that for 25 people and in far less time. For instance, last night, when our lecture ran long, we were left with only a little more than an hour for production. My team had an intensive veal, pork and squash stew that needed at least two hours of cooking. We worked ways around the cooking time, took short cuts, and had our dish ready to go on the dot. And it was perfect.
My hands are healing nicely, though I will admit to being fond of the scars that are hanging on. There was a similar rationale in football, during the short time I played. You would get smears of paint and chips and notches taken out of your helmet when making tackles, slamming into other players, etc. At practice, after games, you'd compare what we called 'stick marks' with other players. In the kitchen, we do sometimes compare scars, always detailing the when and how of its existence.
The American Cuisine kitchen is big, nearly as big as our skills kitchen. Chef Drew is our fearless leader, and for the first time we've landed a chef that doesn't act like a chef. He's a fairly normal guy, devoid of the ego I've seen in the rest of the faculty. He's the instructor you'd most want to go get a beer with after class. Well, with the exception of Chef Susan, though I assume that particular pairing to be my own fascination.
We are seven months deep in the program (time flies), and there seems to be increasing attrition among the class. No one has dropped out altogether, but those that were missing days sporadically are showing up less frequently. At a guess, 5 or 6 students will have to repeat Euro at the very least, precluding them from graduating with our class.
Today in class, as a get-to-know-you, Chef asked that we write down our last meal in testament on a scrap of paper. Then he read them off and asked the class to guess which student. I chose Mom's spaghetti sauce, being that a final meal had to be either entirely alcohol or entirely comfort food. When it comes to home cooking, Mom's sauce defines me palate. I make a mean sauce, a variety of them actually, but I'll always be chasing Mom's (without ever really wanting to reach it).
I really, really needed this American Cuisine class. No question, even two days in, that my culinary heart lies in the spicy preparations of South America and the US cuisine they've influenced. Enough of the cream and butter of European styles. That said, on Friday I pureed foie gras with almost equal parts butter and served it on crostini. I don't necessarily condone force feeding a goose with a feeding tube until its liver has swollen up to ten times it's natural size, but, christ, it might just be worth it.
