Foto-Kwiz #5 (not really a Kwiz)

I'm Hungry

Man, there's nothing in the fridge but eggs, tortillas, and some month-old three dollar bags of mixed greens that Chris "bought and forgot" the time he was supposed to bring dinner for his kid's evening preschool class (he did remember to bring the chili and corn muffins, or they would have run him off the property with little terrible paintings). There's nothing you can do with old lettuce but compost it, and I would love to compost, but I don't want to start attracting a lot of skunks and raccoons to the neighborhood. How does composting work? So much wasted food goes right into the trash here, and I have to think it could be put to better use. Is there a composting website? I'm sure there are thousands. I'd check, by my eyes are stinging from the new spring sun and my trip to the beach yesterday (I caught a ride in the back of the Onstads' car). Man, were there some beautiful bohemian women on the beach. I bet every woman in Santa Cruz knows how to compost. I bet every woman in Santa Cruz is fine about smoking pot three times a day. Maybe I need a lifestyle shift. Maybe I need to move to Santa Cruz. I'm going to save up a couple hundred bucks and see if Santa Cruz isn't the kickstart my brain needs.

I think I need to be offensive.

It turns out that checking my email and playing the guitar on the edge of my bed isn't generating as much revenue this quarter as I'd hoped, so it's time to drum up a gig. I'm tired of designing web pages, brochures, and logos for people who think they need to reinvent the wheel ("what if the text ran right-to-left, and you had to read our website in a mirror?"). I'm sick of getting forty dollars a pop doing blind tastings of freeze-dried coffee or letting college students measure my nipples throughout a showing of Bambi. It's time to take the low road.

That's right: I'm going to write a boorish, controversial column for the local paper. It will be cranky, it will provoke, the opinions will not be carefully considered, and, most importantly, it will run counter to the delicate sensibilities of precisely the sort of person who gets so ruffled that they end up giving me free advertising. It should gain notoriety in no time, and then be syndicated throughout the English-speaking world, hopefully at a hundred bucks a throw.

Here are some of my warm-up exercises. I've chosen especially divisive topics because, like I said, this isn't about doing great work. It's about bringing people apart.

VEGETARIANISM
There’s simply no need for it anymore. In this enlightened age I can buy meat from a cow that was pushed in a pram, wet-nursed by Thora Birch, and flown to Santorini for private pronking lessons. In the wild, this same animal would have been trundled off by a peckish eagle before it had traveled the distance from the womb to the grass below, so what’s there to be upset about? People who can’t stomach the idea of humane slaughter ought to see how inhumane nature is when it’s outside of our control, where Temple Grandin has no say over which end of the emu the dingo pack tears off first. As for the vegans, the vegetarians can start with them — they are no doubt fairly easy to digest, being composed mainly of wadded yarn and rhubarb poop.

WATCHING WOMEN PLAY TENNIS FOR THE FIRST TIME
It’s like watching Sylvester Stallone make a sandwich: every action so alien, so unsure...so much wasted movement, so much looking around for approval...your frustration eventually mounts so high that you are forced to leave and wait in the car.

THE COLLAPSE OF THE MUSIC INDUSTRY
I, for one, am happy to see the little MP3, that Phylloxera of the phonographic industry, bring Big Music to a halt. More great music has been written than you can ever hope to hear in your lifetime, so stop being fooled by this year's soulless, calculated retreads. And all this tongue-wagging about musicians finally recording for love of music over money is fine and good, but as long as I’ve got my Who Sell Out and White Album, you can keep that amazing new chord progression that no one's ever heard before, and those clever lyrics about a certain condition of the heart.

—Téodor Orezscu.

Thanksgiving appetizers 2007

Ray's got me on appetizer duty for Thanksgiving at his place, which isn't actually so bad, since I know he'll have a ton of cooktop and oven space ready for my preparations. Still, though, I had to make sure, so I rang him up.

ME: So, can I have a couple burners to prep my apps on?

RAY: Heyo! Who wants to talk to my face? Thrill a minute, bargain at twice the price!

ME: It's me, man.

RAY: That works. What's up?

ME: Can I prep some Thanksgiving apps at your house?

RAY: Apps? Fill me in, dogg. Hella slang. Apartments? Apostles? Appreciations?

ME: Appetizers.

RAY: Oh, right. You got the cooking show vocabulary happening. Yeah, you can cook here.

ME: Thanks for not making me feel like an asshole.

RAY: It doesn't come naturally, but in our friendship, I have developed certain graces.

ME: That's really wonderful.

RAY: So, whatchu makin'!

ME: A toasted pumpkin seed dip, and a crostini with pumpkin butter, cream cheese, mint leaf, and a little garlic chili paste.

RAY: Cool. We doin' a crown roast instead of turkey, just so you dig.

ME: Really? That's a nice touch.

RAY: Turkey sucks the dong. All boring, all crappy drumsticks. Hate that animal. That animal is a crap-face repeater.

ME: Yeah, I've heard people say it was designed by committee.

RAY: You know what else was designed by committee?

ME: What.

RAY: Hitler's crooked one-ball dong.

ME: Wow. Bad committee.

RAY: Worst committee in the world. Look it up.

ME: Won't, but much respect. I'll show up with my apps and a little gear, ok?

RAY: We got gear here, dog.

ME: I like my own gear.

RAY: That is rude, but who can care if a man is rude when life is beautiful.

ME: I was banking on that.

RAY: See you on the day, then.

ME: A curl of clear custard on your doorstep.

RAY: The sign of a crappin' ghost!

ME: Mwaaa-ha-haaah. [HANGS UP]

The Wedding Menu.

I was having a hard time coming up with a cohesive menu for Beef and Molly's wedding, so I went back to Ray for some pointers. The guys have known each other since early childhood, so I figure that gives Ray a unique inside perspective on foods that would really make the night special. He shot me back this list, via email:

_ _food! _ _ _ _ _ _ _ - _ _primeplayerinc

-=- RAYYYYY'S lissssst =-=

***alright T, here you go some rad nibbles and chin dribbles a la RQS ***

1) Some cheese thing with an extra fried-ness to mack the cheese beyond what cheese is

2) japaleño poppers, but gourmet twist (brie? smoked trout? "slow" movement? call a chef)

3) rack of duck brains ("rack my brains," hella classic saying, pun). Nice-ass toast? Metal thing?

4) pomegranates are aggh i hate those things all seeds poppin

5) main course

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I can almost decipher his semi-cogent appetites and inspirations, but I'm sure he's forgotten whatever he tickled into that text field on that late, long, bleary night. I'm going to spruce it up a bit:

TO PASS:

1. Montasio frico with roasted white anchovy and shaved celery heart rib in paprika aioli

2. Smoked salmon on tempura parsnip planks with dilled sour cream mousse, chilled caper vodka back

3. Crispy duck skin bun, Peking style, with plum sauce

4. No pomegranate dishes

5. Main Course: Spit-roasted Baron of Beef, Yorkshire pudding, neeps and tatties. For light eaters, a choice of the lettuces which are being used to garnish the main plates. I hate light eaters.

Alright, that needs work. I guess I can cook up a vegan "garland of knotted long beans" for Pat and people like him who only eat stuff that punished people have to eat.

I'm Catering Beef and Molly's Wedding!

Ray came by tonight and asked me a favor that turned out to be a favor for me. He asked if I'd cater Beef and Molly's wedding. Carte blanche, all food and service expenses paid, any new equipment I needed to make it happen out of his kitchen. The wedding and reception are in the back yard, so it's all self-contained. I figure that since it's a blank check, he's not doing it to save money. He's doing it because he knows I want to learn how to cook in volume. Sometimes I think he's some chump eating creamed twenties with a side of ribs, but then he'll pop in with a double-sided gesture like this. As he would say, "Daaamn. I did that god-damned brains style."

Here's how our conversation went. I was in my room listening to old LPs with the headphones on, on my bed, both eyes closed.

- + -

RAY: [Walks in and starts air-tapping on my chest with pretend drumsticks]

ME: [Eyes closed, catches the smell of Marlboro Lights] Ray? Is that you?

RAY: Hell yes, doggie!

ME: I thought you quit smoking?

RAY: I...come on, dude! I ain't here to talk about that!

ME: You have any left?

RAY: [Looks side to side, fishes in his pocket] Let's go outside. A ways.

ME: Cool.

[Soon, outside, walking around.]

ME: [exhaling satisfying smoke] So, what's up?

RAY: [exhaling] Got a favor to ask from you, hoss. Cookin' thing.

ME: Really? What? You working on a sauce? Fish?

RAY: You know Beef and Molly gettin' married, right? You be interested in doin' the cookin'? No mini-quiche and no stuffed mushrooms at all, that kind of thing?

ME: ...Wow. You serious?

RAY: I'm as serious as a...uh...a milk company, dude.

ME: Huh?

RAY: Sorry, man. That one completely fell apart.

ME: Oh. So, I get to do the menu and hire a staff and cook everything myself? Do real volume cooking?

RAY: Yeah, dude. Pretty much. Wouldn't that be cool? Like I said, open budget. Get me a menu tomorrow afternoon. [Slaps my shoulder, stubs his ash, mentions a tennis date he has to keep, and heads for his car, which is parked nearby on the other side of a clump of trees.]

ME: I...cool man, thanks for— [the sound of Ray's Caddie engine turning over] ...for the opportunity.

- + -

So there you have it. He didn't even stay around for the thanks. He just knew I'd dig it, he'd done his thing, and he was off to the club.

Maybe I'll do a tasting menu, with one dish based on each of Beef's main friends. I'll keep you posted. This is going to take some brainpower.

Chris is a book-leaver-arounder

I guess I hadn't read much about the French Laundry before. I mean, everyone knows that they're the fanciest deal in town (town being the world, fifty years in either direction), and that Thomas Keller is the Agronius Hype (Iliad god-chef that I made up) of the modern age. Before Ferran Adrià split the disbelief molecule, before Bobby Flay wore Vuarnets and Gotcha jams to Pomp and Circumstance at the FCI commencement, Keller was kempt and self-flagellating, the "mad monk" of the gastronomic world. I need to sneak into that kitchen and watch them in action. For now, though, I'm going to finish this Michael Ruhlman book that Chris left on the couch.

Here's a funny bit. The French Laundry is considered one of the most serious kitchens in the world, equal to if not superior to any Michelin three-star brigade. For their first few months in the mid-90s, however, the cooks started every service with a tape of this song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0L1hD5OlPtw
(George Baker, "Little Green Bag.")

Isn't that great? You can picture Alice Waters, 80 miles away in Berkeley, sautéing morels with the nose of an age-pocked Remington six-shooter she picked up off some blanket sale on Telegraph Avenue. Suede fringe on the arms of her tie-dyed chef jacket. Easier times, man. Rent on every building was six dollars, flat. The Internet? Nah, my sister got pretty confused and bored with Gopher, thanks. San Francisco may as well have been Dubuque. The web was a site with pi to 50,000 places and the AOL "under construction" page. Alice got on the back of Peter Fonda's chopper after service every night and flipped off America until they attained highway speeds, at which point she nestled her cheek between his shoulder blades and dreamed of making love in a mesclun-strewn bed.

From the sound of it, I bet there's a nice set of rafters above the kitchen where I can keep tabs on things. Might even bring a telescoping fork and an insulated burp-bag. Wish me luck.